I feel like I litter small pieces of me all over this blog and so I thought I would summarize and let people know what their getting into before they follow so, about me under the cut: (all inspired by @cafeobiwan‘s post)
hello everyone! I’m Gabby/Gabs (doesn’t really matter which one you use), and I very easily get obsessed with just about anything so things on this blog shift around a lot
I’m enneagram type 4 and infp (insert laugh track here)
I have so many fandoms but my main two are star wars and marvel (hence the user) I try to keep this blog to that but obviously other stuff will hop in and out
I also am a Harry Styles, Niall Horan, and Taylor Swift fan but I keep all of that over at @snlhostharry
all time favorite fictional characters: anakin skywalker, ahsoka tano, poe dameron, kate bishop, sam wilson, amy march, amelia Shepard, gwen stacy (spider-gwen), emily dickinson (the version from and show and not the real person obviously), wanda maximoff
I do have some writings posted. I have zero posting schedule because the way my brain works it I get obsessed with things for weeks at a time and then completely ignore them for months
I don’t write for tom holland anymore because I just don’t find him attractive or that interesting lol pretty much in terms of writing you’ll probably see star wars stuff and bucky barnes and sam wilson stuff
you should write a fic where the reader gets injured (maybe by one of his brothers?) and just him looking after the reader
p.s love the fics!!! Xxx
thank you so much, i really appreciate it :) here’s something small! i hope you like it <3
it’s cold enough that your nose is already a little numb, which is probably why it takes a second to register that something’s wrong.
jack and luke shooting pucks around in the driveway, arguing about form while quinn leans his back against the car with his arms crossed, watching like he’s waiting for someone to screw up.
you’re off to the side, half on your phone, half watching them. “don’t stand there,” quinn says, not even looking at you. “that’s a bad spot.”
you roll your eyes, “i’m not even that close.”
jack winds up for a shot he shouldn’t have. you can tell the second it leaves his stick that it’s off, too high and way too fast. you turn your head just as the puck hits you square in the face.
it’s not pain at first. it’s shock. this loud, hollow crack and then your eyes water so badly you can’t see anything. your hands fly up automatically and when you pull them away, they’re red.
like, really red.
“oh my god—”
jack drops his stick. “jack! are you fucking stupid?” luke spits. quinn is moving before anyone finishes a sentence. “damn it jack fuck, y/n holy shit.” quinn exclaims, already there, hands on your wrists. “hey. hey. look at me.”
you try to say something but your nose is pouring blood and your voice comes out in a wince, panicked slightly woozy from the blood.
“okay,” quinn says quickly. “okay, hey don’t tilt your head back. lean forward. like this.” he guides you down, one hand firm between your shoulder blades, the other holding your hands away from your face like he’s afraid you’ll touch it too hard.
jack’s pale. “i’m so sorry. i swear i wasn’t aiming i didn’t mean to hit you y/n.”
“fuck,” luke says. “i didn’t even see it coming. y/n, i’m so sorry.”
quinn doesn’t look at either of them. his attention is locked on you, laser-focused. “does it hurt to breathe?” he asks. “tell me. right now.”
you shake your head, tears mixing with blood and dripping onto the pavement. your nose already feels like it’s throbbing. “okay,” quinn murmurs. “that’s good. that’s good.” he pulls off his hoodie and presses it gently under your nose, his hands steady in a way that doesn’t match the tension in his jaw.
“pressure,” he says. “just pressure. i’ve got you.”
jack’s hovering uselessly. “do we need to call someone? go to the hospital? i can drive—” “we’re going inside,” quinn cuts him off, his older big brother protective side coming out even more than it was before. “now.”
he doesn’t ask. he just steers you toward the house, one arm around your shoulders, guiding your head down. you feel him tense every time you sniff or wince.
inside, it’s chaos. quinn sits you down on the edge of the tub, turns the light on too bright, grabs towels like he’s on autopilot. “lean forward,” he repeats. “don’t touch it.”
blood keeps coming, it feels endless. your nose starts to swell fast, pressure building in a way that makes your stomach flip. the smell making your stomach churn as you hold back gagging at the smell of blood and metal.
“i think it’s broken,” you say, voice small. quinn’s mouth tightens. “don’t jump ahead. we’ll get it checked.”
jack’s pacing in the doorway, hands in his hair. “i can’t believe i did that. i’m such an idiot.”
luke’s quieter, crouched nearby. “i should’ve said something. i’m sorry.”
quinn finally looks up. “i know it was an accident,” he says, controlled but strained. “just, give me a second, okay?”
his hands soften when he turns back to you. he replaces the towel with another one, so gently but still enough firmness to make sure no blood seeps out the edges.
“talk to me,” he murmurs quietly. “any dizziness? blurry vision?” you shake your head again. “just hurts.”
“okay,” he says. “okay. that i can handle.”
the bleeding slows eventually but the swelling on the other hand doesn’t. your nose feels like it’s way too big for your face.
quinn insists on urgent care. by insists, it’s moreso non-negotiable. the doctor confirms it’s likely broken. not badly, but enough. quinn nods through the explanation, jaw clenched. jack looks sick. luke stares at the floor.
back home, quinn sits you on the couch and immediately starts babying you. ice pack wrapped in a towel, the lights dimmed and one way too many water bottles within reach.
“don’t touch it baby,” he says gently. “i know it’s instinct. just don’t.”
jack sits across from you, guilt written all over his face. “i’m really sorry. i swear i’ll never mess around with a puck near you again.”
you sniff, wince. “i know jack, really it’s okay.”
luke nods. “same. i feel awful.” quinn’s hand finds yours, squeezing it slightly reassuringly.
later, when things quiet down and jack and luke finally give you space, quinn sits close, afraid to leave you alone. “you scared me,” he admits, voice low. “the blood and all i thought,”
he pauses, letting out a small but shaky exhale. “i don’t like seeing you hurt. especially when i could’ve stopped it.” you look at him and shake your head. “you warned me.”
“still.”
that night, the pain sets in deeper. dull and throbbing. you wake up with pressure so bad it makes your eyes sting. quinn’s there almost immediately. like he never really went to sleep.
“hey,” he whispers. “i know. i’ve got you.”
he helps you sit up, replaces the ice, presses a kiss to your hair without thinking.
“i’m right here,” he murmurs. “you’re okay. i promise.”
summary: quinn confronts his girlfriend for always being zoned out in her own little world and it results in her having a panic attack.
pairing: gf!reader x bf!quinn
word count: 1.1k
note: trigger warning! this includes panic attacks and anxiety. please don’t read if this is something that doesn’t sit right with you. as someone who’s dealt with a lot of her own, you’re never alone. you’re not weak, you’re so strong! mental health is so important, please don’t ever disregard it.
you don’t realize you’ve zoned out until quinn says your name for the third time.
“y/n.”
nothing.
“hey,” his voice is closer now, softer. “y/n.”
you blink, the world snapping back into focus like someone turned the lights on too fast. quinn is standing in front of you in the kitchen, brows drawn together, concern written all over his face.
you’re holding your phone, screen dark, thumb frozen mid-scroll like you forgot what you were doing halfway through.
“sorry,” you say quickly. “what?”
he studies you for a moment, like he’s deciding how to approach a skittish animal. “i asked if you wanted dinner. you’ve been standing there for like… a minute.”
“oh.” you force a small smile. “yeah, sure. whatever’s easiest.”
that answer; whatever’s easiest has become your go-to lately. it’s safe. non-committal. it doesn’t invite questions.
but quinn doesn’t miss things like that.
he turns the stove off and leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “you okay?” you nod immediately. too immediately. “yeah, i’m fine.”
there it is again.
fine.
you say it like armour, like if you repeat it enough times, it’ll become true. like if you don’t let anyone look too closely, nothing can fall apart. quinn exhales through his nose. “you’ve been zoning out a lot.”
“i’m just tired.”
“you said that yesterday.”
“and the day before,” you add lightly, trying to make it a joke. “congrats, you’ve cracked the case.”
he doesn’t laugh.
you feel that familiar tightening in your chest, the instinctive urge to retreat. you don’t know how to explain this feeling; how being cared for this deeply feels almost threatening. like you’re waiting for the catch. like if you lean into it, something bad will happen.
no one’s ever hovered over your silences before. no one’s noticed when your smile is a second too late.
quinn steps closer. “you don’t have to keep telling me you’re fine.”
you shrug, eyes dropping to the floor. “because i am.”
“y/n.”
that tone. gentle, but firm makes something in you bristle. you feel cornered, even though he hasn’t done anything wrong. “i don’t need fixing,” you say, sharper than intended. “i’m allowed to just… exist without it being a problem.”
his jaw tightens. “i’m not saying you’re a problem.”
“then why are we doing this?” you ask, hands gesturing vaguely between you. “why can’t you just believe me?”
“because i can see you,” he says, frustration bleeding through now. “you go quiet. you stare through walls. you barely sleep. that’s not nothing.”
your heart starts to beat faster.
“i didn’t ask you to monitor me,” you snap.
“you don’t have to—”
“i want to,” he interrupts. “that’s the point.”
the words hit harder than you expect.
want to.
your chest feels too tight, your breaths shallow and quick. you feel suddenly exposed, like the walls you’ve spent years building are cracking under the weight of his concern.
“i said i’m fine,” you insist, voice trembling now. “why isn’t that enough?”
“because i care about you,” he says, voice rising just slightly. “and watching you disappear into your own head every day is killing me.”
that’s when it happens.
the room starts to tilt, the edges blurring. your hands go cold, then numb. you try to inhale, but your lungs won’t cooperate, stuck somewhere between breaths.
“no,” you whisper, more to yourself than him.
“no, no—”
you take a step back, panic surging like a wave crashing over your chest. you need space. you need out. you turn, intending to escape to the bedroom, the bathroom, literally anywhere but quinn reacts instantly.
“hey,” he says urgently, reaching out and catching your wrist, gentle but firm. “don’t go.”
the contact makes everything worse for half a second. your pulse is roaring in your ears, vision swimming.
“i can’t—” you gasp. “i can’t breathe.”
quinn’s frustration evaporates in an instant, replaced by pure focus. he moves in front of you, crouching slightly so you’re eye level, hands warm and grounding as they slide from your wrist to your forearms.
“hey,” he says softly. “look at me, you’re okay.”
you shake your head, tears spilling over now. “i’m not. something’s wrong. i— i don’t feel right.”
“i know,” he says calmly, like he’s done this a thousand times. “i know. but you’re safe. i’ve got you.”
your chest heaves, breaths coming out sharp and uneven. you feel embarrassed, exposed, terrified all at once. quinn keeps his voice low, steady. “can you take a deep breath for me, hm?”
you try. it comes out shaky, broken.
“that’s okay,” he reassures immediately. “we’ll do it together.”
he exaggerates his own breathing, slow and deliberate. in through his nose. out through his mouth.
“just match me,” he murmurs. “nothing else matters right now.”
you cling to his sleeves, fingers curling into the fabric like an anchor. another breath. then another. slowly, the spinning eases, the pressure in your chest loosening just enough for air to get in.
“there you go,” quinn whispers. “that’s it. i’ve got you.”
the tears keep coming, but the panic loosens its grip. you sag forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder as your body finally gives in to exhaustion.
“i’m sorry,” you choke. “i didn’t mean to—”
“hey,” he cuts in gently. “no apologies. not for this.”
he wraps his arms fully around you now, holding you like you might shatter if he lets go. one hand rubs slow circles into your back, grounding, steady.
you breathe him in. his soap, his warmth, the solid reassurance of him being here. after a while, you pull back just enough to speak. your voice is small. honest.
“i’m scared,” you admit. “not of you. just… of being cared about like this. i’ve never had it before, and it feels like if i let myself need it, it’ll disappear.”
quinn’s throat bobs as he swallows.
“y/n,” he says quietly. “i’m not going anywhere because you’re struggling. i’m here because you are.”
you nod against his chest, letting the words settle.
“i don’t know how to ask for help,” you whisper.
“that’s okay,” he says immediately. “we can learn together.”
he presses a kiss to your hair, holding you just a little tighter.
summary: reader fall asleep on quinn during a hangout and the boys tease him for it.
pairing: bestfriend!reader x bestfriend!quinn
word count: 955
note: i know quinn hughes is traded to the wilds but in my heart; i still see him as a canuck :( this is my first imagine, please bare with me as i navigate through this app! i’m always down to make new moots so feel free to reach out and drop some requests! :)
it’s not supposed to be a late night.
that’s what quinn says when you show up to brock’s place with him, kicking off your shoes and greeting familiar faces sprawled across couches and barstools.
it’s a casual hangout—movies playing in the background, takeout containers stacked on the coffee table, laughter echoing comfortably through the space.
you tell yourself you’ll stay awake.
you’re curled up on the sectional beside quinn, legs tucked under you, shoulder brushing his arm. at some point, the movie switches from something loud and action-packed to something slower, background noise more than anything else. the room dims, conversations splintering into smaller groups.
you’re tired. more tired than you realized.
quinn notices before you do.
at first, it’s subtle; the way your head tips slightly toward him, the way your body shifts closer without conscious thought. your responses to conversation become slower, quieter. when he says your name, you hum in response instead of answering.
he glances down just as your head settles fully against his shoulder.
still.
warm.
asleep.
his body freezes.
“oh,” brock mutters from across the room. “oh my god.”
elias leans forward, squinting. “is she—?”
thatcher grins immediately. “she’s out.”
quinn doesn’t move. not a muscle. he barely breathes.
“she fell asleep on you,” nils says, like he’s witnessing a rare wildlife event. “that’s insane.”
quinn clears his throat quietly. “guys.”
you shift slightly in your sleep, forehead nudging into the side of his neck. your hand curls unconsciously into the fabric of his hoodie.
thatcher snaps a picture. quinn flips him off without looking.
“she’s drooling,” elias adds helpfully.
“she is not,” quinn snaps, then glances down just in case.
you’re not drooling. you’re just… soft. completely relaxed. trusting.
“dude,” brock says, tone suddenly fond. “that’s actually adorable.”
quinn swallows. “she’s just tired.”
“sure,” nils teases. “that’s why she chose you specifically as a pillow.”
the teasing ramps up; whispers, exaggerated gasps, mock commentary like they’re narrating a nature documentary.
“and here we see the wild quinn,” thatcher murmurs. “frozen in fear, afraid to disturb his beloved—”
“she’s my best friend,” quinn mutters.
“yeah,” brock replies. “and i’m the queen of england.”
quinn adjusts slightly slow, careful so you’re more comfortable, his arm lifting to rest loosely around your shoulders without waking you. your body melts into him even more, like you’ve been waiting for it.
the room collectively loses its mind.
“oh, he’s so done for,” elias says. “look at her.”
“she looks so safe,” nils adds, softer now.
and you do.
your breathing is even, cheek warm against quinn’s chest. you make a tiny sound, something between a sigh and a hum and burrow closer.
quinn’s chest tightens.
he doesn’t care who sees. he doesn’t care about the teasing. all he can think about is how right this feels. how natural.
time passes; ten minutes, maybe more before you stir.
at first, it’s just a small shift. a furrow of your brow. then your eyes flutter open, unfocused and glassy with sleep.
you blink once.
twice.
you become acutely aware of warmth. of arms. of a steady heartbeat beneath your cheek.
oh no..
your eyes widen.
you lift your head too fast, immediately flushing when you realize where you are—and who is staring at you.
the room erupts.
“she’s awake!”
“ladies and gentlemen, she lives!”
“oh my god, she was OUT.”
you groan softly, mortified, bringing your hands up to your face. “i’m so sorry—i didn’t mean to— i just—”
your cheeks are on fire. you feel like everyone can see exactly how flustered you are.
quinn laughs quietly beside you, not mocking but fond.
“hey,” he murmurs, leaning in slightly. “you okay?”
you nod, still hiding your face. “did i really fall asleep on you?”
“like a rock,” brock says cheerfully.
“i want everyone to know,” elias adds, “this man did not move for twenty minutes.”
you peek out between your fingers, eyes landing on quinn. he’s smiling, soft, amused, absolutely unbothered.
“you could’ve woken me up,” you mumble.
he shrugs. “didn’t want to.”
that does not help your embarrassment.
you notice then how close you still are. how his arm is still around you. how no one seems weird about it at all.
if anything, they look… pleased.
“i’m never living this down,” you whisper.
quinn tilts his head toward you. “probably not.”
you make a small noise of protest and without really thinking, lean back into him again, turning so your face presses into his chest, hiding from everyone.
the reaction is immediate.
“oh my GOD,” brock groans. “she went back.”
“that’s criminally cute,” Elias says.
quinn’s arm tightens around you instinctively, his chin dipping to rest lightly on the top of your head.
you peek up at him, voice barely audible. “i didn’t mean to do that.”
“i know,” he says softly. “you can stay.”
your heart stutters.
“you sure?” you ask, still pink.
“yeah,” he replies easily. “you’re comfortable.”
the teasing fades into background noise as the movie resumes, volume turned down. the room settles again, but something has shifted; something warm and unspoken.
you relax slowly, tension draining from your shoulders. quinn’s hand rubs small, absent-minded circles into your arm, grounding.
you sigh, eyes fluttering closed again—not fully asleep this time. just resting.
“this is how it starts,” nils whispers dramatically.
quinn doesn’t respond.
he’s too busy memorizing the weight of you against him, the way you fit like you belong there. the way your embarrassment melts into trust.
Summary: you’re the first woman to play in the NHL, and the weight of history sits heavy on your shoulders. Every save is scrutinized. Every mistake dissected. You didn’t fight your way through lawsuits and locker room doubt just to be a curiosity, you came here to win. Then your captain starts looking at you like you’re more than just his goalie. And suddenly, the hardest save you’ll ever have to make has nothing to do with the puck.
(This was written before the trade and I don’t have the energy to go through and change pretty much everything, so it takes place in Vancouver)
The timeline of your life is measured not in years, but in the scrape of blades on ice. It’s measured in the sting of a frozen puck against your blocker, the muffled thud against your pads. It’s a staccato rhythm of saves and shots, of locker room speeches and the lonely quiet of the crease.
It started on a frozen pond behind your house, bundled in so many layers you could barely move, your dad lacing up your first pair of tiny skates. He’d shoot worn-out tennis balls at you, and you’d kick them away with a defiant joy that echoed across the snow-covered landscape. That joy became a fire.
The fire carried you through youth hockey, where the whispers followed you from rink to rink. “A girl goalie?” Mothers would murmur from behind the glass. “Is that allowed?” Fathers would grumble. The whispers turned to shouts from opposing benches, taunts from players who thought they could scare you. They didn’t know they were just fuel. Every chirp, every cheap shot after the whistle, every coach who looked at you with doubt — it all went into the furnace.
High school was a blur of state championships and headlines that always seemed to include the word “female” before “phenom.” You hated it. You weren’t a female phenom. You were a goalie. Full stop.
Then came college. The NCAA. The wall.
“The rules are clear,” the athletic director at Boston University had said, his face a mask of practiced sympathy. “The men’s team is for men.”
“The rules are discriminatory,” you’d shot back, your voice steely, betraying none of the fear churning in your gut. “I made the team. I beat out two other goalies in tryouts. Put me on the roster.”
He didn’t.
So you fought. Your family fought. You found lawyers who believed in the simple, radical idea that the best player should play. It became a national story. A lawsuit that crawled through the courts, each headline a fresh wave of pressure. Commentators debated your right to play on primetime television. Legends of the game weighed in, some for, some against. Through it all, you just kept training. Waking up at four in the morning, spending hours on the ice before class, facing down a puck-shooting machine until your legs screamed and your glove hand ached.
The day the judge ruled in your favor, you didn’t celebrate. You felt a quiet, bone-deep relief, as if a weight you’d been carrying your entire life had finally been lifted. The next day, you walked into the locker room, your nameplate freshly installed above a stall, and you pulled on the jersey.
And then you won. You won the Beanpot. You won the Hockey East championship. You carried the Terriers to the Frozen Four two years in a row, your save percentage and goals-against average shattering school records. You became a legend not because you were a woman, but because you were impenetrable. You were a wall.
Now, the fight is over. A new one is about to begin.
***
The air in J.P. Barry’s office is different. It’s thin and smells of money, glass cleaner, and the faint, lingering scent of a very expensive cigar smoked hours ago. His office is a glass box suspended forty stories above the glittering chaos of Manhattan, and from this vantage point, the world looks orderly, manageable. Deceiving.
You sit in a leather chair that costs more than your first car, a bottle of Voss water sweating onto the polished mahogany table beside you. Your hands are resting in your lap, still. A goalie’s hands. Calm. Ready.
J.P. Barry, your agent, paces slowly in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. He’s not a large man, but he commands space, his presence filling the room. He’s dressed in a tailored suit that probably costs more than your college tuition, his movements precise and deliberate. He’s been your agent for exactly six months, but in that time, he’s become the calm center of the hurricane that is your life.
“The media narrative is … predictable,” he says, his voice a low, even baritone. He stops pacing and turns to face you. His eyes are sharp, analytical. He’s not looking at you; he’s assessing an asset, calculating variables. “They’re calling it ‘The Great Experiment.’ ‘The Next Frontier.’ They’re treating you like a curiosity.”
You give a small, humorless smile. “I’ve been a curiosity since I was twelve.”
“This is a different level of curiosity,” he counters, walking back towards the massive desk. He taps a thick folder lying in the center. “This is a multi-million dollar curiosity. Every GM in the league wants to be the one who breaks the barrier. They want the good press, the ticket sales, the marketing bump.”
“And a goalie who can stop the puck?” You add, your voice quiet but firm.
A genuine smile touches the corner of his mouth. “And a goalie who can stop the puck. That, thankfully, is the one variable that isn’t in question. Your college career speaks for itself. The lawsuit proved your right to be there, and your performance proved you belonged.”
He sits down opposite you, lacing his fingers together on the desk. “Which brings us to this.” He gestures to the folder. “The offers. As an undrafted free agent, you’re in a unique position. You get to choose. We’ve fielded calls from nearly every team in the league. We’ve narrowed it down to the most serious, viable options.”
Your heart starts a slow, heavy drumbeat against your ribs. This is it. The moment every kid who ever played road hockey dreams of. The NHL.
“Lay it on me, J.P.”
He opens the folder. “Alright. Option one: The Utah Mammoth. They’re offering a two-year, entry-level max deal. The appeal here is opportunity. Their goaltending situation is … fluid. You’d go into camp with a very real, very immediate shot at the starting job. It’s a low-pressure media market. You could go there, find your footing, and make your mark without the intense scrutiny of a major hockey city.”
“The ‘safe’ option,” you surmise.
“The strategically sound option,” he corrects gently. “There’s no shame in starting your career on solid ground.”
You nod, processing it. Utah. It feels alien. “Okay. What’s next?”
“Option two: The New York Rangers.” He lets the name hang in the air. The history, the prestige, it’s all implied. “They’re offering more. Three years, ELC max, with significant performance bonuses. They want to make a splash. They see the marketing potential of having you in the biggest city in the world. The lights would be blinding. Every save, every goal let in, would be magnified a thousand times. You’d be a superstar overnight, for better or for worse. But … you’d be behind Igor Shesterkin. You’d be a backup, unequivocally. Learning from one of the best, yes, but your ice time would be limited.”
You think about Madison Square Garden. The roar of that crowd. The pressure. It’s tempting, the sheer glamour of it. But he’s right. You haven’t fought this hard your whole life to sit on a bench, no matter how nice the view is.
“I didn’t go to court for a front-row seat,” you say quietly.
J.P. nods, as if he expected that answer. “I figured as much. Which brings us to the third, and in my opinion, most interesting option.”
He slides a piece of paper across the desk. On it is a logo you know well. A stylized blue and green orca forming the letter ‘C’.
“Vancouver,” you breathe.
“Vancouver,” he confirms. “The Canucks. The offer is similar to Utah’s. Two years, ELC max. But the situation is … different. They have a clear number one.”
“Thatcher Demko.”
“Exactly. One of the best in the league when he’s healthy. They’re not looking for a savior. They’re not looking for a marketing gimmick. Patrik Allvin was very clear about that on the phone.” J.P. leans forward, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more earnest. “They’re looking for a partner for Demko. Someone who can push him. Someone who can reliably take thirty, maybe thirty-five games a season and give them a chance to win every single night. They want to build the best goaltending tandem in the NHL.”
He lets that sink in. A tandem. A partnership. It’s not about being the star. It’s about being part of a whole.
“They’re in a Canadian market,” J.P. continues. “The media pressure will be intense, no question. It’s a religion up there. But it’s different from New York. It’s a hockey-literate pressure. They’ll criticize your glove hand, not your gender, if you’re playing well. They want to win. That’s all that matters.”
You stare at the logo. The Canucks. You think of the West Coast. The mountains, the ocean. You think of Thatcher Demko. You’ve watched his tape for years. His calmness, his economy of motion. The idea of sharing a crease with him, of learning from him, of competing with him … it feels right. It feels real.
“What’s the catch?” You ask.
“The catch is you have to earn it,” J.P. says plainly. “Nothing is guaranteed. They want to sign you, but you have to go into training camp and prove you’re the best option for that number two spot. You have to beat out the other guys. They’re not just going to hand it to you because of your story.”
A slow smile spreads across your face. “That’s not a catch, J.P. That’s the whole point.”
He leans back in his chair, a look of satisfaction on his face. “I thought you might say that. Utah is safe. New York is glamorous. Vancouver … Vancouver is a challenge. It’s a hockey decision, not a business one.”
You look out the window, at the endless grid of streets below. For so long, the fight was just to get a seat at the table. Now you have three seats offered to you, and you have to choose the right one. The one that leads not just to a job, but to a career. To a legacy.
“I don’t want to be the woman who broke the barrier,” you say, your voice clear and steady. “I want to be the goalie who won the Cup. Everything else is just noise.”
“And Vancouver gives you the best chance to do that?”
You think it over. A team on the rise. A passionate, hockey-mad city. A chance to be part of a tandem, to grow and develop without the crushing weight of being the immediate franchise savior. A chance to earn your spot, just like you always have.
“Yeah,” you say, a feeling of certainty settling deep in your chest. “I think it does.”
J.P. picks up his phone. He doesn’t look triumphant, just professional. The decision is made. Now comes the execution.
“So you’re telling me to call Patrik and tell him you want to be a Canuck?”
You take a deep breath, the filtered office air feeling suddenly fresh, full of promise. The pond behind your house. The taunts from the other kids. The sympathetic smirk of the athletic director. The slam of the judge’s gavel. It’s all led to this single, quiet moment, forty stories above the world.
“Yeah, J.P.,” you say, and the smile that breaks across your face is real, and bright, and full of fire. “Tell him I’m coming home.”
***
The air that hits you as you step out of the jet bridge at Vancouver International Airport is different. It’s clean, carrying the faint, briny scent of the Pacific and the crisp promise of pine from mountains you can’t yet see. It feels less like air and more like an inhalation of pure potential. The butterflies in your stomach, which had been performing a frantic, anxiety-fueled ballet for the entire six-hour flight from Boston, seem to calm, their wings beating a slower, more purposeful rhythm.
You navigate the terminal, a rolling duffel in one hand, your custom goalie sticks in a massive travel bag slung over your shoulder. People give you a wide berth. You’re used to it. A woman of your height, with the broad shoulders built by a thousand push-ups and the unmistakable gear of a hockey player, tends to part crowds. You scan the faces in the arrivals hall, a sea of reunions and greetings, looking for a sign. J.P. had said a team rep would meet you. You picture a fresh-faced kid from the media relations department, or maybe a grizzled, old-timer from the equipment staff, someone with a face like a well-worn catcher’s mitt.
Then you see him.
He’s leaning against a concrete pillar, away from the main throng, trying and failing to look inconspicuous. He’s tall — taller than you expected — and built like someone carved him from the side of a mountain. He’s wearing a simple black hoodie, the hood pulled up, and a pair of jeans. In his hands, he’s holding a small, slightly crumpled piece of printer paper. On it, in surprisingly neat block letters, is your last name.
Your brain takes a moment to process the image. The face under the hood is one you’ve seen a thousand times on television, in highlight reels, on hockey cards. The calm, intense eyes. The strong jaw. The placid expression that goalies perfect, the one that says nothing can rattle them.
It’s Thatcher Demko.
The starting goaltender for the Vancouver Canucks, a Vezina finalist, one of the best in the world, is standing in the arrivals terminal at YVR holding a makeshift sign for you like he’s an Uber driver.
Your feet feel suddenly rooted to the polished floor. You take a breath, tighten your grip on your duffel, and walk towards him. As you get closer, he looks up, his eyes meeting yours. A flicker of recognition, and then a small, genuine smile spreads across his face.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a low, easy rumble. It’s exactly as you’d heard it in post-game interviews. Calm. Steady. “You made it.”
“I … yeah,” you manage, your own voice feeling ridiculously small. “You’re Thatcher Demko.” It comes out as an accusation, a statement of blatant, unbelievable fact.
He glances down at the piece of paper in his hands and then back up at you, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I was trying to be subtle. Guess it didn’t work.” He crumples the paper and shoves it into his hoodie pocket. “Figured it was better than having some stranger pick you up. Welcome to Vancouver.”
He reaches for your stick bag, and you instinctively pull it back a little. “Oh, I can get it.”
“I’m sure you can,” he says, his smile widening. He gently takes the bag from your shoulder anyway. “But let me. It’s a big bag.” The transfer is seamless, professional. He handles the cumbersome bag with an ease that tells you he’s done this a million times.
You walk together towards the parkade, the silence between you punctuated by the squeak of your shoes and the rumble of your duffel’s wheels. Your mind is racing. Why is he here? Is this some kind of test? A rookie initiation?
“So,” he says, breaking the silence as you step into the elevator. “I have to say, this is pretty cool.”
“Cool?” You echo, confused. “What’s cool?”
“This. You. The whole thing.” He shifts the weight of your sticks on his shoulder. “I, uh, might have spent a few hours on YouTube last week watching your college highlights.”
You blink. “You did?”
“Oh yeah.” He nods, completely serious. “That glove save you made in the Beanpot final, second overtime, on that BC forward … Ryan Leonard, was it?”
“James Hagens,” you correct automatically.
“Hagens, right. The way you read the pass and pushed across, you were already there before he even shot it. Your anticipation is … insane.” He says it with the genuine, unadulterated enthusiasm of a true fan.
You don’t know what to say. Thatcher Demko is geeking out about your save. The world has officially tilted on its axis. “Thanks. He … he has a heavy shot.”
The elevator doors open, and he leads you to a large, black Ford F-150 that looks like it could drive up the side of a building. It’s immaculately clean. He loads your gear into the back with practiced efficiency before opening the passenger door for you.
“So you’re a truck guy,” you say, climbing into the cab.
“You kind of have to be, with the size of our gear bags,” he says, shutting the door and walking around to the driver’s side. “Tried a sedan once. Lasted about a week. Felt like I was solving a Rubik’s Cube every time I went to the rink.”
He starts the engine, and the truck hums to life. As he navigates out of the parkade and onto the highway, the city begins to reveal itself. Glass towers glint in the late afternoon sun, framed by the dark, majestic peaks of the North Shore mountains. It’s beautiful. Breathtakingly so.
“So, listen,” he says, his eyes on the road. “I know things are probably going to be … a little weird at first. With the media, and, you know, everything.”
“I’m used to weird,” you say with a small smile.
“Yeah, I bet you are. But I just wanted to be the first one to say it doesn’t matter. None of that stuff matters in the room, and it definitely doesn’t matter in the crease. You’re here because you can stop the puck. Period. Anyone who has a problem with that is an idiot.”
The directness of it, the simple, unequivocal statement of support, loosens a knot in your chest you didn’t even realize was there. “Thank you,” you say, and the words are heavier than just two syllables. “Seriously.”
“Don’t thank me. Just be ready to work.” He glances over at you. “And don’t be afraid to be a weirdo.”
You laugh. “A weirdo?”
“Yeah. You’re a goalie. You have to be a weirdo. It’s in the job description.”
“Okay,” you play along. “What’s your weirdest goalie thing? Your biggest superstition?”
He thinks for a moment, a slight smile on his face. “Alright. Don’t tell anyone this. Especially not Ian Clark, he’d kill me. But before every period, when I skate out to the crease, I have to tap the left post, then the right post, then the crossbar with the butt-end of my stick. In that order. Always. If I mess it up, I have to skate a little circle and start over.”
“Okay, that’s pretty standard,” you say, nodding. “The post-tapping ritual. I get that.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the weird part,” he continues. “The weird part is … I say hello to them.”
You turn to look at him. “You what?”
“I say ‘Hey, Lefty. Hey, Righty. Hey, Top,’ under my breath. Every single time. Gotta make sure we’re all on the same page, you know? They’re my best friends out there.” He says it with such deadpan sincerity that you can’t help but burst out laughing.
“Okay, you win,” you say, wiping a tear from your eye. “That is officially weird.”
“Your turn,” he says, grinning. “Spill it. What’s your thing?”
You hesitate for a second, then decide he’s earned it. “My glove,” you say. “The night before a game, I take it to my hotel room. And I put it on the pillow of the other bed. Like it’s a person.”
He nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Okay. Okay. I see it. You want it to be well-rested. Limber. Ready to perform. That makes a weird kind of sense.”
“And,” you add, emboldened, “I never, ever, let my pads touch on the floor of the locker room when I’m getting dressed. They have to be standing up against the stall, perfectly parallel. If someone bumps one and it falls over and touches the other one, I have to … well, it’s not good.”
“It throws the whole alignment of the universe out of whack,” he finishes for you, his expression deadly serious.
“Exactly!” You exclaim. “You get it.”
“I get it,” he confirms. “We’re the same kind of crazy.”
The rest of the drive passes in an easy flow of conversation. You talk about gear, the never-ending quest for the perfect skate sharpening, the agony of breaking in a new blocker. You talk about the mental side of the game, the deafening silence after letting in a soft goal, the weird Zen-like state you can get into when you’re seeing every puck like it’s a beach ball. He doesn’t treat you like a rookie, and he doesn’t treat you like a woman. He treats you like another goalie, a fellow member of the strange, lonely union.
He pulls up in front of a sleek downtown hotel. “Team puts all the new guys up here until they find a place,” he explains, putting the truck in park. “It’s not bad. Good gym. Decent room service.”
He gets out and helps you with your bags, walking you into the lobby. The concierge greets him by name.
“Thanks for this, Thatcher,” you say, as he hands your duffel over to the bellhop. “You really didn’t have to.”
“Demko,” he corrects. “Everyone just calls me Demko. Or Demmer. And yeah, I did. Wanted to make sure you got a proper welcome.” He offers you a hand. You shake it. His grip is firm, confident. “Get some rest. Camp starts in two days. It’s gonna be a grind.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Good.” He gives you one last nod. “See you at the rink. Try not to let your pads touch.”
And with that, he’s gone. You watch him walk out of the lobby, leaving you standing there with a feeling you haven’t had in a long, long time. The feeling that, for the first time, you might have just found a place where you truly belong.
***
Two days later, that feeling of belonging is replaced by a tidal wave of pure nerves.
You walk through the corridors of Rogers Arena, following the signs to the Canucks locker room. The air is cool and smells of Zamboni fumes and stale popcorn. You can hear the distant, echoing clicks of pucks and the shouts of the early-arriving players. Every step feels momentous.
You push open the heavy door, and the room goes quiet.
It’s not a dramatic, movie-style silence. It’s more subtle than that. Conversations don’t stop mid-sentence, but they trail off. Heads turn. The dozen or so players already there, in various states of dress, all look at you. It only lasts for a second, but it feels like an eternity.
The room itself is exactly what you’d imagined. A large oval, stalls lining the walls, the iconic orca logo woven into the massive carpet in the center. Jerseys are hung with pristine care, a sea of blue, green, and white.
A man with a sharp suit and an even sharper expression detaches himself from a conversation with two other men in tracksuits. He walks towards you, hand extended.
“You’re here,” he says. It’s not a question. His voice is gravelly, no-nonsense. “Adam Foote. Welcome to camp.”
“Coach,” you say, shaking his hand. His grip is like iron. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
“Opportunity’s gotta be earned,” he says, but there’s no malice in it. It’s just a statement of fact. He turns to the rest of the room, his voice booming. “Alright, listen up! This is Y/N Y/L/N. She’s here to compete for a spot, same as everyone else. Introduce yourselves. Make her feel welcome.”
He gives you a short, sharp nod, and then he’s gone, back to his conversation. The ice is broken. A few guys call out a “Hey” or “Welcome.” One by one, players start to come over as you make your way to the empty stall someone has clearly designated for you. It’s between a veteran defenseman and an empty space.
A tall forward with a friendly, open face is the first to offer a proper handshake. “Brock Boeser. Good to have you here.”
“Conor Garland,” says another, his handshake firm, his eyes assessing. “Heard a lot about you.”
“Elias Pettersson,” a lanky Swede with intense eyes says with a polite nod.
You go through the motions, shaking hands, learning names, matching faces to the players you’ve watched for years. It’s a blur of polite greetings. Then, a goalie in full gear, minus his helmet, waddles over. He’s got a bright, optimistic look on his face.
“Kevin Lankinen,” he says in a slight Finnish accent, pulling off his blocker to shake your hand. “Welcome to the competition.”
You look him in the eye. He is, in the most direct way, your rival. The man you have to beat to earn that job. The smile he gives you is genuine, but his eyes hold a competitive fire that you know well, because you see it in the mirror every morning.
“Good to meet you,” you say, your tone even. “Looking forward to it.”
“May the best goalie win,” he says with a cheerful grin, and waddles back to his stall. There’s no animosity, just the clean, simple reality of professional sports.
You finally get to your stall and begin the long, familiar ritual of getting dressed. It’s a comfort. The specific order of things — shin pads, pants, skates, chest protector — is a meditation. You focus on the task, blocking out the low hum of conversation around you, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched.
“So, is it true?”
The voice is quiet, coming from your left. You turn your head. Leaning against the adjacent stall is a player you recognize instantly. Quinn Hughes. The captain. He’s smaller than most of the other guys, but he has an aura of quiet confidence. He’s watching you with a curious, almost academic interest.
“Is what true?” You ask, pulling a skate lace tight.
“That you sued the NCAA and won.” He says it casually, like he’s asking about the weather.
“Yeah,” you say, starting on your other skate. “That’s true.”
“That’s pretty badass,” he says with a small smirk. “Must have cost a fortune.”
“It did,” you admit. “My parents remortgaged their house.”
His smirk fades, replaced by a look of genuine respect. “Wow. So no pressure, then.”
You can’t help but smile. “None at all.”
He pushes off the stall and sits down on the bench in the empty spot next to you. He’s already in his lower gear, his skates on but unlaced. “I watched some of your games from last year. You, uh … you don’t move a lot.”
It’s an odd observation. “I move when I have to.”
“No, I mean, that’s a compliment,” he clarifies, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “A lot of goalies are all over the place. Hasek wannabes. All flash. You’re … efficient. Calm. Like you know where the puck is going before the guy even shoots it.”
He’s a student of the game. You can hear it in the way he talks. He’s not just seeing a goalie, he’s analyzing a system.
“It’s called anticipation,” you say. “Kind of important for the position.”
“Right.” He nods. “So, are you going to be able to anticipate my shot?” There’s a playful challenge in his eyes now.
You finish lacing your skates and stand up, looking down at him. “Which one? The slapshot you never use or that weird, jerky little wrist shot you release from your hip?”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and then he breaks into a wide, infectious grin. “Okay. Okay. You’ve done your homework. I respect that.”
“You have to,” you say, grabbing your chest protector. “It’s called being a professional.”
He laughs, a genuine, happy sound that draws a few glances. “I like you,” he declares. “You’re alright.”
“Glad I have the captain’s seal of approval,” you say dryly, pulling the bulky protector over your head.
“You don’t need my approval,” he says, his tone shifting back to something more serious. “You just need to stop pucks. That’s all anyone in here cares about. You do that, and you’ll be fine.”
He stands up, his presence suddenly feeling closer. “For what it’s worth,” he adds in a lower voice, “I’m glad you’re here. It’s good to have someone in the room who had to fight to get here.”
Before you can respond, Foote’s voice cuts through the room. “On the ice in five! Let’s go!”
Quinn gives you a quick tap on the shoulder pads. “See you out there. Try to keep up.”
He skates away, and you’re left with the echo of his words, a warmth spreading through your chest.
Stepping onto the ice at Rogers Arena is like stepping into another dimension. The lights are brighter, the ice is colder and harder, the rink feels both bigger and more intimate than any college barn you’ve ever played in. You take your place in one of the nets, Demko in the other, and begin your warm-up stretches, the movements as familiar and comforting as breathing.
Ian Clark, the legendary goalie coach, skates over. His eyes are piercing, and you feel like he’s taking a complete inventory of your technique, your stance, your very soul, in a single glance.
“Alright,” he says, his voice quiet but commanding. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Just movement drills to start. T-pushes. Shuffles. Butterfly slides. I want to see clean edges. No wasted energy. Let’s go.”
For the next twenty minutes, he puts you and the other goalies through the paces. It’s grueling, precise work. He corrects your hand positioning by an inch, the angle of your skate by a few degrees. He doesn’t offer praise, only corrections. You just nod, absorb the information, and execute. You feel Lankinen next to you, matching you move for move, his own movements economical and sharp. The silent competition has begun.
Then, the team drills start.
A 3-on-2 rush comes down on you. Garland is carrying the puck, Pettersson on his left, Boeser on his right. It’s a blur of elite speed and skill. Garland dishes to Pettersson, who one-touches it back. You read the return pass, sliding across the crease, every muscle screaming. Garland fires it, a hard, low shot aimed for the far corner. You extend your leg, the toe of your pad just catching the puck, deflecting it wide.
A defenseman taps your pads with his stick. “Great save!”
You just nod, resetting. The next rush comes.
For an hour, it’s a relentless onslaught. You face shots from every angle, every type of release. Breakaways, backdoor tap-ins, point shots through traffic. You feel yourself slipping into the zone, that hyper-focused state where the puck seems to slow down, where you’re not thinking, only reacting. You make saves you have no business making, your glove snatching pucks out of the air, your pads slamming shut on five-hole attempts. You let in a few, too. A perfect snipe from Pettersson that goes bar-down. A tricky deflection you can’t track. But you don’t let it rattle you. You reset. Next puck.
Late in the practice, you see him. Quinn, gathering the puck at the blue line. He skates laterally, his head up, surveying his options. He’s not looking at you, but you know he knows you’re there. He fakes a pass, freezing the forward covering him for a fraction of a second. In that tiny window, he lets it go — that jerky, deceptive wrist shot you’d mentioned in the locker room. It’s not a hard shot, but it’s perfectly placed, ticketed for the top corner, short side.
You don’t have time to think. It’s pure muscle memory. You explode upwards from your butterfly, your glove hand shooting up, and you feel the sharp thud of the puck nesting perfectly in the pocket.
The whistle blows. You hold the glove up for a second, then toss the puck out. You look over at him. He’s standing at the blue line, stick resting on his hips, just watching you. He doesn’t smile. He just gives you a slow, single nod. A nod of pure respect.
In the world of hockey, it’s better than a standing ovation.
When the final whistle blows to end practice, you’re drenched in sweat, your legs feel like jelly, and you’re utterly exhausted. But you’re also exhilarated. As you skate towards the gate, Demko glides alongside you.
“Not bad,” he says, his face impassive behind his mask, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Not bad at all.”
“Just trying to keep up,” you pant.
“Well, you did.” He taps your pads. “Good work. See you tomorrow.”
Back in the locker room, the atmosphere is different. It’s lighter. The curiosity has been replaced by a quiet acceptance. You didn’t just show up. You performed. You proved, on day one, that you belong on that ice.
As you’re pulling off your skates, Quinn walks by your stall. He stops, leaning an arm against the frame.
“So,” he says, a small grin playing on his lips. “I guess you anticipated that one.”
“I told you,” you say, trying to keep your voice even, trying to ignore the way your heart is beating a little faster. “It’s my job.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing off the stall. “Tomorrow, I’m scoring.”
He winks, then walks away, leaving you to stare after him, a smile you can’t contain spreading across your face. It’s only day one, and the fight is far from over. But as you sit there in the loud, bustling, sweat-soaked locker room of the Vancouver Canucks, you feel a sense of rightness, a deep and profound certainty that you chose the right city. You chose the right team. You came to the right place.
***
Training camp is a blur. It’s a relentless, soul-crushing, beautiful grind. The days bleed into one another, marked only by the searing pain in your legs during bag skates and the fleeting satisfaction of a perfectly executed drill. Your world shrinks to the ice, the gym, the hotel, and the film room. It is monastic. It is punishing. It is exactly where you want to be.
You and Kevin Lankinen exist in a state of professional orbit. You are never far from each other, a silent, magnetic push-and-pull of competition. You watch him during drills, noting the efficiency of his pushes, the quickness of his glove. He watches you, his eyes lingering after you make a sprawling save in a scrimmage. The respect is mutual, the goal singular. There is only one job.
Your friendship with Demko solidifies. He’s your unofficial mentor, your confessor in the church of goaltending. He’ll skate by your net after a drill, offering a quiet word. “You’re opening up your five-hole a hair early on your butterfly slides,” or, “Keep that blocker hand active. Don’t let it go dead.” It’s never criticism, only data. He’s helping you, sharpening you, not because he’s a saint, but because he wants the best possible goalie playing behind him. A strong tandem makes the whole team stronger.
And then there’s Quinn. The interactions are small, fleeting moments that somehow feel more significant than entire conversations. It’s a shared laugh in the middle of a brutal stretching session. It’s him skating by the bench and squirting water from his bottle at you, earning a playful glare. It’s him seeking you out in the lunchroom to ask a question about a defensive breakdown in the scrimmage, his tone treating you not as a rookie, but as a peer whose opinion he genuinely values. You find yourself looking for him, your eyes scanning the ice for the smooth, effortless stride of number 43.
The preseason arrives like a judgment. Six games to decide your fate. Foote announces that you, Lankinen, and a prospect from Abbotsford will split the first three starts. The math is simple and terrifying. Every single shot matters.
Your first test is in Seattle. You’re backing up Lankinen, which means you spend the first half of the game chewing on a towel and trying to keep your leg muscles from seizing up. The Climate Pledge Arena is loud, a wave of teal and navy blue. Lankinen looks … tight. He lets in a goal on the first shot, a wrister from the point that he seems to misread. Ten minutes later, a bad rebound kicks right out into the slot, and a Kraken forward buries it. You can see his shoulders slump.
At the halfway mark of the second period, during a TV timeout, Ian Clark skates to the bench and looks directly at you. “You’re in.”
That’s it. No pep talk. No instructions. Just “You’re in.”
Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. You pull on your helmet, grab your stick, and skate to the net. Lankinen is already there. He lifts his mask, his face slick with sweat and frustration.
“See ‘em well,” he says, his voice tight. It’s the goalie’s equivalent of ‘break a leg.’
“You got it,” you say, tapping his pads.
You do your ritual. The familiar routine is a rock in a stormy sea. The whistle blows. The puck is dropped. A Seattle forward carries it over the blue line and fires a slap shot from a mile out. It’s a tester, a nothing-burger of a shot. You swallow it up in your glove, holding it for a second before the whistle. You feel the tension drain out of you. Okay. Just hockey.
For the next thirty minutes, you are a black hole. Everything they throw at your net, you absorb. A frantic goalmouth scramble where you lose your stick and have to make a save with your blocker while lying on your stomach. A breakaway from Matty Beniers where you match his speed, hold your ground, and force him to shoot it wide. You aren’t spectacular. You’re just … there. A calm, immovable object. You make the saves you’re supposed to make, and one or two that you aren’t. The Canucks end up losing 3-1, but you let in zero goals. In the silent, brutal accounting of a goalie battle, that’s a win.
A few nights later, in the home locker room at Rogers Arena, Foote walks up to your stall. “You’ve got the Oilers tonight.”
A cold dread mixes with fiery excitement in your stomach. The Oilers. McDavid and Draisaitl. The two-headed monster that haunts the dreams of every goalie in the league.
“Yes, coach,” you say, your voice betraying none of your internal chaos.
Before you go out for warmups, Demko, who is sitting this one out, comes over to you. He leans in close.
“Forget their names,” he says quietly. “They’re just 97 and 29. They’re just two guys with sticks. Watch the logo on their chest, not the name on their back. Stop the puck.”
You nod, the simple advice cutting through the noise in your head. Stop the puck. It’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.
The game is the fastest you have ever experienced. The speed is breathtaking, particularly Connor McDavid’s. The first time he comes down on you with a head of steam, it feels like he’s warping reality around him. He skates past two of your defensemen like they’re traffic cones. He’s in alone on you. He dekes left, dekes right, his hands a blur. You don’t bite. You hold your depth, your focus narrowed to the six-ounce piece of vulcanized rubber on his stick blade. He tries to slide it five-hole. You slam your pads shut. The puck thuds into your pads and dies right there.
The arena, which had held its breath, explodes. You see Quinn skate by the net and bang his stick on the ice in appreciation.
You make forty-two saves that night. You rob Draisaitl on a one-timer that he blasts from his office at the side of the net, your glove shooting out to snag it. You stop a wraparound from Zach Hyman. You stand on your head. But they are who they are. McDavid scores on a ridiculous individual effort where he banks the puck off the back of the net to himself. Draisaitl scores on a power play. You lose 2-1.
But as you skate off the ice, exhausted and aching, the crowd is on its feet, giving you a standing ovation. You lift your stick to acknowledge them, a sense of gratitude washing over you. You lost the game, but you proved you could stand in the fire.
Your last chance is the final preseason game, on the road, against the Calgary Flames. The Scotiabank Saddledome is a sea of red, hostile and loud. This is it. The final exam. You feel a strange sense of calm. You’ve done everything you can. Now you just have to play.
And you do. You play the best game of your life. You’re in that surreal state of flow, the zone, where time slows down and you see everything. You’re reading plays before they happen, sliding into position a half-second before the pass is even made. You stop a 2-on-0 shorthanded breakaway. You make a glove save that is so audacious the Calgary crowd lets out a collective groan.
You pitch a shutout. The Canucks win 2-0.
In the locker room afterwards, it’s a quiet, happy scene. Guys are packing their bags, excited for the real season to start. You’re sitting in your stall, slowly peeling off your gear, when Quinn sits down on the bench next to you. He’s still in his gear, helmet off, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
“You know,” he says, looking straight ahead, “you’re a real pain in the ass.”
You turn to look at him, confused. “What?”
“For Foote,” he clarifies, a grin spreading across his face as he turns to you. “You’re making this decision impossible for him. Lankinen has a contract. You don’t. And you just came in here and outplayed him at every turn. It’s a real headache for management.”
“Oh,” you say. “Sorry to be a bother.”
“Don’t be,” he says, his voice softening. “It’s the best kind of problem to have. You were unbelievable tonight.”
“Thanks, Cap,” you say, a genuine warmth spreading through your chest.
“Anytime,” he says, standing up. “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”
He’s right. The next day, the final cut day, the air at the arena is thick with tension. The rink is quiet. Players walk around like ghosts, waiting for the summons. You sit in the players’ lounge, staring at a cup of coffee, your phone face down on the table. Every time a door opens, you jump.
At 11:30 AM, a team staffer finds you. “Foote wants to see you.”
Your blood turns to ice water. This is it. You walk down the hall, your footsteps echoing. The hallway to the executive offices feels a mile long. You knock on the door that says ‘HEAD COACH.’
“Come in.”
You open the door. Adam Foote is sitting behind his desk. Patrik Allvin is in a chair beside him. They both look serious. Your heart sinks. This is the ‘thanks for coming, but we’re going in another direction’ face. You’ve seen it before.
“Sit down,” Foote says, gesturing to the chair opposite them.
You sit. The leather is cold. You place your hands on your knees to keep them from shaking.
Allvin speaks first, his Swedish accent precise and clear. “We brought you into camp to compete for a job. We told you nothing would be handed to you. We told you that you would have to earn it.”
He pauses, letting the words hang in the air. You just nod, your throat too dry to speak.
“Well,” Foote cuts in, leaning forward. “You did. You came in here, you worked your ass off, you didn't say a damn word, and you were outstanding in all three of your games. You earned it.”
You stare at him, the words not quite registering.
Allvin smiles, a warm, genuine smile. “What Adam is trying to say is, we would like to offer you a two-year, two-way NHL contract. We want you to be Thatcher’s partner this season.”
The breath you’ve been holding for your entire life rushes out of you in a single, silent gasp. The room swims for a second. You feel a lightness in your head, a dizzying, overwhelming wave of relief and joy and disbelief. You swallow hard.
“Thank you,” you manage to say, your voice cracking. You clear your throat. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it.”
“We know we won’t,” Foote says, his stern expression finally breaking into a small smile. “Now get out of here. J.P. is waiting for your call. We’ve got a press conference to arrange.”
You stand up, shake both their hands, and walk out of the office in a daze. As the door clicks shut behind you, you lean against the wall in the empty hallway, closing your eyes. It’s real. You did it. All the years on the frozen pond, the taunts, the lawsuits, the 4 AM practices, the remortgaged house … it was all for this.
When you open your eyes, Demko is standing at the end of the hall, leaning against the wall, a huge, knowing grin on his face. He doesn’t say anything. He just gives you a slow, deliberate nod. You nod back, a wide, shaky smile spreading across your own face. He knew. Of course he knew.
***
Two hours later, you’re standing in the Canucks media room, but it feels more like a gladiator pit. The room is packed. Every major sports network in North America seems to be here. Cameras flash like lightning, and the low hum of dozens of conversations creates a palpable buzz of energy.
You, Allvin, and J.P. sit at a table on a small stage. Allvin makes the official announcement. “The Vancouver Canucks are proud to announce that we have signed goaltender Y/N Y/L/N to a two-year contract.”
The room erupts in a cacophony of camera shutters. After a few minutes of formal statements, they open the floor to questions. Most of them are for you.
They start easy. “How does it feel to make history?” “What does this moment mean to you?” You give the practiced, humble answers you’ve been preparing your whole life.
Then, a reporter from a major network in the front row gets the microphone. He has a smug, confrontational look on his face.
“A question for you,” he says, his voice amplified by the speakers. “We’ve seen a similar phenomenon in basketball with Caitlin Clark, who chose to embrace the WNBA and help grow that league. The PWHL is having incredible success in its own right. Why do you think you’re too good for the Professional Women’s Hockey League?”
The room goes quiet. It’s a loaded, cynical question, designed to trap you, to paint you as arrogant or as someone who is turning her back on women’s hockey. You can feel the weight of every female hockey player in the world on your shoulders.
You take a slow, deliberate breath. You look directly at the reporter.
“First,” you begin, your voice calm and steady, projecting through the room. “Let’s be clear. I think what Caitlin Clark is doing for the WNBA is incredible, and I think the PWHL is one of the most important things to ever happen to our sport. I have watched every game I can, and I am in awe of the talent in that league. I’m not too good for that league. No one is.”
You pause, letting that sink in.
“But my dream was never just to be a professional hockey player. It was to play in the best league in the world, against the best players in the world. Period. When I was a little girl, my dad didn’t tell me, ‘One day, you can play in a great women’s league.’ He told me, ‘One day, you can play in the NHL.’ My whole life, every decision I’ve made, every battle I’ve fought, including a lawsuit that took years off my parents’ lives, was for the right to have the opportunity to compete for a spot here.”
You lean a little closer to the microphone.
“This isn’t about me being too good for one league. This is about me finding out if I’m good enough for this one. The women in the PWHL are building something special, and they have my absolute respect. I’m trying to prove something different. I’m trying to prove that in hockey, the only thing that should matter is your ability to play the game.”
You lean back. The room is silent for a beat. You’ve answered the question, disarmed the trap, and stated your case without disrespecting anyone.
The scrum breaks up shortly after that, dissolving into a chaotic swirl of reporters trying to get one last quote. As you step down from the stage, you feel a hand clap you firmly on the back. You turn. It’s Quinn, a huge, proud grin on his face. The entire team had been watching from the back of the room.
He leans in close so you can hear him over the noise. “That,” he says, “was the best damn answer I’ve ever heard.”
He gives you a quick, conspiratorial wink, and then he’s swallowed up by the crowd of your new teammates, all coming over to congratulate you. But the wink lingers. It’s a seal of approval, a sign of alliance. It feels less like a welcome to the team and more like a welcome home.
***
The first four games of the season are a unique form of torture.
You are in the NHL. You have the contract, the stall in the locker room, the number on your back. You are living the dream. But you’re living it from the best seat in the house, on the bench, watching Demko do his job.
It's a strange purgatory. You are part of the team, but not yet part of the game. You chew on the nub of a Gatorade towel, your leg bouncing with a nervous energy that has nowhere to go. You track every puck, your body making phantom saves, your muscles twitching in sync with the action a hundred feet away. You are a loaded gun with the safety on.
“It’s the worst, isn’t it?” Demko says to you after the season opener, a solid 5-1 win against the flames where he was brilliant.
“What is?” You ask, looking up from the tablet where you’d been re-watching one of his saves from the third period.
“The waiting,” he says, leaning his head back against the wall. “Being the number two. You do all the same work, all the same prep, but you don’t get the release. It’s like being a race car driver who only gets to sit in the passenger seat. You just have to stay ready.”
“How do you do it?” You ask, the question genuine. “How do you stay sharp when you don’t know when you’ll play?”
“You get weird,” he says with a shrug. “Weirder than usual, I mean. Your practices become your games. Every shot in a morning skate is the Stanley Cup Final. You get into a competition with yourself. And you watch. You watch everything. You learn my tendencies, you learn the shooters’ tendencies. You become a librarian of hockey information. So when they finally call your number, you’re not thinking. You just know.”
You take his advice to heart. Your practices become legendary among the coaching staff. You stay out thirty minutes late every day, begging anyone — Pettersson, Garland, Boeser — to take extra shots on you. You become a student of your own team, learning how each defenseman likes to play a 2-on-1, which forward is most likely to block a shot.
Your bond with Quinn deepens, not through grand conversations, but through the quiet language of the game. He learns that you like to play the puck behind the net, and he starts presenting a better, more predictable target for your passes. You learn that on the power play, he loves the deceptive shot-pass, and you start anticipating the deflection. Before each game, as the team lines up in the tunnel, he’s the last one you see before you take your spot on the bench. He has a ritual. He skates by, taps Demko on the left pad, then skates to you and taps you on the right. Every single time. A small gesture of inclusion. A reminder that you’re part of the tandem.
After a tough 3-2 loss to the Blues at home, he finds you in the gym, long after most of the team has gone home. You’re on the exercise bike, churning out your frustration.
“Hey,” he says, walking over. He’s in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. “Shouldn’t you be at home eating pizza or something?”
“Not tired,” you say, your breathing heavy.
He just nods, understanding. He grabs a foam roller and starts working on his legs a few feet away. You ride in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the whir of the bike and the squeak of the foam roller.
“That second goal,” he says finally, his voice quiet. “That was on me. I bit on the pass, left Hronek out to dry.”
You slow your pedaling. “It was a 2-on-1, Quinn. It happens.”
“It shouldn’t,” he says, his voice tight with the frustration of a perfectionist. “Demmer had the shooter, I’m supposed to take the pass. I got greedy. I thought I could strip the puck.”
He’s not looking for absolution. He’s just analyzing the data, frustrated with his own error. It’s the same way you break down goals against yourself.
“Next time you’ll take the pass,” you say.
He looks up at you, a small, grateful smile touching his lips. “Yeah. I will.” He gets up, stretching. “Don’t stay too late. We’ve got a flight to catch tomorrow.”
“Yes, Captain,” you say with a mock salute.
He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he walks away.
The moment finally comes on a gray, drizzly morning in Dallas, Texas. The team is going through a light morning skate ahead of their game against the Stars. It’s the fifth game of the season, and the second half of a grueling back-to-back that saw the Canucks lose a tight game in Chicago the night before. Demko had faced forty shots.
You’re in your net, feeling loose, tracking pucks, when Adam Foote skates over. His face is its usual stony mask.
“You’re in tonight,” he says, his voice a low gravel.
You freeze for a fraction of a second, a shot from Boeser sailing harmlessly past your ear. You turn back to the coach.
“You got this,” is all he says, before skating away to yell at a defenseman for a lazy pass.
Your stomach does a complicated series of flips. This is it. No more waiting. No more watching. The race car is yours to drive.
Demko skates over to your net, leaning against the crossbar. “Hear the news?”
“Heard the news,” you confirm, your voice coming out steadier than you feel.
“Good. It’s about damn time.” He looks around the American Airlines Center, at the thousands of empty green seats. “This is a tough barn to play in. They’re a heavy team. They love to crash the net. Stand your ground. Don’t let them push you around.”
“Got it.”
“It’s just another net,” he says, tapping the post with his stick. “Six feet by four feet. Same as it’s always been. Go have fun.”
The rest of the day is a slow, agonizing crawl towards 7 PM. You try to nap at the hotel, but your mind is racing, playing out every possible scenario. You eat your standard pre-game meal of salmon and quinoa, but it tastes like cardboard. You sit on the bus on the way to the arena, your headphones on, but you don’t hear the music. You just hear the thumping of your own heart.
In the locker room, the atmosphere is loose, but professional. The team is tired from the back-to-back, but they’re ready. As you go through the long, meticulous ritual of putting on your gear, you feel a sense of calm finally settle over you. This is your church. The smell of the room, the feel of the pads, the specific order of operations — it’s all familiar. It’s home.
When you’re almost dressed, Quinn walks over. He’s leaning against your stall, his expression unreadable.
“Ready for this?” He asks.
“Born ready,” you lie, trying for a confident smirk that probably looks more like a grimace.
“Good,” he says. “Because we’re gonna be running around a bit tonight. Tired legs. We’re gonna need you to be our best player.”
It’s not a pep talk. It’s a statement of fact. It’s a transfer of responsibility. He’s not trying to pump you up, he’s telling you what the team needs from you. It’s more effective than any rah-rah speech could ever be.
“I’ll be there,” you say.
“We know.” He offers you a fist bump. You meet it with your blocker. “See you in the tunnel.”
Walking down that tunnel is the most terrifying and exhilarating moment of your life. The lights of the arena are blinding, the roar of the Dallas crowd a physical force. You step onto the ice, and a chorus of boos rains down on you. They know who you are. They know this is your first start. They want to see you fail.
You skate to your crease, do your ritual.
The puck drops.
The first five minutes are a whirlwind. Dallas comes out flying, pinning the tired Canucks in their own zone. The puck is a blur. A shot from the point through a screen that you have to fight to see, your glove snatching it at the last second. A wrap-around attempt by Wyatt Johnston that you get your skate on, kicking it out of danger. A one-timer from Jason Robertson in the slot that you get your chest on, the puck thudding into your protector like a punch.
With each save, you feel the nerves melt away, replaced by the cool, clear focus you’ve been chasing your whole life. You are in the zone. The game slows down. The hostile crowd fades into white noise. There is only you, the puck, and the five skaters in front of you.
The Canucks weather the storm, and the game settles into a tense, grinding affair. It’s 0-0 at the end of the first. You’ve made 15 saves.
In the locker room, Foote is pragmatic. “Good period, good period! We bent, we didn’t break. She’s holding us in it,” he says, jerking his head in your direction. “Now let’s get our damn legs moving and get her some support. We can’t let her stand on her head all night.”
The second period is more of the same. It’s a goaltending duel. At the other end, Jake Oettinger, another young American star, is matching you save for save. He robs Pettersson on a breakaway, his long legs stretching to deny the deke. You stop Mikko Rantanen on a deflection from the top of the crease, the puck changing direction at the last second.
Late in the period, the Canucks finally break through. Garland forces a turnover at the blue line and feeds a pass to Boeser, who wires a wrist shot over Oettinger’s glove. 1-0 Vancouver. The small pocket of Canucks fans in the upper deck goes wild. You bang your stick on the ice, a jolt of pure joy running through you.
The third period begins, and Dallas comes with a desperate push. They are a proud, veteran team, and they hate losing at home. They throw everything at your net. The game gets chippy. A scrum ensues after you freeze the puck, and you get a little shove from a Stars forward. You don’t even flinch.
Then, it happens.
About eight minutes into the third period, there’s a mad scramble in front of your net. The puck is loose in the blue paint. You dive, covering it with your glove just as a skate kicks it. The whistle blows. You’re lying on your stomach, the puck safely under your glove.
As you start to get up, a massive weight lands on top of you. It’s Jamie Benn, the Dallas captain. He doesn’t just fall. He lands, and then he pushes. He grinds his weight into your back for a split second too long, a deliberate, antagonizing act of disrespect. A clear violation of the code.
You feel a flash of hot anger, but before you can even react, he’s gone. Because he’s been ripped off you.
Quinn, who had been the defenseman closest to the net, moves like a viper. He drops his stick, grabs the back of Benn’s jersey with both gloves, and yanks him back. Benn is bigger, stronger, a renowned tough guy. He turns, surprised, a snarl on his face. Quinn doesn’t care. He gets right in Benn’s face, his expression a mask of cold fury.
“Don’t you ever touch our goalie!” He screams, his voice raw, audible even over the crowd.
Benn shoves him hard. Quinn doesn’t go down. He shoves back. And then the world explodes.
Filip Hronek, Quinn’s defensive partner, is the next one in, grabbing Benn from behind. Another Stars player grabs Hronek. Suddenly, it’s a full-blown line brawl. Gloves are dropping everywhere. Garland finds his dance partner. Joshua squares off with another Dallas heavyweight. Every skater on the ice is paired up, grappling, shoving, throwing muffled punches that land with dull thuds against shoulder pads and helmets. The referees are overwhelmed, blowing their whistles uselessly, trying to separate the tangled knots of angry men.
And you? You get up, brushing the snow off your jersey. You watch the chaos unfold in your crease for a moment, a strange sense of calm detachment washing over you. This is insane. And it’s all for you. They are defending you. Your team.
You see Oettinger at the other end, standing in his crease, watching the mayhem just like you. A strange, unspoken goalie etiquette takes over. This isn't your fight. You look at him. He looks at you. You both give a slight nod, a silent agreement.
You calmly skate out of the warzone in front of your net, leaving your stick behind. You skate towards center ice. Oettinger does the same from his end. You meet right at the red line, the giant Stars logo beneath your skates. You both stop, standing a few feet apart, turning to watch the brawl like two patrons enjoying a particularly rowdy dinner theater performance.
“Well,” Oettinger says, his voice muffled by his mask. He leans on his knees, casual as can be. “That escalated quickly.”
“Tell me about it,” you say, shaking your head. “Benn get a little too friendly a lot?”
“That’s his move,” Oettinger says with a sigh. “Loves to stir the pot in the crease. Never does it when I’m in net, though. Professional courtesy, I guess.”
“Guess I haven’t earned that yet,” you say with a dry laugh.
“Oh, I think you just did.” He gestures with his blocker towards the pile of bodies, where Quinn is still trying to get at Benn, held back by a linesman. “Your captain seems to like you.”
You watch Quinn, his face flushed, still yelling at Benn. A strange, warm feeling spreads through your chest, a feeling that has nothing to do with the game. “Yeah,” you say softly. “He’s a good captain.”
“So, that save you made on Moose in the second,” Oettinger says, changing the subject with the ease of someone completely disconnected from the violence being perpetrated by his teammates. “The deflection. Did you read that off his stick or did you just get lucky?”
You can’t help but laugh. Your teams are engaged in mortal combat, and the two of you are here at center ice, breaking down film. “A little of both,” you admit. “I saw him get his stick free, and I know that’s his spot. I just tried to get my body in the way and hoped for the best.”
“Nice,” he says, nodding in appreciation. “Real nice. You’re looking solid tonight, by the way. Sucks that it’s against us, but, you know. Respect.”
“You too,” you say. “That stop on Petey was larceny.”
The linesmen finally start to get control of the situation, peeling players apart. The ice is littered with gloves and sticks.
“Well,” Oettinger says, straightening up. “Looks like the intermission’s over. Good luck the rest of the way.”
“You too,” you say. “Try to keep your captain in his pen.”
He chuckles. “No promises.”
You skate back to your crease, a small smile on your face. You pick up your stick. The rink crew comes out to scoop up the yard sale of equipment. The referees convene. The penalty box doors are about to get a workout. When the dust settles, Quinn gets two minutes for roughing. Benn gets two for goalie interference and two for roughing. The Canucks are going on the power play.
As Quinn skates to the box, his face still stormy, he looks over at you. You meet his eyes and give him a sharp, deliberate nod. A thank you. He nods back. An ‘anytime.’
The fight galvanizes the Canucks. They play the rest of the game with a ferocious energy. They kill off a late penalty with a desperation you haven’t seen all season. Every player on the ice is blocking shots, sacrificing their bodies. They are not letting this game slip away. Not tonight. Not your first start.
With ten seconds left, the Stars pull Oettinger for an extra attacker. A shot comes from the point. It’s deflected in front. You don’t see it, you just react, your body lunging to the side, your glove thrown out in desperation. You feel the puck hit the very tip of your glove, just enough to send it fluttering wide of the net.
The final horn sounds.
You’ve won. 1-0. Your first NHL start is your first NHL win is your first NHL shutout.
You’re immediately mobbed by your teammates. They swarm you, banging on your helmet, hugging you, their shouts of celebration a joyous, deafening roar. You feel Hronek’s arms wrap around you, lifting you off the ice in a bone-crushing hug. You see Garland’s ecstatic face, Pettersson’s rare, wide grin.
In the locker room, it’s euphoric. Foote comes into the center of the room.
“Hell of a win!” He yells over the music. “Hell of a gutsy, greasy, road win! That’s how we gotta play!” He looks over at you, a proud, almost fatherly look on his face. “And how about this one? Stood on her head. Unbelievable.” He tosses you the game puck. “Congrats on your first. Many more to come.”
The room erupts in stick taps and cheers. You hold the puck, the black rubber cool and heavy in your hand. It’s the single greatest object you’ve ever owned.
Later, after the media interviews and the chaos, when the room has mostly cleared out, you’re sitting in your stall, the puck on the bench beside you. You’re just staring into space, replaying the entire night in your head.
“You okay?”
You look up. It’s Quinn. He’s changed into a suit for the flight, but there’s a small, fresh cut above his right eye, a souvenir from his tangle with Benn.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice a little hoarse. “I’m okay. Are you okay?” You nod towards his cut.
He touches it gingerly. “It’s nothing. Just a love tap.” He sits down on the bench next to you. “You earned that one tonight. You were … incredible.”
“I had some help,” you say, looking at him meaningfully. “Thanks for … you know. Back there.”
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and serious. “No one touches our goalie. Ever. That’s the rule. I don’t care who it is. That’s my job.” He pauses, a small smile playing on his lips. “Especially when it’s you.”
You feel a blush creep up your neck, and you’re suddenly very grateful for the dim lighting of the locker room. You look down at the puck in your hand, then back up at him.
“Well,” you say, your voice softer than you intend. “It was nice of you to do your job.”
He just holds your gaze, his eyes warm and sincere. The noise of the world — the equipment managers packing bags, the distant sound of the bus engine starting — fades away. In the quiet aftermath of the battle, sitting on a bench in a locker room in Dallas, Texas, it feels like you’ve won more than just a hockey game. You’ve found your place. And you have a very strong feeling that the captain, the one with the cut above his eye, is a very big part of it.
***
The two months between your first start and the December road trip are a whirlwind of learning and adjustment. You settle into the rhythm of being an NHL goaltender, a rhythm that is both monotonous and exhilarating. You get ten more starts, winning six of them. You are no longer a curiosity, you are a reliable, effective number two goalie. You are part of the team.
The life is a series of airports, buses, hotels, and arenas. You learn which cities have the best coffee near the team hotel (Calgary) and which have the worst morning traffic (Los Angeles). You learn that Conor Garland is a fiend at cards, that Brock Boeser can sleep literally anywhere, and that Elias Pettersson analyzes crossword puzzles with the same intensity he uses to break down power-play footage.
And you learn Quinn Hughes. You learn him in the small moments. You learn that he hates losing more than he loves winning. You learn that he can be quiet and withdrawn after a bad game, but he’s the first one to crack a joke the next morning to reset the mood. You learn that he always asks the flight attendants their names and thanks them personally when he deplanes. You develop an easy rapport, a shorthand built on the ice that translates seamlessly to life off it. It’s a shared eye-roll during a boring team meeting, a quiet conversation in the back of the bus about a missed defensive assignment, a shared bag of peanut M&Ms on the plane. It’s simple. It’s comfortable. And it’s starting to feel like something you look for, something your day feels incomplete without.
The five-game East Coast swing in December is a notorious grind. New York, New Jersey, Long Island, Boston, and then Philadelphia. A ten-day sentence in the hockey gulag. The team is tired. You lose a sloppy game to the Devils. You grind out an overtime win against the Rangers.
The night before the game against the Islanders, you’re in your hotel room on Long Island, studying film, when your phone buzzes. It’s a text from Demko.
Demmer: Foote just told me I’m in tomorrow.
You stare at the message. Of course he is. The Islanders are a tough, veteran team. It’s the first half of a back-to-back. It’s the logical choice. But a knot of disappointment tightens in your gut anyway. The next game, the second half of the back-to-back, is in Boston.
You: Go get ‘em. Be great.
Demmer: Don’t you get it?
You: Get what?
Demmer: He’s giving you Boston. On purpose. Your homecoming.
You read the text again. And again. Demko is right. Foote could have easily started you here, against the Isles, and given Demko the more prestigious Saturday night game in Boston against the Bruins. But he didn't. He was giving you your stage. The city where you became a star. The city where you fought the NCAA and won.
A fresh wave of nerves, far more potent than anything you felt in Dallas, crashes over you.
The next day, you watch from the bench as the Canucks play a hard, heavy game against the Islanders, ultimately losing 2-1 in a shootout. Demko is brilliant, but the team looks gassed. After the game, on the short flight to Boston, the mood is subdued.
Quinn slides into the empty seat next to you. “You good?” He asks, his voice low.
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “Just tired.”
“Bullshit,” he says, not unkindly. “You’re thinking about tomorrow.”
You turn to look at him. He’s got that look on his face, the analytical one he gets when he’s reading a play. Right now, he’s reading you.
“It’s just another game,” you try, the words feeling hollow even to you.
“No, it’s not,” he counters gently. “It’s Boston. It’s where you played college. It’s where you became … you. Don’t pretend it’s not a big deal. It’s okay for it to be a big deal.”
His understanding, the simple act of him acknowledging the pressure you feel, makes the knot in your stomach loosen. “There’s going to be a lot of people there,” you admit quietly. “People I know.”
“Good,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “Then we’d better put on a show for them.” He bumps his shoulder against yours. “Don’t worry. We’ve got your back.”
***
TD Garden is electric. From the moment you step onto the ice for warmups, you can feel it. It’s different from the hostility in Calgary or the nervous energy in Dallas. This is … love.
You see them immediately. Scattered throughout the lower bowl, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Boston University jerseys. Terrier red mixed in with the Bruins’ black and gold. You see signs. ‘WE STILL LOVE OUR GOALIE.’ ‘ONCE A TERRIER, ALWAYS A TERRIER.’ BOSTON, BE NICE TO HER!’
As you skate your laps, a chant starts, low at first, then growing in volume. It’s not a Canucks chant, or a Bruins chant. It’s your name. The sound echoes through the cavernous arena, a surreal, overwhelming wave of affection from a crowd that is supposed to be rooting against you. You tap your heart with your glove, a lump forming in your throat.
At the other end of the ice, Quinn is leaning against the boards, watching you, a curious smile on his face. He’s never seen anything like this. An opposing player being serenaded by the home crowd before the game has even started.
The game itself is a war. The Bruins are one of the best teams in the league, and they play a heavy, punishing style. The tired Canucks are on their heels from the opening faceoff. The first period is a siege. You face nineteen shots. Nineteen.
You are a wall.
You stone Fraser Minten on a breakaway, refusing to bite on his deke and smothering the puck with your pads. You make a lightning-fast glove save on a David Pastrnak one-timer from the circle, a shot that has beaten the best goalies in the world. The Bruins fans groan in frustration, but their groans are mixed with a loud, appreciative roar from your personal cheering section.
You get lucky, too. A shot rings off the post with a deafening PING that vibrates through your bones. A puck trickles through your five-hole, but Hronek is there to sweep it off the goal line at the last second.
You go into the first intermission tied 0-0. Your teammates skate by your net, tapping your pads, their expressions a mixture of relief and awe.
“Just hang in there,” Quinn says as you skate to the tunnel. “We’ll get our legs under us. You’re keeping us alive.”
In the locker room, Foote is calm. “They gave us their best punch, and we’re still standing,” he says, his eyes finding yours. “Because our goalie is a damn rock star. Now, let’s get our heads out of our asses and go play some hockey. Let’s reward her.”
The second period is a different story. The Canucks come out with a renewed energy. Five minutes in, Pettersson threads a perfect pass to Garland, who rips a shot past Jeremy Swayman. 1-0 Canucks. The building falls silent, except for the pocket of Terrier fans who erupt in joyous celebration.
The lead is short-lived. The Bruins come back with a vengeance. Elias Lindholm crashes the net, creating chaos. In the ensuing scramble, the puck squirts out to Pavel Zacha, who flips it over your outstretched pad. 1-1.
The game is a track meet from there. Brock Boeser scores on a wicked wrister. Charlie McAvoy ties it for the Bruins on a blast from the point that you never saw through a screen. It’s 2-2 heading into the third.
The third period is the most intense twenty minutes of your life. Every save feels like the most important save you’ve ever made. The crowd is a single, roaring entity, living and dying with every shot. With five minutes left, the Bruins get a power play. It feels like the air has been sucked out of the building. This is it. The breaking point.
They set up in the zone. Pastrnak with the puck on his stick is a terrifying sight. He winds up for a one-timer. You slide across, every fiber of your being focused on that puck. He fires. You get your blocker on it, the puck deflecting high up into the protective netting. Faceoff.
They win the draw. The puck goes back to the point, then over to Morgan Geekie. He fakes a shot, freezing you for a split second, and slides a pass across the royal road to a wide-open Pastrnak. The net is empty. It’s a sure goal.
You don’t think. You explode. You push off your right skate with all the force you have left, throwing your body, your glove, your entire existence across the crease. The puck is already on its way. You feel a sharp, stinging impact in the webbing of your glove, your arm fully extended, parallel to the ice.
You’ve got it.
The entire arena, Bruins fans and your fans alike, rises to its feet with a single, unified roar of disbelief. It’s the save of the year. It’s the save of your life.
The Canucks kill off the rest of the penalty, feeding off the energy. The horn sounds. 2-2. You’re going to overtime. You collapse onto your knees in the crease, head bowed, utterly spent.
Overtime is a frantic, chaotic blur of 3-on-3 hockey. There are chances at both ends. You stop a 2-on-1. Swayman stones Pettersson. Finally, Quinn gets the puck in his own end. He sees a seam and takes off. He flies through the neutral zone, his skates barely seeming to touch the ice. He cuts around a Bruins defenseman, the move so slick it looks like the other player is standing still. He’s in alone on Swayman. He fakes the shot, pulling the puck to his backhand and sliding it gently, perfectly, into the open net.
The Canucks win.
The bench empties, a wave of white jerseys flooding the ice and heading straight for Quinn. But he just skates past them, his arms raised in triumph, and comes directly to you. He crashes into your crease, wrapping you in a hug that lifts you off your skates.
“You did it!” He yells into your mask, his voice filled with pure, unadulterated joy. “You stole that game! You were unbelievable!”
The rest of the team piles on, a joyous scrum of exhaustion and victory. When they finally disperse, you’re named the first star of the game, to absolutely no one’s surprise. You skate your lap, saluting the crowd, your heart feeling like it’s going to burst.
As you head towards the tunnel, you see them. Pressed up against the glass is a sea of familiar faces. Your old BU teammates, the ones who are still on the team. They’re banging on the glass, their faces split with massive grins.
“Y/N!” Yells your old defenseman, a big kid named Mick. “Get over here!”
You skate over, a huge smile breaking across your face. “You guys came!”
“Are you kidding me?” Shouts your old backup goalie, Mathieu. “We wouldn’t miss this for the world! You were insane!”
You open the gate at the end of the bench and step out onto the walkway. You’re immediately swallowed by them. They’re all talking at once, a chaotic, loving cacophony.
“That save on Pastrnak! What was that?”
“You’re buying drinks for the whole team for the next year!”
“Coach watches every game from his office, he screams so loud I always think he’s gonna have a heart attack!”
Mick, who is about six-foot-two and built like a lumberjack, grabs you and lifts you effortlessly onto his shoulders. You yelp in surprise, your helmet still on, as the whole group cheers. They’re parading you around the small concrete walkway like you just won the national championship all over again. It’s loud, it’s chaotic, it’s ridiculous, and it’s the purest form of love you’ve ever felt.
You’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe, your body aching, your heart soaring. This is your family. The boys you went to war with for four years. The ones who saw you cry after a tough loss and who celebrated with you after a huge win. For a moment, you’re not an NHL goalie. You’re just their goalie.
***
Down the long, sterile tunnel that leads to the visitors’ locker room, Quinn is leaning against the concrete wall. He’s watching the scene unfold at the edge of the ice, a small, genuine smile on his face. He sees the joy, the friendship. He sees you, beaming, being hoisted onto some giant defenseman’s shoulders. He’s happy for you. Truly.
But there’s something else, too. A strange, unfamiliar pang in his chest. It’s a feeling of distance. He’s watching you be a part of a world he has no access to, a history he wasn’t there for. He sees the easy way they touch you, the inside jokes he can’t hear, the shared history that radiates from the group. And he feels … separate. An outsider.
“She’s not going to see you from all the way back here.”
Quinn jumps slightly. Petey has materialized beside him, silent as a ghost. He’s leaning against the wall in a similar pose, his intense eyes also fixed on the scene.
“I’m not trying to be seen,” Quinn says, trying to sound casual. “Just giving her a minute. It’s a big night for her.”
“Yes,” Petey says, his gaze unwavering. “She is very popular.”
Just then, Brock strolls up, a towel around his neck and a wide, easy-going grin on his face. “What are we lookin’ at, boys? Oh, wow. Look at that. They’re treating her like she’s the Stanley Cup.”
“She basically won it for us tonight,” Quinn mutters, his eyes still locked on you. He sees the big defenseman finally set you down, only for you to be pulled into a dozen different hugs.
“You have a funny look on your face,” Petey observes, his tone flat and analytical.
“I do not have a funny look on my face,” Quinn retorts, a little too quickly. “I’m happy for her. That’s my ‘happy for my teammate’ face.”
Brock snorts. “Dude, no offense, but that is not your ‘happy for your teammate’ face. That’s your ‘I just watched Garland take the last donut’ face.”
“I’m not …” Quinn starts, then stops, frowning. He can’t quite name the feeling himself. It’s a weird, protective, possessive knot in his stomach. He hates it.
“You look like a little puppy who has been left in the car,” Petey adds, with absolutely zero malice. It is a simple statement of fact, as he sees it.
“I do not look like a puppy!” Quinn snaps, finally tearing his gaze away from the celebration to glare at his teammates. “What is wrong with you two? I’m the captain. She’s my goalie. I’m just … watching out for her.”
Brock’s grin widens. He exchanges a look with Petey, who allows the barest hint of a smirk to touch his lips. They know. Oh, they know.
“Right. ‘Watching out for her’,” Brock says, making air quotes with his fingers. “From fifty feet away. Behind two security guards. Very effective protection, Cap.”
“You are jealous,” Petey says, the words landing with the simple finality of a judge’s gavel.
“I am not jealous!” Quinn insists, his face flushing. The accusation hits a little too close to home. “Jealous of what? A bunch of college kids? That’s ridiculous.”
“It is not ridiculous,” Petey counters, pushing off the wall. “They know a part of her you do not. They are lifting her up. You wish you were the one lifting her up.”
Quinn opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because, in a way the quiet Swede couldn't possibly understand the full scope of, he's right. It’s not about lifting you physically. It’s about being part of that inner circle, about being the one who gets to share in that uninhibited joy.
“Whatever, guys,” he finally mumbles, turning to head towards the locker room. “I’m gonna go shower.”
“Don’t want her to see your sad puppy face when she gets back?” Brock calls after him, laughing.
Just as Quinn is about to round the corner, he hears your voice, bright and breathless, echoing down the tunnel.
“Quinn! Wait up!”
He freezes, caught. He turns around as you jog to catch up, your face flushed and glowing, a smile so wide it looks like it hurts. Your old teammates are waving from the edge of the ice before being shooed away by security. Petey and Brock are standing there, identical looks of smug amusement on their faces.
“Did you see that?” You say, completely oblivious to the conversation that just took place. “That was my whole team! Mick put me on his shoulders! Can you believe it? I think my ribs are bruised.”
Quinn has to physically reset his face from ‘flustered and annoyed’ to ‘happy and supportive.’ He shoves the strange, confusing feelings down, deep down.
“Yeah, I saw,” he says, and he’s relieved to find his voice is normal. He even manages a genuine smile. “Looked like fun. You deserved it. You deserved every second of that tonight.”
“It was the best,” you say, still buzzing. You look up at him, your eyes shining with leftover adrenaline and pure happiness. “Thanks for scoring that goal, by the way. You kind of saved my butt.”
“Nah,” he says, his smile softening as he looks at you. “You saved ours about twenty times first.”
He gives a pointed look over your shoulder at Brock and Petey, who are failing to hide their laughter. “Come on. Let’s go. These two are weirdos.”
He puts a hand lightly on your back, guiding you towards the locker room, away from the prying eyes of his far-too-observant teammates. And as you walk beside him, still chattering excitedly about the game and your friends, he feels that strange, possessive pang in his chest again. But this time, it’s a little less confusing. And it feels a little more like home.
***
The months after the Boston game are a crucible. The easy comfort between you and Quinn deepens into something more charged, a low-voltage current that hums just beneath the surface of every interaction. It’s in the way his eyes find yours across a crowded locker room after a big win. It’s in the way you start saving the seat next to you for him on the plane without even thinking about it. It’s in the lingering moments after practice when you’re the last two on the ice, him feeding you pucks for one-timers, the only sound the scrape of your skates and the echo of the puck off the boards, a rhythm that feels more intimate than any conversation.
He imagines asking you out a thousand times.
He plays the scenarios in his head on a loop. A casual coffee on an off-day. A well-planned dinner during a road trip. A simple, direct question after a practice. Each version is smooth, confident, charming. Each version ends with you smiling and saying yes. And each version evaporates into a cloud of anxiety the moment he’s actually near you.
The timing is never right. The stakes are too high. What if you say no? What if it makes things weird? What if it messes with the delicate chemistry of a team that is, against all odds, scratching and clawing its way into playoff contention? So he says nothing, and the unspoken thing between you grows, a tangible presence in the room.
April arrives, cold and cruel. The final two weeks of the regular season are a gauntlet. Every game is a playoff game. The city of Vancouver is holding its collective breath. You, the surprising Canucks, are on the bubble, locked in a brutal three-way race for the final wild-card spot.
The second-to-last game of the season is at home, against the Vegas Golden Knights. The math is simple and devastating. A win, in any fashion, and you clinch a playoff spot. A loss, and you need a miracle on the final day. The pressure is a physical weight, pressing down on the entire city.
Demko gets the start. Of course he does. He’s the number one, the Vezina candidate, the man you trust with the season on the line. Your job is to be ready, to be the best teammate you can be from the bench, to open the door and have a towel ready.
The game is a masterpiece of tension. Rogers Arena is a shaking, roaring cauldron of blue and green. Every save Demko makes, every blocked shot, every hit, is met with a deafening roar. The first period ends 0-0. The second period is just as tight, a chess match played at a hundred miles per hour.
And then, disaster.
With three minutes left in the second, there’s a collision in the crease. A Vegas forward drives the net, gets tangled with Hronek, and they both go crashing into Demko. It doesn’t look malicious, just a hockey play gone wrong. But Demko stays down.
The arena falls silent. You’re on your feet, peering over the boards, your heart in your throat. He tries to get up, and his left leg buckles. The trainer is on the ice. After a tense few minutes, Demko is helped off, unable to put any weight on his leg. He gives you a grim nod as he passes the bench.
Ian Clark is at your side before Demko is even off the ice. “You’re in,” he says, his voice eerily calm. “Stay square. Breathe. You’ve done this a hundred times.”
Your blood runs cold. You have to go in. Cold. Into a 0-0 game, with the entire season on the line. Your mind is a screaming siren of panic, but your body goes on autopilot. You do the stretches, take the sips of water. You are a machine built for this, even if the ghost inside is terrified.
You step onto the ice. The crowd, which had been silent with worry, gives you a tentative, hopeful cheer. You skate to the net, give it a few taps with your stick.
You survive the final three minutes of the period. The horn sounds. In the locker room, the mood is grim. Demko is already in the trainer’s room. Foote is pacing.
“Listen up!” He barks. “Nothing changes! We feel for Demmer, but we’ve got a game to win. And we have all the confidence in the world in the person in that net.” He points his clipboard directly at you. “We’ve seen what she can do. Now let’s go out there and play our asses off for twenty minutes and get this goddamn thing done.”
The third period is the most intense, high-stakes hockey you have ever played. It’s a track meet. The Golden Knights, sensing blood in the water, come at you in waves. You make a save on Jack Eichel. You stop a point-blank shot from Mark Stone. You are no longer thinking, you are pure reaction, a vessel of instinct and muscle memory.
With ninety seconds left on the clock, the game is still tied 0-0. And then, a turnover. A bad pinch by a defenseman at the Vegas blue line. Suddenly, it’s a 2-on-0. William Karlsson and Mitch Marner are streaking down the ice, all alone, with only you between them and the Canucks’ playoff death.
Quinn is the lone man back, skating for his life, but he won’t get there in time. The arena holds its breath. This is it. This is the season.
Karlsson carries the puck, his eyes locked on Marner. He knows you have to respect his shot. You hold your ground, refusing to cheat to the pass. He slides it across at the last possible second. A perfect pass. A backdoor tap-in. Marner has the entire right side of the net empty, a gaping four-foot by six-foot invitation.
He one-touches it.
You have already pushed off. It’s not a calculated move, it’s an act of pure desperation. You throw your body across the crease, your stick fully extended along the ice, your glove hand reaching, reaching, reaching for something that seems impossibly far away.
You feel it before you see it. A faint vibration up the shaft of your stick. The puck, ticketed for the back of the net, hits the paddle of your outstretched stick and deflects up, over the crossbar, and out of play.
The buzzer for a TV timeout sounds a second later.
The sound that erupts from the crowd is not a cheer. It’s a sonic boom of disbelief. A primal roar of catharsis. Your teammates are staring, mouths agape. Quinn, who had dove in a last-ditch effort, just lifts his head from the ice and stares at you, his eyes wide.
You just lie there on the ice for a second, your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest. You did it. You saved it.
The team skates over to you, a jumble of white jerseys. They’re banging your helmet, screaming your name. “Unbelievable!” “Holy shit!” “You’re a maniac!”
Quinn is the last to arrive. He skates right up to your crease, his hair matted with sweat. He’s looking at you with an expression you’ve never seen before. It’s awe. It’s relief. It’s something so raw and open it makes your breath catch in your throat. He leans in close, his mouth right next to the earhole of your mask, the arena noise fading into a dull roar around his voice.
“That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen,” he breathes, his voice shaky with adrenaline. And then he says the words that shatter the world. “Go out with me.”
You freeze. The blood drains from your face. You are certain you misheard him. The roar of the crowd, the adrenaline, the exhaustion — it has to be a hallucination.
“What?” You manage to say, your voice a faint croak.
“After the season,” he says, his eyes, wide and intense, pleading with yours through the bars of your mask. “One date. Please.”
The referee is blowing his whistle, gesturing for the players to get ready for the faceoff. Foote is screaming from the bench. You have to finish the most important ninety seconds of your season, and your brain has just short-circuited.
You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to say. So you just give a single, tiny, bewildered nod.
He squeezes your shoulder, his eyes never leaving yours, and then he skates away to the faceoff circle. You’re left alone in your crease, your mind a complete blank. Did that just happen? Did the captain of the Vancouver Canucks just ask me out during a TV timeout after I made a save?
Somehow, you get through the rest of the game. You get through overtime. You get to a shootout. And you stop all three Vegas shooters stone cold. The Canucks win. They’re going to the playoffs. The arena is pure bedlam. You are mobbed, the hero, the savior. But all you can think about is him.
***
The locker room is a joyous, chaotic asylum. Champagne and beer are spraying everywhere. The music is so loud the walls are vibrating. Players are hugging, screaming, celebrating a hard-fought, year-long battle finally won. You are at the center of it, guys lifting you up, chanting your name.
But your eyes keep finding him across the room. He’s celebrating, too, but every few seconds, his gaze meets yours. There’s a question in his eyes. An apology. A hope.
An hour later, the room has finally cleared out. The music is off. The puddles of beer are being mopped up by the equipment staff. Most of the players have left to meet their families. It’s just you and him. You’re sitting in your stall, still in your undershirt and hockey pants. He’s sitting in his, a few stalls down. The silence is deafening.
He’s the first to break it. He gets up and walks over, pulling a rolling stool with him. He sits down in front of you, his knees almost touching yours.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey,” you reply, your voice barely a whisper.
“I am so, so sorry,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice is overwhelming. “That was … I don’t know what that was. I didn’t plan it. I swear. It just … came out. My brain shut off and my mouth kept working. It was the stupidest possible time to do that, and I’m sorry.”
You just nod, looking down at your hands.
“I’ve wanted to ask you for months,” he continues, his voice low and earnest. “Since the fall. I kept trying to find the right time, the perfect moment, and I just … I kept chickening out. And then you made that save, and it was just … you were incredible. And I …” He trails off, running a hand through his damp hair. “I’m an idiot.”
You finally look up at him. You see the genuine remorse in his eyes, the nervousness. And you know you have to say what’s in your heart.
“Quinn,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. “You know what my life has been like. You know what I’ve had to fight for. The headlines, the lawsuit, the commentators … it was always ‘the girl goalie.’ For years, that’s all I was. I fought so hard, I worked so hard, for people to just see ‘the goalie.’ For my play to be the only thing that mattered.”
You take a shaky breath. “If I start dating the captain … I become a story again. A different story. A cliché. ‘The first woman in the NHL finds love with her captain.’ It sounds like the plot of a bad movie. It’s not fair, but it’s the truth. People will talk. They’ll say I didn’t earn my place, that I had a distraction. It threatens to undermine everything I’ve ever worked for.”
Tears well up in your eyes, and you hate it. You hate feeling this vulnerable.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just listens, his eyes never leaving yours. He doesn’t try to interrupt or argue. He just lets you speak your truth. When you’re finished, he reaches out and gently, tentatively, takes your hand. His touch is warm and steady.
“I hear you,” he says, his voice full of a quiet strength. “I get it. And it is completely and totally unfair that you have to carry that weight. That you have to even think about those things. What you’ve accomplished, what you’ve earned … it stands on its own. It’s historic. Nothing and no one can ever undermine that. Especially not me.”
He squeezes your hand. “But it’s also not fair for you to have to build a wall around your life because of what a bunch of idiots with microphones might say. We can’t let them write our story, Y/N. That’s their narrative. We have to be able to write our own.”
He looks at you, his expression so sincere it makes your heart ache.
“One date,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “That’s all I’m asking. After the playoffs are over. We’ll go somewhere quiet. No cameras. No jerseys. Just you and me. And if it’s weird, or if it feels wrong, or if it’s just not right for you, we go right back to being teammates and friends. And I will never, ever bring it up again. I swear on my life. But …” He hesitates, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “What if it’s not weird? What if it’s great?”
You look into his eyes, and you see your future. Not the one the reporters will write, but the one you want. A future where you can be the goalie, the trailblazer, and a person who gets to be happy. You see a future with this man, who waited, who respected you, who fought for you, and who just laid his heart at your feet.
A slow smile spreads across your face. The tears are gone, replaced by a feeling of profound, heart-stopping hope.
“Okay, Hughes,” you say, your voice clear and steady. “One date.”
The relief that washes over his face is so absolute it’s like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds. He breaks into a grin so wide and boyish it makes you laugh.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you confirm, laughing. “Now, are you going to let go of my hand, or are we going to sit here all night?”
He laughs, too, a sound of pure joy, and reluctantly lets go. You both stand up, the quiet locker room suddenly filled with a new, fragile, wonderful energy.
You walk out of the room together, side-by-side. As you step into the main hallway that leads to the players’ parking lot, you see a strange scene unfolding.
Clustered near the exit are Petey, Brock, Garland, Hronek, Joshua, and at least five other players. They’re all gathered around Demko, who is leaning against the wall with his injured leg propped up on a chair. And every single one of them is pulling out their wallet and handing cash to Demko, their faces a mixture of disgust and grudging respect.
Demko is raking in a pile of twenties and fifties, a smug, triumphant grin plastered on his face. “Pay up, boys,” he says cheerfully. “The bookie always wins. Told you it’d happen after a season-defining moment of emotional vulnerability.”
Quinn stops dead in his tracks. You stop with him, staring at the bizarre transaction.
“Are you kidding me?” Quinn says, his voice a mixture of disbelief and horror. “There was a betting pool?”
Demko looks up, completely unfazed. He gestures to Quinn with the wad of cash in his hand. “Of course, there was a pool. What do you think we talk about on road trips? Defensive pairings?”
Brock claps a dejected hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Don’t feel bad, man. I lost a hundred bucks. I had ‘day after the end-of-season party’.”
“I had ‘during bye week’,” Garland grumbles, handing a fifty to Demko. “I thought you had more game than this, Huggy.”
Petey shakes his head, his expression deadpan as he pays his debt. “I was logical. I predicted he would ask after the first playoff series win. I did not account for him being a complete lunatic.”
Demko points a thumb at Quinn. “That’s where you went wrong, Petey. You gotta factor in the crazy. I was the only one who bet on ‘in the middle of the most important game of the season immediately following an impossible save.’ High risk, high reward.”
You look at Quinn. His face is the color of a ripe tomato. He looks mortified. And then you start to laugh. Not a small chuckle, but a full, deep, belly laugh. The absurdity of it all, the tension of the last few hours, the ridiculous, supportive, wonderful stupidity of your team — it all comes bubbling out.
Your laughter is infectious. Quinn looks at you, then at his teammates, who are all grinning now, and a reluctant smile spreads across his face. He shakes his head, defeated but happy.
This is it. This is the story. Not the one the media will write. This one. The real one. Messy, and chaotic, and dramatic, and funny. It’s yours. And as Quinn takes your hand again, this time with no hesitation at all, you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones, that this is only the first chapter.
***
Two Years Later
The air in the arena is thick enough to breathe. It’s Game 6 of the second round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs. The weight of an entire city, desperate and dreaming, rests squarely on your shoulders. Two years ago, that pressure would have terrified you. Now, it’s just fuel.
The ‘you’ of today is not the same person who stepped onto the ice for that first start in Dallas. This version is etched from playoff wars and Vezina nominations. The ‘rookie sensation’ and ‘female phenom’ headlines have long since faded, replaced by simpler, more powerful words: ‘elite,’ ‘unflappable,’ ‘franchise goalie.’ You are the starter. The number one. The last line of defense for a team, and a captain, that you love.
Demko is still here, your partner and best friend, a formidable 1B in the best tandem in the league. But tonight, this series, this run — it’s your net.
The game against the Los Angeles Kings is a street fight on ice. It’s 2-1 for you in the third period, and every inch of ice is contested with a slash or a cross-check. They crash your net relentlessly, a swarm of orange and black, trying to break you through sheer force of will.
There’s a scramble in your crease. You make the initial save, but the rebound sits dangerously in the blue paint. You lunge, covering the puck with your glove a split second before a Kings forward can poke it home. The whistle blows, a shrill mercy in the chaos.
As you lie there, Joel Edmundson, a player who seems to exist purely to irritate, skates by and deliberately sprays you with a shower of ice shavings, right in the face. It’s a classic, infuriating act of disrespect.
The old you might have ignored it. The current you does not. You look up, your eyes locking with his through your mask, and you give him a slow, deliberate whack on the shin pads with the paddle of your stick. A clear message: Not in my house.
He snarls something at you. But he doesn't get to finish.
Because Quinn is there.
It’s not the frantic, furious rush of two years ago. This is something far more dangerous. It’s a cold, calculated arrival. He glides between you and Edmundson, a silent, blue-and-green wall. He doesn’t shove him at first. He just gets in his space, forcing him back, his eyes burning with an intensity that could peel paint.
“Are we doing this again, Joey?” Quinn’s voice is deceptively calm, a low rumble that cuts through the din. “You seem to forget the rules.”
“She’s a goalie, not the damn queen,” Edmundson spits back, trying to push past him.
Quinn’s hands come up, grabbing the front of Edmundson’s jersey. He shoves him back so hard the King stumbles. “She’s my goalie,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that’s more threatening than any shout. “And my only rule is that scum like you doesn’t get to breathe her air. Now get the hell out of the crease before I help you.”
A jolt, sharp and electric, goes through you. It’s not fear. It’s not even just gratitude anymore. It’s a dark, thrilling, proprietary feeling that is yours and his alone. Watching him, your captain, your partner, stand guard over you with that cold fire in his eyes … it’s a language only the two of you speak. Two years of this, of these moments, and it still lights a fuse deep inside you.
The referees move in, separating them before it can escalate further. As Quinn skates away from the scrum, he circles back past your net. He doesn't say a word. He just looks at you. His eyes, dark with leftover aggression and something else, something deeper, lock with yours. It’s a look that has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the hotel room that awaits you both in a few hours. A silent, searing promise.
You just give him a slow, deliberate nod, your heart hammering against your ribs for an entirely new reason.
***
An hour later, the locker room is vibrating with the joy of a 2-1 series-clinching win. You’re advancing to the Western Conference Final. The music is blasting, players are celebrating, the weight of the game replaced by the giddy anticipation of what’s to come.
You’re sitting in your stall, peeling off your drenched gear, when Quinn comes over. He leans against the stall beside yours, a towel slung around his neck, that intense look still lingering in his eyes.
“You okay?” He asks, his voice a low murmur meant only for you.
“Never better,” you reply, your own voice dropping to match his. You meet his gaze, and the noisy, crowded locker room melts away. There’s only him, the promise in his eyes, and the echo of that on-ice fire.
You are so lost in the moment that you don’t notice the audience you’ve gathered.
“Uh oh,” Garland says, not even trying to be quiet. He’s sitting across from you, taking off his skates. “Everybody see that? They’re making the eyes.”
Brock, sitting next to him, grins. “Yep. That’s the ‘Quinn played knight in shining armor’ look. It’s got its own gravitational pull.”
You feel a blush creep up your neck, but you can’t bring yourself to look away from Quinn. He just rolls his eyes at his teammates, a small, private smile playing on his lips. He’s used to it. They all are.
Garland sighs, a loud, dramatic sound that cuts through the music. He stands up and stretches, making sure he has the attention of the entire room.
“Alright, boys,” he announces, his voice booming. “Just a friendly reminder for everyone on the leadership group’s floor at the hotel …” He pauses for dramatic effect.
“I certainly hope you all brought your earplugs.”
The room explodes. A wave of laughter, catcalls, and stick taps echoes off the walls. You finally break eye contact with Quinn, burying your hot face in a towel, your shoulders shaking with laughter. You feel mortified and ridiculously, incandescently happy all at once.
Across the way, Quinn just shakes his head, a huge, unbothered grin spreading across his face. He picks up a crumpled roll of sock tape and wings it at Garland’s head, who ducks it with a triumphant laugh.
The noise eventually dies down. You look up from your towel. Your eyes find his again across the room. The laughter is gone, replaced by that same, searing look from the ice. It’s a look of profound love, of shared history, of a fierce, protective partnership that transcends the game. And it’s a look that still holds the silent, thrilling promise of later.
This was the story. Not the one the reporters wrote, but the one you built together. The one with the fights, the saves, the bets, and the love that was forged in the fire of the NHL. And as he gives you a slow, deliberate wink, you know with every fiber of your being that the best chapters were still to come.
tongues collided. you couldn’t help it. quinn just returned from a week and a half long road trip, and you needed to show him how much you missed him. you barely waited for the man to cross the threshold before jumping into his arms. he greeted you with a smile and caught you. your legs instantly wrapped around his waist as he carried you through the apartment to settle down on the couch. now, on the sofa, your lips had yet to separate from each other as your mouth opened to invite him in.
his hands instantly found your hips, magnetized to your skin. though he had every inch of you memorized, he didn’t mind having a reminder after so long without you. his fingers slid under your sweatshirt – one that had gone missing from his collection a while ago – as he kneaded your flesh. the sound that escaped you made the long road trip worthwhile. being away from you was never easy, but seeing you so desperate and needy fueled the fire in his belly. he already knew he wouldn’t last long. slow to pull away, he had the cockiest smirk on his face, “fuck, my love, it’s almost like you missed me.”
you whined, trying to chase his lips. “q, please,” you whispered, “need you.” to add to your desperation, you ground your hips against his, begging for any friction. quinn wanted you, too. his cock was pressing against your center, and it was blissful yet not enough. you needed more. “quinny,” you leaned forward to kiss along his jaw, “couldn’t get you out of my head.” his head tilted back, inviting you to keep going. you eagerly took the invitation, instantly nipping at the sensitive flesh where his jaw and throat meant. you knew better than to leave a mark during the season, but that didn’t stop you from making the skin red. when quinn thought you were going too far, his hand squeezed your hips and pressed you down into his lap. the gasp that escaped you had him chuckling. “quinn, that’s not fair,” you huffed.
“all is fair in love and sex,” he smirked as you rolled your eyes. he captured your lips again without further complaint. he took the opportunity to gain an advantage and bit at your lips. it wasn’t a punishment, but he had no problem letting you know he was in control. it didn’t matter how needy you were. you were at his mercy, and he would remind you of that.
time stilled while you enjoyed your boyfriend’s presence. though you were only separated for a short while comparatively, a week and a half felt like a lifetime. you needed quinn like you needed water and air. you lived and breathed for him. when he was gone, you forgot how to breathe. it didn’t take long for you to feel wet, either. need mixed with pure arousal, and your panties were soaked through. you ground down once more, trying to entice quinn to take you to the bedroom. he got the hint, pushing you off of his lap slowly. he was ready to pull you into the bedroom and fuck you into the mattress until the sun rose. you stood, holding quinn’s hands to your hips. even as you walked to the bedroom, he would not let you go.
before you could begin the short journey to your bed, your heart sank to your stomach, and your cheeks flared. in your absence, you could see why you were so wet. a red stain was plastered over quinn’s bulge, painfully obvious on his light gray sweatpants. you froze, a deer in headlights, unable to stop staring. embarrassment pooled in your stomach, quickly replacing the feeling of arousal. usually, you kept meticulous records of your period. you liked to track your cycles so you wouldn’t be surprised in moments like this. how had you not remembered that your period was about to start? though you didn’t want to, you pushed quinn’s hands off of you. suddenly, you weren’t interested in being touched. “i-i’m so s-sorry.”
quinn’s hands dropped off of your hips immediately, respecting your space. “hey, my love, it’s alright. it happens,” he spoke calmly. throughout his career, he’d gotten blood out of several jerseys and shirts. this was no problem. “nothing that the laundry can’t get out.” his words offered reassurance. quinn wasn’t mad. your period was completely natural. there was nothing gross about it. “i’ll start a shower for you so you can clean up, okay? fresh sweats for us, and we can cuddle afterwards.”
you were still staring at the stain on quinn’s lap, not listening to him at all. he stood, hooking his index finger under your chin and tilting your head up to make eye contact. “baby, it’s not a big deal, okay?”
finally, you nodded, processing his words. a shower sounded nice. realization set in, and you felt disgusted. you couldn’t believe your body would betray you, and you wanted to crawl out of your skin. quinn’s thumb brushed over your cheek, caressing your face. his touch was tender, filled with love. he would do what he did best: take care of you.
you allowed quinn to take your hand, guiding you through the apartment and into the bathroom. though you didn’t mean to, your eyes watered. the man did not have to be so kind about your mess. your stomach flipped with embarrassment, yet quinn didn’t make you feel guilty for having your period. it was an accident, of course, so you had no control over your bodily functions. in the past, you had been shamed for having an accident like this, but quinn was working to make it better. he was thinking for you. it was a massive relief.
slowly, quinn helped you step out of your soiled sweatpants and panties. his hands still traced over your skin, unafraid of the mess. next, he lifted the sweatshirt over your head. though he wanted to be respectful of the circumstances, he couldn’t help but flick his eyes over your naked body, reveling in the sight. no matter what, he would always think you were beautiful. just as the thought entered his head, his gaze returned to your face. he reached up to capture your hair into one hand before grabbing one of your various hair ties from the vanity. he haphazardly put your hair up for you, knowing you hated going to bed with your hair wet. the less work you had to do, the better. the last step was to start the shower. he quietly leaned into the shower, adjusting the water temperature for you. you were always so particular about your shower temperature, but he would try to get it as close as possible.
with the water running, he turned his attention to you once more. “there you go, beautiful,” he praised, knowing you felt everything other than beauty. “take your time. i’m going to throw these clothes into the wash. i’ll be waiting for you,” he leaned forward to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “baby,” he pulled your attention, “i promise it’s okay.”
with that, you finally moved from your spot and climbed into the shower. through the door, you saw quinn gather your pile of dirty clothes from the floor and disappear out of the bathroom. relief washed over you like water. your boyfriend was quick to react and rectify the situation. your embarrassment was yours and yours only. there wasn’t a shred of embarrassment from the man. he could’ve made a stink about your period, throwing his disgust in your face. however, he didn’t do any of that. he immediately launched into how to make you feel better. you couldn’t help but think you didn’t deserve it. you were instantly in the shower, being pampered by quinn hughes.
you washed up, taking your time, as quinn asked you to. the water felt warm, a perfect temperature. you smiled at the thought that quinn nailed it on the first try. it was just another way he reminded you that you were important to him. he was nothing shy of amazing. it was a breath of fresh air. no one compared to him, and he’s essentially ruined any other man for you. quinn made you feel loved and safe. you could have an accident and know that you were still priority number one in his mind. that was so important to you. accidents and mistakes could happen, and it was a safe space to do so. truly, it was unconditional love.
turning off the shower, you slid the glass door open to find a towel hung on the hook. it wasn’t there before you stepped into the shower. you glanced around and found a fresh set of sweats on the counter. quinn has snuck in while you were in the shower to deliver clean clothes and a towel. a smile spread across your face as your heart fluttered. you wrapped the plush towel around you as you grabbed the clothes left out for you. to your surprise, you lifted your new pair of underwear to find a pad already in place. you blushed as you thought about the lack of secondhand embarrassment from quinn as he unwrapped and placed a pad on your underwear for you. it didn’t take you long to dry off, eager to curl up in bed with your boyfriend. his warm body next to yours sounded like heaven on earth.
you emerged from the bathroom to see quinn resting on the bed, in his own fresh pair of sweatpants. he was shirtless, scrolling on his phone. as soon as the door opened, he placed it onto the bedside table. you had his full attention.
“there you are, my love,” he smiled, lifting the blanket for you to crawl in next to him.
you took the invitation without a second thought. you lay on your side, quinn’s chest sturdy against your back. he threw the blanket over you, smiling, and placed a soft kiss against your exposed neck. without asking, his arms wrapped around you, and his hands rested on your stomach. his warmth would fight off the inevitable cramps, but in case it wasn’t enough, he had your teddy bear warmie on standby. it was the least he could do while you went through the worst week every single month.
quinn felt your body relax, and it wasn’t long before your breathing evened out. “good night, my love,” he pressed his lips to your shoulder and nestled into the bed, falling into his own sleep.
that’s how you stayed all night, surrounded by love, warmth, and quinn hughes.
as always, dedicated to @definitelynotdomanique for listening to the whorish thots first and letting me run ideas past you c: i love you forever baby girl
tag list: @kodzuvk @miserymeats @hodgepodge-musings @barneswinchester
want to join my taglist? you can find it here! never miss a fic c:
Summary: You've always tried to not be a nepo-partner. But when you're sick? Quinn throws all that out of the window. After all, you deserve only the best for your stay at the hospital!
Word Count: 893
Warnings: None!! Just Quinn being a lil (a lot) over protective when you get sick.
Author's Note: Requested by my sweet @sweetestcaptainhughes MWAH MWAH
Oh Captain, My Captain
Coming home late tonight.
Have you eaten?
Did you drink water at all today?
Just so we're clear, Coffee is a liquid but it is NOT water. Same thing with tea.
Also, get some rest. I know you barely slept last night trying to finish up work.
Take care of yourself.
I love you :)
Heart ♥️
I will drink water :D
And get some rest ;p
Thank you :>>
I love you too!
Let's be honest here.
You did not drink water. No rest either, too focused on finishing deadlines.
And that's how you ended up in Quinn's car enroute to the hospital.
You were pretty sure he broke every traffic rule trying to get you there, but you were too delirious to make sense of anything.
There were flashes—headlights streaking past, the sharp sound of honking, Quinn muttering curses under his breath. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel, gripping it so tightly it looked like he was trying to keep the entire world from falling apart. Everything blurred together, a mess of fragmented memories you couldn’t quite piece together. Then—hospital lights, the sterile chill of the emergency room, the sharp sting of antiseptic in the air. Unfamiliar hands everywhere, pressing, prodding, asking you questions you couldn’t answer to, trying to assess you.
But through it all, there was Quinn.
You could hear him above everyone else, snapping at nurses, demanding someone check your vitals. You see a brief scene of him hovering so close they had to physically push him back. He only relented—barely—when they hooked you up to an IV, but even then, his eyes stayed locked on the bag, on the heart rate monitor, almost as if he didn’t trust them to do their job fast enough.
You see him pacing, checking your chart, running a hand through his already messy hair before he all but rips open the curtain to leave the small station they’d set up for you in the emergency room. You hear faint voices coming from outside as he pries them for updates. You hear muffled sounds of him pulling rank when they enter the room. Leveraging whatever he could to get information out of them until someone actually listened. Until they moved quicker, until you got better faster.
“C’mon, I’ll get you guys good tickets to the next Canucks game—just get them in a room.”
“Sir, we’re doing the best we can, but the combination of dehydration and exhaustion isn’t something to overlook. Especially with a fever starting to set in.”
Quinn groaned, a sound of pure impatience. “Then at least get them out of this damn hallway. Somewhere quiet where they can actually rest.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
More muffled voices. A heated back-and-forth. You couldn’t focus on it, the exhaustion pulling you under.
The next thing you knew, you were moving. Or maybe the bed was.
Where? You didn’t know. But sleep was already dragging you down before you could figure it out.
Finally, finally, your eyes flutter open. The room is hazy, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above you, but you're awake. Awake enough to function.
“Quinny,” your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it’s enough. He’s at your side instantly, like he was just waiting for a sign, any sign, that you were still with him.
His touch is gentle, the back of his hand brushing your forehead, checking for any lingering fever before his fingers find yours. He links them together like he’s afraid to let go, pressing a firm kiss to your knuckles. Like he needs the contact to ground himself.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, his voice low and strained. “Don’t do that again.”
You blink up at him, still dazed, but the sheer worry in his expression makes your chest ache. His jaw is tight, shoulders tense like he’s still running on the adrenaline of getting you here. Like he hasn’t let himself breathe properly until now.
“Come here,” you murmur, barely able to lift your hand, but reaching for him anyway. “Please.”
He exhales sharply, like he wants to argue, but one look at you, and it’s over. He doesn’t hesitate, just climbs into the impossibly small hospital bed without a second thought.
It wasn’t meant for two people, but he makes it work, shifting until you’re tucked against his chest, his arms caging you in, careful of the IV in your arm. You feel the weight of his body, the warmth of him, and suddenly, everything feels a little less cold.
“They didn’t even want to give you a proper bed,” he huffs against your hair, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again. “Had to make a fucking scene.”
You smile weakly, pressing your cheek against his hoodie. “Of course you did.”
Quinn lets out a breath, finally, finally relaxing for the first time since you collapsed. His fingers trace absentminded circles on your back, soothing, grounding. “Next time, just drink the damn water,” he mutters, and you can almost hear the pout in his voice.
“And get some sleep,” he adds, softer this time, like he knows you’re already slipping under again.
You hum, your body melting into his, exhaustion pulling you under. But as long as his arms are around you, you figure you’ll be okay.
Can you write Joaquin x reader where theyre so comfortable with each other to the point theyre like dating but not realising it and even sharing everything tgth and maybe a kiss or to like "friendly" kisses
a thousand times yes omg! i couldn’t figure out what i wanted the header to be so it’s blank. thank you so much for your patience, i appreciate you sending this in!!
clueless - joaquin torres x fem!reader
summary. you and joaquin are practically dating, and the only people who don’t seem to realize that is you two.
content warnings. fluff, kinda unestablished relationships, r and joaquin’s being a lil touchy, oblivious lovebirds, cheek/temple kisses.
word count. 1656
———
with sock covered feet, you push yourself off of the couch, tiptoeing your way towards the locked door of joaquin's apartment. there was a rather urgent sounding knock, one you weren't expecting. joaquin was in the shower, so you took it upon yourself to check who was there. a sigh of relief left your lips as you squint through the peephole. after unlocking the door, you open it up to reveal sam, whose eyes narrowed down at you. he choked back a scoff when you nod him in. before you could question his demeanor, he spoke to you, tugging off his shoes while you lock the door back up.
"of course you're here," he says lightheartedly.
"when am i not?"
that was a great question you proposed, even if you were being rhetorical. you always find yourself here. after a long, tiring day you seem to gravitate towards his apartment. on your good days, too, when you have exciting news you find yourself there searching for him. there was a spare toothbrush right next to his you’ve claimed as your own. your shoes had it’s own place on the rack by the door. your coat had a hanger. your keys sat next to his in a glass bowl. if anyone were to ask, you’d claim his apartment to be your second home.
you sit yourself back down on the couch after letting sam know joaquin’s whereabouts. your legs fold up beside you, draping a blanket across your lap to warm your cold limbs back up. he found his way to the couch with you, securing his spot on the other end, leaning back casually. his eyes rested on the tv in front of you two. the show was too intriguing to take your attention away from it, not until you heard the bathroom door creak open, joaquin’s footsteps creaking the floorboards beneath him. his head peaked around the corner to find the scene in the living room.
with a towel wrapped around his waist, he let out a small huff through his nose. it took everything in you not to let your eyes travel down to his damp, toned chest. his lips met your temple as he neared, bending down just slightly to reach your level. he did this like it was the most casual thing in the world.
“what did i say about letting strays in?” he questions with a small smile. you crack a smile, too, eyes shimmering up at him as you make eye contact briefly.
“hilarious,” sam deadpans, interrupting the moment. “go put on some clothes so i can talk to you.”
—
you found yourself falling into a rhythm with joaquin. greetings were accompanied by cheek kisses, hugs lingered longer than they do with others. days with him were never dull. still, you always said that he was your friend. your best friend, sure, but you always introduce him as your friend. cause that’s what you’ve always been to each other.
—
some days all you could do was go home and collapse onto your bed. your sheets were always so warm and welcoming. a fresh set of pjs and a shower was all you needed before you crawled into bed. your head was heavy when it hits your soft pillows, eyes drooping on impact like a sedative. even your phone couldn’t entertain you, your exhaustion depriving you of your endless scrolling. you discard of your phone to your nightstand after hooking it to its charge.
after switching off your lamp, you let your eyes flutter shut in relief. there wasn’t much that could tear you away from your descent into slumber, you thought, until you heard some shuffling coming from your living room. you pry one of your eyes open as you listen in, searching the darkness as you freeze. a wave of relief washed over you the moment you heard mumbling coming from the one person you gave a key to. his footsteps found your bedroom, coming to a stop as he creaks your door open slowly. he doesn’t say a word when he shuts it behind him, tiptoeing his way towards your bed. you lift up your sheets without question. he slips into bed right next to you, settling down like he’s done it a million times before.
“long day?” you hardly whisper out.
“yeah,” he affirms in a small voice, laying shoulder to shoulder with you. “didn’t wanna be alone.”
“you never have to be,” you tell him. as long as you’re away, you’ll stand by that promise.
—
the next morning, you two get ready together in a dance. he goes one way, you head the other in an instant. no toes were stepped on and only one shoulder bump occurred, two less than usual. you leaned against the kitchen counter as you nibbled on your bagel, giving him his space to make himself some much needed coffee. without you noticing, your eyes fixated on your phone, joaquin came towards you wordlessly. what caught your attention was his gentle fingers wrapping around your wrist, holding you steady. his mouth came down to take a bite of your bagel without asking. you didn’t even bother to argue. you let him take his bite, and in return, he made you a cup of coffee.
—
what brought your attention to how odd your friendship was with joaquin was your girl friends. one late night, after a few too many drinks and a mediocre karaoke session, you found yourself heading home. you were ordering yourself an uber, still sat in the booth you’d been occupying all night. you hadn’t realized one of your friends was glaring over your shoulder, eyeing up what you were doing in their own drunken haze. she couldn’t help but giggle a little, leaning into your body slightly as she takes a better look, focusing her eyes.
“an uber?” she asks, a slur in her voice as she grins cheekily at you. “i thought you’d be calling your boyfriend.”
your face heats up at her words, head snapping over to look at her. you had the cutest furrow in your eyebrow and a crease between them joaquin liked to soothe carefully with his thumb. your lips part slightly as you think, trying to find the words to reply. it’s not that you didn’t know what to say. it was simply that you were confused.
“boyfriend?” you question. “i don’t have a boyfriend.”
“so joaquin,” one of your other friends started, a shit eating grin on her face, too. “he’s just, what, a good bud?”
“yeah,” you emphasize quickly, eyes flickering between your friends. “you guys know that! he’s my best friend!”
“well i don’t treat any of my friends the way you treat each other.”
—
that conversation came to mind again a few days later, just after you thought you’d moved past it. you’d been racking your mind trying to figure out how they’d gotten to that conclusion. you’d reckoned you two were a little close, a little touchy. it’s been that way for as long as you could remember. you, at first, chalked it up to them being drunk. they got into your head and you were overthinking. though, when you found yourself sitting in the passenger seat of joaquin’s car, his hand in your lap as you play with his fingers, you couldn’t help but think about it again.
your eyes trail from the glovebox to his focused face and the way his tongue was sticking out slightly. you were caught up in the 5 pm rush, so there wasn’t much else to do but wait it out. even if the traffic was a major pain in the behind. even if it felt suffocating in here as you thought. the air conditioner that blew against your warm skin wasn’t doing much to ease the sting. your words began to bubble up before you could get much of a second thought in.
“did i tell you my friends thought you were my boyfriend?” you question quickly, nervousness dripping from your voice. it didn’t help your hands were a little shaky against his.
“you did not,” joaquin laughs, eyes drifting over to you briefly, before turning back to the road.
“i called an uber so i could get home from the bar. they assumed i’d call you instead.”
“i would’ve came to pick you up!” he says quickly.
you nod your head before he could even finish his sentence. of course you knew he’d come pick you up, he’d always make sure you got home safe. there wasn’t a doubt in your mind about that.
“i know,” you agree, giving his hand a quick squeeze.
silence fell inside the car for a few long moments. between the rumbling of the car engine, the quiet music playing, and the distant honks down the line of traffic, you somehow managed to have a halfway proper train of thought. it seemed the same for him, too, maybe just a little more precise than yours.
“sam said the same thing when he came to visit,” joaquin told you, filling the silence. “he called you my girlfriend.”
your bottom lip was tugged between your teeth in an instant. even sam could see it, and he was around so often. he knew you two were just friends. he wouldn’t have mentioned it if he wasn’t sure there was something going on. and, now that you’re thinking on it properly, his hand in yours and his eyes now boring into you, it all started to sink in.
“i kinda like it,” you squeak out, a lot more shakily than you intended. “girlfriend.”
summary. clark kent doesn’t want you like a best friend; you only bought that dress so he could take it off.
alternatively, two idiots walk into the daily planet’s annual gala.
contains. so much fluff, best friends to lovers, not-so fake dating!au, roommates!au. mutual pining, idiots to idiots in love. alcohol consumption, profanity, etc.
word count. 5.0k
a/n. inspired by taylor swift’s dress. i have another clark kent longfic in the works but i wanted to finish this one up first. thanks for reading! xx
song rec. dress by taylor swift
It’s a nice dress, you think. Really nice.
Not the sort of thing you’d usually wear, with its silky fabric and neckline that dips a little lower than you’re used to, but there’s something about it—maybe the way the silk clings to your waist before falling in soft waves to your knees, or the way the light catches the tiny gold threading woven through the pattern like ivy curling along the hem. You turn a little in front of the mirror, half self-conscious, half curious.
The dressing room curtain shifts, and Clark clears his throat. “Can I… uh, may I see it? If you’re okay with that?”
You smile to yourself. Always so polite.
“Yeah, hang on,” you say, stepping out into the little hallway lined with mirrors. Clark’s leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled neatly to his elbows. His glasses sit low on his nose as he glances up.
He blinks.
“Oh,” he says.
You tilt your head. “Too much?”
“No,” he says quickly. “No, not at all. It’s—wow. It’s really nice.”
“You’re just saying that ‘cause I agreed to come shopping with you.”
He huffs a soft laugh, pushing off the wall. “I’m saying that ‘cause it’s true.”
You step back toward the mirror, smoothing your hands over the fabric, your reflection looking back at you like she belongs somewhere fancier than the local mall’s boutique lighting and faint hum of overhead music. Somewhere, like, say, the Daily Planet’s annual holiday party, an event you’d only heard about through Clark’s ramblings at your shared apartment.
“It’s just weird, you know?” You spin slowly in place, letting the fabric sway. “Thinking about going somewhere that requires a dress like this. I’d have to, like, shave my legs and everything.”
Clark coughs, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Well, I mean, that’s entirely up to you. No pressure.”
“Relax,” you laugh. “I’m teasing.”
“Right.” He rubs the back of his neck, glasses slipping a little further down. “I knew that.”
You look at him again and notice something—he’s watching you like he always does when he thinks you’re not paying attention, like you’re the centre of gravity in whatever room he’s standing in. You’ve seen that look before: when you made him laugh so hard he snorted noodles through his nose, when you looked after Krypto for him for three days and he came back home and found the puppy sleeping on your chest, when you won your office’s impromptu trivia night by naming all fifty states in alphabetical order and brought home the giant jar of salsa and nachos they gave you as a prize. But it always disappears as quickly as it comes, tucked away behind the warm smile and careful distance he maintains.
You turn back to the mirror and say, “So, why are we here, really?”
“I told you,” Clark says. “I need a suit.”
“You own four,” you point out.
“This is a fancier party than usual.”
You shoot him a look.
He sighs, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Okay. Maybe I also wanted your opinion. Is that so bad?”
“No. I’m flattered.” You slip back into the dressing room and start unzipping the dress, your voice carrying through the curtain. “Still, feels a little like you’re preparing for a wedding or something.”
“It’s not that formal,” he calls back, but there’s something evasive in the way he says it.
“You’ve been talking about this party all month.”
“I have not.”
“You absolutely have,” you insist. You tug the zipper the rest of the way down and begin carefully stepping out of the dress. “You brought it up when we were at that Thai place downtown. Then again when you were fixing the kitchen light. Oh, and three times last week when I caught you practicing small talk in the bathroom mirror.”
“That wasn’t for the party,” he protests.
“Clark, you were practicing how to introduce me.”
“Yeah, well. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”
You straighten up, fabric bunched in your hands. “Prepared for what?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “People ask questions, sometimes.”
You frown, slipping your jeans back on. “What kind of questions?”
“The usual. If I’m seeing someone. If I’m bringing someone. And I guess—sometimes I talk about you a lot. So people assume.”
“Assume what?” You tug the curtain open a crack and peer at him.
Clark’s eyes flick up to meet yours. They’re unfair, honestly, the kind of soft blue that you can’t look at for too long without feeling weak at the knees. He pushes his glasses up again, then lets his hands fall to his sides.
“Just. You know,” he says helplessly. “People are nosy, and Perry White and Jimmy think I don’t have it in me to bring a girl with me to the party.”
You snort, pushing the curtain fully open and stepping out with the dress draped carefully over your arm. “That’s what this is about? You’re trying to prove Perry and Jimmy wrong?”
“I mean… maybe not prove them wrong, exactly. Just—Jimmy was needling me. You know how he gets.”
You’re not dumb. You know what Clark meant when he said people assume things. Does that mean you won’t allow yourself to enjoy what is, arguably, the most hyped up social event you’ve ever attended? Of course not. You’re not dumb.
You’re just… a little hopeful.
Hopeful enough to let him zip up the back of your dress without flinching at the way his fingertips brushed the bare skin between your shoulder blades. Hopeful enough to ditz on the most expensive perfume you own, and to wear the necklace he complimented months ago even though it doesn’t match your clutch. Hopeful enough to feel something flutter in your chest when he smiled at you in the elevator, that small, earnest grin of his that always makes your stomach flip.
Now, you’re standing in the gilded foyer of the Metropolis Grand Hotel, on the kind of carpet that silences heels, surrounded by chandeliers that drip with crystals and laughter that spills like champagne. Everyone looks beautiful. Everyone looks like they belong.
But Clark—Clark looks like he was built for this.
It’s the suit, partly. Dark charcoal, perfectly cut, the kind that makes you realise just how broad his shoulders are and how unfair it is that he ever hides them beneath sweaters. But it’s more than that. It’s the way he stands beside you with the confidence of someone who could command a room, but doesn’t. Someone who could be the centre of attention, but always turns it gently towards someone else. Towards you.
He does, over and over again, with small touches and soft glances and little jokes whispered in your ear. You try not to think too hard about it.
The ballroom is warm with low lights and gold accents, the string quartet tucked into the corner playing something festive and rich. Clark guides you to the bar with a hand on your back, and when he leans in to ask if you want red or white, his breath skims the shell of your ear.
You’re not dumb, but you might be a little dizzy.
He disappears for a minute to find Perry, leaving you with a promise to get you a glass of wine and a view of the skyline through the tall, arched windows. You fold your arms over your chest, trying not to read into how often his hand finds the small of your back or the way he introduces you and just your name, like that’s explanation enough.
You catch your reflection in the mirrored column across the room and don’t recognise yourself for a moment. The girl standing there isn’t the one who steals his socks or leaves Post-Its on the fridge or snorts when she laughs. She’s elegant, someone who could be on Clark Kent’s arm and not look even a little out of place.
He returns, two glasses in hand, his tie a little looser than it was thirty minutes ago. He hands you one and you smile up at him. He smiles back.
“You having a good time?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say, nodding. “Surprisingly.”
He nudges your shoulder with his own. “Told you it wouldn’t be so bad.”
You hum in response, lifting your glass in a silent cheers before taking a sip. The wine is good—crisp, dry, a little sweet on the finish. Definitely not the kind of bottle you and Clark would ever spring for on your own. You glance back at him, watching the way he surveys the room with that same warm attentiveness he gives the world every day.
It’s comforting. Familiar. Easy to lean into, which is exactly what you do, tilting your head just enough to rest briefly on his shoulder. He stiffens for half a second, surprised, but you feel him ease. He shifts just slightly, just enough that you fit a little more comfortably against him.
“You get to tell me that you told me so,” you say. “It’s not bad.”
Clark chuckles. “You sound shocked.”
“I just thought it’d be stuffy,” you say, looking up at him through your lashes, teasing. “Or boring. Or full of people I wouldn’t know how to talk to.”
“And is it?”
“Still deciding,” you say, smiling.
“Do you want to dance?”
“What?”
Clark offers a hand. “Dance with me.”
And because it’s Clark, and because you’re not dumb, and because you’re maybe just hopeful enough to believe in moments like this, you take it.
He doesn’t lead you to the centre of the floor. He guides you instead to the edge, where the music is quieter and the chandeliers spill soft gold across the polished parquet. The band has moved on to something slower now, less jazzy, more swoon than swing. It wraps around you like velvet as Clark tucks your hand gently into his and rests the other at the curve of your waist. Your fingers settle against the smooth line of his lapel. He’s warm beneath the fabric. The rest of the room seems to fade in your periphery—just the blurred glitter of gowns and the murmur of conversation, the music, the breath between you.
You look up at him, trying not to read too much into the way his thumb traces idle, absent circles along your waist. “You looked like you were deep in conversation with Perry,” you say softly.
“Perry was just asking about the article I filed last week,” he replies. His eyes flick down to meet yours. “And Lois. And you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, I, uh, won the bet, I guess.”
“…Oh. Right.” You swallow hard and look away. “Was Perry proven sufficiently wrong?”
“Let’s just say he didn’t see it coming.”
Your gaze dips to where your hand rests in his. The warmth of his palm bleeds into your skin like something you’ll still feel hours from now. It makes you ache a little, in that soft, impossible way you’ve been trying not to name for months. He looks at you like there’s no one else here—like all the champagne laughter and shifting gowns and symphonic music is just background to this moment, to you.
He shifts, subtle, drawing you a little closer as the music swells. You let him. You let your body follow his like it knows the steps already. You want him. You want him so badly you think it might be stitched into your DNA at this point, threaded through your bones.
“Well, that’s good then,” you say, trying and failing to suppress the tiny, needle-like prick of disappointment that pokes your heart. “Were Lois and Jimmy convinced, too?”
“Lois thinks you’re too good for me,” he says, voice low, breath brushing against the shell of your ear. “Jimmy started taking bets again.”
You laugh, surprised. “Bets on what?”
“Nothing scandalous.”
You lean a little closer, playful now, emboldened by the press of his hand at your waist. “Clark Kent. Are you withholding journalistic information?”
“I’m practicing discretion,” he murmurs.
You don’t ask what the bets are. You don’t want to know, really, not when your pulse is already a warm thrum under your skin, not when his gaze keeps flicking down to your lips like he’s not sure he should, but can’t stop himself. You’re dangerously aware of how little space there is between you. How easy it would be to close it.
But the song ends.
It fades into the hum of another, and Clark lets out the smallest breath, as though the moment—whatever it was—is retreating, swallowed by the crowd again. His hand slips from your waist, and yours from his hand.
“Come on. Jimmy and Cat and the rest want to meet you.”
Clark doesn’t give you much time to think about it. About the dance, about the way your pulse is still doing this uneven, skittery thing like you’ve just stepped off a roller coaster. He offers you his hand again, not to dance this time but to lead you through the throng of glittering dresses and dark suits towards a cluster of people near the far side of the ballroom.
“They’re going to love you,” he says over his shoulder, warm and certain in that way he always is when it comes to you.
You don’t say anything because you’re too busy smoothing your hair with one hand and trying not to trip over your own heels. You feel like you’ve stumbled out of one dream—Clark’s hand on your waist, the music wrapped around you—and straight into another. You’re aware of everything: the swish of your dress against your legs, the faint citrus scent of his cologne when he moves close enough to open a path for you both.
Lois Lane is exactly what you expected, and somehow more. She’s stunning, with cheekbones that could cut glass and lipstick perfectly in place even after what must be hours of cocktails and conversation. She’s in the middle of telling Jimmy something when she sees you, and her eyes sharpen immediately with interest.
Jimmy’s grinning, camera hanging around his neck, and beside him, Cat Grant leans elegantly against the table, champagne flute in hand.
“Hey, guys,” Clark says.
Three pairs of eyes turn towards you. You resist the urge to fidget.
“This is—” Clark says your name, glancing at you briefly, and for some reason the sound of it in his voice feels… different here. “She writes for Metropolis Monthly.”
Lois’ mouth curves into a knowing little smile as she shakes your hand. “Ah. The famous one.”
“Famous?” you repeat, startled.
“Clark talks about you. A lot,” Jimmy chimes in.
You shoot a look at Clark, who suddenly finds the floor very interesting.
“Don’t let him fool you,” Lois says, delighted. “He doesn’t talk about anyone. Half the time we have to drag words out of him about himself, but you? We’ve heard about the coffee you make, the movie nights, the way you write circles around half the bloggers in this city—”
“Lois,” Clark says, almost warning, a faint colour rising in his cheeks.
Cat takes a slow sip of her champagne. “She’s even prettier than you said, Kent.”
Your face warms. Clark clears his throat. “Okay, and on that note—”
“No, no,” Jimmy cuts in. “Don’t stop on our account.”
Lois leans in, conspiratorial. “For what it’s worth,” she says to you, “we’ve been taking bets on when the two of you would finally show up to something together. Perry owes me twenty bucks.”
You laugh, startled and flustered all at once. “I’m not sure what to say to that.”
“Say,” Lois says, “that I was right.”
Clark sighs. “We came here to have a good time, remember?”
“We are having a good time,” Cat says, setting her glass down. Her gaze sweeps over you once, thoughtful, before she offers a small, sincere smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you. He’s picky about who he lets into his life.”
Clark isn’t looking at anyone now but you.
The group falls into easy conversation after that, talk of work and the ridiculous gala food (tiny crab cakes that vanish in two bites, champagne that tastes expensive enough to make up for it). Lois tells you about chasing a lead last week through half the city; Jimmy complains about his camera lens fogging in the winter; Cat rolls her eyes at both of them with long-suffering grace.
Clark stays close. When someone brushes by too near the table, his hand finds your elbow, steadying you. When Lois cracks a joke, he leans in slightly, like he wants to hear you laugh before anyone else. When he looks at you, you feel it like a warm current under your skin.
Jimmy drags Lois to the dance floor. Cat follows with a bemused shake of her head, and suddenly it’s just you and Clark again, standing at the edge of the room with half-empty glasses.
“What do you think of them?” he asks softly, watching your face.
“They’re… not what I expected.”
“Better or worse?”
“Better,” you say. “They like you a lot.”
His mouth tilts in a small, self-deprecating smile. “They like you, too.”
You think about Lois’ teasing, about Cat’s sharp little smile, about the way Jimmy had grinned like he knew something you didn’t. You think about Clark’s hand, steady and warm, guiding you here in the first place.
You think you might be in trouble.
“Cat was right, though, you know,” he says, ducking his head bashfully. “You do look—I mean, pretty isn’t the right word. You’re gorgeous.”
For a second, you forget how to breathe.
The noise of the gala doesn’t quite go away—it can’t, not with the quartet playing in the corner and the laughter bubbling from the dance floor—but it feels like someone’s turned the volume down just enough for the words to settle between you, soft and weighty all at once.
You glance up at him. He doesn’t quite meet your eyes when he says it; he’s looking somewhere past your shoulder, as though he can’t quite bring himself to watch your reaction.
“Clark,” you say, and your voice doesn’t come out the way you mean it to. It’s quieter.
He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, gaze finally dropping to meet yours. “Sorry. I just—” He exhales, as though the sentence got away from him before he could catch it. “You do. That’s all.”
Your stomach swoops. You’ve known him long enough to tell when he’s teasing, when his voice takes on that light, joking cadence he uses with friends and coworkers and anyone trying to get a rise out of him. This isn’t that.
You should say something back. Something witty, or graceful, or at least coherent. But your brain seems to have been replaced by static, so all you manage is a soft, “Oh.”
Clark laughs, shaking his head at himself like he’s the one being ridiculous here. He takes a sip from his glass, giving you a moment to gather the parts of yourself scattered like confetti across the floor. You fail spectacularly.
Across the room, Lois spins under Jimmy’s arm, her laugh ringing out above the music. Cat leans against the bar now, phone in one hand, champagne in the other. Perry White’s surrounded by boisterous councilmen, all laughing at some joke you can’t begin to make out. The chandeliers catch the movement on the dance floor in fractured golden light, everything sparkling like it’s been dipped in stars.
And you’re here, at the edge of it all, pulse rabbiting in your throat because Clark Kent just called you gorgeous like it was the simplest, truest thing in the world.
You clear your throat, finally finding your voice. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
“Thanks,” he says. His mouth tilts in that small half-smile he gets when he’s trying not to look too pleased.
“You don’t wear suits often.”
“Not unless I have to.” He looks down at his tie, loosening it a little more with one hand. The motion tugs his collar open just slightly, enough to show the faintest triangle of skin at his throat. “Do you like it?”
You blink. “The suit?”
“Yeah. On me, I mean.”
The words make heat creep up the back of your neck. “I… yeah. It looks good.”
Understatement of the century, you think.
Clark’s eyes crinkle a little at the corners, amusement threading through them, but he doesn’t press. He nods once, like he’ll tuck the answer away somewhere secret.
A waiter passes by with another tray of champagne, the glasses catching light as they go. Clark shifts slightly, resting his forearm on the high table beside you so he can lean just a fraction closer, voice dipping low enough that it barely carries over the music.
“You want to people-watch with me?”
“People-watch?”
Clark nods towards the dance floor, where Perry’s somehow gotten roped into dancing with someone from the city council. It looks… painful.
You can’t help laughing. “Oh, absolutely.”
Clark flashes you a grin, before he tilts his head towards the crowd. “Okay. See the guy by the bar in the blue suit? Third glass of wine, hasn’t stopped checking his phone all night. His wife is mad at him, I’m calling it now.”
“Ouch.”
“Couple by the window,” Clark says next. “Third dance in a row. Either married for twenty years or they just met tonight. No in between.”
“What’s your vote?” you say, grinning.
He considers, eyes following the couple as they turn lazily under the chandelier light. “Just met. He’s been smiling the whole time, like he can’t believe his luck.”
It’s impossible not to notice the warmth in Clark’s voice when he says it. Like he likes seeing people happy. Like he collects these little moments the way other people collect photographs.
Your chest does that annoying fluttery thing again.
“Okay,” you say, scanning the room for yourself this time. “The woman in the green dress. She’s here for business. Networking. She’s pretending to enjoy herself, but she hasn’t danced once.”
Clark follows your gaze, eyebrows lifting. “You’re good at this.”
“Observational skills,” you say, shrugging and trying not to look too pleased with yourself.
The music swells again, a slow, easy rhythm. Someone laughs nearby; someone else calls for more champagne. The whole room glitters, alive and bright, but somehow it feels like you and Clark are set just outside its orbit, in your own quieter little corner.
“You having a good time?” he asks again.
“Yeah,” you say. “The best.”
Clark smiles, small and pleased, like maybe that was the whole point of tonight.
You don’t mean to overhear the two girls by the bar.
It’s not like they said anything malicious, anyway. Something about Clark being “a total golden retriever” and how “guys like him don’t stay single for long.” It’s said with a fond little laigh, the kind reserved for someone universally adored, like the quarterback of a small-town football team or the boy who volunteers at soup kitchens on the weekends. Someone who’s good in a way that’s rare.
It shouldn’t sting, but it does.
Maybe it’s because they don’t know him like you do—the small, ridiculous details of Clark Kent: how he hums when he’s pouring coffee; how his ties are always a little crooked until you fix them; how he somehow believes he’s unremarkable, despite literally glowing with the kind of goodness people write novels about.
Or maybe it’s because part of you is terrified they’re right—that someone else will see all of that, see him, and you’ll be left watching from the sidelines like a fool.
Either way, the words burrow into your skin, and suddenly the gala feels too warm, too loud, too bright.
You murmur something to Lois about needing air and slip through the crowd before Clark can notice. The balcony doors are open, the night cool and velvet-soft against your skin when you step outside.
The city stretches out before you, glittering and endless. Wind whips gently at your hair as you grip the railing, trying to shake off the strange ache building in your chest. You’re not sure how long you stand there, staring out at Metropolis like it might give you answers.
“There you are!” His voice comes from behind you, warm and familiar.
You turn, just enough to see Clark step out onto the balcony, the light spilling over his shoulders before the door closes behind him. Out here, he looks different. Softer, maybe, without the warm glow of the chandeliers gilding every edge. The wind tugs at his hair, and he pushes his glasses up his nose the way he always does when he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
“You disappeared,” he says, moving to stand beside you. His presence fills the space easily, the way it always does. “Everything okay?”
You nod, too quickly. “Yeah. Just needed some air.”
Maybe it’s the champagne, or the music drifting faintly through the glass doors behind you, or the fact that he looks devastatingly good tonight and doesn’t seem to know it—but suddenly, the words tumble out before you can stop them.
“Do you ever think about… hypotheticals?”
“Hypotheticals?” Clark turns his head, brow furrowing.
“Like,” you say, fiddling with the end of your clutch, “what if you liked someone. Just—hypothetically.”
“Okay…”
“And maybe everyone else saw it before you did. Like it was obvious or something.” You keep your eyes fixed on the skyline because looking at him feels impossible right now. “But you weren’t sure if saying anything would ruin everything.”
Clark goes very still beside you.
You rush to fill the silence, words tangling. “Hypothetically, maybe you live with this person. Maybe they’re your best friend. And if you said something and they didn’t feel the same way, it would… I don’t know. Break something you can’t put back together.”
The wind catches your hair, sweeping it across your cheek. You tuck it behind our ear.
“So instead,” you continue, softer now, “you just keep it to yourself. And you wonder if they’ll ever figure it out, or if you’re supposed to—I don’t know. Still hypothetical, obviously.”
“Right,” Clark says slowly.
“Hypothetically,” you add quickly, “what would you do? If it were you.”
“I’d tell you.”
Your heart stutters. “What?”
Clark swallows hard. His eyes stay on the city, not you. “I’d tell you, because—hypothetically—I wouldn’t be able to keep it in anymore.”
“Clark…”
“Y’know, funny thing is,” he says, tilting his head just so, “I brought you here with me to have a good time. I don’t like stuff like this, you know that, and I—I really, really want to go home now, just so I can have you all to myself.”
Clark’s gaze stays fixed on the glittering sprawl of Metropolis below. The wind ruffles his hair again, pulls at the edges of his jacket, but he stands steady beside you like the whole world couldn’t move him if it tried.
You open your mouth. Close it. Try again.
“Hypothetically,” you say, “what would you do if we went him?”
His eyes catch the city lights when he turns to you, reflecting something warm, something that makes your stomach flip in a way that no amount of champagne could explain. His voice is low when he speaks; each word has to be chosen carefully before it leaves his mouth.
“First?” he says. “First, I think I’d finally get you out of those heels your hate.”
You almost laugh, because of course he noticed the way you’d shifted your weight a dozen times tonight, the faint wince every time someone made you cross half the ballroom.
“And then?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.
He exhales slowly, the sound mingling with the wind. “I’m trying really hard not to scare you off,” he admits.
“You’re not,” you manage.
“Good,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “Because all I’ve been thinking about, all night, is how badly I want to get you out of here.”
His hand finds the railing beside yours, close enough that your fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him.
“And then what?” you ask again, the words threading out like smoke.
“Then,” he says slowly, “I’d make you tea because you’ll complain about your hangover tomorrow morning otherwise. I’d listen to you tell me what you thought of tonight while you tried to pretend you weren’t exhausted. And then, I’d tell you all the things I should’ve told you before this gala, before the dance, before tonight ever even started.”
“Like what?”
“Like how many times I almost kissed you in the kitchen,” he says. “Or how hard it is to see you in my shirts on Sunday mornings and not tell you how beautiful you look. Or how every time you laugh at one of my stupid jokes, I—”
“Clark,” you whisper, because it’s the only thing you can think to say.
“Still hypothetical, of course,” he mumbles.
“Right,” you say, though your heart is doing somersaults.
“But,” he adds, “I really hope it’s not.”
You think you might finally understand what the girls at the bar meant. Only, they were wrong about one thing.
Clark Kent might be the kind of man everyone adores, but right now, his whole attention, his whole quiet, steady world, feels like it belongs to you.
“It’s not,” you breathe out, “but hypothetically, I really do want to kiss you right now.”
So Clark does.
“Tell me a secret,” Clark says, once he closes the door to your shared apartment behind him.
“Easy. I only bought this dress so you could take it off, Kent.”
Clark smiles against your mouth, fingers trailing up your spine and hooking into the zipper at the back of your dress.
that sort of question made clark blush madly, blinking a few times to actually registered what was asked. like a gentleman, he said personality.
personality is important, but the way his eyes were glued to your ass as you walked around the office said otherwise.
clark doesn’t even mean to stare at your ass half the time, his eyes just go there, it was like they had a mind of their own.
even when he was typing, his fingers moving effortlessly around the keyboard, which seems productive but it’s actually him doing the daily cross word, he’s gaze would occasionally drift towards you and well… to have your ass literally in his centre point vision as you bent down to collect the pen you dropped.
he felt like a flustered puppy, cheeks turning pink as his deep blue eyes widened, immediately bowing his head down as if he committed a sin, pretending to type on his keyboard.
whenever you walked up the stairs, clark trailing behind you like a lost puppy all he would stare at was well.. your ass.
whenever you hugged him his hands would slowly slide down your body, before gripping your ass, his large hands gently squeezing the soft flesh involuntarily. it wasn’t like he lusted over you, no. he adored you for you, the way your brows seemed to crease when you were focused, the way you jumped up and down when your article was on the front page, and the way you got all defensive when editors critiqued your work.
though clark’s obsession went beyond soft gentle touches.
in bed, his favourite position other than missionary where he could see your face and make sweet love, was doggy. his large hands gripped your hips as he watched the way your ass moved with each thrust, his bushy brows furrowed as if he tried to engrave it in his mind.
“clark,” you whined as you gripped onto the sheets, the air in your lungs being knocked out.
“i know, i know, just a little more okay?”
he’s never been more greatful for this kryptonian stamina
clark smut with reader that can’t focus while they fuck🙏
very much relatable. thanks for requesting 💌
CHATTERBOX 18+ ⸻ CLARK KENT
clark kent x fem!reader
WORD COUNT. 658
WARNINGS. 18+ only! general filth, pinv, reader can’t turn her brain off and clark being cute and teasing about it. mdni
Turning off your mind is always quite the struggle, it's never quite as easy as you hope it to be. It's like there's no off switch, your brain always seeming to be a rapid pingponging of thoughts, no matter the situation.
Even now, when your mind should be empty, sole focus supposed to be on Clark with the way he looks and smells and sounds and feels; your brain is drifting back to a conversation you had in passing with someone at the train station, and then to the paper shopping list you made and lost soon after.
Clark pulls his face out from the crook of your neck, lifting his head to get a better view of you below, your brows scrunched — but not in bliss like they usually are at a time like this, but instead focus.
He lowers slightly, pressing a kiss to your lips. "Penny for your thoughts," he whispers against your mouth, the tip of his nose skimming yours.
"I never found that shopping list."
"I did," he smiles lazily, a dopey grin tugging on the corners of his mouth. He presses another kiss to your lips, and the unrushed motion of his hips into yours subside, a lull occurring in the gentle fucking he's giving you. "It's on the fridge."
"You found it?" you ask, eyes ardently softening as you peer up to him. You slip your hands from around his shoulders and up to his neck, palms settling either side of it. "Where was it?"
"Next to your phone."
"You found my phone?" you ask, elated tone genuine.
"I did," Clark chuckles softly and shakes his head, the act small, like he finds the exchange endearing. He presses another kiss to your lips and another and another, searing warm acts of affection across your cheek, along your jaw and then down your throat. "Was by your shoes next to the front door."
You slide one hand up the short dark hair at the back of his neck, grazing your fingers along his scalp until you settle them around the crown of his head. You shake your head slightly, baffled by your own inanity.
When he thinks your mind to be clear, he resumes the motion he had halted a few moments prior; hips winding into you, cock retracting and pushing back into you in a steady, easy rhythm.
Though that's the case, and Clark should've known that. But really, he got just too ahead of himself.
"Did you know lemons float—"
"But limes sink," he finishes off your fact, an entertained smile lining his lips — temporarily halting the small littering of kisses at the base of your throat. "I did know that."
"Did I tell you that before?"
"You did," he nods and lifts his head, lining it back up with yours. "But I don't mind it," he kisses the tip of your nose, blue eyes gentle on you below.
"Did I turn the oven off?"
"No," he brings a hand to hold the side of your head, keeping you there. He chuckles. "I did."
"What time tomorrow—"
He dips in to sear a kiss to your lips, disrupting your question as he knew this to be a futile game with you. Clark knew of your inability to shut down your brain, and while he loved your natural inquisitive nature, he knew you needed a little bit of help quietening the contents swirling in your mind. If anything he was doing you a favour.
"No more questions," he shushes you softly, cooing into your mouth. "Focus on me," he whispers, timing it with a slightly more deliberate roll of his hips — cock sinking in that bit deeper.
And as he predicted, a whiney noise falls from between your lips, the blissed sound hindering the chance for you to ask anymore questions. And so he does it again, knocking another airy gasp from you; further disabling the thinking centre within your brain.
summary: you share cookies with your coworker. from that blossoms a cute love story
word count: 9.7k words
content warning: neurodivergent reader, fem reader, tooth-rotting fluff, slight hurt/comfort, baking as an act of love. clark kent is absolutely smitten. lois and reader friendship. reader is an intern at the daily planet. implied size difference and age gap (reader is in her twenties, clark is in his early thirties)
notes: my first fanfiction in a long, long time. also my first clark kent fic. wrote it in 2 days with no beta reading (oops). also i know lois lane's birthday is in august but i took creative liberties with that for the story
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You continue tearing bits from your cookie because you like eating it in crumbs rather than bites and Clark Kent, your coworker, is watching again. The cute one with the thick-rimmed black glasses and the messy curls over his forehead, and the ill-fitted suits over his too big frame. You can’t stare at him for too long because he always notices, and then your face grows hot and uncomfortable. You prefer to steal glances at him like this. It’s safer.
He doesn’t have the same qualms about looking at you.
He’s always staring whenever you eat your lunch at your desk when Lois isn’t available and you wonder if it’s because he’s too shy to ask for a bite. He didn’t seem shy, but you were relatively new to the Daily Planet, and you haven’t found your footing around. People are nice, especially Lois Lane, but you still feel like you don’t belong here yet. Maybe he can feel it too, and he doesn’t really think of you as one of them yet.
“Would you like some?” you ask him. You tear off a big part of your cookie and you hand him the biggest one, the part you hadn’t been tearing at.
He’s startled by your voice, which puzzles you, because he’s been watching you all this time, and he watched you as you tore your cookie in half. Color rises in the tip of his ears, and the sight is slightly endearing for a man his height and his stature.
“Thanks, um, thank you.” His voice isn’t very deep but it’s still deeply masculine, and it sounds like you would expect melted milk chocolate to sound like.
His hand is big and his arm is long as it stretches towards you, meeting your own hand halfway. He’s careful not to accidentally touch you, and you appreciate it.
“It’s vanilla chocolate chip cookie,” you tell him. “But I may have had a heavy hand with the vanilla extract, because it’s all I can smell and taste, but I don’t mind. I love vanilla.”
Intellectually, rationally, you know you’re rambling, the same way you always do when you’re talking about your baking, and you know not everyone likes it when you do that, and you know you should stop and apologize but Clark’s watching you again, and listening patiently, half cookie still uneaten in his fingers, as if he’s focusing all of his attention on you, like what you say matters that much to him, and he has a gentle smile on his face that reminds you of your cinnamon roll dough.
“It’s also very sweet, but not overly so,” you continue. “The chocolate is a little bitter though, so I find that it works well to balance the flavor, even if I personally don’t really like bitter chocolate, but that chocolate was the only one I could find in the store that was in my price range and wasn’t purely sugar masquerading as chocolate, so I got it. I also didn’t think it would be quite bitter, because fifty five percent cacao chocolate didn’t seem that dark to me. But maybe I just have a really bad sweet tooth.”
His eyes are smiling. You’d never understood when people said that eyes can smile but looking at him now, you suddenly get it. If you hid his mouth, his eyes still tell you that he’s smiling.
“I could smell the vanilla from my desk,” he admitted.
“Oh was it bothering you? I didn’t think it would be so potent.”
“No, no. It smelled really good, actually.” He finally takes a bite. “And it tastes just as good. You made them, then? They look store-bought. And uh, that’s a compliment. I don’t mean to say they look fake just… really nice.”
You nodded, pride blooming in my chest until it felt like there is no space left for my breathing. “Yes, I like to bake. I wanted to be a baker, but I like writing more.”
“Lucky for me,” he says, and you tilt your head to the side, trying to figure out what he meant by it. But you didn’t really care all that much, because you were more interested in the fact that you found someone who seemed receptive to your cookie rambling.
“This is actually my sixth recipe. I’m trying to recreate the taste of bakery style cookies without using as much butter. Butter’s one of those ingredients that seem cheap enough until you have to buy it in bulk for your recipes, and then using two sticks of butter for one batch of cookies starts to feel like waste.”
“How much butter is in this cookie?”
“I used one stick of butter for the whole recipe, which yielded about ten cookies, so that’s one-hundred and thirteen grams of butter divided by ten, which is eleven point three grams per cookie, and half of a cookie is around five point… five grams?”
“Five point sixty-five,” he corrects, and you nod.
“Numbers have never been my strongest suite. Unfortunately, baking is a lot of numbers.”
“You’re doing great so far,” he says. “Better than great, I would say.”
“I can bring you cookies tomorrow. I didn’t think I would be sharing today so I only brought one with me, but I still have leftovers.”
And you do. It’s still early enough that the office hasn’t filled yet. It’s only him and you and a couple other reporters by the coffee machine. You bring him five cookies in a white box, the same you get in bakeries, and you tied a pink bow on top. you give him the cookies and he surprises you by handing you a tall cup of coffee in return. It doesn’t look like it’s from the breakroom. It’s an actual travel mug, the kind that costs a lot.
“I don’t like coffee,” you tell him, not wanting to mislead him. It’s only a second later that you realize that you were probably being rude, because he’s obviously gone through a lot of trouble for you. “Thank you, though. I appreciate it. Really.”
“It’s not coffee,” he replies, like he was expecting you to say that, and he winks at you. “It’s hot chocolate, and not the bitter kind of chocolate, but not the sugar masquerading as chocolate either.”
You blink, a little taken aback at having your own words thrown at me. “You listened.”
“I did. I also added marshmallows, but that part was a gamble. I didn’t know if you liked them.”
“I’ve never had marshmallow in hot chocolate. I don’t usually drink hot chocolate, actually. I find it too bitter. I know, I have the palate of a kid but I like sweet things.”
“Take a sip,” he says. You do. You gingerly tip your head back, worried you’ll burn your tongue — you hate when it happens – but the drink is the perfect temperature.
“It’s really good,” you say. You blink again. Like really good. It’s sweet and warm and it tastes like a soft hug from within. “Where did you get it? I’ve never bought a hot chocolate that tasted like this.”
He smiles sheepishly, and you’re struck by how it changes his face wonderfully, like his face was born in a sheepish smile, the kind that smooths out his edges and makes him look like a dream. “I made it. It’s my Ma’s recipe.”
“Thank you. This is the best drink I’ve ever had.”
“Really?”
You nod. “I don’t say things unless I really mean them.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to see that.”
He picks up the box and with a wave, he thanks you for them again. You raise your mug in reply. His eyes crinkle.
When you first started out your internship at the Daily Planet, you didn’t know anyone there.
Then, Lois Lane took one look at you and she complimented your pink headphones – the noise-cancelling one that everyone assumes is just for listening to music during work. Lois Lane was one of those people you couldn’t help but admire. Not only was she smart and talented and a wickedly good journalist. Sometimes you openly stare at her, forgetting you didn’t like staringt too much at people, but you couldn’t help it. Her hair was long and soft and curled over her shoulders and fell all the way to her chest in a gentle swoop.
So you baked her a cake the next day as a thank you. You were eager and hopeful and you tripped over your own feet trying to give it to her because you really wanted her to like you and you wanted her to feel the same way she made you feel when she complimented your headphones.
She bought you lunch as a thank you. So you baked her cookies the next day as a thank you. So she bought you lunch again, and you baked her muffins the next day, thinking that maybe this is what you guys did. It became — routine. Lunch with her, and you bring sweets for dessert.
“This has to stop,” she said one day.
“You don’t like my baking?”
“I do, but you need to stop baking me things every time I try to thank you for baking me something. The cycle will never end otherwise.”
“Is that what it was? I thought you bought lunch and I brought dessert. Forgive me if I misunderstood. I’ll stop bringing treats.”
You guys didn’t do it long enough to feel like it was a routine set in your schedule, so why did it feel so painful? You liked your routine, and you liked her company. You thought she was your friend, but she was only buying you lunch because she felt obligated to.
“That’s not what I meant,” she says. “I like this too, a lot, actually.”
So you kept having lunch together every Tuesday and Thursday, in that cute little bakery down the street.
You stay behind again. You didn’t mean to lose track of time like this. You didn’t see time fly by, the way you never do because you’d been in the zone, writing your first draft for your article about [topic]. You like writing because, aside from baking, it’s the only thing that can completely shut your mind off. And when you get in the zone like that, the rest of the world disappears. You disappear. Your desires, your hunger, your exhaustion, your feelings, they all disappear. Only words mattered.
You don’t even notice when a bottle of water is put in front of you. You don’t even notice when Lois tells you good bye and wishes you good luck, but that’s also because you had your noise-cancelling headphones on. (You hope she doesn’t think you’re rude, because you really didn’t mean to ignore her.)
It’s only when your head starts pounding right behind your eyes that you finally come to. Your eyes had been burning and you didn’t notice until the ache turned into a migraine and suddenly you couldn’t look into the screen anymore. You saved your work and instantly shut it off, finally looking at something other than your screen when you look around.
Clark Kent was still there, in the desk right in front of yours. Removing your headphones feels like waking up from a slumber — underwater. You realize now how painful they were starting to feel, like they were pressing against your skull.
There are still some whispers around, other people staying behind, hunched over screens and talking about something or another. The whispers are soft and distant but they make your ears feel like they’re vibrating and it’s kind of painful.
You pinch the space between your eyes with your index and your thumb, eyes closed.
“You okay?”
Clark’s voice feels like a wave washing off the unwanted sounds in my head. You don’t feel like speaking though, so you just nod. Sometimes, when you lost yourself in something, you forgot basic things like taking breaks or drinking water or even going to the bathroom, and you always think you can handle it until suddenly you’re overstimulated and overwhelmed and everything hurts.
“You should drink some water,” he offers gently, head nodding towards the water bottle you hadn’t noticed until now.
He must have put it there.
Ever since you guys had traded hot chocolate and cookies, there’d been a tentative beginning of friendship. You weren’t an expert in friendships and such, but you could probably wager that you and Clark were becoming friends. You wouldn’t bet your entire life on it, but probably ten bucks. That seemed realistic.
“Thank you, Clark.”
He smiles the way he always does when you say his name. You were good at recognizing patterns, and you’d noticed that one the third time he smiled right after you said Clark. It brightens up his entire face.
“No problem. You ready to get out of here?”
It’s like he knew how eager you were to leave this place. You just want to go home with your favorite show on your laptop and ordering three large portions of fries, maybe five, with your homemade mayonnaise. You’re starting to feel the hunger after not eating anything for the entire day.
“Yes.”
You always tell yourself you’re going to start forcing yourself to take breaks every hour or so, but you never do. Or if you do, and you never respect the rules. You always just turn off your alarm and go right back to work, grumpier because you hate being interrupted.
You hate that you can’t wear your headphones right now, because Metropolis is always louder at night, but your head is still hurting, and you’re almost sure it’s because of the headphone. It’s super old and it feels like your head’s gotten bigger over the years and you’re not talking about the metaphorical kind of big heads, although some people would definitely agree that you have a big head.
Clark is quiet at your side. The elevator ride is uneventful. The moment you step foot outside, your shoulders are up to your ears.
He asks to make a stop at the pharmacy and when he comes out, he has earplugs in his hand. You stare at him like he’d grown two heads when he hands them to you.
“It’s for you.”
“Me?”
“I thought they might help.”
They do. You relax instantly the instant the second earplug is in your ear.
“Thank you,” you say. Your voice is muffled to your ears.
“Of course,” he replies, but you barely hear him. The earplugs are that good. Clark is that good.
Next Monday, a marbled chocolate and vanilla cake is waiting for Clark at his desk.
Two months into your internship at the Daily Planet, you are invited to Lois’ birthday. It’s nothing big, nothing fancy. It feels like a birthday party when you were younger.
You bring her a birthday cake, with three levels, complete with funfetti and whipped cream and frosting. You didn’t really know what to get her as a gift so you figured you couldn’t go wrong with a birthday cake.
You only know Lois, Jimmy and Clark. You know the rest of the people only by sight, and some you don’t know at all.
Lois’ apartment is nice. It’s old but quaint and well-lived in. You sit in the three seat couch on the left side, hands on your knees. Clark’s earplugs were in your pocket. You didn’t need to use them but you liked knowing where they were. You also had your headphones in your bag that Lois took from you once you came in.
Lois had looked overjoyed when she saw you come in with a huge cake box. You had to buy a special one because you’d never had to deliver a cake this big.
She takes it from your arms, safely putting in the kitchen before turning towards you again. “Can I give you a hug?”
“Okay,” you reply, because this is Lois Lane who was already part of your routine. Lois who smells really nice and is always smiling towards you even though you’re just an intern and she’s already a senior.
She gives you the hug and it feels like her. Safe, happy, kind.
“Happy birthday,” you tell her. “I hope you enjoy the cake. I’m not very used to making cakes this big, or decorating.”
“Definitely the best gift ever. Thank you so much, love.”
She stayed behind to greet others and talk to her friends and that’s how you found yourself on her couch. You saw Clark and Jimmy when you came in but you didn’t know whether you should go say hi. You weren’t used to social settings, let alone birthday parties.
So you just wait. You don’t know necessarily what you’re waiting for, but you wait.
There is no loud music but there’s an ambient music playing all across Lois’ apartment. And it smells nice, like her, but bigger. There are snacks and drinks on the table and it reminds you of birthday parties when you were a kid. You always thought grown-ups celebrated their birthday parties during the night in clubs, but you’re glad it wasn’t the case for Lois.
“Hey.”
“Hi Jimmy,” you greet back. You like Jimmy Olsen. He has freckles and when he smiles his entire face lights up and his eyes disappear, and it’s adorable. He looks soft.
“It’s nice you could join us.”
You nod. “I wasn’t expecting to be invited at all.”
“Why not?”
You look everywhere but his eyes. “I am not exactly the kind of person you want to invite anywhere. I am an excruciatingly picky eater, I don’t like bright lights or loud sounds. I don’t talk a lot and I don’t know how to do small talk. I hate small talk. See? You were trying to make small talk but I took it too seriously, and now you must think I’m a buzz killer.”
“Honest to a fault, yes, but not a buzz killer.”
“People don’t like too much honesty.”
“Lucky for you, we’re not like most people.”
“I am starting to see that,” you reply, trying for a smile. “It’s — nice. Thank you.”
“Of course.” His eyes flicker up to something behind you and then back to you. “Hey, what do you think of Clark Kent?”
You frown. “Do you want the honest answer or the socially accepted answer?”
“Honest.”
“I think he’s kind. And he has nice blue eyes.” You grab your earplugs from your pocket and gather them in the palm of your hand before showing it to Jimmy. “He bought me earplugs one time, because my headphones hurt and the streets were too nosy. I don’t really wear them all the time, but I like them.”
“Sounds like something he would do.”
“He does that to everyone?”
“Well — yeah. That’s just how he is with everyone. But with you, it’s—” he interrupts himself, and doesn’t continue.
“Oh.” For some reason you had hoped that it meant something – that you were special. “Yeah. I think he’s really kind and I’m glad to know him. You too, of course. And Lois Lane. And everyone at the office.”
Jimmy smiles at you again.
He said he wanted honesty, so I tell him: “I really like your smile. You look really cute. Sometimes it makes me want to pinch your cheeks.”
His face goes bright red, and you can’t help but smile. “You look even cuter like this. No wonder all the girls like you.”
That was true. It’s one of the few things you had noticed, even if you were usually too in your head to notice anything happening. But you always saw girls at the office staring at him and whispering to each other how hot he was.
He coughs and takes a long sip of whatever it is he’s drinking. It’s bubbly. He doesn’t say anything, but he stays red a long time.
A little while later, Lois Lane says she’s feeling generous and decides to share the cake you made with everyone. “Is that okay with you?” She asked you before she did.
“It’s your cake. I don’t care what you do with it,” you replied honestly. If sharing it made her happy, then so be it.
Half the cake’s gone by the time everyone gets a slice. Lois lets you pick the spoon you want from her kitchen drawer, away from everyone else.
“What did you do to Jimmy earlier?” She asks, leaning against her fridge while you rummage through her utensil drawers looking for the perfect spoon – or fork. You’re not very picky.
“I didn’t do anything to him.” It’s true. You didn’t even touch him. You just spoke with him. “Lois, your drawer is painfully untidy. You should let me organize it for you one day.”
“Oh hush, my drawers are perfectly fine. Anyway, I saw the two of you and he left you looking like a tomato. Spill.” Her eyes are glinting with excitement and something else you can’t name. Her cheeks are rosy, and she looks lighter than ever. She is truly one of the prettiest people you’ve ever seen. You find a spoon that’s perfect. Small and symmetrical and shiny. You grab it and close the drawer.
You tell her she’s the prettiest person you’ve ever seen, and she goes red in the face.
“Is that what you said to Jimmy too?”
“No, I didn’t talk about you. I told him he was really cute.”
She chuckles. “If you keep this up, you’re going to end up with half the office in love with you. Have you complimented anyone else today?”
“No. Just you and Jimmy. And I guess I told Jimmy about Clark, but I didnt really compliment Clark, since I just said what I thought of him.”
“And what do you think of Clark?”
“That he has the kindest and prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
you’re sitting in the living room again, except you’re on the armchair this time because the couch was taken by a couple making out. You thought that kind of thing only happened in college parties, not that you’ve ever gone to one.
“Your cake is as good as your cookies, but nothing can top them in my opinion.”
You look up to find Clark already smiling at you. His eyes are smiling behind his glasses. He has a plate in his hand but the cake is untouched.
“You didn’t even taste it,” you tell him trying not to sound annoyed at the blatant lie.
“This is my third slice actually,” he says with a huff, as if he’s saying, do you really think I can lie? “I just got it before Lois could catch me.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“No problem. Can I sit on the arm rest?”
“Sure.”
There were no longer free seats. Someone had braved the making out couple and sat next to them and looked like he was trying not to be dragged into it.
Clark sits and the armchair creaks a little under his weight.
For some reason, you feel better whenever he’s around you. You always look forward to your discussions even if you never really talk about anything serious or consequential. You talk about baking — well, you talk and he listens.
“How’d you make the cake?” he asks, as if he could hear my thoughts. “It’s so… juicy.”
His adjective of choice makes you snort, but you explain to him exactly how you made it anyway. The secret’s all in the syrup, you say. And how much vanilla extract you put in.
“Had a heavy hand with the vanilla again?”
“I had a reason this time. The recipe called for it, this time.”
Your head is buzzing pleasantly by the time you leave the birthday party. You feel mellowed out, like caramel that’s been left in the sun. Not melted completely, just… boneless, if that made sense.
You take the train because Lois’ apartment is far away from yours and you’re feeling too lazy to walk there, even if you prefer to walk everywhere. Subways are dirty and loud and, quite frankly, a little scary. Especially after sunset. You checked on your phone and saw that Superman has been spotted in the vicinity, so you weren’t as scared as you would be.
Before moving to Metropolis for college, you didn’t have any particular opinion about Superman. You weren’t into him nor against him. Tall, big and strong men weren’t high on your list of people you liked. Too much masculinity, too much testosterone – that never bode well for anyone, but you could appreciate the fact that he’d saved the world too many times to count.
Until you meet him. You don’t exactly meet him, but you see him, mid-fight, swooping to protect a kitten from being crushed by a falling tree, even the monster was charging at him. You were so stunned you forgot to rush to shelter, until he was suddenly in front of you, kitten in hand, gently guiding you towards safety.
When you came back home that night, you searched for his name on the Internet. You found yourself on Twitter, clicking on his hashtag. You wanted to see if he’s done it before, if he was known for saving the little guy.
He was. There were countless of videos and pictures and testimonies, all showing how Superman saved their fish or their cat or dog or even their car, or a squirrel.
You wouldn’t exactly say that you were a fan now, but… close. There was something about a 6’4 man who could lift up buildings with one hand saving a tiny kitten that just did things to you. You were too used to heroes sacrificing the little lives for the bigger picture, and while you knew it was impossible to save every single person, it was nice to see that someone tried anyway, rather than just giving up.
Somehow, even Superman had haters. You frowned as you read the seemingly endless hate tweets.
You tweeted I saw #Superman save this tiny kitten mid-fight. NOT #Supershit. And you attached a picture of the kitten in your arms. (Kitten that you’d named Supercat and kept.)
It was the only way you found to show your gratitude, even if Superman was too busy to read fan tweets. He was probably busy saving kittens from trees and helping fish find their way back in the water. He probably didn’t even care for the hate, but still, seeing it was upsetting, especially when you knew for a fact he did nothing that warranted it.
It was stupid, but you’d gone to bed that night with a purring Supercat on your chest and a heart that felt like it grew three sizes inside your chest.
“Hot chocolate coming right up for the lady.”
You look up just in time to see a smiling Clark Kent bending slightly to place a large mug on your desk. He’s not wearing a tie – or a jacket – and it’s unbuttoned at the couple first buttons. He looks – nice. You’re not used to thinking these things about men.
“Me?” you ask, dumbly. “But I didn’t bring you anything.”
“Can’t I be nice without expecting anything in return?”
You frown at that, like the idea had never even graced your mind. “Oh. What’s the occasion, then?”
Today was, as far as you knew, a normal day. You weren’t good at remembering birthdays or special days but you were ninety nine percent sure there was nothing going on today.
“Nothing. Just wanted to be nice.”
You smiled gratefully, sheepishly, and wrapped your fingers around the warm mug. “Thank you.”
He must think you’re weird, for thinking that kindness had to be transactional, but that’s just how you learnt to see the world. People rarely were nice without a reason. You take a small tentative sip, and you find out the drink is the perfect temperature once again.
He smiles, happy that you’re pleased, and he finally goes to his desk.
“Are you not cold?” you ask him. It’s the middle of the winter and it’s not the first time you see him come into work with just a shirt, while everyone else was wearing layers upon layers, including yourself.
His smile turns sheepish. “I forgot to bring my jacket.”
“You must forget it a lot,” you hum. “It’s strange because you never seem to forget other things. Like my hot chocolate or Jimmy and Lois’ coffee.”
He laughs, but it sounds a little strained. “I guess I’m always thinking of others first.”
You hum again. “Maybe I should start bringing you something warm then. Someone has to think of you first too.”
His smile is – heartbreaking.
You bring him a thick and warm comforter, and Clark seems to love it and he wears it like a cape.
The sight is a little silly and weirdly familiar.
He keeps it in his desk all the time.
The break room falls silent when you come in. Lois, Jimmy and Clark look up, and only Clark’s looking like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been, and weirdly apologetic. Lois and Jimmy look like cats who each got the canary.
You greet them with a wave of your hand and start filling up your water bottle.
“We were just thinking, maybe we should go to the movies tonight,” Jimmy says, and it sounds like he’s been rehearsing. Lois is trying to hide a laughing fit and Clark looks absolutely distraught.
“Okay?” you say, a little confused but not wanting to be rude. “Have fun.”
“The four of us,” Jimmy clarifies.
“Oh.” That made sense now. “Sure,” you reply. “What movie?”
They each say a different movie. Maybe they hadn’t decided on that part yet. Honestly, you don’t mind any movie, as long as it’s with your friends.
Goddamit, you’re actually excited about it. You don’t like feeling excited, you hate it, because it always ends up in disappointment and you know that and still, you can barely stay still on your chair while you’re doing research.
But you keep thinking about – well, Clark, and maybe sitting next to him, if you find a way to discreetly take the seat next to his, and just being with him for a few hours. Of course, you were happy Lois and Jimmy would be there but you weren’t as close to Clark the way you were close with them.
And you certainly don’t have a crush on them the way you crush on Clark.
“Ready to go?” Clark asks you when the clock strikes 5pm and everyone else is already starting to get ready to go home. There weren’t any looming deadlines so people felt free to go home on time.
“Yes,” you reply, almost too excitedly. You’re looking at the space between his eyes and he looks almost excited too, and a little bit flushed. His eyes are fleeing yours, which is weird, because usually it’s only you who does that. “Should we wait for Lois and Jimmy?”
You peek behind him and notice Jimmy still at his desk, and Lois was nowhere to be found.
“Ah, yes, of course,” Clark says. “Jimmy, you ready?”
Then, like he’s been getting ready to say this, Jimmy turns around. “Oh no, I’m sorry. Lois and I have to stay behind, I’m sorry. It’s all last minute. We’re going to try to finish quick and try to catch up, but yeah, just go on without us.”
You blink, feeling a little disappointed. “Oh,” you say. “We can wait, right Clark? I mean we can stay and help them finish quicker.”
They share a look you don’t get. “Oh no, uh, it’s just that it’s something only Lois and I can work on, I’m sorry. But we’ll be quick, we promise.”
“Oh, okay,” you say, trying to smile but feeling a little hurt at the blatant rejection. They were the one who offered to go watch a movie anyway. “Should we just reschedule?”
“I already got us tickets,” Clark says. “I’m not sure they’re refundable.”
“We’ll be quick, I promise,” Jimmy says.
Maybe it’s the fact that your plan has been thrown off that you’re feeling so upset.
“Sorry about them,” Clark says as he lets you inside the elevator first, hand on the edge of it so it doesn’t try closing. “But you know how Perry gets with his deadlines…”
“It’s okay, it’s not your fault,” you reply. “I just don’t understand why we have to go first if they’re going to catch up to us anyway.”
“Maybe they just don’t want us to be stuck at work.”
You’re not really convinced. “They said we would all go out to the movies. All of us.”
“Am I really that bad of a company?” Clark says, a self-deprecating smile on his face.
“What?” You ask with a frown. “No, that has nothing to do with that. It’s just that they said we would all go. I was expecting us to go together.”
“You like it when things go as planned,” he says with a soft murmur.
Your fingers tighten around your bag straps. “Yes. But I feel bad for feeling this way because they obviously can’t help it if they’re held back at work. I’ll deal with it. They’re going to catch up with us soon anyway. And you’re not bad company, sorry for making you think that. I’m just– my brain is weird,” you say the last part lamely, not knowing how to explain it any better.”
He lets you get out of the elevator first again. You don’t notice anything but his warmth next to you and his voice.
“Your brain’s not weird. I think it works perfectly well. You like honesty, you like your routine, and you like things to go as planned. Doesn’t make you weird. Just… a good person to be around.”
You don’t reply, but your fingers are playing with your straps. You don’t dare look at him, because you know he’s looking for your eyes. But that’s too scary.
“We can reschedule, if you want. I don’t mind, and I’m sure neither will they.”
“But your tickets.”
“They’re just tickets. We can always get more of them.”
“I would like to wait a bit first. How long until our movie starts?”
“About twenty-five minutes.”
“We’ve got time.”
“Yeah?”
He’s smiling.
“Yeah. Maybe they’ll finish quickly and we can still go. The movie theater’s not that far.”
“You’re right. Let’s get something to eat,” he says, pocketing his phone after texting something in it. “My treat.”
“Okay.”
Clark Kent is really nice. In all senses of the word. He’s nice to look at, he’s nice to listen to, and he’s plain nice. Although you suppose he’s kinder than he is nice. His goodness seems intrinsic, woven into the lines of his very being.
“You have a cat?” he asks. “Why is that not surprising?”
“Maybe because I am an introvert and all introverts are known to have cats?”
He chuckles softly, bringing a spoonful of ice cream to his mouth. “Something like that. What’s his name?”
“You’re going to make fun of me,” you say, the tip of your ears red.
“I would never.”
“It’s kind of embarrassing.”
“Try me. Can’t be as bad as me calling my childhood cat Cat when I was a kid.”
You snort. “That’s not embarrassing, that’s practical, and really cute. But what if you’d had more than one cat?”
“I probably would have named them Cat 2 or something.”
“My cat’s name is Supercat,” you confess shyly, hiding your face behind your giant brookie. You don’t know why you feel so embarrassed about it. It’s just a cat name, and it’s not like Clark would suddenly know all about your Superman obsession.
Clark has a moment of pause before he reacts. “Because he’s a caped hero?”
You snort. “Oh no, actually. He’s afraid of mice and insects, and of his own shadow.”
“Why Supercat, then?”
“Because Superman gave him to me.”
“You know him?”
“Oh no, I just happened to be at the right time right place. Superman was fighting this huge alien creature and then he saved a kitten, even though he clearly had other bigger things to worry about, and then he saw me, and I was too dumbstruck to move so he guided me to safety and asked me to take care of the kitten while he took care of the monster.”
“You like him,” Clark says, and he sounds a little smug.
“What? No! What makes you say that?”
You’re red. You know it because your face is burning and you’re trying to look at anything but Clark’s knowning smile. How’d he know?!
“Oh nothing, it’s just the way you completely light up while talking about him, and how I’ve never heard you talk as much in one go.”
“That’s so untrue. You’ve heard me talk longer about baking.”
“Which further proves my point. You only talk a lot when it’s about something – or someone – you really love.”
“Shut up,” you say. “I just… well, he saved my cat, even if I didn’t know he was my cat yet. So of course I like him.”
“Sounds to me like he saved you as well.”
“Yeah, maybe,” you say, even though there’s no maybe about it. He did save you, but it’s him saving the cat that marked you the most.
“I, uh, I actually know Superman. Kind of. I do interviews with him from time to time.” You knew that because you’ve read every interview there was on Superman, and you’d quickly noticed that it was the same journalist every time. Clark Kent. “I could talk to him about maybe meeting you? I’m sure he’ll want to know that the kitten he saved is safe. And that you’re safe too, of course.”
He looks earnest and shy, and a little awkward, and it’s painfully endearing.
“I don’t know…” you say, even though your heart is beating faster at the idea of meeting Superman and properly talking to him. “Isn’t it a bad idea to meet your heroes? I’m worried I’ll mess up the memory I have of him.”
And honestly, you couldn’t really think of anyone else when Clark was talking to you, even if it was Superman.
“No rush,” he says gently. “If you change your mind, the offer’s still standing.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course. Come on, Lois and Jimmy said they’re already there. Seems like they managed to get away with work.”
You’re sitting next to Clark Kent.
Lois and Jimmy were bickering and before they knew it the seats around you and Clark were taken, so they had to go to the front.
“This is all your fault, idiot,” you hear Lois tell Jimmy as they shamefully walk to the front of the room.
“Should we join them?” you whisper.
“You’re kidding? I don’t want to lose the best spots for them.”
You giggle. “Okay.”
“Beside it’s their fault for not quickly deciding on who got to sit next to you.”
“That’s stupid, when there was literally a free seat next to you.”
You look at each other and dissolve into a fit of giggles.
“Can I walk you home?”
“I live in the opposite direction of your place,” you remind him patiently, even though there are butterflies inside your stomach that are doing a lot of damage to your nerves.
“I quite frankly don’t care about that. I just want to walk you home. Can I?”
“But why?”
Why is he acting like romantic leads did in shows? Surely he doesn’t like you. He’s probably just being really kind and thoughtful. But he didn’t offer Lois to walk her home, even though he knew her longer. Maybe it’s because you’re younger and he thinks it’s his responsibility that you get home safe?
“Because… I am not ready to leave you just yet,” he confesses – because that’s what it sounds like. A confession. His voice is lower, softer, yet sure. He’d never sounded this sure.
“Why?” you ask, dumbly. Or maybe you just wanted him to keep talking about you this way.
“Let me take you home and I’ll tell you,” he replies. “Maybe.”
It’s only because you’re so curious that you say yes. No other reason.
And maybe because his face lights up like you’d just given him the Pulitzer prize.
The walk home is quiet, a little awkward, but it feels – nice, good, safe. Just like Clark Kent.
He instinctively takes the road side of the street, and he gently guides you away from a puddle when you don’t look where you’re going. He’s patient when you check fourt times before crossing the streets.
In the subway, he uses his entire body like a shield between you and the rest of the commute. He grasps the handle with one and he lets you use his bicep as your handle, since you’re too short to reach the bar.
“What are you doing?” he asks, and it still baffles you how you don’t need to look at him anymore to know when he’s smiling.
You blush, realising he must be looking into your phone.
“Whenever I take the subway I check if Superman’s in the area. It, uh, makes me feel safe.”
His bicept flexes underneath your fingers. It’s easy to forget it, because he rarely reminds you of it, but Clark’s really strong and muscular. His biceps are so big you would need your two hands to wrap around the muscle.
“What do you need Superman for when I’m right here?”
“Are you… jealous?”
He scoffs, like the idea itself is ludicrous. “Of course not. Why would I be jealous of him?”
“Because you’re right here with me and I’m still searching for him.”
You don’t know where that came from. You’re not usually this bold or even this teasing. You’re about to retract back what you said but then you see his reaction.
“You’re right, I would be jealous. If it wasn’t my arm you’re holding right now, if it wasn’t me you’re looking with that delicious blush.”
Then, he blushes too, as if just now realizing what he’d just said. You stare at each other, both blushing. At the same time, you both look away, but you don’t remove your hand, and he doesn’t stop protecting you from the people pushing in.
The rest of the subway ride is quieter. Nicer.
He walks you right up to your front door. He obviously wants to see inside, so you invite him in. You tell yourself you’re just being polite.
“I want to see Supercat,” he says, like it explains why he really wants to come in.
You open the door.
“Please come in. Make yourself at home. I think I have some scones, if you want? I made them last weekend.”
Your apartment is humble, which is an euphemism for small. You’re still a student, and despite interning at the Daily Planet, you’re not rolling in dough. So your apartment is more of a glorified room that has a small kitchen area and a tiny oven you bought specifically for your baking (you rarely use it for your meals, since your safe meals usually only need pans). It’s a definite far cry from Lois’ really nice apartment, and what you guessed Clark’s to be. But, this was home, and has been for the past four years. You don’t feel as ashamed as you would usually be, because you know Clark isn’t the type of person to judge.
Supercat is, unsurprisingly, sleeping on top of your dirty laundry. He opens a lazy eye to see whether I brought him any treat, before closing it back, clearly uninterested in the new stranger.
“See? He’s no hero, if you were an intruder right now, he barely would have batted an eye,” you say, though you just sound fond, not annoyed at all.
“Maybe he just instinctively knows I don’t want to cause you any harm.”
“I doubt it – not that I don’t believe you when you say you’re harmless. It’s just… well, I wouldn’t trust him with my life. Come on, come on in. Don’t just stand there. I know my place is small, but not so small it couldn’t fit you.”
He flushes sweetly. “Oh God, no, it’s not–”
You nudge him with your elbow. “I’m teasing you. You can sit on my bed, since I don’t have a couch.”
He obeys, and the sight of him, big limbs and large presence, trying to navigate my tiny apartment is endearing. He looks out of place, like a giant in a dollhouse, and still, completely at home.
“It’s really – cute, here,” he says while you take out cookies (turns out you’d ran out of scones without realizing).
“Thank you. I like it too. My only issue is that it gets too small for baking sometimes.”
“Ah yes, this is where the magic happens.”
The way he says it makes it sound like you’re conducting scientific experiments and creating miracles.
“It’s just cookies.”
“Not just any cookies. Only the best ones I’ve ever had.”
“You’re just saying that because –” Because what, because he likes you? You quickly look down to your hands, embarrassed at the thought.
“Because?” he presses. When you look up, he’s right there, just in front of you. You hadn’t even noticed him moving.
He moved like a big cat. Silent, agile, and deadly.
“Because you’re you,” you say instead. “Because you’re kind. That’s what you do.”
“You think I’m only nice to you because I’m kind?”
“Yeah. Because I’m the new kid and the youngest, and you have strong protective instincts that makes you want to take care of everyone, like it’s your job to do so.” He doesn’t sound convinced and you get desperate trying to convince him, so you add: “Jimmy said you’re like this with everyone.”
“Did he? Did he say that I walk anyone home? That I spend thirty minutes every day making my Ma’s special hot chocolate drink for anyone? That I stay up late at work just to make sure they’re not overworking themselves again?”
“I…”
Clark smiles, and it’s like the sun peeking between two dark clouds.
“You..?”
“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Do you… like me?”
“Yes. I have ever since you tore your cookie in half just so I could taste it, and you spent twenty minutes talking to me about how butter content can either make or break the recipe, and how you go through vanilla extracts like people go through coffee.”
Your brain short-circuits. He wasn’t supposed to just… agree, like it was that easy.
“Why?” you ask.
“Do I really need a reason? It’s just you.”
“I guess… I’m just a little confused. No one’s ever liked me before. Or they do, until I start rambling about recipes and ingredients and how many times I have to make a recipe before I’m finally satisfied with it. Or until I go nonverbal because everything is too loud and everything hurts and I refuse to be touched. But you knew all this, and you still… like me?”
“Yes, sweetheart. I still like you.”
“Why?” you ask, and you realize you’d already asked why before.
“Because it’s you. Because baking is your love language and there’s not a single person in the office that you didn’t bake anything for, and because you’re adorable with your pink headphones everyone thinks you use to listen to music but you use it as a noise-cancelling device. And because you smile like an angel, and write like a devil, and you bake like nostalgia. And because from the first day I saw you, I knew I was a goner.”
You chuckle nervously, looking around, as if waiting for Jimmy or Lois or both to pop up from somewhere with a camera.
“You like me,” you repeat, as if tasting it on your own tongue helped you understand it.
“I do. And I should have told you before, but I was a coward, and Jimmy and Lois were tired of me whining about how much I liked you and not doing anything about it.”
“The movies,” you say, like an euraka moment.
His eyes go soft. “Yes, the movies. They were trying to set us up. I told them I didn’t like the plan, it felt too deceptive, too manipulative, but…”
“I’m glad they did it,” you interrupt. “But you’re right. It was kind of manipulative, and I was really sad when I thought they weren’t coming. It’s just — I like it— no, I need people to do as they say. Otherwise it messes with my head and I don’t like it, but still, I guess they were just trying to help. You texted them, didn’t you? You told them to come.”
“Yes. As soon as I saw how much it upset you, I told them to come back.”
“And you still like me.” It isn’t a question. You just like to repeat facts, as if repeating them a hundred times would make them truer than if you’d only said them once. “Despite all of this.”
“I still like you. All of you. Your quirks and your habits and your preferences.”
“Thank you,” you reply. Are you supposed to kiss him now? You weren’t sure. No one ever told you how love confessions are supposed to go.
He looks a little scared, a little vulnerable, and it’s not right. It doesn’t look right.
Oh. You are supposed to reply to his confession.
“I like Superman,” you say. Your brain’s not right. “But I like you better. I liked him because he saved animals and because he made the city safer, it’s why I follow blogs about him and search for his whereabouts. But ever since I met you, I didn’t do that as much anymore. So you really don’t need to be jealous of Superman.”
You’re not really sure where you’re going with this, but for some reason you thought mentioning Superman was a good idea.
“You like me better than Superman,” he repeats. Maybe he needed to taste the words himself to believe them better too. The look of fear melts from his face. It leaves only pure, unadulterated, boyish joy behind. He looks — pure. Like the sun.
“Yes. I feel safe around you the same way I feel safe when I know Superman’s near.”
“I’m glad. You deserve to feel safe all the time.”
“Thank you. So do you. Do you still want cookies? They must have thawed a bit since then, but I can still put them in the microwave for a bit.”
He chuckles. “Yes please, I would like some of your cookies.”
You turn around, your cheeks still burning hot. You just confessed to Clark Kent, after he confessed to you first. He likes you. He likes you and you like him.
You both sit down on the edge of your bed, thighs close but not touching. He’s so big he could easily take up the whole space, but he’s making himself smaller so he doesn’t intrude on your personal space.
“Listen, I, I’ve never done this before so excuse me if I’m making a fool of myself but…”
“Yes?”
“Would you like to go on a date with me? A proper one, this time, and not a subterfuge.”
He looks earnest and hopeful, and once again scared.
“Okay. I would love to go on a date with you, Clark.”
────୨ৎ────
Clark didn’t know whether he should thank his friends or ignore them for the rest of his life after the little stunt they’d pulled around you.
He knew that they were just trying to be helpful in that meddling yet endearing way of theirs, but he truly thought his heart was going to stop beating the second he saw you get upset at the unexpected change of plans.
If he didn’t already have no chance with you before this, he definitely didn’t anymore.
You were always physically impassible, eyes shining only when you’re talking about something you liked — baking, cats, Superman. He was used to having to dig deeper to truly understand how you felt, but at that moment in the elevator, he could see your emotions clear as day.
And it broke him.
He was only glad that the night ended the way it did, otherwise he probably would have flown him, Jimmy and Lois into the sun if they’d accidentally hurt you.
A little after finishing your cookie, Superkitten, the cat Clark still remembered saving a couple of years ago, finally moved his spot and graced him with his attention. He sniffed him at first, looked at him suspiciously before continuing his thorough sniffing.
“He is trying to figure out where you’ve been and what you smell like,” you explained to him. Clark felt his heart settle the way it always did when he heard your voice.
“He’s a nosy little thing,” he replied.
“It’s strange, because he’s usually not. There must be something about you that intrigues him enough to get him moving.”
Clark lifted an eyebrow at that, giving his attention back to the slightly obese orange cat who was sniffing his socks now. He was a slip of a thing, really, when he saved him. Too weak, too small to move, to even notice the piece of concrete that was about to kill him. And now, happy and fat and serene and lazy because he knew he had the best owner in the world. No, Clark was not jealous of a stupid cat.
Maybe Superkitten remembered him too. It wouldn’t surprise him. After all, cats often saw things human couldn’t.
“Maybe he just knows I’m special.”
You snorted. Even your snort was endearing, a work of art. “Don’t flatter yourself, Clark. He must smell food on you, that’s all.”
He bent down slightly, telegraphing his movements so that the cat had time to move if he didn’t want to be touched, and he started scratching him softly under his chin. Superkitten started purring almost instantly.
He definitely remembered.
When he looked back at you, you were watching them with a strange look on your face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” you replied. You were being honest, he could tell. “It’s just… I think I’m still trying to wrap my head around all of this. I need time to process change. Everything feels a bit surreal. I always have a difficult time with reality, especially after dark. Everything feels like a dream.”
“A good dream, I hope.”
“Yes. But a dream nonetheless. Something that ends the moment you open your eyes.”
“I’ll still be here, tomorrow morning, when you wake up, when you open your eyes.”
“I hope so,” you replied. “I’m already getting used to the fact that you’re here. I would be upset if you disappeared.”
Clark Kent would rather die a thousand deaths than hurt you.
He wanted to kiss you, hold you. Anything to ease the worry off your eyebrows, to show you that he was here, there and now and for as long as you wanted him.
“Does this mean we’re boyfriend and girlfriend?” you ask, and the changement of subject is so jarring it leaves Clark a bit dazed, before he felt his entire body flush at your words. His entire being was attuned to you.
“I, uh, yes, I mean, definitely yes, if you wanted. I was waiting to ask you officially once we’ve had our first date but… this definitely works too.”
You smiled. “Okay. I know labels aren’t for everyone but they help me.”
He nodded. “Anything you need.”
“Should we kiss now?”
God, yes, he wanted to say. “Do you want us to kiss?”
“Yes. I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to kiss you.”
He was lucky he didn’t need his heart to live because it always skipped beats around you. You wondered what it would feel like to kiss him? He wanted to know when and where and why, and what he can do again to make you wonder that again.
“You did?” he asked, voice hoarse. Tell me more, tell me everything. Tell me every single thought you’ve ever had about me.
“Yeah. Mostly when you eat something I’ve baked. I keep wondering how it would taste on your lips, if it would make it better, sweeter.”
He smiled. “I just had one of your cookies. Want a taste?”
“Can I?” you asked.
Of course. Anything. You could do anything to me.
He nodded.
And then your lips were on his. Tentative at first, always soft. He can feel your hands on your bed, fingers grasping your bed sheets, your shoulders angling towards him, your head tipping slightly back so you could reach him.
And Clark felt like he was reborn. You were the sun and he was the sunflower, chasing the sun rays on your lips and the warmth of your body.
He didn’t know how; he certainly didn’t think it, but somehow you were closer, knees close to his thigh, and his hands were on yours and he’s lifting you gently until you’re straddling his thighs and through it all, the kiss hasn’t been broken once.
He could keep going like this forever, but he knew you needed oxygen.
You were focused like you did on an article when everything else in the world disappeared, and you forgot how to even blink or take a breath.
He broke the kiss reluctantly.
“Breathe, sweetheart.”
You took a huge breath. Your pupils were so wide and dark they ate up your irises. Your eyes looked like black holes Clark would willingly get swept into.
“Wow,” you said.
Clark felt the same way he did whenever he helped someone and they looked at him with gratitude. Pride bloomed in his chest. He did that. You liked his kiss so much you forgot how to breathe.
“How was it?” he asked even if he already knew, because he was selfish and greedy and full of himself.
“I got distracted,” you replied. “By your kiss. I forgot to taste my cookie and compare.”
Clark couldn’t keep the smugness out of his face even if he could. “Let’s kiss again,” he offered, like he was doing you a favor. “You can try again.”
