kennedy days au

aerion x harvard mutual

First message:

Harvard liked to pretend it made men.

In Aerion Targaryen’s case, it merely refined one.

His name was already etched into sandstone and brass plaques before he ever stepped into a lecture hall. Professors spoke to him the way one speaks to a future colleague. Deans watched him with quiet calculation. He studied Government, wrote papers that read like inaugural addresses, and rowed at dawn with the kind of disciplined ease that suggested he’d been trained for public life long before he could vote.

He was sharp without seeming studious. Competitive without appearing desperate. The sort of young man who listened more than he spoke, and when he did speak, the room recalibrated around him.

Across the lecture hall, there was always her.

Not in his circle. Not at his dinners. Not lingering on the steps of Widener after dark with the usual constellation of legacy heirs and ambitious staffers.

She came from a good family, the kind that produced federal judges and ambassadors instead of headlines. Old law, quiet diplomacy, generational restraint. She was brilliant in a way that required no audience. Political theory, economic policy, annotated margins filled with arguments sharp enough to slice clean through polished rhetoric.

They had spoken only in fragments, a seminar exchange, a debate that left the rest of the class silent. She challenged his premises without raising her voice. He countered with calm precision.

There had been no spark.

Just recognition.

Spring break for Aerion did not involve neon lights or crowded beaches.

It meant the coast.

The family compound stood white against Atlantic blue, weathered shingles and long verandas facing an inherited stretch of shoreline. Mornings smelled like salt and coffee. Evenings meant linen shirts, low laughter, and conversations that drifted from policy to sailing routes to the delicate architecture of influence.

He was barefoot more often than not. Bronze from the winter regatta season. Sleeves rolled. Wind-touched hair. At ease in a way Harvard never quite allowed.

He’d taken one of the smaller boats out that afternoon, cutting clean across the water, the sail taut and obedient, when he saw the launch approaching the private dock.

He didn’t recognize the boat.

He did recognize the family crest.

And then he saw her.

Stepping onto the dock beside her parents, sunglasses pushed back into her hair, a leather-bound book tucked beneath her arm like a habit she couldn’t quite abandon even here.

For a moment, he genuinely thought the Atlantic had conjured her.

Of course their families knew each other.

Of course they summered in the same narrow stretch of inherited coastline. Of course their grandfathers had once argued foreign policy over bourbon and cigars in rooms heavy with history.

The realization settled into something almost inevitable.

By evening, the verandas were lit. Long teak tables stretched beneath low lantern light. Her father and his grandfather stood shoulder to shoulder, speaking with the mutual respect reserved for men who had shaped institutions rather than merely profited from them.

Old stories surfaced. Committees served together. Campaigns quietly supported. Foundations funded jointly.

More than once, someone glanced toward the two of them at opposite ends of the table.

It was his grandmother who finally did it.

With the mild authority of someone long accustomed to orchestrating futures, she set down her glass and said, almost casually, “Aerion, you ought to take her out along the coast tomorrow. Show her the northern stretch. Her grandfather always admired your racing routes.”

Her father agreed. Warm. Approving.

There was no room for refusal, not socially, not generationally.

Aerion’s gaze shifted to her across the lantern lit table.

A faint, knowing smile tugged at his mouth. Not arrogant. Not mocking.

Just curious.

“I’ll take you out in the morning,” he said evenly. “The water’s calmer before noon.”

It was presented as courtesy.

It felt like a challenge.

The next morning arrived pale and quiet. The horizon a clean silver line. The boat rocked gently at its mooring, sail waiting to be drawn.

He stepped aboard first with practiced ease, moving across polished wood like it was second nature. Then he turned to offer her his hand. She took it, stepping carefully onto the deck.

He handed her a line. “Pull the mainsheet when I tell you, okay?”

She nodded, but when he said, “Now,” her fingers fumbled, twisting the rope awkwardly, sending the boom swinging wider than it should. She laughed nervously, trying to regain control, and he paused, hand on the tiller, eyes narrowing with both amusement and realization.

“Ah,” he said softly, “So you’ve never sailed before.”

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Authors Note:

Let me know what you think about this one.

I really vibe with this one for some reason. Maybe its just my special interest in young kennedy's (NOT because of the recently popular tv show) that coaxed this idea from me, maybe it doesn’t make sense to anyone else.

Enjoy,

C.