sanguineterrain's fics

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.

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.”

“Why are you both in here? This doesn't feel like a conversation that requires a town hall meeting,” Logan grumbles.

“Well, I don’t cook, so it can’t have been me. Must’ve been Tucker,” Dean says.

Tucker walks in then, as if on cue. “If you're spreading bullshit about me, Dean, I'm here to defend myself. For the record: yes, I did make bacon, and there's a plate downstairs. But I was not the one who poured grease down the drain, because I'm not a fool.”

They all look at Dean, who bobs his head. Logan really wishes he had a stack of pucks to chuck at them right now. 

“Yeah, I lied earlier,” Dean says. “It was me. I wanted to use the cup.”

Logan smiles flatly. “I already knew it was you, dumbass. You clog every drain in the house once a week. Vote time. Everyone in favor of kicking Dean out forever?”

The three of them say aye. Dean squawks like a big blond bird. 

“Nay! It's not my fault. How am I supposed to know what to do with bacon grease?”

“Yeah, how's the little prince supposed to know?” Tucker says, rolling his eyes. 

Then he bolts for the door, Dean on his heels. Logan sighs and lies back, staring up at the ceiling. He dreamt about you again. You were on the ice, skating with him, telling him how much you like Taco Bell. He kissed you. 

Then Dean clogged the drain and woke him up.

“Hey, don't forget that we still have that interview at the stadium today,” Garrett says, typing on his phone. No doubt texting Hannah. Logan is proud to say that he no longer has a crush on Hannah Wells, as fleeting as that was. No, he has a crush on her friend, who is smart and beautiful and who probably hasn't given him another thought since the party three weeks ago.

He missed you in class this week. He even stayed behind and pretended he had a question in order to scan the room to check if maybe he didn't see you the first time. But you were nowhere to be found. And it's not like he can text you. He scoured Instagram, Snapchat, and even Facebook for your account, until he felt like a fucking creep and stopped, the search fruitless. Hell, Logan would write you letters if it meant talking to you beyond the two sentences you exchange in class. 

You did wave at him last week. Usually, you pack up your things as fast as possible and run out of the lecture hall. So when you lingered long enough to smile at him… well, that was pretty fantastic. 

“Yeah, thanks,” Logan says. 

Garrett nods. “I'll see you there. Wellsy wants to study.”

Logan lets his head fall back against the pillow as Garrett leaves. He thinks what Garrett's doing with Hannah will probably end with one or both of them getting hurt, especially since they’re both so obviously such soft hearts. Logan saw Garrett listening to Hannah’s Instagram songs more than once. Garrett’s absolutely in denial about how much he likes her. But at least they talk to each other. 

“Fuck,” he says to himself, palms on his eyes. 

You lost your silica gel.

It's not terrible… no, it is. It's thrown off your whole week, actually. You've been on websites longer than usual, looking at fidget toys, sorely tempted. You're especially taken with a moldable squishy with beads inside. It's like the mother of silica gel, and your fingers itch with anticipation of how it would feel.

But you can't. It's eighteen dollars, which is certainly one reason why you shouldn't buy it, but it also would make noise. And even if you used it outside of class… what if someone found it or caught you using it? How do you explain that? 

And you hate feeling like you need a toy to keep you grounded. Your stomach hurt so badly that you skipped class on Monday, which sucked because you didn't see Logan. But you were thinking about having to see your mother during the break and your upcoming finals and nothing, not even listening to music, helped the resulting pain in your stomach. 

Your mother has always told you that it's psychological, and treats your anxiety like a moral failing on your part. If you would just try harder… but you don't know how to do that. You're already trying so hard. It's difficult enough to eat everyday, and go to class, and sleep enough, and not rot in your dorm. 

Your mother would be pleased if you told her you went to a party. She'd dismiss the fact that a guy harassed you. She wouldn't believe you if you told her about Logan and his pretty curls and mouth. No man is looking to just be friends with you.

She was the one who wanted you to go away for college. You didn't mind staying local, but she said you'd never “grow into yourself” if you didn't move away. 

Your nails have been bitten to stubs. You've been growing them for a month, and all your hard work is lost. The silica gel occupied your hands but now that it's gone, you've fallen back to nail biting. 

Hannah said she would meet you at the stadium after her class this morning. Two days ago, you told one of the editors of the Briar newspaper that you bought a new camera. You've taken pictures for them before, but never during an event. Stupidly, you revealed your new purchase, and the editor excitedly asked you to attend an interview that some of the Hawks players were giving today, and take pictures for the paper. 

If only you knew when to keep your mouth shut. Taking pictures of people is stressful. You hate it. They often want you to turn them into someone they're not through the camera lens. People can never just be themselves on camera. That's why you take pictures of birds or buildings or sunsets. They just are, and you can capture them in all their candidness. Most of the world doesn't perform for a camera—only people do. 

Hannah is the first one to greet you when you get inside the stadium. You walk to the bleachers together, where a video crew is setting up. 

“This is great,” Hannah says. “People are gonna see your pictures, as they should.”

You shrug. “I guess so. I didn't really want to do this.”

“Your photos are really good,” she says. “And getting them published in the school paper is huge. What are you worried about?”

You sigh. “I don't know. It's kind of scary when people see you through the camera.” Fourth wall breaks unnerve you for the same reason. “And what if the players hate the pictures?”

“Well, Garrett's doing the interview, and he wouldn't let anybody on the team say anything to you about your pictures. But it's only a few of them, I think. Do you want me to stand with you?”

You nod, the pit in your stomach loosening a little. Hannah always seems to know what to say. 

She beams. “Of course I'll stay.”

But as everyone finishes setting up, Coach Jensen approaches you. Hannah explains that she's Garrett's tutor, and Coach tells her that she can stay, but only in the bleachers. 

“I'm here to support my friend,” she says. “It’s her first time photographing for the team. Please?”

“Sorry. Only press and photographers can be here.”

She looks at you sympathetically. “I'll be right over there, okay? You'll be great.”

You watch Hannah go sit, wishing you had the silica gel.

Garrett is the first player interviewed. You take many pictures, so there are lots of options to choose from when you send them to the paper. He doesn't look at you once, which is splendid.

Next is Dean. He's fired up in his interview, swearing that Briar will crush the competition. Then it's Tucker, who seems a little nervous in front of the camera. You understand completely. 

You lower your camera as you see Logan approach the local reporter. He shakes her hand and says something you can’t hear. Then he looks in your direction. He pauses, then grins widely, waving at you. You wave back, face suddenly warm.

“So John,” begins the reporter. “How is the team preparing to win the next three games? You’ll need three wins to keep Briar’s ranking.”

“Yeah, you know, we work really well as a team, and Garrett’s a great captain, of course, so I have no doubt we’ll win. We’ve been putting in plenty of hours of practice.”

He glances in your direction. Click. You’re not supposed to snap pictures when people are looking at the camera, but you can’t help it. You won’t send that one to the paper.

“How are you personally feeling about the season?” the reporter asks.

You take more pictures. Logan keeps glancing in your direction, so much so that the reporter eventually holds her hand up.

“John, sorry, but we really need you to look at the camera,” she says. “Is there something distracting you? A light? A noise?”

“Nope,” Logan says, standing straighter, shaking his head. “All good.”

He answers a few more questions. The reporter thanks all of them for their time and then the crew packs up. You put the lens cap on your camera and pack it up in its case.

“Hey.”

You look up from your case. Logan’s in front of you. This close, you can really take in his appearance: his swoopy hair, his azure jacket with the Hawks emblem on the chest. He smells like apples, as always. 

“You’re here,” he says, before you can say hi back.

You nod, confused. “Um. Yes?”

“I didn’t know you were a photographer.” He’s smiling as hard as he does when the Hawks win a game. “I haven’t seen you photographing games.”

“I don’t. The paper’s editor asked me to take pictures for their article on the team.”

“Can I see?”

You hesitate. “I can’t retake pictures.”

“I know. I’m asking because I want to see your pictures, not ‘cause I care about how I look in them. You don’t even have to show me the pictures from today. Do you have more?”

“You want to see my other photos? They’re of birds and stuff like that.”

“I fucking love birds. And I mean that.”

You blink. “Oh. Okay. Me too.”

“I didn’t see you in class this week,” he says.

“I was sick.”

“That sucks, I’m sorry.”

You nod. You don’t tell him why you were sick. He doesn’t need to know. No one knows except Hannah. And speaking of, you can see her walking down the bleachers.

She stops next to you. “Hey! How was it?” She looks at Logan, and seems a little startled. “Hi, Logan. What’s up?”

“Hey, Wellsy,” he says. You try not to frown. It’s stupid to want Logan to have a nickname for you. Wellsy isn’t even his invention. 

“Logan wants to see my photos,” you say.

Hannah raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I didn’t know you liked photography, Logan.”

“Oh, big time,” he says, looking at you. 

Hannah widens her eyes at you. You have no idea why. She pats your back.

“You did great,” she says. “I’ll see you later?”

“I thought you wanted to get lunch together,” you say. 

“Uh…” She glances between you and Logan. “I’ll catch up with you. I have to tutor Garrett anyway. He canceled on me yesterday.” She rolls her eyes. “Hockey players.”

“Ouch,” Logan says, nudging her.

Hannah smiles sweetly. “You and Tucker are the best players, and you can quote me on that.”

“Garrett will definitely be hearing that.”

“Good.” She squeezes your arm. “I’ll see you later, okay? Have fun.”

You watch her go, feeling lost. “She said we were going to eat lunch together. Why did she change her mind?”

“Oh, um, I don’t think Hannah meant anything by it,” Logan says. He chews his lip for a second. “Garrett’s such a diva, honestly—he’d probably whine about not studying today even though he canceled on her yesterday.”

You do know how important the philosophy midterm is to Garrett, especially since he’s currently failing. And Hannah has complained about how stubborn he is. 

“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “I’ll go eat by myself then. It’s one o’clock, so it’s lunchtime.”

“I could come with you.” Logan clears his throat. “Uh, if you want, I mean. No pressure. You can say no.”

“Oh. No, I’d like that.” You smile. “And I can show you my photos, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, sounding breathless. “Please do.”

Logan has three chicken thighs on his plate.

“Hockey season,” he explains as he sits. He bought your food with one of his meal swipes. You told him he didn’t have to; he said he wanted to.

You sit opposite him with your own food. Nothing had seemed appetizing, but you have a headache, which is your body’s way of telling you that you really need to eat. Sometimes you don’t feel hungry, but logically you have to eat at least three meals, so you try to time eating around the same time, so you don’t have to rely on faulty signals that never arrive.

And when Hannah eats with you, it helps, because then you aren’t distracted by other things, like listening to music or watching a show. You can’t do those things in front of another person, because it’s rude. When you eat alone, you frequently forget you’re supposed to be eating. And by the time you remember, the texture or temperature of the food has changed, and it’s no longer appetizing. 

“Eating that much chicken doesn’t make you feel sick?” The thought of eating that much meat in one sitting makes you want to vomit. Not to mention the chicken ick. Chicken is an extremely unsafe food—if you detect a hint of tendon or fat, you can’t eat it.

Logan shakes his head. “Nah, I’m hungry. Dean can easily tear up, like, five of these.”

He starts eating, scooping the chicken with the gravy, peas, and potatoes in one forkful. You watch, fascinated. Eating probably wouldn’t be such a chore if you could eat like that. 

You were going to try and convince Hannah to go to Taco Bell with you today because that’s the only thing that sounds edible today, but since you’re with Logan, you can’t do that. Probably you can’t go to Taco Bell every time you see him… still, you’re tempted. Maybe you can just sit here until Logan’s done eating, and then you can go get what you want. 

You take a deep breath. No, you should eat. You should eat like a normal person. You want your headache to go away—it’s too hard to talk to people when you have a headache, and you really want to talk to Logan.

You unwrap the foil your turkey burger is in. You take it out and remove the whole wheat repulsive bread, then put the meat on your plate. You cut it into small triangles with your knife and fork. 

“Not a fan of the bun?”

You look up at Logan, hunched over the plate. You eye him suspiciously. 

“This bread tastes like cardboard,” you say slowly, watching him for judgment. “I like fluffy white rolls only.”

“That’s my favorite too. Garrett’s always on me to eat more whole grains.”

“Maybe another brand would taste good. School food tastes like slop sometimes.”

Logan laughs. “Seriously. I think I’m spoiled by Tucker’s cooking. He’s a master chef.”

You squeeze a packet of mayo, then hot sauce, then mustard. This is your trick for when you don’t want to eat: you overdo it with sauces you like, to mask whatever you’re eating. At least you don’t have to taste the turkey burger, though that doesn’t dismiss the possibility of a bad texture. 

You chew, staring at your plate. You forget you’re not alone until Logan taps your shoulder. You jump.

“Sorry,” he says. “Again. Seems like I’m always doing that.”

“I zoned out.”

“Yeah, you’re really focused on your food there.”

“I have to be, or I won’t finish it,” you say. “Nothing’s appetizing right now, so I have to make myself eat.”

You quickly finish the burger, which isn’t the worst, to be fair, but you’re not happy to eat like you were yesterday with the tater tot casserole the cafeteria served. They serve that once every two weeks, and it’s your favorite day on campus. 

“Okay,” you say. “Now I can talk to you.”

Logan smiles. “Awesome. Can you show me your pictures?”

“Oh, right. Yes, I can.”

You get out your camera and move to sit next to Logan. He leans in to look at your camera’s screen, but he doesn’t touch you. You kind of wish he would. You bet he’s warm and solid.

“Wait, go back,” he says.

You were skipping through the pictures from today’s interview. You press the left arrow to go back.

“There! Oh my God, that’s so funny. Please use that picture for the paper,” Logan says, snickering. 

It’s a picture of Garrett, mid-yawn. His face is scrunched, mouth wide open. 

“That was a mistake,” you say, but you’re smiling too. You can’t avoid Logan’s infectious giggles. 

“No, that was a gift from above,” Logan says, still laughing. “God, that’s perfect. If you don’t send it to the paper, please at least send it to me.”

“How?”

“Do you have Instagram?”

“No,” you say. “I deleted it. It made me feel bad about myself.”

“Honestly? Good for you. I’m not on it that much either.” 

“The only people who I want to talk to have my number anyway,” you say. “So it doesn’t really matter. I don’t care about random students’ lives.”

“You rock,” Logan says. “Seriously. You’re my hero.”

You can’t take it when he says things like that. All you can do is look away, your face heating up.

“Well, uh,” he continues. “This might be presumptuous of me, but… d’you wanna exchange numbers?”

“It’s not presumptuous,” you say. “I like talking to you.”

He lights up. “Same here.”

You type your number into his phone. 

Hi :) says the message on your phone.

Hi, you text back. You change his contact to Logan 🏒. 

“I’ll send the picture when I upload them tonight,” you say.

“I’m gonna terrorize him with it in the group chat. Show me more pictures? You said you saw some birds.”

“I did.” You shuffle through the photos until you find one of a hawk flying low. It’s one of your favorites; you were so proud to capture it. It’s only a little blurry too.

“That is so fucking cool, whoa.” Logan scoots closer to look, his arm touching yours. You don’t move away. “You’re amazing at this. What else did you capture?”

You show him pictures of the nearby lake, sunsets, a deer, the Boston skyline. Logan loves them all, and tells you many times how good of a photographer you are.

“You could do this professionally, seriously,” he says. “Like, you should photograph our games. You could get paid for it.”

You shrug bashfully. “I don’t know. It’s not even my major. It’s just a hobby.”

“So what? You’re really good.”

You gnaw the inside of your cheek. “Maybe.”

“Yeah, think about it. I could talk to Coach, see what’s open.”

You and Logan are pretty much curled up next to each other by now. Your arm and thigh are pressed against his. He is indeed warm, and you can feel his muscles shift against you. You think of him in the gray sleeveless shirt at the party. You couldn’t stop staring at his biceps. You want to hold them, trace the veins on his forearms. 

And when he turns to talk to you, he’s so close. Close enough to—

“Yo, Logan, you started without us?”

Raucous laughter breaks the moment. As soon as you see Logan’s teammates, you put a foot of distance between you two, shifting to the next chair over. 

“Hey, man,” Garrett says, tapping Logan's shoulder. “I thought you said you were gonna hit the gym.”

“Plans changed,” Logan says. He doesn’t look very happy to see them. You’re puzzled. 

“Hi,” Tucker says, waving at you, saying your name. You wave back.

And then Garrett and Dean seem to notice you. Dean grins, looking between you.

“Ah,” he says. “Plans changed. Got it.”

You don’t like the tone of his voice. You don’t like the way he and Garrett are smiling at each other. 

“How do you know Logan?” Dean asks. “You a hockey fan?” He winks.

“I’ve only been to one game. Logan and I are in developmental psychology together.”

“You guys study together?” Garrett asks, glancing at Logan. The table shakes, and Garrett winces. “Ow! What the fuck, man? Why’d you kick me?”

“Because you’re both asking idiotic fucking questions,” Logan says. “Lay off. She’s not a suspect.”

Your skin itches. You don’t like being watched. And they’re watching you, you can tell. They’re studying you. Figuring you out. 

“Actually, I should go,” you say, getting up. You try not to eye the others as you say it. 

“Are you sure?” Logan asks, getting up with you.

“Yes, I have finals to work on.” You gather your things, putting your backpack over your shoulders. “Thank you for the meal swipe.”

“Yeah, anytime,” Logan says. “I’ll see you in class on Monday?”

You nod. “You will. I’ve taken two unexcused absences and the syllabus said that Dr. Jenkins will demote us by a letter grade for any more than that.”

“‘S not a real threat,” Garrett says around a mouthful of rice. “They have to put that on the syllabus, but a lot of professors don’t care. Dean was absent eight times in that class.”

“And I still got a B minus,” Dean says, fist-bumping Garrett. 

Tucker shakes his head. “Yeah, and you failed the subsequent course because you missed so much of the semester, dude.”

“A win is a win.”

“So Dr. Jenkins lied?” you ask, brows furrowing.

Garrett shrugs, digging his knife into his chicken. “Kinda. More like a bluff.”

You squeeze your backpack straps, your chest feeling tight. “Why does everyone know the secret rules but me?”

All week you’ve been anxious about potentially missing a third class because of your stomach. You were prepared to chug as much Pepto Bismol to avoid that as you needed to. Has everyone else been living without a care in the world, not forcing themselves to go to class when they feel sick? You’ve gone when you were sure you’d throw up. You went to class in the throes of the worst gallbladder pain you’ve ever felt, right before you got it removed. 

Garrett stops chewing, looking at you. In fact, they’re all staring at you. Fuck. 

“Whaddya mean, secret rules?” Dean asks.

Fuck, fuck. You’re being weird. Stop it. Stop. 

“Hey,” Logan says gently, drawing your attention to him. He moves so he’s the only person you can see, blocking out the rest of the cafeteria. “If you don’t feel well, you should skip, but you aren’t, like, losing out on some grand life experience if you miss half the semester. That’s what college is for. You’re doing the right thing. It’s not a secret rule, it’s just a loophole that some assholes like to exploit.”

Dean scoffs. “Excuse me?”

Logan ignores him. “So I hope you come on Monday, but if you feel sick, rest up, okay? Tucker’ll make you soup and I’ll bring it over.”

Tucker leans around so you can see him and gives you a thumbs-up in confirmation. Your breathing gets a little easier; your shoulders soften. 

“Okay,” you murmur. You drift towards him, and Logan brushes your fingers. You aren’t brave enough to take his hand, so you touch and step back. 

“Can’t wait to see your pictures in the paper,” Logan says.

You smile. “They’re of you.”

“Yeah, but you took ‘em. Who cares what they’re of?”

You duck your head, feeling shy again. It’s a residual shyness, but sometimes you get so aware of how nice and handsome Logan is, and the fact that he goes out of his way to talk to you. Not that you’ve ever cared much about the college social hierarchy, but you aren’t immune to the charms of a hockey boy who sings praises about your photography. You’ve been trying to shake this aching want for more ever since the party. You can’t.

“Well, um, bye. I’ll drop off your wings soon,” you say.

“Stop by anytime.”

“See ya around,” says Tucker.

“Yeah, see you,” Garrett says. Dean nods. 

You mumble a short goodbye to them, still feeling flustered. You hope Logan won’t hold it against you. 

Once outside, you take out your camera outside and flip through some of the shots of Logan. You’re not sure what he likes so much about your photos, but now you’re a little glad that the editor asked you to take pictures.

“Hey, wait up!”

You turn around. Logan’s jogging toward you. 

“What are you doing?” you ask as he stops in front of you.

“Uh.” He puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “Um. Hm. Good question. I don’t know, actually. I just feel like we ended on a weird note in there.”

You frown, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry I was weird and freaked out in front of your friends.”

“What? You didn’t—”

“I did, Logan. I know I did. I saw Dean and Garrett’s faces. They thought I was weird. And I was, to be fair. I reacted too strongly to the absence thing. Sometimes I do that, and I don’t realize until someone’s really obvious with their face that I, you know, emoted wrong.”

“You did not emote wrong,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You didn’t, okay? I promise that Garrett and Dean didn’t think that. They were probably just confused. You and Hannah are, you know…”

“Nerds?” you finish.

“Smart, studious, all that. And I know we keep it hidden, but we’re actually not winning any Nobel prizes in between practice. They’re not used to knowing people who worry about attendance. That’s all it was, I promise.”

You purse your lips, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. You can’t, so you just ask. “Do you mean it?”

“Yes,” Logan says. “I mean it.”

“It’s okay if you don’t. I wouldn’t hold it against you. Lots of people have thought I’m weird. Lots of boys. Lots of athletes. I was terrible at kickball in middle school, and people hated me for it. I would sit out early so they wouldn’t purposely kick the ball at me.”

His eyes get sad. That’s an expression you recognize on Hannah too.

“That’s fucking awful,” Logan says. “We aren’t all like that. I’m not, anyway, and the guys I hang out with aren’t either. Even if you are weird, it’s not a bad thing. Not at all.”

No one’s ever told you it’s okay to be weird. They’ve only ever denied that you are, even though you’re pretty sure you are. You can’t help it either. But Logan doesn’t mind. You’re still good. He still likes you. No one is going to kick a ball at you. 

“Okay. Can you tell me how to get to the Hawks house? I’m going to drop off your wings before Monday.”

“Sure, so you’re gonna walk down this little path here, Cooper Avenue. Then you’re gonna turn left, onto Montgomery. Then you’ll walk all the way down till you get to Pickett Lane. It’s like a dirt path. And you’ll turn right onto that. We’re the first house on the left.”

You nod, even though you’ve already forgotten all that. You’re terrible with street names. “I’ll be there.”

“I look forward to it,” Logan says, grinning. 

You start to walk away, then you turn around and return. “I actually don’t remember anything you’ve just said. I’m bad with streets and directions. Can you tell me in terms of landmarks?”

“I can absolutely do that,” Logan says softly. “Okay, you know the statue of the guy on the horse?”

“Yes, the famous horse wrangler who carried children on horseback to Briar’s first schoolhouse in 1846.”

He tilts his head. “How do you know that?”

“It’s on the plaque.”

“Huh. Embarrassingly, I’ve never stopped to read one of those plaques. I should do that.”

“He brought children to school for eighteen years. One of them ended up founding Briar University.”

“Shit, wow. That’s cool.”

“History is cool.”

Logan hums. “You’re cool. And that mentality is why Dean’s the loser for missing half the semester and you aren’t.”

You smile. “I guess so.”

“Okay, so, horse wrangler. Turn left when you get to him. Then you’re gonna walk past that student vegetable garden you photographed. Keep walking until you see that giant oak tree with the knots in the trunk. The one that students make out under. Or, uh… study?”

“Attempt to study, anyway.” You know the struggle well.

“There’s a path there, and you’ll walk until you see our house on the left.”

“Got it,” you say. “For real, this time.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you at some point, before class. If you want to stop by.”

You look at the cafeteria. “They won’t mind?”

“Nah, we always have people come over, don’t worry. Hey.” Logan bumps your arm gently. “They won’t bother you. And if you want, text me, so you’ll know I’ll be home.”

The sun is in his eyes. Speckled tree bark. Rich, black tea. You want to kiss him so badly.

“I really do like talking to you,” you say.

“Me too.” Logan steps closer. Your heart is in your throat.

“Okay, well, see you!” And you’re gone.

She’s not happy about it. Something you like about being friends with Hannah Wells is that she wears almost every emotion on her face. Once you deciphered her expressions, it was easy enough to figure out from there what she’s feeling. It makes everything much simpler. You wish everyone were as easy to read as Hannah.

She lets you go with one last affectionate goodbye. You start walking, not sure where you’re supposed to go to find the shuttle from the stadium. Part of you doesn’t really care as much about that. Mostly, you want to get away from the noise. Tonight was just a cacophony of buzzers and slammed pucks and chants and shouts. Players getting shoved against the glass was the worst. You jumped every time.

You pull out your phone. It feels like you’ve gone in a circle. The stadium is a maze.

“Hi.”

You look up. John Logan—everyone calls him Logan, which throws you off—is about ten feet away, and he’s coming closer. He’s still in uniform, even his skates. You’re always impressed when you see players walk on skates. His hair is damp with sweat and at its curliest. Usually, it’s in fluffy waves.  

“Hey, are you coming to the party?” he asks, coming to a stop in front of you.

“I wasn’t invited,” you say.

He tilts his head, eyebrows scrunching. You focus, trying to figure his face out. A look like that usually means you’ve said something that doesn’t make sense, but you can’t imagine what that would be. You don’t even talk much with Logan, so how can he already be confused by you?

“You’re friends with Hannah, right?” he asks. “And Hannah’s bringing her friend Allie?”

You nod. “Yes, they were invited.”

“It’s a campus-wide invite,” Logan says. “No one got invited specifically—Dean and Beau posted the details expecting the entire student body to show up.”

“Oh. That’s confusing.”

He shrugs. “It’s usually the same group of people who go to the parties, so I guess people don’t think about it. But uh, you know, if Hannah and Allie are going, it’s safe to say that you can go too.”

People don’t think about a lot of things. They tell you even less, which makes you feel stupid and lonely sometimes. But you don’t say any of this, because your mother would say those are inside thoughts. Instead, you shove your hand in your pocket and play with a silica gel packet that came in your new camera box.

You like to roll the beads inside the packet, and you’ve discovered that if someone asks what you’re fiddling with, it’s acceptable if you show them the silica gel. You used to fiddle with a ball of plastic wrap, but that made too much noise in class.

“Okay, well, congratulations on your game,” you say when Logan says nothing else. “Bye.” You turn to leave the stadium.

“Wait!” Logan jogs around to face you again. “Uh, wait. Did Hannah not invite you?”

“She asked me to go, but I declined because I have a paper due next week, and because I wasn’t invited. It’s rude to go to parties you aren’t invited to.”

That’s a rule that took a few times to learn in middle school, but you’re very proud that you know it now. Except apparently it doesn’t apply in college. Rules are always changing, and sometimes it makes you so frustrated, you could spit.

“Well, what if I asked you to go? Invited you officially. I live with Dean, and I helped set up the party. Is that enough of an authority?”

“I don’t really know what constitutes an authority to invite people to parties,” you say. “Why do you want me to go?”

“Uh, well…” Logan steps forward, bowing his head a little. One thick curl falls into his eyes. He has such beautiful hair. You wonder what conditioner he uses. A few times you’ve sat next to him in class, and he smells like apples. “I feel like we’re kinda friends now.”

“We are?”

He winces. “I mean, kinda? Is that okay for me to say? We’re in class together, and you stop by with Hannah.”

“I stopped by once because she left her bag. I didn’t come inside.”

“True, fair enough. You can come in though, you know? Like that’s totally okay. Just for the future.”

You doubt you’ll stop by the Hawks House again. You have no reason to. But you nod anyway.

“Plus we compared notes that one time,” Logan says, snapping his fingers. “That’s a friend thing to do, right?”

You let his words wash over you. John Logan says you’re kinda friends. You like Logan. He’s nice to you, and to Hannah. You haven’t spoken much, but he lent you a pencil a few weeks ago in your developmental psychology class. And he always waits and holds the door for you, even if you’re a few people behind him. He doesn’t scare you like athletes often do. He isn’t loud, and he doesn’t say rude things about women, or make fun of how clumsy you are. When you tripped on a step in class, he didn’t snicker like other students—he reached out to catch you, and asked if you were okay.

Then again, you’ve hardly hung out together. There’s always time for him to change his mind, show a different side. Plenty of people have done that.

But you like making friends. You’re not good at it. You want to be. 

“Okay,” you say. “We can be friends.”

Logan grins. “Awesome.”

“You have nice teeth.”

He grins wider. “Thanks. I think that’s the first time anyone’s complimented my teeth.”

“That surprises me,” you say. “I don’t have a costume. Can I still enter the party, or will I be banned for life?”

Logan laughs. You squint. What’s funny?

“Normally, you’d get banned, but as an official party planner, I can get an exception made.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh…”

“I’m kidding,” he says gently, nudging your shoulder. It’s a soft nudge because of his padding. “You don’t need to wear a costume, but if you want, I have an extra pair of wings. You can be a bird with me. Tuck’s a bee.”

You’ve never been a part of a group costume. “I thought it was supposed to be costumes for two people.”

“We make our own rules. I’ll drive you there, okay? I don’t think you’ll wanna be on the party bus. It gets loud.”

You’re relieved. “Yes. Thank you.”

“No sweat. I’ll be out in a sec.”

You watch him disappear into the men’s locker room. You sit on a nearby bench. People are still filing out of the stadium. You put your headphones on, lean your head against the wall, and close your eyes. 

Seven minutes later, a hand on your elbow makes you jump, eyes flying open. You tear off your headphones.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Logan says. He’s in a gray sleeveless shirt and dark jeans. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay.” 

People don’t really touch you, mostly because you don’t care for it. Hannah and Allie like hugs, and sometimes you give them one, especially if they’re sad, because that’s what you do for sad friends. But mostly, you avoid it. People hug too hard, or too long, or they’re sweaty or smell funny. Logan doesn’t smell bad—he smells like orange Dial soap and his apple shampoo or conditioner, and you realize he must’ve showered. 

“Tuck is waiting for us in the car,” he says. “The wings are in the trunk.”

You follow him outside, into the mild night. His curls are even curlier when wet. You want to reach out and tug one, watch it spring back into place, but that’s definitely not an appropriate thing to do. You shove your hands in your pocket and squeeze the silica.

“What were you listening to?” he asks.

“Brown noise.”

“Is that a band or a song or…”

“No, it’s like white noise, but softer.”

He nods slowly, eyebrows knitting. “Oh. Huh.”

“There’s also pink noise and black noise, which I listen to at night to sleep. White noise feels like needles in my ears.”

“So you don’t listen to music?”

“I love music,” you say. “But sometimes it’s too much. The arena was loud, and sometimes I need something quiet to reset my brain, you know?”

“I definitely get that. I’m gonna check those out.”

“Will you really?”

Logan looks surprised. “Yeah, I will.”

You meditate on that, trying to figure out how that makes you feel, Logan meaning what he says.

Tucker greets you happily, and says that more’s the merrier when you tell him about Logan’s idea to join their costume. He has a girl named Kayla with him, and they sit in the backseat on the ride over, kissing and giggling. So you sit in the front with Logan, who keeps the radio turned low.

“If you wanna wear your headphones, I don’t mind,” he says.

You don’t, but the offer makes you beam at him.

Before you go inside, Logan gives you a pair of glossy black bird wings to wear. He steps back, smoothing the feathers, and looks at you.

“You look good. Those really suit you,” he says, and you wonder if he means that too. You’re not brave enough to ask.

The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive, which astounds you, considering the game officially ended less than an hour ago. Dean and Beau are at the center of the party, doing shots. Everyone cheers when they finish. Tucker and Kayla go to greet Dean, but Logan hangs back with you. He leans in to talk in your ear.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I don’t like drinking.”

“That’s cool. I’m gonna get a beer. Do you want to come with me?”

You eye the swell of people in the kitchen and grimace. “No, that’s okay. I’ll be here.”

He smiles, dark eyes warm. Your stomach flips. “Okay. Be right back.”

As he goes, you scour the room for food. If you’d known you were going to the party, you would’ve eaten before the game. But you find an untouched plate of pizza rolls, which is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened tonight, besides Logan telling you that you’re friends.

You put three on a napkin and stand to the side, watching people dance. Allie’s in a beautiful green dress, and you see Dean dance with her. Jealousy strikes you—not because you want Dean, but because you wish you were adept at all of this. Dancing, talking, making friends. Making a boyfriend. Going to college. Living. Hannah understands your struggle a little, but even you can see how well she and Garrett are hitting it off, fake relationship or not.

You finish your pizza rolls and fold the napkin, bouncing your head in time to the music. You don’t like parties, but this isn’t so bad, you suppose. It’s certainly reasonable enough to withstand in the name of friendship, and that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?

“Can I refresh that for you?”

You squint at your now empty napkin, where your pizza roll crumbs now lie. Then you look at the guy who asked. He might be a hockey player, you’re not sure. You pretty much only know Logan and Garrett, because Hannah’s your friend. You know Tucker, you suppose, since you’ve now ridden in a car with him. You know of Dean, because it’s impossible to go to Briar U without learning Dean Di Laurentis’ name and seeing his bleach blond head of hair on campus. But you couldn’t pick any other player out of a lineup. 

“It's a napkin,” you say. “It had food, not a drink.”

He holds up his hands and laughs. “Yeah, duh. It was an opener. I wasn’t being literal.”

Opener to what? You don't ask. He keeps talking, evidently not needing you to participate in the conversation.

“I’m Ben Pembroke. I just tried out for the team, but I’m pretty much a shoo-in. My dad played for Briar. Do you come to a lot of games?”

“No,” you say. “I came to this one because Logan asked me to.”

Ben frowns. “Are you together?”

“He drove me here in his car.”

He rolls his eyes. “I mean, are you dating?”

“No,” you say. “I'm not dating anybody.”

His smile returns. It looks wrong on his face. He has nice teeth too, but they don’t look as nice as Logan’s. “Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because.” Ben suddenly creeps a hand up your back. “It means you're available tonight. You're cute.”

You push his hand off. “Don't touch me. I don't like strangers touching me.”

Ben scoffs. “C'mon, enough with the ‘hard to get' act. I get it, you're ‘not like them.’ You're a nice girl. Whatever.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, but whatever it is, I want no part of it. Leave me alone.”

Ben gets closer to you. You flinch. He's tall and he's angry. You think so, anyway. 

“The fuck? You were sending me signals. You want me.”

Definitely angry. You ball up your empty napkin in your fist. You hate arguing. You usually have to get loud to make people take you seriously, and shouting gives you a headache.

“I was not sending you signals,” you say, voice rising. “I don't want anything to do with you. You came over here.”

Ben smiles again, full of ice. “Look, babe, it's cool, okay? None of your nerdy little friends will know we were together.”

“Together for what? Sex?”

Ben winks. You make a noise of irritation. 

“I did not send you sex signals, you creep. I don't like you! Go away!”

Ben reaches for you again. You yell, throwing your napkin on the ground. 

“Get away from me!” People start to look at you. You scream without words, so angry you feel like you might die. “Go away, go away!”

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Ben snaps, but you ignore him. You don’t care what he calls you as long as he leaves.

“Hey.”

Logan’s wings are suddenly in front of you. He glances at you. 

“You okay?” he asks, holding out his hand behind him. He doesn’t touch you—you think his hand might be an offer, if you need it.

You chew the inside of your cheek. You don't feel okay, but you don't know if this is one of those times when you should lie. Sometimes lying makes things easier, but you never know when that is. 

Logan turns back to Ben after you take his hand. “What the fuck, Pembroke? You're harassing women?”

“Man, she wanted me, I swear—”

“I did not send you sex signals,” you shout. “I don't like you!”

Ben's face spasms. Logan puts a hand on Ben's chest. 

“Take it somewhere else. She's not interested.”

Ben flings a finger at you. “But she—”

“Get. The fuck. Out.” Logan's hand curls in Ben's shirt. A warning. Jules said that in one of their videos about Briar’s games. When John Logan touches people and gets in their faces, he “means business.”

Ben scowls at you. Logan steps back so he can block you from Ben's face. 

“Fine. Fucking whatever.”

He stomps away. You squeeze the silica gel so hard, the beads dig into your palm. You fear the packet might burst. Your brain aches with the fight and the anger and anxiety that accompanied it. You promised yourself you wouldn't make a scene like you always do. It's why you can't keep friends, and you brace yourself for Logan to tell you something similar. 

He leans in so you can hear him over the music. “Let's go outside. It's too loud here.”

Relief softens your body, even if Logan’s only taking you somewhere quieter so he can tell you off. “Okay.”

You pick up your napkin and throw it away. Then you follow him to the backyard. It's big too, and you're glad everything is well-lit and marked. It'd be too easy to get lost in this house. Logan takes you to two chairs on the deck where there's less people. Most of the guests are inside since Beau didn't fill the pool.

You sit. People hate it more when you defend yourself, but Logan has to know that you really did try not to make a scene. You care about things that your friends like, and you want to keep Logan as a friend. You like him, especially after tonight. 

“I tried to tell him I wasn't interested in my quiet voice,” you say. “So many times. I didn't want sex. I swear I didn't send him signals, Logan, I didn't even approach him firs—”

“Whoa, hey.” He pushes his hair back, leaning in. “Hey, hey. I know you don't like Pembroke, and you don't have to try to convince me that he started it. He was a total jerk.”

You’re miserable. “People don't like when I use my loud voice, but sometimes they just won't listen to me. I had to.”

“Is it okay if I take your hand?” Logan asks softly. 

You nod. Logan takes your hand in both of his, resting them on his knee. He’s quiet for a moment. 

“You didn't do anything wrong,” he finally says. “When someone is harassing you, you have the right to be as loud as you want. It fucking sucks, and I’m sorry he did that. I’m gonna tell the guys and make sure he doesn’t make the team next year. He’s a shit player anyway.”

You fiddle with the silica gel again. “I wanted to be good at the party. You like parties, and a video I watched about making friends in college said that I should do things that other people like to become their friend.”

“Oh,” he says gently, rubbing your knuckles. “We’re already friends. You don't have to go to any parties to be my friend. Parties are fine, yeah, but they aren't the only thing I like. I'm not Dean.” He rolls his eyes and laughs. 

You smile, pleased to catch onto his joke. “He was dancing with Allie.”

“Yeah, I think we may have witnessed a historical event: Dean Di Laurentis not getting what he wants.”

“Because she didn't kiss him?”

Logan snorts. “Exactly. Look, do you wanna ditch this party and do something else? There's a guest house on the property if you just wanna chill. I would drive you home, but I’m still a little tipsy.”

He's still holding your hand. You like it. You like how rough his palms are, his cool skin against your warmth. You link your fingers with Logan's. He looks down, then looks back up at you.

“I'm hungry, actually,” you say. 

He hums. “Good.”

“How is that good?”

“No, I mean, it's good you're being honest with me and telling me what you want. Don't force yourself to go to any more parties, okay?”

“Okay, Logan. Is there a Taco Bell nearby?”

****

“You’re a genius,” Logan says, his mouth full of Crunchwrap. He chews, then swallows before speaking again. “Taco Bell should be a post-game tradition. Garrett’s a health nut, but I think I could convince him.”

The Taco Bell is only a few blocks away from the house, so you and Logan walked here. He paid for your food even though you have money. He said it was to make up for the shitty party. You told him he didn’t need to do that. He said he wanted to.

“It’s my favorite fast food,” you say, working on your potatoes. You stick a fork into one, then carefully dip one corner in sour cream and the other in the nacho cheese.

“I thought they put the sauces on top,” he says.

“Normally they do, but I ask for them on the side because otherwise all the potatoes don’t get an equal distribution of sauce.”

It’s quiet, and you find Logan staring at you as you chew. You swallow, frowning.

“What?”

He shakes his head, grinning. He does that a lot. “Nothing, just… you’re different.”

“Oh.” You pull your food closer to you, shoulders curling in.

“Not in a bad way! I like it. You know what you want.”

“Not really.” You suddenly remember Allie and Dean dancing. “Or if I do, I don’t know how to get it.”

“I think that’s pretty common,” Logan says, resting his chin in his hand. “I’ve been in that situation plenty of times.”

“What did you do?”

“Hmm.” He takes a long sip from his coke. “Depends on what I wanted. For the most part, I just went for it. No one else is gonna give it to you, you know?”

“I guess so.”

“What do you want?”

It strikes you now that Logan’s eyes are not just brown; they’re speckled gold, like spattered sunlight on tree bark. They’re lovely even in the harsh fluorescent light. He’s like some kind of fantasy novel angel with the wings and his swoopy curls. His lashes are long and thick. He licks his lips, and now you can’t stop staring at his mouth. Your heart starts to pound, the longer he looks at you.

Oh no, you think. Oh no. I don’t want to be his friend. 

Yet another thing you’ve misunderstood. 

“I don’t know,” you say hoarsely. You clear your throat. “I really don’t know.”

“Well,” Logan says. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And whatever it is, it’ll be there for you.”

You can hardly speak. You twirl the silica gel between your fingers. You do that the whole car ride home. Logan leaves the radio on low again. He gets out and opens your door after he pulls up to your dorm. Again, he offers his hand, and again, you take it.

“You look really pretty in those wings,” he says, like he’s telling you a secret, even though he already told you that earlier. He must really mean it. 

It’s just you two here; campus is pretty much dead because almost everyone else is at the party.

“So do you.”

He laughs, and you think you’d really like it if he gave you a hug right now. But you’re not a hugger. You don’t know how to ask for such a thing from John Logan.

“You played really well,” you say.

Logan hums. “Thanks. I’m really glad you came.”

He’s still holding your hand. He squeezes it. 

“Well, um, bye,” you say, letting go.

“Goodnight,” he says after you.

"I came 'cause y'asked me to," he says, leaning in to talk in your ear, wary of potential eavesdroppers. "Now y'wanna kick me out?"

"No," you say, staring at his exposed tattoo of a phoenix on the underside of his forearm. Rising from the ashes, he'd explained. And I'd know about that, wouldn't I?

He wears long sleeves as Hood. You know what a big deal it is to have him come as a civilian with his sleeves rolled up. Presentable, even though no one wants to see my face, he'd told you tonight. Jason came because you wanted a friend, because you hate these work events, and you especially hate gossipy co-workers who have nothing better to do than talk shit about you and speculate on why you didn't come.

"I don't want to kick you out," you add when Jason says nothing else. "It just feels like you want to shoot everyone here."

"Well, that's nothin' new. Anyway, how would you get home if I left?"

"Nothing gets past you."

Jason taps his temple with a finger. "Nope. Steel trap."

"We'll leave soon. I promise."

Jason smiles a little, amused, and cocks his head. "I didn't even say anything. We can stay as long as you want to. Look, I don't know these people. That's why I've been parked here all night. I think it's a little rude if I ditch ya and go mingle."

That is a good point, you must admit.

You sigh. "So I should go talk to people, right?"

He shrugs. "Beats me. I don't work in an office for a reason."

You rise from the table and gulp the rest of your drink. You don't normally drink at these things, but Jason's here. Jason would never let anything happen to you.

"Okay," you say. "I'm gonna be an adult with a job and do a lap."

"Want me to come?"

You consider that, then shake your head. "Not right away. Otherwise we'll never escape. Come find me when I'm talking to Edgar, my manager. He's over there, in the green shirt. I hate his guts. You can interrupt and save me."

"Sure. Throw you over my shoulder Neanderthal-style and jet?"

"You think you're so funny, Red Hood," you mumble, shoving his shoulder lightly. He doesn't budge. He could throw you over his shoulder, no doubt.

"I think I'm hilarious, yeah." Jason grins. "Okay, I'll save ya."

You set off, very bravely, to talk to your co-workers. They aren't all bad. Jenna from your department is cool, and she shows you pictures of her new kitten. Elsie, an elderly accountant, is in a bird-watching group. But then there's Karina, who likes to act like your manager when she's not. She tells you "not to drink too much" and you barely refrain from throttling her. There's also Geoff who thinks he's smarter than he is, and you almost make eye-contact with Jason to signal him to help!

But you don't. You make it to David, who's the head of marketing. He's about your age, and you haven't talked to him much, since you don't work under him, so you're surprised when he approaches you first.

"Hi," he says, smiling. He says your name. "I got that right, yeah?"

You nod. "You did."

"We met at the Christmas party, I remember," David says. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

You muster up as much false excitement as you can. "Yeah! It's great."

He grins. "That's alright, I don't care much for these things either. I won't tell if you won't."

Your shoulders fall, tension ebbing. "I won't tell, no."

"I go because it's expected of me, but I think we could do without. I can't say that these events do much for the morale of the company, or whatever."

"It kills my morale, to be honest with you."

David laughs. He has perfectly straight, white teeth. You think of Jason's smile, and his fanged canines. You both like to joke that he came back as a vampire.

"That's a lovely necklace," he says.

"Thank you." You touch the chain out of habit. "It was a gift."

Jason, again. For your birthday. You were morose over a sold-out Swarovski charm in the shape of a rose that was a near identical copy of a pendant made of emerald, mother-of-pearl, and gold. The original was also a tidy sum, so you would've settled for the slightly less expensive Swarovski charm.

But when you'd opened the gift box, there lay the original on a delicate gold chain.

Jason had insisted it wasn't a big deal, that he could afford it, and please wear it, don't worry about losing it. You refuse to wear it to work but you wore it tonight, knowing he'd like to see it.

"You wear it well." David touches your arm and you're speechless for a moment, realizing he's flirting with you.

"Oh. I, um—"

He retracts his arm. "I'm sorry. Was that too forward of me?"

You think, then shake your head. "No, it's okay. I was caught off-guard, I guess. I'm not used to people hitting on me. Especially not at work stuff."

"Really? I can't imagine why. You're beautiful and extremely competent and intelligent. I saw that presentation you gave on the new software model."

"You watched my presentation?" you ask, surprised.

David nods. "Yes, of course. And I have to say, I thought yours was the most articulated and researched out of everyone's. You ought to have a more central role in research."

"I want to. I initially took this job for that reason, but..." You shrug. "Things change."

"I understand. I didn't want to do marketing, but it's what was available. Luckily, I'm halfway decent at it."

You smile, leaning into him. He smells nice, light and woody. Nothing like Jason's familiar citrusy-cinnamon smell.

Actually, if you focus, you do smell cinnamon. And oranges. That's weird...

"Hiya." You feel a hand rest between your shoulder blades. "Great party."

Jason's suddenly next to you. He taps your back lightly, never taking his eyes off of David. "I need t'borrow you."

Your mouth forms several shapes, trying to land on a question. What are you doing here? But you can't give it away that you were waiting for Jason to swoop in and save you from tonight. You nudge Jason's arm with your elbow. He drops his hand.

"How y'doing?" Jason says, offering his hand to David, who takes it, ever friendly.

"Hello. Sorry, I don't think we've met before."

"No, we haven't," Jason says.

You know the expression on Jason's face. It's the same one he gets when he perceives a threat. You're instantly irritated.

"David, this is my—" you begin.

"Jason."

"Nice to meet you." David glances at you, then back at Jason. "Which division do you work in?"

"I don't work here. I came as a plus-one."

"I see." David clears his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets. He's angled himself away from you. "Well, perhaps I'll see you at work?"

"Uh, yeah." You feel like you missed a step going down the stairs. "Sure. Good night."

"Good night."

Jason holds your bag out. "Ready to go?"

You frown at him. "Why did you interrupt me?"

"What? Y'told me to."

"No, I told you to save me when I was with my manager."

Jason shrugs. "I thought this guy was your manager."

"I specifically said the man in the green shirt! David's wearing a dark suit."

"Sorry. Must've slipped my mind."

You begrudgingly let Jason put your purse on your shoulder. He lets you lead the way out.

"It slipped your mind? Aren't physical descriptions the core of your job?"

Jason laughs. "Look, 'm sorry. 'M not focusing on what people look like the way I would on a case."

You stop and look at him. You're on the street, a few cars away from where Jason parked.

"That's crap, Jay. You're the smartest, sharpest guy I know. You're telling me you forgot 'green shirt'?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling ya. I thought I was doin' you a favor, like y'wanted. He looked like a boss, and you're always going on 'bout how you hate the bosses, so I cut in."

"He isn't my boss, and he's nice. He was... really nice." You huff, yanking your purse strap over your shoulder tighter. "Whatever. It's late anyway."

You get in the passenger seat. Jason starts the car and pulls out of the parking spot. You lean your head on the window, feeling the effects of the day. You worked and then came to this. You're exhausted.

"Wanna sleep at mine?" Jason asks.

You yawn. "Hmm."

"It's closer than your place."

That's true. The bar the company chose is forty minutes away from your apartment, which sucked big-time. You hate driving in Gotham and avoid it when you can. Jason offers to drive whenever you're together.

"I don't know. You annoyed me."

He scoffs. "I annoyed you?"

"You know David wasn't my manager, Jason."

"How many times can I apologize? Y'want me to drop you back off?"

"No, because it wouldn't matter. He liked me, and I liked him, and now he thinks we're... And you were so... Hood-ish. You acted like we were on a job."

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. You keep staring out the window. It feels stupid to fight about this. You don't want to fight. It isn't even about David. It's the fact that Jason won't own up. Jason's always straight with you, just like you are with him. You've never known him to lie so blatantly to you. It's bizarre. It's offensive.

"Okay," Jason says. "The truth is that I interrupted you 'cause I figured this guy was a boss and I knew he was flirting with you, and I thought it was inappropriate and an abuse of power."

You snap your head to look at him. "Jason, that isn't your decision to make. I can decide that for myself."

He nods. "I know. You're right. Again, 'm sorry. It was dumb."

"Really dumb," you say. "Really, really dumb."

"Point taken." He reaches over the console to put his hand over yours. "You can take care of yourself. I know y'can."

"Yeah, I can. I know you see a lot of bad stuff, but I'm fine. If I need help, I'll ask for it. I know I can count on you."

"Always," Jason says quietly.

You pat his hand and let it sit on yours. "Alright. Let's go to your place."

"Yeah?"

"I wanna just collapse into bed right now. Ugh, but I don't have clothes, do I? I think I took the last set home with me."

"You can wear mine, I don't care."

"'Kay." You pull the lever to recline your seat back and close your eyes. "Wake me up when we're there. Or throw me over your shoulder and carry me in."

He'd been furious, convinced that Hood was a bad influence. It'd taken you all but promising you'd continue your father's slimy legacy to talk him down. You can't lose Hood. You detest your father but Red Hood is the only reason you haven't changed your name and moved to an island forever.

The idea that the news will talk for weeks about how you've been seen with your father again after a year makes you ill. Hood knows how much you hate these things, and he'd questioned you about it this morning, asking if you really wanted to go. But you'd waved him off, giving a half-truth about how it would fix things with the man you punched weeks ago.

And that was that.

Hood hovers nearby. There's more security than usual today because of all the diplomats and almost-kings. Hood seems almost more on edge than usual.

You haven't been able to chat with him like you usually do at these events because your father will definitely spot that and decide that you really do need a new bodyguard.

So you sit and wait. Eventually, guests will disperse, and you'll be able to sneak out. For now, you just have to endure it.

Your father approaches with two men flanking him. He crooks two fingers at you, indicating that you should stand. You glare at him, but obey.

"This is my protégé. My only child. I'm so proud." There are blades in his eyes as he smiles at you. A warning. "Come on. I have some people for you to meet."

Resisting will only make things worse. You begrudgingly stand and perform like your father trained you. You don't make rude jokes, don't point out humanitarian crises or tell anyone they'll likely go to hell. You're a good little ambassador's child.

Your father drones on. You find Hood across the room. He waves a little. You smile. That night, after the gala, you'd gone out for burgers and milkshakes. You'd eaten in the town car that brought you to the event, at Hood's insistence that it was safer, but it was nice regardless.

Halfway through your food, you'd decided to turn around and coax Hood to take off his mask and eat. After a lot of reasoning and begging, he did, and you listened to him eat, your back facing him. You yearned to look at him, but you wouldn't do that. You didn't want it to happen that way either.

You think about it now, looking at Hood's eyes. The only reason he doesn't wear his usual helmet is because that would make you more high-profile. Someone could easily target you to get to Hood. A little bit of his identity revealed is good in this case. A promise of trust, of security.

And you love to find his gaze in a crowd.

You connect the dots too late. Maybe you would be less distracted without your father here, maybe not. But when you see Hood run in your direction, it's only then that you realize something is wrong. And that moment, Hood has said, is when it's too late to stop the wrong thing.

Hood lifts his gun, and people shout in alarm as he fires. At the same time, something hot pierces the side of your ribcage. Pain blooms immediately after, the worst pain you've ever felt in your life. You touch the pain to find that the flesh has already been torn through, near your stomach. Blood is quickly flowing.

"Fuck," Hood says, the only word you can make out in a sea of panic. He's in front of you, and you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You stagger forward. He catches you.

"Hurts," you whisper, grasping his elbows and smearing blood on his suit. You look down at the bloody fingerprints you leave. You gasp for air, panic clawing your throat. "Red, please, it hurts so bad."

"I know, I know. I'm so sorry. I gotta put pressure on it, sweetheart, okay? I'm sorry."

Hood presses the wound, and it's like a blade twisting in your ribs. You cry out, unrecognizable to your own ears. You dig your fingers into Hood's arms. You're begging, tears streaming down your face.

"Red, make it stop, please make it stop—"

"I know it hurts, I know, 'm sorry, hold on."

Your legs give out, and Hood lowers you to the ground. You see a man's unmoving body behind Hood, the eyes wide open, blood trickling down his neck. The man who shot you is dead. Hood killed him instantly.

"Hood," you begin, and he shakes his head.

"Don't try to talk, sweetheart, 's okay. Hey. Stay awake, okay?" Hood holds your cheek, and you look at him. Your tongue is bitter with adrenaline and maybe blood, you're not sure.

You want to talk, want to tell him so many things, but all of your words have scattered. The only thing you can say is "Hood." Over and over.

"Hang on, hang on," he says, until his voice is swept into the chaos of everything else. You're frightened without Hood's voice as your tether. You wish you could see his mouth, watch his lips form shapes. You're okay. I've got you.

Your father's face comes into view. He's saying your name, but it's like you're underwater. He's yelling. He pushes Hood, and it jostles you, which makes you cry out in pain.

You slip unconscious, and it's sweet relief. Your last thought is of Hood, and you hope he won't blame himself.

****

When you wake up, your senses are dulled. Vision, hearing, touch, it's all warped. The lights are off, and it's dark outside.

You hate hospitals, even more so at night. The last hospital you were in was the one in which your mother died. You start to cry. You're alone. You've been abandoned. There's not a soul or sound beyond the steady beep of the monitor.

You cry louder and close your eyes, overwhelmed by what you remember and what you don't. Where is he? You feel pitiful, sick with loneliness, probably exacerbated by whatever pain medication you're on.

Arms wrap around you. You smell oranges, spice, black coffee. Your hand curls into his shirt.

"Hey," Hood says, hushed and devastated. "Oh, no, no, sweetheart, don't cry. Please don't cry. 'S alright."

He's half hanging off the bed, tucked into your side as much as he can be. If you weren't crying so hard, you'd ask him to move you over so he could sit properly.

But all you can do is cling to him, your face in his shirt. Your tears slow. You aren't alone. You haven't been alone in a long time.

Hood draws circles on your arm with his thumb, his cheek resting on the top of your head. It's like coming home. You want this always. You want him to take his mask off and hold you every night.

"We think he was after your dad," he says. "The shooter. He has people looking into it."

"I never want to see him again," you whisper. "I only want you, Hood. It'll just be us."

He's quiet for a long minute. Then he speaks. "He asked me to terminate our contract."

The words land like a rock to your chest. You jerk back, looking at Hood. He looks right back. Hood's never been a coward.

"Tell him you won't. I'll talk to him. He's just reacting out of fear."

Hood shakes his head. "I, um, agreed."

"No."

"Sweetheart—"

"No!" you yell, grabbing fistfuls of Hood's shirt. It's clean. No blood. "No, no, no! You can't, please, you can't leave me."

"I failed." The words come out cracked and weak. "I fuckin' failed you. I let exactly what shouldn't have happened, happen. I didn't protect you. You were bleedin'—"

Hood stops short, like he sees you covered in blood now.

"It’s my father's fault," you say desperately. "It's because I was near him. He's cursed. Hood, you saved me. I'm alive because of you. It’s not—"

"And what about next time?" His voice rises. "What if there's two shooters? What if they don't miss your heart?"

"I can't be any safer than I am with you. Hood, please don't go, please—"

He starts to get off the bed, and you turn hysterical.

"No, no, no!" You try following him off the bed. Your legs are weak, and you buckle. Hood catches you before you hit the floor.

"Stay in bed," he says, pained. "Stop it, trouble, c'mon. You gotta heal."

"You're gonna leave me, don't leave," you beg, helpless to do anything but let Hood pick you up and put you back in bed. Still, you cling to him. He weakly tries to pry you off, but you only cry louder.

"I love you," you say, and you watch Hood break, his eyes crumpling.

"You won't," he says, holding your wrists. "You'll forget and forgive me, I promise."

A nurse enters your room with a syringe, and you realize Hood pressed the call button. You can't even stay awake as he leaves.

You thrash as the nurse approaches your IV, and Hood has to hold you still, pressed to his chest, your arms at your sides as the nurse pushes the sedative.

"No," you say, voice shaky, cracked in anguish. "How can you leave me, Red? What am I gonna do now?"

So Pope comes home to you in his room, tied up, and he's horrified at first that his family would do this to you. But then he smells the perfume you still wear, the one he used to buy you when you were going out, and he feels up your soft arms, your hands, your painted fingernails. His resolve starts to fray. You flinch, breathing tensely as he touches you. Your thighs are warm and plush, stomach bunched in rolls where you're folded and hog-tied on his bed.

You're shaking, terrified, and of course Pope feels bad, he's not an animal, but... you're his first and only source of comfort right now. He thought about you in prison, hated how you two broke up. You'd yelled at him to leave you alone. Pope had every intention of doing that, but now you're here, pretty and smelling good and in his bed, and he's a weak man. Everyone's always told him so.

So he sits you up, pulls out your gag, removes the blindfold. He reties you so your wrists are connected to the bedpost instead. You glare at him but you know better than to scream. He tells you he missed you. He just wants a good night's sleep. He hasn't fully slept since before you broke up. Pope got used to sleeping in your bed, your legs around his, and now he doesn't know what to do with himself at night.

But you're here now. You'll keep him in check. He can be good for you. That's what he believes as he presses up against you, feeling your warmth bleed into him. He tucks his face into your chest, an arm and a leg around you. His cock hardens, pushing against your thigh, but he ignores it, and he hopes you will too. "Sorry," he rasps. "Can't help it. Won't fuck you."

All you do is scoff, like you don't believe him. But Pope means it. He won't fuck you if you don't want it. He really can be good. He'll prove it.

"What happened?" you ask as you rush off the elevator. You spot Dana first, who points to Trauma One.

Jack is on the floor. His forehead is bleeding through the gauze he has pressed against it. There's a man in a hospital gown who's on his back, thrashing as Robby and Donnie restrain him while McKay tries to sedate him.

You hesitate just for a moment, about to offer your assistance even though you'd rather just go to Jack. But the medical field is a team sport, and you don't want anyone else to get injured.

"Help Jack," Robby says without looking at you, at the same time Jack says, "I'm fine."

You ignore Jack and help him stand. He's a little wobbly, but he makes a point to not lean on you. You roll your eyes.

"Don't be a martyr. We've got enough of those," you say, sharp with wit even though you're shaking. Jack taught you that. Don't let fear get in the way of being a good doctor, he told you once.

But you've never seen Jack off his feet. Patients don't catch him off guard. He's done this job for nearly double the time you have. You go to him for questions, advice, difficult procedures, and the occasional kind word, when you're wondering why the hell you became a doctor.

"I'm fine," he says, rough and firm. The gauze has fallen, and blood trickles down his temple.

"Jack," you whisper, pleading. "Just let me look at you. I'm scared."

The change is instant. His whole body turns soft. He is just a man. A smart man, a man who's good at his job, but a man nonetheless.

He nods and lets you take him to an empty patient room. You pull the curtain shut as soon as he's sitting on the edge of the bed. You sit on a stool in front of him.

"People might talk," he says, a spark of amusement in his eyes.

"People talk regardless of whether there's something to talk about." You shine the light in his eyes and wordlessly make him follow your finger. Then you put gloves on and feel around his skull.

"Tell me if anything hurts," you say.

Jack crosses his arms, a little indignant. You're annoyed by how endearing you find it. "He surprised me, that's all. Big kid, plays state football."

"Roid rage?" you ask, leaning close enough that you can feel the heat emanating from his body. You clean the cut. It's long but not deep enough for stitches, so you just cover it with gauze.

"Nope. We tested. Not sure what it was. Perfectly sweet kid, but his stats dropped and he freaked out."

"You have a bruise," you say, pressing the apple of his cheek gently. Jack winces.

"Sorry," you murmur. Jack meets your gaze, just a little higher than you on the bed.

"'S okay." He swallows. "Good as gravy."

"Robby's gonna want a CT."

"Robby's a dick."

You snort, pulling off your gloves. "While that may be true, it doesn't stop you from needing a CT. Why don't you sit for a minute and I'll get you some ice for the bruises?"

Jack starts to get up, and you quickly put a hand on his chest. He exhales audibly.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I have an hour left before we hand off to day shift," he says. "Robby came in early 'cause we're short two residents."

Jack tries to push through. You press back harder, keeping him on the bed.

"You're not going back out there, Jack. You could have a head injury."

"I don't. It's a graze. Patient sent the intubation tray flying and the corner caught me. That's it. Head cuts always look worse than they are."

He's holding the side of his thigh. You've only caught glimpses and hints of Jack's pain and the fact that his prosthesis bothers him hours into his shift. You don't bring it up because the conversation won't go anywhere. You know that. You've seen others try to get him to take a break, sit, use a crutch. He brushes them off, pretends not to hear.

In the dimmed light of the patient room, with the curtain around you both, you take Jack's face in your hands.

"What if I stay with you?" you ask.

"Then people will really talk."

You shrug. "So what?"

He watches you. Jack makes you feel hunted in the best way. You're known, you're cared for, and no one can take that away. Now you want to give it back. You've been ready for ages to return Jack's careful warmth.

"Okay," he says, barely a sound. "Fifteen minutes."

"Thank you."

You get up from the stool and sit next to him on the bed, careful not to touch Jack. The chaos in the ER is dulled in here. You turn and study Jack's curls. They're more gray than not. When you first got here, they were coppery with a hint of age. But you love the gray. Sometimes you think too long about Jack's curls, or his crow's feet, or his biceps, and you have to force-quit your brain so you can get back to work.

Right now would be one of those times. But all you can do is stare.

"So how's your night been?" he asks.

You smile. "Not bad, actually. I think you caught my bad luck."

Last week was hell. If there was a bodily fluid expelled, it somehow always landed on you. After your third pair of scrubs, Jack bought you a cheese danish from the cafeteria as compensation. You'd eaten it in your new scrubs, feeling pitiful until he almost kissed you. You were so sure he would, but then he just patted your shoulder and told you to take as long of a break as you needed.

"Oh, great," Jack says, looking at you. "Thanks a lot."

"I didn't, like, cast a spell on you."

He shrugs. "If you did, I forgive you. You're the only one I'd take on bad luck for."

Does he want to get kissed? That's the kind of thing that gets a man kissed behind a curtain.

"Well, feel free to hang onto it for a little longer. I still haven't recovered from last week."

"Last week was rough for you," he agrees. Chen complains sometimes that Jack's too nice to you. You thought he was exaggerating but now you wonder.

He's rubbing his leg again.

"Why don't you take off the prosthesis?" you ask quietly.

Jack stops rubbing, tucks his hands in his lap like he's ashamed. "I don't do that at work."

"I know. It's just me, though. No one'll see." I won't let anyone see.

You don't often know what Jack Abbot is thinking. He's good at keeping cool. But right now, you see the worry, the embarrassment. Now you know he has needs, and that he feels pain.

"It's okay, Jack," you say, and let the invitation hang.

You've shown him your belly, the most vulnerable, tender, animal part of you, on the worst shifts of your life, when you dream of falling asleep and never waking up. When you see people on their worst days, when people die on their worst days, it's hard not to want to follow. And Jack has caught you every time, let you cry in his car, on his shoulder, whispering, You're a good doctor. You're a good person. You're good.

Jack rolls his scrub leg up and releases the prosthesis. It makes a quiet suction sound. He lays it on the stool.

You get up and search the medicine drawers for a heat pack. You activate it and return to the bed and sit.

"Can I...?" You hesitate, wondering if this is too much, if you'll scare him away.

Jack licks his lips. He's thinking about running, and you wonder when you got so good at reading his face.

He rolls his scrub leg higher, folding it enough times so it stays put. Permission. You rest the heat pack on his thigh and rub the muscle. Jack shudders.

"Okay?" you ask, and he nods, eyes closed. His breathing is heavy.

"Damn it," he says, swallowing hard and looking at you, eyes wide.

"What's wrong, Jack?" you ask, voice low. You get a little bolder and cup the back of his head, finally burying your fingers in his curls like you've always wanted to. He makes a quiet noise in his throat.

Jack shakes his head. "You don't have to."

"I'm not here out of obligation." You could kiss him right now. You're close enough. But you have to wait. "I'm not here as a doctor. I want to be here. Do you want me to be here?"

These days, Jack probably only gets human contact if he's hurt. Except he doesn't let people see him hurt.

He looks at your lips. You take that as an answer.

The kiss is brief. A press of mouths, a scratch of stubble against your cheek. Jack's skin is hot, and you'd worry he has a fever if you didn't know that he runs warm.

You pull back first, just an inch. Less, even. The question is clear. More?

He has to want it for himself. He has to want to exhale in relief when you touch him with your bare hand.

Renee Harper is the defenseman for the Newport Archers, which is the team that New York is playing against tomorrow night. She is also the ex-girlfriend of one Jay Todd, an ex you heard about years ago. You even met her a couple of times when you visited Jay.

They started dating in their sophomore year, and when Jay mentioned seeing a woman, you were happy for her. The two of you weren't as close then, being at different schools, but Renee was an easy enough topic at the time. You were keen to be a confidant again, and it wasn't anything more than friendly conversation for you.

But now it feels different, especially after knowing how long Jay was in love with you. The fact that a woman was able to break through Jay's crush on you to have a lengthy relationship stirs up feelings you never thought you'd have. Seeing her tonight with Jay is even worse.

It's not fair of you to feel that way, but whoever said jealousy was fair?

If memory serves you right, Jay had graduated, moved back to Gotham, and never mentioned Renee again. It hadn't occurred to you to ask what happened and whether Renee had been signed onto a team. You were happy you and Jay were close again, and you'd assumed the relationship hadn't been a big thing if Jay never brought it up.

The way they're engrossed in conversation right now tells you your instincts were mistaken.

Now you wish you had asked, if only to prepare yourself for the possibility that Jay, having dated a talented hockey player, might very well run into said player again during her career.

You sulk at the hotel bar, nursing a ginger ale. You came down from your room after Jay did, ready to go out to dinner since she and Shauna would be tied up for the next two days. But then you saw her with Renee and you parked your butt into a stool instead, eyes sharp.

Renee is beautiful—Jay Todd attracts strikingly beautiful women. You're not sure if you fit into that category, but you did okay before her, so you figure you must be decent enough.

But Renee is beyond gorgeous. Her red hair is shorter, cut into a shag. She's in a cropped tank top with wide straps that show off her tattooed arms. The green dragon on her right arm is especially cool. She has a silver ball piercing under her eyebrow, and she matches Jay in height.

A year ago, if you were alone at a bar and Renee Harper approached you, you'd probably be equally as giggly as Jay is right now.

Renee leans in to whisper something in Jay's ear. Jay laughs, loud and unrestrained. You sink deeper in your seat, hunched over your empty glass.

"Hey."

You turn to see Shauna, who's less put together than usual. Immediately, you feel a twinge of sympathy.

"Hey, Shauna. Did you eat something?"

She shrugs. "Ordered room service a few hours ago. Then I facetimed Marcy."

You pat her arm as she sits down. "I'm gonna go eat soon. Wanna come with?"

She smiles a little. "Sure, thanks. Where's Jay?"

You can't help the scowl that splits your mouth. You flick a hand in Jay's direction. "See for yourself."

Shauna follows your hand, and her eyebrows shoot up. "Is that Renee Harper? Oh, wow."

"Yeah, great. I love watching my girlfriend-slash-best-friend get flirted with by her hot hockey ex. Really wonderful feeling."

"Jay is nothing but loyal to you," Shauna says seriously.

"I know." And you do know that.

But there's a part of you that worries anyway. How much easier would it be for Jay to date another player? To date someone who has so much in common with her? Who's more experienced in dating women, certainly, and who probably can field a semi-public relationship better than you can.

Not to mention that Renee is, well, hot. You have eyes. She exudes an easy confidence you wish you had. And she really rocks those tattoos. You can acknowledge the physical element to the attraction.

"Hey, they broke up for a reason," Shauna says. "They both had growing up to do. Just not the right time. Jay was devastated, but it had to happen."

"I had no idea." Why wouldn't Jay say anything?

Now you're more scared. How appealing would it be to be approached by the ex you struggled to get over and for them to tell you that they were wrong to let you go, that they're different now, and they're ready to fully commit to you?

"I'm going over there," you say, sliding off the stool. "Be right back."

Shauna says your name, but you ignore her, already walking with purpose across the bar. Renee spots you first, and she watches, expression mild, as you slide into the booth next to Jay.

"Hi," you say, a little too loud. You hold Jay's arm with two hands, like you can physically keep Renee from taking her.

Jay lights up, kissing your head. Her hand slips to your back. "Hi, baby. Ren, this is—"

"Her girlfriend," you interrupt. "Rachel, is it?"

Renee presses her lips together, like she's trying not to laugh. "Renee, actually, but that's okay. Call me whatever you want. Nice to see you."

A quick glance at Jay tells you that she's bewildered, but you push on. You're not letting Renee swoop in without a fight.

"Right. Are you a hockey player, Renee?"

"I sure am. I play for Newport." She glances at Jay. "We're gonna kick your ass, by the way."

"Yeah, you can give it your best shot," Jay says with that cocksure attitude that usually weakens your knees and makes you want to maul her. But there's no time for that tonight.

"Okay, well, I'm hungry." You look at Jay. "So is Shauna. We want to go out."

"Shauna's here?" Renee asks.

Jay nods. "Yeah, we were transferred together, if you can believe it."

Renee laughs. "You two are like kittens in a box! Remember in sophomore year, you guys—"

"No way, you swore y'wouldn't mention that again. Y'swore, Ren," Jay says, shaking her head.

That makes Renee laugh harder. "But it's such a good story! And then the night after, you had a—"

"Renee, it was really so nice to meet you, but we should be going." You look urgently at Jay. "Shauna needs company."

"Well, Renee can come. She and Shauna should catch up," Jay says.

Your eye twitches. "I think the table might feel a little crowded."

Jay blinks at you. "Wh—"

"Hey, it's fine. Rain check. Some of the girls wanted to go out anyway, and I said I'd be their designated driver," Renee says.

Jay snorts. "You've never been a designated driver in your life."

Renee winks. You bristle. "Told you I've changed. I meant it." She puts her hands together like a prayer, pointing them at you. "Enjoy the game. Happy you two figured things out."

You deflate slightly. So she both remembers you and knows about Jay's longtime crush. Clearly, not much ruffles her. "Um, right. Thanks."

Renee stands and claps Jay on the shoulder. "See you on the ice. Give me a hard time, yeah? I like a challenge."

"You'll be wishing you said otherwise when we win," Jay says, watching her go.

You exhale as Renee leaves. Finally. You look around to see where Shauna has wondered off to. "Shauna said she wanted tacos. I think at the very least we could find her some half decent—"

"Nuh-uh. Up."

You stop, blinking. "Huh?"

Jay lifts her chin, saying your name. "Outta the booth. We need to talk."

"About what?"

Sweat prickles your neck. You thought maybe Jay would let you get away with your little display. She's famously permissive when it comes to you. The night they won Nationals, Marcy drunkenly told you that Jay's pussy-whipped for eternity, and Jay turned crimson. You kissed her silly for it.

She looks at you sternly now, like you're an unruly teammate she has to go Captain on. "Y'know what. Let's go."

"Shauna's waiting for us."

"So tell her we'll catch up with her in a bit."

It's a different feeling, your girlfriend getting mad compared to your best friend getting mad. Jay is never so firm with you. Cowed, you get up and go to Shauna.

"Um, we'll be right back," you say awkwardly.

Shauna nods, sipping on what looks like a mai tai. "Yeah, no kidding. I'll order an appy. Godspeed."

You feel queasy as you spot Jay, who's waiting for the elevator. You board it with her. An older couple follows you, and Jay holds the door for them. They smile at her and say hello. She smiles back. You'd eat your shoe for her to smile at you right now.

"What floor?" Jay asks, hand briefly resting on your back as she leans over you to press the buttons.

"Six, please," says the man.

Some tension ebbs out of you at the touch. So Jay isn't mad enough not to touch you. That's good. But she's not calling you her usual pet names either. Danger signs.

The couple gets off first. It's two more agonizing floors, then you follow Jay to your room. It isn't until you're inside and the door has shut that she speaks.

"So what was that?" she asks.

You sit on the bed. Jay's unbuttoning her dress shirt. She had to talk to the press earlier at the stadium and dressed accordingly. You told her this morning how pretty she looked, how you wanted her to be late and give you a fashion show, and she'd blushed and let you feel her up before deciding she really needed to go. That seems like a million years ago now. Your stomach twists.

"I really don't know what you mean, Jay."

She nods, undoing her belt. You shift on the bed, feeling pinned even though she isn't looking at you.

"Fine. You were bein' rude to Renee."

You cross your arms. "I'm supposed to, what, roll out the red carpet for your ex-girlfriend?"

She laughs humorlessly. "So you do remember her. Almost got me with that Rachel business."

"Yes, I remember her, Jay. I remember that you two dated for a while, despite you having big, ginormous feelings for me. I guess she was pretty great if she made you forget your crush."

Jay stops, shirt unbuttoned, tank top still on. "Now how is that fuckin' fair—"

"I'm not saying you couldn't date anyone! Of course not. I'm just saying that you and I are dating now, and you two were talking for a really long time. She was whispering in your ear and touching you and—"

"Were you spyin' on me?" Jay asks. "How long were you down here?"

"That's not the point."

She approaches the bed, standing over you, brows furrowed. "No? What is the point? You thought I was gonna sleep with Ren and forget six months plus ten years of you and me? Just like that?"

You throw your hands up. "No, I didn't! I know you wouldn't cheat on me, Jay. But she was being so—"

"She was just friendly. She didn't come onto me once. And I'd know if she did."

You pull your legs up onto the bed. "She's gorgeous, Jay. She's on a major team. You have history. I got scared."

"Y'had no right to barge in like that. This isn't gonna work if you can't trust me."

Acidic fear seizes your throat. You grab her hands. "No, honey, I do trust you. Jay, I do. Please don't think I don't. You just seemed so comfortable together. I kept thinking, 'what if Renee convinces you that you'd make it work this time?' Shauna said it was just the wrong time. Now you're a major league player and older and more yourself."

Jay bows her head, sighing. Then she kneels in front of you.

"I never told you why we broke up," she says.

You shake your head. "No. I didn't ask because you didn't say anything."

"You're right, I didn't. I couldn't. It happened a week after you visited for spring break. 'Member that? We drove down to the shore with some of the hockey girls."

"Sure, I do." You never said so, but you'd been terrified the entire semester you'd lose Jay permanently. It had seemed like the distance between you, physical and otherwise, was too great. "I loved that week. It felt like we were best friends again, after so long apart. You were doing so well on the team and we texted less and less... I thought you'd get big in hockey and leave me behind."

She makes a soft, wounded noise. "No, I wouldn't have."

"I'm sorry. It was my old, dumb insecurities creeping up tonight," you say, hugging yourself, eyes hot. "I'm sorry, Jaybee."

Jay gently pulls your arms apart and climbs onto the bed. You move to make room, but she follows you, so you're scooted in close to each other.

"Renee broke up with me because I couldn't fall out of love with you," she says quietly. "I was so wrapped up in you the week you visited, I was barely a girlfriend to her. I thought since we were at different schools and we hadn't talked much at all, it'd be awkward enough that my feelings wouldn't be a problem." She laughs. "Fat fuckin' chance. Everything came rushing back. God, I missed you so much."

"Oh," you say, throat thick. "I ruined it. I'm sorry."

Jay pets your cheek, frowning. "No, baby, what're you talkin' about? They were my feelings. It wasn't fair to Ren, and that's why we broke up. Wasn't your fault. And guess what? Turned out to be fuckin' worth it."

She's nudging you onto your back and you let her, your arms going around her neck. Jay kisses you and you kiss back eagerly, desperate to tell her how sorry you are.

"You have me," she says against your skin, like she can read your mind. "Pretty girl. Couldn't be anyone but you."

You press your cheek to hers, hugging her tightly. Her soft curls tickle your chin. "Touch me, Jay. Please touch me. I'm sorry. I was so terrible downstairs."

Jay hushes you, pulling your pants down, then your underwear. She rubs your bare hip, cradling the small of your back.

"No, sweetheart. Y'weren't." Jay plays with your folds, lightly flicking your clit. You squirm and wrap your legs around her. You need her to be as close as possible. "A little bratty, but..." She's smiling.

You're getting wet. You kiss her neck, slipping a hand under her tank top to palm her breast.

"Well, it seemed like she didn't know we're together," you say petulantly. It peters into a moan.

Jay raises a brow. "Y'think I didn't bring you up first chance I got? Tell her what a spectacular girlfriend you are, how sweet and gentle and smart you are? How you take care 'f me? And then there you are, pawing at me, snarling at her. Surprised y'didn't hump my leg too."

"I wasn't that bad," you say, cheeks hot for a different reason. Jay's never spoken to you like this before.

"No? Jealous You can get real snippy."

"I was polite."

She rubs your clit harder, and laughs. The sound makes you wetter. "Yeah, sure."

Jay pushes one finger into you, then another. You tighten, and she pulls back slightly to look at you, rubbing your stomach, your ribcage, your breasts, in an effort to get you to relax. You do, and she curls her fingers the way you like so much. Already, Jay's memorized your body and the way it responds to her.

"I've never been like that with anyone," you say, stuttering. "Really, I don't—it's so silly now—oh, Jay, oh God—"

You clench. She holds the side of your thigh and squeezes.

"All puffed up over little ol' me," she rasps, gently biting the shell of your ear. "The most beautiful girl in the world thought I could ever have eyes for anybody else."

"Renee is pretty." Your voice is nearly a whine. Jay's fucking you in long, sure strokes. "I'm not... you know, I'm not a hockey player or—"

"Quit that," Jay says, holding your hip tightly. You look at her, feeling dazed. She's like an angel over you, her black curls dangling over her forehead. "No competition. It's you over everyone, always."

"You're mine," you say, small and needy. "Right?"

She kisses you again and again. "Yours," she says into your mouth.

"I love you," you say, pleading. Your peak is near, curling your spine. "I love you. I trust you."

"Fuck," Jay grunts, pressing you harder into the mattress. "Love hearing that. Dreamt you'd say it like this for years. I love you too, sweetheart."

Missed you this week.

You type back almost immediately. i missed you too

Briefly, you consider sending something a little stronger. I missed kissing you. I missed pressing your bruises. But you think that might be a little much, even for a guy who beats the shit out of people for half a living.

There's no response for almost an hour, which, admittedly, does make you spiral, to your shame. You should be studying for your medical exams on top of everything, so anxiously checking your phone is really at the bottom of your to-do list.

Then your phone dings. You nearly fall out of your chair to get it from the table.

Do you have exams soon?

You should wait to respond. Pretend you have dignity.

You make it ten minutes.

sorta, in about three months is the big one. but i have an in class exam next week :p

It's not nearly as long of a wait for Jason's next text.

Wow. Yeah, I don't miss college. I don't know if I could handle science exams.

He's still typing, so you wait.

Can I bring you anything to help? Food, maybe?

"I'd eat you," you mutter as you type back.

oh gosh no that's okay! you're working today right? i wouldn't wanna put you out

You aren't, comes the simple reply. And then, a minute later: I want to see you. I feel guilty about distracting you from becoming a super awesome doctor though. This is me trying to find a compromise. Lol.

i want you so bad, you type, then quickly delete, stunned by whatever spirit possessed you last Friday after the match.

What is it about Jason, really? It's not just the muscles or the height or the streak of gray in his hair that Connor calls him grandpa for. It's not just that Jason defended you or that he invited you to sit with him.

Maybe it's the fact that you feel comfortable enough to text first. You've never done that before.

you're really sweet, you type. i like that cuban place by city hall. their pernil is so good

A few minutes pass. You get a notification for thirty dollars sent to you from Jason's number. You quickly type.

was that an accident? lol

No, comes the reply. For the food. To order.

You're immediately disappointed. Didn't he say he wanted to see you? You scroll up to check. Yes, there it is.

i thought you said you wanted to see me

Bubbles. Gone. Bubbles again. Gone again. Bubbles for... a while.

You want me to come over?

"Duh," you say. well yeah that's what i thought you were angling for! lol

I would never angle for anything like that. That's presumptuous.

You have to take a few deep breaths before responding. Then you send your address.

I'll be there in about twenty minutes. Okay?

You let out a little squeal. sounds great! i'll send the money back

Don't worry about it.

Jason arrives in just under twenty minutes. You see him pull up outside your apartment building on his bike. He parks, a backpack slung over his shoulders containing what you assume is your food.

The buzzer rings. You force yourself to answer it at a leisurely pace.

"Hi," you say, pressing the call button.

"Hey, it's Jason. Can I come up?"

"Of course you can," you say, and press the button to let him in.

It isn't long before there's a knock at your door. You open it.

Jason takes up most of your doorway, but he hunches like he's hyper-aware of it. You step aside to let him in. He's in a black t-shirt that says Gotham Knights and light-wash jeans. You realize you've never seen him in jeans.

"I also got us some guava-cheese empanadas," he says. "I don't know if you eat those, but they're really good, I swear."

"I like them," you say.

You stand there, taking each other in—Jason at your door, you before him. You take a step towards him. He watches you, utterly still, like you're the only thing in the universe.

"Y'sure I'm not distracting you?" he asks.

You shake your head. "Not at all. You can help me study."

He nods. "I will."

You slink around him and close the door by leaning on it, looking at him. "Eat first?"

You'd rather kiss him first, but this is all so new. You don't send your address and ask for food in the name of studying. But you like Jason. A lot.

"Yeah, definitely," Jason says. "Plates?"

"Top right cabinet."

You watch him navigate your kitchen. He listens so easily.

"Jason," you say, light and almost musical, like you're singing his name. You follow him into the kitchen.

His head is hidden by the cabinet door. He peeks around. "Yup?"

You brace yourself against the counter. "Can you do something before you plate the food?"

"Sure, what's—" He cuts himself off as you approach. He swallows.

"Again," you say, and Jason knows.

This kiss isn't quite so desperate, but Jason holds you like he's been in agony since you parted last week. You sigh happily against his mouth.

When you pull back, he says, "Roy told me t'kiss you when I came over, but I didn't wanna assume."

"Roy?"

Jason nods. "Mmhm. Texted him the whole time you texted me. Didn't know what to say."

requests are currently: open

༘⋆ 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬:

jason todd (and all of my variants of him, including fem!jay), dc

john carter, er

jack abbot, the pitt

baran al-hashimi, the pitt

dennis whitaker, the pitt

steve harrington, stranger things

༘⋆ 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙪:

hope you’re hungry! send a menu item to specify what genre you want.

ᯓ★ 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐝 - a crowd favorite! send for fluff.

ᯓ★ 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 - sweet and salty. send for angst with a happy ending.

ᯓ★ 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 - sour and tart (but we love it!) send for angst without a happy ending.

ᯓ★ 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 - hearty and filling. send for hurt/comfort.

ᯓ★ 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐤𝐞  - decadent and rich. send for smut/suggestive.

༘⋆ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲:

it’s not a picnic without some fun activities afterward! send an activity to specify a trope.

❀ 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 - the perfect icebreaker to get to know a guest. send for a first date/meet.

❀ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 - oh no, save the picnic! send for either the reader or the character to get injured.

❀ 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞 - soak up a few rays, feel the breeze. so quiet and intimate. send for washing/bathing a character/reader.

❀ 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐧𝐚𝐩 - hey, we’ve got time. rest a while. send for someone to accidentally fall asleep.

❀ 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞-𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 - feeling competitive? send for rivals to lovers.

❀ 𝐝𝐨 𝐚 𝐩𝐮𝐳𝐳𝐥𝐞 - we can have fun without making it a race. send for friends to lovers.

❀ 𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐚𝐤𝐞 - are you serious? without asking? send for a fight between you and a guest (no promises it’ll be resolved!)

❀ 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 - did they catch you looking? send for mutual pining.

❀ 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 - i won’t tell anyone if you won’t. send for a touch-starved character/reader to receive the comfort they so dearly need.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𝙨𝙖𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙩

sample request: "hi! can i please request jack abbot + pickle spears + eat the last piece of cake."

or "dearest darlingest sanne, i would like to request steve harrington + potato salad + hold hands, maybe where steve is lonely in his parents' house and reader starts staying over and it turns into them sharing a bed."

you can add a little detail if you want to, like in the second one, but not so much that you've written out the story for me lol

you can request female reader or gn!reader. i don't write male readers. i also don't write familial relationships.

༘⋆ 𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙪𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙛𝙛:

while i work on requests, send me other asks! i love chatting with you guys :)

ʚɞ 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 (𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲) - i’ll tell you why i love being mutuals with you <3

ʚɞ 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞, 𝐦𝐚𝐧 - recommend me a song, book, or show/movie to try

ʚɞ 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰? - send me a fun fact about anything

ʚɞ 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 - send me a fic rec or a favorite fic author or fandom artist of yours. spread the love!

ʚɞ 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐬 - tell me which fic of mine is your favorite

ʚɞ 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲, 𝐢’𝐦 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 - tell me about your day, something fun you did recently, an accomplishment you’re proud of

ʚɞ 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 - send me a picture of your pet

He's not listening to the patient in front of him: an elderly Mr. Webber, who's complaining of tinnitus and throat pain. Carter should really be ordering tests and sticking a popsicle stick down the guy's throat, but he's suddenly narrowed his focus to nothing except you and Dale fucking Edson.

Edson is, presumably, whispering slimy nothings in your ear, like how he sheds his skin every night before he sleeps. Carter doesn't know. What he does know is that he doesn't want to see you within ten feet of Edson.

Now it's not like Carter has dibs on you. That's demeaning and outdated—this is the nineties for God's sake! Carter has an ear pierced, except he's terrified to actually wear the little silver hoop at work or, Heaven forbid, in front of Gamma. The hole will probably close at this rate.

...But, like, earrings and gender pay gaps aside, Carter does sort of have dibs on you, okay? You've been friends since his MS3 year. You're a second-year intern in the ER, and unlike Maggie, you don't purposely hand off interesting cases to Anna. In fact, you seem to show Carter a little preference, though he's never had the guts to confront you about it.

You do nearly everything together, now that he thinks about it. Carter doesn't spend this much time with anyone else, even in the ER. You've pulled each other through exams and grueling late shifts. You let Carter stay at your apartment after Dennis Gant's death, even though he kept waking you up with his guilty nightmares, and you stayed with him for a week after you broke up with your ghoulish, long-time ex-boyfriend.

He wouldn't be here without you, honestly. Mark has said multiple times that you're joined at the hip. When Susan left for Arizona, Mark told Carter not to make the same mistake he did and wait.

And here Carter is, waiting. Like a coward.

It's not entirely his fault. When you met, Carter didn't really think about how pretty you were. It was a passing thought, sure, because he has eyes and a brain, most days. But Benton was breathing down his neck, and then he met Harper, who he liked alright, even after she slept with Doug.

And you were a constant through it all, but by the time Carter realized how fantastic you are, and how much he'd like to kiss you for it, you'd been friends for three years.

Now he's terrified of ruining the first solid friendship he's had since high school. So he just pines and wilts and worsens his crush. It's great. Carter loves his life.

"Hey!" Mr. Webber's voice is raspy. It sounds painful to speak. "Son, are you going to examine me or what?"

"Yes, Mr. Webber, of course I am." Carter gives him a quick, rubbery smile and gets to work.

The examination is muscle memory because Carter's a good doctor, as previously established. He's pretty sure it's nothing. Mr. Webber probably has the flu or something similarly trivial. Carter’s seen three of these cases today alone—he was banished to Curtains twice by Mark, who's in the worst mood ever today.

Okay, now Edson's touching your arm. He's also standing way too close. Carter should be able to comfortably stand between you and Edson, but with how close Edson is, Carter doesn't think he could squeeze a leg in.

Mr. Webber loudly clears his throat.

Right. Hospital. Patients.

"Open your mouth, Mr. Webber, let's take a look." Carter pushes the tongue down and peers in—hang on, is Edson giving you his number? No fucking way.

"What the hell?" Carter mutters.

"Wha' rah?" Mr. Webber asks.

"Oh, uh, nothing." Carter swabs his throat and secures the sample. "I see some redness and swelling so I'm gonna run this swab and see if you have an infection. In the meantime, lie back and relax."

Carter’s already up and walking to you before his patient can make a sound. Edson is gone, thankfully, but Carter doesn't like how normal you seem. Dealing with Dale Edson is like eating a bowl of cornflakes and cactus thorns. You should look a little queasy, at the very least.

"Hey," he says, leaning over the nurses' station so he's not looming over you. Absently, he fills out the paperwork to get Mr. Webber's swab analyzed.

You smile. You're always smiling when you talk to him. "Hey yourself. How's it going in Sore Throatland?"

Carter blows out a breath. "It's awesome. I love diagnosing the flu four times a day."

"Yeah, with stats like that, you should've become a PCP."

"Or I should've stayed in surgery." Carter draws shapes on the desk as you fill out your chart. "Hey, speaking of—I saw you talking to Edson earlier."

"Oh, yeah. They sent him down for a consult because Benton was busy. I don't know—I don't think my patient needs surgery, but Edson insists she does."

"Don't listen to him," Carter says instantly. "Trust your gut. Surgeons always want to cut."

You laugh. "Is that coming from a reformed ex-surgical intern, Dr. Carter?"

"Absolutely. I know how those jackasses think, 'cause I used to be one."

"'Used to' implies you're no longer a jackass," you say coyly, leaning in to meet his eye. Carter loves it when you tease. He also kind of hates it because he knows he's an easy blusher around you, but so far, you don't seem to have noticed.

"It's a multi-step process. I'm making amends by diagnosing all the sore throats in Chicago."

You squeeze his arm. Carter tries to get closer. He'd climb over the desk, but he thinks maybe that would lack subtlety.

"Yes, John, you're very noble. More than Edson, anyway. As soon as he finished the consult, he asked me out. I couldn't even take a breath, he was so fast."

Carter’s heart drops to his ass, but he minds his face. If there's one thing the Carters are good at, it's maintaining cool expressions. Plus, you called him John. You don't usually, but it's a win when you do.

"Did he?"

"Yup." You return the chart to the stack. "He mentioned you, too. Asked if we were dating. When I said no, he asked me out."

Oh, Carter’s gonna kill him. For real this time.

You start to walk away. Wait, where are you going? Don't you see that Carter's in crisis?!

He follows you down the hall, where you check on your sleeping patient who came in with shoulder pain so bad, you had to give her morphine. You check her pupils.

Carter can't stand the suspense. "Well, what'd you tell him?"

"Hm?" You pull your stethoscope to your ears. "Oh, I said I'd think about it. Mrs. Terhune? Can you hear me?" You press the diaphragm to her chest.

Mrs. Terhune hums sleepily, opening her eyes. She seems to be a lot more comfortable than she was before. The thing about you is that Carter might be a good doctor, but you've got the magic touch. There's no unruly patient you can't handle, and maybe that's also why Carter’s stuck on you.

He sits in a stool across from Mrs. Terhune, so he can see your face. "You said you'd think about it? What's there to think about?"

You blink, surprised, and remove the stethoscope from your ears. "You don't think I should go out with him?"

"Hell no!" Carter says before he can think about it. "The guy's a jerk. He punched me last year, remember?"

You gently tuck the sheet around Mrs. Terhune and tell her in a hushed voice to go back to sleep. Then you take Carter's arm, and he's helpless to do anything but follow. You return to the hall and check the x-ray station to look for Mrs. Terhune's films.

Right. Carter has to stop the end of the world. "I only pushed him because he taunted me about that patient who died. Edson's a Grade A asshole. You can't be that desperate for a date. There's better options out there, trust me."

"I remember," you say, sliding the films out of the envelope and sticking them against the light. "I also remember you slammed him against a locker first. Does that look like a normal fracture? She told me her kid accidentally dropped a toy on her shoulder."

Carter peers at the film. "For the amount of pain she was in? No way. The bone is practically shattered. You think she's lying?"

You shake your head. "No, she brought her sister, who confirmed it. I didn't suspect the sister or anything. I think she might have a tumor."

Carter nods. "I can call for a scan."

"Oh, thanks, but I have to get a scan for another patient anyway." You touch his arm as you turn off the screen light and take your films. "So what's this about Dale? I never knew you to have such strong opinions about who asks me out."

You've stopped writing your chart. Now you're looking at Carter with unbridled curiosity.

"Oh, really? Like who?"

Like me. The words get stuck in his throat. Carter clears it, then shrugs, losing his momentum immediately.

"I dunno. Just... no surgeons."

"A third-year resident from cardiology asked me out last week. Rothstein."

Rothstein actually isn't that bad, but all Carter can think about is Gary Rothstein getting first look at you in your date attire, which consists of an open neckline and that sweet, floral perfume you only wear on special occasions. When you come home from dates that don't go anywhere, Carter smells that perfume for days after. It follows him into the hospital, and he smells you even when you're not there.

"He's kinda older than you, isn't he?"

You nod. "Yeah, he's seven years older. I turned him down. I felt like we had nothing in common. He likes to fish. What do I know about tackle line?"

"Exactly, you should go out with someone who has shared interests. And who's, uh, close in age."

Carter’s eight months older than you, but who's counting, right?

"That's very good thinking, John." Your voice is soft like powder. There you go again. John. "Do you have someone in mind?"

Carter fidgets. He can't think when you call him John. Usually, you do it because you want something, and somehow, you've figured out that if you call him John in that lilting, sugary tone, Carter will bend over backward for you.

It's very inconvenient. Carter is doing absolutely nothing to solve it.

"Um... no, I don't. Sorry. No one decent comes to mind."

"Really? No one in all of County General? That's rough. I have to get prednisone. Come with?"

Maybe Carter needs to be put down. It would be more merciful than the way he follows you around and smells phantom traces of your perfume.

As if you have to ask. Carter’s on your heels, following you to the pharmacy. He hovers next to you as you search the disorganized shelves for prednisone. He's staring—he knows he is. He's tracing the tip of your nose, your mouth, your neck. You're wearing the sweater he gave you for your birthday last year, which also isn't helping things.

"Can you check up there?" You push onto your tiptoes, but you can't see the highest shelf. Carter easily checks, secretly preening over his height. That's one thing Dale Edson doesn't have. And Carter knows you like tall guys.

"Yeah, here it is." Carter gives you the prednisone.

You sigh. "Who put it all the way up there? Honestly. Thank God for your height, Carter. I have to keep you with me every time I get meds."

Keep me forever, Carter thinks, watching you sign out the medication. You brush past him, warm against his front. He has to shove his hand in his coat pocket so he doesn't touch your back out of instinct.

"So, no ideas?" you ask, walking away with Carter two steps behind.

"Ideas?"

"Of a date, silly! I haven't gone out with anyone in a year."

Carter knows. He thought he was being smart, trying to nail the timing of when to ask you out. He's come to terms with the fact that it has nothing to do with timing. He's just scared. You scare the hell out of him.

"And you really want to find a date here?" he asks. "I-I mean, it just seems like there's no good options."

That makes you pause, tilt your head. "You know what? You're right! I shouldn't date a doctor." You snicker. "You'd think I'd know better, being one."

Carter's mouth fills with cotton. "Wh–huh?"

You look at him, your eyes bright. "Carter, you make such a good point. The schedules, the egos, the dull conversation. You're right! I should look elsewhere. My friend is a teacher. She's been trying to set me up with her coworker. I should just let her."

Your pager beeps. Carter’s immediately filled with dread.

"Oh, right! Kerry wants to meet with me about a study she's doing. I have to drop this off too." You lift the prednisone. "Thanks for the assist. I'll see you later, okay?"

You squeeze his shoulder and disappear to the elevators. Carter watches you go.

Well, fuck.

****

"Was that Dale Edson I saw you talking to earlier?"

You and Carol are tending to a little boy who fell off his bike. You're doing the suture on his left arm; she's preparing his cast on the other.

You roll your eyes. "Talking is a generous word for it. He basically accosted me in the hallway to ask me out, and I could barely get in enough words to reject him. He seems to have hallucinated my interest in smarmy surgeons. Any pain, Trevor?"

Trevor, your very brave patient, shakes his head. "No. Can I get a lollipop after this?"

Carol smiles at him. "You can have two. How does that sound?"

Trevor nods, pleased. Carol turns back to you.

"Well," she begins, and you know what's coming next. "I also saw how fast Carter confronted you about it. That is what he was doing, isn't it?"

You shrug. "I guess so. I don't know, Carol. I can’t get a read on him. He followed me around for like a half hour after that."

"So you were torturing him as usual. Got it."

"I was not! I don't know how much more obvious I can be. I asked him for his suggestion on who in the hospital I should date."

"And?"

"And nothing." You tie off the suture. "How does it feel, Trevor?"

Trevor gives you a thumbs up. "Okay. Is my mom coming?"

"She's on her way from Milwaukee, remember? Your babysitter is in the cafeteria, do you want me to get her?"

He shakes his head. "No, it's fine. She's weird."

You stifle a laugh. "Okay, buddy. Carol here is almost done, and then you can take a little nap if you want."

"I'm not a baby," Trevor says indignantly.

"Of course not," Carol says, petting his hair. "You're a very brave boy."

That settles him. She gives you a look.

"Carter is a solid doctor," she says. "Terrible at taking hints, though."

You nod. "Now you tell me."

"Why don't you just ask him out?"

"Because what if I'm way off? It'll be awkward forever. We'll be friends, but there'll always be this awkwardness, like Mark and Susan. I can't deal with that."

"Mark and Susan waited too long. Neither you nor Carter are going anywhere. Everyone can tell that you like each other. Look, how about I talk to him? Feel him out? I'm great at snooping."

You smile. "Thanks, but it's okay. Maybe I really will take up my friend's offer to date her teacher coworker. I'll be right back."

Trevor watches as you leave. It's quiet for a few moments, then: "Does she have a crush on another doctor?"

You're atop him, legs straddling his stomach. Jason drums a silent pattern on your thighs. You smooth the nose flap and his nose twitches. The flap curls out of place. You sigh.

"Dude."

"Tickles," he says, the word muffled from trying not to move the mask.

"Okay, I'm done. You can talk now."

"I feel rejuvenated already," Jason says, pink lips even pinker in contrast to the ghostly mask.

"You look rejuvenated to me," you say happily.

He grins. Jason always seems to smile more around you.

"So what're we doin' tonight? Besides putting sea minerals on my face."

"Um?" You point to your face, with its own mask. "Not just you. Soon, we'll both be rejuvenated."

"Sorry, sweetheart," Jason says, looking at you like you're the best thing on earth. "After we both get sea-mineralized, are we ordering in?"

"Yeah. I have a coupon for Vinnie's. Can I paint your nails?"

"Sure, baby."

"Yippee!" You leap off the couch and sprint to your and Jason's shared room. You dig through the vanity Jason hand-built and painted for your birthday last year. It's Robin's egg blue, with white accents. He admitted shyly, later, that he'd built it in the hopes that it'd make you want to move in permanently with him.

So a bribe? you'd asked, grinning.

I like to think of it as motivation.

And, well, it worked. You've been living together for almost a year now.

You take out the dark red, almost black polish and return, jumping on the couch. Jason's on the phone, ordering pizza. He gives you his left hand and you tuck yourself against him, opening the polish and starting to paint his nails with the focus of a brain surgeon.

"Uh-huh, yeah, for delivery. Twenty minutes? Alright, thanks." He hangs up. "Ooh, my favorite."

"You better believe it, handsome. Only the best for my favorite boyfriend."

"Favorite?"

You shrug. "Yeah. Don't tell the others."

Jason gently takes the polish and sets it on the coffee table. You're confused—you've only painted two fingers.

"What're you—"

He cuts you off by grabbing your waist with his unpainted hand, pulling you against him and kissing your neck. You squeal in laughter, grasping at his shoulders.

"Jason!"

"I'll show you favorite," he says, pressing ticklish kisses down your throat. He has his painted hand in the air, away from his antics, because he knows you'll pout if the polish gets messed up.

"Uncle, uncle! Please." You pant, delighted, as Jason lets up. You're lying on his lap, and he pulls you in for a real kiss. You pull away from his mouth enough to say, "You know you're the only one for me, Jay."

He hums and kisses you again, rubbing your shoulder. You slacken in his grip, running your fingers through his hair. You twirl one of the silver curls around your finger.

"Much better," Jason says when you break for air.

"I'd never upset my meal ticket," you say, gleeful when he rolls his eyes.

"You're on thin ice, baby."

You retied her hands and ankles. You won't take that chance. But more than that, you don't want her to wake up as a knight. You want her to wake up as the young girl you knew, and you want to wake up similarly, before you realized your ability. Before you had to leave her forever for your own safety.

Had you known that she'd become everything you hate, you would've stayed and taken your chances.

Of course, your witch mother would have gently told you that that wouldn't have worked. She always said it's better to be alive now than dead in the past. Nostalgia helps no one, and it certainly isn't doing you favors now. You must be removed from this whole ordeal. You'll heal her, and you'll deal with the knight long enough to get her on her way.

And if she tries to hurt you, well... well, you'll defend yourself.

Another day passes before you decide it's time to wake her. She's nearly fully healed, and your magic is drained. You cover your face like a thief before you remove your spell. If she returns to burn your cottage, you don't want her to know the face of the witch who healed her.

You hold a small knife, your only weapon, as you brace yourself for her awakening.

She slowly opens her eyes. When they focus on you, you feel hunted. She's been asleep for a week in your cottage, under your spell, and yet you're somehow the prey.

"Do not make sudden advances," you say, heart thumping in your chest.

She says nothing, but she looks at your knife.

"You were unconscious in front of my cottage. I took you in and healed you with my magic. I've fetched you water and dried meat. You will leave now."

Your voice is steadier than you feel. She stands from the chair, and you take a step back, your grip tightening on the knife. You aren't handy with a blade, but surely, she doesn't know that.

She is tall, taller than you, her body evidence of years of training and missions. Terrible missions.

She is not the girl you knew.

"You found me?" she asks, voice hoarse from disuse.

"Yes." She gets closer. You bristle. "Stay back."

"You're blocking the door," she says.

"I am not. Stay back, knight."

She steps forward again, only a few paces away now. You point the knife at her. She reacts.

The blade is knocked from your hand. You kick her on instinct, healing be damned, and she grabs you. You both go to the floor, with her on top of you, arms trapping yours against your body. You can hardly move with her weight bearing down on you, and you panic, squirming.

"Let go of me!" you screech, writhing in her grip. "Let go, Jacqueline, let go!"

Her name startles her enough to loosen her arms, and you hit her jaw. It stuns her, and you lunge for your knife, rolling so you switch positions. Now she's beneath you, your blade on her neck.

"How many times have you felt another's blade on your throat without mercy?" you spit, feeling wild and so frightened, you're sick. You just want her gone. "How long has it been since you were the one who had to beg for your life? How many witches have you killed before me?"

"I do not hunt witches," she says breathlessly, her eyes on yours.

"You lie. No knight can be trusted. You're all silver-tongued like snakes." You press the knife harder. "If you move, I will hurt you. It betrays my nature, but I will not die tonight."

"I do not wish you harm," she says gently. "I am sorry for frightening you. If you must keep your blade on my neck, do so."

You blink, confused. "What?"

She looks at you like she can see right through to your soul. "No one has called me Jacqueline in a long time. We must have known each other in an old life."

You breathe faster. "We did not."

"Now who lies?" she asks, but it's teasing. "Others call me Jay now. I have not been Jacqueline in years."

"No, you have been a knight," you say ferociously. "You are all that I hate. I could have left you to die out there."

She closes her eyes. "I have done things I am not proud of. But I have never hurt a witch. And I would not hurt you."

You shake her, squeezing her shoulder hard. You hope it smarts. "Look at me when I speak to you, knight."

She opens her eyes. "Alright. I am sorry. I will look at you. I have not looked at you in so long. I feared I forgot your face."

"You will not know my face," you say. "You will take your armor and leave."

Jay—do you dare to give her a name once again?—frowns sadly. "I have missed you."

You pull your knife away and get off of her. She watches you as you stand and stare, arms folding.

"Leave now. You are well enough to travel."

Jay gets to her feet. She's unharmed and apparently unfazed. The way she's looking at you makes you squirm. You don't like seeing her eyes this close up again. You must try to forget her face now.

"I will go, if that's what you wish."

"It is," you say, clipped, and turn away from her, disappearing into your room. You shut the door and listen for her footsteps.

After a minute, she leaves, the front door creaking behind her. You can see her through the window. She retrieves her armor from the shed and puts it on. She waits. She looks at your window. Then she sets off through the woods.

It's a long walk back to your old kingdom if memory serves you. About three days, and that's with a horse. But her journey isn't your concern. You have done your part. It is too painful to keep her any longer.

****

When your knight returns, it is nearly nightfall.

You wrap your face again so your face is hidden, though you hope your fury will shine through. You cannot believe her audacity to return. She is on a horse this time, and she trots easily to stop at your cottage.

You throw open the door, seething.

"I told you to never return," you snap.

She dismounts. You falter.

This is not your knight.

It is a man, you are sure. You take a step back.

"Where is she?" he thunders.

You do not pretend. That will make him angrier. "She set off to the kingdom at noon. She has probably made it to the neighboring city by now."

"You lying witch! You killed her and used her bones for your filthy magic."

"I healed her," you say, shaking your head. "Sir, please. I would not harm anyone."

He draws his sword. You bolt for the cottage.

But you're weak and slow from healing Jay. The knight grabs your arm and throws you to the ground. You scrape your hands and cry out. Your shoulder is bruised.

"I did not hurt her. Please, please believe me."

The knight lifts his helmet. You recognize the hate in his face—he wants to watch your eyes as you die.

"A life for a life," he snarls, raising his sword. You close your eyes and pray.

Nothing happens for one terrifying moment. Then another. And another. You open your eyes.

Gleaming metal obscures your field of vision. Jay stands before you, her sword at his throat. Her helmet is off.

"You did not come here for my honor, Gavriel," she says. "You came to massacre more witches. It ends now."

Gavriel is startled briefly, then he attacks. But Jay is quick, and she proves that she could've easily incapacitated you in the cottage earlier. She let you hold her down for your own peace of mind.

You scramble to your feet and flee into your house as they fight. The clanking of metal is loud. It goes on for minutes. Gavriel roars, and you watch at the window, suddenly cold with fear that Jay will die right there at your step, after all you've done.

He advances. He's sloppy with anger. Jay finishes him with a merciless stab. Gavriel drops to his knees in front of her, blood staining his armor. He collapses in a heap.

You open the door, stumbling out. Jay looks at you. She's breathing hard. Her hair is unkempt, eyes like the sun on an ocean wave. They blaze as they move from you, to the body, then back to you.

"Go inside," she says lowly.

"You killed him."

"I did. Now go inside."

But you can't move. Jay walks to you and takes your wrist.

"Come along," she says. "Please."

You've seen death before, but not like this. Not for your sake.

"I didn't... I didn't know you'd kill him."

"Had I spared his life, he would've pursued you relentlessly. He wouldn't have stopped until your death."

You know she's right, but it still shakes you, a life being lost to protect yours. And how easily someone could extinguish your life like that. He would have killed you, then gotten on his horse and returned home. Washed his face, ate his stew, slept in his bed. Your death would not keep him from living.

Jay tries to get you inside. You wrench your arm away, suddenly bursting with anger, with all that has happened. All you wanted to do was heal and live, and now a man is dead.

You yank your face covering off. The fabric flutters to the ground. Jay stares in awe.

"I never wanted anyone to die," you say desperately. But it is her nature, just like it was yours to take her in despite every warning.

"You are nothing but trouble!" you shout.

If you had the power, you'd cast a sigil and banish her from these woods. But you've used all your magic on her. It will be weeks before your magic is restored.

"I know you did not. But he died at my hand. I did this, not you."

"You did it to save me," you say, barely able to get the words out. "That is close enough. I don't want you here. You'll only bring more death."

She reaches for your cheek. "You are so beautiful. As beautiful as I remember you. No. Even more."

"No."

You jerk your face away, scowling. "Stop that."

Jay looks at you for a moment, then kneels at your feet, sticking her sword into the dirt and leaning on the hilt. She sighs. "I know you are angry. But it is not safe yet for you to carry on alone. Others may come and investigate. Please permit me to guard you, day and night, until you are strong enough to protect yourself again."

"Please."

"You are a stranger. It was only under dire circumstances that I let you into my home. I'd never make the same mistake twice."

Her eyes are big and pleading. The freckles on her nose and cheeks are darker than when she was a girl. Years in the sun, perhaps. "I am not so different from the girl you knew. I want to do what is good and right."

"You will never be good," you whisper.

"I will try."

A headache has begun to pinch your temples. You need to bathe and sleep for one hundred years. You bring your hand to your head and you stagger. Jay reaches for you immediately, hands on your waist to steady you.

"I am alright," you say, pushing her away. "Enough."

"You are weak from healing me," Jay says firmly. "What if more knights come?"

"I will handle it."

"You'll die. I won't allow it."

You sigh. Whether it's Jay herself or your weak state, you feel your resolve slipping. You think she can sense it too.

"Fine. But you must leave your armor in the shed. And you'll sleep on the chair."

She nods. "Of course. Whatever you wish."

"And no more death."

Here, she hesitates. "If you are in danger..."

"You will not kill for me, knight," you say fiercely. "No more. I didn't heal you so you could pierce hearts."

Jay bites the inside of her cheek. She nods. "Very well. I will not kill for you."

"Good. I must fetch the water for a bath—"

"I'll do it," she says, already picking her armor off.

"You are healing."

"I am strong. I will go." She touches your wrist briefly, quick enough to avoid your protest. Then she grabs the buckets hanging outside. "Wait for me, please? I will fetch water and handle the body."

You're queasy just thinking about it. "Alright."

She sets out for the river.

"Jay."

She turns. "Yes?"

You turn your head, staring at the forest line. You drag your slipper across the dirt.

"Thank you," you say.

"I have missed you," she says, warm and too earnest. Then she continues toward the river.

And being a doctor is more important than anything else you can do with your body. It's the only thing that matters right now because you've invested so much time into it. It was your dream, even when your friend quietly asked, all those years ago, if you'd be up for standing and being on your feet twelve to fourteen hours a day. Sometimes sixteen.

You were so unfairly angry at her for asking the question. For forcing you to stop and think about your body's limits, how present they were even then, when you were freshly drinking age and should've, by all accounts, been able to take advantage of how quickly a young body can bounce back.

But you've never been able to bounce back. You suffer regardless of what you're doing. But you wanted to be a doctor. You'll hurt no matter what.

But you can concede now, thirteen hours into your shift, that it's probably scary to see someone your age fall over nothing. You truly don't mean to fall—no one ever does. You have your compression socks on, and you'd tied your sneakers extra tight, and maybe that's what did it, you don't know. Usually, after three hours, the pain evens out and becomes a sharp, constant pinch in your legs and shoulders. The ER moves so fast and the pain doesn't go away, no, but you get distracted. And some days, the pain turns numb, and the numbness is worse, because you can't rely on what you can't feel.

That is what happened now, you realize, as you stare at the white and blue speckled floor. The ER floor always reminded you of an Easter egg. This close, you can see the crust of dirt that won't come off no matter how many times the custodians clean. You'd hate to find out what else sticks to the floor.

Your palms burn, your arms ache from the impact, and your knees are indignant about moving. Someone picks you up from the floor, hands under your arms.

"I'm fine," you say, even though the pain has wrung your personality out of your body. You're not yourself when you're in this much pain; you're just a body, a pile of limbs, desperately trying to figure out how to keep moving them in a way that won't tip anyone off to how much pain you live in.

"Hey, hey. You alright?" Dana asks as she hoists you up, stronger than she looks. You've seen her throw a punch; you'd hate to face her in a dark alley.

"I tripped," you say automatically. "I'm fine." You laugh because it really is stupid that you fell from nothing. But Dana won't find it funny, so you have to lie a little.

It's not working. You can see that in the way her brows pinch as she reads your face, finds things you didn't know you were revealing.

And then Robby appears next to her, and it all really goes to shit from there.

"What happened?" he asks, sharp brown eyes taking in your body language and Dana's.

"She fell," Dana says before you can lie again.

The problem with people caring about you is that it can be used against you. Robby knows exactly what it means that you fell. He'd wrestled it out of you one night months ago when you'd almost collapsed from dehydration. Robby had all the grace of a steamroller when he interrogated you about your pain. The truth had come out in a desperate attempt to stop the humiliation of someone witnessing how broken your body is.

"I didn't—"

"Staff room, now." Robby's shaking his head and waving his hands before you can speak. "You're done. Sit the rest of the shift out."

"That's not fair!" you say, even though your body rejoices at the prospect of sitting for an hour. You would've killed a man six hours ago to be able to sit for a minute.

Robby's face clouds over, just a little. He's been sharper lately, less gentle and more efficient. He doesn’t have it in him to temper his thorny kindness; he acts on instinct, gives orders he knows to be right, and moves on.

"I can finish my shift," you say, fear climbing your throat like acid at what the other staff will think. An hour is a long time for a doctor to be off during their shift. If anyone else close to your age had fallen—Whitaker, Mohan, Santos—Robby would give them ten minutes max, and only to check them for a head injury.

Robby closes his eyes, clearly already tired of this conversation, which makes you feel worse. "I am not having this argument with you. Sit out or I'll ask Ahmad to escort you."

The idea of having to be dragged to the staff room is mortifying, and you know Robby knows that. He links his hands behind his neck, stretching. And yet, you know that Robby's not nearly in as much pain as you. Isn't that a kick in the shins?

"Robby, please," you say, and you try to step closer to him to meet his eyes, but it hurts to do even that. Bruises are forming, and the pain has tripled from your fall. You fail to hide your wince. Robby notices. Of course he does.

"No," he says, cold and final. "You're done. You think I'm gonna risk you falling again?"

"I tripped," you say again, and Robby inhales, furious and tense, so Dana steps in.

"Alright, alright." She easily steps between you two, putting a hand on Robby's chest and another on your shoulder. "Take a breath. C'mon, honey, let's get you some heat for the muscles. I got her, chief."

Dana tries to take your arm so you can lean your weight on her, but you jerk away.

"Please let me walk by myself," you say lowly, your eyes burning hot. "Please, Dana."

"You're the boss," she says quietly, and it nearly cracks you open. You're not the boss. You haven't been the boss of your own body in a long time.

You just manage to push yourself enough to get to the staff room without additional incidents. You sit on the couch and prop your legs up so your blood circulates back up your body. Dana had grabbed a couple heat packs from the nurses' station and she activates them now and places them on your thighs, where the pain stretches your skin tight and throbs.

The circulation is necessary, but the sudden shift in position is almost as bad as being on your feet. You dig your fingers into the back of the couch. You won't cry. Won't burden anybody more than you already have.

"And here's a Gatorade," Dana says, handing you a bottle. Light blue, your favorite. "Gotta get those electrolytes up."

"I could've finished the shift," you say.

Dana doesn't reply to that, which is probably for the best. If it were Robby, he'd argue, and that'd be miserable. But Dana's always been good at giving you dignity. She may not know pain in the same way you do, but she understands enough to realize that sometimes an argument is all the power you have.

"I'll check on you in a bit," she says, patting your neck. "Recline, so you don't strain your neck more."

And you know she'll stay until you do it, so you lean back, granting your shoulders relief. It's in this position that you finally feel the full strain of today's shift, and all the shifts before it. The pain isn't just in your legs, but your neck, your shoulders, your abs. All of your body's energy goes into keeping you upright. How did you make it through thirteen hours?

Dana leaves, turning off the lights as she goes. The door opens and the noise and chaos of the ER enters just for a moment, reminding you of what you're missing, before the door shuts. Your senses are dulled when you're in this much pain. Lights are aggravating, as is noise, but when it counts—like with a patient—you can miss stuff. You have missed stuff.

That's really why Robby got so angry. You know it. You're a liability. It's bad enough you can't function the way someone your age should. Now you're falling during shifts.

You were terrified of this happening. You haven't fallen during a shift until now, and although you don't know for sure, you have a sneaking suspicion that it'll keep happening. No amount of rest will allow you to heal and catch up. This job doesn't let you do that. You're in your fourth year of your residency, and your body is failing you.

You close your eyes and lean your head against your arm. As your adrenaline falls, and the pain intensifies and makes your muscles spasm, you start to cry. How are you going to do this?

The pain will never improve. Maybe it can be managed, but eventually, your body will break down. You can't even imagine doing this job when you're Robby or Dana's age.

The door opens. There's no clock, so you have no idea how much time has passed, but when you see Jack, you can guess that it's been at least forty-five minutes. He always comes in a little early for the night shift.

You rub your salt-tracked cheeks, hoping he won't notice. Maybe Jack won't see you at all.

He almost never comes into the staff room. Always brings coffee from home instead of drinking the sludge the hospital provides. He's here for you.

"He called you?" you ask, angry all over again. How fucking dare Robby.

"I actually work here, believe it or not," Jack says mildly. "You may have seen me putting bandaids on kids' knees. Real low-stakes stuff."

You aren't in the mood to joke, to let Jack's easy companionship engulf you. You haven't worked the night shift in a year, but that doesn't stop you from feeling pleased when you see him during the handoff and he takes a minute to talk to you, ask how you're doing. You like Jack a lot.

It's just now occurring to you that maybe he's noticed your pain too. Maybe that's why he takes time to talk to you.

You know either Dana or Robby told him you’re in here. You detest it. Jack is easily fifteen years older, if not more, and it's absolutely humiliating that the three most senior staff in the ER have to look out for you and your stupid broken body.

Jack comes to the couch. He pats your leg. "Scoot."

It startles you that he makes you move so he can sit on the couch with you. Anyone else would politely sit at the table and not make you move an inch.

But Jack sits and brings your legs down on his like you're in your living room. He props them so they're still higher than your heart. It's unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

He sips coffee from his thermos. He's warm. You watch him, waiting. Jack has never spoken to you about your pain. You assumed it was because you never worked enough night shifts for it to be a conversation. Even so, you would've hidden it for as long as you could.

Deep down, you know Jack would've spotted it faster than Robby had.

You let your head loll to one side. Jack seems content to let you hang in the silence. He's always struck you as the kind of guy who simply doesn't speak if he has nothing to say. It makes others uncomfortable, but you welcome it. When you're always in pain, being around someone who doesn't expect you to speak is a different kind of relief.

You suspect that's why he and Robby have been friends for so long.

"These are nice," Jack says, patting your exposed compression sock on your right leg. You wore the ones with koi fish.

"There was a sale online. Five for thirty-two."

He whistles. "A steal. These are the good kind."

You tilt your head. "You wear compression socks?"

He nods. "Just one. Not always, but it helps my other leg stay warm and keep the blood flowing when I'm wearing the prosthetic. It's not necessary but it makes me more comfortable."

He pulls his scrub leg up to show you a plain black compression sock.

"No prints?" you ask.

He laughs. "Wasn't really thinking about it when I bought them, no."

"The website I buy mine from has ones with German Shepherds on them. I think you'd like those."

"I do love a good Shepherd."

More silence. Then:

"Did you take anything? Tylenol?"

You shrug.

"That means no," he says.

"I'll be fine. I'll take some at home."

Jack looks at you like he can see down to your soul. You squirm.

"No one will judge you for it," he says.

"I can't take just one for it to do anything," you mumble. "I have to take four or five."

You're careful not to take any medication at work, even Tylenol. You don't want people thinking you need it to function.

You don't even like taking it at home. You might tonight because the pain is worse than usual, and it's compounded with bruises from your fall. But normally, you don't. You fear that if you start, you'll never be able to go without.

"So take four or five," he says. "Do you need it every day? You probably shouldn't take Tylenol every day, but there's other stuff."

You hesitate. "The pain isn't that bad every day."

"But you're in pain daily?"

"It's manageable."

"People your age are not in daily pain."

You look away. Your eyes sting. "I know."

Jack rubs and squeezes your shin. "I'm not saying it to make you feel bad. I think sometimes you forget."

"I don't," you say, voice cracking. "I know my body shouldn't feel this way. But I can keep going. I will."

"I don't think you can keep going like this," Jack says gently, and it doesn't hurt less to hear, but you're grateful that he's not yelling it.

"Robby told me off," you say, stomach spasming at the memory.

"I heard."

You look at Jack, tears in your eyes. "It was humiliating, Jack. Doesn't he know I don't want to be this way? I would be in pain for an hour longer if it meant he didn't tell me off in front of the whole fucking hospital."

"I know," he says. "I'll talk to him. He handled it poorly."

You sob. It's an accident. You didn't feel it coming, but it came out because it had to. Jack's eyebrows dip. His frown deepens.

"I don't want to live like this," you say, and he nods. He knows. You know he does. "I don't want to be young and in pain. It's not fair."

"I know," he says, and he carefully moves your legs aside so he can pull you against his shoulder. You cry into his neck. He smells like Old Spice. Jack rubs your back. "I know, I know. It's not fair."

"D-do you know how embarrassing it is that someone almost twice my age has to tell me to sit and rest? Or help me up because I fell?"

You feel Jack's hum in his chest. "I do. Felt it many times after the amputation."

You scowl into his scrubs. "That's different. You needed help."

Jack pulls you away so he can look at you. "How is it different? You need help too."

"You lost your leg. People understand."

He shakes his head. "Not everybody. And it doesn't make people's pity any easier to swallow, even if they mean well. It was the hardest after I got discharged. I wanted to do so much more, and I had to find a way to slow down, 'cause my body was revolting against me."

He's got you tucked against him, arm around your back, hand on your opposite arm.

"I'm trying," you say, desperate for someone to see. "I'm trying so hard, Jack."

"You are," he says, so tender, so much like a good doctor. "But maybe you need to find a different way to try. 'Cause this isn't working. And it's not sustainable."

You know what that means. You saw a doctor only once, hoping maybe they'd find some reason for why you're like this. Why you just can't seem to be your age the way everyone else is. But the doctor had simply told you that you'd probably need some kind of mobility aid. That even if you could push through the pain now, it wouldn't always be that way.

You'd never gone back after that appointment.

"Has anybody talked to you about aids?"

"You mean how I need them? Yes. One doctor. The others told me I needed to lose weight or it was my period. Like somehow getting pregnant will cure me."

"The fuck? Who's the joker that told you that? Gimme their name, I'll report 'em to the board."

You smile. It's nice to be cared for in this way. To have your pain acknowledged but for it not to be the only thing that defines you.

"I'll look them up later." You sigh, cheek against Jack's scrub top. "Do you think Robby would notice if I went back out? I have an elderly woman waiting on a CT."

"I'd notice."

"So? I could outrun you."

"Oh, really?" Jack moves you away a little, so he can meet your eye. His glitter with amusement. "You haven't even touched your Gatorade. I'll take my chances."

You let yourself think too long about Jack Abbot tackling you. If you weren't already bruised, you'd seriously consider it.

"I want to be a doctor," you say, suddenly sad all over again.

"You are a doctor."

You look at him. He looks right back. He's not lying, but you still find his words ridiculous.

"You know what I mean," you say.

"Do I? People practice medicine in all sorts of ways. If there's anything you should've learned in all your years here, it's that there isn't one way to heal yourself or your patients."

You've never told anyone your deepest fear, but you think Jack can handle it.

"What if I stop being able to walk or stand?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, but I feel like I should remind you that you're talking to the one-legged guy. So I'm a little biased."

It's easier to confess in the dark, to let Jack hold you for a little longer. "I don't want to be useless."

Jack pulls you back into his chest, patting your koi fish socks. "You aren't. Now take a little nap, and then I'll call you an Uber. My treat."

"Jack, c'mon. The Ubers are always your treat."

He's already slid his glasses onto his face. They rest at the tip of his nose as he taps at his phone with his index finger, the screen an unreasonable distance away. You hate how endearing you find it.

"So buy me some socks in return. Want some Uber Eats too?"

"No."

His cock is probably plumped red too, and you crane your neck to look at where your bodies are joined. His belly is tensed but its softness pokes out. Beneath that is his trimmed thatch of dark curls, and the heavy curve of his balls behind that.

He's not straining, hovering over you, but Jason's nerves fray when you're fucking him, especially if you make him wait. You have a pillow under your hips so it's easier on your joints. It also deepens Jason's strokes.

"I want you to bite me," you say again, and clench thinking about it. Jason grunts when you do.

"Fuck—honey, don't wanna hurt you."

"You won't," you say, gentle despite what you want. You have to keep your wits about you first. Otherwise, you'll scare Jason off. He has to be reassured.

"Just try it." Your voice is light, like you're offering him a bite from your plate. You had lunch a few days ago together and you did something similar, cajoling Jason to try your pizza.

It's not that Jason's afraid of trying new things—he just doesn't want to hurt you. One of the few instances Jason gets timid. He's very good at what he does, and at using his body to do it, but with you, he's careful to a point of absention.

That's why timing is everything. That's why you waited until Jason pushed his fat cock into you, balls heavy with a thick load, his muscles taut. Jason has the patience of a sharpshooter, and he'll wait as long as you tell him to. But he's also throbbing. You want him to have what he wants—all he has to do is give you what you want too.

"Here?" He taps the side of your neck where your pulse beats in time with his cock.

"Yeah. Anywhere. But start there."

Jason searches your face, like you'd lie about this. Then he bows his head. You close your eyes as you feel his lips reach your pulse point. He kisses it, and you wrap your arms around his neck.

Then comes the points of his incisors. His canines. He uses the lightest pressure, and you squirm in frustration.

"Harder," you say, squishing his head closer.

His breath is hot and wet on your skin. Jason bites harder. You can't help the mewl that slides out of you or the way you squeeze his cock. He holds your hip like he has to ground himself.

"Fuck me, c'mon." You're begging. "Move, baby."

So Jason moves, biting all the while. Blood swells your nipples, your clit. Everything gets harder, tighter, more sensitive. Jason's doing this to you. He has the power to change your body in this way, make you easier and wetter for him.

He could put all his weight on you, teeth on your neck, cock fucking your cunt, and you'd just take it. You make little uh-uh's at the thought, arching into him.

Jason's responding growl is one you've never heard before. Oh, he likes it. He likes being so big that it's barely an effort to keep you where he wants and bite.

"Don't be scared," you say, pleasure making your tongue too big for your mouth.

But you have to get this out. Jason doesn't usually have this. He's often on top of you and doing what you want him to. But he doesn't get so close to the truth that he could do whatever he wanted to you... and he might like it.

"I like it," you say. "I know you like it too. You're bigger than me, stronger than me. Using that isn't so bad, huh? Feel me taking it?"

Jason releases your neck. The air is cool where his spit lies.

"Don't wanna make you take anything," he rasps, moving back to look at you.

You tilt your head. "No? Not even when you push your huge, fat cock into me? There's always resistance. You make my body adjust for you, Jay."

Jason shudders. "Fuck. Fuck, baby, 'm not like that. 'M good."

"You are good," you say tenderly, easing his head back to your neck. You want him biting you when you cum. "Rub my clit."

Jason obediently does so, and you're well and truly on your way to losing any intelligible trains of thought.

"Perfect, sweetheart," you say, fingernails digging into his back. "I'm—ngh—I'm so wet. My clit is so fucking hard. You made me like this. I have to cum. Bite me."

Jason goes to the other side of your neck now, a bit lower, to the meat of your neck and shoulder. He bites harder without your prompting, and after you squirm and thrash through your orgasm, Jason takes your wrists and holds them on either side of your head, so you're still when he cums in you.

"You like it," you say again, triumphant and boneless.

Then you begin to load your knight. She's tall, heavy with muscle, and absolutely impossible to carry inside on your own. The wheelbarrow helps enough for you to wheel her inside, to your large armchair. You roll her onto the cushions as delicately as you can and move an ottoman to the end, so she can comfortably recline.

You set down your basket of herbs you'd spent all afternoon collecting and debate your next move. You'd never let a male knight into your home, that's for sure. And while a female knight could be (is) equally dangerous, something pulls at your gut. You haven't removed her helmet, but you don't need to see her face to know, somehow, that you ought to heal her.

Heal all, harm none. This is what the witch who taught you everything you know said. She urged you to be clever, to protect yourself and your craft, but to never be cruel when kindness is an easy choice.

So you remove the rest of the knight's armor. It all goes into a wheelbarrow from the shed. Her helmet stays. You cannot bear to see her face just yet. You will remove it when she's inside, safe within your warded cottage.

As you pull off her helmet, you reveal tanned, freckled skin, messy, black curls that have been secured in a net to avoid getting caught in the armor, and thick eyelashes. She has a scar extending from her right brow to her lip.

That whole ordeal creates a film of sweat over you. You're already winded, and you haven't even begun to heal her.

Is this worth it? You hope so.

You stumble at the sight of her face.

You drop her helmet, and it startles you as it clangs on the wood. She doesn't stir, of course.

Emotion overwhelms you. Sparks of relief, of betrayal, and of love, all fill you. You'd always thought her dead, or perhaps exiled to a far-off land. Maybe the captain of a pirate ship somewhere, sparkling and salty like the sea.

But a knight? A ravager? Strong, hardened with metal, ready to draw blood at a moment's notice?

You have a single, cold thought to leave her for dead, to dump her on the riverbank and let the wolves find her. It has been a long time since you loved her, and it isn't fair for you to reunite in this way, after all that's happened to you.

No, love isn't always fair.

But you are no killer. You have made your living through your apothecary in town. All you do is heal. Everyone knows you as the witch, but it's not an accusation. No one here is frightened by your ability.

Except, maybe, the knight in front of you. You don't know what she's learned. You don't know if she ever loved you enough not to fear you.

It will take time to heal her enough for her to wake. But you won't take any chances.

You move her to the floor, propping her up with cushions. There are holes in your bookshelf, and you use those to secure the rope you tie around her wrists. You tie her ankles together too, hoping that it'll give you enough time to escape if she wakes up as a stranger who would sooner see you dead.

Then you lift up her shirt. Her stomach, her breasts, and her arms are littered with bruises and cuts. You managed to wipe away the dried blood, but she doesn't look much better.

You apply a poultice to her milder wounds, but to pull her back when she is so close to death, you must use your magic.