𝖒– fic recs

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⇢ ˗ˏˋ OuterBanks ࿐ྂ

JJ maybank

John B

Pope Hayward

Kie Carrera

Sarah Cameron

Rafe Cameron

⇢ ˗ˏˋMarvel ࿐ྂ

Peter Parker

Bucky Barnes

Natasha Romanov

Steve Rogers

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Jack Harlow

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Vinnie Hacker

⇢ ˗ˏˋEuphoria ࿐ྂ

Fezco

Maddy Perez

Rue

Jules

[matchbox20s]

Hard Times 𖤓

"hard times, hard times and I gotta hit rock bottom!"

jack abbot x resident! reader

summary: your night becomes a series of unfortunate events & a very unprofessional moment sends you seeking refuge on the roof. luckily, your very patient attending Jack Abbot can’t leave you up there alone.

tags/warnings/tropes: the pitt but it’s sitcom-ish, all the patients are kinda whack, age gap (reader is in her 20s), no use of y/n, reader has curly hair, slowburn over a night, reader is on the brink of a panic attack at one point, jack makes a joke about jumping off the roof, reader gets her hair pulled by a patient, they make out like teenagers, antivax mentioned IN A BAD WAY, a child cries after some yelling, mateo & javadi mention under the cut, kinda hurt/comfort, small foot injury, reader is half starving for most of the night, jack is sweet as per usual

wc: 8k ish (i fell into a trance)

a/n: hi!!!! i haven’t written in a long time and this is me getting back into it so i hope it’s good & you enjoy <3

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“We deal with the weirdest and the wildest.” Jack Abbott's voice rang in your head, over and over again. “Because we’re the weirdest and the wildest of them all.”

That seemed to be proving true tonight more than ever. When you finally made it to resident status a year ago, it seemed like the hospital got kicks out of torturing you. You thought this title bump meant power and freedom, not cleaning up everyone else’s messes. Some nights are easier than others, and the moment you walked through those hospital doors, you had a feeling this wasn’t going to be one of them.

The fluorescent lights buzzed high over head, highlighting the hospital floor. They had a way of turning everyone skin the same sickly pale. It was louder than usual. Every bed seemed to be occupied by someone hurting, dying, or loudly causing problems for every member of the staff. It seems like there are more people than usual tonight, and twice that number are probably waiting tirelessly in triage.

Must be a full moon or something

You swear the room spins around you as all the sounds accumulate in some loud brigade against your ears. Just looking at everyone and everything you're going to face tonight.

Someone in a closed trauma room across from you screams, the very specific sound of a bone snapping back into place following. Apparently the situation isn’t going well based on the next string of words you hear from Dr. Walsh through the wall.

With a sigh, you reach into the bag still slung over your arm, reaching for your can of Red Bull. No way you're making it through this shift without an energy drink. You’re hand finds emptiness in your drink pocket, patting around frantically. Then, you picture it sitting on the messy counter in your crappy apartment, right where you left it this morning. Next to your small lunchbox, which is still sitting there. Fantastic.

-

“What the hell is that?” Ellis asks from behind you. Based on her laugh, it seems she's already seeing what you are. She comes and stands beside you, eyes squinting as she leans in. She knocks her elbow against your arm as she fully makes it out.

You're staring at the X-ray in front of you, the light board behind it illuminating the imaging from a 42-year-old male. Your mouth hangs slightly open as you fully see it now. You both make out the image of a foreign object that seems to be a carrot.

“That's not a stomach.” Shen says, stopping in his tracks at the image.

“No. It’s not.” You sigh, ripping the image down off the screen. Of course, this case is the chart you just happened to pick up. Shen and Eliss’s laughs echo behind you.

“Abbot!” You call after him. You jog down the hallway to catch up, holding your stethoscope against your chest as it bobs along with your footsteps.

He’s always preferred you to call him Abbot or even Jack. Doctor Abbot felt too formal for how close you two have grown over the years. Trips to the bar down the block, coffee after shifts at the little cafe within walking distance. Those excursions would be too weird with you still calling him “Dr Abbot” like some scared med student.

He turns around quickly at the sound of your voice, gesturing for whoever he was talking with to go ahead without him. His full attention is given to you immediately.

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“Wow.” Is all Abbot says as he holds the X-ray up to the light. “Can't say I’ve ever been that desperate.” His lips turn up into something between a smirk and a grin.

The humor of the situation finally catches up to you as you laugh at the tight-lipped expression he's wearing.

“I don’t need to or want to think about that, Abbot.” You respond.

“And for that… You get to do the honors.” His closed smile turns into an irritating grin as he shoves the X-ray back into your hands, already walking away, leaving you in front of the last room you want to enter.

“Nightcrawlers, baby!” Jack yells to no one and everyone.

-

After half an hour, a surgery consult, and a very volatile man who insists he somehow managed to slip in his kitchen, you leave the trauma room with a final click of the door. Walsh eyes you as she walks beside the man's gurney, taking him up for more imaging. She's not thrilled you made this her problem. But she's not thrilled with much.

Without even meeting her eyes, you wave her goodbye, adding a little finger wiggle to really piss her off. It works.

“Your residents need to learn to problem solve and not push it off on surgery.” Walsh puts her hand out to stop Jack as he attempts to walk by. “This could’ve been a small procedure done down here and you know it.”

”You said it yourself Walsh, heavy is the head that wears the crown.” Jack snickers as he looks past her, finding your eyes.

He props himself against a lone gurney in the hallway, facing you with that same grin still on his face. The ER hasn’t calmed down at all in the past few hours. Matter of fact, you’re almost sure it's gotten more chaotic, but Jack always seems to find a way to make small moments for you.

“She might be right. You probably could’ve signed off on something down here.” You laugh along with him, making a guilty “oops” face.

“And put my favorite resident through that? No way”

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“Coffee?” Shen is already standing sympathetically in front of you. He’s holding his own Dunkin coffee and another iced coffee just for you. You’re starving, and the look of the iced coffee makes you wanna drop to your knees and rejoice.

“Yes. Finally. Thank you.” You say, dropping your head in gratitude, spraying a little hand sanitizer before grabbing for the cup.

“No time.” Jack appears, not slowing down. He grabs your arm as he strolls by, wrapping his fingers around your bicep. He drags you for a second, not letting go until you're matching his speed, and even then he seems hesitant. “Single MVA rolling up. Guy went into a pole.”

“I’ll leave it on your desk,” Shen yells after with a thumbs up. “I got you extra caramel drizzle.”

-

The sliding doors to the ambulance bay open with a woosh. It’s not a luxurious place by any means. One of the fluorescent lights above you is out and emits a strange hum that you usually can’t hear over the sound of the ambulances. Though, the flowers planted around the building make it a little nicer. No telling how much money they spent on that instead of better safety measures.

The cold air hits your face immediately; it's a windy Pittsburgh night. You zip up the athletic jacket that’s been around you all night, tucking your mouth and nose into it for a second. Jack reaches over and barely untucks your hair that's gotten tangled into the jacket. He doesn’t say anything as he does it, just carefully moves the hair from off you and adjusts the jacket. His fingers barely graze the side of your neck as he pulls back.

“How’d it go with Carrot Top anyway?” Jack asks, tightly crossing his arms over his chest. Almost as an animal would for protective measures. As if he didn’t just share an incredibly tender moment with you.

Your mouth falls open at the nickname, an embarrassing snort coming out, clamping a hand over your lips quickly.

“Carrot Top?"

Only Jack would think up a name like that.

“Carrot Bottom?” he questions with the raise of an eyebrow. Very proud of himself.

“I hate you.” You nod reverently, your face betraying you as you grin through every word.

“You could never.”

Jack makes a motion of putting his hand on your crown and ruffling your curls. From anyone else this would be annoying. These curls have a very meticulous routine. But, from Jack it's weirdly endearing. The smile on your face only serves to egg him on as he picks up a coil and stretches it.

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The MVA you’re missing your extra caramel drizzle coffee for turns out to be a drunk man who has nothing nice to say and yet no injuries to explain his grand irritation. The slurred voice and incoherent yelling quickly turn from just annoying to grating.

“We are gonna get you pain meds, but first you need to shut your fucking mouth.” Jack says to the man very sternly. It even draws your attention, making you straighten yourself out. He can be demanding when he wants to.

The drunk gestures wildly with his hands and occasionally with his feet as he yells. The smell of his breath and the alcohol reeking from him would make you wanna gag if you had any food in your stomach. During a long brigade of words that make no sense in the order they're said, the man's fingers catch your hair by accident.

He yanks, pulling your whole head down with his grip. You tug once but can’t break his grip. The sound of instruments clattering against a tray echoes through the room, and Jack's voice booms with a “Hey!”

His hand clamps around the drunk man, physically prying his fingers off of you. The man protests with sharp sounds of pain that Jack ignores.

“You good?” He asks quickly, eyes searching yours. His hand is still clamped around the man. “I’m fine.” You shake your head out physically. Soothing out the clump of curls that are now frizzy from the friction of his grip.

“Push Haldol. He’s combative.” Jack orders one of the nurses in the room with an unusually authoritative yell. His eyes flick to yours every few seconds, surveying you for any sign of discomfort.

How is he even still awake?” You ask, adjusting the man's IV, half-impressed and half-irritated.

“To spite us.”

And the way this night's going, that very well may be true. Some cryptid figure sent from Hell just to irritate you further.

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Two Discharges down and a mountain of charts to fill out, you finally have time to sit at a desk. Being off your feet for the first time in hours. Your energy is almost depleted after having nothing to eat and no caffeine.

Plopping down in your chair is wildly uncomfortable. Your lumbar support must be giving out. Make a note to complain about that.

Although if they're not worried about coughing up money for better safety precautions so doctors and nurses get their hair pulled less, something tells you they won't care about this chair.

Finally reuniting with your beloved coffee, you discover it’s died in your absence. You find the ice completely melted. Now, some off-putting sludge the color of wet cardboard. Even the little streaks of caramel look depressed. Great.

To make matters worse, your computer isn’t turning on. “What the hell is with this thing?” You tap the power button insistently, definitely making the problems worse.

“Oh yeah, Victoria said that one wasn't working. Someone on day shift did something to it,” Mateo says, spinning himself around in his chair. You're a little jealous of how carefree he always is.

“We're calling Dr. Javadi Victoria now, are we?” You ask with a sideways smile and a knowing glare.

“I’ll call IT.” is all the response you get.

“Can’t.” A passing nurse with a name you can’t place says. “They left already.”

”Oh yeah.” Mateo smiles to himself and finally speaks in response to your raised eyebrows. “Apparently Donnie's taking out the IT girl tonight. Must be why she cut early.”

“Fantastic,” You say with a clearly sarcastic smile. “Donny gets a hot date, and I get a busted computer and a night alone.”

“You could get a hot date.” Mateo grins.

“Don’t make me tell Victoria,” You turn in your chair quickly to stare at him. The sound of wheels squeaking.

“Not me. You're too old for me,” he says.

“We’re like almost the same age!” You say back incredulously.

“Yeah, and I like younger women.”

You make a gagging sound before he finishes his thought.

“I mean Dr. Abbot.”

“Again, Mateo. I’m like half his age!”

Jack is well into his 40s, and not to mention your attending. Sure, you've thought about it. Briefly, I mean, you're human; you have eyes. Plus, it's not even your fault. He makes it hard not to. In reality, it's really completely his fault.

“Okay, and maybe he likes younger women too.”

“You're nasty.”

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The sound of an older woman's shaky but familiar voice pulls you out of the small fantasy you were letting yourself have about a world in which maybe you do manage a hot date with Jack. Stupid Mateo. You drop your head onto your desk for a moment, bonking your head against it.

You're close enough to stay in your rolling chair and spin yourself backward to reach the woman. You already knew exactly where she’d be. She tended to wander, the dementia making her restless especially at night. She was a frequent flyer.

“Mrs. Deborah, what is it?” You ask, always finding yourself smiling at the woman even when she pesters you all night.

“I want to see that handsome doctor again. I liked him.”

”Dr Abbot is busy.”

You kick yourself immediately for jumping to Jack when you heard the words, “handsome doctor”. She could've meant anyone. But let’s be honest, she probably meant Jack.

“He’ll make an exception for me.” She says back with all the confidence in the world. It's impressive, honestly. You laugh, not cruelly but with warmth for the woman. She even laughed back with you, no doubt forgetting what she's smiling about.

“I’ll let him know you're interested.” You nod, closing her curtain back.

-

“Mrs Deborah in curtain one for you.” You say, catching Jack's arm as he passes by, basically shoving the iPad into his chest. He's sturdy. You're beyond tempted to keep your hand there for a second when you feel him flex from the impact, but you think better of yourself. “She's very insistent on seeing the handsome doctor again.”

He props himself against your portion of the desk, like he’s planning on staying for a while. He really was handsome, even under the awful fluorescent lights. Where they washed everyone else out, they seemed to highlight his features—the darkest parts of his graying hair and his dark eyes.

“Ah and you came and found me?”

“Lucky guess.” You catch his gaze and drop it back down to the chart you're scribbling on quickly.

“Would you get outta here and just satisfy her, please.”

His eyes widen a little at your words as he pulls his head back, tilting it at you. He starts to scoff before you realize your mistake.

“Not like that!” You give his arm a whack with the manilla folder in front of you. “Go, just get!” You whack him a few more times to shoo him away as you hear his deep laugh getting quieter and quieter.

“Guess that tells us he at least doesn’t like older women,” Mateo pipes up from across the desk.

You're gonna go crazy here.

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“Got a kid for you in 3.” You don’t even bother to look up at who's speaking as you take the iPad that was unceremoniously shoved into your hands. “Can someone else just get the write up started for me? I'm just running to the vending machine for a Red Bull.”

“Nope. Its yours”

Great. It's like these people are out to keep you caffeine-less, starved, and angry.

Leaning against a free wall, you scroll through the papers. 7-year-old girl with fever, cough, and stomachache. It’s routine at least. The papers in her file are sparse. Only one sheet from a primary care physician, and it a couple years old. A single sheet showing she went to urgent care once, no school papers.

System must be on the fritz again.

”Anyone else had their charts wrong tonight?” You ask as you lean against the desk, shifting through some rogue papers. And, of course, seeing as you’re being divinely targeted today, everyone else answers that they haven't had a problem.

“Got somethin’ wrong?” Jack asks, tilting his chin up at you in question.

“I think I’m missing papers.”

“I got time. Let's go check it out.” He says, his hand coming out to pat your arm as he gestures you along with him. He keeps his hand on your arm for a second longer than a casual brush requires and certainly longer than any kind of professional necessity. He finally releases your arm with a small squeeze to your bicep. He seems to be attached to your hip after the brush with the drunk patient.

”Knock knock.” You say in a light voice as you crack the door open, peering your head in to smile at the young girl on the other side. “I hear we’re not feeling so good today!” You say with a frown. Your voice takes on an uncharacteristically light tone that it doesn’t usually have.

Jack fills the space beside you; the peds room is small enough, but as he stands beside you, it feels like it's shrunk. His hands clasped behind his back, the stance he always seems to have as he takes in a scene. He gives you the nod to go ahead. He’ll let you run it.

You are his favorite resident after all.

The mother accompanying the girl has an immediate presence when you enter the room. Hovering and impatient. “Yes. She's been here half the night already, and we’ve seen anyone. She's coughing and hot - but really we were about to leave.”

“Yeah. I apologize.” You nod along sympathetically; your jaw twinges as you find yourself grinding your teeth at the woman's tone. But. you’ve managed to master the art of sympathetic nods and conveniently timed reactive listening.

“Why don’t you tell me what's hurting you, okay?” You squat down beside the young girl's hospital bed, running your hand over her forehead. The poor girl doesn't get a syllable out before the mom is huddled above you, taking over your motion of rubbing her head, nearly colliding your hands together.

“It’s mostly the fever. Her stomach’s started feeling better in the last hour. It seems to be passing; her grandmother was just very insistent on bringing her here. We’d really like to go home soon.”

You pause for a second as to not have your tone be as aggressive as it wants to be as the words start rising in your throat. Jack catches on. Your threshold for any kind of annoyance has been shrinking the whole night, and he can see it.

“Hi ma’am, Dr. Jack Abbot.” He interjects, shaking the woman's hand. Giving you a sideways look of - breathe and cool it

“Usually we let them tell us what's wrong. Makes the kiddos feel better and all.” He winks over at the child, effortlessly charming.

After a few words of babble you don't quite pick up, you get the overall idea that the girl “doesn't feel good, is hot, and her throat's scratchy.”

“And my tummy really hurts.” She mutters, pulling herself into the fetal position.

So, clearly this mother wasn't adept at answering your questions for her daughter.

You glance over at the woman while her daughter's cries of her stomach hurting fill the room. The casual glance might've been more of a glare, you realize as you sense how narrow your eyes are. Oops

“Am I gonna have to get a shot?” The little girl asks, pulling the thin hospital blanket over her face.

“Oh my goodness! I would never let that happen to you!” You say in the certain tone of voice you only reserve for children. The little girl pulls the blanket down just enough to peer her eyes out. You reach over and hook her much smaller pinky with yours. “I promise you.”

“Yeah!” Jack grins from beside you, squatting down to get closer to the girl's height. “We're only doing the easy stuff. We could do it with our eyes closed.” He barely pulls the girl's blanket over her eyes and then pulls it back down teasingly. She giggles from somewhere under the blanket.

You’d forgotten how sweet Jack was with kids. He seemed to have a way of relaxing them. He always makes them feel seen and heard.

Speaking of shots, you scroll back through the papers, going over what information you seem to be missing. “I'm afraid we may have lost some information in transit.” The mom sighs before you even finish. “I'm sorry about that if we did.” You continue; the only smile you can manage now is a tight-lipped one. “When did she receive her vaccines? I’m not seeing that or the six-year boosters.”

“She hasn’t.” The woman says as if it's the simplest thing in the world.

Your thumb hovers above whatever you were looking at on screen, your eyes shooting up.

“I’m sorry?”

“We’ve chosen to keep her unvaccinated. She's very healthy, and we’ve been very safe. She’s homeschooled.”

Across the room, Jack, who was leaning casually against the door, straightens up, hands positioned behind his back once again, as if surveying a battlefield. Not only is he visibly more on edge, but it seems there's a new sense of irritation radiating off of him. Everything he knows medically is being questioned, but morally too. He doesn’t speak yet, though.

“Okay,” You say, the word coming out way too slow. Nodding at the same pace, your lips puckering.

I'm a doctor, a professional. professional. professional

“So, your daughter is 7 years old and has not been properly vaccinated?”

“No, but-“

“And why is that exactly?” You cut the woman off before whatever follows "but".

Okay, maybe THAT wasn’t super professional

Jack's eyes dart to yours. Not threatening, but maybe a vague warning in there.

The mom crosses her arms, a mix of defiance and defensiveness. Whatever nonsense she's about to spew, she clearly believes. The daughter barely shifts from under the blanket, letting her now widening eyes poke out at her mom. She stares like she knows something’s happening but isn't sure what exactly.

“They're full of God knows what! The government's been hiding this stuff for years; only now is there someone that’s being honest and looking into these things. Not to mention there's proof that children are getting sick from these things, even getting autism and -“

Now your face has given up on hiding its feelings. You squeeze your eyes shut so they don't manage to roll out of your head, rubbing them furiously with your thumb and index finger. Her thoughts and opinions are so wrong you can't even seem to find the words to explain how for a moment.

“Ma’am,” Jack speaks up. His voice is level but at a slightly lower register than you normally hear it. He's lacking that charm he usually has, the way his words seem to roll out. “That information is widely spread but not always medically accurate.”

This touches a nerve for him and you can see it. Having been in countries that didn’t have access to these things like we have, having seen so much harm that could’ve been prevented with these same things this woman is withholding from her daughter.

“It's blatant misinformation!” You say, a humorless laugh coming out behind it.

Today has gone too far. Too many people griping in your ear, so loudly and so wrongly that it seems to all have accumulated in your system as this one woman pushes too far.

“Do you know how many diseases you’re letting your daughter be vulnerable to?” Your hands seem to be moving by their own accord, flying around as you speak.

The poor young girl doesn’t understand, and all she seems to piece together from your words and your anger is that she's done wrong, she's in trouble, and she’s gonna get much sicker. You don't even realize the little girl's reaction and hone in on the mother, blinking rabidly as you wait for her answer. Tunnel vision sets in as you grow more frustrated and your body seems to be losing its ability to cope.

”Do you know many children in other countries are dying every day because they don’t have these things?!” You continue, the words flying out rapidly. Your voice is now hitting an octave that’s far too high to be polite or professional.

The girl is now in tears, hiding under her blanket, calling for her mommy. At this, Jack is stepping in. He’s angry, but he hides it better than you. Must be all that therapy and nude yoga he does. Changing gears to defuse this quickly, he puts his hand over the little girl, running it over the blanket soothingly.

His eyes shoot over to you, narrowed and stern. A single glance that he’s seemed to have mastered over the years. It can shut anyone down pretty quickly.

Even though he agrees with every point you’ve made, you’ve just made a scene in his ER. He cannot let you sit here and berate a patient's family members, no matter how noble the cause.

His gaze shifts from angry to disappointed for half a second. You're his best resident, and you’ve just stood here and acted wildly unprofessional while in his presence. You're better than that, and he knows it. You messed up a very important case, and that’s not like you. You’ve probably now just made it completely impossible to get through to this woman if there was even a small chance. Not to mention, you were near screaming in the presence of a child who you’ve just scared half to death.

His gaze registers, but too much adrenaline seems to be pumping through you too much to care. Whatever knot was being wound so tight tonight finally seems to have snapped. Any other time a look like that from Jack would’ve made you want to melt into the floor.

“Doctor!” He calls out, his voice stern, but demanding attention from everyone in this little room. That does manage to put a stop to your brigade of questioning, shaking you back to reality a bit. “I’m gonna take over here.” Without any politeness, Jack tears the iPad from your hand, his back now facing the mother and daughter.

“You find a way to calm yourself down, and you be back here in five.” He opens the door a little wider, signaling it's time for you to leave. Now, finally noticing the girl crying in the corner of the room, you see no place for argument.

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You jab your thumb into the elevator's up button, bouncing back and forth on the balls of your feet, incredibly antsy to just get some air and get out of here.

“Excuse me, Doctor?” A medical student you’ve only seen twice and therefore haven’t memorized the name of wanders up beside you with a lost puppy look.

“Ask someone else. I'm on a break.”

You thumb the up button at least 10 more times; it can't come soon enough.

“Sorry. I just needed a-“

“Find anyone else, literally any other resident who cares. Not me!”

As the elevator doors shut with you inside, you catch a final glimpse at the wide-eyed student, standing there like you just dumped a bucket of cold water on him.

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The air that hits you on the roof is frigid and harsh. With the sound of the heavy door shutting behind you with a final squeak from its hinges, you can finally breathe. Chills run up your arms as you strip off your thin jacket. Leaving you exposed to the cold air in nothing but your thin black scrubs made of some material that swishes when you walk.

Knowing what you know about the human body from your years of study, you know that cold exposure stimulates your vagus nerve. You can stop this panic attack before it happens. You close your eyes, resting your arms over the railing surrounding the edge of the roof. They put this up years ago to deter jumpers, keeping you back a few feet from the ledge.

You let your head drop, finally relaxing the tense muscles. The wind starts to numb your cheeks and the tip of your nose as you're sure they go red. You go over what should be happening in your body, like a mantra.

“My heart rate is lowering, my sympathetic nervous system is engaging, I'm falling into a state of calm. And, after a while, you start to believe it.

Glancing down at your watch, you see your five-minute allotted break Abbot “allowed,” has passed, but you don’t move yet. Instead, you duck under the tall railing, muttering to yourself as a curl gets caught on an exposed bolt. You jerk it back while gritting your teeth.

Somehow this is the most annoying thing that’s happened to you all day.

Once under, Pittsburgh seems to have grown 10 sizes. Now you can see straight below you. The way the streets and sidewalks blur together with the cars looking smaller than possible. You're contemplating whether this sight calms you or alarms you more as the sound of the door groaning perks your ears up.

“If you're gonna jump, don't do it over anti-vaxxers.” Jack's voice rises from somewhere behind you. He pauses, waiting for any reaction from you. He doesn’t get one as you stay facing the skyline.

“If you do, it might end up with you a number in one of their statistics, and that just wouldn’t be fair.” Your shoulders barely shake with a laugh, the sight giving him a small sigh of relief. Turning to face him, you find yourself not able to stare at him too long.

“Surely making jokes about jumping off the roof is counterproductive to all that therapy speak you use.” You take a step towards him, feeling unnerved by the vast Pittsburgh skyline and the drop-off that's close behind your back.

“It’s a process.” He shrugs from the other side of the rail. “Besides, she says humor is a good coping mechanism. Better than drinking anyway.”

You roll your eyes, letting yourself laugh. You keep your eyes on the ground in front of you for a bit longer, not wanting to be met with the same look you were on the receiving end of in that peds room.

“Yeah. I don’t think I have any place to be talking.”

“No, you don't.”

A few moments of silence pass between the two of you. Your eyes are still focused on the tennis shoes on your feet, yet you can still feel his gaze burning into you.

“I’m not gonna apologize for what I said. I was right.” You barely scuff your shoe against the ground as you speak.

“I expect nothing less.”

You finally bring your eyes up to meet his gaze. To your surprise, it's not a cold stare as you’d expected. It’s the same Jack you've always known. Kind eyes that always seem to manage to stare through you, a smile that’s always just sitting on the corner of his mouth, like he’s always on the brink of making a stupid quip.

“And I’m not gonna apologize for kicking you out.” He says, tilting his head to the right as he stares at your face for a reaction. ”But, I can apologize for how I did it.” Now diverting his own gaze. He may be advancing in his therapy and his healing process, but he’s still not great with apologies from either side.

“No, don’t.” You sigh, brushing him off with a vague waving gesture. You imagine the little girl's face peeking up from under the blanket, scared of your yelling, and feel like you probably deserved worse. “Trust me, I think I earned it.”

“C’mon,” Jack puts his hand out from the other side of the railing. He makes a noise from the corner of his mouth and nods his head back towards the door. “You're makin’ me nervous over there.”

Your feet stay planted for a second, twisting your neck around to see the Pittsburgh skyline one more time. Before you cross that threshold again, you feel like you have to ask about the girl and the vaccines. If Jack was able to work his magic and convince the mom. If the answer you get is no, there's just no point in following him back inside. Maybe you’d live on the roof forever, never enter that hospital that has worn you down so badly tonight again.

But, despite it all, you know you will. You always do

“Is she getting her vaccinated?”

“No,” Jack says with a sigh that racks his own body. He’s as torn up about this as you are, but he's better at internalizing it. “She signed out AMA.”

“Son of a bitch!” You yell, louder than you meant to and way louder than anything Jack was expecting from you.

“Stupid. Fucking. Hospital.”

Jack watches on with what can only be described as shock and horror as you kick at the iron railing in front of you, punctuating every word with another bam of your foot.

“Stupid. Fucking. Parents.”

He’s never seen you so angry before, certainly never angry enough to kick literal iron. Unfortunately, the sight is kind of hilarious. The way your giant curls bob along with every kick and your top lip narrows as you yell.

“Fuck!”

Your anger got the best of you, and your final kick was just a little too hard. Your hand clamps down on your right foot, gripping your toes over your shoe. The pain makes you hop in place on your good foot, your body flooded with that weirdly awful sensation of stubbing a toe.

Jack's laugh echoes along the roof as he ducks under the railing smoothly. “What the hell was that?” He asks, bending down a little to see your face in your hunched-over state.

You grit your teeth. “Just shut up for a minute.” That kind of pain radiating from your foot that makes everyone and everything around you irritating. You pound your fist against the railing in frustration, willing your toe to stop throbbing.

You hear Jack's knee hit the concrete, the distinct clink of his metal prosthetic barely audible. He takes your foot and rests it on his knee, carefully moving his fingers along the front of your shoe. He feels around gently, no feeling of any toes being broken or bent.

“As flattered as I am, I really don't think now’s the time for a proposal.” You half laugh, half still wince from your standing position above him, who’s still on one knee. From afar, this might actually look like a really shitty hospital rooftop proposal.

“You wish.” He quips back at you easily, not even looking up. “My proposal would be much better than this.”

Your stomach does a little flip at his words before you can stop it. His tone is so casual and sure, like he’s actually thought about it before.

He taps his hand against your leg and gives your calf a feather-light squeeze, lowering your leg off his knee and back on the ground. “Nothing's broken. Just don’t kick any more metal tonight.”

Without even thinking about it, he grabs the side of your thigh to give himself better leverage to stand back up. You chide yourself internally for the feeling it gives you.

He’s just an old man with a bad knee!

“We got ten minutes left tonight.” He glances down at the thick black watch on his wrist, the numbers lighting up in military time. “Think you can handle a few more charts?”

Your hellish night can be over in 10 minutes if the world doesn’t throw anything else at you.

You nod, ducking under the railing with him, the same bolt catching another curl. Someone or something HAS to be out to get you today.

You wobble a little as you stand back up straight. You still never had proper time to eat or drink, just the occasional chug of water when the chance presented itself. You hadn’t noticed how exhausted and weak you feel until now.

“Alright, sit down for a second.” Jack sighs, seeing the way you look unsteady on your feet. He's never been one to push people past their limits, especially you. He lightly wraps his hand around your arm, pulling you along with him, keeping you steady with his tight grip.

The rooftop wasn’t meant for lounging like you and Jack seemed to use it. All there was up here was huge air conditioning units, long pipes running along the walls, and concrete that’s been bleached by the sun. Jack dragged you over and sat you down on a thin edge of concrete where the giant HVAC unit was situated. The hum of the machine and the view straight ahead of the skyline actually made it pretty peaceful. This must be his specific spot. The thought brings a small smile to your face. He’s brought you over to his one little slice of peace on this roof. He shifted himself into sitting down beside you, one leg pulled up, and his prosthetic stretched out onto the roof, his black pant leg rolling up just enough to see it.

From the breast pocket of his scrubs, he pulls out a granola bar wrapped in a green wrapper. “Eat something before you go back down.” He passes it over to you, sitting close enough that your shoulders are pressed into each other.

“How often do you sit here?” You ask, a bite of granola bar in your mouth. Part of yourself tells you to act more proper to try and impress Jack a little, but the other part of you has never quite cared what people think, and you're too starving to care.

He reaches over and gently pulls a small crumb of granola from your hair. It’s the gentlest anyone’s touched you tonight.

“I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you.” He says monotoned, narrowing his eyes a little in an attempt to be threatening.

You laugh, coughing into your hand as you inhale a piece of granola wrong.

“That is if you don't beat me to it.” He claps a hand over your back, patting a little as if you were choking. But, he doesn’t move his hand after those few seconds. He stays like that, hand on your back, leaning his head against the humming machine behind you both. He looks at peace here, with you in his favorite spot.

His hand seems to naturally start slipping, finding its way to the small of your back now and just resting there comfortably. You try to stop, telling yourself to focus on the skyline, not him. He means nothing by it; Jack is just naturally affectionate.

Losing your restraint as the seconds tick by, you dart just your eyes over and see him staring, entirely turned towards you on this small piece of concrete. With your heartbeat pounding in your ears, you give in too, turning to have your whole body completely facing him.

His face is closer to yours than you thought. If either of you leaned forward just an inch, your noses would brush. He doesn’t do anything, just looks. It's like he’s taking in your whole face, every feature as his intense gaze stays trained on you. His eyes drop just for a second. down to your lips. When he meets your eyes again, you nod your head just a little, something that would’ve been imperceptible to anyone but Jack, who notices everything.

At that, he lets his own resolve crumble around him, leaning forward quickly like he can’t stop himself for another second, finally meeting your lips.

He’s careful at first, matching the pace you set. You hadn’t realized exactly how much you wanted this until you finally have it, finally have him. Giving in to him, you bring a hand up to his face, resting your fingers just above his jaw, running your thumb along the patch of dark gray stubble growing in. He feels your hand on his face and leans in further, half forcing you to let yourself fall back against the concrete. The hand still on the small of your back supports you, putting your other hand on the space between his neck and shoulder, using him to stay steady. His strong hands keep a tight grip on you as he deepens the kiss.

Forcing himself to pull back for a moment, he rests his hand on your face, carefully cupping your cheek, his eyes searching yours, immediately making sure you’re okay with this.

“Oh shit.” Is all you can get out of your mouth, putting your fingers over your lips like you can’t believe he was just there. The side of his mouth barely pulls up at the weirdly charming sight of your wide, unbelieving eyes looking back up at him.

“Yeah.” His voice sounds gruffer now as he nods along with you and your air of shock.

“Oh shit!!!” You say again, propping yourself up on your elbows. It’s hitting you all at once that Jack is your attending, not to mention twice your age. But you really can't find it in you to care enough.

“You okay?” He asks, working through the same ideas in his head and coming to the same careless conclusion. He’s worried though; he's the older one and your professional senior. He feels it's on him to make sure you're comfortable, and he's taking that seriously. His eyes search yours a little quicker now when you don’t answer right away.

But, as if some switch flipped, you're pouncing back on him in a second. The intensity almost knocks the air out of his lungs.

Both hands on his face now, you deepen the kiss quickly, trailing one hand to the nape of his neck, drawing him in as close as you can. Now, as if the situation has reversed, you're leaning against him, one hand moving to his chest, pushing him down with more force than you intended. He laughs gruffly for the half second that your lips part from each other as you push him flat on his back.

You're like a woman possessed as your lips find his again. The feeling of your palm scratching across the concrete beside his head only encourages you more, the other still firmly pressed on his chest, feeling his chest flex through his thin black shirt. He smiles against your lips as he tangles his hand in your mountain of curls. His hand presses against the back of your head to keep you as close to him as possible, making it impossible to leave his lips for a second. Just as his other hand squeezes onto your hip, that familiar sound of the old door echoes across the roof.

Your head shoots up as you both pause to listen, staying completely still. his hand falls from your hair, craning his neck from his lying-down position to try and see anything. Jack is hidden enough behind the HVAC but you’re not.

Dana's thick accent floats through the air as she calls Abbott's name. “Dana?!” You whisper to him frantically. Day shift must be trickling in now. You two definitely stayed up here longer than you should’ve.

She steps out of the doorway as the door shuts behind her. She moves her head around to look wherever she imagines Abbot might be on this roof. Her eyes skip over you for a second before snapping back.

“The hell are you doing up here?” She asks, now positioning her hands on her hips as she looks at you suspiciously.

This is bad. You've always thought Dana had all-seeing eyes and now she's here.

“Oh, uh - just getting some air.” You feel Jack pinch your side at how unbelievably bad your delivery was, half stumbling through the words. You slap his hand away quietly.

“Why are you laying like that?” She asks, her head tilting like she knows something. You hadn’t quite considered how much of a compromising position you must be in visually. Half sitting up, the bottom half of you she can't see, wide-eyed and nervous like you've been caught doing something wrong. which you kinda have.

“Oh, I um- uh…” Your voice trails off as you try and dig through your head for anything to say. Literally anything. “Lost an earring…” Your voice quirks up at the end like you’re asking her if she even believes you.

She doesn’t answer, just stares. And it's terrifying

Jack just barely raises his head enough to try and see what she’s doing as her silence draws on. What he seems to forget is the cardinal rule of: If you can see them, they can see you.

You put your palm flat over his face, half smothering him for a second and completely not caring. Pushing his head back down slowly as if moving slowly would somehow stop her from seeing what she's already seen. You barely smile at her, the expression more of a wince as the look of guilt overpowers it.

Dana's not shocked by much; she's seen everything a person can see in her career, but this one takes her by surprise. She knew you were up to no good the moment she saw your puppy dog eyes, but quite possibly the last person she imagined was under you was Jack Abbot.

“Please-“

She cuts you off almost immediately as you start speaking.

“I can’t believe what I'm seeing.”

You look away, deciding the stars must be better to look at than the cross-armed, unbelieving stare she's giving you. You think you actually hear her laugh but don't dare check.

“We have an ambulance rolling up in two minutes. Multiple MVA, all hands on deck. That is if you can pull yourself away.” She talks with her hands now, her accent seems to come out stronger as her frustration with you grows.

You nod quickly, choosing carefully not to say another word.

“You got all that, Jack?” She asks, now the unmistakable sound of humor in her voice. You wince when she says his name. You knew she saw him, but the fantasy of pretending she didn’t was nice.

“Got it.” He yells, still hidden and flat on his back. Raising a thumb in the air for her to see.

“Come on then, people.” She claps her hands loudly.

You scramble up quickly, slipping onto your hands for a second. Popping back up and frantically grabbing your jacket off the railing, flailing around with your arms trying to get it on properly over your now extremely wrinkled scrubs.

“Get yourselves together.” She shakes her head in a similar cadence a disappointed mother would. You're pretty sure you hear her muttering something along the lines of, “And they call themselves doctors.” as the door slams.

Jack groans as he stands up, a hand over his back as it aches from the concrete.

“Very nice, old man. Thank you.” You grimace at him for getting you both caught.

“Yeah, blame me, misses “I lost an earring.”

He comes up behind you and fixes your jacket, which you're still fighting against, pulling the left arm right-side out and guiding it through. He walks around and stands in front of you now, looking with that same gaze he's had with you all night. Except this time there seems to be something softer in his eyes, along with the softest, most relaxed smile you think you've ever seen Jack wear. He pulls at a few coils of your curls, flattening them back down from where his hand was tangled a few minutes ago.

“For what it’s worth, I’d like to finish this and not have Dana interrupt us this time.”

And, once again, like he's completely irresistible to you. Your hands are on his face. pulling him into another kiss. Fleeting and short this time.

Just like that, your terrible night seems to have completely turned around.

“I’d like that.”

[fanficwritinggirl]

{Code Black - Dr Jack Abbot x F!Reader}

Part 1 of 4

I posted this a while ago over on Wattpad and I decided that it is time to bring this over here now for you all to enjoy :)

Summary - A routine night shift turns into the worst kind of emergency, leaving Jack facing an impossible choice when every second counts.

Word Count - 11600ish

Readers POV

At two forty-three in the morning, The Pitt was not quiet. It was never quiet. It just changed volume depending on the hour. By midnight, the department had been loud in the obvious ways: stretchers rattling through ambulance doors, family members asking for updates every seven minutes, monitors chirping over each other, somebody crying in the waiting room because the vending machine had eaten their card. By two forty-three, it had gone into a different kind of noise. The tired kind.

The kind made of phones ringing too long, printers jamming, half-finished orders, low voices behind curtains, wheels squeaking over linoleum, nurses saying, "I'll be right there," in the exact tone that meant they had already said it five times.

You stood at the nurses' station with trauma shears clipped to your scrub pocket, two labels stuck to your wrist, and a computer frozen on the medication record. You tapped the mouse. Nothing. You tapped it harder. Still nothing. Jack stood beside you, looking down at the screen.

"Threatening it won't help."

You didn't look up. "I'm not threatening it."

"You're staring at it like you know where its children go to school."

"I do. They're all in radiology, refusing to upload images."

His mouth shifted. Not a smile. Almost. That was usually all anyone got from him at this hour. You reached for the keyboard and hit enter again. The screen stayed frozen.

"Brilliant," you muttered. "Love a machine with boundaries."

Jack leaned one forearm against the counter, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours. "Try logging out."

"If I log out, I may never get back in."

"That sounds dramatic."

"This hospital once locked me out because I entered my password too emotionally."

"That explains several things."

You turned your head and gave him a look. Jack looked back, perfectly bland. The fluorescent light cut shadows under his eyes. His scrub top was wrinkled at the collar, and there was a smear of dried betadine near one cuff. He looked tired in that clean, contained way he had, like exhaustion had asked for permission before settling on him. Infuriating. You clicked the mouse again. The system gave one weak blink and unfroze.

You lifted both hands. "See? It responds to fear."

Jack's eyebrows rose. "Disturbing management style."

"Says the man who makes residents apologize to CT."

"They should."

"They absolutely should," you said, and reached for the med scanner.

Across the station, Perlah was on the phone with lab, using her calmest voice, which meant someone was in danger. Princess stood at the counter with a tray of specimens, labelling each one with the focus of a woman who had entered a temporary spiritual agreement with order. A call bell went off. Then another.

From Curtain Three, a woman called, "Excuse me? My father still hasn't gotten his sandwich."

Princess closed her eyes for half a second.

You looked toward the curtain. "He's NPO."

"She says bread doesn't count if it's hospital bread," Princess said.

Jack glanced toward Curtain Three. "Creative."

"Medically useless, but creative."

Perlah hung up the phone and said, "Lab says they never got the green top from Bay Six."

Princess held up a bag without looking. "That green top?"

Perlah stared at it. Princess stared back.

You whispered, "Nobody move. It might be a trap."

Jack took the specimen bag from Princess and checked the label. "Bay Six."

Princess pointed toward the tube station. "It was waiting for the printer."

"The printer doesn't process labs."

"It had an attitude. I was letting it calm down."

Perlah came over and snatched the bag. "I'll walk it down before this place invents a new failure point."

She left with the grim purpose of someone going into battle.

Jack watched her go. "She's handling the night well."

"She threatened to divorce the tube system ten minutes ago."

"Healthy boundaries."

You scanned the medication and signed it off before the computer changed its mind. "You always this supportive of workplace conflict?"

"Only when it's justified."

"That's every night."

"Then yes."

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Jack looked at you. Only for a second. But there it was again. That almost-warmth. That almost-softening. The look that made you forget, briefly and stupidly, that you were at work. You looked away first. Safer. The problem with Jack was that most people saw the sharp edges and stopped there. The dry comments. The clinical stare. The way he could flatten a room with one sentence and no raised voice. All of that was real. But it was not all of him. You knew that now.

You knew because he remembered which patients made you clench your jaw. Because he put coffee near your charting hand on bad nights and pretended he had just "overestimated his own caffeine needs." Because he stepped in when a family member got too loud, not to take over, but to stand beside you while you handled it yourself.

Because he had a way of seeing too much and saying almost nothing. Tonight, he had seen Curtain Twelve. You had known he had. The patient had been septic, febrile, frightened, and strong enough to grab your wrist when you leaned over to adjust his line. It had lasted maybe three seconds before you got him to let go. Princess had been there. Shen had been called. The man had apologized afterward, confused and shaking. It was over. It should have been over. But Jack's eyes had dropped to your wrist three times since. You kept pulling your sleeve down without meaning to. Jack noticed that too. Of course he did.

You tried to ignore it by moving. That usually worked in the ED. There was always something else to do, somewhere else to put your hands, another task to fold yourself into until whatever awkward, tender thing had started to rise between you sank back down again.

You checked on Bay Five, who insisted his breathing was "fine now" while still requiring oxygen. Ellis adjusted his orders and gave him the kind of look that made him reconsider lying to women in scrubs. Shen finally got cardiology to answer by using Jack's name like an institutional threat. Princess found two missing saline flushes in a linen cart and declared it "evidence of collapse."

Normal. Annoying. Alive. By three ten, you were back at the station, rewriting a discharge instruction because the printer had decided to cut off everything after return immediately if— which felt medically bold. You reached for the tape dispenser and winced before you could stop yourself. It was small. Barely anything. The kind of automatic reaction you would have ignored on any other night, from any other bruise. Your wrist had twisted awkwardly when Twelve grabbed you earlier, and the movement pulled at the sore place just enough to make your fingers pause. You recovered quickly. Not quickly enough. Jack was three feet away, signing a chart. His pen stopped moving.

You looked at the papers very hard and pretended not to notice him noticing. That was usually the safest method with Jack. If you gave him an opening, he would walk through it with that quiet, terrible focus of his, the one that made patients confess symptoms they had planned to take to the grave and made residents suddenly remember protocols they had been ignoring. You reached for the tape again with your other hand. Jack said nothing. Which meant he was absolutely going to say something. You could feel him beside you, still and silent, while the department kept moving around both of you.

Princess passed behind the station with a stack of clean blankets and paused long enough to look between your wrist and Jack's face.

"Nope," she said under her breath, and kept walking.

You shot her a warning look. She ignored it with professional ease.

Perlah leaned around the corner from the desk phone. "Radiology says the portable chest from Four is 'in process.'"

You latched onto that like a life raft. "It's been in process for forty minutes."

Jack's gaze did not leave your wrist. "Did they define process?"

Princess, already halfway down the hall, called back, "They defined it as 'in process.'"

"That's circular," Jack said.

"That's radiology," you answered.

It almost worked. For about three seconds, the conversation went back to normal. You wrote another line. The printer coughed. Someone laughed down the hall. Shen's voice rose from Bay Six, calm but deeply tired. Then your sleeve slipped back as you reached for the discharge packet. The red mark showed again. Jack set his pen down. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough that you heard it. You looked at him. He looked at your wrist.

And then, quiet enough that it did not belong to the station, he said, "Let me see."

You glanced toward Curtain Three, toward Princess disappearing down the hall, toward Perlah still half on the phone. Nobody was watching directly. Everyone was probably listening a little, because this was The Pitt and walls were a myth, but no one was making it obvious. You could have told him no. Not because you wanted to. Because saying yes felt like letting him stand somewhere closer than either of you usually admitted he already did. But Jack did not reach for you. He just waited. A request. Not an order. That was worse, somehow. You turned your wrist over. Jack took your hand carefully. Not dramatically. Not like you were fragile.

Like he was trying very hard not to make you feel watched. His fingers settled around your palm first, warm and steady. Then his thumb shifted the edge of your sleeve back just enough to see the faint red mark circling the skin. It barely hurt. You had seen worse bruises from IV pumps and supply carts and the med room drawer that stuck every time someone needed something fast. Jack's jaw tightened anyway. You watched his face instead of your wrist. That was safer, and somehow not safer at all.

He did not look angry exactly. Not in the easy way. It was quieter than that. Controlled. Focused down into something small enough to survive at the nurses' station. If he had been another man, he might have made noise about it. Asked too many questions. Turned concern into a spectacle. Jack didn't. He just looked. That made it harder to breathe. His thumb did not press the mark. It rested just beneath it. Warm. Steady.

A point of contact small enough that anyone walking past could miss it, but you couldn't. You felt it all the way up your arm, under your ribs, in the place where your heart had gotten embarrassingly used to making bad decisions around him.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

Quiet. Still not quite doctor. Not quite anything else either.

"No," you said.

His eyes lifted to yours.

You amended, because Jack had a gift for making lies feel useless, "Not much."

His gaze held yours for a beat. Long enough that the sounds around you seemed to thin out — not disappear, exactly, because The Pitt never allowed anything that generous, but fade to the edge of awareness. The phone ringing. The printer grinding. Princess saying something down the hall. Shen's voice from Bay Six, calm and deeply tired. All of it kept going. You and Jack didn't. His thumb moved once. Not over the bruise. Just beneath it. A slow, careful sweep against your pulse. You wondered if he could feel it jump. You knew he could. That was the problem with him.

He noticed everything and let you pretend he hadn't. Jack's eyes dropped to where his thumb rested against your skin. His expression stayed almost unreadable, but something in his face had gone still in a way that made your stomach tighten. Not clinical. Not anymore. There was no reason for him to keep holding your wrist. He had already seen the bruise. Already assessed the mark. Already confirmed you were not hiding anything worse under your sleeve. He should have let go. You should have pulled away. Neither of you did. Your fingers shifted once against his palm. Barely. An accident, maybe. Except Jack looked at them. Then back at you.

Your breath caught before you could stop it. His thumb stilled. For one dangerous second, you thought he was going to say something. Not a joke. Not a clipped instruction. Something real enough to make the station lights feel too bright. But Jack was Jack. And the room was full of patients and nurses and unfinished charts and every reason in the world not to cross whatever line the two of you kept walking up to and pretending was just part of the floor. So he said nothing.

He only turned your wrist a fraction more, checking the mark from the other angle with a care so quiet it almost hurt worse than words.

"You should ice it," he said at last.

There it was. A safe sentence. A clinical sentence. You almost smiled because it sounded so much like him and so little like what was actually happening.

"I'll add it to my glamorous post-shift plans."

His eyes lifted again. "You have plans?"

The question was too casual. You heard what sat under it anyway.

You shrugged lightly, because you were not brave enough to do anything else. "Sleep. Maybe laundry. Maybe staring at a wall until my soul comes back."

"Ambitious."

"Don't be jealous."

"I'm devastated."

His hand was still around your wrist. His thumb was still against your pulse. You looked down at it, then back at him. Jack noticed. Of course he did. This time, his expression changed before he could stop it. Not much. A flicker of restraint. The faintest tightening around his eyes. Like letting go had become a choice instead of a reflex. Like he knew exactly how long he had been touching you. Like he knew you knew too. Your mouth went dry.

"Jack," you said.

Not warning. Not question. Just his name. His fingers flexed once around your hand. Then, slowly, he released you. Not all at once. His thumb left your pulse first. Then his fingers loosened from your palm. Then your hand was yours again, and somehow that felt colder than it should have. You tucked it against your side before you could do something stupid, like reach for him again.

"Thanks," you said, because you had to say something.

Jack nodded once.

His voice was even when he answered, but quieter than before. "Tell Shen if Twelve gets agitated again."

"I will."

His expression told you he did not fully believe that. Your expression told him you knew. Neither of you pushed it. That was the thing between you lately. Everything unspoken, and somehow all of it too loud. For a second longer, Jack stayed where he was. Close enough that his sleeve nearly brushed yours. Close enough that you could see the tiredness at the corners of his eyes and the line his mouth made when he was keeping too much behind it. Then Princess's voice carried from down the hall.

"Radiology says the portable chest from Four is still 'in process.'"

The station exhaled around you. The moment broke. Not cleanly. Not completely. Just enough for both of you to pretend it had.

You frowned toward Princess. "That's what they said ten minutes ago."

"They have committed to the bit."

Jack reached for the chart you had been about to grab and handed it to you. "Bay Five needs reassessment before he negotiates another cigarette."

You took the chart. "He offered me three dollars and half a pack of gum earlier."

"Was the gum sealed?"

"No."

"Then no deal."

You smiled. This time, Jack almost did too. The station settled back into motion.

You checked on Bay Five again, adjusted his nasal cannula when he tried to claim oxygen worked better if it was "nearby," and reminded him that lungs were not spiritual. Ellis laughed into her chart. Shen finally walked past with a face that suggested cardiology had answered the phone and made him regret wanting that.

By three twenty, you were back at the station again, rewriting the discharge paper because the printer had cut off the final line a second time. Jack came up beside you with a chart in one hand and his good pen in the other. You looked at the pen. He looked at you.

"No," he said.

"I didn't ask."

"You looked."

"I admire quality stationery."

"You steal quality stationery."

"I prefer redistribute."

Jack handed you a different pen from the cup. You clicked it. It didn't work. You clicked it again. Nothing. You held it up. Jack looked at it, then sighed and gave you his.

You accepted it with great dignity. "That was very brave."

"It was a lapse in judgment."

"Still counts."

"Give it back."

"When I'm done."

"You've said that before."

"And yet here we are."

His shoulder brushed yours as he leaned closer to read the discharge paper. It was not necessary. The font was large enough. Neither of you moved away.

"You misspelled dizziness," he said.

You looked down. You had.

"You saw nothing."

"I saw malpractice."

"It's three in the morning."

"Dizziness still has two z's at three in the morning."

"Does it?"

"Usually."

You corrected it. Jack stayed there, close and quiet, his attention ostensibly on the paperwork. Your attention was on the warmth of him beside you. On the place where his hand had held your wrist. On how he had not said what he was thinking, and how somehow that made it worse. Then the ambulance radio crackled. The whole station shifted before the words even came through. Everyone heard the tone first. The clipped urgency. The incoming.

"Medic Seven to Mercy, inbound with trauma alert."

Jack straightened. You felt the change in him instantly. The warmth, the almost-smile, the quiet station version of him vanished behind something stiller. Sharper. The radio continued.

"Adult male, early twenties. Blast injury from unknown device. Penetrating abdominal trauma, burns to torso and upper extremities. Hypotensive en route. Altered mental status. ETA four minutes."

For a breath, nobody spoke. Blast injury. Unknown device. You looked at Jack. His face had closed. Not panic. Never panic. Something older than that. Something trained into the bones. You knew pieces of his army history the way most people knew pieces of Jack — incompletely, carefully, mostly through what he did not say. But you knew enough to recognize when certain words landed badly. This one landed. Then he moved.

"Trauma One," Jack called, voice cutting clean through the station. "Now."

The department snapped with him. Princess was already reaching for the blood cooler.

Perlah grabbed the phone. "Surgery and anesthesia?"

"Yes," Jack said. "Tell them penetrating abdominal blast injury, unstable, possible retained foreign body. Shen, airway side. Ellis, monitors and access."

Shen came out of the physician workroom, expression gone alert. "Unknown device?"

"Unknown," Jack said.

Just that. But it changed the air. You stripped off your old gloves and moved to the trauma sink. Jack turned toward you.

"Left side," he said.

Not a question. Not quite an order either. He trusted you there.

You nodded. "Already there."

His eyes held yours for half a second. Whatever had passed between you at the station was still there, pushed down beneath the incoming trauma, beneath protocol, beneath the part of both of you that knew how to work when the room got loud. Then Jack looked toward the ambulance doors. The sirens were close now. Growing louder. You pulled on fresh gloves, your wrist still warm where his hand had been. And waited for the doors to open. The ambulance doors opened hard enough to rattle the frame. Noise came with them.

Wheels over linoleum. Monitor alarms. A paramedic's voice cutting through the department. Rainwater hitting the floor from jackets and boots. The metallic smell that always seemed to arrive before the stretcher did. Blood. Smoke. Burned fabric. You had half a second to see Jack's face. Still. Not blank. Jack was never blank. There was always something moving under the surface with him, even when he didn't let it reach daylight. But this was different. The words from the radio had followed him into the trauma bay. Blast injury. Unknown device. For one breath, he looked like a man hearing something from a long way away.

Then the stretcher crossed the threshold, and Jack was back.

"Trauma One," he said. "Straight in."

The paramedics moved fast. The patient was young. Early twenties, maybe. Hard to tell beneath the soot and blood and the harsh white light of the bay. His clothes had already been cut open in places, most of his shirt peeled away, the edges of it blackened and wet. Burns marked his chest and shoulder in angry red patches. His left arm was wrapped above the elbow with a tourniquet, blood dark around the torn sleeve below it. But his abdomen was worse. No. Not abdomen. Side.

Left flank, low and ragged, half-covered by an EMS dressing that had already soaked through. Blood had spread beneath the padding and down onto the sheet in dark, fast streaks. You moved to the patient's left side without needing Jack to point. That was where he put you. That was where he trusted you. Shen took airway. Ellis moved to the monitor. Princess came in with the blood cooler and set it where you could reach. Perlah stood at the threshold with the phone pressed to one ear, already calling surgery. The lead paramedic started report before the stretcher stopped moving.

"Twenty-three-year-old male, Evan Mercer. Found in a garage after reported device failure. Fire was still securing the scene when we left. Burns to torso and upper extremities, penetrating injury to left flank and abdomen, altered en route. Pressure eighty over palp, pulse one-forty, respirations shallow. One eighteen in the right AC, fluids running. Tourniquet left upper arm placed at zero-two-fifty-eight."

Jack listened without interrupting, eyes moving over the patient, over the lines, over the tourniquet, over the soaked dressing at his side.

"What kind of device?" he asked.

The paramedic shook his head. "Unknown. Fire said homemade. We weren't given details."

"Any concern he brought anything active in with him?"

"Not that they told us. They cleared him for transport once they got him away from the workbench. They told us not to pull any debris, minimize movement, get him here."

"Did anything shift during transport?"

"Not that we saw. Dressing stayed in place. Bleeding got worse in the last three minutes."

That mattered. You saw Jack file it away. The patient moaned beneath the oxygen mask. His eyes opened and rolled toward the lights.

"Mr. Mercer," Shen said, leaning in. "You're at Mercy. Stay with us."

The patient jerked weakly against the straps.

Jack stepped closer. "Mr. Mercer, I'm Dr. Abbott. You're in the emergency department. We're going to take care of you."

The patient's mouth moved beneath the mask. Nothing came out.

"On my count," Jack said. "Ready? One, two, three."

Everyone moved. The transfer was brutal and clean. The patient slid from stretcher to trauma bed in one coordinated pull. The monitor shrieked as leads were switched over. Ellis called out numbers while Princess snapped open blood tubing.

"Pressure seventy-eight systolic," Ellis said. "Pulse one-forty-six. Sat eighty-nine on non-rebreather."

"Shen?" Jack asked.

"Airway's not great," Shen said. "He's tiring. Burns near the neck, no obvious soot in the mouth. Voice weak."

Jack said, "Prepare for intubation. I want anesthesia in here."

Perlah called from the door, "Anesthesia's coming. Surgery too."

"Good. Two large-bore IVs if we can get them. Blood now. TXA. Burn dressings after hemorrhage control."

You cut away enough of the remaining fabric to expose the dressing EMS had placed. The gauze was soaked through. Not just stained. Saturated. Blood welled at the edges with each shallow, frantic breath the patient took.

"Dressing's saturated," you said.

Jack was there immediately. "Active bleed?"

"Looks like it."

"Hold pressure. Don't pull anything. Don't remove anything embedded."

That was standard. Normal. Trauma nursing, not surgery. Control the bleeding. Maintain pressure. Don't go hunting. Don't extract anything. Keep the patient alive long enough for the people with scalpels and better lighting. You placed both gloved hands over the dressing and leaned in with firm, even pressure. The gauze gave beneath your palms. Warmth pushed up between your fingers. Mr. Mercer bucked against the bed.

Shen caught his shoulder. "Easy. Easy."

Mr. Mercer's eyes went wide. He tried to speak around the mask.

"No—"

Jack looked at him. "Mr. Mercer, stay still."

"No," he gasped. "Don't— don't touch—"

"You're bleeding," Jack said. "She's holding pressure."

Mr. Mercer shook his head weakly, panic cutting through shock. "Don't move it."

Your hands stayed where they were. Pressure over dressing. Nothing more. But the blood kept coming. Too much. It slid hot under your palms, slicking the gauze until the pressure dressing no longer felt like pressure at all. It shifted beneath you, unstable and soaked, and the patient's pressure dropped on the monitor with a sharper alarm.

"Sixty-eight systolic," Ellis said.

Garcia entered then, gown half tied, hair pulled back, already gloving as she crossed the room. "What do we have?"

"Blast injury," Jack said. "Unstable. Penetrating left flank and abdomen. Active hemorrhage. Possible retained foreign body. Dressing's saturated."

Garcia stepped to the opposite side of the bed and looked down. Her face sharpened.

"That dressing isn't doing anything," she said. "We need direct pressure at the source."

Jack looked at the wound. Then at you. A single beat. A decision neither of you had time to make gently.

"Can you maintain pressure if we open the dressing?" he asked.

"Yes," you said.

Your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

Garcia's eyes flicked to Jack. "We don't pull anything."

"We don't pull anything," Jack said. "We expose only what we need to control hemorrhage."

Anesthesia came in behind Garcia, mask hanging around his neck, respiratory at his shoulder.

"I hear airway and hypotension," anesthesia said.

"You heard correctly," Shen said. "He's tiring."

Jack didn't look away from the wound. "Prepare for intubation. Hold until I say."

Anesthesia's hand paused, but he nodded. "Understood."

Jack looked at you. "Ready?"

You nodded.

"Slow," he said. "Only the dressing. Hands steady."

Garcia cut the outer wrap. You kept pressure until the last second. Then the dressing opened beneath your hands. Blood surged. Dark. Fast. Immediate.

"Pressure," Jack said.

You moved before the word finished. Not exploring. Not searching. Just following the bleed. Your right hand pressed deep into the torn opening at his side, fingers sinking past slick tissue and ruined fabric, down to the place where the bleeding seemed to pulse hardest. Your left hand braced over your own wrist to hold the pressure steady. The heat of it swallowed your glove. Mr. Mercer screamed.

Shen leaned close. "Mr. Mercer, stay with me."

"Pressure?" Jack asked.

You swallowed hard.

"Better," you said. "Not controlled."

Garcia leaned just close enough to see without touching. "You're tamponading something."

"I can feel resistance," you said.

"Debris?"

"I don't know."

You did not move your hand. You did not lift. You did not go deeper. You just held. That was the job. Hold pressure. Keep him alive. Let surgery get there. Mr. Mercer's hand jerked toward his side.

Ellis caught it gently but firmly. "No, Mr. Mercer. Don't grab."

His eyes fixed on you. On your arm. On where your hand disappeared into the wound in his side.

"No," he gasped.

Jack leaned over him. "Mr. Mercer."

"No. No, no, no."

"Listen to me," Jack said. "You're bleeding. She's stopping the bleed."

Mr. Mercer shook his head. Tears mixed with soot at the corners of his eyes.

"Don't move it."

The room tightened. You felt your own breathing change. Jack saw.

"What?" he asked.

You kept your eyes on him because looking at your hand suddenly felt impossible.

"There's something against my palm."

Garcia went still.

Jack's voice stayed controlled. "Describe it."

Your mouth had gone dry.

"Hard," you said. "Smooth edge. Not loose."

Anesthesia's hand stopped above the medication tray. Shen looked from the patient to Jack. The monitors kept beeping. Nobody else moved. Jack's face did not change. That scared you more than if it had.

"Mr. Mercer," Jack said, voice low and controlled, "the foreign body in your flank — what is it?"

Mr. Mercer stared at him. His breathing hitched hard.

"I don't know."

"Mr. Mercer."

"My brother said not to pull it."

The words dropped into the trauma bay one at a time. You felt each one. Jack's eyes moved back to yours. Still calm. Too calm.

"What exactly did your brother say?" he asked.

Mr. Mercer's eyes filled.

"He said if part of it got stuck, don't pull. Don't let it shift."

Garcia's face changed. Anesthesia looked at Jack. Shen did not move. Princess stood by the blood cooler, suddenly pale above her mask. Mr. Mercer sobbed once, weak and terrified.

"He said it could still go."

The room lost all its air. Could still go. Your hand stayed inside his side. Pressed against blood and torn tissue and the hard, wrong shape beneath your palm. For one strange, awful second, your mind did not give you fear. It gave you details. The heat of the wound. The pressure of your left hand bracing your right. The ache already starting in your shoulders. The slick pull of blood around your wrist. The blood warmer humming. Jack's face. God, Jack's face. He looked down at where your arm disappeared into Mr. Mercer's side. Then at the wound. Then back at you. The old stillness was there again. Not panic. Training. Memory. Calculation.

Something awful and familiar moving behind his eyes.

Garcia spoke first, very quietly. "Jack."

"I know," he said.

Anesthesia's voice was low and tight. "Is he saying there's an active explosive component inside the wound?"

"No one says that yet," Jack replied.

His voice was calm. Too calm. He lifted one hand slightly, palm down. A signal to the room. Hold. Stay. Do not react. Then he looked at you. Only you.

"Do not move your hand," Jack said.

Your throat locked. Your whole body wanted to nod. His voice sharpened immediately, not loud, but absolute.

"Don't nod. Don't shift. Don't do anything with your body except breathe."

You froze. Everything in you went still. Your hand stayed inside Mr. Mercer's side. Exactly where it was. Jack's eyes stayed on yours.

"Just keep looking at me."

So you did. The rest of the room blurred around the edges. Your right hand was buried in the wound. Your left hand braced over your own wrist. Your palms were warm with blood. Something beneath your hand might have been a piece of metal. Might have been nothing. Might have been everything. But Jack was in front of you, eyes steady, voice low and certain.

"Good," he said. "Exactly like that."

Your breath came too fast. You tried to slow it. Failed. Jack saw that too.

"Breathe with me," he said.

You didn't want to. Not because you didn't trust him. Because breathing felt like movement. Because your ribs moving felt dangerous. Because every tiny part of your body suddenly seemed capable of betrayal. Jack understood before you said it.

"You can breathe," he said. "Slow. Small. Nothing else moves."

You followed him. In. Out. Small. Careful. Your eyes stayed on his. Behind him, the room remained frozen in pieces. Garcia's hands were lifted away from the field. Anesthesia stood still near the airway cart. Shen held his position at the patient's head. Ellis had one hand hovering above the monitor controls but did not touch them. Princess stood near the blood cooler, face pale above her mask. Perlah was at the threshold with the phone still in her hand, eyes wide and fixed on you. Jack did not look away from you.

"Perlah," he said, voice still quiet.

Perlah startled, then caught herself. "Yeah."

"Call security. Quietly. Possible explosive hazard in Trauma One. No overhead page yet. Then get hospital command. Tell them we need police bomb squad."

Perlah swallowed. "Okay."

"Slowly," Jack said.

She moved. One step back. Then another. The room watched her leave like even the air had become tripwire.

Garcia's eyes stayed on your arm. "If she's tamponading the bleed and stabilizing the object, we cannot move her hand."

"She's not moving," Jack said.

"I know."

"She's not moving," Jack repeated.

The words landed harder the second time. Not harsh. Final. You were grateful for it. Terrified by it too. Because he was right. You could not move. Not your hand. Not your wrist. Not the fingers pressed against the hard edge inside Mr. Mercer's side. Not the wrist Jack had touched ten minutes ago when the world had been annoying and alive and ordinary.

Anesthesia spoke carefully. "Airway is still a problem."

Jack's jaw flexed once. You saw the calculation move across his face. The patient. The airway. The bleed. The possible device. You. The people in the bay. The rest of the department outside the doors. All of it. All at once.

"What can you do without shifting him?" Jack asked.

Anesthesia answered just as carefully. "Support ventilation. Prepare meds. But intubation means movement. Even minimal movement."

"Then prepare. Don't proceed until security and command are in the loop."

Anesthesia nodded. "Understood."

Mr. Mercer was crying now, silent tears cutting through soot on his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. We didn't think it would—"

"Mr. Mercer," Jack said, still watching you. "You're going to stay very still. You're going to let Dr. Shen help you breathe. You're not going to reach for the wound. Do you understand?"

The patient gave the smallest nod.

Jack's eyes flicked to him. "No nodding. Say yes."

"Yes," Mr. Mercer whispered.

"Good."

A sound left you before you could swallow it. Barely a sound. Almost nothing. Jack's attention snapped back.

"You're okay," he said.

You couldn't answer. He corrected immediately.

"You are doing okay," he said. "That's different."

That nearly broke you. Because it was different. Because you were not okay. But you were doing it. You were standing there with your hand inside a patient's side, not moving because Jack told you not to move, because a terrified patient said the thing beneath your palm might still go off, because the ED had suddenly become the centre of a blast radius and you were holding the middle of it against a stranger's body. You kept looking at Jack. He kept looking back. Security arrived at the trauma bay doors. Two officers. Both trying to look calmer than they felt.

Perlah stood behind them, phone still pressed to her ear. Jack did not turn fully away from you.

"Possible explosive hazard in patient wound," he said. "Restrict access to Trauma One. Quietly clear adjacent bays and the immediate hallway. Get hospital command here now. We need police bomb squad. No overhead announcement until command decides. Nobody runs."

One guard swallowed. "You want the ED evacuated?"

"Not yet," Jack said. "We don't know enough, and moving everyone at once creates more risk. Immediate area first. Then command makes the call."

The guard nodded and moved. The second stayed at the door.

"No one enters without my permission unless they are security, hospital command, or bomb squad," Jack said.

"Understood."

The door area cleared. The room felt smaller. Your hand did not move. Your arm was already beginning to burn. Not badly. Not yet. But enough to remind you that muscles were stupid, disloyal things. Jack saw your eyes flicker.

"Stay with me," he said.

"I'm here," you managed.

"I know."

His voice softened by half a degree. Not enough for anyone else. Enough for you.

"Keep looking at me."

So you did. The monitor alarmed louder.

Ellis read the number, voice strained but steady. "Pressure sixty-eight systolic."

Garcia cursed under her breath.

Anesthesia said, "Jack, we're running out of airway."

Jack's eyes stayed on you for one heartbeat longer. Then he looked at the room.

"Okay," he said, voice low and absolute. "Nobody moves unless I tell you."

He looked back at your arm. At the wound. At the thing beneath your hand. Then at you.

"Nobody moves."

Nobody moved. For three seconds, maybe four, the trauma bay held itself in an impossible stillness. The monitors did not care. They kept screaming. Mr. Mercer's pulse raced across the screen in sharp green spikes. His oxygen saturation hovered too low. His pressure sat in the kind of range that made everyone in the room want to do something with their hands. But nobody did. Not without Jack. Not with your hand inside Mr. Mercer's flank, braced against a foreign body that might be harmless debris, might be unstable metal, might be the thing everyone in the room was suddenly trying very hard not to imagine.

You kept your eyes on Jack. That was the only instruction you could follow without thinking. Just keep looking at me. So you did. His face was steady. Pale under the trauma lights, yes. Sharper than before, yes. But steady. You hated him a little for that. You needed him for it more.

"Okay," Jack said, voice low. "We're going to slow this down."

Garcia's eyes flicked to the monitor. "He doesn't have much slow left."

"I know."

"Pressure's still dropping," Ellis said from the monitor. Her voice was tight, but controlled. "Sixty-four systolic."

Jack nodded once, like he had already built that number into the room.

"Blood keeps running," he said. "No one crosses her side of the bed."

Princess stood near the blood cooler, frozen with one hand hovering uselessly in the air.

Jack looked at her. "Princess."

She blinked. "Yeah."

"Blood tubing. Can you reach the pump without crossing behind her?"

Princess looked. Calculated.

Nodded once. "Yes."

"Slowly."

Princess moved like the floor might object. One step. Pause. Another. She reached the pump, adjusted what she needed, and backed away with the kind of care usually reserved for live wires and sleeping infants.

"Blood's running," she said.

"Good."

The word had weight in Jack's mouth. Not praise exactly. More like a rope thrown across the room. Everyone took it.

Shen stayed at the head of the bed, jaw tight, one hand supporting the oxygen mask. "He's tiring."

Mr. Mercer's breaths had turned shallow. Fast. Wet at the edges. Anesthesia stood beside Shen, meds ready but untouched, body held in the miserable restraint of someone trained to act and forced to wait.

"Jack," anesthesia said, "if he arrests, we lose every option."

"If you intubate and he bucks or we shift his torso, we may lose the room."

The words were quiet. No drama. That made them worse. Your fingers wanted to tighten. You did not let them. Jack's eyes moved back to yours instantly.

"Don't change pressure," he said.

"I'm not."

Your voice sounded thin.

His softened by a fraction. "Good."

Garcia watched your arm disappear into the wound. "How's your hold?"

You took a careful breath. Small. Jack's eyes stayed on you.

"Stable," you said. "I think."

"Bleeding?"

You did not look down. You couldn't. Jack looked for you.

"No major change," he said. "She's tamponading enough to buy us time."

"Not much," Garcia said.

"No," Jack said. "Not much."

That was the thing about him. He did not dress bad news up. He did not hand you false comfort and ask you to swallow it because it was easier for him. If Jack said something, he meant it. If he didn't know, he didn't pretend. Right now, that should have scared you. Instead, it made the floor feel a little more solid. You kept your hand still. Kept your palm exactly where it was. The foreign body stayed pressed against the heel of your hand, hard and wrong beneath slick heat and torn tissue. Security had begun moving outside the bay.

You could hear it in fragments through the glass and open doorway. Low voices. Footsteps. A stretcher wheel squeaking away from the adjacent trauma room.

Someone asking, "Why are we moving him?"

A security officer answering too calmly, "Maintenance issue in the trauma corridor. We're moving you somewhere quieter."

Maintenance issue. You almost laughed. The sound got nowhere near your mouth.

Perlah appeared at the threshold, phone still in hand, face pale above her mask. "Security is clearing the immediate hall. Hospital command's been notified."

"How long for police?" Jack asked.

"Dispatch says units are close. Bomb squad is being requested through city."

"Estimate?"

"Not yet."

"Get one."

Perlah nodded and stepped back carefully, like even the doorway had become dangerous. A minute later, Lena Handzo appeared behind security. Night-shift charge. She did not enter the room. She stopped exactly where the security officer told her to stop, one hand braced on the doorframe, eyes taking in everything with brutal, efficient speed. The patient. Garcia. Anesthesia. Shen. Jack. Your arm. Her face did not change. That was how you knew she understood.

"Abbott," Lena said.

"Lena."

"Perlah says possible explosive hazard."

"Possible," Jack said. "Foreign body in the left flank. Patient reports it may be part of the device. Her hand is controlling hemorrhage and stabilizing it. She cannot move."

Lena's eyes came to yours. No panic. No pity. Only command. Only: I see you. Stay steady.

Then she looked back at Jack. "Adjacent bays are clearing. Security has both ends of the corridor. I'm moving ambulatory patients first, quiet and slow."

"Good."

"Waiting room?"

"Not yet," Jack said. "If the waiting room hears bomb, we get stampede risk."

"Agreed."

The administrator beside her — hospital command, suit jacket over a dress shirt, hair mussed like he'd been dragged from a sleep room or office couch — looked like he wanted to say something. Lena beat him to it.

"We stage evacuation," she said. "Immediate corridor first. Then the department in zones once police gives us routes. Nobody runs. Nobody says explosive in front of patients."

The administrator swallowed. "Hospital policy requires—"

"Hospital policy doesn't move sixty patients safely in thirty seconds," Lena said, not looking at him. "Give us three minutes and a plan."

Jack gave the smallest nod. You saw it. So did Lena. For a second, the two of them spoke the language of people who kept departments alive when the building tried to eat itself. Then Jack looked back at you.

"Stay in this room," he said.

You blinked once. Not too hard.

"What?"

"Not the hallway. Not the department. This room."

You realized your thoughts had started to follow the noise outside. The stretchers. The patients. The people being moved because of what was under your hand. You brought your focus back to him.

"Okay."

His gaze held yours. "Better."

The room narrowed again. Jack's face. Jack's voice. Your hand. The foreign body beneath your palm. Mr. Mercer made a small, broken sound beneath the oxygen mask.

"Am I going to die?"

The question hit the room differently than the alarms. You felt it under your hand. Not movement. Not pressure. Just the human awfulness of him being awake enough to ask. Jack's face changed as he looked down at the patient. Focused differently.

"Mr. Mercer," he said, "right now you are alive. We are going to keep working from there."

Mr. Mercer's eyes rolled toward him. "I'm sorry."

"Save your energy."

"I didn't—" His breath hitched. "We didn't mean—"

"Mr. Mercer."

Jack's voice cut cleanly through the panic. The patient went quiet.

"You are going to breathe slowly," Jack said. "You are going to listen to Shen. You are not going to reach for your flank. You are not going to help. You are not going to apologize. Do you understand?"

Tears tracked through the soot on Mr. Mercer's face.

"Yes."

"Good."

Jack looked at Shen.

Shen nodded once and leaned closer to the patient. "Follow me. Small breaths. In. Out. That's it."

Your own breath tried to follow. Jack caught it. Of course he did.

"One breath at a time," he said to you.

You gave the smallest nod before you remembered. Your stomach dropped. Jack's eyes sharpened. Nothing happened. Your hand had not moved.

His voice stayed level. "You caught it."

Your mouth trembled once. You locked it down. Outside the bay, Lena had already started moving the department around you. You could hear her in pieces.

"Not that way. Use the east hall."

"Tell transport I need two more stretchers."

"No, do not say Code Black in front of the waiting room."

"Perlah, you're with security. Princess stays until Abbott releases her."

"Clear Trauma Two first. Then Curtain One through Four. Quiet."

Her voice stayed low. Firm. Unhurried. Exactly what the hallway needed. Exactly what you needed not to hear too much of. Because if you thought about the whole department, you would come apart. Jack seemed to know that before you did.

"Small room," he said.

You stared at him.

"What?"

He kept his voice quiet, pitched for you and no one else. "Make it small."

You swallowed. "The room?"

"Smaller."

Your fingers stayed locked in place. "How?"

"My face. Your hand. Mr. Mercer breathing. That's all."

That was almost funny. Almost.

"You make crisis sound like a mindfulness exercise," you whispered.

"I make crisis sound survivable."

You breathed once. Careful. Small.

"Okay," you said.

Jack nodded. "Good."

The administrator's voice carried from the doorway, lower now but still strained. "Do we need to evacuate the entire ED?"

Jack did not turn fully away from you. "Prepare for it. Don't initiate full movement until police arrive unless threat changes. Immediate zone first. Critical patients only if they can be moved safely. Everyone else stays calm."

"Can the patient be moved?" the administrator asked.

Garcia answered before Jack could.

"No."

No hesitation.

The administrator blinked. "No?"

Garcia's eyes were cold. "He's hypotensive, bleeding, airway unstable, and there is a possible explosive foreign body in his flank being manually stabilized by a nurse who cannot move. So no."

The administrator went quiet. Good.

Anesthesia spoke carefully. "Airway is still a problem."

Jack's jaw flexed once. You saw the calculation move across his face. The patient. The airway. The bleed. The possible device. You. The people in the bay. The rest of the department outside the doors. All of it. All at once.

"What can you do without shifting him?" Jack asked.

Anesthesia answered just as carefully. "Support ventilation. Prepare meds. But intubation means movement. Even minimal movement."

"Then support ventilation. Prepare for intubation. Do not proceed until police and bomb squad are in the loop unless he crashes."

Anesthesia nodded. "Understood."

The room moved in millimetres. Not inches. Millimetres. Shen shifted the seal on the mask with exquisite care. Respiratory adjusted tubing. Anesthesia watched Mr. Mercer's chest rise just enough. You did not look away from Jack. You could hear everything. You could feel too much. The patient's blood warm around your glove. The pressure of the foreign body beneath your palm. The careful brace of your other hand around your own wrist. Your arm had begun to notice the position. Not pain yet. Not really.

Just a growing awareness in your shoulder, a low pull through muscle and tendon that said this was not something a body was meant to hold forever. Not forever, you told yourself. Eight minutes. Or twelve. Or however long it took for someone who knew what they were doing to walk through the doors and tell you how to survive this. Jack's eyes flicked once to your shoulder. Then back to your face. He didn't ask if you were fine. Maybe he had learned. Maybe he knew better than to give you the opportunity to lie.

"Still with me?" he asked.

You breathed in carefully.

"Yeah."

"Good."

That was all. No speech. No softening that would make the room look too closely at either of you. Just the word. Good. You held onto it.

Lena reappeared at the doorway. "Police are coming through the ambulance bay. Bomb squad is being routed now."

"How long?" Jack asked.

"Dispatch says at least twelve minutes."

Twelve. You tried not to count it. Twelve minutes sounded short until you were not allowed to move.

Garcia glanced at your arm. "How long has she been holding that position?"

Ellis looked at the clock. "Since zero-three twenty-three."

Only minutes. It felt longer.

Garcia's face tightened. "We need a plan before fatigue becomes part of the problem."

"It's already part of the problem," anesthesia said.

"Not yet," Jack said.

He looked at you when he said it. Not pretending. Not comforting. Assessing. You understood the difference. He wasn't telling them you could do this forever. He was telling them you were steady now. For some reason, that helped more than if he had told them you were okay.

Lena's gaze moved from Jack to you, then back again. "I'm opening the evacuation plan for the full ED. Quietly. We'll move by zones if police confirms route."

"Do it," Jack said.

"And Abbott?"

He looked at her.

"When the bomb squad gets here, this becomes their scene."

Jack's face did not change.

"I know."

Lena studied him for one second. Maybe two. Like she heard what he did not say. Then she nodded once and disappeared from the doorway. Mr. Mercer's eyes fluttered again.

Shen's voice stayed calm near his ear. "Stay awake if you can, Mr. Mercer."

"I'm tired," the patient whispered.

"I know."

"I'm cold."

Princess looked at Jack. Jack nodded once.

"Blanket from the warmer," he said. "No crossing her side. No touching the wound. Lay it from the legs up."

Princess moved with awful care. A warm blanket unfolded over Mr. Mercer's lower legs, then his hips, stopping well away from your arm and the injury. Normal nursing care in the least normal room in the world. Mr. Mercer cried harder.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again.

You wanted to tell him to stop apologizing. You couldn't trust your voice. Jack did it for you.

"Mr. Mercer," he said, "save your strength."

"Tell my mom—"

"No," Jack said.

The word was sharp enough that the room looked at him. Even you. Jack's eyes stayed on Mr. Mercer now.

"You are not giving messages right now," he said. "You are breathing. That is your job."

Mr. Mercer's mouth trembled.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Keep doing your job."

Then Jack looked back at you. Like there had not been a knife hidden in that sentence. Like he had not just stopped a dying man from doing the exact thing you would later need to do. Your throat tightened again. You did not know why that hurt. Only that it did.

Lena's voice came from the door. "Bomb squad ETA eight minutes."

Eight. Jack's gaze stayed on yours.

"Don't count backwards," he said.

You gave the smallest breath of a laugh, barely enough to move air.

"Bossy."

"Efficient."

Then he looked back to the room. "We use the time. We do not stare at the clock."

Garcia watched the bleeding. Shen watched the airway. Lena moved the hospital around the blast radius. Jack stayed in front of you. You watched him. And under your palm, the foreign body stayed exactly where it was. Eight minutes did not pass cleanly. Time in the trauma bay stopped behaving like time. It became numbers instead. Pulse one-fifty-two. Pressure sixty-two. Sat eighty-eight with assisted breaths. Blood running. Second unit ready. Police on site. Bomb squad inbound. Your hand inside Mr. Mercer's flank. The foreign body under your palm. Jack in front of you. That was the shape of the room. Everything else moved around it.

Outside the trauma bay, The Pitt was being quietly dismantled piece by piece. Not evacuated all at once. Not at first. That would have been chaos. A stampede in a department full of chest pain, intoxication, fever, fractures, elderly patients with walkers, children with frightened parents, nurses pushing stretchers, doctors trying to decide who could move and who absolutely could not. So Lena moved it like she moved everything else. In zones. With a low voice and no patience for panic. You could hear her beyond the glass, firm and clipped and too calm.

"Curtain One through Four, east corridor."

"No, not that way. East corridor."

"Tell transport I need two more stretchers."

"Do not say bomb in front of patients."

"Safety relocation. That's the phrase."

"Who is with Bay Six?"

"Then find out."

Security stood at both ends of the trauma corridor. Police had come in through the ambulance bay and were keeping everyone back. Hospital command hovered near the doors with the anxious uselessness of someone discovering that a laminated emergency policy was not the same thing as an emergency. Inside Trauma One, no one wasted motion.

Princess had backed away from the blood cooler after setting up the second unit. Ellis stayed at the monitor, face pale, voice steady. Shen held airway support with the tight focus of a man trying to keep a dying patient alive without letting the patient move. Anesthesia stood beside him, ready for the moment the risk of not intubating outweighed the risk of movement. Garcia watched the wound. Jack watched everything. Not just you. That would have been easier and worse.

He watched the patient's pressure. The blood pump. Shen's hands. Anesthesia's medications. Garcia's body language. The doorway. The hall. Lena. Security. The place where your arm disappeared into Mr. Mercer's side. And you. Always back to you. A check. A question. A promise he had no right to make. You had stopped trying to name what sat between you. There was no room for it now. No room for the memory of his thumb under your bruised wrist. No room for the almosts and maybes and silences that had been building for weeks. Except, somehow, that was all there was room for.

"Sat's holding at eighty-eight," Ellis said.

"Holding is generous," anesthesia muttered.

"It's the word I have," Ellis said.

Jack did not look away from the monitor. "Keep assisting. No intubation unless he loses respiratory drive completely."

Anesthesia's mouth tightened. "Understood."

Mr. Mercer made a thin sound beneath the mask.

Shen leaned closer. "Stay with me, Mr. Mercer. Small breaths."

The patient's eyes fluttered. "My brother?"

Jack's face changed by less than a breath.

"Police are speaking with him," he said.

That was new. Your eyes moved to Jack before you could stop them. His gaze caught yours. Yes, his face said. They had found the brother. They knew more than they were saying. A cold line opened down your back. Before you could ask, Lena appeared at the threshold again, one hand over the phone tucked against her ear.

"Police have the brother," she said. "Bomb squad is two minutes out. They're getting information from him now."

Jack's jaw flexed.

"Is he stable enough to talk?"

"Panicked, but talking," Lena said.

Garcia's eyes stayed on the wound. "If there's information we can use, we need it."

Lena nodded once. "They're relaying to bomb squad, not us."

Anesthesia looked up. "Why not us?"

"Because if it's what we think it is," Jack said, voice low, "they'll want the room cleared before they say it out loud."

The silence after that was worse than the alarms. You stared at him. He did not look away. The hallway behind Lena had changed again. There were fewer voices now, but more movement farther away. Bigger movement. Stretchers. Wheelchairs. Orders passed between staff. The wide machinery of a hospital trying to shift its own weight without collapsing. A security officer approached Lena from the side.

"Immediate trauma corridor is clear," he said. "Police are expanding perimeter. They want the whole ED evacuated."

Lena's face did not change. But the air did. The whole ED. Not adjacent rooms. Not the trauma corridor. Everything.

Waiting room. Curtains. Bays. Hall beds. Psych holds. Boarders who had been waiting upstairs for beds that did not exist. The old woman in Curtain Two who needed oxygen. The kid with the broken wrist. The man in Bay Five who thought oxygen worked if it was "nearby." The septic patient in Twelve. People who had come to The Pitt because something was wrong and now had to be moved because something worse had followed someone else inside.

Your stomach turned. Your hand did not move. Jack saw the change in your face.

"Don't take it," he said.

You could barely hear yourself. "They're evacuating the whole ED."

"Yes."

"Because of—"

"No," he said.

The word cut through the thought before it could finish forming. Your eyes burned.

"Jack—"

"No. Because of the device. Because of the risk. Because that's protocol. Not because of you."

Your throat worked. You wanted to believe him. You mostly did. It didn't help as much as you needed it to.

Lena looked toward hospital command. "We evacuate by acuity and mobility. Ambulatory to the east hall and outpatient corridor. Stretcher patients to radiology holding if police clears it. Criticals go to pre-op and PACU overflow. Psych stays with security escort. Anyone on oxygen gets portable tanks before movement."

The administrator blinked. "Can we move patients into PACU without—"

"Yes," Lena said.

He opened his mouth. She looked at him. He closed it. Good man.

"Call upstairs," Lena continued. "Tell them ED is unloading into every available monitored space. I do not care whose census sheet gets ugly."

Security spoke into his radio, then nodded. "Police cleared east hall and outpatient corridor. Ambulance bay is locked down. Incoming ambulances diverted."

"Not critical trauma," Jack said, still watching the monitor.

Lena's eyes flicked to him.

"If a critical trauma is ten minutes out, they can't circle the city," Jack said. "Robby or McKay can make that call outside. But no one comes through this corridor."

Lena nodded. "I'll route command through Robby."

"Robby's here?"

"Just arrived."

Something moved across Jack's face. Not relief. Not exactly. Robby meant backup. Robby also meant someone who could look Jack in the eye and say no. You saw Jack understand both things. He said nothing. The ambulance bay doors beyond the hall opened again, and a new kind of quiet entered with the people who came through. Bomb squad. You knew it before anyone said it.

Maybe it was the way the police officer near the door straightened. Maybe it was the way Lena shifted aside without being told. Maybe it was the shape of the two responders who stopped behind the marked line, one with a hard case, the other speaking low into a radio. The lead tech was a man in dark gear, hair cropped close, face composed in a way that did not belong to hospitals. Calm like roads blocked at midnight. Calm like wires and blast radius and choices made very slowly.

"I'm Sergeant Vale," he said. "Bomb squad. Nobody changes position."

Jack answered immediately. "No one has."

Vale's eyes moved across the trauma bay. Patient. Wound. Your arm. Garcia. Shen. Anesthesia. Ellis. Princess. Jack. Then back to you. He did not ask if you were okay. You were grateful.

"We spoke to the brother on the way in," Vale said.

The words changed the room again.

Jack's voice stayed level. "What did he say?"

Vale did not answer. Not yet. His eyes moved to the number of people in the bay.

"I'll brief essential personnel only."

Jack's expression hardened. "My trauma team is essential."

"Not all of them," Vale said.

Garcia stepped forward half an inch, then stopped herself. "This patient is unstable."

"I understand."

"With respect, Sergeant, if he bleeds out or loses his airway while you're clearing the room, the device won't matter."

Vale's gaze stayed level. "With respect, if that device functions the way the brother described, nobody in this room gets to use the airway."

Silence. No one breathed right for a second. Your hand stayed inside Mr. Mercer's flank. You felt heat. Blood. The hard, smooth edge pressed beneath your palm. For the first time since this began, the foreign body stopped being unknown. Not to them. Not to the bomb squad. They knew. And they were not saying it in front of everyone. That scared you more than the guessing had.

Jack looked at Vale. "Who stays?"

Vale answered without hesitation. "The nurse with her hand in the wound. Me. One medical lead outside the immediate radius to advise. Everyone else leaves until assessment is complete."

"No," Jack said.

Flat. Instant. Lena closed her eyes for half a second in the doorway. Like she had been waiting for that and hated being right.

Vale looked at Jack. "This is not negotiable."

"I'm the attending."

"You can advise from outside."

"The patient is unstable."

"And the device is unstable."

"You don't know that until you assess it."

"We know enough," Vale said. "That is why I'm clearing the room before I give details."

Garcia's mouth tightened. "I need to be able to control hemorrhage."

"You cannot operate around a live device."

"I'm aware."

"Then you are outside until I tell you otherwise."

Garcia looked furious. She also looked like she knew Vale was right.

Anesthesia spoke next, low and tense. "If he crashes while we're outside—"

"I'll call you back if I need you," Vale said.

"If you need us, it may be too late."

Vale's eyes flicked briefly to Mr. Mercer. "I know."

That was the first human thing in his voice. Not softness. Not comfort. Just the truth. Jack did not move. His shoulders had gone still in a way that made your stomach tighten. You had seen him calm all night. You had seen him controlled. This was different. This was refusal settling into his bones.

"I was in the army for years," Jack said, voice low. "I've seen devices in bodies. I've seen what happens when people move wrong."

The room seemed to hear everything under that. Blast trauma. Blood in places blood should not be. Rooms that did not stay rooms. Vale's expression changed by the smallest degree. Not softened. Understood, maybe.

"Then you know why you can't stay," Vale said.

Jack's eyes stayed on him. "Then you know why I won't leave."

Not her. He did not say that. He did not need to. Everyone heard it anyway. Then Mr. Mercer's monitor alarmed again, high and shrill. Ellis flinched but did not touch anything.

"Pressure fifty-eight," she said.

Garcia looked at Jack. "He needs more blood."

Princess shifted automatically toward the cooler.

Vale's voice snapped across the room. "Stop."

Princess froze. The blood pump clicked steadily.

Jack's eyes cut to Vale. "You cannot freeze all care."

"I can freeze movement until I know what's safe."

"He dies if we do nothing."

"He may detonate if you do anything."

The sentence landed like a physical thing. You heard someone inhale. Maybe you. Jack's face turned hard enough to frighten you.

"Then tell me what it is."

Vale looked at the room again. At all the people. Too many.

"No."

Jack took one step toward him. Small. Controlled. A movement with no wasted motion. Vale did not flinch. Lena stepped into the doorway. Not into the room. Just enough.

"Jack."

He did not look at her.

"Not now," he said.

"Yes," Lena said. "Now."

His jaw tightened.

"Abbott," Vale said, "you have ten seconds to step out before I have security remove you."

Jack almost laughed. There was no humour in it.

"Good luck."

Lena moved then. She crossed the threshold carefully, hands visible, her eyes locked on Jack rather than the bed. She did not come near you. Did not come near Mr. Mercer. She stayed on Jack's side of the room, outside the path Vale had claimed.

"Lena," Jack warned.

"No," she said.

One word. Charge nurse voice. Not loud. Immovable. Jack finally looked at her.

"You need to leave," Lena said.

"I'm not leaving."

"You are."

"I am the attending physician responsible for that patient."

"You are a body in a blast radius."

His eyes flashed. "Don't."

"I will not let you dress this up as medical necessity if it isn't."

The room went still around that. You felt the words hit him. Because they were true. Because everyone knew they were true. Because you knew they were true too. Jack looked at you then. For one breath, everything else dropped away. Not the patient. Not the bomb. Not the blood. Just the noise around it. Jack looked at you like if he held you there with his eyes hard enough, he could make the next five minutes survivable. You wanted to let him. You wanted to be selfish. You wanted to say, Stay.

Instead, you heard yourself say, "Jack."

His face changed. That soft version of your voice had always done something to him. You had seen it before in smaller rooms, over smaller wounds. Not like this. Never like this.

"Don't," he said.

You swallowed. Your hand did not move.

"I need you to go."

His eyes sharpened with something almost like betrayal.

"No."

"Yes."

"You don't get to ask me that."

"I'm not asking."

Lena went very still. Jack stared at you. You forced yourself to keep looking at him because if you looked anywhere else, you would break apart. Your voice shook once and then steadied.

"You told me to keep the room small."

His throat moved. You kept going.

"I can't do that if you're arguing with the bomb squad."

His mouth pressed into a hard line.

"That's unfair," he said quietly.

"I know."

"You're using my own instructions against me."

"Yes."

A tear slipped down your cheek. Still, your hand did not move.

"I need you outside," you said. "Where I know you're not standing next to me if this goes wrong."

Jack's eyes flashed. "Do not say that."

"Jack."

"No."

"If you stay, I'll be thinking about you."

The words came out before you could stop them. Too honest. Too late to take back. His face went still. You breathed in carefully. Small. Shallow.

"I can't think about you," you said. "I have to think about my hand."

For a second, no one moved. Then Jack closed his eyes. Just once. A blink too long. When he opened them, something had changed. Not acceptance. Never that. Understanding. The terrible kind. Outside the room, the ED evacuation widened again. You heard Lena's radio crackle from her shoulder.

"All units, full ED evacuation is active. Repeat, full ED evacuation active. Move by zone. Maintain east corridor. No patient traffic through trauma."

Full ED evacuation active. The words made your stomach turn cold. Jack heard them too. So did everyone.

Vale glanced once toward Lena. "Now, Dr. Abbott."

Jack looked at your arm. At the wound. At the place where your hand disappeared into Mr. Mercer's side. Then back at your face.

"You listen to Sergeant Vale," he said.

You almost nodded. Caught yourself.

"Okay."

"You do exactly what he says."

"Okay."

"You do not improvise."

Your mouth trembled. "That's rich, coming from you."

For the first time since Vale arrived, Jack's mouth almost moved. Almost. Then it vanished.

"I'll be right outside."

You wanted to say that wasn't enough. You wanted to say it was too far.

Instead, you whispered, "I know."

Lena stepped closer to him.

"Jack," she said softly.

He did not move. She put one hand on his arm. Not yanking. Not forcing. Just contact. A reminder that he had a body and it needed to leave the room. Jack looked at her hand like he might argue with that too. Then he let her pull. Only Lena could have made it look like she wasn't dragging him. Only Jack could have made being dragged look like a tactical retreat. He stepped back once. Then again. Every inch looked carved out of him. At the doorway, he stopped. Vale's patience had clearly reached its edge, but he held. Jack turned his head. Not fully.

Just enough to look at you one more time. You held his gaze. There was so much in his face now that it hurt to see it. Fear. Fury. Helplessness. Something else too. Something neither of you had said, but which had been living between you so long it almost had a pulse. You did not say it. Not yet. Not with him there. Not when it might make him step back into the room. So you gave him the only thing you could. You kept your hand still. Jack saw. His face broke for half a second. Then Lena pulled him across the threshold.

The security officer closed the trauma bay door behind him. The sound was soft. Final. For a moment, Jack stood on the other side of the glass like he had forgotten how to exist there. Lena stayed beside him, her hand still wrapped around his forearm. Not because she could hold him if he truly decided to go back in. Because she would try. Behind him, the hallway was no longer The Pitt as you knew it. It was evacuation. Security. Police. Stretchers disappearing around corners.

Staff moving patients away from the room where you stood with your hand inside a man's body and the centre of the disaster under your palm. Jack did not look at any of it. He looked only at you. Vale stepped closer. Not blocking him completely. But enough that your world had to change shape.

"Okay," he said, voice calm in a different way than Jack's. "Now I can tell you what we're dealing with."

Your stomach turned cold. Outside the glass, Jack went utterly still. Vale set the hard case down with careful precision.

"Look at me," he said.

Can't wait to read the rest, read the entire story here now.

Loving Dr Abbott - {Code Black - Part 2} - Wattpad

[reader-who-writes]

Back to Briar - Dean Di Laurentis x Graham!Reader - Part I

Author's Note: This takes place in my delusional reality where Beau never gets into the car accident... For more of my writing, check out my Masterlist here.  

Trigger Warnings: Car Accident, Blood, Ambulance

Dean had whisked you away to his parents’ penthouse in New York City for the last week of winter break.

And honestly?

You had been grateful for the escape.

You loved Garrett and Hannah. You did. But spending your entire vacation third-wheeling your brother and his girlfriend had never exactly been your dream scenario.

Besides, there was something magical about New York during the holiday season.

Every street seemed to glow beneath thousands of twinkling lights. The air smelled like fresh snow and roasted chestnuts. Even the freezing temperatures couldn't take away from the excitement buzzing through the city.

More than anything, though, you had been excited to have Dean all to yourself.

No hockey.

No classes.

No friends barging into his room.

No interruptions.

Just the two of you.

It had been the happiest—and most carefree—you had felt in a long time.

For one perfect week, the rest of the world disappeared.

You wandered through Central Park with coffee warming your hands, got hopelessly lost in the crowds around Rockefeller Center, spent lazy mornings tangled beneath expensive sheets, and laughed until your stomach hurt over absolutely nothing.

It was the kind of week that made you wish time would simply stop.

But vacations always ended.

Reality was waiting back at Briar.

Classes started again tomorrow.

Hockey season was about to ramp back up.

The responsibilities you had happily ignored for a week would be waiting the second you got home.

As Dean loaded the last of your bags into the trunk, you wrapped your arms around his waist from behind and sighed.

"God, Dean," you murmured against his back. "I could stay here with you forever."

He turned around in your arms, wearing that confident smile that somehow always made you believe every word he said.

"This?" He gestured toward the city skyline behind him. "This is just a preview."

"A preview?"

"Our life after college."

Your heart melted.

"You really think so?"

"I know so."

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before opening the passenger door for you.

"Now come on. We've got about four hours before we're back at Briar."

The drive started out almost as beautifully as the trip itself.

Fresh snow drifted lazily from the gray winter sky, coating the trees and turning the highway into something peaceful. You watched the flakes collect on the windshield while music played softly through the speakers.

"I don't know how you're so relaxed driving in this," you laughed.

Dean shrugged, keeping one hand on the wheel while reaching over to squeeze yours with the other.

"Massachusetts winters. You get used to it."

You smiled, intertwining your fingers with his.

For a while, everything felt perfect.

Until it didn't.

The snowfall grew heavier.

The flakes became thicker.

The road beneath you slowly disappeared beneath a blanket of white.

Still, Dean never seemed worried.

Neither were you.

Not until the headlights appeared in your lane.

Everything happened in seconds.

A car coming from the opposite direction lost control and slid sideways across the center line.

"Shit."

Dean's hand tightened around yours before he reacted.

He jerked the steering wheel, trying to avoid a head-on collision.

The tires hit black ice.

The world spun.

The car fishtailed violently before leaving the road entirely, careening down an embankment.

The passenger side slammed into a tree.

The sound was deafening.

The airbags exploded.

Glass burst inward.

Metal screamed.

Then—

Nothing.

Sound returned first.

A high-pitched ringing filled his ears.

Then came the cold.

Dean’s eyes flew open.

For a moment, he didn't understand where he was.

The world moved strangely around him, blurred at the edges. His ears rang so loudly that he could barely hear anything else.

Then the pain hit.

A sharp, throbbing ache exploded behind his eyes as he lifted his head.

And then he saw you.

His heart stopped.

You were completely still.

"Hey."

His voice barely worked.

"Hey, baby."

Nothing.

Panic settled into his chest before he could stop it.

He forced himself to move, ignoring the way his body protested. The seatbelt dug painfully into his chest as he leaned across the center console toward you.

"Y/N."

His fingers shook as they reached for you.

They brushed against your sleeve.

Nothing.

"No."

The word came out broken.

He tried again.

"Come on. Come on, please."

Then he saw the blood.

It streaked across the shattered passenger-side window, dark against the snow outside. Tiny pieces of safety glass glittered across your coat and tangled in your hair near your temple.

Dean froze.

I did this.

The thought hit him harder than the impact.

He had put you in that seat.

He had been driving.

He had told you everything would be okay.

His breathing became uneven.

"No, no, no..."

He reached for your wrist, his numb fingers struggling to find your pulse.

Everything felt impossibly slow.

His fingers slipped.

His hands were shaking too badly.

"Come on..."

He adjusted his grip.

Waited.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Then—

A faint thump.

Another.

Weak.

But there.

A broken sound escaped him somewhere between a sob and a breath.

"Okay."

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

"Okay."

Relief crashed through him so intensely that it almost made him dizzy.

"You're alive."

He reached across the console again, gently cradling your face.

"Y/N, you need to wake up."

Nothing.

The silence was unbearable.

Outside, snow continued to fall.

It covered the wreckage inch by inch, hiding the twisted metal beneath a blanket of white. Wind rushed through the broken windshield, sending freezing air through the cabin.

Dean finally noticed his own situation.

His right leg was trapped beneath the crushed dashboard.

He pulled against it.

Nothing.

"Damn it."

He tried again, harder.

Pain shot through his leg, forcing a sharp breath from his lungs.

Still stuck.

He couldn't get to you.

He couldn't get out.

He needed help.

He needed his phone.

His eyes scanned the wrecked car until they landed on it.

Lying upside down near the pedals.

Just out of reach.

"No."

His heart sank.

He stretched as far as he could, ignoring every muscle screaming in protest.

His fingertips barely grazed it.

Almost.

Not enough.

He tried again.

Nothing.

Dean looked back at you.

Your chest rose.

Then fell.

But that was the only movement he'd seen.

His entire body began to shake.

Not from the cold.

From fear.

"Y/N..."

His voice cracked.

"Please."

He rested his forehead against the steering wheel for a moment, trying to force himself to think.

Trying not to imagine every possible outcome.

Trying not to picture a world where he didn't get you out.

"You don't get to do this."

His voice trembled.

"We've got classes tomorrow, remember?"

The only answer was the wind.

Dean looked through the fractured windshield toward the highway above.

Nothing.

No headlights.

No passing cars.

No one.

They were hidden below the road, swallowed by the trees and the storm.

"HELP!"

His voice echoed uselessly through the snow-covered woods.

"PLEASE!"

The effort sent him into a coughing fit.

When it finally passed, he sagged back into his seat.

His eyes immediately returned to you.

Watching.

Waiting.

Memorizing every breath.

"Stay with me," he whispered.

He reached across the console again until his fingers barely touched yours.

"Okay?"

His pinky curled around yours.

"I'm right here."

His eyes burned.

Then—

Bzzzt.

Dean froze.

The vibration cut through the silence.

Bzzzt.

His head snapped toward the sound.

Your phone.

It had fallen from your lap during the crash and landed between the passenger seat and the center console.

The screen lit up the dark cabin for a brief second.

Then faded.

Dean stared at it.

It was close.

Closer than his own phone.

Hope hit him so suddenly it almost hurt.

"Oh, thank God."

He unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned as far across the console as his pinned leg allowed.

His fingertips brushed the edge of the phone.

"Come on..."

He stretched farther.

Pain shot through his body.

He ignored it.

His fingers wrapped around the phone.

Relief nearly knocked the breath out of him.

"Okay."

His hands shook as he unlocked it.

The screen illuminated.

Garrett — Missed Call.

Below it were several notifications from your friends asking when the two of you would be back at Briar.

Dean didn't let himself think about Garrett.

Not yet.

He couldn't.

Instead, he opened the emergency call screen.

His finger hovered for only a second before pressing.

The ringing felt endless.

Then—

"911. What is the location of your emergency?"

Dean closed his eyes.

A person.

A voice.

Help.

"I—I don't know exactly."

His grip tightened around the phone.

"We crashed."

The dispatcher’s voice remained calm.

"Okay, sir. Stay with me. I'm going to help you. What road were you traveling on?"

"I-90."

His breathing shook.

"We were coming from New York. Heading toward Briar University."

"What state are you in?"

"Massachusetts."

"Do you know your nearest exit, mile marker, or any landmarks?"

Dean looked through the broken windshield.

Snow swallowed everything.

"I don't know."

His voice cracked.

"We passed an exit. Exit 12, I think. We stopped for gas about thirty minutes ago."

"Okay. Stay on the line with me. I'm locating your phone now. What is your name?"

"Dean."

"Dean, are you injured?"

"My leg."

He looked down.

"It's trapped. I can't get out."

"Okay. Is anyone else in the vehicle with you?"

Dean looked at you.

"My girlfriend."

"Is she awake?"

"No."

The word broke.

"She's not waking up."

"Is she breathing?"

Dean looked at your chest.

Watching.

Waiting.

"Yes."

"Okay. That's good. Try not to move her. Try not to move yourself more than necessary."

Dean swallowed.

"Is she going to be okay?"

There was a pause.

Not because the dispatcher didn't care.

Because she couldn't promise something she didn't know.

"I know you're scared, Dean. Right now, your job is to stay calm and stay with her. Help is coming."

Snow continued falling.

The wreck became colder.

Smaller.

Like the entire world had narrowed down to this car.

To you.

"I don't want her to die."

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

His breathing became uneven again.

"Dean."

The firmness in the dispatcher's voice pulled him back.

"Stay with me."

He forced himself to focus.

"Okay."

"We've located your phone. Responders are on their way."

Dean closed his eyes.

"How long?"

"Less than ten minutes."

Ten minutes.

It felt impossible.

It felt like forever.

But it was something.

He rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

"Okay."

"Dean, are you feeling dizzy?"

"A little."

"Are you bleeding anywhere?"

"I don't know."

"Try to check if you can."

Dean looked down.

Bruising from the seatbelt.

A few cuts.

Nothing compared to you.

"I don't think so."

"Good. Keep talking to me."

His eyes moved back to you.

"What is your girlfriend's name?"

"Y/N."

"Okay, Dean. Tell me about Y/N."

He frowned.

"What?"

"Tell me about her."

Dean looked at you.

Really looked.

Snowflakes had begun collecting in your hair.

"...She's everything."

His voice softened.

The dispatcher waited.

Dean swallowed.

"We go to Briar together."

"Briar University?"

"Yeah."

"What are you both studying?"

He almost laughed.

"Hockey."

A quiet, humorless breath escaped him.

"I mean... I'm on the hockey team."

"And Y/N?"

"Psychology."

A tiny smile appeared despite everything.

"She says she's going to spend the rest of her life fixing people."

His expression softened.

"She's smarter than me."

"What year are you both?"

"Seniors."

"So graduation is coming up."

Dean looked down.

"Yeah."

The word was barely audible.

"What position do you play?"

"Center."

"And is Y/N a hockey fan?"

A broken laugh escaped him.

"Not when we're losing."

For the first time since the crash, Dean almost sounded like himself.

Almost.

Then the dispatcher spoke again.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Help is almost there."

And then—

Sirens.

Faint at first.

But getting closer.

Dean had never heard a more beautiful sound.

"They're here," he whispered.

His thumb brushed over your cold knuckles.

"Y/N."

His voice broke.

"They're here."

Red and blue lights flashed through the trees, cutting through the storm.

For the first time since the crash, Dean felt like he could breathe.

Doors slammed above them.

Voices carried through the snow.

Boots crunched down the embankment as firefighters made their way toward the wreck.

"Sir?"

Dean lifted his head.

A firefighter crouched outside the driver's side window, shining a flashlight into the car.

"Can you hear me?"

"Yeah."

His voice cracked.

Then his eyes immediately went back to you.

"Her."

The word came out desperate.

"You need to get her out."

The firefighter glanced past him toward the passenger seat.

"We're going to get both of you out."

"No, I—"

Dean swallowed hard.

"You don't understand. She's not awake."

"We know."

The firefighter's voice stayed calm.

"We're going to take care of her."

Dean wanted to believe him.

He needed to.

But then the firefighter looked toward the crushed passenger side of the vehicle, where the tree had absorbed most of the impact.

The expression on his face changed slightly.

Not fear.

Assessment.

"We need to get you out first."

Dean immediately shook his head.

"No."

The word came out before he could stop it.

The firefighter looked back at him.

"Sir—"

"No, I mean..." Dean's eyes darted toward you again. "She's right there. You can reach her."

The firefighter glanced toward the wreckage.

"The passenger side is pinned against the tree. We can't safely access her from that side."

Dean froze.

"So we'll cut through."

"We will."

The firefighter nodded.

"But we need room to work."

Dean stared at him.

The words felt impossible.

Leaving the car meant leaving you.

Even for a second.

"I can wait."

The firefighter's expression softened.

"You can't."

Dean looked back at him.

"Your injuries need to be evaluated, and right now you're blocking the access point we need."

The words settled slowly.

Because he understood.

He hated it.

But he understood.

His job was to get out so they could get to you.

"Okay."

His voice was barely there.

"Okay."

The firefighters immediately began working.

Metal groaned as they cut away the driver's side door.

Every sound made Dean flinch.

Not because of his own pain.

Because every sharp noise reminded him how fragile everything around you was.

"Sir, look at me."

Dean forced his eyes away from you.

A paramedic was standing outside the opening.

"We're going to slide the seat back and get you out. Don't try to stand. Your leg may be more injured than you realize."

"I'm fine."

The paramedic gave him a look.

"Let me decide that."

Normally, Dean would have made some sarcastic comment.

Normally, he would have smiled.

But nothing felt normal anymore.

His eyes immediately went back to you.

"Y/N?"

Nothing.

His chest tightened.

"I'm right here."

The words were barely a whisper.

"I'm not leaving you."

The firefighters carefully worked him free.

The second they pulled him from the wreck, Dean twisted, trying to look back at you.

"Please."

His voice cracked.

"You have to help her."

The paramedic steadied him.

"She has a whole team working on her."

Dean looked over.

Firefighters were already moving toward the passenger side, preparing to get you out.

"My job is to focus on you."

Dean shook his head.

"I was driving."

The paramedic paused.

"I know."

"No."

Dean's breathing became uneven.

"You don't understand."

His eyes filled.

"I was driving."

The paramedic looked at him carefully.

Then back at the wreck.

"Dean."

The calmness in his voice forced Dean to listen.

"They are going to do everything they can for her."

A beat passed.

"But I need you to stay with me."

Dean looked away.

Because the guilt was too heavy.

Because every part of him was screaming that this was his fault.

The paramedic began checking him over.

"Any loss of consciousness?"

"I don't know."

"Head injury?"

"My head hurts."

"Any neck pain?"

"No."

"Chest pain?"

Dean looked down at the bruising from the seatbelt.

"No."

"Leg?"

"Trapped."

The paramedic nodded.

"Looks like a pretty significant impact. We'll check it once you're at the hospital."

"I'm fine."

The paramedic gave him another look.

"You're really committed to saying that."

Dean didn't respond.

Because he wasn't fine.

Not while you were still trapped in the car.

Not while he couldn't reach you.

The rescue team worked around the wreck.

Dean watched every movement.

Every second.

A firefighter climbed carefully into the vehicle from the driver's side, reaching across the crushed interior.

They placed a cervical collar around your neck.

Dean held his breath.

"Come on..."

He whispered it so quietly no one heard.

Then finally—

They lifted you out.

Carefully.

Slowly.

Your body was placed onto a backboard before being transferred onto a stretcher.

EMTs immediately surrounded you.

Monitors.

Oxygen.

Questions.

Commands.

Dean couldn't hear any of it.

All he could see was you.

The girl who had been laughing with him in New York that morning.

The girl who had been talking about classes and hockey and graduation.

The girl who had promised him forever.

A paramedic touched his shoulder.

"Dean."

He looked up.

"Sir, I need you to stay focused."

His eyes didn't leave you.

"I need to go with her."

"You will."

The paramedic glanced toward the ambulance.

"You'll both be transported to the same hospital."

Dean's chest tightened.

"Then let me go now."

"They're taking her first."

Panic flashed across his face.

"No."

His voice rose.

"No, I need to—"

The paramedic grabbed his shoulder.

"They need to take care of her without worrying about you, too."

Dean stopped.

Because he knew.

He hated that he knew.

The ambulance doors opened.

For one terrifying second, he watched as they rolled you inside.

And then you disappeared behind metal doors.

The same person who had been sitting beside him only hours ago.

Gone.

The doors closed.

Dean stared.

Unable to move.

Unable to breathe.

The paramedic beside him continued checking his vitals.

But Dean barely heard him.

All he could think about was the last time he'd held your hand.

The last time he'd kissed your forehead.

The last time everything had been okay.

Twelve hours ago, he had promised you forever.

Now he didn't even know if you would get tomorrow.

Taglist: @katrinaellie

[tunetales]

In sickness and in health (FW Boys x Reader)

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Thank you to @empyreanevents for the beautiful border!

Summary: A scenario with the FW boys featuring various illnesses and injuries. You know what they say, in sickness and health right?

Authors Note: I do love a drabble and thought this could be quite a fun theme to explore, so I hope you enjoy. I have other similar ideas, so feedback or comments are appreciated! Themes of injuries, near death experiences and angst below.

Xaden

The air inside the outpost is suffocating — thick, unmoving, and hot enough that even the stone walls feel warm under your fingertips. Outside, the heatwave is melting half the quadrant. Inside, you’re melting for a totally different reason.

Because you’re burning up.

And not in a fun, Xaden-causes-this kinda way.

You’re sprawled on your bed, limbs heavy, skin flushed, breathing shallow. Sweat dampens your hairline, and every inch of you feels too hot, too tight, too much.

Of course today would be the day your body decides to spike a fever.

You hear heavy, familiar footsteps before you see him.

“Sweetheart?” Xaden’s voice carries throughout your room — you didn’t even hear him open the door. His voice is tense. “You missed training. What—“

He stops dead in your doorway.

You groan and pull the blanket up weakly. “Don’t look at me.”

He ignores that immediately.

In three strides he’s at your bedside, backlit by the sun pouring in through the window. His eyes widen as he crouches down, reaching out to push the sweaty hair from your forehead.

“You’re burning,” he mutters.

“You don’t say,” you rasp, glaring weakly. “It’s approximately a thousand degrees in here.”

“It’s eighty-eight,” he corrects automatically.

You squint up at him. “Why are you like this?”

“One of us needs functioning brain cells,” he replies dryly. That would usually garner him a slap, but when you don’t, he frowns and presses the back of his hand to your cheek, then your neck, his frown deepening. “You have a fever.”

“Well aware.”

“And you didn’t come and get me?”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

His eyes snap to yours. He looks…offended. Personally offended.

“You are never a bother.”

Your stomach flips — fever or not.

He stands, rolling his sleeves up past his forearms — a sight that would usually make your temperature soar but for different reasons. “Alright. Up.”

“No.”

He raises a brow. “Up.”

You attempt to sit up, get dizzy, and immediately flop back down.

Xaden sighs, that soft, resigned way he only uses with you. That one that says I’m annoyed at you, but also stupidly in love with you.

“Fine,” he murmurs, sliding an arm behind your shoulders and lifting you effortlessly. “I’ve got you.”

Your head falls against his chest, too hot, too tired to argue. His skin is warm — but a comforting warm, not the furnace your body currently is.

He settles you against him, sitting on the edge of the bed with you in his lap. His thumb strokes along your arm, grounding, comforting.

“I’m going to cool you down,” he says. “And before you make a smart comment — no, not that way.”

You pout. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it.”

You glare.

He smirks.

Then he shifts, calling shadows to dim the sunlight streaming into the room. The temperature drops a few blissful degrees instantly.

“Mmm,” you sigh, eyes falling half-closed. “Shadow daddy saves the day.”

He pauses.

Slowly. Deliberately. You feel him tense under you.

“…Never say that again until you’re ready to receive the consequences.”

You snort — which dissolves into a weak cough, but it was worth it.

He brushes his hand along your back until the coughing eases. Then he tucks your head under his chin, voice going soft in a way that makes your chest ache.

“I’ve got you. No more overheating alone.”

You mumble into his skin, already drifting. “I hate being sick.”

“I know,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “But I don’t mind taking care of you.”

He holds you tighter against him as shadows swirl cool and gentle around you, lowering your fever bit by bit.

“How about a cold shower? I know how much you like those.”

Within minutes, the heatwave outside feels like a distant problem.

Because you’re wrapped up in Xaden’s arms — and for once, he’s the cool one.

Dain

The migraine hits like a blade behind your eyes.

Not gradually. Not politely. One moment you’re fine, the next you’re pressing your fingers to your temples, vision blurring, stomach turning, the world suddenly too bright and too loud.

Dain notices immediately.

“You’re sitting down,” he says, already at your side.

“Dain, I’m fine—“

“That’s not a request.”

He has you in a chair before you can argue, hands warm and steady on your shoulders. His voice drops automatically, like he’s afraid even sound might hurt you.

“When did it start?”

“Just now. I think.”

“Hmm. And how long has it been since you’ve eaten or drunk anything?”

You squint. “Umm—I don’t think-“

“Too long, then.”

He sighs, not annoyed — worried. You’d already been in the small study room within the Rider’s Quadrant library for hours when he joined you. No wonder you had a migraine if you’d been squinting at old texts all day.

Before you can protest, Dain is packing your things up, slinging your bag over his shoulder before he carefully helps you to your feet. It hurts to even talk, your whole head radiating with the pain.

You don’t argue.

Before you know it, you’re in a familiar room, Dain’s comforting cedar and vanilla scent immediately enveloping you which brings you a semblance of comfort that you’re finally somewhere you can lie down.

“Eyes closed. Lights off,” Dain orders.

He presses a cool cloth into your hands and guides it to your forehead as you lie down. He darkens the room, shuts the curtains, moves around with quiet efficiency. You hear water being poured. A cup set down.

“Drink,” he says gently, helping you to sit up just enough. “Small sips.”

“You’re being very bossy,” you whisper.

“I’m being generous,” he corrects. “If I were truly following protocol, you’d already be in the infirmary.”

You groan and sink back into the pillows.

He sits on the edge of the bed and carefully, reverently, starts combing his fingers through your hair, slow and soothing, like he’s trying to soothe the pain out of you by force of will.

“Just relax,” he murmurs. “Take a deep breath.”

You do. Because it helps. Because he’s here.

You moan softly in relief as his fingers gently press on your temples, rubbing with slight pressure to try and alleviate the pain. He always knows how to make you feel better.

“This is an order,” he adds softly. “No reading. No training tonight. No trying to ‘push through it’. You’re resting.”

“What if I want to be heroic?” You ask weakly.

“Denied.”

You almost smile. It hurts too much to actually do it.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering. “I’ve got you. I’m going to take care of you.”

For once, you decide to listen to him, allowing his fingers to soothe you to sleep.

Ridoc

You don’t feel it at first.

That’s the strange thing about adrenaline — it turns pain into background noise, makes everything sharp and bright and distant all at once. Your body’s in survival mode until suddenly it’s not.

You land hard, heart still racing, hands shaking as you slide off your dragon.

The sky is clear. The threat now gone. You’re fine.

Violet and Rihannon jog over, relief evident in their eyes that you’re safe.

“You good?” Violet asks.

You don’t get time to answer as Ridoc suddenly appears, grinning. “Did you see that dive? I swear I was—“

He stops.

The smile on his face drops so fast it terrifies you.

“…Hey,” he says, voice suddenly tight. “Why are you bleeding?”

You blink. “What?”

He points with a shaking hand.

You look down.

Dark red is seeping through the seam of your leathers, spreading slowly, steadily, like ink in water.

“Oh,” you say distantly. “Huh.”

“What happened?” Rihannon demands.

You try to shrug — and the world tilts.

Ridoc catches you instantly.

“No, no, no —hey—stay with me,” he says, holding your weight up against his chest, trying to keep you steady. “Don’t you dare do that. Don’t you dare.”

“I’m okay, I think. Just tired,” you mumble.

“That is not how tired works,” he snaps, panic seeping into every word. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? Why didn’t you feel it?”

“I didn’t—“ Your legs give out completely.

Ridoc drops to his knees with you, pulling you fully into his arms, pressing his forehead to yours, his voice suddenly raw. “No, sweetheart—keep your eyes on me, please.”

“Violet, where’s Brennan!?”

“Someone get help!”

“We need a healer over here, now!”

Your vision blurs. The noise around you fades.

The last thing you’re really aware of is Ridoc’s hand cradling your head, his voice shaking as he keeps talking, like if he stops something worse will happen.

“You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re not allowed to leave, do you hear me?”

You try to smile. “You’re…so dramatic.”

He lets out a broken laugh that sounds dangerously like a sob. “Well, I have a right to be now. Usually you’re not this full of holes.”

Darkness edges in and Ridoc shakes you as he notices your eyes fluttering shut.

“No, no sleeping yet. Brennan’s coming. It’s okay, I’m going to make it okay.”

The world keeps coming and going in fragments — voices overlapping, the sky beginning to spin.

Then—

Hands press to your side.

Warm. Too warm.

The pain explodes.

You cry out, a sharp, broken sound ripped from your chest as the sensation comes roaring back all at once, ten times worse than before.

“Easy—easy,” a voice says. Calm. Focused. “Keep her still. I need to stabilise the bleeding.”

Through the haze, you recognise Brennan’s voice.

“Bren—nan?” You gasp.

“Yeah,” he says gently. “You’re not allowed to die today. Sorry.”

You laugh weakly — and immediately regret it.

Ridoc makes a strangled noise and tightens his hold on you, one hand cradling your head, the other gripping your hip tightly, anchoring you to him. “I told you,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re not going anywhere. You hear me? You don’t get to leave. I forbid it.”

Brennan’s hands glow brighter, heat and power sinking into your wound. It burns, deep and vicious, like your body is being stitched together by fire.

You whimper.

Ridoc immediately starts talking, voice low and rushed and very much not his usually teasing tone.

“Hey—hey, look at me. Okay? You remember that time you tried to outfly me and almost flew into a cliff?”

You huff a weak laugh despite yourself. “I…didn’t almost…”

“You absolutely did,” he says, with a shaky smile. “And I was very heroic about it. I actually let you win.”

Brennan glances up. “Keep her talking.”

“Oh, I can do that,” Ridoc says immediately. “I’m excellent at that aren’t I, lovekins? You love that about me.” He curls some stray hair behind your ear with shaky fingers.

You smile weakly. “Debatable.”

“There it is,” he says softly. “See? Still arguing with me. That’s a good sign.”

The pain starts to dull, not gone, but no longer overwhelming. Brennan exhales slowly. “She’s stable, for now. We need to get her to the infirmary. Now.”

Ridoc doesn’t hesitate. He scoops you up like you weigh nothing.

“No,” you murmur, half-asleep. “You’ll…drop me…like last time.”

“Never,” he says fiercely. Then quieter, just for you. “I’ve got you. Always. I love you, okay? So you’re going to stay. Because I’m very annoying and persistent and you’re not allowed to escape.”

You manage a weak smile. “You…love me, huh?”

“Unfortunately,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours as he walks. “I’m completely ruined.”

You laugh softly, eyes sliding closed again, safe in the warmth of his arms, voice still in your ear —keeping you here.

Garrick

It happens because you’re absolutely, completely convinced you’re right.

You’re walking down the stone steps outside the training courtyard, gesturing wildly as you explain — once again — how Garrick definitely cheated during your recent sparring session and he’s just too proud to admit it.

“I did not cheat,” he says, exasperated and amused at the same time.

“You absolutely did,” you insist, walking backwards down the steps so you can point at him for emphasis. “You always do that thing where you—“

Your foot lands wrong.

There’s a sharp twist of your ankle, a very undignified squeak, and suddenly the world tilts.

Garrick lunges to try and stop you from cracking your head open as you tumble, managing to grasp you firmly enough so you end up sitting hard onto the steps directly below you instead.

There’s a second of silence.

“…Ouch,” you say. “I think my ankle just betrayed me.”

Garrick is in front of you instantly, all joking gone. “Let me see.”

He crouches, gently lifting your foot and examining it. “Does this hurt?” He presses lightly just above your ankle.

“Yes.”

He shifts a little. “And this?”

“Ow! Yes.”

He exhales through his nose. “Not only can you not beat me at sparring, but you can’t even walk properly,” he teases.

You huff with indignation. “I can walk—“

“No walking.”

“I can try hop—“

“Also no.”

Before you can argue further, he slides one arm behind your back and the other under your knees and lifts you with ridiculous ease.

“Garrick!” You laugh, automatically curling your arms around his neck. “I’m not dying.”

“I know,” he says, already walking. “But you’re also not walking.”

You settle against him, clinging to him like a very content monkey sitting in its favourite tree.

“I think you’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely,” he says without shame.

You rest your head on his shoulder. “You’re never going to let me forget this, are you?”

“Oh, absolutely not. I’ve already told Chradh. This will be brought up at least twice a week.”

You groan.

He carries you across the courtyard, completely unbothered by the perplexed looks thrown your way.

“Wave,” he murmurs. “You look very heroic.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

By the time you reach your room, you’re both laughing. He carefully sets you down on the bed like you’re made of glass.

He kneels in front of you, gently taking your ankle again. “Does it hurt now?”

“A little,” you admit.

He frowns. “I’m getting some ice. And you’re not moving.”

“Yes, sir,” you tease.

He points at you. “Save that for later.”

You grin.

Garrick comes back with a block of ice — courtesy of Ridoc— and sits beside you, holding it to your ankle with surprising gentleness considering his brutish stature.

“You know,” you say. “If you wanted to carry me around, you could’ve just asked me.”

He smirks. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You lean into him, ankle propped up, perfectly content to be fussed over.

And Garrick?

He looks like he’s already planning how to convince you to not to walk for the rest of the night.

Bodhi

Bodhi is trying hard not to kill you.

Which, frankly, is not what you want.

“Stop holding back,” you pant, circling him on the mat.

“I’m not—“ He blocks your strike and counters, a little too fast. “I’m trying not to break you.”

“Romantic,” you mutter. “Come on Durran, give me your best shot.”

It always irritated him when you called him by his last name.

Big mistake.

It happens in a blink.

He twists to dodge you, you overcommit, and when he grabs your arm, swinging you over his body and onto the mat below, your body twists and there’s a sickening pop — and suddenly your shoulder isn’t sitting where it should be in its socket.

You freeze, sprawled on the mat.

“Shit—“ you say faintly. “That’s not right.”

Bodhi goes sheet-white.

“Oh my gods — I — I didn’t, I swear I wasn’t —“ He’s already at your side, hands hovering like he’s afraid touching you will only make it worse. “Gods, are you okay? Say something. Say you’re okay?”

You swallow, blinking through the sharp, nauseating pain. “It’s okay. Don’t panic.”

“I’m not panicking,” he says, voice already halfway to hysterical.

“Bodhi,” you say firmly. “This has happened before.”

That stops him.

“It has?”

“Unfortunately. I dislocated it when I was younger. Fell out a tree. Lost the argument to gravity.”

He stares at your shoulder. “Your arm is…wrong.”

“Yes. Very observant of you, love. Now listen to me.”

You take a careful breath. “We need to reset it. Now. Before it swells and cuts my circulation off.”

His eyes go wide. “I can’t—what if I make it worse?”

“You won’t,” you say, meeting his gaze. “I’ll tell you exactly what to do.”

He hesitates. Then nods. “Okay. Okay. I’m listening.”

You talk him through it, step by step, keeping your voice as steady as possible as white hot pain pulsates down your arm.

“Sit behind me. Good. Now—take my wrist with one hand. Your other hand on my shoulder. No, the other shoulder. Yes. Like that.”

He’s shaking.

“You’re doing great,” you add gently. “Deadly rider, remember?”

He lets out a weak laugh. “I’m going to throw up.”

“After,” you say. “I need you to focus for me.”

You swallow as the colour begins to drain from your skin. “When I say now, pull — firm and straight. You can’t hesitate.”

He looks at you, terrified. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“…Now?”

“Now.”

He does it.

Pain flashes white-hot and you cry out, fingers digging into his arms—

And then—

Your shoulder slides back into place.

You sag with a shaky breath. “Okay, that was the worst part.”

Bodhi scoots round to your front, looking just as pale as you’re sure you must look too. “I hurt you,” he whispers. “I can’t believe I hurt you.”

You manage a crooked smile. “Technically, I hurt me. You just…assisted.”

He presses his forehead to your knee, hands clenched. “I still dislocated it in the first place. I’m so sorry.”

You carefully cup his face with your good hand. “Hey. It was an accident. And I’m okay. Sore. But okay.”

He searches your face like he’s not quite sure he believes you.

“You owe me though,” you add, teasingly.

He blinks. “What?”

“Princess treatment,” you say. “At least for a week.”

He nods immediately. “I’ll do you one better. Queen treatment. For a month.”

You smirk at him. “And I get whatever I want.”

“Forever.”

You snort, then wince. “You spoil me.”

He helps you up gently, like you’re made of glass, arms securely around you.

“I’m never sparring with you again,” he mutters.

“Yes, you are,” you say. “But maybe with with less dramatic attempts at dismemberment next time.”

He pulls you into a careful, protective hug, chin resting your hair. “That was scary.”

“Thank you, for helping me fix it,” you say. You stand up on your tiptoes, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “At least if it ever happens again, you’ll know how to fix it.”

“Yeah…I’d rather not,” Bodhi grimaces. “I’ll just stick to giving you queen treatment instead.”

Brennan

The world is noise and fire and wind — and then it’s water.

Cold, black, crushing.

Your dragon hits the lake like a fallen star.

The impact throws you forward, the water swallowing you whole in a violent, freezing rush. Everything becomes weightless and heavy at the same time. Your chest burns. Your limbs won’t listen. Somewhere far away, you’re aware of your dragon thrashing, roaring, fighting the water—

Then nothing.

No air. No light.

Just dark.

Brennan sees it happen.

He’s still in the air when your dragon goes down, still shouting your name into the bond, into the sky in sheer terror.

He watches your dragon crash into the lake, watches the spray erupt, watches the surface swallow you both.

Time stops.

His dragon roars in fury.

“No—no, no, no—no!”

He doesn’t remember landing. Only running.

Your dragon claws its way back to shore, half-dragging itself, half-collapsing, and by some miracle — some instinct older than language — it has you clutched in its grasp, limp and unmoving, armour dripping, hair plastered to your face.

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

Brennan hits his knees beside you and the world narrows just to your face.

“Oh gods,” he whispers, hands shaking as he tilts your head back. “No, no, stay with me — please —“

He checks your breathing.

Nothing.

Your dragon whines.

Your lips are tinged blue.

Panic claws up his throat.

He starts CPR with hands that refuse to stop trembling, counting under his breath, begging you between breaths, between compressions.

“Come on. Come on. You’re not allowed to do this. Not you. Not now.”

Nothing.

Your chest doesn’t rise.

Something in him breaks.

“I can fix this,” he says suddenly, desperately. “I can—I can fix this.”

His hands glow as he presses them to your chest, his signet flaring with a wild, terrified intensity. He doesn’t try to pull the water out — he does something far more desperate.

He mends your lungs.

He forces them back to what they were before they became damaged and water clogged.

Before you drowned.

“Please,” he whispers, forehead nearly touching yours as he presses his hands harder to your chest. “Please come back to me.”

And then—

You gasp.

Violently.

Your body arches up as you splutter, coughing, water pouring from your mouth as your lungs burn and seize and drag air back in like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

You’re shaking. Coughing. Alive.

Brennan makes a sound that’s halfway between a sob and a hysterical laugh and pulls you up against him, arms crushing you to his chest like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“Oh—oh gods,” he breathes, burying his face in your wet hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

You’re still coughing, still shaking, weakly gripping his leathers, but you’re breathing.

That’s all that matters.

He holds you and holds you and holds you, hands pressed to your back, his own shoulders trembling now.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers hoarsely. “I can’t—I can’t do that. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

You manage a weak, watery sound that might be a laugh. “I told…you. Malek…can’t keep…us apart.”

He lets out something similar to a croaky laugh and presses a kiss to your hair, your temple, your forehead.

He doesn’t let go of you for a very, very long time.

[of-apollo]

₊⊹ HUMBLED BY HUMIDITY !

PAIRING: Trinity Santos x GN!Reader.

SUMMARY: You wake up feeling your absolute worst when Trinity is at work. In the absence of your personal doctor, you decide that a hot shower must be the best thing for you. The steam gets to you, and your relaxing shower takes a turn for the worse, ending up in an ambulance ride and a hospital visit that you hate every second of despite Trinity’s unwavering presence.

NOTES: Illness + injury, dehydration, fainting, medical anxiety, medical settings, implied non-sexual nudity, established relationship, reader doesn’t know med terms but she’s trying her best.

REQUESTED BY: Anonymous.

NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI

The scratch in your throat had been warning you since this morning, but you had brushed it off. By midday, however, the scratch had blossomed into a full-bodied ache, and your stomach had joined the rebellion. You had spent the better part of the afternoon shivering under three blankets, too exhausted to make the trek to the kitchen for water.

When evening finally came, your skin felt dry and hot. Your head pounded with a dull, rhythmic thud that made the setting sun filtering through the blinds feel like a physical assault. You knew you needed to do something to break the feverish haze. A shower, you reasoned, would help. The steam would clear your heavy head, and the water would wash away the cold sweat that made you feel so utterly miserable.

Getting out of bed was a clumsy, agonising process, the floorboards feeling ice-cold beneath your bare feet. You braced your hand against the corridor wall, slowly guiding yourself toward the bathroom, your breathing already shallow and ragged. Once inside, you turned the brass handle of the shower, waiting a few moments until the steam began to fog the mirror. Undressing felt like a monumental chore, your hands shaking violently.

When you finally stepped into the spray, the heat was an instant, overwhelming shock to your system. For a few seconds, it felt like heaven, washing over your aching shoulders and easing the chill in your bones. But your blood pressure, already dangerously low from lack of fluids, reacted poorly to the sudden heat. The blood rushed away from your brain.

A sudden, terrifying wave of dizziness hit you, far worse than any of the wobbles you had experienced in the bedroom. The bathroom began to tilt. The steady hum of the running water grew distant and muffled, replaced by a loud, high-pitched ringing that filled your ears. You reached out blindly for the tiled wall, your wet fingers slipping uselessly against the slick surface.

Your knees buckled beneath you, losing their strength entirely. As you fell, your temple clipped the edge of the heavy ceramic soap dish mounted on the wall before your shoulder slammed into the edge of the tub, and your head bounced hard against the cold porcelain floor.

Above you, the shower continued to spray, washing over your limp form. But as the minutes ticked by, the apartment building's old water heater began to lose its struggle. The soothing steam slowly dissipated, and the water transitioned from a comforting, hot stream to a lukewarm drizzle, and finally to a freezing, relentless downpour.

When the front door of the apartment finally clicked open fifteen minutes later, Trinity was practically vibrating with the residual adrenaline of a grueling twelve-hour shift. She toed her trainers off by the entryway with a heavy sigh, her shoulders dropping as she finally let her professional guard down, looking forward to curling up next to you.

"Hey, babe? You will not believe what shit Langdon tried to pull today," she called out, her voice echoing in the quiet space. She walked further into the flat, her brow furrowing when no one answered. "Babe? Are you asleep?"

The absolute silence of the apartment stopped her short. She noticed your shoes by the door and your keys on the counter. A subtle, instinctual knot tightened in her stomach, the kind of gut feeling she had learned to trust in the trauma bays of the Pitt. As she walked down the hall, she heard the faint, hollow hiss of the shower.

She knocked lightly on the bathroom door, her tone carrying a slightly impatient but fond edge. "Babe, come on, are you planning on saving any hot water for your tired girlfriend?"

There was no response. She knocked again, harder this time, the wood rattling in its frame. "Hey, answer me. You're starting to scare me a bit."

The lack of an answer made her chest tighten. She turned the doorknob, finding it was unlocked. Pushing the door open, she was met not with a wave of warm, comforting steam, but with a damp, frigid draft that made her shiver. What she saw inside made her ER-hardened heart completely stop.

You were lying crumpled on the floor of the tub, your body awkwardly twisted, with the freezing cold shower head mercilessly drenching you. Trinity didn’t even hesitate. She lunged forward, completely ignoring the spray of cold water that immediately soaked through her clothes as she shut the faucet off with a harsh, metallic jerk.

"Fuck! No, no, no," she breathed, dropping to her knees on the wet bathmat. Her hands trembled violently as she reached into the tub to pull your upper body into her lap, cradling you against her chest. "Hey, hey, look at me. Open your eyes for me, sweetheart, please."

Your skin was shockingly cold to the touch, goosebumps covering your arms. She pressed two fingers firmly against the side of your neck, holding her breath until she felt a pulse, but it was rapid, weak, and thready. It was then that she noticed the dark, oozing gash near your hairline.

"Come on, baby, wake up for me," she pleaded, her voice cracking as she gently patted your cheek. She rubbed her warm hands up and down your freezing arms, trying to friction some heat back into your skin. "Please, just open your eyes. You're okay, I've got you. I'm right here."

You groaned, a low, pathetic sound that vibrated in your chest, and your eyelids fluttered weakly. They opened just a crack, unfocused and glazed over, staring blankly past her. Trinity let out a shaky breath, her thumb gently wiping a mixture of water and blood away from your eye so she could get a clear look.

"There you are," she whispered, her voice incredibly tender as she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your uninjured cheek, her tears mixing with the water on your skin. "Stay with me, okay? Keep those pretty eyes open for me."

She leaned in close, her fingers gently prying your eyelids a little wider to inspect your pupils. Even without her penlight, the bathroom light was enough to show her what she feared. Your left pupil was noticeably wider than the right, sluggishly responding to the light, while the other remained constricted.

"Hey, look at my nose, sweetheart. Try to focus on me," she coaxed softly. When your gaze just drifted aimlessly, her clinical brain forced its way through her panic. "Okay, shit... okay, you've hit your head really hard, and you're freezing. I’m calling an ambulance."

"No..." you mumbled, your voice incredibly thick and slurred as you tried to shake your head, only for a sharp spike of agony to make you wince. You clawed weakly at her soaked sleeve, your wet fingers barely holding onto the fabric. "No hospital... Trin, please. No doctors."

"Baby, you have a concussion, and you're severely dehydrated," she explained, her voice a mix of fierce medical authority and deep, aching affection as she pulled you tighter against her warmth. "Your pupils are totally unequal. I can't treat this here. I need to get you to the ER."

"Hate it... hate the lights," you whispered, a tear slipping down your pale face as you buried your nose into the crook of her neck, seeking shelter. "Don't make me go. Just let me stay here with you. Just let me sleep it off, please."

"I know you hate it, I know," she murmured into your wet hair, rocking you gently while her shaking fingers dialled 911 on her phone. "But you're bleeding, and you're in shock. I love you too much to let you stay here like this. I promise I won't leave your side. Not for a single second."

Within minutes, the distant, wailing siren began to echo down the street, growing louder until the flashing lights began to dance across the frosted glass of the bathroom window. You cringed at the noise, the high-pitched squeal feeling like a physical drill boring straight into your damaged brain.

"Shh, I've got you," Trinity whispered, wrapping her arms securely around your head and pressing your face into her chest to muffle the sound. "You're safe. I’ve got you."

When the paramedics finally entered the apartment, the bathroom suddenly felt suffocatingly crowded. Trinity took charge immediately, her voice crisp and authoritative as she rattled off your presentation, her medical shorthand flowing naturally while she still held you tightly against her.

"Syncopal episode, likely from dehydration. Patient was exposed to a cold shower for a short period of time. Visible head trauma with a laceration to the left temple, and they have positive signs of anisocoria," she told them, her hand never ceasing its soothing strokes through your hair.

The paramedics moved efficiently, wrapping you in dry, heavy blankets to combat the hypothermia. The transition from the bathroom floor to the stretcher was a chaotic blur of movement that made your stomach violently heave. You let out a soft, miserable whimper as the motion sent a fresh wave of vertigo spinning through your head.

"I'm right here, sweetheart, squeeze my hand," Trinity insisted, her voice a steady anchor in the chaos as her warm, solid fingers slipped into yours, locking tight. "Don't open your eyes, just listen to my voice. I'm not going anywhere."

She walked alongside the stretcher as they wheeled you out of the apartment and down the hallway. The cold outdoor air hit your face, making you shiver violently under the layers of blankets. The paramedics lifted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, the loud clinking of the metal tracks scraping against your raw nerves.

The interior of the vehicle was blindingly bright, the harsh fluorescent tubes overhead sending a sharp, stabbing pain directly behind your eyes. You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to turn away from the glare. Trinity climbed in right after you, quickly taking her seat on the bench beside the gurney.

"Turn those overheads down, please," Trinity requested of the paramedic in the back, her tone sharp but polite. She immediately leaned over you, using her own body to shield your face from the remaining light. "There we go, baby. Close your eyes. I've got you, you're doing so well for me."

The ambulance ride was a miserable, jarring blur. Every time the vehicle hit a bump in the road, the motion sent a sickening wave of vertigo through your head, making you squeeze Trinity’s hand with everything you had left.

"I know, baby, I know," Trinity whispered, leaning down so her breath brushed against your ear. She kept her free hand firmly over your eyes, creating a dark, safe cocoon against the harsh, vibrating environment. "We’re nearly there. Just breathe through it. You're doing so brilliantly."

When the ambulance finally screeched to a halt, the rear doors flew open, letting in a rush of cool air and the overwhelming, sterile smell of bleach and alcohol. The sound of shouting voices, rolling wheels, and high-pitched monitors hit you like a physical blow. You groaned, trying to shrink away from the noise.

"Keep your eyes shut, sweetheart," Trinity murmured, her voice a steady anchor as the paramedics wheeled you out. She kept pace with the stretcher, refusing to let go of your hand as they pushed through the double doors of the Pitt. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving you."

The transition into the assessment bay was chaotic. Nurses and doctors swarmed the stretcher, their voices overlapping as they took the handover from the paramedics. The bright overhead fluorescent lights pierced straight through your eyelids, causing a sharp, blinding spike of pain that made you wince and try to turn your head away.

"Can we dim these lights, please? Patient has a significant concussion and severe photophobia," Trinity commanded, her sharp, authoritative doctor voice cutting through the room's chatter. The nurses instantly complied, clicking off the harshest of the overhead rows, plunging the bay into a much softer, shadowed glow.

"Thanks, Trin," one of the attending doctors, Jack Abbot, muttered, recognising her immediately. He stepped forward to look at your unequal pupils. "Let's get an IV started and get a head CT booked just to be safe. We'll get that gash cleaned up and stitched too."

At the mention of needles and scans, panic flared in your chest again. You weakly tried to pull your arm away, your breathing turning shallow and frantic. "No... Trinity, please. No needles. Let's just go home. Please, I want to go home."

"Hey, hey, look at me, baby. Just look at me," she coaxed softly, stepping into your line of sight so her face was the only thing you could see. She gently cupped your face with both hands, her thumbs wiping away a fresh tear. "I know it's scary. But you're severely dehydrated, and your body needs this fluid to help your head stop pounding."

"I hate it," you whimpered, your slurred voice cracking as you stared into her dark, fiercely protective eyes.

"I know you do, sweetheart, and I hate seeing you in pain," Trinity whispered, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, avoiding the bleeding cut. "But I'm going to stay right here. Hold onto me as tight as you need to. Dr. Abbot is amazing, and I won't let him do anything without telling you first."

You slowly nodded, completely exhausted and unable to fight any longer. Trinity shifted to your side, wrapping her fingers tightly around yours as the nurse stepped up with the IV line. When the sharp prick of the needle pierced your skin, you hissed out a breath and squeezed Trinity's hand so hard her knuckles turned white.

"You're okay, you're doing so well for me," Trinity murmured, using her free hand to gently smooth the damp hair back from your forehead. "The worst part is over. Now we just get you warmed up and sorted out."

The next few hours passed in a quiet, hazy rhythm. The warm saline fluids slowly dripping into your vein began to lift the heavy, suffocating fog in your brain, though your head still thudded with a dull, persistent ache. Trinity never left your side, sitting on a plastic chair right next to your gurney.

She carefully cleaned the gash on your temple herself, her movements incredibly gentle and precise as she applied a few stitches to close the wound. Every time you winced, she paused, whispering sweet, quiet praises until you relaxed enough for her to finish.

After your head CT came back clear of any internal bleeding, Jack finally signed off on your discharge papers, agreeing that you could recover at home under Trinity's strict supervision. The taxi ride back to the apartment was infinitely quieter than the ambulance journey, your head resting heavily against Trinity’s shoulder as she kept her arm securely wrapped around you.

When the front door of the apartment finally clicked shut behind you, the familiar, quiet warmth of your own home felt like a massive relief. The bathroom had been entirely cleaned up, Trinity must have done it quickly while the paramedics were loading you into the ambulance, and everything was blissfully dark and silent.

"Come on, let's get you into some proper clothes," Trinity said softly, guiding your shuffling, unsteady steps toward the bedroom.

She helped you sit on the edge of the mattress, carefully pulling a soft, oversized jumper over your head and helping you slide into a pair of thick, comfortable sweatpants. Every movement was slow and deliberate, Trinity constantly checking your face to make sure the dizziness wasn't returning.

Once you were changed, she gently peeled back the heavy duvet, helping you settle down into the pillows. She climbed into the bed right after you, pulling the covers up over both of your shoulders and carefully drawing you back against her chest.

"How's the head feeling now, sweetheart?" she whispered into the dark room, her fingers lightly combing through your hair, avoiding the neat row of stitches at your temple.

"Still hurts," you mumbled, your voice small and muffled against her shirt. You shifted closer, hooking your arm over her waist, soaking in the comforting, familiar scent of her skin. "But it's better. Thank you for coming home when you did. And for... everything."

"You don't ever have to thank me for that," Trinity murmured, her voice thick with sudden emotion as she tightened her grip around you, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your neck. "When I saw you on that floor, my heart completely stopped. I was so terrified, baby."

"I'm sorry I scared you," you whispered, closing your eyes as the warmth of the bed and the safety of her arms finally began to pull you under.

"Just promise me you won't try to be a hero next time you're ill," she replied, a tiny, familiar hint of her usual sarcasm returning to her tone, though it was drenched in absolute affection. "If you feel faint, you call me. No matter what time it is. Deal?"

"Deal," you breathed, your eyelids growing too heavy to keep open.

"Good. Now go to sleep, sweetheart," Trinity whispered, closing her own eyes and resting her chin gently on top of your head. "I’ve got you. I'll be right here when you wake up."

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[reader-who-writes]

Crash - Garrett Graham x Reader

Author Notes: Just a beer run gone wrong after the biggest win of his career. For more of my writing, check out my Masterlist here.  

Trigger Warnings: Car Accident

We were having a party to celebrate the boys winning the Frozen Four.

The entire house was alive in a way I had never seen before. Music shook the walls, people were packed into every room, and the energy was impossible to ignore. Everyone was still riding the high of the win — the kind of night that felt like it would become one of those stories they told years later.

Garrett deserved this.

All of them did.

After months of early mornings, brutal practices, injuries, pressure, and wondering if all the work would pay off, they had finally done it. They were champions.

And Garrett was glowing.

He kept getting dragged away by teammates every thirty seconds. Every time I looked up, someone else had an arm around his shoulders, another beer shoved into his hand, another picture being taken.

Somehow, every single time, he'd find me again.

It became a game.

His eyes would scan the room.

They'd land on me.

I'd raise my cup.

He'd grin as I'd personally won him the championship.

I watched him from across the room as Dean and Logan pulled him into a round of pong, his smile wider than I’d seen it in weeks. He kept looking back at me like he still couldn’t believe I was there, like somehow winning the Frozen Four and having me beside him was too good to be real.

Which was exactly why, when we ran out of ice and started running low on alcohol, I volunteered to go on a beer run.

“I’ll go,” I said, grabbing my keys from the counter.

Garrett immediately turned around.

“No.”

I laughed. “No?”

“No, I’m coming with you.”

I rolled my eyes, smiling. “Garrett, you just won the Frozen Four. You are not leaving your own party to go buy ice.”

“I don’t care about the ice.”

“I know,” I said, softer. “That’s why you should stay.”

"Dude," Logan groaned, "she's buying beer, not deploying overseas."

Dean snorted.

"Give it another six months, and he'll ask for Life360 access."

Garrett didn't even deny it.

"I'd absolutely ask."

"Psychotic."

His expression changed slightly, the way it always did when he was worried about me.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

I stepped closer, fixing the collar of his championship shirt.

“Go celebrate,” I told him. “You earned this. Your team earned this. I’m literally going to a liquor store ten minutes away and coming right back.”

He still looked hesitant.

So I smiled and kissed him.

“Go have fun. You deserve this.”

I drove to the liquor store with the windows cracked, the music low, still smiling because I could feel the happiness from the party following me even when I left.

I grabbed the ice, the alcohol, and a few extra things I knew everyone would complain about not having later. I texted Garrett that I was heading back.

Garrett: Hurry back

Me: Miss me already?

The three dots appeared.

Garrett: Always.

I smiled down at my phone before tossing it in the passenger seat and putting his jeep in reverse.

The drive back should have been the most ordinary part of the night.

It should have been nothing.

A few minutes on the road.

A turn.

A red light.

A return to the house where everyone I loved was waiting.

Instead, everything changed in a matter of seconds.

I never saw the car coming.

The impact came from behind—sudden, violent, impossible to prepare for. The force slammed my body forward as my car shot across the lane.

The world became noise.

Glass.

Metal.

Screeching tires.

Then another impact.

Everything stopped.

For a second, I wasn't sure if I was still awake.

The airbag hung limp in front of me, dust floating through the cabin like smoke. My ears rang so loudly that I couldn't hear anything else.

I tried to move.

Pain exploded through my chest.

My fingers wouldn't listen.

Somewhere outside, people were shouting.

A car door slammed.

Footsteps.

Someone was running.

"It's okay! Stay with me!"

I wanted to answer.

I wasn't sure if any sound came out.

The driver's door wouldn't open.

Someone was pulling at it anyway.

Another voice.

"I've already called 911."

Sirens.

Or maybe I imagined them.

Everything blurred together.

The last thing I remember was staring at my phone lying face-up on the passenger seat.

Garrett's last text was still on the screen.

Always.

Then the darkness finally won.

As much as Garrett was enjoying himself, he couldn’t help but check his phone. 

It was a beer run. A twenty-minute trip, maybe thirty if the line was bad. 

Dean made some joke about me abandoning them for the liquor store employees, and everyone laughed.

Garrett laughed too.

But he kept checking his phone.

Fifteen minutes became thirty.

Thirty bled into forty-five.

He was getting ready to call me when his phone began to ring.

He almost didn’t answer because he didn’t recognize the number, but something in his gut refused to ignore it. 

He stepped outside, away from the noise, and answered.

“Hello?”

"Is this Garrett Graham?"

“Yes.”

"I'm calling from Briar Memorial Hospital."

The voice on the other end changed everything.

There are moments in life where time doesn’t slow down — it disappears entirely. Where your brain refuses to understand the words being said because accepting them would mean your entire world has shifted.

Garrett heard my name.

He heard “accident.”

He heard “ambulance.”

He heard “unknown condition.”

He stood there for a moment, completely unable to process what he was supposed to do next.

And suddenly the celebration around him felt wrong.

Because I was supposed to walk back through that door.

I was supposed to complain about how heavy the ice was.

I was supposed to tell him all about my “heroic beer run.”

Instead, he was rushing through the party to his room to find his keys, which suddenly seemed to grow legs and wander off. 

The music was too loud. The laughter was too loud.

He sprinted down the stairs, checking his hockey bag, checking the kitchen counter, cursing under his breath as he came up short.

 The half-empty cups on the counter looked ridiculous now. 

Dean and Logan shared confused glances.

“G?” Dean asked. 

“Have you seen my fucking keys?”

“Didn’t Y/n take them to go get booze?”

Fuck. He was right. 

“Give me your keys.”

Dean hesitated, “Where are you going?”

Something on Garrett’s face broke completely.

“Y/n-” he couldn’t finish the sentence; his chest physically hurt. The air sucked from his lungs. 

“Hospital,” was all he could manage. 

The word barely left his mouth before he was moving.

Dean didn’t ask another question.

Neither did Logan.

Something about Garrett’s face told them everything they needed to know.

The guy who had just stood on a championship stage in front of thousands of people, who had lifted a trophy over his head with tears in his eyes, who had spent the entire night smiling like he was untouchable, suddenly looked terrified.

Not nervous.

Not worried.

Terrified.

Logan grabbed his keys from the counter, being the sober one of the three.

“I’ll drive.”

Garrett didn’t remember leaving the house.

He didn’t remember grabbing his jacket.

He didn't remember getting in Logan's truck.

All he remembered was every red light feeling like an attack.

Every second felt stolen.

The 15 minute drive to the hospital felt endless.

Halfway there, traffic slowed to a crawl.

Blue and red lights flashed against the windshield.

Garrett stared absently out the passenger window, his thoughts looping through the phone call.

Accident.

Ambulance.

Unknown condition.

Then he saw it.

His Jeep.

It sat sideways across the shoulder, one headlight still burning against the darkness.

His stomach dropped.

"No..."

The word escaped before he even realized he'd spoken.

Logan followed his line of sight.

The Jeep Garrett had insisted I drive less than an hour earlier was barely recognizable. The driver's side had been crushed inward, the front end folded like paper beneath the force of the collision.

Traffic crept forward.

Garrett couldn't tear his eyes away.

That was his Jeep.

I'd been driving it.

His chest tightened so violently it hurt to breathe.

"Logan..." he whispered.

Logan's hands tightened around the steering wheel.

"I know."

Dean turned toward the window, his face draining of color as he finally understood.

Nobody said another word.

As they passed the wreckage, Garrett caught one last glimpse of the Jeep disappearing in the side mirror.

Then it was gone.

But the image stayed with him all the way to the hospital.

At the hospital, nobody gave him answers quickly enough. Garrett's fear was starting to outweigh his composure.

He paced the waiting room, waiting for the nurse to return with an update.

She spoke in careful sentences.

"She was in a multi-vehicle collision. Doctors are still working to uncover the extent of her injuries. They are doing everything they can and will update you when possible."

Everything she said felt like a different way of saying: we don’t know if she’s going to make it.

Garrett sat in a hospital chair with shaking hands.

Because this wasn’t a game.

There was no final period.

No comeback.

No guarantee that if he just tried harder, pushed harder, wanted it badly enough, he could fix it.

He kept replaying the last thing I had said to him.

Go have fun. You deserve this.

Why hadn't he insisted I stay? Why hadn't he pushed to go with me? What if that was the last time he ever--?

Garrett was so in his head he hadn't noticed the doctor come out until Logan nudged his arm.

"Are you family of Y/n?"

The question destroyed him.

Because he wasn’t.

Not legally.

Not on paper.

He was just the guy who loved me more than anything.

“I’m her emergency contact,” he said, voice breaking. “Please. Just tell me.”

“The police believe she was rear-ended by an intoxicated driver, which pushed her into oncoming traffic,” the doctor explained. “A second vehicle struck the driver's side of the Jeep, forcing it into a head-on collision with a third vehicle. The impact was severe; the airbags deployed, and she sustained multiple injuries and significant blood loss.”

Garrett stopped breathing for a second.

The twisted frame of his Jeep flashed through his mind.

Then the doctors words replayed:

Multiple injuries.

Blood loss.

Dean reached over and put a hand on his shoulder, grounding him before his knees could give out.

“She arrived in critical condition,” the doctor continued “But she is stable now.”

Stable.

The word didn’t feel real.

Garrett repeated it in his head.

Stable.

Stable meant alive.

“The next 24 hours are important, but she's responding well to treatment.”

Garrett’s eyes burned.

He hadn’t realized how tightly he had been holding onto the fear until that moment.

“She’s extremely lucky to be alive.”

Lucky.

Garrett looked down at the floor.

Because he knew that.

He knew exactly how close he had come to walking into a world without me.

A world where my keys were still on his counter.

Where my jacket was still hanging by the door.

Where my side of the bed stayed untouched.

A world where everyone kept telling him I was gone, and he had to figure out how to exist anyway.

He couldn’t.

He didn’t know how.

The doctor gave them a few more instructions, but Garrett barely heard them. His entire focus was on one thing.

“When can I see her?”

The doctor’s expression softened.

“She’s still unconscious from the medications and trauma, but you can see her briefly once we get her settled.”

Garrett nodded immediately.

“Thank you.”

The doctor walked away.

And for the first time since the phone call, Garrett let himself breathe.

Not fully.

Not completely.

Because he wouldn’t believe I was okay until he saw me

Until he held my hand.

Until I opened my eyes and complained about how dramatic everyone was being.

But I was alive.

I was still here.

And Garrett knew one thing with absolute certainty:

He was never letting another goodbye happen without telling me exactly how much I meant to him.

Epilogue

Three weeks later.

The bruises had faded from angry purple to yellow.

Most of the cuts had healed.

Walking still hurt if I overdid it, and my ribs reminded me every morning that they hadn't quite forgiven me yet.

But I was home.

That was enough.

Garrett had practically moved into my apartment after I was discharged, despite my repeated insistence that I could, in fact, survive thirty seconds without supervision.

"I survived twenty years before I met you," I'd pointed out.

He hadn't even looked up from where he was organizing my medications.

"Questionable."

"I was perfectly capable."

"You got hit by a car."

"I didn't exactly schedule it."

"You still lost unsupervised privileges."

I stared at him.

"...Are you grounding me?"

"I'm protecting my investment."

I laughed despite myself.

He looked entirely too pleased about it.

"You know," I said, "most boyfriends buy flowers."

"I bought flowers."

"You did."

"And chocolate."

"You did."

"And now I'm buying peace of mind."

"You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

I shook my head, smiling.

For the first time in weeks, the smile didn't feel forced.

Garrett noticed.

He always noticed.

He walked over without another word and pressed a kiss to my forehead before settling beside me on the couch, careful of my ribs.

His hand found mine automatically.

Like it belonged there.

Maybe it did.

My eyes drifted toward the coffee table.

Among the pile of get-well cards, prescription bottles, and half-finished puzzle we'd been pretending to work on sat two things side by side.

Garrett's Frozen Four championship ring.

And the plastic hospital bracelet I'd forgotten to throw away.

The ring caught the afternoon sunlight, the diamond flashing brilliantly.

Three weeks ago, it had represented everything.

Years of sacrifice.

Early mornings.

Broken bones.

Endless practices.

A dream finally realized.

Now it sat quietly beside a thin strip of white plastic with my name printed across it.

One represented the best night of Garrett's life.

The other represented the worst.

Neither of us had moved them.

Maybe because together they told the whole story.

Garrett followed my gaze.

"I should probably put that ring somewhere safer."

"You should."

"And we should definitely throw away that bracelet."

I looked at it for another second.

"Not yet."

He nodded.

He understood.

There were some things you didn't keep because they were happy.

You kept them because they reminded you just how close you had come to losing everything.

After a comfortable silence, Garrett nudged my shoulder gently.

"So."

"So?"

"The guys are having another party next weekend."

"Oh?"

"Mhm."

"I assume we're out of beer by now."

"We probably are."

I smiled innocently.

"I could make a quick run to the liquor store."

Garrett's head snapped toward me so fast I couldn't help laughing.

"Absolutely not."

"Oh, come on."

"Not happening."

"It'll only take twenty minutes."

"No."

"Thirty, tops."

"No."

"I'll text you."

"No."

"I'll share my location."

"No."

"I'll wear a helmet."

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You're enjoying this way too much."

"A little."

He leaned closer until our foreheads touched, the corners of his mouth finally giving in.

"You are never making another beer run alone for the rest of your life."

"That's a pretty long commitment."

"I'm planning on a pretty long life with you."

The teasing smile disappeared from my face.

He hadn't said it dramatically.

Hadn't gotten down on one knee.

Hadn't made some grand declaration.

He'd simply stated it like a fact.

Like the sky was blue.

Like tomorrow would come.

Like we'd have one.

I reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his.

"I think," I whispered, "I'd like that."

He smiled—the same smile I'd watched from across a crowded house the night everything changed.

Only now I understood something I hadn't then.

Championships fade into memories.

Rings get tucked into drawers.

Banners gather dust in empty arenas.

Life moves on.

But being given another ordinary day with the person you love?

That was the greatest victory either of us would ever have.

Garrett squeezed my hand.

This time, when he told me to hurry back—

It would only be from the next room.

[maekarsmistress]

Hiii! I was wondering if I could request something for Robby from the Pitt? Something like Robby has a girlfriend who’s knees pop out of place a lot and the first time that it happened In front of him he panicked slightly and was ready to pop them back into place for her and drive to the hospital to make sure everything is fine. But the reader pop them in herself and gets back up and walks around and Robby is just shocked because he’s never seen anything quite like that before.

You can use as much or as little as you’d like for inspiration. I hope you have a wonderful day/night!

Pop!

in which, you almost give your dear boyfriend, michael robinavitch, a cardiac event over something that, in your mind, is completely routine.

CW: reader has HSD (hypermobility spectrum disorder), fluff, kissing, domestic!robby. REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

The early morning sun trickled in through the slight crack in the curtain, effectively blinding Michael for a brief moment. With a heavy sigh, he rubbed the palm of his hand over his face, trying to drag himself into consciousness after another night of half-sleep and ruined circadian rhythm courtesy of the ER. Beside him, you stretched your limbs lazily beneath the sheets, arms extending above your head as you woke up. “Guh’morning..” You murmur, voice rough with sleep, smiling sheepishly despite your eyes remaining shut.

Michael looked down at you for a second before leaning over, pressing a tired kiss against your mouth. “Good morning, baby,” he croaked, voice still wrecked from sleep.

You pushed yourself upright onto both hands, hair a complete mess around your face. Michael’s old navy-blue hoodie hung off your frame, the sleeves swallowing your hands and the hem brushing against your mid-thigh. It still smelt faintly like him despite the fact he barely wore it anymore; most of his clothes had somehow ended up becoming yours over the last few months anyway. “M’ gonna make coffee, want some pancakes?” you asked blearily, one hand shoved into the pocket of his hoodie whilst the other rubbed against your eye.

Michael watched you quietly.

There were mornings where he genuinely could not believe this was his life now. You in his apartment, in his clothes, half-asleep and talking about pancakes like it was the most normal thing in the world. Four months ago, he had fully expected this relationship to implode before it ever became anything serious. His hours were horrific, his temper after shifts was worse, and he carried stress around so permanently it may as well have been stitched into him. Yet somehow you were still here, still crawling into his bed at midnight after shifts, still leaving skincare products scattered across his bathroom counter, still filling the silence in his apartment so naturally that now, when you were not there, the place felt wrong.

It made something tighten painfully in his chest sometimes, not in a bad way, jsut enough to remind him that he had spent years convincing himself he neither needed nor wanted this sort of thing.

He nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth lifting; the expression softened the permanent exhaustion carved into his features, the faint crow’s feet beside his eyes becoming more obvious as he smiled. “Pancakes sound good.”

You hummed softly in acknowledgement before climbing out of bed completely, shuffling out of the bedroom still half asleep. Michael remained where he was for another moment, listening to your footsteps disappear down the hallway before he finally reached over for his glasses and phone on the bedside table.

A few seconds later, he heard the kettle click on; then your voice floated through the apartment quietly, humming Phantom of the Opera to yourself from somewhere in the kitchen. Minutes passed by, your humming gone uninterrupted until an almost quiet crackling pop alongside a heavy thud echoed throughout the apartment as Michael pulled a shirt over his head, followed immediately by a strained, hurried, “fuck,” from the kitchen.

Michael’s head snapped up instantly, within seconds he was moving down the hallway toward the kitchen, bare feet hitting against the hardwood as he rounded the corner quickly. The sight in front of him made his stomach twist immediately; you were down on the floor beside the counter awkwardly, one knee bent beneath you whilst both hands gripped around the other one tightly. The kettle continued boiling behind you quietly, steam curling upward as if nothing had hapened, it clicked off automatically, emitting a hissing sound.

“Baby?” Michael dropped down beside you immediately. “Are you alright, what happened?”

One of his hands landed against your back instinctively, steady and warm as his eyes scanned over you rapidly. You looked more annoyed than panicked, though your breathing was uneven as you leaned further over your knee. “It’s fine,” you managed quickly. “I promise, it happens.”

Michael frowned immediately. “What happens?” You couldn’t quite get the words out before another horrible sound echoed through the kitchen; you leaned forward, putting pressure on your knee as a thick knock-crunch noise that made Michael visibly tense beside you. Your face pinched briefly as your knee shifted back into place beneath your hands.

You exhaled hard afterward, shoulders finally relaxing slightly.

“Jesus Christ,” Michael muttered under his breath, staring directly at your knee. “Did you just pop your knee back into place?” You nodded weakly before letting your head fall forward for a second. “Sorry, turned too fast-”

Michael continued staring at you for another moment like he genuinely could not comprehend what he had just watched happen in front of him. “You wanna explain what the hell just happened, sweetheart?”

You looked up at him sheepishly despite the obvious discomfort still written across your face. “I told you, it happens sometimes.” You pursed your lips, sighing as you tried to stand up. “That is not a normal sentence.” Michael shook his head; before you could answer, Michael was already pushing himself back onto his feet. He turned toward the freezer quickly, opening it with far more force than necessary before grabbing a bag of frozen vegetables from inside. You watched him quietly as he moved around the kitchen, still trying to steady your breathing properly.

“Sorry, baby,” you murmured again. “I should’ve told you sooner, I guess.” Michael looked over at you immediately at that before walking back over. “Yeah,” he said honestly, crouching down again. “Probably.” His tone was not harsh, if anything, he just sounded worried.

He carefully helped guide you up from the floor afterward, one arm around your waist as he slowly walked you over toward the couch. The entire time his hand remained firm against your side like he expected your knee to give out again at any second. Once you sat down, he crouched in front of you again before pressing the frozen vegetables gently over your knee.

“Does this happen often?” he asked quietly, eyebrows knitted together as he looked up at you. You nodded once before taking the vegetables from his hand yourself. Michael let you, though his eyes barely left your face for longer than a few seconds.

“Have you gone to a doctor?” His words were met with another nod. Michael sighed softly before reaching up, brushing hair carefully away from your face. His hand lingered against your cheek afterward, thumb resting just beneath your eye as he tilted your head slightly toward him.

“What’s going on, hm?” he asked more gently this time; you looked down toward your lap for a moment before answering quietly. “I just… didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

Michael’s expression shifted immediately, one of worry replaced by curiosity. “I have hypermobility disorder,” you admitted finally. “Sometimes I get a bit ahead of myself when turning or walking..” Michael stared at you for a moment before shaking his head slightly in disbelief, his hand dropping from your cheek down toward your shoulder. “Why didn’t you say anything? I’m a doctor, baby.” He huffed quietly, leaning forward enough to press a soft kiss into your hairline.

You looked down toward your knee instead, fingers tightening slightly around the bag of vegetables resting against it. “Didn’t wan’ to scare you off..”

Michael pulled back just enough to look at you properly again, brows furrowing almost immediately at the confession. “Scare me off?” he repeated quietly, like the idea itself made no sense to him. “Baby, c’mon.”

You shrugged weakly, avoiding his eyes again. “People get weird about it sometimes.”

“Well, I’m not people.” His hand rubbed slowly against your shoulder, thumb dragging back and forth absentmindedly through the fabric of his hoodie still hanging off your frame. Michael let out a quiet tsk beneath his breath before shaking his head once more. “You’d have to do a hell of a lot worse to scare me away, sweetheart.”

The coment managed to pull a small smile from you despite yourself; tired and embarrassed and a little sheepish all at once. The sight of it softened something in Michael almost instantly. His hand slid upward from your shoulder until his fingers curled loosely along the side of your neck. “Still can’t believe you just popped your knee back into place like it was nothing,” he muttered quietly.

A quiet laugh escaped you then, softer this time, Michael watched you for another second before leaning in properly; the kiss was slow, careful, much like him. His hand remained against your neck as his lips pressed against yours gently at first, lingering there for a moment before deepening slightly. You could feel the scratch of stubble against your skin as he tilted his head, kissing you with an almost unfair amount of tenderness considering he had looked ready to call an ambulance less than ten minutes ago.

Your hand moved instinctively toward the front of his shirt, fingers curling loosely into the fabric as he kissed you again, slower this time, like he was reassuring himself more than anything else. Michael always kissed like he had nowhere else to be when the two of you were alone together, unhurried, warm, the kind of kiss that made your chest ache a little afterward.

He finally pulled away reluctantly, a quiet hum escaping him as his forehead dropped lightly against yours; for a second neither of you spoke.

Your noses brushed slightly as you looked at him, his brown eyes still carrying that same concern from earlier despite how much calmer he seemed now. “Still gotta check you out though, baby,” he whispered softly, you groaned quietly at that, letting your head tip forward against his. “After breakfast, please?”

Michael closed his eyes briefly like he was genuinely considering arguing with you over it, he sighed mockingly. A small smirk pulling at his lips;

“Alright, sweetheart.” ignore any spelling mistakes please, its two in the morning for me.

much love!

[lovelikelandslide]

Idk if your still taking fic suggestions but a muke x reader vibe (their most recent era) would feed me.

It's my religion

warnings: smut, emotionally cheating if you squint, threesome, barely any plot

word count: 3,718 words

pairing: michael clifford/reader, luke hemmings/reader, muke/reader

a/n: titled tba. I kinda got carried away also recently watched skins so luke is accidentally tony kinda

WARNING! RPF CONTENT DONT LIKE DONT READ

You were curled against Luke's side on the couch, knees tucked beneath you, while his arm hung lazily across the cushions behind your shoulders. He'd pulled you there a while after you started greeting your guests, settling you against him while he talked with a few of his friends, including Michael, who sat across from you in an armchair, fidgeting with a pick from the show from earlier that night.

The venue had been tiny, but impressive in a way that made your chest ache with pride every time you looked at Luke. The music rattled through the floorboards hard enough for it to feel in your ribs. The band had only been together for a little over a year, yet somehow people already knew the lyrics.

They’d shouted the band’s name afterward while Luke stood sweaty and breathless beneath the stage lights, curls sticking damply to his forehead.

The party afterward in Luke's apartment was mostly for networking, according to him. Producers, other musicians, friends-of-friends crammed in with drinks balanced carelessly in their hands. Luke had dragged you along with him the second somebody invited the band over, fingers hooked through yours as he disappeared easily into conversation after conversation. You mostly stayed put next to him while people talked about gigs and recording sessions and people you’d never met or even heard of, smiling politely and giving you two cents despite feeling a little lost.

You decided to get some air eventually, more out of boredom than anything else.

Luke noticed the second you started untucking yourself from his side, his hand sliding from your thigh while he glanced up at you through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Where you goin’?” he asked

“Outside for a minute,” you murmured.

His fingers caught briefly around your wrist before letting go again. “Don’t disappear.”

Michael seemed to notice your state.

He leaned back deeper into the armchair across from you, boot nudging lightly against the leg of the coffee table while he still rolled the guitar pick between his fingers, his eyes followed your movement and watched you disappear.

The chill hit immediately. It felt good after being packed inside warm bodies all night. You sat down on the metal steps with your drink between your hands, elbows resting on your knees, while the noise from inside dulled, and the smell of cigarettes drifted to your nostrils.

The fire escape window opened again a minute later.

“Knew this wasn’t really your thing,”

Michael stepped outside, the apartment light spilling briefly across the stairwell behind him before closing it once again.

“Figured I’d come keep you company.” he said after a moment

You looked down toward the drink balanced between your hands instead of directly at him. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

There was amusement sitting quietly underneath his words, though not enough to make it feel mean. He stepped down onto the stair beside yours, close enough that your knees could brush if either of you moved wrong.

Michael was somewhere in that strange space between acquaintance and friend. You saw him often enough because of Luke and spent enough late nights around him after rehearsals and shitty diner trips, yet the two of you had never really been alone together before.

There was something easy about him. Familiar, you would say. You trusted him instinctively, in the way you trust somebody who’s seen you half-asleep in the backseat at three in the morning or listened to you ramble tipsily on somebody’s kitchen floor without ever making you feel stupid for it.

And maybe that was part of the problem lately.

The last few weeks had felt off, you had no other word for it, in a way, you were trying very hard not to examine too closely. Nothing obvious. Nothing bad. Just little things that had started to linger longer than they should have.

Michael looking at you across rehearsal rooms a second too long. Your stomach flipping stupidly whenever he brushed past you in cramped hallways. The kind of tension you could still pretend wasn’t there if you never faced it.

“I think Luke forgets these things are actually boring if you’re not in a band.”

Yeah,” he murmured. “You kinda need to care at least a little.”

“I tried caring.”

“I’m sure you did.”

You glanced sideways at him finally, catching the faint grin sitting at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t mocking. If anything, he looked entertained by you in a way that made heat creep faintly into your face.

“You liked the show though?” He asked.

Your expression softened automatically. “Obviously.”

“You looked proud.”

“I was proud.” You smiled a little to yourself. “You're all getting the recognition you deserve, you're even getting invited to places like these.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Still feels kinda weird.”

“We were playing to like,” he laughed quietly, “fifteen people six months ago.”

“And now random girls know your lyrics.”

“That’s mostly Luke’s fault,” Michael said easily. “People like looking at him.”

You snorted softly into your drink. “You say that like people weren’t staring at you too.”

His mouth pulled slightly at the corner afterward, he muttered. “Were you?”

You were shocked because the answer should be obvious? Luke.

Luke, your boyfriend, all sweet and pretty smiles and endless love.

But maybe Michael, too.

Michael, with his guitar hanging low against his hips, head tipped down while he played. who barely seemed aware when people looked at him, which somehow made it more endearing.

The realization made the feeling of guilt twist softly in your chest.

Still, your eyes flicked briefly down toward Michael’s mouth before you could even stop yourself.

“Both.” you admitted quietly, and regretted instantly. What the fuck.

You felt it immediately, awfully in your chest, like you’d said something you weren’t supposed to out loud.

Michael noticed too. You could tell by the way his expression shifted slightly, the corner of his mouth pulling faintly like he was trying not to smile too much at your obvious panic.

You stood up too fast, nearly spilling your drink down the front of yourself in the process. “We should probably go back inside.” you said quickly.

Michael got up a second later, slower than you, hands slipping into the pockets of his jacket while he watched you carefully for a moment. He didn’t push you further, and that somehow worsened it all.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “okay.”

You suddenly felt too aware of your surroundings inside, after the quiet, warmer outside.

Luke was across the room, laughing at something while he leaned back against the counter.

His eyes found yours when you came back in. Then shifted briefly toward Michael, climbing in after you.

Something unreadable flickered across his face for half a second, you could tell, but it went as fast as it came.

The rest of the party blurred a little after that. You mostly pretended to listen to conversations while your brain replayed the fire escape over and over again in humiliating detail. And every now and then, you caught Michael looking at you from across the room, while Luke's hand rested on your waist.

Eventually, the apartment thinned into just the three of you.

Michael stayed. He always did. Which was unfortunate for your current situation, considering his presence in your apartment felt almost as familiar as your own by now.

By the time the place finally quieted down, it was almost three in the morning, and the three of you had fallen into cleaning without really talking about it, drinking more halfway through. Luke moved around the apartment gathering empty bottles into trash bags while you stood at the sink rinsing sticky alcohol from cups. Michael dried them beside you with a dish towel thrown over his shoulder.

Luke moved around easily behind the two of you, and every so often, he’d pass by and drag his hand absentmindedly over your hip or the small of your back like he needed to touch you on instinct alone. Casual.

Still, every single time he did it, you became painfully aware of Michael standing right there.

The last bag of trash was tied off. The final glass sat drying on the rack. The silence that settled over the clean-ish apartment..

“Can we not move for a second?” You groaned, leaning heavily against the kitchen counter.

“Please,” Michael mumbled.

Luke pushed off the counter immediately, a small smile dedicated to you. “Come on.” He caught your hand and pulled you towards the living room.

He fell onto the cushions first, landing with a soft oof, and pulled you to rest on his chest. your body molded to his with the ease of a year's habit.

He smelled like beer, and home. His arm came around you, heavy.

Michael followed behind, dropping onto the seat next to you.

The three of you lay there in a comfortable, drunk silence for a few minutes.

The streetlight outside cast long, lazy shadows across the room. Your mind drifted, floating hazily on the feeling of Luke’s heartbeat under your ear and the solid, quiet presence of Michael beside you.

Luke’s hand, which had been resting on your hip, began to move. It was absently-minded stroking you, his thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of your dress. It was the same casual, instinctive touch from the kitchen, but here in the dark quiet, it felt amplified.

And each pass of his thumb sent a little spark through the pleasant fog in your head.

You tilted your face up toward his, and he was already looking down at you, his eyes dark and soft in the shadows. A slow, lazy smile touched his lips. He bent his head and kissed you.

It was a tired, beer-flavored kiss at first—soft, closed-mouthed, a simple love you. But then his hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you a little more firmly against him, and the kiss deepened. His tongue slid against yours, seekingly so, and a low hum of pleasure vibrated in his chest.

You kissed him back, the familiar taste and feel of him a comforting anchor in the sleepy, spinning room. Your hand came up to curl in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. The world narrowed to the soft sound of your mouths moving together, the scratch of his stubble, the heat of his body under yours.

Michael had turned his head on the cushion.

He was watching you, not with shock or jealousy, but with a kind of hungry fascination. His eyes were glassy from drink and tiredness, but they were fixed on Luke’s mouth, then on yours.

He quickly looked away when he saw you’d noticed, a faint flush visible even in the dim light, his throat working as he swallowed.

Luke followed your gaze. He didn’t seem surprised. He looked from Michael’s averted face back to yours, his expression thoughtful.

His hand resumed its slow stroking on your back.

“Comfy, Mikey?” Luke asked, his voice a low rumble.

“Yeah” Michael muttered

“Good.”

Luke kissed you again, but this time it was different. More deliberate somehow, like he was showing off.

He angled his head deeper against yours, making a soft, pleased sound into the kiss while one of his hands slid up to cradle your jaw. It was the kind of kiss that normally would’ve melted you instantly, but through the lingering haze in your head,

“The whole night,” he continued softly, thumb dragging once along your jaw. “The way he looks at you. The way you look back.”

Heat flooded your face so fast it almost hurt.

“Luke,” you whispered, horrified. “I didn’t mean—”

Michael let out a quiet strained laugh from next to you, more nervous than amused. “Dude—”

“Relax.” Luke cut in easily, though his eyes stayed on yours the entire time.

There was still something unfairly calm about him. He had no jealousy or anger. If anything, he looked too focused, like watching the two of you together had flipped some switch in his head that he hadn’t expected.

His hand slid from your jaw to your throat, loosely.

“It’s kinda hard not to notice,” he said quietly. “You get all shy around him lately.”

Your pulse jumped.

“And he looks at you like he wants to eat you alive.” Luke huffed out the faintest laugh through his nose after that, almost disbelieving. “Think I’d have to be blind to miss it.”

Luke shifted beneath you, his arm extending past your shoulder to grip Michael’s wrist where it rested on the armrest, pulling his hand forward until his fingers splayed warm and heavy against your hip alongside Luke’s own. "Touch her" Luke murmured, his voice wrecked against your ear, his thumb stroking the inside of Michael’s wrist where the pulse hammered wild.

Michael made a broken sound, his fingers flexing hard into your waist, and then he was surging across the narrow space between you, his hand coming up to grip your jaw, fingers sliding into your hair.

Michael kissed you like he’d been starving for it, months of sidelong glances and yearning finally breaking surface. His hand came up to grip your jaw, fingers sliding into your hair, and when he pulled back barely an inch his breathing was ragged against your lips.

“This okay?” he whispered, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. “’Cause I can—”

“Don’t stop,” you said, your voice sounding foreign, thick. “Please. Just don’t stop.”

You felt Luke shift behind you on the couch, his chest pressing harder against your back. His hand didn’t leave your waist—his fingers dug in possessively as he watched over your shoulder. Then his mouth was on your neck grazing the tendon there and you were trapped between them, gasping.

“You sure?” Luke murmured against your skin, his hand sliding up to cover Michael’s where it gripped your jaw. He laced their fingers together, a silent question passing between them. “We can just—”

“I want you both.” you said, the words tumbling out before you could catch them. You felt your face burn, but Luke groaned, low and wrecked, right against your ear.

“Fuck,” Michael breathed. “Okay. Yeah.”

Luke’s hand slid up roughly, pushing the strap of your dress off your shoulder. The fabric loosened, and Michael’s hand immediately slid inside, his calloused palm cupping your breast. His thumb found your nipple, rolling it until it hardened. You gasped, arching into it, your head falling back against Luke’s shoulder.

“You’re shaking,” Michael observed, his voice unsteady. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “We can slow down.”

“No,” you said, reaching out to fist your hand in his shirt, pulling him closer. “I’m not scared. I just—God, I’ve wanted this. I didn’t know how to say it.”

Luke’s other hand worked the back of your dress, zipper grinding down. He pushed it down your hips, his knuckles dragging against your skin. “You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “We know. We’ve known.”

The dress pooled on the floor. Michael broke away just long enough to pull his own shirt over his head, tossing it aside, and you reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle. Your fingers were clumsy, trembling.

“Here.” Luke said, his hand covering yours. Together they worked the leather free, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room. Michael’s jeans unzipped, and his cock sprang out, thick and flushed. You reached for him, wrapping your hand around the baseand he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“Your mouth,” he managed, his hand coming up to cup your face. “Can you—?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, and Luke was already guiding you forward with a gentle hand between your shoulder blades, bending you over Michael’s lap.

You took Michael into your mouth, tasting salt and heat, and he groaned above you, his hands threading into your hair—not pushing, just holding, his fingers trembling against your scalp. “Fuck, that’s—” he cut off, his head dropping back.

Then Luke was moving, kneeling on the floor between your spread knees. He shoved your underwear down your thighs, leaving them tangled, and pushed your legs wider with his shoulders. “Lift up a little,” he murmured, his hands sliding up your inner thighs. “There. Just like that.”

His mouth found you immediately—hot, wet, filthy. His tongue dragged up from your entrance to your clit, then he sucked the sensitive bud into his mouth. You moaned around Michael’s cock, the vibration making him curse and jerk his hips.

“Feel good?” Luke asked, pulling back just enough for you to feel the words against your thigh. He pushed two fingers into you, curling them, and you bucked against his hand.

“Yes,” you gasped, pulling off Michael with a wet sound. “Luke, don’t—don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. He went back to work, his tongue circling your clit while his fingers fucked you slow and deep.

Michael’s hand slid down from your hair, his thumb tracing your swollen lips. “Come up here,” he said softly. “Wanna see you.”

Luke’s hands gripped your hips, helping you turn, guiding you up and around. You settled back onto Luke’s lap, facing Michael now, your knees bracketing Luke’s hips. Luke’s cock was hard and hot against your lower back, and he reached down, grabbing himself, aligning himself with your entrance.

“Slow,” he breathed against your neck. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You sank down onto him, inch by inch, the stretch burning perfect. You both groaned—low and guttural—as you took him to the base. “Not too much,” you panted, your head falling back against his shoulder. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Luke’s hands came up to grip your waist, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones. “Ride me,” he said, his voice wrecked.

You started to move, rolling your hips, grinding down. Michael watched from the couch beside you, his hand wrapped around his own cock, stroking slow. His eyes were dark, fixed on where Luke entered you.

“Come here.” you said to him, reaching out. “I want you closer.”

Michael moved immediately, shifting up onto his knees on the couch beside Luke’s head. You leaned forward, taking him into your mouth again, and the angle was different now—deeper.

Michael groaned, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head, not guiding but feeling.

Luke thrusted up into you from below, meeting your downward grinds, his hands tightening on your waist. “Look at you,” he rasped. “Taking us both. You’re so beautiful like this.”

You pulled off Michael with a gasp, your hand replacing your mouth, stroking him firm and wet. “Switch.” you managed, looking back over your shoulder at Luke. “I want—can I?”

Luke understood immediately. He slowed his thrusts, his hands guiding you up until he slipped free, wet and hard against his stomach. “Turn around,” he said softly. “Get on your knees.”

You turned, facing away from him now, on your hands and knees on the couch. Luke sat back against the arm, positioning himself in front of you, his cock upright and glistening. Michael moved behind you, his hands gripping your hips, his chest against your back.

“You good?” Michael asked, his lips at your ear. His cock was pressing against your entrance, not entering yet, just teasing through the wetness there.

“Yes,” you whispered, pushing back against him. “Please, Michael. I need you inside.”

He pushed forward in one slow steady thrust, filling you completely. You gasped, your forehead dropping to Luke’s thigh. The feeling was different from Luke—and it sent a sharp spark of pleasure up your spine.

“Fuck,” Michael breathed, his forehead dropping to your shoulder blade. “You’re so tight. So wet.”

“Okay?” Luke asked, his hand coming under your chin, lifting your face. His eyes searched yours in the dim light.

“Better than okay,” you said, and you meant it. You leaned forward and took Luke’s cock into your mouth again, the taste of yourself mixed with his pre-cum, and the position was perfect—you impaled on Michael from behind, your mouth full of Luke, the two of them filling you from both ends.

They found a rhythm together, natural and unspoken. When Michael thrust forward, you rocked onto Luke’s cock. Michael’s hands gripped your ass, his fingers digging in, while Luke’s hands were gentle in your hair, his hips making small, shallow thrusts into your mouth.

“Touch her,” Luke said to Michael, his voice strained. He reached down with one hand, finding Michael’s where it gripped your hip, and guided it between your legs. “Rub her clit. She’s close.”

Michael’s fingers slid between your legs from behind, finding your clit, rubbing tight, hard circles while he fucked you. The dual sensation was overwhelming—his cock hitting deep, his fingers on your clit, Luke’s cock sliding over your tongue.

“Is that good?” Michael asked, his voice breaking. “You gonna come for us?”

You couldn’t answer, you just moaned around Luke, the vibration making him groan and tighten his grip in your hair.

You were babbling incoherent, the pleasure building sharply, coiling tight in your belly.

“I’m close,” Michael choked out, his thrusts stuttering. “Fuck, I can’t—”

“Come in her,” Luke said, his voice a rough command softened by the way he was looking at you, his eyes dark. “fill her up. Let me see.”

Michael’s hips jerked hard, and he buried himself deep with a ragged cry, his cock pulsing as he came inside you, hot and thick. The feeling of him coming, the squeeze of his fingers on your clit, sent you over. You came with a moan around Luke’s cock, your body convulsing, your pussy milking Michael’s cock as he groaned above you, his weight pressing you forward.

The tight clenching of your orgasm and the sight of you falling apart sent Luke over the edge. He pulled your head back slightly, his hand gentle in your hair, and came spilling over your tongue and lips, his hips bucking up, his hand gripping the couch cushion white-knuckled.

You collapsed forward onto Luke’s chest, Michael’s weight heavy and perfect against your back for a moment before he carefully pulled out, falling sideways onto the couch with a groan.

You lay there, a panting mess.

Luke’s cock softening against your stomach while Michael’s hand lingered on your thigh.

[aetherialmuse]

Kindred Bruises Chapter. 2/6

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pairings: John Logan x boxer!reader

genre/warnings; Sports Romance, Contemporary Romance, New Adult Romance, College Romance, Enemies to Lovers, Hockey Romance, Boxing Romance, Explicit sexual content, alcohol use, drug use/addiction, emotional trauma, abandonment trauma, family dysfunction, mental health struggles, anxiety, profanity, violence (boxing), toxic relationships, past emotional abuse, grief, family crisis, substance abuse recovery

Summary: Yn swears off hockey players, but when she meets John Logan, something ignites between them that she can't ignore—until he vanishes without explanation, triggering the very abandonment wounds she's spent years trying to bury. When a ghost from her past returns with dangerous intentions and a mysterious opponent appears in the ring, Yn must decide whether to face what's hunting her alone or let Logan back in. Some battles can't be won without the right person in your corner.

Previously..Chapter One

Continue..Chapter Three

11,283 words

Monday morning arrived with the kind of aggressive brightness that felt personally offensive to anyone nursing a hangover. Yn had woken up in her own bed—thank god for small mercies—with a headache that pulsed in time with her heartbeat and a confusing tangle of emotions she absolutely did not want to examine. The ibuprofen she'd taken at the hockey house had helped, but there was only so much over-the-counter medication could do when your brain was determined to replay every moment of the previous night in excruciating detail.

She'd lain there for a solid twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling of her bedroom, trying to convince herself that what had happened at the party didn't mean anything. So what if John Logan had been kind to her? So what if he'd taken out her hair tie and made sure she had water and painkillers waiting for her? That was just basic human decency. It didn't mean anything. It certainly didn't mean she should be lying here thinking about the way his hands had felt—gentle and careful and so fucking tender it made her chest ache.

"Stop it," she'd muttered to herself, throwing off her covers with more force than necessary. "Stop thinking about him."

But her brain, traitorous thing that it was, had other ideas. As she'd gone through her morning routine—shower, coffee, the careful application of concealer to hide the evidence of her poor life choices—she'd kept catching herself thinking about Logan. About the conversation they'd had on the deck, about the way he'd listened to her talk about boxing like it actually mattered, about the way he'd looked at her like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve rather than a challenge he wanted to conquer.

It was infuriating. She didn't want to think about him. She didn't want to care that he'd been kind to her. She didn't want to feel this weird flutter in her chest every time she remembered the way he'd smiled at her, all crooked and genuine and completely disarming.

By the time she'd made it to her first class—Biomechanics, which was usually one of her favorites—she'd been in a thoroughly foul mood. She'd sat in the back row, pulled out her laptop, and tried to focus on the lecture about muscle fiber types and force production. But her mind had kept wandering, kept drifting back to the hockey house and that stupid blanket and those stupid gentle hands.

"Fuck," she'd whispered under her breath, earning a curious look from the guy sitting next to her.

After class, she'd done what she always did when life got complicated: she'd headed straight to the gym.

The campus athletic facility was a sprawling complex that housed everything from the Olympic-sized swimming pool to the basketball courts to the weight room. But Yn's favorite part was the basement, where the boxing program had carved out its own little kingdom. It wasn't fancy—the walls were concrete block painted a dingy white, the floors were scuffed rubber, and the whole place smelled like sweat and leather and determination—but it was hers. This was where she felt most like herself, where everything made sense, where the only thing that mattered was the next punch, the next combination, the next round.

She'd changed quickly in the locker room, pulling on her training gear—black compression shorts, a sports bra, a loose tank top that said "Hit Like a Girl" across the front. She'd wrapped her hands with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done it thousands of times, the ritual of it soothing in its familiarity. Left hand first, then right, wrapping the thin fabric around her knuckles and wrists in a pattern that provided support without restricting movement.

The gym had been relatively empty when she'd walked in—it was still early afternoon, and most of the team didn't train until later. But Coach Martinez had been there, standing by the heavy bags with a clipboard in hand, and he'd looked up when she'd entered.

"Didn't expect to see you today," he'd said, his dark eyes sharp and assessing. Coach Martinez was in his fifties, a former middleweight champion who'd retired after one too many concussions and dedicated his life to training the next generation. He was tough but fair, and he had an uncanny ability to see through bullshit that Yn both appreciated and found deeply inconvenient. "Thought you'd be recovering from whatever party Hannah dragged you to."

"I'm fine," Yn had said, already moving toward the heavy bags. "Just want to get some work in."

"Uh-huh," Coach Martinez had said, and there had been something knowing in his tone that made Yn's shoulders tense. "And this sudden dedication to training on your day off has nothing to do with you running away from something?"

"I'm not running away from anything," Yn had said, pulling on her training gloves with sharp, aggressive movements. "I'm running toward my goals. There's a difference."

"Sure there is," Coach Martinez had said, but he'd let it drop. He knew when to push and when to back off, and apparently this was a backing-off moment. "Fine. Warm up, then I want you working on your footwork. You're still planting too much on your back foot when you throw your right cross. Makes you predictable."

Yn had nodded, grateful for the distraction, and thrown herself into her warm-up routine. Jump rope first—three rounds of three minutes each, her feet moving in a steady rhythm against the rubber floor. Then shadow boxing, moving around the gym with her hands up, throwing combinations at invisible opponents. Jab-jab-cross. Jab-cross-hook. Jab-cross-hook-uppercut. The movements were muscle memory by now, her body flowing through the sequences without conscious thought.

But even as she'd moved, even as she'd focused on her breathing and her footwork and the snap of her punches, her mind had kept drifting. She'd thought about Logan watching her at the party, about the way his eyes had tracked her movements when she'd been arguing with that asshole who'd grabbed her. She'd thought about the conversation on the deck, about how easy it had been to talk to him, how he'd actually listened instead of just waiting for his turn to speak. She'd thought about waking up on the couch with her boots off and her hair down and the careful consideration that had gone into those small acts of kindness.

"Fuck," she'd muttered, throwing a particularly vicious cross at the air.

After her warm-up, she'd moved to the heavy bag. This was her favorite part of training—the satisfying thud of leather against canvas, the way her whole body engaged with each punch, the pure physical release of hitting something as hard as she could. She'd started with basic combinations, working on the technical aspects Coach Martinez had mentioned. Jab-jab-cross, focusing on keeping her weight distributed evenly, on not planting too heavily on her back foot. Jab-cross-hook, pivoting on her lead foot to generate power in the hook. Jab-cross-hook-uppercut, dipping low and driving up through her legs.

But as she'd worked, as the sweat had started to drip down her face and her shoulders had started to burn, she'd found herself hitting harder than necessary. Each punch had been infused with frustration—at herself for thinking about Logan, at Logan for being kind to her, at the whole stupid situation for being so goddamn complicated.

"Easy," Coach Martinez had called from across the gym. "You're muscling it. Use your technique, not just your anger."

Yn had paused, breathing hard, and realized he was right. She'd been throwing punches like she was trying to knock the bag off its chain, all power and no precision. That wasn't how you won fights. That was how you got tired and sloppy and left yourself open to counters.

She'd taken a deep breath, reset her stance, and started again. This time, she'd focused on technique. On the snap of her jab, the rotation of her hips on her cross, the pivot of her feet on her hooks. She'd worked the bag for three rounds—three minutes of work, one minute of rest—and by the end, her lungs had been burning and her arms had felt like lead, but her head had been clearer.

Or at least, it had been clearer until Jessica Rodriguez had walked into the gym.

Jessica was a senior, one of the best boxers on the women's team, and someone Yn genuinely looked up to. She was tall and powerful, with a reach advantage that made her dangerous at distance, but she was also technical and smart, the kind of fighter who could adapt her strategy mid-fight. She was probably going to go pro after graduation, and Yn had spent the last two years trying to learn everything she could from her.

"Hey," Jessica had said, dropping her gym bag by the wall and starting to wrap her hands. "Didn't know you'd be here today. Thought you had the day off."

"I did," Yn had said, taking a long drink from her water bottle. "Just wanted to get some extra work in."

Jessica had given her a long, assessing look, the kind that made Yn feel like she was being x-rayed. "You good?" she'd asked. "You've been hitting that bag like it personally offended you."

"I'm fine," Yn had said automatically. "Just training."

"Yeah, but there's training and then there's whatever you're doing," Jessica had said, finishing her hand wraps and pulling on her gloves. "Which looks more like you're trying to punch your way through some shit."

Yn had opened her mouth to deny it, but something about Jessica's expression—concerned but not judgmental, curious but not pushy—had made her pause. Jessica was one of the few people on the team who really got it, who understood that boxing wasn't just a sport but a way of processing the world, of dealing with emotions that were too big or too complicated to handle any other way.

"Maybe I am," Yn had admitted quietly. "But it's working, so."

"Fair enough," Jessica had said, moving to the bag next to Yn's. "Just don't burn yourself out, okay? We need you for the tournament next month."

The tournament. Right. Yn had almost forgotten about it, which was ridiculous because she'd been preparing for it all semester. It was a regional collegiate boxing tournament, one of the biggest competitions of the year, and Coach Martinez thought she had a real shot at placing in her weight class. It was important. It was what she should be focusing on.

Not John Logan's stupid brown eyes or his stupid gentle hands or the stupid way he'd looked at her like she mattered.

"I won't burn out," Yn had said, resetting her stance and starting another round on the bag. "I'm just... focused."

"Focused on beating the shit out of that bag, apparently," Jessica had said, but she'd been smiling. "Not that I'm complaining. Good work."

They'd trained together for another hour, working through combinations and defensive drills, and by the time Yn had finished, she'd been exhausted enough that her brain had finally, mercifully, stopped thinking about Logan. She'd showered in the locker room, changed back into her regular clothes, and headed back to the apartment with a sense of accomplishment. She'd made it through the day without obsessing over the party. She'd focused on her training, on her goals, on the things that actually mattered.

She'd counted that as a win.

The problem was, the win didn't last.

Tuesday had started out fine. Yn had woken up feeling more like herself, had gone to her morning classes without incident, had even managed to participate in her Exercise Physiology discussion section without her mind wandering. But then she'd made the mistake of going back to the apartment between classes, and Hannah and Allie had been waiting for her.

"We need to talk," Hannah had said the moment Yn had walked through the door.

Yn had frozen, her hand still on the doorknob, every instinct screaming at her to turn around and leave. "About what?" she'd asked, even though she'd known exactly what Hannah wanted to talk about.

"About the party," Allie had said, sitting on the couch with her legs tucked under her. "And about the fact that you've been acting weird since Saturday night."

"I haven't been acting weird," Yn had protested, closing the door and dropping her backpack by the entrance. "I've just been busy. Training."

"You're always training," Hannah had pointed out. "But you're not usually this... avoidant. Every time Allie or I try to bring up the party, you change the subject. Every time we mention Logan, you get this look on your face like you're about to bolt."

"I don't get a look," Yn had said, moving into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Anything to avoid making eye contact with her roommates.

"You absolutely get a look," Allie had said. "It's the same look you get when someone asks you about your feelings. Like you're a cornered animal trying to figure out the best escape route."

Yn had filled her glass from the tap, taking her time, trying to figure out how to deflect this conversation. She'd known it was coming—Hannah and Allie were nothing if not persistent—but she'd hoped to put it off a little longer. At least until she'd figured out what she was feeling, until she'd processed the confusing mess of emotions that had taken up residence in her chest.

"There's nothing to talk about," she'd said finally, turning to face them. "I went to a party, I got drunk, I did karaoke, I passed out on a couch. End of story."

"Uh-huh," Hannah had said, in a tone that made it very clear she didn't believe a word of that. "And the fact that John Logan spent half the party watching you like you were the only person in the room? That's nothing?"

"He wasn't—" Yn had started, then stopped. Because he had been watching her, hadn't he? She'd felt his eyes on her multiple times throughout the night, had caught him looking at her with that expression she couldn't quite read. "He was probably just confused. I'm not exactly his type."

"What's his type?" Allie had asked, genuinely curious.

"Blonde. Busty. Boring," Yn had said immediately. "Girls who giggle at his jokes and don't challenge him and definitely don't threaten to break people's noses at parties."

"Okay, first of all, that guy deserved to have his nose broken," Hannah had said firmly. "He was being a creep. Second, maybe Logan's type is exactly someone who will challenge him. Did you consider that?"

"No," Yn had said, taking a long drink of water. "Because I don't care what Logan's type is. I don't do hockey players, remember?"

"Right," Hannah had said slowly. "The hockey player thing. Which is totally a reasonable boundary and not at all you being stubborn and closed-minded because of one bad experience in high school."

Yn had felt her jaw tighten, felt the familiar defensiveness rising in her chest. "It wasn't just one bad experience," she'd argued. "It's a pattern. Hockey players are arrogant and entitled and they think they can do whatever they want because they're good at a sport."

"So are boxers," Hannah had pointed out. "You're literally describing yourself right now."

"That's different," Yn had said.

"How?"

"Because I—" Yn had stopped, frustrated. She'd known Hannah had a point, had known that her blanket judgment of hockey players was probably unfair, but admitting that would mean examining why she'd built that wall in the first place. And she wasn't ready to do that. Not yet. "It just is, okay? Can we drop this?"

Hannah and Allie had exchanged a look, one of those silent conversations that best friends could have without words. Yn had seen the moment when they'd decided to let it go, at least for now.

"Fine," Hannah had said. "But for the record, Logan asked Garrett about you. Wanted to know if you were okay, if you got home safe. Garrett said he seemed genuinely concerned."

Something had twisted in Yn's chest at that, something warm and uncomfortable that she absolutely did not want to examine. "That's... nice of him," she'd said carefully. "But it doesn't change anything."

"Doesn't it?" Allie had asked, but she'd been smiling as she'd said it, like she knew something Yn didn't.

Yn had grabbed her backpack and headed to her room before they could say anything else. She'd closed the door, leaned against it, and let out a long breath. This was exactly what she'd been trying to avoid—this conversation, this examination of her feelings, this uncomfortable awareness that maybe, just maybe, she'd been wrong about John Logan.

She'd spent the rest of Tuesday afternoon in her room, ostensibly doing homework but mostly just staring at her laptop screen and thinking. About Logan. About the party. About the way he'd taken care of her. About the conversation they'd had on the deck, about how easy it had been to talk to him, about how he'd made her laugh even when she'd been determined not to like him.

It was confusing and frustrating and more than a little terrifying. Because Yn didn't do this. She didn't catch feelings for guys, especially not hockey players, especially not guys with reputations like Logan's. She was supposed to be focused on her training, on her goals, on the tournament coming up. She didn't have time for this kind of distraction.

But apparently her heart hadn't gotten the memo, because every time she closed her eyes, she saw Logan's face. Every time she let her mind wander, she thought about his hands removing her hair tie from her messy hair. Every time she tried to focus on something else, she found herself wondering what he was doing, if he was thinking about her too.

"Fuck," she'd muttered, closing her laptop with more force than necessary.

Wednesday had been more of the same. Yn had gone to her classes, had tried to focus on the material, had taken notes and participated in discussions and done all the things a good student was supposed to do. But her mind had been elsewhere, stuck on a loop of memories from Saturday night. She'd been distracted enough that her anatomy professor had called on her twice and she'd had to ask him to repeat the question both times.

After her last class, she'd headed straight to the gym again. She'd had actual boxing practice scheduled for Wednesday afternoon, which meant the whole team would be there, which meant she couldn't use training as an excuse to avoid her feelings. But at least she'd be busy. At least she'd have something to focus on besides the confusing mess in her head.

The practice had been intense. Coach Martinez had put them through a brutal conditioning workout—burpees and mountain climbers and jump squats until Yn's legs had felt like jelly—and then they'd moved into technical drills. Partner work, focusing on defensive techniques. Slipping punches, rolling under hooks, blocking and parrying and moving your head off the centerline.

Yn had been paired with Sarah Chen, one of the other boxers on the women's team. Sarah was fast and technical, a counterpuncher who excelled at making her opponents overcommit and then exploiting the openings they created. Sparring with her required complete concentration, which was exactly what Yn had needed.

They'd gone three rounds, light contact, focusing on technique rather than power. Sarah had been sharp, her movements crisp and precise, and Yn had found herself having to work hard just to keep up. It had been good. It had been exactly what she'd needed—something to occupy her mind completely, something that required every ounce of her focus and attention.

"You're aggressive today," Sarah had said after the third round, pulling out her mouthguard and grinning. "More than usual, I mean. Which is saying something."

"Just focused," Yn had said, breathing hard.

"Focused on beating the shit out of me, apparently," Sarah had laughed. "Not that I'm complaining. You're making me work for it. Good stuff."

After practice, Yn had showered and changed, and she'd been heading out of the locker room when Jessica had caught up with her.

"Hey," Jessica had said, falling into step beside her. "You doing okay? You've been kind of intense this week."

"I'm fine," Yn had said automatically. "Just training hard. Tournament's coming up."

"Tournament's not for another month," Jessica had pointed out. "And you're already in great shape. So what's really going on?"

Yn had stopped walking, had turned to look at Jessica, and she'd seen genuine concern in the other woman's eyes. Jessica wasn't just making conversation. She actually cared. And something about that—about being seen, about someone noticing that she wasn't quite herself—had made Yn's carefully constructed walls start to crack.

"I'm just... dealing with some stuff," Yn had admitted quietly. "Personal stuff. Nothing to do with boxing."

"Guy stuff?" Jessica had guessed, and when Yn had nodded, she'd smiled sympathetically. "Yeah, that'll do it. Guy stuff always messes with your head."

"I don't want it to mess with my head," Yn had said. "I want to just... not think about it. Focus on training."

"That's what we all want," Jessica had said. "But feelings don't work like that. You can't just punch them away, as much as we'd like to. Trust me, I've tried."

"What do you do, then?" Yn had asked. "When you can't stop thinking about something?"

"I deal with it," Jessica had said simply. "I sit with the feelings, I figure out what they mean, and then I decide what I want to do about them. Running away doesn't work. It just makes everything worse."

Yn had nodded, even though the idea of sitting with her feelings sounded about as appealing as getting punched in the face repeatedly. But Jessica was right. She couldn't keep avoiding this. She couldn't keep using training as an excuse to not deal with what was happening in her head and her heart.

"Thanks," Yn had said. "I'll... I'll think about that."

"Good," Jessica had said, squeezing Yn's shoulder. "And hey, if you need to talk, I'm around. Sometimes it helps to get an outside perspective."

Yn had walked back to the apartment slowly, taking the long way, trying to process what Jessica had said. She'd been so focused on avoiding her feelings, on pushing them down and pretending they didn't exist, that she hadn't stopped to actually examine them. What was she feeling, exactly? Why was she so scared?

By the time she'd made it back to the apartment, she'd still hadn't figured it out. But she'd known one thing for certain: she couldn't keep avoiding this conversation with Hannah and Allie. They were her best friends. They knew her better than almost anyone. And if she was going to figure this out, she was going to need their help.

Wednesday evening, Yn had been in her room trying to finish a paper for her biomechanics class when her phone had buzzed with a text from Allie.

Allie: emergency roommate meeting tonight. 7pm. be there or be square.

Yn: what's the emergency?

Allie: you'll see. just be there.

Yn: i have training

Allie: no you don't. i checked the team schedule. 7pm. don't make me come find you.

Yn had sighed, because she'd known when she was beaten. Allie might seem sweet and soft, but she had a spine of steel when she wanted something. There was no point in trying to avoid this.

So at seven o'clock, Yn had found herself sitting on the couch in their apartment living room, flanked by Hannah and Allie, feeling distinctly like she was about to be ambushed.

"Okay," she'd said, looking between her two roommates. "What's this about?"

"This," Allie had said, gesturing at Yn with both hands, "is an intervention."

"An intervention," Yn had repeated flatly. "For what?"

"For your commitment to being emotionally unavailable and refusing to acknowledge when you like someone," Hannah had said, and there had been something gentle in her voice that had made Yn's defenses start to crack.

"I don't—" Yn had started, but Allie had cut her off.

"You like Logan," Allie had said. "It's obvious. You've been weird ever since the party, you keep deflecting whenever we bring him up, and Hannah said you nearly had a breakdown in the kitchen yesterday when she mentioned that he asked about you."

"I did not have a breakdown," Yn had protested. "I was just... surprised."

"Surprised that a guy you spent half the party talking to was concerned about your wellbeing?" Hannah had asked. "Really?"

"We didn't spend half the party talking," Yn had said. "We had one conversation on the deck. That's it."

"One conversation where you guys talked about philosophy and sports and life," Allie had said. "Dean said Logan came back inside looking like he'd been hit by a truck. In a good way."

"That's not—" Yn had stopped, frustrated. She'd felt cornered, defensive, like she was being pushed into admitting something she wasn't ready to admit. "Look, even if I did like him, which I'm not saying I do, it doesn't matter. He's a hockey player. I don't date hockey players. End of story."

"Why not?" Hannah had asked, and there had been something in her voice—something soft and understanding—that had made Yn's carefully constructed walls start to crumble.

"Because," Yn had said, and she'd hated how her voice had wavered. "Because hockey players are... they're all the same. They're charming and fun and they make you feel special, and then they get bored and move on to the next girl. And I'm not—I can't be that girl. The one who gets left behind because she wasn't interesting enough or pretty enough or whatever enough."

There had been a moment of silence, and then Hannah had reached over and taken Yn's hand. "Jake really did a number on you, didn't he?"

Jake. God, Yn hadn't thought about Jake Morrison in years. She'd worked so hard to bury that memory, to pretend it hadn't affected her, to convince herself that she was over it. But hearing his name out loud had brought it all rushing back—the humiliation, the hurt, the crushing realization that she'd been nothing more than a conquest to him.

"Jake was an asshole," Yn had said quietly, and she'd felt her throat tighten with emotion she'd thought she'd dealt with years ago. "But he wasn't wrong. I'm not the kind of girl guys like that actually want. I'm too much. Too aggressive, too opinionated, too... everything."

"That's bullshit," Allie had said fiercely, and the vehemence in her voice had made Yn look up. "You're not too much. You're exactly enough. And any guy who can't see that doesn't deserve you."

"Logan sees it," Hannah had added softly. "I watched him watching you at the party, Yn. He wasn't looking at you like you were too much. He was looking at you like you were exactly what he'd been looking for."

"You don't know that," Yn had said, but her voice had lacked conviction.

"No," Hannah had agreed. "But I know Logan. I've known him for two years, since Garrett and I started dating. And I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at you. Not once."

"He's a player," Yn had said weakly. "Everyone knows that."

"He fucks a lot," Allie had corrected. "There's a difference. He's not a jerk about it. He's honest with the girls he sees, doesn't make promises he can't keep. And from what Dean says, he hasn't actually dated anyone seriously in over a year. He's been... I don't know. Waiting for something, maybe."

"Or someone," Hannah had added meaningfully.

Yn had pulled her hand away from Hannah's, had stood up and paced to the window. Outside, the campus had been settling into evening, students walking to the dining hall or the library or back to their dorms. Normal people doing normal things, not having emotional crises about hockey players who'd been nice to them one time.

"Even if all of that is true," Yn had said, not turning around, "it doesn't change the fact that I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be the girl who dates the charming hockey player. I don't know how to be soft or sweet or whatever it is guys like him want."

"Maybe he doesn't want soft or sweet," Allie had said. "Maybe he wants exactly what you are. Strong and fierce and real."

"And maybe," Hannah had added, "you're using this whole 'I don't date hockey players' thing as an excuse because you're scared. Which is fine, by the way. Being scared is totally valid. But don't pretend it's about hockey when it's really about you being afraid of getting hurt again."

Yn had closed her eyes, had pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. Hannah was right, of course. Hannah was always right about this kind of thing. Yn wasn't avoiding Logan because he played hockey. She was avoiding him because the way he'd looked at her, the way he'd touched her so carefully while she slept, the way he'd talked to her like her opinions mattered—all of it had made her feel things she hadn't felt in a long time. Things that were dangerous and complicated and terrifying.

"I don't know what to do," she'd admitted quietly, and it had felt like a confession.

"You don't have to do anything," Hannah had said, coming to stand beside her. "But maybe stop avoiding him? If you run into him, actually talk to him instead of running away. See what happens. You might be surprised."

"Or I might get my heart broken," Yn had said.

"Maybe," Hannah had agreed. "But you might also find something amazing. Isn't that worth the risk?"

Yn hadn't answered, because she hadn't known. She'd spent so long protecting herself, building walls and maintaining boundaries and refusing to let anyone get close enough to hurt her. The idea of letting those walls down, even a little bit, had been terrifying.

But it had also been, she'd had to admit, a little bit exciting.

"Tell me about Jake," Allie had said softly, sitting down on the couch. "I know the basics, but I don't think you've ever really talked about what happened."

Yn had turned away from the window, had looked at her two best friends sitting there with concern and love written all over their faces, and she'd realized that maybe it was time. Maybe it was time to stop carrying this around by herself, to stop pretending it hadn't affected her.

"Jake Morrison," Yn had said, sitting down between them. "He was a senior when I was a sophomore in high school. Hockey player, obviously. Captain of the team. He was... god, he was so charming. Funny and confident and he had this way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room when he talked to you."

"Sounds familiar," Hannah had murmured, and Yn had shot her a look.

"He pursued me for weeks," Yn had continued. "Showed up at my locker between classes, texted me constantly, asked me out probably a dozen times before I finally said yes. And I was fifteen and stupid and I thought he actually liked me. Thought I was special."

"What happened?" Allie had asked gently.

"We dated for three months," Yn had said, and she'd felt the old hurt rising in her chest. "He was sweet at first. Took me to movies, bought me flowers, all the typical boyfriend stuff. And then one night, after a party, we... we slept together. It was my first time. I thought it meant something."

She'd paused, had taken a deep breath, had forced herself to continue.

"The next day, he broke up with me," she'd said. "Just like that. Said he'd had fun but he was ready to move on. And then I heard him in the hallway with his teammates, laughing about it. Talking about how he'd 'finally nailed the angry sophomore' and how it hadn't been worth the effort. How I was too intense, too aggressive, too much work."

"Oh, Yn," Hannah had said, and there had been tears in her eyes.

"I was humiliated," Yn had said. "Everyone knew. Everyone was talking about it. And I realized that to him, I'd just been a challenge. Something to conquer. He didn't actually like me. He just liked the idea of being the guy who could tame the angry girl."

"That's not your fault," Allie had said fiercely. "That's on him. He was a manipulative asshole who used you."

"I know that now," Yn had said. "But at the time, I thought it was me. I thought I'd done something wrong, that I'd been too much, that if I'd just been different—softer, sweeter, more like the other girls—maybe he would have actually wanted me."

"And that's why you don't date hockey players," Hannah had said, understanding dawning in her eyes. "Because you're afraid they're all like Jake."

"I know it's not fair," Yn had said. "I know it's not rational. But every time I see a hockey player with that same confidence, that same charm, I just... I can't help but think about Jake. About how stupid I was to believe him."

"You weren't stupid," Allie had said. "You were fifteen and you trusted someone who didn't deserve it. That's not the same thing."

"Logan's not Jake," Hannah had added. "I know you're scared, and I know you have every reason to be. But Logan is genuinely a good guy. He's not perfect—none of us are—but he's not manipulative. He's not cruel. And from what I saw at the party, he's genuinely interested in you. Not as a conquest. As a person."

Yn had wanted to believe that. God, she'd wanted to believe it so badly. But the scared fifteen-year-old girl inside her, the one who'd been humiliated and hurt and left behind, was screaming at her to run. To protect herself. To not make the same mistake twice.

"What if you're wrong?" Yn had asked quietly. "What if I let him in and he turns out to be just like Jake? What if I'm not enough for him?"

"Then he's an idiot and we'll help you key his car," Allie had said immediately, and despite everything, Yn had laughed.

"But what if I'm right?" Hannah had said. "What if he's different? What if this could be something real? Are you really going to let Jake Morrison—a guy you haven't thought about in years—dictate your entire romantic life?"

Yn had sat there, caught between fear and hope, between the past and the possibility of a future. She'd thought about Logan's hands removing her hair tie, about the way he'd listened to her talk about boxing, about the way he'd looked at her like she was fascinating rather than frustrating.

"I don't know how to do this," she'd said finally. "I don't know how to let someone in. I don't know how to be vulnerable."

"Nobody does," Hannah had said. "Not really. We're all just figuring it out as we go. But you don't have to figure it out alone. We're here. And if Logan turns out to be an asshole, we'll be here for that too."

"With the keying of the car," Allie had added. "I'm very serious about that."

Yn had smiled, had felt something loosen in her chest. Maybe Hannah was right. Maybe it was time to stop letting Jake Morrison have power over her life. Maybe it was time to take a risk.

"Okay," she'd said. "Okay. If I run into Logan, I'll... I'll talk to him. I'll give him a chance."

"Really?" Hannah had asked, her face lighting up.

"Really," Yn had confirmed. "But I'm not making any promises. If he does anything that reminds me of Jake, I'm out. No second chances."

"Fair enough," Allie had said. "That's all we're asking. Just give him a chance to show you who he really is."

They'd spent the rest of the evening talking—about Logan, about Jake, about relationships and fear and vulnerability. And by the time Yn had gone to bed that night, she'd felt lighter somehow. Like she'd been carrying around a weight she hadn't even realized was there, and finally, finally, she'd been able to put it down.

Thursday morning had dawned cold and gray, the kind of October day that promised rain. Yn had woken up early, her mind still churning from the conversation with Hannah and Allie the night before. She'd tried to go back to sleep, but it had been useless. Her brain wouldn't shut off, kept replaying moments from the party, kept wondering what Logan was doing, if he was thinking about her too.

Finally, she'd given up and decided to go for a run. Running always helped clear her head, and she needed clarity more than anything right now.

She'd pulled on her running gear—leggings, a long-sleeve shirt, her favorite hoodie—and headed out into the pre-dawn darkness. The campus had been quiet at this hour, just a few dedicated students heading to early classes or coming back from all-nighters at the library. Yn had put in her earbuds, queued up her running playlist, and set off at an easy pace.

She'd run her usual route—around the perimeter of campus, through the park that bordered the athletic fields, past the hockey arena. She'd tried not to look at the arena as she'd passed it, tried not to think about the fact that Logan probably spent hours there every week, practicing and training and doing whatever it was hockey players did.

She'd failed, obviously. She'd looked. And she'd wondered.

By the time she'd made it back to the apartment, she'd been sweaty and tired and no closer to figuring out what she was supposed to do about John Logan. She'd showered, gotten dressed, and headed to her morning classes with a sense of resignation. Maybe Hannah was right. Maybe she just needed to stop avoiding him and see what happened.

The universe, apparently, had decided to take that as a challenge.

Yn's afternoon class was Exercise Physiology, held in one of the science buildings on the north side of campus. It was a lecture class, which meant Yn could usually zone out a bit while the professor droned on about muscle fiber types and energy systems. She'd been sitting in her usual seat—third row, left side, near the aisle for easy escape—when someone had slid into the seat next to her.

"Hey," a familiar voice had said. "This seat taken?"

Yn had looked up, and her heart had done something complicated in her chest.

John Logan was sitting next to her, looking unfairly good in a simple gray henley and jeans, his dark hair slightly damp like he'd recently showered. He'd been smiling at her, that same easy smile from the party, but there had been something uncertain in his eyes. Like he wasn't sure if she'd be happy to see him or tell him to fuck off.

"It's a free country," Yn had said, because apparently her brain had decided to stop working properly. "Sit wherever you want."

"Thanks," Logan had said, setting his backpack down and pulling out a notebook. "I didn't know you were in this class."

"I didn't know you were either," Yn had said, which had been true. She'd been taking this class all semester and had never seen him before. "Have you been here the whole time?"

"Yeah," Logan had said. "I usually sit in the back, but I figured I'd try a different spot today. Change of perspective, you know?"

Yn had known, with absolute certainty, that this was not a coincidence. Logan had deliberately chosen to sit next to her. Which had meant... what? That he wanted to talk to her? That he'd been thinking about her too?

"Right," she'd said, trying to sound casual. "Perspective."

The professor had started the lecture then, saving Yn from having to continue the conversation. She'd tried to focus on the material—they were covering anaerobic metabolism and the phosphagen system—but it had been impossible to concentrate with Logan sitting right next to her. She'd been hyperaware of his presence, of the way his arm occasionally brushed against hers when he took notes, of the way he smelled like clean soap and something else, something distinctly him.

Halfway through the lecture, he'd leaned over and whispered, "Do you understand any of this? Because I'm completely lost."

Yn had looked at his notebook and seen that he'd been taking notes, but they were sparse and disorganized. "You're not getting the ATP-PC system?" she'd whispered back.

"Not even a little bit," Logan had admitted, and he'd looked so genuinely confused that Yn had felt something soften in her chest.

"Okay," she'd said quietly, pulling his notebook toward her. "So basically, your muscles store a small amount of ATP—that's adenosine triphosphate, the energy currency of cells. When you need quick energy, like for a sprint or a heavy lift, your body breaks down the ATP into ADP and phosphate, which releases energy. But you only have enough stored ATP for about 10 seconds of maximum effort."

"Okay," Logan had said, watching her write. "So what happens after 10 seconds?"

"That's where phosphocreatine comes in," Yn had explained, sketching out a quick diagram. "Your muscles also store phosphocreatine, which can quickly donate a phosphate group to ADP to regenerate ATP. That gives you another 20-30 seconds of high-intensity effort. After that, you have to switch to other energy systems—glycolysis or oxidative phosphorylation."

Logan had studied the diagram, and then he'd looked at her with something like admiration. "You're really good at this."

"It's my major," Yn had said, shrugging. "Kinesiology. I kind of have to be good at it."

"Still," Logan had said. "Not everyone can explain complex biochemistry in a way that actually makes sense. You'd be a good teacher."

Yn had felt her cheeks heat up, which had been ridiculous. She didn't blush. She was not the kind of girl who blushed when guys complimented her. "Thanks," she'd said, turning back to her own notes.

They'd sat in silence for the rest of the lecture, but it had been a different kind of silence than before. Comfortable, almost. Like they were two people who could exist in the same space without it being weird.

When class had ended, Yn had started packing up her things quickly, planning to make a quick exit before things could get awkward. But Logan had been faster.

"Hey," he'd said, standing up and blocking her path to the aisle. "Can we talk? Just for a minute?"

Yn had looked at him, at the earnest expression on his face, and she'd known she couldn't run away. Not this time. Not after the conversation with Hannah and Allie, not after she'd promised to give him a chance. "Sure," she'd said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "What's up?"

"Not here," Logan had said, glancing around at the other students filing out of the classroom. "Can we go somewhere more private?"

Every instinct Yn had was screaming at her to say no, to make an excuse and leave. But she'd thought about what Hannah had said, about being scared, about using her rules as an excuse. And she'd thought about the way Logan had taken care of her at the party, about the gentleness in his hands.

"Okay," she'd said. "Where?"

They'd ended up at The Grind, a small coffee shop just off campus that was popular with students. It was crowded with the usual Thursday afternoon crowd—people studying, people gossiping, people just killing time before their next class or their evening plans. The air had smelled like espresso and cinnamon, and there had been indie music playing softly in the background.

Logan had bought them both coffee—he'd remembered that she took hers black, which had surprised her—and they'd found a table in the back corner, away from most of the noise. Yn had wrapped her hands around her coffee cup, using the warmth to ground herself, to keep from bolting.

"So," she'd said, looking at him across the small table. "What did you want to talk about?"

Logan had taken a sip of his own coffee—apparently he was a cream and sugar guy—and then he'd looked at her with those brown eyes that seemed to see right through her. "Why have you been avoiding me?"

Yn had opened her mouth to deny it, but the look on Logan's face had stopped her. He knew. Of course he knew. "I haven't been avoiding you," she'd said anyway, because she was nothing if not stubborn.

"Yn," Logan had said, and the way he'd said her name—gentle but firm—had made something in her chest tighten. "I asked Garrett about you. He said you've been at the boxing gym every day this week, that you've been training like you're preparing for the Olympics. Hannah said you've been deflecting every time she tries to talk about the party. And now I show up in a class you've been taking all semester, and you look like you're about to bolt."

"I'm not going to bolt," Yn had said, even though that was exactly what she'd wanted to do.

"Okay," Logan had said. "Then talk to me. Did I do something wrong? At the party, I mean. Did I overstep?"

"What? No," Yn had said quickly, because that was the last thing she'd wanted him to think. "You didn't do anything wrong. You were... you were really nice, actually. Taking care of me like that."

"Then what is it?" Logan had asked, and he'd sounded genuinely confused. "Because I thought we had a good conversation on the deck. I thought maybe we... I don't know. Connected?"

Yn had stared at her coffee, watching the steam rise from the surface. This was it. This was the moment where she could either be honest or keep hiding behind her walls. And she'd realized, sitting there in that crowded coffee shop with John Logan looking at her like she mattered, that she was tired of hiding.

"We did connect," she'd said quietly. "That's the problem."

"How is that a problem?" Logan had asked.

"Because you're a hockey player," Yn had said, looking up at him. "And I don't do hockey players."

"Right," Logan had said slowly. "Hannah mentioned that. Something about you thinking we're all pussies sliding on ice?"

Despite herself, Yn had felt her lips twitch. "I may have said something like that."

"Okay, but that's not really the reason, is it?" Logan had said, leaning forward. "Because you don't seem like the kind of person who judges people based on what sport they play. So what's the real reason?"

Yn had taken a long sip of her coffee, buying time. She could lie. She could make up some excuse about being too busy with training or not wanting to date anyone right now. But Logan had been looking at her with such genuine interest, such real concern, that she'd found herself telling the truth.

"I dated a hockey player in high school," she'd said. "He was charming and popular and he pursued me for weeks. I was fifteen and stupid and I thought he actually liked me. Thought I was special."

"What happened?" Logan had asked quietly.

"He got what he wanted and then he dumped me," Yn had said bluntly. "Moved on to the next girl. I heard him laughing about it with his teammates, talking about how I wasn't worth the effort. And I realized that to guys like him—guys like you—girls are just... conquests. Challenges. Something to win and then discard when you get bored."

Logan had been quiet for a long moment, and Yn had braced herself for him to get defensive or make excuses. But when he'd finally spoken, his voice had been soft and serious.

"That guy was an asshole," he'd said. "And I'm sorry that happened to you. But Yn, I'm not him. I'm not Jake."

"How do I know that?" Yn had asked, and she'd hated how vulnerable she'd sounded. "How do I know you're not just interested because I'm different? Because I'm a challenge? How do I know that once you figure me out, you won't get bored and move on?"

"You don't," Logan had said honestly. "You can't know that. Not for sure. But I can tell you that I've never met anyone like you. And I don't mean that in a 'you're not like other girls' kind of way. I mean that you're fierce and strong and you don't take shit from anyone, and when you looked at that guy at the party and made him apologize, I thought it was the hottest thing I'd ever seen."

Yn had felt her cheeks heat up again, and she'd looked away. "That's just... that's just me standing up for myself."

"I know," Logan had said. "And that's what makes it hot. You don't need anyone to fight your battles for you. You don't need anyone to take care of you. But that doesn't mean you can't let someone want to anyway."

"I don't know how to do that," Yn had admitted. "I don't know how to let people in. I don't know how to be... soft."

"You don't have to be soft," Logan had said. "I don't want you to be soft. I like you exactly the way you are. Sharp edges and all."

Yn had looked at him then, really looked at him, and she'd seen something in his eyes that had made her breath catch. He was serious. He meant it. He actually liked her, not some version of her that was more palatable or easier to deal with. He liked her.

"I'm still not going to be easy," she'd said, because she'd needed him to understand that. "I'm stubborn and aggressive and I have a lot of opinions about things. I'm going to argue with you. I'm going to challenge you. I'm not going to just go along with whatever you want."

"Good," Logan had said, and he'd been smiling. "I don't want easy. Easy is boring. I want you."

Yn had felt something crack open in her chest, something that had been locked up tight for a long time. It was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. "I don't date hockey players," she'd said, but there had been no conviction in her voice.

"Maybe you could make an exception," Logan had suggested. "Just this once. For me."

"I don't know," Yn had said, but she'd been smiling too. "You'd have to really convince me. Prove that you're not like the others."

"I can do that," Logan had said confidently. "I'm very convincing."

"We'll see," Yn had said.

And then they'd just... talked. For over an hour, they'd sat in that coffee shop and talked about everything and nothing. Logan had told her about growing up in Minnesota, about learning to skate before he could walk, about his family—the complicated, messy, beautiful parts of it that he didn't usually share with anyone.

His mom had struggled with addiction for years. He'd told her that quietly, his jaw tight as he spoke about coming home from hockey practice to find her passed out on the couch, about his dad trying to hold everything together while working double shifts at the mechanic shop. About his younger sister Jules, who was only two years younger than him, stepping up in ways no teenager should have to. She'd helped their dad run the shop on weekends, managed the household, made sure Logan had clean clothes and food in his stomach so he could focus on hockey—the thing that was supposed to be their ticket out, their family's salvation.

"She went to rehab when I was sixteen," Logan had said, and there had been relief in his voice, but also guilt. "She's been sober for eight years now. She's a teacher, actually. Elementary school. She's amazing." He'd paused, running his hand through his hair. "But I know what it cost her. What it cost all of them. My dad gave up his own dreams to keep us afloat. Jules gave up her teenage years. And my mom... she's fought so hard to get clean and stay clean, and I'm grateful for that, but there's this weight, you know? This pressure to make it all worth it. To make their sacrifices mean something."

He'd told her about his dad, who'd coached youth hockey for years, who'd taught Logan everything he knew about the game but who'd also taught him about integrity and hard work and showing up for people even when it was hard. "He never pushed me into hockey," Logan had said. "But I knew it mattered to him. I knew it was the thing that could change our family's trajectory. So I pushed myself. I made it my mission to be good enough to go pro, to make enough money that my parents could finally breathe, that Jules wouldn't have to work so hard."

"That's a lot of pressure," Yn had said softly.

"Yeah," Logan had agreed. "It is. And I don't know if I'm going to make it. I'm good, but there are a lot of good hockey players. And sometimes I wonder if I'm doing this for me or for them. If I even like hockey anymore or if I'm just... performing the role I've been cast in since I was five years old."

He'd looked at her then, and there had been vulnerability in his eyes. "I don't usually talk about this stuff. But something about you makes me want to be honest."

Yn had reached across the table and squeezed his hand, and in that moment, she'd understood him in a way she hadn't expected to. She'd understood the weight of family expectations, the complicated love that came with sacrifice, the fear of not being enough.

Yn had told him about her training, about the upcoming tournament, about why she'd chosen kinesiology as her major. She'd told him about growing up with a single mom who'd worked two jobs to support them, about how boxing had saved her when she'd been angry and lost and didn't know how to channel all the rage she'd felt at the world. She'd told him about Hannah, about their friendship, about the frying pan incident that had cemented their bond.

It had been easy, talking to him. Easier than Yn had expected. He'd listened when she talked, asked questions that showed he was actually interested, didn't try to dominate the conversation or make everything about him. And when she'd called him out on something—when he'd made a comment about boxing being "cute"—he'd immediately backtracked and apologized, acknowledging that he'd been condescending.

"I didn't mean it like that," he'd said. "I just meant... I don't know. I guess I'm not used to women who can actually fight. Most of the girls I know are more into yoga or running or whatever."

"That's because you only know a certain type of girl," Yn had pointed out. "The type who hangs around hockey players. But there are lots of women who do combat sports. We're just not usually in your social circle."

"Fair point," Logan had admitted. "I should expand my horizons."

"You should," Yn had agreed. "It's good for you. Keeps you from getting complacent."

"Is that what you're going to do?" Logan had asked, grinning. "Keep me from getting complacent?"

"If I decide to give you a chance, yeah," Yn had said. "That's exactly what I'm going to do."

"I'm looking forward to it," Logan had said, and he'd sounded like he meant it.

They'd talked about his reputation too, because Yn had needed to address it. She'd asked him directly about the girls, about the parties, about whether he was actually looking for something real or just looking for his next conquest.

Logan had been honest with her, which she'd appreciated. "I've dated a lot," he'd admitted. "I'm not going to lie about that. But I've never been dishonest with anyone. I've never made promises I couldn't keep or led anyone on. If I'm seeing someone casually, they know it's casual. And yeah, I've had fun. I'm twenty-one years old and I'm in college. I'm not going to apologize for that."

"I'm not asking you to apologize," Yn had said. "I'm asking you to be honest about what you want. Because if you're just looking for something casual, that's fine. But I need to know that upfront. I'm not interested in being another notch on your bedpost."

"I don't want casual," Logan had said, and there had been something intense in his eyes. "Not with you. I want... I don't know exactly what I want yet. But I know I want to get to know you. I want to see where this goes. And I'm willing to take it slow, to let you set the pace, to prove to you that I'm not Jake."

"That's a lot of pressure," Yn had said.

"I can handle pressure," Logan had said. "I'm a hockey player, remember? Pressure is kind of our thing."

Yn had laughed, and it had felt good. Natural. Like maybe this could actually work.

Eventually, they'd had to leave—Yn had training, and Logan had a team meeting. They'd walked out together, and when they'd reached the point where they needed to go in different directions, Logan had stopped and turned to face her.

"So," he'd said. "Can I see you again? Like, officially? Not just running into each other in class?"

Yn had hesitated, and she'd seen the moment of uncertainty flash across Logan's face. But then she'd thought about everything they'd talked about, about the way he'd listened to her and respected her boundaries and made her laugh. She'd thought about the way he'd taken care of her at the party, about the gentleness in his hands.

"Yeah," she'd said. "You can see me again."

Logan's face had lit up with a smile that had been almost boyish in its enthusiasm. "Yeah? Really?"

"Really," Yn had confirmed. "But I have conditions."

"Of course you do," Logan had said, still smiling. "What are they?"

"First, this is not me agreeing to be your girlfriend or anything official," Yn had said. "This is me agreeing to see where this goes. No pressure, no expectations."

"Okay," Logan had said. "What else?"

"Second, if at any point I feel like you're playing games or treating me like a conquest, I'm out," Yn had said firmly. "No second chances. I'm not going to waste my time on someone who doesn't respect me."

"I respect you," Logan had said seriously. "I promise."

"And third," Yn had said, "you have to come watch me train sometime. See what I actually do. Because if we're going to do this, you need to understand that boxing isn't just a hobby for me. It's who I am."

"I'd love to watch you train," Logan had said. "When?"

"I'll let you know," Yn had said. "I need to check with Coach Martinez first. Make sure it's okay."

"Fair enough," Logan had said. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he'd added, "Can I hug you?"

Yn had been surprised by the question—most guys just assumed they could touch her—but she'd appreciated that he'd asked. "Yeah," she'd said. "You can hug me."

Logan had stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, and Yn had let herself lean into it. He'd been warm and solid, and he'd smelled like coffee and that clean soap scent she'd noticed in class. It had been nice. More than nice, actually. It had felt safe.

When they'd pulled apart, Logan had been smiling down at her. "I'll text you," he'd said.

"You don't have my number," Yn had pointed out.

"I'll get it from Garrett," Logan had said. "Unless you want to give it to me now?"

Yn had rolled her eyes, but she'd pulled out her phone and they'd exchanged numbers. "Don't make me regret this," she'd said.

"I won't," Logan had promised. "I'm going to be the best exception to your no-hockey-players rule you've ever seen."

"You're the only exception to my no-hockey-players rule," Yn had said. "So the bar is pretty low."

"I'll take it," Logan had said, grinning.

Yn had walked toward the athletic facility with a strange feeling in her chest. It wasn't quite happiness—she was still too wary for that—but it was something close. Something like hope.

Her phone had buzzed before she'd even made it to the gym.

Logan: Already missing you. Is that too much? That's probably too much.

Logan: I'm going to play it cool now.

Logan: ...

Logan: How's your day going?

Yn had laughed out loud, earning a strange look from a passing student. She'd typed out a response.

Yn: You're terrible at playing it cool.

Logan: Yeah, I'm getting that. But in my defense, you're very distracting.

Yn: I'm not even there.

Logan: Doesn't matter. Still distracting.

Yn had shaken her head, but she'd been smiling as she'd walked into the gym. Coach Martinez had taken one look at her face and raised an eyebrow.

"You look different," he'd said. "Good different. What happened?"

"Nothing," Yn had said, but she'd known she wasn't fooling anyone.

"Uh-huh," Coach Martinez had said. "Well, whatever it is, channel it into your training. You've got that tournament coming up, and I want you focused."

"I'm always focused," Yn had said, starting to wrap her hands.

"You're always intense," Coach Martinez had corrected. "There's a difference. Intensity without focus is just aggression. You need both."

Yn had nodded, because he was right. She'd spent the last few days being aggressive, using training as a way to avoid her feelings. But now, maybe, she could actually focus. Maybe she could let herself feel things without it being a distraction.

She'd trained hard that afternoon, but it had been different than the previous days. She'd been present, focused on her technique and her footwork and her breathing. She'd worked the heavy bag with precision instead of just power, had practiced her combinations with intention instead of just throwing punches to burn off energy.

By the time she'd finished, she'd been exhausted but satisfied. She'd showered and changed, and when she'd checked her phone, there had been another text from Logan.

Logan: Dinner tomorrow? I know a place that makes great burgers. Unless you're one of those athletes who only eats chicken and vegetables.

Yn: I eat whatever I want. But I'm not really a dinner date kind of person.

Logan: What kind of person are you?

Yn had thought about it for a moment, then typed out her response.

Yn: The kind who'd rather do something active. Sitting across from each other at a restaurant feels too much like a job interview.

Logan: Okay. What do you suggest?

Yn: There's a climbing gym downtown. You ever been rock climbing?

Logan: Once, in high school. I was terrible at it.

Yn: Perfect. Tomorrow, 2pm. I'll text you the address.

Logan: You want our first date to be you watching me fail at rock climbing?

Yn: I want our first date to be something where we're actually DOING something instead of just sitting around talking. Plus, climbing is a good test of character. You can tell a lot about a person by how they handle a challenge.

Logan: Is this you testing me?

Yn: Maybe. Is that a problem?

Logan: Not at all. I like a challenge. 2pm tomorrow. I'll be there.

Yn: Good. And Logan?

Logan: Yeah?

Yn: Don't wear anything you're not willing to get sweaty in.

Logan: Now you're just trying to kill me.

Yn: See you tomorrow.

Yn had put her phone away, still smiling. She'd walked back to the apartment feeling lighter than she had in days, and when she'd walked in, Hannah and Allie had been waiting for her in the living room.

"So," Hannah had said, grinning. "How was class?"

"Fine," Yn had said, trying to sound casual.

"Just fine?" Allie had asked. "Because Garrett said Logan was planning to sit next to you in Exercise Phys today. Did he?"

"He might have," Yn had admitted.

"And?" Hannah had prompted.

"And we talked," Yn had said. "After class. At The Grind."

Both Hannah and Allie had squealed, actually squealed, and Yn had rolled her eyes even though she'd been fighting a smile.

"Tell us everything," Allie had demanded. "What did you talk about? What did he say? Are you going to see him again?"

"We talked about a lot of things," Yn had said, sitting down on the couch between them. "And yeah, I'm going to see him again. Tomorrow, actually. We're going rock climbing."

"Rock climbing," Hannah had repeated. "That's so you."

"I'm not doing the whole dinner and a movie thing," Yn had said. "That's boring."

"It's also traditional," Allie had pointed out. "But I like your way better. More interesting."

"So you're really giving him a chance?" Hannah had asked, and there had been something soft in her voice. "You're letting him in?"

"I'm trying," Yn had said honestly. "I'm scared as hell, but I'm trying."

Hannah had hugged her then, fierce and tight. "I'm proud of you," she'd said. "I know this isn't easy for you."

"It's terrifying," Yn had admitted. "But maybe that's okay. Maybe things that are worth it are supposed to be scary."

"Definitely," Allie had agreed. "The best things usually are."

They'd spent the rest of the evening talking and laughing, and for the first time in days, Yn had felt like herself again. Not the version of herself that was running away from her feelings, but the real version. The one who was strong enough to be vulnerable, brave enough to take risks.

Later that night, lying in bed, Yn had stared at the ceiling and thought about John Logan. About his brown eyes and his gentle hands and the way he'd looked at her like she was something precious. She'd thought about the conversation they'd had at The Grind, about how he'd listened to her and respected her boundaries and made her feel seen.

She was still scared. Still worried that this would end badly, that she'd get hurt again. But she was also excited, in a way she hadn't been in a long time. Because maybe, just maybe, Logan was different. Maybe he was worth the risk.

Her phone had buzzed one more time before she'd fallen asleep.

Logan: I know you're probably asleep, but I just wanted to say thank you. For giving me a chance. I know it wasn't easy for you. I'm going to do everything I can to prove that you made the right choice.

Yn had smiled in the darkness, her heart doing that complicated thing again.

Yn: Don't make promises you can't keep.

Logan: I never do. Sleep well, Yn.

Yn: You too, Logan.

She'd put her phone on the nightstand and closed her eyes, and for the first time in days, she'd fallen asleep without her mind racing. She'd fallen asleep thinking about tomorrow, about rock climbing and sweaty clothes and the way Logan smiled when he looked at her.

She'd fallen asleep thinking that maybe, just maybe, this could be something good.

And that was terrifying and exciting in equal measure.

Taglist -> @wintermoonly @libbyqypu @ifeelsthisway

[aetherialmuse]

Kindred Bruises Chapter 1/6

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pairings: John Logan x boxer!reader

genre/warnings; Sports Romance, Contemporary Romance, New Adult Romance, College Romance, Enemies to Lovers, Hockey Romance, Boxing Romance, Explicit sexual content, alcohol use, drug use/addiction, emotional trauma, abandonment trauma, family dysfunction, mental health struggles, anxiety, profanity, violence (boxing), toxic relationships, past emotional abuse, grief, family crisis, substance abuse recovery

Summary: Yn swears off hockey players, but when she meets John Logan, something ignites between them that she can't ignore—until he vanishes without explanation, triggering the very abandonment wounds she's spent years trying to bury. When a ghost from her past returns with dangerous intentions and a mysterious opponent appears in the ring, Yn must decide whether to face what's hunting her alone or let Logan back in. Some battles can't be won without the right person in your corner.

Continue...Chapter Two

9145 words

John Logan had a reputation that preceded him like the smell of expensive cologne in a crowded elevator—impossible to ignore and slightly overwhelming. At six-foot-two with shoulders that seemed engineered specifically for filling out a hockey jersey, dark hair that fell just perfectly imperfect across his forehead, and a smile that had launched a thousand regrettable decisions in dorm rooms across campus, he was exactly what every mother warned her daughter about. And yet, somehow, he made it work. Maybe it was the way his green eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, or the fact that despite being a shameless flirt, he was never cruel about it. John Logan liked women—loved them, actually—in all their forms and varieties, and he approached his college years with the enthusiasm of a kid in a candy store who'd just been told everything was free. He'd been the star center for the hockey team since freshman year, now in his senior year and serving as one of the alternate captains, and if there was a party, he was either hosting it or the reason it was happening. His teammates called him "Lucky Logan" partly because of his uncanny ability to score goals in the final seconds of a game, but mostly because he seemed to have an endless rotation of beautiful women who didn't seem to mind that he was constitutionally incapable of commitment. He wasn't a bad guy—not really. He opened doors, remembered names, always made sure his partners had a good time, and never made promises he couldn't keep. He was just... enthusiastically non-monogamous, and at twenty-two years old, he saw absolutely nothing wrong with that.

On this particular Friday night in late October, Logan was sprawling across the worn leather couch in the hockey house living room, a beer dangling from his fingers, watching his teammate and former captain Garrett Graham make an absolute fool of himself over his girlfriend Hannah. It was almost disgusting how in love they were, the way Garrett looked at her like she'd personally hung the moon and all the stars just for him. Logan didn't get it—didn't understand how someone could look at one person and decide that was it, game over, no more playing the field. But he was happy for his friend, even if he couldn't relate. Hannah was sweet, talented, studying music performance and apparently gifted enough that she'd already been approached about graduate programs. She had this wholesome, girl-next-door thing going on that made you want to trust her with your deepest secrets, and somehow she'd managed to domesticate Garrett Graham, which everyone had agreed was impossible.

"You're staring," Dean Di Laurentis said, dropping onto the couch next to Logan with enough force to slosh both their beers. Dean was dating Allie, Hannah's roommate, and the four of them had become this insufferably cute double-date situation that made Logan want to gag and also feel weirdly left out at the same time.

"I'm observing," Logan corrected, taking a swig of his beer. "There's a difference. I'm conducting a scientific study on how the mighty have fallen."

"You're jealous," Dean said with a knowing smirk.

"I'm really not," Logan replied, and he meant it. Or at least, he thought he meant it. The thing was, lately he'd been feeling this weird itch under his skin, this restlessness that even his usual activities couldn't quite scratch. He'd hooked up with Madison last weekend—gorgeous blonde, great tits, enthusiastic in all the right ways—and afterward, lying there in his bed, he'd felt... nothing. Empty. Like he'd eaten a meal that looked delicious but had no actual flavor. He'd chalked it up to stress about the upcoming season, about graduation looming in the spring, about the fact that his dad kept calling to ask about his "plans" like Logan had any fucking clue what he was doing after college. "I'm perfectly happy with my arrangement."

"Your arrangement," Dean repeated, laughing. "You mean your revolving door of blondes who all look vaguely the same?"

"I don't discriminate," Logan protested. "There was that brunette last month. And the redhead in September."

"My hero," Dean said dryly. "A true champion of diversity."

Before Logan could formulate a suitably sarcastic response, the front door burst open with enough force to rattle the windows, and Hannah came tumbling in with Allie, both of them laughing about something, their cheeks flushed from the cold October air. But it wasn't either of them that made Logan sit up straighter, his beer pausing halfway to his lips. It was the girl between them, and she looked like she'd rather be literally anywhere else on the planet.

She was small—maybe five-foot-four in the heeled boots she was wearing—but there was nothing delicate about her. Where Hannah and Allie had that soft, feminine energy, this girl was all sharp edges and coiled tension, like a spring wound too tight. She had dark hair pulled back in a high ponytail that showed off a face that was striking rather than conventionally pretty—strong jawline, full lips pressed into a line that suggested she was already annoyed, and dark eyes that were currently scanning the room like she was identifying exits and potential threats. But it was her body that really caught Logan's attention, and not in the way he was used to. She was wearing a tight black dress that showed off arms that were genuinely muscular, the kind of definition that came from serious training, not just casual gym sessions. Her shoulders were broader than Hannah's or Allie's, her waist narrow but her frame athletic and powerful. She looked like she could throw a punch that would actually hurt, and something about that made Logan's pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with his usual type.

"Who's that?" he asked Dean, trying to sound casual and probably failing.

"That's Yn," Dean said, and there was something in his voice—amusement, maybe, or warning. "Hannah and Allie's other roommate. The one they've been trying to get to come out for weeks."

"Why's it taken weeks?"

Dean grinned. "Because she thinks hockey players are, and I quote, 'pussies sliding on ice smacking a burnt krabby patty around.'"

Logan choked on his beer, coughing and sputtering while Dean laughed at him. "She said what?"

"Oh, that's not even the best part," Dean continued, clearly enjoying himself. "Apparently she's on the boxing team. Like, actually boxes. Competitively. And she's told Hannah multiple times that she'd rather die alone than date a hockey player because we're all disrespectful man-children who think we're God's gift to women."

"She sounds delightful," Logan said, but he couldn't take his eyes off her. She was currently extracting herself from Hannah's grip, saying something that made both her roommates laugh, and even from across the room Logan could see the way she held herself—balanced, ready, like a fighter even when she was just standing still. It was the most interesting thing he'd seen in months.

Three hours earlier, in the apartment that Hannah, Allie, and Yn shared about ten minutes from campus, a battle of wills was taking place that would have made Sun Tzu proud.

"Absolutely not," Yn said for what had to be the fifteenth time, not looking up from where she was wrapping her hands at her desk, preparing for her evening training session at the gym. She had a fight coming up in two weeks against a girl from State who supposedly had a killer right hook, and Yn needed to be ready. She didn't have time for parties, especially not parties at the hockey house, which was basically her personal version of hell.

"Come on," Hannah wheedled, flopping dramatically across Yn's bed in a way that would have been more effective if Yn actually looked at her. "You never come out with us. You're going to look back on college and realize you spent the entire time punching things and studying."

"Sounds perfect," Yn said, flexing her fingers and examining her wrapping job. "I like punching things. Things don't disappoint you or try to grab your ass without permission."

"Not all guys are like that," Allie chimed in from where she was rifling through Yn's closet without permission, which was bold considering Yn had once threatened to break a guy's nose for taking her protein shake from the communal fridge. "Garrett and Dean are great. And there are other guys on the team who are actually decent humans."

"Decent humans who play hockey," Yn said flatly. "Which is an oxymoron."

Hannah sat up, her expression shifting from playful to serious. "Okay, but real talk for a second? That thing that happened with Jake last year—that was one asshole. One. You can't write off an entire sport because of one bad experience."

Yn's jaw tightened. Jake had been a hockey player, a defenseman who'd seemed charming and funny until he'd gotten her alone at a party and decided that her 'no' was more of a suggestion than a boundary. She'd kneed him in the balls hard enough that he'd missed two games, and she'd never reported it because she'd handled it herself, the way she handled everything. But it had confirmed what she'd already suspected—hockey players thought they owned the world and everyone in it, and she wanted nothing to do with them. "It's not just Jake," she said, her voice harder than she intended. "It's the whole culture. The way they strut around campus like they're celebrities, the way girls throw themselves at them, the way they think a smile and some muscles mean they can do whatever they want. I've seen it a hundred times, Han. I'm not interested."

"So you're going to be alone forever?" Allie asked, emerging from the closet with a black dress that Yn had forgotten she owned. "This. You're wearing this tonight."

"I'm not going tonight," Yn said, but her conviction was wavering slightly because both her roommates were looking at her with those puppy-dog eyes that they'd perfected over the past two years of friendship, and she was weak for them in a way she'd never admit out loud.

"You owe me," Hannah said quietly, and that was a low blow because they both knew it was true. Yn had met Hannah when they were fourteen, scrawny freshmen at a public high school that was too big and too rough for someone as soft as Hannah. Yn had found her in the bathroom, surrounded by three older girls who were mocking her clothes, her voice, everything about her, and something in Yn had just... snapped. She'd grabbed a frying pan from the home ec classroom next door—still didn't know why there was a frying pan just sitting there, but she'd never questioned divine intervention—and she'd threatened those girls with a level of creative violence that would have made Wanda Maximoff proud. The girls had scattered, Hannah had cried, and they'd been inseparable ever since. Hannah was the soft to Yn's hard, the gentle to her aggressive, and Yn would have walked through fire for her. Which apparently now meant going to a stupid hockey party.

"That's not fair," Yn muttered, but she was already unwrapping her hands.

"Life's not fair," Hannah said cheerfully, bouncing off the bed with renewed energy. "Allie, start her makeup. I'll do hair. We have two hours to make her look less like she's about to murder someone and more like she's open to human interaction."

"I am open to human interaction," Yn protested as Allie physically dragged her toward the bathroom. "I interact with humans all the time. I interact with them in the ring when I'm punching them in the face."

"That doesn't count," Allie said, pushing Yn down onto the closed toilet seat and pulling out what appeared to be a full arsenal of makeup. Allie was studying art, and she approached makeup with the same intensity she brought to her paintings—which was to say, she took it very seriously and got offended if you didn't appreciate her vision. "And before you start complaining, I'm not doing anything crazy. Just enough to make your eyes pop and maybe make you look slightly less terrifying."

"I like being terrifying," Yn grumbled, but she held still as Allie started working, brushing something soft across her eyelids. The truth was, she didn't hate makeup—she just rarely had time for it. Between classes, training, and her part-time job at the campus bookstore, she was lucky if she remembered to brush her hair most days. But there was something nice about this, about her friends fussing over her, about feeling like maybe she was a normal college girl instead of someone who spent her free time getting punched in the face for sport.

"So here's the thing," Hannah said, appearing behind Allie with a curling iron that she was wielding like a weapon. "There's this guy. One of Garrett's teammates. And I think you'd actually like him."

"No," Yn said immediately.

"You didn't even let me finish!"

"Don't need to. The sentence started with 'there's this guy' and ended with 'Garrett's teammate,' which means hockey player, which means no."

Hannah exchanged a look with Allie, one of those wordless communications that came from years of friendship. "Okay, but what if I told you he's different?"

"They're all different until they're exactly the same," Yn said, but she was curious despite herself. "What makes this one special?"

"His name is John Logan," Hannah said, starting to work on Yn's hair, pulling it out of its ponytail and running her fingers through it. "He's a senior, alternate captain. And before you roll your eyes, just listen. Garrett says he's actually a really good guy. Yeah, he's got a reputation for being a player, but he's honest about it. He doesn't lead girls on or make promises he can't keep. And apparently he's funny and smart and—"

"And he sounds like every other hockey player who thinks his dick is a gift to womankind," Yn interrupted. "Pass."

"You're impossible," Allie said, but she was smiling as she applied mascara with careful precision. "What's your type, then? Since apparently athletes are off the table."

Yn considered this. The truth was, she didn't really have a type because she didn't really date. She'd had a few hookups over the years, a couple of brief relationships that had fizzled out when the guys realized she wasn't going to be the soft, accommodating girlfriend they wanted. She was too much—too aggressive, too independent, too focused on her own goals to make someone else the center of her universe. And she was fine with that. She didn't need a relationship to feel complete. She had her friends, her training, her future plans to open her own gym someday. Romance was just... not a priority. "I don't know," she finally said. "Someone who doesn't expect me to be something I'm not. Someone who can handle the fact that I'm not going to giggle at their jokes if they're not funny or pretend to be helpless so they can feel like a big strong man. Someone who sees me as an equal, not a challenge to conquer or a prize to win."

"That's actually really reasonable," Allie said softly, meeting Yn's eyes in the mirror. "And I think you might be surprised. Not every guy is intimidated by strong women."

"Most are," Yn said, but there was less bite in her voice now.

"Then fuck most guys," Hannah said cheerfully, wielding the curling iron with perhaps too much enthusiasm. "We're not trying to set you up with most guys. We're just asking you to come to a party, have a few drinks, maybe talk to some people. If you hate it, we'll leave. I promise."

Yn sighed, long and dramatic. "Fine. But I'm not wearing heels."

"You're absolutely wearing heels," Allie said, pointing the mascara wand at her threateningly. "Those boots with the chunky heel that you wore to my birthday dinner. They're sexy but you can still kick someone if needed."

"Why would I need to kick someone?"

"With your track record?" Hannah laughed. "Better safe than sorry."

An hour and a half later, Yn was staring at herself in the full-length mirror in their living room and barely recognizing the person looking back. The black dress Allie had found was tighter than anything she usually wore, hugging her athletic frame in a way that was definitely intentional. It had long sleeves and a high neckline, which she appreciated—she didn't need to show skin to feel confident—but it was short enough that it showed off her legs, which were muscular from years of footwork and training. Allie had done something magical with makeup that made her eyes look huge and dramatic, and Hannah had curled her hair so it fell in soft waves around her shoulders instead of its usual ponytail. The boots added three inches to her height, and when she looked at herself, she saw someone who looked like they could belong at a party, like they were someone worth noticing.

"Holy shit," she said quietly.

"Right?" Allie was practically vibrating with excitement, wearing a red dress that made her look like a vintage movie star. "You look hot. Like, genuinely hot. You're going to break hearts tonight."

"I'm going to break noses if anyone tries anything," Yn corrected, but she was smiling a little. "Okay. Let's get this over with."

The walk to the hockey house was cold, October in New England meaning that even though it was only eight o'clock, the temperature had already dropped into the forties. Yn was regretting the dress and the boots and every decision that had led to this moment, but Hannah and Allie were chattering excitedly on either side of her, and their enthusiasm was infectious despite her best efforts to remain grumpy. They were talking about some drama in Allie's art class, something about a guy who'd plagiarized his final project and gotten caught, and Yn let their voices wash over her as they walked, trying to prepare herself mentally for what was coming.

She'd been to parties before, obviously. She wasn't a complete hermit. But hockey parties were different—louder, more chaotic, full of people who all seemed to know each other and have inside jokes that she wasn't part of. She always felt like an outsider at these things, like everyone could tell she didn't belong, and it made her defensive in a way that probably wasn't helpful. But she was doing this for Hannah, she reminded herself. Hannah who had been there for her through everything, who had held her hair back when she'd gotten food poisoning sophomore year, who had helped her study for her organic chemistry final even though Hannah was a music major and had no idea what she was looking at. Hannah who deserved to have her best friend at her boyfriend's party without having to beg.

The hockey house was exactly what Yn had expected—a large, slightly run-down colonial that had probably been beautiful once but had been beaten into submission by years of college students treating it like a frat house. Music was pouring out of every window, loud enough that Yn could feel the bass in her chest from the sidewalk, and there were already people spilling out onto the front porch, red cups in hand and voices raised in laughter. Someone had strung up orange and purple lights for Halloween, and they cast everything in a slightly eerie glow that would have been atmospheric if it wasn't so clearly an afterthought.

"Ready?" Hannah asked, squeezing Yn's hand.

"No," Yn said honestly. "But let's do it anyway."

The inside of the house was even worse than the outside—packed with bodies, the air thick with the smell of beer and cologne and too many people in too small a space. Someone had set up a beer pong table in what was probably supposed to be a dining room, and a crowd was gathered around it, cheering as two guys Yn didn't recognize tried to land shots. The music was some kind of hip-hop that Yn didn't recognize, loud enough that conversation was nearly impossible, and everywhere she looked there were couples grinding against each other or groups of girls taking selfies or guys doing that thing where they stood in circles and talked too loud about sports.

"I hate this already," Yn said directly into Hannah's ear.

"Give it a chance!" Hannah shouted back, dragging her toward the kitchen where Garrett and Dean were waiting. Garrett lit up when he saw Hannah, pulling her into a kiss that was definitely too intense for public consumption, and Dean grinned at Allie, wrapping an arm around her waist. Yn stood there awkwardly, suddenly feeling like a third wheel—or fifth wheel, technically—and wondering if it was too late to fake a stomach ache and leave.

"Yn!" Garrett said when he finally came up for air, and he sounded genuinely happy to see her, which was nice. Garrett was a good guy, she had to admit. He treated Hannah like she was precious, and he'd never once made Yn feel like she was in the way when she hung out with them. "I'm so glad you came. Hannah said you were being stubborn about it."

"I'm always stubborn," Yn said, accepting the beer that Dean handed her even though she wasn't much of a drinker. "It's part of my charm."

"She's terrifying," Dean corrected with a grin. "There's a difference."

"I can be both," Yn said, taking a sip of the beer and immediately regretting it. It was cheap and warm and tasted like carbonated sadness, but she forced herself to swallow it because she needed something to do with her hands.

They stood there for a while, the five of them, and Yn tried to relax into the conversation even though she felt like she was performing being a normal person. Hannah and Allie kept shooting her encouraging looks, and she knew they were trying to help, but it just made her more self-conscious. She was about to excuse herself to find a bathroom—or a window to escape through—when someone bumped into her from behind, hard enough that she stumbled forward and beer sloshed out of her cup onto her hand.

"Watch it," she said automatically, turning around to see who'd run into her.

The guy was big—probably six-foot-three, built like a linebacker, with a red face that suggested he'd been drinking for a while. He was wearing a hockey jersey with a number she didn't recognize, and he had that particular brand of drunk confidence that made Yn's hackles rise immediately. "Sorry, sweetheart," he said, and his eyes traveled down her body in a way that made her skin crawl. "Didn't see you there."

"Maybe watch where you're going," Yn said, her voice flat.

"Maybe you should watch where you're standing," he shot back, and then—and this was the part that made Yn see red—his hand came up and brushed across her chest, ostensibly to steady himself but very clearly intentional. "Nice dress, by the way."

The entire room seemed to go quiet, or maybe that was just Yn's perception narrowing down to this one moment, this one asshole who thought he could touch her without permission. She felt Hannah's hand on her arm, heard Garrett say "Hey, man, not cool," but it was all distant, underwater. She stepped forward, into the guy's space instead of away from it, and looked up at him with the expression that had made grown men twice her size back down in the ring.

"Did you just touch my tits without asking?" she said, her voice deadly quiet.

The guy laughed, looking around at his friends for support. "What? It was an accident. Don't be so sensitive."

"An accident," Yn repeated slowly. "So your hand just accidentally groped me. That's what you're going with."

"Jesus, it's not that serious—"

"Here's what's going to happen," Yn interrupted, and her voice was still quiet but there was steel in it, the same tone she used in the ring when she was about to end a fight. "You're going to apologize. A real apology, not some half-assed 'sorry you're offended' bullshit. And then you're going to walk away and think very carefully about whether you want to go through life being the kind of man who thinks he can put his hands on women without consequences."

"Or what?" the guy said, but his bravado was cracking. He could see the crowd gathering, could feel the shift in the room's energy. This wasn't going the way he'd expected.

Yn smiled, and it wasn't a nice smile. "Or I'll break your nose. And then I'll break your hand. And then I'll make sure everyone at this party knows exactly what kind of person you are. Your choice."

There was a long moment where the guy seemed to be weighing his options, and Yn could see the exact second he realized she wasn't bluffing. She'd positioned herself perfectly—balanced, ready, her weight on the balls of her feet in a way that anyone with fighting experience would recognize as a threat. She wasn't some drunk girl he could intimidate. She was a boxer, and she was stone-cold sober, and she would absolutely follow through.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, taking a step back.

"Louder," Yn said. "And look at me when you say it."

"I'm sorry," he said again, meeting her eyes this time. "I shouldn't have touched you. It was wrong."

"Yes, it was," Yn agreed. "Now get the fuck out of my sight before I change my mind about the nose-breaking thing."

He left, practically running, and his friends followed him with backward glances that suggested they were reassessing their entire approach to women. The crowd that had gathered started to disperse, the music seemed to get louder again, and Yn became aware that her hands were shaking slightly from the adrenaline dump. She'd been ready to fight, her body flooded with the same chemicals that hit her in the ring, and now that the threat was gone she felt almost dizzy.

"Holy shit," Allie breathed. "That was the most badass thing I've ever seen."

"You made him apologize like a scared little boy," Hannah added, and she sounded proud and worried at the same time. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Yn said, and she was. This wasn't the first time she'd had to deal with handsy assholes, and it probably wouldn't be the last. "Can we get some air?"

They made their way toward the back door, pushing through the crowd, and Yn was so focused on just getting outside that she didn't notice the guy watching her from across the room, his expression somewhere between amazed and confused, like he'd just witnessed something that didn't fit into his understanding of how the world worked.

John Logan had seen a lot of things in his four years of college. He'd seen Tucker do a keg stand that lasted so long they'd genuinely worried he might die. He'd seen Garrett Graham, the most commitment-phobic person he'd ever met, fall so hard for Hannah that it was like watching a romantic comedy in real time. He'd seen Dean get into a fistfight with a guy from the football team over some perceived slight to Allie's honor. But he had never, in all his years, seen anything quite like what he'd just witnessed.

The girl—Yn, Dean had called her—had faced down a guy who had at least eighty pounds on her and made him apologize like a child who'd been caught stealing cookies. And she'd done it without raising her voice, without getting physical, just with the sheer force of her presence and the very real threat in her eyes that suggested she could and would follow through on her promises. Logan had been on his way over to intervene—he didn't tolerate that shit in his house, and he'd been about to tell Marcus to get the fuck out—but she'd handled it before he could even get there. She'd handled it better than he could have, actually, because Marcus had looked genuinely scared, and Logan didn't think he'd ever seen Marcus scared of anything.

"Did you see that?" he asked Tucker, who had appeared at his elbow with two fresh beers.

"The tiny girl who just made Marcus piss himself?" Tucker said, handing Logan a beer. "Yeah, I saw it. That was fucking incredible. Who is she?"

"Hannah's roommate," Logan said, still staring at the spot where Yn had been standing even though she'd disappeared toward the back door. "The boxer."

"Oh shit, that's the boxer?" Tucker's eyes widened. "Dude, Hannah's been talking about her for weeks. Apparently she's like, legitimately good. Won some regional championship last year or something."

Logan took a long drink of his beer, trying to process what he was feeling. He was intrigued, obviously—who wouldn't be intrigued by a girl who could command a room like that? But it was more than intrigue. It was fascination, the same feeling he got when he watched a really good hockey game, when he saw someone doing something they were genuinely skilled at. She'd been in complete control of that situation, and there was something incredibly attractive about that level of confidence and competence. "I want to meet her," he said.

Tucker laughed. "Good luck with that, man. Dean says she hates hockey players. Like, actively hates them. Apparently she thinks we're all 'pussies sliding on ice.'"

"She said that?"

"Direct quote."

Logan should have been offended. He probably would have been offended if it was anyone else. But coming from her, from someone who clearly had the skills and the attitude to back up her opinions, it was almost... funny? Challenging? He didn't know what it was, but he knew he wanted to talk to her, wanted to see if she was as interesting up close as she was from across a room. "I'm going to talk to her," he decided.

"This is going to be a disaster," Tucker predicted cheerfully. "I'm going to watch."

They made their way through the crowd toward the back door, and Logan found himself actually nervous, which was a new experience. He was never nervous around women. He was charming, confident, knew exactly what to say to make them laugh or blush or both. But something about Yn made him feel like his usual playbook wasn't going to work, like she'd see through any bullshit in about three seconds and call him on it. It was terrifying and exciting in equal measure.

He found her outside on the back deck, leaning against the railing with Hannah and Allie flanking her like bodyguards. She'd taken off her boots and was holding them in one hand, and even in bare feet she looked ready to fight, her posture alert and her eyes scanning the yard like she was looking for threats. Up close, she was even more striking than she'd been from across the room—her face all sharp angles and full lips, her arms genuinely muscular in a way that Logan found himself staring at, her entire presence radiating a kind of controlled aggression that made his pulse quicken.

"Hey," he said, and all three girls turned to look at him. Hannah smiled, Allie smirked, and Yn's expression didn't change at all, which was somehow more intimidating than if she'd glared at him.

"Hey yourself," Hannah said warmly. "Logan, this is Yn. Yn, this is John Logan. He's one of Garrett's teammates."

"I know who he is," Yn said, and her voice was lower than Logan had expected, with a slight rasp to it that suggested she either smoked or yelled a lot. "I've seen the posters around campus. 'Come watch the hockey team, support your local puck-slappers,' or whatever."

Logan laughed despite himself. "Puck-slappers. That's a new one."

"I have a lot of names for hockey players," Yn said, taking a sip of her beer and watching him over the rim of the cup. "Most of them aren't appropriate for polite company."

"Good thing this isn't polite company," Logan said, moving to lean against the railing next to her, careful to leave enough space that he wasn't crowding her. "That was impressive, by the way. What you did in there."

"What, standing up for myself?" Yn raised an eyebrow. "That shouldn't be impressive. That should be baseline."

"You're right," Logan agreed, and he saw something flicker in her expression—surprise, maybe, that he wasn't arguing with her. "But the way you did it was impressive. You had complete control of that situation. Marcus is a dick, but he's not usually a coward. You scared him."

"Good," Yn said flatly. "Maybe he'll think twice before putting his hands on someone without asking."

There was a moment of silence, and Logan became aware that Hannah and Allie were watching this interaction with barely concealed glee, like they were watching their favorite TV show. He ignored them, keeping his attention on Yn, who was still watching him with that assessing look, like she was trying to figure out what his angle was. "So you're a boxer," he said, because subtlety had never been his strong suit.

"So you're a hockey player," Yn shot back. "We've both established that we know basic facts about each other. Want to move on to something more interesting, or should we keep stating the obvious?"

Logan grinned. He couldn't help it. She was sharp and funny and completely unimpressed by him, and it was the most refreshing thing he'd experienced in months. "Okay, something more interesting. Why do you hate hockey players?"

"I don't hate hockey players," Yn said, and then paused. "Okay, that's a lie. I do hate hockey players. But it's not personal. It's more of a philosophical opposition to the entire culture."

"The culture," Logan repeated. "You mean the winning? The teamwork? The dedication to a sport we love?"

"I mean the entitlement," Yn corrected. "The way you all walk around campus like you own it. The way girls throw themselves at you and you just... take it, like it's your due. The way you think being good at a sport means you can get away with being shitty people."

"That's a lot of assumptions about people you don't know," Logan said, and he was careful to keep his voice light, non-confrontational. "I'm not saying you're wrong about some guys. But you're painting with a pretty broad brush."

"Am I?" Yn challenged. "Because from where I'm standing, I just got groped by one of your teammates, and the only reason he apologized is because I threatened him. Not because any of you guys stepped in to tell him he was out of line."

Logan winced because she had a point. He'd been about to step in, but she was right that he hadn't done it fast enough, that he'd let it get to the point where she had to defend herself. "You're right," he said quietly. "I should have shut that down faster. I'm sorry."

Yn blinked, and for the first time since he'd started talking to her, she looked genuinely surprised. "You're apologizing."

"Yeah," Logan said. "Because I fucked up. You shouldn't have had to deal with that alone."

There was another long moment where Yn just looked at him, and Logan had the uncomfortable feeling that she was seeing right through him, past all his charm and his carefully constructed persona to whatever was underneath. It should have been unsettling, but instead it was almost a relief, like he could stop performing for a second and just be himself. "Okay," she finally said. "Apology accepted. But that doesn't mean I like hockey players."

"Fair enough," Logan said. "Can I ask what you do like?"

"Boxing," Yn said immediately. "Training. The feeling of landing a perfect punch. My friends. Good food. Bad movies. Winning."

"Winning," Logan repeated, smiling. "We have that in common, at least."

"Winning at hockey is not the same as winning in the ring," Yn said, but there was less hostility in her voice now, more amusement. "In the ring, it's just you and your opponent. No team to back you up, no one to blame if you lose. It's pure."

"Hockey's pure too," Logan argued. "It's fast and brutal and beautiful. And yeah, you have a team, but that doesn't make it easier. It makes it harder, because you're not just responsible for yourself. You're responsible for everyone."

Yn considered this, tilting her head slightly. "Okay, that's actually a fair point. I still think you're all pussies for wearing that much padding, but I respect the team responsibility thing."

Logan laughed, loud and genuine, and he saw Hannah and Allie exchange a look that suggested they were very pleased with how this was going. "You know, you're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?" Yn asked. "Some delicate flower who needed rescuing?"

"No," Logan said honestly. "Hannah said you were tough. But I didn't expect you to be... this."

"This?"

"Interesting," Logan said, and he meant it. "Funny. Smart. Completely terrifying in the best possible way."

Yn's lips twitched, like she was fighting a smile. "Are you flirting with me?"

"I don't know," Logan admitted. "Is it working?"

"No," Yn said, but she was definitely smiling now, just a little. "But points for honesty."

They stood there for a while longer, talking about nothing and everything—her upcoming fight, his upcoming season, their respective training regimens, their plans after graduation. Logan found himself genuinely engaged in a way he rarely was with women he'd just met, asking questions because he actually wanted to know the answers, not because he was trying to get her into bed. Although, if he was being honest with himself, he definitely wanted to get her into bed. But more than that, he wanted to keep talking to her, wanted to see her smile again, wanted to figure out what made her tick.

Eventually, Hannah and Allie dragged Yn back inside, something about karaoke, and Logan watched her go with a feeling he couldn't quite name. Tucker appeared at his elbow again, grinning like an idiot.

"So?" Tucker prompted.

"So what?"

"So are you going to ask her out?"

Logan considered this. The smart thing would be to walk away, to recognize that Yn was not the kind of girl you casually hooked up with and then never called again. She was complicated and intense and would probably punch him if he tried his usual moves. But the smart thing had never really been Logan's style. "Maybe," he said. "If I can figure out how to do it without her breaking my nose."

"Good luck with that," Tucker said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I give it a week before she destroys you."

"Probably," Logan agreed, and he was smiling as he said it.

Inside, the party had reached that critical mass where everyone was drunk enough to think karaoke was a good idea. Someone had set up a machine in the living room, and there was already a line of people waiting to butcher various pop songs. Yn had been dragged into this against her will, but three beers in, she was starting to think it might actually be fun. Hannah and Allie were being ridiculous, singing some duet from a Disney movie with way too much enthusiasm, and the crowd was eating it up.

"You're next," Allie said, shoving the microphone at Yn when they finished.

"I don't sing," Yn protested, but she was already scrolling through the song list, looking for something that wouldn't be completely humiliating. She settled on "Before He Cheats" by Carrie Underwood, because if she was going to do this, she was going to do it with the appropriate level of aggression.

The opening notes started, and Yn grabbed the microphone with the same intensity she brought to everything else in her life. She wasn't a great singer—her voice was rough and she couldn't quite hit the high notes—but she committed to it fully, stalking around the makeshift stage area like she was actually planning to key someone's car. The crowd loved it, cheering and singing along, and by the time she got to the chorus she was actually having fun, pointing at random guys in the audience during the "I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive" part and making them laugh nervously.

She caught Logan's eye across the room, and he was watching her with that same fascinated expression from earlier, like he couldn't quite figure her out. She pointed at him during the next verse, just to see what he'd do, and he grinned and raised his beer in a salute. It should have annoyed her—she didn't want to be performing for some hockey player—but instead it made her sing louder, made her commit even harder to the bit.

By the time the song ended, she was breathless and laughing, and the crowd was going wild. Hannah and Allie tackled her in a hug, both of them screaming about how amazing that was, and Yn felt something in her chest loosen, some tension she'd been carrying all night finally releasing. Maybe parties weren't so bad. Maybe she could do this, could be a normal college student who went out and had fun instead of spending every night in the gym or the library.

She did two more songs—"Stronger" by Kelly Clarkson and, at Hannah's insistence, "I Will Survive"—and by the time she was done, she was genuinely drunk, the room spinning slightly and her inhibitions completely gone. She collapsed onto the couch next to Allie, who was in a similar state, and they both started giggling about nothing, that particular kind of drunk laughter that's contagious and unstoppable.

"I love you," Yn said to Allie, very seriously.

"I love you too," Allie said, equally serious. "You're my best friend. You and Hannah. My best friends in the whole world."

"We should get matching tattoos," Yn suggested, and this seemed like the best idea she'd ever had. "Something badass. Like... like brass knuckles. Or a boxing glove."

"Or a music note," Allie said. "For Hannah."

"A music note made of brass knuckles," Yn decided, and they both dissolved into giggles again.

The party continued around them, but Yn was fading fast, the combination of alcohol and emotional exhaustion from the confrontation earlier catching up with her. She was vaguely aware of Hannah and Garrett disappearing upstairs, of Dean sitting down next to Allie and pulling her into his lap, of the room gradually emptying out as people either left or found corners to make out in. Her eyes were getting heavy, and the couch was surprisingly comfortable, and she thought maybe she'd just close her eyes for a minute...

When Logan came back downstairs after helping Tucker deal with some drunk freshman who'd gotten sick in the bathroom, he found the living room mostly empty except for Yn and Allie, both passed out on the couch in positions that looked deeply uncomfortable. Dean was sitting in the armchair across from them, scrolling through his phone, and he looked up when Logan entered.

"They're out," Dean said unnecessarily. "Hannah and Garrett went upstairs like an hour ago."

Logan looked at Yn, really looked at her, and something in his chest did a weird flip. Asleep, she looked completely different—softer, younger, vulnerable in a way she'd never let herself be while awake. Her face was relaxed, her lips slightly parted, and her hair had fallen across her face in a way that made him want to brush it back. She was still wearing that black dress, and he could see goosebumps on her bare legs, could see the way her feet were tucked up under her like she was trying to stay warm.

"We should get them blankets," Logan said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended.

"Already on it," Dean said, and Tucker appeared from somewhere with two blankets and a bottle of ibuprofen.

Logan took one of the blankets and moved toward Yn, careful not to startle her. Up close, he could see the faint bruises on her arms—probably from training—and the calluses on her knuckles. She was a fighter, even in sleep, her body marked by the life she'd chosen. He draped the blanket over her gently, tucking it around her shoulders, and she made a small sound and shifted slightly but didn't wake.

Her feet were still bare, and Logan remembered seeing her take off her boots earlier. He looked around and found them by the back door, those chunky-heeled boots that she'd worn because they were "sexy but practical." The heels had left red marks on her feet, and Logan felt an unexpected surge of tenderness. She'd been uncomfortable all night, had probably been in pain, but she'd done it anyway because her friends had asked her to.

Moving carefully, Logan lifted her feet and removed them from where they were tucked under her, straightening her legs so she'd be more comfortable. The red marks were worse than he'd thought, and he found himself gently rubbing his thumb over one of them, trying to ease the indentation. Her skin was soft, softer than he'd expected from someone so tough, and he had to resist the urge to keep touching her, to explore the contrast between her fighter's body and these small moments of softness.

Her hair was still pulled back in that high ponytail, and Logan knew from experience—from his sisters, from past girlfriends—that sleeping with your hair up was a recipe for a killer headache. He hesitated, not wanting to overstep, but the thought of her waking up in pain because of something he could easily fix bothered him more than the potential awkwardness. Carefully, so carefully, he reached up and found the hair tie, working it loose from her dark hair. It took longer than he expected because he was trying not to pull or wake her, but eventually he got it free, and her hair spilled down around her shoulders in waves that still held the shape of the curls Hannah had put in earlier.

She looked beautiful like this, he realized. Not beautiful in the conventional way that the girls he usually hooked up with were beautiful—not soft or delicate or trying to be anything other than what they were. She was beautiful in the way a storm was beautiful, in the way a perfectly executed play was beautiful. Powerful and dangerous and completely herself.

Logan pulled the blanket down to cover her legs, making sure she was completely covered and warm, and then he did something he'd never done before in his life—he just sat there and watched her sleep. Not in a creepy way, he told himself. Just... observing. Trying to figure out what it was about this girl that had gotten under his skin so quickly, that had made him want to take care of her even though she clearly didn't need anyone to take care of her.

Dean was doing the same thing with Allie, Logan noticed, adjusting her blanket and moving a strand of hair out of her face with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his usual loud, joking personality. Tucker had set out two glasses of water and four ibuprofen on the coffee table, two pills by each glass, and was now taking pictures of the setup like he was proud of his work.

"We're good guys," Tucker announced, looking at his phone. "Like, genuinely good guys. We're going to make someone very happy someday."

"You're an idiot," Dean said, but he was smiling.

"An idiot who remembers to leave hangover supplies," Tucker corrected. "That's called character growth."

Logan laughed quietly, not wanting to wake the girls, and stood up from where he'd been kneeling by the couch. He took one last look at Yn, at the way the blanket rose and fell with her breathing, at the peaceful expression on her face, and felt that weird flip in his chest again. This was dangerous, he realized. This feeling, this fascination, this desire to know everything about her. He didn't do feelings. He did casual and fun and uncomplicated, and Yn was the opposite of all of those things.

But as he headed upstairs to his room, he couldn't stop thinking about her. About the way she'd stood up to Marcus without flinching. About the way she'd argued with him on the deck, challenging every assumption he'd made. About the way she'd sung karaoke like she was going to war, fully committed even though she was clearly out of her comfort zone. About the soft skin of her feet and the calluses on her knuckles and the way she looked when she finally let her guard down.

He was in trouble, Logan thought as he collapsed onto his bed, still fully dressed. He was in so much trouble, and the worst part was, he didn't even want to get out of it.

Yn woke up to sunlight stabbing her directly in the eyeballs and a headache that felt like someone was using her skull as a drum. She groaned and tried to sit up, only to realize she was on a couch that wasn't hers, covered in a blanket she didn't recognize, with no memory of how she'd gotten there. Panic flared for a second before the previous night came flooding back—the party, the confrontation, the karaoke, the drinking. So much drinking.

"Oh god," she muttered, pressing her hands to her face. She'd gotten drunk at a hockey party. She'd sung karaoke at a hockey party. She'd talked to John Logan at a hockey party, and she thought maybe she'd actually enjoyed it, which was possibly the most horrifying part of the entire evening.

"Morning, sunshine," Allie's voice came from somewhere to her left, and Yn turned her head (carefully, because sudden movements seemed like a bad idea) to see her roommate in a similar state of disarray on the other end of the couch. "How's the head?"

"Terrible," Yn said. "Yours?"

"Like death," Allie confirmed. "But there's ibuprofen and water on the coffee table, which means someone took care of us last night."

Yn looked at the coffee table and saw that Allie was right—two glasses of water, four pills, clearly set out intentionally. She grabbed two of the pills and one of the glasses, downing both gratefully, and tried to piece together the end of the night. She remembered singing, remembered laughing with Allie, remembered feeling happy and loose and free in a way she rarely let herself feel. But after that, it was fuzzy.

"Did we... did we just pass out here?" she asked.

"I think so," Allie said, taking her own pills. "Hannah and Garrett went upstairs, and I guess Dean and the guys decided to let us sleep it off rather than trying to get us home."

Yn looked down at herself and realized several things at once. One, her boots were off and placed neatly by the couch. Two, her hair was down, even though she distinctly remembered wearing it up. Three, she was covered with a blanket that smelled like cologne and laundry detergent, and it was tucked around her carefully, like someone had taken the time to make sure she was comfortable.

"Someone took off my boots," she said slowly.

"Someone took out my hair tie too," Allie said, touching her own loose hair. "And I'm pretty sure I didn't do that myself because I was way too drunk to be that coordinated."

They looked at each other, and Yn saw her own confusion reflected in Allie's face. Someone had taken care of them. Not just thrown blankets at them and left them to fend for themselves, but actually taken care of them—removed uncomfortable shoes, fixed their hair, left hangover supplies. It was... sweet. Unexpectedly, genuinely sweet.

"Huh," Yn said, because she didn't know what else to say.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made them both look up, and Dean appeared, looking far too awake and cheerful for someone who'd been at the same party they had. "Morning," he said, grinning at them. "How are we feeling?"

"Like death," Allie said. "But thank you for the ibuprofen."

"That was Tucker's idea," Dean said. "Well, Tucker's idea and Logan's execution. They were very concerned about you two."

"Logan," Yn repeated, and something clicked into place. "Logan took my hair down."

"He did," Dean confirmed. "He said something about how sleeping with your hair up gives you a worse headache, and you were already going to feel like shit, so he wanted to help. It was actually kind of sweet. Don't tell him I said that."

Yn didn't know what to do with this information. John Logan, notorious player, had taken care of her while she was passed out drunk. Had made sure she was comfortable, had thought about her headache, had been gentle enough that she hadn't even woken up. It didn't fit with her image of him, with her image of hockey players in general, and it made her feel off-balance in a way that had nothing to do with the hangover.

"Where is he?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

"Still asleep, probably," Dean said. "It's only nine. Most people won't be up for a few more hours."

Yn nodded and stood up, testing her balance. She felt like shit, but she'd felt worse after hard training sessions. "I should go home. Shower. Pretend last night didn't happen."

"Last night was fun," Allie protested, standing up too and immediately swaying. Dean caught her, and she leaned into him gratefully. "You had fun. Admit it."

"I had... a tolerable time," Yn conceded, because she wasn't quite ready to admit that Allie was right. "But I still don't like hockey players."

"Sure," Allie said, smirking. "Keep telling yourself that."

They gathered their things—boots, phones, the dignity they'd left scattered around the living room—and headed for the door. Yn paused at the threshold, looking back at the couch where she'd slept, at the blanket still draped across it, at the empty glass on the coffee table. She thought about Logan's hands carefully taking out her hair tie, about the tenderness in those small gestures.

"Fuck," she said quietly.

"What?" Allie asked.

"Nothing," Yn said, and she walked out into the bright October morning, trying very hard not to think about green eyes and gentle hands and the way John Logan had looked at her like she was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen.

She was in trouble. She was in so much trouble. And the worst part was, she was starting to think she didn't mind.

Taglist -> @wintermoonly @libbyqypu @ifeelsthisway 

[minjixficrecs]

another hidden gem

[dilaurentispuckbunny]

Enemy Blood {Garrett Graham x twin sister} Part 2

Masterlist

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

Again different universe, where female and male can play hockey together :)

Wilkinson

Garrett couldn't focus.

That was the first problem.

The second problem was that Y/N knew it.

He knew she knew because every single time his attention drifted towards her, even for half a second, she was already looking back.

Not staring.

That would've been too obvious.

Y/N had always been good at subtlety when she wanted to be. Even as children, she'd been able to lie directly to their father's face with an expression so innocent that Garrett had almost believed her himself. She'd sneak biscuits upstairs after dinner, hide Garrett's broken toys before their father could see them, and once she'd managed to convince a teacher that Garrett had been late because he'd stopped to help an injured bird.

There had been no bird.

Garrett had overslept.

Y/N had always been a terrifyingly good liar.

Apparently, twelve years hadn't changed that.

Because she skated around the ice as though seeing him meant absolutely nothing.

"Garrett!"

Logan's shout came a second too late.

A body slammed into Garrett's side.

His skates slipped beneath him, shoulder crashing against the boards hard enough to rattle his teeth. The crowd erupted around him as an Eastwood player stole possession, immediately sending the puck towards centre ice.

Garrett swore.

"Wake the fuck up!" Logan yelled as he skated past.

Garrett pushed himself away from the boards.

"I'm awake."

"Could've fooled me."

Garrett ignored him.

His gaze flickered towards number seventeen.

Y/N was laughing.

Actually fucking laughing.

She skated backwards, stick held loosely in one hand as she watched him regain his balance. The smirk stretching across her face was so painfully familiar that something hot and ugly twisted inside his chest.

Garrett glared.

Y/N blew him a kiss.

His jaw tightened.

Oh.

So that was how she wanted to play.

Fine.

Garrett had spent years learning how to control his temper on the ice. Coach Jensen had drilled discipline into him until retaliating became something Garrett rarely considered.

But Y/N wasn't some random opponent.

She was his twin sister.

Which meant Garrett knew exactly how competitive she was.

Or at least, he used to.

The puck dropped again.

This time Garrett was ready.

He intercepted a pass near the blue line and immediately pushed forward. One Eastwood defender moved to block him, but Garrett shifted his weight, sliding the puck cleanly around their stick before accelerating towards the goal.

The crowd grew louder.

Garrett barely heard them.

Because number seventeen was coming straight towards him.

Y/N lowered her stance.

Garrett almost smiled.

There she was.

For one ridiculous second, they were thirteen again.

Skating on the frozen pond behind their house.

Y/N complaining that Garrett cheated.

Garrett reminding her that she simply sucked.

Their mother standing near the edge of the ice with two mugs of hot chocolate, laughing every time one of them threatened to shove the other into a snowbank.

Then Y/N slammed into him.

Hard.

Garrett hit the ice.

The memory shattered.

The whistle blew.

The crowd exploded.

Y/N stopped beside him, spraying ice across his jersey.

Garrett stared up at her.

She stared down.

For the first time in twelve years, they were close enough that he could actually see her.

There was a tiny scar cutting through her left eyebrow.

That was new.

Her hair was darker than he remembered.

Longer.

Her face had lost the softness of childhood, cheekbones sharper, eyes harder.

But her eyes—

Fuck.

Their mother's eyes.

Garrett's chest tightened.

Y/N leaned forward slightly.

"Still slow, Graham."

Her voice.

Garrett had forgotten her voice.

Not completely.

Sometimes, late at night, he'd tried to remember it.

He could remember her laugh.

Could remember her screaming his name whenever she wanted him to kill a spider.

Could remember her whispering through the wall between their bedrooms when their father was in one of his moods.

You awake, Gare?

Yeah.

Me too.

But twelve years was a long time.

Her voice was lower now.

Older.

Garrett pushed himself upright.

"Still running away, Wilkinson?"

The smirk disappeared.

Instantly.

Garrett saw the hit land.

A tiny flicker in her expression.

Pain.

Then nothing.

Y/N straightened.

"Careful."

Garrett rose to his feet.

"Why?"

"Because you don't know me anymore."

He stepped closer.

"Whose fault is that?"

The referee skated towards them.

"Break it up!"

Neither moved.

Garrett stared at her.

Y/N's grip tightened around her stick.

"You left."

Her eyes flashed.

"You stayed."

Garrett actually recoiled.

"What the fuck was I supposed to do?"

Y/N laughed.

It was humourless.

"Exactly."

The referee shoved between them.

"I said break it up!"

Y/N skated backwards.

Garrett couldn't move.

You stayed.

Two words.

That was all it took.

Twelve years of wondering where she'd gone.

Twelve years of wondering whether she was alive.

Twelve years of birthdays spent staring at the empty chair across the table.

And somehow—

She was angry at him.

Garrett didn't understand.

He didn't fucking understand.

Briar lost.

Four-three.

Garrett couldn't remember the last time he'd played that badly.

Coach Jensen didn't even bother hiding his frustration as the team filed into the locker room.

"Graham."

Garrett stopped.

Coach pointed towards the bench.

"Sit."

Dean winced.

"Ouch."

"Di Laurentis."

Dean immediately disappeared into the showers.

Garrett dropped onto the bench.

Coach waited until the locker room had mostly emptied.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit."

Garrett stared at the floor.

Coach crossed his arms.

"You missed two passes."

Garrett said nothing.

"You lost possession four times."

Still nothing.

"And I've watched you stare at Eastwood's number seventeen like she personally murdered your dog."

Garrett's jaw tightened.

Coach sighed.

"Talk."

Garrett leaned forward, elbows resting against his knees.

"She's my sister."

Silence.

Coach blinked.

"What?"

"My twin sister."

Coach stared at him.

"The one who—"

"Yeah."

Garrett didn't need him to finish.

Everyone who knew Garrett's family history knew about Y/N.

Or at least the version Garrett had told them.

His sister disappeared when they were fifteen.

Never found.

Presumed alive.

Garrett had eventually stopped discussing it.

Coach slowly sat beside him.

"You didn't know she played for Eastwood?"

"No."

"You didn't know where she was?"

"No."

"Jesus."

Garrett rubbed his hands over his face.

"She changed her name."

Coach frowned.

"Wilkinson."

"My mom's maiden name."

Understanding slowly crossed his face.

Garrett hated it.

He hated the pity.

He hated the sympathy.

Mostly, he hated that Y/N had apparently built an entire life without him.

She played hockey.

She was an alternate captain.

Her teammates clearly adored her.

She'd looked—

Happy.

Garrett had spent twelve years imagining her scared.

Alone.

Struggling.

Instead she'd been here.

Playing college hockey.

Living.

While Garrett had been waiting for a phone call that never came.

"I'm going to talk to her."

Coach immediately shook his head.

"Garrett—"

"I'm not asking."

He stood.

The Eastwood locker room was down the opposite corridor.

Garrett didn't make it that far.

He found her near the vending machines.

Y/N was leaning against the wall, still wearing her Eastwood tracksuit, hair damp from the shower. She was laughing with another player when she noticed Garrett approaching.

The laughter stopped.

Her teammate glanced between them.

"You good, Wilks?"

Wilks.

Garrett hated that.

Y/N nodded.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Her teammate hesitated before walking away.

Garrett waited.

Y/N folded her arms.

"Are you stalking me now?"

"Twelve years."

Her expression didn't change.

Garrett stepped closer.

"Twelve fucking years."

"I can count."

"Where were you?"

"Around."

Garrett laughed sharply.

"Around?"

"Yeah."

"That's your answer?"

Y/N shrugged.

"It's the only one you're getting."

Garrett stared at her.

He couldn't believe this.

"Do you have any idea what I went through?"

Something flickered across her face.

Then disappeared.

"Do you?"

Garrett frowned.

"What?"

Y/N pushed away from the wall.

"You heard me."

"No, actually, I don't think I did."

She stepped closer.

They were almost the same height in their skates.

Without them, Garrett knew she'd be shorter.

He remembered teasing her about it.

She'd once kicked him in the shin.

"You don't get to stand here and demand answers from me."

Garrett's temper snapped.

"You disappeared!"

Several people turned.

Garrett didn't care.

"The police searched for you!"

Y/N's face hardened.

"I know."

Garrett froze.

"...You know?"

"Yeah."

"You knew?"

Her jaw clenched.

"And you didn't come back?"

"No."

The answer was immediate.

Garrett felt something inside him crack.

"Why?"

Y/N looked at him.

For a second—

Just one—

Garrett saw his sister.

The girl who used to crawl into his bed during thunderstorms.

The girl who held his hand at their mother's funeral so tightly his fingers went numb.

The girl who whispered that they only needed each other.

Then her expression closed.

"Because I didn't want to."

Garrett stared.

Y/N walked past him.

He turned.

"Y/N."

She stopped.

The corridor went quiet.

Garrett swallowed.

He hadn't said her name in years.

Not out loud.

Y/N slowly looked over her shoulder.

Garrett's voice dropped.

"Why didn't you take me with you?"

There.

The question he'd carried since he was fifteen.

The question that had haunted every birthday.

Every Christmas.

Every fucking night he'd spent listening to his father's footsteps outside his bedroom.

Y/N went completely still.

Garrett waited.

For an apology.

An explanation.

Anything.

Instead, she looked him directly in the eyes.

"Because you would've slowed me down."

Garrett forgot how to breathe.

Y/N turned away.

Her footsteps disappeared down the corridor.

She didn't see Garrett stand there long after she'd gone.

She didn't see his hands shaking.

And she definitely didn't see him pull his phone from his pocket later that night, sit alone in his truck, and search two words he'd avoided for twelve years.

Y/N Wilkinson.

The results appeared instantly.

Hockey statistics.

Eastwood University articles.

Tournament photographs.

Interviews.

Years of his sister's life.

Garrett clicked the oldest result he could find.

A local newspaper article.

The photograph showed a sixteen-year-old Y/N standing beside an older woman Garrett didn't recognise, holding a hockey trophy.

Garrett stared at the caption.

Then read it again.

Local foster teen Y/N Wilkinson earns regional hockey scholarship after remarkable season.

Foster teen.

Garrett's blood ran cold.

"No."

He scrolled.

His eyes moved rapidly across the article.

Entered the foster system at fifteen.

Found sleeping in a bus station.

No known family willing to take custody.

Garrett stopped breathing.

No known family.

His hands tightened around his phone.

"That's not true."

His voice cracked inside the empty truck.

"I was there."

Garrett stared at the picture of his sister.

Fifteen years old.

Too thin.

Smiling at a camera.

Wearing their mother's surname.

For twelve years, Garrett had believed Y/N ran away because she didn't want him.

But for the first time, another thought entered his mind.

One far worse than anything he'd allowed himself to consider.

What if Y/N hadn't known he was waiting for her?

And what if someone had made sure she never found out?

Taglist {Open}: @raynetargaryan2 @freezing82 @kmc1989 @hannahwestt @lennonpotterf1 @ilocuras24 @persasseajackson @superbfishhumanoidweasel @garrettgrahamssexysnaps @parker-barnes-af @coldheartedmar @purplerainx1 @herondale-lightworm @watercolorskyy @finelinekels @matchieee @katrinaellie @missbmc94 @readinf @straykids1011 @duruxoxo @monayyy-21 @devilacot @smilezzz-artzs

[dilaurentispuckbunny]

I was wondering if you could do a garrett x twin sister where they have a horrible relationship and haven’t seen each other in years and the first time they see each other is when he playing Eastwood cause she plays for them under there mothers maiden name? You can decide how it plays out but I need drama and maybe she close to Hannah’s r*pist? Or it’s just her trying her best to piss off garrett?

Enemy Blood {Garrett Graham x twin sister} Part 1

Masterlist

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

So in this new fic, male and female can play on the same teams okay? it's a different universe :)

The arena was loud long before the puck ever hit the ice.

Music echoed through the stands as students from both universities poured into the seats, faces painted in school colours, homemade signs waving above the crowd. The annual charity exhibition between Briar University and Eastwood University had become something of a tradition over the years. It wasn't just about hockey—it was pride, rivalry, and the chance to remind everyone exactly which school belonged at the top.

Garrett Graham sat in the Briar locker room, methodically wrapping fresh tape around the blade of his stick.

The routine never changed.

Tape.

Pull.

Smooth.

Repeat.

It was calming in a way nothing else really was.

Around him, Dean was trying—and failing—to convince Logan that he'd somehow become more attractive over the summer.

"You know," Dean said confidently, adjusting his reflection in one of the lockers, "I think I've matured."

Logan snorted.

"You've learned how to use moisturizer. That's not maturity."

"I've also started reading."

Garrett looked up.

"A menu doesn't count."

The room erupted with laughter.

Dean pointed accusingly.

"I hate all of you."

"No," Garrett replied with a grin as he stood, rolling his shoulders beneath his jersey. "You love us."

"Unfortunately."

The easy banter settled the usual pre-game nerves. This was home. His teammates, his friends, the familiar smell of sharpened skates and fresh ice drifting beneath the locker room door.

For a few precious moments, life felt uncomplicated.

Coach Jensen pushed through the doorway.

"Five minutes."

The room immediately shifted gears.

Helmets were picked up.

Gloves adjusted.

Shoulder pads tugged into place.

Garrett reached into his locker for the small photograph tucked inside.

It was faded now.

Corners bent from years of handling.

The picture showed two ten-year-olds covered in mud after trying—and spectacularly failing—to build a treehouse in the back garden.

Both were missing front teeth.

Both were laughing so hard the camera had blurred.

Garrett and his twin sister.

It was the only photograph he still had of her.

His thumb brushed across the image before he slid it carefully back inside his locker.

He hadn't seen her in twelve years.

One day she'd simply...

vanished.

No note. No goodbye. Nothing.

The police searched for weeks.

His father claimed she'd been troubled, that she'd run away, that she'd abandoned them.

Eventually everyone stopped looking.

Everyone except Garrett.

He'd spent birthdays wondering where she was.

Every Christmas wondering if she was warm.

Every graduation wondering whether she'd somehow found a family that actually wanted her.

Eventually wondering turned into anger.

Because if she was alive...

Why hadn't she come back?

Why hadn't she even called?

"Earth to Garrett." Dean waved a hand in front of his face. "You good?"

Garrett blinked. "Yeah."

"You looked miles away."

"I am."

Dean frowned but didn't push.

They filed out through the tunnel as the crowd's cheers intensified.

The bright lights hit Garrett immediately making that familiar rush settle into his chest.

Across the rink, Eastwood were already warming up.

He barely paid them any attention.

Until the announcer's voice echoed through the speakers. "And now... your Eastwood University Falcons!"

One by one, players were introduced.

Garrett stretched against the boards, only half listening.

"Starting in goal..."

More names.

More applause.

Then—

"...wearing number seventeen..."

Garrett lazily glanced towards centre ice.

"...alternate captain..."

Someone skated out with effortless confidence, dark navy jersey hanging loosely from broad shoulders as they twirled their stick once before gliding towards the blue line.

"...Y/N Wilkinson!"

Garrett's stomach dropped.

No.

No.

His eyes locked onto the back of the jersey.

WILKINSON.

His mother's maiden name.

His breathing stopped altogether as the player removed their helmet for the introductions.

Time fractured.

Same eyes. Same nose. Same stubborn jaw she'd inherited from their mother.

Twelve years had changed her.

But not enough.

The stick slipped from Garrett's gloved hand, clattering loudly onto the ice.

Dean looked over. "Dude?"

Garrett couldn't answer.

He simply stared.

Across the rink, Y/N Wilkinson adjusted her ponytail before lifting her gaze.

For the briefest second, their eyes met.

Recognition flashed across her face almost instantly.

There was no surprise.

No confusion.

She'd known he'd be here.

Garrett took one involuntary step forward.

She didn't.

Instead...

She smiled. Not warmly. Not happily. A slow, sharp smile that held absolutely no affection.

Then, with infuriating ease, she lifted two fingers to her forehead in a mock salute before turning away as though he'd never mattered at all.

Garrett's pulse thundered in his ears.

Dean followed his line of sight. "...Who is that?"

Garrett didn't answer.

Logan frowned. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Garrett finally found his voice. "...That's impossible."

"What is?"

He swallowed hard. "...My sister."

Silence.

Dean laughed. "What?"

Garrett never looked away from the opposite blue line. "My twin."

Dean's smile disappeared. "You've never mentioned having a twin."

Garrett's jaw clenched. "I don't anymore."

Before anyone could question him further, the referee's whistle cut cleanly through the arena.

Players lined up for the opening face-off.

Across centre ice, Y/N rested her stick against the ice, completely composed.

She treated this as if this was just another game.

As if she hadn't disappeared from Garrett's life without a trace.

As if she hadn't left him alone in a house that had become unbearable after their mother's death.

Garrett stared at the name stitched across the back of her jersey.

Wilkinson.

She hadn't just run.

She'd buried the name Graham along with everything that came with it.

The puck dropped.

And for the first time in twelve years...

The Graham twins stood on opposite sides of the ice.

Taglist {Open}: @raynetargaryan2 @freezing82 @kmc1989 @hannahwestt @lennonpotterf1 @ilocuras24 @persasseajackson @superbfishhumanoidweasel @garrettgrahamssexysnaps @parker-barnes-af @coldheartedmar @purplerainx1 @herondale-lightworm @watercolorskyy @finelinekels @matchieee @katrinaellie @missbmc94

[reader-who-writes]

Lockdown - part I - Dean di Laurentis x Maxwell!Reader

Author's note: Don't mind me. I'm just running out of angsty ideas... For more of my writing, check out my Masterlist: here.

Trigger warnings: Lockdown, school shooting, blood, police, ambulance, death.

The boys were at practice when the university went into lockdown. One second, everything was normal — the team was running drills, coaches were yelling corrections, and the locker room was just another place filled with noise and routine.

Then the announcement came.

The entire team was immediately pulled from the ice and ushered into the locker room. The doors were secured, the blinds were closed, and every safety protocol the university had in place was followed.

They were told to quietly change.

Nobody panicked at first. Everyone wanted to believe it was a false alarm. A mistake. Maybe even just a drill that had gone wrong.

But then the minutes started passing.

And nobody came over the speakers to say it was over. Nobody told them they could relax.

It wasn't a drill.

The reality of that settled over the room slowly.

The team was trying to figure out what the lockdown was for.

That was the worst part.

Not knowing.

If someone had told them exactly what was happening, maybe they could have handled it better. If there was a name, a location, a reason, something concrete they could wrap their heads around.

But all they had was the announcement.

“This is an emergency lockdown. Remain indoors. Follow all instructions from university officials and law enforcement.”

And then silence.

No explanation. No reassurance. Just silence.

Nobody was laughing anymore.

The locker room, usually full of noise — music blasting, guys yelling across the room, someone throwing tape at someone else — was almost unrecognizable.

The entire team sat in clusters, phones clutched tightly in their hands.

Garrett sat on the floor against the lockers, one knee pulled to his chest, staring at the screen of his phone.

Hannah had answered.

She was with Allie.

They were okay.

They were in a classroom that had been locked down. Their professor had moved everyone away from the windows and was keeping them quiet.

But “okay” didn't mean safe.

Not really.

Not when they were still waiting.

Tucker had Sabrina on the phone until the line dropped. She’d told him she loved him before it cut off, and now he kept calling back even though every attempt went straight to a failed connection.

Logan had managed to reach Jules.

Grace had texted him once.

We're okay. Don't worry.

Which, of course, meant he was worrying more.

Beau had texted Dean. He was in the football training room. He wanted to know if Dean had heard from me.

He hadn't.

Dean sat alone on the bench near the equipment shelves, his phone pressed against his ear.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Nothing.

Every call failed.

Every text stayed undelivered.

He stared at the last message he’d sent.

Please answer. Just tell me you're okay.

No response.

“Dean.”

He looked up.

Coach Jensen stood a few feet away, his voice quieter than usual.

“You need to stop for a second.”

Dean shook his head.

“No.”

“Dean—”

“No, I need to call her.”

His thumb hit the call button again.

Nothing.

A failed call.

Nobody said anything.

Because they all knew.

Everyone knew the people they loved.

They knew their routines.

Their habits.

The places they would be.

And Dean knew mine.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to think.

My schedule.

His brain immediately went there.

Monday, Wednesday, Friday.

Morning class.

Lunch.

Study hours.

Then—

He froze.

Because he knew exactly where I should be.

The library.

Third floor.

The corner table by the windows because I hated sitting in the middle where people could walk behind me.

Except today wasn't a normal day.

He tried to remember if I’d mentioned changing my schedule. If I’d said anything this morning. His mind replayed every second.

The sleepy good morning text.

The way I complained about needing coffee.

The way I laughed when he told you he was going to destroy the team at practice.

“Dean?”

Garrett’s voice pulled him back.

Dean looked over.

Garrett’s face had gone pale.

“You heard anything?”

Dean swallowed.

“No.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Dean hated that his brain was already imagining the worst.

He hated that every horror story he’d ever heard suddenly had my face.

The doors of the locker room stayed shut.

The emergency lights buzzed overhead.

The entire team waited.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

The coach received another update from university officials.

Still no details.

Still no all-clear.

Dean stared at his phone.

He didn’t notice when his hands started shaking.

He didn’t notice when Logan sat beside him.

He only noticed when Logan quietly said:

“She’s tough.”

Dean looked at him.

“She’s stubborn as hell. You know that.”

A broken laugh escaped Dean.

“Yeah.”

“She’s probably somewhere annoyed that you’re freaking out.”

Dean looked back at his phone.

“I just need her to answer.”

And that was the truth.

Not some grand declaration.

Not some dramatic realization.

Just that.

He needed one word.

One message.

One tiny proof that the person who mattered most was still there. Because until he heard my voice, the lockdown wasn't just a campus emergency, it was a nightmare where he had no idea if he was going to wake up

The announcement finally came.

Not the one they had been waiting for.

Not the one telling them everything was okay.

The one telling them they had to move.

The locker room fell silent as the instructions echoed through the speakers.

“Remain calm. Follow the directions of law enforcement. Keep your hands visible. Do not carry personal belongings. You will be escorted to a designated safe location.”

For a moment, nobody moved.

Because leaving the locker room meant leaving the one place they had felt even remotely protected.

Then the door opened.

Uniformed officers stood outside.

The reality of it hit harder than any announcement could have.

This was real.

The team was instructed to line up, keeping their hands visible and empty. No phones in their hands. No bags over their shoulders. Nothing that could be mistaken as a threat.

The boys followed every command.

They had never been so quiet.

Normally, moving as a team meant jokes, shoving, arguing about who was walking too slow. It meant noise.

This was different.

Every player walked with his eyes forward, listening carefully to every instruction.

The officers moved them through the building slowly, checking each hallway before allowing them through. Every door was treated as a possible unknown. Every corner was cleared before they advanced.

The campus they knew felt completely unfamiliar.

The halls where they usually rushed to class were empty.

The sounds of students laughing between lectures were gone.

The only things they heard were radios, footsteps, and short commands exchanged between law enforcement.

Garrett kept glancing down at his phone even though he wasn't supposed to have it out.

Hannah had been safe when they last spoke.

Allie was with her.

He repeated that to himself like a prayer.

Tucker kept thinking about Sabrina.

Logan kept replaying Grace's last message.

Jules's voice.

The fact that they had heard from them.

They had proof.

Dean didn't.

That was the thought he couldn't escape.

He kept his hands raised as instructed, but his mind was somewhere else entirely.

With me.

Trying to convince himself that no news was good news.

That the silence didn't mean anything.

But every hallway they cleared felt like another reminder that there were still places on campus they hadn't reached.

Places where people were still waiting.

Places where he had no idea if I was safe.

When they finally reached the evacuation point, the team was directed into another secured area with other students and faculty.

Only then were they allowed to lower their hands.

Only then were they allowed to breathe.

The evacuation point was filled with noise — people crying, asking questions nobody had answers to.

The boys barely noticed any of it, they were searching.

“Garrett!”

His head snapped up.

Hannah was running toward him.

For a second, he just stared.

Like his brain couldn't process that she was actually there.

Then he moved.

He caught her as she reached him, pulling her into his arms so tightly she let out a small breath of surprise.

“You're okay,” he whispered.

It wasn't a question.

It was something he needed to say out loud.

Hannah nodded against his shoulder.

“We're okay.”

He had spent the last hour imagining every possible outcome, and now she was standing in front of him.

Safe.

Alive.

Logan found Jules and Grace a moment later, pulling them both into a hug.

The team slowly started finding pieces of their lives again.

One by one.

Sabrina was in the next group brought through.

"Does anyone have any idea what's going on?"

"No, not yet."

Then Beau reached Dean.

Dean barely had time to register him before Beau grabbed his shoulder.

"Have you heard anything from Y/n?"

"No."

"Do you know where she was supposed to be?"

"I think the library."

Beau waited silently next to Dean.

They still hadn't seen me.

And after everything he had spent the last hour imagining, he wasn't sure he would be able to believe I was actually okay until he did.

The evacuation point was filled with noise now.

People were crying, trying to piece together what had happened.

For the first time since the lockdown started, the boys were surrounded by proof that the world was still moving.

They weren't trapped in that locker room anymore.

They weren't waiting for instructions.

They weren't completely powerless.

Then, all at once, every phone in the area started beeping.

The sound was almost overwhelming.

Hundreds of notifications were coming through at the same time as the cell service finally reconnected.

Messages from parents.

Siblings.

Friends.

Everyone checking in.

The boys immediately grabbed their phones.

Tucker had missed calls from his family.

Garrett had a dozen messages from people asking if he was safe.

Logan's phone was filled with texts from relatives.

Dean's screen lit up with notifications faster than he could read them.

For a moment, relief hit him.

People knew.

People were reaching out.

Then the news alerts started appearing.

And everything changed.

BREAKING NEWS: Campus shooting. Multiple students injured. Active situation ongoing.

Police confirm multiple buildings cleared and evacuated.

One building remains under active response.

Dean felt the air leave his lungs.

The boys stopped talking.

Because now they knew.

It wasn't just a lockdown, wasn't a precaution.

People had been hurt.

Dean started scrolling.

He barely registered the messages.

His mother.

His father.

His sister.

Everyone asking if he was okay.

Everyone telling him they loved him.

He responded to none of them.

Not yet.

His thumb moved faster, searching.

Looking for one name.

One conversation.

One sign.

Then he saw it.

My name.

For a second, he couldn't breathe.

He opened the messages.

The first one was short.

Don't call me, not safe.

His heart dropped.

The second one came right after.

I love you, Dean.

His hands started shaking.

Then the third.

My building is the only one not evacuated, so I'm assuming you're safe.

Dean stared at the screen.

Reading it once.

Twice.

Three times.

Because the words didn't feel real.

I was there.

I was still there.

The building they hadn't cleared.

The one still considered an active situation.

The one everyone was waiting on.

“Dean?”

Beau's voice sounded far away.

Dean didn't look up.

He couldn't.

He pressed the phone against his chest, trying to steady himself.

“She’s there,” he whispered.

The entire group went silent.

Beau immediately understood.

Dean looked up.

His face had gone pale.

“They haven't been able to clear the library.”

Nobody moved.

Nobody knew what to say.

Because there was nothing anyone could say that would make that sentence less terrifying.

Dean looked back down at the previous message.

I love you Dean.

And all he could think was that those had been the last words he might ever get from me.

He doesn’t even know what to type.

Dean: I love you too. Are you safe?

Dean stared at the screen.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

For the first time since the lockdown started, he had something to say.

Something he needed to say.

But his hands wouldn't move.

Because every possible message felt wrong.

Are you okay?

Too simple.

Because he knew I wasn't okay.

Nobody was okay.

Not after this.

Where are you?

Too dangerous.

I had already told him not to call.

Not to draw attention.

Not to risk anything.

I'm coming to get you.

The thought crossed his mind.

And it scared him how badly he meant it.

But he couldn't.

He couldn't run into an active situation.

He couldn't make things worse.

He couldn't do anything except sit there and wait.

And Dean had never hated anything more.

His fingers finally moved.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like every word mattered.

Because it did.

He typed.

I love you too. Are you safe?

He stared at the message.

His finger hovered over send.

A thousand thoughts raced through his head.

What if i couldn't answer?

What if i was hurt?

What if this was the last message he ever sent me?

His breathing turned uneven.

“Dean.”

Beau's voice was quiet.

Not because he wasn't scared.

Because he knew Dean was barely holding himself together.

“You should send it.”

Dean looked at him.

“What if she can't respond?”

Nobody had an answer.

Because that was the fear everyone was trying not to say out loud.

Garrett reached over and squeezed his shoulder.

“She knows you love her.”

Dean looked back at the screen.

I love you too.

Because that was the one thing he needed me to know.

No matter what happened.

No matter how scared he was.

He needed those words to reach me.

His thumb pressed down.

Sent.

For a second, nothing happened.

The message sat there.

Delivered.

But not read.

Dean watched the screen like staring at it could make the notification change.

Everyone around him went quiet.

This wasn't just waiting for a text.

This was waiting for proof that someone was still there.

Seconds passed.

Then a minute.

Dean kept refreshing the conversation.

Nothing.

And then—

The three little dots appeared.

Dean stopped breathing.

“She’s typing,” he whispered.

Everyone looked over.

Because suddenly, the entire world narrowed down to one phone screen.

One reply.

One person.

One moment.

Then the message came through.

Dean opened it immediately.

And the second he read it, all the hope that had been building inside him disappeared.

This is bad Dean.

Four words.

That was all.

But he knew me.

He knew the difference between when I was scared and when I was trying not to scare him.

This wasn't panic.

This wasn't me being dramatic.

This was me telling him the truth.

His face went pale.

“What did she say?” Beau asked.

Dean didn't answer.

He just stared at the screen.

Garrett stepped closer.

“Dean?”

His fingers tightened around his phone.

Finally, his voice came out barely above a whisper.

“This is bad.”

The words hung there.

Because everyone understood what they meant.

I wasn't just waiting.

Something was happening.

Something was wrong.

Dean typed immediately.

His hands shook so badly he had to delete the first attempt.

What happened?

Sent.

The message delivered.

No response.

The seconds stretched.

He looked back at my earlier messages.

My building is the only one not evacuated, so I'm assuming you're safe.

The words hit him differently now.

Not because of what they said.

Because of what they didn't say.

I hadn't said I'm safe.

I had only said I assumed he was.

Dean swallowed hard.

“She knew,” he whispered.

Beau looked at him.

“What?”

“She knew before I did.”

His voice cracked.

“She knew she was still there. She knew she couldn't call. She knew I was probably losing my mind.”

Dean looked down at the screen.

“And she still took the time to tell me she loved me.”

His phone buzzed.

Everyone looked.

Dean's eyes snapped down.

A new message.

But it wasn't from me.

It was another emergency alert.

Law enforcement response ongoing. Avoid the area.

Dean's stomach dropped.

He looked back at my name on his screen.

Waiting.

Still waiting.

“Come on,” he whispered.

Not to anyone else.

Not even really to me.

Just to the universe.

“Please.”

Dean stared at the message.

For a few seconds, he didn't understand it.

Not because the words were confusing.

Because they weren't what he expected.

He expected fear.

He expected another warning.

He expected me to tell him where I was, what was happening, something that would give him a direction to run in.

Instead:

Is everyone else accounted for? Beau?

His chest tightened.

Even now.

Even there.

Even when I was the one trapped inside the building that everyone was afraid of.

I was thinking about everyone else.

“She's asking about other people,” Dean said quietly.

Garrett frowned.

“What?”

Dean turned his phone so they could see.

The message sat there on the screen.

Is everyone else accounted for? Beau?

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Because they all knew me.

They knew exactly what that meant.

I wasn’t asking because you didn't understand what was happening.

I wasn't ignoring the danger.

I was checking.

Making sure everyone else was okay before letting myself admit that I wasn’t.

Beau let out a shaky breath.

“I left my phone in the training room.”

Garrett spoke:

"That is the most Y/n thing I've ever heard."

Dean almost laughed.

Almost.

But it got caught somewhere between his fear and his throat.

Because that was me.

The person who would stay late after practice because a freshman looked upset. The person who remembered everyone's birthdays. The person who would give away her last coffee because someone else needed it more. The person who was now sitting somewhere inside an active situation and worrying about everybody except myself.

His fingers moved immediately.

Dean: Beau is right beside me. Garrett found Hannah and Allie. Tucker found Sabrina. Logan found Jules and Grace. We're all together.

My reply is almost immediate.

Me: Good. Beau isn't answering his phone. Tell him I love him.

Tears come to Beau's eyes as he reads the message over Dean's shoulder.

Dean: Are you okay?

The message sent.

This time, there was no hesitation.

No fear about saying the wrong thing.

He needed to know.

The entire group watched the phone.

Nobody talked.

Around them, the evacuation center continued moving.

People were crying. Officials were giving updates. Phones were ringing.

But for Dean, it all faded.

There was only the screen.

Only me.

The three dots appeared again.

His heart jumped.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Like even typing the answer was taking effort.

Finally, your message came through.

Me: I'm okay right now.

Dean closed his eyes.

Right now.

Two words.

Two words that told him everything I wasn't saying.

His fingers tightened around the phone.

Dean: I wish I was with you

A pause.

Then:

Me: I'm glad you're not.

The entire world seemed to stop.

Garrett immediately looked at him.

Dean didn't even have to say anything.

His face gave it away.

“Somethings wrong, I can feel it."

Nobody moved.

Dean typed.

Dean: Baby, I'm worried.

The second it sent, he regretted it.

A minute passed.

Then:

Me: I'm sorry.

His eyes burned.

Even now, I was protecting him.

Dean: Don't apologize.

This felt impossible.

Nothing about this was okay.

But he knew I needed him calm.

Needed him steady.

So he typed again.

Dean: I need you to listen to me.

His breath shook.

Dean looked around at the guys.

At Garrett holding Hannah. At Tucker refusing to let go of Sabrina's hand. At Logan sitting beside Jules and Grace. At Beau looking as broken as he felt.

Everyone he loved was in front of him. Everyone except me.

Dean: You are going to get out of there.

Dean: You hear me?

The typing bubble appeared.

Then stopped.

Then appeared again.

Finally:

Me: I’m trying.

That was worse.

Because it was honest.

Not a promise.

Not reassurance.

Just the truth.

I was trying.

Dean pressed the phone against his forehead.

For the first time since the lockdown began, he let himself break.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just a quiet, terrified breath that he couldn't hold in anymore.

Beau put a hand on his shoulder.

“She’s still here.”

Dean nodded.

“I know.”

“She’s fighting.”

Dean looked back at the screen.

At my name.

At the messages.

At the words I love you.

“She always does.”

Another update came over the loudspeakers.

Law enforcement was still working through the remaining building.

No additional information was available.

Dean hated that phrase.

No additional information.

It was the same thing they'd been hearing for hours.

But now he had information.

He had me.

Even if it was only a few words at a time.

Even if every message made his heart break a little more.

I was still there.

His phone buzzed.

A new message.

Me: I need you to promise me something.

Dean immediately typed back.

Dean: Anything.

The response came almost instantly.

Me: Promise me you'll be okay. No matter what happens. And that you'll take care of my brother.

A pause.

Then:

Me: Please, Dean, I need to know you'll both be okay.

Dean stared at the screen.

Dean wiped at his face.

Then typed.

Dean: I promise.

Another message.

Me: I love you.

Dean didn't even think before answering.

Dean: I love you too.

The message delivered immediately.

He stared at the screen.

Waiting for three little dots that never came.

[pellucid-constellations]

Source Material

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: You had always been a reader—always drawn to worlds outside of your own. Always seeking more. This world, Azriel's world, was trying to teach you something; you were sure of it. Or, maybe, it was where you were always meant to be.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Confusion, self-harm in desperation/confusion, angst, reference to a psychiatric hold

a/n: Okay I love this trope so bad so thank you to those who requested it :) This first part has a lot of... thinking in it so make sure to heed the warnings. Themes may continue, but this fic will also have a lot of humor, pining, and fluff. Happy ending as always <3 I love you okay bye :)

Part Two

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

There was a humming in your ears—constant enough to be considered ringing, but not quite as sharp. Moments ago, the pull in your gut had you keeling over in bed, and then you had stumbled to your bedroom door, trying to alert your roommates that something was… wrong. Off. Unusual in a bad way, and you had no frame of reference for the feeling. You could remember falling into the hallway as the door swung open, and then the pulling intensified. And then it stopped. 

You figured you were in the hospital; that was the only reasonable explanation, unless your roommates had decided to leave you for dead in the hall, but they wouldn’t do that. They had terrible penchants for eating your cereal, leaving dishes in the sink, and having guests over without warning, but they weren’t evil enough to deny you medical attention. Hopefully.

It was probably your appendix. That was the first ailment your brain always went to when you were sick, and the hyperfixation was finally coming to fruition. You couldn’t remember any pain, any fever prior to passing out on the carpeted floor, but you were sure that was it. The heaviness of your eyelids lessened as you worked through the explanation in your mind. 

Your body still felt off. It was stiff in a way you hadn’t experienced, but also light and airy in a way that felt preternatural. Sounds had begun to filter through the staunch wall of your brain, and they felt sharp, biting. There was an underlying panic that perhaps you had been out for much longer than you first estimated, but something else soothed that panic each time it rose. It made you feel right, despite every wave of confusion, and you leaned into that feeling rather than giving in to the fear. 

Something was buzzing beneath your skin. It flowed in your blood and seemed to zap your veins. Drugs—it was definitely drugs through an IV. Probably pain killers and antibiotics and several other things keeping you alive as your appendix acted against you. There was a chance it had already been taken out, and you preferred that narrative. No time to be anxious about surviving a surgery that already happened. 

Low murmuring suddenly ripped past the mundane sounds of whatever room you were in, and then the panic was back in full force. 

“Explain it again?” 

“The priestesses said it was sudden. Bryaxis was unsettled—and then she was there. Unconscious.” 

The content of the conversation was enough to make your breathing shallow, but it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just that there was nothing medical about the words floating above you, or that you were suddenly concerned you had been taken to a… convent? A church?

No, it was that the words sounded so, so foreign, each consonant and vowel weaving together to form echoes of a language you had never heard before, not even in passing. It was unusual, possibly European, but also not in the slightest. You thought it could have been Latin, but even that didn’t sound correct. The worst part, the terrifying part, was that you understood it. You could tell it was different, and still, everything was so clear in your mind. Like it was relayed through a translation app and inputted directly into your brain. 

You felt yourself shift as the fear tightened your throat, and to your surprise, nothing was dragging against you—no wires or IVs or tubes helping you stay afloat after a major surgery. You took in a deep breath and smelled no antiseptic or starched linen sheets. Instead, the air held an herbal hint, spices and heady plants alarming your senses.

Were you kidnapped? Had your organs been harvested? You began to second-guess the integrity of your roommates, running through their university housing profiles in your head. Two grad students, quiet, no parties, night-owls—nothing about being part of an underground organ-harvesting ring. But, then again, maybe they had been waiting for the perfect moment, for you to be vulnerable enough to cart off without a fight.

Your breaths became even more difficult to capture. 

“She’s waking up,” one of the male voices said.

You choked on the strange scent of the air, and then your eyes opened and adjusted to the dim, humming light in the room. You were in a room that was, as predicted, not in a hospital. Deep, polished wood made up the roof beams, with red rock twining between tiny cracks and fissures. There were pictures on the walls depicting a town with sprawling lights and a rushing river, and mountains with snow-capped peaks and figures outlined upon them. A window was allowing light in from the far side of the room, and you snapped your head up once the rush of consciousness became less novel. 

Two men stood by the door, both imposing in their statures, neither looking like the type to steal someone’s organs. They were well-dressed and put together, calm with their attention fixed on you, and you’d never witnessed any organized crime, but the lavish room you were in, paired with the careful, guarded looks you were receiving, didn’t add up to the assumptions in your head. The comparisons didn’t help you feel calm. 

Your hands hovered over the plush blanket on your lap, fingers shaking. You let out a sudden gasp of air that quivered in your chest and flinched as the two men reacted to the sound. Neither had moved from their positions by the door, though you knew by their expressions that they would if they had to. The shorter one, his eyes more cunning and knowing, tilted his chin up and began to speak. 

“Where did you come from?” he asked, tone clear. “And how did you land in my library?” 

The lack of malice in his curiosity told you he was in control of the situation. The taller man behind him, lean but still taking up so much of the doorway, looked on with equally searching eyes, but he was more guarded, more reserved, his brow twitching as you observed him. You had a hard time discerning which of the two was more dangerous. 

“Um,” you stammered, still frozen in place. Your voice was more melodic than you had expected. “I don’t—exactly know how I got here. I’m from the—I, um, I’m in grad school on the east coast.” 

“The east?” the man in the back echoed. His voice was so low you felt it in your chest. “Of what court?” 

You paused. “New York?” 

The one with the deep blue eyes squinted. “Where is that?”

Confusion overrode panic. “New York? As in, the state?” 

Everyone knew about New York, even if they only conceptualized it in terms of taxi cabs and hot dogs and the Statue of Liberty. It was possible, though highly unlikely, that you had been taken to a remote island, on which no one had a map, or access to the news, or even an internet connection, but these men looked… knowledgeable. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint why, but they didn’t seem the type to be uninformed. 

You glanced out the window to get a better concept of your surroundings, but saw only a clouded blue sky. You were high up, then, granting even more evidence against your remote island theory—if they could build a house several stories high, they would know about New York. 

You worried your bottom lip as the clouds inched their way across the window, the room silent. Through the corner of your vision, you saw the men looking at each other—furrowing and straightening their brows, squinting and grimacing and huffing out breaths. If there were words accompanying their expressions, it would have made more sense, but as it stood, you were beginning to amount a new fear: that you were kidnapped, and your kidnappers were clinically insane. 

The most reasonable avenue would be the escape, but you would need to scope out your surroundings first, and each time you even shifted on the bed, eyes shot to you. Were you not allowed to move? Were you chained to the bed? You took stock of your legs and feet under the blanket, not feeling bound by anything other than the tucked-in sheets. There were no bars on the window, either, and the room itself was rather welcoming. You glanced over at the side table, tinctures and small vials labeled with scrawling text. Your fingers spasmed as you read the words clearly, despite the letters looking foreign. 

This could have been a very, very realistic dream. 

After another moment of the men staring at each other, you decided to take a chance, feeling resolute in both the dream and the insane kidnapper theory. You slid one leg out from under the blanket, but movement by the door stopped you. 

The taller man had turned to you again, expression watchful, feet moving on the plush carpet. You sucked in a breath and stalled your attempt to get to the window. And then you felt yourself scream. Just one scream—an accident, really, your hand coming out to cover your mouth as the men stood at alert. Your breaths were making strange sounds past your fingers, and your shoulders were unintentionally raised. 

Wings. 

The man had wings, and they didn’t look fake. They moved along with him, membranes allowing light to pass through and highlight the veins tracking back to the roots. And the closer you looked at him, the worse it became. There were glowing, blue… gems—no, sconces of light attached to his body, and they seemed to move with him too. They sparked and swirled as he took you in, responding to him in a way that couldn’t be manufactured. 

But what had you jumping from the bed were the shadows emanating from him, wisps of darkness flowing from his shoulders. Some of them seemed to tug at him, others cloaked him in their murky air. You jolted up and got caught on the sheets, tugging your ankle loose until your hands finally met the carpeted ground. Someone was saying something, but you couldn’t hear them, too panicked to make sense of this strange language you suddenly understood. You ended up with your palms flat on the ground and your knees supporting you, vaguely aware that you were wrapped in some sort of silk material that you were positive did not come from your closet. 

“Easy,” the winged man warned, but his hands were up in a placating gesture, and he had begun to crouch to meet you at your level. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

Your chest had begun to sting with your quick inhales. The man took the smallest step forward, and you rushed back, your head slamming into a table and making your vision blur. 

“Azriel, you are scaring her,” the other man patiently said. He hadn’t moved from the door, but something about him felt more imposing. Your head was throbbing too much to make sense of it. 

Azriel looked over his shoulder. “Well, what would you like me to do instead, Rhys?” he quipped out, as if this were some kind of game and you weren’t being held hostage. 

Okay. 

You were the one going insane. That had to be it. You had fallen into the hall back at your apartment and had some sort of psychotic break, prompting your very appropriately acting roommates to put you on a psych hold. That was it. That was why you were seeing shadows and wings and glowing bulbs. You blinked hard and tried to orient yourself to that truth, hoping that some clarity would come with the revelation, but when you opened your eyes, you were still there. 

“This isn’t real,” tumbled from your lips, sounding breathy and light. “You—you aren’t real. And I’m going insane.” 

Azriel shook his head. “This is real. You are in the Night Court. Is that where you’re from? Or are you from somewhere else?” 

“Night Court?” you mumbled to yourself, gaze falling to your fingers as you fiddled with the hem of the satiny dress. And you focused on them, then, more intently than you had when you first woke up. You flipped your palm over and looked at the length of your fingers, at the elegance that flowed along your wrists and up your arms. They were your hands, but they weren’t. Not at all. 

Night Court. 

You couldn’t focus on just one thing anymore, your eyes traveling around the room without abandon. They went from Azriel, to the man at the door, to the window, to the paintings along the wall. 

Were you from somewhere else? You were from New York. You were getting your master’s in library science, and you were going to be a librarian. You had a tiny, cramped apartment in Syracuse with roommates getting grad degrees in STEM. Night Court—that didn’t make sense. 

It didn’t make sense because you were crazy. You had gone crazy. The energy drinks had driven you insane with their promises of copious vitamins and energy and a faster metabolism. This was the price. 

At some point, Azriel had dropped to his knees to mirror you on the ground. “I don’t think she’s going to answer us, Rhys,” he quietly called out, eyes never leaving you. “Maybe Feyre would be better.” 

“I’m not sending Feyre in when I can’t see if she has… motives.” 

Something clicked in your brain. Things lined up, information being shelved in alphabetical order until confusion made way for understanding, and then that understanding lingered. 

“Feyre?” you mumbled again. The man, Rhysand, your brain provided for you, perked up in the doorway. “That book.” 

“What book?” Rhysand quickly asked. 

“The—series. It’s… I read it a few years ago, but I don’t think it’s—” Your next breath was an incredulous laugh. “Oh my god. I am actually going insane. I’m hallucinating, and it’s—I should have gone to law school, oh my god.” 

“Law school?” Azriel echoed. 

You snapped your gaze up to look at him, finally taking in the hazel of his eyes and the shadows that weaved into his dark hair. Then you found his hands, confirming something to yourself when scarred tissue rested atop his thighs. Rhysand was next, and you located his pointed ears and elongated features almost instantly. 

Another disbelieving laugh fell from your lips. Azriel moved again, and you shot back, head connecting with the table for a second time. Pain split down your neck, something rattling on the surface above. You brought your hand up to tame the ache, but Azriel’s hand had raised too, and for a second, the shortest second, your fingers brushed. You tore your hand away, pressing it into the base of your skull, snapping your eyes to his. 

Something pulled. The air stagnated. 

It felt like the pull from right before all of this happened, before your brain short-circuited and threw you into a fantasy land you’d read about during your gap year. You leaned into it, hopeful that somehow, it would zap you back into reality. That maybe if you honed in on the feeling, you would find that this was all some coma-induced dream you could forget about with time, but always reference when you told the story of your appendix bursting—because you were still holding out hope that it was actually that. 

It did the opposite. You gave in to the pull, tugging on the glowing thread, and it made you feel more rooted in the spot. More concrete in the make-believe. Still just ahead of you, Azriel made a gasping sound that echoed each of your panicked breaths from before. You scanned his expression, etched your gaze into the high corners of his face, but he was seemingly frozen. His chest didn’t move. His shadows paused. 

“What—” 

You didn’t get the chance to finish your question, not that it had ever been formed in your head. Azriel shot to his feet, stumbling back and causing you to flinch again, to cower into the table that you had been trying to inch away from. He looked down at you, and his expression pinched, looking pained, before his hand gripped at his chest, covering his heart as his shadows wove between his fingers. One came down and brushed your cheek, and you screamed, jolting into the light of the window. 

Azriel flinched at the sound. He took another step back, and then another. You hadn’t realized you were breathing hard again until your shoulders met the far wall, your bone digging into the wood. Your mind was racing at an impossible speed, all your theories and concerns and all of the confusing sensations melding together. And maybe you could have handled it, maybe you could have collected yourself, but there was a mirror just across the room. You looked at it with your blurry, unfocused vision, and you thought it was another painting. At first. But then you moved, and the figure etched within it moved with you. And it was a mirror, and it was you, but it wasn’t. 

You looked like yourself, could recognize yourself, but you were changed. 

Made. 

The thought sang in your head, unfounded, and your panic turned to terror. Because this entire time, thoughts had all been yours. They had been unorganized and scary and untrue, but they had all come from you. But that one hadn’t been. 

So, you did the first thing you could think of on your own, the first thing that truly felt like it could bring you back to yourself. You reared your head forward, and then you let it fall back with force. The pain was similar to before, but it was numbing, almost. And it didn’t bring you back. Someone shouted, panicked, but you thought maybe the numbing was reality, so you edged forward again. 

You didn’t have the chance to try a second time. 

Your head slammed back, but it hit something soft, something that gathered the momentum and didn’t let it continue. Azriel was in front of you again, no longer edging out of the room, and it was his hand that stopped your assault. He was staring at you with wide, horrified eyes, and then he wasn’t. He yelled something over his shoulder, and then Rhysand was in front of you. The door opened. Footsteps followed. 

“Do something.” 

“I can’t—”

“Anything.” 

And then there was nothing. 

Part Two

[kooksandpearls]

How You Get The Girl ❀ 02

pairing – Petal!Reader x Garrett Graham summary – Garrett Graham has a ten-step plan to get his girl back. warnings – Exhaustion, forgetting to eat, fainting, head injury, mild concussion, medical clinic, academic stress. word count – 12k

navigation – Masterlist | « Chapter One | Chapter Three »

Chapter Two. Stand There Like A Ghost.

The audition is six days away. Six days is nothing. 

Six days is also long enough to ruin every choice she’s made about the scene, rebuild it from scratch, ruin the new choices, and arrive at the audition carrying six incompatible versions of the same woman in her body.

She wakes before her alarm with one cheek stuck to the corner of her audition packet and the yellow highlighter still uncapped beneath her hand. 

Grey morning sits flat against the dorm window. Her neck hurts. The inside of her mouth tastes like the coffee she drank at eleven-thirty and the mint she chewed afterward in a failed attempt to convince herself this counted as dental care.

For several seconds, she stays folded over the desk and watches the circulation return to her fingers. The memory of Garrett’s hand slips in with it. 

His pinky beneath hers on the hockey-house couch. The cautious little curl when she touched him. The way he had stayed completely still while she laced their hands, as though even breathing too differently might turn the moment into something she had not offered.

She straightens before her mind can do anything embarrassing with that.

The audition packet is still open to the second scene. Mara stands alone in her mother’s kitchen, speaking to a half-dead houseplant because everyone else in the house has become too frightening to tell the truth to. 

On paper, it’s funny. It’s supposed to be funny, at least at first. Mara threatens the plant with eviction, accuses it of emotional manipulation, gives it a better childhood than her own through three tablespoons of tap water and an increasingly unstable monologue about sunlight. 

Then the scene turns by degrees until the audience understands she has been talking about herself the whole time.

The production itself belongs to Briar, technically. It will rehearse in the same black-box theatre where someone has been promising to fix the backstage sink since her freshman year, and the department will still use student volunteers to sell programmes and direct confused parents toward the bathrooms. None of that makes the audition small.

Once a year, the department brings in an outside director for the spring industry production, chooses a play that can travel cleanly between theatre and screen, and fills the invited performances with every person whose job title makes undergraduates briefly forget how to breathe. 

Alumni agents. Regional artistic directors. Casting associates from New York and Boston. A manager who had found one of last year’s seniors in the lobby afterward and signed her before graduation. 

The official department email described them as industry guests, which was the sort of neat, bloodless phrase universities used when they didn’t want students throwing up in public.

If she gets the role, and if she is good enough, and if the right person happens to be looking in the right direction at the exact second she becomes impossible to forget, something could happen.

Something was a safer word than Broadway. Safer than television, film, representation, meetings in rooms with bottled water she would be too nervous to open. Something didn’t make her sound like a child standing on her bed with a hairbrush microphone and a belief system built largely from cast albums.

She closes the packet, showers in six minutes, and leaves with wet hair pressed dark against the back of her coat.

Her week begins running before she does. By nine-fifteen, she’s delivered a presentation in Professor Martin’s class while privately trying to release the tension in her jaw. 

At ten, she’s across campus in the movement studio, lying on a floor that smells faintly of dust and other people’s feet. 

At eleven-thirty, she buys a coffee large enough to qualify as an organ and forgets it on the windowsill outside Studio B until the ice melts into a pale, undrinkable soup.

At twelve-oh-seven, her phone buzzes inside her bag.

Garrett: Did you eat?

She stares at the message while standing in the costume shop with three safety pins between her lips and a measuring tape looped around her neck. She removes the pins carefully.

coffee.

His reply comes almost immediately.

Garrett: Not food.

it had milk.

Garrett: Deeply compelling defence.

She smiles before one of the first-years drops an entire box of buttons behind her and the room fills with the sound of several hundred tiny plastic objects escaping toward freedom.

By two, she’s forgotten the exchange. By four, she’s also forgotten the cereal bar in the side pocket of her bag and the fact that she agreed to meet Allie outside the library before rehearsal. 

Allie finds her halfway across the quad, walking while reading the audition scene and nearly colliding with a campus tour.

“You’re going to kill a prospective student,” Allie says, catching the back of her coat and steering her away from a family looking nervous beneath a Briar admissions umbrella.

“She should’ve committed to the bit.”

Allie takes the pages from her hand. “You’re not allowed to read while crossing roads anymore.”

Her phone buzzes again while Allie’s still carrying the packet above her head like confiscated contraband.

Garrett: Drive tonight?

Then, before she can answer. 

Garrett: Twenty minutes. No destination. Minimal chance of murder.

Her chest loosens so quickly it feels almost suspicious. She pictures the Jeep warm and dim, Garrett’s hand loose over the steering wheel, the road passing black beyond the windows while neither of them has to decide what the time means. 

She wants it with a sharpness that briefly makes the rehearsal building ahead of them feel like an obstacle placed there personally.

“What?” Allie asks.

“Nothing.”

Allie reads her face with insulting ease. “Garrett?”

She types before Allie can begin making noises.

i can’t tonight. rehearsal until nine and then i need to work on my audition.

Garrett: I could come read with you after. Garrett: I’ve improved. Promise.

debatable.

Garrett: I can be extremely boring and helpful.

The smile comes again, smaller this time. She can almost see him saying it, eyebrows lifted, committing himself bravely to an evening of being uninteresting. She types, deletes, then types again.

i want to. i just really can’t lose the time.

There’s a pause long enough for Allie to hand back the pages and open the rehearsal-room door.

Garrett: Okay, baby.

Another message follows.

Garrett: Kick its ass.

She reads both twice before locking the screen.

Garrett doesn’t argue. He doesn’t offer to sit silently in the corner or appear outside rehearsal with the confident assumption that she will be happy once he’s already there. 

He doesn’t tell her she needs a break, though he’s clearly begun considering himself an unlicensed medical authority on her sleep schedule and nutritional intake. He says okay and lets the no remain exactly where she put it.

The absence of pressure should make it easier to return her attention to the scene. It doesn’t.

By Wednesday, Garrett has started appearing in the small spaces around her life without physically appearing much at all.

A coffee waits at the events-office desk when she arrives for her shift, the order correct down to the syrup she changes depending on whether the day feels cold enough to justify it. The receipt has her name on it and, beneath that, a note written in the special-instructions box.

ACTUAL FOOD NEXT. THIS IS NOT A LOOPHOLE.

She sends him a photograph of the cup beside a packet of vending-machine crackers.

Garrett: I’m reporting you.

to who?

Garrett: Tucker.

She pauses.

you wouldn’t.

Garrett: Try me.

At rehearsal, there’s a fresh packet of throat lozenges tucked into the front pocket of her bag. She assumes Allie put them there until Allie sees the box and says, “Oh, Jesus. He’s fully courting you.”

“He’s not courting me.”

Allie picks up the box and reads the label. “Honey and lemon. Intimate.”

“Give me those,” she mutters. 

“Do you think he asked the pharmacist for the sexiest flavour?”

She snatches them back, but the laugh gets out before she can prevent it, landing bright and brief in the dim hallway.

Garrett’s busy too. She knows because the group chat never permits mystery when it could provide public harassment instead. Extra skate at six. Film review. Classes. Weights. A captain’s meeting. 

Still, he texts between them.

Garrett: How’d rehearsal go?

Garrett: Logan says plants don’t count as scene partners because they can’t feed you energy. Dean says Logan has never fed anyone energy in his life.

Garrett: I said you’d probably hit both of them.

She answers when she can. Sometimes three hours later. Sometimes after midnight, when the building has gone quiet and the light from her desk is the only one left beneath the dorm-room door.

badly. and tell dean he’s right.

Garrett: Screenshotting this.

do and i’ll deny it.

Garrett: Theatre has taught you nothing about integrity.

By Thursday evening, the humour takes longer to reach her. Her temples have developed a low, persistent ache. 

At the campus café, she asks for the chicken thing and has to gesture helplessly toward a sandwich sitting eighteen inches from her face. During rehearsal, she misses an entrance she hasn’t missed once all semester and stands in the wing for a full second while Allie hisses her name through a fixed stage smile.

Dexter calls a break and finds her near the prop shelves, pressing both thumbs into the muscles beneath her eyebrows.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” he says.

“I’m not thinking at all, actually. I think something has died.”

Dexter considers her face, then softens by one degree. On anyone else, it might not be visible. “Go home after this.”

“I have work.”

“You have an audition.”

“I also have expenses. I have to live.”

“Babe.”

She looks away first, toward the rehearsal room where someone is moving a chair three inches downstage and immediately moving it back. “I’m fine.”

Dexter exhales through his nose. Her phone buzzes in her coat pocket.

Garrett: Let me steal you for half an hour tonight.

She shuts her eyes.

Garrett: Drive. Food. I’ll return you to your audition spiral before anyone notices.

Her body wants to say yes before the rest of her can begin listing reasons. She wants his car, his warmth, the stupid old guitar music he keeps low enough for conversation. She wants him looking over from the driver’s seat with that small, private smile he has started giving her instead of the full campus version. She wants thirty minutes in which nobody asks her to be open, grounded, bookable, emotionally available, or off-book.

She also has a shift until nine, rehearsal notes to rewrite, the scene to run, and a monologue that has begun feeling less true every time she touches it. Her thumb hovers over the keyboard.

i want to.

She watches the words sit there for a second, too naked on their own, then adds:

but i can’t. i’m sorry.

Garrett answers quickly.

Garrett: Don’t be sorry. Garrett: You sure I can’t come by later?

She looks at the packet folded and refolded inside her bag. She types with both thumbs.

no no. i really need to focus tonight.

Garrett: Okay.

That’s all. She locks the screen and returns to rehearsal.

At nine-forty, she leaves the campus events office with a tote bag cutting into one shoulder and the strange, papery feeling of having moved through too many fluorescent rooms without seeing daylight. Her dinner has been half a packet of crackers and three sour candies Allie found beneath the seats in the black box and claimed were probably recent.

The dorm is overheated. Somebody on the second floor has burned microwave popcorn so badly the hallway smells like electrical grief. She drops her bag beside the desk, pulls off her coat, and opens the audition packet before taking off her boots.

For forty minutes, she works. Or she tries to. She reads the first line six times and hears none of them. Marks a beat, erases it, marks it again half an inch farther down as though emotional truth might be hiding in the margin. She records the monologue on her phone, plays it back, and hates the deliberate break in her voice so much she deletes the file before it finishes.

At ten-thirty-two, she checks her messages. Nothing from Garrett.

That’s normal. Garrett’s allowed to possess an evening. He has practice in the morning. He’s already asked twice to see her and been told, with increasing clarity, not to come. The reasonable part of her understands this.

Something lower in her body doesn’t.

The silence sits oddly after several days of him occupying every small pause. No ridiculous update from the hockey house. No photograph of Logan doing something concerning. The phone remains dark beside her elbow while she runs the first page again.

She makes it four lines before looking at the screen. Still nothing.

Her stomach pulls inward, though that may simply be hunger finally becoming articulate. She presses the heel of one hand beneath her ribs and reads the next line aloud.

“I’m not avoiding you,” she tells the imaginary plant on her desk. “I am giving you the dignity of privacy while you die.”

The line lands dead.

“Great,” she mutters. “Good. Broadway’s calling.”

Her phone stays quiet.

Maybe she’s been too careful. Maybe every time Garrett steps toward her, she moves the boundary another inch and calls it caution. Dinner, but not upstairs. His hand, but only in the car. The hockey house, but no conversation about what any of it means. Come for a drive. No. Let me help. No. Can I see you? No, no, I really need to focus.

She had wanted him to listen when she said no. She had needed that from him. She hadn’t considered how quiet the room might become when he did.

The knock at her door makes her jump hard enough that her knee hits the underside of the desk.

“Fuck.” She pushes back from the chair, rubbing the sore spot above her kneecap. Her roommate is spending the night at her girlfriend’s, and nobody sensible visits a dorm room after ten-thirty without first sending a warning.

The knock comes again. Two quick taps. She approaches with all the confidence of a woman carrying a highlighter as her primary defensive weapon and opens the door three inches.

A guy in a red delivery jacket stands in the hallway holding a large brown paper bag. “Uh, delivery?”

She stares at him. He checks the receipt. Says her name.

“That’s me.”

He offers the bag.

“I didn’t order anything.”

The delivery guy looks down at the receipt again with the exhausted patience of someone whose job routinely places him between hungry people and their own memory. “It’s paid for.”

“Oh.” She still does not take it. “Are you sure it’s this room?”

He reads the number aloud.

“That’s this room.”

“Cool.”

“Sorry.” She accepts the bag at last. It’s warm against her forearms, heavier than expected, and the smell reaches her immediately through the folded paper. Garlic, chilli, fried dough, something sweet and sharp underneath. Her stomach contracts so suddenly it’s almost painful.

The delivery guy gives her a nod that suggests his role in this mystery has reached its limit, then walks back toward the stairs. She closes the door with her hip and carries the bag to the desk.

Inside are dumplings from the Thai restaurant near Hastings. The good ones, thin-skinned and crisp at the edges, packed beside the sauce she likes. There’s curry, rice, and the cucumber salad she had stolen most of from Garrett’s plate at dinner despite insisting she didn’t want her own. Enough food for tonight and tomorrow, possibly the entire theatrical department.

She looks for a receipt. Her name is printed across the top. Beneath it, folded once and tucked between the containers, is the receipt and small delivery note.

Her mouth changes before she can stop it. It settles first at one corner, then warms slowly across the rest of her face until she has to press her lips together and look down at the note again.

He had listened. He hadn’t come over. Hadn’t turned food into an excuse to stand in her doorway looking handsome and wounded until she invited him inside. He hadn’t asked for thirty minutes in exchange, or a phone call, or proof that the care had landed where he wanted it to.

He had only fed her.

She sits cross-legged on the rug because the desk is buried beneath pages and there is something too formal about eating this food at a chair. The paper bag stays beside her knee. She opens the dumplings first, steam lifting faintly against her face, and bites into one before locating a fork.

Her whole body seems to recognise food at once. Heat moving down into the empty, sour space in her stomach. Salt and garlic waking her mouth up. The ache beneath her ribs loosening enough to reveal how tightly she’s been carrying herself all evening. She picks up her phone.

thank you.

The message delivers. Three dots appear almost immediately.

Garrett: Eat.

She looks down at the open containers around her.

bossy.

Garrett: You like it.

Her thumb pauses.

sometimes.

Garrett: Oh yeah?

She can see his face too clearly. The way his eyebrows would lift, hope trying to disguise itself behind amusement. She takes another dumpling and lets him wait exactly twelve seconds, because she may be exhausted and emotionally compromised, but she still has standards.

sometimes, graham.

Garrett: I’ll take it.

Her fingers smooth once over the folded delivery note where she’s placed it beside the audition packet.

you ordered too much.

Garrett: I know you.

The answer presses somewhere tender. She looks around the floor at the curry, the rice, the dumplings she has already eaten too quickly, and the cucumber salad she is absolutely going to finish despite its alleged status as tomorrow’s food.

debatable.

Garrett: Eat the dumpling, baby.

She laughs under her breath, picks up another one, and returns to the scene with the warm container balanced over one knee. The next time she reads the opening line, it sounds a little less like an actress trying to prove she understands pain and a little more like a girl making a joke because the truth is still too large to say directly.

Beside her, Garrett’s note rests against the page.

At least eat, baby.

Four days before the audition, her alarm goes off at four in the morning. Vibrating until the sound drags her out of sleep with one cheek pressed into the pillow and her heart already behaving as if she’s missed something.

The dorm room is dark except for the thin green light of the charger beside her bed. Her roommate is still away, leaving the other mattress smooth and undisturbed beneath the window, and for several seconds she lies there beneath the duvet with one hand curled near her face, trying to remember why any person would choose to be conscious at this hour.

Then the audition arrives fully formed in her mind. Four days. The scene. The monologue. The director whose previous production transferred from Boston to New York. The casting associate whose name had appeared on the guest list circulated through the department yesterday afternoon. 

The role waiting somewhere beyond a room she hasn’t entered yet, existing or not existing for her depending on what her body does with twelve minutes under fluorescent lights.

She sits up. Her head feels packed with cotton, her shoulders stiff, but the exhaustion is still young enough to be bullied. She pulls on leggings and a sweatshirt in the dark, twists her hair into something technically off her face, and drinks half a bottle of water while standing beside the desk.

Garrett’s delivery note is tucked against the edge of the mirror.

At least eat, baby.

The containers from last night are stacked neatly in the little dorm fridge. There’s curry left, rice, two dumplings she had protected from herself through an act of restraint she now considers misguided. 

She looks at them while tying one shoe, already calculating whether she can eat cold rice in the gym car park without creating a new low point in the human experience. She will eat after.

The thought arrives cleanly. Reasonably. It has no visible connection to every other after that will replace it before the sun comes up. She leaves with coffee in a travel cup and the audition packet folded into her gym bag.

At four-twenty, the campus fitness centre belongs to insomniacs, athletes, and people conducting private wars against themselves. Most of the overhead lights are still dimmed. The treadmills hum in a row beneath silent televisions playing overnight sports recaps, the closed captions moving over footage of men celebrating goals she’s too tired to identify. 

A cleaner pushes a wide mop across the basketball court. Somewhere near the weight racks, metal strikes metal with the ugly, disciplined clang of someone who’s never once mistaken sleep for a priority.

She starts on the treadmill. The first five minutes are awful. Her calves feel heavy, her lungs insulted by the hour, the coffee moving too warm and acidic in her empty stomach. 

Then her body catches the rhythm. Feet landing. Belt turning. Breath in, breath out. The room narrowing into repetition until there is finally nothing to solve except the next step. She runs Mara’s monologue silently while she moves.

I’m not avoiding you.

Three breaths.

I am giving you the dignity of privacy while you die.

Four breaths.

By five-fifteen, she’s on the floor beside a bench, stretching one hamstring while reading the second page. Sweat cools beneath the back of her sweatshirt. Her phone lights up inside the open gym bag.

Garrett: Why are you awake?

She looks at the time beside his name and almost laughs. Five-sixteen.

why are YOU awake?

Garrett: Practice. Garrett: Your turn.

gym.

The three dots appear immediately.

Garrett: At five in the morning?

technically i got here at four twenty.

Garrett: That’s not better.

She smiles down at the screen while rolling her ankle slowly.

Garrett: Did you eat first?

Her thumb stills.

She considers lying in the loose, automatic way she considers moving a chair onstage when the blocking begins to feel wrong.

coffee.

Garrett: Baby.

it’s early. food feels illegal.

Garrett: Food has no business hours.

She can see him somewhere across campus in the rink corridors, curls still flattened on one side from sleep, gear bag over his shoulder, already frowning at his phone with the full disapproval of a man who had ordered enough Thai food to feed her for two days and expected his logistical work to be honoured.

i’ll eat after.

Garrett: Pinky swear.

She looks at the words for a second.

pinky swear.

The lie feels small enough to forgive when she sends it.

At six-thirty, she’s showered, dressed, and walking into Professor Martin’s lecture with damp hair freezing at the ends beneath her coat. At seven-forty-five, she’s in the library with three articles open across her laptop and no memory of opening the third. At nine, she gives up her seat to a girl waiting nearby, carries her coffee down two flights of stairs, and reaches the bottom before realising the cup is empty.

Breakfast, she thinks. Then her professor stops her outside class to ask whether she’s considered applying for the spring research placement. The conversation lasts eleven minutes. By the end of it, she’s late to movement lab and spends the entire walk eating two mints from the bottom of her bag because they’re the first thing her fingers find.

Her phone buzzes twice during class. She feels it through the canvas of her tote where it rests against the wall, but doesn’t look. They’re doing partner work, and Dexter has already accused her of keeping part of her attention on a little electronic leash, which is rich coming from a man who checked a dating app during notes yesterday and then announced that desire was part of his process.

At eleven-fifteen, she opens the messages while crossing the quad.

Garrett: Practice done. Alive. Garrett: Logan got hit in the throat with a puck and says his voice sounds sexier now. Garrett: It doesn’t.

There’s also a photograph. Logan sits in the locker room with an ice pack held against the front of his neck, middle finger raised toward the camera, his expression deeply offended by both hockey and documentation. Dean’s blurred in the background, laughing hard enough to require assistance from a bench.

Her mouth twitches. She begins typing a reply, then somebody calls her name from the theatre-annex steps. It’s one of the costume assistants asking whether she can cover an extra hour before rehearsal because a zipper has broken, three hems remain unfinished, and the phrase dress emergency has been used with complete sincerity.

She locks the screen. The reply stays unfinished.

At noon, she sits at a sewing machine with the audition packet open beside the presser foot, repeating lines beneath her breath while guiding pale-blue fabric beneath the needle. 

At one, she runs to the events office and spends three hours answering emails, printing lanyards, correcting a room booking, and explaining to a student society president that no, the university cannot provide a live falcon for a medieval-themed fundraiser regardless of how central it is to the vision.

At three-twelve, her phone lights again.

Garrett: How’s your day?

Then, fifteen minutes later:

Garrett: Alive?

At three-fifty:

Garrett: Send proof of life please.

She sees all three while standing beside the printer with forty-eight name tags warming beneath her palm. She means to answer. She even opens the conversation, but her manager asks whether she can stay an extra half-hour, and then the printer jams, and then one of the theatre first-years texts that Dexter has moved the rehearsal call fifteen minutes earlier.

By four-thirty, her phone is back in her bag, unanswered. The first rehearsal lasts just under two hours and feels like six.

Dexter stops the same transition nine times. Allie loses a shoe during a movement sequence and performs the next thirty seconds in one heel out of spite. Someone knocks over the prop lamp. She runs her scene three times and hates a different thing on each pass.

“Stop protecting the end,” Dexter tells her after the third run, standing in the centre aisle with one hand pressed over his mouth. “You know where she ends up, but she doesn’t.”

They run it again.

At six-fifteen, she leaves rehearsal, changes shirts in a bathroom stall, and returns to the events office because somebody has called in sick and the evening supervisor needs help setting up a faculty reception in the alumni hall.

There’s food at the reception. Small sandwiches with the crusts cut off, fruit arranged in geometric little rows, cheese on slate boards with handwritten labels informing guests which region had produced it. She carries three trays from the service corridor into the hall and doesn’t take anything because the guests haven’t arrived yet and eating the display feels criminal.

She will grab something before she leaves. Then someone spills sparkling water over the sign-in table. A lecturer cannot connect his laptop to the projector. The keynote speaker arrives early and wants the chairs rearranged. 

By the time she takes her coat from the staff room, the catering trays have been cleared and the few remaining sandwiches are already sealed inside plastic tubs being carried toward the kitchen.

Her stomach gives one tight, hollow pull as she walks back toward the theatre annex. She mistakes it for nerves.

The second rehearsal begins at seven.

The studio has become too warm during the break. The mirrors are clouded faintly near the bottom, the air carrying that specific rehearsal-room mixture of dust, sweat, old wood, and the artificial citrus of the cleaning spray used badly between classes. 

Bags lie open along one wall. Water bottles cluster near the door. Somebody has left a banana on top of the speaker, growing softer by the minute beneath the heat.

She sits cross-legged on the floor with her script spread across her thighs. Her body feels oddly distant below the neck, legs heavy, fingertips cold despite the warmth of the room.

There’s a faint sourness at the back of her throat that she keeps swallowing against. Every few lines, her eyes lose their place and return half a paragraph higher, forcing her to trace the text with one finger like a child learning to read.

Allie lowers herself onto the floor beside her with a quiet grunt, tugging one knee toward her chest. She studies her face for a second too long.

“Babe.”

She hums without looking up.

“You okay?”

“Mhm.”

Allie doesn’t move. She can feel the stare against the side of her face with the uncomfortable clarity of stage light. “You don’t look great.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “That’s exactly the feedback an actress needs four days before an industry audition.”

“I don’t mean ugly.”

“Excellent clarification.”

“You look…” Allie pauses, searching for a word. “Grey.”

She lifts her head. “Grey?”

“Like, pretty grey.”

“That’s not better.”

“It’s a flattering grey.” Allie reaches over and presses the back of two fingers briefly against her cheek. “You’re cold.”

“The room’s cold,” she mumbles.

Allie’s brows draw together, humour losing ground around them. “Did you sleep last night?”

“Some.”

“How much is some?”

She looks down at the script again. The words have started swimming slightly near the edges, though she can still force them still by narrowing her eyes. “Enough.”

“That means no.”

“I slept.”

Allie exhales through her nose. “Have you eaten?”

The question reaches her through several layers. Her finger stops beneath the third line. She tries to remember. The morning has become disconnected little rooms in her head. Gym. Coffee. Lecture. Library. Costume shop. Work. Rehearsal. Work again.

Coffee. The mints. Nothing else arrives.

“Oh,” she says.

Allie goes still. “Oh?”

She looks up slowly. Her stomach seems to recognise the answer at the same time she does, giving another tight, unpleasant twist beneath her ribs. “I think I forgot.”

“You forgot to eat?”

“I was busy.”

“It’s seven o’clock.”

“I know what time it is,” she grumbles.

“You’ve eaten nothing since yesterday?”

“I had coffee.”

Allie’s eyes close. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Get in line.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. The department’s very competitive.”

Allie doesn’t laugh. She leans closer, voice lowering while the rest of the cast moves around them, people stretching, laughing, running bits of dialogue beneath their breath. “Do you feel sick?”

She presses her lips together, checking the inside of her body as if it belongs to somebody else and she’s only now been asked to assess the damage. Her head aches behind the eyes. There’s a greasy little wave moving through her stomach. Her skin feels too tight over her face.

“Just…” She rubs one palm over her sternum. “Yuck.”

“Helpful.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re obviously not.”

“No, no. I am.” She shifts the script higher on her knees and forces her eyes back onto the page. “I just need food.”

Allie gives her a long look. “I have a protein bar.”

“Great.”

“In my bag.”

She nods, though the motion makes something inside her skull lag half a second behind. “I’ll get it.”

“I’ll get it.” Allie plants one hand on the floor and pushes herself upright, then pauses when Dexter calls her name from across the studio.

He’s standing beside the lighting lecturer with both arms folded, gesturing toward the taped marks near centre stage.

“One second,” Allie says. She points two fingers at her own eyes, then toward her face. “Do not move.”

She lifts the script in a weak little salute. “Go.”

Allie crosses toward Dexter, already asking what he wants before she reaches him.

For a few seconds, she stays exactly where she is. She breathes through her nose. The room seems too loud now, every separate sound arriving at once – the scrape of a chair leg, a bottle hitting the floor and rolling, Dexter’s voice, the lighting lecturer answering, somebody laughing near the mirrors. Her pulse has become noticeable in her throat.

She looks toward Allie’s bag. It sits near the opposite wall, black canvas, one strap folded beneath it. Not far. Fifteen feet, maybe.

The protein bar will help. Sugar. Something dense and artificial and capable of getting her through another hour.

She places the script on the floor and uncrosses her legs. Pins and needles move down both calves. She puts one hand beside her hip and pushes herself up.

The room changes before she gets fully vertical.

Heat rushes over her face and chest in one hard wave, immediate enough that sweat breaks cold beneath the back of her shirt.

Her vision tightens. Black gathers softly at the edges, the mirrored wall narrowing into a bright strip in front of her.

She catches the floor beneath one foot and cannot seem to locate the other properly.

“Hey, Al,” she says.

Her own voice sounds strange. Too quiet, coming from somewhere several feet behind her. Allie turns.

She reaches one hand vaguely in her direction. “Can I–”

The rest of the question disappears. Every sound in the studio pulls away at once, voices thinning into muffled shapes at the end of a long corridor.

The air feels both freezing and unbearably hot against her skin. Her stomach drops, though she’s standing still. Or believes she is.

Allie says her name. The floor rises fast toward her. Or she goes down. There’s no useful difference by the time everything goes black.

Consciousness returns badly.

First there’s light, white and flat through her eyelids. Then sound: the soft electronic pulse of something nearby, rubber soles moving over vinyl, paper rustling. Then pain arrives behind both, a thick, ugly throb beginning near the back of her skull and pushing forward until it sits behind her eyes.

She groans.

The sound scratches at her throat. Her mouth is dry enough that her tongue feels too large inside it, and when she tries to lift her head, the room tips sharply to one side.

“Oh, no, honey.” A woman’s voice comes close immediately. Warm, brisk, real. A hand settles carefully against her shoulder. “Stay down for me. Don’t sit up yet.”

She opens her eyes.

The ceiling is made of white acoustic tiles, one of them stained faintly yellow near the corner. A fluorescent panel glows directly above her with the specific cruelty of medical lighting.

She turns her face away from it and discovers she’s lying on a narrow exam bed with crinkled paper beneath her, a thin blanket pulled over her legs and a blood-pressure cuff wrapped around one arm.

“Where…” Her voice catches. She swallows and regrets it. “Where am I?”

“Student health clinic.” The nurse comes into view beside the bed, middle-aged with silver threaded through her dark hair and a pair of purple glasses resting low on her nose. Her ID badge swings slightly when she leans closer. “You’re alright. Just take it easy.”

She frowns, trying to force the last thing she remembers into a shape. Rehearsal. The floor. Allie turning toward her. Her head pulses harder.

“Ow,” she whispers, lifting one hand toward the back of it.

The nurse catches her wrist gently before her fingers reach the sore spot. “Careful. You took a nasty fall.”

She lets her hand drop onto the blanket. “I did?”

“You fainted, honey. Smacked your head pretty good on the way down.”

“I passed out?”

“You sure did.”

She stares at her. There’s something almost insulting about having lost an entire section of her own evening. One second she had been asking Allie for food, the next she’s horizontal beneath institutional lighting while a machine squeezes her arm.

She closes her eyes again. “Ouch.”

“I bet.” The nurse releases the pressure cuff with a soft hiss and checks the reading before reaching for the little pulse monitor clipped over her finger. “Any nausea?”

“A little.”

“Blurred vision?”

“When I tried to sit up.”

“Any neck pain?”

She tests it carefully without moving. “Just my head.”

“Mhm.” The nurse picks up a small penlight. “I’m going to check your pupils again. Look at my nose for me.”

The light moves across one eye, then the other. She tries not to flinch and fails.

“Sorry,” the nurse says. “I know it’s unpleasant.”

“That light is evil,” she grumbles.

A small smile pulls at the nurse’s mouth. “That’s a common review.”

She sets the penlight aside, makes a note on the chart, then adjusts the blanket where it has slipped beneath her knee.

There’s a little carton of apple juice on the counter beside a packet of crackers and a plastic cup of water. The sight of them makes her stomach turn and tighten at once.

“Your blood sugar was low when they brought you in,” the nurse says, following her gaze. “Your blood pressure wasn’t too impressive either. Your friend said you hadn’t eaten today.”

She looks toward the opposite wall.

“Coffee isn’t breakfast,” the nurse adds.

“I’m learning that.”

“Bit of a harsh lesson.”

She gives a faint, miserable laugh. It immediately worsens the throbbing in her skull, and she shuts her eyes again.

The nurse rests one hand lightly against the rail of the bed. “Because you lost consciousness and hit your head, you’re not going back to your dorm alone tonight. We need somebody to come collect you and stay with you for a while. Keep an eye on you.”

Her eyes open. “I have an audition in four days.”

The nurse gives her a look over the top of the purple glasses. It’s not unkind, but it’s clearly survived many students attempting to negotiate.

“Your audition can remain in four days while you lie still for the next five minutes.”

“But rehearsal–”

“Is finished for you tonight.”

Her mouth presses thin. The room feels suddenly smaller around the bed, the paper beneath her loud whenever she shifts. “Can Allie take me?”

“She’s here, but she told us she lives in another dorm and has rehearsal again first thing tomorrow.” The nurse glances down at the chart. “We need someone who can take responsibility for you tonight. Preferably your emergency contact.”

She stops moving.

The nurse runs one finger down the page. “Let me see here…”

There is a pause while she adjusts her glasses.

“Garrett Graham,” she reads. Then she looks up. “Is that still right, honey?”

For a second, she only stares at her.

Garrett.

His name is printed there in whatever university system has carried it quietly through the breakup, through the months of not touching and looking away and pretending they had both found other people interesting.

She must have entered him during their first relationship, probably sitting at his kitchen table while he stole whatever snack she had brought and told her to put him down because who else was she going to call if she broke a leg doing theatre.

She had never changed it. She hadn’t even remembered there was something to change.

The thought of him arrives with enough force to make the room soften at the edges for an entirely different reason. Garrett walking into the clinic with damp curls or his Briar jacket half-zipped, face already tight with worry.

Garrett’s hand finding hers before he remembers to ask and then stopping, because now he does remember. Garrett saying baby in that low, steady voice he uses when he’s scared and trying not to make the fear hers.

Her throat pulls tight. She wants him. She wants him here now with an immediacy that leaves no room for pride to make itself useful.

She nods once, carefully because her head punishes even that.

“Yes,” she says, voice small and rough. Then, after a breath, “Please.”

“No worries, honey.” She gives her shoulder one gentle pat and turns toward the door. “I’ll go call him now.”

She nods again and lets her head settle back against the pillow, listening as the nurse’s footsteps cross the room and the door opens into the bright clinic hallway.

The door doesn’t close properly behind her. It catches against the frame and remains open by an inch, enough for the light from the corridor to cut a thin white line across the floor and for every sound from the little office beyond to travel with irritating clarity into the room.

A chair rolls. Paper shifts. The nurse says something to somebody at the front desk, then there’s the hollow click of a receiver being lifted.

Her head throbs in time with her pulse.

Whatever she struck on the way down has left a deep, concentrated ache at the back of her skull, the kind that seems to have roots.

Each beat presses outward beneath the skin, heavy and hot, then moves forward behind her eyes until even keeping them open feels like unnecessary labour.

She closes them.

The nurse’s voice carries through the gap in the door, softened by distance but still recognisable. “Hi, is this Garrett Graham?”

A pause.

“This is the Briar student health clinic. Don’t panic, honey, she’s alright.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“No, no, she’s awake. She fainted during rehearsal and hit her head when she went down.”

The silence on the other end must be doing something impressive, because the nurse’s tone changes immediately, growing firmer beneath the kindness. “Garrett. She’s conscious. She’s speaking. Her observations are stable. I need you to take a breath for me.”

Despite everything, the corner of her mouth shifts faintly. Of course he’s panicking so hard a medical professional has begun coaching him through respiration.

The movement pulls at something behind her eyes. Her smile disappears into a wince.

“She needs somebody to collect her and keep an eye on her tonight,” the nurse continues. “Yes. Student clinic, east building. We’re here until ten.”

A pause.

“No, you do not need to run.” The nurse’s voice becomes more distant as she presumably turns away from the open door. “He hung up.”

Someone near the desk laughs.

She would too, except her skull feels as though it has been fitted with a second, much angrier skull inside it. She exhales through her nose and sinks farther into the thin clinic pillow, the paper beneath her head crackling softly with every tiny adjustment.

She means only to close her eyes until the room stops pressing so brightly against them.

The next thing she hears is Garrett’s voice. “Where is she?”

Too loud. Too close. Frayed at the edges in a way his voice rarely is unless something has gone wrong on the ice or he is trying very hard not to let anger become panic.

“Right through there,” the nurse says. “And lower your voice, Romeo. She’s got a headache.”

His footsteps hit the hallway fast and uneven, the rubber soles of his shoes catching once against the vinyl before he appears in the doorway.

Garrett looks like he’s arrived by force. His jacket is half-zipped over a dark Briar sweatshirt, the hood bunched crookedly beneath the collar. His curls are flattened on one side and pushed wildly backward on the other, as if he has spent the entire drive dragging his hand through them.

His cheeks are pink from the cold, breath still coming too quickly, and there’s something naked in his face when his eyes find her on the exam bed.

“Hi.” The word leaves him almost breathless. He crosses the room in three strides, then slows only when he reaches the bed, as though the sight of her has reminded his body that speed is no longer useful. “Oh– hi, baby.”

He bends over her, one hand reaching carefully toward the side of her face. She frowns and lifts two fingers to his mouth before he can say anything else.

“Shh,” she murmurs. “Too loud.”

Garrett stops immediately. His lips press softly against her fingertips before he draws back half an inch, nodding with exaggerated care.

When he speaks again, his voice has dropped nearly to a whisper. “Course. Yeah. Course, baby. Sorry.”

She lets her hand fall, and Garrett catches it before it reaches the blanket. His fingers close around hers gently, warm enough that she feels the difference through her whole palm.

“You okay?” he asks.

The question is absurd enough that she almost laughs, but she remembers what happened last time and only closes her eyes instead. “Forgot to eat. Fainted.”

Garrett stares at her. “You forgot to eat?”

There’s no judgement in the words yet, only horrified disbelief, but her face tightens anyway.

“Don’t be mean,” she mutters. “I’m concussed.”

His mouth opens, then closes. A breath leaves him through his nose, part sigh and part exhausted prayer.

He lifts their joined hands and presses her knuckles briefly against his forehead. “Jesus Christ.”

“I said don’t be mean.”

“I’m not being mean.” His thumb moves once over the side of her finger, the touch so careful it barely counts as movement. “I’m trying not to have a heart attack.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“You passed out and hit your head.”

She sighs. “I was there.”

“You were unconscious.”

“Then I guess technically I wasn’t.”

Garrett’s eyes close for one second, and when he opens them again, some of the panic has settled beneath the familiar exasperation she recognises.

The nurse returns with a folder tucked beneath one arm. Garrett straightens but doesn’t let go of her hand.

“Is she good to go home?” he asks, voice still low.

The nurse comes to stand near the foot of the bed. “She is, provided somebody stays with her tonight and keeps an eye on her. She’s got a likely mild concussion. No driving, no alcohol, nothing strenuous, and she needs to take it easy. If the headache suddenly gets much worse, she starts vomiting repeatedly, becomes confused, is difficult to wake, has weakness, trouble speaking, anything that worries you, you take her to the emergency room.”

Garrett nods through every instruction with the intense concentration of a man being briefed on how to disarm something explosive. “Okay.”

“And she needs food,” the nurse adds, glancing pointedly toward the bed. “Proper food. Not just coffee.”

“Yeah,” Garrett says. “I can do that.”

She opens one eye. “You sound pleased.”

“I’m pleased someone with medical authority finally told you coffee isn’t a meal.”

The nurse’s mouth twitches. “I like him.”

“Please don’t encourage him,” she murmurs.

Garrett ignores that and takes the discharge folder when it’s offered, opening it immediately and scanning the first page.

“You can read it outside,” she tells him. “The words will remain.”

He glances up. “You’re making jokes. That’s good.”

“I’m deeply brave.”

“Yeah, baby.”

The softness in his answer catches somewhere below her throat.

The nurse removes the pulse monitor from her finger and unwinds the blood-pressure cuff from her arm. “Let’s get you sitting up slowly. No heroics.”

“I don’t do heroics.”

Both Garrett and the nurse look at her.

She frowns. “That felt really mean.”

Garrett slides one hand behind her shoulders while the nurse raises the back of the bed. The change in position sends a dull pulse through her skull, sudden and thick enough that she groans and shuts her eyes.

“Easy,” Garrett murmurs immediately. “I’ve got you.”

Her body folds toward the nearest stable thing before pride can be consulted. Her forehead finds the front of his shoulder, cheek resting against the worn cotton of his sweatshirt while his arm settles carefully around her back.

For several seconds, no one asks her to move. Garrett’s hand stays broad between her shoulder blades, holding her upright while the dizziness passes.

Beneath her ear, his heartbeat is still too fast. She can feel the hard, nervous rhythm through the sweatshirt, every beat giving away how little his lowered voice has to do with actual calm.

“You good?” he whispers.

“No.”

“Okay.”

The answer comes without correction or forced optimism. Only okay, quiet against her hair, as if being unwell is something he can sit beside without needing her to hurry through it.

She keeps her head there until the room stops shifting.

When she finally lifts it, Garrett’s face is close. The panic hasn’t disappeared from his eyes, but it’s been folded down into attention.

He watches every small movement she makes as if her balance is written somewhere around her mouth and he might miss a change if he blinks.

The nurse brings over the plastic cup of water. “Small sip.”

Garrett takes it before she can, holds it while she drinks, then lowers it the second she turns her face away. There’s something humiliatingly easy about letting him help. No instinct to argue. No need to prove she can hold her own cup while the room still feels fractionally detached from the floor.

“Alright,” the nurse says. “Feet over the side.”

Garrett moves first, sliding one arm beneath hers while she shifts toward the edge of the bed. Her shoes have been placed neatly on the floor beneath her. One lace is undone.

She stares at it.

Garrett follows her gaze. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to bend down.”

“I can tie my shoe,” she mutters.

“Not tonight.”

He crouches before she can protest and ties both laces, even the one that is already secured, pulling the loops snug without making them tight. His curls fall forward over his forehead.

The gesture is so ordinary, so quietly intimate, that something inside her chest goes soft in a way that has nothing to do with the faintness.

When he stands, he reaches for her bag from the chair and slings it over his shoulder. The pink strap cuts across the dark front of his sweatshirt. Three months ago, she might have made a joke about it. Tonight, she only watches his fingers adjust the weight.

“Ready?” he asks.

“No.”

“Great.”

Garrett steps close enough that his side presses lightly against hers. He gets one arm beneath her shoulders, then takes her wrist and guides it carefully around the back of his neck.

“Wrap that arm around me, baby. There you go.”

She does. The first step feels uncertain. Her knees hold, but the floor seems slightly softer beneath them than it should. Garrett tightens his arm around her waist immediately, drawing her firmly into his side without making a comment.

“I’m fine,” she whispers.

“I know.”

“You’re holding me like I’m ninety.”

“I’d hold ninety-year-old you exactly like this.”

She turns her face faintly toward him. “You’d still be alive?”

“Out of spite.”

“That tracks.”

The nurse follows them to the doorway with the discharge papers. “Slowly.”

Garrett nods. “We’re going slowly.”

He does. Painfully slowly. He matches every small, cautious step, letting her put as much weight into him as she needs without making it obvious when they pass the front desk.

The clinic feels long on the way out, corridors stretched beneath harsh lights, doors opening into rooms full of paper-covered beds and humming machines.

Allie sits in one of the waiting-room chairs with both hands wrapped around her phone. She stands so fast when they appear that the chair legs scrape behind her.

“Oh my god.”

The volume makes her wince.

Allie’s hands fly to her own mouth. “Sorry. Sorry.” She crosses the room and stops just outside Garrett’s hold, eyes moving over her face with visible guilt. “Are you okay?”

“She’s concussed,” Garrett says.

“Garrett,” she mutters.

“What? You told me.”

Allie’s face crumples around the edges. “I shouldn’t have left you.”

“You walked twelve feet away.”

“I told you not to move.”

“I don’t respect authority.”

“That isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

Allie looks toward Garrett as though requesting assistance from the only other person in the room who understands the futility of arguing with her.

“I’ve got her,” he says quietly.

Allie nods. Relief moves through her so visibly that her shoulders drop. She reaches out and squeezes her hand once. “Text me when you’re home.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Allie’s gaze flicks to Garrett again, protective even through the worry. “You’ll stay with her?”

“All night.”

There’s no hesitation in it. He says it like the clinic has given him a job and he’s already built the rest of his evening around doing it properly.

Something warm presses behind her ribs.

The cold outside hits hard after the clinic’s stale heat. Garrett pulls his jacket open wider and angles his body around her as they cross the car park, blocking the wind as much as he can.

The campus is nearly empty, paths shining beneath the streetlamps, theatre buildings dark except for the one studio window where rehearsal has continued without her. She looks toward it.

Garrett notices. “No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re not going back.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

She presses her face briefly into his shoulder. “You’re annoying.”

“Good.”

The Jeep waits beneath a tree near the edge of the lot. Garrett unlocks it from several feet away, then opens the passenger door and turns her carefully until the backs of her knees meet the seat.

“Head,” he murmurs, one hand flattening over the top of the doorframe.

She ducks beneath it and lowers herself into the passenger seat. The movement makes her vision pulse dimly, and she leans back immediately, eyes closing against the padded headrest.

Garrett gathers the edge of her coat before it catches in the door, sets her bag on the back seat, then reaches for the seatbelt.

“I can do it,” she says automatically.

His hand stills. She opens her eyes and finds him watching her. The belt is three inches from her hand. She could pull it across herself. It might make her head hurt. It might not.

She lets her fingers drop into her lap. “You can.”

“Okay.”

Garrett draws it slowly across her chest. The buckle clicks. He gives the belt one light tug, then pauses with one hand braced near her hip.

“You alright?”

“Mhm.”

“You gonna puke?”

“No.”

“Dizzy?”

She sighs. “A little.”

His mouth tightens. “I’m driving like Tucker.”

“That bad?”

“That safe.”

“Terrifying.”

He closes the door gently and walks around the front of the Jeep.

The inside is cold at first. Garrett starts the engine and turns the heat on low rather than blasting it, deciding that even air can be too loud now. The dashboard glows blue across his face as he pulls out of the car park with both hands on the wheel.

For several minutes, neither of them speaks.

She rests her head carefully against the seat and watches campus slide past the window in dark, familiar pieces. Brick buildings. Bare trees. Pools of light across wet pavement.

Her body feels hollowed out and overfilled at the same time, limbs heavy, stomach aching with hunger, emotions sitting too close beneath her skin after the fear and the fall and waking up alone beneath medical lights.

Garrett glances at her every few seconds.

“You can watch the road,” she murmurs.

“I am.”

“No, you’re watching me.”

“I can do both,” he argues.

“That sounds illegal.”

“It’s a talent.”

His voice remains soft, almost absurdly so. Even the humour is careful around the edges, built not to demand anything from her.

The gentleness does something unexpected. Something worse than panic would have. Her eyes burn.

She turns toward the window before he can see, but Garrett has always been irritatingly good at noticing the small changes in her face when he is actually looking.

“Hey.” His voice shifts. “What’s wrong? Something hurt?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Baby.”

The word slips beneath whatever weak structure she’s built around herself. Her throat tightens. She presses her lips together, but the first tear moves anyway, hot and immediate down the side of her face.

Garrett’s hands tighten once around the wheel. “Is it your head? Are you feeling worse?”

“No.” She wipes the tear away too quickly. “No, I just feel like shit.”

“Okay.”

“And I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“And hungry.”

“I know that too.”

“And I’ve ruined everything.”

His head turns sharply before he catches himself and looks back at the road. “You haven’t ruined anything.”

“My audition is in four days, and I’m concussed because I forgot food exists.”

“Hey. We’ll figure it out.”

“You can’t figure out a concussion,” she sniffles.

“I can feed one.”

A broken little laugh escapes her, immediately caught by another tear.

Garrett reaches across the centre console and turns his hand palm-up between them. He does not take hers. He only leaves it there, open.

She looks down at it. Then she places her hand in his. His fingers close slowly, thumb settling over her knuckles. He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other around hers while the Jeep moves through the dark.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Garrett’s brow creases. “For what?”

“Everything.”

“No.”

She stares down at their hands. His knuckles are scraped from practice, skin dry near one thumb. “Garrett.”

“You don’t have anything to apologise for.”

“We both…” Her voice catches. She swallows against the ache in her throat. “We both fucked up.”

He is quiet for a moment. The Jeep stops at a red light, its glow moving faintly over the windshield.

“Maybe,” he says. “But you still don’t have anything to apologise for tonight.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does to me.”

“I hurt you,” she presses.

Garrett’s thumb moves once over her hand. “I hurt you first.”

“It isn’t a competition.”

“I know.”

“You always make things a competition.”

“I know,” he says again, and there’s no defence in it. No grin trying to soften the confession. “I’m trying not to.”

The light changes. He drives on.

She looks at his profile, the firm line of his jaw, the curls still disordered from whatever he did to them after the clinic called. “I was mean sometimes.”

“You were hurt.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No.” His mouth pulls faintly at one corner, not quite a smile. “But I understand it now.”

“You shouldn’t let me off that easy.”

“I’m not letting you off anything. I just…” Garrett exhales slowly. “I don’t want you lying here with a head injury trying to apologise for breaking up with me when I was the one who made being with me feel shitty.”

“It wasn’t always shitty,” she says.

“I know.”

“Most of it wasn’t.”

“I know that too.”

Her eyes burn again. “I loved you. So much.”

Garrett’s fingers close more firmly around hers.

The words sit between them in the quiet Jeep. Past tense only because grammar has cornered her there, not because either of them believes the feeling has obeyed it.

His voice comes low when he answers. “I know, baby.”

She waits for him to say something else. That he loved her too. That he still does. That he wants her back.

Garrett would once have filled the silence with every possible declaration, stacked them high enough that she had no room to examine what was underneath.

He doesn’t. He holds her hand and drives.

By the time they reach her dorm, the tears have dried tight against her cheeks. Garrett parks near the entrance, shuts off the engine, then turns in his seat.

“Stay there.”

“I wasn’t planning an escape.”

“Good.”

He walks around the Jeep and opens her door. The cold reaches in first, followed by Garrett’s hands, one taking hers and the other settling at her waist as she steps down.

Her knees feel steadier now, though her head still pulses each time her foot meets the pavement. Garrett keeps his arm around her anyway, her bag slung over his opposite shoulder.

At the dorm entrance, she swipes her card while leaning against him. The scanner flashes red.

“Again,” Garrett murmurs.

“I know,” she mumbles.

The second attempt works. The door unlocks with a buzz, and warm air spills over them from the lobby. Garrett walks her through it, then slows near the foot of the stairs.

She feels the hesitation before she sees it. His arm remains secure around her, but something changes in his posture, a subtle holding back.

His eyes move toward the staircase and then to her face. He hasn’t been inside her room since before the breakup. Not since the boundaries between them became something fragile and deliberate.

He could carry her bags to the entrance. Sit in the Jeep until one in the morning. Hold her hand in public. But the dorm room has remained closed.

He doesn’t ask. That, somehow, makes it harder.

She looks at the stairs. Then at Garrett. “Can you stay tonight?”

The question comes out quieter than she intends.

Garrett’s face changes at once. Something warm and stunned moving through his eyes before he gathers it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Course.”

“You don’t have to–”

“I want to.”

Her throat tightens again. “Okay.”

He helps her upstairs one step at a time, his arm strong beneath hers, pausing whenever her breathing changes. By the time they reach the second floor, she’s exhausted enough that the hallway seems twice its usual length.

Her key sticks once in the lock. Garrett takes it only after she lets her hand fall, opens the door, and guides her inside.

The room smells faintly of last night’s curry, her perfume, and the warm dust of the heater beneath the window. Her bed remains unmade, audition pages scattered across the desk and floor, clothes folded badly over the back of the chair. Evidence of every hour she’s tried to fit inside the week.

Garrett looks at it all without comment.

“Bed or food?” he asks.

“Bed.”

“Wrong. Food first.”

She gives him a tired look.

“I know,” he says. “I’m oppressive.”

“Deeply.”

“Sit.”

He guides her to the edge of the mattress and crouches in front of her. His hands come to the laces of her boots, undoing them one at a time before sliding each boot carefully from her foot.

She watches him through heavy eyes. “You’ve become very good at taking my shoes off without getting anything out of it.”

Garrett’s mouth twitches. “I’m growing.”

“Disturbing.”

He sets the boots beside the desk and stands. “You have something comfortable to sleep in?”

She points vaguely toward the second drawer of the dresser. “Shirts. Top drawer.”

Garrett opens it and immediately looks away when he realises it’s her underwear drawer. The speed of it almost makes her smile.

“Second drawer,” she corrects.

“You said top.”

“My brain is injured,” she murmurs, biting back a smile.

“Right. Of course.”

He closes the drawer with exaggerated respect and opens the one below it, retrieving an old Briar shirt and a pair of sleep shorts.

“These?”

She nods. Garrett places them beside her on the bed. Then he turns his back.

She stares at him. “What are you doing?”

“Not looking.”

“I need help.”

His shoulders go still.

“With the buttons,” she adds, because the fitted blouse she wore to work has somehow developed fourteen fastenings since morning. “My head hurts when I look down.”

Garrett turns slowly, eyes fixed firmly on her face. “Okay.” He steps close and lifts his hands toward the first button, pausing before touching it. “Can I?”

She nods.

His fingers work carefully down the front of the blouse. There’s no teasing in him now, no downward glance, no charged pause where the fabric opens over her skin.

Garrett keeps his eyes on the buttons with the concentration of someone performing a complicated repair, knuckles occasionally brushing the thin shirt beneath.

When the last button is free, he steps back and turns away again while she slides the blouse from her shoulders. Changing still makes the room tilt slightly, and she has to sit for a moment with the old shirt gathered in both hands.

Garrett hears the pause. “You okay?”

“Mhm.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

He turns, sees her sitting there half-dressed and exhausted, then takes the shirt from her without letting his gaze move below her face. He gathers it at the hem and holds it open. “Arms up.”

She lifts them slowly. Garrett pulls the shirt down over her head, careful around the sore spot, then eases her arms through the sleeves. The fabric settles loose around her body, carrying the faint smell of laundry detergent and the dorm drawer.

“There,” he murmurs.

He helps with the shorts in the same practical, careful way, kneeling to guide them over her feet and keeping the blanket across her lap whenever he can. There’s nothing sexy in it. That makes it more intimate than if there were.

Once she’s changed, Garrett folds her clothes over the chair instead of leaving them on the floor. “Food,” he says.

“Garrett.”

“Three bites.”

“Two.”

“Four.”

“That isn’t how negotiating works.”

“It does when you have brain damage.”

She stares at him.

“Mild,” he adds quickly. “Mild brain damage.”

“Get out.”

“No.”

He retrieves the leftover curry and rice from the fridge, heating them in the small microwave near the desk while she sits propped against the pillows. The machine turns loudly enough that she winces, and Garrett stops it before the timer finishes, catching the door before it can beep.

“Very stealthy,” she murmurs.

“I’m adaptable.”

He brings the bowl to the bed with a fork and a glass of water, sitting on the edge near her knees. She takes the first bite because arguing requires more energy than chewing.

Warm rice sits heavily but not unpleasantly in her stomach. Garrett watches until she swallows, then looks away with enough false casualness to make it obvious he has been waiting.

“You can stop supervising my mouth.”

“No.”

She takes another bite. “Happy?”

“Getting there.”

By the fifth, the empty ache inside her has begun easing. By the eighth, her eyelids feel too heavy to hold open. Garrett takes the bowl when the fork starts resting too long between her fingers.

“That enough?” she asks.

“For now.”

He places the leftovers on the desk and returns with the water. She drinks several slow mouthfuls, then sinks deeper into the pillows while Garrett reads the discharge instructions beneath the warm pool of the desk lamp.

“No screens,” he says.

She glances toward her audition packet.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked at it.”

“I need to practice.”

“You need to sleep.”

“The audition–”

“Will still be there tomorrow.” Garrett sets the papers aside and pulls the desk chair close to the bed.

She frowns. “What are you doing?”

“Staying.”

She tilts her head. “In the chair?”

“Yeah.”

“That looks uncomfortable.”

“I’ve slept in locker rooms. I’ll be fine.”

She watches him settle into the chair, long legs stretching awkwardly beneath the desk, arms folding over his chest. He looks too large for the small dorm furniture, broad shoulders nearly touching both sides of the chair back, knees forced apart by the narrow space.

The sight presses strangely against her chest. “You can lie down,” she says.

Garrett’s eyes lift.

“On the bed,” she adds. “Not– I mean, just… there’s room.”

He doesn’t move immediately. “You sure?”

She nods once.

“You want me there?”

Another nod. “My head hurts. Don’t make me write you an essay about it.”

Garrett stands. He takes off his jacket and shoes, then lies down on top of the covers beside her, leaving a careful strip of mattress between their bodies.

His hands fold over his stomach. He stares at the ceiling with the rigid posture of a man trying to prove he can occupy a bed without assuming a single additional privilege.

She turns her face toward him. His profile is soft in the low light. Curls still a mess. A faint crease between his brows even now. He has not relaxed since entering the clinic. Maybe not since the phone call.

“You were scared,” she murmurs.

Garrett looks at her.

“On the phone.”

“The nurse told you?”

“I heard her tell you to breathe.”

His mouth presses thin. “She didn’t open with you’re okay.”

“She did, actually.”

“She said student health clinic first.”

“Monster,” she whispers.

“I thought…” He stops. His throat works once. “Doesn’t matter.”

She knows what he thought. The shape of it sits plainly across his face even without the sentence. Her hand moves over the mattress between them.

Garrett looks down when her fingers touch his. He turns his palm over, but still waits. She threads their fingers. His breath leaves slowly.

For a while, they lie there without speaking. The room settles around them, heater clicking beneath the window, distant footsteps moving through the hallway, somebody laughing behind another closed door.

Garrett’s hand stays warm around hers. His thumb moves occasionally over her knuckles, the same small path each time.

She thinks of every boundary he’s honoured. Every invitation he’s allowed her to refuse. The open palm instead of the grab. The food delivered without him. His back turned while she changed. The chair dragged beside the bed before she told him he could lie down.

She had wanted him to prove that he could hear her.

Somewhere along the way, she had become so focused on watching him work for another chance that she hadn’t noticed how tired she was of standing on the opposite side of it.

Not ready to erase what happened. Not ready to pretend that love makes two people safe simply because it’s large. But tired of acting as though every soft thing between them needs to be rationed.

Her fingers tighten around his.

Garrett looks over. “You okay?”

She shifts carefully toward him until her forehead rests against the warm curve of his shoulder. His whole body goes still.

“Yeah,” she whispers.

Garrett waits another second, giving her every possible chance to change her mind, then lifts his free arm and settles it around her waist. The hold is loose at first. Barely there. When she moves closer, he lets it become firmer.

His cheek rests lightly against the top of her head. “Sleep, baby,” he murmurs.

She closes her eyes. The ache remains, dull and deep beneath her skull. The audition is still four days away. Nothing between them has been repaired neatly enough to name.

But Garrett’s hand is warm against her back, his breathing slow beside her, and for the first time in months, letting him close doesn’t feel like surrendering something she will need later.

It feels like stopping a fight neither of them wants to win.

notes from me – AHHHHHHHHH. i hope the wait was worth it, my loves! so so excited to hear your guys thoughts on this one!

i hope you enjoyed, as always tell me all your thoughts and theories and ideas!! xx

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.

[deawritestuff]

“jesus fucking christ,” dana’s voice rang out across the main hub, feet already running towards your limping frame coming through the ambulance bay doors. your hand was positioned securely against your scalp, blood slipping past your fingers and dripping onto the clean linoleum floor. “what the fuck happened?” 

her shouting had gained the attention of other staff members. perlah and cassie following dana’s path to you. 

“i think i got-“ you looked at her when she reached your direct line of sight, words stumbling over the crimson coating your lips. “i don’t know what’s-“ 

“hey, it’s ok.” cassie was already pulled her gloves on, gently prying your hand away to inspect the wound. a wheelchair came speeding towards you, perlah’s grip on your arm tight, gently forcing you to sit. 

“i don’t need-“ you tried to protest as different hands came towards you. dana began cleaning the laceration cut across your left cheek. cassie was gently padding her fingers across your skull. 

frank, who you hadn’t even realised had come over, was now crouched down to your level, shining his pen light in your eyes. you winced slightly at the brightness, eyebrows drawing together.

“pupils equal and reactive.” he announced. your brain continued to try and process everything that was happening around you. the pain erupted through your skull as frank’s gloved hands reached to feel around your face, carefully avoiding tracking blood further across it. “i think she might have broke her fucking cheekbone” 

“i’m tired,” your voice slurred, head feeling weak against people’s palms. 

“you gotta try and stay awake, sweetheart.” dana encouraged, hand placing pressure against your shoulder. you groaned in response, eyes closing and neck slowly tilting backwards. 

“trauma one now. and someone call abbot.” when you didn’t even acknowledge jesse pushing the wheelchair into the room, a collective sense of panic flooded over everyone. 

ahmad’s frame came to the door, gazing at the sight of you being positioned on the gurney. “did she come in from the ambulance bay?” when perlah nodded in response, his fist clenched tight against the glass. “she said she was going for some air about 5 minutes ago.  she had a pissed off husband of a patient she’d been treating. asked me to call the police for DV.” 

“did you call them?” dana asked, hands making quick work attaching the relevant machines to your paling limbs. 

“yeah, i’ll try and see if i can start getting the CCTV aswell.”  he slipped through the door. 

“we need robby in here. i think she got hit with something like a brick or stone. there is debris all in here.” cassie spoke as she examined your head, causing a momentary pause to fall over the room.

“has someone managed to get a hold of jack? you know he’d never forgive us if he didn’t find out about this immediately.” 

your eyes opened slightly, not fully prepared for the view of the plain hospital ceiling above you. your body didn’t feel like your own. like your mind was awake but everything else refused to budge. you let out a groan, fingers stretching out against the hold something or someone had on it.

“hey, you’re ok,” a voice spoke. “take it easy.” 

a chair scrapped on your left side, forcing your lids shut as spasms of sharpness shot through your head. 

you could see the shadows of someone reaching over behind you. a beep was heard distantly outside the room.

“i’ve called the doctor to come check on you.” they announced, hand once again finding yours. 

“doctor?” you mumbled.  “what happened?”

blinking a few times, you finally familiarised yourself with the environment. it was a standard  room, monitors quietly providing vitals, itchy blue blanket covering your legs. the main difference being the casually dressed, silver haired man sat in the red leather recliner beside your bed. 

“hey beautiful,” he smiled when your gaze fell to him. you returned a blank look, confusion flooding your face. his expression immediately changed to match yours. 

“why am i here?”

“you got attacked, skull and facial fracture plus intercranial bleeding. but you’re ok now. its just resting and recovering.” he explained. you nodded, signifying you understand what he said. “it’s going to be a long journey but you’re strong. you can do it.” 

“thank you,” you spoke, eyes frantically searching his face for more answers. “I do just have to ask something else though.”

“what’s that, angel?” he sat forward on the chair, elbows resting on his thighs. 

“I’m sorry but who are you?”