October 2016

Catelyn had no opportunity to torture Sansa with another blind date for a while after that, but eventually she nagged her daughter into attending a Halloween bar bash with Brent, a software designer looking for upward mobility in his career path. Sansa duded herself up in a 'sexy librarian' costume, crossed her fingers, and hoped for the best.

On paper, Brent seemed like a formidable catch. In reality, he was a meme-loving, red-pill-taking men's rights activist who wore a black trench coat over khaki cargo shorts, a My Little Pony t-shirt, Tevas, and a fedora. When she'd asked him what his Halloween costume was, he'd sniffed that such things were pedestrian, and launched into a diatribe about ethics in gaming journalism.

It was getting harder and harder to keep going to these things, and decided that no matter how her mother nagged, this would be the last one ever. She'd had high hopes for Harry, and felt great disappointment at his overwhelming mediocrity. It wasn't necessarily his fault; she'd been comparing him to Sandor all evening long and of course very few men could live up to such a sterling example of masculinity.

She tried to redirect her attention to Brent in hopes of making the torment end faster, but it was hard going. He'd begun to regale her with tales of his victory over lesser combatants in Call of Duty. At various points, when he wanted to show her his sensitive side, he'd detour into one of his many, many reasons for how atheism is superior to every religion in the world. Sansa was just beginning to feel like sticking her head in one of the decorative nooses strung from the ceiling when Brent happened to see the time on his phone.

"Oh, god!" he exclaimed, a flush of alarm spreading up from his neckbeard to cover his face with red blotches. "It's late! I missed my curfew!"

Sansa looked at her own phone; it was 11.03 on a Saturday night. "Curfew?" A horrible thought came to her. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Oh, it's nothing like that. I'm twenty-eight. No worries about my being jail-bait." He managed a flirty wink at her despite his chagrin, missing her point: she didn't care if he were jail-bait, since she'd decided two hours ago that she'd gnaw off her own feet before spending another evening with him. No, she was amazed that, at his age, he still had a curfew.

"Then why do you have to be home so early?" she asked, morbidly fascinated by the possibilities.

Brent huffed out a sigh. "Well, my mom goes to sleep at eleven, and locks all the doors at that time, so if I'm not home by then, I can't get in again until the next morning."

"Can she not just, like, give you a key?"

He flushed again, causing more blotches to surface. "I'm not accustomed to explaining myself to women," he said loftily, turning from her to put his drink down on the bar.

Sansa had a feeling that just the opposite was true, that he accounted to his mother for every thought in his head.

"Aha," she said. She put down her own drink, extremely ready for this date to be over. "So, what are you going to do, then? If you can't get into your house?"

The faintly contemptuous expression he'd worn all whole evening morphed into one of surprise. "Oh, I thought that you… that I could… that we were going… with you, to your…"

Sansa toyed with the idea of letting him keep stammering but that just felt cruel as it went on and on.

"I have an early morning tomorrow," she told him, hopping off the bar stool and smoothing down her 'sexy librarian' skirt. She was sure she'd be up by 6am, to pee if for no other reason, so it definitely wasn't a lie.

Brent deflated, but then puffed right back up with righteous indignation. "It's always the same. Nice guys finish last, every time."

"How nice have you been, exactly? Because from my side, you've done nothing but spend the past three hours insulting other people. If your mom won't even let you have a key to your own home, how much better can you be, really?"

His bloodshot eyes flashed. "I should have known you were just another bitch who thinks she's too good."

She barely managed to keep from rolling her eyes. "Thanks for the drink," she told him, and left.

Back at her apartment building, when the elevator doors opened, Sandor popped out just as she was about to pop in.

"Just checking the mail," he said, sauntering— yes, sauntering, in that pantherish way he had that only men with a ridiculous amount of muscle tone could achieve- over to the old brass mailboxes set into the lobby wall. "Hold the door for me?"

Sansa obediently stood in the path of the elevator doors. "Thought you had a date tonight."

"Yeah." He riffled through the small packet of envelopes, tossing all but one of them into the trash bin in the corner. "After dinner, she asked me back to her place. Told me she wanted to introduce me to her cat. I was hoping that was a metaphor."

Sansa laughed, and he gave her one of his rare half-smiles. He sauntered back and joined her in the elevator, jabbing at their floor button like it had insulted his mother.

"I'm guessing it wasn't a metaphor?" Sansa prodded. Enclosed in such a small space, Sandor's sheer size dwarfed her and made the elevator seem like it had shrunk even smaller. The scent of his cologne, or deodorant, or whatever-smelled-so-good, wafted delicately into her nostrils. She found herself swaying toward him, like a plant aiming itself at the sun, and hastily corrected her posture.

"No. She's one of those cat ladies. There wasn't just one cat, there were 27 of them. The stink was unbelievable. Talk about a mood-killer." Sandor ran a discerning eye over her. "Where were you tonight? Working late?"

She blinked at him. "Another blind date. Halloween party thing with Neckbeard Mama's Boy. Can't you tell?" She glanced down at herself: she had on her slimmest pencil skirt, a prim pussy-bow blouse of filmy see-through dotted Swiss cotton that couldn't even pretend at hiding her lacy bra, and her hair up in a messy bun. She'd foregone her contacts and worn her nerdiest glasses, slicked on her reddest lipstick, and stepped into her most severe-yet-towering stiletto heels. She even carried a book, to really sell the whole thing.

"This is my 'sexy librarian' costume."

He studied her again, and this time she almost felt his gaze like a physical caress. That piercing stare missed nothing; he took in the hair, the lipstick, the clothes, leaving her feel like he left a scorching trail in its wake. She wondered, idly, if she were singed or if her clothes were charred.

"You don't look any different from usual," was his pronouncement at last.

Sansa gasped. "I never wear an entire outfit of sexy things to work!" she protested. "Only one sexy element per outfit! Just the blouse, or the shoes, or the skirt!"

The elevator doors parted, and they made their way toward their respective apartments.

"Nothing you wear has only one sexy element," he informed her.

She gasped again, this time in offense. "I do not dress inappropriately!" she told him hotly. "I know fashion very well, and excel at putting together outfits that are suited to their environment! I perfectly balance professionalism with sex appeal in everything I wear for work!"

They reached their doors.

"Who said anything about inappropriate?" Sandor's faint grin, originally at her small upset, turned wolfish. "It has nothing to do with the clothes, Sansa."

Then he slipped into his apartment, leaving her to argue with the closed door.

Frowning, she stepped up to the door and hammered on it. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Nothing.

"Sandor!" She beat on the door until it shuddered.

No response.

In fury, she opened her handbag and ripped a blank page from her planner, then scrawled on it, "YOU ARE A GIGANTIC PAIN IN THE ASS" before pushing it under the door.

Sandor's laughter a moment later, audible even through his closed door, followed her into her apartment.

December 31, 2016

Sansa sat at her desk, laboriously wielding her lash comb after applying mascara in preparation for yet another blind date. She had a feeling it would be just as disastrous as all the others, and wondered why she kept doing it.

You know why, her subconscious whispered.

Yes, she knew why.

Sometime along the course of the past year, Sansa had become resigned to the fact that her fevered mind had made Sandor the touchstone to which she compared all men. As time went on, she developed a sinking feeling he would be that touchstone for the rest of her life. And since he seemed completely unaffected by her attempts to make him realize how perfect she was for him, it appeared she was in for a long and heart-sore few years while she recovered from him.

Why hadn't he made a move? She'd done everything she could think of to let him know she had feelings for him. She'd even continued going on these horrible dates just so she'd have fodder with which to make him jealous. Heck, she'd made up that ridiculous bondage incident with Harry in a last-ditch attempt to provoke some sort of display of interest on his part.

None of it had worked, and still she couldn't keep herself from perpetuating the farce her life had become.

She phoned that night's date, Tony, and canceled for the night. The feeling of freedom that swept through her, upon ending the call, left her feeling scoured clean and brand-new.

Over, she thought. It's finally, blessedly all over, and I can start over.

Almost without conscious input, needing that connection with Sandor, her fingers tapped out a message.

7:37pm hey wru?

9:01pm Sandor?

9:22pm I'm on another date. What's up?

Sansa felt a shaft of pain lodge in her chest. Of course he was on another date. Had she really thought he'd be home, alone, pining away, as she was? She was so self-absorbed. Just because she wanted Sandor didn't guarantee he'd want her back. His continuing to go on dates all year long was proof of that, wasn't it? If he were interested in her, why would he be seeing all these other women? Especially when he could pass his crotch-demolishing penis to multiple women on the regular. There was no way she could compete with that. Why would he settle for just her?

9:23pm nothing. nm. sorry i bothered u

9:24pm You didn't.

9:24pm How's your date going?

9:25pm not on a date. just home by myself. not going on n e more dates

9:26pm Finally calling it quits? Why, after all this time?

Sansa had a realization strike her with the force of a thunderbolt.

Everyone knew that men were as dense as bricks 99% of the time. It wasn't their fault, the poor dears. It was that broken chromosome. It got them in all sorts of trouble. But Sandor, being manlier than most, was probably the densest of the bunch. What if, in spite of all her hard work, he remained clueless about her impure intentions regarding his person?

Maybe she had to outright fling herself at him. Maybe it was the only way that the lump of solid concrete on top of his neck would become aware of her interest. She might as well; she had nothing to lose, at this point. It had been a year and a half since she'd met him, and a solid eleven months since she'd begun trying to make him aware she wanted to go out with him, and she was no closer to achieving her goal of Sandor-centered snuggles and orgasms than she had been last year this time.

Feeling better now that she had a sound plan, decided she was going to do this right-the-hell-now.

This was it. This was her moment of truth. Sansa sucked in a deep breath and hoped for the best.

9:27pm i cant keep dating other men when im in love with u

9:28pm wanted 2 tell u in person but ur busy so u get it in text

9:28pm i dun want it 2 get weird b tween us so even if u dun like me back its ok. we can just be friends

9:29pm so dun avoid me or n e thing ok? that wuld make me sad :( :( :( :( :(

9:36pm Come up to the roof right now.

9:33pm what? ur on roof? u said ur on date

9:34pm I lied. Sue me.

9:34pm COME UP TO THE ROOF RIGHT THE FUCK NOW.

9:35pm i like when ur forceful

9:35pm SANSA GODDAMMIT

Heart in her throat, Sansa stood and began to leave her bedroom, then stopped before her mirror and contemplated changing into something sexier than her yummy sushi pajamas and fuzzy slippers. She decided on jeans, a bulky sweater, her Uggs, and was wrapping a big warm scarf around her neck when several meaty thuds sounded against the apartment door.

"What the fuck is taking you so long?" Sandor demanded, his voice muffled through the steel of the door. Then: "Fuck off, Tor."

Sansa guessed that his roommate had stuck his head out of their own apartment to inquire as to the ruckus being made in the hallway. She ran for the door and yanked it open, staring breathlessly up at her beloved's glowering face.

"Sandor, I—"

He tossed her over his shoulder and made for the roof. Once there, Sandor deposited her on her own feet with a bit more of a jolt than Sansa felt was strictly necessary.

"I was just about to come up here," she said, "but you had to jump the gun."

He stared down at her with a face that was somehow both perplexed and hopeful at the same time. "You like forceful, you got forceful."

"That's not all I want." She took a tiny step closer, shivering, nervous, scared. "Do you… I mean, is it okay? That I… that I…"

Now that they were face-to-face, she was finding it hard to just spit out the words she'd been able to text just a few minutes ago. A hot blush scalded her cheeks in an uncharacteristic show of timidity. She had a lot hinging on this, and it scared the heck out of her.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Sandor demanded, then gave a short, disbelieving laugh as he looked up at the dark, starry sky as if it held the answers he needed, then closed his eyes. "It's only what I've been praying for, for the last year."

Her heart leapt. Joy rocked her. Oh, yes. Thank god. Yes. "You—"

She had no chance to say more, because he hauled her against him and proceeded to kiss the daylights out of her. He kissed her into silence, he kissed her into a seething mass of lust, kissed her until a tiny canary tweeted drunkenly around her dazed head. When it finally ended, he enclosed her in his arms.

"I've been waiting for you for months, you stupid man," she murmured against his flannel shirt. "I thought I'd die from jealousy of those women who had sex with you."

He gave a huff of laughter into her hair, his warm breath feathering against her ear.

"I've been waiting for you for far longer, little bird," he rasped.

"How long?" she challenged. She felt voracious, starving for more details. Clearly, a lot had been going on behind Sandor's scenes. "Because I've been waiting since September."

"That long, huh?" He sounded like he was humoring her.

"Yeah." She pressed a kiss to his Adam's apple. "That's when I knew for sure."

"If that's when you knew, why'd you go out with all those men?" he challenged back. "Why'd you try to suck off Popsicle Bondage Man? And let him go down on you?"

"I didn't. I went to dinner with him, hated him, and was home by ten-thirty. Because he wasn't you. That's when I realized that if it's not you, it's just not…" She let out a sigh. "If it's not you, it's just no good."

She poked him in the chest, gaining herself nothing but a sore finger.

"What about you? You went on just as many dates. You were only saved from sex with that one girl because of the condom blow-outs, and you slept with three women that one time! So you have no right to be upset that I—"

She was cut off because his mouth was on hers again. Her irritation faded as lust melted her bones and, possibly, her brain as well. She was very sorry when he ended the kiss.

"It happened for me last New Year's. When you kissed me, I thought maybe… but you didn't seem all that bothered when I told you about the condom blow-outs," he reminded her. "You just thought it was funny. It was really fucking irritating. So I figured, if you're not interested, I'll just go back to my life before you came into it. And when that foursome happened… I guess I wanted to prove to myself that I could move on from you. Except that when I told you about it, it was clear you did care, that time. It made me feel bad. And uncomfortable. And then I was pissed because there was no reason for me to feel either of those things. I hadn't made you any promises. You hadn't seemed to want me to.

"I went on that one last date, but my heart wasn't in it, and when she ended up in the hospital for dropping acid, it was like the universe was telling me to give up." He pressed a kiss to her cheek, his beard a soft brush against her skin. "I resigned myself to spending the rest of my life hating the men you dated."

Sansa let out a brief laugh. "You were jealous of my dates, too?"

"If I'd known Harry's address, I'd have castrated him with a spoon," he said with relish. "A dull spoon. A dull, rusty spoon."

Instead of horrifying her, that gruesome image made a little spurt of warmth flash through Sansa. "I'd have let you, too."

She needed to touch him more, to somehow pour her feelings for him through his skin into the very heart of him, and brushed her fingertips over his cheek, her thumb stroking the dark slash of his eyebrow.

"Your hands are chilly," he murmured, and clasped them within his own, blowing on them so they warmed up.

That called for more kissing. Sansa took control of this one, her lips playing with his, exploring the texture on the scarred side of his mouth. Tenderly, she caressed his tongue with her own, and relished the feel of his big, warm body pressed so tightly against hers.

It was cold, up there on the roof, but they didn't notice it. Nor did they hear the chanting of numbers in reverse order, or even notice the way the huge glowing thing in the distance wobbled down its pole. The crowd's drunken screams of joy went unheeded, and the passage into a new year went completely unregarded.

None of it mattered, because all the waiting they'd done was finally at an end.