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Hey! I love your works! Could I request Jason x reader with platonic Damian? For the scene I imagine reader taking Damian to do normal kid stuff and Jason tagging along realizing his brother IS still just a kid.
Thank you!
I love Damian like a son sometimes. He needs to be a kid and whimsical and fun. Anyways, thank you for this lovely request. I hope you like it!
Kandy's Writing Challenge
---------------
“The swingset?” Jason asks you incredulously. Damian kicks a rock on the sidewalk beside you.
You nod eagerly, “Yeah, just for a little bit. You can sit and read while Damian and I go play.”
“While you and Damian play?” his brows raise even higher.
You shove Jason’s shoulder at his tone as you laugh, “Yes, Jason Todd. I am going to steal your baby brother so that someone will swing with me.”
He huffs softly, “I’d swing with you.”
“I don’t want to swing with you,” you tease, “I want to swing with Damian.”
“Jeez,” He huffs before kissing you on the cheek, “I’ll sit and read then.”
“Great!” you cheer before your hand presses lightly to Damain’s shoulder so you can steer him towards the playground. Jason watches in curiosity as you both walk. He thought Damian would be dragging his feet a lot more.
He finally moves over to one of the benches on the walk near the playground, splitting his book open as he listens to you laugh at the swings. He shakes his head, smiling at your joy as he settles.
Five minutes in, Jason pauses in reading, not lifting his head, just listening. A cackle echoes across the playground. Kids were playing, and it could be any of them. However, Jason knows that cackle and the crackle is followed by your own laughter as you shout Higher babe!
Jason finally looks up to spot you and Damain. You're not in a swing yourself, but Damian is, to Jason's surprise, and swinging very high. You cheer as he swings forward, and when he comes back down, you're there to push him higher. Jason watches as the chains of the swing go lax at Damian's height, his laughter following before his swing back.
The book is shut and forgotten as he watches Damian, Robin, scream with laughter on the swingset. Damian laughs with each height of the swing. Jason supposes it's like the grapples when they’re on patrol, the brief moment where the line is loose and nothing is holding you up. It was usually followed by a tough landing, a roll or kick to some crook's stomach. The swingset held no such faults, just the moment of weightlessness.
You hand hooks on one of the chains, pulling slightly before releasing, slowing Damian slightly. Drag your feet, you instruct Damian, and soon his swing slows to a standstill. You're both grinning like fools as you leave the swings, giving them to the next few kids waiting.
“I think ice cream for dinner,” Jason hears you say as you both walk back over to him, “We won’t tell Bruce if you won't.”
“Todd,” Damian smiles, smiles at Jason, “Why did you never tell me how fun swings were?”
“Didn’t think you cared,” Jason admits guiltily because Damian was the heir to the demon head, son of Batman. He stares at him for a minute, and it’s almost like a gut punch. Damian was also a kid. It was something you always told Jason when he was being a little harsh. Jason clears his throat, “Ice cream?”
Your hand wiggles, and Jason takes it, standing up, “I saw a truck on our walk in. We can hit it on the way back to the car. You know what skipping is, Dami?”
Damian gives you a disgruntled look, but it doesn’t have the same heat as normal. “Yes, I know what skipping is.”
“Okayyy, do you know how to skip?” you reword.
Damian frowns a moment before he grumbles, “No.”
You seem far too excited as you let go of Jason's hand. “Let me teach you, bub.”
So Jason watches you teach Damian how to skip, something Jason learned in grade school. He silently beats himself up. The kid who leaped off of rooftops every night, the one who saved lives and complained about everyone being idiots, was being taught how to skip.
Jason looks at you with newfound gratitude. You always saw more than he thought, and he's not sure Damian would get the childhood he deserved from a family of vigilantes with beat pasts. No, your whimsical civilian ideas were much better
Blurb: You’ve been avoiding Dean Di Laurentis for over a week, and he is taking it about as well as expected. But when his dramatic little rant gets interrupted by the one thing neither of you saw coming, Dean has to prove there is more to him than jokes, charm, and terrible timing.
Warnings: pregnancy scare, fear of being alone, emotional conversation, casual relationship turning serious, anxious reader, dean being dramatic but sweet.
You had been avoiding Dean Di Laurentis for nine days.
Not because he had done anything wrong.
For once.
Your period was late. Not late enough to be certain of anything, but late enough that your stomach had been in knots for days. Every time Dean texted, called, or sent some dramatic Snapchat about your “cruel disappearance,” you turned your phone facedown and told yourself you would answer him later.
Later kept getting pushed back.
By day nine, Dean stopped waiting.
The knock at your apartment door came just after seven.
“I know you’re in there,” he called through the door. “Your TV is on, your car is outside, and I’m way too charming to be ignored this aggressively.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Another knock.
“I will start singing.”
You crossed the room fast. “Don’t.”
There was a pause.
“Aha,” he said. “So she lives.”
You opened the door.
Dean stood in the hallway in a Briar hoodie, looking far too good for someone who was clearly annoyed. His eyes moved over you quickly, taking in your face, your sweatpants, and the hoodie you were wearing.
His hoodie.
“Wow,” he said. “Look at that. She remembers I exist.”
“Dean.”
“No, no, this is good. I was starting to think I made you up. A whole woman who steals my clothes and then ghosts me like I’m some random guy with bad hair and a podcast.”
You stepped back to let him in. “I didn’t ghost you.”
Dean walked inside and turned around, looking deeply offended.
“You didn’t ghost me?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy?” he repeated. “That’s your defense?”
“It’s an answer.”
“It’s a terrible answer.” He pointed at you as he started pacing. “You ignored eight texts, four calls, and one vulnerable Snapchat.”
“The one where you zoomed in on your face and asked if I still cared about your emotional well-being?”
“That took courage.”
“It took boredom.”
“It took both.” He stopped in front of you, his frustration slipping just enough for you to hear the worry underneath. “You can’t just disappear on me. Garrett asked if I pissed you off and I didn’t even know what to say. Do you understand how humiliating it is for me to not know something?”
Your throat tightened as Dean kept going, too wound up to notice.
“And no one avoids Dean Di Laurentis. People seek me out. People circle back. People pretend they didn’t see me when we both know they absolutely saw me. I’m visible from space.”
“Dean.”
“If this is about that girl at Malone’s, I swear I told her I was there with someone. You were in the bathroom, so she may not have believed me, but I was noble. Hot, obviously, but noble.”
“I might be pregnant.”
Dean stopped completely.
His mouth stayed slightly open. His eyes widened, and for once in his life, no joke came out.
The silence scared you more than his ranting had.
“I’m sorry,” you rushed out. “I should’ve told you sooner. I know that. I just didn’t know how, and I kept thinking maybe I was overreacting, but then it kept getting later and I got scared, and we’re not even really—”
“Stop.”
His voice was quiet.
You wrapped your arms around yourself. “I didn’t want you to feel trapped.”
Dean crossed the room before you could say anything else.
Then his arms were around you.
You froze at first, surprised by how fast he pulled you in, but his hand slid up your back and held you there.
A shaky breath left you, and you grabbed the front of his hoodie.
“You don’t have to go through something like this alone,” he said.
“I was so scared,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“I didn’t know what you’d do.”
Dean pulled back just enough to look at you. His face was pale under the tan, but he stayed close.
“I don’t know what I’d do,” he admitted. “My brain is currently running around with no pants on. But I know I’m not leaving you alone with it.”
You let out a giggle.
His mouth twitched. “That was not my best line, but I stand by the meaning.”
You wiped your cheek with the sleeve of his hoodie.
“Have you taken a test?” he asked.
You shook your head.
Dean blinked. “You’ve been sitting with this for over a week and haven’t taken a test?”
“I couldn’t.”
His expression softened.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we get one.”
“Now?”
“No, next spring.” He winced immediately. “Sorry. Bad joke. I’m panicking and my mouth has become hostile.”
Despite everything, you laughed again.
Dean reached for your hand. “Shoes. We’re going to CVS before I start Googling symptoms and convince myself I’m pregnant too.”
Five minutes later, he was standing by your door in a baseball cap and sunglasses.
You stared at him as it was dark outside.
“Dean.”
“What?”
“You look insane.”
“I look normal enough.”
You rolled your eyes, but the knot in your chest loosened a little.
At CVS, Dean kept the sunglasses on until you reached the pregnancy test aisle.
Then he took them off and stared at the shelves like he had been asked to solve a crime.
“Why are there so many?”
You covered your mouth.
“No, seriously.” He stepped closer, squinting at the boxes. “How many ways do we need to find out if there’s a tiny Di Laurentis in there?”
“Dean.”
“What’s the difference between this one and that one?”
“That one is digital.”
“So it speaks English?”
“It says pregnant or not pregnant.”
“Great. Better than interpreting emotional hieroglyphics while I’m on the verge of a medical event.”
You laughed for the first time all night without feeling like you might cry.
Dean turned to look at you, and his face softened before he could hide it.
“Don’t look too impressed,” he said. “I’m still wildly unqualified.”
“I can tell.”
He grabbed one box, then another.
“One is enough,” you said.
“Or it could be wrong.”
“Pregnancy tests don’t just make things up.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“Dean.”
“I’m getting two.” He paused, then grabbed a third. “Three.”
“You’re panicking.”
“I’m a thorough panicker.”
At the register, he added sour gummy worms to the counter.
You looked at him. “What are those?”
“Emotional support worms.”
The cashier’s mouth twitched.
You wanted to disappear. You also wanted to kiss him.
Back at your apartment, the air felt heavier again.
Dean set the CVS bag on the counter and looked at you.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Me neither.”
That honesty hit harder than another joke would have.
You took one test and went into the bathroom. Dean stayed outside the door.
“You good?” he called.
“I’m reading the instructions.”
“Right. Literacy first.”
You huffed, then took the test with shaking hands.
When you were done, you set it on the counter and opened the door.
Dean was sitting on the floor outside the bathroom, elbows on his knees, phone in his hand.
He stood immediately.
“How long?”
“Three minutes.”
He set a timer. “Great. Three minutes. That’s nothing.”
A beat passed.
“That’s a lie. Three minutes is forever. You can ruin your whole life in three minutes. You can burn toast and set off the smoke alarm. You can scroll through your ex’s Instagram and make terrible decisions.”
“Dean.”
“Sorry. Filtering broke.”
You leaned against the bathroom doorway, arms wrapped around yourself.
Dean stopped pacing.
His face changed when he looked at you, and he stepped closer but stayed outside the bathroom.
“Whatever it says, we figure it out,” he said. “You hear me?”
You looked down. “You keep saying that.”
“Because I mean it.”
“You don’t know what you’d do.”
“I know I’d freak out,” he said. “Probably in several creative ways. I might call Tucker and say words he can never unhear. I might buy a parenting book written by someone named Linda. I might vomit.”
That pulled a tiny laugh out of you.
“But I won’t leave,” he said. “That part I know.”
The timer went off, your heart dropping as Dean went still.
You turned back into the bathroom and picked up the test. The words were right there on the little screen.
You opened the door and held it out.
Dean snatched it from your hand, then stared down at it.
His shoulders dropped all at once.
“Not pregnant,” he breathed.
You nodded.
For one second, neither of you moved.
Then Dean sagged against the wall and covered his face with one hand.
“Thank fuck.”
You laughed, shaky and relieved. “Yeah.”
“No, I mean that in every possible way.” He lowered his hand, looking dazed. “Spiritually. Emotionally. Academically.”
“Academically?”
“I don’t know. I’m overwhelmed.”
You laughed harder, and he pulled you into his arms again.
You buried your face against his chest, feeling the last nine days loosen all at once.
Dean held you for a long moment, his chin resting against your hair.
Then he exhaled.
“I’m buying condoms in bulk,” he said. “Costco-level commitment. I’m going to have a rewards card.”
You burst out laughing into his hoodie.
“I’m serious,” he said. “I’m going to be the most prepared man in Massachusetts.”
“That’s not something to brag about.”
“It is after what I just survived.” He pulled back, still holding you. “Honestly, I may glue one to my dick.”
“Ew what? Please don’t.”
“Fine. Tape?”
“Dean.”
“Okay, no adhesives. I’m listening.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.
Dean nodded, then brushed his thumb along your jaw.
“Next time you’re scared, you come to me before making me chase you around like a rejected frat boy.”
“You were kind of acting like one.”
For once, he seemed to actually think before speaking.
“I don’t want to do the casual thing if casual means you think you can’t call me when something matters,” he said.
Your heart shifted.
“You don’t?”
“No.” His mouth tipped into a small smile. “I like you.”
You raised an eyebrow.
He winced. “That sounded sixth grade as hell. I’m aware.”
You laughed softly.
“I mean I like you,” he said. “Not just the fun parts. I like being here. I like that you steal my hoodies and pretend my jokes are worse than they are.”
“They are pretty bad.”
“And yet you laugh.” He leaned closer. “I want you. In a way where you don’t hide from me when things get complicated.”
You stared at him for a second.
“That sounds like dating.”
Dean gasped lightly. “Dating? Wow. Forward. Scandalous.”
“You brought it up.”
“I did not use the word dating. You did. But since you’re clearly obsessed with locking me down—”
“Dean.”
His grin softened. “Yeah. It sounds like dating.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
Dean smiled so wide it made your chest ache.
“Great,” he said. “Cool. Very normal reaction from me.”
“You’re smiling like an idiot.”
“I got a girlfriend and a negative pregnancy test in the same night. This is elite emotional whiplash.”
You laughed, and he kissed your forehead.
A little later, you were curled against him in bed with the sour gummy worms between you and his hoodie still wrapped around your body. Dean held your hand under the blanket, his thumb moving slowly over your knuckles.
The fear had not completely vanished, but it no longer had you alone in a quiet apartment, staring at a phone you were too afraid to answer.
Now it had Dean beside you, warm and ridiculous and impossible.
“Hey,” he murmured.
“Yeah?”
“I’m still ordering condoms tomorrow.”
You groaned. “Dean.”
“In bulk,” he said. “Costco-level commitment.”
“You don’t even have a Costco membership.”
“I’ll get one.” He kissed the top of your head. “I’m a provider now.”
“You provided gummy worms.”
“Emotional support worms,” he corrected.
You laughed into his chest, and Dean held you a little tighter.
For the first time in nine days, you finally believed him.
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Author's Note: Dean x Figure Skater!Reader. I'm not sure if this needs a part II... For more of my writing, check out my Masterlist: here.
Trigger Warnings: Head Injury, Hospital
Dean and the boys sat in the stands overlooking the rink, bundled against the chill that seemed to seep through every inch of the arena. It still felt strange being on this side of the glass. Usually, he was the one on the ice, skates laced and stick in hand, while other people watched. Now he was the spectator.
But that's what boyfriends did. They showed up. They cheered. They learned the difference between a lutz and a loop, even if they still couldn't identify either with any confidence.
He smiled to himself.
You and Dean had started out exchanging harmless comments in passing. The hockey team finished practice just before your figure skating sessions, and there always seemed to be a few minutes where your paths crossed. At first, it was nothing more than teasing smiles and sarcastic remarks.
Neither of you had planned for it to become anything more.
You had a strict rule about never dating hockey players. Dean, meanwhile, didn't do girlfriends. Casual was easy. Commitment wasn't.
Then one party, one conversation that lasted until nearly sunrise, and one kiss neither of you had expected changed everything.
That had been months ago.
Since then, life had become a whirlwind of road games and competitions, late-night food runs, weekends in New York, and hundreds of quiet moments that somehow meant more than any grand gesture ever could.
Dean had never felt so completely known.
You saw past the jokes and the constant need to make everyone laugh. You recognized the parts of him he usually kept hidden beneath sarcasm and confidence, and somehow you loved those parts just as much.
Talking to you never felt like work. Silence never felt awkward. Whether you were wandering through the city, studying together, or simply sitting in comfortable silence, being with you felt effortless.
For the first time in his life, Dean understood what people meant when they talked about finding home in another person.
Being with you felt steady.
Safe.
Like the most natural thing in the world.
And somehow, despite that comfort, you still made his pulse race. Every date turned into an adventure. Every kiss still made him grin like an idiot. Every time you stepped onto the ice, he found himself staring with the same mix of admiration and disbelief.
He glanced over at Garrett and Hannah sitting a few seats down. He used to give them endless grief about being nauseatingly in love, constantly teasing them whenever they got caught stealing glances at each other.
Now he got it.
As you and your partner glided to center ice, Beau nudged him with an elbow.
"Try not to look too jealous," he teased. "She has to skate with him."
Dean rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his grin.
"Shut up."
The boys chuckled before their attention returned to the ice as the opening notes of your music filled the arena.
Dean loved watching you skate.
It was impossible not to.
The moment your blades touched the ice, everything about you changed. You looked lighter somehow, every movement effortless, every edge deliberate. Graceful. Confident. Completely at home.
It was like watching someone breathe.
He'd seen you perform dozens of times, yet every routine left him speechless.
You made the impossible look ordinary.
The program built toward its final sequence. Dean recognized it immediately.
The grand lift.
Your partner's hands settled at your waist before lifting you high overhead as they gained speed down the length of the rink.
Dean smiled.
Then everything went wrong.
It happened so quickly that his brain couldn't process it.
A slight stumble.
A hand slipping.
Your body tipping just enough to throw off the balance.
Then—
You fell.
Dean swears he heard the crack of your head striking the ice despite the music. A collective gasp swept through the crowd.
His friends all released a string of curse words.
You didn't move.
Dean was on his feet before he even realized he'd stood.
"Y/N!"
The stairs blurred beneath him as he vaulted down toward the boards, the boys right behind him. Arena staff were only just beginning to react, but Dean was already pushing through the open gate onto the ice.
Someone shouted for him to stop.
He barely heard them.
His skates weren't on, forcing him to half-run, half-slide across the slick surface until he reached you.
You were exactly where you'd landed.
Perfectly still.
Your partner had scrambled backward, horror written across his face as he stared at you, frozen.
Dean dropped to his knees beside you, every instinct screaming at him to pull you into his arms.
He knew better.
Years of athletic trainers and emergency protocols echoed in his head.
Don't move her.
Not if there's a chance of a neck injury.
His hands hovered helplessly over yours before he carefully settled one against the ice beside your fingers, close enough that you could feel his presence if you were conscious.
"I'm here," he whispered, his voice shaking. "Don't try to move, okay? Just open your eyes."
There was no response. The fear that flooded his chest was unlike anything he'd ever experienced.
He had taken hits that left him unable to breathe. He'd broken bones. Played through injuries. None of it came close to this.
Behind him, he heard the pounding footsteps of the medical team racing onto the ice.
"Sir, we need you to step back."
Dean looked at you one last time, fighting every instinct telling him not to leave your side.
"I'm right here," he said softly, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'm not going anywhere."
Unresponsive.
Cervical collar.
Backboard.
Possible neck injury.
Possible spine injury.
Possible head injury.
The words blurred together, each one hitting Dean like another body check.
He sat on the narrow bench in the back of the ambulance, his knees pressed against the cabinets as the vehicle sped toward the hospital. The sirens wailed outside, but inside everything felt strangely controlled.
One paramedic knelt beside you, monitoring your airway while another secured the last of the straps across the backboard. The rigid cervical collar kept your head perfectly still. Electrodes dotted your chest, a pulse oximeter glowed on your finger, and the cardiac monitor filled the compartment with a steady, rhythmic beeping.
Dean couldn't tear his eyes away. Your chest rose and fell on its own, slow but steady, and for some reason, that tiny movement became the only thing he could focus on.
"Is she..." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat before trying again. "Is she going to be okay?"
Neither paramedic lied.
"We don't know yet."
The honesty somehow hurt more than false reassurance ever could.
Dean reached toward your hand before stopping himself, afraid of getting in the way. Instead, he rested two fingers gently against yours where they lay strapped beside your hip.
"I'm here," he whispered. "You don't have to wake up right now... just... keep fighting."
There was no squeeze. No twitch. Nothing.
One of the paramedics glanced at the monitor before speaking into the radio.
"Twenty-one-year-old female. Figure skating fall from an overhead lift. Unresponsive since impact. Cervical collar in place, fully immobilized. Concern for cervical spine injury and traumatic brain injury. Vitals currently stable. ETA three minutes."
Dean closed his eyes for a second.
Three minutes.
It felt impossible that his entire world had unraveled in less than ten.
The emergency department doors swung shut behind the trauma team, leaving Dean standing alone in the hallway.
"Sir, you can't come back here."
The nurse's voice was gentle but firm.
"We need room to work."
Dean looked through the small window in the doors one last time. He caught a glimpse of doctors and nurses surrounding your stretcher before someone pulled a curtain closed.
Then you were gone.
The waiting room was painfully quiet.
Dean sat hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees. Every few seconds, he glanced toward the double doors, hoping someone would come through with an update.
The entrance doors opened. Logan was the first one through, followed closely by Garrett, Hannah, and Beau. Garrett carried your bag over his shoulder. No one spoke at first.
Logan walked straight over to Dean.
"Any news?"
Dean slowly shook his head.
"They took her straight for imaging." His voice was hoarse. "They're worried about her head, neck, and spine."
Logan ran both hands over his face, pacing a few steps before stopping himself.
Garrett quietly set your bag on the floor beside Dean's chair.
"Hannah grabbed everything from the locker room," he said.
Dean nodded absentmindedly.
"Thanks."
He opened the bag and looked through it, finding your phone.
The lock screen lit up, revealing a picture of the two of us smiling back at him. His chest tightened. He remembered you mentioning the passcode months ago, laughing that it was "the easiest number for Dean to remember."
His birthday.
The phone unlocked.
Dean hesitated for only a second before opening your contacts and finding Mom.
His thumb hovered over the call button.
"I can do it if you want," Garrett offered quietly.
Dean swallowed.
"No."
He took a shaky breath and pressed call.
It rang twice.
"Hi, sweetheart!" your mom answered cheerfully. "How'd the competition go?"
Dean couldn't speak.
Not at first.
"...Mrs. Y/L/N?"
There was a pause.
"Dean?"
Silence. He didn’t know what to say.
Then her tone shifted immediately.
"Dean? Is everything okay?"
He squeezed his eyes shut.
"There was... there was an accident during her program."
Another silence.
"What do you mean, an accident?"
"Her partner dropped her during a lift." Dean felt every pair of eyes in the waiting room turn toward him, but he couldn't look at any of them. "She hit her head on the ice. She was unconscious when the ambulance took her."
The line went completely still.
When your mother finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Is she okay?"
Dean looked toward the trauma bay doors.
"They're still evaluating her. She's in CT right now. The doctors don't know how badly she's hurt yet."
"I'll be there as fast as I can."
"I know."
"Dean, love, she’ll be okay."
Dean's grip tightened around the phone.
After the call ended, the waiting room fell silent once again.
No one knew what to say.
Time crawled.
Every time the emergency department doors slid open, every head in the waiting room snapped up in unison.
A nurse calling another patient.
A family leaving with discharge papers.
Someone from housekeeping pushing a cart.
Never a doctor.
Never anyone coming for them.
Dean had lost track of how long they'd been sitting there. Twenty minutes? An hour? Three? Time had stopped making sense the moment the ambulance doors closed.
The doors opened again.
This time, your skating partner stepped hesitantly into the waiting room.
His competition jacket was draped over his shoulders. His hair was still damp, and his eyes were bloodshot.
The moment he spotted Dean, he froze, guilt written all over his face.
"I..." His voice broke. "Dean, I'm so—"
Dean stood before he could finish. For a split second, Garrett thought he might actually swing. Instead, Dean wrapped him in a hug. The other skater completely fell apart.
"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I lost my grip. I don't know what happened. I tried—I tried to catch her."
Dean closed his eyes, summoning a strength he didn’t know he possessed, "I know."
"I dropped her."
"I know."
"It's my fault."
Dean pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, "No."
Your partner shook his head, tears spilling freely. Dean understood why he blamed himself. He probably always would. But Dean also knew what came with loving an athlete. Hockey players blew out knees. Football players broke bones. Figure skaters trusted another person to throw them into the air and catch them again. Sometimes things went wrong. That didn't make it anyone's fault.
Dean squeezed his shoulder, "She'd tell you the same thing."
Before either of them could say anything else, the doors opened once more. A doctor in navy scrubs stepped into the waiting room, clipboard in hand.
"Dean Di Laurentis?"
Dean's heart lurched.
"That's me."
The doctor smiled—a small one, but enough for Dean's shoulders to loosen for the first time all day.
"I have some good news."
Everyone stood.
"The CT scans of her head and cervical spine are normal. There's no evidence of bleeding, no skull fracture, and no injury to her neck or spine."
Dean let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"The neurological exam looks reassuring as well. Her strength, sensation, and reflexes are all intact."
Garrett quietly muttered, "Thank God."
"She does have a significant concussion," the doctor continued. "Given the mechanism of injury and the length of time she was unconscious, we're taking it seriously. She's going to have a rough few days with headaches, fatigue, and she'll need plenty of cognitive and physical rest."
Dean nodded, absorbing every word.
"Is she..."
The doctor smiled again.
"She's awake and she's been asking for you."
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, equal parts relief and disbelief.
"Can I see her?"
"You can."
The doctor handed him a packet of discharge instructions.
"If someone can stay with her continuously for the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, we're comfortable discharging her. We want someone around in case her symptoms worsen, and she'll need to avoid driving, strenuous activity, alcohol, and anything that risks another head injury until she's cleared."
"I'll stay with her," Dean answered immediately.
The doctor nodded.
"I had a feeling you'd say that."
Dean didn't wait another second. He was already halfway to the doors before anyone else had a chance to move.
He stopped just long enough to toss your phone to Garrett.
"Call her mom, please, G. Password's my birthday."
Garrett caught it with one hand.
"You got it."
"Dean-o."
The greeting came out weak and raspy, but it was unmistakably you.
Dean stopped in the doorway.
For a long moment, he simply stared.
You looked exhausted. Your hair was a mess, and your skin had lost its usual color. But the cervical collar was gone.
That alone made his chest loosen.
You turned stiffly toward the nurse as she removed the last of your IV.
"Look at him," you said, gesturing lazily toward Dean. "Isn't he just a beautiful specimen of a man?"
The nurse laughed.
Dean let out a watery chuckle, covering his face with one hand as he tried—and failed—to hide the tears threatening to spill over.
"Seriously?" he asked, crossing the room. "You give everyone a concussion scare, and that's your first line?"
You frowned in mock offense.
"It was..." You paused, clearly searching for the rest of the sentence.
"...a really good line."
"It was."
He bent down, pressing the gentlest kiss imaginable to your forehead before resting his own there for a moment.
"I was so scared."
The smile faded from your face.
"I know."
A beat passed.
"I'm sorry."
Dean shook his head immediately.
"Don't apologize."
"I didn't mean to..."
"I know."
His thumb brushed gently across your cheek. He opened his mouth, ready to make some smart remark to lighten the mood, but the door swung open before he had the chance.
"Fuck," Logan said as he walked in. "I don't think I've ever seen Dean move that fast."
Garrett, Hannah, and Beau filed in behind him.
"There she is," Beau said, relief washing over his face. "The woman who gave three Division I hockey players simultaneous heart attacks."
You blinked at him.
"Only three?"
A sleepy grin spread across your face.
"Must be losing my touch."
Logan folded his arms.
"You can barely keep your eyes open, and you're still making jokes."
"It's called commitment."
Dean laughed.
The sound had barely left him before you winced, squeezing your eyes shut.
Instantly, every smile in the room disappeared.
"You okay?" Dean asked quietly.
"Yeah..." You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Just... don't laugh so loud."
He gave you an apologetic smile.
"Noted."
Garrett stepped closer to the bed.
"We called your mom. She's on her way to the hockey house to meet us."
You nodded slowly.
"Okay."
"Your partner's downstairs in the lobby, too," he continued. "We told him he could come up, but... he didn't want to."
Your expression softened.
"He thinks it's his fault."
No one said anything.
"It isn't," you murmured. "Can you... tell him that?"
"We will," Garrett promised.
The nurse, noticing everyone had finally settled, stepped forward with a clipboard.
"All right, since it looks like you have plenty of people volunteering to keep an eye on you..."
She launched into the discharge instructions, making eye contact with each of them as she spoke.
"No driving until you're cleared."
"No alcohol."
"Lots of rest."
"Limit screen time if it makes the headaches worse."
"If she starts vomiting repeatedly, becomes difficult to wake up, develops worsening confusion, weakness, numbness, or has a seizure, bring her straight back to the emergency department."
Everyone nodded with surprising seriousness.
Dean looked like he was mentally memorizing every word.
By the time the nurse finished, you looked utterly drained.
You let your eyes drift closed, your head sinking carefully against the pillow.
Dean noticed immediately.
"If you guys don't mind..." he said softly, glancing at the others. "Can I have a couple minutes?"
No one argued.
Within seconds, the room emptied.
The moment the door clicked shut, Dean turned back to you.
"Think you can get changed?"
You cracked one eye open.
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Whether you're volunteering to help."
A small smile tugged at his lips.
"I am."
With slow, careful movements, he helped you sit up, one hand supporting your back while the other steadied your arm. Every motion was deliberate, giving you plenty of time whenever you paused because the room threatened to spin.
He slid the sweatshirt Hannah grabbed from your locker gently over your head, careful not to bump the tender spot hidden beneath your hair. Then came a pair of soft sweatpants, guiding your feet through one leg at a time while you leaned against his shoulder for balance.
When you were finally dressed, he crouched in front of you to help you into your sneakers.
Only then did he stop.
He rested his hands lightly on your knees and looked up at you.
"You don't have to be brave with me."
The room fell quiet.
His eyes searched yours, taking in the exhaustion, the lingering confusion, and the effort it was taking just to stay awake.
"How are you really doing?"
For the first time since the fall, there was no audience.
Just the two of you.
You stared down at your hands for a long moment before speaking.
"I think..." Your voice caught.
Dean stayed silent.
"I think I'm done skating."
The words hung in the room.
He knew what they cost you.
Skating wasn't just a hobby. It was early mornings before class. Hours in freezing rinks. Competitions. Blisters. Bruises. Missing holidays. Chasing scores by fractions of a point. It was the language you spoke before you knew how to put your dreams into words.
It was part of who you were.
Dean swallowed hard.
"Hey."
You finally looked up at him.
"You don't have to decide that today."
A tear escaped before you could stop it.
"But what if I never trust another lift again?"
Dean reached up, brushing it away with his thumb.
"Then you don't."
"I almost..." Your voice broke. "Dean, I don't even remember hitting the ice. I woke up in a hospital."
"I know."
"What if next time is worse?"
He took both of your hands in his.
"Then that's a conversation for months from now."
You let out a shaky breath.
"I don't know if I can go back."
"You don't have to."
You searched his face.
"But if I quit..."
"You won't be quitting."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
He squeezed your hands gently.
"If you decide, after you've healed, after the headaches are gone, after you've had time to think—not today, not tomorrow, but when you're ready—that skating isn't what you want anymore..."
He paused.
"...that's not quitting."
"That's choosing."
"You've already proved how tough you are. You don't owe anyone another performance just because you've spent years getting here."
You looked away, tears quietly slipping down your cheeks.
"It feels like I'd be losing part of myself."
Dean's expression softened.
"I don't think skating is what made you who you are."
"It isn't?"
He shook his head.
"You make little kids stop and watch through the glass because they think you're magic."
A watery laugh escaped you.
"You make my teammates feel like family."
Another tear rolled down your cheek.
"You make my mom think I'm finally dating someone good for me."
That earned him a tiny smile.
"You make every room brighter the second you walk into it."
He rested his forehead against yours.
"The ice is just where everyone else got to see it."
Your eyes closed.
For the first time all day, you let yourself cry.
Not because your head hurt.
Not because you were scared.
But because someone had finally given you permission not to have all the answers.
Dean wrapped his arms around you as carefully as he could, mindful of your aching body.
"You don't have to decide today," he whispered again.
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