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It’s not 100% done, I have some editing of the last few parts, I may need to add in or combine sections depending on how it flows. Right now I have it at 15 parts, it will be somewhere around that
A/N: Sorry for the very delayed post, life has been crazy. Hope it was worth the wait!
Warnings: kissing, maybe a swear word, fingering (18+ minors DNI)
Word Count: 3,700
Ten days.
It was longer than Quinn would have preferred. Long enough for the kiss to replay in hotel rooms at two in the morning. But road games with constant flights and crazy schedules kept them apart.
Despite the chaos, Charlotte kept her word.
She called a few times on her drive home from work, the sound of her turn signal ticked faintly in the background while she told him about a student who cried that day and the puddle of glue she spent twenty minutes cleaning. She FaceTimed him during recess to show him a picture of a lopsided paper snowman one of her students insisted looked “exactly like Miss P.”
“It’s the scarf,” she’d said defensively, angling the camera closer. “And the eyelashes.”
Quinn squinted at the screen. “The snowman has three eyes and no arms.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“That children see beauty where you clearly do not.”
He’d laughed then — the real kind. The kind that echoed in his chest snd warmed her heart.
He sent her clips from the road in return. A video of the hotel coffee machine sputtering like it was about to explode. The view from a plane window over frozen lakes that looked like shattered glass beneath them. He sent multiple memes fans had made about him “seeing ghosts,” a twist on his RBF apparently.
“They say I’m haunted,” he told her.
They never mentioned the kiss.
Not once.
He needed that. Needed proof that a decade hadn’t fractured under one moment of curiosity. Every time her name lit up his phone or their conversation was easy and effortless, his shoulders loosened a little more.
Still, when she texted want to hangout tonight? something tightened in his chest.
He didn’t know what the room would be like. He didn’t know what the air between them would feel like. Didn’t know if it would be heavy, charged, or painfully aware.
**
He had dinner waiting when she arrived - nothing too complicated, just pasta with jarred sauce he tried to enhance with various seasonings; the garlic bread he’d overcooked slightly.
She slipped off her boots by the door. Her coat hung loose around her shoulders for a second before she shrugged it off, cheeks were flushed pink from the cold.
“Smells good in here,” she said, glancing toward the kitchen.
“I lit candles to hide the burnt bread smell.”
Her laugh came quickly and easily, and Quinn felt at ease. He missed that sound. She climbed onto a barstool like she belonged and tucked one foot under her leg. Comfortable. Like she belonged there -because she did belong there - then launched into a story about her class’s upcoming skating field trip, her hands moved as she spoke.
“They’re seven, Quinn. Seven. And there are two classes of them, that’s almost 50 kids. Do you know how chaotic that’s going to be?”
He grinned. “You realize I learned to skate at three, right?”
“Yes,” she replied without missing a beat, “and you were probably insufferable about it.”
“I was gifted.”
“You were competitive,” she corrected him.
“Those are not mutually exclusive.”
She shook her head, smiling. And for a moment, everything felt completely normal, easy. Just history stretching comfortably between them.
He told her about the road — about the strange weight of pulling on a different jersey. How he hadn’t fully adjusted to his name being called at the Grand Casino Arena and being followed by an eruption of cheers. How sometimes, in the split second before stepping onto the ice, he still expected it to feel like Vancouver.
She listened the way she always had. Chin resting in her palm. Eyes steady. There was no checking her phone. No half attention. No polite nodding.Focused. Like what he was saying mattered, because it did matter. To her, it always had.
**
They settled onto the couch with Stranger Things playing again, the blue glow filling the room in soft pulses. Their shoulders brushed once, neither of them flinched. It was the proof he needed that they hadn’t shattered something fragile.
As the episode ended and Charlotte reached for the remote, then pressed pause. The click felt louder than it should have. The silence that followed was deliberate.
“I want to do it.”
The words landed between them without drama, but they shifted the air all the same. “Oh.” He sat up slightly. “Okay.”
She nodded once, almost briskly — like she’d practiced saying it in the car, in the mirror, in her head a dozen times before walking in. But her fingers were laced so tightly together in her lap her knuckles were turning white.
“I need confidence,” she said. “The other night… things started to heat up and I wasn’t sure what to do. Where to put my hands. When to move. I just—”
Her voice caught and she cut herself off.
He could see the memory play behind her eyes. The embarrassment. The way she shrank inward when she felt unsure. Charlotte thrived on certainty. On knowing the right answer and what came next, and he could tell she hated this.
“I need you to help me.”
Help me.
The words were practical. Almost clinical.
They still hit somewhere deeper than they should have.
He swallowed that down quickly. This was what they’d agreed on. Controlled. Safe. No blurred lines.
“Okay,” he said again, steadier this time.
“But we need rules.”
“Right. Rules.” He is quick to agree then takes a minute. “What kind of rules?”
“Protection -“
“Always.” Quinn answered without hesitation.
She exhaled slightly at that.
“No undressing.”
He arched a brow. “Char, I know you haven’t done this before but clothes make it difficult”
They both let out a soft laugh. His small laugh only cemented the decision doing this with him was the right one.
“No undressing each other,” she clarified. “We take our own clothes off.”
He huffed out a breath. “Okay. That’s fair.”
“No kissing.”
That one made him pause. His face betrayed him before he could mask it.
“No kissing with our clothes off.”
“Oh.” He leaned back slightly. “That’s… oddly specific.”
“I just think it blurs things.”
“Okay,” he agreed anyways. He let a beat pass before asking, “Sleepovers, yes or no?”
The word lingered.
They had never had one. Not even in high school, Mary would never allow it. Their friendship lived in kitchens, cars, and front porches. Never in beds.
Charlotte’s gaze drifted toward the hallway like she could see the bed from there. Quinn imagined it too. The morning light spilling through the blinds, her hair messy against his pillow. The quiet intimacy of waking up beside her.
His chest tightened unexpectedly. Would she wear his shirt to bed or would she pack a bag? Would they cuddle or sleep on opposite sides, backs turned? What if he woke up and their limbs were tangled amongst the sheets? But the thought of laying in an empty bed in a room that smelled like sex also felt wrong.
“Maybe that’s situational,” he offered, catching the way her breathing changed.
“Yeah,” she replied softly. “Situational.”
“Say the word and this is done,” he added. “At any point. We stop and go back to just being friends.”
“And we have to have days where we just hang out as friends,” she said. “Nothing more.”
“Yes.” He didn’t even need to think about it. “That comes first.”
It always had.
The room fell quiet again.
Not tense, just aware. They were both sitting straighter now, angled toward each other. Close enough that their knees nearly touched. Her cobalt eyes flickered over his face - searching - maybe checking for doubt.
He wondered the same thing.
This wasn’t like anyone else he’d been with. There was no chase, no uncertainty about who the other person was. He knew how she took her coffee. Knew she cried at commercials with old dogs. Knew exactly how her laugh changed when it was real versus polite. There was nothing anonymous about this.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
“Okay.”
Neither of them moved at first.
It was almost comical how two adults who had known each other for over a decade suddenly were unsure of who should close the gap. Her breathing had changed - it was slower now. He searched her face for hesitation but found none. Still, he gave her the out.
“You sure?”
She nodded once.
This time, when he leaned in, it wasn’t tentative. His hand slid to her waist, steady and warm. Her fingers curled into his shirt automatically, like her body remembered the last time even if her brain had tried to overanalyze it.
Their mouths met.
It wasn’t frantic.
It wasn’t experimental.
It was intentional.
He moved slowly, giving her space to respond, to explore without pressure. She adjusted—tentatively at first, then surer when he didn’t pull away. Her hand slid from his chest to his shoulder, then up into the soft curls at the nape of his neck. He exhaled softly against her mouth and the sound did something to her.
This wasn’t like Jackson.
There was no sense of performing. No internal checklist. No wondering if she was doing it right. This felt collaborative. When she shifted closer, it wasn’t because she thought she should. It was because she wanted to. They broke apart only when breathing required it.
His eyes searched hers, wide but not panicked.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
She nodded, lips slightly swollen. “Yeah.”
More than okay. There was colour in her cheeks, confidence was blooming.
Quinn leaned in and kissed her again. This kiss was different. Not a short little peck. It was a full-blown open mouth kiss. It was full force, tongue grazing her bottom lip already desperate for entry. Her nails dragged through his hair, scratching his neck as she welcomed him in. Her entire body arched toward him on instinct.
Quinn forgot who he was kissing. He got lost in the moment, lost in her, and he forgot about everything around him. Only able to focus on one thing, kissing.
A soft sound escaped her — surprised, almost — and it sent a pulse of heat through him that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with desire. She pulled away, with their foreheads still touching she whispered, “want to go to your bedroom?”
His throat went dry.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t take her hand. It felt too deliberate. So he let her stand, let her lead.
The bedroom door closed behind them with a soft click that somehow sounded heavier than it ought to. The realization of what was to come, what they were going to do.
They stood facing each other for a moment, suddenly awkward in a way they hadn’t been with each other. The easy rhythm from the couch was replaced with something quieter. More vulnerable.
Heat bloomed behind Charlotte's cheeks and she swallowed hard enough for Quinn to notice.
With a shaky breath, Charlotte turned. With her back to him before she could lose her nerve, she hooked her fingers into the hem of her crewneck. It slid over her head and landed in a soft pile on the floor. She shuddered as the cold air kissed her skin. She paused for half a second, breathing in, then her fingers moved to the zipper of her jeans.
Quinn dropped his eyes. Watching felt unexpectedly intimate, like he could see her naked, but the act of getting naked was too much. Quinn reached for his clothes and let everything land in a heap on the floor.
When the last sound of fabric settling faded, the room felt impossibly still. Charlotte’s skin looked almost luminous against the dim lamplight. There were a few freckles scattered over her shoulder blade — small constellations he had never noticed before.
She stood with her hands at her sides, eyes down at the floor. He couldn’t tell if she was scared to look or scared to see him looking. And it’s not that he wanted to stare, that’s not what this was about, but he couldn’t help it.
Twelve years.
And he’d never seen that.
She exhaled slowly and turned around, not all at once — like she was bracing for impact. When she faced him, her hands hovered awkwardly at her sides, fingers twitching once before going still. Her eyes stayed down on the floor.
He’d seen her in a bathing suit. Twice. Once at the lake after graduation and once on that beach trip with friends where she’d worn an oversized button-up half the day.
Never like this.
Her body wasn’t dramatic or exaggerated — it was real. She has a smaller-chested than he might have guessed but beneath the sweaters and layered tops, it was hard to know. She had always covered herself, and at this moment, he couldn’t understand why. He let his eyes move slowly, not hungrily — just taking her in. Down the gentle slope of her stomach. The subtle curve of her hips she always disguised under high-waisted jeans and loose dresses. Over the small tuft of hair he could tell she kept groomed.
His jaw tightened slightly, and his cock began to harden. Inadvertently, he licked his lips and forced himself to lift his gaze back to her face.
Her cheeks were on fire, watching him take her in. Her body stiffened for half a second — not recoiling, just aware.
She’d seen him shirtless before. At the lake or after his summer runs. Seeing his muscular physique didn’t surprise her, seeing it did. She had nothing to compare it to, but it felt big, intimidating. As if it could break her without even trying.
Her throat felt dry and her pulse thundered in her ears. The vulnerability of it hit her all at once. “We’re not having sex today.” Her eyes widened immediately in horror, the words came out louder than intended.
Quinn’s face gently curled into a smile. “Lesson 2: never go home without touching the other bases.”
Charlotte’s face twists. “Wha-”
“On the bed.” He told her with a demanding tone.
Charlotte climbed onto the bed, and Quinn towered over her. She lay on her back and Quinn trailed a finger up her thigh toward her hip. Her body shivered and Quinn picked up on it, there was no way he couldn’t.
“Are you okay?” he asked quickly.
“Yeah.”
“You need to tell me if you’re nervous.”
“I will.” Charlotte told him.
Quinn let his hand slowly explore her body. He gently massaged her breast and let his thumb roll over her pebbled nipple. He went to kiss her but at the last moment he remembered the rules and set his forehead to hers.
Charlotte let out a shaky exhale and eyes fluttered closed. “Are you ready?” Quinn probed.
“Yeah.” She kicked her legs out slightly.
Eventually his fingers moved to touch her folds. Subtle at first - the tip of his index finger rubbed up and down through her entrance. Quinn watched as her face changed with every movement of his fingers until he eased a finger into her wet heat, followed closely by a second.
Charlotte bit her lower lip and let out a very uneasy exhale. He gently nudged them in further and further, then let them rest once his palm brushed against her clit.
“You okay?”
“Yes.” She let out a shuddering breath.
Quinn began to move his wrist, thrusting his fingers deep but slow. He wanted to stretch her as much as possible, let her grow comfortable.
He could tell by her gentle sighs that she was enjoying herself, however tame his actions were. Those breathy moans quickly had his cock throbbing against her thigh. After a few more thrusts, Quinn let his thumb find her clit and used the momentum of his fingers moving back and forth to nudge her swollen bundle of nerves. His rhythm started to pick up, and by the time he found the perfect speed, she was so wet that the disgustingly obscene sound of his fingers fucking in and out made her cheeks grow painfully hot.
“You like that?” Quinn murmured softly against her neck. His left hand cupped her breast and used the pad of his thumb to roll over her pickering nipple. “It feel good, Char?”
“Yeeee…yes.” She stammered out through a broken breath. It was so hard to talk, impossible to form words when all she could concentrate on was the heat tugging and twisting low in her belly.
“What do you like?” He hummed in satisfaction.
Charlotte let out a breathy sigh. Her toes curled into the duvet as she squirmed under him, her entire body was getting hotter, nerves were slowly beginning to tingle. The grip on her breast tightened and she inadvertently ground her hips against his wrist.
Quinn grinned devilishly. “What do you like, Char?” He asked, a little firmer this time. “Tell me what you like, Char.”
Charlotte’s eyes were shut and a slow tear began to roll down her cheek. He stilled his fingers and pulled back to look at her, watching as she looked up at the interruption.
“Part of this is telling the person you are with what you like and what you don’t like.”
“You already know what girls like.”
“Women.” He corrected her. “But they’re all different. Some want it soft and slow, like this.” He shifted beside her and drove his fingers into her painfully slow. She tried to close her legs because the bliss was almost too much, but he threw his thigh over hers to keep them spread.
“Some like it, like this.” He moved them back inside her again, this time curling them deep and she let out a strangled cry. He laughed. “That hit the spot, huh?”
“Mm, s-something like that,” she whined desperately, grinding her hips down harder against Quinn’s palm. He let out a deep laugh and continued to curl them deeper and deeper, nudging against her fraying nerve. His fingers disappear in and out of her with simple dexterity. They were coated in her slick, more and more appearing with every thrust. He repeated the movement over and over, Charlotte's cries getting louder and louder each time.
“Yes.” Charlotte began to whisper. “Yes…yes…oh right there.”
He massaged her clit as his fingers continued their onslaught. Her little moans became louder and infrequent as she struggled to retain composure. Every part of her body was on fire and her legs were restless.
“Quinn. I have to pee.” She said urgently, surprised by the sensation immediately washing over her. Quinn grinned but didn’t stop, curling his fingers in as far as he could. “Quinn. I need -“
“No, you don’t, Charlotte.” He said calmly.
“Quinn.” She tried to warn but a moan caught deep in her gut.
“Char, you have to trust me. Let this happen.”
Charlotte tried to process what he was saying. The whole premise of this was trust. That’s why she went to him. But she couldn’t understand why he’d be willing to risk this. She knew some people had kinks and this was one of them, but she never took Quinn as the type.
The thoughts barely had a chance to land because Quinn ducked down and licked over her breast. She let out a sharp gasp, and he did it again, rolling his tongue around her nipple.
She moaned his name over and over again as a rush of something exploded onto his fingers. She was too strung out to be horrified, the inexplicable pleasure heating her from the inside out quickly extinguished any embarrassment.
“That was…” she trailed off, her voice thin and breathless. She pressed the back of her wrist to her mouth like she could hold the feeling there, like it might spill out if she didn’t. “That was unbelievable.”
Quinn pulled his hand out and gently wiped it clean on the duvet. He shifted beside her, settling onto the pillow. The mattress dipped under his weight and she felt it everywhere — in the quiet aftershocks still humming under her skin, in the way her pulse was only just beginning to slow.
The room fell into a soft, suspended silence.
Charlotte stared at the ceiling, trying to gather herself. Trying to understand what had just happened — how something that had terrified her for so long could feel so easy. So safe. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t overwhelming in the way she’d always imagined. It wasn’t losing control.
It was choosing to let go.
Two months ago, she would have laughed if someone told her she’d be here. In Quinn’s bed. Bare and exposed in every way. She’d built her life around control — careful clothes, careful words, careful distance.
And yet…
Quinn was watching her like she was something fragile and formidable all at once. His curls were damp at the temples. His chest rose and fell heavier than usual. There was something different in his expression now.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured.
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
She huffed a small laugh, then swallowed. “I didn’t think it would feel like that.”
“Like what?”
“I mean—” She rolled onto her side to face him fully, tucking her hand under her cheek. “I thought I’d be awkward. Or too in my head. Or…” Her voice dipped. “Too much.”
Quinn’s expression shifted, something protective flashed behind his eyes. He reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. “You were none of those things.”
“I know…I really, really, liked that.”
“Good.” Quinn smiled in response.
Finally, her eyes drifted lower — taking him in without the haze of nerves this time. Her breath caught as she landed on his erection - rock hard just from touching her. From watching her.
Charlotte shifted and her breathing became heavy. “Do you want me…want me to…I can.”
He didn’t even hesitate. “No.”
“Are you sure?” she asked again, just to be certain.
He smiled — softer now, not cocky and placed a soft kiss in her hairline. “I’ll take care of it later.”
I think the saddest bits though is how Taylour reacted to finding out Amelia was leaving. Because he go to love that baby. And a small part of me is hoping Fred somehow finds the guy who’s taking care of Amelia and can look into how she’s doing and be so often even after he’s moved on
Taylour does not have a good reaction to Amelia leaving. It takes a while for Auston & Tia to realize the full extent of it, and they wish they addressed it more with him/found a therapist to help him work through it. You will see a bit of his reaction in one of the bonus chapters.
Aubrey has a public Instagram and through her he finds Amelia’s bio dad who is also public. He has a finsta, and he follows both accounts on there. Aubrey occasionally spends time with Amelia, and as time goes on it’s less and less frequent but he is always very eager to check her stories and see if it’s something with Amelia.
Her biodad posts occasional stories, maybe once every couple weeks and will post to his grid every few months so Fred can kind of watch from afar. He used to go on his Finsta multiple times a day to see if there was an update but as time went on he found himself searching them or viewing their stories. Every once in a while he will search the bio dad’s account to see if he’s posted anything new, but as time goes on he does that less and less until one day he just stops.
I just read Interlude and Istg Fred better be getting that baby back. Biological dad better be a deadbeat because Fred is getting his baby back. He’s gonna get his baby back. Like in his story, he’s getting his baby back right?
I don’t normally give out spoilers, but no, he won’t be getting Amelia back. Biodad is a great father and steps up to raise her in the best way he can. Amelia goes on to have a great life.
This is a major event that shifts who Fred is and we will see the impacts of that summer play out in his story with Nicole.
Lessons in trust, lesson 4 will not be released today. I had to leave work early because I’m sick so I cannot stare at my laptop long enough to get it posted
A/N: Felt bad for the delayed release of lesson two (and that one is more a filler than anything else) so I decided to release lesson three for you all. I am going to try for weekly releases on Monday's going forward. If you want to be on the taglist, let me know 😊
Warnings: maybe a curse word or two, a little kissing. There is nothing explicit in this, but future parts will be, minors DNI.
Word Count: 2,500
Charlotte didn’t expect to hear from Quinn for a while.
From the texts he’d sent, the last few weeks had been a blur. Games were stacked back to back, interviews about the trade, moving into his new apartment, flying home for Christmas. It felt like he didn’t have a second to spare but almost every day he found the time to check in or send her some gif through instagram.
So when her phone lit up at 4:02 p.m. with Quinn across the screen, she blinked at it in surprise.
She was still at her desk, construction paper snowmen scattered across the surface. The hallway outside her classroom echoed with the last of her second graders being herded toward buses. The room smelled faintly like crayons and glue sticks and the peppermint lotion she kept in her drawer.
“Quinn,” she murmured to herself, staring at his name like it might disappear. She answered on the third ring. “Hi.”
“Hey, Char.” His voice came through warm and easy, as if no time had passed. That was the thing she loved most about her friendship. “What’s up? How was your Christmas?”
“It was good,” she said automatically. “Saw my mom.”
She left out the part where her mother critiqued her apartment, her job, her entire life. Left out the way she’d gone to bed feeling twelve again - small and uncertain and not enough.
“You?” she asked.
“Got to see my family for a few days,” he said. “So loud and crazy.” They both let out a faint laugh, the three Hughes brothers didn’t know anything but. “Nice break from everything.”
She pictured him back in Michigan, in the house she knew by heart. His mom probably cooked too much food. His dad talked hockey at the kitchen table. The life that had always seemed so solid.
She smiled faintly at that. “Settling in?”
“Trying to. Hey—what are you up to tonight?”
“Tonight?” She glanced at the clock again like it might have the answer.
“Yeah. A couple of the guys and their girlfriends are grabbing dinner. Thought maybe you’d want to join. They’re excited to meet my friend.”
The words landed softly, but her stomach still flipped.
She imagined walking into a restaurant full of professional athletes and their effortlessly confident girlfriends. Imagined the questions. How do you two know each other? Oh, high school? You never dated? How cute.
“Oh,” she said, heat creeping up her neck. “I, uh… I actually have plans.”
“On a school night?” he teased.
She could hear the grin in his voice. High school Charlotte never went out on weekdays unless her mother had signed off on it like it was a permission slip.
“Yes,” she hissed, fighting her own smile. “I have a date.”
“With Jason?”
“Jackson,” she corrected, and the fact that he didn’t know the name stung in a way she didn’t examine too closely. “I’m free tomorrow though.”
There was a quiet hum on the other end of the line. “Tomorrow then.”
It wasn’t a question.
**
The next evening, Charlotte stood outside Quinn’s apartment building for a full thirty seconds before buzzing up.
She had known him since she was fifteen. He had seen her in oversized youth group sweatshirts, with braces and hair that refused to cooperate. He had once driven her to the neighbouring town as she cried in his passenger seat because her mother had drawn out her life for her and refused to listen to any objections Charlotte may have.
So why did this feel different?
The door flew open before she even knocked.
“Char!” His smile was immediate, uncomplicated.
He was barefoot in loose grey track pants and a thin long-sleeve shirt. His curls were still damp, darker at the ends. He looked comfortable here already, like he could belong anywhere.
She stepped inside, and warmth wrapped around her from the heated floors and the faint scent of something woodsy - body wash, maybe.
“Hi,” she said softly, stepping inside.
He took her coat from her hands without thinking. “Nice place,” she added, looking around.
The apartment was big. Open. Airy in a way her one-bedroom never could be.
Clean lines. Furniture that probably cost more than her monthly rent. Warm hardwood floors stretched toward floor-to-ceiling windows. The kitchen gleamed with stainless steel and dark cabinetry. Decor was minimal but that didn’t surprise her.
“It’s not really me,” he admitted. “The team has people who help with all this. I’d still be in a hotel if I had to figure it out myself.”
She smiled faintly. “Must be nice.”
He caught the edge in her tone but didn’t comment.
“Wine?” he offered, moving toward the kitchen.
“Water’s good.”
He leaned against the counter and gave her a look. “Char. You’re an adult. You’re allowed to drink on a school night.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Quinn. I’m just not feeling it.”
“Long day? Seven-year-olds staging a coup?”
“No.” She smiled faintly and sank onto the couch. “My kids are great. So, what do you want to watch?”
“Have you seen the new season of Stranger Things?”
“No. Between my mom visiting and school…” She trailed off. “I never got around to it.”
**
They watched the first episode in relative quiet.
Or rather—Quinn watched.
Charlotte tried to focus.
She really did.
But her thoughts kept snagging on the night before. On Jackson’s hand at her waist. On the way he’d pulled back mid-kiss and said, almost apologetically, Relax more.
Her phone buzzed once beside her. She didn’t pick it up, but she saw his name.She kept staring out the window, fingers clicking nervously against each other.
When she rewound the episode for the second time, Quinn reached over and paused it.
“Char.”
She blinked. “Hmm?”
“What’s going on? You alright?” The gentleness in his voice almost undid her.
“Yeah,” she said too fast. “I’m fine.”
He shifted closer, catching her wrist lightly before she could retreat into herself.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing.”
“Charlotte.” His tone firmed just enough to cut through her deflection. “What’s wrong?”
She exhaled, shoulders slumping. “I’m just… distracted.”
“With?” He arched a brow.
She stared at the dark TV screen for a long moment. “Jackson,” she finally admitted.
“Ah.” He leaned back slightly. “The date that bad?”
“No. It was fine.”
“Fine?” He tilted his head. “That’s how you describe a haircut.”
“Yeah.” She gave a humorless shrug. “I just think…” She swallowed. “I think he’s going to want to have sex soon.”
Quinn blinked once. “Okay.”
“And I don’t know what to do.”
“Well.” He shrugged. “If you don’t want to, then don’t.”
“The thing is…” Her voice lowered as if the truth scared her. “I might want to.”
“Then do it.”
She stared at him.
He ran a hand through his curls. “What? That’s the logical answer.”
Of course it was logical to him.
For Quinn, sex was like breathing. Effortless. There were probably girls who wanted to sleep with him just to say they had.
There had never been a line for her. A couple awkward college dates. One almost-thing that fizzled. That was it until Jackson.
“I’ll just do it,” she muttered, nodding like she was convincing herself. “Yeah. I’ll just have sex with Jackson.”
“Okay,” Quinn said slowly.
But he was watching her now.
The way her breathing hitched. The way her gaze locked onto the window and didn’t move. The way her fingers trembled slightly.
“Charlotte,” he said carefully. “Have you had sex before?”
Silence.
Her cheeks flushed deep pink.
“I—life got busy,” she started. “School. Work. It’s not like I didn’t have opportunities. I just…” She swallowed hard. “Quinn, I’m a virgin.”
The words felt enormous in the room.
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t react dramatically.
He just nodded once. “Okay.”
“That sounds pathetic,” she whispered.
“It doesn’t,” he said immediately.
“I’m twenty-six.”
“So?” he said quietly.
“So, it feels like I missed something everyone else figured out years ago.”
“Most people were idiots years ago,” he muttered.
She huffed out a tiny laugh despite herself.
“Do you want to have sex with Jackson?” he asked again.
“He wants—”
“I don’t care what he wants,” Quinn cut in, sharper now. “Do you want to?”
She hesitated.
“…Yes. But I’m nervous,” she stuttered out. “He implied I’m not a great kisser. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t want to be bad. I don’t want my first time to be awkward and embarrassing.”
Quinn’s jaw tightened slightly. “What exactly did he say?”
“He’s said things like ‘relax more’ or ‘less tongue.’ And then last night we were making out and he said he was tired and left.”
Quinn exhaled slowly.“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Has anyone ever left in the middle of kissing you?” she asked, voice cracking. “Has anyone ever decided they’d rather leave than keep touching you?”
She broke on the last word.
And that’s when he understood.
This wasn’t about sex.
It was about rejection.
He shifted closer again, his voice softer now.
“Char. That doesn’t mean you were bad.”
“But what if I am?” she whispered. “What if I finally do it and it’s terrible and he doesn’t want to do it again?”
He watched her for a long moment.
“You’re not a performance,” he said quietly. “You’re a person.”
She shook her head. “You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me.”
She turned away, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. She lifted her thumb to her mouth and bit at her nail—a habit she hadn’t broken since she was fifteen.
“I don’t want to be in ny head my first time with him,” she admitted. “I want to feel confident, not judged.”
He felt something shift in his chest at that.
“I just wish I knew what I was doing,” she whispered. His expression changed slightly. More focused. Careful. She hesitated, pulse pounding in her ears. “I wish I wasn’t walking into it completely clueless.”
He held her gaze.
Quinn stepped up behind her and gently turned her by the shoulder so she faced him.“Clueless doesn’t mean incapable,” he said.
“Teach me.”
The words left her before she could think.
His hand stilled on her arm.
“Teach me, Quinn,” she whispered, pulse racing.
The vulnerability in her voice wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t flirtatious. It was honest.
He stared at her, trying to reconcile this version of Charlotte with the one he’d always known—careful, thoughtful, never impulsive.
“Char, I-“ he started to protest.
“We both know you have experience, you lost your virginity to Wendy Nash at 16.” She reminded him. “You’ve done the ‘just sex’ thing before.”
That was different, he thinks to himself. Those were people he didn’t see in his life permanently. Charlotte has been his friend for over a decade.
“What if things get weird?” he asked quietly.
“Then we stop,” she said quickly. “We stop immediately. But this wouldn’t be like that, it would be… instructional.”
Charlotte knows Quinn has experience but more than anything, he knows how to keep emotion out of it. And that’s what she needs, to keep the emotion separate and strictly learn, she needs to feel confident the next time Jackson kisses her.
“That’s one way to get a guy.”
“I know.” Her eyes lifted to his. “But that’s why it makes sense. You’re my longest friend. I’m comfortable with you. You know me. And I trust you.”
There it was again.
Trust.
Quinn watches her cobalt eyes flicker over his face, hopeful. The air between them was thick, but not entirely with tension. Something else was building. He hesitated only a second longer before lowering his head.
The first brush of his lips against hers was barely there. There were no fireworks, tongue dragging through the other's mouth, no hunger. It was soft and brief, purely contact to test the waters.
He pulled back immediately, giving her space to retreat.
She didn’t.
So he tried again — slower this time. More certain. His hand rested lightly at her waist, not pulling, just there. His mouth pressed to hers with deliberate softness.
Her palms flattened against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing. His hand slid to the small of her back, warm and grounding.He adjusted gently, angling slightly, letting the kiss deepen without rushing it.
Something unfamiliar unfurled low in her stomach - not nerves and it wasn’t exactly desire. Moreso recognition that she was kissing Quinn. But that recognition didn’t bring panic or feel as though they were crossing a forbidden line, nor did it bring realization that they should have been doing this for the last ten years. It was different from the kisses she’d had before because she wasn’t trying to impress herself or him. She was just aware. Aware that she was kissing Quinn.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted immediately, embarrassment flooding her.
His hands dropped at once, giving her space. “Lesson one,” he said gently, “you never apologize for having boundaries.”
She swallowed, lips tingling. Her heart wouldn’t slow down.
“Maybe this is too weird,” he offered.
But it hadn’t felt weird.
That was the problem.
There had been a softness to it. A weight he hadn’t expected. But it also hadn’t felt like some grand revelation. Not like they’d missed something obvious all these years.
Just… different.
Layered.
“Is this about Jackson?” he asked carefully. While Jackson had made it known it was too early for him to be exclusive, Quinn wondered if the realization was too much for Charlotte.
“No,” she said immediately. “He didn’t cross my mind.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Me neither.” He hoped to lighten the tension.
“I just became very aware of what was happening,” she admitted. “And I liked that it was you because I trust you. But it felt different because it was you. If that makes sense.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It does.”
The air between them felt heavier now. Charged in a way neither of them had expected. For the first time in ten years, there was something here that didn’t fit into the clean lines of their friendship. Not messy. Not destructive. Just undefined.
“Maybe you should think about it,” he added.
She just nodded.
“And while you think about it, you have to talk to me. We don’t get to avoid each other. If we can’t handle a kiss, we won’t be able to handle more and we have to stop now.
We.
Her chest tightened at the word.
He motioned lightly between them. “This comes first.”
“Agreed.”
They stood there for a long moment in the quiet glow of the apartment. They were no longer friends watching TV, but they also weren’t really anything else either. Something had shifted and they didn’t know what to make of it.
A/N: If you want to be on the taglist, let me know 😊
Warnings: overbearing and controlling mothers, I think that's it.
Word Count: 1,300
Christmas came quietly.
Snow lined the sidewalks outside Charlotte’s apartment building. The hallway smelled faintly of pine cleaner and someone’s overcooked sugar cookies. Inside her one-bedroom, the lights from a small artificial tree blinked steadily in the corner, reflecting off the single window that overlooked the parking lot.
It wasn’t much.
But it was hers.
The couch was secondhand but soft. The bookshelf held countless novels other teachers had recommended and a row of carefully labeled bins filled with lesson plans. Her dining table was really just a round bistro table tucked near the window, two mismatched chairs squeezed beneath it. The kitchen was narrow enough that if you opened the oven door fully, you couldn’t pass behind it.
Cozy. Sufficient.
Mary called it something else.
“Well,” her mother said slowly, standing just inside the doorway with her gloved hands clasped in front of her. “It’s… small.”
Charlotte forced a smile and shut the door against the cold. “It’s a one-bedroom, Mom. It’s pretty standard.”
Mary stepped farther in, eyes scanning every corner like she was conducting an inspection. Her heeled boots clicked sharply against the laminate flooring.
“I just don’t understand why you’d choose this,” she said, brushing a finger along the edge of the counter as if checking for dust. “You could have so much more space at home.”
Charlotte inhaled slowly.
Home.
Meaning Michigan. Meaning her childhood bedroom with the pale yellow walls her mother had picked when she was eight. Meaning the same twin bed. The same dresser. The same life that had always felt mapped out before she had the chance to draw her own lines.
“I don’t need more space,” Charlotte said evenly. “It’s just me.”
“That’s exactly my point.” Mary turned to her with arms folded over her chest. “You’re twenty-six years old. You should be saving. Planning for a future. Not paying rent to live in what is essentially a shoebox.”
Charlotte swallowed. She knew what her mother didn’t: that her teacher’s salary barely stretched as it was. She loved her classroom, she loved hearing about her students day, the crooked paper snowflakes taped to the windows. She loved what she did and where she did it but it wasn’t lucrative.
She budgeted carefully. She didn’t go out much. She chose this apartment because she could afford it.
Alone.
“I like my space,” she said quietly.
Mary’s brows lifted. “You never minded sharing space before.”
Before.
Before meant high school. Before meant rules and curfews and approved friend lists. Before meant her mother deciding which colleges were “acceptable” and which extracurriculars looked best on applications. Before was when Mary had her life mapped out long before Charlotte had been old enough to argue. Before was when she was supposed to be a dentist or optometrist. Something respectable - as Mary called it - with conventional hours so she’d be home every evening with her husband and kids. Before was when Mary would talk about Charlotte’s life and she would sit there quietly and nod because it was easier than the alternative - well, that part never really changed.
“This is different,” Charlotte said. “It’s my place. I can decorate how I want. I can come home when I want.”
Mary moved toward the tiny kitchen, opening a cabinet without asking. “You could move back into your old room. It’s still there. I haven’t touched a thing. You’d save thousands a year. You could apply to districts closer to home. There are perfectly good schools, even some private ones.”
Charlotte’s chest felt tight.
“I don’t want to move back,” she said, a little more firmly than she felt.
“Why not?” Mary pressed. “What is here that’s so important?”
Freedom.
The word lodged in Charlotte’s throat but never made it out.
Instead she said, “My job. My students. My life.”
Mary gave a soft, humourless laugh. “Your life? Charlotte, sweetheart, you’re living in a one-bedroom apartment in a city where you know no one.”
“I know people.”
“Oh?” Mary’s tone was skeptical. “Like who?”
“Michaela…my book club.” Charlotte hesitated for a minute. She knew better than to mention Jackson - Mary would be orchestrating an evening grill him on things she hadn’t even asked yet. Maybe when they were more serious and Charlotte could confidently call him her boyfriend, but for now she was keeping Jackson a secret. “Quinn.”
Mary’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Quinn?”
“Yes. He was traded. He’s playing for Minnesota now.”
Mary rolled her eyes before Charlotte had even finished the sentence. “Of course he is.”
“Mom.”
“He’s a hockey player, Charlotte.”
“And?”
“And you remember what those boys were like in high school.” Her voice sharpened. “Drinking. Parties. Always one bad decision away from ruining something.”
Charlotte felt heat crawl up her neck. “He wasn’t like that.”
“He was exactly like that.”
“He was seventeen,” Charlotte shot back before she could stop herself. “So was everyone else.”
Mary sighed, as if exhausted by the argument already. “Professional athletes are not known for stability.”
“He’s grown up,” Charlotte insisted. “He’s responsible. He works harder than anyone I know.”
Mary arched a brow. “And you’ve spent enough time with him recently to determine that?”
The question hung heavy between them.
Charlotte thought of the bar the night he arrived. The way he’d looked at her like she wasn’t invisible. The steady way he’d listened when she talked about her classroom. The texts that followed—short, teasing, easy.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I have.”
Mary’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I just don’t want you getting swept up in something… foolish.”
“I’m not getting swept up.”
“A hockey player in a new city?” Mary said pointedly. “That sounds exactly like swept up.”
Charlotte’s hands curled at her sides. “You don’t know him.”
“I know enough.”
“No, you don’t.” Her voice shook now, but she didn’t stop. “You didn’t know who he was at sixteen. You don’t know who he is now.”
Mary stared at her, clearly startled by the pushback.
Charlotte rarely pushed.
“You always think you know what’s best,” Charlotte continued, softer but steadier. “Where I should live. Who I should be friends with. What I should do.”
“Because I’m your mother.”
“I know.” Her throat tightened. “But I’m not in high school anymore.”
The Christmas lights blinked steadily in the corner. Outside, snow drifted down past the window in quiet sheets.
Mary looked around the apartment again - at the small couch, the tree, the stack of wrapped gifts for Charlotte’s students on the table.
“I just want more for you,” she said finally.
Charlotte swallowed. “This is more.”
This life wasn’t big nor was it impressive by most standarads. It certainly wasn’t what her mother would have chosen - she made that known when Charlotte changed majors her first year.
But it was hers.
Mary didn’t respond right away. Instead, she picked up one of the small ornaments on the tree—a paper star clearly handmade.
“What’s this?”
“One of my kids made it,” Charlotte said. “He insisted I keep it.”
Mary set it down carefully. “You always did love kids.”
“I still do.”
A long silence stretched between them.
“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” Mary said at last, though her tone suggested otherwise. “Just… think about Michigan. About stability.”
Charlotte nodded because she didn’t have the strength to argue further.
But as she watched her mother unpack her overnight bag, placing it neatly by the couch that would double as her bed, Charlotte felt something solidify inside her.
She wasn’t moving back.
Not for space. Not for money. Not for safety. Certainly not for Mary.
I planned for weekly releases but I have been so sick this week. I can’t even think about sitting at my computer for a half hour+ as I format and everything else.
A/N: There is a bit of a slow burn to this one. I am at about 15 parts right now but I have some editing/tweaking to do so it may slightly longer when it's all done
Warnings: Drinking, maybe a curse word or two. There is nothing explicit in this but future parts will be, minors DNI.
Word Count: 1,200
Snow had started to fall an hour before she texted him the address.
Charlotte watched flake after flake drift past the warped window of O’Malley’s, blurring the streetlights and frosting the edges of the glass. She was used to winter — growing up in Michigan had seen to that — but the first snowfall always tugged at something soft inside her. It felt like the world was resetting.
She had seen Quinn a few times since high school. Charity skates in the summer. Lake bonfires. The occasional Fourth of July barbecue when he was home visiting family. He sent her tickets whenever Vancouver was in Minnesota. They texted — not every day, not even every week — but enough that she knew when he was frustrated with his game or when he’d finally bought real furniture for his condo.
Still, watching him step through the bar door felt different.
The bell jingled overhead and cold air rushed in with him. He wore a charcoal peacoat, the buttons undone to reveal a deep green crewneck that made his shoulders look broader than she remembered. Snow clung stubbornly to the wool, melting slowly under the amber bar lights.
He scanned the room once.
Then he saw her.
His face softened instantly. “Char,” he breathed, already smiling.
She slid out of the booth too fast and nearly caught her heel on the sticky floor. “Hi,” she managed, steadying herself with one hand on the table.
He laughed under his breath and pulled her into a hug before she could overthink it. He smelled like cold air and cedar.
“How are you?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look at her properly.
“Good,” she said quickly, cheeks warming. “I’m good. You?”
“I’m good. Crazy couple of days, but I’m finally settling in.” He shrugged out of his coat and folded it neatly before sliding into the booth across from her. A glass of red wine already sat in front of her. A dark stout waited across from it. .
“The turnaround is wild.” Charlotte offered. “Traded one day, playing the next.”
“That’s hockey,” he replied with a crooked grin.
“That’s hockey,” she echoed quietly. “It must be hard coming to a new city where you don’t know anyone or anything and just having to immediately be your best.”
“I’m always my best,” he said automatically, then softened. “But yeah. It’s weird. Different systems. Different expectations.”
She nodded. “That’s what I mean.”
He watched her for a second longer than necessary. “Besides,” he added casually, “I’m not alone. I’ve got you.”
Her heart thudded so loudly she was sure he could hear it over the bass.
In high school, that had meant late-night texts after her mom grounded her for missing curfew by ten minutes. It meant hoodies passed under bleachers when marching band practices ran long. It meant someone standing up for her when the jocks called her the “church girl.”
Now, sitting across from him in a dim bar with snow piling outside and adulthood pressing in from every direction, it felt like something else.
He took a long sip of his beer and glanced around. A cover band butchered a Rolling Stones song in the corner. The floor vibrated faintly from the bass. The air smelled like fried food, spilled beer, and too many bodies packed close.
“I gotta say,” he said, leaning back, “of all the places in Minneapolis, this is the last one I expected you to pick.”
Her fingers traced the stem of her glass. “I don’t go out much.”
“That’s not what I meant.” His eyes skimmed the room again, then came back to her. “It’s just loud. Sticky. There’s a guy in the corner doing shots like it’s a competitive sport.”
She laughed softly. “One of my friends brings me here sometimes.”
“Friend?” His tone shifted just enough to make her pulse jump.
“Yeah.”
“What kind of friend?”
She hesitated, gaze dropping to the condensation sliding down her glass. “Jackson.”
“Jackson,” Quinn repeated. “Is Jackson a boyfriend-type friend?”
“No,” she rushed out, then faltered. “Well. Not exactly.”
He leaned forward now, forearms resting on the table. “Define not exactly.”
“We’ve gone on a few dates,” she admitted. “We’ve kissed a little. Nothing serious.”
Quinn let out a full laugh at that. “Charlotte Porter and nothing serious don’t belong in the same sentence.”
“Stop,” she groaned, kicking him lightly under the table. “People can change.”
“Do they?”
“Yes.”
He studied her more closely now. The sandy blonde curls she used to fight in high school were softer, shaped into loose waves brushing her shoulders. She had on minimal makeup, but enough to make her eyes look deeper. She wore a cream coloured sweater, that dipped slightly lower at the collarbone than anything she would’ve worn at seventeen.
Same sweater style.
Different fit.
More like choice.
“You look…” he paused.
“What?”
“Like you’re figuring things out.”
Her breath caught. “Is that a compliment?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”
Heat bloomed across her cheeks again.
It wasn’t just Quinn. Any man across from her would have made her nervous. But Quinn seeing her — really seeing her — made something inside her shift.
He’d seen her at sixteen with frizzy hair she hadn’t yet figured out how to tame. The turtlenecks. The muted slide-on shoes with aggressive arch support. The kind chosen from the “comfort” section by a well-meaning mother that were a little too practical for a teenager. She always had a clarinet case clutched to her chest. He’d seen her when she was invisible to everyone else.
And he had been the opposite of invisible.
He wasn’t just a hockey player. He was the hockey player. The captain. The one teachers excused, the one boys wanted to be friends with and every girl wanted to date.
On paper, it made no sense they were friends.
But almost every day Quinn waited after band practice to drive her home. He never teased her about what she wore. Never flinched when she launched into nervous rambling. He paid attention — not to her shoes or her sweaters — but to the way she laughed when she forgot to be self-conscious. To the sarcastic one-liners she only let slip around him.
He’d always seen her.
Back then it felt safe. This felt different.
“Okay,” she said quickly, deflecting. “Enough about me. Any girls packing up to move to Minnesota with you?”
He smirked. “Jealous already?”
“I am not jealous.”
“Relax,” he said, laughing. “No. Just me. Figured I’d see what this winterland has to offer.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You love it.”
She rolled her eyes but smiled into her glass.
A comfortable silence settled between them — the kind born from knowing each other in different versions of themselves.
“So,” he said gently, breaking the silence. “Tell me everything. Work. Life. This mysterious Jackson.”
She took a steadying breath and met his eyes.
“Okay,” she said. “But you’re not allowed to laugh.”
“No promises.”
“Quinn.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll behave.”
She didn’t believe him for a second.
But for the first time since he walked through the door, her stomach wasn’t on the floor anymore. It was fluttering.
Summary: In high school, Quinn was the guy — star hockey player, funny, effortlessly popular — and Charlotte… well, Charlotte was the complete opposite. A star student, structured, always doing the right thing. On paper, they had nothing in common, but somehow, they became friends.
Ten years later, Charlotte is still one of the few people from that time Quinn has kept close — though what connects them now is far more complicated than it used to be.
Warnings: each chapter will have its own warnings - these won't apply to every part. Cursing, drinking, smut, Quinn Hughes - do not read if you are not 18+
A/N: There is a bit of a slow burn to this one. I am at about 15 parts right now but I have some editing/tweaking to do so it may slightly longer when it's all done
Warnings: Drinking, maybe a curse word or two. There is nothing explicit in this but future parts will be, minors DNI.
Word Count: 1,200
Snow had started to fall an hour before she texted him the address.
Charlotte watched flake after flake drift past the warped window of O’Malley’s, blurring the streetlights and frosting the edges of the glass. She was used to winter — growing up in Michigan had seen to that — but the first snowfall always tugged at something soft inside her. It felt like the world was resetting.
She had seen Quinn a few times since high school. Charity skates in the summer. Lake bonfires. The occasional Fourth of July barbecue when he was home visiting family. He sent her tickets whenever Vancouver was in Minnesota. They texted — not every day, not even every week — but enough that she knew when he was frustrated with his game or when he’d finally bought real furniture for his condo.
Still, watching him step through the bar door felt different.
The bell jingled overhead and cold air rushed in with him. He wore a charcoal peacoat, the buttons undone to reveal a deep green crewneck that made his shoulders look broader than she remembered. Snow clung stubbornly to the wool, melting slowly under the amber bar lights.
He scanned the room once.
Then he saw her.
His face softened instantly. “Char,” he breathed, already smiling.
She slid out of the booth too fast and nearly caught her heel on the sticky floor. “Hi,” she managed, steadying herself with one hand on the table.
He laughed under his breath and pulled her into a hug before she could overthink it. He smelled like cold air and cedar.
“How are you?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look at her properly.
“Good,” she said quickly, cheeks warming. “I’m good. You?”
“I’m good. Crazy couple of days, but I’m finally settling in.” He shrugged out of his coat and folded it neatly before sliding into the booth across from her. A glass of red wine already sat in front of her. A dark stout waited across from it. .
“The turnaround is wild.” Charlotte offered. “Traded one day, playing the next.”
“That’s hockey,” he replied with a crooked grin.
“That’s hockey,” she echoed quietly. “It must be hard coming to a new city where you don’t know anyone or anything and just having to immediately be your best.”
“I’m always my best,” he said automatically, then softened. “But yeah. It’s weird. Different systems. Different expectations.”
She nodded. “That’s what I mean.”
He watched her for a second longer than necessary. “Besides,” he added casually, “I’m not alone. I’ve got you.”
Her heart thudded so loudly she was sure he could hear it over the bass.
In high school, that had meant late-night texts after her mom grounded her for missing curfew by ten minutes. It meant hoodies passed under bleachers when marching band practices ran long. It meant someone standing up for her when the jocks called her the “church girl.”
Now, sitting across from him in a dim bar with snow piling outside and adulthood pressing in from every direction, it felt like something else.
He took a long sip of his beer and glanced around. A cover band butchered a Rolling Stones song in the corner. The floor vibrated faintly from the bass. The air smelled like fried food, spilled beer, and too many bodies packed close.
“I gotta say,” he said, leaning back, “of all the places in Minneapolis, this is the last one I expected you to pick.”
Her fingers traced the stem of her glass. “I don’t go out much.”
“That’s not what I meant.” His eyes skimmed the room again, then came back to her. “It’s just loud. Sticky. There’s a guy in the corner doing shots like it’s a competitive sport.”
She laughed softly. “One of my friends brings me here sometimes.”
“Friend?” His tone shifted just enough to make her pulse jump.
“Yeah.”
“What kind of friend?”
She hesitated, gaze dropping to the condensation sliding down her glass. “Jackson.”
“Jackson,” Quinn repeated. “Is Jackson a boyfriend-type friend?”
“No,” she rushed out, then faltered. “Well. Not exactly.”
He leaned forward now, forearms resting on the table. “Define not exactly.”
“We’ve gone on a few dates,” she admitted. “We’ve kissed a little. Nothing serious.”
Quinn let out a full laugh at that. “Charlotte Porter and nothing serious don’t belong in the same sentence.”
“Stop,” she groaned, kicking him lightly under the table. “People can change.”
“Do they?”
“Yes.”
He studied her more closely now. The sandy blonde curls she used to fight in high school were softer, shaped into loose waves brushing her shoulders. She had on minimal makeup, but enough to make her eyes look deeper. She wore a cream coloured sweater, that dipped slightly lower at the collarbone than anything she would’ve worn at seventeen.
Same sweater style.
Different fit.
More like choice.
“You look…” he paused.
“What?”
“Like you’re figuring things out.”
Her breath caught. “Is that a compliment?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”
Heat bloomed across her cheeks again.
It wasn’t just Quinn. Any man across from her would have made her nervous. But Quinn seeing her — really seeing her — made something inside her shift.
He’d seen her at sixteen with frizzy hair she hadn’t yet figured out how to tame. The turtlenecks. The muted slide-on shoes with aggressive arch support. The kind chosen from the “comfort” section by a well-meaning mother that were a little too practical for a teenager. She always had a clarinet case clutched to her chest. He’d seen her when she was invisible to everyone else.
And he had been the opposite of invisible.
He wasn’t just a hockey player. He was the hockey player. The captain. The one teachers excused, the one boys wanted to be friends with and every girl wanted to date.
On paper, it made no sense they were friends.
But almost every day Quinn waited after band practice to drive her home. He never teased her about what she wore. Never flinched when she launched into nervous rambling. He paid attention — not to her shoes or her sweaters — but to the way she laughed when she forgot to be self-conscious. To the sarcastic one-liners she only let slip around him.
He’d always seen her.
Back then it felt safe. This felt different.
“Okay,” she said quickly, deflecting. “Enough about me. Any girls packing up to move to Minnesota with you?”
He smirked. “Jealous already?”
“I am not jealous.”
“Relax,” he said, laughing. “No. Just me. Figured I’d see what this winterland has to offer.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You love it.”
She rolled her eyes but smiled into her glass.
A comfortable silence settled between them — the kind born from knowing each other in different versions of themselves.
“So,” he said gently, breaking the silence. “Tell me everything. Work. Life. This mysterious Jackson.”
She took a steadying breath and met his eyes.
“Okay,” she said. “But you’re not allowed to laugh.”
“No promises.”
“Quinn.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll behave.”
She didn’t believe him for a second.
But for the first time since he walked through the door, her stomach wasn’t on the floor anymore. It was fluttering.
Summary: In high school, Quinn was the guy — star hockey player, funny, effortlessly popular — and Charlotte… well, Charlotte was the complete opposite. A star student, structured, always doing the right thing. On paper, they had nothing in common, but somehow, they became friends.
Ten years later, Charlotte is still one of the few people from that time Quinn has kept close — though what connects them now is far more complicated than it used to be.
Warnings: each chapter will have its own warnings - these won't apply to every part. Cursing, drinking, smut, Quinn Hughes - do not read if you are not 18+
