Blue

Nobody is being allowed in or out without security approval. Ambulances are being redirected. Visitors are stuck on whichever side of the doors they happened to be standing when lockdown started, which has created several administrative issues and one woman near reception who has spent forty-five minutes explaining to anyone who’ll listen that her husband’s phone charger is in the car.

Inside ED, though, it’s quiet. Not empty, hospitals are never empty. There are still monitors chirping, call bells going off, nurses walking quickly without looking like they’re walking quickly, and a man in bay six repeatedly asking whether anyone has seen his trousers despite the fact that he’s currently wearing them.

But it’s quiet enough that Maria lets her trail behind while she checks the resus trolley, explaining which supplies always disappear first and which doctor will accuse someone else of moving the paediatric cannulas while actively holding the paediatric cannulas in his hand.

It’s quiet enough that she gets to watch a wound review without three people squeezing past behind her. Quiet enough that one of the senior nurses talks her through the differences between the hospital’s various referral pathways without being interrupted halfway through by somebody vomiting in a bin.

Quiet enough, eventually, that she ends up at the little staff desk with her assignment open beside a half-eaten packet of crackers, Maria leaning over her shoulder and squinting at a paragraph on clinical prioritisation.

“You’ve answered the question,” Maria says, tapping one blunt fingernail against the screen. “Then you’ve answered it again in different clothes.”

She frowns at the paragraph. “I thought the second part sounded more academic.”

“It sounds like you just regurgitated a policy manual.”

“That’s academic.”

“No, honey.”

She laughs and deletes six lines, which feels rude after spending twenty minutes building them. “Better?”

Maria scans it again. “Much.”

She tilts her head at it. “Do you think I need another source?”

“You nursing students always think you need another source.”

It’s, genuinely, one of the best placement days she’s had in weeks. She gets almost two pages of her assignment done. She reviews her notes from the morning. One of the nurses shows her where everything is kept in the minor procedures room, including three cupboards she had been walking past for months under the assumption that they contained cleaning supplies.

She asks questions without feeling like she’s standing in somebody’s way. Nobody yells at her. Nobody grabs her. Nobody looks at the badge clipped to her scrubs and immediately begins speaking to her like she invented hospital wait times.

At nine-thirty, Maria lets her help redress a surgical wound while the patient tells them both an extremely detailed story about her neighbour’s son and his divorce. At ten, she gets a full set of observations on a man who rates his pain as somewhere between a four and the collapse of Western society. At ten-fifteen, she drinks an entire coffee while it’s still warm.

It’s beautiful.

There are worse places to be trapped than a hospital with functional heating, free pens if a person has flexible morals, and a veteran nurse willing to proofread an assignment between medication rounds.

By ten-forty, the lockdown is still active but security has started organising escorted staff exits in groups. Night shift has arrived in pieces, badged through one at a time, and the department has begun that strange end-of-shift exhale where nobody relaxes, but people start looking at clocks.

She signs the last of her notes, checks them twice, then once more because Maria is standing behind her and has taught her that confidence is wonderful but signed documentation is legally binding.

“Go,” Maria tells her, nudging her hip away from the computer with one hand. “Before they find another reason to keep you.”

“I’m a student. They don’t need a reason. They can just point at something and call it a learning opportunity.”

“Then move faster.”

She grins and heads toward the little locker room, shoulders aching with the ordinary tiredness of an eleven-hour day rather than anything dramatic. Her face has almost completely returned to being her face again. 

There’s still the faintest yellow shadow under one eye if the lighting is especially hostile, and the bridge of her nose complains when she forgets and rubs it too hard, but otherwise she’s healed enough that strangers no longer look at her and immediately become concerned.

More importantly, Garrett has stopped treating her like she might shatter if he kisses her without filling out a risk assessment first. Which has been excellent. Really, incredibly excellent.

There are few upsides to a man feeling guilty for disappearing for nine days, but Garrett Graham’s current willingness to do essentially anything she asks has introduced several persuasive arguments in favour of forgiveness. Not total forgiveness. She isn’t an idiot, and she’s not letting him believe one apology and some extremely dedicated oral effort have erased the part where he made her feel insane for over a week.

But they’re close to normal again. Better than normal in some ways, because Garrett has started saying things instead of deciding she should psychically interpret from across campus. He texts if practice is running late. He tells her when his dad calls. He asks before touching her when she’s gone quiet, even when she has to resist the urge to say, Garrett, you’ve had your mouth on my entire body, you can put your hand on my knee without submitting a formal request.

Tonight he’s picking her up at eleven. Then he’ll drive her back to the dorm with the heater turned high enough that the windows start fogging, wait while she showers, complain about the size of her bed, and stay anyway.

She’s going to sleep for eight hours with her cold feet tucked against his shins and absolutely no remorse.

She opens her locker, shoves her assignment notebook into her bag, and pulls on the puffer jacket she had folded badly over the top shelf. Her phone is sitting beneath it, screen black.

She presses the side button. Nothing.

“No,” she mutters, pressing it again as if the phone might respond better to disappointment.

The student at the locker beside hers glances over while tying her hair into a looser ponytail. “Dead?”

“Completely.”

“Reception’s been shit all day anyway. None of my texts sent.”

She sighs and drops the useless rectangle into her bag. “Great. Love that for modern communication.”

“I had one bar near imaging.”

“Show-off.”

The other girl laughs, shouldering her backpack. “You getting picked up?”

“Yeah. Garrett’s outside.”

The name comes out without the careful little pause it used to have. Without her trying to make it sound casual enough that nobody might suspect she likes him. She notices only because there had been a time when saying Garrett’s picking me up would have required three disclaimers and a small presentation on why that did not make him her boyfriend.

Now it simply feels like information.

Garrett’s outside. Garrett will have the heater on. Garrett will probably have food because he’s begun approaching her eating schedule with the intensity of a captain correcting a weak defensive formation.

The student gives her a knowing look anyway. “Must be nice.”

“It is,” she says, too tired to lie, then ruins the sincerity before it gets dangerous. “He’s very trainable.”

They head back through the department together. She says goodbye to Maria, who points two fingers at her eyes and then at the assignment like she expects photographic proof of revisions. She waves to the nurses at the station, gets stopped long enough for one of them to press a banana into her hand because everyone over thirty in healthcare believes students are permanently fifteen minutes from scurvy, and joins the little group forming near the secured exit.

Security walks them out in batches of six. It’s deeply dramatic for what amounts to a group of tired nurses, two students and one radiographer discussing takeaway options while following a man in a fluorescent vest down a corridor.

The lockdown has changed the hospital’s atmosphere without changing much of what the building looks like. The same polished floors. The same antiseptic brightness. The same signs instructing people to wash their hands and be kind to staff. 

But doors that usually open automatically are shut. Security personnel stand at every junction. A metal shutter has been pulled down across one of the side entrances, and through the glass near reception she can see people clustered outside under the awning, some smoking, some pacing, some staring through the doors as if concern might eventually activate them.

She hadn’t really considered the outside of it. Inside, the lockdown had meant fewer ambulances and enough time for assignment editing. Outside, apparently, it’s meant parents and partners and friends waiting in the cold without any information beyond hospital, lockdown, no entry.

The thought has only just begun rearranging the shape of her day when they reach the final set of doors.

She hears Garrett before she sees him.

“Please, can you just tell me which section?” His voice is coming from somewhere beyond the corner near the security booth, rougher than usual and stripped of every trace of his easy, teasing rhythm. “Like– ED? Is it ED? Is everyone okay? I’m not– I’m not trying to be a dick, man, I just need to know if she’s okay.”

The security guard sighs with the exhaustion of someone who has had this conversation several times and has found each version less charming. “As I’ve already explained, sir, I can’t provide patient or staff information. If you’re not immediate family–”

“She’s not a patient. She works here. Well, she’s a student, but she’s here on placement and she finishes at eleven and her phone’s off and nobody’s come out and–”

“Sir.”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry.” There’s a pause, then Garrett says, sounding like every word is being dragged through his teeth, “If she was my girlfriend, would you tell me?”

The guard’s quiet for a second.

Garrett barrels into the silence before the man can answer. “Because she’s my– fuck. Okay, well, she’s not. Technically. But if she was, would that help? Is there a form? Do I need to prove something?”

“Would calling her your girlfriend make you leave me alone?”

“Would you tell me if she’s okay?”

“No.”

“Then probably not.”

She rounds the corner, and Garrett’s standing under the flat white light near the security desk, still in his Briar tracksuit from practice, curls damp and pushed back badly like he has run both hands through them a hundred times. 

His gear bag has been dumped near the wall. His shoulders are drawn high and tight, jaw flexing hard enough that she can see the muscle move from several feet away. Dean, Logan and Tucker are gathered farther back near Garrett’s car, all three of them looking unusually sober. Dean has his arms folded. Tucker keeps checking the doors. Logan’s bouncing one heel against the pavement.

There are other people around them. Parents. A woman holding a takeaway cup in both hands. A man still wearing slippers. Everyone turned toward the doors whenever they open.

“Garrett?”

His head snaps toward her.

The change in his face is so immediate it makes her stop walking. His whole body drops by half an inch, shoulders loosening with a breath that seems to leave from somewhere below his ribs, mouth parting around nothing.

He crosses the space between them fast enough that the security guard takes one thoughtful step backward. Her bag slides from her shoulder when Garrett reaches her, but he catches neither the bag nor his dignity. He only gets both arms around her and pulls her into him so tightly her feet nearly leave the floor.

“Oh,” she says into the front of his jacket, startled enough that the sound comes out small. “Hi?”

Garrett’s face presses into her hair. His arms tighten. One hand spreads over the middle of her back, the other at the base of her skull, holding her against him like he’s just found her somewhere she wasn’t meant to be.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

Her cheek is mashed against his chest. She can hear his heart going much too fast beneath the fabric, hard enough that for one strange second her brain starts counting automatically.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

Garrett pulls back only far enough to look at her, hands coming up to her face so quickly she almost laughs. His palms cup her cheeks, thumbs moving under her eyes, over the healed line of her cheekbone, gaze scanning her with the frantic thoroughness of someone checking for blood.

“Am I okay?” he says. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah?”

She blinks at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

His stare goes flat with disbelief. “The hospital was in lockdown.”

“Psych was locked down.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Oh.” She glances past him toward the security guard, who has developed the distant expression of someone pretending not to listen while absolutely listening. “Yeah, somebody tried to leave or made a threat or something. I don’t really know. It was fine.”

Garrett’s hands stay on her face. “Fine.”

“Mhm.” She smiles because he looks so genuinely horrified by the concept that it starts feeling funny. “It was actually a great shift.”

For a second, Garrett doesn’t move. Behind him, Dean makes a tiny, strangled sound.

Garrett’s brows pull together. “You had a great shift.”

“Yeah.” Her smile widens. “It was super quiet because all the ambulances got redirected. Maria helped with my assignment, and one of the nurses showed me where they keep all the wound stuff, and I got to–”

“You did homework.”

“Yeah, heaps. I got nearly two pages–”

Garrett kisses her. The interruption is so complete that the rest of the sentence disappears somewhere between his mouth and the hand sliding from her cheek into her hair. 

Her surprised little hum presses against his lips. He kisses her harder in response, or maybe just closer, angling her face up and pulling her into the front of him as if the first hug didn’t provide sufficient evidence that she is physically here.

It isn’t a sexual kiss, despite the way Garrett generally approaches kissing her like it’s a skill he takes personal pride in. It’s too messy for that. Too relieved. His mouth catches hers once, then again, barely leaving enough space for either of them to breathe, his thumbs warm near her ears and his body still carrying the cold from outside. She catches the front of his jacket in both hands, more to steady him than herself.

When he finally pulls away, he does not go far. His forehead drops to hers. His breathing is rough against her mouth, eyes shut for a second as if looking at her has somehow become too much information at once.

“They wouldn’t tell me anything,” he says. “Because I’m not your–” His mouth tightens. He opens his eyes. “Because I’m not anything to you.”

Her frown arrives before she can soften it. “What?”

“On paper,” he says quickly. “I know I’m– I know we’re– fuck.”

Garrett Graham can explain a power play to a room full of concussed men using a salt shaker and three beer caps. He can talk to reporters after a loss without giving them one useful emotion. He can flirt while injured, exhausted, drunk, half-dressed or actively being insulted.

But asking a girl to be his girlfriend outside an emergency department reduces him to nouns and distress.

“I don’t want to be nothing to you,” he says, and this time the words come out low and blunt, dragged past whatever pride had been blocking them. “Not on paper. Not if something happens. I don’t want to stand out here while some guy tells me I’m nobody and he can’t tell me if you’re okay.”

Her fingers loosen slightly in his jacket.

Garrett presses his forehead more firmly to hers, eyes dropping somewhere near her mouth rather than meeting her gaze. “I wanna be yours. I want you to be mine. I can’t do this again, baby. I can’t not know what happened, or where you are, or if you need me, or if I’m allowed to–”

His breath catches, small enough that she might miss it if she weren’t close enough to feel it move through him.

Something behind her ribs softens. Not because she thinks being his girlfriend would magically make hospital security hand over classified information. It probably wouldn’t. The guard had made that extremely clear.

But she knows what Garrett’s actually saying. She can hear the older fear under the fresh one. The locked doors. The inability to get inside. A woman he loves somewhere beyond his reach and a man at the entrance telling him there’s nothing he can do. 

It’s there in the way his hands hold her face, careful and desperate at the same time, like he’s not only convincing himself she’s safe now but trying to correct another night, another house, another version of himself that had been too young and too small to help anyone.

She slides one hand from his jacket to the back of his neck. His skin is cold beneath his curls. “Okay,” she murmurs.

Garrett looks at her. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Her thumb moves once at his nape. “I’m here.”

His jaw works. “That’s not–”

“Is this your way of asking me to be your girlfriend?”

Garrett exhales so hard it almost becomes a laugh. He closes his eyes again, his forehead still against hers. “Fuck. I guess so.”

She giggles. She can’t help it. The sound comes out warm and soft between them, partly because Garrett looks so wrecked and earnest and annoyingly beautiful under hospital security lighting, and partly because this is the least polished romantic gesture anyone has ever attempted.

His eyes open. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not being mean.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“A little.” She smooths the damp curl near his temple. “You’re asking me out during a psychiatric lockdown while a security guard watches.”

The guard, still several feet away, turns his head toward the doors with admirable professionalism.

Garrett’s mouth twitches, but the anxiety doesn’t leave his eyes. “I had a different plan.”

“You had a plan?”

“Yeah.”

That surprises her enough that her own smile falters into something softer. “You did?”

“Dinner. Tonight. Somewhere with actual cutlery.” His hands slide from her face to her waist, keeping her close with less panic now but no less certainty. “I was gonna ask properly.”

Her stomach gives one slow, lovely turn.

She looks at him for a second, really looks. At the practice clothes and the tired shadows under his eyes. At the wet curls and the little red mark across the bridge of his nose from where his helmet must have pressed. At the fear still moving under his skin even while his mouth starts trying to recover its usual shape.

“I thought we didn’t have time for the whole girlfriend-boyfriend thing,” she murmurs.

Garrett shakes his head immediately. “Fuck that.”

She lifts her brows.

“I’ve got time to stand outside a hospital for two hours annoying security.” His hands tighten at her waist. “Figure I’ve got time to be your boyfriend.”

Her smile breaks before she can stop it.

Garrett sees it and kisses her again, quick and warm and a little crooked because she’s already laughing. His mouth stays close when he murmurs, “Answer me.”

“I was answering.”

He kisses her again. “You were bullying me.”

“That’s how I communicate affection.”

“Baby.”

She kisses him this time, lifting onto her toes and pulling him down by the back of his neck. Garrett makes a quiet sound against her mouth, relief loosening through him so visibly she feels it in the way his body finally stops bracing.

“This is the weirdest way I’ve ever been asked out,” she whispers when she pulls back.

Garrett’s eyes narrow. “How many times have you been asked out during a lockdown?”

“Exactly one.”

He grins against her mouth. “So I’m winning.”

“By default.”

“Still counts.”

She laughs again, her fingers curl softly into the hair at the nape of his neck, and Garrett goes quiet beneath her hands.

“Yeah, baby,” she says. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”

For half a second, Garrett only stares at her. Then the breath leaves him. His eyes shut, his forehead drops to hers again, and his arms fold around her with enough force that she feels the edges of her puffer jacket compress between them.

“Thank fuck,” he mutters.

She smiles into the side of his neck. “Very romantic.”

“I’m your boyfriend now. Be nicer to me.”

The words move through her in a slow warmth from her chest outward, down both arms, into the hands still holding him. Boyfriend. Garrett. Hers, on purpose, without either of them immediately following it with technically or casual or neither of us has time for this.

She thinks she had known. Garrett had a key to her dorm’s emergency contact plan and she had a mug in his kitchen. He drove her to placement, carried her bags when she was concussed, slept curled around her in a bed too small for his shoulders and knew which nurses she liked by name.

They had been dating for months with all the bureaucratic competence of two people trying to avoid filling out the correct form. Still, hearing him say it feels like discovering the room has another window.

From near the car, Dean’s voice cuts through the moment at full volume. “She said yes?”

Garrett’s head lifts from her shoulder. She turns in his arms.

Dean’s standing beside the bonnet with both hands cupped around his mouth. Tucker smacks one of his arms down immediately, but he’s laughing. Logan has already started grinning, shoulders dropping with obvious relief.

She twists enough in his arms to call toward the boys, “I said yes.”

The reaction is humiliating. Dean throws both arms into the air like Briar has won a championship. Logan shouts, “Finally,” loud enough that one of the waiting parents turns to look. Tucker claps twice with the exhausted satisfaction of a man whose roommates have at last completed a basic administrative task.

“Oh my God,” she says, already laughing as they start toward her. “Why are you all here?”

“Because he was losing his fucking mind,” Logan says, reaching them first. He pulls her into a quick hug before Garrett can object, squeezing her hard enough that her bag slips farther down her arm. “And because nobody was answering.”

Tucker hugs her next, gentler but no less relieved, one hand patting the back of her jacket. “We didn’t know if the lockdown was in ED.”

“It wasn’t.”

“We know that now.”

Dean reaches her last and immediately wraps both arms around her and Garrett together, because Dean has never met a boundary he could not make communal. “Our girl survived.”

“She did homework,” Garrett says over her head, still sounding personally betrayed.

Dean pulls back and stares at her. “During a hostage situation?”

She rolls her eyes. “It wasn’t a hostage situation.”

“Some guy said there was a weapon.”

“A student said she heard somebody else say there might have been a plastic chair.”

Dean nods solemnly. “Furniture violence.”

“You’re all idiots.”

Logan ruffles her hair, which she had spent the entire shift keeping reasonably neat. She slaps his hand away too late. “Hey!”

“You’re officially dating G now,” he says. “There are consequences.”

“What consequences?”

Garrett catches Logan by the back of his hoodie and pulls him away before he can touch her hair again. “Stop mauling my girlfriend.”

My girlfriend. The phrase fits Garrett’s mouth with embarrassing ease, like he’s been storing it behind his teeth and only needed permission to start using it irresponsibly.

Dean’s face lights with immediate malice. “Your girlfriend?”

Garrett points at him. “Don’t.”

“Sorry. Just confirming. This is your girlfriend?”

“Dean.”

“The girl you’ve been dating for six months is now your girlfriend?”

Tucker exhales. “Let him have ten minutes, man.”

“No, because this is historic.” Dean turns toward the security guard. “Sir, did you hear? That’s his girlfriend.”

The guard gives him a tired look. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Garrett says, entirely sincere.

She presses her face into Garrett’s shoulder because laughing openly seems cruel when he’s suffered enough, though his arm tightens around her waist like he knows and doesn’t especially mind.

Logan picks up Garrett’s abandoned gear bag. Tucker takes hers before she can protest. Dean starts explaining, with no factual support whatsoever, how close Garrett had been to scaling the hospital exterior.

“I wasn’t gonna scale anything,” Garrett says as they start toward the car.

“You asked whether there was roof access.”

“I was asking generally,” he mutters.

“You asked the guard if the windows opened.”

“They don’t,” she says, falling into step beside him.

Garrett looks down at her. “See? Useful information.”

She slides her cold hand into his. His fingers close around it instantly, warm despite the air, thumb passing once over her knuckles.

The car’s waiting beneath a streetlight, windows already faintly fogged from the heater. Through the glass, she can see a takeaway bag on the passenger floor and the familiar outline of the hoodie he always brings because he knows she will insist her jacket is enough and then complain about being cold twelve minutes later.

Her whole body begins to register the end of the shift at once. The heaviness in her legs. The hospital smell caught in her hair. The dry ache behind her eyes from fluorescent light and too much screen time. Garrett beside her, no longer some uncertain shape she has to defend with disclaimers.

Her boyfriend.

Garrett opens the passenger door for her, then pauses before she climbs in, one hand still linked with hers.

“You sure?” he asks quietly.

She looks up at him. The boys are circling toward the other doors, already arguing about who has to sit in the middle. The hospital glows behind Garrett’s shoulder, bright and sealed and full of other people’s emergencies.

“About dating you?”

“Yeah.”

She pretends to think about it, mostly because Garrett deserves one final second of suffering for asking her out beside a security booth.

His eyes narrow. “Baby.”

She smiles and reaches up, smoothing one curl back from his forehead. “I’m sure.”

The tension leaves the corners of his mouth.

“Even though,” she adds, climbing into the warm car, “I had a genuinely amazing day while you apparently experienced psychological warfare in the parking lot.”

Garrett leans down into the doorway and kisses her once, slow enough that the boys immediately begin making noises behind him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs against her mouth. “We’re gonna work on your lockdown etiquette.”

She smiles into the next kiss. “We’re gonna work on your emotional regulation.”

“Fair.”

“And you’re buying me fries.”

“I already bought you fries.”

Garrett pulls the door shut carefully, sealing her inside the warmth, the smell of hot food, clean upholstery and the faint cold-air trace of him. Through the windscreen, she watches him walk around the bonnet while Dean says something that makes him shove at his shoulder.

Her phone is dead. Her assignment is half-finished. Her hair has been ruined by three overgrown hockey players, and she’s going to have to explain to Maria that the lockdown was academically productive but romantically destabilising.

Garrett gets into the driver’s seat and looks at her once before doing anything else, as if he still needs to make sure she remains where he left her. She reaches across the console and takes his hand. His fingers thread through hers. Easy. Immediate.

Then Logan leans forward between the seats and says, “So, are you guys gonna be weird now?”

Garrett starts the car. “Get out.”

“We just got in.”

“Then it’ll be easy.”

She laughs, sinking deeper into the warm seat as Garrett’s thumb moves over her hand and the hospital disappears slowly behind them.

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“So, what- is this some kind of cult initiation?’ You ask.

You and Jason are clad in your pajamas, shuffling down one of the seemingly never-ending hallways of Wayne Manor, with a hoard of blankets and pillows in both of your arms. 

“Yeah basically.” He snickered. 

“I feel like I should be concerned. This is scarier than fighting the whole of Arkham.” You spare a glance at him before pausing before entering the theatre room.

“Meh, just don’t think about it too hard. If anything, Dickwad will take embarrassing pictures, and Tim will fall asleep within the first 10 minutes.”

As if summoned, Dick walks around the corner, an armful of blankets and pillows in his hands as well. Cheerfully he looks at the two of you, beaming with a teasing look towards Jason.

 “I see you two lovebirds have raided Jason’s room for blankets. I assumed you’d be warm enough snuggling together-“ Dick wiggled his eyebrows at Jason before stumbling back when Jason kicks out his legs.

“Very funny Richard.” Jason rolls his eyes, “I’d be more concerned about keeping on your feet than how my girlfriend and I sleep.” 

You shake your head with a small smile across your face before quickly moving past the two and plopping the pile of blankets in your arms onto one of the air mattresses set up and begin placing them however you see fit. Jason follows closely behind you, settling his things next to you before landing firmly on the mattress next to you. 

“Master Jason, your usual popcorn as requested.” Alfred walked over swiftly, handing a popcorn bucket to Jason, “And one for you Miss.” 

You smile and take the bucket from him, “Thank you Alfred.” 

“Y/N, what do you think we should watch?” 

The room goes quiet as Bruce steps in, looking at you for an answer. You can feel everyone’s eyes on you and Jason reaches to place a hand on your thigh. 

“Well- I mean what’s the mood?” You ask looking at everyone for any sort of help. Picking a movie shouldn’t be as daunting as the Wayne family seemed to make it. This was far more intense than any training could have prepared you for. 

“We’re not super picky,” Dick says feigning an innocent smile, “just whatever you think is good.”

You raise your brow in suspicion, picking up on the poorly disguised lie. With Jason’s very pointed taste in literature and movies, there was no way his family felt any differently.

“I assume a serious mystery or crime movie in this family probably doesn’t go over well.” You glance towards Tim who shifts uncomfortably knowing that the comment was pointed towards his reputation of critiquing every crime movie under the sun, “I’m assuming horror movies aren’t everyone’s preferred genre.”

Alfred nods in agreement, looking towards Bruce as if communicating telepathically. You continue listing off genres, thinking out loud hoping that you were passing whatever test this obviously was. Looking at Jason, you search his eyes for any support before finally breathing out and settling on an answer.

“I guess with all that in mind, we watch a classic more family leaning movie. We could do The Princess Bride or Swallows and Amazons, the one from 1974 of course.” You hold your breath in anticipation of whatever would happen.

Maybe this was the time where the family decides that you fail whatever initiation this is and hunt you for sport. Maybe your popcorn is secretly poisoned, and they only give you the antidote if you give the correct answer. Your thoughts race at the most likely improbable outcomes of any sort of failure. It’s only when Bruce speaks up that you are snatched from the newest idea of your demise that you’ve conjured up.

“No one’s ever suggested Swallows and Amazons.” He says with a pause. 

It’s like he knows you’re about to implode with anticipation of whatever comes next. He nods before an approving smile slips across his face, “I think that’s an excellent idea.” 

Jason pats your leg almost with the same relief that you feel as you finally breathe out a sigh of relief. His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you close as you soak in his warmth.

The movie begins and you feel like you can begin to relax, letting your legs tangle with Jason’s as he drums his fingers against your back. Eventually, he picks up a kernel of popcorn and taps it against your mouth, popping it in when you open. 

“Holy shit Jason- did you want some popcorn with that butter?” You look up at him to see him grinning down at you.

“That’s the way to do it doll. You don’t appreciate my taste popcorn?” He cocks his head to one side and reaches to pop another piece into your mouth.

“What I appreciate,” You say, “is not dying of congestive heart failure.” 

“Do not worry,” Your head shoots to where Damian is sitting as he pipes up, “You would need to consume approximately 362 more sticks of butter before your demise. That is, unless the amount of salt Todd slathers on his popcorn causes cellular dehydration first.” 

You stare at him, mouth agape before quickly recovering with a fit of laughter, “Thank you for that information, Damian. I will be sure to properly manage my butter and salt intake from here on.” 

In the flickering light of the film, you swear that you can see a small smirk appear on his otherwise stoic face. Stephanie tosses an M&M at you to get your attention, earning a glare from Jason who was popped in the cheek by the ricochet. You and Stephanie snicker as he takes the offending projectile and begins to eat it, aggressively chomping the chocolate candy to demonstrate his annoyance.

“Don’t worry diva. We wouldn’t let you die of something like butter.” She says, “That’s like, almost as embarrassing as almost being drowned by Condiment King.” 

Stephanie reaches to fist bump you as Dick’s head pops out of a fort of blankets like an offended prairie dog.

“Hey! That was a very traumatic incident, Stephanie!” His hand was perched against his chest indignantly, “We agreed never to discuss that again!” 

You laughed hard, clutching onto Jason’s arm, “Condiment King, Dick? Really?” 

“In my defense, he upgraded his equipment! I’ve never seen more mustard in my life!” Dick threw his hands up in the air trying to defend himself, “I still can’t eat a hotdog without a chill going down my spine.”

The room begins to burst into laughter before Tim finally cracks an eye open, rejoining the world of the living.                    “Could you guys keep it down? We’re trying to watch the movie” Sleep forces Tim’s eyes closed.

“I didn’t know you had installed a tv screen in your eyelids Timmy.” Stephanie says earning a groan from Tim before he promptly fell back asleep.

The movie continued without further incident, and you settled comfortably against Jason. 

“Do you think I passed my initiation test?” You whispered.

“With flying colors.” He says, quietly pressing a kiss against the top of your head. 

His hand rubs up and down your arm, lulling you to sleep. You feel his gaze lingering, a welcomed comfort after whatever you just had to do. Jason felt your body totally relax and breathing even out. He settled in closer, wrapping both arms around you and holding you firmly against his chest. 

“Awwww you two are the cutest!” He heard Dick whisper yell from across the room.

“Can it Dickhead.”

The next morning you and Jason were still asleep as everyone else began waking up. Your head was tucked under his chin, shielding your eyes from any light that could have disrupted your sleep. His nose rests against your head and your hands are wrapped around his bicep as if you pulled him closer in sleep. 

Quiet chatter fills the room just enough to keep the two of you from waking up.

“I like her!” Dick whispered excitedly, “I mean look at them, they’re so cute” 

Bruce nods ever so slightly observing the reactions of everyone else.

“I’ve never seen Jason sleep that hard.” Stephanie says, “I feel like I could poke him and-“

“Stephanie.” Bruce says sternly, “I’d like to avoid unnecessary hospital visits.” 

“I shall begin to prepare breakfast. I suggest we leave the two alone until food is prepared.” Alfred says wisely, “I think pancakes are in order.”

Dick spins around quickly, “Alfred’s famous pancakes?” “The first time I brought someone back we didn’t get pancakes!”

“We’ll leave you to solve that mystery chum.” Bruce begins to head out of the room before Tim finally gets up out of his blanket nest to follow.

“The first time you brought someone over we considered permanently banning you from dating Dick.” Tim said, “You didn’t get pancakes because no one liked your date. We like Y/N, so her visits get pancakes.” 

Dick paused, thinking for a moment, “fair.” 

His indignant face bursts in like an intruder in your mind. Suddenly, your survival instincts remember that you’ve been underwater for a while, and that you can’t breathe.

I lied, John. I never stopped loving you. I’m still in…

You don’t allow yourself to finish that thought as you break through the surface, gasping for air. The choked breaths scratching your throat are the only sounds you hear, and you remember that you’re the only one in the Aquatic Center.

And that it’s past 11:00 PM. Probably.

After regaining your breath, you swim towards the ladder on the edge of the pool, tightly gripping your callused hands on the metal bars to pull your body back onto the surface. And as you’re drying yourself off with your shammy, the faint click of a door opening and closing sends panic throughout your body.

You can’t think of anyone else who would be here at this hour. On a Thursday.

However, you recognize the face approaching you, and his unexpected presence relieves some of the alarm bells ringing through your head.

“Uh, hey,” You say nervously, still wringing out the water and chlorine in your hair as the hockey player approaches you. “What are you doing here?”

“Kendall told me where you’d be,” Garrett shrugs, slipping his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels.

You raise your eyebrows at him in confusion, and his lips contort into an “O” shape once he registers the puzzlement on your face.

“Oh, Kendall and I know each other. We used to…like, see each other, I guess?” He winces, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “She’s also a big hockey fan. She comes to a lot of our games and supports us, even when I acted kind of like an asshole towards her.”

“Wow, hockey players being assholes. I would’ve never thought,” The words tumble from your mouth before you could stop them, but Garrett smirks at your deadpan voice. “Seems to be a trend these days.”

“Oh, for sure. You should research the correlation between hockey players and assholeness.”

“I’ll pitch the idea to my stats professor,” You joke, and the both of you chuckle, and your chest lightens a tiny bit before an awkward silence comes along. After all, Garrett still didn’t answer your question.

Luckily, he reads your mind.

“Um, I wanted to check in on you. We didn’t get to talk after we finished our work,” He explains, alluding to the fact that you left the groupchat as soon as you submitted the project.

Your throat closes up when hearing his words, and you can only bring yourself to nod as you look down at the floor. You knew you had to take yourself off the groupchat. You were clearly imposing on John’s life. You were imposing on everyone’s lives.

“I still have your contact saved, but you haven’t responded to my messages. Or to Beau’s. But in any case, I wanted to talk to you in person,” He continues, but your eyes still fix themselves on a misplaced tile near the side of the pool. “I wanted to thank you, for everything.”

That sentence makes your head lift up. No, you must have surely misheard what he said. Why would he thank you?

“Uh, for what?”

“You were super helpful in the project. Seriously. Beau and I never understood a single word from Professor Rezkin’s mouth, and we never made the time to go talk to the TA about all the shit we didn’t understand. But you explained everything so clearly. And you were always so patient whenever we screwed something up. I know how to write a semi-decent literature review because of you,” Garrett adds with a laugh. “You definitely carried us. And I didn’t want to say all of that over text. I wanted to tell you face-to-face. So, thank you, Y/N.”

As usual, you feel the familiar pressure of tears sitting behind your eyes, the same tears that emerge whenever you receive a genuine compliment. You hurriedly blink them away before giving him a small smile.

“I appreciate it, Garrett. But you and Beau also put in a lot of effort,” You bite your lip, preparing yourself for what you’re about to say next. “And I really appreciate you guys meeting with me virtually after, um…”

“After Logan slithered his way from Hell and swapped identities with fucking Lucifer? Yeah, I don’t blame you for not wanting to meet us in person. God, he was such a maniac.”

Your eyes widen with every sentence, completely shocked with the level of Garrett’s exasperation. You never thought he would talk about his best friend that way, especially to you of all people. Shouldn’t Garrett view you as an enemy in his eyes?

“Yeah. I mean, he has every right to be mad at me. I just…wasn’t expecting that.”

“Trust me, none of us were. And that’s another reason why I wanted to speak with you in person, Y/N. I was rude when I first met you, and you didn’t deserve that. I’m really sorry.”

Well, you’re even more shocked by that apology.

You realize just now that you never received a formal apology from Garrett about his own behavior. You remember how small and insignificant you felt under his gaze in the private study room. And you certainly remember the startling question he asked.

“Why are you back here?”

However, you never expected an apology from Garrett. Your ex’s comments hurt way more than any of Garrett’s words.

“I thought you were ‘staying away from me,’ huh?”

The fact that Garrett Graham, an acquaintance whom you only met a few weeks ago, is apologizing to you before your ex-boyfriend is fucking comical.

“Thanks, Garrett,” You say quietly, fiddling with the loose threads of your shammy. “I mean, I understand why you’re wary of me, though. You’re his best friend, and my breakup with John was horrible.”

“Sure, but I don’t think you’re intentionally bothering or pestering him. You’re keeping your distance, which is all you can do,” Garrett counters, still somehow coming to your defense. “It was just a coincidence that we ended up in the same group project together. And also, I’m not wary of you.”

You scoff, playfully raising your eyebrows at him. “I’m not sure I believe that.”

“Well, I’m not wary of you anymore,” He clarifies, raising his palms in surrender. “And I shouldn’t have been in the first place. That was unfair to you.”

Giving him a tight-lipped smile, you nod, not knowing what else to say.

You haven’t exactly processed what Logan said to you. You don’t even have the time to process your ex’s words in the first place.

What happened that night at his house was not even the worst thing that happened to you this semester. And everything is only going to get worse.

“Um, I’m gonna head out. I’ve been here for hours. Thanks for stopping by,” You rush your words, starting to turn away from him to walk towards the lockers.

Maybe that’s an abrupt way to end the conversation, but for your sake, you don’t think you can talk to Garrett anymore without thinking about Logan.

“Oh, wait a second! I also wanted to see if you are down to come to our Halloween party at the house this Saturday,” Garrett calls out, and your body freezes as you halt your steps. “I’m pretty sure Kendall told you about it, right?”

Yup, Kendall did inform you about the Halloween party. A few days ago, she sent a photo of the flyer in the groupchat you have with your teammates, and everyone instantly texted her back, saying that they were “sooo excitedddd” to attend the party. When you didn’t respond, Kendall texted you personally, checking to see if you were planning on going, and that the girls would love for you to pregame with them.

Though these past few weeks have been absolutely horrendous, you somehow managed to form a solid friendship with Kendall. You still hang out with the rest of your teammates, but you see Kendall more often than the others. You appreciate all of the study sessions, coffee dates, and late night drives that you spend with her.

And if it were any other party, you would go. In fact, you’ve been waiting to go to a party. You haven’t gone out at all this semester, and you deserve to have a fun night.

But you can’t go back to that house.

“Yeah, she did,” You reply to him, preparing to give the same answer that you gave to Kendall. “I’ve been busy, though, and I want to unwind a bit this weekend. So I’m sorry, I can’t go.”

“You sure? There’s no pressure, obviously, but we would love to have you. I know Beau definitely wants to catch up with you. We haven’t seen you in class for a bit. We’ve also been coming to your home meets so that we could see you, but you were absent in the past three ones, right?”

Right again, Mr. Graham.

Also in the past month, you have spent several nights over at the hospice center, and you have forgotten to let people know about your absence. After missing practice for the third time, Coach Alvarez pulled you into her office, bluntly warning you that if you have another unexcused absence again this semester, she will consider suspending you from the team.

Her tone scared the absolute shit out of you, and finally, you knew you had to tell someone about your home life, and about why you came back to Briar.

“You won’t tell anyone, right?” You pleaded with her as your nails dug into your skin. “Please, Coach, I can’t have anyone know.”

“Of course not, Y/N,” She relieved you in a tone so gentle that you thought you were dreaming. She took her hand out for you to hold, which you graciously took.

“I’m sorry that you’re going through this. And you shouldn’t go through it alone. I won’t tell anyone else about it, I promise. But I do encourage you to talk with the Dean of Student Affairs. If you explain your situation to them, they can grant you some Emergency Absences. Your professors will have to abide by those rules, and they wouldn’t know the specifics of your situation.”

You nodded, and when she squeezed your hand tighter, you broke down in tears.

Other people have certainly noticed your absence. Briar’s weekly student newsletter has even reported on it. An editor had asked students attending the meets about the diver they most looked forward to seeing, and the responses overwhelmingly titled in your favor.

And apparently, Garrett has also observed your decline in attendance.

“I would love to catch up with Beau, too. I just…” You stop, wondering how to phrase the next part. “With all due respect, I don’t feel comfortable coming to your house.”

Garrett’s expression is completely unfazed, as if he was expecting that response.

“That’s totally fair, and I don’t want to push you. I just wanted to let you know that we’d love to see you,” He reassures you, but the ease on his face quickly drops when he mutters the next few sentences. “And for your information, we all confronted Logan for how he treated you right after you left our place. We don’t condone his behavior at all. He also told everyone that you were his ex-girlfriend, but he didn’t elaborate.”

The floor feels unsteady beneath your feet. “So, you guys all know about our relationship?”

But the question you’re implicitly asking is different. So, you guys still want to see me?

“We do. We don’t know what happened, but that’s between you guys. I understand that you don’t want to see Logan, but if you choose to come to the party, we’ll have your back. And if he acts out, we’ll lock him in up his room. Put him in his kennel.”

You laugh when hearing his assurance, and your heart swells at the sincerity in his tone. “Like a dog?”

Garrett smirks, confidently nodding his head. “Precisely.”

You think that your eardrums rupture as soon as you enter their house.

Somehow, after enduring some of the most incessant pleading from your teammates, you decided to go to the boys’ Halloween party. Even though Kendall’s puppy dog eyes were particularly persuasive, it was the conversation that you had with Garrett two days ago that ultimately led you to put on some white bike shorts and a tank top to form a makeshift Padmé Amidala costume. Nour was kind enough to lend you some holsters and toy guns to complete your outfit. And honestly, with all of the shit you’ve suffered through these past few weeks, you’re excited to have a fun night out with your teammates. You desperately needed a break.

Luckily, the house is packed to the brim, so you don’t see your ex-boyfriend immediately. And, if the universe finally decides to grant some of your wishes, you hope that you never see him at all tonight. A girl could only dream.

“Shot time!” Kendall hollers, and suddenly she’s dragging you to the kitchen, leading you through hordes of Briar students. When you stop by the kitchen counter, you hear a friendly voice call out your name.

“Y/N!” Tucker blurts out, wearing what you can only guess to be an Indiana Jones costume. “I’m glad you made it! Garrett told us that you weren’t sure about coming.”

“Yeah, I just…had some reservations, I guess,” You shrug, vaguely alluding to what happened last time you were in this house.

Tucker gives you a reassuring nod, whereas Kendall’s looking at you with puzzled eyes. Her focus then quickly deviates to the vodka in front of her, and she begins to pour some shots.

“Understandable,” Tucker says, and you’re thankful that he doesn’t air out your business for the other partygoers to hear. “It’s been a stressful semester. But we always host a Halloween party, no matter how busy we get.”

“Amen,” Kendall chimes in, giving both you and Tucker some shots. “And you guys deserve to throw a party after finally getting a win. Those losses were painful to watch. I don’t know what was up with fuckin’ Logan, but I’m glad he got his head back in the game.”

Your body involuntarily freezes at her words, and Tucker notices. As you stare into your shot glass, you have no idea what to respond, but Tucker fills in the silence.

“Yeah. It’s been a rough few weeks for him, I guess,” He responds with a grimace. “But hey, we’re back now. And I’m gonna drink to that.”

“Hell yeah!” Kendall yells, and you chuckle as she pushes her tiara back, still maintaining her Princess of Genovia costume. “It’s shot o’clock, baby!”

“Whoa! Who’s taking shots without me?” A familiar voice shouts through the kitchen, and your heart warms when seeing his matching Zoolander costume with Dean. “Y/N! You’re here!”

“In the flesh,” You can’t help but smile when Beau stumbles on his feet and clumsily goes to hug you. Already, you can tell that he’s definitely a few drinks in.

“Dude, I never got to thank you for all of your help with that fuckin’ project. You rescued us from what would’ve been a shitshow.”

“They were always complaining about that class,” Dean jokes, his long wig about to fall off at any moment. You can’t take him seriously in his Hansel costume. “I’m just glad I don’t have to hear any more complaints now.”

You laugh with the rest of the group. “Where’s Garrett?”

“Sucking Hannah’s face, per usual,” Dean rolls his eyes, before going to mock Garrett. “‘Oh, she’s just my Philosophy tutor, guys.’ Shitty ass liar. Makes me sick.”

Kendall had told you that Garrett was seeing a girl named Hannah. After everything you heard from your teammate about Garrett’s love life, you’re surprised that he seems serious about his ‘Philosophy tutor’. But even though he was an asshole to you in the beginning, you now know deep down that he was a genuinely nice person.

“Jesus, can we take a shot now?” Kendall sighs impatiently, and the whole group raises their glasses, and you gladly take your shot with them, chuckling when the vodka spills all over Beau’s costume.

The rest of the night goes quite smoothly. After you catch up with Beau in the kitchen, you mingle with Kendall the majority of the time, before Garrett sees you from the air hockey table and gestures for you to come over, a short brunette by his side.

“This is Hannah,” He motions between the two of you, and she smiles at you while shaking your hand. “And this is Y/N, aka the Sociology G.O.A.T.”

“It’s so nice to meet you! I’ve always wanted to go up to you after your meets,” She says enthusiastically, and you can’t help but blush at her comment.

“You’ve been to my meets before?”

“Of course! All of Briar was talking about you when you transferred here in August. I’ve also wanted to finally meet the person that helped him go from a C- to a B in Rezkin’s class,” She jokes, and the smile that Garrett gives her is so full of love.

The three of you talk before going over to the dining table to play some beer pong with some other students and hockey players. You’re on a team with Garrett and Hannah, and at some point in the game, you forget that your ex even lives here.

When you throw the winning shot, you then hear a fanfare of whistling and clapping.

“Awesome shot,” A tall man to your left smirks at you, and you awkwardly smile back, trying to figure out if you knew this guy at all.

“Thanks. It’s been a while since I played.”

“Really? You looked like a natural. I need you on my team next time,” He winks, and you try your best not to cringe at his tone. When you turn to look on your right, you realize that Garrett and Hannah have disappeared into the crowd. Fuck.

“Uh, sure,” You hesitantly shrug, at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, have I met you before?”

“No, we haven’t met. I’m Tom,” He introduces himself, and you don’t miss how his eyes scan your body. “I’ve been to every single one of your home meets. You’re a fantastic diver. When I heard that Briar’s diving team was coming tonight, I knew I had to pull up.”

You try to ignore the sirens wailing in your hand, so you grip your palms on the table, trying to subtly dart your eyes around the room to find someone who could get you out of this situation.

Tom keeps on talking.

“I remember reading about you in high school. You grew up in Munsen right? You were some sort of child prodigy. You won first place eighteen times in a row back in 2021. That meet against Arlington was legendary.”

Shit, you don’t even know that statistic yourself. You can’t help but wonder how much this guy has researched about you, and your stomach immediately twists into knots.

“Oh, yeah, I don’t even remember that meet,” You respond with the fakest smile known to man, before you try to turn away to go to the living room. “Um, it was nice to meet you—”

A rough hand wraps around your wrist.

“Whoa, what’s the rush, Y/N? We’re not done talking. We haven’t even talked about why you’re back here,” Tom’s eyes darken and fixate onto your face, and when you register his last sentence, you stumble over your words.

“I-I’m sorry, what? What did you just ask me? That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, come on, Y/N. Now’s not the time to be fucking coy,” He laughs as if he’s told the funniest joke in the world, and your knuckles whiten against the table. “Why would someone transfer to Briar after winning almost every meet at Berkeley for two years straight? After being trained by former Olympic athletes? That’s absurd. You’re hiding something.”

His words hit you like a slap to the face, and you’re left completely dumbfounded. Your mouth dries up as you try to snap back at him, but your mind goes blank, surrendering to Tom’s line of questioning.

Wow, Y/N. You can’t even defend yourself? What’s wrong with you?

“Just admit it. You’re not telling us something. What is it?”

Right before the tears could fall down your cheeks, a voice you unfortunately know all too well joins the conversation.

“Tom! What’s up? It’s been ages, man.”

A firm hand clasps onto Tom’s shoulder, practically jolting the man away from your body. You’re certain that your eyes are deceiving you. They must be.

Because not only is this person helping you out of an alarming situation, but he is also conveniently dressed as Anakin Skywalker. Of course he is.

“Hey, Logan. Yeah, it’s been a while,” Tom replies back in an incredibly dull voice, his tone lacking all the enthusiasm that it had thirty seconds ago. “I didn’t think I’d see you.”

“Well, you’re in my house, aren’t you?” John grins at the man as if it’s physically hurting him, his jaw visibly clenching. Your eyes widen when you notice the death grip that he has on Tom’s shoulder.

Finally, he turns his head and lays his eyes on you. Your legs feel impossibly heavy, as if they’re about to fall to the ground in any second.

“Y/N, you wouldn’t mind if I borrow this guy for a convo real quick, right?” John asks, voice eerily controlled.

“Actually, Y/N and I were in the middle of—”

“Not at all,” Your breath shakes as you interrupt Tom, trying your best to keep your own voice as level as your ex’s. “Please, go ahead. Take your time. Catch up.”

After dating Logan for four years, you knew all of his facial expressions. Even though the two of you haven’t seen each other in two years, you still know his tells. And unfortunately, you recognize the angry look at on his face. It’s the same one you saw a few weeks ago when rushing out of his house.

But, fortunately for Tom, John has the decency to be somewhat restrained, holding himself from unleashing his full wrath.

“Ah, you’re the best,” Your ex still has the most dangerous of smiles on his face, and he begins to drag Tom away by the shoulder, walking towards the living room. “Come on, man, I’ll get you a beer.”

You waste no time in running away.

The night air feels refreshing on your skin. Pop music continues to play in the background. You vaguely recognize the lyrics to “Teenage Dream” playing in the background, hearing all the partygoers sing along in unison.

You have no idea how long you’ve been sitting out here. You’re not sure if you even want to go back inside. As much as you want to dance with Kendall and down more shots with Beau, there’s no way you can continue to keep up a façade. You also snagged a vodka bottle from the kitchen before heading outside, and now, the bottle is almost entirely empty.

You shouldn’t have come to this party. If only Kendall’s puppy dog eyes weren’t so powerful.

Sighing, you fish another cigarette out of your pack. As you look down at the pack, you see that it’s almost done. It was full when you first came to the party.

Ever since you started to compete professionally, you’ve been met with intrusive questions, especially from men. You thought you grew used to them. But there was something so cruel about Tom’s presence that he quickly suffocated you, leaving you with no room to breathe.

And after that interaction, you’re not sure if you’re more shocked at Tom’s questions, or the fact that John, out of all the people in that house, came to bail you out. You wonder how much he overheard before stepping in.

You take a drag out of you cigarette, hazily staring at the moon above. You don’t hear the sound of a door closing behind you.

“When did you start smoking?”

Somehow, you don’t jump at the sudden presence of a voice. And surprisingly, you don’t jump when hearing his voice in particular.

The chuckle that falls from your lips is devoid of any humor. He pauses in his footsteps, giving you enough space.

“You want the fake answer or the real answer?”

Clearly, the alcohol has lowered your inhibitions. And as he stutters, you can tell that he didn’t expect that reply.

“Uh, I don’t know. Whichever one you’re most comfortable with, I guess.”

You clumsily stand up, cigarette still clad in your left hand as you wipe off some grass on your shorts with your right hand. You stare down at the ground, involuntarily letting out some giggles, as if this situation was fucking hilarious.

“Fake answer? Uh, I just started tonight,” You leisurely walk over to him, still refusing to look him in the eyes. “But the real answer? Ever since we broke up, actually.”

Logan carefully scans your face, brown eyes looking at you with an emotion you can’t quite pinpoint.

His silence unnerves you. Looking at his Anakin costume only makes it worse.

“Why are you talking to me, Logan?” You whisper, and the name feels so unfamiliar in your mouth. You’ve always said John, never Logan. You look up to see the color drain from his face immediately.

When you think that you detect a hint of concern in his eyes, that’s when you know that the alcohol has taken over.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, and you’re beginning to think that you will die of impatience if he won’t answer you soon. But before you could turn away, his voice holds you in place.

“Tom’s a dick. He shouldn’t have pestered you like that,” Logan mutters, looking down at his fists that he keeps clenching and unclenching. His breath hitches as he fixes his gaze back onto you. “I kicked him out afterwards.”

You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief, because why would he do that? Why would your ex-boyfriend, the guy who openly berated in front of his friends just weeks ago in house, help you out?

“Okay,” You mumble, not knowing what else to say to him as you throw your cigarette to the ground. “Cool, I guess. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Listen, Y/N, I’m really—”

Your focus breaks when someone opens the front door and urgently calls your name.

“Y/N! Nour’s been throwing up and wants to leave. We’re gonna Uber back to my place,” Kendall tells you from the porch. Her suddenly eyes lock onto Logan’s body, confused as to why he’s standing so close to you. “Is everything good here? What’s going on?”

“All good,” You blurt out, using every muscle in your body to move your wobbly legs towards Kendall. Judging by the shocked look on Kendall’s face, you figure that Logan is watching your every move. But he remains silent as you go to the front door, and you see your other teammates hold Nour’s body steady.

“Uber’s a minute away,” Kendall mutters, and you help to safely get Nour’s body down the steps of the porch.

Garrett suddenly walks out as well, Hannah right by his side. He calls out to your group, telling all of you to get home safe. And as you get into the Uber, you briefly overhear remnants of his conversation with Logan. You’re pretty sure Garrett asks him something along the lines of “What did you say now?” but the car drives off before you could make out a response.

The rest of the night consists of watching over Nour, making sure she drinks enough water and that she sleeps on her side. Kendall graciously let all of you stay the night at hers. Though, she keeps on glancing over at you to check if you’re okay. She hasn’t asked about why you were talking with Logan out there, but you could tell she was curious. Luckily, as the solid friend she is, she doesn’t pry.

After she wishes you a good night, you try to fall asleep on her incredibly comfortable couch, but you can’t help but wonder what Logan was going to tell you.

“Listen, Y/N, I’m really—”

Your mind explores all the possible options. Was he really angry? Really upset? Really sad? Those are the only combinations that make sense to your inebriated brain at the moment.

Whenever you close your eyes, you see him in his stupid Anakin robe, pulling Tom away from you.

You stay up the entire night.

And you realize that you haven’t slept at all until your phone buzzes with a text that completely wrecks you.

(6:14 AM) Jennifer/Dad’s Night Nurse: Y/N, I’m sorry for texting you so early in the morning. But you should come over as soon as possible. He got worse overnight.

They don’t look like the usual Gotham scum, they’re too intentional, too quiet, too clean for the chaotic criminals who usually roam the city. The tallest one blocks your exit. “You shouldn’t walk alone this late” he says, but the way he says it tells you this isn’t about robbery. It isn’t even about you. It’s about who you’re connected to. “I don’t want trouble" you manage, stepping back, hand instinctively going to your stomach even though they don’t know. They shouldn’t know. They can’t know. “No trouble,” the man says, too calm. “Just a message.” You try to run, you really do. You fight, too, Jason taught you well, taught you how to kick your way out of a grab, taught you where to aim when someone bigger grabs your arm, taught you to never freeze. And you don’t freeze.

But three against one, and you haven’t eaten properly all day, and nausea hits you like a fist in the gut. They shove you down, your back hits concrete, a foot drives into your ribs. You hear one of them say, “He’ll get the picture.” The world splinters into noise, a ringing in your skull, the cold scrape of pavement against your palms, the jolt of impact when a boot catches your side so close to your abdomen you scream without meaning to. Everything flashes white, then black, then somewhere in between. They leave you there, of course they do, because they’re not trying to kill you, they’re trying to hurt him.

You drag yourself up eventually, shaky and trembling, vomiting once in the gutter from pain. Your hands are shaking so violently you can’t get your phone out at first. You want to call Jason, god, you want to call him so badly, want him to find you, want him to hold you, want to feel safe. But something stops you, because you know what’ll happen if Jason sees you like this. He’ll burn the city down. And worse, you’re terrified of what you already know deep in your bones. You’re terrified something is wrong, terrified that the ache low in your stomach isn’t just bruising, terrified that the small miracle you carried this morning might already be gone.

You get home on autopilot, stumbling into the apartment you share with him, locking the door with hands that don’t feel like your own. You go straight to the bathroom. You barely get there before the pain hits you in a way that steals your breath. It’s sharper than anything you’ve ever felt, an internal collapse, a tearing grief you’ve never known. Blood comes too fast, too much, too bright. You bite your hand to keep from screaming. You know. You know. You know. You slide to the floor and curl forward, forehead against your knees, gasping through the pain and the horror and the realization that the tiny flicker of life didn’t survive the violence you took. You cry, silently, violently, painfully, shaking until your whole body feels hollowed out. And all you can think, again and again, is you were going to tell him tomorrow. Tomorrow. And now there is no tomorrow.

When you finally crawl to the sink to clean yourself up, you stare at your own reflection. You look like someone else, someone emptied, someone scraped raw. You shower until your skin burns, you scrub away the blood, the dirt from the alley, the smell of fear, but nothing takes away the ache, nothing closes the wound inside you. When you step out, the apartment is quiet. Jason isn’t home yet. You’re grateful, you’re terrified, you’re destroyed. You put on one of his hoodies, the big gray one you always steal, because it makes you feel like you’re wearing armor. You sit on the couch and stare at nothing, hands wrapped around your middle.

When the door finally unlocks, your body jerks like you’ve been shot. Jason steps in, tossing his helmet onto the table, shoulders stiff from patrol, hair damp from rain, eyes tired but still sparking when he sees you. “Hey, babe” he says with that softened grin, walking over to kiss you. You go still, frozen, but he doesn’t notice. Not yet. He kisses your temple, warm and safe and so heartbreakingly gentle that it nearly knocks the air out of you. “Why’re you up?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “You okay?” You nod, you lie. “Yeah. Just… long day.” Jason sighs, dropping onto the couch beside you. “Tell me about it.” Your throat tightens. You can’t. You can’t breathe the words, you can’t watch his face fall, you can’t watch hope die for a baby he’ll never know existed. So you lean into him instead, carefully, so carefully, resting your head on his chest while he wraps his arms around you without hesitation. His heartbeat thumps steady under your ear. Strong. Alive. Warm. And you break silently against him, eyes burning, throat tight, grief swallowing every corner of you while you keep your body perfectly still, perfectly calm, perfectly composed. He doesn’t know, he has no idea his arms are around someone who is bleeding on the inside.

You bury your face deeper into him so he won’t see the tears slipping down your cheek. He strokes your back and murmurs, “I missed you.” Your lip trembles. You force it still. “Missed you too” you whisper. Your voice cracks, barely, but he doesn’t push, he doesn’t know to push.

You want him to know but you can’t let him know. Not now. Not like this. So you cling to him quietly, sinking into his warmth, while inside you grieve alone for a future that vanished before it ever had the chance to bloom. And Jason holds you, completely unaware that tonight, in the safety of his arms, you are breaking beyond repair.

The days after the attack become a blur, a slow suffocating fog that never lifts, no matter how much sunlight touches the windows, no matter how often Jason reaches for you, no matter how many times you tell yourself to breathe. Every morning you wake with a bruise deep inside yourself that no one can see, every night you lie next to him with your back pressed to his chest, feeling the weight of his arm around your waist and swallowing down the sob that claws up your throat. He sleeps peacefully, unaware. Unaware that you lost something he never even got the chance to dream about, unaware that every time he kisses your stomach absentmindedly, like he always does when he pulls you closer in bed, your entire chest caves in. You get good at pretending. Too good. You laugh when you’re supposed to, you answer when he talks, you smile when he looks at you with those blue eyes that always saw straight through everyone, everyone except you now, because you’re blocking every window, every crack, every opening.

You don’t let him see. You can’t let him see. You tell yourself it’s to protect him. You tell yourself the guilt will destroy him. You tell yourself that if he knew, Jason would blame himself until he bled for it. But the truth is simpler and more selfish: you can’t survive watching the devastation on his face. So you bury it, deeper and deeper, until it feels like you’re walking around with a secret grave inside your ribcage.

Jason notices something is wrong almost instantly. He’s Jason, hyper observant, hyper attuned, made of instincts sharpened by trauma. He starts small. “Babe… you’ve been quiet” “You’re not eating much” “You okay?” “You’re jumpy.” “Did someone bother you?” You brush him off every time and every time it chips at him. He’s patient at first, trying to coax you in those soft ways he only ever shows you, sitting close, resting his hand on your thigh, brushing your hair back behind your ear, murmuring, “Talk to me, sweetheart.” But when weeks pass and you still stay curled inside yourself, he starts pacing more, starts clenching his jaw when he thinks you’re not looking, starts watching you with that particular kind of tension that only Jason Todd can carry, like he’s preparing for a battle he can’t see.

The problem is that Jason doesn’t know how to deal with secrets between the people he loves. He can’t. He’s lived a life full of them, used as weapons against him, used to hurt him, used to betray him. So every day that passes with you shutting him out feels like another betrayal he can’t name out loud. And you feel it. You feel the distance tightening like wire between you both.

Eventually the strain becomes something alive in the apartment, something you both tiptoe around. You start sleeping with your back turned to him, he starts getting home later, staying out longer on patrol, throwing himself into danger with more recklessness than usual. You hear it in his boots when he walks in at 3 am, the heavy, tired, angry stomp of a man who doesn’t want to be asked where he’s been. He still kisses you goodnight, every night. But sometimes the kiss lands on your cheek instead of your lips because you’ve already turned away. Sometimes his hand hovers over your hip but doesn’t settle, like he’s not sure if he’s welcome. And sometimes, those are the ones that break you, he lies down beside you but leaves a few inches of space between your bodies, breathing slow and controlled like he’s holding himself together with nothing but stubbornness. The worst part is that he doesn’t say a word about it. Not one. Jason stays silent, because silence is the only weapon he has left that won’t hurt you. But it hurts anyway. It hurts so much.

A month passes. Then two. Then three. And you think maybe you can just keep pretending until eventually the grief dulls enough that you can tell him the truth without breaking apart. But grief doesn’t dull, it grows teeth, it gnaws at you at unexpected moments, when a child laughs on the street, when you pass a maternity ad, when Jason puts his hand on the small of your back and the instinctive picture of a family flashes before you like a ghost. You start losing sleep, you cry in the shower so he won’t hear, you cling to him at night like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. And he knows. He knows something is wrong but you still say nothing. It gets to the point where he pulls away from a kiss one evening and murmurs, “You don’t want me anymore, do you?” You freeze, your lungs collapse. “What? No, Jason, no—” “Then why won’t you touch me?” His voice cracks on the last word and you realize you’ve hurt him more by hiding the truth than you ever would’ve by saying it. But still, you can’t. You can’t. Not yet, not like this. “I’m just tired” you whisper, lying again, hating yourself for it. Jason nods, jaw tight, eyes hollow. “Right. Tired.” He walks away, you curl into the couch and shake.

Two more weeks pass. You don’t see the explosion coming, not until it hits. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed folding laundry, staring at nothing, drowning in the same grief you carry every day, while Jason storms in, helmet still on, shoulders rigid, breath unsteady like he just barely survived a fight. He pulls off the helmet and slams it onto the dresser so hard the wood cracks. You jump and he notices, his eyes narrow. And something in him just breaks. “Just tell me,” he says, voice low, too controlled. “Tell me what I did.” Your stomach drops. “Jason—” “No.” He steps closer, running a hand through his hair, pacing in small, agitated circles. “No more. No more of this—this silence. This distance. You flinch every time I touch you. You look like you’re drowning and you won’t let me help. So just—fucking tell me what I did wrong.” Your throat closes completely, you shake your head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” “Then why won’t you let me in?” His voice breaks. It shatters something inside you.

“I can’t lose you” you whisper, trembling, because it’s true, the moment you tell him, you’ll have to face it again. You’ll have to relive it. You’ll have to watch him bleed for something he didn’t even know he’d lost. Jason stares at you, chest heaving. “You’re already losing me.” The words cut through you like a blade. “Jase, no—” “You don’t trust me.” “I do—” “No, you don’t.” His eyes are burning now, blue and furious and heartbroken. “You shut me out. You don’t talk to me. You’re scared of me touching you. And you won’t even tell me why. So maybe you should just say it. Maybe you should tell me you don’t want to be with me anymore.” It’s too much, your chest crumples, the grief twisting so violently you can’t hold it back anymore.

“I lost our baby” you choke, and the words rip out of you like they’ve been waiting, festering, clawing through your throat for months. Silence. The kind that swallows the world. Jason goes absolutely still, every muscle, every breath, every flicker of expression freezing at once. His mouth opens, closes. No sound comes out. Everything pours out in one long, strangled flood. “I was going to tell you the next day—I had everything planned—I was so excited—Jason, I was so happy—and then I was attacked, and I tried to protect them, I tried—” Your body shakes so violently you can barely speak.

“I lost it in the bathroom while you were out on patrol. I was alone. I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want you to hate yourself. And I just—I couldn’t—” Jason’s breathing is uneven, ragged, like someone is squeezing the air out of him. He steps back, a full step away from you like the weight of your words physically pushed him. His chest rises and falls too fast. His hands are shaking. You’ve never seen Jason shake. “We…” His voice cracks. He swallows hard. “We had a baby?” You nod, tears streaming down your face. Jason looks like someone just shot him. “And you… you went through that alone?” You sob, he scrubs a hand over his face, pacing backwards again, eyes wide, horrified, shattered. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I was scared.” “Of me?” “No. Of course not. Of watching you blame yourself.” He lets out a broken, humorless laugh. “I blame myself anyway.” “Jason—” “I wasn’t there.” His voice is getting louder, wilder, trembling with grief he doesn’t know where to put. “I should’ve been there.” “You didn’t know—” “I’m Red Hood. I’m supposed to protect the people I love. And you—you were out there alone and—god—” He turns away, pressing a fist to his mouth, shoulders shaking. Your heart cracks open watching him break. “Jason,” you whisper, reaching out.

He flinches, not because he doesn’t want you, because he doesn’t believe he deserves to be touched. “I can’t—” his voice fractures, “I can’t look at you right now.” The world stops, your knees go weak. Jason sees it instantly and the horror on his face deepens. “I didn’t mean—fuck—no, baby, I didn’t mean that, I just—” He squeezes his eyes shut, breath shaking. “I’m drowning.” “I know” you whisper, “I know, I am too.” “Why didn’t you let me drown with you sooner?” The question guts you because he’s right, because you kept him outside the pain and now he can’t find his way in. You sit on the bed, covering your face with your hands. Jason stands across the room breathing like he’s trying not to break everything he can reach. And for a long time, neither of you moves. It feels like the end, it really does, like something between you is splintering under the weight of everything you didn’t say.

Hours pass in silence. Eventually Jason sits down beside you, not touching, just close enough that his presence warms the air. His voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m not mad at you.” You nod weakly, still crying. “I’m mad at the world. At myself. At them.” He swallows. “But not at you.” You look up at him and his face softens in the way only Jason’s can, fierce and grieving and full of impossible love. “We almost lost each other tonight,” he says quietly. You nod. “I don’t want to lose you” you whisper, voice breaking. He reaches out, finally, hesitantly, and cups your face with both hands like you’re something fragile but precious.

“I’m right here,” he murmurs. “I’m angry and I’m hurting and I’m fucked up, but I’m here.” You break all over again, leaning into his touch, and he pulls you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you so tightly you can feel his heartbeat pounding against your chest. He buries his face in your shoulder and you can feel his tears. Jason Todd does not cry easily but he cries for this, for you, for the child you both lost without ever having the chance to know. “We’ll get through this” he whispers into your neck, voice raw. “It’s gonna hurt. It’s gonna take time. But I’m not going anywhere. Not ever.”

— DICK GRAYSON

— JASON TODD

— TIM DRAKE

He was on the FBI jet coming back from a case when she had called, and he would always regret not answering.

YN had been the daughter he never needed to worry about. The one who had her head on straight. She got in to a good school with good friends, and most recently, even Rossi was impressed, a good boyfriend. God knows she'd had her fair share of shitty ones.

She'd fit right in at Briar University, and though Rossi had been hesitant when she told him she wanted to stay in Hastings, he was happy that she had finally found somewhere that she belonged.

YN. Missed Call.

Those words would strike terror into his heart for the rest of David Rossi's days.

As he walked across the tarmac at Quantico, he held his phone up to his ear, not prepared for the panic he was about to hear in his daughter's voice.

"Daddy, I'm scared. Dean and I were on our way back from Boston, and he insisted on taking the back roads. We took a wrong turn and got run off the road. Two of his tires exploded."

In the background, he could hear the voice of Dean Di Laurentis, Briar University's resident hockey star, and a man with a heart of gold. Rossi hadn't liked the boy right away, but by the end of their first meeting, he knew Dean was the perfect match for his daughter.

"Babe, the truck is circling back. Maybe he's going to call for help."

"I have a bad feeling about this, Dean. Please don't get out of the truck."

"I'm not going far, sweetheart. I promise i'll be back in five minutes."

"Dean, no! Please don't open the door! Dean!"

He can't make out what Dean starts to say, presumably heading towards the truck.

But what he does hear is his daughter's peircing scream, coupled with a sob before the line goes dead.

He stops dead in the middle of the tarmac, dropping his phone. His eyes are blurry with tears, and his heart is in his throat.

"Rossi?" Emily Prentiss asked gently. "What's wrong?"

"I just got a call from YN." His voice is shaking as he bends to pick up his phone. Wordlessly, he passes it to Emily, who listens to the voicemail with the same concerned look on her face.

"I think something terrible has happened to her."

_____

State troopers find Dean Di Laurentis' silver 4Runner on a dirt road surrounded by fields, not a streetlamp in sight. A concerned farmer had called it in when he drove past in his tactor and noticed that two tires were flat, and the doors were wide open.

As soon as the vehicle was identified, it was only a matter of time before Penelope Garcia was on to them.

"Oh, no." She exhales, conscious of the old Italian man pacing the room behind her. "Rossi, I've got something. They've found his car."

David stopped cold. "Was she there?"

Penelope shook her head. "Massachusetts State Troopers were called to a piece of farmland along a dirt road outside of Boston for a report of an abandoned vehicle. The vehicle in question is a silver Toyota 4Runner, registered out of New York to a Dean Di Laurentis."

"That's him. That's YN's boyfriend. They were in Boston for a concert last night. Bon Jovi. She gets that from her mum."

"The car was found with two blown out tires, key still in the ignition. Both occupants of the vehicle vanished without a trace. A purse found inside the vehicle had YN's driver's license in it. Dean's wallet was found on the ground a few feet away."

Rossi felt his knees buckle, and he held on to Penelope's desk for support. When he had tried to call YN back, he hadn't gotten an answer. Even if she and Dean had left the car and tried to call for help, neither of them would have left their wallets behind, and Dean certainly wouldn't have left his car running.

"We have to find her." His voice was weak. "She's my little girl."

"We will." Penelope insisted. "Gather everyone in the bullpen. I'm going to do some nifty computer stuff and get us access to their case."

Rossi was surprised he kept it together long enough for the team to file back into the bullpen. They looked tired and weary, but must have seen enough panic in Rossi's eyes not to question anything as they gathered around the large round table.

"David, what's going on?" Hotch asked quietly. "We can't possibly have another case. I haven't had time to vet any."

"Not officially. This one is personal. More of a favour, really."

He nodded to Penelope, who clicked a button on her computer. The screen filled with a picture of a young couple. He was dressed in tight jeans and a wool sweater, his blonde hair in a messy halo around his head. She was a dead ringer for her father, save and except for the curls that tumbled down her back. They looked happy. And in love.

"This is my daughter, YN, and her boyfriend, Dean Di Laurentis. They went missing last night."

"She looks just like you." JJ smiled sadly. "How old is she?"

"Twenty-two. My youngest. I raised her basically on my own after her mother left. Watching her leave to go to Briar was one of the hardest moments of my life."

Another picture appeared on the screen. A silver 4Runner with New York plates, in a ditch with the doors open, cordoned off with police tape.

"They found the car?" Hotch said stoically. "Anything else?"

"Both wallets and phones were left behind." He inhaled a shaky breath as Penelope pressed another button. "This is the last voicemail she left me before her phone went dead."

"Daddy, I'm scared."

Everyone in the room heard the abject terror in her voice. By the end of the message, it was obvious that Penelope was biting back tears. Hotch bit his lip, and JJ averted her eyes.

"So, what do we do now?" Morgan asked. "We have no jurisdiction."

"She's my daughter." Rossi insisted. "And the Di Laurentis' are very well off. They have a house in St. Bart's for god's sake! We need to find my daughter."

"Done." Hotch's voice was firm. "The jet is done refueling. We're going to Hastings, and we're going to find YN."

Penelope raised a hand. "I'd like to come to. YN needs all hands on deck right now."

HASTINGS. NINE HOURS MISSING

The hockey house was shockingly well kept. At least, that was the first thing David Rossi thought as he walked up the front steps to the house listed as Dean Di Laurentis’ last known address, Prentiss trailing behind him.

He knocked on the door, and he could hear voices yelling, no doubt an argument over which player had to open the door.

The door was finally opened by a well-built young man with tanned skin and a mass of hair. “Dean, what the fuck man, we’ve been worried si- oh shit. You’re not Dean.”

Rossi reached into his suit jacket, pulling out his ID badge. “SSA David Rossi, FBI. This is my colleague, SSA Emily Prentiss. Can we come in?”

“Fuck. You’re YN’s dad. Come in.”

An air hockey table took up most of the living room, the rest of it covered by a sagging suede couch strewn with pillows and blankets. The lights were dim and comforting, and he could smell something good from the kitchen.

“Guys! The FBI are here! Get your asses to the living room!” The boy shouted before he turned to face Rossi and Prentiss. “I’m John Logan. I play hockey with Dean. Is he okay?”

“We should wait for your teammates.” Emily said, gesturing towards the couch. Two other young men joined John Logan in the living room, anxiously exchanging looks as they sat on the couch.

“Why are the FBI here, Logan?” A man built like a linebacker asked. “Did something happen to Dean and YN?”

“That’s YN’s dad.” Logan said quietly. “David Rossi.”

“The profiler? We studied one of his books in psych last semester.”

Rossi cleared his throat. “A silver 4Runner was found last night. Dean’s wallet was found nearby. There’s no sign of Dean or YN.”

“Son of a bitch.” Logan cursed. “We’d hoped they just pulled over to rest or something.”

“Where did they find his car? I’m Garrett Graham. Dean and I have known each other for years.”

Rossi choked back a sob, and Emily took over. “Off of Concession 19.”

“That’s nowhere near Boston.” Garrett said lowly. “What the hell were they doing out there?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. What concert did they go to?”

Logan bit his lip. “Bon Jovi. At Fenway Park.”

“Concession 19 is farmland.” Garrett added. “They had no reason to go out there.”

Rossi made a frustrated noise, hitting the wall. It startled the hockey players, especially Garrett, who physically recoiled. “Who did this?” His voice was strangled.

“What my colleague means,” Emily cut it, glaring at Rossi. “Is do any of you know of anybody who would have wanted to hurt either of them.”

Logan shrugged. “Deans parents are lawyers. I’m sure they have a lot of enemies.”

“But I bet the same could be said for you, Mr. Rossi. You’re a profiler.”

“Are you saying that my daughter’s disappearance is my fault?” Rossi boomed, glaring at Garrett as he took a step forward.

The third boy, who had stayed silent until now, stepped in between Garrett and Rossi. “This isn’t helping anybody. I’ll take you to their room.”

Rossi followed the boy up the main staircase and to a room at the end of the hall. It was obvious that a man lived there, but his daughters touches were everywhere: the neatly made bed, draped with a plush Juicy Couture blanket, her textbooks stacked neatly next to the nightstand, a cork board chock full of pictures of her, Dean and their friends. He picked up one of her shirts, which was neatly folded on the dresser, breathing in the smell of his daughters laundry detergent before he sat down on the bed with a choked sob.

“Mr. Rossi?”

He looked up.

“John Tucker, sir. Do you think you’re going to find them?”

“I hope so. We caught it early. The first seventy-two hours-“

“Are the most crucial.” Tucker finished, leaning against the doorway. “Listen, this might be nothing, but YN has been having some problems lately with one of the instructors at her boxing gym.”

Rossi snapped to attention. YN called him every week, sometimes multiple times, and this had never once come up.

“What’s his name?”

“Jordan Barker. He’d go out of his way to touch her when the instruction didn’t require it. Always commenting on her appearance and her weight. Nothing obvious enough to make it harassment, but enough that he really freaked her out. She tried to avoid Jordan’s classes, but it was like he knew when she was coming and went out of the way to be at the gym anyways.”

Rossi rose from the bed, leaving the shirt folded neatly on top of the plush blanket. He moved towards Tucker, reaching to shake his hand. “Thank you, John. Where can I find this gym?”

CONCESSION 19, ZERO HOURS MISSING

“Dean, do not get out of the car.”

As soon as they ended up in the ditch, her panic went into over drive. If only one tire had blown, they would have easily been able to affix the spare and be on their way.

When she saw the headlights make a U-turn in the distance and come back towards the 4Runner, she knew something was seriously wrong.

“I’m not going far.” Dean protested. “I’ll be back in five minutes, tops.”

She shouted after him when he opened the drivers door, but Dean didn’t listen. She watched him walk towards the truck, aware that her phone was still recording a voicemail for her dad. Deans phone was still plugged in, the map on his CarPlay showing that they were nowhere near Hastings.

The truck rolled to a stop and the driver got out. Dean moved towards him, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying.

Without a word, the driver lifted up a crowbar and brought it down on Dean’s head. The hockey player crumpled to the ground, and the driver slowly stalked towards the 4Runner.

YN screamed, a wail caught in her throat as she fumbled with the passenger side door. She practically fell out of the car, fumbling to her feet before she took off running, her boots sinking into the mud.

She tried to hid behind the stalks for come growing in the field, eventually cutting back into the road a few feet from where the 4Runner was. She didn’t know where she was running to. She didn’t even know where she was. But she was holding on to the hope that she could flag down another passing car. Maybe she’d get lucky and flag down a state trooper.

She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her, but she felt the hand clamp down over her mouth to muffle her scream, and the cold press of a knife blade to her throat. She started to cry, shaking in the driver’s hold as he yelled at her to shut up.

Dean and the boys sat in the stands overlooking the rink, bundled against the chill that seemed to seep through every inch of the arena. It still felt strange being on this side of the glass. Usually, he was the one on the ice, skates laced and stick in hand, while other people watched. Now he was the spectator.

But that's what boyfriends did. They showed up. They cheered. They learned the difference between a lutz and a loop, even if they still couldn't identify either with any confidence.

He smiled to himself.

You and Dean had started out exchanging harmless comments in passing. The hockey team finished practice just before your figure skating sessions, and there always seemed to be a few minutes where your paths crossed. At first, it was nothing more than teasing smiles and sarcastic remarks.

Neither of you had planned for it to become anything more.

You had a strict rule about never dating hockey players. Dean, meanwhile, didn't do girlfriends. Casual was easy. Commitment wasn't.

Then one party, one conversation that lasted until nearly sunrise, and one kiss neither of you had expected changed everything.

That had been months ago.

Since then, life had become a whirlwind of road games and competitions, late-night food runs, weekends in New York, and hundreds of quiet moments that somehow meant more than any grand gesture ever could.

Dean had never felt so completely known.

You saw past the jokes and the constant need to make everyone laugh. You recognized the parts of him he usually kept hidden beneath sarcasm and confidence, and somehow you loved those parts just as much.

Talking to you never felt like work. Silence never felt awkward. Whether you were wandering through the city, studying together, or simply sitting in comfortable silence, being with you felt effortless.

For the first time in his life, Dean understood what people meant when they talked about finding home in another person.

Being with you felt steady.

Safe.

Like the most natural thing in the world.

And somehow, despite that comfort, you still made his pulse race. Every date turned into an adventure. Every kiss still made him grin like an idiot. Every time you stepped onto the ice, he found himself staring with the same mix of admiration and disbelief.

He glanced over at Garrett and Hannah sitting a few seats down. He used to give them endless grief about being nauseatingly in love, constantly teasing them whenever they got caught stealing glances at each other.

Now he got it.

As you and your partner glided to center ice, Beau nudged him with an elbow.

"Try not to look too jealous," he teased. "She has to skate with him."

Dean rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his grin.

"Shut up."

The boys chuckled before their attention returned to the ice as the opening notes of your music filled the arena.

Dean loved watching you skate.

It was impossible not to.

The moment your blades touched the ice, everything about you changed. You looked lighter somehow, every movement effortless, every edge deliberate. Graceful. Confident. Completely at home.

It was like watching someone breathe.

He'd seen you perform dozens of times, yet every routine left him speechless.

You made the impossible look ordinary.

The program built toward its final sequence. Dean recognized it immediately.

The grand lift.

Your partner's hands settled at your waist before lifting you high overhead as they gained speed down the length of the rink.

Dean smiled.

Then everything went wrong.

It happened so quickly that his brain couldn't process it.

A slight stumble.

A hand slipping.

Your body tipping just enough to throw off the balance.

Then—

You fell.

Dean swears he heard the crack of your head striking the ice despite the music. A collective gasp swept through the crowd.

His friends all released a string of curse words. 

You didn't move.

Dean was on his feet before he even realized he'd stood.

"Y/N!"

The stairs blurred beneath him as he vaulted down toward the boards, the boys right behind him. Arena staff were only just beginning to react, but Dean was already pushing through the open gate onto the ice.

Someone shouted for him to stop.

He barely heard them.

His skates weren't on, forcing him to half-run, half-slide across the slick surface until he reached you.

You were exactly where you'd landed.

Perfectly still.

Your partner had scrambled backward, horror written across his face as he stared at you, frozen.

Dean dropped to his knees beside you, every instinct screaming at him to pull you into his arms.

He knew better.

Years of athletic trainers and emergency protocols echoed in his head.

Don't move her.

Not if there's a chance of a neck injury.

His hands hovered helplessly over yours before he carefully settled one against the ice beside your fingers, close enough that you could feel his presence if you were conscious.

"I'm here," he whispered, his voice shaking. "Don't try to move, okay? Just open your eyes."

There was no response. The fear that flooded his chest was unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

He had taken hits that left him unable to breathe. He'd broken bones. Played through injuries. None of it came close to this.

Behind him, he heard the pounding footsteps of the medical team racing onto the ice.

"Sir, we need you to step back."

Dean looked at you one last time, fighting every instinct telling him not to leave your side.

"I'm right here," he said softly, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'm not going anywhere."

Unresponsive.

Cervical collar.

Backboard.

Possible neck injury.

Possible spine injury.

Possible head injury.

The words blurred together, each one hitting Dean like another body check.

He sat on the narrow bench in the back of the ambulance, his knees pressed against the cabinets as the vehicle sped toward the hospital. The sirens wailed outside, but inside everything felt strangely controlled.

One paramedic knelt beside you, monitoring your airway while another secured the last of the straps across the backboard. The rigid cervical collar kept your head perfectly still. Electrodes dotted your chest, a pulse oximeter glowed on your finger, and the cardiac monitor filled the compartment with a steady, rhythmic beeping.

Dean couldn't tear his eyes away. Your chest rose and fell on its own, slow but steady, and for some reason, that tiny movement became the only thing he could focus on.

"Is she..." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat before trying again. "Is she going to be okay?"

Neither paramedic lied.

"We don't know yet."

The honesty somehow hurt more than false reassurance ever could.

Dean reached toward your hand before stopping himself, afraid of getting in the way. Instead, he rested two fingers gently against yours where they lay strapped beside your hip.

"I'm here," he whispered. "You don't have to wake up right now... just... keep fighting."

There was no squeeze. No twitch. Nothing.

One of the paramedics glanced at the monitor before speaking into the radio.

"Twenty-one-year-old female. Figure skating fall from an overhead lift. Unresponsive since impact. Cervical collar in place, fully immobilized. Concern for cervical spine injury and traumatic brain injury. Vitals currently stable. ETA three minutes."

Dean closed his eyes for a second.

Three minutes.

It felt impossible that his entire world had unraveled in less than ten.

The emergency department doors swung shut behind the trauma team, leaving Dean standing alone in the hallway.

"Sir, you can't come back here."

The nurse's voice was gentle but firm.

"We need room to work."

Dean looked through the small window in the doors one last time. He caught a glimpse of doctors and nurses surrounding your stretcher before someone pulled a curtain closed.

Then you were gone.

The waiting room was painfully quiet.

Dean sat hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees. Every few seconds, he glanced toward the double doors, hoping someone would come through with an update.

The entrance doors opened. Logan was the first one through, followed closely by Garrett, Hannah, and Beau. Garrett carried your bag over his shoulder. No one spoke at first.

Logan walked straight over to Dean.

"Any news?"

Dean slowly shook his head.

"They took her straight for imaging." His voice was hoarse. "They're worried about her head, neck, and spine."

Logan ran both hands over his face, pacing a few steps before stopping himself.

Garrett quietly set your bag on the floor beside Dean's chair.

"Hannah grabbed everything from the locker room," he said. 

Dean nodded absentmindedly.

"Thanks."

He opened the bag and looked through it, finding your phone.

The lock screen lit up, revealing a picture of the two of us smiling back at him. His chest tightened. He remembered you mentioning the passcode months ago, laughing that it was "the easiest number for Dean to remember."

His birthday.

The phone unlocked.

Dean hesitated for only a second before opening your contacts and finding Mom.

His thumb hovered over the call button.

"I can do it if you want," Garrett offered quietly.

Dean swallowed.

"No."

He took a shaky breath and pressed call.

It rang twice.

"Hi, sweetheart!" your mom answered cheerfully. "How'd the competition go?"

Dean couldn't speak.

Not at first.

"...Mrs. Y/L/N?"

There was a pause.

"Dean?"

Silence. He didn’t know what to say.

Then her tone shifted immediately.

"Dean? Is everything okay?"

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"There was... there was an accident during her program."

Another silence.

"What do you mean, an accident?"

"Her partner dropped her during a lift." Dean felt every pair of eyes in the waiting room turn toward him, but he couldn't look at any of them. "She hit her head on the ice. She was unconscious when the ambulance took her."

The line went completely still.

When your mother finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Is she okay?"

Dean looked toward the trauma bay doors.

"They're still evaluating her. She's in CT right now. The doctors don't know how badly she's hurt yet."

"I'll be there as fast as I can."

"I know."

"Dean, love, she’ll be okay."

Dean's grip tightened around the phone.

After the call ended, the waiting room fell silent once again.

No one knew what to say.

Time crawled.

Every time the emergency department doors slid open, every head in the waiting room snapped up in unison.

A nurse calling another patient.

A family leaving with discharge papers.

Someone from housekeeping pushing a cart.

Never a doctor.

Never anyone coming for them.

Dean had lost track of how long they'd been sitting there. Twenty minutes? An hour? Three? Time had stopped making sense the moment the ambulance doors closed.

The doors opened again.

This time, your skating partner stepped hesitantly into the waiting room.

His competition jacket was draped over his shoulders. His hair was still damp, and his eyes were bloodshot.

The moment he spotted Dean, he froze, guilt written all over his face.

"I..." His voice broke. "Dean, I'm so—"

Dean stood before he could finish. For a split second, Garrett thought he might actually swing. Instead, Dean wrapped him in a hug. The other skater completely fell apart.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I lost my grip. I don't know what happened. I tried—I tried to catch her."

Dean closed his eyes, summoning a strength he didn’t know he possessed, "I know."

"I dropped her."

"I know."

"It's my fault."

Dean pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, "No."

Your partner shook his head, tears spilling freely. Dean understood why he blamed himself. He probably always would. But Dean also knew what came with loving an athlete. Hockey players blew out knees. Football players broke bones. Figure skaters trusted another person to throw them into the air and catch them again. Sometimes things went wrong. That didn't make it anyone's fault.

Dean squeezed his shoulder, "She'd tell you the same thing."

Before either of them could say anything else, the doors opened once more. A doctor in navy scrubs stepped into the waiting room, clipboard in hand.

"Dean Di Laurentis?"

Dean's heart lurched.

"That's me."

The doctor smiled—a small one, but enough for Dean's shoulders to loosen for the first time all day.

"I have some good news."

Everyone stood.

"The CT scans of her head and cervical spine are normal. There's no evidence of bleeding, no skull fracture, and no injury to her neck or spine."

Dean let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"The neurological exam looks reassuring as well. Her strength, sensation, and reflexes are all intact."

Garrett quietly muttered, "Thank God."

"She does have a significant concussion," the doctor continued. "Given the mechanism of injury and the length of time she was unconscious, we're taking it seriously. She's going to have a rough few days with headaches, fatigue, and she'll need plenty of cognitive and physical rest."

Dean nodded, absorbing every word.

"Is she..."

The doctor smiled again.

"She's awake and she's been asking for you."

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, equal parts relief and disbelief.

"Can I see her?"

"You can."

The doctor handed him a packet of discharge instructions.

"If someone can stay with her continuously for the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, we're comfortable discharging her. We want someone around in case her symptoms worsen, and she'll need to avoid driving, strenuous activity, alcohol, and anything that risks another head injury until she's cleared."

"I'll stay with her," Dean answered immediately.

The doctor nodded.

"I had a feeling you'd say that."

Dean didn't wait another second. He was already halfway to the doors before anyone else had a chance to move.

He stopped just long enough to toss your phone to Garrett.

"Call her mom, please, G. Password's my birthday."

Garrett caught it with one hand.

"You got it."

"Dean-o."

The greeting came out weak and raspy, but it was unmistakably you.

Dean stopped in the doorway.

For a long moment, he simply stared.

You looked exhausted. Your hair was a mess, and your skin had lost its usual color. But the cervical collar was gone.

That alone made his chest loosen.

You turned stiffly toward the nurse as she removed the last of your IV.

"Look at him," you said, gesturing lazily toward Dean. "Isn't he just a beautiful specimen of a man?"

The nurse laughed.

Dean let out a watery chuckle, covering his face with one hand as he tried—and failed—to hide the tears threatening to spill over.

"Seriously?" he asked, crossing the room. "You give everyone a concussion scare, and that's your first line?"

You frowned in mock offense.

"It was..." You paused, clearly searching for the rest of the sentence.

"...a really good line."

"It was."

He bent down, pressing the gentlest kiss imaginable to your forehead before resting his own there for a moment.

"I was so scared."

The smile faded from your face.

"I know."

A beat passed.

"I'm sorry."

Dean shook his head immediately.

"Don't apologize."

"I didn't mean to..."

"I know."

His thumb brushed gently across your cheek. He opened his mouth, ready to make some smart remark to lighten the mood, but the door swung open before he had the chance.

"Fuck," Logan said as he walked in. "I don't think I've ever seen Dean move that fast."

Garrett, Hannah, and Beau filed in behind him.

"There she is," Beau said, relief washing over his face. "The woman who gave three Division I hockey players simultaneous heart attacks."

You blinked at him.

"Only three?"

A sleepy grin spread across your face.

"Must be losing my touch."

Logan folded his arms.

"You can barely keep your eyes open, and you're still making jokes."

"It's called commitment."

Dean laughed.

The sound had barely left him before you winced, squeezing your eyes shut.

Instantly, every smile in the room disappeared.

"You okay?" Dean asked quietly.

"Yeah..." You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Just... don't laugh so loud."

He gave you an apologetic smile.

"Noted."

Garrett stepped closer to the bed.

"We called your mom. She's on her way to the hockey house to meet us."

You nodded slowly.

"Okay."

"Your partner's downstairs in the lobby, too," he continued. "We told him he could come up, but... he didn't want to."

Your expression softened.

"He thinks it's his fault."

No one said anything.

"It isn't," you murmured. "Can you... tell him that?"

"We will," Garrett promised.

The nurse, noticing everyone had finally settled, stepped forward with a clipboard.

"All right, since it looks like you have plenty of people volunteering to keep an eye on you..."

She launched into the discharge instructions, making eye contact with each of them as she spoke.

"No driving until you're cleared."

"No alcohol."

"Lots of rest."

"Limit screen time if it makes the headaches worse."

"If she starts vomiting repeatedly, becomes difficult to wake up, develops worsening confusion, weakness, numbness, or has a seizure, bring her straight back to the emergency department."

Everyone nodded with surprising seriousness.

Dean looked like he was mentally memorizing every word.

By the time the nurse finished, you looked utterly drained.

You let your eyes drift closed, your head sinking carefully against the pillow.

Dean noticed immediately.

"If you guys don't mind..." he said softly, glancing at the others. "Can I have a couple minutes?"

No one argued.

Within seconds, the room emptied.

The moment the door clicked shut, Dean turned back to you.

"Think you can get changed?"

You cracked one eye open.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Whether you're volunteering to help."

A small smile tugged at his lips.

"I am."

With slow, careful movements, he helped you sit up, one hand supporting your back while the other steadied your arm. Every motion was deliberate, giving you plenty of time whenever you paused because the room threatened to spin.

He slid the sweatshirt Hannah grabbed from your locker gently over your head, careful not to bump the tender spot hidden beneath your hair. Then came a pair of soft sweatpants, guiding your feet through one leg at a time while you leaned against his shoulder for balance.

When you were finally dressed, he crouched in front of you to help you into your sneakers.

Only then did he stop.

He rested his hands lightly on your knees and looked up at you.

"You don't have to be brave with me."

The room fell quiet.

His eyes searched yours, taking in the exhaustion, the lingering confusion, and the effort it was taking just to stay awake.

"How are you really doing?"

For the first time since the fall, there was no audience.

Just the two of you.

You stared down at your hands for a long moment before speaking.

"I think..." Your voice caught.

Dean stayed silent.

"I think I'm done skating."

The words hung in the room.

He knew what they cost you.

Skating wasn't just a hobby. It was early mornings before class. Hours in freezing rinks. Competitions. Blisters. Bruises. Missing holidays. Chasing scores by fractions of a point. It was the language you spoke before you knew how to put your dreams into words.

It was part of who you were.

Dean swallowed hard.

"Hey."

You finally looked up at him.

"You don't have to decide that today."

A tear escaped before you could stop it.

"But what if I never trust another lift again?"

Dean reached up, brushing it away with his thumb.

"Then you don't."

"I almost..." Your voice broke. "Dean, I don't even remember hitting the ice. I woke up in a hospital."

"I know."

"What if next time is worse?"

He took both of your hands in his.

"Then that's a conversation for months from now."

You let out a shaky breath.

"I don't know if I can go back."

"You don't have to."

You searched his face.

"But if I quit..."

"You won't be quitting."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

He squeezed your hands gently.

"If you decide, after you've healed, after the headaches are gone, after you've had time to think—not today, not tomorrow, but when you're ready—that skating isn't what you want anymore..."

He paused.

"...that's not quitting."

"That's choosing."

"You've already proved how tough you are. You don't owe anyone another performance just because you've spent years getting here."

You looked away, tears quietly slipping down your cheeks.

"It feels like I'd be losing part of myself."

Dean's expression softened.

"I don't think skating is what made you who you are."

"It isn't?"

He shook his head.

"You make little kids stop and watch through the glass because they think you're magic."

A watery laugh escaped you.

"You make my teammates feel like family."

Another tear rolled down your cheek.

"You make my mom think I'm finally dating someone good for me."

That earned him a tiny smile.

"You make every room brighter the second you walk into it."

He rested his forehead against yours.

"The ice is just where everyone else got to see it."

Your eyes closed.

For the first time all day, you let yourself cry.

Not because your head hurt.

Not because you were scared.

But because someone had finally given you permission not to have all the answers.

Dean wrapped his arms around you as carefully as he could, mindful of your aching body.

"You don't have to decide today," he whispered again.

"So..."

You sniffled.

"...can I just be your girlfriend for a while?"

He smiled.

"You have never been just anything."

"Can we go home?"