[starsandfrostcombined]

The Work of Coming Home | Cassie McKay

Summary: After a life-changing injury, you and Cassie fight to hold onto each other as your family learns what recovery truly requires.

Word Count: 13.7k

Warnings: no use of Y/N, workplace violence, chronic pain, physical disability, PTSD, prescription opioid addiction, withdrawal, rehab, abandonment distress, and family conflict.

Masterlist

Harrison had been calling you from the kitchen for almost two full minutes before you understood that he wasn't asking for Cassie.

"I need an adult," he shouted again, his voice carrying down the narrow hall.

You stopped in the bedroom doorway with one of Cassie's socks caught between your fingers. The other had disappeared somewhere between the laundry basket and the bed, joining the collection of small domestic mysteries your household produced faster than any of you could solve them.

"Your mother is an adult," you called back. "She has a medical degree and everything."

"Mom said she's busy."

From the bathroom, Cassie raised her voice over the electric whine of her toothbrush. "I said I was brushing my teeth. Apparently, that means I'm dead to him."

"I heard that," Harrison answered.

You smiled as you crossed the hall. Cassie appeared long enough to lean out of the bathroom and bump her shoulder against yours. Her hair was still damp from the shower, and there was a pale stripe of toothpaste at the corner of her mouth. You wiped it away with your thumb without thinking.

"He wants you," she murmured around the toothbrush, her eyes softening as they moved over your face. "You're the favorite this morning."

"I'm always the favorite before seven. You become useful once he needs a ride somewhere."

Cassie caught your wrist before you could walk away and pressed a quick kiss to the center of your palm. It was a tiny thing, nearly lost beneath the sound of running water and Harrison opening too many cabinet doors. After six years together, your life with her was built from tiny things. It was built from a spare key that had become a shared lease, from one drawer in her dresser becoming half the closet, from learning that Harrison would eat eggs only if the yolks were completely firm and that Cassie would leave every light in the apartment on if nobody followed behind her.

It was built from being chosen, over and over, until choice had settled into routine and routine had become home.

Harrison stood in the kitchen in his school clothes and one sock, staring down at a bowl filled with something gray and lumpy.

"What happened?" you asked.

He held the spoon up as if it were evidence in a criminal trial. "The oatmeal said two-thirds of a cup, but I used the one-third cup twice, and now it looks like wet cement."

You looked at the bowl, then at the measuring cup on the counter. "Did you use two-thirds of a cup of oats or water?"

His expression collapsed. "Both?"

"Okay." You reached for the milk. "This is salvageable."

"Mom said that about her bangs in that old picture, and they weren't."

Cassie walked into the kitchen fastening her watch. "You were five when that picture was taken. Why are you still bullying me about it?"

"Because Grandpa saved it to his favorites."

"My father is a traitor."

Harrison laughed, and Cassie used the distraction to steal a slice of banana from his cutting board. He slapped lightly at her hand. She took another anyway, then came to stand behind you while you thinned the oatmeal. Her chin settled on your shoulder. One arm curled loosely around your waist.

"You working until seven?" she asked.

"Unless the Pitt spontaneously learns how to function with an appropriate number of nurses."

"So, until seven."

"Probably closer to eight. Dana asked if I'd help with next month's trauma competencies after shift."

You'd worked as a trauma nurse in the Pitt for almost a decade, long enough that Dana knew exactly which requests you couldn't resist and which tone would keep you from arguing.

Cassie's mouth brushed the side of your neck. "You're incapable of saying no to that woman."

"So are you."

"Dana's terrifying."

"Dana brought us soup when Harrison had the flu."

"The two aren't mutually exclusive."

Harrison made a gagging sound at the sight of Cassie kissing your cheek, though his grin ruined the performance. You set his repaired oatmeal in front of him and tapped the counter twice.

"Eat. Your mom and I have the same shift, and neither of us can afford to be late."

He took one doubtful bite, considered it, and nodded. "You fixed it."

"Of course she did," Cassie said. Her hand rested at the small of your back as she looked at him. "That's what she does."

The words were casual. Cassie had already turned toward the coffee pot by the time they lodged somewhere beneath your ribs.

You didn't know then how much of your life could change between one morning and the next. You had no reason to treat the kitchen as sacred or memorize the warm pressure of Cassie's hand. It was an ordinary Thursday. Harrison complained about school, Cassie drank half a cup of coffee and forgot the rest on the counter, and you left home believing you understood the shape of the life waiting for you when you returned.

The sound outside the staff entrance was too blunt to be mistaken for a dropped object.

You pushed through the door with one hand still curled around your water bottle. The late afternoon air struck warm against your face. For a second, the glare off the concrete flattened everything into color and movement. Then your eyes adjusted.

Dana was on the ground.

Her cigarette had rolled beneath the bench. One side of her face was already reddening, and an AMA form lay crooked near her shoulder. Doug Driscoll stood several feet away with his chest heaving, the rage that had kept him pacing through the waiting room all day still twisted across his face.

"Hey!" Your water bottle hit the pavement as you ran toward them. "Get away from her."

Doug looked at you. His hand flexed once at his side. "She put her hands on me."

"I didn't touch you," Dana said. Her voice sounded thick. She planted one palm on the concrete and tried to push herself upright. "He sucker punched me."

You moved between them before you had time to decide whether it was wise. At work, decisions often happened that way. A body needed pressure, a line needed access, a frightened family needed someone to meet their eyes. You moved first because someone had to.

"Go inside," you told Dana, keeping your gaze on Doug. "I'll call security."

"Don't turn your back on him," she warned.

Doug stepped closer. "I waited eight hours for nothing."

"That doesn't give you the right to hit her." You pulled your phone from your scrub pocket. Your fingers shook badly enough that you nearly dropped it. "You need to leave."

"I'm trying to." He shoved past you.

His forearm struck high across your chest. You staggered sideways, one shoe skidding on the loose gravel collected at the edge of the service drive. Your heel caught the curb. There was a breathless moment when you felt yourself falling and understood there was nothing within reach.

The back of your pelvis hit the low concrete parking barrier.

Pain burst through you with such force that the sky went white.

You heard a scream. It took several seconds to recognize it as your own.

Doug ran. Dana shouted after him, but the sound receded beneath the roaring in your ears. Your left leg lay at an angle that looked wrong even though nothing appeared obviously broken. When you tried to pull it closer, nothing happened.

"Don't move." Dana crawled toward you, one hand pressed to her swelling cheek. Her other hand landed firmly on your shoulder. "Stay down. Don't try to move."

"I can't feel my foot." The words scraped against your throat. "Dana, I can't feel my foot."

"I know. I hear you." She raised her voice toward the open door. "I need a gurney out here now! Get Robby!"

Footsteps thundered down the corridor. You stared at the bricks of the building because turning your head made the nausea worse. You knew the sequence that would follow. You'd performed it for strangers. Spinal precautions. Neuro checks. Trauma activation. Imaging. Blood work. Pain control. The knowledge offered no comfort when hands began to gather around your body.

Robby crouched in your field of vision. He'd pulled gloves on so quickly that one cuff was still folded under.

"Look at me," he said. His voice was calm, the same voice he'd used through codes, gunshot wounds, and parents begging him to save children he couldn't save. "Tell me where it hurts."

"Pelvis. Back. My left leg." Your breath hitched when someone touched your ankle. Pressure registered as something distant and wrong. "I can't move it."

"You can feel that?"

"Barely."

"All right. We're going to keep you still and get you inside."

"Cassie." Robby's eyes flicked toward the doorway. You followed his gaze as far as the collar bracing your neck allowed.

Cassie stood just beyond the gathering of staff.

Someone must have told her enough to make her run. A strand of hair had fallen free from her ponytail, and her face had gone so pale that even her freckles looked gray. She took one step forward before Robby lifted a hand.

"McKay, you can't be on this trauma."

"I'm not trying to be on the trauma." Her voice cracked with anger. "I'm trying to get to my partner."

"Then stay where she can see you and let us work."

Cassie's jaw tightened. She looked ready to fight him, the hospital, and every physical law that kept her from lifting you off the ground herself. Then her eyes met yours.

The anger fell away.

"I'm here," she said. She moved to your head when Robby allowed it and crouched low enough that you could see her. Her hands hovered helplessly over you until she settled for touching two fingers to your temple. "I'm right here. Harrison's with my dad. You don't have to worry about anything except breathing."

"It hurts."

"I know, honey."

"Something's wrong."

The fear in her face sharpened, though her touch stayed gentle. "They're going to figure it out."

"On three," Robby called. "One, two, three."

They rolled you just far enough to slide the board beneath you.

The pain tore a raw cry from your chest. Your hand struck blindly at the air, and Cassie caught it with both of hers.

"Look at me," she begged. "Look at me. I've got you."

You clung to her until the medication reached your bloodstream and the world softened at its edges. The last thing you remembered before the trauma bay lights swallowed the sky was Cassie walking beside the gurney, keeping pace until the doors forced her to let go.

The fractures crossed your sacrum and the back of your pelvic ring. One displaced fragment had damaged the nerves feeding your left leg. The surgical team could stabilize the bones. Nobody would promise what the nerves would do.

Cassie made Robby explain it twice.

You were still groggy from surgery when you opened your eyes and found her sitting beside your bed with her elbows on her knees. Her scrub top was wrinkled. There was dried blood near the hem that might have been yours. She had one hand pressed over her mouth and the other wrapped around your fingers.

"Harrison?" you whispered.

Her head lifted immediately. "He's with my dad. I talked to him. He knows you're hurt and that you had surgery."

"How bad?"

Cassie glanced toward the monitor, buying herself a second. You knew all her evasions. You knew the way she pressed her tongue into her cheek when she was deciding how much truth she could bear to give at once.

"The fixation went well," she said. "Your pelvis is stable."

"That's not what I asked."

She lowered her gaze to your joined hands. "They don't know how much strength you'll get back in your leg. The nerves were badly injured. There can be recovery over time, but nobody can tell us how much."

You tried to lift your left foot beneath the blanket.

Nothing moved.

Panic surged so quickly that the monitor began to complain. You pulled your hand from Cassie's and gripped the sheet. "No. Try again."

"Honey."

"I need to try again."

You stared at the shape of your foot beneath the blanket and sent every instruction you knew down through your body. Lift. Turn. Move one toe. The muscles in your thigh quivered. Your foot remained still.

"Why isn't it moving?"

Cassie stood and leaned over the bed. "The swelling is still severe. You're hours out of surgery. This isn't the final result."

"You don't know that."

"No." She swallowed, and you watched her choose honesty even though it hurt both of you. "I don't."

Your breath broke. Cassie cupped the back of your head as carefully as she could around the lines and pressed her forehead to yours.

"You don't have to make peace with anything tonight," she whispered. "You only have to get through tonight. I'll be here when morning comes."

Morning came with pain.

So did the next one.

Pain became the structure of your days. There was the deep ache of healing bone, the sharp pull of the incision, and the electrical burning that traveled from your hip to your toes, and you couldn't reliably move. Nurses who had once worked beside you now scanned your bracelet and asked you to rate it. You hated the scale. The number was never large enough to contain what your body had become.

Medication lowered it. At first, that was all the pills did.

They let you breathe deeply enough for therapy. They let you sleep for two consecutive hours. They allowed you to sit at the edge of the bed while a physical therapist guarded your knees and Cassie stood in the corner pretending she wasn't crying.

Harrison came four days after surgery.

He stopped inside the doorway when he saw the walker beside your bed. His backpack hung from both shoulders, and he was clutching the strap across his chest with white knuckles.

"Hey, Harri," you said.

He looked at Cassie before approaching. She rested a hand between his shoulder blades and guided him closer.

"You can hug her," Cassie told him. "Just stay above her waist."

"I know how to hug someone," he muttered.

He bent stiffly over the rail. The second his cheek touched yours, the stiffness left him. His arms tightened around your shoulders.

"You scared me," he whispered.

You closed your eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Grandpa said you're coming home."

"As soon as I can."

"Can you still make oatmeal?"

A laugh slipped out of you before turning into a wince. Harrison pulled back immediately, alarm flashing over his face.

"I can still make oatmeal," you assured him. "You might have to carry the bowl for a while."

"That's okay." He nodded with solemn determination. "I can do that."

Cassie turned her face toward the window. Her hand rose briefly to her mouth.

You reached for her, and she came without you having to ask.

For a while, the three of you stayed gathered around the narrow bed. Harrison talked about school. Cassie corrected him when he exaggerated. You listened to them and let the medication move warmly through your veins, easing every hard edge inside you.

At the time, relief still felt innocent.

You came home with a walker, a shower chair, a raised toilet seat, and six different medications arranged in a plastic organizer Cassie labeled in block letters.

The apartment looked familiar from the doorway. Inside, it had been altered around your absence. One end of the couch had been raised on furniture blocks. Rugs had disappeared. A temporary rail ran along the wall between the living room and bathroom. Harrison had taped a handwritten sign over the threshold that read NO SHOES, BAGS, OR RANDOM CRAP IN WALKER ZONE.

"Language," Cassie said when she saw you reading it.

"Random stuff didn't sound serious enough," Harrison explained.

You tightened your grip on the walker. The trip from the car had emptied you. Sweat cooled beneath your shirt, and the muscles along your lower back pulsed with every heartbeat.

"It's perfect," you told him.

He beamed, then remembered he was supposed to be careful and stepped backward to give you room.

The first weeks formed a blur of effort. Getting out of bed required a sequence Cassie could recite in her sleep. Roll to your side. Push with your arms. Wait for the dizziness. Bring the stronger leg down first. Let Cassie guide the weaker one. Stand only when the walker was locked beneath your hands.

Cassie woke for every movement. Even after she returned to the Pitt, she slept lightly enough that the smallest change in your breathing brought her upright.

"I can go to the bathroom alone," you told her one night when she followed you into the hall.

"You almost fell this morning."

"My knee buckled. I caught myself."

"On the dresser. With your face."

You stopped and closed your eyes against the frustration burning behind them. "I need to do something without an audience."

Cassie's expression softened. She stepped back, though every line of her body resisted it.

"Okay," she said. "I'll wait here."

"Waiting six feet away isn't privacy."

"It's the amount of privacy I can manage tonight."

"Cassie."

"I'm trying." She folded her arms tightly across her chest. "I see you hit the ground every time I close my eyes. I'm trying not to make that your problem, but I'm not good at it yet."

The anger went out of you too quickly to protect itself. You looked down at her bare feet on the hallway floor.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize for wanting privacy." She moved close enough to kiss your forehead. "Go. I'll stand in the bedroom doorway where you can't see me hovering."

"I'll know you're doing it."

"That's marriage-adjacent commitment, baby. Loving you and being incredibly annoying about it."

You laughed despite yourself. She smiled against your skin, then let you continue alone.

Those moments carried you. Cassie learned how to help without grabbing. Harrison learned to ask before moving your walker. Dana visited with takeout and sat beside you without telling you how lucky you were. Robby called once a week, though neither of you acknowledged that the calls lasted longer than any normal check-in from a colleague.

The bones healed.

The pain stayed.

At twelve weeks, you could lift your left foot by an inch. At sixteen, you walked the length of the apartment with a forearm crutch and Cassie close behind you. At twenty, the surgeon told you the nerve recovery appeared to be plateauing.

"Plateauing isn't stopping," Cassie said in the parking garage afterward. "Nerves can keep changing for a long time."

You sat in the passenger seat with both hands around your left thigh, trying to quiet the burning under your skin.

"He said I need to adjust my expectations."

"He said we need a long-term management plan."

"You don't have to translate it. I was in the room."

Cassie flinched. She set your folded walker behind the seat, then came around to the driver's side without answering.

You made it halfway home before the pain climbed past what you could manage. You shifted against the seat. Then you shifted again. Cassie's eyes flicked toward you.

"When did you last take something?"

"Before the appointment."

"That was four hours ago. You can take the next dose."

The bottle was already in your bag. You found it by touch and shook one tablet into your palm. Cassie kept her eyes on the road.

You took two.

The choice lasted less than a second. The first dose hadn't carried you through the examination. Your hip felt like it was packed with ground glass. You needed enough relief to make it through the drive, the stairs, and Harrison asking what the doctor said.

You told yourself you would adjust the next dose.

You didn't.

The extra pills made room inside your body.

That was how you thought of it. Pain crowded everything else out. It took the space where patience had lived, the space where hunger should have been, the space you once used to listen to Harrison explain a video game you didn't understand. When the medication worked, some of that space returned. You could sit through dinner. You could answer a question without snapping. You could lie beside Cassie and feel the warmth of her body instead of the burning in your leg.

Your prescription had been written by people who knew exactly what had happened to you. The bottle had your name on it. The instructions included a range. For a while, you stayed inside it.

Then you started taking the next dose half an hour early.

You started saving one beside the bed in case you woke with your calf seized into a cramp. You kept another in the pocket of your old scrub jacket because the sight of it hanging in the closet could still make your chest ache. When the pain clinic lowered the number of tablets at your next appointment, you nodded through their explanation and went home terrified.

Cassie noticed the fear. She sat beside you on the bed while you changed out of your clothes, holding your ankle brace in her lap.

"We'll figure it out," she said. "There are other medications. Nerve blocks. More PT. We can ask about a different pain specialist."

"They think I'm drug-seeking."

"They think long-term opioids carry risks. That's their job."

You looked at her sharply. "Of course you'd say that."

Silence settled between you.

Cassie's fingers stilled on the brace. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

"It didn't sound like nothing."

You pulled your shirt over your head and threw it toward the hamper. It landed short. Once, you would have picked it up without thinking. Now you stared at it on the floor and calculated the effort required to reach down.

"You hear opioids and stop hearing the rest," you said. "You don't live in this body."

Cassie's face changed. The hurt was quick, then carefully hidden.

"No," she said. "I don't."

She set the brace beside you and picked up the shirt. She didn't touch you again before leaving the bedroom.

You found her later at the kitchen table, helping Harrison with long division. Her chair was angled away from yours. She still made room when you came close. She still reached down to steady the forearm crutch while you sat. Love remained present between you, quiet and wounded.

You apologized in bed.

"I know you're scared for me," you whispered.

Cassie lay on her side with one hand tucked beneath her cheek. The lamp left a warm stripe across her face.

"I'm scared you're in pain," she said. "I'm scared every option they give you is another version of losing something."

"I can't do this without them."

Her gaze searched yours. "Then we make sure you're taking them safely."

You nodded.

At that point, you still believed the lie was small enough to keep from changing anything.

It changed you by degrees.

You began looking at clocks constantly. You knew how many hours remained until the next dose and how many tablets remained until the next refill. You stopped going to physical therapy on days when you didn't have enough medication to blunt what came afterward. When Cassie asked, you said the therapist had canceled.

You stopped sleeping with the bottle on the nightstand. Cassie had never counted your pills, but the possibility of her noticing how quickly they disappeared made your skin prickle. You tucked them into the pocket of a robe you no longer wore. Later, you moved some to the back of a bathroom drawer beneath expired sunscreen and Harrison's old children's toothpaste.

Your nightmares worsened. In them, you heard Dana shouting before Doug struck her. You ran outside again and again, but the distance between the door and Dana lengthened beneath your feet. Sometimes Doug turned toward you. Sometimes the parking barrier rose behind you like a wall. You always woke at the moment of impact, your body clenched so hard that pain ripped down your leg.

The pills quieted that too.

You took them for the pain in your pelvis. You took them because a car door slammed in the lot outside and your lungs forgot how to work. You took them before showers because closing your eyes beneath the water made you feel the concrete against your back. You took them before Cassie came home so she wouldn't see how badly you had spent the day unraveling.

The first time you ran out early, you told the pain clinic you'd dropped several tablets into the sink.

The second time, you said the pharmacy had shorted you.

The third time, they refused to authorize an early refill.

You spent the night sweating beneath the blankets, unable to hold still. Pain rolled through your pelvis. Your stomach cramped, and every nerve in your body seemed to vibrate. Cassie sat on the edge of the bed watching you.

"This isn't only a pain flare," she said.

You turned your face into the pillow. "Don't."

"When was your last dose?"

"Yesterday."

"You're not supposed to be out."

"I had bad days."

"How many extra did you take?"

"I don't know."

Cassie stood. She paced to the door and back, rubbing one hand hard over her mouth. You could see her fighting for control.

"I need you to tell me the truth," she said.

"I am."

"You know what I'm asking."

Anger gave you enough energy to sit up. "You don't get to turn this into your story."

She stopped moving.

"I'm not."

"You went to rehab. You lost custody. You built your life around being sober. I know. I've listened. I've supported you. That doesn't mean every person who needs medication is you."

Cassie stared at you. Her eyes shone, and the sight made you crueler because you couldn't bear what it asked you to admit.

"My pain is real," you said.

"I know it is."

"Then stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm already gone."

Cassie's face crumpled for one second. She looked toward the hall, checking that Harrison's door was still closed, then lowered her voice.

"I'm looking at you like I recognize where you are," she said. "That's different."

You reached for the crutch beside the bed. Your hand missed the cuff on the first try.

"I need the bathroom."

"Let me help you."

"I don't want your help."

"You're shaking."

"I'm in pain."

"You're in withdrawal."

The word struck like an accusation. You shoved the crutch upright and tried to stand too quickly. Your left knee folded before you had your weight centered.

Cassie caught you beneath the arms.

You fought her on instinct. "Let go of me."

"Stop." She braced her feet and held on as your body trembled against hers. "You're going to fall."

"Let me go."

"I can't."

"You always can."

The words left both of you frozen.

Cassie had been three years sober when you met her and was closing in on nine now. She'd spent your years together telling you that sobriety began with choices nobody could make for another person. You had sat beside her at anniversary dinners and watched her turn down wine without ceremony. You had listened when she spoke about the years before you, when addiction had hollowed out her promises until Harrison was taken from her. You knew the shame she still carried. You knew how fiercely she protected the life she'd built after rehab.

You used that knowledge to hurt her because she was holding you upright and refusing to pretend.

She got you back onto the bed. Then she walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

You heard her crying through the wall.

In the morning, Cassie called the pain clinic with you beside her. The clinician arranged a supervised taper and an urgent assessment. You agreed to everything. You even felt relieved.

For eleven days, you followed the plan.

On the twelfth, pain woke you before dawn. Cassie had already left for her shift, and Harrison was asleep down the hall. You opened the bathroom drawer and found the pills you'd hidden months earlier.

You took one.

Then another.

By the time Harrison called from the kitchen, your fear had quieted, and the floor seemed comfortably distant beneath your crutch.

"Can you pick me up after tutoring?" he asked. He was trying to fit a notebook into a backpack already swollen with papers. "Mom said she might get stuck late."

"Of course."

He looked up. "You sure? I can call Grandpa."

"Harri, I can drive. I was cleared two weeks ago."

"I know. I just meant if your leg hurts."

You smiled and reached out to straighten his collar. "I'll be there at four-thirty. Same place as always."

He studied your face for a moment, then leaned in and hugged you around the waist. "Okay. Love you."

"Love you too."

You meant it completely.

At four-fifty, you woke on the couch with your phone vibrating beneath your hand.

There were seven missed calls.

Two were from the school. Five were from Cassie.

Cold rushed through you. You tried to stand, but your leg was numb from the position you'd slept in. The crutch fell when you grabbed for it. Before you could reach the floor, the front door opened.

Cassie entered first. Harrison followed several steps behind her.

She'd left work so quickly that her hospital badge still swung from the pocket of her scrub top. Fury held her body rigid. Harrison's face was blotched from crying, and he wouldn't look at you.

"I fell asleep," you said.

Cassie closed the door with deliberate care. "Harrison, go to your room."

"No."

"Please."

"I want to hear what she says."

You managed to pull yourself upright against the couch. "I'm sorry. I took my medication and fell asleep. I didn't mean to miss it."

Harrison laughed once, a harsh sound that didn't belong to him. "You promised."

"I know."

"I waited outside because you always park by the fence. Then they made me go back to the office, and Mom wasn't answering because she was working."

Cassie put a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged her off.

"I thought you got hurt again," he said. Tears filled his eyes. "I thought you were dead somewhere."

The room tilted around you. "Harrison, I'm so sorry."

"Stop saying that."

"Go to your room," Cassie said again, her voice trembling. "I need to talk to her."

Harrison looked at his mother, then at the crutch on the floor and the indentation your body had left in the couch. His fear found somewhere to go. It hardened into anger.

"You said she was safe," he told Cassie. "You said she wasn't going to disappear."

Cassie's mouth opened. No answer came.

"She made breakfast and came to my conferences and said she'd always show up." His voice cracked. "She lied."

"I didn't lie to you."

"Yes, you did."

"Harrison."

"You're not my parent!" he shouted at you. His whole body shook with the force of it. "You're not, and you don't get to act like you are anymore."

The words emptied the room.

You felt them land in the tenderest place you had. Six years of lunches, fevers, school projects, scraped knees, birthday cakes, bedtime arguments, and waiting up for him after his first sleepover vanished beneath one furious sentence.

Cassie recoiled too. Her face went white in the same way it had outside the trauma bay. Harrison couldn't have remembered the worst years of her addiction clearly, but he knew about them. He knew there had been a time when a court decided Cassie couldn't safely parent him. The word struck every scar she carried from losing custody.

"You don't say that to her," Cassie said. Her voice was low and unsteady. "You can be angry. You should be angry. You don't get to erase what she's been to you."

"She erased it first."

He ran down the hall and slammed his bedroom door.

Cassie flinched at the sound. For a few seconds, neither of you moved.

Then her gaze shifted to the side table.

The glass of water was still there. So was the prescription bottle you had forgotten to hide.

Cassie picked it up. She read the label, tipped the empty bottle into her palm, and looked at the fill date.

"Where did these come from?"

You couldn't answer.

"This prescription was discontinued."

"I had some left."

"You told me you turned them in."

"I forgot about them."

"Where did they come from?"

"I just told you."

Cassie's fingers tightened around the bottle. "I need you to stop lying to me."

"I fell asleep. That's all that happened."

"You were supposed to be off these. You were alone with Harrison. You planned to drive."

"I would've been fine by four-thirty."

"You weren't awake at four-fifty."

"I made a mistake."

"This isn't one mistake."

She crossed to the robe hanging beside the bedroom door and searched the pocket. When she found nothing, she opened the bathroom drawer. The remaining tablets were tucked beneath the sunscreen exactly where you'd left them.

Cassie returned holding them in her shaking hand.

"How long?"

You looked away.

"How long have you been hiding medication?"

"I need it."

"That wasn't my question."

"My leg feels like it's on fire every minute of every day." You gripped your thigh, pressing hard enough to leave marks. "I can't sleep. I can't work. I can't take a shower without remembering the sound my body made when I hit the concrete. I can't walk from here to the bathroom without thinking about every step. Those pills are the only time I feel like myself."

Cassie's anger broke open. Tears slid down her face.

"I believe you," she said. "Your pain is real. Your PTSD is real. You also have a problem with opioids. All of those things can be true at the same time."

"Don't diagnose me."

"I'm your partner. I'm telling you what I see."

"You see yourself."

"Yes!" The word ripped out of her. She pressed both palms to her chest. "I see myself. I see the lies. I see you planning your entire day around a pill. I see the way you disappear while you're sitting three feet away from me. I see Harrison blaming himself for trusting you because that's what I taught him addiction feels like."

You hated her for saying it. You hated that part of you felt relief at hearing the truth spoken aloud.

"What do you want me to do?" you asked.

"I want you assessed today. I want you in medically supervised treatment, and I think you need residential rehab."

"You want to send me away."

"I want you alive."

"They're prescription pills, Cassie. I'm not dying."

"You don't know that." Her voice lowered. "I didn't know it either."

She sat on the coffee table in front of you, leaving space between your knees. Her hands rested open in her lap.

"My dad is coming for Harrison," she said. "He can't stay here while this is happening. I can't put him through that again."

"So you're taking him from me."

Pain twisted across her face. "I'm keeping him safe."

"From me."

"Right now, yes."

That answer cut through every defense you had left.

You reached for the crutch and stood. Cassie rose with you, but she didn't touch you.

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know."

"You can't drive."

"Then I'll walk."

"You can barely stand."

"Stop telling me what I can't do!"

You swung the crutch forward too hard. The rubber tip slid on the floor. Your weak leg folded, and your hip struck the wall before Cassie caught your arm.

The impact wasn't severe, but your body didn't know that. The hallway vanished. You were outside again with the pavement rushing up and Doug's arm across your chest. A scream climbed out of you. You struck at Cassie's hands as she tried to lower you safely.

"Don't touch me! Get away!"

"It's me." Cassie knelt beside you. "You're home. You're in the hall."

"Get him away from Dana."

"Doug isn't here. Look at me."

You couldn't. You could smell hot concrete. You could hear the bottle hitting the ground and Dana calling for Robby. Your left leg burned. Your breath came in tiny, tearing pulls that never seemed to reach your lungs.

"I can't do this," you sobbed. "I can't be in this body anymore."

Cassie sat on the floor in front of you, crying openly now. She kept her hands where you could see them.

"I know," she said. "I know you're tired."

"Harrison hates me."

"Harrison is scared."

"He said I'm not his parent."

Cassie closed her eyes. When she opened them, the pain there was old and deep.

"He knew where to hurt you," she whispered. "Kids learn that from loving us. It doesn't make what he said true."

"You think it is. You're sending him away."

"For tonight." Her voice shook. "I need to know you're safe. I need to keep my sobriety safe. I need to protect him. I don't know how to do all three without help."

You pressed both hands over your face. Everything you had lost seemed to arrive at once. Your work. Your strength. The trust in Harrison's face. The uncomplicated way Cassie used to reach for you. You bent over your injured leg and wept until there was no dignity left to defend.

Cassie stayed on the floor.

She didn't promise the pain would go away. She didn't tell you love was enough. She waited until your breathing slowed, then slid your crutch within reach.

"Will you go with me?" she asked.

You stared down the empty hall toward Harrison's closed door.

"Will he be here when I come back?"

Cassie wiped her face with the heel of her hand. "I can't promise what he'll feel. I can promise we won't stop being a family while we figure it out."

It wasn't the answer you wanted.

It was the first one you believed.

"Okay," you whispered.

The treatment center took your shoelaces, your medication, and the small tube of muscle cream from the side pocket of your bag.

They let you keep the forearm crutches after an occupational therapist inspected them. The nurse at intake replaced the elastic laces in your sneakers and wrote FALL RISK on the whiteboard beside your room number. You watched each piece of yourself become a line on a form.

Opioid use disorder.

Post-traumatic stress disorder.

Chronic neuropathic pain.

Mobility impairment following pelvic trauma.

You wanted to argue with the first one. You wanted to tell them about the concrete barrier and the nerve studies, to pull up imaging and make them see that your pain had started somewhere visible. Nobody denied it. That somehow made the diagnosis harder to fight.

Cassie remained beside you through intake. She sat in a molded plastic chair with her hands locked together and answered only when you looked at her for help. Before the nurse took you back, Cassie stood and wrapped both arms around you.

For the first few seconds, you kept your arms at your sides.

"I'm still angry," you said into her shoulder.

"I know."

"I don't know if I forgive you for taking Harrison away."

Her breath trembled against your hair. "I know."

"I don't know if he wants me to come home."

"This is your home."

You finally gripped the back of her jacket. "Will you visit?"

Cassie held you tighter.

"As soon as they let me," she promised. "I'll be here Sunday."

You drew back far enough to see her face. "Don't say it if you can't do it."

"I'll be here."

The locked doors closed between you before either of you could say goodbye properly.

Detox was ugly and slow. Your treatment team transitioned you to medication for opioid use disorder while rebuilding your pain plan around options that didn't require you to chase relief every few hours. The new medication eased the worst of the withdrawal and some of the pain. It didn't touch all of it. Your leg still burned through group sessions. Your hip ached against the thin mattress. The muscles in your lower back spasmed after walks to the dining room.

For the first time, the goal wasn't to reach zero.

The goal was to get through breakfast without bargaining for oblivion. It was to identify a pain flare before terror turned it into a catastrophe. It was to learn that a nightmare could end without swallowing something from a hidden bottle.

You hated the lessons because you needed them.

Cassie called every evening during the first week. The calls were limited, and the telephone was mounted at an awkward height for someone using crutches. You balanced against the wall and listened to the sounds of home behind her voice.

"Harrison asked if you still have the blue sweatshirt," she told you on Tuesday.

"I do. Why?"

"He said you get cold in hospitals. I told him this isn't exactly a hospital, and he said that wasn't the point."

Your eyes closed. "Can I talk to him?"

The line went quiet.

"Not tonight," Cassie said gently.

"Did he say that?"

"He went to my dad's before call time."

You knew she was lying. Cassie was terrible at it when she wasn't using anger to hide.

"Tell him I love him."

"I will."

On Friday, Cassie sounded distracted. You could hear traffic and the rhythmic click of a turn signal.

"You're driving?"

"I'm parked."

"Where are you?"

"Outside a meeting."

Your grip tightened on the phone. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I picked up extra meetings this week."

"Because of me."

"Because this is hard, and meetings are how I handle hard things."

The directness of it stung. You shifted your weight off your weaker leg.

"Are you still coming Sunday?"

Cassie exhaled slowly. "Yes."

You held on to that promise through the weekend.

On Sunday morning, you showered early. It took forty minutes, two rest breaks, and help changing the dressing beneath your ankle brace where the strap had rubbed your skin raw. You put on the blue sweatshirt Harrison had remembered and waited in the common room twenty minutes before visiting hours began.

Other families arrived carrying paper cups and nervous smiles. The front doors opened. Names were called. Chairs filled around you.

Cassie didn't come.

You waited through the entire visiting period.

At dinner, a staff member told you there had been a voicemail at the desk. Cassie had been called into work. She would come the following Sunday.

When she phoned that night, you kept your voice level.

"You could've called me."

"I left a message."

"With the front desk. After I'd already been waiting."

"I'm sorry. It got complicated."

"The Pitt is always complicated."

"I know."

"Will you come next week?"

There was a pause you felt in your chest.

"I'll try."

"That's different from what you said before."

"I don't want to promise and disappoint you again."

"You already promised."

Cassie whispered your name.

You hung up.

The next Sunday, you didn't put on the blue sweatshirt. You told yourself you wouldn't wait in the common room. At two minutes before visiting hours, you carried your crutches down the hall and took the same chair beside the window.

Cassie didn't come.

This time, there was no message.

You called home during evening phone time. The call went to voicemail. You called again before the phones shut off. She didn't answer.

By Monday morning, you had built an explanation from every fear you owned. Cassie had decided the apartment felt safer without you. Harrison had told her he wouldn't come home if you did. She'd remembered what addiction had cost her once and understood that loving you was a threat to everything she'd recovered.

In trauma therapy, you were asked to separate what you knew from what your nervous system believed.

You knew Cassie loved you.

Your body believed you had been abandoned.

That night, the slam of a door down the corridor sent you to the floor beside your bed. Staff found you wedged between the mattress and the wall, one crutch several feet away. You knew where you were. You could name five things you saw and four things you felt. None of it stopped the terror. Your leg spasmed until your heel knocked against the baseboard. When someone reached toward you, you screamed.

The panic lasted nearly an hour.

You called Cassie the next day. She answered on the fourth ring.

"I'm sorry," she said immediately. "I was on shift last night."

"Why didn't you come?"

Silence.

"Cassie, why didn't you come?"

"I couldn't."

"You said you would."

"I know."

"Did Harrison ask you not to?"

"No."

"Do you want me to come home?"

"Of course I do."

"Then tell me what's happening."

On the other end of the line, Cassie breathed in. You waited. The answer never came.

"I have to go," she said finally.

"Don't."

"I'm at work."

"You promised you wouldn't disappear when I got here."

"I'm not disappearing."

"I haven't seen you in three weeks."

"I call you."

"You stopped doing that too."

"I don't know what you want from me."

The exhaustion in her voice made you feel like a burden she could no longer carry.

"I wanted you to show up," you said. "You were the one who told me to come here. You took me away from Harrison, left me in a locked building, and now you won't even tell me why you can't look at me."

"That's not fair."

"Neither is this."

You ended the call before she could.

After that, something inside you closed.

You stopped asking when the phone would be available. You stayed in your room during visiting hours and listened to families move through the hall. You attended group because absence threatened your discharge plan, but you sat with your arms folded and gave one-word answers. Meals went untouched. Physical therapy became a series of refusals.

When your counselor asked whether you were thinking of using again, you stared at the floor.

"I'm thinking about leaving," you said.

"Where would you go?"

"Home. A hotel. I don't care."

"Do you feel ready to manage your medication and recovery plan outside this setting?"

"No."

"Then what would leaving give you?"

Your throat tightened.

"At least I'd know I was alone because I chose it."

The counselor was quiet for a moment. "You signed a release allowing us to speak with Cassie if your discharge became unsafe. I'd like to use it."

"She won't answer."

"Will you let us try?"

You shrugged. It was easier than admitting that one last attempt frightened you more than leaving.

The call reached Cassie in the Pitt's medication room.

You weren't there to hear it, but she told you about it later. She told you that Dana had to finish the count because Cassie's hands began shaking too badly to hold the receiver. She told you the counselor said you were medically stable and emotionally deteriorating. You had stopped eating full meals. You were refusing therapy. You no longer believed you had a home to return to.

Cassie said the counselor asked one question that stripped every excuse away.

"Does she know why you haven't visited?"

Cassie leaned against the counter and looked through the medication-room window at the department beyond it. Robby was speaking to a family. Mel hurried past with a blanket tucked beneath one arm. Dana stood at the central desk, watching Cassie with quiet concern.

"No," Cassie admitted.

"Why not?"

"Because she'll think I'm making her treatment about me."

"What does she think now?"

Cassie had no answer.

The center arranged a private call that afternoon. A counselor sat with you in a small office. Cassie joined by phone from her car because she couldn't make herself go into the apartment and have the conversation within earshot of Harrison's room.

For several seconds, all you could hear was her breathing.

"They said you wanted to explain," you said.

"I should've explained before you ever had to ask."

You stared at the rubber tip of your crutch. "Then explain now."

Cassie took a breath.

"I drove there the first Sunday. I got as far as the parking lot."

Your head lifted.

"You said you were at work."

"I lied." The admission was barely audible.

"Why?"

"Because when I saw the building, I couldn't get out of the car." Her voice shook. "It wasn't even the same facility I went to. It didn't matter. I smelled the disinfectant from the lobby when the doors opened, and I was twenty-eight again. I could feel withdrawal in my bones. I remembered signing over custody because I couldn't promise Harrison would be safe with me. I remembered wanting to use more than I wanted to go home."

You closed your eyes.

Cassie continued before courage left her.

"I sat there for two hours. Then I went to a meeting. I told myself I'd explain on the phone, but I heard how scared you were, and I couldn't stand being another thing you had to manage. The next Sunday, I got halfway there and turned around. After that, I was ashamed. Every time I avoided the conversation, it became harder to have."

"You were afraid you'd relapse."

"Yes."

"Because of me."

"Because I have a substance use disorder." Her answer came firmly. "My sobriety is my responsibility. You didn't cause that fear."

Tears blurred the crutch beneath your hand. "You made me think you didn't want me."

"I know."

"You promised."

"I know."

"I waited for you in the sweatshirt Harrison asked about. Everybody else's family walked in, and I sat there until they stacked the chairs."

Cassie made a broken sound.

"I'm so sorry."

"You don't get to cry and make me comfort you."

"You're right." Her breathing hitched, but she steadied it. "You don't have to take care of me."

You pressed your palm against your sternum. The pain there had no number.

"I came here because you asked me to trust you," you said. "I know I hurt you. I know I scared Harrison. I know you needed boundaries. I still needed you to tell me the truth."

"You did."

"I don't know how to believe you'll be there when I leave."

"I can start by telling you what I can actually do." Cassie paused. "I can't visit the facility. I want to, and I'm not ready. I can call at seven every night. I can write. I can meet with your treatment team by video. I'll be at discharge, outside the building, and I won't promise anything else until I know I can keep it."

Anger rose through your grief. "So you're still not coming."

"No," she whispered. "I'm not."

"Then this doesn't fix it."

"I know."

The counselor shifted beside you but didn't interrupt. You wiped your cheek with the sleeve of Harrison's blue sweatshirt.

"Seven every night," you said. "If you can't call, you tell the desk before six. You don't leave me waiting."

"Okay."

"And I want to talk to Harrison. Even if all he says is that he hates me."

Cassie's voice softened. "I'll ask him."

"Don't make him."

"I won't."

The call ended without either of you saying I love you.

Cassie called at seven that evening.

She called the next evening too.

On the third night, Harrison sat beside her. You knew because you heard the quiet creak of his desk chair and Cassie asking whether he was sure.

"Hi," you said.

He didn't answer.

"You don't have to talk. I just wanted you to know I'm here."

His breath crackled faintly through the speaker.

"Are you coming home?" he asked.

"When the doctors think I'm ready."

"Mom said you might be there another month."

"Maybe."

"Are you still taking the pills?"

"I'm taking different medication now. The staff holds it and gives it to me safely. When I come home, I'll have help managing it."

"So you won't forget me again?"

The question split something open inside you.

"I can't promise I'll never make another mistake," you said. Your fingers tightened around the phone. "I can promise I'm doing the work to make sure that doesn't happen again. What I did wasn't your fault. You didn't trust me wrong. I broke a promise, and I'm sorry."

Harrison was quiet for so long you thought he had walked away.

"I'm still mad," he said.

"You can be."

"I don't take back what I said."

Your eyes closed. "Okay."

Cassie drew in a sharp breath, but you spoke before she could correct him.

"You don't have to decide what I am to you right now," you said. "I'm going to love you while you figure it out."

Harrison sniffed.

"Mom wants the phone."

The handoff rustled through the line.

"You okay?" Cassie asked.

"No."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't push him."

"I won't."

You believed her.

It wasn't forgiveness. It was enough to get you to breakfast the next morning.

Recovery didn't make your body easier to inhabit.

That truth took longer to accept than the diagnosis. You had imagined treatment would reveal a clean dividing line between addiction and pain. If you followed every instruction, attended every group, and told the truth, you thought someone would identify which suffering was legitimate and remove the rest.

Your pain remained legitimate.

It also remained.

The treatment team adjusted your medication several times. Physical therapy helped you recognize which movements strengthened the muscles that were still responding and which only punished you for wanting to progress faster. Trauma therapy gave you language for the way your body reacted to footsteps behind you, shouting in hallways, and the sharp squeal of brakes outside. None of it returned you to the woman who had run through the staff entrance without considering whether her legs would hold.

One afternoon, you stood between the parallel bars in the therapy room and tried to lift your left foot over a foam obstacle. The brace held your ankle. Your hands clamped around the rails.

"Again," you said.

The therapist told you your leg was fatigued.

"Again."

You shifted your weight and dragged your foot forward. Your toe caught the foam. Your knee buckled, and the safety harness took enough of your weight to keep you from falling.

Rage flooded you.

You struck the rail with the heel of your hand. "Again."

The therapist waited until you looked up.

"What are you trying to prove?" she asked.

You wanted to tell her you were proving you could go home. You were proving you deserved Cassie, Harrison, and the trauma bay. You were proving Doug Driscoll hadn't taken the most useful parts of you and left the rest behind.

Instead, you began to cry.

"I don't know how to stop fighting my own body," you admitted.

The therapist lowered the harness until you were seated. She left you quiet while your breathing settled, then helped you plan a shorter session for the following morning.

That evening, you told Cassie what had happened.

"I used to think accepting a limit meant I was choosing it," Cassie said through the phone. You could hear dishes clinking at home. "Like if I admitted I couldn't safely have one drink or take one pill, I was agreeing to be weak forever."

"This isn't the same."

"No. Your leg isn't an addiction. I just know what it's like to believe anger can change a fact."

You leaned back against the wall beside the phone. "Does the anger ever go away?"

"Some of it. Some of it changes jobs."

"What does that mean?"

"I was angry enough to get sober. Later, I was angry enough to build a life nobody thought I'd manage. These days, I'm mostly angry at insurance companies and people who chew with their mouths open."

A laugh escaped you.

"Was that a laugh?" Cassie asked. "Should I alert the press?"

"Don't ruin it."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

The tenderness came carefully after that. Cassie sent letters even though you spoke every day. She wrote about ordinary things: Dana threatening to confiscate Robby's coffee, Mel reorganizing a supply cart because its labels had become inconsistent, Whitaker leaving his lunch in the staff refrigerator for three days. She wrote that Harrison had passed his science test and still refused to speak about you for more than a few minutes at a time.

She never asked you to forgive her in those letters.

You never told her the missed visits had stopped hurting.

Both of you learned to let love exist beside damage without using it to cover anything.

Harrison joined one call each week. At first, he stayed for less than a minute. Then he began bringing questions.

"Did they take your phone because rehab is like jail?"

"No. We have scheduled phone time because constant contact can get in the way of treatment."

"Can you leave if you want?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't you?"

You looked through the common-room window at late sunlight spread across the lawn.

"Because wanting to leave and being ready to leave aren't the same thing."

He considered that.

"Mom said you have to use the rolling walker again when you come home."

"For a while. My crutches take more energy, and I need to save some for outpatient therapy."

"We still have the sign."

Your throat tightened. "The walker-zone sign?"

"Mom tried to throw it away because the tape got gross. I made a new one."

"Did you change random crap to random stuff?"

"No."

You smiled into the phone. "Good. It wouldn't sound serious enough."

Harrison didn't laugh, though you heard the beginning of it in his breath.

By the time discharge arrived, you had been away for seven weeks.

You stood in the lobby with your bag hooked over the front of the rollator. The doors opened each time someone approached, sending warm summer air across the polished floor. Your pulse climbed with every glimpse of the parking lot.

Cassie hadn't entered the building once.

She was waiting outside exactly as she promised.

You saw her through the glass beside the passenger door of your car. She wore jeans and the green jacket you'd bought her two birthdays ago, though the day was too warm for it. Her hands were shoved into her pockets. She looked exhausted.

When you crossed the threshold, she started toward you and stopped.

"Can I hug you?" she asked.

The question hurt. It also gave you something you hadn't known you needed.

You locked the brakes on the rollator. "Yes."

Cassie moved slowly enough that you could change your mind. Her arms settled around your shoulders. She kept the pressure gentle until you pulled her closer.

You breathed in the familiar scent of her shampoo and held on.

"I'm sorry," she whispered against your temple. "I'm sorry I left you waiting."

"I know."

"I'm glad you're here."

"I'm scared to go home."

Her hand spread across your back. "I know."

For once, neither of you tried to turn knowing into a solution.

The drive took forty minutes. Cassie told you before every turn. She warned you when a truck was approaching too quickly from behind. When tires squealed at an intersection, your body locked. She pulled into a grocery-store lot and parked without being asked.

"You're safe," she said. Her hands remained on the steering wheel. "We're stopped. Nobody's behind us."

You pressed both feet into the floor, even though the left one gave you only a dull sense of pressure. The panic rose, crested, and began to loosen.

"I hate this," you whispered.

"I know."

"You can say something else."

Cassie's mouth twitched. "Traffic in Pittsburgh is a moral failure."

A startled laugh moved through you.

"Better?" she asked.

"A little."

She reached across the console, palm up. You put your hand in hers.

Harrison was at Neil's house when you arrived home. The absence was deliberate. Cassie had explained that he wanted one more night before seeing you.

You pretended it was a relief until you saw the new sign taped above the threshold.

NO SHOES, BAGS, OR RANDOM CRAP IN ROLLATOR ZONE.

Beneath it, in smaller letters, Harrison had added: THIS MEANS YOU, MOM.

Cassie stood behind you with your bag.

"He made me move my shoes before he left," she said.

You touched the edge of the paper. "Is he coming back?"

"Tomorrow."

"Because you told him to?"

"Because this is his home too."

You turned. Cassie set the bag down and came close without touching you.

"He might be angry for a while," she said. "You might be angry with me for a while. Coming home doesn't mean any of us skips that part."

"What if I can't fix it?"

"Then you keep showing up while it heals differently than you wanted."

The words settled between you. Cassie glanced at the rollator, then toward the medication lockbox on the highest kitchen shelf.

"We have rules," she said. "Your treatment team sent the schedule. I'll hold the backup doses for the first month, but I'm not your recovery counselor. I'm going to my own meetings. You're going to yours. We tell the truth before it becomes an emergency."

"Harrison doesn't stay alone with me yet."

Pain crossed her face. "Not yet."

You nodded. "Okay."

"You can hate it."

"I do."

"Okay."

That first night, Cassie helped you into bed and lay down on top of the covers beside you. There was too much history in the space between your bodies. You stared at the ceiling and listened to the air conditioner cycle on.

"Are we okay?" you asked.

Cassie turned her head.

"No," she said. "I think we're going to be."

You reached across the mattress. Her fingers closed around yours.

It was enough for one night.

Harrison returned carrying his overnight bag and wearing the guarded expression he usually reserved for adults who asked too many questions.

You were at the kitchen table with your morning medication arranged in a small cup. Cassie sat across from you with the treatment schedule open on her phone. Harrison stopped when he saw it.

"Hi," you said.

"Hi."

Cassie stood. "I'll put your bag in your room."

"You don't have to leave," Harrison said.

"I'm not leaving. I'm walking twenty feet down the hall."

He watched her go, then looked at the rollator parked beside your chair.

"Does your leg hurt?"

"Yes."

"Did rehab fix any of it?"

"They helped me find safer ways to manage it. It still hurts."

He nodded as though confirming something to himself. "Mom said it would."

"Your mom was right."

"She's annoying when she's right."

"Incredibly."

The corner of his mouth moved. He sat in the chair farthest from you.

"Are you going back to work?"

"Eventually."

"What if you get hurt again?"

You could have promised you wouldn't. The old instinct rose immediately. You wanted to give him certainty and watch his shoulders relax.

"I don't know," you said. "We're working on making my job safer. I'll be doing something different when I go back."

"Mom said desk duty."

"Mostly."

"You're going to hate that."

The accuracy of it startled you. "Probably."

Harrison picked at a loose thread on his bag. "I didn't mean that I never loved you."

You stayed very still.

"I know."

"I meant you weren't my parent because parents don't forget you."

From the hallway came the faint sound of Cassie setting his bag down. She didn't return.

"Parents can fail you," you said. "They shouldn't. It happens anyway."

"Mom did before."

"Yes."

"She told me."

"I know."

Harrison's chin trembled. "Then you did the same thing."

You folded your hands on the table to stop yourself from reaching for him.

"I did something that made you feel the same fear," you said. "I'm sorry."

"She got better."

"She did."

"Are you going to?"

The question held more hope than trust.

"I'm going to keep working at it."

"That's not yes."

"It's the most honest answer I have."

He looked toward the hall. Cassie stepped back into the kitchen only after he called for her.

Harrison stood and moved to her side. He let her wrap an arm around his shoulders.

"I'm still mad," he told you.

"I know."

"And you're not picking me up alone yet."

"I know."

"But you can help with my history project."

Relief hit so hard that you had to grip the edge of the table.

"I'd like that."

"It's due Friday."

Cassie looked down at him. "You've had three weeks."

"She's good at fixing things."

The familiar words landed differently this time. You couldn't fix what had happened. You could sit with him at the table, find credible sources, and stay awake until the final citation was in place.

"After dinner," you said. "We'll make a plan."

Harrison nodded once.

It was the first invitation back into his life.

You treated it with the care of something breakable.

PTMC cleared you to return five months after rehab.

The clearance came with restrictions that filled an entire page. No lifting. No patient transfers. No prolonged standing. No running. Immediate access to seating. Scheduled breaks for medication and mobility. Administrative assignment only.

Gloria Underwood called it a transitional placement during your meeting.

"There may be opportunities to reassess in six months," she said, hands folded neatly over the paperwork. "For now, Quality and Patient Safety can use your trauma experience."

You stared at the list of duties. Chart review. Incident tracking. Staff education. Committee support.

"This isn't nursing," you said.

Gloria's expression remained composed. "It's work that requires a nurse."

"It isn't patient care."

"It's the accommodation the hospital can support with your current restrictions."

The clinical phrasing made the decision feel finished before you signed anything. You knew enough about disability policy to understand what was being offered. You also knew your household couldn't remain on one resident's salary forever.

You signed.

On your first morning back, Cassie drove you to the employee entrance. She didn't tell you to be brave or promise it would feel good. She unloaded the rollator and waited while you adjusted the brace beneath your pant leg.

"Call me if you need me," she said.

"You'll be downstairs."

"I can still be called."

"Cassie, I can't start my first day by pulling you away from patients because I'm sad."

She rested one hand on the car door. "You can call me because you're sad. I might not be able to come immediately. Those are separate things."

You looked at her.

"That's annoyingly healthy."

"I paid attention in therapy."

"Show-off."

Cassie leaned in and kissed you. The touch was warm, unhurried, and familiar enough to make the parking lot recede.

"I'm proud of you," she said.

"Don't be yet. I haven't made it through the door."

"I'm proud of you for being in the parking lot."

Your eyes burned. You turned away before tears could fall and pushed the rollator toward the entrance.

Dana was waiting in the lobby.

Her arms were crossed over her scrubs. She looked exactly as she always did before a shift, capable of managing sixty problems while expressing patience for perhaps three of them.

"You don't work up here," you said.

"Neither do you, apparently."

The joke should have hurt. From Dana, it felt like permission to acknowledge the cruelty of the situation.

"I hate this already," you admitted.

"I know."

"If one more person tells me I'm lucky to have an admin option, I'm going home."

"You are lucky." Dana stepped beside you and matched her pace to the rollator. "You can also hate it. People act like gratitude and grief can't fit in the same person. That's because people are idiots."

You looked at her bruised memory of a face, long since healed. "You came back."

"Eventually."

"Was it hard?"

Dana stopped outside the elevator. The busy lobby moved around you.

"I still know where every exit is," she said. "I still watch people's hands. I came back anyway."

The elevator doors opened. She reached in to hold them.

"I'm not ready to go downstairs," you said.

"Then don't. Your office is on four."

"It feels like hiding."

"It feels like your first day. Let it be one thing at a time."

You rolled into the elevator. Dana pressed the button for four, then rode with you even though it made her late returning to the emergency department.

The office had windows, quiet carpeting, and a desk that adjusted high enough to accommodate your chair. Someone had placed a PTMC mug beside the computer. Your access badge opened electronic charts but no medication rooms. The first incident report in your queue described a nurse threatened by a patient's family member.

You made it until lunch before crying.

The tears came silently in the accessible restroom while you sat on the closed toilet and stared at your badge. It still said RN. It still displayed the same photograph. You felt like you were wearing another woman's credentials.

You texted Cassie.

I hate it here.

Her reply came four minutes later.

I know. Do you want comfort, solutions, or company when I get a break?

You stared at the message until your vision blurred again.

Company.

She found you twenty minutes later in a small courtyard between the administrative wings. You sat on the rollator with your untouched lunch beside you. Cassie dropped into a crouch in front of you, resting her forearms lightly on your knees.

"Tell me," she said.

"I heard a rapid response called overhead."

She waited.

"My whole body tried to stand up. I knew which elevator I'd take. I knew what supplies they'd need. Then I remembered I can't get there fast enough, and even if I did, I'm not allowed to help."

Cassie's thumbs moved gently over the fabric at your knees. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want to spend the rest of my career reading what other people did."

"Then don't decide the rest of your career today."

"Gloria said reassess in six months, but we both know my leg isn't suddenly going to work because a committee meets."

"Your leg might not change. Your job still can."

"Into what?"

"I don't know."

You looked away. "You're bad at inspirational speeches."

"I know." She squeezed your knees carefully. "I'm very good at sitting in courtyards and insulting hospital coffee."

"You didn't bring coffee."

"I came on short notice."

You laughed weakly. Cassie smiled and stood, bending to kiss your forehead.

"Eat something," she said. "Then go upstairs and finish one hour. After that, finish another if you can."

"And if I can't?"

"Call me. Tell your supervisor. Use the plan we made. Going home safely isn't failing."

You finished the day.

When the elevator opened on the ground floor, Harrison was waiting beside Cassie. He held a small paper bag and looked embarrassed by it.

"Grandpa brought me," he explained. "Mom said your first day might be bad."

"It was."

He handed you the bag. Inside was a hardened lump of oatmeal in a plastic container.

"I made it myself," he said. "It's terrible."

You laughed until tears gathered again.

"You used two-thirds of a cup of oats and two-thirds of a cup of water, didn't you?"

"Maybe."

"This can't be fixed."

"I know." He shifted from one foot to the other. "I thought we could get pancakes."

The invitation was quiet. You looked at Cassie. She nodded toward the doors.

"Pancakes sound perfect," you said.

Harrison reached for the handle of your rollator before catching himself.

"Can I?"

"You can carry the bag. I've got this."

He fell into step beside you instead.

The next year passed in measurements that would once have seemed too small to matter.

You measured time in therapy appointments, recovery meetings, and the thirty-day refills Cassie no longer needed to supervise. You measured progress in honest conversations. A craving named before it became a plan. A nightmare that ended with you waking Cassie instead of searching the bathroom for relief. A bad pain day when you called out of work without inventing a fever to make the absence respectable.

Your body settled into patterns.

You used one forearm crutch inside the apartment and the rollator for work. On days that required long distances, you used a wheelchair that the rehabilitation team had fitted to you. The first time it arrived, you cried in the bedroom for an hour. The first time you took it to Harrison's school, you discovered you could cross the entire building without arriving exhausted and shaking. Both experiences remained true.

Your left leg grew stronger without becoming reliable. The pain shifted with weather, sleep, and stress. Some mornings, it was a low electrical hum beneath your skin. Other days, it climbed until clothing hurt, and every step required negotiation. Your treatment plan helped you manage it. Management meant you could make choices inside the pain. It never meant the pain had disappeared.

The PTSD stayed too. You learned where it hid. Parking lots. Shouting men. An AMA form dropped on a desk. The smell of hot pavement after rain. You learned to sit with your back to a wall and to tell people before they touched you from behind. Dana began taking breaks with you in the enclosed courtyard where no one could approach unseen.

"We're a cheerful pair," she said once, scanning the door while you checked the path to the elevator.

"Very relaxed."

"Pictures of mental health."

You smiled and handed her half your sandwich.

Work remained complicated.

You never stopped missing bedside nursing. A chart couldn't squeeze your hand after you explained a frightening procedure. An incident report couldn't breathe easier because you walked into the room. Some days, the office felt like the place the hospital stored the damaged version of you.

Then Dana began sending nurses upstairs after violent incidents.

At first, they came because she ordered them to. You helped them document injuries, request medical care, and report threats without minimizing what had happened. You sat with one nurse who couldn't stop shaking after being cornered in an exam room. You didn't tell her she'd get over it. You didn't tell her the patient hadn't meant it. You believed her fear before she had to prove it.

The incident reports changed after that. They became evidence. You tracked rooms where staff were repeatedly trapped away from exits. You helped push for panic buttons, clearer security responses, and mandatory follow-up after assaults. Gloria still cared too much about the cost of every proposal. You learned how to arrive at meetings with numbers she couldn't dismiss.

The work mattered.

It didn't replace what you'd lost.

You stopped demanding that it do so.

At home, trust returned less visibly. Harrison started leaving his history assignments beside your laptop. He asked you for rides again after six months, with Cassie in the passenger seat the first several times. He began calling from school when he forgot his lunch because he knew you kept snacks in your office.

He didn't apologize for saying you weren't his parent. You didn't ask him to.

Then, one rainy evening, he dropped an emergency-contact form on the kitchen table while you were preparing your medication for the next morning.

"They need this back tomorrow," he said.

Cassie looked up from the sink. "Of course they do."

"I forgot."

"Shocking."

Harrison slid into the chair beside you. "Mom already signed the first page. You have to sign the second one."

You scanned the form. Cassie's information filled the primary-parent section. Your name had been written beneath Emergency Contact Two in Harrison's compact handwriting.

"Shouldn't this be your grandpa?" you asked. "He usually handles pickup if your mom and I are both working."

"Grandpa's third."

You found the line asking for your relationship to the student.

The word parent was printed there. You stared at it.

Harrison shifted beside you. "I can cross it out if you don't want it."

Cassie had gone motionless at the sink. Water ran over the dish in her hands.

"Do you want it?" you asked.

Harrison kept his eyes on the table. "You still came to my school when it was hard. You help with everything. You tell me the truth now, even when the truth sucks."

His fingers worried the corner of the form.

"And I said that because I knew it would hurt you," he continued. "I wanted it to. I'm sorry."

The apology entered the room gently. It didn't erase the afternoon he'd shouted at you, or the weeks he'd refused your calls. It reached across them.

You set the pen down because your hand had begun to shake.

"Come here," you said.

Harrison stood and moved into your arms. He was taller than he'd been before the injury. When he bent over you, his chin fit against your shoulder differently. You held the back of his sweatshirt and felt him grip yours.

"I was scared," he whispered.

"I know."

"I still get scared sometimes."

"Me too."

"Are you going to sign it?"

A laugh broke through your tears. "Yeah. I'm going to sign it."

At the sink, Cassie turned off the water and wiped her face with her wrist.

"Are you crying?" Harrison asked.

"No."

"You're really bad at lying now."

"That's generally considered progress."

Harrison returned to his chair. You signed the form and handed it back to him. He tucked it carefully into his folder instead of cramming it into his bag.

Later, after he went to bed, you found Cassie standing in the dark kitchen with both hands braced on the counter.

You approached loudly enough that she heard you. The crutch clicked against the floor.

"Hey," you said.

She turned. Her eyes were red.

"He put parent," she whispered.

"He did."

Cassie crossed the small space between you. Her arms came around your waist, and you leaned into her without surrendering the crutch.

"I thought I'd broken that for you," she said against your hair.

You pulled back. "Harrison said it."

"I took him away."

"You kept him safe."

"Then I left you alone in rehab."

The old hurt stirred. It didn't vanish simply because you understood her fear.

"You did," you said.

Cassie's eyes filled again. She nodded.

"I love you," you continued. "I understand why you couldn't go inside. I forgive you. I still wish you'd told me before I had to fall apart loudly enough for someone else to call."

"I wish I had too."

"We don't protect each other with silence anymore."

"No."

"And you don't promise what you can't give."

"No."

You touched the fine lines at the corner of her eye. "Then stop trying to punish yourself after the rest of us have started healing."

Cassie turned her face and kissed your palm, just as she had on the morning before the injury.

"I'm working on it," she said.

"That's the most honest answer you have?"

Her mouth curved. "Something like that."

She kissed you slowly. Her hand slid along your jaw, then settled at the back of your neck. The kiss held the full history of the year behind it: fear, anger, absence, return, and the many ordinary evenings when neither of you had run.

Your leg began to tremble.

Cassie noticed before you had to say anything. She drew back and reached for the rollator parked near the table.

"Sit," she murmured.

You lowered yourself onto the seat. A spasm tightened through your hip, and you breathed while Cassie crouched in front of you. She placed one warm hand over your knee.

"Bad?"

"Seven. Maybe eight."

"Heat or ice?"

"Heat. Then the rescue plan if it doesn't settle."

"Okay." She didn't flinch from the number. You didn't hide it.

Cassie warmed the pack while you checked the time and took the medication your treatment plan allowed. When she returned, Harrison shuffled into the kitchen, dragging a blanket behind him.

"Why are you awake?" Cassie asked.

"You were talking."

"We were whispering."

"You're both bad at it."

He took in the heat pack across your hip and the strain you hadn't managed to hide. His face tightened.

"Is it a bad night?"

"A little."

Harrison draped the blanket around your shoulders. Then he sat on the floor beside Cassie and rested his head against your uninjured knee.

"We could watch something," he suggested. "Until the medicine works."

"It's a school night," Cassie said.

"It's a family emergency."

Cassie looked at you. You raised one eyebrow.

"One episode," she surrendered. "Nothing with six seasons and a cliffhanger."

Harrison got to his feet and pushed the rollator toward the living room before remembering to ask.

"Sorry. Can I?"

"You can."

He guided it carefully while you kept your feet clear. Cassie followed with the heat pack cord and your water. In the living room, Harrison cleared his backpack from the walker zone, Cassie arranged the cushions beneath your hip, and the three of you settled into the couch in the untidy way you always had.

Pain still occupied part of the room. So did the memory of every time love had failed to make any of this easy.

There was space for other things now.

Harrison argued over what to watch. Cassie stole the blanket and denied it while holding half of it in her fist. You listened to them bicker, your hand resting in Cassie's and Harrison's shoulder warm against your side.

Home had changed shape.

It had widened around the rollator and the lockbox, the medication schedule, and the hard conversations. It held your anger, Cassie's fear, and Harrison's cautious trust. It held a body that hurt, a career that had become something you were still learning to name, and a recovery nobody could promise would be simple.

It held you.

When the episode began, Cassie leaned close and kissed your temple. "You okay?" she whispered.

You looked at Harrison tucked beneath the blanket, at your crutch resting within reach, and at the woman who had learned to stay without pretending she could save you.

"I'm here," you said.

Cassie's fingers tightened around yours.

For tonight, and for every ordinary night you still had to build, that was enough.

Tag list: @surebutwhy

[814519]

starting the pride month with mcvadi

[buckysknifecollection]

i feel like the youth should be reminded that the point of shipping is not for a ship to become canon. the point of shipping is to collect all the canon crumbs like starved mice, run away cackling and make some fun little scenarios with them just for the hell of it.

[emmaharwoods]

ZENDAYA via MUA Ernesto Casillas — June 24, 2026

[sadmortician]

poses and color practice with mckay and dana i guess, i just wanted to draw them

[elwhyart]

art trade i did with sirensoutro on twitter

cassie mckay, victoria javadi, baran al hashimi = mcvadi + mcshimi = mcvadishimi ?

instagram | twitter

[sadmortician]

da pitt women i love you 🩵

more practice

[814519]

can we go home now? (next is the team outings to the rooftop!)

twt

[sadmortician]

cassie mckay sketch dump for no reason whatsoever… (i need her)

[owwllly]

suguru geto and zuko before a fight

[tsintotwo]

Stars in his eyes

[leighanne]

Delirium [imitating Dream's voice]: "When you are not being sCaRy"

THE SANDMAN 2.05: The Song of Orpheus.

[tootramuaticfortherapy]

I will never get over this scene nor their sibling relationship

[rcgue-prince]

DAEMYRA x taylor swift songs

[addigni]

Fan canon vs bbc canon

Fanon Mycroft: - controls the entire British government - is omni present - can single-handedly make jerks who are mean to Sherlock disappear without a trace - can get Sherlock out of literally ANY sticky situation - can make any crimes/killings/drug charges that Sherlock made go away - always has everything under control - is god

Canon Mycroft: - can barely control anything - struggles to keep Moriarty locked up - can’t take down Magnussen - is barely able to control sociopathic sister to stay in prison - has to whore around to ensure Sherlock doesn’t get incarcerated - almost got himself and/or Sherlock killed in sherrinford - has a sad fridge

[luckydecay]

Don’t forget to add, ‘throws up at the sight of blood/murder

[addigni]

feel free to add more x’D

and also

fanon john: - always kind - the only one to appreciate sherlock - always compliments sherlock when sherlock is being brilliant with his deduction skills - the only one who treats sherlock like a human being with feelings - has infinite patience and is eternally kind forever and can never get angry or do sherlock any wrong - always wears ugly-cute jumpers

canon john: - kind of a douche, laughs at people - blames sherlock when anything goes wrong - always stops sherlock from explaining his deductions because sherlock “is a show off”  - overlooks 1001 things sherlock has done for him and calls him a “machine” or “cock” or a “serial liar” - only wears ugly jumpers twice in the entire show and is eternally trying to change his fashion statement to run away from the shadows of ugly jumpers

meanwhile,

fanon molly: - either completely nonexistant  - or is single-handedly the central most important human in the entire universe in sherlolly fics

canon molly: - occasionally appears for rare but important scenes to progress the story narrative - tries her best but almost always gets screwed over - eternal pining

[brainofthe1storder]

These are too funny. Fanon Moriarty: -thinks about sex more than crime -is secretly a soft, precious muffin -frequently uses foul language -gaygaygaygaygay -says “dear” and “darling” every other scene -strangely archaic dialogue -keeps reusing things he already said in the show -had a deeply tragic past -loves Glee and Doctor Who -is high-key in love with Sherlock Canon Moriarty: -flirtatious personality -unapologetic king of crime who would not fall in love with OCs or cry in front of anyone without shooting them afterward -basically never uses foul language -is not Andrew Scott; flirts with both men (Sherlock, helicopter henchman) and women (Molly, Kitty Riley, girl who gave him gum), described his time as Jim from IT as “playing gay,” which implies he was acting a part -says “dear” once and has never said “darling” -actually said the word “doofus” before (I burst out laughing the first time because it was so childish) -delightfully unpredictable, never does or says the same thing twice -might have had a dark past, but clearly doesn’t give a crap -watched Glee once while attempting to seduce a woman to get to his enemy -desperately wants to kill Sherlock and destroy his reputation for the sake of relieving boredom *Bonus - has been implied as a cannibal twice??? What the frick, Mofftiss O.o

[i-sudoku]

LOL, accurate. Somebody please do this for Sherlock, Greg, Mary, and Mrs Hudson. I tried to think of something but I just finished traveling for one week with barely enough sleep.

[addigni]

Fanon Sherlock: - able to solve every case easily every time - very eloquent, uses long ass complex sentences with fancy words - can deduce anything and usually always gets it exactly right - always has a clever trick and is always ten steps ahead of the villains - talks in formal archaic mannerisms - always refers to Mycroft as “brother mine”

Canon Sherlock: - struggles to solve cases. Nearly gets killed in almost every case - almost always gets it wrong or outwitted by his enemies - thinks he’s a step ahead of his foes but actually overlooks some things and is actually losing - not as clever as he wishes to be - says things like “laterz” or “who he” - “hey bro” - “um sis” - hides his smoking habits from mummy and blames Mycroft if caught

[jbaillier]

OMG this: “-might have had a dark past, but clearly doesn’t give a crap”

I’m not going to suggest we take life lessons from Moriarty, but we should all definitely be this.

[bidisasterhawkeye]

Fanon Mrs. Hudson:

Flits about making tea. 

Is a scatterbrained old lady. 

Has no life outside of John and Sherlock. 

Clucks about making disapproving noises.

Constantly needs rescuing.

Canon Mrs. Hudson:

Is a sexually active old lady into kinky shit that’s none of your business. 

Blazes it on the regular. 

Used to manage a drug empire in Miami. 

Can drive a sports car like Mario Andretti. 

Used to strip.

Is smart enough to hide a secret mobile phone from an international assassin even while being beaten and threatened because she ain’t no snitch. 

Can steal shit off famous detective Sherlock Holmes without him noticing. 

Can stuff Sherlock Holmes into the trunk of her car when he annoys her. 

Tells off Mycroft Holmes all the time and he still gets her off scot-free with the police simply because she called him. 

Hired Sherlock Holmes to make sure her husband got the death penalty for his crimes and she got all his money - in process, had Sherlock Holmes fall in love with her and treat her like his surrogate mother. 

Is only person allowed to cuddle Sherlock Holmes. 

[addigni]

“Is only person allowed to cuddle Sherlock Holmes” THIS IS SO TRUE

[sherlocktextposts]

Fanon Greg Lestrade:

Mr Good guy

Always ready to help Sherlock

Quite normal actually

Finds Sherlock slightly annoying but puts up with him.

Cool Calm and Collected

Not half bad at doing detective work

Canon Greg Lestrade:

Puts feet up on desk and eats donut

Is the personification of Do no Harm but Take No Shit

Kicks his car in frustration

Actually thought Sherlock moaned when kissing Molly, instead of it being his phone. (How was he made a detective?)

Will say what he thinks

Enjoys poking fun at Sherlock and John to some degree. (”Can you lower your vioce?” “NOT REALLY”

[addigni]

Don’t forget “records video of Sherlock when drugged by anaesthetic”

[nicky2910]

And:

- “ignores signs of excessive violence when it is perpetrated against Sherlock” (see cut on the lip in TEH, see John’s bruised knuckles and the account that John had to be pulled off of Sherlock…)

[moriartysqueen]

this post is a MASTERPIECE

[holycrapu]

This is absolutely amazing! (I’d be happy about about fanon / canon Mary, I’d love to read that)

[addigni]

Fanon Mary: - 100% unadulterated cold bitch - has no personality - fully, irredeemably an evil asshole - hates Sherlock with burning passion - enslaves John because she’s just so despicable - is Moriarty’s agent and the one who aimed all 20 guns at John in the pool in tgg - is super evil. The most evil. There is no god. Even the devils in hell are enslaved by her

Canon Mary: - is cheeky and sarcastic but humorous - actually quite lovely to some. But can also rub some people off the wrong way - is desperate to run away from assassin past - pretty selfish but not inherently evil or despicable - she seems to be fond of Sherlock (as long as he isn’t digging into her past) - just wants to try and have a normal domestic life (even though she knows the part will eventually catch up to her)

[addigni]

I’m adding another one, this poor guy needs to be appreciated a bit more:

Fanon Anderson: - is almost ALWAYS in every fic - exist as a supporting character, but when he’s in the scene, he actually gets quite a lot of lines - is the epitome of Sherlock’s primary school bully

Canon Anderson: - not actually a scary bully. More like a fumbling, incompetent guy jealous of Sherlock coz Sherlock can dothe job better than him - only appeared in 3 out of 13 full length episodes - is just a pissy and grumbling lil critter, not a scary bully - kind of redeemed himself in TEH - believes in Sherlock. Believes that Sherlock is a hero without a cape - ships Sheriarty - full time meta-theorist

[theleftpill]

Anderson ships Sherlolly. It was the fan in The Empty Hearse club that shipped Sheriarty.

[addigni]

Oh right!

[tisnotmydivison]

ya i mean the only thing i agree with here is mary so i post it 

[cumbercutie]

im so dead this gives me life

[oneallysa]

“Library of Souls” by Ransom Riggs, Third Novel of Miss Peregrine’s Peculiar Children

In front of two perfect strangers…

Page 256 of Chapter Six

[rcgue-prince]

pure brainrot

[deepeststrawberrymoon]

[kannra21]

They

Are literally them

[rcgue-prince]

i wasn’t emotionally prepared to see this today