when i am among the the trees...

Marcy is the first one in your eyeline. She's cursing repeatedly, sliding her hands under your back to help you sit up. You're dazed and in pain, eyes watering from the impact. She helps you sit up, facing the rink, and that's when you see Jay taking the stairs two at a time, barking at anybody in her way.

She first grabs the guy who must've knocked into you by his shirt collar.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" she snaps at him. "What, is it your first day on earth? You hurt my wife, asshole!"

He shouts back something unintelligible, probably drunk. You really don't want her to get into a fight and kick anyone's ass. As annoyed as you are, you know he didn't push you on purpose.

"Jay," is all you can say, weakly reaching for her. Marcy's the only one keeping you from slumping forward like a sack of potatoes. There's a little blood on both of your knees where you scraped them.

"Jay," Marcy says urgently, drawing her attention. "She needs you."

Instantly, Jay lets go of the guy and kneels to your aid. Security comes quickly and pulls him out of the stadium. Now it's just the three of you... and about five thousand fans watching Jay fret over you.

"I'm fine," you say, but Jay ignores you, scooping you up and setting you down across two seats. Your legs are propped on the armrest. She checks your head first, hands going to your temples. Jay moves a finger in front of you, and you follow it a few times before closing your eyes.

"Jay—"

"Does your head hurt? Are you dizzy?"

"No, it's just my knees." Your ribs are definitely bruised, but that'll freak her out more. You try to use your more tender tone when you say, "Baby, I'm fine."

Jay cups the back of your knees, panic splitting her face. "That's blood." She looks absolutely devastated by this. "Let's go see the medic."

You wince, glancing at the three rows of people behind and ahead of you, watching in fascination. Many of them have their phones out. You'll probably see a clip and cringe at how you look in this moment while simultaneously adoring how concerned Jay is.

For now, you're just embarrassed. Marcy looks at you sympathetically, behind Jay.

"Jay, maybe we can wait till the crowd clears," Marcy suggests.

Jay stands, hands on her hips. "Yo! Is everybody gonna stay in their seats until she gets down the stairs?"

"Oh my God," you mumble as several fans nod, give a thumbs up, and yell back yeses.

Jay nods like she expected everyone to follow her lead without question, and if you weren't bruised, you'd probably dwell on the hotness of that. The thought still passes, though you're unable to give it its due diligence because Jay's sliding her hands under your thighs and back, about to pick you up again.

You quickly stand, face hot. "Jay, I can walk myself."

She looks you over. "Sure?"

"I am not some princess who needs to be carted around," you say, as tempting as it is to let Jay, who easily tackles women twice your size, carry you for the rest of the night.

But if you want to help prove that you really are okay, you need to walk. She's still looking at you like you might collapse any second.

You squeeze past her and begin to walk down the bleachers, holding the railing. Your knees sting, but it's not the end of the world.

"Simmons, on her back," Jay says, and Marcy obediently follows behind you. Jay jogs down to walk in front of you, hand outstretched in case you need it.

"Didn't know I had my own secret service detail," you say, laughing.

"If they were still out here, I'd get the whole team to walk you down," Jay says.

You roll your eyes. "For a couple of bruis—oh!"

Your left knee buckles, weak from the collision. Jay grabs you, arm around your waist. She doesn't let go for the remaining steps.

"I gotcha, sweetheart," she murmurs, voice slightly shaky. "Doin' great. Take it easy."

You finally make it off the bleachers, and Jay leads you through the players' entrance. You're about to ask if this is allowed, but it doesn't seem like anyone is going to try and stop Jay if it isn't.

"I'll go find Shauna and meet you outside," Marcy says when you get to the first aid room. She touches your arm. "You okay?"

You nod, smiling. "I'm tough. Tie my own sneakers and everything."

She winks. "Know you are. Jay?"

"Yeah," Jay says, still holding you close. "My phone's on, just call. Thanks, Mars."

Jay takes you inside and sits you down on a bench. She points out your bloody knees. An older woman in a paramedic uniform gets to work instantly.

"Some fuckin' bozo crashed into her on the bleachers," Jay says, arms crossed as she watches you both. "Can you look her over, Lu?"

"Of course I can," Lu—short for Lucy, as her ID badge shows—says, pulling up a chair to inspect you.

She does a few concussion tests, checks your head, your neck. Then she cleans your skinned knees and sticks on thick, rectangular bandages. You wince at the antiseptic and Jay takes your hand.

"Squeeze as hard as y'need, baby," she says quietly.

You're a little embarrassed in front of Lucy, but she just smiles, evidently endeared. Maybe it's well-known on the team just how much Jay Todd loves her girlfriend.

"You're okay," Lucy tells you. "No concussion. Ice the backs of your knees. If anything changes or if the pain worsens, go to the hospital."

"Y'sure?" Jay asks, chewing her cuticle. You want to reach over and swat her hand away.

"I'm sure, Jay," Lucy says, smiling. "It's good you brought her, but she's fine. Just monitor her for the rest of the night."

Great. You'll have Jay on you like a hawk today. She probably will herd you into bed and keep you there like the world's most annoying sheepdog.

"I'll watch her," Jay says. "Thanks, Lu."

Lucy smiles. "Anytime. Good game today." She looks at you. "Feel better."

"Thanks," you say.

She leaves, and it's just you and Jay. You crane your neck—she's on the Uber app.

"Jay, your apartment is a ten minute walk from here." It is, in fact, where you walked from, to the arena, earlier tonight.

"Yeah, and? You're not walkin' in your condition."

"In my condition? Baby, I got a few bruises, I didn't split my head open."

"You cut your knees. 'S not safe."

You sigh. There's no use arguing when she's like this. You're accustomed to Jay getting dinged up at games, and you've forgotten that she's not used to seeing anyone else hurt. Least of all you.

"That guy had something wrong with him," she says as she waits for the available drivers to load. "Sprintin' down the stairs like that. Fuckin' jerk."

"He could've been more aware, but it's not like he did it on purpose," you say.

She makes a noise that tells you she doesn't want to argue, but she also doesn't agree regarding who deserves the blame. Jay sits next to you on the bench, and you lean against her shoulder. She immediately puts her arm around you, then bends down and kisses the top of your head.

"You called me your wife," you say.

You feel her freeze. "Oh, uh, yeah." She clears her throat, rising. "I, um... sorry."

You pick your head up to look at her. "What're you sorry for, Jaybee?"

Her cheeks are tinged rose. "Just slipped out. Didn't mean to."

"Would you, though?"

"Would I what?"

"Make me your wife."

Jay drops her phone into her lap. Her eyes are wide. Your heart beats faster as you watch her watch you. Her mouth makes shapes as they find words.

"I—" She swallows. "Yeah. If you wanna marry me."

You lean in, glancing at her lips, then back at her eyes. Your voice is soft as you say, "I'd love to be your wife, Jay."

"Oh. Like... now?"

You grin. "Whenever you ask me, I'll say yes."

"Right. Okay. Cool." Jay's phone chimes and she almost smacks it out of her lap. She fumbles to unlock it. "Uber's here."

You stand, and she follows, holding your arm even though Lucy gave you the all-clear. She texts Marcy with one hand, letting her know where you'll be.

"'M glad you're okay," she says as you walk out and down the hall. "Was so scared. When I saw you on the steps..." Her voice trembles.

You rub her arm with your other hand. "I know, Jaybee. But I really am fine. It was nothing like any of your falls."

She pushes open the exit doors and letting go of you long enough so that you can go first. Jay immediately picks your arm back up when you're outside as you wait at the pickup stop.

"Yeah, but those falls are expected. This was..." She shakes her head. "Should let me carry ya 'round like a princess all day long."

You laugh, squeezing her forearm to your chest. "And how would you play hockey?"

"Well, I'd have to swap shifts with someone. Although..."

She turns to you and gently cups the small of your back, pulling you in so she can kiss you. It's softer than her usual post-game kisses. Jay especially loves to kiss you fast and hard after a win, a thrill that never gets old.

But she's careful now, wary of your bruises, like you are with her after games and practices.

You're still breathless when Jay breaks the kiss. She kisses your cheek and your jaw before pulling away.

"Although," she continues, looking at you like she sees nothing and no one else. "I'd get a little jealous of whoever got to carry my wife when I'm not around."

Your breathing hitches at my wife. You can tell Jay notices. Already, you can hear her saying hi, pretty wife and lemme eat my wife like she needs when she's sure you aren't hurt and can take her on top of you once more.

You want her on top of you right now, but aside from the fact that it's public indecency, Jay is not going to put all her weight on you and finger you until you cry tonight. Tomorrow, though... tomorrow, you'll have her wear the strap and ride her until your spine gives out.

"Well, I wouldn't let anybody's hands on me except for my wife's," you say, and that elicits a shiver from Jay.

"Your wife," she says, reverent.

"I don't know," she replies, expediting her morning routine while there's still any morning left. "But I know he didn't kill those people." Her head is bent at an angle as best as her neck will allow after falling asleep at her desk. She wrings her hair out with a towel as she listens to the city traffic bustling on Kellie's end.

"Okay…but how do you know…?"

June tugs her towel over the towel rack a little harder than she means to. She doesn't know whether to chalk it up to her nerves or the hit her coordination took from five hours of sleep. "Because I know him."

"Not to add insult to injury, but wasn't part of the problem that you weren't around?"

Last night's eyeliner is stubborn on her lash line long after she tried to wipe it away. She'd curse herself for not taking the makeup off when she got home if she didn't already know the kind of night she'd had; out in front of her building until 4:30 AM smoking because she couldn't stand the thought of going back into her apartment, and another two in front of her laptop until she fell asleep in front of it.

"I would know if Luca was killing people."

A car horn blares at the other end. Kellie must be walking home from pilates or brunch. Maybe on her way home from last night's date or from the lab after an emergency. "Okay," she says. She doesn't try to sound convinced.

June sighs. "Can we meet? What are you doing?"

"I just finished up breakfast at my mom's. I'm heading back to my place; wanna meet there?"

June checks the time; quarter to noon. "Yeah. I can be there in an hour," she says, resigning herself to the stubborn smudge of eyeliner as she braids her still-damp hair.

In her bedroom, she sheds her striped robe and slips into a pair of tights. She fishes a clean dress from the clothes piled up over the arm of her secondhand chair. She dresses in a hurry, tripping over last night's heels as she tugs a light sweater on as she heads into her kitchen.

The coffee machine beeps in the kitchen as coffee finishes sputtering out. As she fills a mug, she thinks of Ava and of last night. Through the pounding in her head, she remembers seeing the drunken trio clutching each other after all was said and done and wishing she had someone to do the same with.

She pops an Advil with her first sip of coffee and sits in front of her ten-year-old laptop in search of more news about Luca. All she finds is more of the same. Reports of the alleged murderer being arrested in his home early this morning. Nothing that told her what she wanted to know; was Luca asleep when it happened, sprawled out over the mattress that used to be theirs? Was he getting in late from being out with Frankie Gibson at Drifters? Had he fought the arrest? Did he tell them they were wrong?

By the time she's out the door, it's 12:35. The sky is gray. Stormy clouds drift in the wind, air heavy with threats of rain. Kids play out in front of the buildings anyway, kicking a soccer ball back and forth while parents watch from their stoops. Life continues even though everything feels as if it should be at a standstill. It's a futile wish, though, and June knows it; the world doesn't stop for anyone, and Gotham would only kick her while she's down.

She's waiting at her bus stop, warily eyeing a puddle in the corner of the shelter, when she catches sight of a tall man in a familiar leather jacket.

"Frankie!"

The man turns over his shoulder, a brief look of irritation flashing across his eyes. Frankie Gibson is an old friend of Luca's. When June was working late, Luca usually ended up at a bar with Frankie. When she was drunkenly trying to put together the pieces of a puzzle that made no sense, she knew Frankie would have to have an alibi for him or something.

So what was with the irritation?

Frankie fishes a vape from the deep pockets of his jacket. "June." He puffs from the nicotine vape, leaning into the graffiti-ed brick of a barber shop. "Some shit about Luca, huh?"

Her brows knit together for a minute before she schools the reaction. "Yeah. Some shit. Did he seem weird at all with you before…well…?"

Before he started allegedly killing people?

Frankie exhales a cloud of grape vapor and shrugs his shoulders as if they're a great weight. "Not really. Known the guy since I was twelve. Can't believe he's been a killer this whole time."

"Well…you don't really believe that, do you?" June hikes her bag up her shoulder as it starts to slip.

"The fuck do I know about forensics or whatever? Cops found his prints on each of the poor fucks, what else am I supposed to believe?"

She stares at him a moment too long. She was never around often when Luca hung out with Frankie, so it was difficult to tell if he was playing ignorant, or if he just really was. "So you're just buying that your best friend was out killing people?"

"Whoa, watch that shit," Frankie says, taking another puff from his vape. "Best friends is a stretch. But guys do it all the time. Kill people without anyone noticing. Think about Gasey." An argument sits on the tip of June's tongue. For the sake of getting anything at all from him, she bites it back. But the corner of Frankie's lip starts to quirk up, something malicious lurking beneath it like a predator in grass. "I bet you're just glad it wasn't you."

June's mouth goes sour. She knows cruelty, well acquainted with the way it can hide in plain sight. It's an unspoken language she's learned to be fluent in out of necessity. There was no virtuosity in Luca's hands for cruelty. None on his tongue. It was what terrified her most about him; she was always waiting for the other shoe to drop when it never did.

Frankie's words makes her feel like there's a joke she's not in on. She doesn't like it.

"People are dead," she states.

"It's Gotham. People die. See you around, June." He exhales another cloud of smoke and walks off like some quasi-magician.

June shows up at Kellie's roughly fifteen minutes after she said she would.

"Sorry," she says as Kellie opens the apartment door. "I ran into one of Luca's friends, and I tried to see if he knew anything, but he was being weird, so I followed him for a little while—" She catches the roll of Kellie's eyes as she turns to let June in.

"Is everyone going to be a suspect now?" Kellie asks, crossing her arms as June undoes the laces of her sneakers.

"No, not everyone." June kneels down to undo the laces of her shoes. "But if I was arrested for murdering three people, I would think you'd have some doubts, wouldn't you? I mean, this guy totally bought that Luca could kill those people. That has to be grounds for suspicion."

Kellie doesn't look convinced. "Maybe he buys it because he saw something in Luca he never wanted you to see." June follows her inside. Unlike June's own apartment, the ground is clutter-free as always. Pictures of her and her mom perch on dusted shelves, her diplomas displayed on the wall above her tidied desk. June lingers near the kitchen as Kellie roams around, grabbing a bag of grapes from the fridge. "Do you remember Tia Ford from high school?" she asks over her shoulder.

"Was she the one who wore the same dress as you to formal sophomore year?"

"It was junior year, but yeah. Anyway, I saw her today picking up conchas at Castillo's, and she was asking if I still talked to you. I guess she remembered you and Luca went out from Instagram or whatever."

June groans, her head knocking lightly on the wall. "What'd you say?"

"Told her I hadn't heard from you in years."

June scoffs. "Maybe you wouldn't stand up for me if I was wrongfully accused of murder after all."

The dark curls piled on the top of Kellie's head bob as she shakes her head. "Are you kidding? I said I haven't talked to you so she's not going around spreading your business." She washes the grapes and tosses them in a bowl, corralling June into the living room.

The cushions of the couch sink as they both sit at the same time.

"Speaking of people you're not expecting to see…" Kellie turns to scowl at her, but June continues regardless. "There was a situation at a diner last night, and I was present. Batman showed up." She leans forward and plucks a grape from the stem before leaning back into the couch.

"God. What kind of situation?"

"A guy got shot."

Kellie gasps. "Shit, seriously? Was he okay?"

June shrugs. "All things considered. I had to keep pressure on the wound." For a minute, at least. But she doesn't want to get into the nitty gritty of her early morning. There was a reason she washed her hair when she got up. If Kellie caught a whiff of cigarette smoke on her, there would be questions; June told her she quit a year ago.

"God. Are you capable of having a single normal night? Do you ever just stay home?"

"Don't act like you're some humble homebody," June replies, bumping her shoulder into Kellie's arm.

Old Chopped reruns play on the TV. A contestant races over to the ice cream machine. Kellie and June shake their heads in disapproval. A routine built on nearly two decades of friendship. Something unshakeable in a world that always seemed on the verge of being turned on its head. Something June could look back on as evidence that despite all the evidence of the contrary, someone was capable of loving her.

"Maybe you should have given Batman your number. You two could have so much fun creeping around on roofs together."

"That's so funny," June replies deadpanned. "We can double date with whoever you're seeing this week."

Kellie laughs. "A lawyer. She's kind of overly serious in a way that freaks me out, but she is so good at telling stories. I could listen to talk her all night."

June listens to Kellie's secondhand gossip until halfway through when she perks up as though she'd thought of something particularly interesting. "Did I tell you my weird coworker quit?"

"Which one was the weird one?"

"She was the one I was telling you about whiffing the methyl isobutyrate in the chemical store room," Kellie replies, reaching for a grape.

The chatter goes on until Kellie glances down at her phone. "Shit. I'm gonna have to kick you out. I'm hosting book club tonight and people are gonna be here in a few hours."

They stand and go to the door with lots of hugging as they say their goodbyes.

As June kneels to get her shoes on, Kellie pops a hip and crosses her arms over her chest. "Promise not to do anything drastic about this Luca stuff, okay? If there's some shit going on, it does not seem like something you wanna get wrapped up in."

"Promise."

Rain finally comes as June is perched atop a rundown apartment building.

Roughly 24 hours ago, June's hands were slick with very real, non-metaphorical blood. She'd scrubbed and scrubbed until she was certain it was all gone. But even now, out in the mist, she can still feel it. Not Larry Cargill's blood—that was the name she'd heard him give the paramedics—but the blood of the other people who died.

People pay her to notice things. It's her entire job. And if Luca was a murderer—a serial killer, by official standards—it meant she'd been sleeping in bed with a killer and didn't know.

Frankie is inside the apartment across from her. She managed to catch his trail while she was coming back from Kellie's. Her binoculars are splattered with rain as she attempts to catch fleeting glimpses of what's happening inside.

She pulls away, leaning into the ledge to wipe the lenses clean. She tugs the sleeve of her sweater out from beneath her rain jacket and smudges the drops around.

Water spits up from wheels as cars drive down the road. It's quiet out here in a way that feels wrong for Gotham. It's almost peaceful with the lapping of the waves. June's out by the bay, hazy breeze whipping strands of hair out from beneath her hood.

"You're not supposed to be here."

June's head shoots up as she gasps. She expects to see Frankie or whoever he's in cahoots with inside. Instead, standing above her, even more staid in the darkness, is Batman. He uses his height to his advantage, looming above her as his cape dances in the wind.

She steadies her breath. "Then I guess that makes you and me both."

He doesn't reply, though she doesn't wait for him to before she turns back over her shoulder, binoculars poised back on the side of the building.

Rain drums heavily over his cloaked shoulders. It's the only tell she has that he moves closer to her. If he's trying to intimidate her, June won't give him the satisfaction. Across the alley, there's movement. A woman wearing a face mask walks by, Frankie following behind shortly.

"This is a delicate situation. If it's interrupted, it could jeopardize whatever plans you have here."

June keeps her watch. "I'm not interrupting anything; I'm watching. And you being here proves there's something worth watching."

"This isn't a game."

Her eyes narrow behind her binoculars. She allows the rain to fill the long pause. After a while, Batman seems to resign himself to sharing the rooftop. He stays standing—from this distance, she imagines anyone across the way would have a hard time seeing little else of him besides the faint glow of his eyes.

Someone else passes by the window. Another face she can't name. June didn't expect to strike gold in one night, but with little more than Frankie to go off, she's left with people she can't place and nowhere else to go from here. Even worse, Batman must know something she doesn't, and she's guessing her chances of getting him to crack are pretty low.

With how badly she was itching at something to do, it's been a boring night. Boring doesn't sit right beneath her skin. Last night, Luca was a arrested for a crime he couldn't have committed; it was cause for disruption. Her world had been shaken, yet everything kept spinning on as normal. It was the same way after he'd called it quits.

By the time June had finished a perfunctory cleaning of the blood, vomit, sweat, and coffee on her skin, Batman had disappeared from the diner. 'Thank Batman' wasn't at the top of her list of things to do after all that, but that didn't mean she hadn't wanted to.

"Thank you for last night," she says finally. Part of her wonders if any of that left a lasting impression on him. Maybe she was in one of the many diners he'd saved in the span of a single night.

He doesn't respond for a while. She glances his way, thinking he must have slipped off, only to find him regarding her carefully. "You're welcome," he replies finally. "What's your name?"

Her eyes narrow at him. "Nancy Drew. You?"

The pause lasts just long enough for her to think he won't say anything at all, until: "You clean up nicely."

She's certain he's mocking her; almost any state she could be in would be an improvement from where she was last night, but she can't imagine the four hours of sleep she got hunched over her desk are doing her any favors.

June glances from her binoculars again, a playful glare teetering towards seriousness shot his way. "Watch it, Batman. I'm a professional." She moves to look back, but stops herself short. "That guy who got shot…I heard him tell a paramedic his name is Larry Cargill. Do you know how he's doing?"

"He'll be fine," he replies. "Some nerve damage, but he'll pull through."

Nerve damage doesn't sound reassuring, but it's a better answer than dead.

After another long lull, a few at a time, people start to trickle from the building. More than she'd managed to catch sight of. Five of them in total, and the only one she recognized was Frankie. He came out talking to the woman June saw walk by earlier. She pulls her mask down over her chin, revealing septum and Medusa piercings. They walk together with another man in a Nick Scratch t-shirt. June pulls out her camera and snaps a few pictures as best she can in the weather and lighting.

"Interesting crowd," June replies, stashing her camera in her bag as everyone drives off. "Know any of them?"

Batman doesn't entertain the question. "You need to stay out of this," he says sternly.

She slings the bag over her shoulder. "You know, if I knew what I was looking for, I wouldn't have to come out here."

"This isn't a debate. You're in over your head." He pulls something from his belt. A muffled shot rings out as a grapple fires out from the barrel. It hooks on the ledge of a building down a ways, and without another word, he swings off into the night.

"I don't know," she replies, expediting her morning routine while there's still any morning left. "But I know he didn't kill those people." Her head is bent at an angle as best as her neck will allow after falling asleep at her desk. She wrings her hair out with a towel as she listens to the city traffic bustling on Kellie's end.

"Okay…but how do you know…?"

June tugs her towel over the towel rack a little harder than she means to. She doesn't know whether to chalk it up to her nerves or the hit her coordination took from five hours of sleep. "Because I know him."

"Not to add insult to injury, but wasn't part of the problem that you weren't around?"

Last night's eyeliner is stubborn on her lash line long after she tried to wipe it away. She'd curse herself for not taking the makeup off when she got home if she didn't already know the kind of night she'd had; out in front of her building until 4:30 AM smoking because she couldn't stand the thought of going back into her apartment, and another two in front of her laptop until she fell asleep in front of it.

"I would know if Luca was killing people."

A car horn blares at the other end. Kellie must be walking home from pilates or brunch. Maybe on her way home from last night's date or from the lab after an emergency. "Okay," she says. She doesn't try to sound convinced.

June sighs. "Can we meet? What are you doing?"

"I just finished up breakfast at my mom's. I'm heading back to my place; wanna meet there?"

June checks the time; quarter to noon. "Yeah. I can be there in an hour," she says, resigning herself to the stubborn smudge of eyeliner as she braids her still-damp hair.

In her bedroom, she sheds her striped robe and slips into a pair of tights. She fishes a clean dress from the clothes piled up over the arm of her secondhand chair. She dresses in a hurry, tripping over last night's heels as she tugs a light sweater on as she heads into her kitchen.

The coffee machine beeps in the kitchen as coffee finishes sputtering out. As she fills a mug, she thinks of Ava and of last night. Through the pounding in her head, she remembers seeing the drunken trio clutching each other after all was said and done and wishing she had someone to do the same with.

She pops an Advil with her first sip of coffee and sits in front of her ten-year-old laptop in search of more news about Luca. All she finds is more of the same. Reports of the alleged murderer being arrested in his home early this morning. Nothing that told her what she wanted to know; was Luca asleep when it happened, sprawled out over the mattress that used to be theirs? Was he getting in late from being out with Frankie Gibson at Drifters? Had he fought the arrest? Did he tell them they were wrong?

By the time she's out the door, it's 12:35. The sky is gray. Stormy clouds drift in the wind, air heavy with threats of rain. Kids play out in front of the buildings anyway, kicking a soccer ball back and forth while parents watch from their stoops. Life continues even though everything feels as if it should be at a standstill. It's a futile wish, though, and June knows it; the world doesn't stop for anyone, and Gotham would only kick her while she's down.

She's waiting at her bus stop, warily eyeing a puddle in the corner of the shelter, when she catches sight of a tall man in a familiar leather jacket.

"Frankie!"

The man turns over his shoulder, a brief look of irritation flashing across his eyes. Frankie Gibson is an old friend of Luca's. When June was working late, Luca usually ended up at a bar with Frankie. When she was drunkenly trying to put together the pieces of a puzzle that made no sense, she knew Frankie would have to have an alibi for him or something.

So what was with the irritation?

Frankie fishes a vape from the deep pockets of his jacket. "June." He puffs from the nicotine vape, leaning into the graffiti-ed brick of a barber shop. "Some shit about Luca, huh?"

Her brows knit together for a minute before she schools the reaction. "Yeah. Some shit. Did he seem weird at all with you before…well…?"

Before he started allegedly killing people?

Frankie exhales a cloud of grape vapor and shrugs his shoulders as if they're a great weight. "Not really. Known the guy since I was twelve. Can't believe he's been a killer this whole time."

"Well…you don't really believe that, do you?" June hikes her bag up her shoulder as it starts to slip.

"The fuck do I know about forensics or whatever? Cops found his prints on each of the poor fucks, what else am I supposed to believe?"

She stares at him a moment too long. She was never around often when Luca hung out with Frankie, so it was difficult to tell if he was playing ignorant, or if he just really was. "So you're just buying that your best friend was out killing people?"

"Whoa, watch that shit," Frankie says, taking another puff from his vape. "Best friends is a stretch. But guys do it all the time. Kill people without anyone noticing. Think about Gasey." An argument sits on the tip of June's tongue. For the sake of getting anything at all from him, she bites it back. But the corner of Frankie's lip starts to quirk up, something malicious lurking beneath it like a predator in grass. "I bet you're just glad it wasn't you."

June's mouth goes sour. She knows cruelty, well acquainted with the way it can hide in plain sight. It's an unspoken language she's learned to be fluent in out of necessity. There was no virtuosity in Luca's hands for cruelty. None on his tongue. It was what terrified her most about him; she was always waiting for the other shoe to drop when it never did.

Frankie's words makes her feel like there's a joke she's not in on. She doesn't like it.

"People are dead," she states.

"It's Gotham. People die. See you around, June." He exhales another cloud of smoke and walks off like some quasi-magician.

June shows up at Kellie's roughly fifteen minutes after she said she would.

"Sorry," she says as Kellie opens the apartment door. "I ran into one of Luca's friends, and I tried to see if he knew anything, but he was being weird, so I followed him for a little while—" She catches the roll of Kellie's eyes as she turns to let June in.

"Is everyone going to be a suspect now?" Kellie asks, crossing her arms as June undoes the laces of her sneakers.

"No, not everyone." June kneels down to undo the laces of her shoes. "But if I was arrested for murdering three people, I would think you'd have some doubts, wouldn't you? I mean, this guy totally bought that Luca could kill those people. That has to be grounds for suspicion."

Kellie doesn't look convinced. "Maybe he buys it because he saw something in Luca he never wanted you to see." June follows her inside. Unlike June's own apartment, the ground is clutter-free as always. Pictures of her and her mom perch on dusted shelves, her diplomas displayed on the wall above her tidied desk. June lingers near the kitchen as Kellie roams around, grabbing a bag of grapes from the fridge. "Do you remember Tia Ford from high school?" she asks over her shoulder.

"Was she the one who wore the same dress as you to formal sophomore year?"

"It was junior year, but yeah. Anyway, I saw her today picking up conchas at Castillo's, and she was asking if I still talked to you. I guess she remembered you and Luca went out from Instagram or whatever."

June groans, her head knocking lightly on the wall. "What'd you say?"

"Told her I hadn't heard from you in years."

June scoffs. "Maybe you wouldn't stand up for me if I was wrongfully accused of murder after all."

The dark curls piled on the top of Kellie's head bob as she shakes her head. "Are you kidding? I said I haven't talked to you so she's not going around spreading your business." She washes the grapes and tosses them in a bowl, corralling June into the living room.

The cushions of the couch sink as they both sit at the same time.

"Speaking of people you're not expecting to see…" Kellie turns to scowl at her, but June continues regardless. "There was a situation at a diner last night, and I was present. Batman showed up." She leans forward and plucks a grape from the stem before leaning back into the couch.

"God. What kind of situation?"

"A guy got shot."

Kellie gasps. "Shit, seriously? Was he okay?"

June shrugs. "All things considered. I had to keep pressure on the wound." For a minute, at least. But she doesn't want to get into the nitty gritty of her early morning. There was a reason she washed her hair when she got up. If Kellie caught a whiff of cigarette smoke on her, there would be questions; June told her she quit a year ago.

"God. Are you capable of having a single normal night? Do you ever just stay home?"

"Don't act like you're some humble homebody," June replies, bumping her shoulder into Kellie's arm.

Old Chopped reruns play on the TV. A contestant races over to the ice cream machine. Kellie and June shake their heads in disapproval. A routine built on nearly two decades of friendship. Something unshakeable in a world that always seemed on the verge of being turned on its head. Something June could look back on as evidence that despite all the evidence of the contrary, someone was capable of loving her.

"Maybe you should have given Batman your number. You two could have so much fun creeping around on roofs together."

"That's so funny," June replies deadpanned. "We can double date with whoever you're seeing this week."

Kellie laughs. "A lawyer. She's kind of overly serious in a way that freaks me out, but she is so good at telling stories. I could listen to talk her all night."

June listens to Kellie's secondhand gossip until halfway through when she perks up as though she'd thought of something particularly interesting. "Did I tell you my weird coworker quit?"

"Which one was the weird one?"

"She was the one I was telling you about whiffing the methyl isobutyrate in the chemical store room," Kellie replies, reaching for a grape.

The chatter goes on until Kellie glances down at her phone. "Shit. I'm gonna have to kick you out. I'm hosting book club tonight and people are gonna be here in a few hours."

They stand and go to the door with lots of hugging as they say their goodbyes.

As June kneels to get her shoes on, Kellie pops a hip and crosses her arms over her chest. "Promise not to do anything drastic about this Luca stuff, okay? If there's some shit going on, it does not seem like something you wanna get wrapped up in."

"Promise."

Rain finally comes as June is perched atop a rundown apartment building.

Roughly 24 hours ago, June's hands were slick with very real, non-metaphorical blood. She'd scrubbed and scrubbed until she was certain it was all gone. But even now, out in the mist, she can still feel it. Not Larry Cargill's blood—that was the name she'd heard him give the paramedics—but the blood of the other people who died.

People pay her to notice things. It's her entire job. And if Luca was a murderer—a serial killer, by official standards—it meant she'd been sleeping in bed with a killer and didn't know.

Frankie is inside the apartment across from her. She managed to catch his trail while she was coming back from Kellie's. Her binoculars are splattered with rain as she attempts to catch fleeting glimpses of what's happening inside.

She pulls away, leaning into the ledge to wipe the lenses clean. She tugs the sleeve of her sweater out from beneath her rain jacket and smudges the drops around.

Water spits up from wheels as cars drive down the road. It's quiet out here in a way that feels wrong for Gotham. It's almost peaceful with the lapping of the waves. June's out by the bay, hazy breeze whipping strands of hair out from beneath her hood.

"You're not supposed to be here."

June's head shoots up as she gasps. She expects to see Frankie or whoever he's in cahoots with inside. Instead, standing above her, even more staid in the darkness, is Batman. He uses his height to his advantage, looming above her as his cape dances in the wind.

She steadies her breath. "Then I guess that makes you and me both."

He doesn't reply, though she doesn't wait for him to before she turns back over her shoulder, binoculars poised back on the side of the building.

Rain drums heavily over his cloaked shoulders. It's the only tell she has that he moves closer to her. If he's trying to intimidate her, June won't give him the satisfaction. Across the alley, there's movement. A woman wearing a face mask walks by, Frankie following behind shortly.

"This is a delicate situation. If it's interrupted, it could jeopardize whatever plans you have here."

June keeps her watch. "I'm not interrupting anything; I'm watching. And you being here proves there's something worth watching."

"This isn't a game."

Her eyes narrow behind her binoculars. She allows the rain to fill the long pause. After a while, Batman seems to resign himself to sharing the rooftop. He stays standing—from this distance, she imagines anyone across the way would have a hard time seeing little else of him besides the faint glow of his eyes.

Someone else passes by the window. Another face she can't name. June didn't expect to strike gold in one night, but with little more than Frankie to go off, she's left with people she can't place and nowhere else to go from here. Even worse, Batman must know something she doesn't, and she's guessing her chances of getting him to crack are pretty low.

With how badly she was itching at something to do, it's been a boring night. Boring doesn't sit right beneath her skin. Last night, Luca was a arrested for a crime he couldn't have committed; it was cause for disruption. Her world had been shaken, yet everything kept spinning on as normal. It was the same way after he'd called it quits.

By the time June had finished a perfunctory cleaning of the blood, vomit, sweat, and coffee on her skin, Batman had disappeared from the diner. 'Thank Batman' wasn't at the top of her list of things to do after all that, but that didn't mean she hadn't wanted to.

"Thank you for last night," she says finally. Part of her wonders if any of that left a lasting impression on him. Maybe she was in one of the many diners he'd saved in the span of a single night.

He doesn't respond for a while. She glances his way, thinking he must have slipped off, only to find him regarding her carefully. "You're welcome," he replies finally. "What's your name?"

Her eyes narrow at him. "Nancy Drew. You?"

The pause lasts just long enough for her to think he won't say anything at all, until: "You clean up nicely."

She's certain he's mocking her; almost any state she could be in would be an improvement from where she was last night, but she can't imagine the four hours of sleep she got hunched over her desk are doing her any favors.

June glances from her binoculars again, a playful glare teetering towards seriousness shot his way. "Watch it, Batman. I'm a professional." She moves to look back, but stops herself short. "That guy who got shot…I heard him tell a paramedic his name is Larry Cargill. Do you know how he's doing?"

"He'll be fine," he replies. "Some nerve damage, but he'll pull through."

Nerve damage doesn't sound reassuring, but it's a better answer than dead.

After another long lull, a few at a time, people start to trickle from the building. More than she'd managed to catch sight of. Five of them in total, and the only one she recognized was Frankie. He came out talking to the woman June saw walk by earlier. She pulls her mask down over her chin, revealing septum and Medusa piercings. They walk together with another man in a Nick Scratch t-shirt. June pulls out her camera and snaps a few pictures as best she can in the weather and lighting.

"Interesting crowd," June replies, stashing her camera in her bag as everyone drives off. "Know any of them?"

Batman doesn't entertain the question. "You need to stay out of this," he says sternly.

She slings the bag over her shoulder. "You know, if I knew what I was looking for, I wouldn't have to come out here."

"This isn't a debate. You're in over your head." He pulls something from his belt. A muffled shot rings out as a grapple fires out from the barrel. It hooks on the ledge of a building down a ways, and without another word, he swings off into the night.

Your jaw tightened, the raw humiliation of saturday morning washing over you all over again, sharp and biting. "The bets," you repeated, almost imperceptible. Your voice was strained, injured, defeated—as if a part of you was still clinging to the hope that none of it was true—as if not having voiced it out loud until now meant it wasn't fully real yet.

"The bets," you shook your head slightly as a dull, bitter laugh slipped out. It was just stupid. You felt like an idiot for believing him, for letting him into your space so easily. You looked up at him, your tone flattening into something cold. "So you actually admit it. And you expect me to just stand here and listen to your excuse?"

Logan’s jaw tightened, a hard muscle twitching in his cheek. He raised his eyes back to yours, his chest heaving, but his tongue stayed tied. He couldn't deny it. The messy reality of what he'd done was written plain across his face.

The silence was the only explanation you needed.

You snatched the sweater from his hands, shoving it into your bag. You didn't give him another syllable. You turned on your heel and began to walk down the rest of the stairs, your study group long forgotten.

"Wait—" Logan reached for you, his hand catching the air just past your shoulder. His voice followed you down the stairwell, desperate. "I'll do anything to prove how much I regret it. Please. Anything."

You didn't look back. You burst through the heavy library doors and out into the gray, freezing campus afternoon, his parting words still ringing in your ears.

The walk back to your apartment was a blur, your mind actively staging a coup, dragging you backward to a wednesday night just a few weeks ago. Another night where he had claimed he would do anything to prove himself—and then actually did.

After that heated, suffocating session in the library archives, everything had devolved into a complete mess. The air between you had turned thick and incredibly awkward. For three days, the easy momentum you’d been building since the broken bike chain simply vanished.

There were only a few dry, tentative texts back and forth.

Mavis: You get back okay?

You had stared at the screen for twenty minutes before typing a brief response.

You: Yeah. Thanks again for the help with the archives.

He didn't reply to that, leaving the conversation dead for over twenty-four hours. But by monday night, he clearly couldn't handle the weird distance anymore. He reached out again, trying to force things back to normal.

Mavis: Free tomorrow? Let's grab food after class.

You had freaked out. The sheer intensity of what had almost happened under the dim lights of the stacks left you completely overwhelmed. You had shared a moment so intimate, so important, so… interrupted. After leaving the library, neither he nor you had dared to initiate anything at all. Nothing. Maybe he had let himself get swept up in the moment, even if he seemed completely aware of his actions, his words, his hands—even if he himself had said he felt no regret about it—even if his eyes burned with desire? So, naturally, with all this evidence in your hands, you did the thing any responsible adult would have done—you panicked and shut it down.

You: Massive exam on Thursday. I need to cram.

The three little dots appeared instantly, and you immediately wanted to punch yourself. Idiot, you thought.

They stayed there for a full minute. Then they vanished. A few minutes later, they appeared again, stayed for ten seconds, and disappeared. Finally, the text came through.

Mavis: Oh. Well, okay. Good luck.

The disappointment practically bled through the glass screen. A heavy wall of distance had been firmly built between you, born entirely out of the sudden fear that you had missed your chance, and that neither of you knew how to cross the line again without the cover of playful banter.

By wednesday night, you were a ball of unresolved anxiety. Hannah and Allie had practically dragged you out of the apartment, insisting you needed a drink to get out of your own head.

They just conveniently forgot to mention the hockey team would be at the exact same bar, a notorious campus dive—sticky floors, smelling permanently of stale beer and sweat.

“Oh, look at that!” Allie shouted over the noise as her eyes locked onto the back corner of the bar. You followed her line of sight and felt your stomach drop. The guys were crowded around a massive corner booth. “Funny coincidence, right?” she smiled, her voice completely unconvincing.

Great. You really wanted to be mad at them for plotting that out, but you couldn’t blame them. They’d spent the last three days watching you pace the apartment like a ghost, jumping every time your phone buzzed, completely consumed by an anxiety you refused to explain. It wasn’t a trap to punish you—they were just exhausted from seeing you suffer in silence.

Once your small group walked over, the standard introductions were made, everyone shouting over the blaring music. The moment Allie introduced you, Tucker raised his glass with a smirk. “Ah! You’re the bike girl!”

"Drop it," Logan muttered immediately from the corner of the booth. He didn't look up from his drink, but his jaw was tight, and his ears had turned a faint shade of red. He looked completely miserable—shadows under his eyes, his shoulders tense, a dark cloud hanging over him. He clearly thought he had completely ruined things at the library, and your radio silence over the last three days had obviously confirmed it in his head.

The guys exchanged a silent, knowing look, but thankfully, they let the comment slide, shifting back to a loud conversation about their upcoming game.

Despite the rocky start, the night shifted. Dean was surprisingly pushy, practically hauling Logan out of the booth and steering him toward the bar top where you had gone to order another round. He slid into the space next to you, winked, and then physically shoved Logan into his place before walking away toward the dartboards.

Suddenly, the noise of the crowded bar faded. It was just the two of you, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the scratched wooden counter. Logan stared down at his beer glass, looking smaller than usual, stripped of that effortless confidence.

"You're avoiding me," he said, his voice quiet, lacking his usual bite.

You stared down at the counter, your fingers nervously picking at the corner of your coaster. You opened your mouth a few times to speak, to deny it, but you couldn’t. He was right and you both knew it. "I just... I didn't really know where we stood after the library. Things got intense, and then..." you paused, the words catching in your throat. You swallowed, hesitating, and he noticed. Of course, he noticed.

“And then?” he asked, his eyes searching for yours, a glimpse of hope making them shine despite the obvious disappointment.

You took a deep breath before looking up to meet his eyes. "And then we didn't even kiss. I just assumed I misread everything."

Logan blinked, his dark eyes tracking your face as a sudden look of realization washed over him. He let out a low, breathless chuckle, his shoulders visibly dropping as weeks of built-up anxiety evaporated in a second.

"You thought you misread me?" he asked, a faint, genuine smile finally reaching his eyes as he ran his hand over his face, letting his index fingers massage his temples. "Jesus. I spent the last three days convinced I'd completely freaked you out in the stacks. I thought I was being way too pushy, and then you hit me with the 'oh, I have to study' text."

"I was nervous," you admitted, leaning your chin on your hand, a tiny smile forming. "You're a lot to handle, Mavis."

"Am I?" He leaned a bit closer, his tone shifting from defensive to entirely serious. He shifted on his stool, leaning his elbow on the bar to turn toward you. A small, dry smile finally touched his mouth. He nudged your shoulder with his, his eyes locked onto yours. "You're the one who completely froze me out for three days, honey."

"I didn't freeze you out," you countered softly, though the sudden warmth in your cheeks gave you away. "I just wasn't entirely sure what you wanted."

He looked down at your glass, his index finger tracing a slow line along the condensation on the counter, right next to your hand. "I think you knew exactly what I wanted."

Your pulse skipped a beat at the quiet certainty in his voice. "You didn't exactly make a move."

"Because I didn't want to rush you," he murmured, his eyes snapping back up to yours. "I was trying to play it cool. Clearly, I overcorrected."

You looked down at your hands, the memory of his touch in the library—heavy, breathless, and entirely un-gentlemanlike—sending a sudden flush of heat straight to your chest. "You weren't exactly playing it cool in the stacks, Logan."

His gaze dropped to your mouth for a fraction of a second, the memory hitting him just as hard. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a rough whisper.

"Yeah, well," he murmured, his eyes locking back onto yours with a quiet amusement. "I promise to be on my best behavior this time."

He paused, his hand sliding across the counter until his thumb trailed a slow, distracting line across the inside of your wrist.

"...Unless you don't want me to be."

For the next two hours, the rest of the world ceased to exist. You traded sharp, easy banter, laughed at his terrible impressions of the coaching staff, and shared quiet, lingering smiles under the warm, neon glow of the bar signs. The distance of the last three days was entirely erased.

By midnight, the bar was thinning out, and Logan was driving you home.

The ride was completely silent, but the atmosphere inside his truck was thick, almost suffocating with a restless, building heat. The rain was hitting the windshield in a steady, heavy rhythm, cutting off the rest of the campus. Every time he shifted gears, his knuckles brushed against your knee, and neither of you moved away. You could see the tight line of his jaw in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, his breathing shallow, his fingers gripping the steering wheel. The playful flirting from the bar had dissolved into a heavy, aching desire. You were staring out the side window, your heart hammering against in your chest, acutely aware of how close he was sitting, the air between you thick enough to taste.

When he finally idled the engine in the back corner of your complex's dark lot, he didn't turn off the headlights. He just sat there, his hands resting on the top of the wheel, his chest heaving slightly as he turned his head to look at you.

The air in the cab felt entirely too warm. You made a move to reach for the door, but your hand lingered on its handle. The space between you felt charged, heavy, and completely unfinished.

"Logan," you murmured, your voice a soft question in the dim light.

He shifted in his seat, turning his body toward you, his brown eyes fixed on your face. "Yeah?"

You didn't answer. You couldn't. You just stared back at him, the silence thick with everything you weren't saying.

Logan’s breath hitched. His knuckles turned stark white as his fingers tightened against the leather of the steering wheel. There was an intense, searching hunger in his dark eyes, staring at you as if he were trying to read every unsaid word written on your face. He looked like he was a fraction of a second away from reaching across the console—but just as the gravity began to pull him under, a sudden, sharp flicker of hesitation fractured his gaze.

The phantom echo of the library stacks caught up to him. The blinding lights, the sudden whiplash, the terrifying realization that he had almost crossed a line and freaked you out. He was so deeply afraid of becoming too much, of overstepping and breaking the fragile momentum you’d finally rebuilt, that the fear paralyzed him.

Slowly, almost painfully, he dragged a ragged breath into his lungs. He forced his eyes away from you, locking his gaze back toward the rain-slicked windshield as he held fast to the wheel, wrestling down his own desperate gravity.

"You should go inside," he muttered, his voice dropping to a rough, fractured whisper that carried the full weight of his restraint. "Before I completely forget my manners and don't let you leave this truck. Please."

The warning was heavy, rough, and entirely intentional. It hung suspended in the cramped space between you, vibrating with an edge of raw truth that made your breath catch completely. Your heart still hammered in the quiet of the truck, and for a long, breathless second, you couldn't move, caught in the suffocating pull of his restraint. Finally, you managed a faint nod, unlatching the door and slipping out into the cold drizzle before you completely lost your nerve. You practically flew up the concrete stairs, the rain cold on your face but your jaw still burning where his thumb had rested.

You unlocked the door, stepped into the dark, quiet living room, and closed it behind you. The girls had already ditched you hours ago to head over to the off-campus house, leaving the place entirely empty.

You stood in the dark entryway as the lock clicked into place, your head absolutely spinning. What the hell are you doing? Why did you walk away again? He was right there.

The realization hit you like a physical blow. You didn't want the safety of your dark living room—you wanted him.

You spun around, your fingers fumbling with the deadbolt. You threw the door back open, fully intending to run down the concrete stairs, out into the rain, and catch him before his truck pulled out of the lot.

You snapped your eyes open and froze.

Logan was already standing right there on your doorstep—standing in the dim yellowish light of the outdoor corridor, his hair damp from the drizzle, his chest heaving as if he'd just run a marathon—his jacket unzipped, and his dark eyes wild, completely consumed by the exact same restless hunger that had been choking you in the car.

You both stared at each other, breathless.

"I tried," Logan said, his voice a rough, low rasp that shook slightly. He took a heavy step over the threshold, closing the distance between you before you could even draw breath. "I tried to leave. I really did."

His large hand came up, his fingers tangling firmly into the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your face up as his mouth crashed down onto yours.

The restraint he'd been holding all night completely snapped. His lips parted against yours with a desperate, heavy weight that made your hands instantly fly to the collar of his jacket just to keep yourself upright. He tasted like cold air and whiskey. A quiet, ragged groan escaped the back of his throat as your fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no air left between you. He backed you hard into the entryway of the apartment, his massive frame completely consuming you, his lips moving against yours with a fierce hunger.

Everything in you wanted to pull him across the threshold and shut the door. You could feel the exact same desperate craving vibrating through his broad shoulders as his hands gripped you tighter. The invitation was right there between you, completely understood without a single word spoken.

But right at the edge of pulling you inside, Logan caught his breath.

His mouth slowed against yours, his lips dragging a breathless path to the corner of your mouth, then pressing a lingering, heavy kiss to your cheek. He buried his face in the curve of your neck for one brief, agonizing second, drawing a sharp, shuddering breath against your skin as if trying to anchor himself.

He didn't pull away completely. Instead, his hand slid down your arm, his large fingers catching your hand. He pulled your wrist up to his mouth, pressing his lips firmly against the soft skin of your pulse point, closing his eyes tightly as he held you there.

When he finally opened his eyes and looked down at you, the frantic edge was gone, replaced by a calm certainty.

"I want to stay," he murmured, his voice a rough, low rasp against your skin. "More than anything. But I'm not going to rush you, and I'm not going to rush this. I want to do this right."

He lingered for one last second, his thumb brushing the soft skin of your wrist before his hand finally dropped away.

"Goodnight," he rasped.

Then he turned and walked down the stairs, leaving you standing in the doorway, your lips tingling and the cold air rushing in to fill the space where he had just been.

The memory shattered into a million jagged pieces the moment you reached the top of your apartment stairs.

The transition from the warmth of that wednesday to the freezing reality of today felt like a physical drop in temperature. You shoved your keys into the lock, expecting the quiet sanctuary of an empty living room where you could finally break down, but the door swung open to reveal a tall, broad figure waiting right inside.

This time, it wasn't Logan waiting on the other side of your door.

It was Dean.

He was actively pacing the small, worn-out rug in your living room. The second the door groaned on its hinges, he snapped his head up. Before you could even open your mouth to scream at him to get out, he held up a heavy hand. His face was tight, shadowed with dark circles, his skin pale with a mix of guilt and sheer frustration.

"I know we fucked up," Dean said, his voice dropping to a hard, unyielding register that cut off your words before they could start. "I know I ruined everything. Be mad at me. Call me whatever you want, I deserve it. But please, just listen the fuck to me for two minutes."

You stayed frozen by the entryway, your hand still gripping the cold metal doorknob, your voice flat and venomous. "Dean, get the fuck out of my apartment."

"It was never just a stupid bet," Dean cut in fiercely, taking a hard step toward you, his eyes dead serious. "It was me helping my friend get the girl in the most fucked-up way possible."

You stared at him, your grip tightening on the handle until your fingers ached, as Dean dropped his head back, running both hands down his face with a heavy, exhausted sigh before the truth finally started pouring out of him.

To Dean Di Laurentis, the whole thing had started months ago as a classic locker room ribbing—a joke that had spiraled completely out of control because he hadn't realized how high the stakes actually were.

He vividly remembered the afternoon it began. Logan had walked into the locker room after a morning lecture, looking entirely thrown off, his usual cold, hyper-focused game-face completely gone. He had tossed his duffel bag into his locker and just sat on the wooden bench. Dean had noticed it immediately—the rare, genuine sparkle in Logan’s eyes, the faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he muttered something about a girl with a broken bike chain.

It was the exact look that gave it away—his notoriously guarded, emotionally detached friend was completely down bad. Dean took one look at him and decided it was time to play the wingman.

“Look at you,” he had laughed that afternoon, throwing his arm around Logan's shoulders. “You’re totally gone, man. Staring at the wall for ten minutes straight? I bet you fifty bucks you don't even have the balls to ask her out by monday.”

Logan had aggressively shoved Dean’s arm off his shoulders, grunting a defensive “Shut up, man.”

But the challenge had been set in Dean's head. He knew Logan's strategy of playing it cool meant absolutely nothing was going to happen anytime soon. He just needed a push to actually do something about it.

On Monday morning, Dean had been sitting on the worn-out leather couch at the off-campus house, while Logan had been staring at his phone like it was a live grenade.

“Just text her, you idiot,” Dean had groaned, rolling his eyes and pulling out his own phone, typing a quick draft into his notes and flashing it toward his friend. “Tell her 'don't flake on me.' Sounds confident, girls love it. Just send it.”

“I’m not saying that,” Logan had muttered, his face tight with stress, though his thumbs were already moving over his screen.

“Tick-tock, Logan,” Dean had teased, kicking his heavy boots up on the coffee table with a smirk. “Monday’s half over.”

So, Logan had sent the text, got the coffee date, and for a few weeks, things seemed to be going well. But to Dean’s mounting frustration, the relationship wasn't evolving quite fast enough. Logan was treating you like you were made of glass, terrified of making a wrong move.

Dean had finally lost his patience on a tuesday afternoon after a brutal three-hour practice. The team was stripping off their pads, Logan was sitting on his bench, staring at a text you had just sent him.

“You’ve been taking her out for three weeks and you haven’t even kissed her yet, have you?” Dean had barked across the row of lockers. He walked over, slamming his locker door shut, and leaned in close so only Logan could hear. “You’re completely overthinking this, man. If you don't make a move by next tuesday, she’s going to get tired of waiting around.”

Logan had looked up, his jaw tight, his eyes flashing with a sudden, dangerous heat. He thought the whole thing was profoundly stupid. He was texting you, taking you out for coffee, and walking you to class every day because he genuinely wanted to, not because of some locker room dare. But as he stared down at his phone, watching the ellipsis bubble pop up and disappear, he had to admit—Dean's timeline gave him a strange, twisted kind of motivation. It was the exact jolt he needed to stop overthinking every little detail and just make a move. So, after all, why not use it to finally break the ice?

Except it hadn't gone to plan. Logan had failed that one, the night of the library archives. Dean had been waiting up at the off-campus house when his teammate walked through the front door at midnight, looking completely wrecked, vibrating with an intense, unfulfilled frustration that filled the whole entryway.

He’d wanted to kiss you right there in the archives, more than anything. But he hadn't, and the awkward distance of the next few days had nearly driven him insane.

By the time they hit the bar later that week, Dean could still taste that lingering misery coming off him. It was all the excuse he needed to reset the clock and corner Logan into a second chance, refuse to let him overthink his way out of it again.

Standing by the jukebox while the rest of the team ordered pitchers, Di Laurentis had leaned his heavy shoulder against Logan’s. He pointed a finger across the crowded bar toward where you were sitting.

“Alright, look,” he had whispered, his voice dropping to a serious, low register. “I'll give you an extension because you clearly botched the library. But you’re running out of time, man. She’s slipping away because you’re acting like a chicken. Bet you sixty bucks you can't even get a decent kiss out of her tonight." 

Logan had stared across the loud, smoky bar, his eyes locking onto the side of your face. For a fraction of a second, an internal war raged behind his dark eyes. He hated that Dean was turning this into a game, but the thought of letting you slip away was worse. His jaw set, a hard, unyielding determination washing over his features.

He turned to Dean, his voice flat and absolute. “Watch me.”

And he had succeeded. The memory of your doorstep that very night was already burned into his mind—breathless, unforgettable, and entirely worth it.

Dean sighed heavily, the sound echoing in the quiet of your apartment. He leaned his lower back against your kitchen counter, crossing his broad arms over his chest. The careless ease he usually carried around campus was completely gone. Looking across the living room at you, he just looked exhausted and heavy with regret.

"Everything up to that night... it was just me riding his ass because he kept dragging his feet on making a move," he muttered. "But honestly, he didn't give a single shit about the bets. He just wanted an excuse to get close to you because he was losing his mind."

Everything up to that point truly could have been fine.

If it weren't for the Thursday bet.

The door is unlocked, so you go right in, like Logan told you to. You close the door behind you, wings in hand, leaving your bookbag by the door. Then you wait.

The house is quiet. You pull out your phone and text I’m here to Logan, but there’s no reply even after a few minutes. You peer around the stairs. Where is everyone?

“Hey.”

You snap to attention as Dean comes around the corner. He slows down to a stop, raising his eyebrows at you. 

“What’s up?” he asks.

Fuck. You never know how to answer this question. Usually, people don’t actually want to know about your life. They’re just being polite.

“Nothing,” you say, your voice going up at the end. “And yourself?”

He snorts. “I mean, why are you just standing by the door?”

“Oh. I’m waiting for Logan. I came to drop off his wings.”

Dean nods, squinting at you. “Uh-huh… so go to him? He’s in the back lifting, but he should be done soon. You’re not, like, exiled to this one spot.”

“Heh, right.” You swallow. “Okay. Thanks.”

He gives you a thumbs-up and one last lingering, strange look, before going upstairs. You drop your smile, already feeling wrung out. Going to people’s houses makes you feel like you’ve run a marathon. So many rules. 

It’s just you again. You go towards the backyard, but you take your time, looking at the pictures on their fridge and the video games in the cabinet under the TV. You snoop through some of the shelves, fascinated to learn about what they eat. Conclusion? Many protein powder containers. You didn’t know it came in that many flavors. You wonder which one Logan eats. Chocolate? Confetti cake? Peanut butter?

There’s a photo of the guys at what looks like the beach. Your eyes linger on Logan even though all four of them are shirtless. He’s wearing light blue board shorts that are crisp against his golden skin, and he has his arms around Garrett and Tucker. He’s smiling at the camera. You kind of want to take a picture of the photo and make that his contact in your phone, but that is probably not the best choice, morally and mentally, so you instead stare at it for a long time and commit it to memory. Then you go outside. 

Logan is lifting weights. Logan is shirtless, in real time. Logan's back muscles are like the dimpled marble you find in museums, so skin-like, it makes you wonder if the sculptors entombed a person they loved and called it creation. With every rep, his muscles flex, from his shoulders to his stomach. His skin is a little bronzed, and you can imagine how tan he gets in the summer, his body sun-hot even after night falls. 

He has a maroon bandana on, presumably to keep the hair out of his face. You lean against the door, winded like you're lifting weights alongside him. His skin looks soft. You'd like to find out for sure. 

There's a shiny path between his neck and shoulder that looks like it'd sink beneath your teeth. And his thighs and calves are both sturdy. He's a good skater, so it makes sense. But it's different to see his legs bare, evidently thickened with muscle, working to support Logan as he lifts weights. You took a biology class. You know that Logan's bulging calf muscle is called the gastrocnemius. Below is his Achilles tendon. You wonder if his are sore—if you pressed, would he groan? 

Or maybe his quadriceps are the sorest from all the skating. They're thick with muscle too. Yours are soft with fat. Maybe Logan would like to press down on yours. 

No, bad. Wrong. You shouldn't think like that. What an offense it'd be, you wanting Logan like that. A dark, hurt part of you imagines him laughing to his friends about the girl in his psychology class believing she has the right to like a person like him. It's happened before; the way people—boys—can turn on you in an instant when they realize that you have the gall to crush on them like normal girls do, turns your bones to ice. You won't make that mistake with Logan. 

“Hey dude, if you're going out later, can you get—” Tucker stops short at the sight of you, his hand on the doorknob as he pokes his head outside. He smiles. “Oh, hey. What're you…” 

Logan has set down his weights, and he's staring right at you. He waves. Your eyes widen. 

“W-wings,” is all you can say. Shit. You shimmy past Tucker, and hover near the kitchen island. You're tempted to make a break for it, wringing your hands as you watch Tucker ask his question, then return inside. 

“Were you waiting on Logan? He's finishing up his last rep.”

“Right.” You shrug like you weren't creeping on John Logan two minutes ago, and sit at the island. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing. I'm just cooking, but hang out if you want. Actually! Do you mind taste-testing something?”

“Does it have mushrooms?”

“No,” Tucker says, spooning something from a bowl. “It's pico de gallo. I'm making tacos. I just wanna know if the acid and salt are balanced.”

He offers you a spoonful of the pico. You eat it, focused on the salt and acid. It's so nice when people give instructions for what they want feedback on. When someone asks you if something is good or bad, you have no idea how to answer. According to what? you want to ask.

“It's very good,” you say. “None of the flavors are overwhelming.”

Tucker holds his hand up, and it takes you a second to realize he wants a high five. Slowly, you tap his hand. 

“Teamwork makes the dream work,” he says. “You should stay for dinner.”

You’d consider it if you thought it would just be Tucker and Logan. But you don’t think you can handle all four of them together just yet. Not alone, anyway.

“Thank you for the offer,” you say, reciting the words your old therapist taught you to reject someone without hurting their feelings. “But I can’t today. Maybe another time.”

“Yeah, definitely. I haven't made pico since high school, so I’ll be making it again soon.”

“Did you cook a lot with your mom?”

Tucker beams. “Yeah, I did. I still do when I go home to visit. Mostly, I'm trying to do my mama justice when I recreate what she taught me. Do you cook much?”

“Sometimes. But often I'm so worn out, I have no energy to try new recipes. I like to cook and bake but one hundred other things usually require my energy instead. I haven't been grocery shopping in nearly two weeks.”

Which has been tough, considering the food at the cafeteria isn't always the best, and you pay per meal since you'd told your mother you would mostly cook in your dorm, which has a kitchen unit. But for the past week, you've sustained on two cafeteria meals and whatever looks reasonably edible in the vending machines. There was also Thursday, where you stumbled upon a breakfast event for women entrepreneurs, which you are not. But they had cheese danishes. You love danish. 

“I hear you. I'll get excited to try a new recipe and then I can't decide and I just make something I've made before,” says Tucker. 

You nod. “Yes. Except I can't even do that at times. But something that's helped me is a food chart.”

“What's that?” 

“It's a chart on my fridge with little pictures of foods I like and eat regularly. It's split into three categories for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. So breakfast has toast, cereal, bacon, waffles, and so on. Lunch has sandwiches, burgers, ramen… anyway, it helps to have a visual presentation of what I can eat. Then I pick something and make it. Usually. Sometimes I eat shredded cheese out of the bag and call it a day.” 

Or you don’t go grocery shopping for weeks and you have nothing on your chart to eat anyway. 

“That's a good idea. Wait, maybe I can make one to maintain a balanced plate. Protein, carbs, fiber, fat. Those could be categories.”

You nod. “You can organize it however you want. I can send you the template I used.”

“Sick. I'll give you my number,” Tucker says, walking around the kitchen island. 

You unlock your phone and he types his number in, then takes a selfie where he's pursing his lips and puts that as his contact picture. You laugh, startled. 

The door behind you opens. Logan walks in, no longer shirtless. He stops short upon seeing you two. 

“What’s happening here?” he asks, drying his neck with a towel. 

“Tucker is putting his number into my phone,” you say. You turn to Tucker. “Maybe you can send me the recipe for the pico de gallo?”

You doubt you'll be making it soon, but it's nice to have another friend, which seems to be what Tucker is becoming. And based on the video you watched, talking about cooking is a good way for you to make him your friend. You are on fire so far. Two new friends in a month! 

“Totally,” he says, patting your hand. 

“Logan said you're a master chef,” you say, glancing at Logan, expecting him to chime in. But he's just staring at your hand, where Tucker touched you. You don't know him well enough to parse through his expressions, but it doesn't look like happiness. 

“Aw, thanks, man.” Tucker pats Logan's chest, which snaps him out of his staring. He smiles.

“Yeah, well, it's true. Alright, I'm gonna shower, then I gotta stop by the garage.”

“I left your wings over there,” you say, pointing to the couch. Maybe Logan didn't notice you watching him earlier. That bodes well for you, if true. The last thing you need is to prove to him how weird you truly are. 

“Thanks,” Logan says. “They're always here if you wanna use ‘em again. Never know when you'll be in a pinch for a costume.”

You just nod, still unused to Logan's easy generosity. He goes upstairs. 

“Hey, since he's going to the garage, why don't you go with him? It's on the same highway as Market Basket,” Tucker says. He's just finished tenderizing the chicken, and now he's cutting it. 

“Will Logan be okay with that?”

“‘Course, he'd take you anywhere you wanna go.”

You suppose friends do that for other friends. 

“Thank you for the suggestion, Tucker.”

“No prob.” He's now elbow-deep in a Ziploc bag, seasoning the chicken with one gloved hand. The smell of Adobo, oranges, and chipotle peppers makes your mouth water. He also has an apron on, which makes you feel light and warm. 

You're beginning to understand now what it's like to feel welcomed, befriended, a part of people's lives. Yes, you have Hannah and Allie, who always make you feel welcome, but you've never gone out and made friends on your own. Hannah was at freshman orientation, and befriended you herself, because Hannah's smiley and kind to everyone. Then Allie became your friend because Hannah introduced you. 

But to find friends on your own, to go to a hockey house and watch someone marinade chicken for their taco night, it's a different feeling entirely. It makes you think that maybe you're not a lost cause like your mother has told you so many times before. In your first month of college, she visited a few times, always tutting at the “state of things.” 

She told you that you'd fail the college experience if you didn't get out of your dorm, but you were so overwhelmed by change that you had no idea how to do what she wanted. You've never known, actually. Your whole life is one big question mark when it comes to pleasing your mother. You stumble blindly, reaching for people, places, experiences you don't want to have, all in the name of eliciting a smile from her. 

“Hey, pipes are leaking!” Logan shouts from upstairs. “Tuck, can you bring me my allen wrench?”

You look at Tucker, who appears a little frazzled between the chicken and the veggies to dice. 

“I can bring it,” you say, getting up. “Where's the wrench?”

“Thanks. It's in that closet.” He points to it with his chin. 

You open the closet and locate the orange toolbox. You pull out a wrench and show it to Tucker. 

“That's the one. Bathroom's at the end of the hall.”

You go upstairs. One of the doors is closed, and you can hear music and what sounds like a woman's voice. You linger only for a moment before you go to the bathroom. The door is barely cracked, so you knock softly. It swings open. 

“Thanks, ma—” Logan cuts himself off, evidently realizing that you're not Tucker. “Oh, hi.” 

A beat. Then:

“Your underwear is pink,” you blurt. Also, Logan is only in his underwear. 

He looks down. “Yeah, these are actually the product of Garrett's learning curve with the washer. He didn't know you're supposed to separate colors and whites. So now I have three pairs of pink briefs.”

You nod, still fixed on Logan's thighs and how tight the underwear sits on them. Look anywhere else.

You look at his face, which seems worse, somehow. 

“Sorry,” you say, suddenly, horribly mortified. “I was—sorry.”

Logan smiles, and you envy how he can lean against the doorframe like he's not almost naked. “All good. Ten years in locker rooms desensitizes you to people seeing you in your underwear.”

“Even girls?”

He makes a so-so motion with his hand. “Depends on if I think they'll laugh at me.”

“I would never laugh at you in your underwear,” you say seriously. “You look great.”

He lifts an eyebrow. You stutter. 

“I-I mean—that's…”

God, you've never lost your words like this. Your tongue feels like sand. 

“Can I have the wrench?” he asks kindly.

You almost throw it at him with how fast you shoot your arm out. He takes it, fingers brushing yours. You cross your arms tightly against your chest. 

Logan points to the shower with his thumb. “So I'm gonna go fix this…”

“Uh-huh! Yes. Good plan. Have fun.”

“Alright.” He gives you a thumbs-up. The door is almost shut when you say, “Wait!”

Logan opens the door a little. “Yeah?” 

“Can you drop me off at the grocery store? I haven't gone grocery shopping in two weeks.”

His eyebrows knit. “Two weeks?”

“Yeah.”

Logan frowns. “You shouldn't go so long without shopping. Have you been eating enough? Is it ‘cause you don't have a car?”

It wouldn't matter if you had a car because you don't drive—driving terrifies you. And even if you did drive, you probably still wouldn't have gone shopping because doing anything related to maintaining your body has felt like an impossible task these days. 

But that isn't something you can tell Logan, so you just say, “Yes.” 

“Well, I can drive you to the store in the future, so you don't go that long without groceries. Just let me know. Thursdays and Sundays work best, when I don't have games or practice.” 

“Okay,” you say, thinking again about how nice Logan is to you. Then you look at his chest. He is so nice, in fact, that you'd really like to bite his belly. It's taut with muscle, but you think it'd still be a good location to bite. 

“Okay,” Logan echoes, and it sounds a little like he's laughing. “I'll see you in a bit.”

You nod, and he closes the door. You stare at it for a couple seconds before you turn on your heel. You're about to go downstairs, maybe ask Tucker if he needs help. But the door to Logan's room is wide open. You stop in front of it. 

His jersey is on the back of his chair. His bed is made. You always enjoy seeing people's beds made even though you've never been able to maintain that habit. Straightening blankets is an impossible task; going to sleep regularly is hard enough. 

Logan's room is neater than you expected. Dean's room is, according to overheard conversation from girls on campus, a sty. You take a hesitant step inside. Then another, and another. You see his closed laptop and a couple of photos on his desk. One of him and Jules. One of Logan and Garrett after a hockey game. One of the whole Briar team. You scan the faces until you find Logan, and he's smiling like he always is, curls bouncy. He has books on his shelves, and you read some of the titles: Intro to Adult Developmental Psychology; World of Ice Hockey; Bridge to Terabithia. You take out the last one. Its pages are worn, the paperback cover slightly bent. You return it to the shelf. 

You pull open his drawers, finding athletic wear, sweatpants, and soft sweaters. You open another drawer and find his socks and underwear—you quickly shut it. Then you wander the room. He has his hockey gear in one corner: his stick, his padding. 

You sit on the edge of his bed, wondering what it would be like to come here regularly, lying on Logan's bed and smelling his apple scent, agonizing over essays, watching movies. Every time you discover someone's space, you yearn to be a part of it. For their room to engulf you, accept you as part of the furniture, a part of their home. The pull in your stomach to feel that with Logan is particularly strong. It's bad.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch movement too late. Garrett spots you immediately on his way to his room, which is across from Logan's. He stops at the doorway. 

“Hey,” he says. “What're you doing in here?”

Even though he and Hannah are dating—or not dating, you aren't really sure—Garrett Graham thoroughly intimidates you. Hannah has told you that he’s kind of arrogant but also kind of sweet. You know he's Logan's best friend, and Logan's so gentle, so kind, that you figure he must see something very good in Garrett to be his best friend. But all you see is the same sort of boy who, in seventh grade, would kick a ball at you. Patterns keep you safe, and you've seen this pattern before. 

“I am waiting for Logan,” you say, instead of trying to explain yourself. You don't have an explanation for why you're in here, but you can't let Garrett suspect that. 

He nods once. “Okay. You guys seeing each other?”

Oh, you know this code! 

“No, we're friends.” You wait, watching Garrett’s expression carefully to gauge if he finds that unbelievably hilarious. 

Garrett glances to the side, mouth curling into a smirk. “Right, sure. Friends.”

“We are,” you say, suddenly irritated. You wish you'd stayed in the kitchen with Tucker. 

“It's just, girls aren't usually in guys’ rooms unless…”

“You and Hannah studied together,” you say. “I presume you did that without having sex.”

Garrett gapes at you. “I—yeah, but that's different. You're not tutoring Logan.”

“So what? Logan can't be my friend? Sex is all men and women can do with each other?”

“That's not what I said.”

“It sure sounded like that.”

He sighs, runs a hand through his curls. “I didn't mean it that way. I just thought you were joking about being friends. Y'know, some girls pretend they aren't seeing a guy when they really are.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

“I dunno, sometimes it's ‘cause they don't want anyone else to know. So I thought you were kidding, but…” He scrunches his mouth in thought. “I get the feeling that you don’t really do that.”

Do that sounds like it could mean many things, and you wonder if Garrett intended that. 

“I wouldn't lie about being friends with or dating someone,” you say, feeling lost. You thought you knew where this conversation was heading, who Garrett is, and now you don't. People are hardly ever this straightforward with you. 

Garrett nods. “Understood. Sorry for assuming.”

You look at him. “Do you like Hannah? Besides the fact that she's a pretty girl.”

Garrett’s eyebrows crook briefly, before relaxing. His voice is soft when he says, “Yeah, I do.” Instantly, you believe him. Maybe he wouldn’t kick a ball at you. 

“Okay.” You get up, and he steps aside to let you pass. “I'm going to wait for Logan downstairs. See you.”

Garrett goes to his room and shuts the door. At the top of the stairs, you see Dean emerge from his room, which is the one you heard a woman's voice in. He's shirtless, which seems to be the typical state of dress here, but he's also flushed, sweaty, and has a small bruise on his neck. Oh.

Dean winks at you. “Hey, vampire.”

You frown. “What?”

“‘Cause you need to be invited in,” he says. “Vampire girl.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

Dean's smile dims. “I was—no, it's a joke.”

“A joke about how I didn't know that I could come into the house. And that's stupid, right?”

He shakes his head. “No… I wasn’t making fun of you. I thought it was cute. Polite,” he clarifies. “Most people who stop by aren’t polite. You're Wellsy's friend, right? She's polite too; she knocks.”

“Yes, Hannah's my friend. Did you really fail Developmental Psychology II?”

“Tragically, Professor Diamond was not nearly as forgiving as Dr. Jenkins. But then I switched my major, so whatever.”

“Do you invite everyone to your parties?”

Dean doesn't seem perturbed by your rapid subject changes. “Sure I do. Otherwise I'd send out handwritten invites. Logan told us what happened with you and Pembroke. That guy's a fucking sleaze, and he can't skate for shit.”

You nod. “He's repulsive.”

“Seriously. All the more reason to reject him from the team. Hey, you should come to our game. We're playing next week.”

“Your games are loud.”

“Yeah, that's part of the fun!” 

“I disagree. I'll come only if Logan wants me to,” you say. 

Dean grins. “Trust me, he definitely does.” 

“Are you lying?”

“Nope,” he says cheerily. 

You hum. “Fine. Who's that woman in your room?”

“Her name's Carmen. Lovely lady. Met her at a coffee shop.”

“Okay. Enjoy, I guess.”

He salutes. “Have done. Will do.”

You finally go downstairs. It isn't more than a few minutes before Logan joins you. His hair is damp, and his jacket covers his biceps, which is kind of unfortunate. You wonder what color his new underwear is, and then you chase that thought away, guilty for thinking it at all. 

Logan takes his keys from the hook by the door and shakes them a little. “Ready to go?”

“Yes.” You put on your bookbag. “Bye, Tucker. Good to see you.”

“You too!” Tucker calls from the kitchen over the sound of frying tortillas.

“I'll be back in a bit,” Logan says, then opens the door. 

You follow him out to his truck and get into the passenger seat. 

“Mind if we stop at the garage first?” he asks. “It's before the store.”

“Not at all.”

It’s a short drive to the garage, but it feels like it takes forever. Maybe that’s because you stare at Logan the whole time. Well, mostly you look at his hands on the steering wheel. He wears a silver ring on his right pinky, and you can’t believe you’ve never noticed. Veins feed into each other down his forearms. You feel dizzy.

“I promise it’ll only be ten minutes at the garage,” Logan says, startling you from your staring. “Jules needs me to finish a patch job for a bike because they had to record a special episode for their show.”

“You both work at the garage?” you ask.

“Yeah, it’s our family’s garage. Jules and I pretty much run it, since…” Logan stops, his mouth thinning. “Since, uh, my mom’s in rehab again.”

“That must have been really hard to grow up around,” you say. 

He sighs. “Yeah. Jules always sticks up for her, but they don’t remember—” He shakes his head, turning into the garage lot. “Anyway. It shouldn’t be too long. You can come in.”

You follow Logan inside. He navigates the garage with practiced movements. He gestures for you to sit across from him while he works.

“Wow,” you say. “It looks like a bicycle from the future.”

He laughs. “Yeah, apparently the guy who brought it in is a professional bicyclist. I always felt like a bike is a bike but hey, maybe people say that about hockey skates.”

“I wish I was balanced enough to do either of those things,” you say, watching Logan screw something on the wheel. He’s taken his jacket off, so his biceps are once again in full view. 

“You don’t know how to ride a bike?” he asks. 

“No. My aunt tried to teach me when I was seven, but I couldn’t get the hang of it, and then she got mad, so I stopped trying.”

“Well, that was dumb of her,” he says. “Teaching anyone anything requires patience. We all didn’t know something at some point.”

You pick at a loose thread on your pants. Logan’s words have reminded you once more of the cavern inside of you that quivers dangerously when someone says things aren’t your fault. “I guess so.”

Logan pushes the front wheel of the bicycle, and it spins smoothly. He looks at you. “I can teach you, if you want. Jules doesn’t ride their bike anymore. I can adjust the seat for you.”

“You want to teach me how to ride a bike?”

“If it’s something you’re interested in, yeah, why not?” Logan stands, and you follow him up. He wheels the bike to the back of the garage, then you both go outside. He locks the garage. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, crossing your arms. What you want to say is why? Why would anyone want to do something so nice for you, go through the painful process of teaching you anything? 

“I know,” Logan says as you both get into the truck. “If you don’t want to, it’s okay. But if you do want to, then I’m up for teaching you. I promise I won’t rage-quit like your aunt did.”

“Isn’t it stupid to learn how to ride a bike in college? It’s so late.” You’re always too late for things. Always behind.

“It’s never too late to learn anything, ever,” Logan says. “Dean taught me that, if you can believe it.”

“Oh.” You flatten your palms against your thighs. “Okay. I would like to learn how to ride a bike. Then I can go on bike rides with Hannah.”

“Cool. How does next weekend sound?”

“It sounds good.” You unzip your bookbag and find your coin purse that’s shaped like Kermit the Frog. You take out twenty dollars and put it in the center console.

“What’s that for?” Logan asks. “You don’t have to pay me to teach you to ride a bike.”

“It’s gas money. You’ve been so generous with me, I don’t want to not give anything in return.”

“You don’t need to give me money.”

“I want to,” you say. “You told me to say what I want to do, and I want to give you gas money.”

He glances at you, half-smiling. “Should’ve known that would come back to bite me.”

Biting. Mmm.

“I don’t spend my work study money on anything but food,” you say. “I don’t go to bars or concerts or movies. I don’t travel. It’s fine, alright? Please take it.”

Logan sighs. “Okay, but don’t make it a habit.”

“I’ll make it a habit if I want to, John Logan.”

He laughs, surprised, and you laugh with him. 

“Sassy,” he says. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

You didn’t either, but Logan seems to bring out everything in you.

Logan pulls up in front of Market Basket. He rolls down the window when you get out.

“I’ll be in the lot,” he says. “Call me if you can’t find me.”

“You’re going to wait?” you ask.

“Of course I’m going to wait.”

Her heels scuff along the cracked sidewalk, feeling loud in the subdued night. The balls of her feet throb. Night air cools her sweat-soaked skin. The humidity in the club had been so suffocating, she hardly considers shying away from the chill. Out here, however, it's much harder to ignore the cloying smell of gin spilled on her.

At the end of the block, she spots the neon glow of a 24-hour diner and feels salvation.

A bell rings above the door as she slides inside. The only who pays it any mind is the woman behind the counter in a cotton candy-colored diner dress. She gives June a tired nod.

The corner booth at the far end of the restaurant occupies a group of drunk women—college-aged, June suspects. They eat burgers with a grimness that doesn't match their brightly colored outfits. At opposite ends of the bar are two men; one stares down into the pit of his black coffee with a baseball cap pulled down low, the other up at the TV playing sports highlights from the day.

Vinyl squeaks beneath her as June slides into a booth. The seat facing the front door. Having her back to the room—even one as dead as this—makes her nervous. She rubs her hand over the condensation-fogged glass of the window so she can see outside and wipes the water off on the thigh of her tights. And then, with a small huff, June falls into the back of the seat. The room sways around her. She stares down at the terrazzo tabletop to focus until the air starts to smell like candied violets and strong coffee.

June looks up to see the tired woman from behind the counter at her table, laminated menu in hand. Her name tag reads Ava in thick, no-nonsense writing. "Can I get you anything to start, sweetheart?" Ava asks.

"Fries," June replies, staring down now at the menu to make the words stop dancing. "And a coffee, please." The words are heavy as they drip from her tongue. As soon as Ava turns, June downs half the cup of water she'd left.

Kellie says Ingrid is bad news. She's right, of course, but June still finds herself skirting the subject whenever her best friend brings up. Ditching nights out partying for nights hunched over her desk, straining her eyes as she stares at a computer screen well past 3 AM didn't seem like a better alternative. If anything, it'd only be a reminder of the hours spent at her office instead of tending to her relationship.

Ingrid may not be a good friend, but she doesn't ask how June is doing.

Not too long later, Ava returns. She fills the thick ceramic mug in front of June with coffee. Dark beads splash up the sides, a few bouncing onto the table. June manages a hoarse thank you.

When she's embraced by solitude again, June pours two packets of sugar and a creamer into her coffee. She stirs it in clumsily, her metal spoon clanging against the sides, and then turns away so she doesn't have to watch the liquid spin in endless cycles.

Jubilant yells come from the TV screen as a replay of the Knight's final score plays. It's hard to ignore, given it's one of the only other sounds in the room. She's pleased to have miraculously found the one spot in this part of town not full of rowdy drunks. For better or for worse, the quiet gives her more room to think.

Three months passed since the breakup. She took it harder than she really had any business to, considering it was her fault everything fell apart—she was never around; she was always wrapped up in a case. The worst of it was all she couldn't even give. Gooey parts she kept hidden because of what happened last time she'd bared them.

When her hands are finally unoccupied, she realizes she's ripped an empty sugar packet to shreds. Little pieces of paper litter the table like confetti. Her hands are sticky with tiny grains of sugar. She pushes the trash together in an attempt at a neat pile. Ava showed her more kindness than anyone tonight; the last thing she wants to do is make more work for her.

Steam waves over her mug. She blows impatiently, eager to have something to ease the pounding in her head. Briefly, she considers swiping the mug as a keepsake from her time at rock bottom. If she had anything other than the tiny crossbody purse she brought with her, it could have joined her collection.

The bell above the door chimes. Her eyes flicker up to the man who walks in and up to the counter and down to her coffee again. She's capable of taking a break. She doesn't need to sort out all the details about him. To scratch the itch of having something to do, she takes a sip of too-hot coffee.

The man leans over the counter. Not that she notices. He murmurs something to Ava she can't hear over the cheering on the TV. Not that it matters.

She sips again, turning her gaze outside. The rain stopped before she left the club, but the streets are still slick. She reads the reflection of the Mott Street Diner's sign in the puddles. Steam from her cup brushes over her lips.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?"

June turns at the yell from the man sitting closest to her at the bar. A loud bang through the diner instead makes her jump. Hot coffee splashes down her forearms and the front of her sparkly dress. Her ears are ringing too loudly to hear the drunk women scream.

The man hits the counter, body slumping over the counter as he clutches desperately at his shoulder. June's eyes go wide as blood spurts through his fingers. Her heart feels as if it will split her chest open.

She hears through ears packed with cotton. "Money, now!" The shooter barks at Ava. His gun is out now, waving it around. "Anyone else who wants to play hero gets it."

Ava goes for the money, the movements slow and as controlled as they could be under the circumstances. June's eyes dart around, trying to think of anything to do and coming up empty. She glances up as the door opens. Not enough for the bell to chime, but just enough for a small sphere to be tossed in.

It bounces off the ground. The soft metallic clink of it hitting catches the shooter's attention, spinning just as the sphere splits open. Smoke comes spouting out, filling up the small confines of the diner.

Everything clouds in front of June. The gun fires again. Glass splinters in the window next to her from what she can only assume was a missed shot at the front door.

The strain in her chest makes it hard for her to convince herself she can breathe. Smoke cradles her. Between the alcohol and one night that she's been trying to outrun for years, she can't differentiate between now and then. Inescapable, imminent danger doesn't help her position either.

Clouds of fog shift as the door flies open. Something large and dark moves through the fumes. A disembodied cry followed by the smoke puffing up from the ground. The air is cleared just long enough for June to make out a gloved hand holding the shooter down. A fist slams into his skull. He goes limp just as the smoke swallows him up.

Silence falls.

The piercing whine in June's ears finally slips away. Though she can't see them through the haze, June can hear the women crying in the back corner. She hears the pained breaths of the man who was shot. And she hears the sound of heavy boots approaching the door.

The door chimes. Cool air wafts in as the smoke clears out. Standing at the door is Batman.

She's never seen him in person before. Only the rare few photos of him from his Justice League days and the occasional blurry photo online of him moving through Gotham. He's larger than she would have thought. Even in the florescent of the diner, he's imposing. The murk of the room sweeps away. Beneath the lenses of his cowl, she can't tell where he's looking.

"Get some clean towels," Batman orders, face angled towards where Ava stands trembling behind the counter. His voice is gritty. Somehow, through the urgency, there is still kindness in it.

Ava wastes no time, either eager to help or eager for some distance from the scene. Batman steps from the door and moves to the injured man, guiding him down into the spot in the booth across from June.

Tears gleam in Ava's eyes when she returns, holding few towels in her hands so tightly her knuckles go pale.

"Keep pressure on the wound," Batman calmly instructs Ava before moving to the unconscious man on the ground.

Ava hesitates. June sees how close to too much this is getting for her, so she swallows how much it is for herself. She needs something to do, anyway.

"I can do it," she murmurs, scooting out from her seat. Whatever drunken self she'd toppled into the diner with is gone, or at least it feels like it. Now, her focus is on having something to do. A way to help. Her shaking, coffee-slick hands take the towel. The man's blood is warm as it seeps through the fabric. June keeps her hold anyway.

Batman crouches to the floor, pulling a line from one of the many compartments in his belt, and starts to tie up the shooter. A news stinger jolts through the diner just as he straightens.

"We interrupt tonight's program with breaking news," a reporter says to a crowd of people whose attention is rightfully elsewhere. "We have received word police have just taken custody of suspected Bowery slayer Luca Capparelli."

The chaos around her drops away to nothing. Her gaze jumps from the bleeding wound she tends and tunnels on the TV.

A live camera sits outside the apartment building she used to call her own. Police tape partitions the building off. From behind the reporter, June can see a crowd of bystanders outside the corner store with the shop cat who would always rub against her ankles.

"We are live in the Bowery neighborhood where Luca Capparelli was just apprehended by police. Capparelli is suspected of four murders in the area going back to March."

Everything around June feels muted. The reporter's lips move, but June hears none of the words. Her stomach rolls violently. "I…I need to…" She trails off, unable to risk speaking anymore. She shoves the bloodied towel at Ava who still lingers nearby.