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⟡ hii welcome ⟡
⟡ anna ⟡ 20 ⟡ gemini ⟡ passionate ferrari fan ⟡ njd fan ⟡ currently listening to: so close to what??? by tate mcrae
⟡ submissions – open ⟡ this is my hockey blog!! ⟡ main + f1 blog here!! ⟡
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Spring Into Summer - Macklin Celebrini
A love story that takes place over seasons and years and places. I've been working on this for like two months so I hope you like. Word count: like 10k or 11k... not exactly sure.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
The first thing you noticed when you got back to Vancouver was that everything felt smaller. Not worse. Not different, exactly.
Just smaller.
The streets you used to bike down seemed narrower than they had when you were twelve. The elementary school looked half the size you remembered. Even the houses in your neighborhood felt somehow shrunken beneath the towering cedar trees that lined the road.
Maybe that was what happened when you were away for school.
You built a life somewhere else. New routines. New friends. New places to call home.
Then one day, you came back and realized the places that had once felt enormous had simply stayed the same while you kept growing.
The city greeted you with a light drizzle.
Of course it did.
Your mother laughed when she picked you up from the airport.
"Welcome home."
You smiled as you dragged your suitcase through the rain.
Home.
The word still felt strange.
You had spent the last few years chasing internships and jobs and apartments and opportunities, convincing yourself that home was wherever you happened to be living at the moment.
But Vancouver had a way of making that argument feel flimsy. The smell of wet pavement. The ocean somewhere beyond the buildings. The mountains hidden behind low clouds.
Some places settled into your bones and refused to leave.
Your parents' house looked exactly the same.
The flower boxes beneath the windows and the chipped blue mailbox and the wind chime hanging beside the front door.
Nothing had changed.
Everything had changed.
You spent the first week unpacking boxes.
The second week was easier.
You settled into familiar routines, including morning coffee and walks through the neighborhood. Runs along the seawall.
Slow afternoons spent helping your mother reorganize things that didn't need reorganizing. The kind of days that passed quietly, and the kind of days that made you feel twelve years old again.
Which was probably why you should have expected his name to come up eventually. Instead, it caught you completely off guard.
"Robyn texted me."
You looked up from the peaches you were slicing.
"Robyn?"
Your mother nodded.
"Celebrini."
The knife paused against the cutting board.
Just for a second.
Not long enough for anyone else to notice.
"Oh."
Your mother reached for a dish towel.
"Apparently they're back for a few weeks. Macklin just got back from competing at Worlds."
You focused very carefully on the peach in front of you.
"That's nice."
"Hm."
You knew that sound.
Mothers had a special way of making a single syllable carry an entire conversation. You could practically feel her watching you.
"He's had quite the year."
You laughed despite yourself. That might have been the understatement of the century.
Everyone knew who Macklin was now. People who had never watched hockey knew who Macklin was.
You had watched his draft from your living room couch. The same couch you used to have movie nights on every Sunday.
You had watched interviews pop up on social media.
Highlights, articles, and photos.
Every now and then, his face would appear unexpectedly while you scrolled on your phone, and it always felt slightly surreal.
Because to the rest of the world, he was Macklin Celebrini.
The rookie. The prospect. Round one, pick one. The future.
To you, he was the kid who used to leave his bike in your driveway because he could never remember where he put it. The boy who had convinced you to jump off his dock, even though you were terrified. The twelve-year-old who cried when he thought nobody was looking after his family told him they were moving to California.
You hadn't spoken in years. Not really. A birthday text here. A reaction to an Instagram story there. The occasional message that always seemed to arrive three months too late.
Life happened. That was the simplest explanation.
And somehow all those years had slipped between your fingers.
"You know," your mother said casually, "Robyn mentioned they're having people over next weekend."
There it was.
You smiled down at the cutting board.
"I knew this was going somewhere."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Mom."
She grinned. You rolled your eyes.
The conversation moved on to dinner and groceries. Something about your aunt visiting next month.
Normal things.
Ordinary things.
But later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, you found yourself standing at your old bedroom window.
The neighborhood stretched quietly beneath the glow of streetlights.
Rain shimmered on the pavement. The same street and the same houses.
The same place where so many versions of yourself had existed. Your eyes drifted automatically toward the end of the block, toward a familiar house.
Dark windows.
Still.
Silent.
You wondered if he was there already. You wondered if he would look different in person than he did on television. You wondered if he still laughed the same way. You wondered whether seeing him again would feel strange.
Or whether it would feel like no time had passed at all.
The thought lingered longer than it should have. Eventually, you stepped away from the window and pulled the curtains shut.
Next weekend was still days away.
There was no point thinking about it now. No point wondering. No point imagining what it might be like to see your childhood best friend for the first time in years.
Still, as you climbed into bed, one memory surfaced before sleep could take hold.
A twelve-year-old boy sitting beside you on a curb.
A moving truck parked outside his house.
Both of you pretending not to cry.
"I'll be back all the time," he'd promised.
You had nodded.
"Yeah."
Neither of you had known then how quickly years could disappear. Or how much could change before you finally found your way home again.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
Fall
Age Seven
The first time you met Macklin Celebrini, he informed you that you were doing it wrong.
You didn't know there was a wrong way to play by yourself.
Apparently, according to him, there was.
It was a Saturday afternoon in late September. The kind of Vancouver day that smelled faintly like rain, even though the sun was still shining.
Your older brother, Carson, was down at the field with some of the neighborhood kids. They had claimed one of the soccer nets for themselves and had been playing for what felt like hours.
You were supposed to stay out of the way.
Which was exactly why you were sitting alone at the small playground nearby, kicking a soccer ball against the side of a climbing structure.
You'd invented an entire game around it.
The ball hit the wall. You caught it. You spun around twice. You threw it again. The rules changed every thirty seconds.
You were in the middle of what was arguably your greatest performance yet when a voice interrupted.
"You're supposed to use both feet."
You looked up.
A boy stood a few feet away.
Dark hair. Bright eyes. Hands shoved into the pockets of an oversized Canucks hoodie. He looked about your age. Maybe a little taller.
Maybe.
You weren't willing to admit that.
"What?"
"The ball."
He pointed.
"You keep using the same foot."
You blinked.
"What does that matter?"
He stared at you like you had just asked why the sky was blue.
"Because that's not how you get better."
"I'm not practicing."
He frowned.
"Then why are you doing it?"
You looked down at the tennis ball. Then back at him.
"Because it's fun."
The boy seemed genuinely confused by this answer. For a few seconds, he didn't say anything. Then he picked up the ball before you could stop him.
"Here."
He tossed it in the air. Caught it. Tossed it again.
"If you're going to play soccer, you should do this."
"I'm not playing soccer."
"You have a soccer ball."
"So?"
"So that's soccer."
"No, it isn't."
"It kind of is."
You narrowed your eyes. The boy narrowed his right back. For a full ten seconds, neither of you moved. Then he suddenly grinned.
Not a polite grin. A troublemaking grin.
"I'm Mack."
You crossed your arms.
"Okay."
"What's your name?"
You told him. He nodded. Then pointed toward the soccer field.
"My brother's over there."
You followed his finger. One of the older boys was sprinting across the grass.
"Aiden?"
"Yeah."
"My brother's Carson."
Mack immediately perked up.
"That's your brother?"
"Yeah."
"He scored two goals."
You weren't sure why that mattered. Apparently, it mattered very much to Mack.
"He should've scored three."
You stared.
"He scored two."
"He missed one."
"So?"
Mack looked horrified.
"So he could've scored three."
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
His expression softened immediately.
Like he'd been waiting for proof that you weren't completely impossible.
"Do you want to play?"
You glanced around. "There's nobody else here."
"You can play with me."
It came out so matter-of-factly that you almost missed it. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You considered saying no.
Mostly because he'd been very annoying for the last ten minutes.
Instead, you shrugged. "Fine."
That was how it started. Not with some big meaningful moment. Not with instant friendship. Just a soccer ball and a playground, and a boy who couldn't stand watching someone do anything incorrectly. Including having fun.
A month later, everyone on the street knew each other.
At least, that was how it felt. The Celebrinis had settled into the neighborhood quickly. Their house sat only a few doors down from yours. Close enough that your mothers could wave to each other from opposite driveways.
Close enough that Mack somehow appeared everywhere.
You'd wake up on a Saturday morning, and he'd already be outside. You'd come home from school and find him kicking soccer balls in circles around the cul-de-sac. You'd look out your bedroom window, and somehow there he'd be, dragging a hockey net down the sidewalk.
One afternoon, he knocked on your front door three separate times.
The first time, he wanted Carson.
The second time, he wanted a soccer ball.
The third time, he had forgotten why he'd come over in the first place.
"You just left."
"I know."
"Then why are you back?"
He thought for a moment.
"I don't remember."
The friendship really settled into place when school started. Neither of you had expected to be in the same class. You still remembered spotting him across the room on the first day. He had immediately pointed at the empty desk beside him.
Every morning became the same.
You'd meet outside. Walk to school together. Listen to him talk the entire way. Mostly about sports.
Always sports.
Hockey.
Soccer.
Basketball.
If a ball - or puck - existed, Mack probably had an opinion about it.
By Halloween, the leaves had turned brilliant shades of orange and gold. The sidewalks disappeared beneath them. Every afternoon, you and Mack would kick through piles of leaves on the walk home. Sometimes racing. Sometimes collecting the biggest ones.
One afternoon, your teacher accidentally handed your mittens to Mack at dismissal. Neither of you noticed until halfway home.
"You have my gloves."
He looked down. Sure enough, he was carrying them.
"Oh."
You held out your hand. He stared at it.
Then shoved the mittens into his own backpack.
"What are you doing?"
"I'll bring them tomorrow."
"Why?"
"So you don't lose them."
You laughed.
"I won't lose them."
"You lose everything."
"I do not."
"You lost your lunch twice."
"That happened one time."
"It happened twice."
You opened your mouth. Then, it closed it. Because, unfortunately, he was right.
Mack looked entirely too pleased with himself. You never admitted that he had a point. He never stopped reminding you anyway.
Years later, when people asked what Macklin Celebrini had been like as a kid, there would be plenty of answers.
Competitive. Driven. Focused. Obsessed with sports.
All true.
But what you remembered most was something else. The way he was always looking out for people. The way he never liked anyone being left out. The way he seemed genuinely confused by the concept of doing things alone.
Because every afternoon, without fail, he'd wait for you outside the school doors.
Rain or shine.
Leaves crunching beneath your shoes. Backpacks bouncing against your shoulders.
The two of you making the familiar walk home through the neighborhood.
Sometimes talking. Sometimes arguing. Never walking in silence thanks to Mack.
Neither of you knew it then.
But years later, when entire oceans of time would separate those afternoons from the people you became, those simple walks would remain.
Small and ordinary. The kind of memories that never seem important when they're happening. The kind that end up lasting forever.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
Winter
Age Eleven
If Fall belonged to soccer and school and afternoons spent racing through piles of leaves, Winter belonged to the Celebrinis.
At least, that was what your mother always said, because the moment December arrived, the Celebrini house transformed.
Lights appeared first.
White lights wrapped around the porch railing. White lights draped over bushes. White lights wound around the giant cedar tree in their front yard until the entire thing glowed against the dark Vancouver evenings.
Then came the music and the baking and the endless stream of people coming through the front door.
By the second week of December, it felt like someone was always celebrating something.
You loved it. Mostly because it meant you could walk into the Celebrinis' house without knocking. Robyn had stopped pretending to be surprised years ago.
You pushed open the front door one afternoon and immediately got hit with the smell of cinnamon.
"Mack?"
"Downstairs."
Of course he was.
You dropped your backpack by the stairs and headed toward the basement.
A hockey game was playing on television.
Mack sat cross legged on the floor.
Aiden sat beside him.
Neither looked up. "They're losing." That was the first thing Mack said.
Not hello. Not hi.
"They're down by one."
You sat beside him.
"That doesn't seem like a big deal."
"It is."
"Why?"
He looked scandalized.
"Because they should be winning. They only have 14 shots on goal."
You glanced at Aiden.
Aiden rolled his eyes.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
The annual Celebrini Christmas party happened the week before school let out for break.
Every year, the adults insisted it was a small gathering.
Every year, roughly forty people showed up.
Your parents arrived carrying dessert. Carson immediately disappeared with the older kids.
The adults filled the kitchen. And within ten minutes, you and Mack were bored.
"Want to go upstairs?"
You nodded immediately.
The two of you escaped before anyone could stop you. The second floor felt quieter. Distant laughter drifted up from below. Christmas music echoed faintly through the vents. You sat on the floor of Mack's room. He was showing you a new hockey card when someone knocked on the door.
Aiden.
"You guys hiding?"
"No."
Aiden looked around.
"You literally are."
Mack pointed toward the hallway.
"Leave."
Aiden laughed.
"You two are weird."
The door closed again. You waited until his footsteps disappeared. Then burst into giggles. Mack joined in immediately. Neither of you even knew why. Maybe because being eleven made everything funny. Maybe because it felt nice having a secret place away from the noise downstairs. Maybe because some friendships were easiest when nothing important was happening at all.
A week later, Vancouver woke up to snow.
Not much. Just enough. Mack showed up at your front door before breakfast.
"We're going skating."
You blinked.
"We are?"
"Yeah."
"I don't really know how."
"You'll learn."
The confidence with which he said it made you suspicious. Still, an hour later, you found yourself standing beside an outdoor rink with borrowed skates dangling from your hands. The air stung your cheeks. Your breath floated in white clouds. Christmas lights hung from nearby trees. Music drifted softly through speakers.
The whole place looked like something out of a movie. Then you stepped onto the ice.
Immediately slipping and nearly dying.
Mack caught your arm before you hit the ground.
"I hate this."
"You've been skating for three seconds."
"I've had enough."
He laughed loud enough that two people turned around.
"You said you'd help me."
"I am helping."
"This feels mean."
"It isn't mean."
You nearly slipped again. His hand shot out automatically, steadying you before you could fall. For the next hour, he skated backwards in front of you. Patiently explaining things and showing you where to put your feet. Holding your hand whenever you got nervous. Never making fun of you when you struggled.
Well. Not too much.
By the time the sky began turning pink, your legs felt like jelly.
You collapsed onto a bench.
"I survived."
"Barely."
Mack grinned. Then frowned.
"You're freezing."
"I'm fine."
He unwound the blue scarf from around his neck. The Canucks scarf he wore constantly. He draped it around your shoulders.
"There."
Warmth immediately settled around you.
"You'll be cold."
"I'm not cold."
"You just said I was freezing."
"That's different. I’m used to it."
You laughed. Mack smiled, then looked away. The two of you sat quietly for a moment, watching skaters move across the ice. Watching lights flicker against the growing darkness and listening to distant Christmas music.
At eleven years old, neither of you knew that moments could become memories while they were happening. You didn't know that one day you'd look back on that winter afternoon and remember every detail.
The scarf. The lights. The cold.
The way friendship could feel so simple when you were young. All you knew was that you were warm. And that Mack was sitting beside you.
Which, at eleven years old, felt like the same thing.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
Spring
Age Fourteen
The funny thing about Mack moving to California was that eventually it stopped feeling like he had moved at all.
At least when you were on the phone.
There were still moments that caught you off guard. Walking out of school and instinctively looking for him before remembering he was eight hundred miles away. Seeing something funny and reaching for your phone because he would’ve laughed at it. Passing the soccer field where the two of you used to spend entire afternoons, and feeling like something was missing.
But mostly, life settled into a routine.
You went to school.
Mack went to school.
And somehow the two of you still knew everything about each other’s lives.
You knew which teachers he hated and which teammates annoyed him. You knew which basketball player he was currently obsessed with, whose highlights he kept sending you. He knew which girls in your class were causing drama and knew when you failed a science quiz.
The distance never disappeared. You just got better at working around it.
Most afternoons, your phone rang sometime between dinner and homework. And most afternoons, it was Mack.
“Guess what happened.”
That was usually how the conversations started.
Not hello. Not how are you. Just immediately diving into whatever story he couldn’t wait to tell.
One Thursday night, you answered while curled up on your bedroom floor.
“What happened now?”
“You’ll never believe this.”
“Mack.”
“I’m serious.” You could hear him grinning.
“Coach made us run suicides for twenty minutes because somebody forgot their sticks.”
“Who?”
A dramatic pause. “Me.”
You burst out laughing.
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“Macklin.”
“Okay, but in my defense-”
“You play hockey.”
“It was early.”
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped the phone. On the other end, he started laughing too. And the two of you spent the next fifteen minutes talking about absolutely nothing.
Which happened more often than either of you realized.
Sometimes you called each other because there was something important to say. Most of the time, you called because you couldn’t think of a reason not to.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
The problem with being fourteen was that other people had opinions. Lots of opinions. Most of them annoying. You discovered this one afternoon when your phone buzzed during lunch.
Mack.
A picture appeared.
It was blurry. Terrible lighting.
His hockey bag had exploded across a locker room floor.
The text read:
look what happened
You immediately laughed.
A second message appeared.
help
A third followed.
i think i live here now
Your friend glanced over.
“Who’s that?”
“Mack.”
“The California one?”
You nodded. She stared.
“You guys talk a lot.”
You frowned.
“So?”
“So…” She dragged the word out.
You immediately knew where this was going.
“No.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were going to.”
She grinned.
“You like him.”
You nearly choked on your water.
“No, I don’t.”
“Okay.”
“Seriously.”
“Okay.”
Which was somehow worse. You threw a napkin at her. She laughed the entire rest of lunch.
Unfortunately, Mack wasn’t having much better luck.
One evening, he was sitting in the backseat of a car after practice when your name flashed across his phone screen.
One of his teammates noticed immediately.
“Who’s that?”
Mack glanced up.
“What?”
“That girl.”
Mack looked down at the screen again.
“Oh.”
The teasing started instantly.
“Oh.”
“Look at that smile.”
“There wasn’t a smile.”
“There was definitely a smile.”
Mack rolled his eyes.
“She’s my friend.”
The boys in the backseat erupted.
“Friend.”
“Dude.”
“I’m serious.”
“Sure.”
Mack hated when people did this. Mostly because it made absolutely no sense.
You were you. His best friend.
The person he’d known practically forever. The person he called after every game. The person who knew every embarrassing story from his childhood. The person who still reminded him about the time he forgot his backpack three days in a row.
You were just…
You.
Which apparently wasn’t a good enough answer for anyone.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
Spring Break arrived faster than expected.
For weeks, your parents had been talking about visiting California.
For weeks, you had pretended not to care. Then suddenly, the trip was only a few days away, and you found yourself standing in your bedroom trying to decide what to pack.
Which was ridiculous. You were visiting family friends. Not preparing for some major event. Still, when your phone rang that night, you answered immediately.
“Mack.”
“Four days.”
You smiled despite yourself.
“You’re counting?”
“No. Maybe.”
You laughed.
On the other end, you heard him laugh too.
Then the conversation drifted somewhere else.
School and Hockey. A movie he’d watched. The usual things. The easy things.
The kinds of conversations you’d had hundreds of times before.
Yet later, after the call ended, you found yourself smiling at your dark bedroom ceiling.
Thinking about California. Thinking about seeing him again.
Thinking about how strange it was that someone could live so far away and still somehow be woven into every part of your life.
At fourteen, you didn’t have a name for the feeling.
Neither did Mack.
But somewhere between the phone calls and the visits and the way both of you always seemed to reach for your phones first, something had started to change.
Not enough to notice.
Not yet.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
Summer
Age Sixteen
By sixteen, Mack had become the kind of person strangers recognized. Not everywhere. Not all the time.
But enough.
Enough that every few weeks you’d open Instagram and see someone posting highlights from one of his games.
Enough that hockey analysts were talking about him.
Enough that your friends occasionally sent screenshots and asked:
“Isn’t this your Mack?”
As if there were multiple options. As if he hadn’t occupied a permanent space in your life for nearly a decade.
You usually rolled your eyes. Then secretly watched every clip anyway.
The first time you saw him that summer was at the airport.
Your family had flown down to California for two weeks at the beginning of July.
The moment you walked through security, you spotted him. Or rather, you spotted his height. Which was annoying because somehow he’d gotten taller.
Again.
You stopped beside your suitcase.
“What happened to you?”
Mack looked up. Then grinned. The same grin.
“What?”
“You’re giant.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m six foot.”
“Exactly.”
His grin widened. Then he pulled you into a hug before you could say anything else. For a second, your brain short-circuited. Not because he’d hugged you, he always hugged you. But because suddenly he wasn’t fourteen anymore.
His shoulders felt broader. His arms felt stronger. His voice sounded different when he laughed. The realization arrived unexpectedly. And immediately made you want to walk directly into traffic.
You pulled away first.
“You’re annoying.”
“Hi to you too.”
The next few days felt normal.
Mostly.
At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. The two of you spent hours together. Beach days. Basketball in the driveway. Late-night walks. The usual.
But every now and then, something strange happened.
You’d catch yourself staring. Not on purpose.
Just…
Looking.
At the way his forearms flexed when he picked up a hockey bag.
At the way his hair curled when it got wet.
At the way his voice had settled into something lower over the last year.
And every single time you noticed, you immediately hated yourself. Because this was Mack, your best friend. The same person he’d always been. So why did everything suddenly feel different?
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
A few days into the trip, Mack invited you out on a boat with some of his friends.
“It’ll be fun.”
That should have been your first warning. Because whenever someone said something would be fun, it usually wasn’t. At least not for you.
Still, you agreed.
Mostly because Mack looked genuinely excited. And unfortunately, you had a hard time saying no to him. Always had.
The marina was packed when you arrived. Music drifted across the water. Boats rocked gently against their docks.
The California sun reflected off the waves.
And waiting beside one of the boats was a group of boys. The second they spotted you, their expressions changed.
Subtly, but enough. Enough that you immediately became suspicious.
Mack seemed oblivious.
“Guys, this is—”
“We know.”
One of them grinned. Another laughed. A third looked like he was trying very hard not to say something.
Your eyes narrowed.
“What?”
The boys exchanged glances.
Mack groaned immediately. “No.”
“What?”
“No.”
One of the boys finally cracked. “We just hear about you a lot.”
Mack nearly choked.
You blinked. “What?”
“He talks about you constantly.”
“I don’t.”
“He absolutely does.”
“Mack.”
“I don’t.”
“You called her during a road trip because you saw a dog.”
“It looked like her dog.”
The entire group dissolved into laughter. Mack looked like he wanted to launch himself into the ocean. You, meanwhile, couldn’t stop smiling. The teasing continued all day. Not mean. Just relentless.
The kind only close friends could get away with.
Every story somehow involved you. Every joke somehow circled back to you.
And the longer it went on, the more one realization settled uncomfortably in your chest.
Maybe they weren’t wrong. Because if someone had asked you how often you talked about Mack, the answer would’ve been embarrassing.
Later that afternoon, everyone jumped into the water. Everyone except you. You sat on the edge of the boat. Watching and thinking. Trying very hard not to think about the fact that Mack had somehow become unfairly attractive.
Which was a terrible development.
A truly terrible development.
The splash beside you made you jump, and Mack surfaced beside the boat. Water dripping from his hair.
“You coming in?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I like being dry.”
He snorted. Then reached up and grabbed your ankle.
You shrieked. “Macklin.”
His grin was immediate.
There it was. The grin. The exact same one he’d worn at seven years old, and the same one at eleven. At fourteen. The same stupid grin.
And suddenly something settled.
Because underneath everything else, underneath the height and the hockey and the attention and all the ways he was changing, he was still him. Still your person.
Still the boy who never let you sit by yourself, the boy who called when something funny happened, and the boy who remembered every little thing about you.
For a moment, neither of you said anything.
The lake stretched endlessly around you and the boat rocked gently beneath you.
Summer sunlight danced across the water.
And for the first time, you found yourself wondering what would happen if things kept changing. If one day, he wasn’t just Mack anymore.
The thought startled you enough that you looked away immediately.
Some questions were easier not to ask.
At sixteen, this was one of them.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
Fall
Age Seventeen
There had been a time when you knew exactly where Mack was. It was strange, the things you missed. Not the big things like birthdays, holidays, or vacations.
The small things. The ordinary things. The things nobody thinks to appreciate while they’re happening.
At seven years old, he was usually three houses away.
At eleven, he was either at the rink or sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor.
At fourteen, he was a voice on the other end of the phone every evening.
Predictable and constant.
Now, at seventeen, he seemed to exist everywhere at once.
Chicago. California. Michigan. Toronto.
Development camps and showcases and interviews and tournaments.
You would wake up and see a photo of him posted from a city you’d forgotten he was even traveling to. Every week seemed to bring another announcement. Another article. Another ranking. Another conversation about where he might go in the draft.
The future followed him everywhere now.
Sometimes it felt like the entire hockey world had already reached out and grabbed him. Sometimes it felt like you were standing on the shoreline, watching him drift farther out to sea.
Not because he wanted to leave, just because that was what happened when people grew up.
They kept moving.
Even when you wanted desperately for them to stay.
The texts still came every day.
Ok, maybe not every day, but most days, anyway.
A picture of a hotel room. A complaint about airport food. A blurry photo from a bus window. A random thought that apparently couldn’t wait.
you would hate this coffee
actually never mind
you would probably drink it anyway
You smiled despite yourself.
rude
His response came instantly.
truth hurts
The conversation continued.
As it always did. As it always had. And yet.
Something felt different.
You couldn’t explain it.
Couldn’t point to a specific moment and say there, but you could feel the crack forming.
It was more like watching daylight change. You never noticed it while it was happening. Then suddenly it was evening.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
One rainy afternoon, you found yourself scrolling through old photos.
It wasn’t intentional. At least, not at first. You had been looking for something else. A screenshot. A receipt. A note from class.
Instead, you stumbled across a picture from years ago.
Mack standing on an outdoor rink, snow caught in his hair. His scarf was missing because he’d given it to you ten minutes earlier. The photo was blurry and poorly framed. One of those pictures nobody would normally save. Your thumb lingered over the screen. You remembered the exact way the air had felt that day.
The sharp cold against your cheeks.
The Christmas lights reflected off the ice.
The sound of his laugh after you’d nearly fallen for the hundredth time.
You remembered how small and simple the world had seemed. At eleven years old, you hadn’t thought about the future. Hadn’t imagined drafts and rankings and interviews and flights. You had only been thinking about making it around the rink without falling.
Funny how life worked like that.
The moments that mattered most rarely announced themselves.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
Your phone rang.
Mack.
You answered immediately.
“Hi.”
The background noise nearly swallowed his voice.
“You busy?”
“No.”
“Good.”
You smiled.
“Where are you?”
A pause.
“Honestly?”
“That’s usually how questions work.”
“I have no idea.”
You laughed. Then heard him laugh too. You felt warm. For a moment, it felt familiar and comfortable. Your eyes caught the Canucks scarf hanging off your dresser.
Then he started describing the arena. The city. The hotel. The game tomorrow. And halfway through the story, you realized you couldn’t picture any of it.
Not really. The places changed too quickly. The schedule changed too quickly. The details slipped through your fingers before you could hold onto them. It was hard to keep up.
You listened anyway because it was Mack. Because hearing his voice still felt like coming home. Even if home sounded farther away these days.
The draft wasn’t for another year. And even though everybody knew that, everybody talked about it anyway. The conversations followed him everywhere. People discussing his future as if it already belonged to them.
You hated those conversations, not really because they were wrong. Most of them were probably right. You hated them because they never sounded like the Mack you knew. It was like the Mack they talked about was polished and perfect. Carefully packaged. A future superstar. A generational prospect. A name. A headline. A prediction.
You wanted to tell them about the kid who forgot his hockey stick. The kid who couldn’t keep track of his gloves. The kid who spent an entire afternoon trying to convince you that dogs would be better at hockey than cats.
That was the Mack you carried around. Not the one in the articles. Yours felt more real.
Some nights, you found yourself waiting for his texts. You’d be working on homework or college applications. Watching television. Lying in bed.
Then you’d glance at your phone.
Just once. Then again and again and again. Hoping, waiting.
And eventually his name would appear. Relief arrived before you could stop it. Which felt ridiculous. You talked almost every day. What exactly were you worried about?
Nothing? Everything?
The feeling sat somewhere between the two. The awareness that life was changing faster than either of you could control. It lived in the soft blur of summer evenings that stretched like taffy, where streetlights flickered on one by one and fireflies stitched gold thread through the dusk. Childhood had been a watercolor left too long in the rain, edges bleeding, colors softening, moments melting into one another until it was impossible to tell where one memory ended and the next began.
You could still taste the metallic tang of blood from the time he accidentally kicked you playing mini sticks, still feel the scrape of cold rink ice on bare knees, still hear the distant chime of the ice-cream truck warping through humid air like a half-remembered song. Everything then had carried that hazy, honeyed glow, as if the whole world existed inside a snow globe you and Macklin had shaken together just to watch the glitter fall.
This feeling of longing for the proximity was bittersweet, a quiet ache that bloomed and twisted at once. You wanted the old closeness back. The easy way you used to fit together like two pieces of the same puzzle. But you no longer knew how to step into that picture without feeling like an outsider in your own memory.
The edges had shifted. You had shifted. The feelings were too complicated now, layered with too many versions of yourself and too many versions of him that no longer quite aligned.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
Winter
Age Nineteen
The funny thing about growing up was that life never seemed to get smaller. Every year, it expanded. New cities. New people. New responsibilities.
At nineteen, it felt like everybody was becoming someone. Mack was at Boston University. You were at Michigan. And sometimes, when you looked at a map, the distance between the two seemed almost ridiculous.
A line stretching across a few states.
When you thought about your relationship, or friendship, or whatever you were, you saw miles, and time zones, and flights, and long car rides. Entire lives unfolding in opposite directions.
The first semester had disappeared before either of you really noticed.
College did that.
One minute, you were unpacking boxes. Next, it was midterms. Then finals. Then, suddenly, snow covered everything, and another year was ending.
Michigan felt nothing like Vancouver. The wind seemed determined to cut through every layer you wore. You found yourself missing home. Those were usually the days you called Mack. Not because he could fix it. Just because he understood.
Somewhere between childhood and college, your conversations had changed. At fourteen, you talked about everything big and small and in between. At sixteen, you still knew every detail of each other’s lives.
Now? Now there were gaps. Entire weeks, you forgot to mention and stories that never got told. Little pieces of life slipping through the cracks. There simply wasn’t enough time. You had classes and internships. Friends. Group projects. Late-night study sessions.
Mack had practices and travel. Games. Media obligations. Classes squeezed into whatever spaces hockey left behind. Life kept filling itself up. Every available corner.
One night in January, you were sitting cross-legged on your dorm room floor studying for an economics exam when your phone lit up with Mack’s name.
“Hey.”
The background noise was immediate.
Voices. Laughter.
A door closing somewhere.
“You busy?”
“Studying.”
“Ouch.”
You let out a sigh in agreement.
“How’d the game go?”
“We won.”
“You scored?”
A pause.
“You already know I scored.”
You grinned.
“Maybe.”
“I know you watched.”
You could hear the smile in his voice, and for a moment, the distance disappeared. The years folding in on themselves. Just two kids talking.
Then somebody called his name in the background. Another voice. Then another. Life pulling at him from the other side of the phone.
“I should go.”
The words arrived quicker than either of you wanted.
“Oh.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.”
And it was. That was the problem. It had to be okay. There was always a reason. Always somewhere else to be. Always something waiting.
“Good luck on your exam.”
“Good luck this weekend.”
“Thanks.”
A pause.
“Talk later?”
“Yeah.”
The room fell quiet again.
You stared at the dark screen for a second longer than necessary. Then returned to studying.
The draft had happened the summer before.
And somehow, despite everyone expecting it, despite every mock draft and ranking and prediction, it still felt surreal. You watched from home. Heart pounding harder than it probably should have. The same way you’d watched every major moment in his life from a distance. When his name was called first overall by San Jose, you cried.
Which felt embarrassing. Nobody else in the room understood.
Nobody else knew the seven-year-old who corrected your soccer technique. The boy who cried when he left Vancouver. They only knew the player.
You knew all the versions.
After the draft, everything seemed to accelerate.
The future that had always existed somewhere on the horizon suddenly felt real.
San Jose. The NHL. You could practically see the shape of the life waiting for him after BU.
The strange part was that California no longer felt temporary. For years, some small part of you had always assumed he’d come back. Not physically. Maybe not even consciously. But somewhere deep down, Vancouver still felt like the center of the story. The place everything would eventually circle back to. Now, for the first time, you realized that wasn’t true.
His life was moving forward.
Fast.
And it wasn’t pointing home anymore.
The two of you still talked.
Not every day.
Sometimes not even every week. But whenever the calls happened, they slipped into place effortlessly. Like no time had passed at all.
That was the thing nobody warned you about. How friendships could remain exactly the same and completely different at once. How someone could still feel like your person while becoming a stranger to parts of your life. How you could know someone better than almost anyone and still miss entire chapters of who they were becoming.
One snowy night, you found yourself walking back to your dorm after a late study session. The campus was quiet. Fresh snow blanketed everything.
Your phone buzzed.
A text from Mack.
A photo.
Nothing special.
Just Boston covered in snow.
looks almost like home
You stopped walking.
For a moment, memories rose so quickly they stole your breath.
Christmas lights. Outdoor rinks. Wet Vancouver sidewalks. Leaves crunching beneath sneakers. Bike rides. Phone calls. Boat docks. Scarves. All the little pieces of childhood you’d carried with you.
You smiled.
Then typed back
almost
The typing bubble appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Eventually his message arrived.
miss it sometimes
You looked out at the snow-covered campus around you.
At a life that already felt different from the one you’d imagined when you were younger.
yeah. me too
You wrote back.
And for a moment, standing there beneath the falling snow, you could almost see the two kids you used to be. Walking home through Vancouver. Completely unaware of how big life was about to become.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
Spring Into Summer
Age Twenty
When you saw Mack that spring, the first thing you noticed was that he looked tired. Worn around the edges by a year that had moved too quickly.
He was moving on from Boston; the draft was behind him. San Jose waited somewhere just over the horizon. Everything about his life seemed to exist in the future now.
A world that had once felt impossibly far away had somehow become real. You were sitting on a patio overlooking the water when he arrived. The afternoon sun painted silver streaks across the surface of the bay.
Boats drifted lazily in the distance. The air smelled faintly of salt.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Mack smiled. And suddenly he looked exactly the same.
The years folded in on themselves.
Eight.
Twelve.
Sixteen.
Twenty.
All existing at once.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
The smile widened.
“You’re late.”
“You got here early.”
You laughed.
And just like that, the awkwardness disappeared.
Mostly.
The strange thing was that spending time with him still felt natural. The conversations came easily. The jokes landed in the same places. The familiar rhythm was still there. Yet every now and then, something would catch. Like a sweater snagging on a nail. A reminder that things had changed while neither of you were looking.
You found it in small moments.
The way strangers occasionally recognized him and the way his phone never stopped buzzing. The way conversations drifted toward contracts and schedules and things that felt far bigger than the neighborhood where you’d met. Sometimes you caught glimpses of the life waiting for him. The life everyone else saw. The one that no longer seemed theoretical.
And every time you did, you felt something strange. The awareness that the future was arriving, whether either of you were ready for it or not.
A few days later, the two of you found yourselves walking along the waterfront after dinner. The evening had settled softly around the city. The sky glowed pink and gold. The water reflected everything. You walked without any real destination.
The way you always had.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.
Eventually, he shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Dev camp starts in a few weeks.”
You nodded. “I know.”
The words sat between you. You had known it was coming. Everyone had.
Still, hearing it out loud felt different. More permanent somehow.
“I think I’m signing soon.”
His voice was careful and hesitant. Like he wasn’t entirely sure how to talk about it. You glanced toward him. The setting sun caught the side of his face. For a second, he looked younger. Not like the first overall pick. Just Mack. Your Mack. The boy who somehow remained stitched through every stage of your life.
“That’s exciting.”
“It is.”
A pause.
“And terrifying.”
You laughed softly.
“That sounds more honest.”
His shoulders loosened.
“Yeah.”
The two of you continued walking. The water lapped gently against the shore. You wanted to say something.
You weren’t entirely sure what. Maybe that you were proud of him. Maybe that you missed him. Maybe that lately every version of him seemed to exist inside your head at once. You didn’t know how to voice this feeling of missing someone right in front of you.
Instead, you said nothing.
And somehow that felt safer.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
The hardest part wasn’t realizing your feelings had changed. The hardest part was realizing they had changed a long time ago. You had just been too busy growing up to notice.
It happened gradually. Then all at once. Like spring becoming summer. Like daylight stretching later into the evening. One day, you woke up and found yourself looking at him differently.
Not because he was famous. Not because everyone else saw something special in him. Because somewhere along the way, he had become the person you measured everyone else against.
The person who still felt like home.
The realization settled quietly.
Like something fragile.
Something unfinished.
The morning he left, the two of you stood beside his Dad’s car.
Suitcases packed. Flights booked. The future waiting impatiently.
Neither of you seemed particularly eager to say goodbye. Which was ridiculous considering you’d said goodbye a hundred times before. California. Chicago. Boston. Michigan. It was practically second nature at this point.
Still, something felt different. Each goodbye seemed to carry a little more weight than the one before it.
Mack adjusted the strap of his bag. You looked anywhere except directly at him.
“Well.”
“Well.”
The word hung there uselessly.
You laughed.
He laughed too.
Then, before either of you could overthink it, he stepped forward and pulled you into a hug. The kind of hug shared countless times. Yet this one lingered. A second too long. Maybe two. Long enough to notice. Long enough to feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek. Long enough for every thought you’d spent years avoiding to briefly rise to the surface.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you said anything. Because what could you possibly say?
That you missed him before he’d even left?
That every goodbye seemed harder than the last?
That somewhere along the way, friendship had become something larger and stranger and far more complicated?
Eventually, he stepped back, just enough to look down at you.
His expression looked almost unreadable.
“See you soon?”
“Yeah.”
Neither of you mentioned how much life could change between now and then. Neither of you mentioned the things you were actually thinking. Instead, he climbed into the car. You watched him drive away. And for a long time afterward, you stood there in the morning sunlight.
Caught between who you’d been and who you were becoming. Wondering when exactly the boy from the end of your street had become the person it was hardest to leave behind.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
Summer
Age Twenty One
The dinner invitation arrived three days later.
Or rather, your mother informed you that dinner was happening and neglected to mention that your opinion on the matter wasn’t particularly relevant.
“They’re coming over Friday.”
You looked up from your laptop.
“Who?”
The smile she gave you answered the question immediately.
“No.”
“What?”
“No.”
Her expression remained entirely innocent.
“Robyn and the boys haven’t seen us in forever.”
“The boys.” You deadpanned.
Your mother laughed.
The truth was that you hadn’t really spoken to him in almost a year.
Not really. There had been birthday messages. A quick congratulations after milestones. Tiny points of contact. Like darts thrown at a board, each landing far from the one thrown before. Enough to know the friendship still existed. Not enough to know what his life actually looked like anymore.
That realization sat uncomfortably in your chest. Because there had been a time when you knew everything. What he ate for breakfast. What movie he had watched the night before. The details that make up a life. Now there were entire months you knew nothing about.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
Friday arrived warm and bright. You spent an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear before finally getting annoyed with yourself and choosing the first thing you had picked.
It was dinner.
Just dinner.
At least that was what you told yourself.
The doorbell rang a little after six and conversation drifted through the house almost immediately. Robyn’s voice. Your father’s laugh. Aiden saying something that made everyone groan. Carson shooting out about a million questions about BU. For a moment, you remained exactly where you were.
Listening and waiting.
Your stomach twisted unexpectedly. Then footsteps approached the kitchen.
You turned. And there he was. For a second, everything seemed to overlap. The years and the memories. The different versions of him you’d carried around for so long. The little boy from Vancouver. The teenager from California. The player you’d watched on television from halfway across the continent. And the person standing in front of you now.
He looked tired.
That was your first thought. Not bad or unhappy. Just tired. Like someone who hadn’t stopped moving in a very long time. Then he smiled. And suddenly all you could see was Mack.
“Hey.”
The word came out softer than you intended.
His smile widened slightly.
“Hey.”
For a moment, neither of you seemed entirely sure what happened next.
And somewhere behind you, your mother and Robyn exchanged a look that made it painfully obvious they had been planning this for weeks.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
The funny thing about reconnecting with someone is that it doesn’t happen all at once. Movies like to pretend otherwise. Two people saw each other after years apart, and suddenly everything snapped back into place. Real life isn’t like that. Real life is slower. More careful, maybe? Definitely more awkward.
It happened in pieces.
The dinner lasted longer than anyone intended. Or maybe exactly as long as your mothers intended. By the time dessert appeared, the conversation had drifted from childhood stories to college to hockey to careers and back again. Aiden and Carson eventually disappeared. The parents migrated toward the living room.
The evening softened around the edges. And somehow, without either of you noticing, it became easier to talk. Not effortless. But easier, like rediscovering a language you hadn’t spoken in years. The vocabulary was still there. It just took a little time to remember it.
You found yourself carrying plates into the kitchen while Mack followed with the rest. The moment the door swung shut behind you, the noise from the living room dulled. For the first time all evening, it was just the two of you.
You rinsed a plate.
Mack dried it.
For a minute, neither of you spoke. Then he looked over.
“I wasn’t sure if this would be weird.”
You laughed softly.
“Me too.”
His shoulders loosened immediately.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“I thought maybe I was the only one.”
You shook your head.
“No chance.”
The smile that crossed his face was familiar enough to make something ache.
For the first time all night, it felt exactly like before.
The next morning, he texted you.
want coffee?
You stared at the message.
Then laughed. Another message arrived.
Five minutes later
hello you alive?
starting to think you’ve become too cool for me?
You rolled your eyes.
Then grabbed your keys.
The coffee shop sat near the water.
A small place tucked between storefronts and old brick buildings. You spent two hours there. Then another hour walking. Then another sitting by the marina. The conversation wandered everywhere. Michigan. Boston. San Jose. Mutual friends. Family. The years you’d missed.
At one point, Mack leaned back against the dock railing and laughed.
“I can’t believe I missed so much.”
You looked out at the boats rocking gently in the water.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“We missed a lot.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The realization hung between you. Years had passed. Entire moments had existed without the other person there to witness them. That couldn’t be changed. The only thing either of you could do was keep moving forward.
Mack looked down. Then back at you.
“I’m sorry.”
The words caught you off guard.
“For what?”
He shrugged.
“For disappearing, I guess.”
“You didn’t disappear.”
“I kind of did.”
“No.”
You smiled softly. “We both did.”
The truth settled between you quietly.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
After that, the days began to blend together. Not forgettable at all, but in the way summer always had. One coffee run became three. Three became seven. Movie nights reappeared naturally. Long drives with no destination. Walks through neighborhoods you knew by heart. Hours spent sitting at the end of the dock with your feet dangling over the water while the sky turned gold.
Sometimes you talked.
Sometimes you didn’t.
And slowly, almost without realizing it, the distance began to disappear.
Somewhere along the way, it became normal to find him stretched out on the floor beside your bed in your childhood room, talking about absolutely nothing while the rain tapped against the window.
It became normal to fall asleep halfway through movies in his apartment and wake up to find neither of you had bothered turning the television off.
Normal to reach for your phone the second something funny happened because he was the person you wanted to tell.
Normal to have him beside you.
Neither of you seemed to notice it happening.
Or maybe you both noticed and chose not to say anything. Because saying it out loud would mean acknowledging that this summer felt different from every other one before it.
It wasn't just that you were spending time together again. It was the way the distance had disappeared. The way every goodbye somehow turned into another hour together. The way neither of you seemed particularly interested in being anywhere else.
One night, the rain came down harder than usual, a steady summer downpour that blurred the streetlights into soft halos. You’d ended up at his parents’ house after a long walk that neither of you wanted to end. The lights were off downstairs; his family had gone away for the weekend. It was just the two of you, damp clothes and quiet laughter, standing in the kitchen drinking hot cocoa like you were kids again.
You were teasing him about something stupid when he turned around and looked at you. Really looked. The kind of look that made the teasing die in your throat.
The air shifted.
Macklin took one step closer, then another, until the counter pressed lightly against your back. Rain drummed against the windows like a second heartbeat. He lifted a hand, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek with a gentleness that felt brand new and ancient all at once.
“You know,” he said, voice low, “I’ve been trying really hard not to do this.”
Your breath caught.
“Then stop trying.”
The kiss was soft at first. Then it deepened, slow and hungry, years of unspoken things pouring out in the slide of lips and the quiet hitch of breath. His hand cupped the side of your neck, thumb tracing your jaw, while your fingers curled into the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer.
It didn’t stay careful for long.
Clothes were shed in a trail from the kitchen to the living room couch, damp hoodies, t-shirts, the soft sound of sweats hitting the floor. His mouth moved down your neck, warm and unhurried, tasting rain and summer skin. The couch was too small for what you both wanted, so you ended up on the floor, a blanket pulled down with you, skin against skin in the dim glow of the streetlight filtering through the rain-streaked windows.
You turned your head to look at him, laughing. He was already watching you, that same boyish half-smile on his lips, eyes soft in the dark.
“Hi,” he whispered.
You smiled, pressing your forehead to his. “Hi.”
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
After that night, the summer took on a new rhythm.
Mornings still looked the same on the surface. You’d meet him at the seawall for runs that always ended with you both slowing to a walk, shoulders brushing, talking about everything and nothing. But now there were stolen kisses against the car door before he drove you home, his hand lingering at your waist like he couldn’t quite let go. The salt air tasted different when it lingered on his skin.
Afternoons blurred into golden haze. You’d help his mom with groceries just to have an excuse to be at his house, and later you’d find yourselves tangled in his childhood bed, sunlight striping across bare backs and discarded clothes.
Afterward, you’d lie there tracing the faint scars on his hands, the ones you remembered from hockey injuries when you were young, and wonder how something so familiar could feel this brand new.
At night, you’d sneak out to his summer apartment after your parents went to bed, or he’d climb through your window like you were eleven again, both of you laughing silently until laughter turned into gasps against each other’s mouths. He was careful with you, but there was a hunger underneath that neither of you had expected. The kind that came from missing someone for so long, you didn’t realize how deep it ran until you finally had them.
The summer stretched on, warm and fleeting, and you let yourself live inside it, half nostalgia, half discovery, knowing that eventually the leaves would turn and reality would come knocking. For now, though, there was only him, and the rain on the window, and the quiet certainty that whatever this was, it had always been inevitable.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
The thing about summer was that it always ended.
When you were seven, it felt unfair. At eleven, it felt tragic. At sixteen, it felt impossible. By twenty, you understood that endings weren’t really endings at all, just transitions. Another season. Another version of yourself waiting around the corner.
Still, that didn’t make the last week of July any easier.
The days suddenly moved faster. There were apartments to return to, classes to start, flights to book, and a life waiting patiently beyond Vancouver.
One evening, a few days before you were supposed to leave, you found yourself at the end of the dock again. The same dock. The same water. The same stretch of sky slowly turning a pale gold above the water. Mack sat beside you, knees bent, his shoulder warm against yours. The air smelled like him.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence felt comfortable. It always had. The best thing about Mack had never been the conversations; it was that the quiet between you never felt empty.
Eventually, he nudged your shoulder.
“You know what’s weird?”
“What?”
He kept his eyes on the water. “I spent years thinking I’d come home and everything would feel different.”
You smiled softly. “And?”
His mouth twitched. “It does.”
You let out a small laugh that carried across the water. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”
“No, wait-” He turned toward you, voice softening. “It feels different because we’re different.”
The words settled between you, simple and true. You thought about all the versions of yourselves layered on top of one another: the kids walking home from school, the teenagers talking on the phone until midnight, the college students who let years slip away, and the two people sitting here now. None of those versions had disappeared. They were all still here, part of the same story.
Mack bumped your shoulder again.
“I hated it, you know. The years we stopped talking.”
Your heart squeezed. He stared down at his hands. “I kept meaning to call.”
“So did I.”
“I’d think about it.”
“Me too.”
“Then something would happen.”
“Yeah.”
A practice. A class. A flight. An exam. A game. Life. The simplest explanation, and somehow the most frustrating.
Mack shook his head. “We’re idiots.”
You laughed. “A little.”
“A lot.”
“Okay… a lot.” His grin appeared, the same one that had survived every version of him. The one that still felt like home. You watched the sun sink lower, orange melting into pink, pink into blue, the water reflecting it all back. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
“I’m done with goodbyes.”
You turned to him. “What?”
“I’m serious.” He looked a little embarrassed. “Every time we leave, we act like we’re never going to see each other again.”
You laughed. “You’re dramatic.”
“I learned from you.”
“I am not dramatic.”
He gave you a look, and you immediately lost the argument.
“Fine.” You smiled. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying we don’t have to do that anymore.” His eyes met yours. “The uncertainty. The distance. The wondering if years are going to disappear again before we see each other.”
Life was still complicated. You’d be in Michigan. He’d be in San Jose. There would still be flights and schedules and separate worlds pulling at you both. But it felt different now. For the first time, nothing important was left unsaid. For the first time, there was a future that included both of you.
Mack reached for your hand. The movement was easy, natural, like he’d been doing it forever. Maybe, in some ways, he had.
“I’ll see you in a few weeks.”
The certainty in his voice made you smile. Not goodbye.
You squeezed his hand. “Yeah.”
“You’ll come to San Jose.”
“I will.”
“I’ll come to Michigan.”
“You better.”
The promise felt solid. Real. The sky darkened slowly above you, lights flickering on across the shoreline. You thought about all the summers that had led here, the soccer games, the skating rink, the missed years, the second chances.
Mack leaned over and pressed a kiss to your temple, soft and absentminded, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You rested your head against his shoulder and watched the last light disappear beyond the water.
For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel like something rushing you forward. It felt like something waiting patiently ahead.
You thought about that now and smiled.
Because maybe it had never been about the streets or the houses or the neighborhood shrinking. Maybe growing up wasn’t realizing that places had changed. Maybe it was realizing that home had never been a place at all.
Home was a person.
And after all these years, after all the seasons that had come and gone, after every goodbye and every return, you finally knew exactly where to find him.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
All Our Summers - Lake House Series (JH86)
Part one and two here
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
The next few days slipped into a rhythm that felt both thrilling and terrifying. You moved through the crowded house like nothing had changed, laughing at group jokes, floating on the lake with everyone else, and pretending your pulse didn’t spike every time Jack entered a room.
But behind the ordinary moments, the secret unfolded in stolen pieces, each one sharper and sweeter than the last, and with every encounter, you felt your heart tilting further in his direction.
A few nights after the boat, you lay in bed replaying every touch until sleep refused to come.
It was one in the morning when your door eased open with a soft click. Jack slipped inside, barefoot and only wearing loose shorts, his hair wet from a shower.
Moonlight from the window painted faint silver across his shoulders as he crossed to your bed.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” you whispered, sitting up.
“So are you.” He climbed onto the mattress without hesitation.
When he settled beside you, the warmth of his body cut through the cool night air that drifted through the cracked window. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
His hand found yours under the covers, fingers threading together. The simple contact grounded you even as your heart raced.
You turned toward him, and the kiss started slow, exploratory, the kind that let you learn the exact pressure he liked when you tugged gently at his bottom lip.
Jack hummed low in his throat, a sound that vibrated through you. His palm slid up your side beneath the thin tank top you wore, tracing the curve of your waist with careful reverence before slipping higher to cup your breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak until you gasped into his mouth.
You shifted closer, one leg draping over his, and the new angle brought your bodies flush.
Heat bloomed everywhere his skin met yours. He kept the pace unhurried, kissing you deeply while his fingers continued their work, rolling and teasing until your hips moved restlessly against him.
When he sensed your building need, he guided your hand lower on him first, showing you the steady stroke he preferred, then turned his full attention back to you. His fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, exploring gently until he found the slick heat between your thighs. He circled slowly, teaching you with every deliberate touch what pressure made your breath hitch and your thighs tremble.
“Like this,” he murmured against your ear, voice husky as he demonstrated a firmer rhythm that had pleasure coiling tight in your core. “Tell me what feels good.”
There was no judgment in his voice, only encouragement and that steady patience that made your affection for him swell.
It made you want him more.
In ways that went far beyond these stolen hours, your feelings for Jack expanded with every second spent together.
The room filled with quiet sounds.
Time stretched, elastic and golden, until the first hint of dawn lightened the sky outside.
By the time he left with one last lingering kiss at your door, whispering, “Tomorrow night, same time,” you already knew you were in trouble.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
The pattern continued like that.
Small adventures tucked between group activities, each one drawing you closer in every sense. One afternoon, the house emptied for a trip into town for groceries, but you claimed a headache and stayed behind.
Minutes later, Jack appeared in the doorway of the upstairs laundry room, where you’d gone to fold towels.
“Terrible liar,” he teased, backing you against the humming dryer. The vibration traveled up your spine as he lifted you onto it, hands steady on your hips.
His mouth moved to your neck, sucking lightly just below your ear until your fingers curled into his hair.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and the friction made everything sharper, more urgent.
Jack’s hands roamed under your shirt, warm and sure, thumbs circling your nipples until you arched into him. When your own touch grew hesitant again, exploring the waistband of his shorts, he paused to coach you softly while his fingers slipped back between your thighs.
Time stretching on, both of you caught in a haze.
You almost didn’t hear the car doors slamming outside until it was nearly too late.
Jack pulled away with a curse and a grin, helping you down just as footsteps sounded on the stairs. You both grabbed random towels and tried to look busy when Cole burst in.
“Yo, you two hiding from chores?” Cole eyed the scene, suspicious but not quite connecting the dots. Jack’s hair was definitely messed up, and your cheeks felt flushed, but he just shrugged.
“Laundry emergency,” Jack said smoothly.
Cole snorted. “Whatever. Help unload the truck.”
The close call only made the next encounter bolder. Two nights later, rain pattered steadily against the windows, masking sounds as Jack guided you down to the boathouse after everyone else had gone to bed.
The space smelled of lake water and old wood, dim except for the soft glow of a string light he flicked on. He spread a stack of clean towels on the wide bench seat of one of the smaller boats stored inside, then tugged you down with him.
This time, the kisses came faster, hungrier.
You ended up straddling his lap, the rain drumming a steady rhythm overhead while his hands explored the backs of your thighs, sliding higher under the hem of your sleep shorts. The new position felt intimate in a way that sent nervous excitement sparking through you.
Jack sensed it and slowed, resting his forehead against yours.
“We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he murmured. “This is enough. More than enough.”
You kissed him in answer, deeper, letting your body relax into his.
His fingers traced patterns on your skin, teasing but never demanding.
Until you were trembling for reasons entirely different from cold or fear.
The rain eased by the time you slipped back toward the house, fingers laced, stopping every few steps for one more kiss.
Your heart felt fuller with each return trip, the casual summer arrangement stretching into something that kept you awake long after he left, wondering how much longer you could pretend it was only fun.
The almosts kept coming. Cole nearly walked in on you in the pantry one evening when Jack had you pressed between shelves of snacks, his mouth doing devastating things to the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder while his hand worked steadily between your thighs, drawing quiet, desperate sounds from you.
You both froze at the sound of approaching footsteps. Jack clapped a hand over your mouth while you tried not to laugh. Cole grabbed chips and left, muttering about people who couldn’t find anything in this house.
But the real catch came on a humid Saturday night.
The group had built another massive bonfire down by the water. Music thumped, laughter carried on the breeze, and you’d all drunk just enough to feel loose and golden.
Jack caught your eye across the flames and tilted his head toward the treeline. You waited five minutes before following.
He waited for you in the shadows where the path curved toward the house, pulling you behind a thick cluster of bushes.
His back hit a tree trunk as you pressed into him, hands roaming freely now, confident in the dark.
Jack’s fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, stroking the soft skin of your lower back, then lower, sliding through your wetness and pressing inside you with practiced ease that had your knees weakening. He drew those quiet sounds from you again, swallowing them with another kiss as he worked you closer to the edge.
You were lost in it, the distant crackle of the fire and roar of conversation feeling miles away, when a voice cut through the trees.
“Jack? You out here, man?”
Trevor.
You both stilled, but it was too late. Trevor rounded the bushes with his phone flashlight on, catching the full scene… your flushed faces, Jack’s hands still on your hips, the unmistakable closeness.
For a beat, silence stretched. Then Trevor’s grin split wide. “Holy shit. No way.”
Jack groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder. “Z, come on.”
You wanted the earth to open up, but Trevor just laughed, low and delighted. “This explains so much. The disappearing acts, the weird vibes. Hughes, you dog. And you.” He pointed at you, still grinning. “Respect. Didn’t think you had it in you to sneak around with this idiot.”
Heat flooded your face, but Jack’s arm stayed around your waist, steadying. “You gonna tell Cole?” he asked, voice surprisingly even.
Trevor considered it, rocking back on his heels. “Nah. Not yet. This is too entertaining. But you two are terrible at hiding it. Fix that before someone else catches you.” He winked, then jerked a thumb toward the fire. “I’ll cover for you. Say Jack’s taking a piss or something.”
He vanished back toward the group, still chuckling.
You buried your face in Jack’s chest the moment he was gone. “That was mortifying.”
Jack rubbed your back, laughing softly. “Could’ve been worse. At least it was Trevor. He’s got our backs.” He tilted your chin up, eyes warm even in the dim light. “You okay?”
You nodded, the embarrassment fading under his gaze. The interruption had scattered the heat, but something softer remained.
You kissed him once more, slower this time, tasting the shared secret and the quiet joy of not being entirely alone in it anymore.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
After that, the sneaking evolved again.
Mornings found you stealing coffee together in the quiet kitchen before anyone else woke, trading sleepy kisses between sips.
Afternoons offered quick moments on the far side of the lake in the kayak, where the gentle rock of the water accompanied touches that grew more assured.
Evenings brought longer sessions in your room or his, doors locked, music playing low to cover the occasional creak of the bed or your shared laughter when things turned clumsy in the best way, with Jack always finding new ways to touch and teach and pleasure you until your body sang for him.
Through all of it, Jack remained careful with you, reading every hesitation and meeting it with patience that made your chest ache in the nicest way.
You discovered you liked being the one to push boundaries sometimes.
Pinning his wrists playfully, exploring with your mouth down the center of his chest while he watched with dark, focused eyes.
Each new step felt like unwrapping something precious.
Never rushed.
One night, tangled together under your sheets with the window open to the lake breeze, you traced idle patterns on his bare shoulder. “This is really fun,” you admitted quietly, though the word felt too small for the emotions blooming inside you.
Jack pressed a kiss to your temple. “Told you it would be.” His voice carried that easy confidence, but underneath it lay something deeper, warmer. “And it’s only getting better.”
You smiled into the curve of his neck, heart full in a way that felt dangerously close to more than casual.
For now, though, the secret and the summer stretched ahead.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
All Our Summers - Lake House Series (QH43)
Parts one and two and three here
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆
The week after the rainy day passed in a blur of sunburns, boat rides, and near misses.
The sort that only felt significant because of everything that had happened recently.
Every morning, you would wake up determined to stop thinking about it. By lunch, Quinn would be sitting across from you on the pontoon, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair while he argued with Jack about something completely ridiculous, and the resolve would disappear.
The worst part was that nothing felt different, but like, everything did.
The house continued operating the way it always had. People wandered in and out of bedrooms without knocking. Someone was always hungry. Someone was always looking for a charger. Music drifted between rooms at all hours of the day. Every conversation was interrupted by three others.
The rhythm of summer remained exactly the same.
The only problem was that something was now simmering beneath it. Something neither of you had managed to address.
You'd caught Quinn looking at you more times than you could count. Not in a way anyone else would notice but just enough to make your chest tighten with frustration.
Because every single time it happened, one of the boys would appear.
Or Luke would throw himself onto the couch between you.
Or Trevor would start an argument.
Or somebody would need help carrying coolers down to the dock.
It had become almost laughable.
Three separate times you'd found yourselves alone for less than thirty seconds before being interrupted.
The first had been in the kitchen.
The second on the dock.
The third outside the marina while everyone loaded gas into the boat.
Each time Quinn had looked like he was about to say something.
And without fail, each time, somebody ruined it.
By Friday, you were starting to think the universe was doing it intentionally.
"Okay, everybody moving or what?"
Jack's voice cut through the cottage as he stormed into the kitchen carrying two cases of beer.
"We're gonna miss out on the good tables."
"You say that every year," Luke called from the living room.
"Because every year we miss the good tables."
"The good tables don't exist."
"They absolutely do."
You glanced up from where you were sitting on the counter.
"What exactly makes a table good?"
Jack stopped walking. Considered this seriously. Then pointed toward the ceiling.
"We won’t know if we keep missing out on them. Let’s go."
"You’re impossible,” Trevor snorted.
The room dissolved into laughter.
You smiled despite yourself and reached for your drink.
Friday nights in town had become another lake tradition over the years. Nothing fancy.
They usually involved a small bar near the water where locals and summer residents mixed together every weekend. A cover band, cheap beer, sticky floors.
An hour later, the entire group was piling into trucks and SUVs in a chaotic scramble of forgotten wallets and misplaced phones.
You were halfway across the driveway when Jack pointed dramatically toward the passenger seat of his truck.
"Claimed."
Trevor slid into the driver’s seat beside him.
Luke immediately followed.
"Claimed."
"That's not how that works."
Cole climbed in after them.
"Claimed."
Alex hopped in, grabbing the last seat available.
You stared.
"Seriously?"
"Sorry," Luke said, sounding completely unapologetic.
The truck door slammed shut.
You stood in the driveway for a moment before hearing a familiar voice behind you.
"You can ride with me."
You turned.
Quinn was standing beside his car, keys spinning around one finger.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then Trevor leaned out the window.
"Oh my god, just get in the car."
The entire driveway erupted into whistles.
You immediately flipped him off.
"Thank you," Trevor called.
"Drive into the lake."
"Love you too."
The truck disappeared down the driveway.
Leaving you standing there with Quinn.
Alone, for the first time all week. Sort of maybe not really.
Because the second felt important until Quinn opened the passenger door and said casually, "You coming?"
And just like that, it felt normal again. Or at least normal enough.
The drive into town took twenty minutes.
The sun was beginning to set behind the trees, turning the lake gold through the gaps in the shoreline.
Windows down. Warm air.
Country music playing quietly through the speakers.
You forgot how much you'd missed being alone with him.
No interruptions. No audience. No pretending not to notice each other.
For the first ten minutes, the conversation stayed safely in familiar territory.
The boys.
The weather.
Jack's increasingly questionable life decisions.
At one point, Quinn laughed so hard he had to grip the steering wheel.
The sound caught you off guard.
You realized you hadn't heard him laugh properly in days.
The realization lingered longer than it should have.
By the time you pulled into town, the nervous anticipation you'd been carrying around all week had settled into something quieter.
Because now the bar was visible at the end of the street. Music drifting through open doors. Neon lights glowing against the darkening sky. People crowded outside on the patio.
And suddenly it felt like the clock was ticking.
Because sooner or later, you and Quinn were going to have to stop dancing around the conversation waiting for both of you.
The question was whether tonight would finally be the night it happened.
Or whether something would get in the way again.
Given your luck lately, either seemed equally possible.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
The bar was already loud by the time you found your way to the second round.
It was the kind of place that smelled faintly of spilled beer and old wood, where every table seemed to have a story, and every wall was covered in decades of signs, photos, and memorabilia nobody had ever bothered to take down.
A local band played from the far corner, their music blending into the steady hum of conversation.
The boys had scattered.
Jack was somehow halfway through a pool tournament he hadn't signed up for.
Trevor had convinced a group of strangers to play makeshift pong in exchange for a drink.
Luke was losing spectacularly at darts.
And Quinn…
You'd spent the entire night trying not to pay attention to Quinn.
Which had proven impossible.
Like whatever existed between you had quietly settled into the space around you without either of you acknowledging it.
When the crowd got thicker, his hand would appear briefly at your back as he guided you through it. When you came back from the restroom earlier, there had already been a fresh drink waiting beside his. When you complained about the air conditioning near the back of the bar, he'd handed you the flannel he'd been wearing without a second thought.
Every small gesture lodged itself somewhere beneath your ribs. Because they all felt intimate in a way neither of you had addressed.
You were standing near the jukebox when Jack appeared out of nowhere.
"You know," he said casually.
The tone immediately put you on edge.
"What?"
Jack took a sip of his beer.
Looked between you and Quinn.
Then back at you.
"What happened?"
You nearly choked on your drink.
Across from you, Quinn wasn't doing much better.
"What are you talking about?" you asked.
Jack looked genuinely confused.
"Something."
"No,” you and Quinn stated at the same time.
"Okay."
"There is no something."
"Right."
"Jack."
"I'm not saying anything."
"You are absolutely saying something."
Jack grinned. The grin of someone who had already decided he was right.
"You guys are just weird."
"Thank you, are you done now?"
"No, but like..." He waved vaguely between the two of you. "Different weird."
Before either of you could respond, Trevor practically launched himself into the conversation.
"Leave them alone."
Jack pointed triumphantly.
"SEE?"
"See what?" Trevor asked. He then slowly turned around and walked away.
You burst out laughing.
"I am making valid observations, though."
"You're making things up."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night."
A dart bounced off his shoulder.
"OW."
Luke raised another one from across the room.
"Stop being annoying."
Jack looked personally victimized.
"Nobody appreciates me."
"You'll survive," Quinn said.
When the laughter settled, you found Quinn looking at you.
An hour later, the crowd had doubled.
The air felt warmer. The music louder. People packed shoulder to shoulder near the dance floor.
You'd lost track of most of the group.
Jack was still arguing with strangers by the pool table.
Trevor was trying to convince the band to let him and Cole freestyle.
Luke was somehow napping in the booth, head resting on Alex's shoulder.
The night had settled into that pleasant blur where nobody was paying attention to the time.
You were making your way toward the hallway near the restrooms when somebody caught your wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough to stop you.
Quinn.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
The hallway was quieter than the main bar. The music softened by distance. The crowd farther away.
"Hey," you said.
"Hey."
His hand dropped immediately.
Neither of you moved.
It suddenly occurred to you that this was the first moment all night when nobody else was around.
No Jack.
No Trevor.
No interruptions.
No excuses.
The realization seemed to hit him at the same time.
His expression shifted slightly.
"I've been trying to talk to you all week."
The words came out quieter than you'd expected.
You couldn't help laughing.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
Now that you were standing here, neither of you seemed entirely sure where to start.
For a moment, all you could hear was the muffled music bleeding through the walls.
"I thought you were avoiding me."
Something flickered across his face.
"Trust me."
His voice dropped lower.
"That is not the problem."
The honesty of it landed somewhere deep.
For days you'd been carrying around questions. Doubts. Wondering if you'd imagined something or if you'd misread everything.
Standing here now, you suddenly felt ridiculous for ever thinking that.
Quinn stepped a little closer. Not enough to touch. But now you could notice a bit more.
The way his sleeves were rolled up and the tiredness around his eyes.
Your pulse skipped. A small laugh escaped him. The air between you seemed to narrow.
For the first time all night, neither of you looked away.
And when he finally reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture felt somehow more intimate than anything else that had happened.
Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to.
The distance disappeared naturally. Like something inevitable. You allowed yourself to be pulled in.
The kiss wasn't as rushed or dramatic as last time.
It felt more like relief.
Like finally finishing a conversation that had been interrupted for weeks.
Somewhere down the hallway, a door opened and voices echoed.
The sound barely registered.
Quinn rested his forehead against yours for a second, both of you smiling in that slightly disbelieving way people do when something they've wanted for a long time finally happens.
"There you are," he murmured.
You laughed softly.
"There I am?"
For a moment, neither of you moved. The noise of the bar felt distant now, muffled by the walls and the steady rush of blood in your ears. You could hear the band changing songs somewhere beyond the hallway.
"I really thought you were avoiding me," you admitted.
Quinn's expression softened.
"I know."
"Which was kind of awful, by the way."
"I know that too."
You folded your arms.
"Good."
He looked at you for a second, shaking his head slightly.
"I wasn't avoiding you."
"Then what were you doing?"
A laugh escaped him, though there wasn't much humor in it.
"Trying to figure out how to have that conversation."
"What conversation?"
His eyes met yours.
The answer was obvious.
The one you'd both been circling around for weeks.
The one that started long before the pool house.
Long before Rainy Day. Long before this summer, if you were being honest with yourselves. You looked down for a moment before asking quietly, "How long?"
Quinn understood, his jaw shifting slightly.
"A while."
"A while isn't an answer."
"I know."
You waited.
"So give me one."
He let out a slow breath.
"Long enough that everyone else noticed before I did."
That pulled a surprised laugh from you.
"Seriously?"
"Jack started making comments two summers ago."
"You're kidding."
"I wish I was."
The image was so ridiculous that you couldn't help but smile. Then the smile faded. Because suddenly the reality of it settled over you. The looks. The attention. The way he'd always seemed to know where you were in a room. The way you'd always looked for him too.
"Wow."
"Yeah."
You glanced toward the floor before looking back up.
"So what now?"
For the first time all night, Quinn seemed unsure, which surprised you more than anything.
"I don't know."
The honesty made your chest feel tight and achy.
"I just know I don't want to keep pretending nothing happened."
The words hung there, and you nodded slowly.
"Good."
"Good?"
"Because I don't want that either."
Something changed in his expression then. And suddenly, all the frustration from the last week felt smaller. His hand found yours. The music swelled somewhere beyond the hallway as the crowd erupted into cheers for the next song.
Moments later, Quinn was pushing you through the bathroom door and into the small dingy space. He shoved the flimsy lock into place. Hands moving to your waist, shoving the flannel off your shoulders, and your tank top over your head.
“Quinn,” you huffed out, laughing at his eagerness.
“Sick of waiting,” he mumbled into your neck as he kissed down towards your chest.
Quinn’s hands were everywhere at once, rough and impatient, sliding down your bare sides as he backed you against the sink. The porcelain edge dug into your lower back, cool against your flushed skin, but you barely noticed. His mouth was hot on your collarbone, then lower, sucking one nipple into his mouth while his fingers worked open the button of your jeans. Then he was back up, lifting you onto the edge of the sink.
You tugged at his shirt, pulling it up until he yanked it off in one motion. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him. You could feel how hard he was through his jeans, and the slow roll of his hips against yours sent heat rushing through you. You rocked back into him, the friction building with every grind. It wasn’t rushed like before. This was deliberate.
Quinn’s hand slid up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted your head to kiss you deeper.
Your nails dragged lightly down his shoulders, earning a low sound from his throat.
The small bathroom felt even smaller, filled with the sound of your breathing and the faint creak of the sink with each roll of his hips.
Your thighs tightened around his waist, pleasure tightening low in your belly until it finally broke over you in a quiet, shaking wave. Quinn followed seconds later, hips stuttering against yours with a muffled groan into your neck.
For a moment, you stayed like that. Wrapped around each other, hearts hammering, skin warm and damp.
Then voices echoed down the hallway.
“—swear I saw them come this way.”
Jack’s voice. Close.
Quinn’s head snapped up. You both froze.
“Shit,” he whispered, already moving.
You slid off the sink quickly, legs still unsteady. Quinn grabbed your tank top and helped you pull it on while you shrugged the flannel back over your shoulders. He yanked his own shirt on, hair a mess, cheeks flushed. You barely had time to run your fingers through your hair before the doorknob rattled.
“Hey, is someone in there?” Jack called, knocking louder. “Quinn? You in there, man?”
Quinn looked at you, eyes wide for a split second, then cleared his throat. “Yeah, one sec.”
He unlocked the door and cracked it open just enough to step out, casually blocking the view. You stayed behind him for a beat, trying to look normal.
Jack squinted at his brother, then peered past him. “Why are you both…wait, were you two…?”
“Nope,” Quinn said flatly, already steering you past him with a hand at your back. “Just talking. Bathroom’s free.”
Jack didn’t look convinced, his gaze bouncing between you. “Talking. Right. In the bathroom. With the door locked.”
You kept walking, heat still lingering in your face. Quinn didn’t stop, guiding you back toward the noise of the bar like nothing had happened.
Behind you, Jack muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “fucking finally,” but he didn’t follow.
The night air felt cooler once you stepped back into the main room. Quinn’s hand brushed yours briefly before pulling away, careful, but not distant. His eyes met yours for a second, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
For now, this was enough.
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@asteria33 @tpato
All Our Summers - Lake House Series (JH86)
Part one here
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The boat rocks softly as Jack pulls himself up onto it.
Water drips from his hair and shoulders while moonlight glows silver across the lake around you both. Your heart is still beating way too fast from swimming over in basically nothing, and somehow it only gets worse when Jack reaches down and offers you his hand.
You stare at it for half a second before taking it.
His fingers wrap warm and firm around yours as he pulls you up onto the little platform at the back of the boat. You almost slip because everything’s wet, but Jack catches your waist instantly.
“Oh,” he laughs softly. “Careful.”
Your breath catches. His hands stay there, not moving.
The world feels strangely quiet out here. The bonfire’s distant now. Just muffled music and occasional shouting floating across the water while the boat drifts gently beneath you both.
Jack’s still looking at you like really looking at you, and suddenly, being this close to him feels almost unbearable. He moves to wrap a towel around his waist after wrapping one around your shoulders.
“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
“The water’s cold.”
“No it’s not.”
You laugh nervously. “Okay, maybe I’m nervous.”
That softens something in his expression.
Jack leans back slightly, studying you while his wet hair falls over his forehead. “Why?”
You look down automatically. “I don’t know.”
“Liar.”
Heat rushes to your face.
Because the answer is painfully obvious.
It’s him.
The way he looks at you like you’re something fascinating and the way he keeps touching you casually like he can’t help it. The fact that you’ve spent the last four days trying not to think about him constantly while simultaneously thinking about him constantly.
And unfortunately, Jack seems fully aware of it.
“You know what your problem is?” he says softly.
“What?”
“You overthink everything.”
Your stomach drops. He’s got you now.
Jack reaches up slowly, brushing damp hair away from your face. The touch is so gentle it almost makes your chest ache.
“You don’t have to be nervous with me.”
The eye contact is becoming unbearable.
You can barely breathe.
Then Jack’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth.
And that’s pretty much the end of your ability to think rationally.
Because suddenly you’re kissing him. Or maybe he’s kissing you. You aren’t really sure who moved first.
One second, there’s tension stretched painfully tight between you,, and the next, Jack’s hands are framing your face, your fingers instinctively grabbing his shoulders. His mouth is warm and dizzying against yours.
Oh.
Oh. Wow.
Now you understand why girls lose their minds over him.
Jack kisses like he means it. Slow at first, like he’s trying not to overwhelm you, then deeper the second you kiss him back harder. He moves to sit down on the leather couch behind him, pulling you down with him.
A soft sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.
Jack smiles against your mouth.
“Cute,” he murmurs.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, embarrassed instantly.
He laughs quietly before kissing you again.
The boat shifts softly beneath you both while his hands slide down your waist, pulling you closer until you’re basically straddling his knees.
Everything suddenly feels warm, despite the lake water still clinging to your skin and the breeze wafting off the shore.
Jack tilts his head slightly, kissing along your jaw once, twice, until your fingers tighten against him automatically.
“Jack…”
“Hm?”
“You’re such a flirt.”
“You like it.”
Unfortunately, he sounds very correct about that.
You kiss again, slower now. Messier. Your hands drift into his wet hair while Jack’s palms slide carefully along your thighs like he’s trying very hard not to scare you off.
Which honestly only makes it worse.
Because beneath all the teasing and ego and confidence, he’s being unexpectedly gentle with you.
The realization makes your chest tighten strangely.
Jack notices every reaction you have. Every little inhale. Every nervous pause.
His thumb brushes softly along your hip.
“You okay?”
You nod quickly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He studies your face for another second before kissing you again, deeper this time, and suddenly, your brain feels completely melted.
Before you know it, your back is softly hitting the cushioned seat beneath you.
Jack braces himself over you, one hand beside your head while the other slides carefully along your waist beneath the water-damp towel clinging to your skin.
Your pulse goes absolutely insane.
Because this is happening.
Jack Hughes is kissing you on a boat in the middle of the lake and touching you like he can barely help himself and your entire body feels electric.
His mouth drifts down your neck.
You inhale sharply.
Jack freezes instantly.
His eyes lift back to yours immediately. “Too much?”
“No,” you say too fast.
He smiles a little at that.
But something about your expression must give you away anyway because the look on his face shifts slightly. a bit more careful now.
“You sure?”
Your stomach twists nervously.
And suddenly, all the confidence you’d briefly managed to fake disappears entirely.
Because the truth is…
You don’t actually know what you’re doing, like, at all.
Jack notices the exact second you go quiet.
He leans back slightly, giving you space again. “Hey.”
You stare at the ceiling of the boat instead of at him.
“That bad, huh?”
Jack’s voice softens instantly. “What?”
Your cheeks burn so hard it physically hurts.
“I just…” You laugh nervously once. “I’ve never really done this before.”
You want to evaporate into the lake.
“Oh my god,” you mumble, covering your face. “Forget I said that.”
But Jack gently pulls your hands away from your face.
“Hey,” he says again, softer this time.
You finally force yourself to look at him.
And surprisingly, he doesn’t look weirded out. Or smug. Or disappointed.
Maybe just careful.
“What do you mean by ‘never really’?”
You want to die.
“Jack.”
“I’m asking respectfully.”
You groan quietly into your hands again.
He laughs softly this time before rubbing soothing circles against your thigh.
And somehow that tiny gesture makes it easier to answer.
“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “I’ve kissed people before, obviously, but… not much else.”
Jack goes still for a second and looks like he’s recalculating something in his head.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Another quiet pause.
Then he brushes his thumb gently against your cheek.
“Okay.”
You blink at him. “Okay?”
“Yeah, baby.” His voice stays soft. “That’s okay.”
The pet name makes your stomach flip violently.
You look away again. “You probably think I’m insanely inexperienced.”
Jack actually looks offended by that.
“No,” he says immediately. “I think you’re nervous.”
His fingers slide lightly under your chin until you look at him again.
“And I think,” he says quietly, “that the last thing I wanna do is make you uncomfortable.”
Something warm blooms in your chest.
You expected him to react completely differently.
Jack leans down, pressing one soft kiss to your forehead.
Then another to your cheek.
“You trust me?”
You nod slowly.
“Good.” He smiles a little. “Then we’re done for tonight.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “What?”
He laughs quietly at your expression. “Don’t look so shocked.”
“I just thought…”
“That I was gonna try to hook up with you on a boat five minutes after finding out you’ve barely been with anyone?”
You wince. “When you say it like that…”
Jack grins.
Then, to your surprise, he reaches for the sweatshirt tossed near the seats and pulls it over your head before standing.
“C’mon.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’m sneaking you back inside before Cole notices we disappeared and starts acting like a psychopath.”
The lake water drips from both of you as he helps you back onto the dock, fingers laced loosely through yours the entire walk.
The house is still loud when you sneak back in through the side door. Nobody notices at first.
Until Luke glances up from the kitchen island. His eyes narrow immediately.
“You two look suspicious.”
Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “She almost drowned.”
“I did not—”
“She’s very brave,” Jack continues solemnly.
Luke stares at both of you for a long second before snorting.
“You’re both terrible liars.”
Jack ignores him entirely, guiding you quickly down the hallway before anyone else can start asking questions.
Your heart pounds harder the closer you get to your room.
Because now the adrenaline’s fading a little and everything that just happened feels very real.
Jack pauses outside your door. For the first time all night, he looks slightly uncertain.
“You okay?”
You nod.
“Are you?”
That catches him off guard.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m good.”
Neither of you moves, and the hallway feels very small.
Jack looks down at you for another long second before leaning in slowly and kissing you once more.
Gentle this time.
The kind of kiss that somehow feels more dangerous than the others.
When he pulls back, your brain feels completely fuzzy again.
“So,” he says quietly.
“So?”
“We should probably talk about the fact that I’m definitely not gonna stop flirting with you now.”
You laugh softly.
“And,” he continues, grin returning slightly, “I have a feeling you’re not gonna want me to.”
Your cheeks heat, which is apparently enough of an answer.
Jack smiles lazily. “Thought so.”
You bite your lip, suddenly nervous again. “What does this mean?”
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe.
And somehow the answer comes out surprisingly easy.
“It means…” He shrugs slightly. “We have fun this summer.”
“Fun?”
“Super fun.”
You laugh.
Jack steps closer again, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“Super casual.”
“Casual,” you repeat skeptically.
“Very.”
“And what exactly does that involve?”
His grin turns devastating.
“Well, ideally more making out on boats.”
You shove his shoulder lightly, laughing harder now.
Jack catches your wrist instantly, still smiling.
“But seriously.” His thumb brushes softly across your skin. “No pressure. We just hang out. Flirt a little. Make out a lot.”
“A lot?”
“A concerning amount, probably.”
You shake your head, unable to stop smiling.
Then quieter, “And nobody can know?”
Jack glances toward the hallway automatically.
“Your brother would actually kill me.”
“True.”
“So,” he says. “Secret summer arrangement?”
You pretend to think about it for a second.
Jack watches you carefully the entire time.
Then, finally, you nod once.
“Okay.”
The grin that breaks across his face is immediate and completely boyish.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Jack kisses you again like he can’t help himself.
Then he pulls away before things can spiral all over again and points toward your bedroom door.
“Go to sleep.”
“You go to sleep.”
“I’m trying to be respectful here.”
You laugh softly.
Jack backs away down the hallway slowly, still looking at you.
“This is gonna be fun,” he says.
That’s exactly what scares you.
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All Our Summers - Lake House Series (QH43)
Parts one and two and four here
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The storm is still raging by morning.
The lake outside your bedroom windows looks rough and dark, the water still rippling from the wind. Everything smells cold and damp.
You wake slowly sometime after eight with your heart already heavy.
For one disoriented second, you forget.
Then it all comes back at once.
The dark. His hands. The sound you made into his mouth. The way he kissed you like he’d been trying not to for years.
And then you think about what happened after. The way he stopped.
Heat floods your face instantly and you squeeze your eyes shut.
God.
Humiliation curls low in your stomach before you can stop it.
Maybe you got carried away. Maybe he regretted it immediately. Maybe it was a horrible idea and it's going to ruin your entire summer.
“Ughhh,” you groan into your pillow.
The house is quiet and your chest tightens stupidly.
You drag your hands down your face as Jack and Trevor bound down the stairs, yelling, “Rainy Day” over and over again.
Outside, thunder rolls again over the lake.
Your phone reads 8:10.
“If all of you aren't downstairs in ten minutes, Jack and I are waking everyone up,” Trevor shouts.
“Shut the fuck up,” Luke’s voice groans from somewhere down the hall.
“Rainy day means drinking starts before nine losers,” Jack chirps back.
“You’re the losers,” you shout back.
“She speaks,” Trevor shouts.
You force yourself upright slowly, blanket still wrapped around your waist while the boys continue to terrorize the house at full volume.
Normally the noise would feel comforting. This morning it just makes your head hurt.
Because somewhere upstairs is Quinn. And suddenly the thought of seeing him again makes your stomach jump.
Luke flops down in your bed, forcing you to scooch over to the side.
“You look awful.”
You send him a glare. “Thank you.”
“We should get downstairs before they drag us,” he says.
“Yeah,” you murmur back before standing up and heading over to the bathroom to get ready.
Rainy days at the lake had become a tradition completely by accident.
It started one night after the first huge summer storm rolled in while all the parents were out in town for dinner. Everyone was going a bit stir crazy inside. Being stuck and all.
This led fifteen-year-old Jack and Trevor to the brilliant idea of stealing vodka and rum from the liquor cabinet.
Everyone naturally ended up drunk by the time the parents got home.
When Ellen caught baby Luke throwing up over the side of the dock, she threatened everyone with a permanent grounding.
Now, according to tradition - or Jack and Trevor - you all spend rainy days drinking until the storm passes.
It usually doesn’t end well.
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By 9:15 you’re downstairs, showered and changed, drinking mimosas - light on the orange juice - with Trevor.
You try to converse normally. Act normal. But your chest feels tight with anticipation, or dread, or whatever each little sound from upstairs makes you feel.
And then finally…
Footsteps. Your stomach drops. And Quinn appears halfway down the staircase in a grey hoodie and sweats, hair still damp from a shower.
You feel your entire chest and face go red as you recall everything that happened last night.
His hands on your waist. In your hair. The sound he made when you ran your hands up and down his back.
Quinn looks up from his phone as he walks up to the counter. Eyes meeting yours.
Something flashes briefly across his face.
Then disappears just as quickly.
“Morning,” he says evenly.
Too evenly.
Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t spend half the night sweaty, tossing and turning, thinking about what happened in the pool house.
The embarrassment hits so fast it almost feels physically painful.
You whip your head around to where Jack is pouring up a round of “breakfast shots,” he calls them. A disgusting mix of gin and orange juice. You grab one, disrupting his process.
“Hey! We take those all together once everyone is down here,” he protests.
“Don’t care,” you grimace as the alcohol heats your chest.
“Whoa, okay, someone wants to drink today,” Cole says as he grabs a mimosa.
“Isn’t that the whole point of rainy day?” you say.
“Well, we don’t want you blacked out by ten,” Jack chirps back as he grabs your mimosa. “That defeats the whole purpose of rainy DAY. It’s an all-day thing.”
“Give it back,” you say as you reach for it, but he passes you water instead.
“Hydrate first.”
“It has orange juice in it,” you retort.
“Um, last I checked, that isn’t how hydrating works,” he says defiantly.
“You’re annoying.”
“Well, you’re acting weird. You never want to drink on rainy days.”
Your stomach drops, and you try to recover, but it comes out too clipped.
“I’m not acting weird.”
Jack narrows his eyes slightly, as if he doesn’t fully believe you, but before he can say anything else, Trevor cuts in.
“She’s committed to rainy day.”
“See?” You say quickly.
Trevor raises his mimosa to you in mock salute. “I respect the dedication.”
Jack finally hands you the drink back, shaking his head. “Fine, but when you’re throwing up by one, don’t come to me for help.
“Good thing I won’t be doing that then.”
“Okayyy,” Jack mumbles.
“Ok.”
Your reply comes out sharper than intended.
Something flickers across Quinn’s face as he leans against the kitchen island.
You look away immediately.
This is horrible.
Because now every interaction feels loaded somehow.
Not in a good way.
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By the time noon rolls around, rain pounds against the windows hard enough to blur the entire view of outside.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the counter now, three drinks past tipsy and working quickly toward drunk.
Which is probably a mistake
But at least the alcohol dulls the memory of last night.
Quinn notices. Of course he does. He notices every drink. Every time Trevor refills your cup. You can feel his gaze on you across the room.
But every time you look to him, he pulls away again.
Like he’s fighting himself.
Which just turns the embarrassment into anger. Because if he wants distance so badly, why does he keep looking at you like that?
“Okay,” Trevor says suddenly beside you. “You’re officially fun drunk now.”
“Hey. I’m always fun.”
“No… you’re usually emotionally reserved.”
You snort.
“It’s true,” he says as he sits on the barstool in front of you, leaning his head in your lap to look up at you.
“You’re quieter than everybody here,” he says. “Except Quinn. Which is probably why you guys have this weird, intense eye contact going on all the time.”
You freeze.
Trevor grins lazily. “Relax, I’m mostly kidding.”
Mostly.
Your face burns.
Before you can defend yourself, Trevor slides off the chair with a dramatic sigh before glancing back at you.
“C’mon.”
“Where?”
“Need the moral support.”
“For what? The bathroom?”
“Yes,” he says back, dead serious.
“That’s deeply concerning.”
Trevor grins before grabbing your hand and tugging you down the hallway.
You’re laughing by the time he pulls you into one of the downstairs bathrooms, mostly because the vodka has turned everything warm and fuzzy around the edges.
“See?” Trevor says while leaning against the sink. “You’re happy now.”
“I was happy before.”
“No, before you looked like you wanted to drive into the lake.”
Your laughter fades slightly and Trevor notices immediately.
His expression softens just a little. “Hey. You okay?”
The question catches you off guard enough that your chest tightens.
Because suddenly you feel emotional.
Trevor studies your face for a second too long.
“You know you can tell me things, right?”
For one horrible second, part of you almost wants to.
Instead, you just shake your head with a small laugh. “You’re weirdly nice sometimes.”
“Don’t spread that around.”
The bathroom feels smaller suddenly. Warmer.
Trevor’s standing close now.
Close enough that you can smell his minty aftershave and the lake air lingering faintly on his sweatshirt.
“You’re pretty,” he says casually.
Your pulse stumbles. His words shouldn’t affect you this much.
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the fact that Quinn’s barely spoken to you all day. Maybe you’re just angry and embarrassed and reckless now.
But suddenly Trevor’s hand is brushing lightly against your thigh, where you’re leaning on the edge of the sink counter.
And you don’t move away.
His eyes flick down toward your mouth for half a second.
“Oh,” he says softly.
The room goes quiet except for the storm outside.
Your heart pounds.
Because this…
This would be easy. Trevor is easy. Warm and flirty and simple.
No complicated history. No years of wanting someone who keeps trying to pull away from you.
Trevor steps closer.
One of his hands settles beside your hip against the counter.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, quieter now.
You nod too fast.
Trevor looks at you for another second before leaning down slightly.
And right as his mouth reaches your neck, mouthing at your pulse, the door swings open.
Both of you jerk apart instantly. Quinn stands in the doorway.
For one terrifying second, nobody says anything.
Quinn’s eyes move once between you and Trevor.
Then settle on your flushed face. On Trevor’s hand by your waist.
Something dangerous flashes hard behind them.
Trevor straightens slowly beside you. “Relax, dad.”
Quinn ignores him. Instead, he looks directly at you.
“You’re drunk.”
Heat flashes across your already hot face.
“I’m fine.”
“You can barely stand up.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“You almost fell into the hallway wall ten minutes ago.”
Trevor coughs to hide a laugh.
You glare at him. “Traitor.”
Quinn’s jaw tightens slightly.
“Let's go,” he says quietly. The softness somehow makes it worse.
Because now your emotions feel dangerously close to spilling over entirely.
“I don’t need supervision.”
“No,” Quinn says evenly. “But you do need water.”
You stare at him stubbornly. He stares back.
And suddenly, the tension in the tiny bathroom feels suffocating.
Trevor looks between both of you slowly before raising his hands. “Okay, wow. Weird vibes.”
“Shut up,” both you and Quinn say at the same time.
Trevor laughs as he makes his way out of the bathroom.
Quinn finally steps farther into the space, reaching carefully for your wrist.
The second his fingers touch your skin, your entire body reacts.
And judging by the flicker in Quinn’s expression, his does too.
“Let’s go,” he says quietly.
This time, you let him pull you away.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆
Music still pulses faintly through the house somewhere behind you while rain hammers against the windows hard enough to shake them.
Quinn’s hand stays wrapped loosely around your wrist the entire way upstairs.
You stare at the back of his head while he leads you down the hallway toward your room, heart thudding unevenly beneath your ribs.
The alcohol buzzing through your system has made everything feel too sharp and too emotional.
Because now all you can think about is the way his hand felt on your waist last night. The way he kissed you like he was starving.
And now he won’t even look at you properly.
The second you step into your room, Quinn lets go immediately.
Distance again.
“There’s water beside your bed,” he says quietly.
You lean against the dresser instead of answering.
Quinn finally looks at you then. Really looks.
And his expression shifts slightly.
Because now that you’re alone again, the tension comes rushing back all at once.
Neither of you moves.
“You shouldn’t have been down there,” Quinn says finally.
The irritation simmering beneath your skin flares instantly.
“With Trevor?”
Quinn’s jaw tightens.
“You know what I mean.”
“No,” you say softly. “Actually I don’t.”
His eyes flick shut briefly like he’s already exhausted.
“Oh my god,” you laugh quietly. “You cannot suddenly care.”
Quinn’s head lifts in challenge.
“I never said I didn’t care.”
“Really?” Your voice sounds thinner now, despite your best efforts. “Because you’ve barely looked at me all day.”
Something flashes hard across his face.
“That’s not true.”
“You know what I mean.”
The room goes quiet.
Quinn stares at you for a long second while thunder rolls low outside again.
And suddenly, he looks exactly like he did last night in the pool house. Tense and conflicted. Trying too hard not to feel something.
“You think this is easy for me?” he asks quietly.
Your chest tightens painfully.
“Then why are you acting like it didn’t happen?”
Quinn exhales slowly through his nose.
Because he doesn’t have an answer for that.
Or maybe he does. Maybe the answer is Luke. Or the age difference.
But right now, none of that stops the hurt twisting in your chest.
“You stopped,” you say softly.
“You wanted me to keep going?” he asks after a second.
The question makes you want to crawl out of your skin. You feel hot and itchy.
You look away first. Big mistake. Because now Quinn steps closer.
“You’re drunk,” he says quietly.
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Quinn watches your face carefully, eyes dragging slowly across every expression you fail to hide.
“You almost kissed Trevor,” he says softly.
“Maybe I wanted to.”
Quinn’s eyes darken.
“You didn’t.”
“How would you know?”
“Because if you wanted Trevor,” Quinn says quietly, stepping even closer now, “you wouldn’t be looking at me like this.”
Suddenly, the storm outside feels far away.
All you can hear is your heartbeat.
Quinn’s gaze drops briefly toward your mouth.
Then back to your eyes.
And just like that, everything shifts again.
“You’re mean when you’re jealous,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.
Something almost like amusement flickers briefly across Quinn’s face.
“Yeah?”
“You dragged me out of the bathroom like I was doing something wrong.”
His jaw flexes slightly.
“You wanna know what was wrong with it?”
You don’t answer.
Quinn steps closer anyway.
Close enough now that you can feel warmth radiating off him.
“I’m trying really hard here.”
The confession sounds frustrated.
His fingers brush lightly against your jaw.
“You make this really difficult,” he murmurs.
Your heart pounds violently.
“Good.”
That finally pulls a real reaction out of him. A quiet breath of laughter.
Then Quinn’s hand slides carefully into your hair.
And suddenly you know exactly what’s about to happen. But just as you lean forward, Quinn moves your head to his chest, hugging you.
“Uh Uh,” he murmurs. “Nap time.”
You groan into his hoodie as he tugs you to your bed.
“Promise we’ll talk for real soon,” you whisper as he tucks you in.
He gives you nothing but a small nod as he brushes the hair out of your face and moves to leave the room. ⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆
@asteria33
All Our Summers - Lake House Series (JH86)
Part two here
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
The house is already loud by the time Cole Caufield finally pulls into the driveway.
Music pulses faintly through the open windows. Somebody is yelling from the dock. Wet footprints streak across the hardwood floors while the screen door slams every thirty seconds from people running in and out of the house carrying drinks and towels and bags of ice.
The lake house always feels alive at night. Especially in July. Especially when all the boys are home.
Inside the kitchen, Jack is halfway through telling a story that’s already been aggressively exaggerated.
“No, no, you’re leaving out the part where you almost got arrested,” Luke says from the counter.
“I was never almost arrested.”
Trevor snorts loudly into his drink. “You were running from the police.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is exactly the same thing.”
Jack flips him off without even looking.
Then the front screen door slams shut, forcing everyone to glance up.
And Jack forgets the rest of his sentence entirely.
Because standing in the doorway behind Cole is…
Oh.
For a second, his brain genuinely struggles to catch up.
You. Not sixteen anymore. Not tagging along behind your brother with braces and messy ponytails.
You’re twenty now. And somehow that realization hits him all at once.
You stand near the doorway, shifting your big duffle bag higher onto your shoulder while Cole makes his presence annoyingly known.
“Ok, ok, yes, the funniest, coolest, best hockey player in the league has arrived. Don’t rush to welcome me or anything.”
“Shut the fuck up,” someone, probably Trevor, shouts from the couch.
Your hair’s messy from the drive. Tiny shorts. Oversized sweatshirt swallowing your hands halfway. Slightly sunburnt cheeks from being in the car all day.
Jack actually pauses mid-story. Luke notices instantly.
“Dude,” he says, throwing popcorn at him. “Finish the story.”
Jack blinks once. “Right.”
But he’s barely paying attention anymore.
Because now you’re smiling politely at everyone while the room explodes into greetings around you.
You’ve always been quieter than your brother. Softer somehow.
Even now, standing in the middle of a loud, chaotic lake house full of professional athletes and their friends, you still somehow look like you’re trying not to take up too much space.
And for reasons Jack absolutely does not examine too closely, that immediately does something weird to his chest.
Then your eyes lift.
And land directly on him.
Your smile softens slightly.
“Hi, Jack.”
Jesus Christ. He doesn’t know why that affects him so much.
“Hey,” he says finally.
Too slow. Too rough.
Cole immediately notices. His eyes narrow from the doorway instantly. “Don’t.”
Jack scoffs automatically. “Relax.”
“That’s what worries me.”
You look between them, confused. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing,” Jack says quickly.
Which, unfortunately, makes Luke immediately suspicious too.
“Oh no,” Luke says, already grinning. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing is happening,” Cole repeats firmly.
Jack rolls his eyes. “You’re acting like she’s twelve.”
“She basically is.”
“I’m twenty,” you say.
“Exactly,” Jack mutters before he can stop himself.
The room goes quiet for half a second and Jack immediately regrets speaking.
Mostly because now everyone’s looking at him.
Trevor starts grinning first.
“Oh, this is gonna be fun,” he says.
“Shut up,” Jack mutters.
You’re still standing there looking mildly confused. And somehow that makes Jack want to laugh.
Because this is ridiculous.
You’re just Cole’s little sister.
You’ve been around before. Lake weekends. Hockey tournaments. Summer cookouts years ago.
You’ve been around since before he was Jack Hughes round one pick one.
Back then, you were just… there.
Cute in the way younger sisters are cute. Safe.
Now you’re standing in his kitchen looking up at him with flushed cheeks and sleepy summer eyes and he’s becoming painfully aware that somewhere along the line that changed.
Jack doesn’t like how fast he notices.
So naturally, he handles it in the worst way possible.
By immediately deciding to bother you constantly.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
Over the next three days, Jack develops a serious problem.
The problem is that he cannot leave you alone. Not intentionally. It just… keeps happening.
You’re in the kitchen making coffee? Jack appears.
You’re sitting on the dock beside Luke? Suddenly Jack’s there too.
Late-night snack run? Jack’s leaning against the fridge already.
At first, you think he’s just naturally flirtatious.
Which… fair.
He is.
But there’s something different about the way he acts around you specifically. Like he enjoys watching you react to him.
And unfortunately, you react a lot. Mostly because Jack Hughes is overwhelming… and he grins every single time he makes you blush.
Which is often.
“You’re quiet,” he says one afternoon while sitting beside you on the back dock.
You look over from your book. “Compared to who?”
“Everybody.”
You laugh softly. “Maybe you guys are just loud.”
“We are loud.”
The thing is, he’s easy to talk to. Way easier than you expected.
Beneath all the ego and teasing and chaos, Jack somehow pays attention extremely well. He remembers little things. Notices when you go quiet. Looks directly at you when you speak like he actually cares about the answer. Which feels dangerous quickly.
Especially because you’re not experienced enough to know what to do with someone like him.
So you tell yourself he’s just being friendly.
Even when his hand settles absentmindedly against your lower back, guiding you through crowded rooms, he sits too close during movie nights, his eyes linger too long whenever you wear bikinis down to the dock.
You ignore it because acknowledging it feels terrifying.
Jack, meanwhile, is having a significantly worse time.
Because you’re not acting how girls usually act around him. You don’t flirt aggressively or throw yourself at him or seem aware that every guy at the lake house has noticed how pretty you are.
You blush when he compliments you.
Blush. Like it physically happens against your will. And it absolutely destroys him.
Especially because half the time you don’t even realize you’re doing something attractive.
Like sitting cross-legged on the counter, eating cherries while listening to Luke argue with Trevor.
Or walking down to the lake in one of those tiny sundresses that barely skims your thighs.
Or laughing quietly at one of his dumb jokes and immediately hiding your smile behind your drink afterward.
It gets worse every day.
By the fourth night, Jack’s completely fixated. And everyone notices.
Especially Quinn.
“You’re staring,” Quinn says quietly from beside him out on the deck.
Jack looks away from where you’re laughing beside the fire instantly. “Am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Jack takes a sip of his beer. “She’s just cute.”
Quinn goes silent for half a second.
“That sounds riskyyy.”
Jack doesn’t answer.
Because yeah. Maybe it is.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
The bonfire starts just after sunset.
Soon, the whole beach glows gold with firelight and drifting smoke while people settle into chairs and blankets near the water. The air feels thick and balmy even this late at night.
You’re sitting near the edge of the group, wearing a hoodie and shorts, curled into one of the dock chairs with a drink balanced between your knees.
You definitely made it too strong. Not intentionally, but like, probably. Your cheeks feel warm now while the fire crackles softly in front of you.
Across the flames, Jack’s stretched out in another chair talking loudly with Trevor and Cole.
Except he keeps looking at you every couple of minutes. You notice eventually.
And every single time, your stomach flips embarrassingly hard.
He’s confident in that effortless way that draws people in. Girls tend to orbit Jack Hughes.
Tonight, though, he doesn’t seem interested in anyone else.
At one point Trevor says something that makes everyone laugh loudly.
Jack laughs too.
But his eyes still flick toward you immediately afterward. Like checking whether you laughed too. His gaze makes your pulse jump. The alcohol buzzing softly through your system definitely isn’t helping.
Eventually, Jack stands.
You watch him casually circle around the fire, talking to people as he goes.
Then suddenly he’s behind your chair. So close that you can feel the warmth radiating off him.
Your breath catches slightly. Jack bends down near your ear.
“C’mere.”
The low roughness of his voice sends heat spiraling through your stomach.
You glance up at him. “What?”
“Need help with something.”
You laugh softly before you can stop yourself. Jack grins immediately like he’s won something.
“Thought so.”
Your heart beats harder as you stand.
Nobody really notices you leave except maybe Quinn, whose eyes track the two of you briefly from across the fire.
Jack leads you toward the dock without explaining anything.
The farther you walk from the bonfire, the quieter everything gets. Music drifts softly from far behind you.
Jack turns once he reaches the end. And suddenly you realize how alone you are out here.
Your stomach flips again.
Jack studies you quietly for a second before speaking.
“You're always so nervous around me?”
Heat rushes instantly into your face. “I’m not nervous.”
“You’re playing with your sleeves.”
Your hands stop immediately.
Jack laughs.
“Cute.”
“Oh my god.”
“What?”
“You do that on purpose.”
“Do what?”
“Make people uncomfortable.”
His grin widens lazily. “Only you.”
You look down at the dark water instead of at him.
Big mistake.
Because now you’re hyperaware of Jack standing close beside you.
“You know,” he says quietly, “You look adorable when you blush.”
Your entire brain short-circuits slightly.
“Jack.”
“Hm?”
“You flirt too much.”
“Maybe.” He steps closer. “You like it, though.”
You really, really shouldn’t. But unfortunately, he’s right.
Jack notices your silence instantly, and the look on his face changes slightly. More focused.
The air suddenly feels heavier.
Then, before you can think too hard about what’s happening, Jack kicks off his shoes,pulls his shirt off, and dives straight into the lake.
You gasp. “Oh my god.”
He surfaces seconds later, grinning up at you from the water.
“C’mon.”
“I don’t have a swimsuit.”
“And?”
You stare at him.
Jack laughs softly, wiping wet hair back from his forehead.
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
He floats closer to the dock. “C’mon. It’s hot out.”
You hesitate. Jack tilts his head slightly.
Then softer, as he turns around. “I won't look.”
And somehow that’s what does it.
Your stomach flips as you tug your hoodie off and pull your shorts down, leaving you in just underwear, your top bare.
Jack goes still in the water when he hears the splash of you climbing in.
“You can turn around now,” you say as soon as the cold lake water reaches your neck.
He’s close when he turns to you. Too close.
Heat instantly climbs all the way up your neck.
Moonlight reflects silver across the lake while water drips from his hair down the slope of his neck.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
You nod.
Jack’s eyes flick slowly over your face before he gestures toward the boat tied farther down the dock.
“C’mere.”
Your pulse stumbles again.
And for some reason, you follow him. ⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
First part of Jack's seriessss.
All Our Summers - Lake House Series (QH43)
Part one here
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
The storm starts before you even make it back to the lake.
At first, it’s just heavy clouds gathering over the trees while the group spills out of bars and pizza places in town, loud and sun-drunk and restless from too much summer. The air feels thick enough to choke on, humid and electric against your skin.
By the time everyone starts splitting up into cars, thunder is already rumbling somewhere far off across the water.
Jack and Luke disappear with half the group to pick up more beer and fireworks despite multiple people telling them that’s a terrible idea.
Typical.
Trevor had offered to drive you back, all easy smiles and lazy flirting while leaning against his Jeep beneath the flickering streetlights downtown.
You almost said yes.
Then he got distracted by a girl outside the convenience store for approximately 4 seconds, and suddenly 3 extra people climbed into his back seat, yelling about Taco Bell.
So now you’re alone instead.
Which you don’t actually mind.
The drive around the lake is quiet this late at night.
Windows down. Warm wind tangling your hair. The smell of rain drifting through the trees.
Lightning flashes silver briefly across the sky as you pull into the gravel driveway beside the house.
And sitting down by the dock…
A familiar boat engine hums low in the darkness.
Your stomach flips immediately.
Of course.
You shut the car off slowly, headlights cutting across the shoreline just as Quinn Hughes guides the boat toward the dock alone.
The lake behind him looks black beneath the storm clouds.
For a second, you just sit there watching him.
Quinn moves a bit slower than everybody else.
Calm and Unhurried.
Even now, alone on the water in the middle of an incoming storm, he looks steady somehow.
Lightning flashes again, illuminating him briefly.
Dark hoodie, damp at the shoulders, hat backwards, and one hand loose against the wheel.
Your pulse does something annoying.
You climb out of the car just as fat raindrops start hitting the gravel.
Quinn notices you immediately.
“There you are,” he calls over the growing wind.
You walk toward the dock, hugging your arms around yourself against the sudden cold breeze. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
Quinn ties the boat off quickly. “Needed to clear my head.”
The answer feels loaded somehow.
Before you can think about that too hard, thunder cracks much closer this time.
“Where is everybody else? Forecast calls for a pretty serious storm.”
“Stayed out, I’m not sure,” you answer.
Rain starts pouring almost instantly after.
“Oh, shit,” you laugh, backing up as water drenches you within seconds.
Quinn jumps onto the dock beside you. “C’mon.”
The two of you sprint toward the house through the downpour.
By the time you reach the back deck, both of you are soaked.
Your tank top clings uncomfortably to your skin while Quinn’s hoodie is practically dripping onto the wood beneath him.
He grabs the back door handle first.
Locked.
Quinn frowns slightly, trying harder.
Nothing.
“Oh my god,” you groan. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”
Quinn runs one wet hand back through his hair. “Luke has my spare key.”
“Of course he does.”
You immediately pull your phone from your pocket.
No service.
Perfect.
Lightning flashes again, startlingly bright now.
Rain pounds violently against the roof overhang while thunder shakes somewhere overhead.
Quinn glances toward the driveway. “They’re not getting back anytime soon.”
You laugh once in disbelief. “Fantastic.”
For a second, both of you just stand there dripping water onto the deck while the storm rages around you.
Then Quinn says: “Pool house.”
You blink. “Wait, seriously?”
“It keeps power sometimes.”
“Sometimes is not reassuring.”
“It’s better than staying stuck out here.”
Fair.
So once again, you run.
The pool house sits farther behind the main property, tucked between trees near the edge of the yard, and is usually used for storage and late-night movie marathons when too many people stay over.
By the time Quinn gets the side door open, you’re both soaked through completely.
Rainwater drips onto the tile floor as you step inside, breathless.
The space is dim except for one weak lamp glowing near the couch.
Thunder rattles the windows almost immediately.
Then
The power cuts.
Darkness swallows the room.
“Oh my god,” you whisper.
Outside, rain hammers against the roof hard enough to sound almost violent now.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then Quinn exhales quietly somewhere beside you.
“Hold on.”
You hear drawers opening.
Shuffling.
A moment later, warm golden light flickers softly through the darkness.
Candles.
Of course the Hughes family keeps emergency candles in the pool house.
The room glows dimly now with soft shadows, rain-streaked windows, and water dripping from both your clothes onto the hardwood floor.
And suddenly the space feels very small.
Very quiet.
Very aware.
Quinn sets the lighter down beside the counter before looking back at you fully for the first time since getting inside.
You cross your arms instinctively beneath his gaze.
His eyes flick downward briefly.
Then immediately back up again.
Something tightens in your stomach.
“You’re freezing,” he says softly.
“I’m okay.”
“You’re shivering.”
You hadn’t even realized.
Quinn disappears briefly into the hallway storage closet before returning with towels.
He tosses one gently toward you.
“Thanks.”
The candlelight catches against the sharp lines of his face while he dries his hair absently with the other towel.
God.
This is dangerous.
Not because anything’s happening.
Because nothing is.
Because it feels like Quinn is trying very hard to keep everything normal.
And somehow that feels more intimate than if he weren’t.
Thunder shakes the windows again.
You settle onto the edge of the couch, wrapping the towel tighter around your shoulders while Quinn leans back against the kitchen counter across from you.
For a while, all you hear is rain.
“So,” Quinn says casually, “you and Trevor.”
Your heart trips immediately.
“What about me and Trevor?”
One corner of Quinn’s mouth lifts slightly.
“That wasn’t an answer.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re nosy.”
“You were flirting pretty hard.”
Heat blooms slowly beneath your skin.
“You were watching?”
Quinn’s expression stays maddeningly calm. “Maybe.”
The air feels warmer suddenly.
Outside, lightning flashes silver through the windows.
You try for casual “Maybe I like him.”
Quinn goes quiet for half a second too long.
“Do you?”
You look down at the towel in your lap. “I don’t know.”
Quinn studies you carefully from across the room.
“He likes attention,” he says finally.
You laugh lightly. “That sounded very older brother of you.”
“That sounded very truthful of me.”
“Are you warning me off Trevor Zegras right now?”
Quinn’s gaze holds yours steadily in the candlelight.
“No,” he says quietly.
Another beat of thunder rolls overhead.
“I just umm. Just not who I pictured you with, I guess.”
Your breath catches slightly.
Because the way he says it doesn’t feel like he’s talking about Trevor anymore.
And Quinn seems to realize that immediately after saying it.
The room shifts.
“Oh, because you picture me with… who?”
He looks away first this time, jaw tightening slightly while rain continues crashing against the roof around you.
Neither of you speaks.
But suddenly the storm outside feels far less dangerous than the one forming quietly between you.
Quinn looks at you for too long after that.
Not at your face.
At your mouth.
Everything smells like lake water, wet wood, and summer storms.
And suddenly the space between you feels buzzy.
The air feels unbearably warm now despite the storm.
You’re still standing close enough to feel the heat coming off him, towel slipping slightly lower against your arms while water drips slowly from the ends of your hair onto the floor.
Quinn notices that too.
Of course he does.
His eyes drag down your bare shoulders for one dangerous second before he looks away again, like he’s angry at himself for it.
That tiny act of restraint does something awful to your heartbeat.
“You’re making this very difficult,” he says softly.
A smile tugs slightly at your mouth despite yourself. “Am I?”
Quinn exhales quietly through his nose.
“You have no idea.”
The words settle low in your stomach.
Because Quinn isn’t flirtatious naturally. Not like Trevor. Not easy or careless.
Which means every single thing he says feels deliberate.
You step closer before you can think too hard about it.
Quinn goes still immediately.
Your chest nearly brushes his now.
You can see the faint rise and fall of his breathing beneath the damp fabric of his hoodie.
Outside, lightning flashes silver through the windows.
“You know what I think?” you whisper.
Quinn’s voice comes rougher this time. “What?”
“I think you liked seeing Trevor flirt with me.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Quinn says quietly, “I spent half the night trying very hard not to walk over there.”
Heat blooms instantly beneath your skin.
Your pulse stumbles hard enough to make you dizzy.
“And now?” you ask softly.
“Now,” he says, “I’m trying very hard not to touch you.”
The tension snaps.
You don’t even fully realize you’re moving until your hand slides lightly against the front of his hoodie.
Quinn inhales sharply.
His eyes drop immediately to where your fingers rest against his chest.
Then back up to your face.
“Tell me to stop,” you whisper.
Quinn just stares at you.
Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric near his collarbone, and something in his expression finally breaks.
His hand lands suddenly against your waist.
Firm. Warm.
And then his mouth is on yours.
No hesitation this time.
Years of restraint collapsing all at once.
Quinn kisses you like he’s been thinking about it for far too long, one hand tightening instinctively against your waist, and you can feel the heat of his hand through your wet shirt. While the other slides up into your damp hair.
Your entire body reacts instantly.
Heat floods straight through you as you kiss him back, fingers tangling into the front of his hoodie while thunder rattles the windows around you.
The kiss turns messy fast.
Quinn backs you toward the counter almost without thinking, his body slotting against yours while rain pounds violently outside.
And God, the way he kisses is unfair.
A soft sound escapes you when his hand slips beneath the wet shirt, fingertips brushing bare skin.
Quinn physically reacts to the noise.
His grip tightens instantly.
“Jesus,” he mutters softly against your mouth.
Your head tilts back slightly when his lips drag along your jaw for one dangerous second before returning to yours again.
He presses closer immediately after, one hand spanning your waist while the other braces beside you against the counter.
You can feel how uneven his breathing is now.
How badly he wants this.
“Quinn,” you whisper against his mouth.
His eyes close briefly at the sound of his name from you.
Then he kisses you harder.
Your fingers tug lightly at the damp fabric near the hem of his hoodie, brushing warm skin underneath, and Quinn abruptly stills against you.
The shift is immediate.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, breathing hard.
Neither of you speaks.
And then Quinn rests his forehead briefly against yours with a quiet curse under his breath.
“This is such a bad idea.”
But his hand is still gripping your waist like he doesn’t actually want to let go.
You swallow carefully. “Then why are you still touching me?”
Quinn laughs softly once. Not amused.
More like he’s losing a fight with himself.
“You make it really hard not to.”
Your heart pounds harder at that.
Because Quinn sounds wrecked by it.
His thumb brushes once against the bare skin at your waist, almost absentmindedly, before he catches himself and pulls his hand away entirely.
Quinn steps back then, dragging one hand through his damp hair while he looks anywhere except directly at you.
“I can’t,” he says quietly.
Your chest tightens instantly.
“Quinn.”
“No.” He shakes his head once, jaw tight. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
Lightning flashes through the windows.
Quinn finally looks back at you then, expression torn open enough to hurt.
“You’re Luke’s best friend.”
“So what. You’re acting like this is wrong.”
His laugh comes quieter this time. “That’s because it feels wrong.”
The words sting slightly. It must show on your face because he adds on.
“Not you.”
Quinn leans back against the counter, eyes dragging over you one more time before he looks away again, like it physically pains him to.
“You have any idea how long I’ve been trying not to think about this?” he asks softly.
The confession hangs heavy between you.
Everything feels too intimate.
You stare at him.
“Since when?”
Quinn’s eyes lift slowly back to yours.
“Long enough.”
"Can we at least talk about this?"
Before he can respond, you hear the sound of cars pulling up in the driveway.
"Later," he mumbles as he heads for the door, walking out.
You let out a sigh and fall back onto the couch. ⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
More soonnnn!!
@asteria33
All Our Summers - Lake House Series (QH43)
Part two here
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
You couldn’t recall what summers were like before you met the Hughes brothers.
Every year, usually sometime in late June, the black SUVs start appearing again outside the old cedar lake houses lining the shore. Coolers get hauled down docks. Hockey bags get dumped carelessly in hallways. The quiet little town wakes up all at once, suddenly full of loud boys and boat engines and music drifting over the water at midnight.
And somehow, every version of summer in your mind had ended up tangled together with them.
You don’t even remember meeting Luke Hughes for the first time.
There are photos somewhere: you both covered in sunscreen and popsicle juice, sitting cross-legged on the dock in oversized life jackets, too young for anything to mean anything yet.
Every summer after that blurred together in pieces.
When you were eight, he pushed you off the paddleboard because you called him annoying.
When you were eleven, he split his chin open trying to jump from one dock roof to another while you screamed at him not to.
At thirteen, you spent an entire thunderstorm hiding in the boathouse playing cards by flashlight because the power went out across the lake.
The two of you grew together in strange, fragmented pieces.
It never mattered how much time passed between summers.
And every year, trailing behind him in some quieter orbit was Quinn Hughes.
That had always been the problem.
Not Luke.
Quinn.
Even when you were little, Quinn felt older than everybody else.
While Jack and Luke wrestled each other into the lake or shouted across the yard over stupid games, Quinn lingered at the edges of things: sitting upside down in dock chairs, reading, fixing boat motors with his dad, watching sunsets quietly while everyone else made noise around him.
You used to follow him around constantly as a kid.
Mostly because you thought he was the coolest person alive.
At ten years old, you cried for two straight hours after scraping your knee open on the rocks near the shoreline, and Quinn had carried you all the way back to the house.
At twelve, he taught you how to properly wake surf.
At fourteen, he drove you into town for ice cream after Luke ditched you to go on a double date with Jack.
You still remember sitting in the passenger seat of his truck that summer, cheeks wet with tears.
“He’s an idiot,” Quinn had laughed.
“I actually hate him.”
“Yeah, well. He feels bad.”
“He should.”
Quinn smiled then, sunlight flashing gold across his sunglasses.
You thought about that day for an embarrassing amount of time afterward.
The crush started somewhere around then.
Slow.
Like water rising.
Every summer after that, it got worse.
Because Quinn kept changing.
And you did too.
At fifteen, you noticed his hands for the first time. At sixteen, his voice. At seventeen, the way girls looked at him whenever your group went into town.
Meanwhile, Quinn still treated you exactly the same.
Like Luke’s friend. Like a kid. Like someone permanently frozen younger in his mind.
Which should’ve helped.
Instead, it made everything ache more.
Especially because summers at the lake had a way of making emotions feel bigger than they really were.
The heat softened everything.
Days blurred together.
People stayed up too late. Swam after dark. Drank too much. Fell asleep tangled together on couches with water still drying on their skin.
Every memory felt fuzzy and warm around the edges.
And Quinn existed in all of yours.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
By the time June settles over the lake, the house starts feeling alive.
There are always people around now.
Friends sprawled across couches. Empty beer cans forgotten beside the dock stairs. Music drifting from somebody’s speaker from noon until two in the morning. Wet towels hanging from every railing.
The screen doors never stop slamming.
Tonight, the house is packed.
Jack went into town for fireworks. Half the guys are already drunk enough to think jumping off the roof into the lake is a reasonable idea. Music hums through the kitchen while humid air rolls in through the open windows, carrying the smell of bonfire smoke and lake water.
You’re standing barefoot at the kitchen island in a bikini top and oversized linen shorts, trying unsuccessfully to make yourself a drink while Trevor Zegras leans against the counter beside you.
Trevor has… a big personality.
Loud. Charming. Annoyingly attractive.
“You’re making that way too strong,” Trevor says, watching you pour vodka into a plastic cup.
“Ok, Dad, “ you mumble.
Trevor reaches over immediately, grabbing the bottle from your hand. “No, seriously. That’s a cry for help.”
You laugh, trying to grab it back. “Give it.”
“No.”
“Trevor. I have an excellent tolerance.”
“You threw up in the paddle boat last summer.”
Your jaw drops. “That happened one time.”
“And I’ll never forget it.”
“You’re evil.”
He grins lazily, leaning one hip against the counter while holding the bottle just out of reach. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what?”
“Saving your life.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Mhm,” he murmurs while giving you a once-over.
You narrow your eyes at him before stepping closer to snatch the bottle back.
Unfortunately, Trevor is taller than you. And deeply committed to being annoying.
He lifts it higher immediately.
“Oh my god,” you laugh. “You’re twelve.”
“And you’re cute when you’re angry.”
The words land lightly. Easy. Flirtatious in that effortless Trevor way.
Still, warmth creeps slowly up your neck.
“Wow. Original.”
The kitchen hums loudly around you.
Music drifts through the open windows from outside while people move in and out of the house carrying drinks and towels and half-finished conversations. Somewhere out on the deck, Jack is yelling loudly enough that everyone can hear him over the speakers.
Trevor finally hands the vodka back with a dramatic sigh.
“Fine. Ruin your life.”
“Thank you.”
Trevor watches you take another sip, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says easily, eyes flicking down your body for half a second before returning to your face.
Your stomach flips just a little.
Not because you’re falling in love with Trevor Zegras. That would be insane.
But because he’s warm and easy and impossible not to lean toward a little.
“You flirt with everyone like this?” you ask.
Trevor smirks. “You jealous?”
“I’m concerned for the public.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Horrific, actually.”
He laughs softly, head tipping back slightly.
And without really thinking about it, your hand catches briefly against his forearm while you’re laughing too.
It’s quick. Mindless.
But Trevor notices immediately.
Of course he does.
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Oh, so now we’re touching?”
You snort. “Relax.”
“No, because five minutes ago you made it seem like I was bothering you.”
“You are bothering me.”
“Mhm.”
Trevor’s grin turns slower now. More amused than cocky.
“You know,” he says, “for someone pretending not to flirt with me, you’re doing a pretty questionable job.”
“I’m just standing here.”
“Looking at me like that,” he leans down to whisper into your ear.
You blink. You open your mouth to deny it.
Unfortunately, he’s right.
And judging by the way Trevor’s smile widens slightly, he knows it too.
Before you can answer, movement near the sliding doors catches your attention.
Your eyes flick up automatically.
Straight toward Quinn Hughes.
Your breath catches for the smallest second.
Quinn stands near the deck entrance talking to somebody you barely register, beer loose in one hand, sleeves pushed up his forearms. The warm light spilling from the kitchen catches against the sharp line of his jaw while the lake breeze moves softly through his dark hair.
And he’s looking directly at you.
Not at Trevor. Not at the person he's talking to.
At you.
Specifically: at how close Trevor’s standing, your hand still resting against the counter near his, the way you’re smiling.
Heat blooms low in your stomach instantly.
Quinn doesn’t look away when your eyes meet.
He just watches quietly for one long second.
Then takes another sip of his beer, turning back to who you're now registering as Cole.
Your pulse turns uneven.
“Whoa,” Trevor says suddenly.
You tear your eyes away too fast. “What?”
His grin appears immediately.
Oh no.
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
“That,” Trevor says, pointing vaguely between your face and the deck behind you. “The issue.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
You scoff, taking another sip of your drink. “You’re delusional.”
Trevor leans closer conspiratorially. “You have a crush on Quinn Hughes.”
You nearly choke.
“What? No, I don’t.”
“Jesus Christ,” he laughs quietly. “You absolutely do.”
“I don’t.”
“You were eye-fucking him ten seconds ago.”
“That is not true.”
Trevor’s fully entertained now. “Oh my god, this is incredible.”
“Trevor.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Nothing is going on.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m drunk.”
“You’re doomed.”
You shove his shoulder, trying not to smile. “Shut up.”
He plants his hands on your waist, leaning down to blow on your face.
Before Trevor can keep tormenting you, another voice cuts through the kitchen.
Unfortunately familiar.
“Why are you touching Z like that?”
You turn instantly.
Luke Hughes stands halfway through the kitchen, holding a beer and looking personally offended by the entire scene.
Trevor bursts out laughing immediately.
“Oh my god,” you mutter.
Luke points between the two of you. “No, seriously. What is this?”
“Mind your business,” you say.
“My business is unfortunately standing in my kitchen, flirting with Trevor Zegras.”
Trevor presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “She likes me for my personality Lukey. Ugh, I think I have to steal your best friend. Start planning for a Spring wedding next year.”
Luke looks horrified.
You laugh, throwing an empty cup at him.
Luke catches it one-handed. “Absolutely not. I have to step in and stop whatever this is.”
Trevor grins. “You jealous?”
“Yes,” Luke says instantly. “Violently.”
“That’s weirdly possessive.”
“She’s like my sister. That would never happen.”
You and Trevor both make disgusted sounds simultaneously.
Luke points aggressively. “Exactly my point!”
While he keeps rambling dramatically, your eyes drift once more toward the deck.
Quinn’s still there.
Still quiet. Still watching.
And somehow that feels far more dangerous than Trevor’s flirting ever did. ⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
New series!! Luke, Jack, and Quinn will all get their own lil fic.
Halifax Heat - Macklin Celebrini
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
The worst part is how everyone trusts him.
Your dad trusts him.
That’s what makes all of this impossible.
Not in any dramatic way. No one is forbidding anything. No one has looked you both in the eye and said, Don't. But it’s there anyway, always, hanging quiet in the background every time Mack walks in with his gear bag like he belongs here.
Which, in a way, he does.
By mid-July, he’s almost living in Halifax.
Early skates with your dad. Garage workouts. Recovery sessions. Protein bars disappearing. The same three hockey guys drifting through the kitchen, day and night.
And somehow, in the middle of all of it, this thing between you keeps growing. Quiet. Relentless.
Secretly.
Dangerously.
You don’t remember the exact moment it became real.
Maybe it was the first time his hand brushed the small of your back while passing behind you in the kitchen and lingered there a second too long.
Maybe it was the way he started looking for you automatically whenever he walked into a room.
Maybe it was the night you caught him staring at you across the backyard while everyone else laughed around the firepit, his expression soft enough to make your chest ache.
Whatever it was, it’s too late now.
Especially because Macklin Celebrini is terrible at pretending not to want you.
Tonight the house is unbearably warm.
Not hot enough for air conditioning. Just enough that the windows are cracked open and the summer air drifts lazily through the halls carrying the smell of saltwater and grass and somebody’s barbecue down the street.
You lie awake in bed staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly overhead.
Downstairs, you can hear faint movement. Cabinets opening. Footsteps. A low laugh.
Probably Mack.
Your stomach flips. Heat surges through your chest at just the thought of him.
It’s almost pathetic, how much you want him.
You check your phone.
12:43 AM.
A message lights up the screen almost instantly.
u awake?
Your heart stumbles, breath catching in your throat.
you psychic?
three dots appear immediately.
cant sleep
too hot
You stare at the screen too long, thumb hovering, nerves building with every second.
my room’s worse
Your reply comes out so fast it feels reckless.
prove it
You actually laugh under your breath.
For a second, you consider ignoring him.
Being smart.
Then another message appears.
come here
Your entire body goes warm, and your hands tremble.
The hallway is dark when you slip out of your room.
The house settles soft around you. Old wood creaks. A faint breeze moves through the open windows. Somewhere downstairs, the refrigerator hums.
Your dad’s room is at the opposite end of the hall.
You try not to think about that.
Mack’s door is cracked open, warm golden light spilling through the gap and pooling on the floor.
You knock once, softly.
The door opens immediately.
Like he’d been standing there waiting for you.
And honestly, maybe he was.
His hair is damp from the shower, curling at the ends. Gray sweats hang low on his hips. He’s barefoot, one hand still on the doorknob as he looks at you—standing there in oversized sleep shorts and your dad’s old Team Canada hoodie.
The second his eyes land on you, something in his expression shifts.
No surprise.
Something softer.
Worse.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
Your throat suddenly feels dry, voice trapped behind nerves.
“Hi.”
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then he steps aside silently to let you in.
The room smells like laundry and body wash. His hockey bag is half-unpacked by the dresser. One of your dad’s old training binders lies open on the desk beside a half-finished Gatorade.
You notice everything. Noticing him has become second nature.
“You weren’t kidding,” you murmur, fanning yourself dramatically. “This room is awful.”
Mack shuts the door behind you with a soft click.
“Right?” he says. “Pretty sure I’m dying in here.”
“You’re such a baby.”
“Careful.” His voice lowers slightly. “You came voluntarily.”
The look he gives you after that sends heat straight down your spine.
You try to ignore it.
Fail immediately.
The room feels suddenly too small.
Outside the window, crickets hum steadily in the dark. Somewhere farther away, waves crash faintly against the shoreline.
Mack sits on the edge of the bed, forearms resting against his knees.
Then he looks up at you.
And just watches.
“What?” you ask softly.
“You know what.”
Your pulse jumps, heart hammering against your ribs.
“No, I don’t.”
“You do.”
There’s a long silence after that.
Heavy in the best way.
You’re hyperaware of your skin. The warm air. His gaze drops to your mouth, then back up, like he’s trying to mind himself.
It would probably be easier if he acted cocky about this.
But he doesn’t.
That’s the problem.
Mack looks at you as if you scare him a little.
“You’ve been killing me all summer,” he says finally.
The honesty of it catches you off guard.
“What?”
“You walk around this house in tiny shorts, smiling at me like it’s nothing.” He exhales sharply through his nose. “Meanwhile, I have to focus because your dad’s asking if I want to go run extra skating drills.”
You laugh helplessly.
His eyes close briefly at the sound, as if it physically affects him.
“See,” he mutters. “That.”
“What?”
“That thing where you laugh, and suddenly I forget how to act.”
Your stomach flips so hard it aches. Nerves tingle under your skin.
The room feels thick now. Wanting. Heat. Weeks of stolen glances and careful distance finally collapsing under their own weight.
“Mack,” you say quietly.
He looks up immediately.
You take one step closer.
That’s all it takes.
His hand catches your wrist gently, pulling you between his knees before either of you can think better of it.
The contact sends warmth everywhere instantly.
His hands slide slow up your thighs, settling at your waist like he’s trying not to lose control.
Which, honestly, only makes it hotter.
“You have no idea,” he says softly, looking up at you, “how hard I’ve been trying to be good.”
Your breath catches. Anticipation tightens your chest as you wait for what comes next.
“Maybe I don’t want you to be good.”
The look on his face after that nearly undoes you.
He stares at you for a second like he’s genuinely trying to decide whether this is real.
Then he stands.
And suddenly, he’s everywhere.
Warm skin. Soft hair beneath your fingers. His chest pressing against yours as he backs you toward the dresser, kissing you like he’s thought about it for months and can finally stop holding back.
The kiss is slow at first.
Not hesitant.
Intentional.
Like he wants to feel every second of it.
Your hands slide up into his damp hair. He exhales sharply against your mouth, hands tightening at your waist.
“That’s not fair,” he murmurs.
“What isn’t?”
“You touching me like that.”
You smile against his mouth. “Thought you said you wanted me here.”
“I did.” He kisses you again immediately, deeper this time. “That’s the problem.”
He kisses softly down your neck, sucking roughly on your pulse. You let your hands slide under the sweatshirt he's wearing.
Your nails rake up and down his back, making him shiver. The soft sigh you let escape is loud enough to make him smile on your neck.
You move your hands back up to his hair, forcing his lips back to yours.
The room feels impossibly warm now. His cheeks grow warmer by the minute.
Summer air drifts through the cracked window, cool against your skin while his thumbs move slow against your waist beneath the hem of the hoodie. Careful. Reverent, almost.
Like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you.
That softness is what gets you.
It’s the way he looks at you after every kiss, like he’s memorizing something.
You pull back slightly just to breathe, and his forehead drops against yours instantly.
Both of you are quiet for a second.
Outside, a car passes slowly down the street with music drifting faintly from open windows. Somewhere downstairs, the ice maker clunks loudly in the kitchen, and both of you freeze automatically.
Then Mack starts laughing softly.
You bury your face against his shoulder, trying not to laugh too.
“This is insane,” you whisper.
“Mhm.”
“If my dad walks in here, you’re dead.”
“Yeah.” His hands slide carefully up your back. “Probably worth it though.”
Your heart actually skips.
He says things like that too casually.
You lean back just enough to look at him.
His cheeks are flushed from heat and kissing, hair a mess beneath your fingers. He looks younger like this. Softer around the edges. Less like the hockey prodigy everyone talks about, more like just a boy in a too-warm bedroom wanting a girl he probably shouldn’t.
The realization makes your chest ache.
“You’re staring again,” he says quietly.
“You notice too much.”
“Only with you.”
God.
You kiss him again before he can say anything else devastating.
His hands tighten instinctively at your waist, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between you. The tension that’s been building all summer settles heavy and sweet in your stomach.
Wanted.
That’s what this feels like.
Just two people trying not to ruin something good while wanting each other enough that it almost doesn’t matter.
And when Mack kisses you slower after that, softer somehow despite everything burning between you, you realize the truly dangerous part isn’t the sneaking around.
It’s how easy this feels.
Like he was always going to end up holding you like this in the middle of a Halifax summer night while the whole house slept around you.
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
Learning to Love LH⁴³
summary: the morning after
taglist: @lovings4turn, @annaswritess, @hockeygirlyyyy (dm to be added)
warnings/content tags: slow burn, reader x luke hughes, friends with benefits, reader's nickname is 'sugar', unbeta read, explicit sex mdni, sweet gentle sex, big dick luke hughes
author's notes: omlll this was so hard to write, but after this one i think posts will be more often as i have the chaps planned out and i am actually excited to write them. nevertheless enjoy and continue supporting <3
word count: 1.4k
<- previous chapter next chapter ->
chapter four: hopelessly devoted
12:07 - Matt Rempe
⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎˚。⋆⋆✴︎
You know before you arrive that you will regret coming.
Not in any dramatic, cinematic way. There is no spike of dread, no last-minute panic. Just the low, familiar knowing that settles in your chest. The kind that comes from saying yes when you mean maybe, from choosing ease for someone else over honesty for yourself. The kind that builds slowly, invisibly, until you are tired in ways that don’t have names.
Your brother had sounded hopeful on the phone. Not excited, exactly. Hopeful in the way people get when they are trying to fix something they can’t quite articulate.
“It’ll be low-key,” he’d said. “Just the guys, a few people. You don’t have to stay long.”
You’d agreed before you asked what long meant. Before you pictured the noise, the overlapping conversations, the way you would stand with a drink you didn’t want, nodding along to things you weren’t really part of. Before you remembered how New Year’s Eve has always made you feel like time is judging you personally.
Now you stand just inside the door, coat still on, fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeves, watching the party move around you.
It isn’t wild. No one is standing on furniture or shouting over the music. But it is full in a way that presses in on you anyway. Voices overlap and blur together. The music hums low and constant, less something you listen to and more something you endure. Someone laughs loudly near the kitchen. Someone else yells your brother’s name like it’s a victory cry.
You take a slow breath and tell yourself this is fine. That you can handle an evening. That you have handled worse.
Your brother spots you almost immediately. His face lights up, unguarded, and guilt settles under your ribs because you know you could have stayed home. He crosses the room in long strides and wraps you in a hug that smells like cold air and the detergent you grew up with.
“You made it,” he says, genuinely pleased.
“I said I would.”
“I know. Still.”
He takes your coat before you can protest, presses a drink into your hand, introduces you to someone whose name dissolves the second it lands. Then someone else grabs his attention, a teammate already halfway through a story, and your brother is pulled away before you can anchor yourself to him.
You stand where he leaves you, cup held with both hands, feeling unmoored.
You think of high school parties. Of trailing behind him like a shadow. Of sitting on staircases and porches and waiting in cars until he was ready to go. He never minded. He always checked on you. But you don’t want tonight to be that version of you again.
You want to believe you can exist in this space without shrinking.
That’s when you see him.
Matt Rempe is hard to miss — that’s the obvious thing. The height, the sheer physical presence, the way people shift without realizing they’re doing it, making room. You’ve seen him before, always at a distance. In doorways. Across rooms. Laughing with your brother, hovering just behind him like a quiet constant.
You’ve noticed other things too, though you’ve never said them out loud. The way he never crowds you. How his voice lowers instinctively when he speaks near you, as if volume is something he actively manages. How he always nods hello, never lingers, never assumes.
Tonight, he’s standing near the window, drink untouched in his hand, gaze angled outward like he’s looking for something beyond the glass. Or maybe just space.
The thought comes uninvited and immediate: he looks like he wants to leave too.
It stays with you longer than it should.
You drift through the room slowly, skirting the edges of conversations. Someone asks if you’re having fun. You say yes automatically. The word feels thin. The clock on the wall reads 11:17.
You make it until 11:24.
The balcony door is cracked open, a narrow ribbon of cold threading its way into the room. You move toward it without thinking too hard, drawn by the promise of quiet. Outside, the city hums at a distance, softened by height and cold. Lights blink on and off in windows across the way. Somewhere, fireworks are already starting — scattered, premature.
You step out and exhale. Your shoulders drop like they’ve been waiting for permission.
“You okay?”
The voice comes from behind you, low and careful. You turn, startled, and find Matt standing just inside the doorway. He doesn’t step out until you nod.
“Yeah,” you say. “Just needed air.”
He hesitates, then opens the door fully and steps onto the balcony, closing it most of the way behind him. He leaves a deliberate amount of space between you. Enough to feel intentional. Enough that you notice.
“Same,” he says. “Gets loud.”
You smile, small but real. “It does.”
Silence settles between you, but it isn’t awkward. It’s the kind that feels shared. He leans his forearms against the railing, posture relaxed but contained. You tuck your hands into the sleeves of your sweater, watching your breath fog faintly in the cold.
“I hope it’s okay,” he says after a moment. “Me being out here. I can go.”
“No,” you say too quickly, then soften. “You’re fine. I don’t mind.”
He nods, accepts that without question. Something about it eases you.
Inside, a cheer rises and falls. Someone starts counting down far too early, laughter chasing the numbers.
“You don’t do these much,” he says. Not a question.
You shake your head. “Not really my thing.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Me neither.”
Another quiet stretch. You’re aware of him without really trying to be — the steadiness of his presence, the way he takes up space carefully, like it’s something he’s learned rather than something that comes naturally.
“I know,” you say, staring out at the city. “That’s why I came.”
He glances at you then, something thoughtful crossing his face. “You don’t have to stay all night.”
“I know.”
You don’t tell him that leaving early feels like another small failure. That staying feels like a test you never quite pass. He doesn’t ask.
The music inside shifts, louder now. Closer to midnight.
11:49.
“I should probably…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely toward the door.
You nod. “Yeah. Me too.”
Neither of you moves.
Fireworks bloom somewhere to the east, sudden and bright. The light catches the edge of his profile, softening it. He watches them with distant focus, like he’s thinking about something else entirely.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
You tense, then relax. “Okay.”
“Do I make you uncomfortable?”
The question lands gently, but it lands. You blink, surprised.
“No,” you say honestly. “Why would you?”
He shrugs, a little sheepish. “I don’t know. I just… try to be careful. With you.”
“With me?”
He exhales slowly. “Yeah.”
You really look at him then. The way his shoulders hunch slightly, like he’s trying to be smaller. The way his eyes flick toward the door, toward the noise and your brother somewhere inside.
Understanding blooms — warm, complicated.
“I don’t think you need to be,” you say. “Careful, I mean. Not like that.”
He studies you for a moment, recalibrating. “Okay.”
The clock inside flips to 11:59. The noise swells, voices joining together now.
“Hey,” he says, hesitant. “I’m going to stay right here. Just so you know.”
You nod. “Okay.”
“Just… yeah.”
Five. Four. Three.
You feel the moment settle, heavy and quiet all at once. You think about the year behind you. About all the times you stepped back instead of forward. About how small you’ve made yourself to keep things easy.
Two. One.
Cheers erupt inside. Fireworks explode in earnest, color and sound colliding. Glasses clink. Bodies press together.
Out here, it’s just the two of you.
12:02
You turn without fully deciding to. He’s already looking at you, expression open, unreadable.
“I’m glad you’re here,” you say.
Something shifts.
He doesn’t move closer. He waits.
12:05
You step forward.
It’s barely a step, but it feels like crossing something invisible. His breath catches, quiet but unmistakable.
“If this is a bad idea,” you say softly, “tell me.”
He closes his eyes for half a second, then opens them. “I don’t think any of your ideas are bad.”
12:07.
The kiss is gentle. Careful. More question than answer. His hand hovers near your waist without touching, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t. You lean in instead, grounding yourself in the warmth and steadiness of him.
It lasts only a moment. When you pull back, the world feels slightly tilted.
He rests his forehead close to yours, not quite touching. “We should go back inside.”
You nod, heart loud and steady. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moves.
The city cracks open with another wave of fireworks, light flashing across the glass behind him, across his face. Up close, he feels even steadier than he did a moment ago. Solid. Present. Like he’s chosen to be here and is staying on purpose.
His breath brushes yours. You can feel it, the faint hitch when you don’t step back.
“Just—” he starts, then stops. Swallows. “You okay?”
You nod again, closer this time. “Yeah.”
The second kiss isn’t planned. It happens because neither of you looks away. Because the space between you is already charged, already crowded with everything you didn’t do before. It’s still soft, but there’s more intent to it now. His mouth lingers, slow and searching, like he’s asking something with every second he stays.
His hand finally settles at your waist. Not gripping. Just there. Warm through the fabric of your sweater, grounding and unmistakably real.
You exhale against him, and the sound seems to undo something.
You think, distantly, of all the times you’ve seen him before this. Of standing near your brother in crowded rooms, pretending not to notice the way Matt’s attention always seemed to flick toward you and then away. Of catching his eye in hallways, at games, at other parties, and looking down too quickly, afraid of being seen wanting something you didn’t think you were allowed to want.
You think of how he always gave you space. How you told yourself it was nothing. How easy it was to hide behind shyness and timing and your brother’s presence like it was a wall instead of an excuse.
The kiss deepens, just a little. His thumb shifts at your waist, slow and careful, like he’s still checking in even now. You respond without thinking, stepping closer, closing the last inch between you.
He makes a quiet sound into your mouth, surprised and restrained all at once. The balcony feels smaller. The cold sharper. Everything else fades.
When you pull back this time, it’s because you need air, because your chest feels too full.
He looks at you like he’s memorizing something. Like this version of you, standing here with flushed cheeks and unguarded eyes, is something he doesn’t want to lose.
“I’ve thought about this,” he admits quietly. “About you. More than once.”
Your heart stutters. “Me too,” you say, before you can stop yourself.
That’s all it takes.
His hand slides up your side, slow, deliberate. The kiss turns warmer, heavier, still careful but undeniably hungry now. He backs you gently toward the railing, not trapping you, just bracing himself there as if to keep from tipping forward entirely.
Fireworks thunder overhead. Inside, the party surges on, oblivious.
Out here, time bends.
He swaps with you. He stumbles as he backs up against the railing. Giving you more space to move.
When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours properly this time. Your hands in his now very messy hair. His voice is rougher when he speaks.
“We should really go inside,” he says again, like a promise he doesn’t quite want to keep.
You smile, soft and dizzy. “Yeah. In a minute.”
“Pretty sure that was supposed to happen at midnight,” he murmurs, not sounding bothered.
“Better late than never,” you whisper back.
He laughs under his breath, quiet and fond, and leans in to press one last kiss to your temple. Gentle. Intentional.
And when you do go back inside together, the noise and light rushing back in, you don’t feel like you’re hovering at the edges anymore.
You feel like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
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Home For Christmas - Will Smith
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The first snow had come quietly. It looked peaceful. Almost unreal. By the time Will got home for Christmas, the streets were muted and still. You had known him forever—or close enough that “forever” didn’t feel like an exaggeration. Since high school summers, when he returned home from camps and seasons away, when your worlds collided over a shared obsession with hockey stats and terrible teen playlists, you had been inseparable in a way that didn’t require constant explanation. You didn’t need to say “I’ve got your back” or “I understand,” because it had always been understood.
That didn’t make him any less frustrating sometimes.
Now, watching him hobble toward the door, arm in a sling, you felt a pang of worry mixed with that old familiar affection. The injury had him off the ice for the first time in years, and it was the first time you’d seen him truly restless—his energy caged, his body betraying him. You knew the thought looping behind his tired eyes: I’m useless right now.
“Hey,” you said when he stepped inside, shaking off the snow. You reached forward instinctively, brushing the shoulder of his good arm. He stiffened slightly but relaxed when he felt the familiar comfort of your touch.
“Hey,” he said, voice low.
“Welcome home,” you murmured.
“Sure, yeah,” he said with a deep sigh.
You watched him for a moment, memorizing the way he shifted in the doorway, the tense set of his shoulders. The way he’d always carried himself—steady, confident—was muted now, replaced by the subtle stiffness of pain and disappointment.
“I was thinking,” you said gently, “maybe we don’t have to do much today. We could just… stay inside. Watch a movie?”
He gave a small, wry smile, the first real one since he’d arrived. “Sounds tempting.”
“It’s settled then,” you stated as you moved him towards the couch, pushing him down gently. “I’ll make hot cocoa.”
He sank into the couch, careful with his sling, exhaling a long breath that seemed to carry half the tension in his body. You knelt by the kitchen counter, fingers tracing the rim of your mug as you boiled water. The snow outside pressed against the windows, quiet and steady, and the faint glow of the streetlights reflected in the frost like tiny scattered stars.
“You really don’t have to do all that,” he murmured, voice low, watching you move around the kitchen.
“I want to,” you said without looking up. “You’ve had a rough week, Will. And honestly, I like doing things like this.”
He chuckled softly, a little uneven, and it made something inside you ache. It was familiar, that soft sound, but tinged with weariness. “I’ve always been bad at just… being,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward his sling. “Not skating, not practicing, not doing anything.”
He shook his head slowly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I hate being like this. Feeling… useless. You’ve seen me at my best on the ice. Now? I’m nothing.”
You walked over, curling up on the couch next to him, just close enough to let your head brush against his shoulder. “You’re not nothing,” you said gently. “You’re still Will. Still funny, stubborn, ridiculous, caring Will. This injury doesn’t erase that. Not for me.”
His eyes softened at that, and you could see the tension in his jaw finally start to release. “I don’t even know why I let myself feel this way.”
“Because you’re human,” you said simply. “And I know that’s hard for you to admit.”
For a long moment, neither of you said anything. You could hear the faint crackle of the heater, the distant thump of snow falling from the roof. The room smelled of cocoa and pine and quiet comfort.
“Come on,” you said finally, offering him your hand. “C’mon, we’re making a blanket fort.”
He laughed, a full, easy laugh this time, and took your hand carefully. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but you love it,” you teased, helping him up from the couch. He moved slowly, deliberately, but there was a lightness in his steps you hadn’t seen since the injury.
Once the fort was constructed—a chaotic pile of blankets and pillows—you both settled inside, mugs of cocoa warming your hands. He leaned back against the cushions, the sling awkward but manageable, and you nestled close, letting your shoulder brush his.
He exhaled, eyes closing briefly. “Yeah. This… this feels good. Feels… normal. In a way I didn’t think I’d feel again this year.”
You leaned your head against his shoulder, your fingers brushing the edge of his sling. “I’m glad you’re home, Will.”
He shifted slightly to rest his head against yours, careful, hesitant, but the movement was deliberate. “Me too,” he whispered.
Outside, snow continued to fall. Inside, the warmth of the house and the closeness between you wrapped around both of you like a soft, protective blanket.
Your fingers traced idle patterns over the fabric of his sweater, and your mind drifted back to a memory that had nothing to do with injuries or expectations. You remembered a winter years ago, long before anyone expected serious careers or responsibilities. You and Will had gone sledding behind your old neighborhood school, the hill steep and reckless, the snow deep and unyielding. He’d insisted on racing you, of course, grinning like a fool as he barreled ahead. You remembered the sharp, panicked laughter as he took a hard turn, slammed into a drift, and toppled over in a flurry of snow, yelping as he skidded down the hill. You’d run to him, snow in your hair and up your sleeves, helping him sit up, brushing it from his jacket. He’d laughed through it all, coughing, embarrassed, pride wounded—but never lasting more than a second.
Now, seeing him here, quiet and wary, you realized how much he had changed—how that unshakable energy could falter, and how human he really was beneath it all. You felt a swell of affection you’d never allowed yourself to name before. Because being friends had always been safe, easy, predictable. But this… this closeness, the warmth pressed through the cold, the weight of him against you, made it something else entirely.
Will shifted again, small, subtle, until your hands found each other almost naturally. He caught your fingers, gave a faint squeeze, and that single motion said more than words ever could. Your heart thudded, too loud, too fast. You realized then that you’d wanted this—wanted him, not as a friend, but more. And maybe he had too.
Without thinking, your head tilted up. His eyes met yours, searching, hesitant, and the world seemed to shrink until nothing existed beyond the heat of him, the soft fall of snow against the windows. Your lips met in a kiss that was fierce and gentle all at once, careful yet urgent, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t hesitate. His good arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t believe he was allowed this.
When you pulled back slightly, foreheads touching, breath mingling, he whispered, “I… I didn’t realize I could want this.”
You smiled softly, heart still racing. “Neither did I. But… I do. Want this. You.”
He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against yours. “Me too.”
And in that quiet, snow-covered house, with the world frozen and still outside, it was enough. It was warm. It was real. It was finally, finally more than friendship.
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