wild about Calum

It happens on a disarmingly beautiful spring morning, the first truly warm one of the season. The kind that nearly blinds an unsuspecting Quinn when she flings open her curtains, squinting against the almost aggressive amount of sunshine pouring in through her windows. Outside, the sky is a clear, cloudless blue, the air already warm in a way that feels more like summer than mid-May. On her way out the door, Quinn notices that the lilac bush her grandmother planted by the inn's front door decades ago has finally burst into full bloom overnight, the breeze heavy with the scent of its petals.

The picture-perfect optimism of it all puts in Quinn in an absurdly cheerful mood.

In hindsight, nature had clearly decided to conspire against her.

At the reception desk of Murphy's Hollow, Quinn settles into her usual morning routine. The inn still feels slow and sleepy and blurry around the edges, the way it always does during off-season. The only signs of life are the occasional creak of the old building around her and the soft, muffled sounds of clinking dishes and sizzling bacon drifting in from the kitchen, where Nell has started breakfast service.

Quinn secretly revels in it. She hates mornings – despises them, really, at least until she's properly caffeinated. She's never been a morning person, despite her job demanding she be a hell of a good one. She loves a good, long start to the day – taking far too long to drink her morning cup of coffee, stealing extra muffins from the kitchen without the guests noticing, and reorganizing whatever Excel spreadsheets Nell managed to wreak havoc upon the night before.

Quinn pours herself a cup of coffee - black, two brown sugars - and sets it aside to cool for a few moments on the reception desk. She idly flips through the guest services book to check Nell's notes from the night before. It's all perfectly ordinary. Two girls in room ten, checking out today after a week-long bachelorette trip. The young couple from New Zealand, arriving just after lunch. A little note in Nell's precise, loopy handwriting beside their entry for room 3, where the Hendersons had been staying for three days – their new baby had had a particularly rough night, and she felt complimentary breakfast was in order.

Quinn's still reading the guest services book when the old brass bell by the inn's front door rings out cheerfully, interrupting the comfortable silence.

Unconcerned, Quinn doesn't bother looking up – not at first. She’s confident it’s not a guest. Even the earliest of risers at the inn don’t typically stumble downstairs until the smell of Nell’s blueberry pancakes inevitably lures them out. It’s even less likely one of them has already ventured outside. She’s certain it’s the inn’s landscaper passing through, motivated by the beautiful weather to start working before the afternoon sun gets too hot. Or maybe Nell’s husband, Tom, stopping by to annoy Nell and steal a few rashers of bacon before dropping off the kids at daycare and heading to work. Preoccupied, she lifts a hand in a brief, relaxed wave in their general direction, still focused on the guest services book.

The bell rings again, more insistently this time. Quinn barely registers it. She’s fully invested in the gossipy note from their handyman about the couple in room ten instead. Apparently, they'd called his emergency number at midnight in a panic after discovering they'd somehow broken their bed frame. Except there was no "somehow" about it, according to the handyman. Quinn raises an eyebrow, impressed. She's not entirely sure she'll be able to look them in the eye while checking them out later. Also, their handyman deserves a raise.

"Give me, like, five seconds, okay?" Quinn calls out distractedly, not looking up from the book. "I'm just finishing this up."

Silence.

Quinn finishes reading the note. She snorts with amusement. She grabs her cup of coffee, bringing it to her lips. She finally looks up.

And immediately inhales her coffee directly into her lungs.

There is someone at the door. Not a guest. Not the gardener. Not Tom. Someone else entirely.

Luke.

He's standing in the doorway of the inn, looking vaguely disoriented and caught out, as though he's just as surprised as Quinn is to find himself here. He's leaning over slightly, curls falling in his face, one broad shoulder braced against the door to keep it from swinging shut on him. One foot is still planted behind him on the porch, like Quinn caught him mid-step. The door hangs open slightly behind him, letting in a gust of morning air that sends the papers on Quinn’s desk scattering around the room. Quinn barely registers it.

"Hi,”says Luke. He straightens slowly.

Quinn suddenly forgets what to do with her hands. She sets her mug down on the desk just a little too hard, the porcelain making a loud thunk against the wood. She stares at it for a beat before carefully moving her gaze from the mug to Luke’s face, feeling herself going still when she meets his eyes.

Luke looks different. Of course he does –  he’s nearly thirty now. They're nearly thirty. He’s grown out his hair, blonde curls spilling chaotically over his forehead and curling up by his ears, darker roots fading into sun-bleached ends. He looks… solid. Broader shoulders. Biceps, apparently. Dimple still carving out a tiny divot in his cheek. There are wrinkles by his eyes that Quinn doesn't recognize - smile lines, she guesses, because he always smiled with his eyes first and his mouth second.

At least, he did when they were twenty.

Quinn blinks once. He's still there. Obviously.

"Hi." The word comes out hoarse, like it doesn't belong to her. She clears her throat, then tries again: "Hi."

Luke doesn’t move. He just opens his mouth slightly, pauses, then closes it abruptly. He blinks at her instead, waiting for her to do something other than choke on her coffee at the sight of him.

Quinn stares back. Her eyes flicker to the floor. He's wearing a battered old pair of black Converse high-tops that she vaguely recognizes. There's a bag at his feet. A guitar case.

Also, a dog.

"You have a dog," Quinn announces, as if he's somehow not aware.

“I –“ Luke pauses. He rubs a thumb across his lip. The corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Uh. Yeah. I've got a dog.” He reaches down and affectionately scratches the dog under one ear. Quinn realizes, just a bit too late, that he's holding the leash. The dog is some kind of pit bull mix, she thinks – mostly white with a freckled pink muzzle, sporting a collar with a small pink bow on it. Her head is tilted to the side, watching Quinn with an expression that looks suspiciously like judgement.

Quinn realizes, slightly hysterically, that she may be projecting.

Luke follows her gaze.

"Petunia," he says suddenly.

"What?" Quinn looks at Luke helplessly. She's getting conversational whiplash.

"The dog?” says Luke slowly. “That's her name.”

"Petunia," Quinn echoes. Petunia sneezes in response.

"Like the flower," adds Luke unnecessarily.

Quinn snorts. “No, like the vegetable.” The words come out before she even realizes she's saying them, the sarcasm like muscle memory reactivating in real time.

Luke just looks at her for a beat. He presses his lips together, but one corner of his mouth still twitches subtly, like he's trying and failing to repress a grin.

Quinn drops her gaze, suddenly desperate to look anywhere but at Luke's face. Instead, she focuses her attention on the coffee mug on her desk, flipping the handle from left to right and back again as though it's a task of great importance.

“So.” Quinn drags out the word slowly, like it might be able to postpone the conversation. “You've got a bag.”

"Unfortunately.” Luke offers no further explanation. His eyes are on Quinn’s hands as she fiddles with her mug, the line of his jaw set firmly. Quinn feels a snap of irritation deep in her chest, sharp and unwelcome.

Quinn ignores it. “Pretty big bag, too,” she observes.

Luke makes a noise of agreement in his throat. He moves his gaze from Quinn’s hands back down to his bag, as though he’s just remembered it exists. “Oh. Right.”

Quinn wants to throttle him. “Alright, then. Great talk,” she says drily. She edges closer to the reception desk again, pointedly flipping the guest services book shut.

"You're gonna need that." Luke nods his head towards the book.

Annoyed, Quinn stares at him. Well, not actually at him - just to the left of him, where a rogue curl twists up by the shell of his ear. It's faintly darker than the rest, like it doesn’t quite belong. "Why?"

“Jesus Christ,” Luke mutters under his breath. Then, louder: “For me.”

Quinn abruptly stops analyzing his curl pattern. “What?” she says, louder than intended.

“I need a fuckin’ room,” Luke replies, matching her volume.

“No, I heard you the first time.” Quinn stares at Luke. She has officially lost the plot.

“I didn’t book ahead.” Luke clears his throat, looking somewhat pained. “Clearly.”

“Clearly,” Quinn echoes faintly.

“Kinda hoped you still took walk-ins,” says Luke, suddenly quieter. His gaze drops to Petunia. Petunia paws at his pant leg impatiently.

“Sometimes. Maybe. Depends,” says Quinn evasively. She's lying. They do, unequivocally. She picks at the dog-eared edge of the guest services book, resisting the urge to open it. “We’re heading into peak season, though.”

“Figured.” Luke scratches Petunia under the chin, still avoiding Quinn's eyes. “It's just…for a bit.” He pauses, then nods, almost to himself. “Swear.”

Quinn hesitates. She watches Petunia tilt her head up, angling her chin so Luke can scratch her preferred spot. "There's a wedding. Early June. I've got six rooms set aside."

Luke finally meets Quinn's eyes. "You have eight rooms."

He's not wrong. “I… okay,” falters Quinn. She's not saying yes. Unfortunately, she's also acutely aware she's not saying no.

Quinn stares at the guest services book like it might give her instructions for her next move. It’s entirely unhelpful.

Luke rubs at his face, dragging his hand across the stubble on his chin. For the first time, Quinn realizes that he looks tired, his eyes shadowed like he’s been up all night. “Just me,” he offers.

“And the dog,” counters Quinn.

“Petunia,” Luke corrects her. The corner of his mouth twitches again, like he’s trying very hard to keep a straight face.

“Not on a first name basis with her quite yet,” responds Quinn.

“You could be.” Luke raises an eyebrow.”If you give us that room.”

“Tempting.” Quinn almost smiles, but quickly presses her lips together.

“Quinn,” Luke says.

Just her name.

Luke’s voice is deeper, rougher around the edges when he says her name now. It sounds familiar and strange all at once, and suddenly Quinn doesn’t know what to do with her hands.

“Breakfast service starts at…” she trails off, staring at the clock blankly like she's inexplicably forgotten how to tell time.

“Seven,” Luke finishes.

Quinn blinks. “Seven. Yeah. Spare linens –“

“Closet with the green door next to room five,” says Luke immediately.

Quinn stares at him, deeply annoyed for reasons she can’t quite articulate. “Should I give you your room key, or do you remember where I keep those, too?”

“Maybe.” Luke’s face is impassive. “Need the room number first, though.”

Quinn makes a frustrated noise in her throat. “Here? Really?”

Luke’s silent for a moment. He shifts his weight slightly towards Quinn. The front door, no longer braced half-open by his shoulder, swings shut behind him with a decisive bang. His eyes flicker around the room as if he’s just noticing his surroundings for the first time. Realizing where, exactly, he’s ended up.

Quinn watches him take it in. The artwork on the wall that she knows Luke recognizes - it’s been there since they were kids. The old wooden reception desk that he carved their names into when were sixteen. The dark green armchair that used to live in Quinn’s bedroom, his favorite place to sit and watch her – now in the lobby, waiting for guests.

Finally, his eyes land on the portrait wall behind her head. It’s filled with pictures of Murphy’s Hollow over the decades. Quinn’s grandparents – young, tanned, and beaming proudly – standing in front of the sign the day they opened the inn. Quinn’s father and Aunt Nell as a teenager and toddler, playing in the back garden. Quinn’s grandmother making pancakes in the kitchen. Quinn, her brother Declan, and Nell riding bikes in the driveway. A few candid shots of guests.

Then Luke’s gaze stops dead, his entire body stilling almost imperceptibly.

Quinn knows, without turning, that he’s seen it.

Quinn and Luke at twelve years old, climbing the massive oak tree in the front yard, the one with the brass memorial plaque at the base. Quinn tucked between two smaller limbs, mid-laugh, knees scraped and hair in her face. Luke opposite her, higher up in the tree and sitting on top of a larger limb, skinny legs dangling down. Smiling. Not at the camera.

At Quinn.

A muscle twitches in Luke’s jaw. He clears his throat, his gaze quickly dropping to the reception desk.”Yeah. Here.” He stills again, then nods faintly.”Yeah,” he repeats, almost to himself.

Quinn's not sure how to respond. She looks at the guest services book in front of her. At Petunia circling Luke, then laying at his feet, snuffling contentedly. At her half-finished cup of coffee on the front desk, waiting for her. At his bag.

Then she looks at Luke.

"Room six," Quinn says.

Luke shifts his gaze from the reception desk back to Quinn’s face. “That a yes?”

“Don’t push it.” Quinn grabs the key to unlock the drawer and opens it. She fishes around for a moment before finding the room six key.

“Wouldn’t dare,” says Luke. He reaches out his hand automatically.

Quinn looks at Luke’s hand like it’s a foreign object, because it kind of is. Silver rings on a few fingers. Faint blue marks from a pen. A tiny white scar on his palm.

Fourteen, wiping out on a skateboard on Quinn’s back deck.

Quinn quickly puts the key in his hand. Her fingertips brush his palm and she pretends she doesn’t notice.

Luke stares at his hand for a brief moment before closing his hand, tucking the key in his pocket. “She likes you,” he says suddenly.

Quinn wrinkles her brow. “Who?”

“The dog.” Luke nods at Petunia. Without Quinn noticing, Petunia had padded over to Quinn and settled at her feet. She peers up at Quinn, her ears perked.

“Petunia,” says Quinn softly. Apparently satisfied by the acknowledgement, Petunia places her head on the top of Quinn’s foot, heaving a deep, dramatic sigh.

“C’mon, Petunia.” Luke gently unclips Petunia’s collar, nudging her softly.”Upstairs.”

Petunia sneezes defiantly at Luke, then settles her head back on Quinn’s foot.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” mutters Luke.

“She’s fine here for a bit,” says Quinn. It’s not strictly the truth. The inn doesn’t allow dogs, and she knows that – knows that Nell will blow a gasket when she realizes that Quinn’s been harbouring the canine version of  a fugitive, among other events this morning. Looking down at Petunia, whose eyes have already started drifting shut, Quinn finds that she doesn’t particularly give a shit.

“And Nell’s going to be alright with that?” asks Luke slowly, his eyes still on Petunia.

“No,” says Quinn, reaching for her coffee mug.”She’ll live.”

Luke lifts his gaze to Quinn’s. He raises his eyebrows slightly, a fleeting expression of amusement crossing his face. Then, for the first time since he’s walked through the door of Murphy’s Hollow, Luke smiles at Quinn.

Quinn nearly drops her mug.

Luke doesn’t appear to notice. He’s too busy gathering his bags, slinging his guitar case easily over his broad shoulders. He walks back over crouches down to Petunia’s height, looking her directly in the eyes.”I’ll be back for you. Don’t get too comfortable.”

Petunia stares at him balefully.

“Jesus Christ,” Luke says under his breath.”Or do, I guess. Whatever.” He straightens. “If Nell loses her shit, I –“

“Luke,” Quinn interrupts.

Luke stops mid-sentence, his eyes immediately flicking to Quinn’s face. The strap of his bag slips off his shoulder. He doesn’t bother to adjust it. He drags a hand down the side of his jaw and blinks slowly. “Yeah?”

“I’ll –“ Quinn swallows.”It’s fine. She’ll be fine. I’ve got it.”

Luke watches her for a second, his hand still on his jaw. Then he finally drops it to his side. He nods once.”Okay.”

“Okay,” Quinn repeats quietly. She takes a sip of coffee. It’s cold. She swallows it anyway, watching Luke gather his other bag over the rim of her cup.

Without another word, Luke walks over to the staircase leading up to the second story of the inn. Takes two steps forward and, without looking up, instinctively crouches, ducking his head slightly to the left.

Avoids hitting the low-hanging ceiling light.

Quinn exhales sharply, watching him walk up the staircase for longer than necessary. When he’s disappeared, she finally looks down at Petunia.

Wonders why the hell she just let Luke Hemmings walk into her inn and implode ten years’ worth of silence in under fifteen minutes like it was just another Sunday morning to him.

“Fuck,” says Quinn.

──────────────────

SEPTEMBER 2002

Quinn Murphy is six years old the day she meets Luke Hemmings on the playground swings.

She remembers her sticky fingertips and the way her mouth tasted like fake strawberries from the lollipop her teacher had given her.

She remembers the smell of freshly cut grass from the schoolyard, the late summer sun beating down on her exposed neck, just a little too hot for September. She remembers sitting on a swing by herself, determined to push herself higher and higher as her classmates laughed and played behind her.

She remembers that Luke was the first good thing to happen to her after her parents died.

Quinn was the New Kid. She had never been the new kid. Her older brother had waved at their grandparents before running into the school building like being scared was never an option. That was Declan, though. Eleven months older than Quinn and her polar opposite, all enthusiasm and ease where Quinn was sharp and observant.

Quinn had clung to her grandmother's leg like a stubborn weed, roots buried deep into the ground.

“No,” Quinn insisted. “I’m not going in. Don't have to.”

“The hell you're not,” Quinn’s grandfather Charles had responded quickly.

“Charles.” Annie, Quinn’s grandmother, had shot her husband a look of warning, her hand smoothing down Quinn’s tangle of curls absently. “Honey, you have to go in whether you like it or not.”

“No,” Quinn had said, her tiny voice loud and stubborn.

“For Christ’s sake.” Charles had looked up at the sky, as if begging God to give him patience. He sighed heavily, then bent down on his knees, bringing himself eye-level with Quinn.

Quinn stared at him defiantly. “Can't make me.”

“Here's the thing, Quinnie.” Charles had put a thumb on Quinn’s chin, tilting it upward. “You're right.”

“I know I am,” Quinn replied.

Charles snorted. “But I’ve got to make you go anyway. Can't let you stay home and have your brain rot at the inn.”

Quinn kicked sullenly at the dirt with the toe of her pink Converse sneaker. “I’m gonna be the weird orphan girl.”

“Who the hell taught you that word?” Charles’ voice had come out gruff, his Irish accent rough around the edges with something sad and strange Quinn couldn't put into words at only six years old.

“Declan,” said Quinn immediately.

“Ok, so.” Charles had cleared his throat. “First off, Declan will be given out to.”

That earned a tiny grin from Quinn.

“Second off, being an orphan isn’t a bad thing, my girl.” Charles’ hand softly stroked Quinn’s cheek. “It's a very sad thing, yeah? But it's not bad. Your Dad was very loved ‘round here. Everyone knew him. And if there's one thing I know about you, Quinnie, it's that you're as lovable as your Dad was.” The corner of Charles’ mouth twitched. “Hell of a lot cuter than he was, too.”

Quinn relaxed her grip on Annie’s jeans, eliciting a barely audible sigh of relief from Annie.

 “Daddy used to walk me in,” Quinn said quietly. “At our old school.”

“Then it's settled. I'll walk you in here,” Charles had said without hesitation. “I've always got you, my girl. Always.”

And that was how Quinn had ended up at the swings by herself at lunchtime on her first day of school, pretending the other kids didn't exist – not yet. She was still hesitant. Still raw and prickly.

"Hi."

The sound of a boy’s voice startled Quinn. She dug her heel into the ground hard, her swing coming to an abrupt stop as the metal chain screeched in protest. She looked up.

A boy around the same age as her was watching her intently.

He’d approached quietly, carefully, without Quinn noticing. He had bleach blond hair and curious blue eyes, a tiny smattering of freckles on his nose from the summer sun.

Quinn peered at him. “Can I help you?” A sentence she’d learned from her grandfather after a summer spent annoying him at the reception desk, Charles pretending she wasn't there when she was supposed to be upstairs helping Annie fold laundry instead.

“Um. No?” asked the boy, looking mildly confused and helpless.

“You were staring,” Quinn pointed out.

“Was not.” The boy furrowed his brow.

“Was too.”

“Was not.”

Quinn and the boy stared at each other defiantly. A stalemate, it appeared.

Quinn kicked at a rock. Sighed heavily. Then: “Do you wanna swing?”

“Maybe.” The boy eyed her suspiciously.

“Whatever.” Quinn started slowly swinging again, using one toe to push herself gently back and forth.

The boy watched her for a moment, seemingly caught between walking away and joining her.

Then he smiled, like the sun suddenly emerging from behind a cloud, and he climbed up into the swing next to her.

They swing in silence for a few minutes, Quinn listening to the leaves rustling loudly in the trees rustling. She closed her eyes and tilted her face up to meet the sun. When she opened them, the boy was watching her again.

“You stare a lot,” Quinn commented.

He ignored her. “I'm Luke.”

"I'm Quinn.” She didn't smile – not yet. She scratched at her nose instead. “Are you in my class?

"Yup." Luke nodded. "I sit in the back with my best friend. His name is Calum."

"Oh." Quinn scuffed the ground with her sneaker. She wasn't sure what to say to that. She didn’t have a best friend yet. Just Declan and her aunt Nell, who at twelve years old was much more like her older sister than her aunt. She didn't know she needed anyone else.

As she watched Luke swing, the breeze tousling his blond curls, it occurred to Quinn that maybe needing someone else wouldn't be so bad.

"Quinn is a really weird name for a girl," Luke observed bluntly.

"I know. My parents thought I was going to be a boy." Quinn rolled her eyes.

"Oh. Ok." Luke nodded like it was an acceptable explanation.

"Yeah." Quinn trailed off, her eyes fixed on a pair of dandelions swaying in the wind.

"The swings are my favorite too.” Luke scuffed his foot against the dirt. He's wearing a battered pair of black Converse, identical to Quinn’s own pink ones. "I, like, never get to swing though. My big brothers push me off all the time."

Quinn snorted. “Mine does too.”

Luke looked up at Quinn like her response surprised him. He paused, fiddling with the chain of the swing.

Then he smiled again, crooked and so open that it made Quinn’s chest hurt a little. “Do you wanna be friends?"

“Maybe.” Quinn couldn’t help but smile back.

“Ok. Cool.” Luke nodded decisively, clearly already taking her answer as a yes. “Hey, you wanna share a cookie with me?”

“What?” Quinn stared at Luke like he was speaking a foreign language.

“My Mum made cookies. She's the best at it. I was gonna share my last one with Calum, but he punched me.” Luke shrugged. “Wanna share it with me instead?”

"Yeah." Quinn wrinkled her nose. "Wait. Only if it’s not oatmeal chocolate chip though."

"Ew." Luke stuck his tongue out. "No. Gross. It’s the regular kind."

"Okay, good." Quinn stood up from her swing. Brushed her hair out of her face. Gave Luke her first real smile, slow and steady. Brave.

"C'mon, Quinn." Luke grabbed her hand, excitedly tugging her towards their classroom door. Quinn was startled by the contact at first, nearly dropping his hand.

calum header request!