𝐏𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 // 𝐉𝐇𝟖𝟔
PART ONE OF TWO┃MASTERLIST
Summary: “do we make this a thing? casually fuck when we both feel like it?” – or the one where jack believes love is for everyone but him, until he runs into his neighbor and her golden retriever.
Pairing: jack hughes x afab! reader with she/her pronouns
Word count: 24.7k
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ★ smutty at the end, dry humping, or maybe wet humping? otherwise this is pretty tame. jack takes a stick to the face, so some descriptions of bruising. reader wears glasses! some miscommunication, they are both very dumb ◡̈
A/N: This fic belongs to this universe. You can still read this fic without having read the prior Quinn and Luke fics, but characters from those are mentioned in this one. It's Quinn's girlfriend who is nicknamed Bubbles and their six moth old daughter Lilith/Lily, and Luke's girlfriend who is nicknamed Baby.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Jack Hughes was bitter.
You’d think it was spring in the middle of October with how birds and bees swarmed his head. Everywhere he went, love was shoved in his face. Or, more accurately, people who thought they were in love. Jack wasn’t convinced the real thing, at least in its glossy, commercialized form, actually existed.
He loved hockey. He loved his family. He loved his grandma’s chicken noodle soup recipe. But none of that was romantic. Romance, as far as Jack could tell, was just an elaborate marketing scheme. Flowers, chocolates, overpriced dinners—only to go on sale the second February 14th clocked out. If love were real, it wouldn’t need a clearance section.
That, Jack told himself, was why he was bitter. Not because he wanted what other people had. No, obviously not. He just felt bad for them. All those people fooling themselves into thinking they were happy.
Still, it didn’t help that his teammates had their wives and girlfriends waiting in the family room after every game—ready to celebrate them even after a humiliating 9–0 loss or something equally ridiculous. Or the ones with kids, whose dads were superheroes regardless of the scoreboard, because they simply didn’t understand the concept of winning or losing yet.
Then there was Michigan. Home made it worse. His parents were so in sync they barely needed words, communicating in glances and half-movements like they’d rehearsed their entire lives together. It was unsettling, honestly.
Quinn and his wife were even worse. They liked to pretend no one knew they were married, as if a spousal visa wasn’t a dead giveaway. They were disgustingly in love even if they’d met in the most unconventional way, had the cutest daughter on the planet, and somehow managed to look picture-perfect without even trying.
And Luke, who Jack had mocked his entire life for being unlucky in love, now had a girlfriend. His childhood sweetheart, no less. Everyone thought it was adorable. Jack begrudgingly admitted it probably was. He was just bitter. Possibly because he shared an apartment with them. Possibly because he’d watched Luke pine for years, and now there was no barrier standing in the way of their love.
Wait. Jack still didn’t believe in love. There was no barrier between their act of love.
Even the wildlife was against him. On his daily run through the park, there was a pair of swans that floated side by side in the pond. Always the same pair, he’d noticed, because one had a dark spot in its feathers. Swans mate for life. There was literally no other explanation for them hanging out that much.
They seemed to pity him as he stopped to catch his breath on a nearby bench, gliding in lazy circles like they had all the time in the world. Deep in their devotion. Or maybe the swans weren’t pretending at all. Maybe love did exist—for swans. And wolves, and beavers, and the odd penguin.
Jack wished humans worked like that. If love were just biology, predetermined and permanent, he wouldn’t have to feel so bitter. He’d just end up with someone automatically. No effort, but also no hope and disappointment.
And that, he told his bitter self, sounded much better than downloading Raya for the fifteenth time to ’try again.’ He didn’t want to try. He’d rather be lonely instead, or wait for his own swan to just cling to him forever.
Jack was still sitting there, convincing himself that envy and bitterness were two entirely different things, when footsteps crunched softly behind him. He didn’t look right away. Runners passed through the park all the time. Dog walkers too. It was only when the steps stopped that he glanced up.
You stood a few feet away from the bench, leash looped around your mitten-clad hand. The golden retriever at your side was unmistakable, its fur warm and honey-colored even in the flat autumn light. It stared openly at the pond, tail softly wagging, like the swans were the most fascinating thing it had ever seen.
It took Jack a second to place you. Then it clicked.
You sat on this bench every day.
Same time. Same spot. Notebook balanced on your knee, pencil moving in quick, messy strokes. Your dog always watched the swans like they were reality television. Today, you were bundled up against the chill in a long autumn coat and a thick knitted scarf wrapped twice around your neck. It was colorful and definitely handmade. Round, gold-framed glasses sat low on your nose, magnifying your eyes just enough that they seemed perpetually curious.
Jack had passed you dozens of times on his runs. He’d catalogued you without meaning to. Just as he had catalogued the guy in the coffee kiosk with the curly mustache or the old woman who fed the swans with stale bagel crumbs.
You were the bench girl with the dog. And now he was in your spot.
“I’ve taken your spot, haven’t I?” he said, before he could stop himself. He probably could’ve just moved from the bench and continued running without starting a conversation.
You didn’t move. Didn’t smile. You didn’t even really react, beyond lifting one shoulder in a small shrug. “It’s public property,” you replied.
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “I know. But you always sit here.”
Your eyes narrowed just slightly. “Are you stalking me?”
“No, I—” Jack laughed, because obviously that was absurd. “I run here often.”
You tilted your head. The dog’s leash shifted in your hand. “I know. I’ve seen you.”
Jack felt something uncomfortable crawl up the back of his neck. Awareness. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Are you stalking me?”
“No.”
There was a pause. The pond lapped softly behind him. The swans drifted past in their usual tight formation, still together, still unbearable. The dog’s ears perked, paws scratching the gravel, full attention on them.
“You can come sit,” Jack offered, gesturing vaguely at the bench. “I don’t bite.”
Your eyes flicked to the space beside him, then to his face, then down to the dog. “She’s anxious,” you said, nodding toward her. “And afraid of men.”
“Oh, okay. Yeah. No problem.” He stood up at once, stepping back off the paved edge and onto the running path, putting a clear, intentional distance between himself and the bench. He lifted his hands a little, palms open, like that might help. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” you said.
Now that he was standing, the conversation felt different. Less accidental. You stayed where you were for a second longer, watching him like you were making sure he understood.
“I should continue with my run,” Jack said.
“Okay.”
The simplicity of it threw him. You weren’t like him, who spewed out words in conversations with strangers just to appear likable. No awkward apology required. No reassurance. It was just okay.
You gave the leash a gentle tug and finally moved forward, stepping toward the bench as the dog followed. “Come on, Waffle.”
“You named your dog Waffle?” Jack asked, turning back toward you.
You glanced back at him, deadpan. “She’s the color of one.”
Jack snorted before he could help it, the sound surprised out of him. “Yeah,” he said. “She really is.”
Waffle glanced up at him, tail thumping once against the bench before she seemed to want to hide behind you.
“Well,” Jack said, backing another step onto the path, lacing the run back into his voice. “It was nice talking to you. And Waffle.”
You nodded once, already sitting back down on the bench, notebook peeking out of your tote bag like it had been waiting patiently for him to leave. “You too.”
Jack started jogging again, falling back into his rhythm as the park path curved ahead of him. He told himself it was nothing. Just a conversation. Just a bench. Just a girl he’d apparently been noticing for months without realizing it. Still, when he passed the pond again on his next lap, his eyes couldn’t help but land on you again. Simply registering that you were still there, still doodling in your notebook. Waffle still kept her eye on the swans.
He didn’t know why it warmed his heart so, or what to even call the feeling. There was probably some long German word for it.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Jack came home still riding the edge of his run, lungs burning and pulse loud in his ears. He took the stairs two at a time—four flights, no breaks—because the elevator was slow and because stopping meant thinking, and he wasn’t doing that today. Not any more than he already had, at least.
He was still catching his breath when he unlocked the door and stepped inside. The apartment was warm; the windows fogged faintly from the contrast between inside and out. His hands and face started to prickle as the cold bled out of him, that itchy, uncomfortable in-between that made him want to keep moving.
There was a low murmur of voices coming from the living room, punctuated by quiet laughter. Jack barely had time to process it before he rounded the corner and saw Luke and his girlfriend, Baby, standing shoulder to shoulder at the window that overlooked the park.
They were fully pressed up against the glass, and Jack let out a short, breathless laugh at the sight. Both of them startled like they’d been caught doing something wrong, spinning around in unison.
“Did you just talk to the weird girl in the park?” Luke asked immediately.
Jack frowned. Weird felt wrong in his mouth, like a word that didn’t really belong. “What makes her weird?”
“Isn’t she homeless?” Luke shrugged. “She sits on that bench for hours sometimes.”
“She’s not unhoused, Luke,” Baby cut in before Jack could even open his mouth. “She literally lives in this building. You’re neighbors!”
Jack’s brain skipped. “Wait, what?”
Luke turned to Baby. “You know her?”
“Kinda,” she said. “She works at the antique store down by the old roundhouse. She’s the one who restored the chess set I got you for your birthday.”
Antique store. Jack registered the words in a hurry, his mind snagging briefly on the image of your hands—ink-smudged, careful—before crashing straight into the bigger problem. This building.
He ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “Did you say she lives here?”
“Yeah,” Baby said, looking between the two brothers like she was genuinely baffled. “Like, one floor down. With Noah? The really tall ginger guy?”
Both Jack and Luke stared at her. Jack had no idea who Noah was, but the fact that you lived with some guy—a guy he’d never seen, somehow—set something sour and irrational twisting in his chest.
“Are you two completely unaware of your surroundings?” she added.
“I’ve only seen her in the park,” Jack said, too fast, like that explained everything. “That’s it.”
Baby tilted her head, eyes narrowing in a way Jack had learned usually meant she was about to say something he wouldn’t enjoy. “And Jack, before you get discouraged, I’m like ninety percent sure Noah is gay.”
Jack froze. “What? Why the fuck would I get discouraged?”
She smiled at him. Luke’s grin spread, slow and dangerous. “Because,” Baby said, “you haven’t initiated a conversation with a woman in what feels like years. This has to mean something.”
“It doesn’t,” Jack said immediately. “It was nothing.”
“You’re telling me Jack likes this girl?” Luke looked between them. “How are you so perceptive?”
“I didn’t say he likes her,” Baby replied. “But I do think it could work if he did. She seems like a lovely person. And her dog is the cutest guy ever.”
“It’s a girl,” Jack blurted. “Her name is Waffle.”
The room went quiet after that. Luke stared at him. Baby’s mouth twitched into an even bigger smile. Jack realized—about a second too late—that he’d just offered information no one had asked for.
He turned away, heading straight toward his room before they could say anything else. As he walked down the hall, he caught his reflection in the darkened window—flushed, hair damp with sweat, expression unsettled. This was ridiculous. And he looked disgusting. Fantastic.
He shut the door behind him with a little more force than necessary and leaned back against it, chest rising and falling too fast for someone who wasn’t still running.
You were neighbors. You lived one floor down. He remembered complaining about a dog barking when someone had moved in awhile back. That was your fucking dog. How had he never seen you in the building before?
Jack squeezed his eyes shut so tight he saw stars. This was bad.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
As the regular season started with big leaps, Jack found himself slightly overwhelmed. Mostly in a good way. Maybe because he got to live his dream, or maybe because the Devils were actually performing somewhat consistently after a dull 2025 season. Wins stacked instead of sporadic. Momentum felt real instead of borrowed.
But he’d felt this before. They’d started strong last season too and then ended up nowhere anyway. And Jack had gotten injured. Good starts didn’t mean good endings. He’d learned not to trust them.
The most overwhelming part was the travel. He told himself he was used to it—years of planes and buses, hotel rooms that all looked eerily the same—but after planting himself in Michigan for three uninterrupted months over the summer, the constant movement hit harder than usual. Multiple flights a week. Long bus rides. Time zones blurred together until days didn’t even feel linear.
And New Jersey was home now. Technically. He’d spent seven seasons of hockey here. He loved it, most of the time. But it was still hard when nothing felt fixed, when he was never in the apartment long enough to actually land in it. One foot in the door, the other already stepping back out, while his brain was just stuck on missing Michigan.
On the rare days off—no scheduled workouts, no optional skates, no meetings, no charity events—Jack mostly slept. Like his body was trying to hoard it. When he wasn’t asleep, he sometimes tried to cram in the things a normal twenty-something was supposed to care about. Socializing. Dating. Building something outside of hockey. But he’d kind of stopped caring about that around the same time he realized love just wasn’t for him.
Who cared if his social life was dwindling? He had hockey to play.
Still. Lying on his bed on one of those rare nights off, staring at the ceiling, Jack found himself restless in a way sleep wouldn’t fix. The apartment was too quiet, and for a moment he considered knocking on Luke’s door—asking if he wanted to grab food, watch something dumb, do something they always used to do.
Jack pushed himself up and stepped out into the hallway.
Luke’s door was already open. His voice drifted out, warm and animated, not aimed at Jack at all. Jack paused, hand half-raised, and watched as Luke shrugged into a jacket, phone pressed between his shoulder and ear, smiling in a way he only did for one person.
“Yeah,” Luke was saying. “I’m heading out now.”
Jack’s hand dropped.
Luke glanced over, catching sight of him in the hallway. “Oh—hey,” he said, distracted but friendly. “Baby’s waiting. I’ll sleep at her place.”
Of course he was.
“We have a flight at nine in the morning, Luke,” Jack said. He hadn’t meant for it to sound accusatory, but it came out that way anyway. But maybe he did find it a little irresponsible for Luke to be going all the way to Brooklyn the night before a road trip.
“I know,” Luke replied easily. “I’ll see you then.”
The casualness of it snapped something loose.
“Are you serious?”
Luke paused, finally pulling the phone away from his ear. His brows knit together. “What? Why are you angry at me?”
“I’m not angry—” Jack cut himself off, exhaling hard through his nose. He stared at the floor for a second, then looked back up. “We haven’t hung out once since you got a girlfriend.”
Luke blinked, clearly not expecting that. He let out what was basically a pitiful laugh at Jack. “I thought you wanted me to move out?”
“Eventually, yeah,” Jack corrected, “but now it just feels like you’re rushing.”
He probably didn’t want Luke to move at all. This place was lonely enough with him here. Jack could handle Luke bringing his girlfriend over all the time and being disgustingly in love if it meant there were at least people around.
Luke scoffed, shaking his head. “Rushing? I’ve known Baby my entire life.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Jack said quickly. “I just—”
“And I’d rather be rushing,” Luke interrupted, voice firmer now, “than not be moving at all, Jack.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“You know exactly what I mean,” Luke said quickly. He looked tired suddenly, like this was a conversation he’d been bracing for. “You have so much going for you, Jack.”
“No, you do,” Jack snapped. “I’m the one who has to spend my time alone in this goddamn apartment.”
The second the words were out, Jack wished he could take them back. They sounded smaller than he’d meant. A lot needier, too.
Luke’s jaw tightened. “But that’s not my fault, is it?”
Jack didn’t have an answer for that.
Luke exhaled slowly, glancing down at his phone like he was remembering that someone was waiting for him. “I’ve gotta go,” he said, quieter now. He stepped past Jack without another word, the front door closing behind him with a final, unmistakable click.
Jack was left there alone in the living room, the argument echoing in his head on a loop. Not moving at all. Maybe he wasn’t, but it was still fucking rude of Luke to point it out like that. Maybe Jack didn’t want to move, or rush, in the same way Luke did.
That was when Jack grabbed his hoodie and his running shoes. Running was moving in some way, even if it wasn’t even marginally close to what Luke meant.
Jack took the stairs two at a time. Like always. He didn’t bother stretching, didn’t check the time, didn’t think about pace. He just needed the movement. Needed his body to do something his brain couldn’t argue with. The stairwell echoed with the dull slap of his sneakers, the smell of concrete and old paint sharp in his nose as he rounded the corner to the next flight—and ran directly into someone.
“Oh, shit, sorry—”
The collision knocked the wind from him more than the running had. Jack stumbled back a step, hands flying up on instinct, palms open like he was bracing for impact that had already happened.
“Hi,” said a small voice to him.
It took his brain a second to catch up with his eyes.
You stood in front of him, one hand resting lightly against the stair railing, the other holding a handbag. Your makeup was dramatic in a way Jack had no vocabulary for—dark liner, silver glitter catching the low light, lips painted a bold, wine color. A corset hugged your torso, structured and sharp, and a fur coat was thrown over your shoulders.
Jack forgot how to stand properly.
He’d almost managed to repress the fact that you were his neighbor—filed it away somewhere inconvenient, like a problem he’d deal with later. Mostly because he hadn’t seen you since you’d last talked. Maybe because seeing you like this, and not in the park, felt a little unreal, like his brain had swapped out one version of you for another.
And then there was the corset.
His gaze snagged on it before he could stop himself—on the way it pulled everything together, on the very obvious, very distracting press of your breasts. He tore his eyes away immediately, mortified.
Totally normal behavior, he told himself. Absolutely normal.
“I’m Jack,” he said, voice coming out a little breathless, a little too loud in the echoing stairwell. “I didn’t get to introduce myself last time.”
“Y/N,” you replied. “Are you always running, Jack?”
“No,” he said, but immediately began correcting himself. “Or maybe I do run a lot. I don’t know.”
You let out a soft and amused giggle, definitely a little buzzed. Not drunk, but you’d probably pre-gamed to wherever you were going now. Jack couldn’t imagine this was your usual attire. He told himself to stop staring, again.
“I, uh… I didn’t know we were neighbors.” Jack gestured vaguely at the stairwell, the building, the fact that you existed here now. “I live upstairs with my brother.”
“Oh, okay. Well, I live here with my roommate,” you said easily, quickly pointing to one of the doors. Unit 3C. Jack lived in 4C. You shifted your weight, already angling past him toward the stairs. “I should get going.”
Something in Jack panicked. The moment felt like it was slipping away too fast.
“Where are you going?” he rushed to ask.
You blinked, then smiled like you were letting him in on something. “Trader Joe’s.”
Jack nodded seriously. “Right.”
“That was a joke, Jack.”
“Oh.” He felt himself flush even more. “Yeah. That makes sense.”
You adjusted the fur coat around your shoulders, tugging it a little closer and covering up just enough that Jack wondered if he’d made you self-conscious. The thought made his chest tighten with something uncomfortably close to guilt.
“I’m going to a friend’s birthday party,” you said, smoothing a hand down the front of the coat. “It’s drag queen themed. I don’t usually dress like this.”
Jack nodded, like that explained everything and nothing at once. His brain whirred uselessly, stuck somewhere between say something normal and don’t fuck this up. Had he stared too much? Had he made it weird already? He took you in again and said the first honest thing that slipped out before he could soften it.
“Don’t worry,” he blurted. “You look cute.”
“Cute?” you repeated, brows lifting. “Fuck. I was going for hot.”
“Oh, uhm—” Jack swallowed hard.
You giggled again, a little louder, clearly enjoying how Jack was stumbling through this. “It’s at this place called White Rabbit,” you added. “Open invitation—but I don’t think you’d get in dressed like a gym teacher.”
Jack looked down at himself. Hoodie. Running shorts. Sneakers that had seen better days. He winced, lips tugging into a sheepish smile.
“I’ve run past that a couple of times,” he said, which was technically true—if a couple meant nearly every day. The place was literally down the road from this building.
“Of course you have,” you said dryly.
“It’s, like, a gay club, right?” he asked, genuinely unsure.
“It is a gay club,” you corrected. “But just a normal lunch spot during the day. Kinda good, actually.”
Jack nodded again, filing that away like it might be useful information someday. “I don’t know much in this area,” he admitted. “To be honest.”
It was pathetic, really, considering how long he’d lived here. He blamed it on never having time off, or because he spent all his time off in Michigan. He knew his way to the Prudential Center, the closest grocery store, and the gym. Maybe a couple of coffee shops and restaurants too, but he mostly got that delivered. Food wasn’t that fun for him anyway since he kept a pretty strict diet.
There was a small beat of silence after Jack’s admission. Not necessarily awkward, you mostly seemed to not know what to answer. You shifted your weight, fingers tightening briefly around the strap of your bag.
“Maybe I could show you around someday,” you said suddenly, shrugging like it was casual. “If you want to. I mean.”
Jack’s breath hitched. “Oh,” he said, heart thudding. “Yeah. Maybe.”
He had, in no way, thought that you’d ask him out. That was what you meant, right? It couldn’t mean anything else. Jack didn’t even know if he wanted to go on a date. In general, that is, and not just regarding you. Could he go on a date and not believe in love at the same time? It seemed contradictory.
You inhaled, like you were about to say something else, then stopped. “I’m sorry—”
“Let me give you my number,” Jack cut in, the words tumbling out before fear could catch up to either of you.
Your face lit up. “Oh, absolutely.”
You pulled out your phone, nails clicking lightly against the screen before handing it to him. Jack typed his number in with hands that absolutely did not shake. Definitely not. He handed it back like this was a totally normal thing he did all the time.
“I’ll be waiting for a text, I guess,” he said. “See you, Y/N.”
“Bye, Jack,” you said, already heading down the stairs.
When you were halfway down, you turned back. Jack straightened without meaning to.
“Say hi to Beatrice and Arthur for me!” you called up. The confusion on his face must’ve been obvious, because you laughed. “The swans, Jack. If you’re running in the park. They’ve even got their own sign now.”
Then you turned and kept going, fur coat swaying as you disappeared down the stairwell.
Jack stood there for a long moment afterward, heart racing, whatever Luke had said completely forgotten. Then he turned around and walked up the stairs again. Maybe he didn’t need the run after all.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
You’d woken up with a headache that felt personal. The kind that sat right behind your eyes and pulsed every time you moved, reminding you that drag queen–themed birthday parties were not meant to be survived without consequences. Neither was tequila. Especially not tequila.
It lingered even hours later, long after you’d dragged yourself out of bed, showered away last night’s makeup and sweat, and eaten what could generously be called breakfast: a bowl of Lucky Charms, dry, because someone had forgotten to buy milk.
It was you. Noah despised milk.
The headache lingered through two episodes of whatever sitcom happened to be playing on TV, as you decided your only goal for the day was to become one with the couch. It lingered in the way sunlight slowly filtered in through the living room windows, way too fucking bright. And it lingered through the inevitable reminder of the phone number now sitting in your contacts. You were afraid your head would explode if you let it linger even longer.
You flipped your phone over for what had to be the fifteenth time in ten minutes, letting it rest face-down on your stomach like that might stop it from existing. It didn’t work. You flipped it back again.
Jack. Just a name and a number. No emoji. You would’ve put an emoji if someone asked you for your number.
Your thumb hovered uselessly over the screen, like the number might start talking first if you stared hard enough.
“Stop staring at it, Bug,” Noah said.
He flopped dramatically onto the couch beside you, long limbs folding awkwardly as he stole one of the decorative pillows and hugged it to his chest. Even hungover, Noah looked annoyingly put together—messy ginger hair, oversized sweater falling perfectly off his shoulder. You were pretty sure you looked like something that had crawled out of a swamp today.
“That’s not how texting works,” he continued. “You don’t communicate with phone numbers telepathically.”
“I don’t understand why he gave it to me,” you muttered, not looking up from your crease in the couch.
From the kitchen, Amir hummed softly as he poured another round of coffee into the same mismatched mugs from breakfast, still glowing faintly from having been celebrated the night before. The birthday boy, sleep-deprived but pleased, like he’d been loved loudly and thoroughly. He slid a mug across the coffee table toward you without comment. You accepted it gladly.
“You said he was cute, right?” Amir asked.
You squinted at the ceiling. “I literally said he looks like a real estate agent who plays golf for fun.”
“So... cute,” Noah concluded.
“That still doesn’t explain anything,” you replied.
“Maybe he just liked talking to you,” Amir offered gently.
“That’s absurd,” you said flatly. “You two barely like talking to me, and you’re almost legally bound to.”
Amir snorted into his coffee. Noah gasped, offended. “That’s not true. I love talking to you.”
You huffed out a little laugh. He loved talking at you.
“A hot guy doesn’t randomly like talking to a woman who looks like she hasn’t slept in three days,” you continued, spiraling now, comfortable in it, “and whose dog explicitly shows that it doesn’t like him.”
“I’m sure Waffle would come around to the right person,” Amir said mildly, moving to the armchair. “She doesn’t hide at the sight of me anymore.”
If Waffle were here, she’d be hiding in your bedroom. No doubt about it. Your dog—or technically your dad’s dog, who you watched most weeks—didn’t like men. Not even your dad at first. He’d rescued her from a puppy mill, and while she’d gotten better with time, she was still jumpy and cautious. Too much for the farm while your dad worked long days.
She felt safer curled up under the cash register at the antique store. And if you were being honest, you liked having her there more than your dad probably missed her. He had three other dogs. And a million farm animals. He’d be fine.
You weren’t so sure about yourself. Especially not with Jack’s name glowing quietly on your phone, waiting to be acknowledged.
You still didn’t know why you’d offered to show him around the neighborhood you both lived in. The logic collapsed the longer you thought about it. He lived here. If he wanted to explore, he would’ve done it already. He didn’t need you for that.
And you had no idea where you had gotten the confidence from. Maybe it was the tequila. Because sober-you didn’t have that kind of confidence. You had whatever disastrous anxiety this was.
If anything, you’d probably cornered him into saying yes. Politeness was a trap like that. There was no way a guy like him—clean-cut, athletic, the kind of person who ran on purpose—actually liked you. You were sure you had nothing in common. You were entirely different genres of people.
“The first time we spoke I was sleep-deprived and not wearing makeup,” you said, still staring at the ceiling. You noticed, absently, that someone really needed to dust up there. Not you, though. “And then the second time I was drunk and practically naked.”
“I’m sure he was deeply turned on,” Noah said dryly.
You turned your head just enough to glare at him. “You’re not helping.”
“You don’t want help,” Noah replied. “You want evidence that this man made a mistake.”
“Exactly!”
“Well, what if he didn’t?” Noah countered. “What if he just thinks you’re hot and smart and mysterious in that stranger-on-a-park-bench way?”
“It’s not mysterious to sit on a bench,” you argued. “Waffle just likes it.”
Noah grinned. “See, that’s hot. A good dog mom.”
“It’s not hot!” you snapped, sitting up a little. “I’m most likely just weird to him. He probably has, like, a normal job and a perfect family and a deep, sincere love for Morgan Wallen or some other bullshit.”
Noah’s expression shifted, sharpening. “Do you even want to text him?”
“No,” you said immediately. “I mean—maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know how to do this.” You lifted the phone, grimacing at it. “What would I even say? ‘Hey, it’s your neighbor with the traumatized retriever. Loved your sweaty vibe.’”
“Okay, okay,” Noah said, holding up his hands. “What if you just... text him something simple? Like, ‘Hey, this is Y/N. Thanks for the number.’ And leave it at that. Let him do the heavy lifting.”
“I hate that idea.”
“You hate all ideas,” Noah pointed out.
“I’m cautious,” you corrected. “People are unpredictable. What if he was just being polite, and now he’s trapped in this awkward situation where I actually text him, and he has to pretend he’s not disappointed?”
Noah considered you for a moment. Then he said, gently, “Okay. But what if he’s sitting on his couch right now, wondering why you haven’t texted yet? Replaying everything he said. Thinking he fucked it up by being too forward.”
Your stomach flipped, traitorous and sudden. What if he did?
“I’m going to overthink this until the end of the universe,” you said weakly.
“Text him before that happens,” Noah said, nudging your foot with his. “Unless you want Amir and me to do it for you.”
“I swear to god,” you muttered, finally unlocking the screen again, “maybe if I wait long enough he’ll forget I even exist.”
“Now that,” Noah said brightly, “is a solid plan if I ever heard one.”
You stared at the phone for one last second.
“Fuck it,” you said, voice thin but resolute. You unlocked the screen. “I’m just gonna do it. Like ripping off a bandaid.”
You typed. Deleted. Retyped. Your thumb hovered, betraying you by shaking just enough to be noticeable. Ten full seconds passed. You counted them without meaning to. Somewhere around eight, you stopped breathing.
Then you hit send.
The apartment went unnaturally quiet, like the air itself had leaned in. Noah froze on the couch, eyes glued to your phone as if he could catch the notification before it happened. Amir leaned back in his armchair, coffee mug cradled in both hands, wearing the calm, smug patience of someone who’d already won the romance lottery and could afford to enjoy your suffering. Amir and Noah were disgustingly cute at times.
You: Hi, this is Y/N. Figured you should have my number too.
The message delivered with a quiet, devastating whoosh.
“Oh my god, oh my god… what the fuck did I just—” you started, panic blooming hot and immediate in your chest.
Noah lunged forward so fast he nearly fell off the couch. “Bug!”
You looked down at the screen again.
“He’s already typing!” Noah hissed, like this was a bomb about to go off.
Your heart slammed against your ribs, loud enough you were convinced Jack could hear it through the ceiling. You stared at the three little dots, frozen, suddenly very aware of how close his apartment was. Of how he might be sitting up there right now, phone in hand, perfectly calm while you unraveled on your couch.
Then the phone buzzed.
Jack: Hi, Y/N. I was starting to think you were ignoring me.
“Oh,” you breathed. “Oh no. He thinks I ignored him.”
“That’s flirt-adjacent,” Amir said gently, abandoning his chair to peer over your shoulder. “You’re fine.”
You typed quickly, before your brain could intervene.
You: Not on purpose. Just didn’t know what to write.
Noah nodded with approval, like a proud coach. “Honest. That’s cute. He’ll like that.”
The dots appeared again almost immediately.
Jack: Were you serious about showing me around or was that just you being nice?
Your stomach flipped, sharp and sudden, like missing a step on the stairs. You had been nice, and a little drunk. Mostly because Jack himself looked nice, and a little startled every time you talked to him. But you could be both nice and serious, you figured.
“Oh, he’s interested,” Noah said, eyes wide. “He’s clarifying intent.”
“I don’t know what my intent is!” you whispered-yelled. “I don’t even know what I’m doing tomorrow.”
“Just answer the question,” Amir said. “Not your entire life.”
You swallowed, fingers hovering for half a beat before you committed.
You: It can be serious.
You barely had time to register how unreasonably flirty that sounded—how it read like a tease instead of an actual answer to his question—before your phone buzzed in your hand and startled you.
Jack: It should be.
Your grip loosened involuntarily, and the phone slipped, tilting sideways against your palm. You stared at the screen in open disbelief, the words blurring slightly as your headache took over once again.
Were you actually doing this? Were you going on a date with this man? The runner. The neighbor. The guy who, for some unexplainable reason, had thought you were worth stopping for to talk with twice.
“Oh,” you said faintly, like that single syllable might hold everything together.
“Holy shit,” Noah breathed.
The silence that followed felt charged, heavy with all sorts of implications. Even the TV seemed to fade into the background, like the apartment itself knew better than to interrupt whatever had just happened.
“I’m gonna have to shave, aren’t I?” you sighed finally, collapsing backward into the couch cushions. The realization landed with a strange mix of dread and inevitability.
Noah, without missing a beat, said, “I can give you the number to my wax lady.”
You turned slowly to look at him. “You get waxed?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but you cut in. “Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”
“Do you want her number or not?” he shot back.
You groaned and flopped fully onto your back, arm thrown dramatically over your eyes, acting more disgusted than you were.
“A man should be able to handle a bush,” Amir said gently from his chair, ever the voice of reason. “If not, he’s just a boy.”
“Oh my god,” you said, horrified, sitting bolt upright again. “I was talking about shaving my legs!”
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The antique store you worked in was always cold. Not in the way modern buildings were cold, but in a deep, lingering way that seemed baked into the brick itself. The roundhouse had been built to store trains, not people, and no amount of space heaters or wool sweaters had ever quite convinced it otherwise.
You’d grown up knowing the place as a creative hub, though. As long as you’d lived in Newark, the old train hangars had been home to artists and small businesses—art galleries tucked into brick alcoves, tattoo studios blasting music late into the evening, shops selling handmade jewelry or curated vintage finds. Dale’s Antiques occupied one of the largest spaces, its wide entrance yawning open beneath iron beams darkened with age.
Inside, the store rose upward instead of outward. Tall brick walls disappeared into shadowed rafters, every inch of vertical space lined with shelves and furniture—dressers stacked atop wardrobes, mirrors leaning against cabinets, chandeliers suspended from the ceiling.
Besides the cold, you loved it. Your boss Dale, a man nearing the age of retirement who never committed to it, had dedicated his entire life to the store. He knew the provenance of almost every item on the floor, remembered who’d brought it in, where it had come from, who had once loved it. This place was almost part of local history because of him.
Your favorite part of the job was the stories. People would come in with pieces they couldn’t keep—an old vanity from a grandmother’s house, a dining table that had hosted decades of holidays—and they’d tell you about them while you wrote intake notes. Later, when someone new fell in love with the same piece, you’d pass the stories along, stitching a new life onto something old.
The worst part, without question, was the customers who thought they knew better than you or Dale. You were hiding from one of those now.
She was rich, impeccably dressed, and currently insisting that the apothecary cabinet on the floor was in “terrible condition,” despite the fact that you’d personally spent hours replacing every rusted hinge and drawer pull. You were not about to sell it to some rich prick for under the market value.
So, you’d escaped back to the workshop with Waffle and your lunch, perching against your workstation with your sandwich laid out on a sheet of Saran Wrap like a sad little picnic. Waffle settled at your feet, chin on her paws, eyes half-lidded but alert in the way she always was—ready to hide behind you if someone got too close or something was too loud.
The last few days had been nice. Unexpectedly so. Even though work had been more paperwork and tax forms than actual restoration lately, you’d been in a better mood than usual.
Jack had slipped into your routine almost without you realizing it. A steady presence through texts that no longer felt carefully composed or obligatory. He texted you pictures from his runs in the park. Dumb observations about the weather. Little updates about his day. He asked questions and actually waited for your answers.
You still weren’t sure how much you really had in common, but you caught yourself smiling at your phone far too often, grinning like an idiot before quickly schooling your face back into neutrality.
You were in the middle of breaking off a piece of bread when your phone started ringing. You frowned at it, answering without really looking. Nobody ever called you. Not unless it was your parents or the occasional salesman.
“Hi, it’s Bug.”
There was a pause on the other end, and then came a gentle laugh. You quickly realized that it wasn’t your mom or dad who had called.
“Bug? It’s Jack.”
“Oh, shit.” You shifted the phone, suddenly aware of your hands, your sandwich, Waffle’s leash looped around your wrist. “My hands were occupied, I didn’t check who was calling. I just assumed—” You stopped yourself from rambling further. “You don’t need to hear all that. What’s up, Jack?”
Jack laughed again, and it did something weird to your chest.
“Do people call you Bug?”
“My parents say it’s because of my glasses,” you said. “My boss says it’s because I constantly bug people. I don’t know, you can call me Y/N, though.”
There was a brief silence, like he was considering it.
“I think I’ll call you Bug.”
You wanted to sigh, but your lips curled upwards into a smile anyway.
“Why are you calling me?” you asked, leaning your elbow lightly against the worktable. “Too old-fashioned for texting?”
“No,” Jack said, easy as anything. You could picture him shaking his head, maybe smirking a little. “I’ve just been told I’m shit at it.”
You huffed out a laugh. “By who?”
“My brothers, mainly,” he replied, dry and fond. He talked a lot about his brothers. “What are you up to?”
Your gaze drifted around the workshop as you answered. The half-restored armoire sat open in front of you, its drawers neatly stacked nearby, hardware laid out in careful rows. The place smelled like old wood and chemicals. Somewhere out front, the bell over the door chimed—another customer entering for Dale to deal with.
“Waffle and I are having lunch in the workshop,” you said. “Hiding from a very pompous customer.”
“Sounds fun,” Jack said, and somehow made it sound like he meant it. “I’m in the car. Just got back from the gym, but I’m too tired to walk up the stairs.”
You snorted, biting back your smile. “Is that all you do, Jack? Work out?”
“It feels like it sometimes,” he admitted, and you could hear the shrug in his voice.
You picked at the crust of your sandwich, suddenly aware of how easy this felt for being a conversation with virtually a stranger. “You’ve never told me what you do for work, by the way. We can’t all have nice sister-in-laws who gossip about us. Noah didn’t even know you existed,” you said.
“She didn’t gossip about you,” Jack said quickly, like he didn’t like the word gossip. “She just told me you worked with restoring antiques.”
“Still sounds like gossip to me,” you retorted.
You didn’t really mean it, though. You remembered his sister-in-law as a great customer. A girl around your age who’d bought a chess set for her boyfriend, or Jack’s younger brother Luke, as you now knew. You didn’t think she’d have much to gossip about other than maybe your appearance and customer service.
“So,” Jack cut in, casual but not careless, “what are you doing this weekend, Buggy?”
“Oh god, that’s even worse than Bug,” you groaned, pressing your face to your palm briefly. You hesitated, then added, “I’m invited to this movie premiere on Saturday. Some of our pieces were used in the set design.”
“Seriously?” His voice brightened instantly, genuine excitement crackling through the line. “That’s so cool.”
“It’s a very low-budget indie film,” you said, already undercutting yourself out of habit. “I’m sure it sucks.”
“I could come with you?” he offered. “If that’s, like, allowed?”
You straightened without realizing it, heart skipping just enough for you to feel the heat rush. “Would you want to?” you asked. “It’s just gonna be the movie—but maybe we can eat afterwards.”
“Stop stressing, Bug,” Jack said gently, like he could hear every anxious thought stacking up in your head. “I’d love to come with you. See it as you showing me around, like we talked about.
“Oh,” you said, breath catching just slightly. “Okay. Yeah. That’s great.”
“I’ll leave you to your lunch now,” he said. “Say hi to Waffle from me.”
You looked down at her, ears twitching faintly at the sound of her name. “She says hi back,” you said, smiling.
The call ended softly, without ceremony.
You stayed where you were, phone warm in your hand, heart doing that stupid, hopeful thing you didn’t quite trust yet. You couldn’t explain it either. You were still sure you had nothing in common.
Jack was so nice. You were a little difficult and cold, and not just from this freezing building. He was easy. Too easy, maybe.
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You were fine. Totally fine.
You kept telling yourself that as you pushed through the glass doors of the small indie theater, ticket tucked between your fingers, chin up, shoulders back. People milled around the lobby in little groups—crew members you vaguely recognized coming to the store, film students with scarves and tote bags, a few actors hovering like they were pretending not to care how many people noticed them.
Jack wasn’t there.
That was fine. He’d said he might be cutting it close. Traffic. Work. Something about his brother borrowing his car, maybe. You checked your phone anyway, thumb hovering, then told yourself not to be that person and slipped it back into your coat pocket.
You took your seat alone, and before you knew it, the movie started and finished. Just as the lights began glowing in the little theater again, Dale’s and your name showed up briefly in the credits under “Restoration & Props.” You smiled to yourself. Dale hadn’t come. He was celebrating his 30th wedding anniversary instead. He’d probably been to hundreds of these little screenings, but this was only your second one.
You hadn’t checked your phone once during the movie. You refused to, partly for the sake of respecting the art, and partly because you felt so fucking stupid for ever believing Jack would show.
Once you got out of the theater you finally did a quick check, but the only notification was a text from your mother with a picture of Waffle sleeping in front of their fireplace with the other dogs. She’d written progress with a million happy emojis.
You told yourself a hundred different stories to make it hurt less. Maybe something happened. Maybe he was just running two hours late. Maybe he was outside, looking for parking. Maybe he’d text any second now with an apology so sincere it would make your chest ache.
The crowd began to filter out of the venue, buzzing with polite praise and reviews of the movie. You hadn’t liked it one bit, and that wasn’t even because you’d been distracted. You waited an extra beat in the foyer for some reason. Maybe to just get a moment alone to breathe.
Outside, the cold hit you hard—New Jersey in November biting straight through your coat. You fumbled with the buttons, fingers clumsy, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder and catching awkwardly in a way that made you want to scream.
You weren’t going to cry. You were not going to cry. Not here, not now, not over a man who had been too nice to be real. You knew all along he was too good to be true. Meet-cutes and having first dates at an indie theater only happened in the movies. You should be lucky with your biannual Hinge hookups. That was what was in the cards for you, and not whatever this fantasy you’d built up was.
You stepped down onto the sidewalk, breath fogging in front of you, mentally drafting a message you’d never send. Something breezy. Something detached. Hey! Hope everything’s okay—no worries if not. Something that made it seem like this hadn’t mattered. You didn’t know if he even deserved a text now, but you wanted to come across as nice for once.
You were halfway to the curb, already bracing yourself to call Noah on your walk home, when quick, uneven steps rounded the corner of the building. They were too fast to ignore.
You stopped short, and there he was.
Jack stood on the street corner, mostly disguised in the dark evening light. His jacket was only halfway zipped, collar crooked, hair damp with sweat or melted snow. He was breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he’d been running.
His eyes didn’t meet yours right away, gaze flicking past you, then back, guilt written so plainly across his face it made your chest burn. Like he already knew what this looked like. Like he deserved it.
And if you hadn’t been angry before, you definitely were now.
“Oh, wow, okay,” you said, the words coming out sharper than you’d planned, louder too, slicing through the quiet street. “You actually showed up.”
He stopped a few feet away, hands hovering uselessly at his sides. “I’m—Y/N, I’m really sorry—”
“Only two hours late,” you barreled on, voice tight and brittle. “You know. Just fashionably disrespectful.”
“I—”
“No, don’t,” you snapped, the pause terrifying enough that you filled it immediately. “Don’t apologize just because you think it’ll fix it. Were you only doing that fucking thing that men do where they pretend to be nice to women?”
Jack blinked, clearly thrown. “What?”
“You know,” you said, words spilling faster now, messy and heated and fueled by the humiliation you’d been holding together all night. “Being nice. Saying the right things. Making a woman feel special for five minutes because it makes you feel good. Was that it?”
“Y/N—”
“Make a girl momentarily feel wanted,” you continued, voice cracking just slightly, “only to later not actually give a fuck?”
The k-sound from your last word almost echoed on the empty street, harsh and ugly in the cold air. Jack lifted his head fully, and the streetlight caught his face properly this time. You stopped mid-breath—mid whatever insult you were about to throw at him next.
A bruise bloomed dark and angry beneath his left eye, already swelling, the skin pulled tight and discolored. There was a cut above his brow too, shallow but fresh, half-hidden by his hair, dried blood clinging around it. He looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than being late.
Your anger faltered, slipping sideways into shock. “H-holy fuck, how’d you get that?”
Jack exhaled, slow and heavy, finally meeting your eyes head-on. “I took a high stick to the face. Look, I’m so sorry—”
“A high stick?” you interrupted, frowning. “Like… in hockey?”
“Yeah.”
“Hockey,” you repeated, dumbly. “You play hockey?”
“For the Devils,” he said, as if that was a normal sentence to drop into casual conversation on a sidewalk. “Yeah. I had a game this afternoon. I thought I’d be able to make it in time, but then this happened, and—”
“In the NHL?” Your brain stalled out, gears grinding. You gestured vaguely at him, at how he looked, the narrow shoulders, the boyish face now marred by purple and red. “But you’re like five-seven and scrawny.”
Jack huffed, offended but amused. “First of all, I’m five-eleven. And I bulk up pretty good during the summer.”
You stared at him, recontextualizing everything—the running, the discipline, the way he always seemed tired but focused. The fact that he’d never once mentioned his job, even casually.
“I guess all that running makes sense now,” you said faintly.
And just like that, the distance you’d been afraid of widened instead of closing. Because of course he was a professional athlete. Of course you had even less in common than you’d thought. Of course he’d kept that from you—maybe because he didn’t want to be seen that way, or maybe because he knew it would make you see him differently.
It already had.
“Wait,” you said, the words spilling out before you could organize them. “Wait, wait—can you be honest with me?” You swallowed. “Did I invite the professional equivalent of a high school jock to an indie movie screening?”
He winced, then shrugged helplessly. “Maybe. Yeah. I guess.”
“Oh my god,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s so embarrassing.”
“No, it’s not,” he said immediately, earnest to the point of almost hurting. “I promise you I was looking forward to it. I contain multitudes. I’m not just a dumb jock, or whatever.”
You squinted at him. “Whitman or Dylan?”
“What?”
“Did you just quote Whitman or Dylan?”
“Neither?” Jack said, cautious now. “Is that a trick question?”
“You said I contain multitudes on a whim?”
“Isn’t it… a famous saying?”
“Because Walt Whitman wrote it!” you said, unable to help yourself. “And then Bob Dylan made a god-awful song about it.”
Jack blinked, processing, then nodded once. “Then I guess I quoted Whitman.”
You pointed at him. “Good answer.”
A small, relieved smile tugged at his mouth, like he’d passed a test he hadn’t known he was taking. “So… you like poetry?”
“It’s easier than novels,” you admitted. “Doesn’t take as much time. I’ve got concentration issues.”
“I have a charity book club for kids,” he said quickly, like he wanted it out there before you could dismiss him again. “Through the hockey thing. Because I like reading.”
“Seriously?” Your eyebrows lifted, surprise cutting clean through your skepticism. “That’s… actually cool.”
It didn’t fit the picture you’d just painted of him in your head. It complicated it. And you weren’t sure whether that made things better or worse.
You glanced back at his face, at the bruise pulling darker by the minute. “Are you actually any good at hockey,” you asked, “or do you just let opponents hit you in the face?”
Jack smiled crookedly. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”
“I’ll google it later.”
“Please don’t,” he said immediately. “I mean, we won. But it didn’t look very impressive.”
He went quiet then, shoulders sagging as the adrenaline seemed to drain out of him all at once. “I deserve you getting angry at me,” he said. “I was going to text. I almost bailed. Thought if you saw me looking like this—” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I thought. I just really didn’t want to stand you up.”
“You kind of did,” you said weakly.
“Only temporarily,” he offered, hopeful. “I’m here now. If you don’t mind being seen with a guy who looks like he lost a fight.”
You looked at him for a long second. The bruise. The sincerity. The way he waited like he’d accept whatever verdict you handed down—walk away, yell more, leave him standing alone on the sidewalk.
You could still do that. You knew you could. Instead, you sighed.
“Fuck it, come on,” you said, turning toward the street. “I want pizza. And you look like you could use some ice on that shiner.”
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Jack followed you down the block like he was a half-step behind his own life. He was pretty sure he’d say okay to anything you asked him right now. He owed you that.
The pizza place you dragged him into sat half underground, a loud, greasy hole-in-the-wall monument to carbohydrates. Red neon script glowed in the window. Plastic grapes dangled from the ceiling. A sun-faded photo of the 1996 Juventus team hung crookedly near the cash register, a relic of better days. Inside, the place smelled like garlic, fresh dough, and a hint of cologne—probably stuck in 1996, too.
Before he could even take it all in, you were already halfway across the room.
“Wait here,” you tossed over your shoulder. “I’ll be back in a second.”
He did, mostly because he didn’t know what else to do.
You moved through the place like you owned it—leaning over the counter, exchanging rapid-fire greetings in a familiarity that made his chest tighten. You ducked behind the register without asking. Someone laughed. Someone else shouted your name like it was a given. You came back with four slices wrapped in wax paper and a cold can of Coke pressed to your palm.
Jack stared at it. Then at you. Then back at the pizza.
“Did you steal that?”
“Yes.” You cut yourself off, correcting your sarcasm. “No. I, uhm, I used to work here. Toni still feeds me for free.”
“That explains… all of this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at how the entire staff seemed to know you.
You shrugged. “I took any job I could get in Newark just to get out of my parents’ place. Hunterdon County, like an hour northwest from here.”
“You hated it?” Jack carefully asked.
“No,” you said easily, already handing him two slices. “Just didn’t want a farm job. And I didn’t think I’d like going to college.”
He took the pizza automatically, the heat bleeding through the paper and into his hands. You kept talking as you exited the pizzeria and started to walk in the general direction of your building. He still had his car parked by the theater, but that could wait until tomorrow.
“And then once I moved, I started bugging Dale at the place I work at now to hire me. Like, every day. For a month.” You grinned. “Only got it because his wife wanted to retire.”
Jack watched your mouth when you smiled. He noticed things he probably shouldn’t—how dressed up you were, how intentional it all looked. A nice coat, your makeup neatly done, and another pair of glasses than the ones you usually wore. These had a thicker, tortoiseshell frame. You’d put in effort. He hated that you’d done that for him. Or maybe you’d simply done it for the movie premiere, but he felt like it was partly for him too.
He hated that you’d waited inside for him alone. Hated that the bruise on his face had made him hesitate, had made him feel like he didn’t belong in there next to you. He knew there were girls who liked the rough hockey thing. The bruises, the blood, the violence. Everything about you told him you weren’t one of them.
You took the Coke can from him and pressed it, without asking, against his cheek.
“Hold that there,” you said. “It’ll help.”
If the cold stung, Jack barely noticed from all the heat suddenly rushing to his face.
You kept on walking, already unwrapping your slices. Jack fell into step beside you, still holding the can to his face like he’d been instructed.
He watched you smile at the pizza, and he had to swallow down a laugh. Before you took an aggressive bite, you stacked both slices on top of each other, making it so you bit down on both at the same time.
“What?” you said, around a mouthful of pizza. Maybe his laugh hadn’t been entirely concealed. “The premiere only had canapés. You’d have to eat about fifty to get remotely full.”
“No, no, I get that,” he said quickly. “I’m just wondering about how you eat pizza.”
You looked at him like he was slow. “You put two on top of each other so you don’t get grease on your fingers. And you can eat twice as much in the same amount of time.”
“Is that like a… thing?”
“I don’t know, but it’s efficient.”
You talked with your mouth full. You didn’t seem to care at all. Sauce smeared at the corner of your lip. You wiped it away with the back of your hand and kept going. Jack was almost mesmerized. There was something terrifyingly charming about the way you ate in big, messy bites.
“How was the movie?” he asked, just to hear you talk more.
You scoffed. “The shittiest movie I’ve ever seen. All abstract, no story. Like Jane Austen met Stanley Kubrick and decided to punish the audience.”
Jack laughed, surprised by how much relief it brought him. Maybe it shouldn’t have. The thought of you sitting through a horrible movie alone was kind of sad. But he was definitely relieved too, because you just confirmed all his preconceived notions about indie films.
He may not be just a dumb jock, but that didn’t mean he was well-versed and comfortable in an environment that artistic.
“Didn’t the set design look good at least?” Jack asked.
You sighed, conceding. “Okay, yes. It did. I’m good at my job.”
You bumped his shoulder as you walked, still chewing. Jack looked down at the sidewalk, then back at you, and thought—scared and thrilled all at once—that he’d almost missed this. And he didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself if he did again.
By the time your building came into view, Jack had slowed his steps without really meaning to.
The night had settled into something quiet and forgiving—the kind that made the streetlights glow softer, made conversations stretch easier. You were still eating, still talking, and Jack was painfully aware of how close he was walking to you. Close enough to feel the heat through your coat, touching against his arm. Close enough to notice the way you smelled faintly like perfume and oregano.
“Thanks for not completely writing me off,” he said after a while.
You took a final bite of your sandwiched pizza slices, chewed, then shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Thanks for not ditching me when you easily could’ve.”
“I thought about it,” he teased, smiling to soften the confession.
You arched a brow, sharp and unimpressed.
Jack laughed under his breath. “But then I thought—if you yell at me like that when I’m late, imagine how scary you’d be if I broke your heart. Didn’t feel worth the risk.”
You smirked. “Go full-on Carrie Underwood on your ass.”
Jack winced in mock fear. “You’d key my car?”
“I’d total your car,” you corrected. “Snap your hockey sticks. Get creative.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“Good.” You looked ahead again, tone casual but final. “You wouldn’t have broken my heart, by the way. You don’t have the leverage to do that. You’d just be another useless man.”
Jack let out a breathy laugh. “Fuck. That’s almost harsher.”
“Never said I was nice.”
“Oh, I think you’re too nice for your own good,” he said, glancing at you. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t tell him to shut up, which felt like a win.
You reached the steps of your building and slowed, and Jack felt something in him tighten. You started up them, and he followed, deliberately dragging his feet, counting steps like they were seconds he could hoard.
At your door, you stopped. You fished for your keys in your bag, but you didn’t immediately unlock the door when you found them. Jack stood there, hands in his pockets, heart pounding like it had any right to.
This was the moment. He knew it. Felt it humming between you. He could kiss you now or regret it later. He thought about leaning in, about how easy it would be to close the distance. Even just a small one on your cheek. He also thought about the bruise on his face, about how carefully you’d looked at him earlier, like you were still deciding if you hated him or not.
Jack quickly chickened out.
“Well,” he said, uselessly. “This is you.”
You nodded, watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. He turned to go, already hating himself a little, when he stopped short and looked back.
“Hey,” he cleared his throat. “I, uh. If you want… I can leave you tickets. One of my games. At will call.”
Your mouth curved, slow and considering.
“Yeah?” you said. “You want me to see you get beat up?”
“No,” he shook his head, smiling. “I just want to see you again.”
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
You barely made it inside before your body gave out on you.
The door clicked shut behind you, the sound too loud in the quiet of your apartment, and then you slid down the back of it, spine dragging against the wood until you hit the floor with a soft, undignified thump. Your coat was still on. Your shoes were still on. Your heart was still frantically beating, not really registering that the night was technically over.
You tipped your head back against the door and stared at the ceiling.
What the fuck had just happened?
Jack was late. Jack was bruised. Jack was an NHL player—which still felt fake, like something your brain had invented to spice up an otherwise disappointing evening. Jack hadn’t kissed you. Jack had walked you home, had slowed his steps like he was afraid of outrunning the moment, had looked at you like he was about to kiss you, and then he’d walked up to his own apartment.
You groaned softly and scrubbed your hands down your face. Somewhere in the background you saw the kitchen light flicker on.
“You two need a hobby,” you complained, voice muffled, not even lifting your head from the door.
“We have one,” Noah said brightly. “You are our hobby.”
Amir stepped into your line of sight, blocking the light with his frame, arms crossed and eyes already sharp like he’d been waiting for this moment all evening. “Did he kiss you?”
“No, he didn’t kiss me,” you muttered, fingers fumbling with the buttons of your coat, suddenly furious at how complicated they seemed. “He didn’t even show up at first.”
“What?” Noah snapped. “Do we need to beat his ass?”
“Nope,” you sighed. “Some hockey player already did that for you.”
That got their attention, confused little worry lines covering Noah’s forehead while Amir’s mouth slowly opened.
“Jack is… apparently an NHL player.” You let your head thunk back against the door again, the dull impact almost hurting. “And he showed up late because he got hit in the face during a game. Big-ass bruise. I guess it made him self-conscious or something.”
“Why is that the hottest thing I’ve ever heard?” Noah whispered.
“But he ghosted you?” Amir pressed, unwilling to let the important part slip by.
“He came after the movie ended. We got pizza at Toni’s. Then he walked me home,” you said. You hesitated, then admitted, quieter, “It was kind of cute.”
Amir made a face. “If he didn’t kiss you after that, he’s either very respectful or fucking stupid.”
“Or maybe he’s just not that into me,” you said, shrugging, the thought slipping out even if you didn’t want to think about it.
“Men are scared to touch women they value,” Noah said confidently. “That’s common sense.”
You resisted the urge to ask what he knew about straight men dating straight women. His experience there was theoretical at best.
“No, that’s weird and sexist,” you shot back. “Like I’m only worth being gentle with if I’m more than just sex on legs.”
“I just mean,” Noah said quickly, hands raised in surrender, “if he wanted a one-night stand, he would’ve made his move.”
You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure which version of Jack scared you more—the one who wanted you casually, the one who wanted you seriously, or the one who didn’t want you at all and had just been too polite to say something.
You pushed yourself up off the floor, legs stiff, and finally kicked your shoes off, the quiet thud of them hitting the wall echoing a little too loudly.
“Would you two go with me to one of his games?” you asked, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. “He offered me tickets.”
“No,” Noah said immediately.
“Absolutely not,” Amir added. “Ask your dad or something.”
“My dad?” you repeated, horrified.
They both laughed, already moving on, already deciding that so would be the case.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Saturday came again faster than you expected.
The week leading up to it had been threaded together by Jack’s name lighting up your phone. You still smiled like an idiot every time it happened, even if you kept on telling yourself to be cautious. Even Noah had grown tired of making fun of your loopy little smile.
Jack was flirtier than before. You didn’t know if it was deliberate or just something you’d convinced yourself of. It was the same good morning texts and dumb comments about the weather, but he also sent photos. Of gym equipment, of the swans in the park, of himself. Noah had decided that he was definitely flirting when he oversaw a shirtless mirror selfie Jack had sent you as a good morning text, toothbrush hanging from his mouth.
Jack complained about working out and having sore muscles, and you tried to not lean into the innuendos by sending back pictures of dusty antiques with captions like, at least my job only tries to kill me with tetanus.
It felt easy. Just as easy as it had before he’d ghosted you in that theater. Which somehow made you more nervous to be standing in the Prudential Center, a crowd of red and black jerseys surrounding you.
Your dad, on the other hand, looked like a kid at Christmas.
He stood overlooking the ice, players circling around it to warm up, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. You’d noticed it was a nicer jacket than he usually wore when he’d parked outside your building earlier. This one didn’t have remnants of hay and dirt. Newark was not his natural habitat. He preferred open fields, early mornings, and animals that listened better than people.
You were both out of place in here, though. You were pretty sure you were the only one wearing a trench coat, and your dad was the only person wearing work boots. You’d thought about wearing a red sweater just to fit in, but you didn’t know what the custom was. Maybe there were rules to this whole hockey-supporter thing.
Your dad glanced sideways at you. “So, where are our seats?”
You quickly looked down on your phone, even if you already knew the answer, carefully walking down the steep steps in the stands. “Uhm… Row one?” you said like it was a question.
“Front row?” he repeated, following after you. “Bug, are you sure this customer isn’t in love with you?”
“Dad,” you groaned. “This happens all the time. I got a cake from a customer last week.”
He snorted. “That is not the same as thousand-dollar tickets to a game you know nothing about.”
You reached the row and glanced forward at the ice, stomach flipping when you realized just how close it really was. You swallowed.
Your dad leaned closer when you both sat down, voice dropping conspiratorially. “So what is he? Some guy in a suit with equities in the team? Or is he an actual hockey player?”
“I never even said it was a guy,” you shot back. “Could be a woman.”
He blinked. “Are there women in men’s hockey?”
You stared at him. Then sighed. “Look, I don’t fucking know, okay?”
He grinned, delighted. “There it is.”
“Shut up,” you muttered, handing him his beer. “And drink.”
He took a sip, eyes roaming the ice with polite confusion before sliding back to you. You could feel him clocking everything—the way you kept tugging at your sleeve, the way your knee bounced, the way your gaze kept drifting back to the players skating lazy loops during warmups. He didn’t care about hockey. He cared deeply about whatever was clearly going on with you.
Jack hadn’t texted in a couple of hours. Which made sense. He was working. He was literally on the ice. Still, you’d told him you were here, and now that felt stupid in hindsight. Like you’d shown up early to a party you weren’t sure you were invited to.
Why did you care this much? He hadn’t exactly prioritized showing up for you last time.
When you now nervously checked your phone a final time before the lights dimmed and the national anthems began, you did spot that he’d reacted to your message with a little pink heart.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you whispered to yourself.
The anthem played. The American followed by the Canadian. The crowd stood. Your dad removed his hat solemnly, like this was church, or maybe like he just didn’t want to look disrespectful on camera. You weren’t sure he actually cared that much.
When everyone sat again, he leaned over and whispered. “So, who are they even up against?”
“Toronto,” you said. “That’s why they played the Canadian anthem, right?”
“I’m glad we didn’t pay for you to go to college, Bug,” he said dryly. “You’d be lost.”
You flipped him off, and he laughed.
The crowd quickly became silent when the game started, like everyone was suddenly at the edge of their seats. The puck dropped, and then noise exploded. You startled, then laughed at yourself, heart already racing as skates cut sharp lines across the ice. Everything was faster than you expected. Louder. Harder. Bodies slamming into boards with a violence that made you wince.
You weren’t sure you enjoyed that part of hockey. Especially not after seeing how dark Jack’s eye had bruised last weekend and how it still lingered with an ugly, yellow mark.
Your dad squinted. “So,” he said, raising his voice over the crowd, “what number should I be looking out for to see my future son-in-law?”
You choked. “I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew.”
He grinned. “I’ll figure it out. You won’t be able to keep your eyes off him.”
You hated that he was right.
The first period blurred by in hits and near misses. You found yourself standing without realizing it sometimes, hands clenched, reacting before you could think. Every time player 86 hopped over the boards, your focus sharpened embarrassingly fast. It hadn’t taken you long to notice that was Jack’s number.
The game stayed tight. A goal each. Then another. Toronto took the lead late in the second, and your stomach dropped in a way that felt unreasonably personal. You didn’t even really know what you were rooting for.
“Relax,” your dad said calmly. “It’s just a game.”
“I know,” you lied.
Late in the third, the Devils tied it again. The arena shook with the noise from the crowd. You screamed with the rest of them, adrenaline buzzing under your skin. Then, with only about a minute left, there was a quick turnover. A breakaway from one player, rushing up the ice. A familiar number heading hard toward the net.
Jack moved like he’d made up his mind already. No hesitation. Just a clean shot, perfectly placed, puck snapping into the back of the net with a metallic sound that felt like it hit you square in the chest. Or maybe that was from how the arena erupted.
You screamed—full, unfiltered, mortifyingly loud—hands flying to your mouth too late to stop it. Your heart hammered as Jack was swallowed by his teammates, grin flashing even through the helmet.
Your dad turned slowly to look at you.
“It’s eighty-six, huh?” he said, smug as hell.
You dropped back into your seat, face burning. “You don’t know shit.”
“A little short,” he continued thoughtfully, eyes back on the ice. “But feisty. Good hair, even through a helmet. I know you like that, Bug.”
You groaned, covering your face as the clock wound down and the crowd stayed on its feet. You couldn’t wait to get out of here and send your dad on his way home to the farm, a full hour away from where he was currently seeing through you like you were made of glass.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Jack felt like shit for not having had the time to see you after the game. It sat heavy in his chest even a couple of days later.
He’d kept half an eye on the tunnel after the final buzzer, helmet off, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, scanning for you without really admitting that’s what he was doing. Like maybe you’d still be there. Like maybe he’d get one second—just enough to say hi.
But the night had swallowed him whole. So much fucking media. Coaches talking in circles. Teammates loud and wired and riding the high. By the time he’d finally showered and pulled on his street clothes, it was late enough that he told himself it was better this way. That you’d probably already left. That you shouldn’t be standing around waiting on him, not after how things had already gone once.
Still, the image stuck with him. You, close to the glass. The way you’d yelled. The way you hadn’t even tried to hide it. And, a little worse, the guy next to you.
He hadn’t needed much time to make the leap. How comfortable you seemed. The way you leaned into him when you spoke. Jack had clocked it mid-shift and nearly lost his edge over it, a flash of heat and nerves colliding in his gut.
Your dad.
Meeting someone’s father was not a casual thing. It was not a grab-pizza thing. And it definitely wasn’t a sorry I was late and also I have a bruise and also I should’ve kissed you thing. Jack liked to think he was decent under pressure—he played professional hockey for a living, for fuck’s sake—but that was a different arena entirely.
He told himself it was fine. That you’d probably done it on purpose. Brought him as a buffer. A test to either keep Jack at a distance or see just how serious he was. Or maybe it hadn’t meant anything at all, and he was reading too much into everything, like he tended to do with you. Maybe your dad was just the only person you knew who would willingly come to a hockey game. That seemed very possible considering who you were.
Jack thought about what he’d said in the stairwell after your pizza walk. That stupid line about just wanting to see you again. He hadn’t even managed to do that. How was he supposed to manage anything else if even that had been too difficult?
How was he supposed to be casual about this when he was pretty sure he was feeling things he didn’t even believe in?
He was halfway through replaying the night for the hundredth time—lying on his couch, uselessly trying to analyze some game film—when his phone lit up. He didn’t feel as shit when he saw it was you calling him. Jack scrambled to sit straighter on his couch, hands basically shaking as he answered.
“You could’ve told me you were famous, y’know,” you said straight across the line, not bothering with a greeting or waiting for him to say something first.
Jack couldn’t help but laugh, and you kept talking before he could stop you.
“Do I need to sign some NDA?” you barreled on. “Or like, some sort of consent form so I can’t tell the press you suck at showing up on time?”
He leaned back into the couch, a grin tugging at his mouth, eyes closing briefly. God. Talking to you felt like stepping into a room where the lights were already on.
“Do you want to tell them that?” he asked, amused.
“I don’t know,” you said. Jack could picture you shrugging. “I’ve never met someone famous before.”
“I’m not famous, Y/N.”
“You have six hundred thousand Instagram followers,” you shot back. “You were at the Olympics, dude.”
He winced a little, not because you were wrong, but because hearing it like that—through your voice, casual and teasing—made it feel bigger somehow. Jack didn’t like thinking that it mattered. He just wanted to play hockey, and then everything else just piled on top of that.
“Was this the reason you called?” he asked gently, already hoping the answer was no.
You were quiet for a long, devastating moment.
“No, uhm,” you mumbled, voice shifting like you were moving. “Are you home by any chance?”
“Yeah, what’s up?” Jack wondered, suddenly a little brighter.
“Noah locked me out,” you said. “I’m sitting in the stairwell. In my pajamas.”
Jack’s brain stalled a little. That explained the echo in your voice.
“He left to go pick up his boyfriend,” you continued, “and I went down to check the mail at the same time, and he forgot I didn’t bring my keys, so he locked the door after us, and—”
“I’m already on my way,” Jack said, already swinging his legs off the couch, keys in hand before he even consciously decided to grab them.
There was a pause on the other end. He could almost picture your face—caught off guard, eyes large through your glasses, blinking and processing.
“Oh,” you said. “Okay.”
He didn’t bother hanging up with any sort of finesse. Just ended the call, shoved his feet into his shoes, and headed for the door. He figured you’d hear him coming down the stairs before you’d even notice that the call was over.
Jack took the stairs two at a time, like usual. He told himself to slow down. Told himself not to look like he was bolting towards you, almost out of desperation. He wasn’t so sure he’d succeeded when he rounded the last corner and saw you sitting on the steps right by your front door.
You had your back against the wall, knees drawn up, phone loose in your hand, like you were still thinking about the phone call. You were in soft pajama pants patterned with something he couldn’t quite make out, and an oversized hoodie. Your hair was pulled back messily, gold-framed glasses slightly crooked on your nose.
It struck him instantly that you weren’t wearing makeup. Like that was important to him for some reason.
Jack felt it hit him square in the chest— your quiet, stunning rightness. The kind that made his brain go blank and his mouth forget how words worked. He’d seen you dressed up. He’d seen you confident and sharp and incandescently alive.
This was so much worse. For him. Or better. Or maybe even dangerous.
You looked up when you heard him, eyes a little red and tired.
“Oh,” you said. “You really did come running.”
He swallowed, suddenly very aware of how loud his footsteps had been. “Yeah. Uh. Hi.”
There was a beat where he just stared at you like an idiot. And then his brain caught on to one small, glaring detail and pushed it straight out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
“Why do you have a green star on your forehead?”
“What?” You scrunched your nose in confusion, fingers brushing your forehead. “Oh. Yeah. It’s a, uh, pimple patch.”
Jack nodded like he understood what it was. “Right. Okay.”
“I was having a bit of a self-care night,” you added, like you felt compelled to justify it. “I guess.”
He huffed out a soft laugh before he could help it, more fond than amused. You were locked out of your apartment in pajamas with a sticker on your face, and you still somehow managed to be bold about it.
“Noah texted,” you went on, adjusting where you sat. “Said he’d be back soon. But I got kinda cold here, so I called you.”
Jack wished he’d brought a jacket to give you just about now.
“Is Waffle stuck in there?” he asked, nodding toward your door.
“No,” you said. “She’s at my parents’ place.”
Good, he thought, and didn’t unpack why. He shifted, suddenly aware again of everything he hadn’t said yet. Everything he still felt like he needed to make right.
“Do you wanna come up to my place?” Jack asked carefully. “Just while you wait for Noah. I mean, no pressure.”
“Sure,” you said finally, standing. “That was sort of why I called anyway.”
“Okay,” he said. He hadn’t realized that. “Yeah. Okay.”
He led the way upstairs, acutely aware of you behind him—your quiet steps, the faint rustle of fabric. You were only wearing slippers. You didn’t really need much more for only checking the mail. When he unlocked his door and stepped aside to let you in, he felt oddly exposed, like he was offering you a piece of himself he hadn’t planned on sharing tonight.
“After you,” Jack said, voice a little squeakier than he meant it to be.
His and Luke’s apartment was quite simple. The building itself was very nice—they just hadn’t done much with the place. It was clean, at least. Because they hired a cleaner. But it wasn’t the kind of place you proudly showed off to a girl, thinking she would think it was anything other than a sad bachelor pad. Luke’s girlfriend and their mom had told them that way too many times.
It had the unmistakable energy of two grown men who’d never once stood in a home goods aisle and felt inspired.
Jack watched you instead of the room, heart lodged somewhere inconvenient in his throat. You stepped inside slowly, eyes tracking over the space, fingers brushing the back of the couch as you passed.
“So,” you said lightly, turning back to him. “Did you decorate this place yourself, or was it staged?”
He snorted because you’d read him like an open book. “Uhm, any ounce of personality that you see was placed by my mom or my brother’s girlfriend.”
You smiled, the corner of your mouth tipping up. “I thought so.”
“They’re the reason we have curtains too,” he added, gesturing vaguely toward the windows. “Luke wanted blinds. Mom said it looked like a dentist’s office.”
You laughed softly and wandered toward the open-spaced kitchen, eyes immediately catching on the fridge. He figured your apartment had the same layout. Jack’s stomach dipped when you stopped.
“Oh,” you said, leaning in. “Okay, this is cute.”
He followed a few steps behind, already terrified of the questions you might ask him.
Your fingers hovered over the mess of magnets and photos on the fridge—family snapshots layered over each other, a couple of postcards, a formal wedding invitation stuck dead center.
You tilted your head. “Wait. There’s three of you?”
“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s Quinn. He’s the oldest.”
Jack tapped the fridge gently, pointing out Quinn in a photo of the three of them. All in full hockey gear, missing teeth and grinning because they’d just beat their mom in a shootout. Jack remembered that day vividly.
There was another photo beside it of Quinn again, arm slung around a woman, a baby balanced on his hip. Jack pointed at that next.
“He plays for Minnesota,” Jack continued. “That’s his wife and daughter.”
“They’re adorable,” you said, voice softening more than he thought was possible. Your eyes flicked back to the invitation. “She’s already his wife even if the wedding invitation is for June next year?”
Jack huffed a quiet laugh. “She’s Canadian. It was complicated.”
You turned to look at him then, smiling and nodding like you found him funny. He didn’t really know what to do with the fact that you were asking questions about his family like they mattered to you—that you wanted to remember things about him.
Jack slowly walked back out into the living space, hating how quiet it felt. The space always did that at night—too open, the cool blue of the city bleeding in through the big windows and making everything feel cold. Empty, almost. He rolled his shoulders like he could shake the feeling off.
“Sorry it’s kind of dull in here,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck. “We keep saying we’ll do more with it.”
“It’s not dull.” You shook your head. “I assume you travel a bunch, anyway.”
“Yeah,” Jack agreed, latching onto that explanation gratefully, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. “But you literally work with furniture. This was all bought in a hurry at Ikea when I was first drafted.”
“I’m not the furniture police,” you said with a small laugh, hands lifting in mock defense. “This couch looks more comfortable than all the Victorian settees I’ve reupholstered combined.”
You sat down first, tucking one leg under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. Jack followed, leaving what he thought was a reasonable amount of space between you. Not too far. Not close enough to be presumptuous. The couch dipped slightly toward you anyway, a traitorous thing.
“So,” Jack struggled with how to continue, wanting to fill the quiet. “Those fancy things aren’t even comfortable?”
“I think most customers buy them as cuck chairs for their bedrooms.”
You said it with such a straight face that Jack barely registered how weird it was.
“What?”
“I haven’t told my boss yet why they’re so popular,” you said seriously. “I don’t want to explain to him how I know what a cuck chair is.”
Jack now snorted. “You won’t tell me either, right?”
“Nope,” you said primly. “I’m a lady, after all.”
For a long moment after, neither of you spoke.
The TV was off. The apartment hummed quietly around you—appliances, pipes, the muffled city outside. Jack realized, distantly, that he’d been staring at the little green star on your forehead more than anything else. It was stupidly cute. Also safer than meeting your eyes.
He reminded himself, firmly, to act normal.
“So,” you said at last, glancing up at him. “Do you always rescue damsels in distress, or am I special?”
He let out a quiet laugh, tension easing a notch. “You’re special. Usually I just let people suffer.”
“Good to know,” you said, nodding. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You leaned back into the couch, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. “I’m sorry I didn’t wait after the game,” you added, casual but not careless. “I figured you were swamped.”
Jack shook his head immediately. “No, that was— I mean. That was on me. I wanted to. I just—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I felt like shit about it.”
You turned your head toward him. “You don’t have to.”
“I kinda do,” he said. “I invited you to make up for ghosting you, or whatever. And then I couldn’t even do that right.”
You studied him for a second, like you were deciding something. “Okay,” you said slowly. “Then I’ll admit something too.”
“Yeah?”
“I was a little annoyed,” you said. “Like history was repeating itself. But mostly I was just happy you knew I was there.”
Jack nodded, unsure how to respond to that without fumbling it, so he went with honesty. “I saw you,” he said. “A lot. During the game.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “You did?”
“Yeah. Once I knew where you were sitting, it was hard not to.” He hesitated. “You were with your dad, right?”
You groaned, burying your face briefly in your sleeve. “God. He was unbearable. Couldn’t stop making fun of me for going to a hockey game when I know absolutely nothing about it.”
Jack smiled. “He seemed to like it.”
You peeked at him. “I think he liked you.”
You shifted slightly, closer now—not dramatically, just enough that Jack noticed the change in gravity between you. Your knee brushed his thigh as you settled into a cross-legged position. Neither of you moved away.
“What about you?” you asked. “Do you always give away tickets to girls you barely know?”
He huffed softly. “I don’t usually give them to anyone.”
“So, I’m special again?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You kinda are.”
Jack realized instantly how much that was, to say it straight out loud. Once as a joke and once as plain truth. He wasn’t sure why it came so easy to him.
“That sounded intense,” he tried to recover. “Sorry.”
“You’re fine,” you said quickly. “Don’t worry.”
The silence that followed was awkward. It felt like a held breath. Jack became even more aware of how close you were—close enough now that he could see the faint pattern of your skin across your nose, every little bump and mark, and the way your glasses slid just a little when you tilted your head.
He gestured vaguely toward your forehead, mostly because his brain needed something neutral to focus on. “Does that thing actually work?”
You blinked. “The pimple patch?”
“Yeah. I’ve never seen one before.”
You laughed. “It’s hydrocolloid.”
He stared at you blankly. “That did not help.”
You laughed harder, leaning into him without really thinking about it, your shoulder bumping his arm. “It helps it heal faster,” you explained. “I mean, I still have breakouts, but they don’t scar as bad with these.”
“Good,” he said. “Can’t have you suffering.”
Your laughter faded into a quiet smile. You didn’t move away.
Jack realized his arm was resting along the back of the couch now. He wasn’t sure when that had happened. Only that if you leaned back even a little, you’d be right there in his embrace.
“You wanna know something funny, Jack?” you asked.
He had the distinct feeling it wouldn’t be funny at all, but he nodded anyway.
You hesitated, fingers worrying the cuff of your sleeve. “I’d never been asked on a date before. Uhm, before you stood me up and all that.” You winced, then corrected yourself. “Or, I guess I technically asked you out. But I’d never done that either.”
“What?” The word slipped out of him before he could stop it. “Seriously?”
You nodded, a little embarrassed now, mouth twisting. “Not like… traditionally. I don’t think getting breakfast after a Hinge thing counts as a date, right?”
“I don’t think so,” he said automatically, but his mind had already gone elsewhere.
Jack didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand you, probably. You were sharp, funny, and self-possessed. And had never been asked on a date. The one time you’d made the effort, he’d stood you up. No wonder dating was considered a lost art. Everyone hedged and half-committed. Jack had opted out of believing in anything real a long time ago, still, the idea of anyone overlooking you made his chest hurt.
“Look,” he started, needing to say it again even if it made him sound like a broken record, “I really am sorry for how that all happened—”
“I don’t know where I got that kind of confidence from,” you interrupted, pressing on like you needed to get it out before you lost your nerve. “I mean, I was a little buzzed, sure, but it’s still wild that I just saw a cute guy twice and figured I could ask him out.”
His heart kicked hard against his ribs. “You think I’m cute?”
You laughed softly, like you hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “I’m not sure we have anything in common, Jack,” you said honestly. “But your face—and your stupid floppy hair—kind of speaks to me.”
There it was. The retreat. Compliment, then distance. Like a practiced formula. You were bracing yourself, pulling back before he could disappoint you again. He didn’t like that you thought you had nothing in common, even if he couldn’t prove you wrong yet. He didn’t like that you seemed so sure it mattered more than the feeling Jack had inside his chest whenever he looked at you. Damn near butterflies.
“And,” you added, eyes flicking away for a second, “that you actually tried to make things up to me. Even if you kinda failed.”
“I said I was sorry,” Jack argued weakly. It wasn’t in actual defense.
“I mean, you didn’t even kiss me.”
Jack swallowed at your words. He thought about lying, but he figured there was no use.
“I thought about it,” he admitted. “A lot.”
Your gaze flicked down. To his mouth and back up again. The space between you felt suddenly too small. Jack could feel your breath now—warm, faintly sweet—against his face. He leaned in just enough that your noses were inches away from touching.
He then heard himself ask, “Would it be dumb if I kissed you right now?”
The second the words left his mouth, he wanted to take them back. That was dumb. Jesus. Real smooth.
But you didn’t laugh. You just shook your head. “No.”
Jack looked at you for a beat longer, waiting to see if you would pull away. When you didn’t, he leaned in.
It was clumsy. He knew it was. Your noses bumped, you laughed softly against his mouth, and he pulled back just enough to groan under his breath before trying again. This time he kissed you properly. Still careful, but with a better aim.
His hands hovered, uncertain, before settling at your waist. You kissed him back, slow and warm, like you weren’t in a rush to get anywhere. The world narrowed to the feel of your lips, the quiet sound you made when he kissed you a little deeper.
When you parted, Jack knew he was flushed bright red, his smile barely contained. He blinked, quick and dazed.
“You okay?” you asked, softly laughing.
“Yeah,” he said, voice a little wrecked. “I’m usually not that clumsy—”
You leaned in and kissed him again before he could finish talking.
Confidence crept in, shy but insistent. He shifted, tugging you gently until you were straddling his lap, your knees pressing into the couch on either side of him. You didn’t hesitate—you just went with it, hands finding his shoulders, then his hair, twisting your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck. His stupid, floppy hair. That did him in.
The kiss deepened. His hands slid up your back, holding you like he was sure of it. He forgot about being out of practice. Forgot about overthinking. Almost forgot about his own beliefs that love was stupid. That couples, and dates, and everything nice about enjoying another person, was stupid. There was only you, warm and solid and very real in his arms.
Until your phone went off, loud and merciless.
You stiffened in his lap. Jack squeezed his eyes shut, forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder.
“Of course,” you muttered, pulling back just enough to check the screen. “Noah. He’s home.”
You slipped off him, reluctantly, and stood. Jack followed you to the door, like gravity had shifted. You turned back to him just before opening it, fingers hooking into the front of his shirt.
You kissed him again, a little short and slow one. His hands came up automatically, thumbs brushing your jaw like he was already used to the feeling of you being there. When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“So,” you murmured, breath still uneven, “we’re doing this now? Casually kissing?”
Jack smiled, soft and a little dizzy. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Good,” you said, pecking his lips once more before you reached for the door handle. Just because you could. “Maybe put a condom in your wallet for next time.”
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
“Tell us,” Amir whisper-yelled. “Now, now, now, Bug!”
You barely had the door cracked open before bodies were in your space, voices overlapping, hands dragging you inside the apartment.
“Let me get inside the door first,” you laughed, trying to kick your slippers off.
Noah shut the door behind you, eyes already bright. “I leave for one hour to pick up Amir, and you spend the night with your hot hockey guy?”
“Spill the tea, Bug!” Amir crowed, clapping his hands together. He was still in his nursing scrubs from his shift at the hospital he worked at. Noah had probably filled him in on everything on the drive here.
You leaned back against the door for half a second longer than necessary, letting it thud softly shut behind you. Your heart still hadn’t fully slowed down. Not in an overwhelming way, just a little unexpected. Because it had felt nice in a way you hadn’t planned on.
Your lips still felt warm. Swollen. Like they didn’t entirely belong to you anymore.
“Okay, okay,” you said, holding up a hand before they could physically shake the information out of you. “I kissed him. Or—he kissed me. We kissed.”
Noah froze. Amir’s grin widened impossibly.
“There has to be more to the story,” Amir said immediately.
“You’re barely letting me talk!”
Noah laughed and waved you toward the living room. “Proceed. Slowly. With details.”
You dropped onto the couch and pulled your legs up under you, familiar cushions comfortable in a way Jack’s apartment hadn’t been. This was your space. Your people. You could afford to be fully honest here—even if you still wanted to keep things light.
“We kissed just as you were texting me,” you admitted. “It was kinda awkward, but also not bad?”
Amir narrowed his eyes. “What level of awkward are we talking? One being he fumbled with his hands and ten being he accidentally elbowed you in the teeth.”
You tilted your head, replaying it—not just the kiss, but the moments before. Jack’s voice, low and unsure. The way asking permission had clearly taken every ounce of nerve he had. The nose bump. The surprised laugh against your mouth. The way his hands had hovered before finally gaining confidence.
“Like a six,” you decided. “First, he asked if it would be dumb if he kissed me. And then when I said no, he hesitated so much—like he couldn’t remember if no was a positive or a negative answer.”
Noah pressed a hand to his chest. “That feels painfully on brand for a hockey player.”
“Oh, and we bumped noses,” you added. “But I found that surprisingly cute. He’s got a cute nose.”
Amir snorted. “So it was what? Sweet? Hot? Tense?”
“She just called his nose cute,” Noah said, glancing at his boyfriend. “It can’t have been hot, Amir.”
You rolled your eyes. “It was both, okay? It started sweet and then got… less sweet.”
Less sweet, but not reckless. Less sweet, but not something you were ready to build castles around. You were still aware of the invisible line you hadn’t crossed. The one that reminded you he’d already flaked once. That simply wanting something more didn’t mean you could trust it yet.
Noah leaned forward. “What happened after?”
“Nothing!” you said, throwing your hands up. “We both just stood there smiling like idiots, and then I left. I don’t fucking know.”
You hadn’t stayed. You hadn’t let it turn into something heavier. Part of you had wanted to—but the smarter part had reminded you that you didn’t owe him more than you were ready to give.
“You didn’t want to stay?” Amir asked. “Come up with some lie that Noah still wasn’t home?”
“You know I’m not like that,” you said immediately.
“Hey,” he said, hands up. “I’m not judging.”
You hesitated, then added, quieter but with a grin you couldn’t stop, “I might have told him to bring a condom for next time, though.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Noah’s mouth fell open. Amir let out a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a choke.
“Oh,” Noah said slowly. “So you’re insane now.”
You dropped your face into a pillow, mortified and thrilled in equal measure. “I don’t know why I said it. It just came out.”
Amir grinned. “You said it because you want to fuck him. Yeah. You’re doomed.”
You didn’t argue. You just lay there, staring at the ceiling, heart still racing—wondering what, exactly, you’d just started. Whatever it was, you’d decided one thing for sure: you were going to enjoy it, but you weren’t going to hand it your whole heart.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
The locker room smelled like old sweat and eucalyptus muscle rub, that sharp, medicinal sting that never really went away no matter how many times the place got cleaned. Someone had Mr. Brightside blasting from a cracked speaker in the corner like it was still 2005, the chorus echoing off the walls. The vibe was loud and chaotic—exactly busy enough to almost mask Jack’s early-morning existential crisis.
He sat half-dressed at his stall, elbows on his knees, tape dangling uselessly from his fingers as he stared into the middle distance. His body felt fine. His brain absolutely did not.
There had been a time—not even that long ago—when he’d been immune to this kind of thing. When anything a girl could’ve said or done to him would’ve felt pointless. When dating had felt pointless, annoying, and vaguely embarrassing. He’d built a whole reputation around not needing it, not wanting it. Almost being above it.
And now he was sitting here, replaying the exact angle of your smile in his head, wondering when he could next see you.
Nico strolled past, chewing a granola bar like it had personally offended him. He slowed, looked Jack up and down, and frowned. “You look like shit.”
Jack didn’t bother lifting his head. “Thanks, man.”
“No, seriously,” Nico went on. “Did you even sleep? Or did your date go awful and keep you up all night?”
“It wasn’t a date—” Jack started, then stopped, realization dawning a second too late. “Did Luke tell all of you?”
Luke, already dressed and sitting backwards on a stool, spun around with a grin that was way too pleased. “I didn’t have to. You’re doing that thing with your face.”
“What thing?” Jack muttered.
“Your nervous face, duh,” Luke said, before he started ticking things off on his fingers. “Either she kissed you and you chickened out, or you kissed her and she didn’t reciprocate. Those are the only two outcomes I’m willing to entertain.”
Jack felt heat creep up his neck. His nervous face. He hadn’t even known that was a thing he still had. Not since junior hockey.
“Or—” Nico raised a finger, eyes lighting up. “Plot twist. He got laid. Didn’t sleep at all. Just raw-dogged his way into the sunrise.”
“Christ,” Jack groaned. “Can you not say ‘raw-dogged’ before nine a.m.?”
“Way to go, champ,” Timo added helpfully from the next stall, already half in his gear. “Proud of you. Even if you look like you cried.”
“I didn’t cry,” Jack said flatly. “I just slept like shit.”
That part was true. He’d tossed and turned all night, brain refusing to shut up. He’d had three things on loop.
One: how ridiculously soft your lips had been. Like—unnaturally so. You must’ve put something on them as part of your whole self-care routine, because Jack refused to believe that was just how mouths were supposed to feel.
Two: the condom thing. The fact that you’d said it so openly, like it was a normal thing to suggest, like it didn’t send his heart into a mild panic. He’d already put one in his wallet. He hadn’t done that in about five years.
And three: your use of the word casual. You’d been casually kissing him while his entire belief system quietly collapsed in on itself. That didn’t seem sustainable. Or fair.
Nico pointed the granola bar at him. “But something did happen.”
Jack sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He was apparently see-through. There was no getting out of this now. “She was locked out of her place. We just… hung out until her roommate came back. That’s it.”
Timo looked up from tying his pants. “Wait. This is the neighbor girl? The one you stood up at first?”
Nico frowned. “You stood her up, and she still wanted to see you? Shouldn’t she hate you?”
“Probably.” Jack shrugged. “But she kissed me anyway.”
He realized, a beat too late, that he sounded pleased about it. Worse—he probably looked pleased. He shut his mouth before it could get him into more trouble.
“Hold up,” Nico said slowly. “She kissed you?”
Jack hesitated, the memory rushing back in full color. The way you’d watched him think. The way you hadn’t laughed when he’d over-explained himself. “Technically,” he said, “I asked if I could kiss her. And then she kind of… said yes with her face?”
Timo squinted. “Was it bad? Like, how awkward are we talking? One to ten.”
Jack thought about the nose bump. The brief, panicked second where he hadn’t known where to put his hands, like he’d forgotten the choreography entirely. He also thought about how none of that had ruined it. “Three,” he said. “Maybe four?”
“Define four,” Timo pressed.
“There was some nose bumping,” Jack admitted. “And I hesitated a lot. Like… a lot, a lot.”
Nico stared at him. “Did you forget how to kiss?”
“I’m gonna stop talking now,” Jack said, because the alternative was admitting that yes, maybe he had, or maybe it was just that it suddenly felt like something that mattered.
“So,” Nico continued, relentless. “No sex?”
Jack let out a humorless laugh. “I struggled to kiss her with how nervous I was. I don’t even want to think further than that.”
The thing was, Jack was constantly thinking further. You hadn’t let him do anything else. Not since the condom thing, anyway. That had planted a seed in his head with pictures he didn’t want anyone to know about. Not even you.
“But you’re gonna see her again?” Luke asked, tone shifting just slightly.
Jack nodded slowly. “Yeah. After Raleigh, probably.”
“Cool,” Timo said, suddenly mock-solemn. “Maybe don’t tell her you’re too nervous to even hypothetically think about sex. That might scare her off.”
Luke turned, stunned. “Is that real advice from Timo?”
“Don’t take it,” Nico said immediately. “Bold words from a guy who got ghosted by a girl who sells rocks on Etsy.”
“That’s different,” Timo protested. “She was a crystal healer. We had a spiritual mismatch.”
“No wonder you’re still a virgin, Timo,” Luke shot back.
“Hey!” Timo exclaimed. “I’ll have you know—”
“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Jack said, standing at last. “I don’t want to associate you with anything sexual for the rest of my life.”
Timo launched a roll of tape at his head.
Jack dodged it easily, laughing despite himself—and for the first time that morning, the grin actually stuck. The chirping still made him want to crawl out of his skin, but underneath the embarrassment was something warm and almost unbelievable.
He tugged on his helmet and headed toward the tunnel, heart still fluttering somewhere close to last evening. For all his past cynicism, all his careful distance from anything resembling love, it turned out it didn’t take much to undo him.
Just a couple of kisses and a little green star sticker.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Jack had already walked the length of the hallway enough times that he knew exactly where the patterned carpet changed direction and where the ice machine rattled like it was on its last leg. He’d paced past the same framed abstract print at least fifteen times, hands shoved into the pockets of a hotel robe that wasn’t even comfortable.
He was supposed to be resting.
That was the whole point of this free time—extra recovery before the last game of the road trip tonight. But his body hadn’t gotten the memo his brain was spiraling on. Every time he laid down, his legs bounced. Every time he closed his eyes, his thoughts drifted straight back to you. To kissing you. To the way texting you had quietly become the best part of his days on the road.
Luke, however, was snoring like he was trying to saw their hotel room in half just with the decibel of his voice, so that was why Jack had grabbed his phone and escaped into the hallway. He checked the time for the millionth time. Around lunch. You should be free.
Call me, he’d texted you earlier, not really expecting you to.
His phone surprised him when it buzzed. Jack didn’t realize how tense he’d been until it released all at once.
“Damn, Y/N,” he said when he answered, voice already lighter. “Pretty soon you’ll be calling just to ask me what I’m wearing.”
“You told me to call you, dumbass.”
He grinned to himself, staring down at the ugly carpet. “Yeah, yeah. Still. Since I’ve got you—what are you wearing? Is it cute?”
“I’m buying lunch,” you said. “I’m surrounded by fluorescent lights and crying children. What do you think I’m wearing?”
“Sounds hot.”
“Focus, Hughes.”
He laughed softly, the sound echoing faintly down the empty hallway. “Alright, alright. For what it’s worth, I’m wearing a hotel robe that was definitely not made with someone my height in mind.”
“Does it drag on the floor?”
There was a quiet beat. Jack could picture your face instantly—your mouth tilting like you already knew the answer. You didn’t have to say it out loud. The implication that he was short landed just fine.
He huffed, a little amused. “No. It fits like a mini skirt.”
“Now that sounds hot,” you said, then, after a pause, “Where even are you right now?”
“Raleigh,” he answered. “Last stop on this roadie. I’m bored out of my mind. I’ve walked the hallway of our hotel like fifteen times.”
“You could go outside,” you suggested. “See a sight.”
“I’m supposed to be resting,” he reminded you. “But I can’t sleep. Luke is snoring so badly the entire floor can hear him.”
“How glamorous.”
Jack moved, leaning his shoulder back against the wall, phone warm against his ear as noise from your end filtered through the speaker. “What are you doing?” he asked. “It sounds like chaos.”
“I’m in the drinks aisle,” you said. “Trying to decide if Red Bull is a smart choice.”
“Probably not,” he said immediately, then added, more thoughtful, “But it is Friday. And you don’t have work tomorrow.”
There was a pause on the line before he could hear you exhale. “You… are so right,” you said. “Thanks.”
Jack smiled, a little stupidly. It felt strange how much he liked being useful in such a pointless way—helping you decide between caffeine options while standing barefoot in a hotel hallway hundreds of miles away. It didn’t even mean anything.
He shifted his weight, dragging the toe of his sock against the carpet. He wasn’t sure when talking to you had started to feel natural and not nervous anymore. It was sometime after the kiss, for sure. You were like a door Jack could knock on if his thoughts got too loud. But he didn’t want to crowd you. Didn’t want to become that guy who checked in too often, who mistook whatever this was.
He barely understood why he wanted to talk to you so much in the first place. He just knew he did.
“Can I call you after the game?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.
You hummed on the other side of the line. “Aren’t you flying back right after?”
“I’ve got some time before we board,” Jack explained. It was technically true. He’d have to hurry a little, but it wasn’t impossible.
“Yeah,” you said. “Sure. You can call if you have the time, and I’m still awake.”
The if mattered. Jack clocked it immediately. While he liked that you left him space, you were also clearly putting up a wall.
“You’re not going to watch the game?” he asked. He didn’t know what his intention was. He knew you didn’t love hockey. Maybe you’d had fun at the game, but it would surprise him if that alone had converted you into a sports fan.
“Sports makes me fall asleep,” you admitted. “But I can try.”
He smiled at that. “I’ll leave you to your shopping now. Hope your lunch is tasty.”
“Thanks, Jack. Good luck tonight, and no high sticks to the face, please.”
Jack exhaled. There was a small pause—just enough to feel like something else might’ve been said if either of you had pushed.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay. I’ll call you later.”
When the line went dead, the hallway felt quieter than before. Jack stared at his phone for a second, then pushed off the wall and headed back toward his room. He was still restless—but his head wasn’t as crowded now. Maybe he could get a few minutes of sleep after all.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
You hadn’t meant to care this much. That was the thing.
You’d told Jack you’d try to watch, like it was a favor you might forget about halfway through. Sports made you sleepy. Your dad had stopped inviting you to Super Bowl Sundays because you were snoring before the halftime show. Men skating aggressively at each other didn’t usually do it for you either. But somewhere between the first period and the way Jack’s number started to feel familiar in your peripheral vision, you found yourself sitting a little straighter on the couch.
Waffle was tucked against your thigh, her head resting like she’d made a conscious decision to stay up with you. Noah was at Amir’s place for the night, the apartment quieter than usual—no loud voices, no commentary on how whipped you apparently were. It was just Waffle’s heavy breathing and the sound of skates cutting ice through your TV speakers.
You’d made tea. There was a half-eaten bar of dark chocolate on the coffee table and a blanket pulled up to your waist. It felt like a girls’ night, just you and Waffle, except the third participant was a man flying up and down a rink in Raleigh.
The Devils lost the lead late in the third period.
You felt it in your stomach before the announcer even finished his sentence—the shift in momentum, the way the Carolina crowd became even louder. When the final buzzer went and the score stayed stubbornly wrong, you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
“Damn,” you murmured, rubbing Waffle’s ears. She blinked up at you, unimpressed. “Yeah. I know.”
You didn’t text Jack. You sort of wanted to, but you figured he’d be busy. Media, debriefing, the whole ritual of disappointment. You let the TV play on whatever was next, letting the apartment fall back into softer shapes, and somewhere between the last sip of lukewarm tea and Waffle shifting in her sleep, you drifted off on the couch.
Your phone ringing startled you awake.
For a split second, you didn’t know where you were—then you saw the name on your screen and remembered your phone call from earlier today.
“Did I wake you?” Jack asked carefully, once you answered with a low groan.
“No, it’s fine,” you said, sitting up and pushing hair out of your face. Your voice was rough with sleep. “How… how are you feeling?”
There was a pause. Not long. Just enough for you to figure out his answer before he said it.
“Like we just lost our winning streak,” Jack sighed. “It’s rough, but it always happens.”
“I thought you played good,” you said quickly, then winced. “If it matters. I don’t know much, but you looked good— I mean, tight. Consistent, as a team.”
You heard the faint huff of a laugh on the other end. Your lack of hockey knowledge was apparently amusing to him. “I thought so too, which is why it sucks even more.”
You shifted on the couch, Waffle lifting her head and then resettling. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. The background noise drowned him out for a moment, you assumed he was at the airport. You didn’t totally understand how private flights worked. “Can I— Can I come see you tomorrow? Jack said suddenly, breaking through the racket. “Maybe I can come down to your place, I haven’t been there yet.”
You swallowed, words tangling for half a second before you caught them. “Yeah,” you said. “Sure. Of course. Noah’s not home anyway.”
You didn’t know why it made you suddenly nervous. Maybe because you hadn’t actually seen him since you’d kissed him. And stupidly told him to bring condoms for the next time.
“Okay,” Jack said, something like relief threading through the single word. “We’re boarding now, and I should probably let you sleep. So—good night.”
“Good night, Jack,” you said. “Have a safe flight.”
The call ended, leaving the apartment quiet again besides the low volume from some TV show. Your fingers hovered over your phone for a second, thumb uncertain—not wanting to say too much, not wanting to say nothing at all. Then you typed, simple and true, you really did play well tonight. You hit send, set your phone back on the table, and curled deeper into the couch, a small smile lingering as sleep crept back in.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
The knock pulled you out of sleep slowly, like surfacing through thick water.
At first, you thought it was part of a dream—too soft to be urgent, even if you couldn’t remember what you were dreaming about. But it was too steady to just be your imagination. You lay there on the couch, blanket tangled around your legs, Waffle’s warm weight pressed against your stomach. The apartment was dark except for the blue glow from the TV.
Another knock.
Your heart kicked. Noah, maybe. Or Amir. Or, irrationally, you sleepwalking and knocking on your own door. No, you had to go look. You carefully untangled yourself, padding across the living room in your pajamas, eyes heavy with sleep as you peered through the peephole like it might bite you. You should’ve put your glasses on.
But there he was.
Jack stood on the other side of your door with a duffel slung over one shoulder, hair flattened from the winter weather, eyes tired as they flickered around the stairwell. You opened the door before you could overthink it.
“What are you doing here?” you mumbled out through a yawn. Jack looked caught in the headlights since you’d actually answered the door.
“It’s technically tomorrow,” he rushed to say.
You squinted at him, then back at your microwave, its digital clock blinking 12:37. “You came directly from the airport?”
“Yeah,” he said. He shifted his weight, suddenly looking unsure, like he might apologize for being here if you gave him a reason. “I just— I didn’t feel like being alone. Luke’s with his girlfriend.”
You blinked a few more times, letting your brain catch up to your heart, then stepped aside. “You could’ve warned me.”
“I did. I said I was coming tomorrow,” he said mildly. “Didn’t specify the hour.”
You snorted despite yourself, closing the door behind him as he slipped inside and set his duffel down carefully. “I should’ve known you’d be annoyingly literal.”
Waffle, still on the couch, lifted her head at the unfamiliar presence, ears flattening instantly. Jack froze mid-step as you walked into the living space, sitting down beside her.
“Did I wake you this time?” Jack asked.
“No, not really. Hadn’t gone to bed, at least,” you said. You glanced at Waffle, gently patting her head. “Don’t mind her. She’ll go hide.”
“She still not a fan of me?” he asked quietly, watching as she jumped off the couch and scuttled toward your bedroom.
“She came from a puppy mill,” you said softly. “It’s not your fault.”
Jack nodded, absorbing that like he seemed to do everything else. Carefully, quiet, and without further comment.
He stood there for a moment, hands hanging loose at his sides, taking in the familiar mess of your living room. The blanket on the couch, the empty mug on the table, and Waffle’s toys scattered on the floor. You suddenly became very aware that you were barefoot. Rumpled. Hair doing whatever it wanted. That he’d come here like this—no warning, no buffer—just because he didn’t want to be alone.
You gestured toward the spot on the couch beside you. “You want some tea? Tequila? Or do you just want to… exist for a minute?”
Jack’s shoulders dropped a fraction, relief sneaking in where disappointment had been sitting. “Existing sounds really good right now.”
He gently sat down beside you, close enough that your knees brushed. You tried to relax, but you both sat with stupidly good posture for a moment.
“What are you watching?” Jack asked to fill the silence.
“Nascar reprise, I think,” you said, tilting your head at the TV. You hadn’t actually been watching, it was just what was on after the hockey game. “Like I said, sports make me sleepy.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Who are we rooting for?”
You squinted at the screen, pointing to a car in seemingly last place. “I like that green color.”
“So, obviously that one.”
“Obviously.”
The couch wasn’t big enough to pretend this was platonic spacing. Noah complained about that all the time. It happened with all the vintage furniture you brought home. It simply wasn’t large enough. Somewhere between passing cars and the low rumble of engines, you had to lean into him. Simply to get comfortable. Jack stilled, then adjusted without a word—arm coming around you. You rested your cheek against his chest and listened.
His heartbeat was fast. A lot faster than yours.
You thought about the loss—the way a game could slip away in the last minutes, the way momentum died so suddenly. About flying home with that sitting in your body, adrenaline with nowhere to go. About unlocking an empty apartment, gear dropped on the floor, no one to tell you it was okay.
No wonder he’d knocked on your door.
“Jack,” you whispered. “Can I just—”
You leaned up and kissed him before you could finish the sentence, tilting his face toward you with your hand. It was soft, almost shy. You still wanted to check if it was okay. Jack kissed you back immediately, like he’d been waiting.
“Sorry,” you murmured against him. “You just looked a little sad.”
He smiled, barely, lips still brushing yours. “You don’t have to apologize for kissing me, Bug.”
You liked how easily he said your nickname. Maybe that was just a hockey thing. You settled back into him, fitting together in that slightly awkward way of people still learning each other’s shapes. Your legs tangled together as you both fell back on the couch, you still resting on top of him. His hands rested on your back, thumb moving absentmindedly against the fabric of your pajamas. Not exploratory at all.
The TV murmured on, engines droning. Outside, an ambulance passed, sirens briefly painting the ceiling blue before sliding away. Time stretched, feeling unimportant.
You tipped your chin up and pressed a small kiss to his jaw. Then another, softer one near the corner of his mouth. Jack responded without thinking, lips meeting yours in an unhurried kiss that felt almost habitual.
When you pulled back, he kissed the top of your head, breathing you in.
A few seconds passed. Maybe minutes.
“Why…” you said eventually, voice barely above the hum of the TV. “Why are you here, Jack?”
He didn’t answer right away. His hands stilled on your back.
“Do I need to have a reason to want to come see you?”
You considered that, eyes drifting up to look at him. “No,” you said. “Well. Maybe when it’s the middle of the night.”
He huffed a quiet breath of a laugh. You felt his ribcage vibrate beneath you. “It doesn’t have to be that complicated.”
Then why did it suddenly feel complicated?
The conversation drifted again after that, like it always seemed to do between you two. You shifted slightly, resettling, your ear pressed back against his chest. His heart was still racing—not game-speed, but not calm either. Like it hadn’t landed yet.
“Your heart’s beating really fast,” you whispered. Maybe you shouldn’t have pointed it out.
“I know,” Jack whispered back through a tight breath.
You smiled to yourself, eyes never having lost their heaviness from sleep. You yawned, cheek sliding lower against him. You heard Jack copy you, the jawn contagious.
“Don’t fall asleep,” you murmured. “You’ll wreck your back on this couch.”
He chuckled softly. “I should probably go home. I mean, it’s just one set of stairs.”
You hesitated, then turned your face toward him, chin resting on his sternum, close enough that your noses brushed. “Or you can stay,” you said. “We can share my bed. If—if that’s okay, I mean.”
Jack seemed to wake up slightly from your words, his expression softening in a way that made your cheeks warm. “Yeah?” he asked.
You nodded, slow and sleepy. “Yeah.”
He smiled—small, fond—and pressed a quick kiss to your lips, like punctuation. “Come on,” he said, already helping you up. “Sleepyhead.”
The walk to your bedroom felt oddly ceremonial, like you were both pretending it wasn’t a big deal while being acutely aware that it kind of was. You flicked on your ensuite light, the soft yellow light immediately making everything feel quieter.
“Uh,” you said, suddenly shy, rifling through the cabinet by your sink. “I’ve got an extra toothbrush. It’s…pink.”
Jack leaned in the doorway, watching you with a tired smile. “Cute.”
He brushed his teeth while you washed your face, the mundane normalcy of it all grounding. Like this was something you did. Like this was allowed. When you turned back into the room, he was tugging his hoodie over his head, movements unselfconscious but not careless either. This was the same guy who’d been shy over a bruise on his face.
Your eyes flicked—quick and curious—before you could stop them. Jack caught it, of course. His mouth twitched as he kicked off his jeans and stood there in his boxers.
You swallowed and very deliberately reached for the hem of your pajama pants, sliding them off and tossing them onto the chair. You left the oversized shirt on. That felt like a compromise. Jack’s gaze lingered on your legs for half a second longer than necessary before he looked away, clearing his throat.
“Goodnight, Waffle,” you said solemnly, crouching to pat her in her bed on the floor. “You’re on guard duty.”
Jack laughed quietly, already climbing into your bed. “She hates me.”
“She hasn’t barked yet,” you pointed out. “Which is huge.”
The covers were cool when you slipped in, then quickly warmed as Jack shifted closer. You both stilled for a moment, figuring out the choreography, before settling naturally—knees brushing, feet tangling. He rolled onto his side to face you, and you mirrored him, the blanket pulled up high enough that it swallowed you both.
You shifted closer, instinctive, your forehead brushing his as you gave him a small kiss. He was still warm. Still carrying the day in his shoulders, in the slight tension of his jaw.
“You okay?” you murmured.
He nodded, eyes half-lidded. “Your sheets are really soft.”
“Seersucker.” You smiled, sleepy and fond. “The material. It’s called that.”
Jack hummed like he’d remember that forever.
A quiet moment passed. His hand found your waist under the covers, hesitant until you leaned into it, letting him slip under your shirt. His fingers moved slow and reassuring.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “For just… showing up like that.”
“Don’t apologize,” you whispered. “You can stay for as long as you want.”
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Jack woke up slowly, in a way that wasn’t normal to him. No alarm blaring, no stupid hotel curtains leaking light, no plans of what to do today. He was just warm. The good kind of warmth that came from how soft your sheets were and your body weight on top of him.
You were sprawled over him like you’d done it a hundred times before. One leg slung over his middle, knee tucked in just right. Your arm was loose across his ribs, your cheek pressed flat to his bare chest, mouth parted slightly as you breathed. You fit there. Like you’d found the spot without thinking and your body had decided to keep it.
Jack looked around your room for a moment, letting it all come back to him in pieces. He hadn’t seen much in the dark light yesterday. Now he couldn’t believe that this bedroom was technically the same shape as his own. He couldn’t believe that it was possible to make the same space feel so different.
Maybe because you actually showed your personality through the spaces you lived in. A tall bookcase filled with things that Jack couldn’t wait to analyze. A dresser that was overflowing with clothes, a piece of something lacy sticking out from a closed drawer. Paintings and posters lined the walls, as a string of fairy lights bordered the ceiling.
It was just as cozy as you were.
Last night, he’d felt pathetic showing up at your door. Like everything he despised about needing someone had been proven to be wrong. That once he’d had the option to not be alone for a night, he’d gone straight for it without thinking twice.
This morning, wrapped up in you, he didn’t feel pathetic at all.
You slept like you knew each other better than you did. Like your body trusted his without asking permission first. There was something disarming about that—about how easy you were with him when you weren’t awake to overthink it. When you couldn’t keep your distance and think about how he’d mistreated you at first. You snored, just barely, a soft little sound that made his mouth twitch instead of annoy him.
Jack shamelessly let his eyes trace your face. You weren’t wearing your glasses, which almost felt unfair, like he was seeing something he shouldn’t have. Seeing too much. Your eyelashes were longer up close. There was still a faint mark on your forehead where that green star sticker had been last week—pimple patch, he corrected himself fondly. Stickers with glue probably weren’t good for skin.
He shifted just enough to breathe you in, careful not to wake you. You smelled like a perfume he’d grown to recognize. His chest rose under your cheek, and you murmured, burrowing closer, fingers curling gently at the skin over his ribs.
That was the moment Jack noticed his own skin for the first time this morning, and how it was burning all over. It wasn’t just the warmth; it was a suffocating, tickling feeling. Something that would make him blush all the way from his stomach up to his ears.
Your bare thigh was resting right on top of him, and his arm was cradled around your body, feeling your skin right where your shirt had bunched up and the lace trim on your panties started. This wasn’t a fair position for any man.
He didn’t even have the time to reposition himself before he saw your eyes slowly open, your body going from dead weight to slightly more aware. You didn’t hurry to move away—you weren’t scared to be in this position come the morning after. You just gently tilted your head up, batting your lashes tiredly, and smiled.
“You want pancakes for breakfast?”
Jack couldn’t remember the last time he ate pancakes. Or maybe he’d had banana pancakes, but he had the sneaking suspicion that you meant actual pancakes. Butter and maple syrup included.
“Mhm,” he sighed. You squeezed him a little harder, moving up to press a soft kiss to his jaw, then another on his Adam’s apple. “But I think I’m gonna have to stay here for a little longer.”
You propped yourself up a bit, resting a palm on the mattress. The confused face you made was nothing but adorable, nose scrunched and eyes squinting. “Why?”
Jack could lie, or he could tell you the truth about how you affected him. He landed on telling you the truth, you were forward enough to handle it, he figured.
“Because if I stand up,” he said, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, “you’ll see that I have the worst case of morning wood that I’ve ever experienced.”
You giggled openly, your thigh tensing in its spot over his crotch. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” you said, signaling to Jack that you’d already felt it. “Is it involuntary?”
No, his body had never been more sure.
“It can be,” Jack settled with, running his hand along your back. “But I think the way you move in your sleep is to blame now.”
“Wow. I feel kinda proud about that,” you beamed.
“My god, you’re weird,” he chuckled, gripping you tighter. Your confused face was back for a second before Jack could reassure you. “In a good way, I promise.”
It faded into a tired smile, your teeth on show as you couldn’t contain your laughter. Jack had never been more sure of a compliment. It was weird to say you were proud of giving him a boner, but it was also the kind of spontaneous comment that had made him like you in the first place.
You kissed him again, catching him a little off guard. He smiled into it, lips grazing, as you moved to straddle him, knees slotting onto either side of his hips. Jack clasped his arms around you, making you fall flat against his chest. He then pulled the covers back over you, letting the warmth build up again.
“Should we do something to fix it?” you mumbled against his mouth.
Jack pulled away for a second, eyes caught on your spit-covered lips, body caught on the way only underwear acted as a barrier between you. “We don’t have to,” he tried. “I’d like to take it slow with you.”
“Was that why I had to trick you into kissing me?” you asked with a giggle.
“I don’t know,” Jack said honestly. He wouldn’t really say you tricked him. You more cornered him into doing something he deeply wanted but was too scared of trying. “I think I was just nervous,” he admitted.
“I make you nervous?”
Jack nodded. “Terribly so.”
“I don’t bite,” you murmured, leaning back in to kiss him. Your teeth sank gently into his bottom lip, totally disproving your words. “Unless you want me to.”
Jack’s entire head was buzzing at your smug smile and the way your kisses grew to linger longer. With some more confidence, he met your lips back with a feverish intent, slipping his tongue in your mouth. Messy. Little to no air being let out. His hands settled on either side of your waist, your shirt riding up and your skin warm to the touch.
He pulled away, but only far enough to inhale, your noses still touching. “Do girls get horny in the mornings too?”
You giggled again, the sound trapped between you. Jack swore it was like hearing angels singing. “I mean, we’re not immune to it,” you said, like you were thinking about the science behind it. “I wake up wet sometimes.”
Jack’s jaw fell, a quiet huff slipping out.
“Was that TMI?” you quickly asked.
“No, no,” he shook his head. “It was hot.”
You probably just thought you’d grossed him out, while Jack had pictures in his head that just made him fall even deeper into whatever this was. Deeper into you. An infatuation? Something strangely close to love, even if he didn’t know what that felt like?
Jack kissed you again to stop his thinking, colliding his mouth with yours. You snuck your fingers up, toying with the ends of his hair. The feeling of you on top of him made him want to gulp. Heavy breathing made him hear his own heartbeat, thumping as your hips ground down onto him.
You sat up and placed your hands on his chest, changing the angle of your grinding to hit him more directly. You could probably see him twitching, a dark wet patch forming on his boxers by the outline of his swollen tip. He canted forward to meet you halfway as he littered sloppy kisses on your mouth and neck.
His hands pushed your shirt up even further, and suddenly you were stripping it off, discarding it onto the floor without a care. Jack was really happy that Waffle seemed to have left the room sometime during the night.
You knew that you were taunting him, sitting on top of him in nothing but lace panties. You had to know. His cock was practically lodged between your cunt and his own body. Jack stilled at the view, your nipples pebbled, your chest heaving. You noticed it all.
“We could take it real slow. Nothing to hurry about,” you mumbled, grinding your hips down in a slow stroke.
“Holy shit—” he breathed out, holding your hips in place so you couldn’t move more. You watched his face contort as he bucked beneath you and let out a low, “F-fuck, you’re gonna be so much trouble for me.”
Despite all that, Jack couldn’t help but guide your hips against him again, seeking more pressure. Your panties were thin enough that he could feel the shape of you through them. As your wetness slowly bloomed, his cock fit between your folds, even if the layers of fabric remained.
Jack slid his hands from your waist to your ass, fingers digging into the soft skin, letting you move a little faster. “You woke up wet, huh?”
You told him to shut up, answering by grinding down especially hard and especially pointed, your clit dragging up, nudging right against his tip. A whimpering, broken moan tore out of you. “Shit, Jack. I’m so wet for you.”
Jack didn't know what to do or say when your hands moved down from his chest to play with the waistband on his boxers. The view down there was already obscene enough. When you slowly dragged them down, just so his cock could slip free, still stuck there between your legs, Jack was sure he was about to pass out.
“It’s pretty,” you mused with another giggle. “You’re pretty, Jack.”
He heard himself choke on air as he realized you were talking about his dick, embarrassingly pink and throbbing as your fingers slowly wrapped around it, gently stroking up as your thumb swiped over his head.
“What?” you said. “Was it weird of me to call your dick pretty? Am I being weird again?”
Jack could only answer by shaking his head, because you were back to grinding onto him before he could form a sentence. His shaft dragged against the wet fabric on your panties, fitting snugly between your folds. Your fingers stayed, toying with his tip.
He didn’t understand how you could be so poised. Maybe because you were in charge here. Jack didn’t mind at all. It wasn’t until Jack dared to cup your tits that he had you moaning again, gently twisting a nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, making himself let out an incredulous laugh just at your reaction.
“Stop that,” you whined. “Make me come instead.”
So, Jack started guiding your hips again, eased by your slick being all over him now. You leaned into him, chest pressing against his, mouth sloppily trying to kiss him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever made a girl finish just from doing this, but he was sure he could when the tip of his cock nudged your clit right on repeatedly.
You sped up, legs tensing while Jack’s hands moved to grip your upper thighs. You were both aching for release. Jack could feel the friction starting to burn. He could hear your breathing starting to get frustrated, just before everything seemed to break loose.
“Oh, fuck. Jack, Jack, Jack,” you slurred as your body went rigid, telling him you were coming.
He came with a choked-out moan, hips shaking as he spurted hot, white streaks up onto his own stomach. You watched it all in awe, still gently touching his cock, his release webbing through your fingers.
Jack just felt like he was trembling, falling through emotions like a controlled demolition. His cheeks were blazing hot, surely blushing all over, his eyes wide in embarrassment. “Oh, god. I’m sorry—” he panted. “That was so quick. It’s been a while.”
You silenced him with a slow kiss, seemingly not caring about the mess you were making by touching him further. “It’s okay,” you murmured. “That was hot as hell.”
You giggled again as you were getting off him, falling onto your back, the mattress bouncing. From your nightstand, you handed him a napkin, drying off your own hands in the process. He wiped off his stomach before it could gross him out.
“Give me fifteen minutes and I can go again,” Jack said. It was some sort of defense. He’d made you come, he was sure of that. The way one of your legs was still shaking was proof.
You scoffed beside him, sitting up in bed. “I’ll go get a condom.”
Jack watched you walk to your ensuite bathroom, stepping out of your drenched panties on the way, your ass gently swaying in his direction. He was sure they couldn’t be comfortable to wear anymore, his own boxers sitting pathetically by his thighs. He thought about covering up, but his limbs were too tired to cooperate right now.
He could only look at you. Only think of you. Think of how he should be against everything you were making him feel, but he was exhausted of repressing it. Jack was just going to let this happen.
You came back from the bathroom, still completely naked, a small foil packet nervously in your hands. Jack almost laughed at the thought of the condom that sat in his wallet out in the duffle bag.
“Okay, so I was wondering—” you started talking, and Jack had to focus on listening. You stood by the edge of the bed. Jack scrambled to get closer to you, sitting up, struggling to adjust his boxers, his hands finding your waist as he reached you. “Maybe this should wait until after we’ve actually fucked, but you just made me come hands-free, and if that is a testament to anything—”
“Bug,” he cut you off, kissing your stomach.
“Okay, okay,” you giggled again, collecting yourself to stop rambling. “Do we make this a thing? Casually fuck when we both feel like it?”
“Oh.” The word left his mouth before he could process what you’d said. He wasn’t sure how long he was quiet after that, but it was long enough for him to feel his chest start hurting in a way he couldn’t explain.
“Yeah. I can do casual,” Jack finally managed to say, like a pure and utter liar.
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