summary: You were supposed to be Dick Grayson’s perfect alibi. Instead, somewhere between late-night kisses and whispered “I love you”s, Gotham’s Ghostface killer fell in love with his final girl. Unfortunately for you, discovering his secret only makes him want to keep you even closer.
tags: NSFW 18+, Fingering, Dirty Talk, Chase Kink, Sexual Content, Scream AU, Ghostface Dick Grayson, Dark AU, Toxic Relationship, Possessive Dick, Manipulation, Violence, Power Imbalance
a/n: Hey! This is my first post, so I’m a little nervous haha. English isn’t my first language, so if you notice any mistakes, feel free to point them out. I’m always open to feedback. I really hope you enjoy the story!
Part 2 Part 3
Today was going to be perfect. You stepped back and admired your work. The dining table was covered with a crisp white tablecloth, the plates and silverware arranged perfectly, and candles flickered softly around the room, casting a warm golden glow. But something was still missing… Pictures. Maybe you could scatter a few photographs of the two of you around the living room.
Smiling to yourself, you hurried upstairs to Dick's room. He kept dozens of framed photos on his shelves, and you figured he wouldn't mind if you borrowed a few for the evening. As you stepped inside, your eyes immediately scanned the room, locating the familiar frames. Then something else caught your attention. A corner of a cardboard box stuck awkwardly out from beneath the bed, as if Dick had shoved it there in a hurry and forgotten to push it all the way in.
Maybe it's a gift for me. The thought immediately brought a grin to your face. You knew you shouldn't snoop. Really, you did. But before you could stop yourself, your feet were already carrying you toward the bed. Just a quick peek, you promised yourself. One glance and then I'll put it back exactly where it was. Maybe it was that dress you'd shown him last week… Or a necklace… Or maybe a spicy little toy you could use after dinner...
Biting back a smile, you carefully lifted the lid. Then you froze. This was definitely not a gift.
Hunting knife stained with dried blood, a black hooded robe, and that mask. That fucking Ghostface mask. The same one plastered all over the news for the past month. The same one worn by the psycho who had been butchering people across Gotham.
“Y/N,” Dick's voice made your blood run cold. You looked up. He stood in the doorway, his broad frame blocking the exit completely. His expression was tight, almost desperate, as he took a cautious step forward. “It’s not what it looks like.”
Today marked seven months since you started dating, and Dick Grayson had been the best boyfriend you’d ever had. Loving, charming, funny, attentive - and so unbelievably handsome it almost felt unfair. Until this moment, being with Bruce Wayne’s adopted son had seemed like the best thing that had ever happened to you. Until now.
Your stomach twisted violently.
Dick? Your Dick? The boy who followed you around like a lovesick puppy, constantly touching you, kissing your forehead, making you laugh until your ribs hurt. He couldn’t possibly be a cold-blooded murderer. …Right?
“Hey, baby, look at me,” he says softly, lifting his hands as if approaching a frightened animal. “Don’t look at that. Don’t you trust me?” He takes another careful step toward you.
Instantly, you recoil, your back hitting the desk behind you. “Don’t come any closer!” you shout, your voice cracking. Dick freezes. For a second, neither of you moves. The room suddenly feels too small, the air too heavy to breathe. Then his expression crumbles.
“Y/N…” he whispers, almost hurt. “Please. You know me.” But do you? Because the boy standing in front of you suddenly feels like a stranger.
“Please,” he says carefully, his voice softer now, calmer - the same tone he always used whenever you were upset. “Just calm down, sit with me, and let me explain.” But behind the gentle expression, his mind is racing. He couldn’t let you go to the police. Not after everything he’d done. He had gone too far already, crossed too many lines to turn back now.
He couldn’t let you leave. But the worst part? He didn’t want to hurt you anymore. Not the way he originally planned to when this whole thing started.
At first, it had been simple.
Commissioner Gordon had started looking into the Ghostface murders more closely, asking sharper questions, noticing details Dick had worked carefully to hide. He needed a distraction. Something convincing enough to take suspicion away from him completely.
And then he met you.
Sitting alone in that tiny university café, smiling politely when he accidentally stole your order. The plan had formed almost immediately.
If Ghostface murdered a girl, nobody would ever suspect the grieving, heartbroken boyfriend hiding beneath the mask. What kind of psychopath would kill the person they loved most?
It was perfect. At least, it was supposed to be.
Because somewhere between the late-night phone calls, movie nights, sleepy kisses, and the way your face lit up every time you saw him… everything got completely fucked. He fell in love with you. Really, truly in love. Dick hated admitting it, even to himself. But he loved how kind you were, how gentle. The way you cared about everyone so naturally, even strangers. He loved your laugh, your terrible jokes, the way you always reached for his hand absentmindedly like it belonged there. You were never supposed to become real to him. You were supposed to be part of the plan.
Your hands started shaking uncontrollably, your eyes darting frantically around the room, searching for anything - anything at all - that could help you.
A weapon. A way out. Something.
Because now that you knew his secret, you were sure of one thing: Dick Grayson was never going to let you leave this house alive.
“What exactly do you want to explain?” you snap, your voice trembling despite your attempt to sound strong. “That you’re a murderer? That you’ve been running around the city for a month slaughtering innocent people, that you…” Suddenly, the words die in your throat. Your entire body goes cold. “Oh my God…”
Dick’s expression changes instantly. You stare at him in horror, the realization crashing into you so violently it almost makes you sick. The mask of guilt disappeared, replaced by a mocking smile.
“You killed Stephanie,” you whisper. “Oh my God… you killed Steph.” Your voice breaks completely.
Your best friend. The same Stephanie who spent hours talking about her future, her dream job, the apartment she wanted after graduation. Stephanie, who dragged you out whenever you were sad. Stephanie, who trusted Dick enough to joke around with him every time the three of you hung out together.
And all this time… He knew.
He had killed her, then held you while you cried yourself to sleep afterward. He kissed your forehead, wiped away your tears, whispered comforting lies into your skin while her blood was probably still under his fingernails.
Your stomach turns violently. Your eyes drift toward the open box again, landing on the knife resting on top of the costume. And suddenly, all you can picture is Stephanie’s face. Her smile. Her laugh. Everything she could’ve become before Dick slit her throat and took it all away from her.
Your hands curl into fists. No. You weren’t going to let him hurt anyone else.
“Y/N…” Dick says quietly, but there’s something sharper underneath his voice now. A warning. “Don’t.” His gaze flicks toward the knife for half a second before returning to you. “Please,” he says again, slower this time. “Don’t make this worse.”
He really, really doesn’t want to hurt you. But if you try to attack him? Then he’ll do whatever he has to.
You lunged for the box. The second your fingers brushed the knife handle, Dick moved too.
“Shit-”
He caught you before you could grab it properly, both of you crashing hard onto the floor beside the bed. The knife clattered somewhere between your bodies as panic surged through you. You reached for it desperately. Dick grabbed you first.
His hands locked around your wrists and slammed them against the floor above your head with terrifying ease. A strangled gasp left your throat as his weight pinned you beneath him completely.
Too strong. Way too strong.
He had always brushed it off with lazy jokes about spending too much time at the gym, but this wasn’t normal. No average guy could overpower you this effortlessly.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Dick murmurs, tilting his head slightly. There’s something dark behind his blue eyes now, something almost frighteningly calm. “Don’t do this.” The nickname makes your skin crawl.
“Get the fuck off me!” you snap, thrashing violently beneath him.
You jerk your knee upward, aiming straight for his crotch. Dick catches your leg instantly.
“Easy,” he mutters, gripping your thigh tightly before pinning your leg down beside the other. “You’re gonna hurt me, honey.”
The slightly playful tone in his voice only makes your anger explode further. Even now, he was flirting. Like this was some stupid game instead of a nightmare.
“You fucking liar,” you spit, glaring up at him with pure hatred.
A slow grin spreads across Dick’s face.
“Mmm,” he hums teasingly, leaning closer as he keeps you trapped beneath him effortlessly. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
His grip tightens just slightly around your wrists - not enough to injure you, just enough to remind you exactly who was in control here. Your breathing turns uneven. Not because of him. Because no matter how much you fought, no matter how hard you twisted beneath him - You couldn’t get free.
“Can I ask you a question?” Dick murmurs.
Before you can answer, he leans down closer, so close you can feel his breath against your skin. His lips brush the shell of your ear as he whispers softly: “What’s your favorite horror movie?”
A shiver runs violently down your spine. Goosebumps spread across your skin instantly, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a brief second, silently cursing yourself. Because even now - even like this - Dick still affected you like a drug.
From the very first date, keeping your hands off him had been nearly impossible. The stupid smirk, the teasing touches, the way he always looked at you like you were the only person in the room. And it definitely wasn’t one-sided. Some days, if Dick had his way, he probably wouldn’t let you leave his bed at all, keeping you tangled beneath him for hours while he kissed and touched you until neither of you could think straight. You hated that your body still remembered those feelings now.
“The one where the final girl kills the psychotic serial killer,” you say through clenched teeth.
Dick pulls back just enough to look at you properly. For a second, his expression almost softens. One of his hands keeps your wrists pinned effortlessly while the other rises slowly to your face. His fingertips brush against your cheek with such unbearable gentleness that your resolve wavers for half a heartbeat.
Then you bite him.
Hard.
“Fuck!” Dick jerks back with a sharp hiss of pain, instinctively loosening his grip for just a second.
Enough.
You rip one hand free immediately and scramble for the knife lying beside the open box. Dick stumbles back a step, clutching the hand you bit while glaring at you in irritation. And then he sees the knife. The atmosphere changes instantly. You push yourself upright slowly, gripping the handle tightly despite your shaking hands, keeping the blade pointed directly at him as you begin backing toward the bedroom door.
Dick watches your every movement carefully. A pained wince crosses his face as he rubs the fresh bite mark forming on his hand. You were far feistier than he’d expected when this started. Not that he minded.
Actually… It was kind of attractive. His eyes drag slowly over you before he lets out a quiet laugh, low and almost breathless.
“There she is,” he murmurs, staring at you like he’s seeing something beautiful instead of terrifying. “That’s my girl. Now, sweetheart…” Dick says softly, raising both hands in mock surrender as he stalks toward you down the hallway. “Let’s talk about this.”
“Talk about what?” you snap, backing away from him carefully, the knife trembling in your grip. “About how you lied to me this entire time? About how you pretended to love me while planning how to kill me? Or maybe about the fifteen people you murdered? About Stephanie?” Your voice cracks violently. “How exactly do you expect me to have a conversation with you right now?!”
Dick keeps walking toward you slowly, hands still raised, expression calm in a way that makes your stomach twist. The sight of you backing away from him with his knife clenched in your hands does something dangerous to him. His pulse races unexpectedly as his mind flickers through every possible outcome of this situation.
You looked terrified. Cornered. Desperate.
And somehow, it only made him want you more.
“You probably won’t believe me,” he says evenly, his voice smooth despite the tension hanging between you both, “but I really do love you.” Another slow step. “I didn’t plan for that part,” he admits with a quiet laugh under his breath. “But I fucking love you, sweetheart. And if you hadn’t found that box…” His eyes soften slightly. “I never would’ve hurt you.”
“Fucking liar!” you spit instantly.
Dick laughs outright at that. It’s warm. Genuine. Completely insane.
He takes another step closer while you continue backing away from him down the staircase landing. You looked so furious, glaring at him like you hated him with every ounce of your being - and yet the most you could do was curse at him and threaten him with shaking hands. You both knew you weren’t winning this fight.
“You’re really cute when you’re angry,” he teases casually. Then his grin widens. “Besides… you have to admit you’re ridiculously easy to manipulate sometimes.”
You stare at him in disbelief.
“Manipulate?” you repeat sharply. “Please. You were the one begging me to be your girlfriend. You practically got on your knees thanking me when I finally agreed to sleep with you.” Dick’s smile twitches wider. “You were the one panicking every time I met your fucked-up rich family,” you continue bitterly, voice shaking as you descend another step backward. “You’re the one who begged me not to leave you. And every single time we had sex, you were whining about how much you loved me and how you’d do anything for me while I rode-”
“Jesus Christ,” Dick laughs breathlessly, rubbing a hand over his mouth for a second like he’s genuinely entertained despite the situation.
You reach the stairs. Your eyes flick downward briefly. Then you turn and run.
“Y/N-”
You sprint down the staircase as fast as possible, your heartbeat roaring in your ears while footsteps thunder behind you instantly. Too fast… He was too fast...
The moment you reach the bottom floor and lunge toward the front door, a violent yank jerks you backward by the back of your silk shirt - the one you wore tonight specifically because Dick once told you it made you look irresistible.
You stumble hard. The knife flies from your grasp as you crash painfully onto the floor. Before you can even react, Dick is already on top of you. He kneels over your legs, pinning you effortlessly beneath him again, wearing that same lazy grin like this is all just some twisted game of cat and mouse he already knew he’d win.
“You really thought I wouldn’t plan for this?” he muses, reaching past you to grab the knife from the floor. “Sweetheart…” He twirls the blade lazily between his fingers. “I live for the chase.” Then he leans down slightly, resting his elbows on his knees like he has all the time in the world. A smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. “And honestly?” he murmurs softly, blue eyes dragging slowly over your trembling form, “you’re making this way too fun for me.”
You forced yourself to pull away as much as you could beneath him, your mind racing desperately for any possible way out. Then an idea hit you.
Slowly, cautiously, you shifted your hips against him. Dick froze for half a second. A dark, dangerous chuckle rumbled from his chest as he felt the movement, his pupils dilating briefly before his expression smoothed back into something teasing and controlled.
“Oh no,” he murmured, voice low with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to distract me. That’s so… low of you.”
He shifted deliberately against you once, just enough to make your breath hitch involuntarily.
“Clever girl,” he whispers near your ear. “Too bad I’m not that easy to manipulate. Now behave,” he says sweetly. “Or this is going to become very unpleasant for both of us.”
Panic claws at your chest. You had no chance against him physically. You knew that. Dick was stronger, faster, calmer - and worst of all, he was enjoying this. But there was one thing you weren’t completely sure about.
His feelings. He may have lied about loving you, but you know him well enough to know he can't resist your body.
You swallowed hard and made your choice. Without warning, you grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him. Dick goes completely still. For one brief second, he doesn’t react at all, clearly caught off guard. Then you bite his lower lip lightly - just enough to make him inhale sharply. And that’s all it takes.
The restraint in him cracks immediately. A low sound escapes his throat as he kisses you back hard, one hand tangling tightly into your hair while the other presses against your waist possessively. The kiss turns messy and desperate almost instantly, fueled by adrenaline, anger, fear, and something far more dangerous underneath it all. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer as you try to keep him distracted.
For a moment, it actually works.
Dick breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth down the side of your neck, his breathing rougher now despite his earlier confidence. “You really think this is enough to distract me?” he mutters against your skin, voice strained with amusement. “Sweetheart… I’m barely losing focus.”
“We’ll see,” you whisper back shakily. You press another kiss against his neck, subtly shifting beneath him again while your eyes dart around desperately, still searching for some kind of escape. A curse slips under Dick’s breath. His hands tighten around your hips automatically, fingers pressing hard enough to remind you how strong he really is.
And for the first time since this started…He actually sounds affected.
“Mmph… damn,” Dick murmurs against your skin, his voice lower now, roughened by the way you’re moving beneath him. His head tilts slightly, giving you better access to his neck while his thumb traces slow circles against your hip. “You’re just full of surprises tonight, aren’t you?” His eyes narrow slightly as he watches you. “You think that because you’re rubbing against me I’m suddenly gonna go soft on you?” he asks teasingly. “You think I’m just some hormonal teenager who can’t think straight?” One of his hands slides up to your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Sweetheart,” he says softly, almost amused, “I’ve been doing this for a long time.”
Fuck. Your pulse stutters nervously. You swallow hard and arch your back slightly beneath him, trying to keep your movements natural despite the panic clawing at your chest. You moved your hand and with a quick movement, pulled the shirt in opposite directions, and the buttons running down the middle came undone, revealing what you had underneath. Revealing a new lace bra in his favorite color. Rich Navy Blue.
Dick goes quiet. For a second, all he does is stare.
That new set of lingerie was supposed to be a surprise for later. After dinner. After wine and flirting and teasing kisses against his jaw while he smiled at you like you hung the moon. You had spent way too long picking out that matching set because you knew exactly what kind of things Dick liked.
But then you found the box.
And suddenly the entire night became something else entirely. Dick’s gaze drags slowly over your body stretched beneath him, dark and hungry enough to make heat crawl embarrassingly up your neck despite everything.
“Damn…” he whispers. The word comes out almost breathless. “You really wore this for me, huh?”
A pause. Then his mouth curls into a crooked grin.
“Were you planning on letting me take it off, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” you snap bitterly. “But then you started trying to kill me like a fucking psychopath, so I figured you didn’t deserve it anymore.”
Dick actually laughs softly at that.
“Ouch,” he murmurs. “You’re hurting my feelings, doll.”
His hand slides slowly across your exposed stomach while the other still keeps your wrists trapped above your head. Warm fingers drag upward deliberately, inch by inch, until they stop right beneath the edge of your bra. Your breath catches involuntarily.
“Oh, I’m hurting your feelings?” you laugh bitterly, squirming beneath him. “You’re the one lying to me, murdering people…”
“And yet,” Dick interrupts quietly. He leans closer until his breath brushes against your lips. “I bet you’re still wet for me.” A smug smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You can hate me all you want,” he murmurs softly, eyes locked onto yours. “But your body still responds to me.”
“What do I have to do to make you stop wanting to kill me?” you ask quietly, wetting your lips nervously with your tongue. You really don't want to fucking die today. Dick’s eyes drop to your mouth instantly. The hunger in his expression darkens so fast it almost startles you.
His fingers tracing lazily along the strap of your bra. A low chuckle escapes him. His gaze drags over you again, slow and openly possessive. “Oh, this will be fun..”
You swallow hard beneath him. “What can I do to survive?”
For the first time since this started, Dick hesitates. A sigh leaves him quietly, almost frustrated with himself, like he already knows he’s making a mistake just by considering your question. His thumb strokes absentminded circles against your hip.
“If you really want me to let you live…” he says slowly, studying your face carefully, “then I have two conditions.”
Your stomach twists.
“You’re gonna hate it, though.”
“Try me, Dickie.”
He laughs softly at the nickname, shaking his head. It’s ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. He’s pinning you beneath him, holding your life in his hands, and somehow you still find the nerve to tease him.
Honestly? It makes him want you even more.
“I’m surprised you still have the energy to mouth off right now,” he murmurs, tightening his grip on your waist slightly. “But I guess you’ve never been the type to back down from a challenge.”
He leans closer until his lips barely brush yours. He lifts one finger between you.
“First condition… You listen to me. No more running. No more fighting me. No more trying to stab me with my own knife.” His eyes lock onto yours completely. “I’m the one in control here, sweetheart. If you want to stay alive, you do what I say. Understand?”
You stare into his eyes for a long moment. Every instinct in your body screams not to trust him. But you also know you don’t have a choice right now.
“I understand,” you whisper carefully.
Dick studies your face like he’s searching for any sign you’re lying. When he finds none, something warm flickers across his expression. “Good girl,” he murmurs softly. The praise sends an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. “I knew you’d eventually start thinking clearly.” His fingers brush some hair away from your face gently - disturbingly gentle for someone threatening your life minutes ago. “You’ve always been smarter than most people.”
Surprisingly his grip loosened. Just slightly. Not enough to let you go, but enough that you feel the difference immediately. His gaze stays locked on yours, searching for your reaction.
“If you want me to stop seeing you like a problem I need to solve…” he continues, thumb brushing once over your wrist, no longer restraining, just touching, “then you stop fighting me like I’m your enemy.”
His eyes flicker briefly over your lips again, but slower this time. Less hungry. More focused.
His hand shifts from your hip to your wrist, but instead of pinning it, he turns it over slowly, palm up, like he’s deciding something. “You stay with me willingly.” he adds.A faint, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “And in return… I stop treating you like something I have to catch.”
Silence stretches between you. Then, softer: “You choose that… You choose me” he murmurs. “Or we go back to me keeping you pinned and you hating every second of it.” His eyes narrow slightly. “Your call, sweetheart.”
A low rumble of a chuckle escaped his throat, a dangerous sound as his free hand came up to grip the back of your thigh. He tightened his grip on the back of your thigh, slowly spreading your legs open and positioning himself between them.
"You'll be a good little doll for me, won't you?"
You slowly nodded in agreement. He leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just behind your ear as he spoke, his voice low and controlled. One of his hands slid down to your covered crotch. His fingers pressed hard against your pants, and a moment later his hand slid under them, landing on your pussy. “And condition number two… You don't get to come unless I say so."
He rubbed slow, deliberate circles, just enough to make your breath hitch-but not enough to give you what you wanted.
"You know how I love making people beg.”
"Oh I know… You like it when I ask for permission… when I beg for you…" you replied, voice softer now, breath uneven as you shifted against him instinctively, chasing more of his touch.
He growled under his breath, his eyes darkening as you ground your hips against his fingers. You gasped when two thick fingers slipped inside you without warning, working in and out in slow thrusts. But even the meassured curl of his finger had you holding him, back arching from the floor. Another finger curled in and you moaned. His fingers thrusted knuckle deep in and out again, the soft moving of skin moving around the room as your breaths covered the sound.
A broken cry escaped your throat as pleasure crashed over you in relentless pulses. He didn’t stop, of course not. His fingers moved steadily, drawing it out until you were trembling and oversensitive. You cry out, hips jerking against his hand, but he pins you down, keeping you exactly where he wants. You come hard and fast, thighs trembling around him, a sharp broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure crashes through you in relentless waves.
You were breathing heavily, trying to calm yourself. Fuck…This isn’t how it was supposed to go, I thought. I watched as he pulled his hand out of my clothes and, looking me straight in the eyes, licked my cum from his fingers. A look of pleasure appeared on his face, and I could feel his hard dick pressing against my thigh.
“Damn, I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever managed to make you cum. Our little chase must have really turned you on, baby. Makes me wonder how fast I can make you cum with my dick… maybe we’ll even beat our last record. We’re going to have some fun tonight…”
Heyy could I request something ? I got this idea from a video I saw where the guy said he didn’t want to wear the wedding ring because it felt uncomfortable. Maybe Max tells reader this and the reader gets upset and kinda does the same to provoke him ?
Thank you 🌷
A Matter of Principle
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: Max says his wedding ring doesn’t matter in order to symbolise your love, but when yours disappears too Max learns that jealousy has a way of making symbols feel very real.
5.2k words / Masterlist
Max stopped wearing his wedding ring so casually that at first you thought he'd simply forgotten it.
You noticed it over breakfast, his left hand wrapped around a mug while he scrolled through something on his phone, his thumb moving absently across the screen. The pale band of skin around his finger was still there, a faint outline where the ring usually sat, but the gold itself was missing.
“Where’s your ring?” you asked.
He glanced down at his hand as though he hadn’t noticed until you pointed it out.
“Upstairs I think.”
“You think?”
“On the bedside table.” Max took another drink, entirely unconcerned. “I took it off last night.”
You waited for him to explain, but he returned his attention to his phone, forehead creasing at whatever message he was reading. You told yourself there was nothing unusual about it. He sometimes removed it when he trained, and once or twice he’d forgotten to put it back on before leaving the house, although usually he noticed within an hour and sent you a message about it.
This time, however, the ring remained on the bedside table.
It was still there when he left for the factory the following morning. It sat beside his watch, placed neatly on the dark wood rather than abandoned carelessly, which somehow made its absence from his hand feel more deliberate.
“You’ve forgotten this again,” you said, holding it out to him as he came back into the bedroom to retrieve his wallet.
Max looked at the ring, then at you.
“I didn’t forget.”
Your fingers slowly curled around it. “You’re not wearing it?”
“No.” The answer came too quickly, without the sheepish smile you had expected, and something unpleasant tightened beneath your ribs.
“Why not?”
Max sighed, already sensing that the conversation was becoming more serious than he believed it needed to be. He stepped closer and placed his hands on your waist, rubbing his thumbs over the soft fabric of your jumper as if affection alone would smooth the concern from your face.
“It’s uncomfortable, it catches on everything,” he explained. “Especially when I’m driving or training. I keep noticing it and I don’t really like wearing jewellery anyway,” flexing his fingers as though the ring had been causing him some terrible physical hardship rather than a faint inconvenience.
“You’ve worn it for nearly two years.”
“Yes and it’s annoyed me for nearly two years.”
You stared at him but he just smiled, trying his best to make it sound harmless. “Not because it’s our wedding ring… just because it’s a ring.”
“It never seemed to bother you before.”
“It did. I just didn’t say anything because I knew you would take it personally.”
“I’m not taking it personally.”
“You are.”
“Well you never said anything.”
“Because I knew you'd be upset.” His answer came too easily. You looked at him for several seconds, waiting for some awareness of how unhelpful that confession was, but Max merely took a small step back.
“So you knew it would hurt me, and you decided to do it anyway.”
His expression tightened. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s very close.”
“I just told you.” Max lifted one hand to your cheek. “It has nothing to do with you. I love you. I am married to you. I am completely committed to you and a ring does not change any of that.”
“It represents it.”
“To other people maybe.”
“To me.”
His hand fell away from your face and he looked briefly frustrated, although he tried to conceal it. Max had never understood attaching enormous significance to objects. He cared about actions, loyalty and the things that existed privately between you, the parts of your marriage that did not require an audience. To him the ring was a symbol of something he already knew with complete certainty and symbols had always mattered less to him than facts.
The fact was that he loved you.
The fact was that he came home to you.
The fact was that he had stood in front of everyone who mattered and promised that there would never be anybody else for as long as he lived.
He didn’t understand why a narrow band of gold should carry more weight than all of that.
“It doesn’t make me more married when I wear it,” he said carefully. “And taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know that.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“I suppose I was asking you to care that it means something to me.”
Max’s expression faltered, but only briefly. He stepped back towards you and placed both hands on your waist again, drawing you close despite the stiffness in your body. His voice softened as he kissed your forehead, evidently believing the affection should reassure you more effectively than any further discussion.
“I care about everything that matters to you,” he murmured. “But I think you’re taking this personally when it has nothing to do with you.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. “You keep saying that as if it helps.”
“It should help. I love you.”
“I know.” you repeated
“Then trust that.”
You did trust it. That was almost the most irritating part.
It’s not like Max was trying to appear single. He wasn’t ashamed of you, nor was he concealing your marriage from anybody. He spoke about you constantly, often without realising he had done it, he’d developed a habit of beginning stories with my wife even when your marital status had absolutely no relevance to what followed. There was no hidden intention behind his decision as far as you could tell.
Still, it hurt.
Perhaps because you remembered how he’d looked at the ring on your wedding day, turning your hand beneath the light with a tenderness that had made your chest ache. Or maybe because he’d spent weeks before the ceremony pretending not to care about the design only to privately contact the jeweller three separate times to ensure the engraving was exactly right. Possibly because after the wedding you’d caught him looking down at his own hand with a small, private smile, as though the ring proved something he’d once been afraid he would never have.
It had meant something then.
You didn’t understand why it suddenly meant nothing now.
“I don’t want to argue before you leave,” you said, placing the ring back on the bedside table.
Max studied your face. “Then don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’ve hurt you.”
You gave him a thin smile. “You should go. You’re already late.”
He kissed your forehead before leaving, lingering for a moment as though reluctant to end the conversation there, but he still left the ring behind.
Over the next week you tried to let it go. You reminded yourself repeatedly that he hadn’t changed. There no secret motive for you to uncover, no suspicious behaviour hiding beneath his decision and no sudden reluctance to acknowledge your marriage. Max spoke about you constantly, often with an unmistakable pride that made even strangers aware of how thoroughly his life had rearranged itself around you. He introduced you as his wife when everybody in the room already knew who you were, kept photographs of you tucked into places he thought you’d never noticed and called you after almost every meeting, flight or race because he seemed to measure the passing of his days by when he could speak to you again. He still reached for your hand beneath restaurant tables, and he still pulled you against him in his sleep as though even unconsciousness made him possessive of the space between you. He continued to behave exactly like your husband.
He simply did it without looking like one.
Other people noticed.
His mother asked whether his fingers had swollen from training. One of the mechanics jokingly asked if he’d already lost it. A journalist’s gaze dropped conspicuously towards his hand during an interview before she carefully rephrased a question about how married life was treating him.
Max answered every comment with the same calm explanation.
He didn’t like jewellery.
The ring was uncomfortable for his style of work.
It did not mean anything.
You smiled whenever somebody looked towards you for reassurance, unwilling to admit that each repetition made the irritation beneath your skin burn a little hotter.
The final push came at a sponsor dinner in Monaco.
You were standing beside Max while he spoke with a group of executives, only half following the conversation as you watched a woman at the edge of the group look him over. She was subtle about it, but not subtle enough. Her attention lingered on his face, his shoulders and then, predictably, his bare left hand.
Her smile changed.
She stepped closer.
You watched her direct questions exclusively at him, laugh too brightly at comments that were not particularly funny and touch his forearm while making a point. Max remained oblivious, answering politely and occasionally glancing towards you, but he didn’t move away from her touch until he saw your expression.
Then he shifted immediately, placing a hand at the small of your back and drawing you closer.
“This is my wife,” he said, although you’d already been introduced.
The woman looked briefly embarrassed. “Of course.”
Max’s hand remained firmly against you for the rest of the conversation.
In the car afterwards he glanced towards you several times before eventually saying, “You’re quiet tonight.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re annoyed.”
“I’m apparently always annoyed now.”
“She knew I was married.”
“After you told her.”
Max frowned.
“She looked at your hand, saw no ring and thought she could try.”
“And then I told her you were my wife.”
You turned towards the window. “Exactly.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re making this into something it’s not.”
“I— I, maybe.” You stuttered slightly, and then looked back out the window.
The ease of your agreement made him suspicious, but he decided to let it go as you said nothing else.
The following morning you removed your wedding ring.
You didn’t announce it, you didn’t leave it pointedly on his side of the bathroom counter or place it somewhere he would be forced to notice. You simply slipped it from your finger while getting dressed and put it inside the small jewellery box in your wardrobe.
For the first few hours Max didn’t realise. He kissed you goodbye, left for a meeting and sent you two irritated messages about traffic. When he returned home in the afternoon he found you in the kitchen arranging flowers that had been delivered earlier that day.
He walked behind you, wrapped both arms around your waist and kissed the side of your neck.
“Who sent these?”
“The foundation.”
“For what?”
“The charity dinner next week.”
He reached around you to examine the card, and his gaze fell upon your hand.
His entire body went still.
You felt the change immediately, although you continued trimming the stem of a flower.
“Where’s your ring?”
The question sounded remarkably similar to the one you’d asked him a week earlier, except there was none of your tentative confusion in his voice. Max sounded sharp, alert and instantly displeased.
“In my jewellery box.”
“Why?”
“It was uncomfortable.”
He released you slowly. You could almost feel him arranging his response, separating what he wanted to say from what he was allowed to say. When you finally turned around, his jaw was set and his eyes were fixed on your bare finger.
“Your ring has never been uncomfortable. You’ve taken it off because I stopped wearing mine.” Max sighed frustrated.
“I thought you said it didn’t matter.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Perhaps it’s annoyed me for years and I never said anything because I knew you would take it personally.”
His gaze lifted to yours. “You’re doing this to prove a point.”
“I’m just doing the same thing you are.”
“No you aren’t.”
“Why does the reason matter if the ring doesn’t? How is it different?”
“Because you like wearing yours.”
“You don’t get to decide whether I like wearing it.”
“I know you like it.” His voice tightened. “You play with it when you are nervous. You touch it whenever somebody asks about the wedding. You never take it off unless you’re showering or sleeping.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“You didn’t change your mind. You’re trying to irritate me.”
You returned your attention to the flowers, choosing another stem. “Why would it irritate you? A ring doesn’t make me more married, and taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know I love you. You know I’m committed to you. I shouldn’t need jewellery to prove that.”
Max stared at you in silence.
Hearing his own reasoning returned to him should have ended the argument. Instead, it seemed to make something darker and more complicated move behind his eyes.
“I don’t like it,” he said eventually.
You tried not to smile. “That sounds personal.”
“It is personal.”
“Interesting.”
“Put it back on.”
You looked at him then, unable to conceal your disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am serious.”
“So you can decide that you don’t want to wear yours, but I have to wear mine because you’ve told me to?”
“I didn’t tell you that you had to.”
“You just said, ‘Put it back on.’”
Max looked increasingly frustrated, not with you so much as with the fact that he had walked directly into a trap constructed from his own words. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, glancing again at your empty finger.
“You’re my wife.”
“And you’re my husband.”
“I know.”
“People can’t tell that when they look at your hand.”
“I’ll tell them.”
“And I’ll tell them,” you shot back quick.
“That’s not the point,” The words escaped before he could stop them.
Your eyebrows rose. “No?”
Max closed his eyes briefly.
He knew he was being hypocritical. He knew every argument he wanted to make could be dismantled with something he’d already said to you, and more importantly, he knew you knew it too.
You waited, but he had nothing else to offer. He couldn’t admit that the sight bothered him without giving validity to everything he’d dismissed, and he was too proud to concede the argument when he still believed his original reasoning made sense.
“All right,” you said eventually. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem.”
The following days became a quiet war.
Neither of you wore your ring and neither of you mentioned it. Max’s discomfort however, became increasingly obvious.
At dinner with friends he watched the waiter smile at you for a little too long while describing the specials. When you thanked him, Max’s hand immediately settled possessively on your thigh beneath the table. At a party an acquaintance you’d met only once before touched your elbow and asked whether you were attending alone. Max appeared at your side before you could answer.
“No,” he said, sliding an arm around your waist. “She’s here with her husband.”
The man blinked. “I didn’t realise.”
You pressed your lips together to hide your amusement.
Max did not find any of it amusing.
Without your ring every innocent interaction seemed to catch his attention, he noticed men looking at you in bars, strangers finding reasons to start conversations and old friends becoming slightly too familiar. Most of them likely would have behaved exactly the same way had the ring been there, but Max no longer had that immediate, visible claim to comfort himself with.
It made him restless.
It also made him clingy.
His hand rarely left your waist in public, he introduced you as his wife with unnecessary frequency. He kissed you more openly, sometimes in the middle of conversations, and stood so close behind you that the front of his body remained pressed to your back.
You knew precisely what he was doing.
He was replacing the symbol he had dismissed with constant physical reminders that you belonged together.
The hypocrisy was so obvious that you expected him to surrender.
Instead, the disagreement became something neither of you could address without reigniting the original argument. Max refused to wear his ring, and you refused to wear yours, while both of you quietly resented the other for making the same choice.
The situation finally broke at the next race weekend.
A set of images from a sponsor dinner appeared online showing you and Max standing several feet apart during a conversation. In one photograph his bare left hand was visible and in another, so was yours.
The speculation began almost immediately.
Most people dismissed it, but enough accounts repeated the suggestion that your marriage might be in trouble for the rumour to reach journalists. A reporter asked Max about it during a media session, disguising the question as casual concern.
Max’s face hardened instantly.
“My marriage is fine,” he answered.
The journalist began to clarify, but Max interrupted.
“It’s more than fine. My wife and I are very happy and there’s no story.”
When he came back to the hotel that evening, he was furious. You were sitting on the sofa when he entered, his phone clenched in one hand. He tossed it down on the table and began removing his jacket with agitated movements.
“They’re saying we separated.”
“I saw.”
“We could’ve released something.”
“A statement announcing that our marriage is intact but neither of us likes wearing jewellery?”
Max looked at you sharply. “This is not funny.”
“I don’t think it’s funny.”
“They’re saying you’ve moved out.”
“I’m sitting in our hotel room.”
“They don’t know that.”
You held his gaze. “You can tell them.”
The reminder of his own words made his jaw clench.
“I did tell them.”
“Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“There is a problem when thousands of people think my wife has left me.”
“Why do you care what they think?”
“I don’t care about them.”
“Then who?”
Max turned away, pacing towards the window before facing you again.
“I care that somebody might believe you’re available.”
There it was again, the truth he kept revealing in pieces without ever allowing himself to examine it fully.
“You know I’m not.”
“That’s not the point.”
You stood slowly. “That’s exactly what you said to me.”
“I know what I said.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, and I still believe it. I know you’re committed to me. I know a ring doesn’t change that.”
“But you hate other people not knowing.”
Max didn’t answer.
“You hate the possibility that someone might look at my hand and think there’s space for them in my life,” you continued. “You hate having to explain that I’m your wife after they’ve already approached me, and you hate that people are looking at photographs and questioning whether our marriage is secure.”
“Obviously.”
The answer was quiet, but it came without hesitation.
“That’s how I felt when you took yours off.”
“It’s not the same.”
Your frustration finally broke through. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because I didn’t take it off to hurt you!”
“And I didn’t take mine off to make people think I’d left you, I took it off because you made me feel foolish for caring about it.”
Max stopped. You had said versions of the same thing before, but never so directly. His anger faltered as he looked at you.
“You treated the ring like it was meaningless,” you said. “You made me feel shallow.”
“I never said you were shallow.”
“You kept telling me that your love should be enough, as though wanting the symbol as well meant I didn’t trust you. I never thought you were going to cheat on me. I never thought you wanted to look single. I only wanted you to understand that it meant something to see you choose to wear it.”
Max’s eyes lowered towards your hand.
“And when you refused,” you continued, your voice less steady now, “I started looking at mine and feeling stupid. Every time I wore it beside you, it felt as though I was publicly claiming something you’d decided was too inconvenient to acknowledge in the same way.”
“That’s not what I was doing.”
“I know… logically I know, but it’s how it made me feel.”
He came closer, but you stepped back before he could touch you. The movement seemed to wound him more than anything else you’d said.
“I need some air,” you murmured.
“It’s late.”
“I’m going downstairs, not leaving the country.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“I’d like to go alone.”
Max’s face changed. His protective instinct battled visibly with his awareness that following you would only make the situation worse.
You picked up your phone and left before he could decide.
The hotel bar was quiet, occupied mostly by guests finishing late drinks after the event. You found a seat at the far end of the counter and ordered water, wanting space more than alcohol.
You’d been alone for less than ten minutes when a man took the seat beside you. You recognised him vaguely although you couldn’t remember his name. He worked for one of the sponsors and had spoken to you earlier in the evening while Max was occupied.
“Escaping the crowd?” he asked.
“Something like that.”
He smiled. “I was hoping I might see you again.”
The intention behind the comment was clear enough to make you straighten.
“I’m married.”
His gaze dropped predictably towards your hand.
“I heard there might be some uncertainty about that.”
“There isn’t.”
The firmness of your answer should have ended the conversation instead he leaned one arm against the bar. “Then your husband is a very lucky man.”
“We both are.”
“Does he know you’re down here alone?”
You turned towards him fully. “I don’t need my husband’s permission to sit in a hotel bar.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“It sounded like it.”
Before the man could respond, a familiar voice came from behind you.
“She also doesn’t need to explain herself to you.”
Max stood several feet away, his expression too controlled to be anything but anger. His sleeves were rolled unevenly, the top buttons of his shirt undone like he had followed you before he could stop himself.
The man rose. “We were only talking.”
“I heard enough.” When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but unbridled jealousy sat beneath every word.
“Max,” you warned.
His gaze shifted to you, softening for only a second before returning to the man.
“She told you she was married.”
“I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Then leaving should be easy.”
The man muttered something beneath his breath but walked away. Max watched until he disappeared through the doors, then turned towards you. His restraint was already fraying.
“What were you thinking?”
Your disbelief was immediate. “Excuse me?”
“Sitting down here alone without your ring while people are saying we separated.”
“I told him I was married.”
“He didn’t care.”
“And that’s my fault?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you angry about?”
“That he looked at you as if he had a chance!”
His voice rose enough to draw attention from the other end of the bar. Max noticed it too, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to lower his voice, but the emotion was still there, sharp and impossible to hide.
For a second neither of you said anything more. Then Max looked around the room, like he had only just remembered where you were.
“We’re not doing this here,” he said.
You should have argued. Part of you wanted to, just to make him stand there a little longer with all that jealousy burning under his skin, but the truth was, your own chest felt too tight, and you hated the idea of strangers pretending not to listen.
So you walked past him towards the lifts.
Max followed half a step behind you, close enough that you could feel him there, but not touching you. That somehow made it worse. He was usually all hands when he was like this hand on your waist, fingers at your back, some small claim disguised as care. Now he seemed to know he had lost the right to do it.
The lift ride was silent.
The moment the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, the argument picked up exactly where it had left off.
“You don’t get to be angry at me for this,” you said, turning on him.
Max was already facing you, one hand still on the door handle. “I’m not angry at you.”
“You are.”
“No I’m angry because he thought he had a chance, he sat beside you because he thought you were alone and when you said you were married he looked at your hand and decided he didn’t have to respect it.”
“That is exactly what happened to me when that woman approached you.”
“I know.”
“You dismissed it.”
“I know.”
“Then why are we still having this argument?”
Max stared at you, breathing hard as the anger gradually drained from his face. In its place came something far more exposed.
“Because I was wrong.”
The admission was not enough to soothe you immediately, particularly after weeks of stubbornness.
“You could have said that days ago.”
“I always understood that it upset you,” he continued. “I guess I just didn’t fully understand why.”
“And now?”
Max looked down at your hand. “Now… I still think a ring doesn’t make us married,” he admitted. “I still think what we have is more important than whether other people can see it.”
You waited.
“But I hate that they can’t see it.”
There it was, not quite an apology, but close.
You leaned back against the table. “Why?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if the answer should have been obvious.
“Because you’re mine.”
You gave him a warning look laced with a smirk.
“You know what I mean,” he said quickly. “Not that I own you, but you’re my person. You’re my wife, and I don’t like somebody looking at you and thinking that place beside you might be available.”
“It isn’t.”
“No.” Max stepped closer. “But I like that it tells them before they ask.”
You studied him for a long moment Max came to stand between your knees, his hands settling on your hips. Unlike all the other times he’d touched you over the past week there was no performance in it now, no deliberate need to show anybody what you were to each other. It was only the two of you in the small room.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You made me feel ridiculous.”
“I’m really sorry.”
He bowed his head towards yours, “I thought you were putting too much meaning into an object when you should already know how I feel. I didn’t really consider that wearing it was one of the ways I showed you how I feel.”
“And?”
“And I have been an enormous hypocrite.”
A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
Max’s mouth twitched. “I knew that would make you happy.”
“A little.”
He brushed his thumb over the place where your ring usually rested.
“I don’t like jewellery,” he said. “That part is true. I still find the ring uncomfortable sometimes.”
You gave him a flat look.
“But I would rather notice it a hundred times a day than make you believe I don’t value what it represents.”
“Then we can find one that isn’t.”
He looked at you. “What?”
“A thinner band. A different material. Something you barely notice. I never said it had to be the exact ring we bought for the wedding.”
Max frowned as though this practical solution had somehow never occurred to him. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“The ring matters because you’re choosing to wear it. I don’t care whether it’s gold, silver, silicone or something you found inside a cereal box.”
“A cereal box?”
“Perhaps not that.”
He smiled properly then, his shoulders finally relaxing.
“I’ll wear the original when we go somewhere important,” he said. “And we can find something more comfortable for every day.”
“That sounds fair.”
“But you have to put yours back on.”
You lifted an eyebrow.
Max corrected himself reluctantly. “I would very much like you to put yours back on.”
“And not because you nearly had an aneurysm when a man assumed I was single?”
He slid one hand around the back of your neck, leaning closer until his forehead rested against yours.
“I trust you,” he murmured. “I don’t trust other people to behave properly around you.”
“You can’t be angry with them for not knowing I’m married when you’re the one who said I shouldn’t need a ring to show it.”
“I can be angry about whatever I like. I simply can’t blame you for it.”
You smiled. “Growth.”
His mouth found yours the kiss beginning soft before deepening with the same possessive edge that had coloured his behaviour all week. His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, and you felt the last of the tension in his body finally ease when your arms settled around his neck.
When he pulled back, he kissed the corner of your mouth once more.
“Will you wear it tomorrow?”
“I haven’t brought mine,” you said.
“It’s here.”
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I put it in the hotel safe.”
“You’ve known where it was this entire time?”
“Yes.”
“And you brought it with us?”
His expression became faintly sheepish. “I didn’t like leaving it at home.”
The confession was so painfully hypocritical that you stared at him.
“You carried my wedding ring across countries while insisting it did not matter?”
“Hey, I’ve already admitted I was wrong don’t I get some credit for that?”
“Will you wear yours?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it’s uncomfortable?”
Max sighed dramatically. “Until we replace it.”
You pretended to consider it.
“Then yes.”
The relief on his face was almost comical.
Later he retrieved your ring from the safe and placed it in your palm without immediately asking you to wear it. He sat beside you on the edge of the bed, his knee pressed against yours while he waited.
He held out his hand.
You took his ring first.
For a moment you simply turned it between your fingers, tracing the engraved date hidden along the inside. Then you slid it slowly back onto his finger. Max watched you with an intensity that made the moment feel strangely reminiscent of your wedding, stripped of the ceremony and the guests but not of its meaning.
He picked up yours next.
“I don’t need this to know you love me,” he said, looking at you rather than your hand.
“I know.”
“And you don’t need mine.”
“No.”
“But I will wear it because it matters to you.”
You softened. “And I’ll wear mine because it apparently keeps you from glaring at every innocent man who speaks to me.”
“None of them were innocent.” He growled.
“Max.” You laughed as he slipped the ring back onto your finger.
His thumb passed over it once, then again, and you watched the familiar satisfaction settle over his face. He lifted your hand to his mouth, kissing directly above the band before lacing your fingers together.
The rings didn’t make you married. They didn’t create the loyalty between you nor did they guarantee it. They couldn’t carry the full weight of every promise you had made or every private thing your marriage had become, but as Max stared down at your joined hands, both bands finally returned to their places he seemed to understand that symbols did not have to replace the truth to matter.
Today was not going to plan. You had agreed somewhat reluctantly 3 days ago to go with your boyfriend Will to a F1 style speed show, and were kind of regretting it now. Your alarm hadn’t gone off, you’d run out of shampoo and then you’d smeared your mascara when a text from Will made your phone buzz loudly and you jumped. Cue the mini breakdown. Add in the fact that you were on day 2 of your period and a tampon wasn’t cutting it, so it was a pad day? Today was not good. 2 painkillers had been taken already with little to no effect, and your handbag had 2 more pads and a handful of tampons as back up if your flow was as heavy as you were expecting. Luckily you had a text from your boyfriend Will to read.
Will 🫶: heya love, on my way to pick you up x see you in 10
You 💕: okay baby x see you soon
The drive to the track was filled with Will rambling about cars and speed and engines and F1 stuff. You weren’t exactly sure what he was on about, you just kept nodding along and saying Mmm and Really at all the appropriate times. You were more focussed on his hand on your thigh rubbing small circles with his thumb, and the cramps wrecking through your uterus. Just a few hours, is all you could think, just a few hours until you could go home and put one of Wills hoodies on and nap. Of course you were happy to be there and accompany Will at one of his big hobbies, but you would’ve chosen a day at home with him curled up on the sofa watching a movie rather than stood at a racetrack. Still, time spent with him today was going to be worth it, no matter how poorly you felt.
You arrived at the track and were given a tour - as part of Wills work with Quadrant, he got some pretty sweet perks including VIP access to an event like this. The tour guide lead you both through the VIP lounge and bar before heading out to the tracks and pits area. Will was in his element, asking a million questions and talking excitedly, his Geordie accent coming out even more than usual in his excitement. You just smiled along at whatever he was saying, making an occasional quip or joke before going back to admiring your handsome boyfriend. He was wearing his signature white shirt with the rolled up so his forearms were on display, a pair of dark jeans and nice boots. You were looking cute in a pair of midwash mom jeans and one of Will’s Quadrant hoodies that was now yours. Comfy but cute - the essential look for today. You couldn’t help yourself from occasionally admiring your much smaller hand in his as you walked the tour, and how good his forearms looked. Every now and then he’d catch you running your fingers up and down his arm as the tour guide rambled, a distracted look on your face before you’d notice him looking at you with a small smirk, and you’d blush before dropping your hand from his arm to hold his hand again.
After meeting some of the racers, catching up with some of the guys from Quandrant and Will grabbing a beer from the bar, it was almost race time. You ducked quickly into the bathroom to do a pad check, and returned to Will just in time to see the lights change for the race starting.
The traffic light went from red, to amber and then to green, and the cars were off. Will was cheering along and shouting with the other members of the crowd, and you were laughing along with him. The atmosphere was electric and even if you didn’t really follow the sport, you could appreciate why Will was such a huge fan.
3 laps in and Will’s beer was empty. You offered to head to the bar to get him a fresh one, knowing he wouldn’t want to miss a minute, and he readily agreed, giving you a kiss on your temple as you walked off. Beer acquired, you walked back to him and handed it over. He leant down to give you a quick kiss in thanks and put his hand on your bum to give it a pat as he faces back to the track.
His hand paused on your bum and you froze. Shit, you were wearing a heavy duty pad and clearly he could feel it beneath your jeans. You’d been dating Will less than a year and were pretty good at keeping your period on the down low when you were with him. Not that you were ashamed of it, but you’d been managing your period since you were a teen and knowing he didn’t do well with blood, you just tried to keep it on a need-to-know basis. It just wasn’t really discussed, and with his busy filming schedule you’d so far avoided having a sleepover with him while on your period.
His eyes remained on the cars zooming around the track as his hand on your bum unfroze and gave a gentle squeeze - almost like he was testing his theory. You felt the plastic material of the pad attached to your underwear crumple a bit, and gave a light wince. His eyes darted over to catch your wince, and a light blush begin to appear on your cheeks.
Will moved his hand from your bum and gave you another gentle kiss on the temple, before pulling you slightly in front of him so your bum was resting against one of his thighs and he could stand behind you and look over your shoulder and head to see the track. The hand that was on your bum snaked around your waist and snuck under your jumper and jeans waistband to come to a rest over your lower abdomen. His hand was nice and warm, and his rings a cold contrast on your skin. His thumb started rubbing circles into your tummy, the heat and movement almost immediately helping soothe the dull ache of cramps that had been there all day.
You looked over your shoulder up to him with a small smile on your face, and he looked away from the race for a second to catch your eyes and smiled gently back. He leant down to give you a quick kiss before returning his attention to the race and continuing cheering along loudly, one hand still on your lower tummy and the other waving his beer around excitedly.
These were the moment that you truly loved with Will. Where his loud outgoing personality would pause, just for a second, and he would do something that truly shows you how much he cared for you without saying a word.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. The race finished just as the sun began to set and Will was in high spirits as his driver of choice had won. You were in good spirits too - a nice day out in the sun with your gorgeous boyfriend was exactly what you’d needed, and your cramps had definitely subsided a lot. A takeaway pizza on the sofa at home was the final cherry on top of the day that you both craved. Sure, you were a little apprehensive about him staying over while you were on your period, especially on day 2, but he assured you it didn’t bother him at all and he just wanted to spend time with you.
You spent the night curled up next to him on the sofa, sharing pizza and soft kisses as some superhero movie played in the background that neither of you were really paying attention to. Later you both drifted to the bedroom and fell asleep easily, legs tangled together and one of his hands always touching your body. Even in his sleep he couldn’t keep his hands off of you.
A week or two went by and this time you were round at Wills flat. He’d finished filming for the day, and was just messaging James about where the three of you were meeting for dinner. Will was sat on the sofa, distracted by his phone, and you ducked out to use the bathroom quickly before you left for dinner. After you’d done your business and washed your hands, you couldn’t help but notice the small wicker basket he’d only recently placed on the windowsill above the toilet.
You looked inside the basket, and a smile threatened to break loose. Inside was a box of tampons, some pads and liners, plus some small bags to dispose of any rubbish into. Even better? They were the specific brands you used. Clearly he’d rifled through your supply when he was last around at your flat to see your preferred brands, and bought his own stock.He was such a thoughtful guy, and you were so lucky to have him as your boyfriend.
Walking out to the living room, Will is still playing on his phone but puts it down when he sees you walk into the room. You walk over and sit on his lap, giving him a kiss before tucking your head under his chin and saying ‘I love you baby’
With a slightly bemused look, he wraps his arms around your waist and replies ‘ thanks pet, love you too’
you find a mysterious package in the corner of will's closet, and its contents intrigues you more than you'd expected. (as requested by a lovely anon!) (but dedicated to @elhotchner because she would jump off of a PLANET for this man -- no sneaky peeks, surprise ily)
bloody feckin' filth (smut with a little bit of fluff because I tripped, sorry)
face sitting, cunnilingus, using a fleshlight
18+ / MDNI!!
word count: 1.7K
--
it was finally getting warm out again. a leaf or two had begun to sprout on the tree outside your bedroom window, and you took that as your sign to kickstart the annual spring cleaning of your flat.
"ugh but love, the place looks fine!" will defends, immediately dreading the prospect of spending all weekend elbow-deep in piles of clothes and paperwork that had built up.
"yeah, it's fine, but it could be better," you push.
"hey, what's that thing you always say to me when I get in my head about work. good enough summat... oh, don't let perfect be the enemy of good enough! ha!"
you roll your eyes, mildly concerned that you've created a monster over the years in your attempts to make will take better care of himself. "you dare use my own wisdom against me, william."
will strides over to you, letting out a little chuckle as he plants a big kiss to your cheek. "listen, love. you can clean all ye want. I'll help a bit, but I'm sorry, I'm not gettin the hazmat out. you'd burn the gaff down and build a new one every year if it was up to you."
you sigh. "fiiiine, but I will make you help me with some stuff. nothing crazy." his arms slip around your waist, pulling you in for a kiss. "yes, darling."
--
a few hours later
you're sat on the floor going through the absolute tornado of miscellaneous crap that had accumulated at the bottom of will's closet over the last year. most of it was gifted shit from brands he would never be caught dead wearing, props from videos, clothes he never wears anymore.
you start digging your way through the mess, creating piles of stuff to donate, to toss, to keep. once you'd sifted through it all, then you'd drag will in to make him help you make those decisions.
tucked in the very back corner of the closet, you find a small black box you don't recognize. your eyebrows furrow, and your curiosity piques as you reach to grab it.
bringing it into the light, you slide the package open, and gasp at what you find inside: a fleshlight. why the fuck does will have this?
clearing your throat, you call for him. "um, could you please come in here for a moment, babe?"
he strolls into the room seconds later, inhaling sharply as soon as he sees the box in your hand.
"care to explain, william?"
"ugh," he groans, his head falling back dramatically. "I forgot I had that. it was a stupid gift from fuckin' james. he got it for me when I was single. lad thinks he's sooo bloody hilarious. I've never touched the thing."
you huff out a laugh, shaking your head at his response. you'd expected it to be something like that, knowing your boyfriend too well to suspect anything uncouth from him. "I figured as much," you snort. "sounds like james."
"just get rid of it, love," will decides with a sigh. "summat tells me the charity shops don't accept sex toys even if they are unused," he adds with a chuckle as he leaves the room again.
you nod, but for some reason, you can't bring yourself to put it in the bin. your imagination runs a little mad, and instead, you remove it from its packaging and tuck it safely into your bedside table drawer.
--
later that night
will sits up in bed, waiting for you to finish your bedtime routine. it might be one of his favorite times of the day, his bottom lip between his teeth, watching you through the mirror in the en suite -- braiding your hair, slowly rubbing lotion into your skin, whatever. he just likes looking at you.
you make eye contact with him through the reflection and see yourself go pink in your vanity. "whaaaat?" you giggle, somehow still getting shy in front of him even after all this time.
a cheeky grin spreads across his face at your expression. "you're actually just so fuckin' cute, I can't believe it sometimes."
your little smile turns into an uncontrollable beam as you flip the light switch in the bathroom and rush over to jump into bed, climbing into will's lap immediately.
straddling him, your lips lock together, smiles still on your faces like you can't help it. his tongue slides against yours, hot and sweet as ever. you sigh into him, running your fingers through his soft hair as you grind down against him lightly, nothing but thin underwear covering both of you, leaving little to separate you from each other.
will shuffles down on the bed to move away from the headboard, lying down on his back fully and pulling you on top of him. moving away from his lips, you run the tip of your tongue along his sharp jaw, sucking on the sensitive skin under his ear, a soft groan falling from his lips as he bucks his hips up against you.
kissing, licking, sucking your way down will's chest and stomach, you slip your fingers under the waistband of his pants and pull them down, exposing his hard cock already dripping with pre-cum from your teasing.
your hand wraps around him with a featherlight touch as you graze your lips up his length, your hot breath making him fidget under you. letting a ball of spit form and fall from your tongue onto the head, you coat his cock with a few gentle strokes before wrapping your mouth around just his tip, swirling your tongue slowly as his large palm finds its place on the back of your head.
"ff-fuck, please love," will whines. "need you." you hum around him, reveling in his little begs, and gladly give him what he wants: more. you drop your head down, hollowing your cheeks as you take him in as much as you can, letting his tip hit the back of your throat as you gag slightly. will isn't quiet in his day-to-day life, nor is he quiet here, and fucking hell, it was like a drug.
you pull back after a short while, kissing your way back up to will's face. "wanna have some fun, baby?" you purr, to which will raises an eyebrow.
"what'd you have in mind, pet?"
you reach into your bedside table drawer and pull out the fleshlight you'd found earlier in the day. will's initial reaction is to laugh, but as soon as he clocks on that you're not laughing with him, his eyes go big. "you're serious?"
"I couldn't stop thinking about it, baby... I really wanna watch you use it," you admit, biting your lip, trailing a finger up his veiny arm.
he goes slightly red at the idea, but his interest seems to grow the more he ponders the idea -- your own excitement certainly a contributing factor. "well... what about you?"
"oh sweet boy," you smirk. "your mouth is used for much more than just asking silly questions."
will's face shifts to something completely smug at your reply, a wicked grin stretching across it. "you cheeky little bastard."
giggling, you lean down to kiss him, licking into his mouth as you pull your panties off. unscrewing the cap of the fleshlight, you power it on, watching will's face intently as you slide it onto his hard cock.
he gasps at the sensation, panting and eyelashes fluttering as he experiences something he's never felt before. "oh- oh fuck," he stutters, broken moans falling from him, and you almost don't have the heart to sit on his face lest you muffle his pretty sounds.
almost.
you climb up, facing away from the headboard so you could watch the fleshlight pulse up and down on his cock. he wraps an arm around your thigh, the other hand keeping a light touch on the toy, as his tongue finds its home in your pussy right away. you moan loudly, arching your back as you grind against his face, his own sounds of pleasure sending vibrations through your core.
the lack of headboard in front of you made staying upright a struggle, so you let yourself fall forward into a 69 position, resting your face on his thigh for support. you put your hand on will's where it sits on the toy, telling him to let go, and he promptly grips your other thigh, readjusting your seat with his strong grip to properly bury his face in you. you whine as he sucks on your clit, feeling him tense under you as the toy appears to speed up on his cock, making him let out a low groan under you.
will's tongue flattens against you, licking a long stripe through like he wants to taste as much as he can all at once. he plunges into your hole, fucking you with his tongue as his chin bumps against your clit, stubble rough on your thighs. your eyes roll back as he reattaches to your clit, feeling the fire of an impending orgasm pool low in your tummy.
the lewd noises spilling from will start to amplify, the fleshlight tightening around him, and his buzzing lips send bolts through your nerves. he flicks his tongue against your clit rapidly, making you whimper and writhe, as you both feel yourselves getting painfully close.
finally, will pushes you over, ripping a deep wail from your throat as your orgasm paints his face. he laps at you hungrily as he whines over and over, his chest heaving under you and his fingers digging into your thighs until he follows you off the edge of the cliff, his lips detaching from you to release the uncontrollable groan he couldn't bite back if he tried. his whole body spasms as he explodes inside the toy, and you shut it off, removing it from his body carefully as his breathing slows, evening out alongside your own.
practically falling off of him, you land on the bed at his side. you lock eyes, and he grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips to plant a soft kiss against your fingers.
you give him a small, tired smile, coming down from both the orgasm as well as the slight adrenaline rush of trying something new.
he returns the look, his eyes half-closed. "this is why you make the spring cleaning decisions, darling."
The Batcave was never truly silent. It breathed. The distant drip of water from stalactites older than Gotham, the subsonic hum of the supercomputer, the chittering of bats far above in the endless dark. But tonight, the silence was a living thing, a predator that had devoured all other sound. It was a silence of absence.
The Batcomputer’s main screen was dark, but a single, smaller monitor on the desk glowed with a frozen image: a girl, mid-laugh, flour on her nose. Her eyes were squeezed shut in joy, a streak of purple in her hair. The cursor hovered over the play button, trembling as if the hand guiding it was caught in an earthquake.
Bruce Wayne, stripped of the cowl but still wearing the armor, sat in the chair. He wasn’t Batman. He wasn’t Bruce. He was just a man made of fractured bones and a heart pumping pure, unadulterated agony. He hadn’t slept in seventy-two hours. He hadn’t spoken in twenty-four. On the floor, slumped against the base of the massive computer, was Dick Grayson. The first Robin. The golden boy. Now, his eyes were red-rimmed craters in a face the color of old ash. He held a small, silly-looking stuffed bat you’d won at a rigged carnival game. The one he’d complained about buying, but secretly loved seeing you clutch when you watched scary movies.
In the shadows, beyond the circle of light, Jason Todd stood with his arms crossed, a statue of rage barely contained. The white streak in his hair seemed to glow with its own furious light. He refused to sit. Sitting meant accepting this, and he would burn the world down before he accepted this. Tim Drake was curled in a chair, a laptop with a cracked screen open but ignored on his knees. He was looking at nothing, his brilliant, tactical mind having finally found an equation he couldn't solve: a world without you.
And Damian. Damian Wayne, the son of the Bat, the heir to the Demon’s Head, was sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor directly in front of the monitor. His katana lay across his lap, unsheathed, his small, calloused hands resting on the blade. His eyes, usually so sharp and defiant, were glassy and vacant, fixed on your frozen, laughing face. A single tear, perfectly formed, traced a path through the grime on his cheek, but he made no move to wipe it away. He was waiting. They all were.
You, Y/N, had been the sun. And suns, by their nature, make everything orbit them. They didn't realize it until you were gone, collapsing into a black hole of your own making, and their orbits were failing. You were only sixteen. And you were the only one who ever insisted on making these stupid videos. The videos Bruce was now, with a breath that sounded like a death rattle, about to play.
///
Your life with them wasn’t normal. “Normal” was a fairytale told to children who didn’t have to check their Christmas presents for Joker toxin. You’d been taken in by Bruce Wayne after a mission gone sideways, a dark night where your own family’s lawlessness—a small-time crew who’d tried to pull a job on a Falcone shipment—had put you in the crossfire. You were twelve, a feral, observant thing who could pick a pocket faster than a starving raccoon and lie to a cop with a cherub’s smile. You weren’t a sidekick, not in the traditional sense. You were… you. The glue, as Alfred would later, with trembling hands, call you.
Breakfast at Wayne Manor was a warzone before you. Bruce, silent behind the newspaper, a specter of exhaustion. Dick, glaring at his cereal for the crime of being in the same room as Bruce. Jason, provoking Damian, who would respond with threats of unspeakable violence. Tim, trying to mediate while simultaneously reading a case file on his tablet, his coffee growing cold. It was a cacophony of clashing egos, a collection of broken, brilliant individuals sharing a roof but not a life.
You changed the physics of the house. You didn't do it with grand gestures, but with a gravitational pull that was uniquely your own. A lawless, chaotic, loving gravity.
It started with you stealing Bruce’s newspaper.
“You’re not even reading it,” you’d said at thirteen, sliding it across the mahogany table. “You’re hiding. Your brooding has a physical presence, you know. It’s like a seventh person at the table, and it’s very rude. It never passes the salt.”
Jason had choked on his orange juice. Damian had stared, aghast at your audacity. But Bruce, after a stunned moment, had let out a low chuckle, a sound so unfamiliar it made Alfred pause in the doorway, a silver platter tilting precariously.
“And what do you suggest?” Bruce had asked, his voice a low gravel.
“We start a tradition,” you declared, ignoring Tim’s wide-eyed look of warning. “Tell me something about your patrol. Something weird. Not dark, not gruesome. Weird. Like… did you know Condiment King has a carefully curated collection of vintage mustard jars? I saw it when I was hacking the traffic cams for you last night.”
A new ritual was born that day. Weird Patrol Stories became the morning anchor.
That was your genius. You understood that a family of lawless, traumatized vigilantes couldn't be stitched together with heartfelt conversations. They needed a shared language, and your language was beautiful, calculated, affectionate chaos. You were the only one who could touch Jason when he was in a pit-madness haze, not with fear or pity, but with a blunt, “You’re being a theatrical ass. The brooding corner is taken. Bruce is already there, communing with the shadows. Go brood in the library, you’ll clash.” He’d be so offended he’d snap out of it just to argue with you.
You were the only one who could get Damian to be a child. Not by forcing him, but by challenging him to a rooftop parkour race, the loser having to groom Titus with a glittery pink brush. You’d lost on purpose half the time, not that he ever knew. You’d sit for an hour, carefully brushing purple glitter from a massive Great Dane, while Damian lectured you on proper stance and the disgrace of your defeat. The video was your idea. “We need to document this, Dami! Proof you’re not a total gremlin!” He’d grumbled, called you an imbecile, but he’d sat perfectly still as you both, faces covered in dog glitter, smiled for the camera.
You were Tim’s anchor to reality. When he’d go three days without sleep, chasing a digital ghost through the dark web, you wouldn’t plead or lecture. You’d simply sit on the floor of his room, back against his desk, and start reading aloud from the trashiest, most absurd romance novel you could find in the manor’s vast library. The sheer, weaponized cringe of the prose would eventually break through his hyper-focus. He’d uncurl from his screen, a faint, exhausted smile on his face. “You’re a menace, Y/N.” “And you need to drink this,” you’d say, pushing a glass of water into his hand, the video camera on your phone already recording the rare sight of a caffeine-free Tim Drake. “Tell the camera the title of the chapter. ‘Pirates of the Pleasure Lagoon.’ Say it, Tim. This is blackmail material.”
And for Dick, you were the little sister who saw past the performance. You saw the pressure of being the first, the gold standard, the emotional caretaker who had no one to take care of him. You’d find him on the roof of the manor after a bitter argument with Bruce, staring at Bludhaven’s distant skyline. You’d just sit with him. Then, you’d bump your shoulder against his. “For a guy made of elastic, you’re really bad at bouncing back from feelings, Grayson.” You’d always use his last name, like a teammate. He’d sling an arm around you, his sadness a tangible weight you’d willingly share. “Let’s take a video,” you’d say, pulling out your phone. “A message for future-us. What’s one good thing from today?” It was your thing. One Good Thing. A video diary for a family that forgot to remember the light.
You were Bruce’s unexpected mirror. You, with your lawless past and your sharp, thieving instincts, understood the darkness he was afraid to show. You never flinched. You called it like you saw it. “You’re not their general, you’re their father. The Bat may command, but Bruce has to love. Those are different operating systems, and you keep using the wrong one.” He’d look at you, this small sixteen-year-old who had broken into his heart as easily as you used to break into safes, and he’d feel a terrifying, unfamiliar hope. You’d pull him into the videos too. “Smile, Dad-Man. It’s not a toxin, it’s a facial expression.” You’d forced him to wear a party hat on his birthday, a video Jason still cackled about.
You were the gravitational center of their entire universe, the sun they orbited. And the sun, on a rainy Tuesday in October, went out. The Joker, in his relentless, nihilistic war against Batman, finally understood a truth the Dark Knight himself had missed: to break the Bat, you didn't target his body, or even his Robins. You targeted the one who held the broken pieces together. The laugh, the videos, the glitter, the lawless little ghost who’d stolen their hearts—you were the single, irreplaceable point of failure.
///
The alert didn’t come through the usual channels. It erupted on every screen in the Batcave simultaneously, a hacking so invasive it felt like a hand reaching into their sanctuary. The feed was grainy, saturated in a sickly yellow that bled the world of color, transforming it into a jaundiced nightmare. Rain slanted through the frame in silver needles, striking a lone bulb that swung on a bare wire, making the shadows lurch and sway like drunken mourners. And there, in the center of the frame, was you.
You were tied to a rusted metal chair, the kind pulled from a derelict warehouse, its paint peeling in leprous curls. Your reinforced jacket was torn at the shoulder, the dark fabric glistening wetly. Blood traced a slow, deliberate path from your hairline down the plane of your cheek, diluting in the rain before dripping from your jaw. Your domino mask was cracked, a jagged fissure bisecting the left lens, but your eyes behind it were not wide with fear. They burned with a quiet, furious contempt. Your chin was lifted, not in defiance for the camera, but as if the monster holding it was too boring to merit your full attention. You looked not like a victim, but like a captured sun, still radiating heat in the face of an endless, hungry void.
Bruce’s hand stopped an inch from the console, his body turned to stone. The cave’s ambient hum became a roar in his ears, the sound of blood rushing, a tidal wave of dread. He couldn’t look away. Dick was already moving, his chair clattering to the floor behind him, but his eyes were nailed to the screen, his pupils blown wide. Tim’s fingers flew across a secondary keyboard, his lips moving in a silent, frantic prayer of code, tracing the signal. Jason, who had been cleaning his guns in the corner, stood so abruptly the table overturned. He didn’t make a sound. He just stared, the color draining from his face until the white streak in his hair seemed to glow against a mask of ash. Damian, small and rigid in the doorway, had come to deliver a report and instead walked into a mausoleum.
The Joker’s voice oozed from the speakers, a sing-song, intimate poison. “Saaay cheese for the birdie, little sunbeam! No, wait, you’re not the sun. You’re just a black hole pretending. Let’s see if the big bad Bat can find you before the punchline lands!”
A crowbar, slick with rain and something darker, swung lazily into the frame, held by a gloved hand with theatrical nonchalance. It tapped your cheek once, a mockery of a caress. You didn’t flinch. You spat at the lens. The feed dissolved into static with a high, keening laugh that seemed to claw its way into their skulls and refuse to leave.
The cave erupted. Not into chaos, but into a perfectly orchestrated nightmare ballet. Bruce was in the Batmobile before the static cleared, the engine’s roar a primal scream. Jason was already gone, the squeal of his motorcycle tires leaving burnt rubber ghosts on the stone floor. Dick launched himself upward into the dark, grappling through the manor’s clock entrance, his body a projectile of pure terror. Tim stayed, his face illuminated by the cold blue of his screen, his voice a monotone crackling over the comms, feeding coordinates even as his hands shook violently enough to make typing a battle. Damian, ignored, forbidden, left behind by a single wordless glance from Bruce, waited exactly three seconds before mounting his own cycle and tearing into the night. No one would order him to stay. Not tonight. Not when his sun was in eclipse.
The alley was a wound in the city’s side, a narrow, forgotten artery tucked between condemned buildings that sagged toward each other like exhausted giants. The rain here fell harder, funneled by the brick walls into a deluge that filled the air with the sound of a hundred tiny drums. The scent of ozone, rust, and something coppery and warm clung to the shadows. A speaker, cheap plastic molded into a grinning face, was still mounted crookedly on the wall, spilling a looped, mechanical laugh into the storm. It was the first thing Jason saw. The second was the crowbar, lying abandoned in a puddle that was more crimson than water.
Then he saw you.
His world collapsed into a single, silent point. The laugh, the rain, the roar of the distant Batmobile—all of it fell away. There was only the stillness of your chest, the wrong angle of your body against the chair, your head tilted slightly to the side as if you were simply resting. But your eyes were open, half-lidded, and the fire that had blazed through the cracked lens was gone. You were no longer looking at the monster. You were looking at nothing.
Jason Todd, , the man who had crawled out of his own grave and taught his heart to beat again through sheer, bloody-minded rage, walked forward on legs that felt like fractured stone. He didn’t run. Running meant there was hope, and the pit of his stomach had already filled with an ice so absolute it froze every nerve. When he reached you, he sank down—not a controlled kneel, but a collapse, his knees hitting the flooded asphalt with a splash that sent ripples through the blood-tinged water. His hands, the hands that had held guns and thrown punches and rebuilt himself from shattered bone, reached for the ropes that bound your wrists. His fingers were clumsy, thick with a tremor that made the simple act of untying a knot an impossibility.
“Come on, kid,” he muttered, his voice a ragged, unfamiliar thing. “Joke’s over. You win. You always win, you little menace. Get up.”
The ropes fell away. Your arm slid limply into the water. He caught it, cradling it as if it were made of glass, and pulled you against his chest. Your head lolled against his shoulder, the purple streak in your hair plastered to his jacket. The cold of your skin was a physical blow, a truth his mind refused to parse. He rocked forward, his forehead touching your temple, his massive frame curling around you as if he could shield you from a threat that had already passed, as if his body heat could reignite the sun.
“Don’t do this,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m the one who dies. That’s the deal. You’re the one who drags me back. Remember? On the roof. ‘One good thing.’ You said it. You promised. You don’t get to break the promise.”
The laugh from the speaker jeered on, a relentless, tinny soundtrack. Jason’s head snapped up, and the grief that had softened his features an instant before twisted into something monstrous. A sound tore from him—not a word, not a roar, but a raw, guttural scream that scraped his throat bloody. It was the sound of a man who had already died once and now understood that resurrection was a curse, because he had survived only to bury the one person who made survival feel like something other than penance. The scream echoed off the wet brick, swallowed by the rain, and Jason held you tighter, his body shaking with sobs that seemed to originate from the very core of the earth.
Bruce arrived to that sound. He moved through the alley’s mouth like a specter, the rain sheeted off the angles of his cowl. He saw Jason on his knees, saw the slack, grey-white hand trailing in the water, and the world tilted on its axis. For one suspended heartbeat, the Batman disappeared. In his place was a father confronted with the unthinkable, a man whose every contingency, every protocol, every sleepless night spent planning for catastrophe had failed to account for the simplest, most devastating variable: the universe did not care for his preparation. It had taken you anyway.
He crossed the distance and crouched, his cape pooling in the bloodied water. His gauntleted hands closed gently but firmly over Jason’s shoulders. “Jason,” he said, and his voice was not Batman’s. It was Bruce’s, a low, broken gravel that had no authority left. “Let me see her. Please.”
Jason wrenched away, his face a mask of grief and fury. “Don’t touch her. Don’t you dare touch her.” His arms tightened possessively, as if giving you over would make it real. But his strength was gone, hollowed out by a sorrow too vast for anger to fill. Bruce didn’t pull. He simply waited, his own hands trembling, until Jason’s resistance crumbled and he let go with a sound like a wounded animal. Bruce gathered you then, lifting you as if you weighed nothing, as if you were made of spent light. Your head fell back, rain washing the blood from your still face, and for a moment you looked peaceful—a cruel, unbearable illusion.
Dick landed on the fire escape above, his breath a ragged knife in his lungs. He had run across the city with his heart pounding a desperate mantra: Not her, not her, not her. He saw Bruce holding you, and the mantra died. His hand flew to his mouth, pressing hard against a sound he couldn’t allow to escape. His world narrowed to a single, impossible detail: your chest, which should have been rising and falling with that stubborn, chaotic life you carried everywhere, was still. Utterly, horrifyingly still. He slid down the brick wall, his suit scraping against the mortar, and sat in the pooling water, his legs refusing the command to stand. The Golden Boy, the acrobat who had laughed at gravity, had finally fallen.
Tim arrived not on his feet but doubled over, his stomach rejecting the reality before his mind could process it. He vomited into the gutter, his body wracked with spasms that had nothing to do with physical exertion. His mind, a cathedral of logic and pattern recognition, slammed against the walls of a problem it could not solve. There was no algorithm to rewind time. No code to rewrite this moment. He straightened, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand, and his eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were blank with a kind of intellectual horror. The data was in, and it was unacceptable.
And then there was Damian.
He came last, a small, dark figure slipping through the shadows that the rain couldn’t touch. He moved with a mechanical, deliberate gait, his katana already drawn, the blade gleaming wetly. He didn’t look at Bruce or Jason or the body. He walked past them all, his eyes fixed on the grinning speaker, the source of the laugh that still mocked them with its mindless, looping glee. He raised his sword. The blade sang through the rain, a high, keening note, and bisected the speaker in a single, perfect stroke. The laugh died with a pitiful electronic squeal, leaving only the drumming of the storm.
Damian turned. His face was a porcelain mask, utterly still, but his eyes—those sharp, defiant eyes that had learned to soften only for you—were swimming with a grief so immense it had no outlet. He saw you in Bruce’s arms, and the mask shattered.
“You cannot be dead.” His voice was small, a child’s voice stripped of all its armor. He took a step forward, then another, his sword lowering until the tip scraped the ground. “You are intolerably stubborn. You would not concede to this… this clown. Get up, Y/N. Get up right now.” The command wavered, cracking around the edges. “That is an order.”
Silence. Rain.
“Get up!” The word became a plea, the plea a sob that ripped from his ten-year-old chest with a force that doubled him over. The sword clattered from his fingers, splashing into the water, forgotten. He crumpled, not like a warrior, but like a little boy whose world had just been extinguished. Dick moved then, crossing the space in three staggering strides, and wrapped his arms around Damian, pulling the child against his chest. Damian fought him, small fists beating against Dick’s shoulders, his screams wordless and raw, the cries of a soul being forged into something harder and colder. Dick held on, his own tears mixing with the rain on Damian’s hair, and said nothing. There were no words for this.
There was no debriefing. No strategy. No stoic return. They brought you home through the secret passages of the manor, a silent procession of the shattered and the damned. Alfred was waiting in the medbay, his posture as impeccable as ever, but his face was the color of old parchment. When Bruce laid you on the examination table, the old butler’s hand went to his chest. He let out a single, choked sound—a dry, splintering gasp—and for a terrible moment, his knees buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the table, his gloved fingers inches from your cold, still hand. This was the child who called him Alfie. The one who stole biscuits and left clever, silly notes that made him laugh when no one was looking. He did not weep. His dignity would not permit such a display. He simply turned away, his shoulders quaking with a silent, ocean-deep grief, and began preparing the room for a vigil that would never end.
In the days that followed, the family did not simply grieve. They atomized. Bruce retreated into the cave and became a ghost of computation, replaying the Joker’s ten-second video on a loop, searching for a frame he had missed, a shadow, a sound—anything that could be transformed into a target. He did not eat. He did not sleep. The Bruce Wayne persona was abandoned like an outgrown skin; only the machine of vengeance remained, and it was calibrated to a single, blinding purpose: find the clown.
Jason shattered the armory. He smashed workbenches, threw a crowbar through a monitor, and screamed at Bruce with a fury that seemed to shake the stalactites. “Your rule! Your precious, stupid rule! He keeps coming back and he keeps taking—and you just put him in a box! This is your blood on the ground, Bruce! Yours!” Bruce absorbed it all in silence, each word a lash he believed he had earned a thousand times over.
Tim vanished into a digital necropolis. He didn’t hunt the Joker. He hunted the ghost of you, building a vast, sorrowful archive—every video, every text, every security frame of your face—feeding it into a post-cognition algorithm that, in his feverish logic, might reveal the single variable he could have changed to save you. He was trying to solve the unsolvable, to find an equation that would give his guilt a shape he could bear.
Dick stayed in Blüdhaven for two days before the silence became unbearable. He came back to the manor, but he didn’t stay in the common rooms. He couldn’t. He started finding his way to your room, sitting on the floor with his back against your bed, a bottle in his hand that he never seemed to finish and never let go of. He’d pull out his phone and stare at your contact photo—a silly selfie with flour on your nose—until the screen blurred. Then he’d type out a text he would never send: One good thing today? I need one, Y/N. Please. Every unsent message was a fresh, bleeding wound.
Damian stopped speaking. Words were inadequate; they belonged to a world where you existed. He took up residence in your room, which Alfred, with a reverence that bordered on sacrosanct, left untouched. The half-empty can of soda. The books on forensic science beside a worn copy of a romance novel Tim must have planted as a joke. The wall of printed photographs—snapshots of the videos you had made them film. Damian would sit in your desk chair, Alfred the Cat curled in his lap, and stare at the corkboard for hours. His rage had cooled into a cold, absolute nihilism, a planet-sized why that had no answer. What was honor? What was legacy? What was Robin, if the sun could be blotted out so easily and so senselessly?
The only thing they all shared, in their isolated, soundless orbits, was an unspoken, collective avoidance. The folder on the Batcomputer. The one with the string of emojis: a sun, a bat, a bird, a sparkle heart. Inside was a sub-folder labeled in your handwriting, recorded for the camera you’d propped up on the console: “FAMILY PROOF (watch together!!).”
It waited there, a repository of voices and laughter and a love so fierce it had once held their fractured solar system in perfect, golden alignment. They avoided it like a black hole. Because to open it was to hear your voice again, and to hear your voice was to admit that you were gone. And none of them, not a single one, was ready to admit that the light had truly and irrevocably gone out.
///
The cave had become a tomb.
Not in the physical sense—the stalactites still dripped, the bats still chittered in their distant perches, the supercomputer still hummed its endless, patient hum—but in the way a church becomes a tomb when the god it worshipped has abandoned it. The air was thick with a stillness that felt deliberate, as if the cave itself understood that something sacred had been extinguished and was holding its breath in deference.
Three weeks had passed since the alley. Three weeks of silence that was not silence but a cacophony of absences. The absence of your footsteps on the metal grating. The absence of your voice calling up the stairs for someone to taste-test a recipe you'd stolen from Alfred's private collection. The absence of your laugh, which had always seemed to find the cracks in their armor and slip through, warm and unexpected as sunlight through cloud cover.
Bruce had not left the cave in seventy-two hours. He sat at the console like a gargoyle misplaced from its cathedral, the glow of the monitors carving hollows beneath his cheekbones, turning his face into a landscape of exhaustion and grief. He had stopped reviewing the Joker's video. That particular form of self-flagellation had yielded nothing but a deeper, more intimate acquaintance with madness. Now he simply sat, his hands motionless on the armrests, staring at a screen that displayed nothing but the Manor's security feeds. Your room. Your door. Closed. Unchanged. A shrine of pixels.
Dick had returned to the Manor two days ago, though "returned" was a generous word. He had washed up like flotsam, deposited on the Manor's doorstep by tides he could no longer navigate. He stood now at the edge of the cave's main platform, one hand resting on a stalagmite as if he needed its cold, mineral certainty to keep himself upright. His eyes were bloodshot, the kind of red that came from too little sleep and too much of the whiskey he thought no one noticed. He hadn't changed out of his civilian clothes in two days. The fabric smelled stale, a faint note of bar smoke and something sourer beneath—the scent of a man slowly dissolving.
Jason was a statue of contained violence in the shadows beyond the computer's light. He had refused to come closer, refused to sit, refused to acknowledge that this gathering was happening at all. His arms were crossed over his chest, the muscles beneath his jacket coiled with a tension that had not released since he'd held your body in the rain. The split knuckles from punching the cave wall had scabbed over and been split again, a cycle of wounding and re-wounding that he pursued with almost liturgical dedication. He spoke to no one. He looked at no one. He was a planet that had been flung from its orbit and now drifted through an endless, freezing void, burning with a cold fire that illuminated nothing.
Tim was already seated, but the word "seated" implied a degree of voluntary presence. He had been welded to that chair for hours, maybe longer—time had become a foreign concept, a measurement system from a universe that no longer existed. His laptop was open before him, but its screen was dark. This was unprecedented. Tim Drake did not sit before dark screens. Tim Drake filled dark screens with light and data and purpose. But the purpose had drained out of him, leaving behind only the shell of a boy genius who had finally encountered a problem that could not be optimized, only endured.
And Damian.
Damian sat on the floor directly before the main monitor, his katana laid across his knees like an offering. He had not spoken a single word in six days. Alfred had attempted to coax him with tea, with food, with the quiet, dignified presence that had soothed so many broken birds before. Damian had looked through him as if he were made of glass. The boy who had once declared himself the heir to empires now sat with the hollow, distant gaze of a child who had discovered that empires were built on sand and blood, and neither substance could bring back the dead.
It was Tim who broke first.
Not with words. Tim had no words left. But his hand moved—an involuntary spasm of muscle memory—and touched the trackpad of his laptop. The screen blazed to life, and there it was. The folder. The one he had found three days ago in the depths of his search for your digital ghost, the search that had consumed him so completely he had forgotten to eat, forgotten to sleep, forgotten that the ghost he was chasing was not a puzzle to be solved but a wound to be survived. He had opened the folder then, seen the thumbnail of you and Bruce covered in flour, and slammed the laptop shut with a violence that had cracked the screen. But he had not closed the folder. He had left it there, a bright, toxic sun burning in the cold digital architecture of the Batcomputer, waiting to be noticed.
Dick noticed.
He had drifted toward the console not out of curiosity but out of the gravitational pull of old habits—the big brother checking in, the caretaker making his rounds. His eyes skimmed the open folder, the string of emojis that you had chosen with such deliberate, ridiculous care, and his breath stopped in his chest. A sun. A bat. A bird. A sparkle heart. He understood instantly, the way a man understands he is about to be shot the moment before the trigger is pulled. These were not files. These were your memories. Your voice. Your laugh. The sound he had been trying and failing to recall with perfect clarity for three weeks, the sound that slipped away every time he reached for it like water through desperate fingers.
He stumbled backward, one hand flying to his mouth, the other grasping for something solid and finding only air. The nausea hit him in a wave—not the nausea of disgust but the nausea of standing at the edge of an abyss and feeling it call to you, whisper to you, promise you that falling would be so much easier than standing.
"Bruce." His voice cracked on the single syllable. He swallowed, tried again. "Bruce, you need to see this."
Bruce turned his head with the slow, mechanical precision of a man who had forgotten how to move his body and was re-learning the process through sheer will. His eyes—those dark, hollowed eyes that had seen cities burn and friends fall—flicked to the screen, and something in him that had been frozen solid for three weeks began, horribly, to thaw.
Within the hour, they were all assembled.
It was the first time since the alley that they had been in the same space without the buffer of a mission, without the excuse of strategy or the anesthesia of violence. They did not look at each other. They looked at the screen, at the folder, at the sub-folder labeled in your voice, your cadence, your impossible, irreverent joy: "FAMILY PROOF (watch together!!)."
Bruce's hand moved to the mouse. It was trembling again—not the tremor of age or exhaustion but the tremor of a man holding his own heart in his hands and preparing to squeeze. The cursor hovered over the first thumbnail. You, beaming, your arm slung around a stiff, furious Damian. "Dami's Glittery Defeat (Feat. Titus)."
He clicked.
Your voice filled the cave like light flooding a catacomb.
"Okay, for the record, this is not my fault."
Damian flinched. It was a small movement, barely perceptible—the tightening of his fingers on the katana's sheath, the sharp intake of breath that he immediately suppressed. But it was the first sign of life he had shown in days. Your voice was a key turning in a lock he had welded shut, and the door was beginning to open whether he willed it or not.
On screen, you were alive. Your face filled the frame, your eyes gleaming with that particular mischievousness that always brought Damian to the brink of murderous rage and back again. You were explaining the terms of the race, your voice mingling with barely suppressed glee, and then the camera turned and showed Damian—small, angry, self-important—sitting on the library floor with Titus's enormous head in his lap and a pink glittery brush in his hand.
"You cheated, L/N," the Damian on the screen snarled.
Your laugh answered him—a bell-like, cascading sound that seemed to resonate in the cave's vast darkness, finding every corner, every shadow, every heart.
The Damian on the floor did not move. But his eyes—those sharp, hawkish eyes that had learned to see threats in every shadow—were fixed on the screen with an intensity that bordered on violence. He was watching himself. The self that had existed in a universe where you were still alive. The self that had scowled and complained and secretly, desperately, treasured every moment of your attention. The self that had not yet learned what it meant to lose something irreplaceable.
"See?" your voice came again, soft now, gentle in the way you always were when you'd finished teasing and wanted to make sure the joke hadn't drawn blood. "Good things come in weird packages. This is a good thing, Dami. One Good Thing."
A sound escaped Dick's throat—not a sob, not yet, but the precursor to one, the tectonic shift that heralds an earthquake. One Good Thing. The ritual you had built, day by day, video by video, until it had become the foundation upon which this fractured family had learned to stand. You had given them a language for hope, and they had not realized until this moment that they had forgotten how to speak it.
Damian's tear was silent. It traced a path from the corner of his eye to the line of his jaw, a single silver thread in the blue glow of the monitor. He did not wipe it away. He did not acknowledge it. He simply watched, and remembered the feel of glitter on his fingers, the weight of Titus's head on his knee, the infuriating, irreplaceable sound of your laugh. He wanted to crawl into the video. He wanted to live inside that moment forever, a bug trapped in amber, frozen at the exact instant before the world ended.
Bruce did not pause. He could not pause. To pause was to feel, and to feel was to drown. He clicked the next video with the mechanical precision of a surgeon, or an executioner.
"Tim vs. The Pleasure Lagoon."
The thumbnail was absurd—Tim, bleary-eyed and horrified, holding a romance novel with a cover so lurid it seemed to glow. On the screen, the Tim of the past was hunched over his computer, lost in the labyrinth of code, while your voice, disembodied and theatrical, began to read prose so purple it was practically ultraviolet.
"Chapter fourteen. Rodrigo's cutlass was not the only hard thing pressing against Lady Seraphina's—"
"STOP!" the on-screen Tim shrieked, spinning with an expression of pure, primal terror.
The Tim in the cave did not smile. The Tim in the cave had buried his face in his hands the moment the video began, his cracked laptop forgotten on the floor, his shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow. But the blow was not external. It came from within—the memory of that night, the exhaustion that had felt so monumental and now seemed so trivial, the way you had weaponized absurdity to pull him back from the brink. The parrot joke. God, the parrot joke. It was theirs, a secret stupid beautiful thing, and he would never hear you tell it again.
"It's the filth I'm subjected to," your recorded voice declared, "in order to get you to look away from a screen for five seconds. What's it gonna be? Sleep and a glass of water, or do I read the part with the parrot? Trust me, nobody wants the parrot part."
The video ended on your villainous cackle. The cave was silent. Tim's shoulders were shaking with a grief he could not voice—a grief that had no algorithm, no solution, no elegant code that could make it run cleanly and terminate. The failure, he understood now, was not in the data. The failure was in the world. The world that had allowed this. The world that had taken a girl who weaponized bad romance novels and left behind a silence that no amount of brilliance could fill.
Bruce clicked the next file. His hand was steadier now, but it was the steadiness of a man who had moved beyond feeling into a realm of pure, mechanical endurance. He was a diver descending into the wreckage of his own heart, and he would not stop until he reached the bottom.
"Jay and the Shakespearean Brood."
The setting was the Manor roof at dusk. Gotham's skyline jutted against a sky the color of a bruise, and you were leaning your head on Jason's shoulder, your legs dangling over the edge. Jason was smoking. The tip of his cigarette flared orange, a tiny sun in the gathering dark.
"So," your voice was gentle, stripped of the chaotic energy you brought to the other videos. "You've been in the brooding corner for three days. Bruce is getting worried his spot's been stolen."
Jason, the Jason on the screen, took a long drag. The silence stretched like a wound. "He's not worried, kid. He's just pissed I went too far with those dealers in the Narrows."
"Did you go too far?"
Another pause. Then, quietly: "Probably." He looked at you—the real you, the you who was holding the camera and asking questions no one else dared to ask—and his eyes, even through the screen, were full of a pain he had never learned to name. "Why do you do this? These videos."
You were quiet for a moment, and the quality of your silence was different from his—not a wound, but a lullaby waiting to begin. "Because… one day, it might all go to shit. It always does, doesn't it? We're the Wayne family. Chaos is in the job description. And I just… I want proof. Proof that we weren't just a war council. That we were… this." You gestured, a small, sweeping motion that encompassed the sunset, the skyline, the two of you. "A grumpy crime lord and a reformed pickpocket, watching a sunset and not killing anyone. That's a Good Thing, Jason. A really big one."
On the screen, Jason didn't answer. He just ashed his cigarette and put his arm around you, pulling you closer, and kissed the top of your head with a tenderness that seemed almost furtive, as if affection were a language he was still learning to speak. "You're a sap, Y/N," he murmured into your hair.
"One of us has to be," you whispered back. "It's a hard job, but someone's gotta do it."
The video ended on that image: the two of you, small and dark against the dying sky, holding on.
The sound that came from the shadows was not human.
Jason had not cried when he found you. He had screamed, a raw animal sound that had torn through the rain and echoed off the brick and offered no comfort, no release. But now, in the darkness of the cave, watching the ghost of a sunset he would never see again, he broke. It was not a quiet breaking. It was a rupture, a cataclysm, a sound that seemed to originate from somewhere deeper than his body—the sound of a soul that had already died once and now understood, with terrible clarity, that the second death was so much worse.
He turned and drove his fist into the wall. The rock split his knuckles, fresh blood welling over the half-healed scars, but the pain was a distant star, a pinprick of light in a void of agony. He struck the wall again. And again. And then his strength gave out, and he slumped against the cold stone, his forehead pressed to the rock, his shoulders heaving.
. The video had ended, and your ghost had receded into the machine, leaving behind only the echo of your words and the unbearable silence that followed.
Bruce had not moved. He had absorbed Jason's words the way he absorbed everything—in silence, without deflection, without defense. But something in him was shifting. The mask of the stoic general, the armor he had worn for so long it had fused to his skin, was cracking. His hand moved to the mouse with a deliberation that was almost ceremonial.
The final video. "Brucie's Birthday."
He clicked.
The sitting room at Wayne Manor. Firelight. Alfred behind the camera, his dignified presence steadying the frame. And you—you, alive, radiant, your purple streak catching the firelight, a pointy party hat in your hands—wrestling it onto Bruce's head while he sat in his sweater, looking for all the world like a man who had faced down gods and monsters but was utterly defenseless against a sixteen-year-old girl with a party hat.
"Y/N, this is undignified."
"It's a party hat, not a tiara, you big baby! See? He looks human!"
Alfred's laugh was a soft jiggle of the camera. You produced a cupcake, a single candle flickering in the dim room.
"Okay, Dad-Man. Make a wish. And don't say 'for a quiet night in Gotham.' The universe will laugh at you. You have to wish for something… good. For you."
The Bruce on the screen looked at you. The firelight caught the purple in your hair, the earnest command in your eyes. He closed his eyes. He wished. He opened them again, and the look he gave you was not Batman's. It was not the general's. It was a father's—raw, unguarded, full of a desperate, hopeful gratitude he had never been able to articulate. He blew out the candle. You whooped and lunged forward to smear frosting on his nose, and his laughter—his rare, full-bodied, human laughter—rumbled through the speakers like a benediction.
The video ended.
The cave was silent.
And then Bruce Wayne, the Dark Knight, the man who had built an empire on the unshakable foundation of his own will, placed his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. His shoulders began to shake. The sobs that came were silent at first—great, heaving convulsions that he tried to suppress, tried to contain, tried to armor against. But there was no armor for this. There was no protocol, no contingency, no strategy. There was only a father who had lost his child, and a wish made on a birthday candle that the universe had answered with the Joker's laugh.
Dick moved first. He crossed the space between them and placed a hand on Bruce's back—not as a soldier, not as a protégé, but as a son who understood, finally, that his father was not a monument. He was a man, and he was breaking.
Tim looked up from his hands. His face was wet, his eyes red, but something in the rigid architecture of his grief had shifted. He did not move toward Bruce—he was not ready for that, might never be ready for that—but he did not retreat either. He stayed. In the rubble of his shattered equations, he stayed.
Damian had not taken his eyes from the screen. The video was over, but your face was still there—frozen in the final frame, mid-laugh, frosting on your thumb. He reached out, slowly, and touched the screen with his fingertips. The glass was cold. Of course it was cold. What had he expected? Warmth? Life? You?
"Tt." The sound was barely audible, a ghost of his old disdain. But his voice, when he spoke, was not disdainful. It was empty. "You told me to find the good thing. But you took it with you. How am I supposed to find what you took?"
No one answered. The bats chittered in the distant dark. The stalactites dripped their slow, mineral tears.
Jason did not leave the shadows. He stood with his back against the wall, his bloody knuckles dripping onto the stone floor, his eyes fixed on the frozen image of your face. He had stopped crying. The well was dry, and what remained was a cold, adamantine fury that had no target and no outlet. You had told him not to let this send him back to the pit. You had told him to avenge you by remembering. But memory was a blade, and every moment of it cut.
The folder remained open on the Batcomputer. A sun, a bat, a bird, a sparkle heart. FAMILY PROOF. You had built it for them, a digital testament, a time capsule of light to be opened in the event of darkness. You had known—of course you had known, you had always seen more clearly than any of them—that the darkness would come. You had prepared for it. You had left them a map back to themselves.
But a map is only useful if the travelers are willing to follow it.
The Bat Family sat in their separate silences, bathed in the blue glow of a screen that held the last, fading echoes of your voice. They had come together to honor you. They had come together to find you. But grief is not a reunion; it is an archipelago. Each of them was an island, and the sea between them was rising.
Somewhere in the depths of the cave, a single bat detached itself from the ceiling and flew into the dark. The sound of its wings was soft, rhythmic, a heartbeat fading into silence.
And the sun did not rise.
///
When the sun goes out, the planets orbiting it continue to hurtle forward for a while, unaware of its absence. But the light does not return. The warmth does not return. And what was once a system turns into a graveyard; each planet in its own darkness, its own silence, its own endless winter.
When you died, you left them a map. But maps only work for those who have the courage to follow them. You had loved them. You had understood them. You had reminded them of one another. But remembering is not living. Remembering is a ghost. And ghosts cannot embrace, cannot comfort, cannot hold a family together.
The Gotham sky was as gray as ever. Wayne Manor was as silent as ever. Alfred was waiting in the kitchen, just as he always did. But the breakfast table was empty. The chairs were empty. And a world waiting for the sun to rise was frozen in an eternal twilight.
You had once told them to find "one good thing." But some darknesses are too deep to harbor even a single star. And some families, unfortunately, are too fragile to be saved.
All that remained was your voice in the videos, your laughter echoing in a dark cave, and a question that would never be answered again:
"What was today's good thing?"
The answer, forever, was silence.
///
The sun went out. The planets were lost. And the constellation never came together again.
summary : Your boyfriend has a new haircut.. not only were you not expecting it, you didn’t expect to find it so.. hot?
masterlist ◞ DC Masterlist ◞ ac : @/twalxx
You were halfway through making dinner when the front door clicked open. The smell of garlic and herbs filled the apartment, the low hum of the radio playing some old rock song in the background. You’d had a long day — work, errands, the usual Gotham chaos — but coming home to cook for Jason always made it better. He usually got back from patrol around this time, still wired but softening the second he saw you.
You turned, wooden spoon in hand, ready to greet him with a smile and maybe a quick kiss.
Then you saw him.
Jason Todd stood in the doorway, kicking off his boots, hair still slightly damp from whatever he’d done to it. The usual messy, slightly-too-long style was gone. In its place was something sharper, cleaner — a baby mullet. The sides were trimmed close, the back longer, just enough to curl at the nape of his neck. The white streak stood out even more now, bright against the dark, freshly cut hair. It made his jaw look sharper, his eyes more intense. He looked… dangerous. Hot. Like the kind of man who could ruin your life in the best way.
You stared. Openly. The spoon slipped from your fingers and clattered into the pot.
Jason raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “What? Alfred finally convinced me to get it cut. Said I looked like a stray dog. You hate it?”
You shook your head slowly, mouth dry. “No. I… God, Jason. You look…”
He stepped closer, still in his Red Hood jacket, the leather creaking as he moved. The new haircut made him look taller somehow, broader, the sharp lines of his face even more striking. You couldn’t stop staring at the way the longer pieces in the back brushed his neck, the way the sides were faded just enough to show the strong line of his jaw.
You reached out before you could think, fingers threading through the longer hair at the back of his head. It was soft, freshly washed, still a little damp. Jason’s breath hitched as you tugged gently, testing the length.
“God,” you whispered. “You look so good. Like… stupidly good.”
His smirk widened, but there was a flush creeping up his neck. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You stepped closer, pressing your body against his, one hand still in his hair. The other slid under his jacket, palm flat against his chest. “I can’t stop looking at you. The mullet… it’s hot. Really hot.”
Jason groaned softly, hands settling on your waist, pulling you tighter against him. “You’re gonna make me blush, baby. It’s just hair.”
“It’s not just hair,” you murmured, tugging again, harder this time. His head tilted back slightly, exposing the line of his throat. You leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the skin just below his jaw. “It makes you look… dangerous. Like you could throw me over your shoulder and carry me off somewhere.”
He laughed, low and rough, but his hands tightened on your hips. “Maybe I will. If you keep pulling my hair like that.”
You smiled against his neck, nipping lightly. “Promise?”
Jason’s breath stuttered. He walked you backward until your back hit the counter, lifting you easily onto it. Your legs wrapped around his waist without thinking, pulling him closer. His hands slid under your shirt, palms warm against your bare skin as he kissed you — deep, hungry, full of all the want he usually kept so carefully controlled.
You kept one hand in his hair, tugging gently as you kissed him back. The new cut gave you something to hold onto, something to grip when he pressed closer, grinding against you just enough to make you gasp into his mouth.
“I love your hair like this,” you whispered when you broke apart for air. “It’s so soft. So easy to grab.”
Jason’s eyes were dark, pupils blown. “You’re gonna kill me tonight. I can already tell.”
You grinned, tugging again, harder. His head tilted back with a low groan, exposing his throat. You leaned in, sucking a mark just below his ear, then another on his collarbone, leaving little bruises that would peek out from under his shirt tomorrow.
He let you. He always let you.
His hands roamed your body — sliding up your back, down your sides, gripping your thighs as he pulled you closer. Every touch was reverent but hungry, like he couldn’t get enough of you. You kept playing with his hair, running your fingers through the longer pieces in the back, scratching lightly at his scalp.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” you murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth. “My handsome boyfriend with his new haircut. I can’t stop touching it.”
Jason laughed breathlessly, the sound turning into a groan when you tugged again. “Keep doing that and dinner’s gonna burn.”
You glanced over at the stove. The pasta was still simmering, but you didn’t care. You kissed him again, deeper, grinding against him as your fingers stayed tangled in his hair.
“Let it burn,” you whispered against his lips. “I’m busy.”
He groaned, hands sliding under your thighs as he lifted you off the counter, carrying you toward the bedroom without breaking the kiss. You wrapped your legs around his waist, still playing with his hair, tugging gently every few seconds just to hear the little sounds he made.
When he laid you down on the bed, he hovered over you, eyes dark and soft all at once. “You really like it, huh?”
“I love it,” you said, reaching up to run your fingers through it again. “It makes you look… dangerous. Like you could ruin me and I’d thank you for it.”
Jason’s breath hitched. He leaned down, kissing you slow and deep, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding under your shirt to rest warm against your stomach. “Then maybe I will,” he murmured against your mouth. “Ruin you. Just a little.”
You smiled, tugging his hair again as you pulled him closer. “Promise?”
He did.
The rest of the night passed in a haze of kisses and touches and soft laughter. Jason was everywhere — hands on your waist, lips on your neck, body pressed against yours as he moved with that effortless grace he always had. He let you play with his hair the whole time, tugging and scratching and holding on as he kissed you senseless.
When you finally fell asleep, tangled together under the sheets, Jason’s head was on your chest, your fingers still loosely threaded through his new haircut.
He was exactly where he wanted to be.
And you? You were right there with him.
a/n : my eyeliner ran out I don’t feel like myself I’m gonna cry
Request: nope! just a lil something in between the parts of two homes :)
Pairing: Kaz Brekker x reader
Summary: for as long as the crows can remember, you’ve worn a ring with initials on it, and they’ve been trying to figure out what they stand for ever since
Warnings: language, spoilers for people who haven’t read soc
Word count: 1.4K
A/N: ok I got this idea a while ago and I thought it was the cutest :’) enjoy reading!
TAG LIST (grishaverse): @ayushmitadutta @mrs-brekker15 @dancingwith-sunflowers @thegirlwiththeimpala @parker-natasha @story-scribbler @romanoffstarkovs @daliareads @meiitanoia @itsnotquimey (if your name is in bold it means I couldn’t tag you) add yourself to my tag lists here
TAG LIST (Kaz Brekker): @mufnasa
You absently twist the ring on your finger as you’re lost in thoughts. You’re tired, but it’s still too early to go to bed yet. Nina is telling you a story, but you’re not really paying attention.
Eventually, Nina notices you’re not listening to her. She waves a hand in front of your face to get your attention. You blink a few times and turn to look at her.
‘Did you listen to a word I just said?’ she says.
‘No, sorry.’ you say. ‘It’s not you, though, I’m just tired.’
‘I can start over.’ says Nina.
You open your mouth to answer her, but yawn instead. ‘I don’t think I have enough energy to pay attention.’ you say.
‘Then go to bed.’ says Nina.
‘Can’t.’ you say. ‘It’s too early, I don’t want to fuck up my sleep schedule. Besides, I’m waiting for Kaz and Jesper to come back.’ you say.
A/N: Hello thereee, I just saw that I still have some drafts of non-requested fics, so I may just finish some of these before moving on to the newer requests. This is pretty short (and kinda stupid), but I just needed something cute for the vibes.
Summary: Kaz and the reader have been married for quite some years now, unbeknownst to their friends. But what if a slip up causes this shared secret to come to the surface?
Genre: Fluff and Comedy
Word Count: 1.9K
Warnings: Slight ooc!Kaz, marriage, cringe
“Kaz, do you still need the blueprints of Hoede’s mansion, or can I stow them away? They’ve been rotting here for weeks now, and I doubt that they’ll be needed in the near future.” you inquired gently, watching Kaz as he looked over the bank statements of the Crow Club.
His eyes darted to you and the rolls of blueprints, as he began to mentally consider the possibility of requiring the maps in the following missions.
“There won’t be any need for that any time soon. You may put them away.” he answered, his voice rough from spending the majority of his day working.
You sighed, meeting his gaze again. He was overworking himself again, and both of you knew that. But, no matter how hard you tried, he wouldn’t back down until everything was meticulously planned out.
“Do you need anything else? I can get you some tea? Have you eaten? You should consider taking a break.” you asked softly, stepping closer to his desk.
“I’m finishing that paper, and then I’ll join you for dinner.”
“You better do. Or else I have to drag you down there myself.” you playfully threatened, pointing the blueprints in the direction of his face.
His lips twitched into something akin to a grin, as he eyed you carefully.
“Thank you, darling. What would I do without you.” he cooed, his voice uncharacteristically caring.
Well, uncharacteristically to basically everyone else. Not to you.
“What was that, Brekker? Don’t let anyone else hear that, or they might think Dirtyhands has gone soft.” you teased with a smile, very much enjoying his flattery.
“Am I not allowed to talk to my wife that way?”
“I’m not complaining, love. But someday you might let it slip in front of someone else.”
Kaz nodded, knowing what you were referring to. The two of you had been married for quite a while now, unbeknownst to anyone else. Not even the Crows knew of your marriage or your relationship for that matter. It was hard keeping it a secret from everyone you loved, but in the Barrel, love was not a thing to portray publicly, especially not for one of the most notorious criminals in the city. So, in order to keep the both of you safe, you decided to act as if nothing had ever happened between the two of you.
This had worked surprisingly well. While you and Kaz spent way more time with each other, even trying to work on his touch aversion, your friends tried their best to get you together. They were convinced that there had to be some chance to bring you to admit your feelings for the other. You had to try your best to not let anything slip. To not accidentally touch his shoulder comfortingly after a failed job, or stand just a little bit too close to him while you were out. Especially, having to hide your wedding band pained you deeply, but you managed to attach it to a chain, hanging it around your neck and saying that it was your parents’ wedding ring. Kaz, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have any problems with hiding his genuine feelings towards you. As the years went on, however, he started to act a little bit more careless. His longing gazes getting longer, and his attention span during meetings getting shorter. It scared you that even the Bastard of the Barrel was beginning to crack when it came to his love life.
“Quit worrying. It doesn’t suit you.” your husband smirked, turning back to his work.
You only shook your head, flashing him a quick smile, as you left his office.
This play went well for a few more weeks. Until it didn’t.
It should’ve been a simple meeting. And it was for a while.
The Crows were all sitting at their respective places in Kaz’s office. Jesper and Wylan were sat right next to each other in a love seat, barely inches away from being situated in each other’s laps. Nina and Matthias had gotten, more or less, comfortable on the small couch that was facing the work desk, with Inej lounging on the thick armrest next to them. You sat on the small platform leading up to the window, close enough to Kaz so that you could see every tiny change of expression that flew across his face.
“Kaz, we’ll definitely need the keys to get into the warehouse. I checked the locks, and there’s no way, not even for you, to solve these without triggering the defence mechanism.” Inej stated after recounting some of the other observations she had made on her previous trip to the warehouse district.
“Don’t tell me that we have to go back into Hoede’s mansion.” Wylan groaned, throwing his head back, visibly not enjoying this suggestion.
“I fear we have no other choice.” Kaz grumbled, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.
He was obviously unamused by the prospect of breaking into Councilman Hoede's mansion again, but there seemed to be no other way to get into the warehouse.
His hands wandered to the edge of his desk, irritation evident as they reached an empty spot, where the blueprints should’ve been. Embarrassingly, his eyes met yours in an instant, pleading for you to do something about the missing papers.
“Oh, I put them in the upper left drawer.” you answered the silent question, causing Jesper to smirk at you, entertained by the abstract communication system the two of you had established.
Before Kaz could get up, you hopped off the platform and crossed the room to get to said drawer.
“Don’t bother, I’ll get them.”
You heard some of the others - Wylan, Jesper and Nina, to be exact - chuckle at your statement, amused by your quick reaction.
Quickly, you found the plans and handed them over, receiving a thankful nod from Kaz. However, his next words caught you completely off-guard.
“Thank you, love.”
After uttering these words, the room went quiet. Everyone staring at you and Kaz. Your eyes flashed in his direction, shock was plastered on your face, as you searched his eyes, waiting for the pointe of a joke you missed. He already noticed his slip up, the cogs turning inside his head to come up with a possible way to talk himself out of this dilemma. You sat back down slowly, feeling a faint blush taint your cheeks, whilst Kaz turned his attention to the plans in front of him again, acting as if he didn’t just drop a massive bombshell.
“We have to look into an alternative escape route, in case things go south. Our last route worked out pretty well, but we can’t rely on it too heavily, otherwise we’re getting too predictable.” he tried to turn the team’s attention back to the plan again.
Inej either knew exactly what was going on, or she just tried to play into his attempt at saving face, because the professional expression returned to her face.
“As far as I know, there’s a barricaded basement door close to the west entrance. If we’re careful enough, we can slip in almost unnoticed.” she started, her gaze wandering between you and Kaz.
The general attention of the others, however, wasn’t even close to being focused on the factual discussion. Nina wasn’t leaning on Matthias anymore, instead, she was sitting up straight, a mischievous grin graced her face, whilst Matthias just stared straight at Kaz. Jesper’s face wasn’t as joyous anymore. He was currently trying to sort out his thoughts, straining to understand what was going on. Wylan looked utterly shocked, his eyes meeting yours, an unspoken question lying within them.
Before Kaz could continue to speak, however, Jesper shook his head, removing his arm from his partner’s shoulder and shaking his hands profusely.
“Are we not going to talk about what just happened?” he asked, his voice playful, but also genuinely shocked.
“What did just happen? I don’t think that there’s anything to talk about, but the plan, so if you don't mind-” Kaz inquired calmly.
“Oh, you’re not getting away that easily.” Jesper retorted, his gaze moving towards you again, “You can’t deny it, Kaz. You just called Y/N ‘love’!”
“Jesper, I doubt that this is relevant t-”
“Saints, just ask her out already!” Nina interjected, throwing her head back into the couch, “It’s getting painful to watch. And you embarrassed yourself enough already with that statement.”
Kaz paused, his face turning towards you almost pleadingly. You knew that there was no other way out of this situation, so you just nodded slightly.
“Am I not allowed to talk about my wife that way?” he asked, his question sounding rather like a statement.
The room went quiet again. Even Inej stopped dead in her tracks, as her brain steadily connected the dots.
“Wife? As in, you’re officially married and all that jazz?” Wylan sputtered, almost tripping over his own words as he talked.
“Brekker, you’re not serious, are you?” Nina added, her mouth staying a little agape after finishing her sentence.
“He can’t be serious. We would’ve definitely noticed if two of our best friends were married.” Jesper tried to rationalize the uncomfortable situation.
“And also, the Demjin wouldn’t have the guts to ask someone out.” Matthias said, acting as if you and Kaz wouldn't be in the room too.
Inej’s eyes travelled between you and Kaz again, as a knowing smile formed on her lips. She shook her head in disbelief, as she started to talk.
“The ring around your necklace didn’t belong to your parents, did it?” she asked, looking at you intently.
“Nope.” you replied, grinning back at her, as you took off the necklace carefully.
Her head turned, and her gaze shifted towards her boss again.
“There also was no trading mission in Ravka that the two of you had to attend all these years ago, was there?” she added, barely being able to contain her laughter.
“There was. It just wasn’t the reason why we had to delay our departure for two weeks. Adding a honeymoon to a business trip is definitely something to experience.” he answered matter-of-factly, a crooked grin on his lips.
“Don't tell me that you're in on the joke too, Inej?” the sharpshooter inserted himself back into the conversation, still not believing anything that was said.
“Jes, we’re serious.” you chuckled, removing the wedding band from its chain, and putting it on your ring finger.
Kaz’s eyes followed your motions intently, a content expression settling on his face.
“Wait, that job in Ravka was like,” Wylan started, pausing quickly to sort through his memories, “three years ago?”
“You’ve been together for three years?” Nina blurted out, also continuing to stare at you.
“Don't be ridiculous, Zenik. We’ve been married for three years. We’ve been together for way longer.” Kaz stated coolly, having to force a controlled expression onto his features, whilst a smile was trying to break through the surface.
“What?” was the general reaction you got from your friends, some still shocked by this new revelations, others just smiling at the two of you.
You tried to meet Kaz’s gaze again, but he was focused on something else. With controlled motions, he began removing his black leather gloves, revealing a pair of slender pale hands. The golden wedding band he wore on his left finger was a stark contrast to the almost white skin of his hands.
“Djiel receive me, the Demjin is wearing one too.” Matthias muttered under his breath, as your friends started bombarding you with questions.
summary: the first time kaz ever tells (y/n) that he loves her.
warnings: nudity (not sexual and not detailed). kaz and (y/n) had been working on his touch aversion and he’s much more comfortable with touching her.
Kaz Brekker didn’t do baths. He could take showers, after all the feeling of droplets falling down his skin to wash away the dirt wasn’t nearly as similar to having water surrounding his body, tides moving back and forth. He had only ever bathed once, when his body was aching and battered and bruised and his leg felt as if it had been broken once more and he thought that maybe the water could soothe the pain. It had only made matters worse; he got pulled back into nightmares, cold water reminding him of the sea, hands pulling him down, bloated bodies and dead faces. He had stumbled out blindly, hand grasping his neck. It felt like drowning all over again.
Yet here he stood, body half naked, eyes looking warily at the water and the bare back of the girl. She was providing the privacy she knew that he needed by having her back towards him. That was something he deeply liked about (Y/N), she was patient and kind, always aware of his needs, never pushing him too far.
“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” she reassured him, not needing to turn around to know his jaw was clenched and his bare hands were shaking.
“I know,” was his soft reply. He cursed himself for the weakness in his tone. It was moments like this in which he was pulled back to his childhood. The boy that now stared at his lover, hands trembling slightly, was Kaz Rietveld not Kaz Brekker and most certainly not Dirtyhands. He hated he could be reduced to the shell of the man he once was just by the look of an inanimate object that could do him no harm, a stupid bath of all things.
(Y/N) turned around to meet his eyes. She never looked at him with pity, not even after she had found out about Jordie and everything that had turned him into the monster he now believed he was. Maybe it was because she loved him or because she saw more than what laid in the surface of who Kaz Brekker portrayed himself as. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that she knew what it was to be broken down and the pain and struggle that came with rising from the ashes. She knew by experience what it was to evolve and turn yourself into someone stronger, someone who wouldn’t be subjected to broken dreams and broken spirits ever again. Either way he was grateful for that, he reckoned he wouldn’t be able to stand a pitiful look, not from anyone and especially not from her.
Then, she smiled, a smile so bright Kaz thought it might’ve been able to cleanse his soul, to cure the evilness from his spirit. She was powerful that way, in a gentle and kind manner so unlike anything the Bastard of the Barrel was accustomed to.
(Y/N) had accidentally wandered into his life all those years ago and had never once left his side (even when he was hurtful and mean and menacing). She progressed slowly going from being an annoyance to him thinking of her with fondness, somehow she managed to worm her way into his frigid heart.
He had never asked why she’d done it, stayed by his side that is, and maybe that was because he was scared of the answer he would receive. She saw him in a light that no one else did, not even himself. Kaz wasn’t sure he wanted to know exactly what she saw in him— self loathing was something hard to walk away from.
“Take your time, my love. All the time you need, I’m not going anywhere.”
Hello, i have a potential kaz x reader request for you!! I, for some reason, love the idea of a very soft/domestic kaz moment with reader who isn’t involved in the crime life. So what about y/n being married to kaz and for some reason she makes her way down to the crow club (maybe someone broke into the house or something) and kaz is extreamly confused and concerned and the rest if the crows are like "andddd who are you?"
if you don't feel it, feel free to ignore!
'Intruder' - Kaz Brekker x reader
Prompt - Kaz is a highly secretive man, even to his closest friends, but what happens when a panicked citizen rushes into the Crow Club demanding his presence? It could even suggest that he had the ability to love.
- Pairing: Kaz Brekker x Civilian!Reader (Gender neautral)(married for at least a few years but not specified)
- Warnings: Thief enters readers house, brief mention of fighting and injury, a knife?? Kaz just being super soft for you! <333
PART TWO NOW POSTED! (click here)
- A/N: Thank you for ALL the love on the last post, and my first fic ever! I hope this does just as well and its enjoyed too. I know its not as fluffy as maybe expected but i really like how it turned out. PLEASE KEEP REQUESTING!!(some moonknight coming soon) <3333
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The chilling wind of Ketterdam rushed past your face, adding to your already watering eyes that couldn’t stop frantically searching around for further threats.
You had been enjoying a quiet morning, browsing the market, drinking tea with friends, and even finding a new hat for Kaz. All was serene, until you turned the lock in the front door, only to be confronted by a menacing figure, knife gripped in one hand, Kaz’s favourite (and most expensive) tea set in the other.
A small gasp escaped you, before your mind took control, rushing forward to land a harsh blow directly on the figure’s nose, just at the right angle like Kaz had demonstrated.
He let out a murderous scream whilst dropping the tea set onto the ground, the shattering of the pieces echoing in your heart and mind. However, this granted you enough time to grab the edge of his jacket and pull him through the doorframe, using every ounce of your strength.
He stumbled down the steps of the small apartment, loosing his footing and falling rapidly, landing brutally on the cobblestone street below and roaring in pain as a jolting crack resounded from where he landed.
Without thinking, you scrambled inside, bolted the door, and ran as fast as you possibly could out of the side entrance, internally crying as your boots struggled through the remains of your husband's most beloved item.
As you struggled through the tight alleyway, you prayed that the Stadwatch had noticed the commotion and apprehended the man. As you bolted down the poorly lit streets of the barrel, thoughts of terror began plaguing your mind.
What if Kaz hadn’t taught you to defend yourself? What if you had reacted too slowly? Would Kaz be angry with you for not finishing the job? How would ‘Dirtyhands’ react to your utter horror at one intruder?
You were abruptly ripped from your thoughts by the unmistakable image of a crow, hanging magnificently above the crowded street. Pushing your way through the crowd, you suppressed the nerves rising in your chest, threatening to choke you, as you entered the crow club for the first time.
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The unmistakable smell of alcohol and smoke clouded your senses immediately, as crowds of ‘pigeons,’ as Kaz may call them, wandered around the floor without a care for others around them.
As frightening as the previous events had been, you didn’t allow yourself to be overwhelmed by this too, shoving your violently shaking hands into your pockets to stop the visible nerves from showing.
Jesper and Wylan sat in close proximity at the bar edge, as far from the yelling and cheering of the customers as they possibly could. Your gazed locked onto the face of the tall Zemeni man, thinking back to the hundreds of times Kaz’s mask had slipped, and he had spoken fondly of his best friend.
Despite Kaz’s firm objection to verbal communication, he often fell victim to your warmth and comfort, his affections for his crew spilling into casual conversation, almost subconsciously. Of course, the Bastard of the Barrel couldn’t hold onto something as weak as friendship. However, this meant that you were very familiar with each of his ‘crows,’ despite never officially meeting any of them.
Mustering all the courage you could, you sucked in a sharp breath, preparing yourself for the challenging journey to your last hope at finding him.
You weaved your way cautiously between the rowdy groups, dodging drunken gestures and swinging arms, until you reached the pair sat at the bar, panic spreading through your body like wildfire. You made note to keep your hands firmly tucked within the safety of your jacket, in a feeble attempt to keep up a façade of confidence.
As their gazes turned towards you, you gently cleared your throat in the hopes of removing any indication of fright, and in turn, weakness from your voice.
“I’m looking for Kaz? Kaz Brekker?” you stuttered out, eyes darting around to avoid the quizzical gazes of the two men in front of you. Under different circumstances you wished to have met them when your usual air of joy blanketed not only you, but all of those who encountered you too. Yet it seemed like the Saints weren't on your side for that wish today.
You were snapped back from your thoughts, as they glanced at each other, sharing an unspoken but clear sense of bewilderment between them at your odd request. Often drunken pigeons, or rough street urchins would request to see the boss, but it wasn’t a common sight to see a regularly dressed citizen in such a state demanding an audience with Mr Brekker himself.
“I’m afraid it’s pretty difficult to get a meeting with the boss, always busy you know?” spoke the man you assumed to be Jesper, in a kind but skeptical tone, swirling the drink in his hand as he failed to decipher the reason for your visit.
Panic began to claw its way deeper into your chest, as you quickly blurted out “Please, its important, I need to see Kaz. Please bring me to see him.” The sudden outburst once again surprised the men, however Wylan’s gaze softened at the clear desperation on your features, and Jesper’s confusion morphed into something that resembled pity.
Wylan subtly leaned into Jesper, whispering “I think you should take her, she seems pretty desperate?” causing Jesper to let out a sigh before meeting your gaze yet again.
Reluctantly, Jesper stood up, stretching his limbs well, before letting out a dramatic sigh, followed by a feigned annoyance at the request, analyzing you for a moment before stating, “Let’s go see the boss then.”
He quickly turned back to you, flashing a lopsided, yet winning grin, which put to rest some of the bubbling anxiety that was becoming inescapable. As you ascended the stairs to his office, a skeptical looking woman glanced curiously up at the three of you, hopping out of her chair to trail behind you, whilst stuffing the remains of what looked like a waffle into her mouth.
Before you could inquire about the third individual following your small group, you were suddenly met with the dark oak door of Kaz Brekker’s office. Jesper shot another reassuring grin back at you, as he rapidly knocked on the office door and let himself in before an answer called out.
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The instant you saw your husband, the tears glossed over your eyes, shining with a dangerous threat of escaping. However, to your surprise, you were able to win the valiant battle for a little longer.
You knew how vital it was for your husband to keep his personal life separated from his work life; one wrong move, and you could end up in the hands of another gang, tortured in exchange for information on the Dregs. This knowledge was what kept you from barreling towards his desk without a second thought, with even the smallest slip from Jesper potentially ruining every bit of yours and Kaz’s struggle to break down his walls.
Kaz sat at his desk at the centre of the bleak room, a faint patch of light hitting his face from a glowing street lantern, casting deep shadows across his sharp features. His shoulders tensed as he remained solely focused on the blueprint in front of him, his harsh glare at the sheet almost seemed as if he was planning to murder it. Perhaps if you weren’t so shaken you may have let out a soft laugh at his pure concentration.
“What is it? I have no time for irrelevant interruption, this marksheet needs to be completed before twelve bells tonight,” A sharp voice suddenly cut through the thick silence. Jesper cleared his throat before confronting his boss, shifting his weight between each foot at the temper that Kaz was evidently displaying.
“Well, you see, I was sitting downstairs with Wylan at the bar, when all of a sudden…” Jesper started, but was cut off by a deadly look from Kaz to get to the point. As his gaze shot upwards towards the sharpshooter, he finally noticed the second figure in the room and his heart plummeted.
Why were you here?
Kaz’s mind began spinning, grasping for any logical reason as to why you were in the one of the most dangerous staves of the Barrel, requiring his assistance.
An identical panic to yours seized his chest as he inspected your state, your hair was windswept, eyes glossed over and glinting with a touch of fear, a visible shake to your arms and legs, which he had been fortunate enough to never experience until now.
You looked utterly terrified.
A single murderous look was enough for Jesper to throw his hands up in defense, and saunter quietly out of the room, glancing curiously back at the two of you as he shut the door. Jesper thought to himself that his life in the long run would be far more valuable than the price of his curiosity now.
Although Kaz is a man of few words, he seemed truly speechless, barely managing to register his own steps as he moved slowly towards you, each limp bringing his comfort closer and closer to you. Once he had reached your figure, he noticed you had curled in on yourself, hands clasped firmly together in front of you, and eyes darting rapidly around his face, searching for something, as it appeared to him.
He slowly reached towards you, and with a gloved hand, tenderly unwound your fingers from their iron grip, instead intertwining them with his own to bring you comfort and slow your light but swift breathing. Kaz remained tight-lipped, words rushing through his head, yet not formulating into any combination which he thought would be appropriate to calm you down.
He gazed intensely into your eyes, softening with each moment as he took in your shaken state, something that was rare due to his exceptional ability to keep you away from his violent life.
Until now.
Yet you had taught him not to run anymore when he encounters challenges, leading him to battle his mind later, and care for you in the present. Plus, you had the courage to make your way through the barrel in this condition, the least he could do was give you his everything.
You released a long, shaky sigh, staring only at Kaz’s chest now in order to match your breaths, imagining that your hearts were beating together too. You knew Kaz was struggling to find a grip within his thoughts, fingers twitching against your own as his body worked overtime, in a way it only did for you.
Several minutes passed in a strange silence, as the pair of you basked in each other's presence, the close distance allowing both of you to be assured the other is safe and within reach, yet the tension and anxiety still buzzed through the air.
“Someone broke in, I’m not sure who or from where. Tried to steal your favorite tea set, you know the one you brought back from Ravka once? I hit him square like you said. But it, but it boke. Shattered actually. It gave me enough time to run, but I don’t know. He may have followed or…” you suddenly burst out, the emotions flowing out of you through your words, and soon to follow were the tears.
You were cut off in your rambling however, as a feather-light kiss graced your temple, drawing you into a pool of warmth, suddenly able to feel the heat of the fire and the glow of the candles that surrounded Kaz’s office, likely gifts of yours.
Although Kaz’s voice was hardened, you knew he was holding back significantly to soothe you, building up wrath to unleash on the unfortunate man who entered your house earlier. The claws of the anxiety released their hold on you, allowing you to breathe deeply for the first time in hours.
“I’m here, darling, and you don’t need to think about that anymore,” he eventually breathed out, “I'll take care of it. I promise. I promise you,” he whispered against your forehead, again leaving the faintest outline of a kiss on the soft skin.
Whilst he was nowhere near healed, over the years you had opened up his deepest wounds and started to stitch them up, with each moment the pain easing ever so slightly. Direct touches were now common, with light pecks, or hand holding being Kaz's most favored actions.
Sometimes if you were lucky, you could get a short kiss on the lips, or a long hug through the safety of many layers; each being evident signs of his love for you, and how you were truly the only one to crack the code to the Bastard of the Barrel's heart.
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Kaz didn’t leave your side for the remainder of the night, bringing you anything you asked for, sitting the armchair closer to his desk to keep him company, hands held tightly until he deemed it safe enough to escort you home.
Wrapping you warmly with his largest coat, he gently placed his best hat atop your head, offering a small smile and breathy laugh as it tilted at an angle. Looking up to meet his gaze, you returned the grin, smile spreading to your eyes and cheeks. Kaz carefully adjusted the edges of the coat to obscure your face, being thorough in the process to avoid any identification of who was accompanying him.
As the door clicked open, and the pair stepped into the hallway, pinkies interlinked, a group of three snooping crows barreled backwards, hitting into each other and the walls. Kaz sent a deathly glare at each of them, as they stood in shock at the sight before them, Jesper gasping, Wylan gaping with fright, and Nina's smirk widening by the second.
After a series of extreme threats hurled at the group outside his office, Kaz pushed past them and dragged you with him, turning his coat collar upwards to hide the growing embarrassment colouring his face.
He crushed the feeling down, instead turning to his internal plotting to enact revenge on your behalf, inwardly smirking at the image of the man begging him for mercy as he pays for his offence in blood.
Meanwhile, Nina stood grinning to herself, proud of her newfound knowledge which she was certain she could use against Kaz at some point soon. Because from that office, she not only heard the hammering heart of the poor citizen girl, but also the one of a love-struck gang leader too.
summary: kaz taps three times. it’s his way to say i love you, i care.
or
the three times it took jesper to realize that three taps were something more than a meaningless habit.
warnings: violence, blood, implied se*ual as*ault (not detailed at all and very brief)
a/n: did i write this in less than a day? yes. did the inspiration come to me at six am? also yes. what about your other 50 wip, anna? did you write anything for them? nope.
hope you enjoyed reading this one as much as i enjoyed writing it <3
i. tap, tap, tap
Jesper had seen him do it more times than he could count. It was Kaz’s thing. Three taps, index finger hitting a wooden table, thumb brushing against a map or cane harshly meeting the floor. Most times they were fast taps, like a subconscious action, coming and going before anyone could give it any mind. Other times, however, they were slower, more emphasized, as if trying to make a point. Jesper was used to the taps, as he imagined (Y/N) and Inej also were. The sound came prior to every heist, prior to pronouncing the words of luck (no mourners, no funerals).
It was Kaz’s habit, something he probably did without even realizing, and Jesper couldn’t help but find it oddly comforting, a routine that somehow eased his nerves. (The world could be going to war, Ketterdam could be crashing down in flames, and Kaz would still tap three times. There was a sense of safety in that.)
It wasn’t until Jesper had a closer look that he realized the action was perhaps not as meaningless as he believed.
ii. cane meets ground three times: come back to me, i’m here
(Y/N) had known Kaz the longest out of all of them. Jesper hadn’t known the Slat without her, he hadn’t known Kaz without her. She’d always been there, a person in which the Dregs often found solace and always obtained an ear to listen without judgment. (Y/N) was a walking contradiction, soft around the edges yet powerful enough to bring the toughest people to their knees. She was everything Kaz wasn’t, maybe that was the reason they complimented each other as well as they did.
Summary - Kaz Brekker doesn't make any sense—and trying to understand him is getting to be exhausting.
Warnings - fem!reader, reader worked at a brothel, subtle hints at past abuse, some major dog / master symbolism idfk, mentions of blood/weapons, close proximity, could deviate some from canon, based more on book!kaz than show, NOT EDITED SO IF THERE'S A TYPO IDK
Word Count - 3.8k
!MINORS DNI!
// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //
“Touch me.”
You’ve only just slipped inside Kaz Brekker’s room at the Slat, and you’re convinced you’ve misheard him. The door’s still cracked, after all—and the mindless clamor of those playing cards down in the foyer is loud enough to play tricks on anyone’s ears.
You push the door shut, habit making you click the lock into place before spinning around to face him. “Pardon?”
The lanterns burn low, dim light chasing shadows across the spacious attic. Kaz stands over by his desk, leaning his weight against the edge in lieu of his cane. He’s dragging a gloved hand through his hair, looking uncharacteristically flustered.
“Don’t act like you didn’t hear me,” he snaps.
Your laugh comes out breathy and awkward. “We both know I’m a shit actor, Brekker.”
It’s why you’re never picked when the Dreg’s need a decoy—some girl to saddle up next to a sleazy merchant or another hapless mark, distracting them with batted lashes and a well-timed hand on their thigh. In Jesper’s words, you’re so socially inept that you’d probably blow the operation before it even got started.
To your dismay, Kaz doesn’t repeat himself. With his gaze carefully pinned to the tops of his black boots, he demands, “Why are you here?”
Your brow quirks. “At the Slat?”
“In my room.”
The answer eludes you. Why did you come up here? It’s not like tonight was the first time Dirtyhands has ever skipped out on playing Blackjack with the rest of the group, and yet he’d caught your attention when he slipped from the foyer and went limping up the stairs.
Then again, that’s not so surprising. Kaz always catches your eye, doesn’t he?
In the year since you joined the Dregs, you’d earned an unfortunate nickname for yourself around the Barrel: The Bastard’s Pet. Wherever Kaz Brekker goes, you’re sure to be hot on his heels, following after him like a dog, loyal and clingy.
You tell yourself it’s because that’s your job—to keep Kaz safe, to watch his six. But the devil’s got eyes in the back of his head, and you know Kaz Brekker doesn’t really need protection.
So, it begs the question: Why are you here? In his room, at the Slat, as a member of the Dregs? Why does he keep you around?
Unsure of the answer, you simply avoid giving one.
“You should play games with them sometimes,” you tell him, giving a subtle nod over your shoulder. Their voices are muffled now, but you can still hear everyone downstairs exchanging jeers as they shuffle another round. “It makes you look like a recluse, always sneaking off to be by yourself.”
Kaz drums one finger against the desk. It’s an erratic beat, following no set rhythm. “I am a recluse,” he grinds out.
You almost snort. Clearly.
It’s not like anyone joins a gang with the hopes of making friends—and none of the Dregs are dumb enough to think they’ll find a buddy in the infamous Dirtyhands, anyway. Still, you don’t think it’d kill him to try being a little more sociable.
The others would like having him around.
You like having him around.
“I’ll ask one more time.” Dark eyes flick up, heavy as stones when they land on yours. Suddenly, the large attic feels awfully claustrophobic. “Why are you here?”
A lie comes easily enough, slipping right through your teeth.
“But Jesper’s bad at it,” you argue. Lifting a shoulder, you add, “It ruins the fun.”
His finger falls still against the desk, ceasing its rhythmless beat. Warm light flickers all around him, dark shadows dancing over the harsh angles of his face. You watch his jaw tick, note the subtle curl of his upper lip. You’re overcome with the distinct feeling that you’re staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.
Probably because you are.
You’ve seen this face before. Been the one to clean the bloody mess left behind by whoever was unfortunate enough to find themselves on the receiving end of it. Now, as the one standing in the line of fire, you feel your stomach start to twist.
You tell yourself it’s dread. Anxiety for what’s to come.
“From where I was standing,” Kaz grinds out, his stare unflinching, “you looked to be having plenty of…” A sharp breath, his tongue gliding over pearly teeth. “Fun.”
There’s something hidden in the word. A meaning that goes well beyond its dictionary definition. Is it a challenge? A dare, maybe? Or—perhaps the most unlikely of the options—some sort of plea?
“And what is that supposed to mean?” you ask, finally daring a step closer, slowly drifting from the closed door.
Kaz shakes his head. “It means what it means.”
As you draw closer, he moves around the desk and takes a seat. He stretches his bad leg out in front of him, mindlessly rubbing a hand down toward his knee. It’s always bothering him by this point in the night.
“Go back downstairs.” An order—not a suggestion.
Across from him now, you place both palms on his desk. The smooth wood is cool against your skin, though the rest of you feels impossibly warm. It’s a side effect of standing too close to him, you think. The flushed cheeks and the vice around your lungs, always leaving your mind fuzzy and your pulse erratic.
You hate him for it, sometimes. For the effect he has on you.
“Why?” you ask, riding out your little bold streak. “So you have a reason to gripe some more about me having fun?”
“I’m not griping,” Kaz shoots back, very evidently griping.
“Griping, carping, quibbling, or complaining—doesn’t matter how you word it, all of 'em fit you to a T right now, Brekker.”
He’s not looking at you anymore, focused instead on the swirling patterns of the wood grain or the neat stack of papers or anything else that gives him an excuse to keep his head low. A month or so after you joined the Dregs, Kaz told you that you had a talent for getting under his skin. Maybe that’s why you don’t need to be able to see his face to know just how annoyed he looks.
“Go downstairs.”
“I will,” you vow. “After you explain what you meant.”
Frustrated, he insists, “There’s nothing to explain.”
“What did you say when I came in?”
“Go downstairs.”
You throw your hands up. “If you won’t tell me what you said, then at least explain why ‘fun’ is such a problem!”
“Go. Down. Stairs.”
“Make me.”
Wood screeches, the chair flying back as he shoots to his feet. The stiffness in his leg makes the movement a little clumsy, and you don’t miss the subtlest flash of a wince before he leans against the desk.
“Do you know why I brought you in?”
For a moment, it’s all you can do to blink at him. Because, no—you don’t know why Kaz offered you a place with the Dregs.
You’re not a sharpshooter like Jesper or a trained Grisha like Nina, not as smart as Wylan or as silent as Inej. You’re decent when it comes to sleight-of-hand and slightly above average with a blade, but even those skills are ones you’ve only learned since joining the gang.
Back when you first met Kaz, you were nothing and no one. An unlucky girl roped into an indenture with Pekka Rollins, forced to work out of the Sweet Shop—the nastiest, most dangerous brothel in all of Ketterdam.
“Because you’re secretly a big softie with a heart of gold?” You hope your sarcasm is enough to mask the twinge of shame brought on by your past.
But Kaz is too good for that. Nothing gets past him—evident by the tiny wrinkle of concern that forms between his dark brows, instantly picking up on the faint dip in your tone.
Fortunately for you, being observant doesn’t equate to being consoling, and so he doesn’t mention it.
“Because you didn’t make me sick,” he answers, low and even. You’re not so sure if it’s an insult or compliment, and before you get a chance to ask, Kaz continues, “It was late. And raining. I’d just finished teaching a Razorgull lackey what happens when you breach parley. He was a real bleeder—made a mess of my suit. I ended up leaving him for Jesper to deal with. Thought I’d avoid eyes by sticking to the shadows, walking in the alleys behind the brothels.” Your eyes must be betraying you, because you almost think that’s a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “Imagine my surprise when a runaway harlot nearly knocked a helpless cripple like me off his feet.”
You bite your cheek, still deciding if you want to slap him for calling you a harlot or laugh in his face. In spite of his limp and cane, Kaz Brekker is far from what you’d consider helpless.
“So, what? You had me join the Dregs because I nearly bulldozed you in an alley?” That whole night was spotty for you, the panic you’d felt having rendered your memory foggy and incomplete.
“Inej had told me about you,” Kaz says. “That Pekka Rollins got a new girl—an escape artist, always trying her luck at running away.”
You didn’t know that, but maybe you should have. Inej isn’t the best spider in the Barrel without reason. She knows everything—and all she knows is reported directly to Kaz. Even so, you’re not sure you’re catching his point with all this.
As if he can see you trying to mentally connect the dots, Kaz says, “Maybe I had another purpose in walking behind those brothels. Maybe I wanted to see just how quick on her feet Pekka Rollins’ escape artist was.” His head tilts slightly. “Or maybe I just didn’t want anyone to see me when I wasn’t looking my best. Either way, I left that alley knowing you’d be a part of my crew.”
Your memory of that night may be spotty, but the one after is still crystal clear. A Suli spider had crawled through your window at the Sweet Shop, told you that Per Haskell was willing to pay a very hefty sum to buyout your indenture if you agreed to work for the Dregs. To this day, you’re still unsure of how Kaz managed to convince him you were worth it—or why he bothered.
“You’re not making any sense, Brekker,” you admit, rubbing at your temple. A headache burrows there, seeming to grow worse with every minute. “Is that why you wanted me for the Dregs, then? Cause I’m… fast?”
It sounds stupid. It is stupid.
You’re no faster than anyone else—and you certainly hadn’t been fast enough to outrun Pekka Rollins’ goons. Everytime you made a run from the Sweet Shop, they dragged you right back, kicking and screaming the whole way.
“No.” Kaz sighs. Drags a hand through his hair, tugging at the dark locks. “I wanted you-”
Kaz doesn’t finish that thought.
A violent CRASH! steals your attention. Both of your heads snap toward the closed door, listening intently for any sign of danger.
Instead, you hear Jesper’s boisterous cackle chime. Wylan starts shouting about something indiscernible—vase, shattered, and moron among the words you catch.
A smile sneaks up on you.
But, when you turn back to Kaz, it’s promptly wiped away.
He looks like he’s had a lemon rind forced into his mouth, scowling at the door. “What’s going on with you and Van Eck?”
You blink. “What?”
“You heard me.”
You did—but hearing him is a far stretch from understanding him, and it’s seemed like Kaz has been talking in circles since you came in. What’s Wylan have to do with any of this?
“I don’t get what you’re asking.”
“Stop making me repeat myself.”
“Then stop being so confusing, Brekker!” you huff, crossing your arms. “I don’t understand-”
Kaz cuts you off with a look. Cold as death, he grinds out, “Are you fucking him?”
Shock. Confusion.
They course through you in equal measure, coupled with slight amusement. The latter must show on your face, because Kaz’s scowl deepens before he looks down at his desk, pretending to fiddle with something.
“I have work to do,” he says stiffly. “Go downstairs.”
Your feet stay firmly planted, the desk’s width all that separates the two of you. “Why would you think that?”
Of all the assholes and degenerates in the Dregs, Wylan’s probably the closest you have to a real friend. It came with the territory—both of you having become newbies around the same time, trying to learn the ropes and fit in.
You’re not fucking him, though.
Kaz sinks back into his chair. His usually-squared shoulders curve slightly, as if some weight is pressing down on them. “Go downstairs.”
“I thought you didn’t like repeating yourself?” you ask, almost taunting.
“Go.” The word strains between his teeth. “Now.”
For no good reason, you make a stand. Stare down the barrel of the gun, unafraid and unrelenting. How strange, you think. The tightness in your chest has never once been apprehension.
It was excitement. Anticipation.
You’ve always liked getting under his skin. Finding out what makes him tick, figuring out which words earn the sharpest glares. You want him to pull the trigger, if only because it means you have his attention—and like a dog waiting at its master’s feet, you could care less if it comes with an open hand or a closed fist.
So long as it comes. So long as he notices you.
“What did you say when I came in?” You uncross your arms, make yourself stand up tall. “Tell me.”
Dark eyes shoot up. Kaz almost looks shocked, the dull echo of emotion creasing the lines of his face, parting his lips. You wait, but no sound comes out.
Dirtyhands is used to giving orders. Not taking them.
“You’ve heard what they say about me.” You wave a dismissive hand toward the shoddy window overlooking the Barrel. “Brekker’s Pet. Always with you, always following you around! Ask any sod in Ketterdam and they’ll say the same—the only way I’d have time to fuck someone is if you were in the room!” And even then, it wouldn’t be Wylan.
A steel rod takes the place of Kaz’s spine, turning your words over in his head. “Fine. Maybe you haven’t,” he relents. “But you want to.”
It’s a gamble. An unusually shitty one, at that.
You blow out an exasperated breath. This whole thing is getting old. “Saints, Kaz. What’s your deal?”
He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Then opens it again.
“I saw you downstairs,” he says. “Touching Van Eck.”
Your brows lift, fists clenching. You don’t know what you expected from him, but it certainly hadn’t been a bold-faced lie!
But then you start thinking of the moments before you saw Kaz head upstairs, laughing and playing Blackjack before you folded your hand to follow after him. You’d been sitting cross-legged on the threadbare rug, wedged between Wylan and Raske, when you noticed—Shit.
Kaz is right, and that makes you want to scream. Why is Kaz always right?
It was after you noticed Jesper was cheating, that he’d poorly marked the deck with daub; a sticky, ash-colored substance. You’d leaned in close to point it out to Wylan—your hand against his forearm, your lips dangerously close to the Merchling’s ear. After he noticed the marks, you both exchanged quiet giggles over just how bad Jesper was at swindling.
Still, there had been nothing sexual about it. Nothing between you and Wylan.
But, even if there was, why would Kaz care?
I saw you—touching Van Eck. His words race through your mind, pulsing in time with the dull ache in your temple. Touch me, touch me, touch me.
All of a sudden, the fog begins to clear. Something in your memory clicks.
That night behind the brothels—when you were running from the Sweet Shop, when Kaz had been drenched in the blood of some Razorgull. Barefoot and frantic, you really had almost knocked him off his feet. Gloved hands had held your arms tight, keeping you still. His hair had been messy and your mind a blur—and when you’d seen the crimson smeared across his cheek, you hadn’t thought twice before wiping it away.
You’d done what so few have. You had touched Kaz Brekker, skin-on-skin.
Because you didn’t make me sick.
When you don’t speak, Kaz shifts in his chair. Straightens an already-neat stacks of papers. “You won’t try and deny it?” he asks.
Maybe you imagine the quaver in his voice. Or maybe you don’t.
Either way, you start around his desk. Your every step is slow—cautious.
You stop beside him, and Kaz shifts again. You’re standing closer than you’d usually dare to get, so close that you can hear it when he swallows.
“You should go downstairs,” he tells you, lower than before.
Your head tilts, hair shifting over one shoulder. “Is that what you want?”
His answer hides in silence so thick it’s a tangible presence. It curls around you, makes gooseflesh prickle along your skin. Your mouth feels dry, your stomach like it’s tied in knots.
Suddenly, you don’t need him to repeat what he’d said.
As always, Kaz was right—you'd heard him the first time.
“Ask me again.” The words drip from your tongue, an order and a plea. “Ask me and I’ll do it.”
Kaz gives you a look, one you’ve never seen before. Dark eyes rove over you, brimming with worry and stress and—and Saints, a sense of desire so strong it makes your toes curl in your boots, a feeling like lightning coursing up your spine.
In a voice like stone on stone, raspy and urgent, Kaz breathes out, “Touch me.”
So you do.
You cup his face, graze your thumb over his cheekbone. Kaz stiffens, swallowing once more—but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to pull away.
“You know, to be such a bastard,” you start, a note of teasing in your voice, “you’re awfully pretty, Brekker.”
Heat blooms against your palm, a deep blush crawling over his pale cheeks.
“Shut up,” Kaz grumbles.
You grin. “Want me to go downstairs?”
A gasp rips from your throat as a gloved hand clamps around your wrist, Kaz pulling you down toward him. Anxiety still tightens his features, but beneath it he looks all too pleased with himself when you stumble clumsily into his lap.
For the sake of comfort, you adjust your legs—careful for his bad one—and settle your arms over his shoulders. Then, when it fully settles that you’re straddling Kaz-fucking-Brekker, it gets a lot harder to breathe.
“Should I take that as a no?” It sounds like a pant, your lungs constricting.
He lifts the hem of your shirt, the feel of leather cool against your skin as Kaz jabs a finger into your side. “Do I always have to repeat myself around you?” he asks. Dark eyes dip past your jaw, his tongue gliding over his lips. You don’t think he actually cares to hear your answer, which is good—because you’re pretty sure you just forgot how to speak.
Kaz drags his finger up the curve of your waist, his touch tentative and featherlight. It feels a lot like being studied—the way his dark brows knit together, staring at you as if you’re a magic trick he’s yet to master, a puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out.
“It’s not because you’re fast,” he says, somewhat distracted. It takes a minute for you to realize that he’s referring to your earlier question—Is that why you wanted me for the Dregs, then?
“Good,” you manage. “Because I’m not.”
The slightest twitch of a smile. “No.” He takes his time tracing over every divet in your ribs, slowly trailing up, up, up. “You’re not.”
“But I didn’t make you sick.” You’re not prepared for the wave of sickness that comes with the reminder, stomach roiling.
The Bastard’s Pet. Is that truly all you are? All you’re worth to the Dregs? Useless at saddling up next to sleazy merchants, but good enough to curl up at Kaz Brekker’s feet.
As if he can read your mind, Kaz’s hand goes still against your side. “Wipe that sour look off your face, would you? If I only wanted you to touch me, I would’ve just come to the Sweet Shop instead of getting my ass chewed by Haskell.”
You wiggle just enough to knock one knee into his hip, glaring at him. Both of you pretend not to notice the catch in his breath—or the growing hardness straining against his trousers, pressed against your core.
Gruff, Kaz continues, “You were in an alley and saw a man dripping with blood, and your first thought was to reach out and clean his cheek.” His head shakes, a strand of coal-black hair swaying near his temple. “It was ignorant,” he tells you. “And… decent. Innocent.”
You almost laugh. Innocent. That’s hardly a word you’d use to describe yourself. Especially right now, your every muscle straining in an attempt to keep your hips perfectly still, hands folded at the base of his neck.
“I didn’t know innocence like that could survive in the Barrel.” His hand starts again, tracing little shapes against your side. “Even if you never touched me again, I wasn’t gonna let Pekka Rollin’s crush someone like you between his grimy little fingers.”
“So that’s the answer?” you ask, nibbling on your lip. “I’m in the Dregs cause I’m innocent?” What a reason to have someone join a gang. Hey, you seem pure! Wanna get corrupted?
“You’re in the Dregs because you know how to persevere,” Kaz answers, holding your gaze. “How to get up and try again, no matter how many times you’re knocked down.” The sensation of smooth leather drifts higher. “Because you’re a survivor.” Your eyelids flutter, sucking in a breath as he palms the plump curve of your breast. “Because you’re loyal,” he starts, and it’s almost reverent the way he almost whispers, “my perfect little pet.”
The world grinds to a halt.
Outside of this room—this moment—nothing exists.
Too quiet, you ask, “What do you want from me, Kaz?”
You want him to feel in control, to be the one that decides how this is gonna go. But your self-restraint is a fraying cord, mere seconds from snapping in half.
If it were up to you, how far would you go? How much of Kaz Brekker would you explore? As far as I could, you think, desperate. As much as he’d let me.
That’s the trouble with dogs. They’re loyal and clingy, forgiving and insistent. They want for everything and take whatever they’re given. They’ll spend hours begging at your feet. Lick scraps from the floor until their tongues begin to bleed.
When it comes to Kaz Brekker, you’ll take whatever he has to give.
And you’ll never stop begging for more, more, more.
“Everything.” His breath is warm against your lips, the leather cool on your breast. “I want everything.”
a/n - just in case anyone couldn't tell, i obviously just finished reading six of crows (yeah ik i'm very late to the party). i randomly started writing this while i was stuck in traffic and it just sort of spiraled over the past 24 hours and now here we are! this was born! idk if i'll get anymore kaz ideas, but it was fun writing something more dialogue heavy (dialogue has my heart<3)
Summary: Garrett hasn’t set foot in his father’s house in years, and one Thanksgiving dinner reminds him exactly why … except this time, there’s a stranger sitting in his mother’s old seat, wearing his father’s same practiced cruelty like a shadow. He walks away telling himself it isn’t his fight anymore. Three weeks later, fate puts you back in front of him with a needle in your hand and a bruise you can’t quite hide, and Garrett realizes he can’t walk away from you again
Warnings: 18+ content and domestic violence
Read part two here
Garrett kills the engine of his Jeep, but he doesn’t take his hands off the steering wheel. He sits there in the driveway, staring through the windshield at the massive, imposing stone facade of his childhood home.
He hates this house. Every square inch of it.
“Just a few hours, Graham,” Garrett mutters to the empty car. “In and out. Eat the damn turkey and leave.”
He drags a hand down his face, feeling the tension already knotting in his shoulders. Being the captain and star center of the Briar University hockey team means he handles pressure for a living. He faces down two-hundred-pound defensemen who want to separate his head from his neck on a nightly basis, and he does it with a smirk. But this? Coming back here? It makes his chest tight.
He grabs his duffel bag from the passenger seat, shoves his door open, and steps out into the biting November chill. The Thanksgiving air is crisp, biting at his cheeks as he walks up the long driveway.
Before he even reaches for the doorbell, the heavy oak door pulls open.
Phil Graham stands in the doorway. He’s a big man, built like a brick wall, still holding onto the bulk from his days as an NHL star defenseman for the Rangers. He’s wearing a crisp button-down shirt and a fake, easy smile that doesn’t reach his cold eyes.
“Garrett,” Phil booms, clapping a heavy hand on Garrett’s shoulder as he steps inside. “You actually made it. I was starting to think you’d find an excuse to stay on campus.”
“I said I was coming,” Garrett says, his voice flat. He steps out of his father’s grip as quickly as politely possible, shrugging off his jacket.
“Well, I’m glad you did. Come on in. Y/N is finishing up the last of the food in the kitchen.” Phil turns and gestures down the wide, sterile hallway. “Y/N! He’s here!”
Garrett follows his father into the living room, his jaw tight. He doesn’t want to meet the new girlfriend. He doesn’t want to know anything about the woman who is willingly spending her time with a man like Phil.
Then, you step out of the kitchen.
Garrett stops dead in his tracks.
You’re wiping your hands on a small dish towel, a nervous but warm smile on your face. You’re wearing a soft oversized sweater and dark jeans. But that’s not what makes Garrett’s stomach drop.
It’s how young you are.
You can’t be more than twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. You’re barely older than Garrett himself. The realization hits him like a physical blow, a sudden, sickening wave of nausea washing over him.
“Hi,” you say, your voice soft, almost hesitant as you step forward. You extend a hand. “I’m Y/N. It’s so great to finally meet you, Garrett.”
Garrett forces himself to take your hand. Your grip is light, your skin warm. “Yeah. Nice to meet you too.”
Phil wraps a thick, possessive arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. Garrett watches the way you subtly stiffen, the way your smile falters for a fraction of a second before recovering.
“She’s been cooking all day,” Phil says, leaning down to kiss the side of your head. “Wanted everything to be perfect for the big college star.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Garrett says, looking directly at you, trying to ignore his father entirely.
“I wanted to,” you say quickly. “I love cooking. And Phil’s told me so much about you. Your season is going really well, right? Undefeated so far?”
“Yeah,” Garrett says, surprised you actually know that. “We’re having a good run.”
“She’s a nurse,” Phil interrupts, waving a dismissive hand. “Works crazy shifts at the hospital. I tell her she works too much, but she won’t listen.”
“I like my job,” you say gently, stepping out of Phil’s hold under the guise of gesturing toward the dining room. “Dinner is ready. We should sit before it gets cold.”
The dining room table is groaning under the weight of the food you prepared. A massive turkey, bowls of mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, roasted vegetables — it’s a feast. A feast for three people. It feels excessive. It feels like you’re trying too hard to impress.
Garrett takes a seat at the far end of the table, putting as much physical distance between himself and his father as possible. You take the seat next to Phil, directly across from Garrett.
“So,” Phil says, carving the turkey with sharp, aggressive strokes. “How are your grades, Garrett? Still scraping by with those easy electives so you can stay on the ice?”
Garrett’s grip on his fork tightens. “I’m a history major, Dad. My GPA is a 3.8.”
“History,” Phil snorts, tossing a slice of dark meat onto Garrett’s plate. “Right. Because that’s going to pay the bills when you blow out your knee and your hockey career is over.”
“Phil,” you say softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “Don’t say things like that. Garrett has a very bright future.”
Phil glances at you, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m just being realistic, Y/N. Someone has to keep the boy grounded.”
You give Garrett a sympathetic, apologetic look across the table. He ignores it. He doesn’t want your sympathy. He wants to know what the hell you’re doing here.
“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, leaning back in his chair. “A nurse. That’s a tough gig. ER?”
You perk up, eager for the change in subject. “Pediatrics, actually. I love it. The kids are incredibly resilient.”
“That’s awesome,” Garrett says. And he means it. You seem genuine. You seem kind. Which makes your presence in this house all the more confusing and disturbing to him. “Have you been doing it long?”
“Just over a year,” you say, passing the bowl of mashed potatoes across the table. “I graduated last spring.”
Garrett does the math in his head. Just over a year. Barely out of nursing school. She’s twenty-three. His dad is forty-eight.
“She gets too emotionally attached,” Phil chimes in, loading his plate with stuffing. “Comes home crying half the time. I keep telling her she needs a thicker skin if she wants to survive the real world.”
“It’s not a weakness to care about my patients, Phil,” you say, your voice dropping a fraction in volume.
“I didn’t say it was a weakness,” Phil snaps, his tone instantly sharper. “I said you need a thicker skin. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. Garrett watches you carefully. You look down at your plate, your shoulders hunching slightly.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “You’re right.”
Garrett’s stomach twists. The dynamic is terrifyingly familiar. It’s the exact same tone, the exact same manipulative pivot his father used to pull on his mother. Make her feel crazy. Make her apologize for his bad behavior.
“It takes a lot of strength to care about sick kids,” Garrett says loudly, breaking the sudden, suffocating silence. He locks eyes with his father. “I think it’s badass.”
Phil glares at him, his jaw ticking. “Eat your turkey, Garrett.”
The rest of the meal is agonizing. It’s a masterclass in awkward, strained tension. You try your best to keep the conversation going, asking Garrett about Briar, about his teammates, about his classes.
“Do you have a girlfriend, Garrett?” You ask, trying for a bright, casual tone as you take a sip of your water.
“No,” Garrett says. “No time. Between practice, games, and classes, I’m pretty booked.”
“He just hasn’t found a girl who can put up with him,” Phil chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “He’s just like his mother. Stubborn. Thinks he knows everything.”
Garrett freezes. The mention of his mother feels like a live wire in the room. His mother, who battled lung cancer while living in this hellhole. His mother, who took the brunt of Phil’s rage for years before Garrett became the primary target.
“Don’t talk about her,” Garrett says, his voice deadly quiet.
“I’ll talk about whoever I want in my own house,” Phil shoots back, leaning forward, his massive frame intimidating. “You think because you play a little college puck you can come in here and give me orders?”
“I said,” Garrett repeats, every muscle in his body coiled and tight, “don’t talk about my mother.”
“Please,” you interrupt, your voice shaking slightly. You look panicked, your eyes darting between Garrett and his father. “Please, let’s just have a nice dinner. I made pumpkin pie. I can—I can go get it right now.”
You push your chair back, moving a little too quickly.
“Sit down, Y/N,” Phil says sharply. “We’re not finished eating.”
“I just wanted to get the pie,” you stammer, already half-standing.
“I said sit down!” Phil’s voice echoes off the dining room walls.
You flinch. It’s a small, violent jerk of your shoulders, a conditioned reflex.
Garrett sees it. He feels the anger boiling in his veins, hot and volatile.
You slowly lower yourself back into your chair, your eyes glued to the tablecloth. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll wait.”
“Good,” Phil says, picking up his fork again as if nothing happened. “Now, pass the gravy.”
You reach across the table for the gravy boat. As you extend your arm, the loose sleeve of your oversized sweater rides up, pushed back by the edge of a serving bowl.
Garrett’s eyes lock onto your wrist.
High up on your forearm, just below the elbow, is a cluster of dark, purplish-black bruises. They aren’t random smudges. They are distinct, unmistakable ovals.
Finger marks.
The shape of a large hand gripping violently tight.
Garrett stops breathing.
The dining room fades away. The smell of the roasted turkey, the clinking of Phil’s silverware against the china — it all vanishes. All Garrett can see is that bruised skin.
He knows those bruises. He used to have them on his own arms, his own ribs. He saw them on his mother’s pale skin, hidden under long sleeves in the middle of July.
Phil never changed.
The monster who terrorized Garrett and his mother for years is sitting at the head of the table, pretending to be a normal man, and he’s doing it to this poor, young girl.
Garrett stands up.
He moves so fast, so violently, that his heavy wooden chair tips backward and crashes into the hardwood floor with a deafening bang.
“Garrett!” Phil barks, startled. “What the hell is your problem?”
Garrett doesn’t look at his father. He can’t, because if he looks at him right now, he will reach across this table and kill him.
He looks at you.
You’ve quickly yanked your sleeve down, your face pale, your eyes wide with terror as you realize what he just saw.
“I’m leaving,” Garrett chokes out. His chest is heaving. He wants to vomit. He actually feels the bile rising in his throat.
“You just got here!” Phil yells, throwing his napkin onto the table. “Sit your ass back down!”
“No,” Garrett says, his voice shaking with a dangerous, barely controlled fury. “I’m done. I’m done with you. I’m done with this fucking house.”
He turns on his heel and storms out of the dining room.
“Garrett!” Phil roars, the sound of a chair scraping loudly behind him.
Garrett doesn’t stop. He stalks down the hallway, his heart pounding in his ears. He reaches the coat rack by the front door and snatches his heavy jacket off the hook, nearly ripping the hook out of the wall in the process.
Footsteps hurry down the hall behind him. Light footsteps.
“Garrett, wait!”
He pauses, his hand on the brass doorknob. He turns around.
You are standing a few feet away, wringing your hands together. You look terrified. Phil is looming in the doorway of the living room behind you, his face red with rage.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Phil demands. “You ungrateful little punk.”
Garrett ignores him. He focuses entirely on you.
“Garrett, please,” you whisper, stepping closer to him, keeping your voice low so Phil can’t hear over his own ranting. “Please don’t go like this. It’s … it’s my fault. I made him mad earlier. I dropped a glass and I shouldn’t have talked back. It’s not what you think.”
The words hit Garrett like a physical blow. The excuses. The self-blame. It’s a script he has heard a thousand times before.
He lets go of the doorknob and steps toward you. You shrink back slightly, anticipating anger.
But Garrett isn’t angry at you.
“Stop,” Garrett says, his voice remarkably steady now, cutting through your panicked excuses. “Stop talking.”
You snap your mouth shut, tears brimming in your eyes.
Garrett looks you dead in the eye. He needs you to hear this. He needs you to understand.
“It is never your fault,” Garrett says, emphasizing every single word. “Do you hear me? Never.”
“You don’t understand,” you shake your head, a tear spilling over your eyelashes. “He just gets stressed, and I pushed him-”
“I understand perfectly,” Garrett cuts you off, his tone fierce. “I lived in this house for eighteen years. I watched him do it to my mother. I watched him do it to me.”
Your breath hitches. Your eyes widen in shock, glancing back at Phil, then back to Garrett.
“He is an abusive piece of shit,” Garrett says loudly, making sure his voice carries down the hall to where his father is standing in stunned silence. “And he will never stop. He will never change. I don’t care how much he cries and pretends to apologize after every time he hurts you. He will do it again.”
“Garrett, shut your damn mouth!” Phil shouts, taking a step forward.
“Fuck you, Phil!” Garrett roars back, the raw, unadulterated hatred pouring out of him.
He turns back to you. Your face is crumpled, the illusion shattered. You’re trembling.
“Get the hell away from him,” Garrett tells you, his voice lowering to an urgent, desperate plea. “Before it’s too late. Please.”
He doesn’t wait for your response. He can’t stay here another second.
He yanks the front door open, steps out into the freezing night, and slams the heavy door shut behind him. The sound echoes across the quiet suburban street like a gunshot.
He practically runs down the driveway to his Jeep. He rips the door open, throws himself into the driver’s seat, and jams the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life.
Garrett throws it into reverse, peels out of the driveway, and hits the gas, desperate to put as much distance between himself and that house as possible.
He drives for ten minutes before he finally pulls over on the shoulder of an empty highway.
He shoves the car into park.
And then he loses it.
He slams his hands against the steering wheel. Once. Twice. A scream of pure, visceral frustration tears from his throat. The horn blares into the dark night.
He rests his forehead against the leather of the steering wheel, his chest heaving, his breathing ragged.
He closes his eyes, but all he sees are those bruises. Those dark, brutal marks on your pale skin.
You’re a nurse. You’re sweet. You smiled and baked a damn pie and you are trapped in a house with a monster. A girl who can’t be much older than he is, taking the hits that his mother used to take.
Garrett grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He told you to get away. He hopes to God you listen. But as he sits there in the cold, dark car on the way back to Briar, a sickening feeling settles deep in his gut.
He knows this isn’t over. He can’t just walk away and leave you there.
***
The hit comes out of nowhere.
One second, Garrett is flying down the center of the ice, the puck a familiar, comfortable weight on the blade of his stick. The Briar arena is deafening, thousands of students screaming as he crosses the blue line. He spots the opening. He sets up the shot.
The next second, a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound defenseman from Harvard blindsides him.
The elbow catches Garrett right under the edge of his helmet. The crack is sickeningly loud, echoing in his own skull before the ice rushes up to meet him. He hits the frozen surface hard, sliding into the boards in a tangled mess of limbs and composite sticks.
The whistle blows shrilly. The crowd erupts into angry boos.
Garrett lies there for a few seconds, staring up at the blinding stadium lights. His head is ringing. A high-pitched, sustained whine blocks out the sound of his teammates rushing to his defense. There’s a sharp, burning pain right above his left eyebrow, and when he blinks, something warm and wet runs down his face.
“Graham! Hey, Graham, don’t move.”
Robby, the Briar athletic trainer, is suddenly leaning over him, his face pinched with concern.
“I’m fine,” Garrett groans, trying to push himself up on his heavy gloves. The ice tilts precariously. “Just a scratch. Get me back out there. We’re on a power play now.”
“You’re not going anywhere near a puck tonight, kid,” Robby says, gripping Garrett’s shoulder to keep him down. Robby presses a thick wad of gauze against Garrett’s forehead. Garrett winces as white-hot pain flares. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, and your eyes are rolling. We’re going to the locker room, and then you’re going to the hospital.”
“Hospital?” Garrett snaps, instantly irritated. “Robby, come on. Just glue it shut. Do the concussion protocol. I know what month it is.”
“I need imaging, Garrett. That hit was dirty, and your helmet shifted. I’m not playing games with your brain. Up you get. Slowly.”
Forty-five minutes later, Garrett is sitting on the edge of a crinkly, paper-covered bed in a sterile room at the local emergency department. He’s still in his bottom gear — his bulky hockey pants, his skates replaced by slide sandals Robby grabbed from his locker, and his Briar hockey hoodie pulled over his t-shirt.
He smells like sweat, ice, and metallic blood. He feels like a caged animal.
Robby did the initial check-up and handed him off to the triage nurse, who promised someone would be in shortly to clean the wound, stitch him up, and get him down to CT. That was twenty minutes ago.
Garrett taps his foot impatiently against the linoleum floor. His head throbs in time with his heartbeat. He hates hospitals. He hates the smell of antiseptic, the stark white lights, the feeling of vulnerability.
Most of all, he just wants to go to sleep.
He leans back, closing his eyes and trying to breathe through the dull nausea rolling in his stomach.
The heavy wooden door to his exam room clicks open.
“Sorry for the wait,” a soft, hurried voice says, followed by the squeak of rubber-soled shoes. “It’s a zoo out there tonight. Full moon or something.”
Garrett opens his eyes, a sarcastic remark already loaded on his tongue about how long it takes to get a needle and thread in this place.
The words die instantly in his throat.
You are standing by the rolling metal cart, pulling on a pair of purple nitrile gloves. You’re wearing scrubs. Not the standard-issue, depressing hospital blue, but a light pink top covered in tiny, cartoonish stethoscopes and smiling Band-Aids. It’s undeniably cute. It’s the kind of uniform designed to make terrified kids feel safe.
You snap the second glove onto your wrist and finally turn around to look at the patient.
You freeze.
Your hands hover in mid-air. The professional, welcoming smile you walked in with vanishes so fast it’s like it was never there. The color drains completely from your face, leaving you looking like a ghost in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
“Garrett,” you breathe, the name barely a whisper.
Garrett stares at you. His heart does a strange, painful stutter in his chest.
Of all the hospitals. Of all the nurses.
He hasn’t stopped thinking about you since Thanksgiving. It’s been three weeks. Three weeks of replaying that disastrous dinner in his head, hearing his father’s booming, aggressive voice, and seeing those dark, finger-shaped bruises on your arm.
He had hoped, with a desperate kind of optimism, that you had listened to him. That his dramatic exit had been the wake-up call you needed. He hoped you packed your bags, walked out of Phil Graham’s massive, oppressive house, and never looked back.
But as you stand there, clutching a clipboard to your chest like a shield, Garrett’s stomach sinks.
“What are you doing here?” Garrett asks. His voice is hoarse, the concussion making him sound rougher than he intends. “I thought you worked pediatrics.”
You blink rapidly, seemingly trying to reboot your brain. You take a cautious step back, closer to the door, as if preparing to bolt.
“I do,” you say, your voice remarkably shaky. You clear your throat and try again, fighting for a professional tone. “I do work pediatrics. We’re … we’re short-staffed down here tonight. A nasty flu bug wiped out half the ER nurses. They floated me down because I’m the newest on my floor.”
“Right,” Garrett says, his eyes locked on you.
The tension in the tiny exam room is thick enough to cut with a scalpel. Neither of you moves.
“I can,” you stammer, your eyes darting from the bloody gauze taped to his forehead to his skates-less feet, avoiding direct eye contact. “I can go get someone else. Another nurse. If you’re … if you’re uncomfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” Garrett says immediately.
He doesn’t want you to leave. He needs to know what happened after he drove away. He needs to know if you’re okay.
You hesitate, your grip on the clipboard turning your knuckles white. You bite your bottom lip, a nervous habit that sends a jolt of protective instinct straight through Garrett’s chest.
“Okay,” you finally whisper. You force yourself to take a step forward, slipping into nurse-mode like a protective second skin. “Okay. Let’s … let’s take a look at that cut, Mr. Graham. The doctor will be in shortly for the stitches, but I need to clean it and do a standard neuro check first.”
“It’s just Garrett,” he mutters, hating the formal ‘Mr. Graham’. It makes him think of his father.
“Garrett,” you correct yourself softly.
You pull a rolling stool over to the side of his bed and sit down. You’re close now. Close enough that he can smell the faint, clean scent of your vanilla shampoo over the harsh hospital antiseptics.
“Can you look straight at me?” You ask, pulling a small penlight from your scrub pocket.
Garrett turns his head. He looks straight at you.
And that’s when he really sees it.
The harsh, unforgiving overhead lights of the ER leave nothing in shadow. You are wearing makeup. A lot of it. Far more than you wore at Thanksgiving. The foundation is thick, expertly applied to look matte and flawless.
But it’s not flawless.
Underneath the heavy-duty concealer on your left cheekbone, there is a distinct, yellowish-green discoloration. The fading remnants of a severe bruise. And when you lean forward to shine the light in his eyes, the v-neck of your cute, patterned scrub top gapes just a fraction.
Right on your collarbone, peeking out from the fabric, is a mottled patch of dark purple and black. It looks fresh.
Garrett’s breath hitches.
“Follow the light with your eyes, please,” you say softly, your brow furrowed in concentration. “Without moving your head.”
Garrett tries. He really does. But his eyes drop from the penlight to your cheekbone. Then down to the edge of your collar.
A wave of nausea hits him, so intense and violent he actually grips the edges of the exam table to ground himself. It’s not from the concussion. It’s from the crushing, suffocating weight of guilt.
He did this.
He knows he did this.
He remembers the look on his father’s face when he slammed the door. He remembers the rage, the wounded pride. Phil Graham doesn’t just get yelled at in his own house by his son and let it go. Phil Graham retaliates. He takes his anger out on whatever is closest. On whoever is weakest.
At Thanksgiving, that was you.
Garrett left you alone with a monster he had just purposely provoked.
“Are you feeling dizzy?” You ask, misinterpreting his sudden rigidity. You click the penlight off, your eyes scanning his face with genuine concern. “Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?”
“Yeah,” Garrett whispers, his voice cracking. “Yeah, I feel sick.”
You immediately stand up, reaching for a plastic basin on the counter. “Okay, lean forward. Deep breaths-”
“Not because of my head,” Garrett interrupts.
He reaches out and grabs your wrist.
He does it gently. He’s incredibly aware of his own strength, of the sheer size difference between them. His large hand loosely encircles your delicate wrist over the purple nitrile glove.
You freeze instantly. Your entire body goes rigid, a startled gasp slipping from your lips.
“Garrett, let go,” you whisper, panic suddenly flaring in your eyes. You glance frantically at the closed door.
“He did this,” Garrett says, his voice thick with a rage that threatens to choke him. He doesn’t let go, but he doesn’t squeeze, either. He just holds you there, forcing you to look at him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say automatically. The denial is fast, practiced. You tug your arm, trying to pull away. “Please, I need to clean your wound.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Garrett pleads. He lets go of your wrist, raising his hand to point a shaking finger at your face. “The makeup. Your cheek. Your collarbone. I can see it, Y/N.”
You flinch as if he struck you. You immediately reach up, your gloved hand self-consciously covering your collarbone, pulling the fabric of your scrubs higher. You look away, your jaw trembling.
“It’s nothing,” you say, staring fixedly at the rolling cart. “I’m clumsy. I bumped into an open cabinet door in the kitchen.”
“A cabinet door doesn’t grab your collarbone,” Garrett says, his voice dropping to a harsh, heartbroken whisper. “A cabinet door didn’t leave finger marks on your arm at Thanksgiving. Stop protecting him.”
“I’m not protecting anyone,” you snap, finally looking back at him. Your eyes are bright with unshed tears, defensively angry. “You don’t know anything about my life, Garrett. You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know my father,” Garrett fires back, leaning forward, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head. “I know exactly what he is. I lived with it for eighteen years. You think you’re the first person he’s done this to? You think you’re special? My mother used to use the exact same brand of heavy concealer you’re wearing right now.”
The words hit you hard. Your defensive anger crumbles in an instant, leaving behind a raw, terrified vulnerability that makes Garrett want to punch a hole through the wall.
A single tear escapes, cutting a track down your powdered cheek. You quickly swipe it away with the back of your wrist, smudging the concealer and revealing more of the fading bruise beneath.
“Why didn’t you leave?” Garrett asks, the desperation bleeding into his tone. “I told you to get away. I told you what he was. Why are you still there?”
You let out a shaky, bitter laugh. It’s a terrible sound. “Leave? And go where, Garrett? He moved me into his house. My name isn’t on the lease of my old apartment anymore. I have student loans that are drowning me. When I met him, he … he was so generous. He offered to help me get on my feet. He bought my car.”
Garrett closes his eyes. He feels sick all over again. Classic Phil. Financial control. Isolate the target. Make them dependent so they feel like they can’t survive on their own. It’s a textbook maneuver, and Garrett hates himself for not realizing it sooner.
“So you’re trapped,” Garrett states flatly, opening his eyes to look at you.
“I’m managing,” you say stubbornly, though your voice lacks conviction. “He’s just … he’s been under a lot of pressure lately.”
“Bullshit,” Garrett practically growls.
“Don’t yell at me!” You whisper-shout, looking panicked at the door again. “I’m at work, Garrett. Please. I can’t do this right now. If my charge nurse hears …”
Garrett forces himself to take a deep breath. He forces his muscles to uncoil. You’re right. This is your place of work. You’re already terrified, and him losing his temper — even on your behalf — is only making you more scared.
“Okay,” Garrett says softly, gentling his tone. “Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t yell.”
You let out a trembling sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly. You reach for a sterile saline wipe from the tray. Your hands are shaking.
“I have to clean the cut,” you murmur, keeping your eyes down. “It’s going to sting.”
“Do it,” Garrett says, sitting perfectly still.
You lean in close again. You gently press the saline wipe against the gash above his eyebrow. It burns like a bitch, but Garrett doesn’t even flinch. He is completely hyper-focused on you.
Up this close, he can see the exhaustion etched around your eyes. He can see the faint tremor in your fingers. He can feel the anxiety radiating off you in waves.
“He took it out on you, didn’t he?” Garrett asks quietly, the words meant only for the two of you. “After I left on Thanksgiving. I made him furious, and I walked out the door, and he took it out on you.”
Your hand pauses. The saline wipe hovers over his cut. You don’t look at his eyes; you just stare blindly at his forehead.
“Garrett, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking completely. “Don’t.”
“I need to know,” he insists, the guilt gnawing at his insides like acid. “Did he hit you because of me?”
You swallow hard. A fresh tear falls, splashing softly against the plastic bib covering Garrett’s chest.
“He was mad,” you finally admit, your voice barely audible over the hum of the hospital air conditioning. “He said I embarrassed him in front of you. That I was stupid for engaging with you.”
Garrett closes his eyes. He feels like he’s been sucker-punched by that Harvard defenseman all over again. Only this time, the pain is a thousand times worse.
“I’m so sorry,” Garrett breathes. The apology feels entirely inadequate, but it’s all he has. “Y/N, I’m so fucking sorry. I thought … I thought if I called him out, if I showed you I saw it, you’d realize it wasn’t normal and you’d run. I didn’t think about the fallout. I left you alone with him.”
“It’s not your fault,” you say automatically, returning to cleaning the wound. Your touch is incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence you go home to. “You were right. Everything you said was right. I just … I didn’t know how bad it was going to be.”
“How bad did it get?” Garrett asks, his chest tight.
“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly, tossing the bloody wipe into the biohazard bin and reaching for a fresh one. “I’m fine. He apologized the next day. He cried. He promised he’d never do it again.”
“And you believed him?” Garrett asks, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice.
You finally look him in the eyes. The profound sadness in your gaze breaks his heart.
“No,” you whisper. “I didn’t believe him. But I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
Silence falls over the small exam room. It’s a heavy, suffocating silence. Garrett stares at you, a fierce, protective determination hardening in his chest.
He doesn’t care that he only met you once. He doesn’t care that you’re technically his father’s girlfriend. All he cares about is the fact that you are a kind, gentle person who spends your days taking care of sick kids, and you are going home to a nightmare.
A nightmare Garrett knows intimately.
“You’re not going back there,” Garrett says suddenly.
You pause, looking at him with utter confusion. “What?”
“When your shift is over,” Garrett says, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “You are not going back to his house.”
“Garrett, be reasonable,” you sigh, shaking your head. “I have to. All my stuff is there. My life is there.”
“I don’t give a shit about your stuff,” Garrett says. “Stuff can be replaced. You can’t. If you go back there, he’s going to kill you, Y/N. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, he will cross a line he can’t uncross. You know it, and I know it.”
“You’re scaring me,” you whisper, taking a step back from the bed.
“Good,” Garrett says intensely. “You should be scared. You should be terrified. Because he is dangerous. And I am not letting you go back to him.”
“You can’t control what I do,” you say, a spark of defiance finally flaring in your eyes. “You don’t get to order me around. You’re just as bossy as he is!”
The comparison stings, but Garrett takes it. He deserves it. “I’m not trying to order you around. I’m trying to save your life. Because I couldn’t save my mother’s, and I’ll be damned if I sit back and let him do it to someone else.”
You stare at him, the defiance melting away, replaced by shock. You didn’t know the full extent of it. Phil certainly wouldn’t have told you the truth about his marriage.
“Garrett …” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence.
“I have a house,” Garrett says, the plan forming rapidly in his mind. “Off-campus. I live with three of my teammates. We have a couch. It’s not fancy, and it constantly smells like hockey gear and stale pizza, but it’s safe. He doesn’t know where it is. He doesn’t have a key.”
Your eyes go wide. “You want me to … to come home with you?”
“Yes,” Garrett says, without a second of hesitation.
“I can’t do that,” you say, shaking your head frantically. “I can’t impose on you and your roommates. I barely know you. Phil would lose his mind if he found out.”
“Phil is going to lose his mind anyway when he realizes you’re gone,” Garrett counters. “Let him. Let him tear the house apart. By the time he realizes you aren’t coming back, you’ll be gone. And you won’t be alone.”
“Garrett, this is crazy,” you whisper. You look around the room, as if expecting Phil to jump out of the medical supply cabinet. “I have a shift until 7 AM. I can’t just leave with you.”
“I’ll wait,” Garrett says stubbornly.
“You have a concussion!” You argue. “You need to rest. You need to be monitored.”
“I’ll rest in the waiting room,” Garrett fires back. “I’m not leaving this hospital without you.”
“You are impossible,” you say, but there is a distinct lack of heat in your voice. You look incredibly tired. The kind of tired that seeps into your bones and makes it hard to stand.
“I’m stubborn,” Garrett corrects, echoing his father’s insult from Thanksgiving, but reclaiming it. “Just like my mother.”
Before you can argue further, the heavy wooden door swings open.
A tall, exhausted-looking doctor with a clipboard steps into the room. “Alright, Mr. Graham. Sorry for the wait. Let’s get a look at that-” The doctor stops, glancing between Garrett and you. The tension in the room is palpable, even to a stranger. “Is everything alright in here, Y/N?”
You jump slightly, instantly stepping back from Garrett’s bed and smoothing down your scrub top. You plaster that fake, professional smile back on your face.
“Everything is fine, Dr. Gardner,” you say brightly. “Just finished cleaning the laceration. He’s all ready for you.”
“Excellent,” Dr. Gardner says, stepping up to the bed and clicking on a bright overhead surgical light. “Alright, Garrett, let’s get you stitched up so we can get you down to CT. Y/N, can you prep a local anesthetic tray, please?”
“Right away, Doctor,” you say.
You move mechanically, pulling supplies from the cart, avoiding Garrett’s gaze entirely.
Garrett doesn’t say a word as the doctor numbs his forehead. He doesn’t flinch as the needle pierces his skin to pull the wound shut. He keeps his eyes locked on you the entire time.
He watches you hand the doctor the scissors. He watches you dispose of the bloody gauze. He watches the way your shoulders stay rigidly tense, the way you constantly glance at the clock on the wall.
You are terrified. You are trapped.
But not anymore.
Garrett made a mistake at Thanksgiving. He let his anger blind him to the consequences. He walked away to protect himself, and he left you in the line of fire.
He isn’t walking away this time.
Dr. Gardner finishes the final stitch and snips the thread. “There you go. Seven stitches. We’ll get a bandage on that, and an orderly will be in shortly to take you down to imaging.”
“Thanks,” Garrett grunts.
“Y/N will get you bandaged up,” Dr. Gardner says, already heading for the door. “Keep an eye on him, Y/N. If he gets nauseous again, let me know.”
“I will,” you say softly.
The door clicks shut. You are alone again.
You pick up a square white bandage and peel off the backing. You step back up to Garrett’s side, keeping your eyes meticulously focused on his forehead.
“Hold still,” you murmur, pressing the bandage carefully over the stitches.
“I’m serious, Y/N,” Garrett says quietly, his voice vibrating with absolute certainty.
Your fingers pause against his skin. You finally look down into his eyes.
“When your shift ends,” Garrett says, holding your gaze, refusing to let you look away. “I will be sitting in the waiting room. And you are walking out of those doors with me.”
You stare at him. Your bottom lip trembles. The professional mask you’ve been clinging to finally cracks, and for the first time, Garrett sees a tiny, desperate flicker of hope in your eyes.
You don’t say yes.
But you don’t say no, either.
You just finish pressing the edges of the bandage down, your touch lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Then, you step back, grab your clipboard, and hurry out of the room without another word.
Garrett watches the door close behind you. He leans his head back against the wall, ignoring the throbbing pain, and settles in to wait.
He isn’t going anywhere.
***
The drive from the hospital to the house is agonizingly silent.
Garrett keeps his eyes glued to the dark roads of Briar, his hands gripping the steering wheel of his Jeep at ten and two. The white bandage over his left eyebrow stands out starkly in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. He hasn’t said a word since you both walked out of the sliding glass doors of the ER.
You sit rigidly in the passenger seat, still wearing your pink patterned scrubs, your coat pulled tightly around your shoulders. You stare out the window, watching the streetlights blur past, a million thoughts racing through your mind at a frantic, dizzying pace.
What are you doing? You just walked out on a shift. You just got in a car with your abusive boyfriend’s estranged, concussed son. You are heading to a house full of college hockey players you’ve never met.
You are terrified.
But as you steal a glance at Garrett’s hardened profile, you realize something else. For the first time in months, you aren’t terrified of the person sitting next to you. You’re terrified of the fallout, of what Phil will do when he finds out you’re gone. But Garrett makes you feel inexplicably safe.
Garrett pulls into the driveway of a large, slightly weathered off-campus rental house. A couple of other cars are parked haphazardly on the pavement. The porch light is on, illuminating a rogue red Solo cup resting on the railing and a pair of muddy sneakers near the welcome mat.
Garrett kills the engine. He doesn’t immediately move. He just sits there, his chest rising and falling with a deep, bracing sigh.
“We’re here,” he says quietly, his voice raspy.
You look at the house. It looks huge, chaotic, and entirely intimidating. “Garrett, I really don’t think this is a good idea. Your roommates …”
“My roommates are fine,” Garrett interrupts, turning his head to look at you. His dark eyes are serious, the bruising around his cut already turning an ugly shade of purple. “They’re idiots most of the time, but they’re good guys. They aren’t going to care that you’re here. The only thing they’re going to care about is making sure you’re okay.”
You swallow hard, your fingers twisting the fabric of your scrub top. “They don’t even know me.”
“They know me,” Garrett says simply. “And that’s enough for them. Come on.”
He pushes his door open and steps out into the crisp night air. You take a shaky breath and follow suit.
Garrett leads you up the porch steps. He doesn’t knock. He just pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first.
The inside of the house is exactly what you would expect from four college athletes. It smells faintly of stale beer, citrus cleaner, and the undeniable musk of hockey gear. The living room is massive, dominated by a huge sectional couch, an enormous flat-screen TV, and a coffee table littered with empty pizza boxes and video game controllers.
Despite the late hour, the house isn’t asleep.
The TV is on, playing some sports highlight reel at a low volume. A guy with dark hair and striking blue eyes is sprawled across the couch, tossing a lacrosse ball into the air and catching it. Another guy, blonde and built like a Greek god, is sitting on the floor leaning against the couch, a game controller in his hands.
From the kitchen, the sound of sizzling bacon and the smell of coffee drift out.
The dark-haired guy catches the ball and sits up as the front door closes. “Look who finally decided to show up. We saw the hit on Twitter, man. Robby texted the group chat and said you were getting stitched up.”
“I got stitched up,” Garrett says flatly.
The blonde guy pauses his game and looks back over his shoulder. He takes one look at Garrett’s face and winces. “Damn, G. You look like you went ten rounds with a meat grinder. How many stitches?”
“Seven,” Garrett mutters, toeing off his slides.
“Is he alive?” A third voice calls out from the kitchen. A tall, broad-shouldered guy walks out, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He has a kind face and a calm demeanor that instantly sets him apart from the other two. “Because I’m making breakfast at 2 AM and if he’s dead, I’m not making him eggs.”
“I’m alive, Tuck,” Garrett says, stepping further into the room.
As Garrett moves, he reveals you standing nervously behind him in the entryway.
The dynamic in the room shifts instantly.
Logan, the dark-haired guy, freezes with the lacrosse ball in his hand. Dean, the blonde, drops his controller entirely. Tucker stops wiping his hands, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline.
They stare at you. You stare back, feeling painfully out of place in your cartoon-stethoscope scrubs and heavy winter coat.
A slow, wicked grin spreads across Dean’s face. He lets out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Logan starts to laugh, shaking his head as he pushes himself up off the couch. “Only you, Graham. Only you could get a level-three concussion, go to the emergency room bleeding from the head, and somehow manage to pull the hottest nurse on the floor.”
“I didn’t even know they made scrubs that cute,” Dean chimes in, leaning back on his hands, his eyes raking over you with playful, unabashed appreciation. “Hi there. I’m Dean. If you’re looking for a second opinion on that head injury, I’m practically a doctor.”
“You’re a poli-sci major,” Tucker points out dryly, though a slight, amused smile tugs at his lips. He looks at you. “Ignore them. They’re animals. I’m Tucker.”
Under normal circumstances, you might have blushed or laughed. They are objectively gorgeous, charismatic guys, and the banter is effortless.
But there is nothing normal about tonight.
You don’t smile. You just shrink back slightly, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, hyper-aware of the dark bruise blooming on your collarbone hidden beneath your coat.
Garrett doesn’t laugh, either.
His body goes entirely rigid. He steps in front of you, physically blocking Dean and Logan’s view of you. The protective instinct is so sudden and absolute that it changes the entire temperature of the room.
“Shut up,” Garrett snaps.
His voice is quiet, but it cracks like a whip. It lacks any of his usual playful arrogance. It’s hard, sharp, and deadly serious.
Logan’s smile vanishes. Dean sits up a little straighter, his playful demeanor evaporating. Tucker frowns, immediately reading the heavy, suffocating tension radiating off his captain.
“Whoa,” Logan says, holding his hands up defensively. “Relax, man. We’re just messing around.”
“I’m not,” Garrett says, his jaw ticking. He looks at his three best friends, his teammates, his brothers. “Turn the TV off. Sit down. All of you.”
Dean scrambles up from the floor and takes a seat on the couch next to Logan. Tucker slowly walks out of the kitchen, tossing the dish towel onto a chair, and sits down on the loveseat.
Nobody says a word. The house is completely silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the other room. They watch Garrett, waiting.
Garrett turns back to you. His expression softens marginally. “Take off your coat,” he murmurs. “Sit down.”
You shake your head slightly. “I prefer to stand.”
Garrett looks like he wants to argue, but he nods. He doesn’t sit, either. He stands in the center of the living room, a defensive barrier between you and the rest of the room.
He runs a hand through his messy, blood-matted hair, wincing as he brushes too close to the bandage. He takes a deep breath.
“You guys know about my dad,” Garrett starts.
It’s not a question. It’s a statement.
Logan nods slowly. “Yeah. Phil Graham. NHL legend. Played for the Rangers. Hardass.”
“Right,” Garrett says, the word dripping with pure, concentrated venom. “The legend. The great Phil Graham. The guy everyone thinks hung the moon because he could check a guy through the glass.”
Garrett starts pacing, just a few short steps back and forth, the nervous energy impossible to contain.
“Everything you think you know about him is a lie,” Garrett says, his voice thick with years of repressed anger. “He’s not a hero. He’s not just a strict, demanding hockey dad.”
Tucker leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Garrett, what’s going on?”
“He’s a monster,” Garrett says bluntly. He stops pacing and looks directly at Logan. “You know how I never go home? You know how I stayed here over the summer? How I only went back for Thanksgiving because he threatened to cut off my tuition if I didn’t show my face?”
Logan nods again, his expression growing darker.
“It’s because he used to beat the shit out of me,” Garrett says.
The words drop like a physical weight into the room.
No one breathes.
Dean’s mouth falls open slightly. Logan’s hands clench into tight fists on his knees. Tucker closes his eyes, a muscle feathering in his jaw.
You stand by the entryway, your heart pounding in your throat. You didn’t know the extent of it until tonight, but hearing him say it out loud, in front of these people, feels incredibly raw.
“He did it to me,” Garrett continues, his voice unwavering now, the dam finally breaking. “And he did it to my mother. For years. He’d get drunk, or he’d get angry that a game didn’t go his way, or his food was cold, and he’d take it out on us. He broke my mom’s wrist when I was twelve. Told everyone she fell down the stairs.”
“Jesus,” Dean whispers, looking physically ill.
“Garrett,” Tucker says quietly, pain lacing his tone. “Why didn’t you ever tell us?”
“Because it’s my shame,” Garrett spits back automatically. Then he catches himself, shaking his head. “No. That’s what he wanted me to think. Because nobody believes that the great Phil Graham is a wife-beating piece of shit. Because I thought I left it behind when I came to Briar.”
Garrett stops. He turns slightly, his eyes finding yours across the room. The pain in his gaze is profound, but there is also a fierce, unyielding resolve.
He turns back to the guys.
“When I went home for Thanksgiving,” Garrett says, “He forced me to have dinner so I could meet his new girlfriend. He wanted to show off. Play the happy family.”
Logan looks confused. “Okay. What does this have to do with …” His voice trails off. His eyes slowly shift from Garrett to you.
The realization hits the room in waves.
You can literally see the progression on their faces.
First, Logan. His brow furrows, his eyes widening as the math clicks into place in his brain.
Then, Dean. He looks at you, really looks at you this time, taking in the youthful softness of your face, the fact that you can’t be more than a year or two older than them. He physically recoils on the couch.
“No,” Dean says, the word slipping out as a breathless exhale. “No fucking way. She’s … she’s a kid. She’s our age.”
“She’s twenty-three,” Garrett confirms, his voice turning cold and clinical. “And my dad is forty-eight.”
The guys glitch.
It’s the only word for it. Their brains visibly short-circuit trying to process the information. The cognitive dissonance of the beautiful, young nurse standing in their hallway and the aging, massive, abusive NHL enforcer is too much to compute.
“Are you serious right now?” Logan asks, his voice dropping an octave, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone. He isn’t angry at Garrett. He’s furious at the situation. “That’s … Garrett, that’s sick.”
“It gets worse,” Garrett says.
He closes the distance between himself and you. He stands right beside you. You shrink back slightly, instinctively grabbing the lapels of your coat, holding it tighter around your neck.
“At dinner,” Garrett says, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper that commands the entire room. “She reached for the gravy. Her sleeve slid up. And she had bruises all over her arm in the shape of a hand.”
A heavy, violent silence descends on the living room.
Tucker stands up. He doesn’t say anything, but his entire posture changes. The calm, relaxed guy who was making bacon two minutes ago is gone, replaced by a wall of silent, protective fury.
“I called him out,” Garrett continues, the guilt bleeding heavily into his words. “I yelled at him. I told her to run, and then I left. I got in my car and I drove back here. I left her there with him.”
Garrett turns to you. He reaches out, his large hand hovering over your arm. He doesn’t touch you. He asks for permission with his eyes.
You stare at him. You are trembling, a fine, uncontrollable shake that you can’t suppress. But you slowly nod.
You let go of your coat.
Garrett gently hooks his fingers under the lapel of your jacket and pulls it back just a few inches. He gestures to your neck, to the v-neck of your scrub top.
Under the harsh, bright lights of the living room, the heavy concealer you applied in the hospital bathroom doesn’t stand a chance. The yellowish bruise on your cheekbone is visible. But worse is the dark, mottled purple bruise peeking out from the collar of your scrubs, covering your collarbone.
Logan curses. It’s a harsh sound. He stands up so fast he knocks the coffee table with his shin, completely ignoring the impact.
“He did that tonight?” Logan demands, pointing a finger at your collarbone, his eyes blazing with a protective rage that genuinely shocks you.
“No,” you say, your voice remarkably small in the large room. “He … he did it after Garrett left on Thanksgiving. Because I embarrassed him.”
Dean puts his head in his hands, burying his face in his palms. “Jesus Christ.”
“She was floated to the ER tonight,” Garrett explains, stepping in front of you again, shielding you from their intense stares. “She was my nurse. He didn’t know I was coming in. If I hadn’t taken that hit tonight, I never would have seen her again. I never would have known.”
“So you brought her here,” Tucker says softly. It’s not an accusation; it’s a confirmation.
“I brought her here,” Garrett nods firmly. “Because if she goes back to that house, he’s going to put her in the hospital as a patient, not a nurse. Or worse. She doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”
Garrett looks at his three best friends. The vulnerability in his eyes is something they have never seen before. Garrett Graham doesn’t ask for
help. He doesn’t show weakness. He leads the team, he carries the weight, and he never complains.
“I’m keeping her here,” Garrett says, his voice leaving absolute zero room for debate. “She takes my room. I’ll sleep on the couch. But I need to know you guys are with me on this. Because Phil is going to figure out she’s gone, and he’s going to lose his goddamn mind.”
Logan doesn’t even hesitate.
He walks around the coffee table and stops directly in front of you. He is tall, broad, and imposing, but when he looks down at you, his blue eyes are completely devoid of the mischievous glint they held earlier. They are dead serious.
“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Logan says, extending a massive hand.
You look at his hand, then up at his face. You slowly reach out and shake it. His grip is firm, but incredibly gentle.
“I’m Logan,” he says softly. “And no one is laying a hand on you ever again. You understand me? That guy steps foot on our property, he’s going to have to go through all four of us. And I promise you, we fight a hell of a lot dirtier than he does.”
“He’s a washed-up, geriatric bully,” Dean says, walking over to join Logan. He doesn’t smile, but there’s a ruthless kind of confidence in his posture. “We’re in our prime. Let him come. I could use the target practice.”
Tucker is the last to approach. He stops beside Garrett, looking at you with a gentle, fatherly sort of warmth.
“You’re safe here,” Tucker says, his voice deep and soothing. “You can stay as long as you need. No rent, no questions asked. We’ve got plenty of space.”
He pauses, sniffing the air, and then gestures toward the kitchen. “Now, I’ve got bacon burning. Have you eaten anything tonight?”
The sudden shift from intense, life-or-death protection to breakfast food gives you mental whiplash. You blink rapidly, staring at the three massive hockey players who just promised to violently defend a girl they met five minutes ago.
“I … um,” you stammer, completely overwhelmed. The tears you’ve been fighting all night finally break free, hot and fast down your cheeks. “No. I haven’t eaten.”
“Right,” Tucker nods, clapping his hands together once. “Logan, grab some blankets. Dean, go make up Garrett’s bed. Use the clean sheets, you animal, not the ones from the laundry pile.”
“On it,” Dean says, immediately jogging down the hallway.
“I’ll get the good pillows,” Logan says, heading for the stairs.
Tucker turns and heads back into the kitchen. “Garrett, sit her down. Coffee or tea?”
“Tea,” Garrett calls out.
Suddenly, the living room is empty, leaving just you and Garrett.
You stand there, a tear slipping off your chin, completely stunned by the whirlwind of the last five minutes.
Garrett turns to you. The intense, hardened captain who just laid down the law with his team is gone. He just looks incredibly tired, his shoulders slumping slightly.
“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching out to gently catch a tear on your cheek with his thumb. His touch is impossibly light. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“They didn’t even ask questions,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “They just … they just accepted it.”
“They’re my family,” Garrett says, a small, genuine smile finally touching his lips. “And when someone messes with family, we circle the wagons. You’re part of the wagon now.”
He gently takes your coat by the lapels and slides it off your shoulders. He drapes it over the arm of the couch, then guides you by the elbow to sit down on the soft cushions.
“Wait here,” Garrett says softly. “I’m going to go help Dean make sure my room is actually clean. Then you’re going to sleep for a week.”
You look up at him, the heavy, crushing weight of the last few months suddenly lifting just a fraction off your chest.
“Garrett?” You ask as he turns to leave.
He pauses, looking back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Thank you,” you whisper.
The words feel woefully inadequate, but Garrett understands the weight behind them.
He gives you a slow, solemn nod. “We’ve got you, Y/N. I promise.”
And as he walks down the hall, leaving you in the warmth of the living room with the smell of bacon drifting from the kitchen, for the very first time, you actually believe it.
***
It’s been three and a half weeks since you walked through the front door of the Briar hockey house in your pink patterned scrubs, terrified and trembling.
In that time, a lot has changed.
The heavy, suffocating fear that used to dictate your every waking moment — the constant anxiety of checking your phone, of listening for the heavy tread of Phil’s boots — has slowly begun to thaw. It hasn’t vanished entirely. You still jump when a door slams too loudly, and your phone remains powered off and stuffed in the bottom of your duffel bag, replaced by a cheap burner phone Tucker bought you at a gas station.
But the house itself is a sanctuary.
It turns out that living with four massive, Division I hockey players is exactly the kind of chaotic distraction you needed.
The front door bangs open, followed instantly by the sound of heavy equipment bags hitting the hardwood floor of the entryway with synchronized thuds.
“I’m telling you, the ref was blind! He was looking right at the guy when he tripped me!” Dean’s voice echoes down the hallway, dripping with dramatic outrage.
“You tripped over the blue line,” Logan retorts, his voice rougher, exhausted. “Nobody touched you. It’s on tape. Stop trying to rewrite history.”
“My ankle is practically shattered,” Dean argues, dropping his keys onto the console table. “I need medical attention. Stat.”
You are already waiting for them in the kitchen.
The large kitchen island has been temporarily converted into what Logan affectionately calls “the triage center.” You have a large first-aid kit open on the granite counter, flanked by instant ice packs, athletic tape, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a stack of clean towels.
You lean against the counter, wearing an oversized Briar Hockey hoodie that Tucker practically forced over your head on day three. You cross your arms and wait as the boys drag themselves into the kitchen.
They look terrible. It was a brutal, incredibly physical Friday night game against Cornell, and the evidence is written all over their bodies.
Dean dramatically limps into the room first, clutching his chest as if he’s taking his final breaths.
“Y/N,” Dean gasps, leaning heavily against the island. “I am a broken man. Patch me up, Doc. Tell me I’ll walk again.”
You roll your eyes, a genuine, easy smile breaking across your face. “Sit on the stool, Dean. You look fine.”
“Fine?” Dean squawks, hoisting himself onto a barstool with a wince. “I took a slash to the calf that would have felled a lesser man. And I think I pulled a muscle in my back.”
“You pulled a muscle reaching for the last slice of pizza in the locker room,” Tucker says dryly as he walks into the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a massive jug of water. He looks over at you, his expression softening into a fond, older-brother smile. “Hey, Y/N. How was your night?”
“Quiet,” you say, tossing an ice pack to Dean, who catches it clumsily. “Put that on your calf, you big baby. How’s the rib, Tuck?”
Tucker lifts the hem of his t-shirt, revealing a nasty, yellow-purple bruise blossoming over his lower ribs. He played through the pain, but the grimace on his face betrays him.
“Stiff,” Tucker admits, taking a seat at the island next to Dean. “Took a stick right under the padding in the second period.”
You immediately step forward, all business. You pull a fresh roll of wide athletic tape from your kit. “Stand up. Let me wrap it. It’ll give you some compression and keep it from aching when you breathe.”
“You are an angel sent from heaven,” Tucker groans, standing up and raising his arms so you can wrap the heavy tape tightly around his torso.
“She’s not an angel, she’s a tyrant,” Logan grumbles, shuffling into the kitchen last.
Logan looks like he got the worst of it. There is a fresh cut high on his cheekbone, held together by a hasty butterfly bandage from the team trainer, and he’s favoring his left shoulder heavily. He drops into the stool on the opposite side of the island and rests his head against the cool granite counter.
“Don’t be a baby, Logan,” you scold gently, finishing the wrap on Tucker’s ribs and snipping the tape with a pair of medical scissors. “Let me see the shoulder.”
“It’s just bruised,” Logan mumbles into the counter.
You walk around the island and gently smack the back of his head. “Sit up. Shirt off. Now.”
Logan groans, but he obeys instantly.
This is the routine. Somewhere around the end of week one, when they all came home from a particularly brutal practice nursing various ailments, your professional instincts kicked in. You couldn’t sit on the couch and watch them clumsily apply ice packs and struggle to bandage their own cuts.
Before you knew it, you had practically adopted them. Or, more accurately, they had adopted you.
The dynamic shifted rapidly. The awkwardness of your arrival faded, replaced by an easy, familial banter. Dean stopped trying to casually flirt with you after Logan pulled him aside and threatened to rearrange his teeth. “She’s our sister now, bro,” Logan had told him. “Keep your dick in your pants or I’ll cut it off.”
And they mean it. The protective instinct they showed on that first night has only deepened. If you walk to the campus library to return a book, one of them is walking with you. If you need something from the grocery store, Tucker goes to get it. They screen every call to the landline, and they keep the front door double deadbolted.
They are your brothers.
You pull Logan’s t-shirt over his head, being careful of his left arm. His shoulder is already swelling, the skin hot to the touch.
“Ice,” you declare, cracking another instant cold pack and pressing it firmly against his shoulder joint.
Logan hisses sharply. “Fuck, Y/N, warn a guy.”
“Language,” you chide automatically, holding the ice pack in place. “Twenty minutes. If you take it off early, I won’t make those chocolate chip pancakes you asked for tomorrow morning.”
“You fight dirty,” Logan mutters, reaching up with his good arm to hold the ice pack himself. But he looks at you, his blue eyes warm with affection. “Thanks, kid.”
“Anytime,” you smile.
You wipe your hands on a towel and look toward the entryway. The house is suddenly very quiet.
“Where’s Garrett?” You ask.
The atmosphere in the kitchen shifts almost imperceptibly. Dean clears his throat, focusing intently on his phone. Tucker takes a long sip of his water.
“He’s coming,” Logan says carefully. “He stayed back to talk to Coach for a minute. Took a pretty bad hit into the boards in the third period.”
Your stomach tightens immediately. “Is he hurt?”
“He’s fine,” Tucker says quickly, though his eyes meet Logan’s for a fraction of a second. “Just got the wind knocked out of him.”
It’s a lie. You know it’s a lie. You’ve learned to read the micro-expressions of these three guys over the last month, and right now, they are hiding something.
Before you can interrogate them, the heavy front door opens and clicks shut.
Footsteps sound in the hallway, slower and heavier than usual.
Garrett walks into the kitchen.
He looks exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes stand out sharply against his pale skin. He’s wearing his Briar hockey sweats and a grey t-shirt, his gym bag slung over his right shoulder. But it’s the way he holds himself that catches your attention. He’s stiff, his posture unnaturally rigid, as if moving too quickly will shatter him.
He stops in the doorway, his dark eyes instantly locking onto yours.
The air between you crackles, thick and heavy with an unspoken, unresolved tension that has been building since the night he brought you here.
With Logan, Dean, and Tucker, the boundaries are clear. They are the overprotective older brothers. You are the little sister they never had. The relationship is simple, platonic, and incredibly healing.
With Garrett, there is nothing simple about it.
He is the reason you are here. He is the one who saved you. He is the one who gave up his own bed to sleep on the uncomfortable living room couch for almost a month, refusing to let you sleep anywhere else.
But he keeps his distance.
He watches you. You catch him staring at you when he thinks you aren’t looking — when you’re making coffee in the morning, when you’re laughing at one of Dean’s stupid jokes, when you’re simply reading a book on the couch. His gaze is always intense, brooding, and unreadable.
He doesn’t banter with you the way the others do. He speaks to you softly, carefully, as if you are something fragile that might break if he raises his voice. He treats you like precious glass, and while the respect is a beautiful contrast to Phil, the physical distance he maintains aches in a way you don’t fully understand.
“Hey, G,” Dean says, breaking the heavy silence. “You alive?”
“Barely,” Garrett grunts, his eyes finally dropping from yours. He walks over to the refrigerator, moving with a distinct lack of his usual fluid grace.
“Sit down, Garrett,” you say, your voice shifting back into its authoritative, nurse cadence.
Garrett pauses, his hand on the handle of the fridge. He looks over his shoulder at you. “I’m fine, Y/N.”
“No, you’re not,” you fire back, crossing your arms. “You’re moving like an eighty-year-old man with arthritis. Come sit at the triage center.”
Logan snorts a laugh, instantly wincing as it jostles his shoulder. “Listen to the boss, man. Don’t fight it.”
Garrett sighs, a heavy, resigned sound. He lets go of the fridge and walks slowly over to the only empty stool at the island, directly in front of you. He sits down, resting his forearms on his thighs, looking up at you from beneath his dark lashes.
“Where does it hurt?” You ask, stepping closer.
You are close enough to smell the familiar, masculine scent of his cedarwood body wash mixed with the sharp tang of sweat. Your heart does a ridiculous, completely unprofessional flutter against your ribs.
“Lower back,” Garrett admits quietly. “Got cross-checked into the boards. Hit the edge of the gate.”
You nod, keeping your expression neutral. “Shirt off.”
Garrett hesitates.
He has watched you patch up his roommates dozens of times. He has seen you casually pull off their shirts, wrap their ribs, ice their shoulders. But whenever it comes to him, he balks. He has spent the last month actively avoiding any physical contact with you. If you pass each other in the narrow hallway, he flattens himself against the wall to ensure you don’t brush shoulders.
“Garrett,” you prompt gently. “I can’t see the bruise through the cotton.”
He swallows hard, his jaw clenching. He reaches down, grabs the hem of his t-shirt, and pulls it over his head.
You hear Dean suck in a breath through his teeth.
“Jesus, G,” Tucker mutters.
You bite the inside of your cheek hard to keep from gasping.
The bruise is massive. It covers the entire right side of his lower back, stretching from his spine to his hip bone. It is an angry, mottled tapestry of black, deep purple, and swollen red. The skin is visibly raised, the impact point raw and ugly.
“You played the rest of the period with this?” You ask, your voice tight with professional disapproval and a sudden, sharp spike of personal concern.
“Yeah,” Garrett says simply, staring straight ahead at the granite counter.
You don’t say anything else. You reach into your kit and pull out a large tube of arnica cream and a heavy-duty ice pack.
“Lean forward,” you instruct softly. “Rest your arms on the counter.”
Garrett complies, leaning forward and resting his head on his crossed arms. The muscles in his broad back tense tightly under his skin.
You squeeze a dollop of the cooling arnica cream onto your fingers. “This is going to be cold.”
“Okay,” he whispers.
You press your fingers against the unbruised skin just above the swelling, gently working the cream into his muscles before moving down toward the agonizingly tender center of the bruise.
The moment your skin makes contact with his, Garrett flinches violently.
A full-body shudder violently rips through his frame. He sucks in a sharp, jagged breath, his hands gripping the edge of the granite counter so hard his knuckles turn white.
You freeze instantly, yanking your hands back as if you burned him.
“I’m sorry,” you gasp, panic flaring in your chest. “I’m so sorry, Garrett, did I press too hard? I know it’s tender-”
“No,” Garrett grits out, his voice incredibly strained, his eyes squeezed shut. “No, you didn’t press too hard. You’re fine.”
You stare at his back, your hands hovering uselessly in the air. “Garrett, you practically jumped off the stool.”
“I’m fine,” he repeats, harsher this time. He slowly opens his eyes and sits up, turning his head to look at you. His dark eyes are wild, storm-tossed, and completely overwhelmed. “Just put the ice on it.”
You swallow hard, hurt flashing hot and fast through your chest. You grab the instant cold pack and crack it, handing it to him without a word.
He takes it, pressing it clumsily against his lower back.
The silence in the kitchen is suddenly deafening. The easy banter from ten minutes ago has vanished completely.
Logan, Dean, and Tucker exchange a highly loaded, silent conversation over Garrett’s head.
“Alright,” Tucker says smoothly, standing up and stretching. “I need a shower. The smell of Dean’s whining is making me nauseous.”
“Hey!” Dean protests, but Logan immediately reaches out with his good arm and grabs Dean by the collar of his t-shirt, hauling him off the stool.
“Shower time,” Logan says firmly, dragging Dean toward the hallway. “Leave the nurse alone. She’s off the clock.”
“My calf!” Dean yelps as he’s dragged away.
Within seconds, the three of them are gone. The sound of their bedroom doors shutting echoes down the hall, leaving you and Garrett entirely alone in the brightly lit kitchen.
The air is practically vibrating with tension.
You stand on one side of the island; Garrett sits on the other. He keeps the ice pack pressed to his back, staring intensely at a spot on the granite counter near your hand.
You reach out and slowly begin packing up the first-aid kit. You zip the bag shut, the sound obnoxiously loud in the quiet room.
“I’m sorry,” Garrett says suddenly.
His voice is low, rough like gravel. It stops you dead in your tracks.
You look up at him. “For what? Being injured?”
“For snapping at you,” Garrett says, finally lifting his head to meet your gaze. The vulnerability in his eyes makes your breath hitch. “I didn’t mean to yell. You didn’t hurt me.”
“Then why did you flinch?” You ask quietly, the question slipping out before you can stop it. You cross your arms, suddenly feeling incredibly small in the oversized hoodie. “You avoid me, Garrett. You’ve been doing it for weeks. You won’t even sit on the same couch as me.”
Garrett closes his eyes, a muscle feathering wildly in his tight jaw. He lets out a long, ragged breath, letting his head fall back in defeat.
“I don’t avoid you because I don’t want to be near you,” he confesses, the words sounding like they are being ripped out of his chest.
“Then why?”
Garrett drops the ice pack onto the counter. He stands up. He doesn’t put his shirt back on. He walks slowly around the kitchen island, closing the physical distance between you until he is standing just inches away.
You have to tilt your head back to look at him. His chest is broad, marked with pale scars and the faint remnants of old bruises. He is an imposing, powerful force, but as he looks down at you, he looks completely broken.
“Because my brain is scrambled,” Garrett whispers, lifting a hand as if to touch your face, before violently forcing it back to his side, his fingers curling into a fist. “Because every time you walk into a room, I can’t breathe.”
You stare at him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “Garrett …”
“You are so gentle,” he continues, his voice cracking, the raw emotion finally bleeding out. “You touch Logan and Dean and Tucker, and you fix them. You’re so good. And I am …” He chokes on the word, shaking his head. “I am my father’s son.”
The words hit you like a physical blow. You physically recoil, shock radiating through your entire body.
“No,” you say instantly, your voice fierce and immediate. “No, you are not.”
“You don’t understand,” Garrett argues desperately, taking a half-step back, trying to maintain the wall he has built between you. “You saw the violence in that house. You lived it. And I have that same blood in my veins. I play a violent sport. I get angry. I lose my temper.”
He runs both hands through his messy hair, pulling at the roots.
“When you touched my back just now,” Garrett admits, his voice dropping to an agonizing whisper, “when I felt how soft your hands were … it made me sick to my stomach. Because I know what my father’s hands did to you. I know what he did to my mother. And I am terrified that if I let myself get close to you, if I let myself touch you, I will somehow taint you. I will ruin you just like he did.”
Tears well up in your eyes, hot and blinding.
The profound, crushing weight of his guilt is devastating. He isn’t avoiding you because he doesn’t care. He is avoiding you because he cares too much. He is punishing himself for the sins of his father, terrified of a phantom inheritance he doesn’t even possess.
“Garrett Graham,” you say, your voice shaking but absolutely resolute.
You close the distance between you. You don’t ask for permission. You reach out, placing both of your hands flat against his bare chest, right over his rapidly beating heart.
He gasps, a sharp intake of air, his entire body going rigid under your touch. But he doesn’t pull away.
“Look at me,” you demand softly.
He slowly opens his eyes. A single tear escapes, cutting a clean track down his cheek.
“You are nothing like him,” you whisper, holding his gaze with everything you have. You press your hands firmly against the solid warmth of his chest, refusing to let him flinch away from your touch. “Do you hear me? Nothing. You are the man who pulled me out of a nightmare. You gave up your bed for me. You protect me. You gave me a home.”
“Y/N …” he breathes, his hands trembling at his sides.
“Phil controlled me through fear,” you say, the absolute truth of it ringing clear in the quiet kitchen. “You gave me back my life. Your hands …” You slide one of your hands up his chest, resting your palm against his cheek. His skin is hot, the scruff of his beard slightly rough against your sensitive fingers. “Your hands are safe.”
Garrett leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut. A broken, shuddering sigh escapes his lips, the sound of a man who has been holding his breath for twenty years finally exhaling.
He slowly, hesitantly, raises his own hands.
He doesn’t grab you. He doesn’t pull you in. He just gently, reverently, rests his large hands on your waist. His grip is impossibly light, his thumbs brushing lightly against the fabric of the oversized hoodie.
It is the first time he has truly touched you since the night in the emergency room.
“I want you,” Garrett whispers into the quiet space between you, the confession heavy and undeniable. He opens his eyes, staring down at your lips before meeting your gaze. “I’ve wanted you since the second you walked into that ER room and I realized I had a chance to get you out.”
Your breath hitches. The professional boundaries, the nurse-patient dynamic, the complicated tangle of his father — it all fades into the background, leaving only the undeniable, electric connection thrumming between you.
“I want you too,” you breathe back, the truth terrifying but exhilarating.
Garrett’s eyes darken. The tension in his jaw shifts from anxious to something entirely different, something intensely focused and overwhelmingly male.
His hands tighten marginally on your waist, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, the heavy, rhythmic thud of his heart beneath your palm.
He leans down, his face so close to yours that his warm breath fans across your lips.
Suddenly, the harsh, shrill ring of the phone on the kitchen counter shatters the silence.
You both jump violently.
Garrett pulls back, his eyes wide, his chest heaving as if he’s just run a marathon.
You spin around to look at the phone. It sits on the granite counter, ringing incessantly. The caller ID screen glows with a bright red, blocked number.
The heavy, suffocating reality of your situation crashes back down onto you like a physical weight.
You aren’t just a girl flirting with a guy in a kitchen. You are a girl hiding from a monster. And that monster is still out there.
Garrett stares at the phone, his expression hardening instantly. The vulnerable, open man from a moment ago vanishes, replaced entirely by the fierce, protective captain.
He steps in front of you, shielding you from the ringing phone as if it can physically hurt you.
“Don’t answer it,” Garrett says, his voice cold and deadly serious.
You don’t need to be told twice. You stare at the flashing red light, your heart pounding a frantic, terrifying rhythm.
The phone rings a fifth time. Then a sixth.
Then, it stops.
The kitchen is plunged back into silence, but it is no longer the intimate, charged silence of a moment ago. It is a tense, vigilant quiet.
Garrett turns back to you. He reaches out and gently cups your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone, right over the spot where the yellow bruise has finally faded away completely.
“I’ve got you,” Garrett promises, his voice a fierce, unyielding vow. “He’s never getting near you again.”
You lean into his touch, drawing strength from his steady presence. The threat is still out there, looming in the shadows of blocked calls and unanswered questions.
But as you look up into Garrett Graham’s determined eyes, surrounded by the quiet walls of a house filled with four guys who would literally fight for you, you know one thing for absolute certain.
You are exactly where you are supposed to be.
***
The air in the house has been different since the night the phone rang.
There’s a new, fragile understanding between you and Garrett. The invisible wall he built between you is gone, replaced by a magnetic, undeniable pull that hums in the background of every interaction. He doesn’t avoid you anymore. If you’re on the couch reading, he sits on the other end, his foot casually resting against your leg. When he hands you a cup of coffee in the morning, his fingers linger against yours.
But the threat of that blocked caller ID still hangs over the house like a dark cloud. The boys are doubly vigilant. Someone is always awake. The doors are always locked.
Which is why leaving for your Tuesday day shift feels like a military operation.
“I’m just going to the hospital,” you say, laughing as Tucker practically inspects the locks on your car doors. “I work in a building filled with security guards and police officers, Tuck. I promise, I’m safe.”
“Humor me,” Tucker murmurs, leaning against your driver’s side window. “Text the group chat when you get into the breakroom. Text us when you leave.”
“I will,” you promise.
You look toward the front porch. Garrett is leaning against the wooden railing, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He’s wearing a fitted black Henley that makes his shoulders look impossibly wide, his dark hair messy from sleep. He catches your eye, and that familiar, intense heat flares between you.
“I’m stopping at Market Basket on the way home,” you call out to the porch. “Do you guys need anything?”
The front door flies open. Dean leans out, a piece of toast in his mouth. “Bagel Bites! The pepperoni kind, not the cheese kind. And some of those sour gummy worms!”
“Protein powder,” Logan yells from somewhere inside the house. “Chocolate peanut butter!”
“Actual food,” Tucker corrects, shooting Dean a dirty look. “Grab some chicken breasts and a bag of spinach. I’m making stir-fry tonight.”
You smile, pulling a small notepad from your scrub pocket and jotting it down. “Bagel Bites, protein, chicken, spinach. Got it.”
You look back at Garrett. “What about you? Anything you want?”
Garrett pushes off the railing and walks slowly down the steps, not stopping until he is standing right outside your open car window. He rests his hands on the roof of your car, leaning down so his face is level with yours.
“Just come straight home after,” Garrett says, his voice low, meant only for you. His dark eyes scan your face, taking in the soft, natural makeup you started wearing again now that there are no bruises to hide. “Don’t loiter in the aisles.”
“It’s a grocery store, Garrett,” you tease gently, the corner of your mouth tipping up. “I’m not exactly going to be partying in the produce section. I get off at six. I’ll be home by seven.”
Garrett reaches through the open window. He gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckles grazing your cheek. The simple, affectionate gesture makes your heart skip a beat.
“Seven,” he repeats firmly. “Text me when you leave the hospital.”
“I will.”
“Drive safe.”
The shift is brutally busy. A nasty strain of RSV is making its way through the local elementary schools, and the pediatric ward is overflowing. You spend eight hours running from room to room, charting, soothing terrified toddlers, and administering breathing treatments.
By the time six o’clock rolls around, your feet are aching, and all you want is a hot shower and Tucker’s chicken stir-fry.
You pull your burner phone out of your locker and shoot a quick text to the group chat: Clocking out. Heading to Market Basket. See you animals soon.
Four immediate replies light up your screen.
Dean: BAGEL BITES
Tucker: Drive safe
Logan: Jif > Skippy
Garrett: See you at home
You smile, shoving the phone into your bag, and head out into the crisp, darkening December evening.
***
7 PM comes and goes.
Garrett is sitting on the edge of the living room coffee table, his elbows resting on his knees, his phone loosely gripped in his hands. The TV is playing a muted hockey game, but he hasn’t looked at the screen in twenty minutes.
He taps his thumb rhythmically against the edge of his phone case.
“Relax, G,” Logan says from the couch, tossing a lacrosse ball up and catching it. “The grocery store is probably packed with people buying milk because the weather channel threatened a flurry.”
“She said she’d be home by seven,” Garrett says, his voice tight.
“It’s 7:15,” Tucker points out reasonably from the kitchen, where he’s chopping vegetables. “She had to get Dean’s processed garbage and Logan’s overpriced chalk powder. Give her a minute.”
Garrett stands up, the nervous energy impossible to contain. He starts pacing the length of the living room. “I’m calling her.”
He hits your contact name and puts the phone to his ear.
It rings twice, and then goes straight to voicemail.
Garrett stops pacing. The blood turns to ice in his veins. “It went straight to voicemail.”
Dean pauses his video game, the playful atmosphere in the room instantly evaporating. “Maybe her battery died? Those cheap burner phones Tucker bought have terrible battery life.”
“She charged it this morning,” Garrett snaps, the panic beginning to claw its way up his throat. “I saw it plugged into the kitchen wall.”
He hits redial.
“Fuck,” Garrett breathes, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looks at his three best friends. “Something’s wrong.”
Tucker sets his knife down on the cutting board. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t tell Garrett he’s overreacting. He just reaches for a dish towel, wipes his hands, and grabs his keys from the counter.
“Let’s go,” Tucker says.
The drive to the local Market Basket is a blur of reckless speeding and suffocating silence. Garrett is in the passenger seat of Tucker’s truck,
his knee bouncing violently up and down. Logan and Dean are crammed in the back, both holding their phones, constantly refreshing your location on the Life360 app they forced you to download last week.
“Her dot hasn’t moved,” Logan says, his voice grim. “It’s showing her right at the Market Basket parking lot. Has been for forty minutes.”
“Step on it, Tuck,” Garrett grits out, his hands clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists.
Tucker runs a red light, swerving around a slow-moving sedan, and takes the turn into the shopping plaza so fast the tires squeal in protest.
The parking lot is moderately full, but not packed. The bright, fluorescent lights of the grocery store spill out onto the pavement, illuminating the rows of cars.
“There,” Dean points from the backseat. “Row G. Under the light.”
Tucker slams on the brakes, throwing the truck into park before it even fully stops.
Garrett is out of the door before the engine cuts off.
He sprints toward your small, sensible sedan. From a distance, it looks completely normal. But as Garrett gets closer, the horrifying details snap into sharp, devastating focus.
Your driver’s side door is wide open.
“Y/N!” Garrett shouts, his voice tearing through the quiet parking lot.
He reaches the car. You aren’t inside. The keys are still in the ignition. Your hospital badge is resting on the center console.
But it’s the ground outside the car that makes Garrett’s stomach drop out from under him.
Groceries are scattered across the black asphalt. A plastic Market Basket bag is torn open. A box of Dean’s Bagel Bites is crushed under the tire. A jar of marinara sauce has shattered, the red liquid pooling on the ground, looking terrifyingly like blood in the dim light.
And right next to the shattered glass is your burner phone. The screen is spider-webbed with cracks, completely dead.
“Oh, god,” Logan breathes, coming up behind Garrett.
Dean and Tucker arrive a second later. They take one look at the abandoned car, the scattered groceries, the open door, and the reality of the situation hits them like a freight train.
“Split up,” Garrett barks, the sheer, primal terror hijacking his brain and turning it into pure, unadulterated adrenaline. “Check the store. Check the bathrooms. Logan, with me. We take the back alley.”
Garrett doesn’t wait for a response. He turns and sprints toward the dark, narrow alleyway that runs between the Market Basket and the neighboring hardware store, leading back toward the loading docks and dumpsters.
It’s dark back here. The streetlights from the parking lot don’t reach the alley. The only illumination is the faint, yellow glow of a single security bulb high above the receiving doors.
“Y/N!” Garrett screams again, the sound raw and desperate, echoing off the brick walls.
“Garrett, over here!” Logan yells from somewhere near the dumpsters.
Garrett pivots, his heavy boots pounding against the pavement. He rounds the corner of a massive green dumpster.
And then he stops.
His brain simply refuses to process what his eyes are seeing. It’s too much. It’s too horrific. The cognitive dissonance is so severe that for a fraction of a second, the world goes completely silent and still.
You are lying on the cold, dirty asphalt, shoved up against the brick wall.
You are crumpled into a fetal position, your pink scrubs stained dark with mud and something much, much worse.
“No,” Garrett whispers, the sound completely broken.
He closes the distance in two massive strides and drops to his knees on the hard pavement, completely ignoring the sharp sting as his skin scrapes against the ground.
“Y/N,” he chokes out, his hands hovering over your body, terrified to touch you, terrified to cause more pain.
You don’t move.
The security light catches the side of your face, and a violent, sickening wave of nausea rolls through Garrett.
You are unrecognizable.
Your face is a swollen, bloody mess. Your lip is split open, still sluggishly bleeding. Your left eye is completely swollen shut, the skin around it already blooming into an angry, terrifying black-and-purple mass. There is a deep, jagged cut across your cheekbone, and your nose is visibly broken, pushed off to an unnatural angle.
But it’s not just your face.
Your scrub top is torn at the shoulder. Your arms are wrapped defensively around your torso, but Garrett can see the dark, brutal bruises forming on your forearms — defensive wounds. Someone kicked you. Someone beat you until you couldn’t stand, and then they kept going.
“Call 911!” Garrett roars, turning to Logan, who is standing frozen in pure shock. “Logan, call 911 right fucking now!”
Logan snaps out of it, fumbling for his phone, his hands shaking so violently he almost drops it. “I got it. I got it.”
Garrett turns back to you. His heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to shatter his ribs. He strips off his heavy winter coat, uncaring of the freezing temperature, and gently, so incredibly gently, drapes it over your trembling body.
Because you are trembling. A violent, terrifying, full-body shudder.
“Y/N,” Garrett begs, his voice breaking into a sob. He carefully rests a hand on the side of your uninjured face. Your skin is like ice. “Baby, please. Please look at me. Open your eyes.”
You don’t open your eyes. But a weak, agonizing whimper escapes your lips.
“I’m here,” Garrett says, the tears hot and fast down his own face now. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. The ambulance is coming.”
“They’re on their way,” Logan says loudly, his voice tight with panic. He crouches down on the other side of you. “Tucker and Dean are directing them to the alley.”
Garrett doesn’t acknowledge Logan. He can’t look away from you.
He carefully slides his hand down your neck, pressing his two fingers against your carotid artery. Your pulse is there, but it’s weak, thready, and far too fast.
He shifts slightly, trying to pull the coat tighter around your shoulders to trap whatever body heat you have left, and as he does, your arm falls limply to the side.
Your scrub sleeve slides up.
There, stark against your cold skin, are the fresh, dark shapes of a massive handprint gripping your bicep.
The exact same size. The exact same shape.
Garrett’s breath stops.
The terror, the frantic panic that has been driving him for the last thirty minutes, suddenly crystallizes. It hardens into something cold, sharp, and infinitely dangerous.
It wasn’t a mugging. Your purse is still lying three feet away, your wallet sticking halfway out. It wasn’t a random attack.
It was Phil.
Garrett looks down at your broken, bleeding body. He remembers the bruises on his mother. He remembers the nights she would cry quietly in the bathroom, applying ice packs to her ribs. He remembers his own broken bones, the split lips, the concussions.
But it was never, ever this bad.
Phil hit them to control them. He hit them to establish dominance. He hit them to instill fear.
He didn’t do this to instill fear. He did this to punish.
You escaping, slipping through his fingers, finding refuge with his own son — it must have enraged Phil to a point of sheer, psychotic violence. This was retaliation. This was a message. This was Phil trying to beat the defiance out of you permanently.
A dark, terrifying rage explodes in Garrett’s chest. It is a violent, primal urge that eclipses everything else.
He wants to kill him.
The thought isn’t an exaggeration. It isn’t a figure of speech. As Garrett kneels on the freezing asphalt, the blood of the woman he is falling in love with staining his hands, he feels a terrifyingly calm certainty settle into his bones.
He is going to find his father, and he is going to beat him to death with his bare hands. He is going to commit patricide. And he doesn’t feel an ounce of remorse about it.
“Garrett,” Logan says, his voice cutting through the ringing in Garrett’s ears. Logan reaches out and grips Garrett’s shoulder hard. “Hey. Look at me.”
Garrett slowly turns his head. His dark eyes are completely void of any humanity. They are pitch black, lethal, and terrifying.
Even Logan, who faces down two-hundred-pound defensemen every night, flinches slightly at the look on his captain’s face.
“Don’t do it,” Logan whispers, reading Garrett’s mind with the terrifying accuracy of a best friend. “Don’t go there right now. She needs you here.”
“He did this,” Garrett says. His voice doesn’t sound like his own. It’s a low, guttural rasp that sounds like it’s vibrating straight from hell. “My father did this to her.”
Logan looks down at you, his own eyes filling with tears. “I know. I know he did, G. And we will deal with him. I swear to god, we will deal with him. But right now, you have to keep her awake.”
The wail of sirens cuts through the night air, growing louder, closer.
Red and blue lights begin to bounce off the brick walls of the alleyway.
“Garrett,” you whisper.
The sound is so quiet, so weak, Garrett almost misses it over the sirens.
He snaps his attention back to you instantly. The murderous rage is shoved violently into a box in the back of his mind, locked away for later. Right now, there is only you.
“I’m here,” Garrett says frantically, leaning in closer, pressing his forehead gently against your uninjured temple. “I’m right here, baby. Don’t try to talk. Just breathe.”
Your uninjured eye flutters open. The pupil is blown wide, completely unfocused. You look incredibly confused, your gaze darting around the dark alley before finally landing on his face.
A fresh tear slips out of the corner of your eye, cutting a clean path through the blood on your cheek.
“He found me,” you sob, a weak, wet sound that shatters whatever is left of Garrett’s heart. “Garrett, he found me.”
“I know,” Garrett chokes out, grabbing your cold, trembling hand in both of his, pressing it to his lips. He kisses your knuckles, tasting salt and copper. “I know, Y/N. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“He said …” You have to stop, gasping for a shallow breath. Every movement clearly causes you immense agony. “He said you couldn’t keep me. He said I belonged to him.”
“You don’t belong to him,” Garrett says fiercely, his voice vibrating with absolute conviction. “You hear me? You are not his.”
“Hurts,” you whimper, your eye fluttering shut again. “Garrett, it hurts so bad.”
“I know it does,” Garrett cries, completely uncaring that Logan is watching him break down. “Stay with me, Y/N. The paramedics are right here. They’re going to give you something for the pain. Just hold on for me. Please, baby, just hold on.”
Footsteps thunder down the alleyway.
“Over here!” Dean’s voice yells, completely frantic. “She’s over here! Bring the bag!”
Two paramedics round the dumpster, carrying heavy trauma bags and a backboard. Tucker is right behind them, his face deathly pale.
“Sir, you need to step back,” the first paramedic says, a no-nonsense woman who immediately drops to her knees on the other side of you.
“No,” Garrett says, his grip on your hand tightening. “I’m not leaving her.”
“You don’t have to leave, but you need to give me room to work,” the paramedic insists, already pulling a penlight and a pair of heavy trauma shears from her pockets. “What’s her name?”
“Y/N,” Garrett says, his voice trembling. “She’s a nurse. She’s twenty-three.”
The paramedic flashes the light into your eyes. You moan in protest, trying to turn your head away from the beam.
“Pupils are sluggish,” she barks to her partner. “Significant facial trauma. She’s guarding her abdomen. I need a C-collar and an IV setup, stat. Let’s get her on the board. She’s critical.”
The word rings in Garrett’s ears like a gunshot.
Logan hooks his hands under Garrett’s armpits and hauls him backward, pulling him away from you so the paramedics can work. Garrett fights him for a second, a pure, instinctual need to protect you taking over, before logic finally pierces through the panic.
He stands there, supported entirely by Logan, as they cut away your blood-soaked scrub top. He watches as they secure a rigid plastic collar around your neck, as they stick an IV into your bruised arm, as they carefully roll your broken body onto the hard yellow backboard.
“We need to go,” the paramedic says, strapping you down. “She’s dropping.”
They lift you up and start moving fast toward the waiting ambulance.
Garrett stumbles forward, breaking out of Logan’s grip. “I’m riding with her.”
“Only one person in the back,” the paramedic shouts over her shoulder, not breaking stride.
“It’s me,” Garrett says, leaving zero room for argument.
He turns back to the guys. Dean is crying openly. Tucker looks like he’s about to be sick. Logan looks like he’s ready to go to war.
“Follow us to the hospital,” Garrett says, his voice flat and dead. “Call Robby. He knows one of the trauma surgeons.”
“We’re right behind you, G,” Tucker promises, his voice thick.
Garrett turns and sprints after the stretcher. He climbs into the brightly lit back of the ambulance, the harsh fluorescent lights illuminating the true horror of your injuries.
He takes a seat on the small bench by your head as the ambulance doors slam shut.
The siren wails, a deafening, terrifying sound, as the vehicle lurches forward.
The paramedic is working frantically, attaching heart monitors, pushing fluids through your IV, checking your vitals.
Garrett reaches out, his trembling fingers gently finding yours amidst the tangle of wires and straps. He holds your hand, his eyes locked on your pale, battered face.
You are barely conscious, fighting a losing battle against the pain and the shock.
But as the ambulance races through the dark streets, Garrett makes a silent, unbreakable vow.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | kaz brekker x fem!ravkan!healer!reader.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | cursing, also don’t google what schat means if u want the full experience i’ll have it explained in the fic <3
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | after learning y/n does not speak kerch, kaz gives her a nickname in his native language that makes her want to pull her hair out - without ever knowing its real meaning.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 | schat is the only dutch nickname someone can call me without seeing me cringe, i will not change my mind, ever. like, ‘liefje??’ or ‘mop??’ or ‘schatje??’ ATROCIOUS.
