Not Enough, Yeah

Tim tapped a control, the image zoomed inward, and an abandoned settlement appeared.

"Three days ago," Tim began, "a League deep-space probe detected artificial structures on an uncharted world near the edge of explored space."

The hologram shifted again to reveal rows of metallic buildings appeared, roadways, towers, an entire city.

Bart leaned forward.

"So we're doing archaeology now?"

"No," Tim replied. "We're investigating why a supposedly abandoned colony suddenly started transmitting power signatures."

That got everyone's attention.

Cassie frowned. "Someone's living there?"

"We don't know."

Jaime crossed his arms. "No distress signals?"

"None."

"No ships?"

"None."

"That's not suspicious at all."

Tim ignored him and continued, "The colony predates most modern galactic records. League databases couldn't even identify it."

You glanced up at the hologram, something about the architecture felt familiar, not enough to place it, just enough to make the back of your neck itch.

Batman finally spoke, "If anything appears unusual, report it immediately. Do not separate from the team."

Bart groaned. "Why does he always say that right before things go horribly wrong?"

The ride to the colony took several hours.

The Bio-Ship drifted silently through space while everyone occupied themselves, Bart was playing a game on his phone., Cassie was reading mission files, Jaime was arguing with Khaji-Da all while Tim was reviewing maps.

You sat near one of the observation windows, watching stars streak past, with Conner eventually dropping into the seat beside you.

"You've been quiet."

You shrugged.

"Just thinking."

"About?"

"The colony."

Conner glanced toward the mission files,"You know something?"

"No."

You hesitated, "Maybe."

That earned his attention.

"The architecture looked familiar."

"How familiar?"

You frowned, "I don't know."

The answer bothered you.

Kryptonian memory wasn't perfect, but you usually remembered things your dad taught you. This felt like trying to remember a dream, close enough to touch, too far away to grasp. Before you could think about it further, Bio-Ship's voice echoed through the cabin.

"Approaching destination."

Everyone immediately sat up.

Tim stood, "Alright, team. Let's work. We don't need traditional oxygen masks because there's a breathable atmosphere, but the air's dense so keep your rebreathers on, Superboy, Supergirl, you're exempt."

The colony should have been empty, instead, it felt more like a graveyard.

The Bio-Ship landed in the centre of the settlement with a low hum, the ramp lowered and cold wind rushed inside, making you shiver.

Tim stepped out first, the rest of you followed, the only thing that greeted you was silence. The settlement stretched endlessly across the landscape, metallic structures rose from the dark terrain, dust drifted through empty streets. No lights, no movement, no signs of life.

Bart rubbed his hands together from the cold.

"Creepy."

"Very descriptive," Tim said.

"I'm serious. This place looks haunted."

You were about to make fun of him when your gaze landed on one of the nearby buildings. Then another, then another.

Your stomach dropped. "No way."

Cassie glanced over. "What?"

You pointed toward a series of symbols etched into a nearby wall, "I know that language." The team immediately turned toward you.

Jaime frowned. "You do?"

Slowly, you approached the markings. Your pulse quickened, you'd seen them before. Not in person, but your father had shown you enough Kryptonian texts growing up.

Stories, historical records, maps, lessons about a world that no longer existed. You recognised the symbols instantly.

"It's Kryptonian." The silence that followed was immediate.

Tim's expression sharpened. "You're sure?"

"Yeah." You swallowed. "I'm pretty sure. It's not Phaelosian, or from Planet Daxam, it could be another offshoot but I'm certain the origin is Kryptonian. "

Suddenly the colony felt much less abandoned, and much more personal.

The team spent the next hour investigating, most of the settlement appeared untouched, there were no signs of battle. No signs of evacuation, no signs of disaster.

Just...nothing.

Entire buildings stood frozen in time, equipment remained where it had been left, personal belongings sat abandoned, it looked as though everyone had vanished in the middle of their day. You found children's toys, family photographs, records written in Kryptonian, a civilisation preserved in a single moment.

The deeper you explored, the stranger things became, organic growths crawled across walls and ceilings, dark tendrils spread beneath metallic surfaces. Vein-like structures pulsed beneath the colony itself.

Alive, growing, watching.

Jaime scanned one of them, followed by his visor lighting up.

"Definitely biological."

"That's reassuring," Bart muttered.

"It wasn't meant to be."

The first scream echoed through the colony moments later.

Everyone froze.

Tim reacted instantly.

"Look out!"

The wall beside you exploded. Metal and debris erupted outward, and a massive creature burst through the structure.

Then another, then three more. The colony erupted into chaos, the creatures moved like predators, not animals but hunters.

Their bodies were covered in thick armoured plating, multiple eyes tracked movement simultaneously, their claws carved through metal like paper.

One lunged directly at Bart, he vanished in a yellow blur. Another slammed into Cassie. She caught it midair and hurled it through a building, with the impact shattering half the structure.

You launched yourself skyward, heat vision erupted from your eyes, the beam struck one creature directly in the chest. It barely slowed down.

"What?!"

The thing roared, then jumped, like actually jumped, thirty feet straight into the air.

Its claws scraped across your shoulder before Conner intercepted it, the two crashed through a nearby tower. The ground shook, everywhere you looked the fight intensified.

Jaime's cannons lit up the colony, Bart became a streak of yellow lightning. Cassie punched one creature hard enough to send it flying across the city. You grabbed another by the throat and drove it through three separate walls.

The creature shrieked, its tail whipping wildly, then another creature appeared behind you, too fast. Its claws raked across your side, whilst it didn't cut you, the force of it hurt like a bitch.

You retaliated immediately, your punch shattered its armoured skull. The body collapsed, yet more kept coming. They emerged from underground tunnels, from buildings, from hidden nests buried beneath the colony, dozens upon dozens.

The fight stretched on for nearly twenty minutes and by the end, the streets looked like a war zone. Broken structures, cracked pavement, creature corpses everywhere.

Eventually the battle turned, the creatures began falling one by one. Until only a single survivor remained, its body lay broken across the colony floor.

Breathing heavily, dying. You approached carefully.

Conner moved beside you.

"Think that's all of them?" Bart asked.

"Hopefully."

The creature twitched, then its tail lashed outward. Pain exploded through your calf, you screamed as the barb punched straight through your leg. For a split second it felt like molten metal had been driven into your flesh.

Then the tail ripped free, you stumbled backward, the world tilted.

Conner caught you before you hit the ground.

"Y/N!"

Your entire leg burned, not normal pain but something deeper. You looked down, the wound itself wasn't severe, just a puncture, already healing. At least, it should have been.

Instead the flesh around it remained red and raw and irritated. It was burning, like poison spreading beneath your skin.

"I'm fine," you managed.

Conner didn't believe you, neither did Tim.

"Let's head out, we've got our data, we know where the signatures were coming from. We're going to analyse the rest of the colony upon arrival at the Watch Tower, and if we ever come back, we'll need reinforcements."

So the team boarded the Bio-Ship and headed home.

For the first fifteen minutes everything seemed normal.

Then the pain returned. It started in your leg, a deep ache spreading upwards Your muscles felt heavy and your thoughts sluggish, a strange exhaustion settling over you. You sat down hard in one of the Bio-Ship seats.

Conner noticed immediately.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"You don't sound okay."

"I'm fine."

Cassie appeared from her seat.

"You look awful."

"Wow. Thanks."

"No, seriously."

You frowned, something felt wrong. You stood, or tried to because your balance immediately wavered.

Conner grabbed your arm,"Easy."

"I'm okay." You pulled away.

Then you tried to fly,yet nothing happened, causing you to freeze.

Conner noticed. "What?"

You stared at him.

Then pushed off the floor again. Nothing.

No lift, no instinctive pull, no effortless weightlessness. Just fricking gravity. (insert Kenma's gravity speech lmaoooo)

Your stomach dropped. "No."

"What?"

You tried again, nothing. Panic began creeping into your chest. "No no no." (Obsession type shit lmao)

Cassie stood. "Y/N?"

"I can't fly."

Silence filled the cabin. You looked around, everyone stared, "I can't fly."

The words sounded ridiculous, impossible even. You were Kryptonian, flying wasn't something you thought about, It was like breathing, and suddenly it was gone.

Tim immediately moved closer. "What do you mean you can't fly?"

"I mean I can't fly."

Fear settled over the cabin, because powers didn't just disappear, not for Kryptonians, not without a reason. Slowly, you pulled up the leg of your suit. Dark silver veins stretched from the wound which had begun to fester, branching beneath your skin, moving upward, growing.

"What the hell?" Bart whispered, even Tim looked alarmed.

You stared at the veins, then watched them spread another centimetre.

Tim immediately opened a communications channel. "Robin to Watchtower."

Static crackled. Then Cyborg's voice answered.

"Go ahead."

Tim's eyes never left you. "We need medical personnel waiting in Hangar Three."

"What's the situation?"

Tim hesitated, for the first time all mission.

"Supergirl's injured."

The ride back felt endless.

The veins continued spreading, the pain only worsening.

Your hearing flickered occasionally, your strength felt inconsistent, your waterline grew teary and you began to sweat profusely, breathing got harder, holding your head up got harder. Every symptom made the cabin quieter, more tense.

Nobody joked anymore, nobody talked much.

Conner stayed beside you the entire trip, a hand resting around you as you laid your head on his shoulder, as though he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go. By the time the Bio-Ship entered Watchtower airspace, standing felt difficult, like your body wasn't listening anymore.

The hangar doors opened before the ship had fully landed, heroes were already waiting.

Nightwing, Flash, Black Canary. Several League medics. Batman stood further back, cape draped around his shoulders.

And Jason.

You almost missed him.

Leaning against the far wall in his Red Hood gear, arms crossed.

"When does he ever come around here?" You think to yourself in a daze

The second he saw you being helped down the ramp, he straightened, every trace of casual indifference vanishing. The moment they saw you, concern spread through the crowd.

Conner helped you down the ramp. You hated that. You hated needing help. You took two steps, then your vision blurred. A violent cough tore through your chest. You doubled over.

Something warm splattered across your hand. For a second, your brain didn't process it. Then you looked down.

It was blood. Bright red blood.

The hangar went silent.

Another cough hit, harder this time, blood spraying across the floor.

"Y/N!" Someone shouted your name but you struggled to make out who.

Your nose started bleeding next, not a trickle or a drip, but a steady stream. Panic erupted instantly.

You felt your eyes getting teary again but instead of water, blood escaped your waterline. The throbbing pain in your calf was so concentrated that your next step had your leg giving out.

In your daze, you'd thought you'd pass out before you hit the floor, but someone caught you.

Jason.

One second he was across the hangar, the next he was kneeling in front of you. His hands cupped your face. "Hey. Hey, look at me."

You blinked through the dizziness.

"Jace..."

His expression was terrifying, the absence of his helmet makes him look so much less threatening in your opinion. He wasn't angry or annoyed. But he was scared, actually scared.

"Stay with me." Another cough wracked your body, blood stained the "S" symbol of your suit. Jason swore viciously.

"Move!" he barked at the crowd. The command snapped everyone into motion.

Nightwing reached your side, Flash disappeared and reappeared with medical equipment. Batman was already moving.

But Jason never let go of you.

One hand remained locked around yours, the other pressed against your shoulder. Grounding you, keeping you upright, as if sheer stubbornness could stop whatever was happening.

"You're okay," he said. The lie sounded desperate.

"You hear me? You're okay." Jason held you before your eyes shut.

The last thing you saw before everything went dark was him shouting for the medics.

When you woke again, to say you felt like shit would've been the understatement of the century.

Your mouth parched, your eyelids heavy with fatigue, the tightening in your chest was sharp, and combined with the tautness of your muscles, you could barely move. The throbbing, hot sensation in your calf felt stronger, and your head continued to pound.

Arguably, the worst part of it all was that this was so foreign to you.

Being half-Kryptonian, you had never experienced human illnesses, so you being so severely sick gutted you in a way you couldn't describe.

The way you felt wasn't the only difference, the room was different too.

White, quiet, contained. The first thing you noticed, after fighting a wave of nausea, was the glass, thick and reinforced.

The second was your mother. Lois sat beside your bed, her hand wrapped around yours. The relief on her face nearly made you cry.

"Mom?" Lois immediately stood to give you a hug.

"Hey, honey." Your throat felt raw.

"What happened?" Her smile faltered slightly.

The answer came from the observation glass. Clark stood on the opposite side alongside your little brother Jon, and Kara. All separated from you, unable to enter, then you noticed someone else. Jason, still there, like he'd never left.

"What happened?" This time your voice cracked.

Lois squeezed your hand. "You're sick baby."

"Doesn't answer my question." You joked

"That disease you contracted is Kryptonian." Silence.

"Meaning?" You didn't know why you even asked that, you knew what she meant.

"It only infects Kryptonians." Despite, knowing what she was going to say , the room suddenly felt colder.

Outside the glass, Clark looked helpless, and that scared you more than the virus ever could, because your dad always knew what to do. Except now, he couldn't even sit beside his daughter.

"Where's Conner?" You asked, noticing his absence.

"Bruce—Batman, suggested he be put on observation, he was in close contact with you and they still don't know how the disease spreads, they don't know if he could be infected, but from the looks of it he's okay."

"How long have you been here? You don't get off work till 6'oclock today—wait what time is it?"

"Only a couple hours baby, Perry let me go early after I told him you had an accident." Your mother responded

"You made me sound like a baby." You complained.

"You are my baby." She laughed

"They made me go through several decontamination chambers before coming in here, I'll probably have to go through those again eugh."

" Gonna ruin your hair?" You asked. "You bet." You could hear the smile in her voice without even looking at her

The following days blurred together. Your powers began failing one by one. Flight disappeared first, your heat vision followed. Then your strength, then your hearing. The world grew quieter, smaller, scarier.

The hemorrhaging came and went. Some days it was nosebleeds, other days it was coughing up blood so severe the medical alarms went off. Every episode left the Watchtower and your family shake, and every single time, when you looked through the observation window afterward, Jason was there.

Sometimes standing beside Dick. Sometimes arguing with Bruce. Sometimes asleep in a chair because he refused to go home.

Outside your room, the Watchtower became a war room. Barry practically lived in the laboratory, with Bruce working beside him.

Dr. Leslie Thompkins joined the effort. Mr. Terrific, Cyborg, and every scientific mind available contributed.

The virus had originated from the colony itself—an ancient Kryptonian pathogen. Something engineered long ago to target Kryptonian biology specifically (Thaedus vs Viltrum type shit ok im sorry i'll stop)

A weapon, one that should have stayed buried, and it was killing you from the inside out.

Jason took it worse than most people realised, maybe because nobody knew exactly what the two of you were, and ever since the fallout between you guys because you found out about his fling with Rose Wilson, of all people, he'd never had the chance to apologise, and it took you being on your deathbed for him to come to that conclusion (potential fic idea 👀 send me thoughts guys)

And every time your condition worsened, he looked like he was being torn apart. After a particularly bad hemorrhage that left you unconscious, he asked to enter your room.

He couldn't bare to see you sick, how you, once so full of life was now wasting on a hospital bed, but he had to see you. Sure, he saw blood every night in Gotham, but you were different.

He walked through several of the decontamination chambers to get to you, all while holding a bouquet of your favourite flowers. The last time he bought you those were for your 15th birthday.

After sitting down beside you, he dropped the flowers by the bedside table, he never believed in any of that sentimental shit but he had a lot to say, but had no way to say it. All he could do, was be there, and hope and pray Barry would find a cure.

Although you weren't awake to see it, when Jason reached for your hand, this time, he didn't let go.

Garrett’s stretched along the couch behind her, shirtless because he claims her apartment is too warm and because, more realistically, Garrett Graham has never encountered an indoor temperature that could convince him to keep clothes on.

Grey sweats sit low on his hips, one bare foot hanging off the armrest, the unfinished television stand still lying in pieces across the rug because he abandoned it the second she sneezed six times in a row and nearly headbutted the instruction manual.

His thumbs work slowly into the muscle beside her neck, broad hands kneading over her shoulders with surprising care. Usually she’d accuse him of trying to distract her from the fact that he has installed one cabinet door upside down. Today, she only lets her head fall forward and makes a thick, miserable little sound through her nose.

Garrett’s hands pause. “You good, baby?”

She sniffs, which accomplishes absolutely nothing, then leans back until her spine settles against his chest. His skin is warm through her thin shirt, and he immediately makes room for her, one arm sliding around her middle while the other resumes rubbing the tight place where her shoulder meets her neck.

“Feel like shit,” she mumbles.

“I can tell.”

She turns her head enough to look at him, eyes watery and narrowed. “That was mean.”

“It wasn’t.” His mouth twitches. “You look cute.”

She tries to scoff, but it catches somewhere behind the congestion and becomes a small cough instead. Garrett reaches for the water bottle on the table and puts it into her hand without comment, then catches the tissue slipping from her fingers and drops it into the rubbish bag he’s hooked over the side of the couch.

The efficiency of it is annoyingly tender. She drinks, hands the bottle back and lets herself sag into him again, cheek pressed to the warm centre of his chest. His fingers move into her hair, scratching gently at her scalp, careful around the strands tangled from lying down all afternoon.

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” she murmurs.

“About your allergies?”

“About me being pathetic.”

Garrett looks down at her, amusement soft around the edges. “Baby, you threatened to stab Dean with a fork last week because he ate one of your fries.”

“He knew what he was doing.”

“I’m just saying. Your reputation can survive a runny nose.”

She pinches weakly at his side. He catches her hand, kisses her knuckles and tucks it beneath his palm against her stomach.

“Go to sleep,” he says, mouth brushing the top of her head. “I’ll finish the TV stand.”

Her eyes drift shut. “The door’s upside down.”

“I know.”

A laugh moves through her, small and stuffy and warm against his chest. Garrett’s arm tightens around her, and this time, when his thumb strokes slowly over her ribs, she doesn’t find anything mean to say at all.

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You wake slowly, gradually surfacing from sleep to the subtle pressure of lips against your temple. Bruce has always been like this—soft in private, reverent in the moments he thinks you aren’t fully awake. You feel him before you see him, the weight of his hand gentle against your waist, his breath warm on your cheek, then your jaw, and finally your shoulder.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs. His voice is low, gravel-laced from sleep, still carrying the intimacy of night.

You tilt your head toward him without a word, letting him continue, soft kisses melting into your skin like candle wax. His hand spreads over your belly, thumb sweeping along your ribs with an affectionate press.

“You don’t look a day over twenty-five,” he mutters into your hair, lips curling, “but I have irrefutable evidence of your actual age in my safe downstairs.”

You laugh—quiet, but genuine. “Evidence?”

“Mmhmm. License. Passport. A file labeled ‘Kent—Wayne, Y/N’.”

“You keep a file on me?”

“I keep a file on everyone,” he says, smiling against your cheek. “Yours just happens to be my favorite.”

“I love you,” you murmur, fingers curling around the sheet. “Happy birthday... to me.”

He smiles bigger. “Morning missions are canceled today.”

You let out a contented breath and settle back, the world soft around the edges for the first time in weeks.

As if summoned by prophecy, your bedroom door bursts open with all the force and drama only children—and Alfred—can carry. Behind them bounds Ace, his claws scrabbling against the hardwood floor before leaping effortlessly onto the bed, and last—but not to be forgotten—Miss Whiskers the cat slinks her way across the room, tail flicking with regal entitlement.

“Happy birthday to you—!”

“—happy birthday to you!”

“Happy birthday, mama—!”

The singing is off-tune, chaotic and stumbling over itself, but you barely have time to laugh before the whole room is full. Tim enters first, balancing a massive tray of breakfast with the careful hands of a boy who probably bribed Alfred with tech work to help him. Cassandra is close behind, clutching the edge of the tray to help. Dick follows in socks that slide on the floor, his hair an overgrown mess of curls, and Alfred walks behind them with all the calm grace of a man used to waking up early for every major holiday.

You sit up slowly, sweeping the comforter up over your chest as you lean into the headboard, smiling so widely your cheeks ache.

“Careful, careful!” Alfred warns as Tim sets the tray on your lap. “Master Timothy, do not spill the syrup on her lap again.”

“That was once, Alfred,” Tim mutters, half-pouting. “Once.”

“Once too many,” Cassandra adds in deadpan, but you see the curve of a smile in her mouth as she perches herself by your side.

Bruce groans and flops onto his back beside you, one hand shielding his eyes. “You’re lucky I love you all,” he says into the ceiling, voice gravelly.

“You’re lucky we made pancakes,” Tim says, grinning now, clearly proud of the work. He points to the top stack. “That one has a candle. For blowing out. It’s the birthday one.”

Indeed, a single birthday candle—pink and a bit crooked—has been stabbed into a tall pancake, the wick already smoking faintly from being lit downstairs.

You shake your head in disbelief. “You all planned this?”

“Of course we did,” Dick says proudly. “Cass supervised the syrup-to-pancake ratio. Tim made the coffee. I was... moral support.”

“I made the list,” Cassandra says softly.

Your gaze slides to Alfred, who bows his head and offers a fond smile. “It was a group effort. But allow me to assure you, no one left the kitchen with unwashed hands or unsupervised fire.”

Your heart warms. Completely and without hesitation.

“Madam,” he says, formal as ever, though you see the fondness dancing in his eyes. “Many happy returns.”

You sit there, tray heavy with pancakes and steaming coffee, your family crowding around you on the bed, all warmth and chaos and love. Your children. Your animals. Your people.

Tim leans over your shoulder and nudges the plate. “Blow the candle, mom.”

You glance around the room, at the hopeful faces, at the kids trying to be casual and Bruce trying not to get smothered by a hundred-pound dog, and you close your eyes.

You blow.

Applause erupts around you. Whiskers flinches and Ace barks once, as if offended he wasn’t warned. Tim beams. Cassandra claps her hands gently.

Bruce leans in to kiss your cheek again. “I love you,” he whispers. “Every year more.”

“I love you back,” you murmur.

Dick leans in to kiss your cheek with an exaggerated smooch. “Happy birthday, mom,” he says, loud and proud. “God, thirty-seven? You’re so ancient.”

Bruce groans again. “You’re still grounded.”

“I’m literally not even living here right now,” Dick replies, unbothered.

Cassandra leans in and rests her head on your shoulder. “I made the card,” she whispers.

“You did?” you ask, touched.

She nods, and from beneath one of the pillows, she carefully pulls out a folded paper full of hand-drawn symbols and flowers. On the front is a little sketch of your garden, her signature now unmistakable in the corner. Inside, the message is simple.

Happy birthday to the best mom in the world. Love you forever, your daughter Cassandra.

You don’t realize your eyes are misty until Tim tries to pass you the syrup and you blink too hard to see the bottle clearly.

For a while, it’s nothing but laughter and coffee and the kind of slow joy you’ve fought for. It’s been two years now—two years since Tim started calling you “mom” without flinching, two years since Cass came into your life and quietly wrapped herself around your soul. Two years of growing, healing, building something new.

You think of Jason—always. You wonder what he’d look like now, how his voice might’ve deepened. If he’d still call you “ma” in that gruff, reluctant way that made your heart flutter. He would’ve turned eighteen this year. You breathe in and let the grief pass gently, respectfully, like an old companion.

You all stay like that—eating, laughing, sharing soft smiles and playfully stealing bites—for well over an hour. Your phone buzzes sometime between coffee refill two and three. Bruce picks it up from the nightstand and peers at it.

“Smallville.”

“Put it on speaker,” you say, mouth full of berry pancake.

He does.

“Happy birthday, baby girl!” your mother’s voice cries through the line. Behind her, you hear your dad trying to figure out speaker settings.

“I got it! No, Lois said—oh, there we go. You hear us, sweetheart?”

You laugh. “Loud and clear.”

Lois cuts in with a sarcastic drawl. “Happy birthday, Y/N. We’re trying to keep Jon from eating the cupcakes meant for your virtual party.”

“Too late!” Jon’s voice says proudly. “I got blue frosting!”

Conner snorts. “That was your cupcake.”

“Happy birthday,” Clark says gently, his voice coming clearer now. “I hope they’re spoiling you over there.”

You glance around the room—at the tray on your lap, the kids half-fighting over whipped cream, Bruce kissing your temple—and you smile. “Yeah. I think they are.”

The call lasts longer than it should, but nobody minds. Even Bruce smiles when your mother insists on telling a story about your eighth birthday and a goat from the neighbor’s farm. You hang up feeling full in ways no breakfast could cause.

After that, the Justice League transmissions begin. Diana sends flowers and a beautiful poem in Themysciran. Hal sends a recorded birthday serenade that is absolutely off-key. J’onn writes a hauntingly beautiful message about strength, resilience, and peace. Even Ollie calls—though he’s more interested in catching up on gossip.

And the kids’ friends all send messages. Stephanie’s is the longest, chaotic and peppered with sarcasm.

“I would’ve baked you something but last time I set off the fire alarm. Cass tried to stop me. She tried signing at me from the couch like ‘STOP. OVEN. DEATH.’ Anyway, happy birthday, mom two.”

You laugh so hard Bruce makes you tea to keep you from choking.

But the truth is, despite all the brightness of the day, the back of your mind doesn’t stay quiet.

Because you’ve felt it again. That feeling. That slithering unease crawling up the back of your neck.

For weeks now, you’ve been feeling watched. Not overtly. Not enough to raise alarms. But enough that your skin prickles at the back of your neck. You’ve told Bruce, casually. He said he’d sweep the area more thoroughly. Tim ran a few digital traces, checked the perimeter cams. Nothing. No breaches. No spikes in digital traffic. Nothing unusual.

But still.

It’s been there—during your walks with Ace, when the dog pauses for a second too long, staring at something behind you before you turn and find nothing. It’s been there at pilates, when you catch a shadow moving across a mirrored wall that no one else notices. It’s been there at interviews, press events, even just shopping with Cass—who once held your hand a little tighter in a department store without knowing why.

Cass leans into your other side. “Big party tonight.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, pretending it’s a burden, though it’s not. “You’re all coming, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Tim says.

“Gotham needs to see what royalty looks like,” Dick adds from across the room. “And it needs to know I’m still your favorite, mom.”

“You’re literally not,” your third son replies back, nose wrinkling. “There’s no ranking system.”

“There is,” Dick says without hesitation, as though he’s been holding this argument in his pocket for years. “One day a year. It’s a sacred event. Mom’s birthday. On this day, I, Richard John Grayson, hold the coveted title of Favorite Child.”

“I’d like to motion to have this unconstitutional system abolished,” Tim mutters, raising a hand like he’s at a city council meeting.

“Overruled,” Dick replies, cheerful as ever. “Motion denied. Appeal rejected. I am democracy.”

“You are drama,” Tim snaps back.

“Oh please,” Dick sighs. “You say that like it’s not a birthright. Do you know how many years I spent in tights?”

Cass finally makes a sound — a little snort — before muffling her mouth with her free hand. You catch her eye, eyebrows raised. She grins wider and lifts her hands with casual ease.

“Dick was favorite yesterday,” she signs. “I’ll be favorite tomorrow.”

Tim groans. “You two are seriously delusional.”

“You’re all delusional,” you interject finally, eyes still sleepy but smile blooming warmer with each second that passes. “Do you want the truth?”

The room goes quiet. Four sets of eyes land on you at once — Dick’s wide and eager, Tim’s narrowed with suspicion, Cass’s intense with anticipation, and Alfred’s politely interested, sipping tea like this is a morning soap opera.

You make a show of stretching your arms over your head, smothering a yawn, and then you reach for the fork beside your pancake with agonizing slowness. You chew a bite. Swallow. Take a sip of juice. Then:

“I don’t have a favorite.”

All three groan at once.

“Come on!”

“That’s a lie.”

“Not true,” Tim insists. “You literally kissed me on the forehead first this morning. That counts.”

“Only because you elbowed me in the ribs to get to her first,” Dick retorts, throwing a pillow at him with perfect aim.

Cass says, cheeky and quick: “I brought her the coffee.”

“And I brought the syrup,” Tim says quickly.

“I brought the charm,” Dick announces proudly.

“I brought the dog,” Alfred deadpans from the doorway, setting his tea aside.

That earns a round of chuckles.

“Alfred wins,” you declare, raising your glass in a mock toast. “Favorite forever.”

“Traitor,” Dick whispers, feigning heartbreak as he clutches at his chest like he’s been mortally wounded.

“Unfair advantage,” Tim huffs. “He made pancakes.”

“I helped,” Cass adds. “I put the candle in.”

“Let’s be honest,” Bruce’s voice calls in from the closet doorway, low and amused. “Only reason none of you are actually her favorite is because I got to her first.”

Dick lets out a theatrical gasp. “You stole our mom with seduction?”

Tim blinks. “Oh my God. Ew.”

Cass is already shaking with laughter, her fingers stuttering through a very expressive, chaotic sentence involving the word “betrayal” several times. You cover your mouth to stifle a giggle.

“She’s my wife,” Bruce replies smoothly, resting a hand on the curve of your shoulder as he leans down to kiss your temple, slow and deliberate. “That’s allowed.”

“That’s favoritism,” Dick cries.

“That’s romance,” you correct, smirking into your coffee.

“You’re all terrible,” Tim mutters, though he doesn’t seem particularly upset. “We’re supposed to be showing her love, not launching a full-on popularity contest.”

“Tim’s just mad he’s not winning,” Cass declares.

“I am not,” he snaps, looking straight at her.

She raises both brows.

“Okay, maybe a little,” he admits, sitting back with a scowl.

“I think,” you murmur slowly, resting your hand over Bruce’s wrist where it lingers on your shoulder, “that this morning has made me feel like the luckiest woman on the planet. And I think that anyone who brings me a second pancake might secure a temporary win.”

All three jump into action.

“On it!”

“Wait—no—I got it!”

“Move, nerds!”

The tray tips slightly, and you almost lose a fork to the floor, but miraculously everything remains intact. Cass bolts ahead, plate in hand. Dick leaps over the edge of the bed like a gymnast. Tim is practically airborne behind them.

“Good God,” Bruce mutters.

“Every year,” Alfred sighs.

You lean back against the pillows, heart full, laughter warming your chest. Ace barks once, excited, and tries to chase after the trio. Whiskers lifts her head from the blanket, unimpressed, and jumps onto the pillow as if to remind everyone she, in fact, is the true favorite.

The gala sparkled around you.

Gold chandeliers flooded the grand hall with a honeyed glow, and the dark marble beneath your heels shimmered like liquid ink. The building—Gotham’s refurbished Astoria Theatre, a place that had once seen opera and violence in equal measure—had been transformed into a palace of warmth and light for you. Bruce had insisted on it. 

Gotham’s elite had shown up in tailored tuxedos and glittering gowns, every one of them eager to smile and raise a glass to her, the woman who had made the Prince human, the heart that softened the myth.

Your birthday gala was already trending in Gotham social circles. “Gotham’s beloved,” one headline had read. “The softer heart behind Wayne.”

You’d laughed when Vicki Vale sent you a preview of her column—claiming it was meant to “balance the image.” You didn’t mind. You liked being the softness, the warmth, the tether. You liked standing in the glow of the chandelier with a smile painted on your lips and your hand wrapped around a flute of champagne, watching the people around you light up like candles.

Clark had made a speech. Lois had kissed your cheek. Even Selina had flown in—draped in velvet, her signature grin sharp as ever as she twirled you across the floor in a surprisingly graceful spin.

“You age like a secret,” she’d whispered against your cheek. “No wonder Bruce still can’t take his eyes off you.”

You’d laughed, flustered, hiding your flushed face behind a crystal glass.

And now, hours in, with music still thrumming gently in the air and laughter bouncing between the pillars, the attention had started to catch up to you.

Not in a bad way. Just… loud. Too much all at once.

“You look like you need a breath,” Bruce murmurs against your ear. He’s handsome, devastating in black, one hand resting comfortably on your waist. “I’ve watched you charm forty-seven different people in the last two hours. I counted.”

You smile tiredly, leaning into his touch. “You’d think I was the one running for mayor.”

“No, you’re just beloved,” he replies. “More dangerous, honestly.”

You press a quick kiss to his cheek and mumble, “I’m going to get some air.”

He kisses you back, slower. “Alright. But if you don’t come back in ten minutes—”

“You’ll come get me.”

“Exactly,” he says, his gaze softening, jaw still tense like always. “Ten minutes. I’ll time it.”

You step away with a grateful smile and disappear up the grand staircase, your heels echoing against the marble, slipping into softer silence with every floor. The upper terrace is quiet, tucked above the gala, its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Gotham’s skyline. You slip through the doors, out into the breeze. The chill is sweet relief. A balm.

You close your eyes. Breathe in. Let the night air undo the tension in your shoulders. Gotham glows below you. The music becomes a murmur behind thick walls. The stars are faint. But you let yourself be small beneath them, just for a second.

And then you feel it. The same sensation that’s been haunting you for weeks.

The eyes.

A cold tickle runs down your spine, a breath on the back of your neck—except there’s no breath, no breeze, just that feeling. You’re not alone.

But this time, for the first time… you see him.

Across the rooftop, half-shadowed by the arched curvature of a decorative gargoyle, stands a man. Not just any man—tall, broad, easily Bruce’s height and build. His shoulders are massive, arms braced with thick leather. But it’s the helmet that stops your heart for half a second.

A red helmet. Blood red, high-gloss, molded like a skull and faceless all at once.

You don’t flinch. You don’t run.

Your stomach clenches like a fist, but there’s no fear blooming in your lungs. No spike of danger. Just a tightening in your chest—foreign and familiar at once. Something instinctual. Something human.

You tilt your head slightly.

“Are you the one who’s been following me?” you ask, your voice calm — a murmur that curls into the night.

The helmet doesn’t move.

You squint through the dark, shifting your weight slightly on your heels. 

“I’ve felt you for weeks,” you continue, softly now. “Walking my dog. While going out. Even when I'm buying flower seeds. I thought I was going crazy.” 

Your voice doesn’t waver. 

“I’m not crazy. Yet, you never do anything. Just watch. Are you looking for something?” You pause. “Or someone?”

He tilts his head just barely — not in acknowledgment, not even confirmation. Just… something like listening. His fingers twitch, gloved hands tight at his sides.

You try again. “If I’m in danger, just say so. I can take it. I’d rather know than be left guessing.”

Still, he doesn’t move. No words. Just that helmet reflecting the lights of the city. Something about the shape of his shoulders, the stance of his legs — you’ve seen something like it before. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. But you can’t place it. You don’t dare.

 Your heart is speaking a language your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

“Why?” you whisper, almost to yourself now. “Why do I feel like I know you?”

The wind shifts again, tugging strands of hair into your eyes. You don’t move to fix them.

He flinches.

It’s quick. Subtle. But unmistakable. A slight tightening in his shoulders, his chin angling down half a degree. It hits you like a wave crashing over raw skin — a surge of something too complex to name. Like grief. Like memory. Like recognition hidden under years of dust.

He takes another step — one foot on the ledge now. You think he might leap, vanish into the sky like some ghost, some myth.

And then—

“Auntie?”

You blink.

The rooftop door bursts open, golden light from the ballroom spilling into the night. Jon’s voice is sweet and bright and too loud against the hush.

“Aunt, are you out here?” he asks, running toward you. He’s ten now, all limbs and energy, dressed in a tux that doesn’t quite sit right on his skinny frame. His red-and-blue tie is crooked.

You turn to him on instinct. “I’m here, sweetheart.”

“Uncle Bruce said to look for you. The dessert table’s out now and they have macarons, real ones, like the ones in Paris!”

You smile, grabbing his little hand warmly, turning your body with him—only to glance back, just for a second—

—but he’s gone.

The man in the red helmet.

Vanished. Like smoke, like mist. The corner of the rooftop where he’d stood is empty again, just dark stone and wind and the silence he left behind.

You frown slightly, lips parting. But there’s no trace.

“Come on, Auntie,” Jon tugs insistently. “They’re gonna run out. Mom says the lavender ones are the best and I want you to try them before dad eats them all.”

You let him lead you. Your fingers grip Jon’s hand a little tighter.

But your eyes drift once more to that far ledge.

There’s something strange swelling in your chest. You’re not frightened. You’re not confused, but something in your gut refuses to let go. Like a song you used to hum in the dark. Like a name you’ve forgotten how to say.

(You never see the figure slip down the fire escape, muscle and leather and silence; never see the helmet come off once he hits the shadows. Never see the streak of white hair beneath the edge. Never hear the way his voice cracks like dry paper when he mutters softly to himself, just two words.)

“…hi, ma.”

(But he’s gone before the wind can carry it anywhere but the night.)

You sit in front of the vanity, bathed in the soft golden hue of the bedroom lamp, fingers working the cream into your skin with practiced, gentle swipes. 

The end of your nighttime routine is always meant to bring you some semblance of peace — the familiar scent of lavender and hyaluronic acid, the cold smoothness of glass jars, the soft bristles of the brush you use to comb your hair. All of it should feel grounding. But your mind isn’t cooperating.

The memory creeps back like it has every night for the past week. That rooftop. That night air. That man. You still haven’t said a word about him to anyone — not to Bruce, not to Alfred, not even to Clark, who would’ve squinted at you with that overly concerned look he inherited from your father. But you’ve kept it in. 

Not out of fear, exactly — you’re not afraid of the man in the red helmet. If anything, the memory of him feels… unfinished. Like something left unsaid, unread, a name dangling on the edge of your tongue without ever quite taking shape. His presence didn’t scare you. It rattled you, sure, unsettled you — but not in the way danger does. In the way familiarity does. That unbearable tug that pulls somewhere behind your ribs when something deep inside you recognizes something your conscious mind cannot.

You exhale slowly, running your fingers down the arch of your jaw as you look at yourself in the mirror. The edge of that rooftop flashes behind your eyes — the glint of moonlight off that crimson helmet, the firm weight of his silent gaze. His sheer stillness. The way your voice had filled the quiet. The way he had said nothing in return.

And the worst part — the part that lingers like a splinter under your nail — is that when Jon called for you and you turned your head, just for a second, he had vanished like smoke. Gone in an instant. And still, the feeling remained: that you had just seen someone you knew. Someone long gone. Someone you’d mourned.

The skin around your eyes tightens as you reach for the under-eye serum. You press it in with your ring finger slowly, one tap at a time, but your thoughts are elsewhere again. You’d replayed every detail. 

The way he stood — tall, grounded, not a single ounce of insecurity in his posture. He’d been solid, grounded, heavy. Like he’d been trained to stand like that. And those broad shoulders, the width of his chest — he’d been built for combat. 

Not lean like Dick or narrow like Tim. Broad like… like Bruce. But not Bruce. And not Clark either. Not a soldier. Not a god. Something else. Someone with pain carved into his very stance. Someone who watched you like he didn’t know how to speak anymore.

You blink, pushing the bottle back into place. You don’t want to dwell on it. But you do. You always do.

The subtle sound of the grandfather clock chimes downstairs. You hear the faint, nearly inaudible swoosh of the Cave’s entrance shifting, the near-silent hum of systems disengaging. Bruce is coming up. But he doesn’t come to the bedroom — not immediately. That makes your brows furrow. You glance at the clock again, then the door, and wait. A few minutes pass.

Still no Bruce.

You sigh, standing up slowly and grabbing your robe. The silk glides against your arms as you wrap it around your frame and tie the belt with a quick knot. Barefoot, you step out into the hallway, the coldness of the wooden floor making you shiver slightly. 

The manor is quiet — no flickering lights, no sounds of movement. You pass by the stairs, down the long corridor, and find Ace curled near the fireplace. His big head lifts just slightly, those warm eyes following your approach.

“Hey, handsome,” you whisper, crouching to give him a gentle rub behind the ears. “You waiting for him too?”

Ace leans into your touch, tail thudding once against the floor. You smile, kiss the top of his furry head, and keep going.

The lights are on in the living room. You pause in the archway, still in the shadows of the hall, and then you hear his voice. Bruce. Low, not that calm, careful.

“—you don’t speak of her that way. Ever. Do you understand me?”

Your brow rises slightly. You step through the doorway.

Bruce is standing tall near the hearth, part of his suit still on. His jaw is locked tight, arms crossed. But your eyes go straight to the boy standing near the center of the room.

A child.

A boy. No more than ten, maybe eleven. Shorter than Jon but standing far more rigidly, shoulders squared like a miniature soldier. He’s dressed in black — high-collared, fitted, polished. His hair is raven-black, combed back with ruthless precision. His skin is olive-toned, his features sharp. His eyes — green. Bright green. Piercing.

You blink.

At first, you think Bruce’s picked up another stray. Another orphan. Another lonely soul from Gotham’s cracked corners. You’ve done it before. You’ve done it so many times. And your heart has always had room for one more.

But then you look closer.

And it hits you, all at once.

The shape of the boy’s nose. The set of his jaw. That slight downturn of the mouth when he frowns—just like Bruce does when he’s pretending not to be upset. And the arrogance in his voice. The cold assessment in his eyes.

“Hi,” you managed, softly. Quietly, with a politeness that felt absurd in your own living room. “I’m Y/N.”

He gives you one disinterested sweep of his gaze — head to toe — and raises a single unimpressed brow.

“So,” he says, voice steady and cool. “You’re the woman who warms my father’s bed.”

You blink.

Bruce growls. “Damian.”

You don’t move.

You can’t move.

Everything in you stills, like your blood has stopped pumping entirely. Like your organs have turned to stone. Your hand is still curled gently at the edge of your robe, and your nails dig in before you even notice it.

He called him father.

You glance at Bruce, sharply, not trusting your voice yet, and then look back at the boy, stunned.

“Did he just—” you swallow, your tone dangerously calm, “—did he just refer to me as your night companion?”

The boy shrugs with infuriating nonchalance. “Should I have said concubine?”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, not looking at him anymore, instead turning fully to Bruce, whose face looks like it’s been carved from granite. “Did that child just call me a whore in the most diplomatic way possible?”

Silence.

Bruce doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t even blink.

And that’s when the numbers start adding up in your head, as easily as breath. He’s ten. Or close to it. Ten years old, with that face and those eyes. And ten years ago, you and Bruce—you were already together. You were already raising Dick. Already sharing a bed. Already deep in love. Maybe not married, maybe not as steady as now, but it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t new.

Your stomach twists violently.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

You can’t breathe past the lump in your throat. You step backward, just once. Just to keep upright. It’s not the betrayal that hits hardest. It’s not even the secrecy. It’s the sight of the boy—the proof—a child that bears Bruce’s features, flesh and blood. A child someone carried for him, birthed for him.

A child that wasn’t yours.

Because you tried.

You tried.

Year after year, doctors and heartbreak and hospital beds and grief. You buried one. You mourned others before they even had names. You named them, and he held you while you screamed yourself sick into his shoulder.

And now this.

Now a ten-year-old with your husband’s face is standing in your living room, and Bruce didn’t warn you. Didn’t tell you. Didn’t say anything.

You stare at him, stunned, trembling. “When were you going to tell me?”

Bruce finally speaks, but his voice is rough. Measured. “I didn’t know about him until recently.”

You pursed your lips. “How recently?”

He doesn’t answer.

That’s answer enough.

There’s something ugly rising in your chest now, something bitter and furious and deeply, deeply sad. 

You force yourself to look at the boy again—Damian—and you wonder if it’s wrong to feel what you feel. He’s a child. And it’s not his fault. But the hole in your chest has been carved wide by every failed pregnancy, every doctor’s quiet apology, every night spent curled in Bruce’s arms as he promised you again and again that it didn’t matter. That you were enough. That your family—his family—was yours, no matter what.

But now there’s this. Flesh of his flesh. Blood of his blood.

 “Talia never told me. Not until recently. She raised him in the League. I—I didn't know of his existence.”

You shook your head. “That doesn’t change what it means.”

“I didn’t betray you,” he said, quieter now, moving closer. “He was born—”

“When we were together,” you hissed. “He looks ten. Look at him. You do the math. We were together. Engaged, even. We had a child together by then, Bruce, for fuck's sake.”

The boy doesn’t speak. He just watches you.

“He’s yours.”

“Yes.”

You flinch when Bruce answers. You expect it. You knew it from the moment the boy looked at you with those eyes—so like his father’s. So unlike your own.

You take a step back. Then another. And Bruce doesn’t stop you.

You say, without looking at him, “I need a minute.”

He doesn’t follow.

You walk to the hall. You don’t run. You don’t cry. Not yet. You walk, slow and steady, through the old corridors of the manor until you reach your room. Your shared room. And you close the door behind you, softly.

Then you sink to the floor.

And you cry into your hands, knees pulled to your chest, sobs silent and shaking, full of a grief that you thought you buried years ago.

Because now it’s alive again.

Now it has a name.

You noticed how Kara was staring at you for much longer than usual. Whatever was bothering her, you were getting nervous. Kara wasn’t focused, and she kept staring at you with a look on your face you didn’t fully recognize. 

There was just something about her today… Maybe it was just because you had been far more aroused than usual, but Kara staring you down at every possible opportunity sent shivers from your inner thighs to the back of your neck. It felt like electricity all over your body whenever her burning hot skin was close to you. 

But at some point during the day, Kara lost track of you. She was talking about something with Imra and Alex when she noticed your scent had completely vanished from her presence. All of a sudden, she went completely silent and Alex frowned, trying to get her attention.

“Supergirl, you with us?” She snapped her fingers in front of Kara’s face. The super looked down, returning back to whatever the conversation was about, but she wasn’t focused. All she could think about was that you were somewhere else, and someone might be closing in on you. She did not like it. 

“If you both will excuse me for…” Kara trailed off, smiling politely at Imra and speed-walking down the hallway to find you. 

“What was that about?” Alex crossed her arms, but Imra had a knowing look on her face. 

“You don’t want to know, agent Danvers…”

Kara found you at the shooting range. A few random DEO agents were near you, but James was on your left, and Mon-El was on your right. Everyone had the exact same weapon as you, and it looked like you were instructing them on how to fire the rifle properly. 

You were holding an Mk22, bent over the firing range table, and adjusting the sights as James and Mon-El stood next to you, watching intently as you focused the scope. 

“You learned all this in the military?” James asked, watching you readjust your stance until you could use the bi-pod legs and fully immerse yourself in what you were doing.

“Best sniper in my division, gentlemen,” You said, low and deep. Kara was practically frothing at the mouth. She remembered that tone from two nights ago when you held her down on the mattress, pulling her hair and practically cracking her bedframe. “First deployment was in South Korea… seven successful assignments.” 

You pulled the trigger, the kickback hitting your shoulder, but you didn’t even flinch. The suppressor made the shot sound like nothing more than a pop, but when the round hit the wall, it echoed across the entire gun range. A perfect shot, directly in the head of the target paper that practically tore apart with how big the round was. 

“Damn,” Mon-El said, barely above a whisper. “Everyone was lucky to be on your side.” 

“Better fuckin’ believe it,” You laughed, standing up straight. You pressed your knuckles into the base of your spine and rolled your shoulders back, popping sounds emulating from your body as you relaxed and stepped back. “Alright, everyone line up. I wanna see headshots only, a sniper’s job is to aim for instant kills, not center mass!” 

It wasn’t until you were stepping back that you felt hands against your hips and you almost screamed in shock. Fingers dug into your sides, and you almost went limp when you felt Kara nearly growling in your ear. “That was so hot, babe…” 

You blushed, the tips of your ears turning pink as Kara’s right hand slid up the back of your neck and tangled in the hair just a few inches above. Without hesitating, she pulled, hard enough for your head to fall back and expose your neck to her, which she indulged in with no shame. Her nose pressed against your skin and she inhaled, hard. 

There it was again… that sweet smell that was now ten times more potent than before, and if Kara didn’t figure out what the hell was causing it, she was going to go crazy. 

The kryptonian was only focused on you. But when she saw Mon-El looking over his shoulder at the both of you, something dark crossed over her face. She resembled a wild animal, defensive of her dinner, glaring at him before she was licking at that pulse in your throat. She dragged you away, her eyes practically glowing as if daring Mon-El to challenge her on this. 

You couldn’t even question what she was doing until Kara was literally walking out of the building with you behind her. She gave Alex some half-assed excuse on why you two needed to leave early before literally flying you back to her loft. 

Kara didn’t waste any time. The second her feet touched the floor of the apartment, she was all but slamming you down on her bed and grabbing at your clothes to rip them off of you. 

“Baby, h-hey, what’s goin’ on?” You stuttered, your heartbeat picking up as you tried getting her attention. But it looked like Kara was on a mission, and she literally grabbed at the collar of your shirt and ripped it in half, tearing the fabric off your body and slipping her fingers under your sports bra. 

“You’re driving me crazy,” Kara said through clenched teeth, leaning down and dragging her tongue shamelessly across your chest and pushing up your bra until she could grab at your breasts with both hands and watch your eyes roll back in your head. “What is that?”

You shuddered, biting your lip as you lifted your arms above your head and let Kara pull the bra off the rest of the way to expose your bare chest. She saw some of the fading hickies on your chest from two nights prior, and she needed to make them darker. Her brain was screaming at her to mark you, and the more she played with your nipples, the stronger that smell became. 

It was almost overwhelming, flooding her senses and making her weak as she dug her fingers into the waist of your cargo pants and undid the belt keeping her from pulling them down. 

“W-What is what?” You tripped on your words, feeling how Kara was tracing her tongue from your sternum and down, across your abdomen. Kara fell on her knees, that superhero cape pooling around her legs as she unzipped your pants and yanked them down. Underwear and all, until they were tangled around your boots at the ankles.  

Kara stopped completely, her eyes glowing and her fingers sliding across your outer thighs until she was looking at your cunt and realizing that the smell was there… It was your arousal. The scent you were giving off was pure horniness that just got stronger throughout the day. Kara started yanking on your boots until you were completely naked and she leaned down, her nose close to your sex and she inhaled, hard.

You sat up on your elbows, staring at her and blushing harder than ever. “A-are you… are you smelling me? Oh, my God Kara, what the fuck is–” 

“Shut it– Shut up for a minute,” The kryptonian snapped, her brows pulled down and her eyes fluttering closed as she leaned in and felt tingles go down her back at your scent. It was so strong, so sweet, and it felt like her senses were enhanced beyond what she’s ever experienced before. Kara felt like she ascended to a celestial state of existence. “Fuck me, you smell so sweet right now baby…”

You had learned from experience that Kara started swearing when she was horny. The perfect hero wasn’t all that perfect when she was underneath you on the bed, using her god’s name in vain and cursing like a fucked out sailor when she got close. And while she was better at controlling her powers during sex, there were many times you suggested she wear her glasses so she didn’t set her sheets on fire with her heat vision. 

“O-Oh my God, t-there’s no way you can…” You put both hands over your face, attempting to hide from the super who was having none of that. She quickly stood up and grabbed at your arms, locking your wrists together and holding them above your head until she could stare in your eyes. “Y-you can smell when I’m fuckin’ ovulating?”

Kara didn’t fully pay attention during her high school health class. Mainly because it wasn’t her anatomy in question and it wasn’t something she cared about, so she had no idea what you were talking about. The confusion was on her face as she waited for you to explain. 

“I-It’s something all women experience… It’s j-just our body’s way of saying ‘hey, you should try for a baby right now’,” You explained weakly. It was hard to explain human bodies when she was giving you that fucking look. “Our sex drive increases, or at least mine does… By like, a hundred.” 

“So what I’m hearing is,” Kara traced her fingers across your chest and across your abs, watching them concave with your deep inhale. “We synced up at the same time?” 

“Wait, what are you– you told me kryptonians don’t get periods, what is–”

“We go through heat cycles every few months, baby,” Kara cooed sweetly, loving how you were squirming under her touch. “And, until you started smelling like this, I didn’t really feel it… We haven’t been in heat at the same time together, until now.” 

You didn’t know if you wanted to crawl under the bed and die, or cry because Kara was barely touching you with her fingertips. It felt slightly mortifying, saying you both were in heat like you were wolves or something. But you loosely remember Kara explaining how she didn’t go through a menstrual cycle like human women did, but rather a heat cycle that lasted no more than 4 days every 3 or 4 months. It was random, hard to track, but when it hit, Kara’s senses were heightened to almost painful levels, and she got aggressive over things she liked. 

She told you the story of how she tackled Alex as a teenager for eating the last potsticker during her heat cycle, and you suddenly felt like a gazelle carcass in a lion’s den. If she treats you like she does her food during said heat cycle, you weren’t sure if you would survive (metaphorically speaking). 

“I can’t fuckin’ take this anymore,” Kara groaned, getting back down on her knees and pulling your thighs apart until she was pressing her entire mouth against your pussy. Her tongue was cold, but her hands were burning, and it sent shocks of pleasure down your entire body. Kara didn’t waste time as she bent down and pushed her tongue against your excessively wet opening, pushing her face as close as possible in order to lick at you and taste your arousal straight from the source. 

This felt almost unreal. Every other time you two had sex, you were the one stripping Kara out of her office attire, or the superhero outfit until she was naked first. But this time? You were the one bare, and she was holding you down at the hips in her super suit while eating you out like she would die if she didn’t. 

Kara groaned at your taste, looking up at you through her pretty lashes and her fingernails creating crescent shapes in your hips as she slid her tongue from your opening to your clit. She had expert precision, flattening her tongue out and licking at you just the way you taught her all that time ago that it made you immediately collapse against the bed, eyes crossing and back arching.

“Fuuuuuck, baby…” You whined, almost sobbing at how she licked you with a hunger you have never seen in her eyes before. There was something so hot about seeing Kara in her Supergirl suit, eating you out and holding you down with her superhuman strength. Whenever your hips bucked against her, she would growl and push you back down, until she simply had enough of you moving. 

Kara separated from your pussy and looked at you with angry eyes, wrapping her arms around your thighs and grabbing her wrist, locking you in place so now, you literally couldn’t move. It was like trying to wiggle out from underneath rebar. Kara went right back to licking at your clit, drooling over you and basking in your taste. 

All you could do was lay there, looking down at your savagely horny girlfriend and watching those gorgeous blue eyes of hers roll back as she kept you locked in place under her arms. She didn’t let up, sucking against your clit and salivating until you were sitting in a literal wet puddle on her sheets. 

You had a sense of pride with it, considering you taught her everything she knew. But she was absolutely using this against you now, fucking you on her tongue until you were seeing stars behind your eyes. Never before has anybody been able to make you cum this fast before, but Kara was laser focused on your cunt, and she wasn’t pulling away for anything. She wanted to feel you climax in her mouth, and she wasn’t going to stop until she felt it. 

“K-K-Kara… Oh, my fucking god…” You whined through tears, heart racing as you grabbed her by the blonde hair and watched her. She looked up, her eyes almost a darker shade of blue than they usually were. Maybe it was in your head, or maybe it was a way to show her dominance as a kryptonian. 

You knew Kara loved it when you whined her name like that. It’s only ever happened a handful of times, and this was a rare privilege she got to experience. A part of you felt embarrassed for being so vulnerable, but then you remembered who was holding you down and that completely went out the window. 

You were having sex with Supergirl. THE SUPERGIRL! The kryptonian goddess from beyond the stars. The woman who has saved your life more times than you could remember. The only woman that knew how to make you scream with euphoria. 

Kara didn’t use her hands at all. The blonde focused all her effort into her tongue as she could hear your heartbeat speeding up and your taste got sweeter on her lips. She groaned, standing up and lifting you off the bed until she was able to see how your eyes were rolling back and crossing at the same time. How your chest was heaving with every heavy breath, how you were drooling and grabbing at the sheets behind your head. 

“Kara… Kara! Karaaaa!” Your legs locked around the back of her head and the blonde shuddered at the taste of your orgasm. Her movements didn’t stop, licking at your clit right through your tremors and loving how twitchy you got when she overstimulated you like this. 

There was a dark part of her that wondered if she just kept eating you out, how far could she really push you? Because really, would you even be able to stop her? 

Kara released your legs and broke off from your pussy with a sloppy kiss, your juices staining her face from the nose down to her chin. She grinned, wiping her mouth on your inner thigh before laying you down flat on the mattress. Kara had never seen you like this before… That blissed out expression on your face and how red your chest was, the way your inner thighs were shaking and your fingers were twitching; she was obsessed.

You could barely form a thought, let alone speak words. “Ohmyfuckinggod…” 

“You tasted absolutely divine,” Kara remarked, leaning down and grabbing at your chin. “Open up.” Your eyes focused on her face, obediently opening up your mouth as Kara allowed a small amount of her saliva to drip from her tongue and into your open mouth. Her thumb ran across your bottom lip and she watched you swallow her spit, doing exactly what she asked for with that dizzy little expression in your eyes. 

“I’m not done with you yet,” Kara said, her voice getting deeper as she stood up on her knees and unfastened the cape around her shoulders. You watched like you were in a trance, admiring every inch of Kara’s body that was exposed to you as she undressed herself for the first time in front of your eyes. You were always taking her clothes off, but not this time. 

The super nearly ripped her tights off as she yanked them down her body, her panties sliding down with them. Kara kicked her clothes away, crawling right back into the bed and towering over you like she wanted to eat you all over again. 

“I saw something online,” Kara said, pushing your hair away from your sweat-stained forehead and kissing your face. “Something I’ve been dying to try.”

“Yeah?” You said, still slightly breathless. “What’s that, baby?” 

Kara bit her lip before lifting your leg up and scooting between yours. When you felt her wet, bare cunt against your slickness, you immediately gasped and grabbed her by the hips. You yanked on her, and Kara fell forward a little with a low moan rumbling deep in her chest. 

You both fit together perfectly. She held one of your legs against her shoulder, bending forward a little as she felt your cunt squish against her own and she experimentally rolled her hips forward. It was like lightning down her spine, making her body shiver as she struggled to stay upright. 

The friction was amazing. The way your clit rubbed against hers, how your combined wetness was making the most vulgar sounds… Kara wondered how it would feel if your pussy was bare like hers. She didn’t hate the feeling of your hair against her, but the idea of pure skin on skin… Kara bucked forward, watching you tremble under her and felt your hands dig into her ass. 

“F-feels really… really good, holy Rao…” Kara said through clenched teeth, her hair falling around her face in golden waves and almost folding you in half as she fell forward and pressed her hands into the mattress. “H-how’s it feel, baby?” 

“Don’t you dare stop,” You said, the words coming out fast and desperate as you rolled upward against her cunt. “P-Please… Please…” 

“Please, what?” Kara said, reaching for your chin and forcing you to look at her. Fuck, she looked so powerful and strong leaning over you like she was, holding you down and grinding on your pussy like she was trying to get you pregnant from friction alone. “Come on, please what baby? Say my name.” 

“K-Kara, I–” You felt her nails bite against your neck and you cried out, arching off the bed a little as you felt her breasts press against yours. 

“My name,” Kara all but growled out. “Say it… scream it. I want all of National City to know who’s fucking you senseless! Say! My name!” 

“S-Supergirl!” You whined out loud, your heart pounding against your ribs as you watched Kara’s face visibly darken with hunger, bending down and kissing at your neck where her nails almost broke skin. “Fuck me, Supergirl!” 

Kara shivered with delight, grinding against your pussy and chasing after her own high. This was a new kink that she didn’t know she had… You screaming her superhero name out of the open window to her loft as she fucked you down into her bed with an aggressive hunger for you, and your body.

“Good girl,” Kara praised, biting your throat a little and leaning back to stare you down. For a second, you looked away, but Kara huffed, falling forward onto her elbows as her body rolled with every thrust of her hips against yours. How was she so good at this when she’s never done it before? How did Kara find out about scissoring anyway? What was she watching without you?

“Don’t you dare look away,” She snapped, forcing you to make eye contact with her. “Look at me… Look at me when you cum.”

You sobbed, biting your lip and trying to focus your vision but it was blurring around the edges. Kara knew you were close, without you even needing to say it. Your fingers curled against the sheets as the bedframe groaned underneath both of you, creating sinful echoes off the walls that her neighbors definitely heard. 

It was risky, screaming her superhero name in her personal loft with the windows open, but Kara didn’t care about the risk. She didn’t care about anything. She wanted to feel you cum against her with every fiber of her being, and cum with you until you both were paralyzed in pleasure. 

“S-Supergirl…” You sobbed between moans. Kara’s cunt pulsed, her movements getting frantic whenever you said it, like it made her go feral just to hear you moan her hero name out loud. She’d worry about the power trip she was going on later. 

“Come on… Come on, baby, cum for me,” The blonde growled through clenched teeth, leaning down to lick from your collarbone and up your neck until she bit the space between your throat and jaw. Kara shivered, hitting against your pussy just right that she saw sparks behind her eyes. 

Kara knew you were falling over the edge when you grabbed at her shoulders and dug your fingernails in, crying out louder than she’s ever heard from you before. She leaned back just to watch what your face was doing, chasing her own orgasm as she watched you bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. 

Your eyes crossed, tears fell freely, and she heard your heart skip several beats before speeding up and hammering against your chest. Your scent hit full force, and the wetness was beyond anything she expected. Kara remembered when you said you wanted to make her squirt, but her anatomy may not make it possible… but is that what she just did to you? 

The thought alone was enough to send Kara into her own spasms, pleasure reaching its peak as she bent down, found the sensitive spot in the crease of your neck, and bit. Her moans and cries were muffled in your skin as she rode out her orgasm, rutting against you in a spasmic rhythm. It overstimulated the hell out of you.

“Kara, Kara, holyfuckingshit Kara!” You actually sobbed, grabbing her by the hips to try and get her to slow down. The kryptonian slowed her movements, carefully coming to a halt as she leaned back, sweat dripping down her forehead and her hair sticking against her face as she looked down. 

“Holy Rao, just look at you,” Kara said in a soft, discordant tone. The teeth marks on your neck were already bruised, and her canines had broken skin. A tiny amount of blood was brimming to the surface of your flesh, and the blonde couldn’t resist running her thumb across the red liquid before she lifted her hand up and licked it. 

You had no idea that Kara’s cycle would be like this! No matter how much she told you that she was aggressive and possessive during her heat, you did not expect her to go practically feral like a wild animal. She didn’t hold back, and it was like her conscience was taking a vacation. Your normal, innocent, sweet girlfriend was now vulgar, aggressive, and slightly malicious. 

And despite how intimidated you felt… you loved it.

Kara took this moment to comfort you, slowly lowering your leg down and listening to you cry at the slight cramp in the back of your thigh. “Sorry… I wasn’t too rough, was I?”

You laughed, rolling your eyes back and pushing her hair away from her blue eyes. “Just the right amount of rough…”

The kryptonian laughed, rolling over on the bed until she was laying on her side and pressing soft little kisses to your neck. You let out a little sigh of happiness at her gentle kisses before you let out a little whimper, feeling her fingertips sliding across your abdomen.

“Kara, baby… I don’t know if I can cum again after that–”

“No? You don’t think so?” The blonde breathed against your ear before her fingers slid down and rubbed at your absolutely drenched cunt. Your clit was so sensitive that her touching you made you sob and bite down on her sheets. “I bet you can…”

“Karaaaaa…” You whined pathetically, thighs pressing together much to Kara’s dismay. She immediately readjusted your positions on the bed until she had her back against the headboard and pulled you between her legs, your back against her chest. She used her own legs to keep yours apart while she rubbed all over your cunt and played with your left breast. “Y-You’re gonna kill me, babygirl…”

“Try again,” Kara immediately plunged three fingers into your pussy and held you down so you couldn’t get away. “Say. My. Name.” 

You ended up screaming Supergirl for the next two hours. It wasn’t until you were literally on the verge of blacking out that Kara finally gave in. She made you cum three more times, even pressing a vibrator against your clit until she made you squirt again, officially ruining her sheets forever. Now all she will smell on her bed is your pussy until she throws these away. 

Kara was slightly worried she went too far… But it was all put to rest when you told her, “I remember the safe word, baby… And trust me, I would have used it if I needed to.” She grinned, kissing all over your face as her stress level finally evened out.

Her scrub top is folded in a plastic bag somewhere near her feet because the front of it’s torn and streaked with blood from the first few awful seconds before anyone could get to her, before security and Maria and Steph from triage had managed to pull her backwards by the waist while the patient screamed so loudly the whole department seemed to go airless around it.

It wasn’t his fault, not really. He was frightened and out of it and nobody expected him to come up that fast, one second curled tight on the bed with his voice climbing, the next swinging blind and hard enough that his elbow caught her straight across the face. 

She remembers the crack of pain before she remembers making a sound. Then her own cry seemed to set him off worse, his hand catching a fistful of her scrub top before she could step back, the brutal pull forward, the bed rail coming up too fast.

Her nose had hit first. Or her mouth. Or her forehead. It’s all a little rearranged now, bright flashes and metal and Maria shouting her name and someone saying, “Security, now,” with enough force to make the whole bay move.

She knows it wasn’t anyone’s fault. She knows psych presentations can turn quickly, knows agitation isn’t always a straight line with warning signs and a polite little interval where everyone gets to reposition themselves safely. 

She knows all the rational things. She also knows her face hurts badly enough that thinking in full sentences feels like pushing through wet cement, and she is, medically speaking, having a really fucking shit time.

Beside her, Maria drives like a woman who’s spent twenty years transporting compromised student nurses and actual glassware with equal care. One hand on the wheel, eyes on the road, her voice soft enough not to scrape against the inside of her skull when she says, “How’s the head, honey?”

She exhales through her nose and immediately regrets it because her nose doesn’t wish to be involved in breathing at this time. “Super normal. Love having one.”

Maria makes a small sound that could be a laugh if it wasn’t wrapped so tightly in concern. “Nausea?”

“Not worse.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She lets her head rest back against the seat and keeps her eyes on the blurred glow of streetlights sliding across the windscreen. The movement makes her stomach roll faintly, but not enough to tell Maria about, because Maria has already done enough. 

Maria had stood in the consult room while Dr. Patel checked her pupils and her nose and the swelling around her cheekbones, one warm hand resting between her shoulder blades every time she tried to make a joke and ended up going quiet instead. 

Maria had found her spare hoodie from the locker room and helped her into it when lifting her left arm made pain streak down through her shoulder. Maria had said, very gently, you’re not catching the bus after getting your bell rung in my department, like that settled the matter.

“A little,” she admits. “But I’m not going to vomit in your car.”

“Kind of you.”

“I’m very thoughtful.”

“You’re concussed.”

She sighs softly. “Also that.”

Maria’s eyes flick over her in the dim light, quick and practised. “You remember what Dr. Patel said?”

She does. Mostly. The words have been looping vaguely around the edges of her head since he handed her the paperwork. Mild concussion. No fracture. Neuro obs stable. X-ray clear. Rest. No driving. No placement until reviewed. Come back if vomiting, worsening headache, confusion, unusual drowsiness, changes in vision, weakness, seizure, or if anything feels wrong enough that you’re trying to talk yourself out of seeking help.

No being alone tonight.

That last one had landed harder than the rest, somehow. Maybe because the ED had been too bright and too busy and she had been sitting there with a wad of gauze under her nose, feeling like a leaking appliance. Maybe because the doctor had said it in that professional, non-negotiable way that made arguing feel childish. Maybe because the idea of someone watching her because her brain had been knocked around made her feel suddenly, horribly small.

“Wake me every few hours,” she says. “Check I’m not getting weirder.”

Maria’s mouth tips. “You said weirder.”

“That’s the clinical term.”

“It’s not.”

“It should be. Easier to spell than altered level of consciousness.”

Maria actually laughs that time, but it fades quickly. “You can’t be home alone.”

“I know.”

“And you’re not going to pretend you’re fine and sit in your dorm by yourself because you feel embarrassed?”

Her eyes drift shut for half a second, then open again when the darkness makes her head swim. “I’m not embarrassed.”

Maria’s silent.

She sinks a little lower in the seat. “Okay. Maybe a normal amount.”

“There is no normal amount of embarrassed after being assaulted by a patient at work.”

“It wasn’t assault.”

Maria sighs. “Honey.”

“He didn’t know what he was doing,” she argues.

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt.”

Her mouth twitches before she remembers her lip is split. Pain snaps bright and sharp through the swollen skin. “Ow. Fuck.”

Maria’s hand lifts slightly off the wheel like she wants to reach over, then thinks better of it. “Don’t smile.”

“That’s bleak advice.”

“Currently medical advice.”

She presses her tongue carefully to the inside of her lip and tastes blood again. The whole evening keeps arriving in pieces. The patient’s arm. The bed rail. Maria’s face above hers, too close and too worried. Someone cutting away the torn edge of her scrub top. 

Her own hands shaking in her lap while she tried to tell everyone, very reasonably, that she could finish the shift if they just gave her a second. As if she hadn’t been bleeding on her own shoes.

The thought makes heat rise under the bruising in her face, which is unfair because her face has already suffered enough. “God,” she mutters. “Everyone saw.”

Maria sighs, not impatient, but close to something sad. “Yes, everyone saw that you got hurt.”

“I’m the student.”

“Yes,” Maria nods.

“I’m supposed to be useful.”

“You were useful all day.”

“I ended the shift with a concussion and a bloody nose.”

“You ended the shift injured because an unpredictable situation escalated. That’s not a performance review.”

She knows that. She does. She would say that to anyone else. She would put her hand on another student’s shoulder and mean it completely. She would tell them they were in the wrong place at the wrong second and that sometimes you can do everything right and still get hurt because hospitals are not made of lesson plans and perfect outcomes.

Unfortunately, she’s not another student. She’s herself. And herself currently has blood in her hoodie sleeve because she keeps forgetting not to touch her face.

They hit a bump in the road, not even a large one, but it sends pain blooming through her skull with such immediate nastiness that she sucks in a breath through her teeth and grips the strap of her bag.

Maria notices. “Almost there.”

She opens her mouth to ask where there is, and then remembers campus, her dorm, her room, the bed with the old sweatshirt shoved under the pillow, the roommate who is not there. Her stomach drops so abruptly it makes the nausea worse. “Shit.”

Maria glances over. “What?”

“My roommate’s not home.”

“Tonight?”

“She’s at her sister’s. Like, hours away.” She closes her eyes, then opens them again because the inside of her head does not enjoy visual privacy right now. “Fuck. I forgot.”

“Okay.” Maria’s voice stays calm. That is possibly the worst part. “Do you have someone else? A friend you could stay with?”

She thinks of Lucy first, because that’s the correct answer. Lucy would absolutely let her stay. Lucy would probably panic and then overcorrect into a level of cheerfulness that could qualify as a secondary head injury. Monique would be better, quieter, but Monique has an exam tomorrow and lives across campus in a building where the lift is always broken, which feels like a personal attack under current conditions.

Then her brain, unhelpfully and immediately, supplies Garrett.

Garrett’s room with the lamp on. Garrett’s hand at the back of her neck. Garrett’s voice low in her ear telling her to stop studying and sleep. Garrett sitting on the edge of her bed taking off her shoes after a bad shift. 

Garrett looking at her like competence is something he can be proud of even when she feels like she’s wearing it badly. Garrett, who has been hit in the head enough times that concussion protocol is probably written somewhere in his bones.

Garrett, who’s not technically her boyfriend, except the technicalities feel very stupid when her head is throbbing and her lip is bleeding and she wants him so badly it makes her chest ache worse than her shoulder.

“Yeah,” she says, and her voice comes out softer than she means it to. “Uh. Yeah. I have someone.”

Maria doesn’t look smug. That’s probably part of why she is a good preceptor. “Address?”

She gives her the hockey house. The words feel bigger in the car than they should. Maybe because saying his address out loud to Maria feels like she’s accidentally handed over evidence. Maybe because the last time Maria saw Garrett, he’d been standing in the ED hallway with panic sitting badly under his skin while Logan asked what day it was for the third time. 

Maybe because Maria now knows exactly where to take the concussed student nurse with the split lip and the ruined scrubs, and that place is apparently Garrett Graham’s house.

Maria only nods and changes lanes.

The hockey house is lit up when they pull onto the street, every downstairs window glowing warm and yellow into the cold, the porch light flickering faintly over the steps. There are cars out front, some vaguely familiar. The sight of it loosens something in her chest. At least someone’s home. At least there’s a couch, and people who know what pupils are supposed to do, and Garrett somewhere inside if the universe has decided to be kind after all the other things it did tonight.

Maria puts the car in park and turns toward her. “Wait. I’ll help you.”

“I can walk.”

“I didn’t ask,” Maria responds.

She huffs, which hurts less than smiling. Maria gets out first and comes around, opening the passenger door before she can argue again. The cold hits her face and instantly makes her nose ache in a new and innovative way. 

She climbs out slowly, one hand braced on the car door, shoulder protesting when she reaches for the strap of her bag. Maria takes it from her without comment.

“Rude,” she murmurs.

“Concussed.”

“Everyone keeps saying that like it explains everything.”

“It explains a lot.”

The walk up the path feels longer than it should. The porch steps require more concentration than she likes, which annoys her because she’s watched drunk freshmen navigate these steps while carrying open cups and zero dignity. Her sneakers scrape lightly over the boards. 

Somewhere inside, someone yells something that might be, “You’re cheating,” followed by Dean’s voice saying, “It’s not cheating if the game lets me do it,” which feels like an argument that has existed in this house for generations.

She knocks once because lifting her hand twice seems excessive. There’s a crash inside. A hockey house crash. Male voices overlap, loud and irritated and completely unaware of the fact that sound is currently a weapon. She winces before she can stop herself, one hand coming up toward her temple and hovering there uselessly.

Maria’s mouth tightens. “You okay?”

“Yep.”

The door opens on Logan in sweats and a faded Briar shirt, hair a mess, controller in one hand, expression halfway to annoyed until he sees her. Everything drops out of his face.

He says her name once, startled and low, and then, “What the fuck happened?”

The room behind him seems to quiet in stages. Maybe because of his voice. Maybe because she’s standing on the porch looking like an ED discharge summary with legs. 

She becomes suddenly, viciously aware of herself: the bruising already shadowing beneath her eyes, the swollen bridge of her nose, the blood dried under it despite Maria helping her clean up, the split lip, the hoodie zipped crooked because raising her shoulder hurts. She hadn’t thought much about how she looked in the car because looking required mirrors and mirrors required courage she didn’t currently possess.

Then Garrett appears behind Logan, and the whole night rearranges itself around the look on his face. He must have been in the living room. His hair’s damp at the edges like he showered not long ago, curls loose over his forehead, sweatpants low on his hips, a dark t-shirt pulled tight across his shoulders. 

He steps into the doorway with his mouth already forming some question, probably a chirp, probably something warm and annoying about why she’s showing up with supervision. He sees her, and all the colour leaves his face, as if something has reached into him and taken it by the roots.

His eyes move over her once, too fast and not fast enough. Nose. Mouth. Bruises. Hoodie. The stiff way she’s holding her shoulder. Maria beside her with the bag and the paperwork. Back to her face, where his attention catches and stays.

She tries to smile. It’s a mistake immediately. Pain sparks through her lip, and she winces instead, which feels like the saddest possible version of flirting. “Hi,” she says.

Garrett doesn’t answer.

Logan steps back at once. “Jesus. Come in. Fuck. Come in.”

Warmth and sound and the smell of boys and pizza and laundry detergent roll over her as she steps into the house. The living room lights make her eyes sting. Dean and Tucker are on the couch, controllers in hand, the TV paused mid-game like they’ve both forgotten the concept of winning. Dean’s mouth opens. Tucker’s face changes quietly, which somehow feels worse.

“Holy fuck,” Dean half-yells.

The words hit too loud. She flinches before she can make herself not do it.

Tucker moves instantly. “Dean, get the lights, man.”

“What? Oh. Shit, yeah.” Dean scrambles for the lamp with the guilty urgency of a man who’s suddenly remembered inside voices exist. The room drops into a dimmer yellow, the overhead going off, the TV brightness turned down under Tucker’s quick hand. It changes the whole house at once, softens the edges, takes the blade out of the light.

Maria watches all of it with a look that would be approving if she weren’t still too professional to be obvious about it. 

“She’s had a head injury,” she says, voice calm, eyes moving to Garrett because everyone’s eyes move to Garrett, because this is his house and not-his-girlfriend has arrived at his door concussed and bleeding. “Mild concussion. X-ray was clear, no nasal fracture, but she needs monitoring overnight. No alcohol, no driving, no being alone. Keep the lights low, noise down. She can sleep, but someone needs to check on her as per the discharge instructions. If she starts vomiting, gets more confused, can’t be woken, worsening headache, vision changes, weakness, anything that feels off, take her back in.”

Garrett nods slowly. He’s still staring at her.

Logan, maybe because Garrett looks like he’s briefly lost access to language, reaches out and takes the paperwork from Maria. “Yeah. We’ve got it.”

Maria turns back to her, and her face softens in that way that makes the back of her throat go tight. “I’ll see you in a couple days, honey. Not tomorrow. Rest tomorrow.”

She nods carefully. Even that tiny motion makes pressure throb through her skull. “Thanks for driving me.”

“Text me when you wake up.” Maria’s eyes flick toward Garrett again. “And listen to them for once.”

That almost makes her smile. She resists, heroically. “No promises.”

Maria gives her shoulder the gentlest squeeze, nowhere near the painful side, then lets herself out. Logan closes the door softly behind her, like the whole house has been put on medical quiet time. 

For half a second, nobody moves. Then Dean says, much quieter this time, “Who the fuck did that?”

She lets out a breath that doesn’t quite make it to a laugh. “Hi to you too.”

Dean’s on his feet now, controller abandoned on the couch, all his usual lazy beauty sharpened into something pissed and bright. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” Her head’s beginning to pound harder now that she’s standing still. The adrenaline from getting out of the car, climbing the steps, seeing Garrett’s face, all of it drains down through her body and leaves her feeling oddly hollow. 

Garrett notices, his hand comes to her elbow, barely touching at first like he’s afraid pressure might break something. The warmth of him lands through the hoodie and her body, traitorous and exhausted, turns toward it before her pride has any say.

She steps into him. She leans forward and presses her forehead against his chest because the angle is the only one that doesn’t put pressure on her nose, one hand curling weakly in the soft fabric of his shirt. 

Garrett tenses under her for a fraction of a second, like seeing her had knocked him out of himself and her touching him is what pulls him back in wrong. Then his arms come around her.

Careful. So careful it almost makes her cry. One hand settles at the back of her head without pressing, fingers spread wide over her hair, the other around her waist, holding her there with a gentleness that feels nothing like the boy who body checks men into boards for sport and everything like the one who once took her UGGs off because outside shoes didn’t belong in bed.

She closes her eyes, just for a second. Garrett’s voice, when it finally comes, is rough enough that she feels it against her cheek. “Baby.”

“I’m okay,” she says into his shirt, because she’s decided to start lying as a hobby.

His hand flexes once at her waist. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m not actively dying.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

She manages a weak shrug. “Clinically significant distinction.”

Logan exhales behind them, shaky in a way he probably wishes nobody noticed. Tucker moves around them quietly, collecting controllers, turning the game off properly, lowering the TV volume until the room becomes mostly the hum of the refrigerator and distant campus noise through the windows. Dean’s still standing there looking like he needs something to hit and has, unfortunately for everyone, found only furniture.

Garrett pulls back enough to look at her, but not far enough that she loses him. His eyes scan her face again, slower now. It’s almost worse than the pain. The way his gaze catches on the swollen bridge of her nose, the blood at one nostril, the split in her lower lip. He looks wrecked by it. Offended, almost, like her body has done something behind his back.

“Come sit down,” he says.

She wants to make a joke about his captain voice. She really does. It’s right there, familiar and easy. Unfortunately, her brain loses the sentence halfway through assembling it, and by the time she finds a piece of it, Garrett’s already guiding her to the couch.

Dean moves a cushion out of the way. Tucker places another behind her back. Logan stands nearby with the paperwork in one hand, reading it with a frown so intense it looks like he’s preparing for finals in head trauma. 

They all shift around her with this strange, quiet purpose that makes her chest feel too full and her face feel too sore to hold whatever expression she wants. Garrett crouches in front of her and reaches for her sneakers.

She blinks down at him. “What are you doing?”

His mouth barely moves. “Taking your shoes off.”

“I can take my shoes off.”

He looks up at her, and there is something in his face so taut and helpless that the argument falls apart in her lap. “Can you let me?”

Oh. That’s not fair. That’s wildly not fair.

She swallows and looks away first. “Yeah.”

Garrett unties her sneakers one at a time, slow with the laces, careful of the way moving her leg pulls faintly at her shoulder. He sets them neatly beside the coffee table. When her feet are free, she curls her legs up onto the couch without thinking, tucking herself sideways into the cushions because upright feels like an idea designed by people whose skulls are not currently full of angry bees.

Garrett’s hand hovers near her knee, then settles there. “Did you want water?”

She nods, then instantly regrets the movement. Pain washes across her forehead, hot and thick. Her eyes squeeze shut. “Ow. Fuck. Yes, please.”

Garrett rises. Her hand moves before she decides to move it, fingers catching the loose fabric of his sweatpants at the thigh, barely enough to stop him if he wanted to go. But he does stop. Immediately. She opens her eyes. Garrett’s looking down at her hand on him. Then he looks at Logan.

Logan’s already moving. “I’ve got it.”

Garrett sits beside her instead. He does it carefully, couch dipping with his weight, his thigh warm along the outside of her curled legs. He doesn’t crowd her face. Doesn’t pull her in too fast. Simply sits close enough that she can feel him there, his hand returning to her knee, thumb still because even his restless touching has gone cautious.

Dean hasn’t let the original point go. He sits on the edge of the coffee table across from her, elbows on his knees, all dramatic cheekbones and very real anger. “No, seriously. Who the fuck did this?”

She opens her mouth. The first answer is too long and falls apart before she can get to it. Her head gives one hard pulse. She shuts her eyes briefly, tries again. “A patient.”

Dean stares at her. “A patient did this to your face?”

“He was really agitated,” she explains as Logan comes back with water. He hands it to Garrett, not her, which would be annoying if her hands didn’t feel vaguely unreliable. “It escalated. He didn’t mean it.”

Dean’s expression says that this isn’t helping his blood pressure. “He didn’t mean it.”

“No.” She lets Garrett pass her the glass, taking it with both hands because one feels optimistic. The cold of it is nice against her palms. Her lip stings when she drinks, water catching briefly at the split, but her throat is dry enough that she keeps going anyway. “He was out of it. Psych presentation. It wasn’t– nobody did anything wrong.”

Tucker returns from the kitchen with an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel and offers it out with both hands like a peace treaty. “For your face. Or your shoulder. Or… wherever. I don’t know. I’m not the medical one.”

She takes it and immediately loves him a little for the towel. “Thanks, Tuck.”

Logan, reading from the discharge sheet now, says, “It says shoulder strain?”

“Logan.”

“What? It does.”

“Stop reading my lore out loud,” she huffs.

Dean gives her a look. “Your lore says shoulder strain and concussion.”

She lets her eyes close for a moment. “My lore is private.”

“Your lore showed up bleeding on our porch.”

She would like to laugh. She really would. Instead, the corner of her mouth twitches, pain bites through her lip, and her eyes water instantly. “Ow. God. That’s so annoying.”

Garrett’s hand comes up, stops short of her face. His fingers curl in midair before he lets them drop. “Your lip’s split and you’ve still got dried blood under your nose, baby.”

The baby does something terrible to her. It always does, but right now it’s worse because his voice is stripped down to the bone. He’s looking at her like he’s trying to keep himself from shaking by cataloguing every visible injury.

She shrugs with one shoulder and immediately regrets that too. Pain tugs from the side of her neck down into the joint, sharp enough that her breath catches.

Garrett sees it. His jaw flexes. “Don’t shrug.”

“I forgot.”

“How do you forget your shoulder hurts?”

“Concussion,” she says, because if everyone else gets to use it as an explanation, so does she. “It looks worse than it is. Promise. I’m just drained. And foggy. I keep losing my train of thought, which is the rudest symptom. Like, I was mid-sentence with Dr. Patel and just fully misplaced the rest of it.”

Tucker’s mouth softens. “That sounds scary.”

She looks down at the glass in her hands. The condensation has started to wet her fingers. “Mostly annoying.”

She lifts the ice pack toward her face, but her shoulder protests halfway up and makes the movement jerky. Garrett catches the pack before she can pretend she meant to do that.

Her eyes flick to him. “I can hold an ice pack.”

“I know.” His voice is quieter now. He shifts closer, one knee turning toward her on the couch, the wrapped ice pack careful in his hand. “But how many times have you looked after me, huh?”

She has no good answer for that. Too many. Not enough. In locker room hallways, in his bed, on this exact couch with bruises over his ribs while he tried to convince her hockey was a sufficient medical explanation for all bodily damage. She’s pressed ice to his cheek and taped his fingers and made him take painkillers and once threatened to call Maria for backup if he said manageable one more time.

Garrett’s mouth moves faintly, not a smile, but close enough to hurt. “Let me.”

She lets him. Garrett lifts the ice pack to her face with a care that makes her throat tighten, angling it over the bridge of her nose and the swelling beginning to spread under one eye without pressing too hard. 

The cold hurts first, a bright, mean sting over bruised skin, then settles into something almost relieving. Her breath comes out shaky despite her best efforts.

“Too much?” he asks.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” She shifts her gaze past him because his face is currently unmanageable. Dean and Tucker and Logan are all watching her with varying degrees of poorly concealed worry. Dean looks like he’s biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. Logan still has the discharge paper. Tucker has both hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie like he doesn’t trust them not to hover. “What?”

Dean blinks. “What?”

“You guys look like this every week and I don’t stare at you.”

Logan snorts, but it comes out thin. “That’s because we’re hot when we’re bruised.”

She manages an eye roll, which is a win. “You’re concussed half the time and deeply irritating the other half.”

“Range,” Dean says automatically.

She points weakly toward the TV with the hand not holding her water. “Relax. Go back to your video games.”

Tucker’s brows pull together. “No, but– but it’s different.”

Her eyes move to him.

He looks briefly embarrassed, then pushes through it anyway. “It’s you.”

Her chest does that awful thing again, too soft and too sore at the same time. She looks down because taking that directly from Tucker feels unfairly intimate, like he’s handed her something warm without warning.

“I’m okay,” she says, and it’s not entirely true, but she tries to make it sound close enough. “Really. I was observed. I had neuro obs. I had scans. No fracture. Nothing’s broken. Just bruised and concussed and mildly tragic.”

“Mildly?” Dean asks.

“Moderately if you keep fucking yelling.”

His face changes instantly. “Sorry.”

The apology is so immediate that she almost smiles again and has to stop herself like a responsible person. “It’s okay.”

Garrett’s hand holding the ice pack is steady. His eyes have barely left her face, and the longer she sits there under that attention, the more she realises he still hasn’t really said anything. Not like Garrett. Not a joke, not an actual question, not one of the bossy little comments that usually lands him in trouble and somehow still gets her to drink water.

His silence has weight. It sits beside her on the couch, pressed into the careful line of his shoulders.

She turns her head just enough to look at him. “You’re being weird.”

His eyes flick to hers. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

His mouth presses together. For a second, he looks younger than he usually does. Less Briar captain, less untouchable campus landmark, more boy on a couch holding an ice pack to a girl’s swollen face with fear making a mess under his skin.

He swallows. “Do you want me to loosen your hair?”

The question is so small and practical that it nearly undoes her. Her hair is still claw-clipped from placement, half-fallen now, strands tugging at her scalp from where it got pulled in the scuffle and then shoved messily back while she was being assessed. She had forgotten about it until he said it, and now she can feel every tight little pull at the roots, all of it feeding into the headache sitting behind her eyes.

“Yes, please,” she says.

Garrett lowers the ice pack and hands it to Tucker without looking. Tucker takes it like an assistant in surgery. Garrett turns slightly toward her, one hand moving behind her head, not touching at first. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“It all hurts.”

His face does something awful.

She softens her voice. “I’ll tell you if it hurts more.”

“Okay.” His fingers find the clip carefully. He’s taken her hair down before, usually with far less medical purpose and far more smugness, but now every motion is slow, almost reverent. The clip gives, and the weight of her hair loosens down her back. The relief is immediate enough that her eyes flutter shut without permission.

Garrett catches that too. “Better?”

“Mhm.”

He combs the fallen strands away from the side of her face with his fingers, avoiding the swelling, avoiding the blood, avoiding every place that might make her flinch. His thumb brushes once near her temple, feather-light. 

She opens her eyes and finds him looking at her. “I’m okay,” she says again, quieter this time. “Really.”

Garrett doesn’t argue. That might be worse. He only nods once and takes the ice pack back from Tucker, pressing it carefully to her face again.

For a while, the room adjusts around her. Dean sits back down, but he doesn’t pick up the controller. Tucker goes to the kitchen and returns with a straw for her water like a man who’s discovered a side quest and intends to complete it properly. Logan reads the discharge instructions twice, then starts setting alarms on his phone without announcing it, because subtlety, in this house, is sometimes just everyone pretending they cannot see love doing administrative tasks in sweatpants.

She drinks water through the straw because lifting the glass is annoying and because nobody makes a thing of it. Garrett keeps the ice pack steady. Every so often, he asks a question in a voice too even to be casual. Headache worse? Nausea? Vision okay? She answers as best she can. Same. Little bit. Yeah, mostly. 

When Dean shifts too fast and the couch creaks, he freezes like he’s committed assault by upholstery. That makes her huff something dangerously close to a laugh, and Garrett immediately murmurs, “Careful,” like her face is now a team responsibility.

The fogginess comes in waves. Sometimes she’s fully in the room, tracking Dean’s quiet rage and Tucker’s gentle fussing and Logan’s forced calm. Sometimes the edges blur a little, slow, like her thoughts are moving through syrup. Garrett’s thigh is warm against her curled legs. His arm rests along the back of the couch behind her, a soft barrier between her and the world. 

She leans into him by degrees until her shoulder touches his chest and her head tips carefully toward the place beneath his jaw that smells like soap and boy and safety.

She doesn’t mean to get sleepy. She has discharge instructions that say she can sleep, she knows that, but the idea of giving in with everyone watching feels embarrassing in a new, stupid direction. Still, her eyelids grow heavy. The headache spreads and dulls under the cold. The room is dim. The boys are quiet. Garrett is warm.

At some point, Dean says softly, “You want me to call Lucy or someone?”

She tries to answer. The name gets halfway through her head and then wanders off. “Tomorrow,” she murmurs.

“Okay,” Dean says, and for once there’s no joke attached.

Garrett shifts beside her. “Baby?”

She makes a small sound that could mean what or I’m alive or don’t make me move, depending on how generous he feels.

“You getting sleepy?”

“No.”

There’s a pause.

Logan says, very quietly, “That was the least convincing thing I’ve ever heard.”

She opens one eye to glare at him, but the room tilts slightly with the effort, so she closes it again. “Your face is least convincing.”

“Strong comeback.”

“Thank you.”

Garrett’s lips brush her hair. It’s quick, maybe accidental, except nothing Garrett does with her feels accidental anymore, no matter how hard both of them have tried to label it otherwise. “I’m gonna take you upstairs, okay?”

Her eyes open properly at that, or as properly as they can. “I can walk.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that and then doing the thing for me anyway.”

His mouth curves faintly for the first time all night. It’s tiny and tired and painfully Garrett. “Yeah.”

She should argue. She’s built a respectable portion of this entire situationship on arguing with Garrett Graham while letting him do exactly what she wants him to do. But her shoulder aches, her face throbs, and her legs feel like they belong to somebody who’s spent the day being chased by weather. 

More than that, she wants him. She wants his hands steady under her thighs, his chest close, his room dark and warm around them. She wants to stop being the student who got hurt and start being the girl Garrett carries upstairs because the floor feels too far away.

“Okay,” she whispers.

Dean looks at the TV like he’s never been interested in anything more. Tucker suddenly finds the water glass fascinating. Logan folds the discharge papers with great concentration. Nobody says a word.

Garrett slides one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees with the same careful strength he uses for everything he takes seriously. “Shoulder?”

“Fine.”

His eyes flick to hers.

“Not worse,” she corrects.

He nods once and lifts her.

It does hurt, a little. Her shoulder pulls, her head pulses, and the movement makes nausea roll faintly through her stomach. But Garrett holds her so close and so steadily that the discomfort never gets sharp enough to scare her. Her hand curls in the front of his shirt, her face turning carefully toward his neck because pressing into his chest would bump her nose and she’s learned at least one thing tonight.

Dean’s voice follows them, low and rough from the couch. “G.”

Garrett stops at the foot of the stairs but doesn’t turn fully, like turning her too much might hurt.

Dean’s eyes move over her once, then to Garrett. Whatever he’d been about to say gets swallowed down and changed into something smaller. “We’re downstairs if you need anything.”

Garrett’s hold tightens by a fraction. “Yeah.”

Tucker adds, “I’ll bring up more ice in a bit.”

“And meds when she’s due,” Logan says, lifting the papers slightly.

She wants to tell them they’re all being ridiculous. She wants to say she’s fine, to make some joke about the Briar hockey team turning into a poorly licensed urgent care clinic. But her throat feels thick, and her eyes sting in a way that has nothing to do with the swelling, and for once the joke doesn’t come quickly enough to save her from feeling it.

So she only says, “Thanks, guys.”

Dean nods, jaw tight. Tucker gives her a small, worried smile. Logan says, “Anytime,” like he means it and hates that there’s a reason to.

Garrett carries her upstairs slowly. The stairwell is dim, the house clutter softened into shadows: a hoodie over the railing, someone’s shoes kicked near the landing, a dent in the wall nobody has confessed to making. 

His breathing is steady beneath her ear. His arms don’t shift, don’t tremble, don’t let her feel for one second like she’s heavy or inconvenient or anything other than something he’s decided belongs safely against him.

Halfway up, she murmurs, “Garrett?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still being weird.”

This time, his breath leaves him in something almost like a laugh. It brushes warm over her hair. “Yeah, baby,” he says, voice low enough that it belongs only to the stairs and the dark and the careful space between them. “I know.”

His room is already dim when he gets there, like he’d been in it before everything happened and left the lamp on low beside the bed, the shade turning the walls a warm, soft yellow that doesn’t stab behind her eyes. 

The window is cracked just enough to let in a thin line of cold air, shifting the edge of the curtain and carrying in the far-off sound of campus on a weeknight, car doors and laughter and somebody shouting down the street like the world has not personally offended her face.

Garrett nudges the door open with his shoulder and steps inside carefully, like the room might have developed hazards in the ten minutes since he last saw it. One of his hoodies is thrown over the desk chair. There’s a textbook facedown on the bed that he must have been pretending to read earlier, a roll of hockey tape on the nightstand, his phone charger twisted into a knot on the floor. 

The ordinary mess of him sits around them so gently that it makes something behind her ribs go weak. His room. His bed. His detergent and the clean soap smell of his skin under the faint cold of the hallway.

For the first time since the bay, since the rail, since the white burst of pain and Maria’s hand firm between her shoulder blades, her body seems to understand that it’s stopped moving.

Garrett lowers her onto the edge of the mattress with so much care it almost becomes annoying. One arm stays behind her back until she’s properly sitting, the other at her knees, and even after he lets go he keeps his hands there for a second, hovering near her like he’s not fully convinced gravity has been handled.

She blinks down at him because he’s crouched in front of her now, broad shoulders between her knees, face tipped up, eyes moving over her again with that same awful, quiet attention. 

She can feel what he’s seeing before he says anything. The blood dried tight beneath her nose. The swelling already darkening around the bridge of it. The split in her lip, tacky and sore. Mascara smudged under both eyes from the crying she doesn’t remember allowing herself to do properly, only the wetness and the sting and Maria saying, breathe for me, honey, nice and slow.

Garrett swallows. His hands rest lightly on her calves, thumbs still. “Did you want to wipe your face?” he asks, voice careful. “You’ve got, uh…” His eyes flick down, then back up, and his mouth tightens around something he doesn’t let out. “Some mascara under your eyes. And some blood still.”

She knows he’s trying very hard not to sound like the sight of it is putting his organs in the wrong order. She loves him a little for the effort, which is a thought she cannot touch right now because her brain is concussed and reckless and clearly looking for loaded weapons.

She nods once, then immediately remembers that nodding is no longer a neutral activity. The headache flares behind her eyes, thick and punishing. “Ow,” she says, small and irritated.

Garrett’s hands tighten on her legs. “Hey.”

“I’m good.” Her tongue touches the split in her lip and she tastes metal again. “Can you?”

His face changes. Barely. A little fracture through the tight worry, something softer underneath it. “Course.”

He stands, and the second his hands leave her, her body reacts before her mind catches up. Her fingers snag in the hem of his t-shirt, clumsy and sudden, and the movement pulls through her bad shoulder so sharply that a soft, wounded sound slips out of her before she can bite it down.

Garrett freezes instantly. Entire body going still. “Hey. Hey, you’re good.” He turns back toward her, one hand coming carefully to her wrist, covering her fingers where they’re twisted in his shirt. “I’m just going to the hallway, yeah? Bathroom’s right there. Two seconds.”

She knows that. Obviously she knows that. She’s been in this house enough times to know the bathroom is six steps from his door and usually contains at least one towel on the floor and Dean’s body wash in a place where it doesn’t belong. She knows Garrett’s not leaving. She knows the door is open, the house is full, Logan’s downstairs reading concussion instructions like the exam is tomorrow.

Still, her fingers don’t let go right away.

Her head hurts. Her mouth hurts. Her shoulder is a hot, sharp line down one side of her body. And the small, rational part of her brain that usually handles dignity and sarcasm is sitting in a dark room somewhere with a blanket over its head, because all she can think is that she wants him where she can reach him.

Garrett’s thumb moves once over her knuckles. “I’ll keep the door open.”

She nods more carefully this time. “Okay.”

He waits until her fingers loosen, then steps backward instead of turning right away, eyes on her the whole time. It would be funny, maybe, if it didn’t work. If she didn’t feel her ribs unclench slightly because she can still see him, because he backs into the hallway like she’s a wild animal he’s trying not to spook and not a nursing student with blood under her nose and one of his sleeves somewhere in her fist.

He disappears only when he reaches the bathroom, and even then he keeps talking. “Still here,” he says, and the water starts a second later, soft against porcelain. “Just getting a washcloth.”

“I know,” she calls back, then winces because even her own voice feels too loud inside her skull.

Garrett comes back with the washcloth damp and folded in one hand. His other hand shuts the door halfway, enough to soften the rest of the house into a distant murmur. The mattress dips when he sits beside her, turned toward her with one knee bent on the bed. 

He smells like clean skin and laundry and something faintly sweet from the kitchen downstairs, and she has to swallow around the childish, humiliating urge to press her face into his chest and stay there until her body stops feeling like it has been borrowed from a car crash.

“Here we go,” he says.

The cloth touches just beneath her eye first.

She stiffens on instinct, because everything has hurt tonight and her body is no longer trusting innocent objects, but Garrett pauses immediately. “Too cold?”

“No.” Her voice comes out thinner than she likes. “Just surprised.”

“Okay.” His face stays close, intent in a way that would normally make her flustered for more interesting reasons. “I’ll go slow.”

He does. He wipes the smudged mascara from beneath one eye with feather-light strokes, the washcloth barely dragging over skin, then folds it to a clean corner and does the other side. He works like he has been given something fragile and a little dangerous. Like every movement is being negotiated with the injuries on her face and the dull heaviness behind her eyes. 

His jaw flexes when the cloth comes away grey-black with makeup and faintly pink with old blood, but he doesn’t comment. He only turns it again and brings it to the place under her nose.

“That might hurt,” he murmurs.

“It already hurts.”

His eyes lift to hers. “Yeah.”

She looks down at his wrist, at the veins there, at the old tape mark near his thumb, at the little scrape over one knuckle from practice or a game or some Garrett-related misuse of his own body. Usually she would notice and ask. Usually she would press her thumb near it and say, what’s this? and he would say, nothing, and she would call him annoying and make him let her look anyway.

Tonight she just watches his hand hold the cloth and lets him clean the blood away. The dried parts tug where they have hardened on her skin, and she sucks in a breath through her mouth when the washcloth brushes too close to the swelling at the bridge of her nose. 

Garrett stops every time, waits for the little movement of her fingers in his shirt to settle, then continues. He wipes around the split in her lip last, his mouth flattening when fresh blood beads at the edge.

“You’re gonna bruise like hell,” he says, almost to himself.

She tries not to smile. It becomes a tiny, crooked thing anyway and immediately hurts. “Hot.”

His eyes flick back to hers, and for the first time since she arrived, something almost like Garrett moves across his face. Small. Tired. There and gone. “Yeah, baby. Real intimidating.”

“Good. I’ve always wanted to look tough.”

“You already look tough.”

“That’s because you have questionable standards.”

“No,” he says, and the softness in it makes her look away first. “I don’t.”

The room goes quiet except for the dull throb of the house underneath them, the creak of something downstairs, Logan or Dean moving around, the low murmur of the boys trying and failing not to sound worried through the floor. Garrett folds the washcloth over itself and sets it on the nightstand, then looks down at the rest of her.

The hoodie Maria put on her is zipped to her collarbone, dark fabric stained rusty near the cuff where she must have touched her face. Her scrub pants are still on, wrinkled and creased from the shift, one knee smudged faintly with something she refuses to identify. There is a hospital sticker on her shoe that nobody noticed until now, bright and stupid and stuck to the edge of the sole.

Garrett’s gaze catches on the blood at her sleeve. “You want out of these scrub pants?” he asks quietly. “And your hoodie has blood on it, baby.”

She looks down, as if this is new information. Her brain takes a second to make sense of the stain. “Oh.”

“It’s okay.”

“Yeah,” she says after a moment. Then, because the word seems to have scraped something loose on the way out, she adds, “Sorry.”

Garrett’s head lifts. “Why the fuck are you sorry?”

The sharpness of it makes her blink. He says it too quietly, all the force held under his tongue. But it lands somewhere tender anyway. She presses her lips together and immediately regrets that too. “Ow.”

Garrett’s expression softens, but his eyes stay fixed on her. Waiting.

She sighs, and it comes out shaky enough that she would like to file a formal complaint with her nervous system. “Because you…” The thought keeps slipping. She can see it, vaguely, but reaching for it makes her head pulse harder. “You didn’t sign up for this. I should’ve gotten Lucy or Monique. Or stayed with Maria, or– I don’t know.”

“No.” Garrett shakes his head once, and then stops himself, like maybe he’s remembered that head movement isn’t anyone’s friend right now. His hand comes to the side of her face, careful of the bruising, thumb brushing just below her temple where the skin is untouched. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re apologising for coming here.”

Her throat tightens. She looks at his shoulder because his face is too close and too much and still not close enough. “I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to.”

“Had to what?”

“Look after me.”

For a second, he only stares at her. Then he exhales through his nose, rough and almost disbelieving, and his fingers slide into her hair at the side of her head, holding it back from her face like the gesture can stand in for all the things he’s trying not to say too fast or wrong. “You think I’m sitting here because I feel obligated?”

She has the very strong, very pathetic urge to cry, which is inconvenient because crying would involve her face. “I don’t know.”

“Baby.”

She closes her eyes.

“Hey.” His thumb moves once. “Look at me.”

She does, reluctantly, because Garrett’s voice has gone into that low place that usually gets him what he wants and because her resistance is currently running on fumes.

His face is steadier now. Still pale underneath the warm lamplight, still tight around the edges, but steady in the places he’s offering to her. “I want you here.”

Her breath catches around something that hurts in a completely separate way from her nose. “Are we…” She stops, partly because the sentence is embarrassing and partly because she loses the middle of it for a second. The fog rolls in, cottony and irritating. She blinks, and Garrett waits. He doesn’t hurry her. Doesn’t fill the gap with a joke. Just keeps his hand at her face until she finds the rest. “Are we okay?”

His expression breaks so gently it makes her chest ache. “Course we are.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He brushes her hair back again, knuckles barely grazing the side of her neck. “We’re okay.”

She nods carefully. A tiny movement. “Good.”

Garrett’s mouth lifts at one corner, soft and sad and warm all at once. “Good?”

“Yeah.” Her fingers curl in his shirt again. This time, she doesn’t pull. “Because I really…” She swallows. Her throat is dry. Her head is thick. The truth comes out before she can dress it up in something safer. “I just wanted you.”

Something in him goes still. A held breath somewhere in the centre of him, then he nods, and the smile that comes with it is small enough that it feels private, even with the door half open and the boys downstairs and the whole house softly rearranged around her injury. “I know the feeling.”

She sniffs, because her body is committed to making the worst possible choices, and pain snaps up through her nose so sharply her eyes water. “Ow. Fuck.” She presses two fingers near the side of her face. “You do?”

Garrett’s smile shifts. “You want me to say it again while you look like you’re about to sneeze blood?”

“Maybe.”

“I know the feeling,” he says, and this time he doesn’t look away. “Because who better to nurse me back to health than you, huh?”

The laugh that escapes her is tiny and breathless and immediately followed by a wince, but it’s real. “I’m not even good at it today.”

“That’s okay.” He leans in and kisses the top of her head, nowhere near the bruising, lips warm against her hair. “I’ll cover this one.”

He gets up slowly this time, one hand staying in hers until the last possible second, then moves to his dresser. She watches him pull open drawers. 

He finds a pair of grey sweatpants first, soft and old and definitely his, then a zip-up hoodie because it will not need to go over her head. She can see the moment he chooses it for that reason. The little pause, the glance back at her shoulder, the jaw tight enough to tell on him.

When he comes back, the clothes folded over his arm, he crouches in front of her again. “Alright. We’ll do this slow, okay?”

She nods, then corrects it into a verbal answer before her head can punish her. “Okay.”

“Pants first.”

“Romantic.”

His mouth twitches. “I’m known for it.”

He helps her stand only as much as she needs, one hand at her good elbow, the other at her waist. The room sways faintly when she gets upright, unpleasantly loose at the edges, and Garrett’s hand firms at once. “Dizzy?”

“Little bit.”

“Sit?”

“No, I’m good. Just…” She looks down at the drawstring of her scrub pants, then at him. “This is a very low dignity moment for me.”

Garrett’s gaze flicks up, and there it is again, the smallest spark of him through the worry. “Baby, you’ve fallen asleep drooling on my chest after telling me I had slutty veins.”

She frowns. “I said that?”

“You did.”

“That does sound like me,” she accepts. 

“Exactly. Dignity’s been dead.”

She huffs, almost laughing, and he helps ease the scrub pants down her legs without making a production of it. Nothing in his face changes in the way that would make her feel watched, despite the fact that he’s, technically, undressing her in his bedroom. 

His touch stays practical, warm, almost painfully respectful. He holds the sweatpants open for her one leg at a time, keeps a hand at her hip while she steps in, then draws them up slowly over her thighs.

They’re too big, of course. They sit low on her hips and pool at her ankles in a way that would be funny if everything didn’t hurt. Garrett ties the drawstring in a loose knot and pats it once.

“There,” he says. “Very fashionable.”

“Shut up. I’m concussed.”

“I know. That’s why I’m letting you get away with that tone.”

Her mouth threatens a smile, so she bites it back and looks down at herself instead. The hoodie is next. Garrett reaches for the zipper, then stops. “Where’s the top?”

She blinks at him. “What?”

“Your scrub top.” His voice stays even, but not naturally. 

Her mind searches the department and comes back with torn fabric, scissors, someone’s gloved hands. “Um.” She rubs her fingers against the seam of his sweatpants, trying to make the thought stay still long enough to look at it. “Um. Bag. Maybe. They had to cut it off, I think.”

Garrett’s jaw tenses. It’s quick. A muscle jumping once, his mouth going flat, his eyes dropping away from her face for half a second like he needs to put the reaction somewhere she can’t see it. But she sees it anyway. She’s concussed, not blind.

When he looks back up, he’s forced something lighter onto his face. It’s not quite convincing, but the attempt is so Garrett it makes her ache.

“Damn,” he says. “Liked that pair.”

She stares at him. “Pair?”

“Set. Outfit. Whatever.” He lifts one shoulder, careful to keep his voice mild. “Made your ass look great.”

The giggle escapes before she can stop it. Immediately, pain blooms across her lip and nose, and she presses her fingers to her mouth with a muffled, “Ow. Don’t flirt with the concussed.”

Garrett’s smile is barely there, but warmer this time. “Can’t help it.”

“You should try.”

“I’ve been trying for months. Terrible at it.”

That one sits in the room longer than it should. Her eyes lift to his, and for a second, neither of them moves. Then Garrett clears his throat softly and reaches for the zipper of her hoodie.

“This one’s gonna suck,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

That’s somehow worse than if he had lied. “Okay.”

He unzips the bloodstained hoodie slowly, easing one side down her good arm first. That part is fine, or close enough. The bad shoulder is different. Even with the zip-up, even with him going painfully slowly, the fabric drags over the sore joint and catches near her elbow, and the strain of lifting even a fraction sends pain snapping hot and deep through her shoulder and up the side of her neck.

She makes a sound she hates. Small and broken enough that Garrett’s whole face changes.

“Stop, stop, stop,” he murmurs immediately. His hands freeze, one holding the fabric, the other at her waist. “I’ve got it. You’re okay. Don’t move.”

Her eyes burn fast. Too fast. The pain isn’t even the worst she has felt tonight, which somehow makes crying more insulting, like her body has chosen this as the point to become unreasonable. A few tears slip out anyway, hot and humiliating over her swollen cheeks.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

Garrett’s eyes flash. “Do not.”

“I know. I know, I’m just–” Her breath catches in that horrible little pre-sob way, and her face hurts too much to do anything with it. “It hurts.”

“I know.” His voice drops, low and steady. He shifts closer, bracing her gently with his own body while he works the sleeve down by tiny increments. “I know. I’m sorry. Almost done. There you go. Good girl. That’s it.”

The praise lands somewhere stupid and warm under all the pain, and she would make fun of him for weaponising it if she were not currently trying not to cry into his shirt. The hoodie finally comes free, and Garrett gets his zip-up around her without making her lift her arm higher than necessary, guiding the sore side in first, then the other, then drawing the soft fabric closed around her body. It smells like him immediately. Clean laundry, cold rink air, skin.

The relief of being out of the hospital clothes hits harder than she expects. She folds forward into him.

Garrett catches her like he has been waiting for it, one arm firm around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head before she can tip into the wrong angle. “There we go,” he murmurs into her hair. “Got you.”

She nods against him, but it’s barely a movement. “Hurts.”

“I know, baby.”

“I’m being a baby.”

“No.” His hand spreads over her back, broad and warm through the hoodie. “You’re being concussed with a fucked-up shoulder.”

She breathes against him for another minute, letting the warmth of him settle over the sharper edges. His heart is steady under her cheek. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe that’s just what she needs it to be. Either way, his arms stay around her until her breathing evens out, until the tears stop sliding hot under her eyes, until she can pull back without feeling like she might tip sideways into the nightstand.

Garrett helps her lie down against his pillows. He has her on her back at first, then adjusts when she makes a face, turning her slightly onto her good side with slow hands and a pillow tucked near her shoulder so it isn’t pulling strangely. He moves like he’s learning her injury as he goes, like the map of her pain matters enough to memorise. It makes something soft and sore press up behind her ribs.

When he climbs in beside her, he doesn’t pull her in immediately. He waits, lying on his side facing her, one arm bent under his head, the other resting near the blanket between them. Giving her space to decide how much contact feels possible. Which is very considerate of him and also deeply annoying because she has no interest in space.

She curls into him as best she can, awkwardly, her bad shoulder protected between them, her forehead carefully finding the safe hollow below his collarbone. Garrett lets out a breath that sounds like he has been holding it since the front door.

“There,” he says softly. “That okay?”

“Mhm.”

His hand comes to her hair again. Fingers sliding slowly from her temple back over her scalp, loosening what the clip and the shift and the panic left behind. The motion sends a dull, pleasant ache through her, somewhere under the headache, a different kind of heaviness.

She sighs before she can stop herself. “Feels nice.”

Garrett’s thumb moves near her hairline. “I’ll keep doing it then.”

She lets her eyes close.

For a while, the room stays still around them. The lamp glows behind her eyelids. The house below makes small, careful sounds, a cabinet closing softly, footsteps pausing in the hallway and then retreating, the quiet evidence of three hockey players trying very hard to be normal about the girl in Garrett’s bed with a concussion. 

Her head throbs anyway, steady and deep. Her lip pulses. Her shoulder aches in its own miserable rhythm. But Garrett’s hand keeps moving through her hair, slow enough that her breathing starts to follow it.

She’s almost asleep, or something near it, when Garrett speaks. “What happened?”

His voice is quiet. He asks like he’s been holding the question in both hands for too long and needs to set it somewhere.

She opens her eyes to the dark cotton of his shirt. Her brain takes a few seconds to come back online. She breathes out slowly through her mouth because her nose is still a disaster. 

The memory is there at once, too close and too bright around the edges, and her body reacts to it before the words arrive. Fingers curling lightly in the front of his shirt. Shoulder tightening, then complaining. The ghost of the rail coming up fast.

Garrett’s hand pauses in her hair. “You don’t have to.”

“No.” Her voice is quiet. “It’s okay.”

He starts moving his hand again, slower now.

“It was a psych patient,” she says. “He was really agitated. Not like… violent, at first. Just scared, I think. Curled in on himself, wouldn’t really let anyone near him. Maria was with me. We were trying to keep the room calm, but the ED was so busy and loud and everyone was stretched thin, and he just…” She stops, trying to find the order of it. Everything feels slippery when she looks too directly. “He lashed out. His elbow got me in the face. Accidentally, I think.”

Garrett’s chest goes very still under her cheek.

“And I cried out,” she continues. “I don’t know. It just hurt and it surprised me, and I think that freaked him out more. Or the noise did. Or maybe he just didn’t know what was happening.” She swallows. Her throat feels raw. “He grabbed my scrub top before I could move back. Pulled me forward. My nose hit the bed rail. Or my mouth did. I’m not sure. It happened really fast.”

Garrett’s arm tightens around her, then loosens immediately like he’s afraid of hurting her. His hand remains in her hair, but the fingers have gone still.

“Security came in,” she says. “Another nurse pulled me back. Steph, I think. Or maybe Maria. Both, maybe. I don’t know. I remember Maria saying my name a lot.” She looks down between them, though there is nothing to see but the dark fold of his shirt and the edge of his hoodie on her body. “He didn’t mean it.”

Garrett is quiet for long enough that she starts to wonder if he has stopped breathing.

Then he says, “You keep saying that.”

“He didn’t.”

“I know.” His voice is rough, scraped thin at the edges. “I know he didn’t, baby. I just…” He takes a breath. It moves carefully through his chest. “You got hurt anyway.”

The words land with the same awful simplicity as Maria’s had in the car. That doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt. She closes her eyes, because everyone has decided to be kind in the exact way she cannot defend against.

“I know,” she whispers.

Garrett’s hand finally moves again, fingers sliding over her scalp, then down to the nape of her neck where he can touch without brushing bruised skin. “Is this how you feel?”

She opens her eyes. “What?”

“When I come home after a game all bruised and shit.” He shifts just enough that she can feel him looking down at her, though she doesn’t lift her head to meet it yet. “Is this what it feels like?”

A tiny breath leaves her. Not quite a laugh. More tired than that. “You mean do I also go weird and silent and look like I might throw up?”

“Yeah.”

“Then yeah.” Her fingers smooth over the fabric of his shirt because she needs something small to do. “Kind of, I guess.”

Garrett doesn’t answer.

She turns her face slightly, enough to look at the line of his jaw in the low light. He’s staring at the wall beyond her head, mouth set, brows drawn, hair falling messily over his forehead. He looks angry and young and helpless, which is such a strange combination on him that it makes her chest ache.

“It’s different,” she says softly. “You’re playing a game you love. You know the risks. I know that. And you guys are all… insane about pain, which I’ve accepted against my will.”

His mouth twitches without humour.

“But I don’t enjoy seeing you hurt.” Her voice goes quieter around the admission. “Even when it’s normal hockey hurt. Even when you’re smug about it and standing in the kitchen telling me it’s fine while your ribs look like someone used you as a doorstop. It still makes my stomach feel weird.”

Garrett’s eyes come down to her then. She tries to hold the look for a second and manages maybe half. His attention is too raw tonight. Too stripped of the things he usually wears over it.

“I know you’re tough,” she says, looking at his collar instead. “I know you can take it. I know half the time you think me worrying is funny or hot or both, because you have a very damaged sense of romance.”

“That’s fair.”

“But I still…” She frowns slightly, the thought losing shape, then finding it again. “I still hate it. Not because I think you’re weak. Because you’re not. Obviously. It’s just your body, you know? And I like your body.”

Garrett’s eyebrows lift faintly.

She narrows her eyes at him. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to become insufferable.”

“Maybe a little.”

“I have a concussion. Be kind.”

His face softens again, the almost-tease folding back into something warmer. “I’m being so kind.”

“You’re doing okay.”

“Glowing review.”

She breathes out through her mouth, and for a moment the room feels almost normal. Almost. Garrett’s hand in her hair. His chest under her cheek. The two of them managing to find the familiar shape of each other even through the bruising and the blood and the fear still sitting somewhere near the foot of the bed.

Then Garrett’s thumb brushes the side of her head again, light and careful, and his voice drops. “I hated seeing you like that.”

She looks at him this time.

He doesn’t look away. His eyes are dark in the low light, all the usual teasing stripped out of them. “At the door,” he says. “I hated it.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” His mouth tightens, then releases. “You were standing there with blood on your face and Maria next to you and you looked at me like you were sorry. Like I was gonna be upset that you came here.”

Her throat works. “I didn’t want to be too much.”

Garrett makes a sound under his breath, small and rough. “You got hurt.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re allowed to be too much.”

The sentence is so simple it feels dangerous. Her eyes sting again, and she presses her face carefully into his chest before the tears can do anything stupid to her already stupid face.

Garrett’s arm comes around her, careful of her shoulder, his hand settling between her shoulder blades where he can hold without hurting. “Especially here,” he murmurs into her hair. “Especially with me.”

She doesn’t answer. She can’t, really. Not without crying, and crying hurts, and she’s tired of things hurting. So she only curls her fingers more tightly in his shirt and lets him keep his hand in her hair.

After a while, she says, very quietly, “I’m really tired.”

“I know.” Garrett kisses the top of her head. “You can sleep.”

“Logan set alarms.”

“Of course Logan set alarms.”

She manages the faintest smile. “He looked very serious.”

“He loves a protocol.”

“He does have the head injury experience.”

Garrett huffs a soft laugh against her hair, the sound loosening something in the dark. “Unfortunately.”

She lets her eyes close again. The headache is still there. The bruising is still swelling around her nose, hot and heavy. Her shoulder still aches beneath his hoodie. None of it has gone away.

But Garrett’s fingers keep moving through her hair, and his body is warm where hers has gone cold and wrung out, and downstairs the boys are quiet in a way that makes the whole house feel like it is holding its breath around her.

“Garrett?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“If I say something weird, it’s the concussion.”

His hand pauses for half a second. “Okay.”

“And if I say something nice.”

His mouth brushes her hair. “Also concussion?”

“Probably.”

“Got it.”

She’s quiet long enough that he likely thinks she’s drifted off. Maybe she has, a little. The edge of sleep is soft and close, pulling at the corners of the room, blurring the pain into something thick and manageable. Then she murmurs, “You’re good at this.”

Garrett’s chest rises slowly beneath her cheek. “At what?”

“Looking after me.”

His fingers resume their movement through her hair, slower than before. “Yeah?”

“Mm.”

His voice, when it comes, is barely more than warmth in the dark. “Only because you taught me how.”

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"Are you sureeee it's okay if I borrow your car?" You drew the word out, hovering by the door with your bag slung over one shoulder and Logan's keys dangling from two fingers like you were holding a live wire instead of a key ring. "I know it's like your baby."

Logan didn't even look up from where he was crouched in front of the TV, untangling a controller cord that didn't need untangling. "Take the truck, Y/N."

"I'm serious. If I so much as scratch it, I feel like you'd actually leave me."

That got him to look up. He grinned at you, that lazy, lopsided grin that still did something stupid to your stomach even after you'd seen it approximately four thousand times. "Babe. I built that engine with my own two hands. I've replaced the transmission. I know that truck better than I know most people." He stood, crossed the room, and looped his arms around your waist. "And I'd still rather you have it than take the bus in this weather."

"The bus isn't that bad."

"The bus is practically a crime and you know it."

You laughed, leaning into him. "Okay, fine, the bus is pretty nasty. But you love that truck more than you love Garrett."

"Hard to say," Garrett called from the couch, not looking away from the screen where he was loading up whatever game they'd decided was going to eat their Thursday night. "I'd say it's close."

"It's not close," Logan said. "But Y/N's not taking the bus to rehearsal in the snow, so." He shrugged like it settled the matter, because to him, it did. He pressed a kiss to your temple. "Me and Garrett are staying in tonight anyway. Full video game lineup. Garrett bought snacks that are concerning in quality."

"They're concerning in quantity," Garrett corrected. "I only bought the good kind."

You rolled your eyes, smiling softly. The kind of smile that came easy around him these days, easier than it used to come around anyone. Six months in and John Logan still looked at you like you'd personally hung the moon, like letting you borrow the one material possession he actually cared about was the simplest decision in the world.

"You're a sap," you told him, grabbing your bag again.

"I'm aware."

You kissed him on your way to the door. Quick, easy, the kind of kiss you don't think twice about because you assume there will be a thousand more just like it. He caught your wrist before you could pull all the way back.

"Drive safe," he said.

"Yes, dad," you said, smirking, and ducked out before he could swat at you.

He laughed, shaking his head as the door shut behind you, and turned back to Garrett and the controllers and the concerning amount of snacks, already thinking about absolutely nothing important at all.

---

It was snowing harder than the forecast had promised, the kind of fat, fast snow that turned headlights into smears and made every taillight ahead look like it was floating. You drove careful. Drove the way you always drove when it wasn't your car. Slow on the turns, hands at ten and two, radio low enough that you could hear road noise change under the tires.

You did everything right.

You just couldn't control the truck that came through the intersection against the light, going twice the speed the weather allowed, driven by someone who'd had more to drink than they should have before they got behind the wheel.

It happened too fast to be anything but a blur. A blur of headlights where there shouldn't have been headlights. A blur of sound, metal folding, glass giving way all at once.

Then there was nothing.

---

Back at the house, the TV glowed blue against the dark living room, gunfire and explosions filling the silence between Logan and Garrett's trash talk. It was a good night. An easy night. The kind of night where nothing was supposed to happen.

Logan's phone had been buzzing on the couch cushion for almost a full minute before he even registered it.

"You gonna get that?" Garrett asked, eyes still on the screen.

"It's not important." Logan glanced at it without picking it up. Couldn't be Y/N. You'd be deep in rehearsal by now, phone shoved in your bag.

But the phone didn't stop. It rang out, went silent for three seconds, and started right back up again.

"Dude," Garrett said, finally looking over. "That's like the third time."

Logan sighed, paused the game, and grabbed the phone off the cushion, already annoyed at whoever was about to ruin the one quiet night he'd had in weeks.

DEAN.

Logan answered. "Dude, what-"

The sound that came through the line wasn't words at first. It was breath. A long, shaking exhale, the kind you make when something terrible almost happened and didn't, the relief so big it comes out sounding like it hurts.

"Logan. Oh my god. Logan, you're okay. You're actually-" Dean's voice cracked, words tripping over each other. "Tucker and I were driving back from the rink, man, and there was this accident, this horrible accident, the one car was wrapped around the pole, it was - I swear to god it looked exactly like your truck. I thought - I genuinely thought it was you, I've been calling for like five minutes straight, I thought-"

The words were coming too fast, tumbling over one another, but Logan's brain had already snagged on one phrase and gone perfectly, horribly still.

Your truck.

"What," Logan said. His voice didn't sound like his own voice. "What car. What - Dean, where."

Something in his tone must have shifted, because Dean's rambling cut off mid-sentence. "Logan?"

He couldn't answer. His chest had gone tight in a way that didn't make sense, in a way his body understood a full beat before his brain caught up, because Y/N had the truck. Y/N had taken his truck to rehearsal tonight. Y/N was somewhere out on those roads, in the snow, in his car, and Dean was talking about an accident, an accident that looked exactly like-

"Logan?" Garrett's voice this time, closer. He'd set down his own controller, was watching Logan's face do something he'd clearly never seen it do before. "Logan, what's wrong?"

Logan couldn't speak. The phone was still pressed to his ear, Dean saying his name over and over on the other end, and Logan's vision had gone strange and tunneled, like the room had tilted three degrees to the left.

Garrett pulled the phone gently out of his hand. "Dean, it's Garrett. What's going on."

Logan watched his best friend's face change as Dean explained. Watched it go from confused to alarmed to something carefully, deliberately calm, the kind of calm Garrett only put on when something was actually, seriously wrong.

"Where," Garrett said. A pause. "Okay. Okay, listen to me. Y/N had the truck tonight. She took it to rehearsal." Another pause. Logan watched Garrett's jaw tighten, watched him glance over with an expression he was clearly trying to keep from cracking. "Yeah. Yeah, man, I know. We're coming, we're coming right now."

He hung up. Looked at Logan, who hadn't moved from the couch, who was staring at nothing with his hands shaking in his lap.

"Logan. Hey. We have to go right now."

Logan didn't remember standing up. Didn't remember his shoes, or the door, or Garrett's hand wrapped around his arm steering him toward the car because Logan's legs weren't entirely cooperating, weren't entirely sure how walking worked anymore. There was a roaring in his ears that wouldn't quit, a single thought looping over and over with nowhere to go and no way to make it stop:

You could be gone. You could already be gone and he let you take the truck and he told you to drive safe like that would be enough, like saying it would actually protect you.

He didn't know what to do with that thought. He'd never had to know what to do with a thought like that before.

The drive to the accident site took eleven minutes. It felt like eleven years.

When they pulled up, the scene was lit up in flashing red and blue, snow falling sideways through the lights, and Logan's whole body went cold the second he saw it.

The truck, his truck, crumpled in on the driver's side like a soda can, the front end accordioned around a light pole, glass scattered across the asphalt in a wide glittering fan. The driver's door was completely caved. The roof had buckled on one side.

He was out of the car before Garrett had even put it in park.

"Logan-!"

He didn't hear him. He was walking toward it, faster, then running, some animal part of his brain refusing to accept what his eyes were telling him until he was close enough to see every detail. The caved door. The spiderwebbed windshield. The dark stain on the snow beneath the wreckage that he refused to let himself look at directly.

His knees gave out.

He didn't decide to fall. The ground just came up to meet him, and then he was on his knees in the snow and the cold and the wreckage of the only thing in his life he'd ever built with his own hands, and the sound that came out of him didn't feel like it belonged to him at all. Something raw and wrecked, a sob ripped loose from somewhere underneath every other feeling he'd ever had.

"Logan." Garrett was there, hands under his arms, hauling him half-upright even as Logan's whole body shook. "Logan, hey. Look at me. You gotta breathe, man."

"That's my car," Logan said, and it didn't come out as words so much as a gasp, splintered and wet. "That's - Garrett, that's my car, she was in my car, Y/N was-"

"I know. I know." Garrett's voice cracked too now, holding him up even as his own eyes went glassy. "We don't know anything yet. You gotta breathe."

Headlights swung in behind them. Dean and Tucker, out of the car before it had fully stopped, and then there were four of them in the snow, the boys flanking Garrett, all three of them holding Logan up like he might shatter if they let go, because he might.

He genuinely might.

Tucker peeled off toward one of the officers standing near the wreckage. Logan watched him through a blur of tears and snowfall, watched him talking, gesturing, watched the officer's expression shift when he glanced over at Logan.

Tucker came back. His face was pale and carefully empty.

"They took her to Hastings General," he said quietly. "That's all they'd tell me."

"We have to go," Logan said, except his voice barely worked. "We have to go, we have to-"

"We're going," Garrett said. "Right now. Come on."

Logan didn't remember the drive to the hospital. Not really. He remembered being in the back seat, wedged between Garrett and Dean like they thought he might try to climb out at a red light, like he was something fragile that needed containing. He remembered staring at his own hands and not recognizing them. He remembered Tucker driving too fast and nobody telling him to slow down.

He felt like a shell. Like someone had scooped everything out of him and left the outline standing.

The waiting room was too bright. Fluorescent and humming and smelling like antiseptic, every chair the same shade of blue. Logan sat in one of them with his hands clasped so tight between his knees his knuckles had gone white, staring at a spot on the floor like it might tell him something.

Allie and Hannah arrived not long after. Garrett had texted them from the car, hands shaking too badly to call. Hannah went straight to Garrett, and Allie crouched in front of Logan's chair and took both of his hands in hers without saying anything at all, because there wasn't anything to say yet.

Your family was three states away, too far to do anything but wait by a phone for updates Allie had promised to send the second there was something to send. Which meant in that waiting room, in that moment, Allie's hands wrapped around Logan's were the closest thing to family in the building.

Nobody spoke much after that. There wasn't anything to fill the silence with that didn't sound stupid. So they just sat.

Hours passed in the kind of slow, syrupy way that only happens in hospital waiting rooms. Someone got coffee at some point. Nobody drank it. Garrett had his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Dean kept checking his phone and then putting it face-down. Tucker stared at the wall across from him like it was the most captivating thing in the world.

Logan didn't cry again during any of it. He didn't have anything left. He just sat there, hollowed out, running the same loop: drive safe, drive safe, I told her drive safe, like the words had failed some sacred duty he hadn't known he'd given them.

It was well past midnight, everyone's eyes red-rimmed and swollen, when a doctor finally pushed through the double doors and scanned the room.

"Family of Y/N L/N?"

Every single one of them stood up at once.

The doctor's eyes found Allie. "You're listed as her emergency contact?"

Allie nodded, voice already cracking. "Yes. That's me."

"Can I speak with you for a moment?"

Logan watched them step aside. Watched the doctor talk low and measured. Watched Allie's hand fly up to cover her mouth. Every second felt like a year. He didn't breathe the entire time.

When Allie came back, her face was wet and streaked with mascara.

"She's-" Allie's voice broke immediately. She tried again. "She's in pretty bad shape. Broken wrist, broken leg, some internal bruising, a lot of cuts from the glass. She's still not conscious. But-" she pressed a hand flat to her own chest like she needed to hold something in, "-the doctor said given how bad it looked, she's going to be okay. She's going to be okay."

Logan's knees buckled for the second time that night. Garrett and Dean both caught him, lowering him back into the chair, and his whole body shook with something that wasn't quite crying and wasn't quite laughing and was somehow both at once.

The relief was so enormous it felt indistinguishable from grief.

"They said we can go back, a couple at a time," Allie said, wiping her face. She looked at Garrett, then at Logan. "Take him first."

The hallway felt impossibly long. Logan's legs barely worked, Garrett's hand steady against his back the entire way. When they reached the door and the nurse pointed them inside, Logan stopped in the doorway.

You looked so small in the bed.

Smaller than he'd ever seen you look. Swallowed by white sheets and the soft mechanical beeping of monitors, a cast running up your left leg, another cast cradling your left wrist. Cuts crossed your face and neck in thin red lines, some of them stitched, all of them stark against skin gone pale from blood loss and shock. There was a bruise blooming dark along your jaw.

The sob came up out of him before he could stop it.

"Hey." Garrett's hand tightened on his shoulder. "She's okay. She's right here."

Logan crossed the room and sank into the chair beside the bed. He took your right hand, the unbroken one, as carefully as if it might shatter too, and held it. He ran his thumb slowly over your knuckles, over and over.

Some old animal instinct: if he just kept touching you, kept feeling the warmth of your skin and the faint pulse under his fingers, his body might finally believe that you were still here. Still real.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, even though you couldn't hear him. Even though there was nothing for him to apologize for and he still needed to say it. "I should've driven you. I should've never let you take it in the snow."

His breathing started to even out eventually. Slow and ragged, then steadier. Grounded in the feel of your hand in his. Garrett stood quiet in the corner and didn't say anything because there wasn't anything that needed saying.

It was almost an hour later when your fingers twitched.

Logan's head snapped up. "Y/N?"

Your eyes moved first, slow and heavy, fighting against whatever they'd given you for the pain. When they finally found him, hazy at first and then sharpening, something in Logan's chest cracked open all over again.

"Logan?" Your voice came out wrecked, barely there. Confusion clouded your face as you took in the room, the machines, the cast on your arm. "What - where am I, what happened-"

"You were in an accident." He barely got the words out. His free hand came up to brush hair gently back from one of the cuts on your forehead. "Someone ran the light. You're at the hospital. You're okay."

Your eyes filled. Tears slipped down over the cuts on your cheeks, and your grip on his hand tightened as much as it could.

"Your car," you whispered. The horror dawned across your face almost immediately, cutting right through the fog of painkillers and shock. "Logan, your car. I wrecked your car. I'm so sorry. You built that whole engine, I-"

And Logan, despite everything, despite every awful hour of that night, laughed. An actual laugh, involuntary, and completely disbelieving. Because of course. Of course that was the first thing out of your mouth. Half-conscious, covered in stitches, and already worried about the truck.

"Are you serious right now," he said.

"It was your baby," you mumbled, fresh tears slipping free, which only made it worse somehow.

"Yeah." He exhaled, shook his head. Looked at you. At the cuts and the bruises and the cast, and at the fact that you were awake and looking back at him, which was the only thing that actually mattered. "It's also just a truck, Y/N."

"That you built."

"That I can rebuild." He said it flatly, like it was obvious, because to him it was. "I know how to fix the truck. I had no idea what I was gonna do about the other thing."

You stared at him for a second. "The other thing."

"You. The other thing is you."

You let out a short, wet laugh and immediately winced. "That's the most you've ever said about your feelings in six months."

"Don't push it. You're on drugs."

"I'm retaining every word of this."

"You're really not," he said. "Go back to sleep."

"I just woke up."

"Go back to sleep anyway."

You laughed again, quieter this time.

Outside the door, Garrett slipped out into the hallway to tell the others. Down toward the waiting room, the group of exhausted friends with red-rimmed eyes would fall apart all over again, this time in relief. But Logan didn't think about any of that. He just sat there holding your hand, listening to the monitors beep their steady, boring rhythm.

"Drive safe," Logan murmured, "really does mean something, you know."

"I'll remember that," you whispered back, "next time I steal your truck."

"There's not gonna be a next time."

"There's absolutely gonna be a next time."

His hair was still damp at the edges from his post-game shower, curling slightly where he’d shoved his hand through it too many times, and the dark blue Briar letterman jacket had stayed on for maybe twelve minutes before the house got too hot and he dumped it over the back of a chair.

He was, by every reasonable standard, doing great. His girlfriend was not. His girlfriend had arrived at the party with Allie and a plan that had included one drink, maybe two, and absolutely no consideration for the fact that girls pouring vodka cranberries in hockey houses tended to treat measurements as a loose concept. 

Garrett had been across the living room when she’d taken the first one. He’d been in the kitchen with Tucker when she’d finished the second. By the time he saw her again, she was standing near the bottom of the stairs with one hand wrapped around a red cup, smiling at something Allie said with the bright, floaty concentration of a girl whose whole body had started operating on a two-second delay.

He could notice a winger drifting out of formation from half a rink away with two guys trying to take his head off. He could absolutely notice his girlfriend blinking too slowly under the hallway light, her cheeks warm from alcohol and the heat of too many bodies packed into the house, her mouth glossy and parted slightly like she kept forgetting whether she was meant to be talking or laughing. 

She looked happy, which helped. Loose and giggly and pleased. But she also kept shifting her weight like the floor had become more wobbly than usual, and Garrett had not fought for his life against Harvard’s second line that afternoon just to let his girlfriend get taken out by hardwood.

So he left Logan mid-sentence. Logan didn’t even pretend to be offended. He just followed Garrett’s line of sight, saw her trying to drink from the cup and missing her mouth by half an inch, and winced. “Oh, buddy.”

Garrett pointed at him without looking back. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was gonna say she looks graceful.”

“Die.”

Garrett crossed the room with the easy confidence of someone everyone automatically moved for, red cup of water in hand because Tucker, thank God, had seen the situation unfolding and passed it over like a medic on a battlefield. 

She didn’t see Garrett coming. She was too busy nodding very seriously at Allie, who was holding both her hands and saying something that involved the words no, babe, I’m so serious and eyebrow blindness.

Garrett stepped into her space, close enough that his knee brushed hers. “Hey, baby.”

She turned toward him. For one beautiful second, her face went blank. Then her entire expression rearranged itself into scandalised horror.

“Excuse you,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height, which was less effective than usual because she swayed slightly at the top and had to catch Allie’s wrist. “I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett blinked.

Allie made a noise like she’d swallowed a firework. Garrett looked at his girlfriend. His girlfriend looked back at him with genuine, drunken offence, like he’d approached her in a bar wearing a leather bracelet and too much confidence.

“Uh huh,” he said slowly, because there were moments in life that required leadership and moments that required not laughing directly in the face of the girl you loved while she was doing her best. “That’s great.”

“It is great,” she said, lifting her chin. “He’s very tall.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Good for him.”

“And he plays hockey.”

“No shit?”

“And he’s, like, really good at it.”

Allie had turned away now, one hand clamped over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Garrett refused to look at her because if he did, he was going to lose it, and that felt like the sort of thing his girlfriend would interpret as disrespect from a strange man at a party, which apparently he was now.

He held out the cup. “Can you drink some water for me?”

Her eyes narrowed. Suspicious. Wobbly. Deeply loyal to the absent boyfriend currently standing less than a foot in front of her. “Why?”

“Because you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Baby.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Don’t call me baby.”

“Right. Sorry.” He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, nodding with a level of solemnity he absolutely did not feel. “My bad.”

“My boyfriend calls me baby.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds annoying.”

“He’s not annoying.” She frowned at him with such force that it seemed to briefly take all her balance with it. Garrett’s free hand shot out to her waist before she could tip sideways into Allie. She looked down at it, then back up at him, appalled. “Don’t touch my waist.”

Garrett removed his hand at once, palms lifting. “Alright.”

Allie, still dying, leaned in and said, “Babe, maybe just drink the water.”

She looked betrayed. “You’re taking his side?”

“I’m taking hydration’s side.”

Garrett offered the cup again. “Just a couple sips.”

She stared at him for another second, clearly weighing the moral implications of accepting water from a man who looked suspiciously like her boyfriend but who she had, for reasons unclear to everyone except the vodka, decided was not. 

Finally, she took the cup with great caution, like he might use the transfer to propose something criminal, and drank.

Garrett watched her swallow three obedient little sips, then nodded. “Good girl.”

The look she gave him could have killed a weaker man. “Nope.”

“Right. Yep. Forgot.”

“My boyfriend says that.”

“Bet he does,” Garrett muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She handed the cup back, pleased with herself and still indignant, and then immediately turned toward Allie like the conversation had been handled.

Garrett stood there for half a second, holding the water, staring at the side of her face.

Dean appeared beside him like he had been summoned by humiliation itself. “Hey, man.”

Garrett didn’t look over. “Do not.”

Dean’s grin was audible. “She knows you’re her boyfriend, right?”

“She’s drunk.”

“She just told you she has a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, Dean, I was here.”

Dean leaned around him to look at her, delighted. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Garrett finally turned his head and gave him a flat look. “That’s sad.”

“No, what’s sad is getting rejected by your own girlfriend.” Dean clapped him once on the shoulder and immediately stepped out of reach. “Tough shift, captain.”

Garrett pointed at him. “I will put you through a wall.”

“Wow.” Dean called over his shoulder, already retreating. “Her boyfriend would never.”

Garrett took a slow breath through his nose and looked back at her. She was laughing at something Allie said now, one hand pressed to her own chest, head tipping forward so her hair fell around her face. 

She looked ridiculous. Beautiful and unsteady and way too warm in the cheeks, standing under the hallway light like the world had gone pleasantly fuzzy and she trusted it not to hurt her because she hadn’t yet noticed Garrett had been replaced by some guy bothering her with cups.

His annoyance softened before it could become anything real. Fine. He could work with this.

For the next twenty minutes, Garrett kept orbiting. That was the only word for it. He didn’t hover, because hovering would get him accused of being controlling by Dean, and probably by her if she remembered how to form an argument. 

He orbited. Close enough to keep an eye on her, far enough that she didn’t look up and accuse him of trying to steal girlfriend privileges from Garrett Graham, who was both beloved and missing.

She danced with Allie in the living room, mostly from the waist up because her coordination had started giving its two weeks’ notice. 

She complimented Tucker’s shirt with extreme sincerity even though Tucker was wearing the same plain black t-shirt he wore to every party. 

She told Logan he looked so tall tonight, which made Logan look down at himself like height might have happened recently and without his permission.

Garrett found her again near the back door, rubbing both hands over her bare arms.

The house was hot, but the door kept swinging open whenever someone stepped out to smoke or yell into the yard, letting in cold spring air that slipped over her skin and made her shoulders inch up toward her ears. 

Garrett saw the little shiver move through her before she did. He grabbed his letterman jacket off the chair and came up behind her, careful this time, no hands first. Just the jacket, warm from the room and heavy with him, settled over her shoulders.

“There,” he said, low near her ear. “You’re cold.”

She froze.

Garrett closed his eyes for one second. “Please don’t.”

She shrugged the jacket off so fast it nearly hit the floor. Garrett caught it by the collar.

“Nope,” she said.

“Baby.”

Her head snapped around. “I said no.”

Garrett looked at the ceiling. The ceiling offered no help. “You’re shivering.”

“I only wear my boyfriend’s jacket.”

“This is your boyfriend’s jacket.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It literally has my name on it.”

She squinted at the embroidered Graham on the chest like letters were a personal challenge. “Lots of people are named Graham.”

“Not on this team.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually. I’m the captain.”

Her face twisted with immediate doubt, like that was exactly the sort of lie a jacket predator would tell at a party. “You’re the captain?”

Garrett stared at her. “Oh my God.”

From the couch, Logan made a strangled sound into his beer.

She pointed at Garrett’s chest, very serious now. “My boyfriend is the captain.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard great things.”

“He’s very hot.”

“Is he?”

“So hot,” she said, and then sighed, soft and dramatic and so genuinely fond that Garrett’s irritation had nowhere to land. “Like, stupid hot. It’s actually kind of annoying.”

Garrett’s face moved before he could stop it, warmth pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “And he has really nice hands.”

Logan choked.

Garrett didn’t look away from her. “Good hands are important.”

“They are,” she agreed solemnly. “And he’s not some random guy trying to give girls jackets.”

“Right.” He held up the jacket between them, helpless now. “Can I just–”

“No thank you.”

“You’re gonna freeze.”

“I’ll wait for Garrett.”

“You do that,” he said, because love was standing in a hockey house holding your own jacket while your drunk girlfriend faithfully rejected you on your own behalf. “Sounds like a plan.”

She smiled at him then, bright and polite. “Thank you for understanding.”

Garrett looked at her for a long moment, then at the jacket, then back at her. “Anytime.”

He walked away to the sound of Logan losing the fight against laughter so badly he had to bend over his own knees.

“You’re not helping,” Garrett said.

Logan wiped under one eye. “I’m sorry, man, but she’s loyal as hell.”

“She thinks I’m a stranger.”

“She thinks you’re a stranger with bad intentions. There’s a difference.”

“Great. That makes it better.”

Tucker came up beside them, looking far too amused for somebody usually committed to being the reasonable one. “You know, technically, this is a very good sign for your relationship.”

Garrett gave him a look. “Don’t start.”

“She’s hammered and still refusing men for you.”

“She refused me.”

“Exactly. Nobody is safe.”

Dean reappeared then, because joy, unfortunately, had a way of finding him. “I just heard she wouldn’t wear your jacket.”

Garrett’s jaw tightened. “You heard wrong.”

Dean grinned. “Did I?”

“I’m gonna kill you before playoffs.”

“No, you’re not. You’re too busy getting friend-zoned by your girlfriend.”

Garrett shoved him in the chest. Dean laughed all the way into the kitchen.

By the time Garrett found her again, she had somehow migrated to the old armchair near the stairs, sitting sideways with her knees tucked up and Dean perched on the arm like some kind of terrible emotional support animal. 

Her bare arms were folded tight over her chest now, because she was still cold and still deeply committed to jacket monogamy. Her face had changed too. Gone softer around the edges, bottom lip pushed out, all the earlier moral outrage curdled into something wounded and grumpy.

Garrett stopped a few feet away. Dean saw him first and his grin turned wicked. “Oh, thank God.”

She frowned up at Dean. “What?”

“Nothing.” Dean patted the top of the chair. “Your night’s about to improve.”

She slumped deeper into the cushion, still looking at Dean. “I haven’t seen Garrett all night.”

Garrett blinked.

Dean pressed his lips together so hard his whole face went strange.

She kept going, mournful now, eyes glossy from alcohol and the kind of drama that only really existed after midnight in a crowded house. “He’s, like, disappeared.”

Garrett slowly looked at Dean.

“He had a game,” she said, to no one in particular, or maybe to Dean’s knee. “And I wanted to tell him he played really good.”

“He knows,” Dean said, voice suspiciously tight.

“No, but I wanted to tell him.” She rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand, then stopped halfway as if remembering makeup existed. “And there’s this guy who keeps talking to me.”

Garrett’s eyebrows went up.

Dean made direct eye contact with him and looked like he might actually pass away.

“He keeps calling me baby,” she muttered. “And trying to make me drink water.”

Garrett bit the inside of his cheek.

“Sounds awful,” Dean managed.

“So annoying,” she said. “Like, okay, hydration police. I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett stepped closer then, because there were only so many times a man could be called the hydration police by the love of his life before he had to intervene. “Hey, baby.”

Her head lifted. The transformation was immediate and almost violent. Her whole face opened, bright and relieved and suddenly so happy to see him that it genuinely knocked the joke sideways in his chest. “Garrett!”

He froze. “Hi?”

“Baby!” She reached both arms out toward him from the chair, nearly tipping herself forward in the process. Garrett crossed the last step fast and caught her by the hands before she could slide off the cushion. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said again, slower this time, looking down at her. “You recognise me now?”

She frowned like he’d said something deeply strange. “What are you talking about?”

Dean made a sound that might have been a cough if he had not immediately turned away with his shoulders shaking.

Garrett stared at her. “Nothing.”

She squeezed his face, delighted and fully unaware of the damage she’d caused him tonight. “I missed you.”

His mouth softened despite himself. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” She tugged at him, needy and uncoordinated, until he stepped properly between her legs where she’d moved to sit properly in the chair. Her knees bracketed his thighs, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt like now that she had found him, she intended to physically prevent further abandonment. “You were gone for so long.”

Garrett looked at her for one second, then over her head at Dean, who was wiping tears out of the corner of his eye. “I was around.”

She shook her head, very firm. “No.”

“No?”

“No. There was just this guy.”

Garrett nodded, face serious. “Right. The water guy.”

She gasped softly, looking up at him with genuine alarm. “You saw him?”

Dean slid off the arm of the chair. “I need to go tell Logan something immediately.”

Garrett didn’t even try to stop him. His hands had settled at her waist now, thumbs pressing lightly over the fabric of her top because she was still swaying in tiny increments even while sitting down. “Yeah, baby, I saw him.”

“You should talk to him.”

“Oh, I should?”

“Yes.” Her voice dropped into a whisper that wasn’t remotely quiet. “He was flirting with me.”

Garrett’s eyes flicked over her face. “Was he?”

“He kept calling me baby.”

“That’s crazy.”

“And he tried to give me his jacket.”

“What a dick.”

She nodded, relieved that he understood the severity. “I know.”

Garrett’s grin finally broke free, slow and helpless. He stepped closer until her forehead could tip against his stomach, and when it did, she sighed like the entire night had been restored to its proper axis by the smell of his shirt. 

He looked down at the crown of her head, at the way her hands had found the hem of his t-shirt and held on loosely, and brushed his fingers once over the back of her hair.

She had rejected him all night. She had accused him of being a stranger, declined his water on principle, refused his jacket with the ferocity of a woman defending a sacred oath, and still somehow the inside of him went soft at the way she leaned into him now, trusting and warm and gone enough to be ridiculous but not gone enough to forget where she wanted to end up.

“Baby,” he murmured.

“Mhm?”

“You wanna get outta here?”

Her head lifted at once. “Yes, please.”

“Yeah?” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, watching the way her eyes followed his face now with no suspicion at all. “You done?”

“So done.” She nodded, then winced faintly at the motion like her brain had moved one direction and her skull another. “Can we go home?”

“Yeah, we can go home.”

“And maybe get McDonald’s?”

Garrett laughed under his breath, and the sound made her smile like she’d won something. “Sure, baby.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But you gotta stand up first.”

She looked down at her own legs with sudden doubt. “Okay.”

“Confident.”

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.” He took both her hands and backed up half a step, giving her room. “Come on. Up we go.”

She stood with the intense focus of someone attempting a field sobriety test on a ship. Garrett’s hands went to her waist at once, steadying her as her knees straightened and her body tipped forward into his. 

He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t laugh when she grabbed his forearms and blinked hard at the room. He only held her until she found the floor again, fingers spread warm and firm at her sides.

“There we go,” he said softly. “You good?”

She nodded, then thought about it. “Mostly.”

“Mostly works.” He leaned around her just enough to grab his letterman jacket from the back of the chair “Can I put this on you now, or are we still being loyal to your boyfriend?”

She looked at the jacket. Then up at him. Then back at the jacket.

“That’s yours,” she said, like he was the one struggling to keep up.

Garrett pressed his lips together. “Yeah.”

She smiled, sweet and pleased. “Okay.”

He slid it over her shoulders. This time she pushed her arms into the sleeves with immediate enthusiasm, even though they swallowed her hands completely. 

Garrett zipped it halfway because she was too busy smelling the collar with a happy little hum that did absolutely nothing for his ability to remain normal.

“You smell good,” she told him.

“Thanks.”

“Like Garrett.”

“Crazy coincidence.”

She nodded, accepting that, and slipped her hand into his when he offered it. Her fingers were warm and clumsy between his, squeezing twice like she was checking he was real. He squeezed back once and started guiding her through the house.

The party kept moving around them. Someone called his name from the kitchen and Garrett lifted his free hand without stopping. Logan appeared near the doorway, took one look at them, and grinned.

“She found you,” he said.

Garrett pointed at him. “Not a word.”

She turned toward Logan, solemn and slightly off-balance. “There was a guy bothering me all night.”

Logan’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked at Garrett, then back at her. “No way.”

She nodded. “Way.”

Garrett kept walking. “Let’s go.”

Behind them, Logan said, “Hope your boyfriend handles that.”

She turned around while still moving, which forced Garrett to catch her by the waist and redirect her like a shopping cart with a bad wheel. “He will!”

“I’m sure he will,” Logan called, voice cracking around laughter.

Outside, the cold hit her properly. She shrank into the jacket at once, shoulders rising, Garrett’s hand still wrapped around hers while they moved down the front steps and along the path toward his car. 

The night was damp and dark around the edges, grass glittering faintly under the porch light, the music dulling behind the shut door until it became a pulse more than a song. She walked close to him, not quite straight, occasionally bumping into his side and then apologising to his arm.

“Baby,” she said halfway down the walk.

“Yeah?”

“That guy was so annoying.”

Garrett glanced down at her. “Still thinkin’ about him?”

“He was talking to me all night.”

“Sounds like a loser.”

“He was kind of hot, though.”

Garrett stopped walking.

She stopped too, delayed, then looked back at him with wide innocent eyes. “What?”

He stared at her. “Hot?”

She nodded, very serious. “But not as hot as you.”

“Uh huh.”

“And he had your jacket.”

“My jacket?”

“Yeah.” Her brows pulled together. “Actually, that was weird.”

Garrett looked up at the sky for patience. “So weird.”

“You should talk to him, baby. I’m serious.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Good.” She nodded once, satisfied, and started walking again. “Don’t fight him though. You had a game.”

His mouth twitched. “Right. Wouldn’t wanna overdo it.”

“And you already won.”

“I did.”

“You were really good,” she said, and the words came out softer now, slipping under the joke with no warning at all. Her fingers tightened around his. “I forgot to tell you.”

Garrett’s steps slowed by a fraction. He looked down at her, at her messy hair and flushed cheeks and his too-big jacket hanging off her shoulders, at the careful way she was watching the pavement. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. You did that thing.” She lifted their joined hands vaguely, as if the thing might be available in the air somewhere. “Where you went really fast and then the other guy was stupid.”

Garrett laughed, warm and surprised. “That was my favourite play.”

“It was good. I’m real proud of you.”

“Thanks, baby.”

She leaned into his arm, pleased. “You’re welcome.”

At the car, he opened the passenger door and turned her gently by the hips before she could attempt entry at a dangerous angle. “Alright. Watch your head.”

“I always watch my head.”

“You don’t.”

“I have one.”

“Having one and watching it are different.”

She ducked into the car with exaggerated care, one hand on the roof, one hand still gripping his. Garrett waited until she was seated, then crouched slightly and drew the seatbelt across her. 

She looked down at him while he clicked it into place, her expression suddenly soft and sleepy. “Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so glad I found you.”

His hand paused on the belt for half a second.

She sighed, sinking back into the seat, eyes half-lidded now that the car’s quiet had started wrapping around her. “I missed you tonight.”

Garrett looked at her in the blue dashboard glow, and something in his chest pulled tight and fond and a little ridiculous. “Missed you too.”

“There was this guy–”

“I heard.”

“–and he kept trying to give me water.”

“So rude.”

“Exactly.” Her head tipped against the seat, eyes closing for one beat before opening again. “Can you get me nuggets?”

Garrett smiled and brushed his thumb over her knee before standing. “Yeah, babe. I’ll get you nuggets.”

“And fries.”

“Obviously.”

“And a Sprite.”

“You need water.”

She made a face. “The guy said that too.”

Garrett leaned one arm on the open door and looked down at her, trying very hard not to smile too much because she would see it and accuse him of something. “The guy sounds smart.”

She frowned. “Don’t compliment him.”

“My bad.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“I am.”

“And I love you.”

The words came out simple and softened by vodka and sleepiness and the warm cocoon of his jacket around her, but real enough that Garrett felt them land under his ribs.

He bent and kissed her forehead. “I love you too.”

She smiled, eyes closed now. “Good.”

“Good,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face before shutting the door. 

He walked around the front of the car with a grin he couldn’t quite get rid of, hearing the muffled thump of the party behind him and the faint sound of her shifting around in the passenger seat like she was trying to get comfortable in sleeves three sizes too big. 

When he got in, she was already curled toward his side, cheek against the seat, looking at him with heavy eyes and total, trusting recognition.

Garrett started the car. She reached blindly for his hand. He gave it to her.

For a minute they sat there in the dim quiet before he pulled away from the curb, her fingers woven through his, his thumb moving once over her knuckles. Then she inhaled like she had remembered something important.

“Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re gonna talk to that guy, right?”

Garrett smiled at the road, the house falling behind them, McDonald’s glowing somewhere ahead like a drunken little lighthouse.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll give him a stern talking-to.”

“Good,” she mumbled, already drifting. “Tell him I have a boyfriend.”

His grin widened.

“Trust me, baby,” Garrett said, squeezing her hand once as he turned out onto the street. “He knows.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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Azriel rolled off you, landing on the empty spot next to you in the bed. You looked over to him, catching your breath, the rapid rise and fall of his chest matching yours. His eyes met yours, and you felt a blush creeping up on your cheeks, as if he was a small crush in the marketplace rather than someone who had just made you see the heights of pleasure.

“Had fun?” You asked, a smile creeping up on your face.

He looked over at you, rolling his eyes.

”Wonderful, as always.” He teased. His eyes trailed over the length of your body, covered only by a thin layer of your sheets. The sunlight of the late morning crept in from your balcony window, illuminating the twinkle in his eyes. You had to look away, entranced by the beauty of him. Here, in your bed. Lying here with him like this, it was easy to pretend. The world narrowed to the two of you in this room, together. Here, your past no longer haunted you, there was no trauma, no secrets, no pain. If you closed your eyes and focused on the way his bare arm brushed yours and the breathing from right beside you, it was as if all was as you imagined.

“I have a light workload today. I was thinking I could take Elain to the marketplace, or through the River House’s garden for a walk.”

The cocoon shattered. For just a moment, your breath caught in your throat, and a surge of shame and embarrassment rushed through you, down to your fingertips. Quickly, you grabbed a hold of yourself.

“Are you…sure that’s a good idea?” You asked, trepidation heavy in your tone.

“Why not? I’ve been busy recently. I’m sure you’ve noticed,” he justified. “I wouldn’t want her to feel neglected.”

Ugly jealousy coursed through you, and you had the sudden urge to be alone.

You took a deep breath, willing your racing heart to control itself. “It’s just that Lucien will be in the city for dinner in two days.”

Defensiveness filled his expression, and you feared that perhaps you had made a mistake.

“So?” he started. “I’m not afraid of Lucien, Y/N.”

“I know that, but he’ll likely want to see her. You don’t want to start anything. Rhys will be unhappy. Maybe wait until after his visit.”

“Why are you being like this?” He asked. “Lucien can’t force her into anything, and I’m not going to refrain from seeing her just because of her so-called ‘mate’ visiting.”

You forced a teasing tone into your voice, trying to keep the mood light in spite of the knot in your stomach. “Az, he is her mate.”

He was silent for a moment, contemplation heavy in his voice. He rolled over onto his side, facing you. His wings shifted, and the sheet covering him from the waist down moved slightly. You forced your eyes up to meet his.

“What if…what if the Cauldron was wrong? What if he isn’t her true mate?”

Your eyes widened slightly. “Azriel.”

“I know. I know what you’re going to say, Y/N. But I just can’t help but feel like he doesn’t deserve her. She’s a Cauldron-made seer. He’s just an emissary.”

That sent a jolt through you. Just an emissary. In the logical part of your brain, you already knew that you weren’t necessarily special. At least, not in comparison to your chosen family in the Night Court. Feyre the Cursebreaker. Lady Death. The Shadowsinger. The Seer. And you were just an emissary. To your home court of Day that you once fled in fear, no less. You tried not to let that comment simmer in your brain for any longer.

“Doesn’t it make sense that she should be with someone else, someone who’s as exceptional as her?” he continued on. “She deserves better.”

He didn’t even seem to notice the effect those words had on you, the shock they sent through your system. For someone so observant, he never seemed to notice such things about you. Not with the comment he made, and certainly not with the fact that he was lying naked next to you, lamenting about his desire for another woman. You used to think him lowering his inhibitions so fully around you was a sign of his comfort. His innate relaxation in your presence, reflecting your own feelings. Recently, you’ve wondered if it was just a manifestation of how little he cared.

But Azriel loved you. If not in the way you’d hoped for, then as a friend. As a member of this family.

Didn’t he?

”Azriel, she has a mate.”

“I know that, but…”

“But nothing, Az,” you stressed. “You may want her, but it’s not a mating bond.”

Azriel remained still, but his wings shifted slightly. A tell of his exasperation. You always knew of his tells. You knew him better than anyone.

“Y/N, you wouldn’t understand. Mating bonds are difficult,” he sighed. “I should go.”

Azriel shifted up into sitting, silently as ever. The mattress dipped slightly as he turned his back to you, his wings dragging off to the side of your bed. He stood, and the emptiness of the other side of the bed was reflected in your chest.

“You’re right,” you said quietly.

But you knew about mating bonds. Knew them quite well, really. You knew what a mating bond felt like when a mate didn’t want you, and you felt for Lucien. He would take Elain any way he could have her, just as you did for your mate. Even if it hurt, even if it left your insides bleeding and yearning.

He paused his motions just slightly, as if sensing the poorly masked fatigue in your voice. Your gaze fixed on the sheets twisted between your fingers, unable to look up at his form moving about your space.

”I’ll see you later. Family dinner, tomorrow night?” he asked.

“Right. See you then.”

_____

You couldn’t really pinpoint when it started. The physical affair between you and Azriel had been unexpected, and you didn’t know exactly what it stemmed from. Loneliness, maybe. At first, you held out a little bit of hope that it would grow into something else.

“You’re not being serious, you did not.”

“I am not. I spilled wine all over him. It was mortifying!” You burst out laughing, and Azriel followed suit, the drinks flowing between you.

The two of you sat in the House’s study, illuminated only by the hearth in front of the room. The untethered mating bond hummed in your chest, filling you wholly with warmth. On a night like this, laughing with him sitting so close, it almost seemed silly to keep it a secret from him. He felt like home. Like the two of you belonged.

“I’m lucky that the High Lord of Day is such a flirt. He took no offense, and instead offered that I assist in bathing him.”

Azriel let out a barking laugh, inhibitions down in a way that made your cheeks heat. “Of course.”

The laughs died down, and for a moment the two of you just stared at each other, smiles lingering on your face. You couldn’t recall who moved first, but after another breath his mouth was on yours, and his hands wandered in places he had never dared touch before.

Through the haze of it all, a spark of joy burst within you. The mating bond sung within you, and fulfillment took over you in a way you’d never known before. It was happening, you’d thought. Finally.

Afterwards, the two of you lay in his bed, your head on his bare chest. His wing was underneath you, and warmth engulfed you from the tips of your fingers to your toes.

He was with you, and he was happy. It was an unconventional start to a relationship, but nothing about you and Azriel had ever been normal.

“I’m glad we can be like this, Y/N. Some…relief. No strings.”

Something within you broke, and the warmth of the mating bond grew cold.

“What are you thinking about?” A voice came from behind you, breaking you out of the memory.

You turned in your seat in the House’s kitchen to see Rhys approaching.

“Nothing, really.” You replied, taking a sip of the tea in front of you, Rhys taking a seat in the chair to your left. “Just thinking.”

”Hmm.” The High Lord started. “Does this have anything to do with a certain spymaster escorting my sister-in-law to the marketplace?”

You shot him a warning look. That bastard. “Rhys.”

“You can’t keep it a secret forever, Y/N. It isn’t fair to either of you, and I can only warn him off Elain for so long.”

Rhys learning of your mating bond had been a freak incident, the result of him catching onto a longing gaze last Solstice. He had agreed to keep it a secret, and to let you deal with it in your own way. You’ve had more than your share of men taking choice from you, and Rhys was not inclined to add to that list.

However, that didn’t stop him from meddling. He took every opportunity to encourage you to shout your bond from the rooftops, whether mentally at family dinners or through surprise check-ins. More recently, he had been more active in his intervention, barring Azriel from pursuing Elain. He claimed it was to prevent the Blood Duel. But from the moment Azriel relayed those events to you, you had seen right through it.

“I do not need you to warn him off Elain for me, Rhys. A mating bond will hardly change who he wants.”

“How do you know that?” Rhys stressed. “It can change everything. He deserves to know.”

The two of you have this conversation at least once every fortnight. It always ended the same way.

“Things would not change, and there is no point burdening him with a mating bond he will surely abhor.”

”It is not a burden. And you must know Azriel would never see you that way. It is a gift, to be mated to someone who is already so dear to your heart. One kiss, Y/N, could change everything.”

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath and counting to ten. Letting the silence sit for a moment, you prepared yourself before speaking again.

“We have…done more than kiss.”

A beat passed between the two of you, before you spilled the details of the last eight months to Rhys, who watched with poorly contained shock. His eyes sat wide, and his mouth hung open. For the most powerful High Lord in Prythian, one could observe his ability to resemble a fish.

“This has been going on for nearly eight months,” Rhys repeated slowly, “And still he chases after Elain so brazenly?”

”He has never led me to believe this would grow into a romance. Any hopes are my delusion.”

Rhys covered his face with his hands, letting out a deep sigh, “It is not delusion. It is a natural response to a mating bond.”

“Perhaps, Rhys. But there is nothing I can do.”

Your fingers curled around the warm porcelain of your teacup.

“Nothing I wish to do,” you corrected, tone softening. “I do not want a mating bond that exists solely because he feels obligated to me.”

”You cannot truly believe that Azriel would see you as an obligation.”

”I think,” you said, “that if the Mother had some plan for him to joyously accept our mating bond, he would not leave my bed in the mornings with plans to pursue another female.”

—-

Family dinner was delicious, as always.

The aroma of perfectly roasted lamb and beautifully seasoned potatoes lingered throughout the River House, as empty plates signalled a meal well-enjoyed. Elain’s cooking was wonderful, but an ugly part of you couldn’t help but feel the weight of envy taking root in your chest.

Is there anything she can’t do?

Around the table sat you, Rhys, Amren, Cassian, Feyre, and Mor. Wine flowed generously as you discussed plans for a meeting with Lucien and Eris tomorrow. As a fellow Court emissary, you would be in attendance, so you did your best to focus on Rhys’ talking points despite the wine buzzing in your system. Luckily, your two most likely distractions were not here. Elain had excused herself to bed hours ago, and Azriel had left just moments ago to recon with some spies he had placed in Autumn. The table felt lighter without them here. All night, you had sat through Azriel sitting to the right of you, staring holes through Elain. It had been an effort not to burst out sobbing right there in front of everyone.

Recently, that had become a familiar feeling.

After seemingly hours of listening to Rhys drone on, making mental notes for later, you excused yourself to your room. You opted to crash at the River House, too weary to winnow to the House of Wind. Besides, you figured that a change of scenery might do some good. A futile attempt to chase the peace that had evaded you all week.

It didn’t matter that you’d be down the hall from Elain. You had no reason to be angry with her. Not really. She didn’t control Azriel’s overwhelming indifference to you. If he wasn’t focused on her, it would be Mor. Or someone else who met his standards. Someone special and outstanding and worthy.

Just an emissary.

Walking down the halls of the River House, you pondered on a future for yourself. Would you spend the rest of your life pining after a man who would never view you romantically? Would you ever tell him about the bond, wrecking a 200 year friendship and tying him to you in a way that could only lead to his misery?

The thoughts ruminated in your head until you heard the unmistakable rumble of Azriel’s voice.

Soft and low. Gentle in the way he speaks to you when you lay beneath him and you could pretend.

You looked up, eyes setting upon a slightly ajar door, moonlight filtering through.

Azriel’s room.

Your feet moved before your brain caught up to you. Rushing towards the doorway, you stood in the space of the open door before you truly knew what was happening. There stood Azriel and Elain, his arms just barely grazing upon her waist. They stood close, lips about to touch in a stance that you had been in with him just two nights prior.

Something was tearing in your chest. You tried to keep quiet.

But Azriel was an observant male. It was his job. Maybe not in the sanctuary of your bed, but certainly when he was tasked with protecting something as precious as Elain. His head snapped towards you in the doorway as if a fawn coming upon a faelight. His eyes widened slightly as he met yours.

The moonlight caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes, and the sight of them made your own vision blur with sudden tears. And all Azriel did was stare.

One moment he stood frozen, his form blurry through your watery vision. The next, he jumped back from Elain as if her touch had burned him. His gaze never left yours, though his expression shifted to something raw, something almost terrified. It was a jarring change, especially for a male so stoic and controlled. Some instinct deep within you recognized the strangeness of his expression.

His shadows surged forward from the corner of the room, wrapping around his form. They curled up his back, peering over his shoulders towards you. His gaze never left yours, and Elain’s eyes shot rapidly between the two of you, confusion painting her beautiful face.

It was then that you felt it. A tug deep within your chest, reaching down into a place that you knew all too well. Something strong and ancient thrumming within you. Light surged in your soul. Never in your life had you imagined a fulfillment like this. As if the centuries of your life had been black and white, and now you’d seen the colors of the sky for the first time.

The sensation flooded your body, bright and overwhelming, dimmed only by the absolute fear and shock that spread throughout your body. The look on Azriel’s face matched the war happening within you.

Oh gods. He knew. He knew.

Another tug pulled through you. Then another. The silence of the room was overwhelming, and you willed him to say something. To get it over with. To reject you. To end it. But all he did was stare.

“Y/N,” he rasped out, voice heavy. “You…”

You couldn’t do this. Couldn’t bear the words he would inevitably say. The disgust he would regard you with.

The bond tugged once more in your chest. Azriel’s wide, wild eyes were on you.

You turned and ran.

—-

Two weeks.

You’d successfully avoided Azriel for two weeks before the inevitable confrontation. For his part, he had stayed away from your meeting with Lucien and Eris. Immediately afterward, you had left for Dawn to meet with Thesan. An emergency alliance negotiation.

In your mind, it was a blessing from the Mother. Perhaps a small act of repentance after the stunt she pulled revealing the bond to Azriel.

The journey back to Velaris felt far heavier than the one that had taken you away. Dawn had been bright, orderly, predictable. Everything that Velaris couldn’t be until you had settled this with Azriel.

Winnowing to the House of Wind, you headed straight for the kitchen, intending to grab a cup of tea and hide away in your room.

”You’re back.” The voice came from behind you.

The male had an innate talent for silence.

Mother help me.

You took a slow breath, then another. It was time, you supposed. You turned to look at him, wanting to memorize the exact details of his beautiful face. Once he rejects you, would you ever see him this closely again? Could you bear it?

“I’m back,” you said, keeping your voice light, moving towards the kettle on the counter.

Azriel stared at you intently, unspoken emotion deep within his eyes. As if he too, had been anticipating this moment. Dreading it.

Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you, thick with everything that had gone unsaid for two weeks. His eyes stayed heavy on you.

He finally broke the silence, tension laden in his voice. “You knew. Didn’t you?”

Your eyes slid shut “I did. I’ve known for almost a hundred years.”

The memory hit you hard.

“How’s the lemonade?” Azriel asked, taking a sip of his own in the chair across for you.

“You were right, this is delicious. Best I’ve ever tasted,” you took another sip of the sweet liquid, “How did I not know about this place?”

“It’s one of Velaris’ many hidden gems. You could live here for years and not know of every treat.”

“Well, I suppose I have much to learn.”

A laugh burst out of him, and you his eyes. It was full and deep and brought heat to your cheeks. His large form, wings brushing along the floor, seemed almost comical in this small, intimate cafe. For a moment, you just watched him. His beauty.

Warmth filled you, and you felt something snap within your chest. Like a key slotting into a lock, something had slid into place within your soul. Your mouth dropped open slightly, and all you could do was blink.

“You ok?” He teased. “Missing the Day Court?”

Your hands trembled slightly from the shock of the revelation. “I’m fine. Just…enjoying the lemonade.”

You gazed up at him, and his expression held shock, betrayal, a hint of anger. “A hundred years? You have known of this for that long?”

You nodded once, fixing your gaze somewhere over his shoulder.

Azriel leaned back slightly, as if the distance might help him process what you had just said. If anything, it only heightened the tension between you two.

“I-” he paused, swallowing before continuing. “Why have you not told me, Y/N?”

“I wanted to, at first. I didn’t wish for you to be disappointed, I suppose.”

He gawked. “Disappointed?” He took two steps closer to you, a smile barely there on his face. “Y/N, I am far from disappointed. I am…elated. But I cannot understand why you’ve hidden this so long.”

Your breath stopped. He took another step toward you. You tried to calm the panic in your brain. This is not what you were expecting. Not how you’d envisioned this moment at all.

”You don’t understand?” You parroted, a mocking tone creeping into your voice. He stood so close to you now you could see the faint crease between his brows, the tension in his jaw.

Something soft crept into his voice. “You truly believe that I would be disappointed to learn that the Mother chose you for me?”

Your laugh came out brittle. Disbelief flooded through you at his words. “The Mother may have chosen me for you, but you have never chosen me, Azriel.”

”What?”

You laughed again. Surely, anyone walking by would think you mad.

”When this bond snapped for you, you were ready to kiss another female, Azriel!”

”So this is about Elain?” He exhaled slowly. “Y/N, that was a misunderstanding. I believe she might be my mate.”

”She has a mate!” You were shouting now, your voice rising despite yourself. An overflow of emotions betraying you. In the past, you’d always thought this moment would be defined by his anger, his emotions towards such a disappointing pairing by the Mother.

“I understand the timing was awful. I’m sorry.”

”You’re sorry,” you deadpanned.

Azriel shook his head, speaking slowly. “I know…I know that I have failed you in many ways. And I can understand why you wouldn’t have told me.”

He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. It was a stark change from his usual directness. Your hands shook slightly, tears welling up in your eyes.

”Please. Please don’t cry, Y/N.” He sounded desperate, pained.

“So what happens now?” You posed. “Elain is not your mate, which anyone with half a brain could have told you.”

”Now you are my mate. Everything has changed, darling.”

”Don’t call me that.” Gods, why couldn’t you stop the tears? They streaked down your face, staining your cheeks. “Nothing has changed.”

Azriel only gaped at you. “How can you say that? We are mates. Elain does not matter.”

”Doesn’t matter?” It was your turn to stare at him like a fish out of water. “You have no feelings for me. And I am not interested in you pretending to care for me.”

”I- I would not be pretending.” He stuttered.

You stepped back immediately.

“Yes, you would,” you argued, insistence heavy in your tone. “Two weeks ago, you lay with me in bed and told me that you wish to be mated to another!”

You had to shut your eyes before continuing. “Do you think that I don’t know you? I have watched for two centuries how you look at women that you actually want.”

“I want you.”

”Because of the bond,” you shot back.

”No,” he said without hesitation. “Don’t say that.”

A bitter breath escaped you, “What would you have me say, Azriel? For hundreds of years, you have looked at every female but me. And when you finally-“ a sob cut through your words. “When you finally touched me, and I had hope, you broke that trust. Stress relief, isn’t that what you said?”

He flinched at the words. “I did not mean to imply-“

”You implied nothing. You said it quite clearly.”

”I thought you were happy with our…arrangement. You never asked for more.”

”So you assumed that I was happy with just sex while you pined for another?” You let out a scoff at that. You were being petty, you knew. But you found that you didn’t care. This was uncharted territory.

You’d never imagined that you’d be the one with the power in the situation. Here he was, and he seemed as if he wanted you. Desired you. But that couldn’t be right. There was no way. He was only trying to do right by you.

“Azriel,” you continued, “You have never desired me romantically. Physically, clearly. But do not stand here and lie to me.”

His shadows peered at you from over his shoulder, and his brow creased slightly with effort. As if he had to work to hold them back from you. “I am not lying to you. I have never lied to you, Y/N.”

“But you still do not love me.”

Azriel huffed. “How can you say that? You are my mate!”

”But you do not love me!” Your voice raised again. “This is why I never told you about the bond.”

”It isn’t like that,” Azriel tried, anguish heavy in his voice. “Please, let’s sit and we can talk about this.”

”There is nothing to talk about.” You sniffled, hand moving to wipe a tear from your cheek. “And we’re stopping our little…arrangement, if it wasn’t clear.”

”Ok,” he nodded, frantically. He moved to take your hands into his. “How about this? We’ll start over. No past.”

You shook your head, sniffling. “No, you don’t understand.”

His expression fractured. “Tell me then. Help me understand how to fix this. We’re mates. And that means something to me, Y/N. It can mean something to both of us. We just need time. I know I was awful to you. And inconsiderate.” He lowered his forehead down to yours, and you felt a tear drop from his cheek to yours. “Let me fix it. I’ll do whatever you want.”

For years, you dreamed of this moment.

”We cannot be together, Azriel. I won’t be your second choice.”

”You would not be my second choice. Never. We are mates.” He stressed.

”But that is the problem,” you stressed. “The bond has chosen me for you. But you would never do so.”

“That isn’t true, Y/N. The Mother has linked us. And that means something to me. We can figure this out.”

Gods, you couldn’t do this. Couldn’t face him as he attempted to placate you.

Here was Azriel, a male that you had dreamed of loving you since the day you met him. And now he was telling you he wanted you. As a mate. As a lover.

You broke out of his hold, maneuvering your hands away from him, “I spoke to Rhys before I left for Dawn. I’m moving back to Day.”

He froze. A beat of silence passed between you, then another. “What?”

"It's okay," Your words are garbled as your throat burns, your eyes stinging alongside it with hot tears as your stomach roils, "It could be worse. It could be so much-" You choke on your words as another heave overtakes your abdomen, nearly folding you in half while stomach acid leaks from your nose, dripping into the bucket Cassian had shoved beneath your chin.

This is roughly your seventy-first dry heave and you're surprised your stomach hasn't collapsed in on itself yet. There's certainly nothing left in it, but the poison you'd unknowingly ingested over breakfast is determined to wring you dry.

"Of course it could be worse." Azriel snaps, his fingers scrunched around your hair so tightly it'd bruise if it were flesh, "You could have died. You would've, if Feyre hadn't-"

He cuts himself off, swallowing down some of the ire in his tone. He doesn't mean to speak to you with it, but he's so riddled with nerves that he can't control himself. He tries, though, taking a rasping, heaving breath in, "We're all lucky Feyre slipped into that prick's mind and figured it out in time for an antidote. But that doesn't make it okay that you're puking your guts out on the floor, either."

"I'd rather not be," You sigh miserably, resting your forehead against the rim of the bucket that Rhysand is dutifully wiping clean anytime something stains it. The High Lord is currently leaning against the wall of your cabin, a grimace on his face as he glances at the strands of hair Azriel hadn't managed to sweep away in time.

"It'll pass in a few hours." Rhysand begrudgingly states, "But I assure you him and his entire cohort will be dealt with appropriately. They won't come near you again."

You grip Rhysand's hand in your own clammy one, squeezing as another violent wave of nausea rises to the surface. You're eternally grateful that courting Azriel means his brothers care for you too. The remaining one fishes a packet of saltine crackers out from the cabin's food supply, gnawing at the inside of his cheek as he tries to determine whether or not they're out of date before padding over to you.

"Try these," Cassian hands them over with a sad smile, and your fingers ache as you pry them off the rim of the bucket, "They probably can't make things any worse. I'll kick that guy's nose in for you, if you want."

"That's what I meant by 'dealt with appropriately'," Rhysand muses, "Although I was thinking of aiming for the teeth."

"Go for the stomach," Azriel's voice is suddenly much closer to your ear than before, and you realize he's squatted down to sit behind you, his legs bracketing your own as he holds the bucket in place for you, his shadows tearing open the saltines so that your body can finally rest, "I think he should be as sick as she is."

"I'm surprised you're not running off to do it," Cassian drawls, eyeing Azriel's startlingly calm demeanor now that your back slumps against his chest, "You don't want to go put Truth Teller through his shoulder?"

"I would," Azriel grunts, nearly a growl against your ear, but your weak hands lay against his thighs, and your head lulls against his chest in a way that makes his heart stutter, "-but I'm needed here."

You hum in thanks, letting his shadows present you a bite of cracker as his fingers begin combing through your hair, ignoring the sticky sweat built up against your scalp from your fever.

"We'll take care of it." Rhysand insists, though his mouth ticks up in a fond smile at the way Azriel is resting with you- angry, yes, but more concerned with softness than with blood, "There's a bath waiting upstairs- the water won't go cold. You take your time and we'll take ours," Cassian reaches for the blade at his back at the High Lord's cue, and Azriel's brothers head for the door of the cabin, leaving you draped over Azriel's lap for the night, "Just relax, the both of you."

"Thank you," Azriel calls, meeting his brothers' eyes with a meaningful stare. They both know he's longing to drive a sword through the gut of the man who'd dared to doctor your meal, but he'd rather weave gentle fingers through your hair and run soft touches along your healing stomach. So they leave him to it, and the door shuts softly behind them, sealing out the cold of Windhaven.

"Is it any better with the crackers?" Azriel murmurs against your ear, and you nod thoughtfully, still munching on one.

"I think so. They're not making me sicker, and they're putting something back in my stomach, so..."

"Finish them. Then we can make real food later, once you're not as nauseous." Azriel presses a kiss to the side of your feverish face.

"Thanks for taking care of me," You mutter, your eyes sliding shut as Azriel's warmth encompasses you, pleasant against the chills wracking your spine, "I know it's gross, and you'd probably rather be out killing someone."

"I meant it, earlier," He strokes a hand down your arm, settling it in the curve of your elbow and knocking his head into yours, "You need me here. I'll always be here if you need me."

Garrett lay on his back beneath you, his thick cock buried deep in your pussy as you rode him. His hands gripped your hips playfully, guiding you up and down his length with that cocky grin on his face. Every bounce made wet, obscene sounds as your soaked cunt swallowed him whole.

“Fuck, you look so good taking my cock like this,” Garrett teased, thrusting up to meet you, his voice light and filthy. “So wet and greedy. You gonna come all over me again, baby?”

You were panting, breasts bouncing with every movement, but you still tried to keep it light. “Y-yeah, this is… ah… great team bonding…” You glanced over your shoulder at Logan standing there, stroking his heavy, lubed cock with that the hunger of a man who had enough of waiting. Your voice came out breathy but determined. “Logan… I want both of you. Please. I want you in my ass right now. Fill me up.”

Logan’s eyes darkened. He didn’t smile, just climbed onto the bed behind you. “You sure?” he asked, voice low and serious.

“Yes…fuck,” you moaned, still grinding down on Garrett’s cock. “I want it. Double penetration. Both holes. Now.”

Garrett chuckled beneath you, still thrusting lazily into your pussy. “Hear that, Lo? Our girl’s asking so nicely. Give her what she wants.”

Logan’s dark eyes burned with intense focus. He moved behind you without a word, his large hands gripping and spreading your ass cheeks wide apart, exposing your tight, puckered hole completely. Cool air hit your skin for just a second before you felt the blunt, fat head of his massive cock covered by a condom pressing insistently right against your lubed asshole.

The pressure was immediate and overwhelming. That thick, swollen cockhead nudged and prodded at your tight ring, smearing more lube as it demanded entry. Garrett stayed perfectly still beneath you, his cock buried deep in your cunt, letting you feel the heavy, pulsing fullness there while Logan began to push forward.

“Easy,” Logan said, cooing you, his grip on your cheeks unyielding. “Relax and take me.”

You gasped sharply as the fat head finally forced its way past your resisting ring with a slow, burning pop. Inch after thick, veiny inch of Logan’s cock sank into your ass, stretching the tight channel wider than you thought possible. The intense pressure made your pussy clench hard around Garrett’s cock, and you could already feel the two of them pressing against each other through the thin wall inside you.

“Holy fuck…” you moaned, trying to joke through the mind-melting stretch. “Logan, that thing is huge… I asked for double penetration, not a total internal remodel, oh my god, I can feel you both so deep already…”

“Fuck, she’s so tight,” Garrett groaned playfully, starting to thrust up into your pussy again. “You okay up there, baby girl? Or are we breaking you already?”

Logan didn’t speak much. He just gripped your hips hard and started fucking your ass with powerful and controlled strokes. Garrett matched him from below, both of them finding a rhythm that had one cock sliding deep while the other pulled back. Every thrust made you shake. Your pussy clenched around Garrett’s cock, dripping down his shaft, while your ass gripped Logan’s like a vice. The dual penetration rubbed every sensitive spot at once, the pressure building insanely fast.

You tried another joke between moans, voice wrecked. “This is, ahh fuck… way better than Netflix. Who needs TV when you’ve got two hockey players turning you into a, oh god, double-stuffed sandwich…”

Garrett laughed breathlessly, thrusting harder up into your cunt while one hand reached up to play with your clit, teasing it in light, playful circles. “That’s right, baby. Take both our cocks. You asked for it, now you’re getting fucked full.”

You planted your hands firmly on Garrett’s chest and took full control, rolling your hips in deep, greedy circles before bouncing harder. You fucked yourself on both cocks with shameless abandon, slamming your soaked pussy down onto Garrett’s thick shaft while pushing back to bury Logan’s massive cock even deeper into your stretched asshole.

Every downward drop made your tits bounce heavily. Your juices coated Garrett’s cock and dripped down his balls, while lube and precum leaked from your tight ring around Logan’s girth. The obscene, wet squelching sounds grew louder as you rode them faster. “God… yes,” you gasped, voice husky. “Fuck, I’m so full.”

Garrett groaned, his fingers digging into your waist as he let you set the pace. “That’s it, baby, use us. So fucking wet and sloppy for us.”

You kept bouncing, ass rippling with every impact, taking them balls-deep over and over. Logan tried to thrust up into your ass at first, but you were moving too wildly, too hungrily. You were the one fucking them now. His hands gripped your hips tighter, trying to steady himself, but he couldn’t keep control.

A low, broken whimper escaped his throat, raw and needy.

Then another. And another.

The sound of Logan whimpering because you weren’t letting him thrust, because you were the one using his thick cock like a toy, made you clench hard around both of them.

“Fuck… Logan,” you moaned, a breathless laugh slipping out. “That’s so hot I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Logan’s reply came out strained, another whimper cutting through his words. “Shit… you’re so tight… fuck.”

You grinned through your moans and rode them even harder, slamming down so both cocks hit deep at once. Your ass jiggled against Logan’s hips with every bounce, your pussy making wet, filthy noises around Garrett.

Garrett laughed breathlessly, one hand sliding up to pinch your nipple. “Listen to him. You broke him, baby girl. I can feel him throbbing in your ass every time you drop down.”

You kept riding them relentlessly, sweat slicking your skin, your body shaking as the overwhelming fullness pushed you closer to the edge. The room was filled with the chaos of skin slapping skin, your dripping pussy and lubed ass taking two thick cocks, your desperate moans, Garrett’s teasing dirty talk, and Logan’s increasingly helpless whimpers every time you slammed yourself down and claimed them both.

“Don’t stop making those sounds, Logan,” you panted, voice breaking into a moan. “I love hearing you fall apart while I fuck you…”

Logan’s whimpers were constant now, low, broken, and desperate, as you used him, bouncing on his sheathed cock without mercy. His fingers dug painfully into your hips, but he couldn’t stop the needy sounds spilling from his throat.

The pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter. Every bounce made Garrett’s bare cock hit your g-spot perfectly while Logan’s thick, condom-covered length rubbed against him through that thin wall, pushing you closer to the edge. You rode them harder, slamming down so both cocks filled you completely. The pressure snapped.

Your orgasm hit like a freight train, your pussy clamping down hard around Garrett’s bare cock as you gushed all over him, your asshole squeezing Logan’s condom-covered length in tight, rhythmic pulses. “I’m coming, fuck!” you cried out, body shaking violently between them.

Garrett groaned and thrust up deep, flooding your pussy with hot, thick cum. Logan whimpered sharply as he came too, pulsing inside the condom buried in your ass.

“You stepped up. Nice. I’ll talk to the accountant about setting up some allowance with her. That’s good, you’ll be young for your child’s life. See more of it.” Graham had been gripping the counter so hard he forgot whether he was breathing. “I guess we’re starting the next Graham generation early,” Phil joked, slapping his son on the back.

Now three years had gone by in a blur. He had just gotten back from practice, having showered and donned his sweats. There was a knock at the front door, and from the kitchen, Tuck shouted: “It’s open.” There you were in jeans, some white tank top, and a sensible sweater, and little Isaac in your arms. Graham had come down with the sound of shouting.

“Hey, daddy,” you smiled at the curly-haired boy, releasing Isaac to the floor.

“DADDY.” His son shouted and ran right into his legs as Garrett squatted down.

“Isaac!” He yelled back, scooping his kid into his arms and blowing raspberries on the toddler's stomach.

“Game tomorrow?” You ask, noting the utter lack of calamity

“You know it.”

“And you’re done with homework for the night?”

“Yep.” He looks into his son’s eyes, yes, and remembers the night he was conceived and bricked with the exact same iris.

“Well, I figured I’d drop him off for a sleepover since you won’t have a morning lift.

“Got a hot date tonight?” Dean saunters in, giving you a side hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Just with forensic files and a stack of dishes."

"What are you not sticking around?"

"Logan! Hey, when you get the chance, can you look at my car? It's making that noise again?"

"Yeah, in the morning I'm taking Jules to go see our mom."

"Thank you, sweetheart, I'll bring snickerdoodles next time I bring Isaac over." You hug Logan as he grabs his jacket and his car keys. "Tell your mom I'm praying for her, and I'll bring oatmeal cookies with lots of cinnamon."

"She'll love that." Like that, Logan is gone in a flash. Dean takes Isaac from Garrett's arms with a " Come here, little man. Garrett stocks over to you. You can smell his body wash and his relief at seeing his son. He lowers his voice when he talks to you, even though he knows Isaac is well distracted by Dean, Tuck, and now Beau.

"You're really not gonna stick around?"

"Gare.."

"Come on, he loves getting time with both of us. Unless you do have a date.

"Hey! Nothing PG-13 or over." You warn them as they sit your son down and put on SpongeBob. "No, my only dates lately have been sneaky sessions with my vibrator during nap time. Garrett tried not to choke at the thought. “Anyways, how are you?”

“I’m good. Teams good. Are you going to bring him tomorrow?”

“I can try. Is Phil gonna be there?”

“I don’t know, he’s been hounding me about this new girlfriend, and I know he wants to see his grandkid.”

“You know I don’t like leaving him alone with Phil.”

“I know you don’t. I’d never make you. I’ll see if I can get you seats near me.”

“Okay, just text me when you get to the rink, I’ll see how busy I am.” You start walking toward your son and sit next to him on the couch. He’s deeply invested in jelly fishing. “I’m gonna go back home, bud, you’re gonna be good and spend the night with dad.”

“No, Mom, stay!” The toddler immediately launches up and wraps his arms around your neck. He's completely in your lap with his legs secured on your waist.

"Isaac, honey," you try to pull his arms off you. "I'm sorry he's going through this clinging phase-" you whisper over your shoulder, "I can barely pee without him banging down my door." Garrett smiles at the incredibly domestic scene.

"That's fine, i have an idea." he whispers back taking his son by the wrists "Isaac bud why don't we have a one quick dance party and then we're going to brush our teeth and go to bed." the prospect of a dance party distracts the toddler enough that the captain can remove him from his mothers chest and carry him up the stairs to his bedroom.

"No mom comes too!" Isaac objects as they begin the climb

"It's fine, I'm coming." You can't help it; you have to indulge him. You follow Garrett up the stairs, stealing glances at his wrought buttocks. The house is cleaner than you had imagined, especially since Graham had reported a party last night. Below, you hear SpongeBob switch to Call of Duty, and controllers get thrown between teammates. Upstairs, Garrett's room is spotless and swept of any evidence of his college life. He spins around a few times and drops Isaac on his bed. Garrett pulls his black phone out of his pocket and taps around on it. He walks over to a speaker and moments later Do It Again by Dan Steely starts playing. Isaac shoots up and starts grooving with his dad.

Garrett does his sexy little dance, and you watch from the door frame. He's doing his half salsa-half shimmy, and Isaac is loudly screeching along to the song. "Oh, come on, Mom, you're not going to join us?" You roll your eyes with your arms crossed, but Garrett extends a hand. "Don't be a party pooper." You walk in and take his hand. He pulls you to his chest, and you shuffle along with him. For just a moment, your chests are pressed together, and your eyes are locked. You feel your body teleported back to your prom. How nervous Garrett was to pick you up, how his hands shook when he poured you a punch. Then, when you danced together just this way. It all feels like yesterday, and the traumas of pregnancy and post-partum life all melt away when you're in his arms.

Isaac jumps up at his legs, and he picks him up easily while swaying to the rhythm of the song. eventually, as all good things do, the song ended and with it the moment. "Ok, bud, go brush your teeth." He puts Isaac down and points him toward the bathroom. He trots off, and Garrett assesses you again.

"Do you have PJs for him?"

"Of course," he holds your shoulders and spins you around before starting to roll out the knots in them,

"Gare,"

"Going home, know?" he teases

"Yes," you state with rising contempt despite your quickly sinking shoulders

"You seem pretty stationary for someone who's leaving."

"Just shut up and keep rubbing, hockey boy." Down the hall, Isaac shouts DAD, I GOTTA PEE and Isaac laughs

"Ok, bud, there's a toilet in there, last I looked," he yells back OKAY and Garrett spins you around again before looping his arms around your shoulders. "You're not going to even sleep well when he's not around"

"I know, but I need alone time."

"You can crash on Logan's bed."

"No, he's coming home tonight."

"Sleep on mine, I'll take the couch"

"You know Isaac will sleep on the couch with you, and I know Dean has definitely had a girl on it in the last two weeks"

"Try nights," you drop your forehead into his chest

"This is what I mean, I don't need my son on someone else's bodily fluids."

"I have a King-sized bed," he raises his eyebrows in exasperation, "just crash here, and Isaac will sleep on the bed with us."

"What about my dishes?"

"What about them? They've sat for three days; they can wait another night." You don't even realize he's slowly started swaying you back and forth. "I'll give you some sweats, you can just chill out here, and Isaac will be happy. We can pretend like we're a real family, not two 21-year-olds with a toddler." In that moment, your son comes barreling in with washed hands and a big smile.

"Hey, bud, go grab some pj's from your drawer." Isaac excitedly runs over to his dresser, opens the bottom drawer, retrieves a pair of sweatpants and a shirt with a truck pattern, and returns to the bathroom. Garrett stalks over to his closet, retrieves one of his shirts, and extends it to you. You give him a pouty look, and he rolls his eyes before pulling his own shirt off and handing you the one he was just wearing. He puts on the new shirt and turns around while you pull off your sweater and tank top, then puts on his used one. You unbuckle and peel off your jeans, then fold all your clothes and put them on top of his dresser. You nearly float over to his bed before peeling his covers back and bundling into bed. Isaac joins and jumps up to the mattress, nestling into your side.