#and if you don’t you’re quinn | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hottiesforhockey · 21 days ago

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jokes on you ⎜ q.hughes

pairings: quinn hughes x afab!reader genre: workplace romance ⎜ he falls first and he falls harder⎜ chronic illness rep ⎜nurse reader ⎜ warnings: mentions of chronic illness ⎜mentions of rheumatoid arthritis ⎜mentions of reader in hospital ⎜ mentions of injured quinn ⎜ not a lot tbh synopsis: you're not quite sure how to react when the hot shot captain calls 'dibs' on you - or how to react when he starts following you around like a lost puppy. word count: 10.5k authors note: this was one of the two top voted fics in my 'what's next poll' so here it is! i hope you all enjoy!

(unedited)

Quinn remembers the first time he saw you. It wasn’t the first official time—no, that came five months ago when you walked through the door as the new team nurse—but it was the first time that everything about you snapped into focus. And the memory still lingers, sharp and clear, like a vivid dream that refuses to fade.

Sure, he’d seen you before, a friendly smile passing between you when you first introduced yourself, but that moment? That moment was when you became something undeniable. And maybe, just maybe, that was when Quinn started to find a reason to end up in your office almost every day. Sometimes, it was an excuse as flimsy as his hand itching or a sore muscle, just enough to get him to slide onto the examination table for a few minutes of your attention. Because every time you smiled at him, every time your eyes sparkled, something in him twisted, like he was more alive than he’d been in years. And that smile? It made his stomach do things he couldn’t explain.

It was early autumn at training camp, the sun still casting its warm glow on everything outside of the rink. Quinn had been focused on stretching, trying to shake off the morning soreness, when he caught sight of you. You stood off to the side of the ice, clipboard in hand, dressed in athletic joggers and a fitted team jacket. The fluorescent lights made your hair seem to glow, catching the highlights that danced in the blasting air conditioning. You were talking to Coach, nodding seriously at something he was saying, but Quinn’s attention was caught by the way your lips barely curved, like you were holding back a secret joke.

He couldn’t look away. It wasn’t just how you looked—it was the way you carried yourself, so confident yet approachable, your presence magnetic. For a second, he was frozen, a weight settling in his chest, and it felt like the entire world fell away.

"Damn, Quinn, you look like you’ve seen a ghost," Elias teased, nudging him with a grin. Quinn hadn’t even realized he was staring, but Elias’s voice cut through the fog in his brain.

Quinn blinked, dragging his tongue across his teeth before scoffing, “Shut up.” But even as he said it, he couldn’t tear his gaze away. You were still talking to Coach, still holding that subtle, unspoken charm that made him feel like maybe he was a little out of his depth. And that realization hit him hard, like a punch to the gut. This wasn’t a casual interest. This was something else entirely. Something far more complicated. By the time practice wrapped up, Quinn’s resolve had already set. It was a certainty—he wasn’t going to let this go. And when the team moved into the locker room, stretching and laughing as they peeled off their jerseys, Quinn made his move.

"Dibs," he said, a nonchalant word, but his tone was sharp enough to carry across the room. Everyone stopped for a beat, the entire locker room pausing to look at him.

Elias raised an eyebrow from his spot on the bench. "Dibs?"

"On the new nurse," Quinn clarified, voice steady, though something dark flickered in his eyes.

A few guys chuckled, and someone let out a low whistle. “Man, you’re calling dibs on the nurse already?”

Quinn just shrugged, unapologetic. “Don’t care. I’m calling it now.”

Connor, sitting beside him, leaned back and crossed his arms. “You think just because you’ve claimed her, that means something? She’s not a piece of pizza.”

Quinn’s gaze hardened. “Exactly. That’s why I’m making it clear. I’m not playing around.” The room fell silent, an understanding rippling through the guys. A quiet murmur spread through the locker room as someone muttered, “Man’s already down bad.” Quinn didn’t deny it. He was down bad. From the moment he saw you, it was all he could think about. And no matter how many excuses he had to make—aching muscles, a sore back, a bruised ego—he wasn’t going to let anyone else have a chance at you.

The next few weeks only cemented his determination. It wasn’t just your looks that pulled him in—it was the way you were, how you commanded respect and exuded kindness in equal measure. It was the little things, too. The way you remembered everyone’s quirks—like how Elias had a habit of cracking his knuckles when he was nervous, or how Connor always grumbled when it was time for ice.

And you? You had started noticing his habits, too. The way he always slid onto the same corner of the examination table with a cocky grin. The way he acted like nothing was wrong, even when he winced while stretching out his shoulder. But he lingered, always hanging around after practice like he couldn’t get enough of your company.

One afternoon, after another long practice, Quinn limped into your office, pretending to rub his knee like it was hurting more than it actually was. You narrowed your eyes, recognizing the act immediately.

“You iced this yesterday, Quinn,” you said, your voice laced with suspicion.

“Better safe than sorry,” he replied, offering that lopsided grin that always made his heart beat just a little faster. You didn’t answer right away, just pressed the ice to his knee with a raised eyebrow, your fingers brushing his skin in a way that sent a jolt of electricity straight through him. The moment lasted too long, stretching like rubber. He could feel the tension in the air—something undeniable between you both.

But even that wasn’t the hardest part. It wasn’t the endless excuses he made to be near you. It was watching the other guys start to notice you, too. Brock, leaning a little too close when he spoke to you. Kiefer, always making an excuse to pop into the med room, lingering at your desk. And Elias, one of his closest friends, giving you lingering glances when he thought no one was looking.

Quinn’s jaw clenched at the thought. He wasn’t stupid. He saw it all. But he’d made his choice. He’d called dibs, and no one was going to take that away from him. Not if he could help it. Because if there was one thing Quinn was sure of, it was this: No one else was getting the chance to get close to you. Not while he still had a shot.

The following week, Quinn limped into your office after practice, his hand resting dramatically on his lower back as he shuffled through the door like he was in agony. He winced exaggeratedly, though it was mostly for show, and dropped down into the chair across from your desk, making sure to let out a low groan of discomfort. His eyes flicked up to you, half-expecting you to call him out for his antics.

And there it was—the unmistakable arch of your brow. You tilted your head slightly, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you eyed him skeptically. "You sure it’s your back, or are you just trying to get some attention, Quinn?" His grin nearly faltered. He was doing his best to keep up the act, but there was something about the way you looked at him—amused, not at all fooled—that made his heart stutter. God, you saw right through him, he thought, but instead of backing down, he leaned into it, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“I promise, it’s not for the attention. This back of mine is practically screaming for help.” You didn’t answer right away. You just studied him for a moment, your gaze soft, but with a knowing glint that made his pulse spike. Then, with a sigh that said you were humoring him, you patted the space beside you on the examination table. “Alright, Quinn. Get up here. I’m sure I can work some magic and make you feel better.” He stood slowly, making a show of pretending to stretch, but when he moved to lie down on the table, he couldn’t stop the grin from breaking through. There was something comforting about the way you moved, like you knew exactly what you were doing, even when you were teasing him. Quinn caught the way you glanced at him from the corner of your eye as you adjusted the angle of the table, a quiet kind of warmth settling in your expression.

He settled onto the table, trying to force himself to relax, but he couldn’t quite stop the way his heart fluttered when you moved closer, your presence enveloping him like a soft blanket. You gently pressed your hands to his back, adjusting his posture, and that was when it happened. The moment your fingers brushed his spine, Quinn’s breath caught in his throat. The contact was electric, the warmth of your touch spreading through him in an instant, leaving him momentarily speechless. It’s just a touch, he reminded himself, but that didn’t stop the way his body responded, the way he felt every inch of his skin come alive under your hands.

"Better?" you asked softly, your voice gentle, and Quinn could swear the world slowed just then, like time had decided to give the two of you a moment of quiet.

He swallowed, nodding, though his heart was thudding against his chest. “Hmmm, I don’t know — might need to come back for a few more sessions.” The words hung in the air between you both, thick with something neither of you had dared to speak aloud. Quinn could feel it, the way the room seemed to shrink, how every little detail about you seemed magnified—how the soft scent of your shampoo filled his senses, how your fingers lingered just a moment too long on his back, as though you were reluctant to pull away. For a long moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the air conditioning, and Quinn found himself unable to tear his gaze away from yours. He had expected to feel embarrassed, to be caught in the act of faking his injuries, but instead, all he felt was an overwhelming sense of connection. You weren’t looking at him like he was just another player to treat, another injury to fix—you were looking at him like you really saw him.

The realization made him breathless. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat, replaced by a genuine smile—one that had nothing to do with his usual bravado or sarcasm. It was soft, vulnerable, real. "Thanks," he said quietly, his voice softer than usual. "Really." You met his gaze with a quiet understanding that made his chest ache. It wasn’t just the words, though. It was the way you looked at him like you cared, like he wasn’t just another guy on the team, but someone who mattered. It made him want to do better, be better.

"You're welcome, Quinn," you replied, a small smile tugging at your lips. "You know where to find me if you have anymore surprise injuries."

It wasn’t just the reassurance. It was the way your eyes lingered on him for just a moment longer than necessary, the faintest hesitation in your gaze that made Quinn’s stomach tighten with anticipation. He’d been patient, but something told him that there was more between the two of you than just the occasional visit to your office.

Before he could stop himself, Quinn straightened, his heart pounding in his chest. “You don’t mind, do you?” His voice was low, almost tentative. He shifted slightly, a slight tension in his body. “Me, coming around all the time, I mean. For injuries I may or may not have.” You chuckled softly, a sound that made Quinn’s stomach flip.

“I don’t mind the company, Quinn,” you said, your tone light but with a hint of something deeper, something more personal than just the typical nurse-patient banter.

His heart skipped a beat, and Quinn tried to mask the sudden surge of emotion with a casual shrug. “Good. Because I plan on sticking around.”

You smiled again, a little more knowingly this time, like you understood exactly what he meant. “Well, as long as you promise to stop faking injuries,” you teased, eyes sparkling with amusement. Quinn laughed softly, though the sound was more nervous than he intended.

"I’ll try to keep it to a minimum," he said, leaning back a little against the table, trying to keep the mood light even though his thoughts were racing. The teasing, the playful banter, it was easy to fall into with you, but Quinn couldn’t ignore the way his chest felt full, the way the air between you two seemed to crackle with something unspoken.

You took a step back then, and Quinn felt the weight of your absence immediately. But it wasn’t an uncomfortable emptiness—it was more like the space between you was charged, waiting for something else to happen. He watched you as you straightened up, adjusting your jacket, and then, for reasons he couldn’t fully explain, he stood a little taller, his gaze more certain.

“Thanks, again,” Quinn added, his voice steady now, though there was a lingering vulnerability in it.

You smiled again, but this time, it was different. “Anytime, Quinn.”

And as you turned to leave, the weight of your words echoed in his chest. You don’t mind the company. Quinn was beginning to think that, maybe, you didn’t just mean the company. You might have meant something more.

The next day, you caught him after practice again, but this time, it was different. You had a small grin on your face when you approached him, and Quinn couldn’t hide his growing excitement.

“Your back must be feeling better.” You tease, perching your elbows on the rink wall as you watch his teammates skate around the rink.

Quinn grinned, leaning back against the wall and stretching his arms above his head. “You could say that. Turns out, I’m just that good at healing,” he said with an exaggerated wink, trying to act casual, though his heart raced at the way you stood there, so close, with that teasing smile on your face.

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your expression didn’t waver. “I think you’re just trying to get free back rubs at this point,” you said, half-smiling, clearly amused by his antics.

His heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t help but smile wider. “Maybe,” he admitted, his voice lowering a little as his gaze flickered to your lips. He quickly corrected himself, focusing on your eyes. “But who can blame me? You’ve got magic hands.”

You laughed, a soft, melodic sound that made Quinn feel like he was floating. “Magic hands, huh?” you repeated, eyes sparkling.

Quinn’s grin faltered for a split second as he realised just how much he wanted to keep that playful banter going, how much he wanted to be near you. The air between you seemed to shift, like there was something more lingering beneath the surface that neither of you had dared to fully acknowledge yet.

Your smile softened, and for a moment, Quinn was sure he could hear the gentle thrum of his pulse in his ears. You were quiet, almost contemplative, your gaze lingering on him with an unreadable look. Then, you took a step closer to him, leaning just enough that your shoulder brushed his, your warmth seeping into his skin.

"You know, I’ve noticed you hanging around a lot lately, Quinn." Quinn’s breath caught in his throat, unsure whether the shift in your tone was a test or an invitation. He kept his gaze on you, trying to read the subtle nuance in your eyes, but the light was too soft, the air too thick.

“Guilty as charged,” he replied with a hint of self-mockery. “You’re pretty—” He pauses clearing his throat, “easy to find, and sometimes I get sick of the team.”

Your eyes softened, and there was that smile again—gentle, unguarded. “I don’t mind it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, like it was a secret just between the two of you. “I told you I like the company.” Quinn felt his heart skip a beat. It was almost too much, the way your words wrapped around him, making the room feel like it was just the two of you in a sea of shifting people. The way you said it—so simple, yet there was a weight to it that Quinn couldn’t shake. He wasn’t sure if it was the way you looked at him, or how his chest felt too tight with everything he was trying to keep in check.

“Just remember the boy who cried wolf.” You joke, pushing yourself to stand up straight, “You don’t have to be injured to stop by the office, Quinn.” You hum, biting down on your bottom lip as you force the smile on your face to shrink. Quinn knows his mouth is handing open a little, he also knows that if any of his teammates catch him like this he’s going to lose any ‘captains free of teasing’ cards he might have.

Quinn watches as you walk away.

He watches as you send a small wave to Elias who’s on the ice waving matching how you move your hand just a vigorously as Quinn wishes you would wave at him. He frowns as he skates over to his teammate bumping his shoulder into the taller Swedish man who look at his captain as if he’s grown a second head.

“You already have a girlfriend, don’t go flirting with my nurse.” Quinn snaps, skating away and off the ice before Elias can even wrap his head around what he just said.

You had never been one to pay much attention to locker room gossip. Working in sports for almost your entire career, you had heard more than your fair share of things taken completely out of context, and you’d long since learned to tune out the noise. It was part of the job. But lately, something about Quinn’s behavior had been harder to ignore.

At first, it didn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary. He was one of the team’s star players, after all, and regular check-ups were just part of the game. Hockey was a rough sport, and injuries were a constant concern. But the more you thought about it, the more you realized that Quinn wasn’t exactly visiting for serious concerns. Half the time, his visits seemed... unnecessary. You had started to wonder if maybe, just maybe, the gossip you usually ignored could actually shed some light on the situation this time.

One afternoon, as you were organizing the supply cabinet, you casually mentioned something to one of the assistant trainers.

“Hey, is it just me, or is Quinn in here like, every other day?” you mused, trying to keep your tone light.

The trainer snorted, clearly amused. “Oh, it’s not just you. Dude practically has a reserved seat at your exam table.”

You rolled your eyes, though a small part of you couldn’t deny the truth in what they were saying. “Yeah, but for what? Last week, he came in because his nose was ‘tingling.’”

The trainer gave you a knowing look. “And you don’t find that suspicious?”

You frowned, the pieces starting to come together. “What do you mean?”

“C’mon,” the trainer chuckled. “You’re smart. Think about it.”

And you did. You thought about every time Quinn had lingered after practice, how he always seemed to show up right when you were free. The way his excuses were getting thinner—like that one time he claimed he’d pulled something, only to be miraculously fine the next day.

Before you could dwell on it too much, the trainer casually added, “I mean, it could have something to do with the fact he called dibs on you, right?”

You froze. “He what?”

The trainer grinned. “Yeah, right after your first offical day. Told the whole locker room.” You blinked, caught somewhere between disbelief and something else. Because now that you were really paying attention, all those lingering glances, the way Quinn always seemed to be around—it all started making sense. And the more you thought about it, the harder it became to ignore the way your stomach fluttered whenever he walked into the room.

The truth settled over you like a slow, creeping warmth. You had started noticing Quinn too. The way his eyes always found yours the moment he stepped into the room, the way they lingered just a second too long. The way he sat on the exam table, legs swinging slightly like a kid caught in trouble, waiting for you to give him attention. The way he smirked when you called him out on his ridiculous excuses, only to come back a day later with another flimsy reason to be there.

You hadn’t let yourself think too much about it before, but now?

Now, it was all you could think about.

When Quinn walked into your office this time, there was something different about him. The usual swagger he carried was gone. His right hand was wrapped in a makeshift bandage, uneven and hastily done, and he was walking with more care than usual.

“Quinn, didn’t we just have a talk about you not having to fake injuries to come here?” The words are out with a tone of teasing as Quinn pauses by your office door, the usual half smile not spreading across his face like it usually would. You only just notice the subtle grimace on his face as he moved, trying to hide the pain but not doing a very good job of it.

"Quinn?" you asked, your voice soft with concern. "What happened?"

He shrugged, trying to downplay the situation. “Just a rough hit during practice. Got caught in the corner, didn’t see it coming.”

You frowned, already moving closer to him. Your eyes dropped to his hand, the bandage too tight, the wrapping messy. It was obvious someone hadn’t really known what they were doing, and as you looked closer, your stomach twisted at the sight of his swollen fingers.

“Let me see it,” you said, your tone firm despite the worry growing inside you. Quinn hesitated for a moment, looking like he was considering walking out of the room. But then, with a soft sigh, he unwrapped the bandage. Your breath caught in your throat when you saw the extent of the injury. His hand was badly swollen, the knuckles dark purple, almost black. His fingers were stiff, and the skin around them looked raw. A few cuts ran along the top, but it was the deep purple bruising that made your heart sink.

“Quinn,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though panic threatened to break through. “This doesn’t look good. Are you sure you didn’t break something?”

He winced slightly, instinctively pulling his hand back, though he quickly forced it forward again. “It’s not broken. Just bruised. Probably sprained or something.”

You didn’t buy it. The way his fingers barely moved when you gently flexed them sent a sharp jolt of fear through you. There was no way this was just a sprain. You moved closer, your fingers brushing his wrist as you gently turned his hand. You couldn’t help but notice how warm his skin felt beneath your touch, how the simple contact made your pulse quicken.

“Quinn,” you said, your voice now low and urgent, “you need to get an X-ray. I don’t think this is just bruising. You could’ve fractured something.” He tensed under your touch, and for a brief second, irritation flashed across his face. But then it softened, replaced by something else. Something that made your chest tighten. He looked at you, his gaze lingering on yours, and for a moment, he seemed like he was about to argue. But the words never came.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, but there was no conviction in his voice. “I’ll be good as new in a few days.”

“It’s not fine, Quinn,” you replied, your voice firm, though you could feel the slight tremble in your hands as you reached for fresh bandages. “This could be really bad if it’s not treated properly. Hands are fragile.”

He winced as you carefully began the process of re-wrapping his hand, flinching every time the pressure caused a sharp pain. “Sorry, I’m almost done,” you promised softly, your focus intense as you worked. But you couldn’t ignore the way Quinn’s gaze never left you, the way his eyes traced your every movement, his focus sharp despite the discomfort in his hand. The air between you felt charged, thick with something neither of you could quite name, but something neither of you could ignore.

You finished wrapping his hand, the bandage tight but not too tight, secure yet comfortable. His hand lingered under yours, the warmth of his skin radiating through your fingers, and you felt the beat of his breath against your neck as he shifted slightly on the table.

“Comfortable?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper, your gaze flicking up to meet his.

He hesitated, eyes holding yours for just a second longer than necessary. “Yeah,” he muttered, but the softness in his tone made something in your chest tighten.

You glanced up at him, your voice steady but quiet as you spoke. “Okay, it should be secure, but not too uncomfortable. One of the physicians will write you up a referral for the X-ray, but until then, I’m sure you know the deal with R.I.C.E?” Quinn nodded, slowly slipping off the table, though his eyes flicked down at your phone, which had just buzzed on the desk.

“Who’s messaging?” he asked, his voice softer than usual, his expression unreadable.

“Ryan—the doctor,” you replied, not quite looking up as you grabbed your phone, the tension still thick in the air.

Quinn frowned, his jaw tightening. “Do you text often?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What? Quinn, why does that—” And then, like a sudden realisation, the pieces fell into place. The locker room confession. The way he was acting now. “Oh my god.” You say softly, only just notice the way that Quinn’s eyes widen a little in panic, as if he hadn’t fully thought through his questions. “You’re jealous.”

For the first time in a long while, Quinn didn’t deny it “So what if I am?” He watches as your gaze softens, your phone buzzing again on the table, Quinn’s eyes moving from yours to shoot back down to your phone, glaring at the small device as you let out a soft laugh.

“Quinn, it’s my work phone - we only text about work stuff.” You explain slowly, lifting the phone to show him the message on the screen.

Doctor Ryan: the referral’s been forwarded to the usual clinic, make sure he goes there this afternoon for a fast tracked report.

You can see the moment Quinn’s whole body releases, his hand gently pressed against his chest as the pout stays planted firmly on his face. “Don’t worry, I could never replace my favourite patient.”

A few weeks had passed since Quinn’s injury, and although you had made him promise to follow through with seeing a doctor, the tension between you had only grown. He’d kept to his word about getting checked out, he also had almost completely refused to see anyone but you for his rechecks. But, as time went on, other things crept into your mind—the pressure of deadlines, the constant demands of the team. You barely had time to focus on yourself, let alone on Quinn.

But today, something felt different. The minute Quinn walked into your office, you could already tell that this conversation wasn’t going to go how they normally did. He didn’t have the usual pep in his step and was hesitant as he knocked softly on your office door, his hand tightly strapped into it’s brace, you barely acknowledge him as you glance towards him — this time, there was a subtle concern in his eyes, a sense that he was more observant than usual. The way his gaze lingered on you, the way he studied you without saying anything. You were leaning over a stack of paperwork, scribbling notes, trying to catch up on the mountain of tasks that had piled up in the last few days. When Quinn cleared his throat, you looked up, expecting the usual banter.

“What do you need, Quinn?” you asked, your tone light, though a little strained. You hadn’t been sleeping well lately—too many late nights in the office, too many early mornings dealing with practice and managing medical records. Your exhaustion had been creeping up on you, but you tried to ignore it.

Quinn stood at the door, his posture a little straighter than usual, his eyes flicking over you with an intensity that you didn’t quite understand. “You look... off,” he said, voice quieter than normal. “I just wanted to check on you?”

You laughed softly, though there was a slight rasp in your voice that made you immediately regret it. “I’m fine, Quinn. Just tired. You know how it is.” He frowned, taking a few steps closer to the desk, his gaze narrowing slightly as he took in your appearance. Your eyes were a little too dull, your skin a little too pale. Even your usual sharp movements seemed slower, less deliberate.

“I don’t know, you don’t look ‘fine,’” he said, his voice dropping in concern. “You’ve been like this the last couple of days. You’re not getting sick, are you?” You waved him off with a half-smile, trying to brush off the worry in his tone.

“I’m not sick. Just stretched thin, that’s all. It’s been a crazy week. A few too many late nights.” You met his gaze, your heart racing slightly at the intensity in his eyes. It was rare for him to sound this serious, to be this concerned over something so small. But you couldn’t let him see that it was bothering you. You weren’t about to admit that the exhaustion had been catching up to you.

“I’m fine, really,” you reassured him, the words coming out with a little more force than you intended.

Quinn didn’t seem convinced, but he nodded slowly, his gaze softening as he watched you. “Alright, but if you feel worse, you should probably go home.”

You smiled faintly, the corners of your lips pulling tight. “Thanks, Quinn. I’ll be fine,” you reassured him, though the words didn’t come with the usual ease. The exhaustion was creeping in on you, and something in your chest tugged uncomfortably at the lie, but you weren’t ready to admit it. Not yet.

"Lets take a look at that hand." As you stood to lead him to the exam table, the quick motion sent a light wave of dizziness through your head. Your vision flickered at the edges, and for a moment, the floor seemed to tilt slightly. You blinked hard, gripping the edge of your desk, willing the feeling to pass. It had been happening more frequently lately—those sudden, disorienting spells that lasted only a few seconds, but they left you unsettled.

You pushed the sensation aside, but there was a heaviness in the pit of your stomach you couldn’t ignore. The subtle ache in your joints was there too—something you’d learned to live with because of your autoimmune condition. But today? It was worse. The stiffness in your knees, the prickling in your fingers, the slight nausea curling in your stomach. It was all just a little too much. But you’d learned to mask it, to power through.

When you reached the table, Quinn was already standing there, one hand resting casually against the bed. But his eyes locked on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. He was watching you too closely—more closely than usual—and something about the way he lingered at the threshold made you suddenly self-conscious.

You forced a smile. “I’m good. Just got up too fast.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow, but didn’t seem entirely convinced. “You sure? You look a little pale.” His voice was quieter now, more cautious. It was rare for Quinn to show concern like this, and it was clear that something in your demeanor was making him uneasy. You waved him off with a dismissive gesture - like you had with everyone else all day - though your muscles felt stiff as you tried to move past him.

“Really, I’m fine. Just tired.” You couldn’t risk letting him see the way your heart was racing, the way your breath felt shallow as you fought to steady yourself. It was probably nothing. Just a long week catching up to you. But Quinn didn’t move. His gaze tracked you closely, his eyes narrowing slightly as you made your way down the hall. He seemed to be reading you like a book, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that he could see through your carefully constructed mask.

Quinn didn’t say anything else as he slipped onto the exam table, watching you carefully as you slowly unstrapped his hand from the splint, getting him to move each finger to test his range of motion before sending him a quick smile, trying to ignore the throbbing in the back of your head.

“It’s looking good, maybe just another week or two and you should be back in tip top shape.” You smile at him, but the expression feels almost like a grimace, Quinn non-injured hand reaching out to press gently against your forehead, his eyes widening in surprise as he frowns at you.

“You have a fever, are you sure you should be here?” He asks, his gaze soft with concern.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, look you’re my last booking, I’ll head home after we restrap your hand.” You say, the feeling of fatigue growing as you slide the splint onto the back of Quinn’s hand, his gaze watching you move as you strap it back in place, taking a step away from his concern as he slides of the table as soon as you finish.

“Do you need a ride home? I’ll be good to go soon?” Quinn offers quietly, almost silently as you shake your head. But Quinn wasn’t moving. He was still watching you, his eyes intense, reading you in a way you hadn’t expected. The subtle pressure in your chest grew. You needed to tell him. You should tell him. But you didn’t want to make it worse, didn’t want him to feel like he had to fix something that was out of his control.

“I’ll be okay, it’s probably just a cold.” You reassure him, watching as he slowly retreats from your office, only letting out a long breath as you see his figure disappear down the hall, your office door closing as you slide down the wall.

Okay maybe ‘just a cold’ was an understatement.

The sound of the skates scratching against the ice rang through the arena — practice had been tough today, the team getting closer and closer to opening night, which was leading to frustrations building up and overall more aggression in practice. Quinn was distracted as he skated the drill, moving to defend the corner as he comes up behind his teammate barely noticing the slightly lifted stick, the blade slicing sharply against his cheek.

“Fuck.” Quinn curses as he yanks himself away from the group, each of them turning to their captain in concern as he raises his hand to cup his face. “Shit.” He curses again as the first few drops of blood land on his glove, the team trainer reaches him with a towel pressing it up against his face as he motions for him to skate to the bench - his coach patting him on the shoulder as he passes.

Quinn stomps his way to the locker room pulling the towel away from his face to glance down at the towel the slow trickle of blood running down his cheek. The sharp sting on his cheek was the least of Quinn's concerns as Elias’s voice cut through the fog in his mind. “It looks like you need stitches.” His tone was casual, as though he were commenting on the weather, where Elias had gotten his medical degree, Quinn had no clue.

“Yeah, yeah—I'll just go see the nurse, it’s fine,” Quinn muttered, though deep down, the thought of walking down the hall to your office, watching you work your magic as you always did, made his pulse quicken.

It wasn’t just that you were the best at patching him up. It wasn’t just the way you had that quiet way of making him feel safe, of making him feel like maybe, just maybe, he mattered.

It was your hands—always gentle, never rushing, always careful. It was the way your eyes softened when you scolded him, like you saw through his tough exterior to the mess of thoughts and emotions swirling underneath. He swallowed, shaking his head, trying to shake off the images of you.

Focus on the task at hand.

Fix face bleeding. Not daydream about a pretty girl.

But as he trudged down the hallway, the familiar door of the med bay loomed in front of him. His heartbeat drummed against his chest, a dull thud, and he could almost feel the comforting weight of your presence just beyond the door. He knocked, already forming the words, but they caught in his throat the second he opened it.

You weren’t there.

Instead, a stranger sat behind the desk. She was smiling—polite, neutral—but it wasn’t the smile that made Quinn’s stomach churn. It was the sterile, empty feel of the room. It wasn’t the same without you. It was like someone had taken all the life out of the place, leaving behind nothing but cold, clinical efficiency. The faint apple-scented perfume you always wore, the little piles of paperwork you never seemed to quite organise but made everything feel more... alive—gone... well moved to the filing cabinet at the back of the room. His chest tightened, a familiar ache settling deep within him.

“Oh. Uh… you’re new?” Quinn managed to get the words out, though they felt clumsy, like he was fumbling for something to hold onto in the thick fog of unease clouding his brain. He scanned the room, his eyes darting around, looking for any trace of you.

The nurse—a locum, she called herself—raised an eyebrow. “Your regular nurse is out for the week. I’m just the locum,” she said, her voice chirpy but completely impersonal. Her eyes flicked to his cheek, then back up to his face.

“Want me to take care of that for you, hun?” The word ‘hun’ hit him like a slap. His mouth went dry, and he couldn’t hide the sudden flinch.

“Why?” he asked, and the word escaped before he could stop it, thick with something he couldn’t name. His stomach twisted.

The locum blinked, clearly thrown by the harshness of his tone. “Because it needs stitches, sweetheart.”

“No,” Quinn snapped, voice tight. He shook his head, the words tumbling out before he could think. “Not that. Why is she out?” His voice dropped, lower now, thick with a weight he wasn’t ready to admit.

The nurse shrugged, completely unaffected. “She just said she was sick.”

Sick.

The word hung in the air, lingering long after the nurse had spoken. It was like a hit to the chest, sudden and brutal, making it hard to breathe. You hadn’t looked well the last time he saw you—pale, tired, even a little... off. But he’d pushed it to the back of his mind. He hadn’t thought much about it. But now? Now, it gnawed at him, each passing second another piece of his peace slipping through his fingers.

What if it was something worse than a cold? What if it was something... serious? Something he should have seen? The thought made him dizzy, his hands trembling as he gripped the towel against his cheek.

What if you were hurt? What if something had happened on the way home, and he hadn’t been there? What if—

His heart pounded, drowning out the nurse’s attempt to coax him toward the bench. "Now, come sit so I can stitch you up," she said, her tone completely unfazed.

But Quinn couldn’t focus. He couldn’t make himself sit there, couldn’t do anything but take a step back. "No," he muttered, his voice shaky. "You’re not my nurse. She won’t like it if you do it." The words came out harsher than he meant, a small whine creeping into his voice that he couldn’t contain. He didn’t care. He turned on his heel, stomping out of the room, the nurse’s protests fading behind him.

He barely heard Elias’s teasing question when he stormed into the locker room. “What are you doing back here? Your cheek is still bleeding.” Quinn didn’t even glance at him. His fingers were already flying across his phone screen, heart hammering in his chest as he typed the only thing that mattered right now.

"She's not there." Quinn dismisses.

Captain Hughes: Where are you? Are you okay?

He slapped a bandaid over the wound trying to stop the bleeding, the motion automatic, but it did nothing to soothe the sick feeling swirling in his gut. Elias watched him with an eyebrow raised, arms crossed. “There should be a locum nurse who can take care of it.”

Quinn shot him a glare. “She’s not my nurse. She’s not fixing anything.” Before Elias could open his mouth, Quinn’s phone buzzed in his hand, the screen lighting up with your name. His heart lurched.

“Quinn,” your voice was raspy, tired. It sent a jolt of panic through him. “Why did I get a phone call from the locum?” Your voice sounded strained, like you were barely holding it together.

His hands trembled as he gripped the phone tighter. "Maybe she’s just mad she’s not you?"

There was a brief pause, and then, a sigh—a tired, heavy thing that hit him like a physical blow. "Or because you refused to let her do her job."

He wasn’t listening to the scolding tone in your voice. He couldn’t. His mind was already reeling, his pulse racing. "Where are you?" he demanded, ignoring the scolding. His breath was shallow, anxiety building in his chest. The beeping, the voices in the background—it all felt wrong.

“Nowhere important. I’m just sick.” Another sigh, deeper this time. “Please, let the nurse stitch your face up. It’d be a shame for something so pretty to be ruined.”

Quinn’s mind ground to a halt at your words. Pretty. The heat of it bloomed in his chest, and for a second, he almost forgot about everything else. But then, the beeping, the murmur of voices—it all came crashing back. His heart pounded in his ears.

"This isn’t funny anymore, where are you?" he snapped into the phone, his voice thick with desperation. "I’ll let the nurse look at my face if you tell me where you are, please, just tell me."

Another sigh from the other end, longer this time. "Put Elias on the phone. I know he's there."

Quinn frowned, but there was no room for argument. He handed over the phone, watching Elias’s expression shift from confusion to something darker, more serious. Quinn’s stomach churned as Elias nodded at something you said, his eyes never leaving Quinn as he ended the call.

“Well?” Quinn demanded, his voice tight with frustration.

Elias didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he handed the phone back, face unreadable. “Nurse first. Then I’ll tell you where she is.”

Quinn’s heart sank. The weight of those words hit him like a boulder, and he didn’t need Elias to say more. He knew what it meant. He knew what this was.

You really were sick.

And not just 'a little cold' sick.

His palms were clammy, and his breath was shallow as he walked back to the med bay, each step heavier than the last. The locum nurse glanced up at him when he entered, her expression still vaguely annoyed. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about her or her efficiency. His jaw was tight as he dropped onto the bench.

“So, you changed your mind?” the nurse mused, but Quinn didn’t respond. He didn’t resist when she tilted his face, cleaning the wound with gentle pressure, though every part of him was screaming for you. His phone felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket, but he didn’t check it. Not yet.

The nurse worked quickly, efficiently, but it wasn’t you. It wasn’t the way you always made him feel like he mattered. The silence between them was oppressive, and all he could think about was what Elias hadn’t told him. His mind raced, cycling through all the worst possibilities as the nurse finished stitching him up. When she was done, she stepped back, a satisfied little hum escaping her lips. “There,” she said, her voice flat. “All set. Try not to pick at it.”

"Thank you," he muttered, the words coming out with little more than a breathless rasp. He could barely bring himself to meet the nurse’s eyes, his mind already elsewhere. Without waiting for any sort of response, he shoved himself to his feet. His legs felt shaky, like they might give way under the weight of it all, but he forced himself to move. He didn’t have time to dwell on anything else.

He pushed past the nurse and stepped into the hallway, the stark fluorescent lights buzzing above him. Elias was waiting there, arms crossed, leaning against the wall with his usual half-amused expression.

He didn’t care. He didn’t care about Elias’s curiosity or the way his teammate was watching him, measuring him. The only thing that mattered in that moment was getting to you, making sure you were okay. Quinn’s breath came faster as he fumbled for his keys, the cold metal jarring against his clammy fingers. His mind was already spinning ahead, imagining you lying in some sterile hospital room, your face pale, the machines beeping in the background. His pulse raced at the thought, his chest tightening as if it were collapsing in on itself.

“She’s in the hospital,” Elias confirms, his voice slow, deliberate. There was a heaviness in his words that Quinn didn’t like. A hesitation. He wasn’t sure what that hesitation meant, but it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Elias was looking at him differently now, almost studying him. “She said it was minor and not to worry too much. I’ll text you the ward and room number.”

Quinn’s body froze, the air around him growing colder by the second. His stomach dropped, a nauseous swirl of panic twisting in his gut. Minor? He had heard you—the faint sound of beeping, voices in the background. That wasn’t minor.

Being in the hospital wasn't minor.

His mind reeled. Why hadn’t you told him?

"What are you looking at?" he snapped, his voice harsher than he meant, the frustration slipping through the cracks in his composure. He looked at Elias sharply, the unease in his chest pushing him to lash out, to try and steady himself in the only way he knew how—by focusing on something else, anything else.

Elias didn't immediately respond, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if weighing the tension in the air. For a moment, Quinn thought his friend might just leave him to stew in his own panic, but then Elias’s lips parted, and the question came out, soft but piercing.

“Nothing. It’s just... you really like her, don’t you?” Quinn blinked, the question catching him off guard. He wasn’t prepared for it, not now, not when every nerve in his body was on fire. He shot Elias a sharp look, his thoughts racing in a hundred different directions.

“Why are you acting like it’s a secret?” Quinn muttered, his voice rough and laced with something he refused to examine. The words were automatic, a shield he threw up to protect himself from the truth—truths that had always been simmering beneath the surface but that he had never dared to confront. His fingers gripped his phone tighter, the details of your hospital room now lighting up the screen. His thumb flew over the screen to read the message, but it was almost as if he couldn’t process the information fast enough.

“Of course I like her,” he said quietly, almost too quietly, like the words weren’t meant for anyone else’s ears but his own. It wasn’t like him to admit something so simple. It wasn’t like him to let it slip out so easily. His voice softened, and for the first time, there was something vulnerable in it—something raw that Quinn had never shown anyone. "What’s not to like?"

The words felt heavy in his chest, but they weren’t the words that mattered. It wasn’t about whether you were likeable—it was about the fear twisting inside him, the knot in his stomach, and the thought of losing you that made everything else seem insignificant.

Without another word, he shoved his phone in his pocket and turned to leave, his footsteps heavy with purpose. Elias didn’t say anything else, but Quinn could feel his teammate’s eyes on him, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

As he rushed past Elias, he slapped him on the shoulder, the touch brief but somehow grounding. He didn’t have time to think about what just happened, about the way Elias was looking at him, or about the question that had been hanging in the air between them. Everything else could wait.

He had to get to you.

Quinn's heart hammered as he sprinted through the corridors, each step bringing him closer to you and the gnawing fear he couldn’t shake. The sterile smell of the hospital mingled with the sense of panic that clawed at his chest, making it harder to breathe with every passing second. He barely registered the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the murmurs of staff going about their work—everything was drowned out by the steady pounding in his ears.

He reached the ward. The cold, harsh lights of the hallway illuminated the pale green walls, the faint scent of antiseptic hanging in the air. His legs felt heavy, almost like they weren’t his own, as he approached the nurse’s station. “Hi, I’m looking for room 34?” Quinn says softly the nurse sending him a soft smile, before pointing to the left the closed door with a large ’34’ printed besides it.

“Hey, when you go in there can you tell her that she owes me a rematch for the card game we played last time she was here.” The nurse chuckles a little as she talks, Quinn just nodding as his words sink deep into the pit of his stomach.

Last time she was here?

Quinn knocks on the heavy wooden door, hearing a small hum before he pushes it open - the sight of you alert and perched in your bed, your laptop sitting on the over bed table, a very bright coloured movie playing on the screen. You send him a guilty smile as you slide your headphones off your head, patting the empty space on the bed in front of you.

Quinn can’t help the way he tracks the IV in the top of your hand, or the way your oversized shirt seems to hang a little looser than it’s supposed to. His stomach turned as he stepped into the room, his mind already overrun with a thousand questions.

What was going on? Why hadn’t you told him anything? He didn’t even know what to say—how could he? He had walked in expecting to find you in some sterile, lifeless hospital room, but this? This was worse. The brightness of the screen, the comfortable setting, the familiar feeling you seemed to have sitting in a hospital bed.

You smiled at him, but it was a soft, apologetic thing—nothing like the usual spark in your eyes. Something about it made his heart ache. He forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. He had to get it together.

“You look like hell,” you said lightly, though there was a weariness in your voice that he couldn’t ignore. Quinn’s hand tightened on the doorframe. The faint beeping of a monitor near your bed added to the tension in the air, a constant reminder that whatever was going on, it wasn’t just a common cold.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

You were young, healthy. The flu wasn’t meant to land someone in hospital.

“You said it was just the flu?” Quinn asked, his voice low, not quite angry, but far too thick with concern to mask. He took a step closer, but still, the distance between you seemed too far, like some invisible wall had risen between you. You shrugged, but it wasn’t the usual carefree gesture.

“It was just the flu.” You start, hesitant to continue, “Quinn, I have rheumatoid arthritis and because of that I have to take immune suppressants to manage it.” You explain slowly, patting the end of the bed again as you watch him step further into the room slowly making his way to the side of your bed. “Sometimes when I get the flu or any kind of sickness really my body is so busy fighting itself that it doesn’t focus of the other things.” Quinn sinks slowly onto the mattress, his hands balled tightly in front of him as he listens carefully.

“The nurse said you’ve been here before?” You just hum in response, scooting a little further forwards until your knee brushes his.

“I’m at higher risk of complications with standard illnesses cause of my condition so I’ve been here a few times for pneumonia — usually I just need some antibiotics and I’ll be okay, but I guess I was a little extra run down this time.” You let out a nervous laugh as you continue to explain.

“You could’ve told me.” Quinn sighs, still not sure what to do, his eyes tracing over the wires hooked up to your body, the IV line protruding from your hand.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” you said, but the words didn’t hold their usual strength. Instead, they sounded almost too tired to even believe. Quinn bit the inside of his cheek, his pulse rising again.

“Worry me?” he repeated, almost incredulously. His chest tightened with frustration, with a deep, gnawing fear that made him feel like he was losing control.

“You thought just not saying anything and disappearing off the face of the earth wouldn’t worry me?” His voice was sharper now, a reflection of the panic he hadn’t realised he’d been holding back. “I thought— it doesn’t matter what I thought.” Quinn swallows down the growing lump in his throat. His protective side is roaring, demanding answers, but there’s a deeper, quieter feeling that tugs at him: the fear that, despite all the times you’ve taken care of him - even when he was making it up — you’ve been hiding something.

His inability to fix this situation, to make it better for you, eats at him. He wants to ease your pain, wants to do something, but he doesn’t know how. And that, more than anything, terrifies him. The panic, the guilt, the sense of losing control—all of it spirals within him, and he’s caught between the urge to shield you and the sharp sting of realising you’ve been suffering alone.

“Quinn?” You call softly, your hand reaching for his as you lace your fingers together pulling it into your lap as you drag his attention away from his own spiralling thoughts and back to you. “I’m going to be okay — they said I might be discharged tonight or early tomorrow.” Quinn closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep, steadying breath. It was hard to breathe around the weight of everything, the knot in his stomach tightening more with every passing second. You weren’t supposed to carry this burden alone. He wasn’t supposed to let you.

“You don’t have to worry.” Your whispered words pull frustration from him as he lets out a long groan.

“What if I want to worry? Did you ever think of that?” You fell silent, staring at him with a mixture of surprise and something softer, almost vulnerable. Quinn swallowed hard, his hands trembling slightly as his fingers flex in yours. He never realised how much he took your presence for granted until this moment.

Quinn exhaled shakily, his free hand scrubbing over his face as he tried to find the right words. "I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to just—watch you go through this and act like it’s fine. Like it’s normal. Because it’s not."

Your fingers squeezed his, grounding him, but it wasn’t enough. His pulse was still hammering against his ribs, the adrenaline of running through the hospital halls not yet fading. He had nearly lost his mind wondering why you were here, and now you were sitting here, pale and exhausted, brushing it off like it was just another part of life.

But it wasn’t just another part of his life—because his life didn’t work without you in it, something he'd only just come to realise.

Somehow, someone who everyone thought was just the new nurse - his nurse - has managed to squeeze her way into his heart and he had welcomed it with open arms.

You hesitated, staring at your joined hands before finally meeting his gaze. "I didn’t mean to keep it from you. I just... didn’t know how to bring it up. I hate feeling like some fragile thing people need to tiptoe around. It’s not a secret, it’s just—"

"It’s just something you’ve been pushing through without a single person there to help," Quinn cut in, his voice softer now, but no less serious.

"And that’s what kills me. You think I wouldn’t want to know? You think I wouldn’t want to be there? You’re—I want to be there, to take care of you when you're sick or to be someone you can tell these things too. " The room fell into a heavy silence, only broken by the quiet hum of the machines monitoring your vitals. Quinn let out a humourless laugh, shaking his head as he raked a hand through his hair. "Do you have any idea how scared I was?" His voice cracked slightly at the end, and it was enough to make your breath hitch.

You had seen Quinn angry. You had seen him frustrated, annoyed, even exhausted—but this? This was something different. This was raw, unfiltered fear, bleeding into every word, every movement, every breath.

"I just... I never wanted you to feel like you had to worry about me like that," you admitted quietly. "I can handle it, Quinn. I’ve been handling it since I was eighteen."

"You shouldn’t have to handle it alone!" His voice rose, but not in anger—just in sheer, unrestrained emotion. "You keep saying you’re okay, but I don’t want okay. I don’t want to just be the guy who sees you on your good days, who only gets half of you because you’re too damn stubborn to let me in when it really matters. I want to be there for all of it. The bad days. The hard ones. The nights you can’t sleep and the mornings where everything hurts. I want to be the person you call before you end up in a hospital bed, not after." You blinked, your fingers tightening around his as your lips parted slightly, like you wanted to say something—but nothing came out. Quinn exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging as he leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours.

"You scare the hell out of me," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. "Not because of this—not because of your condition, or the hospital, or any of that. You scare me because I don't want to not have you around. Because I care about you so damn much that it physically hurts to think about my life where you’re not apart of it. And I hate that I didn’t know. I hate that I wasn’t there. And I hate that you thought, even for a second, that I wouldn’t want to be." Tears pricked at your eyes, the sheer depth of his words settling into your chest like a weight too heavy to ignore.

You had always known Quinn cared—hell he made it blatantly obvious the second he walked into your office complaining of an itchy arm.

But this?

This was different.

This was more.

Your throat tightened as you shifted, your free hand reaching up to cup his cheek. "I’m sorry," you whispered, your voice thick. "I didn’t mean to scare you or shut you out. I just... I didn’t want to be a burden."

Quinn let out a choked laugh, his eyes shining with something you weren’t sure you had ever seen before. "You could never be a burden. Not to me. Never to me." The weight of the moment hung between you, the truth of it wrapping around you both in a way that felt unshakable, undeniable. His hand squeezed yours, grounding you just as much as you had grounded him. And in that moment, there was nothing left to hide—just the quiet, unspoken understanding that whatever came next, you wouldn’t be facing it alone. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers still curled tightly around his. The weight of his words, the sheer rawness of his emotions, settled deep in your chest, tangling with the guilt and fear you hadn’t even realised you were carrying.

“I don’t know how to do this either,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Letting people in, leaning on someone like this… it’s always just been me.”

Quinn’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his gaze unwavering. “Well, it’s not just you anymore.” His grip on your hand tightened, firm, steady—like an anchor. “You’re stuck with me now. I called dibs.” A small, breathless laugh escaped you. His lips quirked at the sound.

“I did hear about something like that.” You can’t help the smile that lights up your face, Quinn’s look mirroring yours as he lifts your hand to his lips pressing a small kiss against your knuckles.

“I knew what I wanted.” Quinn offers with a small shrug, you raised a brow at him, amusement flickering through the lingering emotion in your eyes. “Oh and apparently the nurse out there said you owe her a rematch.”

#nhl #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #nhl x reader #quinn hughes #quinn hughes smut #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes fanfic #chronic illness rep

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solelifauna · 3 months ago

Text

With Bared Teeth & Prayers (Yandere Batfam X Neglected Reader) (Dark!!! Werewolf AU) (PT. 2)

Hi guys, I’m alive. I’ve just been sick and then found out that my dog’s cancer spread and the surgery costs $3,000 which is insane. Anyways, I’ve been working irl so I completely forgot about this account. Sorry pookies🤕��.

If anyone wants to know I’m still taking commissions, and if my price doesn’t work for you I’m sure I can lower it!! Honestly, I’ll write for whatever price I’m lowkey desperate.😭🙏

The next morning, you wake up in panic, shit, you slept in. You rush out the manor forgoing breakfast, almost eating shit on the sidewalk in your rush. You hop onto your bike, pedaling as if death itself was chasing you, huffing and puffing. Thankfully you make it to school on time, if only just on time.

You fall into your seat just as the bell rings, letting the top half of your body crumple over the desk.

“Looks like somebody had a rough morning.” The familiar voice of one of your best friends.

“Fuck off Quinn.” You huff out tiredly.

“Fine, then I guess this extra black coffee I got at Gloria’s is going to waste then.” She said teasingly.

How is it that she always has impeccable intuition about these things?

You groaned sitting up, giving Quinn a tired look.

“Yikes, I was gonna make another smartass joke but you look like you’re about to keel over.” She said worriedly, handing over the extra coffee.

“Ha ha, yeah I feel like I'm about to keel over. Thanks for the coffee by the way.” You said dryly.

“Don’t sweat it girl, but–uh, what the hell happened.”

“Too much dude, too much. It's so much bullshit I don't even know where to start.”

“Im guessing its about–”

“Ding, ding, ding, you got it.”

“Shit…how bad? They’re not gonna… you know…” Quinn stutters off.

“Kill me? Eat me?”

She nodded.

You massage your forehead, a headache forming between your eyebrows. “I'll be so for real right now, I don't even know.”

“Damn, I don't even know what to say to that.” Quinn grimaces.

“It’d be weird if you did.” You joked giving her a sardonic smile.“Well if they’re gonna kill me, I hope they do it before finals.”

“You’ve got issues (Y/n).”

“I’m aware.”

Just then the chatter in the class started to pipe down as your history teacher, Mr. Lechliter, made his way into the room. However, something wasn’t right; his usually neat hair was in disarray and you could smell that he was profusely sweating. He was nervous, which was completely out of character. Sure Mr. Lechliter was awkward at times but he was normally confident and loud around the class, something was going on.

“Good morning, class,” Mr. Lechliter began, but his voice was shaky, not at all the usual booming tone he used to command the room. “I-uh, hope you’re all ready to jump into… um, well, history.” He swallowed hard, glancing around as if searching for something—or someone—outside the door.

You look at Quinn with a raised eyebrow. What the hell is happening right now?

“We, um, actually have two guests who’ll be auditing a couple of classes today so we all want you guys on your best behavior. For our sakes and yours.” He said fidgeting with his paperweight globe, however, it was what he whispered under his breath that had you worried. What the fuck did he mean by that?!

“These guest speakers are one of the school's top sponsors so I truly cannot express the need we have for you all to behave and be on task, understand?” Mr. Lechliter spoke gravely.

The class let out a scattered “Yes” whilst others nodded. Now it was the class's turn to start getting nervous, the energy in the room now becoming quite grim. Seeing the class’s cooperation, Mr. Lechliter let out a shaky smile and nodded back at the class in approval. You sipped your coffee nervously in tandem.

“Good. Now, without further adieu, please welcome the esteemed Bruce Wayne and his son, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne.”

And in walked your worst nightmare as you choked on your coffee. A hesitant applause began as a couple of heads turned your way, including the scrutinizing eyes of Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake.

“Jesus Christ (Y/n), are you good?” Quinn whispered, patting your back.

“Does it look like I'm good, Quinn?” You whisper-yell back.

“Sorry, dumb question.”

“I legitimately can't do this right now.” You groan out quietly.

Tim’s sharp, calculating gaze landed on you, and for a split second, his lips twitched upward in what looked disturbingly close to satisfaction. Bruce, however, kept his gaze steady, stoic, making his way to the front of the class like he owned every square inch of the room—and maybe, in a way, he did.

Bruce stepped forward, greeting Mr. Lechliter with a firm handshake before addressing the class. “Good morning,” he said, his voice carrying a smooth authority. “It’s always a pleasure to see the next generation of Gotham’s finest minds, and today, we’re here to discuss some unique opportunities with Wayne Enterprises—partnerships, scholarships, and mentorship programs that may be of interest to you in your future studies.”

Meanwhile, Tim’s gaze remained fixed on you, a silent warning lingering behind his polite smile. You swallowed hard, avoiding eye contact, hoping that blending in might somehow make you invisible. But Tim had no intention of letting you off the hook. He leaned slightly closer to Bruce, murmuring something that made Bruce’s eyes flicker in your direction, his expression unreadable.

Quinn leaned over, her voice barely a whisper. “(Y/n), what the hell is going on? They keep looking at you.”

“Trust me, I wish I knew,” you muttered back, managing to take a sip of coffee without choking this time. “They’re just here to make my life a living nightmare, apparently.”

As Bruce and Tim began their presentation, outlining all the “wonderful opportunities” that a connection to Wayne Enterprises could bring, you couldn’t help but feel trapped. Every line, every subtle glance, seemed like a reminder that escape from their influence was impossible. They were inescapable, even here, in the one place you thought you could breathe.

When they finally wrapped up their presentation, Bruce offered to answer questions, his gaze settling on you for the briefest moment, as if daring you to speak up. You just nervously looked away, its fine, they’ve said their piece and will be leaving soon.

But of course life doesn't ever go the way that you want.

The relief that had started to settle in evaporated as Bruce and Tim made no move to leave. Instead, they took seats at the back of the classroom, settling in with that same poised, assessing presence that dominated every room they entered. Bruce folded his hands in his lap, his gaze steady and inscrutable, while Tim casually crossed his arms, his eyes tracking every student’s reaction, but always coming back to you.

You swallowed hard, glancing at Quinn, who was now just as unsettled as you were. “Are they… staying?” she whispered, her brows knitting together in worry.

“Looks like it,” you muttered, barely moving your lips.

Mr. Lechliter, visibly tense under the weight of their scrutiny, resumed his lesson with all the grace of a man on the edge of a breakdown. Every time he stumbled over his words or glanced nervously at Bruce, the room felt as if it held its breath.

“This, um, particular era in history…” Mr. Lechliter began, stammering slightly as he struggled to keep his usual confident tone. “It’s a time when alliances shifted often, and there was…constant jockeying for power…”

Bruce and Tim watched, expressions neutral, but you knew better than to believe their act. They weren’t here for any genuine interest in educational standards; they were here as a reminder, a warning that the Wayne influence extended beyond the manor walls.

You focused on your notebook, pen tapping anxiously against the paper as you tried to tune them out and take frantic notes. But it was impossible to ignore the cold prickle at the back of your neck. Every glance felt like a needle, each second stretching longer than the last.

Mr. Lechliter’s lecture painstakingly continued on for another thirty minutes before class started coming to an end.

The bell finally rang as you shot up out of your seat and practically sprinted out the door. You head to your locker, feeling the many starters of students and teachers bore into you. Another thing was that everyone kinda knew that the Wayne’s didn't like you, it was very obvious. Which meant the media had a field day, letting the entirety of Gotham know how much the famous pack hated you. So now your business was also aired out to the entire world to know. Wonderful, am I right?

You shove your unneeded books into your (tbh, very cutely) decorated locker, while grabbing the science textbook you needed for your next class, AP Biology. This class was the absolute bane of your existence. Not only was the content hard, the teacher was also absolutely nuts. You walk over to your Bio class, clutching your books like a lifeline. “Please, dont be here too.” You pray to yourself. Thankfully, this class was normal, well, as normal as it could get. The other two classes you have before lunch ended the same way, Wayneless.

As your fourth class comes to an end your stomach starts to growl. You’d be embarrassed, but everyone else in your class was in a similar starved state. When the lunch bell goes off, you’re excitedly grabbing your things and making your way down. Fucking finally it was lunchtime. You made your way to the quickly growing lunchline

Your friends were already sitting at your usual table as you made your way over and slammed your lunch tray on the table.

“Im gonna kill myself.”

“I can't even say anything about that.” One of your other friends Daniel says.

You groaned holding your head in your hands, your headache becoming more prevalent as you turn to look at him.

“Man all I did was ask to leave, and now this shit? I can't even right now.”

“You finally asked to leave, huh? I'm guessing it didn't go well.” Daniel asks.

“Nope, but when does anything ever go right in my life.”

Just as you finish talking, the noisy cafeteria falls abruptly silent. The usual clatter of trays and chatter of students fades, replaced by an almost eerie quiet. You and your friends exchange confused glances before turning to see what—or who—could possibly have silenced a room full of teenagers. But in the pit of your stomach, you already have an idea.

Sure enough, walking through the entrance are Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake-Wayne, looking completely out of place in their immaculate suits and composed expressions. Their powerful, calculating gazes sweep across the crowd, searching for someone, before both of their eyes zero in on you and your table. Instinctively, you tense up, your shoulders hunching as if to make yourself smaller, and you feel the flush of embarrassment heat your cheeks under their scrutiny.

Their focused stares make you flinch, and you quickly look away, facing your friends once more. “See what I mean?” you mutter under your breath, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s like the universe is out to get me.”

Daniel raises an eyebrow, glancing between you and the Waynes, a flicker of worry passing over his face. "What are they doing here? This isn’t normal, right?”

“No, it’s definitely not,” you reply, trying to keep your tone casual even as your heart races. “They’re here to make a point.”

You further slump into the table, arms cradling your head as the cafeteria slowly starts to go back to its normal noise level. Both Tim and Bruce take a seat at a table opposite to where you’re sitting, which gives them a perfect view of your table. Great.

“Guys talk to me. Anything–talk about anything please.” You beg quietly.

Quinn leans in, glancing nervously at the Waynes across the cafeteria. “Uh, did you hear about Chief Keef performing soon? Apparently, he’ll be in Gotham.”

Daniel nods, catching on to your plea for distraction. “Yeah, yeah, I heard he's gonna bring another artist on stage. Mauve Travis or something if we’re lucky?.”

You smile weakly, grateful for the distraction, even if your heart’s still pounding. You try to focus on what they’re saying, but you can feel Tim’s gaze on you like a laser, scrutinizing, watching every movement. You pretend not to notice, grabbing a fry from your tray and nodding along to whatever Daniel and Quinn are saying, forcing yourself to join in with a half-hearted laugh here and there.

Quinn suddenly brings up a story from her last weekend, trying her best to lighten the mood. “Okay, get this—I tried to impress this guy by pretending to know how to skate, but instead, I ended up flat on my face in front of, like, everyone. Mortifying, but he did buy me a smoothie as a consolation prize.”

You chuckle, letting the story pull you out of your anxious thoughts. “I mean, sounds like it kind of worked. You got a free smoothie, right?”

Quinn laughs, rolling her eyes. “Only because he felt bad, but hey, I’ll take pity smoothies.”

The laughter at your table grows, the lighthearted moment almost making you forget the ominous presence of Bruce and Tim nearby. But just as you’re starting to relax, you catch a glimpse of Tim’s amused smirk from the corner of your eye. His eyes don’t leave you, as if he knows exactly how unsettling his presence is and he’s reveling in it.

“I think he liked you,” Daniel teases Quinn, keeping the conversation going to help ease your nerves.

“Liked my bruised ego, maybe,” she snorts. “Anyway, what about you, (Y/n)? Got any secret admirers?”

You shake your head, grateful they’re keeping the focus off your current predicament. “Nope, unless you count the cadaver frog I accidentally dropped on my lab partner. He, uh-didn’t look at me the same after that.”

Your friends burst out laughing, and for a brief, blessed moment, you almost feel normal again. But when you glance back, Bruce’s eyes are still on you, cool and unyielding.

“Here’s to hoping they’re gone after lunch,” Daniel mutters, catching your uneasy glance.

“What good has hoping ever done me?” You sigh, picking at your food.

The tension in the cafeteria never fully fades. Despite the attempts from Quinn and Daniel to keep the conversation going, the presence of Bruce and Tim just continues to overwhelm you. Every so often, your eyes flit toward them, only to find them still seated, still watching, and their expressions betraying nothing of their true intent. It feels like they’re waiting for you to make a move, to react in some way that would justify their unsettling attention.

Lunch drags on in this uncomfortable limbo until, at last, the bell rings, signaling the end of the break. Your friends gather their things, offering small words of encouragement or supportive smiles, though they too look wary of the Waynes’ lingering presence.

“I’ll see you both in Chem. Hopefully Mr. Domzalski isn't still in a bad mood from what happened yesterday.” You say.

“You mean from when you and Daniel set fire to one of his textbooks?” Quinn questions sardonically.

You and Daniel offer her a sheepish, guilty smile.

“Hey–it was an accident!” he exclaims, feigning offense.

“Yeah, what he said! We followed all the instructions to a T!” You defend as well.

“Sure, whatever you both say. I'm just surprised he didn't automatically fail you two.” Quinn says fondly.

“It’s ‘cause we’re somehow his favorites? Don't ask me how or why though.” You respond.

As you and Daniel chuckle, the lightheartedness helps lift some of the weight that had been hanging over your head. The relief is short-lived, though, as you feel a prickle on the back of your neck—a feeling that’s become all too familiar lately.

You glance back to see Bruce and Tim still watching, and for a moment, something in Bruce’s gaze changes. You can’t quite read it, but it feels sharper, like he’s calculating, considering something he hasn’t said. You swallow, gripping your bag tighter as your friends move to head toward class, unaware of the silent tension hanging around you like a cloud.

You head to your APA Algebra II class alone, without the usual buffer of Daniel or Quinn’s lighthearted banter to ease the tension. The classroom is quiet, a different atmosphere from the lively lunch period, and you’re able to slip into your seat undisturbed, hoping that the math problems ahead will give you a welcome distraction.

As the class moves on, you find yourself lost in equations, the numbers and formulas acting as a temporary refuge from everything else. You keep your head down, concentrating on the work, grateful for the momentary peace that academics bring.

When the bell rings, signaling the end of Math, you gather your things and head to APA Chemistry, where you’d finally reunite with Daniel and Quinn. When you arrive in APA Chemistry, the atmosphere is surprisingly relaxed. Mr. Domzalski hasn’t arrived yet, so everyone’s just hanging out, chatting about weekend plans, or joking around. You plop down next to Daniel, who’s already doodling on his notebook, and give Quinn a tired smile. It’s nice to have a few minutes to unwind before the usual controlled chaos of Mr. Domzalski’s class kicks in.

Then, the door swings open, and you freeze as Mr. Domzalski steps in with Tim Drake following close behind. Your stomach twists, and you have to swallow down a groan. Thankfully, Bruce is nowhere to be seen. Small blessings, you suppose; better not to question it too much. You look at your friends, trying to convey your annoyance with a single tired look as Mr. Domzalski beams with a sort of overdone excitement that sets you on edge.

“Everyone, I’d like you to welcome a special guest,” he says, practically brimming with enthusiasm. “Tim Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, is here to observe our class today.”

You sink lower in your chair, stifling a grumble. Great, just great. This whole thing was growing stale fast. You try to ignore the interested murmurs spreading through the class as everyone stares at Tim, who stands there with that same polite, professional smile he’s been flashing all day. You avoid eye contact, focusing instead on the edge of your desk as Mr. Domzalski continues.

“Now,” Mr. Domzalski goes on, shifting his focus to the lab materials, “before we dive into today’s lesson, let’s review what went wrong in yesterday’s lab.”

He shoots a pointed look in your direction, his smile still in place, but there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he’s not exactly thrilled. “For those who might need a reminder,” he continues, not-so-subtly side-eyeing you and Daniel, “improper handling of materials led to one of my textbooks, which I cherish dearly, being set on fire.”

The class erupts into quiet snickers, and Daniel coughs into his hand, trying to disguise his laughter. You roll your eyes, but a smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. Even Tim’s eyes change a bit, as if interested.

Mr. Domzalski clears his throat, regaining the class’s attention. “Let’s aim for a little more caution today, shall we?”

The lab for the day was going to be more complex than usual. Mr. Domzalski, with a edge of nervousness in his tone, began rattling off the new, more complicated instructions. His gaze flicked to you and Daniel more than once, lingering just long enough to make his message clear: Please don’t mess up.

You slouched slightly in your seat, already feeling the weight of the unspoken pressure. It wasn’t lost on you how much was riding on this lab going smoothly—not just for your grade, but for Mr. Domzalski himself. With Tim Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises and a member of one of Gotham’s most powerful packs, observing, any mishap could very well put your teacher’s job on the line.

Next to you, Daniel caught your eye, his lips twitching into a wry smirk. He leaned in, whispering, “Feel like we’re walking on eggshells today, huh?”

“More like a minefield,” you muttered back, eyeing the lab equipment warily. The setup looked far more intricate than usual—beakers and flasks stacked alongside pipettes, Bunsen burners, and an array of unfamiliar chemicals. It was a recipe for disaster, and you had no intention of being the one to set it off.

Tim, seated at the back of the room, watched the proceedings with his usual cool detachment. His presence was like a weight pressing down on the room, amplifying every minor sound and movement. You could practically feel his gaze on you, even when you weren’t looking his way.

“Alright, everyone,” Mr. Domzalski said, clapping his hands to gather the class’s attention. “Remember to follow the instructions precisely as they’re written. This is a delicate experiment, and precision is key. Any deviation could—well, let’s just say we don’t want any surprises today.”

The pointed glance he sent your way at the word “surprises” made you cringe internally. You shot Daniel a look. He seemed to get the message, giving you a small nod before turning his focus to the materials in front of him.

With a deep breath, you adjusted your goggles and got to work, determined not to give anyone—especially Tim—a reason to criticize.

The lab was rough from the very start. No matter how tightly you adjusted your goggles, they kept fogging up, obscuring your vision at the worst possible moments. You constantly had to pause to wipe them off, and each time, you felt Tim's Gaze flicker towards you. Daniel, meanwhile, was no better. He almost tipped over a vial of some unpronounceable chemical twice, and each time, you barely managed to steady it before disaster struck.

“Bro you have to lock in.” you said under your breath.

“I'm trying–fuck. My hands are too shaky.” Daniel whispered back, nervous as he tried held out his hands for you to see. He carefully set the vial down, only for his elbow to nudge another piece of equipment. You caught it just in time, your heart leaping into your throat.

The instructions seemed to come at lightning speed, Mr. Domzalski rattling off steps faster than you could write them down. Each new instruction layered on top of the last until your head was spinning with measurements, temperatures, and reaction times. You were doing your best to keep up—you think you were doing it right—but the constant noise and movement around you made it feel like everything was closing in.

You glanced at the flask on your workstation, bubbling faintly as it was supposed to, and double-checked the temperature. It seemed fine. Probably fine. Hopefully fine. But the nagging thought that you might’ve missed a step wouldn’t go away.

Behind you, Tim’s silent observation was like a shadow, adding another layer of stress to the already chaotic atmosphere. Every time you caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye, you swore his expression was unreadable, yet somehow judgmental.

“I think this is right,” you muttered, glancing at the next step in the instructions and adjusting your setup.

“‘Think’ isn’t reassuring, (Y/n),” Daniel replied, he was nervous. “Don’t blow us up, okay?”

“Not funny,” you snapped, though your lips twitched in a half-smile despite the stress. “Just keep stirring before we mess up the timing.”

The rest of the lab dragged on in a haze of nervous energy and frantic adjustments. Your hands trembled slightly as you measured out the final chemical, careful not to let even a drop spill. When you finally completed the experiment, the mixture in the beaker turned the correct pale blue color, and you let out a shaky breath of relief.

“See?” Daniel said, flashing you a grin. “We nailed it.”

You gave him a tired look. “Barely.”

As Mr. Domzalski approached to check your work, you held your breath, praying there wasn’t some detail you’d overlooked. When he gave a curt nod of approval, you finally relaxed, though your nerves still felt frayed. Even then, you could feel Tim’s eyes on you, as if silently appraising every moment of your struggle.

The lab was over, but the stress lingered like a heavy weight on your shoulders. You packed up your materials with shaky hands, grateful to escape the pressure of both the experiment and the unrelenting scrutiny.

As the class wrapped up, Mr. Domzalski passed by your station, his sharp eyes flicking over the completed experiment. The pale blue liquid in the beaker must have been just right because, instead of his usual critical remarks, he gave a subtle nod and a quiet, “Good work.” The words weren’t overly enthusiastic, but coming from him—and especially with Tim Drake watching—it was as close to praise as you could get.

You felt a weight lift off your shoulders, and you let out a long sigh of relief. You and Daniel exchanged a look, his triumphant grin mirrored by the faintest smile you allowed yourself. You’d passed. Somehow, despite the foggy goggles, Daniel’s near-disasters, and the relentless pressure, you’d made it through the lab unscathed.

As you finished cleaning up, Mr. Domzalski gave you a brief, silent glance of thanks. It wasn’t much, but you knew what it meant: he was grateful you hadn’t turned today’s experiment into another headline-worthy incident. You nodded subtly back, grateful that the ordeal was over.

With the last of your equipment put away, you grabbed your bag and escaped the lab as quickly as possible, the weight of Tim’s lingering gaze finally lifting as you stepped into the hallway. Quinn was waiting by the door, chatting with Daniel, who was still buzzing with post-lab adrenaline.

“Well, looks like you didn’t burn down the school,” Quinn teased, grinning as she fell into step with you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, rolling your eyes but smiling despite yourself. “We’re still alive, so I guess that’s a win.”

“Hey give us more credit.” Daniel chimed in, earning a laugh from both you and Quinn.

As the three of you headed for the stairs, you said goodbye to Daniel, who was heading to a different class. “See you later, guys.” he said, waving as he turned down another hallway.

You and Quinn made your way toward the gym for your seventh period, the final class of the day. The familiar chatter and clang of lockers greeted you as you stepped into the changing area. Gym wasn’t exactly your favorite class, but after the stress of the lab, it was almost a relief to have something physical to focus on instead of the constant mental strain.

“Think they’ll leave you alone for the day?” Quinn asked as you pulled on your gym shoes.

“I hope so,” you replied, your voice weary. “I can’t handle any more of this. It’s like they can’t even wait to-to…you know.”

Quinn grimaces. “Yeah, I know.” But she smiles back at you, as if tying to make you perk up. “Well, at least we’re doing dodgeball today, you should blow off some steam.”

You huff, amused. “Mm, maybe nailing Farah in the head with a dodgeball would do me some good.”

“Straight on bitch, that girl needs to be humbled.” Quinn says.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “At this point, I’ll take any excuse to hit something.”

The two of you stepped into the gym, the sound of sneakers squeaking on polished floors and the buzz of students warming up filling the air. It wasn’t the easiest day, but at least the end was finally in sight.

The day finally winds down as you head to the locker rooms to change. The smell of sweat and disinfectant fills the air as you and the other students shuffle to your lockers, exchanging the occasional half-hearted quip about how much of a drill sergeant Coach Walker was today. You change quickly, eager to escape the lingering humidity of the gym, and sling your bag over your shoulder just as the dismissal bell rings.

Joining the tide of students heading toward the front exit, you fall into step with Quinn, chatting idly about homework and plans for the weekend. The sprawling line of cars in the pick-up area is already forming, parents eager to whisk their kids away from the chaos of the school day.

Daniel spots you both as he weaves through the crowd toward his mom’s car, parked conveniently near the front of the line. “Guess that’s my ride,” he calls, swatting your shoulder playfully. “Try not to miss me too much tomorrow, I've got a doc's appointment.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, yeah, you wish asshole.”

“Later!” he shouts, hopping into the passenger seat of his mom’s car as it pulls away. You and Quinn wave after him before continuing toward the pick-up zone.

“Alfred here today?” Quinn asks, glancing around at the cars idling nearby.

“Probably not,” you reply with a shrug. “Haven’t heard from him, so it’s probably just me and the bike today.”

Quinn nods, her attention already shifting to a car pulling up in the distance. “Looks like my dad’s almost here.”

You glance toward the pickup area and spot the familiar vehicle inching closer. “Cool. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yep. Don’t get mugged on the way home,” she jokes, smirking as she adjusts her backpack.

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence,” you reply with a laugh. With a quick goodbye, you head toward the bike rack to unlock your trusty two-wheeler.

The quietness of the parking lot is a stark contrast to the noisy chaos of the day. You crouch down, fiddling with the combination lock on your bike, when a hulking shadow falls over you. The sudden shift in light is enough to make your instincts bristle, but you stay focused on the lock, rolling your eyes at the interruption.

“Bro, if you’re lookin’ to mug me,” you say without looking up, your tone flat and unamused, “you should know I’m skint broke. Try some other bitch.”

The air around you seems to thicken with tension, and you feel the unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze boring into you. It’s enough to make you pause mid-turn on the lock, your breath catching as a low, familiar voice responds.

“I sure hope you’re not talking to me?” Comes your father, Bruce’s, deep voice.

Your head snaps up, and your breath catches in your throat as you realize it’s not some wannabe punk standing over you.

You pale instantly, the color draining from your face as you meet his icy blue eyes. His expression is unreadable, but the weight of his gaze is suffocating. The sheer presence of him—imposing, cold, and unnervingly silent—makes your stomach churn with dread. Your heart pounds in your chest as you scramble for words, your brain tripping over itself in panic.

“Oh—uh, Mr. Wayne—I didn’t—I mean, I thought…” you stammer, trying to cobble together an explanation and an apology all at once. Your hands fumble with the lock on your bike, suddenly feeling clumsy under his scrutiny. “I—um—sorry! I thought—uh—someone else—”

He raises an eyebrow, the tiniest shift in his expression, but it’s enough to make you flinch. You straighten up, clutching your bike for dear life, feeling small and utterly exposed under his towering figure.

“I see,” he says finally, his voice calm but laced with that undercurrent of authority that makes it clear he’s not just seeing. He’s assessing.

“I didn’t realize it was you,” you blurt, trying to salvage what’s left of your dignity. “I thought it was, uh, someone else. Someone trying to—um—mug me?” The excuse sounds weak even to your own ears, and you wince inwardly at how ridiculous it must sound.

Bruce’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Do you make a habit of mouthing off to strangers you assume are threats?” he asks, his tone deceptively mild.

“N-no, sir,” you stammer, shaking your head quickly. “I just—I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s been a long day, and I wasn’t thinking—”

He holds up a hand, cutting off your rambling. “Enough,” he says, “I’m here to pick you up. Alfred’s occupied.”

Your mouth opens, then closes, as you try to process his words. You hadn’t even considered the possibility that Bruce might be the one picking you up today. Of course, the thought of him going out of his way to do so hadn’t even crossed your mind, it wasn’t like he ever went out of his way for you before.

“Oh,” you manage after an awkward pause. “Right. Thanks.”

You still have your conversation from the previous day in mind.

“Come on,” he says, turning without another word. “We’re leaving.”

You hastily shove your bike into the back of his sleek black car, your movements hurried and uncoordinated under the pressure of his presence. Sliding into the back seat, you notice Tim sitting in the front passenger seat, looking at you through the rear mirror. You avert your gaze, clasping your hands tightly in your lap, trying not to fidget as the engine purrs to life. The air inside the car is thick with silence, broken only by the occasional click of the turn signal as Bruce maneuvers through traffic.

You steal a glance at him, his expression as stoic and unreadable as ever. Despite the tension knotting your stomach, you force yourself to speak. “I—uh, thanks for picking me up,” you mumble, staring out the window.

Bruce doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the road. When he finally speaks, his tone is even but firm. “We’ll talk when we get home.”

Your throat tightens when you see Tim's glee filled smile, as if a cat had just caught a canary. You nod mutely, knowing there’s no point in arguing. Whatever he has to say, it’s not going to be pleasant.

[Hope you guys liked the chapter!! I'm sorry for the delay and the ghosting, more fics will be updated trust!! Also thank you to all the people who were checking on me, I really appreciate it!!]

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