Fanfiction is my love language

Your day had started with a planned 10k, which had promptly been abandoned after you twisted your ankle on a curb.

Rookie mistake.

One you know John would chide you for. He's always telling you to not run with earphones in.

You've gotta be aware of your surroundings. Especially first thing. Don't want you becoming a case.

Grudgingly, under major duress, you can admit that he has a point.

But nothing gets you through a tough run like Hole's Live Through This, so you've elected to ignore all of his advice.

It's nothing he's not used to.

Growing up in the same town, it's really a miracle that you haven't known each other for longer.

But, thanks to your sixth grade teacher and her randomised seating chart, John Logan has been a fixture in your life for a decade.

He is, undoubtedly, your closest friend.

What started with teasing and bickering had quickly grown into deep heart-to-hearts and the kind of support you could only dream of. Neither of you had stellar family lives, but when you were together it didn't matter.

Most people had assumed you'd end up together, but there's never been anything romantic between you both.

Sure, there was that one time.

When you'd just broken up with your long-term high-school boyfriend, and John had come over to comfort you, before ending the night between your legs, licking and sucking at your clit until you cried.

Both of you had agreed to never talk about it again, or do anything to jeopardise your friendship further.

That had lasted a couple of years, until Briar won the League and you'd gotten him off in the showers after everybody else had left.

You've never actually slept together, though. A moot point for most, but you feel like it holds some weight.

You're not going to be John Logan's girlfriend, and that's fine. You've got something better - you're his friend.

God, even saying that in your head sounds pathetic.

You need to get over him.

As soon as possible.

After your entirely unsuccessful run, you'd been treated to your most boring classes, made all the worse by the fact that Logan had bailed, leaving you to conquer them alone.

The apology text had been measly at best.

John. 10:32

woke up with the worst hangover

notes for today's class please??

i owe u big time

whatever you want

You'd be furious with anybody else. Hell, you would normally be furious with John.

But your car had started making weird noises when you pulled into the campus parking lot today, and you figure it's going to need some TLC.

You. 10:31

connie's sick :((( was making a weird creaking noise

Yes, your car has a name. So what?

will forgive all your egregious sins if you come and take a look at her :)

You glance back up at the professor, trying desperately to seem vaguely interested, but she lost you about thirty slides ago. Were it not for John, you would totally be failing statistics.

If he's not here, you may as well both not be.

John. 10:34. after practice? i could swing by before maxwell's thing speaking of maxwell's thing you wanna come? i can drive

In normal circumstances, that would be fine. You like Beau - a lot more than most of the football team. But one of the other waitresses at O'Malleys just transferred to NYU, leaving the rest of you to pick up her slack until they've hired somebody new.

You. 10:35. can't working the close tonight tomorrow morning?

A thumbs up reaction, and then you're left to deal with Statistics by yourself for the rest of the class.

For all intents and purposes, the rest of your day isn't quite as terrible as the start was.

You get one of your Ethics essays done in the library, and your roommate texts to say that she's visiting her boyfriend for the weekend. You have the place entirely to yourself.

It's not that you don't like her - Hayley's great. Mostly. Her cleanliness habits leave something to be desired. But your apartment is tiny, and with her boyfriend over constantly, you feel like a constant third wheel.

Even the start of your shift is pretty good. There are a couple of groups of rowdy guys, but nothing you can't handle. It's just you and Lydia tonight, the newest hire.

You slide three pitchers of draft beer across the sticky bar top, flash a sharp, customer-service smile, and cut off the loudest guy before he can even start speaking.

It's like dealing with toddlers - keep them placated, and they'll leave you be. It's an art you've practiced extensively over the years with Logan's friends.

Especially Dean.

You still remember the first time you met him - he'd spent half the night hitting on you, and then never so much as winked at you again.

Part of you wonders if John had something to do with it.

Besides, it's not like you were ever in danger of hooking up with Dean Di Laurentis. He's not your type.

You prefer your men slightly broodier. Skinnier. Longer hair. First name John, last name Logan.

Lydia, however, is drowning. She stands frozen by the register, fingers darting between options as she tries to work out what to do next. The line is growing, and her uniform is still spotless - a testament to this being her first week.

She'll reach the myriad of stains that litter your apron soon enough.

"Take the shallow end," You murmur, bumping her shoulder gently. She still jumps at the interruption. "Just do bottled beers,and I'll handle the taps."

You pour the stouts and scan the room, eyes settling on a body in the corner. He's around your age - probably another Briar student, though he could be a recent graduate.

In most circumstances, being watched doesn't bother you.

It kind of comes with the territory of being a bartender. Especially a young, female bartender, with a clientele that consists largely of men.

Something about this guy creeps you out, though.

You don't recognise him at all, which is unusual. You're pretty familiar with most of the faces that pass through here.

Maybe he's an exchange student.

It isn't until an hour later that he finally approaches the bar, ordering a gin and tonic.

He pays in cash, is perfectly polite, and insists you keep the change. His eyes also never leave yours. Not once.

"Busy night," He comments, eyes flicking towards the crowds. "You handle it well. The other girl's not doing so great, though."

A flare of annoyance washes over you on Lydia's behalf. "It's her first Friday."

"Girl like you shouldn't have to work the twilight shift on a Friday night - you got a boyfriend waiting at home for you?"

From most of your patrons, you'd accept that question as an innocent, if nosy, attempt to make conversation.

From this guy, you're terrified of the implications.

"Yeah. I do." The lie comes out clumsily, and you're sure it must be entirely unconvincing. "A hockey player."

You hope the extra detail might make the whole thing seem more believable, but you think it might just make you look more like a liar.

He smiles, a slow, knowing expression, but doesn't press it. "Lucky guy."

You fight back a shiver as he heads for his booth.

*****

Since O'Malley's is a college campus bar, it has a strict midnight curfew, even on the weekends. Most people use it as a stepping stone to parties on Greek Row or clubs in the next town over.

But after a six hour shift on top of a full day of classes, you just want to get home. The crowd begins to think, and you're endlessly glad to see that the corner where the guy was sitting is empty now. He must have left during the pre-close rush.

Lydia is leaning against the ice machine, completely wiped out. Her apron is now stained, her mascara is running, and she looks like she might cry if she has to pick up a mop.

"Go ahead and clock out, Lydia," you say, tossing your rag into the dirty linen bin. "It was a long day."

"Are you sure?" She asks, her voice small. "Don't I need to learn how to lock-up?"

You dismiss her with a wave. "We can do it another night. Go home and get some sleep," you tell her, giving her a reassuring nudge towards the back room.

She doesn't need any more convincing, scurrying out the front door. You lock it quickly behind her, one of the first things Sally taught you.

As a student, O'Malley's was once robbed at gunpoint because of an unlocked door. While a layer of glass doesn't do much when your assailant has a gun, you've still lived by her advice anyway.

You get to counting the cash, getting bored about halfway through. You've never liked maths. There's a reason you're pre-law. As your gaze drifts across the windows,your blood runs cold.

The guy from earlier is hanging out on the corner by the bar.

He's looking at you, but his body is turned towards the street, and you try to tell yourself that this is all one horrible coincidence. He's probably just waiting for a cab.

But when you glance outside again, the man is still there. He's moved back from the door, to just across the sidewalk. There's no way you can do the lock-up while he's hovering there.

Not with the way he's been ogling you all night, and the way you'd need to have your back turned for at least thirty seconds.

You also don't trust your ankle to hold for long enough to out-sprint a fully grown man.

It's been fine for walking, but anything faster than a jog makes it ache like there's no tomorrow.

You slip out your phone, trying to keep an eye on the door.

You. 00:04

johnny

are you doing anything rn?

His reply comes immediately, and you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes.

John. 00:04.

is this a booty call?

You swallow. John's been your best friend since you were twelve, and you're still not used to the teasing and flirting.

You. 00:05.

ha ha

but no

some guy's being weird at work and i'm the only one here

can you phone me on my walk home?

A sudden rattle at the door makes you jump. The guy is back, nose practically pressed to the glass. "I left my jacket - can you let me in to pick it up?"

Immediately, your heckles are raised, but when your gaze follows his hand, you see that there is a coat draped across one of the booths. Your heart sinks. "Sorry, sir - we have a policy - you'll have to come by tomorrow."

"Come on, sweetheart. It's right there. Would be so easy for you to get it for me. Be a doll."

"I'm sorry, I can't-"

"You can't? Or you don't want to?"

I want you to leave me the fuck alone. That's what you want to say. Except you have a feeling that would buy you a one-way trip to Murdertown.

So, you plaster a smile on your face, and decide you need back-up. "I really can't. My boss is a dick."

Sorry, Sally. You're not a dick. But I need this guy to back off.

He's trying the handle again, and you type one final message without looking to see Logan's response.

You. 00:06.

pls come

The guy shrugs, and for a single second you think that you've won.

Of course, you'd never be so lucky.

"I won't tell if you won't." There's something about the way his lips are curling into an almost sneer that makes your stomach churn.

"I'm going to be a while," you call back. "Really, it would be easier getting it tomorrow."

Another shrug. Another shiver down your spine. "I can wait. No big deal, sweetheart."

"I'm not allowed to let anybody in without a manager," You reply, trying desperately to keep your voice level. You think it works - the layer of glass between you makes you feel a whole lot better. "We have cameras. I'd get reprimanded."

A total lie.

While yes, the bar does have cameras - one of them hasn't worked since last year, and the other hasn't worked since the mid 2000s.

You're banking on this guy not knowing that.

His brow furrows a little, as he squints through the tinted glass of the window. "Don't cameras normally have a light on when they're recording?"

Your heart hammers as you try and come up with a lie. "Boss wanted them to be covert."

A silence falls, but the man still doesn't move. Part of you wishes he would just speak again - the weight of his eyes is too much.

God, you hope John gets here soon.

"Here's an idea - you can bring it out here when you're done. Then you're not letting me into the bar, and none of your precious rules are broken."

"My boyfriend's on his way!" You squeak out, panic overriding your attempts to be suave and relaxed.

At this point you're too scared to glance away and check your phone, but you can only pray that John's checked his phone.

******

You are undoubtedly the coolest and calmest person that Logan's ever met. Never once have you been phased in all his years of knowing you.

Which is why the final text you send makes his heart drop.

You hadn't even acknowledged his reply.

John. 00:05. oh shit want me to come? let me just tell the guys i'm leaving - i'll come and get you be there soon

When the 'please come' had pinged against his phone, he'd abandoned all hope of trying to find Dean, Garrett and Tucker in the crowded frat house. Instead, he'd sent a quick text over to Hannah, knowing she'd be the only one sober enough to reliably check her phone.

God, he's glad he's designated driver tonight.

The concept of this amount of worry on top of beer and tequila is not a pleasant thought.

He shoots off another text as he jogs across the street.

u okay? i'm omw rn.

Delivered.

No read receipt.

You always reply.

Even if it's just a heart. A thumbs up. A gimme ten mins, because you inevitably got talking to a regular on your way out.

You hate worrying people.

And John Logan is really fucking worried right now.

His phone stays dark.

The unease triples when he calls you, again and again - each time going straight to voicemail.

Finally, he makes another call, to campus police.

He's not taking any chances.

*****

You realise, with a chilling certainty, that the back-door to the bar is unlocked. Lydia had taken the trash out earlier, and the lock is so fidgety that you're positive she didn't do it right.

Blood running cold, there's a flash of movement from the front. He shifts again, peering through the glass, and you realise you have to get that door shut now.

You turn and run, trainers squeaking against the hardwood as you sprint through the empty bar, weaving between tables you've only just finished wiping down.

There's a dull ache in your ankle, but you have no time to consider it.

Please let it be shut.

Please let Lydia be more competent than she looks.

You shove through the kitchen doors so hard they slam against the wall, and the back entrance comes into view. Very decidedly unlocked.

The handle sits slightly turned, the lock not fully engaged, and a sob catches in your throat.

You grab it with shaking hands, yanking the door closed with every ounce of strength you have.

The lock sticks.

Of course it does.

"No, no, no..." You plead, fingers slipping from the handle as you tug.

You try again, forcing the handle up before twisting the deadbolt. It doesn't work.

Stress levels rising, you hit it with your palm.

Once-

Twice-

It clicks into place, and the latch shuts fully. You don't even get a chance to breathe a sigh of relief.

The handle jerks violently beneath your grip, and you leap back, trembling.

You press both hands over your mouth, trying to dampen any sounds that might escape as the handle twists again.

Harder this time.

Your vision blurs instantly, tears spilling before you can even process what's going on.

You have to get back to your phone. Call the police.

Except by the time you make it back to the front of the bar, he's resumed his vigil at the entrance. "There you are. I was starting to think you were ignoring me."

"Fuck off!" You shout. "I-I have friends coming, and they've called the police." Each word comes out as a choked gasp, barely audible.

"I don't get why you're being so difficult - I just want to be friends." His smile widens, and you think you might be sick. "You can give me my jacket, I can walk you home, and it'll be a happily ever after."

He tilts his head, studying the empty room. "I mean..." He shrugs. "We're practically neighbours anyway. It's the polite thing to do."

On watching your expression crumble, he continues. "You live on North Street, right?"

There's no way.

He couldn't know that. Could he?

Your knees give out beneath you, and you find yourself sliding down the back of the bar until you're curled into yourself. One hand clamps over your mouth to stop the sob escaping, while the other reaches for something - anything - that you could use as a weapon.

A small knife seems to be your best option about now.

Tears blur your vision, and you reach for your phone.

There are some messages from Logan, but you go straight for the phone. You have to call 911.

The signal indicator in the corner flickers.

One bar.

Then none.

No service.

*****

The only noise you can hear are your own sobs. It might have been seconds, or hours, but the fear in your body is too great to try and get signal. Instead, you're trapped on the floor, praying that Logan's last messages are true, and that he's on his way.

A knock at the door has you flinching, fingers curling tighter around the knife. Any attempts to steady your breathing are met with fresh waves of panic, and you can feel tears start to trickle down your cheek.

He can't get you.

The doors are locked.

He doesn't know about the rooftop, and even if he did - there's no way he'd be able to get there without a ladder. Besides, Sally usually locks up there anyway. You're too scared to check.

A familiar voice cuts through the silence, calling your name.

You've never been more relieved to see Logan in your whole life.

"Johnny," You sob, rushing towards the door, fumbling with the keys as you try and open it. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, and your face is buried in his shoulder.

His lips brush against your temple comfortingly, a hand rubbing at your back. "What the hell happened?"

Tearfully, you recount it as quickly as you can, John's brow furrowing with each added bit of information. "He knows where you live?"

You know that he'd like to kill the guy, but you can't imagine anybody being stupid enough to–

There's another bang from the back entrance.

He must be trying it again.

You flinch inadvertently, tucking yourself back into Logan's side. "I think that's him - he must have missed you getting here."

Logan's expression hardens. "Stay behind me."

Your fingers are still intertwined with his, as he leads you both out of the bar and round the back. You don't want Logan to scare him off before you can work out who he is.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

In the moonlight, Logan suddenly seems far taller and scarier than he is.

The guy turns, eyes widening a little when he sees you both. "What?"

He doesn't get another word out. Logan closes the distance in three long strides, grabs a fistful of the man's shirt, and slams him back against the brick wall.

"Does scaring women make you feel good?" Logan taunts, a slap of skin as he forces the guy back into the surface behind him. "Huh? Make you feel like a tough guy?"

"I didn't-"

"You didn't what?" Logan's grip tightens, another shove ricocheting through the quiet street. "You weren't just trying to break in to her place of work?"

"I-I just wanted to talk," He chokes out.

"Bullshit. You knew where she lives."

You wish you could enjoy the twist of terror on the man's face, but you're still so shaken you're not sure how you're still standing.

Logan continues his rant. "If you ever go near her again, I'll-"

He's cut off by sirens, as the campus police officers pull in beside the bar, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he lowers his voice, and leans in just a little further. "I'll fucking kill you."

*****

The police interview feels like it takes days. Recounting the same hour, over and over again until you think you're going crazy.

The only solace is John at your side, hand drawing soft circles onto your palm.

You answer the same questions hundreds of different ways.

When did you first notice him?

Have you seen him before?

Did he touch you?

You shake your head where you can, and nod occasionally. At certain points Logan answers for you, filling in the details that you can't quite string together anymore.

You learn that the intruder is a Jeffrey Collins - a non-Briar student who's earned quite the reputation for stalking girls around campus.

It makes you feel a little better, knowing that there are girls out there who have experienced the same thing.

The officer' expression softens when he notices your hands haven't stopped shaking.

"We'll have an officer contact you tomorrow," He says gently. "Since he made reference to your home address, we'll make sure the local department is informed. Do you have somewhere to stay–"

"Yes," Logan interjects. "She's staying with me."

Finally, you're both allowed to go, and Jeffrey is locked up in the local sheriff's department.

Your body moves on autopilot, allowing Logan to bundle you into the back of his truck, and head towards the house. Thankfully, nobody seems to be around when he leads you upstairs to his room.

You don't have the energy to explain to anybody else tonight.

He's immediately finding you clothes to sleep in, busying himself in a way that's almost overwhelming. You reach out, fingers wrapping around his wrist to slow him to a stop. "Thank you," You whisper. "For coming for me."

"I'd always come for you. Always."

His voice is sincere, and there's no doubt in his tone.

You can't tell who moves first, but suddenly your lips are on his, and your hands are in his hair. Sighing into his mouth, it's the safest you've felt all night.

It's nothing like the kisses you've shared before - this is full of sheer desperation. You could've died tonight, and John would've been none the wiser to how you really feel.

"I love you."

It's a gasp between kisses, murmured into his mouth, and you worry he misses it.

"God, I love you too." It's practically a growl, hands tightening at your waist as he walks you backwards, twisting at the last second so that you drop onto his lap. "Loved you for so long, sweet girl."

His kisses steal the words from your lungs,and all you can focus on is the way he feels against you. The three day stubble against your jaw, the denim of his jeans against your core.

"Was so scared of what I was gonna find tonight," He finally admits, mouth no less frantic as it makes against you. "Scared the shit out of me, darling."

"M'sorry, Johnny." Your hips roll against his instinctively, nails digging into his shoulders for balance.

"Mhm, say my name again," He hums.

"Johnny."

You pout when he eventually pulls back, lips following his movements. "What's wrong?"

Your mind is suddenly clouded with a whole host of insecurities. Maybe he was just feeling bad for you, and now the regret is setting in. He doesn't have the heart to let you down.

Maybe you were stupid to think that this wasn't going to be another one of your half-hook-ups, meant to be forgotten entirely.

You don't know if you can take anything else tonight, so you decide to beat him to the punch. "Shit, I'm sorry - that was so stupid, I just... I wasn't thinking. I can go, and we can forget-"

"Hey, hey, hey," Logan interrupts immediately. "What? Why would I want to forget the best kiss of my life?"

Now you're stumped. "What?"

"Babe, tonight has been awful. Truly, one for the books. You really think I want you to associate us having sex for the first time with that creep?"

Oh. You hadn't considered it like that.

He makes a good point.

"Here's what's going to happen," He continues, thumb reaching out to run over your bottom lip as he watches you intently. "You're staying with me for the weekend - maybe longer. We're gonna watch all those shitty rom-coms you love to take your mind off it, and then tomorrow night I'm taking you out for dinner-"

You can't help the interruption. "Where?"

Logan just laughs. "Augusto's. Your favourite. As if it would be anywhere else."

You linger for a second, the dread from earlier starting to seep from your shoulders. "Johnny, you really don't have to do all this. I'm fine. It was fine. "

He lets out a soft hum, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Do what? Don't think there's anything wrong with looking after my girl."

My girl.

I was dating Beau, the quarterback of Briar’s football team. Everyone knew him as the confident one — the guy who could walk into any room and own it. The guy who always had a plan.

But I didn’t have a plan.

Not for this.

I hadn’t been feeling like myself for a few days. At first, I tried to ignore it. Stress. Finals. Lack of sleep. Anything other than the thought that kept creeping into the back of my mind.

So I bought a pregnancy test.

And then I stared at the result until my vision blurred.

Positive.

I told myself it was wrong.

It had to be wrong.

I had an IUD. I had done everything right. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

So I took another test.

Positive.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

Five tests lined up on my bathroom counter, all saying the same thing, and somehow that made it feel even less real.

I sat on the floor for what felt like hours, staring at them, trying to figure out how my entire life had just shifted without asking me first.

Beau and I were in college. We were barely figuring out who we were. We had classes, football, friends, futures we were still trying to build.

A baby was not part of that future.

Not now.

Not yet.

I called my doctor because I didn’t know what else to do. My voice shook when I explained, and they told me I needed to come in for an ultrasound and blood pregnancy test.

I went alone.

I couldn’t tell Beau yet.

I couldn’t tell my friends.

I couldn’t even say the words out loud because the second I did, it would become real.

So I sat in the waiting room by myself, surrounded by women who looked like they knew exactly what they were doing, while I felt like I had accidentally walked into someone else’s life.

The ultrasound confirmed it.

I was pregnant.

About five weeks.

Five weeks.

That was such a small amount of time, but somehow it felt like I already knew this little piece of my future.

The doctor gave me information, answered my questions, and told me what to watch for.

I walked out with a little packet of papers in my hand, some prenatal vitamins, and a thousand thoughts running through my head.

At first, I only let myself panic.

But then, slowly, I started thinking about it.

My potential due date.

What month the baby would be born.

What their first birthday would look like.

Whether they would have Beau’s eyes.

Whether they would be a boy or a girl.

Whether I would be a good mom.

Whether my life could somehow fit around this new reality.

I started searching things I never thought I would search.

How big is a baby at five weeks?

What foods should you avoid during pregnancy?

What drinks should you stop having?

What happens after finding out you’re pregnant in college?

I learned things I never expected to care about. I started thinking differently about everything I put into my body. I caught myself imagining a future I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

And then I remembered I had to tell Beau.

That was the scariest part.

Because no matter how much I was struggling, this was his too.

I sat him down and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I had rehearsed what I was going to say a hundred times, but when I looked at him, all I could get out was the truth.

“I’m pregnant.”

For a few seconds, he just stared at me.

And then he pulled me into him.

He was scared. I could see it. He didn’t pretend he wasn’t. We were both terrified.

But he didn’t run.

He didn’t blame me.

He didn’t make me feel like I was facing it alone.

He just held me and told me we would figure it out.

And for the first time since seeing those tests, I let myself believe maybe we could.

For a few days, things felt different.

Not easy.

Not normal.

But different.

There was this strange new awareness between us. Like we were carrying around a secret that only belonged to us.

Then I started spotting.

At first, I wasn’t too worried.

The doctor had told me spotting could happen. It didn’t always mean something was wrong.

So I tried to stay calm.

But it didn’t stop.

A day passed.

Then two.

Then more.

And that fear I had been trying to push away started creeping back in.

I went back to the doctor.

This time, I wasn’t excited or terrified.

I was numb.

Another blood test.

Another wait.

Another room where I sat staring at the walls, hoping someone would tell me everything was okay.

But they didn’t.

The doctor explained it gently.

My pregnancy hormone levels were dropping.

I had miscarried.

I remember hearing the words, but not understanding them.

Because how could I lose something I had only just found?

How could I grieve someone I had never met?

I hadn’t even gotten to know my baby.

I hadn’t heard a heartbeat.

I hadn’t bought anything.

I hadn’t told everyone.

But somehow, there was still a loss.

Because for those few days, I had imagined a life.

And now I had to imagine one without it.

The hardest part wasn’t the doctor’s appointment.

It wasn’t the tears.

It wasn’t the emptiness.

It was having to tell Beau.

Because a few days ago, I had sat in front of him and changed both of our lives forever.

And now I had to sit in front of him and tell him that the future we had just started imagining was gone.

I didn’t know how to say it.

I didn’t know how to take something that had already hurt me so much and put it into words that wouldn’t hurt him too.

I didn’t know how to tell the person who had promised we would figure it out that there was nothing left to figure out.

It was weird.

That was the only way I could describe it.

Because I had spent the first few days terrified of becoming a mom.

I had cried on my bathroom floor because I wasn’t ready. Because I had plans. Because Beau and I were supposed to have one more year of college before we figured out the rest of our lives.

I hadn’t wanted to be a mom.

And then somehow, I became one.

Not in the way I imagined. Not with a nursery or a heartbeat or a baby in my arms.

But I had been a mom.

For those few weeks, I had carried a little life inside me. I had changed the way I ate. I had taken vitamins every morning. I had looked up how big my baby was and wondered if they would have Beau’s smile.

I had started making space for someone who wasn’t supposed to exist in my life yet.

And then, just like that, I wasn’t a mom anymore.

I didn’t know how to grieve something I had only known for such a short time.

I didn’t know if I was allowed to be this heartbroken.

When I got home, Beau was already there.

And he didn’t know.

He didn’t know that I had sat in that doctor’s office alone.

He didn’t know that I had heard the words that changed everything.

He didn’t know that the future he was still holding onto wasn’t there anymore.

He smiled when I walked in.

Not a huge smile. Not a careless one.

A hopeful one.

And somehow that hurt worse.

“Okay, hear me out,” he said, standing up from the couch. “I’ve been thinking.”

I froze.

Because those words used to make me smile.

Beau was always thinking. Always planning. Always finding a way to make things work.

“We can do this,” he said.

My chest tightened.

“We’re seniors, right? So we only have one year left. We figure out classes. Maybe you take a lighter schedule if you need to. I can talk to Coach about adjusting things around football. My parents would help. Your parents would help. We’d make it work.”

I stared at him.

He kept going, his eyes lighting up as he talked through all the possibilities.

“We could get a place off campus. Nothing crazy, but somewhere with an extra room. And after graduation, we figure out jobs and everything else. It’s not exactly how we pictured things, but—”

His voice softened.

“—it could still be good.”

That was what broke me.

Not the doctor.

Not the blood test.

Not the empty ultrasound.

It was Beau standing in our apartment, already loving a future that no longer existed.

I started crying before I could stop myself.

Not quiet tears.

Not the kind I could hide.

The kind that ripped through me.

Beau immediately stopped talking.

“Hey,” he said, his face changing. “What’s wrong?”

And I wanted to tell him.

I wanted to say the words.

But my throat closed up.

Because saying them meant they were real.

“Beau…”

He crossed the room in seconds.

“What happened?”

I looked at him, and I saw the hope on his face disappear before I even spoke.

“I went back to the doctor.”

His hands found mine.

“And?”

I swallowed.

“They said…”

My voice broke.

“I lost the baby.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

For a second, neither of us moved.

And then Beau’s face crumpled.

Not in anger.

Not in disappointment.

Just pain.

He pulled me into him, and I collapsed against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

The words came out over and over.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Because some part of me felt like I had failed him.

Failed the baby.

Failed this tiny future we had barely started imagining.

But Beau just held me tighter.

“Don’t apologize,” he whispered.

And that somehow made me cry harder.

Because I knew he was hurting too.

He had lost something too.

A future.

A dream.

A baby he had already started making room for.

We stood there holding each other in the middle of our apartment, grieving something neither of us had been prepared to love.

Something neither of us had been prepared to lose.

The days after were strange.

Some moments, I felt completely normal.

I would laugh at something stupid Beau said. I would get annoyed about a professor assigning too much work. I would complain about being tired.

And then I would remember.

There wasn’t a baby anymore.

There wasn’t a due date.

There wasn’t a tiny person we were going to meet.

And it felt like the world kept moving forward while mine had stopped.

I still had the prenatal vitamins sitting on my bathroom counter.

I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away.

I don’t know why.

Maybe because throwing them away felt like admitting there had never been a baby.

Maybe because, in those few weeks, there had been.

Beau never pressured me to move on.

That was the thing about him.

He didn’t try to fix it.

He couldn’t.

There was no speech that could make it hurt less. No promise that could bring back what we lost.

He just stayed.

He learned when I needed to talk and when I needed silence.

He learned that sometimes I would cry randomly because something small reminded me.

A baby announcement online.

A pregnant woman walking across campus.

A date on the calendar that made me think, that would have been around when I was due.

He never told me I should be over it.

He never acted like because it was early, it mattered less.

Because it mattered.

We both knew it did.

One night, a few weeks later, we were sitting on the couch together.

It was quiet.

The kind of quiet that used to feel uncomfortable but now felt safe.

“I really thought I was going to hate being pregnant,” I admitted.

Beau looked over at me.

I swallowed.

“I was so scared. I was angry. I kept thinking about everything I was losing.”

His hand found mine.

“But then I started thinking about it,” I continued. “And I started imagining them.”

My voice cracked.

“And I think that’s the part no one tells you. You don’t have to hold your baby to love them.”

Beau looked down at our hands.

“I miss them,” he whispered.

The honesty of it broke something open in me.

Because I had been so caught up in my own grief that I forgot he had his own.

He had gone from planning how to rearrange his life to losing the future he had just started picturing.

“I miss them too,” I said.

And for the first time, we let ourselves say it.

Not the pregnancy.

Not what happened.

Not the situation.

Them.

Because even though they were only with us for a short time, they were ours.

Eventually, life started moving again.

Classes continued.

Football continued.

People who didn’t know what happened laughed and joked around us, unaware that we were carrying something heavy.

I started healing.

Not forgetting.

Healing.

There was a difference.

I stopped blaming myself.

I stopped wondering if I should have done something differently.

I stopped asking why I had been given something just to lose it.

Some things don’t have answers.

Some losses don’t make sense.

But I learned that grief and love can exist at the same time.

I had not planned to become a mom.

I had not been ready.

But for a brief moment, I was.

And even though I wasn’t anymore, that didn’t erase what happened.

It didn’t erase the love.

It didn’t erase the dreams.

It didn’t erase the little life that had changed both of us before we ever got the chance to meet them.

And maybe someday, when the pain wasn’t so sharp, I would think about that time and remember more than just losing them.

“Logan! How’s it going?” You watch as the two of them greet each other, and suddenly you feel as if you’re underwater, because everything comes out muffled. While tuning out their conversation, you fix your gaze on the clock conveniently located behind Beau’s head, restraining yourself from looking at the man that you’ve been avoiding for a week.

You don’t even notice that the two of them are trying to get your attention until Beau waves in your face.

“Hey, Earth to Y/N?” He chuckles, and you revert your gaze back to the football player. “All good?”

You stammer for a moment, and despite your tenacious attempt to ignore his warm eyes and crooked smile, you greedily sneak a look at Logan as you struggle to string together a coherent sentence. “Sorry, it’s been a long week.”

Beau gives you a side hug. “All good. Thanks again for the help,” As he exits the center, he gives a nod towards Logan. “Nice seeing ya.”

You follow Beau’s retreating body as he leaves through the glass doors, unable to fully look at the hockey player in his eyes.

“Hey,” His gentle voice snaps you out of your trance, and as your heart races to a rate that’s bordering on tachycardia, your mind conveniently goes back to Beau’s words.

Yeah, you would rather streak across campus than talk to John Logan right now.

“Hey. Um,” You bow your head to your shoes, trying to muster up the confidence to look him in the eyes. You never told him about your schedule on Thursday nights, yet here he is, showing up exactly when your shift is over. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

He shrugs, stepping closer to your body. You have bravely updated your stance from staring at your shoes to staring at his tattered Briar Hockey sweatshirt. Progress.

“Yeah, I just wanted to check in on you,” He confesses, and then lets out a chuckle that doesn’t have much humor to it. “I feel like I haven’t heard from you all week.”

Shit.

He’s not wrong. After last Friday, you haven’t texted Logan at all. And of course, as if he purposefully wants to add fuel to your self-inflincted anguish, he continues to message you, asking how you’re doing, and even sending the occasional meme on Instagram.

Suddenly, you feel the oxygen escape your lungs as he rests his index finger on your chin, tenderly lifting your head. A sharp ache thumps across your chest as you finally meet his gaze. You can’t quite pinpoint the emotion painted in his eyes.

“Is everything okay? It’s just me, you know.”

You internally scoff at the latter sentence, hoping that the self-pity doesn’t reflect on your face. It’s “just” Logan. It’s “just” your situationship. It’s “just” the man that your mind flickers back to as you lie on your bed. It’s “just” the man you think about after a particularly hard night, longing for his comforting arms and sustained body heat.

It can never be “just” Logan. That sounds too casual. Too relaxed. Too ridiculous.

“Yeah,” You breathe out shakily, hoping he doesn’t notice the uneasiness coursing through your body as you shift your weight from one leg on to the other. “I’ve…I’ve been swamped this week. I’ve barely been on my phone.”

To truly send you into ventricular tachycardia, he has the audacity to wrap a callused hand around your waist, pulling you even closer like it’s second nature. As if the two of you have been dating all along.

At least it’s just the two of you in the center. And if Logan has to decency to walk out the front door right now, you could self-combust by yourself, in peace.

“All good, I just wanted to make sure that you were still alive,” He jokes, but the sarcasm hits hard in your chest. His dimples don’t help with the desire churning deep inside of your heart either. “Are you free tonight?”

For what seems to be the millionth time in the past few minutes, you struggle again as you scramble through the English dictionary of your mind to figure out what exactly you want to say to him. To increase your self-misery, you decide to torture yourself by laser-focusing on the beads of water slowly dripping down the veins of his neck. He must have driven to the center right after his post-practice shower.

“Um, not really. I’ve barely slept at all this week,” And that wasn’t a lie. “I want to go home, take a shower, and fall asleep before the clock hits 10:00 PM.”

“Ah, isn’t that the dream,” Logan muses, and the twinkle in his molten eyes can disintegrate your trembling body right on the very spot. “Let me walk you to your car.”

You furrow your eyebrows at him. “You came all this way from the rink to ask me how I am? And now you want to walk me to my car?”

“You know, Y/N, if you just tilt your head up just slightly to look at the clock, it’s after 9:00 PM. And if you look outside, you’ll see it’s quite dark,” He teases, and you’re undeniably certain that your cheeks are as red as the feathers of the Briar University hawk. “I’m just fulfilling my duties as a gentleman.”

“Right, I forgot about that.”

And to shamelessly place the final nail in the coffin of your tightly-wound agony, he has the nerve to stick his arm out, gesturing for you to hold on it. And in an act of complete, utter selfishness, despite your effort to distance yourself from this man, you wrap a tentative hand around his bicep, greedily feeling his muscle tense beneath your fingers.

As the two of you walk through the parking lot in a “not too uncomfortable” sort of silence, you take the opportunity to lean against his shoulder, inhaling his scent. You breathe in his crisp cologne, cedar and pine bundling you to him like a tight-knit blanket. He smells like home. Like comfort. And that’s a dangerous feeling.

When he opens your driver-side door, you open your mouth to say goodbye. To rip off the bandaid. But he cuts you off.

“I missed you,” He confesses, exhaling a deep sigh as if he’s been holding on to that piece of information for years. “Truly.”

You recognize the sincerity in his eyes, and his lips part lightly and his eyebrows dip down and he looks…kind of sad.

You can’t bring yourself to come up with a half-assed lie as your hand still cradles his bicep. “Me too.”

“You said you aren’t free tonight,” He says in a resigned sort of tone, his other hand coming up to scratch the bank of his head. And then he throws another curveball at you. “But how about tomorrow? We’re throwing a game night. It’ll just be us and some guys from the team. It won’t be a party or anything.”

“Um, I don’t know,” You pull your hand away from his arm, trying to regain the tiniest bit of self-control, if that’s even possible at this point. “What kind of games will there be?”

“Some board and card games. Monopoly, blackjack, poker,” He accentuates the last word as he smirks at you, teasing dimples on full display. “And if I recall correctly, you were the reigning poker champ when we played together last Halloween.”

Your mouth stretches into a smile as you remember that night, but your eyes quickly widen as all of the details come back to your mind. “Wait, will it be strip poker again?

“No! No,” He frantically and adamantly confirms, his curls bouncing around as he tenaciously shakes his head. His frightened face stirs a loud laugh out of your chest, and you notice his eyes glimmer at the sound. “It will not be strip poker. I already see Dean in his boxers on a regular basis. I will not subject you to that image.”

“Thank you for the clarification. I appreciate the precautions that you take to prevent me from seeing that happen,” You allow yourself to joke, enjoying the current banter you have with him. “Very gentleman-like.”

“Anytime,” He tilts his head as if he’s taking off a hat, laughing with you. “You absolutely dominated last time. I would love to see you kick Garrett’s ass again.”

“Well, Mr. Graham needed to be humbled,” You jokingly put your hands up in self-defense, shrugging. “And I was honored to put him in his place.”

Logan’s smile has not wavered in the slightest. “It was awesome. And this night will be totally chill, I promise. The guys would love to see you as well.”

His mention of the boys warms your heart. “What time is it at?”

You didn’t think it was possible for this man’s eyes to light up even more. “Starts at 8:00. We might go on for a while though. Might be good to stay over,” Logan suggests with a casual shrug of his shoulders. He slips the last sentence in so quickly that you’re positive that you misunderstood what he said.

You sigh, biting your bottom lip. “Well, um…I’ll think about it.”

Logan sneaks a gaze to your lips, then returns to meet your eyes. “You know what? I’ll take that.”

You look back to your car, trying to signal to him that you wanted to go home. “Alright, I should start driving back now. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“See ya,” He grins, slyly pressing a quick kiss to your temple before walking away. Your mind only registers the kiss once he’s more than ten feet away, and you brush your fingers over your temple as if his kiss was still lingering.

You have his beaming smile imprinted in your brain as you drive back to your apartment.

You quickly scanned the living room and kitchen after Tucker let you into the house the next night. Logan was right, the game night seemed pretty chill. Other than the core group, along with Hannah and Allie, you recognized Birdie and Simms, as well as a puck bunny that you interacted with once at a game before. Carly, you think her name was.

Everyone gathered around the dining table, with Logan right by your side, of course. He pulls up a chair next to Tucker, who was sitting next to you, and tells him to “scooch” while casually handing you a beer bottle.

“You like pilsners, right?”

You stare at him, tilting your head at him in amusement. You don’t remember mentioning to him that you preferred pilsners over other kinds of beer.

“Yeah, I do.”

You grab onto the bottle and murmur a soft “thanks,” watching as his mouth twitches. The two of you don’t exchange any words. Logan just beams at you with that familiar glimmer in his eyes, and you laugh into the bottle.

“Huh, I was wondering why Johnny here got a whole eight pack of pilsners, considering none of us like ‘em,” Dean loudly mocks Logan as he sits across the two of you, grabbing onto Allie’s hand for her to sit next to him. You definitely think that there’s something going on between them.

Logan just reaches over and lightly shoves at the blond hockey player, muttering “idiot” underneath his breath. Hannah raises her eyebrows at you as she helps Garrett with shuffling the cards. You look at her in confusion, not understanding her reaction. She shakes her head, mouthing the words “we’ll talk later” to you.

As everyone gets settled around the table, Garrett proposes a game of Rummy. And over the next few hours, as you transition between Rummy to Speed to Crazy Eights, you try to tune out the presence of Logan beside you. But his breaths hover close to your neck, and his left ankle wraps around your right one, and his fingers brush around your shoulders as he leisurely rests his arm on the back of your chair.

And unfortunately for you, you perform poorly in the first three games, and you selfishly blame him for distracting you. In your head, of course.

Finally, you guys play a game of good old-fashioned Texas Hold’Em. The two cards that Garrett deals you at the beginning are strong, but you won’t go all in right away. Not yet.

As the game progresses, the majority of the players fold, including Logan. At the end, there’s only three people: you, Tucker, and Dean.

“Alright, let’s go,” Garrett drums his hands on the dining table, shaking the table so hard that the beer bottles on top start to wobble. Hannah rolls her eyes playfully, “Showdown time.”

Tucker goes first, a resigned expression on his face as he shows his hand. A regular flush. Not bad, but not good enough to win. Logan pats him on the back, muttering “next time, Tuck” as he looks dejectedly at the table.

Dean, already sporting his cocky “I won” face, dramatically flips over his cards. “And, that my friends, is what? A straight. Mother. Fuckin’. Flush. Boom!” He howls so houd that Hannah covers her eyes, lifting his beer bottle up high. “Read it and weep.”

He then leans over the table, pointing in fake menace towards you, the competitive streak still firing up in his eyes. “And what does little Ms. Y/N have? You don’t have a straight flush, don’t ya?”

All eyes turn expectantly towards you, watching as you sigh and look at your cards with a glum face. Logan’s arm is still lingering on the back of your chair. In its natural place, of course.

You slump your shoulders. “Yeah, Dean. You’re right, I don’t,” You finally flip your cards, looking back at the overconfident hockey player with an incredibly controlled expression. “I have a royal flush, actually.”

Cue the hollers. The hockey house goes haywire.

Tucker immediately bursts out laughing, slapping his hand on the table and pointing at Dean. Allie’s jaw drops. Hannah joins in on the laughter, her eyes wide as she looks at you in excitement. Garrett chuckles, shakes his hand, and gives you his own personal round of applause. And Logan, within the same vein as Tucker, also points towards Dean and yells, with his full chest, “Loooooooser!”

Meanwhile, Dean looks like he just got slapped in the face, his cheeks flushing so hard that you almost feel bad for the guy.

“No. No fucking way. You checked the entire time. You barely fucking raised!”

You shrug your shoulders, looking up at him with a sly grin. Your casual silence only tips Dean over the edge.

“Oh hell no. Garrett, shuffle the cards,” He orders his captain, who just looks at Dean with a straight face, completely dismissing him. “We’re replaying.”

You let a tired sigh, peeking at the time on your phone and rubbing the exhaustion out of your eyes. 12:14 AM. You’re junior in college and yet, you are the epitome of a grandma.

“Dean, for the love of God, just GOMD.”

As the letters slip out before your brain can catch up with your mouth, you halt and everyone looks at you in surprise. Dean just groans. You don’t even want to look at the satisfaction on Logan’s face right now.

“Jesus Christ, not you too,” He stares pointedly at Logan. “You got her saying bullshit acronyms now too?”

Logan shrugs at his roommate, sipping his beer and remaining silent. His other hand goes to rest on your upper thigh, and you try to not flinch in surprise.

Dean looks at you in pure exasperation. “And what the fuck does that even mean?”

At last, you stand up from your chair, playing with the chips in your hand. “It means to get off my dick, Dean.”

The house loses it again. Garrett’s composure completely breaks as his chest rumbles with laughs. Tucker is on the brink of fucking tears, walking over to Dean and shoving him, and Logan just looks at you in childish amusement, shaking his head as he laughs.

Dean chidishly huffs, turning his head away fron you and putting his palm to your face. “God, I can’t even look at you right now. I have half a mind to banish you from this house.”

“As if you would ever do that,” Allie remarks, rolling her eyes and patting Dean on the chest.

Garrett asks the group if they want to play another game, and even though a chorus of yes’s emerges, you shake your head at the captain, looking at the beer bottle you finished at least two hours ago.

“I’m spent. And I don’t feel like schooling Dean’s ass again,” You joke, and Dean rolls his eyes to the back of his head. “I might leave here in a bit.”

Once your comment registers to him, Logan instantly stands up with you, brushing a hand over your forearm. “You sure? You don’t want to stay a bit longer?”

His soothing eyes could melt you into a puddle. You’re calling it: John Logan is going to be the death of you.

“I’m not going to lie, I’m pretty tired. I’m not too in the mood to play another game right now,” You explain as the two of walk away from the dining table, getting farther away from the group’s chatterings.

“Honey, I’m not gonna lie, I don’t know how I feel about you driving late at night. Especially when you’re tired,” He confesses in a low voice, his hand wrapping around your shoulder.

You’re not my boyfriend, you desperately yearn to say.

“You don’t trust my driving skills?” You opt to say instead, joking with him, but the stern look on his face doesn’t waver.

“I do, but I don’t want you to drive when you’re tired. And it’s late on a Friday, and I really don’t want you to run into any drunk drivers,” He adds, and his concern for you tugs at your heart. He then begins to knead at your shoulder, feeling how tense you are. “I was thinking we could chill for a bit. We can go upstairs, watch a movie, unwind a little. You definitely need to relax. Your shoulder’s crazy stiff.”

You tilt your head at him in confusion. “Yeah, and what are you going to do about it?”

He raises an eyebrow at you, his mouth twitching into his typical smartass grin. “Well, Y/N, I don’t know if you know, but I am an athlete,” You let an exasperated sigh, which only makes him smile wider. “And I’ve been given a lot of massages by PTs before, so I know some basics. I can definitely give you one.”

“A massage? Really?”

“Yeah,” That cheeky grin finally gets you, and you can’t control the blush plastered on your flaming cheeks. His fingers push a bit deeper into your shoulder and damn, that feels good. “See? You’ve been needing this.”

You look at him, really look at him, and you give him a resigned expression.

“I hate when you’re right.”

As soon as he hears the words fall from your lips, he’s grabbing your hand and leading you up the stairs.

Once your body hits the mattress, your self-restraint completely unravels. You shed some of your clothes, curling up into your unofficial side of Logan’s bed, getting yourself comfortable as he watches in amusement.

And right after he places his hands back on your shoulders, you feel your body sinking deeper and deeper, fighting with your life to keep your eyes open. But as Logan mutters sweet nothings into your ear, you can’t help but let the slumber overtake you.

You lie motionless on a concrete floor, your eyes frantically darting around as you try to recognize the walls of your enclosure. Groaning, you slowly pull yourself onto your knees, feeling your bones sink to the ground. You feel unbearably weak, trying your best to keep all of your limbs upright. It’s almost as if a huge weight is tied to your ankles, pulling you down as you try to stand up. You ultimately succumb to your fate as you use your elbows and knees to crawl on the grimy floor.

Everything is eerily silent. The only noise you hear is the sound of your own heavy breathing, hoarse exhales climbing from your trachea. You turn to your side and take stock of the metal bars holding you in your jail cell. Groaning, you slowly crawl to the bars, knees against scraping the rigid floor. Though the movement seems relatively easy, your lungs pound with a burning soreness, and your legs ache as if you’ve just run a marathon. It’s all in slow motion.

Finally, you reach a shaky hand up to one of the bars, shaking it so loud that your ears start to bleed. Gasping, you bring your face to the metal, mouth trembling as you let a scream.

“Help!” You cry out, banging on the bars. “Help me, please!”

The sobs spewing out of your body are uncontrollable. As the tears overwhelm you, an ache in your head begins to throb violently, the pain spreading like a virus to your temples. Completely and utterly debilitated, you roll your head as it bangs against the metal, surrendering yourself to the pain.

You let out a final scream for help, feeling your throat practically tear itself into two.

And then, you hear another voice.

“Y/N!” You hear the shout, but it’s rough and muffled and feels impossibly far away.

You let out a cry to signal your presence, but the voice only gets quieter and quieter. You try to call to this being, but they say your name one last time, before the room turns silent again.

“No! No!” You repeatedly try to scream, but you feel your lungs collapsing as your mouth abruptly begins to fill itself with blood.

Suddenly, before your body caves in and topples onto the ground, you hear your name. Again. As if it wants to taunt you.

“Y/N!”

But now, the voice is loud and clear. You open your eyes and practically flinch when you notice the wide eyes and parted mouth and furrowed eyebrows of the familiar face right above you.

No.

“Hey, hey, Y/N,” Logan calls out to you, his firm hands grasping onto your shoulders as the fear rocks through your body. You fix your eyes onto his bare chest, where you see him inhaling and exhaling at practically the same rate as your breathing. “Hey, it’s me. It’s Logan. It’s just me.”

No. This can’t be happening.

He brings a gentle hand to your cheek, but you recoil from his touch. The tears overwhelm your vision, but you can see the hurt plastered across his face.

“Y/N, you’re safe, okay? You’re with me.”

This can’t be happening.

You barely register his words as you scramble out of his bed, the jarring movement clearly taking him aback, and rushing to the nearest closed space. Away from him. Away from all of this.

Quick footsteps follow behind you, a “fuck” coming out under his breath.

The sound of the bathroom door slamming shut jostles you even more, and after you lock the door, your quivering body sinks below to the freezing cold tiles, and you wrap a hand your mouth to silence your wails. But you’re not sure it’s totally effective.

The rattle of the doorknob sends shock waves throughout your body, and you muster up all of the energy you have left to inch away further from the door, legs violently shaking.

“Shit. Y/N, can you please unlock the door?” Even though the door acts as a barrier and suppresses his voice, you can still hear his unsteady breaths. “Please. I’m really fucking worried.”

Everything burns. Your eyes sting. Your throat’s on fire. Your head pounds with an incessant and intolerable buzz.

You had a plan, and you didn’t stick to it.

Your mind immediately sends you into a turbulent spiral, convincing yourself with a terrifying intensity that you messed everything up. You placed another burden on him. You are the reason that this casual relationship will end.

It’s all your fucking fault.

And as you helplessly drown into the vortex of your mind, your ears still cling on to the pleas coming out from the other side.

“Y/N, please. Let me in,” He repeatedly calls out, frantically rattling the doorknob, and you hear a “thud” against the door. The sound initially makes you flinch, but you realize that it’s probably from his head leaning against the door. “Baby, please.”

Suddenly, you hear a commotion in the hallway, voices from various people all blending into each other.

Great, now you woke up several people. As if this night could get any worse. You begin to hyperventilate and wheeze, seeing stars form out of the corner of your eyes.

But Garrett’s captain voice comes out loud and clear, even though you can’t exactly hear what he says. You then hear an even louder, “don’t you fucking tell me to calm down” and “can’t you hear? She can barely fucking breathe right now.”

And as you rock yourself back and forth on the tiles, you realize that the booming voices feel farther and farther away, until you hear another knock.

“Hey, Y/N. It’s Hannah,” You freeze in surprise, head whipping towards the door. “Um, I don’t know if you can hear me. But Garrett took Logan downstairs for him to cool off. I think the loud noises just make everything worse, right?”

You don’t say anything back, but your breaths don’t feel as shallow anymore. The stars from your vision have faded away.

“Logan said that you had a pretty bad nightmare. Is that true? I trust Logan, but I also wanted to confirm with you. And to see if you needed anything.”

You crawl towards the entrance, your hands gripping onto the sink to pull yourself up. You swallow for at least a full minute before you decide to finally speak.

“Is there anyone else with you?” God, you hate how croaky your voice sounds right now.

“No, Y/N. It’s just me. I swear. I’m pretty sure Garrett and Logan are outside now. They can’t hear us—”

The words die down on Hannah’s lips as you open the door. You watch as her face visibly saddens when taking in your damp cheeks and bloodshot eyes. But she doesn’t say anything, waiting patiently for you to speak first.

“I had a night terror,” You confess, your voice coming out as a whisper. “I have them quite often, but I haven’t told him, or anyone at Briar, about them.”

Hannah nods, slowly and carefully. “Okay. Is there anything I can do for you right now? What do you need?”

Your bottom lip wobbles as you take in her kindness. “Uh…I don’t know. I needed some space, which is why I locked myself in there. I never planned on Logan seeing me like this,” Your throat throbs as you chuckle without humor. As if you could plan out your night terrors. “I didn’t know how he’d react.”

“He was very worried,” Hannah says with full sincerity while looking into your eyes. “He actually wanted to grab a screwdriver and unlock the bathroom door that way. But Garrett persuaded him not to. It probably would’ve freaked you out even more.”

Garrett’s not wrong. You sigh, trying to search for your phone, figuring you left it in Logan’s room. “What time is it?”

Hannah fishes her phone out of the pockets of her sleep shorts, the brightness of the screen overtaking her face. “A little bit after 4:00. But don’t worry about that. It’s Saturday, and they don’t have a game tomorrow.”

You let out a relieved sigh at her reassurance. When you shift your eyes to looking downstairs, Hannah follows your gaze. “You want to go down?”

After you nod, she extends her hand towards you, and you allow yourself to take it. The two of you walk down the stairs, and through one of the living room’s windows, you see Garrett leaning on the wall while Logan paces on the grass.

“I’ll talk to him,” You tell Hannah, and she gives you a supportive smile, and asks for your permission to give you a hug. You grant it, of course. And you really needed the hug.

“I’ll be in the living room if you need anything, okay?” She tells you, and hands you a jacket. “The cold is not anything like last week, but it’s still chilly out there.”

“Thank you,” You whisper to Hannah, and she nods back at you as if to say “anytime.”

You walk into the backyard, and the sound of your feet hitting the grass makes both of the boys’ heads turn around. Garrett looks at you with an expression that you can’t quite pinpoint; it’s stern, yet kind at the same time.

Logan, on the other hand, has completely disheveled hair after running his hands through his curls multiple times. His jaw twitches, and the corners of his eyes have the tiniest hint of redness surrounding them. He places one foot ahead of the other, but stops before completely heading to you, practically restraining himself from hugging you immediately.

He looks fucking wrecked.

“Garrett, um, I need to talk to Logan alone. If that’s okay,” You’re the first one to speak, and the hockey team captain crosses his arm and nods.

“Alright. I’ll be inside if you need anything,” He spares one last look at Logan, sighs, and supportively pats your shoulder as he heads back into the house.

God, you would rather lose miserably to Dean at poker than open up to Logan right now.

But you still take the first step. You walk by and take a seat onto one of the lawn chairs, sighing as you look down at your lap. Logan still hasn’t moved, clearly waiting for your consent before he gets close to you.

You turn towards him, nodding your head at the other chair, and he takes the hint, slowly taking a seat facing you.

Your heart rattles fiercely against your ribs.

“This is…really, really hard for me to do,” You confess, staring at the ground and focusing on the sounds of cars driving past the neighborhood. “I didn’t think it would come to this point.”

His face visibly blanches, hands trembling as he nervously wrings them together.

Okay, maybe you shouldn’t have worded it like that.

“I haven’t told anyone at Briar about this. Hell, I even just now told Hannah briefly when we were upstairs,” You let a huge exhale, and pull your knees to your chest. “But I think you deserve to know. We’ve been…fooling around for a couple of months now, and we’ve gotten, you know…close.” You wince as you hesitate on saying the last word.

When there’s silence from Logan, you take that as your sign to go ahead.

“Ever since I was four, I have been having night terrors. On and off. Some months, even some years are worse than others. One time in high school I went two years without them, and suddenly in senior year, they came back,” You ramble on, and you force yourself to inhale in order to center yourself. “And they’re different than nightmares. Much more intense. Nightmares usually occur in REM sleep, whereas my night terrors happen when I’m in a deep sleep, and it’s so, so hard for me to wake up. I thrash around, a lot. I’ve been to several doctors for it, even a somnologist,” You explain, and when you lift your head, you see his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

You quickly clarify. “A somnologist is a doctor who specializes in sleep disorders. But, yeah. Children usually grow out of their night terrors, but I never did. And it’s…debilitating. It’s fucking horrible.”

You fix your gaze on him, and you watch as he takes in every word that you say, his forehead wrikling with concern.

Finally, he speaks up.

Alright, Y/N. Your situationship is about to end things with you. Deal with it.

“The doctors that you went to…” He clears his throat, his voice coming out all ragged and rough. “Have they found the underlying cause for these?”

In all of the scenarios you went through in your mind in the thirty seconds before he spoke, you definitely did not consider one where he asked a question.

“They haven’t pinpointed an exact cause. But they have identified some triggers,” You sigh, looking up at the sky to prepare yourself to utter the next words you’re about to say. “Mainly stress-related. They believe that my PTSD plays a huge part in them.”

Immediately, his eyes widen and his lips part when he registers the last sentence. He lets out a shaky breath, looking down at his hands as he continues to wring them together.

“You have PTSD?”

You nod, biting into your lip. Remember, Y/N. Control.

“Yeah. I’ve been working through it since high school. Met with a therapist and everything. You know, trying not to let it define me. I spent my whole life being the mediator in my family, constantly solving other people’s problems instead of identifying my own. It was rough. Hell, I used to have panic attacks all the time in class,” You laugh mirthlessly, playing with the hem of your shirt. “Now I’ve upgraded. I just have them behind closed doors, when no one else is awake. I used to have both panic attacks and night terrors, luckily now I…only deal with one.”

Nothing about your situation is lucky.

The sheer magnitude of what you’ve revealed to Logan finally hits you. You grip the back of your thighs to hide your shaking hands.

Y/N, that was the opposite of control.

“I-I’m sorry,” You sputter out quickly, but Logan only stares at you in confusion. “I…I shouldn’t have unloaded all of that onto you. It’s a lot, I know—”

“Y/N,” He rasps out, and he presses his fingers into his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose before he looks at you again. “Can I take your hand?”

You nod wordlessly, giving your right hand to his left one. He draws soothing circles onto the back of your hand, even though his fingers are shaking as well. He bites his lip as he stares at you, looking utterly destroyed.

“Is this why you never stay over?”

The breath quickly escapes your lungs. You can’t find in yourself to speak, so you nod.

And Logan tightens his grip on your hand, his breaths coming out wobbly and unsteady.

“Thank you,” He enunciates, and you can’t help but look at him in surprise. “For…for trusting me with this. I had a feeling you were going through something, but I didn’t want to push you to say anything.”

You can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “You’re not uncomfortable with me unloading all of this onto you? Even though we’re just casual?”

“Oh, baby,” He breathes out, and wraps his right hand around your cheek. You instinctively nestle into his warm touch. “There’s nothing casual about the way I feel about you.”

Before you can stop yourself, you reach out and wrap your arms around his torso, pressing your face into his neck to hide the incoming tears. Logan immediately welcomes your touch, settling your body onto his lap and tenderly cradling your head with his palm. His whole body relaxes as he runs his fingers through your hair, pulling you even closer. You feel your shoulder starting to get a tad damp as well.

“I was so fucking worried,” His voice trembles into your hair, which only makes your tears flow even faster. “I just needed to make sure you were alright. God, I was going crazy when Garrett pulled me aside.”

You don’t say anything, only breathing a watery sigh into his neck and tangling your fingers into his waves. Your heart rate finally slows down, and your muscles gradually loosen against his protective grip.

You’re safe.

The two of you remain in each others’ arms for a while until you twist around in his lap, turning to face him. He gives you a small closed-mouth smile, and you lazily trace his dimples. He turns his head to your palm, gingerly kissing your hand, feeling the stubble around his chin.

You could stay like this all night.

Logan then clears his throat, even though you’re sure that his voice is still raspy.

“You know, I kind of related to what you said earlier. About being the mediator,” He sighed, sneaking a hand under your shirt to rest his palm against your stomach. “I used to be the mediator in my family. We had so many fucking fights in our house. Between Jules and Jeff, Jeff and my mom, Jules and my mom…I got so sick and tired of it.”

You nod, listening intently. A few months ago, he gave you some information about his childhood and upbringing, about how early he had to start working and how he frequently argued with his mother. Ironically, it didn’t sound too different from your childhood, either.

“It’s the worst,” You add on, playing with his curls. “It feels like you have no space to breathe. Everyone vents to you, but you have no one to talk to. Their problems slowly drain you, even when you’re drowning in your own sorrows.”

“That’s exactly how I felt,” He tells you earnestly, his palm still resting against your stomach. He dips his head slightly to press a kiss onto your forehead.

“Yeah, I remember you telling me about your problems at home. I thought about sharing my own experience as well, but I didn’t want to be a burden. You already have enough on your plate,” You confess, eyes nervously darting to your hands. You felt like you needed to let him now.

But as he grasps the back of your head to pull you in for a much-needed kiss full of passion, serenity, and comfort, you know deep inside your heart that you do not have to fear for his response.

“Y/N, you are the absolute furthest thing from a burden in my life,” The emotion that exudes from his eyes is enough to send you back into tears, but you don’t feel your throat closing up. “Baby, you can always talk about your problems with me. Air out your frustrations and vent all you want. I’ll be here.”

And as the two of you hold on to each other, lingering outside long enough to see the sunrise, you know that your comfort zone is not necessarily a place, but the person who wraps his arms lovingly around your body and flashes that beautifully crooked smile for you. Only for you.

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

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

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

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

"The bus isn't that bad."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm aware."

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

"Drive safe," he said.

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

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

---

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

You did everything right.

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

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

Then there was nothing.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DEAN.

Logan answered. "Dude, what-"

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

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

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

Your truck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Logan-!"

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

His knees gave out.

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

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

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

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

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

He genuinely might.

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

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

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

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

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

Logan didn't remember the drive to the hospital. Not really. He remembered being in the back seat, wedged between Garrett and Dean like they thought he might try to climb out at a red light, like he was something fragile that needed containing. He remembered staring at his own hands and not recognizing them. He remembered Tucker driving too fast and nobody telling him to slow down.

He felt like a shell. Like someone had scooped everything out of him and left the outline standing.

The waiting room was too bright. Fluorescent and humming and smelling like antiseptic, every chair the same shade of blue. Logan sat in one of them with his hands clasped so tight between his knees his knuckles had gone white, staring at a spot on the floor like it might tell him something.

Allie and Hannah arrived not long after. Garrett had texted them from the car, hands shaking too badly to call. Hannah went straight to Garrett, and Allie crouched in front of Logan's chair and took both of his hands in hers without saying anything at all, because there wasn't anything to say yet.

Your family was three states away, too far to do anything but wait by a phone for updates Allie had promised to send the second there was something to send. Which meant in that waiting room, in that moment, Allie's hands wrapped around Logan's were the closest thing to family in the building.

Nobody spoke much after that. There wasn't anything to fill the silence with that didn't sound stupid. So they just sat.

Hours passed in the kind of slow, syrupy way that only happens in hospital waiting rooms. Someone got coffee at some point. Nobody drank it. Garrett had his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Dean kept checking his phone and then putting it face-down. Tucker stared at the wall across from him like it was the most captivating thing in the world.

Logan didn't cry again during any of it. He didn't have anything left. He just sat there, hollowed out, running the same loop: drive safe, drive safe, I told her drive safe, like the words had failed some sacred duty he hadn't known he'd given them.

It was well past midnight, everyone's eyes red-rimmed and swollen, when a doctor finally pushed through the double doors and scanned the room.

"Family of Y/N L/N?"

Every single one of them stood up at once.

The doctor's eyes found Allie. "You're listed as her emergency contact?"

Allie nodded, voice already cracking. "Yes. That's me."

"Can I speak with you for a moment?"

Logan watched them step aside. Watched the doctor talk low and measured. Watched Allie's hand fly up to cover her mouth. Every second felt like a year. He didn't breathe the entire time.

When Allie came back, her face was wet and streaked with mascara.

"She's-" Allie's voice broke immediately. She tried again. "She's in pretty bad shape. Broken wrist, broken leg, some internal bruising, a lot of cuts from the glass. She's still not conscious. But-" she pressed a hand flat to her own chest like she needed to hold something in, "-the doctor said given how bad it looked, she's going to be okay. She's going to be okay."

Logan's knees buckled for the second time that night. Garrett and Dean both caught him, lowering him back into the chair, and his whole body shook with something that wasn't quite crying and wasn't quite laughing and was somehow both at once.

The relief was so enormous it felt indistinguishable from grief.

"They said we can go back, a couple at a time," Allie said, wiping her face. She looked at Garrett, then at Logan. "Take him first."

The hallway felt impossibly long. Logan's legs barely worked, Garrett's hand steady against his back the entire way. When they reached the door and the nurse pointed them inside, Logan stopped in the doorway.

You looked so small in the bed.

Smaller than he'd ever seen you look. Swallowed by white sheets and the soft mechanical beeping of monitors, a cast running up your left leg, another cast cradling your left wrist. Cuts crossed your face and neck in thin red lines, some of them stitched, all of them stark against skin gone pale from blood loss and shock. There was a bruise blooming dark along your jaw.

The sob came up out of him before he could stop it.

"Hey." Garrett's hand tightened on his shoulder. "She's okay. She's right here."

Logan crossed the room and sank into the chair beside the bed. He took your right hand, the unbroken one, as carefully as if it might shatter too, and held it. He ran his thumb slowly over your knuckles, over and over.

Some old animal instinct: if he just kept touching you, kept feeling the warmth of your skin and the faint pulse under his fingers, his body might finally believe that you were still here. Still real.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, even though you couldn't hear him. Even though there was nothing for him to apologize for and he still needed to say it. "I should've driven you. I should've never let you take it in the snow."

His breathing started to even out eventually. Slow and ragged, then steadier. Grounded in the feel of your hand in his. Garrett stood quiet in the corner and didn't say anything because there wasn't anything that needed saying.

It was almost an hour later when your fingers twitched.

Logan's head snapped up. "Y/N?"

Your eyes moved first, slow and heavy, fighting against whatever they'd given you for the pain. When they finally found him, hazy at first and then sharpening, something in Logan's chest cracked open all over again.

"Logan?" Your voice came out wrecked, barely there. Confusion clouded your face as you took in the room, the machines, the cast on your arm. "What - where am I, what happened-"

"You were in an accident." He barely got the words out. His free hand came up to brush hair gently back from one of the cuts on your forehead. "Someone ran the light. You're at the hospital. You're okay."

Your eyes filled. Tears slipped down over the cuts on your cheeks, and your grip on his hand tightened as much as it could.

"Your car," you whispered. The horror dawned across your face almost immediately, cutting right through the fog of painkillers and shock. "Logan, your car. I wrecked your car. I'm so sorry. You built that whole engine, I-"

And Logan, despite everything, despite every awful hour of that night, laughed. An actual laugh, involuntary, and completely disbelieving. Because of course. Of course that was the first thing out of your mouth. Half-conscious, covered in stitches, and already worried about the truck.

"Are you serious right now," he said.

"It was your baby," you mumbled, fresh tears slipping free, which only made it worse somehow.

"Yeah." He exhaled, shook his head. Looked at you. At the cuts and the bruises and the cast, and at the fact that you were awake and looking back at him, which was the only thing that actually mattered. "It's also just a truck, Y/N."

"That you built."

"That I can rebuild." He said it flatly, like it was obvious, because to him it was. "I know how to fix the truck. I had no idea what I was gonna do about the other thing."

You stared at him for a second. "The other thing."

"You. The other thing is you."

You let out a short, wet laugh and immediately winced. "That's the most you've ever said about your feelings in six months."

"Don't push it. You're on drugs."

"I'm retaining every word of this."

"You're really not," he said. "Go back to sleep."

"I just woke up."

"Go back to sleep anyway."

You laughed again, quieter this time.

Outside the door, Garrett slipped out into the hallway to tell the others. Down toward the waiting room, the group of exhausted friends with red-rimmed eyes would fall apart all over again, this time in relief. But Logan didn't think about any of that. He just sat there holding your hand, listening to the monitors beep their steady, boring rhythm.

"Drive safe," Logan murmured, "really does mean something, you know."

"I'll remember that," you whispered back, "next time I steal your truck."

"There's not gonna be a next time."

"There's absolutely gonna be a next time."

"So I ran into Olivia Tucker — you remember her, right? From church? She had a son named John," she said, not looking at the camera.

You had learned years ago that it was easier to say yes, of course than to endure five minutes of your mom describing a person like she was giving a statement to the police.

"Yeah, of course. I remember Mrs. Tucker."

"She mentioned her son John is attending the same college as you." She said it like she was reading off a notecard. Matter of fact. "She said he's playing hockey now."

Oh. That John Tucker.

"Yeah, I know who he is," you said, cleaning up the mess on your middle finger.

"Isn't that a big coincidence?"

"I mean, not really — he's like a year younger than me, right?"

"Yes, but you two used to play together when you were kids. At church, remember?" You did not remember. Your family went to church maybe twice a year. "Anyway, I gave her your number so she could pass it along to him. So you two could talk."

"Mom — what, that's not really —"

"She's probably not even going to use it."

She used it. Mrs. Tucker called three days later, and with the grace of a good Southern woman, she asked you to keep an eye on John — not in so many words, of course. She said he'd moved into a house with some of the other players and she just wanted to know he was taking care of himself. She didn't want you to do much. Just stop by, take a look around, report back. She'd handle the rest by phone.

What she did not tell you was that Tucker already knew about her plan.

He opened the door looking completely unsurprised to see you, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and a grin that said nice try. He was, it turned out, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and, annoyingly, other people too.

Which is how you ended up here, almost a year later, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island in the off campus house, crying into an onion.

"I'm just saying, get a dicer," you said, keeping your eyes on the knife because you had to. "This is inhumane."

"A real chef doesn't use those kinds of things," Tucker said from across the kitchen, doing significantly less chopping than you were.

"Well, good thing you're not a real chef then."

He turned around, visibly offended. "What did you just say?"

You opened your mouth to repeat it — and then Garrett wandered in from the living room, grabbed an apple from the counter, looked at Tucker's side of the kitchen and then at yours, and pointed at you. "She's doing all the work," he said, to no one in particular, and wandered back out.

"He's right," you said.

"He's a traitor," Tucker said.

You opened your mouth to agree and then the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, and Dean came around the corner fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips and water still tracking down his chest.

You sniffed, eyes watering, nose red.

Dean stopped. Looked at you. And then let out a slow, deeply entertained laugh.

"Well," he said, "I've heard a lot of reactions from girls seeing me like this. But crying might be a first." He tilted his head. "You alright there, sweet pea?"

"It's the onion," you said flatly. "Tucker's making me cut it."

"Sure." He was already turning toward the stairs, completely unbothered. "Whatever floats your boat."

He winked at you over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.

You looked back down at the onion.

Tucker was very pointedly not looking at you.

"Not a word," you said.

"I didn't say anything," he said, in the tone of someone who was saying everything.

The party invitation from Tucker arrived as a single text on a Thursday night.

party saturday, be here, i made a playlist

You were in the middle of your readings and you looked at the message for a moment before typing back: do I need to bring anything?

yourself and good energy

You put your phone face down and went back to your reading. Then picked it up again.

what time

nine but come at eight so we can hang before it gets loud

That was Tucker's way of saying he wanted to cook with you beforehand, which you appreciated more than you would ever tell him out loud because he would absolutely use it against you. You sent back a thumbs up and returned to your notes, and you did not think about the fact that Dean would be there, because that was not a relevant consideration.

You thought about it the entire rest of the week.

Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, persistent way of something you kept putting down and finding in your hand again. You were honest with yourself about Dean, had been from the beginning. You knew what he was. Charming in a way that looked effortless because it mostly was, easy with people, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. You'd watched him for almost a year. You knew the way he talked to people, the way he leaned in when something was funny, the way he'd come into the kitchen sometimes when you were there and open the fridge and just stand there for a full thirty seconds like the answer to whatever he was looking for might eventually appear.

You knew that he'd noticed you too. That wasn't ego, just observation. The way his eyes would find you first when he walked into a room where you already were. The way he'd aim a comment at you specifically when he had a whole group to choose from. The way he'd said I've heard a lot of reactions like your reaction was the one that mattered.

You'd been sensible about it for a year. You'd made the choice, every single time, to not do anything about it. And you were fine. You were genuinely fine with that. You knew what Dean was, knew what it would be, and you'd decided the math didn't work out in your favor so you'd left it alone.

It was just that sometimes, quietly, in the back of your head, a voice said but what if you didn't.

You got dressed Saturday night and told that voice to shut up, and went to the party anyway.

Tucker met you at the door at eight on the dot, already in a good mood, which meant either the playlist was really good or he'd already had a drink.

"You look great," he said, holding the door open.

"You say that every time."

"Because it's true every time." He handed you a beer from the counter as you came into the kitchen, already comfortable, already home in the easy way the house had started to feel over the past year. "I was thinking we do something with the leftover rice from yesterday, I got peppers —"

"Tucker."

"What."

"We're not cooking. There are already people here."

He looked genuinely confused. "So?"

You took the beer from him and looked around the kitchen. Logan was leaning against the far counter talking to someone from the team, and Garrett was already in the living room, and the house had that particular pre-party hum to it, not yet loud, still settling into itself.

Dean wasn't in the kitchen.

You noted this the way you noted a lot of things quietly, without making anything of it.

Logan glanced over when Tucker handed you the beer. "You're here early."

"She's basically a resident," Tucker said, like this was a fact.

"I'm a guest," you said.

"Guests don't know where we keep the good knives," Logan said and winked, and went back to his conversation.

You spent the next hour in that easy pre-party mode, moving between the kitchen and the living room, talking to people you knew by name now, accepting a second drink from someone who was mixing them near the back. Tucker orbited you loosely the way he always did at these things, appearing at your elbow every twenty minutes or so to say something that made you laugh and then disappearing again. This was one of your favorite things about him, he was never clingy, never needed to keep you close, just checked in like punctuation.

Dean appeared sometime around ten.

He came down the stairs and into the living room and you saw him before he saw you, which felt important. He was wearing a dark green shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and he had that easy unhurried way of moving through a room like it had already arranged itself around him. He said something to Garrett near the bottom of the stairs and laughed, and you looked away before he could look up.

So. He was here. That was fine. That was completely normal and fine.

You went to find Tucker.

The next hour you spent being very deliberate about not being obvious. You talked to people on the back porch when Dean was in the living room. You came inside when he drifted toward the kitchen. You were not proud of it exactly, but you were not going to stand around waiting for him to decide whether tonight was a night he felt like paying attention to you. You'd done a lot of things in your life. That was not going to be one of them.

Your friend Anna, a sorority sister, texted at eleven: how's the party

You typed back: fine. dean's here.

Three seconds.

oh. OH. okay. call me tomorrow.

maybe

that means yes. don't do anything I wouldn't do

You locked your phone and put it in your pocket and thought about the specific, limited list of things Anna wouldn't do and found it unhelpfully short.

The thing was, and you'd been over this, you'd been reasonable about this, you knew what it would be. A night, maybe a few nights, comfortable and uncomplicated and then done. Dean DiLaurentis didn't do anything that looked like what came after. You'd watched him long enough to know that too. And you'd decided that wasn't what you wanted, so you'd kept your distance, and that had been the right call, and it remained the right call.

You were in college at a party on a Friday night and you had been sensible about this for almost an entire calendar year.

The voice in the back of your head said but you knew that going in and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.

You told it to shut up.

It had a point though.

You refilled your drink. Stood near the back door where the air was a little cooler and the noise slightly less consuming. Watched the party happen around you. Thought, very clearly and deliberately: you know what it is. you've always known. that doesn't have to be the reason not to.

You were still working through the logic of that when you felt someone come to stand beside you.

"(Y/N). You've been avoiding me."

Dean. Not accusing, just observing, the same way he did most things, like he was simply noting a fact about the universe. He had a drink in one hand and he wasn't looking at you yet, eyes scanning the room like he'd just happened to end up here beside you, which you both understood wasn't true.

"I've been talking to people," you said.

"You've been talking to people on the opposite side of every room I was in."

"Maybe I just like that side of the room."

He looked at you then. Really looked, in that direct way of his that felt like being assessed and appreciated at the same time. The music was loud enough that the conversation existed in its own small space, just between you.

"You've been doing that for a year," he said.

"Has it been a year?" You kept your voice light.

"Almost." He took a drink. "I've been patient."

The word landed simply, without performance. Patient. Like he'd been waiting. Like the last year had been something he'd noticed too, kept track of, decided to let run its course.

You looked at him for a long moment. The party moved around you, loud and warm, and you stood in it and made the decision clearly, with both eyes open, which felt like the important part.

"Bathroom's upstairs," you said.

Something shifted in his expression, not surprise, just confirmation. Like he'd known, and now he knew for certain.

"Yeah," he said.

He followed you up the stairs without touching you, which felt somehow more loaded than if he had. You could feel him behind you the whole way, that particular awareness of someone close, and by the time you reached the top of the stairs your heart was doing something inconvenient.

The upstairs bathroom was at the end of the hall. You went in, he came in behind you, and you turned to click the lock and found him already there, close enough that turning around put you nearly chest to chest with him, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him before he'd laid a hand on you.

He didn't kiss you right away.

That was the first thing. You'd expected him to, he'd been patient for a year, you'd just told him where the bathroom was, you'd expected him to close the distance immediately. Instead he just looked at you, and the looking was its own thing, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time now that he finally had you here and he wanted you to know it.

"You made me wait a long time," he said.

"You could have said something sooner," you said.

"I said something tonight."

"Barely."

Something shifted in his expression, not quite a smile, more like he'd just decided something. He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw, and the touch was so light it was almost nothing, which somehow made it worse.

"You're going to be like that," he said. Quiet. Certain.

"I don't know what you mean," you said, which was a lie and you both knew it.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, not roughly, just — directing. Making you look at him. "Yeah you do," he said, and then he kissed you.

It wasn't tentative. It was a kiss from someone who had thought about this specifically, who knew what he wanted and had decided tonight was when he was going to have it, and you kissed him back and felt a year's worth of deliberate distance dissolve somewhere at the back of your mind.

He walked you backward until your hips met the bathroom counter and left you there, stepped back just enough to look at you again with that same unhurried attention, and you understood then that he wasn't in a hurry. That he'd waited this long and now he was going to enjoy it, and you were going to have to let him.

"Take your jacket off," he said.

You did.

He watched you do it. That was all — just watched, arms loosely crossed, completely at ease, like this was exactly where he'd planned to be tonight. You set the jacket on the counter and looked at him and he looked back.

"Good," he said, like that meant something.

Your heart was doing the inconvenient thing again.

He came back to you slowly, hands finding your waist, and kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair and gripping, not painfully, just holding you exactly where he wanted you. You made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.

"There it is," he murmured.

"Shut up," you said.

"Make me," he said against your jaw, and then his mouth was on your throat and the option to respond coherently became briefly unavailable.

He took his time with your throat, your collarbone, the soft place below your ear that made your fingers curl into his shirt without your permission, and every time you moved to pull him closer he'd ease back just enough to remind you that he was running this. Not mean about it. Just clear.

"Dean —"

"I've got you," he said, against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."

His hands moved to the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly, and he stepped back to pull it over your head and dropped it somewhere on the floor and looked at you again with that particular focus, and you had to actively resist the urge to cover yourself, because that was not what you did, but the way he was looking at you made you feel like you were already coming apart.

"You have no idea," he said quietly, more to himself than you, and then his mouth was on your collarbone and his hands were at your waist and you gave up on dignity entirely.

His hands moved to the button of your jeans, unhurried, and he looked up at you first — not asking exactly, just checking — and you nodded and he undid it and crouched down to pull the fabric down your legs with a thoroughness that felt like a point being made. He looked up at you from there, and whatever was on your face made him look deeply, quietly satisfied.

"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.

"Don't," you said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't be smug about it."

"I'm not being smug." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, which short-circuited something. "I'm just paying attention."

He stood back up slowly, hands trailing up the outside of your thighs, and lifted you onto the counter like it was nothing, stepping between your knees. You pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him harder than you'd meant to and he made a low sound and kissed you back the same way, one hand flat against the small of your back pulling you closer.

"Tell me what you want," he said, against your mouth.

"You know what I want."

"I want to hear you say it."

You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, and you understood that he meant it, that he was going to stand here all night if he had to, patient as anything, until you said it out loud.

"Dean."

"I'm right here," he said pleasantly.

"You're so —"

"Tell me."

You told him.

"Please"

The expression that crossed his face was worth it. He kissed you once, hard, like a reward, and said good against your mouth, and then his hand moved and all the words you'd been planning to say next went somewhere inaccessible.

He knew what he was doing in a way that felt almost unfair, thorough, attentive, like he'd already decided exactly how this was going to go and was now simply executing. When you tried to rush it he slowed down. When you made a sound he filed it away and came back to it. The tile was cold at your back and his hands were warm on your thighs and his mouth was at your cunt and the things he said there were quiet and precise and designed specifically to ruin you.

"You've been driving me crazy," he said. Low, unhurried. "All year. You know that."

"Dean —"

"Every time you walked into a room." His hand didn't stop. "Every time you looked at Tucker instead of me. Every single time."

"That's your fault," you managed.

"I know," he said. "I know it is." Something almost rueful in it. "Doesn't change the fact."

When you finally came it was with your head hitting the mirror behind you and holding his shoulder and his name somewhere in the middle of it, and he stayed with you through the whole thing, unhurried, like he had nothing else in the world to do.

He gave you a moment. Then he pulled back and looked at you with an expression that you could only describe as thoroughly pleased with himself, which should have been annoying and wasn't.

"Don't," you said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was going to ask if you were okay," he said, which was such an obvious lie that you laughed, and the laugh broke something open in the room, and he grinned, a real one, unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before, and kissed you again before it could turn into a whole thing.

You worked his belt with hands that weren't entirely steady and he helped without comment, and then his hands were at your hips and he pressed his forehead to yours for just a second.

You watched him look for a condom on his backpocket.

"Yeah?" he said quietly. All the performance gone.

"Yeah," you said.

He pushed into you slow and you exhaled against his jaw, fingers gripping his shoulders, adjusting to the feeling of him. He gave you a moment, forehead still to yours, patient, present, and then he moved and everything else became temporarily beside the point.

It was charged the way it only gets when two people have been waiting too long. Not frantic but urgent, with a focused intensity that felt like something being resolved. His grip was firm and deliberate and you pulled him closer when he slowed down and he got the message and didn't slow down again. The mirror was fogging and somewhere below you the party was still happening and it was completely irrelevant.

"Look at me," he said.

You did. He held your gaze and something passed between you that neither of you named, and you felt it in your chest more than anywhere else.

"Months," he said again. Quieter now.

"I know," you said. "I know."

When he came he buried his face in your neck and went quiet and still, one hand flat against the small of your back holding you against him, and you held onto him too because it seemed like the thing to do, and because you wanted to, and those were the same thing tonight.

You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.

Then you both exhaled at roughly the same time, which broke the tension, and Dean huffed a quiet laugh into your shoulder.

You untangled carefully, straightened yourselves out. You hopped off the counter and turned to the mirror, fixing your hair, smoothing your top back into place. He leaned against the wall watching you do it, arms crossed loosely, shirt back on. His hair was a mess and he didn't appear concerned about it.

You met his eyes in the mirror.

"This doesn't have to be a thing," you said. Even, matter of fact. Not cold, just clear. You were giving him an out because you'd rather give it than have him feel like he needed to take it badly.

Something moved across his face. He pushed off the wall slightly. "What if I want it to be a thing?"

You turned around. "What kind of thing?"

He held your gaze. Didn't answer right away, which was an answer, and you'd known it would be, you'd known before you came upstairs, and still it took a small quiet moment to settle.

"Right," you said simply.

Not angry. Not hurt, or at least not visibly. You'd gone in with both eyes open and you'd meant it, and the math was what you'd always known it was. That was fine. You were fine.

You unlocked the door.

"Hey," Dean said.

You looked back.

He opened his mouth, closed it. Something in his expression that you couldn't entirely read. "Nothing," he said finally. "Never mind."

You nodded once and stepped out into the hallway.

Downstairs, the party had peaked without you. The music was louder and the living room was full and Tucker was in the kitchen, which is where Tucker always ended up at some point. He took one look at your face when you appeared in the doorway and turned to open the fridge and produced a beer, which he held out without a word.

You took it.

"Having fun?" he asked, very casually, eyes on the fridge.

"Yeah," you said. "Party's good."

"Cool." He closed the fridge. "I made queso."

"Tucker."

"It's in the pot on the back burner."

You looked at him for a second. He looked back, perfectly neutral, perfectly unbothered, and completely full of information he was choosing not to say.

"Thank you," you said.

"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation."

You laughed despite yourself, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.

Tucker handed you a chip.

You both stood at the stove and ate queso and said nothing about any of it, and that was, genuinely, one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a while.

Dean came downstairs eleven minutes later, you weren't counting, you just noticed, and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter across from you, and the three of you stood in that kitchen like nothing had happened at all.

Dean looked at the pot on the stove. "Is that queso?"

"Made it myself," Tucker said.

"You absolutely did not."

Tucker looked at you. You said nothing, scooping queso onto another chip. Dean's eyes moved between you both and landed on you with something unreadable in them.

"Can I have some?" he asked.

"It's your house," you said.

He got a chip. Ate it. Looked at the pot. "That's really good."

"I know," you said.

Tucker stared directly at the wall and smiled at absolutely nothing.

It didn't have a name. That was the thing , it never got one, and neither of you tried to give it one, and somehow that made it easier to just let it exist.

It started simply enough. A week after the party, Dean texted you at eleven on a Tuesday night. Just: you up?

The second text was a trailer link. No context, no explanation, just: this.

You watched it once. Typed back: that looks pretentious.

i know. yes or no.

fine.

The house was quiet when you got there , Garrett's door closed, Tucker apparently out, and Dean was on the couch with a beer and the energy of someone who had been waiting without admitting to waiting.

You sat in the middle of the couch.

He pulled up the movie without comment.

It was pretentious and it was also actually good, and you told him so twenty minutes in when he glanced over to see what you thought. He said told you without looking back at the screen. You said you said it looked pretentious, which is not the same as saying it wasn't good. He said that's a very specific distinction. You said I'm a specific person. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then said: yeah.

Somewhere around the third act the distance between you closed. You weren't sure who moved, maybe both of you, gradually. His arm along the back of the couch and your shoulder under it and neither of you addressed it.

The movie ended and neither of you moved.

He found something else. A documentary, shorter, that turned out to be genuinely interesting. You watched most of it. Somewhere in the second half you were closer still his arm properly around you now, your feet tucked up beside you — and the lamp in the corner was the only light, and in here it was warm, and you were paying attention to about thirty percent of the documentary.

You woke up at two in the morning with a blanket over you that hadn't been there before. Dean was asleep at the other end of the couch, head back, completely unconscious. The TV was still on. You looked at him in the blue light of the screensaver, the line of his jaw, the stillness of someone actually asleep and felt the quiet weight of something you were not going to examine.

Then you got up, folded the blanket, left it on the cushion, and walked home.

You didn't text him about it. He didn't text you about it. Two days later he sent: you around tonight? and you said depends and he said on what and you said what's the plan and he said no plan and you said okay.

That was how it started.

By November it had a shape, even if it didn't have a name.

You came over two or three times a week. Sometimes it was a movie, sometimes it was just you in the kitchen making something with whatever was in the fridge while Dean sat at the counter with his phone and ate everything you put in front of him without comment except occasionally this is really good in a tone that suggested he was a little annoyed about it. Sometimes the whole house was there, Tucker loud and cheerful, Garrett and Logan drifting in and out, the TV on in the background and sometimes it was just the two of you and the house was quiet and those evenings had a quality to them that you tried not to examine too closely.

He texted you things that weren't questions. A link to an article about something you'd both argued about in passing. A photo of a sunset he'd apparently seen from the library roof, no caption. A voice memo once, at midnight, that was just him reading something in the flat unimpressed tone he used when something was genuinely getting on his nerves — listen to this, the message said, and you did, and you laughed, and he sent back a single: right?

You sent him things back. A recipe you thought he'd actually like. A clip of something that reminded you of a conversation you'd had. He always answered. Not immediately, not performatively, just he answered.

Garrett had noticed, in his way. He'd stopped doing double-takes when you were in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, had started just saying hey and opening the fridge like your presence was a given. Logan was less subtle, he'd caught your eye once across the living room when Dean laughed at something you'd said, and raised an eyebrow, and you'd looked away and he'd had the decency not to push it.

You talked to Anna about it on a Sunday afternoon in November, feet up on her bed, staring at the ceiling while she did her readings across from you.

"So it's a situationship," she said, not looking up.

"I didn't say that."

"You described a situationship."

"I described two people who spend time together."

"With benefits."

"Occasionally."

She finally looked up. "How often is occasionally?"

You said nothing.

"That's what I thought." She went back to her reading. "Are you okay with it?"

You thought about it honestly, the way you tried to think about most things. "Yeah," you said. "I went in knowing what it was."

"That's not what I asked."

You looked at the ceiling. "I'm fine," you said. "It's fine. I know what it is."

Anna made a small noncommittal sound that you chose not to interpret.

The physical part of it was easy in a way you hadn't entirely expected. Comfortable in a way that felt like it should have taken longer to get to. He knew what you liked with an attentiveness that might have been alarming if you'd let yourself think about it, and you knew what worked for him, and there was none of the awkwardness of newness anymore.

The only thing you were consistent about was the condom. Every time, without exception. Until one night in late November when Dean caught your wrist gently before you could reach for the nightstand.

"Why do you always —" He stopped. Nodded toward it. "Every time."

"Because I'm not stupid," you said. "You were getting around a lot before this and I don't know what this is and I'm not asking but I'm also not —"

"I haven't," he said. "Since the party. I haven't slept with anyone else."

The room went quiet.

"Oh," you said. A beat. "Me neither."

Something moved across his face that he didn't entirely manage to control. His thumb traced a slow absent line against the inside of your wrist.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Okay," you said.

The air in the room changed into something neither of you was going to name. Then he kissed you, and it was different, slower, more careful, like something had been confirmed that he hadn't known he was waiting to confirm, and you let yourself feel it without examining it too closely, because that felt fair.

The first sign was the texts.

Not that they stopped completely, that would have been obvious, and Dean was too smart for obvious. They just slowed. A reply that came four hours later instead of forty minutes. A shorter answer where there used to be a real one. The voice memos stopped. The links stopped. You'd send something and get back a single word where there used to be a sentence, and you'd look at it and feel the shape of what was happening without being able to name it yet.

You told yourself it was school. Exams were coming, everyone was disappearing into the library, that was normal. You told yourself he was busy, stressed, in his head about the end of semester and the hockey team. You were busy too. You had your own readings, your own papers, your own life that existed completely separately from the off campus house and always had.

You kept coming over. Tucker needed someone to watch the game with and you'd promised him a recipe you'd been meaning to show him and you were not going to rearrange your life over a shift in text frequency.

But you noticed.

You noticed the way Dean would come into the kitchen when you were there and open the fridge and not look at you the way he used to. Not hostile, just absent. Like you were furniture. Like the awareness he'd always had of you in a room had been switched off at a source you couldn't locate. He ate the food you made without commenting on it. He answered direct questions. He didn't start anything.

You didn't push. That wasn't who you were.

But by the second week of December you were lying in your room at night doing the math and the math was not coming out well, and you were tired of pretending it wasn't.

You went over on a Thursday.

Tucker was at a class. You'd known that, you'd checked, because you wanted the house quiet, because you wanted five minutes of honesty without an audience. Garrett's truck wasn't in the driveway either. You knocked on Dean's door and he opened it in sweats and a Briar hoodie, textbook open on his desk, and the look on his face when he saw you was almost nothing, which was its own answer.

"Hey," you said.

"Hey." He stepped back to let you in, which you took as an invitation, and you came in and stood in the middle of his room and he closed the door and leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. Not aggressive. Just closed.

You looked at him for a moment.

"What's going on with you?" you asked. Quiet, direct. No accusation in it, just the question.

He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. Finals."

"Okay," you said. "That's not what I mean and you know it."

A beat. Something moved behind his eyes and then went still.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he said.

"I want you to say what's actually happening."

He looked at you. Then he looked away, jaw tightening slightly, and you recognized the particular quality of someone deciding something, not discovering it, deciding it, and some quiet part of you braced.

"I think this has run its course," he said. Flat. Careful.

You kept your face even. "Okay. What does that mean."

"It means —" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want this anymore. Whatever this is. I don't want it."

"Okay," you said.

He looked at you, and something in your steadiness seemed to irritate him, which you hadn't expected, and that was maybe the thing that cracked something open in him that should have stayed closed.

"I don't know what you thought this was," he said, and his voice had an edge now, "but it wasn't — I wasn't —" He made a short, almost contemptuous gesture. "You've been coming over here for months like you live here. Cooking, watching movies, acting like this is some kind of —"

"I never called it anything," you said.

"No, but you acted like it was something. You act like everything is fine and nothing bothers you and you're so —" He stopped, and the word he landed on was quiet and precise and clearly chosen to land: "You're so comfortable here. Like you belong here. And you don't."

The room was very quiet.

You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the moment he heard what he'd just said, saw something flicker across his face that might have been regret but came too late to matter.

"You're right," you said. Your voice was completely level. "I don't."

He opened his mouth.

"I'm not going to make this into something," you said. "You don't want it, that's fine. I went in knowing what it was." You picked up your jacket from where you'd set it on the edge of his bed. "I hope finals go okay."

"Hey —"

"Good night, Dean."

You left. You closed the door behind you, not hard, just closed, and you walked down the stairs and through the front door and out into the December cold and you kept your shoulders straight the whole way home.

You didn't cry until you were in your own room with the door locked, and even then it wasn't for very long, because you'd known, you'd always known, and knowing didn't make it nothing but it made it survivable.

You texted Anna: you were right.

She called immediately. You let it ring twice, then picked up.

"I'm okay," you said, before she could ask.

"I know you are," she said. "Tell me anyway."

The hard part came later, at midnight.

You were lying in bed and you saw a link, a restaurant that had just opened, a tasting menu you'd been meaning to mention and you had his name pulled up in your contacts before you caught yourself. Thumb over send. The restaurant unremarkable and the gesture everything.

You put your phone face down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a while.

You'd known. You'd always known. That didn't make it nothing. It made it survivable, which was what you'd agreed to, and you were keeping that agreement.

The next afternoon you went to the off campus house.

Not because of Dean. Tucker had texted you at noon — i made something and i think i made it wrong, come look at it — and you'd said what did you make and he'd sent a photo that made you genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and you'd said I'm coming over because that was what you did.

You showed up at three in the afternoon in your good boots and your coat, hair done, bag over your shoulder, because you had a study session after and you were not rearranging your life. You walked into the kitchen and Tucker was standing over something on the stove that smelled questionable and turned around with the expression of a man who needed saving.

"What is that," you said.

"I was trying to do the thing you showed me with the —"

"Tucker."

"I know."

You put your bag down and took your coat off and hung it over the stool and rolled up your sleeves and looked at whatever was happening in the pot, and Tucker stood next to you like a man watching a surgeon assess a patient.

"It's salvageable," you said.

He exhaled. "I knew it."

"Get me the garlic."

You cooked. Tucker hovered and passed things when you asked and made commentary that you ignored selectively and the kitchen filled up with something that smelled the way the kitchen was supposed to smell, and it was normal. It was completely normal. You were fine.

Logan came through at some point, stopped in the doorway, looked at the pot. "That smells good." Then he looked at Tucker. "Did you make that?"

"We're collaborating," Tucker said.

Logan looked at you. You said nothing. He grabbed a water from the fridge and left, which was exactly the right thing to do.

Dean came downstairs at some point, and you heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you stirred the pot and didn't turn around.

"Hey," Tucker said, in the careful voice of someone being very casual.

"Hey." Dean's voice from the doorway. A pause. "What are you making?"

"She's fixing what I made," Tucker said.

You felt Dean's eyes on your back. You reached past the stove for the spice rack.

"Smells good," Dean said.

You said nothing. Not pointedly — just nothing. Tucker handed you the paprika.

Dean didn't leave. You could feel him still standing there, which told you something you set aside for later. You plated what you'd made, put Tucker's portion in front of him, put the extra in a container that you labeled with a piece of tape and a marker the way you always did, and started washing the pan.

"There's extra," Tucker said, to the room.

"I can see that," Dean said.

Tucker ate a bite. Made a sound of profound relief. "You're genuinely talented, you know that?"

"I know," you said, drying the pan.

You stayed another forty minutes, finishing your tea, going over the recipe with Tucker so he could try again, answering a text from Anna. Normal. Easy. The house the same as it had always been, Tucker the same as he'd always been, you the same as you'd always been.

When you left you said, "Bye Tuck, don't touch the leftovers until tomorrow, they're better the next day."

"Noted," Tucker said.

You pulled on your coat. Picked up your bag. "Later," you said, generally, to the room, and you walked out.

Dean stood in the kitchen after the front door closed.

Tucker was eating. Not looking at him. The kitchen smelled incredible and there was a labeled container in the fridge and the pan you'd used was clean and back on the rack like you'd never been there.

"She labeled it," Dean said.

"She always labels it," Tucker said.

Dean looked at the fridge. "For who."

"I don't know, Dean." Tucker turned a page in whatever he was reading. "Whoever wants it, I guess."

He couldn't focus in class the next morning.

The professor was talking and Dean had his laptop open and his notes half-started and none of it was going in because he kept coming back to the same thing, the same image, which was you standing at his stove with your back to him like nothing had happened.

Not performing like nothing had happened. Actually fine. The difference between those two things was something he understood logically and couldn't reconcile emotionally and it was making him insane.

He'd expected — he didn't know what he'd expected. Something. Some sign that what he'd said had mattered, that he had mattered, that the months of you being in his space and in his kitchen and in his bed and knowing how he took his coffee and showing up when Tucker texted you and falling asleep on his couch and leaving your chapstick on his nightstand —

You'd taken the chapstick. He'd noticed.

You'd taken it and labeled the leftovers and said later to the room and walked out and that was it, apparently. That was the whole thing. He'd said you don't belong here and you'd said you're right and you'd meant it, and that was the part he couldn't get past. You'd meant it not because you believed it but because you weren't going to fight him on it. Because you didn't need to.

You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He'd said that. He'd actually said that.

He stared at his laptop screen.

You'd been coming to that house since before he'd ever spoken a full sentence to you. Tucker's mom had called you, you'd shown up, you'd been folded into the house slowly and completely the way only people who actually fit somewhere ever are, Tucker texting you unprompted, Garrett knowing your coffee order, Logan moving over on the couch without being asked, and Dean had stood in his own room and told you that you didn't belong there and you'd looked at him like you were giving him the chance to hear what he was saying and he hadn't taken it and you'd left.

And then you'd come back the next day and cooked Tucker's disaster and labeled the leftovers and said later.

Later. Like you'd see them around. Like the house was still just a place you came to, unconnected to Dean, existing independently of whatever he'd decided.

Because it was. Because Tucker was your friend. Because you'd built something there that had nothing to do with Dean DiLaurentis and apparently had no intention of dismantling it on his account.

He wrote something down without reading it.

The thing was and this was the part that was sitting in his chest like something he couldn't shift, he'd ended it because it was getting too real. That was the honest answer, the one he hadn't said out loud to anyone including himself until approximately right now, which was not ideal timing. He'd felt it getting heavier and closer and more like something that had a name and he'd panicked, and when Dean DiLaurentis panicked he went cold, and when he went cold long enough he said things he couldn't take back.

You don't belong here.

He closed his laptop. Opened it again.

You hadn't fought for it. He'd said something genuinely cruel and you'd said you're right and you'd left, and the version of events he'd been running in his head where you'd be upset, where you'd pull back from the house, where he'd see the evidence of having mattered somewhere in your behavior, none of that had happened. You'd come back with your boots and your coat and your labeled container and your later and you were fine.

He was not fine.

That felt deeply, profoundly unfair, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that he had no one to blame for it but himself, which made it worse.

Wait, said something in the back of his head, quiet and inconvenient.

He picked up his pen. Put it down.

Wait.

He didn't finish the thought. He stared at his notes until they stopped meaning anything, and outside the window the Briar campus went on being cold and grey and completely indifferent to the fact that Dean DiLaurentis was sitting in class slowly understanding something he wasn't ready to understand yet.

The problem with ending things, Dean was discovering, was that it only worked if the other person let it end.

You hadn't made a scene. Hadn't texted him anything he had to respond to, hadn't shown up at his door, hadn't done a single thing that gave him something to push against. You'd just continued. Existing in the house, in the kitchen, in Tucker's orbit, completely unchanged, like Dean's opinion of the situation was one data point you'd received and filed appropriately and moved on from.

He ate everything you made. That was the humiliating part. Every single time you left something in the fridge he ate it, sometimes within the hour, standing at the counter in the kitchen alone like some kind of punishment he was administering to himself. Tucker never commented on this. Tucker never commented on anything, which was its own form of commentary.

You'd left soup once. Labeled, like always — back burner, twenty minutes, don't let Tucker have more than one bowl he'll eat the whole thing. Dean had read the label four times. Eaten two bowls. Stood at the sink washing the pot afterward feeling like a man losing an argument he wasn't allowed to be having.

Garrett had found him standing there once, staring at nothing, and said "you good?" and Dean had said "yeah" and Garrett had looked at the labeled container still on the counter and said nothing further, which somehow made it worse.

He started noticing everything.

The way you'd laugh at something on your phone and not share it with the room, just smile to yourself and put it face down. The way you always took your shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly to the left, always the left, and he'd started checking for them when he came downstairs, the presence or absence of your boots telling him things about the afternoon before he'd even gotten to the kitchen. The way you said Tucker's name — comfortable, fond, like a shorthand — and the way you had, at some point, stopped saying Dean's name at all. Not pointedly. Just it didn't come up. He wasn't who you were talking to.

He'd done that. He understood that he'd done that.

He just hadn't understood what it would feel like to have done it.

He tried, for a while, to be reasonable about it.

He made a list, mentally, of all the reasons this was fine. He didn't do relationships. He'd never done relationships. He had a plan for his life that had been in place since he was sixteen, and that plan had no room in it for whatever you were. Whatever you'd been. The comfortable weight of your presence, the evenings when you were in the house versus evenings when you weren't, the way he'd started coming across things during the week and thinking you'd have something to say about this —

That was the problem right there. That was the thing he kept running into.

He'd been having conversations with you in his head for weeks. Full conversations, with your actual responses, because he knew how you thought well enough to fill both sides, and that was, that was not the behavior of someone who was fine.

He talked to Garrett on a Tuesday night, which he never did, and talked around the subject for twenty minutes before Garrett said, flatly: "Just tell me what she did."

"She didn't do anything," Dean said.

A pause. "Then tell me what you did."

Dean stared at his ceiling. "I ended it."

"And?"

"And she's fine."

"That's it? She's fine and you are like this?"

"She's too fine," Dean said, and hated how that sounded.

Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean."

"What."

"You absolute idiot."

January settled over Briar cold and grey and Dean settled into a particular kind of misery that he was too proud to name properly. He went to class. He did his readings. He played well enough at practice that Coach didn't get on him, which required more effort than it should have because his head was not where it was supposed to be.

You came over on Saturdays, usually. Sometimes Thursdays. Tucker had apparently taken to texting you about things that had nothing to do with cooking, Dean had seen the thread once, accidentally, and it was just the two of you sending each other increasingly unhinged videos with no context, a friendship that existed completely on its own terms, owed nothing to Dean, and was apparently thriving.

Logan had said, once, carefully, over breakfast: "She was here yesterday."

"I know," Dean said.

Logan looked at him. "Just saying."

"I know," Dean said again.

Logan went back to his cereal and didn't push it, which was the right call, and Dean appreciated it and resented it in equal measure.

He watched you from across rooms and told himself he wasn't doing that.

You never looked uncomfortable. That was the thing that was going to actually kill him. You'd come in, take your boots off, left side of the door, say hey to whoever was around, drift toward the kitchen with the ease of someone in a place they belonged, and it would be normal. Warm. Real. And Dean would be somewhere in the same house eating himself alive and you would be completely, genuinely fine.

He thought about the things he'd said. You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He thought about those words with a frequency that was becoming a problem.

It was a random Wednesday in late January.

Dean came home from a late class tired and cold and in the specific bad mood that came from hours with a professor who seemed to find his suffering amusing. The house was lit up when he got there, which meant people were home, and he could hear voices from the kitchen before he'd gotten his coat off.

Tucker's laugh. And then yours.

He stood in the hallway for a second with his coat half off.

"—absolutely not, that's not how that works—" Tucker, indignant.

"I'm telling you, Tucker, I watched you do it, that's exactly how you did it—"

"I was recovering, there's a difference—"

"There is no difference, the result was the same—"

Tucker said something Dean didn't catch and you laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that meant you'd actually been caught off guard by it, and the sound of it hit Dean somewhere undefended and just stayed there.

He finished taking his coat off. Hung it up. Walked to the kitchen doorway.

You were at the island, Tucker leaning on his elbows across from you, some kind of card game between you that Dean didn't recognize. You had a mug of something and your hair was down and you were still smiling from whatever Tucker had just said, and Tucker was looking at you with the expression of someone who had won a point. Garrett was on the couch in the next room, feet up, barely paying attention, the way Garrett existed in the house like ambient weather.

"Dean," Tucker said. "Tell her that recovering from a bad move is a valid strategy."

"Depends on the move," Dean said, automatically.

"See," Tucker said to you.

"That's not what he said," you said, and glanced at Dean briefly,not long, not loaded, just a glance, the kind you'd give anyone and looked back at Tucker. "Your move."

Dean got a glass of water. Stood at the counter. The card game continued. Tucker accused you of cheating, you denied it with the specific serenity of someone who was absolutely cheating, Dean watched and said nothing and felt the sensation of standing outside something warm.

An hour later you started putting your coat on.

"Okay," you said, gathering your things. "Tucker. Rematch Thursday."

"Thursday," Tucker confirmed. "I'll win."

"You won't." You pulled your bag onto your shoulder. Looked at Tucker with something genuine and warm. "Bye, Tuck."

"Bye." Tucker was already looking back at his phone.

"Later, Garrett," you called toward the living room.

"Later," Garrett called back, not looking up.

You walked toward the door. Past Dean, close enough that he could have said something, close enough that the window was right there, and he stood at the counter with his glass of water and said nothing, and you pulled the door open and walked out, and the door closed, and that was it.

Tucker looked up from his phone.

The two of them sat in the quiet kitchen, the card game still spread out on the island, your mug still on the counter.

"She forgot her mug," Dean said.

"She'll get it Thursday," Tucker said.

Dean put his glass down. Picked it back up.

"She said bye to you first," he said.

Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Set his phone down. "Yeah," he said. "She did."

The kitchen was very quiet.

"Tucker —"

"I'm not doing this, Dean."

"I'm not asking you to do anything."

"Good." Tucker picked his phone back up. "Because I really, genuinely, am not getting involved."

From the living room, Garrett said nothing, which meant he was listening to every word.

Dean looked at the door.

"She left her mug," he said again, quieter, to no one in particular.

Tucker said nothing. Which was, as always, its own kind of answer.

He lasted four days.

Four days of your mug on the counter — Tucker had washed it and left it there — four days of picking up his phone and putting it down, four days of being a reasonable adult who had made a decision and was living with it, and then on Sunday night at eleven p.m. he put on his shoes and his coat and walked across campus to the Kappa house like a man who had exhausted every other option.

He stood outside in the cold and looked up at the second floor windows and felt genuinely insane.

He found a handful of small rocks from the landscaping border. Looked at them. Looked up at the windows.

He threw one.

It hit the wrong window. A light came on and someone looked out — not you, someone he didn't recognize — and he stepped back into the shadow of the tree until the light went off again.

He tried the next window. Nothing. The one after that.

The window opened.

You leaned out, hair messy, clearly pulled from sleep or close to it, and looked down at him in the dark with an expression that moved through several phases: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Before settling on something that was almost exasperated and almost amused and fully of course.

"Dean," you said, not loud. "What are you doing."

"I need to talk to you."

"It's eleven o'clock."

"I know. You weren't answering my texts."

You stared at him. "You texted me twenty minutes ago."

"You didn't answer."

"I was asleep."

"Can I come up?"

The expression on your face did something complicated. "You want to climb the sorority house."

"There's a trellis."

You looked to the left, apparently confirming the existence of the trellis, then looked back down at him. "Dean."

"Five minutes," he said. "I just — five minutes. Then I'll go."

You looked at him for a long moment, and he stood in the cold and let you look, because he'd run out of ways to manage how this went. You could close the window. That was a real option and he'd accept it.

You didn't close the window.

"The trellis is on the left," you said. "Don't break anything."

He made it up without incident, which he felt was frankly more than he deserved. You'd stepped back from the window to let him climb through, and he came in trying not to knock anything over and stood in the middle of your room feeling the full absurdity of the situation settle over him.

Your room was small and warm. Books on every surface, a desk lamp on low, a quilt on the bed that looked like it had been in your family for a while. It smelled like you, something warm, something that had been living in the back of his brain for months without his permission.

You sat on the edge of your bed and looked at him with your arms loosely crossed, not hostile, just waiting. Giving him the floor.

"I need to say something," he said.

"Okay."

"And I need you to let me say it without — I need to actually get through it."

"I'm not stopping you," you said.

He looked at you. You looked back, and there was something in your expression: patient, steady, not giving him anything, and he understood suddenly that you were going to make him do this himself. All the way. No half measures.

He took a breath.

"I said things to you that I can't take back," he started. "That night in my room. And I knew when I said them that they weren't — I knew they weren't true. I said them because I was scared and I was trying to make you leave and I wanted it to work so I made it as —" He stopped. Tried again. "I wanted you gone and I made sure you'd go and then you went and I've been —" He stopped again.

You waited.

"I've been losing my mind," he said. "For weeks. You keep coming over and cooking Tucker's food and laughing at his jokes and you left your mug on the counter and you said bye, Tuck and walked out like I wasn't standing right there and I —" He stopped. The words that needed to come next were the ones he'd been circling for weeks and he was done circling. "I'm in love with you."

The room was quiet.

"I'm in love with you," he said again, because it had come out steadier the second time and it was true and he was done with it living only in his head. "I have been for a while. I didn't know what to do with it so I — I did what I did. And I know that's not an excuse. I know what I said. But I needed you to know that it wasn't because you didn't matter. It was because you mattered too much and I didn't know how to —"

"Dean," you said.

He stopped.

You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression that was careful and real and not entirely closed.

"I know," you said quietly.

He blinked. "You —"

"I knew." You said it simply, without cruelty. "I've known for a while. I needed you to know it too." A pause. "And I needed you to say it. Out loud. To me. Without me making it easy for you."

He held your gaze. "Because you're not going to make it easy for me."

"No," you said. Not meanly. Just honestly. "I'm not."

He nodded slowly. That was fair. That was completely fair.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. You don't belong here — I knew that wasn't true when I said it. That's the worst part. I knew and I said it anyway."

You looked at him. And he watched something in your expression shift, not all the way, but enough, a small careful opening.

"I know," you said again. Softer this time.

"Can we —" He stopped. Tried to find the right shape for the question. "Is there a way back from this. Is that something that exists."

You were quiet for a moment that felt very long.

"Come here," you said.

He crossed the room and you stood from the bed to meet him and he kissed you carefully, like he was asking, and you kissed him back like you were answering, and it was nothing like the first time and nothing like any of the times in between, because those had all been about desire and this was about something that didn't have the same kind of ceiling.

His hands came to your face, gentle, and you let him, and he kissed you like he was trying to say the things that words hadn't been sufficient for the weeks of watching you from across rooms, the soup, the mug, the way your boots on the left side of the door had started to feel like something he needed, all of it, moving through the kiss like it had somewhere to go now.

You pulled back after a moment and looked at him.

"Say it again," you said quietly. Not a test. Just you wanted to hear it again.

"I'm in love with you," he said, without hesitating.

You looked at him for one more second. Then you kissed him again and this time you meant it differently, your hands in his collar pulling him in, and the tenor of the whole thing shifted from careful to something warmer and more certain.

He walked you back to the bed gently, and you sat and pulled him down with you, and he went willingly, propping himself above you, and looked at you for a moment. Your hair on the pillow, your expression open in a way he hadn't been allowed to see in weeks.

"Hi," he said, quietly.

The corner of your mouth moved. "Hi."

He kissed you again, slower this time, and his hands moved over you with a deliberateness that was different from anything before not performing, not proving anything, just present. Your shirt came off and his followed, and he pressed his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your throat, taking his time in the way of someone who wasn't going anywhere.

"Dean," you said softly, fingers in his hair.

"I know," he said, against your skin. "I've got you."

You exhaled like something releasing.

It was slow and close and almost unbearably tender, the kind of thing that didn't have anything to hide anymore. He was attentive in a way that felt different now not just knowing what worked but wanting you to feel it, wanting you to know he was there, all the way there, not halfway out the door. You made soft sounds against his jaw and pulled him closer and he went, and you moved together in the small warm room with the desk lamp still on low and neither of you suggested turning it off.

When you came it was quiet and deep and you said his name and he held you through it with his face pressed to your temple, and afterward he stayed close, closer than strictly necessary, and you didn't move away.

When he followed he was holding your hand, fingers laced, which hadn't been planned and was completely true, and you held on.

Afterward you lay in the small bed in the quiet and the lamp was still on.

Your head was on his chest. He had his arm around you. Neither of you had suggested otherwise.

"You really threw rocks at my window," you said, to the ceiling.

"Small rocks."

"You hit Anna's window first."

"She didn't see me."

"She definitely saw you." A pause. "She texted me twenty minutes ago asking if I had a 'nighttime visitor.'"

Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Great."

You laughed, quiet, against his chest, and he felt it more than heard it and thought: there it is. there's the thing I've been missing.

He pressed his mouth to your hair.

"For the record," he said, "you do belong there. In the house. That was — I need you to know that was the opposite of true."

You were quiet for a moment. "I know," you said. "I always knew."

"You're annoyingly self-possessed, you know that?"

"You've mentioned it."

"Not a complaint."

You tilted your head to look up at him. Something in your expression that was warm and a little careful still, not closed, just real. This was going to take time, he knew that. He'd put something between you that didn't disappear overnight and you weren't going to pretend it had, because you didn't do that.

"Tucker's going to be insufferable about this," you said.

Dean thought about Tucker, who had said absolutely nothing for weeks and washed your mug and left it on the counter. "He already knows," Dean said.

"He's known for months."

"I know."

"He texted me two weeks ago," you said, "and said 'just for the record I think he's an idiot.' I asked who and he said 'you know who.'"

Dean stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to kill him."

"You're not."

"No," he agreed. "I'm not."

A beat.

"Garrett's going to say I told you so," you said.

Dean closed his eyes. "Did he tell you so?"

"He texted me a single thumbs up the morning after the speech. No context."

"I'm going to kill Garrett too."

"You're really not."

"No," he said. "I'm really not."

You settled back against him and the room was quiet and warm and your hand was resting on his chest and outside the world was doing whatever the world was doing and in here it was just this, finally, with a name on it.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you said.

"Turn off that radio." my voice nearly demanded.

Daryl looked taken aback for a moment before he twisted the knob all the way to the left, shutting it down. I glanced down toward my mirrors to see half of them still following behind, before looking ahead to see the familiar sign approaching that read "Alexandria " and it hit me right then and there what I needed to do. My bike sped up slightly to align myself with the passenger side window, Abraham glancing up at me in question.

"Can I have that?" I asked, pointing to the walkie in his hand.

He looked from me to the object a few times before hesitantly handing it out, "Now, don't do anything rash, Missy. We still got fifteen more miles to go."

"I know," I muttered before attaching the walkie to my own clothing, looking back up to the three of them, "But there's no way I'm listening to Rick, fuck that. They need help. I'm gonna swing around, see if I can get control of the other half to follow behind-"

"Not alone ya ain't." Daryl interrupted.

"I have to try." I argued just as stubbornly.

He shook his head firmly, "Damnit Rose, I ain't lettin ya go alone."

"It's not up to you." I snapped, "You guys just have to worry about staying put and keeping the rest of these dead assholes from getting sloppy. I'll keep in touch, I swear." the promise left my lips almost too easily before I was speeding down the road, trying my hardest not to look back.

Their voices shouted my name until I couldn't hear them anymore, but that only inclined me to go faster, knowing that Rick was too damn thick headed to ask for any kind of help. I mean, who in their right mind would take on all these damn walkers alone? A psycho that's who. I swear sometimes I'm the only one with a level head.

"Rose, get yer ass back here right now." Daryl's voice suddenly cracked through on the radio.

I maneuvered my hand to grasp it, clicking the button on, "No."

"Ya ain't doin this shit by yerself." he snapped.

"Watch me." I mumbled stubbornly before clicking it off, the engine of my bike roaring as I tried to find the quickest way back. Knowing I didn't have much time.

The trees on either side of me were merely a blur in my peripheral vision, my speed only increasing when I caught a glimpse of the road coming to an end, forcing me to turn right and head right back toward the community. Hoping to catch up with the other half of the herd, guiding them back to where they were supposed to be following the rest. I knew Daryl was pissed about what I did, but someone had to step in and help. I didn't need to ask anyone's permission to do a damn thing, and today was no different. And I wasn't about to let Rick kill himself over something so stupid.

The sound of static cutting through the silence of my drive made me glance back down to the radio on my jacket, tugging on it to hold up to my ear and get a better listen. It could've just been my imagination, my mind playing foolish tricks, but I swore I heard the briefest sounds of gunshots coming from the other end, before it all went quiet once again. And that left an even bigger pit in my stomach than before.

I quickly clicked the button on, holding it up to my mouth, "Rick?" I spoke, pausing for a moment to listen for his answer. There was nothing but silence. "Rick?" I tried again, only to be left with the same result.

Without another moment of hesitation, I pushed my vehicle to go even faster than before, nearly pushing eighty-five yet there was still not a single walker in sight. The places I was passing by were starting to look somewhat familiar like we had rolled through them before, the aspect only giving me hope that I was heading in the right direction. And right as that thought crossed my mind, I spotted the first cluster of red balloons, and I let myself exhale in relief.

I made another harsh right when I spotted the dirt road, noting the few lone walkers traveling West toward where the sound was once blaring. It only hit me then that I couldn't seem to hear the noise of the horn anymore now that I was closer to home, which brought me some peace of mind.

But as always, it seemed to be short lived.

I turned one last time to make a full U-turn and circle back around, hoping to find the herd traveling along this very road if what Rick was said was true. But instead, I came across the familiar RV, parked in a completely different spot from where we originally placed it. The scene was oddly quiet, the kind of silence that makes your stomach twist with some kind of unknowing nervousness. Quickly pulling my bike off to the side of the road and shutting it off so the rumbling couldn't be heard, I removed my gun from around my torso and planted both my boots on the pavement. Approaching the vehicle with caution.

My steps were slow and deliberate as I did a scan of my surroundings, before getting close enough to the RV to hear what could be going on inside. The sounds of muffled struggling reached my ears, loud enough to where I looked up toward the windows to see Rick fighting back against two unknown men. My eyes widened before I quickly moved around the back, staying low and away from the glass as to not be seen by any of them from inside and headed toward the door.

By the time I had opened it up with quiet caution, I witnessed Rick had wrestled one of the men to the ground and eventually shot up to raise his gun, firing a bullet into his head. My gaze then snapped down to the other stranger who was struggling to get up, drawing his own weapon from just behind Rick's back. But I didn't even give him a chance, raising my own gun in an instant to shoot him in the base of his skull, causing Rick to whip around and look at me with widened eyes.

We both just stared at each other and for a moment, time stood still. His chest fell heavy and deep from the physical fight and the bleeding hand he was clutching at his side, the crimson droplets falling to the ground. His gaze however was harder to read, a mix of frustration and gratefulness. But then again, that's always how he seemed to look at me.

Our attention then snapped toward the windshield when we heard the dreaded sound of walkers coming our way, the large group of them that we were trying desperately to find. Now were coming toward us at full force.

"We'll take the bike. Come on." I urged and gestured for him to follow me out.

The two of us beelined to where I had discarded my motorcycle, quickly picking it up from where it laid to straddle the seat and kickstart it with a roar. Rick rushed over and hopped on the back, keeping his injured hand close to his chest while the other balanced on my shoulder, his grip almost deadly as I peeled it out of there as fast as I could.

I felt him turn around to see the walkers seemingly right on our trail, his actions causing my steering to wobble a bit. My hand came flying down to smack his knee, "Hey! First rule of riding on the back of a motorcycle: don't fucking do that."

He grunted at my harsh hit, though clearly it got his attention. "We gotta get home fast!" he shouted over the noise, "Those assholes in there- I think they staged this thing."

The horn. The distraction. It wouldn't surprise me. There had to be more of them than just the two we had taken care of.

When I didn't respond, he took it upon himself to start scolding me, "I thought I told everyone to stay put where they were. That meant you too."

I whipped my head back over my shoulder, absolutely baffled, "You're really gonna yell at me about this now? After I just saved your ass?"

"You're not listening," he argued, "It was a stupid call, Ro. You needed to stay back with them."

My blood began to boil as he continued to ignore the fact that I just saved his life. "I'm pulling over in about five seconds if I don't get a thank you." I deadpanned.

"Thank you." he quickly replied, "But I just wanted you safe. Not in the middle of this mess."

I nodded briefly, "I know...but I couldn't stand by and let you handle it alone."

He didn't say anything else, and I couldn't look back to get a read on his face. But he gripped my shoulder a little tighter, as if silently thanking me again.

There wasn't another word uttered between us, our bodies rigid while I continued to race toward Alexandria. I couldn't stop thinking about the dead chasing us the whole way there, having no idea how we were supposed to take care of the rest of them. This was going to end badly, I could feel it, but we didn't have another choice but to go back. Even though once we got in, there was no way we could get back out.

It took all of merely moments before the front gates began to come into view, and the horde wasn't letting up. I tried to pick up speed in hopes to get us through faster, my hands nearly shaking whilst I gripped onto the handlebars. Rick started to yell from behind me at them to open the gates, waving his arms around like a lunatic to get their attention. Deanna's figure stood atop the platform, her expression could be only described as terrified as the people on watch rushed down to help us.

My eyes snapped to the gate once more when it began to open, racing through the small gap and skidding to a halt the second we were safely inside. Rick gripped me tightly once more in fear he would fall off with how abruptly I stopped, and my eyes glanced up just in time to catch one last glimpse of the herd. Their snapping teeth and decaying faces were just out of reach before the metal doors slammed shut, hearing them begin to pound on the surface over my own heavy breathing. They were cornering this place as we speak, trapping us like rats.

A crowd quickly formed around us considering all the commotion, dismounting the bike and turning around in time to see Maggie rushing toward me, "Oh my God, oh my-" she cut herself off and placed her hands on my cheeks, checking me for any kind of scratch or bruise, "Are you alright?"

I nodded shakily, "Fine...just fine."

She breathed out a sigh before wasting no time wrapping her arms around me, holding me so close I swore she'd be able to hear how fast my heart was still racing. Though the truth was I was far from fine. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the gates just over her shoulder, the growing sound of them only inflicted a bad feeling inside me that somehow, someway, they would get in.

"Rick! You good?" Daryl's gruff voice suddenly came in through the radio attached to Rick's belt.

I pulled away slightly from Maggie's embrace when I heard the worry in his tone, sharing a look with Rick before he held the device up to his mouth to respond. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just made it back to Alexandria. The RV broke down, Rose and I ran into some trouble. But before you ask; yes, she's safe."

There was a brief pause, "She there with ya?"

Rick wordlessly extended the radio over to me to which I sent him a glare before snatching it out of his hand. The last thing I needed was to be scolded again. Regardless, I stepped away from the prying ears of the small group that stood near the gates, dreading to click the thing back on.

"...I'm here." I muttered.

"What the hell were ya thinkin?!" he wasted no time getting into it.

I closed my eyes and pulled the radio away from my face, not expecting the sudden loudness as I sighed to myself. "I'm sorry, okay? I know you're pissed. But Rick could've died out there if I hadn't shown up when I did. We made it back, but there's no way any of us are getting out anytime soon, the whole place is getting surrounded as we speak."

The radio clicked just in time for me to hear him mutter, "Shit." before it was silent for a few more seconds. Clearly contemplating his next move. "M' on my way."

My eyes widened, "What? No, there's no way you'll even be able to make it in here."

"Watch me." he repeated my own stubborn words back to me.

"No," I repeated more sternly this time, "Don't try to play hero right now, okay? You gotta stick with those two out there, they need you. Just finish taking the walkers the rest of the way and we'll figure something out when the time comes. I'm safe...did you hear that part?"

He sighed softly, "Yeah, I heard ya. But that don't make me stop worryin."

I nodded to myself. It was safe to say the feeling was mutual. "We'll figure it out...we always do."

There was another long and loud pause as he stewed over my words, before reluctantly coming to the conclusion that I was right. "Alright...I love you."

I smiled a bit, "I love you too. Be safe out there, keep in touch if you can."

"I will. And for the love of God, just stay put til I get back."

I rolled my eyes, "We're stuck in here, how am I supposed to leave?"

"I dunno, ya always find some kinda way, woman." he said, his deep chuckle echoing in at the end of his sentence.

"Yeah, whatever." I mumbled before slowly clicking the device off with a slightly heavier heart, trying to shake off the feeling as I turned back to where I left my bike and beginning to walk it back toward the direction of my house.

Everyone was gathered around in front of the walls with worried looks on their faces as I passed them, listening to the banging grow greater and louder, clearly moving from the front entrance to huddle around the entirety of the place. I tried to ignore it the best I could manage, but it was hard when it didn't seem to stop. I hoped these walls would stay standing, I prayed that everyone would be safe until we figured out a plan. But that's never really how it worked out now. Not in this unforgiving world. I also couldn't help but notice how this place looked like some kind of warzone, spilt blood staining the streets along with a few lingering dead bodies. Though it wasn't the least bit surprising considering the assumptions Rick and I had come to.

I found myself drifting back toward where the community was gathered, watching Rick speak out to them about how we were planning to handle this situation. Trying to give them a little bit of hope that everything was going to be alright, but it didn't even look like he believed his own words. How could he when his voice was almost drowned out by the sounds of their snarls?

My footsteps slowed to a stop beside where Carl stood, feeling him look over at me the moment he saw me approach. Neither of us said a word, simply wrapping an arm around each other whilst silently listening amongst the quietness of the people. I took a moment to glance around at all the weary glances they were giving each other, every single one of them having doubts. Hell, I couldn't have understood that more than I did right now, but I wasn't going to let any of them see that. I had to keep a brave face despite how scared I truly was, despite knowing it always ends up the same goddamn way.

Eventually they all started to disperse, clearly wanting to keep their minds off of what was going on just outside. Carl wordlessly pulled me along to move just like the rest, and I let him. I needed a distraction from the fact that the person I loved most in this world was still out there, leaving me clueless on where he was or what was happening on their end. I know the weight of the choice I had made, but that didn't make it any easier to take.

The two of us gravitated toward a spot away from everyone else, sitting down on the curb side by side, watching a few people write a handful of names on the metal wall of who we had recently lost. In my mind it was a good way to honor them, but clearly they didn't waste any time doing so, which almost made it even harder to process. Seeing that only made my eyes wander to the rest of the mess that was left behind, the damage that couldn't be undone considering the reminder they were quite literally painting right before us.

"What the hell happened here?" I asked him after a few moments of silence.

He looked at me and sighed, "These people...they got in somehow and started attacking. I don't know how many of them there were, or why they targeted us. But they had this weird marking on their foreheads that I couldn't make out."

I froze at the last words that left his mouth. "Son of a bitch...I knew it." I muttered to myself.

"What do you mean?" he asked in confusion.

"Well," I sighed, "This isn't exactly our first run in with these people. But I sure as hell hope for their sake, it's the last."

He nodded slowly but didn't press further about what I knew. And I appreciated it more than I let on. "We took care of it. I don't think there's any of them left to come back."

I nodded, "Judith?"

"She's okay." he confirmed.

My shoulders slumped with the littlest ease, glancing around again at the many people working around here like ants. Busying themselves with anything. "God...when did everything become so messed up?" I asked aloud.

The kid shrugged, "When did it stop being messed up?"

His sarcastic tone threw me off a bit, causing me to smile when I needed it most. "You got me there." I said before gently nudging his side.

I heard him laugh quietly before the silence settled once again, my eyes instinctively turning back to what was right ahead of me. Though when I caught sight of the same wall, Glenn's name was now being written next in big black letters. My heart felt like it was starting to sink when it hit me then that he too was still out there, long enough to where these people considered him to be dead. I tore my gaze away from the sight when I couldn't fathom the thought anymore. He wasn't dead. He couldn't be.

"You okay?" Carl asked, quickly noticing my change in mood.

I nodded slowly, "Yeah...I think...I think I'm going to go keep watch for a while. Give myself something useful to do."

His brows creased slightly in worry, "You sure?"

I nodded once more reassuringly and gave his hand a squeeze, before standing to my feet and heading back toward the front entrance. The disturbing noises only worsened when I approached, climbing up step by step to look out and see just how many walkers we were dealing with on the other side. I grabbed the sniper that was already sitting there, looking out into the sea of corpses that only seemed to keep flooding in steadily. They were continuing to make their way around the entirety of the walls, pushing on them and banging just like they did back at the prison. Even those came falling down too.

The creaking of the ladder made me glance down to see Michonne climbing up as well, making her way to the top to wordlessly look out at the same damage that I was seeing. She let out a defeated sigh the moment she saw the numbers, while I scanned every square inch of our surroundings to try and pinpoint just how many we would eventually have to deal with. But I kept losing count. It was never-ending, more and more trailing in through the tree line and drawn to all of the noise the rest of them were causing. Just an endless cycle of dead pricks that we couldn't get rid of.

"How you doing?" she finally spoke up.

I shrugged pathetically, my voice caught in my throat for a few seconds as I truly didn't know how to respond. I wasn't holding up very well by any means, the small hint of fear that everything would be destroyed was now going to be constantly on my mind. Making me realize that coming up here to have it dangling in front of my face probably wasn't the smartest choice. But then again, I couldn't handle seeing Glenn's name on that wall.

"I'm okay."

Her gaze panned toward me out of the corner of my eye, seeming like she didn't believe the lie I just told. "You're worrying."

I scoffed, "Yeah...yeah, I am. I'm worrying about how Daryl's still out there where anything could go wrong, leading the other half of walkers away. I'm worrying about the fact that these could eventually force their way in, because let's face it, they always do. And...seeing Glenn's name on that wall...definitely isn't helping anything." I ranted, the word vomit pouring out of my mouth.

She was silent for a long moment, seemingly taking it all in. "You call that being okay?" she asked lightheartedly.

"No," I huffed with a shake of my head.

She laughed quietly and nudged my shoulder, "No one said you had to be. It's okay to worry, hell, I know I am."

"I'm trying to stay positive." I claimed as I let out a breath, "But let me tell you, it's really hard to be when shit's hitting the fan. Especially like this."

"Yeah. I get it..." she trailed off when she saw the look on my face, and clearly, I wasn't hiding my emotions very well. I never really could hide them from her. "What...?" she asked cautiously.

I shook my head silently, feeling my thoughts scattered all over the place, thinking about every little thing going wrong when the original plan was supposed to work out perfectly. I had hope that it would, just this once, things could actually move in the right direction. But now I just felt utterly foolish.

"I just...I shouldn't have left him." I eventually admitted.

"What?" she asked again, "You feel guilty?"

I didn't dare open my mouth or even attempt to answer her, but apparently that was the only kind of answer she needed to know the heavy truth that was weighing me down. "Rick is alive because of you. That's not something to feel guilty for."

"But I still left Daryl behind in the process. Just like that. And now I have no idea if he's even going to make it back- so many things could happen out there."

She scoffed, "I don't think Daryl of all people is who you have to worry about. That man is invincible. And he's not going to stop without a fight to get back here; Glenn too. We just have to be patient."

In the back of my mind I knew she was right, they were both smart enough to handle this kind of crisis on their own. But that didn't stop me from feeling any less shitty about leaving him behind in the first place. The rash decision I now couldn't take back. I saved Rick, but what if Daryl ended up in some kind of danger and I wasn't around to save him? It was like the butterfly effect in a way. Once choice could alter everything. And all I could do now was put my trust in Abraham and Sasha to have his back.

"I'm more worried about Rick." she suddenly spoke again.

I looked at her upon hearing her muttered comment, waiting for her to elaborate. "He has so much on his shoulders right now. With trying to keep all these people calm, and figuring out a way to take out these sons of bitches...I can't imagine the pressure he's being put under." she slightly trailed off as she glanced back over her shoulder, spotting him below us just a couple hundred feet away.

My eyes narrowed just a bit as I watched her, taking note of how she held her gaze on him for longer than I ever expected, the slight twitch of her lip was involuntary at the mere sight of him. The best part was, she didn't even realize she did it. I found myself looking back and forth between them a few times, my own knowing smile returning to my face before silently nodding to myself.

It could just be me reading too much into her commentary, but I needed something a little more positive to talk about anyway. So, I was going to act on this little situation.

"Hm...you're worried about Rick?" I asked, my tone having a slight teasing edge.

Before I could blink she was already giving me a small glare, "Yeah, so?" she shrugged and adjusted the gun strap on her shoulder.

I raised my hands in defense, "It's just nice he has you watching out for him, that's all. Relax."

"I don't like this game, please just say whatever it is you're really thinking."

I smiled to myself and took my sweet time responding, clearing my throat a bit, "Well, I just heard through the grapevine...that he's single..."

"Stop." she protested immediately.

"He is." I countered back.

She gave me a somewhat pointed look, "What he is, is my friend. And that friend has a thing going on with Jessie that I don't think anyone should meddle with."

"Friend?" I repeated in disbelief, "You can't use that excuse with me. Daryl and I were just friends at one point too, and now we have the best sex you could imagine."

"Oh my God- I'm ignoring you now." she stuttered a bit at my blunt comment.

I laughed softly, "Alright, okay, I'm done."

She nodded slightly, "Thank you..."

A brief pause passed as I debated whether or not to poke the bear further. But I felt she had a right to know how serious I was despite my lightheartedness. Even if she didn't want to hear it. "You know, you're about one of the only people around here that make him feel calm during times like this. Safe...and at peace."

Her eyes softened a bit, and she didn't protest or try to interrupt. "I wish I could say the same for me, but really I just stress him out most of the time." I joked to make her laugh, "His kids also adore you...I'm just saying."

I ended it plain and simple, leaving her to process on the obvious information. She nodded to show that she heard every word, yet she didn't say anything else. Not that there was anything else really to say. But by the lack of response I got when telling her just how much she truly meant to him, was all the confirmation I needed.

Although I had no idea she felt that deeply for him, I felt I was already rooting for them far more than I was supporting whatever relationship he was pursuing with Jessie. Not that I would ever tell him that, or try to advise which way he should be leaning. But one thing was for certain, I thought he needed to start looking at what was right in front of him instead of chasing someone he was never meant to have.

It seemed to grow dark fairly quickly, the remainder of the day practically flying by. I spent most of it up on the platform, gripping onto the sniper like it was my lifeline right alongside Michonne who seemed just as anxious as I remained. However, she was much better at hiding it. We talked back and forth after a while, to try and get our minds off of the deadly things. But it doesn't help that the thing you're trying so hard to avoid talking about, is quite literally standing in front of you.

With the amount of pile up those things caused, it was only making the walls weaker if they kept up with it like they were. Trying to avoid thinking about that possibility was one of the hardest things to do right now, but I couldn't let my mind dwell. Not yet at least. We still had time.

Once the hour grew later to the point where I couldn't stop myself from yawning, I began to head back home and turn in, wanting to at least try and get some sleep. Though I couldn't help but notice a figure standing in front of all the many names written on the wall, the sight causing me to slow to a stop. It only took me a second to realize it was Maggie, staring right at Glenn's name without moving so much as an inch. Making me question for a moment if she was even breathing.

My eyes saddened at the briefest image of her slightly grieving over him, the man who was most important to her, who could be anywhere out there. It was something that she should never have to do, having the fear of the unknown eating away at her as all she could do was hope. I watched her closely as she took a rag from the ground and started to scrub his name off the thick sheet of metal. My heart instantly seemed to break. And all I knew to do now, was to be there for her in a moment where she couldn't ask for help.

My approach was hesitant and careful as I stopped at the wall right beside her, not sparing a moment for her to acknowledge my presence before I picked up another towel that was tossed to the side. Silently helping her wash away his name letter by letter.

It began to fade with a little bit of time, the soap and water running through the paint and cleansing it away. Leaving only a brief image of what used to be written there, which to me was far better than how it was before. She turned to look at me once we were finished, her eyes glistening but thankful for the silent reassurance I was willing to provide. My actions speaking louder than my words could in this moment; that I believed he was still out there too.

I laid in bed the rest of the night staring up at the ceiling, nearly giving up on the possibility that I would get a wink of rest. It was almost laughable that I thought I'd be able to begin with.

All day I've been trying not to let my emotions get the best of me while constantly seeming to spiral, yet somehow it was always worse when nightfall hit. When you're able to think the most without any kind of diversion, which led me to believe that's why I hated it the most when I was alone. It caused me to ponder all of the things I could've done differently within the past day, week, or even year. Leaving me with almost too much to think about.

"Rose?"

I practically jumped out of my skin when I heard the hushed voice in the threshold of my bedroom door, instinctively reaching for the nightstand drawer where I had my gun. But then my squinted eyes met Maggie's through the sea of darkness, and I exhaled a sigh of relief. Yeah, don't shoot her.

"Jesus, you scared the shit out of me." I whispered with my hand raising to my chest, feeling how fast my heart was beating.

Her expression grew sheepish as she slowly stepped into the room, "I'm sorry."

I waved her off, "No, no it's okay." I reassured before sitting up on the mattress, "What's going on?"

"Uh..." she hesitated a little, lingering awkwardly by the edge of the bed, "I just...I don't know if I can be alone tonight." her quiet voice admitted.

My eyes saddened a bit, seeing we were both in the same boat with this heavy loneliness. Neither of us wanting to spend it completely alone. I immediately pulled the blankets back for her, patting the space next to me as a silent invitation. She smiled gratefully at my understanding, moving around to the other side of the bed and climbing in comfortably under the covers just beside me. We both laid back in silence, neither one of us feeling the need to fill the void.

I didn't know how much time had passed as we simply listened to the soft sounds just outside the cracked window, but it was clear both of us were still awake. Admittedly it was comforting having someone next to me in a moment like this, especially Maggie whose conflicting emotions matched my own. Knowing at any point, I could speak up about what was surely circling both of our minds. And she would listen.

"You know why I came here?" her tired voice unexpectedly asked.

I looked over, seeing she was on the brink of falling asleep. But I responded regardless out of pure curiosity. "Why?"

"Because...you feel like home to me. I'm glad you're here." she whispered before letting out a small sigh in content.

My heart fluttered with a warmth of comfort, finding I couldn't respond the way I wanted to as I was thrown of guard at her sincerity. So, instead I simply leaned down to press a kiss against the top of her head, smoothing her hair down gently to express how much that meant to me to hear out loud.

~ Thanks for reading!