Chapter Text
Part 1: The Silence
The clock above the locker room mirrors reads 6:15 PM. Practice ended over an hour ago, and the Briar University rink is completely empty save for the four boys sitting on the benches.
Garrett is staring at his phone, his thumb aggressively refreshing his messages.
No new notifications.
The last text from Hannah was sent at 3:30 PM:
Leaving the library now, heading to Malone's to grab my notebook. See you at the house around 5.
"She hasn't texted back?" Logan asks, adjusting his gear bag as he leans against the doorframe.
"No," Garrett mutters, his voice tight. He presses her contact card and hits call. It doesn't even ring.
It goes straight to a generic automation: The subscriber you are trying to reach is not available—
Garrett hangs up, his jaw clenching.
"Straight to voicemail. Her phone is off."
"Garrett, her battery probably just died," Dean says, leaning back against a locker, looking completely unbothered. "You know Wells. She’s probably listening to a mix on her headphones, completely oblivious, walking back in the dark."
"She never lets her phone die when she knows I'm waiting for her," Garrett says, standing up.
A sudden, cold spike of adrenaline hits his stomach.
"And it’s a thirty-minute walk from Malone's to our place. It’s freezing outside. It’s been almost three hours since she left the library."
Tucker looks up from his phone, his face losing its relaxed expression. "Did you try calling Malone's? See if she’s still there?"
"Yeah. The manager said she left two hours ago," Garrett’s voice cracks slightly, the first real wave of panic breaking through his athlete's exterior. He grips his hair with both hands, pacing a frantic line across the rubber floor mats.
"She isn’t answering. Her phone is dead. What if someone followed her? What if she’s out there in the freezing dark and she can’t call for help?"
The locker room temperature feels like it drops ten degrees. Logan and Tucker instantly exchange a serious look. Because of Hannah's past, a dead phone and an unaccounted-for evening isn't just a minor annoyance—it is an absolute red alert for Garrett's protective instincts.
"Alright, look at me, Captain," Tucker says, stepping forward and placing a heavy, grounding hand on Garrett's shoulder. "Panic isn't going to find her. Logan, take your car and drive the route from Malone's to the house. Dean, check the music building on campus in case she doubled back. Garrett and I will drive the main strip."
"I'm going with Logan," Garrett says, his eyes wide and completely wild as he rips his jacket out of his locker. His hands are shaking so violently he can barely loop his keys onto his finger. "If she’s hurt out there... if someone touched her..."
"Nobody touched her, Graham," Logan says fiercely, grabbing his keys off the bench. "We are going to find her. Let's move."
Part 2: The Search
The streets around Briar University are dark and slick with black ice. Inside Logan’s Jeep, the silence is deafening. Garrett is pressed against the passenger door window, his eyes darting frantically down every single side street, alleyway, and poorly lit sidewalk.
Every ten seconds, he presses his phone, hitting redial, only to get the same flat, sterile voicemail message.
"Garrett, stop calling. You're going to drain your own battery," Logan says gently, keeping his eyes glued to the dark road. "She’s okay. She’s probably sitting in a coffee shop waiting out the ice."
"Then why wouldn't she use a landline? Why wouldn't she find a way to tell me?" Garrett’s voice is raw, entirely unraveled. He slams a fist against the dashboard, his chest heaving as he fights back a massive panic attack. "I should have picked her up. I knew the weather was getting bad. I should have been there, Logan."
Suddenly, Logan hits the brakes hard, the Jeep sliding a few inches on the slick asphalt.
Just past the intersection of Route 9, the flashing blue and red lights of two police cruisers illuminate the dark trees. A silver sedan—exactly like Hannah’s—is spun out against a concrete barrier, the driver's side door completely caved in from a violent impact.
"No," Garrett whispers, the sound completely hollow.
Before Logan can even put the Jeep in park, Garrett throws the passenger door open. He hits the icy ground running, his sneakers slipping on the slush as he sprints toward the flashing lights.
"Hannah! Hannah!" Garrett roars into the cold night air, his voice echoing over the sound of the police sirens.
"Sir! Stay back! This is an active scene!" an officer shouts, stepping into Garrett’s path, his hands raised.
"Get out of my way!" Garrett screams, his eyes completely bloodshot, his body vibrating with a terrifying, wild intensity. He tries to push past the officer, his mind completely blind with the image of Hannah trapped inside that crushed metal. "That is my girlfriend's car! Let me through!"
Logan tackles Garrett from behind, wrapping his massive arms around Garrett's chest to physically hold him back before the cops draw their weapons. "Garrett, stop! Hold on!" Logan yells into his ear, struggling against the sheer, panicked strength of his captain.
"Logan, let me go! She’s in there! She’s bleeding!" Garrett sobs, violently thrashing against Logan’s grip, his knees giving out until they are both crashing down onto the wet pavement.
"Sir!" the police officer yells over the chaos, checking a clipboard. "Are you looking for a Hannah Wells?"
Garrett freezes, his entire body locking up in Logan's arms. He looks up from the ground, his face pale and streaked with tears. "Yes. Yes, Hannah Wells. Is she... is she alive?"
"She isn't in the car, son," the officer says, his tone softening slightly as he realizes the sheer terror driving the boy. "The driver of this vehicle was a male sophomore. Stolen car. We’re waiting on the tow truck."
Garrett blinks, the air suddenly rushing back into his lungs so fast it makes him dizzy. He looks back at the crushed silver sedan. It’s an older model. It isn't Hannah’s.
"It's... it's not her?" Garrett breathes out, a massive, shuddering sob escaping his throat.
"No," Logan says softly, finally letting go of Garrett’s jacket and pulling him up from the wet asphalt. Logan looks at the cop, nodding gratefully. "Thank you, officer."
Logan drags a completely trembling, emotionally shattered Garrett back toward the Jeep. Garrett sinks into the passenger seat, burying his face in his hands, his entire frame shaking from the aftershocks of the sheer terror.
"See?" Logan says softly, starting the engine. "She’s okay, man. We just need to check the house."
Part 3: The Fortress
The moment Logan pulls into the Briar House driveway, Garrett sees the warm yellow lights of the kitchen glowing through the frosted windows. He doesn't even wait for the Jeep to fully stop; he flings the door open and sprints up the porch steps, throwing the front door open so hard it slams against the wall.
"Hannah!"
Tucker and Dean are standing in the living room, looking up instantly. And sitting on the counter in the kitchen, a mug of steaming tea in her hands, is Hannah.
She looks up, startled by the violent entrance. "Garrett? What’s wrong—"
Garrett doesn't let her finish. He crosses the kitchen in two massive strides, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her completely off the counter into a suffocating, crushing hug. He buries his face in her hair, gripping the back of her sweater so tightly his knuckles turn white. He is shaking violently, his hot breath hitching against her neck.
"Whoa, Garrett, hey," Hannah says, completely shocked by the intensity. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, holding him back just as tightly. "What happened? You’re freezing."
"Your phone," Garrett chokes out, his voice raw and breaking completely against her skin. "Your phone was dead. I called Malone's... they said you left hours ago. I thought... God, Hannah, there was a crash on Route 9, and I thought you were in the car. I thought you were gone."
Hannah’s heart breaks at the absolute devastation in his voice. She feels the dampness of his tears against her neck and realizes the sheer, terrifying spiral her dead battery had caused.
"Oh, sweetie, no," Hannah whispers softly, her hand sliding up to cup the back of his head, pulling him even closer. "My battery died right when I left Malone's. I ran into Grace on the quad, and we grabbed coffee to catch up. I didn't realize how late it was, and I couldn't text you. I'm so sorry, Garrett. I'm right here. I’m completely fine."
Logan steps into the kitchen, leaning against the fridge, letting out a long, exhausted breath. "Man almost fought a state trooper, Wells. We need to buy you a portable charger or a brick phone from 2004."
Dean strolls in from the living room, tossing a spare phone charger onto the counter with a smirk, though his eyes show a deep, quiet relief. "Seriously, Wells. Graham’s dramatic panic attacks are bad for team morale. Tucker almost made a low-sodium comforting casserole before we even found you."
"Shut up, Dean," Garrett mutters into Hannah's hair, though there’s no real force behind it.
He finally pulls back just an inch, his large hands framing her face, his thumbs wiping away the stray hair from her forehead. He inspects every inch of her—her bright eyes, her unbruised cheeks, her steady breathing—ensuring she is completely whole.
"Never let it die again," Garrett commands softly, his gray eyes fierce and completely consumed by love. "Please, Han. Just... let me know you're safe."
Hannah smiles, her eyes shining with warmth as she leans up on her tiptoes to press a deep, lingering kiss to his lips, sealing the promise. "I won't. I promise. I’m safe, Garrett. You always have me."
Behind them, Tucker quietly turns on the stove to reheat dinner, Logan sinks onto a kitchen stool with a tired chuckle, and Dean rolls his eyes—the four boys of the
Briar House finally settling back into their safe, unbroken fortress.
Part 4: The Next Morning (The Portable Battery Intervention)
The bright morning sun floods the Briar House kitchen, accompanied by the sizzling sound of bacon and the sharp smell of dark roast coffee.
Hannah walks downstairs, dressed in one of Garrett’s massive, faded Briar Hockey hoodies that drops down to her thighs. She expects the usual morning chaos—Logan complaining about his protein shakes or Dean blasting music—but instead, she finds all four boys already seated around the kitchen island.
They are sitting in absolute silence, staring at her as she enters.
In the exact center of the marble island sits a small, neatly wrapped cardboard box with a bright neon pink bow stuck to the top.
"Morning, boys," Hannah says slowly, halting her steps by the fridge. She eyes the box suspiciously. "Why does it look like an intervention is about to happen?"
"Because it is," Dean says. He doesn't look up from his phone, but he taps a rhythm against his coffee mug. "Sit down, Wells. We need to have a corporate alignment meeting regarding your technological responsibility."
Garrett reaches out, catching Hannah by the waist as she passes his stool and pulling her onto his lap. He looks significantly better than he did the night before—he’s showered, his hair is damp, and the wild, panicked look in his gray eyes has been replaced by a soft, sleepy warmth. But his arm locks securely around her torso, anchoring her to his chest.
"Open the box, Han," Garrett murmurs against her ear, his lips brushing her skin.
Hannah rolls her eyes affectionately, leaning over the counter to rip off the pink bow and open the cardboard flaps. Inside the box are three identical, heavy-duty, military-grade portable phone chargers, glowing with fully charged LED battery lights.
"A portable charger?" Hannah asks, looking up at the boys. "Three of them?"
"Not just portable chargers, Wells," Logan says, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter, his face dead serious. "Those are Anker PowerCore twenty-thousand milliamp-hour external batteries. They are completely waterproof, shockproof, and drop-tested from ten feet. One full charge can power your iPhone seven times over."
"Logan spent three hours reading Amazon reviews last night after you went to sleep," Tucker adds, sliding a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs and avocado toast in front of her. "He wanted to buy the solar-powered one meant for military excursions, but Dean told him it wouldn't fit in your purse."
"I am a man of aesthetics," Dean interjects, raising his mug. "If she’s going to carry a piece of industrial survival gear in her Chanel tote, it at least needs to be the sleek matte-black version."
Hannah looks down at the heavy bricks of plastic and lithium, a sudden wave of immense fondness washing over her. She looks at Logan, who is nodding proudly at his tech purchase; at Tucker, who is tracking her breakfast intake like a nutritionist; at Dean, who is hiding a rare, soft smile behind his coffee; and finally up at Garrett, whose hand is gently rubbing soothing circles into her hip.
"You guys are completely insane," Hannah says, her voice thick with a mix of laughter and genuine emotion. "I forgot my charger at the library one time."
"One time was enough to give Garrett a minor stroke, Wells," Dean scoffs, tossing a piece of bacon into his mouth. "He literally looked like he was going to throw up his lungs on the kitchen floor. For the sake of our team captain’s mental health, just plug the brick in."
"I’m keeping one in my hockey bag," Garrett says softly, his jaw resting comfortably on her shoulder as he watches her pick up her fork. "Logan is keeping one in his Jeep glove box. And the third one stays permanently tethered to your music bag. If your battery drops below fifty percent, I want to hear a warning siren."
"Alright, alright, I promise," Hannah laughs, leaning back against Garrett’s solid chest, feeling the steady, calming rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her shoulder blades. She looks around at her massive, terrifyingly overprotective hockey family. "I will never let my phone die again."
"Good," Tucker says, tapping the counter firmly. "Now eat your eggs. We have a game tomorrow, and Garrett needs to focus on the blue line, not checking his lock screen ev
ery four seconds."