I NEED YOU LIKE THE AIR I BREATHE
REQ: luke and reader go through a rough argument or possibly a breakup. shes not in the stands for the first time and everything is a bit too loud and overwhelming. lukey plays like absolute doodoo that whole game and it gets worse post game because they cant do their post game unwinding routine together. they make up eventually and realise they cant live without eachother.
SUMMARY: after a brutal game and three weeks apart, luke shows up at your dorm in the middle of the night — disheveled, tearful, and begging for a second chance. your heart aches. his does too. some things hurt too much to stay broken forever.
A/N: this is a somewhat part two to ‘there you are’ requested by @/jackblackismybestfriend <3 i changed the request a tiny bit bec i was feeling #inspired and i love angst and men who yearn
it’s been nineteen days.
nineteen days since that stupid argument.
nineteen days since the door closed behind him.
nineteen days since you said something you didn’t mean. since he did too.
you haven’t talked since. not even a text. not even an “i miss you” or a “can we talk?”
he hasn’t messaged you, and you haven’t messaged him. not because you don’t want to — god, you do. but you think if you see his name on your screen, if you hear his voice even once, you might fall apart entirely. and maybe he feels the same.
maybe his heart hurts just as much.
because yours feels like it’s caving in on itself.
you’re still going to his games, though. not in your usual seat — the one just off the corner where he’d always spot you during warmups, where he’d smile and tap his stick on the glass like a secret hello just for you. you stopped sitting there after the first time he looked and didn’t find you.
you saw it happen — the glance toward where you always were, the pause, the slump of his shoulders when you weren’t.
you couldn’t bear to watch him look for you like that again.
so now you sit higher, tucked into the middle of the crowd. still in his umich hoodie. still holding a bottle of gatorade he’ll never reach for. still pretending to read whatever textbook you brought along, though you never make it past the same dog-eared page.
and he’s playing like shit.
like really bad. every game’s a mess. missed passes, mistimed checks, lazy backskates that aren’t him. he looks distracted. exhausted. like he’s skating through cement.
and it’s not just you who notices — even the commentators have started mentioning it.
“hughes doesn’t look like himself.”
“he’s been really off his game lately.”
“there’s something going on definitely.”
you feel sick every time they say it. because you know.
you know it’s your fault.
you know you’re the thing he’s missing.
and tonight is worse than most.
he’s already gotten knocked around a little — missed a pass early in the second, came off the ice shaking his head — and the energy’s all wrong. he’s off. everyone knows it. you’re halfway through highlighting a sentence in your notes when you glance up and freeze.
he’s staring at you.
you’re in the middle of a packed section, hoodie pulled over your head, barely visible behind a railing — but somehow, his eyes find yours.
it’s less than a second.
but it’s everything.
and then he gets hit.
hard.
you don’t breathe until he’s standing again.
he skates off. waves the trainer away. pretends he’s fine.
but you know the difference between luke hughes and the version of him he’s faking.
you close your textbook. grip the bottle of gatorade a little tighter.
you can’t stay here. not tonight. not anymore.
so you leave.
you slip down the stairs quietly, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, heart banging in your chest.
you don’t look back. you don’t go to the tunnel. you don’t wait like you always used to.
because he won’t come.
not this time.
and it would break you if he did.
luke doesn’t remember the final score.
he doesn’t remember what coach said.
he doesn’t remember shaking hands, doesn’t remember the crowd leaving, doesn’t remember how he even made it off the ice.
his whole body’s buzzing, but not from adrenaline. it’s something else — something tighter, something sick.
like guilt.
like heartbreak.
like losing everything and still having to show up to the locker room and pretend like you’re fine.
he’s not fine.
he’s not even close.
“you good, lukey?” ethan asks, towel slung around his neck, hair still wet from a rushed post-game shower.
luke doesn’t look up. “yeah,” he mutters. “just tired.”
but his hands won’t stop shaking. he’s sitting on the bench, tape peeled off in strips by his feet, jersey balled up beside him, and he still hasn’t moved in ten minutes. his hoodie’s clinging to his skin — too hot, too heavy — and he can’t get a full breath in.
mark’s the one who says it first. “was that her?”
luke’s head snaps up.
mark just shrugs, quiet and careful. “in the stands. after the second. i thought i saw her.”
luke swallows hard. his throat’s dry.
“yeah,” he says. barely a whisper. “it was her.”
he shouldn’t have looked. he knew better. every game since the breakup, he’s told himself not to search. not to scan the crowd, not to let his eyes drift to that seat. it only ends in heartbreak.
but tonight… tonight he felt it before he saw it. like gravity. like some part of him knew.
and there she was.
not in her seat. not where she always used to be.
but there.
in his hoodie. hair tucked behind her ear. textbook open in her lap like she could pretend she wasn’t watching.
his hoodie.
he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, dragging them down his face.
“jesus,” he breathes.
ethan doesn’t say anything. neither does mark. they don’t need to — luke’s unraveling in front of them, and everyone knows it. the room’s loud with voices and laughter and post-game rituals, but around luke, it’s quiet. like even the chaos is giving him space to fall apart.
“i can’t do this,” luke mumbles. he’s still staring at the floor, elbows on his knees. “i can’t fucking do this without her.”
he doesn’t mean the game. doesn’t mean the shift or the scoreboard or the hit he took when he got distracted — he means this. the empty dorm room. the silence. the ache.
the way he goes back to his dorm every night and checks his phone and hopes. and hopes. and hopes.
but she never texts.
and he can’t bring himself to.
because if she wanted him, really wanted him, she wouldn’t be sitting three rows back holding a gatorade she never gave him.
but fuck — he misses her.
and he’s not handling it well.
“she looked the same,” he says, eyes glassy now. “she looked like mine.”
ethan places a hand on his shoulder. doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t say anything — just holds him there. grounding.
luke blinks fast, but it doesn’t stop the way his vision blurs.
“i’m gonna lose it, man.”
“then go get her,” mark says softly.
“she doesn’t want me.”
“you don’t know that.”
but he does. he feels it in the hollow of his chest. in the stretch of the bed he hasn’t slept well in since she left. in the gatorade he didn’t get handed tonight. or in the last three weeks. in all his hoodies that still smell like her, even after nineteen days.
and he can’t shake the look on her face when she saw him. like it hurt. like it still hurts.
he wipes his face on his sleeve.
“i just… i saw her, and i couldn’t think. couldn’t play. i got fucking smoked because of it.”
he laughs, bitter and broken. “bet coach loved that.”
but no one jokes. because this isn’t about hockey. this is about her. it’s always been about her.
and luke knows — he knows — he can’t keep going like this.
he can’t eat. can’t sleep. can’t breathe.
not without her.
never without her.
he doesn’t know where he’s going.
his gear’s in a bag over his shoulder, but he’s not headed back to his place. he left the rink nearly an hour ago — maybe longer — hoodie pulled over his head, teammates saying goodbye behind him, the rink doors closing like a full stop to something he never meant to end.
he walks.
across the street. past the dorms. down by the empty quad.
he doesn’t speak. doesn’t even think. just keeps moving, one foot in front of the other, breath curling in the cold night air like smoke.
and god, he’s so tired.
not the kind of tired sleep can fix. it’s deeper than that. it’s in his chest. in his limbs. in the space beside him that used to be full of you.
he saw you tonight.
you were there. not in your usual seat — not where his eyes always flick during warmups — but a few rows up, tucked into the corner, head bent over a book like you weren’t watching him the whole time.
he saw you. and it broke him.
because you were in a hoodie. his hoodie. the one you used to steal and never return. your hair was tucked behind your ear. your face looked tired in a way he recognized too well.
and in your hands — resting on your lap, unopened — was a gatorade. his favorite kind.
you didn’t give it to him.
he thinks maybe that’s what did it. not the seat. not the space. not even the hoodie. it was the way you held that bottle and never stood. never came down to meet him like you used to. never smiled, never ran fingers through his sweaty curls, never kissed his cheek and told him he did good even when he didn’t.
you were there. and he couldn’t reach you.
he ends up by the music building. there’s a bench he used to sit on before morning skates, when the sun wasn’t up yet and the sidewalks were still quiet. he drops down now, leans forward, presses his hands to his face and just sits there.
his throat’s tight.
it’s been weeks. almost three. and he hasn’t texted you. he couldn’t. he didn’t know how to explain it — the fight, the space, the aching silence afterward. he thought maybe it would fade. maybe you’d reach out first.
but then he saw you tonight.
and now nothing feels right.
his hands are trembling. his chest is pulled tight. he’s not sure how long he sits there — ten minutes, maybe twenty — but eventually, he looks up and realizes exactly where he is.
two blocks from your dorm.
his heart thuds. slow. heavy.
like it already knows what he’s about to do.
he walks the rest of the way with shaking hands.
it’s so quiet. the street’s empty. the windows are lit yellow, warm behind curtains. and when he sees your building, it hits him all at once — like impact. like open ice to the chest.
he steps inside. climbs the stairs because the elevator feels too fast.
his knuckles hover over your door.
he almost doesn’t knock.
and then he does.
it’s quiet for a second.
then there you are.
you open the door like you weren’t expecting anyone — like maybe you were asleep, or half-asleep, or studying. your hair’s a little messy. you’re in sweatpants and that same hoodie, sleeves pushed up to your elbows.
your face crumples the second you see him.
and luke — god, he loses it.
“please,” he breathes. “please just let me talk.”
you don’t move. don’t say anything. but your eyes are full of tears already, and that’s when he knows — deep down — that you’ve been hurting too.
he steps closer, barely a whisper; “baby, i’m so sorry,’
his voice cracks. it shatters.
and then he’s falling apart.
hands shaking, eyes wet, voice wrecked from trying to hold it all in — he’s standing in front of you with his heart in his hands and the stupidest apology on his lips.
“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry. i should’ve never let you walk away, i should’ve followed you that night, i should’ve— god, i should’ve done everything differently.”
you reach for him.
it’s instinct. breathless. like your body moves before your mind can catch up.
your arms go around him and he crashes into you — head to your shoulder, arms tight around your waist, shaking like a kid. he’s crying before he can stop it. quiet, broken sobs into the space where your neck meets your collarbone.
“i miss you,” he whispers. “i miss you every fucking day.”
you’re crying now too. silent tears streaking down your cheeks, your hand buried in his hair like you’re trying to piece him back together strand by strand.
he holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him standing. maybe you are.
“i didn’t know how to talk to you,” he says, voice muffled by your skin. “after that fight. i didn’t know what to say.”
you nod, still clinging. “i know. me neither.”
you press a kiss to the side of his head. soft. barely there.
he squeezes you tighter.
“when i saw you at the game,” he mumbles, “it felt like someone knocked the air out of me. i didn’t even care about the puck or the hit or the shift — i just wanted to skate over to the glass and tell you i love you.”
you let out a soft noise. a sob wrapped in a laugh.
“you played so bad.”
he huffs out a wet laugh. “i know.”
you pull back, just slightly. enough to look at him.
his eyes are red. his curls are wild. he looks like hell. but to you — he looks like luke. your luke. the boy who carries your bag when your shoulder hurts, who kisses your forehead after every exam, who knows the name of your childhood dog, who sends your mom flowers every other week, and knows all your favorite midterm snacks.
“you’re such an idiot,” you whisper, tears falling again.
he nods. “i know.”
“you broke my heart.”
“i know.”
you pause.
“but i still love you.”
his breath catches.
and then you’re kissing him — like you need to. like you’re both trying to breathe again after weeks underwater. it’s not perfect. it’s wet and warm and broken by tears. but it’s real. it’s raw.
and it’s yours.
when you finally pull back, he touches your cheek like you’re something fragile.
“can i stay?” he asks.
you nod. “you always can.”
and then you’re leading him inside — quiet, hand in hand, like maybe you’re both waking up from a very bad dream.
but it’s over now.
he’s home.
