Archive of Our Own

Sansa blinks at her phone, thumb hovering over the screen. It’s a little past nine in the morning, and her brother’s sudden burst of initiative arrives with no context and zero room for argument.

robb : I made you an appointment so u can to stop putting this off.

robb : Also Im paying, you’re welcome. Happy early birthday.

sansa : what!? why??????

robb : You always do this

robb : Every year im telling u i’m paying for your first tattoo

robb : Then you cancel and im left LAST MINUTE having to think of a new birthday present

robb : It’s time u lose your ink virginity

sansa : no :(

robb : Yes i dont want to hve to panic buy candles or weird tea sets last minute this year

sansa : i really like the candles you buy me <3

robb : Sorry it’s already done

robb : June 13th at 10

robb : I asked for Snow don’t worry she’s the best

Then comes a screenshot of the booking: 

Appointment confirmed:

Friday, June 13th, 10:00 AM.

Artist: Snow.

Studio: Direwolf Tattoo Studio.

—

sansa : does it hurt

sansa : getting a tattoo

sansa : ???????

arya : yea like a bitch

sansa : will you come and hold my hand

arya : no

sansa : 🥺🥺🥺🥺

arya : put that pouty lip away

arya : i would come

arya : mostly to take a picture of you crying

arya : but i can’t im out of town that day

sansa : UGH

— 

sansa : what’s the proper etiquette?

robb : Wha

sansa : like, the proper tattoo appointment etiquette. do i have tell to them about the design i want beforehand?

robb : Sure I can send u the Instagram @

robb : Just send your inspo pics and say you’d like something like yhat. theyre a tattoo artist studio and not just tattooist so they prefer to create their own designs for ther customers

sansa : okay great! thanks

—

@sansastark : hello! i’m sansa stark. i have an appointment on june 13th and i wanted to discuss with you the design i’d like beforehand.

@sansastark : these are some of sketches i have done over the years, they’re not perfect but i hope you get the idea

@sansastark : i was thinking of getting it on the sternum/underbreast

@sansastark : [ three pictures attached ]

@direwolftattoostudio : Beautiful placement, it’s not what I would suggest for a first tattoo, but if you’re set on it I won’t try to change your mind.

@sansastark : i know! but i’ve been obsessed with this design for so long, i cant imagine any other tattoo for my first time

@direwolftattoostudio : Alright, let’s go with it then, but if you’re worried about the pain I am willing to work with numbing cream.

@direwolftattoostudio : They are very beautiful sketches already, you’re very talented. I’ll send you a draft soon. If it’s not quite right, we’ll try again. No stress.

—

Sansa isn’t scared.

She’s not . 

She’s actually pretty excited for her appointment on Friday morning. 

She’s just wary of having a needle painfully injecting ink into her skin for three hours.

Big difference.

Still, the butterflies are real. They aren’t of fear, of course not, just… preemptive anticipation. Yes, that. And okay, maybe a touch of nerves

Even though it may not look like it to other people, always thinking of Sansa as a pretty, delicate flower, she likes to think she has an above average pain tolerance. When she bumps her little toes into furniture at home it doesn’t even hurt that bad, she never feels awful during her period like so many other people she knows, and when she’s sick she functions almost as she normally does.

Still the idea of being under a needle isn’t exactly Sansa’s idea of relaxation. 

But the tattoo she chose? That part feels more than right.

She’s wanted a tattoo for years. The first time she ever thought they were cool, she was fourteen. Her best friend Jeyne’s older sister came home from college with a tiny moon and stars inked on the inside of her wrist. It was delicate and subtle and grown-up in a way Sansa hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for weeks after.

Then Robb got his first tattoo a year later, right before he left for college. A black direwolf across his shoulder blade, its lines sharp and bold. Their mother nearly fainted when she saw it. Robb just shrugged nonchalantly, but really he had been hoping Catelyn Stark wouldn’t see it for at least five more years. He’d blabbered on something about “ art not being a crime!” and Mom still wasn’t happy but the damage was already done. Sansa had been utterly fascinated, though. The design Robb chose wasn’t her cup of tea, but the idea of having something special to her permanently etched onto her skin got even more intense.

Robb was the first one to encourage her, too. Every time she mentioned maybe getting something small, he told her to go for it. That she’d love it. That it was her body, her canvas.

But every time she got close, really close, like browsing through studio portfolios or even booking a consultation, she backed out. It isn’t the design. It isn’t the permanence of the ink.

It’s the pain.

Prolonged, needling pain on what is considered to be one of the most painful placements for a tattoo by everyone, in real life or online, that she’s heard from. 

But her heart has been set on that sternum tattoo for years, and maybe that’s the reason why she’s postponed this so many times. (Also, she doesn’t want to end up being wrong and find out that she’s been lying to herself all these years and she actually has a very low pain tolerance.) (It’s a point of pride for her and she’s not looking to have it all destroyed.)

And her mind always conjures up worst-case scenarios, too. A shaking hand. A botched line. The pain making it impossible not to move and consequently ruining the entire design. Bleeding, maybe. Or fainting. Sitting through two to three hours of it only to end up not liking the final tattoo.

So… she’s a little bit anxious about the whole thing.

When she finally messaged the artist listed in Robb’s appointment— Snow —the process felt easier than she’d expected. The consultation had been through the DMs of the tattoo studio Instagram account, short and to the point. Snow had asked about her idea, and Sansa had sent over a few reference photos and a few clumsy sketches she’s done herself throughout the years: a chandelier-style dragonfly, its wings delicate and curved beneath the under-breast line, the long, slender body trailing down the center of her sternum.

Every message from Snow makes her feel better. She’s easy to talk to, she doesn’t use exclamation marks, but the messages are always warm and helpful. Just a calm, professional tone, reassuring in a way that soothes her.

When Sansa told her about the placement, Snow reassured her that she could use numbing cream and that it would help a lot with the pain, and that made Sansa feel insanely better. When she asked her if they had a private space for her session, Snow told her the privacy of their clients is their number one priority, they have individual rooms and they would never tattoo someone in plain sight.

Still, even as Friday 13th creeps closer, Sansa hasn’t fully let herself imagine the moment itself, the quiet buzz of the machine, the first sting of the needle, the warmth of the studio light on her skin.

And definitely not what it would be like to lie there, chest bare, while a stranger creates art just below her breasts.

But it’s fine. It’s going to be fine.

She isn’t scared.

Really .

—

The final design arrives a few days before the appointment, while Sansa is lounging on her bed scrolling through Instagram, and it’s nothing short of gorgeous. It’s so detailed it almost looks like it might flutter right off the screen and start flying across her room. Elegant. Feminine. Everything she’s pictured in her head but couldn’t draw quite as right.

She lays on her bed, legs kicking lazily behind her, phone still open to the image Snow sent her a few minutes ago. 

It’s so beautiful, with its intricate lines, the wings fanning under the curve of the breasts, symmetrical and soft, and the body as a thin cascade down the center, like a jeweled chandelier.

@sansastark : it’s perfect!!! i love it

@sansastark : i think this is the one

@direwolftattoostudio : Glad you like it.

@direwolftattoostudio : Just remember to hydrate and eat something before you come in, no caffeine, and wear something open, a hoodie or flannel works best, so you can wear it but I can still get to the area. You can bring nipple covers if you want, since you won’t be able to wear a bra during the session. If you want to use numbing cream, pick up the one we talked about exclusively from your doctor.

@direwolftattoostudio : I’ll walk you through everything when you’re here. Don’t stress too much about it, I’ll take care of you. 

Sansa blinks down at the message.

There is nothing inherently suggestive about it. If anything, it’s exactly the sort of thoughtful professionalism that makes her feel safe enough to go through with this in the first place. But still… something about that last line.

I’ll take care of you .

A weird little tingle runs down the back of her spine.

She reads it again, and again.

Gods, what is wrong with her!? It’s probably just the nerves. Or the looming reality that her boobs are about to be seen, extremely up close, for several hours by someone who, Sansa assumes, is a cool, artsy, tattooed woman with a calming voice and maybe a few piercings on her face.

Not that she’d given it much thought. Of course.

And well, yes, like anyone living in the twenty first century, she has briefly questioned her sexuality. Margaery had kissed her once on a dare, during a stupid game at an equally stupid high school party, and she hadn’t exactly hated it. Margaery is objectively one of the most beautiful women she’s ever seen, and Sansa was tipsy anyway, so she’d chalked it up to curiosity and teenage hormones.

But now here she is, sitting on her bed, blushing at a text from a woman she’s never even seen, because she’s said that sentence, in a completely non-sexual, extremely professional context. She’s never been as unsure of her sexuality as she is right now imagining Snow taking care of her. 

“I need to get a grip,” Sansa tells herself, throwing her phone, face down, onto the bed sheets.

Everything is fine.

She’s just developing a very mild, completely platonic, crush on her tattoo artist. That’s a thing, isn’t it?

—

Friday morning comes earlier than she would have liked.

Sansa blinks awake with a jolt, the hum of anxiety already buzzing beneath her skin. But instead of lying frozen in bed the way she usually does before anything remotely stressful, she moves instantly. 

Snow gave her a list of things to do, to prepare herself before her appointment. And Sansa is going to follow it perfectly. Arya always called her a stickler for rules, but most of the time that was about being a goody two shoes at school, or following their parents rules when they left Sansa in charge during an evening off. This time it’s about something even more serious.

Firstly she showers, a long, hot shower that fogs up the mirror and leaves her skin scrubbed clean and warm. She dries her hair off and ties it in a low ponytail. She tries to tell herself she doesn’t care what she looks like, after all she is just going to be lying down, flinching under a needle, half-naked, but she hasn’t left the house with at least a bit of concealer and mascara since she was thirteen years old and she’s not about to start now.

It feels a bit like preparing for a date, covering her face in make up and expecting to end up laying down, naked, in front of someone else.

Next she eats breakfast. She makes eggs, toast with jam, a banana, and an overly full glass of water that she quickly chugs down. Then another. Hydration, Snow said it helps.

By 8:40, she is already halfway through her to-do list and feeling suspiciously calm.

The numbing cream comes next. Snow recommended a specific kind, and Sansa, being the overthinker she is, went to her GP a week ago just to make sure it wouldn’t do anything weird to her skin. After plenty of reassurances she got it and now, a little more than an hour before her appointment, she follows the application instructions exactly, smoothing a generous layer over the area and covering it with the protective film she bought online.

After that, it’s time to get dressed.

Jeans, soft and worn-in. No bra, Snow warned her she could not wear one during the appointment, so she forgoes it altogether. Just a plain white t-shirt and an oversized flannel she stole from Robb two winters ago and never gave back. She rolls up the sleeves and stares at herself in the mirror for a long minute.

She looks… fine. Calm. Like a woman who has her shit together.

By 9:30, everything is done. Bag packed. Wallet, keys and water bottle inside. Even her ridiculously flower shaped pasties. Make up and outfit done. Breakfast eaten. Appointment at ten. The studio is only fifteen minutes away.

All that is left now is to wait, and try not to lose her mind in the process.

Her phone is on the kitchen counter. She picks it up and opens the message thread on Instagram.

And, for the fourth time that morning, Sansa opens the image Snow sent her earlier that week: the dragonfly. Even now, after a week of staring at it every night before bed, it still hits her like a punch to the chest. It’s so delicate, so beautiful, so her . It feels like it belongs on her. Like someone actually listened when she described what she wanted.

Her stomach flips.

I’ll take care of you, Snow told her.

Sansa locks her phone and takes a deep breath.

“Okay,” she whispers to herself. “Let’s do this.”

And then she grabs her bag, shrugs on Robb’s flannel, and walks out the door.

—

Direwolf Tattoo Studio is tucked into a corner unit downtown, its storefront half-hidden between a juice bar and a vintage record shop. Sansa stands in front of it for a moment, her heart thudding in her throat as she stares at the white wolf logo on the door.

She adjusts the strap of her bag on her shoulder. Her palms are a little clammy, but she wipes them down on her jeans and keeps going.

“You’re not scared,” she reminds herself under her breath. Then she pushes open the door and steps inside.

The first thing she notices upon entering is the color. The walls are painted in a bold deep teal colour, and every surface is covered in framed artwork in different styles. Flash designs, full-sleeve concepts, delicate linework, wild surrealist pieces. There’s inked frames in all directions on the walls: designs of wolves, koi fish, abstract constellations, mythological figures, words and sentences in different scripts that Sansa can’t read, small symbols, stars, arrows and more flowers than she can count.

The second thing she notices is the woman behind the counter. She’s sipping from a giant iced coffee as she clicks something on the computer.

She is stunning, blonde, with perfect skin and even more perfect eyeliner. Her arm is sleeved in soft watercolor style tattoos that make her look like a walking canvas. She’s wearing black jeans and a cropped band tee, beneath her shirt Sansa can see the outlines of her nipple piercings and she’s strangely attracted to that.

Sansa feels herself straighten up involuntarily.

Oh gods, she thinks. That’s Snow. Of course that’s Snow.

It makes sense. Of course the person who designed something so elegant, so effortlessly cool, would look like this. Like a beautiful, intimidating woman with years of experience and possibly zero time for insecure clients who need hand-holding and constant reassuring.

No , she scolds herself, that’s not fair of her . Snow, if this is in fact Snow, has been nothing but kind and patient with her when they were texting back and forth on Instagram DMs, so the least Sansa can do is not judge her based on the intimidating way she looks.

She takes a breath and walks up to the counter.

“Hi,” she says, a big smile on her face, and the sweet and serene tone she usually reserves for when she’s talking to cashiers or anyone who has to deal with rude and entitled customers all day long, trying to sound like a person who isn’t one second away from bursting into nervous giggles from social anxiety. “I—I have a ten o’clock with Snow.”

The blonde looks up and smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear. “Oh, awesome,” she says, with a softer tone of voice than she expected, and a strong northern accent. “He’ll be out in a minute.”

Sansa blinks.

He .

Wait.

What?

She blinks.  “...He?”

The receptionist glances up again. “Yeah. Snow’s just finishing setting up the room. Should only be a sec, but you can take a seat if you want.”

But she doesn’t take a seat, instead, Sansa freezes on the spot, that’s the only way to put it. In an instant, her entire mental image shatters like a glass placed too close to the edge of the table.

He?

No. No, that can’t be right. She has been talking to a woman. She is sure of it. The tone of the messages was—well, okay, they’ve been professional, mostly—but there was something gentle in them. She felt like it was a woman. The thoughtfulness of the reassurances. The phrase I’ll take care of you.

But apparently that was not…

Her stomach does a flip.

She pulls out her phone, rereading her old messages, desperate to get to the bottom of it. Robb’s text comes back to her at once: she’s the best. Sansa didn’t imagine it, she was told Snow was a woman, but her brother just spelled it wrong. 

Ugh . Robb and his careless typos. He’s not even thirty and yet he texts like their grandpa, who insisted on having a smartphone to videochat with his grandkids, but has no clue how to work the keyboard. Or even like a child with their first IPad, trying to type the name of a game they like on the App Store and misspelling every single word. Robb certainly doesn’t text like one expects a twenty-nine year old man, with a serious job and a good grasp on technology, to do it.

She’s going to kill him if she gets out of here alive. She’s considering the thought of dropping dead to save herself from the embarrassment of the tattoo session. Even if she does go through with it, there’s still the possibility of dying from pain or excess of awkwardness during the session.

She’s in the middle of figuring out which version of Sansa’s sudden death her friends and family would prefer receiving, when the door to the back opens, and a man steps out.

Messy black curls tied loosely at the nape of his neck. Tall. Broad shoulders. A jawline that looks like it was created by a sculptor. A couple of tattoos are peeking out from beneath the sleeves of a worn, black shirt. His dark jeans look like they’ve been painted on. He has the kind of stubble that looks both accidental and yet perfectly placed, and gods, he even has long eyelashes.

And his eyes. Dark. Sharp. But kind, too, once his face breaks into a warm smile the moment he sees her.

“Hey,” he says, voice deep and throaty, coming up to the front. “Sansa, right?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again.

There is absolutely no way this man is about to see her shirtless for three hours. But apparently, he is, unless Sansa can think of a graceful way to run out of the door, never to be seen again.

She finds her manners again, “Yes. Yes, I am.” She nods, probably too fast. “Nice to meet you.”

She steps toward him, and they shake hands.

Or rather, he shakes her hand. Sansa feels his fingers wrap around hers with ease, skin warm, calloused fingers and a confident grip that sends an electric jolt right up her spine. The size difference makes her feel like her whole hand disappeared inside his, and his thumb brushes her knuckles when he lets go.

She’s going to have to remember how to breathe in the next few minutes, otherwise she will surely die pretty soon, whether she’s planning to or not.

“I’m Jon,” he says, and even though his voice is low and deep, there’s something soft in his tone, that doesn’t quite match the way he looks. “Jon Snow. But everyone here just calls me Snow.” A small smile still tugs at his mouth.

Sansa manages a small, awkward smile of her own. She’s thinking, or maybe obsessing over the thought, that Snow may be smiling because he can see on her face, plain as day, that the fact that he is a man, and that Snow turned out to be an extremely confusing nickname, is a complete surprise to her. Not through any fault of his own, or even Sansa’s own. It is, of course, Robb’s fault and Robb’s fault only.

He glances at the clipboard he left on the counter and then he mentions Sansa’s number one enemy. “So you’re Robb’s sister?”

“Yeah,” she says, finding her voice again. “He basically tricked me into getting this tattoo.”

Jon shakes his head with a faint grin. “Yeah, he said something similar to me, too,” he informs her with a quick laugh. “Also he told me that, under no circumstances, I should let you cancel this appointment… Something about not wanting to take another trip to Bath&Body Works ?”

A fifty Dragons gift card from Bath&Body Works sounds like a pretty enticing birthday present right about now.

Sansa huffs a small laugh, rolling her eyes. “That sounds like him.”

“You nervous?” He looks at her again, really looking this time and she feels oddly checked out, not in a flirtatious way, but more in a making sure you’re okay and not going to pass out on the table while I work.

Terrified , she almost says. Except, she doesn’t know what will happen if she says that. Does Jon’s tattoo artist code of honour require him to ask the scared customer to walk away and forget the whole thing, because they’re clearly too chicken shit to go through with it in a dignified manner?

She hesitates, then nods. “A bit. I’ve been talking about getting a tattoo for years but if Robb hadn’t forced the issue I probably would not have done it… But I’m ready now.”

“Well,” he says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I guess we should thank him then.”

She exaggerates a sigh, after all she’s still mad at her brother. “I guess we should.”

“Come on,” Jon says, nodding toward the counter. “We’ve got just a bit of paperwork before we start.”

She follows him, doing her best to keep her gaze fixed firmly above the line of his broad shoulders. The blonde at the front, whose name, she learns, is Val (and whose last name is apparently not Snow), slides over a clipboard and a pen.

Jon leans against the counter beside her as Sansa fills out the release forms. When she’s done she checks over her answers about a dozen times, making sure that she didn’t accidentally agree to be used as a human guinea pig for tattoo practice, or something equally insane, when she was busy staring at Jon Snow’s biceps rather than at the piece of paper in front of her eyes.

When she’s sure of her answers, checking them once more just because (not because she’s stalling, obviously), she signs her name on the bottom line, trying to keep her handwriting from shaking.

“Okay,” she says, handing back the clipboard. “I’m ready.”

Jon meets her gaze and she hopes the agitation is gone from her eyes. 

She follows as he leads her toward the room he came out of before, when her perception of the past month of back and forth texting, was shattered. His shoulders move easily as he walks, confident without being cocky.

He pushes open the door of his room and holds it for her. She steps inside.

The room is painted in a soft cream colour, organized and clean, the walls are covered in more art, a large reclining chair at the center and a rolling cart neatly organized with ink, tools, gloves, and wipes. A stool waits nearby for him.

Jon closes the door behind them with a soft click, and the quiet settles over her like a blanket. 

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, nodding toward the chair. “You can set your bag down there.”

Right. Comfortable. That’s going to be difficult considering she has to take off her shirt in front of this man. This man with perfect forearms and warm hands and a voice that makes her knees slightly wobbly.

She nods at him, and her fingers tighten slightly on the strap of her bag, then she sets it down on the table in the back of the room. 

Jon turns toward the counter, putting on gloves and prepping supplies with practiced ease. “You can go ahead and get undressed from the waist up,” he says over his shoulder. “You can keep the flannel on, just wear it open. We’ll do the placement first before anything permanent happens.”

Sansa suddenly becomes very aware of her heartbeat.

Of course she already knew this, well, at least the ‘ getting half-naked in front of someone ’ part, but now it feels slightly different. Now that Jon is standing just a few feet away, pulling out transfer paper and ink caps.

She’s pretty modest, not as much as when she was younger, but she’s also not one of those girls who can, so confidently, walk outside with completely sheer outfits, or high-waisted jeans so short that half of the ass is displayed for everyone to see, and no bra under shirts. Which means that laying down with her tits out in front of a man that she is not dating isn’t exactly in her comfort zone. But she prepped for this. She used the numbing cream. She has her stupid nipple covers in her bag. She had weeks to prepare for this moment.

So it’s no big deal. Really.

“Sansa?” Jon calls out to her, and she realises that her hands have been stuck at the bottom of the shirt, pondering on the decision to either roll it up and take her shirt off, or just run out of the room. “Are you okay?”

She blinks, it’s nice that he noticed her discomfort, but now she’s going to have to explain why she feels uncomfortable and the thought makes her want to shrivel up into the floor.

“Oh, yes… it’s just that… I was kind of under the impression that you were a woman…?” Her words grow more insecure by the end. She doesn’t even know why. Will he be offended because Sansa thought she was talking to a woman? He doesn’t look like the type of man prone to feel insulted by someone even remotely questioning his hyper masculinity, but you never know who you meet in life.

“Ah,” Jon says, and he seems to understand immediately. He comes closer, his gaze flicking to her hands, still clenched in the hem of her shirt. “If you want we can reschedule you with someone else. Val, looked alright to you?”

“ No . Well, yes, she seemed fine. But I like you... As my tattoo artist !” She rushes to explain. “I loved your design and your messages made me feel better about the whole thing, they made me feel… safe .”

That last word comes out quieter than the rest.

Jon’s expression doesn’t change much, but something behind his eyes looks gentler now than it did before.

“I’m really glad to hear that, Sansa,” he says, “That’s what I strive for.”

She nods, heat crawling up her neck.

“So,” he begins, carefully. “you don’t want to reschedule?”

She shakes her head. “No. I want you.”

Why does she keep saying things like that ?

But he doesn’t look weirded out by her lack of decorum, instead he gives her a small, reassuring smile. “Great. I’ve tattooed a lot of women, and I can promise you no one has ever felt uncomfortable with me in that chair. You’re in control the whole time. If you need a break, we take one. If something doesn’t feel right, we stop. I’m just here to make sure you get something you love, and to make it as easy as possible.”

The last nerves skitter through her belly as she realizes she believes him. She still feels the tingle of tension, the awareness of his body and voice and presence, but she also feels okay, she feels like he’s telling the truth when he says no one has felt uncomfortable with him.

“I’ll just grab the stencil,” Jon says, giving her a beat of space, already reaching for the door. “Take your time.”

It’s nice of him to say that, almost too nice. They are working on a tight schedule, they don’t really have any wiggle room, both because he has other clients after her session, and especially because the numbing cream she applied almost an hour ago should be starting to work and it won’t last all day. So, no, she can’t take her time, and that finally makes her move. She doesn’t want to inconvenience Jon.

Sansa breathes in deep, then finally tugs her t-shirt up and over her head, then promptly slips her arms back into the flannel, wearing it loosely over her shoulders, leaving the buttons undone just like Jon suggested. Her arms fold instinctively over her chest, hiding the adhesive-covered area where the numbing cream sits beneath the plastic, but she snaps out of it quickly. Jon’s not even here, who is she covering herself from?

She goes to pick up the nipple covers from her bag, she peels back the protective film and positions them over one nipple at the time, pressing them firmly into place. She hopes she doesn’t look ridiculous, with her pink, petal-edged, flower shaped nipple covers on, but these were the only ones she already had at home and she didn’t want to buy more just for this.

When she’s done, she smooths the flannel into place and catches her reflection in the full-length mirror across the room. She walks up to it hesitantly, already wincing internally and half-prepared to look away again immediately.

But when she stands in front of the mirror, her hands settling lightly at her sides, she doesn't look ridiculous. Not even close.

The pink flowers are a little silly, sure, but the overall effect? She thinks she looks... good.

Robb’s flannel is soft and oversized, slipping off one shoulder just enough to show skin, the open front revealing the lines of her ribs and the curve of her waist. The placement of the covers and the slight part of the fabric gives just a hint of what lays beneath, but still leaves plenty to the imagination. With the high-waisted jeans and her long red hair tumbling over her collarbone, the look is oddly striking. Almost sexy.

No, not almost. Actually sexy.

Sansa flushes at the thought and, reflexively, turns away from the mirror. She’s here to get tattooed, not to get laid.

She hears the footsteps just in time.

Quickly, she spins around and practically launches herself onto the reclining chair, trying to arrange herself as casually as possible just as the door opens and Jon steps back in.

He holds the stencil in one gloved hand, his other wrapped around a small bottle of transfer gel.

“Alright,” he says, closing the door behind him again. “Let’s get this dragonfly in place.”

Sansa gives what she hopes comes across as a calm, casual smile. As if she wasn’t just checking herself out in the mirror a few seconds before he came into the room. As if she isn’t now sitting in front of the most attractive man she ever met, with her shirt open, wearing literal flower petals on her chest.

Jon sets the stencil and supplies down on the side table, pulling his stool closer to where Sansa sits on the reclining chair, now pulled flat, making it look almost like a bed. The flannel is loose around her body, how he instructed, but he still pauses, his voice soft.

“I’m going to move this just a little, alright?” He asks, in a totally relaxed way, and she realises that when she was moving around, not knowing where exactly to put her arms without looking like she was inside a grave, the flannel must have moved to cover her. Which, of course, is usually the point, except for today.

Sansa nods, her breath catching slightly as he reaches forward and gently shifts the fabric aside. His hands are careful, never brushing more than necessary. Still, the proximity alone, his shoulder nearly brushing her knee, the warmth of his presence so close, makes her throat tighten.

What does he think of her boobs? It’s a silly thing to wonder, she’s pretty sure she had the exact train of thought when her high school boyfriend saw her without a shirt for the first time, but she’s always been a little self aware of them. They’re on the smaller size and she wondered for years when she would go up a few cup sizes, just like the models she saw on magazines, except that never happened. She spent her teenage years feeling self-conscious because, unlike her friends whose boobs came out strong as soon as they hit puberty, Sansa’s stayed pretty much the same from age twelve on. Maybe it’s better like this though. Less boobs means less for Jon to see.

He reaches for the edge of the wrap still covering the numbing cream she applied earlier and peels it back slowly. The plastic crinkles softly as it comes away from her skin, leaving a faint sheen of cream behind. He wipes the excess gently from her chest and under her breasts, each motion steady and professional, but not cold. Never cold.

Sansa stares at the ceiling, trying to breathe normally, trying not to be hyper-aware of the soft drag of the towel or the quiet intimacy of being touched like this by a stranger who, inexplicably, makes her feel steadier than most people she knows.

When he’s finally done, he reaches for the stencil.

“You’ll feel this against your skin,” Jon says quietly. “It’s going to be a little cool.”

He leans in closer, the paper in his hand, and Sansa feels the shift in the air as he places the stencil beneath her breasts. His fingers, gloved and sure, pressed gently along her ribs, the sternum, the upper curve of her stomach.

Sansa doesn’t dare move. Her breath comes shallow.

He works in silence, smoothing the stencil into place, eyes narrowed in focus. His face is inches from her chest, from her small breasts that he doesn’t seem affected by at all, his brows slightly furrow, and it takes everything in her not to squirm.

After a few moments, he sits back, studying his work.

“You want to take a look?” he asks, his voice a bit lower now. “Make sure the placement feels right to you?”

Sansa nods, then sits up slowly, trying not to brush against him in the process, and turns to the mirror he angled toward her.

She looks. The wings of the dragonfly arch just beneath the curve of her breasts, delicate and symmetrical. The body lines up with her sternum, long and elegant, with subtle ornamental shapes extending outward like a chandelier. It looks graceful and fierce all at once.

He nailed it.

“It’s perfect,” she says, feeling a bit breathless. “You got it the first time.”

Jon gives a small smile and nods, turning back to his station to prep the machine.

“How did the cream feel when you first put it on?” he asks as he arranges the ink caps.

“It was cold,” Sansa says, settling back again. “Kind of tingly for the first fifteen minutes. But now I don’t really feel anything.”

“That’s good,” he says, adjusting the machine. “It’ll dull a lot of the discomfort, but just like we talked about, it won’t take away all of it. You’ll still feel some sting, especially once we get into the longer lines and shading.”

She nods. This is what she meant when she said he inexplicably makes her feel safe, she almost forgets her boobs are still in plain sight for him to see. “I’m ready.”

He glances over at her, dark eyes steady.

“Last chance to back out.”

She gives him a small, almost shy smile, and she hopes she isn’t showing a double chin from this position. “I want it.”

Jon flicks the machine on with a soft buzz and the sound fills the room.

He leans in.

“You’ll feel the needle now,” he says, his voice soft and close. “Deep breath.”

Sansa inhales like he instructed.

The first touch of the needle kisses the edge of her sternum, a sharp, buzzing pressure that makes her whole body tense, but not from pain. From knowing this is real. From the closeness of him. From the strange, beautiful sensation of art beginning to form just beneath her skin.

She exhales, slowly.

And Jon keeps going.

—

The needle buzzes steadily, the sound almost soothing now that Sansa is used to it. The pain, sharp and bright and undeniably present, isn’t nearly as bad as she feared. In fact… she kind of likes it.

It’s not comfortable, exactly. But it’s a focused kind of discomfort that settles into her bones like the burn of a good workout, the ache of doing something hard and meaningful. But even more than that. The sting flares beneath her skin and fades just enough to let her breathe through it, only to return again, pulsing in time with the sweep of Jon’s hand.

(There must be something wrong with her, she’s almost positive. The answers on some old tattoo-focused blog she stumbled across, and the condescending Reddit threads that came up among the first search results, all said that it’s supposed to hurt. Like a searing hot knife dragging across the skin. Wet fire settling under the skin. Like a cat scratching onto an already sunburnt body. And those are just some of the ones she’s read. It’s supposed to hurt a lot, even with the numbing cream, and it does hurt for Sansa too… but in a good, almost pleasant way?

Would this hurt more without numbing cream? And would she like it more, or less? She’s almost eager to find out.) 

As she lays there, letting Jon work on her skin, she thinks of all of the small little things throughout her lifetime that should’ve led her to discover this enjoyment of hers earlier. It really shouldn’t come as a surprise, but Sansa’s always been a bit oblivious to even the most obvious stuff. The numerous times she burnt herself taking a pie out of the oven and thought it didn’t hurt that bad, going as far as pressing down on the small red scar just to feel it more. The pain in her teeth after going to the dentist that she felt for days after, and thought she enjoyed it simply because that meant that her dental hygienist did a good job. When she used to accidentally bump her freshly done piercings when laying down or bringing her phone to her ears, and the way her ears felt like they were on fire didn’t bother her at all. At least not in a bad way.

She is starting to get into a rhythm with it, closing her eyes and letting the sensations seep into her bones, when Jon’s voice breaks in, low and warm above the buzz of the machine.

“So,” he says, “what do you do when you’re not letting strangers stick needles in your chest?”

Sansa huffs a laugh. “I’m a teacher.”

Jon arches a brow, not lifting his eyes from the outline he’s carefully dragging down her sternum. “Are teachers even allowed to have tattoos?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m pretty sure there’s no clause in the contract about tasteful dragonflies. And it’s not like any of my students are ever going to see me shirtless.”

Jon’s mouth quirks up. “Right. Unless they have X-ray vision.”

“I teach third grade,” she says dryly. “If any of them have X-ray vision and decide to use it to look underneath their teacher’s shirts, I think we’ve got bigger problems.”

He chuckles softly, and the sound settles somewhere low in her stomach. “Not in third grade, obviously,” he prefaces. “But I may have thought about my teacher shirtless when I was in high school.”

The pain might not be bad, but she could still take a page from Sansa’s pre-session, ink-virginal book and die from embarrassment anyway. “Oh?” she breathes. Her cringeworthy flower shaped nipple covers have, at the least, the benefit of hiding the way her nipples are now hard as rocks.

“Yeah,” he says, infuriatingly calm. “Mostly just one though. She was the chemistry sub in my second year of high school and I think the entire class had a crush on her. She had red hair, too, not quite like yours though.”

What an interesting and entirely unnecessary confession on his part. Sansa tries very hard not to think about what he just said. Is the teacher part or the redhead part the worst one? She’s not sure she has the answer. Does he have some sort of teacher kink? Sansa usually steers away from men who do, but something about the way he said it, and felt the need to comment on the colour of her hair too, feels a bit too intentional and she can’t get her mind to look down at his confession.

She thinks their conversation ends there, that he was just making some small talk to examine her feelings and general mood during the tattooing, and now that he’s dropped a very personal fact about himself everything is done. She wants to respect that, maybe he works best if he’s not also engaged in conversation with the clients… Except, if they stop talking she’s going to close her eyes again and let her body take over and she’s not looking to let out some embarrassingly high noises or, Seven save her, moans in front of him.

“And what about you?” she asks, eager to shift the attention off Jon’s possible passion for redheads or teachers, or redhead teachers. “How’d you get into this? Tattoos?”

Jon glances up just briefly, gauging her expression, and then goes back to work.

“I was always drawing as a kid,” he says. “On everything. Schoolbooks, the backs of receipts, napkins. When I didn’t have anything, I’d draw on myself. Arms, legs, hands, wherever I could reach. It just kind of became second nature.”

“So self-tattooing is your origin story?”

“Pretty much,” he says with a small smile. “Eventually I figured I might as well try doing it legally. And more safely too. Those permanent markers I used weren’t exactly the most harmless choice for the skin.”

She grins. “And Robb? How do you know him?”

“He came in for a tattoo a couple years ago,” Jon says, dipping his needle and beginning a new line just beneath the curve of her breast. “Spent the whole session trying to flirt with Val. They went home together, so I guess props to your brother.”

“Val? The blonde at the front?”

“Mhm.”

“And my brother dated her?” Sansa says, eyebrows rising.

Jon tilts his head, clearly amused. “I don’t think ‘dated’ is the right word.”

That explains why Sansa’s never heard of her, as close as she and her older brother are, they don’t particularly like to have gossiping sessions where they spill the beans about their one night stands or sexual encounters.

“Oh,” she says, then snorts. “Well, she’s way out of his league anyway.”

Jon’s grin widens, just enough to show the hint of a dimple in one cheek. “I’m not going to argue.”

Sansa laughs, despite herself she does agree with him, and winces slightly at the stretch of skin mid-laugh. The sting flares again, but it isn’t unwelcome. On the other hand that other sting, the one she felt when Jon simply implied his hot coworker is in fact hot , is definitely unwelcome.

Sansa tilts her head, lips quirking up. “You thought teachers couldn’t get tattoos,” she says, because teasing him seems a better use of her time than spending it worrying about his thoughts regarding his extremely pretty and effortlessly cool coworker. “But tattoo artists can go home with their clients? Seems a bit unprofessional to me.”

Jon doesn’t look up immediately, focused on tracing another line, but his mouth twitches like he’s holding back some sort of joke. Then he speaks, quiet and deliberate:

“I’m pretty sure there’s no clause in the contract about going home with pretty clients.”

There’s a pause, half a heartbeat too long, and then he adds, eyes flicking up to meet hers:

“Boys, or girls.”

His voice is still casual, still smooth, but even lower now. And something in his gaze shifts. Gone softer at the edges. Or darker. Maybe both. Sansa swears she is not imagining it.

The room feels smaller somehow, like the walls moved in around them, closing in on them like they’re in a psychological thriller movie. Or maybe it’s just the heat creeping up her neck making her see things that aren’t there.

She swallows and looks away, a smile tugging at her lips that she tries not to let him see.

“That’s… good to know,” she murmurs, trying very hard not to sound breathless.

Jon doesn’t say anything right away. He just keeps working, quiet and steady, but his hand pauses briefly before the buzz resumes.

And Sansa has never been more aware of the fact that his hand is still on her chest, that it’s close he may as well reach higher and cup one of her breasts into one of his ginormous hands, and oh gods , this really is a terrible time to become aware of how much pain turns her on.

“You’re handling the pain really well,” Jon says, voice softening slightly.

“Thanks,” she replies, trying not to sound too smug. Arya, possibly the strongest person she knows, told her it was an awfully painful experience, and yet here she is, not only not feeling this unbearable pain everyone talked about but also enjoying this way too much. “It’s not as bad as I expected.”

He meets her eyes for a beat. “Some people even like it.”

She looks away too quickly, hoping he doesn’t read too much into the way her face heated.

I can see why… She thinks, but doesn’t say. 

“Oh, do they?” she mutters instead, trying to sound indifferent, but her voice catches slightly at the end.

The hum of the machine fills the space again. Jon doesn’t push, just keeps working, close enough that she can smell the faint trace of soap on his skin and feel the brush of his breath when he leans in to follow the stencil’s delicate linework.

The pain pulses in time with her heartbeat, and Sansa closes her eyes for a moment, trying to steady herself.

This is fine. Totally, absolutely fine.

Except maybe for the part where she’s starting to hope the tattoo will take just a little longer.

—

Nearly an hour passed, the steady hum of the machine weaving in and out like a second heartbeat. They haven't spoken much since Jon mentioned that some people like the pain of getting tattooed, a line that settled somewhere low and molten in Sansa’s stomach.

Without the distraction of conversation, she becomes hyperaware of everything else.

The rhythmic sting of the needle. The heat curling through her belly every time it drags across more sensitive skin. The soft, firm weight of Jon’s gloved hand, always resting against her side, steadying her, guiding her.

She’s squirming more than she means to, just slight shifts of her hips or thighs, but enough to draw Jon’s attention.

“Easy,” he says at one point, a low chuckle in his voice. “Unless you want your dragonfly to end up with an extra pair of wings.”

Sansa makes a strangled sound that might have been a laugh. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t call her out for it, doesn’t question the flush creeping over her chest, just keeps working with the same focused precision. That, somehow, only makes it worse. Is it silly that she wants him to be affected the same way Sansa is?

Another twenty minutes pass by, where Sansa tries not to squirm too much and mostly fails, and Jon has to place a hand on her lower stomach to keep her still multiple times.

And then he finally breaks the silence.

“So,” Jon says, his voice a little quieter now, maybe even curious, “Why’d Robb finally book this appointment for you now? Something special coming up?”

She blinks, grateful for the distraction.

“My birthday’s next Wednesday,” she tells him excitedly, she’s always been one of those people who love their birthday. Who loves the attention, and the gifts, and the spending time with friends and family who are all there to celebrate her. “This is my birthday present. Robb’s been trying to make it happen for years, but I always backed out.”

“Yeah?” Jon asks, glancing up briefly before returning to the final lines along her sternum. 

“The first time he booked it I ghosted the artist. Which was very shitty of me, I know! The second time, I claimed I was too sick and told Robb I was going to reschedule and then I never did. Last year I just made him buy me a pair of shoes I’ve been wanting to buy instead. He would’ve bought me another candle otherwise. And while I do love candles, my house is starting to smell like a wax factory.”

“What changed this time?”

Sansa smiles to herself, looking up at the ceiling.

“I don’t know, really.” Except for the way the sight of Jon’s design of her beloved dragonfly sent sparks all over her. “Even though I was scared, this has been a dream of mine for years. But I think Robb probably expected me to cancel it again, and I wanted to prove him wrong, and I also wanted to prove to myself that I could do this.”

Jon laughs softly, the sound vibrating between them. “That tracks. He did tell me you’d probably bail again.”

“That was very rude of him,” she says, lips twitching. “But also totally fair.”

“You almost did this time too?”

“I almost did,” she admits, and now she’s eternally glad that she didn’t. “But this time the design was too good. And the artist was too… nice.”

His brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t comment, just nods like he’s filing that away somewhere.

He adjusts slightly, leaning in to complete the detailing near her ribs. She stills under his touch.

“You doing anything for your birthday?” Jon asks after a moment.

Sansa hesitates.

“My roommates are throwing me a party next weekend,” she says. “At our apartment. Nothing huge. Just some friends, some music and some drinks, maybe a bad cake with some cheesy writing and twenty-six candles on top.”

He smiles, eyes crinkling. “Sounds nice.”

She almost says it. The words hover at the back of her throat, right there…

You should come if you’re free.

But she catches herself just in time. She bites the words back before they slip out and she makes a fool of herself.

He’s just her tattoo artist. They aren’t friends. Not really. A few jokes and the nice flow of one single conversation does not make them friends.

Not yet, at least.

So instead, she shrugs. “Yeah. Nice.”

It would be nicer if he were to come to her birthday party and dance with her, their bodies moving close in the middle of her living room, his hands sliding over her hips. They would sway, their bodies brushing with every shift in rhythm. She’d be warm from cheap wine, her pulse loud in her ears, and his mouth would hover just over hers, like a question yet to be answered.

Jon hums in acknowledgement, still focused, still so close.

And Sansa lays back, teeth grazing her bottom lip, trying to will her pulse to calm down, and failing completely.

—

The buzz of the tattoo gun goes silent.

Sansa blinks up at the ceiling, the quiet is almost jarring, now that the rhythmic sting and hum are gone. Her skin throbs, warm and tender, a steady reminder of everything that just happened.

“There we go,” Jon says, voice a little hoarse. He sets the machine down and rolls his stool back slightly. “All done.”

Sansa lets out a slow breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

“You did really great, Sansa.” 

She’s still floating a little on adrenaline and heat and the not-quite-pain still buzzing just beneath her skin… But. Oh . She should add praise kink to that list.

She smiles, a bit dazed, and lets out a slow breath. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he confirms.

She feels him shift closer again. He wipes her skin one final time, then reaches for the sterile bandage and gently smoothes it over the fresh ink. The contact makes her flinch, not from pain, but from the intimacy of it. His touch is careful, respectful as it’s been for the whole three hours, it’s nothing more than the warm pressure of a gloved palm, but still, she feels it like a spark.

“There,” he murmurs, smoothing the adhesive edges down with practiced care. “That’ll protect it for now.”

Sansa nods and moves to sit up, but winces halfway through, muscles stiff from staying still so long. Instantly, Jon steps forward to help, one hand bracing her back, the other offering support beneath her arm.

“Easy,” he says, steadying her.

She lets him help, leaning into the warmth of his body before she can think better of it. And then, once she’s upright, she blinks, realizing far too late that she’s still just in jeans and that open flannel.

No bra. No shirt. Only these ridiculous flower-shaped nipple covers and a lot of exposed skin between them.

She freezes.

But Jon… he still doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t leer, doesn't make a joke. His hands already dropped away from her the moment she sat up fully. Still, when their eyes meet, she sees it.

That flicker.

That fraction of a second where his gaze lowers and lingers just a little too long before he catches himself and looks away.

It wasn’t lewd. It probably wasn’t even deliberate.

But it was there.

He clears his throat. “Wanna see it in the mirror?”

“Yes,” she says quickly, grateful for something to do.

He offers her a hand again, and she lets him help her off the chair, feet touching the ground a little too close to his. Their fingers brushes as she steps past him, and she ignores the jolt that shoots up her arm.

The full-length mirror stands against the wall, and when she opens the flannel, just enough to see her torso, her breath catches.

The dragonfly curves beautifully beneath her breasts, its wings arching wide, delicate but powerful. The fine lines shimmer faintly beneath the protective film, every detail perfectly balanced. It’s gorgeous. Way more than she even imagined.

Jon stands a little behind her, visible in the mirror, his eyes meeting hers when she looks up.

Sansa beams, bright and unfiltered. “It’s perfect. Thank you, Jon.”

He smiles back, slower, more reserved. “You’re welcome.”

Back at the reclining chair, she lets the flannel fall back into place. Jon returns a moment later with a small brown bag, placing it gently on the rolling cart beside her.

“Aftercare,” he says, voice a little steadier now, almost businesslike. “So listen up this part’s important.”

She nods, her hands busy buttoning her flannel, even though the room feels warm, it’s not socially acceptable to stand there with her boobs out while Jon explains how to avoid her new tattoo getting ruined within the first two weeks of getting it.

“No direct sunlight on the area,” he begins. “Not until it’s completely healed. That includes tanning beds, if you’re into that.”

“I’m not,” she says quickly.

“Good. Keep it clean, wash it gently with unscented soap. Once or twice a day. Let it air dry if you can.”

She nods again, committing it all to memory.

“No swimming,” he continues. “No baths, hot tubs, saunas. Nothing that keeps it soaked for long.”

“Showers are okay?”

“Yeah, just don’t let the water blast directly on it.”

He gives her a small smile then, something softer, like the tension eased just slightly now that she’s clothed again.

“Moisturize twice a day,” Jon adds, holding her gaze for emphasis. “I put a sample in there for you. Unscented stuff. Nothing with alcohol or fragrance. It helps to keep the skin from drying out or cracking.”

Sansa peeks into the bag and finds a small tube of lotion tucked inside, along with some aftercare instructions neatly folded.

“Thank you,” she says. “For everything.”

He smiles faintly, and she realizes how close they still are, standing there in the middle of the room like neither of them is in any real rush to leave.

Jon shrugs then runs a hand through his curls. “Just doing my job.”

But his voice doesn’t sound detached. If anything, there’s a kind of gravity behind it now. Like maybe he felt it too, whatever had stretched between them, just beneath the quiet professionalism.

He hesitates, just a beat. “You did good, by the way. I know this was a big deal for you, and I know that me being a man definitely made your experience harder.”

“Yeah,” she says, softer now. “It was a big deal. But you made it easier, actually. I was serious before, you really did make me feel safe through texts. And in person you made me feel even safer.”

Jon holds her gaze.

For a moment, neither of them say anything.

And then he nods once. Nothing else. But the space between them is still buzzing, just like the needle that he used to imprint the dragonfly beneath her skin.

Sansa isn’t sure she wants this to be the end of their conversation.

—

When they step back out into the main part of the studio, the bright colors on the walls almost feel like a jolt after the soft light and hushed intimacy of the tattoo room. Sansa blinks against them, adjusting to reality again, a little disoriented, like waking up from a very specific kind of dream.

Val is back behind the front desk, still effortlessly cool in her cropped tee and winged eyeliner.

She looks up when she sees Sansa approach. “So? How’d it go?”

Sansa glances sideways at Jon, then back at Val. She smiles, the answer already sitting warm on her tongue.

“Jon took good care of me,” she says.

She doesn’t miss the way Jon pauses slightly next to her, head turning towards her like he catches the echo of his own words

I’ll take care of you , he said.

And he had.

Everything inside her flutters.

Sansa doesn’t need to pay. Robb already arranged that part and he’ll come by in a few days to settle it, but still, Sansa lingers. Her fingertips brush the edge of the counter, her flannel sleeves half-hiding the bandage beneath. Jon doesn’t seem in a rush either, even though he probably has other clients soon, he needs to clean the room and prepare it for the next customers, or even has some more designs to draw. Something else to do with his hands.

But neither of them move.

Eventually, after a few more moments of pretending she isn’t stalling, she exhales and steps back. “I should probably go,” she says, pointing her thumb back toward the door.

Jon nods, just once. His face is unreadable but his eyes are warm.

And then, impulsively, Sansa leans forward, rises on her toes, and presses a kiss to his cheek.

Soft, quick.

Still daring.

She doesn’t look to see his expression after, she doesn’t have the nerve for that, she just smiles at Val again and pushes through the front door, stepping out into the cool afternoon air with a racing heart and the ghost of contact still tingling on her lips.

Sansa breathes in deeply, trying to center herself, but her thoughts remain back inside the studio. She walks slowly, her fingertips brush the edges of her flannel, hyper-aware of the fresh ink beneath it.

She should’ve asked for Jon’s number. Or actually invited him to her party, even if it would’ve sounded too forward. Just… something . A reason to see him again. An opening. A thread she could pull.

But she didn’t. Because despite everything, how warm he’d been, how gentle, how easy it felt to talk to him while he worked, he is still just her tattoo artist. 

Still, that cheek kiss…

She smiles to herself, hand lifting unconsciously to touch her lips.

It was innocent enough. But it wasn’t nothing.

She will hold onto that.

Replay it a few too many times tonight.

Maybe wonder how it would’ve felt if she had turned her head just slightly…

“ Sansa! ”

She’s so busy mentally replaying the entire day inside her head that she almost misses her names being called. But then she hears it again:

“ Sansa! ”

She turns around.

Jon is standing in the studio doorway, one hand braced against the frame, his dark curls slightly mussed like he ran his fingers through them again. She didn’t walk that far, so she’s close enough to see that there is something different in his expression now, like the hours they spent together cracked something open in him too and he finally decided to stop pretending otherwise.

“Wait,” he says, jogging a few steps toward her.

She stops, heart hammering.

He slows when he reaches her, face slightly flushed, likely not from the light jog, she realizes, but from something else entirely.

“How unprofessional,” he begins, and then pauses, “would you think I was if I asked a client out on a date?”

For a second, Sansa can’t speak. Her mouth curls before she can stop it, and a laugh slips out, light and delighted. “Well, I don’t know,” she says, a hint of teasing in her voice. “How pretty would you say they are?”

He pretends to ponder for a minute, but when his voice comes out it’s strong and sure. “The prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

She steps toward him, as close as she was in that room, and kisses him. Her lips meet his softly, deliberately, and for a moment he freezes, like the surprise rooted him to the spot. When she pulls back it’s just long enough to answer the question. “Then it’s acceptable, I’d say.”

“Good,” he murmurs, eyes going a little darker again. “That’s… very good.”

Then he moves, kissing her back, his hand coming to her waist with careful confidence. The pressure feels warm and possessive but not forceful. He pulls her closer by slow degrees, clearly mindful of where her fresh tattoo sits under her shirt, his touch staying just above the curve of her hip.

Sansa’s heart kicks hard in her chest, but it isn’t because she’s nervous, mostly she’s just full of adrenaline and something headier. Jon tastes like mint and something just a little sweet, and when his other hand brushes up along her side, her breath hitches.

She’s the one to pull back first again, lips parted and still tingling, a quiet laugh slipping out as she searches his face.

Jon doesn’t let her go.

Instead, he dips forward again, stealing another kiss, slower this time, deeper. And then another. Between them, he murmurs, “You have no idea how hard it was—”

Another kiss. His hand flexes against her waist.

“—to stay professional—”

Another. His voice feels rough, like he cannot quite catch his breath.

“—when you’ve been driving me crazy for three hours straight.”

Sansa laughs softly against his mouth, and her fingers find the hem of his shirt, curling in.

“Laying there, half-naked, looking like an absolute goddess.”

“Well,” she whispers, heart pounding loudly inside her chest, “you did a very good job pretending.”

He smiles against her, one of those rare, crooked things. They stand like that for a moment longer, suspended in something electric and brand-new, until she finally steps back, cheeks flushed, tattoo aching, lips tingling.

“I really have to go now,” she says, voice still light, still buzzing.

Jon runs a hand through his hair, a little dazed. “Right. Yeah. I’ll, uh… I’ll text you?”

She smiles, already walking backward toward the street. “You better,” she says, feeling bolder now.

Jon nods, watching her go like maybe he still isn’t entirely convinced this isn’t a dream.

And as Sansa walks away, she’s already thinking that she won't have to hold onto that cheek kiss after all.

Because something tells her it won’t be the last one.