Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lucy’s POV

Another wasted night. I haven’t done anything but drink and party ever since Caleb left me.

I’ve been sitting here at Raven Tavern for over an hour, waiting for my date, but it looks like he’s not showing up. I’ve been on so many blind dates lately, but nothing ever comes out of them. Why is moving on so damn hard?

I’m on my fifth drink now, and I’m definitely tipsy or drunk. I think it’s time to go home. There’s no point in staying when I’m this alone.
Just as I was about to leave, a familiar guy took the seat next to mine. He was wearing a plain black shirt, and damn, he looked good in it.

“Timothy Bradford. The infamous playboy and friend of my asshole ex. What are you doing here, huh?” I asked, straight to the point.

“Where’s your stupid friend?”

“Whoa, relax, Lucy,” he replied casually.
“I’m not here with him. Just like you, I’m trying to forget my ex,” he added with a bitter laugh.

Ah yes, Tim Bradford. The legendary heartbreaker who still hasn’t gotten over his ex. The only girl he ever truly loved.

“Exes, am I right?” I said with a laugh. “Why is it so fucking hard to move on?” I sighed, frustrated.

“Your friend is an asshole. You know that, right?” I asked him again.

“He is. But you loved him, didn’t you?” he shot back.

“Fuck you,” I muttered under my breath. “You’re all the same. Liars and cheaters,” I snapped.

Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and walked toward the dance floor. The crowd was a blur of moving bodies, neon lights flashing across sweaty faces. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to feel. I just wanted to disappear.

The music pulsed through my veins as I started to dance, swaying with reckless abandon, a drink still in my hand. I moved like I had nothing to lose, because maybe I didn’t. I laughed to myself and threw my head back, spinning slightly as I drowned in the chaos.

From the bar, I saw Tim who didn’t take his eyes off me.

I was tipsy, maybe more than that. I knew I was swaying too hard, but I didn’t stop.

Then I felt a guy pressed up behind me. Too close. His hands grabbed my waist, pulling me back against him. I tried to step away, but he followed. I turned my head slightly, but everything was blurry. I wasn’t okay. I didn’t want this.

Suddenly, a familiar voice cut through the noise.
“Move away from her. She’s clearly uncomfortable.”

I turned my head and saw Tim standing a few feet away, tense, eyes locked on the guy holding me.

The guy laughed. “Why? You her boyfriend?”

“No,” Tim said, stepping closer. “But that doesn’t matter. She’s uncomfortable. Back off.”

“Mind your business, bro. She was dancing with me,” the guy said with a smirk.

“She’s drunk. She’s not dancing with you. She’s barely standing,” Tim snapped back.

And then, out of nowhere, the guy shoved him.
Tim shoved back.

The guy swung at him. Sloppy. Wild. But Tim dodged easily. Tim grabbed the guy by the collar, and for a second, I thought he was really about to show him just how badly he messed up. But before it could go any further, security pushed in between them, shoving them apart.

“Take her and go,” one of the bouncers barked.

I didn’t even realize I was falling until everything tipped sideways, but Tim caught me.

My whole body went limp against him, and the world spun. I felt his arms around me, holding me upright. My eyes blinked open, struggling to focus, and I found myself staring right into his face.

We were so close. Too close.

I could feel his breath. His heartbeat. Everything slowed.

And then, without even thinking it through, I blurted it out.

“Date me, Tim.”

_________

Tim’s POV

“Fuck you,” Lucy muttered under her breath. “You’re all the same. Liars and cheaters,” she snapped.

Without giving me a second glance, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd on the dance floor. Neon lights bounced off her skin as she moved deeper into the chaos. I stayed where I was, gripping my drink, jaw clenched.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I wasn’t just watching, I was waiting. Worried about what kind of mess, recklessness, or trouble she’d get herself into next.

She started dancing like she didn’t care who was watching. Wild. Messy. Beautiful. Her hair stuck to her face, her smile was crooked from the alcohol, and every move she made screamed pain. I knew that kind of dancing. That kind of reckless. She didn’t want to dance. She wanted to forget.

And then I saw some asshole. Tall. Cocky. Handsy. He slipped up behind her and grabbed her by the waist. She flinched. She tried to pull away, but he just pressed in closer like he didn’t see it—or didn’t care.

That was it.

I pushed through the crowd, my heart pounding harder than the bass. My fists were already clenched.

"Move away from her. She's clearly uncomfortable," I snapped when I reached them, my voice slicing through the music.

The guy turned and laughed, barely sparing me a glance. “Why? You her boyfriend?”

“No,” I said, stepping in, “but that doesn’t matter. She’s uncomfortable. Back off.”

He laughed. “Mind your business, bro. She was dancing with me.”

“She’s drunk. She’s not dancing with you. She's barely standing,” I growled.

He shoved me.

I didn’t hesitate. I shoved him right back, harder. He stumbled.

Then he threw a punch. Sloppy. Missed by a mile.

I grabbed his collar, about to show him just how badly he messed up, when security jumped in between us, yanking us apart.

“Take her and go,” one of the bouncers snapped at me.

Lucy was swaying, her knees giving out. I caught her before she hit the floor, arms around her instinctively.

Her whole body went limp against me, and I tightened my arms around her, keeping her upright. She was barely conscious, eyes fluttering as she struggled to focus. And then suddenly, she was looking right at me.

We were close. Too close.

I could feel her breath on my skin, the unsteady rhythm of her chest against mine. Everything around us seemed to go quiet, like the room paused to see what would happen next.

And then, out of nowhere, she whispered something.

“Date me, Tim.”

Maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe it was the look in her eyes. Hurt, wild, desperate.

“Whoa, Lucy. Chill,” I said, letting out a short, nervous laugh.

“You’re drunk. Come on, I’ll take you home,” I offered, trying to keep things from spiraling.

“No, I’m not drunk,” she argued, but we both knew that was a lie.

She stepped in closer. I barely had time to react before she leaned in and kissed me. Quick. Bold. Completely out of nowhere.

When she pulled back, I just stood there, stunned. Like someone had knocked the wind out of me.

“Surprised?” she said, with this unsteady little chuckle.

“You’re insane, Lucy. Seriously,” I replied, laughing because I didn’t know what else to do.

Chapter Text

Lucy’s POV

I woke up with a pounding headache and a throat that felt like sandpaper—classic hangover symptoms.

Groaning, I slowly sat up and scanned the unfamiliar room. Nothing about it rang a bell. My heart raced as I tried to recall anything from last night, but all I got was a blur.

My first instinct was to check myself. I looked down and exhaled in relief. I was still fully clothed. Thank God. At least whoever brought me here didn’t take advantage of me.

All I knew for certain was that I drank way too much.
I scanned the room again, slower this time. That’s when my eyes landed on a framed photo sitting on a shelf.

Oh shit.

Was that… Kojo?

No. It couldn’t be Kojo. Maybe it was just another dog that looked like him. My brain scrambled for logic. I tried to calm down. There was no way this was his place. Right?

Damn it. Who took me home? And just how drunk was I?

I was still piecing things together when I heard footsteps approaching.

Then the door opened.

Holy shit.

Please let the ground swallow me whole.

“Tim?” I gasped.

“Oh, great. You’re awake,” Tim said casually, walking in with a glass of water and some pills in his hand. “Here, I brought you something for the hangover.”

“What the hell? What am I doing here?”

“Whoa. Chill, Luce. I think you were too drunk to remember anything from last night.”
He handed me the water and medicine. “Here, take these first.”

I blinked at him, then reluctantly reached out and took them.

“You can freshen up in the bathroom,” he continued. “I laid out some clothes you can borrow. After that, join me in the kitchen. I made breakfast. Then we can talk about last night.”

“Okay… Thanks,” I muttered.
Once he left the room, I just sat there for a second, staring at the closed door.

Oh dear God. What stupid things did I do?

I dragged myself to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. Bits and pieces of the night started coming back.

I remembered Tim sitting beside me. Then me snapping at him.

A fight.

And then…

Oh my God.

I kissed him.

I smacked my forehead with my palm.

What the hell, Lucy?

This was beyond embarrassing.

What else did I do?

After I composed myself, I changed into the clothes Tim had left for me. A pair of sweatpants and a cozy sweater. Then I walked out and made my way to the kitchen.

And there I saw Kojo.

It really was him.

I crouched down and gave him a soft pat. I was glad he still recognized me.

“Hey,” I said as I sat down at the table.
Tim looked up from the stove.

“Whatever happened last night… I’m sorry,” I added quietly. “Blame the alcohol.”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. Everything that happened is officially forgotten.”

He grabbed a plate and joined me at the table.
“Although… you were pretty wild last night,” he teased.

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. “God, please don’t remind me.”

“You know, this is all your fault,” I said, pointing a finger at him.

“My fault?” he repeated, lifting his hands in mock surrender.

“If you hadn’t introduced me to that self-centered, manipulative asshole, none of this would’ve happened.”

He raised both hands higher, as if to say I’m innocent.

Tim and I kept talking after that. About Caleb, about everything. It was easier than I expected, laughing about the red flags I’d missed, or how I thought his favorite band was his only redeeming quality.

Tim didn’t hold back either. “I wouldn’t even call him a friend,” he scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “More like… my college buddy’s clingy cousin who never got the hint.”

We both laughed, but something about the way he said it was sharp, bitter, and a little too honest.

But then something shifted, like a reel starting to play in the back of my mind.
Fragments of memories resurfaced.

The interview.

The first time we really talked.
The party at Angela’s.
Caleb, with his perfect timing and fake charm.
That was the beginning. Where everything really started.

____________
Six Years Ago

The textbooks were stacked beside me, my laptop screen covered in notes and tabs, and my hair a complete mess. I looked like I hadn’t seen daylight in days, and honestly, I probably hadn’t. Grad school was slowly sucking the life out of me.

“Hey. Wanna grab sushi?” Tamara asked as she popped her head into my bedroom. “Kind of hungry. Also, Uncle Smitty cooked casserole, and it smells... deadly.”

I groaned. “I’ll pass. I still have to find someone that I can interview for my paper, and there’s a ton of stuff I need to finish.”

Tamara gave me a pitiful look. “Cool. I’ll order takeout for you.”

“Oh my God, thank you! You’re a lifesaver. I love you.”

She just laughed and walked away.

Deadlines were slowly killing me. This paper and especially the interview was a requirement, and I hadn’t even found someone willing to get interviewed yet. It had to be deep, personal, and vulnerable. Trauma management in adults. That was the topic I was given.

I glanced at the clock. Six in the evening. I had crossed out most things on my to-do list: finished two reports, replied to emails, and reviewed for next week’s quiz. All that was left was studying for finals and finding someone to interview for my paper.

For a brief moment, I even considered Uncle Smitty. But no. I didn’t need stories of him traumatizing other people.

Sighing, I opened Facegram and scrolled through my friends list. Most were old classmates or family. A few neighbors. No one really came to mind who would fit the criteria.

I scrolled more.

Still nothing.

Then, there was a knock on my door.

“Come in,” I called out without looking up.
“Where’s my sushi?” I asked immediately, because by that point I was starving.

“Actually, I didn’t get to order. They were out of your favorites,” Tamara replied with a teasing grin.

“Ugh! Boo!” I groaned and tossed a pillow at her.
She came over and sat on the edge of my bed. “So, you done?”

“Almost. Just a few more things.”

“Oh, that’s good,” she said. “Because Angela invited us over. She and Wesley are celebrating their engagement tonight.”

I raised an eyebrow, already preparing an excuse, but she beat me to it.

“Come on, Luce. You haven’t left this house in almost a week. You keep saying you’re busy, and I get it. But how about, just for tonight, you take a break? You can go back to nerding out tomorrow.”

I sighed, defeated. “Fine. Whatever. You’re lucky I’m hungry.”

Tamara grinned like she just won a prize. “Go freshen up. I’ll wait while you get dressed.”

“Cool,” I muttered as I dragged myself off the bed, trying not to feel too excited about finally leaving my room.

Tamara and I arrived at Angela’s house just as the party was starting to hit its rhythm.

The place was buzzing with warm lights that strung over the backyard, the soft hum of music playing from speakers, and the familiar sound of laughter echoing across the lawn.

A few people were gathered near the grill, drinks in hand, chatting and catching up.

Inside, the living room was lively. A group was gathered around the kitchen island, snacking and joking, and of course, there was Uncle Smitty, already two beers in, arguing with Nolan over whether pineapple belonged on pizza. Nolan looked like he was regretting every life decision that brought him to this conversation.

Tamara elbowed me. “This is already the highlight of my week.”

I laughed and shook my head, grabbing a drink before we both joined in on the chaos.

The next hour passed in a blur of laughter, catching up, and being passed around from conversation to conversation. It was the first time in a long while I felt genuinely relaxed.

Eventually, Angela found me standing near the patio, sipping soda and watching Smitty try to beat Jackson at charades.

“So,” she said, sliding in beside me with a glass of wine in hand, “how’s grad school treating you?”

“Like hell,” I answered honestly. “I think I’ve forgotten what sleep is. But it’s alright, just a few weeks left. I’m finishing my paper for trauma management in adults. I just… still haven’t found someone to interview.”

Angela nodded thoughtfully. “Still need that, huh? Anyone in mind yet?”

“Not really,” I sighed. “I mean, it’s hard. The interview needs to be raw, emotional. Something real. But it also needs to be respectful, you know? Not everyone wants to talk about their trauma to a complete stranger.”

Angela tilted her head, thinking. Her eyes narrowed slightly, like something had just clicked.
“I think I know just the person,” she said after a pause.

I looked at her, curious. “Really?”

“He’s been through a lot. Like, a lot. But he’s someone I trust, and honestly, I’ve been trying to convince him to talk to someone. He thinks therapy’s pointless, but maybe… maybe this could help. I mean, he doesn’t have to treat it like therapy, just a conversation for your paper.”

I bit my lip. “Do you really think he’ll be okay with it?”

Angela gave a small smile. “You’ve got a good way with people, Lucy. You’re gentle, you ask the right questions. I wouldn’t suggest this if I didn’t think you’d handle it right.”

That made me feel slightly better, but still. This wasn’t just a topic I could casually throw out. “I just… I want to make sure I’m not crossing any lines. I don’t want anyone to feel cornered.”

“I get that. He’s stubborn, but I think you might be the right person to ask,” she said as she pulled out her phone. “Here, I’ll text you his number.”

I hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll try.”

Angela grinned. “You’ll do great. I believe in you, Luce.”

Chapter Text

Lucy’s POV

If stress could take physical form, I was probably sitting in the middle of it.

My room was a mess of papers, open books, highlighters, and empty coffee cups. I hadn't even realized it was already noon until the sunlight finally broke through the curtains I forgot to pull open. I sat cross-legged on my bed, a laptop propped on a pillow, notes stuck to the screen like desperate reminders screaming, You’re running out of time, Chen.

Still, for once, I didn’t feel like I was drowning.

It must’ve been the break. Last night’s party at Angela’s house had been exactly the reset I didn’t know I needed. Seeing people. Laughing a little. Eating real food. Remembering that life existed beyond papers and deadlines.

I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and pushed myself to focus. My thesis was nearing its most critical stage, and I still hadn’t locked in a subject for the interview. The most important part. The one that would tie everything together.

On my desk was a carefully drafted list of interview questions. Next to it sat my phone, the message to Timothy Bradford already typed out but still unsent.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

Just hit send, I told myself. It’s just a message. A professional one. Not a proposal.

But I kept hearing Angela’s words echo in my head from last night.

“He’s been through a lot. What he’s gone through isn’t a joke. But maybe you’re exactly the person who can help him start talking about it.”

Still, what if he thought it was too invasive? What if I came off as just another overly curious psychology student?

I sighed, reread the message for the fifth time, and without letting myself think anymore, then I hit send.

The moment I did, regret twisted in my stomach. I dropped the phone like it was going to explode and muttered, “Nope. Nope. Can’t watch.”

I buried my face in my hands and groaned.

__________

Tim’s POV

“Roses or tulips?”

Angela was already holding both up as if I had the mental bandwidth to care about flower symbolism.

“I don’t know,” I muttered. “Whichever one makes you feel less like murdering Wesley.”

“Too late,” she replied, tossing the tulips on the table. “He picked red napkins. For a spring wedding.”

I smirked, sipping on cold coffee while Patrice hummed happily from the kitchen. She’d appointed herself snack coordinator for all wedding planning sessions.

I’d been roped into being the “best man,” though apparently that also meant unpaid assistant, emotional support friend, and furniture mover.

Angela plopped down beside me on the couch with a binder. “Okay, next—”

Ping.

I checked my phone. Unknown number.

Good day, Mr. Bradford. My name is Lucy Chen. I’m currently pursuing a master’s degree in psychology and conducting a study focused on trauma recovery in adults...

I blinked. Then I opened my phone to read the whole message.

_____________________

Good day, Mr. Bradford.

My name is Lucy Chen. I’m currently pursuing a master’s degree in Psychology, and I’m conducting a research study focused on trauma management and recovery in adults. I was referred to you by Ms. Angela Lopez, who mentioned that you might be open to sharing your experiences for the purpose of academic research.

The interview is entirely voluntary and confidential. It would be greatly appreciated, as I’ve been searching for someone who could provide insight into this very personal and impactful topic. Of course, I completely understand if you’re not comfortable.

If you’re open to it, I’d be happy to work around your schedule. Thank you so much for considering, and I hope to hear from you.

– Lucy Chen

___________

“Lopez,” I said slowly.

“What?”

I turned to look at her. “Do you know a Lucy Chen?”

Angela’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

She closed the binder and smiled way too innocently. “I might’ve given her your number.”

“You signed me up for an interview?” I gave her a look.

“She needed someone to talk to, and you—”

“I’m not doing an interview.”

“Oh, come on. She’s one of my neighbors, and she’s a genuinely kind person. Smart. Professional. This interview really means a lot to her.”

“She’s a stranger—” I shot her a look.

“She’s not some total stranger,” Angela argued, unfazed. “You’ve actually met her before. Remember the girl with Kojo? The dog? The one you helped a few years ago?”

I blinked. “The dog with the attitude?”

“That’s the one.”

I paused. “Still not enough reason for me to open up.”

Angela sighed like she was talking to a particularly stubborn teenager.

“Look, it’s one conversation. No pressure. You don’t have to tell her anything you don’t want to. She just needs someone willing to talk about their experience. You’ve been through a lot, Tim. What you’ve survived matters.”

I didn’t respond.

She softened her voice. “And maybe it might be good for you, too.”

Before I could argue again, Patrice walked in from the backyard holding a tray of cookies, sunglasses still on her head.

“Why does it sound like Tim’s being peer-pressured into human interaction again?” she asked.

“He’s being dramatic,” Angela said.

“I am not,” I muttered.

Patrice placed the cookies on the table, then sat beside Angela, shooting me a look like she was already on Team Angela.

Then the front door opened and Wesley walked in, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and his keys in the other.

“What’s happening?” he asked, heading straight toward the kitchen.

“I’m trying to get Tim to agree to one simple interview,” Angela called after him.

Wesley came back with a glass in hand and leaned against the counter.

“Well, if it involves helping a student, I’m voting yes. I’d love it if someone had helped me during my grad school days.”

Angela shot me a smug look.

I groaned and reached for my phone. “You people are relentless.”

She smiled sweetly. “It’s because we care.”

I opened Lucy’s message again and typed:

Hi, Lucy. Angela passed your message along. I’m open to helping out with your study. Let me know when and where you’d like to do the interview.

I hit send and tossed my phone onto the table with a sigh.

“Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Angela said, biting into a cookie.

Patrice smirked. “Look at you, participating in society.”

“I already regret this,” I muttered.

Angela beamed. “You won’t.”