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late night

#smithslatte #will smith hockey #will smith nhl #will smith x reader #will smith imagine #will smith fic #will smith x you #will smith fluff #will smith sharks #will smith x y/n #fanfic #fanfiction

“they’ll love you.”

#smithslatte #will smith sharks #will smith nhl #will smith x you #will smith fic #will smith fluff #will smith x reader #will smith imagine #will smith hockey #will smith x y/n #will smith 2 #fanfiction #fanfic #fiction

still waiting

requested by @septembervirgorose

There was a time when loving Will Smith felt easy.

Back when he was still the charming rookie with messy curls and sleepy morning smiles, sneaking you into his apartment after late games and promising you a future bigger than both of you could imagine. Back when he swore no matter how crazy hockey became, you would always come first.

And for awhile, he meant it.

The wedding happened fast. A quiet summer ceremony surrounded by close friends and family before training camp started again. Then came Cash Bradley Smith barely a year later — tiny, perfect, wrapped in teal hospital blankets while Will cried harder than you did holding his son for the first time.

You truly believed becoming parents would make your marriage stronger.

Instead, it slowly destroyed it.

Not all at once. Nothing dramatic. No huge screaming matches or cheating scandals. Just little things piling up until you barely recognized your relationship anymore.

Will was always gone. Morning skates, practices, team meetings, away games, interviews, workouts. And when hockey finally wasn’t demanding his attention, his teammates were. Nights out after wins turned into nights out after losses too. “Team bonding,” he’d call it.

At first, you tried to be understanding. You knew what you signed up for marrying an NHL player. You smiled through interviews. Sat in suites with the other wives and girlfriends. Posted birthday tributes online pretending everything was perfect.

Meanwhile, you were drowning alone behind the scenes.

Cash was only two years old, but you already knew every part of parenting by yourself. The midnight fevers. The tantrums in grocery stores. The sticky hands tugging at your sweatpants while you cooked dinner with one arm.

Will missed more than he attended.

His first steps happened while Will was in Vancouver. His first haircut happened on a random Tuesday because Will forgot he promised to come. Even tonight, Cash sat at the dining room table kicking his little feet against the chair, waiting excitedly for his daddy to come home for dinner.

“He coming?” Cash had asked for the fifth time, gripping his tiny toy shark.

Your chest physically hurt remembering it.

“He’s busy, baby,” you told him gently.

Busy.

Always busy.

By 8:30, Cash was crying because he wanted his dad. By 9:15, he fell asleep on your chest halfway through Finding Nemo. By 10:00, you carried him upstairs alone while Will’s untouched dinner sat cold on the stove.

Again.

Now it was nearly three in the morning.

The soft glow of the kitchen light was the only thing keeping the house awake. Everything else was silent — except for the occasional hum of the baby monitor sitting beside your untouched cup of tea.

2:47 a.m.

Again.

You sat at the island counter in one of Will’s oversized Sharks hoodies, your leg bouncing anxiously as you stared at the clock above the stove. Your phone screen had gone dark nearly an hour ago after your last unanswered text.

You coming home tonight?

No response.

The sound of the front door unlocking made your stomach twist. A second later, Will stumbled inside, laughing quietly to himself as he shrugged his jacket off his shoulders. The smell of alcohol followed him instantly.

His smile faded the second he noticed you sitting there.

“Oh,” he muttered, glancing at the clock. “You’re awake.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Clearly.”

Will rubbed a hand down his face, already exhausted. “Look, we went out after the game. I lost track of time.”

“You always lose track of time.”

The words came out sharper than you intended, but you were too tired to soften them anymore.

He frowned slightly. “Why are you acting like this?”

Your jaw tightened. Acting like this.

As if this was sudden.

As if the countless lonely nights, missed dinners, forgotten promises, and mornings spent parenting alone hadn’t been building for months.

You pushed your chair back slowly and stood. “Cash waited up for you tonight.”

Will looked away immediately. “I had practice this morning and—”

“And?” you interrupted quietly. “What’s the excuse for every other night?”

Silence.

The kitchen suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too full of things neither of you wanted to say out loud.

Will scoffed lightly after a second. “You know how my schedule is.”

“And you know you have a family.”

That made him finally look at you. Really look at you.

Your tired eyes. The dark circles under them. The way your wedding ring hung loosely on your finger now because stress had stolen your appetite months ago.

“I’m doing this for us,” he said, softer this time.

“No,” you whispered. “You’re doing it for you.”

His expression hardened instantly. “That’s not fair.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Fair?”

You shook your head slowly, emotion clogging your throat.

“You know what’s not fair, Will? Being married and still feeling alone every single day.”

Upstairs, Cash shifted faintly through the monitor, making both of you freeze for a moment.

Your voice lowered automatically. “I do everything here. I raise our son alone while you come home whenever you want like we’re just… something waiting for you when hockey’s over.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

Will opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Because deep down, he knew.

He knew about the missed pediatrician appointments. The birthdays you planned alone. The nights Cash fell asleep clutching Will’s jersey because it smelled like him.

He knew. He just never thought you’d actually reach your limit.

You looked at him for a long moment before speaking again.

“I want a divorce.”

The room went completely still.

Will blinked like he genuinely thought he misheard you. “What?”

Your eyes burned, but you refused to cry now. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Baby, come on—”

“No.” Your voice cracked. “Don’t call me that right now.”

For the first time in a very long time, Will looked scared.

Not angry. Not defensive.

Scared.

“You don’t mean that,” he said quietly.

But you did.

And judging by the devastated look spreading across his face, he was finally realizing just how badly he’d let everything fall apart.

authors note- in my head they apologize and live happily ever after 😭

#smithslatte #will smith sharks #will smith nhl #will smith x you #will smith fic #will smith fluff #will smith x reader #will smith imagine #will smith 2 #will smith hockey #will smith x y/n #san jose sharks #fanfiction #fanfic #fiction

headcanons

based off this request

Will isn’t loud about being in love, but he’s consistent in it. He shows up in small, steady ways that you only really notice when you look back—texts that say “you home?” without needing context, remembering things you mentioned once in passing, showing up with food when you’ve had a long day and pretending it was “already on his way.”

He’s affectionate, but not performative about it. In public, it’s usually subtle—hand on your back guiding you through a crowd, fingers brushing yours without making a big deal out of it, leaning in just slightly when he talks to you like the rest of the world doesn’t matter that much.

In private, he’s softer. The kind of boyfriend who gravitates toward you without thinking—head on your shoulder while you’re watching something, pulling you closer just because there’s space, absentmindedly playing with your fingers when he’s tired.

He’s very much a “acts of service” person. If something breaks, he’s already trying to fix it. If you’re stressed, he’s suddenly in the kitchen making something simple and comforting like it’s his job. He’ll act casual about it, but he pays attention more than he lets on.

Will is competitive in everything except you. With you, he softens fast. He’ll still tease you, still challenge you to stupid little games, but if you’re genuinely upset, it’s like a switch flips and he gets quiet, focused on making sure you feel okay again.

He’s also a little clueless sometimes in a charming way. He won’t always say the perfect thing, but he’ll stay. Even if he doesn’t know what to do with his hands or what to say next, he’s there anyway.

He gets clingy in the quietest ways after long travel days—showing up at your place and just wanting to exist near you, even if you’re both doing different things. He’ll pretend he’s “just tired,” but he’s definitely just not ready to leave your space yet.

And when he’s really comfortable, he gets a bit goofy. Random jokes, playful arguing, stealing your snacks and acting innocent about it like he didn’t absolutely do it on purpose.

#smithslatte #juliette talks!#fanfic #fanfiction #will smith fic #will smith fluff #will smith hockey #will smith imagine #will smith nhl #will smith sharks #will smith x you #will smith x reader #will smith 2 #will smith #will smith x y/n #headcanon

looking at him instead

requested by @septembervirgorose

a rose and a thorn

requested by this anon

In the Sharks locker room, Will Smith had a reputation for being a little too quick with a comment — sharp jokes, teasing nicknames, the kind of energy that could tip from funny into annoying if you weren’t used to it. You worked for media, asked mini mic questions and interviewed players.

While most guys pushed back just as hard,

You didn’t.

Instead, you just… stayed kind.

Even when he’d mutter something under his breath as you passed, you’d hand him whatever he’d “accidentally” asked for anyway. Even when he’d try to get under your skin during drills, you’d just laugh it off like he was being normal, not difficult.

It threw him off more than anything else ever could.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” he asked one afternoon after practice, leaning against the boards while you adjusted your bag.

“About what?”

He gestured vaguely, like the answer was obvious.

You shrugged. “It didn’t seem that serious.”

That made him pause.

From across the ice, a couple teammates watched it happen — the way his usual grin faded for half a second before he scoffed and skated away like he hadn’t just been completely disarmed by someone refusing to take the bait.

After that, people started noticing small things.

How his “jokes” around you got softer.

How he lingered a second longer when you were talking, like he was trying to figure you out.

How he’d still tease you — but always in a way that never actually landed mean anymore.

And how, no matter what he did, you never stopped being nice to him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Which, somehow, made him behave better than anyone else ever could.

authors note- i don’t hate this but i don’t love it.

#smithslatte #fanfic #fanfiction #will smith fic #will smith fluff #will smith hockey #will smith imagine #will smith nhl #will smith sharks #will smith x you #will smith x reader #will smith 2 #will smith #will smith x y/n #fiction #san jose sharks

still the same boy

based off this request

You don’t really remember the exact moment Will Smith started acting different around you.

Not different in a loud, obvious way—he’s still the same kid who used to trip over his own skates in warmups and laugh like it was the funniest thing in the world—but somewhere between late high school and the draft, something shifted. Or maybe it didn’t shift at all. Maybe you just finally started noticing it.

You’ve known Grace Smith since you were both still figuring out how to survive high school without losing your minds. She’s the kind of person who makes friends easily, the kind who drags you into conversations you didn’t ask to be part of and somehow makes them feel like home. Through her, you met Will.

He was younger than you by two years—still awkward in that lanky, half-grown way when you first met him. A hockey stick always in his hand, a grin always threatening to break through even when he tried to act cool about it. Back then, you just thought he was “Grace’s little brother who plays hockey.”

But Will… didn’t think of you that way.

You notice it in small things first.

The way he goes quiet when you’re in the room, even when he’s loud with everyone else. The way he always seems to end up sitting near you, even if there’s a whole couch empty somewhere else. The way he laughs a little too hard at your jokes, like he’s trying to prove he gets them.

Grace notices before you do.

“Stop doing that,” she says once, elbowing him when you’re in the kitchen grabbing drinks.

“Doing what?” he asks, too fast.

“That thing where you act like you forgot how to speak English around her.”

He turns red immediately. You don’t hear the rest, but you catch the tail end of Grace whispering something like, “Just talk to her like a normal person, idiot.”

It doesn’t really work.

Because Will doesn’t talk to you like a normal person.

He talks to you like you’re something delicate he’s afraid of breaking just by looking at too hard.

Years pass like that. Games, practices, summer breaks where he comes back taller, stronger, a little more confident on the ice—but still somehow the same around you. Still glancing at you like he’s checking whether you’re real.

And you? You don’t think too much about it. Not at first.

Then he gets drafted.

Everything changes for him overnight. Interviews, training camps, flights across the country. Suddenly, he’s not just “Grace’s little brother who plays hockey.” He’s Will Smith, prospect, future something, someone people start recognizing.

But when he comes back for a short break after the draft, he still finds you the same way he always did.

Like he never left.

You’re sitting on the back steps when he shows up, still in his travel hoodie, hair messy from the flight. He stops like he’s not sure he’s allowed to just walk into your space anymore.

“You’re staring,” you say without looking up from your drink.

“I’m not,” he says immediately.

You finally glance over at him.

He’s absolutely staring.

His ears go pink. “Okay, I am. Sorry.”

You snort. “What’s wrong with you?”

That makes him laugh, soft and breathy, like he didn’t expect you to be the same either. Like part of him thought you’d changed while he was gone. “Nothing. I just… forgot how loud you are in person.”

“I’m not loud.”

“You are,” he says, and there’s a grin trying to hide in his voice. “It’s kind of your thing.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling anyway. “So how’s the big NHL life treating you?”

At that, he shifts like he always does when the conversation turns to him. He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, even though it obviously is. “It’s good. Weird. A lot. Everyone’s older than me.”

“You’re fine,” you say. “You’re basically a baby deer on skates, but you’re fine.”

He laughs harder at that than he should. His shoulders shake, and he looks down like he’s trying to physically contain it.

You notice something then.

He still does that thing.

The thing where he looks at you like he can’t quite believe you’re talking to him.

It hits differently now, though. Because he’s not a kid anymore. Not really. He’s built, confident on the ice, spoken about in scouting reports and interviews.

And yet here he is, standing in your backyard, laughing like you just said something life-changing.

“You’re still weird,” he says finally, quieter now.

“So are you.”

“I know,” he admits, and scratches the back of his neck. “Grace says I got worse.”

“Grace says a lot of things.”

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “She also says I’m obvious.”

That makes you pause.

You look at him properly this time.

He’s not joking anymore.

He’s still smiling, but it’s different now—smaller, uncertain, like he’s testing whether it’s safe to say what he’s thinking out loud.

“Oh,” you say carefully.

He immediately panics. “Not like— I mean—she didn’t mean it like that—”

You cut him off. “Will.”

He stops.

You’ve seen him take hits on the ice without flinching. You’ve seen him get shoved into the boards and bounce back up laughing.

But right now, he looks like he’s bracing for impact anyway.

You tilt your head. “Are you nervous right now?”

He lets out a breath that turns into a laugh halfway out. “Yeah.”

That honesty sits between you for a second.

Then he adds, softer, “I always am with you.”

It should feel like a big moment. It kind of is.

But mostly, it just feels like something you’ve both been circling for years finally stopping pretending it’s not there.

“You’re kind of terrible at this,” you tell him.

“I know,” he says again, immediately.

There’s a pause.

Then, very quietly, he asks, “Do you want me to stop being terrible at it?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because the truth is, you’ve known him long enough to recognize this version of him—the one who’s trying so hard it makes him shaky, the one who still looks at you like you’re something he never thought he’d actually get to keep.

“No,” you say finally. “Just… don’t run away mid-conversation.”

His whole face changes at that. Relief, confusion, and something warm and bright all at once.

“I won’t,” he says quickly. Then, like he can’t help himself, he adds, “I mean— I’ll try not to. I might still be weird.”

“You are weird,” you remind him.

He laughs again, softer this time, and this time it doesn’t feel like he’s holding anything back.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I think I’m your kind of weird.”

earrings

inspired by earrings by malcolm todd

The first time you notice the earrings are gone, you don’t say anything.

That’s the worst part.

Not the loss itself — not the tiny silver hoops Quinn bought you in Toronto because you’d stopped in front of the jewelry case and stared half a second too long.

It’s the silence after.

Because you know exactly where they probably are.

Somewhere tangled in the sheets of Quinn Hughes’ bed.

And you know if you asked, he’d look for them immediately. He’d strip the blankets apart, kneel on the floor, apologize six times for something that wasn’t even really his fault.

But things between you and Quinn have become so fragile lately that even asking feels dangerous.

So instead, you stand in your bathroom staring at the empty spot in your jewelry dish while your stomach twists itself into knots.

And you stay quiet.

It wasn’t always like this.

There was a version of Quinn that talked.

Not perfectly — never perfectly — but enough.

Late-night drives after games where he’d reach across the console and squeeze your knee while admitting he was stressed. Quiet confessions whispered into your shoulder at two in the morning. Small things. Honest things.

Now everything feels edited before it reaches you.

You ask how practice was.

“Fine.”

You ask if he’s okay.

“Yeah.”

You ask if he wants to come over.

“Maybe later.”

Maybe later.

Maybe later becomes the anthem of your relationship.

Maybe later turns into nights spent staring at your phone waiting for him to answer texts you know he’s seen. Turns into sitting beside each other on the couch while a movie plays neither of you are watching.

You can feel him drifting.

And somehow, he can feel you noticing.

Which only makes him drift farther.

Quinn is in his feelings and he can’t get out of it.

Can’t get out of it.

A week after the earrings disappear, you’re in Quinn’s apartment again.

His bedroom is dim except for the TV flickering silently against the wall. Vancouver rain taps softly against the windows.

You’re wearing one of his hoodies.

Quinn’s sitting at the edge of the bed scrolling his phone, jaw tight in that familiar way that tells you he’s thinking too much and saying none of it.

You almost ask then.

About the earrings.

About everything.

Instead, your eyes snag on something near the headboard.

A flash of silver.

Your breath catches.

One earring.

Just one.

Half-hidden beneath the pillow.

You stare at it so long Quinn finally notices.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The word comes out too quickly.

Because suddenly it doesn’t feel like jewelry anymore.

It feels like proof.

Proof that pieces of you have been getting left behind here for months while Quinn says nothing and you pretend not to notice.

One earring missing.

One conversation missing.

One version of yourselves you can’t seem to get back.

Quinn follows your line of sight eventually.

Sees it.

And still—

still neither of you says anything.

The silence afterward is unbearable.

The worst thing about Quinn is that you know he loves you.

You know it in the way he pulls you closer in his sleep. In the way he automatically reaches for your hand in crowded rooms. In the way his voice softens around your name no matter how tired he is.

But love without communication starts feeling like a room with no oxygen.

And Quinn—

God.

Quinn feels everything too deeply and expresses almost none of it.

So instead of talking, he withdraws.

And instead of confronting him, you match his distance.

It becomes a game neither of you knows how to stop playing.

Who can pretend harder.

Who can care quieter.

Quinn is in his feelings and he can’t get out of it.

And now you’re drowning in them too.

A month later, you’re sitting in his apartment alone while Quinn showers after a game.

Your fingers trace absentmindedly across the chain around your neck.

The single remaining earring rests cold in your palm.

You don’t even know why you still carry it.

Maybe because losing both would hurt too much.

The bathroom water shuts off.

Your chest tightens suddenly with exhaustion.

You can’t keep doing this.

Can’t keep loving someone in subtitles and half-finished sentences.

Quinn walks back into the room in gray sweatpants, hair damp, eyes immediately finding you on the bed.

And for a second he just stands there.

Looking at you like he misses you while you’re right in front of him.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You hold the earring tighter.

“Quinn,” you start.

His face changes instantly.

Like he already knows.

Like he’s been waiting for this conversation while fearing it at the exact same time.

You look down because suddenly meeting his eyes feels impossible.

“I lost the other one.”

A pause.

Then:

“What?”

“The earrings.” Your voice cracks embarrassingly. “I think I lost one here a while ago.”

Quinn stares at you.

Confused at first.

Then devastated when he realizes this isn’t actually about the earrings.

“Oh,” he says softly.

And there it is.

The thing sitting between you for months finally breathing out loud.

You laugh once, shaky and miserable. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Quinn sits beside you slowly.

“You could tell me anything.”

But the words land wrong because lately, it hasn’t felt true.

You finally look at him then.

“You stopped talking to me.”

Quinn’s entire expression folds inward.

Immediate guilt. Immediate heartbreak.

But worse than that —

recognition.

Because he knows.

Of course he knows.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

That’s what makes it hurt.

If he’d stopped loving you, maybe this would be easier.

But this?

This is two people loving each other so carefully they accidentally starve the relationship anyway.

Quinn rubs a hand over his face, eyes glassy now.

“I don’t know why I get like this.”

“You shut down.”

“I know.”

“And I get scared to push.”

Another silence.

But this one feels different.

Not empty.

Just honest.

Finally honest.

Quinn reaches into the pocket of his sweatshirt hanging from the bedpost.

When he opens his hand, your missing earring rests in his palm.

Your breath catches.

“I found it weeks ago,” he admits quietly.

You stare at him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Quinn swallows hard.

Then gives the smallest, saddest shrug.

And suddenly you understand each other perfectly.

Two people terrified of saying the wrong thing.

Two people letting silence make decisions for them.

Quinn’s voice comes rough when he finally says, “I didn’t know if you still wanted to leave stuff here.”

The sentence nearly destroys you.

Because underneath all the distance and avoidance and silence —

that’s what this was really about.

Fear.

Always fear.

You start crying before you can stop yourself.

Quinn pulls you into him instantly, holding you so tightly it almost hurts.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your hair. “I’m sorry. I’m trying, baby.”

And Quinn is still in his feelings.

Still stuck inside them.

But this time, at least, he’s finally letting you in too.

authors note- i dont love this. i feel like im not doing the masterpiece song any justice.

#qhughes #qh43 #quinn hughes #qh43 x reader #qh43 fic #qh43 imagine #qh43 blurb #fanfic #fanfiction #smithslatte #juliette talks!

earrings

inspired by earrings by malcolm todd

The first time you notice the earrings are gone, you don’t say anything.

That’s the worst part.

Not the loss itself — not the tiny silver hoops Quinn bought you in Toronto because you’d stopped in front of the jewelry case and stared half a second too long.

It’s the silence after.

Because you know exactly where they probably are.

Somewhere tangled in the sheets of Quinn Hughes’ bed.

And you know if you asked, he’d look for them immediately. He’d strip the blankets apart, kneel on the floor, apologize six times for something that wasn’t even really his fault.

But things between you and Quinn have become so fragile lately that even asking feels dangerous.

So instead, you stand in your bathroom staring at the empty spot in your jewelry dish while your stomach twists itself into knots.

And you stay quiet.

It wasn’t always like this.

There was a version of Quinn that talked.

Not perfectly — never perfectly — but enough.

Now everything feels edited before it reaches you.

You ask how practice was.

“Fine.”

You ask if he’s okay.

“Yeah.”

You ask if he wants to come over.

“Maybe later.”

Maybe later.

Maybe later becomes the anthem of your relationship.

You can feel him drifting.

And somehow, he can feel you noticing.

Which only makes him drift farther.

Quinn is in his feelings and he can’t get out of it.

Can’t get out of it.

A week after the earrings disappear, you’re in Quinn’s apartment again.

His bedroom is dim except for the TV flickering silently against the wall. Vancouver rain taps softly against the windows.

You’re wearing one of his hoodies.

Quinn’s sitting at the edge of the bed scrolling his phone, jaw tight in that familiar way that tells you he’s thinking too much and saying none of it.

You almost ask then.

About the earrings.

About everything.

Instead, your eyes snag on something near the headboard.

A flash of silver.

Your breath catches.

One earring.

Just one.

Half-hidden beneath the pillow.

You stare at it so long Quinn finally notices.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The word comes out too quickly.

Because suddenly it doesn’t feel like jewelry anymore.

It feels like proof.

Proof that pieces of you have been getting left behind here for months while Quinn says nothing and you pretend not to notice.

One earring missing.

One conversation missing.

One version of yourselves you can’t seem to get back.

Quinn follows your line of sight eventually.

Sees it.

And still—

still neither of you says anything.

The silence afterward is unbearable.

The worst thing about Quinn is that you know he loves you.

You know it in the way he pulls you closer in his sleep. In the way he automatically reaches for your hand in crowded rooms. In the way his voice softens around your name no matter how tired he is.

But love without communication starts feeling like a room with no oxygen.

And Quinn—

God.

Quinn feels everything too deeply and expresses almost none of it.

So instead of talking, he withdraws.

And instead of confronting him, you match his distance.

It becomes a game neither of you knows how to stop playing.

Who can pretend harder.

Who can care quieter.

Quinn is in his feelings and he can’t get out of it.

And now you’re drowning in them too.

A month later, you’re sitting in his apartment alone while Quinn showers after a game.

Your fingers trace absentmindedly across the chain around your neck.

The single remaining earring rests cold in your palm.

You don’t even know why you still carry it.

Maybe because losing both would hurt too much.

The bathroom water shuts off.

Your chest tightens suddenly with exhaustion.

You can’t keep doing this.

Can’t keep loving someone in subtitles and half-finished sentences.

Quinn walks back into the room in gray sweatpants, hair damp, eyes immediately finding you on the bed.

And for a second he just stands there.

Looking at you like he misses you while you’re right in front of him.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You hold the earring tighter.

“Quinn,” you start.

His face changes instantly.

Like he already knows.

Like he’s been waiting for this conversation while fearing it at the exact same time.

You look down because suddenly meeting his eyes feels impossible.

“I lost the other one.”

A pause.

Then:

“What?”

“The earrings.” Your voice cracks embarrassingly. “I think I lost one here a while ago.”

Quinn stares at you.

Confused at first.

Then devastated when he realizes this isn’t actually about the earrings.

“Oh,” he says softly.

And there it is.

The thing sitting between you for months finally breathing out loud.

You laugh once, shaky and miserable. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Quinn sits beside you slowly.

“You could tell me anything.”

But the words land wrong because lately, it hasn’t felt true.

You finally look at him then.

“You stopped talking to me.”

Quinn’s entire expression folds inward.

Immediate guilt. Immediate heartbreak.

But worse than that —

recognition.

Because he knows.

Of course he knows.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

That’s what makes it hurt.

If he’d stopped loving you, maybe this would be easier.

But this?

This is two people loving each other so carefully they accidentally starve the relationship anyway.

Quinn rubs a hand over his face, eyes glassy now.

“I don’t know why I get like this.”

“You shut down.”

“I know.”

“And I get scared to push.”

Another silence.

But this one feels different.

Not empty.

Just honest.

Finally honest.

Quinn reaches into the pocket of his sweatshirt hanging from the bedpost.

When he opens his hand, your missing earring rests in his palm.

Your breath catches.

“I found it weeks ago,” he admits quietly.

You stare at him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Quinn swallows hard.

Then gives the smallest, saddest shrug.

And suddenly you understand each other perfectly.

Two people terrified of saying the wrong thing.

Two people letting silence make decisions for them.

Quinn’s voice comes rough when he finally says, “I didn’t know if you still wanted to leave stuff here.”

The sentence nearly destroys you.

Because underneath all the distance and avoidance and silence —

that’s what this was really about.

Fear.

Always fear.

You start crying before you can stop yourself.

Quinn pulls you into him instantly, holding you so tightly it almost hurts.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your hair. “I’m sorry. I’m trying, baby.”

And Quinn is still in his feelings.

Still stuck inside them.

But this time, at least, he’s finally letting you in too.

authors note- i dont love this. i feel like im not doing the masterpiece song any justice.

#qhughes #qh43 #quinn hughes #qh43 x reader #qh43 fic #qh43 imagine #qh43 blurb #fanfic #fanfiction #smithslatte #juliette talks!

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