William Harrington - February 23rd
By the time I got out of the shower, my skin was pink and raw from the heat. The mirror was fogged over, which was probably a good thing. I didn't really want to see the bruises I already knew were there.
The game had been brutal — elbows flying, shoulders slammed, Ethan getting checked so hard into the boards I thought his ribs cracked. He'd popped up like it was nothing, though, skating off with that same stupid grin he always wore when he was bleeding.
I threw on a hoodie and sweatpants, running a towel through my hair, and headed downstairs.
The living room lights were dimmed, the TV glow flickering across three half-dead bodies and a war zone of takeout containers.
Dom and Nick were planted on the floor, surrounded by empty chip bags and two untouched protein shakes. Ethan was stretched out across the couch like he owned it — one arm draped over his head, the other pressing an ice pack to his bare ribs.
His hoodie was tossed over the armrest.
I stopped halfway down the stairs before I could help it.
His skin was pale in the TV light, except for the constellation of bruises painting his torso — deep purples, fading yellows, angry reds. There was a jagged scar cutting across his left shoulder, just above the bicep.
Long, thin, ugly.
Not hockey-made.
Dom glanced up from his argument and grinned. "Oh hey, look who survived the ice bath."
"Barely," I muttered, stepping down and moving toward the couch.
Nick pointed at the screen. "Okay, but tell me you wouldn't pick Bella over Gigi. Like objectively."
Ethan groaned without opening his eyes. "Can we not do this every week?"
Dom shoved his shoulder. "It's a valid debate."
"Valid brain damage," Ethan said, voice low, a lazy edge of sarcasm coating it.
I dropped onto the opposite end of the couch, still towel-drying my hair. He shifted to make room — or maybe just to stretch — and the motion pulled his arm back, giving me another clear view of that scar.
It wasn't small. Looked deep, like something that had healed wrong.
A slash, not a scrape.
I tried not to stare. I really did.
But there was something about it — about him, sitting there unbothered, half-watching the movie with a ribcage that looked like it had been through a car crash — that made my chest twist.
He caught me looking.
For half a second, our eyes met — his slightly glazed from exhaustion, but sharp underneath. Like he noticed everything.
"What?" he said quietly.
I blinked, pretending to be unfazed. "Nothing. You're just... covered in bruises."
He smirked. "You should see the other guys."
"I did," I said. "They're walking."
That made him laugh — soft, rough, and tired. He pressed the ice pack harder against his ribs, winced, and sucked in a breath through his teeth.
"Still hurts?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He shrugged. "Only when I breathe."
"Great. You'll survive."
"Good to know you care."
"Never said that."
He gave me a sideways look, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Didn't have to."
And there it was again — that stupid invisible tension.
The air in the room thickened, like the space between us was shrinking even though we weren't moving.
Dom threw a chip at Nick's head, snapping the moment in half.
"You're insane if you think Gigi's more iconic," Nick said, standing to point at the TV. "Bella walks like a panther."
Ethan groaned again, dropping his head back onto the cushion. "I'd pay real money for both of you to shut up."
I leaned back, trying to act casual. "You're the one who decided to hang out with them."
"Yeah, well, they promised pizza."
"There was pizza," Dom said, looking guilty. "You were still in the shower."
Ethan tilted his head toward me, lips curling slightly. "Guess you missed dinner again, Captain."
I almost told him I wasn't hungry. Almost.
But the way he said it — that casual Captain, soft, teasing — it sounded less like mockery now and more like a habit he hadn't realized stuck.
"I'll live," I muttered.
His gaze lingered for a second too long. Then he looked away, pretending to focus on the movie.
Onscreen, someone screamed. Dom yelled at Nick. The couch shifted when Ethan stretched again, one leg brushing against mine.
My whole body went still.
It wasn't intentional — he wasn't doing anything — but the contact lit up every nerve I had like it was electricity.
I told myself to move. I didn't.
Instead, I let my hand rest along the back of the couch, inches from his shoulder. The scar glinted faintly in the light.
I wanted to ask where it came from.
I wanted to know who hurt him — because it sure as hell wasn't hockey.
But I knew better than to ask.
He caught me staring again.
This time, he didn't look away.
He just smirked, low and quiet. "You keep looking like that, Harrington, people are gonna start talking."
I felt my ears go hot. "You wish."
He laughed under his breath, the sound muffled by the ice pack. "Sure."
The room faded for a moment — the TV noise, the bickering, all of it.
Just me and him, bruised and tired and pretending none of this meant anything.
Then Dom shouted, "OH MY GOD, GIGI JUST LIKED BELLA'S POST!" like it was breaking news.
Ethan snorted so hard he almost dropped the ice pack.
"Jesus Christ, this house," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.
"Don't act like you're above the drama," I said.
"I'm not above it," he replied. "I'm just smart enough not to get involved in a sibling rivalry I didn't start."
Dom threw another chip at him. Ethan caught it mid-air and flicked it right back, hitting Dom in the forehead.
The three of them erupted into half-hearted laughter, and for once, I didn't mind the noise.
I leaned back, arms crossed, just watching — watching him.
He fit here now. I couldn't remember when that happened.
A few weeks ago, I couldn't stand the sound of his voice.
Now, the silence felt weird when he wasn't around.
The thought hit me like a slap, and I forced myself to look away, pretending to focus on the movie.
But I still saw it — in the corner of my eye — the way he sat half-slouched, ice pack sliding down, eyes heavy, mouth curved into a faint grin as Dom and Nick argued.
He looked... peaceful.
For once, he wasn't fighting anyone.
And I couldn't stop thinking how rare that must be for him.
When he shifted again, ribs tensing, I finally said, "You should get that checked."
"Which part?"
"All of it."
He laughed quietly. "I'll live."
"You always say that."
"Yeah. 'Cause I always do."
I didn't respond. I just nodded, watching the way his hand flexed against the ice pack — knuckles scabbed, fingers trembling slightly.
The scar caught my eye again, and before I could stop myself, I asked, "That one — on your shoulder. Where's it from?"
His smile vanished — not angry, just gone.
"Old story," he said finally. "One I don't tell."
I nodded once, trying to ignore the weight of that.
But he looked over at me — like he could tell I wasn't satisfied — and added, quietly, "Nothing to worry about."
I didn't ask again.
We went back to watching the movie.
Dom and Nick fell asleep halfway through, snoring against each other like idiots.
Ethan stayed awake, barely.
By the time the credits rolled, his eyes were half-lidded, the ice pack melting onto his hoodie.
He shifted again, brushing against my arm, too close.
I didn't move.
And when he murmured, half-asleep, "Night, Captain," I pretended not to hear it — but I didn't move away either.
A/N
Two posts in three days? Who am I?
Anyway, this story is heating up... like... UP. Idk.
I'm bad at this.
I also think I failed my English mock, so there's that.
MIGHT have passed Irish tho, so let's hope x
I also saw a Levi Caldwell edit on my fyp so there's that #husbandwhoistechnicallyinarelationship
Also Send Help was fucking insane. Like what. Holy plot twist.
I'm gonna get ya, get ya, get ya one way or another.
INSANE.