Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tuesdays were sacred, no alarms, no meetings, no people, just a quiet no work day built on a routine you’d honed for years. Wake at eight, tea by eight-ten, the same playlist on low volume, the same sunny patch on the living room floor where you sat and read until your brain felt untangled, no sudden noises, no interruptions, that was the deal, that was the balance.

And then this Robb Stark moved in across the hall. Tall, loud, too friendly the kind of person who didn’t understand that his footsteps sounded like a construction site, that his laughter carried through the vents, that his bass-heavy music shook your framed prints off the wall, you tried to tolerate it, everyone had a right to live in the building, you told yourself that, over and over.

Until he started dragging furniture at eight a.m. on a Tuesday.

Your hands clenched your mug tighter with every scrape and thud, wood on tile, metal against drywall, his dog barked, then came the music it was loud, fast and drums too sharp to tune out. You stared at your carefully prepared tea like it had betrayed you.

Then you stood, walked across the hall, and banged on his door, not a knock but a bang.

The music paused, muffled voices, then the door swung open and there he was shirtless, breathless, wearing that open, friendly smile like it was armor. Robb Stark.

“Hey,” he said, like you were stopping by to borrow sugar, not wage psychological warfare. “Sorry, give me a sec, I’m trying to mount these shelves before work the brackets are—”

“Stop disrupting people’s lives,” you said, voice flat, sharp, controlled.

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“It’s eight-oh-three,” you continued. “Not just early, not just loud disruptive. This isn’t the first time, you blast music, you stomp, your dog howls, and you seem completely unaware that the rest of us exist.”

Robb stared, stunned for a second, then shifted his weight, defensive. “Okay, I didn’t realize the floor plan came with a silence contract.”

“It comes with quiet hours,” you shot back. “Which you’ve broken three times in five days.”

His mouth twisted. “Right. Okay. So you’re keeping score?”

You blinked slowly. “I keep structure. I’d appreciate if you stopped actively destroying it.”

He gave a dry, incredulous laugh, not cruel, just tired. “Wow. Okay. Good to know my presence here is so deeply offensive.”

“It’s not personal,” you replied, already stepping back. “It’s the volume.” You shut the door before he could answer.

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Later that afternoon, you filed a noise complaint through the building’s online tenant portal.

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“She’s icy,” Robb muttered, slamming his screwdriver down on the counter. “Like, frostbite icy.”

Grey Wind snorted from his spot on the couch, probably judging him too.

“I say hey, she hits me with a full TED Talk on how I’ve ruined her entire existence, over shelves. I didn’t even have the drill on yet!”

He ran a hand through his hair, still shirtless and still agitated. “Man,” he muttered, glancing at the wall they shared, “some people really don’t know how to let things go.”

Then his phone buzzed. One (1) new message from Management: Noise complaint received. Please respect quiet hours.

Robb stared at the screen, then at the wall, then back at the screen.

“Oh, come on.”

Robb Stark wasn’t the type to overanalyze people usually he just let them be what they were, easy to get along with or not, loud or quiet, warm or distant and he didn’t dwell on any of it much, until you moved in across the hall and told him, flat-out, that he was disrupting people’s lives with his noise and presence. Since then, you’d been stuck in his head like a splinter.

At first, he chalked it up to irritation no one likes being told off before breakfast by someone who barely blinks when they talk but over the next week, it turned into something else, interest maybe. Curiosity, definitely, he started noticing things, little things, not because he was trying to, but because your habits were quiet and exact and hard to ignore once you caught onto them, you left your apartment at 8:45 every morning, not 8:44 or 8:46, always wearing your coat even when it was warm, always with headphones in and your gaze locked straight ahead like looking at anyone would knock your day off course, you didn’t make small talk, didn’t stop for anyone, didn’t even flinch when Grey Wind barked at you one morning but Robb saw your hand tighten ever so slightly around your bag strap when he did.

It clicked slowly not as judgment, but recognition. You weren’t angry, not really, you were sensitive to things, rhythms, routines, and he’d walked into your carefully structured world like a crashing drum solo with no sheet music. That Tuesday morning, he didn’t plan anything dramatic, just woke up, paused before hitting play on his morning playlist, and instead, left the stereo off entirely, no music, no stomping around with Grey Wind, no scraping furniture, just quiet, it wasn’t a huge gesture, he didn’t even know if you’d notice but of course you did

You both ended up in the elevator later that morning him with his hoodie thrown on backwards and his dog sniffing every wall, you standing in the corner like usual, headphones in, expression neutral but unreadable in a way that almost dared him to misinterpret it. He didn’t try to speak, wasn’t sure you’d hear him anyway. Then, just before the doors opened at the ground floor, you pulled out one earbud and looked at him briefly, not with warmth exactly, but with intention.

“You were less annoying today,” you said flatly, tone dry as sandpaper.

Robb blinked, thrown. “Uh… thanks?”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” you replied, already walking out.

He watched you disappear down the hall, your coat swaying with every precise step, and somehow it felt like a compliment anyway or at least, not an insult. Which, from you, might be the same thing.

Later that night, flopped across Jon’s couch with a half-warm beer and his dog stealing his socks, Robb brought it up, casually at first, but the way Jon looked at him, smirking over the rim of his glass, made it obvious he wasn’t hiding it well.

“Still beefing with your ice-cold neighbor?” Jon asked.

“She’s not— I don’t know, man, she’s just… different,” Robb said, kicking his feet up and staring at the ceiling. “She’s not mean, she’s just really specific. Structured. It’s like she has these rules for how the world’s supposed to behave, and I keep breaking them without knowing what they are.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “And you care because…?”

“I don’t know,” Robb muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because I don’t want to bother her. Because I kind of get it. She seems… calm, but not. Like, if you pushed the wrong button, the whole system would go out of sync. I think maybe the world’s always too loud for her, and I just made it worse.”

Jon tilted his head. “And you want to make it better?”

Robb didn’t answer, not out loud, but he was already thinking about Tuesday, about your routines, your playlist, your silence, about what it might mean to show respect in the smallest, softest ways no big speeches, no dramatic apologies, just one less noise in your day.

The next Tuesday morning, he left a coffee outside your door. Not some fancy latte just your usual, the one he saw you carry from the same corner shop every morning and there was no name. Just the cup, neatly placed on the mat.

You didn’t mention it. Didn’t leave anything in return. But the next day, when he passed you on the stairwell, you met his eyes for the first time just for a second and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Robb didn’t smile. Didn’t say a word. Just nodded back, heart oddly steady.

She prepared for it, she really did, she read the notice from building management three times, hallway repainting and renovation, 9AM–4PM, loud construction expected. She adjusted her schedule, packed noise-canceling headphones, her strongest peppermint balm, two bottles of water, a fidget ring, sunglasses even though it was overcast. She took her time with her outfit, not out of vanity, but because feeling the right texture on her skin mattered more than anything when things were loud and bright and wrong.

So she wore the white t-shirt she’d washed a dozen times into near-weightlessness, tucked into the soft pink skirt that sat perfectly at her waist, not too tight, not too loose. Her matching cardigan was buttoned to the second clasp, just enough to stay snug without suffocating her arms, the hem brushed her thighs when she walked, and her leg warmers cushioned the soft scratch of her black heeled shoes. She felt… assembled, she looked like herself, and that was supposed to be enough to get her through the day but it wasn’t.

The lights in the hallway were sharper than usual overhead fluorescents that buzzed and flickered, catching on the fresh white of the walls like sunlight off snow. The air reeked of paint, thick and chemical, layered with the bitter scorch of metal polish and something else, something burning, maybe from the sanding machines, there were men shouting instructions over drills that screamed against drywall, and every time someone hammered, it echoed through the vents like a thunderclap, the sounds didn’t come at regular intervals they crashed down without warning, no rhythm, no countdown, just bang, buzz, slam, over and over.

By 10:20, her throat was dry. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, she’d been pacing in tight circles in the back stairwell, trying to regulate, trying to breathe, trying to pull herself back down from the tight, rising feeling crawling up her spine like static, nothing helped, the hallway was still there, the lights were still there, the sounds didn’t stop.

She hadn’t planned to shut down, she thought she was past this, but her body was done listening.

She ended up in the laundry room without remembering the walk there pressed into the corner between the dryer and the water heater, knees pulled up, skirt wrinkling beneath her legs, cardigan sleeves stretched to her knuckles, headphones long forgotten in her bag, her eyes were open but unfocused, her breathing was fast, it felt like the air had narrowed to a pinpoint, like the world was vibrating from the inside and then the door creaked.

She couldn’t look and couldn’t move, footsteps, slow, careful but then a voice almost low, familiar, uncertain. “Hey.”

She blinked, or tried to, her vision blurred, stung, she turned her head just enough to see him Robb crouching in the doorway, his shoulders tense, eyes wide and soft, one hand raised like she was a wild animal that might bolt.

“You okay?” he asked, gently, quietly. Like he already knew the answer, she physically couldn’t answer him.

Robb stepped inside, slowly, carefully, like every movement was a negotiation. He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t try to touch her or fix her or talk her through it. He sat down instead not close enough to crowd, just close enough to be real, as Grey Wind padded in behind him, silent for once, nosing at the corner before curling up like a cloud near the dryer.

“I can go,” Robb said, voice barely above a whisper. “If you want me to.”

That broke something, not in a bad way just enough to let the tears finally fall. She turned her face into her sleeve, shaking, but nodded not for him to leave. Just… to answer.

“Stay?” she said, barely audible.

“Okay,” he replied, already settling in, back against the wall, legs stretched out. “I’ll stay.”

They sat in silence for a long time. She tried to breathe slower, syncing to the rise and fall of Grey Wind’s chest. Robb didn’t speak. He just… waited. And in that waiting, she felt something loosen inside her. Not fixed and not solved but not alone either.

Eventually, she wiped at her eyes, her voice rough but steady as she mumbled, “Thank you.”

Robb looked over, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, not smug, not pitying, just kind.

“I’m learning,” he said.

Then Grey Wind rolled over and began chewing a sock he’d clearly stolen from Robb’s laundry pile, big paws batting at it like a toddler with a toy. The sound the soft wet gnawing, the occasional squeak cut through the silence with something almost funny. She sniffed, not quite a laugh, but close.

Robb didn’t say anything else, and in that quiet laundry room, with her head finally resting against the wall and her heartbeat slowing, she realized she felt safe, for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like something that needed to be fixed.

The thing about Robb Stark was, he threw a lot of parties, not wild ones, not the kind that involved blaring music and half-strangers crashing on his couch, but social ones, gatherings, as he called them, beer and games and friends who somehow always had overlapping circles, all warm with their inside jokes and soft-edged laughter that spilled into the hallways.

And he always invited her.

Every time, without fail. A text. A knock on her door. A smile, hesitant at first, but gentler now. “We’re having people over tonight,” he’d say, like maybe this would be the night she said yes. “You’re always welcome.” Sometimes he’d bring a can of matcha soda she liked. Once he even left a note: No pressure. But I bought the kind of chips you eat upside down for some reason.

Usually, she didn’t go, but she liked being asked. Liked that he noticed, liked that he kept asking even when she didn’t answer, then one Friday night in early spring, she said yes.

She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because he’d knocked so gently this time, like he was half-expecting her not to be home. Maybe it was the smell of something warm and garlicky wafting under her door, or the faint sound of music she actually recognized not a thudding bassline, but something acoustic, or maybe it was because, for the first time in a long time, she wanted to see what it would be like to say yes to something unpredictable, just once.

She changed twice, landed on a soft navy sweater and a simple skirt with opaque tights. Neutral enough to blend in, textured enough to feel like armor. She brought her own drink, the one she liked and knew wouldn’t spike her heart rate, and tucked her fidget ring on the inside of her palm.

Robb’s apartment was brighter than she expected. There were too many people, too many conversations happening at once, the lights weren’t dimmed the way she hoped, and someone laughed with a sound like a fork scraping a plate, her spine stiffened.

Robb found her quickly, or maybe he’d been watching the door, either way, he was there in seconds, a drink in hand and that boyish grin softened by surprise. “You came,” he said, like it was the rarest thing in the world.

“Hi,” she said, already scanning the room for exits, safe corners, bathrooms, edges.

He noticed, of course he did.

“Come sit with me?” he asked gently. “We’ve got Mario Kart going. I saved you a turn.”

She followed, keeping close, the couch was full three people she didn’t know, one of them sitting with a girl draped across his lap like a blanket. She blinked at the shape of them, suddenly unsure where she was supposed to fit.

“Here,” Robb said before she could overthink it. “Sit with me.”

He was already sitting on the floor, back leaned against the couch, he patted his thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She hesitated, her breath caught, but then her legs moved before her thoughts could catch up.

She sat, carefully, on his lap, and his arms came around her waist like it was instinct. Not a hug. Not a grab. Just a hold. She felt his chest expand with a quiet breath as he adjusted, his hands settling low on her hips, grounding.

“You okay?” he murmured near her ear.

She nodded.

He handed her a controller. “You get Yoshi. It’s only fair.”

Someone across the room, a friend of a friend, maybe, leaned over and gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re Robb’s neighbor, right? I’ve seen you around.”

“Yeah,” she said.

“You don’t talk much,” he laughed. “I thought you were, like, a ghost or something.”

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t know how to respond. Her body locked up a little, words forming like static in her throat.

The guy didn’t seem to notice. “But hey,” he said, glancing at her legs like it was a compliment, “you’re hot, so who cares.” Robb shifted behind her.

The rest of the room didn’t hear, or maybe they did, but no one cared.

She looked straight ahead, willing her eyes not to sting, she hated this, hated the stares and the tones and the way she always seemed to say the wrong thing when she did speak, hated the way her voice didn’t bend in the right places. The way she couldn’t decode sarcasm in time, the way “you’re hot” made her feel like a barbie doll instead of a person.

Robb tightened his grip around her middle. Subtle. Protective.

“Play with me,” he said into her shoulder, low enough that no one else could hear. “Forget the rest of them.” And so she did.

They played two rounds. She lost both, but he pretended he wasn’t trying. She let herself lean back into him a little more. He smelled faintly like citrus and vodka, but not in a bad way.

When she finally stood to go, he walked her to the door without asking. “Text me if you need anything,” he said.

She didn’t text that night but the next Tuesday, he was on the balcony waiting.

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It had become a ritual, though neither of them ever called it that out loud, just a pattern, a rhythm, one that meant no music before noon, no noise on the shared balcony unless she was already out there. No conversation unless she started it, but she usually did.

She’d come out barefoot, cardigan sleeves rolled up to the elbows, teacup in one hand and her other hand occupied with a small, metal puzzle cube she liked to twist and shift while she thought, Robb would already be out there, blanket draped over his shoulders like a shawl, coffee steaming in one hand and a bakery bag in the other.

One Tuesday, he brought her a raspberry Danish pastry, the exact one she always bought from the shop two blocks down, she didn’t ask how he knew, she just took it gratefully.

That morning, the sky was the color of salt and slate. Wind moved gently through the buildings, Greywind lay curled at Robb’s feet, chewing a leaf like it had insulted his mother, she took her spot on the far end of the bench, but left enough space between them that their knees would eventually drift close, they always did.

She finished her tea before she spoke.

“I hate when things change without warning,” she said suddenly, watching the rooftops. “Like… not little things. Big things. Schedules. Sounds. People.”

Robb didn’t look at her, just nodded, sipping his coffee.

She pressed the edge of the pastry bag flat, folding it precisely.

“I mask a lot,” she added. “I think people think I’m cold. Or weird. Or… rude.”

Robb finally looked over. “I don’t think that,” he said quietly.

“You did, though. At first.”

He smiled, small. “Yeah. I thought you hated me.”

“I did,” she said, straight-faced.

He laughed under his breath.

She looked down at her hands. “I don’t want to be hard to be around. I just… there’s too much sometimes. And I can’t stop feeling it.”

Robb didn’t speak for a moment. Then, soft and sure, he said, “I don’t want you to hide around me.”

She glanced at him. His expression was open, uncomplicated, it wasn’t a line, it was a promise.

Their knees touched.

She didn’t pull away.

He didn’t move either.

They sat that way for a while, the silence not awkward, but full, the wind brushed their hair in opposite directions, a bird landed on the railing and hopped twice before flying off again, Grey Wind snored.

She looked at Robb’s hand, resting beside hers, fingers slack and unassuming. She didn’t reach for it, but she didn’t move away either. “I think I like Tuesdays,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” Robb murmured. “Me too.” He didn’t ask for more and she gave it anyway.

You hadn’t expected Grey Wind to come bounding around the corner, sock hanging from his mouth, claws skittering loud and sharp on the floor it’s not fear exactly that grips you it’s too quick for that but the noise shatters your concentration like glass on tile, it happens in a blink, your breath knocks out of rhythm, you stumble back against the kitchen counter and your hands fly up over your ears, fingers curling tight against your head as if that can block out the sharp echo of the dog’s claws and your own heartbeat pounding in your skull, you don’t mean to go quiet like this it just happens, your shoulders go up, everything shrinks inward.

You feel the fabric of your cardigan bunching at the elbows as you pull your arms tighter around yourself. You’re rocking slightly not even consciously and trying to ground back in the room.

Robb freezes. You feel his presence shift across the kitchen.

“Shit—shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t—Grey Wind, no! Sit. Sit down, bud—hey, hey—”

His voice goes softer. Lower. “Hey. You okay?”

You don’t answer right away. You’re trying. But it’s too much. The volume. The suddenness. The wet slapping sound of Grey Wind’s tail on the floor. You press your hands harder to your ears. Then warmth, a tongue, wet and insistently stupid.

Greywind, still panting, licks your leg once. Then again, big dog eyes blinking up at you like he knows. It’s enough of a ridiculous, unexpected thing to break the spiral a little, you blink, exhale, let your arms fall back to your sides, slow.

“Sorry,” you whisper, not even sure if it’s to Robb or the dog or yourself.

“No, no, don’t be,” Robb says quickly, hand hovering near your shoulder like he’s asking without words if you want it. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You give the tiniest nod. Just once. You’re breathing more evenly again, Greywind plops down with a huff like his nervous system was also overstimulated, and Robb lets out a breath.

Then it happens.

The jacket.

You don’t mean to say it, but it just slips out, unfiltered, blunt like most things you say when your brain’s still recalibrating. “I don’t like your jacket.”

Robb glances down at it, denim, stiff and faded and too sharp against the quiet of the moment, he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t frown, just tilts his head a little like he’s waiting for more.

“The texture’s… it’s wrong,” you say softly. “Too scratchy, and the seams are loud, not loud like sound but, I just don’t like it.”

You catch the flicker of confusion in his face. And you immediately pull back.

“Sorry,” you blurt, cheeks heating. “That was— I shouldn’t have said that.”

He looks at you for a second, unreadable, then, without a word, he shrugs the jacket off and throws it across a chair.

“Cool. Jacket gone.”

You stare at him. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he says. “Wasn’t even that comfortable.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then you say, a little stunned, “Oh.”

He grins. “You wanna judge the rest of my clothes sometime, I’m free Thursdays.”

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You end up making biscuits.

You hate the word biscuits, but it’s what Robb calls them, and for some reason hearing it in his voice makes it bearable, you wear your headphones again when he pulls out the mixer, the noise is awful grinding, high-pitched and your hands grip the edge of the counter while he mixes, the soft rhythm of the bowl rocking under your palms helping you stay grounded.

He doesn’t comment on the headphones. Not once. Just occasionally glances over with that same soft attentiveness he always shows you now, like he’s watching the air between you for how it shifts, listening without needing you to speak.

Later, he hands you the wooden spoon with too much confidence and ends up with dough smeared across his cheek, you try not to smile but you fail.

“They look like clumps,” you mutter, staring at the misshapen mounds on the baking tray.

“They look like art,” he counters. “Very… modern, pustic, pretentious bakery vibes.”

“They look like if anxiety had a texture.”

He laughs, not at you, with you.

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After, you’re curled up on his couch.

The lights are low. Grey Wind’s curled up near the balcony door, twitching in a dream, you’re curled beneath a blanket Robb picked out without asking the soft one, the one that doesn’t itch or poke or press too hard, you’re wearing your pink headphones around your neck now, like armor you don’t quite need at the moment but still want close.

You’re half-watching a movie. Something light, something with colors and voices you can track even when your thoughts drift Robb’s beside you, thigh warm against yours, elbow close but not touching. He brought you tea earlier your exact brand, the one he knows you like and didn’t make a big deal about it. Just handed it to you like it was always meant to be in your hands.

You keep glancing at him when you think he’s not looking.

You’re wondering how long this has been growing.

How long he’s been showing up like this quiet, soft, careful with you in a way no one else ever has been, and not because you asked. Because he wants to, because he sees you.

You’re wondering if it’s all just friendship, or if this is him flirting, or if it’s nothing at all and you’ve misread it horribly.

And before you can talk yourself out of it, before your nerves win, you lean in.

And kiss him.

It’s soft and brief but you pull back almost instantly, panic rising fast in your chest, your eyes dart away. You feel your cheeks burn, you go very still, you don’t even breathe for a second.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to. I mean I did but— I know you’re just friendly and this is probably weird—”

He doesn’t say anything right away.

And your heart sinks.

But then, his hand slides across the blanket and finds your wrist, warm and sure, and then he’s pulling you toward him, not hard, not rushed, just enough that you feel his intention.

Then his mouth is on yours.

This kiss is slower, deeper and a lot more certain, his hand lingers at your waist like he wants to memorize the shape of you, how you feel under his touch, like he’s been waiting.

When you part, breath warm and mingled, he leans his forehead against yours and whispers, “I’ve wanted to do that for weeks.”

You blink, stunned. “Really?”

“I was waiting until you kissed me first.”

You stare, then laugh, a little breathlessly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You like me.”

“Unfortunately,” you whisper.

He laughs again and nudges his nose against your cheek before pulling you close, one arm around your shoulders now, the blanket shifting as you burrow into his side. You rest your head against him, listening to the quiet hum of the movie, the deeper rhythm of his breathing, Greywind snores, somewhere in the background, rain taps softly against the window. You close your eyes, you’re warm, you’re held and you’re home.