Summary: You and Quinn have a tradition where you give each other something small before every season. This time he gives you a teddy bear.
WC: 3,3k
You’ve always loved the preseason.
Not because of the games, or the media buzz, or even the crisp Vancouver evenings that mean fall is coming. No—your favorite part is the tradition you and Quinn made years ago, back when he was still in Michigan and you were just the friend who brought snacks to his apartment while he burned grilled cheese on the stove because he “got distracted watching tape.”
The tradition is simple: every season, you exchange one small gift. Nothing dramatic, nothing expensive—just something that says, hey, I’m here, I’m still in your corner.
This year, you’ve been hyping your gift up in your head for weeks. It’s stupid—your gifts are never supposed to be big deals—but you’re proud of it. You found a limited-edition Canucks cap with a subtle stitched detail on the side, the kind you know Quinn likes: minimal, comfortable, understated. Like him.
You’re buzzing with anticipation as you walk up the steps to his house. He texted earlier:
Q: Come over? Got thing 4 u
You: Gift thing?
Q: Maybe
You: That’s a yes
Q: shut up and come over
You grin when you re-read it. Quinn texts exactly like he talks: clipped, quiet, with a hidden warmth you’ve learned to decode over years of friendship.
You knock once and let yourself in. The house smells faintly like laundry detergent and the candle you bought him last Christmas. You hear his voice from the living room.
“Hey,” he calls out. He sounds casual, but you can hear something else underneath. Nerves?
You step in and find him on the couch, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair soft and messy from practice. He looks up, and the smile he gives you is that small, shy one that always pulls something tight in your chest.
“Hey,” you echo.
He pats the couch beside him. “Sit.”
You laugh. “Wow, bossy.”
He rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile.
There it is—that fondness he never says out loud but always wears in tiny, unintentional ways.
You drop your bag and sit next to him. Not touching, but close enough that a few centimeters more would change everything.
“So,” you say, nudging him with your knee. “Gift time?”
He clears his throat. “Yeah. Uh—yeah.”
You squint at him. “Why do you sound like you’re about to fire me?”
“I don’t,” he mutters.
He very much does.
But you let it go and pull out the cap you brought him. “Here. For the tradition.”
His eyes light up when you hand it over. Quinn is not expressive—not with cameras around, not with strangers, not even with most people he knows. But when he sees the cap, his whole face softens.
“You remembered the stitching thing,” he murmurs.
“I pay attention,” you say lightly. Too lightly.
His eyes flick up to yours for a moment, like he wants to say something to that, but then he swallows and nods instead. “It’s perfect.”
Warmth pushes up your spine. You look away before you get too obvious. “Your turn.”
And that’s when Quinn freezes.
Not dramatically. Not comically. Just enough that you notice the way his breath catches.
He reaches beside the couch and picks up…something. It’s hidden in his hands, and he’s holding it like it’s fragile, which is bizarre because—
“Quinn,” you say, “what did you do?”
He sighs, annoyed at himself. It’s the same sigh he makes when he misses an easy pass.
“It’s stupid,” he says quickly. “You can laugh, but, like—just don’t be mean.”
Your mouth falls open. “I’m never mean.”
He gives you a pointed look.
“Okay, fine,” you amend. “I’m mean sometimes, but only when you deserve it.”
“Yeah, well,” he mumbles, eyes dropping, “just…be nice for this.”
Your heart tugs. He’s nervous. Actually nervous.
“Quinn,” you say softly, “just give it to me.”
He inhales, then finally uncurls his fingers.
And there, sitting in his palms, is a tiny stuffed bear.
It’s soft and round and wearing a miniature Canucks jersey with a tiny C on the front.
You blink.
You blink again.
“…What?” you whisper.
“It’s stupid,” he blurts out. “I know. I know it’s stupid, but—”
“No!” You grab it gently, staring. “Quinn, this is—wait. This is adorable.”
He groans and drags a hand down his face. “I knew you’d say that.”
“Because it is! Look at him!” You lift the bear. “Is his name Captain?”
“I didn’t name it,” he mutters.
He totally did.
You bite your lip to hide your smile. “Why a bear?”
He shrugs, but it’s a tight, uncomfortable motion. “Just…thought you’d like it.”
“I do.” You run your thumb over the tiny embroidered jersey. “But this is way cuter than what we usually do. Anything you wanna share?”
He stiffens.
You feel it immediately—the mood shift, the sudden tension crackling in the air like static.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks away. His hands flex nervously against his knees. You’ve known him forever; you know when he’s holding something back.
“Quinn,” you say, turning toward him fully. “Hey. Talk to me.”
He doesn’t. Not at first.
Instead he stares at the wall, jaw working, throat bobbing like he’s trying to swallow something down.
“It’s okay,” you add gently. “Whatever it is.”
Another beat of silence.
And then, very quietly:
“It wasn’t supposed to be this.”
Your eyebrows lift. “What do you mean?”
He exhales—slow, shaky. “I had a different idea. Something else I wanted to give you. But I—I chickened out.”
Your chest tightens. “Quinn…”
He rubs the back of his neck, looking miserable. “I saw the bear in a shop near the rink, and it reminded me of—us, I guess? Stupid, right? Something small, something—safe.”
“Safe?” you repeat.
His cheeks flush pink. Quinn never blushes. Not even on the ice. But he does now, and your heart picks up.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Safe. Not…not scary.”
You don’t breathe for a moment.
There’s only one reason Quinn Hughes would need something “safe” to give you.
Only one reason he’d be scared.
“Quinn,” you whisper. “What were you actually going to give me?”
He presses his lips together. Your heart thunders.
After what feels like a full minute, he mutters, “Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
He groans and covers his face with both hands. “I’m gonna sound dumb.”
“You never sound dumb to me.” Your voice is soft but steady. “And I think you know that.”
He peeks through his fingers at you, vulnerable in a way you’ve almost never seen. “It was…a letter.”
Your breath catches. “A letter?”
“Don’t,” he warns weakly. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not,” you whisper. “What kind of letter?”
He drops his hands and stares at the floor. “The kind you give someone when—when you’re not sure you can say it out loud.”
Your pulse spikes.
Say what?
He continues, barely audible, “I’ve been trying to tell you something for a long time. Years. But I never—the timing was never right. And then I got scared you wouldn’t…want to hear it.”
Your fingers curl around the little bear, squeezing it to your chest.
“Quinn,” you breathe, “look at me.”
He hesitates—but lifts his eyes.
There’s something raw in them. Something terrified. Something hopeful.
“What were you going to say?” your voice cracks on the last word. “Please. Just tell me.”
His throat bobs again.
Then, slowly:
“I love you.”
Silence.
Not the heavy kind.
Not the painful kind.
Just a soft, stunned quiet that fills every inch of the room.
Quinn watches you like he expects you to run.
Like he expects you to laugh.
Like he expects to lose you.
You inhale, shaky. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
His expression twists with helplessness. “Because I didn’t want to ruin this. Us. You’re—you’re the most important person in my life, and I didn’t want to scare you off. And I thought maybe if I gave you something small, something dumb like the bear, I could just…pretend I wasn’t feeling all of this.”
You blink rapidly, eyes stinging. “Quinn…”
“But then you smiled,” he whispers, voice cracking. “And you were so happy. And I thought, ‘This is enough. I can live with this. I can love you quietly.’ But now you’re asking and I—” He stops, breath trembling. “I don’t want to keep pretending.”
The bear slips from your hands into your lap.
You reach out and take his hand.
He startles a little at the touch—but doesn’t pull away.
“Quinn,” you say softly, “I love you too.”
He freezes.
Like completely.
You can almost see the words run through his head in slow motion.
“You…what?”
“I love you,” you repeat, firmer this time. “I’ve been trying not to. Or trying to hide it. Or hoping you’d magically read my mind because I was too scared to lose you.”
He just stares.
“You’re not going to lose me,” you add, squeezing his hand. “You never could.”
His breath shudders out of him. “I was so sure—so sure you didn’t feel the same.”
“I was so sure you didn’t feel the same.”
He lets out a strangled laugh, something halfway between relief and disbelief.
Then—slowly, carefully—he leans in.
He pauses when he’s inches away, giving you time to pull back.
You don’t.
You tilt your chin up slightly, meeting him halfway.
The kiss is soft.
Barely there at first.
Like he’s memorizing the shape of it, afraid to push too far too fast.
But then his hand slides to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin so gently it sends a shiver through you, and you melt into him. Into the warmth of his hoodie, the fresh-laundry smell, the familiar steadiness of him.
When you break apart, foreheads touching, he exhales a laugh.
“So,” you murmur breathlessly, “the bear is part of the confession now.”
He groans. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I would never,” you say solemnly, even as you grin. “Captain is precious.”
“He’s not named Captain.”
“Sure.”
He nudges you with his forehead. You giggle.
A few seconds pass, quiet and warm, before he says:
“You know…I still have the letter.”
You look up sharply. “You do?”
He nods, cheeks pink. “It’s upstairs.”
Your stomach flips. “Can I read it?”
He hesitates—then nods again, shy. “Yeah. Just…be gentle. I poured my whole heart into it.”
Your chest squeezes painfully, beautifully. “I wouldn’t treat it any other way.”
He stands and offers you his hand.
You take it.
As he pulls you up, you glance at the little bear on the couch.
“Quinn?” you ask.
“Yeah?”
“I really do love him.”
He groans again, but he’s smiling—really smiling, wide and bright and relieved.
“You’re impossible,” he mutters.
You grin. “And you love me.”
He squeezes your hand.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, eyes soft and shining. “I really do.”
Together, you head upstairs.
And the bear sits on the couch wearing its tiny little C, guarding the moment the two of you finally stopped pretending.
Quinn leads you upstairs like he’s walking you into a secret.
His hand stays wrapped around yours the whole time—warm, steady, almost shy. You can feel the tension in his fingers, the way he squeezes just a little too tight like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip.
You won’t.
Not now.
Not ever.
His bedroom is dim, only lit by the soft glow of a lamp on his nightstand. Everything is exactly how you’ve always seen it—clean but lived-in, organized in that quiet Quinn way. But tonight, it feels different.
Intimate.
Charged.
Full of something new and fragile and overwhelmingly warm.
He lets go of your hand only when he crosses to his dresser. You watch the way his shoulders rise and fall, the deep breath he takes before pulling open the top drawer. His movements are precise, careful, like he’s handling something precious.
He turns around holding a folded piece of white notepaper. You recognize it immediately—one of those pads the Canucks always leave in the players’ lockers for notes and schedules.
You never imagined it would hold something like this.
Quinn hesitates, then holds it out to you.
“Be…gentle,” he murmurs. “Please.”
Your heart squeezes. “I will.”
Your fingers brush his when you take it. He inhales sharply, like even that small touch knocks the air out of him.
You sit on the edge of his bed, the letter trembling a little in your hands. Not from fear—just from the sheer weight of knowing this paper holds everything he’s been hiding, everything he couldn’t say.
Quinn doesn’t sit beside you.
He stands in front of you, arms crossed, pacing half-steps like he’s preparing to take a slapshot in front of ten thousand people and not his best friend.
“You can sit,” you say softly.
He shakes his head. “If I sit I’m gonna combust.”
A tiny laugh escapes you. “Okay. Stand, then.”
You unfold the letter.
Quinn’s handwriting is exactly what you expect: neat but slightly slanted, careful, almost boyish in places. You swallow hard and begin reading.
The Letter
I don’t really know how to say this the right way.
I’ve been trying to write this for months, maybe years. I keep starting over because everything I say sounds small compared to what I actually feel. I’m not good at this stuff. I’m better on the ice—there’s a rulebook there. Whistle blows, play starts. Simple.
This isn’t simple.
You’re not simple.
You’re not something I can draw up on a chalkboard or practice until I get it right. You’re just…you. And that scares the hell out of me.
I guess I’m writing this because I don’t want to keep lying. Not to you, and not to myself.
I love you.
There. I said it. I’ve been in love with you for a long time. Longer than I’ll ever admit out loud. Longer than I should’ve let happen before telling you.
You’re my favorite person. The one I want to text first. The one whose opinion actually matters. The one who makes Vancouver feel like home, even when the pressure’s bad and the noise gets loud. When everything sucks, you’re where I want to go. When everything’s good, you’re who I want to celebrate with.
Sometimes I catch myself imagining things I shouldn’t. You in my kitchen. You wearing my hoodie. You asleep on my chest. You at my games, not as my friend but as—more. I don’t know. I guess that’s the word. More.
I don’t expect anything from you. I’m not writing this for you to say it back. I just…I want you to know. Even if you never feel the same, I want you to know that you’re the best part of my life.
If I’m being honest, I’m terrified that giving you this will ruin everything. I’ve never cared about losing something the way I care about losing you. But hiding it feels worse now. And I don’t want to keep pretending I’m not thinking about you every second I’m with you.
So if you’re reading this…please don’t leave. Even if it’s weird for a while, even if nothing changes. I’ll take that. I’ll take any version of you I can keep.
- Q
By the time you finish, your vision is blurred.
You wipe your cheeks, startled to find tears there. Quinn notices immediately—of course he does—and panic flashes across his face.
“Hey—hey, don’t cry.” He steps forward quickly. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you read it yet. It’s too much, isn’t it? I’m sorry, I—”
“Quinn,” you whisper, standing. “Stop.”
He freezes.
“I’m crying because it’s beautiful,” you say, voice thick. “Not because I’m upset.”
He swallows, eyes searching yours. “You mean that?”
You hold up the letter. “This is the most honest, vulnerable thing anyone has ever given me.”
His breath wavers.
“And you’re wrong about something,” you continue softly.
He blinks. “What?”
“You said you’d take any version of me you could keep.” You step closer, heart pounding. “But you don’t have to. You get all of me.”
Quinn looks like someone just cut the power to his brain. “All…of you?”
You nod, tears threatening again. “All of me. Every part.”
He stares at you like he’s memorizing the moment, mapping each detail, filing it away forever.
When he finally moves, it’s slow. Gentle. He lifts a hand and rests it on your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your eye.
“Did you really mean what you said downstairs?” he asks quietly. “About loving me?”
You lean into his touch. “Yes. Every word.”
His fingers tremble. “I don’t want to rush you.”
“You’re not.”
“I don’t want to mess this up.”
“You won’t.”
He exhales shakily. “Can I…kiss you again?”
You don’t answer with words—you just curl your fingers into his hoodie and pull him down.
The kiss is deeper this time.
More sure.
More everything.
He kisses you like the letter is still on your tongue, like every word he wrote is finally being answered.
When you break apart, he presses his forehead to yours, breath warm against your lips.
“I was so scared,” he murmurs.
“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”
“But you’re here.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
His hand slides down to your waist, holding you with a firmness that says he finally believes it. That he finally believes you’re his—not in a possessive way, but in a safe, steady, real way.
You glance at the letter still crumpled in your hand.
“You want this back?” you ask.
He shakes his head immediately. “No. Keep it. Please.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s yours. And because if I take it back, I’ll just rewrite it again. And again. And again.” A soft, self-conscious smile. “I think I like it better with you.”
Your chest feels like it’s glowing. “I’ll keep it safe.”
He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear. “I know you will.”
You step back toward the bed and sit, patting the spot beside you. “Come here?”
This time he doesn’t hesitate.
He sits next to you, close enough that your thighs touch. You rest your head on his shoulder. He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for years.
After a long, quiet moment, he says:
“You know the teddy bear?”
You snort softly. “Captain?”
A groan. “Stop naming him things.”
“It fits.”
He hides his smile behind the back of his hand. “Well…he wasn’t supposed to be the gift.”
“What was?”
Quinn reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out something small. Flat. Metallic.
You blink. “Is that—?”
“A key,” he finishes quietly. “To my place.”
Your heart stutters.
“I was going to give it to you,” he says, voice low, “before I chickened out and went with the bear.”
“Quinn…”
“I wanted you to know you could come here anytime. That this was…your place too, if you wanted it to be.” His throat bobs. “But I thought maybe it was too much.”
You reach out and take the key from his hand, your fingers brushing his.
“It’s not too much,” you whisper. “It’s perfect.”
Quinn exhales like he’s finally breathing for the first time all night.
You curl your fingers around his and squeeze.
“So,” you say softly, “we’re really doing this, huh?”
He leans down and kisses your temple.
“Yeah,” he murmurs against your skin. “We’re doing this.”
And in your lap, warm and steady and real, the letter sits like the beginning of something you both wanted for far too long.
Summary: Luke gets hurt in a game. You rush to the locker room before even thinking about it. When he sees you crying, he realizes your feelings might not be one-sided.
WC: 1,2k
You’ve watched Luke play a hundred times.
And every single time, you’ve told yourself the same thing:
Don’t get attached to every hit. Don’t panic at every fall. Hockey is physical. He bounces back. He always bounces back.
Except tonight, he doesn’t.
Tonight, Luke goes down hard—too hard—and doesn’t get back up right away.
You see it happen like a nightmare unfolding in slow motion:
A collision at the boards.
A twist of legs and a sickening angle of impact.
Luke sliding onto the ice, not moving.
Your breath lodges in your throat.
The crowd noise fades into a low hum.
Your heart slams.
Your hands shake.
He’s not getting up.
He’s not getting up.
You don’t even realize you’re standing until someone beside you says, “Hey—hey, are you okay?”
You’re not.
Because Luke is on the ice, face buried in his arm, and you can’t breathe.
Trainers rush to him. His teammates gather, blocking your view. The arena goes silent. Someone whistles. Someone mutters. Someone swears.
And before you know it—
You’re running.
Running up the stairs, heart pounding. Running down the hallway toward security. Running toward the one place you’ve never dared try to go:
the locker room tunnel.
“Ma’am, you can’t—”
“It’s Luke Hughes,” you gasp. “Please. Please—I just— I need to know he’s okay.”
Something in your voice must crack open, because the guard softens immediately.
“Go,” he says. “But wait outside the exam room. Don’t go in unless they let you.”
You don’t need to be told twice.
You sprint.
Your chest burns, your eyes sting, and your stomach feels like it’s falling out of your body. You can’t think. You can’t breathe.
All you know is that he fell
and he didn’t get up
and you love him
and you never said anything
and what if you’re too late?
Your legs barely carry you by the time you reach the hallway.
Then you see him.
Luke sits on the training table, gear half-off, trainers fussing over him. He looks dazed, pale, and in pain—but he’s upright. He’s talking. He’s alive.
Relief hits you so violently you stumble.
The head trainer says something you can’t hear. Someone leaves the room. Luke rubs his shoulder with a wince.
And then—
He looks up.
His eyes lock on you instantly.
He goes absolutely still.
“Y/N?” he whispers, blinking like he’s seeing a ghost.
You swallow.
Suddenly you’re aware of every hot tear on your cheeks, every tremor in your hands, every bit of panic he just put you through.
His expression shifts.
Surprise.
Confusion.
Then something softer — something dangerously close to concern and something even deeper.
“What are you—” He breaks off when you wipe your face with your sleeve.
His voice drops. “Are you crying?”
You shake your head too fast. “No— I mean— I just— you were on the ice and you weren’t getting up and I—”
You choke on the words.
Luke stares at you like you’re speaking another language.
The trainer pats his knee. “We’ll give you two a minute.”
The room empties.
Luke swings his legs off the table carefully, still wincing, but his eyes never leave yours.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Come here.”
You don’t move.
Mostly because you can’t.
“I didn’t think— you didn’t need to come back here,” he says gently. “It’s not that serious. Just got the wind knocked out of me.”
“You weren’t moving,” you whisper.
“I know,” he admits, rubbing his shoulder. “It looked worse than it felt.”
“Luke,” you breathe, “I thought— I thought something happened to you.”
He frowns, something clicking in his head, his gaze sharpening.
“You ran down here?” he asks quietly.
You nod, unable to speak.
“For me?”
You nod again.
Luke takes a slow step toward you.
Then another.
And another.
You can see the moment something shifts inside him—the realization, the understanding, the way his whole expression cracks open like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“Y/N,” he whispers, “look at me.”
You do.
His eyes… god, they’re soft. Scared, but soft.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles against your arm. “You were that worried?”
You try to laugh, but it comes out broken. “Of course I was worried. You weren’t getting up and I didn’t— I couldn’t—”
You stop before the words “I couldn’t lose you” slip out.
Luke hears them anyway.
He steps closer until your toes touch.
“Hey,” he says softly, “I’m okay. I promise.”
“You weren’t,” you whisper. “Not for a minute.”
Luke’s jaw tenses.
Then, like he can’t help himself, he reaches up and cups your cheek gently—carefully, like you might break.
“You care that much?” he asks, voice so low it almost disappears.
You flinch, want to lie, want to hide, want to protect yourself, but you can’t.
Not with him touching you like that.
Not with your heart still pounding from fear.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “I do.”
Luke inhales sharply. His hand drops from your cheek to your jaw, thumb rubbing a small, trembling circle near your ear.
Something warm blooms behind his eyes.
“Y/N,” he says quietly, “why didn’t you ever tell me?”
You freeze.
He watches you.
And you realize—
He knew.
He knows.
He’s known since the moment he saw your tears.
“I—” your voice breaks, “—I didn’t want to ruin things.”
Luke shakes his head instantly. “You couldn’t ruin anything. Not with me.”
You swallow. “I was scared.”
“I know,” he whispers. “I was scared too.”
That makes you look up.
Luke’s eyes soften even more.
“Yeah,” he says, voice trembling with truth. “Scared because… I’ve felt this way for a while. And I didn’t know if you felt it back.”
Your breath hitches.
He brushes away a tear with the pad of his thumb.
“But then you ran down here,” he murmurs, “and you were crying, and you looked like you’d break in half if I wasn’t okay, and I just—”
He exhales shakily.
“I realized I wasn’t the only one.”
The room is silent.
So painfully, beautifully silent.
Until Luke leans forward—slow, hesitant—and rests his forehead against yours.
His voice is barely a whisper.
“Can I kiss you?”
You don’t even nod.
You just breathe:
“Yes.”
Luke kisses you like you’re fragile.
Like you’re important.
Like he’s waited too long.
It’s soft, trembling, emotional.
Nothing like a victory kiss.
Everything like a confession.
When you pull back, he stays close, nose brushing yours.
“For the record,” he murmurs, “you rushing in here for me? That’s the moment I knew.”
“Knew what?” you whisper.
“That you love me,” he says simply. “And that I love you right back.”
Your breath catches.
Luke smiles faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.
“And next time I get hit like that,” he adds, playful yet sincere, “come yell at me instead of crying, okay?”
You laugh weakly. “I make no promises.”
He kisses your forehead.
“That’s fine,” he says. “Just stay.”
You lean into him, letting your body finally relax for the first time since he fell.
Summary: Luke invites you to a team event, but another player starts flirting with you.
WC: 1,4k
You honestly didn’t expect the Devils’ charity mixer to be… this fancy.
You expected a few tables, some photo ops, some awkward mingling.
You didn’t expect marble floors, champagne fountains, a live jazz trio, or Luke Hughes looking—well—obscenely good in a fitted suit.
You try not to notice how well it fits him. Or how he keeps tugging his tie because he “hates being strangled by fabric.” Or how he kept glancing back at you when you arrived together, like he needed to make sure you didn’t disappear.
He invited you last-minute.
“Just come with me,” he’d said, cheeks pink. “It’ll be more fun if you’re there.”
And of course you said yes.
Because being around Luke has always been easy.
Even if lately it also makes your heart twist in inconvenient ways.
The mixer is loud, warm, crowded—and Luke sticks close. Very close.
Not touching, but close enough that you feel him there, hovering at your shoulder, tuned into you like a second heartbeat.
“Don’t let anyone talk you into karaoke,” he warns. “Last time, Jack sang Beyoncé.”
“Was it good?” you ask.
“Absolutely not.”
You laugh. Luke grins, proud of himself.
You’re comfortable. Relaxed. Happy.
Everything feels right.
Until Luke gets pulled away by a reporter.
And just as you’re about to follow him, someone taps your arm.
“Hey—Y/N, right?”
You turn and find Simon Nemec smiling at you—friendly, bright-eyed, warm in the way he always is when he meets someone new.
“Oh—hi, Simon,” you say. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“We haven’t talked much,” he says. “But Luke talks about you a lot. So I feel like I know you already.”
Your stomach flips. “He… does?”
“Yeah. All the time.”
Simon gives a small, good-natured laugh. “I think I’ve heard more stories about you than about anyone else.”
You try not to melt.
“And you’re here with him tonight?” Simon asks.
“Yeah,” you say, trying to sound casual. “Just hanging out.”
He nods. “If you want a drink, I can get one for you. You probably know Luke won’t let me escape the media scrum if he sees me, so now’s my chance.”
You grin. “Sure—”
“Y/N.”
Luke appears at your side so fast Simon actually startles.
Luke’s hand brushes your arm—light, protective, almost instinctive.
His smile at Simon is polite, but forced.
His jaw is clenched.
His eyes are… intense.
“Oh,” you say, “Simon was just asking if I wanted a drink—”
“I can get you one,” Luke interrupts, too fast.
Simon raises his eyebrows. “I was just offering, man.”
Luke mutters, “Yeah, well. I’ve got it.”
Simon gives you a little smile like, your friend is acting weird, but okay.
“I’ll catch you both later,” he says before leaving.
Luke watches him walk away, shoulders tight.
You turn to him.
“Luke.”
He doesn’t look at you. “What?”
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
He is absolutely not fine.
You touch his wrist.
He startles.
“Hey,” you say softly. “Why are you acting weird?”
“I’m not acting weird.”
“You are literally vibrating.”
He glares at the floor.
“It’s nothing.”
But before you can push him more, someone calls his name for photos.
He leaves reluctantly, like he hates walking away from you.
You watch him go, heart twisting in a newly complicated way.
Later — he gets weirder.
After the photos, Luke stays quiet.
Too quiet.
He keeps glancing at Simon across the room.
Keeps fiddling with his tie.
Keeps hovering near you without fully joining you.
He looks… uneasy. Jealous.
You don’t understand it—and it scares you how much you want it to mean something.
Eventually, you slip outside to get some air.
The night is cool, the city humming below. You breathe deeply, grounding yourself.
Then—
“Yo.”
You turn.
Jack Hughes stands there with a drink and the face of someone who’s about to cause trouble.
Perfect.
“You and Luke fix things yet?” he asks.
You blink. “Fix what?”
Jack snorts. “Please. He’s been eyeing you all night like Nemec’s seconds away from proposing.”
You nearly choke. “Jack—”
“He likes you.”
“He does not—”
“He’s in love with you,” Jack corrects, rolling his eyes. “Painfully. Miserably. Pathetically.”
Your heartbeat stumbles.
Jack waves a hand. “He talks about you constantly. Smiles at his phone every damn time your name pops up. Gets weird when you don’t hang out. It’s obvious.”
You stare at him, speechless.
“Go talk to him,” Jack says, smacking your shoulder lightly. “I’m tired of watching both of you pine.”
“But I never said I—”
“Your face says it every time he walks in a room.”
You groan loudly, but he’s already walking away, waving you off.
“Fix it!” he calls. “Please! For my sanity!”
Your pulse thrums. Your chest feels too full.
You turn back inside.
Time to find Luke.
Inside — he looks lost until he sees you.
He spots you across the room and straightens instantly, like he was waiting for you to come back.
“Hey,” he says when you reach him, voice small. “Thought I lost you.”
“I went for air.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
You hold his gaze.
“You?”
“Yeah,” he lies.
You step closer. “Luke. Why were you upset earlier?”
His jaw clenches.
“I wasn’t upset.”
You lift your eyebrows.
He groans quietly. “Okay. Maybe… a little.”
You wait.
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“He was flirting with you.”
Your heartbeat stutters. “And?”
“And—” Luke glances away. “He shouldn’t.”
You cross your arms.
“Why not?”
He swallows hard.
Because you’re my best friend.
Because I don’t want to lose you.
Because I’m in love with you.
You can almost hear the words rattling around inside him.
But he says none of them.
Instead he mutters:
“He just shouldn’t.”
“Luke,” you say softly, “be honest with me.”
He goes very still.
“It’s nothing,” he insists, but it sounds like a plea.
“Luke.”
He looks at you.
Really looks at you.
And something in him breaks open.
“Fine,” he whispers. “I didn’t like it.”
“Why?”
He hesitates.
Then—
“Because I wanted it to be me.”
Your breath catches.
Luke’s voice is barely audible.
“I wanted to be the one talking to you. Making you laugh. Getting you a drink. I wanted… I don’t know. I wanted to be the one you looked at.”
Warmth spreads through your chest, slow and bright and overwhelming.
“Luke…” you breathe.
He shakes his head, rambling now, panicking.
“I know we’re just friends. I know I shouldn’t feel like this. But when he looked at you like that, I just—my brain got all… messed up.”
You take a step closer.
“And then the idea of someone else having a chance with you—someone who wasn’t me—”
“Luke.”
“—it made me feel sick, and that’s stupid, I know—”
“Luke.”
He finally shuts up.
You rest a hand gently on his chest.
He freezes.
“Why,” you whisper, “do you think we’re just friends?”
He blinks.
“What?”
“I don’t feel like that,” you say softly. “Not about you.”
Luke’s breath catches.
“How… how do you feel about me?”
Your voice trembles. “Like I want you. In the same way you want me.”
Luke swallows hard.
“You—are you serious?”
You nod, slow and certain.
“I’m in love with you, Luke.”
The world stands still.
Then he moves.
Carefully. Like you’re something precious.
His hand finds your cheek.
His forehead dips toward yours.
His voice shakes when he whispers:
“Can I—”
“Yes.”
He kisses you.
Soft. Warm. Slow.
Painfully gentle, like he’s been waiting forever and wants to savor every second.
You melt into him. His hand slides to your waist. His breath mingles with yours, his heart racing under your palm.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are glassy and awed.
“Wow,” he murmurs.
You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah.”
He presses one more soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, smiling against your skin.
“For the record,” he whispers, “I don’t ever want to be just friends again.”
You smile, cheeks warm. “Good.”
Through the glass doors behind you, Jack shouts:
“THANK GOD!”
Luke groans. “We’re never telling him he was right.”
“Absolutely not.”
Luke laces his fingers with yours—gently, like it’s something he’s wanted to do forever.
And he doesn’t let go.
Not once.
Not for the rest of the night.
Summary: Luke notices you constantly stealing his hoodies. One night after a game, he drapes a new team hoodie over your shoulders and quietly says, “This one’s yours… if you want to be mine too.”
a/n: just a short blurb
You don’t mean to steal Luke Hughes’ hoodies.
Really, you don’t.
It’s just… something that happens. Naturally. Like gravity, or seasons changing, or Luke accidentally falling off his longboard every summer and pretending it was “on purpose.”
It started years ago—one forgotten hoodie at your place after a movie night, then one he insisted you take because you complained about the cold, then one you returned and somehow ended up taking again anyway.
Now it’s a pattern.
A ritual.
One he notices. Obviously.
But he never says anything. Not in a real way. Not in a way that would make you stop.
And maybe that’s the real reason you keep doing it.
Because wearing Luke’s clothes feels like being hugged by something you’re not ready to name yet.
Something warm. Something comfortable. Something that scares you with how much you want it.
Tonight is a perfect example.
You’re waiting for him outside the locker room after a Devils home game, tucked into one of his oldest grey hoodies—the one that’s frayed at the cuffs and stretched out from years of being pulled on and off his stupidly broad shoulders. It’s too big for you, obviously… and that’s exactly why you chose it.
The hallway outside the locker room smells faintly of ice, rubber, and victory—Luke got an assist tonight. Nothing huge. But he played well, and he’s always a little happier when he plays well.
You hear his laugh before you see him.
Then the locker room doors open, and Luke steps out with damp hair, rosy cheeks, and that smile—the one that you pretend doesn’t turn your bones into warm pudding.
His eyes land on you immediately.
Then they drop.
Straight to the hoodie.
He stops walking for half a second, eyes softening in a way he probably doesn’t realize you catch.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches you. He gently tugs one sleeve of the hoodie with two fingers. “That mine?”
You lift a brow. “Do you really need to ask?”
His cheeks crease. “Guess not.”
He doesn’t push it. He never does. He just nods toward the exit, and you fall into step beside him, like always.
He smells like detergent and sweat and that woodsy cologne he only wears on game nights. He’s warm, even with the cold Jersey air creeping through the sliding doors.
You walk side by side through the players’ lot, not speaking, not needing to. It’s always been like that with him—comfortable silence, easy breathing, like you’re two halves of the same quiet.
But tonight… something feels different.
Luke keeps looking at you. And not the quick glances he usually gives.
Long ones. Lingering. Thoughtful. Like he’s trying to memorize something he’s afraid he’ll forget.
You stop beside his car. The lot is half empty, the night quiet except for a few distant reporters and the hum of arena lights shutting down.
“You’re quiet,” you say softly.
Luke shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
He hesitates. He never hesitates.
“My… um… my stuff.”
You blink slowly, confused. “Your stuff?”
He gestures vaguely at your body. More specifically, the hoodie wrapped around it.
“Yeah. Like… where it all keeps disappearing to.”
“Luke,” you sigh. “I don’t steal your hoodies.”
“No.” He smiles faintly. “You just never give them back.”
Your breath fogs in the cold air.
And so does his.
But his voice is warm when he adds, “I don’t mind, you know.”
You look up.
That’s your first mistake.
Because his eyes—soft brown, tired from the game, lit with something small and hopeful—hit you like a wave.
“You don’t?” you murmur.
He shakes his head. “No. I like when you wear them. A lot.”
Your heart stutters.
And then—before you can process that, before you can question it—he reaches behind his back and pulls something out.
A brand new Devils hoodie. Still folded. Still with the tag.
“Here.”
You stare at it. Then at him. Then back at it.
“Luke,” you whisper, “why did you get this?”
He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“For you.”
He steps closer. Slowly. Like he’s afraid the moment will break if he moves too fast.
“You deserve one that actually fits,” he says quietly. “Not just the old ones I leave around.”
You hold it gently, fingers brushing the fabric.
“It’s… really nice,” you say.
Luke exhales, breath shaky.
“It’s yours if you want it.”
Your stomach is warm. Your chest tight. Something is buzzing under your skin, wanting out.
“But,” he adds, voice lower now, softer, trembling in a way he tries and fails to hide,
“it’s only yours if… you want me to be yours too.”
Your heartbeat is suddenly loud. Too loud.
“Luke…”
“I’m serious,” he whispers. “I can’t keep pretending I’m not—”
He stops.
Then he laughs once under his breath, nervous and breathy.
“I always know when you’ve taken one of my hoodies,” he continues, eyes dropping to the ground. “It’s stupid, but it makes me happy. Like you’re… close. Even when you’re not here.”
Your throat tightens.
“And when I see you wearing them?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. It’s like… you feel like home. You’ve felt like home for a long time.”
Your breath catches.
He steps closer. Barely an inch. But it’s enough.
“You don’t have to say anything right now,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your lips and back. “I just needed you to know. Because every time I saw you wearing my stuff, I wished you were mine.”
The world feels still.
Too still.
You take a slow step into his space, lifting your hand to cup his jaw. His cheeks go pink; his breath hitches.
“Luke,” you whisper, “I’ve been yours.”
He stills.
Like he heard something he wasn’t prepared for.
“Really?” he asks, voice breaking. “You mean that?”
You nod.
He smiles—slow, disbelieving, tender enough to unravel you completely.
“Can I—” he starts.
You don’t let him finish.
You lean forward and kiss the corner of his mouth. Soft. Warm. Careful.
Luke inhales sharply.
His hand moves to your waist—gentle, as if he’s afraid to pull too hard and wake up from this.
When you pull back, his eyes flutter open, full of something bright and pure.
“So…” he murmurs, a tiny grin tugging at his lips, “does this mean you’ll stop stealing my clothes?”
You snort softly, forehead resting against his.
“Luke Hughes,” you whisper, “that’s the dumbest question you’ve ever asked.”
He laughs—a real, full, giddy laugh—and wraps both arms around you, pulling you into his chest.
Warm. Safe. Completely home.
“Good,” he murmurs into your hair.
“Because I bought you, like… three more.”
Summary: Quinn has been carrying the weight of stress and frustration from his games, feeling like he keeps failing and letting everyone down. One night, he finally breaks down in your arms, crying and admitting how exhausted and overwhelmed he feels
wc: 1,2k
You could always tell when something was wrong with Quinn—not because he said anything, but because he didn’t. He moved softer, talked less, and tried to slip through the door like a shadow.
Tonight was one of those nights.
He came home later than usual, dropping his keys onto the counter with a dull clink. No greeting, no kiss, no tired smile. Just a quiet sigh as he went straight to the living room and sank onto the couch.
You followed him slowly.
“Hey, babe,” you said gently. “Long day?”
Quinn didn’t look at you. His elbows were on his knees, fingers interlaced, head bowed. His shoulders were tight, unmoving.
“Yeah,” he whispered.
You sat beside him, close but not touching yet. “Want to talk about it?”
He shook his head once, sharply. “No.”
You recognized that tone—it wasn’t dismissive, it was protective. He wasn’t shutting you out. He was trying not to break.
“Quinn,” you said softly, “you don’t have to pretend you’re fine with me.”
His jaw clenched at that.
Another long silence.
And then, in a voice so quiet you barely caught it:
“I just feel like I keep failing.”
Your heart twisted.
He kept staring at the floor.
“Every game feels like a fight I can’t win,” he murmured. “I’m supposed to be better. I’m supposed to lead. But I’m tired, and when I’m tired, I mess up. And when I mess up… I feel like the whole team breaks because of me.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
You reached out slowly, placing a hand on his back. The moment your fingers brushed him, Quinn shuddered. His breath hitched—barely audible—but it was enough to tell you he was breaking.
“I can’t let them see this,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I can’t let anyone see me like this.”
“You’re not ‘anyone,’” you murmured, guiding him gently toward you. “You’re Quinn. And I’m allowed to see you.”
He didn’t resist.
He leaned into you slowly, like he wasn’t sure he deserved the comfort. And then—once his forehead touched your shoulder—he exhaled a shaky breath and his whole body slumped.
You wrapped your arms around him, holding him tight.
Quinn pressed his face into your neck, and for a moment he tried to stay silent. But then a soft, broken sound escaped him—a sound he’d been holding in for way too long.
“Oh, sweetheart…” you whispered.
His hands fisted in your shirt, gripping like he needed something solid before he fell apart completely.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” he choked out. “I’m trying so hard.”
“I know you are,” you whispered into his hair. “And you’re not doing anything wrong.”
He shook his head, another small sob escaping him.
“I feel like I’m failing everyone.”
“You’re not failing me,” you said firmly. “Not even close.”
His breath hitched again.
He finally lifted his head, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed. “Why do you stay?” he whispered. “When I’m like this?”
You cupped his face gently. “Because you’re worth staying for. Even when you’re sad. Even when you’re struggling. Especially then.”
That was all it took.
Quinn fell into your arms fully, crying softly against you—quiet, heartbreaking, like he didn’t remember how to let go until now.
You held him through every shaky breath, every tear, until his body finally relaxed against yours.
After a long while, he whispered, voice small:
“Thank you.”
You kissed the top of his head.
“Always, Quinn. I’ve got you.”
And for the first time in weeks, he let someone else carry the weight.
The next morning, Quinn looked… different.
Still tired, still quiet, but the crushing heaviness that had been wrapped around him lately had eased. His eyes were softer, his shoulders less tense. And every time he looked at you, there was this tiny, grateful warmth that wasn’t there before.
You handed him his coffee, brushing his fingers with yours.
“Feeling a little better?” you asked gently.
Quinn nodded, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. “Yeah. A lot better.”
Before you could reply, there was a knock at the door.
Quinn blinked. “That’s weird. I’m not expecting anyone.”
You went to open it and found Elias Pettersson standing in the hallway, hoodie up, Starbucks in hand, looking suspiciously like someone who definitely knew something was up but didn’t want to say it out loud.
“Morning,” Elias said. “Did Quinn die? He didn’t answer my texts.”
You stepped aside. “Come in. He’s alive.”
Elias walked in, eyes narrowing immediately as he looked Quinn over.
“…You look different,” he said bluntly.
Quinn frowned. “What does that mean?”
“You’re not stomping around like someone stole your lunch money,” Elias said, then sipped his drink. “You seem… lighter.”
You smothered a laugh behind your hand.
Quinn rolled his eyes. “Thanks, I think.”
Elias sat beside him, bumping Quinn’s shoulder lightly. “I mean it. You okay? Yesterday you seemed like you were carrying the whole world.”
Quinn hesitated.
Then he glanced at you — soft, grateful.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I had a bad night. But I’m okay now.”
Elias looked between the two of you and something shifted in his expression — understanding, relief.
“Well,” Elias said, shrugging, “I don’t know what you did—” he pointed his thumb at you, “—but whatever it was? Keep doing it. He’s less… depressed-looking today.”
“Thanks, Petey,” Quinn muttered, hiding half his face behind his coffee.
Elias smirked. “You’re welcome. I’ll expect your therapy bill in the mail.”
Later that afternoon, Elias left, and the apartment finally fell quiet again.
Quinn wandered back to the couch where you were sitting, and without a word, he lowered himself beside you, sliding an arm around your waist. You tugged him closer and he didn’t resist — he tucked his head onto your chest like it was second nature.
Your fingers drifted into his hair, and Quinn let out a soft, sleepy breath.
“Tired?” you murmured.
“Mhm,” he hummed. “Feel safe.”
Your heart melted instantly.
You leaned down, kissing the top of his head. “Good. You can always rest with me.”
Quinn’s arms tightened around you, his nose brushing your collarbone.
“You’re the only place I ever fully relax,” he whispered, voice already fading with sleep.
You smiled into his hair. “Then stay right here.”
He let out a tiny, content sigh — the kind he never let himself make around anyone else — and his breathing began to slow, warm and steady against your skin.
Within minutes, Quinn Hughes was asleep on your chest, soft and peaceful, lashes brushing his cheeks, his fingers loosely curled in your shirt like he never wanted to let go.
And you held him, stroking his hair gently, knowing that for once, he wasn’t carrying everything alone.
summary: Luke comes home devastated after another Devils loss, completely overwhelmed and feeling like he’s letting everyone down. He breaks down in your arms, crying and admitting he’s exhausted and doesn’t know what to do anymore.
wc: 1,5k
You knew something was wrong the second Luke walked into the apartment.
He didn’t slam the door.
He didn’t throw his gear.
He didn’t curse or mutter under his breath like he usually did after a rough game.
He just… stood there.
Helmet in one hand, shoulders heavy, eyes unfocused. Like he wasn’t fully in the room, like part of him was still out on the ice replaying every mistake in his head.
“Hey,” you said softly, stepping toward him. “You’re home late.”
Luke blinked slowly, forcing a tight smile that didn’t even reach his eyes.
“Yeah. Coach talked with us.” His voice was flat, tired. “Again.”
You approached him carefully, the same way you would approach someone standing on the edge of a cliff.
“Baby… come here.”
But he shook his head, avoiding your touch as he moved toward the living room. That hurt—you’d never admit it out loud, but it did. Luke never pulled away from you.
He dropped onto the couch, elbows on his knees, hands tangled in his hair. He didn’t say anything. Just sat there breathing too fast, like he couldn’t catch a full breath.
You sat next to him silently. You didn’t push, didn’t try to pry the words out. You just waited.
After a long minute, his voice came out small and strained.
“I’m trying so hard,” he whispered. “I swear I’m trying.”
Your chest tightened.
“I know you are.”
“No, you don’t,” he said, shaking his head as his voice cracked—barely noticeable, but you heard it. “I’m out there every night just… screwing up. Every shift I’m on the ice I feel like I’m letting the guys down. Letting the fans down. Letting… letting you down.”
“Luke—”
He finally looked at you, and the second you saw his eyes, your heart completely broke.
They were glassy. Red. On the brink.
“I’m tired,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m so fucking tired of losing.”
The last word came out in a shaky exhale—like a dam cracking.
And then it happened.
His shoulders dropped. His head bowed. And in a voice barely above a whisper, like admitting it was the worst kind of weakness, he said:
“I don’t know what to do anymore.”
That was it. That was the moment you reached for him.
This time, he didn’t pull away.
The second your hands touched him, Luke folded into you—burying his face into your shoulder as the first choked sob escaped him. His arms wrapped around your waist in a desperate, crushing hold.
“Hey, hey…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair as he shook against you. “I’ve got you. It’s okay to let it out.”
He sucked in a hard breath, but it hitched, breaking into another sob.
“It feels like everything I do is wrong,” he cried, voice raw. “Everyone’s disappointed. The guys… the coaches… I can’t fix anything. I’m supposed to be better than this.”
“You are,” you whispered firmly. “You’re allowed to struggle. You’re allowed to have bad games. And you’re allowed to feel like this.”
Luke clung to you like you were the only solid thing left in his world.
“You’re not disappointed?” he asked, voice shaking.
You pulled his face up gently, cradling his cheeks in your hands. “Look at me, Luke.”
His eyes—wet, red, vulnerable—met yours.
“I could never be disappointed in you. Ever. Losing doesn’t change who you are. It doesn’t change the work you put in. And it sure as hell doesn’t change how much I love you.”
His breath hitched, another tear slipping down.
“You love me even when I’m like… this?” he whispered.
You kissed the spot beneath his eye where the tear had been.
“Especially then.”
Something inside him broke at that—something he’d been holding in for weeks. His arms wrapped around you again, burying himself in your warmth, letting every bit of pressure finally spill out.
You held him. You rubbed his back, whispered soft reassurances, let him cry until his breathing finally slowed.
After a long while, he whispered into your shirt:
“Thank you.”
“For what, Luke?”
“For being the only place I don’t feel like I’m failing.”
You kissed his hair, pulling him closer.
“You’re not failing,” you breathed. “You’re human. And I’ll always be right here—win or lose.”
Luke exhaled shakily, leaning fully into you.
For the first time in weeks, he let himself rest.
Luke was still curled against you on the couch, head resting on your chest, fingers tangled loosely in your shirt like he was afraid you’d slip away. His breathing had evened out a little, but every now and then you felt the faint tremor of leftover emotion run through him.
You were rubbing slow circles on his back when his phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Luke stiffened immediately.
He didn’t lift his head. Didn’t reach for it. Didn’t even breathe for a second.
Another buzz.
Another.
Then the screen lit up with a name you recognized instantly:
Quinn 💛
Luke’s breath hitched.
“Don’t,” he whispered, voice so small it made your heart ache. “I—I can’t talk to him right now.”
You looked down at him, fingers brushing his hair back gently. “You don’t have to talk to anyone, baby.”
But the phone kept buzzing. Persistent. Worried, probably. Hughes brothers didn’t call repeatedly unless something was wrong.
Luke closed his eyes tightly, burying his face further into you like he wanted to disappear.
“Just—make it stop,” he murmured. “Please.”
You reached forward slowly and grabbed the phone before it could ring again.
Luke tensed. “Don’t answer.”
You brushed your thumb along the back of his neck—soft, soothing.
“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I won’t make you talk. I’ll handle it.”
He nodded weakly against you.
You accepted the call and held the phone to your ear.
“Hey, Quinn.”
There was a beat of silence, then Quinn sighed with immediate relief.
“Thank god. Is Luke with you? He won’t answer my calls. I’ve been trying for an hour.”
You glanced down at Luke—his eyes shut, face pressed against your chest, shoulders pulled tight like he expected bad news.
“He’s here,” you said gently. “But he’s not… in a good place right now.”
You hesitated for a moment, choosing your words carefully as you stroked Luke’s hair.
“He’s overwhelmed, Quinn. The losses have been getting to him more than he wants to admit. He’s been holding everything in for weeks, and tonight… it just crashed down on him.”
You felt Luke’s hand tighten weakly at your waist, like he was afraid you’d say too much. You lowered your voice, reassuring.
“It’s okay. I won’t tell him anything you don’t want me to,” you whispered to him before continuing to Quinn.
“He’s exhausted,” you added. “Emotionally, mentally. He feels like he’s letting everyone down.”
There was a heavy, quiet pause on the other end. Then:
“…Luke said that?”
“Not directly,” you said. “But I know him. And he broke tonight, Quinn. Really broke.”
Quinn’s exhale was shaky—barely audible.
“Is he crying?”
You looked down at Luke; his eyes were closed, but another tear had slipped down onto your shirt.
“He has been,” you admitted softly. “He’s just… worn out. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now.”
Quinn was silent for a long moment before speaking again, voice thick with brotherly worry.
“Can you just—tell him I love him? And that none of us are disappointed in him? Not me, not Jack, not the team. He doesn’t have to carry everything on his own.”
Your chest tightened.
“I’ll tell him,” you promised.
“And… can you stay with him tonight?” Quinn asked quietly. “He shouldn’t be alone feeling like that.”
You instinctively tightened your hold on Luke.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.
Luke shifted slightly at the sound of your voice—like he recognized the promise even in the half-sleepy, emotional haze he was in.
“Thank you,” Quinn said, sincere and heavy with gratitude. “Really. Just take care of him.”
“I will.”
You hung up gently and set the phone aside.
Luke didn’t speak for a full minute. Then, in a barely-there whisper:
“What did he say?”
You pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
“He loves you. And he’s not disappointed. None of them are.”
Luke’s breath trembled—another tear falling, soaking into your shirt.
“Are you mad I didn’t talk to him?” he whispered.
“Never,” you said immediately. “You don’t owe anyone anything when you’re hurting. You did the right thing.”
He exhaled shakily, burying himself deeper into you, clinging like you were the only safe place left.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“For what?” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair again.
“For… answering for me,” he said quietly. “For protecting me.”
You kissed his forehead, holding him even tighter.
omg pls write more boldy stories!!! If possible can you do an angst request where Matt forgets important days, (birthday and anniversaries) and moments. He doesn't realize or fix this till the reader has enough of it and leaves him. If possible happy ending pls. :)
Here you go!
You’d never been someone who needed grand gestures. You didn’t need rose petals on the floor or handwritten sonnets taped to the mirror. You just needed presence. Recognition. The quiet reassurance that you—and the moments that mattered to you—mattered to him too.
At first, it was small things.
A date night he booked a practice over.
Your work event he promised he’d attend, forgotten until you sent him a picture from the venue.
You told yourself it was fine. Hockey was demanding. His schedule was a maze you’d gotten used to navigating. You could be patient.
But then came your birthday.
Your birthday.
You woke up to an empty bed and a text pinging your phone:
“Morning babe. Heading in early. See you tonight ❤️”
No “happy birthday.”
No “I love you.”
Nothing.
You stared at your phone for a full minute before placing it face down on the table. Something inside you dropped—quiet, heavy, final.
And then your anniversary came.
Your anniversary, and he forgot again.
You sat alone at the restaurant you’d reserved two months ago, staring at the empty chair across from you, fingers tracing the sweating glass of water the waiter kept refilling. You didn’t call him. You didn’t remind him. You were tired of reminding him of the things that should have been unforgettable.
That night, you packed. Slowly, carefully, quietly. You weren’t angry—anger burned too hot for what you were feeling.
You were done.
When Matt finally walked through the door, exhausted, hoodie half-off, hair damp from a late shower at the rink, he froze.
Your bag was by the door.
Your eyes were tired—tired in a way he’d never seen before.
“Hey… what’s going on?” he asked, stepping closer with a confused half-smile.
You swallowed. “I can’t do this anymore, Matty.”
You watched the realization flicker across his face, slow and dawning like a storm cloud rolling in. He looked between you and the bag, and his chest visibly tightened.
“Wait, wait, wait—what? Why?” His voice was already cracking. “What did I do?”
You laughed—sad, soft. “It’s not what you did. It’s what you keep not doing.”
He looked lost. Genuinely, devastatingly lost.
“I don’t understand.”
“My birthday,” you whispered.
“Our anniversary.”
“All the things I told you mattered to me, but you never remembered. I shouldn’t have to beg to be important to you.”
Matt’s expression shattered. “Oh my god.” He pressed a hand to his forehead like the world was collapsing under his skin. “Y/N… I—I didn’t even realize… I—”
“I know,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
You picked up your bag.
Matt’s voice broke when he spoke next. “Please don’t go.”
You hesitated at the door, every memory of the two of you pulling at your ribs.
“I need… someone who sees me, Matt,” you said quietly. “I need you to see me. And I don’t think you do right now.”
And then you walked out.
Two Months Later
You didn’t expect to hear from him.
But Matt Boldy was nothing if not persistent once he knew what mattered.
It started small—flowers left at your door with no note.
A voicemail you listened to three times before deleting: “I’m sorry. For everything.”
Then a long message sent at 3:17 AM:
How he’d gone to therapy.
How he realized he’d been taking you for granted.
How your absence made him understand every moment he’d missed.
But he never pushed. Never demanded. Never asked you to come back.
He just showed you—slowly, steadily—that he’d changed.
Then one evening, you found him waiting outside your apartment, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes hopeful and terrified at the same time.
“Hey,” he said softly.
“Hey,” you replied.
He took a small step forward. “I, uh… I know I hurt you. More than I realized. And I’m not here to beg you to come back if you’re not ready. But I needed—need—you to know that I remember everything now.”
He pulled something from his pocket.
A small notebook, worn and filled.
“I write everything down,” he said. “Dates. Moments. Things you say that matter to you. Not because I want to be perfect… but because I want to be someone who doesn’t lose you again.”
You flipped through the pages.
Your birthday circled.
Your anniversary underlined twice.
Little notes: “She loves raspberry lattes.”
“Tuesday is her rough day at work.”
“Tell her you’re proud of her more.”
Your eyes stung.
“Matt…”
He stepped closer, and that’s when you saw it—the tears gathering, clinging to his eyelashes.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and his voice broke completely. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to forget. I just—” He choked on a breath. “I miss you so much, and I know I don’t deserve another chance, but… I love you. And I promise—I won’t forget again. Not you. Not anything that matters to you.”
When the first tear slipped down his cheek, he tried to wipe it away quickly, almost ashamed. But another followed. And another.
“Matty…” you breathed, stepping closer.
His shoulders trembled as he cried—quiet, raw, completely unguarded. “I’m better now. I’m trying every day. And if there’s even a tiny part of you that still wants me… I’m here. Just say the word and I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
And then you reached up, gently brushing the tears from his face.
“You never forgot me,” you whispered. “You just forgot to show me. But I see the effort now… and I still love you.”
His breath hitched—half sob, half relief—and he pulled you into his arms, clinging to you like you were the first warm thing he’d touched in months.
“I won’t mess it up this time,” he promised against your shoulder, voice shaking. “I swear.”
And for the first time in a long time, you believed him.
Matt’s arms stayed locked around you long after the words settled between you. You could feel his heartbeat—fast, uneven—thudding against your chest. His breaths came in short, stuttered pulls, like he was trying to calm himself but couldn’t.
“Come here,” you whispered, guiding him gently inside your apartment before the cold could steal more of his warmth.
Once the door clicked shut, he seemed to crumble again—his shoulders slumping, hands trembling as he curled them into the fabric of your shirt like he needed the anchor.
“I—I’m sorry,” he whispered again, voice raw and frayed. “I didn’t mean to break down like that. I just—when you touched my face—” He closed his eyes, breath shuddering. “I thought I’d never feel that again.”
Your heart cracked cleanly open.
You cupped his cheeks, wiping away the tears still gathering there. “Matty, don’t apologize for feeling something. Not with me.”
He leaned into your touch like he’d been starved for it.
“You’re really here,” he whispered, almost in disbelief. “You’re actually here.”
“I am.” You slid your hands down to his shoulders, grounding him. “I’m here.”
He exhaled a shaky breath, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. His voice was muffled when he spoke again:
“I kept dreaming about this… about you walking away again before I could say anything. I’d wake up and reach for you and—” His voice cracked hard. “And you weren’t there.”
You threaded your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing. “I’m here now,” you whispered against his temple. “I’m not leaving.”
He clung to you tighter, almost desperate. “I’ll do better. I’ll remember everything. I won’t make you feel invisible again. Just—tell me how to love you right and I’ll learn. I’ll do it every day.”
You placed a soft kiss on the top of his head. “You’re already learning, Matty. I can see it.”
His breathing finally began to slow, the shaking easing a little. You tugged him gently over to the couch, and he sank into it like he’d been carrying the weight of the world on his back.
The moment you sat beside him, he pulled you into his lap—no hesitation, no asking—just raw need. You settled sideways across him, your legs draped over his, your arms circling his neck. He held you with both arms wrapped around your waist, face buried against your chest like you were the safest place he knew.
“Is this okay?” he whispered, a hint of fear still lingering.
You kissed the corner of his damp cheek. “This is perfect.”
He exhaled slowly, finally letting himself relax into the warmth of you. After a minute, he tilted his head up to look at you, eyes still red, lashes clumped slightly from tears.
“You’re really giving me another chance?”
You brushed a thumb under his eye. “I am.”
He swallowed hard, eyes softening in a way that made your heart squeeze. “I won’t waste it. Not again.”
You leaned your forehead against his. “I know.”
His arms tightened around you—protective, relieved, full of a love he’d almost lost.
Summary: After Matt gets injured during a game, you rush to his apartment, terrified after he didn’t answer your texts. You help him ice his ribs, bring him food, and stay with him through the pain. The quiet night turns soft as he admits you’re the person he wanted most after getting hurt.
WC: 1,5k
a/n: should I write more for him? send in requests!
You swear your heart stops when you see Matt go down.
From your seat a few rows behind the bench, the whole arena seems to freeze—bright lights, roaring crowd, the scrape of skates—and then suddenly there’s Matt, doubled over, one hand clutching his side as he struggles to get upright.
The trainers rush out. The announcer mumbles something you can’t hear over the pounding in your ears. You don’t realize you’re already standing until the woman next to you asks if you’re okay.
You aren’t.
He’s your best friend. Your person. The one who texts you good morning before practice and always asks if you got home safe. The one who jokes that you’re basically part of the Wild at this point because you’re at every home game.
The one you’ve been in love with for months.
So watching him limp down the tunnel feels like someone reached into your chest and squeezed.
You leave before the second period even starts, barely remembering to grab your coat. You’re texting him nonstop:
Are you okay???
Matt please answer.
I’m coming over—just tell me if I should bring anything.
Boldy. Be serious for once and TEXT ME BACK.
Nothing.
By the time you reach his apartment, the adrenaline has worn off and your hands are shaking. You knock once, twice, ready to break the door down, when it finally clicks open.
Matt stands there, hair damp from a rushed shower, wearing gray sweats and the softest, saddest expression you’ve ever seen on him.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
That’s all it takes. You’re in his arms before you can think, arms around his waist, face pressed to the soft cotton of his shirt. He makes a soft sound—half laugh, half groan—and wraps you up too.
“I’m okay,” he murmurs into your hair. “Promise.”
“You weren’t texting me,” you mumble, voice breaking embarrassingly fast. “I thought—I didn’t know how bad it was.”
His palm slides up your back, warm and steady. “I know. I should’ve. Trainers kept poking at me and—” He exhales. “I just wanted to get home.”
To you.
He doesn’t say it, but you feel it.
You pull back enough to look at him. “What actually happened?”
He lifts the hem of his shirt. There’s already a blooming bruise across his ribs, angry and purple.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, reaching without thinking. You stop just before touching. “Does it hurt?”
“It’s fine,” he starts.
“Matt.”
“…It hurts like hell,” he admits, smiling sheepishly.
You roll your eyes affectionately. “Okay. Ice, food, and, uh—pain tolerance of a hockey player. Let’s go.”
He lets you guide him to the couch, leaning into you more than usual. When he sits, he exhales slowly, jaw tightening.
“Stay,” he says softly when you turn to get ice.
“I’m literally going to your kitchen,” you reply.
He doesn’t answer, just looks at you with those wide, tired brown eyes—like you hung the moon without realizing it.
You swallow. “I’ll be right back.”
You return with an ice pack and a glass of water. He lifts his arm with a wince so you can press the ice to his ribs. His breath hitches, and instinctively your free hand settles on his thigh in reassurance.
“Sorry,” you whisper.
“Don’t be. You’re making it better.”
He says it so sincerely you have to look away.
Minutes stretch. The room is warm, quiet except for the hum of the heater and his soft, occasionally pained breaths. He leans his head back, eyes fluttering shut.
“Thanks for coming,” he murmurs.
“Matt, you don’t have to thank me for that.”
“I do,” he says. “Everyone else was telling me to rest or go get scans immediately. You were just… worried. I like when you worry about me.”
“That makes you sound like a menace,” you tease, but your heart is pounding.
He opens his eyes slowly to look at you. “I just mean… you care. And it feels good to be cared about.”
You bite your lip. “I always care about you.”
“I know,” he says. Something unreadable flickers across his face. “Probably more than I deserve.”
You set the ice pack down. “Hey. Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“It isn’t.” Your voice softens. “You deserve people who show up for you. Always.”
He stares at you for a long moment. “You always do.”
You order his favorite takeout—he tries arguing, but you raise an eyebrow and that shuts him up. You help him shift so he can sit more comfortably, handing him his food. He eats slowly, wincing occasionally. You bump your knee against his gently.
“You okay?”
“Better now.”
“You keep saying that,” you laugh.
“Because it keeps being true.”
He’s looking at you like he’s memorizing every part of your face. Like he’s been waiting for the quiet of this moment.
You swallow hard and go back to eating before you combust.
After dinner, you put on one of his comfort shows. His head tips toward your shoulder, just slightly, but enough that you feel his warmth seep through your sleeve.
Halfway through the episode, he whispers, “Can you… stay? At least until I fall asleep?”
Your chest does a complicated little twist.
“Of course.”
He nods, relaxing. “Good.”
You sit together in silence. His breathing slows. He leans a little heavier. When his head finally rests fully on your shoulder, your heart aches in that achingly-soft way you’ve felt around him for months.
You whisper his name.
He hums.
“You didn’t have to go out there tonight,” you murmur. “You were already hurting before the game. I could tell.”
He doesn’t reply right away. Then:
“Yeah,” he admits. “I wanted to. For the guys. For the fans.”
“And who plays for you?” you ask, barely above a whisper. “Who takes care of you?”
His eyes flutter open. He turns his head slightly, cheek brushing your shoulder as he looks at you.
“…You,” he says simply.
Your breath catches. “Matt—”
“I didn’t text you back because I knew the second I saw your name I’d lose it,” he confesses softly. “I didn’t want to cry in the locker room.”
Your heart shatters in the gentlest way. “You can always lose it with me.”
He nods, gaze dropping to your lips for just a fraction of a second. “I know.”
The episode ends. He shifts carefully, lifting his head from your shoulder with a quiet groan.
“I should go to bed,” he murmurs. “Before these ribs lock up on me.”
You stand and help him up. He tries joking about being an old man at 24, but halfway down the hall he stumbles.
You catch him by the arm. “Hey—easy. I’ve got you.”
He looks at you then—really looks.
Full of something raw and unguarded.
“You always do,” he repeats, voice hoarse.
Your hands are still on him, steadying him. His eyes flicker from your hands to your face, searching.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks quietly.
“Always.”
“I didn’t want anyone else tonight,” he admits, words trembling. “Not my teammates. Not even my family. I just… needed you.”
Your breath stutters.
“I know you’re my best friend,” he continues, voice low. “But I don’t think that’s all you are to me anymore.”
Silence. Warm. Electric.
He steps a little closer—slowly, giving you every chance to pull back.
“I didn’t text you back because I knew you’d come rushing here,” he whispers. “Because you always do. And I always want you to.”
Your voice shakes. “Matt…”
He swallows hard. “Do you feel it too? Or am I ruining everything right now?”
You don’t answer with words.
You just reach up, cup his jaw gently—mindful of his ribs—and pull him down into a kiss.
It’s soft. Deliberate. Warm enough to melt every fear he seems to be holding.
Matt exhales shakily against your lips, one hand sliding to your hip, careful but desperate in its own quiet way.
When you finally pull back, his forehead rests against yours.
“So… yes?” he whispers, breathless.
“Yes,” you laugh softly. “God, yes.”
He gives this shy, relieved smile. “Can I kiss you again?”
“You better.”
He does. This one slow and lingering and full of every unspoken thing between you.
You help him into bed and tuck him in. He catches your wrist before you can move away.
“Stay?” he asks, voice soft and hopeful.
“Yeah,” you whisper, climbing in beside him carefully.
He wraps an arm around you—gently—and rests his nose in your hair.
“You make everything hurt less,” he murmurs.
You press a kiss to his shoulder. “You make everything feel more.”
He smiles against you.
And that’s how you fall asleep—tangled gently together, hearts finally on the same page, his breathing even and soft with the knowledge that he’s cared for, wanted, loved.
Why not?? Oh no. Thanks for telling me so I won’t be too sad. Now we gotta tell everyone who is interested. Ugh @sekm88436 @oeldeservesthenorris they did us dirty! 🤣
Why not?? Oh no. Thanks for telling me so I won’t be too sad. Now we gotta tell everyone who is interested. Ugh @sekm88436 @oeldeservesthenorris they did us dirty! 🤣
Summary: A drunk, jealous Quinn accidentally confesses his feelings at a party — and once you get him home, he turns into the clingiest, softest version of himself.
WC: 2,1k
The music is too loud, the bar lights too dim, and Quinn is already two drinks past his usual limit when you finally arrive at the party.
You don’t even get a chance to make it through the doorway before someone whistles behind you.
One of Quinn’s teammates—too confident, too tipsy—grins and says,
“Whoa, didn’t know we were dressing up tonight. You look incredible.”
You laugh it off politely. It’s nothing. Just a compliment.
But Quinn sees it.
From across the room, he sits up a little straighter, jaw tightening. His face is flushed, not just from the alcohol but from something hotter—sharper. His hand tightens around his drink, knuckles going pale.
You spot him and weave through the crowd.
“Hey, Q.”
He looks up at you, eyes unfocused but warm.
“You look… really good,” he mumbles, voice rough.
“You’re drunk,” you tease.
He shakes his head—too fast.
“No. Well, yeah, but… I saw him talking to you.”
You blink. “Quinn, he was just saying hi.”
He leans in, brows pulled together like he’s trying very hard to choose the right words.
“Well, I didn’t like it,” he says, and there’s no hesitation. No joke in his tone. “I don’t like when other guys look at you like that.”
Your stomach flips. “Why?”
He stares at you for a long moment, mouth opening and closing as he fights whatever he’s been holding back.
Then he reaches up, fingers brushing your wrist—hesitant, searching.
“Because you’re… you’re mine,” he whispers, then shakes his head. “No, that sounds— I mean, you’re not mine, but I want you to be, and I shouldn’t be saying this right now, but God, it drives me crazy.”
Your breath catches. “Quinn…”
He leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours. You can smell the faint mix of beer and mint gum.
“I’ve been trying not to be jealous,” he says softly, voice cracking at the edges. “I see guys look at you and I just— I can’t pretend I don’t care anymore.”
His fingers slip down to lace with yours.
“I like you,” he admits, eyes glassy and honest. “Way more than I’m supposed to.”
You squeeze his hand. “Quinn, I—”
Before you can finish, he swallows hard.
“Please don’t tell me I ruined everything,” he whispers, suddenly terrified.
You shake your head, stepping closer.
“No,” you say gently. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
His expression softens, all the tension in his shoulders melting. He exhales like he’s been holding the truth in for months.
“Good,” he says, smiling in that shy, lopsided way. “Because I’ve wanted to say that for a really long time.”
And as the room spins around him, he leans into you—trusting you to steady him—finally letting the jealousy, the fear, and the confession fall out all at once.
Getting Quinn out of the bar is a mission.
Not because he’s stumbling or causing trouble — no, he’s well-behaved.
Just ridiculously clingy.
The moment you tell him it’s time to go, he hooks two fingers in your sleeve like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“Stay close,” he mumbles, blinking slowly. “’S too crowded.”
You guide him outside into the cooler air, and he immediately presses into your side, head dropping to your shoulder for a second.
“Quinn,” you laugh softly, “you okay?”
He nods, but he doesn’t move away.
“Just… tired,” he whispers. “And I wanna be with you.”
Your heart does a full somersault.
The car ride is the softest chaos ever.
He’s slouched in the passenger seat with his knees pulled up slightly, your hoodie draped over his lap because he claimed he was “cold… but only a little.”
Every few minutes he glances over at you with heavy eyes.
“You’re not mad I said all that stuff, right?”
His voice is tiny.
“No, Quinn.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
He relaxes instantly — like your reassurance is a warm blanket.
After a minute:
“You still think I’m cool?”
You bite back a smile. “Yeah, Q. Still cool.”
He hums, satisfied.
At his apartment, he refuses to let go of you.
You get him to the bedroom, and the moment you tell him to sit on the edge of the bed, he tugs you between his knees like it’s instinct.
His hands rest lightly on your waist, warm and careful.
“Don’t go yet,” he whispers.
“I’m just getting you some water—”
“No,” he says, shaking his head, eyes wide and soft. “Stay with me.”
You brush his hair back from his forehead.
“I’m not going anywhere. I just want to help you get comfortable.”
He leans into your touch immediately, eyes fluttering like he could fall asleep right there.
“You’re really nice to me,” he murmurs. “I like when you take care of me.”
“Someone has to,” you tease.
He looks up at you with a sleepy, drunk-honest expression.
“Yeah… but I want it to be you. Only you.”
Your breath catches.
When you finally get him to lie down, he reaches for you again.
You try to pull the blanket over him, but his hand finds yours, fingers curling weakly.
“Don’t leave,” he says, softer this time, like he’s scared of your answer.
“I’m not leaving,” you whisper, sitting beside him.
He shifts closer, resting his head on your thigh without even thinking about it.
Like it’s the most natural place in the world for him.
“Good,” he mumbles, eyes closing. “’Cause you’re… you’re my person.”
The words are slurred but honest.
You stroke his hair gently.
“Just sleep, Quinn.”
He hums again, content.
“Only if you stay right here.”
“I will.”
And he finally drifts off with your fingers in his hair, breathing slow and even, clinging to your leg like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the world.
You wake up before he does.
The room is quiet, the early Vancouver light slipping in through the blinds, soft and golden. Quinn is curled toward you, cheek pressed into your thigh exactly where he fell asleep, one arm draped over your waist like his body is still convinced you might disappear.
He looks peaceful like this. Young. Unarmored.
You barely move, not wanting to wake him — but eventually he stirs, shifting a little before his eyes blink open.
And the moment he realizes where he is…
Where you are…
His eyes widen.
“Oh—” His voice is rough, raspy, almost boyish. “Morning.”
“Morning,” you say gently.
He pushes himself up slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Did I… uh… pass out on you?”
“Pretty much.”
A quiet groan. “God.”
He glances at you again, cheeks already pink. “And… did I say anything stupid?”
You hesitate, only for a second.
“Well,” you say lightly, “that depends.”
He winces. “That bad?”
You smile softly. “You were just… honest.”
His head snaps up at that. “Honest how?”
You reach out, brushing your fingers through the mess of hair sticking up at the back of his head. He leans into it automatically, then catches himself and looks away shyly.
“You said you liked me,” you remind him quietly. “A lot more than you’re ‘supposed to.’”
His breath leaves him in one shaky exhale.
“Shit,” he whispers. “I did.”
“You also got jealous.”
He groans again and flops back onto the pillow. “Please tell me I didn’t make a scene.”
“You didn’t,” you laugh. “You just… held onto me a lot.”
He covers his face with both hands. “Of course I did.”
You gently pull his hands away.
“Hey,” you say softly. “It wasn’t bad. Or weird. Or anything like that.”
He meets your eyes — really meets them this time — and there’s no drunk haze to hide behind. Just Quinn.
Quinn with his heart beating too loud.
“You stayed,” he whispers. “All night.”
“You asked me to.”
He swallows. “I didn’t think you’d actually listen. I thought you’d… tuck me in and bail.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” you say. “Especially not after everything you said.”
He goes quiet, expression softening into something vulnerable.
“So you heard all of it?”
“Every word.”
A beat.
“Do you… want me to take any of it back?” you ask, voice careful.
He sits up again, slowly, like he wants to be awake — fully awake — for this part.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, I don’t want to take any of it back.”
He moves a little closer, knees brushing yours.
“I meant everything,” he says, voice low, steady. “I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time. I was just too chickenshit to say it sober.”
Your chest tightens in the warmest way.
“So say it now.”
He looks right at you, eyes soft and sure.
“I like you,” he repeats, gently, like a confession and a promise in one breath. “And I want… I don’t know, I want something real with you. If you want that too.”
Your hand finds his — and he squeezes instantly, thumb brushing your knuckles.
“I do,” you say.
Relief floods his face so hard he actually lets out a small laugh — breathless, disbelieving.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He grins, the shy, crooked version he only shows when he’s really happy.
And then he presses his forehead to yours, soft and warm.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Good. Because I don’t think I ever want to wake up without you again.”
Soon he drifts off again.
You slip out of bed as quietly as you can, figuring Quinn needs a real breakfast — something with actual nutrients and not just the granola bars he hoards like a raccoon.
He stirs when you move, reaching for you instinctively, fingers brushing empty sheets.
“Mm?” His voice is sleepy and confused. “Where’d you go…?”
You lean down and brush his cheek with your hand.
“I’m making breakfast. Go back to sleep.”
He doesn’t.
Instead, he sits up with that mussed hair and soft morning face, blinking like a baby deer.
“Don’t go too far,” he mumbles.
You laugh. “Quinn, I’m literally just going to your kitchen.”
He squints suspiciously, as if the kitchen is miles away.
“Still far.”
But he lets you go — reluctantly — flopping back into bed dramatically.
In the kitchen, you only get about three minutes of peace.
You’re whisking eggs when you hear soft footsteps behind you.
Then arms wrap around your waist from behind, warm and sleepy and possessive in the gentlest way.
He buries his face between your shoulder blades.
“Quinn,” you say, smiling despite yourself, “you were supposed to rest.”
“I did.”
He hugs you tighter. “For like… two minutes.”
You shake your head. “You’re helpless.”
“You left,” he counters, voice muffled against your hoodie. “Didn’t like that.”
“It’s the kitchen.”
“Don’t care,” he mutters, swaying with you a little. “S’too far.”
His grip tightens when you reach for a spatula, like he thinks if he loosens up even a little, you’ll vanish.
“You’re clingy this morning,” you tease.
He doesn’t even deny it.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “Missed you.”
“It’s been five minutes.”
“Too long.”
He finally lets you move—barely.
You turn in his arms, sliding your hands up to his shoulders.
He looks at you with soft eyes, cheeks still pink from sleep.
“Sit,” you tell him gently. “I’ll bring you everything.”
He shakes his head.
“No. I wanna be near you.”
“Quinn—”
“I’ll sit right there.”
He points to the stool on the opposite side of the counter — close enough to almost touch your hip if he leans.
You sigh, but you’re smiling too hard to hide it.
“Fine.”
He plops down onto the stool like a stubborn cat, chin resting on his folded arms as he watches you.
Like actually watches you.
Sleepy eyes following every movement.
“You’re staring,” you say lightly.
“Yeah,” he replies, completely unashamed. “You look pretty.”
“Quinn.”
“What? I’m sober now. I get to say it again.”
Your face warms. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You like it.”
You do.
More than you know how to say.
When you bring him a plate, he pulls you into his lap.
You set eggs and toast in front of him, but before you can sit down yourself, he grabs your hand.
“Come here.”
“Quinn—”
He tugs gently until you’re perched sideways on his lap, your legs draped over his. He tucks his face into your neck.
“Much better,” he sighs, like this is the only possible way to eat breakfast.
“You know you’re not supposed to cuddle and eat at the same time, right?”
“Watch me.”
You laugh into his hair, and he hums happily like he’s never been more content.
“Thanks for breakfast,” he murmurs. “But… thanks for staying more.”
You stroke his back with your fingertips.
“I told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”
He looks up at you, eyes soft, still sleepy, but full of absolute certainty.
“Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not letting you go now.”
Summary: Quinn Hughes comes home after a four-assist night (similiar to the Luke imagine I just posted)
WC: 0,7k
You’re half-asleep on the couch when you hear the door unlock. Quinn always tries to be quiet when he gets home late, but the soft click of the lock and his gentle footsteps are familiar enough that you stir instantly.
He steps inside, dropping his duffle gently, and when he sees you sitting up, his tired smile grows into something warm and boyish.
“Hey,” he says softly, almost shyly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” you lie, rubbing your eyes. “How was the game, superstar?”
His cheeks go pink instantly. “You watched?”
“Quinn,” you tease, standing and walking toward him, “you had four assists. Everyone watched.”
He shrugs, trying to look humble, but the small grin tugging at his mouth gives him away.
You wrap your arms around him without overthinking it — something you’ve done a hundred times before — but tonight it feels a little different. He melts into the hug immediately, arms tightening around your waist, face dropping into your shoulder like that’s his favorite place in the world.
“I’m really proud of you,” you murmur, fingers brushing the back of his neck.
Quinn exhales slowly, a quiet breath that sounds heavier than it should. “Thank you,” he whispers. “It… it felt good tonight. Everything just clicked.”
“You deserve that,” you say softly. “You work so hard, Quinn. So hard.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes soft and tired and full of something he doesn’t say out loud. Something warm. Something that lingers.
“Can I stay here?” he asks, voice quiet. “Just for a bit.”
“You can stay as long as you want,” you say, taking his hand and leading him back to the couch.
He sits, pulling you into his lap like it’s instinct, like he’s done it a million times in his head. His arms circle your waist, head resting against your shoulder as you run your fingers through his messy curls.
“This feels nice,” he murmurs.
You smile. “Being proud of you feels nice too.”
He lets out a quiet laugh against your skin, his breath warm. “You always are,” he says softly. “Even when I’m not at my best.”
“Always,” you repeat.
He shifts a little, tightening his hold on you, his voice dropping to a whisper — as if he’s afraid to break the moment.
“You have no idea what that means to me.”
You tilt your head, pressing a tiny kiss to his temple before you even realize you’re doing it. Quinn’s breath catches, barely noticeable — but you feel it.
He looks up at you. Really looks.
And in that gentle, quiet Quinn Hughes way, he leans in and kisses you — slow, careful, like he’s been wanting to for a long time but needed a perfect moment to be brave.
When you pull back, he stays close, forehead against yours.
“This,” he whispers, “is the best part of my night.”
You smile, tucking yourself against him, his arms wrapping around you like he’s finally found where he belongs.
His four assists made the league talk.
But this?
You being proud of him — loving him — is what he really came home for.
The next morning, Quinn wakes up holding you, still tangled in the blankets, a sleepy smile on his face. “Morning,” you whisper.
“Best morning ever,” he murmurs back. Then his phone buzzes. And buzzes again.
“Oh no,” he groans. “The group chat.”
Sure enough — the Canucks group chat is blowing up:
Elias: someone looked really happy last night 👀
Brock: four assists? clearly motivated 😏
Myers: I see that smile… she FaceTimed you before the game didn’t she?
DeBrusk: whipped. so whipped.
Conor: can we meet her orrrr
Elias: yeah we need her approval before the next game
Quinn hides his face in your shoulder. “I’m never showing my face at practice again.”
You laugh, taking the phone. You (from Quinn’s phone): he is absolutely whipped
The chat explodes again.
Brock: I KNEW IT
Elias: HAHAHAHAHA
Myers: good. she’s the only one who makes him smile
DeBrusk: congrats king
Conor: we’ll plan the wedding
Quinn groans, cheeks burning. “You’re going to get me killed.”
You press a kiss to his temple. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”
He freezes — then smiles softly. “Good. Because I’m definitely not stopping.”
origamiaround
titsay
yousharknotpass
stormborns
kaledo-art
snowghoul
