Chapter Text
The air at Westeros University carried the sharp bite of late fall, a chill that seeped through the cracks of Jon Stark’s worn leather jacket as he trudged across the quad. The campus was alive with students bundled in scarves, their breath visible in the crisp morning, hauling backpacks and chattering about midterms. Jon, at 29, felt like a relic among them, a history professor whose life had crumbled under the weight of betrayal just three months ago. His boots crunched against the frostbitten grass, hands shoved deep in his pockets, as he made his way to his office in the history department’s ancient brick building. His mind wasn’t on the stack of ungraded essays waiting for him, nor on the lecture he had to deliver in an hour on medieval warfare. It was on Ygritte—always Ygritte—her wild red hair, her sharp tongue, and the way he’d walked in on her tangled up with some fucking guy in their bed. The image burned behind his eyes, a scar that wouldn’t heal.
He unlocked his office door, the faint smell of old books and stale coffee greeting him. The room was a mess—papers strewn across his desk, a half-empty mug from yesterday, and a photo of him and Ygritte still tacked to the corkboard by mistake. He ripped it down with a grunt, crumpling it into the trash bin. “Fuck her,” he muttered under his breath, dropping into his creaky chair. His phone buzzed on the desk, a text from Samwell Tarly, his best friend and a literature professor in the next building.
Sam: Hey, man, you alright? Haven’t seen you outside of lectures in weeks. Grab a coffee with me at The Wall’s Brew later? You look like shit.
Jon snorted, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. Sam always knew how to cut through the bullshit, even via text. He typed back a quick Maybe. Got grading. But he knew Sam was right. He’d been a ghost, dodging faculty meetups, avoiding the bars where he and Ygritte used to drink, holing up in this damn office or his sparse apartment. The ache in his chest hadn’t dulled, just turned into a quieter kind of anger, a heavy weight that dragged on his shoulders. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell he was supposed to move on when every memory of her still stung like a fresh cut.
By mid-afternoon, after a lecture where he’d barely held the attention of a room full of half-asleep undergrads, Jon’s stomach growled loud enough to remind him he’d skipped breakfast. Sam’s text gnawed at him too. Maybe a coffee wouldn’t hurt, just to get out of his own head for twenty minutes. He grabbed his bag, locked the office, and headed toward The Wall’s Brew, the campus café tucked between the library and the student union. It was a popular spot, always buzzing with kids cramming for exams or flirting over overpriced lattes. Jon hadn’t been there in weeks, not since before the breakup, when he and Ygritte used to argue over who’d pay for their drinks.
The bell above the door jangled as he stepped inside, the warmth hitting him along with the rich scent of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon from some seasonal bullshit on the menu. The place was packed, students sprawled across tables with laptops, a few faculty lingering near the counter. Jon’s dark eyes scanned the room, half-expecting to see Ygritte’s fiery hair in the crowd, even though he knew she had no reason to be here. She wasn’t a student or staff, just a freelance photographer who’d once been his everything. He shook off the thought, joining the short line at the counter, hands back in his pockets, trying to look like he wasn’t a mess.
Behind the counter, a guy he didn’t recognize was working the register, moving with a practiced ease that caught Jon’s attention despite himself. He was younger, maybe mid-twenties, with dark hair swept back, sharp cheekbones, and skin a warm olive tone that stood out under the harsh fluorescent lights. His black apron was tied loose around a lean frame, and he flashed a quick, easy smile at the girl ahead of Jon as he handed over her cappuccino. Jon shifted on his feet, suddenly aware of how long it’d been since he’d noticed anyone like that—not Ygritte, not some random woman, just... anyone. He told himself it was nothing, just him being tired, out of sorts.
When it was his turn, the guy looked up, those dark eyes locking onto Jon’s with a spark of something playful. “Hey, Professor, rough day?” he said, voice smooth and a little rough at the edges, like he’d just rolled out of bed. “You look like you could use a double shot of something strong. How ‘bout I fix you up?”
Jon blinked, caught off-guard by the casual tone, the way the guy’s gaze lingered just a second too long. He felt a weird heat creep up the back of his neck, and he cleared his throat, glancing at the name tag pinned to the apron—Satin. Odd name, but it fit somehow. “Uh, just a black coffee. Large. Thanks,” Jon muttered, fishing out his wallet, avoiding those eyes.
Satin grinned, a small, knowing tilt to his lips as he punched in the order. “Comin’ right up. Don’t worry, I’ll make it strong enough to wake the dead. You’re Stark, right? The history guy? I’ve seen you around, always looking’ like you’re carrying’ the weight of the world.”
Jon frowned, not sure if he was being mocked or not. “Yeah, that’s me. And you’re...?”
“ Satin Flowers. Barista by day, literature student by night. At your service.” He gave a mock bow before turning to pour the coffee, his movements quick but deliberate. Jon watched despite himself, noting the flex of Satin’s forearms as he worked the machine, the way his shoulders shifted under the tight black tee beneath the apron. He snapped his eyes away, pissed at himself for even looking. What the hell was that about? He wasn’t... he didn’t think like that. Never had. It was just a long day, that’s all.
Satin slid the steaming cup across the counter, fingers brushing Jon’s for a split second as he took it. The contact jolted him, stupid as it was, and Jon pulled his hand back too fast, nearly spilling the damn thing. “Thanks,” he grunted, tossing a few bills down and turning to go before Satin could say anything else.
“Anytime, Professor. Come back if you need another hit,” Satin called after him, voice teasing, almost daring. Jon didn’t look back, but he felt those words stick to him like glue as he pushed out the door into the cold again. His heart was beating a little too hard, and he took a scalding sip of the coffee to ground himself. “Get it together, Stark. It’s nothing,” he muttered under his breath, the steam rising in front of his face like a veil.
He found a bench near the library, away from the café’s windows, and dropped down onto it, letting the chill seep back into his bones. The coffee was good, strong like Satin promised, but it didn’t settle the weird twist in his gut. He didn’t know why that guy’s smirk, that stupid little brush of fingers, got under his skin. He’d dated women his whole life—high school crushes, a few flings in college, then Ygritte for the last three years. He liked women, always had. So why the hell did Satin’s voice keep echoing in his head, low and rough, like it was meant just for him?
Jon rubbed a hand over his face, the stubble rough against his palm. He needed to focus, get back to his office, tackle those essays. But the image of Ygritte flashed again—her on top of that bastard, the shock on her face when he’d walked in, the way she’d screamed at him to “get over it” when he’d confronted her. He’d loved her, or thought he had, with a fierceness that left him hollow now. Trust was a fucking joke after that. He didn’t even know if he could look at another woman without seeing her betrayal. And now this—some random guy at a café making him feel... whatever the hell this was. Unsettled. Alive in a way he hadn’t been in months.
His phone buzzed again, pulling him out of the spiral. It was Arya, his younger cousin, a scrappy undergrad who always seemed to show up at the worst times. Arya: Yo, loser, saw u at the café looking like a grumpy old man. U buying’ me a latte or what? Jon rolled his eyes but couldn’t help a small smirk. Arya was a pain in the ass, but she was family, and right now, he could use the distraction.
He texted back, Get your own. I’m broke. But he knew she’d show up anyway, probably in five minutes, ready to rib him about something. Sure enough, as he drained half his coffee, he spotted her lanky frame crossing the quad, hoodie pulled tight against the wind, dark hair a mess under a beanie. She plopped down next to him without asking, snatching the cup from his hand to steal a sip.
“Ugh, black? You’re such a boring fuck, Jon,” she said, wrinkling her nose and handing it back. “Why are you sitting’ out here like some sad poetry dude? Still crying’ over Ygritte?”
“Piss off, Arya,” he snapped, though there was no real heat in it. “I’m fine. Just takin’ a break.”
“Bullshit. You look like you haven’t slept since last semester.” She leaned back, kicking her boots up on the bench’s edge, eyeing him with that sharp Stark gaze they all shared. “Saw you talking’ to that hot barista guy in there. Satin, right? He’s got half the campus drooling’. You hitting’ that or what?”
Jon nearly choked on his coffee, heat rushing to his face again. “What the fuck, Arya? No. I’m not... I don’t do that. He’s just some guy who made my coffee. Lay off.”
She smirked, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say, big bro. But he was looking’ at you like you’re a whole snack. Just saying’.”
“Shut up,” he growled, standing abruptly, the coffee sloshing in the cup. “I’ve got work. Don’t you have a class or something?”
Arya just laughed, waving him off. “Run away, Jon. Can’t hide from the truth forever!” Her cackle followed him as he stalked toward the history building, his jaw tight, fists clenched in his pockets. That kid always knew how to push his buttons, but her words stuck worse than Satin’s. Was it that obvious? Had Satin been looking at him like... whatever Arya meant? And why did that thought make his stomach flip in a way that wasn’t entirely bad?
Back in his office, Jon slammed the door harder than he meant to, dropping into his chair with the coffee still clutched like a lifeline. He tried to focus on the essays, red pen in hand, scrawling comments about shoddy citations and weak arguments, but his mind kept drifting. To Ygritte, to the way she’d shattered everything he thought he knew about love. To Satin, that damn smirk, the way his voice had called him “Professor” like it was a secret between them. Jon tossed the pen down, leaning back with a groan. He wasn’t this guy. He didn’t get rattled by some random dude at a café. He liked women. That’s how it’d always been. So why couldn’t he shake the memory of those dark eyes, that fleeting touch?
He pulled out his phone again, scrolling through old texts from Ygritte before the breakup, stupid fights and sweeter moments mixed together. He hadn’t deleted them, some masochistic part of him clinging to the past. But as he read her “I love you” from six months ago, all he felt was empty. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe he needed to get out, breathe, stop letting her haunt every damn corner of his life. And maybe, just maybe, The Wall’s Brew wasn’t the worst place to start. Not for Satin—fuck no, that wasn’t it—but for a change of scenery. That’s what he told himself, anyway.
By the time evening rolled around, Jon had made little progress on grading. The campus was quieter now, the golden light of dusk filtering through his window, painting the room in long shadows. His phone buzzed once more, this time a call from Robb, his older cousin. Jon hesitated, then picked up, leaning the device against his shoulder as he packed up his bag.
“Hey, man, you alive?” Robb’s voice was warm, a little rough from a long day, probably at his tech startup. “Margaery and I were thinking’ you should come over this weekend. Haven’t seen you since the split. We’re worried, alright?”
Jon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m fine, Robb. Just busy. But yeah, I’ll swing by. Need to get outta my head for a bit.”
“Good. Margaery’s making’ that roast you like. And hey, if you want to talk about Ygritte or whatever, we’re here. No judgment.” Robb paused, then added with a chuckle, “Unless you’re back with her. Then I’m judging’ hard.”
Jon forced a laugh, though it felt hollow. “No chance of that. See you Saturday.”
He hung up, slinging his bag over his shoulder and locking the office behind him. The campus was nearly empty now, just a few stragglers heading to dorms or late study sessions. Jon’s steps slowed as he passed near The Wall’s Brew again, the neon “Open” sign still glowing in the window. He could see movement inside, someone wiping down tables, but he couldn’t tell if it was Satin or another worker. His feet itched to go in, just for another coffee, just to... what? See if that weird feeling came back? He shook his head, cursing under his breath, and kept walking.
“Get a grip, Jon,” he muttered to the empty night air, his breath fogging in the cold. “It’s nothing. You’re just fucked up. That’s all.” But even as he said it, a small, nagging part of him wondered if it was more than that. If Ygritte breaking him had cracked open something else, something he’d never dared look at before. Something tied to a smirking barista with dark eyes and a voice that wouldn’t leave him alone.
He made it to his apartment, a small, dimly lit place a few blocks off campus, and dropped his bag by the door. The silence hit hard, no Ygritte to bicker with, no laughter to fill the space. Just him and a bottle of cheap whiskey he pulled from the cabinet. He poured a glass, sank onto the couch, and stared at the blank TV screen, the day replaying in his mind. The lecture, Arya’s teasing, Robb’s call, and Satin. Always back to Satin. Jon took a long swig, the burn down his throat doing little to quiet the noise in his head. He didn’t know what the hell was happening to him, but for the first time in months, it wasn’t just pain keeping him up. It was something else—something dangerous, unfamiliar, and too damn real.
He drained the glass, setting it on the coffee table with a clink, and leaned his head back against the couch. Tomorrow, he’d stick to his routine. No café, no distractions. Just work, grading, lectures. That’s what he needed. That’s what he’d do. But even as he told himself that, a part of him—the part he was trying to bury—knew he’d end up at The Wall’s Brew again. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not the next day, but soon. And he wasn’t sure if he was dreading it or waiting for it.
Jon’s apartment faded into the background as he drifted into an uneasy sleep on the couch, the half-empty whiskey bottle a silent witness to his restless night. Dreams came in fragments—Ygritte’s face twisting into a sneer, the sound of her laughter mixed with the low hum of Satin’s voice saying “Professor” over and over. He woke before dawn, neck stiff, mouth dry, the same damn questions circling his mind. Who was he now, without her? And why did a guy he’d just met feel like more of a pull than any of the women he’d tried to forget her with at dive bars over the last few months?
He hauled himself up, splashing cold water on his face in the tiny bathroom, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror. Dark circles under his eyes, jaw tight, hair a mess. He looked like hell, and he felt it too. But there was a lecture at 9 AM, a stack of essays still waiting, and a life he had to keep moving through, whether he wanted to or not. He pulled on a clean shirt, grabbed his bag, and stepped out into the grey morning, the cold biting at his skin again.
The walk to campus was quiet, his thoughts louder than the distant hum of traffic. He’d avoid the café today, he decided. No point tempting whatever this bullshit was. He’d get coffee from the vending machine in the history building, bitter as it was, and keep his head down. But as he passed the library, the neon sign of The Wall’s Brew loomed in the corner of his vision, a beacon he couldn’t quite ignore. His steps faltered for just a second before he forced himself forward, jaw set.
Work. That’s what mattered. That’s what he knew. Not Ygritte, not some random barista, not the strange heat that had crept into his chest yesterday. He’d bury it, like he’d buried everything else since the breakup. But deep down, in a place he wasn’t ready to look at, Jon knew burying it wouldn’t make it disappear. It was there—a small, insistent spark, waiting to catch fire. And whether he liked it or not, Satin Flowers was the flint.