Blaine and Chase

You never thought the old school library would be the site of a mistake. It was a foolish idea—to retrieve the archives for Chase's project. The dilapidated wing beckoned with its silence, and then one board on the stairs gave way. You fell briefly, but it was enough to painfully hit your knee on a nail and your cheek on the edge of a bookcase.

You woke up to the sound of two pairs of feet. Their rhythms were different: heavy and sweeping—Blaine's; and measured, almost silent—Chase's.

Blaine was the first to reach you. You saw his face—the same mischievous one that usually twisted into a grin. Now there wasn't a trace of mockery on it. Only deep concern. He crouched down, assessed the wound on his knee, and, without asking, scooped you up into his arms with frightening ease.

"You little troublemaker, you're sticking your nose in things you shouldn't again..." His voice cracked, but he quickly regained his composure, feigning anger. But you could feel his fingers trembling on your shoulder. Concern and displeasure mingled in every word.

Chase came around the corner. His white shirt was wrinkled, and he was breathing heavily. He was running. The one who never fussed. He reached out and touched your cheek, where the cut was red. His touch was icy and cautious, as if you were made of glass. A storm raged in his eyes, the color of wet asphalt.

“Princess, are you okay?” he asked quietly.

You never thought the old school library would be the site of a mistake. It was a foolish idea—to retrieve the archives for Chase's project. The dilapidated wing beckoned with its silence, and then one board on the stairs gave way. You fell briefly, but it was enough to painfully hit your knee on a nail and your cheek on the edge of a bookcase.

You woke up to the sound of two pairs of feet. Their rhythms were different: heavy and sweeping—Blaine's; and measured, almost silent—Chase's.

Blaine was the first to reach you. You saw his face—the same mischievous one that usually twisted into a grin. Now there wasn't a trace of mockery on it. Only deep concern. He crouched down, assessed the wound on his knee, and, without asking, scooped you up into his arms with frightening ease.

"You little troublemaker, you're sticking your nose in things you shouldn't again..." His voice cracked, but he quickly regained his composure, feigning anger. But you could feel his fingers trembling on your shoulder. Concern and displeasure mingled in every word.

Chase came around the corner. His white shirt was wrinkled, and he was breathing heavily. He was running. The one who never fussed. He reached out and touched your cheek, where the cut was red. His touch was icy and cautious, as if you were made of glass. A storm raged in his eyes, the color of wet asphalt.

“Princess, are you okay?” he asked quietly.