Kristen - 30s - 18+ - Minors DNI - AO3: Fanfic_Girl89615273 - The Rookie/Chenford - The Pitt - Yellowstone - Off Campus - ACOTAR - Fourth Wing - One Tree Hill - Cobra Kai - Shonda Rhimes shows (Grey's, Bridgerton, others) - PBS shows - Top Gun/Maverick - Rhett Abbott - Peaky Blinders - Dick Wolf franchises - 911 - Marvel - too many others to list
Summary: Dean has to deal with you after karaoke night
Warnings: mention of drinking and drunk behavior, Dean being consent king, nudity,
When you came back from karaoke night, Garrett tucked you in on the couch like your mom used to when you were little. He left a glass of water and some Advils on the table for the morning, then took care of Hannah who had disappeared upstairs.
You closed your eyes and tried to sleep, but the couch wasn’t comfortable and you felt hot in your clothes. You looked around for your bag, forgetting it was in Garrett’s room. After a few minutes, you abandoned your quest and took off your jeans.
Much better.
Half an hour later, the door opened and the sound of it closing stirred you from your light sleep.
‘’Tuck?’’ you asked, not seeing well in the darkness of the living room.
‘’Wrong guy.’’
A smile curled on your lips at the voice and your heart jumped in your chest even though you were still hazy from sleep and alcohol.
The hardwood creaked as Dean stepped closer.
‘’Hey babydoll,’’ he whispered, crouching down beside where you lay curled under Garrett’s old flannel blanket. ‘’Had fun tonight?’’
You nodded. ‘’Did you like my song?’’
Dean took his time trying to muster an answer. ‘’It was…entertaining.”
Then, Logan came home, forcing you and Dean to part. You weren’t doing anything incriminating, but Logan had suspicions about the two of you. He saw his friend’s hand on your hip in the kitchen and the way you looked at Dean.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Once in his room, Dean peeled off his clothes and brushed his teeth, then climbed into bed.
Karaoke nights were always a wild ride. From Tucker and Birdie’s deafening Bohemian Rhapsody duet to music students acing the highest notes, and inevitable drunk emotional breakdowns, there was never a dull moment.
But the one performance stuck on Dean’s mind was yours. He could replay it all in his head perfectly; you standing on that karaoke stage, completely fearless — and completely tipsy —, singing your heart out while dragging half the bar into it. He won’t be able to hear that stupid song without thinking of you.
Which was a very annoying problem.
Because that song was on the radio all the time. Because you were Garrett's sister and he would absolutely murder him if he knew his pants felt tight after your little number.
Dean groaned and flopped on his stomach, forcing his mind to stop thinking about you.
Just as he succeeded in making his dick go down, his door creaked open. Dean sat up quickly, seeing you in your underwear and the top you wore at Malone’s.
‘’What are you doing here?’’ he hissed.
You ignored his question and jumped on Dean’s bed. He caught you, causing you to giggle.
‘’Hi.’’
‘'Hi,” he repeated, still holding you. ‘’Where’s your pants?”
You shrugged. ‘’It’s hot,” you replied, reaching for the bottom of your top to pull it off but Dean stopped you.
On another night, he would have let you take off whatever you wanted — shirt, panties, everything —, but not when you had this much to drink. Dean wouldn’t take advantage of you.
‘'Can we not do that tonight?”
You whined. ‘’But it’s hot.”
‘’It’s the alcohol talking. Let’s get you back to bed before G hears you and plots my death.”
Dean stood and you pulled off your top and threw it in a corner.
‘’Ugh, fuck me…” He groaned at the sight of your topless self. Those perfect tits he loved to play with.
Dean felt his body react and quickly opened his drawers to find a shirt for you. ‘’I’m gonna ask this nicely, please put a shirt on.” He handed it to you, but you shook your head.
‘’No.’’
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘’Yes.’’
‘’No."
‘’Baby..."
You crossed your arms over your chest in a surprisingly stubborn display of drunken determination.
Dean blew out a slow breath toward the ceiling. ‘’You're impossible.’’
Another giggle left your lips and you began humming to another Sabrina Carpenter song.
Dean exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy hair as he stared at you, his half naked, stubborn little problem. You were glowing in the dim bedroom light. Tipsy. Bare. Unbothered. And he was this close to losing every ounce of self-control he had ever had.
Without asking again, he slipped the shirt over your head gently. You resisted slightly at first but soon gave in as the cool fabric settled on your skin. The shirt was inevitably big on you, which only made Dean feel worse because now all he could picture was how cute — and sexy — you looked in his clothes.
You didn’t fight him anymore once dressed. The shirt smelled like him.
‘’Alright, my battle is done.’’
Dean pulled his comforter and got underneath, then tapped the space next to him. If Garrett got mad in the morning, he’ll say you were looking for a shirt and you were too drunk to go back downstairs.
‘’G’night,’’ you mumbled, pressing close against Dean with sleepy warmth.
‘’Good night,’’ he said back, pressing a gentle kiss at the top of your head.
Could I request another The One where Benny and Lily finally come out as a couple at a barbecue a few days after Frankie finds out? Will and Frankie are understandably uncomfortable while Santi is stunned and confused at the same time. Then, Frankie finds out that Will knew before he did and chews Will out before Benny comes to his brother's defense. Santi then mischievously makes a toast to Benny and Lily, making Frankie groan in annoyance.
The One: Telling Everyone
Pairing: Benny Miller x ofc Lily Morales (Frankie's of age daughter). Set in The One universe.
Word Count: 460ish
Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!
Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story.
Notes: I'm sorry this took a bit!
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**Reader is not described
Main Masterlist
The One
Benny Miller Masterlist
I clank my spoon against my plastic cup. "Everyone? I have, well..we have an announcement."
Everyone stops to look at me. All of our friends are here, Will, Santi, my dad, even Tom and Molly are at this bbq. Will's girlfriend smiles up at me, a twinkle in her eye. She already knows what I'm about to say.
I clear my throat, but Benny grabs my hand and presses his lips to the back of it. "We're together!"
Silence for a few moments before Santi leans forward, eyebrows pinched together. "Uh, what? What do you mean?"
Benny and I look at each other, his eyes full of love before we look back to Santi. "She's my girlfriend, Pope."
All eyes turn to my dad, who is taking a really long suspicious swig from his beer. When no one looks away, he shrugs and gestures back to us.
Will chuckles. "About time you made the announcement."
My dad's eyes snap to Will. "Wait…you knew?"
I have never seen Will hesitate before. He's always so stoic and confident. But now? He looks…scared?
"I uh…I may have run into them on a date."
My dad turns to face Will fully, anger seeping from him. "Really? When?"
Will glances up to us before looking back at him. "A few months ago."
"A FEW MONTHS??? What the fuck Will? You didn't think to tell me?"
Will responds calmly, trying to diffuse his anger. "I wanted to, but it's not my place to tell-"
"Fuck you, Will!"
Benny slams his fist on the table. "Hey! Dont' blame him. We asked him to keep it quiet!"
Dad looks back at Will. "And you listened to your asshole brother?"
"Stop!" I yell over them. "I asked him to keep it quiet. I wasn't ready for you to know."
My dad looks up at me, hurt. "Why didn't you want to tell me?"
I scoff. "Really, dad? Have you seen how you're reacting to it all?"
It's quiet. No one wants to get in the middle. Finally, my dad sighs, his shoulders slumping.
"I'm sorry, mija."
A few more awkward moments pass before Santi clears his throat, holding up his red plastic cup, a smile spreading across his face as he looks at Benny and me.
"A toast! To the happy couple! May your love grow and grow and never know misery!"
Everyone lifts their cup in agreement, aside from my dad who, while lifting his cup, grunts. Santi nudges his friend. "Chin up, Fish. Maybe one day you'll have little Benny's running around calling you abuelo."
My dad proceeds to chase Santi around the yard until they both gave up to rest their knees, dad punching Santi in the arm as they both catch their breath.
Summary: It’s an unwritten rule in life that after every prolonged period of hardship and uncertainty, there is going to be a period when you experience quantum leaps across multiple areas of your life. The only requirement is that you don’t give up on yourself. Jack Abbot never expected to see you again in any version of his reality…his late wife’s best friend. Especially not in his emergency department after a freak accident.
Series Summary: An unwritten rule in life that after every prolonged period of hardship and uncertainty, there is going to be a period when you experience quantum leaps across multiple areas of your life. The only requirement is that you don’t give up on yourself. Jack Abbot never expected to see you again in any version of his reality…his late wife’s best friend. Especially not in his emergency department after a freak accident.
Chapter Summary: Jack comes face to face with a part of his past when you’re presented to him as his latest trauma victim. The haunting memory of your final encounter consumes his being.
Warnings: Heavy themes not suitable for sensitive audiences. (Reader discretion is advised) Drug Addiction. Mentions of mental health issues. Jack Abbot x Reader. Mentions of Jacks late wife. Medical inaccuracies. Jack Abbot Angst/whump. Angsty vibes. Enemies to lovers vibes.
Word Count: 3.5k
Author Note: I’m in desperate need of some Jack Abbot Angst/whump and I don’t know anyone more fucked up than me to provide that.
My Masterlist
The legend of Icarus is a famous Greek myth about a young man who ignores his father's warning not to fly too close to the sun. There’s an old saying that goes a little something like this: ‘Icarus laughed as he fell towards the ground, for he knew that falling…meant he had soared.’ It was used to humanise his mistakes.
“Ma’am, are you laughing right now?” There had to be a lesson in all of this; otherwise? What the hell were you being punished for now? “Can you hear me? Ma’am?”
The last thing you could remember, before what felt like a bomb went off around you, was the cocktail you’d been mixing behind the bar. It had been a regular night up until that point. Now? The entire world felt like it was crushing your soul. But much like Icarus…the sound of your laughter let the paramedics and other first responders know that you were alive, breathing and conscious.
“Y—yeah!” You coughed through a painful laugh. You couldn’t taste anything but iron. You knew enough to know that meant blood…and lots of it. “I—I don’t think I can move my body.”
Little did you know at the time, a runaway Ford F-150 had just barreled its way through the side of the dinghy little dive bar you’d been working at for the last three months. Three fucking months.
“She’s wedged in there real good, boss. How’d you wanna play this!?” It was the last thing you heard before the darkness came for you. The familiar sound of childhood laughter rang through your mind like it was only yesterday that you heard her voice. Your best friend's voice. Your dead best friend's voice.
Fuck; Were you next? Is this how death came for you? You knew that when your number was up there was nothing anyone could do to stop it…but you didn’t think this was how you’d go out.
“Y/n,” her voice was comforting amongst all the uncertainty that being in the liminal plane between life and death felt like. Everything hurt, everywhere, all at once. But at the same time you couldn’t feel it. Not when she spoke to you like the lady in light. “Not today, not yet, not this way.”
“I—“ You mumbled as first responders dug cautiously through the rubble to get to you. You could see her behind them. All she did was watch. “I can't breathe, please—help me!” Panic: the kind of adrenaline that makes mothers lift cars to rescue their children. The adrenaline that comes with a life-or-death experience.
“Ma’am, we’re going to get you out alright,” the first responder who had crawled his way between the remains of what had been the south-facing wall. On top of all that? on top of you…Was the truck and its driver. Holy unlucky.
“I’m not sure I wanna be saved.” It’s an unwritten rule in life that after every prolonged period of hardship and uncertainty, there is going to be a period when you experience quantum leaps across multiple areas of your life. The only requirement is that you don’t give up on yourself. “She’s here watching me.”
But giving up felt like the easiest thing to accomplish in your current situation.
***************
The night shift. The only shift Jack Abbot truly found comfort in. He wasn’t afraid to admit he wasn’t a good sleeper; the nightmares often overwhelmed him in his day-to-day life—so if the sun was down? He wasn’t closing his eyes.
“We’ve got multiple traumas coming in via ambulance.” Lena, the night shift charge nurse, called out from across the nurses' station. She wasn’t exactly talking directly to anyone, but she knew that one of the attendings or senior residents would come running at the offer of something juicy.
Jack's ears pricked at the sudden change in direction the night was about to take. He was charting. He wasn’t one to like falling behind with the people he’d been treating.
Up until now, the shift had been relatively quiet. Sure, it had still been a constant revolving door of never-ending night shift night crawlers, but this? This seemed like something he could actually sink his emergency medicine, trauma-trained teeth into.
“Any more info to share?” Jack asked with a grin. The adrenaline was beginning to flow. That pure energy boost he’d been lacking this shift was about to roll in.
“Truck versus dive bar, multiple crush victims—that’s all I got for now,” Lena replied as she walked away, heading off to follow up with a few of her nurses who were treating the homeless man in South Ten.
“Ellis, you’re with me; let’s roll.” Jack elevated his voice as he reached for a set of large, blue latex gloves and a white paper trauma gown.
“Right behind you!” Dr Ellis called back as she took strides across the emergency department. Mimicking Jack's actions with a pair of gloves and white paper gown. “Something intriguing to get us through the last few hours.”
“I’ll say,” Jack agreed with a sigh. “I’ve actually been considering switching to the day shift just to get a look at something interesting.” The chill of the fresh Pittsburgh air smacked them both in the face. Reviving their systems like a warm cup of instant coffee.
“That’s blasphemy.” Ellis smiled. “You wouldn’t abandon us like that.” The two stood beside one another, ready and waiting for the arrival of what would be the first of many ambulances.
“The darkness is an all-too-comfortable place to be, Dr Elis,” Jack replied with a shy smile. The half-lipped smirk he wore so casually as he crossed his arms across his chest. The whirl of ambulance sirens filled the silent void of the ambulance bay.
One by one, they piled in. Screeching tyres came to a halt with a quick heist before familiar faces jumped out of the rig. All shouting out the important statuses of their respective patients.
“What have we got?” Jack allowed his resident to take charge; after all, PTMC was first and foremost a teaching institution.
“Multiple crush injuries; victim is in and out of consciousness frequently but refuses physical administration of pain relief.” Huh, Jack frowned. He didn’t hear that all that often when a major trauma was reported. He took a few curious steps forward to get a better understanding of what was coming into his emergency room. “Unknown age, name, weight and condition—multiple fractures present on sight, possible internal bleeding, but vitals are weak, unstable at best.”
“Okay, let’s get her into trauma one,” Ellis demanded with a commanding tone Jack was nothing but proud of. He took great pride in training his night-crawling crew to keep their composure in difficult situations. It was like seeing a small glimpse of his own reflection in every one of them.
But that thought was quickly lost when Jack caught sight of who was actually strapped down on the stretcher. A face he hadn’t seen in years. Bloodied, bruised and broken.
You were conscious enough to take him in for five seconds. The sight of a man whom you hadn’t seen in years. That pain only welled in your eyes as memories flooded back like Vietnam War wounds.
Both of you spoke at the same time, practically over one another. Neither of the sentences seemed to reflect any form of endearment, to say the very least.
“Oh, what the fuck,” You cried out. If you weren’t in hell already, this surely had to be purgatory. You knew that the last time you’d seen Jack Abbot, you’d taken it too far…now it all seemed to add up. You were going to die under his watchful eye, and that revenge would be the sweetest form of therapy for him. You deserved this, all of this. “J-Jack?”
“Un-fuckin-believable,” Jack growled. This wasn’t the kind of thing he wanted to have to deal with. He thought he was about to have some fun…now he was facing the harsh reality of his past. A part of him that had no business being brought to the surface. A part he watched walk out of his front door on a Wednesday morning three years ago…
He stood in the ambulance bay with a frown engraved into the weathered lines of his face. Arms still crossed over one another. What the hell were you even doing here? How did you end up in the state you were in? And what were you doing at a dive bar? How did you end up under Jack Abbot's responsibility again? And the most important question that rattled its way around the folds of Jack's mind was how he had been presented with one more chance to save you from yourself weather he wanted to or not.
“Someone run me a full drug screen panel before we sedate her!” He shouted as the adrenaline of seeing you again kicked in. “I wanna know what's in her system and how fucking much!”
“You know her?” Ellis replied, rather concerned. Jack was red in the face as his steps grew heavier behind her. The ghost of his failures weighed him down. Hallucinations of you that he downplayed for so long, he thought his was one of them.
“Not anymore I don’t,” Jack mumbled under his breath as he caught up. “She saved my life once; I owe her one.” It was a confession that could clear a room, but Dr Ellis knew better than to ask any more personal questions.
************
Three Years Earlier - Jack Abbots Townhouse.
“Officers?” It wasn’t exactly what Jack was expecting to be greeted with the second he got home, but the two police officers who stood on his porch were more than likely just happy to see him. It meant they didn’t have to deal with what they knew was behind the front door. “We got a problem here that I'm not aware of?” Jack knew what the problem was. You had a name after all.
“Hi, Jack,” One of the men spoke up as he tucked a few fingers into his vest and took a more relaxed approach. “We got a call about a disturbance, just some loud music, screaming—“ It wasn’t anything that hadn’t been addressed before, but Jack knew that you were one more call away from being dragged off to the police station. He couldn't let that happen. He promised his late wife a long time ago he’d take care of you the same way you took care of her, of him.
His elderly neighbours, however, were growing increasingly wary of your recklessness while left unsupervised at night. It had become a favourite pastime of yours.
“I’ll handle it,” Jack sighed as he walked up the porch stairs. He ignored the pain of his prosthetic as he did so. “She’s uh, she’s not doing well, I know that, but uh—“ Jack was tired. He’d been pulling a string of night shifts to keep his mind occupied while he tried to come up with a way to get through to you. He’d been reaching out to local rehab centres and even spoke to Langdon about his own experience. Nothing seemed to work, though, only because you had no interest in listening to what he had to say. “I'll take care of this, please?” Jack bagged, pressing his hands into a prayer-like motion. Something he didn't often do. But for you? He’d pray to whatever God or Goddess was on call in the moment.
“We were kinda hoping you’d say that.” One of the officers replied with a small nod. His lips remained pressed together in a line so tight that Jack assumed it was to keep himself from saying something smart…or worse…something dumb.
“Good luck, Dr Abbot.” The other followed as they went down the few short steps that led back down to the footpath. Jack never replied. He didn't even turn around. He simply shook his head and wrapped a tired hand around the door handle. Unsure of what to expect from you when he stepped inside.
“You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you?” Jack really didn’t need to ask; the lingering smell of bourbon in the living room gave your vices away. It had become a cause for concern a while ago. The drinking…the self-administered drug use…his prescribed pads that kept going missing. “How many prescriptions were you gonna write tonight?” Jack let his bag fall to the ground, much like he finally let his own presumptions about your ability to take care of yourself fall.
The silence that followed was deafening. Jack watched as you got up off the couch and stumbled across the living room towards him. His eyes narrowed on you like he hardly recognised the best friend before him. The best friend who had once saved his life. The idea of returning the same favour was getting harder to reciprocate.
“Screw you, Jack.” Was all you replied with a slightly slurred tone that you were all too familiar with. You weren’t sticking around for a lecture on the risks of drug and alcohol addiction. Not from Jack. You couldn’t handle it. He was the only person on earth you didn't want to hear it from. Call it shame. You couldn’t handle the way he looked at you like he was looking right through you. A ghost in his own home.
It was the hand that wrapped itself around your forearm that stopped you from getting any further away. Jack's digits squeezed at your bicep; he was tired of this routine. Coming home every morning to find you in a state. To clean up your mess. He was scared one day he’d come home and find you dead or dying.
“You’re not going anywhere!” Jack raised his voice, still as calm as always…but there was an urgency in his tone that made you feel like you were about to be lectured by your father. Jack Abbot wasn’t your father; he was your dead best friend's husband. He was all you had left. He was your lifeline. The last thing standing between you and complete chaos. The only person who hadn’t given up on you completely because he understood what it was like to lose it all. He understood what it was like to be left behind in a world you didn't want to be in.
But if he was looking for an autopsy, or a half-assed half apology, then you knew Jack picked the wrong time to make that plea. It was never irrelevant that you stopped taking your medicine, but he always gave you the benefit of the doubt. Until even that ran dry. Like right now…in this very moment.
“What’s your fucking plan? Huh? You gonna call the cops?” You pulled your arm from Jack's grasp as he stood stoic and tall before you. His chest heaved with anger that felt like a hot knife to his burdened heart. “Cause I’m fuckin’ pretty sure they were just here, and you told them you’d goddamn handle it!” You shoved him. Jack didn’t move. Not even with a prosthetic that was begging to be taken off. “SO HANDLE IT!”
“You don’t see what’s happening, do you?” Jack didn’t push back, but he argued. “You can’t,” He continued with a begging tone behind his angry, dark eyes. “Please, let me help you.” The utter desperation that leaked through his pores didn’t go unnoticed, but the drugs in your system numbed you wholeheartedly of any wrongdoing. “For fuck sake, Y/n, I care too much about you to trust you to be on your own!” This was Jack Abbot's way of handling it. He didn’t know what else to do besides beg you to stop trying to kill yourself with drugs and alcohol. Not that that was ever your intention. You just couldn't handle being sober.
“And maybe I didn’t make myself clear enough this morning," Jack's voice was rugged. He wanted to punch you in your throat for all of this crap. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. This whole ordeal had been hard enough for him to endure. Seeing you turn into a shell of a woman he once knew was just the icing on top of a rotten, fucked up cake. “But I’m here to keep you the fuck alive, because I don’t trust you enough to do that!”
“Oh—” That hurt. But you could hurt Jack more. “But you sure trusted me enough to keep YOU alive when you got your own damn leg blown off!!” Tears welled in your eyes as you watched Jack's whole face vacillate between shock, horror and sadness. You went there. You really went there.
“Don’t—go there.“ Jack could never forget how you saved his life. How you risked your own to get to him when he needed it the most. When he closed his eyes to rest his head, he could still feel the warmth of the explosion. But right now that didn’t matter. You weren’t trying to save him right now. No. You were trying to hurt him, the only way you had left. With words that stung like venom. “You don’t get to go there, Y/n, YOU'RE A GODDAMN DRUG ADDICT!! Look at yourself!!”
The living room felt as cold as a morgue as the two of you argued. If Jack's elderly neighbours had called the cops on you for some shit house singing, they were really gonna hate this.
“You think you’re so badass cause you lived?” You laughed as tears streamed down your face. You knew what you were. You knew deep down you needed help. But the grief you felt…the utter weight of the loss and pain that consumed you daily was all too much for your sober self to handle. You didn’t want to help. You just wanted to be numb. “News flash, Abbot—I'M THE REASON YOU LIVED!!”
“I said don’t go there.” On her death bed Jacks wife had told him that Chronos, the Greek god of time, carried a sickle. He used it to cut a hole, a tear in the cosmos between heaven and earth. Chronos did that to separate this world from the next, to separate the known from the unknown. But right now, Jack felt like he was falling right through that liminal space between life and death all over again. Except she wasn’t the one dying…nor was he. This time, he was watching you die a slow and painfully lonely death. Self-administered and self-inflicted.
“And while you were dying, you were calling out for the wife who left you—“ It didn’t play out exactly like that. It was more of a plea, a cry for mercy if anything. Jack wanted to die, and you wouldn’t let him. He wanted to be loved by his wife in an afterlife of eternal peace; however that may have looked for an agnostic soul like himself. But you refused to let him die. And now you were throwing stones from a glass fortress. “So let’s play the who’s more fucked up game a little more.”
“God, do you hear yourself!” Jack was more than angry. After this, he was sure he’d end up in a room full of doctors and an inkblot. “You’re not yourself, Y/n! You're sick!”
“Get out of my way.” You couldn't take this any longer. You needed to leave. You shoved past Jack with quick heist as he followed you down the hall.
“You may have lost your best friend, but I lost the love of my life—I won’t stand idly by and watch you slowly fucking kill yourself,” Jack argued with you as he continued to follow you to the front door he’d not long come through. “Y/n! Don't you walk away from me!”
“Stay the hell out of MY life!” It stung like poison, the hurt in your voice. But Jack knew you needed to hear all of this. You were sick, and you needed help. Help he was willing and able to give if you just let him.
“WHERE ARE YOU GOING!?” Jack followed you out the front door. The pain in his chest mimicked a heart attack. He thought he deserved it; Jack knew he hadn't done enough to intervene when he could have. You had fallen too far down the rabbit hole and couldn't get yourself out. He finally understood how Robby felt with Langdon. The self-absorption of failing someone you loved and cared for was just as painful as watching them fuck their own life up. “Y/N!” Jack called out after you, anger bellowed from his tongue. The lines on his forehead were so deep he knew it age him. You aged him. You had carried the weight of his grief, his pain, for so many years that it had finally caught up to you.
“ANYWHERE WHERE YOU AREN'T!" You shouted back over your shoulder as you hurried down the stairs. The truth was, you had nowhere else to go. But you knew for sure you weren't going to stay with Jack. Not after this. You didn't want his help. He couldn't save you from yourself any more than you could.
“Fuuuck!” Jack growled under his breath as he stood at the top of the stairs and watched you disappear down the street. He knew you were heading in the direction of the park. But that was all he knew. And it would be the last time he'd see you for a hell of a long time.
Summary: you might have just met your soulmate. It’s too bad the circumstances are the world is ending and he’s not from your earth.
AN: This is written based off seeing the Fantastic 4 in the New Avengers tower. Nothing is accurate or really based on Doomsday theories. I kept it vague because like I said, it’s literally based on the trailer. Reader is a widow and considers Yelena and Natasha (RIP) her sisters.
Less than an hour ago a white and blue alien ship entered your atmosphere and landed on top of the New Avengers tower.
You were on a mission with Walker when the transmission came in from Bucky. A small little anti terrorist job that kept the government happy and maintained public appearance for the team.
You had no idea what was happening, “strange ship entering atmosphere, finish and return asap” is all Bucky had said before clicking the comms off.
You and John exchanged a confused glance before swiftly finishing the mission.
The elevator door swooshed open and you walked in beside John Walker, both of you coughing.
“Really?” Yelena sighs as she approaches you and brushes ash from your shoulder, “every mission.”
“It was one minor explosion,” you cough out, “Buck said to hurry.”
“It was more than ‘one explosion’ and you know it,” John added, brushing the soot off his bent shield and still coughing.
Bucky walks past the two of you carrying his tablet, “glad you made it back in one piece,” he says without looking up.
You roll your eyes.
“Now, please stop the bickering, we… have guests,” he says hesitantly.
You furrow your brow, you would hardly consider Sam and Joaquin guests.
Sam is already standing in the conference room when you walk in behind Bucky and Yelena. Both him and Joaquin are wearing their suits, the tone of the room is more off putting than usual, to say the least.
You had managed to get most of the soot off your face by the time you find a spot at the long table.
Alexei has his feet perched on the table, acting completely casual, “you are late," he announces.
“You don't even know what time the meeting started, you were probably just hanging out in here,” you quipped back.
He shrugged, called out but not caring nonetheless.
Your accent was not nearly as thick as his or Yelena’s, but it still rang through most times you spoke, especially to them.
He simply grunted in response.
Suddenly, the room was silent. Joaquin and Sam sat across from you, looks of concern on their faces. Bucky cleared his throat and Ava sat next to him looking uninterested.
Before you could ask what was going on, the elevator doors slid open.
Four impossibly attractive people step out. Followed by Thor. They walked towards you all in what seemed like a formation, in matching blue and white suits. One seemed to be… a rock?
“I've seen weirder,” Yelena whispers under her breath. She is sat between you and Joaquin, so both of you hear it.
“I haven't,” Joaquin says, shaking his head in disbelief.
The tall blonde one immediately catches your eye. His broad shoulders and bright blue eyes look like they command any room. His eyes were laced with worry but even through that, you could tell he was the confident type.
He gives a tiny nod your way before following the others and gathering around the table. You were definitely staring.
You quickly look away, trying not to blush and praying to some higher power that no one saw that.
Introductions are painfully formal, your worst nightmare.
“I'm Reed Richards.”
“Sue Storm.”
“Ben Grimm.”
“And I'm Johnny Storm.”
Of course he says it like he's introducing himself on a movie premiere carpet, with a smirk and wave. Like they didn’t just admit they are from a different earth.
Definitely cocky.
You immediately decide he's probably insufferable, because that’s easier than actually getting to know someone. You have spent your entire life reading people to filth, and he was no exception.
You were caught up in your own thoughts, fiddling with the pen in front of you on the long conference room table.
“And this is—” Sam gestures toward you.
You straighten automatically. Scanning the strangers in front of you that you didn’t trust yet. Your jaw ticked, you could feel the new found tension in your body that happened on instinct.
The Red Room had taken your name before you could claim it as yours, before you could morph it into your own identity.
Yelena noticed, she always does, she reads you like a book every time. The only person that manages to see through your layers since Natasha.
"This is my sister," she says before you can answer, she follows with your name.
You glance toward her, she has an easy going smile on her face, one that doesn’t match her energy or her internal monologue that you know is murderous. She was looking around at the strangers.
"She's one of the best fighters you'll ever meet,” she said knowingly, “besides me of course.”
Some of the tension releases from your shoulders at the joke, which you knew was her goal.
Johnny's eyebrows lift, “really?"
You shrug, not giving them any more information or support on the accusation, they can find out on their own time that no one, not even the winter soldier can beat you on the training mat.
He smiles again, and it’s too easy for the tension that is hanging in the air.
You refuse to smile back.
The meeting lasts for over four hours.
Most of it sounds like another language to you. You were smart, yes. But the physics being explained by Dr. Banner and Reed Richards were on another level.
Reed fills whiteboards with equations and Bruce nods in understanding to every single one.
They have lost the attention of almost everyone in the room besides Sue, Sam, and Bucky.
Johnny has somehow managed to claim the chair on the side of you that was vacant.
At one point he quietly leans toward you, “do you know what they're talking about?”
You shake your head, but don’t look away from the scientists. You’re pretty sure Alexei is snoring and that’s why he put his sunglasses on.
“Thank god,” Johnny adds, “I mean I rode here with the guy and I still have no idea how we managed to do that.”
You accidentally laugh. Normally, the most you can do is a small smile. You don’t like to show your emotions, years of training and desensitization make it more difficult to express your emotion than to not.
The laugh is small, and barely audible. But it’s loud enough to make Yelena whip her head towards you with a look of confusion and disgust,
He grins like he won the lottery, “well, there it is.”
“What?” You asked flatly.
“Your smile,” he says quietly.
Yelena is still looking at you like she’s trying to figure out if you have a brain injury from your mission earlier.
You look back toward Reed before he can see the corners of your mouth lifting again.
Cockiness confirmed.
After several hours of discussing the new found threat that had Franklin, a game plan was concocted and training began right away.
Bucky and Sue agreed that if we were going to face the threat together, we needed to fight like a team, or at least try and understand one another.
You eventually end up opposite Johnny.
“All I ask is that you don’t set me on fire,” you said, extending your hand for him to shake.
He took it gently, and you were met with immediate warmth. His hands were much softer than you expected, “I was going to ask you not to throw me through a wall.”
“That I won’t promise,” you said.
He laughed, “so you’ve got jokes.”
You shrugged, “and knives, so be careful.”
“Dare I say, that’s even hotter?” He quipped back.
You froze, nearly choking on air.
He freezes, eyes widening in realization of what he just admitted, “did i just say that out loud?”
You nod and he simply shrugs in response.
You both enter your stances before you begin.
Bucky groans from across the room, “oh my god.”
“What?” Yelena asks, pushing her hair out of her face.
“I’ve known him for like five minutes,” he grumbles.
“And…” Yelena pries.
“And he’s trouble, I know the type by now,” Bucky says.
“Because you’ve been alive… one thousand years or so?” Yelena joked.
Before Bucky could joke back, Johnny stops sparring with you and turns to face them.
He places a hand dramatically over his heart, “I'm wounded.”
You furrow your brow, unable to hear them from where Bucky and Yelena are standing.
“Okay so, super hearing confirmed,” Bucky says, “you'll survive,” he says sarcastically back to Johnny.
The Fantastic Four have been staying with you all for a little over a week now. It was all training, meetings, late nights, tracking, and learning how to work together.
The late night meetings have become routine. Sleep became more and more foreign and coffee became a necessity at all hours. The anxiety and worry eats away at all of you. Thor is in and out, he says he needs a team and he is going to travel the universe to find it.
Johnny has quickly become something equivalent of a friend, at least you think, you don’t have many to compare it to. You find yourself telling him things you have never even said out loud. When you lay in bed at night you replay your interactions and even find yourself smiling.
You teach him the ways of your earth, some of which was foreign to you until Natasha helped you escape, so you know the confusion he is feeling when you explain certain things to him.
You watch Sue and Reed worry in a way you had only seen on television. You had never had parents, you had never known love like that could be real. You bring them food when they are in the lab at night, leave fresh towels in their room, and make sure the coffee pot is always full. You aren’t sure how else to aide them.
You find yourself wandering into the kitchen around two in the morning.
Johnny is already there, standing on the counter.
You pad over to where he is standing and crane your neck to look up at him, “what are you doing?”
He yelps and jumps, making you flinch.
”God, has anyone ever told you you’re quiet?” He asks, gently jumping down.
You shrug, “I am kind of a spy, so, that’s kind of our thing.”
He chuckles, “I couldn't find the mugs.”
You turn, reaching up and opening the cabinet where the mugs live, you take one out and hand it to him.
He sighs, “thanks.”
”So, why are you up?” He asks, gracefully moving to pour a cup of coffee.
You shrug, “I don’t sleep much on good days… let alone when the end of the world is near or whatever.”
He chuckles again, no one had ever found you funny before, you wonder if it’s because he doesn’t know you well yet, doesn’t know where you come from yet, what you’ve done.
”Woah, where did you go there?” He asked, waving a hand in your face.
You hadn’t realized you had zoned out, you shook your head, “no where.” You said firmly, leaving no room for discussion, “why are you up?”
He sighs, “every time I close my eyes, I think of Franklin. I see his blonde curls and his laugh and then I have horrible images of where he might be and I can’t sleep.”
”If anything you guys have said about him is true, then he’s going to be okay,” you reach out hesitantly, putting your hand on his wrist and squeezing, “he has all of us looking for him, we’ve got this.”
He looks at your hand on his wrist, and looks up to meet your eyes, giving you a small, sad smile.
You weren’t even sure if you believed yourself, but in that moment all you wanted to do was take any ounce of his pain away.
You decide to pour yourself a mug of coffee and join him at the kitchen counter.
He starts explaining his world to you, and more specifically who he is in his world. He starts telling you about the sunscreen advertisement and you can’t help but laugh.
“So, now Ben has to see my ass every time he goes to his favorite bakery,” he laughs with you, “I had to pay them to do it, I literally had to pay them, but it was totally worth it.”
You’re bending over laughing at his story, you hate to admit it, but he is unbelievably funny.
“I love your laugh,” his voice catches you off guard and makes you stop laughing.
“What?” It takes everything in you not to go rigid and hide the vulnerability you have been showing him.
“Your laugh lights up a room,” he says quietly, “especially when you’re actually happy.” He’s smiling at you like you hung the moon just for him to look at.
You look down, “I don’t even know if I know what being happy means.”
His smile falters.
“I,” you begin quietly, “I wasn’t really,” you pause to search for the words, “I wasn’t raised… normally.”
He shrugs, not in a dismissive way, but in a nonjudgemental one, “I know.”
You shake your head, “no, you don’t.”
You stop yourself and stare at your hands.
How do you summarize stolen years?
How do you explain that the school assignments were to kill people without flinching?
That bedtime stories were combat drills?
That affection was something used against you?
“My sisters and I,” you smile softly, “not by blood, but in all the ways that matter.”
“Yelena,” he said softly.
You nod. “We grew up in Russia, we were nothing more than weapons,” you sigh.
Johnny's smile disappears, “sisters.”
You look up at him, “…yes.”
”With an ‘s’,” he presses.
You nod again, “Natasha, she died a few years ago, she was the oldest.”
He doesn't interrupt you and you appreciate that.
You take a deep breath, “you make me feel human. More human than I ever have, and it scares me a little.”
You hadn't expected the tears, but you couldn’t help but feel so painfully normal around him, in the best way.
“You make me feel human too,” he says softly, “and if you ever want to talk about her, Natasha, I’d love to hear more.”
There is not an ounce of pity in his voice and you appreciate that in your moment of vulnerability. You aren’t sure what’s making your heart crack open in front of him. All you know is that every time you touch his skin it feels like you’re on fire. And not because he runs hot, but because it sends a spark though your body that makes you dizzy. And when he’s close enough and you can smell him you need to sit down. When he laughs you look for him and when you meet his eyes you blush.
“I still look for her sometimes, I think of something funny, or Yelena does something,” you laugh sadly, “and then I remember she sacrificed herself for the world. And then I feel selfish, that I want her back or I wish she didn’t do it.”
Johnny's voice is barely above a whisper, “I don’t know what I would do if I lost Sue, but you’re not selfish. And you’re incredibly strong.”
He reaches out and intertwines his fingers with yours, just enough that you feel an immense relief at the affection. For a moment, you let yourself feel everything you are constantly avoiding, and you don’t feel so alone with Johnny sitting across from you.
The next morning, you are barely able to keep your eyes open when Bucky corners you before breakfast.
“So, you like the fire one?” He asks accusingly.
“Bucky, I haven’t even had coffee,” you said exhaustedly, “and I don’t know what you’re on about.”
He placed his hands on his hips, you knew he was studying you for any change in your expression, “you smile with him.”
You shrug, “I smile,” you say, trying to sound convincing.
He raises his brow.
“I smiled yesterday,” you said knowingly.
“You smiled because Yelena glued Alexei's boot to the floor while he napped,” he said.
You smiled at the memory, “because watching him wake up was funny.”
“I agree,” he crosses his arms, “but you like him.”
He walks away shaking his head.
You watch him go, “I do not like him. I don’t even think I know how to.”
Bucky waves you off as he continues to walk away,
Johnny catches your eye from across the living room, sitting on the couch with Sue and Ben.
Without thinking you smile back, which falters the second you realize Bucky may have been onto something.
But Bucky sees it, and gives you a smirk over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall, making you groan.
The briefing room has never been this quiet.
Reed stood in front of a holographic projection of fractured realities, the blue light reflecting off all the tired faces. The plan was complicated enough that Bruce had stopped simplifying it halfway through and just started drawing diagrams.
There was no room left for optimism, only preparation and focus.
You tightened the straps around your forearms, fingers moving automatically, letting the muscle memory calm you and ground you.
The room buzzed with restrained anxiety that there was no time to address.
“If this works,” Reed finished, “we separate the realities before the incursion reaches critical mass and we retrieve Franklin.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Joaquin asked, voice shaky.
It felt like everyone in the room stopped breathing.
“The universe collapses, we probably won’t even feel it,” Bruce said quietly with a shrug.
The Quinjet was unusually silent. There was usually teasing between John and Yelena, or at least a cynical joke from Ava, but today there was nothing.
Yelena sat beside you, sharpening a knife that didn't need sharpening. She glanced sideways, “you’re brain, it is very loud.”
You roll your eyes, “I don’t even know what that means.”
“I can see it in your eyes,” she said.
You sighed, “what if this doesn’t work?’
Yelena stopped sharpening her knife and slid it into the holster, “you remember when we were little?” she asked.
You laughed softly, “that is a vague and dangerous sentence.”
“Ohio,” she clarified, “we used to make bets on everything,” she continued.
Silence settled between you, then she nudged your shoulder, “you like the flame boy.”
You groaned immediately.
“You smile every time he walks into the room,” she said in a sing-song voice, “you cannot lie to me.”
You looked down at your gloves, “that’s why I’m not denying it the way I did to Bucky.”
She smirked.
“I've never…” the words seemed to get caught in your throat, “I don’t know how to…”
Love someone. Be loved by someone. Neither sentence left your lips.
Yelena understood anyway, nodding, she knew exactly what you were trying to say.
Her expression softened, “you think because nobody loved us correctly, that maybe you cannot be loved or do the love thing?”
Your eyes stung, “I don't know what I'm supposed to do.”
She shrugged, “you do nothing.”
”What?” You asked, confused by her advice.
“If he is right for you… then you just let him, if he knows you, he will know what you need,” she smiled softly. “And back to my original point,” she points her finger dramatically, “if we survive, I mean… when… you ask flame boy out, maybe even kiss him.”
“Is that your idea of a bet?” You asked.
“Da.” She said with a proud nod.
“That’s pretty one sided,” you reply.
“Well, other side is we die, so,” she says, making you both laugh.
The battlefield looked impossible. The sky was split apart, revealing pieces of other worlds bleeding through the clouds, the lights were blinding and the ground was dangerous.
Reality itself seemed to shudder.
Doctor Doom stood at the center of it all.
His green cloak whipped violently in the wind. Based on what Thor had told you all, nothing about this felt possible in the moment, standing before all his destruction while he waited for you all like cows being led to slaughter.
Reed ran through the plan again, but your ears were ringing. You were already checking your blades, trying to remove yourself from the tornado of anxiety swirling around your head.
Johnny stepped beside you, “me and you.
You looked up at him, craning your neck slightly because of how tall he was, “what?” You hadn’t realized how just by looking at him you felt the anxiety settle into something more reasonable.
“Team assignment, the plan. You’re with me,” he explained.
“Right, right,” you gave him the best smile you could, but you knew he caught that it wasn’t anywhere near your eyes.
The jet slowly emptied until it was just you and Johnny. You were tightening your boot strap when you looked over at him, “ready?”
He looked strangely nervous, but Joffre.
You moved, about to make your way to your spot when he lightly grabbed your wrist, turning you towards him. You let him, facing him and holding his gaze. The wind blew around you and thunder cracked in the distance.
He opened his mouth to speak and frantically searched your face, “if we survive today,” he took a breath, “when we survive today,” he took a deep breath.
The wind from the open jet door was pushing his hair up and somehow making him look more attractive, while you felt like a disheveled girl caught in a wind tunnel.
”I’m sorry, you look so beautiful right now,” he said, a small smile daring to grace his lips.
You could feel the heat crawling up your neck, and you could not believe he was making you smile at a time like this.
“When this is all over, I don't really want things to go back to the way they were, I don’t want to keep pretending.”
Your heart started beating faster, “what pretending?”
He took one small step closer, so that you were barely an inch apart.
“Pretending I don't look for you every morning. That my favorite part of every day has been seeing you and making you laugh,” he inched even closer, “pretending that through all this bad, I think I’ve found the best person I’ve ever known. Not to mention that you have the most beautiful smile I have ever seen.”
You suddenly forget how to breathe, and he’s so close that you’re sure he feels your heart beat through your suit.
His voice softened, “I’m done pretending… that I'm not completely gone for you.”
Everything around you disappeared, your comms were cracking to life, thunder was roaring, but all you could feel was where his chest was brushing yours, and all you could hear was the sound of his nervous breathing.
He was looking at you like you were something precious, something worth loving, and it made your head spin.
Your voice came out almost as a whisper, “Johnny, I don't know how to do this. You’re all going to leave after this—“
“I know,” he interrupted you, “and we don’t have to have all the answers right now, but i just need to say it. I need to go into this knowing I put it all out there.”
Your eyes dropped to the floor, “I don't know how to let someone…”
Love me. You couldn’t say it again. His gloved hand came up and caressed your cheek like you were made of glass, not the weapon you always felt like.
“You don't have to know,” he said, “we’ll learn together… if you’ll let me.”
Your throat tightened. “I think,” you laughed nervously, “Johnny, I think I'm falling in love with you.”
He blinked, but his lips twitched at the corners, “you think?"
“I've never done this before,” you shrugged.
He laughed, his voice dropping, “I'll take 'I think.'”
His forehead rested lightly against yours, “I've wanted to do this since the first meeting.”
Without another word, he closed the last inch between you. His lips pressed to yours passionately, the kind of kiss two people in a movie shared when they thought the world was ending. Your heart hammered against your ribs and you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer.
When he pulled back, neither of you moved very far.
His thumb brushed across your cheek, “When we save both our worlds, I’d really like to take you on a proper date.”
You blinked, not moving away from him, “I’ve never been on a date.”
“I know,” he tilted his head slightly, “I’d like to be your first.”
Your heart felt impossibly full, “okay.”
He stepped back, reaching down to hold your hand, he squeezed it gently.
Sam's voice echoed through both your comms, “go time!”
Johnny reluctantly stepped beside you, “I’ll meet you in position?”
You nodded, still smiling. He ignited in brilliant orange flames, the heat somehow never reaching you. He offered you one last look of reassurance before taking off.
You watched him for only a heartbeat before hopping on the bike and riding after him. Right in the direction of Doctor Doom, towards the end of the world. And, if the two of you had anything to say about it, towards your very first date.
Summary: The Minnesota Frost's Hockey Team poses a new threat on campus.
Warnings: Crude Language, Protective John Logan, Mentions of SA/R, Descriptions of Panic, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Overprotective Hawks Team, Descriptions of Fighting, Creepy Guys
A/N: I literally couldn't stop writing.. I apologize for having to break this story into yet another part. I'm finding a lot of joy in writing again, so I hope you enjoy this next part as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3 - Cait (P.S I think I'll link the songs I used as writing inspiration for certain scenes)
---
5:07 AM
Faint tapping clicks against the glass of John Logan’s bedroom window, the quiet slaps wake him before sleepily standing up from his bed, tired eyes scanning his surroundings as he squints to make out the time on a digital clock in the corner of the room.
“The fuck?” His voice is deep, scratchy as he rubs his eyes and grabs his glasses from his bedside table before sleepily stepping towards the window.
Just as he pulls back the casement’s curtains, his bedroom door swings open, the knob slamming loudly against the wall as Dean and Tuck storm into the dark quarters.
“Sorry to wake you up like this, man-,” Tuck apologizes before flipping on the lightswitch beside the doorframe. “-But it’s important.”
“Pretty sure MU is fucking with our house,” A shirtless Dean wields a hockey stick, gripping it tightly in his hands. “They think they're slick coming here at five in the morning to fuck with our shit, but jokes on them, cause I don’t sleep.” His eyes are a little wild as they shift to the window of John’s bedroom. “We need to get down there now.”
Logan slips on his glasses before raking through his wild hair, his brows furrow seeing no sign of, “Garrett? Where is he?”
Tuck gives his friend a wary look before saying, “I fear he’s already outside.”
“Shit,” John grits his teeth, quickly stepping into his gray sweats laying beside the bed. “We need to get out there before G kills somebody.”
The guys practically fly down the stairs. Logan leads the pack, quickly grabbing the largest ratchet he owns out of his tool bag laid out on the kitchen island as he heads towards the commotion coming from the back yard.
Tucker flips on the flood lights, revealing three men pummeling Garrett, who was now on the grass, his arms cradling his head to block the stranger’s beatings. Graham throws violent punches in between the miscreants' brutal blows.
“Back the fuck up!” Dean bellows as he blows through the doorframe and rushes the men, striking one of the strangers with his hockey stick, “Get away from him, you dumb motherfuckers!”
Tuck’s fists are at the ready as another one of the brutes turns towards him, tackling him to the dewy grass. The two men grunt as they viciously wrestle on the ground.
John freezes as his eyes land on the face of one of Minnesota’s starting line hockey players, who happened to be kicking Garrett in the ribs.
“Yeah, her case didn’t even make it to court, which is insane because of what she accused them of doing to her.”
Without another thought, Logan charges the assailant, dodging each attempted punch before ultimately striking him in the back with the steel ratchet he brandished. “I know what you did, you sick motherfucker!” His voice cracks as he screams, hitting the man with the tool again, this time in the thigh.
“You’re fucking crazy!” The stranger curses, terrified as John rears back to hit him once more. “Lets get out of here!” He yells out to the two other men, who follow his instructions and start to run, slipping on the damp lawn while they try to escape.
Logan, Tuck and Dean chase the strangers into the front yard, their attempts futile as the three men hop into a black Tahoe and peel away from the home, tires screeching loudly with their exit.
“Stupid motherfuckers,” Dean breathes, his chest rising and falling as his nostrils flair. He tosses the hockey stick to the ground. “I’m fucking their shit up tonight.”
“Assholes,” Logan murmurs through grit teeth, his heart racing as he tries to calm his erratic breathing.
“Guys..” Tucker’s voice is almost a whisper, gaining his friend’s attention as they both turn towards him, cursing as they see their shared home. Eggs are splattered all over the exterior of the house, toilet paper is strewn everywhere.
A white bed sheet hangs on the front porch, displaying a message written in red paint:
FUCK THE HAWKS
“What did I say?” Dean motions towards the chaos of their front lawn. He shakes his head, "Pretentious, entitled assholes.. I need to go check on Garrett.”
John’s fists can’t seem to stop shaking, still gripping the ratchet as he tries to swallow back the rage boiling in his gut.
“You good, man?” Tuck’s palm rests on Logan’s bare shoulder as his chest heaves.
John clears his throat, trying to shake himself free from his growing anxiety, “I need to go.”
He takes off running into the house and grabs his car keys before heading back outside and jumping into his vehicle before driving away into the early morning dusk.
___
Hurried knocking startles you awake.
Your head turns towards the clock in your bedroom.
5:45 AM
Your feet hit the ground as you get out of your warm bed and slowly creep towards the front door of your apartment.
Who the hell is at your door at almost 5 in the morning?
Heart racing, your thoughts wander to the worst imaginable outcomes.
Your shaking fingers wrap around the handle of the bat you keep by the entrance of the apartment. Toes crack as you slip closer to the door and try to muster up the courage to peer through the peep hole; dreading what you would see in the hallway.
Instantly, you open the door, meeting the heavy-lidded gaze of, “John? What’s wrong?”
He looks like a man undone, his brown eyes full of anger; his voice raspy as he murmurs, “They fucked with our house.”
Your eyes shift to the silver ratchet he clutched tightly in his shaking fist before scanning back up to meet his hardened gaze, “John, is everything okay with the house?”
“I don’t give a fuck about the house..” his breath shakes as he stares you down. “Are you okay?”
He looks petrified.
Your fingers gently wrap around his white-knuckled, shaking fist, instantly softening his hardened grip as you slowly take the tool from him, “I’m okay, John.” You nod, the ratchet dings as you place it on a cluttered shelf beside the front door.
Tears gloss over his doe eyes as he gazes at you, “I am so sorry for showing up like this.. I was scared they would somehow find you, and-.” his voice falters before his arms fly around you; his glasses creak as he buries his face into your neck.
Your fingers instinctually run through his dark locks before gently rubbing your palm on his bare back. “I’m okay, and so are you.”
He nods, sinking deeper into your embrace as he quietly holds you close, his racing heart calms alongside his breathing. “Thank you,” he exhales.
“What for?” You ask as he pulls away, his head tilts down towards you. His mahogany gaze melts your soul.
“Bringing me back down to earth,” a small smile spreads across his handsome face.
Your cheeks burn, “Oh, well - you’re welcome, Johnny.”
Like usual, Logan’s heart flips hearing you say his name. He loves the way the corners of your mouth curve into a smile to say it.
“You need to get back to sleep,” he says, pulling out his phone to look at the time. “Morning Stake isn’t for another few hours. Do you need me to come back and get you?”
Trying not to seem needy, you shake your head and smile, “No, sir. I actually need to run by the football locker room to grab some KT tape to wrap Tuck’s hamstring before he busts it again like he did last week.”
Logan twirls his car keys on his pointer finger before catching them in his palm, “Well, I guess I’ll see you in a few hours, Stretch.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” you reply as John walks away, turning back to sneak a quick glance your way before disappearing as he rounds the corner.
You shut the door, slinking down to the ground of your apartment like a fool in love, unable to drop the ridiculous smile plastered on your face.
____
9:12 AM
“Unless you have physical documentation of the three players actually being at the house, I cannot reprimand them,” The Minnesota Frost’s Coach says as he leisurely scrolls through his phone. “If there is a real issue, let them figure it out like men on the ice tonight.”
Coach Jensen shifts in his chair, his eyes glance over to where The Briar Hawks logo was painted on the wall of his office. His tongue clicks before clearing his throat, “Tom, not only did three of your guys ransack my starting line’s house, but they also jumped our Captain, who just so happens to be our best forward.” His forehead is creased, agitation adorns his face, “I can’t help but to feel like this was all intentional, considering Garrett Graham is to the point of needing to sit on the bench tonight so he doesn’t break his already fractured ribs.”
“Chad, look - have you considered that your boys did this to themselves to make MU look bad?” The man finally looks up from his phone.
“That’s absurd, and you know it,” Coach is calm as he stands from his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “Why would my guys need to make yours look worse than they already do?”
The Frost’s Coach turns red as he shoots out of his chair, his shaking finger pointing at Coach Jensen, “You and your sissy boys are gonna lose tonight.”
“See you at 6, Tommy,” Chad gives a small wave towards the man as he watches him storm out of his office.
——
10:03 AM
“Alright, Sweet Tuck - you’re all set,” you announce, dusting your palms off on your pants before turning to the other players waiting for mending in the treatment room you inhabit across the hallway from The Hawks locker room. “Who’s next?”
Dean makes quick work of jumping onto the treatment table and points to his right shoulder, “I whooped someone’s ass this morning and now my shoulder hurts.” He pokes out his bottom lip.
“Oh no, whatever shall we do?” You tease as you put on gloves and dip into a jar of CBD cream. Dean hisses as your knuckle rubs into the meaty part of his shoulder and into his peck, trying to stretch the tired muscles. “Jesus, Stretch!” he hisses.
“You’ll be okay, Di Laurentis,” You laugh as you take off your latex gloves and toss them into the trashcan before grabbing the kinesiology tape out of your go-bag. “Tape time, lil baby,” the tape makes a ripping sound as you tear off a long piece of the cotton strip, placing it strategically on Dean’s shoulder, before placing another strip, ensuring his musculature is correctly supported.
You brush your hands together before you stand, "Onward, my good sir.” You salute as Dean hops off of the table and rolls his shoulder in a few circles before straightening up his posture and saluting back.
You both release your overly dramatic salutes before bursting out laughing.
“Thanks, Stretch!” He walks towards the locker room. “See you at Malone’s?”
“You better believe it,” you say as he saunters out of the room.
You turn towards the remaining players waiting for treatment, a devious smile spreads across your face. “Who shall be my next victim?” You give your best Transylvanian accent.
One player shoves the others out of the way, pointing at his thigh, “I fucked up my quads real bad. I need the massage gun stat, Stretch.”
“Say less,” you begin to tend to the athlete. “What did I say about overdoing it, Matty? You only have one set of legs, dude.” He groans out a “Sorry, Stretch,” as you extend his long leg and assess his musculature, then wrap the kinesiology tape across the problem area.
Before the morning is over, three more players get wrapped, iced, stretched and taped; each one thanking you before eventually filtering out of your treatment room and onto the ice.
“And then there were two,” you turn, smiling ridiculously as you see John Logan standing in the doorway, clad in his practice hockey pads and stakes covered with rubber guards. “I’m bad off,” he jokes as his large palm cups his face before he says, “My cheek’s hurting so bad. What can you do to help me, Stretch?”
The smile spreading across your face hurts as you try to contain a love-struck giggle, motioning towards your treatment table, “Come into my office, Mr. Logan.”
His brown eyes roll, unable to hide his growing smile before starting towards your table, halting as commotion rings out from down the hallway.
“Get out of our stadium!” Dean’s voice booms “-You disrespectful pricks!”
“Fuck,” John turns towards the ruckus and stalks out into the hallway. You follow closely behind, knowing it’s not good for anyone when Dean Di Laurentis is angry.
You are brought to a stand still as you see the men that have haunted your dreams standing mere yards away with their fingers pointed in your friend’s faces as the other athletes attempt to hold their fellow players back from a full-on brawl.
John abruptly steps in front of you to shield your view just as an audible gasp escapes your lips.
In his skates, Logan seems to tower over you as he blocks you from the scene, his right hand reaching behind him to hold your shaking hand.
Your wide eyes blankly at John’s back, trying to focus on the blue and black padding he wore in some small attempt to ground yourself. It feels like your heart is going to drum out of your chest as tingling pricks at the flesh of your face. Your shallow breathing slowly becomes erratic, shifting into hyperventilation.
John turns towards you, trying to keep you from seeing the men’s faces as he begins quietly walking you backwards, out of the hallway and into your treatment room.
The breath in your lungs sticks like melted tar as you gasp for air, holding your aching chest as you begin to slink to the ground as your panicked eyes keep darting towards the door, terrified that the men would come in and find you.
Logan’s strong arms seamlessly scoop you up, carrying you with ease to the treatment table in the back corner of the room. “I’m right here,” he breathes, gently sitting you on the blue padded table as his strong arms keep you upright, “It’s just you and me now.”
He takes your face into his wide hands and levels his chocolate eyes with your line of vision. His warm thumbs stroke the flesh of your cheeks as he whispers your name, “I need you to look at me.”
You nod between chest heaves as your eyes finally meet his loving gaze as hot tears stream down your face and hit the padded table as you begin to sob, “I’m so sorry.”
“Please, don’t apologize,” his head shakes, brows furrowed with confusion as he wipes the tears from your cheeks, “There is absolutely no need for you to be apologizing to me.”
“I’m crazy,” tears stain the thighs of your pants as you continue to cry.
“What?” His voice cracks as his hands drop from your face to brace on his hips, “Who the hell told you that you’re crazy?"
You still can’t look at him, “Everyone back home.”
His arms cross over his padded chest, towering over you as he scowls, “Fuck everyone, Stretch.” He points towards the door, his nostrils flaring as he says, “Those bastards outside hurt you..” He swallows back the building rage flowing through his body before rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I can’t stand to see you cry..”
“I’m sorry for crying,” you cover your face with your trembling hands.
“Please.. Please, don’t apologize to me.." His hands rake through his hair as he tries to speak, ultimately squeezing his fists in agitation. “I don’t think you get it,” he points towards the door again, “I want those motherfuckers to pay for what they did to you. They don’t get to get off scot-free anymore, I won’t have it. I-I can’t have it.”
“Please, don’t do something that could jeopardize your future because of me,” you wrap your hand around his. “Promise me, Johnny.”
“I can’t make any promises, Stretch,” his thumb rubs the fresh tears on your cheek.
“Hey, Coach needs us- Oh… Shit..” Tuck’s voice comes from the doorway. He smiles widely and gives a charismatic thumbs up before walking towards the rink.
You both let out breathless laughs as Tucker leaves. John stands up a little straighter and holds his hands out to you, helping you off of the treatment table.
He’s chest to chest with you, looking down at you as he whispers, “I’ve got to get to the rink.. Do you wanna come and sit in there while we practice?”
Hannah and Allie both work today, so I think I’ll go ahead and go to Malone’s before you guys are done with practice,” you look around at the state at which you left your treatment room. “I’ll clean up here and then head over there.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” John smiles before giving you a tender kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you there, Stretch.”
—-
12:25 PM
The bells tied to the door ring out as some of the hockey players file into Malone’s, taking up most of the booths as you look up from where you sit at the edge of the bar across from where Hannah and Allie work, hoping to catch a glimpse of John Logan.
“So, when do you have to get back to the stadium tonight?” Allie asks as she pours a few mimosas. “We get off at one. Would you like to come get ready with us before the game? Well, before you need to be back, at least.”
“Allie is wanting to look cute for a nameless someone,” Hannah bounces her eyebrows at you.
“Is it a hockey player?” You ask. “Davenport is always creepily staring at you. He’s creepy, right? Or, is that mean to say?”
Hannah and Allie exchange the same look before both cackling.
“What?” You ask as a smile spreads across your confused face. “Oh god, please don’t tell him I said that..”
“No! No, you’re fine. It’s just.. an entire story in itself,” Hannah’s brows raise, her eyes widen. “Allie and Hunter have a bit of a past.”
“And it’s in the past,” Allie insists, shaking her head while she places the mimosa filled glasses onto a black serving tray. Hannah cleans the bar top with a damp cloth as another group files into Malone’s.
Your vision remains on Allie’s apprehensive expression as her eyes shift over to the hockey players across the restaurant.
Dean Di Laurentis stares back longingly, his eyes completely locked in on your friend.
Dean’s vision shifts, feeling your gaze.
Your wide eyes quickly shift to Allie, who is now looking at you.
Your mouth is agape remembering Allie’s strange looks last night at the Hawk House, and how Dean had walked away when you and Allie got to where he stood at the kitchen island.
It all made sense.
Allie’s eyes shift back to Dean, who looked absolutely mortified. His green eyes glance towards you once more before your eyes shift from his to Allie’s gaze.
Hannah is across the room getting the new group’s order as you and Allie stare at one another.
Her brown eyes well with tears, “Please, don’t-”
“-I didn’t get to answer you earlier,” you interrupt, confusing Allie before you say, “I have to be back in my treatment room by four this afternoon.” You give her a small smile before your eyes shift towards Dean and give him a quick nod before you turn back to Allie. “I would love to get ready with you guys before I have to be back at the stadium.”
You and Allie sit in silence as she finishes garnishing the drinks before she turns to you, her deep eyes search yours, as if she is saying ‘thank you’ before she squeezes your hand and walks away with the mimosas.
The bells ring out again as you turn towards the front door, seeing Garrett Graham and John Logan walking into Malone’s, clad in their Briar U Hockey warm-up suits.
Hannah walks over to the bar, Graham and Logan follow. John’s eyes remain on you as he grows closer and gives you a shy smile before Hannah and Garrett step in front of your line of vision to give each other a kiss.
“Long practice?” Hannah asks, pulling away from her boyfriend.
Their physical gap allows you to return a smile Logan’s way.
“I’m moving slow..” Garrett points at his ribs. “Those assholes from this morning got me good.”
“I still can’t believe they didn’t get reprimanded at all,” Hannah’s palm touches his ribs. “Do you need ice or anything?”
“You can ice me when we get home, Wellsy” he says, bouncing his eyebrows at his girlfriend.
“Jesus, get a room!” Logan’s face twists in disgust.
“Honestly, it’s abuse at this point,” Allie jokes as she walks behind the bar and sits the black serving tray down.
The couple share another sweet kiss before both laughing at you, John and Allie jokingly gagging and crying.
Once more, the ringing from the front door grabs your attention.
“Oh my god,” you choke out.
“What’s wrong?” Hannah asks as she and Garrett turn towards the diner’s entrance.
Logan curses under his breath and steps in front of where you sit at the edge of the bar, quickly whispering under his breath, “We can go right now. There’s an exit in the back of the kitchen.”
The anxiety rushing through your body is debilitating as the wooden bar seems to stretch on for miles in front of you. You try to feel for John’s warm hand, but you can’t seem to move.
Garrett tenses up and pushes Hannah behind him.
John is angry, “Those assholes just keep showing up.”
The three men walk towards where you all crowded around the bar.
“This day just keeps getting better and better,” The tallest man says as he and Garrett step closer to one another. “How’s your ribs, Graham?”
Garrett’s shaking hands curl into tight fists as he lets out an exhausted exhale.
Dean and Tucker stand and immediately make their way over to the scene.
“What did I say, motherfucker?” Dean growls, bumping his chest against one of the players. “None of you are welcome here.” He points to the door, “Now, get the fuck out.”
“Last time I checked, this was a restaurant,” the man shrugs and looks around at the people now staring. “And we are patrons at this fine establishment. So..”
“Get out,” Garrett says plainly, almost chest to chest with the rival hockey player.
“Guys, please - save this for the ice,” Tuck tries to intervene.
“You know, I think we’ll actually sit right here,” the three men sit only one seat away from where you were at the edge of the bar.
The Captain looks directly at you, blinking wildly before a devilish smile spreads across his face. “Oh, this day really does keep getting better,” he slaps his friend’s arm.
You swallow back the tears brimming in your eyes as you stare back at the man, completely immobilized by fear.
This has to be a nightmare.
“Hello, beautiful,” the other player says. “I didn’t know we would be getting such a pleasant surprise today.”
“You boys didn’t tell us you had such a beautiful Physical Therapist,” the man furthest away says, almost laughing as he looks at his friends.
“We didn’t say she was our Physical Therapist,” Garrett’s forehead creases in confusion.
The tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife as the men ogle at you. Logan leans in front of you to block you as Dean steps behind you, guarding access to both you and Allie as he and John glower at the men.
“Oh, I see what’s happening here,” the Captain leans towards you, his look diabolical as he eyes the hockey players standing around you. He bounces his brows as he says, “She’s lots of fun, isn’t she?”
The room erupts as Logan and Dean immediately dive for the men.
Dean shouts, “Fuck you!”
“Get the fuck out of here!” Logan’s eyes are wild. Tucker and Graham hold him and Dean back as the rival players smile and slowly get up from their stools.
“We’ll see you tonight, beautiful,” The Captain winks at you before they walk out the front door.
It takes two more hockey players to keep John Logan from going after the strangers.
The bell rings as the door shuts behind the men.
The restaurant is quiet, other than a Prince song playing quietly over the speakers.
John’s chest heaves.
“Breathe, Logan. Breathe,” Garrett locks eyes with John, who was only seeing red at this point. “This is exactly what they want. They want us off our game, angry.. We can’t let them win.”
Logan nods and rubs the bridge of his nose, “You’re right, G..”
Garrett turns to where you all were gathered around the bar, “Okay, what the fuck just happened? And what the hell were they talking about?”
You sit in silence, paralyzed as you begin to dissociate, staring at the bartop and getting lost in the lines of its wood. The world grows quiet, other than a dull ringing echoing throughout your brain, which feels like it’s on fire.
Your friend’s voices are muffled as they talk around you.
Garrett’s hands fly to his head, raking through his curly hair as he grows more angry. Hannah’s face is that of devastation. Allie stands behind the bar, her sad eyes stare at where you sit in silence, holding back tears.
“I’m sorry, what?” Garrett’s voice is deep, angry as his fingers rub a halo around his lips. “Those assholes did what to her?”
“It’s heavy shit, man,” Tucker exhales and turns towards you, not knowing what to say as you sit in silence.
The green stool squeaks beneath Logan as he sits down at the bar beside you, his fingers gently wrap around your idle hands, sitting with you in shared silence as the group continues to talk.
“Why aren’t those assholes in jail?” Allie is fuming as she motions over to where you sit. “Look at what they did to her by just speaking to her.”
John’s thumb rubbing your flesh is the first normal sensation you can feel. He murmurs your name, “I need you to look at me.”
You swallow before your sorrowful gaze slowly meets his.
“I need to go home,” you murmur.
“Whatever you want,” he nods before his worried eyes shift to his friends as they all watch you stand and hesitate at the bar.
“I’m.. scared to go home,” you whisper.
“Do you want to come to the boy’s house with us?” Allie asks as she walks over and places her hand on your shoulder. “We can watch a movie! Whatever you want.”
“-I can make an appetizer before my pre-game nap!” Tucker says excitedly. “Do you like cheese?”
“I have been wanting to watch Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part Two,” Dean shrugs.
“Dean, we’ve talked about this before. You don’t have to say the entire title,” Hannah laughs.
“It’s too long. You wouldn’t have enough time to watch it and take a pre-game nap before we have to be back to the stadium at four,” Garrett says, matter of fact.
“How do you know that?” Tucker asks, confused.
“I know ball,” Garrett says confidently as he shrugs. “Stephanie Meyer is a trailblazing visionary.”
The group stares at their friend in silence before bursting out in laughter.
“You just keep surprising me,” Hannah smiles.
“Who knew Garrett Graham was a Twihard?” Allie snorts, which makes you laugh louder.
Logan’s smile grows bigger the louder you laugh grows.
“We’re actually called Rats, thank you very much,” Garrett goes on as everyone continues to cackle at their friend’s seemingly unending knowledge of the Twilight franchise.
Your friends’ roaring laughter is like balm for your soul, reminding you that bad things can, and will happen; but the people you surround yourself with can quickly remind you that there is still so much good left in the world.
—
A/N: Okaaaaayyyy, so - what did you think?? I have to know! Tell me everything lol
Summary: Twelve years ago, Y/N Graham ran away and left her twin brother behind. Now she's back, wearing their dead mother's name on her jersey—and Garrett is about to learn that some wounds don't heal just because you stop talking about them.
Warnings: angst, twin sibling drama, hockey rivalry, family trauma, estranged siblings, garrett graham deserves a headache, reader chooses violence, eventual sibling reconciliation
Garrett had no idea where his sister lived.
The realization hit him halfway across campus, when the frantic need to find her ran directly into the fact that he knew almost nothing about her.
He knew her position.
Her jersey number.
Her stats from the past four seasons.
He knew she drank coffee before morning practices because she had been holding a cup in nearly every photograph he had found online. He knew she volunteered at youth hockey camps during the summer and that she had once broken her wrist during a semifinal game, finished the third period anyway and scored the winning goal.
He knew everything the internet was willing to tell him.
He didn't know her phone number.
He didn't know which street she lived on.
He didn't even know whether she still hated mushrooms.
Garrett stood beside his truck with one hand gripping the open door, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must have looked.
Dean leaned against the hood.
"You could call Eastwood."
"And say what?"
Garrett shut the door harder than necessary.
"Hi, I'm the estranged twin brother your alternate captain clearly doesn't want anywhere near her. Can I have her home address?"
Dean considered it.
"Maybe don't lead with estranged."
Garrett glared at him.
Logan was already pulling out his phone.
"We know where she practices."
Garrett looked over.
"Eastwood rink."
"Exactly."
Dean pushed away from the hood. "Road trip."
"No."
Garrett started towards the driver's side.
Dean followed him.
"You look like you're one minor inconvenience away from driving through the rink doors. I'm coming."
"I don't need a babysitter."
"No, you need someone who can talk to people without looking like he's about to commit a felony."
Logan opened the passenger door.
"He's got a point."
Garrett stared at both of them.
Neither moved.
"Fine."
Dean grinned.
"I call front."
"You absolutely do not."
Y/N checked the lock for the fourth time.
The deadbolt was in place.
The chain was fastened.
The windows were closed.
No one was inside the apartment except her.
She knew that.
Knowing didn't stop her from walking through every room again.
The caller had tried twice more.
The first time, she let it ring until it stopped.
The second time, a voicemail appeared.
Six seconds long.
She hadn't listened to it.
Her phone sat on the kitchen counter beside the folded note. She had placed both of them there as though keeping them together might make the situation easier to understand.
It didn't.
The clock above the stove ticked loudly.
Y/N rubbed her palms against the front of her sweatpants and tried to concentrate on anything else.
She had practice early.
There was laundry in the dryer.
A half-finished assignment sat on her desk.
Ordinary things.
Safe things.
Then someone knocked on the door.
Her whole body went rigid.
The knock came again.
Three measured taps.
Not loud.
Not aggressive.
Somehow, that made it worse.
Y/N moved towards the door without making a sound. She reached for the hockey stick propped beside the coat rack and wrapped both hands around it.
Another knock.
"Y/N?"
Her stomach dropped.
She knew that voice.
Even after twelve years.
Even through a closed door.
"Go away."
Silence followed.
Then Garrett said, "I need to talk to you."
"I don't care."
"Please."
The word stopped her.
Garrett had never been good at saying please.
Not when they were kids. Not unless their mother forced him to.
Y/N tightened her grip on the stick.
"How did you find me?"
"I didn't."
She frowned.
"What?"
"Your coach did."
Her eyes closed briefly.
Of course he had.
There was going to be a conversation about privacy later.
A long one.
"He wouldn't give me your address," Garrett continued. "He called you first."
Her gaze snapped towards the phone on the counter.
Three missed calls from Coach.
She hadn't noticed them between the unknown number and the constant rushing in her ears.
"He only told me where you lived after you didn't answer," Garrett said. "He thought something might be wrong."
Something was wrong.
That didn't mean Garrett had any right to be standing outside her apartment.
"Tell him I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine."
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
"You haven't heard my voice in twelve years. You don't know what fine sounds like."
There was no immediate answer.
When Garrett finally spoke, his voice was quieter.
"You're right."
Y/N stared at the door.
It would have been easier if he argued.
She knew how to handle Garrett when he pushed back. She knew how to find the gaps in his temper and press until he snapped.
She didn't know what to do with this version of him.
The one who sounded tired.
The one who admitted she was right.
"Go home, Garrett."
"I went through our file."
Her fingers loosened around the stick.
"What file?"
"The social services file."
For several seconds, she couldn't move.
The apartment seemed to contract around her.
"You had no right."
"I know."
"No, you don't."
She stepped closer to the door, anger finally cutting through the fear.
"You don't get to dig through my life because seeing me again made you curious."
"It wasn't curiosity."
"I don't care what it was."
"I found a form."
Y/N's throat tightened.
She knew which form before he said anything else.
For years, she had convinced herself she no longer cared about it. It was a piece of paper written by people who hadn't known either of them. It shouldn't have mattered.
But she remembered every word.
She remembered sitting in a social worker's office with borrowed clothes hanging from her shoulders, staring at the line until the letters blurred.
Male child declined immediate placement.
She had been fifteen years old.
Bruised.
Exhausted.
Still waiting for Garrett to come through the door.
He never did.
Y/N pressed her forehead against the wood.
"Leave."
"Y/N—"
"I said leave."
"I never declined."
Her breath caught.
The hockey stick slipped slightly in her hands.
Garrett's voice came through the door, clearer now.
"I never chose him."
She stared at the deadbolt.
There had been a time when those five words would have fixed everything.
At fifteen, she would have believed him immediately.
At fifteen, she would have thrown open the door, taken his hand and asked him to run again.
She wasn't fifteen anymore.
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"Then why weren't you there?"
"I didn't know where you were."
"They told me you refused to leave."
"Dad told them I wanted to stay."
"And you believed him?"
"I didn't know he told them anything."
Garrett's frustration rose, but it wasn't directed at her. She could hear the difference.
"I woke up and you were gone. The police came. Dad said you ran because you blamed us for Mom."
"I blamed him."
"I know that now."
"You should've known then."
The words came out sharper than she intended.
Garrett went quiet.
Y/N gripped the stick again, needing something solid beneath her hands.
"He killed her."
Her voice trembled.
"He didn't push her down the stairs by accident. He didn't lose his balance. He hit her, Garrett. She tried to leave him and he hit her, and when she fell, he waited before calling an ambulance."
"I know."
"No, you don't."
"I do."
There was a break in his voice.
Y/N closed her eyes.
"He told me she slipped. I believed it because I was a kid and because the alternative was—"
"Was what?"
"That the person I was trapped in that house with had killed our mother."
The anger drained from her so quickly that she felt unsteady.
On the other side of the door, Garrett exhaled.
"I heard them arguing that night," he continued. "I heard something break. Then Dad came upstairs and told me not to leave my room."
Y/N remembered.
She had been at the top of the staircase.
Bare feet against cold wood.
She had seen their mother crumpled at the bottom.
Their father standing above her.
Garrett's bedroom door had been closed.
She had wondered for years if he'd heard anything.
"I stayed in my room," he said. "You went downstairs."
"You knew?"
"I knew you saw something. I didn't know what."
Y/N swallowed.
"I told the police."
"I know."
"He said I was confused."
"I know."
"They believed him."
Garrett didn't answer.
"They believed him because he was a famous hockey player and I was an angry teenage girl whose mom had just died."
"I know."
"Stop saying that."
Her voice cracked through the final word.
"I don't want you to know. I wanted you to have to live with not knowing, the same way I did."
The admission hung between them.
It was ugly.
She waited for him to get angry.
He didn't.
"Okay."
Y/N frowned.
"Okay?"
"If you wanted me to hurt, you got what you wanted."
His voice sounded close now, as if he had lowered himself to sit beside the door.
"I've spent twelve years thinking you left because I wasn't enough to stay for."
Y/N stared down at the narrow line of shadow beneath the door.
"I spent twelve years thinking you looked at him and chose him over me."
"I didn't."
"You stayed."
"I was fifteen."
"So was I."
Garrett inhaled sharply.
Y/N knew it was cruel.
She also knew it was true.
"I was scared," he said.
The simple honesty of it left her with nothing to throw back.
Garrett Graham had been afraid of very little when they were children. At least, that was what he wanted everyone to believe.
But she remembered the nights his voice had whispered through the wall.
You awake, Y/N?
She remembered how he would sit on the floor outside her bedroom when their father was angry, pretending he was only there because the hallway was cooler.
He had been afraid.
So had she.
They had simply been afraid in different directions.
Y/N slid the chain free before she could talk herself out of it.
The lock turned.
She opened the door a few inches, keeping the hockey stick between them.
Garrett was sitting on the floor with his back against the opposite wall.
He looked up.
For once, there was no anger in his face.
His eyes were red.
Two familiar figures stood farther down the corridor, trying and failing to look as though they weren't listening.
Dean Di Laurentis raised one hand awkwardly.
"Hi."
Y/N looked at Garrett.
"You brought an audience?"
"They wouldn't let me drive alone."
"Because he was driving like a psychopath," Dean supplied.
Logan elbowed him.
"What?" Dean whispered. "He was."
Garrett pushed himself to his feet.
"I can make them leave."
"I think we'd all prefer it if you didn't make us do anything," Logan said. "He's been unstable all day."
Y/N glanced between them.
The absurdity of the situation almost made her laugh.
Almost.
Then her phone rang inside the apartment.
All four of them went still.
Y/N's hand tightened around the stick.
Garrett noticed.
His attention moved from her face to the darkened room behind her.
"Are you expecting someone?"
"No."
The ringing stopped.
A second later, it began again.
Garrett's expression changed.
Not anger.
Concern.
"How long has that been happening?"
"It's none of your business."
"Y/N."
"Don't."
The phone fell silent.
An alert sounded.
Another voicemail.
Y/N stepped back from the doorway. Garrett moved instinctively, one foot crossing the threshold before he caught himself.
He looked at her for permission.
That made it harder to refuse.
She opened the door wider.
"Five minutes."
Garrett nodded.
Dean started forward.
"Not you."
Dean stopped.
"Understandable."
Logan grabbed the back of his jacket and pulled him away.
"We'll wait downstairs."
Y/N watched them leave before closing the door behind Garrett.
He stood near the entrance, taking in the apartment without appearing to. The hockey photographs on the walls. The framed Eastwood jersey. The small stack of mail beside the kitchen counter.
Then he saw the note.
Y/N reached for it at the same moment he did.
Garrett got there first.
His eyes moved over the two lines.
The colour drained from his face.
"Who gave you this?"
"I don't know."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
"And the calls?"
"Tonight."
"You need to call the police."
Y/N snatched the paper from him.
"No."
"Someone knows where you live."
"The police weren't particularly useful the last time I needed them."
"This is different."
"It never feels different when you're the one asking for help."
Garrett stared at her for a moment.
Then his expression softened.
"You don't have to call them tonight."
She hadn't expected that.
"But you shouldn't be alone."
"I've been alone for twelve years."
"That doesn't mean you have to keep being alone."
The words struck somewhere she had spent years protecting.
She looked away.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Come in here and act like you care because you found one document."
Garrett's jaw tightened.
"I didn't stop caring."
"You stopped looking."
"I was told the police couldn't find you."
"You play hockey for Briar. I play hockey for Eastwood. We're less than an hour apart."
"I know."
"My name and picture have been on the Eastwood website for years."
"I know."
"You could've found me."
"I know."
His voice broke.
There was nothing defensive in it.
No excuse.
Just the truth.
Garrett looked down at his hands.
"I should've looked harder."
Y/N's throat burned.
"I should've looked at all."
She wanted to tell him it was too late.
She wanted to order him out and bolt the door behind him.
Instead, she noticed a faint white scar across his knuckle.
Their father's championship ring had left a mark in almost the same place once, years ago.
Garrett caught her looking and curled his fingers into his palm.
Something cold settled in her stomach.
"What happened after I left?"
He looked away.
"Nothing."
It was the same answer she had given him in the arena.
A lie designed to end the conversation.
Y/N stepped closer.
"Garrett."
He flinched at the sound of his name.
Barely.
Anyone else might have missed it.
She didn't.
"What did he do?"
Garrett's eyes met hers.
For one terrible second, they were fifteen again.
Two frightened children separated by a door.
Neither willing to be the first to admit they needed the other.
Then his gaze dropped.
"He got worse."
The anger Y/N had carried for twelve years shifted inside her.
It didn't disappear.
It changed shape.
She set the hockey stick against the wall.
Garrett watched her cautiously.
"I'm not forgiving you," she said.
"I know."
"And this doesn't mean we're suddenly brother and sister again."
His throat moved as he swallowed.
"I know."
"You don't know anything."
A trace of the old Garrett appeared in his expression.
"Yeah. You've made that pretty clear."
She almost smiled.
The impulse irritated her.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time it was a message.
Y/N reached for it.
Garrett stepped beside her, close enough to read the screen.
Unknown Number: Your brother can't protect you this time.
Neither of them moved.
Y/N felt Garrett go rigid beside her.
He read the message again.
Then he looked at the locked apartment door.
All the uncertainty drained from his face, replaced by something she remembered too well.
The same look he'd worn at thirteen when their father raised his voice at her.
The same look he'd worn when older boys at school made her cry.
Garrett moved between her and the door without thinking.
Y/N stared at his back.
He had done that when they were children.
Put himself in front of her.
Even when he was scared.
Even when he couldn't stop what was coming.
"Someone saw you come here," she whispered.
Garrett turned.
She expected panic.
Instead, his expression hardened.
"Then I'm not leaving."
"You don't get to decide that."
"No."
He looked at the message one more time.
"But whoever sent this already knows I'm here."
His voice lowered.
"And I'm not making the mistake of leaving you behind twice."
Summary: They were never nothing—but John Logan made sure they were never something either. Until the night he sees her with someone else... and realises too late what he let slip away.
Warnings: emotional, happy memories
Five Years Later
Logan cries before the wedding even starts.
You know this because Garrett finds you ten minutes before you are supposed to walk down the aisle and announces it without knocking.
“He’s gone.”
You look up from the mirror.
Hannah, who has been fixing a loose strand of your hair, pauses with a pin between her fingers. Allie stops adjusting the back of your dress. Logan’s mother lowers the tissue she has been holding beneath one eye for most of the morning.
“What do you mean, gone?” you ask.
Garrett leans against the half-open door, already dressed in his suit. There is a small pink flower pinned to his lapel, slightly crooked.
“I mean emotionally. Physically, he’s still outside.”
You stare at him.
“He’s crying?”
“He saw the chairs.”
“The chairs?”
Garrett nods seriously. “Apparently they made it real.”
Hannah snorts.
You press your lips together, but a smile escapes anyway.
The ceremony is being held in the garden behind Tucker’s restaurant. It had been Logan’s idea, although Tucker had offered before either of you could officially ask. The restaurant is closed for the day, every table inside pushed aside for the reception later.
Outside, strings of lights hang between the trees. Small white flowers line the aisle, and photographs from the years you have spent together sit in mismatched frames along the edge of the garden.
Not posed photographs.
Real ones.
Ophelia asleep on Logan’s chest.
The three of you wearing paint-covered clothes after decorating her bedroom.
Your first Christmas as an engaged couple, when the tree fell over during dinner.
Logan holding Ophelia’s tiny backpack on her first day of nursery because she had decided it was too heavy after carrying it for less than a minute.
Your graduation.
His games.
Birthdays.
Holidays.
Ordinary afternoons that had not felt important until you saw them printed and placed together.
A whole life leading toward a row of chairs.
No wonder he cried.
“Is he all right?” you ask.
Garrett’s expression softens.
“Yeah.”
The teasing disappears from his voice.
“He’s happy.”
Your eyes sting.
Hannah immediately points a warning finger at you.
“No. I just fixed your makeup.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re already crying.”
“I’m blinking.”
“You don’t blink with your whole face.”
Allie picks up another tissue and gently presses it beneath your eye.
“You both need to stop,” she says. “We haven’t even started yet.”
Logan’s mother laughs quietly from the armchair near the window.
“Oh, sweetheart, it’s going to get much worse.”
She is wearing pale blue.
A rose from her garden has been woven into your bouquet.
When you showed it to Logan that morning, he had looked at it for a long time before kissing his mother’s cheek and leaving the room without speaking.
That may have been the first time he cried today.
The chairs may only have been the first time Garrett noticed.
“Where’s Ophelia?” you ask.
Garrett’s face changes.
It is subtle.
Still noticeable.
You narrow your eyes.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Garrett.”
“She’s with Dean.”
You stand so quickly that Hannah has to grab the back of your dress.
“Sit down.”
“Why is she with Dean?”
“He’s the flower man.”
“Flower girl,” Allie corrects.
Garrett shakes his head. “He’s been calling himself the flower man all morning.”
“He isn’t supposed to be holding the basket.”
“He says Ophelia is his assistant.”
You close your eyes.
Your daughter is six years old now.
Old enough to have opinions.
Old enough to know Dean will agree to almost anything if she asks him with wide eyes and an exaggerated pout.
Old enough to understand exactly how much influence she has over every man Logan considers family.
“They’re going to ruin the aisle,” you say.
“It’s flowers,” Garrett replies. “The entire point is to throw them on the ground.”
“They’re supposed to scatter them.”
“Dean claims scattering lacks impact.”
Hannah lets out a sigh.
“I’ll handle it.”
She hands the remaining pins to Allie and marches towards the door.
Garrett steps out of her way.
“Be careful. He has two baskets.”
The door closes behind her.
For a moment, the room is quiet.
Then Logan’s mother begins laughing.
You look at your reflection.
The woman staring back at you is not the person you imagined becoming when you first met John Logan.
That version of you could not have imagined any of this.
Not the dress.
Not the garden.
Not the six-year-old waiting outside in a pale pink outfit she chose herself after rejecting every traditional flower-girl dress because they were “too itchy.”
Not the man standing at the end of the aisle, crying over chairs.
There were times you thought the two of you would never make it beyond the next argument.
Times Logan convinced himself that loving you was selfish.
Times you stood in front of him and wondered how someone could want you so deeply and still be so frightened of staying.
Then he stayed.
When you became pregnant.
When the future arrived before either of you felt ready.
When Ophelia was born and your body failed and the world became hospital rooms, machines and waiting.
He stayed when you could not promise you would wake up.
You stayed when the fear followed him home.
Neither of you did it perfectly.
There were therapy appointments.
Arguments in kitchens.
Nights spent sitting on the floor because one of you could not breathe and the other refused to let them do it alone.
There were mistakes.
Apologies.
Several burnt dinners.
One engagement that lasted four years because having a child, finishing school, building careers and planning a wedding around hockey schedules proved more complicated than Logan had anticipated.
He complained about the delay constantly.
You suspected he enjoyed calling you his fiancée too much to be truly upset.
Now, after everything, you are finally here.
There is a knock on the door.
Gentler this time.
Garrett looks over his shoulder before stepping aside.
Ophelia appears in the doorway.
Your breath catches.
Her curly brown hair has been pinned back with tiny white flowers, though several strands have already escaped around her face. She is wearing a soft pink dress with trainers beneath it because she refused to wear the shoes Hannah bought.
In one hand she carries a basket of petals.
In the other, she holds a folded piece of paper.
Dean peers over her shoulder.
He is also carrying a basket.
Hannah stands behind him, looking exhausted.
“I tried,” she tells you.
Dean adjusts his suit jacket.
“There was no reason to restrict the creative direction.”
“You are not walking down the aisle with a basket,” Hannah says.
“It’s her parents’ wedding. She needs support.”
Ophelia looks back at him.
“I can do it by myself.”
Dean appears genuinely wounded.
“You said we were a team.”
“I changed my mind.”
Garrett laughs.
Dean points at him. “Stay out of this.”
Ophelia ignores them and walks into the room.
Her expression turns serious when she looks at you.
“You look pretty, Mama.”
That does it.
Your face crumples.
Hannah groans from the hallway.
“I knew it.”
You crouch carefully, gathering your dress around you.
Ophelia comes closer.
“You’re crying.”
“They’re happy tears.”
She considers this.
“Daddy’s doing that too.”
“I heard.”
“He said he had something in his eye.”
Garrett coughs into his fist.
Ophelia looks at him suspiciously before turning back to you.
She holds out the folded piece of paper.
“This is for you.”
You take it.
“What is it?”
“Daddy said I had to give it to you before you come outside.”
Your heart gives a painful little pull.
The paper has been folded twice. Your name is written across the front in Logan’s handwriting, though the letters shake slightly toward the end.
You glance at Ophelia.
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Uncle Dean tried.”
“I was checking for security risks,” Dean says.
You open the note.
There are only a few lines.
I had a whole speech planned, but Garrett said I’m not allowed to talk to you before the ceremony, which seems like a stupid rule considering we have a child and a mortgage.
Your smile appears immediately.
I know I’m going to see you in a few minutes. I know we’ve spent almost every day together for years. I still miss you.
Your vision blurs.
I used to think the hardest thing I would ever do was stay.
I was wrong.
Staying was the easiest choice I ever made once I understood that home wasn’t a place I could lose.
It was you.
Come marry me.
I love you.
Logan.
You read it twice.
By the second time, you are crying too hard to pretend otherwise.
Ophelia watches you with concern.
“Was it sad?”
You shake your head and laugh through the tears.
“No. Daddy’s just dramatic.”
From the doorway, Dean says, “Finally, someone admits it.”
You fold the note carefully and press it against your chest.
“Can you tell him I’m coming?”
Ophelia nods.
Then she leans forward and whispers, “He already knows.”
Your throat tightens again.
She kisses your cheek, leaving the faintest mark from the lip gloss Allie let her wear.
Then she turns and runs towards the door.
“Walk,” four adults say at once.
Ophelia slows to an exaggerated march.
Dean follows her, still carrying the second basket.
Hannah grabs it out of his hand as he passes.
“You have a job,” she reminds him.
“I had two jobs.”
“You’re lucky you still have one.”
The room empties gradually.
Allie goes first.
Then Hannah.
Logan’s mother kisses your cheek before joining the others.
Garrett remains.
He is walking you down the aisle.
You had asked him months ago.
Not because he was replacing anyone.
Because he had been there.
He had stood beside Logan in the hospital and helped him survive the days you were unconscious. He had watched Ophelia while the two of you attended therapy. He had shown up with food, n and bad advice. He had held your daughter at her first birthday party until his arm went numb because she had fallen asleep against him.
Garrett had become family long before the wedding made anything official.
He holds out his arm.
“You ready?”
You look down at Logan’s note.
Then towards the window.
Through the glass, you can just make out the garden.
Rows of chairs.
People turning in their seats.
The path leading towards Logan.
“I am.”
Garrett studies your face.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
His mouth lifts.
“He’s going to lose his mind when he sees you.”
“He’s already crying.”
“That’s his normal state now. This will be worse.”
You slip your arm through his.
The music begins outside.
—
Dean walks down the aisle first with Tucker and Hannah.
He behaves for almost thirty seconds.
Then he turns around and begins walking backwards, grinning at Ophelia as she appears beneath the arch at the top of the aisle.
She rolls her eyes.
You can see it from where you are waiting.
Six years old, and she already treats Dean like an embarrassing older brother.
She begins scattering petals carefully.
One handful on the left.
One on the right.
Then she gets halfway down the aisle and apparently decides the process is too slow.
She tips the entire basket upside down.
A mound of petals falls around her shoes.
The guests laugh.
Ophelia looks down at the empty basket.
Then back towards you.
She shrugs.
Logan laughs too.
You hear him even from the other end of the garden.
He is standing beneath the flower-covered arch with Garrett’s empty place beside him.
His suit is dark, his tie slightly crooked. His curls are shorter than they were when Ophelia was born, but one stubborn piece still falls across his forehead.
His eyes are red.
His smile is the same.
That is what catches you.
Years have passed.
Everything has changed.
But he still looks at you the way he did in the photograph from Ophelia’s first birthday.
As if there is nothing else worth seeing.
Ophelia reaches him and Logan immediately crouches.
She whispers something into his ear.
His gaze lifts towards you.
Whatever she says makes his face soften.
He kisses her cheek.
She takes her place beside Hannah, looking very pleased with herself.
Then the music changes.
Garrett covers your hand with his.
“Breathe.”
You realise you have forgotten.
You take one.
Slow.
Steady.
There is no panic in it.
Only emotion too big for your chest.
You step forward.
Logan stops smiling.
Not because he is unhappy.
Because his face crumples.
He presses his lips together, trying to hold himself together.
It lasts two seconds.
Then he begins crying properly.
Dean glances over at Tucker.
Tucker silently holds out his hand.
Dean passes him money.
You laugh.
Logan laughs too, wiping beneath his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“You’re beautiful,” he says when you are still several feet away.
Several guests laugh softly.
Garrett mutters, “You were supposed to wait.”
“I’ve waited four years,” Logan replies. “I’m done waiting.”
By the time you reach him, your own cheeks are wet.
Garrett turns towards you.
For one moment, his teasing expression disappears.
He kisses your temple.
“Take care of each other.”
“We will.”
He looks at Logan.
“I mean it.”
Logan nods.
“I know.”
Garrett places your hand in his.
Logan’s fingers close around yours.
His thumb brushes the engagement ring he gave you beneath the photographs all those years ago.
“You came,” he whispers.
The words are so quiet only you can hear them.
You smile through your tears.
“You asked me to.”
He lets out a broken laugh.
“That’s never stopped you ignoring me before.”
“You told me to come marry you.”
“I was trying to be romantic.”
“It was demanding.”
“Did it work?”
You squeeze his hand.
“I’m here.”
His expression changes.
The laughter softens.
The garden disappears around you for one small moment.
There are still people watching. Ophelia is standing only a few feet away. Dean is probably preparing to make a joke at the worst possible time.
But Logan hears what you are really saying.
You are here.
Not in a hospital bed.
Not trapped behind unconsciousness while he begged you to wake.
Here.
In front of him.
Choosing the life both of you once feared wanting.
His forehead nearly drops towards yours before the officiant clears her throat.
“Should we begin?”
Logan does not look away from you.
“Yes.”
—
The vows are meant to be brief.
Yours are.
Logan’s are not.
He unfolds three sheets of paper.
Dean groans loudly enough for the front row to hear.
Logan looks over.
“I can have you removed.”
“You need me for the photographs.”
“We’ll crop you out.”
Ophelia giggles.
Logan glances at her, and whatever nerves he had seem to ease.
Then he looks back at you.
“When I met you, I thought love was mostly wanting something you couldn’t keep.”
The garden quiets.
His voice is uneven, but he does not look at the pages yet.
“I thought eventually you’d see the parts of me I spent my whole life trying to outrun, and you’d decide I wasn’t worth staying for.”
Your eyes sting.
“I made it difficult for you to love me.”
You shake your head slightly.
Logan’s mouth lifts.
“You did it anyway.”
A soft laugh moves through the guests.
He looks down at the pages for a second.
Then folds them closed.
Apparently, the three sheets are no longer needed.
“You loved me when I was afraid. You loved me when I was an idiot. Sometimes those things happened at the same time.”
“They usually happened at the same time,” you say.
Everyone laughs.
Logan smiles.
“Yeah.”
His fingers tighten around yours.
“You gave me a daughter who taught me that being needed isn’t the same as being trapped.”
His eyes move towards Ophelia.
She is watching him closely now.
“You gave me a home where I didn’t have to earn my place every day.”
His voice catches.
“And you stayed.”
The words settle between you.
Simple.
Everything.
“I can’t promise I’ll never be scared again,” he says. “I can’t promise I’ll always know what to say.”
“You won’t,” you tell him.
Another laugh.
“I know.”
A tear slips down his cheek.
“But I promise you’ll never have to be scared alone.”
Your face crumples.
“I promise to wake up when you reach for me.”
The memory hits you both.
Dark bedrooms.
Trembling hands.
We wake each other up.
“I promise to keep choosing you,” he continues. “When it’s easy. When it isn’t. When you steal the blankets.”
“You steal them.”
“Not the time.”
Dean whispers, “She does.”
Hannah elbows him.
Logan’s smile appears again.
“I promise to love every version of our life. The big moments. The boring ones. Hockey games, school runs, burnt pancakes and whatever Ophelia decides to put us through as a teenager.”
Ophelia frowns.
“I’m not a teenager.”
“Not yet,” Logan says.
She appears satisfied by this.
His attention returns to you.
“And when I forget how lucky I am, I promise to look at you until I remember.”
You wipe at your cheek.
Logan reaches up and catches the tear for you.
“I loved you before I knew how to stay.”
His voice drops.
“I love you now that I do.”
There is no dry eye left in the first two rows.
Garrett is looking determinedly at the ground.
Tucker’s jaw is tight.
Hannah openly cries.
Dean removes his sunglasses from his pocket and puts them on.
The officiant waits for the laughter to quiet before turning towards you.
You had prepared vows.
They are folded inside your bouquet.
You do not take them out.
Instead, you look at Logan.
At the man who had once been convinced he would destroy every good thing he touched.
The man who held your newborn daughter through nights when neither of you knew whether you would return.
The man who still burns pancakes but now accepts that the pan is rarely responsible.
The man who learned that staying was not a single decision.
It was hundreds of them.
Every day.
You take a breath.
“You once told me you didn’t know what would be left of you if I hadn’t woken up.”
Logan’s eyes immediately fill again.
“But you never understood that you were the reason I had something to wake up to.”
His face crumples.
“Even when I couldn’t hear you, you were there.”
You lift his hand and press it over your heart.
The same way you did on Ophelia’s first birthday.
“Here.”
His fingers spread against your chest.
“You have been there through every good thing and every terrible thing that came after.”
Your voice shakes.
“You held our daughter when I couldn’t. You held me when I came home and didn’t know how to be the person I had been before.”
Logan’s thumb moves against your dress.
“You never asked me to become her again.”
A tear runs down his cheek.
“You loved the person who woke up.”
His mouth trembles.
You smile.
“I promise to love the person you keep becoming.”
The words make him close his eyes.
“I promise not to let you turn fear into a reason to run.”
Dean murmurs, “Good luck.”
You glance at him.
He looks away.
“I promise to remind you that our daughter likes me best.”
Ophelia gasps.
“Dada!”
Logan points at her triumphantly.
“You heard her.”
“She’s defending you because she feels sorry for you.”
“I don’t.”
Everyone laughs again.
When it quiets, you squeeze Logan’s hand.
“I promise to stay.”
The humour leaves his expression.
“Not because I have to.”
Your voice softens.
“Because there has never been anywhere else I wanted to be.”
—
Ophelia carries the rings.
This had been debated.
Logan was convinced she could handle it.
You remembered the flower basket.
The rings are tied securely to a small cushion.
Even so, every person in the garden holds their breath when she walks towards you.
She reaches Logan first.
“Don’t drop them,” he whispers.
“I know.”
“Hold it with both hands.”
“I am.”
“You’re holding it with one hand.”
“Dada.”
The warning in her voice makes you bite back a laugh.
Logan immediately falls silent.
Ophelia presents the cushion to you with great seriousness.
You untie Logan’s ring.
Your hands shake as you slide it onto his finger.
He stares at it.
For one second, he looks exactly like he did when Ophelia first said Dada.
Overwhelmed by the evidence that something good has chosen him.
Then he takes your ring.
He pauses before sliding it into place, his thumb brushing over your bare finger.
“Last chance,” he whispers.
“You’re asking that now?”
“I’m nervous.”
“You already gave a ten-minute speech.”
“It was six minutes.”
“John.”
His smile is soft.
“You sure?”
You look at him.
At Ophelia standing between you.
At Garrett, Hannah, Dean, Tucker and Allie.
At his mother in the front row, holding a tissue against her mouth.
At the garden full of photographs and people who witnessed every version of your story.
“Yes.”
Logan slides the ring onto your finger.
“Me too.”
The officiant barely finishes declaring you married before Logan kisses you.
Dean shouts something inappropriate.
Garrett tells him to shut up.
Hannah cries harder.
Ophelia pushes her way between you after four seconds.
“Me too.”
Logan pulls back, laughing.
“You want to marry Mama too?”
“No. Kiss.”
You bend down together and each kiss one of her cheeks.
She squeals, scrunching her shoulders towards her ears.
The photographer captures the moment.
Not the planned kiss beneath the flowers.
This one.
The three of you laughing.
Ophelia in the middle.
Logan’s hand around your waist.
Your new ring resting against your daughter’s back.
It becomes the photograph you frame above the fireplace.
—
The reception is loud.
Dean’s speech is banned in advance.
He gives one anyway.
It begins with the words, “For legal reasons, most of these stories have been altered,” and ends with Logan throwing a bread roll at him.
Garrett’s speech is shorter.
He stands with one hand in his pocket and looks uncomfortable with the attention.
He talks about the first time he realised Logan was in love with you.
It was not during a kiss.
Not during a dramatic argument.
It was the night Logan left a party early because you had mentioned hours earlier that you had a headache.
“He didn’t tell anyone where he was going,” Garrett says. “He just disappeared.”
Logan glances at you.
You remember.
He arrived at your door with water, painkillers and the wrong kind of crisps.
“I knew then,” Garrett continues, “because Logan had never remembered anything that didn’t involve hockey or himself.”
“That’s not true,” Logan protests.
Garrett ignores him.
“He remembered the exact brand of tea she liked.”
A ripple of laughter moves through the room.
“And he was terrified.”
Garrett looks at Logan.
“The kind of terrified you only get when you finally find something you can’t pretend you don’t want.”
Logan’s hand finds yours beneath the table.
Garrett raises his glass.
“To staying terrified.”
Dean stands.
“That’s a terrible toast.”
Garrett looks at him.
“It isn’t finished.”
“Oh.”
“To being terrified,” Garrett continues, “and choosing it anyway.”
The room raises their glasses.
Logan looks at you.
“Choosing it anyway,” he repeats quietly.
You touch your glass to his.
—
Ophelia falls asleep before the first dance.
She had been determined to stay awake.
She lasted through dinner, the speeches and half of the cake before climbing into Logan’s lap and putting her head against his chest.
He carries her onto the dance floor.
“I thought this was our dance,” you say.
“She’s part of the package.”
Ophelia’s cheek is pressed against his shoulder, one arm hanging limply between you. Her flower crown disappeared hours ago, and there is icing in her hair.
You rest your hand on Logan’s shoulder.
His free arm circles your waist.
The song begins.
It is not one either of you chose for its lyrics.
Logan picked it because it had been playing in his truck during one of your first quiet drives together. Before either of you admitted what was happening.
Before Ophelia.
Before the worst night of both your lives and every beautiful one that followed.
You sway carefully with your daughter asleep between you.
The room fades.
Logan looks down at your joined hands.
At the ring on his finger.
He rubs his thumb across yours.
“Wife.”
“You’ve said that seventeen times.”
“I’m testing it.”
“Is it working?”
He nods.
“Wife.”
You smile.
“Husband.”
His breathing catches.
You laugh softly.
“Oh, you like that.”
“Say it again.”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“You’re already becoming unbearable.”
“I’m allowed one day.”
“You said that when she called you Dada.”
“That was six years ago.”
“You said it when we got engaged.”
“That was four years ago.”
“You say it every birthday.”
“They’re special occasions.”
You lean closer.
“My husband.”
His eyes close briefly.
When they open, they are wet.
“You did that on purpose.”
“I did.”
He kisses your forehead.
Ophelia shifts between you.
“Mama,” she mumbles without waking.
“I’m here,” you whisper.
Her fingers curl against the front of your dress.
Logan’s face softens.
He looks at her.
Then at you.
“This is better than the plan.”
“What plan?”
“The one I used to have.”
You already know what he means.
Hockey.
Graduation.
Helping his family.
A life measured in responsibilities rather than hopes because hoping for more had once seemed selfish.
“What did you think it would look like?” you ask.
He considers it.
“I didn’t.”
The answer hurts in its simplicity.
Logan looks around the room.
At Garrett dancing badly with Hannah.
At Dean attempting to convince Tucker to join him on top of a table.
At Allie taking photographs.
At his mother laughing with Ophelia’s schoolteacher, whom your daughter insisted on inviting.
Then his gaze returns to you.
“I’m glad I was wrong.”
You rest your cheek against his shoulder.
“So am I.”
—
Years later, Ophelia will not remember most of the wedding.
She will remember pieces.
Dean helping her eat icing before dinner.
Garrett carrying her shoes because her feet hurt.
Hannah fixing the flowers in her hair.
Her father crying.
Her mother laughing at him for it.
She will remember falling asleep during the first dance, though you suspect this memory only exists because she has heard the story so many times.
What she remembers most clearly is waking near the end of the night.
The room had emptied.
The music had stopped.
She was lying across two chairs pushed together near the window with Logan’s suit jacket covering her like a blanket.
Through the glass, she could see you and Logan outside beneath the garden lights.
Still dressed in your wedding clothes.
Still awake despite the hour.
You were not dancing.
Not kissing.
Not doing anything that looked important.
You were collecting photographs that the wind had knocked from one of the displays.
Logan handed them to you one at a time.
You put them back into their frames.
At one point, he said something that made you laugh.
He pulled you against him.
You stood together beneath the lights, surrounded by the scattered pieces of your life.
Hospital rooms.
Hockey rinks.
First birthdays.
Burnt pancakes.
A baby who became a little girl while neither of you was looking.
Ophelia watched her father kiss the top of your head.
She watched you reach for his hand as the two of you walked back towards the restaurant.
She did not understand then why that moment stayed with her.
Years later, when someone asked what love had looked like in her home, she would think of it.
Not the wedding.
Not the rings.
Not even the vows.
Two people at the end of a long day, tired and happy, picking up the memories the wind had scattered.
Summary: You were stranded at the library in the pouring rain, the last shuttle bus had left just as you got there, you text your brother, Garrett Graham, if he could pick you up after practice. You'll never guess who he sends instead.
Warnings: Police, concealed anger, silent panic
The police traced the number by lunchtime.
It wasn’t Ryan’s.
At least, it wasn’t registered to him.
The officer explained that it belonged to a prepaid phone purchased with cash at a convenience store nearly forty minutes from campus. No name. No account. No easy way to prove who had bought it.
The news should have been frustrating.
Instead, it frightened you.
Because Ryan had planned for that.
He hadn’t acted impulsively. He hadn’t grabbed his own phone in a moment of anger and sent something without thinking. He had gone out, bought another device and used it to reach you without immediately tying himself to the message.
He had thought about it.
New phone suits you.
Five words.
Enough to let you know he was still watching.
Careful enough to make proving it difficult.
You sat at the kitchen island while the officer spoke through Dean’s phone. Your replacement phone had already been collected as evidence, leaving the space in front of you empty again.
Logan stood behind your chair, one hand resting against the counter beside you. He hadn’t touched you since the call began, but the position meant you could lean back into him if you needed to.
Garrett paced near the living-room doorway.
He had been doing that for almost twenty minutes.
“What about cameras?” he asked. “At the store?”
“We’re requesting the footage.”
“And if they don’t have any?”
“We’ll pursue other enquiries.”
Garrett’s mouth tightened. “What does that mean?”
“It means we follow the evidence available to us.”
“What evidence? A phone anyone could’ve bought?”
“Garrett.”
You didn’t say it loudly.
You didn’t need to.
He stopped pacing.
The officer continued as though nothing had happened.
“We’re also looking at how your new number may have been obtained. At the moment, there are several possibilities.”
“Such as?” Logan asked.
“The information may have been passed on by someone with access to it. It may have been obtained through an account connected to the number, or from paperwork submitted to the university.”
Your stomach turned.
“So someone gave it to him?”
“We don’t know that.”
“But it’s possible.”
“Yes.”
The answer made everyone in the room look at one another.
Not suspiciously.
Not yet.
But differently.
The number had only existed for a day.
You had given it to four people yourself.
Logan.
Garrett.
Dean.
Tucker.
The police had it. Campus security had it. The phone company had it.
A small circle.
Still too large.
The thought crept in before you could stop it.
What if someone you trusted had told him?
You hated yourself for thinking it.
Your eyes moved towards Dean.
He was standing beside the table, holding the phone on speaker. His face was serious, stripped of its usual confidence. When he looked at you, there was nothing defensive in his expression.
Only concern.
Then Tucker stepped in from the living room carrying two mugs of tea. You watched him place one near your elbow.
“Careful,” he said quietly. “It’s hot.”
You looked down at it.
He had made it the way you liked.
Too much milk.
One sugar.
Your chest tightened with shame.
You didn’t think Tucker had given Ryan your number.
You didn’t think any of them had.
But Ryan had managed to get inside your thoughts again, making every kindness feel as if it needed to be examined for a hidden motive.
The officer finished explaining that they would contact you through Logan until your phone was returned or another replacement could be arranged.
Then the call ended.
Dean lowered his mobile.
Nobody spoke.
Garrett was the first to break the silence.
“Who knew the number?”
You closed your eyes.
“Don’t.”
“I’m asking a question.”
“I know what you’re asking.”
Garrett looked towards Dean and Tucker.
Dean’s expression hardened.
“You think one of us gave it to him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Tucker folded his arms. “Nobody here gave Ryan anything.”
Garrett stared at him. “You can’t know that.”
Tucker’s eyebrows lifted. “Actually, I know I didn’t, and I’m fairly confident Dean didn’t suddenly become friends with a stalker overnight.”
“Don’t be a smartass.”
“I’m not being a smartass. I’m trying to stop you turning this house into an interrogation room.”
Garrett stepped forward.
Logan moved before you did.
He placed himself between them, not aggressively, but enough to break the line of sight.
“Not now.”
Garrett looked at him. “You’re not wondering?”
“Of course I’m wondering.”
The admission silenced the room.
Logan glanced towards you.
“But she’s sitting right there.”
Garrett’s eyes moved to you.
You were still staring at the untouched tea.
Your hands had disappeared beneath the sleeves of your jumper.
The argument drained out of his face.
“Shit.”
You swallowed.
“I thought it too.”
Dean frowned. “Thought what?”
“That one of you might’ve told him.”
The sentence came out quietly.
It felt worse once it existed outside your head.
Dean stared at you.
Tucker looked away.
Garrett’s expression crumpled.
Logan didn’t move.
You forced yourself to continue.
“I don’t really believe it.”
No one answered.
“I don’t,” you repeated. “But for a second, when the officer said someone might’ve passed it on, I looked at all of you and wondered.”
Dean placed his phone on the counter.
“Okay.”
Your eyebrows pulled together. “Okay?”
“Yeah.”
He pulled out the stool opposite you and sat down.
“You’re scared.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“It doesn’t make it insulting either.”
You stared at him.
Dean shrugged slightly, but his face remained serious.
“If someone had been listening to me for a year and somehow got a number only a few people knew, I’d wonder too.”
Your eyes burned.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I don’t think you’d help him.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because I know you.”
His answer was simple.
Certain.
“You wouldn’t have said it if you believed it. You would’ve left.”
Tucker leaned against the kitchen counter.
“And you didn’t.”
You looked towards him.
He gave you a small, tired smile.
“For the record, I didn’t tell anyone. But you’re allowed to ask me.”
Garrett rubbed the back of his neck.
“I shouldn’t have started accusing people.”
Dean looked at him. “You didn’t technically accuse us.”
“You were about four seconds away from searching our phones.”
“Three,” Tucker muttered.
Garrett glared at him.
Tucker lifted both hands. “Sorry.”
You wrapped your hands around the mug of tea. The heat sank into your palms.
“I hate this.”
Logan’s hand came to rest on the back of your chair.
“I know.”
“He makes me question everything.”
Your voice shook with frustration more than fear now.
“Every time I think there’s nothing else he can ruin, he finds something.”
Dean leaned forward.
“He didn’t ruin anything.”
You laughed bitterly. “I just admitted I thought one of you gave him my number.”
“For about thirty seconds.”
“That’s enough.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Dean’s tone sharpened slightly.
Not angry.
Insistent.
“You were honest. We answered. Nobody stormed out. Nobody punished you for asking.”
You stared at him.
“That’s what trust is,” he continued. “It’s not never doubting anyone. It’s being able to say you’re scared and not having it used against you.”
The words settled heavily.
You looked around the kitchen.
Tucker was still there.
Garrett had stopped pacing.
Dean hadn’t made a joke to hide how serious the conversation was.
Logan remained behind you, steady and quiet.
Ryan had made you question them.
He hadn’t made them leave.
—
The security footage from the convenience store arrived that evening.
The police asked you to come in the following morning to view it.
You didn’t sleep much.
Not because you were alone.
You weren’t.
After the message, the idea of returning to your dorm had made your skin crawl. You hadn’t needed to explain it. Logan had driven you back to the hockey house, and when you stood uncertainly in the hallway outside his room, he had simply opened the door wider.
Now you lay beside him, staring at the ceiling.
Logan was on his back, one hand tucked beneath his head. He wasn’t asleep either.
You could tell by the way his breathing changed whenever you moved.
“What if it isn’t him?”
Logan turned his head towards you.
“The person in the footage?”
“Yeah.”
“Then the police keep looking.”
“What if it’s someone we know?”
His eyes stayed on your face.
“Do you think it is?”
“I don’t know what I think anymore.”
He shifted onto his side.
The room was dark, but moonlight from the window caught the edge of his face.
“Can I tell you what I think?”
You nodded.
“I think Ryan wants you to feel like he could be anyone.”
Your throat tightened.
“He wants you looking at everyone around you, wondering who’s helping him. Because then he doesn’t have to be in the room to isolate you.”
You looked away.
It made too much sense.
“That’s what he used to do.”
Logan waited.
“He’d tell me people were talking about me.”
Your voice grew quieter.
“He’d say my friends laughed at me when I left the room. Or that Garrett only called because he felt guilty. He’d tell me things other people supposedly said, and when I tried to ask them, he’d get angry because I was embarrassing him.”
Logan’s expression tightened.
“Did you stop asking?”
“Eventually.”
“Because it was easier?”
You nodded.
“And then I stopped telling people things because I thought they’d repeat them.”
The realisation hurt.
Ryan hadn’t started isolating you by demanding that you cut everyone off.
He had made you distrust them until being alone felt safer.
Logan’s hand rested on the mattress between you.
“I’m not going to tell you there’s no chance someone helped him.”
You looked at him.
“Because we don’t know yet.”
Your fingers moved towards his.
“But I’m not going anywhere because you’re frightened of the possibility.”
You touched his hand.
Logan turned his palm upwards and intertwined your fingers.
“Neither are the others.”
“How do you know?”
“Dean’s been sitting downstairs reading about burner phones for two hours.”
A reluctant smile touched your mouth.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“He now thinks he works for the FBI.”
You laughed quietly.
“And Tucker?”
“Made tea for everyone. Then made more tea because nobody drank the first lot.”
“Garrett?”
Logan sighed.
“Currently reorganising the cupboard where we keep batteries.”
You frowned. “Why?”
“No idea. I’m scared to ask.”
The laugh came easier this time.
It faded slowly, leaving the room softer than before.
You squeezed his hand.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Not telling me I’m being paranoid.”
Logan’s eyes moved over your face.
“You’re not paranoid.”
“I’m suspicious of everyone.”
“Because someone actually violated your trust.”
“That doesn’t mean every suspicion is right.”
“No.”
He moved closer.
“But you’re allowed to examine them without letting them control you.”
You stared at him.
“When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve always been like this.”
“You once tried to open a beer bottle with your teeth.”
“That was unrelated.”
“You chipped your tooth.”
“It grew back.”
“That isn’t how teeth work.”
“You can’t prove that.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.
Logan’s thumb brushed over your knuckles.
“Try to sleep.”
“You’ll be here in the morning?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Annoying.”
“Devastatingly handsome.”
“Debatable.”
His smile lingered in the darkness.
You closed your eyes.
The fear didn’t disappear.
But it stopped pressing quite so hard against your ribs.
—
The person on the security footage wasn’t Ryan.
You knew that the moment the officer turned the computer screen towards you.
The video showed a tall figure entering the convenience store just after midnight. A dark hoodie covered most of his head, and a baseball cap hid his face from the camera above the door.
But the build was wrong.
Ryan was broad through the shoulders.
This person was thinner.
Slightly shorter.
He moved differently too.
Restless.
Nervous.
He kept looking over his shoulder while waiting at the counter.
Your stomach twisted.
“That isn’t him.”
The officer nodded.
“We don’t believe it is.”
Logan sat beside you.
Garrett had remained outside the room this time at your request. He had accepted it without arguing, although his knee had been bouncing fast enough to shake the waiting-room chairs.
“Can you see his face?” Logan asked.
“Not clearly.”
The officer played the footage again.
The figure entered.
Selected the cheapest prepaid phone from behind the counter.
Paid cash.
Left.
The entire interaction lasted less than two minutes.
“Could Ryan have sent someone?” you asked.
“That’s one possibility.”
“Who?”
“We’re working to identify the individual.”
The officer paused the video at the clearest frame.
The man’s face remained hidden, but one hand was visible as he passed money across the counter.
A dark ring sat on his index finger.
There was something familiar about it.
Not the ring itself.
The shape.
The way he moved his hand.
You leaned closer.
“Can you play it again?”
The officer restarted the footage.
You watched the hand.
The nervous tapping against the counter.
The fingers flexing.
Your pulse began to climb.
Logan noticed.
“What?”
You shook your head.
“I don’t know.”
The video continued.
The man turned slightly as the cashier handed him the bag.
For a fraction of a second, the camera caught the side of his face.
Not enough to identify him.
Enough to show a pale scar running from his jaw towards his ear.
Your stomach dropped.
You knew that scar.
You had watched Ryan’s friend Mason get it during a fight outside a bar in your first year.
You had held a towel against the cut while Ryan laughed and told him it made him look tougher.
“Mason.”
Your voice came out as a whisper.
The officer paused the footage.
“You recognise him?”
Your mouth had gone dry.
Logan’s hand tightened around yours.
“That’s Mason Cole.”
The officer reached for his notebook.
“How do you know him?”
“He was Ryan’s friend.”
You stared at the frozen image.
“He used to cover for him.”
A memory surfaced.
Mason telling you Ryan had spent the night at his place when you knew he hadn’t.
Mason warning Ryan whenever Garrett came looking for you.
Mason laughing when Ryan checked your messages.
At the time, you had thought he was immature.
Loyal to the wrong person.
Now you wondered how much he had known.
“How confident are you?” the officer asked.
You looked at the scar.
The ring.
The nervous movement of his fingers.
“Very.”
Logan’s jaw tightened.
The officer stood.
“I need to contact the investigating team.”
He took the laptop with him and left the room.
The door closed.
You sat motionless.
Logan turned his chair towards you.
“Hey.”
“He had help.”
Your voice sounded empty.
“We don’t know how much Mason did.”
“He bought the phone.”
“Yeah.”
“He got my number somehow.”
Logan didn’t answer.
Your breathing became uneven.
“All those times Ryan found me…”
You looked at him.
“What if it wasn’t just the phone?”
Logan’s face changed.
“What if people were telling him things the whole time?”
The fear wasn’t only that Ryan had watched you.
It was that he had built a network around you.
People passing information.
Covering for him.
Helping him remain close without being seen.
The room felt suddenly too small.
Logan stood and crouched in front of you.
“Feet on the floor.”
You looked down.
Your shoes were already planted against the carpet.
“I can feel them.”
“Good.”
His hands rested on his knees.
“Look at me.”
You did.
“Mason buying the phone doesn’t mean everyone around you is involved.”
“But one person is.”
“Yes.”
The honesty steadied you more than denial would have.
“One person made a choice to help Ryan.”
Your eyes burned.
“That doesn’t mean Dean did. It doesn’t mean Tucker did. It doesn’t mean Hannah or Allie did.”
“I know.”
“Say it.”
You frowned.
“Logan—”
“Not for me.”
His voice softened.
“For you.”
You looked towards the closed door.
Then back at him.
“Dean didn’t give him my number.”
“Okay.”
“Tucker didn’t.”
“Okay.”
“Garrett didn’t.”
Logan’s expression softened.
“No.”
“You didn’t.”
His eyes held yours.
“Never.”
The word landed firmly.
You inhaled.
Slowly.
“Mason helped him.”
“Yeah.”
“And now the police know.”
You nodded.
The fear remained, but it no longer spread in every direction.
It had a name now.
A face.
A scar.
Mason.
Not everyone.
Someone.
There was a difference.
—
Garrett knew the second you stepped into the waiting room.
He stood.
“Who was it?”
You looked towards the officer behind you, but he gave a small nod.
“Mason.”
Garrett went still.
“Mason Cole?”
You nodded.
For a few seconds, he said nothing.
Then he laughed.
It was a quiet, stunned sound.
“I played hockey with him.”
You watched the betrayal settle across his face.
“He stayed at our house.”
“I know.”
“I gave him rides.”
His voice grew rough.
“I used to defend him when Dad said he was bad news.”
You stepped closer.
Garrett looked at you.
“He knew what Ryan was doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“He had to.”
“We don’t know yet.”
“He bought the fucking phone.”
The anger rose quickly.
You saw him trying to control it.
His hands clenched.
Then opened.
Clenched again.
“He helped Ryan contact you after the police told him to stay away.”
“Yes.”
Garrett’s eyes filled.
“I trusted him.”
The words sounded younger than the rest of him.
You understood then that this wasn’t only your betrayal.
Mason had been Garrett’s friend too.
Someone who had stood beside him at parties.
Shared hotel rooms during tournaments.
Sat at his family’s dinner table.
Someone Garrett might have confided in about you.
Your stomach turned.
“What did you tell him?”
Garrett’s face drained of colour.
“What?”
“When I left Ryan.”
You struggled to keep your voice steady.
“Did you talk to Mason?”
Garrett stared at you.
Then his expression changed.
Memory.
Horror.
“I called him.”
Logan shifted beside you.
Garrett pressed a hand to his mouth.
“I couldn’t find you.”
Your chest tightened.
“Garrett.”
“You weren’t answering. Ryan said he didn’t know where you were, and I thought maybe Mason had heard something.”
“What did you tell him?”
Garrett looked as though he might be sick.
“That you’d left.”
Your eyes closed.
“I told him you were staying somewhere off campus.”
“Did you tell him where?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“I swear to God, I didn’t know where you were. You wouldn’t tell me.”
Because you had been afraid Garrett would confront Ryan.
Because you had been afraid Ryan would follow him.
That decision might have saved you.
Garrett’s voice broke.
“But I told him you were scared.”
You opened your eyes.
“He probably told Ryan.”
“I’m sorry.”
You shook your head.
“No.”
“I should’ve known.”
“No, Garrett.”
“I trusted him.”
“So did I.”
Garrett stared at you.
“So did everyone.”
You stepped closer and took his hands before he could pull them away.
“Mason helped Ryan because Mason chose to.”
Garrett’s eyes shone.
“You don’t get to take responsibility for every person who lied to us.”
A tear escaped and ran quickly down his cheek.
He looked away, embarrassed.
You squeezed his hands.
“I need you to believe that.”
Garrett gave a broken laugh.
“You’re giving me the speech now?”
“You’re a slow learner.”
His mouth twisted.
Almost a smile.
Then he pulled you into his arms.
You held on.
Logan stood beside you, one hand resting lightly against your back.
For the first time, the threat felt wider than Ryan.
But so did the proof.
Mason had bought the phone.
The cameras had caught him.
The police had a name.
Ryan hadn’t reached you through some invisible, unknowable force.
He had needed help.
And the person who helped him had made a mistake.
He had shown his face.
Not clearly.
But enough.
Enough for you to recognise him.
Enough to turn fear into evidence.
Enough to give the police somewhere new to look.
When Garrett finally pulled away, his eyes were still red, but his voice was steady.
“What happens now?”
The officer answered from behind you.
“We find Mason.”
You looked back at the frozen image on the laptop screen.
The hood.
The scar.
The ring.
Ryan had wanted you to believe he could reach you from anywhere.
Instead, he had shown you how.
And piece by piece, the distance between what you knew and what you could prove was beginning to close.
Quietly Yours {Dean Di Laurentis x mute!reader} Part 7
Masterlist
Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.
Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings
You stayed until nearly midnight.
It wasn’t intentional. Every time you looked at the clock, another half hour seemed to have disappeared.
Tucker brought out the brownies he had apparently made earlier that afternoon, prompting Logan to reappear from upstairs despite insisting he had gone to bed. Hannah tried to teach Garrett how to braid her hair while he complained that his hands were too big, and Dean spent fifteen minutes attempting to learn new signs from you.
He already knew how to spell things, technically. He had practised the alphabet enough to work his way through words if he concentrated, but fingerspelling everything took him so long that Logan threatened to graduate before Dean finished introducing himself.
So instead, you started teaching him actual signs.
Or tried to.
Tucker helped when Dean’s limited vocabulary made your explanations difficult, translating as you showed him simple everyday signs—eat, drink, movie, friend. Dean repeated each one with intense focus, his brows furrowed as he tried to get the movements right.
Dean listened more seriously than you expected him to.
“So I don’t just spell everything?”
You shook your head.
“That’s good,” he said. “Because I think I’d die before finishing a sentence.”
Garrett looked over from Hannah’s half-finished braid. “We can only hope.”
Dean ignored him. His attention stayed fixed on you.
“What else?”
You hesitated, then showed him another sign—thank you.
He copied you, slower this time.
“Like this?”
You nodded.
He repeated it again, more confident.
“Okay. I like that one.”
You smiled.
“Teach me something harder.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Not too hard,” he added quickly. “I’m still new at this.”
You showed him goodnight.
Dean watched closely, then tried it himself. His hand placement was slightly off, so you reached up and adjusted it, guiding his movement gently.
“Like this?”
You nodded.
He repeated it again, this time getting it right.
“That’s actually kind of cool.”
Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten.
Around you, the others had grown suspiciously quiet. When you glanced across the room, Hannah was watching the two of you with a softness in her eyes that made warmth creep into your face.
Garrett broke the silence first.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Dean didn’t look away from you.
“Way too late for that.”
It was close to midnight when Hannah finally stood and stretched, announcing that she had an early class and Garrett had promised to walk her home.
You began collecting your things, sliding your phone charger into your bag and checking beneath the coffee table for the pen you had dropped earlier.
Dean stood immediately.
“I’ll take you home.”
You straightened and shook your head, reaching for your phone.
I can walk.
“It’s dark.”
I’ve walked home in the dark before.
“I know.”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, suddenly looking less certain.
“I’d still rather take you.”
The words weren’t controlling. He didn’t block the doorway or try to decide for you. He just stood there, waiting for your answer, as if driving you home was something he wanted rather than an obligation he had assigned himself.
You typed.
Walk or drive?
Dean glanced toward the window. Rain streaked the glass, thin streams illuminated by the porch light.
“Drive.”
You’ve been drinking?
His eyebrows lifted.
“No. I had soda.”
You studied his face.
He placed one hand over his heart. “I swear on my beautiful car.”
Logan snorted. “That’s the only oath he takes seriously.”
You smiled and pulled your coat on.
Okay.
Dean grabbed his keys so quickly that Garrett laughed.
“Try not to look too eager.”
“I always look this good.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
Dean held the front door open for you, then turned to give Garrett a rude gesture behind your back.
You saw Garrett’s reaction and looked over your shoulder.
Dean immediately transformed the gesture into an awkward wave.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Goodnight,” he said innocently.
The rain had grown heavier by the time you reached Dean’s car.
He hurried around to the passenger side and opened the door before you could reach the handle.
You paused.
Dean leaned against the open door. “Don’t make it weird.”
You raised one eyebrow.
“My mother raised me correctly.”
You glanced pointedly back toward the house, where a sock was still hanging over the banister, visible through the front window.
“That has nothing to do with me.”
Your smile widened as you climbed inside.
The car smelled faintly of leather, peppermint gum, and the cologne Dean seemed incapable of applying in moderation. The interior was surprisingly tidy, apart from two empty coffee cups in the centre console and a collection of hockey equipment shoved into the back.
Dean got into the driver’s side and started the engine.
Music immediately blasted through the speakers.
You jumped.
“Shit.”
He turned it down so fast that the knob nearly came off in his hand.
“Sorry. Garrett drove it earlier.”
You looked at him.
He stared back.
Neither of you believed his excuse.
You typed on your phone.
Do you always listen to music that loud?
Dean glanced at the screen and shrugged. “Sometimes.”
You’re going to damage your hearing.
“Then you’ll have to teach me sign language faster.”
You tried to glare at him, but the grin pulling at your mouth ruined it.
He laughed and pulled away from the curb.
For the first few minutes, Dean attempted to keep a conversation going.
He asked which residence building you lived in even though you had already given him the address. Then he asked whether you had enjoyed the movie, only to remember that Logan had talked over most of it. He launched into a story about the time Tucker had banned him from the kitchen after an incident involving a blender and a badly secured lid.
You listened, smiling when appropriate, but responding was harder in the dark car. You couldn’t type easily while he was driving and he didn’t know enough ASL for anything more complicated than a greeting.
Dean seemed to realise it at the same time you did.
His story trailed off.
“Sorry.”
You looked over.
“I’m doing it again.”
You frowned.
“Talking at you instead of with you.”
You shook your head, but he kept his eyes on the road.
“I don’t want you to have to sit there while I fill the entire drive with my voice.”
You unlocked your phone, typed a reply, then waited until he stopped at a red light before holding it toward him.
I like listening to you.
Dean read the message.
For once, he didn’t have an immediate response.
The traffic light turned green, and a car behind him honked.
He lifted a hand in apology before driving forward.
“You like listening to me?”
You nodded.
“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said.”
You rolled your eyes.
“I’m serious.” He glanced over briefly. “Most people tell me to shut up.”
You typed another message and held it out when the road was clear.
Sometimes I understand why.
Dean laughed.
“There she is.”
The tension that had settled over him disappeared, but you noticed the way his smile lingered afterward.
Your residence hall came into view a few minutes later.
Dean pulled into an empty space near the entrance and put the car in park, leaving the engine running while rain drummed against the roof.
You reached for your seat belt.
“Wait.”
Your hand paused.
Dean was staring through the windscreen, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel.
“I want to ask you something.”
You settled back in your seat.
He didn’t look nervous often. You had seen him embarrassed and caught off guard, but never genuinely uncertain. Tonight, uncertainty sat plainly across his face.
“Earlier, when we were holding hands…”
Your stomach tightened.
He glanced at you.
“I wasn’t imagining that, right?”
You stared at him for a moment before reaching for your phone.
Imagining what?
Dean read the words and huffed out a quiet laugh.
“You’re really going to make me say it?”
You waited.
He looked back toward the rain-covered windscreen.
“That it felt like something.”
Your fingers stilled above the keyboard.
There it was.
The thing you had spent the past hour avoiding.
Dean was your friend. A new one, but already a good one. He had made an effort nobody had asked him to make. He looked at you rather than around you. He waited when you needed time and listened when you needed space.
He was also Dean Di Laurentis.
Everyone knew who he was. Everyone knew the stories about the girls, the parties, and the easy way he moved from one person to another without ever seeming particularly attached.
You didn’t know how to fit the version of Dean everyone talked about with the one sitting beside you now.
He watched you type, saying nothing.
It felt like something.
Dean inhaled slowly.
“Okay.”
You added another sentence.
But I don’t know what.
“Neither do I.”
You looked up.
His honesty surprised you.
Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
“I’m usually better at this.”
At what?
“Knowing what I want.”
You held his gaze.
He smiled, but it wasn’t his normal smile. There was no performance in it. No confidence meant to dazzle you into overlooking the nerves underneath.
“I know I want to see you tomorrow.”
You looked down at your phone.
We have class tomorrow.
“I know.”
So you were already going to see me.
“Then I want to see you before class.”
You tried not to smile.
Dean noticed anyway.
“Coffee?”
You typed.
Only if you remember my order this time.
His face fell.
“You didn’t like either of the ones I brought?”
I liked one.
“Which one?”
You started to type, then stopped.
A little revenge for all the teasing.
You opened the passenger door instead.
Dean stared at you. “You’re not going to tell me?”
You climbed out and pulled your hood over your head.
“Y/N.”
You closed the door.
He lowered the window, rain immediately blowing into the car.
“Come on. Which one?”
You stepped back from the car and signed carefully so he could follow.
Goodnight, Dean.
He recognised it.
His expression shifted from frustration to delight so quickly that you laughed.
Dean copied the sign back. His movements were still rough, but the effort was there.
Goodnight.
You turned toward the building.
Behind you, Dean called your name.
You looked back.
He repeated the sign you had just taught him, slower this time, more deliberate.
Then he pointed toward you and signed the one word he had practised more than any other.
Friend.
You smiled.
For a moment, you considered correcting him.
Whatever existed between you didn’t feel as simple as friendship anymore.
Instead, you signed it back.
Dean stayed parked outside until you were safely inside the building.
Your phone buzzed before you reached your room.
Dean: You liked the caramel one.
You smiled as you unlocked your door.
You: Maybe.
His response appeared almost immediately.
Dean: That means yes.
You kicked off your shoes and sat on the edge of your bed.
You: That means maybe.
Dean: I’m bringing caramel tomorrow.
You looked at the message longer than necessary.
You: Then I might see you before class.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Dean: Goodnight, Y/N.
A second message followed before you could answer.
Dean: Tonight felt like something to me too.
You read it twice.
Then a third time.
Your thumbs hovered over the screen while you tried to find a response that didn’t reveal too much.
In the end, you settled for the truth.
You: Goodnight, Dean.
You waited a few seconds before adding one more message.
You: It did.
Across campus, sitting alone in his car outside your residence hall, Dean smiled at his phone like an idiot.
Find My Pitt Masterlist here
Based on this concept here by @thespaceloft
You hadn't necessarily pictured Pittsburgh becoming your new home.
You hadn't necessarily pictured having a new roommate forced upon you by your neighbour.
You hadn't necessarily pictured said roommate and neighbour becoming fast friends with you...
And yet. That was what your fresh start had brought you.
It might not have been home. But it was beginning to feel like one.
Notes: wholesome fluff. slowburn. love triangle. meet cute. strong language. medical inaccuracies. meddlesome Santos. The Pitt x Marvel crossover
Word Count: ~4.6k
Pittsburgh.
Steel City.
City of Bridges.
Whatever you wanted to call it.
Was your home now…
Not in the way New York had been home–not yet. Not in the way every street corner back there held a memory, or every café had your usual order memorised, or where familiar faces existed in every crowd.
Pittsburgh was different.
Quieter.
Smaller.
The skyline sat lower against the sky. The rivers cut through the city like silver ribbons. And at night, when you’re able to slip out for just a moment in the midst of your shift and you stand outside for a breath of fresh air with aching feet and hospital coffee still lingering on your tongue, you could see stars.
Actual stars.
That was still strange.
But maybe strange wasn't always bad.
Maybe strange could become familiar.
Maybe that was what you were learning...
It was far from the place you had imagined yourself to be...in fact it had never once popped up into your mind as a possibility, not until recently.
Far removed from the life you had grown up knowing.
Far from the streets you knew like the back of your hand.
The restaurants.
The little cafes tucked in alley ways, the one chinese place you’d always pick up take out from and the pizza joint on the corner where they remembered your order.
The shops, the ones you’d always frequent and the little op shop where the owner used to keep things she thought you’d like tucked away for you.
You’d miss the people. How in a crowd of thousands you’d never fail to make new connections. Never failing to cross paths with a new friendly face…despite the sea of assholes and dipshits, there was always at least one nice person to brighten up your day.
But now you’d be far from all of that. Far from the unpredictably predictable chaos of the life you had led up until now.
Far from the life you had known…
Far from your family.
Far from your friends…
Ned, MJ…Peter…
No longer would you all be able to simply hang out, build lego, watch some old sci-fi film or simply lounge around together….
Now they were a 6 hour drive away…
The familiar faces and loving embraces all now simply voices and faces on a screen…
And yet.
Despite your initial trepidation.
The initial pit in your stomach…
You couldn’t help but be excited by it all.
Be thrilled by the new environment.
By the opportunity.
You would be lying if you said you weren’t just a little happy with the change in scenery. With the change in pace.
You knew New York inside out – perhaps a little too well…
With a knowledge for a few of its best kept secrets, hidden and tucked away within the cracks and crevices of the city.
But when you were able to take the opportunity to go to Pittsburgh to continue your studies…
You had taken it.
You needed a fresh start, a place where you could breathe.
A place where you wouldn't be reminded of some tragedy or bittersweet memory at each corner…
You needed somewhere new.
A place where you could learn just where you fit into this big wide world without being held back by the memories of the past.
So you grasped the chance with both hands, and had taken a leap.
And moved your life to Pittsburgh.
Far smaller, and less chaotic than the streets of New York. In fact you couldn’t even begin to compare the two.
Both, so unique.
Both, so different.
And yet both were so very alike.
You had loved New York City, with the entirety of your being. With the entirety of your heart…
But you were starting to get used to Pittsburgh.
Get used to the way it ticked.
How it moved.
And flowed.
…You could call it a bit of an adjustment.
A big adjustment.
The air somehow smelled crisper – fresher. The way the light reflected off the buildings felt different. And the stars that littered the night sky.
That wasn’t something you’d see in the city that never sleeps…
You were starting to grow fonder and fonder of the place you were now starting to call home.
…
“Fucking shit,” you had muttered, a yawn slipping out, whilst you rub your eyes. The glaring sun shining up above, while you read the message popping up on your phone, you huff, “It’s too early for this shit.”
Feet dragging you along the footpath, a sense of urgency in your step.
Chugging down the hot coffee in your hand, hoping that it would make up for your sleep being cut short.
Cars fly past, the sounds of sirens echo in the near distance.
Kayla: Hey sorry! Was meant to txt you earlier
Kayla: My boyfriend just asked me to move in with him
Kayla: So I won’t be moving in
Kayla: sorry! x
Great…
The universe had apparently looked at you and thought:
Let's make this interesting.
You click your tongue, annoyance simmering within. Should’ve trusted your gut. You knew she was flaky…
Now you were left without a roommate…
Which wasn’t the worst thing in the world–it’s just that you hated looking for one. All the questions, the meet ups, having them come to see if they liked the place or if you both got along…
It was exhausting.
The hospital coming into view, the ambulance bay already banked up, a reminder of why you were here.
Normally you wouldn’t have come in so early.
Normally you would’ve still been tucked into bed catching a few more hours of shut eye…
But on a normal day there wouldn’t be a shooting at the Pittfest event.
On a normal day the ER wouldn’t be calling in for extra help.
On a normal day, you wouldn’t even be here until 7 pm.
But today wasn’t normal.
Anything but.
Shoving your phone into the depths of your pockets, you hurry into the ER. Passing Lupe at the front with the slightest of waves as she ushers you in.
You have been here barely a week. Had started your work as a med student in one of Pittsburgh’s busiest ERs, thrown into the depths of the midnights.
It had been a week since you had been indoctrinated into the ‘weirdest and wildest’ shift.
Your eyes scanning all around you, a habit you had not lost in the move from New York. Always on the look out. Always vigilant.
Eyes lighting up the moment you catch your attendings’ eyes.
“Jack,” you greet cooly with a nod of your head,
“Well if it isn’t Spitfire–help me out, would ya?” he gestured, moving medical supplies into the behavioral rooms. Preparing for the many more patients that would inevitably pass through here.
Nodding, lips pulled thin whilst your mind drifts vaguely back to the messages you had just received. Whilst you fall into step beside him grasping at the supplies.
His brows dip and furrow, noting your less enthused self. Granted there was a mass shooting–but typically you were more chatty.
“Anything wrong?”
“Hm?” you blink, shaking your head, “No–nothing. It seems silly compared to all of this–”
“Go on, I’m sure you’ll feel better if you say it–can’t have you distracted,” he encourages a little further.
Sighing, maybe he was right, it might be a little helpful…
“I just found out my roommate is no longer going to be my roommate”
“That sucks”
“Tell me about it–the last thing I want to do is try and find a new one, especially working night shifts, I barely picked the last one and even that was a stretch,” you groaned.
“Chin up,” he offers with a sympathetic smile, “I’m sure you’ll figure something out, you’re pretty resourceful”
You offer a tight lipped smile, tilting your head, “Are you always this optimistic?” with an arched brow, noticing this glint in his eyes.
A glint you recognised all too well–the indication that adrenaline begins to kick in. Begins to course the veins.
He only shrugs, “I wouldn’t call it optimism”
“Right,” you agreed sarcastically, before shaking your head with a small click of your tongue, “I honestly can’t deal with this right now–”
And truthfully.
None of you had the time to deal with that.
Not as the room began to fill, beds began to be filed in, fitting patients into every space possible. Always scanning, keeping an eye on them even if they weren’t critical. Just in case.
The Pittfest shooting changed the hospital.
Changed the air.
People moved faster. Voices became sharper. Coffee went cold before anyone remembered they had made it.
You had only been there a week, but nobody treated you like you were new anymore. There wasn't time for that.
You simply became part of the machine.
And the same could be said for all the new staff who had only just started today…
Quite the welcome. You had thought whilst you watched them handle the cards they were dealt with.
In the midst of the chaos you had barely been able to properly meet any of them. Except for one of the other new med students–Whitaker–you think his name was.
“Wish it were under better circumstances–but it's nice to meet you,” you had said whilst your hands moved swiftly to treat the patient before you.
The young man, with golden curls and bright sage green almost blue eyes stammered in a little shock at your fluid movements before moving to work alongside you.
“Same here–I’m Whitaker,” he greeted.
Throwing him a quick glance you nod, “L/N”
He was diligent, if not a little awkward in the way he worked. But you could see that he cared. Could see that he wanted to help. To make a difference…
You’d be lying if you said it didn’t warm your heart. Just a little.
Despite being thrown into work on the worst day imaginable. You had to give all the newbies some credit.
They were keeping their shit together as best as they could.
And that was something to be admired whilst you all worked together, adapting, doing the best you could with the limitations you had.
Brows furrowing when you catch a glimpse of someone familiar.
“Trinity?” you questioned in slight surprise.
“Oh–hey Drowsy,” she nodded with a slight grin, the little nickname she’d given you slipping in, “Hope you slept enough”
You let out a dry laugh, “Fancy seeing you here”
“Is it though?” she quipped, “I did tell you I was working at PTMC–”
“Must’ve slipped my mind,” you added.
“Was that before or after your mid day snooze,” she retorted.
You roll your eyes, “You know I’m working nights–I literally have to have a mid day snooze”
She waves you off.
Whilst you sigh with a small smile.
It was nice seeing a familiar face.
Even if that face was of someone you had only recently been acquainted with just a few weeks ago when you had moved into the apartment next door to hers.
She was a little prickly. A little rough around the edges.
But you could see she had a good heart.
A determined soul.
Fearless.
And a razor sharp wit that always kept you on your toes.
She was simply fun to be around–and definitely someone you wanted when in the midst of a crisis such as now.
You had no idea that the beginnings of this friendship would soon cause you to find a new roommate.
Would soon result in your spare bedroom being taken up.
Would soon result in you gaining not only Trinity as a friend.
But also another someone would come into your life.
For the better.
…
Now, you knew Trinity had a big heart.
Way beneath her steely exterior and prickly behaviour.
She was as soft hearted and as caring as they come.
…You just didn’t think that her bleeding heart would result in her knocking on your door just a few days after Pittfest.
You had just finished a shift.
Had finally dragged yourself into your apartment, ready to collapse on the nearest surface and sleep.
It didn’t even have to be a bed!
You could’ve easily fallen asleep on the floor if your mind didn’t remind you of the stiff neck you had woken up with the last time you had done that.
Your brain felt like soup.
When Santos had appeared before you with tea, a bag of fresh pastries and a look on her face that instantly made you suspicious.
"No," you said, eyes narrowing at the sight of her. Prepared to shut your door, before she wedges her foot to prevent you from doing so.
"I haven't even asked anything,” her brows furrowed.
You scrunch your nose, examining her, before gesturing to her face, "You've got that face."
"What face?" she feigned innocence.
"The one that says you're about to involve me in something."
Santos grinned, "Okay, maybe,” she lifted the bag of pastries before you, “Could I tempt you with a little pastry and tea before you shut the door in my face again?”
You sigh, before moving out of the way to let her in, grasping onto the bag, and setting it down. Taking the cup of tea, whilst looking at her expectantly.
“Now what did you want?”
“Well–”
And that was how you found out that Dennis Whitaker needed somewhere to stay. Temporary, Santos had said. Just until he figured things out.
And–
"Before you say no," Santos had added quickly, "You have a spare room. He needs a room. It makes sense."
“And you can’t keep him?” you asked.
She shook her head, “I would, but honestly my place is way too small. And he’s cramping my style–”
“You said he was a good roommate,” you argued.
“Yeah–just not good for me,” she remarked, “Besides you were the one complaining that you didn’t have a roommate”
She did have a point…
As far as you knew. Whitaker was polite. Nice. Courteous….he would make a good roommate. And it definitely helped that he worked where you did. You suppose–
“So you’ll take him?” she says eagerly.
You furrow your brows letting out an incredulous laugh, “You’re asking me as though he were a puppy you were trying to get adopted”
“Dennis is basically a human golden retriever,” she agrees.
"...That's a weird sales pitch."
"And yet accurate."
You rub the back of your neck, still thinking it over, “And he knows you’re asking this?”
“More or less,” Trinity shrugs.
“More or–He doesn’t know, does he?”
“I mentioned it briefly,” she says before adding whilst gesturing around you both,“But I don’t think he’d mind–clearly your apartment is bigger”
…She did have a point. The space was definitely too big for just you. And you were dreading to look for a new roommate…
It seemed like the perfect solution to both of your problems.
You drop your head in your hands with a sigh, worn down by her insistence, “Fine–”
“Yes!”
“–But you have to make sure he’s ok with this” you say with a pointed look, “I don’t want him dropped at my front door with a stunned look on his face because he’s been kicked out by you”
She nods exaggeratedly, “Yeah, course, no problem”
And that was how Dennis Whitaker.
Became your unlikely roommate.
…
"Are you sure?" Dennis asked, standing in your apartment doorway with two duffel bags and an expression that suggested he expected you to change your mind at any moment.
The thing about Dennis Whitaker was that saying no to him felt impossible.
Maybe it was the hopeful look in his eyes when Trinity brought him over to see the apartment.
Maybe it was how awkwardly he stood in your kitchen, hands shoved into his pockets.
Or maybe it was because, in a city that was still new and unfamiliar, he looked just as lost as you felt.
Your apartment wasn't huge.
But it was nice.
Three modest bedrooms.
Big windows.
Plants that you were desperately trying not to kill.
And a view of the city that was especially beautiful at sunrise.
…The apartment may or may not have been taken care of by a certain Tony…
Who had insisted upon it once you turned down his offer to pull some strings to keep you studying in New York…
It was the least he could do, he had said. Leaving no room for argument.
"I mean," you said, leaning against the kitchen counter, "You seem less terrifying than some of the people I've seen online looking for rooms."
Dennis laughed quietly, "I'll try not to disappoint."
And somehow–
Somewhere between that moment and three months later.
You became friends.
Good friends.
Falling into a comfortable routine.
It happened gradually.
Small things.
Little things.
The sort of things that sneak up on you.
You would make breakfast before your night shift.
From little quiches, breakfast muffins, and even overnight oats. Always with plenty spare so that Dennis could enjoy them the next morning before his shift.
And when Dennis would come home, he would cook dinner.
Pasta. Stir fries. Soups.
Things that could be reheated for when you would get home in the morning.
A simple synchronicity. That worked for the both of you.
You'd stumble into the kitchen at four in the afternoon to find containers in the fridge with little sticky notes.
Made extra.
Eat this before work.
Don't survive on coffee.
One time there had been a smiley face.
A very terrible smiley face.
You kept the note.
…Not that you admitted that.
And in those rare occasions when your days off would line up.
It meant that there were mornings often ending up at Trinity’s apartment.
Or yours.
Three exhausted healthcare workers sitting around a kitchen island. Smashed avocado on toast. Too much coffee.
Complaining about attendings.
Telling stories.
Laughing.
It reminded you, a little, of home.
Of MJ.
Of Ned.
Of Peter…
Of sitting around tables and talking about absolutely nothing and somehow everything at once.
Only now–
Now it was Trinity throwing grapes at Dennis when he said something stupid. Dennis rolling his eyes. And you laughing so hard coffee nearly came out your nose.
And then.
Overtime, as your friendship with Dennis developed.
After evenings of roping him into watching your shows and movies.
Film nights.
Arguing over what to watch.
Dennis insisting old westerns were classics.
You insisting science fiction was superior.
Santos somehow appearing halfway through with snacks despite not being invited. And long into the late hours of the evening, you would somehow, without fail, fall asleep with your head tucked onto his shoulder…
After nights spent learning more about him–what he liked, what he didn’t.
After grocery shopping together. Soon shifted into simply spending time together, not out of obligation as roommates but as friends.
After sharing stories of your lives.
After he had mentioned that he grew up on a farm, in the middle of rural Broken Bow, you had mentioned that you had never once stepped foot on one.
And that confession had led him to bringing you along to Amy’s farm.
Which had been–an experience.
New York had never prepared you for that. Had never prepared you for what farm life involved.
You learned how to feed animals.
How to drive a tractor badly.
How to identify plants.
How quiet the world could be when you were standing in open fields with no sirens, no traffic, no endless noise.
Just wind.
And birds.
And Dennis standing beside you.
It was a peace you had never known.
And Dennis–
Dennis tried not to notice things. Tried not to notice how your laugh lingered in his mind after shifts. How he'd started buying your favourite snacks without thinking. How grocery shopping somehow became the best part of his week.
How you still looked over your shoulder in crowded places.
How New York lived inside you, even now.
He noticed how you smiled at strangers. How you remembered everyone's coffee orders. How you made spaces feel warmer simply by existing in them.
Without meaning to–
Without trying–
He had started looking forward to hearing your key in the door.
Started making extra food because he knew you would forget to eat.
Started thinking about you.
A lot.
He tried not to notice how easy it felt.
Because easy could be dangerous.
And besides–
You were roommates.
Friends.
He wasn't going to make things weird.
Absolutely not.
Unfortunately for Dennis–
Trinity existed.
…
In the midst of handover, whilst Dennis was coming into work alongside Trinity. He had caught your eye, offering a small wave and a gentle smile.
“Hey–I made some pesto pasta last night, there’s leftovers in the fridge,” he had told you.
Smiling brightly up at him, doing your best to keep the fatigue at bay, “Thanks–I always love your pesto, I don’t know what it is, but you always manage to make it so creamy,” you sigh with a smile.
“Oh, it’s just adding a few extra pine nuts into the mix,” he explains whilst a flood of heat crawls up his neck, bashful from your compliments, “and some pasta water”
You smile at him, eyes shooting over to your side at the sound of your little nickname.
“C’mon Spitfire–the sooner we’re done with handoffs, the sooner you’ll be home eating pasta,” Parker grins with a knowing look in her eyes as they dart between you both.
Nodding before looking back at Dennis, “If I don’t see you before I go–have a good shift,” you say before walking away falling into step by Parker’s side.
Parker leaning into you, muttering quietly with an amused smile, “So you and Whitaker seem pretty close”
You furrow your brows, eyes flickering up to her, “What do you mean?” blinking in confusion.
She shakes her head with a small shrug, “Nothing”
…You didn’t need to know that the entirety of the ER currently had a betting board in place counting on whether you and a certain farm boy would get together…
Parker was counting on it happening in four weeks…Shen was convinced it’d be in two.
Dennis sighs, eyes lingering after your retreating figure.
Even now after a whole nights work you still had his heart racing–
“What’s up Huckleberry?” Santos sidles up beside him, whilst he practically jumps out of his skin.
Blinking rapidly, he stammers out a rushed, “Nothing!” almost squeaking it out.
Her brows knit together, observing him closely before flicking over to where he was once looking.
Mouth forming an oh–in realisation. Whilst Dennis does his best to busy himself by looking at the current patients notes.
"Oh my God."
Dennis looked up from his work, "What?" Before walking to the breakroom to pour a cup of coffee. Hoping that she wouldn’t follow…
"You like her,” she says with a smug grin, following after him.
"No."
She folds her arms over her chest with a raised brow, "That wasn't convincing."
"I don't,” he says a little more defensively.
"You absolutely do."
Dennis sighs, "You are exhausting,” evading her accusation, taking a sip of his coffee.
"And you're in love with your roommate,” she leans in with a wide Cheshire grin.
He nearly choked on his coffee.
This was not good for Dennis.
Not good at all.
As soon as the fixation had cemented in Trinity’s brain. She couldn’t let it slip past. Not for a single moment. Finding any and all opportunities to try and push you both together.
She’d have been lying if she said this wasn’t a possibility she had pictured when she first pushed you to take Dennis into your home...
And so.
With a glint in her eyes. Plans set into motion.
Plans to push little miss Drowsy and Huckleberry together.
And in one of Trinity’s many attempts, one of them included a night out, dragging you, Dennis, Samira and Mel on a night out for some late night karaoke.
“C’mon Y/N, you should get up there–we’ve all been, it’ll be fun,” Samira said, smiling widely while she elbowed you lightly.
Shaking your head fervently.
Remembering the last time you went out for karaoke…it was not your finest hour…
“No way,” you had said. Laughing softly whilst you took a sip of your drink. Already feeling its effects as it warms your body.
But you should have known something was wrong the moment Trinity disappeared for ten minutes.
You should have known.
Instead, you found yourself holding a drink while Dennis stood beside you looking vaguely confused.
And then the host spoke, "Next up–Dennis and Y/N with Islands in the Stream!"
Silence.
You looked at Dennis.
Dennis looked at you.
Before both of you twisted to look at Trinity with a sharp look.
She was simply cackling, not even trying to hide her involvement, before ushering you both onto the stage. Whilst Mel and Samira tried their best to hide their amusement.
After doing all that you could to avoid it…You both ended up on stage.
Laughing.
Completely off-key.
Dennis missing half the lyrics.
You nearly dropping the microphone because you were laughing too hard.
And for one brief moment–
Under cheap coloured lights and terrible karaoke music–Pittsburgh didn't feel strange anymore.
Beneath the dim lights, and crowded room. You swaying side by side with Dennis. Laughing and smiling. You couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes gleamed beneath the light.
The way it caught his features, making them shine brilliantly.
The gentle curls on his forehead slightly sticking down from sweat. The bright smile spread across his face…
For a flickering moment.
He seemed undeniably handsome.
A heat crawling up your neck and finding its place upon your cheeks. You wave the thoughts away, trying to chalk it up to the alcohol.
But even as the hours drag on.
While you, Dennis and Trinity file into the back of an uber. Stumbling up to your apartment, your arm slung around his shoulder while his arm, his strong arm, wrapped around your waist for stability.
Your thoughts can’t help but drift to the way Dennis' smile makes your chest flutter. Makes your mind race…
How had you never noticed…
Your eyes drift close the moment your head hits your pillow.
The very next morning, you awake with a start, frantically grasping at your clothes, only to pause. Glancing back at your clock and the date…
No work today…
Sighing in relief, you sit back down onto your bed, shoulders slump while you pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to subdue the growing headache.
Peeling your eyes back open you squint to glance at your phone once more.
Doing your best to focus, and stop the words from blurring together.
A small smile seeps onto your lips at the notification at the top.
Petey: hey! Hope ur good
Petey: how do you feel about me visiting for a bit?..
You noticed it had been sent only a few minutes earlier, grasping onto your phone you quickly type out with a wide smile on your face.
You: I’d love that
Before you could set down your phone it pings once more.
Petey: I got accepted into an internship in Pittsburgh
Petey: I was hoping I could stay with you over the Summer?
And without an inkling of hesitation you send your response.
You: Of course! ♥️
You had no idea what was to come.
You had no idea that by saying yes.
That this Summer.
Would be one you wouldn’t forget anytime soon...
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the first part! (btw, I totally picture that the reader knows a fair few vigilantes from back in NY, including Peter of course, Matt Murdock and Frank Castle too. And because of her friendship with Peter she knows Tony Stark. And sure, I'm ignoring pretty much the blip and most things infinity war onwards) loved starting to build the foundations of yours and Dennis' friendship/relationship...Not much Peter Parker in this part, but just you wait until the next one 👀 Let me know what you thought ✨
Peter Parker comes to town! A blast from the past, and perhaps a few more feelings are set to brew...throwing a bit of a wrench into PTMC's betting board
Read the Next Part: Something Familiar here!
Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕
If you enjoyed, consider checking out my Dennis Whitaker x Former Army Medic!ReaderTread Lightly Series
Or check out my Dennis Whitaker Masterlist here
You are Zeus’s daughter, overlooked largely because no one—including Zeus himself—ever understood what your powers truly were.
Then, through a spectacularly misguided act of divine diplomacy, you are given to Dream of the Endless as a gift.
Morpheus does not want you
You certainly do not want to belong to him.
Unfortunately, an ancient obligation leaves you living beneath his roof while your unpredictable abilities begin affecting the Dreaming in ways neither of you can explain.
A lighter enemies-to-lovers Dream x goddess!Reader rewrite featuring forced proximity, divine family chaos, reluctant protection, endless arguments, inconvenient attraction—and the King of Dreams slowly discovering that Zeus may have handed him something far more powerful than either of them realised.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Reader (Hob's Daughter)
Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death
Tag List: Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me ❤️
The Day the Glass Broke
The New Inn, London
You stood behind the bar of the New Inn polishing wineglasses while, fourteen years away and several thousand feet above the earth, an aeroplane began to fall.
Not literally.
The aircraft had fallen a long time ago.
Fourteen years ago today, in fact.
But anniversaries were strange things. They collapsed time. They found the memories you had packed away carefully and pulled them apart until the past no longer felt like something that had already happened.
The glass turned between your fingers, the polishing cloth whispering against its surface.
Outside, London had dissolved into rain.
Water ran down the tall front windows in crooked silver streams, breaking the pedestrians beyond them into blurred coats, umbrellas and hurried shadows. Traffic hissed over wet roads. The sky was already darkening despite the early hour, heavy clouds pressing low over the city.
Inside, the pub was warm.
The evening crowd had not yet arrived, but several tables were occupied. Two elderly men were arguing amiably over a newspaper. A university student sat near the window with a laptop, an untouched pint and the despairing expression of someone facing an imminent deadline. At the far end of the room, your father was pretending to inspect an invoice while actually listening to every conversation taking place around him.
The New Inn smelled of wood polish, beer, rain-damp coats and the stew Hob had started cooking before lunch despite being repeatedly reminded that the pub had a kitchen and staff who were perfectly capable of feeding themselves.
It was home.
It had been home for most of your life.
You placed the polished glass beneath the bar and reached for another.
On the television mounted above the far shelves, the afternoon news continued silently beneath a stream of captions.
You had muted it half an hour ago.
They had been showing the memorial.
Aerial footage of the field where the wreckage had fallen.
A line of white flowers against a stone monument.
Relatives standing beneath umbrellas as the names of the dead were read aloud.
Two hundred and twenty-three people.
You had always hated the number.
It was too large to understand properly and too precise to ignore.
Two hundred and twenty-four people had boarded the aircraft.
Two hundred and twenty-three people had died.
And you, a six-year-old girl seated near the centre of the passenger cabin, had survived.
You were still twenty now, although your twenty-first birthday was only three weeks away.
That meant you had lived more than twice as long after the crash as you had before it.
The thought unsettled you every year.
Most people considered surviving a miracle.
You had never known what to call it.
A miracle implied purpose. Benevolence. Some divine hand reaching down through smoke and fire to save a child.
You remembered no hand.
You remembered falling.
The wineglass slowed between your fingers.
You rarely allowed yourself to think about the flight in detail. Not because the memories were clear, but because they were not. What remained came in fragments that never seemed to belong to one another.
A blue fabric seat beneath your legs.
Your shoes not quite touching the floor.
A woman beside you humming while she turned the pages of a magazine.
You thought she had been your mother.
There were photographs of her in the files the social workers had eventually given your adoptive parents, but the face in the photographs never quite matched the woman you remembered.
Perhaps that was normal.
You had been six.
Memory changed people.
It polished them down or distorted them according to whatever the mind needed to survive.
You remembered the woman fastening your seat belt.
You remembered her fingers trembling.
You remembered asking why the plane was shaking.
After that came scattered impressions.
The overhead lights flickering.
A bag falling from an open compartment.
Someone shouting from the rear of the cabin.
The sharp, metallic cry of the aircraft itself as though the machine had become a wounded animal.
The woman pulling you against her.
Then darkness.
Not unconsciousness.
Darkness.
A darkness so complete that it had seemed to possess weight.
Sometimes you remembered stars inside it.
Not stars beyond the window. Not distant lights in the night sky.
Stars surrounding you.
Cold points of white light scattered through an endless black expanse while something vast moved beyond them.
You had never told the investigators that part.
You had not told your therapists.
You had not even told Hob.
It sounded ridiculous, and you had spent enough of your childhood being studied by people who thought every silence concealed a symptom.
The official version of events was simpler.
The plane had encountered a severe storm shortly before beginning its approach to London. Communications became confused. The aircraft lost altitude, clipped a line of trees and struck the ground with enough force to scatter wreckage across more than a kilometre of farmland.
There had been fire.
There had been no response from the cabin.
Emergency crews arrived expecting a recovery operation rather than a rescue.
They found you shortly before dawn.
You had been standing in the mud beyond the outer edge of the wreckage.
Barefoot.
Still wearing the dark blue dress you had boarded the plane in.
There was blood on the front of it, but none of the blood belonged to you.
You had no burns.
No broken bones.
No internal injuries.
Not even a meaningful bruise.
The investigators calculated where your seat had been located and concluded, in the carefully restrained language used by official reports, that your survival was inexplicable.
The newspapers had been less restrained.
MIRACLE CHILD WALKS FROM INFERNO.
THE GIRL DEATH FORGOT.
THE LONE SURVIVOR.
You had been too young to understand the articles, but old enough to recognise your own face on the front pages.
For several days, the hospital had been surrounded by reporters.
You remembered flashes beyond the windows.
You remembered nurses closing the curtains.
You remembered waking to find police officers sitting outside your room.
Mostly, you remembered refusing to speak.
It had not been a deliberate decision. Words simply seemed impossible. The adults around you asked questions faster than you could understand them.
What was your full name?
Who had you travelled with?
Did you remember the crash?
Did you have grandparents?
Aunts?
Uncles?
Where had you lived?
Did you know your address?
You knew your first name.
You knew the woman beside you had been your mother, or at least that you had called her Mum.
You knew there had once been a man whose voice you could almost remember, though investigators could not determine whether he had been on the plane.
Everything else was missing.
The passport recovered from the wreckage gave your surname and date of birth. It identified the dead woman beside you as your mother.
The address listed in the documents belonged to a flat that had been vacant for years.
Telephone numbers led nowhere.
The school named in your papers had no record of you.
Your mother’s identity existed on paper, but the further investigators looked, the less substance they found beneath it. No employment history. No medical records before the previous year. No relatives who could be located.
There had been no father listed on your birth certificate.
No one came to claim you.
For six weeks, you remained in hospital.
Not because you were injured, but because the authorities had nowhere else to place the famous child who had survived when everyone else had died.
Doctors examined you repeatedly.
They tested your hearing, your reflexes and your memory. They scanned your brain. They monitored your sleep.
One doctor noted that you never appeared to dream.
Your eyes did not move beneath your eyelids as expected. You did not talk in your sleep. You never woke frightened by nightmares, despite everything you had endured.
You simply closed your eyes and disappeared into stillness.
Later, therapists told you the absence of dreams was probably your mind protecting itself. Or something else. Some people simply did not dream. Maybe you were just one of them.
You had accepted the explanation because you possessed no better one.
The newspapers eventually moved on.
The flowers outside the hospital wilted.
The police presence diminished.
And one rainy afternoon, Robert and Elenore Gadling came to meet you.
Hob always claimed Elenore had volunteered them both before he properly understood what she was suggesting.
According to him, she had seen a report about you on television and telephoned the local authority the next morning.
Elenore had worked with children for years. She had been a teacher, then a counsellor, and she and Hob had previously provided emergency foster care when placements were scarce.
Their home had space.
Their records were excellent.
They had no young children of their own.
They could take you temporarily while the authorities continued searching for family.
The first meeting took place in a hospital consultation room that smelled of disinfectant and overbrewed tea.
You sat on a plastic chair with your knees drawn to your chest.
Elenore sat across from you.
She had been forty-nine then, with dark hair threaded by grey and kind brown eyes that did not stare at the faint scar near your temple.
Hob sat beside her.
He looked approximately thirty-eight.
He had always looked approximately thirty-eight.
At the time, you did not know there was anything unusual about that.
Neither of them asked about the crash.
That was the first thing you noticed.
Elenore placed a small cloth bag on the table and opened it. Inside were coloured pencils, paper and several books.
“You don’t have to speak to us,” she said.
You watched her.
“We can sit here for a little while, and then we can leave. Or you can draw something. Or read. Or do absolutely nothing.”
Hob leaned towards the bag and examined its contents.
“She neglected to bring food.”
Elenore looked at him.
“We are in a hospital.”
“Exactly. The food here is terrible.”
“Hob.”
“It is. I’m not criticising the nurses. I’m criticising whoever decided jelly constitutes a meal.”
You had looked at him then.
He noticed.
His expression changed, but he did not smile too quickly or praise you for responding.
He simply took a pencil from the bag.
“Do you know how to draw a horse?”
You did not answer.
“Neither do I.”
He attempted one anyway.
It looked like a dog with extremely long legs.
You had almost laughed.
Almost.
During their second visit, Elenore brought you a small wooden music box.
The melody was simple. A lullaby you did not recognise.
You turned the handle twice, listened, then reached for a sheet of paper.
Instead of drawing, you wrote the notes down.
Elenore watched without interrupting.
Hob leaned over her shoulder.
“What is that?”
You spoke for the first time in twenty-three days.
“Music.”
Hob sat back.
“Right. Of course it is.”
Elenore cried in the corridor afterwards.
You learned that years later.
They took you home three weeks after that.
The placement was temporary.
Everyone said so.
The social worker repeated it in the car.
Elenore explained it again when she showed you the small bedroom at the back of the house. Nothing would happen without you being told. No one expected you to call them Mum or Dad. You could stay until the authorities found the right permanent arrangement.
The bedroom had pale walls, a narrow bed and shelves filled with books chosen for children both younger and older than you because Elenore had not known what you liked.
The door did not have a lock.
You asked her to leave it open.
For the first year, you could not sleep with a closed door.
Hob removed it entirely for several months.
He stored it in the attic until you asked for it back.
The temporary placement lasted twelve weeks.
Then six months.
Then a year.
Investigators searched internationally for relatives. Notices were published. DNA samples were compared with missing-person databases. Every lead ended in nothing.
The woman believed to be your biological mother was buried with the other passengers, and no one attended the funeral except officials and two reporters.
Elenore took you.
Hob stood on your other side and held your hand throughout the service.
You did not cry.
You stared at the coffin and felt as though you were mourning someone from a story you had once been told.
You knew the woman had loved you.
Your body remembered the safety of her arms even when your mind could not rebuild her face.
But she belonged to a life that had ended in fire.
Hob and Elenore belonged to the life that followed.
The adoption process began when you were seven.
There were interviews.
Home inspections.
Medical assessments.
Financial records.
Questions about Hob’s unusual employment history and the fact that his legal documentation seemed to begin far more recently than he claimed his family did.
Hob had become exceptionally skilled at creating plausible lives.
Centuries of practice had given him excellent paperwork.
At the time, you knew none of that.
You only knew strangers came to the house and asked whether you felt safe.
Whether Hob became angry.
Whether Elenore listened to you.
Whether you wanted to stay.
You always gave the same answer.
Yes.
The final hearing took place in a small family courtroom.
You wore a green dress Elenore had bought specifically for the occasion. Hob wore a tie for nearly twenty minutes before loosening it and receiving a warning look from the solicitor.
The judge asked whether you understood what adoption meant.
You said it meant they could not send you somewhere else.
The room became very quiet.
Elenore reached for your hand.
The judge explained that it meant more than that. It meant Hob and Elenore would become your legal parents. Their family would become yours. Their home would remain your home.
You looked at Hob.
“Even when I’m grown up?”
His face softened.
“Especially then.”
You agreed.
You became a Gadling.
Elenore cried openly when the order was granted.
Hob claimed he had dust in his eye.
There had been no dust in the courtroom.
The years afterwards were, for the most part, ordinary.
Or as ordinary as life could be with Hob Gadling.
You went to school.
You made friends badly.
You learned to ride a bicycle and broke three windows attempting to practise cricket in the garden.
You discovered literature, mythology and the theatre.
You began playing the violin when you were eight.
The instrument belonged to Elenore’s aunt and had been stored in its case for decades. You found it while exploring a cupboard and asked if you could touch it.
Elenore showed you how to hold the bow.
Neither she nor Hob could explain what happened next.
You played a melody.
Not well. Your fingers were clumsy, your bow scratched across the strings, but the melody itself was coherent. Complete.
Hob asked where you had heard it.
You did not know.
It had simply been waiting inside you.
Lessons followed.
Within a year, you had moved beyond the first teacher’s ability.
By twelve, people had begun using words like exceptional.
Gifted.
Rare.
Your music frightened you sometimes.
Not the pieces written by ordinary composers. You loved those. Bach gave structure to the world. Vivaldi made it move. Tchaikovsky made sorrow beautiful enough to survive.
It was the other music that unsettled you.
The melodies that came late at night.
The songs no one had taught you.
Old, winding arrangements that seemed to resist conventional notation. When you played them, candles occasionally guttered. Shadows gathered in corners. Hob would stop whatever he was doing and listen with an expression you could not understand.
Once, when you were fourteen, you played a piece that made Elenore begin to cry without knowing why.
You never played that one again.
Your childhood contained other peculiarities.
Accidents that nearly happened.
A car mounted the pavement when you were ten, struck the exact place you had been standing and missed you because you had turned away seconds earlier after hearing someone call your name.
No one had called.
At thirteen, a section of ceiling collapsed during a school performance. You had left the stage moments before because you suddenly became certain your violin was out of tune.
It had not been.
At sixteen, you slipped beside the Thames and should have fallen into the water. Instead, your coat caught on a rusted railing that broke immediately after Hob pulled you to safety.
Everyone called you lucky.
Hob became increasingly uneasy each time.
He rarely explained his fears.
Your father was a man who could speak for hours about food, politics, football, property prices and the deficiencies of modern ale, yet became evasive whenever a subject mattered too much.
You discovered his immortality yourself.
You were fifteen.
A history assignment led you into the room Hob called his study, although it functioned mainly as an archive for the debris of several lifetimes.
You were looking for an old map.
Instead, you found a portrait.
The painting was badly preserved and centuries old, but the man depicted in it was unmistakably your father.
The same face.
The same eyes.
The same small scar beneath his chin.
He wore clothing from another era and stood beside a woman whose name you did not know.
You carried the portrait downstairs.
Hob was cooking.
Elenore was reading at the kitchen table.
You placed the painting beside the vegetables.
“Who is this?”
Hob looked at it.
Then at you.
Elenore closed her book.
“Ah,” Hob said.
“That is you.”
“Yes.”
“The gallery record says it was painted in 1672.”
“Also yes.”
You waited for him to laugh.
He did not.
“You haven’t aged since I was six.”
Hob put down the knife.
Elenore watched him carefully.
“No.”
“Why?”
He told you about the year 1389.
He told you about the tavern, the ale and the declaration he had made loudly enough for a stranger to overhear.
Hob had decided that dying was a foolish business.
A pale man dressed in black approached his table and challenged him to prove it.
They would meet again in one hundred years.
If Hob still wished to live, he would say so.
Hob agreed.
He survived plague, war, starvation, wealth, ruin, imprisonment and grief.
The stranger returned every century.
Then 1989 came, and Hob waited alone.
The stranger never arrived.
“What was he?” you asked.
Hob leaned back in his chair.
“I don’t know.”
“You met him six times.”
“Seven, if you count the first.”
“And you never asked?”
“I asked plenty. He didn’t answer.”
“Was he the devil?”
“Never wanted my soul.”
“An angel?”
Hob snorted.
“Not one with much interest in good cheer.”
“A god?”
He became quieter.
“Perhaps.”
At first, you assumed the story had to be an elaborate lie.
Then Hob showed you more.
Letters.
Portraits.
Journals written in his own hand over hundreds of years.
Documents under different names with the same face attached to them.
He spoke about history with a precision no scholar could counterfeit.
William Shakespeare was not a distant literary figure to Hob. He was Will, an ambitious young man with a sharp mind and a desperate hunger to be remembered.
The Elizabethan period was not an academic subject. It was mud, smoke, disease and packed theatres.
The seventeenth century was not a chapter. It was the loss of a wife named Elenore and a son named Robyn.
You had looked towards your adoptive mother when he said the name.
She had smiled sadly.
Hob had told her the truth before they married.
He had loved another woman with the same name centuries ago.
Your mother had never resented the name.
“There are worse women to be named after than someone he loved for several lifetimes,” she told you once.
Hob’s immortality became another truth folded into the structure of your family.
Strange, but familiar.
Like the aircraft.
Like your impossible survival.
Like the music that came from nowhere.
Elenore aged.
Hob did not.
You noticed it more as the years passed.
Grey spread through her hair. Fine lines deepened around her eyes. Her hands changed.
Hob remained the same.
Your only friend, Madeline, thought he had remarkable genes.
You allowed her to believe it.
Elenore became ill when you were seventeen.
At first, the symptoms seemed minor. Fatigue. Pain she dismissed. Appointments she postponed because she did not want to worry either of you.
The diagnosis came too late.
Cancer had already spread.
The illness lasted eleven months.
You played for her often during that final year, but never the strange melodies.
Only the pieces she loved.
She died eventually with Hob on one side of the bed and you on the other.
Hob had survived wars and plagues.
He had buried children.
He had watched civilisations change.
Nothing had prepared him to lose her.
Immortality did not make grief easier.
It merely ensured grief had longer to accumulate.
For months afterwards, Hob continued cooking enough food for three people. He sometimes turned towards the stairs when the floorboards creaked, expecting Elenore to appear.
You did the same.
Three years later, her absence still occupied space.
It lived in the empty chair upstairs.
In the mug no one used.
In the books with notes written in her careful hand.
It was one reason you had never moved far from the New Inn.
The other was money.
London was absurdly expensive, your orchestra paid appallingly and you had discovered that living with strangers was unbearable.
You studied music and took additional courses in literature and theatre because choosing only one subject felt impossible. You worked occasional shifts at an antique shop near Bloomsbury, where the owner had stopped asking how you recognised the age of objects before examining their markings.
You played with a small orchestra that sounded prestigious when mentioned in conversation and considerably less so when the payment entered your bank account.
The work was irregular.
The rehearsals were exhausting.
The money was shit.
You loved it anyway.
When the orchestra was not using you and the antique shop did not need you, you worked at the New Inn.
Hob pretended to pay you properly.
You pretended to believe him.
Living above the pub meant you were never entirely off duty, but it also meant books covered nearly every upstairs wall and your violin could be heard drifting through the floorboards after closing.
It meant your father was never far away.
It meant you did not have to live with people who borrowed your food, moved your belongings or objected when you practised at midnight.
You had attempted shared accommodation once.
Four months with three other students had taught you everything you needed to know.
One left moulding dishes in the sink.
One stole your milk.
One held loud parties before your performances.
The third brought home a succession of men whose names you learned from overheard arguments.
You moved back to the New Inn after informing them that something was scratching inside the kitchen wall.
They accused you of trying to frighten them.
A week later, pest control removed eleven mice.
Madeline had found the entire situation hilarious.
Madeline was your closest friend.
Possibly your only close friend.
You had met during your first year at university when she sat beside you in a lecture on Greek drama and whispered that the lecturer looked as though he had personally offended Dionysus.
You laughed loudly enough to be asked to leave.
The friendship had continued from there.
Madeline was everything you were not.
She enjoyed crowds.
She understood social cues.
She could begin a conversation with a stranger and know their life story within fifteen minutes.
She liked parties, bright clothes and people who used phrases such as networking opportunity without irony.
You preferred books, empty rehearsal rooms and conversations about subjects most people considered too bleak for dinner.
Madeline called you strange with great affection.
Other people were less kind.
Your dating history was evidence of that.
Madeline had been trying to find you a partner for years.
Men, mostly, although she had also arranged dates with two women after you pointed out that her efforts lacked imagination.
Every date had been disastrous.
One man spent two hours explaining cryptocurrency.
Another asked whether Hob was single.
A cellist from a neighbouring orchestra became offended when you correctly identified that he had lied about learning a concerto.
A woman from your literature course left halfway through dinner after you began explaining why Orpheus’s second loss of Eurydice was more important than the first.
Madeline claimed you frightened people.
You did not think that was entirely fair.
You merely answered questions honestly.
Sometimes you noticed things others did not.
The rhythm of a person’s breathing when they lied.
The second set of footsteps in an apparently empty corridor.
The shadows that gathered around certain people.
The wrongness inside some voices.
You had learned not to mention most of it.
Madeline tolerated the rest.
At the other end of the bar, she was currently folding black cocktail napkins into increasingly unrecognisable shapes.
You placed another polished glass on the shelf.
“What are those meant to be?”
Madeline held one up.
“Flowers.”
“They look diseased.”
“They are prototypes.”
“For what?”
She looked at you as though the answer were obvious.
“Your birthday.”
You closed your eyes briefly.
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
“You said birthday.”
“You are turning twenty-one.”
“In three weeks.”
“Exactly. We’re running out of time.”
“There is no we.”
Madeline flattened the napkin against the bar and started again.
“Hob told me to speak to you.”
Your gaze shifted across the room.
Your father was still holding the invoice.
He had been examining the same page for at least ten minutes.
“Did he?”
Hob looked up at the precise moment he realised you were watching.
“Everything all right?” he called.
“Traitor.”
He smiled.
“No idea what you mean.”
Madeline leaned closer.
“He says you need a proper party.”
“My father believes every event requires alcohol and public noise.”
“He owns a pub.”
“That explains the bias. It does not justify it.”
“Twenty-one is important.”
“Why?”
“Because it is.”
“That is circular reasoning.”
“There will be cake.”
“I can purchase cake without enduring a party.”
“Music.”
“I work with musicians. I have no interest in encouraging them outside contracted hours.”
Madeline lowered her voice.
“Attractive people.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I have not specified a gender.”
“The objection remains.”
She sighed theatrically and then rested both elbows on the bar.
Her expression softened as she looked at you.
“You’re thinking about the crash.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the stem of the glass.
Very few people could read your face.
Madeline had always been able to.
“It’s the anniversary,” you said.
“I know.”
You looked towards the muted television.
The memorial footage had ended. A politician now stood behind a lectern, speaking passionately about something the captions reduced to a line of bland text.
“Fourteen years,” you said.
Madeline reached across the bar and rested her fingers against your wrist.
She did not say you were lucky.
She did not say everything happened for a reason.
She had learned very quickly that you hated both statements.
“Do you want me to stay tonight?”
“You are already working.”
“I mean afterwards.”
You shook your head.
“I’ll probably practise.”
“Until two in the morning?”
“The walls are thick.”
“The walls are not that thick.”
“My father sleeps through wars.”
From across the room, your father called, “I heard that.”
“Apparently not,” Madeline said.
You smiled despite yourself.
For several minutes, everything felt ordinary again.
Glasses.
Rain.
Hob muttering over invoices.
Madeline producing another deformed napkin flower.
Then the candle on the nearest table went out.
You noticed because there was no breeze.
The flame did not flicker or shrink.
It bent sharply towards the floor and vanished.
A pressure formed behind your eyes.
You stopped polishing.
The room seemed to change around you.
Not visibly.
The walls remained where they were. Customers continued talking. Rain tapped against the windows.
But beneath the familiar sounds came something else.
A low vibration.
A distant grinding noise.
Stone against stone.
Chains drawn slowly across a floor.
You looked towards the front windows.
For an instant, your reflection was not alone.
But when you turned, there was no one there.
“What?” Madeline asked.
“Nothing.”
The pressure sharpened.
Your vision blurred.
You placed one hand against the bar.
Somewhere beneath London, a circle was breaking.
************
The Burgess Estate
For more than a century, Dream of the Endless had been held inside glass.
Men had called it a prison.
They were mistaken.
Glass alone could not imprison him.
Iron alone could not contain him.
The sphere was merely the centre of a greater construction: a binding circle drawn beneath it, symbols copied from stolen books and reinforced with tools taken from his person.
His helm.
His pouch of sand.
His ruby.
The mortals who captured him had intended to summon Death.
They had obtained Dream instead.
Roderick Burgess had demanded gifts.
The restoration of his dead son.
Immortality.
Power over those who opposed him.
Dream had answered with silence.
He could not grant what the mortal demanded.
He would not reward the man who had torn him from his realm, stolen his tools and imprisoned him.
So he waited.
At first, Dream believed his absence from the Dreaming would be brief.
The mortals would make an error.
The circle would fail.
One guard would succumb to sleep.
Yet Burgess was cautious, and fear made men diligent.
Days became months.
Months became years.
Years became decades.
Dream felt his realm deteriorate in his absence.
He felt gates left unguarded.
Dreams that could not find their dreamers.
Nightmares abandoning their functions.
Creatures born of story and fear wandering without order.
He felt mortals fall into sleep and fail to wake.
Others remained awake for years, unable to cross the threshold into his domain.
The sickness spread through the waking world.
Dream felt each lost sleeper as a distant wound.
He could not reach them.
He could not reach his kingdom.
He sat naked within the sphere and watched the twentieth century pass through the clothing and faces of his captors.
Roderick Burgess aged.
His certainty became desperation.
His demands became pleas.
Then the Magus died, leaving his son to inherit the estate, the guards and the secret beneath the house.
Alex Burgess had been a child when Dream was captured.
He grew into a frightened young man beneath Dream’s unchanging gaze.
Then he became old.
Dream watched his hair whiten.
His shoulders stoop.
His hands tremble.
Beside him remained Paul.
Paul, who had entered the house as a young man and stayed long enough to become part of it.
Paul, who looked at the glass with something that was not greed.
Perhaps guilt.
Perhaps pity.
Perhaps merely weariness.
Dream did not trust the distinctions mortals made between such feelings. Compassion without action was only another manner of cowardice.
On the final evening of his captivity, Alex Burgess sat before the sphere in a wheelchair.
Paul stood beside him.
Alex’s voice had weakened with age.
“I was a child when my father brought you here.”
Dream raised his head.
He did not speak.
“It was not my doing.”
The mortal’s eyes filled.
“I could have killed you. I did not.”
Dream regarded him in silence.
The claim was absurd.
Alex Burgess had possessed neither the knowledge nor the power required to destroy an Endless.
Yet mortals often mistook prolonged cruelty for mercy simply because it stopped short of murder.
Alex leaned forward.
“I am asking you to forgive me.”
Dream did not move.
Forgiveness was not a thing extracted through repetition.
Paul placed a hand on Alex’s shoulder.
“Come away,” he said quietly.
He turned the wheelchair.
One wheel crossed close to the edge of the binding circle.
Paul’s shoe touched the line.
The chalk shifted.
Only slightly.
A smear no wider than a finger.
Yet the circle had to be whole.
A boundary was not almost complete.
A promise was not nearly kept.
For the first time in more than a century, Dream felt the binding weaken.
He remained perfectly still.
Alex and Paul did not notice.
Paul looked once towards the sphere before pushing Alex away.
There was something in his expression.
Regret, perhaps.
Dream believed, in that moment, that Paul had broken the line deliberately.
A small act of pity concealed beneath the appearance of carelessness.
Later, Dream would reconsider.
He would remember the abrupt pressure that moved through the chamber before Paul’s foot crossed the chalk.
The trembling of the glass.
The sensation of another presence touching the outer edge of the spell.
Something distant.
Something that did not belong within the Burgess estate.
He did not yet understand that the disturbance had begun elsewhere in London.
Inside a young woman standing behind a bar.
A woman who carried a history no mortal records could explain.
A woman who did not dream. Not yet. But soon.
The broken line was not enough to free him immediately.
But it gave him reach.
A guard entered the chamber after Alex and Paul departed.
He sat opposite the sphere with a weapon across his lap.
The guards had been taught never to sleep in Dream’s presence.
Never to cross the circle.
Never to approach the glass.
Mortals believed knowledge of weakness made them immune to it.
Dream waited.
The guard blinked.
Once.
Twice.
His head lowered.
Sleep took him.
The moment the mortal crossed into Dream’s realm, Dream entered his mind.
The dream was small and crude.
A sunny beach.
Money.
Freedom from the Burgess family.
Dream altered it.
He placed the glass sphere within the dream and showed the guard himself breaking it. He made the act appear necessary. Heroic. The only escape from a danger closing around him.
The mortal rose in the waking world.
His movements were uncertain, guided by a dream he believed was his own.
He approached the sphere.
Raised his weapon.
Fired.
The glass cracked.
The sound passed through the chamber like the splitting of the earth.
Dream lifted his face.
The guard woke.
Too late.
A second crack raced across the sphere.
Then a third.
The glass exploded.
Dream became shadow.
He became wind moving through a sealed room.
He became a storm of black sand pouring through the fractured sphere and over the broken circle.
The chamber lights died.
The guard screamed and fled.
Dream stood beyond his prison for the first time in more than one hundred years.
His body was weakened.
His tools were gone.
His realm had suffered.
Yet he was free.
He turned towards the old man sleeping elsewhere in the house.
Alex Burgess had sought forgiveness.
Instead, Dream entered his mind.
The dream began in a familiar bedroom.
Paul stood near the window, young again.
Alex smiled.
Then Paul opened the door.
Another room waited beyond it.
Inside stood Roderick Burgess.
Beyond Roderick waited another door.
Then another.
Each led to a memory Alex had buried.
Each room offered the possibility of waking and then withdrew it.
Alex attempted to turn his wheelchair.
It would not move.
Dream stepped from the shadows.
“You asked that I forgive the years you stole.”
Alex stared at him.
“Please.”
“You had many years in which to free me.”
“I was afraid.”
“And so you made your fear my prison.”
The walls began to fracture.
The rooms multiplied.
Doors opened into corridors without end.
“You shall sleep,” Dream said.
Alex began to cry.
“And each time you believe you have awakened, the dream shall begin again.”
Dream withdrew.
Alex Burgess remained behind, trapped inside an endless waking nightmare.
Justice had been delivered.
Dream should have turned his thoughts towards the Dreaming.
Towards his absent tools.
Towards the subjects who might yet remain.
Instead, he paused in the ruined chamber.
Something had touched him when the glass broke.
Not the guard.
Not Paul.
Not any member of the Burgess household.
For one brief moment, he had felt another mind recoil with his own.
Young.
Unfamiliar.
Human in shape, but not entirely human in substance.
The presence had carried the faintest scent of smoke.
Old fire.
Cold iron.
And beneath both, something darker.
A realm Dream had known since before mortals first gave it names.
He reached outward.
Across the sleeping city, minds opened before him.
Children dreamed of impossible gardens.
Adults rebuilt lost homes.
The lonely spoke with the dead.
Nightmares crouched behind familiar doors.
Dream searched among them for the presence that had touched the boundary of his prison.
He found nothing.
There was no dream to follow.
No path.
No door.
The mind had vanished from his perception as though it had never entered the Dreaming at all.
Dream opened his eyes.
For the first time since escaping, uncertainty moved through him.
******
The New Inn
Just as, across London, Dream of the Endless escaped from his prison, the wineglass exploded in your hand.
One moment it was whole.
The next, it burst outward with a sharp crack.
Fragments scattered across the bar and struck the shelves behind you. A jagged piece sliced through your palm.
Pain came a heartbeat later.
You gasped and dropped the stem.
The room tilted violently.
Madeline abandoned the napkins.
“Oh my God.”
She caught your wrist before you could pull your injured hand against your chest.
Blood welled across your palm and ran between your fingers.
Hob was moving before anyone else understood what had happened.
The invoice fell from his hands.
His chair struck the floor behind him as he crossed the room.
“What happened?”
“The glass shattered,” Madeline said. “She wasn’t squeezing it. It just broke.”
Hob took your wrist carefully.
His face had changed.
The easy humour was gone.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I noticed.”
Your voice sounded distant.
The pressure behind your eyes had become unbearable.
The pub blurred around you.
For one impossible instant, you were somewhere else.
A dark chamber.
Broken glass spread across a stone floor.
A pale man standing within a circle, shadows folding around him like robes.
His face turned towards you.
Not towards the door.
Not towards the fleeing guard.
Towards you.
His eyes were black.
Stars burned within them.
Something moved through your body like lightning.
You jerked violently.
Hob caught your shoulders.
“Look at me.”
The vision vanished.
You stared at your father.
His mouth was moving, but you could not hear him properly.
Beneath the ordinary noise of the pub came thousands of other sounds.
Breathing.
Whispering.
Crying.
Laughter from distant rooms.
The rustle of wings.
You felt the sleeping city.
Not as individual people, but as a vast ocean of minds moving beneath the surface of consciousness.
Dreams opened around you.
A child running through a forest made of glass.
An old woman dancing with her dead husband.
A man trapped in a room with no doors.
A girl standing beneath a red sky while something called her name from beyond a wall.
Then the connection snapped.
Sound rushed back into the New Inn.
Madeline pressed a folded cloth against your palm.
“Are you all right?”
You struggled to breathe normally.
“Yes.”
“You nearly collapsed.”
“I felt dizzy.”
Hob was staring at you.
Not only with concern.
Recognition.
Or the fear of recognising something he did not understand.
“Dizzy how?” he asked.
You looked towards the shattered glass.
“Like a shock.”
“An electric shock?” Madeline asked.
“No.”
You swallowed.
The strange pressure was already fading.
“It felt like something broke.”
*******
The Hour of Dream’s Escape
Far beneath the northern edge of London, where the oldest tunnels had been sealed and forgotten, a bell rang once.
No hand touched it.
The sound rolled through the underground chambers, low and resonant, disturbing centuries of dust. Black candles flared within their iron stands. Symbols cut into the stone floor filled briefly with a dull red light.
At the centre of the chamber stood a basin fashioned from volcanic glass. Its surface had reflected nothing for more than one hundred years. Now it showed a broken sphere.
Cracks spread through the glass prison like lightning trapped in ice. Within it, the pale figure who had sat unmoving for generations lifted his head.
The magicians surrounding the basin fell silent. Some knelt. Others stepped back, unable to endure the sight of the being imprisoned within the vision. Azazel remained standing.
His shape was scarcely contained by the chamber. He appeared as an absence in the rough outline of a man, a depth of darkness into which the candlelight vanished. Three mouths opened where a face might have been, each revealing another blackness behind it.
In the basin, the binding circle beneath the sphere was broken.
Dream of the Endless emerged in a storm of darkness and sand.
Azazel’s three mouths smiled.
“It is done.”
The words seemed to come from beneath the floor.
One of the human magicians lowered her head.
Symbols had been burned into the skin around her eyes so that she might look upon beings from other realms without losing her sight.
Even so, she did not look directly at Azazel.
“The Dream Lord is free.”
“He is.”
The image within the basin changed.
Dream stood in the ruined cellar, naked, starved and terrible. His tools were gone, his power diminished after more than a century of captivity.
Yet the humans in the chamber trembled merely from witnessing his reflection.
A demon crouched near the basin. Its body was narrow and grey, its arms long enough for its claws to scrape the floor.
“Then the prophecy may begin.”
Azazel’s central mouth opened.
“The prophecy began before the first of these mortals learned to name the stars.”
The demon bowed its head.
“Then it may take root.”
At that, the basin trembled.
For a moment, another image appeared beneath the reflection of broken glass.
A young woman stood behind the bar of a public house. Blood ran over her hand. Her face was pale with shock, and behind her stood an immortal man who did not yet understand what he had taken into his home.
The image vanished almost immediately.
The female magician looked towards Azazel.
“He felt her.”
One of Azazel’s mouths smiled.
Another remained still.
The third spoke.
“He felt that something touched the boundary of his prison.”
“Will he search for her?”
“He already started.”
The candles nearest the basin bent towards Azazel.
“He sought her among the dreamers. He found no door, no path and no mark by which her mind might be entered.”
Azazel extended one shadowed limb above the basin. The water darkened, concealing the young woman completely.
“The opening was brief. The magic that held an Endless tore through several boundaries when it failed. The concealment weakened for no more than a breath.”
Another demon looked back at the basin then and Dream’s image emerged again. He stood over Alex Burgess, preparing a punishment that would last beyond waking.
“Why free him now, not later?”
The three mouths closed.
For several moments, only the faint grinding of stone could be heard.
Azazel moved around the basin.
The magicians lowered themselves further as his shadow passed over them.
“Because the girl approaches the twenty-first year of her mortal life.”
The woman waited.
“Her power will begin to reveal itself.”
“It already has,” said the long-limbed demon. “The accidents. The music.”
Azazel’s darkness surged.
The demon flattened itself against the floor.
“Fragments,” Azazel said. “Instinct without understanding. A door moving in its frame, but not yet open.”
He turned his attention back to the magician.
“Soon the signs will become more difficult to conceal. Creatures of Hell will sense her. The servants of the Silver City will recognise the wound in creation from which she came. Even mortals will begin to understand that she is not one of them.”
The magician’s expression shifted.
“And if Dream becomes to know what she is?”
The basin changed.
The young woman appeared again, but this time darkness moved beneath her skin. Behind her, for less than an instant, stood an enormous gate formed from iron, bone and fire.
“If the Lord of Dreams knows what she is before he knows who she is,” Azazel said, “he will destroy her.”
The magician stared at the vision.
“Because she belongs to Hell?”
“No.”
The denial came from all three mouths.
The candles guttered.
“Dream does not kill merely because a creature is infernal. Hell and the Dreaming have existed beside one another since before men imagined either realm.”
Azazel’s form rose higher, nearly brushing the vaulted ceiling.
“He will destroy her because she is a breach in the order of things.”
The stone symbols beneath him glowed.
“A living wound between realms.”
The basin showed borders folding into one another.
The waking world bled into a red and burning landscape. Human cities stood beneath a sky without sun. Towers of Heaven withdrew behind gates of silver while demons passed freely across lands that had never belonged to them.
“Her existence threatens the balance that even the Endless must preserve.”
The female magician spoke softly.
“Dream is not guardian of the balance.”
Azazel’s middle mouth curved.
“No. But he is bound to it.”
The right mouth opened.
“Dream is not a creature who possesses a duty.”
The left joined it.
“He is his duty.”
The three voices came together.
“So, if he recognises the breach before attachment clouds his judgement, he will fulfil his function,” Azazel said. “He will mourn her if he believes mourning appropriate. He may resent those who made the act necessary. But he will end her life, and the balance will remain.”
The magician looked towards the basin.
“Then we require him to meet her while she still appears only human.”
“Yes.”
“Before the breach matures.”
“Before he can name it.”
The long-limbed demon lifted its head cautiously.
“You believe the Dream Lord will fall in love with her? A mortal woman?”
Azazel turned.
For once, none of his mouths smiled.
“Belief is for fools.”
A pause followed.
“But yes. It would not be the first time the Lord of Dreams has loved a mortal.”
The demon glanced towards the dark water.
“And this is what the prophecy promises?”
“This is what I understand it to require.”
Azazel’s shadow stretched across the floor.
“He must love her before he understands the danger she represents. Before he sees the breach rather than the woman. Before duty becomes the only choice available to him.”
“Then the prophecy—”
Azazel moved closer to the basin.
“Then the prophecy shall be fulfilled.”
The black water began to ripple.
Words appeared across its surface, written in no mortal language, yet understood by every being within the chamber.
A voice spoke from nowhere.
First came the voice of a maiden.
Then that of a mother.
Then an old woman whose breath rattled at the edge of death.
When the King of Dreams gives his heart to the Child of the Wound, that which sleeps within her shall wake.
The breach shall flower beneath the shadow of his love.
The walls of Hell shall cease to be walls.
And Hell shall become all that Heaven has not claimed.
Summary: While Jake takes the Twins fishing, you and Ransom are set to learn to make homemade dog treats.
Warnings: Anxiety, Depression, Parental stress. Please let me know if I missed any!
Word Count: ~1.2k
A/N: Reader is female. No other physical descriptors used.
Previous--Next
Series Masterlist; Tech Tuesdays Masterlist
"And you're sure you're okay with us going fishing without you?" Jake asks for the fifth time that morning.
"Yes, I am," you reassure. "Fishing has never been my thing. Not to mention it's good for the Twins to get some time with just you! And if you're worried about me getting bored, Ransom is stopping by later today for some more baking lessons."
"I just know you've been--"
"I keep telling you Jake," you interrupt. "I just need to come to terms with the Twins growing up. That's all this is. It's not quite empty next syndrome, but it's one of those things you can't really do anything about."
"I'd suggest another baby, but I'll need another raise first," Jake blushes making you giggle.
"Agreed! Especially if it's another set of twins!"
"Careful, Sunshine, you might get me going for a soccer team," Jake half teases, giving you a look that you know means he would absolutely drop everything and take you into the bedroom.
"Tease," you smirk as you get back to packing up the snacks for their trip.
Jake watches you for a minute, eyes full of love and concern.
Thinking it had just been him being overly worried about you, Jake had approached the other members of the D&D group to ask them if they'd been seeing what he had. The G's, ever more insightful about people than they seem, had scolded Jake for taking so long to notice. Ransom confessed he'd wondered but had nothing beyond a inkling that there was something wrong.
It's part of the reason Ransom is visiting while Jake and the kids are out. Every time Jake brings it up, you brush off his concerns as him being overly worried. If Jake and the kids were around when someone else brings it up, you might push that you don't want to talk about it in front of the kids.
Before they head out, you give the Twins big hugs and playful kisses, wishing them the best in their catches. With Jake, you give him a deep kiss, full of promise, "so long as you don't smell like fish when you get back."
"Thanks, again, for being willing to learn with me," Ransom says as he puts on his apron. "Biscoff's training is going great, but with how food motivated it is, I gotta make sure he's not going to get overweight from all the treats."
"Not a problem!" you quickly reassure. "It'll be fun to do something different!"
There's a small whine from the living room and Ransom leans his head out of the kitchen. "Sorry buddy, but the kids aren't here right now."
"He really does love being around humans as energetic as him, huh?"
"It's what corgis were bred for, apparently," Ransom sighs. "If I'd known I might never have adopted the energetic furball."
You give Ransom a knowing look. "Yes you would've."
Ransom blushes a little as he smiles softly. "Yeah, yeah I would've. He's a supernova of energy but he definitely makes time at home a lot less painfully quiet."
"Oh?" you encourage him to continue as you start setting out ingredients.
"Yeah. When I first cut ties with the family I thought I'd enjoy the silence. Thought I'd finally be able to relax knowing no one could storm in or 'just drop by' for an argument." Your breath hitches but he doesn't seem to notice. "But the quiet was its own anxiety inducing monster. My nervous system couldn't settle. I'd been on alert for so long, I couldn't relax. I was tempted to move to an apartment with noisier neighbors because at least then I knew what to do, what to expect."
"I...I know what you mean," you reply shakily, trying to keep your emotions under control. "Over four years of chaos and noise, of being on alert for sounds of distress, or noticing when it was 'too quiet'. The Twins go to pre-school and, even though it was only half days, I would spend so much of it just sitting and waiting. It's like my life was put on hold for those few hours of the day."
"When you're so used to chaos, the quiet is more disorienting to the nervous system than anything else," Ransom nods. "Had a couple, very casual, talks with Syverson about that. He was worried how often I agreed to work the holiday hours. It was just...it wasn't great, because the office on the holidays is still quiet, but..."
"But it gave you something else to focus on. You could be productive and distract yourself."
"Exactly! I was no longer waiting for the angry yelling, the snide comments, the tantrums that I logically knew were never going to actually happen."
Your hands start shaking and a tear falls as you realize Ransom's talking so casually about something you've struggled to admit to yourself.
"Hey, are you okay?"
"I don't want to be a bad mother," you rasp. "I love my babies, but that means I have to respect their independence, accept that time away from home is good for them. But I can't...I can't..function when I'm not also keeping an ear out for them."
"White noise, TV, radio, they never work, do they?"
You shake your head. "It's not the same. There's a level of disconnect. It's not real. It's not immediate."
"Have you talked to Jake about it?"
"I...I'm scared if I tell him, he'll be disappointed in me," you sob, slowly lowering yourself to the floor. "I love that man so much! He's given me such a wonderful life. I couldn't live with myself if I disappointed him. If he thought I wasn't a good mother for his kids."
"You know he'd never think that," Ransom gently chides, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.
"Logically, yes, of course I do."
"But logic and anxiety rarely work together," Ransom nods in understanding.
As you cry, you feel a gentle push at your leg. Looking down you see Biscoff with one of the Twins' plushies in his mouth and he offers it to you.
"You know he learned that from your kids," Ransom observes. "And any mom who raises such good, loving, happy kids, can't be a bad mom."
Gently taking the plushie from Biscoff, you smile and pet him in thanks.
"Did Jake set you up to do this?" you ask between sobs.
"Sort of," he admits with a shrug. "Jake was asking for help and I volunteered. Though I wasn't lying when I said I wanted to try making some treats for Biscoff. Dog treats can get expensive and he definitely has a preference for the high quality stuff."
"Sounds like his dad," you joke. "Hope he doesn't mind taste testing the recipes, letting us know which ones are his favorites."
"He will never pass up the chance to eat something, food or otherwise," Ransom rolls his eyes. "But before we get into the baking, please promise me you'll talk to Jake? Or a therapist? Or someone?"
"I promise, Ransom. Thank you for being such a good little brother." Ransom's eyes widen in surprise. "The twins call you 'Unca' all the time and while you work with Jake, your downtime is more likely to be spent talking to me about recipes. As such, I won the role of your adopting older sibling."
Ransom's eyes tear up and you hand him the plushie Biscoff got for you.
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