Whenever Gwen wanted us alone, she'd lead me down the long way. She claimed the side streets softened the world: hush of empty blocks, lamps with golden halos, trees stubbornly clinging to city life. I never argued. I just trailed behind, listening to her boots echo and savoring the brush of her fingers against mine. Yet beneath it all, there was a warmth tugging at my ribs, an insistent presence reminding me of something just out of reach—a call to action, a pull toward where I was truly needed.
She bumped my arm lightly. "You're limping."
"I'm not limping."
"You're doing the stubborn version of limping," she said, nudging me again.
Kickboxing had left a slow, throbbing ache along my right side. I'd caught a shin to the ribs—missed my block, paid the price. No way I'd tell her. She'd have made me skip practice, and I wasn't about to start that argument.
She let it go. Gwen always knew when to leave things alone. Instead, she slipped her hand into mine and tugged me forward, her grin small but triumphant.
"There's a place," she said. "Not fancy. Not crowded. Perfect for, you know…"
Her voice dropped. Gwen never blushed, but the look she gave me sent a slow warmth crawling up my neck.
"You're unbelievable," I muttered.
She laughed, quiet and satisfied. "And you still showed up."
From the outside, the bar barely registered: a tired neon sign, metal grate stuck halfway up, windows blurred by ancient air conditioning. No one our age would ever walk in, but Gwen was known here. Her uncle used to work nearby, and she swore the owner never asked questions.
Inside, the air smelled like spilled beer and lemon cleaner. A quiet murmur came from the front, but the back hallway was empty. Gwen tugged me toward it, fingers laced with mine, excitement bouncing through each step.
She pushed me lightly against the wall near the back storage door. Not hard, just enough to guide me. Her breath brushed my cheek before the rest of her did.
The kiss started soft, the way she always did. Slow and warm, like testing a match before lighting it. My tired ribs didn't matter then. The noise from the bar faded away. Her hand slid up my neck, her thumb stroking my jaw. She kissed me again, deeper this time, and the world shrank to just our breathing and the quiet sound of her jacket zipper against mine.
This was the part of the day where my thoughts usually melted. Where nothing felt confusing. Where everything settled.
Her fingers tugged at the hem of my shirt. I kissed her back, slow and steady.
Then the crash happened.
A sharp crack—glass hitting tile. A voice, female, cut short. A shouted curse.
Gwen froze for half a breath.
I pulled back just enough to look over her shoulder.
"Ari," she whispered, already sensing where my attention had gone. "Don't."
But the noise came again. A small thud. Another yell. Someone's chair scraped the floor hard enough to echo through the hallway.
I felt my body shift without deciding to. A sudden heat spread under my collar, and my pulse quickened, the kind of reaction that doesn't ask for permission. My weight changed subtly toward the sound. A tightening in my chest. A familiar pull. Gwen cupped my face and forced my eyes to hers.
"Don't," she repeated, closer this time. "Not tonight."
I kissed her back to steady her hands—and maybe steady myself—hoping it would erase whatever was creeping through my muscles. She kissed harder, almost trying to anchor me in place. Her fingers curled in my hair. Her lips brushed mine again, slower now, pleading in the way her voice never allowed.
And for a few seconds, it worked. The warmth from her mouth drowned out the noise. My heartbeat settled.
Then a woman's voice cracked—frustrated, scared.
And the spell snapped.
My body reacted first: a step sideways, shoulders angling toward the hall. The warmth in my chest turned into a low, steady burn. The kind that didn't ask permission.
Gwen grabbed my sleeve.
"Ari. Please. Stay. They'll call security. Let adults handle it."
Another shout hit the air. A male voice this time—rough, close, cornering.
She tightened her grip. I loosened mine.
"Just wait here," I said, but the words barely sounded like my own.
"Don't you dare." Her voice cracked for the first time. "Ari—look at me. Look at me."
I did.
She kissed me again — fast, desperate, almost angry — like she could pin me to the wall with just her mouth. Her breath trembled against mine.
"Please," she whispered.
And God, part of me wanted to stay. Wanted to pretend nothing was happening out there. Wanted her hand on my neck, not leaving it.
But the warmth inside me grew heavier, fuller. A pressure against the lungs. A steady hum under the ribs.
Someone needed help.
And there was no universe where I could ignore that.
Her fingers slipped from mine as I stepped back.
Gwen's eyes widened, then hardened in the way they only did when fear turned into anger.
"Fine," she hissed, yanking out her phone. "Go. But I'm calling 911 before you even open your stupid mouth."
I didn't argue. I couldn't.
I just turned and started walking toward the front.
Behind me, I heard her voice slip into the phone—calm, fast, practiced.
"Yes, this is Gwen Stacy—Bar on 87th—ten men harassing the staff—we need units now—please hurry."
My steps quickened.
The warmth in my chest kept spreading, quiet and sure, guiding me toward the noise.
Part of me wished I could be the boy who stayed with the girl. But I wasn't built for staying still when someone needed help.
I was chasing the correctness of the moment—the fullness that bloomed inside me only when I moved toward the trouble instead of away from it.
And Gwen, even through her anger, understood that. She just hated it.
The last thing I heard before stepping into the doorway was her breath catching, soft and frightened, as she whispered into the phone:
"Please hurry. He's already going."
The noise sharpened as I stepped out of the hallway. It wasn't a brawl yet, but the tension hung thick—a dozen men scattered across the bar, their shoulders heavy, faces flushed, and voices blending into a menacing hum. Behind the counter, the bartender was cornered by two of them leaning in too close.
"C'mon, sweetheart—just a drink," one sneered.
"We're being nice, don't make this difficult," added the other, their voices rough with impatience.
Another staff member was shoved back, a grunt escaping him as he collided with the register.
The warmth in my chest rose like a tide.
I didn't say anything at first. I just stepped forward until someone noticed me.
One of the men turned. He blinked in slow confusion, eyes dragging up and down like he was trying to understand why a teenager had walked in on their moment.
"You lost, kid?" he asked.
"Let them go," I said.
It wasn't loud, but the room dipped for a second anyway.
A few laughed. Not full laughs—short, breathy ones that came more from disbelief than humor.
"Kid," the man repeated, stepping closer, "walk away."
I didn't.
He grabbed my hoodie with both hands. His grip was tight enough to pull me off balance for half a second. His breath smelled harsh—cheap beer burned down to the dregs.
My heart thudded once. Then settled—like it always did.
The man drew back his fist.
He swung.
I ducked.
His arm skimmed over my shoulder, momentum pulling him forward.
I hit his ribs once—quick, controlled.
He staggered.
Someone else cursed.
A stool scraped.
The fight cracked open.
A second man lunged from the side. I only saw him because the bartender's eyes widened behind him. I stepped back; his fist grazed my jaw instead of landing full. The sting shot up near my ear, sharp enough to ring.
He grabbed my arm before I could reset. His grip was iron around my bicep. I twisted, but his fingers dragged a burning line against my skin. I managed to slip free only because his balance was sloppy.
He came again—faster this time.
I blocked late—pain shot through my ribs.
My breath stuttered once.
Only once.
The warmth under my chest steadied everything.
The first man recovered and swung low, aiming for my stomach. I sidestepped. His knuckles hit empty air, and he cursed again, louder this time.
A bottle shattered near my foot.
Glass skittered across the floor.
Someone shouted at the others to "just hold the kid still."
I moved without thinking.
Years of training, pulling my body faster than my thoughts.
I used the first man's momentum to shove him into a table. It collapsed under his weight, sending bottles rolling. He didn't get up quickly.
One down.
The second man tried to grab me again.
I drove my shoulder into his chest.
He wheezed.
My fist caught his jaw.
He stumbled backward into a stool.
Two.
A third man joined in—taller, thicker, angrier. He didn't shout; he just moved. The kind of movement that belonged to someone who'd been in fights before.
He swung wide but with force. I ducked under his arm, but he was faster than he looked. His elbow caught my back—more a shove than a strike, but it knocked me off my line.
I regained footing, but barely.
He came again.
I blocked too high.
He hit low.
Pain flashed across my ribs, bright and unwelcome.
My breath jammed in my throat.
The room tilted for a blink.
The warmth cut through it, quieting the pain—not removing it, just setting it aside long enough for me to move again.
I grabbed the bar edge for balance and kicked the man's knee sideways. His leg buckled. He dropped onto one hand with a sharp grunt.
Three.
The fourth one should've knocked me down.
He rushed straight at me. Not clever, but strong. I went backward, his weight slamming me into the counter. Bottles rattled above my head. My spine lit up with a dull ache.
He pulled back to hit me again—full force, no hesitation.
I ducked under his punch and came up with an uppercut. I didn't mean to throw that hard. It connected with his jaw, snapping his head back. He staggered three steps before landing in a pile of chairs.
Four.
My lungs burned now.
Sweat dripped into my eyebrows.
My ribs throbbed in a steady rhythm.
My right arm felt heavy from the hits it had blocked.
But I was still standing.
The remaining six men circled uncertainly, anger thinning into hesitation. They weren't expecting resistance. Definitely not from someone my age. Their shouts sounded different now—less confident, more frustrated.
Behind me, the bartender whispered something I couldn't make out.
Her coworker dragged himself upright, clutching his side.
A siren wailed in the distance.
Close.
Getting closer.
One of the remaining men lunged.
Then the front door burst open.
"Police! Step back!"
Blue lights washed the room in a pale glow. Two officers rushed forward with batons raised, voices overlapping. The men scrambled—some lifting their hands, others backing away with curses. Two tried to slip out the side exit and were immediately pinned against the wall.
I stood where I was, breathing hard through clenched teeth.
My vision pulsed at the edges.
My ribs screamed each time I inhaled.
Sweat slid down my spine.
My knuckles stung where skin had split.
But beneath all of it, that warmth remained.
Steady.
Full.
Settled under my ribs like a small truth I wasn't ready to face.
Gwen rushed in from the hallway, her phone still in her hand, her face pale.
Her eyes scanned the mess, then landed on me. She exhaled a shaky breath, anger and relief tangled together.
She didn't say anything.
Not yet.
We both knew it wasn't over.
Ten minutes later, the police had rounded everyone up.
The room fell into a tired quiet.
And then the air changed.
Captain Stacy walked in with the kind of presence that didn't need volume. The noise in the bar thinned the moment he stepped through the doorway. He scanned the room once—his eyes sharp, jaw set, shoulders wound tight under his coat.
Then he saw Gwen.
She froze the way people freeze when they know they're already caught.
"Gwendolyn," he said, voice low enough that half the room still heard. "Tell me you weren't anywhere near the middle of this."
"I wasn't," she answered immediately. The truth. "But he was."
He followed her gaze to me.
His expression didn't shift. It simply hardened.
"Not again," he said quietly. "What part of being a Teenager makes you think you belong in a Drunken brawl?"
"I didn't exactly choose it," I said.
It came out softer than I meant. My ribs ached with every breath. My arm buzzed dully under the swelling.
Captain Stacy stepped closer, stopping in front of me.
He wasn't tall, not compared to the men I'd fought, but something about the certainty in his stance made him feel larger.
"You're lucky my officers got here when they did," he said. "This could've gone a very different way."
I didn't argue.
There wasn't anything to defend.
"You're getting checked out," he continued, nodding toward the EMTs behind him. "Hospital visit, full assessment, and your parents are being called. Don't say anything else until they get here."
Gwen opened her mouth to argue.
He cut her off with a look.
"We are talking later," he told her.
"Dad—"
"No."
The word landed like a door shutting.
She bit the inside of her cheek, furious but cornered.
One of the EMTs guided me toward the exit. Gwen followed until her father stepped in her path. She looked between us—him and me—like she didn't know which pull was stronger.
"Just—text me," she called out.
I nodded.
The EMT didn't slow down.
Outside, the sirens pulsed across the street. Cold air hit the sweat on my neck. The city moved around us like nothing had happened—cars rolling by, someone arguing on their phone, a group waiting for the bus across the street.
Normal life brushing past the edge of something that didn't feel normal anymore.
The ambulance doors opened with a metallic creak.
I stepped inside.
The world dimmed behind tinted glass and clinical lighting.
The ride blurred. My ribs throbbed in dull waves. My knuckles had stiffened; dried blood flaked near the cuts. The EMT kept asking if I felt dizzy, nauseous, or confused. I didn't. Or maybe I didn't know how to measure it properly.
Inside the ER, the lights felt too bright. Someone pressed ice against my ribs; someone else asked the exact time I'd been hit; someone poked at my arm until I winced. They wrapped my forearm, taped a compression bandage around my ribs, and made notes I couldn't see.
The warmth inside my chest hadn't faded.
If anything, it lingered stronger in the quiet.
When the curtain finally opened again, it was my mother.
She didn't run to me or cry or shout. She stood still for a moment, like she had to make sure I was real first. Then she stepped forward and cupped my face with both hands.
"Are you alright?" she whispered, even though the answer was already written across my bruises.
Before I could speak, my father walked in behind her. His eyes swept over the bandages, the swelling, the monitor clipped to my finger.
"What were you thinking?" he asked—steady, controlled, which was worse than anger.
I opened my mouth to answer, but he held up a hand.
"No. Don't talk yet. I need to breathe."
My chest tightened, and I knew I was fucked.
My mother brushed my hair back gently. Her thumb lingered near the bruise forming at my jaw. "You scared us," she said. "We got the call and—Arwen, you scared us."
"I know," I murmured.
"You promised," my father added. "You said no more of whatever this was, just because the school gave u a badge and a paper to publish doesn't make you a journalist."
"I didn't —"
"But you were there anyway," he finished.
The room went quiet for a moment.
Then the curtain rustled again.
Gwen peeked in, cheeks flushed from running. Captain Stacy stood behind her like a shadow, irritation radiating off him.
My mother turned to her immediately. "Gwen, sweetheart, are you hurt? Did anything happen to you? Were you in the middle of that?"
"No. I—I'm ok," she said, startled.
My father exhaled in relief.
Then both of them looked at me again, twice as frustrated as before.
"So you dragged her into this, too?" he asked.
"I didn't—"
Gwen stepped forward quickly. "He didn't. I was the one who dragged him with me. We were—uh—investigating a story. I called the cops the second I realized he was—well—being Arwin."
My mother stared at her.
Then at me.
Then back at her.
The realization sank in slowly, like a stone dropping into water.
"Oh," she said, voice thin. "You two were…"
Gwen cleared her throat and tried not to look at me. "Yeah."
My father pinched the bridge of his nose. "God help us."
Captain Stacy coughed pointedly behind her. "Gwen. Out. Now."
She grumbled but obeyed. "I'll be in the hallway."
I watched her leave, shoulders stiff, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets.
My mother sat beside my bed. "You're grounded," she said gently.
"That's fair," I admitted.
"You're grounded even longer than that," my father added.
Also fair.
They stepped out for paperwork, leaving me with the soft hum of hospital machines.
Gwen slipped back in once the hallway quieted.
Her hair was messy. Her jacket hung unevenly on her shoulders. She tried to look composed; the red around her eyes ruined the effect.
"You alive?" she asked.
"Barely."
She exhaled a shaky laugh and sat carefully on the edge of the bed—close but not touching me. Her eyes traced the bandage around my ribs, the taped knuckles, the swelling at my jaw.
"You can't keep doing this," she said quietly. "You just—ran. I couldn't stop you."
"I know."
"And now you can't use your right arm properly for weeks."
"I know that too."
She hesitated, then leaned in a little, voice dropping.
"Well," she said softly, "if you need help with… you know—right-hand things…"
She paused just long enough for the meaning to settle.
"…carrying books and stuff," she finished, her lips twitching.
My face warmed immediately.
She saw it.
She smirked.
"Relax, Arwen. I meant homework. Mostly."
She bumped her fist against my shoulder lightly against mine, careful of the bandage. And sat besides my bed, playing with my hair.
When she heard noises getting closer, she moved away.
"I'm coming by tomorrow," she said. "So don't pretend you're fine."
She stood, hesitated, then leaned down and pressed a small kiss to my cheek—gentle, warmer than the hospital lights.
Then she left before I could say anything.
The room felt quieter after she was gone.
Under the bandages, under the bruises, under the exhaustion, that warmth still pulsed, the sense of being filled, that sense of peace and balance I felt at this moment
I don't chase danger.
I don't chase attention.
I chased that feeling.
That fullness.
That correctness.
And I knew, with a kind of tired certainty, that this wasn't the first time and certainly wouldn't be the last time.
Not by a long shot.