#pulse

You’ve built a life here that’s both busy and beautiful, and yet sometimes you catch yourself wondering how you got here. Half Italian, raised in a rhythm of languages and cultures, you learned early how to navigate spaces where you didn’t quite belong, and how to make people notice you without trying too hard. That skill has served you well as an International Business Development Manager.

Your days are structured like clockwork: early mornings with an espresso from your favorite café, client calls across time zones, delicate negotiations where hesitation could cost millions, and evenings spent reviewing proposals or strategizing the next pitch. You thrive on the tension of it all, the quiet thrill of turning complicated conversations into signed deals. It’s a role that requires charm, patience, and confidence — all traits you’ve honed over years of balancing ambition with personal integrity.

Despite the demanding pace, you’ve carved out small pockets of life outside work. Sunday mornings are for long walks along the seawall, breathing in the crisp air and watching the city wake. Occasional dinners with friends or quiet nights at home remind you there’s a world beyond spreadsheets and conference calls. And then there are Maddie and Amelia, who make even the most mundane weekdays feel like a private comedy show.

Maddie is all energy and laughter, blonde curls bouncing as she moves, eyes sparkling with mischief. She has an uncanny ability to make anyone feel at ease — or at least distracted — and she treats life like a stage where she is always the lead. Amelia, by contrast, is calm, measured, and razor-sharp, with a humor so dry it catches you off guard when you least expect it. Together, you, Maddie, and Amelia form an unlikely but perfect trio: ambition, spontaneity, and poise intertwined seamlessly.

It’s late afternoon on a rainy Thursday when Maddie spins around in her ergonomic chair, grinning like she’s just discovered a secret.

“So,” she begins, drawing out the word like a drumroll, “what are you doing for Halloween?”

You glance up from your screen.

“Probably staying home, pretending I have plans,” Amelia replies without looking up.

“You are not doing that again,” Maddie protests, feigning horror. “Because this year, we’re doing something fun. My friend Drew — you know, the hockey player? He’s throwing a Halloween party at Vertigo. Apparently, the whole Canucks team is going.”

You raise an eyebrow. “A hockey player party? That sounds… intimidating.”

“Intimidating in the best way,” Maddie says, grinning as she shows pictures from last year’s event. “You have to come. Both of you. It’s been ages since we had a proper night out.”

Amelia finally looks up, one eyebrow arched. “Translation: Maddie wants us there to witness her flirting with her NHL friend.”

“Details,” Maddie waves dismissively. “Anyway, costumes are mandatory. No excuses. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

You laugh, shaking your head, but a spark of excitement flickers in your chest. Maybe it’s time to step out of the polished, predictable life you’ve carefully curated. A night like this, with the city alive, music pulsing, and even a brush with celebrity, feels like a welcome disruption.

The office day continues, but your mind drifts. Every spreadsheet, every client call, every negotiation becomes background noise as you imagine what the night could hold. Even Amelia seems unusually animated, a small smile tugging at her lips as she returns to work. Maddie, of course, hums with barely contained excitement, already planning outfits and mental scenarios for the night.

By the time the elevator doors open on the 1st floor, a mixture of anticipation and nerves runs through you. It’s a reminder that no matter how meticulously controlled your life has been, there are moments that can still surprise you — moments you can let yourself feel, rather than strategize.

As the three of you step out into the drizzle, umbrellas in hand, the rain feels less like an annoyance and more like a soft curtain of possibility.

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The week after Maddie’s announcement stretches ahead in a blur of work. Every negotiation, every client call, every email feels heavier because part of your mind keeps drifting to Vertigo, to the idea of a night where you can let go just a little. You catch yourself glancing at your calendar, counting the days until Halloween, imagining music, lights, and people living entirely different lives — yet somehow, Maddie insists, it won’t matter.

Wednesday afternoon, your phone buzzes. A notification pops up: “Halloween Hysteria 🎃👻”. Maddie’s already typing furiously.

Maddie: Okay, people. Big question: what are we even doing for costumes? Don’t tell me any of you is going for the lazy route again.

You: Lazy is subjective. I could go as… a mysterious, slightly intimidating businesswoman.

Amelia: Or the woman who closes million-dollar deals in stilettos. I can see it.

Maddie: Ha! Love it. But also, let’s do something that pops. Something bold. We need all eyes on us.

You: Bold how? Spooky? Glamorous? Dangerous?

Maddie: Yes. All of the above. And coordinated, obviously.

Amelia: Coordinated, she says, like we have matching outfits in our closets.

You: Actually… that could be fun. We could do a trio theme. Something clever but not cheesy.

Maddie: Ooooh, I like clever. Not cheesy. But I want glam. And bold.

Amelia: Then it’s settled. We brainstorm tonight. I’ll send ideas.

The conversation continues late into the evening, a cascade of gifs, emojis, and memes. You watch the screen, feeling a rare lightness — the kind that doesn’t come from work, deadlines, or emails. You realize how much you’ve missed just talking like this: teasing, challenging, laughing with people who get you.

By Friday, the brainstorm session narrows the concept down: mythical goddesses. Maddie wants it vibrant and daring, Amelia wants sleek elegance with a clever twist, and you aim for something bold yet sophisticated. The trio agrees to hit boutique stores downtown over the weekend.

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Saturday arrives crisp and bright. You meet Maddie and Amelia at a café, the air scented with roasted chestnuts and fresh coffee. Maddie practically vibrates with energy, showing outfit pictures on her phone, while Amelia sips her latte serenely, her eyebrow occasionally arched in commentary so dry it makes you smirk.

Walking along Robson Street, you let your mind drift. The city is bustling but familiar; each street, building, and reflection feels like a part of the life you’ve built deliberately. Yet there’s thrill in this tiny deviation: a night where work, ambition, and strategy fade into the background, replaced by chance, music, and light.

You wander through a boutique, black lace, sequins, and velvet glinting like jewels. Maddie darts from rack to rack, laughing and holding up dresses, while Amelia carefully examines fabrics and cuts. You find a midnight-blue velvet mini dress with an asymmetrical hem — bold but sophisticated. Trying it on, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and pause. It’s not the usual professional version of you; it’s poised, confident, and daring all at once.

Outside the boutique, you continue discussing via the group chat.

Maddie: OMG YES. That dress. You have to get it. People will notice.

You: It’s… bold. I like it.

Amelia: Sleek. Elegant. Perfect balance.

Maddie: And it goes with my outfit! We’re gonna kill it.

The shopping continues for accessories — boots, masks, cuffs, jewelry. Each piece you try on feels like a small declaration of identity: daring, playful, powerful. By the end of the day, the bags are heavy, your feet ache, but there’s a lightness in your chest, a sense that you’re stepping into something different, something thrilling.

Back at your apartment that evening, you lay out your dress and accessories, imagining the night. The thought of music, lights, laughter, and the unknown stirs excitement you haven’t felt in months. Maddie messages one last time for the night:

Maddie: Can’t wait for tomorrow. It’s happening.

Amelia: Try not to trip over your own confidence.

Maddie: Ha. No promises.

You smile, setting your phone aside. Halloween isn’t here yet, but already it’s begun — in your imagination, in your wardrobe, and in the spark of anticipation you can’t quite extinguish.

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The elevator hums as it rises to Vertigo’s top floor, and your chest beats a little faster. Tonight isn’t about contracts or deadlines. Tonight, it’s about stepping into a space where nobody knows your careful, controlled life — only the version of yourself you choose to show.

When the doors slide open, the club greets you like a living pulse. Music vibrates through the floor; lights sweep across sleek leather booths and a bar that gleams like liquid metal. A crowd of Vancouver’s elite swirls around you: professionals in tailored suits, artists in glittering ensembles, and yes — a handful of recognizable faces from the Canucks. The energy is electric but not chaotic. It’s curated, polished, and high-end. And yet, standing here with Maddie and Amelia, you feel… entirely at home.

Maddie spins around first, her excitement uncontainable. She laughs, a bright, infectious sound, and gestures toward the mirrored wall.

“You guys ready for this?”

Amelia smirks, adjusting her silver cuff bracelets. “We’ve been ready.”

You glance at your reflection and pause, taking it in. Tonight, you are Hecate, goddess of magic and mystery. Dressed in deep black velvet that hugs every curve, with sheer fabric cascading from your hip like midnight smoke. A glittering gold serpent coils across your body, another wraps your finger, and golden snakes rise at your ankles with every step, turning your heels into thrones. Your smoky eyeshadow and tousled hair complete the aura: bold, magnetic, unpredictable.

Maddie, as Aphrodite, is a living flame. Her deep red velvet mini dress, plunging neckline, and flowing chiffon panels are dramatic in motion. Her black suede over-the-knee boots add height and power. Golden arm cuffs and a statement choker glint in the light, her curls bouncing with every step. She is pure energy, a radiant spark that lights up the room.

Amelia, embodying Athena, is serene, unshakable. Her metallic silver mini dress with geometric accents is sharp yet understated. Knee-high black leather boots with subtle metallic details elevate her presence, while minimalist jewelry hints at sophistication rather than flash. Her sleek ponytail and precise eyeliner frame a calm, commanding expression that draws attention quietly but unmistakably.

The three of you move together, a trio of modern goddesses cutting through the crowd. You notice heads turning, whispers of admiration, and the occasional appreciative glance. It’s thrilling and slightly dizzying — the kind of energy that makes your pulse quicken without any effort.

Maddie leans in, her grin mischievous. “See? Told you we’d kill it.”

Amelia glances at you, eyes sparkling under the dim lights. “Yes, you did. Not that I’m surprised.”

The club is a swirl of lights, music, and heat. Maddie drags you and Amelia toward the center of the dance floor, and suddenly you’re caught in a rhythm that vibrates through your bones. Your boots click against the floor as you sway to the beat, every movement deliberate, every glance pulling attention without trying.

You lock eyes across the room — once, twice — with a dark figure you’ve noticed wandering near the bar earlier. There’s something in the way he watches you: measured, intense, magnetic. Your pulse quickens slightly, a thrill running through your chest. You glance away, heart racing, and he’s still there.

Maddie spots Drew across the room, his familiar grin cutting through the crowd. She waves, looping her arm briefly through his. “Hey! This is y/n and Amelia — my partners in crime for tonight.”

Drew grins, clearly pleased. “Nice to meet you both. Glad you could make it.” His eyes sweep over you, appreciative but not intrusive. “Let me introduce you to some friends.”

Drew starts introducing everyone: Elias Pettersson, Brock Boeser, Vasili Podkolzin, and lastly a certain Quinn Hughes.

Tall, lean, and impossibly composed, Quinn’s dark hair is slightly tousled, eyes scanning the room with that calm intensity that makes him magnetic. You notice him, sure, but hockey isn’t your world — to you, he’s just striking and confident, like someone who owns the room without trying.

When Quinn’s gaze meets yours, the world seems to pause for a heartbeat. His dark eyes hold a quiet intensity, a magnetic pull that makes your pulse skip. He nods smoothly. “Maddie, y/n, Amelia. Pleasure.”

You nod, trying to steady your breath. “Likewise.”

You smile politely, amused, and let the girls get caught up in their excitement. Internally, you think: Okay… tall, dark, handsome. People seem impressed. Got it.

Drew continues to chat with his teammates, introducing you and the girls along the way. You nod and smile, small talk here and there, but your attention mostly drifts elsewhere — the music, the lights, the energy of the club.

Once the introductions are done, Maddie practically drags you and Amelia back toward the bar. “I can’t. I can’t even believe he’s right there. That’s Quinn Hughes! The Quinn Hughes!”

Amelia squeals softly, eyes sparkling. “He’s literally unreal! I mean, we’ve seen him play, but up close? He’s even hotter. I can’t handle it.”

Maddie claps her hands, bouncing slightly on her heels. “Girl, look at him! I’m dying!”

You laugh quietly to yourself, sipping your drink, a little detached and mostly unfazed and bit clueless about him. The girls, meanwhile, are practically vibrating with excitement, whispering, giggling, pointing, and barely able to contain their fan energy.

As the three of you settle back into the music, dancing and moving with the crowd, Maddie and Amelia remain glued to Quinn’s every motion, whispering and squealing like true fangirls. You smile at their antics.

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The music swells, and you lose yourself in the rhythm, hips swaying, boots clicking, every glance around the room confident and deliberate.

From across the floor, Quinn watches. Once, twice, three times — every time your eyes meet, the tension tightens. It’s a silent conversation, each glance loaded with curiosity and something unspoken, dangerous in its intensity.

Then, as if drawn by the music itself, he moves closer. From behind, his hands rest lightly on your waist, guiding your movements in sync with the beat. The contact is electric, teasing, intimate — not too close, not too distant, perfectly balanced.

“You’re impossible to ignore,” he murmurs, voice low, brushing your ear.

You smirk without turning, letting the music carry your movements. “I could say the same.”

He leans slightly closer, his presence warm and magnetic, eyes briefly flicking to your mask before meeting yours again. “I like that,” he says, deliberate, almost a challenge.

You finally turn to face him fully, and the crowd blurs into background noise. It’s just the two of you, spinning and moving, locked in a silent rhythm of energy and anticipation. Maddie laughs with Drew nearby, Amelia returns with drinks, but your attention never wavers.

Every turn, every brush of his hands, every glance keeps the tension taut — slow, deliberate, undeniable. Tonight, the music isn’t just sound. It’s the pulse threading between you and Quinn, drawing you closer in ways words could never capture.

From behind, Quinn’s hands settle lightly on your waist, guiding your movements with effortless control. The music pulses through you, but it’s nothing compared to the electricity running between the two of you. His presence presses close, magnetic, daring.

From behind, Quinn’s hands settle lightly on your waist, guiding your movements with effortless control. The music pulses through you, but it’s nothing compared to the electricity running between the two of you. His presence presses close, magnetic, daring.

⋆⁺₊❅.⋆⁺₊❅.⋆⁺₊❅.⋆⁺₊❅.

After that, the night unfolds in flashes — pieces of memory that don’t quite fit together but still feel vivid in your skin. The crowd blurs into light and sound; laughter mixes with the bass thundering through the floor. Someone hands you a drink. Then another. You dance with Maddie, with Amelia, with strangers whose faces you barely register. Every time you turn, though, you catch a glimpse of Quinn — sometimes near the bar, sometimes across the room, always watching, never far.

There’s a pull to it, quiet but steady. Like gravity.

Hours pass without you noticing. The air grows thick with heat and perfume, and the club starts to thin out, leaving behind the faint haze of smoke and spilled champagne. Maddie’s still pressed close to Drew, laughing into his shoulder, Amelia’s perched on a velvet couch talking animatedly with one of the guys you met earlier.

You feel the weight of the night settle in your chest — that strange mix of adrenaline and exhaustion that always comes after too much music, too much motion, too many almosts.

“I think I’m gonna head out,” you tell the girls, your voice slightly hoarse over the fading music. “Gonna grab an Uber before it gets crazy.”

Maddie looks up, her lipstick smudged, eyes sparkling. “You sure? Drew said they’re doing afters somewhere—”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I’m good. I’ve had my share.”

She grins. “Alright, Miss Mysterious. Text us when you’re home.”

You promise you will, grab your clutch, and slip out into the cool Vancouver night. The air hits your skin like clarity — sharp, refreshing, a little too real after hours of lights and sound. You step onto the curb, scrolling for your ride, the quiet almost jarring.

And then a voice cuts through the hum of passing cars.

“Leaving already?”

You look up. Quinn’s there, leaning casually against a black car parked by the curb, jacket draped over his arm, expression unreadable under the streetlight. The music still echoes faintly from inside, but out here, it’s just you and him — the silence stretching, charged and deliberate.

You hesitate, hand frozen halfway to your phone. “Yeah. Long night.”

He takes a step closer, eyes holding yours, a faint, knowing smile curving his lips. “I was about to call it, too.” A pause. “You need a ride?”

You should say no — you know that. But his tone isn’t pushy; it’s quiet, careful, like he already knows your answer. The distance between you feels fragile, like something waiting to snap.

You exhale slowly, pulse thrumming in your ears. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says simply. “But I want to.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The city hums around you, indifferent. Then you nod, almost before you realize you’ve done it.

He opens the car door for you, his hand brushing your back just lightly enough to make your breath catch. And as you slide inside, the scent of his cologne — clean, sharp, a little addictive — fills the space between you.

The door shuts. The engine starts.

Outside, the lights of downtown blur into streaks of color through the tinted glass. Inside, silence hums louder than the road.

And when Quinn glances at you — once, briefly, through the dim — it’s with the kind of look that says the night isn’t over. Not yet.