One of the many things you love about Connor is his family. You love how supportive they are, how welcoming they are, how Madisen jokes about how she texts you more than her brother, how his mom invites you for every holiday or summer vacation they have.

So as you sit in the suite, you laugh and smile with that easy comfortableness that they provide for you. Knowing tonight you’ll finally see Connor back where he belongs. But during this time, you miss the incoming texts.

5:14pm

Connie: Are you here yet?

5:20pm

Connie: Please tell me you’re here, I’m trying really hard to be calm in front of the guys

5:26pm:

Connie: Please, I need you

The guilt that settles in your stomach later about missing all of these is unbelievable, but right now, you’re patiently waiting for warm ups to start. That is until a man comes into the suite, the Blackhawks logo embroidered on the black quarter zip.

“Excuse me.” He says politely as he interrupts you and Madi. “I’m really sorry ma’am. But I need you to come with me.” He says, his eyes trying to tell you that this is urgent and he almost doesn’t want to voice anything too startling out loud.

“What’s going on?” You ask, standing up and grabbing your phone. It lights as you see the missed messages, and you know then that you need to get to him. “Oh my god.” You whisper, but it alerts Melanie and Madi. They stand, but you shake your head. “I’ve got it.” You say, and they both look to you, like they want to come because it’s their son, their brother that needs help. But Melanie places a hand on Madi’s arm, and nods to you.

“Let us know if we can do anything.” She says, and you nod before following the staff member.

You guys hurry down long hallways and a few stair cases, but you don’t talk. You don’t even know what to say to the man. And as you round the final corner, you see him.

His gear is on, the red standing out like a beacon. His skates are on, but he’s walking around. Pacing back and forth.

“Con!” You shout, running down the hallway to where he is. He stops pacing as soon as he hears your voice, but you clock the pure panic that is flooding his eyes. “What’s going on?” You ask once you’re standing in front of him.

“I-“ He starts, but no words follow it. You take in the wild look of fear in his eyes, the way his hands shake as they rub at his jaw then pull on the gold chain he has pulled out from under his jersey.

You know immediately what’s happening, the quick breaths, the shaking, the way he can’t stay still.

“Okay, hey.” You say soothingly as you reach out slowly and catch his arm. “Connor look at me for a second.”

He does, and when he does you’re hit with so much of his built up fears that for a moment it makes you want to tear up. But you steel your emotions, knowing right now he needs you more than anything.

“Talk to me, what’s going through your head?”

“I can’t do this.” He whispers, his voice so shaky as he chokes on sobs and quick breaths. “Y/N, I can’t. They picked the wrong person, I can’t lead this team. I’m going to freeze out there. What happens when everyone sees it?” He asks, his rambling continuing. “They are going to see me fail. I’m going to let them all down. The team, the fans…. you.”

His breathing has picked up now, the quick breaths now falling into more hyperventilating wheezes.

“I’ve got you, let’s sit down for a second.” You say, trying to get him off his shaking legs. He nods, and you take both of his hands and help lower him down until he’s sitting with his back against the wall.

His legs open instinctively, and you don’t even think about it as you kneel down, your bare knees digging into the floor between his legs.

You pull his hands back to you, placing one palm against your heart so he could feel it, while keeping the other in your hand.

“You’re here with me.” You say, trying to ground him however possible.

You shift the hand that was over your heart to the center of your chest, and you take a deep breath in and a deep breath out.

“Feel how I’m breathing?”

Connor nods his head yes in answer, his breathing too ragged for him to try to force out anymore words.

“Good.” You say, and you take another deep breath. “You don’t have to match it, just feel it.”

His blue eyes are swimming with emotion, and you can almost see how badly he wants to hide away yet at the same time throw himself into you. So you continue trying to calm him.

“Nothing bad is happening. It’s just you and me here.” You soothe, and his hand goes from laying flat on your chest to gripping the fabric of his jersey that you’re wearing. Almost like he needs to cling onto it, onto you. “Take your time. It’s just you and me.” You repeat, and even though you know he’s realistically on a time crunch, you want to move that fact far from his mind.

He nods, closing his eyes and hanging his head down a bit.

“I feel like something terrible is going to happen.” He gets out, and you only nod your head in understanding before trying a different approach.

“How about this.” You say, reaching your hand out to pull his face back up so he’s looking at you.

“If I ask you some questions do you think you can answer them?”

“Yeah.” He says on a choked breath, and you nod as you start.

“Take a look around, Con. What are five things you can see?”

“I can’t think.” He says, shaking his head, and it’s like the panic rises a bit more because he feels out of control.

“That’s okay, you don’t have to think.” You soothe. “Look down for a second, tell me what do you see.”

You watch as he does, his eyes landing on something.

“My skates.” He says.

“Good.” You say. “That’s one. Stay with me, can you give me another?”

His eyes lift back up to yours as he says the second thing he can see. “You.”

“Me, that’s two.”

“The posters.” He says next, and your eyes catch on the posters of players that line the hallway.

You continue to nod and smile, asking for another.

“Your eyes.” He says next, and you silently thank god that his hand isn’t on your heart anymore because he would have felt the jump it gave at his answer.

“My eyes, that’s four.” You say, smiling a bit at him. “One more baby.” You say, the pet name slipping out without you even realizing it, but it seems to help him, as if it chipped a layer of panic off.

“Your nails.” He says, his eyes catching on the red French tips you got for him. He reaches a shaking hand out to rub them, and you let out the quietest laugh.

“Good. That was good.” You say, watching as he continues to stare at your nails. “Now give me four things you can touch.”

He looks at you for a moment, before nodding and instantly naming them.

“My pads.” He states, his hand rubbing over the padding on his legs. “The floor.” He states next, and you nod. “My chain.” He says as his fingers pull silently on it.

“Yeah, one more.” You say, letting him continue to squeeze and play with your hand.

“Your hand.” He says finally, and you nod.

His breathing was still too fast, calmer than it had been minutes ago, but the panic was still very much on the surface.

“You’re doing it.” You say, and his eyes catch yours as he shakes his head. “We’re almost done, now give me three things you can hear.”

“The guys, the rink, your voice.” He says back to back.

“That’s three.” You confirm. “Now what are two things you can smell?”

Connor takes a moment, before nodding and swallowing.

“The ice, and your favorite perfume.”

“How do you know it’s my favorite?” You ask him, and he looks at you for a moment before responding.

“Because it’s the one you wear for special occasions because you want to save it.” He whispers to you, and you’re shocked he knows that. But after all, Connor knows everything about you.

And you try to bite back your feelings as you continue to focus on him. Your knees still digging in the ground, his legs closer to you than they first were. While at first they seemed to bracket you, now they are pressing into you, like he needs to be touching you from various spots in order to calm down.

“Final thing, baby.” You say, and you try so hard to ignore the little groan he lets slip at the name. “What’s one thing you can taste?” You ask.

Anytime you’ve heard of someone doing this grounding exercise, they usually say someone follows up with toothpaste or something like that. But you watch as Connor’s eyes move from your eyes, to your lips, and back up to his eyes.

You wait for him to tell you toothpaste, or the taste of whatever Gatorade he was drinking in the locker room. But he doesn’t say anything, in fact the anxiety leaves his eyes for a second, before he whispers a small, “fuck.”

And the next thing you know, his hands leave their places. One comes up to grab the collar of your jersey like it was before, the other resting under your ear as he closes the gap in between you two. Warm lips cover your own, and for under a second you freeze at the feeling, before you kiss your best friend back.

You feel Connor pulling you in closer, drawing you deeper in between his thighs until there was no space left. His hand under your ear remains gentle, but the hand gripping your collar goes more firm, like he is worried you’ll slip away from him even now.

But his lips, his lips are enough to make you forget your own name. You’d be a liar if you haven’t thought about how good it would be to kiss these lips. And they surpassed everything you could have imagined.

They are soft and warm, swallowing yours as if this was the last kiss he’d receive for the rest of his life. So you did the only thing you could think of to do to your best friend who you’ve been harboring a crush on for years. You let the moan slip into him as you fall into the moment.

His grip on you tightens, but not in a rough way, instead like he’s silently begging you to stay, to stay slotted against him like this.

But you knew this couldn’t last forever, not in the hallway of the United Center as he’s coming down from a panic attack. So you pull away, just enough to see his eyes. And as you look into the eyes that have been haunting your every waking thought, for the first time since you’ve come down here, they look clear.

“Your lipgloss.” He says, and you furrow your brow.

“What?”

“You asked me one thing I could taste.” He says, like he didn’t just slowly rip apart every ounce of control you’ve ever had. “I can taste your lipgloss.” He says again, and you laugh.

“Connor Bedard, you drive me crazy.” You say, as you lean back into him.

“Y/N L/N, you’ve been the only thing on my mind since the first day I met you.” He gets out before you cover his lips with yours once more.

The second kiss was softer, and you almost pull away because it again hits you that this is the same man who was hyperventilating not ten minutes ago. But Connor doesn’t let you go far, and you don’t dare fight that. Because you’ve wanted this from the first moment you saw him as well.

So you guys continue to kiss in the hallway, not caring until his name gets called from down the hallway. He groans in annoyance, resting his forehead against yours.

“Feeling better?” You whisper, because you don’t trust your voice not to falter if you speak up anymore than that.

“I feel on top of the world.” He says, and he tries to kiss you again. But you laugh, planting a quick sequence of kisses on his lips, and then on his face.

A blush covers his skin as you do it, and when you pull back to really look at him you smirk.

“Now, Captain.” You say, and he groans and rests his head against your chest. You laugh, a hand going through his hair as you continue to speak. “Go lead your team. Go show them who you are.”

“What if I fail?”

“You are Connor fucking Bedard.” You say, resting your palm against the C that’s stitched into his jersey. “No matter what happens, you remember that.”

“You’ll be watching?”

“The entire time.”

And for right now, that seems to be enough.

—

You take a moment before reentering the family suite. But when you do, you instantly offer his family reassurance. Little, he’s okays, and things like it.

You pray that the flush has left your face, that the smile you can’t seem to shake off they’ll believe is just from the excitement of watching your person come back to the game.

But when you sit back down next to Madi, she eyes you for a moment. You turn your head to ask her what, and she only wipes at the corner of her mouth, silently telling you that your lipgloss is smudged.

You can feel the heat hit your face, and you instantly wipe it away and turn your head to face the ice. She leans back with a laugh, before grabbing your hand and holding it in her own as everyone’s eyes focus on Connor. The cheers of the stadium are so loud you’re surprised you don’t go deaf, but you scream and cheer along with the fans as they welcome their captain back home.

After the shut out game, you smile as you pull your phone out.

9:34pm

You: I told you that you could do it, Captain

9:38pm

"you could not have. you cried in the target dressing room."

"that's classified information."

you laugh, the sound bouncing off the water, and mack turns to look at you like he's asking you to referee, eyebrows raised, that grin on his face that's gotten you into more trouble than you'd like to admit over the two years you've been together. you just shake your head at him, unable to keep the smile off your own face.

"don't look at me. i'm not vouching for your gymnastics career."

"wow. no faith."

"i have faith in you," you say, kicking a little wave of water toward him just to watch him flinch. "i do not have faith in your judgment around pool furniture, or diving boards, or literally anything with the word 'stunt' attached to it."

he presses a hand to his chest like you've wounded him, staggering back a step in mock devastation, and will laughs from the chair, and it's - it's a good day. one of those easy, nothing days, the three of you at will's parents' place for the weekend in san jose because will's family has a pool and none of your apartments do, and mack had been talking about it all week like it was a vacation to somewhere exotic instead of a forty-minute drive down the highway.

you'd gotten here at noon. mack had insisted on grilling even though nobody asked him to, had burned the first batch of burgers with the confidence of a man who'd never once successfully grilled anything, and will had laughed so hard he'd nearly fallen off the porch steps, and you'd sat in the shade with a lemonade sweating cold against your palm and thought, not for the first time, that this - this exact, unremarkable, sun-warmed afternoon - was the kind of thing you wanted a hundred more of.

you pull yourself up onto the pool deck now to grab your water bottle, hair dripping down your back in a long rope, and behind you, you can hear mack still narrating himself, still performing for an audience of two people who love him regardless of whether the trick lands.

"watch this," he says. "i'm gonna stick it."

"mack -" will starts, half a warning, half already laughing.

you're not even looking at him when it happens. you hear it before you process it - the wet slap of feet on tile, mack's voice mid-sentence, still talking, still narrating his own stunt like he's got an audience beyond the two of you, and then a sound that doesn't belong. a crack. not loud, not dramatic, just wrong, the specific wrong sound of something hard meeting something harder, and then a splash that's off-rhythm from what a dive should sound like - too flat, too sudden, no arc to it at all.

you turn around and mack isn't in the air. he isn't gracefully arcing over the water. he's in the pool, and the water around him is already turning a color it shouldn't be, blooming out from the back of his head in a soft, spreading cloud, dark red unfurling into the blue like ink dropped in water, and for one full second - one entire second that will replay in your head for the rest of the night - you just stand there. frozen. water bottle still in your hand. watching red curl through blue like it's someone else's pool, someone else's boyfriend, someone else's life, some patient chart you haven't opened yet.

then the second ends.

"mack." your voice comes out sharper than you've ever heard it, and you're in the water before you've finished the word, diving back in without a second thought, wading fast toward where he's floundering, one hand pressed to the back of his head, face pale even against the tan he'd gotten all summer, eyes wide with a confusion that hasn't caught up to pain yet.

"i'm fine," mack says, which is the single stupidest thing he could possibly say, because there's blood running down his neck in a thin, steady line, staining the top of the water pink where it meets his skin, and his hand is shaking where it's pressed against his own skull. "i just - i clipped it, i think i clipped the edge on the way down -"

"don't move your neck," you say, and your hands are already on him, one bracing under his jaw, the other going to the back of his skull where his fingers are pressed, feeling for what you already know you're going to find. your thumb brushes the edge of the wound and it's deep - you can tell just from touch, the way scalp lacerations always bleed like they're worse than they are but this one has real depth to it, a gap where there shouldn't be one, edges that don't want to close on their own. "okay. okay, i've got you, don't move your neck for me, can you feel your hands? wiggle your fingers for me, both hands."

"babe, i'm fine, it's just my head -"

"wiggle your fingers, mack. now, please."

he does, both hands, underwater, fingers splaying wide and awkward, and some tight coiled thing in your chest loosens by maybe half a degree. no neurological red flags, not yet, not that you can see with him treading water and adrenaline doing half the work of holding him upright. but there's so much blood in the water now, threading out from him in ribbons that catch the last of the afternoon light, and you can hear yourself talking in that voice - the voice you use at work, low and even and completely without panic, the voice that convinces scared eight-year-olds hooked up to monitors that everything is going to be fine even when you aren't sure yet yourself. it comes on like a switch flipping. you're grateful for it and hate it in equal measure, hate that some clinical, detached part of your brain is already running through a triage checklist while the rest of you wants to fall apart completely.

"will." you don't look away from mack. "towels. now. and get the car."

will's already moving, feet slapping wet against the concrete, phone abandoned face-down on the pool chair, and you're guiding mack toward the shallow end with one arm locked around his ribs, the other hand still cupped firm against the back of his head, applying pressure the way you've done a thousand times for patients who were never, ever your own boyfriend, who never had a face you'd trace with your eyes closed, who never made you laugh so hard you'd cried at a diner booth over something stupid he'd said about ranch dressing.

"you're doing so good," you tell him, and it comes out steadier than you feel, steadier than the way your own pulse is throwing itself against your ribs like it's trying to get out. "i need you to help me get you out, okay? can you stand?"

"i can stand." he sounds embarrassed more than anything, which is so entirely mack that you'd laugh if you weren't currently watching blood drip down his jaw and mix pink into the pool water at your feet. "y/n, i really think i'm okay, it doesn't even hurt that much -"

"head wounds bleed a lot. that doesn't mean it's not serious, it means i need you to let me look at it properly on dry land and stop talking me out of taking care of you." you get him to the steps, one hand still pressed firm to his scalp, feeling the wound pulse faintly under your fingers with each heartbeat, and will's already back with an armful of towels, face gone the particular gray-white of someone who watched something happen and doesn't know what to do with his hands, keys already fisted so tight in his other hand his knuckles have gone pale.

"is he -"

"i need pressure on this the second we're out, can you hold a towel folded thick, right here -" you guide will's hand to the spot the moment mack's clear of the water, transferring the pressure without ever losing contact, seamless, the kind of handoff you do at work without thinking twice. "press firm. don't be shy about it, you can't push too hard."

"okay. okay, got it." will's voice cracks a little on it, but his hand is steady, steadier than he probably feels.

mack sits on the pool steps for one dizzy second, dripping, towel already soaking through pink under will's hand, and looks up at you with an expression that's somewhere between sheepish and scared, like he's just now catching up to what happened, the adrenaline of the fall wearing off just enough to let the reality of it start seeping in.

"hey," he says. "hey, don't - you look like you're about to cry."

"i'm not going to cry," you say, which isn't entirely true, because your eyes are stinging in a way they never do at work, not even on the bad nights, not even on the nights you carry home in your chest for a week after. but you are not going to cry right now. you're going to get him in the car. crying is a luxury for later, for the parking garage, for the shower tonight if you need it. "i'm going to get you to the er and i'm going to make sure you're okay, and then i'm allowed to be however upset i want. deal?"

he huffs something that's almost a laugh, wincing when it moves his head. "you're bossy when you're scared."

"i'm always bossy," you say, hauling him up by the arm, will already jogging ahead toward the driveway with keys jangling in his fist, calling something back about pulling the car around front. "you just usually think it's charming."

"still think it's charming," mack says, and even now, even soaked and bleeding and pale under his sunburn, he manages to make it sound like he means it, and something in your chest cracks a little wider at that, at him trying to make you smile from inside his own emergency, at the fact that even bleeding from the back of his skull the first instinct he has is to try and take care of your feelings too.

you don't bother changing - there's no time for that, no room in the next five minutes for anything but getting him into a car - so you wrap a spare towel around his shoulders over his wet swim trunks and steer him, barefoot and dripping, across the hot concrete of the driveway.

will's car is running by the time you get to it, back door already open, ac blasting cold against the summer heat, and you climb in first so mack can lean into you instead of the seat, towel still clamped to his head, his other hand finding yours the second he's settled, fingers cold and damp and gripping too hard.

"you're gonna be fine," you say, mostly to him, a little bit to yourself, and press your lips to his temple, the one part of his head that isn't currently a problem. "i've got you. i've got you the whole way there."

will pulls out of the driveway too fast, tires chirping once against the pavement, and in the rearview mirror his eyes keep flicking back to you two, checking, checking, checking, the way you check when you don't know what else you're allowed to do, when your hands aren't the ones doing the useful thing and all you have left is the wheel and the road and your foot on the gas.

"straight there?" he asks eventually, voice tight, knuckles white against the steering wheel.

"straight there," you say, and keep your hand pressed over will's other one where it's still holding the towel from the back seat when he reaches back at a red light, keep your eyes on the wound like watching it hard enough will slow the bleeding through sheer force of will, keep mack's fingers laced through yours the entire drive, and don't let yourself think about anything except the next thirty seconds, and then the thirty after that, because that's the only way you know how to survive this kind of car ride. one breath. one mile marker. one more assurance, murmured low against his temple, that you've got him, you've got him, you've got him.

"i love you," mack mumbles at one point, eyes closed, head tipped against your shoulder, voice thick with the particular exhaustion of adrenaline crashing. "in case i don't say it before they cut my head open or whatever."

"nobody's cutting your head open," you say, throat tight. "and you say it every day, you're not allowed to make this weirdly dramatic."

"a little dramatic feels earned right now."

"you're allowed a little," you concede, kissing his temple again. "i love you too. now stop talking like that."

---

the er waiting room is doing its usual thing - too bright, too loud, a toddler somewhere crying with the specific pitch that means an ear infection, someone's ankle propped up on a chair three seats down, a vending machine humming its tired fluorescent hum in the corner - and you've never in your life hated fluorescent lighting this much, even though you work under it for twelve hours a shift, four days a week, without complaint, without ever once thinking about how harsh it actually is until it's washing out mack's face in the worst possible way.

it's different when the person on the gurney is yours.

they get mack triaged fast, the wound earning him a jump up the list past the ankle and the ear infection, and a tech you vaguely recognize from cross-shifts wheels him back with will and you trailing behind, badge still clipped uselessly to your swimsuit cover-up because you hadn't thought to take it off, some part of your brain apparently deciding that identifying yourself as staff might make this easier. it doesn't make it easier. it makes it worse, actually, because everyone who glances at the badge assumes you're fine, assumes you've got this handled, assumes the calm on your face all the way to your cheekbones is real instead of something you're holding together with both hands and sheer stubbornness.

"ma'am, are you the patient's -"

"girlfriend," you say, before the woman with the clipboard can even finish. "i'm his girlfriend. i'm also a picu nurse, if that's - i don't need that to matter, i just wanted to say it. i don't know why i said it."

the woman's expression softens half a degree, the universal look of a healthcare worker recognizing one of their own mid-crisis, the specific brand of overwhelmed that comes from being good at this for everyone except the person you love. "it matters. we'll keep you close if we can."

they get him into a bay, curtain pulled halfway, mack sitting up on the gurney in a hospital gown that makes him look smaller than he is, hair plastered dark and stiff with drying blood on one side, and you stand right at his shoulder because if you sit down you think something in you will simply stop holding itself up. will hovers by the curtain, arms crossed, uncrossed, crossed again, clearly at a loss for what a person is even supposed to do with their body in this situation.

a nurse comes through first for vitals - blood pressure cuff, pulse ox clipped to mack's finger, a penlight swept quick across his eyes that has you holding your breath without meaning to - and rattles off numbers to the chart that you translate automatically, instinctively, the way you'd translate a stranger's chart at work. good. those numbers are good. you let yourself exhale.

the doctor who comes in after is young, brisk, kind in the efficient way er doctors learn to be kind, and she examines the wound with gloved fingers while mack sits very still and tries to make a joke about diving competitively that lands with absolutely nobody, not even will, who normally laughs at everything mack says out of loyalty alone.

"it's a decent laceration," the doctor says, to you as much as to mack, once she's peeled back enough hair to really see it, tilting his head gently under the light. "probably four, four and a half centimeters, decent depth. we'll get imaging just to be safe given the mechanism - head hit a hard surface, brief disorientation - but he's oriented, pupils are equal and reactive, no other red flags so far. i think we're looking at stitches, not staples, given the location and how clean the edges are."

"okay," you say, and your voice comes out professional, clipped, the way it does when you're receiving a report at shift change, because that's the only register you have left in reserve, the only one that won't crack the second you open your mouth wider. "okay. that's - that's good. that's manageable."

"very manageable," the doctor agrees, glancing at you with something like recognition - one clinician to another, even now. "we'll get him down for a quick ct just to be thorough, and then i'll be back to close him up. shouldn't be more than an hour, hour and a half total."

they wheel mack off for imaging, and you and will sit in the narrow hallway chairs outside, close enough to hear when he's brought back, and will finally sits still for the first time since the pool, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

"i've never seen you like that," he says quietly, after a minute. "at the pool. you just - you went somewhere else. it was kind of terrifying to watch, honestly, how fast you switched."

"it's the job," you say. "you don't have time to feel it in the moment. you feel it after."

"is this after?"

you look at your hands, still faintly pink at the nail beds from the pool water, and don't answer right away. "i don't know yet. i think after hasn't started."

while you wait, will keeps talking, low and half to himself, the way people do when silence starts to feel dangerous. "i keep replaying it. the second before. he was mid-sentence, telling me about his gymnastics career, and then he just - wasn't. i didn't even see him hit, i just heard it."

"you couldn't have caught him from a pool chair," you say, because you can see exactly where his mind's gone, the same place yours had gone standing frozen at the edge of the water. "there wasn't a version of this where you got there faster."

"i keep thinking there was."

"there wasn't," you say again, firmer this time, because you need him to hear it as much as you need to believe it yourself. "i was three feet closer and i still froze for a second before i moved. it's not about being fast enough. it's just what happens when something like that comes out of nowhere."

will exhales, rubbing a hand down his face, and doesn't argue further, though you can tell it hasn't fully landed yet, that he'll probably be turning it over in his head for days the way you know you will too.

"can i ask you something," he says, after a minute. "does it ever get easier? seeing this stuff at work, i mean. i always figured you were just - used to it. good at compartmentalizing or whatever they teach you."

"i thought i was," you admit. "tonight kind of proved i'm only good at it when it's not mine."

"he's gonna be so annoying about the scar."

that startles a laugh out of you, real and sudden, exactly the release valve you didn't know you needed. "he's already planning the story. i can feel it."

"he told the triage nurse he did a backflip. a full backflip. she wrote it on his chart, i saw it over her shoulder."

"oh my god."

"i didn't correct her. figured he'd earned the legend at that point."

a different nurse pops her head into the hallway to update you - mack's back from imaging, resting comfortably, doctor will be by shortly with results - and something in your chest that's been clenched since the pool finally, finally starts to loosen.

mack's wheeled back a while later, ct clear, no bleed, no fracture, just the laceration and a mild concussion diagnosis that comes with a stern list of instructions you're already committing to memory before the resident's even finished reciting them. relief moves through you so fast and so total that your knees actually go a little weak, will's hand catching your elbow without either of you really acknowledging it.

"see," mack says, grinning up at you from the gurney, looking more like himself now, color back in his face, "told you i was fine."

"you have a laceration requiring stitches and a concussion. that is not fine, mack, that's just not currently catastrophic."

"i'll take it."

the doctor comes back a few minutes later to close the wound, and that's when the nurse comes in with the scissors.

you don't know why it's the scissors. you've held scissors like that a hundred times, have trimmed hair back from a hundred wounds on a hundred kids who were never yours, have done it without a second thought, matter-of-fact, just another part of the job, something you could do half-asleep at four in the morning during a bad shift. but you watch this nurse - competent, unbothered, clearly good at her job - lift a section of mack's hair at the back of his head, the dark, slightly-too-long hair you've run your fingers through a thousand times, have grabbed onto during quiet mornings, have teased him about needing a haircut for three weeks running, have tucked back from his forehead on lazy sunday mornings when neither of you wanted to get out of bed, and something in you just breaks clean through.

it isn't the blood. you handled the blood fine, handled it in the pool, handled it in the car, handled the whole drive here with a steadiness that surprised even you. it's the scissors, the specific glint of them under the exam light, the casual way the nurse angles mack's head to get better access, tilting it like it's just an object to be positioned rather than the head of the person you've built a life around, and your whole body goes hot and then cold, your throat closing around something you can't swallow down fast enough.

"wait," you say, too loud, too sharp, and everyone in the bay looks at you. "wait, i'm sorry, i just - can you give me one second."

mack's eyes find yours immediately, concern breaking through the fog of adrenaline and mild concussion-caution he's been floating in. "hey. hey, y/n -"

"i'm fine," you say, except you aren't, because your eyes are hot and blurring and your hands have started shaking, actually shaking, the kind of tremor you have never once had at work, not during codes, not during the worst nights of your career, the nights you've had to hold a crying parent's hand while machines beeped around you, and you have to turn half away from the bed because if you look at him right now you are going to fully lose it in front of a room full of strangers.

will, standing awkward and useless-feeling by the curtain the whole time, is at your side in an instant, one hand landing steady between your shoulder blades. "hey. hey, breathe. you're okay."

"i know how to do this," you say, and it comes out half a laugh, half a sob, both equally unconvincing. "i do this for a living, will, i've cut hair off way worse wounds than this, i don't know why i'm -"

"because it's mack," will says simply, quietly, like it's obvious, because it is, because he's known you both long enough to see straight through to the exact shape of the thing you can't say yourself. "it's not a patient. it's him. you're allowed to not be okay watching someone touch his head like that."

and that's it, that's the whole thing, laid out so plainly it knocks the last of your composure loose. you press the heel of your hand against your eyes, breathing hard through your nose, trying to get back to the version of yourself that walked in here steady and capable, and it takes a full ten seconds - ten seconds you will later be a little embarrassed about, standing in an er hallway half-crying over hair - before you can turn back around.

mack's watching you the whole time, and even flat on a gurney with a hole in his head, even woozy from the adrenaline crash starting to hit him, his face has gone soft and worried in a way that has nothing to do with himself.

"c'mere," he says, and holds out the hand that isn't currently being held still for an iv line. "y/n. come here."

you go, because of course you do, and he catches your hand and presses it flat against his chest, right over his heart, like he's trying to physically prove to you that it's still going, that everything underneath his ribs is still doing exactly what it's supposed to.

"i'm okay," he says, low, just for you, even as the nurse waits with the scissors held politely at a distance, giving you both the small mercy of a moment. "look at me. i'm okay. you got me here so fast i barely had time to be scared. you did everything right. let them do this part, yeah? you don't have to be the nurse right now. you can just be you."

"i don't know how to do that," you admit, voice cracking on it, and it's maybe the most honest thing you've said all day. "i don't know how to just be your girlfriend and not also be the person who's supposed to keep you safe. it's the same part of my brain, i think. i don't know how to switch one off without the other."

"you already kept me safe," he says. "the rest of this is just paperwork and hair. and honestly? i've needed a haircut for weeks. you've said so yourself."

it startles a laugh out of you, wet and a little unhinged, and he smiles up at you like that laugh is worth more to him right now than the stitches he's about to get, and you nod, finally, stepping back enough to let the nurse work, though you keep mack's hand in yours the entire time, thumb moving in slow circles over his knuckles, watching every snip of the scissors like you can protect him from a distance if you just refuse to look away.

it takes six stitches. you count every one, silent, lips barely moving, and mack - bless him, drowsy and loopy from the whole ordeal - squeezes your hand once for each one like he can feel you counting and wants you to know he's counting too, that you're doing this part together the same way you did every other part.

---

by the time mack is discharged - imaging clear, no concussion beyond a mild one you've been warned to watch overnight, a printout of instructions you've already half-memorized before the paper even leaves the doctor's hand - the sun's gone from the sky entirely, and the parking garage feels colder than it should for late summer, the concrete holding onto a chill that has nothing to do with the actual temperature.

mack walks out under his own power, which the part of you that's still functioning as a nurse notes with clinical relief, and the part of you that's just his girlfriend keeps one hand hovering near his elbow the whole way regardless, not quite touching, ready, the way you keep a hand near a toddler learning to walk even when you're fairly sure they've got it.

will drives you back this time too, quieter than the trip in, radio off, glancing at you two in the rearview every few minutes like he's still doing the math on how scared he was allowed to have been, like he's only now letting himself catch up to the fact that his best friend cracked his skull open on a pool deck three feet away from him.

"you good back there?" he asks eventually, eyes flicking to mack, whose head is tipped back against the seat, eyes half-closed, six neat stitches disappearing into the trimmed patch of hair at the back of his skull, a slightly ridiculous bald spot that you already know you're going to tease him about once you're not terrified anymore.

"i'm great," mack says, sounding drowsy and a little loopy, the adrenaline long gone and exhaustion moving in to fill the space it left behind. "y/n's mad at me though."

"i'm not mad at you." you are, a little. mostly you're just so relieved you don't have room for anything else yet, the anger sitting somewhere far behind the relief in line, waiting its turn. "i'm going to be mad at you tomorrow, probably, once i've slept and i'm not running on fumes. tonight i'm just glad you're not dead."

"strong reaction to a backflip attempt."

"you did not do a backflip. you concussed yourself on pool tile before you were even airborne."

"mild concussion," mack corrects, holding up one finger like it's an important distinction, swaying slightly with the effort of it. "the doctor said mild."

"you have six stitches in your head."

"in a cool spot, though. very battle scar. very rugged."

"you're insufferable," you say, but you're smiling now, the first real smile since the crack of his skull against the tile, and you reach over to lace your fingers through his, careful of the iv bruise blooming purple at the back of his hand. "i love you. you scared the hell out of me."

"i know," he says, quiet now, all the joking dropping out of his voice at once, sobering fast in the way he only does when he means something completely. "i'm sorry. i really am. i saw your face right after and i've felt like garbage about it since, even through all the drugs and the confusion, that's been sitting there the whole time - the way you looked at me in the water."

"you don't have to apologize for slipping."

"i have to apologize for scaring you like that. those are different things. i know they're different things because you've explained the difference to me at least four times tonight."

"i'm a nurse. we're thorough."

will pulls into the driveway of his parents' place a few minutes later, the pool still glowing faintly blue under its underwater light, water gone still and undisturbed like nothing happened there at all, filtration system humming quiet in the dark, and something in your chest twists at the sight of it - that same water, hours ago, blooming red - but you push it down, file it away for later, the way you've learned to file things away after hard shifts, the way you have to if you want to keep doing this job, keep doing this life, without it hollowing you out.

"you two want me to grab your stuff from the pool deck?" will asks, already halfway out of the car, keys still jangling in his fist even with the engine off. "towels and everything's probably still just sitting there where we left it."

"i'll get it," you say. "i need a minute anyway."

will nods, understanding in the particular way he always seems to understand things without needing them spelled out, and heads inside to give mack a hand instead, murmuring something about grabbing him dry clothes, leaving you alone at the edge of the pool for a moment with the water lapping quiet and blue and entirely normal-looking now, betraying nothing of the last four hours, nothing of the ambulance-adjacent panic that had lived in this exact spot.

you stand there a while, arms wrapped around yourself despite the warm night air, and let yourself finally feel the whole thing all at once - the crack, the blood in the water, the drive, the scissors, the six stitches, the terror that had lived under your collarbone the entire time disguised as competence. you let it move through you in one long shudder, tears finally spilling over now that no one's watching, now that there's no chart to fill out and no gurney to walk beside, and you let yourself cry for exactly as long as it takes to gather the towels, which is not very long at all, because you've never been good at giving yourself more time than that.

then you pick up the towels, and you go inside to take care of your boyfriend.

---

mack's set up on the couch by the time you get inside, will having clearly bullied him into lying down with a pillow and the good blanket, and he's got that sheepish, slightly guilty look on his face that means he knows he's about to get fussed over and has decided, wisely, not to fight it.

"okay," you say, setting the towels down and rolling up your sleeves like you're about to start a shift, hair still damp, swimsuit still on under a borrowed t-shirt of will's you'd grabbed off the back of a chair. "here's how tonight's going to go."

"oh boy."

"i'm going to check your pupils every two hours because of the concussion protocol, even though they said mild, because i don't care, i want data points. you're going to drink water, not soda, i don't care what will has in the fridge, i already checked, there's a whole shelf of it and none of it is happening tonight. you're going to eat something plain and small tonight, nothing greasy, because you might feel nauseous later and i don't want you finding that out over a plate of nachos. and you are going to let me look at those stitches before bed to make sure nothing's oozing that shouldn't be."

"oozing," mack repeats, delighted despite himself, the word clearly the highlight of his night. "very romantic."

"i didn't say it was romantic. i said it's happening."

he catches your wrist as you move past him toward the kitchen, tugging gently until you stop, and looks up at you with an expression that's gone soft and a little serious, the teasing dropping away all at once. "hey. thank you. for today. i mean it - you were incredible. i was scared and you weren't, or if you were you didn't let it show, not until - well. not until the hair thing."

"i was terrified," you admit, sitting on the edge of the couch beside him, careful not to jostle him, letting him keep hold of your wrist. "the whole time. i just know how to look calm even when i'm not. it's basically the whole job, honestly. i've gotten really good at lying with my face."

"you cried over the scissors."

"i did not cry."

"your voice cracked in a way i've literally never heard it crack. not even that time your mom called during the family emergency thing with your grandma. that's crying. that's nurse-y/n crying, which i didn't even know was a thing that existed until tonight."

"i had a moment," you allow. "one moment. i'm allowed one moment when it's you."

"you're allowed as many moments as you want," he says, quieter now, reaching up to tuck a piece of your still-slightly-damp hair behind your ear, thumb grazing your cheekbone after, lingering there a second too long to be casual. "you don't have to be steady for me every second. i like it when you're steady, don't get me wrong, i think it's the hottest thing about you, honestly, watching you go full nurse mode in that er, telling doctors things, asking the right questions, ordering will around like a drill sergeant -"

"mack."

"i'm serious, it did something to me -"

"you have a head wound and a mild concussion, you are not allowed to find anything hot right now, that violates at least two of the discharge instructions, i'll show you the printout."

he laughs, then winces, hand flying up toward the back of his head before he catches himself, breath hissing out through his teeth. "okay, fair, bad timing. rain check, though. i'm cashing that in eventually."

"we'll see," you say, but you're smiling, and you lean down to press a slow, careful kiss to his forehead, right above the eyebrow, avoiding every point of contact that could possibly hurt him. "i'm getting you soup. and water. and then i'm sitting right here and watching you sleep like a creep for a while, because i need to see your chest going up and down or i don't think i'll be able to relax."

"you're allowed to do that," he says. "i like being watched by you. within reason."

you go to the kitchen and heat up the plainest soup will's parents' pantry has to offer, and bring it back with a glass of water and two of the pain relievers cleared by the discharge sheet, and sit cross-legged on the floor beside the couch while he eats slow, careful bites, still a little pale, still moving like his head is a fragile, precious thing he's not fully trusting yet, propped up just enough that he isn't putting weight against the stitched side.

will drifts through at some point with his own bowl of cereal, drops onto the armchair across from you, and for a while the three of you just exist together in the low light of the living room, television murmuring something none of you are really watching, the whole terrifying day finally starting to settle into something survivable.

"i'm never letting you near a diving board again," you say eventually, resting your chin on the edge of the couch cushion near mack's hip, one hand still absently checking the pulse at his wrist even though you aren't thinking about it consciously anymore, just doing it, a habit your body's decided it needs tonight.

"noted," mack says. "in my defense, i really did do gymnastics."

"for four years. when you were nine."

"the muscle memory's in there somewhere."

"the muscle memory got you six stitches and almost a much scarier conversation than the one we're having right now."

"it got me six stitches and a very attentive girlfriend," he counters, and reaches down to find your hand where it's resting on the cushion, threading his fingers through yours, thumb tracing slow over your knuckles the way he does when he's tired and soft and past the point of performing okay-ness. "i'll take the trade."

you don't answer that right away, just turn your head to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, feeling his pulse there, steady, present, exactly where it's supposed to be, counting the beats without meaning to the same way you'd counted stitches, some part of you that won't fully let go until it's satisfied there's nothing left to count.

later, once the soup bowl's empty and mack's propped up against a mountain of couch cushions will had unearthed from somewhere, you finally let yourself sit still for the first time all day, curled into the small space beside him, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the back of your hand.

"can i see it?" you ask. "the stitches. properly, i mean, not just the discharge-instructions once-over."

"go ahead. you've earned a look."

you lean in and part his hair carefully around the trimmed patch, the six neat black stitches standing stark against his scalp, the skin around them a little swollen, a little angry, but clean, well-closed, exactly the kind of wound you'd chart as healing appropriately if it belonged to anyone but him.

"good work," you murmur, mostly to yourself, tilting his head gently back into place. "whoever closed you up knew what they were doing."

"high praise from the nurse girlfriend."

"i don't give it out for free." you press a careful kiss just beside the site, not touching it, just close enough that he can feel it. "there. that's the good-work kiss. i don't do those for random patients."

"i should hope not."

"you'd be surprised how many parents ask."

he huffs a laugh, then goes quiet for a second, watching you with an expression you recognize - the one he gets right before he says something he actually means, underneath all the deflecting and the jokes. "you know earlier, when you said you didn't know how to just be my girlfriend and not the person who's supposed to keep me safe? i've been thinking about that. i don't think those are actually different jobs. for you, i mean. i think that's just what loving someone looks like when you're you."

you don't have a joke ready for that one. you just lean your forehead against his shoulder, careful of his head, and let it sit there between you, warm and true and a little too much to hold at once.

"i'm gonna go grab you an ice pack for tomorrow morning," you say eventually, voice a little rough. "swelling's probably gonna be worse before it's better."

"y/n."

"what."

"you can just say thank you. it's allowed."

"thank you," you say, quiet, meaning it more than the two words could possibly carry. "for scaring the absolute hell out of me and then being annoyingly sweet about it after."

"least i could do."

around midnight, will finally heads up to his own room with a quiet "wake me up if you need anything," leaving the two of you alone with the low hum of the tv and the soft click of the pool filter still running outside, and you do your two a.m. pupil check right there on the couch, penlight from the first aid kit swept careful across mack's eyes while he blinks up at you, sleepy and cooperative and clearly enjoying the attention more than a person with a head injury probably should.

"equal and reactive," you murmur, mostly to yourself, clicking the light off.

"is that good?"

"that's very good."

"can i go back to sleep now, doctor?"

"nurse," you correct, settling in against his side, careful of the stitches, tucking yourself into the narrow space left on the couch beside him. "and yes. go to sleep. i've got you."

"you keep saying that," he mumbles, already half gone, eyes falling shut, his hand finding yours again in the dark like it's the last thing he wants to do before sleep takes him all the way under. "you had me the second i climbed in that car bleeding all over will's seats. you didn't have to keep proving it."

"i wanted to," you say, quiet, mostly to the dark now, to the hum of the pool filter and the soft rise and fall of his chest under your palm. "i'll keep proving it as many times as you need. that's kind of the whole point of me."

As much as Macklin loves seeing his family in the summer, he doesn’t always love waking up at the ass crack of dawn to do workouts with this father and brothers. Not when it means leaving you behind in bed. Especially not when he wants nothing more than to stay wrapped protectively around you, breathing in the familiar scent of your favorite lotion.

“Go back to bed, baby.” Macklin whispers, kissing your temple as you subconsciously shift to his now empty side of the bed. You snuggle your face into his pillow, and Mack tucks the blankets firmly around you. And as much as Mack wants to tell his father he’s skipping it today, he knows he can’t. So against everything he wants, he turns away from you, and goes outside to meet with his dad and brothers.

So, by 7am, all of the Celebrini men found themselves outside. A thin layer of sweat coats Mack’s spine as he reaches down for the resistance band.

RJ groans as he starts, and Robyn looks up from the rim of her sunglasses, watching as her youngest son gripes about being tired. Aiden stays relatively quiet like he normally does during work outs, and today so does Mack. Because his mind is somewhere else, on someone else.

But before Rick can say anything to his sons, everyone’s attention moves to the sliding door as it opens.

You step out, and while his family gives you a warm greeting, it’s Mack that can’t seem to look away.

You are still wearing one of Mack’s shirts, the slightly faded Sharks logo on the front, his name and number plastered across the back. Your pajama shorts are loose around your thighs, and you yawn as you hold your favorite mug in front of you. Coffee steams from the top, and Mack watches as you rub at your eye under your glasses.

He truly has no favorite version of you. Because everything about you is perfect to him. Whether it’s you in your scrubs after a shift, you dressed up for an event, you in comfy clothes as you help steal bits of whatever Will is baking. Mack does particularly love when you’re lying in his bed, with nothing covering your body as he kisses your skin. But right now? He might have a favorite version of you. You in his clothes, with your glasses on because it’s too early to put in contacts, while his mother pats the space next to her and you settle down like you’ve been here your whole life.

“Mack.”

But he doesn’t respond. Not as he watches you laugh at something his mom says, and watches as she throws the light blanket she has over her legs over yours as well.

“Macklin.”

“What?” He asks, finally turning his attention back to his dad and brothers.

“He’s being gross again.” RJ says to Aiden, and Mack tells him to shut it as Rick shakes his head at his sons.

“Let’s focus.” Rick says to Mack, who nods and begins with the resistance bands working on his shoulders and arms.

But his focus doesn’t stay on the exercise for long. Not as he spares another glance at you.

Your sleepy state hasn’t gone away, in fact, as you sit comfortably next to his mom, he can tell you’re moments from falling back asleep. But so can she, and she slips your mug out of your hands and lets you lean ever so slightly into her, as she too closes her eyes.

“Macklin, would you like to participate today?” Rick says, his eyes glancing between his wife and son’s girlfriend to his middle son.

“He can’t do anything around her.” RJ says again, clearly loving that his older brother is getting teased.

“Dude.” Macklin states, and tries his best to ignore the laughs.

So, in order to prove his brothers wrong, he manages to focus for a while, before letting himself get in a quick glance at you. But that’s when it happens. He pulls the band back at a funny angle, not fully paying attention to how much he’s moving his arm, and something tight and painful happens in his shoulder.

“Fuck.” Mack says, his face going tight as Rick’s eyes immediately snap worriedly to his son.

“Are you okay?” Rick asks, and Mack nods, trying to roll his shoulder in hopes that will help. He knows he didn’t do any serious damage, but the pain stays there as he sets the bands on the ground. “Are you sure?” Rick asks again, and Mack says he’s fine before finishing the workout for the morning.

—

By dinner you could tell something was a bit off with your boyfriend. He didn’t immediately jump into the water this afternoon like he normally does when the family parks the boat in the middle of the lake. He didn’t want to try to dunk RJ, and he made no move to pick you up and throw you off the boat with himself like he loves to do.

At first, you chalked it up as he was just tired. But the nurse in you watched his movements, cataloging them as he almost seemed to baby his left side. And if you knew anything about Mack, which of course you do after being with him for two years, it’s that if he’s injured he won’t say a thing. Aiden only offered a little crumb of evidence when you managed to stop him in the hallway that afternoon and asked him if Mack was okay during the workout this morning. But the eldest Celebrini only laughed as he told you, “I just think he was a bit distracted.”

So now, as Mack reaches for the salt shaker, you all freeze around the table as he hisses while reaching for it.

“Alright.” You say finally, deciding this has gone on long enough. “What happened?” You ask him, and you watch as Mack shrugs like he has no idea what you’re talking about.

But you know him better than that, so just before he can wrap his fingers around the shaker, you reach for it, and shove it back another foot.

Aiden and RJ look down immediately so they don’t laugh out loud, and Charlie lets out a laugh that she tries to pass off as a cough.

“Baby.” Mack says, giving you a pleading look.

“God.” RJ says with a sarcastic eye roll at the nickname Mack calls you.

“Grab it.” You say with a slight shrug, and Mack just bites at his lip because he knows you’ve caught on.

His family watches in silence as Mack extends a bit more for the salt, and he can’t stop the pained noise that comes out as he does.

“Got him.” Aiden says before shoving another potato into his mouth.

“Honey are you alright?” Robyn asks gently from her place across the table.

Mack nods, but then he looks at you. He can see the concern in your features, he knows exactly when you go into ‘nurse mode’ as he likes to call it. You get this calm look to you, even though beneath it you’re anything but calm.

“It’s really not a big deal.” He promises you, because truly he knows it’s not. It will bug him for a few days, and he’ll just make sure not to over extend his shoulder.

“Was it from this morning?” You ask.

“Yeah. Because someone can’t control himself around you.” RJ says, and you turn your gaze to your boyfriend’s little brother. The same little brother you normally join in teasing Mack, which is one of the many reasons RJ Celebrini welcomed you into the family as fast as he did. But you don’t join the teasing now, you wouldn’t until you know for a fact he’s okay.

“I’m going to throw you in the lake.” Mack says to his little brother.

And you force yourself to bite back your laugh as both of his parents scold him, but RJ responds with a, “good luck trying with that shoulder.”

“RJ.” Robyn says, and you can see the determination in Mack’s eyes as seriously debates it.

But then RJ laughs loudly, his eyes twinkling with mischief. And you ease up a bit as Macklin smiles as well, shaking his head at his brother.

“You should have her look at it.” Rick finally says, using his fork to point from you to Mack’s shoulder.

“I will.” You say, and pretend to focus back on your dinner even though you are still watching Mack’s every move.

—

“Okay off with it.” You say to your boyfriend, pointing at his shirt as you get him back in your guys bedroom.

Macklin lifts his brows, giving you a little smirk as you whack his chest.

“Not like that.” You say laughing, watching as he slowly strips himself of the black shirt.

“What if I’m really good?” He asks, turning so you can see his back. Your hands place down on his warm skin, and he jolts for a second before settling into your touch.

“If you’re really good you’ll let me do this and remember your entire family is downstairs.” You say, your voice going a little more grainy than you meant it.

“That didn’t stop you last night.” He says, and you have half the thought of smacking him again. But you look to his shoulder instead. The skin around it is slightly red, but you can tell that’s just from him rubbing at it.

“Sit down, Mackie.” You say, and you get on the bed behind him. He follows your lead, and your hands go to his shoulder and lightly press around it. “Does that hurt?” You ask, and he tenses only slightly before telling you it’s more uncomfortable than painful. “How about this?” You ask, pressing on it.

“Not bad.” He says, but you hesitate anyways. You run through different options in your head, the nurse in you fighting with the concerned girlfriend. “It’s okay baby, I promise.” He says, and that convinces you enough to start rubbing at it slowly.

You honestly don’t know how long you guys sit there. Mack’s head is hung down, and he lets out a little grunt every once in a while. But you stop when his shoulder finally feels normal. The muscle no longer tight or strained beneath your fingers.

“Thank you.” He says so softly you almost miss it.

“Hold on, I’m not done quite yet.” You say, just wanting to check his mobility just to be sure.

He squints slightly at you, trying to read your face.

“What do you want me to do?” He asks, watching as your eyes roam over his collar bone and chest.

“Stand up for a second.” You say, and he follows your direction instantly.

You reach out for his arm, pulling it slightly one way, and then the next. You don’t see any movement you shouldn’t, and Macklin makes no noise of pain. Your hands continue to slide over his bare chest and arms, and at one point you catch him biting back a smirk.

You eye him in a teasing yet scolding way as you continue. You have him push his shoulder backwards, then push forward against your palm. But as you go to move your hand, the tips of your nails drag slightly down the expensive of his bicep and chest. Mack’s entire body shivers, and like he can no longer contain himself he reaches for you, pulling you closely into his space.

His green eyes are dark, and his cheeks hold just a hint of pink.

“Macklin.” You say, trying to be stern and as nurse like as possible.

“What?” He asks, unable to hide it now.

“I’m trying to help you!” You exclaim, laughing at him.

“I can’t help it when your hands are all over me.”

“This is medical!”

“But it’s you, baby.” He says, and you only shake your head. He smirks again before pulling you further into him. Your hands land on his chest as you instantly look up at him.

“Mack.” You say, your tone changing from the calm nurse to something else entirely. But he takes your chin in his hand, moving your face up and to the right as, his lips trail a line of soft kisses up and down your neck. “You’re unbelievable.” You say, but it comes out in almost a whisper.

“You took care of me, now it’s my turn to take care of you.” He says, and just by his words alone he let out a groan. Like he can’t possibly wait any longer than he has. Not as he can see the need in your eyes, not as your finger trails around his pecs.

“Your family-“ You start to say, but you’re glad Macklin doesn’t take your words seriously. Instead, he takes one of his hands, and covers your mouth, leaning to your ear and whispering,

Now, with ten minutes before Fraser is supposed to show up, your students are in an uproar. There’s voices overlapping with who they think the special guest will be.

“Hey everyone!” You announce, and they all instantly look to you. Their wide eyes full of excitement. “Let’s all remember our rules, okay?” You state, and they all nod their heads. “We stay seated on the carpet, we do not talk over one another, and we raise our hands if we have something to share, okay?”

“Yes!” And “Okay!” Are shouted as 20 kindergarteners rush to their spots on the forest themed carpet that sits in front of the reading chair in the corner of your classroom.

You smile as you watch them all sit down, some of them looking to the door and refusing to look away, others whispering to each other on who they think it is.

“I’m going to go meet our guest and bring them in. Remember, when you see them, we use our inside voices!” You announce, standing in the open doorway of your classroom.

You wait for only a minute, one eye on your students, one eye catching Fraser walking down the hallway with a visitors badge around his neck and the book he picked out to bring.

Your smile widens, and so does his. He’s wearing his glasses, his hair perfectly wind swept, his cheeks a little red from the late fall weather, and the non descriptive black sweatshirt covers his body. Needless to say, he looks good.

“Hey.” He says, his smile wide as he stops just before the doorway, your students not yet able to see him. He takes you in, and his smile turns to a loving smirk. “You look really good, sweetheart.” He says, and you look down to your outfit. Your knit sweater with Woodstock and Snoopy on display, your dark jeans, and your brown boots.

“Don’t make me blush in front of my kids.” You scold, and he smiles. “Are you ready?” You ask, an eyebrow raising as you look to him.

“Yeah.” He says, and you can tell he’s excited.

So you step into your classroom, immediately stepping off to the side as Fraser enters the door. Screams and voices immediately overlap each other. And you snap out of girlfriend mode and fall back into kindergarten teacher mode.

“Hey, hey!” You announce, 20 pairs of eyes looking over to you. “I know we’re excited but we need to be respectful of other classes!” You say with a smile, and they all nod, still talking over one another, still bouncing excitedly as Fraser makes his way to the chair.

“Hi everyone.” He says, laughing at the greeting he’s receiving.

You smile as you hear the voices of the kids you’ve grown to adore over the few months. Things like,

“IT’S HIM!”

“YOU PLAY HOCKEY.”

“MY DAD LOVES YOU.”

And it always takes you a moment to realize that to these children Fraser is a celebrity. He’s a professional sports player. He’s not just your boyfriend. He’s not the guy who brings you flowers every Sunday, he’s not the guy who refuses to let you drive and who loads every song you love onto his phone. To them, he’s a hockey player, to them he’s a guy they see on the TV.

So for a few moments, you let them talk over each other, you let them have that pure and raw excitement. And by the look on Fraser’s face, you can tell he’s soaking up every second of it.

“Wow, you all know who I am?” He asks, and they all nod, going back in to yelling about seeing him play.

You laugh as you step next to Fraser, clapping your hands a few times to gather their attention.

“Alright everyone!” You announce. “I know this is so exciting, and I promise we can have some question time at the end. But let’s make sure that we let our special guest read his book to you guys.”

The little voices all seem to quiet down at that, your kids getting comfortable as they all sit, some still whispering back and forth.

“He’s in her picture.” You hear the voice of Noah, one of your more energetic kids whisper.

You bite back a laugh, as you look to Fraser.

“Take it away.” You say with a bright smile, settling down in your chair at your desk.

His gaze snaps from you to the kids, and then down to the book as he clears his throat and reads the title.

“It’s about bears because you’re a bear!” Noah yells, so excited that he couldn’t contain himself. Your eyes move over to him and he claps a hand over his mouth, before giggling and saying, “Sorry Miss Y/L/N, I forgot to raise my hand.”

You smile at him and say thank you, before nodding back at Fraser.

“That’s correct, I am a bear, which is why I picked this book today.” Fraser says, his smile warm and his voice soft.

And as he starts to read, you lean back, taking it all in. You’re sitting in your chair at your dream job, with the man you’re hopelessly in love with reading to the kids that give your life so much of its meaning.

As Fraser reads, holding the book up so everyone can see the pictures, you can’t stop smiling. He changes his voice with characters, he smiles and points to the drawings as your kids laugh and laugh.

And every so often, Fraser would look to you. Not for reassurance, not because he was nervous. But because no matter what Fraser does or is doing, he just can’t help but watch you. Each time he does look to you, he notes the permanent smile on your lips, the gleam of joy in your eyes, and he notes how at home you seem here. Your classroom designed in a forest theme, greens and browns covering empty spaces, even the rug the kids all sit on have everything from squirrels to foxes to bears.

This was your life, the life you had built outside of him. And he was so happy to be a part of it.

By the time Fraser read the last line of the book, applause ripped through the room. And you clap and laugh as well as you watch how happy your kids are.

“Thank you.” Fraser says, chuckling slightly. “You guys are a great audience.”

“Miss Y/L/N can we have question time now?” One of your kids asks, and you laugh but nod your head.

A few hands shoot up, and a few kids shout out their answers.

“Remember to raise your hand if you have a question for our special guest.” You kindly remind them, and they listen.

Almost every hand shoots up in the air, and Fraser laughs brightly.

As Fraser calls on them one at a time, you can’t help but bite the inside of your cheek at some of their comments.

“How fast can you skate?”

“Do you ever get hurt?”

“What’s your favorite movie?”

“What’s your favorite food?”

Fraser answers them each.

“I think I can skate pretty fast, but it took me a long time to be able to do that.”

“Yes, but we wear lots of padding so if I fall I can get right back up.”

“I love any movie with a bear it in.” This answer got a million giggles out of them.

“Have you ever slept at the hockey rink?” Charlie asks from the carpet, and you silently laugh as Fraser’s smile widens.

“No, I can’t say I have. I bet that would be pretty cold.” Fraser responds, and Charlie nods seriously.

“My Dad takes me to some of your games, it’s very cold in there.” Charlie says, and Fraser smiles at the boy.

You let them continue with your questions, more about hockey, some about whatever random fact they want to know about him.

And as you look to the clock, you realize that pick up time is in fifteen minutes.

You clap twice, gaining their attention back from Fraser.

“Alright everyone!” You say, standing up. “Can we all give Fraser a big thank you for coming in and reading to you guys today?”

“THANK YOU FRASER!” Was shouted out into the room, and he responds with a warm “you’re welcome.” As you start excusing kids to their cubbies.

You watch them all as they clear off their tables, and start putting on their coats.

“You’re so good with them.” Fraser says.

“Years of practice.” You say, and Fraser shakes his head.

“Maybe.” He pauses before continuing. “But I think you’re just born to do this.” He says, and his words hit something deep within you.

“Frase.” You say, but then one of your kids comes running up to you, her zipper stuck on her pink puffy coat.

“Miss Y/L/N, could you help me?” She asks, and you immediately drop down on one knee, speaking with her as you help her with her jacket.

Fraser just watches, his heart racing in his chest. He takes you in more, the way your voice is pure happiness as you speak with your students, and the way you’ve decorated your room to become a welcoming and happy place.

“Mr. Fraser?” A little voice says, and Fraser looks down, seeing one of the more quiet students approach him.

Out of instinct Fraser crouches down, listening as the student talks to him.

“Thank you for coming in today.” The boy says, and Fraser remembers his name from you saying it once before.

“Thank you for having me, Jackson.” Fraser states.

“I think you’re really cool.” He says, put he’s so shy that as he says it he looks down at his small shoes.

“I think you’re even cooler.” Fraser says, and Jackson’s eyes light up as he looks at Fraser.

But before they could say anything more, parents started to come in for pick up. Their kids running up to them and pointing at Fraser. Some parents went wide eyed, recognizing him immediately. Some shook his hand, some told him he’s a good player, and some just smiled at him.

Lily was the last student of yours to leave the classroom, and she all but drags her mom over to you and Fraser.

The woman greets Fraser, and then turns to you to speak about something. Lily however, takes this time to bat her eyes at Fraser as she asks, “Are you going to marry Miss Y/L/N?”

You and her mom freeze immediately, and Fraser lets his shock show for only a second as Lily’s mom scolds her for the question.

But Fraser can’t help himself but laugh a little as he once again crouches down and says, “I’d be pretty lucky to do that wouldn’t I?”

Lily nods, giggling.

“Well I’ll tell you a secret.” Fraser says, and you swear you stop breathing for a moment. “I really really want to.”

Lily explodes with excitement, and her mom apologizes again and again for her daughter’s question. You only wave your hand and say it’s no big deal, and wave goodbye as Lily takes her Mom’s hand and leaves the classroom for the weekend.

You walk over to close the door of your classroom, before turning back to your boyfriend.

You take him in, and as he opens his mouth to say something you close the gap between you two and give him a gentle kiss.

He smiles as you pull away, and he rests his forehead against yours.

“Thank you.” You say, closing your eyes for a moment before he leans down to kiss you again.

“For what?”

“Coming, reading, answering all those questions.” You say with a laugh. “Just… thank you.”

But Fraser was more in awe of you than your words.

“You’re amazing with them.” He says, studying the way your eyes shine.

“I love you.” You whisper, and Fraser kisses you once more.

“I love you too.” He says as he pulls back, helping you close down your classroom for the weekend.

Once you throw your scarf around your neck, Fraser takes your tote bag before you even have the chance to grab it yourself.

Miss Y/L/N is stitched onto the side, and Fraser then notices how many places in the classroom have your name on it.

So as you walk over to him, ready to drive home, Fraser finds himself grabbing hold of you. He dips you down, and you let out a shocked yelp

“What are you doing?” You say, laughing as he’s still dipping you in the aisle between tables.

“Just practicing.” He says, chuckling as well. “But sweetheart?” He says, and you stop laughing, but your smile remains on your face.

“Yeah?”

“I’d stop buying things with your last name printed on them for a while.”

Your eyes widen as you stare into his.

“Fraser.”

“Just a thought.” He says smugly. “I wouldn’t want you to spend the money just to have to replace it all.”