(3.7k words) When a shoulder injury sidelines the Canucks' captain, his best friend moves in to act as his primary caretaker. After years of carefully guarded pining, the forced proximity of a quiet penthouse and the intimacy of recovery prove too much to handle. What starts as a simple ice-pack change on the sofa quickly dissolves the "best friend" barrier, leading to a long-overdue night of intense, focused passion that changes their relationship forever.
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, smut, praise kink, light dominance, mentions of post-surgical recovery, power dynamics.
A/N - This is my first ever one shot! Please feel free to leave suggestions for different ones <3
The hum of the humidifer was the only sound in Quinn’s penthouse, a stark contrast to the roar of Rogers Arena that usually defined his life. For the last ten days, that roar had been replaced by the quiet clicking of a game controller and the soft thud of ice packs being moved from the freezer to his shoulder.
Being Quinn Hughes’ best friend came with a specific set of responsibilities. I was the one who knew how he liked his coffee (black, but only from one specific shop down the street), the one who knew which loss he was still playing back in his head at 3:00 AM, and apparently, the only one he trusted to see him like this: sidelined, frustrated, and stripped of his "Captain" armor.
"y/n?" his voice drifted from the living room, sounding uncharacteristically small.
I set the dish towel down and walked into the lounge. He was propped up on the oversized sectional, his left arm immobilized in a black sling. He looked pale, his hair a messy nest of curls that I’d been fighting the urge to run my fingers through since I moved into his guest room a week ago.
"Ice is melted," he said, nodding toward the bag slumped against his collarbone.
"I’m on it, Cap," I teased, though my heart did that annoying little skip it always did when he looked at me with those heavy, tired eyes.
I took the bag, our fingers brushing for a fraction of a second. Usually, we were a high-contact duo—hugs, leaning on each other, casual touches—but since I’d moved in, everything felt… charged. Maybe it was the fact that I was seeing him in soft grey joggers and nothing else for eighteen hours a day. Or maybe it was the way his gaze lingered on me a second too long whenever I walked into the room.
When I came back with the fresh ice, he was trying to sit up further, his jaw tight with the effort of not using his injured side.
"Stop moving," I scolded gently, sitting on the edge of the sofa. "You’re going to pop a stitch just because you’re restless."
"I’m going crazy, y/n," he muttered, leaning his head back against the cushions. "I feel useless. I’m watching the guys play on TV and I’m stuck here being babysat."
"I am not a babysitter," I said, carefully positioning the ice. "I am a highly-trained recovery specialist. My rates are very high."
Quinn let out a dry, short laugh, his eyes fluttering shut as the cold hit the inflammation. "Yeah? What do I owe you?"
"A win when you’re back," I whispered.
He opened his eyes then. The playful atmosphere shifted instantly. Quinn didn't look away; he tracked the movement of my hand as I smoothed the edge of the ice pack. The air in the room felt thick, like the moments right before a summer storm breaks.
"You've been amazing this week," he said, his voice dropping into that low, vibrating register he only used when it was just the two of us. "I don't think I told you that."
"You don't have to," I replied, my pulse starting to drum in my ears. "That’s what best friends are for."
The word friends felt like a lie the moment it left my mouth. Quinn’s gaze dropped to my lips, then back to my eyes. He reached out with his good hand, his fingers hooking into the belt loop of my jeans, pulling me just an inch closer.
"Is that all we are?" he asked. The bluntness of it took my breath away. Quinn was usually so calculated, so reserved. "Because I’ve been sitting on this couch for six days watching you walk around my kitchen, and I haven't been thinking about friendship once."
My heart was thundering now. "Quinn..."
"I'm serious," he said, his grip on my belt loop tightening. "I think the surgery did something to my brain. Or maybe it just stopped me from running long enough to realize that I’m losing my mind over you."
I reached up, my hand trembling slightly as I cupped his cheek. His skin was warm, his stubble grazing my palm. "You’re frustrated. You’re bored. You’re on painkillers."
"I’m off the meds, y/n. I’m clear-headed." He leaned into my hand, his eyes darkening. "And I’ve wanted to do this since the New Year’s party. Probably before that."
He didn't wait for me to close the gap. He leaned forward, his good arm moving to the back of my neck, and pulled me down.
The kiss was everything our friendship wasn't: desperate, messy, and heavy with years of unspoken want. It tasted like peppermint and pure, unadulterated longing. I groaned into his mouth, my hands finding his hair, my knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips.
He let out a jagged breath, breaking the kiss to press his forehead against mine. "Finally," he whispered against my skin.
"Your shoulder," I managed to say, even as I started to tug at the waistband of his joggers.
"Forget the shoulder," he gasped, his hand sliding under my shirt, his palm hot against my bare skin. "I’ve spent a week being careful. I don’t want to be careful anymore."
He guided me back, his good arm surprisingly strong as he maneuvered us until I was flush against him. The frustration of being sidelined, the restless energy of the last week—it all poured into the way he touched me. It wasn't just physical; it was Quinn finally taking what he wanted, with the same quiet, intense focus he brought to the ice.
As the clothes ended up in a heap on the hardwood floor, the reality hit me: the "Recovery Roomie" phase was over. We had crossed a line that neither of us wanted to go back over.
"y/n," he groaned, his eyes locking onto mine as he moved between my legs, his expression one of total, focused devotion. "Look at me. I want you to see exactly who’s doing this to you."
And as he moved, filling the space between us with a heat that made the Vancouver rain outside feel miles away, I knew. There was no going back to just being "best friends." Not when he looked at me like I was the only win that ever mattered.
The cool sheets of his bed felt like a shock against my skin as Quinn lowered me down, but the chill didn't last. He was over me in an instant, a solid, radiating weight that anchored me to the mattress. The bedroom was dim, lit only by the city lights of Vancouver filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting silver highlights over the sharp planes of his face.
"I’ve spent seven days in this bed alone, thinking about you in the room next door," he whispered, his voice vibrating against my collarbone. He used his good arm to brace himself, his fingers sprawling across the pillowcase next to my head. "Do you have any idea what that did to me?"
"I was thinking about you, too," I confessed, my voice sounding breathy and far away.
He didn't respond with words. Instead, he started at my jaw, planting slow, deliberate kisses down the length of my throat until he reached the sensitive dip of my collarbone. His tongue flicked against my skin, and I arched off the bed with a soft gasp. He was so precise, so methodical, mapping out my body as if he were memorizing a new playbook.
His hand slid down, his palm flat against my stomach, feeling the way my muscles jumped under his touch. When he reached the lace of my underwear, he paused, his eyes locking onto mine. There was a question there, a final check for consent that was so inherently Quinn, but the fire behind his pupils told me he already knew the answer.
"Quinn, please," I urged, my hands finding the small of his back, pulling him closer.
He hooked a finger into the side of the lace and tugged. Slowly. He wanted to see every inch of me as it was revealed. When he finally tossed the fabric aside, he let out a jagged breath that sounded like a prayer.
"You're beautiful," he muttered, his voice thick with a raw, unpolished honesty. "I always knew you would be, but this... I’m never going to get over this."
He moved his hand between my thighs, his touch light at first—just the tips of his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. I felt my legs fall open instinctively, a silent invitation he was quick to accept. As he moved higher, finding the heart of the heat I’d been nursing for days, his movements became more rhythmic and sure.
I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him up for a kiss that tasted like desperation. The quiet pining of the last few years was being burned away, replaced by the friction of skin and the sound of our synchronized breathing.
Quinn broke the kiss to watch his own hand as he worked, his thumb circling with a steady, agonizing pressure that had me seeing stars. He was watching my face, waiting for that specific hitch in my breath that told him he’d found the right spot. When it came, he let out a low, satisfied hum.
"That's it," he rasped. "Just like that."
The tension in my lower stomach coiled tighter and tighter until I was clinging to his bicep, my nails digging into the muscle. I felt the first wave of release start to ripple through me, and Quinn didn't let up for a second. He stayed with me, his touch intensifying until I was crying out his name into the quiet of the room.
As the tremors began to fade, he didn't give me time to recover. He reached for his nightstand, his movements efficient, and then he was back, settling between my legs.
He paused for a heartbeat, his forehead leaning against mine. The vulnerability of the moment hit me—my best friend, the man I’d trusted with every secret I owned, was about to become the man who knew me in a way no one else ever would.
"Stay with me," he whispered, less of a command and more of a plea.
He surged forward, filling me in one slow, deep motion. I let out a sharp, surprised breath, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him even deeper. The feeling was overwhelming—a sense of completeness that made the last few years of "friendship" feel like a long, quiet prologue.
Quinn groaned, his eyes fluttering shut as he stayed still for a moment, letting us both adjust. "You feel... perfect. God, y/n."
He began to move, his pace steady and relentless. He couldn't use his left arm for leverage, so he used the weight of his body and the strength of his right arm to dictate the rhythm. It was a powerful, grounded sensation. Every thrust was a statement, a claim he was making after years of holding back.
The headboard thudded rhythmically against the wall, but neither of us cared. I was lost in the sensation of him—the heat of his chest against mine, the way his curls felt between my fingers, and the low, guttural sounds he made every time he buried himself inside me.
"Look at me," he panted, his eyes snapping open. They were dark, blown out, and entirely focused on me. "I want to see you when you break."
He picked up the pace, his movements becoming more urgent and less controlled. The "Captain" was gone; there was only Quinn, a man who was finally, finally home. The friction and the heat built until it was unbearable, a pressure behind my ribs that felt like it was going to shatter me.
When the climax hit, it was more intense than anything I’d ever felt. It wasn't just physical—it was the emotional weight of him, the history we shared, and the future we were suddenly creating. I felt him follow me almost immediately, his body tensing, his fingers gripping my hip so hard I knew there’d be a mark.
He collapsed against me, careful to keep most of his weight on his good side, his face buried in the crook of my neck. We stayed like that for a long time, the only sound the frantic thumping of our hearts and the distant hum of the city.
Eventually, Quinn shifted, pulling the duvet over both of us and tucking me into his side. He kissed the top of my head, his hand tracing lazy patterns on my arm.
"So," he whispered, his voice returning to its usual quiet, dry tone, though there was a new warmth in it. "Does this mean I still have to pay you those high recovery specialist rates?"
I laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his chest. "I think we can negotiate a different kind of payment plan."
He tightened his hold on me, his eyes closing in contentment. "Good. Because you're not moving back into that guest room. Ever."
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