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Chapter Text

The salt air stung against Pacey’s cheeks as True Love cut through the waves, her sails snapping in the wind. The boat wasn’t just wood and rope to him, it was months of sweat, stubbornness, and proof that he could build something beautiful from nothing. Winning the regatta would be nice, but really, being out here was already the victory.

“Portside, Witter! You’ve got the right-of-way!” An unknown voice called from the regatta committee boat, firm but edged with alarm.

Pacey’s eyes flicked to starboard. Dawson’s glossy white sailboat was bearing down on him, refusing to yield. Dawson’s jaw was set, knuckles white around the helm, and for a split second Pacey felt that old familiar twist in his gut, Dawson’s world had always demanded people bend.

“Dawson, you’ve gotta yield,” Pacey shouted across the gap, his voice raw with urgency. The wind whipped it back at him, but he knew Dawson heard.

Pacey could see Mitch, fighting with Dawson to get him to turn the boat, Jack fearfully waiting for Dawson to do the right thing.

Will Krudski, crouched beside him, followed his gaze. “He’s not stopping, Pacey.”

Pacey’s hands tightened on the wheel. He glanced again toward the committee boat. The occupants were standing now, waving their arms, shouting at Dawson, faces pale. 

Across the water, Pacey’s eyes caught Mitch Leery’s. For half a heartbeat, Pacey wondered if Mitch thought he might be the stubborn one, that the eternal screw-up might finally have decided to go down swinging.

“Pacey,” Will said, his voice low, calm in that maddening way he had when everything was about to go sideways. “What do you want me to do?”

“Brace,” Pacey muttered. His throat was dry. “Hold on to something, and whatever you do, don’t let go.”

Will’s hand tightened on the rail, his knuckles going white.

Dawson’s bow loomed closer, cutting across their path like a blade. A few more feet, and they’d splinter each other to pieces. Pacey’s chest constricted. For a terrifying instant, he saw Joey’s face, not here, not on the water, but in some hospital waiting room, her brown eyes hollow as she got the news.

“Goddammit, Dawson,” Pacey spat, and yanked the wheel. True Love groaned in protest, the hull grinding as she veered sharply to avoid Dawson’s path. The boat scraped against the shallows with a bone-jarring crack, the mast shuddering violently. Pacey’s feet slipped on the slick deck, and the world tilted.

There was a blur of sky, sea, and Will’s shout, then nothing but cold.

The ocean swallowed him whole.

From the dock, the sails looked like wings tearing across the water, sunlight flashing on the waves. Joey’s heart had been in her throat the moment Dawson entered the race. She’d tried to talk him out of it, tried to make him see that this wasn’t about him, but Dawson had a way of hearing only what he wanted.

She had tried with Pacey too, pleaded with him to walk away, to let Dawson have whatever shallow victory he thought he needed. But Pacey’s pride was stitched into every line of that boat. True Love wasn’t just a vessel; it was his blood, his proof that he could be more than what everyone had always told him he was.

Now, as the two boats converged, she felt her body lock, unable to breathe.

“Yield!” she heard voices shouting, Mitch, Pacey, desperation carried by the wind. Dawson’s boat kept bearing down, cutting closer, and Joey’s nails dug crescents into her palms.

Pacey’s profile was a flash of determination, jaw tight, eyes locked on Dawson’s bow. Then she saw it, the tiny shake of his head, the surrender in his shoulders as he made his choice.

He turned.

The screech of wood against sand and rock rang across the water, and the True Love shuddered like a living thing in pain. Joey gasped, her legs trembling beneath her as she watched Pacey lurch forward, unbalanced.

For a breathless second, time fractured. The world slowed to the sound of her own pulse hammering in her ears. She saw Will clutch the rail, saw Mitch waving frantically, saw Dawson’s pale face twist in something between horror and denial.

And then.

Pacey was gone.

The space where he’d been was nothing but spray and shadow, the sea closing over him without mercy.

“No,” Joey whispered, her voice strangled, the word ripped from her chest. “No, no, no!”

Her heart lurched violently, and suddenly she was moving, feet pounding down the dock, hands reaching as if she could pull him back by sheer force of will. The man she loved, the boy she had tried so hard to keep herself from loving, was disappearing beneath the waves, and she was frozen between screaming his name and diving after him.

On the committee boat, a man was already in motion, stripping off his shirt and shouting for a life ring. Will’s cry echoed across the water, hoarse and panicked. Dawson just sat stiff at his tiller, eyes wide, hands useless, as if he couldn’t believe what he had done.

Joey’s vision blurred, her knees buckling as she reached the end of the dock. She wanted to leap, to throw herself in after Pacey, to find him in the cold and drag him back. But all she could do was clutch the rail and watch the water ripple over the place where he’d vanished, terror rooting her to the spot.

“Please,” she begged the water, her voice cracking. “Please, Pacey… come back.”

Joey’s muscles finally broke free of their paralysis. She yanked at the buttons of her sweater, ready to dive, ready to tear through the waves until she had her hands on him, until she knew he was still there.

But an arm locked around her waist, dragging her back.

“Joey, no!”

She fought against it blindly, nails scraping at the forearm banded across her middle. She twisted, breath ragged, only to find herself staring up into Doug Witter’s pale, set face. His uniform shirt was damp with spray, his cap gone, his eyes burning with the same terror that was clawing through her.

“Let me go!” she cried, her voice shrill with panic. “He’s out there! He needs me!”

Doug shook his head sharply. His grip didn’t loosen. “He needs to know you’re safe, Potter. If you go in, he’ll go in deeper trying to save you. Don’t you get it? You’d kill him.”

The words slammed into her chest, knocking the air from her lungs. Her fists stopped pounding against him. She sagged against his arm, trembling, eyes locked on the churning waves where the rescue team was converging.

“Come on, Pace,” Doug muttered, his voice breaking low, meant more for himself than for her. “Don’t do this.”

Joey clutched at the fabric of his sleeve, fingers shaking. Together they stood on the dock as the divers pulled a limp body from the water. Pacey’s hair clung dark against his forehead, his skin ghostly pale. Lifeless.

“No,” Joey whispered again, her knees threatening to give out.

The medics lowered him onto the deck of the committee boat, hands moving fast, pressing, pumping, forcing breath into his lungs. She could hear the barked orders even over the wind, the harsh, frantic rhythm of the resuscitation.

Her whole body leaned toward him, every instinct screaming to run, to throw herself down at his side, but Doug’s steadying grip kept her rooted. His jaw clenched hard, and she realized with a start that he was shaking too.

Behind them, hurried footsteps slapped against the planks. Dawson, pale and wide-eyed, stumbled onto the dock, gasping Joey’s name.

Doug’s head whipped around. His expression hardened, turning cold and sharp in a way Joey had never seen before. He lifted his radio, his voice steady despite the storm in his eyes.

“Unit Six,” he snapped. “I need an officer down at the marina. Detain Dawson Leery for reckless endangerment. Now.”

Dawson froze, mouth opening and closing. “Doug, you can’t.”

But Doug had already turned his back on him. His hand stayed braced against Joey’s shoulder, holding her up as they both stared at the frantic scene on the water.

The world narrowed to the rise and fall of the medics’ hands on Pacey’s chest, the desperate fight to call him back.

“Please,” Joey whispered, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Please don’t leave me, Pacey.”

The dock felt like it was swaying beneath Joey’s feet, though the water was calm now except for the frantic churn of the rescue boats. All she could see was Pacey’s body sprawled on the deck, medics pressing, breathing, shocking him back toward life. Her nails bit into Doug’s sleeve, her breath breaking against her teeth.

Behind her, Dawson’s voice rose, brittle and panicked. “Joey, Joey, I didn’t mean to…”

Her head snapped around, fury flooding her chest. “You didn’t mean?” she spat, tears burning hot in her eyes. “You killed him, Dawson! You couldn’t stand that he built something of his own, that he” her voice cracked, “that he has me. So you tried to take it all away. Look at him! Look at what you did!”

Dawson’s face crumpled, pale and stricken, but she didn’t care. Not anymore. He was the last person she wanted near her.

Shouts carried across the water. The medics lifted Pacey carefully onto a stretcher, still working furiously, already waving toward the waiting ambulance.

Joey broke from Doug’s grasp, running, her legs barely holding her upright. She stumbled alongside as they carried Pacey toward the flashing red lights, her sobs mixing with the siren wail.

She barely noticed Doug barking orders into his radio behind her. Barely registered Dawson’s voice calling her name, fading as officers intercepted him on the dock.

All she knew was Pacey. Pale. Still.

She climbed into the back of the ambulance before anyone could stop her, pressing herself against the wall as the medics surrounded him. Tubes, wires, urgent commands, none of it mattered. She couldn’t hear over the hammer of her own heartbeat.

Her hand reached out, shaking, just to brush his. “I’m here,” she whispered, so soft it was lost under the siren. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The doors slammed, sealing them inside. The ambulance lurched forward, carrying them toward whatever waited at the hospital.

And Joey kept her eyes locked on his chest, willing it to rise on its own.

Chapter Text

The ambulance doors slammed behind them, Pacey was being rushed inside by a group of people in scrubs, but Joey was shoved back, redirected by firm hands. A nurse’s calm voice, too calm, told her she couldn’t follow, that someone would update her soon. The words slid off her like water, useless. All Joey could do was stumble after the nurse into a waiting room that buzzed with fluorescent light.

The hospital smelled of bleach and something sharp, something metallic that made her stomach churn. The plastic chairs bit into her legs as she folded into one, hands locked so tightly together her knuckles had gone bloodless. She still felt Pacey’s skin against her fingertips from the ambulance, clammy and too still. She still saw his chest rise only because strangers had forced it to.

Her pulse battered against her ribs. It was too much, too fast, too loud. Anger simmered under her skin, because if she let herself feel only fear, she’d shatter.

Doug stood across the room, arms crossed, jaw tight. Every so often his radio crackled, but he never moved from her orbit. When her breath hitched, he laid a hand on her shoulder, steady as stone. She should have shrugged it off. Instead she leaned into it, it felt like a tether to Pacey somehow.

Bessie burst in minutes later, hair half-fallen, face wet with sweat. She folded Joey into her arms like she was a little girl again, rocking her, whispering nonsense comforts, he’s tough, he’ll come through, he has to. Joey let herself sink into it, but the anger boiled hotter, hissing that no one had stopped this, not Bessie, not Doug, not her.

The others trickled in. Too many eyes in one small room, all flicking toward her then away, as if she might break apart if they stared too long.

When Mitch crouched down in front of her, reaching for her hand, Joey ripped it back like his touch burned. 

“Don’t,” she snapped, voice shaking but sharp. “You encouraged him. You told Dawson he should be out there. You knew what that race meant to Pacey, and you let Dawson turn it into some, some sick contest for me.”

Mitch’s face fell, guilt clouding his features. “Joey, I didn’t know it would…”

White-hot anger licked her insides, easier to wield than the terror clawing her throat. If she hated him, she didn’t have to think about Pacey not breathing.

“You should have,” she bit out. “You’re supposed to be the adult.”

She turned then, eyes flashing at Jack and Andie, who flinched under the weight of her glare.  “And you two, loaning him the boat? Do you know what you did? You handed Dawson the means to hurt him. You helped him. You all did.”

Andie’s lip trembled, eyes filling with tears. “Joey, I swear, we thought…”

“You didn’t think,” Joey spat, her voice cracking. “You never stopped to think what this would do to Pacey. He could be,” her throat closed, “he could be gone because none of you stopped him.”

The words tasted bitter, because she wasn’t only blaming them. She was blaming herself, every syllable a knife she deserved as much as they did.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Jen shifted, eyes fierce, but didn’t defend them. She just crossed the room and slid into the chair beside Joey, her hand closing around hers. Quiet solidarity.

Joey’s head dropped into her hands. “It’s my fault too,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “If I’d just been honest. If I’d just chosen him instead of stringing Dawson along with this… this false hope.” 

The admission ripped out of her like a confession under torture. Her stomach twisted, acid-hot, because the truth was she had strung Dawson along, and maybe that lie had put Pacey here.

Bessie cupped her face, forcing her to look up. “Josephine Potter, don’t you dare. This isn’t on you. This is on Dawson. He made his choice.”

Joey’s tears spilled over, hot and relentless, burning down her cheeks like punishment. “I let him believe he still had me,” she choked. Coward, coward, coward, her mind hissed. “If I’d just been brave enough to say ‘I love Pacey’, he wouldn’t be lying in there, broken because of my silence.”

Doug’s voice cut through then, low but firm. “Bessie is right, Joey. And Pacey wouldn’t want you to carry this. He’d want you here. Safe.”

Her chest cracked open at that word, safe, because she could still hear Doug’s voice on the dock, telling her that Pacey would need to know she was.

She buried her face against Bessie’s shoulder, sobbing, while Doug stood watch like a sentinel, his eyes flicking toward the closed ER doors where doctors were still fighting for his brother.

Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped in a steady rhythm. Joey clung to that sound as if it were the one that was tied to her own heartbeat.

The minutes stretched unbearably long, broken only by the scrape of chairs and the low murmur of voices no one wanted to raise. Joey sat rigid, every muscle braced for bad news.

Finally, the doors swung open and a doctor stepped into the waiting room. His expression was practiced calm, but Joey’s heart still dropped into her stomach.

“Pacey Witter?” he asked, scanning the room.

Joey was on her feet before anyone else, her voice cracking. “Yes. Please, how is he?”

The doctor gave a slow nod. “He’s stable. We were able to get his breathing steady again. But his brain was without oxygen for several minutes. Until he wakes, we won’t know the full extent of any damage.”

Joey’s hand shot to her mouth. Relief hit like a wave, colliding with terror. Stable wasn’t safe. Stable wasn’t fine. Stable just meant he wasn’t gone.

“He’s in the ICU,” the doctor went on gently. “Two visitors at a time, and only for a few minutes each.”

Doug cleared his throat, stepping forward. “I’m his brother. I’ll go first. And Joey.” He looked at her, his voice softening. “You should come.”

Joey’s knees wobbled, but she nodded fiercely, like she would fight anyone who tried to deny her.

The ICU was hushed, filled with the steady hum of machines. Joey’s chest tightened at the sight of him, Pacey, pale against the white sheets, a tangle of wires and tubes surrounding him. His chest rose and fell, but the rhythm was supported by machines, not his own strength.

For a moment, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t Pacey as she knew him, laughing, stubborn, infuriatingly alive. This was… fragile. And it terrified her.

Doug stepped closer first, his hand curling around the rail at the foot of the bed. His face was stoic, but Joey saw the muscle in his jaw jump, saw the way his eyes glistened despite his best efforts. He looked suddenly older, wearier.

Joey edged to the bedside, her trembling hand brushing against Pacey’s. His skin was cool, but real. Her tears fell freely now.

“Hey,” she whispered, leaning close, as if he might somehow hear her. “You don’t get to do this to me, Pacey Witter. Not after everything. You fight. You hear me? You fight your way back.”

Doug’s voice was rough when he spoke, more to himself than her. “Stubborn son of a bitch has never listened to a word I’ve said. But maybe he’ll listen to you.”

Joey’s lips pressed to Pacey’s knuckles. “Then I’ll keep talking until he does.”

The machines clicked and hummed, steady but impersonal, filling the silence where his voice should have been. Joey stayed, unwilling to let go of his hand, clinging to the fragile promise that he was still here.

Chapter Text

The ICU doors had swallowed Joey and Doug, leaving the rest of them in the waiting room with nothing but the buzz of the vending machine and the heavy silence pressing down.

Jack sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his hands knotted in his hair. He hadn’t spoken since they arrived, his jaw locked so tight it looked painful. Finally, his voice scraped through the quiet, rough and low.

“I should’ve stopped him.”

Andie reached for his arm, but he pulled away, shaking his head hard. “Don’t, Andie. Don’t tell me we couldn’t have known. I was there. I was on the damn boat with him. I saw where his head was, how reckless he was.” His breath hitched. “And I let it happen. To Pacey. To one of my best friends.”

Andie’s eyes shimmered. “Jack, I…”

“You wanted Dad’s boat in the race no matter what,” Jack snapped, pain twisting every word. “You hated what was happening with Joey and Pacey so much that you didn’t care what Dawson did with it. And I,” he shoved a hand through his hair, voice cracking, “I went along because I couldn’t stand to see you hurting. But now Pacey’s the one paying for it. And we have to live with that.”

Silence followed, jagged and raw.

The waiting room door banged softly against the wall as Will slipped inside. His clothes clung to him, still damp, and his sneakers squeaked faintly against the tile. A scrape marred his cheekbone, but he barely noticed it. The group turned toward him, relief flickering across Andie’s face as she shot up and wrapped her arms around him.

“Thank God you’re all right,” she whispered.

Will hugged her back, quick and distracted, before pulling away. His eyes swept the room: Jack hunched over, Andie trembling, Mitch pale, Jen quiet, Bessie stone-still. They all looked wrecked, but all Will felt was heat clawing through his chest.

“The medics cleared me,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m fine.” His jaw flexed. “But Pacey isn’t. He told me to brace because he knew Dawson wasn’t going to stop. He took the hit so Dawson didn’t run us down. He saved me.” His gaze locked on Jack, then Mitch, sharp as glass. “Hell, he saved each of you, whether you want to admit it or not.”

The words scraped out of him sharper than he meant, but he didn’t care. Because he’d watched Pacey go under, and he couldn’t shake the truth, Pacey had been the one to sacrifice himself while everyone else stood by.

Will’s voice rose, anger breaking through the controlled mask he usually wore. “And don’t any of you forget it. You’ve treated him like he was selfish, like he was wrong for loving Joey, when he’s the only one who’s been honest this whole damn time. And now he’s in there,” his throat closed tight, fury and grief knotted together, “because he cared more about protecting you than himself.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then Jen reached across and touched his arm, light but firm. “Will.” Her voice was steady, softer than the jagged edges flying around the room. “We know. You’re right. But tearing each other apart out here won’t help him in there.”

Will stared at her, throat raw. He didn’t really know Jen, not beyond her being part of Dawson’s circle. But something about her steadiness, the quiet certainty in her eyes, made his pulse ease just a fraction.

Without thinking, he shifted away from Andie’s hovering hand and stood nearer to Jen instead. He wasn’t ready to let go of his anger, not yet. But at least he didn’t feel like he was drowning in it alone.

Will’s voice still echoed in the quiet, sharp edges no one could smooth over. From where she sat, Bessie could see the teenagers folding in on themselves, drowning in blame. She and Bodie had kept to the edges, close enough to listen, far enough to let them unravel without interference. 

Bessie sat stiffly in one of the waiting room chairs, the hard vinyl digging into her back. Her and Bodie giving the teenagers their space to process, but close enough to know they were blaming themselves and each other. She’d been wringing the same crumpled tissue for so long it had started to shred between her fingers. Bodie lowered himself into the chair beside her, his arm brushing hers, grounding her the way he always did.

“You know what keeps gnawing at me?” she whispered, her voice harsh in the too-bright silence. “The B&B. We put our name on Dawson’s boat like we were proud sponsors, like we were staking Joey’s future on him. Like we chose a side. And now… God, now look where that got us.”

Bodie’s hand came to rest lightly on her knee. “Bess, you couldn’t have known Dawson would take it that far.”

Her laugh was bitter, low. “It’s not just that. It’s everything.” She stared across the waiting room, but she wasn’t seeing it, she was seeing the last year, every nail and patch and paint stroke. “Pacey’s been breaking his back for us all year. Fixing pipes, painting rooms, hauling laundry when he should’ve been living his own damn life. And when Joey doubted herself, who was the one pushing her? Who believed in her enough to buy her a wall just to prove she deserved more than this town ever gave her?”

Bodie followed her gaze, silent, letting her spill it.

Her voice cracked. “And I still, I still couldn’t bring myself to tell Joey to choose him. I kept telling myself Dawson was the safe bet. College boy, good family, easier road. I convinced myself Pacey would drag her down, keep her stuck in Capeside if she tied herself to him. But that was a lie. A lie I clung to because it was easier than admitting the truth staring me in the face.”

Bodie’s eyes softened. “Which is?”

Bessie turned the shredded tissue over in her palm, words dragging out of her like stones. “That Pacey Witter has done nothing but push Joey forward. He’s the only one who’s never tried to clip her wings. And I…” She pressed the tissue against her eyes, muffling her voice. “I couldn’t even say it out loud. Not to her. Not to him.”

Bodie shifted closer, laying his arm gently across her shoulders. “You were scared. She’s your little sister, and you’ve been raising her like she was your daughter. Of course you wanted the easy road for her. But Joey’s never been about easy. You know that.”

A watery laugh slipped out of Bessie, breaking against her teeth. “She’s stubborn as hell. Guess she gets that honest.”

“She’ll find her way,” Bodie said firmly. “And when Pacey wakes up, because he will, you tell him. Tell them both. That you see him. That you were wrong.”

Bessie nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She leaned into Bodie’s shoulder, eyes locked on the ICU doors. “I just hope,” she whispered, “it’s not too late to tell him. To tell them both.”

The room fractured under the weight of their confessions, Jack’s broken guilt, Andie’s silent tears, Bessie’s self-reproach. Jen and Will sat like anchors in the storm, voices of reason but not absolution.

At last, Mitch pushed himself to his feet, his face pale, shoulders sagging under the weight of two boys, one fighting for his life, the other locked in a cell. His voice was quiet, almost ashamed. “I can’t sit here doing nothing. Dawson’s at the station. He shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Jen’s head snapped up. “You’re really going to him?” Disbelief cut through her words.

Mitch’s jaw worked, his answer torn from somewhere deep. “He’s my son. I need him to understand the gravity of what he’s done. But he’s still my son. I can’t… I can’t just abandon him.” His voice cracked on the last word.

No one argued. No one stopped him. His footsteps echoed down the hall, each one dragging the room into colder silence, until even that sound was gone.

Jack’s laugh cracked out, jagged and hollow. He stared at the ICU doors, then jerked his head toward the hall Mitch had disappeared down. “You hear that? Even now, Pacey’s in there fighting for his life, and Dawson still gets the father at his side. We’ve all failed him. Every single one of us.”

No one answered. Andie dabbed furiously at her eyes, her shoulders shaking. Jen sat with her hands folded in her lap, gaze steady but unreadable. Will leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his jaw clenched tight. Bessie kept her head bowed, the shredded tissue limp in her hands.

The silence pressed down on them, thick and suffocating, until the ICU doors opened, Doug stepped out, his uniform slightly rumpled, exhaustion etched into the corners of his face. He scanned the group, seeing every bowed head, every hunched shoulder, every ounce of guilt weighing them down.

“You all need to go home,” he said firmly. “Get some rest.”

Jack jerked his head up, incredulous. “How are we supposed to sleep while he’s in there?”

Doug crouched a little to meet Jack’s eyes, his voice steady but not unkind. “Because Pacey wouldn’t want you tearing yourself apart over this. Blaming yourselves doesn’t help him. He needs you strong when he wakes up, not wrecked before he even opens his eyes.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Andie whispered, her voice breaking on the word.

Doug’s jaw tightened. For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he said simply, “He will.”

The quiet certainty in his voice landed heavier than any plea.

“I’ll stay with him tonight,” Doug continued. “The ICU staff know where to find me if anything changes. I’ll call the second there’s news. Pacey’s tougher than he looks. He’ll want to see you standing on your own two feet when he wakes up.”

Jack let out a strangled laugh, sharp and ugly. “Yeah, that’s the problem, isn’t it? He’s always the one who has to be tougher. And now he’s the one lying in there because of it.”

“Enough,” Doug said sharply, standing tall again. “You don’t get to keep punishing yourselves. Dawson’s the one who made the choice out there, not you. Don’t take this burden on yourselves.”

The room quieted at that, no one able to argue.

Andie looked at Doug. “You’ll really call?”

“I promise,” Doug said.

Bessie rubbed her eyes, straightened her shoulders, and nodded. “Then we’ll be here in the morning.”

Slowly, reluctantly, the group began to gather their things. The weight of guilt didn’t lift, it clung to each of them like smoke, but Doug’s words gave them a direction. For tonight, at least, the vigil was in his hands.

As the others drifted toward the exit, Joey remained inside with Pacey, unaware of the small army that still carried his name on their shoulders.

The ICU hummed quietly, machines filling the silence with a steady rhythm. Doug had stepped out, giving Joey one more long, searching look before leaving her alone at Pacey’s bedside.

She pulled the chair closer until her knees touched the frame of the bed. Her hand found his again, smaller and trembling against his still fingers. He was warm now, thank God, though the pallor of his skin made her heart ache.

For a long time, she just watched the rise and fall of his chest, the faint beeps keeping time with her own heartbeat. Then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, she began.

“I should’ve said this weeks ago,” she murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “I should’ve said it the night you kissed me. Or the morning after, when I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Instead, I kept running back to what was safe. To Dawson. To the past.”

Her throat tightened, but she pressed on.

“You were right, Pace. You always were. I was scared. Scared of what it meant if I chose you, because I knew once I did, there’d be no going back. You’re not… you’re not some phase or mistake I can laugh off later. You’re it. You’re the person who makes me laugh when I want to cry, who makes me feel like I’m more than all the things people expect me to be.”

She squeezed his hand harder, fighting through the tears.

“And I love you. God, I love you so much it terrifies me. I thought if I just ignored it, it would go away, but it hasn’t. It’s only grown stronger. And now you’re lying here, and I’d give anything just to hear you call me Potter again, or roll your eyes, or tell me I’m being stubborn.”

Her voice broke into a sob. She bent forward until her forehead rested against his hand.

“So please,” she whispered, her tears dampening his skin. “Don’t leave me with all the things I didn’t say. Come back, Pacey. Come back and let me prove I mean every word.”

The monitors kept their steady cadence, indifferent to her plea. But Joey clung to his hand as if sheer will could bring him back to her. She stayed like that for hours, whispering little fragments of memory, working on the boat, silly arguments, the way his smile made her feel like she could breathe.

Until her voice grew hoarse and her eyes too heavy to stay open, she kept telling him the truth she should’ve spoken long ago.

And though he didn’t stir, she swore, just for a moment, that his fingers twitched faintly against hers.

Chapter Text

The harsh fluorescent lights of the Capeside police station were nothing like the warm glow of Dawson’s bedroom window. There was no movie magic here, just the hum of old fixtures and the scrape of a pen across forms that would define the rest of his life.

Dawson sat stiff in the hard-backed chair, his knuckles white where they gripped his knees. He kept glancing at the clock, waiting for someone to say this was all a misunderstanding. That Pacey was fine. That everything could go back to the way it was.

His dad had arrived a few moments ago saying Pacey was stable. He stood at Dawson’s side, arms crossed, face pale and drawn. He hadn’t said much, but the weight of his disappointment pressed heavier than words.

The office door creaked, and Sheriff John Witter stepped inside, hat in hand. His presence filled the small room, his expression unreadable. For once, Dawson didn’t feel the familiar comfort of being the Leery golden boy.

John sat across from him, flipping open a thin file. “All right,” he said flatly. “Here’s where we are. The regatta committee has already disqualified you. You’ll be fined for unsportsmanlike conduct and violating safety codes. That’s the easy part.”

Dawson swallowed, his throat dry. “And the rest?”

John’s eyes flicked up, cold and sharp. “The Capeside police department is issuing a citation for reckless boating and endangerment. That comes with a hefty ticket, license suspension, and possible probation. But…” He closed the file, leaning forward. “…if Pacey doesn’t make it out of that hospital bed, you’re looking at homicide by vessel.”

The words landed like a fist. Dawson’s breath hitched. “No, I didn’t mean to… Pacey is fine, right?”

He turned instinctively toward his father, waiting for Mitch to catch him, to step in the way like he always had. But his dad wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were locked on John, and there was something raw in his face Dawson had never seen before, guilt. Not for him. For Pacey.

The realization twisted cold in Dawson’s gut. If their positions were reversed, if he were the one in the hospital bed, would Mitch be sitting next to him, willing him to wake up, or demanding the boy who caused it be punished? The answer pressed down on him, suffocating. For the first time in his life, Dawson felt like his father’s pride couldn’t shield him.

John’s voice cut through, harder now. “Intent doesn’t erase consequence, Leery. You had the right-of-way rules drilled into you. You ignored them. You endangered your passengers, and you nearly killed another sailor. That’s on you.”

Mitch finally spoke, his voice raw. “John, he’s just a kid. He made a mistake.”

John cut him off, slamming his palm flat on the desk. “A mistake? Mitch, your son could’ve killed my son tonight! If Pacey dies, this town will demand blood, and they’ll be right to do it.” His voice cracked on the word son, but he didn’t flinch.

He leaned in, eyes like steel. “Seventeen isn’t a kid, Mitch. Dawson’s old enough to know better. He’s just lucky the law still calls him a juvenile, because if they didn’t, he’d already be facing felony charges. Don’t stand there and ask me to pretend he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.”

The room went still. The word felony lodged in Dawson’s chest like a stone. He’d never thought of himself that way, felon, criminal. Words reserved for other people, not him. Not Dawson Leery, the golden boy, the one teachers praised and neighbors smiled at. He opened his mouth, desperate to argue, but the truth pressed down from every side: the file on John’s desk, the silence in his father’s eyes, the memory of Pacey’s limp body pulled from the water. Apologies wouldn’t erase this. Nothing would.

Finally, John leaned back, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Look. I don’t want to ruin your life, Dawson. But I can’t pretend this away either. I’ll write the charges as leniently as I can, for now. But if Pacey doesn’t wake up, the DA takes it out of my hands.”

Dawson’s eyes filled. “He’s my best friend,” he whispered hoarsely. “I never wanted…”

John’s gaze narrowed. “If he was your best friend, you wouldn’t have treated him like an obstacle. You wouldn’t have seen him as the thing standing between you and a girl. You don’t risk lives for friendship or love, Dawson. You risk them for pride.”

The truth hung heavy between them.

The scrape of John’s chair against the floor ended the conversation. “For now, you’re free to go,” he said curtly. “But you don’t leave Capeside. The court date will be set. Until then, you live with the weight of what you did.” John rose, turning his back on them both, and Dawson felt a chill as if the sheriff had already passed sentence.

Mitch pressed a hand to his face, torn between defending his son and facing the reality of his actions. Dawson sat frozen, trembling, realizing for the first time that apologies wouldn’t erase what he’d done.

Mitch guided Dawson out with a firm hand at his shoulder. The air outside was cooler, but it didn’t ease the heat crawling up Dawson’s neck when he saw the crowd gathered at the station steps. A couple of reporters jostled forward, microphones raised, while neighbors he’d known all his life stood in hushed clusters. Whispers rippled like smoke, his name, Pacey’s name, the word “reckless” carried on the night air.

Mitch moved in front of him, shielding him as best he could, voice hard. “No comment.” He steered Dawson down the steps, ignoring the flash of a camera, the murmur of “that’s the boy who almost killed the sheriff’s son.”

A reporter pushed closer, her microphone nearly brushing Dawson’s face. “Dawson, how does it feel knowing you nearly killed your best friend over a girl?”

The words slammed into him, sharper than John Witter’s charges, sharper than Mitch’s silence. Dawson stumbled, his mouth opening but no answer coming.

Around them, whispers spread like wildfire.

“Doesn’t even look sorry.”

“Poor Pacey.”

“Doesn’t matter who he is, he crossed a line.”

Mitch’s arm tightened, hauling him toward the car. “That’s enough,” he barked, glaring back at the crowd, but the question still hung in the air, echoing louder than the rest of the whispers.

In Dawson’s chest, guilt twisted like a knife. He hadn’t meant for it to be like this. He hadn’t realized how shallow the waters were, hadn’t thought Pacey would veer so sharply. He hadn’t thought… at all. Pacey would understand. Pacey always did. He’d forgive him, he always did, and then it would be okay. It had to be.

When they reached the car, Mitch didn’t start the engine right away. He gripped the steering wheel, staring through the windshield, his jaw tight. Finally, he spoke, his voice low.

“I was proud of you,” Mitch admitted. For one flicker of a second, Dawson’s chest loosened, a fragile hope blooming that his father still saw him the same way.

Mitch’s next words crushed it. “Proud that you wanted to race. Your mom thought it set a bad precedent, but I thought… I thought it meant you were fighting for something of your own. And I encouraged it. I was wrong.” He turned, eyes sharp now. “And so were you.”

Dawson bristled, his voice trembling. “I didn’t do anything wrong by racing. I was trying to be someone Joey would want. Joey fell for Pacey because he’s the guy who punches out bullies and buys her walls. He fights, Dad. I thought if I showed her I could fight too…”

“By nearly killing him?” Mitch’s voice cracked like a whip.

Dawson’s mouth opened, but no excuse came. Mitch leaned closer, the disappointment in his gaze sharper than anger.

“You think being a man is refusing to yield? You think Joey wanted that? What she wanted, what anyone decent wanted, was for you to respect the water, the rules, the people out there with you. You didn’t fight for her, Dawson. You risked lives for your ego.”

Dawson’s throat worked, his eyes burning, but the words wouldn’t form. The reporter’s voice echoed in his head, relentless: how does it feel knowing you nearly killed your best friend over a girl?

Mitch turned the key, the engine growling to life. “You’ll face the court soon enough. But don’t think for a second this ends there. You have to live with what you did. And you need to start asking yourself the questions that matter: was it about Joey… or was it about you not being able to stand losing?”

The car pulled away from the station, leaving behind the reporters, the whispers, and the unshakable truth Mitch had put into words.

Chapter Text

Capeside General was quieter now, the bustle of the ER giving way to the heavy hum of night. Doug was planted in the ICU waiting area, nursing a burnt cup of coffee, his uniform shirt wrinkled from hours of wear. He didn’t notice the doors swing open until a familiar figure walked in, heavy boots echoing against the tile.

Sheriff John Witter.

“Dad,” Doug said stiffly, standing.

John gave a curt nod, his hat tucked under his arm. “How’s your brother?”

Doug’s jaw flexed. “Stable. Still unconscious. They don’t know what damage might stick until he wakes up.”

For a moment, something flickered in John’s expression, relief? irritation? It was gone before Doug could place it.

“Good,” John said finally, his voice flat. “That’s good.” He shifted, glancing toward the closed ICU doors, but he made no move to approach them. “No point in me hanging around. Doctors’ll do what they do.”

Doug’s stomach turned. “He’s your son,” he said tightly. “He almost died tonight, and you can’t even sit with him?”

John’s eyes snapped to his, hard and sharp. “I got a department to run and a town watching. I was down at the station three hours with Dawson Leery and his daddy breathing down my neck. You think I got time to sit around looking sentimental?”

The words landed like a slap. Doug’s hands curled into fists at his sides, but John was already moving on.

“Leery’s kid’s looking at charges,” John went on, businesslike. “City’ll fine him, court’ll slap him with probation if the DA plays nice. But he’ll pay those hospital bills. Every last cent. That’s not coming out of my budget.”

“Unbelievable,” Doug muttered. His chest burned, the coffee sour on his tongue.

John set his hat back on his head. “I did my part. Checked in. Showed my face. That’s enough.”

And just like that, he turned toward the exit. Boots striking tile, fading with every step, until the doors whispered shut behind him.

Doug stood frozen, the cheap coffee cooling in his hand, fury clawing at his chest. He wanted to chase after him, to hurl every word he’d swallowed for years. But what good would it do? John Witter would always walk away, and the wreckage would always be left behind for someone else to hold together.

Slowly, Doug sank back into the chair, his gaze dragging to the ICU doors just a few feet away. On the other side, Pacey lay pale and still, tubes and wires doing the work his body couldn’t. And at his bedside, Doug knew without looking, Joey Potter would still be there, clutching his brother’s hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.

Doug’s throat tightened. He’d failed him. He’d failed him his whole damn life. Never once had he stood between Pacey and their father. Never once taken the blows meant for him. He’d been too afraid, too careful, too desperate to stay in John’s good graces. Because if he stepped out of line, if he dared defend his brother, those hands would have turned on him instead. And so he’d let it happen. He’d let his little brother take the hits, let him bear the bruises and the words that cut deeper.

Like a coward.

He’d told himself it was Pacey’s fault, that if he would just stop talking back, if he would stop with the wit and the fire that John hated, if he could be more like Doug, then maybe he’d be safe. But Pacey had never been able to smother that spark, and Doug had never been brave enough to shield him.

Until now.

Doug straightened, setting the coffee aside, jaw locking into place. No more excuses. No more silence. Pacey had almost died today, and John had barely paused long enough to ask if he was breathing. If his little brother was going to make it through this, it wouldn’t be because of their father.

It would be because Joey kept holding his hand. Because his friends stayed. Because Doug finally chose to be the brother Pacey deserved.

And if John Witter came through those doors again with nothing but judgment, Doug would be the one standing between them. For the first time in his life, he wouldn’t move aside.

The walk from the hospital to Grams’s felt like sleepwalking through fog. No one spoke; they didn’t have to. The unspoken pull drew them all in the same direction, toward the one place that still felt steady. Bessie and Bodie peeled off early, murmuring about their son, about the guests at the B&B who couldn’t be left alone. The rest drifted down familiar sidewalks until the warm light of Grams’s porch lantern found them.

Grams was waiting at the door as though she’d known they’d come. She wrapped each of them in her arms, murmuring reassurances they weren’t ready to believe. God has His hand on Pacey. Rest will come with the dawn. Words meant to soothe, but the weight of them slid off their shoulders like rain on glass.

Inside, they gravitated to the living room. Shoes were kicked off without care, blankets and pillows dragged into a loose circle. No one claimed a couch; instead they sprawled on the carpet, shoulders brushing, as if some small touch might anchor them. They built makeshift beds they all knew they wouldn’t sleep in, the TV left off, the silence too thick for anything but the steady tick of Grams’s wall clock.

They were together, but fractured, like pieces of a puzzle that no longer fit, each of them waiting for Doug’s call, for the sound of a phone that refused to ring.

No phone call, no update. The unspoken agreement hung between them: no news is good news.

The night dragged on without sleep. They lay tangled in blankets, staring at the ceiling, at the dark windows, at nothing. Now and then someone shifted, the soft rustle of fabric breaking the silence, but no one spoke. When exhaustion finally pulled them under, it wasn’t rest, just brief slips into dreams fractured by sirens and splintered wood and the echo of Joey’s voice screaming Pacey’s name.

Morning crept in gray and reluctant. The smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen where Grams moved quietly, her rosary clicking faintly as she prayed. The living room looked like a storm had passed through: pillows askew, damp tissues crumpled on the rug, teenagers curled against each other for warmth they couldn’t find anywhere else.

By the time the front door creaked open, they were already stirring, eyes swollen, throats raw, nerves frayed thin. Dawson stood before them, shoulders hunched, face pale. 

He’d gone home after the station, but it was clear he hadn’t found rest there either. He stood just long enough to realize where everyone had gone, and then followed them here, to the one place that had opened its doors without question.

The room went still when he stepped inside.

Dawson stayed in the doorway, unsure of his welcome, but he tried for a smile that faltered under the weight of their stares. “Any word?” he asked, voice thin.

The question dropped into the room like a stone, rippling outward. For a moment, no one answered. Not because they didn’t know, but because none of them were sure what he was really asking.

Was he worried for Pacey? Or worried about what it meant for him if Pacey didn’t pull through?

The silence stretched. Jen’s mouth pressed into a hard line. Andie looked at the floor. Even Jack, who had been pacing the edges of the room all night, froze mid-step.

Will found himself watching Dawson’s face, searching for something, remorse, fear, anything human beneath the pale guilt, but all he saw was that flicker of desperation. The kind of desperation that wasn’t about Pacey at all.

And that was enough to make Will’s blood run hot.

“Yeah. Word is your best friend’s in the ICU because of you.” His voice was low, even, but it cut through the room like a blade. “Word is he saved my life when your boat should’ve killed us both. That’s the word.”

Dawson’s throat worked, his eyes darting between them. “I didn’t mean.”

“You didn’t think,” Will snapped, the fire in him flashing for the first time since the crash. “Not about the rules, not about your passengers, not about Pacey. You’ve never had to think, because no one’s ever made you answer for anything. Well, guess what? Today you don’t get a pass.”

Jack stepped in then, hands trembling, his voice breaking like glass. “He’s right, Dawson. Pacey is fighting for his life while you’re standing here acting like it’s just… some tragic accident.” Jack’s face twisted, fury and grief colliding. “You don’t even look sorry.”

Dawson flinched, his head jerking up. “Of course I’m sorry!” His voice was too loud, too fast, but he didn’t stop. “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted Pacey lying in a hospital bed because of me? I can’t…” His throat caught. “I can’t stop seeing it, Jack.”

For a moment, his hands shook against his knees. But then his eyes darted toward Andie, desperate for footing. “And it wasn’t just me. You thought it was a good idea too. You said he needed to know I wasn’t backing down, that I should keep fighting for Joey.” His breath ragged, the words spilling out faster than he could contain them.

Andie recoiled, tears springing hot to her eyes. “Don’t you put this on me,” she whispered, her voice trembling but fierce. “I never told you to try and kill him. I never told you to ignore every warning. Don’t twist this.”

The room bristled with the weight of it, everyone’s nerves stretched to breaking. Dawson’s chest heaved, his guilt written across his face, but his words tangled between apology and excuse until no one could tell which one he meant more.

Will pushed off the wall where he’d been standing, arms still folded tight across his chest. His tone wasn’t loud, but the bite in it cut cleaner than Jack’s shouting. “You know what’s funny, Dawson?” he said, tilting his head. “Look around. See who’s here.”

Dawson blinked at him, confused. Will didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Joey’s not.” He let the words hang a beat, then went on, sharper. “One guess where you can find her.” A smirk appeared on Will’s face. He knew that if Pacey were here, he would approve of Will’s goading. “She is sitting by Pacey’s hospital bed, holding his hand like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Because it is.”

Dawson’s face crumpled, his lips parting, but Will’s gaze was hard, unyielding. “You want to talk about fighting for her? Your actions made sure Joey will never want anything to do with you again. You made damn sure of that.”

For a moment the silence was absolute, the truth ringing in the air.

Dawson shook his head, almost violently. “No. No, you don’t know Joey. When Pacey wakes up, when he’s better, he will forgive me, and so will she. Joey and I, we’re…” His voice faltered, but he forced the word out anyway. “…we’re meant to be.” 

The certainty in his tone landed hollow in the space between them. None of the others looked convinced. Will only stared at him, the corner of his mouth curling in something halfway between pity and disgust.

Dawson clung to his words like a lifeline, because if Joey wasn’t his, if Pacey didn’t forgive him, then what was left?

Jen broke the silence, her voice quieter but sharper for it. “Do you even hear yourself, Dawson? You’re talking about what’s going to happen when Pacey wakes up, what Joey will feel, like you get to decide that. Like it’s already written.” She crossed her arms, eyes fixed on him. “But it’s not. You don’t control this. Not Pacey’s forgiveness, not Joey’s heart, not the way any of us see you right now.”

Dawson’s mouth opened, searching for some kind of defense, but nothing came.

Jen stepped closer, her tone softening just enough to land. “If you want anyone to believe you’re sorry, it’s not about what you say in here. It’s about what you do out there. So stop telling us it’ll all be fine and start figuring out how you’re going to live with what you did.”

The words settled over the group, heavy but grounding. For the first time since Dawson had walked in, the anger ebbed, replaced by something quieter, sharper: the weight of consequence.

Chapter Text

The steady rhythm of the monitor had become Joey’s only anchor, each beep a promise that he was still here. She’d dozed fitfully through the night, her head pillowed on her arm beside his bed, her hand curled around his like it alone could hold him to this world instead of the next.

The faintest twitch jolted her awake.

His fingers moved.

Joey shot upright, her heart pounding so hard it made her dizzy. “Pacey?” Her voice came out strangled. She leaned close, gripping tighter. “Hey, hey, it’s me. You’re safe.”

A groan slipped from his lips, his eyelids dragging open with effort. The world was hazy, the light a stab against his skull, but a face swam into focus. Joey. Brown eyes rimmed red, staring at him like he was the only thing in the world.

“Jo…?” His voice cracked, paper thin.

“I’m here.” Her tears spilled over instantly, and she pressed his hand to her cheek. “I’m right here.”

Confusion furrowed his brow. Why was she crying? Why was she looking at him like that? If this was some last dream before the dark, it was cruel. Joey Potter didn’t sit at his bedside. Joey Potter didn’t hold his hand like it meant everything.

“What… what happened?” he rasped, throat raw.

“You were in the race,” she said softly, keeping her voice steady even as her fingers shook. “There was an accident. You went under. But they pulled you out. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe now.”

Hospital. Accident. The words drifted, heavy and slow, but he caught enough. His chest ached like fire. His head pounded. He swallowed, grimaced. “My head…”

“I know.” She smoothed back his hair, her own tears sliding down her cheeks. “You’ve got a concussion. And your lungs…” She faltered, breath breaking. “The doctors say you’re stable, but they’re keeping you here. Just to be sure.”

Stable. He wanted to laugh at that. He didn’t feel stable. He felt like he’d been hollowed out and stitched together wrong. But her hand was still on him, and that made the hollow a little less.

His eyes roamed the room, struggling to take it in, then settled back on her. Still there. Still crying. “How… how long?”

“Since yesterday afternoon,” Joey said, her voice breaking. She pressed his hand harder against her cheek, as though afraid it would slip away. “You scared the hell out of me, Pacey Witter.”

Her words snagged something deep inside him. Because this, this wrecked, terrified look in her eyes, it was exactly what he’d imagined when Dawson’s bow bore down on him. He’d seen her then, not on the dock but in some hospital waiting room, hollow-eyed and broken, grieving the boy she’d chosen. Grieving Dawson.

He never thought it would be him.

And now here she was, clutching his hand like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. Her grief, her tears, they were all for him.

His chest ached with more than waterlogged lungs. He didn’t know what to do with the heat of it, the impossible hope that maybe he mattered this much. So he reached for the only shield he knew.

His lips twitched. He couldn’t help it, even now. “Sorry… Potter. Not exactly my plan.”

The sarcasm was weak, but it was his. It was all he had to throw up against the enormity of her tears, her grip, her presence.

She let out a watery laugh, then bent forward until her forehead touched his. “Don’t joke about it. Not this time. I can’t,” her voice cracked, “I can’t lose you. Please.”

Something in him stuttered at that, a warmth, a flicker, something he didn’t dare believe. She couldn’t mean it, not really. Not like that. But God, he wanted to.

“You won’t,” he whispered, closing his eyes against the burn in his chest.

And for a moment, with her hand wrapped around his and her tears dampening his skin, Pacey let himself believe it.

Joey barely had time to savor the flicker of life in Pacey’s eyes before the door opened and a nurse bustled in, clipboard in hand.

“Oh, he’s awake,” she said briskly, moving to the bedside. “Miss Potter, I’ll need you to step aside for a moment.”

Joey hesitated, her fingers clinging to his until the last possible second. She brushed her thumb over his knuckles once more before setting his hand gently down. “I’ll be right here, Pace. Don’t worry.”

She stepped back, wiping her eyes, as the nurse checked vitals, shined a small light into his pupils, and murmured quiet questions Pacey could barely answer through the fog.

The door opened again, softer this time, and Pacey forced his eyes to track the sound. Doug stepped in, uniform jacket slung over one arm, lines of exhaustion etched deep into his face.

For a heartbeat, Pacey almost didn’t recognize him like this. His brother always kept the cop mask on, pressed, polished, untouchable. But here, seeing him stare at the bed, stare at him, awake and breathing, Doug looked stripped raw.

“Thank God,” Doug whispered, the words breaking loose before he could stop them.

Pacey blinked, thrown. His brother’s voice, usually sharp with orders or critiques, trembled at the edges. For him. Not for a case, not for a report, not even for Dad’s approval. For him.

It stirred the same unease Joey’s tears had sparked: this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He wasn’t the one people held vigil over. He wasn’t the one whose hand got clutched like a lifeline. He was the one people survived in spite of. And yet here they were.

Pacey swallowed, his throat rough, searching for the familiar ground of humor. “Don’t get sentimental on me, Dougie,” he rasped. “You’ll ruin your tough guy reputation.”

Doug huffed a shaky laugh, dragging a hand across his jaw. “Figures. Even half-drowned and stitched to machines, you can’t stop running your mouth.”

But his eyes never left Pacey’s face. And for the first time Pacey could remember, there was no judgment in them. Just relief.

Pacey shifted his gaze to Joey, still clutching his hand like she was afraid he’d vanish. Then back to Doug. Confused.

Doug pulled up the chair on the other side of the bed, setting his jacket down with slow, deliberate hands. “I’m done letting you go back there,” Doug said quietly. “When you’re released, you’re coming with me. Permanently. I’ll handle the paperwork. I’ll find a place big enough for both of us.”

Pacey blinked at him, sure he’d misheard. “You’re… what?”

“No more excuses.” Doug’s jaw tightened, but his eyes stayed on his. “You almost died, Pacey. I’m not sending you back to a house that’ll finish the job.”

The words landed heavier than the monitors’ steady beep. Pacey searched Doug’s face for the catch, the lecture, the condition, the warning, but all he saw was a man who looked like he was done being afraid.

“I…” The sarcasm faltered on Pacey’s tongue. “You don’t have to do that.”

Doug leaned in a little, steady, unblinking. “I know. But I want to.”

Something cracked open in Pacey’s chest, raw and unfamiliar. He wanted to joke again, to lighten it, but nothing came out. Instead he felt his throat tighten, eyes burning, and he hated himself for how much it meant.

“Dougie…” His voice rasped, softer than before. “Thank you.”

Doug reached out, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk more when you’re stronger.”

The effort of staying awake was already slipping through Pacey’s fingers. As his eyelids drooped, the last thing he saw was his brother still sitting there, still watching him, not looking away this time. For once, Doug wasn’t going to abandon him.

When his breathing evened out again, the room fell into a hush. The monitors hummed steady, their soft rhythm a counterpoint to the muffled hallway noise. Joey stayed in her chair, fingers still curled lightly around Pacey’s, afraid to let go in case the world changed when she did.

Doug moved to stand beside her, setting his coffee on the windowsill. For a long moment neither spoke. The silence between them wasn’t awkward; it was thick with everything that didn’t need to be said.

Finally Joey whispered, eyes on Pacey’s hand beneath hers. “What you said earlier, about him staying with you. That means more than he’ll ever admit.”

Doug’s gaze didn’t leave his brother. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

“He acts like he doesn’t need anyone,” she went on, her voice trembling. “But he does. I know that now. He always has. He just… never trusts that he is worth someone staying.”

The words surprised her as they left her mouth, not because they weren’t true, but because she’d never let herself name them before. For years she had told herself that Pacey was untouchable, that nothing stuck to him for long: the insults, the losses, the endless disappointments. He’d always seemed to bounce back, to joke his way out of the bruises life gave him, to be fine.

But sitting here now, watching the rise and fall of his chest under the hospital blanket, Joey saw how wrong she’d been. Of course he needed people. He just didn’t believe anyone would stay if he reached for them. It was the same armor she wore herself, keep the world at a distance, keep your heart safe. Only, she realized, Pacey had been wearing it far longer, and far better, than she had.

Doug’s jaw tightened, the muscles ticking there. “He’s not wrong. I’ve spent most of his life letting him down.”

Joey turned toward him, shaking her head. “Not this time. You showed up. That’s what he’s going to remember.”

Doug huffed out a breath, something between a sigh and a laugh. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Joey said, softer now. “You being here, that’s what’s keeping him steady. Even if he won’t admit it.”

Doug’s eyes softened, and he finally looked at her. “Then do me a favor, Joey.”

“What?”

“Don’t let him push you away when he starts feeling guilty again. He’ll try, it’s his specialty. He’ll make jokes, pretend he doesn’t care, tell you he’s fine. Don’t buy it.”

Joey blinked hard, tears threatening again. “You really think he needs me?”

Doug glanced back at his brother, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No, I know he does. Same way I do. He listens to you in a way he never does with me. You’re the one thing that makes him feel like he’s worth something.”

For a heartbeat, the weight of it hung there between them, the shared understanding, the promise neither said aloud. Then the door opened, and the doctor stepped in, clipboard in hand, breaking the spell.

“Good morning,” he greeted, his tone brisk but kind. “I see our patient finally decided to wake up.”

Doug straightened, and Joey sat up quickly as the doctor moved to check Pacey’s vitals. The soft sound of latex gloves snapping filled the room as he examined the monitors, then leaned in with a penlight.

“Pupils responsive,” the doctor murmured. “That’s good news. We’ll keep monitoring for concussion symptoms, but so far, it doesn’t look like there’s any lasting brain injury.”

Joey let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“His lungs still sound irritated, but that’s to be expected. He took in quite a bit of water,” the doctor went on. “He’s out of the woods now, though he’ll need rest. We’ll keep him in ICU for a bit longer, but he should be able to move to a recovery room soon.”

Pacey stirred at the sound of voices, his eyes fluttering open again. His throat was dry, but the words rasped out anyway. “So… no permanent brain damage? Guess that means I don’t get to use that as an excuse for my grades.”

The doctor’s brow lifted, half amused. “I think your sense of humor is still intact.”

Doug groaned under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t encourage him.”

The doctor smiled faintly. “He may be weak for a while, headaches, fatigue, limited lung capacity for a few weeks. But with proper rest, you’ll make a full recovery, Mr. Witter. No more racing boats for a while, though.”

Pacey smirked, eyes drifting toward Joey. “Guess I’ll have to find another way to make waves, huh?”

Joey rolled her eyes, relief and tears catching in her throat all at once. Doug just shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself.

When the doctor left, the room felt lighter. The air wasn’t heavy with fear anymore, it was filled with something quieter, steadier. Hope.

Pacey’s eyes slid shut again, his fingers tightening faintly around Joey’s hand before he drifted off. Joey stayed where she was, her thumb tracing gentle circles against his skin, while Doug leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

For the first time since they saw Pacey go under, they both let themselves breathe.

Chapter Text

Pacey woke to the low murmur of voices. For a second, he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, the light was softer now, filtered through the blinds, and the world felt hazy, muffled under layers of fatigue and medication.

“…two bedrooms, good lighting, close enough to the harbor. It’ll do.”

Doug.

Pacey blinked, trying to push through the fog. His throat felt raw, his tongue thick. He wasn’t sure if he was hearing right. His brother was standing near the window, phone pressed to his ear. The sound of apartment hunting pulled a half-formed smirk to Pacey’s lips.

“Dougie,” he croaked, his voice scraping out of him like gravel. “If this is your version of bedside reading, it’s boring as hell.”

Doug turned from the window, startled at first, then his expression broke into something Pacey couldn’t name. Relief, maybe. Or something too complicated for that.

Doug exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. “Glad to see sarcasm didn’t drown with you.”

Pacey squinted at him. “Didn’t we already do this? You standing there looking all emotional, me cracking jokes to avoid dying of awkwardness?”

Doug’s smile flickered.

Pacey tried to grin but winced when his ribs protested. “So what’s this? You buying me a bachelor pad as a recovery gift? Kinda thought it was a dream. You telling me you wanted me to live with you? Sounded too good to be real.”

“It wasn’t a dream,” Doug said quietly. “I meant it.”

That dragged Pacey’s gaze fully up to him. “You’re serious?”

“Serious enough to be apartment hunting at ten in the morning,” Doug said, nodding toward his phone. “You’re not going back to Dad’s. Not after this.”

For a moment, Pacey just stared. The world felt unsteady, part medication, part emotion. He wanted to laugh, to brush it off, to say you’ll regret it the first time I forget to take out the trash, but the lump in his throat made it hard.

So instead, he managed, hoarse and dry, “Didn’t know you cared so much, Dougie. Guess I should almost die more often.”

Doug let out a breath that was half laugh, half warning. “Don’t even joke about that.”

But Pacey could see it, the rawness behind his brother’s eyes, the crack in his armor. It hit him then, how scared Doug must have been. And something inside Pacey, something small and brittle, eased for the first time in years.

He opened his mouth to thank him, to say something real, but the words got stuck. So instead, he just said softly, “Yeah… okay, Dougie.”

He shifted slightly, wincing at the pull in his chest. “Still… can’t really picture it. You and me, roommates. It’s like the setup to a bad sitcom.”

“Maybe,” Doug said, but his eyes softened. “Still beats what we came from.”

The words landed somewhere deep, where Pacey didn’t let things land often. He didn’t know how to answer, not without letting the weight of gratitude slip out, and he wasn’t ready for that yet. So he just nodded, slow and careful.

Doug rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. “The doctor’s coming in soon. He’ll explain what comes next.”

“Does what comes next involve less IV tubing?” Pacey muttered.

“Depends on if you behave.”

“Then I’m doomed.”

A beat passed, quiet except for the soft hum of machines. Pacey blinked, scanning the room, frowning faintly. “Where’s Joey?”

Doug followed his gaze to the empty chair beside the bed. “She went to Grams’s. To tell the others you woke up. Said she’d be back soon.”

“Of course she did,” Pacey murmured, half-smile tugging at his lips. “Always the messenger.”

“She hasn’t slept in two days,” Doug said, his voice gentler now. “Don’t be an idiot when she gets back. She’s been through hell.”

“I’ll try to tone down my charm,” Pacey muttered, but the warmth in his chest betrayed the sarcasm.

Doug’s hand landed briefly on his shoulder. “You rest. I’ll check in with the nurse and see if they’ve made it over yet.”

“Don’t scare them,” Pacey said, already fading back into the pillows.

“No promises,” Doug answered, heading for the door.

Pacey let his eyes drift closed. He wasn’t sure what was real anymore, Joey’s hand in his, Doug’s voice promising a home, or the soft hum of machines that kept time with his heart. But for the first time since the water swallowed him whole, the world felt steady. And that was enough.

When the door clicked shut, the room felt different, not empty, exactly, but waiting. He could feel it in his bones, that hum of approaching footsteps, that weight of what was coming.

The people he cared about most were on the other side of that door. He wanted to see them. He was terrified to see them.

The door cracked open, and Joey slipped quietly into the room. Her eyes were bright from the hallway light, her voice soft as she said, “Hey, you’re awake.”

Pacey smiled before he could stop himself. “Well, look at that. My favorite nurse returns. What’s the prognosis, Potter? Think I’ll live?”

She rolled her eyes, but the sound that came out of her was half a laugh, half a sigh of relief. “Doug said you might be ready for visitors.”

Pacey’s eyebrows lifted. “Visitors, plural? You mean the gang’s all here?”

“They’ve been camped at Grams’s since last night,” Joey said. “Everyone’s waiting to see you. I told them I’d check first, make sure you were up for it.”

For a heartbeat, something in his chest lightened, real, unguarded warmth. God, he missed them. Jack’s sarcastic grin, Jen’s wry humor, Will’s quiet steadiness, even Andie’s endless questions. He hadn’t realized how much he missed having them in his corner until Joey said they were all here.

But then, as quickly as it came, the warmth faltered. Two weeks. It had been two weeks of silence before the regatta, everyone walking on eggshells, pretending they didn’t see him. Pretending he wasn’t still bleeding from losing both his best friend and the girl he… 

He cut off the thought, forcing a smile instead.

“Guess they couldn’t stay away from my charming personality for long,” he said, keeping his tone light. “How do you want to do this? Group visitation or one at a time?”

Joey smiled faintly, moving closer. “That’s up to you. They’ll do whatever you want.”

“One at a time, then,” he decided. “Give them a fighting chance to say their piece before I fall asleep on them.” He tried to laugh, but the sound came out more brittle than he meant.

Joey caught it, of course she did, and sat on the edge of the chair. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” He looked away toward the window. “Just… stay, okay? Through the whole thing.”

“I was planning on it,” she said softly.

He nodded, eyes fixed on the monitor’s steady rhythm. “It’s weird,” he murmured after a long pause. “A few weeks ago, I couldn’t get any of them to look me in the eye. Now they’re all out there losing sleep over me.” He gave a soft, humorless huff. “Guess dying’s good for your popularity.”

Joey’s hand found his again, her thumb brushing slow circles across his knuckles. “They didn’t stop caring, Pacey.”

“Yeah,” he said, but the word came out thin. He wanted to believe her, wanted to believe that their worry now was proof of something real. But somewhere deep down, he still felt like a ghost in his own story, noticed only once he’d almost disappeared.

He pushed the thought aside, turning toward her with a crooked smile. “So who’s first in the confession line?”

“Jack,” she said. “He’s been pacing since sunrise.”

“Then let’s get it over with,” Pacey murmured. “Send him in before I start charging admission.”

Jack hovered in the doorway, his shoulders hunched like he was waiting for permission, until Joey nodded him forward. 

Pacey hadn’t really thought about what it would feel like to see him again, hadn’t wanted to. They’d gone from spending afternoons fixing boats and eating cold pizza at the docks to barely making eye contact in the hallways. Jack had chosen Andie’s side. Pacey couldn’t blame him, blood was blood, but it still burned. Jack had been his friend too. One of the only ones who ever made him feel like he wasn’t the odd man out.

So when the door opened and Jack stepped in, Pacey braced himself for that familiar sting of betrayal.

But then he saw his face.

Jack looked wrecked. Pale, dark circles under his eyes, shoulders hunched like the weight of something too heavy to carry had finally settled on him. He hovered in the doorway for a moment, eyes flicking to Pacey, then away, as if afraid to see what he’d almost lost.

And just like that, the irritation melted. It was impossible to hold on to anger when someone looked like that.

“Hey,” Pacey rasped, forcing a grin he didn’t quite feel. “You look like hell.”

Jack’s laugh came out choked. He stepped closer, dragging a hand through his hair. “I could say the same, but you’ve got me beat.”

Pacey’s smirk softened into something gentler. “Yeah, well, drowning will do that to a guy.”

The attempt at humor cracked something open. Jack’s expression crumpled, guilt spilling through every word when he finally spoke. “I should’ve stopped him, Pacey. I was right there, and I didn’t. I saw where his head was, and I just, I thought maybe if I was with him, I could keep it under control. But I didn’t. I didn’t, and now you…” His voice broke, and he had to look away. “I don’t know how to make that right.”

Pacey stared at him for a long moment, the words sinking deep. He could see how much Jack meant them. Not the kind of hollow apology people gave to make themselves feel better, this was raw, heavy, real.

“You didn’t steer that boat,” Pacey said quietly. “You didn’t shove me overboard. That’s on Dawson. Not you.”

Jack shook his head, a humorless laugh escaping. “Doesn’t feel that way.”

“Yeah, well,” Pacey said, his voice low but steady, “feelings are tricky bastards.” He swallowed against the ache in his throat. “You trusted your friend. That’s not a crime, Jack. That’s just…” He hesitated, the smallest smile tugging at his lips. “...bad judgment. Happens to the best of us.”

Jack let out a shaky laugh, one that sounded almost like relief. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Pacey shrugged weakly. “Yeah, but I’m still here. So you’re stuck with me.”

Jack reached out, gripping his shoulder, his hand trembling slightly. “Don’t ever do that again,” he said, his voice thick.

“No promises,” Pacey murmured, managing a grin. “Gotta keep things interesting.”

Jack shook his head, laughing under his breath as tears glimmered in his eyes. He squeezed Pacey’s shoulder.

For a few minutes after that, they just… talked. Nothing important. Teasing about hospital food, about how Pacey probably looked worse than he felt, about how Jack still owed him lunch. It felt easy, familiar, like slipping back into an old rhythm neither of them had realized how much they missed.

But when the laughter finally faded, Jack’s gaze drifted to the hallway. “I don’t want to take up any more time,” he said softly. “The others are waiting.”

Pacey nodded, his voice rough. “Tell them to quit hovering. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jack smiled, a real one, this time, and left the room, the door whispering shut behind him.

When he was gone, Pacey sank back against the pillow, exhaustion creeping up like a tide. His chest hurt, his head throbbed, but for the first time since waking up, something in him felt lighter.

Maybe they hadn’t all given up on him after all.

The room was quiet again, save for the faint hum of machines and the soft rhythm of rain against the window. Pacey had just let his eyes drift shut when the door creaked open a second time.

He didn’t need to look to know who it was, the sound of her bracelets always gave her away.

“Hey, sailor,” Jen said softly, her voice carrying that easy warmth he’d missed. She hovered by the foot of the bed, eyes bright but rimmed in red. “You mind some company?”

Pacey cracked one eye open and managed a lopsided smile. “Depends. You bringing gossip or contraband?”

Jen let out a breath that was almost a laugh, easing into the chair beside him. “Sorry to disappoint. No scandal or smuggled snacks this time. Just me.”

“That’s more than enough,” he said, voice rasping around the edges.

She reached for the blanket, smoothing a corner that didn’t need smoothing. “You scared us, you know. Half the town’s been pacing holes in the floor waiting for news. Even Grams prayed out loud at breakfast, and that woman never makes requests she can’t follow up on herself.”

Pacey smirked faintly. “Guess it’s nice to finally be popular. Shame I had to nearly drown to earn it.”

Jen’s laugh caught, wobbling on the edge of tears. “You don’t get it, Pacey. It’s not pity. It’s… relief. You matter to people.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her face. “Including you?”

Jen met his eyes then, and for the first time since she came in, her composure cracked. “Especially me,” she said, her voice small. “And I’m sorry. For disappearing. For letting Dawson find out the way he did. I should’ve protected you both better. I should’ve…”

“Hey,” he cut in gently, his tone soft but firm. “Dawson wouldn’t have handled the news about Joey and I any other way honestly. That isn’t on you.”

Jen blinked fast, a tear slipping down her cheek. “No, but I lit the fuse.”

Pacey sighed, shifting his hand until it covered hers. His palm was cold, but steady. “Then you’re in good company. So maybe we call it even and move on.”

Her smile trembled. “You really think it’s that simple?”

“Nothing’s ever simple with this crew,” he said, a tired grin tugging at his mouth. “But we keep trying anyway.”

Jen laughed through her tears, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his temple. “You’re impossible.”

“So I've been told,” he murmured, his eyelids growing heavy again. “But admit it, you’d miss me if I wasn’t.”

“I already did,” she whispered, brushing her thumb over his hand before standing. “I’ll let the next person in before Grams decides visiting hours are over.”

Pacey cracked a faint grin. “Send Will in before Andie. I need a warm-up before the emotional wrecking ball.”

Jen chuckled, shaking her head as she slipped toward the door. “You really are incorrigible.”

He’d almost drifted off again when the door opened for the third time, and a familiar drawl cut through the quiet.

“Man, you really know how to make an exit, don’t you?”

Pacey cracked a tired grin. “Guess I like to keep things dramatic.”

Will Krudski leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his hair still a little mussed like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. There was no pity in his face, just that steady calm Pacey had always envied. He pushed off the wall and came closer, dragging the chair around backward before straddling it.

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” Will said, though his grin softened the words.

“Yeah, you mentioned that once or twice,” Pacey rasped. “Back when we were winning the regatta.”

Will huffed out a laugh. “Winning until you decided to play hero. You realize you could’ve let Dawson take the hit, right? Would’ve saved us both the trouble.”

“Yeah, well,” Pacey said, voice low but wry, “you’re not exactly built for swimming in shock waves and debris. Someone had to keep your pretty face intact.”

Will shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping him. “You’re unbelievable.” His voice softened. “Thank you, though. For pulling that stunt. You saved my life, Pace. You know that, right?”

Pacey met his eyes, the humor fading. “Guess that makes us even. You’ve pulled me out of a few messes too.”

“Nah,” Will said, leaning his chin on his folded arms. “Not like this one.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the kind that only came easy between them. Will had always known when to talk and when to just be there, something Pacey hadn’t realized he’d needed until now.

After a beat, Will glanced toward the door, his mouth curving. “You know, Joey hasn’t left this room since they pulled you out of the water.”

Pacey frowned, blinking as if trying to clear the fog. “What are you talking about? She went home last night, didn’t she? Or to Grams’s?”

Will’s grin widened. “Nope. She was right there. Curled up in that chair like she was glued to it. I’m starting to think you’re her favorite patient.”

Something warm flickered in Pacey’s chest, disbelief, maybe, or something softer he didn’t want to name yet. “Guess that’s one way to rack up a woman's attention,” he said lightly, but his voice faltered on the edges.

Will caught it. “She’s not here because she feels sorry for you, Pacey,” he said quietly. “She’s here because she didn’t know what to do with herself when you went under. None of us did. But her? She looked like the world stopped turning.”

Pacey swallowed hard, looking away. “She’s got a habit of making things complicated.”

Will smirked. “Or maybe you do. Either way, she’s not going anywhere. That’s got to count for something.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy like before, it was grounding.

Finally, Pacey managed, “You’re a good friend, Will.”

Will stood, clapping him gently on the shoulder. “Yeah, well, someone’s got to keep you alive. Try not to make it a full-time job.”

“Can’t promise anything,” Pacey muttered, but a faint smile tugged at his mouth as Will headed for the door.

When he was gone, Pacey exhaled slowly. He let his head sink back against the pillow, the fog in his mind softening just enough for one clear thought to surface, Joey hadn’t left.

And for reasons he couldn’t quite name, that made breathing a little easier.

He knew who it was before she even spoke. The sound of her shoes was soft, careful, like she was afraid to disturb the air around him.

When Andie McPhee appeared in the doorway, Pacey’s breath hitched in his chest. For a second, all he saw was the girl she’d been when they met, bright eyes, summer dress, that relentless energy that once made him believe he could be more than the screw-up everyone thought he was.

But this wasn’t that Andie. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her posture small, shoulders drawn tight like she was bracing for impact.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice still scratchy from disuse. “Long time no see.”

She blinked hard, tears already threatening. “I didn’t know if I should come.”

Pacey tilted his head slightly, trying for humor, though it came out thin. “Well, since I’m not exactly in shape to run you off, figured I’d let fate decide.”

That earned him the faintest laugh, brittle, but real. She stepped closer, wringing her hands. “You don’t have to joke. Not with me.”

He shrugged weakly. “Sure I do. It’s kind of my thing.”

Her chin trembled, and suddenly the words started spilling out of her like water breaking through a dam.

“I’m sorry, Pacey. For everything. For what I said about you and Joey, for how I made it worse. I told myself you’d moved on, that you didn’t care what I thought anymore. But when I heard what happened out there…” Her voice cracked. “It hit me how wrong I was. You could’ve died. And it would’ve been partly my fault.”

Pacey watched her, something heavy stirring in his chest. He remembered that stubborn tilt of her chin when she got defensive, the way her voice rose when she thought she was right. That same fire was still there, just dimmed, replaced now by guilt and fear.

He exhaled slowly. “Andie…” He shook his head. “You were one of the best parts of my life. That’s what I’ll remember. Not the rest.”

Her eyes filled, frustration threading through her tears. “That’s the problem! You never blame anyone, not really. You just take it, every cruel word, every mistake, like you deserve it. You just let people hurt you and then tell them it’s fine.” Her voice wavered. “It’s not fine, Pacey. It’s not.”

For a long time, he didn’t answer. The machines hummed beside him, steady and indifferent.

Finally, he looked at her, really looked, and said quietly, “Maybe I just got used to forgiving people before they walked away.”

The words hung between them, gentle and devastating.

Andie’s hand shot to her mouth, a sob escaping before she could swallow it back. She leaned forward, resting her forehead briefly against his arm. “You were always too good for me,” she whispered.

He gave a soft, tired laugh. “You really gotta stop saying that. I was lucky to have you, Andie. You were the first person who ever looked at me and saw something worth fixing. You believed in me when no one else did. That’s not something I’ll ever forget.”

Her tears came harder at that, shaking her shoulders. “You make it impossible to hate myself around you.”

Pacey smiled faintly. Not quite knowing how to respond.

She lifted her head, brushing her cheeks with trembling fingers. “You really are okay?”

“Getting there,” he said. “Couple more days and they’ll kick me out. Doug’s already planning his suburban family dream life for us.”

That drew a soft laugh out of her, the sound catching halfway through. “He loves you, you know.”

“I’m starting to believe it,” Pacey murmured.

Andie hesitated, then leaned down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “You’ll always matter to me, Witter. Even when I didn’t know how to show it.”

He didn’t answer, just closed his eyes, letting her words settle somewhere deep.

When she finally pulled away, she gave him one last look, the kind that carried years of unspoken things, and slipped quietly from the room.

Pacey stared at the ceiling, chest tight, the echo of her apology still in the air.

He didn’t know if forgiveness was enough to fix what had broken between them. But for the first time, it felt like a start.

The hallway outside Pacey’s room was still buzzing faintly, the shuffle of shoes, the murmur of voices, the soft click of the door as the last of their friends drifted away. Jen pressed Joey’s hand before leaving, whispering something about calling if there was any change. Jack gave a tired nod; Andie lingered the longest, her eyes red but strangely calm, as if something in her conversation with Pacey had settled what words alone never could.

And then they were gone. The air in the ICU seemed to exhale with them, leaving Joey standing in the quiet hum of machines and fluorescent light.

She pushed the door open just wide enough to slip inside.

The room was dim now, the blinds drawn to a thin line of silver across the floor. Pacey was asleep again, his face pale against the pillow, lips parted in shallow breaths. The monitors beside him blinked steady, gentle proof that he was still here.

Joey moved to the chair beside his bed, her chair, the one she hadn’t really left since the crash, and sank down into it.

She’d heard everything. Every word. Jack’s broken guilt, Jen’s trembling apology, Will’s quiet loyalty, Andie’s tears. And through it all, Pacey, calm, patient, steady, forgiving them like it cost him nothing.

It undid her.

Andie had said it, voice cracking in the middle of her sentence. You were always too good for me.

But sitting here now, watching him sleep, Joey realized it wasn’t just Andie. It was all of them.

Pacey Witter, the boy everyone underestimated, the one they teased, dismissed, doubted, he had spent the past year giving everything to people who rarely gave him half as much back. And even now, bruised and broken and barely holding on, he was still making room for their pain.

He was too good for all of them. Especially her.

At first, he thought he was dreaming. The sound of her voice came to him like something half-remembered, soft, cracked, the kind of sound you only make when no one’s supposed to hear.

“You keep forgiving us,” she whispered. “And we keep not deserving it.”

Pacey’s chest ached at the sound. He wanted to open his eyes, to tell her she was wrong, that forgiveness wasn’t something he handed out like spare change, it was just easier than holding onto the hurt. Because he knew what anger could do to a person. Had seen it in his father. 

His body felt too heavy, his head full of fog and medicine. So he stayed still, let her voice wash over him.

“You should hate me, Pace,” she said, the words breaking on a breath. “For doubting you. For letting everyone else make me believe you were something less than this.”

He wanted to tell her he could never hate her, that if he could, life might’ve been simpler a long time ago. But the truth was harder.

He didn’t know how to handle this, being the one everyone worried over, the one at the center of the wreckage. He’d spent his whole life being the afterthought, the screw-up, the comic relief. He didn’t know what to do with the way she had looked at him today, the way she was talking to him now, like he mattered. Like he was worth saving.

Her hand brushed through his hair, gentle and trembling. “You should hate me,” she repeated, quieter this time, “but I’m going to try to make it right.”

Pacey swallowed hard. He couldn’t open his eyes, not yet. The words lodged somewhere deep in his chest, equal parts comfort and ache.

Too good for her, she’d said. For all of them. If only she knew how wrong she was.

The room fell quiet again, just the hum of machines and her uneven breathing. He heard the faint scrape of a chair, her chair, shifting back as the door creaked open.

Then came another voice.

“Joey?”

Even through the haze, Pacey recognized it. 

Dawson.

Every muscle in his body went tense. He didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes, just listened.

“Can I… see him?” Dawson asked, his voice small, frayed at the edges.

Joey’s answer came soft but steady. “He’s sleeping, Dawson. He needs rest.”

“I just…” Dawson’s voice broke. “I need him to know I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t mean…”

“Not now,” Joey cut in, not harsh, just final. “He can’t hear you. And he doesn’t need this. Not tonight.”

There was a long silence. Then the sound of a breath, shaky, defeated.

“Right,” Dawson murmured. “Yeah. Okay.”

The door clicked shut again, leaving the room in quiet once more.

Pacey lay there, eyes still closed, the echo of Dawson’s voice circling in his mind. He wanted to feel the same forgiveness he’d managed for everyone else, for Jack, for Andie, even for himself. But when it came to Dawson, the wound still felt too raw, too deep. The boy who’d once been his best friend had looked at him like he was something to beat, and now all that was left between them was silence.

He drew a shallow breath, the monitors keeping time beside him. Joey’s hand still rested near his, warm and steady. He wanted to reach for it, to let her know he was awake, but the thought of speaking, of facing all the weight that came with it, was too much.

So he stayed still, somewhere between waking and sleep, caught in the fragile peace of knowing he was alive and the heavy ache of realizing not everything could be fixed.

For the first time, Pacey wasn’t sure he wanted to forgive.

Chapter Text

The vending machine coffee had gone cold hours ago, and Joey’s body ached from the stiff chair she’d been folded into since yesterday. Pacey was breathing steadily, his chest rising and falling with the soft rhythm of sleep. For the first time since she watched Pacey go under, Joey felt like she could stand up without the ground tilting beneath her.

He was alive. He’d smiled. He’d joked.

Joey brushed her hand across his hair one more time before easing her fingers free of his. “I’ll be right back,” she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. She wasn’t leaving for long, just food, maybe even a shower if she was quick. 

The hallway outside the ICU was quiet, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the space. Joey exhaled, the weight of exhaustion pressing down now that adrenaline wasn’t holding her up. She was so lost in her own fog she didn’t notice the figure at the end of the hall until he spoke.

“Joey.”

Her head snapped up. Dawson stepped out of the shadows near the waiting area, pale and unshaven, his eyes raw.

“I was hoping you’d come out.”

Joey froze, her pulse stuttering. She had braced herself for this moment, but not now, not like this. “Not now, Dawson.”

“Please,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “Just hear me out. I need to say this.”

Her jaw clenched, but she stayed silent.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I never meant for any of this. I know I should’ve yielded, I know I was reckless, but I wasn’t trying to hurt him, Joey. I swear to you, I wasn’t. I was,” his voice cracked, “I was trying to fight for you. And it was stupid, and I see that now. Please… please, you have to believe me.”

Joey’s eyes burned, but not with tears. With something colder. She shook her head slowly.

“You don’t get it,” she said, her voice low, steady. “Last year, when you made me wear a wire to catch my dad, I told you I’d never forgive you. But I did. Because you were right. You did it the wrong way, but you were right. And eventually I could see that.”

She stepped past him, her shoulder brushing his as she moved for the exit. Her voice sharpened, cutting off whatever protest he tried to make.

“But this?” she whispered, turning her head just enough for him to hear. “This, I can’t. And I won’t. You can talk until you’re out of breath, Dawson, but I won’t hear any of it.”

And with that, she walked on, leaving him standing alone in the sterile glow of the hospital corridor, his apologies echoing into silence.

She didn’t stop walking until she reached the end of the hall, her breath coming too fast, her palms shaking. The vending machines blinked in the dim light, rows of candy and soda behind glass, but all she could see was the look on Dawson’s face, that wounded confusion that had once made her turn back every time.

Not tonight.

Tonight she felt nothing but a hollow finality. He would try again, she knew him too well. He’d show up with flowers, or tears, or some speech about fate and forgiveness. And she’d tell him the same thing she told him now.

No.

Because this wasn’t about mistakes or misunderstandings; it was about a line that once crossed, couldn’t be uncrossed.

Pacey almost died because of Dawson's selfishness. 

And even if Pacey somehow managed to forgive him, and he probably would, because that’s who he was, because Pacey’s heart was too good for this world, Joey knew she wouldn’t.

She couldn’t.

And that difference, that gap between them, said everything about why Pacey was the better man.

Joey’s footsteps echoed down the hall until they faded into silence, leaving Dawson rooted in place.

He dragged a hand through his hair, his chest heaving with words that had gone unheard. She hadn’t even looked back.

Remorse burned hot in his stomach. He hadn’t lied, he never wanted to hurt Pacey. He hadn’t thought about the shallows, hadn’t thought Pacey would veer so sharply. He just… hadn’t thought.

But Joey’s words clung like ice: This I can’t. And I won’t.

Dawson sank onto one of the hard plastic chairs lining the corridor, burying his face in his hands. For the first time, he felt the weight of it pressing down, heavier than the charges, heavier than his father’s disappointment.

And still, a voice inside him whispered: when Pacey wakes up fully, when he’s better, things will change. Pacey always forgave him. He always did. And the others, they couldn’t stay angry forever.

Pacey was alive. He was going to be okay. And if Dawson just held on long enough, maybe everything else would be okay, too.

But deep down, beneath the fragile hope, was the gnawing truth he couldn’t shake: remorse didn’t erase consequence. What if this time Pacey didn’t forgive him? Because Joey hadn’t just shut him out of the room. She had shut him out of her heart.

By the time Joey returned with a sandwich in a paper bag and her hair still damp from the world outside the hospital, the sterile hum of the ICU felt like a strange kind of home. She slipped quietly back into the chair at Pacey’s bedside, her exhaustion settling over her like a blanket.

Pacey hadn’t stirred, but his hand was warm beneath hers. She laced their fingers together beneath the blankets, curling back into the chair, grounding herself in that simple truth: he was here. With their hands linked beneath the blankets. She traced small circles on the back of his hand with her thumb, her eyes never leaving his face.

When his lashes fluttered and he blinked up at her, Joey’s heart gave a painful lurch of relief. She leaned forward, brushing his hair gently off his forehead

“Hey,” she whispered, brushing his hair gently off his forehead. “You’re awake enough to listen now, so… I need you to hear this.”

He frowned slightly, his voice hoarse. “Jo, you don’t have to”

“Yes, I do,” she cut in softly but firmly. “You scared me, Pacey. More than I thought possible. And while you were out, I realized how much I’ve been holding back. So I told you everything then, even if you couldn’t hear me. But you deserve to hear it now, from me, while you’re here.”

His lips parted, confusion and something softer flickering in his eyes. She squeezed his hand tighter.

“You are it for me, Pacey. Better or worse, stubborn or sweet, driving me insane or making me laugh so hard I can’t breathe, you’re it. You always have been, even when I was too scared to admit it. I thought if I held on to Dawson, I’d be safe. But loving you isn’t about safe, it’s about being alive. And I don’t ever want to live in a world without you.”

His breath caught, a faint shimmer in his eyes. “Jo…” His voice cracked, and he shook his head weakly. “You don’t have to say that just ‘cause I nearly drowned.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true,” she whispered, leaning closer. “Because I should’ve said it weeks ago. Because I love you, Pacey Witter. And I’m not running from that anymore.”

A shaky laugh broke out of him, part sob, part disbelief. He lifted her hand clumsily to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “God, Potter… you sure know how to knock a guy out and then drag him back in the same breath.”

A soft laugh escaped her, half sob, half relief. “You’re not allowed to leave me, Pacey. Not now. Not ever. We’ll figure out the rest. But you’re stuck with me.”

“Guess there are worse ways to go,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

She smiled through her tears, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Try staying, just for a change.”

He blinked slowly, the ache in his head dulled now by something gentler, peace. “Is that the doctor’s orders?”

“No,” she said, her voice catching. “Mine.”

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The monitors hummed softly, steady and sure, matching the rhythm of his breathing, of hers. Joey glanced at the narrow cot beside the bed, then back at him.

She hesitated only a moment before toeing off her shoes and climbing carefully onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, her body curling gently beside his, mindful of the wires and bruises. He shifted enough to make room, his hand finding hers again automatically beneath the blanket.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice slurred with exhaustion, “this is probably against at least three hospital rules.”

“Then I’ll take the blame,” she whispered, settling her head against his shoulder.

His arm moved, slow and unsteady, until it rested around her back. She could feel the faint, steady beat of his heart against her cheek.

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” she said.

“Potter,” he breathed, eyes already drifting closed, “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”

She smiled against his chest, her hand tightening around his. “Not this time.”

The room fell quiet except for the soft hum of the machines and the rhythm of their breathing, finally in sync. Outside, dawn crept through the blinds, pale light spilling across tangled fingers and a fragile kind of peace.

For the first time in days, Joey slept with Pacey, safe, alive, and beside her.

Chapter Text

The station was buzzing more than usual when Doug pushed through the glass doors the next morning. Phones rang, typewriters clattered in the back office, and voices overlapped in low, urgent tones. He wasn’t surprised. In a town as small as Capeside, the regatta mishap was bond to be headline news for a while.

“Kid’s lucky he’s alive,” one deputy muttered over the rim of his coffee mug. “Can’t believe Leery’s boy was behind the tiller.”

“Golden boy or not, he’s got a citation to his name now,” another replied. “First time for everything, I guess.”

Doug kept his face neutral as he passed them, but his jaw was tight. He set his jacket down at his desk, meaning to start on reports, when a folded newspaper caught his eye. It had been abandoned on the edge of the breakroom table, a coffee ring staining the front page.

The headline was impossible to miss. Doug picked it up, smoothing the damp crease with his thumb.

Capeside Regatta Nearly Turns Deadly

By Jenny Davis, Staff Reporter with contributions from Capeside Community

What was meant to be a celebration of community spirit and summer tradition nearly ended in tragedy yesterday afternoon when two competing sailboats almost collided during the annual Capeside Regatta.

Doug exhaled through his nose. Tragedy. That’s one word for it.

Witnesses say the True Love, skippered by local teen Pacey Witter, son of decorated Capeside sheriff John Witter, swerved into the shallows to avoid a head-on collision with a vessel helmed by Dawson Leery, son of Capeside High’s football coach Mitch Leery and longtime fixture of the town’s sailing community. The maneuver left Witter unconscious in the water, where he was pulled out by rescuers and transported to Capeside General Hospital in critical condition.

Doug’s grip on the page tightened. They made it sound neat, clean, not like the chaos he’d stood in, Joey sobbing into his arm, his brother’s body pulled limp from the waves.

Sheriff John Witter confirmed in a statement that while his son remains hospitalized, he is in stable condition. “The doctors are monitoring him closely,” Witter said. “The department is following all standard procedures regarding reckless boating citations and safety violations.”

Doug barked a short, bitter laugh. Standard procedures. Not a word about his son. Just another case file. Figures.

The regatta committee has already disqualified Dawson Leery from the competition and levied fines for unsportsmanlike conduct. The Capeside Police Department confirmed Leery also faces citations for reckless boating and endangerment, though the case will ultimately be reviewed by the district court.

He skimmed ahead, bracing himself. This was the part where the gossip crept in.

The incident has left many townspeople shaken. “We’ve all watched those boys grow up, Dawson’s the all-American kid, making movies on the creek and staying out of trouble,” said one attendee, who asked not to be named. “If I hadn’t seen it myself, I’d never believe he’d push someone like that on the water.”

Doug shook his head. Dawson’s name first, Dawson’s shock second. Pacey was still a footnote in his own near-death.

And then the kicker:

Others were more blunt. “That boy nearly killed his own best friend,” said Bob McCall, a longtime regatta volunteer. “If it weren’t for Pacey’s quick turn, we’d be pulling bodies out of the bay.”

Doug lowered the paper slowly, his chest tightening. There it was, the whispers that would ripple through every coffee shop and grocery aisle in Capeside. For once, it wasn’t Pacey being branded the town screw-up. It was Dawson Leery under the microscope.

But Doug didn’t feel any satisfaction. Just exhaustion. Gossip had a way of turning even the truth into a weapon, and Pacey would wake up to hear every version of it but his own.

Doug folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. If Pacey was going to hear about this, it wouldn’t be from half-baked rumors or pitying stares. Not this time.

Capeside was small, and news traveled fast. Dawson Leery’s name was on everyone’s lips.

The whispers followed him through the grocery store, along the docks, he could feel it, the shift. The town that once adored him now eyed him with suspicion, pity, or outright disdain.

At home, the tension was worse.

“Dawson, you need to face what you’ve done,” Gail said, her voice sharp, arms crossed as she stood in the kitchen. “You endangered lives. You nearly killed Pacey. You can’t charm your way out of this one, you can’t pretend it was some… teenage mistake. This was reckless and selfish, and it has consequences.”

Dawson flinched. “Mom, I know, but…”

“No, you don’t know,” Gail snapped. “You’ve always had people shielding you. Your father. Me. Even Joey, for a while. But this,” she shook her head, her voice cracking, “this isn’t about heartbreak or teenage drama. You nearly destroyed someone’s life, and you need to take responsibility for that.”

Mitch, leaning against the counter, sighed heavily. “Gail.”

“Don’t ‘Gail’ me, Mitch,” she shot back. “You encouraged him to enter that race, remember? You told him it was about pride, about not giving up. You gave him the push he needed to go out there and nearly get someone killed.”

Mitch’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t know it would turn into this. He’s my son. I was trying to support him.”

“You were protecting him,” Gail countered, “the way you always do, the way this whole town always has. But what does that teach him? That he can hurt people and still have a safety net?”

Dawson slammed his hands against the table, his voice breaking. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here! I didn’t want this! I didn’t mean for any of it to happen!”

Gail’s eyes softened, but her tone didn’t. “Intent doesn’t matter anymore, Dawson. Not to Pacey. Not to Joey. Not to this town.”

Mitch stepped forward, placing a hand on Dawson’s shoulder. “We’ll figure this out. We’ll get a lawyer, we’ll handle the fines, the charges. You’re not alone in this.”

Dawson looked between them, torn, his mother’s unflinching demand for accountability and his father’s steady shield of protection. For the first time, he didn’t feel like either would save him. Not from the truth.

Because the truth was echoing in every whisper on every street corner in Capeside: Dawson Leery was the boy who almost killed his best friend. And no film, no excuse, no carefully edited narrative could rewrite that.

Doug’s shift ended late, but instead of going home, he found himself standing on the porch of the Potter B&B, the Chronicle still folded under his arm. The windows glowed warm against the gray evening, laughter drifting faintly from the kitchen. For a moment, he almost turned back, this wasn’t his family, wasn’t his place.

But his feet carried him inside anyway.

Bessie looked up from the counter, surprise flashing across her face before softening into something warmer. “Doug. You look like hell. Coffee?”

He almost said no, but the smell was too good to resist. “Please.”

Bodie slid a mug across the counter, then leaned back against the sink, watching him. “Rough day at the station?”

Doug dropped the paper onto the table, the headline staring up at them. “You could say that.”

Bessie wiped her hands on a dish towel, reading quickly. Her lips pressed into a thin line at John’s quote. “Standard procedures,” she muttered. “That’s all your father had to say?”

Doug’s jaw flexed. “That’s all he ever has to say.”

For a moment, the three of them sat in silence, the hum of the refrigerator filling the room. Finally, Doug spoke again, his voice low. “I don’t know how to do this. I filed the paperwork. I’m looking for apartments. But… what if I can’t be what he needs? What if I screw it up just like he expects me to?”

Bessie’s eyes softened, and she reached across to cover his hand. “Doug, the only thing Pacey’s ever needed is someone who doesn’t give up on him. You’ve already done more for him in the last two days than your father’s done in years.”

Bodie nodded. “You don’t have to have all the answers. Just show up. Be there. The rest you figure out together.”

Doug swallowed hard, the weight in his chest easing just slightly. He looked down at the paper again, at the headline that had haunted him all day. Capeside Regatta Nearly Turns Deadly.

For the first time, he thought maybe the story didn’t have to end there.

Chapter Text

Over the next few days, Pacey continued to improve. He was awake more than asleep now, his color returning, his voice stronger. 

They moved him out of the ICU into a regular room, and the shift in atmosphere was almost as healing as the medicine. 

Joey no longer sat by his bed like she was guarding him from death itself; instead, she teased him about his terrible hospital gown and rolled her eyes when he demanded smuggled cheeseburgers. Their banter slipped back into its familiar rhythm, grounding them both.

Friends drifted in and out, each leaving their own mark. Will ribbed him about being the “most dramatic sailing partner in Capeside history.” Jack hovered with visible relief, squeezing Pacey’s shoulder every time he left. Jen fussed over his IV and scolded him like a mother hen, which made him grin. Even Andie came, tentative at first, but welcomed with one of Pacey’s crooked smiles that seemed to lift a weight off them both.

Doug stopped by between shifts, always with some new update about apartment hunting. Sometimes it was practical, square footage, rental prices, and sometimes it was oddly hopeful, like which places got good morning light. 

And one afternoon, Pacey got a surprise visit from Bessie and Bodie. 

Bessie entered first, a whirlwind of nerves and relief wrapped in a cardigan. “You scared everyone half to death, you know that?” she said, but her voice cracked halfway through the sentence. She set down a basket of muffins on the bedside table, the kind Joey always pretended not to like but devoured anyway. “I swear, Pacey Witter, if you ever make me feel that kind of fear again, I’ll wring your neck myself.”

Pacey managed a grin. “Guess that’s incentive to stay alive then.”

Bessie huffed, brushing at her eyes. “Don’t you joke about it. Not this time.” She sat carefully on the edge of the bed, her hand resting against the blanket near his arm. “You’ve been part of our family for years, Pacey. I don’t think I ever said that enough. You fix our pipes, paint our rooms, and eat us out of house and home, but somehow we still wouldn’t trade you.”

He blinked, a little caught off guard. “Even after the plumbing disaster of ’99?”

That earned a laugh, small but real. “Even then.”

Bodie came in behind her, balancing a to-go cup and something wrapped in foil. “Brought you real food. Don’t tell the nurses.”

He sat in the chair by the window, watching as Bessie tried to pretend she wasn’t fighting tears. “She’s been a wreck,” he said lightly, nudging her knee.

Bessie sniffed, ignoring him. “Anyway, I brought you a list.” She handed over a folded sheet of paper. “Things that need fixing around the B&B when you’re back on your feet. Figured you’d want to stay busy.”

Pacey unfolded it, scanning the handwritten notes, door hinges, porch paint, faucet leak. Mundane things. Normal things. He smiled without effort.

Bodie leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’ve also been experimenting in the kitchen, new chowder base, bit spicier this time. You’ll have to give it a try once you’re sprung from here. I need a second opinion before it hits the menu.”

Pacey smirked, the warmth in his chest catching him off guard. “Finally realized I’m the real culinary genius of the family?”

Bodie grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of saying otherwise.”

For a while, they talked about food, about the inn, about anything that wasn’t hospitals or water or the word accident. And in that easy, familiar rhythm, something inside Pacey loosened. For weeks he’d been surrounded by machines and apologies, but here were people who expected him to come back, not as a survivor, but as himself.

When Bessie stood to leave, she bent down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “You’ve got people, Pacey. Don’t forget that.”

His throat tightened, but he managed a nod. “Wouldn’t dare.”

The steady rhythm of chatter and laughter from earlier visits had faded; the hospital wing was quiet again. Pacey had dozed off, but the muffled rise of voices outside his door stirred him. He kept his eyes closed, listening.

“I just want to see him,” Dawson’s voice pleaded, low but urgent. “I’ve been his best friend since we were kids. He’ll want to see me.”

Doug’s reply came sharp, controlled. “Not right now, Leery. He doesn’t want to see you.”

There was a pause, then Dawson’s voice again, incredulous. “This is a legal thing, isn’t it? Because of the charges? That’s the only reason you’re keeping me out.”

Doug’s tone hardened. “It’s not legal. It’s personal. He’s recovering, and he doesn’t need the stress of you barging in with excuses. So you’re not going in.”

Silence. Then the sound of retreating footsteps, heavy and uneven. The door didn’t open.

Pacey cracked one eye, catching Doug’s shape leaning in the doorway. Relief washed through him, not relief that Dawson was gone, but that he didn’t have to find the words yet. Not tonight.

Doug turned and caught his gaze. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Wasn’t really asleep,” Pacey rasped, voice rough but steady. He shifted slightly on the pillows. “Thanks for… handling that. I don’t have it in me right now.”

Doug nodded, crossing into the room. “You don’t owe him anything. If you never wanted to speak to Dawson again, that’d be fine. No one would blame you.”

Pacey let out a soft, tired laugh. “Yeah, but that’s not me, Dougie. I screw up enough to know how it feels when no one lets you back in. I can’t make him a pariah for one mistake. Not even this one.”

Doug’s jaw tightened. “Forgiveness doesn’t mean you have to let him into your life. You can understand him, even forgive him, and still keep him at arm’s length.”

Pacey’s eyes softened, the smirk slipping into something closer to weary wisdom. “Guess I’ll figure that part out when I’ve got the energy. For now… it’s enough just knowing I don’t have to do it today.”

Doug rested a hand briefly on the rail of the bed, his protective stance not easing. “You won’t have to face him until you’re ready. I’ll make sure of it.”

Pacey closed his eyes again, the ache behind them heavier than before. He’d always assumed forgiveness was inevitable, that once Dawson said the right words, he’d let it all fade, like every fight they’d ever had. But Doug’s words lodged somewhere deeper, unsettling. You don’t owe him anything.

The truth was, they hadn’t been the same in a long time. Not since Dawson’s 16th birthday, when Dawson’s cruelty came in the form of drunk confessions, telling him he’d only ever been “the guy who made him feel better about life.” Pacey had laughed it off then, like he always did, but the sting had lingered. Maybe it still did.

And now, lying here surrounded by people who actually showed up, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go back to that old version of friendship, the one that only existed when he played the fool, the one that made Dawson feel good about himself.

He thought of Jack, steady and honest, never making him feel lesser for the way he stumbled through things. Of Will, who had driven hours and stayed anyway, refusing to leave until he saw with his own eyes that Pacey was breathing. And of Doug, who for once wasn’t pretending distance was duty.

Maybe forgiveness didn’t have to mean pretending everything could be normal again. Maybe it just meant he could stop carrying the weight alone.

Doug was still watching him, like he could see the thoughts running their course. Pacey forced a faint, crooked grin. “Don’t worry, Dougie. Not planning on running a marathon or mending broken friendships tonight.”

Doug’s expression softened. “Good. Stick to healing first.”

Pacey exhaled, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. For the first time since the crash, he wasn’t sure what the next version of his life would look like, but he knew this: it wouldn’t be one built on someone else’s comfort anymore.