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i-cant-sing · 25 days ago

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Time Traveller AU part 14

I’m back baby!🕺

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Your body wakes up before your mind does. You feel the warmth of the sheets first, unlike the freezing cold when you dove into the snow and saw-

Jack the Ripper.

Your eyes snapped open at the sensation of someone touching your feet and prepared yourself to see the notorious murderer having a foot fetish.

“Relax. I’m just bandaging your feet.”

Silas?

He’s the Ripper?

“What are you-” you gulped. “You… you found me?”

Silas raised a brow at the fear in your voice. “It would’ve been hard not to. You were lying on my side of the bed, under my covers.” He stated, pulling your feet back in his lap gently. “There’s no need to be scared really. I’m not mad that you got in my bed. I mean- after your performance last night, I suppose its the least you deserve.” He massaged the healing balm into your soles. “I’m not a monster, Y/n.”

What? “I- I was in bed?”

Silas looked at you befuddled. “You still are. You left the stage after your dance, and when I came to the room, I found you in bed.”

Did I… did I imagine all of that? Was I in bed the entire night? Did I hallucinate running off to the snow and seeing the Ripper after that tea-

The tea!

You glanced at Silas who was now wrapping bandages around your feet with utmost care.

He probably told Cadbury to lace my tea with God knows what! It makes sense. Cadbury is the most loyal servant to Silas, they have that knock-off “Bruce Wayne-Alfred” relationship going on.

“Did you drug me?”

Silas’s head shot up. “What?”

You pulled your legs back. “Did you drug me last night?”

“Have you lost your mind-” Silas nostrils flared at your accusation. “No, Y/n. I did not drug my wife-”

“Stop it.” You snapped. “Dont pretend like you give a crap about me. You were counting on me to fail on stage, to embarrass myself for whatever stupid revenge you have planned.”

His lips pulled into a thin line. “I was counting on you to fail and look how that turned out. You lied to me. You said you didn’t know ballet at all and then proceeded to dance like a prima donna. You ruined my plan but you don’t see me complaining. And now you dare to accuse me of drugging you?”

“I’m not accusing you, Silas. I know you did it! You made Cadbury gave me that tea laced with something so that I would make a fool out of myself, but things didn’t turn out the way you planned, did it? I don’t know what drug you gave me, but my pettiness will always be stronger than anything you could spike me with!” You screamed at him. He stared at you with bridled fury as he pushed your now bandaged feet off his lap before standing up.

“I will say this for the last time- I did not drug you. I did not plan on drugging you, ever- and if I did, you surely wouldn’t see it coming because my intelligence would always beat any amount of your pettiness, Y/n.” Silas’ eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you were hoping to achieve by pushing all these absurd accusations on me. I admit that I did plot for you to not perform well in front of the queen, but like I said before- we’re on the same team. Like it or not, we’re married. You’re associated with me, thereby you are my responsibility and while I may use you from time to time to exact my revenge- which I have told you about, I would NEVER go as far as to endanger my own wife for this.”

You scoffed. “Wife? This is a sham marriage-”

He leaned closer suddenly. “Sham or not, we did get married in front of law and in religion! You are my wife, my family now and I dont need to stoop as low as to hurt you.” Silas stared into your eyes and for a second, you almost believed him.

But very early on in your life, you knew better than to trust any man who wasn’t your father or brother.

“But you did hurt me, Silas.” Confusion flickered in his eyes. “You have hurt me several times, but it never hurt me before because the wounds weren’t ever that deep. But last night, you- you crossed a fucking line.”

“I told you I didn’t drug you-”

“I’m not talking about that, though that may have been less painful than what you actually did.” You said before pushing him away to stand up and move past him.

“And what did I do?” Silas watched as you walked on your injured feet, but he knew it would be fruitless to try and stop you.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Why should I tell you when you didn’t care enough to remember it in the first place?”

You stomped all the way outside to the gardens, where snow covered as the eye could see. You wanted to confirm it, to look for any clues that would indicate that you did not hallucinate your encounter with the notorious murderer.

There has to be something. It cant- it had to be real.

You found the tree and remember it was near the spot you dove into. But no matter how much you looked, how much snow you shoveled, you couldn’t find anything. If any footprints did exist, they were covered by the snowfall. There was nothing left behind, not by you, or by the Ripper. Not a drop of blood, or a strand of hair. Nothing.

Huffing, you marched back inside the house, ignoring the ache in your feet and the frost in your hands. As soon as you entered, you spotted Cadbury making his way to the dining room with a tray in his hands.

“Cadbury!” He halted, looking back at you in surprise as you walked upto him. You already knew what his answer would be but you couldn’t stop yourself. “Cadbury, I need you to be honest with me and know that if you lie, I will catch you.” You tried to sound as menacing as possible. “Yes, ma’am?” He looked clueless. Resisting the urge to grab him by the collar and throttle him, you settled for a huff as you asked him.

“Did you drug me last night?”

His brows shot up in surprise. “Drug you? Why would I-”

“Cut the bullshit.” He looked even more shocked at your tone. “Last night, before I went on stage, you gave me a cup of tea. I know for a fact that you spiked it with something. Don’t deny it, I know it. Just tell me if Silas put you up to it.”

He shook his head. “Ma’am, I can assure you I did not drug you tea, nor did I ever intend to. All I gave you was chamomile tea to calm you down.”

Before you could accuse him again, Sarah called for him in the dining room. Cadbury looked at you apologetically. “I have to serve Miss Sarah her breakfast before she leaves. Would you like something as well? Eggs, toast… tea?”

You glared at him harshly enough at the end that it made him rush back to the dining hall.

Wait, Sarah’s leaving?

You entered the dining hall and saw Sarah sitting there.

“Oh, good morning, my prima donna!” She made her way to you, pulling you in as she pecked your cheeks, her eyes shining. “I didn’t get to see you again last night, but my darling you were so wonderful on stage! I am so proud of you, my little star! Everyone is talking about you! And even praising me for training you, but the credit is all to you!”

You smiled, heart fluttering at praise. “No, I did well all thanks to you.” Squeezing her hands gently, you asked where she was going. “I heard Cadbury say you were leaving-?”

“Ah! Yes, darling! I’m going to Edinburgh for a couple of months. I need to take care of some family business there. I’m sorry love, I was so busy with everything that I forgot to tell you. I thought Silas would’ve mentioned it to you.”

Yeah. Silas, my lovely husband, would always keep me in the loop.

An hour later, you and Silas stood at the doorway watching Sarah’s carriage leave.

“Why didn’t you tell me she was leaving?” You muttered, eyes trailed forward. You knew if you looked at him again, all the anger from the morning would return.

“I forgot.” You almost wrung him by his neck.

“You always keep things from me.”

“Y/n, dont start.” He let out a small huff. “Why does it even matter? How does her leaving affect you?”

You looked at him in disbelief. “Its not about her leaving. Its that you didn’t tell me! Why the hell do you keep things from me?!”

He turned to you, narrowing his eyes. “Oh so now you want to play the doting wife? She’s my grandmother, she told me! Me knowing is enough! I am not privy to tell you anything!” He snapped. “Like you said, this is a sham marriage and as far as I’m concerned, you’re nothing but an employee. Know your place, woman!”

He marched out of the house in fury, leaving you standing there in absolute shock.

You sat in the gardens, stewing over what happened with Silas when Cadbury came to fetch you.

“Miss, there’s a carriage waiting for you.” “What? Why?”“I would assume its to take you somewhere.” You pursed your lips to not let a sarcastic comment slip.

“Who sent the carriage, Cadbury?” Did Silas sent it to take you out for an early lunch and make up?

“Mr Blackwood.” Henry?

You made your way towards the carriage, about to ask the driver when the carriage door swung open.

“There you are, kitten!” Henry grinned, stepping out of the carriage. “I should tell you, its not good to make your boss wait.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “What do you want, Henry?”

“Well, I came to fetch you, seeing as you are in fit condition and not busy, there’s no reason for you to be skipping work.” Work? Ah, yes. You were supposed to be at the office at 8am and its 10am now.

“I’m not coming back. What use is it if I cant write what I want without you shutting it down?” He shrugged. “Silas did make me a good deal last night while you were dancing- marvellously, I must say.” He went to grab your chin but you smacked his hand away. Sighing, an amused look in his eyes he straightened his broad shoulders. “You can write what you want, within reason, and I’ll allow it to be published.” He nodded his head towards the carriage. “Shall we, milady?”

“I’ll think about it-” You turned to leave when he caught your wrist, yanking it to make you collide with his chest.

“I was being polite, kitten.” He looked down at you, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Get in the carriage, Y/n. Now.”

You were sitting on your desk after making a brief stop at Henry’s tailor, so that you could change into a suit for your male disguise. The suit, even though it was the cheapest one available at the shop, was still pretty expensive and luxurious enough for a small time reporter like you. It turned a few heads, but only Colin asked you where you got it from.

“One of Silas’s.” You muttered dismissively, which now that you think about it, sounds like you wore your husband’s clothes after shacking up.

You didn’t know Colin also shared the same thought when he took a sip of his half-n-half coffee (half alcohol, half coffee.)

“Anyways, want to go to hospitals with me? Investigate, now that you are in disguise anyways.”

Looking up from your desk, you spotted Henry in his office talking with someone. His eyes made contact with yours for a moment, and he winked at you.

“Sure.” You need to get out of here before you combust.

“Great. I was thinking we could go to St Peters hospital-”“No.” You stood up, grabbing your coat. “We’re going to Aveline’s.”

“The asylum?” Colin asked, following you.

Yes. The same asylum Silas forbade you from entering. Why? You don’t know, but you suspected it was linked to something personal so you respected his wishes. Now? Fuck. That.

He crossed a line with me. Now I will too.

You made your way towards the exit, which happened to be near Henry’s office (because he wanted to keep tabs on everyone who entered and left the building) and you were ready to fight if he tried to stop you. But before you could, Henry suddenly left his office- his face was alarmed. He didn’t even spare you a glance as he left with a few men, practically running out of the door.

What was that about?

Why was Henry in a rush? Why did he look so alarmed?What was his deal with Silas? What had Silas offered him for you? Where was Silas—

“Here we are.” You both stood at the street of the asylum, spotting the guards at the gate. The place still looked as lavish as ever, the beautiful gardens and the Gothic inspired architecture, now encased in snow gave the asylum a daunting yet “you’re-too-poor-for-this-fancy-rehab” look. “How do we get in? The guards stationed wont permit us to step a foot in there, and I’m pretty sure Silas gave them a word about you and me.” He stated, frustratedly running a hand through his hair.

You looked at the asylum, looking for something until your eye caught it.

“Its a big place, Colin. Come on.”

The property itself was on a large piece of land, surrounded by walls and tall trees, which meant that there had to be another opening. Plus, with how heavily its snowing, the guards aren’t always on their stations. You just need to find another way in.

And you did.

“Colin, get your stupid leg over the wall!” You whisper-yelled at him as you gave him a boost. Colin, who apparently had no upper body strength, was struggling to climb the wall. “I am trying!”

“Try harder!” You gave him another shove, practically jostling him up at this point. Finally after a few more minutes in the cold, he was able to sling his leg over. Panting, he extended his arm to you. “Take my hand. I’ll pull you up.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, right.” In a flash, you scaled the wall with the expert of a mountaineer. Colin watched in surprise as you perched yourself next to him on the wall, without even breaking a sweat. “How did you-?”

“I’d love to get into details of how much more athletic I am than you, but we need to get down before someone spots us. And I still have to help you down before you break your hip, grandpa.”

Moments later, you two had made your way inside the asylum, blending in with the other visitors there. “Go charm the nurses and staff. See what you can find. I’ll go look around.” You told Colin, who only warned you to beware of the patients there.

You walked down the hallway, looking into the rooms with the doors open, most were unoccupied, which would make sense since its lunch time and everyone’s probably eating or doing some activity.

You were about to walk back to Colin to see if he’d made any progress when your eyes caught sight of a door. It… it was different than the rest. The paint was chipped, and the door itself looked quite old. Not unused, since you couldn’t spot any dust. The doorknob was made of wood, while every other doorknob you’d seen here was metal.

Walking upto it, you were immediately hit with a daunting aura. Looking at the doorknob, you spotted the areas where the paint was more chipped, the pattern indicating where someone’s hand would hold it.

Your gut is screaming at you to open this door, that there is something behind it that you need to know. With your hand hovering only a few millimetres above the handle, you’re about to enter-

“Hey!” You froze, whipping your head around. An angry nurse stood there. “What do you think you’re doing, young man?! This area is off limits!”

“Off limits?” She glared. “Yes, off limits! Who even allowed you here?!” She marched over to you. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

If she caught you, then Silas will find out and he’d make it much harder for you to find out anything about him.

“I’m so sorry. I was just- I was just looking for the bathroom.”

She narrowed her eyes at you. “The bathroom is all the way at the other end of the hallway, with clear signs! What are you doing here?!”

Oh shit. What possible excuse could you come up with as to why you’re trying to break into a room in the asylum?

“I heard someone crying.” A flicker of confusion came on her face, but you continued to pile on the lie. “I was just going to the bathroom when I heard someone crying. It was- it was just so pitiful, so heart breaking, like- like-”

“Like a girl wailing?” She asked, her face paling.

You nodded. “Yes! And- and as I came near, I thought that someone was calling for help and I was just going to check in-”

“No. No, no, no.” The nurse shook her head, grabbing your forearm as she began dragging you away. “No one is allowed in there. Mr Fitzg-” She cut herself off before she could reveal anything further.

“Mr FitzGeorge? As in, Silas FitzGeorge?” Her expression gave her away. It was Silas, and he was connected to that room.

“Tell me who is in that room.” “No one.” “Tell me the truth. I heard someone cry-”

“This is the truth!” She harshly whispered as she dragged you out of that hallway. “There is no one in that room! It hasn’t been occupied for years, not since she-”

“Since who?” You pressed. “I clearly heard someone cry. And you confirmed it. Is there someone being abused? You tell me now before I go break down that room!”

Her eyes widened as she grabbed your arms tighter. “No, please dont- I- I- fine, I’ll tell you the truth.” She looked around before whispering. “You cant tell this to anyone but… someone died in that room. It was- it was a girl, and she- she wasn’t getting better in the head anymore. And then one day, she just- she jumped out of the window and broke her neck. Ever since then, many people have said that they’ve heard a girl crying and we all assumed that it was just her spirit trapped in that room.”

“Who was the girl?” “I cant tell you-” “You can and you will because if you don’t, I will have my friends at the police department come and give this place a visit and possibly examine a patient’s death due to hospital negligence.” You could’ve said that you’d have story leaked to the papers but you didn’t want to arouse suspicion if she told Silas about someone snooping around his business.

Biting her lip, you saw the defeat in her eyes.

“Daisy. Daisy FitzGeorge.”

Silas’s elder sister.

The nurse proceeded to tell you that the last time Silas came to the asylum itself was on the day of her funeral. He saw her room and then paid the asylum to keep this room as is, leaving her belongings there and its been unoccupied and in its original state since.

“I think he just wants to preserve what was left of her.” The nurse added thoughtfully.

Maybe thats why he’s never visited the asylum again, why he didn’t want me wandering in and finding about Daisy. Silas has painful memories linked with this place, and perhaps he didn’t want me knowing about his sister being a psychiatric patient.

You felt a small part in you feel guilty for snooping around his business. You’re no stranger to the loss of a sibling-

No. You closed your eyes. Not now.

The nurse lead you back to the main hall where Colin was chatting up some doctor. You’re about to head back to him when you remember something.

“Does the asylum offer volunteer work, say something like… a barber? I see some residents who could do with a good hair cut or two-”

The nurse looked at you like you were stupid. “I’m afraid not. We have a strict policy against non hospital staff bringing in sharp objects like scissors, blades, the sorts.”

“Right. Thank you.” You nodded before turning around.

So, Benny is a liar and I hope for his sake, its for a good cause.

It was an hour before closing when you and Colin came back to the office… which was now in utter chaos. The place was divided, men on either side with papers scattered everywhere as they kept a yelling.

“What the hell is going on here?” Colin asked a coworker but you were focused on the screaming match in front of you.

“We need to be the first one to report this!” One man yelled. “It is our duty as journalist, as honest men! To make the public aware of this!”

“We cant until we permission from above!” Another countered. “Besides, what use is it publishing about such crimes except to make the people panic!”

“Then let them panic! It is a greater calamity to not know and be afraid of the unknown, then to know and be afraid of the known!”

“But we still don’t know who the Ripper is!” “The articles about him will rattle him-” “No, it’ll only idolise him and give him the validation he needs!”

Colin pulled you aside to fill you in on what the coworker had told him.

“The Ripper strikes again.” “I figured. Who did he kill this time? More night girls?”

“One girl and two men in broad daylight.” You frowned. The Ripper hadn’t ever targeted men before. No, his usual targets were women, often prostitutes. And he was mostly active at night time, when the darkness concealed him and his intentions.

“Where did this happen?” It had to be the Gentlemen’s club. It’d explain why Henry left in such a hurry.

Colin looked uncertain whether to tell you or not.

“The FitzGeorge estate.”

Your face paled. “My… home?” For a moment, you felt like the sky fell on you.

“Yes but-” You rushed past him, flying out of the door.

One girl and two men.

You ran as fast as you could down London streets, pushing people out of the way.

One girl. Two men.

It could be anyone. The Ripper doesn’t target the rich. No, he has a pattern. He’s a serial killer and serial killers stick to their patterns.

But you cant trust a murderer. You cant trust someone who is not right in the head.

One girl- maybe its just a passerby, maybe a sex worker for the two men.

Or maybe Sarah came back.

No. Your lungs screamed for a break as you rushed down.

Two men. Two men. It could be anyone, someone you don’t know.

Or it could be Cadbury and Silas.

Killed near the FitzGeorge estate.

He’s sending me a threat. He’s coming for me next.

The estate came into view and you saw the crowd of people and the cops trying to hold everyone back. You tried to go past the gates, but seeing that you were still in disguise, they found it hard to believe that you were “Mrs” FitzGeorge.

Fortunately, Cadbury was outside and able to recognise you.

“Thank God you’re home, miss Y/n!” He helped you inside the house. “You wouldn’t believe the people trying to get in-” “Who- who did the Ripper kill, Cadbury?” You asked breathlessly.

“I dont know them personally miss, and I doubt I’d be able to recognise them with how badly they were mutiliated. But I heard the detectives say that they were Mr Blackwoods employees.”

“Henry’s employees…? From the club?” He shrugged. “I dont know miss, but the detectives found the bodies outside the estate walls. Mr Blackwood was the first one to arrive at the scene with the detectives and he recognised the bodies apparently.”

He came here?

“Where’s Silas?” You asked instead.

“He went to work this morning. I’ve tried to reach him but to no avail…”

You had Cadbury send someone for Silas. He needs to be home right now.

Its not because I care about him. I’m not worried that these murders near his house was a message and that he’s the Ripper’s next target.

With a handkerchief held to your nose to mask the awful smell, you went to the crime scene to look at the mangled bodies that were now being removed for autopsy.

Henry was there as well, his usual cocky expression replaced with concern. If you looked closely, you would notice a hint of…unsureness? Fear of the unknown?

“Henry.” He turned to you, his expression now guarded. “I’m sorry for your employees… demise.”

He gave a stiff nod, confirming that they were indeed his workers. “Why is the Ripper targeting your staff?”

“There is no Ripper.” He snapped. “I told you before, he’s nothing but a fictional character created to instil fear in public.”

You excuse his tone for being “overwhelmed by grief”. “Okay. But we can agree that there is a particular man going after your employees. Why?”

His lips fell into a thin line, and you could see him trying to control his anger. “I don’t have the time to let you play detective so that you could write a story for the paper to make yourself feel good about “making it as a strong woman in a male dominated field”, Y/n. Step aside.”

You instead, blocked his path. “Yeah, I don’t need you to dominate any fields, Henry. I’m only asking you so that when my husband, you know- Silas, comes home and asks me why is there a crime scene and a crowd outside his house, I can give him an answer instead of letting him go to the cops and report the last murder of that woman outside your club and bring your shady businesses into light for the world.”

Henry narrowed his eyes at you before leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“If he comes for me, I will come for everything he holds dear and make him watch as I destroy his world.” You glared at him as he stared you down. “You don’t get to make threats here, Y/n.”

You returned back inside the house, where Cadbury informed you that he still wasn’t able to get ahold of Silas. With Sarah gone and most of the house staff busy being interrogated by the detectives, you had the house all to yourself.

You wandered around the house, hoping for an epiphany to strike you for all the questions that plagued your mind.

Why did Benny lie about volunteering at the asylum?

What happened to Daisy?

Why did Silas not want me at the asylum?

Who is killing Henry’s employees?

What were they even doing near this house?

Who is the Ripper?

Entering the library, you sat in your usual spot near the window at the end, a cozy corner behind the shelves. This was the place where you were trying to fix, or rather- create your time machine. Yes, despite everything that had been happening, you still found some time to actually work on your way home. For now, you had only done the maths and collected some raw material to start building it, but you still had a long way to go.

This would’ve been much easier if I had my old machine, even if it had been destroyed by the blast, at least you wouldn’t have to start completely from scratch.

You had hidden the metal scraps and a notebook under the shelf because the maids never bothered to clean under there (judging from the dust collected there) and when you pulled them out from under there, your hand touched something hard as well, something unfamiliar.

Bending down to look, you spotted a black leather-bound book. You pulled it out, sitting on the floor as you wiped the dust off it, coughing in the process.

You began reading it, heart sinking the more you flipped the pages.

This was Daisy’s diary.

I have to tell Silas!

You ran out of the library when Cadbury informed you he had returned home.

Making your way to his study, you barged in with Daisy’s diary in hand.

“Silas!” You panted as you saw him sitting down behind the desk, glass of scotch in hand. “Where were you?! I was worried-!” You cut yourself off when you saw the disdain behind his eyes.

“Silas?” His eyes landed on the diary and you saw a new wave of rage flash across his eyes.

“I told you to not go to the asylum, didn’t I?” He stood up, hand gripping the glass. “I told you not to pry. I gave you everything- money, land, power, that fucking job at the paper, everything. All I asked was that you don’t go to the asylum.”

“I know but-” Silas threw the glass against the wall, shattering the crystal.

“Dont talk. Don’t fucking talk or I swear to God, I will hurt you.” He whispered but the words echoed into your soul. His eyes were rimmed red as he took a step towards you, then two backwards, balling his hands into fists. Clenching and unclenching. Holding back.

“You went to the asylum, you went to her room, you fucking read her diary. Who the fuck do you think you are?!” Silas yelled, and you couldnt tell if he was crying or drunk. Or both.

You stood frozen as he continued to scream. “I- I don’t understand what you were trying to do? Are you trying to write about my dead sister, desecrate her by telling the world about her suicide, drag my family through the mud? Didn’t I tell you that I wont tolerate that? Not even by you?”

He walked upto you again, this time he was so fast that you thought for a moment he was going to strike you.

“Worst thing is, you don’t even realise what you’ve done. What you’ve taken from me, what you’ve ruined for me.”

He closed his eyes and backed away from you, running a hand through his hair frustratedly.

You let out a shaky breath. “Silas. I understand what losing a sibling is. My brother- my brother died too-”

“Good. And if I was him, I’d kill myself. Wouldn’t want to be associated with someone like you.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as your lips parted.

“No. No, no, no.” Silas glared at you. “Dont you dare fucking cry. You’re not the victim here.”

He shook his head at you. “You know why I’m so fucking infuriated with you? Its not because you went against my direct orders and pried into my personal life. No. I’m mad at you because you have no fucking shame. Not an ounce. You’re no better than those woman in Henry’s club, actually you’re way worse because they sell their bodies for money but you? You sell your self respect, your dignity for nothing except under some false pretence that you can make it in this harsh world as a woman when in reality, all you want is to find out about everyone’s secrets and write a fucking column about it for a few pennies. You just don’t want to admit defeat, just cant accept being told no and I have no doubt that this characterless, shameless habit of yours, prying into people’s business is the very reason your brother is no longer here.”

Neither of you knew how long you two stood there in silence, but you were the one who moved first when the diary slipped out of your hand and fell on the floor with a thud.

You simply left his study, then his house, and continued walking into the cold winter night with nothing to keep you warm, not a coat or a shawl, not even shoes.

“Characterless.”

“Shameless.”

“I’d kill myself. Wouldn’t want to be associated with someone like you.”

“Someone like you.”

Someone like me?

Me?

You fell to your knees, your bare feet no longer able to stand the cold. Or was it because of Silas’s words?

A wretched sob broke from you. Then another, then you quieted down, biting your tongue as your lips quivered like that of a child’s. You tried to breathe, to bring air into your lungs but it seemed so hard to do. Your shoulders shook as your body finally succumbed to exhaustion, falling to the snowy ground.

Qasim.

Your brother’s face was the last thing that came to mind as you felt someone’s arms wrap around you before your world faded to black.

“Make sure that the club is prepared for the New Year’s party. Have Lady Scarlett bring the new girls for our special guest. No expense is to be spared.” Henry’s assistant nodded obediently, jotting down all the details.

“Did you take care of the bodies?” Henry asked, taking a puff from his cigar.

“Yes sir. The funeral arrangements were made and the burial was done at night. Unmarked graves, as usual.” Henry gave a approving hum, his eyes darting to the wall, then back at the assistant.

“Did you find the Ripper?”

“Not yet, sir. I’ve placed the highest bounty on him and still no news. Its like he doesn’t exist.”

He exists alright. Henry took another inhale of the smoke. “Increase the bounty. Send more men and interrogate everyone. And hire more security around the club.” The assistant nodded again. Henry closed his eyes. “Is someone keeping tabs on Y/n?”

“Yes, sir. I sent two guards to shadow her. Last I heard, Mrs FitzGeorge-” the assistant cleared his throat when Henry glared at him. “Miss Y/n, had walked out of the FitzGeorge estate in tears. One guard came here to report to me while the other is still keeping her safe.”

The corner of his lips quirked up. Silas must’ve found out that you went to the asylum again. He was having someone follow you. What a creep.

Henry stood up from his chair, putting out his cigar. “Clear my schedule for tomorrow. Its time to pay Mr FitzGeorge a visit.”

And bring Y/n home.

See you soon, kitten.

“Stop being such a baby.” You roll your eyes as you hear him fill your pantry with groceries.

“Hey! I’m your older brother. If anyone’s a baby, its you!” Qasim admonished you playfully.

“Says the man who wants me to go skiing with him because he’s too embarrassed to ask anyone else to film him doing small stunts.” You tease as you continue to read your history book. Qasim walks over and plucks it out of your hands. Glaring at him, you try to reach for the book. “I have a test tomorrow and I still have 8 chapters to go.”

“Why do you wait until the last minute to study? This is quite self destructive.” You cross your arms. “Well not everyone is blessed with an eidetic memory like you.”

“True as it may be, I still use my brain to actually understand the concepts rather than just memorise it word-for-word.” He opened the book, taking a look at the topic you were reading before scoffing. “Ancient Egypt? Come on, I’ll teach you it myself.”

You opened your eyes to someone petting your hair.

Knowing who it was, you weren’t startled as you woke up.

“How are you feeling?” Benjamin asked, watching you sit up in your old bedroom.

“Better.” You smiled gently.

Last night, after running out of Silas’s house, Benny was the one who found you crying in the snow, barefoot and near hypothermia. He wrapped his coat around you and took you home, the flat and you explained to him what happened at Silas, what he said to you. If Benny didn’t feel himself compelled to console you, he would’ve marched all the way to the estate to strangle Silas himself.

Sitting at the table, eating the breakfast he made you, you were reminded you of all the good times at the flat. Everyone else was at work for now, but they’d be returning in a few hours.

“Y/n.” Benny pulled out a few documents and passed them to you. “I got what you asked for.”

Wiping your mouth, you picked up the stack of papers and read them.

“DIVORCE DEED”.

It wasn’t what you asked for, so much so it was what Benny had strongly suggested you to get. After he told him what happened with Silas, he was ready to go over there and beat the shit out of Silas but he stayed back for you. You needed someone last night, someone who didn’t make you feel like you were all alone.

Someone like Qasim.

So, ignoring all the evidence and lies that pointed Benny as a suspect to the murders, you used his shoulder to cry on. He ran his fingers though your hair all night and advised you to part ways Silas because even if you were to overlook all the awful words he said to you, you cannot stray away from the fact that he threatened to hurt you. Thus, it would be unsafe for you to go back to him.

You agreed, partly because of his reasoning and partly because you just- you’re tired of everything now. You need to go back to your timeline, and for that, you need to divert all your attention to making the time machine.

Picking up the pen, you looked at the document again, eyes focused on the name “Silas FitzGeorge”.

Benny squeezed your hand. You nodded. This is the right thing to do.

With a sigh, you signed the document.

Benny took the documents. “I’ll have these delivered to his house.” You hummed, knowing that if he went there himself, he’d probably get in a fight with Silas.

“Y/n.” You looked up at him. “Dont worry about anything now. I’ll take care of everything, hm?”

“Thank you, Benny.” You stand up. “I would need some help with a new wig for work. I left my stuff at Silas’s and…” He waved you off, understanding your predicament. “I already was working on a couple of new pieces for my new clients. Come on, Mr Holmes.”

Silas hadn’t slept a wink since yesterday, so his hangover was significantly still worse and his morning got even more worse when Henry strolled in his study.

“Well, you look like you could be having a better day.” Silas glared at him from his position.

“How did you get in here?”

“Just charmed a maid with my irresistible looks.” He grinned, sitting across from him.

“Great. She’s fired.” Silas rubbed his bloodshot eyes, that were tired and itchy. “Now now, no need to go around firing the staff just because you’re in a bad mood. Speaking of bad mood- where is your wife?”

Silas stared at him, not with jealousy but… with indifference. “I don’t know.”

“Not a good quality in a husband to not keep tabs on his missus.” Henry smirked.

“I dont need to keep tabs, when you already are.”

Henry raised a brow. “So you know that I know where she is?” Taking his silence as an answer, he continued. “Go ahead, ask me where she is.”

Silas stood up and for a moment, Henry thought he was going to punch him. Instead, Silas staggered over to the corner table to grab the bottle of scotch.

“I dont care.” He said, pouring himself a drink.

“Trouble in paradise?” Henry pushed. Silas took a sip. “What do you want, Henry? Is your paper in trouble that you would need to write about my marital life? I would assume that you would have a lot to write about now that more employees of yours have been murdered. How many does it make it now? 3? 4?”

The smirk was wiped off Henry’s face. “Thats precisely why I’m here.” Silas walked back to his seat, not offering him a drink. “I hope you don’t pursue this case with the police. I wouldn’t be bothering if I could just buy the detectives, but seeing as this has happened near the house of someone belonging to royalty, they are concerned for your safety. I want you to make them brush this under the rug and we can all go on our ways.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because if you dont, they will go digging around my business. And if they get in my business, I will send them your way as well.” Henry’s lip quirked up. “You’re well aware that I know where Y/n has been going about, hm? I remember her last visit was for an assignment, where did she go? Ah, Aveline’s asylum.”

Silas’s jaw ticked and it took everything in him to not smash the glass in hands on Henry’s head.

“I hope we understand each other, hm?” Henry stood up, buttoning his coat when Cadbury walked in through the door, looking alarmed.

“What is it?” Silas snapped as Cadbury rushed to him and gave him a stack of papers.

“Sir, I- someone left these for you- they-” Silas pulled the documents out and read them, his brows furrowing as his lips set into a thin line.

He set them on the table and Henry couldn’t help but peek.

“DIVORCE DEED”.

Henry couldn’t help the smile that graced his lips.

Fucking finally.

“I’ll take my leave now, Mr FitzGeorge.”

Henry left the manor in a rush. He needed to see you now.

Colin was expressing his happiness on you coming back to live with him and the guys when Henry had called you in his office.

“How are you today, Y/n?” Henry asked, closing the door. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for taking the day off today, you know, after what your marriage has fallen through.”

Your eyes widened. “How did you-”

“I know everything, Y/n. I knew this was going to happen eventually, after all, how long could you have resisted a man like me?”

“What the hell do you want?”

Henry stood against the desk, leaning back slightly as he looked at you. “I have a proposal for you.” The stupid smile on his face gave away that you were not going to like what he was going to offer.

“Marry me and I’ll take care of you for life. Or- don’t marry me, and you’re fired.”

“What?”

He pushed himself off the desk. “You know I fancy you, despite all your quirks. I think we’d make a great team, make a lot of people very mad, especially your soon-to-be ex-husband.”

“So you just want me to be pawn for your plans?”

He shrugged. “Well I’d hoped we could eventually grow our family, but if you’re not into that, then sure. You can be a pawn for me to use. You had no problem with this arrangement when you were with Silas.”

You stood up from your chair. “How… dare you?” Seething, you walked upto him, who only smiled looking down at you. “I would rather jump off a building than marry a disgusting piece of cow dung like you. You think just because I’m a divorcee, you can threaten me into marrying you just so I could have a job here? Fuck you. I quit.”

You stormed out of his office, leaving Henry grinning at his plan working.

“Mark my words, kitten. You will end up marrying me. One way or another.”

“Fucking fuck! Fuck! FUCK!” You screamed as soon as you got back to house, knowing no one would be at him right, you needed to get your rage out before you combusted. Shaking in anger, you grabbed a glass and you were ready to throw it against the wall but decided against it.

“Y/n.” Qasim had been looking everywhere for you, after you’d vanished from the time your cousins came over to lunch. They had made some mean comments about… well your family’s financial status, and if it weren’t for your parents presence, you would’ve returned the insults with something worse enough to make them cry.

Instead of replying to them, you were now seeking revenge by throwing a brick through the window of their new car.

“Y/n, what are you doing?” Qasim whisper-scolded, looking around to see if anyone else had stumbled upon his 7 year old sister trying to damage their cousin’s car. “You know this is wrong!” He said as he pulled the brick out of your hand.

“Its only wrong if you get caught. No one’s around to watch!” You huffed.

“I caught you! Besides, even if no one is watching, God is!” He pointed up in the sky.

“So? Allah will forgive me. I’ll pray more, worship more often, fast, even use my pocket money to give to a charity!” You explained how you’d get off scot-free for all your sins.

Qasim smiled, pulling you away from the car. “Yes, Allah is Ar-Rahman- the Most Gracious, and Ar-Raheem- the Most Merciful. He would forgive you, but not the way you’re doing it, hm?” He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, guiding you further away. “What you explained are acts of worship and yes, you’d be fulfilling your duty as a Muslim to God, but what about your other duty? Islam isn’t just about worshipping Allah, Y/n. Its half of your duty as a believer, but the other half is your duty to the humans around you. How you treat them, talk to them, your mannerisms. So even if you were to worship Allah, He wont forgive you for doing wrong to someone unless that person forgives you themselves first. Allah is very fair. If He has allowed you to feel hurt someone’s words, then He has also allowed other people to feel hurt too.”

Your shoulders slumped as your plans were foiled, knowing he was right. Qasim pecked your forehead, rubbing your shoulder to cheer you up. “Besides, this is no way for a Muslim to act. We should always try to be on our best behaviour, maintain composure and reflect. It’ll allow you to think more clearly.”

Maintain composure and reflect.

Letting out a sigh, you placed the glass back on the table before sitting down to rub your temples, trying to ease the ache that was forming.

Reflect.

Reflect-

You stood up as your eyes landed on Colin’s typewriter in the corner. Grabbing it, you made your way to the table and grabbed a stack of blank sheets and began typing away.

Hours later, you were leaving the house just before the guys returned from work but you stumbled into Benny on the street.

“Y/n? Where are you going?” He saw you hiding a few pages in your hand.

“I- um-” Concern flickered in his eyes as he came near you. “Tell me. I can help you.”

You weighted your options, contemplating whether it’d be good to trust Benny with this, despite letting him help you earlier.

Exhaling, you made the decision.

“I need to get to the printing press. Now.”

A flash of confusion appeared on his face before he nodded. “Okay.” Without any further questions, you two made your way towards the printing press as the sun went down.

After spending the entire night, printing hundreds of copies, you and Benny walked out of the printing press with stacks of papers. Walking down the streets of London in the cold winter, the sun just beginning to rise, Benny turned to you.

“Are you sure about this? Because once this is out there, there’s no going back.” He looked down at you, and judging by the determination in your eyes, he already knew the answer.

“Yes.” With a nod, Benny took half the stack while you had the other half.

“Alright. There are some paper boys that wait near the corner. Lets have these distributed.”

Henry walked into his office that day, finding it unexpectedly silent. For a moment, he thought the place was empty but when he spotted the employees gathered around a desk- your desk. Upon closer inspection, he noticed they were all surrounding Colin, who seemed to be engrossed reading a paper. Henry slowly pushed through the crowd and peeked over Colin’s shoulder, his eyes widening at the headline-

“The Ripper Strikes Again!

By S.H.H.”

S.H.H?

Henry snatched the paper, his eyes scanning the article his ex employee had written. It entailed the details from the first murder outside his club to the very latest that had taken place outside the FitzGeorge estate.

S.H.H.

It didn’t take much time for him to figure out that it was you who had written this piece and while a part of him was very furious at you for ruining his plans and image, he couldn’t bring himself to be mad at you because he knew you couldn’t have done this alone.

No, you didn’t have the money to print this, let alone distribute this throughout London.

This has Silas written all over it.

“Get back to work!” Henry yelled making the crowd scatter away. “Colin. My office, now.” He seethed before storming off.

“I swear, I don’t know who wrote that article. I just picked it up on the way-”

“Shut up.” Henry opened his drawer, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, a rare sight since he’s often seen smoking cigars. But cigars are for celebratory occasions. For now, he needed something to calm down his nerves before he combusted.

As soon as he had finished inhaling the first cigarette, he lit up another one, taking slower drags out of it this time. Colin could only watch in both shock and nervousness as Henry sat down on his chair and closed his eyes, rubbing his temples.

Finally, he opened his eyes and pulled out a file from the desk drawer, throwing it at the table for Colin. Colin stared at Henry in question, whose eyes were focused on the wall, deep in thought.

“You’re working on exposing horrible hospital environments, aren’t you?” Colin nodded. Henry took another drag before looking at him. “Here’s conclusive proof that would support your article. I want you to write it by the end of the day so it gets printed for tomorrow morning’s paper. Oh and Colin?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You will write what is in this file and you will not give me any excuses as to why you can’t, because if you don’t write it, I will find someone who will and I will make damn sure that you don’t get to work another day in your life as a journalist. You are replaceable.” Unlike your cross-dressing roommate. “Do I make myself clear?”

Colin gulped. “Yes, sir.” He stepped ahead to take the file, his heart racing as he saw the name on the file.

“Daisy FitzGeorge”

Silas sipped his scotch, his blurry vision a testament to how many drinks he’s had. Glass in one hand, the papers in the other, the only words visible to him were “DIVORCE”.

Divorce.

You were divorcing him. He doesn’t understand why… he’s upset? No, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not upset with something like this. I am merely… intrigued. Just slightly.

And why am I intrigued? I knew this marriage wasn’t going to last, I specifically told her that it wouldn’t? So why am I even wasting my time thinking about this when I have better things to do?

His eyes fell on the ring you had sent along with the papers. The wedding band. He set the papers down and picked it up, twirling it between his hands.

Did she divorce me because I yelled at her? Or did she already plan on leaving me?

He scoffed, standing up as he made his way to the window. Why would she leave me? I’m richer than her, I’m smarter than her, and if we’re being honest, I beat her in looks too. I am out of her league. Who the hell does she think she is?

I gave her everything. More than she deserved. Compensated her for everytime I had to use her for my plans. She had no reason to complain. She had no reason to leave me. She has no reason to leave me.

His eyes flickered to the snow covered garden.

She has no reason. Of course, a woman like her, would try to use me. She wants me to go after her, beg her to come back. The audacity!

He set his glass aside and pulled out a pen, his vision clearing as they focused on the documents.

You think you can trick me, huh? You want a divorce, Y/n? I’ll give-

“What the hell is that?” Silas whispered, gazing out the window and in the distance, just near the tree line, he saw a shadow, seemingly facing in his direction.

How long had it been standing there?

No. He’s way too still. The shadow doesn’t seem to be moving, breathing even. Silas’s drunk brain could only come up with two conclusions.

Either someone is trying to scare him (possibly Henry) by building this snowman or whatever, or someone is actually trying to break in (probably one of your several male friends).

And he planned on finding out who or what it was and taking his anger out on it.

He stormed off into the snow, with the divorce papers in hand, lest its you and he needs to shove them in your face.

Its been over a week since you wrote the article on the Ripper, which made news all around town, created enough buzz for major publications to start talking about them… including your last place of employment.

Henry of course, hadn’t taken so well to your details about the murders of his employees, so while his paper had mentioned a few paragraphs about the Ripper, they didnt mention anything about the victims being associated with Henry. And shockingly, the paper had instead used its front page to write about the “harrowing treatment at Aveline’s asylum” but it was really just an expose on Daisy FitzGeorge and how the FitzGeorge (and by association, the royal family) may have mental illnesses.

So… you understood why Silas had been silent this entire time. You understood why he hadn’t found the time to respond to your divorce papers. He’s probably dealing with Henry for what he made Colin write, and he might be dealing with keeping his reputation intact as well as being grilled by the queen. And with everything that had happened between you two, you knew it would be best if you never saw him again.

But… its been almost two weeks now, and you need to start working on your time machine again, for which you would need your little journal that you had so stupidly forgotten to take along with you when you left his house.

And so, here you were standing inside the FitzGeorge foyer at mid day (when you knew Silas would be away at work). In hindsight, you could’ve sent someone else, perhaps Benny in your place to fetch your journal, but you didnt want to risk him beating up Silas in case he had decided to take the day off.

The house seemed awfully quiet, more gloomy than usual, which you blamed the London winter for, but something was off.

Seeing that nobody was there to greet you, you decided to make your way towards the library, only for rushed steps to come your way.

“Mr Silas?” You spotted Cadbury coming from the corner, only for his concerned face turn hopeful as he ran towards you. “Oh Miss Y/n! Thank heavens, you’re here!”

“Cadbury, what’s going on?” You spotted the bags under his eyes.

The lines on his forehead deepened as he contemplated on how to break the news to you.

“Mr Silas… is missing!”

“What?”

“He hasn’t been home in over two weeks! I have looked everywhere for him! His workplace, bars, hospitals. But he’s nowhere to be found!”

You sigh. “Maybe he’s at a friend’s place. Or maybe he’s with his uncles or cousins.”

Cadbury shakes his head. “I checked! I contacted his friends, and I went to his uncles places without raising suspicion of him being missing, but he hasn’t seen any of them since the day he went missing.”

“And what day would that be?”

Cadbury’s voice died down. “The day… the day after you sent the divorce papers.”

A pit formed in your stomach. The day after I sent the divorce papers… that was the day the Ripper article was published. The news about his sister was also written that day, but it was printed out the next day. Which meant that Silas probably hadn’t read about Daisy, which then meant that if he lost his calm and snapped, it may have been due to the divorce papers you sent his way.

No. You assure yourself. He possibly couldn’t be affected by the divorce deed. He expected it- he demanded it. He assured you, he would give it to you before you two were even wed.

“You’re overthinking this, Cadbury. For all you know, he could be with his grandmother, wherever she is.” At your words, his face fell even more. “What is it?”

He gulped. “Miss Sarah fell ill when she left.”

Your eyes narrowed. “How ill?”

“Very. She’s bedridden now and doctors haven’t found a cause for it. She has been writing letters to Mr Silas, but since he’s been gone and I didnt want to cause her further distress, I… I have been writing to her under the guise as her grandson.”

You blinked at him. “What?!”

“Please, Miss Y/n. I didnt have any wrong intentions, I just didnt want Miss Sarah to worry herself in her condition.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. If Cadbury had been caught disguising himself as Silas, then Sarah wouldn’t still be writing back to him. Which means that Silas is… actually missing.

“Where did you see him last?” You asked him.

“In his study, when he was talking to Mr Blackwood. I gave him your um- divorce papers, and after Mr Blackwood left, he asked to be left alone. When I went to check on him the next day, he wasn’t in there. He wasn’t in the house!”

“Okay. Lets check the study first.” You both walked towards the study, your mind trying to think of where he could’ve gone.

Wait, Henry was here. He may have sad something to provoke Silas. Or maybe he blackmailed him? Perhaps, Silas has gone to run an errand for him?

No, it wouldn’t make sense for Silas to be doing favours to Henry, if the latter still went ahead and published his family’s secret.

Cadbury opened the study’s door and let you inside, the room was scattered all around.

“I left it as is.” Cadbury confessed as you looked around. “I didnt want to disturb his belongings. Mr Silas doesn’t appreciate it when anyone touches his things.”

Looking at the scene in front of you, it looked like he left in a hurry. His glass was still half full with the drink, and if you know anything about Silas, he never leaves his alcohol unfinished.

After an hour of searching the room for clues, all you could conclude was that he left in a hurry and with the divorce papers, since you couldn’t find them either.

He must’ve signed them and was coming to deliver them to me personally. Or perhaps threaten me.

“Do you know where he is, Miss Y/n?” Cadbury asked, worry etched on his face.

You sighed and shook your head defeatdly. “I don’t know, but I think its high time we report this to the police and his family.”

He immeadetly shook his head. “We cant do that! Mr Silas’s uncles will jump at the opportunity to take his assets and involving the police will make everyone know in high society-”

“What else do you want me to do, Cadbury?” You cut him off. “If you don’t want to report it, then dont. But the longer you keep this from the authorities, the more it’ll raise suspicions towards you. Just- you know what? Do whatever you want. I’m no longer a part of this family, and I’m no one to meddle in its affairs.” You tried to leave but Cadbury blocked your path.

“Technically ma’am, you still are a part of the family.”

“What?”

“The divorce deed… is nowhere to be found.”

“Yes. Because Silas has it.”

“It doesn’t mean he signed it.”

You blinked slowly. “What?”

He shrugged innocently. “I didn’t see him sign it, neither do I know if Mr Silas had any intentions of doing so. And you didn’t see him either.”

Your blood ran cold. “The papers are with Silas-”

“But we don’t know for sure if he signed it. You are still Mrs Silas FitzGeorge.”

You clenched your fists, trying to reel yourself in. “Stop playing games, Cadbury. You know Silas has the papers, you know he has signed them-”

“I do not know. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still happily married to Mr Silas.”

“Enough!” You walked unto him, staring him dead in the eye. “Silas has divorced me, he has the papers! And before you say that you didn’t see him sign it, I don’t think that argument will fly in court!”

“Court?” He raised a brow.

“Yes. Court. If I cant find the divorce papers, I will get a lawyer who will fight my case and have the judge accept the end of this relationship! And if this is some sick game that you thought would stop me from getting a divorce from Silas, if that is the very reason he has suddenly gone “missing”, let me assure you, I will fight tooth and nail and get my way!”

The butler maintained his composure, despite your menacing tone. “You can do as you want, ma’am. But if you are going to involve the court in this, then I must contact Mr Silas’s lawyer who has documents containing important information that you must see.”

By evening, the lawyer had come and you were not expecting the information he came baring.

With trembling hands, you scanned the pages, eyes widening with each word.

“I, Silas (Edmund) FitzGeorge, hereinafter referred to as “the husband”, being of sound mind and body, declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, and I hereby revoke all previous wills and codicils. I am married to Y/n L/n, hereinafter referred to as "my wife," and I have full confidence in her and wish to provide for her after my passing.

Y/n and I are married under the laws of Islam and the British crown, and both parties have expressed mutual interest in ensuring that their marital relationship endures regardless of any future physical separation, and The Husband wishes to secure the continuity of his marital bond with The Wife under extraordinary circumstances, and WHEREAS, The Wife, understanding the gravity of this arrangement, agrees to the terms outlined below, NOW, THEREFORE, in consideration of the mutual promises, covenants, and obligations set forth herein, the parties agree as follows:

ARTICLE I: CONDITIONAL MARRIAGE BOND

Condition of Divorce: Notwithstanding any future legal proceedings or claims for dissolution of marriage, The Wife shall not be permitted to divorce The Husband unless one of the following conditions occurs: a. The Husband’s Death: In the event that The Husband is declared legally deceased by a competent authority or court, and his remains have been conclusively identified by appropriate authorities, or b. The Wife Locates and Identifies The Husband’s Remains: Should The Husband go missing or be presumed dead, The Wife may pursue divorce only if she personally discovers, identifies, and confirms The Husband’s remains. This confirmation must be made through formal identification methods accepted under the laws of British empire, and shall be accompanied by appropriate documentation (e.g., medical or forensic certification of death).

No Divorce Without Finding Remains: In the event of The Husband’s disappearance under circumstances where his remains are not conclusively located, The Wife shall not initiate any legal action to dissolve the marriage until The Wife has personally located his remains and has provided the court with satisfactory proof of the remains' discovery.

Duration of the Agreement: This Agreement shall remain in effect as long as The Husband's remains have not been conclusively found. Should The Husband be found alive or if his remains are discovered, the terms of this Agreement shall automatically expire, and The Wife may pursue divorce proceedings under applicable laws.

ARTICLE II: TERMINATION OF AGREEMENT UPON FOUND REMAINS

Disappearance: If The Husband disappears under circumstances where there is no conclusive proof of death, The Wife shall maintain all legal rights to pursue a divorce as if The Husband were alive, but only after making a reasonable effort to locate his remains through all available means.

Notification of Discovery: In the event that The Wife discovers The Husband’s remains, she must notify The Husband’s designated legal representative, within 14 days of the discovery. Upon receipt of this notice, The Husband’s legal representative shall confirm the identification of the remains and provide written notice to both parties.

ARTICLE III: CONSEQUENCES OF BREACH OF AGREEMENT

Breach by The Husband: If The Husband is found to be in breach of this Agreement (e.g., by acting in a manner that leads to fraudulent claims of death, or failing to comply with identification procedures), The Wife may petition for divorce under the laws, irrespective of the condition precedent regarding finding remains.

Breach by The Wife: If The Wife attempts to initiate divorce proceedings without satisfying the conditions set forth in this Agreement, The Husband shall have the right to petition the courts to invalidate any such divorce attempt, and may seek damages for breach of contract as provided by the law.

ARTICLE IV: MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Mutual Consent: Both parties acknowledge that this Agreement has been entered into freely and voluntarily, and that each understands the extraordinary nature of the conditions set forth herein. The Wife acknowledges the serious implications of this contract and agrees to abide by its terms unless the conditions of divorce are satisfied.

EXECUTION

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, the parties have executed this Agreement on the day and year first above written.

[Husband's Full Name] Silas Edmund FitzGeorge

[Wife's Full Name] Y/n L/n

Witnesses: Cadbury Hawthorne Colin (surname)

“You and Mr Colin signed these documents the night you had your Nikkah with Mr Silas.” Cadbury quietly said, answering you question as to when you had signed a bullshit contract like this.

Silas fucking tricked me. He took advantage of me, put me on the spot and had everything so rushed that I didn’t even have the time to read the documents I signed.

“This is trickery. I didn’t agree to any of this-”

“That argument will not fly in court, ma’am. Your inability to have read through the papers you signed out of your own volition, still means that you did signed and agreed to the terms.” The lawyer explained.

You stared at him. “So what? You’re telling me that I cant divorce Silas, that no court will grant me a divorce from him unless I find his body?!”

“Its not necessary you find his remains. If he’s still alive, you can still get the divorce.” The lawyer answered, ignoring the angry vein on your temple. “Even if you don’t find him, you still are the sole inheritor of all of Mr Silas’s assets. I think thats a pretty sweet deal.”

“I dont want his stupid assets! I want the fucking divorce!”

The lawyer closed his brief case. “Then I suggest you find Mr Silas, ma’am.”

The first few days at the manor had been hard for you. Refusing to trust Cadbury, given his history as being Silas right hand and well, you still suspected him of drugging your tea, you fought with him. Well it was more like you yelling and throwing things at him, and he just calmly reassured you over and over again that he was and will be for the foreseeable future- loyal to you, while dodging the fine china plate you frisbeed at his head.

When you finally came around to the idea that Silas may actually be missing and this is not some ruse, that he might be in real danger, your first thought was to contact his family. But Cadbury strongly advised you against it, saying that even if you were to only inform Sarah, she would eventually reach out to her sons to help find Silas, which is a bad idea because according to Cadbury, they would jump at his inheritance which Silas left all to you and to acquire it, they will stop at nothing. Even if they have to do something less than savoury to you.

“So you’re staying back at the estate because you need to find Silas, dead or alive, in order to get a divorce from him?” Benny asked. He came here after he found you moving back to the manor.

“Yes. I signed a document saying so. And I think that if I were to stay here, I’d be able to find more clues to his whereabouts.”

“Cant you just get a dead body?”

“Ok, first of all, where would I get a random dead body that looks like Silas? Secondly, no. The authorities need to actually verify that I bring Silas’s remains, not some random guy’s. And since Silas is part of royalty and not a nobody, its almost next to impossible for me to fool anyone.”

Benny dragged his palms over his face. “Why does it even matter that you’re not a divorced? You can just come back and live with us!”

“It does matter because I am married to a FitzGeorge, and I am the duchess of Westminster, and because if I need to marry again, I cant without divorce from my last husband!” You explained. Part of the reason you’re staying at Silas’s manor is because you want to find clues to where he is, but also because with the house entirely to yourself, you can peacefully build your time machine.

“So how do you plan on finding Silas?”

“Well, first I have to determine if he’s actually gone missing or if he’s just hiding away-”

“Why would he hide?”

“I dont know, to avoid confrontation? Maybe he thinks that I’ll come for his money, which I don’t think is the case since he has given it to me now anyways.” You rubbed your chin. “Perhaps he has enemies? His life is in danger and he decided to vanish, while also keeping me bound to him just to have the last laugh.”

Benny chuckled at your suggestion. “Okay, so how will you determine if he’s missing or hiding?”

“I plan on drawing him out.” You replied. “Force him out of his hiding place.” Which isn’t as easy as it sounds because one thing is for sure, Silas is very resilient.

Cadbury walked in with tea. “Is it done?” You asked the butler who nodded. “Yes, ma’am. It should be ready for operations in a week.”

Benny looked confused. “Whats done, Y/n?”

You took your teacup from Cadbury, hiding your smile. “You’ll see. Oh and tell Colin to see me when he can.”

Colin stood outside the building you’d given him the address to.

“The London Post” He read the name on the board, which looked like it was newly installed.

He walked inside, where a receptionist greeted him and lead him to an office upstairs. On his way, he saw a bullpit full of desks with employees working in full swing. Looking at the dozens of typewriters only further confirmed his suspicions that this was a newspaper agency. But what he didn’t understand was why you had sent him here.

Was it to write an article for this paper? Or did they want to interview him for his latest expose he was forced to write on Daisy FitzGeorge?

The receptionist knocked on the office door before someone inside gave permission to enter. Swinging the door open, Colin was just able to catch the glimpse of the brass plaque on the door.

“Y/n FitzGeorge, CEO”

You were sitting in behind your mahogany desk in your plush leather chair, smiling as you greeted Colin.

“What is all this?” Colin asked, sitting down from across you.

“Dont you like my new workplace?” You asked, setting aside whatever paper you were working on. “I bought the building to start a new paper. The London Post! Has a nice ring to it, hm?”

“It does. But… why exactly did you start a newspaper company?”

Because I plan on drawing out Silas by using his money lavishly and while the first idea that came to mind was to burn it in a bornfire, another idea came to mind.

Why not use the money to ruffle some feathers as well?

Henry was going to be a problem for you longterm, you knew that for sure. So while you and Benny may have been able to get away with writing something against him one time, you doubt you’d be so lucky again.

But you cant say that to Colin without sounding like a complete lunatic.

“Because I want to write freely. I want to write the truth without some rich dirtbag trying to brush it under the rug because it interferes with his business.” Colin was impressed.

“That is… excellent. You will make a lot of people unhappy with this, but I suppose you don’t care about it.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “The truth needs to be out there. People should be able to acquire knowledge and decide for themselves what they should do with it.”

“Admirable. And I suppose you wont have to dress up as a man again. Perks of being the boss, hm?” He commented, making you laugh.

“I didn’t just invite you here to show off, Colin.” You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your desk. “I want you to work here.”

“What?”

“You can write your articles on the horrid healthcare system and you’d have your own team to help you in investigations. I’ll back you up, all the way. Whatever you need-”

“Ok.”

“Hm?”

“Ok. I accept your job offer.” Colin stood up, shaking your head. He didn’t need to be convinced much to leave Henry Blackwood.

In the evening, you failed to notice a pair of eyes stalking your form as you got in your carriage and went home.

“I seriously need to hire better security. They cant just let anyone in.” You grumbled as soon as you spotted him lounging in the parlour.

“Oh please. Like that would stop me.” Henry smirked, making himself as he poured himself a drink. “I thought you’d be happy to see me after so long, kitten.”

“So all it takes is one sip of alcohol for you to start deluding?” You rolled your eyes, giving your coat to the maid as you walked inside the room. “What do you want, Henry?”

“Just some answers, kitten.” He smiled, though it wasn’t a genuine. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“The London Post.” “Ah. The newspaper. Its a nice name, hm?”

“Y/n.” He warned.

“Henry.” You mocked back. “What is it of any concern to you?”

“Is this your big plan to get back at me? The moment I propose to a soon-to-be-divorcee, you go running back in the arms of Silas? If money was all it took, need I remind you- I have plenty more than Silas?”

Great. He just called me a gold-digger in my own house.

“First of all, I doubt that any amount of your blood-stained money will ever compare to Silas’s generational wealth. Its about class, something you wouldn’t know about.” You ran a hand through your hair. “As for why I’m back with Silas, well why don’t you see it this way? The mere idea of being with you repelled me so much that it drove me into the arms of another man.”

“And where is this other man?”

“Perhaps he was also repelled by you.” Henry crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that so? Huh. So he’s been hiding away weeks before I actually came.”

Your eyes narrowed. How does he-?

“Ah ah. I saw that look.” He snapped his fingers, sauntering over to you. “What? You really didn’t think I’d find out that he’s been missing for what? A month now?” You kept your mouth shut as he gloated. “Not a bird flutters its wing here and I am not aware. I know everything, kitten.”

Either he’s bluffing, or he’s the reason why Silas is missing. “Silas isn’t missing. He’s away on business.”

“Dont lie, love. I know the truth. Besides, what I cant figure out is why you’re back here after that nasty fight with him? I mean, the last time I saw Silas, you had sent the divorce papers yourself.”

Did you see him sign them? Is what you wanted to ask. Instead, you feigned innocense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I agree that I did take time apart after our… marital discourse, but thats normal. Lovers fight, not that you’d know. I imagine most women in your life are threatened into a relationship with you.”

He smirked. “You think about me with other women? Is my kitten jealous?” Your unamused face made him chuckle. “I just came here to congratulate you on starting your new business. Hope it doesnt burn down before it makes a real mark.”

“Is that a threat?” “Did it sound like a compliment?” You scowled, and he smirked. “My kitten has a tendency to go a little crazy and scratch others. I’d hate to be the one to have to tame you, although-”

“Get the hell out of my house!”

Henry cackled, enjoying getting under your skin. He got ready to leave, glancing at you one last time.

“You don’t belong from this world, kitten. Stop meddling with my business before you get hurt, hm?”

As days went by, the Ripper began his killing spree again. More victims came to light, most of them were people who were out and about well after midnight, but there were some cases where the victims were… just normal people. The London Post had a dedicated team working on reporting this case audit was garnering more attention. You might even dare to say… that it was more popular than Henry’s now.

Benny would swing by your office whenever he could, usually with snacks and make lighthearted conversation. You knew what he was doing though- he was checking up on you. And really, you don’t blame him. After breaking down in front of him, to sending divorce papers to Silas, to quitting your job and writing an article that damages your ex-employer’s repute, to then moving back to living at your “missing” husband’s home (who you cant divorce until you find his remains) and then starting a whole new company, who wouldn’t want to check how someone like that is doing mentally?

Its sweet really, it really is. Which is why its so hard for you to look at him as a potential killer. It doesnt help all the lies he’s told you, not to mention his relationship with the shady cross-dresser who practically threatened you to not bother Henry.

I really, really hope you’re just a closeted gay Benny.

You woke up to the sound of yelling. Looking at the clock, the needles pointed to 11 pm. You got out of bed, wrapping your night robe around yourself before leaving the room. Following the clamour, you found yourself on the top of the staircase and saw the source of noise standing in the lobby down.

It was Silas’s uncles, William and Adolphus . The two men were yelling at Cadbury, the poor butler trying to shush them and prevent them from passing past him.

“As I said sir-! Mrs Silas is asleep at the moment and I cannot allow you to enter Mr Silas’s study without her permission.”

“You have no right to stop us! And I don’t need that wench’s permission to enter wherever I please!” William, the eldest FitzGeorge shouted.

“Actually, you do.” You finally spoke up, shutting them all up. You gracefully descended the stairs, eyes narrowing down at them. “As it happens, I am the co-owner of this house.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, I tried to stop them-”

“Its alright, Cadbury.” You turned your attention back to the two men who were looking down at you. “Now that you have disturbed me from my sleep, what seems to be the problem?”

“Your stupid servant is stopping us from going to Silas’s study-”

“He’s a butler, and you will give him the due respect or you can march yourself out of here. Now.” Your words made the room silent again, and one could cut the tension with a knife.

Adolphus, the middle child of Sarah, seemed to be the one with more sense. “You’re right. But as it happens, we are in a bit of rush and we need to go to the study.”

“Why?”

“There are some papers there.” Adolphus stated, mistaking that this would be enough to satisfy you.

“So?” You crossed your arms over your chest.

“So? So we need to get them.”

“Why? Whats so important about them?”

Adolphus looked at you, then at his brother who had an angry being popping on his head, then back at you. “Silas… has granted us some money. We need those papers to access that money.”

“Ah. That is important.” You hummed, and the uncles took this as a sign for them to go and retrieve them. “Halt, now.”

“What?” William seethed.

You sighed dramatically. “Now I understand the pickle you’re in, but as it happens, Silas has absolutely forbidden anyone from entering his study without his permission and since Silas hasn’t told me beforehand about letting his uncles in, I’m afraid I cant let you go there. He’s weirdly territorial about it.”

“Then where is Silas?” William barked.

“I dont know. As a good wife, I don’t keep tabs on where my husband goes, when he’ll be back or stick my nose in his business.” You smiled charmingly, knowing these chauvinistic jerks will eat this lie up.

“Look, we’re his family. We wouldn’t betray our own.” Adolphus tried to reason with you.

You shrugged. “Orders are orders, uncle. I’m just an obedient wife, listening to my husband because I’d just be a fool not to!” Your voice drips with honey.

William glared at you, and was ready to bark an insult when you beat him to it.

“Cadbury, please show our guests the way out. Don’t hesitate to use more help if needed.” You leave before they could get another word in.

When Cadbury returns, you’re sitting in Silas’s study, holding the file that the uncles wanted. However, it didn’t say anything about any money being set aside for them. It was just Silas reiterating that you were his sole inheritor of everything.

“Ah thank goodness you didn’t let them in, ma’am.” Cadbury breathed a sigh of relief. You hummed, looking at the document again before setting it aside. You have a gut feeling that if they were to find out that Silas has left everything to you, they would not be happy.

“Did you tell them that Silas has been missing?” Cadbury shook his head. “No ma’am.”

“Then how did they know he wasnt home?”

It is possible that word got out via the house staff that he hasn’t been home in a while. Or that someone from the outside is spreading the news. Perhaps a business partner? An enemy? Maybe his uncles have a hand in his disappearance. Or it is entirely possible that Silas is behind this and is using his uncles to put me under pressure?

Whoever it is, its high time to put an end to all of this. Silas needs to be found out.

“Prepare my carriage for tomorrow. I’ll be leaving to see Silas’s grandma.”

You sensed something was gravely wrong the next day you saw Cadbury.

The butler held a letter in his trembling hands, his face pale as he read with wide eyes.

“Mrs- Mrs Fairbrother is- is dead.”

What?

You grabbed the letter from his hands, reading the details of how Sarah passed away yesterday in her sleep. It was sent by her housekeeper, who said that Mrs Fairbrother wanted to be buried in London and her funeral arrangements done by you.

Two days later, you were standing in Silas’s study, looking out the window at the funeral service arranged. Despite the large amount of attendees, everything went smoothly. Cadbury made sure of that, he basically handled all the things on your behalf.

Perhaps he knew you’d need your energy for something else soon.

You’d met with the people only briefly, accepting their condolences before you went back to hiding in the study. Sarah was buried in the family cemetery, next to her husband and near her granddaughter, Daisy. You didn’t go to the gravesite yourself, it only reminded you of Qasim. You don’t think you could ever handle going through that ordeal again.

Not to mention the big elephant in the room that you have to address.

Silas is not here.

You may not know much about him but you know for a fact how much he loved his grandmother and the fact that he’s not here means that he… he might actually have gone missing. And not by his own will.

Is he missing or is he dea-?

Cadbury entered the study with a knock, a cup of tea in his hand.

“Thank you.” You take the cup from him. He smiled, understanding your gratefulness for letting him deal with the funeral.

“I just wanted to give you a heads up, ma’am. Mr William and Mr Adolphus are waiting in the parlour downstairs with the will executor. He says its important for all family members to be there.”

“I understand.” You sigh before standing up. You walked into the parlour where the uncles were drinking

“Look who decided to finally join us.” William sneered.

“I want to say its nice to see you again but I don’t want to insult the dead by lying.” You turn your attention back to the executor. “Please lets get this done with already.”

“It wont take too long, miss.” The executor says before opening the envelope. “The will states “I am grateful to all who attended my funeral. I knew my time was coming soon, which is why I left London a month ago. It was my dream to see my beloved Silas get married and what a fine lady he chose for this family. He took care of me, as did Y/n when she became a part of our lives. Which is why I Sarah Fairbrother FitzGeorge, in sound mind and with no pressure from anyone, am leaving all of my wealth to Silas and Y/n. For my other grandsons, I leave a trust fund that they will acquire if they get into Oxford college like Silas did. The trust fund will be distributed to reputable charities if they don’t make it to college.

For my sons, William and Adolphus, I leave only this-

I know what you did. I was made aware of it in my final days and I am ashamed to call you my sons. Which is why you are both removed from my will and are not entitled to a single pound from the inheritance. If I could, I would strip you off the respectable FitzGeorge surname. Shame on you.” The executor folds the paper back. “That concludes the will, now if you could all just sign here-”

“I am not signing this bullshit!” William threw the glass on the floor, the crystal shattering everywhere. “This is complete bullshit! How the fuck does she not leave anything to me?! To her own sons?!”

The executor narrowed his eyes. “I understand this can be difficult to digest-”

“Mother must’ve been delirious. That explains it. Women experience hysteria on the daily now, its very common now a days. Why else would she leave nothing to her owns sons, and everything to Silas, who did not even bother to attend the funeral!” Adolphus spoke up.

“I assure you, sir, your mother was not delirious. She was not a mad woman when she executed her will. I was there, with two other witnesses.”

“So what? We get nothing and Silas and his bedwarmer get everything?!” William yells, glaring at you. “Where the fuck is Silas?! He cant get a single penny of this will unless he’s here!”

“I-” Your voice died down in your throat. What do I say? How long can I avoid this question?

“What?” Adolphus questioned but William walked to the executor. “Did you hear that? He’s not here which means he doesn’t get the bloody inheritance! And neither does she!”

“Actually, Miss Y/n is entitled to all of the inheritance as Mrs Sarah stated in the will.” A voice interrupted. You looked at the doorway where Cadbury was walking in with Silas’s lawyer.

“This is a private matter. You need to leave.” Adolphus stated, not liking the intrusion.

“I’m Mr Silas’s lawyer and he’s allowed me to be in matters in his place.” He set down his briefcase and pulled out some documents. “Mr Silas has already given all of his inheritance to Miss Y/n and anything that Mrs Sarah has left for him, will also be going to Miss Y/n.

The Ripper has Silas.

He’s made that much clear to you over the last two weeks via all the letters and cryptic messages he’d sent you, which you didn’t take seriously at first because for all you could know, this could be just a prank or from Silas enemies to scare you.

Then came the present.

It was a small box with a red bow on it, left on the windowsill of your room. When you opened it, your blood ran cold at the contents inside.

It was a ring. The wedding band.

The day you married Silas, his grandmother gave you her late husband’s ring to give to Silas. It was a family heirloom and it was his grandfather’s. Losing it, it’s not something Silas would risk just to trouble you.

He was in serious danger. Especially if the Ripper is the one who has him.

You wanted to go to the cops, but knowing how they never actually came close to catching the killer, you decide to go to someone more powerful.

The Queen.

Now I know she may not have MI5, but surely she’d have contacts and perhaps some secret agents who’d do a much better job of finding her royal relative.

“The queen is busy and cannot see anyone at the moment.” The royal servant told you at the front door. That’s as far as they’d allowed you to enter.

“I don’t think you understand. My husband, a royal member of the family has gone missing and possibly been abducted by the Ripper-!”

“I don’t think you understand, miss.” He cut you off. “The queen is simply too busy to entertain any civilians or their lost men.”

“He’s not a civilian! Silas FitzGeorge-”

“Is not recognised by the royal family. Please refrain yourself from associating that name with the prestigious royal household.”

You looked at him dumbfounded. Is he- did the queen really just cut Silas out of the family?

“Then as a civilian, I am begging you to let me see the queen. I want to find my husband and only she can help me.”

“The queen has far more important engagements at the moment.”

Clenching your fists to stop yourself from swinging at him and running inside the palace, you asked him. “Does she hate Silas that much that she didn’t attend Sarah’s funeral? Or did she loathe Sarah that much that she refuses to help find Silas?”

“Let me show you the exit-”

You swiftly turned and left, your body ready to combust from anger.

How can anyone do that? Just refuse to help a family member? You’re no stranger to enemies-in-family, but still- she adored Silas enough to reintroduce him as a part of her family just months ago. Did she really just hate him for marrying me, or as Silas showed the world- “married for love”.

How can you just turn your back on family?

You stormed into your office, breathing heavily. Fine then. If she won’t let me see her, I’ll make her come to me.

“COLIN!” He came into your office alarmed. “I need you to allocate 5 of the best writers on a new project. Give them whatever they need, no expenses spared.”

“What’s the project?”

“The royal family.”

“What?”

“Every crime they’ve committed, every scandal they’ve been involved in, every time they’ve so much as swatted a fly! I want it all reported and published.” Colin’s eyes widened at your words.

“Y/n it’s not wise-“

“Colin, I’m not in need of wisdom. I know what I’m doing, I know the risks I’m taking, so spare me the advice and do what I’m asking you to do. Please.” You rubbed your temples.

He gave a nod. “Very well.”

“Oh and Colin?” “Yes?”

“Please send the team working on the Ripper to me. And if you could, please send for the coppers.”

“Why?” Colin asked, testing his luck.

“Silas has been taken by the Ripper. And I have letters from him.”

The next few weeks were very busy, with police officers interrogating you about Silas and the Ripper to representatives coming from the royal family to stop you from slandering them, which besides being satisfying to your ego, was also good for business as people loved to watch “the rich get torn apart a new one”.

But you didn’t have the time to enjoy that when you had a literal serial killer murdering people left and right with notes attached, always written to you. Well, not exactly to you- he’s kind enough to just praise your paper for getting details right about him, and only rarely adding in corrections about how he murdered someone,

You had asked him to return Silas in one of the articles your paper published, pleading him to send “the love of my life” back.

The psycho slashed a smile on the next victim’s stomach, with the words “GOOD JOKE!” written in blood on the walls.

To deal with all that, you had decided to cross out one item off your list-

Get rid of the portrait.

The moment you returned home from the crime scene and spotted the painting that was glaring down at you, you had it pulled off the wall of the staircase and set out in the gardens.

“Having a bonfire, are we?” Henry spoke from behind you, rubbing his hands as he saw you standing alone in front of the large fire pit you’d started.

Watching the last bit of the paper turn to ash, put your mind at ease. “Care to join?” You asked.

Henry’s lips quirked up. “Oh I’d love to be by your side-“

“I meant the fire. Care to jump in?” You didn’t move your eyes from the fire.

He pouted. “Oh kitten, if you want me to keep you warm, I know far better ways-“

“I’d rather you push me into the fire.” Your monotonous tone makes him chuckle. “I can’t do that. I’d lose the most popular person in Britain then!”

“Popular?” “No need to be humble, love. You’re both the most hated and most loved woman in all of England right now! People just loathe the way you’re tearing down the monarchy and yet they can’t help but adore your fake tears for your missing husband.”

“They’re not fake.” You whisper. “I do miss Silas, and I do want him back.”

“I need him.” To finalise the stupid divorce. “But no matter how hard I try, I can’t find him.”

Henry stared at you, an unsavoury emotion swirling in his eyes though he managed to keep his expression neutral.

“You don’t need Silas. You think you do, but the human body is capable of surviving with way less than the bare minimum.” He looks ahead with you at the dancing flames. “All you have to do is leave this place and go home.”

“It’s not that simple.” Shaking your head, you answer him. “I can’t just up and leave him, not when I know he’s in danger, when he’s being held hostage and I can do something about it.” You finally turn to him, finding him staring at you already. “Which is why I sent for you today.”

He raised a brow. “You want me to find Silas.” He said in an unamused voice.

“Please.”

“I may be fond of you, kitten but don’t you think it’s harsh and frankly, unreasonable to expect your admirer to find a man for you?” He chuckled, roaming his eyes anywhere to conceal his jealousy.

“I’m desperate-” “Clearly.” He scoffed.

You took a deep breath. “If you find Silas, I’ll leave him.”

Henry’s head turned to you. “I’ll leave Silas, I’ll divorce him. I’ll leave London for good.”

He looked at you for a moment before sighing. “I’ll hold you to that promise.”

Your shoulders relaxed. “So you’ll find him? Good, I can go and deal with the monarchs-“

He grabbed your shoulder. “Not so fast, kitten. First, you’re going to attend a party with me.”

“Why?”

“I’d like to have the most popular lady on my arm for a night.” He grinned, making you roll your eyes. “Besides, I think you’d enjoy seeing a few familiar faces there, for your paper, hm?”

You were standing inside the Gentleman’s club, waiting for Henry to receive you. It was a grand party, they usually are around here but everything seemed to be grander this time around.

Two weeks ago, when you were given an invitation to the club, Henry had asked you to stop publishing anything regarding the Ripper, as to stop giving him the attention he seemed to thrived on and make him slip up in an attempt to regain his popularity back. So, you ignored the letters you got from the killer, reading them but never responding.

There was a large guest list but no masquerade this time, except for the workers who were responsible for “entertainment”, they wore masks.

You saw many of high society there, including the sleazebag Charles Dickens. He never seemed to issue the opportunity to be present anywhere debauchery is popular.

“You look ravishing, love.” Henry’s husky voice reached you before you felt his arm on your waist. You frowned at his closeness but decided to put up with it for the night, after all you did agree to be “arm candy” for the night.

“Aw, are you afraid someone might see you being so cozy with the most handsome bachelor in London?” His earthy cologne filled your lungs, and you hoped by the end of the night, you don’t end up smelling like him.

“Most handsome bachelor? So you have found Silas?” You feigned innocence but he didn’t seem fazed by the insult, in fact pulling you closer to him. “You’re looking just too gorgeous tonight for me to admonish you, but who knows? Maybe we can arrange some type of punishment to put you in your place later tonight.”

You smile seductively at him, putting a hand on his chest. “Not if I punish you first.” You drag a nail over his chest bluntly, making a mischievous glint appear in his eyes.

“Yeah? What do you have in mind, baby?”

You giggle sweetly, batting your lashes up at him.

“How does getting whacked by a cactus sound?”

“Exciting!” He gave you a huge grin. “Pain is pleasure, kitten. And I’ll make sure you learn to love everything I give you.”

You push him away, rolling your eyes as he chuckled. “Pervert…”

“I jest, milady. Come now, let’s greet our guests.” He takes your hand and pulls you along.

“Our guests?” He nods. “You are my date for the night, so you’re going to be hosting these guests with me. I think you’ll find some very interesting people here.”

“Yeah? Like who?”

He leaned down to whisper in your ear, nodding ahead. “See that man with the beard? That’s Mr Bell. He’s currently working on a device that’ll make it possible to communicate from distance.”

Bell… as in-

“Alexander Graham Bell?!” You harshly whispered.

He quirked a brow. “A fan, are we? Didn’t know you’ve also been following his work.” Only since elementary school science class!

Henry then nodded at another guy in the corner. “See that young fellow in the corner, surrounded by women? Yes, that’s Louis Pasteur. Odd fellow, always going on about invisible germs and what not, but I know a genius when I see one. That’s why I invested in him, even if I don’t fully understand what he’s working on, I know he’ll worth something someday. I wouldn’t get too close to him, he smells like spoiled milk often.”

He then waved at two ladies sitting on a sofa, surrounded by men and women- entertaining them. “Enjoying yourself girls?” They smiled at him with flushed faces, as you turned away in horror.

“That’s Dr Elizabeth Anderson, first female to qualify as a doctor in Britain. The young gal next to her is nurse Florence Nightingale. Sweet girl.” Henry introduced you and never in a million years did you imagine meeting your scientific heroes in a place like this.

“What- what are they doing here?” “What do people do at a party? Enjoy.” “I meant, what are they doing here in this disgusting place-“

“Excuse you, but my club prides itself in maintaining its hygiene better than most hospitals here.” He grabbed a glass of champagne from the waiter passing by. “They’re here because I want them here. Every guest here tonight, I have granted them favours and now, they’re forever indebted to me.”

“Why do you want them here tonight?”

He sipped his drink. “Let’s just say, they’re here to make someone feel comfortable tonight.”

You frowned. “I don’t feel comfortable.” Henry laughed. “Oh, I love you darling, but tonight, we have a more important guest than you. Come now, they should be coming soon and I’d hate for you to miss their entry.”

He took you along with him up the staircase, standing over the railing as you looked down at the main floor, a clear view of everyone.

“Henry.” He was leaning over the railing, his shoulders looking even more broad as he rested his arms against the bannister. “Did you find anything?”

He understood what you were referring to. “I found a lot of things, it’s all in my office, but nothing that tipped off to Silas’s whereabouts.”

“What about the Ripper’s whereabouts?”

“I’m focusing on finding Silas. Not a deranged killer.” “Henry-“ he narrowed his eyes at you. “How are you so sure that he took Silas? For all you know, Silas could be hiding because he cheated on you or something.”

“He sent me the ring.” “So what? He could’ve just-”

“No!” You snapped, making him narrow his eyes at you. “He wouldn’t have just given up the ring for petty revenge or to make my life difficult. He wouldn’t- you don’t know him like I do. The ring is very important to him, he wouldn’t give it up without a fight.”

Henry was ready to say something, probably argue more, but right then, a commotion started on the ballroom floor.

All the guests had started to look towards the entrance, where some men stood. There were hushed whispers of disbelief, people looking around to make sure that someone else was also seeing at what they were.

The chief guest had arrived. And as they appeared from the shadows and into the center, your breath hitched with almost everyone there.

It was Prince Edward VII, Queen Victoria’s son and successor.

What the hell is he doing here?

You turned to ask Henry, only to see him walking down the stairs to greet the prince. Why did Henry invite the prince to the club? What evil plan did he have in mind? Or did he do this for you, so that you’d write about royalty being associated with such perversity?

You turned away from the bannister and looked around for Henry’s office.

After a few minutes of walking in on people making out, you finally found the office. Stepping in, you spotted a file on his desk and as you suspected, it had everything on Silas’s life, including how Daisy ended up in the asylum. Apparently one day, uncle William had called her over to his estate to discuss an important family matter.

She never returned. It’s reported that the following morning, William and Adolphus had her admitted to the asylum because she was “acting odd” and was “delusional”.

The file also details that while it was rare, Silas was able to visit Daisy a few times there whenever he got time off from boarding school. Unfortunately, in less than a year in the asylum, Daisy had taken her own life.

You close the file, setting it back on the desk before moving towards the other side and sitting in Henry’s chair.

Might as well go through his stuff if I’m snooping.

You open the single drawer and it has a small box containing a few cigars and some papers. You close it and are about to make your way outside when you hear footsteps coming towards the room. You look around for shelter before ducking under the mahogany desk, just as the door opens.

“Why haven’t you been responding to my letters?” You heard Benjamin’s voice. “Why did you make the guards turn me away whenever I came here?”

You heard the sound of glass clinking and a drink being poured. “And yet here you are. Take a hint, Benny boy.” You recognised Lady Scarlett’s voice.

“Scarlett” you heard strain in his voice. “I just- I don’t understand. What are Henry’s intentions with Y/n?”

“What do you care?” The annoyance was evident in Scarlet’s voice. “You love her or something?”

There were a few seconds of silence. “She’s a friend.”

Scarlet’s heels clicked as he walked to the corner of the room to pour herself another drink. “She’s been taken care of.” “What do you mean?” “She won’t be meddling with our business again, I had a talk with her. She won’t be coming back here. And if she does… well, I’m afraid your friendship won’t save her.”

“Scarlett-” “Do the job you’ve been given, Benny. Find out who’s been going after Henry’s business. We lost another two guards that were sent to keep an eye on Y/n.”

What?

A few seconds later, you heard them walk out of the office. Sighing in relief, you stand up to leave from your hiding spot but hit your head on the mahogany desk. You groaned, clutching your head as the drawer slides out slightly from your head bump, and that’s when you spot it.

A secret compartment on the side of the drawer!

It had a small lock on it, which was easy to open with a bobby pin. The small wooden door unlocked and without missing a beat, you opened it.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for what was in there.

“No- how…?” You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the object, from-

The Time Machine.

My Time Machine!

Thud.

You jumped at the sound. It came from the window. You didn’t move from your spot, either waiting for the source to reveal or perhaps you were too stunned to move.

A few seconds later, it happened again. Only this time, a rock burst through the window, shattering the glass everywhere. You stayed on the ground before creeping towards the windowsill to find the source, and there he was- standing alone in the dark alleyway, his figure illuminated just enough to give him away.

The Ripper.

You couldn’t make out his face due to the dark alley, but it was clear he was looking at you.

Your heart almost leapt out of your throat when he waved at you.

What the fuck?

Locked in a trance, you couldn’t move from the window. You know you should’ve ducked, should’ve moved out of sight but it was like you knew if you looked away, if you so much as blinked he’d-

“Y/N!”

You’re yanked away from the window, face colliding into Benjamin’s chest. “There’s a fire! We need to leave!” You looked back towards the window.

He’s gone.

“Come on!” Ben dragged you out the door by your arm and that’s when you were hit in the face by the intense heat.

The once fancy club was now set aflame. Flames licked their way up the walls, devouring the silken tapestries and velvet curtains. The air was now thick with smoke. People were screaming and trampling all over each other to get out, their masks discarded as their faces were painted with horror. Your heart dropped at the panic of it all.

You’re lucky Ben was there, because while you were frozen up, he took charge and pulled you out of the club, pushing through the doors as people poured out on to the freezing London streets.

Ben was putting his coat around your shoulders when you looked back at the club, the once luxurious facade now consumed by fire as screams echoed against to haunting night.

And then, there was loud explosion on the upper floor, more specifically, from Henry’s office where you stood only moments ago, destroying everything in its vicinity.

He did this. Without a shadow of doubt, you knew he did this.

By the time you returned home, a bouquet of roses was waiting for you on your bed, a note attached with it.

You knew who it was from before you even opened it.

In the same elegant handwriting, it read-

“Do I have your attention now, darling?

I do not appreciate being ignored by you, love.”

(Ignoring being that you haven’t responded to his letters by writing articles about him the past few weeks.)

“I don’t understand why you pretend not to see me, when you know I’m here. The way your body tenses, the way you look over your shoulder when I’m near. You know I’m here. You always have.

I do not take being ignored lightly. I have tolerated your silence, your dismissiveness, your feigned ignorance. But there are limits to my restraint, and you are dangerously close to testing them. I wonder—do you truly believe you can pretend I do not exist forever? That if you avert your gaze, I will simply disappear?

You should know better.

This is not a game. I have seen things, learned things—collected things—that you would not want in the wrong hands. And if I were you, I would think very carefully about whether continued defiance is worth the consequences.

You will acknowledge me. One way or another.

See you soon, sweetheart.

JTR.”

It had been only a few days since the club burned down. As expected, it was the front page headline on every major newspaper.

Except for one, very new publishing company, who published this headline that made everyone buy their paper only:

“FUTURE KING OF ENGLAND FOUND AT THE DEVIANTS DEN WHERE THE RIPPER MADE A SURPRISE APPEARANCE!”

Representatives from the monarchy came to the London Post everyday, and later by the estate to demand that you take down the scandalous article.

“No.” You state, fixing your sunglasses. You were getting ready to go somewhere, and as much as fun it was to get payback, it was starting to get boring when these representatives came over everyday.

“But the royal family-”

“Is not my family. Is not Silas’s family because as I recall, no one from the royal family sent a condolence message, much less attend Lady Sarah’s funeral, and when I came to ask you to help find my husband, you refused. So gentlemen, I frankly don’t give a shit.”

“You will regret this.” You stopped at his words, turning around. The man with the thick moustache glared at you. “Those who do not fall in line, fall out. This is your last warning.”

“Yeah? Well, you can shove that warning up your ass.”

You got into your carriage, pondering over his words. Does the monarchy want to kill me?

You scoffed.

They’re gonna have to get in the fucking line.

You stopped by the London Post first, giving them orders to write more articles on prince Edward and the sighting of the notorious killer in the same place. Colin came to your office and handed you a folder, and when you read its contents, you smiled.

“When should we publish it?” Colin asked.

“Not yet.” You close the folder and stand up. “You have made a copy of this, right?” He nodded. “Good. Hide it in a safe place.”

He furrowed his brows. “Hide it? Why?”

“Because I don’t want it to be leaked before time.” You replied, grabbing your coat and leaving before he could ask for more.

Sighing, Colin pulled out his flask and looked around before taking a big gulp.

Your carriage stopped next at the cemetery. Grabbing the flowers, you walked out of the carriage and entered the cemetery. It was midday on a Monday, so there weren’t a lot of people here. Walking past a man who was digging up a grave, you realised you didn’t know where you were supposed to go.

So you asked the man. “Ah. It’s just up the hill, next to the tree.” You thanked him before looking down at the cradle he was preparing. Flashbacks of Qasim’s burial came to mind and your heart wrenched.

Following your gaze, the man shook his head. “Rich folks these days… they’re getting odder. They just don’t know how to spend their money, so off they go buying their burial plots, just in case they suddenly drop dead.”

You laughed lightly before going up the hill to your destination.

“Sarah Fairbrother-FitzGeorge” the tombstone read.

“Hi, Sarah.” You cleared your throat, resting the boquet of flowers next to the stone. “I know I should’ve visited earlier, but um… heh, I was preoccupied with some things. All Silas’s fault.” You joke, before patting the folder Colin gave you. “I think- I think I’ve found a way to find Silas. I don’t know if it’ll work, because well- he is being held captive by a psychopath whose identity remains unknown even in the future, but at the very least, I’d still be pissing off a lot of people and these days, that brings me joy.” You chuckle, before nodding. Offering a small prayer for her, you turn on your heel and leave.

As you walk away, your eyes fall on the burial site the man was preparing earlier, though he was no longer there. Instead, he was walking with another man, who towered over him. They were talking and you saw the taller one hand him a wad of cash.

You got in your carriage and told the driver to take you home.

As the carriage began moving, your mind wandered back to the night at the club. Of course, you haven’t forgotten the most important discovery that night-

The Time Machine.

And even though you weren’t able to see Henry again since because he was busy with police or his business, you already knew your Time Machine was destroyed for sure this time.

Which begs the question- who did this?

You were brought out of your thoughts as the carriage came to a sudden halt and there was a commotion outside. You heard your driver arguing with someone and as you opened the door to see, a man suddenly pushed you back in. You looked at his face that was covered with a bandana, his eyes glaring at you. He jumped into the carriage and you jumped back to the other door, only for another man with similar getup, entered from that side, trapping you in.

And in that split second, you knew if you didn’t fight now, there’s no chance anyone will find you.

You kicked the man in front of you, trying to push him out the door as the carriage began moving. The man behind you grabbed your shoulder and pulled you back, but you twisted your arm and elbowed him in the gut, making him lose his grip on you. But then the man in front of you lunged at you and grabbed a hold of your neck, pulling you up and then smashing your head back on the wooden floor of the carriage, knocking the air out of you.

Your hands began to claw at his when he began squeezing your neck, your eyes bulging out as he increased the pressure. You couldn’t even say a word as he strangled you. Tears formed in your eyes as you looked at the man behind you, silently begging him for mercy.

But he simply tilted his head at you, his eyes crinkling as if he was smiling.

“You shouldn’t have stuck your nose in places it didn’t belong, woman.” He sneered.

You shouldn’t have stuck your nose in places it didn’t belong, woman.

Really, if I had just minded my own business, I wouldn’t be here. If I had never bothered with finding out the infamous killer, if I had never bothered with finding out everyone’s secrets, if I had just never gotten in the damn machine, I would’ve avoided this fate.

Black spots began to cloud your vision and your grip on the hands around your neck began to loosen, ready to accept the fate when the carriage came to a halt, followed by a scream and a thud.

The men seemed startled and the man behind you pulled out a knife, silently waiting for an attack.

But he was taken by a surprise when the other door opened and the man strangling you was ripped off you and out of the carriage.

He leaped out to help him, leaving you inside. Collecting your breath, you got out of the carriage to run, when you saw the decapitated body of your strangler lying outside the door.

“Please! Don’t-!” You looked up just in time to see a tall figure holding the second attacker in a chokehold and then-

He slit his throat.

Your eyes widened as blood spurted out of his neck and he fell to the ground. The dark figure breathed heavily and slowly, he turned his head to look at you.

For a moment, you thought he’d come for you next. But he simply turned around and left.

It was only when his back was facing you that you realised who it was. Tall figure, broad shoulders and the top hat-

Jack the Ripper.

And if that wasn’t enough confirmation, the bouquet of white roses on your bed certainly were, and a note that read-

“Next time, look away.”

Was this an apology? Or a warning?

You were sitting inside the white drawing room at Buckingham Palace. No, you were not summoned. And no, they did not throw you out like last time. In fact, they sat you inside for a meeting with the royal directly once you told them that you’d take down everything from before if they met you just once.

You fixed your dress, then adjusted your seat. You’d come here the day after you’d been ambushed and after speaking to the authorities, you came here.

The door opened and you stood up, throat going dry at the thought of meeting her. The Queen.

Instead, a tall man walked inside. A familiar tall man with steely eyes.

Prince Albert.

You courtesy as he made his way towards you, arms behind his back.

“Your majesty.”

“Lady FitzGeorge.” He looked you from top to bottom, sizing you up. He motioned for you sit, taking his seat on the sofa across you. “How may I help you?”

“You’re not who I was expecting but… I suppose you should be the one to deal with this.” You pulled out the brown folder and passed it to him.

“What? Is a prince not good enough for you?” He retorted, amusement in his eyes that died as he opened the file. “What is this?”

“Don’t worry, I haven’t published it yet but I will tomorrow.” You smiled, watching his jaw tick.

“There’s no merit to this.” He flipped through the pages. “No one would ever believe this.”

“And yet you read.” You sigh. “There is merit to this, your majesty. I was there that night at the club and I saw your son.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “So? That qualifies you to link the royal family to being mentally insane?”

“No, but perhaps your son being in a relationship with a cross dressing, gay man would.” You clasp your hands. “Now, you could argue that just because Prince Edward did something like that, it doesn’t mean that the entire royal family is insane. And that’s when I’ll bring up how completely insane it was for Prince George to marry his mistress, Sarah Fairbrother. And then how his son jumped off a ship and died when his wife was murdered. Not to mention Daisy, Silas’s late sister, who was admitted in a mental institution where she died. And now you’ll say- “that just insinuates that the FitzGeorge line is insane!” Well, that’s when I’ll bring up the all the diseases that run in your family.”

“There are no diseases-”

“Your sons have a tendency to bleed for a prolonged time when they’re hurt.” You watched his eyes widen slightly. “Even small bruises and cuts take too long to heal. Sometimes they don’t.”

They didn’t just call Hemophilia “the Royal Disease” for nothing.

“And as for mental health, well, respectfully, Her Majesty isn’t doing so well, is she?”

He stood up angrily. “Victoria is not sick-!”

“No, but she is pregnant. A lot.” You stand up slowly. “Everyone she gives birth, her majesty becomes someone else, doesn’t she? She doesn’t hold the baby, she despises her heir, she grows gloomy and introverted and by now, any normal man of today’s era would’ve sent his wife to a mental asylum. But not you. No, you love her. And the royal status, of course, which you’d lose if she’s gone. So what do you do? You keep your wife pregnant, so that’s she’s unable to take part in her duties, where you step in, playing the monarch while letting the government excuse your wife and her behaviour for being with child.” It was a shot in the dark, but you always theorised that the queen relied very heavily on her husband because well-

She was constantly suffering from postpartum depression. From one pregnancy to the next. She didn’t have much time to recover from it.

Prince Albert flared his nostrils. “You have some nerve to make bold accusations-“

“Not just accusations. I am willing to go above and beyond for my husband.” You exhale. “In the past few months, since Silas has gone missing, I have given up on being courteous and forgiving. I have asked for help, I have begged for it everywhere, only to be turned down, insulted and threatened. I will no longer be allowed to be mistreated. You and the queen had once claimed Silas as your family, and now that he’s no longer of use, you discard him? If not that he’s blood, could you not care about him as a human? As a citizen of your kingdom?”

Albert remained silent as you talked.

“I had come here before, asking for help.” You shake your head. “I’m not asking anymore. You have until 8 am tomorrow to find Silas, or I’m publishing this article.”

“How-” “You have abundant money and resources, eyes and ears everywhere, I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

“You can’t-“ “I assure you, I can and I will. I will burn this kingdom to the ground and watch from the front row. Why should I be the only to suffer, when I can make everyone else hurt as well?” You walk past him.

“And what makes you think I can’t stop you right now?” His voice stopped you.

You turned to look at him, raising a brow.

“And what makes you think that I didn’t come here without an exit strategy?” You sigh, as if tired of explaining everything. “Do you believe that the file is the only copy?”

After you’d left the palace, you were going to return home, but you spotted Benjamin on the street. He was walking in a rush, pushing past the crowd to go somewhere.

You followed him on foot, blending in with the public to remain undetected. Finally, after 20 minutes or so, you saw him stop outside a run-down building. It was on the opposite end of town, near the slums of London.

After a few minutes, Benjamin left the building, slamming the door on his way out. He stormed down the street and you lost sight of him. You focused back on the building. What was in there? What happened to make Benjamin lose his cool?

After a little bit of contemplation, you decided to investigate.

Crossing the street, you made your way to the alley besides the building. You spotted a window but it was a little high up, so you backed up a bit and then used the dumpster to jump up high enough for your hand to grab onto the window ledge.

Pulling yourself up, you peeked inside. It was normal sitting room, though a bit fancier than exterior of the building. You inched your fingers towards the glass and opened it slowly. Hearing no one, you attempted to lift yourself inside, but suddenly a hand grabbed your wrist and yanked you inside.

You fell face first on the carpeted floor.

“You just like to get yourself in trouble, don’t you?” Lady Scarlet smiled down at you. She was wearing a wine red silk robe, hair as red and luscious as ever.

Shocked, you stared as she gazed out the window to see if anyone else was there, a drink in her hand as she closed the window shut. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to snoop around?”

You get off the floor and glare at him. “Didn’t your mother teach you to be a man?”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “What are you doing here?”

“Following Benjamin. What are you doing here?”

“I’m sure you know my last home was burned down.” “You call that place home- nevermind.” He rolled his eyes at your insults. He walked out of the parlour and you followed him. “What did Benjamin want from you? Why did he look so mad?”

“What do you care?” He sighed exasperated, entering the study.

“He’s my friend.” You stated firmly as he sprawled himself over the chair across the mahogany desk.

“I’m starting to think he’s more than a friend.” He looked at you through the crystal glass he drank from.

“And if he is? What’s it to you?” You crossed your arms and you watched something flicker across his eyes. Disdain? Resentment? Jealousy?

“Screw him for all I care.” He looked away from you, sipping his drink. “Thanks, not that I was looking for permission.” You sigh, looking around the room. There seemed to be something familiar about this place.

“If you won’t tell me about Benjamin, at least tell me where Henry is?”

“He’s left London.” Scarlet stood up and made his way to the corner table to pour himself another drink. “And before you ask- no, he’s not on the run. He has business to deal with.” He looked at his glass and then at you. “I don’t suppose youd drink this.”

“No, but I’d be leaving soon anyways.” You turn around. “Without this?” You looked over your shoulder as you heard him open a drawer, and your breath hitched at what he’d pulled out.

The Time Machine.

“How did you-“

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you hiding under the desk in the club that night? I spotted the moment you’d entered, hanging off Henry’s arm.”

“I was hiding under-“

“I saw your stubby ankles sticking out from the side of the desk.” He played with the Time Machine, popping it in the air and catching it, your heart dropping for the exact amount of time it was in the air.

What if it broke?!

“I don’t know what this is, but I do know that this is important to you.” He looked at the machine. “When the fire broke out in the club, I returned to the study to grab some of Henry’s important documents and that’s when I grabbed it. I’ve had it for weeks now, and I still don’t know what it is.”

“It’s a clock.” You nod at the numbers written on it. “It shows the date and time simultaneously. I invented it.” The lie slipped though your teeth with ease. “I’m supposed to patent it and sell it, hopefully make a fortune out of it.”

“Impressive. But you don’t need a fortune now, do you?” He was referring to Silas’s money you’d inherited.

“Still. It’s something I created. It’s mine.” You insisted.

He smirked. “Well, then that means it’s invaluable.” You scowled at his tone. “What do you want for it? Money?”

“No, that’d be too easy.” He hummed. “I want you to give me something that would… torment you for a long time.” And then suddenly, his eyes shone bright, as if he got an idea.

“I want a kiss.”

“What?”

“Kiss me.” He walked up to you. “Kiss me, the cross-dresser pervert you hate so much, and you can have your little clock.”

“I don’t have time for jokes.”

“Clearly. I still have your clock.” He waved the machine in front of you, irking you.

Glaring daggers at him, you cross your arms across your chest. “You think I won’t do it because what? I’m a Muslim?”

He smirks. “You’re all bark and no bite, darling.”

You suddenly grab his collar and yank him close. “You want a kiss? Fine.” His eyes widened for a second before turning lustful, landing on your lips.

“Go ahead. Take the lead.” He smiled, looking into your eyes.

Exhaling inaudibly, you keep a firm a grip on his collar as you lean in, to stop him if he tries anything.

Just get it over with.

Time slowed down as you zeroed in on his lips. They were stained from the wine. He had a slight stubble, just beginning to grow. The rest of his skin was smooth, even with the makeup.

Stop stalling. Get it over with.

You gulp and just as you’re about to close the distance, the door suddenly bashes open as 3 masked men barge in.

Scarlett pulls away from you, both of you stepping back as the men begin stalk towards you.

Scarlett squared his shoulders. “Gentlemen, I suggest you walk away right now unless you want to be seriously hurt.”

That sentence alone was all it took for the masked men to lunge. You sidestepped as one jumped towards you while the other two men attacked Scarlett. Grabbing the crystal bottle from the corner, you bashed it against the man’s head, making him stumble. It gave you enough time to run, but as you ran down the hall towards the main door, it opened to reveal 2 more masked men. You twisted on your heel and ran through the door on your right, the parlour. You dashed towards the window and opened it, jumping out of it just as a hand grabbed your wrist, but your sleeve ripped and you slipped, falling down to the ground on your knees, scraping them.

Instead of your knees, you looked at the Time Machine in your hand. Yes, you’d swiped it the moment those men barged in. You didn’t have time to celebrate as you heard footsteps. Getting back on your feet, you ran towards the opposite end of the alley. You turned the corned and noticed the streets were way less busy than usual, which meant you couldn’t lose these attackers in the crowd.

Still, you screamed at the bystanders to help.

“Help! Those men are chasing me!”

Of course, they’d only looked on in shock. Someone even went back inside their house.

You ran towards a carriage at the end of the street, hoping to get in and use your machine to get out of this era, but two more masked men rounded the corner, making you change your step and dash towards the other side of the road and round that corner.

Looking over your shoulder for a second, you spotted four- no, five men hot on your heels. There’s no way you’ll be able to beat them on your own.

I need to get somewhere dark, somehwere isolated to use the damn machine without having one of these men grab onto me and travel with me to another time!

As you ran down the street, you looked over your shoulder one more time, only to crash into someone.

Strong hands grabbed onto you and you don’t think you’d ever been this glad to see a man.

“Y/n-?”

“BEN! THOSE MEN ARE CHASING ME!” You pointed at the masked men, who slowed down, strolling towards you two now.

Benjamin’s face hardened and he pushed you behind him. “There’s a cemetery down the road. Hide there. I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

You breathed heavily and then ran, spotting the cemetery. It was dark and considering how late it was now, you doubted there’d be any visitors.

It’s the perfect spot for you to use the machine.

Running into the cemetery, you immediately recognised it as the one where Sarah was buried. You jogged further in to find a hiding spot, lest any of the attackers manages to slip by Benjamin.

It was dark in the graveyard, only the moon illuminating the place. Just enough for you to find the trail that lead up to Sarah’s grave. On your way up the trail, you spotted the grave from the other day. The one that was dug up in advance but didn’t have a coffin.

It was filled now, mud piled over it messily.

You gulped, walking up to Sarah’s tombstone and resting against the tree, trying to catch your breath. As much you’d like to go help Benjamin, well truthfully, you couldn’t. It was clear the men were sent by Prince Albert to get rid of you, just like the other day.

Pulling out your machine, you began setting in the time.

Time to go home-

“Leaving without a goodbye?” You jumped back, startled. And if you weren’t scared before, the shadow of the tall man in the long coat and the top hat certainly was enough for your soul to leave your body.

The Ripper.

His face, still concealed by the dark night.

“Please- don’t-“ you backed away. He titled his head. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. I just came to bid you farewell.”

You were too mortified to express your confusion.

He sighs. “I had hoped you’d stay long enough to play the game with me, especially now that you were so close to winning.” Game? Winning?

He looked away from you and towards the grave, the fresh one.

“But I suppose the reward is just not good enough. Oh well. At least, I don’t have to clean up after this one.”

You followed his gaze to the grave and then looked back at him, then back again at him. The horrifying realisation slapped you in the face.

“SILAS!” You dashed towards the grave, stopping in disbelief but one look at the man on the trail had you falling to your knees as you began digging through the dirt, the machine discarded.

The mud was still wet, which meant that he had been buried today, possibly a few hours ago.

Was he dead? Or was he buried alive? You didn’t know which answer petrified you more.

You were breathing fast, hyperventilating as your hands shoveled the dirt for god knows how long.

This is an unmarked grave. It doesn’t even have a tombstone. No one would’ve found him if you’d left-

Your hands felt something hard and you knew you were close to finding the coffin. Moments later you’d finally been able to shove dirt off to reveal a pale wooden coffin. But no matter how hard you tried, it didn’t budge open, it was like it was nailed shut.

That didn’t stop you from starting to bang your fists in. The wood was off poor quality, not solid wood but you doubt it was going to stop you from breaking it open.

You just needed to see him, needed to see his face.

Adrenaline pumped through your veins as you punched over and over until your knuckles began bleeding, but you didn’t let it deter you. No. You didn’t stop punching until the wood began to splinter and finally a hole formed as the wood gave out.

With a grunt, you ripped the wood from crevice and saw him.

“SILAS!” He was lying there, going in and out of consciousness. He was alive! “Silas! Get up! We need to get out of here- SILAS!”

You attempted to pull him out but that was much harder when he was a dead weight and he slipped out of your grasp and back into the coffin. He was drowsy, probably either drugged or from the lack of oxygen when he was inside the coffin. But you needed him to get a grip.

So you slapped him across the face, making him snap out of it. “SILAS! This is not your fucking grave! GET THE FUCK UP!” Silas only stared at you, in disbelief? In shock? He didn’t say a word, but he was more conscious, though still weak as you helped him up.

You climbed out of the grave and then pulled him up, but as soon as he was out, he was suddenly struck by a metal rod, making him fall. “Silas!” You dove towards him and shoved the man away from him, making him appear into the moonlight and revealing himself to be-

William? Silas’s uncle?

“No!” You shielded Silas with your arms as he struck again, hitting you. “Stop! You’ll kill him!”

“Good! I’ll get rid of you two together and get my damn money at once.” You jumped over Silas to shield him, as his uncle began raining down strike after strike, not stopping as you screamed in pain.

You blacked out and it was Silas who had to witness from the corner of his eyes as a figure came up behind his uncle and grabbed him by the throat. The metal rod fell to the ground with a clang and one second, his uncle was being choked and in the next, his throat was slashed.

The tall figure turned towards you two and slowly made his way to Y/n, looking directly at Silas as he knelt down and picked you up.

“If you don’t sacrifice for what you want,

What you want becomes the sacrifice.” He said, looking down at you as he caressed your cheek.

He looked back at Silas.

“You’ll never see her again.” He said, turning around and leaving.

Silas tried to move, but he couldn’t. Pain and exhaustion overtook him, with only one thought haunting him.

The Ripper had taken you.

Thoughts?

#time traveller au #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere x you #yandere baldwin #baldwin iv #yandere silas #Silas FitzGeorge #yandere x #jack the ripper

634 notes · View notes

millers-girl · 3 days ago

Text

bitter/sweet

a Dr. Jack Abbot one-shot (The Pitt)

pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

summary: when a stubbornly charming chef keeps showing up in his ER, Dr. Jack Abbot finds it harder and harder to ignore the pull toward something—or someone—he didn't plan for…

warnings/tags: slow burn, hurt/comfort, grumpy x sunshine, food as a love language, age gap, fainting/medical emergency, mild language

word count: 5.5k

a/n: my new hyperfixation i guess ???

“Fuck,” you grumbled, clutching your thumb in a blood-soaked kitchen towel, the fibers more crimson than cotton. The pain throbbed in pulses, each step sending a sharp reminder up your arm. You kept your eyes on the linoleum floors, following the resident as he led you deeper into the chaos of the emergency department and into an exam room.

“Oh,” the resident, Student Doctor Whittaker, said, his voice pitchy as he glanced at the kitchen towel. He quickly averted his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Yeah, maybe we should keep that wrapped.”

You arched a brow at him, settling onto the exam table as the paper crinkled beneath you. The air in the room smelled sterile – alcohol wipes, latex gloves, and that faint antiseptic sting. “You’re not afraid of a little blood, are you? Because hate to be the one to tell you – you might be in the wrong profession.”

He gave a nervous laugh. “No, no – just… been a rough day,” he said, the humor dropping from his voice. “Can’t really handle another loss.”

You paused, tone softening. “Oh. Well, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” You glanced down at the towel, now visibly seeping. “Did you get a hold of my sister?”

He shook his head, eyes already shifting toward the door. “I tried, but she’s in the OR; still scrubbed in. But, don’t worry; Dr. Abbot is the attending on call tonight. He’s one of the best – ”

You frowned. “Abbot? Where’s Robby?”

Before he could answer, the door opened and a tall man entered the room, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves with a practiced snap. His scrubs were black, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his expression was carved from stone. His salt-and-pepper hair was short but wavy; he easily had fifteen or twenty years on you… Still, he was cute.

“Well,” he began, his voice low and even, “It’s almost nine, and contrary to popular belief, even Robby needs to go home and rest. So, lucky you – you get me.”

You blinked. “Wow, smart and pretty. Lucky me indeed.”

He gave a subtle eye roll before his gaze met yours – steady, unreadable, deeply hazel. “So, what’ve we got?”

Whittaker stumbled to present. “Uh – female, 27. Has a deep laceration on her thumb. Cut it open on a grater – ”

“Mandoline slicer,” you corrected.

Abbot moved toward you, taking a seat on the wheeled stool. As he unwrapped your hand, you couldn’t help but ask, “Careful – you’re not gonna get queasy, too, are you?”

Without missing a beat, he stoically answered, “Only if this turns into something worse than a hand injury… like small talk.”

You let out a surprised laugh, half from the pain, half from how dryly he delivered the line.

“You’re funny,” you grinned. “I like you.”

He said nothing in response, merely peeled the cloth away, sticky and crimson, revealing the deep gash across the side of your thumb. Cold air kissed the open skin, and you hissed. He examined it without a flinch, gently turning your hand between his fingers.

“So, what were you doing with the mandoline slicer?”

“I’m a chef,” you answered. “The prep rush was insane today – guess my hand just slipped.”

He pressed carefully at the space between your thumb and index finger. You flinched, instinctively pulling back, but his other hand caught yours firmly, anchoring it.

“What?” you asked, watching his expression shift as he looked up.

“Stitches,” he decided.

“Fuck that.”

He arched his brow. “It’s a deep cut; can’t just put a bandaid on it and kiss it better.”

“Well, that’s because you haven’t tried,” you flirted, finding it to be an easy distraction from the pain. Still, his face remained unchanged. “Come on, are you serious? You really can’t just wrap it up and call it a day? I have to get back before the dinner rush.”

“It’s not optional,” he informed. “It’s not gonna heal if it’s not stitched up.”

“Don’t worry,” Whittaker piped up again, voice chipper. “Dr. Abbot could do this in his sleep.”

“I could,” Abbot said, already reaching for gauze. “But Whittaker’s going to do it instead.”

“What?” You both asked, heads whipping to him.

“It’s a good learning opportunity,” he replied casually. “And Robby’s always goin’ on about how we’re a teaching hospital. Besides, it’s just a few stitches – a teenager could do it.”

“A teenager is about to do it,” you muttered.

“He’s older than you,” Abbot pointed out, making your frown set on him.

“I want you to do it.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he got queasy just looking at the kitchen towel,” you explained. You and Abbot both turned to Whittaker, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. “It’s either you, or I wait for my sister to finish surgery,” you stubbornly gave him an ultimatum. “And she told me about those patient satisfaction scores.” You let out a low whistle.

Abbot stared at you for a beat, then turned to the student doctor. “Whittaker.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Go get me the lidocaine.”

You grinned in victory before offering your hand back out to Abbot.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” he muttered, arms crossing.

“You and my sister should start a support group,” you shot back.

He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, maybe we will.”

When Whittaker returned, Abbot explained the procedure before getting to work: numbing first, then the sutures, probably six or seven. His voice was calm, precise. You clenched your other hand into a fist, eyes fixed anywhere but the needle. The sting of the lidocaine made your jaw tense.

“Ready?” Abbot asked. You nodded silently, lips pressed tight.

His hands were rough but skilled, careful – you could sense it.

As your eyes gazed over the room, they settled on the chain tucked beneath the neck of Abbot’s scrubs.

“Military?” you asked, voice quieter now as your free hand reached out to pull at the dog tags.

Without looking up, Abbot momentarily halted his work to swat your hand away. When your hand settled back by your side, he replied, “Used to be a medic. Liked the chaos so much, I went to med school for emergency medicine.”

You winced as one of the stitches tugged. “You good?” he asked, glancing up.

You gave him a wry look. “If I cry, will you hold my hand?”

“I’m already holding your hand,” he deadpanned.

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Then, buy me dinner? Or, let me buy you dinner, at Francesca.”

“Francesca?” Whittaker perked up. “Wait – you work there?” You nodded, smiling. “That’s cool. I’ve heard some of the other residents talking about it. They really love the food.”

You turned back to Abbot with a pointed smile. “See? Good food, good company – what more could you ask for?”

“Probably some peace and quiet,” he muttered. But, before you could press, he was already tying off the sutures and wrapping your hand with fresh gauze.

“So,” you said eventually, “what’s the damage?”

“You’re a rightie?” he asked; you nodded. “It’s your dominant hand. That, and the fact that restaurants have a high risk of infection – wet, hot, high-contact. It’s gonna take a minute to heal. Probably five days off work to initially heal and reduce strain; another five until you’re back to full-duty – and when you are, make sure you wear some sort of splint or gloves. Come back then and I’ll take ‘em out. Sound good?”

A week off work.

You already knew you weren’t waiting that long.

Still, you grinned up at him. “Whatever you say, handsome.”

Two weeks later––four days after you were meant to get your stitches out––you finally found yourself back in the hospital. You couldn’t say you missed the bright fluorescent lights or the constant beeping of machines – you weren’t sure how your sister did it every day.

You did, however, miss Dr. Tall, Dark, and Broody.

That’s what you’d started calling Dr. Abbot in all your conversations with your sister. She’d blinked at you, been less amused, and professionally corrected you every time you brought him up.

“You mean ‘Jack’?” She’d say, and you’d grinned at that, ready to use this ammunition against him.

And, even though you had every intention to return earlier so you could see Jack sooner, work at the restaurant had gotten busy. Between a busted oven and two line cooks calling out, you’d been elbow-deep in chaos. You’d barely been convinced by Eleni, your sous, to come back even now. She had to practically push you out the front door.

Taylor, the charge nurse who brought you in, gave a smile as she informed you, “Dr. Whittaker will be in in just a few minutes.”

Your spine straightened immediately. “Actually, can you get Dr. Abbot? Tall one with the storm cloud for a personality. You know the one.”

Taylor nearly dropped her tablet laughing. “Oh, I like you,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Let me see what I can do.”

Luckily, it seemed like a slow night in the ED––well, slower than usual––and in a few minutes, your request had been granted.

“You know,” Abbot said by way of greeting when he entered the room, “you don’t get to request a specific doctor in the ED. That’s not how it works.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah? Then how come you showed up?”

He ignored that. “Why didn’t you let Whittaker take them out?” He already sounded annoyed, and it brought you much more glee than it should’ve. “You know he’s perfectly capable of removing stitches. And putting them in.”

“And pass up another moment of your stellar bedside manner? Now, why would I do that… Jack?” You smiled sweetly.

His eyes flicked up fast at the sound of his first name. “I hate your sister,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

“She’s the best and you know it.”

Instead of arguing, Jack gently pulled the wrap from your hand. His fingertips were warm through the gloves, deliberate in their movements as he examined the injury.

“You didn’t wait the five days before going back to work,” he said flatly, frown setting in.

Your brows furrowed. “What are you talking about? Of course I did – In fact I – ”

You cut yourself off when you saw the look he gave you. All stern disapproval and low-simmering frustration – hot. And in a moment, you crumbled.

“Okay, okay, fine – but I took three days off! That has to count for something! I was going stir-crazy in my apartment, Jack.” You squirmed under his gaze.

He let out a deep sigh, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he grumbled, brows pinched slightly as he prepped the suture scissors in that deliberate, quiet way of his.

You couldn’t watch as he moved with steady practiced precision. Instead, your eyes settled back on his dog tags and after a moment of silence, you asked in a soft voice, “How could you tell? That I went back to work early?”

He met your eyes then, frowning. After a beat, he answered. “The skin around is red, irritated. The inflammation just started going down. You should’ve come in early if you were gonna go back to work. I said day 10.”

“I know.”

Dryly, he continued, “This is day fourteen.”

“I know, Jack.” You frowned now too. “You know, if you keep on like this, you’re not getting your present.”

That was when he noticed the light pink bag that sat on the chair by the exam table.

“I brought you something. As a thank you for stitching me up.”

Jack tilted his head to the side. “Not a bribe to soften the blow because you knew I’d know you went back to work early?”

You smiled up at him, this time in a way that asked for his forgiveness. “Why can’t it be both?”

Jack rolled his eyes, then began removing your stitches. “It’s healing,” he noted, “but slower than it should be. You pushed it too hard.”

“I was careful,” you defended. “I let Eleni do all the chopping and lifting heavy pans – I just ran the line… and plated.”

Jack hummed, observing. “You’re holding tension through your whole arm. That’s not careful.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but just then, he snipped one of the sutures and you flinched with a hiss of discomfort. His hands paused immediately, and his expression shifted – not annoyed this time, but concerned.

“Still hurts?” he asked, quieter.

You tried to play it off, half-laughing. “Hurts less than not being in the kitchen.”

Jack sighed again, shaking his head. “You think I’m impressed by your stubbornness?”

You gave a crooked grin. “No, but I think you like it.”

He didn’t answer, just focused on removing the next stitch. Silence stretched between you, the only sound the soft snip of scissors. When he finally leaned back, he said, “Okay, that’s the last one. Take it easy, okay? I mean it. Just plating for now – carefully.”

You lifted your head. “And if I don’t? You going to come hold my hand through the dinner rush?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “I’ll come by the kitchen if I have to.”

You watched him, smile growing. “Still thinking about saying yes to that dinner I offered?”

Just as quick, he quipped, “I’m thinking about you not landing in my ER again.”

Your brow rose. “Keep it up and you’re not getting the tiramisu.”

As he was wrapping your hand in new gauze, his gaze flickered up to meet yours. “Tiramisu?”

“My sister said you wouldn’t stop talking about it a few days ago. Got a craving.”

“Yeah, for DiAnoia’s,” Jack corrected.

When he was done wrapping your hand, you hopped off the exam table and offered him the light pink bag, with a tiramisu boxed inside.

“It’s better than DiAnoia’s,” you promised, already halfway to the door.

He snorted at that, not believing you. “But, be careful, it's sweet. Might clash with the whole brooding thing you’ve got going on.”

“I don’t brood,” he called after you.

You turned at the doorway, walking backward as you smirked. “Yeah? Tell that to your face.”

Then, you spun on your heel, feeling his gaze on you as you let the door swing closed behind you.

You couldn’t tell if the emergency room was changing or if you were just getting used to it. The fluorescent lights felt ambient now, the loud chatter muffled, and the beep of vital machines now felt distant.

“Miss me?” You grinned up at Jack as he strolled towards the nurse’s station. You leaned casually against the counter, trying not to let your excitement show too much.

Without looking up from the chart in his hands, he replied, “Still haven’t recovered from the last time.”

You glanced over at Taylor, who sat typing behind the station, and dropped her a wink. “That’s not a no,” you stage-whispered, giggling.

Jack finally looked at you then, eyes tired but alert, like your voice had stirred him awake. “What are you doing here?” he asked, handing off the chart to Taylor.

“What, can’t a girl visit her local cute, broody doctor?”

“I already told you I’m not that,” he frowned.

You tilted your head. “Cute?” you asked, pretending to be confused.

He narrowed his eyes on you. “Broody.”

“Right,” you nodded solemnly. “Of course not.”

The silence between you lingered a second longer than expected – long enough for you to catch the faint circles under his eyes, the crease between his brows. His scrubs looked wrinkled, like he’d been running nonstop since the start of shift. Your smile softened.

“I’m dropping some food off.”

His brows furrowed now. “For me?”

Your smile only widened, but faltered just a touch as you took in just how off he looked, a little out of rhythm. That bone-deep kind of tired. You wondered if he’d eaten at all tonight.

“For my sister,” you said lightly, though your feet were already carrying you toward the break room. You grabbed a paper plate and plastic fork, and returned just as quickly. You set the plate down and began undoing the takeaway box you’d packed.

“Wait,” Jack started, a note of warning in his voice – he already knew where this was going. You ignored him, and scooped a generous portion of pasta onto the plate before sliding it his way. The steam curled up toward Jack’s face.

“Try some.”

He sighed, saying your name like it was both a complaint and a surrender.

“Come on,” you coaxed. “Just a bite. And if you hate it, I’ll leave you alone.”

He gave you a long-suffering look – but brought the fork to his mouth anyway. The first bite had his eyes fluttering closed, just for a second. A soft sound escaped him – barely audible, but unmistakable. You caught it.

“That was a compliment,” you accused, pointing at him with a victorious grin. “I heard it! Everyone heard it!” You turned dramatically to Taylor, who watched with a dry amusement before shuffling over to a patient’s room.

Jack rolled his eyes. “Ok, hotshot, relax. It’s just pasta. Hard to mess it up.”

You scoffed. “You’d be surprised.” He shrugged, and you took it as a challenge. “Okay, then what? What can I make to convince you it’s not just luck – it’s these magic hands.” To make a point, you wiggled your fingers.

To your surprise, he actually gave it some thought. A flicker of memory seemed to pass through him. His voice was quieter when he spoke.

“There was this dish we used to get when I was in the military – in this little town outside Kabul. Locals made it in the market stalls. It was kind of like a lamb stew, over some flatbread. Spicy. Kinda messy to eat. But damn good.”

You blinked, surprised he’d offered to share something so personal. You cleared your throat, softly asking, “You were stationed in Afghanistan?”

Realizing the slip-up, Jack shrugged it off like he regretted saying anything. His eyes drifted to a fixed point behind you.

“Jack,” you said softly, reaching out to place a hand over his, which rested on the counter of the nurse’s station. The gentle tone of your voice kept him from pulling his hand out from underneath yours. If anything, that, alongside the glint in your big eyes, made him want to spill everything.

“It was the 68W program – for combat medics,” he revealed, using his free hand to pull the dog tags from under his scrub top. “Standard issue accessory.”

“I disagree,” you murmured, playful but sincere. “I’ve heard medics are some of the toughest ones in the room.”

Jack let out a tiny almost-smile. “We were just the ones who didn’t get to shoot back.”

You paused, then asked, “What was it called? The dish.”

He thought for a second. “I don’t remember. I think maybe – palau something – or – I don’t know. Doesn't matter.”

You shook your head, heart melting. “If it stuck with you… it matters.”

Jack didn’t say anything to that, but his gaze found yours again – direct. You caught him staring. He didn’t look away.

“If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to think you like me,” you teased, tone light.

He didn’t even deny it, just shook his head – either in denial or disbelief, you couldn’t tell.

“That’s okay. I like you enough for the both of us.”

That brought a pink tinge to his cheeks.

Instead of bringing attention to it, you simply offered a half-smile. “Okay. Challenge accepted. One mystery lamb dish, coming up.”

At that, Jack raised a skeptical brow. “You’re gonna recreate something I haven’t eaten in ten years, from a place you’ve never been, with no recipe?”

You shrugged. “Maybe it’ll finally convince you to come to the restaurant.”

And there it was – just for a second. The edge of a smile. Maybe even the beginning of a laugh. You nudged his side with your elbow.

“Admit it. You’re rooting for me.”

Jack just shook his head, but didn’t speak. Didn’t stop smiling either. Didn’t even say no.

The next time Jack saw you in the hospital, the occasion was less momentous. You didn’t have a light pink box with the Francesca logo on it and a sweet treat––or Afghani dish––inside. You weren’t your happy, bubbly self jumping around the place. Forget jumping, you weren’t even on your feet.

You were in a hospital bed, fluids pumping steadily through an IV line taped to your arm. into your veins through IVs. Your sister, elbows resting on the edge of the bed, was scrolling through her phone with the ease of someone used to hospitals – until Jack stumbled in.

His eyes immediately found yours, and whatever breath he’d been holding on the way in came out sharp.

“Every day you’re here – you come and find me. Every day,” he said, voice low and urgent. “So, what changed today? Why was Robby the one to tell me you fainted?”

You and your sister exchanged a glance. She was already putting her phone down, her expression turning serious.

“Because it literally happened an hour ago…?” you offered, wincing a little. “And that’s still day shift.”

Jack raked a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every sharp movement.

“Robby had it covered,” your sister said, trying to calm Jack.

It didn’t help.

“Did he do an ECG?”

“Yes.”

“Echocardiogram?”

“Yes, Jack,” she sighed.

“What about a head CT?

You frowned. “Why would he do a CT?”

“Because you probably hit your head when you fell.”

You let out a breath, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t hit my head.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Eleni caught me.”

Jack’s eyes bounced between you and your sister. “This happened at work?” You nodded, slowly. “Did this happen because of work?”

Suddenly, you were having a hard time meeting his eye.

To make matters worse, your sister answered for you. “She was covering for one of the other line chefs, stressed about a critic visit – Eleni said she was barely sleeping – ”

“The critic’s a big deal!” you defended, “and Luca was getting burnt out. He needed a break.”

“No, babe,” your sister cut in, not unkindly, “You need a break.”

Jack stepped closer to the bed, scanning the IV bag. His fingers brushed against your arm, checking the line, then pressing gently against your wrist. “Did Robby hook her up to saline?”

Your sister nodded.

“What about electrolytes? She’s dehydrated.”

“He – ” Your sister paused, then asked, a little surprised, “How did you know that?”

“Her lips are dry,” Jack responded, as if it was obvious. “She squints every time she looks up at the lights. And her leg is tense – probably cramping earlier.”

You and your sister shared another look, then you grinned up at him, pushing his hand away from your arm to grab it in yours, warm and steady. “What?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“You were worried about me,” you grinned, all grin and no apology.

He exhaled deeply, rubbing his free hand defeatedly over his face. “Oh, my God. You fainted and this is what you’re focused on?”

You gave him a small shrug. “I’m fine.”

And, truthfully, you were starting to feel better. Color was returning to your cheeks, and the constant throb behind your eyes had dulled to a whisper. The IVs were helping; the rest, too.

A voice crackled over the intercom, paging your sister to OR 3. She stood, hesitating.

“Go,” you said, waving her off. “I’ll be fine. Go back to work.”

“Fine, but tell someone to page me when they discharge you. I’ll get someone to drive you home.”

You rolled your eyes but nevertheless nodded. As she stepped out, Jack moved to sit on the edge of the chair beside your bed, one hand running along the railing.

“How mad do you think she’s gonna be when I tell her you’re not going anywhere? I’m keeping you overnight.”

Your head whipped toward him. “What? Why?”

“For observation. I want to make sure it really was stress-related and not some underlying medical condition.”

You groaned, tilting your head back against your pillow. “Jack,” you groaned, frustrated by this decision.

“Oh, I know,” he mocked gently. “How could I do this to you? Keeping you overnight to make sure you’re healthy? I’m the worst.”

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest as dramatically as you could manage while tethered to an IV.

“Don’t be like that,” he tried, his hand uncrossing yours. Then, the same hand lifted to gently cup your cheek. “You know, you didn’t have to faint just to get my attention. Could’ve just called.”

The blush that crept to your cheeks was immediate, and you cleared your throat, looking away. “Dr. Abbot with the jokes – never thought the day would come.”

“What can I say?” he replied with a shrug. “I’m a complex guy.”

He tugged your blanket higher, gently tucking it around you like it was second nature. “Now, get some sleep. I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

You nodded, already feeling the weight of exhaustion settle behind your eyes. As Jack slipped out, he left the curtain half-open so he could keep an eye on you from the nurse’s station or while he was passing by to other patient rooms.

Instead, you found your eyes drifting to him. Even through the haze of sleep, you watched him move through the ED like a controlled current – swift, focused, unshakable. He was in full command, teaching, managing, healing. Something about how intense yet calm he was eventually lulled you to sleep.

When you woke again, sunlight was peeking through the slats of the blinds, and Jack was beside your bed, carefully unhooking the IV line.

“Morning,” he greeted, voice soft as it pulled you from your deep slumber. “How are you feeling?”

You rubbed at the sleep in your eyes and let out a groggy sigh “Wow, thought I died and went to broody heaven.”

“I’ll take that as ‘fine,’” he said dryly, grabbing a paper cup of water he’d filled for you and maneuvering the straw toward your lips like it was muscle memory.

“Can I go home now?”

He nodded, his eyes still scanning your vitals, “Soon. Just gotta fill out your discharge paperwork and then shift’s over. I’ll drive you home.”

“Drive me home? I’m wearing you down, old man,” you grinned sleepily up at him.

He rolled his eyes, raising a hand to press the back of it to your forehead. “You feel okay? No headache? Dizziness? Nausea?”

“Good as new,” you promised, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze. “Must be these magic hands.”

He smiled at that, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles before letting go.

“So,” you began as he signed off on your chart, “does being injured get me privileges?”

He arched a brow. “What kind of privileges?”

“Favors,” you said with a shrug. “Like you finally coming to the restaurant.”

Jack let out a low groan, head shaking. “It’s too early for this – you’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“Not till you say yes. And, as you know, I’m very persistent.”

“Oh, I do know,” he said, then held his hand out. “Let me see your thumb.”

You blinked. “Why?”

Still, you offered it up. He examined it gently, brushing his fingers over the healing skin.

“When this heals completely, I’ll come to Francesca.”

You beamed. “In that case, let’s speed up the process…” You wiggled your thumb closer to his face. “Never did try that technique of kissing it better, huh?”

He gave you a look – but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. Then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the pad of your thumb.

When he set it back down in your lap, your stomach fluttered.

“Now, can I take you home or are you going to make me do a blood oath first?”

“You’ve been burying the lede, Abbot,” you teased, making your presence known as you walked across the hospital rooftop and joined him on the concrete ledge. Your shoes scraped lightly against the gravel as you sat, legs swinging just off the edge.

He glanced over, brows furrowed in confusion. No one but Robby ever came up here.

“Taylor told me where you were,” you informed. “How many conversations have we had – and you never mentioned this place? Or the crazy views it has?”

The city was sprawled out below you, glittering the dark earth. A breeze tugged at your jacket, crisp with late night chill.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, checking his watch. 2:56am glowed dimly in the moonlight.

You shrugged, tucking your hands into your coat pockets. “Couldn’t sleep.”

His concern was immediate, instinctual. “Is it the stitches? Are you feeling dehydrated?” He was already reaching for you, fingertips brushing your wrist as if searching for a pulse.

“No, Jack,” you laughed, pushing his hands away. “I’m fine. I just… woke up with a thought.”

He stilled, waiting for you to explain what thought could’ve roused you out of bed in the middle of the night and forced you here.

You reached behind you and retrieved a familiar pink Francesca bag, the paper crinkling softly in your hands. In thick Sharpie ink, you’d scrawled his name with a lopsided heart beside it. His brows lifted in disbelief.

“No fucking way,” he murmured, greedy fingers snatching the food container out of the bag and tossing the lid aside like it might disappear if he wasn’t fast enough.

Inside sat the Afghani dish Jack had told you about that one day at the nurse’s station. The rich, spiced aroma was carried through the night air – saffron, cumin, caramelized carrots.

“It’s called qabili palau,” you offered, watching him tear a piece of naan, scoop up a mouthful, and take a bite. The moment the flavors hit his tongue, his eyes immediately rolled to the back of his head and he exhaled a quiet sound that was half-groan, half-moan.

“If you’re making those kinds of noises at my cooking, just imagine my skill in the bedroom,” you teased, flashing him a grin.

That earned you a look – but not one you expected. Quiet, intense. His mouth twitched at the corner like he was trying not to smile, and then he went back for another bite. And another. You watched him eat in silence, the wind occasionally rustling his curls, and you couldn’t help but feel the intimacy of the moment, on this quiet rooftop, and this ridiculous hour.

He quietly finished the food, sharing it with you. And, when the food was gone, his eyes drifted out across the skyline. He looked… lighter somehow. And it reminded you why you loved being a chef – because food had the power to take people home, even when they were miles and years away.

You nudged him. “Oh – I almost forgot!” You excitedly held your hand up like a prize, thumb out. The skin had healed cleanly, leaving not even a scar behind. “All better.”

His eyes found yours, amusement dancing in them. “I’m pretty sure I said when it’s healed, not the exact moment it is.”

You scooted closer to him, shoulders brushing, as you accused, “Oh, no. You’re not gonna get out of this.”

He shook his head at you, like he had countless times before, but this time… this time the look in his eyes changed. Slowed. Softened. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, sitting here, choosing him.

His smile faded as he lifted a hand to your face, brushing a windblown strand of hair behind your ear. “I wouldn’t want to,” he said softly.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed – not some messy, passionate crush. It was slow, intentional. The kind of kiss that people waited a long, long time for. His lips were warm, and soft, and they fit perfectly against yours.

You melted into it, one hand curling around the front of his scrubs as the city disappeared beneath your closed eyelids. The hospital lights, the stars, the hum of distant traffic – it all faded until it was just the two of you. Just Jack.

When he finally pulled away, he didn’t go far – just rested his forehead against yours, his breath brushing across your skin as he murmured, “You know, you scare the hell out of me. Make it hard to stay behind the lines I drew.”

You smiled softly at that, brushing your thumb over the edge of his jaw. “Good. Means it’s real.”

There was a beat of quiet. Then, he gently took your hand again, turning it over to inspect your healed thumb. You rested your head against his shoulder, grinning – you both knew exactly what this meant.

He sighed dramatically, mocking defeat. “What’s the dress code?”

“No scrubs,” you teased.

“Button-up?”

“Only if it’s black. Very broody.”

“Deal,” he said, leaning in for another kiss.

read part 2 here !!

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invincibledc · 15 days ago

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MORE JACKKKKKKKK

⋆˚࿔ 𝑯𝑬’𝑺 𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑬 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

────୨ৎ────

𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 (𝐎𝐂) 𝐗 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐁𝐑𝐎!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

── .✦ Synopsis: At a gala, that Jack had snuck into, he sees a girl trying to throw herself all over what’s his. And that’s his man.

── .✦ Genre: oneshot

── .✦ Info: this OC is an OC I’m written for my own amusement. He’s the son of Harley Quinn and joker. Full name, Jacklyn Oswald Quinn. I got bored. Reader is the twin brother of Damian, but Damian is the older twin of course. Im only a writer so you can imagine who he looks more like but all I can is he is handsome canonically in my head and anything. Boy’s crazy but handsome.

── .✦ Word count: 1,356

Classical music rang through the air, and you stood there not impressed by the usual gala setting your father has made. The same goes for your brother as he just left you to do your own thing as he does his own. Damian and you are the same but in different ways.

You can handle most of the interactions with the people, he can't. Due to the people who had pinched his cheeks and crowded him and you.

He took the most pinching as he pushed you behind him, older brother things of course. Despite all that, it seems that as years went on, and you got older, you saw that most of the adults brought their offspring here. The waiters gave off drinks and even some appetizers.

Okay so maybe the only thing you like about the gala is the food, what? You’re a growing boy. You walked through the talking people, ignoring the slight comments of you being “rude” for interrupting such a nice conversation between adults. But you knew they were just here to gloat about their richness and show up to at least get a little amount of clout of being here.

Either way, you flagged down a waiter, smiling wide as the waiter smiled. The waiter strutted over, “Yes Mr. Wayne?” you pointed to the shrimp, the shrimp was nicely air-fried, just perfect for you.

“Could I have that please?” the waiter nodded, moving their arm towards you for you to grab it. You grabbed it off the plate, your eyes lighting up at the sure crisp texture of the shrimp. And you were so gonna devour this, and maybe get more as the time passes on.

You took the shrimp in your mouth whilst the waiter went off to another person who had flagged them down. While you chewed on the delicious shrimp, you felt a finger tap your shoulder.

Turning your body around, there you see some random girl. She was attractive, sure. But her aura just set you off, you couldn't help but scrunch your nose at the fact of her strong perfume. It wasn't even a good strong but the kind of strong that makes your head spin.

“Hey handsome, what's your name?” she says with a flirty tone, her hand grazing your arm. You reeled your arm back and even took a step back.

Yeah, this may not go well.

—JACK’S POV—

He hummed, strolling through the gala he had certainly snuck into. He isn't stupid to not take off his green hair-sprayed hair, showing off his blonde locks. His blue eyes scanned the room of the gala. He heard, no, he knew you were gonna be here. So why not meet his adorable obsession, his beloved boyfriend?

So here he is, moving slickly through the bodies of people. He saw a tray of delicious small biscuits and snagged a few, grinning like a child, he plopped one into his mouth.

But it seems that it wasn't that good to eat anyway. Coughing at the dry biscuits that tasted like cardboard. He forgot how bland rich people's food can get. He grabbed water off a tray and gulped it down. After that, he dumped the other biscuits into the trash. Yeah never again was he eating any more rich people's food. He moves through the people again.

If there was one person, or at least two he didn't want to see. It would be Jason and Damian. Mostly Jason, Jason just hates him and he hates him back.

Through the crowded people, he couldn't help but have a mischievous grin when he took off a ladies’ diamond watch. It was so quick that the elegant woman didn't notice her 20-grand watch.

“Hehe, suckers,” he says under his breath. He stuffed the watch into his black suit. He continues to stride through the ballroom, and there he finally sees you, his eyes widening with excitement. But that seemed to falter as his eyes darkened, his normal blue eyes seemed to look dark ocean blue.

There he sees a girl touching up on you, you look uncomfortable, trying to move back subtly. But it seems she wasn't taking the hint that she isn't as beautiful as she seems.

—NO ONE POV—

Trying to move back, the girl finally had enough. “Why don't you just touch me? Am I not that beautiful for you?!” she exclaimed.

“Not just that, but disgustingly over touchy.” a raspy voice said, you turned around to meet the boy joker out of his alter-ego. His neat blond hair, his dark expression and his eyes glaring at the girl.

“Ja-jacklyn?” you said shocked to see him here. Before you could further ask how he could even be here, he pulls you to his body. Your back making a complete puzzle to his chest. His arms wrapped around your waist, his eyes trained on the girl who looked more shocked than you.

“What the..” she says, seeing his jack’s hands pressed neatly on your hips, his arms making an X due to how he was holding you around your waist with both arms.

“As you can see, he’s mine, sweetheart. Not something your prissy little hands can try and touch.” Jack had a smile on him, but it didn't dare reach his face. A dark look stayed on his face as he squeezed your body tighter to him.

“So back off,” he says lowly, sending chills to the girl who seemed a little scared at how the boy seemed. Whilst you had chills due to his warmth his breath hit your ear.

The girl scoffed, walking off, her heels clicking as she pushed a waiter out of the way. The girl gained weird looks, but that didn't matter as Jack let you go. Dragging you by your arm and pulling you to a quiet place from the ballroom.

“Jack! Slow down, you’re walking so fast.” Jack ignored your protests, he threw you into a room and closed the door from behind without looking.

Stumbling into the room, you glared at him as you turned to stare at him. However, that glare soon disappeared as you saw how Jack looked. His hair is now messy and his eyes hovered over you like a predator.

“Puddin`, as much as I hate rich people,” struts towards you, chuckling darkly, he reaches over and grabs you to him. Having his warm hand behind your neck as his breath fanned over your lips. “I hate the kind that think they can touch you as if they own you,” he says darkly, his already raspy voice making it seem more low.

You couldn't help but breathe slowly, your body warming up as Jack’s eyes scanned over your face. His dark eyes started to light up a bit, “damn you do look good in that suit.” Jack then kisses your lips gently.

His hands smoothly place themselves onto your hips, and you relax into the kiss. Your arms wrapped around his neck, your bodies pressed together like an enigma. Jack licks the bottom of your lip, smirking as he feels you open your mouth a bit.

“Good boy,” he says before he fully picks you up effortlessly.

“HANDS OFF THE BOY!” yelled a booming voice. You yelped, moving from Jack as Jack himself groaned annoyed. Turning his head to see Jason with Dick by his side. And then there’s Damian with a fork.

“I may not have a knife, but a fork will do.”

“Well shucks,” Jack places you down, running his fingers through his hair before shrugging. “Guess fun’s over,” he smirks before throwing a king’s card down.

Smoke disgorges from the card, covering the room. The boys coughed whilst Jack grabbed your arm, “C'mon! Let's hit the road babe!” he exclaimed with a goofy expression.

After the smoke cleared up, Jason and Damian were after you whilst Dick was still coughing, leaving the room as Tim walked over to him.

“Yeah. I'm done.” Dick says as Tim gave him a glass of water.

“Good to know. I stopped months ago.”

And this was the most entertaining gala night of your life ever.

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cece693 · 3 months ago

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May I pretty please request Hannigram with an SO that really likes biting things? Like they’ll just nibble on anything available, including themself or Hanni/Will

male reader if possible :)

Bite Me, Darling

pairing: hannibal lecter and will graham x male reader tags: self soothing mechanism, male reader bites things, Alana bashing, jack Crawford bashing, just everyone in general is against this relationship, innocent male reader, hannibal and will want to keep him this way

It was strange, how everything about him was normal on the surface but wildly unique beneath. The way he moved through life, unaware of the way people stared, was something that only a few people truly understood. Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, for all their intelligence and their capacity for manipulation, had each found something in him—something pure and raw—that spoke to them in ways they couldn’t articulate.

You were innocent in the most innocent way. You didn’t know how to read people’s intentions, how to navigate the murky waters of deceit and pain that others swam in. You were a creature of quiet habits: chewing on pens, biting the corner of your sleeves, even nibbling your fingers. It wasn’t that you was anxious, but rather that this was your way of processing the world. You didn’t speak much, but when you did, it was with a tenderness that could disarm even the most hardened individuals.

For some, this made you seem almost too innocent for the likes of Will and Hannibal. They were two men who dealt with darkness constantly, who played in shadows. Hannibal, the brilliant psychiatrist with an appetite for blood, had found himself intrigued long before anything happened between them. How did such a pure soul even come to be? How was it that someone as complex as Hannibal could be pulled into a world where biting things wasn’t just a habit—it was part of who you were?

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Hannibal was nothing if not a man who craved complexity, and you, with your simple yet peculiar habit of biting, had an allure that he could never fully comprehend. He wasn’t sure when the lines had blurred, when you had shifted from being someone he wanted to understand to someone he wanted to possess.

Will, on the other hand, was less of a mystery. He found your unspoken understanding of him soothing. Will was not a man who found comfort easily. He’d had too many years of running from his own mind, of balancing between the need for human connection and the heavy weight of his empathic gifts. But you were different. You never demanded anything from him. There was no need to over explain; no fear of rejection. You were there, and that was enough.

The three of them had fallen into a relationship that no one, especially not Alana Bloom or Jack Crawford, could understand. Jack, upset that you had a greater control over his 'asset' perceived you as a problem that needed to be extinguished immediately. While he couldn't force Will to break up with you, he began to use manipulative language more frequently, hinting that his absence was endangering the lives of people. But after a while, his words began to lose power.

"Will, you can’t just leave because he told you to," Jack would say, his voice thick with frustration. "We need you to solve this case. You're part of this team." But Will, unmoved, always told him he was tired and needed a break—as if killers would respect that and stop murdering until he felt better. Jack would then begin to retort how soft Will was becoming, as if that ever mattered when others perceived him as a madman.

Alana, on the other hand, was driven by something more personal. Jealousy. She had been drawn to both Hannibal and Will. Her feelings for them had never been simple or easy, but she had always harbored a belief that somehow, one day, they would choose her. Instead, they had chosen you. The idea of you, with your gentle biting habit, managing to capture the attention of both men—of all people—was enough to make her skin crawl with resentment. How could someone so abnormal and clearly dealing with childhood trauma have the audacity to step into their world and steal both her love interests?

She couldn’t help but feel that you didn’t deserve them. You weren't like her—you didn’t understand the complexities of their lives nor seemed to be able to handle the hurdles that came with it. And so, she set to work.

It started subtly. A conversation here, a comment there.

“Don’t you ever feel like you’re a little strange?” she would ask, voice light, as if it were a passing thought. “I mean, the biting…it's something you can't help, but don't you ever want to stop it? Be seen as normal for once in your life?"

At first, you had laughed it off, thinking nothing of it. But over time, the seeds of doubt were planted. You began to wonder. Was your habit of biting things wrong? Your lovers had never raised concerns, but it would be something they'll definitely keep private, perhaps a secret only shared between Hannibal and Will. You never thought that Alana's words were connived to break your relationship apart, your naivety something the woman had taken into account and used to her advantage.

So, you tried to stop.

You started small: you tucked your hands into your sleeves when your instincts told you to gnaw at the fabric, and you opted for straws instead of biting the rim of a glass cup. You made an effort—any effort—to keep your teeth away from Will and Hannibal’s skin, no matter how comforting that gentle pressure felt against them. At first, neither man noticed; after all, it was easy to dismiss as a passing mood or an unremarkable change in routine.

But after a couple of days, small signs alerted both of them to the shift. Will began to see you catch yourself mid-motion, your hand halfway to your mouth before you stopped and pressed it flat against your chest instead. Hannibal noticed the anxious flicker in your eyes whenever you realized you were about to bite down on your sleeve—or worse, on him—and yanked yourself away.

It was Will who first chose to address it. One evening, you were curled up in his living room, dogs scattered around you like living blankets. The space was quiet, the only sound the gentle snoring of a dog and the low hum of the overhead light. You were running your thumb over your bottom lip—an almost-bite—when Will finally spoke.

“Hey,” he said softly, “what’s on your mind?”

You hesitated, forcing a small smile. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

He studied you with those empathetic eyes of his. You knew he was reading more into your silence, but Will was nothing if not patient. “You’ve been distant,” he finally ventured, words slow and careful. “I don’t mind if you need space, but if something’s bothering you, I want to help.”

The sincerity in his voice tore at your heart. You wanted to confide in him, to say Alana made me feel wrong, and I don’t want to be wrong for you, but the fear of seeming weak or needy held you back. You simply shook your head and offered a reassuring pat to one of the dogs resting on your lap. “I’m fine,” you lied, hoping he wouldn’t push. “Just tired.”

Hannibal discovered your change in behavior under more intimate circumstances. The two of you were alone in his kitchen, the scent of simmering stock filling the air. He had taken your hand to guide you closer to the cutting board, demonstrating a particular technique for slicing vegetables. Normally, a casual closeness like this was an invitation for you to lean in, maybe press your teeth gently against the back of his hand or the curve of his arm—just enough to ground yourself in his presence. This time, you didn't lean in nor brought his hand to your lips.

Hannibal stilled, eyebrows lifting in polite surprise. “Darling,” he asked softly, “what’s wrong?”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks. You swallowed hard. “Just didn’t want to hurt you,” you offered lamely, though you both knew you had never caused him pain before. His dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but he released your hand without comment. You wondered if your face betrayed the unease you felt, because Hannibal’s expression shifted into something gentler, concerned. But he chose not to press you then and there. Instead, he simply carried on, instructing you gently with the knife work and occasionally brushing a reassuring hand across your back.

Though both men tried to give you space, their combined worry spilled over as time went on. Neither was used to seeing you so guarded, especially around them. On a chilly afternoon, the three of you gathered in Hannibal’s study—a routine that had become something of a tradition. Will sipped his whiskey quietly while Hannibal and you browsed through his impressive collection of classical music. There was a soothing air of comfort, and for a brief moment, your doubts dimmed.

But of course, it was Will who noticed your jaw moving—saw the slight shift as your teeth worked the soft flesh inside your cheek. He placed his whiskey glass down on the table with a muted clink before pushing himself out of the chair.

“Stop,” he murmured, crossing the room with purpose. His voice was gentle but firm as he stepped close to you. Without hesitating, he brought his hand to your chin, his touch warm yet insistent. “Open your mouth.”

You stiffened, instinctively pulling away. You shook your head, trying to avert your gaze from Will’s intense blue eyes. You didn’t want to show him. You didn’t want him to see the damage you’d done to keep from biting them instead.

But then, Hannibal appeared at Will’s side, his presence commanding. He didn’t say a word, but the look he gave you—equal parts concern and disappointment—made your shoulders slump in silent surrender. Unable to deny the weight of their worry, you parted your lips, letting Will tilt your chin just enough so both he and Hannibal could peer inside.

A faint gasp escaped Will as he saw the small puncture in your cheek, the fresh bead of crimson welling against your lower molars. Hannibal’s lips flattened into a thin line, and a flicker of displeasure darkened his gaze. In the grand scheme of things, it was a small wound, but it spoke volumes to them—volumes about how you had been coping alone.

Hannibal’s voice was low, edged with concern. “You’ve been hurting yourself to avoid biting us.” It wasn’t a question; it was a quiet statement of fact.

Will let go of your chin carefully. “Why?” he asked, his brows knitting together.

You swallowed thickly, your hand hovering near your mouth in a subconscious attempt to hide the injury you’d just revealed. “Alana said it’s weird. The biting,” you whispered, your voice unsteady. “I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

A stretch of silence followed your confession, Hannibal and Will exchanged a look—a silent conversation filled with understanding and mild anger toward Alana’s interference. Will’s gaze softened as he turned back to you. “We told you before,” he reminded you gently, “you don’t have to hide this from us. You’re not hurting us—”

“—nor inconveniencing us,” Hannibal interrupted, stepping closer again. The resolute calm in his eyes steadied you. “In fact, we’ve grown quite accustomed to it, and dare I say, fond of it. Your habit is part of who you are.”

You glanced down, feeling the sting of tears threatening in your eyes. “I just…I didn’t want you to get sick of me, or to think I was some sort of burden.”

Will’s hand found yours, his fingers threading through with a gentle squeeze. “That’s not possible,” he murmured. “We miss it…miss you being comfortable around us.”

Hannibal placed a hand against your cheek, being mindful of your tender injury. “You never need to hurt yourself on our behalf,” he said, voice quiet but unyielding. “Any pain you feel—physical or otherwise—we’d much rather help you carry it, not watch you bury it inside.”

At those words, a sharp wave of relief pulsed through you, along with an ache of regret for having doubted them. You inhaled shakily, letting yourself lean just a fraction closer to Hannibal’s touch, feeling the stability it offered. Will eased his other hand around your waist, tugging you gently in his direction. Sandwiched between them, you could almost believe nothing else mattered.

“I’m sorry,” you managed, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. “I…I’ll try not to hide it anymore.”

Will’s lips quirked into a small, comforting smile. “No more chewing on your cheek,” he said, voice warm with affection. “You’ll let us help, right?”

With a hesitant nod, you felt Hannibal’s hand slide from your cheek to the back of your head, urging you closer until your forehead rested against his shoulder. He cast a glance at Will, who leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. Despite the swirl of emotions, you felt a gentle calm in their presence—a sense of being anchored.

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lumdays · 1 year ago

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help girl i’m stuck spying on idiots with idiots

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goldfades · 4 months ago

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pregnancy scares with luke hughes🤞🤞🤞 he would def be freaking out but it ends up being nothing!!!

you’re pretty sure luke hasn’t sat down for more than five seconds in the last hour. he’s pacing the length of the living room, one hand in his hair, the other holding his phone like he’s waiting for some kind of emergency alert to come through. it would almost be funny if you weren’t equally as on edge.

the unopened pregnancy test sits on the counter where you left it, staring at you like it knows you’re avoiding it. you don’t even have the energy to glare back at it—your nerves are too frayed. instead, you watch luke from your spot on the couch, clutching a throw pillow to your chest like it’s some kind of lifeline.

“what if it’s positive?” he blurts out suddenly, stopping in his tracks to look at you, his blue eyes wide with panic. “like… what do we even do? do we call someone? your mom? my mom? oh god, my mom.”

“luke,” you say, trying to keep your voice calm even though your heart is pounding like a drum. “we don’t even know yet. let’s not jump to conclusions.”

he stares at you for a moment, then runs a hand down his face. “right. yeah. no conclusions. totally chill over here.”

you raise an eyebrow at him, and he lets out a nervous laugh, sinking down onto the arm of the couch. it doesn’t last long—he’s back on his feet within seconds, muttering something about how his brain feels like it’s short-circuiting.

“okay, but seriously,” he says, turning back to you, his hands flailing slightly in that way they do when he’s overwhelmed. “what if it’s real? like, what if we’re—what if you’re—”

“pregnant?” you finish for him, your voice quieter this time. the word hangs in the air between you, heavy and uncertain.

he nods, his expression softening as he looks at you. “yeah. that.”

you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “then we figure it out. together.”

“together,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word out. he nods again, a little firmer this time, and for a second, it almost looks like he’s calming down.

and then he notices the test on the counter. “okay, no, i can’t do this anymore,” he says, running a hand through his hair again. “you have to take it. right now. i’m dying over here.”

“you’re dying?” you ask, a hint of exasperation creeping into your tone. “i’m the one who might be pregnant, luke.”

“exactly!” he says, throwing his arms out dramatically. “which is why we need to know, like, immediately.”

you roll your eyes but head toward the bathroom anyway, grabbing the test as you go. “you’re not allowed to say a word until i’m done,” you warn, and luke holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“not a word,” he promises, but the second the door closes behind you, you hear him mutter to himself, “a baby, though… that’d be kinda wild.”

you groan, trying to block him out as you do what the test requires, but by the time you’re done and waiting for the results, you can hear him outside the door, talking to himself at full speed.

“like, obviously, i’d teach them how to skate,” he says, his voice muffled but clear enough to make you laugh quietly to yourself. “they’d have to start early—i mean, that’s the key, right? i was skating at, what, three? two? can kids even walk at two?”

you open the door and lean against the frame, test still in your hand, watching as he paces the living room like he’s coaching his imaginary future kid through a big game. he doesn’t notice you right away, too caught up in his rambling.

“and names,” he continues, gesturing animatedly. “if it’s a boy, we could name him something strong, like—i don’t know, jack junior or something. no, wait, that’s awful. maybe something cool like—like hunter! or brody! oh my god, i’d totally have a brody.”

you clear your throat, and luke freezes mid-gesture, spinning to look at you like a kid caught stealing cookies. “uh, hi,” he says, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck. “how’d it go?”

“it’s still processing,” you say, holding up the test. “but, uh, sounds like you’ve been busy.”

his cheeks flush a deep red, but he grins, unabashed. “okay, but hear me out—if it’s a girl, we name her something badass. like, she could totally pull off a name like harper. or sutton. sutton hughes. tell me that doesn’t sound like a star.”

you can’t help but laugh, shaking your head at him. “you’re already planning their whole life, and we don’t even know if there’s a them yet.”

“well, yeah,” he says, plopping down on the couch with a dramatic sigh. “i mean, it’s kinda fun to think about, you know? like, little hockey practices, bringing them to the rink, teaching them how to chirp jack in the most creative way possible…”

you sit beside him, the test now lying face down on the coffee table, its results still unknown. “you’d be a good dad,” you say softly, watching as his grin softens into something a little more genuine.

“you think so?” he asks, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

“yeah,” you reply. “a chaotic one, maybe. but a good one.”

before he can respond, the timer on your phone goes off, signaling the test is ready. both of you freeze, the moment suddenly much heavier than the lighthearted banter that preceded it.

“you wanna look, or should i?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

luke swallows hard, then gestures toward you. “you. i’ll just—” he flops back dramatically against the couch cushions. “—be over here, dying inside.”

with a nervous laugh, you reach for the test, flipping it over. your eyes scan the result, and your shoulders sag with relief. “negative,” you say, holding it up for him to see.

luke lets out the loudest, most exaggerated exhale you’ve ever heard, his head falling back against the couch. “oh, thank god,” he says, a hand over his heart like he just avoided a near-death experience.

you laugh, watching as he sits up, still a little wide-eyed. “i thought you were ready to start a hockey dynasty,” you tease, nudging him with your shoulder.

“oh, don’t get me wrong,” he says with a grin. “i’m glad it’s not happening now, but, like… someday? sutton hughes is definitely gonna rule the world.”

you roll your eyes, laughing as he throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “you’re impossible,” you mutter, but there’s no real bite to it.

“and you love me for it,” he quips, pressing a kiss to your temple.

you don’t reply, but the smile on your face says enough.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

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daeniradraconis · 2 months ago

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Age Is Just a Number…Right? - Luke Hughes

Summary: Luke. Age gap. Jack being a menace as usual, making sure you're not getting away that easy. Warning: Implied sexual situations, mature language, flirtation, age gap (6 years)

Note: Hey, lovelies! So, originally, this fic was all about Macklin Celebrini and Will Smith, but then I realized—Will is 19, and honestly, he’s just a baby to me. Even if he said he loves older woman. Boy go back to kinder garden. (Sorry Will, love you, I promise!) So, I decided to swap in the Hughes boys instead. I’ve gotta be honest, it gave me a bit of a headache. Now, this started as a quick, short fic. I swear, I had every intention of keeping it short. But, well… 7048 words later, here we are. I got hit with a ton of ideas and feelings, and the story just kind of... grew on me. You’ll probably notice the tone/style shifts halfway through, and I’m definitely sorry for that!

But hey, I hope you all enjoy it despite the wild ride! ❤️ For more fun: masterlist

The first thing you notice is warmth.

A heavy arm draped over your waist. The steady rise and fall of breath against the back of your neck. The scent of clean laundry, cologne, and something distinctly him clinging to the pillow beside you.

The second thing you notice—you are not in your own bed.

Your stomach flips as your brain reboots, sluggishly piecing together fragments of last night.

The blind date.

Luke.

His charming smile. The way his chestnut curls fell into his eyes when he laughed. The way he leaned in when you spoke, like you were the only person in the room. The teasing brush of his fingers against yours when he reached for his drink. The electricity that crackled between you when you finally caved—when he kissed you outside the bar, his hands firm at your waist, his body pressing into yours like he couldn’t help himself.

And then… more.

Your face burns as memory after memory floods in. His hands, his mouth, the way he whispered your name like it meant something.

Nope. Not thinking about that.

Carefully, you shift beneath the covers, untangling yourself from his hold. Luke stirs but doesn’t wake, his arm slipping away as you ease yourself upright.

That’s when it really hits you.

He looks so young.

His chestnut curls are a mess, his lips slightly parted, his entire face softened in sleep. He looks… peaceful. Innocent, almost.

A strange unease settles in your stomach.

Your gaze flickers around the unfamiliar room. It’s nice but lived-in—hockey gear shoved into the corner, a few discarded clothes on a chair. Your eyes land on the nightstand, where his wallet sits slightly open.

You don’t mean to snoop. You really don’t.

But something about last night nags at you.

Just a quick peek. Just to make sure.

Fingers trembling, you reach for it, flip it open.

And your heart stops.

Luke Hughes. Age: 21.

Twenty fucking one.

As in, young enough to still pull all-nighters for fun. As in, could still be in college.

And you? You are twenty-seven.

Oh. My. God.

Your hands fly to your phone as you furiously type out a message to your friend.

"WHAT THE HELL?! YOU SET ME UP WITH A 21-YEAR-OLD. I AM A GROWN WOMAN. I PAY FOR MY OWN HEALTH INSURANCE."

No response.

Coward.

Panic thrums in your veins as you stare at Luke—still peacefully asleep, completely unaware that you are having a full-blown identity crisis in his bed.

You need to leave. Now.

Right?

But for some reason, you hesitate.

Because Luke… Luke is the first guy in a long time who actually made you interested. Who made you laugh so hard you snorted into your drink. Who listened—really listened—when you talked, instead of just waiting for his turn to speak. And, well. The man or more like a boy, had managed to get you to orgasm. Twice!

Which, considering your track record, felt almost miraculous.

Your past partners had barely managed to get you there once—if at all.

And now you’re just supposed to sneak out of here like it never happened? Like he was just another bad decision?

Your stomach twists.

But then you glance at the wallet again. Twenty-one.

Yeah. You need to go.

Sliding out of bed as silently as possible, you scan the room for your clothes. Your shirt is on the floor, your jeans halfway under the bed. You grab them quickly, yanking them on with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. Bra? Found. Socks? One is missing, but you’ll live.

Once fully dressed, you tiptoe to the door. Your shoes. They’re outside the room. You remember kicking them off in the hallway.

One deep breath.

You ease the door open, peeking into the dimly lit living room.

Empty.

Good.

You take two careful steps out, eyes locked on your shoes near the front door. Almost there. Just a few more—

“Busted.”

You scream.

Not a blood-curdling horror movie scream, but a very real, very startled yelp that absolutely does not help you maintain any dignity in this situation.

Your body jolts like you’ve just been electrocuted, arms flailing wildly as you spin toward the voice.

There, sprawled across the couch, is a guy watching you like this is the best morning of his life.

Tall. Ridiculously handsome. Light brown hair, messy in a way that suggests he just woke up. Sharp cheekbones. Blue eyes filled with pure mischief.

And a smirk so unbearably smug that you immediately want to punch it off his face.

You clutch your chest, heart racing. “Jesus Christ, who the hell are you?!”

The guy grins wider. “Damn. Didn’t even recognize me? That hurts.”

“Am I supposed to?”You blink, still catching your breath.

His smirk falters for half a second before returning full force. “Oh, that’s good. That’s really good.” He tilts his head, studying you like you’re some kind of rare specimen. “You actually have no idea who I am, do you?”

“Why the hell would I?” Your frown deepens.

He lets out a dramatic sigh, like this is somehow the greatest tragedy to ever befall him.

“You’re telling me,” he starts, sitting up slightly, resting his arms on his knees, fully entertained, “that you came home with my brother, slept with him, and have no idea who we are?”

Your stomach drops.

Brother?

You knew Luke had brothers—he mentioned it—but you had no idea they were famous.

Your eyes flick toward the bedroom, then back to him. “You’re—wait, you’re one of Luke’s brothers?”

He snorts. “Wow. No recognition at all. That is humbling.”

“Should I recognize you?” You narrow your eyes at him.

“Oh, I don’t know.” He shrugs, mock-offended, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I guess I’m only one of the most famous people in this city.”

You blink, a little thrown off. “…You’re a local weatherman?”

He chokes, eyes widening. “A what?!”

“You’re acting like I should know you,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t keep up with the news, but you definitely have the vibe of a guy who points at maps for a living.”

He definitely doesn’t. If anything, he looks more like a kooky stripper with an annoyingly fit body. But there’s no way you’re feeding his ego—this idiot would probably take it as a compliment.

For a split second, he just stares at you, his mouth hanging slightly open.

Then, as if the tension snaps, he howls—full-body laughter, throwing his head back and wiping a fake tear from his eye.

“Oh my God,” he wheezes, clutching his stomach. “This is the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

You cross your arms, trying to mask the irritation bubbling up. “Glad I could contribute to your morning entertainment.”

“No, you don’t get it,” he says between gasps for air, leaning forward with an infectious grin. “This is amazing. Incredible. I live for moments like this.”

You raise an eyebrow, your patience wearing thin. “Moments like what?” you snap, unable to hide the rising edge in your voice. Honestly, you’re just relieved Luke didn’t inherit Jack’s over-the-top, obnoxious personality. If he had, you probably would’ve bailed on this blind date five minutes in.

“Moments where I get to witness something so spectacularly awkward, so painfully embarrassing, that it will sustain me for weeks.”

You glare at him with pure annoyance. “I hate you already.”

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Ouch. That wounds me.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Oh, no doubt.” He smirks, and for a moment, it almost reminds you of Luke—though the two brothers couldn’t look more different. But that same confidante smile? It’s unmistakable. “Especially since I now have the upper hand in every conversation we ever have from here on out.”

“We’re never having another conversation after this!” You try to sound firm, but your voice cracks, betraying you.

He just grins wider, shaking his head like he’s heard that before. “That’s what you think.”

You exhale sharply, fed up with the entire exchange. “Look, I’m leaving. Forget you ever saw me.”

“Not a chance.” He leans back against the couch, thoroughly amused. “You’re trying to sneak out of my baby brother’s room like a damn criminal. This is gold.”

You scowl again. “I’m not sneaking out.” You fumble with your shoes, trying to get them on while defending yourself. Luckily, the hallway and living room are one open space, making your escape a bit less awkward.

“You literally just tiptoed past me like you’re starring in Mission Impossible.”

You groan. "I was trying not to wake him up." Rolling your eyes, you keep wrestling with your damn laces—of all times to betray you, it had to be now. Frustration bubbles up as you huff, "I need to go."

Jack cocks an eyebrow. "Why?"

You freeze mid-motion, exhaling hard through your nose. "...Just because."

"That's not an answer." His arms fold across his chest, his gaze pressing into you like he’s daring you to crack.

Your stomach twists. Heat rises to your face. You don’t want to say it, don’t want to give him the satisfaction—but the words rip out anyway.

“Because I just found out I slept with a 21-year-old, okay?! I’m 27. That’s a six-year difference! That’s a whole presidential term and a little extra! That’s a—”

You stop, realizing how ridiculous it sounds now that you're saying it.

Jack stares at you, blinking. There’s a long silence before you speak again, but his expression shows no understanding of the mental chaos you’re in.

You sigh and tug at your hair in frustration. “I wasn’t expecting this. I thought maybe he was older, and now… I just don’t know how to feel.”

Jack, for the first time, softens his teasing expression. But it’s clear he doesn’t quite get what you’re saying.

“Well,” he shrugs casually, “you’re still not leaving. You’re stuck here until Luke wakes up.”

“No, I’m not.” You shake your head, stubborn.

“Yes, you are!”

Before you can argue, you hear movement from the bedroom.

“Jack, why are you yelling?”

Shit.

You freeze.

Jack just grins wider.

You turn, and there he is—Luke, standing in the hallway, shirtless, hair an absolute mess, looking at you with adorable confusion.

Jack smirks. “Oh, you know. Just chatting with your date about how she was totally about to dip.”

“Wait. You’re leaving?” Luke’s voice is a mix of confusion and hurt, and suddenly, you feel a wave of guilt wash over you.

You shift awkwardly, caught in the middle of it all. “I just… didn’t want to wake you.”

Jack snickers. “Translation: she found out you’re barely legal and panicked.”

Luke’s eyes flick to his nightstand, where his wallet still sits open.

��…Wait. Is this about my age?" He sounds confused—adorably so. Too adorably.

You open your mouth, but Jack is already cackling.

“Oh, it absolutely is,” Jack says, shaking his head. “She took one look at that ID and nearly had a full-blown existential crisis.”

Your face flushes deep red. Jesus, you really can’t stand that blue-eyed bastard.

Luke blinks, then sighs, clearly frustrated a little bit. “So, last night was… amazing, but now it’s a problem because I’m 21?”

You shift uneasily. “It’s not a problem, exactly. It’s just…”

Jack grins mischievously. “Hilarious?”

You glare at him, a mix of embarrassment and irritation burning through you. “Not the word I was going for.”

Luke tilts his head, watching you closely. “Did it feel weird last night?”

Your face instantly flames. “LUKE.”

Jack cackles. “Ohhh my God, this is so good.”

Luke shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m just saying. You didn’t seem to mind my age when you were begging for—”

You lunge at him, quickly slapping a hand over his mouth. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

Jack, leaning in with barely contained joy, grins wider. “Oh, no, let’s hear it! This is the best! I live for this shit.”

You whip around, shooting daggers. “Do you really have to be here?”

Jack places a hand over his chest, feigning innocence. "Of course I do. I’m just the clueless bystander, watching your meltdown. It’s my duty as a brother. How else am I supposed to tease Lukey later?"

Luke licks his lips, glancing between you and Jack. “Wait… so you’re really freaking out over this?”

You sigh, your frustration starting to boil over. "I just… didn’t realize you were so young."

Jack snickers from the side, clearly enjoying himself. “Oh, no, I think she’s just overthinking it. But hey, it’s cute.”

Luke shoots him a glare. “Jack.”

Jack raises his hands, completely unbothered. “I’m just here to state the obvious.”

You groan, feeling a headache start to form at the base of your skull. "Can I just… go? Please?" The words come out sharper than you mean, but you’re too tired to care.

Luke looks at you, his gaze softening with that same sleepy affection from last night. You almost hate how it makes your chest ache. "You really want to leave?"

You pause for a long moment, considering.

And truthfully?

No.

You don’t.

Last night wasn’t just a fling—it was Luke.

Luke, who had you laughing through dinner, making you feel like you were the only person in the world. He treated you like you were someone worth admiring, someone worth cherishing. And when he kissed you, it felt like the first rainstorm after a drought, washing away everything but the two of you.

And now he’s standing there, messy-haired and sleepy-eyed, looking at you like he’s trying to figure out what’s going through your mind.

Jack, sensing the shift, leans back dramatically. “Ohhh, she’s thinking about it.”

You glare. “Shut up, Jack.”

Jack smirks like a little kid in the candy shop. “Nope.”

Luke lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing his face with both hands, his puppy like eyes softening as he looks at you. "Alright," he mutters, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "Let me make you breakfast before you decide I’m too young to function."

Jack perks up from the couch. “Oh, hell yeah. Stay. Luke makes a mean omelet.”

Luke shoots Jack a teasing glare, his eyes rolling in exasperation as he half-smirks. "Why are you even involved in this?" he says, clearly annoyed but with a playful edge, like he can’t decide if he should laugh or strangle his brother.

Jack shrugs dramatically. “Because I live for chaos.”

You hesitate for a moment, staring at Luke as you battle the urge to stay or run.

“…Fine. One omelet.”

Jack fist-pumps the air. “YES.”

Luke grins like he’s already won. “Good. Because I was going to make you stay anyway.”

—

You don’t know how you ended up here.

One second, you were committed to sneaking out like a thief in the night. The next?

You’re standing in Luke Hughes’ kitchen, watching him move around with annoying ease, pulling eggs and cheese out of the fridge like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Jack, of course, is sitting at the kitchen island, grinning like the mischievous idiot he is.

“You look tense,” he observes, propping his chin in his hand and resting his elbows on his knees. “Regretting staying already?”

You shoot him a withering look. “I regret a lot of things. Letting you talk this morning is at the top of the list.”

Jack gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Ouch. And here I was, being such a warm and welcoming host.”

You roll your eyes. “You ambushed me.”

Jack shrugs casually, sipping his coffee. “Semantics.”

Luke, bless him, doesn’t engage. He simply smirks to himself as he cracks an egg into a pan, clearly used to Jack’s shenanigans. “Jack, are you actually gonna eat, or are you just here to be annoying?”

“Oh, I ate already. I’m just here for the show.”

You narrow your eyes at him, a smirk playing at the corner of your mouth. “Seriously, what’s your deal? You get some kind of thrill out of torturing me?”

He’s an asshole, but damn, he’s the kind of asshole that almost makes you laugh.

Jack flashes a devilish grin, clearly enjoying the chaos he's creating. "You're sharp. I like that. Smart women are way more fun to mess with." He leans back, arms crossed, his eyes twinkling with mischief as if he's already plotting his next move.

Luke huffs a laugh, the sound full of fond exasperation. He rolls his eyes, his messy hair falling into his face as he nudges Jack with his shoulder. “Just ignore him. He thrives on being a menace,” he says, shaking his head, but you can tell he's not actually mad.

Jack grins even wider, clearly proud of himself. “Yep. It’s what I do best,” he says, puffing out his chest like he’s just announced some kind of grand achievement.

You rest your elbows on the table, watching as Luke flips an omelet with impressive skill. “Okay, I’ll bite—how did you get so good at this?”

“Gotta learn some life skills when you live with Jack. Otherwise, you starve." He shoots his brother a pointed look, one that’s half annoyance, half fondness.

Jack scoffs, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest like he’s been wronged. "That’s unfair. I provide entertainment." His voice is teasing, but there’s a clear twinkle in his eye.

Luke snorts, barely stifling a laugh. "Entertainment doesn’t make up for the fact that you once tried to microwave a frozen pizza."

Your head snaps up at that, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. "I’m sorry, what?"

Jack groans, cheeks flushing with a rare hint of embarrassment. "It was one time, and the oven took too long!" he mutters defensively, but you can see the red creeping up his neck.

Luke smirks, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he gestures vaguely toward the stove. "You almost burned the apartment down," he points out, no trace of sympathy in his voice.

Jack waves a dismissive hand. "That’s an exaggeration," he says, clearly attempting to downplay the incident, but his voice betrays the tiniest hint of guilt.

Luke shoots you a sly look, his eyes dancing with amusement as he leans in, like he’s about to let you in on a secret. “The microwave was smoking,” he adds, his voice dropping low, the tone almost playful—like he’s about to drop some juicy gossip.

Your jaw drops in disbelief. "Oh my God."

Luke, clearly pleased with the chaos he’s caused, gestures at Jack with the spatula like he’s just won some kind of victory. "See? This is why I learned how to cook."

Jack grins wide, unbothered. "And I get to reap the benefits, so really, we both win," he says with a cheeky shrug, as if his utter lack of skill somehow balances out Luke’s culinary expertise.

You laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. "I don’t know how you put up with him."

Luke smirks,"It’s a daily struggle," he says, voice deadpan, but the small curve of his lips gives away the amusement he’s trying to hide.

Jack grins, shaking his head slightly. “Oh, the betrayal. I’m crushed,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm, though the smirk gives him away.

Luke just rolls his eyes and slides the finished omelet onto a plate before setting it down in front of you.

You look down at it, genuinely impressed by how perfect it looks. Then, you glance back at Luke, a little taken aback. "Not gonna lie… this looks really good."

Luke’s grin widens, his eyes briefly locking with yours, the kind of connection that makes the moment feel charged. "Told you."

You pick up your fork, still a little skeptical, and take a bite. Holy hell.

Your eyes go wide in surprise. "Oh my God. This is actually amazing."

Jack leans in, looking smug...again. "See? I wasn’t lying." He gives you a little wink, clearly basking in the moment like he’s somehow been proven right.

Luke smirks, pleased by the compliment. “I take my breakfast very seriously.”

“Clearly. This might be the best decision I’ve made today.” You shake your head, chewing.

Jack gasps dramatically. “Wow. So staying was a better decision than leaving?”

You pause, realizing what you just admitted.

Jack grins like he’s just scored a win, and for a second, you seriously consider wiping that smug look off his face.

Luke’s smile, however, is filled with pure happiness, as if this moment is exactly what he’s been waiting for.

You sigh, stabbing your omelet. “I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”

Jack beams. “Absolutely not.”

Luke leans closer, his voice suddenly lower, more intimate. “I mean, I’m glad you stayed. It’s not every day I get a pretty girl in my kitchen, making my morning way more interesting.”

You freeze, fork halfway to your mouth. His words hang in the air, electric.

“Oh, so now I’m ‘pretty,’ huh?” you tease, trying to maintain your composure, though your heart skips a beat.

Luke raises an eyebrow, a slow, confident smile curling on his lips. “Oh, I thought that was obvious.” His gaze flickers down to your lips, his voice dropping even lower. “You’ve been keeping me on my toes since I woke up.”

Your cheeks warm, but you force yourself to look away, focusing on your omelet. “Flattery won’t make me forget about you being 21.”

Luke’s grin widens, and he leans in a little closer, lowering his voice just enough that only you can hear. “Maybe not. But I think it’s a pretty good start.”

Jack, completely oblivious to the flirtation unfolding right under his nose, leans back on the kitchen island with a self-satisfied grin. “God, I can’t believe I’m witnessing this. I thought I was supposed to be the one who charmed the ladies.”

Luke snorts, rolling his eyes at his brother but keeping his focus on you. “Jack’s the type to talk about it. I’m the type to show it.”

Your breath catches in your throat. That was smooth. Really smooth.

You take another bite of your omelet, trying to hide the smile spreading across your face. “You sure you don’t just want me to stay for the food?”

Luke leans back, his gaze softening as he gently takes your left hand in his, his thumb slowly tracing circles over your knuckles. “I mean… if that’s your only reason for sticking around, I won’t complain,” he murmurs, a playful yet tender smile curving his lips. “But I like to think I’ve got more to offer than just my cooking skills.”

His words, along with the warmth in his eyes, wash over you like a wave, pulling you in deeper. You lock eyes with him, your breath catching as your pulse quickens. There’s something in the way he’s looking at you, something that makes it impossible to think straight.

Then Jack clears his throat loudly, and you break the spell, feeling a little embarrassed.

“Alright, alright,” Jack says, clearly enjoying the discomfort he’s just caused. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone so you can finish your breakfast in peace. No need to make me a third wheel.”

You roll your eyes, but Luke doesn’t seem to mind. He just shrugs, unfazed.

“Good idea. Go entertain yourself, Jack.”

Jack winks. “Don’t mind if I do.” He stands up and heads for the door, adding, “You two just make sure to keep it PG—some of us don’t need to see that much chemistry before our coffee kicks in.”

You watch as Jack exits, still grinning like the mischievous brat he is.

As the door clicks behind Jack, the quiet of the kitchen settles in, leaving just you and Luke alone, the lingering tension between you two impossible to ignore. Luke shifts, his hands still resting on your hands as he pulls you gently into his lap. Your heart beats a little faster at the sudden closeness, but you refuse to let the thrill of it distract you from the conversation you know needs to happen.

You take a deep breath, looking up into his eyes—eyes that are soft but hold that familiar spark of mischief, the kind that makes it hard to think straight. He tilts his head slightly, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he runs his thumb over your hand, tracing slow circles. The warmth of his touch makes your breath hitch, but you bite your lip, determined to have this talk.

“Luke,” you start, your voice softer than you intended, “We need to talk about last night. About... us.”

Luke's expression changes, the playful gleam fading into something more intense. He doesn’t pull away, though. Instead, he tightens his grip on your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and his voice drops an octave. “I thought we were past talking. I thought we were just... enjoying each other.”

His words make your pulse quicken, but you hold firm. You need to address this.

“I’m serious,” you say, your voice steady, though your chest betrays you with its nervous flutter. “I need to know where this is going, Luke. You’re 21, I’m 27. That’s a six-year difference. I’ve been through more in my life. I want a family soon. I want stability. Not... something fleeting.”

Luke’s gaze darkens, and his thumb continues its slow, soothing motion over your skin, but there’s a new intensity in his eyes. He’s quiet for a moment, absorbing your words. The air feels thick with unspoken thoughts, the weight of what you’ve just said hanging between you.

“You think I don’t want the same things?” he asks, his voice steady but with a sharp edge, not defensive—more... thoughtful. “I’m not some kid just looking for a fling. I’ve thought this through. I’m looking for something real. I’ve spent too much time in meaningless situations to want that anymore. I went to our date because I was looking for something serious. And my friend told me you’d be looking for the same thing.”

He lets your words settle, his eyes never leaving yours. “After spending the night talking with you, I felt like I wasn’t just talking to someone who’s interesting—I felt like I was talking to someone who gets it. Someone who’s looking for the same kind of connection. I’m not here for something that’ll fizzle out in a few weeks. I’m here because... I think you might be the person I’ve been waiting for.”

His words hit you in a way you weren’t prepared for. You’re caught off guard, unsure how to respond, but something stirs inside you. Something warm, something you didn’t expect. You can feel the truth of what he’s saying in your chest, and for the first time, you start to question the assumptions you’d made.

“Yeah, but you’re still figuring things out,” you say, your voice shaky now, a trace of worry creeping in. “You’re just starting out in life. Maybe you don’t want the same kind of commitment I do. I need someone who’s already ready to settle down.”

Luke doesn’t hesitate. His fingers slide up to your jaw, his touch firm but tender, like he’s grounding you to the moment. His gaze holds yours, no longer playful, but filled with something deeper. Something real.

“I’m ready for that,” he murmurs, his voice soft but full of conviction. “I know what I want. And I want you. If you’re worried about my age, let me show you I’m more than just a number.”

His words are almost a whisper, but there’s a quiet confidence in them that sends a thrill through you. His lips are so close now, you can feel his breath on your skin as he leans in, his forehead resting against yours. “I’m not asking for a lifetime yet, but I’m asking for the chance to prove myself. To prove that I’m capable of giving you the kind of future you want.”

You close your eyes, your breath catching in your throat. He’s not backing down, and the sincerity in his words leaves you no room to doubt him. But still, you can’t help but voice the doubts that swirl in your mind.

“I don’t want to get hurt, Luke,” you whisper, finally letting yourself admit the fear you’ve been pushing down. “I’ve been through enough heartache. And if you don’t want the same things I do, if you’re not ready for it... I don’t know if I can take that risk.”

Luke leans in just a little more, his lips brushing against your cheek before he pulls back slightly, his hands cradling your face. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his skin, the steadiness of his gaze. “I’m ready for you. Ready for everything that comes with it,” he says, his voice resolute. “I wouldn’t be here, sitting with you like this, if I wasn’t.”

You search his eyes for any sign of hesitation, but there’s none. What you see instead is determination—an unspoken promise that, for all his age, he knows what he wants and is willing to fight for it.

The air between you two shifts, the quiet between you no longer heavy with doubt, but filled with something new. Something that makes your pulse race.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “Then show me.”

At that, his lips crash against yours, the kiss deep and slow, filled with all the unspoken things you’ve both been dancing around. His hands slide to your back, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. Your hands find their way to his curls, tugging him in as if you can’t get close enough. The world around you fades away—there’s only the feeling of his mouth against yours, the pressure of his body against yours, the shared certainty that whatever this is, it’s more than just physical.

When you finally pull away, both breathless, Luke grins, his forehead resting against yours.

Luke leans back a little bit, his eyes gleaming with that mischievous glint as he watches you, a teasing smile playing at the corners of his lips. "You know," he says casually, his voice thick with satisfaction, "I have to admit... I’ve never had a night quite like that. You really know how to use that beautiful mouth of yours."

You glance over at him, raising an eyebrow. "Oh? What do you mean?"

Luke shifts a little closer, his grin widening. "Well, I’ve had my fair share of nights, but... last night? You...You were next level. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting to be that blown away."

You feel your cheeks flush, a mix of embarrassment and flattery. "Really? Well, I kinda feel the same. I’ve never... finished two times in one night."

Luke’s eyes narrow in surprise. "What?! Baby, that wasn’t even that much. I think we can go for four or five next time." He winks, his tone playful, but there's a hint of challenge in his voice.

You laugh, trying to hide the blush creeping up your neck. "Is that so? You really think you can keep up?"

Luke smirks, leaning in just a little closer, his voice low and confident. "Oh, I’m definitely up for the challenge. You just wait."

You raise an eyebrow, a teasing smile forming on your lips. "Maybe this whole 'young boyfriend' thing isn’t such a bad idea after all... Good stamina and all that."

Luke grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Told ya!" He leans in, planting a series of quick, soft kisses across your face and neck, each one sending a delightful shiver through your skin. You can't help but laugh at his actions, brushing your nose against his cheek as your giggles mix with his gentle kisses.

Just as you're starting to recover from his playful assault, a voice slices through the moment like an ice-cold splash of water.

"Can you drop the sex talk, guys?" Jack's voice rings out from the kitchen doorway, dripping with disgust but clearly amused by the whole situation. "I didn’t need to know this much about my little brother."

You freeze, eyes wide, before you turn to Luke, who looks utterly unfazed, that smug, victorious grin plastered across his face. It’s as if he’s just won some kind of prize, and he's wearing it like a badge of honor.

Embarrassment creeps up your neck, but before you can even process the awkwardness, you find yourself laughing. The tension dissolves in the shared amusement of the moment. Luke just shrugs casually, looking way too pleased with himself.

"Relax, Jack. It’s called maturity," you reply with a wink, and Luke chuckles, pressing another kiss to your cheek.

Jack groans dramatically, rolling his eyes. "You two are gross. And seriously, for the future, we need some rules. These walls are way too thin. I do not need to hear you two in action. Thank God I wasn’t home yesterday."

You let out a horrified gasp, hiding your face in Luke’s neck. "Jesus, Jack," you mumble, half laughing, half mortified.

Luke just keeps laughing, clearly entertained by the situation. "You heard nothing. Just a couple of adults figuring things out," he teases.

Jack mutters something under his breath before calling out with a playful, exaggerated gag. "God, I need to vomit. You two are so disgusting."

"Guess this means you're sticking around, huh?" Luke whispers against your mouth, his voice low and warm, sending another wave of heat through you.

You nod, content, leaning into him with a soft smile. "Guess so," you murmur, brushing your lips against his in return.

Jack, clearly fed up with the display, huffs dramatically and walks away with an exaggerated sigh. "You two are the worst."

As he exits, you look up at Luke, feeling that warmth in your chest—the comfort, the excitement, all mixed together. You can get used to mornings like this, even if it means dealing with Jack’s teasing. Or, you think with a smirk, maybe you’ll just strangle him in his sleep. Problem solved.

Luke catches the glint in your eye and chuckles, clearly knowing exactly what you’re thinking.

“Careful,” he says with a playful smirk, “I’d hate to lose my new favourite person just because you can’t handle my brother.”

You laugh, pulling him in for one last kiss.

Part 2

#luke hughes x oc #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x y/n #luke hughes x you #luke hughes fic #luke hughes fanfic #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes #nhl fanfic #nhl fic #jack hughes fanfic #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes fic #jack hughes

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missqhughes · 7 months ago

Text

IS SHE REALLY YOURS? | Q. HUGHES43

-> quinn x jacksgf!reader

-> contains: mentions of sex and sexual acts, verbal fights, cheating, teasing, ocs created for the plot, use of y/n, lowercase intended

-> IN WHICH: y/n swears to herself and quinn that jack will never know what happened between them. however, as jack’s actions become even more questionable, quinn starts to drop hints about what he did to his girlfriend the night before, showing him two can play at the same game.

-> the HIGHLY requested pt 2 to can he get you like this! god i love this plot soooo much. don’t know if i would hate to be in this situation or adore it 🫥 anyway, hope you love it as much as i do!

18+ CONTENT BELOW THE CUT

y/n knew it was wrong.

that she fucked her boyfriends older brother. how much she enjoyed it, how good he made her feel. that she loved how it sounded when he moaned her name. that she slept in quinn’s bed in his boxers, she felt a comfort in him holding her close in his unconscious state.

y/n attempted to reach over quinn to grab his phone, afraid that she had woken up too late and leaving quinn’s room would mean certain, immediate trouble.

quinn shifted, waking up and witnessing her crawling on top of him, reaching for the side table, and ultimately failing to do so.

“well, good morning to you too, what are you doing?”

quinn’s sleepy voice was like music to her ears, “sorry, i just wanted to see what time it is,” she said, backing up to lay on her side, partly embarrassed that quinn caught her in the act.

quinn let out a chuckle, brushing the hair away from her face, then holding the nape of her neck to bring her into a sweet kiss.

he inhaled with satisfaction, “you don’t need to know what time it is,” he mumbled against her lips, breaking away to place a kiss on her jawline.

“i do, it’s going to look pretty bad if jack is awake and i come out of your room. especially looking… like this.” y/n remarked, her chest branded with quinn’s mark.

quinn briefly looked at his phone screen, “it’s 7:50, still pretty early. you should be good,”

y/n felt a relief, thinking the worst, that it was later in the morning and everyone else was already awake and that she would have to bring the million dollar excuse to the table of why she was coming out of quinn’s room instead of her own, or jacks.

y/n got up off the bed to look for her shirt and shorts, only to realize that her shirt was still splayed over the kitchen counter.

“fuck”, she whispered to herself, cursing at her forgetfulness.

“can you go get my shirt from the kitchen? i don’t want to walk out there in just a bra and shorts.”

got up and ruffled his hair, his broad shoulders displaying just noticeable scratch marks down them. instead of leaving the room, he went into his closet.

“just wear one of mine,” he said casually,

y/n knew he wasn’t going to get it, and she sure as hell wasn’t either. no one was going to see her in it, so who cares?

quinn tossed her an oversized shirt, a grey one with the classic canucks logo on it. she shot him a look,

“seriously? quinn i cant wear this. what am i going to say to jack if he sees this in my room?” she held the t-shirt in her hands, flustered just at the thought of wearing quinn’s shirt.

“you’ll be fine, you worry too much,” quinn was so casual in his demeanor, some may say it was off putting, but that’s just how he was.

y/n slipped the shirt over her head, engulfed by quinn’s familiar and newly intoxicating scent.

“see you for breakfast then?” she said, standing by the door, holding out the boxers he lent her the night before.

“always,” he said, taking the boxers from her hand before biting his lip and slapping her ass as she left his room.

“quinn!”

“sorry, just had to,” quinn laughed, then closed the door behind her.

was any of this real? she thought to herself.

y/n quietly shuffled into the kitchen, grabbing her shirt that was, in fact, splayed over the kitchen counter. she hurried back to her room in a quiet run, softly closing the door and finally letting out the breath she was holding in.

she took off quinn’s shirt and replaced it with her own, his scent still lingering on her. y/n’s mind went blank, wondering how everything was going to be from now on. sure, jack didn’t know. he will never know. but now that she had done this with quinn, what does that mean for them?

she knew she couldn’t have them both, that she couldn’t just end things with jack just to move on to his older brother.

y/n snapped out of it, shoving quinn’s shirt deep into her dresser, where hopefully no one would find it.

——————————————————————————

10:23am

y/n thought this was a safe enough time to leave her room, this being the hour she usually emerges to the living room. but this time she had been up for hours before hand, laying down, a million thoughts firing at once.

she walked down to the kitchen, no quinn or jack, or alana in sight, just april and luke.

“morning guys, the others aren’t up yet?”

luke yawned, “morning, quinn isn’t up but alana and jack are.”

y/n tried her best to keep a poker face, but she felt her heart sink at hearing that they were up but no where in sight.

“oh. where’s jack then?”

she didn’t give a shit about where alana was, as long as it wasn’t with jack.

“he took her out on the jetski, they left like 10 minutes ago,” april let out quickly, avoiding eye contact with y/n.

great.

in almost weird, perfect timing, both quinn came out of his room as alana and jack came up from the dock.

a few good mornings were shared, jack walking over to y/n sitting at the kitchen barstool, placing a quick soft kiss on her cheek. quinn smirked while watching, her head dipping down slightly to hide the pink hue dressed on her face.

jack, for once in his life it seemed like, noticed, and he gave quinn a weird look.

“what’s up with you bud?” he smiled, passing his older brother in the kitchen.

quinn poured himself coffee, back to his brother, covering the devilish smile he had on his face.

“nothing, just slept really good last night, ya know? bed felt extra comfortable,” he said casually, sipping his coffee then facing jack with a nonchalant look.

y/n held her breath, thinking she was going to pass out either from lack of air or whatever the fuck game quinn was playing.

she was so focused on the interaction playing out in front of them, she didn’t notice the other three leaving, april tugging her friend into luke’s room, and him by the door listening to their conversation.

thankfully jack thought nothing of quinn’s remark, and he chuckled at his brother, “yeah i get you. all of us should get down to the water, it’s a super nice day out.”

he would know that. he’s already been out with alana today.

but she couldn’t go out today. not with the situation going on with her chest.

“i’ll probably just stay in-”

“-how about a boat day? i’ll come with this time. all of us.” quinn was quick to cut her off, and she couldn’t control the eye roll that came after.

jack nodded in agreement, “i’ll go tell the others,”

god, what did she get herself in to?

——————————————————————————

the weather was perfect, a calm summer day to pair with the pure anxiety she had on this boat ride. a secret under her shirt, and thankfully, quinn had his on too.

everything was fine for the most part, she was sitting next to jack, legs resting on his lap, and his arm gently draped over them.

the only thing that wasn’t fine, was that alana was still wearing his fucking hat. that she was taking pictures in it, and that they just could not stop talking to each other.

y/n looked at quinn’s focused expression steering the boat, and he looked back at her, then glancing at jack and alana. he slowed the boat, until it came to a complete stop.

“we should anchor here, too nice to not swim,”

she held her breath, again.

and to her horror, quinn peeled his shirt off, scratch marks in full visibility across his back.

luke was the first to notice, “dude, did you fuck someone last night?” after luke’s comment, the rest of them all turned their heads to see what he was talking about.

“damn Q, you’re an animal,” jack followed, “when did you leave the house to smash?”

“i didn’t, she came to ours.”

y/n’s heart stopped.

“who?” april asked, everyone curious about quinn’s secret woman of the night.

“yeah quinn, who?” y/n asked, gaze not leaving him, clenching her thumbs in her hands to prevent anyone seeing them from shaking.

“not telling. wanna see where it goes. but she lives really close,” he dived into the water, luke and april following after.

god what was he doing? does he think this is funny?

jack tapped her legs, signaling her to move, and she did. he walked towards the edge of the boat, noticing y/n didn’t soon follow after.

“you’re not going to get in? you love swimming,”

guilt hit her like a truck.

“i really dont feel well, i think swimming will just make me feel sicker,” she lied through her teeth, wrapping her arms around her body to sweeten the lie.

“don’t worry, i’ll swim with you jack!” a piercing voice said, y/n scoffed as alana skipped to where jack was, pushing him in.

she looked back at y/n, the two holding eye contact for just a moment before jack grabbed alana’s arm and pulled her into the water.

whatever.

the guilt was fading away, and as y/n looked out into the water, she didn’t notice april looking at her with a face of concern.

——————————————————————————

the ride back to the house brought familiar feelings back to her.

quinn decided to keep his shirt off, which she knew was 100%, undeniably, intentional. her evidence on him was on display for everyone, and her mind faded in a daydream of clawing into his back, pornographic moans emitting from her lips, all while he fucked her senselessly.

she needed to be alone.

y/n didn’t wait for anyone, instead booking it straight back into the house. she threw herself onto her bed, groaning into the plush pillows as she gripped her hair so tight she thought she might rip it out.

in her tantrum of panic, there was a knock at her door.

she didn’t know who she was hoping it was. jack? quinn? both?

neither.

it was april.

“hey,” she smiled softly at y/n before speaking again, “can we talk?”

“yeah, of course,” y/n held open the door to let april in to her room, the girl sitting on the edge of the bed, tensed up.

she never hated april. she actually found her really nice, thought she was a good fit for luke. they’d always gotten along, even going on double dates with her and jack.

“are you okay? what’s up?” she sat next to her, crossing her legs on the bed.

april inhaled deeply, in contemplation of her words.

“y/n, there’s something you should know.”

her heart stopped.

“what is it?”

“jack… and alana. i know she’s my friend but you deserve to know this. i mean you’ve seen it yourself she’s been throwing herself at jack this whole time. i keep telling her to stop but she just won’t, and i think they might have kissed on the dock.”

she felt like she was going to pass out, her throat burning with heartache. it hurt extra because she had no right to feel this way. she was the one who cheated on him first. or did she even? it was an impossible situation.

“how do you know?”

y/n could tell april was trying not to cry, her own personal guilt coming out, “the other day, when you went to your room after dinner, alana and jack went down to the dock, just the two of them. i could see through the windows he was leaned over her, and she had her hand on his chest. that’s why i don’t know if they did for sure, and alana refuses to tell me.”

any guilt, all guilt she had in her situation was gone. at least she had the reservations to cheat on the low, and not be so embarrassingly blatant about it.

she hated it. she hated him.

y/n contemplated in this moment what she should do. should she tell april what her and quinn did? that they were both just another chain in the link of cheaters?

she was going to fake sadness, but the tears flew out unconsciously.

“thank you for telling me. i appreciate it.”

april nodded, and the two held a long, comforting hug.

“you’re welcome, and i’m sorry. i don’t know what you want to do but she’ll be gone in a few days, if you wanted to confront jack then.”

“yeah, good idea,” april gave her one last smile before getting up,

“i’ll be down by the water if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

y/n gave her a thumbs up, and with a gentle click of the lock, april left.

she waited a couple minutes, enough time for her to be gone, then shuffled over to quinn’s room. his door was shut and there was no noise to be heard, but she prayed he would answer when she knocked.

and he did.

“hey, hey, what happened?” his look softened, instinctively holding her face in hands, wiping her tear ridden face.

“jack cheated. he fucking cheated before we even did anything quinn. that night… the night i went to my room, he kissed her, he kissed alana on the dock. he was almost on top of her and she had her hand on his chest.”

her voice trembled, she held up her hands to hold quinn’s arms to keep her standing, feeling that if she didn’t, she would come crumbling to the floor.

quinn’s soft expression quickly morphed into a look of anger,

“how do you know that?”

“april told me,” y/n sobbed.

“oh, y/n,” he pulled her into his room, engulfing her in a hug, resting his face on the top of her head as he rubbed gentle circles on her back.

“everything’s going to be fine, okay? it’s gonna be just fine. do you trust me?”

she looked up at him with glossy eyes, not a hint of deceit in his face.

“yes, i trust you quinn.”

he kissed the tip of her nose, her tear stained cheeks, then her puffy red lips.

“good. lay down with me for now, i don’t want you upset all alone,”

she nodded, taking quinn’s hand and following to his bed, where he wrapped the blanket and himself around her, soothing the hiccuping sobs while massaging her body, and whispering that she was okay, and he was here.

——————————————————————————

y/n woke up in quinn’s bed.

but he was nowhere to be found.

stretching and rubbing her puffy eyes, she got up from the warm comfort of quinn’s bed. creaking open the door to see if anyone was up. when the coast was clear, y/n slipped out of quinn’s room and down to the main level.

she was greeted with everyone else, luke and quinn in the kitchen cooking dinner, and the others resting around the living room.

quinn looked over at y/n, waving her over to the kitchen.

“quite the napper recently aren’t you?” he joked, leaning his body slightly towards her, “you okay?” he whispered.

“i’m fine,” she said back, quinn holding her waist for just a few seconds then back to the cutting board before anyone could notice.

“go relax, dinner will be ready soon,”

she jokingly saluted him, taking the empty seat next to april on the couch, luke and jack occupying the chairs whilst they played video games.

she gave her a side hug, and y/n rested her head softly on april’s shoulder. her eyes glanced to alana, who was already looking at her, jaw tight and a deep look of annoyance on her face.

cant wait for a great family dinner.

——————————————————————————

y/n actually felt okay enough to talk.

it felt like everything was back to the way it was before, everyone was in the conversation. laughing, joking, enjoying it all together.

“so Q, you gotta tell us, who’s the chick you hooked up with?” jack asked, still rolling in curiously over who his older brother secretly had in his bed.

aaaaand there it was. back to reality.

quinn wiped his mouth and looked at jack coldly, “why do you want to know so bad?”

everyone looked taken aback at quinn’s defensive reaction,

“chill, i was just wondering. we all were trying to think of who it could be but came up blank.”

luke chimed in, “is she hot?”

“very.”

she could hear her heart beat pounding into her ears.

“how did you meet?”

“through someone else.”

“was it good?”

“even better than i imagined in my head.”

y/n’s chest felt like that of a hummingbird, unable to slow the pulse of her heart.

quinn crossed his arms on the table, “actually, i have a question for you jack.”

god, why was he doing this now? couldn’t he wait a few days?

“yeah?”

“what were you doing at the dock with alana the other night?”

here we fucking go.

jack stared blankly at quinn, the whole table fell into silence. his brother stared back, his expression unwavering.

“what are you talking about?”

“you two were there. her hand was on your chest, you were all over her. what’s up with that?”

jack stared at his brother blankly, placing his hand on y/n’s thigh with a soft squeeze.

“baby it’s not true, i promise. he’s lying,”

“i saw it for myself. alana?” quinn shifted the conversation to her, clearly annoyed that jack disregarded his question.

alana said nothing, jacks head whipping around to look at her, pleading blue eyes filled with nothing but guilt. she took her head in her hands, and just barely nodded in confession.

jack begun to panic, moving his hand up to caress y/n’s face, anything to save himself.

“baby i promise it’s not what you think. you’re all mine, i-”

“is she though?” quinn stood, leaning over the table slightly, a dark sound in his voice.

“what the hell are you talking about quinn?”

“you know… last night, she cried to me. cried to me about how shitty you were being, how little love you were giving her, how little attention gave to her. so i did.”

if looks could kill, jack and quinn would have matching wounds.

“what are you getting at?”

“i fucked her. in my bed. yeah, she was so fucking sexy moaning my name, i even made her cum. hard. ever get her like that jack? hm?”

no one else could say a word. luke’s mouth was hung open in shock, april’s covered by two hands, and alana with an unreadable expression.

y/n turned away, unable to look him in the eye,

“is all this true? look at me.”

she refused, instead nodding with a quivering lip, tears coating her closed lashes.

jack scoffed, “unbelievable, you are fucking unbelievable,” he was stood up now too, a hand gripped through his hair.

that’s when her emotions turned into a complete 180, appalled at his words,

“me? i’m unbelievable? you just spent the past couple days flirting with alana, come to find out you kissed her, and you think you get the only right to be mad? you need to fucking leave.”

“leave, you know this is also my house right?”

“jack…” luke’s voice trailed off, disappointment lingering, “you should go.”

“you’re kidding?”

“no. go to your apartment in jersey, go to mom and dads, anywhere, but you can’t be here for the rest of the summer.”

jack rubbed a hand on his mouth before slamming his fists on the table, grabbing alana’s hand, and ascending up to his room, likely to pack all their things.

y/n’s silent tears now turned into loud sobs, paining her each time she took a breath. quinn held her first, april and luke soon to wrap their arms around the pair too.

——————————————————————————

cleaning up after dinner was silent.

no one dared to speak, the loudest noise in the room being the familiar soft hum of the refrigerator.

they had all made their way to the living room after, y/n with her legs pulled up to her chest, leaned on quinn, the well known crumbling feeling just around the corner from her.

about an hour had passed since jack and alana went up, and now footsteps trailed down, them both emerging with packed suit cases.

together? who knows.

who cares.

the silence was still kept when they stepped towards the door, y/n only standing up when jack looked at her.

“hope you realize he just used you. used you because you were vulnerable, and easy. don’t forget that.”

the door slammed shut.

“you two definitely need some time alone,” april said softly, fiddling with the fingers in her lap.

“agreed, we’re gonna go to my room, you all got the floor, Q” luke chimed, putting an arm around april. as he tapped quinn’s shoulder and lovingly messed up y/n’s hair, they went to luke’s room, leaving just quinn and her left.

“and then there were two.” quinn said lightheartedly, his laugh fixing the dark aura that surrounded them previously.

“yeah, just us.”

“i always wanted it to be just us.”

she was in shock, especially considering her and jack dated for almost two years, and she knew the hughes family even longer before.

“quinn,” she began,

“i promise. i’ve wanted to give you everything for so long. i was crushed when jack told me he had feelings for you, but i pushed mine aside because i wanted him to be happy. but i knew i could be better for you,”

she wrap her arms around his neck, eyes going over all his gorgeous features, lip slightly quivering at his resemblance to jack.

“i had no idea quinn, if i knew… things could’ve been so different. but right now, i do want you. but i need time, it’s so fresh,” she almost framed it as a question, nervously awaiting what quinn was going to say.

“that’s okay, i’ll wait forever if i have to. right now, let’s just enjoy the rest of the summer yeah, how’s that sound?”

she smiled, bringing her head down to fully hug him,

“that sounds really good, but what about you and jack?” quinn’s face was unwavering, not a hint of worry or fear present.

“me and jack can figure our shit out later. it’ll all be okay,” he turned his head to kiss her temple reassuringly. y/n knew he was being truthful, every time quinn said something would be okay, it would be.

with his sweet words, she was ready to soak all of him into her. she was really all his.

——————————————————————————

xoxo, kaia

941 notes · View notes

lordprettyflackotara · 9 months ago

Text

noise || eyeless jack || maid!reader (𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝓵𝔂pasta au)

SMUT MINORS DNI 18+. tw: freaky ass demon sex, overstimulation, breeding kink, size kink, marking kink (?), jacks a freaky fuck with his tongues, choking, humiliation, ownership kink if you squint

You stared up blankly at the ceiling, your head throbbing with stress. Since your incident with Toby, you had been notified of Trenderman’s request for you to transfer to his mansion instead. Of course Slenderman declined, an action you were extremely grateful for. Despite your constant affairs with the mansions residents, you always found yourself craving more. Sure, your time with them was fun and hot, but it always left you desiring something more. You felt as though your pleasure wasn’t prioritized. You wouldn’t expect it to be, nor would you request it to a bunch of killers.

With all of that in mind, it left you aching with desire. An unscratched itch keeping you up late at night. It was a Wednesday, the one night a week Slenderman opted for you to sleep like a normal human. He said it was good for you to participate in traditional human behavior every now and then. The moon hung high in the sky, the mansion presumably vacant besides you. Even with that theory being very likely, you still hid in your bedroom unless absolutely necessary. You tucked your lip between your teeth, recounting the memories with the proxies. The way Masky fucked you with his gun, how Toby’s fingers felt around your throat, and how Hoodie thrust into you. You felt like a dirty perv, the way those thoughts turned you on so desperately.

Those thoughts alone were what made your hand slither underneath the band of your shorts.

Surely you were no saint, but the idea of getting off on just thoughts alone made you feel more filthy than anything else. It wasn’t like you had many options, porn just out of reach and your vibrator long forgotten at home. You slowly fluttered your eyes shut, dipping your index and middle finger in between your folds. Gathering your slick you drew slow circles around your clit, allowing yourself to let out a sigh of relief. Finally, your pleasure was being prioritized. Even if you would’ve rather done this with someone else, you were sure this would feel better, right? No one else could know your own body better than you did. You dipped your fingers into your cunt, your gummy walls clinging to your small digits. You whimpered at the sensation, out of pleasure and frustration.

As much as you wanted them to, your fingers just couldn’t reach where you wanted them to go. It was like an itch you couldn’t quite scratch, your patience now growing thin. Deciding you just wanted to cum and get this over with, you brought your other hand to your neglected clit. Biting your bottom lip you exhaled, a soft whine clawing its way out of your throat. You had finally found a decent rhythm, your fingers going as fast as they could to power you through your orgasm. It was then an abrupt knock ripped you from your pleasurable facade, causing you to sit up. “Just a minute!” You called. Panicking you sat up, throwing your blankets off of you. You wiped your hands on your silk shorts, hoping and praying Slenderman of all people wasn’t on the other side of the door. Gripping the doorknob and swinging it open, you couldn’t conceal your puzzled expression at the sight of Eyeless Jack.

His own expression was hidden by his mask, his presence more ominous than anything. It was the first time you said seen him without a hoodie, a tight t shirt clinging to his muscles. “Is now a bad time? I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Jack said. You felt yourself become flustered, awkwardly clearing your throat. “Of course not, what’s up?” You sputtered. Ahh you were so naive, so adorable. Jack was surprised he had managed to keep his hands off of you for this long. “May I come in? I have a question,” Jack explained. You hesitantly took a step back, gesturing for him to come inside of your room. He was the first creep to ever be in there, your bedroom your one safe place hidden away from a group of serial killers. Jack seemed to realize this as well, modestly sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Lovely room. Suits you,” He commented. Unsurely you shut the door, clicking the lock. “You said you had a question?” You inquired. Jack leaned back on his hands, his mask tipped up just enough to where you could see a lazy smile form across his lips. “Why yes of course. I was going to ask you, how is it you get the most sexual interaction around here yet, you’re playing with yourself at night?” Jack asked, cockily tilting his head to the side. You felt your face turn red, your jaw slightly dropping. “Excuse me? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” You lied, trying to sound offended in your tone. Jack was quick to hop off of the bed, towering over you as he pressed you against your bedroom door. “I can smell you whore, don’t fucking lie to me,” He snarled. An animalistic growl had formed in the pit of his throat, the sound so feral it made you freeze in fear.

The terror dripping off of you was a divine smell and sight. But thankfully for you, Jack was the mood for more of a taste related ordeal. He cupped your small face, dragging his thumb mockingly down your bottom lip. He looked at you like he was examining you. “If I were you i’d answer the question,” He purred. You were speechless, the tall demon before you practically oozing with sex appeal. You could feel yourself growing wetter at the sound of his words. Jack grew impatient, sliding off his mask and tossing it aside. You stared up into his empty eye sockets, the black tar substance nearly dripping down his cheeks. “I’d start talking little one, you don’t wanna know what i’ll do if you don’t,” He purred. He relished in the fear in your eyes, your body frozen under his warm touch.

“I-I just get horny. It’s a normal human thing,” You babbled. Teasingly Jack stroked your cheek, grinning at the sight of goosebumps spreading like wildfire across your skin. “Your behavior either believes me to believe you’re part rabbit, based on your sex drive and adorable heartbeat,” Jack began. His fingers were warm against your skin, your body beginning to relax under his touch. “Or all of your sexual partners aren’t keeping you satisfied. So do tell. Which is it pet?” He asked. You swallowed nervously, the situation a little too lewd for your liking. “No they do it’s just-” You started, Jack placing his hand over your head abruptly cutting you off. He stared down at you with his soulless gaze, your breath hitching as he leaned in closer to you.

“Just what? Tell me pet, do they not make you cum?” Jack questioned, curiously tilting his head to the side. You blinked, your mouth running dry at the lewd question. “No they do and they have but I just, it’s hard to explain,” You rambled. Jack was now observing you like you were an experiment, instead of an enticing off limits meal. “Try,” He pried. You nervously toyed with your hair, pulling down your shorts. “I know it doesn’t matter but my pleasure isn’t prioritized, you know? Do you understand what i’m saying?” You confessed. Jack leaned back just a bit, enough to give you some fresh air to inhale that didn’t smell like his cologne. “I’ve spent many heats alone, I understand the desperation all too well,” He admitted. He strayed away from his position, resuming his place sitting on the end of your bed. He patted the space next to him, signaling for you to join him.

“Are you in heat right now?” You asked, hesitantly joining him on the bed. Jack chuckled, his laugh sincere. “No pet I am not. Trust me if I was you’d know,” He explained through his laughter. You raised an eyebrow. “I’d know? How would I know?” You asked. Jacks laughter came to an instant halt, his gaze somehow darkening. “Your cunt would be leaking with my cum if I was,” He said, seriousness lacing his words. You felt your thighs tighten at his words, your core throbbing. You couldn’t help but curiously glance down at his jeans, his cock halfway hard but visible through his pants. Woah.

“I don’t do much talking when i’m in heat. I become more, for lack of better words, animalistic,” Jack explained. You found yourself giving him an awkward smile. Of course the tall demon goes into animalistic heats. Why wouldn’t he? Makes complete sense. You mentally spited the creator of Craigslist. “Pet, i’ve come here with a purpose. And although I do enjoy genuine conversation with someone of your kind, I think it’s time I cut to the chase,” He proposed. He gently pushed your hair behind your shoulder, examining your bare neck. “Your arousal is so intoxicating i’d dare to compare it to the heroin your kind fonds over. You have your cravings and I have mine,” Jack continued. Your breath hitched as he leaned closer, inhaling the crook of your neck. “I propose a trade off. We take care of one another,” Jack purred. He slowly licked a hot stripe up your neck, causing you to whimper.

“W-wait, what exactly is your craving?”

Jack chuckled darkly as he leaned close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “To fill you to the brim with my cum, pet,” He huffed. He pressed a kiss against your ear, leaving a trail of pecks down to your neck. His lips became heavier, threatening to suck at the skin. “I leave you a squirming mess and in return you allow me to have my fun at the end, sounds like a good deal, no?” He asked. You whimpered loudly as he began to suck at the skin, covering the marks Toby had left not too long ago. You wanted to maintain your dignity and pride. To tell him no, that you were more dignified than your previous actions made you out to be. But as he sucked a hickey onto your skin, his large hand dancing dangerously close to your dripping cunt, your mind swayed in the opposite direction. “Deal,” You breathed, the creature grinning into your neck.

“I thought you might say that,” Jack mused. He quickly grabbed you, tossing you onto the bed. He undid the buttons of your silk pajama top, halfway tempted to rip the fabric off all together. “Be careful what you wish for, pet,” Jack grinned. Your bare breast were a sight for sore eyes, the demons assault beginning harshly. Palming you through your panties he began sucking hickies on your breast, covering the sensitive flesh with marks. You whimpered at the sensation, your hands finding his hair as he littered your flesh with bruises. “I must admit, seeing you come out of that closet with Toby did something to me,” Jack confessed as he released your skin with a pop. He took your right nipple in between his index and middle finger, harshly toying with the sensitive bud.

“I’m not quite sure how to describe it, jealousy, perhaps?” He rambled. He kissed down your chest, pulling down your thin shorts and panties in one swift motion. “After all, Slender has never allowed me to have a pet before,” Jack snickered. He pushed two of his long, thick fingers into your aching cunt, causing you to whine at the sudden stretch. Jack was physically much bigger than anyone else you had fooled around with. Glancing down at his hard cock, you weren’t sure if it wasn’t going to fit. Jack noticed your unease, giving you a cocky smile. “Relax, i’ll make it fit. Just need this tight pussy to loosen up a bit first,” He purred. He seemed overly confident in his abilities, his fingers curling upwards and brushing against your g spot. You gasped, his fingers hitting all of the places you weren’t able to. You groaned as he continued to finger fuck you, a devious grin spreading across his lips.

“You know usually i’m not so talkative during these kinds of things. But I can feel your walls squeezing me at the sound of my every word,” Jack said. His gaze was daunting and endless as he continued his assault on your g spot, lowering himself down to hover over your folds. His hot breath fanned over your slick, causing you to buck your hips upwards. “Nuh uh pet, not quite yet. Want your first orgasm to be easy before we get into the real fun,” He grinned devilishly. You gasped as he held your hips down with one hand, the other mercilessly finger fucking you. His assault on your core was relentless, the demon above you relishing in the feeling of your gummy walls squeezing around his fingers. He could feel that you were getting close, your heart rate telling him everything he needed to know.

“Come on pet, show me how much of a slut you can be and cum on my fingers,” Jack purred. You grabbed at his wrist, your body unable to keep up with pleasure he was giving you. You felt your thighs tremble ever so slightly, your hips attempting to buck as you released on his fingers. You moaned his name as you came, your walls spasming around his digits. Dazed you watched him removed his fingers from you, revealing his three black tongues. Speechless, you stared as he licked your juices off of himself, keeping his gaze on you as he did so. “You taste so good. I think I want seconds,” Jack smirked, diving in between your thighs. You gasped as one of his tongues shoved itself inside of you, the other lapping at your clit. You froze as his third tongue teased your unexplored hole, your body tensing.

“J-Jack wait i’ve n-never-” You stuttered, Jacks tongue slowly pushing inside. His warm tongue made the stretch easier, your body slowly relaxing as he curled it inside of you. With his tongues in both holes you felt like you were floating, both of them abusing each hole. “Fucking shit! Jack!” You moaned, your head tilting back as you shamelessly tried to grind against his face. The pain from the stretch was almost immediately subsided, your thighs trembling as his large hands kept your legs pried open. You felt an unfamiliar sensation form in the pit of your stomach, your eyes screwing shut. “Jack! Feels too good,” You babbled, your orgasm crashing down over you without warning. Jack grinned as he removed his tongue from your clit and puckered hole, instead abruptly shoving them all in your cunt.

You whined as your walls spasmed around his tongues, struggling to accommodate to the girth of all three of them. Briefly he removed all of them, watching your cunt struggle and clench around nothing. “You wanted your pleasure to be the priority right? You’re getting what you wanted, my greedy pet,” Jack purred, his fingers digging into your thighs. He returned his three tongues inside of your cunt, curling upwards to abuse your sweet spot. You were seeing stars, your hands pawing at his hair. You attempted to yank him away from your overstimulated core, your body shaking. “So good, so fuckin, fuck- Jack! Too much, too fuckin much,” You whined, coherent thoughts long discarded as he tongue fucked you. You couldn’t do anything except take it, your body a slave to the pleasure as he brought you to another orgasm.

A silent scream was all your mouth could let out, your thighs attempting to close around Jacks head. The demon finally emerged from between your thighs, your cunt red and puffy. “You’re lucky your cunt taste so good, otherwise I would’ve had your organs instead,” Jack chuckled in a sinister tone. Your eyes widened, the demon flipping you over onto your stomach. You nervously looked up, the creature leaning over you. He rutted his large cock up and down the mounds of your ass, grabbing handfuls of the flesh. His comment about eating your organs normally would’ve scared you, but truthfully your mind was too clouded with lust and hazed with the thrill of what was to come next. You eagerly pushed your ass against him, signaling him to get on with you.

“You just came, what, three times? And you’re already wanting more?” Jack questioned mockingly. He smiled sadistically as he began to push himself inside of you, pain shooting through your body. “The more you fight it, the harder it is, relax,” Jack advised, nibbling at your earlobe. You grabbed handfuls of your sheets as he pushed himself inside of you, your body threatening to split in half. You gritted your teeth together, eyes screwed shut as he continued to make his way inside of your cunt. “There we go. Such a good pet. Taking what you’re made for,” Jack grunted. With one final push he bottomed out, your gummy walls clinging onto his cock. He could hear how fast your heart was beating, as well as the blood flowing through your veins. It only turned him on more, your pain and fear making thrusting into you harder to resist. Nevertheless he began moving his hips, ignoring your painful whines.

“You’ll adjust, I know you will. Just gotta learn to take it,” Jack huffed. He leaned forward on his knuckles, pounding into you from behind. Your painful whines became unholy moans, your eyes slowly blinking open to stare up at the demon above you. He enjoyed watching your face scrunch up in pleasure with each thrust, a demonic grin spread across his lips. “I think I may steal you for my upcoming heat, this cunt is begging me to make you my mate,” He snickered. He could feel you squeeze him as he snapped his hips into yours. “Oh you like that idea? Really? Becoming my mate? Do I fuck you that good?” Jack asked tauntingly. You gripped the sheets, mouth open as you stared up at him. “Yes Jack, shit, so fuckin good. Wanna be your mate, all yours,” You babbled. Jack roughly grabbed your throat, his fingers tightening around your airway.

He continued to abuse your overstimulated cunt, your g spot throbbing as he fucked you. “You fucking slut. You’d tell me anything if I kept fucking you huh? Pathetic,” He growled. He grabbed your face, forcing your lips to shut pucker out like a fish. Jack quickly spat into your mouth, a shiver running down your spine as he did so. “Swallow it slut,” Jack snarled. His saliva traveled down your tongue, before sliding down your throat as you swallowed. Roughly he grabbed your hair, shoving your face down into the sheets. He pounded into you relentlessly, your sinful noises now muffled. You couldn’t warn him you were about to cum, your body snitching on you anyways. He grinned as you creamed on his cock, his thrust not slowing down for a second. “You wanna be the center of attention right? Well now you are. Little cum dump,” He barked. You couldn’t think straight, your vision going hazy as he fucked you through your orgasm.

Mockingly he slapped your ass, the pain shocking you back to life.

“Don’t pass out on me, i’m no where done with you pet.”

#creepypasta #creepypasta smut #creepypasta lemon #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta x female reader #creepypasta x y/n #creepypasta x you #eyeless jack x y/n #eyeless jack x ticci toby #eyeless jack x oc #eyeless jack x you #eyeless jack smut #eyeless jack x reader #jeff the killer x eyeless jack #eyeless jack x jeff the killer #eyeless jack

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missmaymay13 · 6 days ago

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the night we met - q.hughes

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q.hughes x fem! oc | 25k

warnings : talks of su!cide, depression, anxiety, abu$e

summary: In a city of noise and pressure, two quiet souls—Quinn Hughes, the Canucks captain burdened by expectation, and Ava Monroe, the lonely daughter of a billionaire—find each other at their lowest. What begins as a silent connection in the dark becomes a lifeline, as they quietly piece each other back together. Through whispered confessions, found family, and healing love, they learn that sometimes, the gentlest stories are the most powerful—and that the right person can bring you home without ever saying a word.

a/n: I’ve working on this for a little bit now and I wanted to make sure I was happy with how it came out. I say it every time but I think this is my favourite thing I’ve written so far. I really hope you guys enjoy this.

masterlist

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From the outside, Ava Monroe had everything. The kind of everything that was splashed across glossy magazine covers and whispered about at exclusive dinner parties hosted in candlelit dining rooms with ten-thousand-dollar floral centerpieces. She lived in a sprawling mansion perched high in West Vancouver, with sweeping, cinematic views of the Pacific that made the sunsets look like they were painted just for her. The marble-floored foyer echoed with each step beneath her designer heels, and there was always someone paid to anticipate her needs—a private chef who prepared meals she rarely had an appetite for, stylists who dressed her like a mannequin, tutors who guided her through a curriculum designed to craft the perfect future. Her world was curated like an art gallery: everything polished, everything perfect.

But no one ever asked her if she felt at home in it. In truth, Ava had felt like a guest in her own life for as long as she could remember—present but not wanted, displayed but not held. A beautiful ghost wandering through a museum of someone else's making. Her every breath felt choreographed, like she was part of a play she never auditioned for.

Her name carried weight. Ava Monroe. Daughter of David Monroe, real estate tycoon turned international mogul, whose face was on the cover of Forbes more than it was in her life. And her mother, Sally—a socialite whose reputation for elegance was only matched by her absence. Together, they were Vancouver's power couple, untouchable in their glass tower of privilege. But Ava? She was the glass. Transparent. Fragile. On display, but invisible. A footnote in their empire.

From the outside, it looked like the dream. But inside, it was a mausoleum of unspoken words and unmet needs. A house that echoed with the absence of love. A girl who grew up surrounded by beauty and yet felt none of it belonged to her. Money was the answer to every problem, but it never asked her how she felt. It bought silence instead of comfort. And Ava—young, soft, desperate Ava—learned how to exist quietly within it. Learned how to smile for the cameras while dying in the dark. Learned how to shrink her soul until it could fit into the cracks of other people's expectations.

Money masked the emptiness. But it never filled it. It never could. It could buy her everything—except the feeling of being wanted.

She remembered the gold trim of her bedroom walls better than her father's laugh—if he even had one. The sound of his voice was a memory blurred by distance and business calls, always clipped and impatient, never warm. She couldn't recall a single bedtime story or a moment where he looked at her like she was something more than a fleeting responsibility. And her mother—God, her mother's perfume—that suffocating cloud of white jasmine and vodka, always seemed to arrive before she did. It clung to the drapes, to Ava's pillows, to her hair, long after her mother was gone. Longer than her embrace. Longer than her love, if it had ever existed at all. Her mother's touch was cold, her gaze colder. Ava used to press her small hands to the windows and watch her leave, praying she'd come back softer. She never did.

Ava's childhood was a mosaic of jet lag and hotel suites. She'd stood at the base of the Eiffel Tower, floated in gondolas down Venetian canals, and tasted sushi in Tokyo that melted on her tongue like snow. Her passport was thick with stamps by the age of ten. But none of those places felt like home. Home was a concept Ava didn't understand. Not really. Her childhood home in Vancouver was more like a museum—perfectly curated, but hollow. A stage built to impress, but never to comfort.

Her father was always gone. He existed in phone calls, scheduled meetings, and brief appearances in tuxedos at charity galas. When he was home, he was on his phone, always pacing, always tense, and Ava quickly learned that the way to his attention was through perfect grades or crisis-level tantrums. He preferred the grades. It cost less to reward her than to soothe her. When she got her first A+ in primary school, he handed her a bracelet worth more than some people made in a year, kissed her on the forehead, and left the room. She kept the bracelet in its box. She wanted his words, not his money. But words were too expensive for him.

Sally Monroe, meanwhile, was more ghost than mother—a haunting, a flicker in the corner of the room, a presence that came and went like perfume dissipating into stale air. She floated in and out of the house, high on champagne and attention, always late, always dismissive, like motherhood was a performance she never auditioned for. Her stilettos clicked across marble floors like a metronome of neglect, and her laughter echoed through hallways Ava was never invited into. Ava can still hear her words like a wound that never scabbed over, each syllable slicing deeper than the last.

"You ruined my body, Ava," she once spat, wine glass in hand, eyes glassy and unfocused.

"If I didn't have you, I could've been someone," she slurred another time, brushing past her daughter like she was a smudge on her perfect reflection.

"Why can't you just be normal for once?"

Ava would replay those moments in her head, over and over, like a broken record. The cruelness wasn't random—it was ritual. Her mother's disdain was the wallpaper of her childhood, unavoidable and slowly peeling away at her self-worth. Every glance in the mirror became a question: What was so wrong with her that even her mother couldn't love her? And still, some pathetic part of her held onto hope—that one day Sally would walk through the door, take Ava's face in her hands, and say she was sorry. That she was proud. That she wanted her.

But apologies were for people who felt remorse. And Sally Monroe never looked back.

Words sharpened like razors over time, and Ava bled internally for years. She bled in silence. She bled with a smile. Every glance in the mirror felt like she was trying to live up to a version of herself that never existed. She would stare at her reflection and wonder what exactly about her had made her mother unravel.

The only solace she ever knew was Brenda.

Brenda was the nanny who stayed far past her job description. She was the one who tucked Ava in, made her soup when she was sick, brushed the knots out of her hair while humming lullabies. Brenda was the one who held her after nightmares, whispered that she was special, that she was loved—words no one else ever said and meant. Brenda was home. When the world felt too loud, Ava would crawl into Brenda's arms and let herself feel small, feel held. Brenda was the only person who ever looked at Ava like she mattered. Not as a responsibility. Not as a paycheck. But as a person.

And then one day, Brenda left too.

Ava was fifteen. Her parents claimed she had to go—"boundaries," her mother had said with a smug twist of her lips. Ava didn't eat for three days. Her silence screamed at them, but no one listened. Brenda cried when she packed her last bag. Ava sat on the stairs, arms wrapped around her knees, watching her only source of love walk out the door. It was the first time she thought about disappearing. The first time she wondered what death felt like.

That's when the darkness started to curl around her, quiet and relentless. It wasn't a sudden collapse. It was a slow, steady erosion. Each day chipped away at her until there was nothing left but skin stretched over silence.

By sixteen, the depression was a thick fog that clung to her skin, seeped into her lungs, made every breath feel like drowning. The anxiety followed like a shadow. Panic attacks in the middle of the night, the overwhelming sense that she was suffocating inside her own skin. Her heart would race for no reason, hands trembling, chest tightening until she gasped for air like she was underwater. She wore silk and diamonds, but her ribs felt like they were collapsing.

She sat in therapy offices decorated in muted pastels, nodding while older women scribbled notes and offered her lavender tea and affirmations. Ava learned how to lie in those offices. Learned the right things to say so they'd stop probing, stop calling her parents, stop suggesting medication that her mother would scoff at anyway. The therapists saw her as a sad rich girl. Nothing more.

No one noticed she was slipping. Maybe they did, but they didn't care. Or they thought she'd be fine. She was Ava Monroe, after all.

At school, she was the quiet girl with perfect hair and vacant eyes. People wanted to sit next to her, invited her to parties she never showed up to, tagged her in photos she wasn't in. No one really saw her. The friends she made wanted status, not connection. They clung to her for the proximity to power, the name, the lifestyle they thought they could sip like champagne through her. They smiled in selfies and whispered about her when she turned her back. Her name got her into rooms, but her presence was irrelevant.

She deleted her social media when she turned seventeen. The silence was better than the noise. She didn't want to see the curated versions of people pretending to live happy lives, or the forced smiles of people who didn't know what it meant to ache.

Most nights, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the paint until her vision blurred. The silence was oppressive, curling around her like a second skin, smothering her slowly. She would lie motionless, the hum of the city outside her window reminding her that the world was still spinning, even if she wasn't. Each night bled into the next like watercolors running down the page, indistinguishable in their loneliness.

She often imagined what it would be like to simply vanish. To evaporate into the night air like breath on cold glass. Would anyone notice the absence of her quiet footsteps? The unoccupied chair in the lecture hall? The unread text messages on her phone? She doubted it. The idea that she could disappear without disrupting anything was both terrifying and oddly comforting. Some nights, the thoughts spiraled into places too dark to speak of—into fantasies of escape that stretched into eternity. A long, uninterrupted silence.

But something always tethered her to the edge. Sometimes it was the faint sound of Brenda's lullabies echoing in her head, like the memory of warmth. Sometimes it was a stranger's smile on the street or the way a poem broke open her chest just wide enough to let a sliver of hope in. A foolish, desperate hope that someone—anyone—might look at her one day and actually see her. Not the name. Not the money. Just her.

She never told anyone about those thoughts. Who would she tell? Her mother would laugh. Her father wouldn't even pause his call. And everyone else? They only knew how to love her shadow, never her soul.

There was no one to tell. So she carried it all alone, night after night, in a bed that felt too big, in a world that felt too empty.

Not Ava Monroe, the heiress. Not Ava Monroe, the girl with a platinum card and a perfect smile. Just Ava.

She turned eighteen and moved into her own condo in downtown Vancouver, a sleek place her father paid for and never visited. It was cold. Quiet. She painted one of the walls just to feel like she owned something in her life. She chose a soft green. Brenda would've liked it. The color softened the sterile white that made everything feel like a hospital.

University came next, more out of obligation than ambition. She studied literature because it felt like an escape, a place where pain was beautiful and loneliness had purpose. Her classmates admired her writing, but they never knew the stories came from somewhere real. She wrote about girls drowning in oceans of expectation, about mothers who forgot how to love, about the sound of being forgotten.

On weekends, she wandered the streets of Vancouver, alone with her earbuds and playlists of sad songs. Sometimes she sat at cafes and watched people laughing over lattes, wondering what it would feel like to belong to someone's world like that. Other times, she would walk along the seawall in Stanley Park, letting the crashing of waves drown out the noise in her head. She liked rainy days best—something about the grey skies made her feel less alone, like even the weather understood her.

She was twenty-one now. Twenty-one and still haunted by a childhood that looked perfect in pictures. Twenty-one and still trying to figure out who she was beneath the layers of privilege and pain. Twenty-one and still waiting for someone to stay.

The thing about being hollow is that it echoes. It makes everything louder. Loneliness. Grief. Desperation. The ache of never being chosen.

And Ava Monroe's whole life had been one long, aching echo.

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The city of Vancouver glittered under grey skies, caught in that strange, beautiful limbo between rain and light. The kind of grey that wrapped itself around buildings like a heavy blanket, soft and suffocating all at once. For Quinn Hughes, the skyline had become a blur—glass towers that reflected versions of himself he no longer recognized. Faces he used to know stared back from the mirrored windows: the hopeful rookie, the quiet brother, the boy with wide eyes and big dreams. But now, the reflections were hollowed out, distorted. He no longer knew which one was real.

He sat in his high-rise apartment overlooking the city, the window cool against his shoulder as he leaned into the silence. His breath left faint fog on the glass, fading faster than the thoughts in his head. The world outside moved with its usual rhythm—cars zipping through puddles, cyclists hunched against the drizzle, pedestrians rushing somewhere with purpose, umbrellas bobbing like tiny shields against the storm. But inside, Quinn felt still. Stuck. Forgotten.

The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound. The kind of silence that pressed against your chest and made you question if the world would even notice if you were gone. He hadn’t spoken to anyone all day. Not because no one called—he just didn’t answer. Some part of him hoped someone might show up anyway. But no one did.

The loneliness wasn’t loud. It was quiet and creeping, like fog under a doorframe. It seeped into his bones and made everything feel a few shades colder. He had the view, the prestige, the life people envied. But none of it meant anything when the only voice he heard was his own, echoing through empty rooms.

He blinked slowly, letting the rain blur his vision, and for a moment, he imagined the skyline disappearing. The city swallowed by mist. And him, sitting there, unnoticed. A ghost in a glass tower.

They called it an honor. They said it was a privilege. They said he earned it.

But when Quinn was named captain of the Vancouver Canucks, it didn’t feel like a crown. It felt like a shackle.

He remembered the headlines. The social media storm. The debates.

He’s too quiet. He’s not vocal enough. He’s not a leader. He hasn’t won anything.

People questioned his worth like it was a commodity they could bid on. They dissected his posture, his words, his facial expressions like analysts on a mission. Every move he made was magnified, every mistake weaponized. He was under a microscope, and the scrutiny burned.

He tried to drown it out. He told himself it didn’t matter, that he didn’t owe the world anything more than his effort. But it mattered. It mattered more than he wanted to admit.

Because all Quinn Hughes ever wanted was to be good enough.

Not just for the team. Not just for the fans. For his brothers. For his parents. For himself.

He grew up with a stick in his hands and the weight of expectation already on his shoulders. Being the oldest meant being the example. The one who knew the right answer. The one who paved the path not just for himself, but for everyone who came after. Every step he took was supposed to be a guide for his brothers, a light to follow. But what people didn’t understand was that he had paved that path with pieces of himself—with sleep he never got, with tears no one saw, with bruises he never let anyone treat.

Every time someone praised his poise, they didn’t see the nights he stayed up wondering if he was enough. Every time someone called him steady, they didn’t see how hard he worked to hold the cracks together. Each season, each game, each injury chipped away at him like erosion on a cliffside—slow, relentless. There were days when his body moved on autopilot, when he looked in the mirror and felt like a stranger was staring back. The boy who once dreamed with fire in his chest now looked at his reflection with tired eyes, wondering when the light inside him dimmed.

He wore his role like armor, but underneath it, he was breaking.

There were mornings he couldn’t get out of bed without pain shooting down his spine. Nights he iced his knees in silence while his teammates laughed across hotel hallways. Games where he played through injuries he should’ve rested. And still, when the final buzzer blew and the Canucks fell short yet again, he took the blame.

Always, it was Quinn.

He bore it in his posture, in the way his shoulders slumped when no one was watching. In the way he lingered on the ice after practice, skating until the rink emptied and all that was left was his shadow. He bore it in the bags under his eyes, the ache in his muscles, the distant look that had settled into his face.

And yet, no matter how hard he pushed, how much he gave, it never felt like enough.

His life looked like a dream from the outside. The penthouse apartment. The cars. The designer suits. The headlines. The cheers. But inside, it all felt empty. Like he was moving through a world made of glass, afraid to breathe too hard in case it shattered.

He tried to fill the void. With late nights and loud music. With drinks and shallow company. With bodies that meant nothing, tangled in his sheets, saying all the right things in the moment and disappearing before morning. But when the sun rose, so did the silence. And the ache.

It was always there.

The ache of being needed, but not known. The ache of being seen, but not understood.

Quinn carried the team like a secret. He never wanted the credit. Just the weight. He thought maybe if he carried enough of it, he could finally prove something—to himself, to the critics, to the kid he used to be who dreamt of the NHL and didn’t know how lonely dreams could become.

He watched the city pass him by from his window. Rain streaked the glass. The clouds hung low. Everything was tinted in shades of grey. His phone buzzed from the counter. Another text. Another obligation. He ignored it.

Sometimes, he wished he could disappear for a while. Not forever. Just long enough to remember who he was beneath the layers. Beneath the jersey, the title, the expectations. He didn’t even know what he liked outside of hockey anymore. Who was he when he wasn’t on the ice?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember the last time he laughed—really laughed. The kind that made your chest ache and your eyes water. The kind that felt free. Unfiltered. Nothing came.

He hadn’t laughed in a long time.

He had teammates. He had family. He had people. But the truth was, Quinn Hughes felt more alone now than he ever had in his life. And he didn’t know how to ask for help.

He didn’t know how to say that the pressure was crushing him. That every game felt like walking a tightrope with no net. That every loss carved something deeper into his chest. That sometimes he stood under the shower for an hour just to feel something real.

There was no off switch. No escape. He was Captain Hughes now. He had to be calm. Composed. Controlled.

But inside, he was drowning.

There were moments, late at night, when he’d walk the seawall alone with a hoodie pulled over his head and his breath fogging in front of him. Moments when he’d sit by the water and wonder what life would be like if he weren’t Quinn Hughes. If he were just... someone. Anyone. Free to feel without the fear of letting someone down.

Because that’s what it always came back to: letting people down.

He thought of his brothers. Jack with his bright smile and boundless energy. Luke with his quiet brilliance. They looked up to him. They always had. And that scared him more than anything. Because what if they saw the cracks? What if they saw how tired he was? What if they saw that some days, he didn’t want to lace up his skates? That some days, he resented the game that had given him everything and taken just as much in return?

He hated that part of himself. The part that felt bitter. Burnt out. Hollow.

He turned from the window, the sky outside darkening with the promise of another cold Vancouver night. The apartment felt too quiet. Too sterile. He poured a drink, not because he wanted one, but because it gave his hands something to do. The whiskey burned down his throat. It didn’t help. It never did.

Quinn sat on the edge of his couch, elbows on his knees, the glass dangling loosely from his fingers. He stared at the floor and wondered how much longer he could keep doing this. Keep pretending. Keep performing. Keep carrying.

He wanted something different. Something real.

He didn’t know what that looked like. Not yet. But he knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t the headlines. It wasn’t the jersey. It wasn’t the cheers that faded as quickly as they came. It wasn’t the way people only saw him when he was winning.

He wanted someone to see him when he was losing.

Really see him.

Not Captain Hughes. Not the defenseman. Not the franchise savior.

Just Quinn.

And maybe, one day, someone would.

But tonight, the only sound was the rain.

And the hollow echo of a man trying to hold himself together.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The air inside Rogers Arena was thick with loss. It clung to the walls, to the empty seats, to the damp gear hanging in open lockers. The kind of silence that followed a season-ending defeat was unlike any other. It wasn’t loud. It was heavier than that. A kind of grief that pressed itself into the bones of the room, into the stitching of the jerseys, into the very air itself. And in the middle of it all, alone under the dim fluorescent lights of the locker room, Quinn Hughes sat perfectly still, still in full gear.

His skates were unlaced but still on. His gloves, damp with sweat and frustration, sat clenched between his knees. The rest of the team had long cleared out—some silent, others trying to shake it off with forced laughter and hollow reassurances. Quinn hadn’t moved. His eyes were locked on the floor, seeing everything and nothing all at once. The same square of tile beneath his skates stared back at him like it had answers he’d never find.

The Canucks had missed the playoffs.

Again.

He ran through every moment of the game like a looped reel in his head. The fumbled breakout. The missed stick lift. The turnover in the second period that shifted the momentum. The bad line change. The penalty that cost them the equalizer. What if he had blocked that shot? What if he had skated faster? Thought quicker? Passed sharper?

What if he was just better?

It was always him. He could’ve done more. He should’ve.

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, his head cradled in his hands like it was the only thing keeping it from splitting apart. The weight of his helmet pressed into his forehead, the hard shell biting into his skin, but he didn’t take it off. It felt safer somehow, like a shield between him and the failure echoing in his bones. His fingers gripped at his hair through the fabric of his gloves before letting go, too tired to even hold himself together. His breathing was shallow, each inhale an effort, like even his lungs didn’t want to take up space. The room felt massive and shrinking all at once, like the walls were closing in on him while stretching into an infinite, hollow void. His pulse thundered in his ears, louder than the silence, louder than the thoughts shouting in his head. And still, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because moving meant facing it. And right now, he wasn’t sure he could survive that.

They made a mistake.

Not just naming him captain.

Drafting him.

Quinn didn’t know when those thoughts started to grow roots in his chest, but they were in full bloom now. What if he was a bust? A wasted draft pick? All this time, everyone talked about his skating, his vision, his composure—but what did any of that matter if he couldn’t get his team there? If he couldn’t lead them?

What if he was never meant to be enough?

What if he peaked too early?

He slowly peeled off his gloves and dropped them to the floor with a soft thud that echoed louder than it should have in the empty locker room. His fingers trembled, tingling from the cold sweat that had long dried against his palms. The ache in his knuckles pulsed like a second heartbeat. He flexed them slowly, like the pain might root him back into his body.

He stared at the gloves for a moment, his chest tightening. They looked so small on the floor. So defeated. Just like him.

He exhaled shakily, the sound catching in his throat. Then he braced himself against the bench and pushed himself up. His legs screamed in protest, muscles stiff and bruised from the game, from the season, from everything. The weight of his gear felt unbearable now. The jersey that once filled him with pride now felt suffocating, like it was pressing down on every bone.

His shoulder pads creaked as he moved, the Velcro at his sides sticking stubbornly as if even his equipment didn’t want to let go. The familiar routine of undressing after a game felt foreign. Wrong. His body went through the motions, but everything inside him was numb. Disconnected.

He didn’t bother taking off the rest. Just the gloves. Just enough to stand. Enough to move.

And so, step by step, like a sleepwalker, he drifted toward the showers. Not with purpose. Not even with intent. Just the instinct to hide somewhere the world couldn’t see him fall apart.

The water hit his skin, hot at first, then numb. Steam rose around him, curling into the air, catching the yellow of the overhead lights. He leaned his forearm against the tile and rested his head against it, eyes shut tight. His breath stuttered.

And then the tears came.

They ran down his cheeks, hot and quiet, blending seamlessly with the water cascading from the showerhead. He didn’t sob. He didn’t make a sound. He just cried. The kind of crying you didn’t even know you were doing until it had already broken through. His shoulders trembled under the pressure of all he carried, all he never said aloud.

He didn’t know how to do this anymore.

He didn’t know how to keep pretending.

How to wear the 'C' like it didn’t burn his chest.

How to keep skating when he was skating on empty.

He stayed under the water until it ran cold, until his skin was numb and his chest felt hollow, the ache in his sternum blooming deeper with each passing second. The icy spray carved through the steam and sliced against his shoulders, but still, he stood there. Rigid. Breathless. Hoping that if he just stayed a little longer, it would rinse away the guilt, the weight, the disappointment he carried like a second skin.

He tilted his face toward the stream, letting it pour down over him, blinding his eyes and filling his ears until the world outside was muffled into nothing. He wished it could drown everything out. The voices. The headlines. The pressure. The relentless whisper in his own head telling him he was a failure. That he’d let everyone down. That he was just pretending.

When he finally moved, it was mechanical. He reached for a towel without looking, barely registering the shivers that had taken over his body. Each motion was slow, deliberate, like his limbs were moving through molasses. He got dressed without looking in the mirror—he couldn't bear to. Not tonight. Not when all he would see was hollow eyes and the wreckage of who he used to be.

The locker room was even quieter now, echoing with emptiness. He grabbed his keys from his cubby and made his way down the hall, his footsteps the only sound bouncing off the concrete walls. The back exit opened with a metallic click, and he stepped out into the cold embrace of the night, where even the air seemed to exhale with grief.

He drove through downtown Vancouver like a ghost. The city glowed with artificial life—streetlights, neon signs, headlights weaving through traffic. His hands gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles pale. He turned off the music. He couldn’t stand the sound. Not tonight.

When he pulled into the underground parking lot beneath his building, he didn’t move right away. He stared at the elevator doors, engine ticking as it cooled. His eyes burned.

Then, slowly, he shifted the gear into park, turned off the ignition, and stepped out.

But he didn’t go to the elevator.

He walked. Back up the ramp, through the quiet lobby. Past the sleeping doorman and out the revolving door. Into the cool night, where the mist clung to his hair and the scent of the sea drifted in from the harbor.

His feet took him to the waterfront without thinking.

He sat down on a bench facing the water, a familiar spot tucked just far enough from the streetlights to feel hidden—like the world had deliberately carved out a pocket for solitude. He didn't need light. Not tonight. He needed the shadows, the quiet, the place where he could unravel without the risk of being seen. The night stretched out before him like a great velvet curtain, draped in shades of sorrow.

The moon hung low and full, its glow casting a pale sheen across the surface of the harbor, soft and eerie like a whisper. The light shimmered on the dark water like spilled silver, rippling with every subtle breath of the breeze. It felt like something ancient was watching—not judging, just witnessing. Bearing quiet testimony to the ache in his chest.

Waves lapped quietly against the edge, a rhythm too soft to offer comfort, but enough to remind him that time was still moving even when he wasn't. Even when it felt like everything inside him had come to a halt. His breath came slow and fogged in the cold air, a small trace of life in a body that felt otherwise hollow.

Across the harbor, the city looked like it was sleeping. The lights in the high-rises twinkled like constellations behind glass, but there was no warmth in them. They were cold and distant, a mockery of connection. From here, the skyline looked soft, like someone had taken an eraser to its sharp edges—like the whole world had blurred, and he was the only thing left in focus.

There was no one else around. No footsteps. No voices. Just Quinn and the darkness and the distant, indifferent city. No hum of conversation. No rattle of a bike chain. No hint of movement on the quiet street behind him. Just the low thrum of the city breathing somewhere far away, out of reach.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was vast. Cold. Like standing in the middle of a frozen lake with nothing but the creaking ice beneath your feet. The kind of silence that made every heartbeat echo too loud, every breath feel like a scream in a cathedral.

And in that space between heartbeats, he let himself sink into the stillness. It wasn’t comfort he found there, but a numbness that offered a temporary shield from the thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind. He didn’t cry. Didn’t breathe deeply. He didn’t feel worthy of either.

He just existed. Quiet and alone. A silhouette on a bench, washed in moonlight and regret. A man with the weight of a city on his shoulders, with no one to help him carry it.

And somehow, that felt like both a punishment and a mercy. Because in that solitude, at least he didn’t have to pretend. At least out here, in the dark, he could stop performing for a world that only loved him when he was winning.

Quinn slouched forward, hands clasped together, his breath visible in the air. He stared at the reflection, wishing he could fall into it. Dissolve into the dark and start over. Be someone else.

The thoughts returned.

What if he never lived up to who he was supposed to be? What if he let everyone down? His team. His family. Himself.

He pressed his fists to his eyes.

He wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t even sure he ever had been.

He didn’t see her at first. His eyes were still on the water, lost in thought, in shame, in questions that never seemed to end. The world around him had blurred, dulled to nothing but the rhythmic lapping of the tide and the slow rise and fall of his breath. The bench, the ground, the sky—it all felt far away. He was so deep inside himself that the rest of the world ceased to exist. So when the wooden slats shifted just slightly beneath him, when the gentle weight of another person settled quietly on the far side of the bench, it felt more like a ripple than a presence. A shift in the atmosphere. A soft reminder that he wasn’t, in fact, entirely alone in the dark.

A girl had sat down beside him.

She wore a grey sweater, hood pulled up over short brown hair. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, her shoulders drawn in like she was trying to take up less space. She didn’t look at him. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, on the water, on the moonlight that shimmered across it.

Her eyes were glassy. She’d been crying.

Despite choosing to sit on the only occupied bench in a stretch of empty ones, she didn’t acknowledge him. It was almost like she didn’t even register that he was there. Or maybe she had—and chose not to care. She made no shift to the side, no polite nod, no glance of curiosity or apology. She just sat, arms crossed tightly around herself, a human question mark curled inward.

Her shoulders were hunched so tightly it looked like she was folding into herself, like she wanted to disappear. The kind of posture that said: don’t look at me, don’t ask, don’t speak. Her body language broadcasted it louder than words ever could. She didn’t seem to want to be seen, and yet she had come to this exact bench, as if drawn by some unspoken gravity.

She just sat there, staring at the water like it held answers. Like if she stared hard enough, long enough, the waves might part and whisper something she needed to hear. Something to make staying feel like less of a mistake.

And Quinn didn’t say anything either.

For a long time, they sat in silence.

The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward. Just heavy. Weighted with things neither of them could say. The occasional car drove by behind them, its tires hissing on the wet road. Somewhere nearby, a gull cried out and the water lapped softly against the shore. It was the only sound that felt honest.

He didn’t know who she was.

But she looked like she was drowning too.

Ava Monroe had never meant to sit on that bench.

She had never meant to be anywhere at all, not tonight.

The fight with her mom had been brutal. Ugly. The kind of words that didn’t just hurt—they hollowed her out. Scarred deeper than fists ever could. Ava had gone to her mother out of desperation, aching for some kind of connection, some shred of maternal warmth, a single thread to hold onto. But all she got was venom, sharp and cold and unforgiving.

The words weren't just cruel—they were confirmation. Confirmation that every terrible thing she had ever believed about herself was true. That she was a burden. That she wasn’t wanted. That she wasn’t enough. Her mother’s voice didn’t just echo in the room—it rooted itself in her chest, in the hollow spaces already carved out by years of neglect and silence. It made her feel microscopic. Like her existence had always been some colossal inconvenience.

Ava left that house feeling like a ghost. Like a girl made of glass. Each step home felt heavier, more meaningless. There was nothing left in her—no fire, no fight, not even the quiet defiance she used to carry just to get through the day. She felt like she didn’t belong anywhere, not even in her own skin. Like the world had gone on without her a long time ago, and she’d only just realized it.

"You’ll never be enough."

"You ruined everything."

"You were a mistake."

The words sliced her open, deep and surgical, with a precision only a mother could wield. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t cry. She just stood there, frozen in place, absorbing every blow like a sponge, letting it soak through her until she was heavy with shame. It was like watching her own soul disintegrate in real-time. Her hands hung limp at her sides. Her heart didn’t even race—it just slowed, like it had given up trying.

She moved on instinct, her body carrying her out the door and down the street like she was sleepwalking, like something detached had taken over and was pulling the strings for her. The city was buzzing around her, but she didn’t hear it. Didn’t see it. She was a shell.

When she got back to her apartment, the lights were too bright. Too artificial. They revealed too much, illuminated all the places inside her that were cracked and bleeding. She walked past the mirror without looking. She knew what she'd see: nothing. Just hollow eyes. A stranger.

And then she saw the bottle. It was just sitting there. Quiet. Waiting.

She picked it up.

Stared at it.

Her hand shook as she unscrewed the cap. She poured them out into her palm, white tablets spilling like tiny bones into the center of her hand. The weight of them felt enormous. Final.

She sat on the floor, cold and silent, and stared at her shaking hands. Her breathing came shallow, like the room had been drained of oxygen. Her thoughts were louder than ever, a storm behind her eyes: You’re a failure. A disappointment. A mistake. Unlovable.

The silence was so total, it felt like the world had already moved on without her.

And for one long, harrowing moment, she almost let go.

She shook them gently, the pills rattling like distant thunder in the quiet room—a sound so small, yet impossibly loud in the silence.

Her fingers shook.

Her breathing was shallow, barely there, each inhale catching like her lungs had to think twice before choosing to keep going. The silence in the apartment pressed against her ears, not soft or gentle, but brutal—the kind of silence that made your skin crawl, like the walls were whispering all the things you were too afraid to say out loud.

It was too quiet. Too still. Like the world had stopped moving just to watch her unravel. The ticking of the clock felt like a taunt, counting down a life she didn’t want to keep living. Her heart didn’t feel like it beat anymore—it thudded, dull and mechanical, like a broken metronome.

Everything inside her felt empty and echoing, like she had become a hollow thing, carved out piece by piece by the people who were supposed to love her. She didn’t even cry. There weren’t tears left. Just a vast, suffocating stillness, as if even grief had abandoned her now.

But something stopped her.

A voice she couldn’t name. A feeling in her chest. Like someone was holding her wrist. Telling her to wait. To breathe.

She put the pills back in the bottle.

Put on her sweater.

Walked.

And now she was here.

Sitting beside a stranger.

Alive, but unsure why.

She didn’t know who he was. Didn’t care. All she knew was that he was as still as she was. As broken. That something about the way he stared at the water made her feel less alone.

They didn’t speak.

But their silence was the loudest thing either of them had heard all night.

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. Neither of them moved.

Quinn glanced at her. Just once.

And for a second, she met his eyes.

Just a second.

But in that second, he saw her pain. She saw his.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, they both breathed a little deeper.

Together.

The night didn’t fix anything. It didn’t heal them. But it didn’t break them further, either.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

That night, they didn’t fall apart.

They just... sat. And survived.

Side by side.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Quinn looked across to her one more time.

Really looked.

It wasn’t just the way the moonlight framed her face or the way her sweater hung like armor against the night. It was the stillness in her body, the haunting in her eyes. There was something about her—something not loud, not obvious—but deeply known. A ghost of a memory wrapped in velvet pain. A shape he hadn’t seen in years but still knew by name, as if she'd been waiting on the periphery of his life all along.

His eyes traced the soft outline of her jaw, delicate and trembling like it held back a thousand words. The faint sheen of dried tears clung stubbornly to her cheeks, catching the moonlight like salt-crusted silver. But it was her expression that stunned him. That deep, quiet devastation. The kind of brokenness people learn to wear like perfume—undetectable unless you’ve worn it too. She didn’t just look sad. She looked emptied. As if she’d bled out every last feeling and was only now discovering what it meant to be a shell.

And the way she held herself, shoulders slumped like her bones could no longer carry the weight of being alive—it almost looked rehearsed. Like she'd practiced disappearing. Like she’d spent years perfecting the art of looking okay while silently screaming.

And then it clicked.

Of course he knew who she was.

Her last name was practically stamped into every corner of the city.

Monroe.

David Monroe. Real estate titan. Investor. Philanthropist. A name stitched into the very fabric of the city. His empire touched everything—commercial towers, luxury condos, high-profile foundations. And the Canucks? They were just another line on his ledger. A silent but steady benefactor of the organization, his influence loomed like the skyline his company had helped build. Every player knew that name. You couldn’t be part of the team without brushing shoulders with the Monroes.

Every year, they hosted a lavish charity gala—an affair of such extravagance that even seasoned veterans couldn’t hide their discomfort. Held in a grand ballroom glittering with crystal chandeliers and lined with tables draped in silk, the event was a performance of wealth and image. Silver champagne trays floated between guests, the air filled with the soft clinking of crystal flutes and rehearsed laughter. The players would show up in tuxedos, practice their media smiles in the car, and take photos for the press like it all meant something. They thanked the Monroes with polite handshakes and obligatory small talk, careful not to overstep, careful to appear grateful.

It was the kind of night where everything sparkled, except the people who had to pretend to belong there.

Quinn remembered her father clearly.

David Monroe was the one standing on stage, smiling beside ownership and management, when Quinn first pulled on the Canucks jersey on draft night. A handshake, a picture. Flashbulbs. Cheers. Everything about that moment had felt like a coronation. Quinn Hughes, savior of the franchise. Golden boy.

But he didn’t remember seeing her.

Not until now.

And now that he had—he couldn’t unsee her. Ava Monroe, the invisible girl behind the empire. The one who should've glowed under the same lights, been photographed on red carpets, toasted by men in suits, wrapped in everything that came with a name like hers. But she hadn’t. Somehow, she had slipped through the cracks of her own legacy, choosing shadows over chandeliers. Sitting beside him now, she looked like a ghost aching to be felt, not seen—like someone who had spent her whole life being too visible in the wrong ways and invisible in all the ways that mattered.

There was a haunting in her presence, the kind that made you want to apologize without knowing what for. And Quinn did. He wanted to say sorry for a world that forgot her. For a father who used her last name like currency while letting his daughter starve for affection. For the cameras that had never panned her way. For the years she must've spent wondering if her life was even her own.

And then, just as the recognition settled into his bones, she looked up.

Tear-stained eyes. Silent. Red-rimmed.

And she knew.

Of course she did.

Quinn Hughes. The prodigy. The captain. The promise.

The man who was meant to lift the city. To carry its hopes like a crown and wear its failures like chains. To lead the team through the fire and still emerge smiling. To be the one who fixed everything, even when he was the one silently falling apart. He was the face on the banners, the name in the headlines, the reason kids wore number 43 jerseys. And no one ever stopped to ask what that weight might be doing to the boy underneath it all.

She blinked at him, slowly, and something passed between them—something unspoken and deeply human, like the kind of look you give someone when you both know what it means to want to disappear. A silent understanding that didn’t need translation. A breath of shared grief, heavy and unrelenting, that wrapped around them like a fog neither of them could escape. In that fragile second, it was like they were looking into a mirror made of pain—different stories, different scars, but the same hollow ache behind their eyes. The world didn’t shift around them, but something inside did. Something wordless and aching that whispered, I see you. I feel it too.

Both of them had grown up being told they were meant for greatness.

Both of them knew what it felt like to suffocate under that weight.

Both of them were breaking.

The emptiness echoed between them like a heartbeat. A soundless ache that needed no explanation.

And then, after a pause that felt like it stretched out forever, Quinn swallowed hard, the tension in his jaw finally giving way. He turned his body slightly toward her, hesitant, uncertain, but needing to say something before the silence drowned them both.

"I—"

His voice cracked, and he had to start again.

"I don’t know if I’m good enough for this," he said quietly, almost like he was confessing it to the ocean. "I don’t know if I’m good enough for anything. At all. And I feel like I’m slowly falling apart and breaking."

The words sat in the air, raw and trembling.

She didn’t respond. Not with words.

A tear slipped down her cheek. Another.

"My, uh... my thought was that this would be my last night," She said, her voice barely a whisper. Her voice was thin. A ghost of itself. "It almost was."

Quinn’s breath hitched, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t.

She looked down at her hands, still clenched tightly in her lap, knuckles white. The air around them suddenly felt sharper, like the world had stilled to listen.

Quinn turned his head just slightly, not wanting to push, but needing to hear her.

Ava swallowed hard, her throat raw. "I had them all in my hand. The pills. I sat on the floor of my bedroom, staring at them. And for a second, it was the only thing that made sense. Like I could finally stop the screaming inside my head. Like I could finally rest."

She took a shaky breath, then another, like her lungs were relearning how to function. Her voice was a flicker, something barely lit. "But I didn’t. I don’t know why. Something in me—some tiny, quiet part that still believed in something—just... wouldn’t let me. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was nothing more than habit. But I couldn’t do it. My hand was trembling so hard I thought I was going to drop everything."

Her stare fell distant, glassed over again. "I was sitting there, on the floor, holding my life in one hand and everything I hated about myself in the other. And all I could think was... no one would notice. Not really. My phone wouldn’t ring. No one would come looking. The world would keep spinning and I’d just be another girl who didn’t make it. And for a moment, that felt like peace."

She paused, her voice breaking on the next exhale. "But then something happened. Something I can’t explain. Like the tiniest part of me screamed. Like my own soul refused to be snuffed out without one final fight. I put the pills back. I stood up. I walked out the door. I didn’t even grab a coat. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew if I stayed one second longer, I wasn’t going to make it."

Her eyes finally flicked up, not to look at him, but past him, to the water. "So I ended up here. Still breathing. But not really living. Just... floating. Empty. I didn’t want to be found. I just didn’t want to disappear without someone knowing I was ever here in the first place."

The words hung between them, bare and bleeding. A confession not meant to earn comfort, just to be heard.

She didn’t cry when she said it. She sounded hollow. Like she’d already cried all the tears there were to cry.

And Quinn didn’t speak.

He just listened.

Because he knew what it felt like to be so tired of being alive that even breathing felt like a burden.

The honesty clung to the air like smoke. Fragile. Heavy.

Another tear traced the curve of Ava's face. But she still didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her silence said enough. It said: Me too.

And maybe that was the first moment they truly understood each other. Not because of their names. Not because of who they were supposed to be. But because beneath all of that—the legacies, the expectations, the titles—they were just two broken people whose pain happened to echo at the same frequency. Two souls who had come to the water's edge not to find answers, but to surrender. And yet, somehow, they'd collided. Quietly. Gently. Without ceremony. Just a breath between strangers who were anything but.

Their silence wasn’t passive—it was deliberate. Thick with everything they couldn’t say. A communion of ghosts sitting side by side. Each aching, each unraveling, each choosing not to fall apart simply because the other was still sitting there. Still breathing.

And in that aching silence, something passed between them—not a promise, not a rescue, but a thread. Fragile. Unspoken. I see you. I feel it too.

As if pulled by gravity, they shifted.

Slowly. Quietly. As if afraid to shatter whatever had taken root between them.

They moved closer.

Ava’s shoulder brushed Quinn’s.

The contact was barely there, but it was enough. Enough to ground them both.

Quinn didn’t flinch.

Neither did Ava.

That small touch, that simple warmth, threaded something through them—a fragile thread of safety in a world that had offered them nothing but cold.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was real.

Their bodies didn’t shift again. They didn’t hug. They didn’t hold hands. They just sat, shoulder to shoulder, their pain seeping into one another, until it didn’t feel so sharp. So singular.

They were two souls trapped under the same foot of pressure.

Two hearts with too many cracks.

Two people who had spent years suffocating in silence, and somehow found breath in each other.

Ava closed her eyes and leaned just slightly into his side. Not enough to be a plea. Just enough to say, I’m still here.

Quinn stayed still. But his head dipped ever so slightly in her direction. His shoulder curved toward hers. His eyes remained on the water, but his thoughts were finally somewhere else.

And in that moment, they both felt it.

A shift.

The beginning of something neither of them had words for.

A presence. A tether. A reason.

They sat like that for a long time. The world moved on without them—cars passed, waves rose and fell, the city lights blinked in patterns too fast to follow. But they didn’t move.

Minutes turned into hours.

The pain didn’t disappear. But it dulled. Muted.

Like someone had finally lit a candle in the dark.

And though they didn’t say another word, they didn’t need to.

The silence had changed.

It was no longer a void.

It was a shelter.

And sometimes, that was enough to begin again.

Just as the wind picked up, brushing past them like the breath of something ancient, Quinn turned his head slightly toward her. His voice was soft, barely there. "I see you," he said. Three words, but they felt like a lighthouse cutting through fog.

Ava didn’t answer right away. But her breath hitched, and then steadied. She turned her gaze to him slowly, her eyes tired, but no longer empty. "I see you too," she whispered.

They didn’t say anything else. There was nothing left to say. So they leaned gently into each other, the contact quiet but constant, and let the silence settle around them like a blanket.

The night stretched long, and the darkness never lifted, but they stayed. Two shadows on a bench, side by side.

And somehow, that night—that fragile, fleeting night—was enough for them to choose to stay a little longer in the world.

Enough to make it through one more sunrise.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The first light of dawn broke slowly, as if unsure whether it was welcome. It crept over the horizon in soft hues—faded gold, gentle blush, the faintest whisper of blue. The waves caught it first, the gentle lapping of water at the harbor edge shimmering like liquid gold. Then the sky followed, spreading it across the city like the slow reveal of a secret.

Neither of them had moved.

Quinn and Ava sat shoulder to shoulder on that old wooden bench, the air around them still heavy with the weight of everything that had passed between them. It wasn’t the kind of silence that screamed. It was the kind that exhaled—soft, worn, exhausted. The kind that said, you’re still here, and so am I.

The cold had settled into their bones, deep and aching, but they hadn’t noticed. Not really. Because something warmer had wrapped itself around them, invisible but steady. A shared understanding, a tether. The gravity of the night had forged something fragile and indelible between them—something they didn’t understand yet but felt all the same.

The silence between them had shifted from one of pain to one of comfort. From a quiet cry for help to a quiet offering of presence. No more apologies. No need for explanation. Just breath in the cold. The subtle rhythm of two people choosing, again and again, not to leave. Shared breath. Shared survival. And in that stillness, the beginning of something neither of them could name, but both of them needed.

The sunrise wasn’t beautiful. It was quiet. Muted. The kind of sunrise that didn’t demand attention, just offered presence. There were no vivid streaks of fire across the sky, no brilliant crescendo of colors. Just a slow, tender brightening. The world easing itself into wakefulness. It rose like a sigh—tired, cautious, and real.

And that, somehow, felt perfect.

Because that morning wasn’t about beauty. It wasn’t about spectacle. It was about surviving the night. About making it through the hardest hours and finding, somehow, that the sky still turned. That the sun still rose. That breath still came.

The light didn’t feel triumphant. It felt earned. Like something cracked open quietly and let the day slip in.

Quinn shifted slightly, straightening his back with a quiet exhale. He rubbed at his face, the exhaustion of the night finally catching up to him. Ava followed, stretching out her legs, feeling the pins and needles in her feet as blood returned to limbs left too still for too long. Her fingers flexed slowly, grounding herself back into her body.

They didn’t speak.

There was no need.

What could they say that hadn’t already been said in silence?

Instead, they exchanged a glance. A quiet, reverent thing. A moment of mutual understanding that needed no words. It lingered, not rushed or fleeting, but long enough to say everything that mattered. There was something sacred in it—a silent bow of gratitude, a recognition of shared survival. They didn’t smile. Didn’t cry. They just looked at each other with the kind of raw honesty that only exists after darkness has been witnessed together. It was their way of saying, I see you. Thank you for staying.

And softly, Quinn spoke again. His voice was hoarse. "I see you."

Ava met his eyes, her own rimmed with a different kind of tear this time—not despair, but something gentler. "I see you too."

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t cinematic. But it was enough.

Ava stood first. Her body protested, stiff and cold, but she didn’t mind. She tucked her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie, glanced down at Quinn, and gave the smallest of nods. He rose with her, slower, heavier, but he stood.

They didn’t hug.

They didn’t exchange numbers.

They didn’t make promises.

They just parted ways.

She walked one way, toward the edge of downtown, her steps slow, as if her body was still catching up to the weight of what had just happened. The hoodie swallowed her small frame, the sleeves too long, her hands still hidden inside them. With every step, she felt the echo of their silence, the comfort of it, trailing behind her like a ghost she wasn’t quite ready to let go of.

He walked the other, toward the towers he called home, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, not from the cold but from something deeper—an ache, a lingering presence pressed into the slope of his spine. The bench faded behind them, but the feeling of it stayed—like warmth that lingered long after the fire had gone out.

The city slowly came alive around them—joggers blinking against the light, dog walkers tugging sleepy pups along wet sidewalks, the hum of traffic stirring awake. The world resumed its rhythm as if nothing had happened, as if two broken souls hadn’t just sat in the quiet and saved each other without saying so.

And neither of them looked back.

But both of them carried it. That night. That moment. That bench. A memory soft and sacred, stitched into the fabric of their morning.

They didn’t need to say it aloud. There was an unspoken agreement between them now. A silent pact forged in the dark: this night belonged to no one else. It was not for telling. Not for sharing. It was theirs. Only theirs.

And somehow, that knowledge was enough to steady their steps.

That should’ve been the end.

But it wasn’t.

Because somehow, a week later, they both ended up back at that same bench.

It wasn’t planned. Neither of them expected it. Quinn had taken the long way home after a game, a loss that twisted in his chest like a knife and refused to loosen its grip. His body ached, but not from the ice—from the weight of the night, the disappointment of another failed attempt at being enough. He didn’t want to go back to his apartment. The silence there wasn’t just silence; it was sharp, punishing, an echo chamber of regret. The lights were always too bright when he walked in. The air always too still. The emptiness too honest.

So he drove with no destination, his hands on the wheel but his thoughts miles away. His chest heavy. His eyes burning. He didn’t know where he was going until he got there.

That bench.

The one that had held him when he couldn’t hold himself.

The one where someone had seen him and stayed.

And Ava—she hadn’t planned it either. But she couldn’t stay in that house. Not after the latest fight. Not after hearing the same accusations echo off the walls. Not after being told she was ungrateful. Spoiled. A waste.

She had walked out into the night without a destination. Without a plan. Just a desperate need to breathe. To exist somewhere her pain wasn’t questioned or ignored. She didn’t know where her feet were taking her. Only that she needed to follow them.

And like something pulled from a quiet promise, from the magnetic pull of shared grief, they ended up there. As if the bench itself remembered them—held their pain from nights before, waited patiently beneath the city’s noise for their return. It wasn’t just a coincidence. It felt fated, like a hidden current in the universe had gently ushered them back to each other, back to that sliver of peace they had carved together in the dark. A place that didn’t demand anything but presence. A place that somehow knew what they needed before they did. They arrived without purpose, without preparation, but their steps mirrored the same ache, the same longing—to not be alone with the weight they carried. To be met in the middle of their ache without question. And again, the bench made room. Again, they sat. Together.

At the bench.

At the edge of the world.

Within minutes of each other.

Their eyes met.

Quinn’s breath caught.

Ava’s shoulders, tight with tension, eased.

She sat first.

He followed.

And that night, they stayed until the stars faded.

It became a rhythm. An unspoken routine.

They never texted. Never called. Never asked, will you be there?

But somehow, they always were.

Maybe not every night. But often enough that the bench no longer felt like just a bench. It became something sacred. A place of reckoning. Of retreat. Of quiet rebuilding.

They brought coffee sometimes. Wore warmer clothes. Sometimes one would arrive to find the other already waiting, and nothing needed to be said. The presence alone was enough. Familiar. Reassuring.

And each night, they shared a little more.

Quinn spoke about the pressure of being captain. Not in the way reporters asked about it, but in the way it sat on his chest at 2 a.m., making it hard to breathe. He talked about the fear of failure. The guilt of losing. The exhaustion of being everything to everyone and still feeling like nothing to himself.

Ava listened. Not as a fan. Not as a girl dazzled by his fame. But as someone who knew what it meant to crumble. To carry weight you never asked for.

And Ava, in turn, spoke of her loneliness. Of growing up in a house full of noise but no warmth. Of disappearing behind her father’s money, behind her mother’s scorn. Of wanting, so desperately, to be loved without condition.

Quinn didn’t offer advice. He didn’t tell her to be strong. He just listened. Sat with her in the stillness. Let her be.

And so it went.

Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. Some nights were filled with stories, confessions, tiny truths whispered into the dark. Other nights, they just sat side by side in silence, their presence saying everything their mouths couldn’t.

They didn’t touch. Not beyond the occasional brush of shoulders. Not beyond the quiet comfort of nearness. It wasn’t about that.

It was about knowing.

About being seen.

About sharing pain without having to relive it.

They came as Quinn and Ava. Not the captain burdened by expectations and headlines. Not the heiress veiled in privilege and shadowed by neglect. Just two souls stripped of their titles, peeled back to their most human selves. Two people with fractures in their bones and too much weight in their hearts—weight that made it hard to breathe some days, impossible to stand on others. And yet, they stood. Or sat. Or simply were. They didn’t need to perform. They didn’t need to impress. They didn’t need to be anything more than exactly what they were in those moments: quiet, unraveling, healing. The bench didn’t care about what jerseys they wore or whose name came on checks. It welcomed them as they were. And together, they began to stitch the pieces of themselves into something new—not flawless, but whole in a different kind of way.

And little by little, something began to shift.

The bench became a bridge.

They laughed sometimes. Quiet, soft laughter. The kind that didn’t echo, just lingered in the air like a promise. It wasn’t loud or forced—it was shy at first, like they were rediscovering what it meant to feel light for even a second. Ava would tell him about old books she loved, the ones with pages yellowed from being read too many times, stories that had been her escape when the world felt too cruel. She’d describe the characters like friends, like pieces of herself she never knew how to share until now.

Quinn would talk about skating. Not just the game, but the movement. The way it felt to glide when the world grew too heavy, how the ice made sense when nothing else did. He spoke about the quiet before a puck dropped, the clarity in motion, how for just a few seconds, everything else fell away and he could breathe. Sometimes he brought her old playlists from the locker room, laughing about the bad ones, smiling over the ones that stuck. Ava once brought him a thermos of chamomile tea because she said it smelled like peace. They didn’t make it a big deal. But he drank every drop.

Some nights she’d bring a book and read aloud, her voice soft and even, Quinn listening with his eyes closed, as if the sound alone was enough to stitch something inside him back together. Some nights he’d point out constellations, giving them wrong names on purpose just to make her roll her eyes and laugh, really laugh—head tipped back, teeth showing, that rare kind of laugh that healed something hidden.

They didn’t need plans. Just the bench. Just each other. And the quiet joys they built, one breath at a time.

And the pain didn’t vanish.

But it changed.

Because now, they weren’t carrying it alone.

They were still broken.

But broken didn’t mean empty.

And in each other, they found space to heal.

Quietly.

Softly.

Without rush.

Without expectation.

Without fear.

The world still didn’t know about those nights. No one ever would. And that was the point.

It was theirs.

Just Quinn.

Just Ava.

Two shadows who collided at the edge of their breaking point, and stayed long enough to remember what it meant to begin again.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Eventually, they moved on from the bench.

It wasn’t sudden. It was a slow drift, like everything else between them. A natural, quiet shift from one space to another. The bench had become their place, their anchor—but like all things born from pain, it wasn’t meant to hold them forever. Healing required movement, and without realizing it, they’d begun to crave something more than the comfort of shared silence. They wanted light. Warmth. A kind of closeness that didn’t depend on the shadows.

Quinn had been pestering her for weeks.

"You haven’t seen it? Seriously? Ava, it’s the movie," he’d say with mock indignation, hand over his heart as if she’d personally offended his taste in cinema.

"I don’t know," she’d reply with a small shrug, teasing but cautious. "I’m not in the mood for something sad."

"It’s not sad. Okay, well, it kind of is. But in a good way. In a ‘you’ll cry but also feel seen’ kind of way."

He’d keep bringing it up at the end of their nights at the bench, each mention softer, more coaxing. Until one night, she sighed, smiled faintly, and said, "Fine. Let’s watch your movie."

That night, they didn’t go to the bench.

Instead, they found themselves in his apartment. It was the first time she’d been there. He had tried to tidy up beforehand, but it still looked lived in—soft piles of laundry, a few mugs on the counter, books stacked haphazardly beside the TV. It smelled like pine soap and popcorn, and it felt safe. Not perfect. Not curated. Just like him.

They sat next to each other on the couch, sharing a worn fleece blanket Quinn had pulled from the back of the couch, its corners frayed, edges soft from years of use. He’d made popcorn, which she’d half-spilled trying to get comfortable. They laughed about it, brushing kernels off the floor, her giggling melting into his quiet chuckle. The room buzzed with the easy kind of energy they didn’t get to feel often—light, open, effortless.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

They watched in silence, the kind that meant they didn’t need to fill the space between them. It was the kind of quiet that felt sacred, a quiet formed not from awkwardness but from complete ease. The room seemed to hold its breath with them, lit only by the flickering of the screen and the faint rustle of popcorn shifting in the bowl on Ava’s lap.

Occasionally, Ava would glance sideways at him, not just watching him, but seeing him. The way he leaned forward during the emotional scenes, how his hands twitched slightly during moments of tension, the way he mouthed his favorite lines as if they were prayers. He didn’t just watch the movie—he felt it, deeply, letting it thread through him like a song he knew by heart. His eyes were wide, glassy even, but soft. Focused.

He didn’t talk during it. Not once. Just sat there, wide-eyed and still, like he was living it again, like he was seeing parts of himself on the screen he didn’t often show. Every so often, his chest would rise with a slightly deeper breath, and Ava would mirror it without thinking. They were in their own quiet rhythm, bound by a story that wasn’t theirs but somehow spoke to both of them anyway. The silence between them said more than any words could have—it said, I’m here. I understand. And that was enough.

When the final scene faded and the music swelled, neither of them reached for the remote. The room sat in silence for a while, except for the soft hum of the credits and the world outside.

"You were right," Ava whispered.

Quinn didn’t look away from the screen. "Told you."

She nudged his shoulder with hers beneath the blanket, a small gesture of warmth. He glanced at her, and for a second, the smile on his face wasn’t weighed down by anything at all.

The hockey season was long over.

For a few months, the noise quieted. The headlines stilled. The fans moved on to other sports, other distractions. And Quinn—he had become visibly lighter. The stress lines in his forehead softened. The haunted look in his eyes began to fade. His days were slow. His nights were gentler. He took walks. He cooked. He laughed more.

It was like the pressure had been peeled off, even if only temporarily. He could breathe again. He could be Quinn, not Captain Hughes.

But with the end of the season came the inevitable.

Summer. And Michigan.

He hadn’t talked about it yet, not out loud. But it had been lingering. A quiet shadow at the edge of every day. A low hum behind every laugh. A weight pressing down on his chest when the nights got too still. It was the kind of thought that crept in during the softest moments—when her head was tilted back in laughter, or when she was watching the world pass outside his window with that faraway look in her eyes. The thought that he was leaving. That time was slipping through his fingers like sand, grain by grain, and soon this fragile pocket of peace they’d built would dissolve. He felt it in the silence between them. In the long pauses that stretched a little longer each day. It was a countdown, not just to his departure, but to a shift he didn’t know how to navigate. And the worst part was—he didn’t know how to tell her. How to put into words the ache of loving something so gentle and knowing it couldn’t last in this exact way forever. So he kept it tucked away, a secret pulsing in his chest, waiting for the courage to speak it out loud.

He was going home. To his family. To the lake. To the place where he could hide from the world for a while.

But not from her.

He didn’t want to leave her.

Ava had been his quiet salvation. His rock. The person who never expected him to be anything other than human. When the weight of the captaincy crushed his chest, she never once told him to be strong. She just sat with him in the dark and let him breathe. When the headlines screamed his name or fans threw blame like darts, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t care about stats, didn’t ask about press conferences, didn’t bring up hockey unless he did.

With her, he wasn’t a franchise player or a golden boy. He wasn’t a fixer of broken teams or the hope of a city. He was just Quinn—the boy who liked quiet nights, who sometimes needed to be held without asking, who laughed softly when she rolled her eyes, who listened to the same song on repeat because it made him feel less alone.

She gave him space to fall apart. To speak without being judged. To not speak at all and still be heard. She made silence feel like safety. And he needed her—more than he ever realized—because for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like he was holding the world alone. He didn’t feel like he had to.

And he knew, in that complicated, painful way, that she needed him too.

So the night after the movie, when they were sitting in the kitchen sharing a bowl of cereal at 1 a.m.—because Quinn claimed cereal always tasted better after midnight—he finally said it.

"I have to go home next week."

Ava looked up slowly, spoon halfway to her mouth.

He saw it instantly—the flicker in her eyes, the stiffening of her shoulders. She tried to smile. She tried to play it cool. But she wasn’t very good at hiding how she felt.

She dropped her head, focusing on her bowl. "Oh. Yeah. That makes sense."

Quinn hated how her voice changed when she tried to be brave.

Without thinking, he reached across the counter and touched her hand. She froze.

Then he stood and walked around to her side of the table, crouching down in front of her like he couldn’t stand the space between them any longer. And then—he hugged her.

Their first hug.

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, and she buried her face in his shoulder, arms hesitating before folding around him like she was afraid he might vanish. When she finally did hold him back, it was with a grip that trembled, like she was holding onto something fragile but vital. Her hands curled into the back of his sweatshirt, and he felt her breathing grow uneven against his chest.

His fingers pressed gently into her back like he was trying to memorize the shape of her, not just physically, but emotionally—every piece of her he’d come to know and need. He didn’t want to let go. Neither did she. It was one of those moments that stretched beyond time, where the ache of goodbye wrapped itself around the warmth of presence.

They weren’t just hugging—they were trying to stay whole, just a little longer. Trying to carry the memory of this moment into the spaces where their hands wouldn’t be able to reach. And in that grip, in the silence, in the tremble of their bodies against one another, they both knew: letting go was going to feel like breaking.

He held her there for a while.

"I’ll call you every night," he murmured. "Okay? Every night. I promise."

She didn’t respond. Just nodded against his chest, but her arms tightened around him, just slightly. Like she was trying to memorize the shape of this moment, hold it in her body so she wouldn’t forget what it felt like to be needed like this. Her breath hitched once, and then again, and he could feel the way she was trying not to fall apart entirely. But she was trembling, and so was he.

And for the first time in a long time, Quinn cried. Quiet tears. The kind that slipped out without warning, catching on his lashes before falling onto the top of her head. His chest ached with the kind of sadness that didn’t shout—it simply settled, low and slow, into every part of him. He didn’t sob. He just let the tears fall, like something inside him had finally run out of ways to hold it all in.

He didn’t know how he’d be okay without her. How to wake up without her quiet texts. How to fall asleep without her voice lacing through the dark. He didn’t know how to let go of someone who had found all his broken pieces and made him feel like they weren’t something to be ashamed of. He didn’t know how to leave when every instinct in his body was screaming to stay.

So he held her tighter. As if that could freeze the clock. As if maybe, just maybe, if he held her long enough, time would pause, and they wouldn't have to say goodbye—not yet. Maybe not ever.

He kissed the top of her head. She didn’t pull away.

Michigan was quiet.

It was green and warm, the trees stretching overhead like old friends. The lake glistened with sunlight that bounced in a thousand directions, and his childhood home looked the same, down to the worn wooden steps and the wind chime that clinked softly when the breeze passed through. He fell back into the rhythm of home, but it didn’t feel quite the same.

His mom met him at the door with a long, wordless hug. She didn’t ask anything. Not yet.

But she saw it.

She always saw everything.

She watched him during those first few days. Not closely, not with suspicion. But with the gentle curiosity of a mother who knew her son had been hurting. She noticed the way he checked his phone constantly. The way he lingered near the window after dinner. The way his moods shifted in the evenings, how his restlessness would suddenly vanish around midnight.

She noticed the smile, too.

The one he wore when he slipped out to the dock. The one he didn’t even realize had crept onto his face.

And so, she didn’t ask.

She let him have that secret.

Each night, like clockwork, Quinn would sit on the dock with his phone pressed to his ear, feet hanging over the edge, toes brushing the cool wood worn smooth by years of childhood summers. The water below reflected moonlight like shattered glass, shifting gently with the breeze, a quiet mirror to the thoughts swirling in his head.

He would talk quietly, his voice softer than it ever was in the city. Some nights, he laughed—those rare, low laughs that came from somewhere deep, bubbling up like relief. Other nights, he spoke in hushed fragments, sometimes pausing between words just to listen to the sound of her breathing on the other end. And on some nights, they said almost nothing at all. Just stayed connected. Just were. The silence never felt empty with her. It felt held.

He would eventually lie on his back, letting the wood press into his shoulders, the lake air cool on his face. The stars above him stretched endless and quiet, like someone had thrown glitter across black velvet. His phone rested on his chest, warm against his heart, Ava's voice still ringing in his ears like a lullaby. Some nights she read to him. Some nights they made up constellations and gave them stupid names. Some nights they listened to the same song over and over again, letting the lyrics fill the spaces where words couldn’t reach.

And always, always, he stayed until the last word, the last laugh, the last breath of her presence faded into sleep. Because even from hundreds of miles away, she was the only thing that made him feel close to whole.

They talked about everything and nothing.

About books. The ones they’d read as kids, and the ones they never finished because life got in the way. About the sky—how it looked different in Michigan than it did in Vancouver, how sometimes clouds held stories and the stars made promises. About what they ate that day, even when it wasn’t exciting, even when it was just cereal or cold leftovers, because the mundane started to feel sacred when it was shared.

They talked about the ache in their chests that showed up when the world grew too quiet. About what it meant to long for someone you hadn’t known forever but who felt like home anyway. About the strange beauty of missing someone who wasn’t family, who wasn’t a lover, but who had become something more essential—like a lighthouse, like gravity, like air.

Sometimes they didn’t need words. Sometimes it was just the soft rustle of wind through his phone speaker, the distant sound of a car in the background of her call. They filled the spaces not with stories, but with the simple assurance: I’m here. I haven’t gone anywhere. And that, more than anything, kept them both afloat.

One night, he asked her to describe the bench to him.

"It’s lonely without you," she said.

He closed his eyes. "You’re not alone. I’m there. Just on the other end of the line."

And she believed him.

Other nights, he read to her. Passages from his favorite book. Descriptions of the lake. The way the water caught fire at sunset. They’d fall asleep on the phone more than once, whispering until their words faded into breath. There were no rules. Just the comfort of knowing the other was there.

His mom never interrupted. But sometimes, she’d step out onto the porch and see him there, lying on the dock, eyes full of stars. His silhouette, outlined by the faint silver of moonlight, looked younger somehow, like the boy he used to be before the world placed so much weight on his shoulders. The phone was always pressed gently to his ear, and she could see the subtle curve of a smile tugging at his lips—soft, unguarded, the kind of smile she hadn’t seen in years.

And her heart would ache in the best way. Ache because she recognized that someone, somewhere, was reaching into her son’s darkness and lighting a candle. Someone was listening to him, truly listening, in the way only people who have learned to sit with pain know how. She didn’t know what they talked about. She didn’t need to. The way his shoulders relaxed, the way his breathing slowed, the way he lingered in that same spot long after the conversations ended—all of it told her what she needed to know.

She’d watch for a moment longer, letting the quiet scene imprint itself in her memory, before stepping back inside. Because what he had out there on that dock wasn’t hers to claim or question. It was sacred, healing, his. A piece of peace she’d prayed he would find, even if it didn’t come from her.

Someone was healing her son.

Not fixing him. Not changing him.

Just holding the broken parts gently enough that they stopped hurting so much.

She didn’t need to know who it was.

But she hoped they knew what they meant to him.

And maybe, just maybe, what he meant to them.

Because when Quinn finally came back inside each night, his shoulders were lighter. His smile was softer. His eyes were clearer.

And for the first time in years, he looked like someone who believed he could be okay again.

And all because somewhere out there, someone was assembling him again.

Piece by piece.

With love that didn’t need a name yet.

With care that didn’t ask for anything in return.

And with the quiet, powerful promise of a connection strong enough to survive even the distance between them.

Quinn and Ava. Still broken, but still healing. Holding onto a thread of connection that reached across state lines and time zones, woven through whispered phone calls, unspoken understanding, and the memory of arms that didn't want to let go. They weren’t whole yet, but they didn’t need to be. Not when they had each other—soft, steady, and there. Even miles apart, they found their way back to one another, night after night, word by word, breath by breath. And that was enough. For now, that was enough.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Ava’s summer had gone differently than she’d imagined.

She had pictured long walks along the waterfront, more quiet calls with Quinn, late nights under moonlight where healing happened slowly and gently. She imagined space to breathe, mornings without pain, silence that wasn’t sharp. She had imagined peace—not total, not perfect, but something close enough to quiet the ache inside her.

But life had other plans. And it started, as it always seemed to, with her mother.

It was a Thursday night. The air outside was humid, heavy with the weight of July. The kind of heat that clung to skin and made the air taste like metal. Inside the Monroe house, the air felt even thicker. The windows were closed, the blinds drawn, and the silence had a pulse of its own—waiting, watching. Ava was curled up by her window, her favorite spot when she needed to forget where she was. She had headphones in, a playlist Quinn had made her playing softly, anchoring her to something safer, something real. The soft hum of the music, his careful curation of lyrics that understood her better than most people did, made the world feel just a little less cruel.

Until her name rang out through the house.

"Ava!"

Her mother's voice, sharp and slurred, cut through the melody like glass against skin.

The spell was broken. She sighed, carefully removing her headphones and sliding off the windowsill. She padded down the stairs on bare feet, moving like a ghost through her own home. Every movement was familiar. Predictable. This wasn’t new.

In the kitchen, her mother stood swaying, wine glass in hand, her eyes glazed with the kind of fury that had nowhere else to go. Her lipstick was smudged, her hair wild, her expression twisted with something bitter and ugly.

"What?" Ava asked, her voice neutral, steady—a mask she had learned to wear early.

"What the hell is this attitude? Don’t talk to me like that," her mother snapped, slamming the glass down on the granite counter with a sharp crack that made Ava flinch.

"I wasn’t," she replied calmly, standing her ground. "You called me. I just came down."

"God, you think you’re better than me now, huh?" her mother snarled, eyes narrowing. "Since when did you get so full of yourself? So fucking self-righteous."

Ava stood still. She could feel her heart racing, but she wouldn’t show it. Not this time.

"I don’t think I’m better than you. But I’m not going to let you keep doing this to me."

Her mother tilted her head, mock confusion bleeding into rage.

"Doing what, exactly? Raising you? Giving you a roof over your head? Feeding you?"

"No. Tearing me down. Making me feel like I was a mistake. Like I’ll never be enough. I’m not your punching bag. Not anymore."

And in that moment, the air in the room shifted—no longer merely still, but suffocating. It pressed against Ava’s chest, a living thing, thick and trembling with unspoken violence. The flicker of rage in her mother’s eyes wasn’t new; Ava had seen it before in a hundred quiet slights and shouted insults. But tonight, it looked different. Not just angry—unhinged. It crackled like static in the air, raw and unchecked, simmering beneath the surface with a force that threatened to spill over. Her mother's pupils were blown wide, her jaw clenched tight, lips curling with disgust. Something inside her had snapped, and it wasn’t going to be restrained. Ava felt it—like standing on the edge of a storm, knowing the lightning was already too close.

She moved quickly, her fingers wrapping around Ava’s wrist with a grip so tight it made her wince. Her mother’s nails dug into her skin, leaving crescents that would still ache days later. And then, before Ava could speak again—

Smack.

A hand across her face. The sound cracked through the room like a whip, sharp and unnatural, echoing off the cold tile like the slap of thunder before a storm breaks. Time slowed for a moment as the pain registered—an immediate, searing bloom that spread across her cheek like wildfire. The heat radiated outward, red and raw, and her skin stung like it had been scalded. Her eye watered involuntarily, the shock stealing her breath before the ache could even fully set in. Her body rocked with the force of it, a sway that felt more like being untethered than being struck. But she didn’t fall. She didn’t scream. She just stood there, heart pounding in her ears, a storm behind her ribs, staring into the space between pain and defiance where her voice had finally risen—and her mother had tried to silence it.

She looked up.

Straight into her mother’s face.

"You are embarrassing," she said, her voice low and controlled. "And I’m done letting you walk all over me. Maybe your life turned out shitty, but that’s not my fault. That’s yours."

Another hit. This one harder. Her head snapped sideways, pain blooming just beneath her eye. She didn’t cry. She only straightened again, breathing shallow but steady.

And then, the front door opened.

The heavy click of the latch was jarring in the silence.

"What the hell is going on?"

Her father’s voice rang out, low and commanding, but beneath it was something heavier—a tremor of disbelief, of dawning horror. David Monroe stood in the entryway, framed by the glow of the hallway light, his presence suddenly too large for the space. His suit was slightly wrinkled, the tie loosened like he’d just barely made it home, briefcase hanging forgotten in his hand. But it wasn’t the tiredness of his long day that defined him in that moment—it was the way he stood utterly still, like his world had just been cracked open. His gaze swept the room and landed on his daughter—on the redness blooming across her cheek, the bruise beneath her eye, the fear she wore like a second skin. And just like that, the tension rolled off him in waves, not from stress, but from rage—cold, deliberate, and deeply paternal. The kind of rage that only exists when you realize you’ve failed to protect what matters most.

Sally spun to face him, her expression crumbling into something falsely fragile.

"David, it’s not what it looks like, I swear! She was yelling at me—completely out of control. You know how she gets when she thinks she’s right about something. She wouldn’t stop. She kept pushing and shouting and—I didn’t know what to do! I felt threatened, David. I really did. She was coming at me, and I just—I panicked, okay? She was acting like a completely different person. I’m the one who felt unsafe in my own home. She made me feel like the villain, and all I’ve done is try to be her mother. She’s been impossible lately, and I—David, you have to believe me!"

But he wasn’t looking at her. He looked at Ava.

And he saw everything.

The flushed cheek. The swelling bruise already forming. The tear that had slipped down without her noticing. The way her wrist was still red and marked. And more than that—he saw the resignation in her eyes. The fatigue. The pain she no longer even tried to hide.

He dropped the briefcase.

"Get out."

"What? David, she—"

"I said get out."

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It cut through the room like a blade—cold, controlled, and laced with a fury so precise it chilled the air. The stillness in it was more terrifying than any yell could ever be, because it held finality. A reckoning. It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. A boundary drawn not in anger, but in protection. And in that silence, in that unwavering tone, the whole house seemed to hold its breath, because everyone knew: there was no coming back from this moment.

"Go pack a bag. Go to your sister’s. You are not staying here. Not after this."

Sally sputtered, tried again to protest, but it was useless. Ava didn’t even look at her.

David moved to his daughter as if on instinct, something primal and protective rising from within him that left no room for hesitation. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, and for a heartbeat she remained stiff—rigid with shock, with pain, with disbelief that this moment was even happening. But then something in her broke open, not from weakness, but from the exhaustion of holding everything in for so long. She gave in, crumpling into him like a wave folding into the shore, her hands gripping fistfuls of his shirt like a child who had waited too many years to be caught.

Her body trembled against his, and David felt it all—every sob she wouldn't let out, every bruise he hadn’t stopped, every silence he hadn’t noticed. Guilt rushed through him like ice, swift and sharp. He had failed her. Not just tonight, but for years. He’d left her in a house where her pain went unseen, unheard, unanswered. And now she was breaking in his arms and all he could do was hold her, whispering apologies he knew weren’t enough.

"I’m so sorry," he breathed, his voice thick, cracking at the edges. "God, Ava, I’m so sorry. I should have seen it. I should have known."

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her weight against him said everything. The way her fingers curled into his chest, desperate to hold on, desperate not to be let down again.

He tightened his grip and lowered his head, pressing it to hers as though he could somehow shield her from every blow she’d already taken. And in that moment, all he wanted was to go back—to every missed sign, every late night, every moment he hadn’t been there. But he couldn’t. So he stood there instead, rooted, holding his daughter like a lifeline, like a man trying to say with his arms what his words never could.

"I’m sorry," he whispered.

She didn’t speak. But she didn’t pull away either.

He held her tighter.

"This is over. She will never lay a hand on you again. I swear to you."

She closed her eyes. Let herself believe it. Just for a moment.

"I should have protected you," he said again. His voice cracked. "I should have been here."

And she finally spoke. Quiet. Steady.

"Then be here now."

That night, everything changed.

Sally left in a storm of haphazard packing and venomous muttering, her suitcase dragging behind her like a carcass of bitterness and regret. The sound of the wheels scraping across the tile echoed through the hall like an exorcism. When the door finally slammed shut behind her, it was as if something rancid had been purged from the walls of the house. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was reverent. It was peace reclaiming its place after years of torment. It was the first exhale after holding your breath for too long.

David stayed by Ava’s side, almost afraid to leave the room, afraid she might disappear or that the strength she showed might crumble if she were left alone. He hovered at first, unsure, guilt still clawing at his chest. But Ava didn’t push him away. She didn’t say much. She didn’t have to. Her presence allowed his, and that was enough. He made her tea with trembling hands, fingers fumbling with the kettle like he hadn’t done something so ordinary in years. He found the first aid kit in the hallway cabinet and pressed a cold compress gently to her cheek, his touch reverent, like he was tending to something sacred. And when he apologized, again and again, Ava finally reached up and placed her hand over his.

"Stop," she whispered. "I heard you. I need you to be here. Not to say it. To show me."

And he nodded, eyes glassy, heart breaking open in his chest for the girl he hadn’t known how to save. That night, they sat in the quiet for a long time. No TV. No distractions. Just two people slowly stitching together the space between them.

Ava went to bed in a room that finally felt like hers. Not a prison. Not a trap. But a place where her voice had been heard. A room where the shadows no longer whispered her worthlessness back to her. A place where, for the first time in years, she didn’t have to brace for a door slamming or a voice rising.

The bruise on her face took a week to fade. But the thing that bloomed inside her that night—the fury, the clarity, the self she thought had been buried for good—that stayed. It grew roots. And with every passing day, she stood a little taller, spoke a little louder, breathed a little deeper.

Because for the first time in her life, Ava wasn’t afraid of taking up space.

And for the first time in a long time, she believed she might actually deserve it.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

From that day on, David Monroe became a different kind of father.

He didn’t announce it. There were no grand speeches, no dramatic gestures to mark the shift. It was quieter than that. More intentional. He started coming home early. Left his phone face-down during dinner. Took a step back from the relentless machinery of the company and let his second-in-command carry the weight he’d once insisted on shouldering alone. Where there used to be boardrooms and flights and conferences, there were now shared breakfasts with Ava, long walks through Stanley Park, and slow mornings that allowed space for conversation. He asked questions. He listened. Really listened. And most importantly, he looked at her like he was seeing her—not the heiress, not the troubled teen, not the reflection of his failings—but his daughter. His child.

And in the small moments, Ava started to feel it too.

Not everything was fixed. But the tension that once lived in the walls began to soften. Her room didn’t feel like a cage anymore. The echo of slamming doors had disappeared. Her face healed, but more than that, something inside her had started to mend. It wasn’t linear. Some days were harder than others. But for the first time in her life, she believed that healing was possible. That she was allowed to take up space without apologizing for it. She smiled more. Laughed, even. The guilt that used to settle on her shoulders like wet sand began to lift.

And when Quinn returned from Michigan, as if drawn by some invisible pull, they found each other again.

No texts were exchanged. No call to meet. There didn’t have to be. The connection between them was something unspoken, something carved into the marrow of their bones. It moved in whispers, in intuition, in that aching familiarity that exists between people who have seen each other at their absolute lowest. Their bond defied explanation—it had always existed beneath the surface, simmering gently, waiting for the moment they would need it again.

So when the air in Vancouver turned warm and humid, and the sky burned soft at the edges with the promise of summer's return, they simply showed up. At the bench. The one by the water where everything began. The same wooden slats worn down from years of weather, still creaking under weight, still welcoming. As though the universe had gently reached out with an invisible hand, nudging them back toward the only place that ever felt like sanctuary. It didn’t need to shout or point—just whispered softly: go now. They're waiting.

There he was, sitting with his elbows on his knees, looking out at the water like it held the answers to questions he hadn't yet asked. Ava didn’t make a sound as she approached, but he turned anyway—as if he felt her there before he saw her. Their eyes met, and something settled in both of them. Relief. Recognition. That aching kind of warmth that only comes from being missed.

They said nothing. Just moved toward each other like gravity had decided for them. He opened the blanket he had brought, and she stepped into it, sinking into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arm draped over her shoulders, her head rested gently against his chest. They laid there in silence, the water stretching out before them, the stars quietly blinking in the sky above. The city buzzed behind them, distant and irrelevant. In that moment, it was just them.

Two quiet souls with too much history and not enough words.

They didn’t need to speak. They never had.

Their breathing synced, rising and falling in a rhythm so effortless it felt orchestrated by something bigger than them. His fingers moved gently against her arm, drawing absentminded circles that whispered reassurance against her skin. Each pass of his fingertips was a soft reminder that she wasn’t alone, that he was there, and that the silence between them was anything but empty. Her hand, slow and deliberate, found the hem of his sweater—that familiar place where fabric met warmth—and curled there, anchoring herself in the presence of someone who had seen her unravel and hadn’t flinched.

They had been apart for months, but this—this space, this contact, this hush that wrapped around them like a cocoon—made time feel irrelevant. It wasn’t just comfort. It was communion. Like their hearts had never stopped whispering across the distance, tracing constellations in one another’s absence. And now, reunited, they could finally hear what had always been there. That steady hum of knowing, of safety, of belonging. A closeness that asked nothing, proved nothing, but simply was.

It was the kind of reunion that didn’t require explanation. Just presence. Just breath.

And then came the night of the Monroe Gala.

It was an annual tradition, always hosted in the grand ballroom of one of Vancouver’s finest hotels—chandeliers dripping with light, golden accents reflecting off the champagne flutes, soft classical music humming beneath the din of polite conversation. The Monroe name was printed on every wall, gilded on every place card. Cameras flashed as donors and dignitaries arrived, each trying to catch the attention of the city's elite.

But this year, something was different. Ava stood next to her father the entire night.

David hadn’t asked—he insisted. And for once, she didn’t mind.

She wore a simple black satin gown, elegant and understated, the fabric catching the light with every graceful movement she made. It flowed around her like a whisper, the kind of dress that didn’t need embellishment to draw attention. Her hair was swept into a soft bun, a few delicate strands framing her face, and her makeup was minimal—just enough to highlight the natural beauty she was finally learning to own. But it wasn’t her dress or her makeup that turned heads. It was her presence. The way she carried herself with a quiet, unshakable strength that hadn’t been there before. A stillness that commanded respect without demanding it. She wasn’t just attending the gala; she was reclaiming the space she had once shrunk inside of. Every step she took was a silent declaration.

David kept a proud hand on her back, steady and constant, as he introduced her to guests. It was protective but not possessive, proud but not overbearing—a father who had come to understand his daughter’s worth in the way he should have all along. For once, his presence beside her didn’t feel like a spotlight; it felt like support. And Ava, radiant beneath the golden chandeliers, met each handshake and greeting with grace and a poised confidence that made people pause, look again, and wonder who she truly was beneath the satin and silk.

"This is my daughter, Ava," he’d say with a smile that reached his eyes. "She’s doing incredibly well in school. Top of her class. Strong as ever."

No one brought up Sally. Not once. Not in passing, not in whispers behind champagne glasses, not in speculative glances. It was as if the woman had been erased from memory, a name swallowed by the elegance of the room and the power of Ava’s presence. And David, for all his pride and poise, didn’t let her shadow stretch across this night. He didn’t allow it. This was Ava’s moment. Hers alone.

She smiled, nodded, shook hands, posed for the occasional photo, but her mind wandered.

Because across the room, Quinn was there.

Tall, composed, dressed in a sharp navy suit. His hair was slightly tousled in that effortless way only he could pull off. He looked different here—not out of place, but dressed in armor. His hands tucked into his pockets, his expression polite but reserved. He mingled with his teammates, with the Canucks GM, with sponsors and fans. But his eyes were scanning the room.

For her.

Their eyes met across the ballroom, and it was like the world stilled, folded inward, until the only thing that existed was the space between them. They didn’t smile. They didn’t wave. They just watched each other, a kind of watching that felt like remembering and longing all at once. Ava’s breath caught in her throat, her heart aching with the pressure of everything she couldn’t say. And Quinn—his posture steady, his eyes unreadable but soft—looked at her like she was the first quiet breath after drowning. It was a silent conversation layered with everything they had endured in the months apart. A quiet, aching kind of yearning that throbbed in the stillness.

I missed you.

I know.

I’m here.

So am I.

As the night wore on, they moved through the space like magnets drawn by a thread. David introduced Ava to a dozen important faces, but each time she turned, she could feel Quinn’s gaze finding hers. When he laughed at something Brock Boeser said, she caught the moment his smile faltered just slightly—because she wasn’t beside him. And when she shook hands with Tyler Myers, she felt Quinn watching, his gaze unreadable.

Eventually, the inevitable happened.

David and Ava approached a small cluster of men—Quinn, the GM, Brock, and Elias. Golf was the topic of choice, spoken with that kind of lighthearted competitiveness that only athletes could pull off. The laughter was easy, the posture relaxed. Ava stood a step behind her father, her eyes immediately finding Quinn’s.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she.

They just gravitated toward one another until, somehow, they were side by side. The space between them dissolved with a familiarity so profound, it felt rehearsed by the universe itself. Their arms brushed once—a fleeting stroke of fabric against skin that made Ava's breath hitch. Then again, slower this time, as if the universe was drawing their lines closer. And on the third, they didn’t pull away. They stayed.

Shoulder to shoulder, standing like twin sentinels in a crowd of strangers, the contact was quiet but absolute. A low pulse of warmth spread from where they touched, down their spines, into their lungs. Ava felt her anxiety melt just slightly, the noise of the room dimming, her thoughts softening. Quinn tilted slightly closer, the smallest gesture, like a lean into gravity. And together they stood—not speaking, not shifting, simply existing in the kind of silence that nourished.

For a moment, neither of them listened to the conversation. They didn’t hear the jokes about sand traps or the groans about bad swings. They were simply there. Together. Anchored.

David turned and, with the proudest smile, said, "Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Ava."

She extended her hand politely, introducing herself with a poise that made her look older than she felt. Quinn gave the smallest nod, his lips twitching, like he was trying not to smirk.

"Nice to meet you," he said softly, eyes never leaving hers.

They had to pretend.

Pretend like they didn’t know every jagged edge of each other’s trauma—each wound, each scar, each moment that nearly broke them. Like they hadn’t fallen asleep on the phone night after night, their voices the last thread tethering each other to sleep, murmured goodnights passed like fragile lifelines. Like she hadn’t once read him poetry in the early hours of the morning, her voice trembling over words not her own, until they cracked open something inside him that he hadn’t dared to touch in years, and he cried—not just from the words, but from the way she saw him, really saw him. Like he hadn’t once driven across the city at midnight, headlights cutting through fog, just to be near her, just to sit on the floor of her room and say nothing while she stared blankly at the wall, her silence heavier than any words. Like they weren’t each other's refuge in a world that had offered them far too many reasons to stop trying. Like they weren’t still carrying pieces of each other in places no one else could reach.

They had to pretend like they weren’t tethered by something deeper than most people in that room would ever understand.

Like if it weren’t for Quinn, Ava wouldn’t be here.

And if it weren’t for Ava, Quinn would have walked away from the game he loved.

They stood quietly, shoulder to shoulder, both masters of silence, both carrying more than anyone knew. And while the rest of the room buzzed with noise and expectation, they existed in their own bubble. One glance. One breath. One heartbeat.

That was enough.

For now.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Somehow, later that night, Quinn and Ava found themselves away from all the eyes, tucked behind velvet curtains and down a quiet hallway, onto a narrow balcony that overlooked the city. It felt like they had stumbled upon it by accident, but both of them knew better. The pull between them had always been magnetic, quiet and deliberate, and it had led them here—out of the spotlight, away from the polished smiles and the swirling conversations. Just the two of them. Just how they liked it.

The air was crisp and cool, the summer breeze biting at her bare shoulders, and without a word, Quinn slipped his suit jacket from his shoulders and draped it gently over her. Then, like gravity had always meant him to, he stayed close. His arm wrapped around her back, resting just above her waist, drawing her into his warmth. She leaned into it with a sigh, one that felt like it had been trapped inside her all evening.

The city lights glittered below them, casting soft gold and silver glows onto their faces. Neither of them spoke at first. There was no need to fill the silence. The world outside buzzed with energy and expectation, but here—on this hidden balcony—time felt suspended. They turned toward each other slowly, their gazes meeting in a softness reserved only for the quietest of truths.

Their voices, when they came, were hushed. Gentle. Full of intimacy. It wasn’t what they said—it was how they said it. Like they were catching up on lifetimes rather than hours. As if the conversation from the night before, curled up on Quinn’s couch in hoodies and tangled legs, hadn’t happened just twenty-four hours earlier. As if time with each other never felt like enough.

He told her about his mom asking questions. About Luke and Jack teasing him, but softer than usual. She told him about her father pausing in the middle of breakfast to ask her how she really was. How she answered him honestly.

They laughed quietly, shared fragments of their lives, their voices slipping between them like the breeze winding around their bodies. Ava’s hand found his. Their fingers interlaced without fanfare, like they were meant to. Like they always had.

They craved each other’s presence in a way that neither of them could quite articulate. It was an ache in the bones, a whisper that lingered in the quiet moments when the world slowed down. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t desperate. It was patient and persistent, like the tide returning to shore. Every brush of their hands, every shared look, every heartbeat that seemed to echo in tandem reminded them that the world felt more bearable with the other nearby.

It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was all-consuming in the gentlest way—like warm water rising slowly around them until they were submerged in comfort. Being together didn’t feel like fireworks or explosions. It felt like exhaling. Like the pause between waves. Like breathing after forgetting how to. It was the soft kind of safety that asked nothing, yet offered everything. It was steady. It was healing. It was home.

Eventually, they knew they had to go back. The world would start to wonder. So they disentangled slowly, reluctantly, the weight of the party pressing back against their little sanctuary. They stepped inside, the heavy doors closing behind them like a secret, and returned to the crowd, slipping seamlessly back into their silent game of eye tag.

Longing looks drifted like invisible threads across the room—delicate, deliberate, and too soft for anyone else to notice. They passed between them in glances that carried weight, in stares that lingered just a second too long. Ava could feel him in the room like a current beneath the surface of calm water. Even when her back was turned, she knew exactly where he was. It was instinctual now, the way she tracked him without searching, the way her body seemed to orient itself around his presence.

Quinn was woven into the night, stitched into the seams of her awareness. Like his gaze had painted itself onto the architecture of the ballroom—carved into the corners of mirrors, hidden in the shadows between chandeliers, echoing in the hush between conversations. He was there in the stillness. In the pause before the music swelled again.

Every time their eyes met, it felt like the rest of the world blurred, like the space between them collapsed into memory and possibility. It was quiet, desperate longing. Not just for touch, but for the kind of closeness they weren’t allowed to show here. The kind they could only hint at through parted lips that said nothing, and eyes that said everything.

When the night came to a close, and the last of the toasts had been made, David began his rounds. He shook hands with the team, warm and gracious, all the pride of a father written into his smile.

And Ava stood there, just a few feet away from Quinn.

So close. Yet still oceans apart.

She stared at him, and he stared back. Neither moving. Neither speaking. Just holding on through the space between them. And in that glance, they said everything they couldn’t say out loud.

Stay.

I will.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Fundraiser after fundraiser. Event after event. Gala after gala. It was always the same.

There was a rhythm to it now—the way Ava and Quinn would find themselves orbiting the same glittering rooms, under the same glowing chandeliers, surrounded by clinking glasses, velvet gowns, and the quiet murmur of old money. These were nights meant for appearances, for networking and public smiles. And yet, for them, they had taken on a different meaning. They became a ritual of sorts. A dance.

They never arrived together. They never left together. But they were always there. Always watching.

She stood by her father's side, poised and elegant, every inch of her radiating a quiet, cultivated grace. The dress she wore shimmered beneath the golden chandeliers, catching the light each time she moved, but it wasn’t the fabric that made people pause when they looked at her—it was the composure, the soft confidence in the way she held herself. The kind of strength not learned overnight but forged through fire and healing. There was something magnetic about her silence, a steadiness in her stillness, like she didn’t need to speak to be understood. David often rested a hand gently on her back, not to guide her, but to show the world he was proud.

Across the room, Quinn lingered with his teammates, half-listening to stories about summer golf trips and rookie antics, his drink untouched, the condensation leaving faint circles on the bar. His posture was casual, familiar to those around him, but his eyes—they betrayed him. They moved past people, past clinking glasses and shallow chatter, to find her. Always her. No matter where she was in the room, he found her. Even if she was half-turned, speaking to someone else, he knew. Like her presence lived in his peripheral vision. Like a magnetic pull beneath his skin.

And when their eyes met—briefly, quietly—everything else fell away. The world dimmed. The noise dulled. It was just them, across the distance, tethered by something invisible and unshakable. The kind of connection that didn’t require words or permission. Even in a crowded ballroom. Even in a sea of faces. The invisible string between them never faltered. It only grew stronger, more certain, more sacred.

They had mastered the art of silent presence. Of being near, but not too near. Their glances were small offerings. Wordless affirmations. I'm here.

Sometimes, Quinn would catch her in mid-laugh, head tilted back slightly, eyes crinkled at the corners, and his chest would tighten. Sometimes Ava would look up to see him politely declining a drink, his fingers tracing the edge of the glass, and she'd know he was counting down the minutes until they could be alone.

Every so often, someone would notice. One of Quinn's teammates. An old family friend of Ava's. Someone would glance between them and furrow their brow.

Eventually, Brock and Petey began to catch on. It wasn't just in the obvious ways—not just the glances or the quiet way Quinn seemed to tune out everything but a single presence across the room. It was deeper than that. It was in the ease of his movements during practice, in the softness of his voice when he spoke to the trainers, in the subtle calm that had settled into his shoulders like a long-held burden had finally been set down.

They saw the change in him before they saw her. The lightness in him. The subtle peace. The way his temper didn’t flare as easily. The way he lingered longer in the locker room, not because he was avoiding something, but because he had somewhere he wanted to be afterward. The way his phone would buzz mid-conversation, and he’d glance at it, eyes lighting up in a way neither of them had seen in a long time.

Petey noticed it first after a morning skate. Quinn had sat on the bench longer than usual, sipping his water, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth for no apparent reason. Brock picked up on it later, when Quinn turned down a night out in favor of heading home early—again.

There was something different about him. Something quieter. Something warmer. Something that felt like the first breath after breaking the surface of a deep dive. They didn’t know who she was yet. But they knew what she was doing to him.

And they were grateful for it.

“You’re different lately,” Brock had teased once, nudging him with his elbow after a press conference.

Quinn shrugged. “Just focused.”

Petey raised an eyebrow. “Focused, huh?”

He said nothing more, just offered a faint smirk and pulled his cap low. But they knew. Of course they did.

They didn’t push. They didn’t need to. Because they remembered the nights Quinn went silent in the locker room, the way he would sit with his head in his hands, shoulders hunched and trembling slightly, eyes distant as though he was somewhere far away. They remembered the nights he left the arena without a word, ghosting through the exit like he wanted to disappear into the dark, burdened by invisible weights that the rest of the world never saw. They remembered the sting of watching him crumble under the pressure, carrying the weight of a franchise, a name, and expectations so heavy no one his age should have had to bear them.

And now, he was present. He was grounded. He stayed after practices, laughed more freely, smiled without flinching, and leaned in during conversations instead of drifting out. He moved through the world with a kind of steadiness that was new, earned, and deeply felt. There was a fullness to him, a quiet confidence that hadn’t been there before, like he had finally allowed himself to be held by something—or someone—other than the game. And whatever or whoever had given him that, they weren’t going to interfere. Because Quinn wasn’t just surviving anymore. He was healing. And they weren’t about to question the one bright thread that had started to stitch him back together.

And David Monroe—the man who spent a lifetime reading contracts, reading negotiations, reading people—read his daughter the same way.

He noticed the subtle tilt of her head when Quinn entered the room—that barely perceptible shift in her body that spoke volumes. He noticed how her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, how her stance softened in the way that people do when they feel safe. The shift in her voice when she greeted him was unmistakable, too—a quiet warmth that hadn't been there before, a kind of familiarity laced with unspoken joy. There was a glint of something softer in her eyes, something David hadn’t seen in a long time: hope. It shimmered beneath her lashes when she looked at Quinn, not flashy or bold, but real.

And maybe it was in the way she leaned in slightly, even when they weren’t talking. Maybe it was in the way her laughter carried just a little further when Quinn was near, fuller, less guarded. Maybe it was in the way she always seemed to know where he was, even if her back was turned. Whatever it was, she didn’t have to say a word. David knew. He knew in the same way a father knows when something inside his daughter has changed—not in fear, not in pain, but in healing. In comfort. In love.

But he never asked.

Never pushed. Never demanded to know.

Instead, he offered something rarer: trust.

He’d excuse himself from conversations at just the right moment. He’d conveniently get caught up with a donor when Ava and Quinn found themselves standing nearby. And most notably, he’d offer, again and again, with quiet confidence:

“Quinn, would you mind driving Ava back tonight? Her driver’s been rerouted.”

Even when they both knew that wasn’t true. Even when her driver was parked right outside. It was never about logistics. It was about space.

David offered it to them the way a father offers love when he doesn’t quite know how to say the words. With open doors. With quiet knowing. With the kind of steady, behind-the-scenes support that didn't demand acknowledgment or praise. He made space for them gently, without ever announcing it, always a few steps behind, always watching without hovering. He knew enough not to interrupt something still delicate and forming, something unspoken and sacred. But he could feel it—the gravity between them—and rather than stand in the way of it, he simply stepped aside.

In the way he lingered in conversations a little longer when he saw them drawn together. In the way he made himself scarce just as Ava started looking around for an escape from small talk. In the way he mentioned Quinn’s name with familiarity, like someone already considered family. He didn’t overstep. He didn’t press. He just made sure they knew he saw them. That he trusted them. That they were safe, and they were seen.

On the nights Ava stayed at the Monroe home, David would pass by her room, the soft spill of her laughter filtering through the crack in the door. Her voice, light and unguarded, speaking into the phone like it was the most natural thing in the world. It didn’t take much for him to recognize the voice on the other end. He’d seen Quinn smile that same way, phone in hand, thumb brushing the screen, eyes warm with something he rarely let the world see.

And then there were the late nights.

The soft creak of the front door. The shuffle of feet on the tile. Her silhouette slipping out into the quiet dark, only to return hours later with the faintest curve of peace around her mouth. She never said where she went. He never asked. But he could see it in her eyes. The steadiness. The gratitude.

Her chauffeur confirmed it once, in the casual way longtime employees do.

"Nice kid comes around a lot," he’d said, leaning against the car as David stepped out one morning, his tone casual but warm with unspoken approval. "Shows up like clockwork. Never loud, never late. Always polite—calls me sir, if you can believe it. Keeps to himself mostly, but he's careful with her. Stays in the car sometimes, waits until the lights are on before driving off. And when he does walk her in, he never lingers longer than she wants him to. Just makes sure she’s safe. You can tell he cares, even if he doesn’t say much. Been doing it for months now. Since before the summer started, even when school was still in session. Honestly? Feels like he's been here longer than that. Like he's part of the rhythm of the place now."

David had only nodded.

He didn’t need confirmation. He just needed to know she was okay.

And when it came to Quinn Hughes, he knew she was.

He’d always admired the young defenseman. Not for his stats, not for his name. But for the way he carried himself. Humble. Quiet. Steady. The kind of man who didn’t demand the spotlight, but still lit the way for others. The kind of man David hoped his daughter would meet one day, when she was ready.

And now, it seemed, she had.

David never said anything. Not directly.

But one evening, Ava walked into her apartment, tired from class, her shoulders heavy with the day. And there, on her kitchen counter, was an envelope. Small. Unassuming. Her name printed on the front in familiar, slanted script.

Inside, a single ticket.

Canucks Family Suite.

Next to it, a bouquet of lilies. Fresh, fragrant, wrapped in soft tissue and tied with a satin ribbon.

And tucked inside the bouquet was a note, folded neatly. In her father’s handwriting, blocky and precise:

I’m glad you’re happy. Enjoy the game, sweetheart. Tell Q I say hi.

Ava stood in the center of her kitchen for a long time, the note pressed to her chest, her fingertips brushing over the familiar scrawl of her father’s handwriting as if it were something fragile and precious. The air around her felt still, suspended, as if the world had paused to give her this moment—this moment where the past and present met in a quiet, breathtaking kind of peace. Her eyes stung with something tender, something deep and sacred, a soft ache blooming in her chest that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with being seen. Truly seen.

It wasn’t permission. It wasn’t approval. It was deeper than that. It was trust. It was understanding. It was a father’s love given not with conditions or expectations, but with a steady hand and a hopeful heart. It was a message: * I trust you. I love you.*

And in that stillness, Ava felt something inside her settle. A lifelong ache she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying softened, just a little. It was love, quiet and sure. The kind that didn’t ask questions. The kind that didn’t need to be proven. The kind that just... was.

She didn’t text him to say thank you. She didn’t need to. He already knew.

That night, she wore the jersey Quinn had left for her. The one that still smelled faintly of his cologne. The one that had become a second skin on nights when the world felt too sharp. She tucked the ticket into her bag and made her way to the arena.

The family suite buzzed with polite chatter, children balancing popcorn tubs on their laps, partners snapping photos through the glass. Ava sat alone, her hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes trained on the ice.

And then he skated out.

Helmet tucked under one arm, his stick resting against his shoulder, his eyes flicked upward—toward her.

Just once.

But it was enough.

He smiled. Slow. Soft. The kind of smile that reached the corners of his eyes.

And this time, she smiled back.

Wide. Unafraid. Home.

A few rows down, David watched the exchange, his heart quietly swelling with a kind of warmth he hadn't felt in years. His hands were folded in his lap, but his grip softened as he took them in—his daughter and the boy she hadn’t quite named yet. His chin tilted upward slightly, like he was catching sunlight, though it was only the gentle glow of the rink lights reflecting in his eyes. And what he saw wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t grand. But it was everything.

There was something so gentle in their exchange, so sweet and unguarded, that it rooted itself deep in his chest. The way Quinn looked up like the world paused when he saw her. The way Ava smiled back without a hint of hesitation. That silent thread between them—invisible to others but so very visible to a father who had learned to look—wasn't just connection. It was care. It was safety. It was the soft, tender shape of something real beginning to bloom.

And David—a man who once wondered if he’d ever get to see this kind of light in his daughter again—felt nothing but gratitude. For the quiet between them. For the steady presence Quinn had become. For the fact that in a world that demanded so much of both of them, they had found each other.

He smiled too.

Because this—this was all he had ever wanted for her.

Not perfection. Not prestige.

Just peace.

And someone to hold her steady when the world tried to pull her apart.

And he smiled too.

Because this—this was all he had ever wanted for her.

Not perfection. Not prestige.

Just peace.

And someone to hold her steady when the world tried to pull her apart.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Eventually, it happened.

After a week of distance, of nothing but texted good mornings and tired, late-night voice notes, Quinn returned from a stretch of away games in the States. A week apart wasn’t long in the grand scheme of things, but it felt like an eternity to both of them. After so many nights spent orbiting each other’s presence, to suddenly have nothing but a phone screen was a sharp absence.

So when he finally got back to Vancouver, there was no hesitation. No ceremony. Just the quiet thud of the door closing behind him and the soft, wordless pull of Ava’s arms as they collapsed into each other in the dim comfort of her apartment.

They ended up in her bed, legs tangled beneath the covers, the low hum of a television show playing in the background. Neither of them paid attention to the dialogue. The screen flickered, casting soft colors across the room, but their world had narrowed to each other—to the warmth of bodies reunited, to the gentle exchange of breath in a space that finally felt whole again.

Quinn laid on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other curled gently around Ava’s waist. She faced him, her fingers resting lightly against his chest, eyes tracing the sharp curve of his jaw, the dimple in his chin, the soft slope of his nose. It was quiet, reverent almost, the kind of silence that said everything.

Their foreheads pressed together.

Like an anchor. Like a prayer.

As if the touch could absorb all the ache, all the exhaustion, all the pieces of the past still lodged deep inside.

Quinn's fingers gently brushed a piece of hair from her face, tucking it slowly behind her ear with the kind of tenderness that made her stomach flutter. His hand lingered there, the pad of his thumb grazing the curve of her cheek like it was something sacred. It was such a small gesture, but it was full of reverence—as though he were memorizing her, as though her softness was something he needed to commit to memory in case the world ever tried to make him forget. His eyes searched hers, not in question but in quiet certainty, and when he finally took a breath, it trembled slightly, his voice low and raw and steady. The words that followed were barely above a whisper, but they rang through her like a cathedral bell, reverberating in her chest, anchoring something deep and aching inside of her with the weight of truth.

"I love you so much, Ava."

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t dramatic. But it held weight. A gravity that made her heart still for a moment.

Her eyes met his, glassy with something close to awe, and she reached up, cupping his face in her hands with a gentleness that nearly broke him.

"I love you so much, Quinn."

And then their lips met.

Soft. Slow. Healing.

Like the breath after a storm. Like the beginning of something safe and endless.

In that kiss, it was as if they were transported—to a different place, a different version of the world where nothing had ever hurt them, where every crack had been mended, every bruise gently kissed away. It wasn’t just a kiss, it was a release. A surrender. A soft unraveling of everything they had held in for too long. It was warm and still and whole, the kind of kiss that stitched them back together from the inside out. In that moment, their bodies remembered safety, their hearts remembered peace. Every aching memory, every lonely night, every self-doubt and lingering wound faded into the background.

For a few heartbeats, they forgot what it meant to carry pain. Forgot what it was to be broken. There was only the hush between them, the taste of belonging, the way their souls seemed to fit together like pieces that had always known where they belonged.

They were just two people who loved each other.

And for the first time, that was more than enough.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Ava attended every game she could. If she could make it, she was there. She sat quietly in the family suite, tucked between executives and loved ones, her eyes always scanning the ice for #43.

And it was inevitable, really, that eventually she would run into Ellen Hughes.

It was during a highly anticipated game—the Canucks versus the Devils. A Hughes family reunion of sorts, with Jack and Luke skating for New Jersey while Quinn stood on the opposing blue line. The suite was buzzing with excitement, filled with friends, distant relatives, and family friends.

Ellen had made her rounds with practiced warmth. She greeted the WAGs, the team staff, the donors and their spouses. And eventually, her eyes fell on a girl she didn’t recognize.

She was sitting at the far end of the suite, small and tucked into her seat, her body angled slightly away from the crowd as though trying not to draw attention. But there was something about her posture—something familiar. She wasn’t avoiding people. She was just comfortable in her own space.

Curious, Ellen approached.

"Hi there," she said with a soft smile. "I don't think we've met. I'm Ellen. Quinn's mom."

Ava's head snapped up, and her heart immediately jumped to her throat, thudding so hard she swore Ellen could hear it. Her breath caught, and for a split second she forgot how to speak, how to move, how to be. She hadn’t expected this moment—not so soon, not like this. Her eyes widened slightly, and a nervous flush crept up her neck, blooming across her cheeks as recognition dawned. Of course she knew who Ellen Hughes was. Quinn had spoken of her with reverence and warmth, had mentioned her kindness and strength. And now here she was, standing just feet away, reaching out not with suspicion, but with genuine interest. Ava forced a smile, her palms suddenly clammy, and willed her voice to be steady, to not betray the storm of nerves unraveling inside her.

"Oh," she said, standing quickly and smoothing her sweater. "Hi. I’m Ava. Ava Monroe. My dad’s David Monroe—he's one of the team's silent donors. I… I sometimes come to games with him."

Ellen nodded thoughtfully, but her eyes didn’t move. They stayed on Ava.

There was something about her. Something that tugged at Ellen's chest in a way she couldn't quite explain. A familiarity, a presence. A quiet gentleness that felt known, though she was sure they had never met. The girl’s posture, the way she sat with graceful reserve, like she was holding something close and sacred—Ellen couldn’t look away.

And then the players took the ice. The lights brightened, the music swelled, and her son stepped onto the rink. The roar of the crowd rose up like a wave, but Ellen barely heard it. Her eyes were on Quinn. And his eyes? His eyes were searching.

Not for his father. Not for her. Not for the fans.

They locked onto the far edge of the suite.

To her.

And in that one look, everything else fell away.

Ellen watched as his face softened, his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, and the tension that had built during warmups dissolved like ice under the sun. His expression wasn’t just love. It was longing. A yearning so deep, it was visible even from all the way up here. A look that said, There you are. I can breathe again.

It hit Ellen like a memory—a summer evening by the lake, Quinn laid out on the dock, his eyes turned toward the stars with that same quiet peace. That same softness.

And now she saw it again.

Not because of the game.

Because of the girl.

And Ellen saw it.

The look.

The look that lit his entire face.

She followed his gaze and then looked back to Ava. And suddenly, it all clicked. The jersey wasn’t just a Hughes one. It was a game-worn #43. His first one. And Ava wasn’t just some donor’s daughter.

She was the girl.

The one who had existed only in quiet murmurs for months. The one whose name hadn’t been spoken, but whose presence had echoed in every shift of Quinn's energy. The one Ellen had wondered about late at night, when she noticed her son checking his phone more often, when she heard the smile in his voice during calls, when he talked about "someone" who made things feel easier.

She was the one who had pulled her son back from the edge. Who had reminded him, not with grand declarations but with steady hands and soft silence, that he didn’t have to carry the weight of the world alone. The girl who had entered his life like a whisper, and yet managed to soften every sharp edge he carried. The girl who brought stillness to the storm.

And now, seeing her here, Ellen understood everything.

Every look. Every shift. Every softened breath her son had taken over the past several months.

This was her.

The one who had become his home.

After the game, as players filtered off the ice and families began gathering their things, Ellen watched as Ava lingered. She didn’t move to leave like the others. She stayed in the back, her coat draped over her arm, her gaze fixed on the hallway leading to the locker rooms.

And when the crowds began to thin, Quinn reappeared.

He wasn’t obvious. He never was. But he moved with intention. He walked right past the others. Right to her.

And the way he looked at her—that same quiet, awe-filled expression he wore that summer on the dock, when the world was still and the stars were just beginning to shine, like he was seeing the whole universe unfold before him. But this time, he wasn't looking at the sky—he was looking at her. With a reverence that made it seem as if she held constellations in her eyes, like every part of him had been waiting for this one second of clarity. There was no mistaking it, no downplaying the depth of it. That look held stories, memories, hopes he hadn’t dared to name. It was a gaze filled with yearning, with a kind of stillness that only comes when you find the thing you didn’t even know you were missing. It was the look of a man who had come home—and found that home in her.

That’s when Ellen knew.

This girl. This quiet, kind-eyed girl.

She was the one who had been stitching her son back together.

And when Ava began to make her way out, ready to quietly leave before anyone could say anything, Ellen stepped in gently.

"Why don’t you come with us?" she asked, her voice warm, inviting. "We’re going out for dinner. Nothing fancy. Just family."

Ava blinked. "I… I wouldn’t want to intrude."

Ellen smiled. "You wouldn’t be. Please."

There was a look in Ellen’s eyes—soft, knowing, and impossibly kind. A look filled with gentle recognition and something deeper than just polite interest. The same look David Monroe had when he realized the truth, when he saw the way his daughter smiled with her whole heart for the first time in years. It was the look of someone who understood exactly what was unfolding, even if it hadn’t been said aloud. A mother’s intuition, quietly affirming what she had already pieced together long before introductions had been made.

Ava felt the weight of it settle over her chest—not heavy, but grounding. She felt seen, not just as Quinn's quiet constant, but as someone who mattered on her own. And in that moment, she felt the doors to something bigger opening, something she had always tiptoed around. A family, a place, a seat at the table. She felt welcome.

So when Ellen extended the invitation, Ava couldn’t say no. Not because she felt obligated. But because she wanted to. Because this, whatever this was, felt like the beginning of something sacred.

They went to a quiet restaurant downtown. One the Hughes family knew well. A booth in the back was waiting, and Quinn reached for her hand beneath the table as they sat. She gave it a gentle squeeze.

Dinner was easy.

Ava was quiet, like Quinn, but she listened well. Asked thoughtful questions. Laughed at the right moments. And slowly, the Hughes brothers started to lean in a little more. Ellen and Jim exchanged a glance across the table.

They watched the way Quinn passed Ava the pickles from his plate without asking, and how she did the same with her tomatoes. How they shared a single glass of water, how Ava refilled it halfway through without a word. How they leaned into each other during the lull in conversation, foreheads brushing like they couldn’t quite believe they were still allowed to be near.

It was like watching a dance.

Soft. Natural. Magnetic.

And when dinner ended, and they all stood to leave, one by one the Hughes family pulled Ava into tight hugs.

From Jim’s strong embrace to Luke’s teasing grin, to Jack’s quiet "Glad you're here. Really."

And then Ellen. Who held her for a little longer.

As if saying, Thank you.

For bringing their Quinn back.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

After dinner, they parted ways outside the restaurant. The night had cooled, the sidewalks quieter now, as families dispersed and city lights blinked sleepily overhead. Quinn and Ava didn’t speak much as they walked. They didn’t need to. Their hands were still intertwined, fingers laced with the kind of familiarity that spoke louder than any words.

Somehow, without planning, they ended up at the bench.

Their bench.

The same one by the water. The one where it all began.

The moon hung low and bright above them, casting silver reflections across the calm harbor. The city buzzed behind them, but here, it was quiet. Safe. Like always.

They sat side by side, shoulders brushing, the hush of waves lapping gently below. Quinn leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, while Ava curled slightly into his side. Her head found his shoulder, and his cheek rested against the top of her head.

For a while, they didn’t say anything. They just listened—to the water, to the cars in the distance, to their own hearts beating in rhythm again.

"You know," Ava murmured after a while, "I didn’t think I’d ever feel this again. Safe. Loved. Not just by you… but by the world. By your family."

Quinn turned his head, brushing a kiss to her temple.

"You were always worthy of it. You just needed someone to remind you."

A small smile tugged at her lips, and she leaned further into him.

"You did more than remind me. You showed me."

He looked out at the water, his voice a whisper.

"You saved me too. I was drowning and didn’t even realize it. And then there you were. Just... quiet and strong and exactly what I didn’t know I needed."

She tilted her head to look up at him. "Do you think we would have found each other if everything in our lives had gone differently?"

He considered that, then shook his head gently.

"No. But I think we found each other exactly when we needed to. Broken, but still whole enough to see the light in the other."

She reached up and touched his cheek. "You were always the light, Quinn."

He closed his eyes for a moment, holding her hand against his face.

They stayed there until the sky began to shift—the deep navy of night giving way to pale hints of morning. The first signs of a new day stretching out before them.

And as the sun began to rise, spilling warmth across the horizon, they knew.

They had survived the darkness.

Together.

And now, they had a future.

Hand in hand, they sat on that bench. Their bench. Not as two people weighed down by the past, but as two hearts who had found their way back to themselves—through love, through healing, and through each other.

This was their beginning.

And it was everything.

319 notes · View notes

inktopuck · 4 months ago

Text

juno | quinn hughes social media au (pt.12)

pt. 11

yournamehughes

Liked by _quinnhughes, canucks and others

yournamehughes everything i've ever wanted ❤️ isabel, theodore and, of course, quintin.

colecaufield teach me how to manifest and succeed at it this hard

trevorzegras great now i want it too

yournamehughes best i can do is give you quinn

_quinnhughes please don't

yournamehughes do the dishes ❤️

_quinnhughes yes my love ❤️

elblue06 i love you four with all my heart

jackhughes hey what about me and moose???

elblue06 depends on the day

l_hughes06 four weirdos walk into a restaurant...

yournamehughes yeah with you we would have been five

canucks the royal family 😍

bradytkachuk quinn hughes broke my taillight and never paid me back

jackhughes quinn hughes still owes me for a kebab

colecaufield quinn hughes stole my girl

joshnorris10 quinn hughes cheated on me

bboeser quinn hughes kicked my puppy

_quinnhughes hey hey hey i draw the line at puppies

_quinnhughes don't say i never gave you anything 😉❤️

yournamehughes don't plagiarize nathan scott oh my god you suuuck

_quinnhughes... how can i make it up to you? #3?

if you love me right, then who knows, i might let you make me Juno 💘

the end

a/n: this is so bittersweet for me because i adoreeee this series, but i think you might get sick of it if i keep going hahahha i hope you guys enjoyed this series 😊 do let me know if you want more aus like these and you can even drop suggestions if you want!! thank you for reading and for all your kind words!!

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i-cant-sing · 6 months ago

Text

TT AU PART 13

Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here. Part 3 is here. Part 4 is here. Part 5 is here. Part 6 is here. Part 7 is here. Part 8 is here. Part 9 is here. Part 10 is here. Part 11 is here. Part 12 is here. Part 14 is here! Time Traveller au masterlist is here. Check out my MASTERLIST for more!

"I cant do this."

He rolls his eyes. "Not with that attitude." He runs a hand through his hair before nodding at you to follow him. You both enter the dance studio that his grandfather built for his wife inside the house because he loved her and well, he had the money.

"Silas, no one can learn ballet in a month." You state again and he lets out an exhale while Cadbury is bringing in about a dozen of ballet flats. "Even if your grandmother were to try and teach me, I still wont be good enough to perform in front of the queen-"

"Your voice is shrill and piercing and thoroughly unpleasant."

You blink at him before scowling. "A simple "shut up" would suffice, you know."

Silas glances at you. "What is this really about? Are you pretending to have low self esteem so I could offer you sympathy?"

"Excuse me?" Your tone sharpened. "Not that I like to remind anyone of the favours I do, but maybe you have forgotten that I literally saved your social image and status from being tarnished yesterday? Or did you forget about our Nikkah?"

Silas suddenly leaned down, bringing his face close to yours. You backed away, and he tilted his head slightly. "And I'm eternally grateful for that, missus, but the Nikkah saved your image too. Must I remind you that I converted to Islam too?"

"Because it benefitted you, not me." You spat out, only to inhale sharply as he gripped your chin firmly.

"As is the stipend I've been paying you, yet you fail to write a single article on the murders."

He pouted, feigning hurt. "Besides, are you saying I am not a real Muslim? That I have malicious intentions? Doesnt that go against your teachings- what is it? Not to judge someone?"

"I dont need to judge when its all so apparent-"

"Ah, good to see the love birds again!" Sarah's voice made you two pull away from each other. She clasped her hands as she made her way towards you two.

"Nana." Silas greeted her and kissed her cheeks. "Thank God you're here. My sweetheart is so concerned over this performance, even though I've assured her many times that she will be learning from the best. There's just no way she would mess this up!"

Sarah laughed heartily. "Stop buttering me up! And she is right to be concerned. Anyone would be nervous to perform in front of an audience, especially the queen!"

Silas wrapped one arm each around your and Sarah's shoulders, pulling you two close to him. "I only see a queen and a princess here. There's no need to be nervous. Just have fun!"

Just have fun? What kind of bullshit motivation is that-

Sarah smiled and nodded. "He's right, Y/n. As long as you're having fun, you're going to be just fine darling!"

Colin never thought he'd have to resort to day drinking.

And yet here he is, adding whatever he could grab his hands on and fill the flask with and mixing it in his coffee.

I need this. He reasoned with himself. Its not that much, just small doses to keep me sane when Y/n comes.

And then you do, in your Sherlock Holmes disguise, cheerfully greeting him before going to Will's office to work on the murder story.

He takes another sip of his coffee as he tries to process... well, everything.

Why was I attracted to you? Why am I still attracted to you even though I acted as a witness to your wedding with that rich bastard-

Another sip. He scowled before adding some more liquour, then he sipped it. Better.

Whats the best way to get over a crush? Crush? Is that what you were? An infatuation, a passing by fancy? So, how do I get over-

Wait. He set his mug down. You know that he and the boys all know that your marriage to Silas is a sham. You never really hid the fact but now they had all witnessed that it was just a rushed, possibly contractual marriage that Silas wants to save his ass.

So the marriage is bound to end. He doesnt have to get over you. No, not really. If anything, I should be spending more time with you. Yes. Yes! This way, when you and Silas end things, Colin will be right there to comfort you and support you! He needs to be the first man there after you dump Silas, lest anyone else gets ideas and wants to marry you as well.

Colin got up and managed to make his way to his boss's office without bumping into anyone. He's going to ask to work on the murder story and then you two will spend time-

"No. Keep working on the asylum story. We have enough people on the murder case." His boss dismissed him.

Colin slumped in his desk as he looked at the coffee mug. Eh, what the hell? He took another sip and another solution popped in his head.

If he cant help you with the murder story, then perhaps you can help him with the asylum story!

Silas handed you the invite.

"How did you get it so fast?" You asked, examining the small paper with elegant writing. It was the invite to the Gentleman's club, the one Henry owns. You'd asked Silas to get you an invite to what was an exclusive, members only club (when you tried entering the club, the men at the front laughed you out.)

Silas looked at you unamused, with his arms crossed over his chest. "Must I remind you who I am?"

A pompous ass?

"Of course not, my duke." You said mockingly, before raising a brow at him. "I suppose it would make sense for you to get easy access to shady places like this. You might be their popular customer."

"Oh darling, I'm popular everywhere." Silas shot back before dismissing you with his hand. "You can go now."

"What? You arent going to ask me why I'm going there?" You asked him. "Maybe you dont care that I am going there, but arent you worried about Mrs Fitzgerald or Duchess Y/n being in a place like that?"

Silas shrugged nonchalantly. "No." He leaned back in his chair. "I trust you not to screw up or entangle yourself in scandals. But even if you do end up in trouble, I will stand by you."

"You will?" You couldn’t hide the disbelief in your tone.

He nodded. "Of course. Look, I know we are in this... unconventional relationship and it appears that I couldnt care less about your existence, but you still carry my surname next to yours. And I wont allow anyone to disrespect what or who is associated with me. So, rest assured-" He leans forward, resting his arms on the mahogany desk and clasped his hands. "you have my support in all your endeavours, Mrs Silas."

A small smile formed on your lips. Maybe he's not so bad.

"Thank you, Silas- oh, can you drop me off there?" You knew he was going to leave in the carriage soon.

"No, I dont want my beautiful, pure bred stallions to go through those dirty streets. You can walk."

Jerk.

You stomped out of his study, not noticing the butler going in after you with the dessert you'd made for yourself last night.

"And what's this?" Silas asked him as he took a bite of the decadent, gooey chocolatey dessert.

"Uh, the duchess called it "brown-ies", but I've never heard of it before." Cadburry watched Silas ate it and sighed dreamily. "Do you like it, sir?"

"No." Silas pushed the empty plate towards him. "But I'd rather not have grandmother eat her cooking and say something. Bring me the leftovers."

"Y/n- oh, are you going somewhere?" Sarah asked just as you were about to leave.

"Yes, um- I'm going to meet my friends." Its not like you could tell her that you worked in the paper disguised as a man.

"Male friends?" She asked.

"Yes. My old flatmates." You watched her smile falter. "What?"

"Nothing, dearie. Enjoy your time with them! I hope you'll join us for dinner." You nodded and left while Sarah looked for her grandson.

"Where's Silas? I must speak to him this instant." She asked the maid, who informed her that the duke had went to play tennis just moments ago.

"Tennis?"

The maid nodded. "Yes. With his uncles."

Sarah was a little surprised to hear that. Not the tennis part, no. Silas is extremely well at any sport he plays, but she knows her sons arent ones who are good at athletics, let alone at a sport as strenuous as tennis.

An idea popped in her head.

You stood outside the Gentleman's club, watching people go in. Smoothing your hands over your black velvet dress, you made your way to the door.

After handing them your invitation, they let you inside and you saw a waiter handing everyone masquerade masks from a silver tray. Perhaps it was the theme for the club tonight, or maybe the club just gave masks to everyone to conceal their identities.

You were given a black and gold mask that covered the upper half of your face. As you adjusted the mask over your face, you heard a familiar voice.

"I need to see her. Now." You looked over your shoulder and saw Benjamin harshly whisper to one of the waiters. "She told me to come and I'm late as it is. Dont make her wait any longer!" You turned your head away as the waiter lead Benjamin into the club, all while Benjamin yanked a mask off the tray and pulled it over his head.

What is Benny doing here?

You quickly followed him inside, lest you lost sight of him, which you did as soon as you stepped into the main hall and were immediately stunned to your place at the sight.

Loud jazz music played by a band live, smell of smoke and alcohol filled the air and people. There were so many people, despite the club being "exclusive". And as your eyes scanned them, trying to spot familiar faces, your heart dropped at the realisation of what they were doing.

This was... an adult club. That kind of adult club, the one where there are absolutely no limitations on who is doing what with whom, all drunk on pleasure and drugs of course, no inhibitions. You spotted men with men, women with men, and more than one person pleasing another man.

Thats why this is an exclusive club, why they gave everyone masks. Because if word got out that a someone was here doing.... something that was generally a taboo and even punishable by both God and the law, well it would put them in huge trouble. People came here to let loose, to give in to their darkest desires.

What the hell is Benny doing here?

Averting your eyes, you looked for Benjamin and spotted him from afar, going into a room.

Oh God, please dont let it be a- please dont let sweet Benny be a depraved creep.

You waited for him to come out and after about 20 minutes, the door finally opened.

Benny walked out first, adjusting his mask again and then leaving. You're about to follow him, perhaps even confront him for being here when someone else walks out of the room as well.

A tall woman wearing a bright red, backless dress and a golden mask concealing her identity. But what really stood out were two things- first, her fiery red-orange hair that was styled into voluminous Hollywood waves. And second was her figure, her athletic built, or more specifically her broad shoulders and muscled arms.

Everything about this woman screamed important. And if it werent for her looks that demanded attention, then it was certainly her aura. People parted the way when she walked past them, all looking at her as if she was their saviour, an angel or divinity among men, which is ironic considering where you were.

You jumped as you felt an arm snake around your waist.

"What the hell?!" You looked at the culprit, who turned out to be a blonde woman drunk off her head.

"Oh dont be like that! Come on, love, let me show you a good time-" She tried to touch you again but you backed away before she could.

"No, thank you." You dismissed her, going back to looking at the red head.

"Prude." The blonde muttered before following your gaze. "Oh so thats what you're into? Well, put me in a red wig and we can play like that!"

"No, thanks." You huffed, eyes still trained on the woman in red.

The blonde scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, its not like you'd be able to sleep with the club owner."

"She's the club owner? I thought Mr Blackwood owned this place."

"He does, but Lady Scarlett there runs this place, from entertainment to management. She does it all!"

Lady Scarlett? Fitting name.

Pushing away the blonde one more time, you looked for Lady Scarlett, except you lost sight of her now. You scanned the entire ballroom, but she was nowhere in sight.

"Shit." You mumbled, turning around only to stumble back as you came face-to-face with her, or well... face-to-chest. She towered over you.

Her bright red lips smiled knowingly at you. "Looking for me?" She asked in a sultry voice, stalking towards you until you were backed up against the wall.

"N-no-" You yelped as she suddenly grabbed both of your wrists in one hand and pinned them above your head.

You stared at her wide eyed as she leaned down, hovering inches away from your face and thats when it hit you-

Lady Scarlett is a man.

Of course! The muscled arms, the manly built, and now on close inspection, you saw the clean shave under the makeup too.

"Y-you're a man." You stated in disbelief, hoping to catch her or him, off guard. What even is he? A drag queen? A trans? You dont know if they existed in victorian era.

Scarlett tilted her head. "So? Are you the only one who is allowed to cross dress as the other gender?"

What? No, no way she knows-

She leaned in closer, whispering in your ear. "Did I catch you off guard, Mr Holmes?"

She knows!

"How- how did you-"

She smirked. "I know everyone that is associated with Mr Blackwood." She brought a hand up to your face, and you noticed a golden ring on her ring finger. She cupped your face. "And I know for a fact Henry wouldnt like his latest infatuation snooping around in a place like this. So..." She leaned into you again, staring into your eyes. "Leave."

You didnt have to be told twice. Lady Scarlett, that cross dresser creeped you out, even more so when she already knew you.

Stumbling out of the club, you removed your mask, dropping it to the ground. The fresh night air filled your lungs and cleared out the smokey air from the club. It was quiet outside, considering it was way past midnight and everyone was home now.

And I have to walk all the way home. You huffed, rubbing your arms. Because my husband would rather I get hypothermia than let his precious ponies walk through these streets.

You turn around, walking away from the club to see if there was a carriage available at this time, when you hear a shrill scream from the alleyway you're walking past.

And there it is- a woman lying in a puddle of her own blood as huge, dark figure slashed her face over and over again. The moonlight hit the woman's face- a blonde woman-

-the blonde from the club.

Frozen in your place, the figure stood up and looked at you, not at all looking startled at being caught mutiliating someone. It was definitely a man, huge stature, and he stared at you, the dark night concealing his identity. He slowly bent down to pick something up, a top hat, dusting it off before placing it on his head.

And then he tipped his hat at you.

What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck-

It wasnt until he took a step towards you that you finally broke out of your trance and ran. You ran and ran, not even risking a look back, not realising where you were running off to until you burst through their door, out of breath and paler than white paint.

"Y/n?" Colin rushed towards you, the Shepherd and Liam rushing into the living room as Colin helped you inside. "What happened? What's wrong?" He feared, as did all the boys, that Silas had done something to you.

"I- I- I-" You shake your head, the image of the dark figure running through your mind, the hat, the long cloak, the knife- it finally pieced together.

"I think I saw Jack the Ripper."

You sat at the police station with Colin. After explaining everything, he'd convinced you to report the murder.

The detective lead you inside the interrogation room, motioning for you to sit down as you began giving your statement.

"And who did you think the murderer was?"

"Jack the Ripper." Your answer made him roll his eyes. "And who might that be, miss?"

"I dont know." The investigator shook his head exasperated. "Of course you dont." He muttered, then sighed.

"So, what were you doing at this club?"

"Me?" You didnt pause for long. "I was invited there. My- my husband wanted me to attend on his behalf."

"Your husband-" he paused, reading your surname on the paper. "Fitzgerald? Wait, you're Mrs Silas Fitzgerald?" You nodded, making him sigh. "Guess it makes sense for you to be there..."

Whats that supposed to mean?

"Did you see anyone familiar there?"

"No." You answered curtly, before adding another detail. "Everyone was wearing masks. Couldnt recognise anyone even if I wanted to."

What? I'm not gonna rat out Benjamin and make him the prime suspect without gathering all the facts before.

It's definitely not because I have a soft spot for him since he reminds me of Qasim so much. Nope.

The door suddenly swung open and in walked what you assumed was the detectives superior since the man got up.

"Is this the witness for club murder?" The higher up asked him.

"Yes sir, she was just giving her statement-"

"No need. Dismiss the witness and the case. It's been handled." He told the detective who only nodded.

"Handled by who? You can't just dismiss the case!" You exclaimed getting up. But before he could reply, someone walked in from behind him.

"You can go now, Smith. I'll see Miss Y/n gets home safely." Henry patted the higher ups shoulder who left with the detective.

"What are you doing, Henry?" You crossed your arms.

"I could ask you the same." He leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms as well.

"I'm reporting a murder that happened outside your club! I saw him-"

"Saw who? Jack the Ripper?" He scoffed. "You think you saw him, but all you really saw was a dark shadow."

You shake your head. "I did see him-!"

"And how do you know that he's Jack the Ripper?" He pushed himself off the door frame, walking closer to you. "How do you know that he's the Ripper when no one knows who the man is?!"

You pursed your lips. You could argue that the victim profile and post mortem show a matching pattern but you doubt Henry is going to listen to reason.

"Even so, you should still let me give my statement. Why are you adamant on me not giving one? A woman was murdered for God's sake!" You try to walk past him, but he grabs your arm and yanks you back, making your chest collide with his.

"She was my employee. She worked for the club. And you-" his face hardened. "-you are insulting her death by making it a public frenzy. By stating that some sick nobody, someone who was nicknamed by the papers just to strike fear in people's hearts, killed her. I will not let you use her death so that your paper could make a quick buck! Jack the Ripper is a nobody!"

"Why do you think Blackwood's trying to cover up the murder?" Colin asked you as you two made your way towards your next destination.

"I dont know." You huffed. "Maybe he knows who the murderer is? Maybe he's protecting his business? Surely, if people were to hear that a serial killer made an appearance near his club, he'd lose clients."

"Or maybe he's the killer." You stopped and looked at him. Colin looked at you knowingly. "It would make sense for him to be Jack the Ripper, or at least the man who murdered that woman. It is very suspicious of him to probably bribing the coppers to drop the case."

You shake your head. "Its too obvious."

He rolled his eyes. "What? So Henry cant be the murderer because its “too obvious?” People make mistakes-"

"Not Henry." You cut him off. "He's too smart, calculating. There's got to be another reason for him to be sweeping this all under the carpet."

Colin shakes his head in disbelief, shoving his hands in his pockets as he looked ahead. "We're here."

You followed his gaze and saw the building. The sign on the gate read-

"Aveline's Asylum"

"Really? Right now?" You asked Colin, who just smiled cheekily.

"It'll take your mind off things. Just take a break and help me on this assignment and we can go back to speculating what Blackwood's motives are." He raised his brows. "Plus, I think you'll enjoy this one."

You followed him inside the asylum, walking through the lush green gardens and seeing the pristine white building ahead, you wondered how this would help Colin's "exposing horrendous hospital environments and patient care" article when all of this reall just screamed "rehab for the rich".

"Shouldnt we go to an asylum that is in much worse conditions than this? Possibly next to a workhouse?" You asked him, but Colin just smiled. "Why did you choose this place, Colin?”

"You'll see." He says before whispering to you. "Remember your script. And... action!”

While pretending to be insane (which was easy because all you had to say was that you don’t think being a mom or stay-at-home wife is your life’s purpose), you saw a familiar figure there. And he saw you too.

“Y/n? Colin?” Benjamin looked surprised. “What are you two doing here?”

“Working on an article.” Colin replied, glancing at the way you’d gotten quiet, staring at Benjamin.

“Oh. Right, the horrible healthcare environment. But why this place? Its practically one of the finest asylums, housing mostly the wealthy of London.”

Colin nodded. “I know! But I have a hunch about this place-”

“What are you doing here?” You cut him off.

“Me? Oh, I’m here to give haircuts.” Ben chuckled nervously. “Its not a noble cause, but the wealthy unwell patients do pay a lot.”

“Mmhm, where’s your hair kit?” You remember distinctly that Ben was very particular about using his own scissors, so he often carried his own.

Ben looked caught off-guard by your question, but he quickly recovered. “The nurses provided me with their own. Cant carry scissors around an asylum now, can I?”

How convenient.

Colin continued to make small talk with Ben, while you studied him. Even if you didn’t tell anyone that you saw Ben at the club the night of the murder, doesn’t mean that you didn’t suspect him. For all you know, appearances can be deceiving and this sweet man may just be the infamous Jack the Ripper.

Blonde haired, the kindest eyes, the sweetest smile, a golden retriever in human form- could Benjamin really have killed all those women so brutally? Then again, Ted Bundy was also known for his good looks and superficial charm.

Am I really comparing Benny to Ted Bundy? God, I hope I’m wrong.

“I should go now. See you at home?” Ben asked you, hopeful.

“Maybe.” You shrugged, Ben’s smile faltering at your answer. He then raised his hand to shake Colin’s and thats when you noticed a distinctly familiar golden ring on his hand.

The same one you’d seen on Lady Scarlett’s hand.

And just like that, everything fell into place.

By the time you’d reached home, you’d pieced out the story. Ben being at the exclusive club and being discrete about it, seen in a room with Lady Scarlett, both wearing the same rings-

He’s in a relationship with her. Or him.

Thats why Ben was at that club! Homosexuality or anything else that isn’t heterosexuality was simply not accepted in Victorian England, and was possibly punishable by law! Just look at Oscar Wilde! Ben is dating Scarlett, keeping it discrete, he never committed any murders because he’s not Jack the Ripper. He’s just not straight!

Oh, I’m so glad you’re not the Ripper, Benny. I knew you weren’t capable of committing such heinous crimes.

As for why he was at the asylum, maybe he’s telling the truth. He did come to give the rich patients a haircut because he needs the money to maintain Scarlett’s lifestyle or maybe be rich enough to whisk her/him away from the club.

Benny is such a gentleman.

Now that Benny is no longer a suspect, that leaves Henry to be the main suspect. Maybe he’s not the one killed the woman, maybe he hired someone? Or maybe Henry’s not the killer either, its just too- obvious.

“Why do you think Henry stopped me from reporting the murder?” You asked Silas as you whisked the eggs before adding them to the pan. Silas had entered the kitchen the moment he heard you were cooking, though he did shoot you a weird look for making scrambled eggs at 11 pm. With you running around London all day, you hadn’t found time to eat until now, and you were just looking for a quick meal really.

“He probably doesn’t want you scaring off his customers. If word gets out that a murderer, or as you claim- “The Ripper” was seen near the club, then people wont be frequenting the place. Or perhaps he’s protecting the murderer?” Silas suggests, swallowing as the smell of butter wafts through the kitchen.

You add cubes of cold butter in, then look at him. “What? You don’t believe that I saw the Ripper?”

“I believe that if you really saw the Ripper, then you wouldn’t still be alive. He had the time and the opportunity to get rid of you.Why else would the notorious killer would let a witness get away?” Silas crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the kitchen counter near the stove.

“Maybe because he targets prostitutes? All of his previous victims match that profile.”

“Like he could tell a difference-”

“Are you saying I look like a prostitute?” You dished out the eggs. “No, you’re saying that. I’m saying that the man you saw kill that woman was just an amateur who was caught offguard by you, otherwise he would’ve attacked you too.” Silas states before grabbing the plate of buttery scrambled eggs on toast from your hands.

“Hey! Thats mine-” “My kitchen, my eggs.” He smirked before walking off. “You can make yourself more, I need to feed my dogs first.”

You glared at him until he left the kitchen, not knowing whether he really was going to feed it to the dogs or it was just a lie disguised as an insult so that he could eat it himself.

It was the latter. Always.

The next day, after you’d taken another ballet lesson from Sarah, you were about to go out to investigate the club again but Sarah had other plans for you.

“Y/n, I need you to stay at home today.”

“Oh, is everything alright?” You ask. She never made you stay home before. “Are we having company?”

“No. I think that you should play some sports to keep yourself fit. As a ballerina, it is important to keep both the mind and the body sound, and what better way to achieve that than by playing in the sun!” She lead you outside towards the tennis court, hidden by the huge bushes for privacy from outsiders.

“Tennis?” You ask her, and she confirms it. “Yes. Do you know how to play?”

Do I know how to- if I wasn’t so obsessed with history and sciences (and my mom scared that me wearing a skirt would attract predators), I had plans on playing professionally. Qasim and I used to play tennis at the club he’d won a membership in. We were both very competitive but he was just always a little better than me. He always knew my moves, he read me like an open book.

I was second only to Qasim though. Everyone else? They ate dust.

“Yes, I do.” You smiled at her. “Who am I playing with?”

“Me.” Silas spoke from behind you, dressed in all-white tennis wear. He looked at Sarah unamused. “Nana, I thought you said you had a worthy opponent for me.”

You shot him a glare, but Sarah came to your defense. “Now, now. You don’t know how capable your wife is. And I’m willing to bet that she’d make you run out of breath, Silas.”

You smiled cheekily as Silas scoffed. “We’ll see.” Sarah places a hand on your back. “Why don’t you go get changed, dear? I had the maids prepare an outfit for you.” When you left, Sarah looked at Silas. “Now Silas, I know you play exceptionally well but you must remember that this match is more of a way to spend time with your wife. Not a way to show off. So, be a gentleman, hm?”

You huffed as you returned to the tennis court. What the hell is this? Silas gets to wear a shirt and pants and I have to wear a full length dress with a corset and a hat?!

Mom would probably have let me gone pro if this was the official tennis wear for women.

Sarah sat on the side lines and watched you two play. Silas let you serve first and after a couple of back-and-forth, you won the first point. And then the next. And the next.

“Ah, you’re doing fantastic, Y/n!” Sarah cheered before standing up when the butler informed her that a guest has come to see her. “I’ll be back! You two keep playing!”

As Sarah left, you couldn’t help but tease Silas. What? He still makes you sleep on the floor! “So, how does it feel to lose to a girl?”

“I wouldn’t know.” And with that, Silas threw the ball in the air and served.

The ball shot past your head, just centimetres away from hitting you.

“What the hell? I wasn’t ready-”

“Lame excuses dont work on me.” He pulled out another ball and bounced it. “Are you ready now, duchess?”

You scowled at him before getting in position. “I’m ready, jerk.”

You lost two of the three matches. The first match you almost won was because Sarah was there and Silas was going easy on you, but when Sarah left, Silas regained all those points by serving topspin and slice serves. By the second match, you were finally able to return his fast serves, but now Silas used his speed and your lack of because of your heavy dress and made you run around all over the court trying to return his fast shots. By the third match, you were all out of breath but not out of determination. So, Silas decided that now would be the time to use your body as target practise and he hit the ball over your legs and arms, only stopping when one shot hit you in the head and made you fall on the ground.

“Are you okay?” He asked, barely suppressing the glee in his voice. He held out a hand to help you up, but you swatted it away and got up on your own.

“Finish the game.” You growled and he raised his hands in surrender before returning to his side of the court. For the rest of the third match, he missed all the shots you served and let you win. And he did it so openly, not even being courteous enough to hide his intentions.

Sarah watched you return inside the house, looking all sweaty and angry as you stomped unto your room. Silas trailed in behind, a satisfied grin on his face and Sarah shook her head at him disappointedly. “What did you do, Silas?”

“Nothing. I even let her win the last round, but she’s still angry.” Sarah looked at him admonishingly, making him sigh. “Fine, fine. I’ll go talk to her. The things I do for you, Nana.”

“The things you do for love, Silas.” She corrected him.

Sure. Silas rolled his eyes mentally. I “love” Y/n.

Silas entered the bedroom and saw you had showered and changed into new clothes. “Going somewhere? Perhaps to get some handkerchiefs to wipe all the sweat and tears?” He watched you glare at him through the mirror and he chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, I’m sorry. I’m just teasing. But seriously, where are you going? I could give you a ride.”

“I’m going to an asylum with Colin.” You huff, packing some things in your small purse. Silas nodded. “Good idea to get yourself finally checked-” He dodged the hairbrush you threw at his head, chuckling. “Now now, duchess. It isn’t exactly speaking much for your mental health for you to be chucking things at your dear husband.”

Ignoring his antics, you slipped on your shoes, walking out of the room. He trailed behind you. “Dont be mad. I’m just playing around. Come on, I’ll drop you off at Saint Peters asylum. Its on my way to work.”

“I’m not going to Saint Peters. I’m going to Aveline’s.” You stated, ready to walk off but he grabbed your arm.

“What?” You looked at his shocked face. “What?” You repeated his question. Why did he suddenly look so pale.

“Where are you going?” He asked, his grip tightening when you tried to move. “Which asylum?”

“Aveline’s.” You frowned, grabbing his hand and removing it from your arm. Silas expression paled further.

“Why?”

You shrugged. “Colin wants to do an article on horrible asylum conditions and treatment of patients-”

“Dont.” Silas ordered more than he suggested. “That place- don’t go there.”

“And why not?” You looked at him skeptically. “Colin wants to do a piece on the place-”

“Pick another asylum. I can get you access to any other.” Silas ignored your question, averting his eyes. “You will not go there, and you will not write a piece on that asylum.”

You grabbed his arm to make him look at you. “What are you hiding, Silas?”

Silas stared at you before yanking his arm out of your grasp. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Just- do as I say.” He raised finger, wagging it at your warningly. “I’m telling you- you will not go there again, Y/n. And if I find out that you or Colin or anyone else tried to write about that place, I will shut down that paper and make sure none of them find a job ever.”

You watched Silas leave you there standing dumbfounded.

Did he really just threaten me?

This bitch.

Silas watched you leave from the window. He knows you wont listen to him, knows that its inevitable to try to stop you from going to Aveline, so he already sent someone to bribe the staff to not let you on the asylum premises. He’s not worried about who you’re meeting or where you’re going, just as long as its not Aveline.

No. He closed his eyes, painful memories flashing through his mind. You cant know. You cant know.

He sat down on his chair, trying to think of ways to divert your attention from the asylum. You’re as stubborn as a mule, you wont listen to him. So he has to create distractions for you.

Jack the Ripper!

Of course, the murder case!

“Cadburry!” He called his butler. “Arrange me an invite for the Gentleman’s club. Now.”

You were sitting in the boys apartment, Benjamin playing with your hair out of habit, braiding it, unbraiding it, then braiding it again. Colin sat confused. “Why cant we go to the asylum today?”

“I’m not in the mood to see depressing white halls today. Besides, I have an errand to run.” You lean your head further back for Benny.

“And what that might be?” Colin was intrigued.

“Girly errand. You wont understand.” You dismiss him. “But we’ll go to Aveline’s again, thats for sure.” You felt Benny tug your hair at that statement.

“Ow! Benny!” You glare at him. Ben shakes out of his daze, apologising profusely. “Sorry, sorry! I was just lost in my thoughts.”

A coy smile formed on your lips. Lost in thought? Oh, I know exactly what kind of thoughts you’re having, Benny.

Colin stood up with a sigh. “Alright then. I’ll go to office and start writing down a draft.” You nodded as he left you alone with Ben.

Once you heard the door click, you immediately turned around. “Hey, Benny.”

He gave you a gentle smile. “Hey, Y/n.”

“So…” you wiggled your brows at him. “What’s going on with you?”

“Hmm… nothing much really. I got a new customer who wanted a toupee. Apparently word got around that I’m a very skilled barber, no matter how much hair one has or lack of, I can make it work!”

“Yes, thats lovely Benny, but-” you cleared your throat. “I meant, whats going on with you, personally. You look happier, livelier these days.”

He shrugged, offering you another sweet smile. “I guess that’s just the effect you have on people around you.”

Ugh! Stop being so charming, Benny!

“Thanks, Benny. But… I don’t know, I feel like there’s something different about you.” You tried another approach. “You know you can tell me anything, right? I wont ever judge you or anything.”

Though he was smiling, you saw something flicker in his eyes. Doubt? Fear?

“What do you mean, Y/n?” He asked, his voice stable as usual.

Your eyes studied him.

“Did you meet someone new?”

There it is! That flicker in his eyes. His face didn’t let anything away but his eyes, you saw it.

“Yes.” Finally, we’re getting somewhere. “I met you.”

Stupid Benny. Annoying Benny.

Sighing, you realise that maybe he’s just not ready to come out yet. And that I shouldn’t take it personally because I am close with him and he could tell me anything, just like Qasim would. It would be unfair to force Ben to tell you about Lady Scarlett before he’s ready.

“Thanks, Benny.” You said, hiding your disappointment. “I have to go now. Have to go… run that errand.”

“Oh, need me to come?” He got up with you. You shake your head. “No, I’ll manage on my own.”

Why would I tell you when you wont tell me about your love?

You were now standing outside the club again. You had initially returned to the back alley to investigate the crime scene again but it had been scrubbed clean and Henry had somehow managed to get a permit to start construction to expand the club further.

He was erasing the crime scene. Henry was trying to hide something.

Speak of the devil, you saw Henry exit the club and get in his carriage. Once you were sure he’d left, you made your way towards the club entrance, still having the invite from last time, only for the guards to stop you.

“I’m sorry but Mr Blackwood has forbidden you from entering the club, Miss Y/n.” One guard said, holding a hand up to halt you.

“Mrs Fitzgerald.” You corrected him, hoping to use the name to get by. “I am the duchess of Westminster!”

“Forgives us, Miss Y/n, but Mr Blackwood specifically instructed us to not let you in and he also instructed us not to address you by anything but Miss Y/n or- um…” The other guard trailed off, making you narrow your eyes at him.

“Or?” You sneered at him to continue.

“Or… future-Mrs Blackwood.” He mumbled but you heard him loud and clear.

I’m going to kill him.

“Listen here and listen clear!” Your voice took a threatening tone, though you’re sure it would look comical to an outsider seeing a woman of your stature trying to intimidate men who were towering over you with their buff physiques.

“I am going to only be addressed as MRS FITZGERALD and you will let me in this club right now or I will have my husband, the duke of Westminster, shut this place down before your twat boss would dare to associate his name with me again!” You yelled with your nostrils flared. “Now, you will march in and inform Lady Scarlett that I’m here to see her. And if she says no, tell her I know about the rings!”

The guards shared a look, probably trying to communicate telepathically whether to let you in or not.

Fortunately for you, your huffing and puffing seemed to work and one of them walked in before returning moments later.

“Please wait for a short while Lady Scarlett entertains some guests.”

After about 20 long minutes, during which you were sure Henry would turn up and have you carried off the premises, the guards finally lead you inside.

“This way, future Mrs Blackwood.” You shot him a glare but didn’t say anything since you were inside the club anyways. They lead you up the stairs towards the room that you had seen Ben go into the last time you were here.

The door opened and you saw a large bed on one side, silk sheets and plush cushions adorning it, and a huge vanity in the other corner, full of makeup and expensive jewels, all arranged in an orderly manner. Then there was a table next to the vanity on which sat a variety of beautiful red haired wigs.

“They’re made from real hair.” A voice said from behind you. You turned to see Lady Scarlett, wearing a maroon robe and a black mask covering her identity. Her trademark red hair, still styled as beautifully as the first time you saw it and that bright red lipstick on her lips. “Benjamin was sweet enough to get them for me.”

She walked past you and sat down on a couch next to the window that opened to the balcony outside, and then she lit up a cigarette, holding it in a vintage cigarette holder.

Not that I would ever condone a nasty habit such as smoking, but she looked absolutely badass in that moment.

“What do you want, Mrs Blackwood?” Scarlett let out a huge exhale of smoke.

“Fitzgerald. I know about the rings.” You state, watching her take another drag.

“What rings?” She asked, feigning innocence.

“The golden rings.” You narrow your eyes. “I saw it on your hand that night and I saw it on Benjamin’s hand as well. I know whats going on, and I’m here to talk about that.” Taking a deep breath, you blurted out your suspicions.

“I know you and Benjamin are in a relationship.”

She looked up at you expectedly, not at all alarmed at being caught. Then again, why would she be caught off guard? Considering the line of business she’s in, she probably has practiced her poker face.

“Is that so, Mrs Blackwood?” Scarlett’s lip’s curled up. “So what?”

So what?

“Look, I mean no harm, but I- I care about Benjamin a lot. He’s like family to me, and I know its not my place but I am very protective of him and I just… I’m just here to make sure that this is not some sort of game for you. I don’t want you playing with his feelings, so if you’re not serious about him then I suggest you end things with him now before it gets too messy.”

Scarlett looked at you before chuckling. “As you wish, Mrs Blackwood.” He stood up with a click of his tongue. “Now, is that all or do you have any more shocking news to pass on to me, Mrs Blackwood? I suggest you do it now because you wont be stepping a foot in this club again.”

“Its Mrs Fitzgerald. And I don’t plan on returning to this depraved scum either.”

“Depraved scum, huh?” Scarlett tilted her head slightly in a mocking manner. “Since you insist on calling yourself Mrs Fitzgerald so proudly, let me show you something as well.” He opened the door and lead you towards the top of the stairwell, from where you could see everyone and everything down below on the dance floor.

She nodded her head to the far right corner and your heart dropped for a second. Is that-

“Mr Fitzgerald seems to be enjoying himself. Though not all that much.” Scarlett said as your eyes remained focused on Silas who was sitting on a chair, looking uninterested by the different women who surrounded him. “Maybe he likes boys. I’ll send some his way-” You rushed out of the club, not able to hear another word or see Silas for another moment longer.

Its been a couple of days since you went to the club. Of course, when you arrived home and waited for Silas to return, who upon your questioning about his whereabouts claimed he was meeting a businessman.

He lied.

You tried to distract yourself by taking more ballet lessons from Sarah, but still your attention lingered on him.

Why was he there?

You then tried to divert your mind towards work, and then here you are, sitting on your desk with a blank paper, ready to be filled with words.

Why was he there?

Dropping your pen because you knew you weren’t going to be able to get anything done until you processed your feelings about this.

What feelings? Certainly not jealousy because I am far more mature than this. Its just-

I thought he had standards. Taste. Sure I might not be fine wine, but I’m certainly better than those skank-

Nope. I am a woman. I will not be bringing other women down because of a man.

But Silas… how dare he? Yes, how dare he?! I am not jealous, I am insulted! How dare he act like he’s a polished aristocrat and I’m just ditzy, poorer than a church mouse, a NOBODY, when he goes around prancing his repute and himself in the utter gutters of London?

Maybe he’s just hypersexual. Yes, he’s a depraved, disgusting individual and I married him. Great. So the first man I married, had a NIKKAH with, turned out to be lying, cheating, piece of-

Why did he lie?

Its not like he expects me to sleep with him. If he did, why would he still make me sleep on the floor?

Baldwin would’ve never made me sleep on the floor, always covered me with his cloak because he knew how much the cold bothered me.

And he’s always so rude to me! He beat me at tennis, quite literally!

Salauddin always lost to me in chess. And he let me rub my wins in his face too!

Not to mention, how uncaring he is to my feelings!

Ibrahim always put my happiness above everything. He chose to wait for me, until I was safe- felt safe.

And of all of them, I ended up marrying Silas.

How dare he?

Pushing yourself back into your desk, you began writing down furiously. Fuck Silas, fuck Henry, and fuck Lady Scarlett! I WILL go back to Aveline Asylum, I WILL expose the the Ripper and- if I have time, maybe find Benny a better significant other!

“Woah there- what are you writing?” Colin came up behind you, frowning at the title he read.

“The Ripper strikes again! Murder outside the exclusive club for the wealthy freaks!” Colin looked at you. “Have you gone bonkers?”

“Yes.” You snapped. “You cant talk me out of it, so why don’t you go and get us access into Aveline asylum again. Discreetly, this time.”

By the time everyone was going home, you had finished your article and dropped it on the editor’s desk just as he was about to leave.

“Read this. Trust me, its worth it.” You look over your shoulder. “And I have a witness ready to go public- Mrs Fitzgerald.” Of course, the editor wouldn’t ever figure out that you are Mrs Fitzgerald, not Mr Holmes.

However, you were a little surprised to see that he hadn’t published your article in the paper the next morning. Storming to work, you quickly made your way towards the editor’s office, barging in without knocking.

“Hello there, love.” He smiled cheekily. Instead of your editor, Henry Blackwood sat in his chair, his legs propped up on the desk. “I was waiting for you.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“What? You can barge into my business, but I can’t swing by yours?” He asked, feigning hurt.

“No. Now leave.”

“Well then its a good thing that this is also my business now.” Henry grinned, removing his feet from the desk and replacing them with his arms, resting his head in his hand as he stared at your fuming self.

“What?”

“Oh love, you’re looking at your new boss. I just bought the paper this morning.” He winked, standing up and making his way to you. “See, I told you not to come by the club again, I told you to drop the Ripper case, and you didn’t listen either time. So, I’ve come here to tame you. Personally. Seems like you need my undivided attention, kitten-”

“I did drop the Ripper case. I didn’t give my statement to the police!” You exclaimed.

He tutted, wagging his finger at you. “No, but you did write an article. You’re lucky I was here before it got published.”

You frowned. “How- how did you know about the article? I wrote it yesterday, I gave it to the editor at the last moment-”

“I have eyes everywhere, Y/n.” He smirked, leaning down to whisper. “Especially on you, naughty kitten.”

Henry chuckled as he looked at your flushed face, mistaking your anger for bashfulness. He walked out of the door but not before passing another comment to tick you off.

“Nice moustache. Or shall I say… whiskers, kitten?”

For the next 3 days, you didn’t leave the house. You didn’t even leave your room. It seemed like all your previous pettiness-driven motivation had run out and dropped you into the well of depression. And here you wallowed in your sadness, taking Silas’s bed even when he was away and looking like a pitiful lump of sadness under the covers.

“What is wrong with you?” Silas asked, exasperated as he sat down on the bed to tie his shoes. “How long will this go on? You have missed your ballet classes and you are worrying grandmother.”

“I’m just sleepy, okay?” You mumbled from under the sheets. “Its not like sleeping on the cold, hard floor is helping me.”

“And it seems like sleeping in my bed hasn’t helped either.” He raised a brow. “Its been 3 days already. This has gone long enough. Now you can either tell me what is wrong or I will have Cadbury drag you out and hose you down in the gardens.”

You shoved the covers down to glare at him. Asshole. You don’t doubt that he would have his butler hose you down.

“I miss… I miss my brother.” You mumbled as you averted your eyes. “Qasim would fix everything for me. He always had a solution, always. And I- I need him right now. To guide me, to handle things for me.”

“So… why don’t you ask for his help?” Silas asked, fixing his tie.

You stared at his back before looking down at your lap. “We’re not on speaking terms… I’m mad at him.”

Silas rolled his eyes. “Well he’s your family, isn’t he? I’m sure you can still talk to him.”

“Cant.” You muttered gloomily, making Silas’s annoyance trigger off.

“And why the bloody hell not?” He turned to glare at you. “You cant get out of my bed! You cant attend work! You cant take your classes! You cant tell me what’s bothering you! And you cant talk to your own brother! Why!? Why?! WHY?!”

You flinched at his harsh town before tears filled your eyes.

“Because… he’s dead.”

Your statement rung in Silas’s ears like a daunting bell. Dead. Dead. Dead.

God, did he feel like shit now.

You threw the covers off you, getting out of bed as you fixed his sheets.

“Sorry for hogging your bed.” You sniffled, using your sleeve to wipe your tears as you walked past him, only for Silas to catch your wrist. With a gentle tug, he had you sitting back down on the bed.

“I’m sorry.” He said, sincerely. “I was just… frustrated due to things at work. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“Its fine, whatever. You’re right, I’ll go to work and classes-” He tightened his grip on your wrist when you tried to leave.

“No.” He tilted your chin towards him. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s wrong. I may not be your brother, but I am your husband.”

You stared at him conflicted. Did he really mean it?

He answered your silent question with a gentle squeeze of your hand. “I will fix your problems, Y/n.” He offered a smile. “Your duke is at your service.”

After you told Silas your work situation with Henry and how he’s stopping you from writing anything about Jack the Ripper, how you cant get anything done with his shadow looming over you and monitoring everything you do, Silas explained that solution to it was all simple.

“I will buy the paper from Henry.” He stated nonchalantly, as if he was talking about buying eggs not a newspaper company.

“I dont think he will give you the company. He wont put it up for sale-”

“Everything is for sale, Y/n. You just need to find the right price.” He stood up, assuring you he will buy the company. “I’ll get the company, if you promise to put on a great show. You focus on the ballet classes. After all, the show is only a week from now.”

The following seven days were filled with you doing ballet for hours and hours, all with one motivation.

Not to let Silas down.

Because if I let him down, if I embarrass him, then he wont get the paper from Henry. And I wont be able to find Jack the Ripper or help Colin with the asylum! And Silas will lose trust in me and wont let me have my space at the Westminster palace or wherever so that I can work on my time machine-

Time machine! You face palmed. I’ve been so busy with the murders and shitty men that I forgot to build my machine! My way home!

No, after the show, I’m- I’m demanding- I’m moving out. I don’t care if I get the paper or not, I need to build my machine.

“Oh Y/n, what are you doing in the storage- honey, are you alright? You look like you’re about to pass out! Cadbury! Hurry and open the windows!” Sarah guided you out of the dusty store to sit down, fanning you with her hands. “Oh dear, do you hate confined spaces like Silas too?”

You took deep breaths as fresh air flooded in through the windows, furrowing your brows. “What?”

“Nothing dear, I just thought you felt suffocated in closed spaces, like Silas!” She explained. “He cant stay in a room with closed windows for too long, you know.”

Now that she mentions it, she’s right. You don’t remember Silas being in a room without at least a window open, even as winter rolled around. Hell, he still opens the balcony windows in the bedroom as soon as he wakes up, but you thought that was because he hated your guts and wanted to give you an early wake up call by letting the cold air slap your face and rattle your bones.

“Why does he hate confined spaces?” You ask, letting her loosen your corset.

Sarah looked a little hesitant to tell you, but then relented when you asked her again. “He never told me the reason, but I figured it was the night when his mother passed away. Silas… he was just a young boy, he was hiding in his closet. He liked to scare his mother when she came to check on him, and so he often hid in the closet to give her a fright. He saw his mother get murdered while he was in the closet.” She looked down sadly. “Unfortunately, the killer’s identity was hidden by the dark night. Silas wasn’t able to identify who killed his mother, and I suppose he’s blamed himself a little for that incident.”

Damn. Thats… dark. And sad.

Maybe I can excuse Silas for being rude to me at times. Maybe. Just a tad.

The night of the ballet show rolled around quicker than you’d expected. And despite all the hours of practice and Sarah’s countless assurances that you’d be amazing, you knew the reality.

Your performance was barely passable.

From a young age, you were able to critique yourself very well. As Qasim said- “Only you know yourself the best!” And you knew right now, as you stood backstage, peeking through the curtains at the audience and spotting the queen and her family, you were utterly, truly set up for failure.

NO ONE CAN LEARN BALLET IN 2 MONTHS! AT LEAST NOT ENOUGH TO IMPRESS THE QUEEN!

Your stomach churned, you felt bile rise up your throat, your legs wobbled as you backed away from the curtain, stumbling away, right into Silas’s arms.

“Silas- Silas, I cant do this! I can’t! I can’t!” You cried out and Silas tightened his grip on your arms.

“Okay.”

Okay?

“What?”

“Okay. You cant do it.” He squeezes your shoulders. “I guess I’ll just tell everyone to go home. I’ll apologise to the queen and make up an excuse as to why she wont be seeing a performance by my wife tonight. But hey, she’s family. She’ll understand, right?”

You stared at him in confusion. Silas ran a hand through his fingers. “As for all the journalist who came here to write about you, and all the influential people I’ve invited over because this was your formal introduction into high society, I guess I’ll just have to make something up. But you-“ he gave you a warm smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “-you don’t worry your pretty little head over this. Its okay, I… well, if I’m being honest, I never really expected you to perform.”

“What?”

He shrugged. “I knew you’d back out at the last second. Oh well, what can we do. Now-” he rubbed his chin in thought. “Should I tell the guests that you’ve broken your leg? Or perhaps you cant perform because you’re with child? If we go with the first excuse, people may call you a ditz, maybe unprofessional. And they might come to check on you. But if we go with the second excuse, people will talk about- well, it has been only a month into our marriage-”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Is he… did he set you up?

“You expected me to not perform?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“No, Y/n. I expected you to fail to deliver what I require of you. I expected you to perform in front of an audience, and that was all I asked. I didn’t ask you to become a prima donna, I just wanted you to be good enough. Which you are in my opinion. But your doubt in yourself right now is only because you clearly haven’t spent enough time practising because you were too busy running around town, going to clubs and asylums and chasing after a murderer when all of your attention should’ve been on becoming a competent wife!” Silas fumed, tightening his grip on your shoulders. “I asked you again and again to focus on the ballet lessons, and you ignored my advice repeatedly and for what? Because you wanted to prove yourself? Because you wanted to play detective and solve murders? When you cant even do a simple job as putting on a show? And I knew- I knew you would abandon me like this, so you know what, Y/n? While I keep my end of the bargain, while I invited Henry tonight to talk him into selling the paper to me, you continue to let me down. So go on stage or don’t, I really don’t give a shit now. I can’t take your word ever again.”

Silas stormed off, leaving you shell shocked backstage. You sat down on the steps, trying to control your breathing. How could he- how can he say all that to you?

Does he not understand the pressure you’re under? Does he not understand how hard all of this is for you?

You really thought that after you told him about Qasim, after he assured he that he would help you out, that he would fix your problems-

I thought he understood. I thought he had my back.

You let out a shaky exhale, rubbing your chest to ease your ache. Why is it so hard to breathe all of a second?

Tonight, you didn’t invite Colin or Benny or any of the boys, and it only hit you now how truly lonely you were. There’s no Colin. No Benny. No friends. No family. No Qasim. No… Silas.

“Ma’am? Ma’am, are you alright?” Cadbury looked alarmed as he spotted you looking shell shocked, struggling to breathe.

“I… I cant-” You couldn’t speak, and the butler quickly took your nervous, trembling form in and sprung into action.

“Here, duchess- ma’am, drink this.” He brought you a cup of tea. “It’ll calm the nerves, ma’am. Drink it.”

You let the bitter, warm liquid slide down your throat without a second thought.

“You’ll be alright now, ma’am. You’ll be all… right.” The butler assured you kindly, helping you stand up. In just a matter of seconds, your anxiety had melted away and was replaced with… unbridled confidence.

“What did I just drink?” The words slipped out as you felt your heart beat faster. Your eyes snapped towards Cadbury. “What did you give me?” The words came out quickly.

“Nothing special. Its just tea to calm you.” He said, ushering you up the steps towards the stage curtains. “Are you ready now, ma’am?”

Your eyes zeroed in on the white particles on his collar. Like powder.

“Is that snow?” If you weren’t so hyper focused on his collar, it would concern you how fast you were talking. “Is it snowing outside already?”

Cadbury looked down on his collar and suppressed a smile. “Yes, duchess. You could say that. Now- please return your attention to your performance. We are all rooting for you.”

“Not Silas.” You snapped again, your eyes looking at the dark curtains as you take your position. “Not that twat.”

Cadbury’s brows shot up in shock. “Ma’am-”

“I’ll show that twat.” And then the curtains opened.

Silas sat down in his seat with a satisfied sigh. Everything is going according to plan. You’re nervous and he just chewed you out so the stage will now be empty because you’ve ran off to cry a river, the royal family will once again be embarrassed as they happily welcomed Silas and his Muslim wife into the family (by making them the duke and duchess) and with all the journalists he invited, the news will now spread like wildfire that Silas rejected a princess, Queen Victoria’s daughter to marry an embarrasment.

The princess was one upped by a fool. A commoner. A failed ballerina.

Did Silas feel bad for you? Just a little, because he didnt like the way you looked at him, hoping for support, maybe even motivation, only for him to break your heart. Broken hearts can be mended, but broken reputations? Nope.

Besides, he’s sure that when he buys the company from Henry and give it to you, you’ll forget all about it! Everything will work out just as he’d planned-

What the hell?

The curtain opened and instead of being met with an empty stage like he’d planned, there you stood in your white tutu skirt, face completely devoid of any expression.

What are you doing?

The pianist began playing a tune he didn’t recognise. Sarah did tell him that of the three songs you had chosen, there was one she hadn’t heard ever before. You’d worked with the pianist to get the tune right, and at that time, he was impressed at how much work you were putting into this.

As the music played, you began dancing. From what his grandmother had told him, he was expecting soft, gentle, shy dance.

And yet you were doing anything but that. Your movements were strong, powerful, determined. You were nothing like the woman whose hope he’d crushed just moments ago. You were all alone on that big stage, but you practically leaped from one side of the stage to the other, your legs faster than lightening.

By no means did you look like a mess, or that you didn’t know what your were doing. Your eyes were wide open, as if hyper aware of your surroundings and your audience. From beside him, Silas could hear his grandmother whispering the choreography.

“En pointe. En pointe. En pointe.” You were now dancing on the tip of your toes, and Silas could only imagine how painful, if not destructive this could be to your feet.

“Tendu. Chaine turn. Chaine turn. Pique manege.” Now, you were moving across the stage while making turns.

And finally, the big ending. “Pirouette. Pirouette. Keep spotting, Y/n. Pirouette.” Silas knew about the pirouettes. He watched you spin around your own axis, in a fixed position on a ground, your body moving first, your head later, your eyes focused on a spot in the dark so that you don’t lose your balance. You turned- 1,2,3, he lost count because you were turning too fast.

“34- was that 34 turns, Silas?”

Thirty four? Thirty four pirouettes?!

The performance ended with fouetté turns, which according to Sarah were about 28 and you exited the stage dancing en pointe, on the tip of your toes.

The ballet hall erupted in applause and cheers, and Silas stood up with everyone else to give a standing ovation to a now empty stage.

What the hell just happened?

Its hot. Its hot. I’m burning up!

As soon as you were off stage, of which you have no memory of your performance, you almost fell to the ground if it weren’t for strong arms catching you. And the moment your eyes caught sight of the broad shoulders, you instantly pushed yourself away, throwing yourself against the wall to support yourself.

“Careful there, love.” Henry grinned, clapping his hands in mocking manner. “That was quite the performance you gave, kitten. I’m very impressed.”

“What are you doing here?” You spat out, wiping the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand. He tilted his head, amused at the sight of your flushed cheeks. “Silas invited me. He wanted to discuss business. I wonder if the little kitten went to her owner for help because she couldn’t scratch me with her tiny paws?”

“Owner?” You heaved a shaky breath. His smirk widened. “What else would you name it? He bought you to be his wife, because you know and I know that there isn’t and there never will be love between you two. He’s just using you. So drop the charade and come to me-” Henry caught your wrist before you could slap him, and while he may have stopped your physical assault, he wasn’t able to stop your verbal one.

“What would you know about love? You’re here, pursuing a married woman who has insulted you from the very first moment. Those skanks at your disgusting club have more self esteem than you do right now. You’re fucking pathetic and I’d rather eat a cactus and shit it out before I marry an entitled, emasculated prick like you. Fuck off!” You shoved him away and stormed out of there, unaware of just how much Henry wanted to wring your neck (just for a moment) and how a certain someone had overheard this little spat.

And he smiled proudly.

Good job, Y/n. He thought to himself.

“Fuck!” You screamed as you burst through the doors and landed out in the gardens, falling to the snowy ground, letting the ice cool your burning temperature.

How the hell am I burning up when its literally snowing?!

You grabbed a fistful of snow and threw it to your face, trying to cool down your body temperature. When that didnt work, you dove face first into the ground, before flipping on your back, letting the snow engulf your body from all sides. Your ballerina costume was thin and sheer as it could be, finally allowing the cold to creep into your skin and slowly into your bones.

Now that the adrenaline rush and whatever the hell was in that tea wore off, your body immediately went into fatigue and became aware of all the aches in your body, especially the pain in your feet. You tried to move, but your muscles didn’t budge. They were tired out, strained beyond their limits.

The cold suddenly became too unbearable and your teeth rattled. You tried to lift your head, tried to yell for help but it was like your mind had suddenly went autopilot and decided to shut down to let your body recover from its fatigue.

“No…” You whispered, as tears slipped out of your eyes. Everyone was inside, the party was loud, no one would even hear you scream for help even if you tried, no one would come to your aid. The realisation that you would freeze to death had you panicking, but alas, your brain refused to cooperate with you.

You heard the sound of footsteps and a glimmer of hope rose in you. Turning your head to the side took the last bit of energy, and your brain put you out of your misery when you saw the daunting shadowy figure that imprinted itself in your mind from the night of the murder.

The cloak, the top hat, a golden ring on his hand and the shiny glint of the knife.

The Ripper is here.

Your mouth fell open in a silent scream before you blacked out.

So??? Thoughts??? Also nobody @ me for not putting a "keep reading" button because I had to edit 12k words TWICE on mobile, I have pulled an all nighters for yall. I have to go to clinic in loke 2 hours.

Yall better send comment and send ask.

Part 14 is here!

#time traveller au #male yandere #yandere x you #yandere x #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere male #yandere #silas Fitzgerald #yandere oc #jack the ripper

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millers-girl · 2 days ago

Text

fallout

sequel to bitter/sweet - a Dr. Jack Abbot (The Pitt) fanfic

pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

summary: you and your sister plan to spend the day at Pitt Fest but instead spend the night in the hospital, and Jack is left to pick up the pieces.

warnings/tags: mentions of an active shooter, gun violence, ptsd/trauma response, grief and loss, implied survivor's guilt, slow burn, hurt/comfort, grumpy x sunshine, food as a love language, age gap, mild language

word count: 5.1k

a/n: oops accidentally made this love story my entire personality

Jack rushed through the sliding doors of the ED, the familiar, sharp scent of antiseptic welcoming him back. His eyes were locked onto his phone screen, thumb twitching over the messages he’d already sent.

As soon as he’d heard it on the police scanner––“Active shooter at Pitt Fest. At least two confirmed dead. Unclear how many injured”––a sick, crawling fear had taken hold of him. It was an unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling, and one he couldn’t wait to get rid of.

He’d been trying to get a hold of you. Calling. Texting. Over and over.

Where are you?

Are you okay?

Please answer.

I’m in the ED. Come straight here if you can.

He forced himself to pocket his phone when Robby started rattling off the hospital’s mass casualty protocol to the group, but he made sure to leave the ringer on – just in case.

When the first wave of patients came in, it was like muscle memory took over. Like he’d slipped back in time, to when he was stationed in Afghanistan, boots hitting blood-streaked dirt.

Assess injury. Slap a colored band on. Treat until stable. Repeat.

A girl, maybe sixteen, sobbed as he wrapped gauze around her bloodied thigh. Her hands were shaking.

A man in his forties was wheeled in, gray from blood loss, gasping.

He sutured a gaping wound left by a gunshot on another boy’s arm.

He couldn’t stop.

Couldn’t let himself stop.

Somewhere, beneath the routine and urgency, he was antsy, just waiting for you to walk through those doors.

And then – you did.

When you were gurneyed through the entrance, the fluorescent lights that usually hummed quietly in the background now felt blinding. Each flicker seemed to stab into your corneas. Your ears rang, your hands trembled, and for a second, it was all white noise. You barely registered Dr. King’s voice asking you questions, her hands checking your vitals.

You weren’t looking at her. You were scanning the frenzied room.

And then your gaze caught his.

Even amidst the chaos––screams, alarms, blood––his eyes found yours. Jack stopped mid-step near the nurse’s station, the world narrowing for him in an instant. The clinical buzz of the ED faded. He beelined toward you like gravity itself had shifted.

“Jesus Christ, you fucking scared me.”

His voice was sharp, but familiar – comfort laced with adrenaline. He shouldered Dr. King aside and immediately began assessing you himself. You tried to push his hands away, your injury the last thing on your mind. His hands swatted yours back, frustration flaring into the way his brow furrowed.

“Jack,” you whispered past trembling lips. He froze, and when his eyes met yours again, they softened. You reached for him without thinking, shaking arms curling around his neck, clinging.

And he didn’t hesitate. Didn’t care who was watching. He wrapped you up, hand cradling the back of your neck, and let out a deep sigh.

You weren’t sure what kind of fight-or-flight response you had that knew being held—feeling safe—would be exactly what you needed then, but you were glad for it.

“Are you okay?” he murmured into your matted hair, voice tight with restrained panic.

You nodded against his skin, though the movement was hesitant, slow.

“I’ve been trying to reach you. Why didn’t you answer?”

“My phone got knocked out of my hand in all the chaos. I didn’t even realize…”

You leaned back, and found worry still clouding his features. You released him enough to let him do his job, finally letting him examine you.

His touch was careful, but you felt how tightly he was wound – how his hands lingered too long on your skin; how he exhaled when he saw the swelling in your ankle.

Dr. King stepped back in, clearing her throat. “How are you feeling?”

“Kinda nauseous… dizzy. I don’t know, the lights are making it hard to concentrate,” you mumbled.

The two doctors shared a look.

“Mild concussion,” Jack said, gently wrapping his fingers around your ankle and rotating it. You winced. “Sprained. Scrapes and bruises on knees, elbows, forearms.”

He slapped a yellow band on your wrist.

“Ow, Jack,” you muttered, tugging your hand back.

Any other time, he would’ve rolled his eyes and teased you – made a quip about how dramatic you were.

But not today.

Today, his fingers immediately rubbed over the spot soothingly, and his voice was soft as he apologized.

When he reached to slip a patient tag onto your wrist, he glanced up again. “Where’s your sister?”

“She’s fine,” you said. “Just had a scraped arm, bruised ribs maybe. She went to help Emery in the OR.”

He exhaled quietly, then moved efficiently – pillows under your ankle, ice pack secured, orders rattled off to Dr. King. “Acetaminophen and Zofran in an IV bag. Don’t get it mixed up with ibuprofen – she’s allergic.”

Dr. King brought the requested bags and kindly offered to hook you up to them, wanting to help in some way. Jack ignored her, still locked in his quiet rhythm as he began treating your wounds. Stopping the bleeding. Cleaning the cuts. Dressing them carefully.

You stayed silent during the whole thing.

And it unnerved him.

Normally, you’d be rambling about something––telling a story, cracking a joke, flirting with him––to distract yourself. But now, you just watched him, eyes distant.

He didn’t push.

As he was finishing up, someone called out for him. “Abbot! Need you in the red zone!”

“Coming!” he shouted back, eyes never leaving you until the very last second. “Hey,” he said softly, “I know it’s crazy in here right now, but try to get some rest, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted. “Wasn’t even near the shooter. Just got trampled in the crowd… Others had it worse.” Your gaze flicked to the burgundy splatters on his surgical gown.

Jack cut you a look. “Don’t do that,” he said firmly. “You still got hurt. That matters. And I’m gonna fix it. Okay?”

You nodded, just to keep him from worrying more.

“And keep that ankle elevated,” he ordered. As he turned to leave, you caught his hand in yours.

“Can I borrow your phone? I need to call Eleni.”

He hesitated, then pulled the phone from his pocket. When you reached for it, he tugged it back. “One call, then you rest,” he bargained.

You nodded again, the device cool in your hand as he disappeared down the hall.

Dr. King smiled kindly before saying, “Okay, you should be good for now. I’ll come check up on you in a bit, too. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.”

“Thanks.”

When she left, you dialed Eleni’s number. It only rang for half a second before she was picking up and frantically asking, “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

Relief hit the other end of the line like a wave. You could practically hear her collapsing into relief before relaying the good news to the rest of the team.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Just a little knocked up.”

She paused for a second, then said, “Knocked up? Wow, that Dr. Tall, Dark, and Broody sure works fast.”

You huffed out a weak laugh. It felt forced. Hollow.

Eleni meant well. That was her way of checking if you were really okay. So, for her sake, you tried.

“Can you do me a favor?” you asked, looking around the chaotic room.

“Anything.”

“Get the team to make some food for the ED. For the survivors, their families. Staff. Anyone who needs it.”

“Yeah, that’s a really good idea. How much do you need?”

“Everything we’ve got.”

A beat of silence. “Everything…? Is it that bad?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly.

She didn’t hesitate. “We’ll get started right now.”

You thanked her, hung up, and slowly slid further down the gurney, resting Jack’s phone against your cheek like a comfort blanket. It was nice to have a piece of him with you.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. But somehow, your body finally gave out. And, when you woke again, it was to Dr. Mohan’s voice ringing out from a few feet away. “Need help with an airway!”

Your bleary gaze tried to focus, mind swimming through fog as Jack and Robby rushed to help her.

“GSW to the neck with expanding hematoma and distorted anatomy. Can’t intubate him – probably hit the carotid,” she explained.

You blinked heavily, watching Jack attend to the bleeding and shout out orders in that commanding voice of his.

But it was the needle taped to his arm, feeding a blood bag wrapped around his ankle, that really caught your attention. Without lifting your head, your sleepy eyes shifted to it.

“Are you donating?” Dr. Mohan asked.

“O-neg, yeah.” As if he could feel your eyes on him, he glanced your way, one of his eyes dropping in a wink. “Thought I’d be more useful as a two-for-one today.”

“Show off,” you muttered weakly, rolling your eyes.

He grinned, eyes focused on the patient before him as he put a Foley in. As he was working, he called to Perlah, asking her to get you a juice box when she got a chance.

“Can you make sure it’s not apple?” he asked after her. “She hates apple.”

Despite everything, you felt a warmth blooming in your chest at that.

When Perlah brought you a juice box––fruit punch––you sipped it quietly, eyes on the trauma around you. The blood. The screams. The ones who were being saved – and the ones who weren’t.

Jack returned after stabilizing his GSW patient. He didn’t say anything at first, just placed a warm hand on your forehead, thumb brushing lightly at your hairline.

“You want some more juice?” You shook your head. “But you’re good?”

You force a nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He didn’t believe you, but he didn’t force the truth out of you either. Just made sure to watch you more closely as he continued working around you.

Sometime later, Eleni arrived – along with half the staff from Francesca. They came bearing trays of food: warm bread, hearty pastas, fruit, rice dishes, sandwiches, coffee, cookies.

The smell alone grounded people. Nurses grabbed bites between patients. Survivors’ families cried when offered plates. Even doctors paused to say thank you.

You watched it all from your bed, barely speaking – your throat tightened.

Santos, who stood beside Jack, asked, “Is that the black cod from Francesca?” she asked, oblivious.

Jack’s eyes flicked to the food in the familiar light pink bags, then to you.

It wasn’t the fact that you’d gotten food for the entire floor that caught his attention – it was why you’d even thought to do it. Even banged up, bruised, barely functioning – you’d wanted to look after everyone else.

He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time, with new eyes. Like maybe, despite your young age and optimism when it came to seeing the best in people, Jack could still learn a thing or two from you. And maybe that was what he admired most.

When he managed to find a minute to be back at your bedside, he didn’t say anything. Just offered you the food on his plate, making sure he saved you that sandwich you raved about so much.

He sat beside you, in quiet solidarity. And, for a moment, in the middle of one of the worst days either of you had lived through, something in the chaos finally felt still.

When Jack left again to attend to more patients, the chaos didn’t remain still. Instead, it slowed – in the worst way.

You finally stopped moving. Stopped reacting. And, just, took it all in.

The crying, the gurgled pain, the rushed footsteps, the overheard codes being called. You can see every little thing – the crimson on someone’s shirt, the way a nurse’s gloved hands shook, the metallic scent in the air.

Someone shouting for gauze. Another for a crash cart. A kid screaming down the corridor, clutching his broken arm, blood smeared along his cheek.

And it was all muffled, happening in slow motion. Dull in your senses, leaving only an ache. In your bones. In your ribs. Behind your eyes.

And then you saw them.

Robby was towering over a gurney, hands pressed tightly to a teenage girl’s chest – desperate, shaking. Her bra was soaked through. A pool of maroon darkened the sheets she was lying on.

She was already still. Limp.

And a teenage boy was sobbing her name. Leah.

You vaguely remembered his face – Jake, Robby’s sort-of adopted son.

He’s just a teenager… meaning Leah is too.

Was too.

You silently watched Jack touch Robby’s shoulder once, gently, but Robby shrugged it off. Muttered something over and over. Continued with chest compressions everyone knew wouldn’t help.

You could see it in the eyes of the practitioners around him. In the way they hesitated before trying to help. In how nobody called to see if an OR was open. Still, they didn’t want to pull him off her. Not yet.

And something about the quiet truth of that moment sliced deep through your gut.

Before you could process it, you were pulling the IVs from your arm and sliding off the gurney. Your knees buckled for half a second, and your sprained ankle throbbed, but you forced yourself upright. Moved down the hall. Didn’t realize where you were going until your hand was on the bathroom door, pushing it open and locking it behind you.

The silence inside felt oddly louder than the overwhelming med bay.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, not recognizing the reflection. Skin smudged with soot and scarlet blood, small cuts along your hairline, a big bruise where you’d fallen and hit your jaw.

You turned the tap on, splashing ice cold water on your face. It did nothing.

The tears came suddenly and in volume, blurring your vision, and causing you to sink. Down to the floor, knees against your chest, arms hugging.

You dropped your head, trying to focus on the sterile scent of disinfectant as it stung your nose. But all you could see was blood. The stillness. The way Robby cradled Leah’s lifeless body like she might wake up at any moment.

You didn’t know how long you sat there like that. Ten minutes, two hours – time had gone strangely elastic.

A knock sounded once. Then, a key card swipe.

You flinched as the door eased open and Jack stepped inside, gait soft-footed. His brows pulled together when he saw you there, folded into yourself.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just closed the door gently behind him and sat down beside you, back resting against the wall. His outstretched knee brushed your good ankle.

You could tell he was itching to say something, to get you out of this funk. But you didn’t speak until you were ready, and he respected that.

A long time passed before you looked up at him, and your chest cracked wide open.

“How come nothing happened to me?” you asked quietly.

“What are you talking about?”

“That kid – Robbie’s kid – his girlfriend, she…” you trailed off. Shook your head. “And I… I’m here, right? I’m breathing, and I’m good, and I’m gonna have some really badass scars and a hell of a story – ”

The corners of Jack’s mouth lifted comfortingly. “Did I leave any scars when I sutured up your thumb?” You shook your head. “Then, what makes you think I’m gonna leave any behind for you to remember this by?” he tried, lightheartedly, almost teasing – but your face didn’t soften.

You were somewhere else entirely. A million miles away, eyes glassy and unfocused.

“I don’t want you to remember this forever,” he admitted, correcting himself.

“I think I will,” you whispered. “Even if I don’t have any physical scars to remind me.”

Jack looked at you for a long time. Then, slowly, he pulled you into his lap, pressing you gently into his chest. You didn’t resist. Just leaned in. Let yourself fold into him like you had no bones left.

He felt safe, even if the world didn’t anymore.

His chin rested lightly on top of your head, and his voice came low, almost gravelly.

“Sometimes surviving feels heavier than dying,” he said. “But you’re here, and that counts for something. Even if you don’t know what yet.”

You closed your eyes, let the silence swell between you, thick and full and terrible. His heart beat steadily against your cheek, and yours slowly synched to his.

For the first time all day, you let yourself breathe without holding back the sob.

When your breathing eventually evens out again, your sobs subside into hiccups, but Jack still doesn’t move. Not until your fingers unclenched from the fabric of his scrubs and you shifted slightly in his arms, blinking up at him through lashes sticky with salt.

“Let’s get you back, huh?” he murmured, thumb brushing gently against your cheek, wiping away a tear. “Before King starts paging me panicking because she lost you.”

At that, a genuine single laugh escapes past your lips.

You nodded, letting him help you stand, steadying you with one hand at your elbow while the other rested at your waist.

You weren’t shaking anymore, but your body felt like it had been wrung out, nothing left but raw emotion and a dull, aching tiredness.

Back in the med bay, the gurney felt too open, but you climbed back into it anyway. Jack hooked your IV back in, checked the monitor, adjusted the pillows under your ankle and tucked you in, grabbing extra blankets because he knew how cold you got here.

Every time he passed when moving from patient to patient, he paused. Asked you if you wanted something more to eat, another dose of pain meds, or the chance to change into a fresh set of clothes.

He led you to a new bathroom, helping you change out of your bloody top and jean shorts. As he pulled the hole of an extra t-shirt he kept in his locker over your head, he leaned down and gently pressed his lips to your forehead, without ever saying a word.

Back in the gurney bed, now in his t-shirt and sweatpants, you felt a little calmer. By now, all the food from Francesca was gone, but he offered you a half-eaten granola bar from his scrub jacket pocket when your stomach growled loudly.

And each time he left the absence of him left behind a cold draft against your skin.

The night dragged on. The chaos outside finally slowed, like a storm passing. Wounds were closed, departments and rooms assigned. The steady beeping of monitors became the background noise of recovery, not disaster.

It was sometime past midnight when Taylor led you into an assigned room not far from the nurse’s station. When you were settled into the room––overhead lights dimmed just how you liked it and a cup of cold water at your bedside––you caught sight of Jack outside your door.

He talked quietly to another nurse for a few minutes, then handed over a clipboard he held before making his way into your room, checking your progress.

“Are you busy right now?” you quietly asked.

He glanced down the hallway, then decided, “I got a minute to spare.”

Yout throat felt dry, the words nearly catching a little as you spoke – even after everything you two had been through in the past few day. “Can you come lie down with me?”

Your voice sounded so small, how could he ever say no?

He blinked once, then shut the door behind him.

The bed was barely wide enough for one person, but he made it work. Shrugged off his stethoscope and climbed up carefully. His body curled beside yours, both of you on your sides, facing each other in the dim glow. He tucked one arm under your head, the other hooking around your waist to pull you closer.

You let out a deep exhale, murmuring against his skin, “Pretty sure there’s a HIPAA violation about doctor-patient contact somewhere here.”

Your voice wasn’t light. You didn’t smile.

But the joke still landed.

“Oh, my God,” he groaned, eyes rolling before they settled back on you. The hand on your waist rose to cup your cheek. “I’m really glad you’re okay,” he whispered, before his lips pressed against yours in a soft kiss that reassured you you were going to be okay.

The silence that followed when you pulled away was full of the words neither of you had to say out loud. His hand found yours under the blanket, your fingers tangling naturally.

And, for a little while, the horrors of the day faded into something softer.

The first days back home after the shooting felt different.

Your bedroom felt smaller, like the walls were closing in. But, it also felt comfortable, familiar. Nothing bad had ever happened here, and nothing bad ever would.

Jack drove you home that first day. He didn’t say much, didn’t need to. He just kept a steady hand on the steering wheel and his gaze flicked over to you every few minutes. He ended up staying until his next shift, never leaving your side unless he had to.

You trailed him around the house like a shadow – when he brewed tea for you, made you breakfast, shifted through his backpack by the door. You weren’t even sure what you were so afraid of, only that when he was near, it all felt quieter. Bearable.

An hour into being back home, the two of you had settled into the couch with some show playing low in the background. You didn’t remember what it was, only the way Jack’s eyes started to flutter closed. He fought sleep longer than he should’ve.

You tugged gently at his hand, coaxing him into your room. He didn’t protest, just let you lead him, half-asleep. His body sunk into the bed, melting into sheets that smelled like you.

You couldn’t sleep – couldn’t really calm your mind when your ears were suddenly so sensitive to the noises around. Dogs barking. The garbage truck coming to pick up the recycling. A car backfiring.

Each one pulled your body taut with unease.

Instead, you watched Jack sleep. He looked so peaceful, long eyelashes brushing against soft skin. His forehead wasn’t crinkled in worry for once, even though you could tell he was running on empty this last shift.

You reached out to gently run your fingers through his hair and it made him sleepily shift toward you on the bed, his head nuzzling into the crook of your neck. The warmth made your chest ache.

When his alarm went off, he began to stir but you tightened your hold on him. Not ready to let him leave or face a cold, desolate existence without him for the next 12 hours.

Eyes still shut, he gently teased, “Clingy much?” But the softness in his tone showed you he didn’t mind it one bit.

Not when your bare feet padded lightly right behind his as he walked into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, nor when he got in the shower and you followed in after.

Afterward, wrapped in a towel, you avoided looking in the mirror. You didn’t need to. You could already feel the bruises blooming, their soreness serving as quiet reminders. You stared down at your arms, your collarbone, at the places where the pain still lingered, where the memories came to life – gunshots, screaming, smoke in the air.

You flinched when Jack shut the bathroom door, the sound too loud, too sudden. He didn’t notice… or maybe he did and just didn’t say anything.

When he was packing his camo backpack for work, his movements froze for a second, hesitating. Then, wordlessly, he pulled out your bloodied clothes from Pitt Fest, folded in a ziploc bag. Before you could even process what he was doing, he’d quickly stuffed them into the laundry machine and ran a cycle.

After he had pulled his jacket on, he approached you while you were slowly picking at the sandwich he’d made you for supper. His hands gently cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“You gonna be okay tonight?” he asked softly.

You nodded, though it felt like a lie. Still, he pulled you into a hug, pressing your head against his chest, and leaned down to kiss the top of your head. “Call me if you need anything. Or if you get bored and wanna get your ass kicked in chess.”

That coaxed a real laugh out of you, unexpected and bright. Before the shooting, you two had been engaged in a seriously competitive match over GamePigeon. Jack had accused you of cheating more than once. You missed that.

“Yeah, yeah,” you said, patting his chest when you leaned back. “Might let you win this time. Keep that fragile ego intact.”

He smirked, leaning down to meet your eyes. “Be good today, okay?”

“Yes, Dad,” you groaned with exaggerated disdain. The wording made his brows raise and sent a shiver down his body.

“That and the age gap… you’re gonna give me a complex,” he groaned, watching the corners of your lips tug upwards before you reached up on the tips of your toes and wrapped your arms around him.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll forget all about it when you’re elbows deep, rearranging someone’s guts,” you easily teased, pressing a kiss to his lips.

“Rather rearrange your guts,” he mumbled against your lips, cupping a hand behind your neck to deepen the kiss.

When you pulled back, you tilted your head.

“What?” he asked.

“I’m rubbing off on you.”

He opened his mouth again, likely to make another suggestive remark about rubbing something else off on you, but you cupped a hand over it before he could.

“Don’t you have lives to save?” you asked, gently shoving him out the door.

You knew the house wouldn’t be empty for long—Jack and your sister had alternated shifts so someone could always be with you—but you still missed him.

Only thirty minutes passed between Jack leaving and your sister coming home. But in those thirty minutes, the washer went off and you thought you could manage the simple task of transferring your clothes to the dryer.

After all, they were just clothes. Just pieces of cotton and thread, no longer cakes in soot and blood. They were fresh as new.

So why couldn’t you touch them? Why did you leave the washer door open and just stare into the tub where they sat, soaked?

By the time your sister walked in, the clothes were long gone – dumped in the trash bin outside. It was the only thing you could bring yourself to do.

You were curled up on the sofa when she found you, TV flickering across your face like nothing had happened. She didn’t ask. She just sat beside you, and that was enough.

That’s how the days passed. Evenings with your sister – watching TV, talking about what happened, processing. Mornings and afternoons with Jack, who brought over puzzles, crossword books, a physical chess set… even a spare toothbrush which now sat happily beside yours in the bathroom. It made your heart ache every time you saw it.

You slept a lot, but even when you were awake, you were tired. Even inside the comfort of your home, you were still hyper-aware of all the noises outside, and any large crowds that passed by, voices raised.

Yet, somehow, those hazel eyes you’d grown to find comfort in had convinced you to step outside, start going on walks. Take in fresh air again.

It wasn’t easy – you barely made it around the block, nails digging into the back of Jack’s hand from how tightly you held it – but it was progress.

In a week’s time, you even returned to the restaurant. You were ready to face the hustle and bustle of Francesca, ready to put your mind to work and focus on something positive for a change.

What you weren’t ready for was running into Jake by the entrance.

“Hey,” he said softly, remembering you from Robby’s stories and also vaguely recalling seeing your face on that unspeakable day.

“Hey,” you echoed, voice just as strained. “What are you doing here?”

“Mom asked me to pick up dinner.”

You nodded silently, sunsure what to say next. “How are you?”

He shrugged. “You know…”

You did know.

“My mom’s got me talking to a trauma specialist,” he said, not sure why he was telling you. “At the hospital.”

“Yeah… Jack – Dr. Abbot – he’s been trying to convince me to go, too.” You hesitated. “Is it… helping?”

Another shrug. “A little, I guess. But.. I don’t know – she wasn’t there. She doesn’t really get it.”

You reached for a napkin on an unoccupied table, finding yourself scribbling your number down before offering it to him.

“You can call me… if you want. I get it.”

He held the napkin between his fingers, staring at the numbers. Then, he tucked it into his pocket with a slow nod. “Thanks.”

You couldn’t let him leave without saying the next words at the tip of your tongue. “Hey… I’m sorry about your girlfriend. She seemed… pretty. I’m sure she was – I’m sure she was really great.” You found a lump forming in your throat.

He paused a minute, then said quietly, “She was.” After a beat, he added, “You know, I told her about you once.”

You were shocked to hear that. “What?”

“I was telling her one of Robby’s stories, about the first time he ever came to visit this place, and he got to brag to the people at the next table about how he knew the head chef. And when they asked you how you came to be there, you said by – ”

“ – by being brave,” you finished for him, feeling tears lining your vision.

Jake nodded. Then, as if he knew you needed to hear it, he said, “Leah would want you to be brave now… about all of it.”

That stayed with you until the restaurant closed, and you drove home, and laid in your bed for the night, getting the first restful sleep – no nightmares – for the first time in a long time.

And when you woke, it was to Jack crawling into bed beside you, rays of sun filtering through the blinds and lighting up his face.

His hand found yours under the covers, like it always did, comforting and warm – and you sighed in contentment.

“I wanna stay like this forever,” you mumbled against his skin. “Can we?”

“Yeah, baby… as long as you want.”

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