Chapter 48 #2
“You look like someone who’s been through a lot,” I say gently, sitting back down beside her. “And you’re still here. That’s what matters.”
She goes quiet at that, adjusting the towel-wrapped bag against her face.
I give her a second to breathe before I speak again. “Ava…we need to figure out what you want to do next.”
Her brows knit together. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—do you want to report this? To campus security? Or the police? Or talk to someone at student services? We can get you to the health center to get your eye checked too. Whatever you decide, I’ll go with you.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “I don’t know. I don’t…I can’t think straight.”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly. “You don’t have to decide everything right this second. But we will figure it out. You deserve to feel safe, Ava.”
Her fingers tighten on the bag of blueberries. “I don’t want everyone knowing. I feel so stupid.”
“Hey.” I wait until she looks at me. “You are not stupid. You trusted someone, and he betrayed that. That’s on him, not you. And whatever you decide, I’ve got your back. No questions, no judgment.”
Her eyes fill again, but this time it’s less panic and more…relief.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Maybe the health center. Just to get checked out. I don’t know about the rest yet.”
“That’s enough for now,” I say softly. “One step at a time.”
She nods slowly, pressing the ice pack closer to her face. “You’re really good at this, you know. Calming people down.”
I smile faintly. “Perks of the career path.”
For the first time since I walked in, there’s a small flicker of the Ava I know. It’s fragile, but it’s there.
The health center is quieter than usual when we arrive.
Finals week has everyone scattered—either buried in books or already heading home.
The fluorescent lights inside hum softly, the air faintly antiseptic.
Ava keeps her hood up as we walk through the doors, her shoulders tense; her hand clutching the makeshift ice pack like a lifeline.
I check us in at the front desk while she hovers just behind me, eyes fixed on the floor. The receptionist takes one look at Ava and her bruised face, and her expression softens immediately. Within minutes, a nurse leads us to an exam room.
I stay close, letting Ava set the pace. She doesn’t say much as the nurse gently checks her eye, but she answers the questions. She flinches when they shine the small light near the bruise, but her voice doesn’t waver.
When the nurse steps out to get the doctor, Ava exhales shakily. “I feel like I’m watching this happen to someone else.”
I squeeze her hand. “That’s normal. You’re in shock. But you’re doing amazing.”
She nods slowly, eyes glossy but clear.
The doctor confirms what we suspected—bruising and swelling, but nothing broken. They give her an ice pack that’s a definite upgrade from my frozen blueberries, and some aftercare instructions.
Then the nurse gently explains Ava’s options: reporting to campus security, Title IX, or local authorities; speaking to a counselor; setting up a safety plan. She doesn’t push—just lays everything out clearly.
Ava listens quietly, fingers twisting in the hem of her sleeve. I can see the moment she makes her decision, small but firm. “I want to file a report,” she says, voice quiet. “Against Coleson.”
The nurse nods immediately and steps out to bring in a campus security officer and a Title IX representative.
Ava’s breathing quickens, and I shift closer, our knees touching on the exam table’s edge. “I’m right here,” I whisper. “The whole time.”
She nods, swallowing hard.
The officer is professional, calm, and gentle. They take her statement carefully, letting her set the pace. She stumbles a few times, her voice catching when she talks about this morning, but she doesn’t stop.
When she admits—out loud, for the first time—that he shoved her, that he’s been hurting her, her hands start shaking. I reach for one, threading my fingers through hers. She grips back like she needs the anchor.
The Title IX rep explains next steps clearly: a formal investigation, a no-contact order, counseling options, and academic accommodations if needed. They don’t sugarcoat it, but they don’t make it overwhelming either.
By the time everything’s signed and filed, Ava looks exhausted, like she’s run a marathon she didn’t know she was training for. But underneath the exhaustion, there’s something else there too—the faintest glimmer of relief.
As we step back out into the cool night air, she exhales shakily. “I can’t believe I actually did that.”
I loop my arm through hers gently. “You were incredible. Seriously. That took so much strength.”
She gives a tiny, tired laugh. “You make it sound heroic.”
“It is heroic,” I say softly. “You stood up for yourself. That’s huge.”
She leans her head against my shoulder as we walk back toward the dorms. “Thank you for coming with me.”
“Always,” I say without hesitation. And I mean it.
Back in my dorm, Ava is finally curled under blankets with a real ice pack pressed to her face. The adrenaline crash hit hard after we got back from the health center. She’s exhausted, physically, emotionally, everything. I really can't blame her.
I sit at my desk, thumb hovering over my phone. Beck texted me earlier asking if I wanted to come over after he got back from seeing Logan, and I hadn’t answered yet.
I glance over at Ava. “Hey,” I say softly. “Beck asked if I wanted to come by tonight. Is it okay if I tell him what happened? Just so he understands why I’m staying here?”
She shifts under the blanket, peeking out just enough to nod. “Yeah. I trust you. You can tell him.”
I squeeze her hand lightly. “Okay.”
Then I open our chat.
Hey, sorry for not answering earlier.
Beck: don’t apologize, Prescott. you okay?
I’m okay. But I need to stay with Ava tonight.
Beck: yeah? what’s going on?
I hesitate for half a second, then type:
She… had a rough day. Coleson hurt her. Like physically. We went to the health center tonight, and she filed a report. She’s okay now, but I don’t want to leave her alone.
The three dots pop up almost immediately.
Beck: holy shit. is she safe right now?
Yeah. She’s in bed, staying with me. They put a no-contact order in place, and campus security is looped in. She’s exhausted, though.
Beck: I’m glad she has you. seriously.
I exhale slowly, my shoulders relaxing a little.
I didn’t want you to think I was bailing on you or anything.
Beck: you’re good, pretty girl. you don’t have to explain. she needs you tonight.
Beck: I’ll see you tomorrow. we are about to head in to see Logan.
My chest warms, but I’m also worried about what the surgeons learned during Logan’s operation.
You’ll have to let me know what you find out.
Beck: I will. I’ll text you later, ok?
I set my phone on the nightstand and turn off the lamp. Ava’s breathing is already evening out across the room. I lie back against my pillow, letting the quiet settle in.
Tonight isn’t just heartbreaking, it’s clarifying.
Watching Ava find her voice, standing beside her through it, solidifies that I made the right choice for my future career.
This is why I want to do what I’m studying for.
To be the person who steps in when someone’s caught in something bigger than themselves.
For children caught in the middle. For teens. For strong women like Ava who need someone to stand with them in solidarity. For anyone who needs it.