Manu is polite to a fault and UNBELIEVABLY FULL of movie and song references.
Her pronouns are vaiyyari / vaikhari
Sometimes, Manu writes to escape reality and more often than not can be found daydreaming in her natural habitat somewhere in India. If you want to talk to Manu about any movie/film/media/fic, then come prepared for shy rants.
Studblr: academiawho
My Telugu Sitdowns
Manu's List of Movies
My Masterlist
My playlists
Currently:
procrastinating
voidsteffy on wattpad ; voidsteffy on ao3 ; voidsteffy on pinterest
teaching telugu from scratch
enjoying the title of 👑The Queen No One Listens To👑
waiting for asks as none flit Manu's way
or making a new playlist/fic/traumatised himbo or all at once💅🏽
summary: over the years, you notice your son picking up more and more of logan’s habits, never realizing just how closely he’s been watching his dad
warnings: this genuinely is just pure fluff, if you’re not into parenthood fics i suggest skipping this one :)
word count: 2.5k
a/n: based on this request by @memedin4 ! i hope you enjoy it<3
john logan masterlist off campus masterlist
── ᵎᵎ ✦
logan had been home from a training camp for less than twelve hours when you walked into the kitchen and found a smaller version of him sitting at the table.
not physically, obviously. your son was three years old, barely tall enough to climb onto the dining chairs without using his knees, and currently wearing dinosaur pajamas with one sock missing. logan, meanwhile, looked every bit like a man who had landed in boston sometime after midnight and been woken before seven by a child who had apparently spent the last four days saving every thought he’d ever had for his father’s return.
they had already been downstairs for nearly an hour.
you knew this because you’d heard your son talking through the floorboards while you were still in bed. the conversation appeared to have been largely one-sided, punctuated every so often by logan’s lower, sleep-roughened voice. eventually, the smell of coffee had convinced you to join them.
logan sat slouched in his chair, one hand wrapped around a mug while he scrolled through his phone. his hair was still flattened on one side from sleep, and the exhaustion around his eyes suggested he was only technically awake.
beside him, your son sat in almost exactly the same position. his small body was slumped against the back of the chair, one hand wrapped around his plastic cup of milk while he stared down at the unopened coloring book in front of him with an expression of deep contemplation.
logan lifted his coffee, your son lifted his milk. logan took a sip, so did he.
you remained by the doorway, watching as logan lowered his mug and scratched absently at the stubble along his jaw. a few seconds later, your son raised one small hand and dragged his fingers thoughtfully across his own smooth chin.
your mouth twitched slightly at the utterly adorable sight. logan noticed you then, his eyes lifting from his phone, “morning.”
“morning.” you crossed the kitchen, placing a quick kiss against your husband’s lips before reaching for the coffee pot, and glancing toward the table again as you filled your mug.
logan leaned farther back in his chair, your son did the same. this time, you laughed.
both of them looked at you, and the resemblance in their equally confused expressions only made it worse. “what?” logan asked.
you shook your head and turned back toward the counter, “nothing.”
you heard logan mutter something to your son behind you, followed by a quiet little laugh.
at three, imitation was hardly unusual. your son copied plenty of things. he tried to use your hairbrush, repeated words he had no business knowing, and had recently spent an entire afternoon pretending to talk on a television remote after watching you take a work call.
by four, your son had worked out what it meant when logan left with a suitcase.
before, his father’s absences had existed without much explanation. dad went away sometimes. dad appeared on the television. dad eventually came home, usually with something small from whichever city he’d been in and enough guilt about missing bedtime to make him incapable of saying no for at least twenty-four hours.
now, your son understood that logan played hockey for the bruins and this information had completely changed his life.
he had a miniature jersey with his father’s name across the back and insisted on wearing it during games. on nights when logan was away, you let him stay up later than usual to watch, although he rarely made it through all three periods.
more than once, logan had called after a game only for you to turn the phone toward the couch, where his son was asleep beneath a blanket with one hand still loosely holding a plastic hockey stick.
when logan was home, things weren’t much different. your son followed him everywhere.
if logan went into the garage, the back door opened thirty seconds later and a small voice asked what he was doing. if logan went upstairs to change, your son waited outside the bedroom and resumed whatever story he’d been telling the moment his father reappeared. if logan sat down to watch something, there was usually a small body pressed against his side within minutes.
logan seemed entirely unaware of the fact that he had acquired a shadow. you, however, had noticed it most one saturday afternoon.
you had walked into the kitchen to find logan crouched in front of an open cabinet. a screwdriver rested between his fingers as he worked on one of the hinges, while your son sat cross-legged on the floor beside him.
his eyes followed logan’s hands as they moved. whenever logan paused to inspect the hinge, your son leaned forward slightly too. when logan frowned at something, a smaller crease appeared between your son’s eyebrows.
you leaned against the counter, “is he helping?”
logan glanced over his shoulder, “apparently.”
your son looked mildly offended, “i am.”
you looked at his empty hands with a small smile, “alright, love.”
logan continued working, explaining what he was doing whenever another question came from beside him. most of the answers were probably going over your son’s head, but that didn’t seem to matter. he listened with the solemn attention usually reserved for bedtime stories.
eventually, logan handed him the screwdriver and placed his own hand over the smaller one to help him tighten the final screw.
as your son looked ridiculously pleased with himself you smiled and left them to it.
later that evening, you found him sitting in front of one of his toy trucks with a plastic screwdriver in his hand. when you asked what he was doing, he barely looked up, “fixing it.”
you didn’t need to ask where he’d gotten the idea.
you discovered this at dinner when you noticed every cherry tomato from his salad arranged in a neat pile at the edge of his plate.
you stared at them for a moment, “what’s wrong with those?”
your son shrugged, “don’t like them.”
“you ate them yesterday.” you said with your brows knitted in confusion, but another shrug followed.
when you glanced across the table you noticed logan eating with the determined concentration of someone who knew better than to make eye contact. you looked at his plate, and sure enough, a small pile of tomatoes sat near the edge.
your eyes moved from him to your son, and back to your husband, “seriously?”
logan finally glanced up, “what?”
you gestured toward their plates. he looked down at his own and then toward your son’s. understanding dawned slowly causing his mouth to twitch.
“don’t,” you pointed your fork at him.
“i didn’t do anything,” he shrugged.
“you’re enjoying this.”
“a little.”
your son looked between you, clearly uninterested in whatever argument was taking place. he pushed another tomato into the pile and continued eating. you watched him glance briefly at logan’s plate before doing it.
the tomatoes were only the beginning.
your son began asking for eggs the same way logan ate them, despite previously insisting that the yolk was disgusting. he started sitting beside his father during breakfast instead of in his usual seat across the table. when logan came home from practice and dropped onto the couch with one ankle resting over the opposite knee, it wasn’t unusual to find your son sitting the same way twenty minutes later.
the expressions were the funniest part.
logan had a particular look whenever he thought you were being unreasonable. it wasn’t dramatic. one eyebrow lifted slightly while his mouth flattened at one corner, and after years of marriage, you knew exactly what it meant.
apparently, your son did too.
the first time he used it on you after being told he couldn’t have ice cream before dinner, you nearly called logan into the room to deal with the consequences of his own genetics.
by six, hockey had become more than something your son watched because his father was on television.
he wanted to play.
you knew logan had been secretly thrilled the first time your son asked for skates, but he tried hard not to show too much of it. hockey had been part of his life for so long that he seemed almost wary of accidentally making it an obligation for his son.
he didn’t have to worry, though, because your son loved it.
you spent more mornings than you could count sitting in cold rinks with coffee between your hands, watching him on the ice. whenever logan’s schedule allowed, he came along.
you could tell those were your son’s favorite mornings.
he listened differently when logan spoke. not because he ignored his coaches, he didn’t, but because anything his father said seemed to carry additional weight.
logan would demonstrate something once, skating slowly enough for him to follow and your son would try. usually, the first attempt wasn’t particularly successful, but logan never made a big deal out of it. he would skate over, say something you couldn’t hear through the glass, and show him again.
there was something about the concentration on your son’s face that felt familiar. his brows drew together the same way logan’s did before a faceoff, his mouth tightening slightly as he tried to remember where to put his feet.
when he finally got something right, he looked for logan immediately. every single time. and no matter how small the improvement was, logan always noticed.
you wondered if either of them understood just how much they watched each other.
at seven, your son announced that he would play for the bruins.
the declaration came over breakfast with such certainty that neither you nor logan questioned whether he’d meant it. logan looked up from his coffee, “that’s the plan?”
your son nodded and continued eating his cereal. logan glanced at you as you tried to hide your smile behind your mug. there was no point arguing. only a week earlier, your son had also informed you that he intended to become a marine biologist despite refusing to swim anywhere he couldn’t touch the bottom.
that evening, you sat with him during one of logan’s home games. your son had been to plenty by then, but his excitement never seemed to fade. he sat forward in his seat throughout warmups, tracking his father across the ice.
once the game started, his attention remained fixed. you occasionally had trouble following logan among the movement of jerseys and helmets, but your son never did.
he knew exactly when his father stepped onto the ice. he recognized the shape of his skating, the way he moved, the number on his back. whenever logan had the puck, your son became completely still.
you had seen him watch games hundreds of times, but for some reason, you really noticed it that night. there was admiration in the way he watched his father, but there was something else too. concentration, maybe. as though he weren’t only watching the game. he was learning.
logan finally noticed on a rainy sunday afternoon.
he was home for the day, which had become increasingly rare as the season grew busier. the three of you had spent most of it doing very little.
logan was stretched across one end of the couch, one arm resting behind you while a game played on television. your son had turned the space between the couch and coffee table into a makeshift rink, using a miniature stick and foam ball despite being told several times to watch the lamp.
you were reading a book while logan was half watching the game and half scrolling through his phone.
a bad call on the television made logan look up. he frowned at the screen and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, “come on.”
it was a sentence you’d heard him say plenty of times, so you barely registered it.
a few minutes later, your son lost control of the foam ball. it bounced off the coffee table and disappeared beneath the couch. he stopped for a second as his eyes followed it, then, with a frustrated breath, he leaned on his stick and dropped his head, “come on.”
logan went still and you looked up from your book. his attention was fixed on your son, who had already dropped onto his stomach and was attempting to retrieve the ball from beneath the couch, “did you hear that?”
you followed his gaze, “hear what?”
“that.”
“you’ll have to be more specific.”
logan frowned, still watching him, “he sounded like me.”
you stared at your husband for several seconds before letting out a laugh. not because it wasn’t true, but because it had taken him seven years to notice.
logan looked at you, “what?”
“nothing.”
his eyes narrowed. the expression was so familiar that your amusement only grew, “he copies you all the time.”
logan looked genuinely doubtful, “since when?”
you smiled as you closed your book, because where were you supposed to begin?
you reminded him of the mornings when your son was three and copied the way he drank from his cup. the afternoon with the cabinet hinge. the tomatoes. the expressions. the way he rubbed his chin when he was thinking despite having no stubble to scratch.
logan listened quietly and his attention gradually moved back toward the floor. your son had retrieved the ball and was standing again, adjusting his grip on the stick. after a moment, he glanced toward logan, “dad, watch.”
logan did as your son tried the same little move he’d been practicing for the last ten minutes. the ball rolled wide. he frowned, but before he could try again, logan stood from the couch, “move your bottom hand down a little.”
your son immediately adjusted it. logan stepped around the coffee table and crouched beside him, correcting his grip before moving back, “try now.”
the second attempt was better and your son’s face changed immediately, looking at logan for his reaction, who smiled.
you watched something shift in your husband’s expression. it was subtle, but you knew him well enough to see it. the realization that this wasn’t new. that the little boy standing in front of him had been paying attention for years.
later, after your son had gone to bed, you found logan standing in the kitchen. he was looking through something on his phone. when you came closer, you realized it was an old video.
your son was four in it, pushing a plastic lawn mower across the backyard several feet behind logan, carefully following every turn he made.
you leaned back against the counter next to him and watched him as he rewinded the video and pressed play again, “you really never noticed?”
he shook his head slightly. for a few seconds, he didn’t say anything. his thumb moved across the screen, replaying the beginning of the video once more, “he was tiny.”
you smiled, “he still is.”
“not that tiny.”
there was something in his voice that made your chest tighten a little. you rested your head briefly against his shoulder.
on the screen, a four-year-old version of your son followed directly behind his father, pushing his plastic mower through grass that wasn’t being cut and occasionally looking up to make sure logan was still there.
logan watched until the video ended, then he played it again.
summary: clark cancels on you again for ‘work’ but it was a lie..
warnings: angst, emotional distress
notes: i have so many drafts to post!!
wc: 750
the rain went from a drizzle to a downpour, matching the sinking feeling in your chest. for the third time this month, your phone had buzzed with a rushed, apologetic text from clark.
“something came up at the planet, sweetie. a breaking story. i'm so, so sorry. i’ll make it up to you, i promise.”
you didn't reply. you just stared at the two plates of dinner cooling on the counter, the candles you’d lit mocking you in the dim light of your apartment
you couldn't stay in your apartment, you were going to lose your mind if you did.
you needed to talk to the one person who truly understood. someone who understood him.
you grabbed your coat, slipped out into the wet metropolis streets, and hailed a cab and gave the driver lois lane’s address.
you and lois had become incredibly close over the past year. you had joined the planet as a features writer a couple of years after clark and lois had officially ended their relationship.
because they were long broken up, there was no awkwardness... lois had taken you under her wing, becoming your mentor, your loudest cheerleader in the bullpen, and your closest friend.
by the time the cab pulled up to lois’s apartment building, you were blinking back furious, hurt tears. you took the elevator up, practically throwing yourself at her front door and knocking aggressively.
you heard footsteps inside, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.
lois stood there, dressed in a comfortable oversized sweater, a half empty glass of red wine in her hand. "y/n? what are you doing here? it's pouring-"
"i can't do it anymore, lois," you burst out, the words tumbling out of you in a sobbing rush before she could even invite you inside. you stepped past her into the entryway, too consumed by your own heartbreak to notice her sudden, tense posture.
"he canceled again," you cried, hugging your wet jacket tighter on you, shivering. "it’s always the same excuse. 'something came up at the office,' 'a late breaking lead.' i know he cares about his work, but i feel like a ghost in my own relationship! i'm sick of being the one who always gets left behind. i'm sick of competing with a job, and honestly... sometimes i feel like i'm competing with you."
you finally paused to catch your breath, wiping a tear from your cheek. "i just really needed a friend tonight. can i please just crash on your couch?"
usually by now lois would've said something, she would've made a joke or immediately handed you tissues or started calling clark an idiot, but there was nothing... no response.
"lois..?" your eyebrows pulled in.
"what?" she asked, her voice a little too high.
"why are you looking at me like that?"
"...like what?" lois muttered, she gripped the stem of her wine glass so tightly you thought the glass might shatter right in her hand.
"like..." you frowned harder. "like something's wrong."
"no, nothing's wrong."
but her eyes weren't on you, they were staring straight past your shoulder at the hall behind you.
"lois?" you whispered, stepping further into the hall. "is someone here? did i interrupt a date? i'm so sorry, i should have called-"
"no! no, wait.. " Lois reached out, her hand catching your wet sleeve, but she was a second too late.
you walked through the short hall and into the living room, the words of apology dying on your tongue.
a figure stepped into the dim light of the living room, drying his hair with a towel. he was wearing a gray t-shirt and sweatpants.. home clothes. comfort clothes.
he didn't have his glasses on. and as he looked up, his bright blue eyes met yours, freezing him entirely in his tracks.
it was Clark.
the towel slipped from his hand, hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud.
“something came up at the planet, sweetie. a breaking story. i'm so, so sorry.”
the words of his text message flashed in your mind, your eyes darted from clark’s damp hair, to his relaxed clothes, to the second glass of wine sitting on lois's coffee table, and finally back to lois, who was now looking down at the floor, unable to meet your gaze.
"baby," clark breathed, his voice entirely stripped of its usual warmth. he took a panicked step forward, his hands reaching out instinctively. "baby, wait. It’s... it’s not what you think."
the sheer cliché of the phrase made a hysterical, breathless laugh bubble up in your throat. "not what i think? clark, you texted me an hour ago saying you were stuck at your desk. you’ve canceled our last three dates because of 'deadlines.' and you’re here? in your sweats?"
"you canceled on me," you said, your voice barely a whisper, "for three weeks, you’ve been too busy. you were too busy tonight. to have dinner with me. in our apartment."
"we were talking," lois interjected quickly, her voice trembling. she stepped between you and clark, trying desperately to play defense, to be the fixer. "just talking. he was stressed, he came over to vent about a case, and he got caught in the storm. i told him to dry off. that's it. I swear to you, that's all this is."
"and you couldn't tell me that?" you looked at lois, the tears you had been fighting finally falling. " i came here crying because i felt invisible in my own relationship, and you let me walk through that door knowing he was in your bedroom?"
"sweetheart, no," Clark choked out, stepping closer. "please. i love you. i would never- "
"don't call me that," you snapped, anger finally bursting through the sadness. a single, hot tear spilled over your cheek. you looked at lois, the woman you had trusted with your insecurities, the mentor you practically worshiped.
"i thought you were my friend. i thought you were the one person who understood how hard it was to love him."
a terrible, suffocating realization washed over you. lois did understand. she understood perfectly. because she hadn't actually let him go. and he hadn't let go of her. you were just a temporary detour in their romance.
"please, let me explain," clark pleaded, taking another step forward, his hands raised in defense. "lois is right. it’s not a date. i didn't plan this. it’s just… things have been so heavy lately, and i didn't want to bring that stress home to you."
the words left his mouth, and a suffocating silence fell over the room.
you stared at him, your breath hitching as you inhaled. "you didn't want to bring it home to me?" you muttered. "so you brought it to your ex girlfriend instead?"
"no, that's not what I meant...."
"you lied to me," you said. "you told me you were working. you told there was a breaking story, but the truth is you just didn't want to be around me. you left me sitting alone at a table with dinner i spent hours cooking, because you'd rather vent to lois?"
"listen to me," clark rushed out, his voice cracking as he scrambled to fix the damage, only to dig the hole deeper. "you don't understand the pressure I'm under. lois just... she already knows everything about my life.... she knows how i think. with her, i don't have to explain myself or ease into things. it’s just easier."
it’s just easier.
you let out a laugh. "easier," you repeated, backing away from him until your spine hit the wall of the hallway. "right. because i'm work. i'm the person you have to try for, and she's the one you actually want to unwind with."
"no! sweetie, please, no," clark choked out, looking completely undone. he reached for your arm, his touch gentle, but you yanked yourself away.
"don't touch me," you snapped again.
you gripped the fabric of your wet coat, looking at clark one last time. "have a nice night at the office, clark." you scoffed, turning around.
"sweetheart, please," clark begged, his voice breaking, "let's go home. let's just go back to the apartment and talk about this. please." he said as he made a move to follow you.
"if you come near me, clark, i swear to god i will never speak to you again," you spat, your voice harsh, that actually made him freeze in his tracks.
you didn't wait to see if he listened. you lunged out the front door, and practically sprinted down the hallway toward the elevator, the sound of your own ragged sobbing drowning out the faint, desperate echoes of your name being called from the apartment behind you.
Summary: When y/n finds out that her drink has been spiked she has no one to turn to but Dean, her enemy. Dean finding y/n knocking at his door in her barely conscious state brings up clashing feelings.
TW: having a drugged drink at a party
Word Count: 4.8K
The music could be heard from half a block away. The hockey house was already overflowing by the time Hannah and Y/N arrived, laughter spilling out the open front door along with the bass that rattled the porch railings. People crowded every room, cups clinked together, someone was yelling about beer pong in the kitchen, and the living room had already turned into a sea of strangers dancing shoulder to shoulder.
Hannah sighed dramatically, "I swear they invite the entire campus."
"They probably do," Y/N replied, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her dress.
She hadn't wanted to come. Not because she disliked parties. Because Dean Di Laurentis would be here. And Dean Di Laurentis possessed an almost supernatural ability to ruin perfectly good evenings.
Hannah nudged her shoulder. "Relax."
"I am relaxed."
"You've been glaring at the front door for thirty seconds."
"I'm mentally preparing."
"For Dean?"
Y/N rolled her eyes. "I'm mentally preparing for his ego."
Hannah laughed as they stepped inside.
Almost immediately, someone called Hannah's name from across the room. It was Garrett. He was standing near the kitchen island, waving her over with an easy grin.
"Go," Y/N said.
"You sure?"
"Yeah, girl, go talk to your boyfriend. I'm not going to spontaneously combust because you're talking to your boyfriend."
"You might if Dean starts talking."
"I'll survive."
"I sure hope you do."
Y/N shoved her lightly.
"Go."
Hannah laughed and disappeared into the crowd.
Y/N made her way toward the drink table, weaving through clusters of people she vaguely recognized from campus. She could feel eyes on her. Not in an uncomfortable way. Just... noticing.
She'd spent longer getting ready than she wanted to admit. Her hair fell in soft waves over one shoulder, and the dark emerald dress she wore hugged her just enough to make her feel confident without trying too hard. It was simple. Elegant and comfortable.
"You look hot," Hannah had declared.
"I look dressed."
"You look hot."
"I look like someone attending a party."
"You look like Dean's going to choke on his own tongue."
Y/N had snorted. "As if Dean Di Laurentis has ever been speechless in his life."
Apparently... Tonight might've been close. Across the room, Dean had been halfway through a conversation with one of his teammates when Logan abruptly stopped listening.
"Dude."
Dean barely looked at him.
"What?"
Logan nodded toward the front hall.
Dean followed his gaze and forgot what he'd been about to say.
"...Oh."
Logan smirked.
"Oh?"
Dean recovered almost instantly.
"So?"
"So…?" Logan echoed.
Dean shrugged.
"She cleans up okay."
Logan barked out a laugh. "Cleans up okay?"
"Yeah."
"You've been staring for like fifteen seconds."
"I absolutely have not."
"You absolutely have."
Dean tore his eyes away.
"I was observing."
Logan’s grin widened.
"Observing."
"Shut up."
He grabbed his drink and headed toward the kitchen before Logan could say anything else.
It was a coincidence. Entirely a coincidence that Y/N reached the drink table at the exact same time. She noticed him immediately. Of course she did. Dean Di Laurentis stood out in any room he walked into, whether she liked it or not. He leaned casually against the counter in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, laughing at something one of the hockey guys said.
Then his eyes landed on her. The laughter stopped. For just a second. His gaze traveled from her heels... To the dress... To her face.
There was the briefest flicker of something she couldn't quite read. It disappeared so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it.
Then the familiar smirk returned. "There she is."
Y/N sighed. "Hello to you too."
"I almost didn't recognize you."
"No?"
"Nah."
He tilted his head.
"Didn't think you owned anything that wasn't a sweater."
She smiled sweetly.
"And I didn't think you owned a shirt with sleeves."
A couple of people nearby chuckled.
Dean nodded once.
"Fair."
Y/N reached for a cup. "I'll cherish the compliment."
"I wasn't complimenting you."
"I know." She looked at him over the rim of the cup. "That would've been very out of character."
Dean laughed quietly. "You really think you're funny."
"I know I am."
"Hm."
He folded his arms.
"I think the dress is trying a little too hard."
The words landed harder than either of them expected. Y/N's smile faltered. Only for a heartbeat. She recovered so quickly that most people wouldn't have noticed.
Dean did.
"So does your personality," she replied evenly.
He smiled again.
"If I wanted my personality judged, I'd have dated an English major."
She stared at him.
"You know, for someone who's supposed to be good with teamwork, you're remarkably insufferable."
"And yet," Dean said with a shrug, "people still invite me places."
"So do people invite me."
He looked around theatrically.
"Really? I assumed Hannah brought you as emotional support."
There it was. The one that actually stung. Y/N's fingers tightened around her cup. She and Hannah had been inseparable since freshman year, and Dean knew it. He knew exactly which remarks would hit where they hurt.
She forced a laugh. "Don't flatter yourself."
"I'm not."
"You've clearly spent all week thinking of that one."
Dean smiled lazily. "Took me about three seconds."
"Must've been exhausting."
He stepped just a little closer.
"Not nearly as exhausting as pretending you're above everyone in this room."
Her eyebrows lifted. "I don't pretend. I just have standards."
Someone behind Dean let out an audible, "Damn."
Dean chuckled.
"There she is."
"What?"
"The real you. The one that thinks she's smarter than everyone."
Y/N held his gaze.
"I don't think I'm smarter than everyone."
"No?"
She smiled.
"Just you."
The surrounding group burst into laughter.
Dean's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He laughed too. But this time it didn't quite reach his eyes.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt strangely charged. Like the room had grown quieter despite the music still shaking the walls. Dean looked at her again. Really looked. The dress. The way she'd done her hair. The confidence she'd walked in with. She looked... beautiful. Annoyingly, unfairly beautiful. Which irritated him more than it should have.
So instead of saying the one thing that had unexpectedly crossed his mind: You look nice, He smiled that infuriating smile and said, "You know..." His voice was light. Almost conversational. "I guess if you were trying to distract everyone from your personality..." His eyes flicked down her dress once before meeting hers again. "...it almost worked.”
Silence.
This time, she couldn't hide it: the hurt. Dean continued, “I just wish Hannah wouldn’t bring you along; it’s just a waste of space, you know. And it’s not like you’re gonna have fun,” he scoffed, “as if anyone would go for that,” he eyed her down, “I sure wouldn’t, and you know damn well I’m all over gorgeous girls all the time.”
The hurt flashed across her face before she buried it beneath a practiced smile. As much confidence as she carried, some words did take her back to high school, where everyone would just shatter and break her heart all around.
"So that's your best one tonight?" she asked quietly. "I expected more."
She stepped around him before he could answer. "Enjoy your party, Di Laurentis."
She walked away without looking back. Dean watched her disappear into the crowd.
Logan appeared beside him a second later. "What the hell was that?"
Dean didn't answer. Logan looked toward where Y/N had gone. Then back at Dean.
"You know..." he said slowly, "I think you just can’t take your eyes off that dress.”
Dean frowned.
"What?"
Logan shook his head. "You looked at her like you forgot how to breathe. And then you immediately acted like an ass."
Dean scoffed.
"I always act like an ass."
Logan smirked, "Yeah, but usually it's because you think someone's annoying."
He looked toward the crowd where Y/N had disappeared.
"This time..." Logan clapped him on the shoulder. "I think it's because you're in trouble."
—
To forget the snarky comment, Y/n went in for a drink. Of course she looked gorgeous: her hair, her dress… everything was just breathtaking, but Dean’s words awakened some hidden insecurity that was resurfacing from high school.
Y/n was making her way to Hannah to ask her to leave the party, but she saw her and Garrett walk upstairs to Garrett’s room.
Shit…
What kind of friend would she be if she interrupted their special time? She needed her friend’s support, but not at the cost of inconveniencing her. So she sighed and went back for yet another drink. There was no point in going home alone and suffocating in bed with resurfacing bitter memories. Y/n chose to drown those with more alcohol.
Y/N lasted exactly twenty-three minutes before she needed another drink.
Not because she'd had that much to drink. Because she needed something to do with her hands. Something to wash away the lingering sting of Dean's words.
She slipped into the kitchen, grateful to find it momentarily less crowded than the living room. She reached for a clean plastic cup. Ice. Lemonade. A splash of vodka.
She stared down into the drink for a second, hoping it’ll help to stop thinking. Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of two years insulting her. She should've been immune by now.
So why had that one landed?
She let out a slow breath. Because this one remark hadn't been clever. It hadn't even been funny.
It had just been... Mean.
Then her racing thoughts were interrupted by a stupid comment: "You look like you're making a chemistry experiment."
She closed her eyes. Of course.
Without turning around, she said flatly, “Don't you have girls waiting in line for your attention?"
Dean walked up beside her anyway, grabbing an empty cup. "They'll survive."
He poured himself a drink, leaning casually against the counter.
Silence settled between them. It felt... different this time. Less like a game.
Y/N focused on dropping ice into her cup. Dean watched her from the corner of his eye.
She hadn't looked at him once. Not after earlier.
For reasons he couldn't explain, that bothered him.
"You know," he said, swirling his drink, "Logan thinks I was too hard on you."
She gave a small shrug.
"Good for Logan."
"So you're not gonna defend yourself?"
"I've learned it's usually a waste of energy."
That wasn't the answer he'd expected. He frowned.
"What?"
She finally looked at him. Her smile was polite. Almost painfully so.
"You've already decided who I am." Her voice was calm. "So why bother changing your mind?"
Dean looked away first. Something about that answer sat wrong. He covered it the only way he knew how.
"You know what your problem is?"
She sighed.
"Please. Enlighten me."
"You walk around acting like you're too good for everyone."
A tiny laugh escaped her.
"No."
"No?"
"I walk around trying not to care what people think."
He scoffed.
"That's adorable."
"It works most days."
"Clearly not tonight."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
He saw it immediately. The way her shoulders stiffened. The tiny inhale she took.
He should've left it there. Instead….
"I mean..." he said lightly, "you spent all that time getting dressed up." His eyes drifted over her outfit again. "And for what?"
She said nothing. Dean smiled, though it felt forced now.
"You really thought tonight was going to be different?"
The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet.
"You thought someone was finally going to notice you?" He laughed once. “I hate to break it to you..." His voice dropped just enough to make every word sharper. "But people are looking because they don't recognize you." He held her gaze. "Not because they're interested."
For a long moment, Y/N didn't move. Dean waited for the comeback.
She always had one. Always.
Instead she looked down into her cup. "Are you done?" Her voice was so quiet that it almost didn't sound like her.
Dean blinked. "What?"
"I asked..." She swallowed. "...if you're done."
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
She gave one small nod, as though answering herself.
"Okay."
No sarcastic remark. No eye roll. No smug smile. She simply picked up her drink.
"I hope, one day," she said softly, "someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people."
Dean's chest tightened. She looked at him one last time. Not angry. Not even upset. Just disappointed. Then she turned and walked away. Dean watched her disappear into the hallway. For some reason, he felt awful.
Y/n was so consumed in her thoughts and a need to get away that she shoved through a crowded hallway just to get outside. She didn’t even notice the small splash... a splash that was made when someone dropped something into her drink.
Some guy tossed a pill into her cup with an easy flick of his wrist. It landed with a tiny splash before sinking beneath the ice.
"There." He snorted. "Let's see how long it takes…"
A couple of people laughed.
Y/n was already outside, sitting on an empty chair she found. Still replaying Dean's words in her head, she wrapped her fingers around the cup.
Y/N looked down at the cup for only a second. Then, she took a sip of the drink and then another one, unaware of what happened nearly thirty seconds ago.
—
Dean had never hidden from one of his own parties. Usually, he was the reason they stayed alive. If the music got louder, it was because Dean wanted it louder. If another game started in the kitchen, it was because Dean had convinced everyone to play. If people were laughing, chances were he was somewhere in the middle of it. He thrived in rooms like this. Crowded. Loud. Chaotic. Easy.
Tonight everything felt just a little off. He wandered back into the living room, weaving through people who greeted him with pats on the shoulder and shouted greetings over the music.
"Dean!" Someone shoved a red cup into his hand. He accepted it automatically.
Another guy pulled him into a conversation about next week's game. Dean answered. Mostly he just nodded in the right places, made the occasional sarcastic comment, and even laughed once.
But his attention kept drifting. His eyes searched the room without meaning to. Not looking for anyone in particular. Just... looking.
He caught himself glancing toward the hallway. Then toward the kitchen. Then the staircase. His eyebrows pulled together. What was he doing? He took a long drink instead.
"Dean." A familiar voice.
He turned. A blonde girl smiled up at him, already standing much closer than necessary.
"I've been trying to find you."
"Have you?"
"Mhm."
She reached up, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the front of his shirt.
"I thought maybe you disappeared."
Dean looked down at her hand.
Then back up.
"Huh."
She laughed.
"I was wondering if you wanted to dance."
Normally? He would've said yes without thinking.
She was pretty and confident. Exactly the kind of girl who usually made parties more interesting.
Instead his answer caught in his throat. "I..."
For some reason, the image that popped into his head wasn't the blonde standing in front of him.
It was emerald green, the color of Y/n’s dress.
A quiet voice that never seemed to leave his thoughts got louder, “I hope, one day, someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people.”
He blinked. "Maybe later."
The girl looked surprised.
"Oh." She recovered quickly. "Okay."
She disappeared back into the crowd.
Dean watched her go.
That was… weird.
He took another sip.
Someone cranked the music even louder. The living room erupted into cheers. Someone started chanting his name from across the room. Usually, he'd be over there already. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.
"Dean!" Another voice.
This time, a brunette. She slipped easily into his space, smiling like they'd known each other forever.
"You owe me a rematch in pong."
"Do I?"
"You destroyed me last weekend."
"I probably did."
She laughed, looping an arm through his.
"You sound thrilled to see me."
Dean looked at her.
She was gorgeous. Dark hair. Bright smile.
One of the girls who always seemed to show up whenever there was a hockey party.
She squeezed his arm playfully.
"So?"
"So?"
"The rematch."
Dean looked toward the dining room where everyone was gathered around the table.
Then looked back at her.
"I think I'll pass."
Her smile faltered.
"You... don't want to play beer pong?"
"Not really."
She laughed like he was joking. When he didn't laugh back, she slowly let go of his arm.
"Okay..."
She walked away looking thoroughly confused.
Dean was, too.
What the hell?
He never turned down beer pong.
He frowned into his cup. Something was wrong with him. He wandered onto the back deck. Fresh air. That would help. Except it didn't.
He saw Y/n. After the past two encounters, he didn’t feel like going at it again. He couldn’t even ignore her and go on about his day and enjoy the party.
He wandered back inside, weaving through strangers who moved aside automatically when they recognized him.
Someone called after him. "Dean! Take a shot!"
He waved without looking.
Another voice.
"Dean, come dance!"
He ignored it.
A hand caught his wrist.
He turned. Another girl. She smiled brightly.
"You've been avoiding me all night."
"Sorry."
She stepped closer. "You can make it up to me."
Usually, he'd flirt back. Usually, this part was effortless. She reached up, fingers brushing lightly over the back of his neck. Dean felt... nothing.
Not even annoyance.
Just... Nothing.
"I'm actually heading upstairs."
Her smile slipped.
"Oh."
He gently untangled her hand from his arm before continuing toward the staircase.
Halfway up, he stopped.
He looked down.
The entire house stretched beneath him.
Music. Laughter. People dancing. Friends shouting across rooms. Girls smiling at him every time he looked their way. It was everything he'd always enjoyed. Everything that had always been enough.
Tonight it wasn't.
He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell..." The words came out barely above a whisper. No answer came.
He climbed the rest of the stairs. His bedroom door clicked shut behind him, muffling the music until it became nothing more than a dull pulse through the walls.
Silence.
Dean leaned back against the door.
He stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Then laughed once. A humorless sound.
"If anyone ever finds out I'm hiding in my room during my own party..." He shook his head. "They'll never let me live it down."
He tossed his phone onto the bed before sitting beside it. For the first time in years, the party downstairs held absolutely no appeal.
He couldn't explain it. Couldn't fix it. Couldn't even name it.
All he knew was that every laugh downstairs sounded too far away. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw a pair of hurt eyes and heard a quiet voice asking, "Are you done?"
—
Outside, the party only seemed to get louder.
Someone had turned the music up again. Cheers erupted from the living room, followed by the unmistakable crash of something breaking and a chorus of laughter that suggested nobody particularly cared.
Y/N stood in the middle of it all.
She couldn't hear herself think.
At first, she assumed it was the music.
Then she realized the room itself had started to move.
She frowned.
The people around her blurred together for half a second before snapping back into focus.
"Weird." She blinked hard.
Maybe she'd stood up too fast.
She lifted her cup to take another sip, but stopped halfway. Her stomach rolled unpleasantly.
No.
Something wasn't right. She lowered the cup.
The bass thudded through the floor beneath her feet, each vibration making the dizziness worse.
Someone bumped her shoulder as they squeezed past.
Normally, she would've stumbled a step and laughed it off. Instead, her knees almost gave out. She caught herself on the edge of a nearby table.
"Oh..." A whisper .Barely audible. "...Oh, no."
Another wave hit. The room tilted sharply to the left before correcting itself.
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.
Okay.
Okay, breathe.
When she opened them again, the crowd seemed even bigger somehow.
Too many people.
Too much noise.
Too little air.
Her fingers tightened around the plastic cup until it crumpled.
"Oh, shit."
Her voice trembled.
"Oh, shit..."
She looked down at the drink in her hand.
Without another thought, she walked to the nearest trash can and dumped the rest of it out before tossing the cup after it.
She needed Hannah.
That thought came immediately.
Hannah.
She'd know what to do.
Y/N turned toward the hallway.
Then remembered.
Garrett had quietly stolen Hannah away almost twenty minutes ago.
Garrett had simply grinned, taken Hannah's hand, and led her upstairs.
Privacy.
Right.
Y/N swallowed.
She couldn't exactly burst into Garrett's room.
Absolutely not.
Her breathing grew uneven.
The hallway stretched farther than she remembered.
Another wave of dizziness crashed over her so suddenly she reached for the wall. Her palm slapped against it. Her fingers trembled against the old drywall.
Think.
Who else?
Her parents? No way, she was far away in college, what would her parents even do? Fuck.
An ambulance?
No.
That sounded more stupid. Who calls an ambulance to a party?
No, no...
She wasn't even sure what was wrong.
She just... She just needed someone.
Someone she knew.
Her thoughts landed on a name she never would've expected.
Dean.
She almost laughed.
It would've been funny under different circumstances.
Dean Di Laurentis.
The same Dean who'd spent the entire evening trying to make her miserable. The same Dean who'd looked her dead in the eye and told her no one would ever be interested in her.
She hated him.
He was an ass.
Cocky.
Infuriating.
Meaner than he realized.
But...
He would never hurt her in a way bunch of guys in this party would if they found her in this state.
Her drink has been spiked, she thought, and whoever it was was bound to show up sooner or later. She needed to get away.
She knew that with complete certainty.
Her feet were already moving.
The staircase looked impossibly steep. By the third step, her legs felt strangely disconnected from the rest of her body.
Come on.
One more.
She gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. The music downstairs faded with every step upward, replaced by the pounding of her own heartbeat.
Halfway up, her vision blurred again. She stopped. The stairs shifted beneath her.
"No..."
She squeezed the railing harder.
"You are not passing out." As if scolding herself would be any help.
Another breath.
Another step.
Then another.
By the time she reached the second floor, she was breathing like she'd run a marathon.
Dean's door.
End of the hallway.
So close.
She took one step. Then another.
Her foot caught slightly against the carpet.
She stumbled, catching herself against the wall.
The hallway spun. "Oh, God..."
Everything suddenly felt so far away.
She finally reached Dean's door, raised her hand and knocked.
—
Inside, Dean didn't move.
He stared absently at the ceiling from where he sat on the edge of his bed.
The music downstairs had become little more than a dull vibration through the walls.
A knock sounded.
Dean sighed.
Without getting up, he called toward the door.
"Occupied."
Silence.
Good.
Probably another couple looking for somewhere quiet.
Not happening.
He leaned back against the headboard again.
Another knock.
More insistent this time.
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I said go away."
Nothing.
Then…. a heavy thud. Like something, or someone had fallen.
Dean's head snapped toward the door. Every trace of annoyance disappeared. He was on his feet before he'd even realized he'd stood.
He yanked the door open. And froze.
Y/N laid crumpled just outside his room. One hand still stretched weakly toward the doorframe. Her hair had fallen across part of her face. She looked frighteningly pale.
"What the…" Dean dropped to his knees instantly. "Y/N?"
She stirred. Barely. Her eyelids fluttered open just enough to find him. For a second, she simply looked at him. Like she was trying to make sure she'd found the right room.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, the question coming out much sharper than he'd intended.
Was he angry? No.
Panicked? Confused? Terrified? Yes.
"I..." she whispered. Her voice was so quiet he almost missed it. "I know..." She swallowed with visible effort. "I know you hate me enough not to try anything…”
Her eyes began slipping shut.
Dean's expression shattered.
Her arm gave out beneath her. Her body pitched sideways.
"Y/N!"
He caught her before she could hit her head.
Dean held her; one arm around her shoulders, the other catching her legs awkwardly before lowering her carefully against him.
"Hey, hey, hey." His voice had changed completely. Every ounce of sarcasm was gone. Every trace of arrogance vanished. Raw panic replaced all of it.
"Look at me." Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder. "Y/N."
Nothing.
"Come on."
Her eyes opened halfway. Just enough.
"There you are."
His hand came up instinctively, brushing loose strands of hair away from her face. She looked exhausted. Not sleepy. Drained. Like staying conscious required more effort than she had left.
"What happened?"
She blinked slowly and closed her eyes.
Dean's heart slammed painfully against his ribs. He tried to control his shaking hands.
"What did you have to drink?"
She frowned.
"...just..." Another slow blink. "...not much..."
"Did you hit your head?"
A tiny shake. "No."
"Did somebody…" His voice caught. He couldn't even finish the question. Y/N looked at him, and nodded.
"I think so..." Her breathing hitched. And she fully closed her eyes.
Dean’s eyes widened. He was trying to hide his panic.
"Okay." He nodded quickly. "Okay."
He wasn't okay. Not even close. But she needed him calm.
"I've got you."
He slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She was lighter than he'd expected. Too light.
She instinctively curled toward his chest as he lifted her. Her forehead rested weakly against his shoulder. Dean carried her inside as though she might break.
The bedroom door swung shut behind them. He crossed to the bed immediately. He lowered her carefully onto the mattress, supporting her head until it rested against the pillow.
She shivered. Without thinking, Dean tugged the comforter over her. He crouched beside the bed.
"Stay with me." He shook her slighly so she’d stay conscious. Y/N looked at him through half-lidded eyes.
"I'm trying."
"I know." His voice cracked. "I know."
She reached for him without really meaning to. Her fingers brushed weakly against his wrist. Dean took her hand immediately. Firm. Steady.
"I'm here."
Her grip was almost nonexistent. She still didn't let go as she closed her eyes one last time to sleep off the drug’s effect.
Dean looked at her. Really looked at her. She was unconscious and laying in his bed. A dark thought crossed his mind. She could have not made it to his room and right now… God knows what would have happened.
She'd climbed the stairs. Walked through an entire house full of people. Passed countless rooms. And somehow she'd come here, to him. And out of all people he chose him not because she trusted him, but because she thought he hated her enough not to try anything another filthy guy would.
A lump settled painfully in his throat.
Y/n’s eyes opened slowly, she was in and out of consciousness.
"I'm here." Dean whispered.
Her breathing slowed again. Her eyelids drooped lower.
"No, no."
Dean gently squeezed her hand.
"Don't fall asleep again, not yet."
"Tired."
"I know."
"Just..." Her words were fading.
He leaned closer. "Stay awake a little longer for me."
She tried.
God, she tried.
He could see it.
The effort it took just to keep her eyes open.
Eventually she looked at him one last time. Really looked. Like she wanted to make sure he was still there. Then, satisfied, her fingers loosened around his hand. Her breathing evened out. Her face relaxed for the first time since he'd opened the door.
"Y/N?"
No answer.
Just the quiet rhythm of sleep.
Dean stayed exactly where he was.
Still holding her hand. Still watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. As if looking away, even for a second, might somehow let something happen to her.
Downstairs, the party raged on. People laughed. Music shook the walls. Someone cheered loud enough for the sound to carry upstairs. Dean didn't hear any of it. His entire world had narrowed to the girl asleep in his bed and the sickening realization that she chose him to be her safe place due to every cruel thing he said to her, because in y/n’s eyes Dean hated her.
Summary: You convinced yourself you were the exception to his rule. But when Allie Hayes crashes into his life, you realize you were never playing the long game—you were just warming the bench.
Angst / Hurt-Comfort
Warnings: not proofread, angst, explicit language, sexual references, heartbreak.
A/N: I am so, so sorry it took me over a month to post this request! My finals lasted for almost a whole month and I was so stressed I couldn't even exist. And then right after that, I went to visit my parents in my hometown, and then I had to move apartments and it was absolute chaos. I feel so bad for making you guys wait this long. But I really hope you enjoy this fic! Now that the chaos is over, I will be back with more fics. Anyway. Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves and lots of love!
Words:
Playing with fire is for amateurs. Fucking Dean Di Laurentis? That was like striking a match in a room full of gasoline.
Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis. Christ, even his name was exhausting.
Every girl with a pulse at Briar U knew the deal. He was the hockey team's resident golden boy. A walking, talking wet dream with a trust fund, an eight-pack, and these devastating, smoky green eyes.
He was also the undisputed king of casual hookups. Dean always got what he wanted. And ninety-nine percent of the time, that meant someone female, flexible, and completely gone before the morning coffee finished brewing. You knew the rules. You were well aware of the track record. You knew exactly what you were getting into when you let him slide his hands under your shirt.
But human beings are fundamentally stupid, hopelessly optimistic creatures. Somewhere between late-night poli-sci study sessions and lazy Sunday mornings drinking coffee in Garrett’s kitchen, you managed to convince yourself you were the exception to the rule.
It started out platonic enough. You were just another fixture in the hockey house, a girl supposedly immune to the legendary Di Laurentis charm. At least, that was the bullshit lie you sold him.
But then the sarcastic banter started to shift. It bled into lingering touches. The heavy weight of his warm palm resting flat against your lower back. His whiskey-rough voice murmuring filthy jokes in your ear over the thumping bass at Malone's.
When you finally crossed the line, it wasn’t just a quick, meaningless fumble on those god-awful couch cushions. It was supposed to be a one-time thing. An itch scratched. But one time turned into two, and two turned into a dangerously comfortable routine.
It didn't feel like a hookup. It felt... significant. Intimate.
The mornings were what really screwed you over. Instead of the awkward, panicked rush to grab your clothes and sneak out before the rest of the house woke up, he wouldn't let you leave.
He would just groan, reach out with a heavy arm, and drag you right back against his bare, sculpted chest. He'd tangle his legs with yours, press a soft, lingering kiss to your spine, and mumble, "Stay. Just five more minutes, baby doll".
In those rare, unguarded moments, stripped of his usual cocky swagger, you didn't feel like a temporary distraction. You felt devastatingly permanent.
That was the trap. That was how you justified the blurred lines. You told yourself you weren't just another notch on his bedpost because you were more than that. You were his best friend.
You were the one he bitched to about Frank O'Shea, the hardass defensive coordinator who was dead-set on making his senior year a living hell. You were the one who knew the actual scores of his LSATs. You listened to him vent about his looming Harvard Law future.
To the rest of Briar, Dean was still playing the field. But to you? It felt like an exclusive, unspoken secret.
You’d find yourself staring at the ceiling of your dorm room at two in the morning, your heart doing a pathetic, frantic little backflip every time your phone buzzed with a filthy, late-night text from him.
I’m not a puck bunny, you’d tell yourself, stepping over his discarded Timberlands in the hallway. We have a real connection. He just needs time to pull his head out of his ass.
God, you were a fucking idiot.
You fell for him. Hard, fast, and entirely without a parachute.
You fell for that cocky-as-sin grin. You fell for his surprisingly sharp intellect. You fell for the rare moments when he’d look at you like you were the absolute only girl in the crowded room.
You spoon-fed yourself the delusion that it was only a matter of time. Surely, the playboy would eventually wake up and realize the girl he actually wanted was already right there, sitting next to him on the couch.
You thought you were playing the long game. You didn't realize you were just warming the bench.
The illusion didn't just shatter; it exploded in your face, piece by agonizing piece the weekend Allie Hayes crashed at the hockey house in full-blown crisis mode.
She was nursing a broken heart over her ex, hiding out in Garrett's empty bedroom. Logan had even fired off a group text explicitly warning Dean to keep his dick in his pants.
You thought you were safe. Allie was Hannah’s best friend. She was the definition of off-limits.
But since when did Dean Di Laurentis ever give a shit about the rules?
For weeks, their hookups were a heavily guarded secret. Allie was adamant about keeping everyone out of their business, preferring to keep it strictly under wraps.
But you knew Dean better than that. You noticed the subtle, damning little details.
You saw the dark, purplish hickey blooming on his neck the morning after she stayed over. You noticed the way he was suddenly glued to his phone, staring glassy-eyed at the screen while he waited for her to text him back.
And then Dean dragged you into the kitchen, his green eyes burning with a frustrating mix of panic and utter exhilaration.
"I'm screwed," he whispered, leaning back against the counter. "I hooked up with Allie."
Your stomach plummeted straight to the linoleum. "What?"
"It's a secret, so keep your mouth shut," he warned, raking a hand through his blond hair. "But I can't get her out of my head. I even sat through this terrible French soap opera called Solange just to hang out with her".
He said it with a laugh. A helpless, ridiculously besotted laugh.
Then he started dropping the nicknames. Baby doll. Allie-Cat.
The exact same lazy, affectionate nicknames that used to make your own stupid heart flutter.
You had to stand there, plaster a supportive best-friend smile on your face, and listen to the guy you were hopelessly in love with talk about falling for someone else. It felt like taking a slapshot straight to the ribs without any padding.
The absolute worst part was that you couldn't even openly hate her. Allie was so frustratingly sweet, completely oblivious to the fact that she was actively destroying you. There was no villain here. Just you, completely alone in your grief.
So you just... faded out.
You started taking your coffee to go. You hauled your ass to the campus library to study instead of camping out at the guys' kitchen island. When Dean tried to rope you into his usual flirty banter, you shot back short, clipped answers and kept your eyes glued to your textbooks.
You honestly thought you were doing a bang-up job of acting like a ghost.
But you forgot who you were dealing with.
"She's fine, Dean. Leave her alone," Tucker's drawl echoed in the hallway one afternoon.
You froze, your hand hovering over the doorknob.
"She's been dodging me for weeks, Tuck," Dean argued, sounding genuinely frustrated. "I just want to see what's wrong."
"What's wrong is that she's swamped with midterms. Give her some space." Tucker smoothly stepped into Dean's path, effortlessly acting as your own personal human shield.
You backed away, your chest tight with unshed tears. Tucker knew. John Tucker noticed absolutely everything.
Logan, on the other hand, was far less subtle.
A few nights later, while Dean was busy sneaking into Allie's dorm room, a loud knock rattled your door.
It was Logan and he didn't bother waiting for an invitation. He just pushed right past you, armed with two pints of Ben & Jerry's and a pair of plastic spoons.
He took one look at your pathetic, red-rimmed eyes and let out a heavy sigh.
"You look like absolute shit," Logan stated, tossing a pint of your favorite kind onto the mattress.
"Thanks. You really have a way with women," you croaked, wiping furiously at your wet cheeks.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, dropping his massive frame onto the edge of your bed.
"No."
"Cool." Logan popped the lid off his ice cream like it was just another Tuesday. "Then we won't talk about it. Put on a movie."
He sat next to you in comfortable silence, eating his ice cream while you let the tears finally fall.
The boys knew.
They saw exactly what Dean was too hopelessly blind to see. And they were quietly circling the wagons to protect one of their own.
It was a chaotic victory party at the hockey house, and the bass rattled the floorboards. You were standing by the kitchen island, forcing a laugh at something Fitzy was saying, doing your absolute damnedest to pretend your heart wasn't actively bleeding out all over the linoleum.
Then, a large, familiar hand wrapped around your bicep.
You spun around, the breath catching in your throat.
Dean's jaw was set in a hard line. His blond hair was a tousled mess, and those smoky green eyes were flashing with a volatile mix of frustration and hurt.
"We need to talk," he demanded, his voice dropping an octave to cut through the pounding music.
Before you could even object, he was pulling you through the kitchen. He shoved open the sliding glass door and dragged you out onto the back patio. The frigid spring air immediately bit at your bare arms, but at least the bass was muffled out here.
"What the fuck is going on with you?" Dean demanded.
He crossed his arms over his broad, perfectly sculpted chest.
"You’ve been ghosting me," he accused. "And tonight, you completely walked away when Allie said hi. What is your problem?"
The sheer, blinding oblivion of the man was staggering.
"I don't have a problem, Dean," you lied, fighting to keep your voice perfectly even. "I'm just busy."
"Bullshit."
He stepped closer, crowding your space until that familiar, spicy cologne wrapped around you. It made your chest physically ache.
"You’re my best friend," he pushed, a rare edge of desperation bleeding into his tone. "We used to tell each other everything. Now you won't even look at me."
He ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely distressed. "Allie thinks you hate her. And I'm starting to think you hate me."
"I don't hate Allie," you whispered. Your hands were shaking so violently you had to cross your arms to hide them. "And I don't hate you. But things change, Dean. You're... you're with her now."
"So?" He threw his hands up in the air. "Garrett and Logan have girlfriends, and you still hang out with them! Why am I the only one getting frozen out?"
The absolute unfairness of it snapped whatever fragile restraint you had left.
"Because Garrett and Logan weren't fucking me, Dean!"
The words ripped out of your throat before you could swallow them back down.
Silence slammed onto the patio, heavy, suffocating, final. The only sound left was the muffled vibration of the music inside the house.
Dean froze.
The anger instantly drained from his perfectly chiseled face. It was replaced by a devastating, agonizingly slow realization.
His green eyes widened as he stared at you.
You could practically see that pretty head of his piecing together the timeline, the sudden distance, the lame excuses. The way the rest of his teammates had been subtly shielding you from him for weeks.
"You..." Dean started, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Wait. You..."
"Don't," you choked out.
You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, feeling like you might actually shatter. The humiliation burned the back of your throat like acid.
"Just don't say it, Dean. I knew the score. I knew who you were. It's my own stupid fault for catching feelings while you were just getting your rocks off."
"Baby doll, I didn't—" He reached out, his hand actually trembling as he stopped inches from your arm. "You're my best friend," he whispered, his voice cracking, looking at you like you had just betrayed him. "You're the one constant I have. I swear to God, I never would have touched you if I knew it would ruin this."
It was the final nail in the coffin. He didn't regret breaking your heart; he regretted crossing a line that jeopardized his own comfort. The physical intimacy that meant everything to you had meant absolutely nothing to him.
The sliding glass door screeched on its track as it was abruptly shoved open and Garrett Graham stood in the doorway.
His broad shoulders blocked the light from the kitchen, his dark eyes flicking from your tear-stained face to Dean’s horrified expression.
As the team captain, Garrett knew exactly when a play was going south.
"Step back, D," Garrett ordered.
His voice wasn't yelling, but it carried a lethal authority that left zero room for argument.
"G, this is between us," Dean pleaded, looking utterly panicked. "I just need to fix this."
"You can't fix this tonight, man. Open your damn eyes and give her some space."
Garrett stepped out onto the patio. He gently placed a warm, solid hand on your back. He didn't look at Dean again. He just looked at you, his expression softening into total empathy.
"Come on," Garrett murmured. "Let's get you out of here."
You didn't fucking dare to look back at Dean. Because if you looked over your shoulder and saw him standing on that patio—frozen, horrified, looking at you with pity instead of love—you would actually shatter into a million jagged pieces.
Garrett's palm on your back was a steady, grounding weight. He bulldozed a path right through the swarm of drunken frat boys and puck bunnies. He didn't stop until the heavy front door slammed shut behind you.
The freezing air hit your lungs like crushed glass, and you finally let out a ragged, ugly sob.
"I've got you," Garrett murmured. His voice was surprisingly gentle for a guy who spent his life smashing people into the boards.
Tucker was already waiting by Garrett's Jeep in the driveway. Because of course he was. John Tucker always knew exactly where he needed to be.
He took one look at your face, immediately shrugged out of his heavy winter coat, and draped it over your trembling shoulders as he opened the back door of the Jeep and guided you inside.
"G, you driving?" Tuck asked quietly.
"Yeah. Let's get her out of here."
The interior of the Jeep smelled like rich leather and cold winter air. You curled into a miserable, pathetic ball in the backseat, pulling Tucker's massive coat around you like a suit of armor. You squeezed your eyes shut, but it did absolutely nothing to stop the hot tears tracking down your cheeks.
Garrett started the engine, the heater roaring to life. He shifted the car into drive, but before pulling out of the driveway, his dark eyes met yours in the rearview mirror.
"You want me to go back in there and kick his ass?" Garrett asked. His tone was deadpan and entirely serious. "Because I will. Logan is probably already tearing him a new one, but I'm more than happy to take a swing."
A wet, broken laugh scraped its way out of your throat. "No. Don't punch him. It's not... it's not his fault he didn't fall for me, G."
"It's his fault for being a blind, selfish idiot," Tucker corrected from the passenger seat. "He led you on, whether he meant to or not."
You rested your forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching the hockey house disappear into the darkness. The brutal reality of it was settling deep into your bones, heavy and hollow.
It was over.
Whatever messy, undefined, agonizingly beautiful thing you had with Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis was dead. He was going to move on with Allie Hayes, and you were going to have to figure out how to exist in a world where you weren't his favorite secret anymore. You had to go back to being just a friend.
It was going to hurt like a fucking bitch. You were going to have to mourn a breakup for a relationship that never technically existed.
But as Garrett reached back to adjust the vents so the warm air hit you directly, and Tucker quietly turned up the radio to drown out the heavy silence, a tiny, fractured piece of your heart clicked into place.
You hadn't won the guy. You had lost the golden boy to the blonde girl with the broken heart.
But looking at the two massive, fiercely protective hockey players guarding your front seat, you realized you hadn't lost everything. You had played with fire, and yeah, you'd gotten burned. But you had walked out of the ashes with a family.
Summary: Garrett is supposed to hate you by association. You’re dating his rival. You’re wearing the wrong colors. But he doesn’t look at you like you’re the enemy, he looks at you like he’s seeing something everyone else has learned to ignore. And when you run out of places to hide, his number is the only one you can think to call
Warnings: 18+ content, domestic violence, sexual assault, and trauma recovery
Read part one here
You wake up to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains.
For a moment, you can’t remember where you are. The bed is too comfortable, the room too clean, the sheets smell wrong — not wrong, just different. Not like Cameron’s cologne and expensive detergent. Like something cleaner. Safer.
Then it all comes rushing back.
The napkin. The attack. Running through Boston in the freezing dark. Garrett’s voice on the phone, steady and sure. The apartment lobby. His car. This house.
You sit up slowly, every muscle in your body screaming in protest. Your throat feels like you swallowed glass. Your face throbs. When you catch sight of yourself in the mirror across the room, you barely recognize the person staring back.
The bruises are worse than you thought. Dark purple handprints wrap around your throat like a necklace. Your left cheek is swollen, a deep red-purple that’s going to turn black soon. There’s a split in your bottom lip you don’t remember getting.
You look like you went twelve rounds with a professional fighter.
You look like a victim.
The thought makes you want to throw up.
There’s a knock on the door — soft, hesitant.
“Y/N?” Garrett’s voice. “You awake?”
“Yeah.” Your voice comes out raspy, damaged.
“Can I come in?”
You pull the blanket up higher, suddenly aware you’re still in yesterday’s clothes. “Sure.”
The door opens and Garrett steps inside, carrying a tray. He’s showered and changed — different sweatpants, a clean t-shirt, hair still damp. He looks almost normal except for the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his jaw.
“I brought breakfast,” he says. “Nothing fancy. Just toast and eggs and coffee. Tucker made it. He’s weirdly good at cooking for a guy who lives on protein shakes and beer.”
He sets the tray on the desk, and you see he wasn’t kidding. Scrambled eggs, buttered toast, a mug of coffee with cream. There’s even a glass of orange juice.
“You didn’t have to do this,” you say.
“I know.” Garrett leans against the desk, arms crossed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
“Yeah. You look-” He stops himself. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“I know what I look like.”
There’s a long pause. Garrett’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read. Concern, maybe. Or pity. You’re not sure which is worse.
“I think you should go to the police,” he says finally.
Your stomach drops. “Garrett-”
“I know you’re scared. I know you think he’ll get away with it. But Y/N, look at yourself.” He gestures toward the mirror. “You have evidence. Documented injuries. That’s assault. That’s attempted murder.”
“His parents are lawyers-”
“I don’t give a shit if his parents are on the Supreme Court.” Garrett’s voice is hard. “What he did to you is a crime. You have rights. You have options.”
“And if he gets away with it? If they make me look crazy? If no one believes me?”
“Then at least you tried. At least there’s a record. At least the next time he does this — because there will be a next time, to you or someone else — there’s a paper trail.”
You want to argue. Want to explain all the reasons why this won’t work, why it’s pointless, why you should just disappear and hope Cameron forgets about you.
But Garrett’s looking at you with those dark eyes, and you can see the plea in them. The desperate need to do something, to fix this, to make it right.
“Will you come with me?” You ask quietly.
“Every step of the way.”
***
The police station smells like bad coffee and bureaucracy. You sit in a hard plastic chair in the waiting area, Garrett beside you, while an officer processes your intake paperwork.
“Someone will be with you shortly,” the desk sergeant says, barely looking up from his computer.
Shortly turns into twenty minutes. Then thirty. You’re about to suggest leaving when a female officer appears.
“Y/N Y/L/N?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Officer Murphy. Come on back.”
She leads you and Garrett to a small interview room. It’s exactly like the ones on TV — gray walls, metal table, chairs that look designed to be uncomfortable. There’s a camera mounted in the corner.
“For documentation purposes,” Officer Murphy explains, following your gaze. “Everything we discuss will be recorded. Is that okay?”
You nod.
“I’m going to need verbal consent.”
“Yes. That’s okay.”
Officer Murphy sits across from you, pulls out a notepad. Garrett takes the chair beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body.
“So,” Officer Murphy begins. “You’re here to file a report about an assault?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what happened? Start from the beginning.”
You take a breath. Try to organize the chaos of last night into something coherent.
“My boyfriend — Cameron Beck — he attacked me last night. At my dorm room.”
“What time was this?”
“Around eight PM, I think. Maybe a little after.”
Officer Murphy is writing everything down. “And what precipitated the attack?”
“He found a phone number in my bag. He thought I was cheating on him.”
“Were you?”
The question catches you off guard. “No. It was just—someone gave me their number and I kept it. That’s all.”
“Okay. So he found this number and then what?”
“He got angry. Started yelling. Threw my stuff everywhere. Then he-” Your voice catches. “He put his hands around my throat. Choked me until I couldn’t breathe.”
Officer Murphy’s expression doesn’t change. “Did you lose consciousness?”
“Almost. I thought I was going to die.”
“What happened next?”
“He let go for a second. Hit me. Across the face. Twice.” You point to your cheek. “Then he started choking me again.”
“How did you get away?”
“I kneed him. In the groin. He let go and I ran.”
“Where did you run to?”
“Just … ran. Down the street. I called for help.” You glance at Garrett. “He came and got me.”
Officer Murphy looks at Garrett for the first time. “And you are?”
“Garrett Graham. I’m-” He hesitates. “A friend. She called me and I picked her up.”
“You’re a student at BU as well?”
“No. Briar University.”
Something shifts in Officer Murphy’s expression. Recognition, maybe. “You play hockey.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And the boyfriend — Cameron Beck — he plays for BU?”
“Yes.”
Officer Murphy writes something in her notepad. You can’t see what.
“Okay, Y/N. I’m going to need to document your injuries. Is it alright if I take some photographs?”
Your stomach churns. “Do you have to?”
“It’s important for the case. Physical evidence of assault.”
You look at Garrett. He nods slightly, encouraging.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Officer Murphy pulls out a digital camera. “I’ll need you to remove your sweatshirt so we can see your throat and face clearly.”
With shaking hands, you pull off your sweatshirt. You’re wearing a tank top underneath, which means the bruises on your arms are visible too. The ones from before last night. The finger-shaped marks that have faded to yellow-green.
Officer Murphy’s jaw tightens. “How long has he been hurting you?”
“I don’t know. A while.”
“Months? Years?”
“About a year. It started small. Then got worse.”
“And you never reported it before?”
The judgment in the question makes you flinch. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was scared. Because I thought I could fix it. Because he said no one would believe me.” Your voice rises. “Because I didn’t think it mattered.”
She starts taking photos. Flash after flash, documenting every bruise, every mark. Your throat from multiple angles. Your face. Your wrists. Your arms. You feel like a crime scene.
Which, you suppose, you are.
Garrett has gone completely still beside you. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
“Alright,” Officer Murphy says finally, lowering the camera. “You can put your sweatshirt back on. I just need to get the rest of your statement.”
She asks you to walk through the entire relationship. When it started. When the abuse began. How often it happened. You try to remember specific incidents but they all blur together after a while. The time he threw your laptop across the room. The time he locked you in his apartment for two days. The time he pushed you down the stairs and then convinced everyone, including you, that you’d just tripped.
Officer Murphy writes it all down without comment.
Then she asks: “Did he ever sexually assault you?”
The room goes very quiet.
You can’t look at Garrett. Can’t bear to see his reaction.
“Yes,” you whisper.
“Can you describe what happened?”
“He would-” Your throat closes up. “He would force me. When I didn’t want to. When I said no.”
“How many times did this happen?”
“I don’t know. A lot. Too many to count.”
“Most recently?”
You close your eyes. “Yesterday morning. I woke up and he was already—he didn’t ask. He just-”
You can’t finish the sentence.
Beside you, Garrett makes a sound. Almost like a growl. When you glance over, his hands are clenched into fists so tight his knuckles have gone white. There’s something wet on his palms.
Blood.
His nails have cut into his skin.
“Garrett,” you whisper.
He doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes are fixed on the table, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle jumping.
Officer Murphy notices too. “Mr. Graham, do you need to step outside?”
“I’m fine.” His voice is rough.
“You’re bleeding.”
Garrett looks down at his hands like he’s surprised to see them. Slowly, mechanically, he unclenches his fists. Crescent-shaped cuts mark his palms.
“I’m fine,” he says again.
Officer Murphy doesn’t look convinced, but she continues. “Y/N, I know this is difficult, but I need you to be as specific as possible about the sexual assaults. Dates, times, locations if you remember them.”
You do your best. You tell her about the times in his apartment. The time in his car. The time in a bathroom at a party when you were too drunk to consent. You tell her until the words stop meaning anything, until you’re just reciting facts like they happened to someone else.
Through it all, Garrett sits beside you, silent and bleeding.
When you’re finally done, Officer Murphy closes her notepad.
“Okay. This is what’s going to happen next. We’re going to issue a warrant for Cameron Beck’s arrest. Based on your statement and the photographic evidence, we have probable cause for assault, battery, strangulation, and sexual assault. Those are serious charges.”
“Will he go to jail?” You ask.
“That depends on a lot of factors. The DA will review the case and decide whether to prosecute. If they do, there will be a trial. You’ll have to testify.”
Your heart sinks. “I have to see him again?”
“In court, yes. But we’re also going to help you file for a restraining order. That means he can’t contact you, can’t come within a certain distance of you. If he violates it, he goes to jail immediately.”
“His parents are going to fight this,” you say. “They have money. Lawyers.”
“Let them fight. We have evidence. We have your testimony. And frankly, based on what you’ve described, this isn’t going to be a hard case to make.”
You want to believe her. Want to believe that for once, the system will work the way it’s supposed to.
But you’ve been disappointed so many times before.
“What do I do now?” You ask.
“Go home. Rest. We’ll contact you when we have more information. In the meantime, avoid any contact with Mr. Beck. If he tries to reach out, document everything and let us know immediately.”
“Okay.”
Officer Murphy stands, offers her hand. “You did the right thing, coming here. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’re incredibly brave.”
You shake her hand, but you don’t feel brave. You feel exhausted and broken and terrified of what comes next.
Garrett stands too, still favoring his bleeding palms. Officer Murphy notices.
“Mr. Graham, you should get those looked at.”
“They’re fine.”
“They’re not fine. There’s a first aid kit at the front desk.”
Garrett just nods, but you can tell he has no intention of doing anything about it.
You follow Officer Murphy out of the interview room, back through the station. At the front desk, she hands you a folder.
“Resources,” she explains. “Domestic violence hotlines, counseling services, legal aid. And my card. Call me anytime if you have questions or concerns.”
“Thank you.”
You walk out of the station into the gray February morning. The cold hits you like a slap. You don’t have a coat. You left everything at your dorm when you ran.
Everything except your phone and your life.
Garrett guides you toward his car with a hand that doesn’t quite touch your back. Protective but not possessive. It’s such a contrast to Cameron that you almost cry.
Once you’re both in the car, Garrett turns to face you. “Where do you want me to take you?”
You hesitate. “My dorm, I guess. My roommate should be back by now-”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m not taking you back there. Not where he knows where to find you. Not where you’ll be alone.”
“Garrett, I can’t just hide forever-”
“I’m not saying forever. I’m saying until we know he’s been arrested. Until we know the restraining order is in place.” He starts the car. “You’re coming back to the house.”
“I can’t impose like that-”
“You’re not imposing. You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”
You want to argue. Want to insist you can take care of yourself. But the truth is, you’re terrified. Terrified Cameron will show up at your dorm. Terrified he’ll convince you to take him back again. Terrified of what he’ll do when he finds out you went to the police.
“Okay,” you say quietly.
Garrett drives back to his house in silence. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, and you can see the blood from his palms smearing the leather.
“You’re still bleeding,” you say.
“I know.”
“You should clean that.”
“I will.”
But he doesn’t sound like he cares. He sounds like he’s somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dark and violent.
When you pull up to the house, there are two other cars in the driveway. Garrett parks and turns to you.
“My roommates are home. They know you’re here — I told them last night. They’re cool, I promise. But if you want to go straight to the room and not deal with people, that’s fine too.”
“It’s their house. I should at least say hi.”
“You don’t owe them anything.”
“Still.”
You follow Garrett inside. The house looks different in daylight — messier but homier. There are hockey bags by the door, shoes scattered everywhere, a pile of mail on the hall table. It smells like coffee and something cooking.
“G, that you?” A voice calls from the kitchen.
“Yeah. And Y/N.”
Three guys emerge from the kitchen. You recognize one of them from Briar Hockey’s most recent post on Instagram — Logan, Garrett’s best friend. The other two you don’t know.
They all stop when they see you. You watch their expressions change as they take in your injuries — shock, anger, pity.
“Jesus,” one of them breathes. He’s auburn-haired, built like a tank. “He did that to you?”
You nod, unable to speak.
“I’m Tucker,” he says. “And when I see that motherfucker, I’m going to break every bone in his body.”
“Get in line,” Garrett mutters.
The third guy — tall, blond hair, kind eyes — steps forward. “I’m Dean. And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. Seriously.”
“I don’t want to be a burden-”
“You’re not.” Logan’s voice is firm. “Any friend of Garrett’s is a friend of ours. And anyone that piece of shit hurt automatically gets our protection.”
You’re overwhelmed suddenly. These boys — these strangers — are offering you sanctuary without hesitation. Without judgment. Without demanding anything in return.
“Thank you,” you manage.
“You hungry?” Tucker asks. “I made chicken noodle soup earlier this week.”
“I could eat,” you say.
“Good. Sit. I’ll heat it up.”
Garrett leads you to the dining table — a beat-up wooden thing that’s seen better days. You sit, and Garrett takes the chair beside you.
Logan grabs a first aid kit from under the sink. “Let me see your hands.”
“I’m fine,” Garrett says.
“You’re bleeding on my chair. Let me see your hands.”
Reluctantly, Garrett holds out his palms. The crescent-shaped cuts are deeper than you thought, still seeping blood.
“What the hell did you do?” Dean asks.
“Nothing.”
Logan starts cleaning the cuts with antiseptic. Garrett doesn’t even flinch.
“We went to the police this morning,” Garrett says. “She filed a report. They’re issuing a warrant for Beck’s arrest.”
The room goes quiet.
“Good,” Tucker says finally from the kitchen. “Fucking good.”
“Did they believe you?” Dean asks you.
“I think so. There’s evidence. Photos. My statement.”
“And if he tries to come near you?”
“Restraining order. But it takes time.”
“Until then, you stay here,” Logan says. It’s not a question. “We’ll make sure you get to your classes, get whatever you need from your dorm, whatever. But you don’t go anywhere alone.”
“I can’t ask you guys to do that-”
“You’re not asking. We’re offering.” Tucker brings over two bowls of soup, sets one in front of you. “Eat. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
He’s not wrong. You can’t remember the last real meal you had. You pick up the spoon, take a bite.
It’s delicious. Rich and warm and exactly what you need.
“This is really good,” you say.
“Told you.” Tucker grins. “Hockey and cooking. My only two skills.”
Despite everything, you almost smile.
Garrett’s still watching you with that intense expression. Like he’s memorizing every detail. Like he’s afraid if he looks away, you’ll disappear.
“You’re safe here,” he says quietly. “I know it doesn’t feel like it. I know you’re scared. But we’re not going to let anything happen to you.”
You look around the table at these four boys — these strangers who are treating you like family. Who are offering you protection without asking for anything in return. Who believe you, unconditionally.
“Why?” You ask. “Why are you all doing this?”
The boys exchange glances.
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Logan says simply.
“Because that asshole deserves to rot,” Tucker adds.
“Because you deserve better,” Dean says.
Garrett doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and squeezes your hand gently. Carefully. Like you’re something precious.
You squeeze back.
And for the first time since last night, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you’re going to be okay.
***
Three weeks feels like both an eternity and no time at all.
Garrett’s been counting down the days like a prisoner marking time on a cell wall. March 14th. The date he highlighted in his calendar. The date he’s been waiting for.
The date he’s going to make Cameron Beck pay.
He’s in the locker room now, lacing up his skates with mechanical precision. Around him, his teammates are going through their pre-game routines. Logan’s taping his stick. Tucker’s blasting music through his headphones. Dean’s doing some complicated stretching routine that looks like yoga.
Everyone knows what tonight is. What it means.
You filed charges. Cameron was arrested. And then, less than twenty-four hours later, he was released on bail. Fifty thousand dollars — pocket change to his parents. He walked out of that police station like nothing happened, posted some bullshit on Instagram about “false accusations,” and went right back to his life.
Including hockey.
Boston University’s administration reviewed the case. Looked at the evidence, the photos, your statement. And then decided that since Cameron hasn’t been convicted yet, he should be allowed to continue playing while awaiting trial.
Innocent until proven guilty, they said.
Never mind the handprint bruises on your throat. Never mind the records documenting your injuries. Never mind that you can barely sleep without having nightmares.
None of that matters to BU’s athletic department as much as their winning record.
Garrett’s jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache.
Coach Jensen appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand. “Alright, boys. Listen up.”
The room quiets.
“We all know what tonight is,” Coach says, his eyes scanning the team. “We all know who we’re playing. And I’m going to say this once: I don’t care about your personal feelings. I don’t care about drama. I care about hockey. You play clean, you play smart, you win the game. Got it?”
There’s a murmur of agreement.
Coach’s eyes land on Garrett. “Graham. My office. Now.”
Garrett stands, follows Coach down the hallway to his office. Coach closes the door behind them.
“Sit.”
Garrett sits.
Coach leans against his desk, arms crossed. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?”
“You’re thinking about that girl. About Beck. About what he did.”
Garrett doesn’t confirm or deny.
“I get it,” Coach continues. “I do. What happened to her is horrific. But Garrett, you’re the captain of this team. You’re a junior. You’re probably going to the NHL in a year. You can’t throw that away because you want revenge.”
“I’m not throwing anything away.”
“If you go after him tonight, you will be. You’ll get suspended. Maybe for the rest of the season. Maybe permanently. Is that really worth it?”
Garrett meets Coach’s eyes. “Yes.”
Coach sighs. “I can’t stop you. But I’m asking you to think about your team. About your future.”
“I have thought about it.” Garrett stands. “And I’ve made my decision.”
He walks back to the locker room. His teammates look up as he enters, reading his expression.
“Well?” Logan asks.
“Same as always. Play clean, win the game.”
“And are you going to play clean?” Tucker asks with a knowing smile.
Garrett doesn’t answer. Just pulls on his jersey — number 44, GRAHAM across the back in bold letters.
When it’s time to head to the tunnel, Garrett catches Coach Jensen’s eye one more time.
“Coach?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
Coach’s brow furrows. “For what?”
“For the fact that the team will probably have to play without me for a few games.”
Coach opens his mouth to respond, but Garrett’s already moving down the tunnel. He can hear Coach calling after him, but the words don’t register. There’s only one thing on Garrett’s mind now.
The ice.
***
You’re sitting on Garrett’s bed, laptop balanced on your knees, streaming the game. You probably shouldn’t watch. Your therapist — the one the victim services advocate connected you with — said you should avoid triggers. And watching Cameron skate around like nothing happened, like he didn’t try to kill you, is definitely a trigger.
But you can’t help it.
You need to see this.
The arena is packed — a sold-out crowd for what the announcers are calling “one of the most anticipated matchups of the season.” Briar versus BU. First place versus second place in the conference standings.
They have no idea what else this game means.
The camera pans across the Briar bench. There’s Garrett, sitting between Logan and Tucker, face hard and focused. He looks dangerous. You’ve never seen him look like that before — like violence contained in a hockey uniform.
Then the camera cuts to the BU bench and your stomach drops.
Cameron.
He’s there. Number 14, sitting at the end of the bench, laughing at something one of his teammates said. Like this is just another game. Like he didn’t assault you. Like he didn’t rape you. Like he didn’t leave you so broken you still can’t look at yourself in the mirror without flinching.
The commentators are talking about him. About his stats, his performance this season, his NHL prospects. They mention, briefly, that he’s facing “personal legal issues” but don’t elaborate. Wouldn’t want to damage his reputation with something as trivial as the truth.
You feel sick.
The door opens and Beau, Dean’s best friend, pokes his head in. He promised the boys to keep an eye on you while they are at the game. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look okay.” He comes in, sits on the edge of the bed. “You know you don’t have to watch this, right?”
“I know.”
“But you’re going to anyway.”
“I need to see it.”
Beau nods like he understands. “Want company?”
“Sure.”
He settles in beside you, close enough to be supportive but not so close it feels invasive. It’s something you’ve noticed about all the boys — they’re incredibly careful about your boundaries. They never touch you without asking. Never get too close. Never push.
It’s the opposite of Cameron in every way.
The puck drops.
***
Garrett’s never been a dirty player. He plays hard, plays physical, but he doesn’t cheap shot. Doesn’t go for injuries. Doesn’t use his stick as a weapon.
Tonight’s going to be different.
He’s skating his shift, focused on the puck, when he sees Beck coming up the ice. Their eyes meet across the neutral zone and Beck smirks. Actually fucking smirks at him.
Garrett’s vision goes red for a second, but he forces it down. Not yet. He needs to wait for the right moment. Can’t just jump him in the middle of open ice or the refs will toss him before he gets a chance to do real damage.
The first period is surprisingly restrained. Both teams feeling each other out, testing boundaries. Garrett gets a few good hits in — all legal, all clean — but nothing that satisfies the rage burning in his chest.
Logan scores midway through the first. Dean gets an assist. Briar’s up 1-0.
The period’s winding down — about three minutes left — when Garrett finds himself lined up against Beck for a faceoff in the defensive zone.
They’re at the dot, sticks ready, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.
Beck leans in close.
“Hey, Graham,” he says, voice low enough the ref can’t hear. “How’s my girl doing?”
Garrett’s stick tightens in his grip, but he doesn’t respond.
“She still staying at your place?” Beck continues, that smirk playing on his lips. “That’s cute. Playing house. But we both know she’ll come back to me eventually. She always does.”
The ref’s getting into position.
“She’s a good fuck though, right?” Beck’s voice drops to a whisper. “Tight. Eager. Especially when she cries.”
Something inside Garrett snaps.
The puck hasn’t even dropped yet when Garrett rips off his gloves and launches himself at Beck.
His first punch catches Beck square in the jaw. Beck’s head snaps back and he goes down hard, hitting the ice, but Garrett doesn’t stop. He’s on top of him, raining down punches with methodical precision. Face, ribs, face again.
Beck tries to cover up, tries to fight back, but Garrett’s bigger, stronger, and absolutely fucking furious.
“You piece of shit-” Punch. “You fucking coward-” Punch. “You think you can talk about her like that-” Punch.
Beck’s nose breaks with a satisfying crunch. Blood sprays across the ice.
The refs are shouting, trying to pull Garrett off, but he shrugs them away. Gets in two more solid hits before two refs manage to grab his arms and haul him backwards.
Garrett’s still trying to get at Beck, still ready to throw more punches, but the refs have him locked down.
Beck’s on the ice, face a bloody mess. His teammates are rushing over. The crowd is going absolutely insane — some people cheering, some people booing, everyone on their feet.
One ref is talking into his mic. “Number 44, Briar. Five-minute major for fighting. Game misconduct. You’re done.”
Garrett doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Just skates toward the tunnel, ripping off his helmet.
The Briar bench erupts.
Every single player starts tapping their sticks against the boards. The sound echoes through the arena like thunder. It’s the hockey equivalent of a standing ovation.
Support. Solidarity.
They know why Garrett did it. And they’re backing him one hundred percent.
Coach Jensen is standing behind the bench, shaking his head, but even he’s fighting a smile.
As Garrett disappears into the tunnel, he catches one last glimpse of the ice. Beck’s sitting up now, holding his face, blood pouring through his fingers. His coach is yelling at the refs, demanding Garrett be suspended, banned, arrested.
Garrett doesn’t care.
It was worth it.
***
You watch the whole thing happen in real-time.
One second, they’re lined up for the faceoff. The next, Garrett’s on Cameron like a feral animal.
Beau jumps up beside you. “Holy shit!”
You can’t speak. Can’t breathe. You just watch as Garrett hits Cameron again and again and again. Watch as the refs try to pull him off. Watch as Cameron’s face turns into a bloody pulp.
The commentators are losing their minds.
“Absolutely vicious attack by Graham — completely unprovoked — this is going to be a lengthy suspension-”
But it wasn’t unprovoked. You know that. Something happened at that faceoff. Cameron said something. Did something. Pushed Garrett past his breaking point.
And Garrett responded.
For you.
The camera follows Garrett as he skates toward the tunnel. His face is set, determined, completely unrepentant. Blood — not his own — is splattered across his jersey.
Then the camera cuts to the Briar bench and you see it. Every player tapping their sticks. The sound might not come through clearly on the broadcast, but you know what it means.
They’re supporting him.
All of them.
“Did you see that?” Beau’s grinning. “The whole fucking bench. They all know.”
“Know what?”
“Why Garrett did it. They’re telling him they’ve got his back.”
Your throat feels tight. Your eyes are stinging.
Garrett just got himself ejected. Probably suspended for multiple games. Maybe even kicked off the team. And he did it for you. Because Cameron said something about you. Because he couldn’t let it slide.
The game continues. BU gets a five-minute power play because of the major penalty, but Briar’s penalty kill holds strong. Dean blocks three shots. Tucker strips the puck from a BU forward and clears it down the ice.
When the period finally ends, it’s still 1-0 Briar.
You close the laptop.
“You okay?” Beau asks.
“I don’t know.”
“That was pretty intense.”
“He did that for me.”
“Yeah. He did.”
“He’s going to get in so much trouble.”
“Probably.” Beau shrugs. “But Garrett doesn’t care. You should’ve seen him these past three weeks. He’s been counting down to this game like it was Christmas.”
“I need to-” You stand up. “I need to call him.”
“He’s probably in the locker room or getting reviewed by the league officials right now.”
“I don’t care. I need to talk to him.”
You grab your phone, pull up Garrett’s number. It rings four times before going to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Garrett. No phones allowed on the ice. Leave a message.”
Beep.
“Hey, it’s me. I just—I saw what happened. What you did. And I-” Your voice cracks. “Thank you. I know that probably sounds crazy. I know you’re probably in trouble and I should feel bad about that but I just—thank you. For standing up for me. For not letting him get away with it. For everything.”
You pause, trying to find the right words.
“I’ll be here when you get back. We can talk then. Just be safe, okay?”
You hang up.
Beau’s watching you with a soft expression. “You care about him.”
It’s not a question.
“He saved my life,” you say.
“That’s not what I asked.”
You sit back down on the bed. “I don’t know what I feel. Everything’s so complicated and messed up and I’m barely holding myself together most days. But yeah. I care about him. How could I not?”
“He cares about you too. A lot. Like, a scary amount.”
“What do you mean?”
Beau hesitates. “He doesn’t really talk about his feelings. None of us do — we’re athletes, we’re emotionally constipated. But the way he is with you? I’ve never seen him like that with anyone. He’s protective to the point of obsession.”
“I don’t want to be his redemption project,” you say quietly.
“You’re not. Trust me. If you were, he’d be treating you like a victim. Like someone who needs to be saved. But he doesn’t do that. He treats you like a person. Like someone who deserves respect and autonomy and choice.” Beau stands, stretches. “Anyway. I’m going to make some popcorn. You want some?”
“Sure.”
He leaves and you’re alone with your thoughts.
You pull the laptop back open, reload the stream. The second period is underway. Briar’s still up 1-0. BU’s pressing hard, trying to tie it up, but Briar’s goalie is playing out of his mind.
The commentators are still talking about Garrett’s ejection.
“We’re hearing that Graham will face supplemental discipline from the league. Likely a multi-game suspension. Possibly more serious consequences given the severity of the attack.”
Good, you think viciously. Let them suspend him. Let them punish him. It was worth it.
You think about Cameron’s face. The blood. The way he looked genuinely scared for the first time since you’ve known him.
You should feel bad about that. Should feel guilty that you’re glad Garrett hurt him.
But you don’t.
You feel vindicated.
***
Garrett’s in Coach’s office when the game ends. Briar won 3-1. Logan got another goal in the second, and Tucker scored an empty-netter in the third.
But Garrett wasn’t there to see it.
“The league’s reviewing the footage,” Coach says, arms crossed. “They’re talking about a five-game suspension minimum. Maybe more.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? Just okay?”
Garrett shrugs. “What do you want me to say? I knew what I was doing. I knew there would be consequences.”
“Did you know Beck is in the hospital?”
That gets Garrett’s attention. “What?”
“Broken nose, fractured orbital bone, possible concussion. They took him out on a stretcher.”
Garrett should feel bad about that. Should feel some kind of remorse.
He doesn’t.
“Good,” he says.
Coach’s expression hardens. “Garrett-”
“He did horrible things to her, Coach. Too many times to count. He strangled her until she thought she was going to die. He made her so scared she couldn’t even function. And BU let him keep playing because they care more about winning than doing the right thing.”
“So you decided to take justice into your own hands?”
“Yeah. I did.”
“That’s not your job.”
“Maybe not. But someone had to do it.”
Coach is quiet for a long moment. “What did he say to you?”
“What?”
“At the faceoff. Right before you hit him. What did he say?”
Garrett’s jaw tightens. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does if it pushed you that far.”
“He talked about her. About-” Garrett can’t repeat the words. Can’t make himself say them out loud. “It was disgusting. Disrespectful. And I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.”
Coach sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “You know I have to suspend you from training as well. Team policy.”
“I know.”
“You’re probably done for the season.”
“I know.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
Garrett meets Coach’s eyes. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
Coach studies him for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he smiles. “You’re a good kid, Graham. Stupid as hell sometimes, but good.”
“Does that mean you’re not kicking me off the team?”
“I should. But no. You’ll serve your suspension and then we’ll see where we are.” Coach stands. “Now get out of here. I’m sure you’ve got someone waiting for you.”
Garrett doesn’t need to be told twice.
He showers quickly, changes into his street clothes. His hands are sore — he definitely bruised his knuckles on Beck’s face — but it’s a good kind of pain. Satisfying.
His phone has seven missed calls and twice as many texts. Most from teammates, congratulating him. A few from reporters, asking for comment. One from his dad, which he deletes without reading.
And one voicemail from you.
He listens to it in his car, sitting in the parking lot.
Your voice is shaky but sincere. Thanking him. Telling him you’ll be there when he gets back.
Something in his chest loosens.
He starts the car and drives home.
When he walks through the door, the house is quiet. Beau’s on the couch, watching TV.
“She’s in your room,” Beau says without looking up.
Garrett takes the stairs two at a time.
His door is closed. He knocks softly.
“Come in.”
You’re sitting on his bed, laptop closed beside you. You look up when he enters and something in your expression makes Garrett’s breath catch.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hi.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Are you?”
“I watched the whole thing.”
“And?”
You stand, walk over to him. You’re close enough now that he can see the fading bruises on your throat, the shadows under your eyes.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“You already said that. In your message.”
“I know. But I wanted to say it to your face.” You reach out, hesitate, then gently take his hand. Look at his bruised knuckles. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
The smallest smile touches his lips. “Maybe a little.”
You hold his hand carefully, like it’s something precious. “You’re probably suspended.”
“Yeah.”
“For multiple games.”
“Probably.”
“Because of me.”
“Because of him,” Garrett corrects. “Because he’s a piece of shit who deserved to have his face rearranged.”
You look up at him, and there’s something in your eyes Garrett can’t quite read. Gratitude, maybe. Or something deeper.
“No one’s ever stood up for me like that before,” you say.
“They should have.”
“But they didn’t. You did.”
Garrett wants to close the distance between you. Wants to pull you into his arms and promise that he’ll always protect you, always fight for you, always be there.
But he doesn’t.
Because you’re not his to protect. Not really. You’re just someone he couldn’t walk away from. Someone he couldn’t save until you decided to save yourself.
“Get some sleep,” he says instead. “We can talk more in the morning.”
You nod, but you don’t let go of his hand.
“Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad it was you. That night. When I called. I’m glad it was you who answered.”
Something in Garrett’s chest cracks open.
“Me too,” he says.
You finally release his hand and he steps back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
He leans against the wall, closes his eyes, and lets himself feel everything he’s been holding back for three weeks.
The rage. The fear. The overwhelming need to protect you.
And something else. Something he’s not ready to name yet.
But it’s there.
Growing stronger every day.
***
The suspension comes down two days after the game: four games for “excessive violence and intent to injure.”
Garrett doesn’t even blink.
Four games. That’s it. He was expecting worse — six, maybe eight. The fact that the league went relatively light on him suggests that maybe, just maybe, someone up there knows what Beck did. Knows why Garrett did what he did.
“Four games,” Logan says, reading the official statement on his phone. “That’s nothing.”
“Could’ve been worse,” Garrett replies, sprawled on the couch with an ice pack on his still-swollen knuckles.
“Could’ve been better. Could’ve been zero games and a medal.”
Tucker walks in from the kitchen, protein shake in hand. “Did you see the prospect rankings?”
“What about them?”
“You moved up.” Tucker grins. “Apparently scouts love a forward who can put up points and throw down when needed. The Bruins are talking about you even more now.”
Garrett sits up. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Check Twitter. Hockey analysts are going crazy. Half of them are calling you a thug, but the other half are saying you’re exactly what the league needs. A player with skill and grit.”
Dean appears in the doorway. “There’s already a highlight reel of the fight on YouTube. It’s got like two million views.”
“Jesus.”
“You’re famous, man. In the best and worst way possible.”
Garrett doesn’t care about fame. Doesn’t care about the projections or the highlight reels or what analysts think. He cares about one thing: that Beck is in the hospital with a face that looks like ground meat, and everyone knows why.
You appear at the top of the stairs, wearing one of Garrett’s old Briar Hockey hoodies that swallows you whole. You’ve been staying in his room for three weeks now, and the house has adjusted around you. The boys treat you like a little sister — protective, teasing, careful. It’s the safest you’ve felt in over a year.
“What’s all the noise about?” You ask.
“Garrett’s trending on Twitter,” Tucker announces.
“For the fight?”
“For being a badass, apparently.”
You come down the stairs, curl up on the couch next to Garrett. It’s become natural now, this casual proximity. He doesn’t flinch when you’re near. You don’t panic when he moves. It’s taken weeks to build this comfort, but it’s there.
“How are the knuckles?” You ask.
“Better. Still ugly.”
“Battle scars.”
“Something like that.”
Your phone buzzes. You pull it out, check the screen, and Garrett watches your expression change. The color drains from your face.
“What?” He asks immediately.
“The DA. The trial date got moved up.”
“To when?”
“Three weeks from now.” Your voice is shaky. “April seventh.”
Garrett does the math. That’s right after his suspension ends. Almost like fate scheduled it that way.
“You okay?” He asks.
“I don’t know. I thought I’d have more time to prepare.”
“You’ve been preparing for weeks. You’re ready.”
“Am I?” You look at him, and there’s real fear in your eyes. “What if I mess up? What if I freeze on the stand? What if his lawyers tear me apart?”
“Then I’ll be there to put you back together.”
It’s a promise. Simple and absolute.
You lean into him slightly, and Garrett puts his arm around your shoulders. The gesture is still new enough to feel significant. Still careful enough that either of you could pull away.
But neither of you do.
***
The three weeks pass in a blur of preparation.
The DA — a sharp woman named Katherine Doherty who looks like she could argue a case in her sleep — meets with you six times. Goes over your testimony, prepares you for cross-examination, teaches you how to stay calm under pressure.
“They’re going to try to discredit you,” she says during one session, Garrett sitting quietly in the corner. “They’re going to imply you’re lying, that you wanted it, that you’re just trying to ruin his life because you’re bitter about the breakup. And you cannot let them see you break.”
“How do I not break?” You ask. “How do I sit there and listen to them call me a liar and not fall apart?”
“You remember why you’re doing this. You remember that you’re not just fighting for yourself — you’re fighting for every woman he might hurt in the future. Every girl who might think she deserves to be treated like he treated you.”
Garrett watches you absorb this. Watches you straighten your spine, lift your chin.
“Okay,” you say. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.”
The night before the trial, you can’t sleep. Garrett finds you in the kitchen at 2 AM, making tea with shaking hands.
“Hey,” he says softly.
You jump, nearly dropping the mug. “God, you scared me.”
“Sorry. Couldn’t sleep either.”
“Tomorrow’s the day.”
“Yep.”
You pour hot water over the tea bag, watch it steep. “What if he gets away with it?”
“He won’t.”
“But what if he does? His parents hired the best lawyers in Boston. They’ve got money and connections and-”
“And you have the truth.” Garrett moves closer, takes the mug from your hands before you spill it. “You have evidence. You have photos. You have medical records. You have me.”
“You can’t testify. You weren’t there.”
“No, but I can sit in that courtroom and make sure you know you’re not alone.”
You look up at him, and in the dim kitchen light, Garrett can see the fear and determination warring in your expression.
“I’m terrified,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“But I’m also angry. I’m so angry at him for what he did. For what he took from me. And I want him to pay.”
“He will.”
“Promise?”
Garrett shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep. Shouldn’t guarantee an outcome that’s out of his control. But looking at you — brave and broken and desperately needing something to hold onto — he can’t help himself.
“I promise.”
***
The courthouse is exactly as imposing as you imagined. All marble and high ceilings and the kind of quiet that feels heavy.
You’re dressed in a simple navy dress that Katherine helped you pick out. Professional but not severe. Respectful but not apologetic. Your hair is pulled back. Your makeup is minimal.
Garrett’s beside you in a suit that looks uncomfortable on him. He’s a jeans and hoodie guy, but today he looks like he walked out of a magazine. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, tie that Logan had to help him knot.
“You look good,” you tell him as you wait outside the courtroom.
“I look like I’m going to a funeral.”
“And still very handsome.”
He manages a small smile. “You ready?”
“No. But let’s do this anyway.”
Katherine appears, all business in her sharp pantsuit. “Alright, let’s go over this one more time. You tell the truth. You stay calm. You don’t let his lawyer bait you into anger. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Remember, the evidence is on our side. The medical records, the photos, the police report. This isn’t a he-said-she-said. This is a he-said-she-said-and-she-has-proof.”
You nod, trying to absorb her confidence.
The courtroom doors open and you walk inside.
It’s smaller than you expected. Maybe forty seats in the gallery, half of them filled. You recognize some faces — your parents, who flew in from wherever they’ve been. Julie, who’s been your rock through all of this. Some of Garrett’s teammates.
And Cameron’s parents. Sitting in the front row, looking like they’re at a country club meeting instead of their son’s rape trial.
You don’t look at Cameron. Can’t. Not yet.
The bailiff calls the court to order and the judge — an older woman with gray hair and sharp eyes — takes her seat.
“The People versus Cameron Jameson Beck,” the bailiff announces. “Charges of rape in the first degree, assault in the second degree, and attempted murder.”
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
The trial begins.
***
Garrett sits in the gallery, three rows back, and watches everything unfold.
The prosecution goes first. Katherine is methodical, building her case piece by piece. She presents the medical records — the photos of your bruises, the hospital documentation of your injuries. She presents the police report, Officer Murphy’s testimony about the state you were in when you came to the station.
She presents your Instagram, showing the jury the transformation from bright, happy student to hollow-eyed ghost.
Cameron’s lawyer — a smarmy guy named Robert Coburn who probably charges a thousand dollars an hour — objects to nearly everything. “Relevance, your honor.” “Speculation.” “Prejudicial.”
Most of his objections get overruled.
Then it’s time for your testimony.
You take the stand, right hand raised, and swear to tell the truth. Your voice is steady, but Garrett can see your hands shaking.
Katherine approaches with a gentle expression. “Can you state your name for the record?”
“Y/N Y/L/N.”
“And how old are you, Y/N?”
“Twenty.”
“And you’re a student at Boston University?”
“Yes. Junior. Journalism major.”
“Can you tell the jury how you met the defendant?”
You take a breath. “We met at a party. March of last year. He was charming. Funny. He asked me out and I said yes.”
“And when did the relationship turn abusive?”
“Gradually. It started with small things. Criticizing what I wore, who I talked to. Then it escalated. He’d grab my wrist too hard. Shove me. Call me names.”
“And did you tell anyone?”
“No. I thought I could fix it. Thought if I just tried harder, he’d go back to being the person I fell for.”
“When did the physical abuse become severe?”
“Last summer. He pushed me down a flight of stairs. Told everyone I tripped. I had bruises for weeks.”
Katherine presents photos. The jury studies them, and Garrett watches their faces shift from neutral to horrified.
“And the sexual assault. Can you describe what happened?”
This is the hard part. Garrett can see you steeling yourself.
“He would force me. When I said no, he’d do it anyway. He said I owed him. That it was my job as his girlfriend.”
“How many times did this occur?”
“I don’t know. Dozens. Maybe more.”
“And the incident on February nineteenth of this year. Can you describe that?”
You detail it all. The napkin. His rage. The choking. The fear that you were going to die.
By the time you finish, half the jury is crying.
Then it’s Coburn’s turn.
He stands, adjusts his expensive tie, and approaches you like a shark circling prey.
“Ms. Y/L/N, you claim my client raped you. Is that correct?”
“It’s not a claim. It’s a fact.”
“A fact. I see. And yet you never reported these alleged assaults until after you left him. Why is that?”
“I was scared.”
“Scared. Of what?”
“Of him. Of what he’d do if I told anyone.”
“But you told Mr. Graham, didn’t you?” Carlisle gestures toward Garrett. “A hockey player from a rival school. Isn’t it true that you were having an affair with Mr. Graham and fabricated these accusations to justify leaving my client?”
Garrett’s hands clench into fists.
“No,” you say firmly. “I never even met Garrett until the day before it happened. He saw Cameron hurting me after a game and tried to step in. And I didn’t fabricate anything, Cameron tried to kill me.”
“Allegedly tried to kill you.”
“There’s nothing alleged about it. He choked me until I blacked out.”
“Or perhaps you two had rough sex and you’re retroactively withdrawing consent because you regret it?”
Katherine jumps up. “Objection! Badgering the witness.”
“Sustained,” the judge says. “Mr. Coburn, watch yourself.”
But Coburn isn’t done. “You say my client raped you dozens of times. And yet you stayed with him. You continued to see him, to sleep in his bed, to appear with him publicly. Does that sound like the behavior of a rape victim?”
“Yes.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “It sounds exactly like the behavior of someone trapped in an abusive relationship. Someone who’s been manipulated and gaslit into thinking they deserve it.”
“Or someone who’s lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You expect this jury to believe that my client — a decorated student athlete with no prior criminal record — is a rapist and attempted murderer based solely on your word?”
“Based on my word and the medical evidence and the photos and the testimony of everyone who saw what he did to me.”
Coburn smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “No further questions.”
You step down from the stand and Garrett wants to go to you, wants to pull you into his arms and tell you how incredibly brave you are. But he stays seated, hands gripping the bench in front of him so hard his knuckles turn white.
The defense presents their case. It’s weak — character witnesses who talk about what a great guy Cameron is, how he volunteers and gets good grades and wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Cameron himself takes the stand. Denies everything. Claims you were the aggressive one, the unstable one. Says you threatened to ruin him if he ever left you.
It’s all bullshit and everyone in the courtroom knows it.
When both sides rest, the judge gives instructions to the jury. They file out to deliberate.
And then you wait.
***
Two hours feel like two years.
You’re in a conference room with Katherine, drinking terrible coffee and trying not to throw up.
Garrett’s there too, because they couldn’t make him leave. He sits beside you, not saying much, just being present.
“What if they don’t believe me?” You ask for the hundredth time.
“They will,” Katherine says.
“But what if they don’t?”
“Then we appeal. But they’re going to believe you, Y/N. The evidence is overwhelming.”
Your phone buzzes. It’s your mom, asking for updates. You ignore it. Can’t deal with her nervous energy on top of your own.
Garrett’s phone buzzes too. He checks it, smiles slightly.
“What?” You ask.
“Logan. He says if Beck walks, they’re going to handle it themselves.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“I think it’s sweet.”
Despite everything, you almost laugh.
There’s a knock on the door. The bailiff pokes his head in. “Jury’s back.”
Your stomach drops. “Already?”
“Quick verdicts are usually good for the prosecution,” Katherine says, standing. “Let’s go.”
You walk back into the courtroom on legs that feel like jelly. The gallery has filled up — more people heard about the verdict and came to watch.
Garrett takes his seat in the gallery. You sit at the prosecution table with Katherine.
The jury files in. You try to read their faces, but they’re all carefully neutral.
The judge addresses the foreperson. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”
“We have, your honor.”
“On the charge of rape in the first degree, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant guilty.”
The courtroom erupts. Cameron’s mother gasps. His father starts shouting. The judge bangs her gavel.
“On the charge of assault in the second degree, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
“On the charge of attempted murder, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
You can’t breathe. Can’t process. Guilty. Guilty on all counts.
The judge is talking about sentencing, but you can’t hear her over the roaring in your ears. You turn around, looking for Garrett, and find him already standing, pushing his way toward the railing that separates the gallery from the floor.
“Twenty-five years,” the judge announces. “With possibility of parole after twenty.”
Twenty-five years. Cameron won’t be out until he’s almost fifty.
Katherine is hugging you. Julie is cheering. You’re crying.
And then you’re moving, pushing past people, until you reach Garrett.
He meets you at the railing and you throw yourself at him. He catches you, arms wrapping around you, pulling you close.
“We did it,” you sob into his shoulder. “He’s going to prison.”
“You did it,” Garrett corrects, voice rough. “You were so fucking brave up there.”
“I was terrified.”
“But you did it anyway. That’s what brave means.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are wet, you realize. Garrett Graham is crying.
“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, tucking your head under his chin. “So goddamn proud.”
Behind you, bailiffs are handcuffing Cameron. Leading him away. He’s shouting something — probably threats, probably curses — but you don’t care. Can’t hear him over your own heartbeat.
You’re safe. Finally, truly safe.
You look up at Garrett and something shifts. Something clicks into place.
He’s looking at you with an expression you’ve seen before but never fully understood. Fierce and protective and something else. Something deeper.
“Garrett,” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
You don’t have words for what you’re feeling. Don’t know how to explain that this boy — this stranger who became your savior who became your friend — has somehow become everything.
So you don’t say anything.
You just reach up, cup his face in your hands, and kiss him.
For a second, he freezes. Surprised. Then his hands come up to cradle your face, gentle and careful, and he kisses you back.
It’s nothing like kissing Cameron. There’s no demand in it. No ownership. Just soft and sweet and full of promise.
When you finally pull apart, you’re both crying.
“Was that okay?” You ask, suddenly worried you misread everything.
“That was-” Garrett’s voice breaks. “Yeah. That was okay.”
Around you, the courtroom is clearing out. People are talking, crying, celebrating. But you and Garrett are in your own bubble.
His thumbs brush your cheekbones, wiping away tears. His touch is so gentle it makes your chest ache. You think about all the times Cameron grabbed your face — harsh, controlling, meant to intimidate. And then you think about this. About Garrett holding you like you’re something precious. Something worth protecting.
“Thank you,” you whisper. “For everything. For answering the phone that night. For believing me. For fighting for me.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do. Because you didn’t have to do any of it. You could’ve walked away. But you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t.” Garrett’s forehead touches yours. “Not from you.”
Katherine appears beside you, tactfully clearing her throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s some paperwork we need to go over. And the press is outside — they’re going to want a statement.”
You take a shaky breath. “Can Garrett come?”
“Of course.”
You don’t let go of Garrett’s hand as you follow Katherine to another conference room. Don’t let go as she explains the next steps — the appeals process that Cameron will probably pursue, the restraining order that’s now permanent, the victim services available to you.
Don’t let go as you walk outside and face the cameras.
You read a prepared statement that Katherine helped you write. About believing survivors. About holding abusers accountable. About how justice, while imperfect, still matters.
The whole time, Garrett stands beside you. Not in front of you, not behind you. Beside you.
When it’s finally over, when you’re back in Garrett’s car heading home, you let yourself feel it. All of it. The relief and the grief and the rage and the hope.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” you say.
“It’s not over,” Garrett replies. “He’ll appeal. There will be more legal stuff. More healing you have to do.”
“But the worst part is over.”
“Yeah. The worst part is over.”
You look at him — really look at him. This boy who became a man in your eyes. Who taught you that not all strength is violent. That protection doesn’t mean possession.
“What happens now?” You ask.
“What do you want to happen?”
“I don’t know. I just know I want you in it. Whatever it is.”
Garrett reaches over, takes your hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
And for the first time in over a year, you believe that someone’s promise to you actually means something.
You believe in tomorrow.
You believe in healing.
You believe in love — the real kind. The kind that doesn’t hurt.
As Garrett drives you home, your hand in his, you think about that girl in the old Instagram photos. The bright, ambitious journalism student who wanted to change the world.
She’s not gone.
She’s been sleeping. Waiting. Healing.
And now, finally, she’s ready to wake up.
***
One year later.
You’re standing on the sidelines of Agganis Arena, camera crew behind you, microphone in hand, and you’ve never felt more alive.
The scoreboard reads 4-2, Briar. Opening game of the season, and your alma mater just got demolished by your boyfriend’s team. You should probably feel some kind of loyalty conflict, but honestly? You’re just happy to be here.
Happy to be doing what you love.
Happy to be yourself again.
“Alright, Y/N, we’re live in thirty seconds,” your producer says through your earpiece.
You smooth down your blazer — BU red and white, professional but not stuffy — and check your notes one more time. Post-game interview with Briar’s captain and star center, who just scored a hat trick.
Who also happens to be the love of your life, but you’re trying to keep it professional.
“And we’re live in five, four, three …” The producer counts down with his fingers, then points at you.
You smile at the camera. “I’m here with Garrett Graham, captain of the Briar University hockey team, who just led his team to a dominant 4-2 victory over Boston University in tonight’s season opener. Garrett, congratulations on the win.”
Garrett’s in his full gear minus his helmet, hair damp with sweat, face flushed from exertion. He looks good. Unfairly good. But you keep your expression neutral, professional.
“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, and there’s the tiniest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Feels great to start the season with a W.”
“You had three goals tonight. Walk me through that second one — the wraparound. That was pretty spectacular.”
“Yeah, I mean, their goalie was cheating to the far post, so I saw an opening and just tried to jam it in. Got lucky.”
“Lucky?” You raise an eyebrow. “That was pure skill and you know it.”
Now he’s definitely smiling. “Well, I’ve had some good coaching. Great teammates. It’s a team effort.”
“Speaking of team effort, this is your senior year. How does it feel knowing this is your last season playing college hockey?”
Something shifts in Garrett’s expression. Gets more serious. “It’s bittersweet, you know? I love this team. Love this school. But I’m also excited for what’s next.”
You consult your notes, but you’ve memorized these questions. Did the research like you do for every interview. The fact that you also know Garrett’s favorite breakfast order and the way he likes his coffee doesn’t matter right now. Right now, you’re a journalist doing your job.
“Your team has high expectations this year,” you continue. “Returning most of your starters, strong recruiting class. Do you think Briar can make a run at the national championship?”
“I think we’ve got the talent and the drive. We’ve been working our asses off—sorry, can I say that on air?”
You fight back a smile. “We’re cable. You’re fine.”
“Well, we’ve been working really hard in the off-season. Everyone’s bought in. Everyone wants it. So yeah, I think we’ve got a real shot.”
“And what about you personally? Any individual goals for the season?”
Garrett looks directly at the camera. “Honestly? I just want to make the most of it. Enjoy every game. Play for my teammates. And hopefully leave Briar better than I found it.”
It’s a perfect answer. Humble but confident. Team-oriented but ambitious.
You should wrap up the interview. Move on to the next player. But there’s something in Garrett’s eyes — a warmth, a familiarity — that makes you relax slightly.
“So,” you say, going slightly off-script. “Three goals on opening night. That’s got to feel pretty good, especially against BU.”
“Oh, especially against BU,” Garrett agrees, and now he’s definitely teasing. “No offense to your school.”
“Some taken. We did make it competitive for two periods.”
“You did. That third period though …” He makes a yikes face.
“Okay, rude.”
“I’m just stating facts. As a journalist, I thought you’d appreciate factual accuracy.”
You bite back a laugh. “I appreciate winning more.”
“Well, you’re dating a Briar guy now, so technically you did win tonight.”
Your producer is probably having a heart attack in the truck, but you can’t help it. You grin. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Plus I scored three goals. You should be very impressed.”
“Oh, should I?”
“Definitely. I expect appropriate celebration later.”
You feel your cheeks heat up. “Garrett, we’re on camera.”
“I know.” He’s absolutely shameless, that smile widening. “Just keeping things interesting for the viewers.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
And okay, you do. You love this — the easy banter, the way he can make you laugh even in the middle of a professional interview, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the arena.
“Alright, I think that’s probably enough for tonight,” you say, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism. “Garrett Graham, congratulations again on the win. Best of luck for the rest of the season.”
“Thanks for having me.”
He starts to walk away, then turns back. Before you can react, he’s leaning in and kissing you — quick and sweet but definitely not professional — right there on camera.
When he pulls back, you’re frozen, face burning, completely flustered.
“See you at home,” he says with a wink, then jogs off toward the locker room.
You turn back to the camera, trying to compose yourself. Your producer is definitely going to kill you, but you can hear him laughing through your earpiece.
“And that’s … that’s the post-game report from Agganis Arena,” you manage. “Back to you in the studio.”
The camera light goes off and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
Your producer appears, shaking his head but grinning. “Well, that’s going viral.”
“I’m so sorry-”
“Are you kidding? That was gold. Adorable, authentic, exactly the kind of content people eat up.” He claps you on the shoulder. “Great job tonight, Y/N. Really great work.”
You pack up your gear, still blushing, and check your phone. There’s already a text from Julie: OMG I SAW THAT. YOU AND GARRETT ARE DISGUSTINGLY CUTE.
Then one from Logan: G’s getting chirped so hard in the locker room right now. Worth it though.
Then one from your mom: Sweetie, you looked wonderful! Very professional! Well, mostly professional 😊
You’re laughing as you head out to the parking lot. Your car is parked next to Garrett’s truck — you drove separately since you had to be here early for setup, but you’ll both end up at the same place.
Home.
It still feels surreal sometimes. That you’re here. That you’re happy. That you wake up every morning next to someone who treats you like you’re precious.
You drive home on autopilot, your mind replaying the interview. The way Garrett looked at you. The easy chemistry between you. The kiss that’s probably being GIF’d and memed as you drive.
When you pull into the driveway, his truck is already there. Lights are on in the living room.
You let yourself in — still a small thrill every time, having a key, being welcome, being home — and find Garrett on the couch, showered and changed into sweatpants and a Briar t-shirt.
“Hey, superstar,” you say, dropping your bag by the door.
He looks up, grins. “Hey, yourself. How’d the rest of the interviews go?”
“Fine. Though none of them involved impromptu kisses.”
“I couldn’t help it. You looked too good.”
You flop down beside him, and he immediately pulls you into his side. It’s automatic now, this casual affection. So different from the careful distance you maintained those first few months.
“You’re going to get me in trouble,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.
“With who? Your producer loved it.”
“With my professional reputation.”
“Your professional reputation is that you’re a talented journalist who asks great questions and happens to be dating the extremely handsome captain of Briar’s hockey team.”
“Extremely handsome? Really?”
“I’m just reporting the facts.”
You laugh, tilting your head up to look at him. “You played really well tonight.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. That second goal was beautiful. And the assist to Logan — perfect pass.”
“Are you analyzing my game?”
“I’m a sports journalist. It’s literally my job.”
Garrett’s expression softens. “You know what I love about you?”
“My devastating good looks?”
“Well, yes. But also that you never stopped chasing your dreams. Even after everything. You could’ve given up on journalism, on sports media, on everything. But you didn’t.”
You think about that. About the girl you were a year ago — broken, terrified, barely functional. About the slow, painful process of putting yourself back together. The therapy sessions. The nightmares that still happen sometimes. The moments of panic when someone moves too fast or raises their voice.
But also about the victories. Getting back on camera. Doing your first post-game interview. Continuing with your journalism degree. Landing the job with BU’s sports network.
Coming home to Garrett and feeling safe.
“I had help,” you say quietly.
“You did the work.”
“We did the work.”
Because it hasn’t been just you. Garrett’s been there for every step. Patient when you couldn’t be touched. Understanding when you had nightmares. Gentle when you needed gentleness and strong when you needed strength.
He’s been to therapy himself — dealing with his own trauma, his own guilt about his mother. Learning how to be supportive without being controlling. How to protect without possessing.
You’ve healed together.
“Come here,” Garrett says, pulling you fully into his lap. You go willingly, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders.
“Hi,” you whisper.
“Hi.”
He kisses you properly this time. Not the quick peck from the arena, but slow and deep and full of promise. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles through your shirt.
When you break apart, you’re both breathing harder.
“I’m really proud of you,” he says. “For tonight. For everything. You were amazing out there.”
“It was just an interview.”
“It wasn’t just anything. You stood on that sideline in the arena where he used to play and you did your job like the professional you are. That takes guts.”
You hadn’t thought about it that way. Hadn’t consciously registered that you were in BU’s arena doing what you love without fear.
“He’s in prison,” you say. It’s a fact you remind yourself of sometimes. When the anxiety creeps in. When you wonder if he’ll somehow find you. “He can’t hurt me anymore.”
“He can’t hurt you anymore,” Garrett agrees. “And even if he could, he’d have to go through me first.”
“My fierce protector.”
“Always.”
You kiss him again, and this time it’s different. Deeper. More urgent. His hands slide under your shirt, warm against your skin, and you arch into the touch.
“Bedroom?” He murmurs against your lips.
“Bedroom,” you agree.
He stands, lifting you easily, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you upstairs — something that should be cheesy but somehow isn’t, not with him — and lays you gently on the bed.
The first time you slept together, four months ago, you cried. Not from pain or fear, but from the overwhelming realization that intimacy could be tender. That sex could be about connection instead of control.
Garrett held you through it, whispered that you were safe, that you could stop anytime, that he loved you.
You don’t cry anymore. Now it’s just … good. Better than good. Amazing.
He takes his time with you now, kissing down your neck, your collarbone. His hands are reverent as he removes your clothes, piece by piece, checking in with every new touch.
“This okay?”
“Yes.”
“And this?”
“Yes.”
It’s something he always does. Always asks. Even a year into your relationship, even though you’ve done this dozens of times, he never assumes. Never takes.
Only gives.
He kisses the spot on your throat where Cameron’s handprints used to be. The bruises are long gone, but the memory lingers. Garrett knows this. Treats these places with extra care. Extra tenderness.
“Beautiful,” he whispers against your skin. “So fucking beautiful.”
You pull him up to kiss him properly, to tell him without words how much he means to you. How much this means.
Hours later, you’re both exhausted and sated, tangled together in the sheets. Your head is on his chest, his arm around you, fingers drawing idle patterns on your shoulder.
“What are you thinking about?” He asks.
“How different everything is.”
“Good different or bad different?”
“The best different.” You tilt your head to look at him. “A year ago, I couldn’t imagine being happy again. Couldn’t imagine feeling safe or loved or … whole.”
“And now?”
“Now I can’t imagine anything else.”
Garrett’s quiet for a moment. “I love you. You know that, right?”
“I know. I love you too.”
“I’m going to marry you someday.”
It’s not a proposal — just a statement of fact. But it makes your heart skip anyway.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. When you’re ready. When we’re ready. But someday, I’m going to put a ring on your finger and spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt how loved you are.”
You should probably be scared by that level of commitment. Should feel trapped or pressured or uncertain.
But you don’t.
You feel safe.
“Someday sounds good,” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kisses the top of your head, and you settle back against his chest. Listen to his heartbeat. Let yourself drift.
You think about the girl in those old Instagram photos. The one who was bright and ambitious and full of dreams. The one who thought she could change the world.
She’s still here. She’s been here all along, just waiting to be found again.
And she’s got so much left to do.
Stories to tell. Games to cover. A career to build. A life to live.
But for now, in this moment, wrapped in the arms of someone who sees all of her — the broken parts and the healing parts and the parts that were never damaged at all — she’s exactly where she needs to be.
“Garrett?” You murmur, half-asleep.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for answering the phone that night.”
His arms tighten around you. “Thank you for calling.”
Outside, the world keeps spinning. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new victories, new moments to navigate. But tonight, you’re safe and loved and whole.
Summary: Garrett hasn’t set foot in his father’s house in years, and one Thanksgiving dinner reminds him exactly why … except this time, there’s a stranger sitting in his mother’s old seat, wearing his father’s same practiced cruelty like a shadow. He walks away telling himself it isn’t his fight anymore. Three weeks later, fate puts you back in front of him with a needle in your hand and a bruise you can’t quite hide, and Garrett realizes he can’t walk away from you again
Warnings: 18+ content and domestic violence
Read part one here
The ambulance violently jerks to a halt.
Before the vehicle even fully settles, the heavy back doors are thrown open from the outside. The harsh, biting December wind sweeps into the back of the rig, instantly swallowed by the blinding, chaotic floodlights of the emergency bay.
“Incoming!” The paramedic shouts, already releasing the heavy latches on the stretcher. “Female, twenty-three, massive blunt force trauma to the head and abdomen. Heart rate is erratic, pressure is dropping. Let’s move!”
Garrett is shoved backward as a swarm of people in scrubs and high-visibility jackets descends on the back of the ambulance. He trips over his own heavy boots, his shoulder colliding hard with the metal frame of the door, but he barely feels the impact.
He is completely numb.
He watches, trapped in a terrifying, out-of-body disassociation, as they pull the stretcher out into the freezing night.
You are entirely swallowed by the chaos. The yellow backboard, the rigid plastic brace locked around your neck, the tangle of IV lines and monitor wires — it all looks so incredibly wrong. You are small. You are fragile. You are supposed to be safe in his kitchen, laughing at Dean and stealing Logan’s hoodies.
You are not supposed to be bleeding out on a gurney.
“Sir, step back!” A voice yells, but it sounds like it’s underwater.
Garrett stumbles out of the ambulance, his boots hitting the pavement of the ambulance bay. He blindly follows the chaotic rush of medical personnel pushing your stretcher through the automatic sliding glass doors.
The emergency room is a madhouse. Phones are ringing, people are shouting, monitors are beeping in a discordant, terrifying symphony.
“Trauma Bay One is prepped!” A male nurse shouts, jogging backward as he helps guide your stretcher down the wide linoleum hallway. “What’s her status?”
“She’s tachycardic, GCS is a seven and dropping,” the paramedic barks, practically running to keep up with the rolling bed. “She briefly regained consciousness on the scene but she’s been unresponsive for the last eight minutes.”
They wheel you past the triage desk. They wheel you past the crowded waiting room.
And then, it happens.
A young nurse, wearing the same standard-issue hospital blue scrubs you usually hate, is walking out of a supply closet with a stack of clean towels. She glances casually at the incoming trauma rushing past her.
Her eyes lock onto the stretcher.
The stack of towels slips from her hands, hitting the floor with a soft, muffled thud.
“Oh my god,” the young nurse gasps, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. Her eyes go completely wide, pure, unadulterated horror stripping the color from her face. “Is that … is that Y/N?”
The question cuts through the noise of the ER like a knife.
The male nurse pushing the foot of your stretcher looks down. He really looks. The heavy blood, the swelling, the terrifying distortion of your features makes it hard, but underneath the violence, the recognition clicks into place.
“Fuck,” the male nurse curses loudly, his voice cracking with panic. “It’s Y/N! Hey! It’s one of ours! It’s Y/N!”
The shift in the room is instantaneous and absolute.
A hospital emergency room is trained to handle trauma. They deal with tragedy objectively, separating their emotions from the physical mechanics of saving a life.
But not this time.
The objective professionalism shatters into a million pieces. The name echoes down the hallway, passed from nurse to doctor to orderly like a devastating electric shock.
It’s Y/N. The pediatric nurse. The girl with the patterned scrubs who stays late to hold the preemie babies.
“Get Dr. Gardner down here right fucking now!” A voice screams from down the hall.
“Page trauma surgery! Page neuro!”
Garrett trails behind the stretcher like a ghost. People are running past him, sprinting toward Trauma Bay One. The urgency has multiplied tenfold. This isn’t just a patient anymore. This is their family.
They push the stretcher into the large, glass-walled room of Trauma Bay One. The doors slide shut, but the chaos inside only amplifies.
Garrett hits the glass.
He slaps both of his hands flat against the cold pane, his face pressing close, his dark eyes wide and terrified as he watches them transfer you from the stretcher to the hospital bed.
There are at least ten people crowded around you.
“On my count!” Dr. Gardner, the same doctor who stitched Garrett’s forehead a month ago, yells over the din. He looks completely frantic, his usual calm demeanor entirely gone. “One, two, three!”
They lift the backboard and slide you over. Your arm flops limply off the side of the bed. A nurse immediately catches it, her own hands shaking as she secures the IV line.
“Someone get me the portable ultrasound!” Dr. Gardner barks, grabbing a pair of trauma shears from the counter. “We need to check for internal bleeding. Her abdomen is rigid. I need two units of O-negative blood, stat!”
Garrett presses his forehead against the glass. He is trapped on the outside, a helpless, useless spectator to the most terrifying moment of his entire life.
He feels a heavy hand land firmly on his shoulder.
Garrett flinches violently, spinning around with his fists instantly raised, ready to fight, ready to destroy whoever is touching him.
But it’s not a threat.
Standing in front of him is a short, stocky older woman in dark blue scrubs. Her silver hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and her name tag reads Helen - Charge Nurse. Her face is lined with years of exhaustion and ER stress, but right now, her eyes are blazing with a fierce, terrifying intensity.
“Lower your hands, son,” Helen says. Her voice is calm, gravelly, and brooks absolute zero argument.
Garrett slowly lowers his fists, his chest heaving as he fights for air that doesn’t seem to exist. “I-I have to …”
“You have to stay out of their way,” Helen says firmly, stepping directly into his line of sight, forcing him to look at her instead of the bloody scene behind the glass. “They are doing everything they can. You being in there will only distract them, and she needs every single ounce of their focus right now.”
Garrett’s jaw trembles. He looks down at his hands.
They are coated in your blood. It has dried into the creases of his knuckles, stained the cuffs of his black Henley, and smeared across his palms. The sight of it sends a fresh, violent wave of nausea rolling through his stomach.
“Come here,” Helen murmurs, her tone softening marginally.
She grabs him by the bicep. For a woman half his size, she has a grip like a vise. She pulls him a few feet away from the glass window, steering him toward a small alcove near the nurses’ station that offers a sliver of privacy.
She pushes him down into a plastic chair.
“Sit,” she orders.
Garrett collapses into the chair, his elbows coming to rest on his knees. He buries his face in his bloodstained hands, a ragged, broken sob tearing its way up his throat. He can’t hold it back anymore. The adrenaline is crashing, leaving behind nothing but the agonizing, crushing reality of what just happened.
Helen doesn’t offer him empty platitudes. She doesn’t pat his back or tell him everything is going to be okay. She’s an ER nurse; she knows better than to make promises she can’t keep.
Instead, she turns to a nearby sink, wets a thick stack of brown paper towels with warm water, and walks back over to him.
“Give me your hands,” Helen says.
Garrett slowly lifts his head. He drops his hands to his lap.
Helen kneels in front of him, entirely uncaring about the linoleum floor. She takes his massive, shaking hands in her own and begins to methodically wipe the drying blood from his skin.
“You were in here a month ago,” Helen says quietly, her eyes focused entirely on the task of cleaning his knuckles. “I remember you. The hockey player with the concussion.”
“Yeah,” Garrett rasps, his throat burning.
“She was terrified that night,” Helen continues, scrubbing a stubborn patch of crimson from his palm. “I’ve been a nurse for forty years. I know what a victim of domestic abuse looks like. I knew what she was going home to. I tried to get her to talk to me, but she wouldn’t. She protected him.”
Garrett closes his eyes, the memory of that night in the exam room flashing vividly behind his eyelids.
“She left with you,” Helen says, tossing the bloody paper towels into a nearby biohazard bin and grabbing a fresh, wet stack. “I watched her walk out of those sliding doors with you, and for the first time since she started working here, she looked like she had a sliver of hope.”
“I told her I’d protect her,” Garrett chokes out, the guilt a physical, crushing weight on his chest. “I promised her she was safe. I moved her into my house. We were careful. We were so fucking careful.”
“Careful doesn’t matter when you’re dealing with a monster,” Helen says bluntly.
She finishes wiping his hands, tossing the last of the towels away. She doesn’t stand up. She stays kneeling in front of him, forcing him to meet her steely, hardened gaze.
“What’s the story?” Helen asks, her voice dropping to a dangerous, deadly whisper. “And don’t you dare lie to me. Who did this to my girl?”
Garrett looks at her. He sees the absolute, uncompromising love this woman has for you. He sees the fury vibrating in her jaw.
“My father,” Garrett says, the words tasting like poison on his tongue. “Phil Graham.”
Helen’s eyebrows twitch, a brief flash of recognition crossing her face, but she doesn’t seem to care that the man is a famous athlete. She only cares that he is a monster.
“He tracked her down,” Garrett continues, the words pouring out of him in a disjointed, frantic rush. “She went to the grocery store after her shift. He must have been waiting. He must have followed her. We found her in the alley out back. He beat her, Helen. He beat her until she couldn’t stand, and then he just left her there to die.”
Helen’s expression hardens into something akin to carved stone. She slowly stands up, smoothing down the front of her scrubs.
“The police are already on their way,” Helen says, her voice cold and absolute. “Protocol for assault victims. They’ll be here any minute to take a statement.”
She steps closer to him, leaning down slightly so her face is inches from his.
“You tell them everything,” Helen orders, pointing a stern finger at his chest. “You tell them about tonight. You tell them about the bruises you saw a month ago. You give them his name, his address, and the make of his car if you know it.”
“I’m going to kill him,” Garrett whispers, the terrifying, homicidal calm returning to his blood. It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.
“No, you are not,” Helen snaps, her voice cracking like a whip. “You are not going to throw your life away for a piece of garbage like that. You are going to let the police arrest him, and you are going to make damn sure that whoever did this to sweet Y/N never sees the light of day again. You bury him with the law. You don’t let him ruin your life too.”
Garrett stares at her, his jaw locked tight. He doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t argue.
“I need to get back to my floor,” Helen says, stepping back. Her eyes flick toward the glass window of Trauma Bay One, a flash of profound sadness breaking through her tough exterior. “You sit right here. You don’t move until the doctors come out to speak with you.”
“Is she …” Garrett swallows hard, terrified to even ask the question. “Is she going to make it?”
Helen looks at him, her eyes softening with a deep, tragic sympathy. “She’s young. She’s strong. And she has the best trauma team in the state working on her right now. But Garrett … it’s bad. Prepare yourself.”
Helen turns and walks away, disappearing back into the chaotic flow of the emergency room.
Garrett is left alone in the plastic chair.
He turns his head, his eyes immediately locking back onto the glass wall of the trauma bay.
It looks like a warzone inside.
Dr. Gardner is standing on one side of the bed, his white coat stained with your blood, shouting orders. Two nurses are frantically hanging bags of blood and clear fluids, the plastic lines tangling together in their rush.
Someone is cutting away your dark jeans, exposing the pale skin of your legs.
“We have fluid in the abdomen!” Dr. Gardner yells, staring at the screen of a portable ultrasound machine. “She’s bleeding internally. We need an OR prepped right now! Call the surgical team, tell them we’re coming up!”
Garrett stands up, drawn magnetically toward the glass.
He watches as a respiratory therapist pushes through the crowd, holding a terrifying array of plastic tubes and a metal laryngoscope.
“Her airway is swelling!” The therapist shouts. “She’s not getting enough oxygen. I need to intubate!”
“Do it!” Dr. Gardner barks. “Push the propofol and rocuronium. Get her under.”
Garrett presses his hands against the glass again. He watches in pure, unadulterated agony as they tilt your head back. He watches them slip the metal blade into your mouth, forcing your jaw open, slipping a plastic tube down your throat to breathe for you because your broken body can no longer do it on its own.
It is the most violated, terrifying thing he has ever witnessed.
He feels like his heart is being slowly, methodically crushed in a vise. Every time the monitor beeps — a frantic, irregular sound — he flinches. Every time a new drop of blood hits the white hospital floor, a piece of his soul breaks off.
This is his fault.
The thought is a toxic, pervasive cancer in his mind. He brought you into his world. He challenged a man he knew was a volatile, violent psychopath, and he arrogant enough to believe he could just walk away. He thought a locked door and three college hockey players were enough to stop a monster with decades of experience in terrorizing people.
He underestimated Phil. And you are paying the ultimate, agonizing price for his mistake.
“Garrett!”
The frantic shout cuts through the noise of the ER.
Garrett turns his head.
Bursting through the main sliding glass doors are Logan, Dean, and Tucker. They look entirely unhinged. Dean’s face is stained with tears, Logan’s eyes are wild and frantic, and Tucker is deathly pale, his jaw locked tight.
They spot him standing by the glass and immediately sprint across the waiting room, completely ignoring the protests of the security guard at the desk.
“Where is she?” Logan demands, grabbing Garrett’s shoulder. “Is she okay? What are they saying?”
Garrett doesn’t answer. He just turns his head back toward the glass window.
The boys follow his gaze.
They freeze. All three of them, these massive, imposing athletes who fear absolutely nothing on the ice, stop dead in their tracks.
Dean lets out a broken, horrifying sob, covering his mouth with his hand. He turns away instantly, unable to look at you with the tube down your throat, your face a swollen, bloody mess. He leans against the wall, his shoulders shaking violently.
Tucker closes his eyes, a tear escaping to run down his cheek. He reaches out and grips Garrett’s shoulder, a silent, desperate attempt at grounding them both in a reality that feels completely surreal.
Logan doesn’t look away. He stares through the glass, his eyes tracking the frantic movements of the doctors, the blood on the floor, the terrifying array of machines keeping you alive.
“He’s dead,” Logan whispers. The words are utterly devoid of emotion. They are a statement of fact. “Phil Graham is a dead man.”
“Get in line,” Garrett rasps, his voice hollow.
Suddenly, the doors to Trauma Bay One slide violently open.
“Move! We’re moving!” Dr. Gardner yells, running alongside the bed as two orderlies push the stretcher out into the hallway. “Clear a path to the elevators! OR 4 is waiting!”
Garrett steps forward automatically, trying to get to you, trying to grab your hand one more time.
“Stay back!” Dr. Gardner shouts, not unkindly, but with absolute urgency. “She’s bleeding internally. Her spleen is ruptured and we suspect a severe traumatic brain injury. We are taking her to surgery right now.”
“Can I …” Garrett chokes on the words. “Can I come up?”
“You wait in the surgical waiting room on the third floor,” Dr. Gardner says, the stretcher already moving rapidly down the hall. “We will find you when we know more. Just pray, boys. Just pray.”
And then, they are gone.
The stretcher rounds the corner toward the surgical elevators, disappearing from sight, leaving behind nothing but a smeared trail of blood on the linoleum floor and a terrifying, ringing silence in Garrett’s ears.
Garrett stands in the middle of the hallway, staring at the empty space where you just were. He feels completely hollowed out. There is nothing left inside him but a cold, desolate wasteland of terror and guilt.
“Garrett Graham?”
A deep, authoritative voice echoes from behind them.
Garrett turns slowly.
Standing a few feet away are two uniformed police officers. They look grim, their hands resting on their utility belts, their eyes scanning the four massive hockey players standing in the middle of the trauma wing.
“I’m Garrett,” he says, his voice flat.
The older of the two officers, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a heavy mustache, steps forward and pulls a small notebook from his breast pocket.
“I’m Officer Miller, this is Officer Davis,” he says, his tone strictly professional but carrying a weight of understanding. “We were called in regarding the assault victim that just came through here. Y/N. The charge nurse said you were the one who found her.”
“I found her,” Garrett confirms.
“We need to ask you some questions, son,” Officer Miller says gently. “Can you tell us exactly what happened tonight? And do you have any idea who might have done this to her?”
Garrett looks at the officer. He thinks about Helen’s words. You bury him with the law. You make damn sure he never sees the light of day again.
He thinks about the way you looked in that alleyway, curled into a ball, apologizing to him while your face bled onto the asphalt. He thinks about the violent, terrifying reality of his father.
Logan steps up to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Garrett, a silent, imposing wall of support. Tucker moves to his other side. Dean wipes his face and steps up right behind them.
They are a united front. They are your family.
“I don’t just have an idea,” Garrett says, his voice ringing with a terrifying, absolute clarity that echoes in the quiet emergency room. He locks eyes with the police officer. “I know exactly who did it.”
Officer Miller clicks his pen. “Who?”
“Phil Graham,” Garrett says, the name echoing like a death sentence. “He’s my father. And I want him put in a cage for the rest of his miserable life.”
***
“I want to make sure I have this entirely straight, son,” Officer Miller says, his pen hovering over the small spiral notebook. The harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room hallway cast deep, exhausted shadows under the cop’s eyes. “You are accusing your father, Philip Graham, former professional hockey player, of this assault.”
“I’m not just accusing him,” Garrett says. His voice is dangerously calm. He sits rigidly in the plastic waiting room chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “I’m telling you it was him.”
Officer Davis, the younger cop, shifts his weight. “And you said you witnessed him abuse her previously?”
“Thanksgiving,” Garrett answers without missing a beat. “I went to his house in Connecticut for dinner. It was the first time I met her. She reached across the table, and her sleeve slid up. She had finger-shaped bruises all over her bicep. The exact same size and shape as the bruises I just saw on her arm in the ambulance.”
Officer Miller frowns, jotting down the notes rapidly. “Did you report the abuse then?”
“No,” Garrett grits out, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “She begged me not to. She was terrified. She told me it was her fault for dropping a glass. I got in my face with him, told her to run, and I left. But three weeks later, she ended up in this ER as my nurse. He had beaten her again because my exit embarrassed him. So I took her home with me.”
“She’s been living with us for almost a month,” Tucker interjects. He is standing right behind Garrett’s chair, a solid, immovable presence. “In our off-campus house. We’ve been keeping the doors locked. She bought a burner phone so he couldn’t track her GPS. She was terrified he would find her.”
“But he did,” Logan adds, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his blue eyes hard as ice. “She texted us at 6:05 PM that she was clocking out and going to the Market Basket down the street. When she wasn’t home by 7:15, Garrett tried to call. It went to voicemail. So we tracked her Life360 location to the parking lot.”
Officer Davis looks up from his own notepad. “You found the car first?”
“Row G,” Dean says. His voice is shaky, completely lacking its usual arrogant bravado. He looks sick to his stomach. “Driver’s side door was wide open. Groceries all over the ground. Her phone was smashed on the pavement. Garrett told us to split up.”
“I took the back alley,” Garrett takes over, staring blankly at the far wall. “Behind the hardware store and the loading docks. That’s where I found her.”
“Did you see anyone else in the alley?” Miller asks. “A vehicle leaving the scene? Anyone fleeing on foot?”
“No,” Garrett says. “It was empty. He was already gone. But I’m telling you, it was him. Check the security cameras at the grocery store. Check the traffic cams at the intersection. You’ll see his car. He drives a black BMW.”
Officer Miller closes his notebook with a definitive snap. “We have units at the Market Basket securing the scene right now. They’re pulling the surveillance footage as we speak. We’re also dispatching state troopers to Phil Graham’s residence to bring him in for questioning.”
“Questioning isn’t going to be enough,” Garrett says, finally looking up to meet the officer’s eyes. The dark, lethal promise in Garrett’s gaze makes the older cop pause. “He nearly beat her to death. He left her in an alley to die. If you don’t lock him up, I will handle him myself.”
“Garrett,” Tucker warns quietly, his hand squeezing Garrett’s shoulder.
Officer Miller exhales a long, heavy breath. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, son. Let us do our jobs. If what you’re saying lines up with the evidence at the scene, Philip Graham won’t be seeing the outside of a jail cell for a very, very long time. Attempted murder is a heavy charge.”
The words ring in the air, echoing violently in Garrett’s skull.
“We’ll be in touch,” Officer Davis says gently. “Don’t leave the hospital without letting the front desk know. We might need a formal written statement later tonight.”
“We aren’t going anywhere,” Logan says flatly.
The two officers turn and walk away, their heavy boots squeaking against the polished linoleum.
As soon as they are out of earshot, the last of Garrett’s adrenaline completely evaporates. It leaves behind a crushing, suffocating exhaustion that makes his bones ache. He leans forward, burying his face in his hands, his fingers tangling roughly in his dark hair.
“This is my fault,” Dean whispers from a few feet away.
Garrett lifts his head. Dean is pacing a tight circle near the vending machines, his hands tugging at the roots of his blonde hair.
“Dean, stop,” Logan says tiredly, rubbing his eyes.
“No, think about it,” Dean insists, his voice cracking. He looks at the three of them, completely devastated. “She asked if we needed anything. I asked for the damn Bagel Bites. If I had just kept my mouth shut, she would have driven straight home. She wouldn’t have stopped. He wouldn’t have caught her.”
“Don’t do that,” Tucker says firmly, stepping away from Garrett’s chair to intercept Dean. He grabs Dean by the shoulders, forcing the pacing to stop. “Listen to me. Do not do that. Phil Graham is a predator. If he found her at the grocery store, it means he was already watching her. He probably followed her from the hospital. If she hadn’t stopped at the store, he might have tried to pull her out of her car at a stoplight, or ambushed her in our driveway.”
“Tuck’s right,” Logan agrees, stepping up beside them. “This isn’t on you, Dean. It’s on Phil. And we are going to make sure he pays for it.”
Garrett listens to his friends, but the words just wash over him. Dean can blame himself for the grocery list all he wants, but Garrett knows the real truth.
It’s his fault.
He is the one who dragged you into this mess. He is the one who provoked Phil. He is the one who arrogantly assumed he could play the hero and save you from the dragon, without realizing the dragon would simply burn the whole castle down in retaliation.
The waiting room clock ticks loudly on the wall.
It’s 11:42 PM.
You have been in surgery for over three hours.
The surgical waiting room on the third floor is suffocatingly quiet. The ER was loud, chaotic, and terrifying. But this room is worse. It’s just beige walls, uncomfortable chairs, old magazines, and the agonizing, stretching silence of not knowing.
“I’m getting coffee,” Logan announces, pushing himself up from the stiff couch. “Garrett? You want anything?”
Garrett shakes his head silently. He hasn’t moved from his chair in hours. He hasn’t washed his hands again. There is still a faint smear of your blood on his left cuff. He can’t bring himself to scrub it out. It feels like throwing away a piece of you.
“Get him a black coffee,” Tucker tells Logan. “And get Dean some water.”
Logan nods and slips out the door.
Dean drops onto the couch across from Garrett, staring blankly at his phone screen. “How long does a surgery take? It’s been hours.”
“As long as she needs,” Tucker says softly, taking the seat next to Garrett.
Silence falls over the room again.
Garrett closes his eyes. Every time he does, he is trapped in a horrific highlight reel.
He sees your open car door. He sees the shattered marinara sauce. He sees you lying in the dirt, curled into a ball, your face beaten beyond recognition.
He said you couldn’t keep me. He said I belonged to him.
Your weak, agonizing whisper tears through his mind, shredding his sanity.
Garrett leans his head back against the wall, his jaw clenching so tight his teeth ache. He doesn’t just want you to survive. He needs you to survive. He needs you to wake up so he can look you in the eyes and tell you everything he’s been too cowardly to say for the last month.
He wants to tell you that the house feels empty when you aren’t in it. That he purposefully sits on the edge of the couch just so his leg can brush against yours. That the sound of your laugh when Dean makes a stupid joke is the only thing that actually settles the dark, anxious noise in his brain.
He is falling in love with you.
He knows it with a terrifying, absolute certainty. He has been falling since the night you walked into his exam room in those ridiculous pink scrubs and touched his face with hands so gentle they made him want to cry.
“Garrett Graham?”
Garrett’s eyes snap open.
Standing in the doorway of the waiting room is Dr. Gardner.
The surgeon looks entirely exhausted. He has changed out of his blood-stained white coat and is wearing fresh green surgical scrubs. A blue surgical cap is still tied around his head, and his face is deeply lined with fatigue.
Garrett shoots up from his chair so fast it tips backward, crashing loudly against the floor.
Tucker and Dean are on their feet a split second later. Logan jogs back into the room, holding a cardboard tray of coffees, freezing in his tracks at the sight of the doctor.
None of them speak. The air is completely sucked out of the room. Garrett feels his heart climb directly into his throat, beating a frantic, terrifying rhythm.
Dr. Gardner looks at the four massive hockey players. He lets out a slow, measured breath.
“Before I say anything,” Dr. Gardner starts, his voice low and serious, “I need you to understand that legally, I am not supposed to give you this information. You aren’t family. You aren’t her emergency contacts.”
Garrett’s chest caves in. “Please.”
It’s the only word he can manage. It’s a broken, desperate plea.
Dr. Gardner holds up a hand, his expression softening into profound empathy. “However. I have worked with her for over a year. And for the last three and a half weeks, she has not shut up about the four hockey players she lives with. She talks about how Tucker cooks better than a five-star chef. How Dean is a menace but means well. How Logan is secretly a giant softie.”
The doctor turns his gaze directly to Garrett.
“And she talks about you,” Dr. Gardner says softly. “She talks about how you saved her life. So, as far as I’m concerned, you boys are her family. And you deserve to know what’s going on.”
“Is she alive?” Garrett asks, his voice trembling so violently he barely recognizes it.
“She is alive,” Dr. Gardner confirms immediately.
The collective exhale in the room is staggering. Dean literally sags against the wall, burying his face in his hands. Tucker grips the back of a chair, his eyes dropping to the ceiling in silent prayer. Logan sets the tray of coffees down on a side table with shaking hands.
Garrett feels his knees threaten to buckle, but he forces himself to stay standing. “What happened? How bad is it?”
Dr. Gardner rubs the back of his neck, shifting into his clinical, professional mode. “It’s bad, Garrett. I won’t sugarcoat it. The blunt force trauma she sustained was severe.”
Garrett braces himself. “Tell me.”
“When she arrived, her blood pressure was plummeting due to internal bleeding,” Dr. Gardner explains, keeping his voice steady. “We rushed her into surgery and discovered a Grade 4 laceration to her spleen. It was ruptured beyond repair. We had to perform a full splenectomy to stop the bleeding. She’ll have a compromised immune system moving forward, but she can live a full life without it.”
“Okay,” Garrett nods rapidly, processing the information. “Okay, what else?”
“She has three broken ribs on her left side, and two cracked on the right,” the surgeon continues. “The defensive bruising on her forearms is extensive, but luckily, there are no fractures in her arms or wrists.”
“And her face?” Logan asks, his voice thick with anger. “She was completely unrecognizable.”
Dr. Gardner’s jaw tightens. “The facial trauma was significant. She has a severe orbital blowout fracture on her left side — the bone underneath the eye socket was crushed. We had an oral and maxillofacial surgeon come in to set a titanium plate to rebuild the floor of the socket and save her vision. Her nose is broken in two places, we reset it in the OR.”
Garrett feels a fresh wave of violent nausea wash over him. The visual of his father taking his massive, heavy fists and crushing the delicate bones of your face is enough to make him want to put his fist through the waiting room drywall.
“What about her brain?” Tucker asks gently. “She was unconscious when the paramedics took her.”
“That is our primary concern right now,” Dr. Gardner says, his expression turning grave. “She suffered a severe concussion. We did a CT scan before taking her up to the OR. There is no active brain bleed, which is a massive relief, but there is significant swelling. A traumatic brain injury.”
“So what does that mean?” Garrett demands, stepping closer to the doctor. “When does she wake up?”
“Right now, she is heavily sedated and intubated in the ICU,” Dr. Gardner explains. “We are keeping her on a ventilator to protect her airway while the facial swelling goes down, and to keep her brain resting. We will slowly wean her off the paralytics and sedation over the next twenty-four hours to see how she responds.”
“But she’s stable?” Garrett pleads.
“She is in critical but stable condition,” Dr. Gardner corrects carefully. “She made it through the surgery. That was the hardest part. Now, we just have to wait for her body to heal.”
“Can I see her?” Garrett asks instantly. He doesn’t care about ICU rules or visiting hours. If Dr. Gardner tells him no, he will tear this hospital apart barehanded to find you.
Dr. Gardner looks at Garrett, taking in the bloodstained clothes, the wild, desperate exhaustion in his dark eyes.
“ICU protocol says immediate family only,” Dr. Gardner says quietly. He reaches into his scrub pocket and pulls out a visitor pass. “But like I said. As far as I’m concerned, you’re family. Just you, Garrett. The rest of the boys can come in the morning.”
“Thank you,” Garrett breathes, taking the pass. “Doc, I … thank you.”
“Room 219,” Dr. Gardner says. “She looks worse than she did down in the alley, Garrett. The swelling from the surgery is peaking. Brace yourself.”
Garrett doesn’t hesitate. He turns to the guys.
“Go home,” Garrett tells them. “Get some sleep. Bring some fresh clothes tomorrow.”
“We’re not leaving, G,” Logan says firmly, already walking over to the waiting room couch and throwing his jacket down like a blanket. “We’ll sleep right here.”
“I’m not leaving without seeing her,” Dean adds stubbornly, crossing his arms.
Garrett looks at his best friends. He doesn’t have the energy to argue, and honestly, knowing they are right outside the ICU doors brings him a strange sort of comfort.
“Okay,” Garrett whispers.
He turns and walks out of the waiting room.
The Intensive Care Unit is a completely different world from the emergency room. The lights are dimmed, casting a quiet, clinical hush over the wide hallways. There is no shouting, no running. Just the rhythmic, terrifyingly steady beeping of heart monitors and the mechanical whoosh of ventilators keeping people alive.
Garrett walks down the hall, his boots silent against the floor.
He stops outside Room 219.
The door is made of heavy glass. He can see right inside.
He puts his hand on the metal handle, but for a second, he can’t bring himself to push it down. Dr. Gardner warned him. But nothing could have prepared him for the reality of seeing you like this.
He pushes the door open and steps inside.
The room is freezing cold, designed to keep bacteria at bay. It smells like sharp antiseptic and iodine.
You are lying in the center of the room, completely surrounded by machines.
Garrett walks slowly to the side of your bed, his heart breaking into a million jagged pieces.
You look incredibly small. The heavy hospital blankets are pulled up to your chest, hiding the bandages from your surgery and the wrap around your broken ribs. But he can’t hide from your face.
Dr. Gardner was right. The swelling is horrific. Your entire face is bruised, puffed, and distorted. Your left eye is completely swollen shut, covered by a white sterile patch protecting the newly placed titanium plate. A heavy plastic brace encompasses your neck, keeping your spine perfectly still.
And sticking out of your mouth, taped securely to your cheek, is the thick, ribbed plastic tube of the ventilator.
The machine beside your bed hisses and clicks, forcing air into your lungs, making your chest rise and fall in a harsh, mechanical rhythm.
“Y/N,” Garrett whispers.
He reaches the side of the bed. He wants to touch your face, to stroke your hair, but he is terrified of hurting you. He is terrified of adding even a fraction of an ounce of pain to what you are already enduring.
He looks down at your right hand. It rests on top of the blue hospital blanket. There is an IV port taped to the back of your hand, wires running from your fingertips to the monitor above your head.
But your palm is open.
Garrett sinks into the hard plastic chair beside your bed. He slowly, carefully reaches out and slides his large, calloused hand under yours.
Your skin is cold. The contrast to the vibrant, warm girl who was teasing him about grocery shopping just six hours ago is devastating.
He gently wraps his fingers around yours, securing your small hand safely within his grip. He avoids the IV lines, mindful of the bruises painting your forearm.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and brings your knuckles to his lips.
He presses a long, agonizingly gentle kiss to your bruised skin.
He closes his eyes, letting the tears fall freely now. They slip down his cheeks and soak into the fabric of the hospital blanket.
“I’m so sorry,” Garrett cries softly, his voice breaking in the quiet room. “I should have gone with you. I should have made sure you were safe. I promised you he wouldn’t get near you again, and I broke my promise.”
The ventilator hisses. The heart monitor beeps. You don’t respond.
Garrett keeps your hand pressed tightly against his mouth. He breathes in the faint scent of the surgical soap they used to wash you, desperate to find even a trace of the vanilla shampoo he knows so well.
“But I’m making a new promise,” Garrett whispers into the quiet room. He lifts his head, his eyes locking onto your battered face.
The homicidal rage from the alleyway is still there, burning like a low, hot coal in his chest, but right now, it is entirely eclipsed by his love for you.
“I’m not leaving,” Garrett vows, his voice steadying, hardening with absolute resolve. “I am going to sit in this chair until you wake up. I don’t care if it takes a day, or a week, or a month. I’m right here.”
He gently runs his thumb over the unbruised patch of skin on the back of your hand.
“And when you wake up,” Garrett says, fresh tears filling his eyes, “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never look over your shoulder again. You hear me? You’re mine now. And nobody touches what’s mine.”
He leans forward again, pressing another soft kiss to your knuckles.
“Just come back to me,” he pleads. “Please, Y/N. Just come back.”
Garrett settles back into the uncomfortable plastic chair. He doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his thumb brushing back and forth over your skin, his eyes locked on the steady rise and fall of your chest.
Outside the glass doors, the hospital continues its chaotic rush. Outside the building, the police are hunting down the monster who did this.
But inside Room 219, there is only the quiet, desperate vigil of a boy who finally realizes what he has to lose, and the slow, mechanical breathing of the girl he intends to save.
***
Time in the Intensive Care Unit does not exist.
There is no day, no night. There is only the harsh, unnatural glow of fluorescent lights, the rhythmic, hissing plunge of the ventilator, and the agonizingly slow crawl of the digital clock on the wall.
It has been forty-eight hours since the paramedics wheeled you through the sliding glass doors of the emergency room.
Garrett has not left the hard plastic chair beside your bed.
He is a ghost of himself. The charismatic, untouchable captain of the Briar Hawks is gone, replaced by a terrified, hollowed-out boy. His dark hair is wild and greasy. A thick, dark layer of stubble covers his jaw. He is wearing the same black t-shirt and dark jeans, though Tucker managed to sneak a clean Briar Hockey hoodie over his shoulders at some point during the first night.
The boys have been a constant, rotating presence. Logan slept on the waiting room floor the first night. Dean spent yesterday pacing a groove into the linoleum hallway outside the ICU doors. Tucker has been acting as a ruthless gatekeeper, bringing Garrett black coffee and forcing him to eat half a stale hospital sandwich every twelve hours.
But none of them can reach him.
Garrett’s entire world has shrunk to the three feet of space between his chair and your bed. His eyes are perpetually locked on the steady, artificial rise and fall of your chest. His large hand remains wrapped tightly around your cold, limp fingers, a desperate physical tether keeping you grounded to the earth.
“Garrett.”
The soft voice comes from the doorway.
Garrett doesn’t turn his head. He just blinks, his red-rimmed eyes burning with exhaustion.
Dr. Gardner steps into the quiet room, holding a tablet. He looks slightly more rested than he did two nights ago, but his professional demeanor is still laced with deep concern.
“We need to talk about the sedation,” Dr. Gardner says quietly, moving to the foot of your bed.
Garrett finally looks up. His chest tightens. “Is something wrong? Did the swelling get worse?”
“No,” the doctor reassures him immediately. “Actually, the swelling in her brain has stabilized. Her intracranial pressure is holding at a safe level. Her vitals are strong. She’s fighting, Garrett.”
Garrett lets out a ragged, trembling exhale, closing his eyes for a split second. “Okay. That’s good. Right?”
“It’s very good,” Dr. Gardner nods. “Which means it’s time to take her off the paralytics and lower the propofol. We need to see if she can breathe on her own. We need to extubate her.”
Garrett grips your hand a fraction tighter. “Will it hurt?”
“Taking the tube out is uncomfortable,” the surgeon admits honestly. “Her throat is going to be incredibly raw, and waking up with a broken ribs and a shattered orbital floor is going to be a shock to her system. We have her on a heavy morphine drip for the pain, but the disorientation is going to be severe. She might panic.”
“I’ll keep her calm,” Garrett says instantly. His voice leaves absolutely zero room for doubt. “Just do whatever you have to do to get that thing out of her throat.”
“Alright,” Dr. Gardner says. He turns to the cluster of machines. “I’m going to dial back the drip. A respiratory therapist will be in shortly. Once the tube is out, it might still take a few hours for her to fully wake up. Be patient.”
The doctor adjusts the monitors, checks your chart one last time, and quietly leaves the room.
Garrett turns his attention entirely back to you.
The wait is excruciating. The respiratory therapist comes in, performs the awful, gag-inducing procedure of pulling the thick plastic tube from your airway, and replaces it with a simple oxygen cannula resting under your broken nose.
You cough weakly during the process, a terrible, wet sound that makes Garrett want to put his fist through the wall, but you don’t open your eyes. You just slip right back into a deep, drug-induced sleep.
So, Garrett waits.
Another three hours pass.
The silence in the room is different now. The mechanical hissing of the ventilator is gone, replaced by the soft, shallow sound of your own natural breathing.
Garrett leans forward, resting his forehead against the edge of your mattress. His thumb traces a slow, methodical circle over the back of your hand.
“Come on, baby,” he whispers into the quiet room, his voice cracking with raw desperation. “Please. Just open your eyes. I need you to open your eyes.”
And then, a miracle happens.
Your fingers twitch.
It’s a tiny movement, barely a flutter against his palm, but Garrett feels it like a lightning strike.
His head snaps up.
“Y/N?” He breathes, his heart launching into a frantic, violent rhythm against his ribs.
He stands up, hovering over the side of the bed.
You groan. It’s a low, raspy, agonizing sound that scrapes against the rawness of your throat. Your head shifts a fraction of an inch against the
pillow, immediately halted by the rigid plastic of the cervical collar locked around your neck.
“Don’t move,” Garrett says instantly, his free hand flying up to hover gently over your shoulder, terrified to actually touch you and cause you pain. “Don’t try to move. You’re in a neck brace. You’re safe.”
Your uninjured right eye flutters. The eyelashes tremble against your swollen cheek.
It takes an agonizingly long minute, but slowly, fighting against the heavy weight of the sedatives, your eye opens.
The world is a blurry, confusing mess.
The light is too bright. The room is too cold. A localized, blinding agony radiates from the left side of your face, completely shielded by a thick white patch. Your chest feels like someone dropped an anvil on it, every shallow breath sparking a sharp, stabbing fire in your ribs.
Panic, thick and immediate, begins to claw its way up your throat.
Where are you? Why can’t you move your neck? Why is it so hard to breathe?
The heart monitor by your bed begins to beep faster, matching the sudden, terrified spike of your pulse.
“Hey,” a voice says.
A shadow blocks the harsh overhead light.
You blink, trying to force your single open eye to focus. The blurry shape above you slowly sharpens into recognizable features.
Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Eyes so impossibly warm that they anchor you to the earth.
Garrett.
He is leaning over you. He looks terrible. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a year. His eyes are bloodshot, his jaw covered in scruff, his face pale and tight with an anxiety so profound it practically vibrates off him.
But he is here.
“I’m right here,” Garrett whispers. His voice is a rough, gravelly rasp, trembling with unshed tears. “I’ve got you. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”
You try to swallow, but your throat feels like it’s coated in broken glass. You let out a small, pained whimper.
Garrett’s face crumbles. “I know. I know it hurts. God, I know. You had a breathing tube in. Don’t try to talk.”
You look at him. You really look at him.
The panic slowly begins to recede, beaten back by the heavy, comforting weight of his hand wrapped around yours.
The memories hit you in disjointed, terrifying flashes.
The dark alleyway behind the Market Basket. The blinding pain. The suffocating terror of Phil’s massive hands. The feeling of the cold asphalt pressing into your cheek as you waited to die.
You squeeze your eye shut as a tear escapes, hot and stinging against your battered skin.
“Hey, look at me,” Garrett pleads softly. He reaches up with a trembling hand and gently, so incredibly gently, wipes the tear away with his thumb. “He’s gone. The police arrested him at his house in Connecticut yesterday morning. He’s locked up, Y/N. He can never, ever hurt you again.”
You open your eye, staring up at the beautiful, broken boy standing beside your bed.
He caught the monster. He kept his promise.
Garrett lets out a shuddering breath, his broad shoulders suddenly caving inward as if the structural integrity of his entire body has just failed.
He drops to his knees beside your bed.
He presses his forehead against the mattress, right next to your hip. He doesn’t let go of your hand; he brings it to his lips, kissing your knuckles over and over again, completely uncaring that his tears are soaking into your skin.
“I am so sorry,” Garrett chokes out. The words are a broken, ragged sob, torn from the deepest, most wounded part of his soul. “I am so fucking sorry.”
You frown, confusion cutting through the heavy haze of the morphine.
Why is he apologizing?
“Garrett,” you try to say.
It comes out as a harsh, breathless croak. It hurts. It burns your throat and pulls at the muscles in your neck.
Garrett’s head snaps up. “Don’t talk. Please, baby, save your strength.”
He just called you baby. Not in the casual, teasing way the college guys at Briar throw the word around. He said it with a devastating, reverent kind of love.
“I did this to you,” Garrett cries, the guilt pouring out of him like blood from a severed artery. He shakes his head frantically, his dark eyes wide and tortured. “This is my fault. I brought you into my mess. I thought I could just walk into his house, scream in his face, and walk away. I thought I was protecting you by taking you to my house, but all I did was paint a target on your back.”
You stare at him, completely horrified by the words coming out of his mouth.
He actually believes this. He has been sitting in this miserable, freezing hospital room for two days, convincing himself that he is the villain. Convincing himself that Phil’s violence is a direct result of his own actions.
“If I had just kept my mouth shut,” Garrett spirals, the tears tracking freely down his face, cutting paths through the exhaustion. “If I hadn’t humiliated him in front of you. If I had driven you home myself instead of letting you go to the store alone. I promised you were safe, and I left you alone.”
He drops his head back to the mattress, a harsh, guttural sound of pure self-hatred tearing from his throat.
“I’m a monster,” Garrett whispers into the blankets. “I’m just like him. I destroy everything I touch.”
The words hit you harder than any physical blow Phil landed in that alleyway.
The physical pain radiating through your body is excruciating. Your ribs scream every time you breathe, your head is pounding with a blinding, concussive pressure, and your throat is on fire.
But none of that matters right now.
What matters is the man weeping beside your bed. The man who gave up his bedroom for you. The man who stood between you and his teammates like a human shield. The man who is currently drowning in a sea of toxic, misplaced guilt.
You tighten your grip on his hand. You don’t have much strength, but you squeeze his fingers as hard as you possibly can.
Garrett lifts his head, his eyes immediately searching your face. “What? Does something hurt? Should I press the call button?”
You slowly, painstakingly, shake your head. The movement jostles the neck brace, sending a fresh spike of pain down your spine, but you ignore it.
You look him dead in the eye.
“Not,” you whisper.
The single word tears at your raw vocal cords. It sounds terrible. But you don’t stop. You force the breath from your bruised lungs, pushing past the agonizing pain in your ribs.
“Your,” you croak, your voice shaking with effort.
Garrett stares at you, his chest heaving, his eyes wide. “Y/N, stop. Please.”
“Fault,” you finish.
The three words hang in the quiet air of the ICU, heavier than gravity, louder than a gunshot.
Garrett freezes. He completely stops breathing.
He looks at you, taking in the horrific swelling of your face, the white patch over your eye, the thick plastic collar, the wires snaking across your chest. You have been beaten to within an inch of your life. You have had an organ removed. Your face has been rebuilt with titanium.
And the very first thing you do when you wake up is comfort him.
You don’t ask for pain medicine. You don’t ask what happened. You don’t complain about the agony you are in.
You look at the boy who thinks he ruined your life, and you use your incredibly limited, agonizing strength to absolve him.
The absolute, uncompromising selflessness of it shatters the very last defense mechanism Garrett possesses.
The wall he has spent twenty-one years building — the wall that survived his father’s fists, the wall that survived his mother’s death, the wall that made him the ruthless, untouchable hockey captain — crumbles into dust.
Garrett breaks. He completely falls apart.
A sob rips its way out of his throat. He practically collapses against the side of your bed. He buries his face in the space between your arm and your ribcage, mindful not to put any weight on your actual injuries, but needing to be as close to you as physically possible.
His massive shoulders shake violently. He weeps. Hard, ugly, breath-stealing sobs that wrack his entire frame.
“God,” Garrett cries, his voice muffled by the hospital blankets. “God, I love you. I love you so much it feels like I’m dying.”
Your single open eye widens slightly.
He loves you.
The confession is messy, desperate, and completely lacking any sort of romantic, cinematic polish. It is delivered in a freezing ICU room, smelling of iodine and fear, by a boy who is actively having an emotional breakdown against your arm.
And it is the most beautiful thing you have ever heard.
You can’t move much. Your left arm is restricted by the IV lines, and your ribs scream in protest when you try to shift your torso.
But you manage to lift your right hand.
Your fingers are shaking, weak and uncoordinated from the sedatives. But you slowly guide your hand up, past the heavy blankets, until your palm finds the back of his neck.
Your fingers tangle in the dark, greasy hair at his nape.
Garrett gasps at the touch. He shudders violently, leaning heavily into your weak caress as if your hand is the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge of the earth.
“Shh,” you manage to whisper. The sound is barely a breath, but he hears it.
You stroke his hair. It’s a slow, repetitive motion. You don’t have the strength to do anything else.
Garrett cries for what feels like an eternity. He cries for the terrifying night in the alleyway. He cries for the hours spent staring through the glass of Trauma Bay One. He cries for his mother, for the little boy who couldn’t save her, and for the man who almost lost the only other woman he has ever truly loved.
He pours all of his poison, all of his trauma, all of his fear out onto the sheets of your hospital bed.
And you just hold him.
You let him break. You let him fall apart, completely and totally, because you know that for the first time in his life, he has someone who is going to help him put the pieces back together.
Eventually, the violent shaking of his shoulders begins to slow. His ragged, torn sobs quiet into deep, stuttering breaths.
He doesn’t lift his head right away. He just lies there, his face buried in the blankets, his hand still locked in a death grip around yours.
“I’m sorry,” Garrett mumbles, his voice thick and exhausted. He sniffles loudly, a very un-captain-like sound. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you. I’m not supposed to be falling apart on your bed.”
You let out a tiny, breathy sound that is meant to be a laugh, but quickly turns into a wince as it pulls at your ribs.
Garrett’s head snaps up instantly, panic flaring back to life in his eyes. He wipes his face roughly with the back of his sleeve, smearing tears and exhaustion together.
“Did I hurt you?” He asks frantically, hovering over you again. “I put too much weight on the bed. I’ll get the nurse-”
“Garrett,” you croak, stopping him before he can hit the call button.
He freezes. “Yeah. Yes, baby, I’m here.”
You swallow hard, fighting the sandpaper dryness in your throat. You look at his red, swollen eyes. He looks completely wrecked. But the dark, heavy shadow of toxic guilt that has been suffocating him for the last forty-eight hours has lifted.
“I love you, too,” you whisper.
The words are weak. They are raspy. They lack volume.
But they hit Garrett with the force of a freight train.
He stares at you. His lips part, his dark eyes searching your face as if he’s afraid he hallucinated the sound.
“You do?” He asks, his voice cracking on the question. It’s the most vulnerable you have ever seen him. The arrogant hockey star is nowhere to be found. He is just a boy, desperate for love, terrified of rejection.
You give him a tiny, incredibly slow nod, mindful of the neck brace.
“Since the ER,” you admit, the truth slipping out easily, despite the pain it takes to speak.
Garrett lets out a sound that is half-laugh, half-sob.
He leans down. He is incredibly careful, treating you like you are made of spun glass. He supports his own weight on his forearms, ensuring he doesn’t press against your chest or your injured side.
He bypasses the heavy white patch over your left eye. He avoids your broken nose and your split lip.
Instead, he presses his mouth gently against the unbruised skin of your forehead, right at your hairline.
His lips are warm, soft, and trembling. He lingers there, breathing you in, pressing all of his relief, all of his devotion, and all of his love into that single, agonizingly gentle kiss.
“I am never letting you go,” Garrett whispers against your skin, his breath fanning across your face. “Do you understand me? You’re stuck with me. Forever.”
“Good,” you whisper back, your eye fluttering shut as exhaustion begins to drag you back under. The morphine is heavy in your veins, pulling at your consciousness.
Garrett pulls back just far enough to look at your face. He sees the heavy droop of your eyelid, the sluggish blink.
“Go to sleep, baby,” Garrett murmurs, his thumb resuming its gentle stroke across the back of your hand. “You’re safe. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?” You mumble, the word slurring slightly.
“I swear to God,” Garrett says fiercely.
He settles back into the uncomfortable plastic chair. But he doesn’t look like a terrified ghost anymore. He looks like a man who has just been handed the entire universe.
You let your eye close.
The pain is still there. The road to recovery is going to be incredibly long, terrifying, and grueling. There will be police statements to give, trials to attend, physical therapy to endure, and nightmares to fight.
But as the steady rhythm of the heart monitor lulls you back to sleep, and the warm, calloused hand of the boy who loves you holds you tight, the paralyzing fear that has dictated your life for the past year is finally gone.
Because Phil Graham is in a cage.
And you are exactly where you are supposed to be.
***
The sound of the door clicking open pulls Garrett from a light doze.
It has been two hours since you fell back asleep. Garrett hasn’t moved an inch. He is exhausted down to the marrow of his bones, but his heart is lighter than it has been in years.
He turns his head.
Standing in the doorway of the ICU room are Logan, Dean, and Tucker.
They look terrible. They are all wearing Briar Hockey sweats, their hair messy, their faces drawn with exhaustion. Logan is holding a cardboard tray with four coffees. Dean is clutching a small, stuffed teddy bear wearing a miniature nurse’s uniform.
They freeze in the doorway, staring at you.
“Hey,” Garrett says softly, not wanting to wake you.
The three massive hockey players snap their attention to Garrett. They take in the change in his posture. He is no longer hunched over like a man waiting for an execution. He is sitting back in his chair, a small, weary, but incredibly genuine smile touching the corners of his mouth.
Tucker’s eyes widen. “Garrett …”
“She woke up,” Garrett whispers.
The reaction is instantaneous.
Dean drops his head back against the doorframe, a loud, shuddering breath escaping his lips. “Oh, thank God. Thank fucking God.”
Logan sets the coffee tray down on a nearby rolling cart with a hand that is visibly shaking. He walks over to the bed, stopping on the side opposite Garrett. He looks down at your bruised, swollen face, the white eye patch, the heavy neck brace.
“Is she …” Logan swallows hard. “Is she okay?”
“She’s hurting,” Garrett says honestly. “She can barely talk. But she knows where she is. She knows we’re here. And she knows they caught him.”
“Good,” Tucker says, stepping into the room. He looks at you, his expression softening into that familiar, protective warmth. “Because if they hadn’t caught him, I was going to buy a shovel and take a road trip.”
“You wouldn’t have gone alone,” Dean mutters, walking over and placing the small stuffed nurse bear gently on the nightstand next to your bed. “I brought her a friend. Figured she could use another nurse on duty.”
Garrett looks at the ridiculous little bear, and then back at his best friends.
These guys didn’t hesitate. They didn’t ask questions. They took you in, they protected you, and they sat in a miserable hospital waiting room for two days because you are family.
“Thanks, guys,” Garrett says, his voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”
Logan waves him off. “Shut up, G. We didn’t do shit.”
“You did,” Garrett insists. He looks back down at your sleeping face. “You kept me from losing my mind. And you gave her a home.”
“She gave us a home,” Tucker corrects softly. He pulls a chair over from the corner of the room and sits down. “This house was a disaster before she started organizing the triage center and making Dean eat vegetables.”
Dean nods solemnly. “I miss the vegetables. I really do.”
Garrett actually laughs. It’s a quiet, rusty sound, but it feels incredibly good.
The four of them settle into the room. It’s cramped, it’s cold, and it smells like antiseptic.
But as Garrett sits there, surrounded by his brothers, holding the hand of the girl he loves, the ICU room doesn’t feel like a hospital anymore.
It feels like the beginning of the rest of his life.
***
Two and a half years.
That is how long it takes to put the shattered pieces of a life back together.
It takes months of grueling physical therapy, a second surgery to adjust the titanium plate beneath your left eye, and countless hours sitting on the worn couch in the off-campus house, letting Garrett, Logan, Dean, and Tucker simply exist around you until the phantom footsteps in the hallway no longer make your heart race.
It takes Phil Graham being sentenced to fifteen years in a maximum-security prison without the possibility of early parole, his legacy as an NHL player erased by the horrifying reality of his domestic abuse convictions.
And it takes time.
But as you stand in the tunnel of the TD Garden, the phantom roar of eighteen thousand fans vibrating through the concrete floor beneath your feet, you know every single agonizing second was worth it.
You watch the ice through the glass.
Garrett is a blur of black and gold. He wears number seventeen, his broad shoulders easily carrying the weight of the iconic spoked B on his chest. He skates backward, his eyes scanning the play, and intercepts a pass with a fluid, effortless grace that makes the crowd erupt into a frenzy.
He is twenty-three years old, newly graduated from Briar University, and currently the most beloved undrafted free agent the Boston Bruins have signed this century.
The whistle blows, signaling the end of the morning skate. The players begin filing off the ice, their skates clattering against the rubber mats of the tunnel.
Garrett takes his helmet off, running a gloved hand through his sweat-dampened dark hair. He is joking with one of the veteran defensemen, a relaxed, brilliant smile lighting up his face.
Then, he sees you.
The smile softens, turning instantly intimate. He breaks away from the pack and skates straight toward the open gate where you are standing.
“Hey,” Garrett breathes, stepping off the ice. He smells like fresh sweat, cold air, and athletic tape. It is the best smell in the world.
“Hey yourself,” you smile, reaching out to rest a hand on the solid plastic plating of his chest pad. “You looked good out there. Your line is clicking.”
“We’re getting there,” Garrett says, leaning down to press a quick, cold kiss to your lips, uncaring of the equipment managers and staff rushing past. He pulls back and traces his thumb gently over your cheekbone, right over the faint, pale scar that rests beneath your eye. “You ready to head back to the apartment? The guys are coming over for dinner tonight. Tuck’s making lasagna.”
“I’m ready,” you nod. “Go shower. You stink.”
Garrett laughs, a deep, rich sound that settles deep in your chest. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
You watch him jog down the tunnel toward the locker room, your heart swelling with an overwhelming, terrifying amount of love.
Life is good. It is safe.
But safety, especially when you are suddenly thrust into the blinding spotlight of professional sports, is a fragile illusion.
***
The shift happens later that afternoon.
You and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island of your new, shared off-campus apartment. It’s a massive upgrade from the chaotic Briar hockey house, though you only live three blocks away from the guys. You are currently chopping vegetables for Tucker’s impending lasagna invasion, while Garrett is sitting on a barstool, scrolling casually through his phone.
Suddenly, Garrett freezes.
The easy, relaxed posture of his shoulders vanishes, instantly replaced by rigid, coiled tension. The color drains completely from his face, leaving his skin a sallow, ashen gray.
“Garrett?” You ask, putting the knife down. You wipe your hands on a dish towel, your heart rate spiking in response to his sudden shift. “What is it?”
He doesn’t answer. His dark eyes are locked onto the screen of his phone, scanning the text with a terrifying, absolute stillness. His jaw ticks violently.
“Garrett, talk to me,” you urge, stepping around the island and placing a hand on his shoulder. His muscles feel like solid rock under his t-shirt. “What’s wrong?”
Garrett slowly lowers the phone. He looks at you, and the sheer, unadulterated fury in his eyes makes you take a half-step back. He isn’t angry at you — he could never be angry at you — but the violent, protective rage practically bleeding off him is suffocating.
“They found a picture,” Garrett says. His voice is a low, deadly rasp.
“Who?” You ask, confusion clouding your mind. “A picture of what?”
Garrett looks down at his phone again, his thumb hovering over the screen as if he wants to crush the glass into dust. Without another word, he turns the phone around and slides it across the granite counter toward you.
You look down.
It is an article from a notorious, sleazy sports gossip blog. The headline is blazoned in bold, aggressive text.
BOSTON’S NEW GOLDEN BOY AND HIS TWISTED FAMILY SECRET: IS GARRETT GRAHAM DATING HIS DAD’S EX?
The air in your lungs vanishes.
Below the headline is a split-screen image. On the left is a recent, high-definition photo of you and Garrett walking out of the TD Garden, holding hands, laughing at something he said.
On the right is a photo you haven’t seen in three years.
It’s a blurry, poorly lit paparazzi shot from a charity gala in New York. You are standing next to Phil Graham. You are wearing a stiff, uncomfortable evening gown, your face pale and hollow, your smile tight and forced. Phil has a heavy, possessive hand gripping your waist.
The text of the article is sickening.
Bruins rookie sensation Garrett Graham has been winning over the hearts of Boston with his stellar play and squeaky-clean image. But sources have recently uncovered a highly questionable skeletons in the Graham family closet. The mystery brunette Garrett has been parading around the city? That’s Y/N. A twenty-five-year-old nurse who, just a few short years ago, was playing arm candy for Garrett’s disgraced, currently-incarcerated father, Phil Graham.
Talk about keeping it in the family. While the details of Phil’s sudden imprisonment remain strictly sealed under state records, one has to wonder if this twisted love triangle had something to do with the NHL legend’s sudden fall from grace. Did the son steal the father’s girl? Or is Boston’s new golden boy just picking up his dad’s leftovers?
You stare at the screen, your vision blurring as a cold, terrifying numbness spreads from your chest all the way down to your fingertips.
The world begins to tilt.
The smell of the chopped basil on the cutting board makes you violently nauseous. You hear the phantom, heavy thud of Phil’s boots on the stairs. You feel the cold, sharp bite of the asphalt against your cheek.
“Hey,” Garrett’s voice cuts through the rising panic, firm and immediate.
His large, warm hands grip your arms, physically anchoring you to the present moment. He pulls you away from the phone, stepping into your line of sight so all you can see is his face.
“Look at me,” Garrett demands softly. “Y/N, look at me.”
You force your eyes to focus on him. You are trembling. The phantom pain in your ribs, a ghost from three years ago, suddenly flares hot and bright.
“They put his face on the internet next to mine,” you whisper, your voice cracking completely. “They think … Garrett, they think …”
“I know what they think,” Garrett says, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over your biceps. His eyes are blazing with a terrifying intensity, a ruthless, protective fire that burns away the shadows in the room. “And it doesn’t matter. They don’t know the truth. They’re bottom-feeding scum looking for clicks.”
“Everyone is going to see this,” you sob, the panic finally breaking through. “The team. The fans. Your coaches. They’re going to think you’re involved in some sick, twisted drama. I’m going to ruin this for you.”
“Stop,” Garrett says instantly. He gives your arms a gentle, bracing shake. “Do not do that. Do you hear me? You are not ruining anything. You are my life. I don’t give a flying fuck what some garbage blog says. I don’t care what the fans think. I only care about you.”
He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around you, burying his face in your hair. You grip the fabric of his t-shirt, burying your face in his neck, drawing in deep, desperate breaths of his cedarwood scent.
Suddenly, Garrett’s phone buzzes on the counter. Then it buzzes again. And again.
Garrett doesn’t let go of you. He reaches out blindly, grabs the phone, and checks the screen.
“It’s Logan,” Garrett murmurs. “The guys saw it.”
He answers the call and puts it on speaker, tossing the phone back onto the island.
“Tell me you saw it,” Logan’s voice barks through the speaker. He doesn’t sound like his usual laid-back self; he sounds absolutely homicidal.
“We saw it,” Garrett says, his arm tightening around your waist.
“I’m going to burn their server room to the ground,” Dean chimes in, his voice vibrating with rage. “I have a buddy who knows a guy in cyber security. We can take the whole site offline.”
“We are not committing a federal crime, Dean,” Tucker’s voice cuts in, calm but completely deadly. “Garrett, is she okay?”
You pull your face away from Garrett’s neck. You lean toward the phone, forcing your voice to steady. “I’m okay, Tuck.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Tucker says softly. “We’re on our way over. We’re bringing the lasagna, and we are locking the doors, and we are ignoring the internet for the rest of the night.”
“The team’s PR director just texted me,” Garrett says, picking up his phone and swiping down to read the notification. His jaw clenches. “They want me at the facility tomorrow morning for a media availability. They want to get ahead of the narrative before the game tomorrow night.”
“What are they telling you to say?” Logan demands.
“They want me to decline comment,” Garrett reads the text out loud, a harsh, bitter laugh escaping his lips. “They want me to say it’s a private family matter and redirect to hockey.”
“Bullshit,” Dean spits. “You can’t let them drag her name through the mud like that. They called her leftovers, G. If you don’t say something, I’m going down there to the press pit myself.”
“You aren’t going anywhere,” Garrett says. His voice is dangerously quiet. It is the voice of the captain who dragged a broken team to a national championship. It is the voice of a man who watched the woman he loves nearly die in an alleyway.
“I’m handling this tomorrow,” Garrett promises, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “I’m ending this. Permanently.”
***
The media room at the Bruins’ practice facility is packed.
It is usually a routine, boring affair. A few beat reporters asking about line chemistry and power-play percentages. But today, the room is buzzing with a chaotic, electric energy. The gossip blog post went viral overnight, picked up by mainstream sports outlets who are desperate to uncover the details behind the squeaky-clean rookie’s scandalous private life.
You are not at the hospital today. You called out.
Instead, you are sitting on the couch in your apartment, flanked by Logan on your left and Dean on your right, with Tucker standing behind the couch, his arms crossed.
The four of you are staring at the massive flat-screen TV, watching the live feed of the press conference.
Garrett walks up to the podium.
He is wearing a sharp, tailored black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark tie. He looks incredibly handsome, but his face is completely devoid of its usual easy charm. His posture is rigid. His eyes are cold, dark, and utterly merciless.
The Bruins’ head of PR, a nervous-looking man in his late forties, steps up to the microphone first.
“Good morning, everyone,” the PR director says, holding up a hand to quiet the murmuring reporters. “Garrett will take a few questions regarding tomorrow night’s matchup against the Devils. We ask that you keep all questions strictly related to hockey. Garrett will not be commenting on any personal matters or internet rumors at this time.”
The PR director steps back, gesturing for Garrett to take the podium.
Garrett steps up to the microphones. He looks out over the sea of flashing cameras and hungry reporters.
A reporter in the front row, a guy notorious for asking sleazy, boundary-pushing questions, immediately raises his hand and speaks without waiting to be called on.
“Garrett, Terrance Reilly from Boston Sports Daily,” the reporter says loudly. “Your PR guy said no personal questions, but the fans want to know. The article that dropped yesterday regarding your girlfriend and your father, Phil Graham — can you confirm the timeline of that relationship? Is it true you started dating her while she was still involved with your father?”
The PR director immediately lunges forward, reaching for the microphone. “I said no personal questions, Terrance. We’re moving on-”
“No.”
Garrett’s voice cuts through the room like a crack of thunder.
He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t raise his voice. But the absolute, lethal authority in that single word makes the PR director freeze in his tracks, his hand hovering over the mic.
The entire press room goes dead silent.
Garrett leans forward, resting his hands on the edges of the podium. His knuckles are white. He stares directly at the reporter, his gaze so intense the reporter actually shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“I’m going to answer that question,” Garrett says, his voice vibrating with a dark, controlled fury. “And I am only going to say this once. So I suggest you all make sure your recorders are on.”
Back in the apartment, Logan leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes glued to the TV. “Give it to them, G.”
“The woman in that photograph,” Garrett begins, his voice carrying clearly through the speakers, “The woman this city has seen me with for the last two years, is my girlfriend. She is an incredible, brilliant pediatric nurse who spends her life taking care of sick children. And she is the bravest person I have ever met.”
Garrett pauses, taking a slow, measured breath. He is dismantling his privacy, tearing down the walls he spent years building, all to protect you.
“The article implies that my father’s imprisonment and my relationship with her are part of some scandalous love triangle,” Garrett continues, the disgust heavy in his tone. “It implies that she was playing us against each other. That is a lie. It is a disgusting, misogynistic piece of fiction designed to sell clicks.”
The reporters are furiously typing, completely silent, captivated by the raw, unscripted emotion pouring from the rookie.
“The truth,” Garrett says, his eyes turning hard as obsidian, “is that Phil Graham is not a hockey legend. He is a violent, cowardly abuser.”
A collective, shocked gasp ripples through the press room.
You suck in a breath on the couch, your hand flying up to cover your mouth. He is doing it. He is laying it all out there.
“He abused my mother until the day she died,” Garrett states flatly, refusing to shy away from the horrific reality of his past. “He abused me for eighteen years. And when he moved a young, vulnerable woman into his house, he abused her, too.”
Garrett’s jaw ticks. He looks out at the sea of cameras, but you know, deep in your bones, that he is speaking directly to you.
“I met her at a Thanksgiving dinner,” Garrett says, his voice softening just a fraction, the memory clearly visible in his eyes. “I saw the bruises he left on her arm. I told her to run, and I left. But she was trapped. She didn’t have anywhere to go.”
Garrett grips the podium tighter, leaning closer to the microphones.
“Three weeks later, I ended up in the emergency room at the hospital with a concussion,” Garrett says. “She was my nurse. And when she walked into my room, I saw what he had done to her. I saw the bruises on her face. I saw the terror in her eyes. I refused to leave that hospital without her. I moved her into my house, and I swore I would protect her from him.”
Garrett pauses, the heavy, suffocating silence of the press room hanging on his every word.
“He tracked her down at a grocery store a month later,” Garrett says, his voice dropping to a harsh, gravelly rasp that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “He beat her so badly she required emergency surgery to rebuild her face and remove a ruptured organ. She nearly died in an alleyway because she had the courage to escape him.”
A reporter in the second row lowers her phone, her eyes wide with horror, a hand resting over her heart.
“Phil Graham is sitting in a maximum-security prison right now because he is a monster,” Garrett declares, his voice ringing with absolute finality. “He isn’t a victim of a love triangle. He is a domestic abuser who tried to murder the woman I love.”
Garrett stands up straight, stepping back from the podium slightly. He looks directly at Terrance Reilly.
“So, to answer your question,” Garrett says, his tone dripping with lethal contempt. “No, I didn’t steal my father’s girlfriend. I pulled a victim out of a nightmare. She is the strongest person I know, and I spend every single day thanking God that she survived. The only scandal here is that a garbage blog decided to re-traumatize a survivor of domestic violence for a headline.”
Garrett doesn’t wait for another question. He doesn’t look at the PR director.
He turns his back to the cameras, steps off the podium, and walks out of the press room, the heavy wooden door shutting firmly behind him.
The television broadcast cuts to a stunned anchor sitting at a news desk, fumbling for words.
Dean hits the mute button on the remote.
The apartment is dead silent.
You are crying. The tears are falling freely down your cheeks, hot and fast. You aren’t crying from fear, or from the trauma of the memories. You are crying because you have never felt so completely, unconditionally protected in your entire life.
Tucker reaches over the back of the couch and gently squeezes your shoulder. “He loves you. He loves you so damn much.”
“He just nuked his own privacy for me,” you whisper, wiping at your cheeks. “His past with his mom, his own abuse … he never talks about it. And he just put it on national television to defend me.”
“Because you’re worth it,” Logan says firmly, turning his head to look at you. “You’re his entire world, Y/N. He would burn the whole league to the ground if it meant keeping you safe. You know that.”
You do know that.
***
It takes Garrett forty minutes to get through the Boston traffic and back to the apartment.
When the front door unlocks and swings open, the guys are already gone. They left five minutes after the press conference ended, claiming they needed to go secure the perimeter, but really, they knew you needed to be alone with him.
Garrett walks into the apartment.
He looks exhausted. He has taken the suit jacket and tie off, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to expose his muscular forearms. He drops his keys onto the console table, closing the door behind him.
He looks up, and his dark eyes lock onto you standing in the middle of the living room.
The tension that was radiating off him during the press conference is completely gone. He just looks incredibly vulnerable, his chest heaving with a deep, shaky sigh.
“You saw it,” Garrett says quietly. It’s not a question.
“I saw it,” you whisper.
You don’t wait for him to take his shoes off. You cross the living room in three rapid strides and throw yourself at him.
Garrett catches you effortlessly. His massive arms wrap around your waist, hauling you flush against his body, lifting your feet off the hardwood floor. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting hot across your skin.
You wrap your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his dark hair, holding him as tightly as your healed ribs will allow.
“I’m sorry,” Garrett murmurs into your skin, his voice thick. “I’m sorry it got out. I’m sorry you had to see his face again.”
“Don’t apologize,” you cry softly, pulling back just far enough to cup his face in both of your hands. You look into his beautiful, tortured dark eyes. “Garrett, don’t you dare apologize. What you did today … what you said up there …”
“I meant every word,” Garrett says fiercely, leaning into your touch. He slides his hands up your back, resting them gently on your shoulder blades. “I wasn’t going to let them paint you as some sort of villain. You survived him. We survived him. And I am so damn proud to be yours.”
You trace your thumb over his cheekbone, your heart overflowing with a love so absolute it feels like gravity.
“You told the whole world about your mom,” you whisper, the magnitude of his sacrifice settling heavy in the quiet room. “You protected her memory, too.”
Garrett’s eyes soften, a sheen of tears making them shine in the afternoon light. He rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.
“He doesn’t get to control the narrative anymore,” Garrett says, his voice steadying, finding peace in the truth. “He doesn’t get to hide behind his hockey stats or his money. The world knows exactly what he is now. And more importantly, the world knows exactly who you are.”
“Who am I?” You ask softly, a watery smile touching your lips.
Garrett opens his eyes. The darkness, the fear, the shadows of the past — they are all completely gone, replaced entirely by the bright, unyielding warmth of the future you have built together.
“You’re the girl who fixed my scrambled brain,” Garrett smiles, a genuine, breathtaking curve of his lips that reaches all the way to his eyes. He leans down, brushing his nose gently against yours. “You’re the center of my universe. And you’re never getting rid of me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you whisper.
Garrett kisses you.
It isn’t frantic or desperate like the kisses in the hospital room two years ago. It is deep, slow, and devastatingly certain. It is a promise written in skin and breath, a vow that the nightmare is truly, finally over.
You kiss him back, pouring every ounce of your love into the man who stood in front of the world and fought for you.
When you finally pull away, resting your head against his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart, you look around the quiet, sunlit apartment. You think of Logan, Dean, and Tucker, who are probably arguing over who gets to beat up Terrance Reilly first.
You think of the long, terrifying road that led you from a cold alleyway to this exact moment.
Garrett holds you tight, his chin resting on top of your head, swaying you gently back and forth in the quiet apartment.
The monsters are locked away. The shadows are gone.
You are safe. You are loved. And for the very first time in your life, you are truly home.
