Archive of Our Own

Days blurred.
The guards were careless but efficient. Food twice a day. No names. Just numbers shouted down the hall.
Willow kept her head down.
She didn’t use her power.
Not yet.
Then a little girl — maybe eight — fell when one of the guards shoved her back inside after a headcount. Her arm bent wrong when she hit the floor.
She didn’t scream.
She just bit her lip so hard it bled.
Willow moved without thinking.
“Don’t,” the sharp-eyed boy warned under his breath.
Too late.
Willow cupped the girl’s arm.
Warmth bloomed under her skin — stronger than usual. Fear made it brighter. The bone slid back into place beneath her palms.
The girl gasped.
The swelling faded.
The room went silent.
Seven pairs of eyes stared at Willow.
“You’re one of them,” the boy breathed.
She swallowed.
“Don’t tell,” she said quietly.
He nodded.
But cameras don’t keep secrets.
⸻
The door to the crate burst open two days later.
Not unlocked.
Ripped.
Gunfire cracked in the hallway.
The youngest kids screamed.

“Painted willow in the woods of pine,”
“Silver brushstrokes down your spine.”
“Painted willow tree blowing in the wind,”
“Whispering secrets you’ve always kept in.”
“Needles hum and shadows lean,”
“Light slips through in shades of green.”
“You bend but never break in two,”
“Every storm passes through you.”
~~
Mama sings softly to me as she pulls my blanket up closer to my head. I whisper the last words with her, sleep heavy on my tongue.
“Every storm passes through you.”
Her hand smooths my hair back from my forehead. Her fingers smell like soap and flour and something warm I’ve never had a word for. The lamp on my dresser glows gold, turning the walls into honey. Outside, the wind moves through the real trees the way it does in the song — a long hush, like the forest breathing.
“Even the loud ones?” I murmur.
“Especially the loud ones,” she says.
The house creaks as if agreeing. The branches scratch softly at the window, not angry — just restless. I imagine a willow standing somewhere deep in the dark, silver down its back, bending without fear. The storm pushes. The willow bows. But it does not snap.
Mama presses a kiss into my hair.
“You’re stronger than you think,” she whispers.
I don’t feel strong. I feel small and warm and wrapped in blankets that smell like summer sun. But the song settles inside my ribs anyway, like it’s planting something there.
Outside, the wind sighs again.
Inside, Mama hums the melody once more — quieter now, almost just breath and memory.
And before sleep pulls me under, I whisper it one last time, like a promise to the dark:
“Every storm passes through you.”
Willow snapped awake from a half-sleep and shoved the smallest behind her instinctively. Jason — the sharp-eyed boy — moved to her side. A girl named May planted herself on Willow’s other side.
“Sounds like someone’s fighting out there,” Jason whispered.
Gunshots. Shouting. Something heavy slammed into the side of the metal crate, making it shriek.
Willow’s heart pounded so hard she thought it might tear free.
The latch sparked.
Metal screamed.
The door flew inward.
Smoke poured in behind a red-suited figure stepping through it like he owned the dark.
Daredevil.
Behind him, something red and blue dropped from the ceiling in a crouch.
Spider-Man.
And from somewhere above, a voice called, “Good news! You’re being dramatically rescued!”
A third figure flipped down beside them.
Deadpool gave a thumbs-up.
“Field trip’s canceled, kids!”
Willow blinked.
Jason whispered, “No way.”
Daredevil tilted his head slightly, listening to the frantic pounding of eight terrified hearts.
“How many?” he asked calmly.
“Eight,” Willow answered before she could stop herself.
His masked face turned toward her.
“You’re steady,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t a compliment.
It was an observation.
“Can you move?”
“Yes.”
The hallway exploded with movement.
Spider-Man webbed guns from hands before guards could aim.
Deadpool scooped up two of the smallest kids like they weighed nothing. “Tiny humans acquired!”
Daredevil moved like he could see everything before it happened.
Willow grabbed the girl she’d healed and pulled her close.
“Stay with me,” she whispered.
They ran.
Smoke burned her lungs. Alarms screamed overhead.
Halfway down the corridor, something massive smashed through a wall ahead of them — armored, enhanced, wrong.
Spider-Man muttered, “Oh, that’s not great.”
Daredevil shifted instantly. “Left joint. It’s compensating.”
Spider-Man’s webs snapped tight around the creature’s knee.
Deadpool fired in controlled bursts, covering their retreat.
“Exit! Exit! Everyone who enjoys not being experimented on, follow the red fashion statement!”
Willow stumbled when the floor shook.
A hand caught her elbow.
Daredevil.
Firm. Steady.
“Keep going,” he said.
Not rushed.
Certain.
They burst through a loading dock door into the cold night air.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Spider-Man sealed the door behind them with thick webs.
The metal buckled from something slamming into it.
Deadpool pointed behind them. “That’s our cue!”
They ran toward flashing emergency lights. Later, sirens were still flashing blue and red against the brick when Willow felt it.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
Instinct.
An officer stood near the ambulance, talking to a man in a charcoal suit. The suit was too sharp for the chaos around him. No dust on his shoes. No rush in his posture.
He wasn’t helping.
He was observing.
Willow’s skin prickled.
Every time her eyes brushed over him, something inside her recoiled — the same way it had when she’d heard her father say How much?
The man’s gaze drifted lazily across the rescued kids.
Counting.
Assessing.
Not relieved.
Interested.
Willow stepped backward slowly.
Jason was a few feet away, hovering near Eli like a guard dog pretending not to be one. They were from the same neighborhood — same corner store, same cracked sidewalks. It made sense he’d stay close to the smallest.
Willow slipped beside him.
“You see him?” she murmured.
Jason didn’t look at her. “Yeah.”
The suited man said something to the officer. The officer nodded, glancing toward the group of kids.
Willow’s pulse spiked.
“Something’s wrong,” she breathed.
Jason finally risked a glance at her. His jaw tightened.
“You should run,” he whispered immediately.
No hesitation.
No argument.
Just a fact.
She swallowed.
“What about you?”
He gave a half-shrug that didn’t reach his eyes. “I got Eli. And we're not different.”
Eli was clutching a juice box a friendly cop had given him, the straw bent sideways from nervous chewing.
Willow looked at them both.
She couldn’t take them with her.
She couldn’t heal all things.
And if the man in the suit was who she thought he was — if he was connected to the van, the crate, the price —
Then she was the target.
Not them.
“Hope you guys make it home safely,” she whispered.
Jason’s mouth twitched faintly. “Same to you, Tree.”
Tree.
She almost smiled.
” Don’t get one anymore.“ she snorted
The suited man’s head turned slightly.
Too slight for most people to notice.
But Willow saw it.
He’d spotted her watching.
She didn’t wait.
The moment an officer bent to speak to another kid, Willow stepped backward, then to the side, then slipped between two parked cars.
No one called out.
No one grabbed her.
She moved fast but not frantically — learned skill. She crossed the street with a cluster of paramedics, ducked behind a delivery truck, then bolted.
The alleys shadows swallowed her whole.
Her breath echoed off the brick.
She ran until the sirens were faint.
Until her lungs burned.
Until her legs trembled.
She didn’t stop until she was sure no polished shoes were following.
⸻
Back at the loading dock, the man in the charcoal suit adjusted his cufflinks. “One is missing,” he said calmly.
The officer frowned. “Missing?”
The man’s smile was thin. “The healer.”
Not a question.
A certainty.
Behind them, perched on the edge of a rooftop where no one had noticed him, Spider-Man went very still.
And a few feet away in the shadows, Daredevil’s head tilted.
Listening.
The suited man’s heartbeat was steady.
Too steady.
Not relieved children were safe.
Not concerned.
Just calculating.
Daredevil turned his masked face toward the alley Willow had taken.
He could still hear her.
Running.
Alone.
His jaw tightened.
“She knew,” he murmured.
Spider-Man glanced at him. “Knew what?”
“That she was the one they wanted.”
Down below, the suited man slipped a card into the officer’s hand.
“If she surfaces,” he said smoothly, “call this number.”
Then he walked away.
Unhurried.
Certain she couldn’t go far.
⸻
Willow finally slowed five blocks over.
She bent over, hands braced on her knees, sucking in air. “You are not for sale,” she whispered to herself.
But someone thought she was. The man in the charcoal suit did not get into a police car.
He did not call for backup.
He walked half a block away from the flashing lights, stepped into the shadow of a black sedan, and closed the door quietly behind him.
Inside, the driver didn’t look back.
“Well?” the driver asked.
The suited man removed his glasses, folding them with careful precision.
“She’s alive,” he said.
A pause.
“The healer?”
“Yes.”
The word carried weight.
The driver’s jaw tightened. “That’s not possible. The father said—”
“The father said a great many things,” the man interrupted smoothly. “Most of them are motivated by debt.”
He tapped a finger against his knee.
“She slipped the net once. That will not happen again.”
The sedan pulled away from the curb.
On the man’s phone screen was a paused still frame from security footage — grainy, zoomed in.
A thirteen-year-old girl in a pine-green hoodie.
Hands pressed to another child’s arm.
Light blooming faintly under her skin.
He zoomed in further.
“Subject designation: Willow,” he murmured. “Confirmed Omega-level regenerative transfer potential.”
The driver exhaled slowly. “Weaponization?”
“Optimization,” the suited man corrected.
He scrolled through files.
Lab schematics.
Medical restraints.
Energy extraction models.
“If her ability can be stabilized and redirected,” he continued calmly, “we eliminate battlefield casualties. Prolong asset longevity. Potentially reverse terminal decline in select donors.”
“Donors,” the driver repeated.
The suited man smiled faintly.
“Language matters.”
On another page: a logo.
Clean. Clinical.
The kind of organization that claimed to be about “human advancement” and “genetic responsibility.”
But buried deeper in the files were internal memos.
Mutant containment initiatives.
Acquisition protocols.
Subject compliance strategies.
The project title at the top of the page:
PROJECT EVERGREEN
Below it:
Anti-Mutant Adaptive Research Division.
The suited man leaned back.
“She cannot be allowed to run free.“ He said. As if summoned by the thought, on a rooftop three blocks away, Spider-Man crouched beside Daredevil.
“I don’t like the suit guy,” Spider-Man muttered.
Daredevil’s head was tilted slightly, listening to the hum of engines fading into traffic.
“His heartbeat never changed,” Daredevil said quietly.
“During a child rescue?”
“Yes.”
Spider-Man grimaced. “Yeah. That’s a red flag.”
“Find the plate,” Daredevil said.
Deadpool was already moving,
Spider-Man follows Daredevil.
⸻
Willow didn’t know any of that.
She only knew the city felt tighter now.
Like something had shifted.
She kept to side streets, doubling back twice to check if she was being followed.
Her instincts were rarely wrong.
Tonight they were screaming.
She ducked into a narrow alley between a laundromat and a boarded-up bakery, pressing her back to the brick.
Her hands were trembling again.
She pressed them together until warmth flickered faintly under her skin.
Healing always felt like giving something away.
She couldn’t afford to lose too much.
Not now.
A faint scuff echoed behind her.
She spun.
Nothing.
Just a stray cat knocking over a bottle.
She exhaled shakily.
“You’re paranoid,” she whispered to herself.
But paranoia had kept her alive.
Across the city, the black sedan turned into an underground parking structure beneath an unmarked building.
Inside, white lights buzzed overhead.
Glass walls.
Sterile floors.
Monitors lining one entire wall.
On the largest screen: Willow’s frozen image.
A woman in a lab coat studied it closely.
“Thirteen?” she asked.
“Yes.”
The suited man removed his jacket.
“Emotional volatility will be high. Attachment points likely unstable.”
The woman nodded. “That makes conditioning easier.”
He gave her a sideways glance.
“Not too much damage,” he said. “Her value decreases if she fractures.”
The woman smiled thinly.
“We don’t break assets,” she replied.
“We refine them.”
On another monitor, satellite overlays began mapping recent unexplained medical recoveries across the city.
Clustering patterns.
Alleyways.
Underpasses.
Shelters.
The circle tightened.
“Deploy retrieval teams,” the suited man ordered. “Non-lethal force only. I want her intact.”
“And if vigilantes interfere?”
His expression didn’t change.
“Then we disappear with the asset.”
⸻
Willow pushed off the wall and kept moving.
She didn’t know about Project Evergreen.
She didn’t know about extraction models or containment units.
She just knew someone had looked at her tonight the same way her father had.
Like a number.
Like a transaction.
Like something to own.
“Painted willow in the woods of pine.”
“You bend.”
“But bending doesn’t mean surrender.”
High above, Spider-Man landed lightly on the alley fire escape behind her.
He didn’t speak yet.
He just watched for a moment — making sure she wasn’t cornered.
A second later, Daredevil dropped soundlessly to the opposite end of the alley.
Not trapping her.
Just closing the exits to anyone else.
Because somewhere underground, a hunt had just begun.
And this time, it wasn’t a desperate father making a phone call.
It was an organization.
With funding.
With labs.
With patience.
And they had decided Willow was worth acquiring. A few weeks later, Willow is counting the coins in her pocket and already knows it won’t be enough.
So she waits until the alley is quiet.
The restaurant’s back door slams once as the last employee leaves. The lights inside click off one by one. The night settles.
She slips behind the building, keeping to the shadows. Dumpster diving is about timing. Too early and someone sees you. Too late and someone else has already taken the good stuff.
She climbs quietly, easing the lid open.
The smell hits first.
Then—
A breath.
Not hers.
Not the wind.
She slowly lowers the lid and looks down.
There’s a shape against the brick wall.
Red.
Dark, soaked red.
Her stomach drops.
The mask is unmistakable.
Daredevil.
He’s slumped on his side, one arm twisted under him. The alley light barely reaches him, but she can see enough.
Too much blood.
For a split second, she thinks about running.
This is dangerous. Heroes have enemies. Enemies look for weaknesses.
But his chest rises shallowly.
Once.
Twice.
Irregular.
She crouches beside him and presses her fingers to his neck.
Pulse.
Weak.
“Great,” she whispers. “Of course it’s you.”
He doesn’t respond.
Up close, he doesn’t look like a legend. He looks wrecked. Bruised. Human.
She looks toward the mouth of the alley.
Empty.
No shouting. No footsteps. Whoever did this is gone.
Or coming back.
She hooks her hands under his arms and pulls.
He barely shifts.
He’s heavy — solid, built. Dead weight doesn’t cooperate.
“I’m going to regret this,” she mutters.
It takes everything she has.
She drags him in short bursts, stopping whenever headlights sweep past. Her arms shake. Her sneakers scrape against pavement. Twice she nearly drops him.
“Sorry,” she breathes when his shoulder bumps brick.
Getting him to the abandoned building is a nightmare.
Getting him up the stairs is worse.
One step at a time.
Pull.
Rest.
Pull.
By the time she reaches the third floor, her vision is swimming.
She lowers him onto her mattress and collapses to her knees beside him, gulping air.
He’s still breathing.
Barely.
She forces herself to move.
She peels back the worst-damaged sections of the suit just enough to see the injuries. A deep gash along his side. Heavy bruising across his ribs. One shoulder is swollen badly.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”
She cleans the wound first, hands trembling but careful. The bleeding doesn’t slow enough.
She stares at it.
Then closes her eyes and places her hands over the injury.
The warmth comes instantly.
Stronger than usual — like her body knows this is urgent.
Her power slips into him.
And she almost yanks away immediately.
Pain floods her senses.
Not just this wound.
Old fractures in his ribs that healed and broke again.
Scar tissue is layered thickly.
Damage in his shoulder that’s been there for years.
Concussions that left faint echoes.
Her breath stutters.
This isn’t one bad night.
This is a pattern.
A history.
Her power wants to fix it all — smooth every crack, erase every scar.
She pulls back sharply, dizzy.
“No,” she mutters to herself. “Just the bad fresh ones. Just the bad fresh ones.”
She focuses.
Stops the bleeding.
Seals the torn muscle.
Reduces the swelling enough so he won’t die.
Warmth drains out of her like water from a cracked cup.
His breathing deepens.
Steadies.
She moves to his shoulder and eases it back into place before pressing her palms there too.
Another wave of history slams into her.
Hit after hit after hit.
He keeps getting back up.
Why?
Her eyes burn.
“You’re not supposed to survive this much,” she whispers.
She heals only what she safely can.
Leaves the old scars alone.
When she finally pulls her hands away, she sways. Spots dance in her vision.
She wraps his side carefully with bandages she’s been saving.
As she adjusts his suit, her fingers brush against a hidden pocket.
A small burner phone.
She stares at it.
She could call someone.
But what if it tracks here?
What if whoever hurt him is watching for signals?
She sets it beside him instead.
He can decide who to call when he wakes up.
If he wakes up.
She checks his pulse again.
Stronger now.
Still steady.
She sits back against the wall, knees pulled up. Her hands are faintly warm from overuse. Her body feels hollowed out.
Up close, without the myth moving around him, he just looks… tired.
Her power still hums faintly, aware of all the pain it didn’t fix.
All the times he’s been hurt before tonight.
It horrifies her.
Not because he’s weak.
Because he keeps choosing this.
Her eyelids grow heavy.
For once, she isn’t the one running.
For once, she’s guarding someone else.
She shifts closer without thinking, listening to his breathing even as sleep pulls at her.
Within minutes, exhaustion wins.
Willow falls asleep on the floor beside the mattress. One hand on his wrist. Willow wakes because the room feels different.
Not louder.
Quieter.
Controlled.
Her eyes open slowly.
She doesn’t move at first.
She listens.
Breathing.
Steady.
Awake.
Her head turns.
He’s sitting up on the mattress.
The red mask is back on, but his posture has changed — alert, balanced, like he’s cataloging every sound in the building.
Her stomach drops.
For a split second, she considers bolting for the fire escape.
“You can,” he says calmly. “If you’re going to.”
She freezes.
“I’m not,” she shoots back automatically.
A small tilt of his head. He’s listening to her heart again.
It’s racing.
He notices.
She notices that he notices.
Annoying.
“You dragged me,” he says.
Not a question.
She shrugs, trying for casual. “You were in the way of the dumpster.”
A beat.
“Thank you,” he says.
Simple.
Real.
She wasn’t expecting that.
He shifts carefully, pressing a hand to his side.
He goes still. The bleeding has stopped. The muscle isn’t torn the way it should be. His ribs don’t grind like a broken ship when he breathes.
“You did more than bandage me,” he says quietly.
She stiffens.
Silence fills the room.
He turns his head slightly toward her, focusing.
“You’re not just a Good Samaritan.”
Her jaw tightens.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
His brow furrows faintly under the mask.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He considers that.
Then, softer: “You healed me.”
Not accusing.
Not fearful.
Just stating a fact.
She looks away.
The cracked wall is suddenly fascinating.
He listens to the faint tremor in her breathing.
“You shouldn’t be carrying something like that alone,” he says.
Her head snaps back toward him.
“And you should?” she fires back.
Touché.
He accepts it.
He moves his legs slowly off the mattress and stands. Careful. Testing balance.
She tenses automatically in case he falls.
He doesn’t.
He’s steady.
Not perfect.
But steady.
“You live here?” he asks.
She crosses her arms. “Sometimes.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
She glares.
He waits.
Silence stretches. He breaks it first.
“How old are you?”
Her heartbeat spikes.
“Old enough.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“No,” he says gently. “You’re not.”
She hates that tone.
It’s not pity.
It’s worse.
Concern.
“I didn’t ask for that,” she snaps. “And I definitely didn’t ask for it from some rooftop punch-happy vigilante.”
The second the words leave her mouth, she regrets them.
Too sharp.
She spins and bolts for the fire escape.
“Hey—” he calls, already moving after her. ”Wait.”
But she’s fast.
Fear always makes her faster.
Matt doesn’t chase her. He could.
But fear makes people run harder, not safer.
So he lets her go.
He memorizes the rhythm of her heartbeat instead. Just in case.
By the time Matt Murdock makes it back to his apartment, the city is fully awake.
He locks the door behind him.
Peels off the suit slowly.
He pauses when his fingers trace the place where the blade went in.
It should hurt more.
It should feel torn.
Instead—
There’s only a dull ache.
He presses experimentally against his ribs.
Bruised.
But old bruised.
Weeks-old coloring under the skin.
Not fresh trauma.
He exhales slowly.
“She really did it,” he murmurs.
Not just stabilization.
Repair.
Careful repair.
He flexes his shoulder.
Full range of motion.
No grind.
No tearing. A fourteen-year-old girl dragged him up three flights of stairs… and then fixed what grown doctors usually can’t.
The thought sits heavy. Not pride. Not relief. Concern.
Because he heard her pulse,
He heard her nearly collapse.
And she ran anyway.
Nelson & Murdock — Later That Morning
The office door creaks open.
Foggy Nelson looks up immediately.
“About time,” Foggy says. “You sounded like death on the phone.”
Matt hangs his coat neatly.
“I’ve sounded worse.”
Foggy stands, already circling the desk.
“Okay, scale of one to catastrophic, how bad are we?”
Matt hesitates.
“Complicated.”
Foggy groans. “That’s not a number.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice.
“How bad?”
Matt loosens his tie slightly.
“I was stabbed.”
Foggy goes completely still.
“You were— what?”
“Side. Missed anything critical.”
Foggy grabs his arm. “Sit down. Now.”
Matt doesn’t argue.
Foggy carefully lifts Matt’s shirt just enough to see.
And then—
He frowns.
“…Matt.”
“Yes.”
“…Why does this look like it happened three weeks ago?”
The wound is there.
But it’s closed.
Clean.
Bruising faded to yellowed edges.
No swelling.
No angry red inflammation.
Foggy presses lightly around it.
Matt doesn’t flinch.
“You’re not even reacting,” Foggy says slowly.
“I react.”
“Matt. I have seen you with paper cuts that hurt worse.”
Matt allows himself the smallest smile.
Foggy steps back, hands on hips.
“Okay. Either you have discovered mutant-level healing overnight…” he pauses, then squints at him. “…or you are not telling me something.”
Matt’s expression shifts slightly.
Careful.
Measured.
“I got help,” he says.
Foggy’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Help like… night nurse help? Or help like mysterious-possibly-illegal-vigilante-network help?”
“Neither.”
Foggy waits.
Matt doesn’t elaborate.
The silence stretches.
Foggy crosses his arms.
“Matthew.”
Matt exhales.
“She was a kid.”
Foggy blinks.
“…Define kid.”
“Fourteen.”
Foggy goes pale.
“She stabbed you?”
“No.”
“She shot you?”
“No.”
Foggy throws his hands up. “Then what—”
“She healed me.”
Silence.
Long.
Thick.
Foggy stares at him.
“…Healed you.”
“Yes.”
“With like… peroxide?”
Matt shakes his head once.
Foggy’s face slowly shifts from confusion… to realization.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
He sinks into his chair.
“Okay. I’m going to say something responsible now,” Foggy mutters. “You are not dragging a fourteen-year-old into vigilante nonsense.”
“I’m not.”
“You are not recruiting.”
“I’m not.”
“You are not mentoring.”
“I’m not.”
Foggy points at him.
“You are also not ignoring the fact that a fourteen-year-old is out there alone healing grown idiots who get stabbed.”
That one lands.
Matt goes quiet.
Because that’s the part that keeps replaying.
Her exhaustion.
The way her breathing thinned.
The way she bolted the second concern entered the conversation.
“I know,” Matt says quietly.
Foggy watches him carefully.
“Is she safe?”
Matt hesitates.
And that hesitation answers everything.
Foggy rubs his face.
“Okay. So this is happening. You’re going to find her.”
Matt doesn’t deny it.
Foggy sighs.
“Just—” he points again, softer now. “Do not make her your responsibility because you feel guilty.”
Matt tilts his head slightly.
“That’s not why.”
“Then why?”
A pause.
“Because she shouldn’t have to survive like that.”
Foggy studies him.
Then nods once.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “She shouldn’t.”
The second time she finds him, it’s on a rooftop.
Wind whipping.
City lights below.
Daredevil is on one knee, breathing too hard, one hand pressed to his ribs.
She almost leaves.
Almost.
Then he shifts wrong and nearly falls.
She steps out of the shadows.
“You’re bad at this,” she mutters.
He stills.
A small exhale.
“I was hoping it was you.”
She scowls even though he can’t see it.
“That’s weird.”
“You have a very specific heartbeat.”
She crouches beside him and grabs his wrist.
“Don’t make it weird,” she warns.
He doesn’t argue.
Her hands glow faintly as she presses them to his ribs.
This one’s not as bad as the first time.
Bruises.
Hairline fracture.
Deep tissue damage.
Still too much for one person to carry.
She fixes what she safely can.
He stays quiet while she works.
But when she pulls her hands away, he says softly—
“You don’t have to disappear every time.”
She stands immediately.
“Yes I do.”
And before he can respond—
She runs.
He doesn’t chase her.
⸻
The third time is behind a warehouse.
He’s leaning against a dumpster, blood dripping from his temple.
She steps out before she can stop herself.
“This is becoming a habit,” she snaps.
“You’re very reliable,” he replies.
She presses a cloth to his head harder than necessary.
He doesn’t complain.
“You should find someone else,” she mutters.
“I did,” he says.
She pauses.
“What?”
“You.”
That makes her hands falter.
She heals the concussion symptoms carefully, easing the pressure, slowing the bleeding.
“You shouldn’t rely on a kid,” she says quietly.
“I don’t rely on you,” he answers calmly. “I’m grateful you show up.”
That shuts her up.
When she finishes, she backs away.
He says it again, steady, not pushing.
“If you ever need help—”
“I don’t.”
“You might.”
She hesitates just a second too long.
Then she vanishes into the alley.
He lets her go.
⸻
The fourth time, he’s barely hurt.
Just bruised knuckles.
Split lip.
She on the rooftop behind him.
He doesn’t even turn.
“You’re not bleeding enough for this,” she says.
“I know.”
She frowns.
“Then why are you here?”
A small pause.
“I thought you might be.”
Silence stretches between them.
Wind rushes past.
“I meant what I said,” he continues. “I’m available.”
She crosses her arms.
“Available for what? Homework?”
A faint hint of amusement in his voice.
“For when someone bigger than you decides to make your life difficult.”
Her jaw tightens.
“You don’t know that already happened.”
He tilts his head.
“You run like someone who’s been chased.”
That hits too close.
She looks away first.
“I’m fine,” she says.
“You don’t have to be,” he replies gently.
She hates that.
Hates that it sounds safe.
She steps backward toward the fire escape.
“You keep almost dying,” she says instead. “That’s your problem.”
“And you keep fixing it,” he answers.
She hesitates.
Then:
“Stop getting stabbed.”
“I’ll try.”
She turns and disappears down the ladder.
He doesn’t follow.
He never does.
But every time before she leaves, he says it. 
Calm.
 Consistent.
 Not demanding.
“If you need me, I’m there.” 
And every time, she pretends she didn’t hear him.