Pulse
Quinn Hughes x reader
Summary: It starts with warmth, soft kisses, and a love that feels safe. It ends with unanswered messages, an empty promise, and two lines on a test.
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Chapter 4: Nine months, One Night, No Goodbye
You didn’t even know how you ended up here.
One second you were standing outside your building, keys in hand, smiling like a teenager over the fact that you were going to have dinner with Quinn. The next, you were sitting across from him in a restaurant lit in warm gold, quieter than you expected, tucked away from the street like it’s trying not to be found. Soft light pools over the table, amber and slow, and the air smells faintly of wine and something warm you can’t name. You slide into the chair across from Quinn and exhale without realizing you’ve been holding your breath.
He smiles at you—not wide, not cocky. Just… gentle. Like he’s relieved.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” you reply, and the word comes out softer than you intended.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. It isn’t awkward. It feels like a pause you’re both happy to sit inside.
“You look comfortable here,” he says eventually, voice low, unhurried.
“I am,” you admit. “It feels… calm.”
He nods like that matters to him. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
You tilt your head. “You thought?”
“I wanted somewhere that didn’t feel loud,” he says. “Somewhere you could breathe.”
The words settle over you like a blanket.
You smile into your glass. “That’s surprisingly thoughtful.”
He shrugs, a little shy now. “I try.”
The server brings your drinks, and Quinn lifts his glass first. He doesn’t rush. He waits until you meet his eyes.
“To tonight,” he says. “And not overthinking it.”
You laugh softly. “Good luck with that.”
He reaches across the table then, slow enough to give you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t.
His fingers wrap around your wrist, warm, grounding. And when he kisses the inside of it, it’s not bold or showy—it’s tender. Intentional. Like he’s saying I see you without using words.
Your chest tightens.
“That’s dangerous,” you murmur.
His thumb brushes lightly over your pulse. “Only if you let it be.”
You feel strangely safe. Seen. Like there’s nowhere you need to perform.
Conversation flows easily after that. He asks about your day and actually listens to the answer. He laughs quietly at your jokes, leaning in like he doesn’t want to miss a word. When you tease him, it’s gentle, familiar already.
“You’re different tonight,” you say at one point.
“Different how?”
“More… here,” you shrug. “Usually people are half somewhere else.”
His gaze softens. “I didn’t want to be.”
The warmth settles deeper.
At the end of the night, outside your building, he lingers. No rush. No pressure.
“I’m glad you came,” he says simply.
“So am I.”
He kisses your wrist once more, slower this time, and when he pulls back, he rests his forehead briefly against yours.
“Goodnight,” he whispers.
You watch him walk away feeling wrapped in something warm and unfamiliar.
You don’t know yet that this warmth will be the thing you miss most.
You told yourself it was just one dinner. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.
You would be wrong.
So very wrong.
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The first month felt like freefall.
Quinn was flirty without trying, warm without realizing, dangerous without effort. He didn’t text a lot, but he showed up in person with that quiet intensity that made you feel chosen. He learned your favorite foods. He let you wear his hoodie without making a show of offering it.
You would be sitting on the couch and suddenly he’d appear behind you, chin resting lightly on your shoulder.
“Missed you today,” he’d murmur.
And when he left, he kissed your wrist like it was instinct.
Like it was his way of saying: Stay. I want you here.
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By month two, everything had deepened.
He slept at your place more often than not. His body fit around yours like he’d been molded there. You learned the differences between his silences—the thoughtful ones, the shy ones, the ones where he didn’t know how to say what he felt.
He didn’t argue with you. He didn’t push. He didn’t demand.
He just… cared.
Quietly. Softly. Steadily.
You touched his face once while he was half-asleep, and he mumbled, “Don’t stop.”
Your heart broke a little in the best way.
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Month three was when you let yourself believe it.
Believe him. Believe the ritual wrist kisses. Believe the soft way he looked at you. Believe the way he held you after long days like you were the place he came to rest.
You didn’t know that love can look strongest right before it starts breaking.
You didn’t know that comfort can hide fear. His fear. The kind he never talked about.
Not yet.
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Month four was steady.
Month five was warm.
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Month six was when everything began to freeze.
Not suddenly. Not loudly.
Just enough for your heart to feel the shift.
Quinn wasn’t cold—just somewhere else. In his head. In his stress. In the parts of himself he didn’t let you see.
He texted less. He kissed your wrist less. He smiled less.
But he didn’t talk about it. He didn’t fight. He didn’t complain.
He just quietly drifted.
And you didn’t know then that this was the beginning of the end.
You didn’t know then that someone can love you and still leave.
You didn’t know then that the man who kissed your wrist like a promise would later break you with silence.
But you would.
Soon.
And painfully.
But that comes later.
For now, you still believed him.
You still thought love was enough.
And you still didn’t see that life was already moving—quiet and cruel—in the direction of goodbye.
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Month seven didn’t announce itself.
There was no fight. No turning point you could circle in red and say this is where it went wrong. It crept in quietly, like a draft through a window you didn’t realize was open.
Quinn was still there. He still showed up. He still slept beside you some nights.
But something had shifted.
He used to pull you close without thinking—an arm around your waist, fingers hooked lazily in your belt loop, his mouth brushing your temple when he passed behind you. Now he hesitated. Just a second. Just long enough for you to notice.
You noticed everything.
The way he checked his phone more often. The way he listened, but didn’t really hear. The way he answered questions with gentler versions of deflections.
You tried not to make it a thing.
One night, you were lying in bed, the room dark except for the streetlight bleeding through the curtains. Quinn lay on his back beside you, hands folded on his chest like he was somewhere else entirely.
“Can I ask you something?” you said softly.
“Yeah,” he answered, but his voice sounded far away.
You turned onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow. “Are you… happy?”
He blinked, surprised by the question. Then he frowned—not upset, not defensive. Just confused.
“Of course I am.”
“With us?” you pressed.
He didn’t answer right away. He turned his head toward you, studying your face like he was searching for the safest response.
“I don’t see why I wouldn’t be,” he said finally.
It wasn’t reassurance. It was avoidance.
You swallowed. “You feel distant.”
He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m just tired.”
“From what?”
“Everything.” He shrugged, already closing himself off. “Practice. Pressure. Expectations.”
You nodded, even though your chest felt tight. “I’m here, you know.”
“I know.” He reached for your hand and kissed your wrist.
The kiss was softer than it used to be. Shorter. Like muscle memory instead of desire.
You told yourself it still counted.
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By the middle of month eight, he stopped staying over as much.
He always had a reason.
Early practice. Late meetings. Media obligations.
None of them were lies, exactly. That was the worst part. Quinn never lied outright. He just told partial truths and let the rest fade into silence.
You started being the one to text first.
You: Miss you.
You: Want to come over?
You: Did I do something wrong?
He replied—but slower now. Less warmth. Less presence.
Quinn: Busy today.
Quinn: Sorry, didn’t see this.
Quinn: We’re good, I promise.
That word—promise—sat heavy on your chest.
Because he didn’t say it like someone who meant to keep it.
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Month nine arrived with a weight you couldn’t shake.
That was when the offer came.
You could tell something was wrong the moment he walked into your apartment that night. He didn’t kiss you hello. He didn’t reach for your wrist. He stood in the doorway, shoulders tense, eyes darting like he was bracing for impact.
“I need to tell you something,” he said.
Your stomach dropped.
You sat down on the couch slowly, your heart already racing. “Okay.”
He stayed standing.
“They want me in Minnesota,” he said. “The Wild.”
The words hit hard, fast, knocking the air from your lungs.
“That’s… huge,” you managed.
He nodded. “Yeah. It is.”
“How long?”
He hesitated. “It’s a full contract.”
A full contract. Not a trial. Not temporary.
Your chest tightened, but you forced a smile. “That’s incredible, Quinn. I’m proud of you.”
Relief flashed across his face—quick, almost guilty. “You are?”
“Of course I am.”
He finally sat beside you, close but not touching. “I didn’t want you to think—”
“That I’d hold you back?” you finished quietly.
He didn’t answer.
And that was answer enough.
“We’ll make it work,” he said instead, too quickly. “People do long-distance all the time.”
You waited. For a plan. For a question. For Do you want to come with me? For What do you want?
None came.
“We’ll figure it out,” he added, softer now, like hope without foundation.
You nodded. “Yeah. We will.”
But something inside you cracked.
The days leading up to his flight felt surreal.
He packed while you sat on the bed, folding his shirts, pretending not to notice how carefully he avoided your eyes. He was kind. Gentle. Detached.
The night before he left, you lay tangled together, skin warm against skin, his forehead pressed to yours.
“You’ll call me, right?” you asked.
“Of course,” he said, kissing your wrist.
But he didn’t sound sure.
At the airport, he hugged you tightly, longer than usual, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.
“I’ll text you when I land,” he said.
You nodded. “Okay.”
He didn’t kiss your wrist this time.
You watched him walk away, and something in your chest whispered this is it.
You ignored it.
He didn’t text when he landed.
You told yourself he was tired.
He didn’t call the next day.
You told yourself he was overwhelmed.
By the third day, the silence was loud.
When he finally texted, it was short.
Quinn: Sorry. Training’s intense.
You stared at your phone for a long time before replying.
You: I miss you.
Three hours passed.
Quinn: Miss you too.
It felt like reading a script.
Then came the photos.
You weren’t looking for them. They found you.
Maddie sent the link with a hesitant message.
Maddie: Girl you didn't told me you and Quinn broke up...if you want to vent I'm always here.
You clicked it before you could stop yourself.
Quinn, walking through Soho. Quinn, laughing. Quinn, beside Olivia.
Olivia Bonn. Model. His ex. The one he’d said was “in the past.”
Her hand brushed his arm. His body leaned toward hers like it was natural.
Like it was familiar.
Your vision blurred.
You texted him immediately.
You: Quinn. I saw the photos. Please tell me what’s going on.
Delivered. Not read.
An hour passed.
Another text.
You: If this isn’t what it looks like, just say that.
Delivered. Not read.
By nightfall, your hands were shaking.
You: Please don’t ignore me.
Nothing.
The next day.
You: Are you with her?
Nothing.
You felt sick.
By the third day, desperation crept in.
You: I can’t do this if you won’t talk to me.
Still nothing.
No explanation. No denial. No goodbye.
Just silence.
And that was when it hit you.
Quinn wasn’t confused anymore.
He’d chosen.
He just didn’t have the courage to tell you.
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Now you're here, alone, staring at yourself in the mirror.
The cold tile under your bare feet. The hum of the light above. The plastic stick in your trembling hand.
Two pink lines.
Positive.
Your breath stutters.
You sink down against the counter, heart pounding so hard it hurts.
You think of the restaurant. The flirting. The wrist kiss. The promises wrapped in softness.
You think of Minnesota. Of Olivia. Of unanswered texts.
You think of the man who said we’ll figure it out and then disappeared.
And you realize— There is no goodbye.
Just this. Just you.
And a future he doesn’t even know exists.
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