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Isaac was proud of his job. Really. He was.
Most days, being a school counselor felt like purpose. Like penance, maybe, but with actual reward. He got to help kids, not like him, not back then but maybe close enough to make a difference. The shy ones who flinched at slamming lockers. The angry ones who punched walls instead of explaining why they felt hollow inside. The ones who needed someone to believe they weren’t broken.
But not today.
Today, some snot-nosed sophomore, no older than he had been when everything happened sat in his office with his arms crossed, lips twisted in a smirk, bitching about another kid calling him names in the locker room.
"He’s such a little freak. Always crying, dude wears the same sweatshirt like every day. Like, grow a pair. I told him he was acting like a girl, and he ran to the teacher."
Isaac didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His fingers curled slowly on the desk.
"Now I gotta talk to you because his feelings got hurt? He’s such a loser. Probably cuts himself or something, right? You know those kinds."
White noise.
That was all Isaac heard. White noise, humming through his ears, drowning out the kid’s voice, the walls, the safe reality of the counseling office. The fluorescent lights dimmed in his periphery. His chest tightened, not with fear, but with fury. And panic. It hit the same.
He managed to grit out a “session’s over,” before the chair even scraped the floor. Didn’t remember much else except the kid’s swagger, that smirk, like he was proud of it.
And then Isaac was alone.
And then the world cracked.
———
The filing cabinet didn’t see it coming.
Metal dented sharply under his fist, the pain satisfying and hot and real but something popped. Loud. Inside his own body. One he knew too well.
He staggered back and his shoulder screamed.
Not a metaphor. Screamed.
The dislocation was instant and ugly. His hand dangled at a useless angle, and he hit the wall with his back, a choked sound catching in his throat.
He couldn’t get air. Couldn’t—
Not here.
Not here.
The office felt too small. Like a basement. Like a freezer.
Like him.
The metal cabinet was dented, cruelly gleaming with fresh scratches. His knuckles bled. His face was hot. Tears slid down his cheek and he didn’t even know he’d started crying.
He was still there, on the floor, hyperventilating, when River walked in.
———
They weren’t supposed to come by. Their free period was usually spent painting in the art room with whatever eclectic playlist they’d chosen for the day: soft rock, movie scores, occasionally old sea shanties (Isaac had opinions about those, but River always won him over). But River had said they might drop by with a snack.
A lemon bar. That was the plan.
Instead, they found Isaac slumped against the wall, hunched in on himself, bleeding and gasping.
The lemon bar hit the floor.
“Isaac.”
Their voice was soft. Too soft. Their eyes went wide—sea green, calm and clear, but beneath that: worry. Love.
River crossed the room slowly, careful not to startle him. “Hey, hey, love—look at me.”
Isaac whimpered. “Sh-shoulder’s out.”
“I see it. Okay. You’re alright. You’re safe. Can I come closer?”
He nodded, barely. River knelt down beside him.
Isaac’s body was trembling. His breath came in fast, shallow stutters.
“Hey.” River placed one hand near his knee. “Breathe with me, yeah? Just breathe. Match me.”
They inhaled slowly through their nose, then exhaled like the tide retreating. Soft and measured. Gentle.
Isaac tried...and failed.
“Hurts,” he rasped. “Fucking—hurts.”
“I know, sweetie. I know it does.”
River didn’t touch his injured arm. They knew better. But they scooted closer, letting Isaac lean into them with his uninjured side. Isaac’s forehead dropped to their shoulder, his legs bent awkwardly. He hated crying. He hated this.
But River didn’t flinch. Didn’t mock him. Just whispered: “You’re safe. It’s not then. He’s not here. You’re not that kid anymore.”
“I feel like I am,” Isaac choked out.
“No,” River murmured. “You’re a man now. A good one. A man I care about. And you’re hurt, so we’ll handle that together. But you are not that scared little boy in the freezer anymore.”
Isaac flinched at the word. His breath caught, wet and fragile. But he didn’t pull away.
River tilted their head and kissed his temple.
“I’m calling Scott to come pop it back in.”
“No—no hospital. Please. Please—” Isaac was shaking harder now, the tears falling unchecked. “I can’t—can’t deal with that today—”
“You don’t have to.” River brushed his curls off his forehead. “Just Scott. He knows what to do. He won’t say anything. You trust him, yeah?”
Isaac nodded against their chest. “Y-Yeah.”
River pulled their phone from their back pocket, still cradling him close, and sent the text. Short, simple.
Emergency. Shoulder. Just you. Come now.
Scott responded almost instantly. OMW. 5 mins.
River tucked the phone away and resumed the gentle rhythm of their breathing, guiding Isaac through each inhale like a mantra.
“Just breathe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“I—I hit the filing cabinet.”
“I figured.”
“I was just—he said things. About another kid. Said shit like my dad used to. The way he smirked—Gods, Riv, he had his face.”
River didn’t ask who.
They knew.
Isaac hadn’t said much over the months. But River listened. And the way Isaac reacted, they had pieced it together. The abuse. The trauma. The fear he still carried like a second skin.
“I wanted to hit him, not the cabinet,” Isaac confessed, voice cracked and soaked in shame. “I wanted to hurt him for hurting someone else. What does that make me?”
“Someone who cares very deeply,” River whispered. “Someone who’s still healing. Not bad.”
Isaac let out a soft, broken sob. “Why does it still feel like I’m there sometimes?”
“Because trauma doesn’t care how many years pass. It lives in your bones until you teach it to leave. And even then, it lingers. You’re allowed to hurt. That doesn’t make you weak.”
“You’d never hit something.”
River smiled faintly. “I’m half selkie, love. We don’t rage. We just drown things silently.”
That earned the tiniest huff of a laugh. Isaac hiccupped. “I’m so stupid.”
“Not even a little bit.”
The door opened without a knock. Scott stepped inside, eyes wide, concerned.
“Shit,” he breathed when he saw Isaac.
River nodded to him. “Shoulder’s out. Left. Filing cabinet took the hit.”
Scott crouched down, steady and professional, though his eyes softened at the sight of Isaac curled around River.
“Hey, buddy. Gonna fix this, okay? Fast and ugly.”
“Just...just do it.”
Scott moved behind him. “You remember how this goes?”
“Yeah,” Isaac ground out.
River held Isaac’s free hand tightly. “Look at me. Not him.”
“I trust him.”
“I know. But look at me.”
He did.
“Three—” Scott said.
Isaac inhaled.
“Two—”
River nodded.
A loud pop.
Isaac screamed.
And then—
Then he collapsed forward into River’s arms, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. Sweat soaked his curls. River rocked him gently, fingers brushing over his scalp.
Scott backed away, giving them space. “I’ll leave you two. Ice it when you can. And be happy you didn't shift or hit a kid.”
“Wasn’t the furniture’s fault though,” Isaac muttered, still trembling.
Scott grinned at River and Isaac on the way out.
When they were alone again, River guided Isaac slowly to the couch against the wall. They sat with him sideways in their lap, arms wound gently around his waist, letting him feel safe, held, without pressure.
Minutes passed.
“I love you,” Isaac whispered into their neck.
River smiled softly. “I know.”
Silence again. Isaac didn't expect River to say it back, but he felt it was right for him.
Then Isaac murmured, barely audible: “Thanks for not treating me like I’m broken.”
“You’re not,” River said simply. “You’re healing. There’s a difference.”
His fingers found theirs. River squeezed gently.
And then, Isaac didn’t feel like a scared little boy stuffed in a freezer.
He felt like a man in love.