welcome, my name is kay. i’m 21 years old and from the united states. i’m a really big fan of formula 1 and hockey. my favorite teams in particular are scuderia ferrari, new jersey devils, and carolina hurricanes.
i previously used the blog @/luukeclercs as my writing blog but i have since moved everything over to this blog
in addition to writing on tumblr, i also write on wattpad (mostly twilight stuff), so if that’s something you’re interested in i will also have those usernames down below.
feel free to message me whenever, i love making new friends on here!!
on friendship & betrayal: the story of nico rosberg and lewis hamilton
and cain says, “when you split me and my brother in the womb, you did not divide us evenly. he got kindness, and i got longing. he got complacence, and i got ambition. i want to kill him sometimes. i think sometimes he wants to die.”
you will never recover from that kind of devotion / youre an angel, im a dog / or youre a dog and im your man / you believe me like a god / i destory you like i am
so embarrassing to watch yourself become obsessed with a character that feels tailor made for you specifically to become obsessed with. feels like i fell into a trap made just for me. like damn they got me. those are all the things i like and go crazy for
i was such a weird lonely little girl and maybe i grew to be a weird lonely woman but idc i built this life for myself and maybe it doesn’t always make sense to others and maybe isn’t always easy or beautiful but it is mine and i cherish it
Summary: “You really haven’t changed much, Hughes.” – or the one where luke meets you after three years apart, and he can't figure out what he did to make you hate him.
Pairing: luke hughes x afab! reader with she/her pronouns
Word count: 17.6k
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ★ smut in the second part. unstable family relationships, arguments, both petty and serious. reader has divorced parents, a dead grandma, and two brothers who are assholes. overconsumption of alcohol. so much cursing. hints at suggestive things.
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A/N: This fic belongs to this universe. You can still read this fic without having read the prior Quinn fic, but characters from that fic are heavily mentioned in this one. It's Quinn's girlfriend who is nicknamed Bubbles and their six moth old daughter Lilith/Lily.
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Luke loved evenings like these—early summer ones, when no one had yet grown tired or annoyed from living together.
The Hughes lake house sat embedded in the overgrown landscape at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, shaded by tall hickory trees and flowering dogwood. White wood panels with pale blue shutters, the big porch sticking out of the greenery.
Luke had lost count of how many summers he’d spent here, but it was nearly as many as he’d been alive. The lakeside community felt like its own sealed-off world, a place where time stood still. The same woman tended the grocery store year after year. The same old man trimmed the greens at the golf course. Even the same stray cat stretched itself across the asphalt each afternoon, forcing cars to slow on the warm road.
At this hour, the lake lay almost flat, a darkening sheet of glass reflecting the pinks and oranges of the setting sun. The heat of the day lingered in everything. It clung to the deck boards, the wicker chairs, and the skin at the back of Luke’s neck.
Barbecue smoke still hung faintly in the air, mingling with citronella and lake damp. Quinn had left the grill lid open, and it ticked softly as it cooled, a small mechanical sound beneath the steady whirr of cicadas starting up in the trees.
They sat around the table like they always had—shoes kicked off, sleeves rolled, the table pulled just close enough that knees knocked when someone shifted. The same group of friends that just always had been there.
Luke didn’t pay much attention to the conversation. He didn’t need to. He felt like he already knew the shape of it—the inside jokes, the same old stories, the easy laughter. He let it wash over him until someone addressed him directly or until something else distracted him.
Lately, that something was Lilith.
Quinn’s six-month-old daughter was, in Luke’s completely unbiased opinion, the most perfect little being to ever exist. Even when she cried—sharp and loud enough for everyone in the house to hear—he wouldn’t have changed a thing.
He wouldn’t have said that a year ago. Not when Quinn had first told him and Jack that he was going to be a dad. That he’d gotten a woman he barely knew pregnant, and that somehow they were trying to make it work.
Luke would’ve said it couldn’t work. He probably even did. Until he met the woman, and then met Lilith, of course. Until he realized that his brother was the most in love he’d ever seen him, and that this wasn’t just some awful, drunken mistake that he’d made.
So, when Lilith started crying now, cradled in her mother’s arms, every head at the table turned instinctively, as if they might collectively solve it.
Her face had gone red, small fists clenched, her body stiff with the effort of it. Luke felt the familiar pull in his chest as he watched her, the strange mix of tenderness and helplessness she always seemed to bring out in him.
“I should put her to bed,” Quinn’s girlfriend murmured, as though she were interrupting. She pressed a lingering kiss into the soft curls at the top of Lilith’s head, rocking back and forth in her chair. “It’s getting late for her.”
A low chorus of agreement hummed around the table, understanding passed without needing explanation. The evening had slipped forward while they weren’t looking.
Quinn leaned toward them, one hand already braced on the table as if he might stand. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, you should stay,” she assured him, stroking his shoulder as she stood from the table.
She lingered a moment longer, adjusting Lilith’s blanket, settling her against her hip. As she turned to walk toward the house, she gently said, “Good night, boys,” waving Lilith’s chubby little hand for her.
“Night, Bub. Night, Lils,” Luke said as they passed him. He reached out without thinking, his fingers closing briefly around Lilith’s sock-clad foot.
By the time Luke let go, they were already moving toward the warm glow of the house, the screen door creaking softly as it opened and shut behind them.
Conversation at the table picked back up, though in a lower cadence. Luke heard it without really listening. He stayed where he was, caught in a pleasant, sleepy haze, drifting along rather than participating. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he’d eaten too much. Maybe it was just one of those evenings that asked nothing of him at all.
Still at the table were him, Jack, and Quinn, along with two other brothers—Dylan and Devin. Devin had gone to school with Quinn, while Dylan was a couple years older. Luke wasn’t sure when or why they’d become a permanent fixture of these summers. It just was the way things always had been.
He could still picture all five of them out on the lake, their dads shouting instructions as they dragged them behind the boat on wakeboards, arms burning, laughter swallowed by wind and water. He remembered tents pitched in the yard, flashlight-lit sleepovers, the kind of small, sacred summer moments that only felt magical in retrospect.
He also remembered being jealous. The way Dylan had started pulling Quinn and Devin along to house parties long before Luke was allowed. Sometimes even Jack had been invited, but Luke was always deemed too young.
Luke suspected he was still a little bitter about that.
Dylan and Devin were different from most of the guys they’d grown up around. Mainly because they weren’t hockey players. Devin had gone to the University of Michigan on a football scholarship and now worked for their dad’s construction company. Dylan had followed a more expected path—finance degree, real estate license, steady and respectable.
Now, Luke knew he was privileged. His whole family was. Three professional athletes didn’t just happen on talent alone. Four if he counted their mom. He liked to believe some of it was skill and dedication, but he knew his name opened doors too.
Still, the Hughes weren’t privileged in the same way Dylan and Devin were. Not even close. You could see that just by looking across the lake.
Their summer house rose older and grander than the rest, perched on a gentle hill above the water. Shingle-style, white-trimmed, with a wraparound porch detailed in intricate woodwork. It had belonged to their family for generations. Luke had been inside it hundreds of times and was fairly certain there were still rooms he’d never seen.
The massive property had been subdivided sometime in the eighties, but the garden was still the most impressive part. A weeping willow dipped into the lake. Pink and white flowers filled every corner. A greenhouse sat tucked back from the shore, home to the best strawberries Luke had ever tasted.
Their grandmother had ruled that garden with an iron hand and impossibly green fingers.
Luke had lost count of how many times she’d scolded him for stepping off the path, for cutting across the lawn, or for slipping on morning dew and leaving muddy tracks toward the lake trail that curved all the way back to their house. He’d complained at the time. Now, the memories felt strangely tender.
She’d passed away early last year, and the garden showed it. Still beautiful, but no longer as precise. Greenhouse windows clouded with dirt. Flower beds grown wild. The cherry tree he’d once climbed as a kid now stretched unchecked, branches reaching dangerously close to the glass below. One good storm and they’d shatter the greenhouse.
As Luke sat there, thinking about that cherry tree, he noticed movement across the water.
A woman was crossing the lawn.
From this distance she looked small, but he could make out the ladder balanced against her shoulder, shears held confidently in her other hand. She moved with purpose, heading straight for the cherry tree.
Luke frowned. That was strange.
Dylan and Devin’s parents had divorced not long after their grandmother died. They’d been separated for years and maybe that was the last straw. Luke guessed there’d been nothing left for their mom in Michigan. It was their dad’s mother, but she’d always liked their mom best.
And sometimes their sister.
But the woman by the tree wasn’t their mom. And their sister hadn’t been back to Michigan since, well… since Luke got called up to play for the Devils. So, three years? Not that there was any correlation to those things. He’d just noticed it around the same time.
Luke watched the woman steady the ladder against the cherry tree. She tested it once with her foot before climbing, careful but unafraid, as though she’d done it a hundred times before.
The words left him before he’d fully thought them through, cutting across whatever conversation the rest of the boys had been having.
“Did your dad already move on from the divorce?”
He felt it land wrong immediately. Or at least it sounded very wrong.
Quinn turned toward him, his expression sharp. “Luke, don’t be insensitive.”
Luke shifted in his chair, hands gesturing at the lake. “I’m just wondering who the woman climbing your cherry tree is,” he said, defensively. “That’s all.”
That made all five of them turn their heads in the woman’s direction. Dylan laughed, the sound breaking cleanly through the quickly built tension. Devin followed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe Luke was serious.
“Calling Baby a woman is a little bit of a stretch, Luke,” Dylan said.
Baby. Oh. Oh no.
His eyesight had to be playing tricks on him—distance, twilight, memory filling in gaps. There was no way the woman in the tree was you. Dylan and Devin’s little sister, nicknamed Baby for reasons Luke had never fully understood and no one had ever bothered to explain. But the name just stuck. Everyone called you that.
You didn’t look like you used to. Or maybe that was the point. Luke hadn’t seen you in over three years. Of course you wouldn’t look the same. Of course you wouldn’t still exist exactly as he remembered.
“That’s what Baby looks like now?” Jack said, leaning forward, squinting across the water.
“The nickname might be a little outdated,” Devin laughed.
“She’s only twenty-two,” Dylan countered. “Still a baby.”
Quinn snorted into his drink. “Luke is also twenty-two,” he said, glancing at him. “And the tallest one here.”
“I am closer to being twenty-three,” Luke muttered automatically. He’d been correcting his age around them for as long as he could remember.
“Still babies,” Dylan joked. “Practically the same age as Lilith.”
Luke barely heard them.
His eyes had gone back to the lake, to the hill beyond it, up the cherry tree, and to the woman climbing it. You reached up, snipped a branch cleanly, and let it fall into the grass below.
This was how he remembered you best. From a distance. Always just outside the center of things. Sitting on the dock with your feet in the water while they roughhoused behind you. Handing out towels. Rolling your eyes when they got too loud.
You’d always been there. At every bonfire, every lake day, every half-forgotten summer memory. Until you weren’t.
And then there were the memories that came closer. When you’d both started college at the same time. You two against the world. Just kids pretending not to be lost.
What he couldn’t remember was where it had gone wrong.
“W–what is she doing here?” Luke asked, the words catching slightly on the way out.
Dylan stared at him. “What is our sister doing in our summer house? During the summer?”
“No, I just—” Luke stopped, recalibrating. “I mean, she hasn’t been here in years.”
Not since things had changed. Not since Luke had stopped being just another boy you grew up with.
“I guess she got tired of going to St. Barths with Mom or something,” Devin said with a shrug. “I gave up trying to understand either of them. They talk in riddles.”
“She looks… different,” Jack said slowly, still leaning to see. “Older.”
Quinn nodded. “Yeah. All grown up.”
The word settled uncomfortably in Luke’s chest.
He’d known, logically, that you wouldn’t still be nineteen. Time hadn’t paused just because he hadn’t been around to witness it. Grown-up meant you weren’t the girl who used to steal his hoodie when the nights got cold. It meant you weren’t the one sitting on the dock, pretending not to watch him jump into the lake, shirtless.
It meant you weren’t frozen in the version of you he’d left behind during sophomore year of college when hockey had pulled him away.
But logic had very little to do with the way his stomach tightened as he watched you climb down the ladder, brush your hands against your shorts, and tilt your face up toward the tree, assessing your work.
Luke looked down at the table, at the rings of condensation left behind by empty bottles. He tried to remember the last thing he’d said to you.
He couldn’t.
Luke didn’t say anything else. Not that anyone noticed. The conversation drifted on to something new, while his thoughts began to spiral around the simple, unsettling truth that you were here.
And he was not ready for that at all.
Across the table, Quinn kept glancing toward the house, his attention pulled tight and thin like a string stretched too far. Luke knew he couldn’t be relaxed unless he knew his girlfriend and Lilith were safe and asleep. He’d seen the same twisting emotion on his brother’s face countless times.
Dylan followed his gaze and snorted. “Jesus Christ, Quinn. Just go check on them. You look like you’re being held hostage.”
Quinn huffed, pushing his chair back slightly. “I’ll be back. I just wanna make sure they’re asleep.”
“Yeah,” Devin said dryly. “Sure.”
Quinn didn’t bother responding. He stood, already halfway gone, his footsteps fading toward the house and the soft glow spilling out onto the porch.
The space he left behind shifted—something subtle tightening around the table. Maybe it was because Dylan and Devin had always been Quinn’s friends first. Or maybe Luke was just more aware of small changes than usual.
“So,” Dylan said after a beat, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “How serious is this thing between Quinn and his girlfriend, anyway?”
Jack lifted his glass, a little unimpressed. “How serious? They have a kid together.”
Luke couldn’t help but laugh a little. Yeah, that pretty much explained the situation fully.
“No, no, I get that,” Dylan said, waving a hand. “But is it anything more than that?”
“He doesn’t argue when we make marriage jokes anymore,” Jack said with a shrug. “That doesn’t mean he has the balls to actually propose. I guess they’ve only officially been together for, like, a year.”
Devin shook his head slowly. “When did this happen? When did we all grow up? Like, we’re actually grown-ass adults now.”
“Adults?” Jack scoffed, eyes flicking to him. “Luke hasn’t even had a girlfriend.”
“Well, at least I get some,” Luke cut in, surprised by how quickly the words came. “Jack, you haven’t talked to a girl in years.”
Jack rolled his eyes and tossed a paper napkin at him. “Shut up, dumbass.”
Laughter rippled around the table, easy and familiar. Luke smiled faintly at the sound, but his thoughts were already drifting back across the lake. Everyone else seemed perfectly content to joke their way forward.
Luke kept on having the sinking feeling that this summer was going to be a mess.
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Your mom had taught you not to stare. It was apparently rude and not very ladylike. But you’d never been very good at listening to other people. Especially not the ones who told you what to do.
So when something was worth staring at, you stared. Even if you told yourself you weren’t.
A black BMW rolling slowly up your street was worth staring at.
Cars mattered to the men in this little lakeside community. Polished Ford Broncos lined the driveways like colorful trophies. Pickup trucks rumbled past, each one louder and more polluting than the last. Every now and then, there would even be a new sports car pulling up to the country club valet. It was a dick-measuring contest laced with envy, and you had no interest in it.
Or at least you thought so. But you’d never seen a BMW like this around here. Not sleek and black and out of place. Not an SUV that looked like it could be driven by a housewife in Beverly Hills.
You knew you had been staring when you heard Kayla crash to the pavement again, just a couple of feet in front of you. You were almost sure this girl would never learn how to ride a bike. Not with you and your scatterbrain as a teacher.
“I’m giving up!” she announced loudly, her legs tangled hopelessly in the bike frame as she tried, and failed, to stand.
You quit your staring, jogging the few steps over and steadying the bike with one hand while helping her up with the other.
“No, no, you’re actually doing really well,” you said, scanning her quickly for injuries. “You are. I swear.”
It wasn’t worse than before. A scraped knee. Pebble-shaped indents in her palms where she’d caught herself on the asphalt. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that didn’t come naturally when learning how to ride a bike.
Kayla’s cheeks were flushed pink, big freckles standing out sharply against her skin. Her pink helmet had shifted crookedly, and even through it you could tell her Dutch braids were coming undone beneath it. So much for fixing them this morning.
“But it’s boring,” she pouted, though her expression betrayed her almost immediately. Her gapped-tooth smile slipped through, no matter how hard she tried to look miserable. “And I’m bleeding through the band-aid.”
You crouched in front of her knee, inspecting the Hello Kitty band-aid you’d put on earlier. It had slid halfway off and was sticking to itself more than her skin. She wasn’t bleeding, but it was close enough for a ten-year-old to think she was bleeding.
“You wanna take a break?” you asked, looking up at her.
Kayla nodded far too quickly. You knew she wasn’t as upset as she acted. “There are popsicles in the freezer,” she added, hopeful.
You huffed out a laugh through your nose. Of course there were. “I’ll grab two, and you can put the bike in the garage.”
Kayla darted ahead of you like she’d been waiting for permission all along, her helmet bobbing as she dragged the bike behind her. You watched her disappear into the garage before heading inside yourself.
You walked through the house with your sneakers still on, out of habit more than anything else. Kayla’s mom never minded. The house was cool and dim after the sun. You crossed the kitchen and pulled the freezer open with one hand.
The bright popsicle wrappers jumped out immediately. You grabbed two without really looking—one red, one orange—the cold biting sharply into your fingers.
You leaned against the counter for a moment longer than necessary, listening to the muffled sounds of summer through the door left open behind you. Birdsong, the breeze rattling the trees, and the hollow thunk of a car door closing somewhere nearby.
The black BMW.
Your jaw tightened. You shook your head at yourself, as if that might shake the thought out too, then tore off a paper towel and wrapped it around the popsicles before heading back out.
The front door creaked as you stepped onto the porch. You sat down on the steps and immediately looked straight at the street. You didn’t even try to pretend you weren’t staring.
Luke Hughes.
Of course it was him. You didn’t know why you’d bothered entertaining any other possibility. As if a mysterious luxury car had driven onto your street for any reason other than to personally inconvenience you.
What the fuck was he doing on this side of the lake?
Couldn’t he have stayed on his own cul-de-sac? Couldn’t he have given you that much—one summer in Michigan where you didn’t have to see him unexpectedly, unprepared, and already furious at yourself for even caring?
Then you saw where the BMW was parked. Next to a pale blue sports car, right outside Simon’s house. Of course. You guessed Luke was allowed to park by his childhood friend’s house. He always had places he belonged.
He was unloading the trunk now—cases of beer, bags of groceries—stacking them neatly on the curb, waiting for Simon to come help him. It irritated you how reasonable it suddenly seemed that he’d driven the car instead of walking the two minutes around the lake. You hated that you understood him.
As if sensing your stare, Luke glanced up.
Your stomach dropped. Your expression didn’t change—not because you were composed, but because you were actively frozen in annoyance. Across the street, Luke’s face lit up anyway. He raised a hand in an easy wave, smiling like this was a completely normal thing to stumble into.
You did not wave back. And you did not stop staring.
You felt twelve again. And nineteen. And twenty-two. All at once.
You were vaguely aware of Kayla climbing the porch steps beside you, her helmet knocking lightly against the railing as she hopped up. You had to stop staring at him.
“Oh,” she said, following your gaze. “That’s a nice car.”
You startled, immediately focusing on her instead. “Here,” you said too quickly, handing her the red popsicle. “Careful. Before it drips.”
Kayla’s little gingham shorts fanned out as she sat down next to you, already peeling the wrapper back with her teeth. “Is that Luke?” she asked, her words muffled.
“I think so,” you mumbled, pretending to focus on unwrapping your own popsicle even as your attention kept drifting.
Across the street, Luke moved again, lifting another case from the trunk. He laughed at something Simon said from the driveway—an eerily familiar sound that carried farther than it had any right to. You didn’t want to hear it.
He glanced your way again, still smiling, still completely missing the fact that you were one bad thought away from snapping your popsicle stick in half with the pure force of your fingers gripping it.
Then Simon clapped a hand on Luke’s shoulder and jerked his head toward the house. Luke followed, disappearing up the steps and through the front door without looking back again.
Just like that, the tension loosened.
The street went quiet in the way summer afternoons always did, like the world had exhaled. Leaves rustled in the trees. A lawn sprinkler clicked on somewhere down the block. The lake shimmered faintly through the gaps between houses.
Kayla took a dramatic bite of her popsicle and immediately winced. “Ow. Brain freeze.”
You laughed, soft and automatic. “Told you to be careful.”
She squinted at you suspiciously, then laughed too, sticky and pink-mouthed and entirely unbothered by anything bigger than the moment she was in. Entirely unbothered by Luke as well.
You’d known Kayla all her life. Almost literally—save for a day or two. You and your grandma had shown up with a casserole the afternoon her parents brought her home from the hospital. You remembered thinking she looked like a doll then. Big brown eyes and blonde hair shaping into ringlets.
Somehow, she’d turned into this.
She sat beside you on the porch steps, legs swinging, helmet abandoned at her feet, freckles dark against sunburned cheeks. She was too old to be little and too young to be anything else. Always hovering in that in-between space you knew all too well.
“Music!” Kayla announced suddenly, like the thought had struck her out of nowhere. “I wanna listen to your music.”
You couldn’t help but laugh at the way she said it and her clever little face.
Your music didn’t mean music you made. It meant whatever lived on your phone. Whatever was the latest half-finished playlist you’d put together. Kayla understood that, even if she didn’t have the words for it. She still called it your music because it sounded different from what she heard on the radio or what her mom played. It sounded like you. And she liked it better than the rest.
You pulled your phone from your pocket and untangled the corded headphones you still carried everywhere. Because AirPods couldn’t be trusted. Because the universe had a vendetta against you and the tiny white slippery objects. Because you’d already lost two pairs to subway grates in New York—watched them slip straight through the metal slats and vanish while commuters stepped around you like a tragedy hadn’t just happened.
Kayla grinned when she saw the cord. “Can I have one?”
You handed it over, looping the other bud into your own ear. You bumped shoulders as you settled closer, knees touching.
“Well?” you asked, looking through your phone. “What should I play?”
“The Matilda song,” Kayla said, almost proudly, like she’d been waiting for the right moment to suggest it.
You tilted your head at her. “That’s a pretty sad one, Kayla.”
She shrugged, unbothered. “But I like it. I like the movie.”
That tracked. Kayla loved Matilda. The movie and the musical. You’d watched both with her more times than you could count, though only once so far this summer. A rainy afternoon, the two of you curled up on the couch while the lake disappeared into fog outside. Kayla had narrated half the scenes before they happened, indignant on Matilda’s behalf every time her parents brushed her off.
And the song—the one Harry Styles wrote inspired by the movie—made sense too.
You liked Harry because you’d been a tween when One Direction was everywhere, because his voice was threaded through your own coming-of-age in ways that still felt nostalgic. Kayla liked Harry because he wore colorful clothes and danced a lot on stage. You’d caught her once mimicking one of his concert videos in the living room, spinning with her arms out, utterly unselfconscious.
You hit play. The opening notes sounded almost metallic through the shared headphones, like the song was playing from inside a can. Kayla listened with her whole body—chin tipped up, feet swinging, popsicle forgotten for a moment.
You guessed you liked Matilda too. Maybe the song more than the movie. There was always a weird disconnect when watching children’s movies as an adult. Especially the ones that had surprisingly disturbing plot lines. That Matilda was straight up abused and neglected had flown right over your head when you were a child.
When the lyrics came in—about a girl, about growing up lonely, about her celebrating her birthday without wanting her family there—Kayla went quiet. Then she asked, right on cue, exactly what the song asked first.
“Why would she have a party without inviting her family?”
She looked up at you with her big eyes, probably thinking the question was simple. That it had a finite answer. That you, an adult, would be able to tell her exactly the right thing.
You chewed your lip. “Not everyone likes their family,” you said. “Matilda gets adopted by her teacher in the movie, right?”
“Yeah,” Kayla said. Her voice had gone smaller. “I always thought that was sad.”
“I guess it could be,” you said. “But I think the point is that you should choose to be around the people that make you happy, and that they in turn are happy by having you around.”
Kayla nodded slowly like she understood.
“Matilda’s parents weren’t too happy with her, were they?” you added, gently explaining.
“No, they didn’t understand her.”
Kayla hummed, thinking. She was so small here, so present, and you felt the sting of all the recent summers you hadn’t been here. The ones you’d spent holed up in New York, pretending your anger at Michigan was reason enough.
“But I guess that’s good,” she continued, not noticing your gaze drifting. “If I were having a party, I’d want to invite you. And we’re not family.”
Your throat tightened. “I’d come. No question.”
Her freckled cheeks lifted in a soft smile, and for a moment the space between your guilt and the present shrank.
“Is it like why you left Michigan?” she asked carefully.
The word carefully mattered. Kayla had a tendency to be blunt. She didn’t yet know how to polish her words to land softly, even though she probably knew she was asking difficult questions. But she asked that one with a soft voice, leading you into answering instead of stumping you with a frank question.
It was unsettling sometimes—how much she picked up on when you’d never actually told her anything. You’d never sat her down and explained your family in neat, understandable pieces. You’d never said to her that your brothers weren’t the kindest of people to you. Or that Michigan stopped feeling safe after your grandma died. Or that you didn’t know how to come back once you’d made such a big deal out of leaving.
And yet.
You stiffened at the question, because even though she couldn’t fully know, the answer lurked right under your teeth, sharp and waiting.
“To get away from your stupid brothers,” she added matter-of-factly, “because they don’t make you happy?”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Kids weren’t supposed to be this perceptive. They were supposed to miss things. Kayla never seemed to.
“It’s… kinda like that, I guess,” you said, putting down your popsicle in its wrapper, your fingers immediately going to rip at the loose pieces of cuticle next to your thumbnail.
Your brothers still treated this place like it belonged to them. Maybe because they lived just an hour or two away in Detroit most of the year. Maybe because they felt entitled to it.
They treated it like nothing had changed. Like your grandma hadn’t died alone in the living room with the windows open and the lake breeze coming in. Like your parents hadn’t signed the divorce papers at the kitchen table the same day as her funeral, while you packed your things to fly straight back to New York.
You hated that you hadn’t been here. That you hadn’t spent her last summers helping her carry trays out to the porch, listening to her gentle scoldings about the garden or the lake level or the way everyone drove too fast these days. You’d been too stubborn, too angry, and too caught up in things that felt wrong that you couldn’t step foot here longer than a weekend at a time.
Michigan felt different without her. The house did too. It was quieter. Less forgiving. And you hated that your brothers didn’t seem to notice—or worse, that they noticed and didn’t care.
Kayla nudged your arm, pulling you out of your thoughts. “I don’t think I’ll ever want to leave this place.”
You looked at her and softened. “That’s okay,” you said. “But if you ever do, you should feel like you can. That’s what’s important.”
“I really like Michigan,” she insisted.
You smiled, grateful for the pivot. Grateful for the chance to make the subject light again, to tuck everything sharp and heavy back where it belonged.
“You might really like Paris, too,” you suggested. “Or Tokyo. You could buy the biggest Totoro plushie you’ve ever seen.”
Her eyes lit up instantly, like you’d flipped a switch.
“Or New York!” she said. “Like you. We could see Matilda on Broadway. And go shopping!”
You laughed at her enthusiasm, easy and real. You could already picture it—her craning her neck at tall buildings, dragging you into stores with too much excitement, insisting on window seats at every café.
Kayla gasped suddenly, like the thought had just landed fully formed. “Do you think I could get pink Converses like yours in New York? Because Mom still hasn’t found any in my size here.”
She pointed down at your shoes. A fresh pair you’d bought before the summer—light pink canvas with glittery shoelaces catching the sun. You’d lost count of how many variations of pink shoes you owned by now.
You knew people called them childish. Too girly. Your brothers had always made fun of you for your stereotypical love of the color pink. You liked to think they just didn’t understand the concept of having a signature style.
“You know what?” you said. “When I go back at the end of summer, I’ll send you a pair. Customized with your name and everything.”
“Oh my god, really?” She bounced once on the step, then paused, looking up at you. “I know you don’t like Michigan,” she said softly, “but I think Michigan really likes you.”
And for the first time in three summers, sitting here on this porch with her, sharing corded headphones tangled between your ears, you let yourself think that maybe Michigan did like you. Or at least Kayla did.
You just weren’t ready to like Michigan back yet.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
You’d cried on your first day back here.
Devin had picked you up from the airport, but only after you’d made countless jokes about how terrible of a driver you were. It wasn’t true to you, but he had always believed it. And if that was what it took to get him to come get you, then it was a sacrifice you were willing to make. Dumb yourself down so he could feel useful.
Like he was helping because he had to. Otherwise you’d die in a ditch.
When you’d seen the big house at the end of the street, you’d immediately gotten teary-eyed. It was some weird mix of nostalgia and guilt at first. But as you walked through the house, hauled your bags into your old bedroom, and took stock of what had changed since the funeral, that feeling curdled into something uglier.
You were angry. Because the place was decaying.
Maybe not literally. Not the house, at least. Your dad still paid someone to clean it. The floors gleamed. The windows were spotless. Your brothers’ ridiculously clean cars still lined the driveway.
But the garden was decaying. The lawn was neatly cut, the surface-level greenery bright and deceptive, but everything underneath had been left to fend for itself. The flower beds were choked with weeds. The greenhouse plants had gone feral or brittle. And the big cherry tree and your grandma’s rosebush—her rose—had been abandoned entirely.
Your brothers had been here. Your dad had been here. They’d walked through this garden again and again, probably with beers in their hands, probably talking over each other, and not one of them had thought—maybe we should take care of this. Maybe we should protect the things she loved.
No. They just got to live in her house and not care.
You’d tackled the cherry tree a couple of evenings ago while Dylan and Devin were gone. You hadn’t known what they were doing, and you hadn’t cared to ask. Your dad wasn’t around much since he was working in Detroit, so you hadn’t had to worry about his questioning gaze either as you’d climbed that tree.
Today’s project was the rose.
A rambling rose, nearly a century old. Planted by your great-grandmother when the house was first finished. It still bloomed in beautiful shades of pink. You loved the color. Your grandma had always called it Dorothy. When you were little, you thought it was from The Wizard of Oz. It took you years to learn it was just the botanical name for it.
Every spring, like clockwork, it had been carefully pruned. First by your great-grandmother. Then by your grandma. And when your grandma’s hands got too stiff, she’d stood on the porch and instructed your mom instead.
Now it had been left alone to die. Or to swallow the house whole. You weren’t sure what would happen first if someone didn’t take care of it.
The rosebush was no longer a bush. It was an entity. A sprawling, thorny beast that had swallowed the corner of the wraparound porch whole, thick vines clawing their way up the railing, bound to leave the wood under it slowly rotting from moisture. Pink blooms still burst through the chaos, beautiful and suffocating, strangled by dead branches and weeds that had no business being there.
The pruning shears felt wrong in your hands. Too big and bulky. You had no idea what you were doing. It probably wasn’t even the right time of year to cut it back. But you felt like you had to. Otherwise your grandma might haunt you. And frankly, you wouldn’t blame her.
Your pink rain boots sank slightly into the soft earth as you neared it, damp from last night’s rain. Your grandma would’ve hated that part—don’t trample the soil, sweetheart—and the thought alone made you want to cry again.
You crouched beside the bush and blew out a sharp breath. “Unbelievable,” you muttered, shoving a thorny branch aside with your gloved hand. “Absolutely fucking unbelievable.”
You snipped at a dead stem with more force than necessary. The shears snapped shut with a satisfying bite.
A thorn caught your arm as you reached again, scratching a thin, angry line across your skin.
“Hey,” you said, jerking back. “Don’t attack me.”
As soon as you tried to move, you got snagged again, leaving another long scratch, quickly prickling red with the faint tint of blood.
You glared at the rosebush like it could see you. Like it was doing this on purpose. Like it knew exactly how precarious you already felt standing there.
“Okay,” you said, voice tight. “I’m trying to help. I’m trying to fucking fix things.”
You tugged your glove higher, squared your shoulders, and went back in anyway.
The afternoon had settled into that quiet lull your grandma used to love—the cicadas loud enough to be comforting, the air thick and warm, the lake barely visible through the trees. You could almost imagine her watching from the porch, hands on her hips, telling you not to rush, not to hack at it like that, sweetheart.
Roses needed patience. Care. They are just like women, she used to say.
You were about to laugh out loud at yourself at the thought—that maybe Grandma had been right all along. Thorny, angry, half-dead, and wearing pink. Maybe this rosebush was just like you.
But a shout came from inside the house, sharp and sudden enough to make you flinch.
“Baby! Come in here!”
You closed your eyes for half a second, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. The word and Devin’s voice echoed in your head, unwelcome and familiar, sliding straight down the back of your neck like a chill.
No one in New York called you Baby. Not your friends, not your mom, not coworkers or baristas or men who thought shouting at you from across the street was flirting. You’d carefully outgrown it. Shed it like a skin you’d decided no longer fit.
Here, though, it still clung to you.
You’d joked once—okay, more than once—that if the boys had known the word bitch when they were kids, that would’ve been your nickname instead. Because Baby had never meant sweetheart. It wasn’t a term of endearment. It meant crybaby. It meant too loud, too emotional, too much. It meant whiny little bitch.
You set the shears down harder than necessary and trudged toward the house, pink rain boots caked with mud, arms scratched and stinging, patience already so fucking thin it felt translucent.
The kitchen was bright when you walked in from the porch, sunlight bouncing off clean countertops and white cabinets. Devin stood near the island, unpacking a grocery bag like he hadn’t just yelled at you as if you were a dog.
He looked up.
And you stalled mid-step, frozen in the doorway.
Part of it was shock. Part of it was the fact that you were wearing muddy boots and could practically feel your grandma’s ghost hovering behind you, arms crossed, ready to scold you for daring to track dirt onto her fragile marble floors.
You didn’t move. You just stared.
“You’re wearing pink?” you blurted.
Devin glanced down at himself, confused. A pink linen button-up, crisp and unmistakably expensive. The kind of shirt he would’ve mocked mercilessly if it had been hanging in your closet instead of on his back.
“It’s Ralph Lauren,” he said, like that explained everything.
You kept on staring. “You’ve made fun of me for wearing pink my entire life.”
“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, already turning back to the groceries, “this is different.”
You scoffed. Of course it was.
His attention flicked back to you then, side-eyeing you as he opened the fridge, doing a slow assessing sweep. Your denim dungarees were smudged with dirt, the cuffs darkened where they’d soaked up mud. Your pink rain boots left faint tracks on the tile. Your hair was shoved up and back like you’d lost a fight with it and given up halfway through.
“And why do you look like a farmer?” he asked.
You threw your hands out, immediately regretting it when a fleck of dried dirt flaked off your glove. “Because someone needs to save Dorothy before she fucking dies.”
Devin blinked. “Who?”
“Grandma’s rose,” you snapped. “Never mind. I know you don’t care.”
He didn’t argue. Just turned back to the fridge, like that was proof enough. “Whatever,” he said, reorganizing things in the fridge to fit more. “I need you to bake Grandma’s cherry pie for tonight.”
You froze all over again. “What?”
“We’re having people over tonight,” Devin explained, casual, like he hadn’t just asked you to exhume a memory and serve it on a plate.
“Who is we? And why does that automatically mean I have to bake?”
“Because you’re the only one who knows how,” he said, like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t loaded. Like it wasn’t painfully, unmistakably clear why your grandma had only ever shown you how to make it. “And it’s just the normal bunch.”
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t know who belongs to the normal bunch anymore.”
“All three Hughes,” Devin said easily. “Simon and Josh. Small gathering.”
Fuck. There it was.
Your chest went hollow in a way that felt practiced, like your body had rehearsed this reaction just in case. You kept your face neutral through sheer force of will, even as your thoughts skidded wildly.
Luke. Of course, Luke.
You’d known, logically, that if Dylan and Devin were hosting something, he’d be invited. That he belonged here in a way you hadn’t for years. Still, the confirmation landed like a punch to your stomach.
“And you expect me to stay here,” you said slowly, “while this house fills up with testosterone?”
“Quinn is probably bringing his girlfriend,” Devin said, still not looking at you. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “And his daughter, so you won’t be the only girl.”
You couldn’t really comprehend what he was saying, your response coming out hurried and stuttered. “Wait, hold up—Quinn has a daughter? Since when?”
“Since New Year’s,” he said, finally turning from the fridge to look at you. He made you feel even dumber than you probably were. “Do you live under a rock?”
“No, I just—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “You know I don’t keep up with hockey.”
You hadn’t, not really. The last version of Quinn you remembered was awkward and sweet and incapable of flirting without turning red. The idea of him with a girlfriend—with a child—felt disorienting in the same way seeing Luke had. Like time had continued without your permission.
You had to Google this later.
“This isn’t really about hockey, Baby,” Devin said, softer now, but no less firm. “This is about people you would’ve considered close friends before you moved to New York and turned stupid.”
You looked at him, something like a smile tugging at your mouth. “So you thought I was smart before I moved?”
“Oh, shut up,” he said, rolling his eyes as he shut the fridge with a solid thud. He gathered the empty grocery bags and headed down the hall. “And bake the pie, please.”
“Fine!” you yelled after him. “But if I poison it, that’s on you.”
His laugh echoed faintly from somewhere deeper in the house, and you stood there alone in the kitchen, muddy boots and all, wondering when exactly your quiet return to Michigan had turned into this.
—
You couldn’t go open the door when the bell rang because your hands were covered in flour. Even as Dylan yelled at you to get it, you couldn’t. Because your hands were covered in flour.
By the time the door opened and the house began to fill with voices—shoes squeaking on the tile, laughter too loud for a closed space—you stayed where you were at the kitchen counter, back turned to everything. You listened as Dylan herded them through the house and out into the garden, toward the greenhouse and the grill, the sound thinning as they moved farther away.
You still didn’t turn around. Because of the flour.
You were also a terrible, terrible liar.
But if your brothers wanted this damned cherry pie, they were getting it. Lattice crust. Braided edges. Handpicked cherries from the tree, pitted one by one until your fingers ached. Soaked in amaretto for hours before you even thought about turning on the oven. Just like Grandma used to do.
You hadn’t gotten drunk on the rest of the almond liqueur during the waiting time like she had, though. No. Instead, you’d paced the length of your bedroom, changing outfits twice, then a third time, spiraling over what to wear and how the hell you were supposed to act tonight.
You couldn’t be mean, even if part of you wanted to be. Creating a hostile environment felt worse than disappearing altogether. Silence, maybe, was your safest option. You couldn’t really be nice either. Not genuinely. Not to your brothers, or Luke, or Simon. You’d never liked Simon. He had always talked like he expected you to laugh.
Maybe talking to Quinn and Jack would be easier. And Quinn’s girlfriend. You hoped she wasn’t awful. Or dull. Or painfully quiet in that way that made conversation feel like hard work.
Before you’d even started in the kitchen, you’d googled Quinn.
You’d known about the massive trade to Minnesota—somehow that had broken into your orbit—but you’d completely missed the part where he’d gone and acquired an entire child. Maybe hockey players got married and had kids so young that it all blurred together. It wasn’t even newsworthy. Maybe your algorithm had decided that wasn’t your business. The trade, though, had even been on your usual newsfeed.
The pictures you’d seen of the kid were adorable. So was his girlfriend.
You didn’t really have any other thoughts about it. You didn’t know Quinn well enough to feel entitled to opinions. He’d always been kind to you, in a quiet, unassuming way, and you liked to think you’d returned the favor. If this—Minnesota, a girlfriend, a child—was his dream life, then good for him. Truly.
So, when a woman’s voice drifted in from the entryway now—warm, easy, unmistakably kind—it was the only thing keeping you from melting down completely. A lifeline, really. All thanks to Quinn.
“Oh, hi! It smells lovely in here.”
You turned from the counter, flour dusting your hands and forearms, the half-built lattice crust paused mid-weave. Quinn’s girlfriend stood just inside the kitchen, hovering politely at the threshold like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to cross it yet. A baby balanced on her hip, round-cheeked and alert, big eyes already tracking your movement with unsettling focus.
Relief loosened something tight in your chest.
“You must be Quinn’s girlfriend,” you said, automatically softening as you looked at the baby. That part of you—the one in school to be a teacher, the one who loved children almost painfully—slid into place without effort. “And who’s this little sweetheart?”
“This is Lilith,” she said, her expression easing when she saw your reaction. “Lily, for short. And—” she hesitated, then smiled. “Most people call me Bubbles.”
That got a laugh out of you, surprised and genuine. “I’m Y/N,” you said. “Or Baby. Depends who you ask.”
Bubbles tilted her head, curiosity bright but gentle. “I was curious about that. Is it from Dirty Dancing?”
You snorted. “Oh, no. I wish.” You shrugged, suddenly hyperaware of how vulnerable the answer felt. “I was just always the youngest and shortest and, uh—” you waved a floury hand vaguely. “The biggest crybaby around here when we were growing up.”
She grimaced sympathetically. “Then I think I’ll call you Y/N.”
You smiled at her. “I’d appreciate that.”
As if encouraged, she took a few tentative steps farther into the kitchen, Lilith shifting against her as she moved. After a moment, she leaned the baby gently against the counter’s edge, one hand still secure around her middle.
Lilith seemed perfectly content, fingers knotting curiously into the neckline of her mother’s dress, pulling gently at her pendant necklace. She was utterly unfazed by being in a new place and the chaos of voices drifting in from outside.
“I was a little hesitant to come,” Bubbles admitted. “I’m very new in these circles. Quinn convinced me by saying there’d finally be another girl around.”
You huffed softly. “I would’ve been hesitant too. I grew up with them, and it’s still a testosterone overdose most days.”
She let out a breathy laugh. “Tell me about it.”
You clocked it then—the way she kept glancing toward the doorway, the careful way she positioned herself so Lily was always between her and the noise. The nerves tucked neatly beneath politeness. You knew that feeling too well. Being the only girl in this group of guys who weren’t that great at including people. Being new, or just young. Always being watched and evaluated.
“But you—” she started, then stopped herself, readjusting Lily again. “You moved away from Michigan, right?”
“I did,” you said. “Transferred to NYU. I’m still there, finishing my master’s. I have a job lined up at a special education school in Brooklyn.”
Her face lit up immediately. “Wow, that’s really cool.”
It wasn’t performative. You could tell. “I’ve only briefly been to New York,” she added. “We visited Jack and Luke once.”
“Are you from Vancouver, then?” you asked. You tried to go back to your lattice weaving, but you couldn’t really do two things at once.
“Yeah,” she said. “Well, now we’re in Minnesota. But we met in Vancouver.”
“Right, fuck—” You winced, clapping a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. Even I heard about that trade.”
She laughed, easy and unbothered, even as Lily blinked up at you like she’d just been introduced to a fascinating new sound. “You’re fine.”
“So, how did you meet Quinn?” you asked after a beat. “I kinda lost track of people once I moved.” You hesitated. “I was… surprised to learn he has a daughter now.”
That was putting it mildly. Your Googling session hadn’t actually been that successful. There was no curated announcement, no glossy maternity photoshoot. Just one blurry picture of Bubbles, heavily pregnant, slipping out of an arena beside Quinn like they’d been caught. Not secret, exactly. Just not for public consumption.
The photos from after Lilith’s birth were just as scarce. Just one of her asleep in her stroller, hidden in a photo dump on Quinn’s Instagram. You weren’t sure why you’d unfollowed him, but for some reason you had and maybe that was why you’d missed this entire thing too.
“Ellen always used to say Luke would be the first to do… everything like that,” you added lightly.
Luke had always been the youngest, but somehow still the one everyone expected things from. He just had that personality. Comfortable and someone people clung to. You’d believed it too, once—when you were small enough that loving him felt like something inevitable.
Bubbles smiled, crooked and fond. “I think Quinn thought so too. The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned, so we kind of had to deal with it by, uh…” She shrugged. “Falling in love, I guess.”
Your eyes widened. “Seriously? That must’ve been terrifying.”
“Oh, it was,” she said easily. “Rocky at times. But we’re great now.”
You looked at Lily again, at the way her tiny fingers flexed, the way her gaze followed your movements, looking at the pie and the bright red cherry filling.
“You’re an adorable little family,” you said softly. “She looks exactly like they all did when they were kids.”
“So I’ve been told,” Bubbles laughed. “It’s like my genes didn’t even try.”
“Noo,” you argued immediately. “She has your eyes. Quinn’s nose, but definitely your eyes.”
Bubbles glanced down at Lily like she was seeing her anew, her smile lingering.
“I brought ingredients to make Palomas,” she said after a moment, shifting her weight. “Do you want me to make you one while you keep going?”
Your hands paused mid-motion over the latticed dough.
“Is Paloma the one with grapefruit?” you asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah. Grapefruit, lime, tequila,” she said, grimacing a little. “I can’t drink much, but I’ve been craving citrus since Lily was born. She wouldn’t let me stomach it earlier.”
You hesitated, your next words arranging themselves cautiously. Grapefruit wasn’t something you ran into often. Who did, really? The one time you’d had to explain it—at a rooftop party in New York, drink already in hand—you’d danced around the truth until the glass was quietly replaced and no one asked questions. You didn’t love revisiting it.
“I’m sort of…” You trailed off, then exhaled. “Allergic to grapefruit. But there should be other things in the fridge. A tequila soda would be perfect.”
“Oh. Oh,” she said. Then immediately, warmly, “I get it. Absolutely.”
She didn’t make an unnecessary pause. No weird look. No further questions.
“Where do you keep your glasses?” she asked instead, already shifting Lily up on her hip.
“Top cabinet, left of the sink,” you said, nodding with your elbow. “There’s a knife right here for the limes.”
She moved easily through the kitchen, opening the cabinet with her free hand, letting Lily lean briefly against the counter while she grabbed a glass. She washed a lime at the sink, slicing it carefully on the cutting board you’d pitted cherries on.
Moms were always good at multitasking.
“I used to be allergic too,” she added casually, twisting open the soda as she spoke. “For a short period, just before I met Quinn.” She smiled over her shoulder at you. “It sucked. Not being able to drink Palomas, I mean. The other effects were definitely necessary.”
Something inside you unclenched. You hadn’t even known her five minutes, but you still quickly decided that you trusted her. You felt the ease of it rush through you. The way she’d said it without apology or explanation, without making it a thing. Just a fact of life. That sometimes medication was necessary. That sometimes the medication meant you couldn’t eat grapefruit.
You’d spent years learning how to say it sideways, how to soften it so people wouldn’t look at you differently, so they wouldn’t ask what you took or why. Bubbles hadn’t asked. She’d just adjusted, like it was normal. Like you were normal.
A moment later, she slid the glass onto the counter beside you—cold, fizzy, a wedge of lime perched neatly on the rim. Condensation immediately bloomed against the glass.
“Thank you, Bubbles,” you said, meaning more than just the drink. Then, glancing at Lily, “And you too.”
“We should probably go say hello to the rest of them,” she said. “But you can always shout if you need help. Or a cute baby to hold.”
You looked down at your flour-covered hands and laughed softly. “I might take you up on that once I’m not covered in flour.”
—
Dinner happened the way it always did here—too loud, too much food, and everyone acting like things were picture perfect. You tried to not think too much of the looks you got when you finally exited the kitchen, Devin yelling at you that the food was done.
You just politely nodded and said hi—to everyone all at once and to no one in particular.
The boys didn’t look too different even though you hadn’t seen most of them in three years. Everyone a little older, a little broader, and with more solid attempts at growing facial hair.
Jack was already mid-conversation with Josh, Simon, and your brothers. Leaning back in his chair, easy and very familiar. He’d always been the most talkative.
Quinn sat beside him, quieter than the others. Lily balanced expertly against Bubbles’ side, his hand resting at her back. You saw immediately how they fit together. They just made sense.
And then Luke. Slightly apart. He seemed taller, maybe prouder, and you didn’t know how his hair had gotten so curly. Unmistakably Luke in the way he listened more than he spoke. He wasn’t like that in every circumstance. You’d seen him be the life of the party in college when he lived with all of his hockey teammates. But in this group, he was still the youngest brother. Still the least confident.
His eyes darted quickly to you as you walked down the garden path. You weren’t sure if you were smiling, but you thought you tried to. Even if you were angry. Maybe more disappointed. Or just embarrassed to even have to be here.
Luke broke eye contact first. He always did, or maybe you were just shameless when it came to staring.
The table had been dragged out onto the grass in the shade of the greenhouse. It was one of those long folding ones that wobbled no matter how many coasters someone shoved under its legs. Paper plates, mismatched cutlery. Smoke from the grill curled lazily through the air, carrying the smell of charred meat and barbecue sauce and corn that had been forgotten and then rescued at the last second.
That usually happened when Devin was in charge, but he also refused to let anyone else help him.
You’d taken the seat farthest from the center of it all. Not on purpose. You just… ended up there. Close enough to participate if required, far enough that you could fade in and out without anyone making a fuss. Maybe even slip back inside without anyone caring.
Your brothers did most of the talking. They always did.
Dylan told a story you’d heard at least four times before, something about a road trip that got worse every time he retold it. Devin interrupted him constantly, correcting details that didn’t matter, arguing for the sake of it. Simon laughed too loud. Josh chimed in when he felt like it.
The boys spoke over one another, forks clinking against plates, beer bottles sweating onto the table. You also wondered when the fuck those white nicotine pouches had become so popular. They looked gross clinging to their gums as they spoke.
You focused on eating.
On cutting your food into careful pieces. On chewing slowly. On not rolling your eyes when Devin said something stupid or when Dylan got that condescending tone that made your shoulders tense without you even realizing it. He used it on everyone, even the people he considered friends. You’d never understood the purpose of that.
You could do this. You had done harder things than sit at a table and be quiet.
Across from you, Bubbles shifted Lily higher up on her lap, murmuring softly when the baby fussed. Lily’s attention snagged on everything—the flicker of the citronella candle, the way your fork moved, the bright pink of your nails when you reached for your drink. At some point, she locked eyes with you and smiled, wide, semi-toothless, and delighted, like she’d discovered something wonderful.
You smiled back before you could stop yourself.
“Do you want to hold her for a minute?” Bubbles asked quietly, leaning toward you so her voice didn’t get swallowed by the noise.
Your heart stuttered. “Yeah,” you said, just as softly. “If you want a break.”
She laughed under her breath. “I’d love one.”
Bubbles lifted Lily across the table to you and you supported her with your hands, cradling her body in your arms. Lily fit against you easily, warm and solid and surprisingly heavy. She curled her fingers into the fabric of your shirt and rested her forehead against your collarbone. You were almost sure you heard her exhale, relaxing in your hold. You smiled at the sensation.
“You’re really good with her,” Bubbles said.
You shrugged, a little self-conscious. “I like kids. Studying to be a teacher and all.”
That got Quinn’s attention, and you internally cursed yourself for even speaking in the first place.
“Yeah?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “That’s awesome. Where at?”
“I’m in New York with our mom,” you said. Short. Safe.
Luke looked up then.
It was subtle, but you caught it—the way his head turned a beat too fast, like he’d been waiting for an opening without knowing how to take it. His brows knit together slightly, confusion flickering across his face when you didn’t elaborate.
“New York?” he echoed, tentative. “What are you, uhm— What are you doing there?”
You felt it immediately. The invisible line. The way any real answer would sound like showing off, like throwing your life in their faces. You could already hear Dylan’s voice in your head, the teasing that wasn’t really teasing at all.
“Gettin a Master’s,” you said, pursing your lips into a thin line. “In special education.”
Luke’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s—”
“—practically babysitting,” Dylan cut in. “Long hours, not much pay. Makes sense for you though, Baby.”
You nodded once, like that was fine. Like it didn’t matter. But you felt it land somewhere deep and dark in your stomach. You felt the old, familiar burn rise up your throat—the urge to correct him, to say something sharp back, to remind him that teaching wasn’t babysitting, that it was work, that it mattered.
You just swallowed it all down instead.
“Yeah,” you said calmly. “I know.”
Anyone with ears could’ve heard how unfair it was. The way he’d reduced years of effort into something worthless. Bubbles stiffened in front of you. Quinn shot Dylan a look. But no one said anything.
Luke looked a little confused at how Dylan had interrupted him. His jaw tightened, something unsettling flickering across his face. He glanced at Dylan, then back at you, clearly debating something. Whatever he decided against saying, he swallowed it, taking a long drink instead. He didn’t look annoyed—just lost. Like he’d missed a step and didn’t know how.
Conversation surged around you soon again, carrying on without you. Someone argued about football. Someone else brought up their golf plans for the summer. Your brothers were in their element—comfortable, loud, unchanged.
You sat there with Lily in your arms, listening, breathing, counting the moments until you could politely disappear back into the house.
Every so often, Luke looked at you. Not staring, though you were pretty sure you stared at him. He seemed to just be checking. Like he was trying to figure out when exactly things had shifted.
You kept your eyes on the table. On Lily’s tiny hand gripping your thumb. On the steady, fragile calm you were trying so hard not to break.
—
You lasted through dessert. That had to count for something.
The cherry pie disappeared faster than you’d expected. Plates were passed back and forth, forks scraping against paper, compliments tossed your way that you acknowledged with small nods and noncommittal hums. Devin managed to take partial credit somehow—“it’s only Grandma’s recipe”—and you swallowed the urge to correct him, because correcting him would turn into defending yourself, and defending yourself would turn into an argument.
When the plates were mostly empty and the boys had settled deeper into their chairs, beers in hand, conversation dissolving into drunk half-thoughts and overlapping laughter, you seized your opportunity.
“I’ll get these,” you said, already collecting empty bottles and dirty dishes before anyone could argue.
No one did.
The kitchen felt mercifully quiet after the backyard. The door closed behind you with a soft click that felt like permission to breathe again. You set the dishes down in the sink with more force than necessary, the clatter echoing briefly before fading. You turned on the tap, let the water run hot, grounded yourself in the simple mechanics of it—scrub, rinse, stack.
You didn’t care that the water stung your hands. You didn’t care that it hurt. It distracted you from paying attention to the pressure behind your eyes.
You were not going to cry. Not here. Not over this. Not because Dylan had that tone again when you mentioned New York, or because Devin hadn’t noticed at all. Not because you were tired of shrinking yourself to make things easier for them.
Halfway through the pile, you heard the kitchen door creak open. You sensed it immediately, that prickle between your shoulders. The feeling of being watched.
You didn’t turn around when Luke stepped into the doorway. You could see it was him though your periphery, wearing some stupid striped button-up shirt. You just kept looking at the sink. At how the water was tinted pink from the cherry stains. At how the dish soap floated on top of it like bubbly little islands.
“Hey,” Luke said quietly.
Your hands stayed submerged. The heat had gone from sharp to numb, skin raw and tingling, but you didn’t pull away.
“You don’t have to be here,” you said, voice flat.
“I just wanted to talk.”
You hated how small he sounded, reminding you of when you two were young. When Ellen would force apologies out of him after he’d pushed you into the lake or ditched you halfway home on his bike.
You didn’t want an apology now. Not for anything that had happened tonight. And you didn’t trust that he’d understand what you actually wanted, even if he tried.
He was just going to ask the wrong thing and make you want to cry all over again. You could feel it coming.
“Why did you transfer from Michigan?” he asked.
Right. A stupid question.
Because you applied together. Because he left. Because the friends you had here were really his first. Because going home every weekend felt worse than staying. Because your mom moved to New York. Because you were tired of being alone in places that were supposed to feel like home.
You could’t say any of that to him.
Your throat tightened. You scrubbed at a spoon that had been clean for a while now, jaw trembling as you tried to breathe through the sting of tears in your eyes.
“Why are you even talking to me?” you managed.
Luke hesitated. You could hear it in the silence. When he spoke again, he sounded genuinely confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”
You let out a sharp, humorless breath. “Don’t act like you don’t know, Luke.”
He shifted his weight. The floor creaked softly beneath him. “Why New York?”
You shut the tap off with a sharp twist. The silence that followed felt too loud. Then you turned around to look at him. You hated the look on his face. You hated how big he looked standing there, how grown, how put together, while you felt stripped down to something raw and childish and embarrassingly sensitive. You hated that you couldn’t just handle this.
“Why do you care?” you asked. The words came out harsher than you maybe meant to, but you couldn’t take them back now.
Luke blinked, expression empty like a blank piece of paper. Just flat. You weren’t sure if he was thinking too hard or not at all.
“It’s not too far from Jersey, y’know,” he said with a shrug.
He couldn’t have been thinking at all. You didn’t even try to untangle what he might’ve meant by that. Whether he thought you’d moved for him. Whether he thought you owed him something because you’d only been a bridge and a train ride away. Whether he’d ever once considered reaching out himself.
“Oh my god,” you snapped, shaking the thought away. “Shut the fuck up.”
Luke looked stunned. Genuinely. “What?”
“There’s not a single cell in my body,” you said, voice shaking now, tears burning hot on your waterline, “that wants to deal with you again, Luke.”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t.” You cut him off, heat rushing up your neck, your chest tight and aching. “Don’t stand there acting like this is some casual catch-up. Like you didn’t just—” You stopped yourself, jaw clenched hard enough to hurt. If you kept going, you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop talking. Or crying.
Luke didn’t say anything. You weren’t sure he could. Words weren’t going to fix this.
“Have a night,” you muttered, quickly drying your hands on a dish towel, already moving out of the kitchen.
You didn’t wait for a response and you didn’t look back.
You took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, the noise from the backyard growing louder and then suddenly very far away. You shut your bedroom door behind you and leaned against it, breath coming too fast, too shallow.
You hated that he could still do this to you. Hated that he didn’t even know why.
And worst of all, you hated the small, traitorous part of you that had been relieved—stupidly, painfully relieved—that he’d followed you inside at all.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Summer in Michigan wasn’t too bad when you were left on your own.
When Dylan had to be at his real estate office, or when Devin drove into Detroit to help your dad at the company. When all three of them disappeared for eight hours at the golf course, or had dinner at the country club, or took the boat out on the lake and came back tired and sunburned, smelling like fish and beer.
That was when Michigan almost felt like it used to.
Because you had the house to yourself.
You baked sourdough for breakfast, letting it rise slowly on the counter the way your grandma used to. You ate thick slices with butter and marmalade, and drank tea in the greenhouse—its windows finally clean again, thanks to you. You invited Kayla over on the days you babysat her, pushed her on the tire swing until she shrieked with laughter and let herself drop into the lake. You watched her swim back to shore over and over again with the same joy every time.
She still didn’t really know how to ride a bike, but she was getting better. One afternoon, the two of you made it all the way down the block to the weekly farmers market. You bought her fresh strawberries and yourself a bouquet of pink dahlias. She didn’t fall once.
You were playing house by yourself, cooped up in your grandmother’s massive old home, and you liked it—even if the thought came with a sharp, double-edged guilt. Liking it because no one else was there felt cruel in a way you didn’t quite know how to name.
On evenings when no one came home, you cooked dinner just for yourself and ate it on the porch. You played music through a small speaker and didn’t care if it was too loud or too sad or too girly. You went down to the dock sometimes and swam before bed, the lake cool and dark around you.
There were no rowdy boys trying to push you in. No wandering gazes lingering too long on your body. The absence of that alone felt calming in a way you hadn’t known to expect—like peace had been possible here all along, just at the cost of being alone.
And then there was sleep.
Your old room sat at the end of the long upstairs hallway. It had been your grandmother’s once, too. White wooden panels lined the walls, oak floors that creaked no matter how carefully you walked. The bed had an iron frame and the linens were hand-sewn. Even your pillowcases had your initials embroidered in pale pink silk thread—your grandmother’s careful stitching, still intact.
You loved it in there. And you hated it.
The room was beautiful, heavy with memory, its four walls holding too many versions of you at once. You tried to soften it with new things—fresh clothes in the wardrobe, new books on the shelves. A little suitcase record player. A few favorite records hauled from New York; others bought from a friendly old collector at the farmers market.
It just… didn’t quite work.
You couldn’t outrun the feeling that you’d outgrown the space. That you’d left a little girl behind here who wasn’t you anymore. The person who stared back from the vanity mirror looked more polished, more careful than that little girl had ever been.
The vanity was your grandma’s too. You remembered sitting on the edge of the bed as a child, watching her get ready—hair rollers clipped in place, floral perfume hanging thick in the air, sheer pink lipstick always the final step. You’d asked questions about everything.
Now, you sat there yourself, glossing your lips, brushing black mascara through your lashes, and the resemblance caught you off guard.
Summer wasn’t supposed to look like this.
Summer was supposed to have scraped knees and blistered feet and bug bites you couldn’t stop scratching. She wasn’t supposed to be wearing a short dress and jewelry, wasn’t supposed to be putting on makeup before joining the other kids at some party.
Well, the kids were all grown up now. And apparently, so were you.
Simon was throwing a house party, and you’d told yourself it was okay to go. Dylan and Devin were both in Detroit for the day—you were sure of it—and you still had old friends in this town, even if you rarely let yourself think about them. You could show up. You wouldn’t make it weird. You wouldn’t let it become weird.
So with your pink Converse tied and your summer dress zipped carefully up your back, you headed downstairs feeling—if not confident—at least steady. Lightly buzzed from a pre-drink of lemonade and vodka. Loose enough to breathe.
Halfway down the stairs, you stopped.
Outside, car doors slammed shut. Dylan and Devin. Their voices floated up faintly through the open windows.
Through the kitchen opening you could see your dad sitting at the island. He was looking at something on his phone, reading glasses perched low on his nose. Only the pendant above the island was turned on, casting a warm, narrow pool of light, catching the silver hair at his temples and the ever-growing frown line on his forehead.
Your knees locked with how quick you froze, but it was too late for you to retreat now.
For a second, the sight of him like that felt strangely intimate. Domestic. Like a photograph you hadn’t looked at in years.
He had been such a girl dad when you were born. Obnoxiously proud. The kind who kept your kindergarten drawings in his briefcase and showed them off at work like they were blueprints. He used to call you his Baby like it was a title, not an insult.
The divorce had hollowed him out. Well, the separation at first, but since the divorce, you truly couldn’t recognize him. It had taken his softness and folded it inward, where it curdled into bitterness and control. Love that didn’t know where to go anymore.
Your dad didn’t look up at first, but you saw his jaw tighten slightly, like he’d heard your footsteps down the stairs anyway. When you finally managed to reach the bottom step, he looked up, and surprisingly, he smiled.
“Well,” your dad said, eyes flicking over you, “look at you.”
You paused, one hand still on the banister.
“Where are you headed all dressed up, Baby?” he asked.
“Simon’s having a party,” you said. “I don’t know. I thought I’d go for a bit.”
You were twenty-two years old. You’d gotten blackout drunk before. You’d had sex. You were a college graduate. You did not need to ask for permission from your father to go to a party down the street. Yet this felt an awful lot like you were doing exactly that.
“Blue house?” he asked mildly. “Dad with the Porsche 911 Turbo?”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “I don’t know what car he drives. But yes. It’s across the street. Simon was quarterback on Devin’s team. You know him, Dad.”
“Right,” he said, pleased to have placed it. “I think your brothers might be heading there too.”
“Yeah, well,” you said quickly, shifting your weight toward the door, “I’m gonna go—”
“Hang on,” he said gently. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even stern. Just tired, like he was asking you to sit with something he’d been carrying around all day. He quickly turned his phone toward you. “Have you seen these?”
Your stomach sank before the screen even fully came into view.
It was open on your mother’s Instagram. A photo mid-scroll on a beach in St. Barths. Sunlit and smiling, bikini straps thin against her shoulders. Jared stood beside her, tan and broad, his arm slung around her waist with an ease that felt almost too intimate for a public account.
“She always posts vacation photos, Dad,” you said evenly.
“She doesn’t always post them like this,” he replied, just as calm. “Wearing next to nothing. With some man none of us know.”
“I know Jared,” you said. “Dylan’s met him too. When he had that work trip to New York.”
You didn’t add anything else. Didn’t say that you couldn’t stand him. That he was a personal trainer that had slid into your mother’s life with protein shakes and “clean eating” and comments about calories that made your skin crawl. That he’d convinced her she needed to optimize herself, like she was a project instead of a person.
You weren’t handing your dad that win. On Instagram, Jared looked like the perfect rebound. And you refused to be the one to puncture that illusion for him.
Your dad let out a quiet, humorless snort. “Is he as much of an airhead as he looks?”
“I think they have fun together,” you said. “That’s kind of the point.”
He leaned back against the counter, exhaling through his nose. “So, what? I’m not allowed to be concerned now?”
“I didn’t say that.” You kept your voice low and measured. “I just don’t think this is something I need to weigh in on.”
“You already did,” he said. “When you moved to New York.”
There it was. Slipped in gently, like it hadn’t been rehearsed.
He’d never liked New York. Even less now that you and your mom were there. He hadn’t visited you once. Devin liked coming when the Red Wings were playing some team in the city. And even Dylan had once made time for you during a work trip.
You stared at him for a moment, then shook your head. You couldn’t say what you wanted to say, so instead, you said what felt reasonable.
“I’m not going to badmouth Mom just so you can feel better about yourself,” you said. “That’s not happening.”
“I just want what’s best for her,” he insisted. “Dating some thirty-five-year-old isn’t healthy.”
“And being this bitter is?” you shot back, the words leaving your mouth before you could soften them.
He didn’t respond. Just looked away, jaw set.
“You took down the family photos,” you continued. “The ones she was in.”
His fingers tightened around his phone. It almost looked like it hurt.
“And don’t get me started on the garden,” you continued, voice steady despite the ache creeping up your throat. “You had two things to take care of after Grandma. Two things that mattered to her and Mom. And you did neither.”
“Well,” he said after a beat, “you weren’t even here, Baby. Isn’t that worse?”
That time Baby landed like an insult. Like you were too young to handle this. Too young to understand what had happened here because you’d taken the first chance you got to get out of here, watching the chaos unfold safely from three states away.
“Did you ever stop to wonder why?” you slowly asked. “Why I don’t feel like this is home anymore?”
His expression hardened, just slightly. “You’ve got an attitude problem,” he said. “You know that.”
You laughed, short and breathless, anger and hurt tangling in your chest. “Who do you think I got it from?” you asked. “Because it sure as hell wasn’t Mom.”
Silence stretched long between you.
Outside, you could hear laughter drifting from the street. Music starting up somewhere nearby. You grabbed your keys from the counter, hands shaking, and didn’t wait for him to say anything else.
—
Simon’s family home was already loud when you got there.
It wasn’t later than nine o’clock, but people were crowding the porch and the lawn. You could spot some moving inside through the windows. Music spilled out in uneven waves, bass thudding through your chest as you pushed past the open gate of the white picket fence.
Someone (it had to be Simon’s sister) had strung fairy lights along the porch and into the backyard, the glow warm and hazy against the deepening dusk. Red cups littered every available surface—railings, window sills, the hood of someone’s parked truck. Laughter rose and fell in bursts, familiar voices layered with people you only half-recognized now.
You didn’t slow down.
You made a beeline to the backyard, where you knew there’d be a drink table. It was muscle memory at this point. You’d gotten drunk at Simon’s parties before.
You were acting out of pure emotion, heart still racing from the argument, adrenaline buzzing hot under your skin. You poured vodka into a cup without measuring, topped it with whatever mixer was closest, and drank like you were trying to outrun something. Or drown it. The burn was grounding. Good.
You told yourself you were fine. You told yourself this was exactly what you needed.
The crowd was a blur—some old classmates, neighbors’ kids who’d grown into strangers, people who still saw you as part of a set you’d quietly stepped out of.
“Hey there, Baby.”
You turned from the table and nearly ran straight into Jack Hughes.
You hadn’t talked much to Jack during the barbecue a couple of nights ago. So, staring at his face now felt a little odd. He looked exactly like he always had and nothing like you remembered all at once.
“Fuck—” You almost spilled your drink over your hand. “Hi Jack.”
Jack laughed gently, steadying your hand with his own. You didn’t know why you were surprised that he was touching you, let alone talking to you. You didn’t know Jack. Not like you knew Luke. But he was always kind. A little too outgoing for you, maybe. But that didn’t matter now. You just needed someone kind.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, grinning. Then, almost immediately, the grin flattened. “No offense. I just assumed you’d escaped Michigan again.”
You huffed out a laugh. “I fear you’re stuck with me until August.”
“Same with me,” he said, glancing around the party with open skepticism. “I arrived here and suddenly felt ninety years old.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You?”
“Yeah,” Jack said, shrugging. “I think I hate this.”
You snorted despite yourself, the sound surprised out of you. “Really?”
“I think I’m going through something,” he said. You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “It’s a whole thing.”
For some reason, that helped. That he was kind of grumpy. The way he didn’t try to sell the night as anything other than what it was. A reason to get drunk. A reason to act like you were a teenager again.
Before either of you could say more, someone clapped loudly from the backdoor.
“Okay!” a voice shouted. “Never have I ever—everyone inside! Drinks up!”
You hesitated, and then you looked over at Jack. Which turned out to be a mistake. Because in mere seconds, he’d hooked his arm through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world and started dragging you toward the living room, drink sloshing dangerously in his free hand.
“Come on,” he said. “If we’re doing this thing, we’re doing it properly.”
“If nothing else,” you muttered, stumbling a little as you were pulled along, “I’m already kind of drunk.”
“Perfect,” Jack replied. “That’s the spirit.”
A circle had already formed in the living room by the time you got there—people sprawled on the floor, leaning against couches, some sitting cross-legged with their backs to the walls. Someone shoved a bottle of vodka into your hand as you sat down beside Jack in a corner, knees brushing. He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in like he was bracing for impact.
You topped off your drink before you handed him the bottle.
The rules were shouted over one another, only half-serious. You didn’t even know if this game had proper rules. You just drank when you’d done the thing, right? You took a sip before the first question was even asked, mostly to have something to do.
You looked around at the people participating. It took a while to place some of them. It was a lot of younger siblings who were now full-grown adults. Someone you remembered being twelve years old who suddenly was old enough to have a full beard. Some had to be strangers. Invited friends and partners, just here for the summer.
You spotted Devin too. Already laughing too loudly, and sat in Josh’s lap for some reason. The floor was empty beside him. He looked drunk and really happy.
A girl you recognized as Jessie started by calling out the first prompt. She’d sold you the dahlias at the farmers market. You liked her solely for that reason.
“Okay, I’ll start,” she almost shouted. “Never have I ever had car sex!”
A groan rippled through the room. Several people drank immediately. Jack drank without hesitation, then glanced sideways at you.
You shook your head at him, putting your hand over your cup as a clear indication that you weren’t drinking.
Jack grinned. “Not a backseat romantic, Baby?”
“I live in New York. People don’t have cars.”
Laughter broke out around you, and you realized that more people had heard you than intended. Maybe that came from sitting next to Jack. People listened to Jack. You guessed it wasn’t too horrible—to have people know something you had not done.
Next up was the guy beside Jessie. He’d played on Devin’s football team in high school. That was about all you knew. He still looked like a jock, even in his mid-twenties.
“Never have I ever kissed someone of the same gender!” he called out.
Ooh. Wasn’t that predictable? The loud laughter coming from the crowd told you so, at least. This time you drank without thinking. So did Jack. You caught his eye mid-sip.
“Huh,” he said thoughtfully. “Look at us.”
“New York is also very liberal,” you said, swallowing down a big gulp.
A few rounds passed like that—questions blurring together, drinks getting stronger, your cheeks warm and buzzing. You felt lighter than you had all evening, like the sharp edges had been sanded down just enough to breathe.
You’d almost forgotten why you hated Michigan so much. Almost.
Because then you spotted Luke across the room, coming up from the basement.
He stood with a group you vaguely remembered, mostly people you’d seen at their house through the years. Beside him stood a girl with beautiful strawberry blonde hair. When she turned so you could see her face, you noticed that it was Simon’s sister. Emma? If you remembered correctly. She was supposed to be, like, fifteen at most, in your head. But now she looked like a woman. Pretty in a way that felt very intentional.
Her hand rested easily on Luke’s bicep as she laughed at something he said. He laughed too, head tipped back, mouth open, unguarded.
He laughed like he’d never been lonely. Like he’d never been hurt. Like there was still hope around him. Adolescence still burning brightly somewhere inside of him. Like everything was still allowed to be a game.
Your stomach burned from the alcohol. You told yourself it was the alcohol.
“Y/N!” It was Jessie who yelled at you. “It’s your turn.”
“What? Okay,” you startled, feeling everyone’s eyes on you again. “Never have I ever… sucked on someone’s toe.”
You felt your cheeks burn. How was that your first thought?
But the people playing still laughed. A handful of people drank, some groaning out of disgust. You looked over at Jack to see what he was doing. To your surprise, he gently sipped his drink.
“You’re kinkier than I thought!” you chuckled, having to point at him so that people would see him drink.
“I lost a bet, okay?” Jack said defensively. “It was the opposite of sexy.”
Then came his turn to shout out a prompt. You almost felt the room slow down because people paid so much attention to him. You didn’t look at Jack, though. Something else caught your eye.
Luke was scanning the circle of people, his eyes firstly landing on Jack as he spoke and then directly on you.
“Never have I ever… masturbated with someone else in the room.”
People drank. More than you expected. Enough that someone laughed in surprise, someone else groaned like they’d been exposed against their will. Maybe it was one of those gross challenges boys did to see if they could get away with it.
But it wasn’t that to you.
The memory rose up warm and uninvited, surprisingly gentle around the edges. And across the room, you watched recognition dawn on Luke’s face at the exact same time it did in your own mind—his mouth parting slightly, eyes widening just a fraction.
It was almost funny in hindsight.
How nervous you’d both been. How carefully you’d avoided looking directly at each other. How awkward it had felt, hip to hip on your narrow dorm bed, both of you pretending this was normal, that you knew what you were doing. You’d thought then that actual sex would be so much worse—more embarrassing, more exposed.
Which was ironic, because a month later you’d slept together, and it hadn’t been awkward at all.
But that first time—your first anything—had been that night. Just exploring. Just hands beneath underwear, and the quiet, shared relief of figuring something out together.
You’d cornered him into confessing he was still a virgin after overhearing some of the hockey guys talking shit at a frat party. He’d nodded along back then, pretending he understood, and you’d known immediately that he didn’t.
And that he was adamant to learn.
One thing led to another, and somehow you’d ended up making yourselves come in the presence of each other. It was exactly as awkward as it sounded.
You laughed softly now as you lifted your cup and drank. Across the circle, Luke hadn’t moved. His eyes were still on you.
“Nope,” Jack said immediately, turning toward you like he’d been personally victimized. “Absolutely not. I refuse to process this.”
You shot him a look. “What? I’m not a child, Jack.”
“That doesn’t mean I wanted that information,” he said, genuinely pained.
You laughed again—louder this time, a little unsteady. And somewhere between that laugh and the next sip, Luke disappeared from the living room. You scanned the space once, then again. He was gone.
“What’s got your panties in a twist?” you nudged Jack with your knee. “You need more to drink?”
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “No, I just—” He gestured vaguely at the room. The cups. The laughter. Then he whispered, “Don’t you think this is all a little juvenile?”
You considered that. The way everyone seemed to be reaching backward at the same time. The way it felt safer to joke about the past than to talk about the present.
“I fear that’s the point,” you said finally. “This group gets together like twice a year. They might as well reminisce on the good old days by acting like they’re still fifteen.”
Jack snorted. “Well, then I guess I don’t like it being the point.”
You clinked your cup against his anyway. “Cheers to being bitter.”
You drank what was left of your mostly full cup. And if you got very drunk very quickly after that—well. At least you weren’t alone.
—
The night stopped being linear at some point.
Not in a bad way at first. It just… melted and became blurry. Like someone had smeared Vaseline over your field of vision, and time loosened its grip, stretched thin like warm taffy. Everything felt both too fast and impossibly slow. The game dissolved into side conversations and music you didn’t recognize, bodies shifting, people standing and sitting and standing again for no real reason. Laughter spiked and faded in waves, like you were standing knee-deep in it.
You stayed where you were. Jack stayed too, for some reason.
Which was nice, actually. People drifted over to him constantly—old teammates, friends of friends, people who clearly hadn’t seen him in years but acted like they had. A bunch of girls that Jack seemed to have absolutely no interest in.
His bitterness would’ve been concerning if you didn’t know that he’d already hooked up with his fair share of girls in his life. He could use a break.
Jack annoyingly was likable. He talked easily, laughed easily, that same extroverted ease carrying him from one conversation to the next. Yet, every time, he came back. Plopped down beside you again like you were his home base.
You drank.
You drank because your cup was empty, and that felt wrong. You drank because someone asked if you wanted another, and waiting to answer felt like too much effort. You drank because your chest felt too tight and your head felt too full, and alcohol promised—falsely—to smooth the edges.
Jack refilled your cup. Then it was someone else. You weren’t sure whose hand it was anymore, just that the cup kept finding its way back to you, red plastic sticky against your palm.
You didn’t know when your thoughts had started looping.
Your dad’s face at the kitchen island. The way he’d said Baby like a compliment and then like an insult in the span of maybe two minutes. Dylan’s voice. Devin’s laugh. The stupid cherry tree scraping the greenhouse glass. Your grandma’s hands in the dirt, nails always a little stained, rings clinking softly when she worked. Michigan in the summer. Michigan during Christmas. Michigan when it felt like home and Michigan when it didn’t.
You were so fucking tired of being sad about the same things in different rooms.
At some point, you laughed too hard at something that wasn’t funny. At some point, Jack asked if you were okay, and you’d eagerly nodded and said yes, because that was easier than explaining anything at all.
At some point, you became very aware of your bladder.
“I need a bathroom,” you announced, standing too quickly and immediately regretting it.
Jack looked at you, amused, steadying you by your elbow. “You good?”
“Never been better,” you said, which felt true in that deeply unscientific way drunk people believe lies. You pointed with your whole arm toward the ceiling, finger wobbling. “Upstairs bathrooms are usually less… haunted.”
“Haunted?” Jack repeated.
“By men missing the bowl,” you clarified.
He snorted and nudged you toward the stairs. “Go. Godspeed.”
The stairs were steeper than you remembered. Or maybe you were just swaying. Probably the swaying. You held onto the railing, counting steps like that might help, and when you made it to the top without eating shit, you felt absurdly accomplished.
The hallway upstairs was quieter. Cooler. Like you’d crossed into a different climate zone. The music dulled, laughter muffled behind closed doors, and for a second you felt almost calm. Almost safe.
You spotted the first door on the right, a tiny handmade WC sign crookedly nailed into the wood. It looked like something Simon had made in middle school art class—uneven lettering, questionable paint choice. Ugly as fuck.
Huh. The door was unlocked.
You actually smiled to yourself. A small, proud smile. “See?” you whispered to no one. “The universe provides.”
You pushed the door open, and the universe immediately took it back.
Luke was there. Your Luke.
Luke, unmistakably Luke, backed up against the bathroom counter like he’d been placed there on purpose for you to see. Simon’s sister stood between him and the door, close enough that there was no space left to misunderstand. Her hands were in his shirt, her mouth on his, the moment private and careless and very, very not meant for an audience.
They should’ve locked the fucking door.
The lighting was soft in that way bathrooms always are at parties—too warm, almost pretty. The mirror behind them reflected the scene at an angle that made it worse, somehow. Doubling it, like the universe wanted to be thorough.
Your brain did something strange. It supplied thoughts you didn’t ask for.
That’s definitely not the bathroom you’re supposed to use.
Bold choice fucking Simon’s sister, Luke. Bold.
Because he looked happy. Loose. Like someone who hadn’t been carrying around a stone in his chest for years. Through the mirror you watched her kiss down his neck, watched the way his head tipped back without thinking, watched how familiar his face still was to you in moments like that. Her hands slid lower, purposeful, and Luke made a soft sound you wished you could unhear.
Of course.
Of course this was how you found him. Laughing earlier. Untouched by whatever rot had taken up residence in you. Still playing the same games. Still winning them.
You laughed once, breathy and brittle. It startled all three of you.
“Wow,” you said, voice bright in a way that felt almost impressive given how hard your heart was breaking. “You really haven’t changed much, Hughes.”
Luke pushed away from her. She almost toppled over, her balance wobbly on her way down to kneel in front of him. His eyes were wide and slightly bloodshot, his mouth already opening around your name.
You didn’t stay to hear it.
If he had called you Baby in that moment, you would’ve punched him in the face.
You backed out, pulled the door shut like this was a normal mistake, like you hadn’t just watched a guy you used to be in love with almost get blown by some… girl. Simon’s sister wasn’t even that bad of a person. You couldn’t put this on her.
You moved on autopilot—stumbling down the hall, down the stairs, through the noise and the music and the laughter that suddenly felt obscene, and straight out the front door into the night.
When the cold air hit your face, you no longer hindered the tears from falling.
—
By the time Luke made it outside, you were already halfway up the street.
Streetlights smeared into long yellow blurs as he stumbled down the front steps, heart thudding too fast, stomach twisting like he’d swallowed something bad. The music from inside thumped on without him, laughter spilling out the open door like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just watched your heart break in real time.
He’d been watching you all night.
He hated admitting that to himself, but it was true. From the second you walked in—dress soft and stupidly pretty, hair done, that look on your face like you were scared of something—his attention had snagged and refused to let go. He’d told himself it was nothing. Habit. Familiarity. Michigan doing weird things to his brain.
He told himself he couldn’t feel that way when you didn’t feel it back. When you were angry at him for something he still didn’t understand.
Then you’d sat next to Jack.
You’d laughed too loud at his jokes. Leaned into him like that was natural. You didn’t even know Jack. Luke told himself not to read into it, but something small and ugly curled in his chest anyway. Jack was safe. Jack was easy. Jack had absolutely no history with you.
And yeah—he’d seen the way you drank. Fast. Determined. Like you were trying to outrun something.
He hadn’t known how to step in. Hadn’t known if he even could.
So when Simon’s sister had shown up—bright smile, open availability, uncomplicated—Luke had let himself be pulled along. It wasn’t about wanting her. It was about not wanting to think about you laughing with someone else like it didn’t hurt.
Then you’d opened the fucking bathroom door.
So, now he was sprinting down the street after you, cursing under his breath. “Baby!” he shouted before he could stop himself. Too loud. Too drunk himself to measure the volume.
You flinched like he’d thrown something at you.
“Hey—hey,” he said, slowing when he caught up, breathless now. “What the fuck—what did I do to upset you?”
You didn’t answer. Just kept walking, shoulders hunched, arms tight around yourself like you were holding something in. He could tell that you were crying even from behind.
“Can you just—” His voice cracked unexpectedly, and it pissed him off. “Can you please tell me?”
You spun on him so suddenly he almost ran into you.
“You know damn well what you did, Luke,” you almost yelled. Your eyes were red, furious, and wet, mascara smudged beneath them. “Don’t act stupid.”
His brain stalled. Fully stalled.
“I’m not acting,” he said, too fast. “I swear. I don’t—” He searched your face like there was a clue he’d missed, something obvious written there. “I don’t get it, Baby.”
The word slipped out automatically. It was what everyone called you. But your reaction was immediate.
“Don’t fucking call me that,” you snapped. “And leave me the fuck alone!”
Luke recoiled, just a step. “I—what? No. You don’t get to say that and then not explain.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration starting to bleed through his confusion. “You knew I’d be here. You didn’t come back to Michigan thinking I wouldn’t be here.”
You laughed, short and broken. “You think I’m here because I want to be?”
Luke didn’t know what that was supposed to mean.
He froze for a half-second, hands lifting instinctively, unsure what to do with them. You were messy, stumbling slightly, leaning against nothing to find balance. He had to step closer, but carefully, like approaching a wounded animal.
“Is this fucking funny to you?” you went on, words tumbling faster now. “You think it’s something to fucking brag about?”
He shook his head. “I don’t—”
“That you can have sex with someone,” you said, voice cracking wide open, “and then walk away feeling absolutely nothing about it?”
Something ugly and cold dropped into his gut as the memory snapped into place—not the bathroom, not Simon’s sister—but a narrow dorm bed. Not the first time, when all you’d used were hands. Not the time you’d drank to in that stupid game. No. The second time. Nervous laughter. Your naked body pressed against his. How careful he’d been. How scared. How young.
How nothing more ever happened afterwards.
“Oh,” Luke breathed, barely audible.
Your laugh broke completely then, dissolving into something closer to a sob. “It’s not normal, Luke. You’re not normal.”
Luke’s hands twitched. He reached out to grab you, steady you, but you were still angry, still stumbling. He didn’t know if you’d hit him or just yell louder. “I didn’t—Baby, I didn’t—”
“Don’t,” you said immediately, backing away. “Don’t fucking touch me. You probably haven’t even washed your hands.”
The words were cruel. Mostly defensive, but still cruel.
“You should go back in and finish what you started,” you added bitterly, wiping at your cheeks with shaking fingers. “Hope you’ve learned how to make a girl come by now.”
He stood there as you turned and walked away again, shoulders shaking, steps uneven but determined. He wanted to follow. To say something that would fix this. To apologize for things he hadn’t even realized he’d broken.
He’d never seen you be mean before. He didn’t think you could be.
You didn’t look back. Luke watched until you disappeared into your house. You left him standing there with the full weight of it, and an entire house of people watching behind him.
He’d left you without saying goodbye. He’d let you believe it meant nothing.
Luke felt like he was about to be sick.
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can i just say that i may have manifested jack hughes and tate mcrae cause i have a jack hughes x singer!reader series sitting in my drafts with tate as the face claim😭😭
Pretty self-explanatory, just a play off her last name. This was the first ever hockey nickname she got; it was given to her way back in youth hockey and the nickname just followed her all the way up to college hockey.
𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇.
Given to her by Nolan Moyle, Anderson first got the nickname “Trashmouth” during one of their games at the beginning of the regular season. She’s always had a pretty foul mouth, but had been trying to tone it down a little bit up until she had some isssues with a player on the other team.
Anderson’s pretty widely known for excessively chirping players on the ice (and if she needs to, she does it enough in the hopes that it draws a penalty from another player, it usually works).
𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐇.
This one is more of a joint nickname. This was given to her by Mackie Samoskevich because when he first met her and Seamus he said they reminded him of Crash and Eddie from Ice Age. The nickname just ended up sticking. Although, it’s only ever reslly used when referring to both of them at the same time.
𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐄.
Another Nolan Moyle nickname, although this is one that only he uses and it’s sort of a joke between them. So, Anderson’s always been pretty open about the fact that it’s just her and her mom and she often makes jokes about not having a dad. And one day Nolan called her Annie as a joke (in reference to Little Orphan Annie), because of the fact that she doesn’t have a dad and they thought it was hilarious.
