i cry for love

“What?” You asked, your eyes flitting from your brothers to their shocked and staring friends. You gaze landed on Trevor, who you’d known for years and would play into his teasing flirting to annoy your brothers.

“Damn little Hughes,” his eyes dropped down your body causing you to scoff and roll your eyes. “You’ve grown…”

“Oh the boobs?” You offered nonchalantly, glancing down at your chest that exposed more skin than usual.

“Don’t say boobs!” Luke groaned from his hunched position. Jack seemed to snap back into reality as he whacked Trevor across the head and jumped to his feet.

“Go change,” Jack spoke quickly, before he pointed the fingers at his friends. “and you guys stop staring, that’s my little sister!”

“I’m not changing,” you shrugged, folding your arms in defiance. “This is how I like to dress.”

“No it isn’t!” He insisted, standing in front of you to block you from view.

“You only see me like twice a year until summer,” you retorted, “this is how I dress.” Your words were light and teasing, yet Jack visibly flinched, am unfamiliar look crossing his face as his softened. Your grin faltered as he looked away, his eyes locking with Quinn as he entered the room.

Quinn, who to you, was usually calm and collected, walked in with a furrowed brow, as his gaze flicked between you and Jack, quickly assessing the stirring tension in the room. He sighed, a familiar sound that caused you to wince, having heard that noise every time your eldest brother was tired of solving his younger sibling’s issues.

"What's going on here?" Quinn asked, his voice low.

"She's going out dressed like that," Jack blurted out, frustration and protectiveness mingling in his tone as his arm outstretched to point to your outfit.

Quinn's eyes met yours, and you could see the concern lurking behind his calm facade. "Where are you going?" he asked gently, his warm eyes radiating the care you knew he held for you.

"Come on, Quinn," you rolled your eyes, trying to maintain your composure. "It's just a party, and it's not like I'm going to do anything crazy."

Trevor, sensing the shift in the room, decided to pipe in again, "Hey, if she wants to dress up, let her. She's an adult." He drawled, winking at you from his seat.

One point to Zegras, you mentally tallied, shooting the boy a look of gratitude.

"Stay out of this, Zegras." Both Quinn and Jack chided, not taking their eyes off of you as you shifted uncomfortably under the growing tension.

Quinn put a hand on Jack's shoulder, steadying him. "Look, we trust you, but you know we worry.” He sighed, looking around at the rest of the occupants in the room as they avoided his gaze. “Just... be careful, okay?"

You nodded rapidly, appreciating Quinn's more calm approach.

"I will. I promise." You nodded, “I always am, see!” You twirled your keys in your fingers with the self defence keychains that your brothers had gifted you in your stocking one Christmas.

Jack sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Fine. But if any guy tries anything—" he started, only for you to cut him off.

"Jack, I'll be fine," you reassured him, stepping closer to give him a quick hug. "Now, can I go? My friends are waiting."

Jack reluctantly stepped aside, though his eyes still held a trace of worry. "Text us if you need anything." He ensured.

As you headed towards the door, you noticed Luke still sitting with his head in his hands, peeking through his fingers at you. His usual carefree demeanor he held for you was replaced with an expression that tugged at your heartstrings.

"You look... really grown up," he mumbled, barely loud enough for you to hear. The boy was less than two years your senior but the two of you were thick as thieves growing up. He would always associate you with the wild-haired kid who caused chaos with him around the neighbourhood.

You paused, turning back to face them. "Guys, it's just one night. I'll be back before you know it." You huffed, “I’m not going off to war!”

Quinn stepped closer, his eyes softening with a mix of pride and sadness. "It's not just about tonight. You're growing up so fast.” He wistfully spoke, “Sometimes it's hard for us to keep up. Especially now that we don’t see you as often as we want to.”

You felt a lump form in your throat, seeing the genuine emotion swimming in their eyes. Going from a rowdy house of four children to just one was a change that shook you to your core. You missed your brothers daily presence in your life and despite calling and texting them on a daily basis, the distance stumped you.

"I know. But I'll always be your little sister, no matter what." You reassured them, your eyes skating from one to the other as Luke joined his brother’s in front of you.

"Yeah, well, it's tough watching you grow up." Jack managed a weak smile, though his eyes glistened.

“You going to cry, Jacky?” You teased halfheartedly as you walked back and pulled all three of your brothers into a hug, feeling the squeeze of their tight embrace. "I'll be careful. I promise."

They reluctantly let you go, their arms slowly falling to their sides as you stepped back. The weight of their concern and love hung in the air, making your departure feel heavier than you anticipated.

As you reached the door, you turned back one last time, seeing their somber faces lined up in a row, all of their expressions a mix of worry, pride, and a certain tinge of sadness that caused you to falter.

"I'll be back soon, I promise," you said, trying to sound more confident than you felt. "Just a few hours, okay?"

They nodded in unison, but their silence spoke volumes as you gave them a final wave and stepped out into the evening air. You found yourself taking a deep breath and pushing away the lump in your throat.

Throughout the night, you repeatedly checked your phone, half-expecting a message from one of them. When you finally did receive a text, it was a simple "Have fun. Be safe." from Quinn, followed by a string of thumbs up from Luke and from Jack.

You smiled, feeling a surge of affection for them. You knew they missed you, just as much as you missed them. And while growing up and moving on was an inevitable feat, you knew that the care your brothers possessed for you was something that time or distance couldn’t sway.

You night of fun slowly drew to a close and you headed back to the lake house. You quietly unlocked the door and slipped inside, the house dark and silent. You tiptoed to your room, careful not to wake anyone but, as you passed the living room, you saw a soft light and found all three of your brothers sprawled on the couches, fast asleep, waiting for your return.

You stared at your phone, not at the wall of fan made capcut edits of you and Quinn, but the message notification at the top of your screen that you held with your thumb, keeping it from disappearing into a sea of others as you read it over, and over, and over again.

_quinnhughes: Hey

The blue checkmark clouds your judgement, all but wanting to convince yourself it's fake. You swipe the Instagram notification away, letting it get lost with the rest. Out of sight, out of mind.

_quinnhughes: Playing in nyc tomorrow

You misclicked. Intending to hold onto it like you did the first message, try to read in between the lines, maybe stare at his username- and his profile picture- some more. You marked it as seen, right away, in fact. You could imagine the shit-eating grin on his face, and you fought the urge to cuss out loud.

what do you want?

_quinnhughes: let's talk

pass

_quinnhughes: :(

Hard pass, you thought to yourself with a scoff, and close the app. You sit there, on an overpriced bean bag couch in your recording studio. You're comfortable. You own a penthouse apartment in the city that birthed and raised you. Your record label gives you a lot of freedom to do your own thing; you've earned it. You make more than enough passive income. There's no pressure for you to do interviews or mess with the press between releases. You like New York City because nobody gives a fuck about who you are, so long as you mind your own. The attitude lets you go about your days without much hassle. But if you’re so comfortable, why are you on your ex-boyfriend’s Instagram account? Scrolling, what are you looking for? 

You have a good memory, especially when it comes to your fans. (Especially when it comes to Quinn.) She's beautiful, blue eyed, and nowhere to be found. 

You change tactics: tagged photos. Sure enough, there she is. In a bikini on a boat that he's driving; in matching Halloween costumes; in a sexy dress attending some schmoozy event together, both dressed to the nines. You open the most recent one: it's casual, a selfie of her and Quinn at a beer garden. It’s a repost by a fan made account by the url, @hughesyourdaddy. You read the caption, consuming the answer to a question you refused to even form in your head. 

@hughesyourdaddy QUINN HUGHES IS SINGLE. I REPEAT: QUINN HUGHES IS SINGLE. 

You return to his main account, fingers stilling allowing your mind to catch up to your actions. Your thumb taps ‘following’, and you dig deep to remember her name, typing it into the search bar. 

Hailey. There are a couple Hailey’s but none of them are her. You swipe left into ‘followers.’ You don’t find her there, either. Hyper aware of your breathing now, you close the app for a second time, and sit for far too long, thinking far too hard. What’s his game here? 

You rub your eyes and stretch before getting up and calling it a day. You meet your friend at a restaurant and order yourself two cocktails as soon as you’re seated. Out on the patio, the sun makes you squint despite your sunglasses. You know you're going to tell him, you'd tell your friend anything. 

"Woah, there, AA. You got a long night or something?" Kevin played with the paper umbrella floating in his cup. He had gotten there before you, sipping on a pretty drink when you arrived. 

“Had a long day.” 

You had met at a party, and initially intimidating, you immediately clicked over your shared passion and knowledge for music. Despite having just met, he invited you over the next day to listen to some of his boyband's stuff. It wasn't until then, sobered up, that you both realized the other was also a recording artist. The friendship took off from there. You liked how he could be one of the girls and then one of the boy's in the span of moments, and he liked the same in you. Right now, he's one of the girls, as you show him your ex in your dm's.

Your drinks arrive and you thank the server, diving right in as you let him read over the short conversation. He opens Quinn's account and you lurch up in your seat. "Don't like anything." 

"This ain't my first rodeo," he hushes you, picking up your phone for his ease of scrolling. Your stomach doesn't like the taste of alcohol alone. Kevin's food arrives and you pick a french fry off his plate while you order something for yourself. "This is your ex? Oooh." His sounds of approval validates you more than they should. "Not my type, but I can see why he's yours."

"He didn't look like that when we were together." You lean forward, trying to see what photo had Kevin gushing. 

"He slid into your dm's?" he asks as he hands your phone back to you.

"Mhm," you watch the liquid in your cup swirl. If you finish one, you can order another one by the time your food arrives. You don't need much more convincing as you drink it like you're dehydrated.

"Oh, he definitely wants to fuck." Kevin's words make you laugh loudly, borderline obnoxious. It's a good thing you're in New York. You could do stuff like that in the city; laugh without holding back. And not one person would care.

"Shut up," you reduce yourself to a snicker. 

"You gonna let him?" 

"No I'm not gonna let him." You mimic. You've told him about Quinn a couple times, though never bothered to mention he's a big name in hockey. Neither of you really follow the sport, anyways. Kevin knows which songs are about him, and he can piece a lot of things together without you saying too much. Sometimes it felt like you shared the same brain. You had an unexpected friendship that you cherished. He breaks the silence with a sympathetic smile. 

"Well, if you want to take your mind off things, I got some buddies putting on a show tonight. You'd like their stuff," he suggests, and sensing your hesitance he adds, "It'll be intimate. They're playing out of the basement of a bar on 5th."

You find yourself saying yes. All things considered, you like the up-and-coming music scene of the city, and you'd always wanted to go to a basement concert. You couldn't remember the last time you'd been to a concert that wasn't your own. The two of you continued pre-gaming at your apartment, having fun letting him pick your outfit to the sound of your shitty record player. You could afford a new one- you could buy a whole record store if you really wanted to- but this one was your first and it was hard to let go of. For as long as it worked, you’d hold on to it. 

If you didn't know the streets of the city by heart, in the happily inebriated state you both were in, you probably wouldn't have gotten to the venue. You immediately regret not asking who was playing when you see a familiar face on stage, adjusting the tune of his guitar. 

He had always been the boy next door. His parents owned the house next to yours. You went to different schools, and your paths never really crossed paths until he found out you were studying music in college. He wanted to share his with you, and introduced you to his band. The shared interest had you seeing him less like just the neighbors' kid. But he was a couple years younger; it was never going to happen. 

Once you graduated and came home from college, Sawyer was quick to tell you he'd graduated high school. He congratulated you on the success of the songs you had released, and invited you over to jam with him. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary. You shared a joint in the alley behind your parents homes before heading up to his room. If you could pinpoint where you went wrong it was probably there. 

He was working on a song about some girl he liked in high school. He sang it for you, and the banked attraction you harbored for him just enough, the weed muting any sensible thought you tried to form. After spending a high afternoon with Sawyer, you were convinced musicians were the only people worth fucking. 

You weren’t in love with him, and you didn’t plan on doing it ever again. What threw a wedge in your friendship with him wasn’t that one off, but a cute girl at his show named Lucy, that everyone but you seemed to know as Sawyer’s girlfriend. 

“What the fuck were you thinking?” You yelled at him, both squished into his bedroom closet turned recording booth. It was the only place with any amount of sound proofing. You were freaking out. You knew all too well how it felt to be cheated on. He knew you'd been cheated on. How could he put you in this position, knowing all that you've been through?

He tried to reason with you. He wanted it to happen long before he got with Lucy. You didn’t give him a chance until after. It was all just bad timing. If you gave him the time of day a year ago, it wouldn’t have even overlapped at all. Lucy doesn’t have to find out, but if she did, she’d understand. She's chill.

“Do not make me the other woman, Sawyer Nunes.” But he already did. You would have shoved him had you not been avoiding touching him at all. The closet wasn't big enough for violence anyways, not that you actually wanted to hurt him.

You felt dirty, and you wondered if the girls in college felt the same, the ones that messed around with your boyfriend behind your back. 

“I’m sorry,” Sawyer sighs with boyish honesty, “I wanted this for so long, and I just saw my chance. I fucked up, and… I’m sorry I put you in this position.” 

His response was mature beyond his age. It was more than you would ever get from the man that cheated on you. 

Your heart, still aching, wondered how Quinn felt about it all. What was he thinking when he did what he did?

“You two know each other?” Were the words that left both Kevin and Sawyer’s lips when the two of you reached the stage, supposedly for Kevin to introduce you. They were both artists through and through; extremely attentive, extremely observant. Some small change in your expression gave you away. 

“He’s the neighbor's kid,” you tell Kevin, who has an arm resting over your shoulders. He laughs with his chest. Sawyer laughs too, though it's a tight, short chuckle. “His parents own the house next to mine.”

"No way..." Kevin removes his arm from your shoulder to cross them. You curse your shared brain cells. He knows. "You two fucked?" Sawyer clams up just as much as you do, and excuses himself to fiddle with the knobs on the amps at the back of the stage. 

"Shut up, please," you pleaded with one of your best friends, grabbing his arm. You were too drunk for this. You're anxious and he's all but amused. You're looking around for a face you don't want to see. You find her just as she finds you, and in a scene straight from your nightmares, she was walking over to you. Kevin senses your fear and steps closer, touches his arm to yours, letting you know he's there. Lucy doesn't look mad; in fact, she's smiling the whole way. 

"Hi," she says. You couldn't have imagined her voice if you had tried. It had a natural rasp to it, yet remained soft- a completely cute sound. "We never really met last time you were at one of their gigs, but I'm Lucy. I'm a big fan- of both of you!" Everything about her is so cute. It makes you hate yourself more.

"Oh, um." Your media training must have left the building without you. How badly you wanted to run after it. “I'm- I’m sorry about that." 

"No, no, it's not your fault! I kept asking Sawyer to introduce us," she rolled her eyes, somehow without negativity or attitude. It was no accident that you two never actually met. You feel Kevin choke on his beer and find it the perfect time to introduce him. You’re definitely going to need that shared brain cell back. You feel falsely sober, the only reminder that you're not is how sick to your stomach you feel. "Do you want to sit together? There's still some time to kill before the show." 

How could you say no? You and Kevin follow her to the tall round bar table she had been sitting at before she approached, and Ian left to go to the bathroom, leaving his beer on the table with you. He gave you a long look before he left: good luck.

"I know, by the way." Lucy wasted no time, the moment Kevin was out of earshot. "Sawyer told me. We talked it through, and... I want you to know that I forgive you." 

You couldn't believe what you were hearing. 

"That's when I found out you were neighbours, too," she laughed. She was laughing about it, "I think I was more upset that he'd never mentioned that." You couldn't tell if she was joking, couldn't tell if you were invited to laugh, too, so you didn’t. "You know, I told him if I were him, I would have done it, too." 

Sawyer was right; Lucy was chill; Lucy was understanding. He was lucky to have met her. Honestly, you were lucky to meet her, too. For in her you saw all that you could be, so full of life and love. She wasn't hung up over things in the past, things outside of her control. You buy her a drink and giggle about celebrities you'd cheat on your significant others with. You were never comfortable answering those types of questions before. She tells you, it's okay, because the whole point is that it's so unlikely to happen, if it were to happen there's no way you should say no. You pretend she doesn’t name people you have in your contacts. You let yourself feel normal for a night.

The alcohol, mixed with her bright and kind personality allow you to forgive yourself, allow you to forgive Sawyer. Kevin was just relieved to return to a good vibe. The set is good- a decent turnout, packed just comfortably so. At some point you're on your feet with the crowd, jumping and singing along. You catch a glimpse of Lucy, and you can see that she loves him, plain as day. You stood in a room full of dancing people, stilled by the thoughts in your head. Could you be happy like that, too? 

When the show ended, and the fans went home, all that was left outside the bar was you, Kevin, Lucy, and four boys that made up Laundry Day. You and Kevin made a few silly videos for their social media on your way home. That same night you're tagged in a post from @daundrylay, a video of the six of you messing around with your 'nonsense' outro, each adding on. 

"It's Laundry Day 'cause I ran out of panties." 

“Y’all not ready for this six piece harmony.”

"Her heels so high, it’s like climbing the Andes." 

"She's foreign, I'm like do you understand these?" 

"She tastes sweet, I asked are you drinkin' cranberries?"

"Yo mama omnivore she like my raw meat-“

“Woah, woah, woah-“ 

“Yoooo-“ 

“Naww-“ 

You watched it over in bed, a dopey smile spreading across your face. You hear Lucy's laugh behind the camera. It sounds like wind chimes in a summer breeze, warm and sparkly. 

You message Quinn a time and place, and his reply comes fast. 

_quinnhughes: see you then

_quinnhughes:  :)

You fall asleep thanks to everything that keeps you from being sober. 

.

.

.

It wasn’t just one thing, she had told him. There was no big event that led to his downfall. It was a lot of little things that she caught him doing, over time. It was a lot of little white lies, withholding the truth, avoiding answering questions. It was a habit he never could break, even now. Old habits tend to die hard. 

He remembers her crying, and when he looked at her, he saw you. He stood stiffly, as stiff as he was back then, listening to her as he had listened to you. Why does it always end like this?

It was the way he was always on your Instagram, your url always in his recent searches. He had followed you on twitter on his ghost account. He had searched for your next concert date on Google, and didn’t even bother to delete the search history. 

He claimed it was for her, he wanted to buy her tickets to your next show.

How she wanted to believe him. She never cared about the fan edits, two of her favourite people in the same frame, but eventually they became all too hard to watch. 

No one stalks better than a woman scorned. It was a photo of the two of you at the University of Michigan that was the nail in the coffin. You were sitting comfortably in his lap on a lawn chair, surrounded by people with solo cups in their hands. Just friends was off the table.

“...Where did you even find that?” 

“That’s what you have to say? That’s all you have to say for yourself? Are you fucking kidding me, Quinn? You listened to me gush about her, tell you everything I love about her, and you never once thought to mention that you knew her? Like actually knew her?”

He tried to let her down gently, tell her he didn't really know you. But he did. He knew how you liked your coffee, and how you liked your tea. The more he tried not to think about it, the more surfaced.  He knew your favourite computer fonts and that you were a dog girl, through and through. He knew that you preferred 0.7 over 0.5 pens, blue over black. He didn't know he knew all that about you, until he was trying to convince Hailey that he didn't. She wasn't buying it, and so he did something he never tried to do in this situation before- he told her the truth. 

"We used to see each other in college. We dated for a bit. Nothing serious, I honestly didn't think it was worth mentioning." 

She was hysterical. You were the same, back then. Guess you could say he had a bad habit of driving away the women he loved.

.

.

.

From day drinking to agreeing to meet with your ex, come morning, you regretted a number of things. You showered, as you should have before going to bed the night before, and tried your best not to look hungover. Sunlight struck your apartment from every angle, through the windows and the skylights up above. On a different day, you might have appreciated it.

You arrive at the noodle shop and at 2pm it was relatively empty, recovering from the lunch rush. It was a quaint restaurant run by a tight faced Vietnamese lady and her jolly husband. There was paint peeling and the bottom half of the glass door had been shattered and boarded and never replaced. You liked places like these, where it seemed like time stood still.

There are tables by the window and half booths hidden from the sunlight. You're wearing sunglasses indoors, so of course you're opting for the booth. There is nothing quite like a bowl of pho on days you feel like utter shit. That's just what you order, and she never says anything, but you have a feeling the boss lady knows you come here to recover. She drops a plate of bean sprouts, herbs, jalapeño slices, and a lime wedge in front of you, and you nibble on the beansprouts as you wait for the main event. There is k-pop playing softly in the background. You feel like you are anywhere but here.

When the door opens, you're reminded of the world outside this little shop. There are no bells triggered by the door opening, but the sound of people bustling and cars honking and life happening rushes in. The door closes and shuts it all out again. 

He seats himself across from you. There's no scrape of him pulling back the wooden chair. He always did move in silence. You want to sink into the booth cushions under his heavy gaze. Instead, you lean back and set your sunglasses down on the table; you look him in the eyes. 

You remember the last time you saw him vividly. His dress shirt fit him all too well that night, and his beard was clearly well taken care of. Every curl fell perfectly into place, even when he tossed his head back, in an attempt to clear his face. He was certainly playing prince charming for someone that night. 

Seated across from you right now was your Quinn. Clean shaven, in a big hoodie that he managed to fill out. His hair was infuriatingly imperfectly perfect, chocolate waves spilling out as he pulled the hood over his head down. If you squint, you could see him sitting at your desk in your old college dorm.

He sat back in his chair, one arm hung over the backrest, like he used to. The woman came to set a cup of tea in front of him. He thanked her and flashed a warm smile, which in turn she raised an eyebrow at you as she set a menu on the table for him. You never came with company. She probably thought you had no friends, or something. You stare after her, and feel the weight of his eyes on you again. 

You wondered if he'd break the ice first. It was him that asked to meet, he must have something to say. He was always quiet, but you never knew him to be shy. Between the two of you, that award would go to you. Yet, you look back, challenging him to say the first word. Lord knows you won't have the last. Because though his face appeared blank, you could see the smirk in his eyes, as they flickered over every inch of you. 

Boss lady delivers your bowl, and he orders something for himself, returns the menu to her hands. So far, the only words either of you have spoken were for her. 

Putting yourself first, you dump the remaining bean sprouts into your bowl and go to town on the bowl of pho in front of you. He could sit there in silence until you finished your food for all you and your hangover cared. Your heart, however, had a mind of its own. Call it biased, you grumble in between mouthfuls, "What do you want, Quinn?" 

"Just want to talk- thank you so much," he looks up at the woman that wore a tight smile, setting a plate in front of him. You want to roll your eyes at his over-politeness, but you can't fault him- he's always been that way. It's among the things you liked about him. (The things you like about him.)

You wait for her to walk out of earshot, rest the elbow holding your chopsticks on the table, "So talk, because once I'm done eating, I'm leaving." 

Safe to say, he was stunned by your assertiveness. You had really grown into your own, but so did he. His raised eyebrows relaxed quickly, and you thought you saw him smile- you blinked and you missed it. Did he think you were bluffing? He sets his fork down, rests his elbow on the table and leans forward with his chin in the palm of his hand.

"It's nice to see you, too," his voice was sarcastic, though he kept his tone light, friendly, “thought maybe you’d feel the same.”

You give him a long hard look, before lifting your bowl to sip from the side. He makes your head and your heart ache simultaneously. You want it to stop.

“I see now, I was wrong,” he sighs, picking up his fork again, not before running a hand through his hair. “I… I need your help.” 

“What could you possibly need my help with?” All that’s left in your bowl are noodles that sink to the bottom. You try to fish each one out with your chopsticks, pushing the soup around. 

“Hailey broke up with me.”

You grip your chopsticks a little tighter, the hold on your heart squeezes a little harder, “What do you want me to do about it?” If you weren’t full of attitude earlier, you certainly are now. 

“I don’t know where I went wrong.” 

“Hmm, did you maybe cheat on her? You have a tendency of doing that, you know.” You’re fully glaring at him at this point. 

“I didn’t,” he sets his fork down again, “and I didn’t cheat on you, either.” 

You don’t bite at the chance to ream him out for it all over again. You reel it back, don’t let him make this about his relationship with you. You reel it back; he doesn’t get to affect you that way anymore. You ask for the second time, “What do you want?”

He wears an expression you’ve never seen on him before. Initially your Quinn, he's almost unrecognizable to you. Quinn Hughes is nothing if not confident. Yet right now, across the table in a world all your own, he looked insecure. “I… want to know where I went wrong. With you, with her.”

Your gaze almost softened, “How am I supposed to know?” Almost.

You couldn’t believe your ears. Quinn Hughes was looking for dating advice from you. You could count the number of college boys you got past the first date with on one hand, and one of them was sitting across from you.

He can’t tell you that the reason he’s here is because you were all over his digital fingerprint. He can’t tell you how she reminded him of you, in her tears. He can’t tell you that he’s hung up on the way he never said goodbye when you graduated. So he sits there, pushes around what’s left on his plate, stares at it like it hit him in all wheel drive. “She just… she left a lot like you did.”

You stare at him and recognize the expression on his face as sorrow. He looks like a puppy kicked, and you frown, set your chopsticks down. 

“You tend to have that effect on women.” You follow your sentence with a laugh; it’s a light breath, barely there but he hears it. The sound raises his head and turns his expression hopeful. 

“I don’t want to,” he says insistently, “Please, I need to know where I keep going wrong.” 

Why me? You want to ask. Why does it have to be me? You hear Lucy's laugh in your head like a xylophone run. Maybe you’ll finally be able to let this go. “Well, what did she say you did? Maybe start there.”

You notice that he hesitates, “I was looking at another girl’s Instagram.” 

“So, your usual bullshit. What else?” 

“It was my exes account,” he admits, avoiding your eyes as you roll them. Quinn is a guy that wants to improve above all else, so he doesn’t argue with you, and doesn't yet try to defend himself. After all, you’re doing him a favour.

“Anything else?” 

“Um, okay, is it bad if she didn’t know it was my ex until she started digging?” It looked like he already knew the answer to that, because one look at you and he adds, “I didn’t think it needed to be mentioned. I mean, who talks about their exes?”

“So you lied to her about your ex and she caught you looking at her photos.” You clarified, and he ran his hands through his hair, like he was trying to settle down the thoughts running wild in his head. 

“Well, when you put it like that…” His voice trailed off; he cracked an apologetic smile. 

"Quinn, you're an emotional cheater," you tell him seriously, "It's all subjective, but the bottom line is that you made her doubt you." His smile drops, dips into a frown; he's listening and you're dishing out the feedback, "You can be the best provider or the best lover in the world, but the moment you make a woman question your trustworthiness, it's only a matter of time before it's over." 

"Okay, so how do I.. not? Do that?" He shook his head, eyes squinting with confusion. 

You shrug and stare at him over your cup of tea. You are under no obligation to help him. 

"Please.” The word is extended with need. You had never heard him beg before. Come to think of it, he sounds completely different than he did all those years ago. Back then, his voice was soft and clear. Now, it sounds like a tire rolling over gravel; you wonder if he smokes, or if he's just been over exerting it. You like the sound of it, like the sound of him begging even more. Your eyes narrow, and there’s a sly smile hiding in them. His eyes drag down to your pout. He looks hopeless, but then again, he’s always looked like that. 

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Hughes," you hum, “Why’s it gotta be me? Scroll through your contacts, pick a girl, any girl. They can probably tell you what’s wrong with you.” 

“I don’t have that many contacts in my phone,” he mumbles, and it’s true. He likes to think himself a minimalist- doesn’t hold onto things he doesn’t need. 

“Why do you keep playing the same song over and over again?” He asks you, lying on his back in your bed while you sit with you back against the wall, arms around a six string guitar.  “Why do you practice pushing a puck around over and over again?” You counter, fingers strumming a pretty melody mindlessly. He’d never admit it, but he loved that about you, how you could make noise sound beautiful.  “Practice makes perfect, you know that,” he props himself up on his elbows, “But you’ve already perfected this one.”  “Just 'cause I played all the right notes doesn’t mean it’s perfect.” 

He’s been quiet all his life, but suddenly he’s quiet a little too long, because you're getting up and walking to the counter. He wipes his mouth and rushes after you, pulling out his wallet and putting a $100 bill directly in the woman’s hand. It’s enough to pay for the meal three times over, and you roll your eyes at him, putting your card back in your wallet and heading out the door. He follows after you while the woman is still rifling through the cash register for his change. 

“Hey, wait.” There it is again, that whiny undertone in his voice that makes your ears twitch. Quinn’s always been an independent guy- the figure it out himself type. This isn’t the Quinn you know, hot on your heels like a brand new puppy. Your Quinn led the way; dragged you by the hand from place to place like dead weight. 

You stop in front of the coffee shop across the street from your apartment. You want a matcha latte, but you don’t want him to think you want to get coffee with him, so you spin around to face him. He’s closer than you realize, so you take a step back. “Why am I always fucking waiting for you?” 

“You of all people,” he begins, “know where I fall short.” You scoff at his words, cross your arms. “I’m not asking you to give me a second chance, not at all. I feel like I’ve grown a lot, but my relationships haven’t really reflected that… You of all people know I need work. Tell me how to do this right. Please.”

“You want me to be your relationship counsellor?” You laugh, “You know you’re talking to a breakup artist, right?” It’s true; your top 5 on Spotify are all heartbreak ballads. 

“You write other songs, too,” he says without thinking, admits that he listens to your stuff. His cheeks flush when his mind catches up to his mouth, but keeps talking, “You write love songs. Look, you’re better than I am at all this. Please, won’t you help me?”

Have you ever tried not being in a relationship? Have you ever tried being happy on your own? Have you ever tried not looking for love? You want to ask, glaring at him. You know all the answers to these questions, actually. Quinn could be alone his whole life and be perfectly fine. In fact, he’d probably be doing the entire population of women a favour by doing so; save them some heartache. You wonder what had happened that set him on this path of self improvement, what made him seek you out. Your glare softens, and you search his features for a shred of intention. 

“C’mon, I’ll let you tear me apart again,” he cracks a devastating smile, “for old times’ sake.”

“You’ll be the death of me, Hughes,” you sigh and turn around to open the door to the cafe. You order and pay, and he’s surprised when you wait for him to receive his order, sipping on your drink. 

Once he gets his, you lead him across the street and through the front door of your building. You take the elevator up, past your floor and onto the roof. It's a typical New York rooftop; dirty, there are empty paint cans for cigarette butts, and of course there are a handful discarded everywhere but. There's a park bench that has no business being on a rooftop. Quinn wonders how anyone squeezed it up the small staircase.

“All you have to do is be a good boyfriend. Here, I’ll even start you out easy,” you lick your lips, perched on the backrest with your feet flat on the seat of the bench. He cautiously takes a seat next to you, sitting properly with his arm hooked over the backrest. Blue eyes track the shine your tongue leaves along your lips. It’s 3pm, he’s playing at 7:30, and he’s sitting on a random roof on a Thursday afternoon. 

1. “Always give the lady the booth seat. Like today, you want to have your back to everyone else. At the end of the day, it’s the more comfortable seat.

That day at the Vietnamese restaurant, you had arrived first and chose the booth. Here at the upscale Italian spot in Yaletown, he followed behind his curly haired date and the hip-swaying hostess. 

Like you, she claimed the booth side seat. He pulled out the seat across from her, draped his brown leather jacket over the back of it, the one ladies liked so much. He’d lost count of how many times he had put it over a girls’ shoulders.

The date went as they usually did. Small talk here and there, and while he didn’t doubt she was attracted to him, he couldn’t help but notice her eyes moving behind him. So much so, that a couple of times he actually looked over his shoulder. She did mention she had adhd, but he found it hard to hold a conversation with her and her wandering eyes. 

You had never done that, and you always got the booth. He could see your eyes clear in his mind, no matter the intent. He could see a vivid picture of your glare, your sneer, your teary eyes. (And when he really focused, he could imagine a time when you looked at him softly, too.) Was he not interesting enough to hold her gaze?

 You had never made him feel like this. It was small, but something he couldn’t ignore.  .

He’d been seeing a new girl; met her through his teammate, a mutual friend. He noted never to do that again, now feeling obligated to see her, obligated to keep her happy. The last thing he needs is Dakota Joshua chirping him over her at practice. She was fucking crazy, crazier than he remembers you to be. 

“Sandy, I wasn’t even-“ 

“I have eyes, Quinn,” she screeched, “You were so fucking looking at her!” 

He hit his tongue the first time. “What was I supposed to do? Go blind? I have eyes too.” 

Usually, she’d yell at him for a while, run up the minutes on his phone. Because usually, he never talked back. He’d let her get it all out, like he let you, then he’d soothe her with the softest tone he could manage. The line was quiet, until it dropped, the empty call tone ringing in his ear.

Because he had enough on his plate, pressure from every which way, it was easy for him to let things like this go. Dak would understand. 

2. "Don’t ever let her go to bed angry. That’s an easy one, right? If you feel like somethings off, ask her. Talk it out. Her bad mood is not always going to be your fault, so don’t get defensive right away. You want to be the one to make it better, regardless."

And so he called her back, told her, "I'm sorry." Went over to her apartment with a bag of snacks he knew she liked and a bottle of the pressed juice she always had stocked in her fridge. He even picked up flowers from the grocery store on the way. Of course, she forgave him, let him in, cuddled close. 

He did everything right. Yet as he lay in her bed feeling her warm skin on his, he couldn't help but notice that their breaths never synced. His arm fell asleep under her weight and he couldn't help thinking about how much it sucked. Her body ran so hot it made him want to get out from under the covers. He did everything right, why didn't it feel that way?

.

3. "Know when to be gentle and know when to be strong. Girls want guys that can be both- you gotta know when and how to apply each properly." 

He was drunk when he said it. "You're like Danny and Sandy, if Sandy was flat as hell," Dak joked at the bar. Everyone was drunk when they laughed, even Quinn. The girl at his side gave him a solid whack on his chest with a glare that screamed trouble.

Dak was the one who introduced them. He was closer to Sandy than he was. Why would Quinn think it wasn't okay for him to say that? 

Still, heeding your words, "Chill, she's got plenty," he turned her around and squeezed a handful of one cheek for them. She blushed into the same spot she had hit. 

The next morning he held her on his couch, her legs draped over his lap as he traced the details of her face with his fingers. The sunlight coming in through the windows bounced off her cheekbones and made her skin glow gold. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she leaned in and kissed him, moving to straddle him. He couldn't help thinking how utterly bored he was.

.

.

.

“Okay. So, give her the good seat... don't piss her off... and don't be an asshole. Got it. I can do that.” he replies. The wind whips through your hair and his. It's almost four, he could still squeeze in a pre-game nap. “I’ll call you?” 

"Yeah, I'll give you my number," you reach out your hand, expecting his phone. 

"I think I have it, unless it's changed?" he opens his contacts, sure enough finds yours existing there. "Is it still... 868, 4443?" 

"....That's the one. Never changed." He catches you off guard, surprised he still has it saved after all this time.

.

.

He didn’t know it then, but he would call you exactly two months later. They didn’t work out. They were never going to work out. The moment you stepped back into his life, no one else was going to work out. He knew it the day you answered your door, looking just like you did when you were once his. 

You were the you he knew, hair thrown up in a bun, out of your face. Sweatpants hung low on your waist and you wore the old UMich t-shirt that you had cropped during frosh week. You were the you he knew, when your eyebrows furrowed when you saw him standing at your door. 

"Quinn?" You eyebrows furrowed. You didn't think you'd see him again, especially not at your dorm. Especially not after your last fight. How did he even get in? You look around before pulling him in, not willing to risk getting in trouble with your RA. "What the fuck are you doing here? How the fuck did you get in here?"   He looked like he hadn't been sleeping. Then again, he always kind of looked like that. There was something else in his expression, though, something other than his usual misery. He looked really conflicted, about what, you couldn't begin to guess. Suddenly, after avoiding eye contact, he glared at you. "I'll be your boyfriend," he shook his head, stepped closer, and with his hands on your waist he pressed you against the back of your door, "Fuck it." 

You don't pull him in this time, hold your door open only a quarter of the way, "What are you doing here?" You had gotten off the phone with him less than 24 hours ago; he had called you the night before.

What was he doing here on his weekend? He had two days off and he flew five hours to your doorstep. He spent every minute of travel thinking about what he'd say to you, and yet he came up empty. You cross your arms, and your door doesn't fall open any more, it doesn't move an inch. His heart kick starts, knows he has to play his cards right with you.

"Didn't work," he clicked his tongue against his teeth, shoves his hands in his pockets. He watches your eyes track his movement, the message is clear: he won't lay his hands on you like he did last time you found yourselves in this position. You surprise him by laughing, uncrossing your arms and his heart races when your left hand grabs the side of your partially open door.

"You sure you were doing it right?" 

Of course he was doing it right- but how does he tell you he's never made a woman happier than in the time that he took your advice? How does he tell you he's never had easier relationships? How does he tell you that it worked so well that he wants to make it to work with you?

"You know I don't make the same mistake twice," he says, full of intention. You look at him with an expression he can't decipher. You're beautiful. Standing before you, he could romanticize the fuck out of this chaotic city. He could go on about how the car horns, and crackheads yelling, and pedestrians cussing over the phone sound like a symphony when he's looking at you. He's self-aware, knows how completely delusional he's being but it doesn't stop from thinking any of it.

He was never able to make it work with you then; he'd be damned if he didn't start trying now. The door remains barely open. 

You look at him, considering the weight of it all. He's looking at you with big blue eyes and an expression you don't recognize on him, one he's never worn before. You've seen it before, you're sure, but never on him. You think you know what he wants, because you're not stupid and he's so obvious. You think you know what he wants, because it's the only thing he's ever wanted from you. Your heart doesn't sink or thud heavily when you look at him anymore. Thinking you have little to lose, you ask him, "Where are you staying?" 

His brothers are just across the water, so he didn't bother to book a hotel, though he easily could. He notices you bite your lip and his heart races as he tries his luck, "Was hoping maybe with you." He adjusts the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder with a shrug.

You laugh again, and you can't help noticing how closely it matches Lucy's, in pitch and cadence and all. "Rather hopeful of you," you shake your head, yet you step aside, and open the door fully to let him in. 

Just his luck, you show him the spare bedroom, and he sets his bag down. "I've got plans," you tell him, your voice is distant as you're elsewhere in the loft. He comes out, looks over the railing to where you're lounging on your couch, the sun from the skylights hitting you like a spotlight. He descends the steps and approaches, doesn't know where he's allowed to sit, so he leans against the back of the couch, parallel to you. He stares at you, lying on your back, beautifully bathing in sunlight. "Hello?"

"Sorry, say that again?" he mumbles. 

"I said, I hope you have plans too, because I'm not leaving you alone in my apartment. What are you doing in New York, anyways?" You sit up, confronting him. You have the upper hand, despite him looking down at you. He tracks the rise and fall of your chest, breathing deeply in time.

"Wanted to see you," his eyes flick up to meet yours. Your eyes narrow, because this wasn't the Quinn you knew. Your Quinn was less words, all action. He hadn't moved an inch, keeping the gaping distance between you. He's honest, though, more honest than you've ever known him to be. 

You stretch, arms over your head, and his eyes dip down to the extra exposed skin of your torso, the soft swell of the bottom of your breasts. At least, he's honest. You're sarcastic, "Well, here I am." 

He swallows and leans back, doesn't lurch forward, doesn't climb over you like you expect. You wonder how much more he's changed. He pockets his hands again, as if trapping them is the only way to keep them from touching you. Casually, you hook your thumb into the waistband of your sweatpants, and as his eyes track the movement, without words he tells you all that you need to know. You don't have to remain wondering. You tug your sweatpants up, comfortably in place, and they stay there.

.

He spends his weekend tagging along on your day to day without much small talk. You like that, not interested in holding meaningless conversations these days. You get iced matcha from the cafe across the street. You bring him to the studio, and you’re texting on your phone before walking into a room full of people. There’s a boy Quinn doesn’t recognize in the recording booth. He’s singing his heart out, the same song over and over. 

“Hey, Ash,” you call from the other side of the glass. He watches you work from a large bean bag chair by the back wall. “On the third chorus, can you go up on the ‘then you never lived,’” you gave it to him the way you wanted to hear it back, your hand moving up with the octave. You spoke to the singer through the mic on the master board. 

“Uhh, the third chorus? Can you give me the pitch?” 

You read off the lyrics in front of you, sing the section you mean effortlessly, and in the dim studio lit by purple LED lights, Quinn was mesmerized. 

You’ll do some things you wish you never did, 

and some people get mad, but you learn from it

And I hate to sound pretentious at a time like this

but if you never died then you, 

then you never lived

"Like that," you wave your hand, speaking to the room, "Let's take it from the second verse? Feel your way into it." The boy behind the mic nods as the track starts up where you requested. Your face held an expression of focus Quinn could only relate to on ice. The dimple of your furrowing brows smoothed when the singer did exactly as you recommended. 

"You killed that. I like that a lot," you praise once he finishes the song for the umpteenth time, and the boy in the booth beams. At 10:30am, you get up and leave the studio, only to enter another. Quinn follows you around like a stray dog. The second studio you enter has your name on the door. The inside is not much different than the first, maybe with cuter decor. There's a fluffy rug on the floor, and heart shaped lights on the wall. It brings him back to your college dorm, not that he'd ever admit it. It's just the two of you, and you open a laptop that is waiting for you, put on a pair of headphones and get to mixing. 

The room is silent, aside from the little taps on your keyboard, and the clicking of your mouse. There are lots of layers of sound on the double monitors, and instead of lounging on his phone on the couch again, he rolls up next to you on one of the producer chairs. You give him a sideways look, and hesitantly, offer him the second pair of headphones. 

Nothing really makes sense until he puts them on. There aren't any vocals, and it's not close to being complete. Because of it, he can hear all the little changes you make on the layers on the monitor. You don't say anything for an hour, until your hands still and settle, wrists resting on the desk, "I'm hungry." 

"Let's get you something to eat, then," he replies easily, already on his feet and pulling his hoodie back on, over his head.

You're confused, more than anything. Your ex boyfriend turns up on your doorstep and is unrecognizable. From the shadow of a beard to his doting demeanour, this was not the Quinn you once knew. Could you have been right, that night of the meet and greet? How much could one man really grow? 

As much as your head distrusted him, your heart would always betray you. So you let him buy you lunch, and then you let him buy you dinner. The next day you let him buy your morning matcha, and your afternoon one, too. 

Quinn would find himself flying out to you every chance he could, and you would let him in every time without fail. Because you thought you had nothing to lose. 

Your life isn't nearly as glamorous as he initially thought it would be. You spend most of your time in studios, either alone or with other artists. You like to spend mornings on your fire escape and your afternoons sunbathing in your living room with a guitar and an old voice recorder. Sometimes you’ll put a record on, but he’s surprised how much of your time you spend in silence. 

I can hear the music in my head better when it’s quiet. That’s what you told him, one night spent lying in the grass of the campus football field. You didn’t mind that he was quiet, liked it just as much as when he wasn't. There was never any pressure, being with you. Maybe that’s why he was never able to let you go. 

He lets you work, sits quietly until you decide you’re done. It takes him back to days spent in the university study rooms, waiting for you to finally close the books. He wasn’t as concerned with his studies, not that he didn’t try his best; he just knew he wouldn’t need a piece of paper where he was going. He spent more time in the gym and at the rink than he did at the library. You’re a vision of the past, one hand tangled in your own scalp, the other moving furiously across your laptop mousepad. 

He can't quite pinpoint when exactly he started thinking about it. Could be that your legs are always on display, whether you're in your apartment in some loungewear or at the studio in nothing but a t-shirt three sizes too big. Maybe it's the way you don't stop yourself before laughing at his jokes anymore. He's not sure when he started thinking about you like this, all he knows is that he is.With each lick of your lips, he wonders if you still do that thing with your tongue. Every time you sat with your knees up, he pictured them pressed to his chest, or hooked over his shoulders. 

He's sitting in a typical, dimly lit New York bar, and it’s the first time you’d brought him out for a drink. You tell him you have business at this bar, right before taking a shot. You leave him for almost twenty minutes after that, return with another round of shots, and an Englishman. You introduce him as Bakar, and he is swept in front of a mic shortly after. Quinn realizes that a lot of the people in this bar came to see him, enjoying the live music. He’s good, Quinn can admit. He watches you and your shoulders bouncing on the bar stool across the table, and begins to sway along with you. 

“I’ve got a buddy here to help me with this next song. She’s a good friend of mine and a good friend of the city.” Before he realizes what’s happening, Quinn sees you tapping and testing the mic that was handed to you. This venue is much more intimate than BC Place, somewhere a star like you is forged, not found. He's reminded of a time you would sing just for him to hear.

I could tell where your head was at when I found you

You know I fix things that are broken, so I was bound to

He sits up on your bed, with your head in his lap and your guitar across yours. You lay on your back, fingers strumming the strings as his rake through your hair. You’re humming a melody overtop the sweet tune you play. Your eyes are still damp and a little puffy from your recent fight. You stare up at the ceiling, as if you were imagining yourself far away. There, behind your eyes, sits a toy-box that is slowly filling with all the hurt he had given you.  Your pretty face and pretty vocals distract him from seeing you as you are, as he runs a knuckle gently over your cheek, interrupting the stream.

I was over love, thought I had enough, then I found you

I was no doubt, stressed out, without you

All we got is us

when nobody does, I got you

Quinn watches you wrap around the mic stand, beaming happily, and it looks like light is shining from you. He is disgusted that he ever thought you were more beautiful any other way. He’s disgusted that he found you beautiful in your tears. Seeing you like this, knowing you like this, he doesn’t want to see you cry ever again. Doesn’t ever want to cause it. 

.

The evening you let him into your bed it is not because he wanted to, but because you felt like it. 

He had texted you, like he usually does when he knows he’ll find himself in your area. You get a sense of deja vu, reading it.

quinn hughes: Playing in nj tomorrow. 

You watch the game from your apartment. It’s a big deal because he’s playing against his little brothers, the tv casters tell you. Watching Quinn, you feel like you’re nineteen inside the Yost all over again.

You stand in a sea of yellow in your navy and yellow Michigan University academia sweater. Somehow in the freezing stadium you were sweating, having cheered and chanted with each deke or goal. Quinn Hughes receives a beautiful pass from his younger brother, Luke, and lasers the puck in from the left corner, and the crowd goes wild. He does a muted celly in front of your section, and like every other delusional girl, you think he sees you in the second to last row of the second section.

He scores from the blue line, and the camera follows him as he skates off with no celly. He's a vision of the past in different colours. You text him to come over to yours, ditch the hotel room. They lose 6-5 in overtime and he texts you back maybe twenty minutes after you see him exit the ice on your tv screen. 

quinn hughes: I’m busy

He says no but shows up anyways, about half past eleven. Of course he was going to show up, so long as you’re the one asking. He’s got a backpack over his shoulder, having must have left the rest of his things at their hotel. His hair is still damp from his post game shower when he crosses into your home. He smells like cheap, minty shampoo and expensive cologne and his hair curls up so well when it's wet.

Quinn doesn’t say anything, takes off his shoes and drops his bag by the couch with a frustrated swing. He drops himself down onto your couch, throws his head back over the cushions and lets out a big sigh. 

“For what it’s worth, I thought you played a good game.” You approach him in your pyjamas, another skimpy set that he’s had to get used to. You perch on the armrest closest to him.

"Didn't know you were watching," he grumbles, doesn’t open his eyes. Not until he feels your hand on his knee do his eyes snap open. He catches sight of you lowering yourself onto your knees in between his, making a show of tying your hair up. 

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” Your hand on his kneecap rubs the inner part of his knee, big strokes up the inside of his thigh. 

He’d love to say that he chivalrously declined your offer, that he was gentleman enough to take you to your bed and take care of you before all else. But he’d reached the end of a long day, and anyone who thinks he’d refuse your mouth doesn’t really know him at all. 

You’re not sure if he’s letting you do as you please for your sake or his. His hands brush flyaway hair out of your face, so gentle it could almost be described as loving. He’s being so delicate with you, reminds you that this is not the Quinn that you know. There are glimpses of him, though: when he thrusts all the way into the back of your throat when you first put your lips around him. You see his fingers twitch and tense, grip onto the fabric of the couch in place of you. The difference in him doesn’t inspire any in you as you do that thing with your tongue he likes so much. It seems to bring his old self back, as a hand gets wrapped up in your hair and starts pushing you down on him. You’re lucky he hasn’t started thrusting.

You never liked giving blowjobs, but you never had a problem getting on your knees for Quinn Hughes. Something about him makes you want to take the edge away. You take your mouth off him to coax the sounds you like so much, because that’s another thing he’s uncharacteristically holding back from you. "All better?" You bat your eyelashes. 

“Almost,” he says through his teeth, manages to pull his thoughts together enough to cheekily add, “Could be better.” You respond with your mouth, wordlessly. Your hand slips up his hoodie to lay a soft palm down and spread your fingers across his abs, your other thumb sways across the inside of his thigh, all the while you’re going down on him with unreal enthusiasm. He’s not sure if he’ll get any further with you tonight, and he’s not considering taking chances when he rakes his hand through your scalp. You know what that means, and you keep your steady pace, hands coming to help knowing you’ll pull back slightly soon. 

After Quinn cums in your mouth, you crawl onto his lap with your knees on either side of him. His arms wrap around you without any hesitation. He looks up at you with a hazy expression and a lazy smile. He reaches up and swipes a bit of runaway cum from the side of your mouth with his thumb.

“Didn’t know you liked seeing me play so much.” You roll your eyes, but don’t disagree, especially not when he pulls his thumb from your mouth and brings the wet digit into your shorts and onto to your clit, finds it like he fucked you yesterday, lubricates it with his cum. You moan without filter; after all this time, he still knows your body so damn well. Your eyes roll back for a different reason, and your hips follow in suit. 

His thumb is rougher than you remember, though his actions are still so soft, though he certainly isn’t anymore. You pull the thin fabric of your pyjama shorts aside and reach down to guide him home. His hands move to rest where your thighs meet your hips and without prep you struggle to take him little by little. You pleasure yourself with just the tip of him, getting used to the stretch of his cock.

You’re both pretty much still fully clothed, and he’s only got the tip in so far, but he still hasn’t forced you down the length of him yet. His hands on your hips slide up and down your sides, sometimes gripping, but never pulls you down on him. You’re not used to this Quinn, but you can’t deny you’re enjoying taking your time. He lets you fuck yourself on him as you please, certain he’ll cum again.  

Eventually you sink down, fully seated; he’s balls deep when you finally kiss him. There’s not a hint of alcohol on your tongue. All he can taste is himself through you, which he doesn’t really like the thought of, but likes that it’s on you. 

When you finally kiss him, his lips don’t miss a beat, though he’s certain his heart skipped at least one. His kiss is soft and sweet, strongly reminiscent of the one shared on your first date. His hands slide up under the flimsy camisole you wear to sleep, push the hem of it to rest up over your breasts. He rubs up your sides and cups one breast, his thumb brushing your nipple back and forth. The other hand holds grips your thigh.

When his kiss leaves your lips for a journey down your neck, they still feel like flower petals. He doesn’t leave a mark- doesn’t kiss or suck or bite even close to hard enough. He’s lays kisses all over the exposed skin of your décolletage. 

You rise and fall on his cock, and even when he leans back- throws his head back, too- he watches you down the bridge of his nose. His hair, now dry, is impossibly fluffy, and falls messily over his eyes. It looks even better after he runs his hand through it, pushes it out of the way. His hoodie is soft under your fingers, and while you’re dying to get it off him, you squeeze the thick fabric covering his shoulders.

You’re whining when your hips slow down when you want them to go faster. He thrusts his hips, pushing deeper into you as you barely manage to lift yourself up his dick. You’re close, he can tell. 

“Baby, can I fuck you? Give you what you need.” He asks when you drop your head to his shoulder. You let out a breathy sob and nod frantically, grinding into his lap at this point, not able to lift yourself anymore. He lifts you off, positioning you comfortably on your trembling knees on the soft couch, draping your torso over the cushy backing. When he enters you from behind, he gets a good look at just how creamy your cunt is coating the length of his cock. There’s no explaining the sound the that escapes him. He’s not thinking as the words leave his mouth, “So pretty, all for me?”

shlop shlop shlop. The sound of him sheathing himself in you is amplified by your high ceilings. Your plush thighs smack softly against his. He starts to pull your hips back to meet him. Nothing is aggressive, not his grip, not his thrusts, and not his pace. Every move of his is gentle, but firm, and very, very deliberate.

“Fuck, Quinn, you’re so good, stretch me so good, feel so good.” His hips stutter at your words- you’d never been vocal like this before- sure you’d moan and make all sorts of pretty sounds, but rarely did you utter a cohesive sentence; never words so fucking hot. That was usually his role, but your advances tonight had rendered him speechless. In your time together, you never initiated sex once.

“Darling, did ya miss me?” He chuckles, leans down. One hand of his pulls your head up gently by your hair while the other reaches down to squeeze your breast before sliding into your shorts. “All those celebrities and you still ache for this cock, huh?” His middle finger rubs your clit in circles. 

His words spur you, makes you desperately start to thrust back onto him, hard and fast. “All yours.” He thinks he’s dreaming, “Yes, yes, fuck, yes.” 

He can feel each clench of your cavern as he buries himself into you, over and over again. You’re going to milk him for all he’s worth, but he needs you to let go first.

“Cum inside me.” He groans from deep in his chest, struggling to hold back, “Fuck, fill me up. Quinn, please cum in me.” He doesn’t need to be told twice. He cums inside you, and it feels so good to feel be flooded with warmth. He fucks you through it, despite his cum gushing out, determined to get you off. Not long after, you cum on his cock, falling apart against your couch. A mess trickles down your thighs and you don’t know if it’s your cum, his, or yours combined.

shlop… shlop… shlop… When you come to, you realize that Quinn is still hard and still thrusting. 

.

.

.

Quinn would find himself on your doorstep every weekend he could. He'd spend those weekends by your side, whether you'd be at the studio, or at the gym, or in your bed, or on the couch, or in your shower, or on the counter... Because when it came to Quinn Hughes, your heart would always betray you. Without realizing it, you had given him the keys to your heart; told him exactly how you wanted to be loved, and he didn't need to be told twice.

Yet you were so out of reach, now. Not only perched pretty at the top of your industry, but you were in a different state, a different country, on the other side of the continent. He knew you weren't sitting around waiting on him. 

He knew you were seeing other guys, not that you told him. It was the dwindling drawer of extra toothbrushes in your bathroom. It was the socks that aren't yours kicked under your bed. It was the energy drinks in your fridge that were not your brand. 

He knows you're sleeping with other men, because on nights you ask him to come over you'd answer the door with your hair looking like someone else had already ran their hands through it, and your lips plump the way they could only be after kissing. You just smell different- not bad, not like another man, no. It's a completely different perfume from what you usually wear. It's deep and sweet and endlessly interesting, a stark contrast to the fresh and light scent you wear every day. Bitterly, he labels it your 'fuck me fragrance,' as he associates it with you fucking other men. You always taste like toothpaste on the nights you call him in, as if you want to wash the trace of the guy before him.

How does he know? How could he not? When he’s literally seen the mark of another man on your skin, right before he'll lay his own over top of it. 

It's not the sex that he keeps coming back for, though he likes it a lot, but all that follows.

Each time without fail, you'll curl up in his arms, and each time without fail, his arms will wrap around your waist and tug you up a bit, so that you were tucked neatly into his neck and side. You'll close your eyes and let him hold you, and with a light hand, he'll trace his fingers along all your outline, drag his fingertips softly across your skin. 

"Why do you keep calling me?" He asks, voice shot from his recent game and even more recent activities. It could also be that this question has been eating him up inside. He asks because he wants to know. 

"Why do you keep coming back?" Your eyes remain closed, and you remain relaxed, snuggled in his side. 

Quinn pauses as if he hasn't thought about the answer to that question before, "For this," he tells you honestly, pulls you impossibly closer, "and, I recall a clever little bird once told me," his head dips to run his nose along the skin of your shoulder, and up your neck til his lips park beneath your ear. You shiver involuntarily in his grasp, and one hand of his creeps to grip the inside of your thigh, "to never let a woman go to bed angry, unsatisfied.” 

The inside of your thigh is red and irritated from the burn of his beard- something you’d never experienced before. Sure, you’d slept with men with beards before, but none of them devoured you like Quinn. He’d hold you down with an arm across your hips, soft hair pets your skin followed by the contrasting roughness surrounding his mouth you like so much. He can practically see the scene play out behind your eyes as he lifts your thigh, brings it and you overtop of him. 

“If you need to be taken care of,” he starts, reaches up to push your hair back over your shoulders, ensure his view of you is unobstructed, “you can always call me.”  

“You can’t fly out every time I’m in the mood, Q.” 

“I can’t,” he admits, thumb rubbing soft circles at your hip bone, “you don’t think I can get you off through the phone? Baby, you call me out here anyways, messing around with guys that can’t fuck you right in the first place.” He sounds disappointed. He sounds jealous. He sounds mad. But his hands remain gentle, rocking you over his lap. You breathe in small pants, whimper at his words. You press down on him, trying to feel every bit before he lifts you off him. “Tell you what, I want you to stuff yourself with your pretty little fingers- I’ll talk you through it, just like I would if you FaceTimed me. Cum and I’ll fuck you real nice, every way you want.” 

Years ago, around this time, he was excited to be the best fuck of your life, not realizing that you’d be his.

.

You wish you could say that you were able to resist all his charms; you’d love to say no, you didn’t sleep with your ex. But you couldn’t, because you did. More than once, more than twice. You’d even called him to come over for it. He could get you off over the phone, for Christ’s sake. “All those celebrities and you still ache for this cock.” The moment you heard him say those words, no other man could satisfy you- because it was true.

You enjoyed the time you spent together. Maybe it was because you had no expectations for him. Maybe it was how he consistently showed up. You liked what the two of you had going on.

What did you have going on? He'll fly over at least twice a month. You'll spend at least one day fucking like rabbits and the other playing pretend. He'll slow down, match your strides and walk at your pace, hold your hand and sometimes kiss it, too. He's not your Quinn, not the college boy you once loved. You lean into it, play happy, loving couple for a weekend. He's not your Quinn, but on those days he makes you feel like he could be. 

You shouldn't have questioned it, because it filled your waking thoughts the moment you did.

What does it mean? When you send him a video a Brad Marchand getting knocked to the ice by a linesman at midnight. It was midnight for him, which means it’s 3am for you.

What does he mean when he heart-reacts your messages? When he reads and responds to your texts within the hour, if not right away? When he calls you exactly when he says he will? 

What are you to him? There are days when boxes of donuts are delivered to your studio, mornings with iced matcha lattes delivered to your front door. What are you to him, when he brightens your day, and those around you, from the other side of the continent? 

What is he to you? He doesn’t drink coffee, and doesn’t drink alcohol during the season, but you always make sure he’s got something nice to sip on. He’s got his own drawer in your bathroom- the disposable toothbrush stash now depleted. What is he to you, when you fill your bath with ice on nights he plays in your city? 

What are we? The question hangs between you, makes the air feel stale. You’re at the Vietnamese restaurant, where it all began again. You’ve sat down for dinner together before, sat across from each other at the same table more times than you can count on one hand. The yellow lights in the restaurant transport you to a different place in time. Boss lady loves to see Quinn, loves to see you when you’re not hungover. 

It’s a long weekend up north, one Quinn’s team actually had off. He surprised you, showing up at your door unannounced.

“Why do you still wear that?” He asks, crinkles his nose. 

“Wear what?” You ask, looking down at what you’re wearing. Was it the Michigan sweatpants? 

“You know,” he says softly.

“...I really don’t.” 

He lowers his head and his voice, cheeks colouring because he’s embarrassed to even be saying it out loud, “Your fuck-me perfume.”

  You stare at him, blinking before an incredulous expression crosses your face, “My what?”

He groans, rubs his face with his hand; he doesn’t want to repeat himself, practically whines when he says it, “You know, the scent you put on when you… see other guys.”

You almost laugh- let a giggle squeeze through. Your hand flies to your mouth in attempt to stifle it, “What the fuck are you talking about, Q?” He doesn’t respond, hides his face behind his hands. You reach over to grab them, peel them off to see him cringing. “Oh my god, Q, you’ve got it all wrong. I wear this like, everyday- you didn’t tell me you were coming. I usually put something else on… when I know that you are.” As you tell him, your hand reaches up to scratch the nape of your neck, bashful in admitting it. 

“So, you’re not seeing anyone else?” He asks, lifts his eyes from the table to meet yours. Hopeful, that’s what he is. 

You stare back at him, don’t feel any pressure to look away, “I’m not.” You don’t say anything more, and he doesn’t try to expand on it either.

Exclusivity. It was something you once begged him for. For him to yearn for it now, you weren’t sure how to feel about it. 

“Of course, I want it,” you speak into the microphone of your cellphone. It’s Kevin on the other line, in another state along the east coast. 

“Listen, Superstar,” he sighs over the phone, “I’m not saying people can’t change, but I don’t want you of all people making the same mistakes. If you’re happy where you’re at, don’t need to over complicate things.” 

“I’m happy the way things are,” you affirm. 

“You’re the one who said it’s going well without any expectations- might be smart to keep it that way,” he tells you wisely, “Besides, when has long distance ever worked for you?” 

But those long distance relationships only flew out to see you a few times a year. Quinn flies to see you a few times a month. He lets you know he’s thinking about you in random texts and deliveries. Maybe he’s better at long distance, as he’s done more for you out in Canada than he ever did on the same college campus. Was it just a case of right person wrong time? A chill runs through you as the thought crosses your mind, enough to make you rub your arms. You really needed to get a grip. 

But he lights up your phone and you can’t stop the smile that starts in your chest 

Q : I got one rest day, tryna switch with petey to get the three day weekend

Q : I’ll come see you next week, either way

I’m excited to see yo|

Get a grip.

I’m excited to s| I’m excit| good luck 

You can't help yourself.

♡

In the locker room before practice, Quinn stares at the first heart emoji you’ve sent him since 2017 and he feels like he’s soaring. Maybe he’s doing something right. 

.

.

.

It doesn’t get better than this. That’s what you‘ve resorted to telling yourself. It keeps you satiated, stops you from yearning for more.

He arrives with a gift bag in his hand, fluffed tissue paper a telltale sign that it is. He sits across from you on the couch when you open it. 

You pull out a jersey of his, raise an eyebrow, “I’ve got one just like this, you know.” 

“I know,” he shrugs, “this one is mine, though. I want you to have it.” Just like old times, he thinks to add- but doesn’t. “There’s more.” He’s shy all of a sudden, avoiding eye contact when you stick your hand back in the bag, but not shy enough to add, "Think they'd look good together."

You couldn’t feel anything at the bottom, so you pull out all tissue paper. There's a pretty lingerie set, soft and lacy, the shade of blue that makes your skin look extra glowy. You're blushing, “Thank you, Quinn.” You don’t know what more to say, so you lean forward and kiss him without thinking. It’s the first kiss that doesn’t begin or end with your clothes off. He kisses you back and you feel him smile against your lips. 

He hasn’t seen you in either of your gifts just yet, but as you pull away he thinks to himself: It don’t get better than this.

.

.

.

You know what a one-sided relationship feels like. Is that what this is? It is, you tell yourself. Even if you hated him, it'd be a love hate relationship. You of all people, know how it feels to be putting in 100 when the other barely scratches 50.

He never once complained. Maybe he was making up for all the times he didn't. All the missed piano recitals, the vocal showcases, all the date nights he'd rather spend in the rink. Eight years turned them into dinner reservations four weeks in advance and surprise destination dates to the aquarium, or a museum exhibit he thinks you'd find interest in. 

You're nervous when you ask, because he can say no. By asking, you're giving him the opportunity to reject you. So you don't really ask, "Was thinking of going to your next game," you mention casually, playing with the hem of the sweater he's wearing. He sets down his book over your legs, which lay across his lap. 

"It's a home game," he informs you, his eyes are restless, trying to figure out how much you mean what you say, "in Vancouver." 

"I know," you say as evenly as you can manage. You're avoiding eye contact with the man beside you on your couch. His hand comes up and holds your chin steady, lifts your face to meet his. 

"It's against the Rangers," he adds, holds your face and looks you dead in the eyes. As if you're not aware when your team is playing. You sang the anthem at Madison Square for them once or twice. 

"I know," you say again, lean into his palm. Your eyes flutter closed and he meets you halfway, it's a quick kiss and he just barely pulls away. 

"Guess we gotta put on a good show for you," his lips brush against yours as he speaks, eyes half lidded and looking right at you. 

"Always a good show when you're on," you shake your head, flutter your nose against his. It's so sweet you can feel it ache in your molars. What are we? 

"What're you wearing?" he asks on an exhale, so quiet you almost miss the question. You lean back against the couch cushions. You cross your arms, make a show of tapping your chin.

"Hmm, I don't know. I have a few to choose from. I really like my Fox jersey. Recently received one for Rempe- I haven't worn that one yet," you tease him, and he gives you a look that screams, 'seriously?' But he doesn't say anything, throws his head back, stares up out the skylights. You laugh and move to straddle him, lifting his head up to you with both hands. "Of course, there's this guy I've been seeing... he gave me his jersey, only he plays for the other team. I really like him, though."

He raises an eyebrow at you, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you breathe out, heart racing unexpectedly. What are we? Did you just admit something you didn't mean to?

"You should wear his jersey, then," he looks away for a moment, and when his gaze returns to yours you see how serious he is. It’s as though neither of you wants to ask. 

What are we?

.

.

.

Q : Send me your flight details 

When you saw the text, you should have expected him to show up at the airport. He should have expected you to have security detail. You’re flanked by two larger men who stick close behind. Quinn stands at the end of the international arrivals hall with flowers and an iced matcha in his hands. You should have expected it, but you didn’t.

“Hey,” you stop in front of him, don’t throw your arms around him like you think to. His hands are full, anyways. 

“Hey,” he breathes deeply, hides how ecstatic he is to see you, outside of your apartment, outside of New York. He makes a show of looking behind you at your security guards. “You under threat or something?”

You laugh, and take the matcha to sip, “No. My manager insisted.” 

“Right, yeah. Are they going to be with you… all the time?” He moves to take your bag for you, but it’s quickly taken care of by one of the two.

“We have separate hotel rooms, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You’re not staying with me?” He asks incredulously.

“I didn’t assume so,” you reply, ask slowly, “Did you want me to?” 

“I mean, yeah. Thought that’s why you told me you were coming…” 

You blink up at him, giving him a chance to take it back before you turn around. “Tony, Soren, this is Quinn Hughes. I will be staying with him for the duration of this trip. Please use the room booked for me. The game is at seven thirty tomorrow. I’ll probably come early with Quinn. Please enjoy yourselves, and if you have to tail me, I don’t want to know.” 

Quinn flashes them a smile and they exchange a look before nodding stiffly, handing over your small suitcase to him. He shakes their hands before his arm comes around you, and he leads you out of the airport and to his car. 

You remember why you don’t ever leave the city when you glance at your phone for the first time since landing. You’re in the passenger seat of his car and he’s peeling out of the parking lot. 

“Fuck me,” the words fall from your lips, under your breath but he catches them.

"Are you okay? Are you hungry? Or do you want to rest?" He's doting, and you're finding it hard to find it unusual, because these days it isn't. You flinch when you feel his hand on your thigh.

"You okay?" He's driving you back from a picnic at the pond, one hand on the wheel, the other grips your thigh. His thumb swipes your inner thigh like a windshield, back and forth. Quinn, unlike most popular college athletes, does not lack empathy. Whether he does anything about it is a different story. "Yeah, I'm okay," you lay your hand overtop his, feel how warm he is compared to you. You turn your head, looking out the window. His car smells different again. Unlike him, and unlike you, and nothing like his gym bag. It smells nice. You roll the window down a crack. "You're not," he hums keeps his eyes on the road, and his hand on your thigh. He doesn't say more, but rolls down his window fully. It's a nice night, it's a nice date. He's not going to ruin it by opening his mouth. His face mirrors your frown, and he fears it doesn't matter whether he defends himself or not. He sighs. His hand remains on your thigh.

He tries to sneak a glance at your phone screen, but you pocket it. "I'm okay. Let's pick something up and eat at yours," you smile. He can see your mind racing through your eyes, and his thumb swipes along the inside of your thigh, left and right. He doesn't say more. 

The night they beat the Rangers 6-3, you left the game without staying the night. You left your suitcase in his apartment and caught the next flight home. So this is what it feels like, Quinn thinks, when he sees that you've texted him another flight number and nothing else. He huffs humourlessly, lets his head hang for a moment before starting to drive home. His chest feels unexplainably tight, and his heart feels like someone is clenching it. You left without saying goodbye. 

.

.

.

You’re surprised to see his text at the top of your screen. Beneath it are photos of you and Quinn in Vancouver, again reminding you why you like New York so much. They got you at the game in his jersey, they got you inside his car, they got you with him at the airport, flowers in hand. A blind person could come to the same conclusion. 

Q : Are you okay? Did something happen? 

You don’t respond, and he tries another way to reach you. 

_quinnhughes: Call me when you land

_quinnhughes: please 

You put your phone down, wonder if you will. It’s three hours till touchdown. You’re flying to a city five hours ahead, yet you feel like you’re always two steps behind him. 

.

“Bro, is this why you’ve been in New York so much?” Jack flips the camera, shows his TV and across it is his big brother with you in his car, looking at you with the biggest smile. “You’re dating a fuckin’ popstar, and you never mentioned it?” 

“Not dating,” Quinn grumbles, and Jack flips the camera back around. 

“Uh-huh, okay, so you’re smashing her.” Quinn grimaces at his brother’s crude vocabulary. 

“Well-“

“Hey, wait, didn't she go to Michigan?” Luke pipes from beside Jack, reaches and pauses the TV. “She looks so familiar… oh god, Quinn, is that your fuckin’ ex?”

“What the hell? How have you never mentioned any of this to me before,” Jack is looking between his brothers furiously. 

“You had to be there,” Quinn hears Luke say to him, pat his shoulder and rub it in a little more that he chose to go to Boston.

“‘Cause it’s none of your business,” Quinn grumbles over FaceTime, sees that you’re calling him and hangs up on his bickering little brothers with a quick goodnight. “Hey,” he says like he’s out of breath. Why’s he out of breath all of a sudden? 

“Hey,” he hears your voice on the other side, and it’s small and it reminds him of the you he knew when he was only nineteen. The grip around his heart tightens. He feels the creases in his forehead settle and his body soften into his couch. “Sorry I left so quickly. Business.” 

“Huh,” he says, can’t hide his bitterness, “Right.” The line is quiet, you don’t ever call him for the sake of talking. You call him because he can get you off, and though it does wonders for his ego, right now he resents it. So this is what it feels like, he closes his eyes and thinks, lets his head drop back in defeat. “Like what you saw tonight?” 

The line is quiet, enough that he hears you whine, “Yes.” He chuckles dryly, imagining you on your own couch. Wishes he could take you on his. 

“Go on, feel and tell me how wet you are, thinking about me skatin' circles 'round your Rangers.”

”Soaked for you, Quinn,” your routine moans are accompanied by obscenely wet noises. “Wish you were here fucking me.” 

"Yeah? Could have, if you stayed." He hangs up, leaves you high and dry and you can't believe it. Honestly, neither can he. Quinn rubs his face with his hands, sees the team groupchat blowing up about the great game, but he can't bring himself to care. His body aches after a rough game like tonight, but that's not why he's taking a cold shower. 

So there are photos of you two circulating, so what? You look beautiful in them, what's the big deal? Quinn swipes through his tagged photos, stops dead in his thoughts. You're so beautiful, with the sun shining down on you from the airport windows. It brings out all the shades of your hair, gives your skin such a warm glow. You're smiling up at him, and he can see your smile clear in his mind- it makes the grip around his heart melt for a moment. In another photo, outside his car with the flowers in your hand, you look strikingly like you did on the first date. The flowers are pretty but they don’t hold a candle to you. They never do. 

It makes him sick to think you’re embarrassed to be seen with him. Fuck, is this what it feels like? The one person in the world he wants to want him, seemingly doesn’t? You beg for him most nights, so what gives? Quinn lays in his cold bed, scrolling your Instagram. There are hardly any personal posts, flooded with photoshoots for magazines or awards shows, captions written by your manager or someone else on your team. You’re glammed to the nines, and sure, you’re gorgeous, but he wants to see photos of you on your couch, in that Michigan sweater. Of course he doesn’t find one, and wishes he took one himself that day. He groans, why aren’t you here with him right now, like you said you’d be? 

Is this what it feels like? To love someone who’s not emotionally there? Is that what this is? Love? He could scoff, had it not been genuinely racking his brain. Why does it feel so good to be by your side? Talk to you like you’re just you and he’s just him. It takes him back to a time where he's just a guy studying in Michigan and that’s all he was, and it was enough. He was enough for you, then. Why not now? Quinn exhales and it sounds real close to a whine. That night, sleep could not come fast enough. 

.

.

.

Quinn doesn’t text you for a week, and you wish you didn’t notice and you wish it doesn't bother you the way it does. It shouldn’t. You’re petty, won’t text him first, but you’ll go to lengths to make Quinn text you. 

It takes two phone calls to get his number, and two days of texting to get him to meet you. 

Q : Rempe??? 

Q : Arw you fuckign kidding me

?

Q : Jesus fuck you better be joking 

You smile to yourself, because you’d rather fight him than not speak at all. Not sure what that says about you. 

Quinn calls you, once, twice. His hand is shaking, he’s furious, looking at the photo of you sitting opposite Matt fucking Rempe of your favourite fucking team. What a piece of work, that guy. He looks like shit next to you, with his black eye. How the fuck do you even know him? Quinn doesn’t like the way he looks at you.

"Are you fucking him?" is the first thing he says when you pick up. Of course it is.

"That's really none of your business, Quinn." He hates the way his name sounds when you say it. Prefers Q, Q-B, Quinny, Baby, anything but Quinn. Makes it sound like he's just some guy that you know from college. Like he doesn't matter to you. 

"What are you doing going around town with that asshole? You don't even know him," he scoffs. 

"You don't know me." Your voice is stable, thank your singer's lungs. Your chest is heaving and tears run down your face, because his tone is so mean and you had nearly forgotten he could be like this, "Jealousy never looked good on you, Quinn."

It takes three days for Quinn to show up at your door. He must have caught a red eye, because he's at your doorstep at the middle of the night, ringing your buzzer and calling your phone. 

Q : I'm outside

You're in bed at a reasonable hour for once, and you squint at your phone screen. Thinking you're dreaming, you let his calls go. 

The next morning, you find flowers on your doorstep, and Quinn Hughes waiting for you in the cafe across the street. Proves that he knows your routine, proves that he knows you. He stands from the table he occupies when you join the line. There are two cups of tea on the table and you wonder how long he's been here, waiting for you. "Sit, I'll order for you," he says.

"I can order for myself," you tell him, brush by him to the counter and do just that. He returns his empty mugs and follows you to the delivery counter. 

"Can we talk about this?" He follows you out the door.

"Talk about what?" 

He doesn't like your attitude, gives you some of his own, "I don't know, maybe we can start with how you ditched me at Rogers? I brought your suitcase, by the way," his words are emphasized by his sneer that you mirror when you turn around with your drink.

"I told you- I had business to attend to." It's too nice of a day to be having a conversation like this. 

"Right, and what business do you have with Matt Rempe?" He can't fucking help himself. 

"What's it to you?" What am I to you?

You know better than to stop in the middle of a sidewalk in New York City, step aside, into tight a residential alley between buildings. It's grimy, but at the very least it's well lit and empty. You glare up at him and he glares down at you and for once you don't feel small. You fight the grin in the back of your jaw because you haven't felt like this in a long time. Everyone always gives you what you want. You'd rather fight Quinn than have another boring relationship. 

Quinn's relationship with you has always been like trying to align the same end of two batteries. You two would never see eye to eye, but if you turned around, you'd both be pulled right back. One moment you moved to walk away, the next you're making out against the bricks. His hands are everywhere, in your hair, sliding down your side, on your hip, on your ass. His fingers brush your throat on the way down. He doesn't have all the words, and as good a kisser as he is, if he thinks this will do, he has another thing coming. 

"I'm not going to beg you to be my boyfriend again," you pull away just enough to get the words out. It feels pathetic to say but you mean it, lean up to connect your lips again once all is said.

"You don't have to," he mumbles against your lips, shakes his head and his hair tickles your forehead. He pulls away panting, rests his forehead against yours and his hands sit lightly on your waist, "I'm all yours if you say you'll be mine."

Your breath catches in your throat and your hand comes up to his chest, but you don't push him away. "Yeah, that didn't turn out so well for me last time." Your fingers grip the fabric of his sweater. His hands slide to your back, he hugs you. His hold is warm and firm and sure. 

"I was stupid. I know I fucked with your feelings and made you doubt me and now you sing about me being your shitty college boyfriend, and we're so far from that but fuck, these feelings don't just go away," He says into your temple, pulls back slightly to look you in the eyes, "Be with me. You won't ever have to beg for anything again. Please, let me prove it to you. Please. If I got one thing right, it was you and me."

You could forgive yourself and you could forgive Sawyer. When Lucy forgave you, the first person you thought of was Quinn. You feel like crying so you do, but you smile through it. Your arms reach up to wrap around his neck and pull him down. "I hate that I can't hate you," you laugh humourlessly, and swipe at your tears over his shoulder. You feel him sigh and lean down to embrace you even deeper. 

"Baby, won't you be mine again?" he repeats, touches his nose to yours, "Promise, I'll make it worth your while."

Your teary eyes close and you lean into his touch. Your voice cracks, "Okay." 

.

.

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Iced matcha lattes turn into flowers on your doorstep. Gifts of lingerie turn into dresses he claims you’d looking angelic in. He buys you shoes that match his, dresses himself to match you. He's perfect. He never makes you beg, not even in the bedroom.

Quinn shows up whenever you ask, so long as his work schedule allows it, and you start to make trips to Vancouver. The drawer he cleared for you the first time is now filled with your favourite products. Paparazzi will take photos and people will speculate because that's what they do. You're in love with a man that does everything and more and he finally caught the one that got away.

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Quinn Hughes Playing in Another League? 

Norris Trophy finalist and favourite, Captain Quinn Hughes of the Vancouver Canucks has been linked numerous times to the Superstar of the Century. 

Rumours first began when Hughes was pictured in merch at her most recent concert in Vancouver in August of 2023. That night, the young popstar apparently admitted to the muse of 'Mr. Too Late,' her first record-breaking hit, being in attendance. 

If that wasn't obvious enough, fan pages have dug up even more receipts, see pictured: the pair together at the University of Michigan!

They look SO young and in love! You can't deny that they are an attractive couple.

While not confirmed, based off the date stamps, combined with the hints about the song dropped by the singer herself, don't be surprised if the rumours turn out to be true! Especially since things seem to be rekindling between the two. 

Multiple sources claim to have spotted Hughes at and around the popstar's main residence in New York, as early as January of this year.

Even more damning is the New York native at the Canucks vs New York Rangers game at Rogers arena, May 4th, 2024. Eyewitnesses say they had to double-take to realize it was in fact her sporting the Canadian teams' jersey. While on tour she was gifted a Canucks Jersey of her own, sources claim it was definitely a Hughes jersey she was wearing the night the Canucks dominated the ice with a final score of 6-3 for the home team.

If their romance wasn't enough of a whirlwhind, the singer was also been rumoured to be seeing Matt Rempe of the New York Rangers in the fall of this year. 

Captain Quinn Hughes put a quick end to speculation when she showed up to the Canucks' first playoff game in 9 years, proudly wearing a Canucks WAG Jacket adorned with, you guessed it, a big 43. It looks like she is warming up well rinkside with resident WAGs Natalie Miller, and Bella Perkins-Zalik. 

Most recently, the singer has been teasing a new single- her first in nearly a year. While you'll find her in the production and writing credits of some of your favourite artists, she has not released anything herself since early 2023. 

Stay tuned, GirlsinNet will let you know the latest when her single, Bad for Business finally drops. 

He's good for my heart

but he's bad for business 

Tears me apart

When he grants my wishes

All of my friends think I've gone crazy

But they don't know me like my baby