Holding Too Much In
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.
He was safe. He was loved. And he knew it.
