hiding in a dream so deeply

She knows that Luke is a functioning adult. That he can make decisions. That he can leave his bedroom, come downstairs, hand over his card, and tell her exactly when he plans on ending this infinitely weird trip down memory lane whenever he feels inclined.

Except – for reasons infuriatingly unclear to her – Luke has apparently decided to do precisely none of those things.

Even worse, Quinn knows that he’s still upstairs. She keeps hearing vaguely Luke-ish noises from room six. His footsteps. The faint scratch of Petunia’s claws against the hardwood floor as she trails after him. The muffled sound of music playing, suspiciously similar to one of Luke’s old playlists from 2013.

It feels like she's living with a ghost. One with excellent music taste, unfortunately.

The thing is, Quinn doesn’t believe in ghosts. She doesn't believe in being haunted. She believes that things end, people leave, and you live around the spaces they've left behind.

And now she needs to live around Luke.

She’s already spent the morning doing exactly that. Drinking two more cups of coffee. Checking out guests. Talking to the landscapers (mostly the very cute new guy on the crew, but she digresses). Casting deeply annoyed glances at the staircase.

Definitely not thinking about room six and the sounds coming from it.

Quinn’s sitting at the reception desk, organizing invoices and staring blankly at the train wreck their handyman apparently calls handwriting, when she realizes the noises have just… stopped.

No footsteps. No Petunia. No angsty pop punk from the 2010s.

Quinn drops her stack of invoices. She squints at the ceiling suspiciously.

Then she hears a door close loudly upstairs, and she startles, swearing under her breath. It's the door to room six, because of course it is. She can tell by the annoying squeak of the door hinge, the same one she meant to oil this morning.

Quinn takes a deep breath, gathering her invoices again. She's being fucking ridiculous. She's not under attack from a malicious spirit. She owns the place. She’s in control of whatever the hell this is. She is a fucking adult, for God’s sake.

Before she can properly gather her thoughts, she realizes that Luke’s footsteps are back. She hears them move down the hall and down the stairs, the old wooden staircase creaking with each step.

Then Luke finally appears, head down, as though he's been summoned by an invisible Ouija board.

He looks up, his eyes meeting Quinn’s, and he stops dead on the last step.

“Oh.” Luke runs a hand down the side of his face. “Didn't think you'd still be here.”

Quinn straightens in her chair, letting out a breath. “Where else would I be?”

Luke closes his eyes, hand going still on his jaw. “Right.”

Quinn stares at him. “Did you… need something?”

Luke opens his eyes. He scans the room quickly before zeroing in on the coffee cart like a homing device. “Christ, yes. Caffeine. Like, immediately.”

Quinn sighs heavily, dropping her stack of invoices again. “Coffee’s for guests. Ones that have actually checked in.” She’s lying through her teeth, but Luke doesn't have to know that – yet. She swivels her chair toward him, raising an eyebrow. “Bring your card yet?”

“Free coffee is a sign of good hospitality, I’ve heard.” Luke’s eyes dart toward Quinn, then back towards the coffee cart. He takes a single, optimistic step closer to it.

Quinn watches him with amusement. “So…. no card, then?”

Luke stops in his tracks, casting one last furtive, longing glance at the coffee machine. “That would be correct,” he admits.

“Tragic,” deadpans Quinn. She sits back in her chair, surveying Luke like a judge preparing to deliver a guilty verdict. “You know, you'd be able to enjoy the benefits of our wonderfully mediocre coffee if you just-“ Quinn pauses dramatically, raising an eyebrow. “- checked in.”

“Can't.” Luke looks up at the ceiling, shoving a hand through his hair. He closes his eyes briefly. “Left my card upstairs. Along with my wallet. And apparently my fucking dignity,” he mutters.

“I have a great solution for that.” Quinn grins. “It's called – get this – sucking it up and going to get it.”

Luke stares at Quinn. “It's a cup of fuckin’ coffee, Quinn.”

Quinn shrugs casually. She pointedly swivels her chair back towards her desk, grabbing the edge to pull herself back in. “No payment, no coffee.”

Luke rubs at his chin. He watches her for a second, biting back a tiny, amused smile.  “Jesus. You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

Quinn pauses, considering this. “Holding your caffeine hostage?” She tilts her head, smiling at Luke. “Yeah. Definitely.”

“Quinn.” Luke's facial expression is focused, almost comically serious. He leans forward, setting his forearms on the reception desk. He carefully folds his hands together. “I haven't slept in, like, 26 hours. I have a fucking caffeine headache.” He raises an eyebrow. “I can make this much, much worse for you. Trust me.”

Quinn doesn't answer – mostly because she doesn't currently have words. She's staring at Luke’s forearms, casually braced on the desk in front of her, like he's done the exact same thing a million times before. Because he has. The sight feels strange and uncomfortable now, like accidentally pressing on an old bruise.

Luke’s… here. And yes, granted, she knew this. She talked to him. She gave him a room. She nearly hit him for stealing her banana nut muffin. But now he's right in front of her. Close enough to see the individual, fine blond hairs on his arms. The unfamiliar tattoos on his wrists, one peeking out on his bicep from under the sleeve of his t-shirt. She could reach out and touch him.

Ten years ago, she would have.

Quinn abruptly pushes her chair away from the reception desk, the wheels on her chair squeaking loudly in protest.

Luke straightens, lifting his arms off the desk. He clears his throat.

Without meeting Luke’s eyes, Quinn walks over to the coffee cart. She’s just… doing what she's supposed to do between the hours of twelve and two in the afternoon. What she's done for years, in fact. She flips open the lid to the coffee machine and drops in a fresh filter. She adds her usual amount of water and coffee grounds. She stops, scoop hovering over the tin.

Then she adds two more scoops.

Quinn presses the start button. It beeps cheerfully at her. She turns around.

Luke is watching her with raised eyebrows.

“What?” Quinn asks.

Luke lets out a short laugh, reaching up and rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing, really. Just… thanks.”

Quinn frowns, walking back to her desk. “For what?”

Luke nods toward the coffee machine, hand still resting on the back of his neck. “That.”

“The coffee?” Quinn drops into her chair, pulling it back into the desk. She picks up her stack of invoices. “Carafe was empty. It's noon. Don't flatter yourself.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.” Luke presses his lips together. The corner of his mouth still twitches.

The coffee machine makes an almighty gurgling noise as it finally starts percolating. With a small sigh, Quinn returns to the accounts, sorting the messy pile of paperwork into two neat stacks.

A few minutes pass. The quiet is punctuated only by the steady drip of the coffee machine and the occasional hiss of steam. Quinn keeps working, her head down, pretending that Luke isn't there.

But he is. And, evidently, he's decided to wander around.

The floorboards give him away as he slowly walks around the reception area, taking everything in while he waits. There's a squeak by the picture window, overlooking the garden. Another by the fireplace. A third by the bookcase. A longer, more pronounced one as he crouches down to examine a book.

The coffee machine eventually stops. The footsteps stop dead, then immediately make a beeline for the coffee cart.

Quinn pushes her hair off her face, finally glancing up from her papers. Luke’s at the machine, back to her, pouring himself a coffee, two mugs waiting beside him.

Luke pours coffee into the second mug. He grabs two packets of brown sugar, giving each one a quick, practiced shake, and tears them open with his teeth. He dumps both packets into the coffee and grabs a spoon, giving it a stir.

Then he brings both mugs over to the reception desk, setting the second one in front of Quinn.

Quinn stares at Luke.

Luke smiles, taking a nonchalant sip of his coffee. “Be right back with my card.” He raps his knuckles on the reception desk and heads upstairs without another word.

Quinn looks at the coffee with deep suspicion. Two brown sugars, no cream. Exactly how she's taken it since she started drinking coffee at eighteen. Steam curls up from the mug ominously.

She takes it anyway.

Quinn’s about to take her first sip when the office door bangs open. Nell strides through it, vibrating with annoyance.

“Quinn.” Nell comes to a stop in front of Quinn’s desk. “Room six is blocked off.”

Quinn closes her eyes.

“There’s no name.” Unsurprisingly, Nell is not finished.

“I know.”

“There's no checkout date.”

“I know.” Quinn opens her eyes.

“And yes, I refreshed the page. Multiple times, actually.” Nell squints at Quinn. “What did you do?”

Luke picks that precise moment to come jogging back down the stairs, wallet in hand.

Nell turns. She looks at Luke.

“Oh,” she says faintly.

Luke stops short. “Oh. Nell.”

“Luke.” Nell blinks at him. She opens her mouth. She shuts it. Then her eyes are back on Quinn.

Quinn immediately looks away from Nell, taking a sip of her coffee.

Luke clears his throat. He lifts his wallet like a peace offering. “As promised.”

“Later,” says Quinn hastily.

Luke lets out a small exhale of relief, slipping his wallet back into his pocket. “Yeah. Sure.” He nods briefly at Nell. “Nell. I’ll… see you around.”

“Bye,” says Nell, not even looking at Luke. She's too busy burning a hole through Quinn with her eyes.

Luke turns around and heads back upstairs, disappearing from sight. Much like Quinn’s last hope of escaping Nell’s wrath.

Nell turns to Quinn. “You have exactly thirty seconds to start explaining.”

Quinn makes a face behind the rim of her mug. “I'm going to need more than thirty seconds, Nell.”

Nell folds her arms across her chest, eyeing her impassively. “You have forty seconds.”

“He's not squatting,” Quinn says quickly.

Nell gives Quinn a sharp look. “Oh, thank Christ, because that was my biggest concern.”

“Okay, obviously not.” Quinn huffs out a breath, setting her coffee down on her desk carefully. “So. Luke’s… here. He doesn't have a checkout date. And hasn't paid. And… might have a dog.”

Nell goes still. Dangerously still. “Excuse me?”

Quinn smiles hopefully. “Petunia’s sweet, though.”

“Who the fuck is Petunia?” asks Nell incredulously.

“Luke’s dog,” answers Quinn weakly.

“Oh my God.” Nell pinches the bridge of her nose. “This is somehow even more catastrophic than I imagined.”

Quinn chews on her bottom lip. “There's more.”

“Of course there is,” mutters Nell, her head still down.

“Luke and Sierra got divorced,” says Quinn.

Nell finally lifts her head. She stares at Quinn. “What?”

“That's why he's back home.” Quinn swivels her chair away from Nell, avoiding her eyes. “It was seven in the morning, Nell. He had a bag. I just… gave him the room.”

There's silence from Nell. Quinn winces to herself, slowly swivelling back around in her chair to face Nell. She's prepared for a stern lecture, because Nell’s kind of the master of those.

She finds instead that Nell is just watching her, her head cocked slightly.

Quinn frowns. “Will you stop looking at me like that?”

Nell runs her hand through her hair, sighing. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. I'm going to pretend you didn't just make the most questionable decision you’ve made since the red wine incident of 2021.”

Quinn glares at Nell. “You said we'd never speak of that again.”

Nell ignores her. “You are going to go get Luke’s wallet. You will receive proper payment. You will fix the booking system.” She sighs. "The dog’s not a huge deal. We'll make an exception. That was a stupid rule of Dad’s anyway.”

Quinn blinks at Nell. “Oh. Okay.” She looks down at her hands, fiddling with the ring on her index finger. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Nell rubs briefly at her temples before walking over to the coffee machine. “Were you expecting a different response?” she asks, pouring herself a cup.

“Kind of.”

Nell finishes pouring her coffee and turns back around, eyeing Quinn carefully. She brings the cup of coffee to her lips, taking a sip. She promptly splutters, making a vaguely disgusted face. “Christ, who made this coffee? It's like drinking gasoline.”

“It's fine, it's just strong,” says Quinn defensively.

Nell attempts another sip. She immediately makes another face and shudders. “Ugh. No, I can't do it.” She pours the remnants of her coffee in the garbage, looking relieved. “Do me a favour? Please make another pot of coffee before we’re accused of violating occupational health and safety laws for offering this to guests.”

Quinn lets go of her ring. She picks up her cup of coffee instead, taking a healthy sip. She swallows, nodding at Nell. “Sure.”

Nell looks at Quinn as though she's suddenly sprouted four heads. “How are you drinking that?”

Quinn shrugs. “I like it.”

Nell snorts. “You have questionable taste.” She slides her mug onto the reception desk and starts walking towards the office again. “I've got stuff to do. Come get me when there's a fresh pot,” she calls over her shoulder, waving a hand.

Quinn rolls her eyes. She gets up, walking over to the machine.

And she makes the stupid pot of coffee with two less scoops this time.

──────────────────

Luke doesn't come back downstairs.

At least, Quinn’s pretty sure he doesn't. She's been too busy to notice. Washing laundry. Deep cleaning the kitchen. Making beds. Arguing with a vendor over invoices, then driving over to their office and all but threatening to kick their ass if they don't deliver her order tomorrow. She's barely stopped moving all afternoon.

Except now, it's seven o’clock in the evening, and she's been forced back to the reception desk by an unexpected thunderstorm instead of tending to the garden like she planned. She's had her ass parked at reception for over an hour, and Luke still hasn't resurfaced.

She's right back where she started. Just with cleaner bedsheets and significantly less patience.

Quinn’s angrily working her way through a bowl of macaroni and cheese when the door to the inn suddenly bangs open.

Calum walks through the doorway like a man on a mission, drenched head to toe from the pouring rain outside. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees Quinn at the reception desk. His eyes flicker around the room like he's doing mental inventory. Quinn – by herself. Bowl of macaroni and cheese – excessive. Sitting area – empty. No Luke.

Quinn continues eating her macaroni and cheese and waits.

“What the fuck?” asks Calum.

And there it is.

“Good evening to you too,” mutters Quinn darkly, spearing a piece of macaroni on her fork with more force than strictly necessary.

Calum blinks. His hair is plastered to his head from the rain, his shirt completely soaked through. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Eating dinner.” Quinn raises her fork as evidence. “What are you doing, other than trying to rip my front door off its hinges?”

Calum sneers. Not to be dissuaded, he walks over to the staircase. He looks it up and down suspiciously, as if he expects Luke to spring out at him like a six foot tall jack-in-the-box. Finding nothing, he swears under his breath before looking at Quinn. “What the fuck is going on here?”

“Hell if I know.” Quinn inspects a piece of macaroni closely. Perfect breadcrumb to cheese ratio.

“Where is he?” Calum walks over to the reception desk, his shoes squelching loudly.

“Should probably do something about those,” says Quinn, nodding her head at Calum’s soaked sneakers.

“I don’t care about the shoes,” says Calum exasperatedly. “I care about the fact that I had a missed call from you at seven in the goddamn morning. I care even more about the fact that Ashton called me five different times when I was fucking sleeping, then left me three voicemails chewing my ass out because I apparently fucked up. And I care the most about –“ he points upstairs hard. “Whatever the fuck is going on up there.”

“Where's Michael?” asks Quinn. “I left him a voicemail too. It was nice.”

“Michael is filing a restraining order,” answers Calum.

“Excellent.” Quinn pokes at her macaroni and cheese, trying to find the cheesiest noodle.

“Q. I need you to be serious for like, two seconds,” insists Calum.

“Fine.” Quinn wrinkles her nose at Calum. “He's upstairs. I think? I put him in room six. We talked a couple times. That's… it, really.”

“You… gave him a room. Here.” Calum stares at Quinn. Water drips from his hair onto the floor, forming a small puddle. He doesn't appear to give a shit.

“Yes.” Quinn looks pointedly at the puddle. “Do you need, like, a towel or something?”

“What?” Calum looks visibly rattled. “No, Quinn. I don't want a towel. Jesus Christ. I want to know why the hell you gave him a room.”

“Because I own an inn.” Quinn’s back to focusing on her macaroni and cheese, pushing the fork through the remaining noodles with determination. “And because he asked for one.”

“Holy shit.” Calum rubs his hands down his face. “What the fuck do you mean, he asked for a room?”

There's a sudden, loud creak from the staircase. Quinn and Calum both turn their heads.

It's Luke.

“I need to stop fucking coming down here,” mutters Luke. He steps off the last set of stairs, sighing heavily. He looks at Calum with exaggerated patience.

Calum lets out a long breath, looking relieved. It lasts about one second before he swings abruptly back to pure, unadulterated annoyance. “Dude, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Visiting,” answers Luke casually.

“Here?” asks Calum incredulously. “At the inn your ex owns? Have you lost your fucking mind?”

Quinn accidentally drops her fork.

“Don't get me started on you,” Calum says without looking at her.

“Jesus, Cal, I’m fine,” insists Luke. “I needed a place to stay.”

“Bullshit you are,” replies Calum. “Do you even hear yourself? You told us that you were 'gonna work on some shit.’ Then you just… disappear, drive eight hours straight, turn your fucking phone off, and apparently decide to park your ass at Quinn’s like it's a fucking normal place for you to go.”

Luke frowns. He shuffles, then looks down at his feet, pressing his lips together in a straight line.

“Right,” says Calum drily. “There’s, like, eight goddamn places you could have stayed in this town.”

“I just… drove past, for fuck’s sake,” Luke says to the floor, scratching at his jaw.

“And then you turned around,” prompts Calum.

“Yeah.” Luke looks up, finally meeting Calum’s eyes again. “I turned the fuck around, okay?”

Quinn puts down her bowl. “You drove past.”

Luke shifts his gaze to Quinn. “Yeah. Of course I did. I’m not an idiot.”

“Debatable,” Calum says under his breath.

Quinn blinks. “You turned around, though.”

Luke blinks back at Quinn. He clears his throat. “I – yeah.” He pauses. “I did.”

Quinn holds Luke's gaze. She nods slowly. Then she picks up her bowl of macaroni and cheese. “Okay.”

The room is silent for one blissful second. Quinn takes a bite of her macaroni and cheese.

Then Calum ruins it, because he's Calum.

“You haven’t spoken to each other in, like, ten years.” Calum speaks to Luke slowly, like he's trying to communicate with a particularly stubborn child. “And then, when you finally decide you need someplace to get your shit together, you choose… here. Arguably the messiest fucking option.”

Luke’s hand comes up, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Apparently, yeah.”

Calum raises his eyebrows. He tilts his head, clearly preparing to give Luke infinitely more shit. Then he stops suddenly, squinting at Luke and frowning. “Dude.”

“What?” says Luke impatiently.

Calum snorts. “Your fucking ring, man. Y’know, the thing you're wearing?” He gestures at Luke’s hand, still resting on the back of his neck.

“Oh.” Luke slides his hand off his neck. He lowers his hand, his gaze dropping down to his ring. He stares at it for a moment. “Yeah. Right.”

“Why the hell are you still wearing it?” asks Calum.

Luke drops his hand. “Dunno, really. Just never took it off, I guess.”

A loud, deep clap of thunder suddenly rattles the inn, and Quinn startles violently, dropping her fork again.

Luke’s eyes snap back over to her. He lets out a breath.

“Sorry,” says Quinn quietly. She doesn't move to pick up the fork this time.

Luke watches her for a second. “No. You're fine.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” mutters Calum. He shifts his weight, and his shoes make a noise not unlike a sponge being aggressively wrung out. He grimaces. “I'll take that towel now, actually.”

Quinn snorts, rolling her chair over to the cabinet behind the reception desk. She opens it, grabbing a towel from the basket of spare linens. She turns back around. Then, in an incredible display of her inner maturity, decides to promptly launch the towel at Calum's head.

Calum catches the towel easily with one hand, grinning. “Easy, kid.”

Quinn rolls her eyes deeply.

“Jesus Christ, Calum,” Luke says suddenly. He's squinting incredulously at Calum’s shoes, like he's only just realized that Calum’s drowned rat appearance wasn't a fun little design choice. “Did you walk here?”

“Well, yeah. Truck’s in the shop. Motor blew again.” Calum pats rather uselessly at his t-shirt, the towel sadly no match for the soaked material. He lets out an annoyed huff, slinging the towel over his shoulder and glaring at Luke instead. “Also, this whole thing seemed pretty fucking urgent.”

“Yeah. I know, Cal. Alright?” Luke rubs at his jaw, letting out a long exhale. “Listen. I'm fuckin’… fine, okay? Or I will be.”

Calum eyes him suspiciously.

Luke stares back at Calum and waits, jaw set.

There's another clap of thunder, more distant this time. The sound rolls slowly through the silent inn. Lightning flashes outside the window, turning the sky indigo.

“Fine, then.” Calum raises his eyebrows, pointing aggressively at Luke. “Fuck you. And turn your goddamn phone on.”

“And give me your card,” adds Quinn. “For the third time, mind you.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Luke reaches into his back pocket and produces his wallet, lifting it in the air with an exaggerated wiggle. “Here. Now, can we please move the fuck on?”

“Yes, we can.” Quinn smiles triumphantly. “Calum, get out, or I'll sue you for water damage.”

Calum tosses the towel onto Quinn’s desk. He gives Luke one last, firm look. “Get your shit together, dude.”

“Leave,” says Luke.

Calum flips him the middle finger before departing, squelching his way through the front door without further ado.

Luke turns around. “So.”

“So.” Quinn bites down on her bottom lip.

Luke looks down at his wallet. “Should probably… do this.”

“Probably,” agrees Quinn.

Luke presses his lips together, letting out a hum of agreement. He opens his wallet, thumbing through it, before quickly choosing a card. He pulls it out, shoving his wallet back in his pocket. Then he walks over to the reception desk, card in hand, and slides it in front of her.

Exactly like she's been asking him to do all day.

Quinn stares at the card, waiting to feel some kind of relief. She doesn't.

Luke doesn't notice. Either that, or he nails possibly the most convincing portrayal of an oblivious man Quinn has ever seen. He clears his throat. “So, about my checkout –“ he starts.

“Leave it,” says Quinn.

The words are out before Quinn even realizes she's said them.

Luke goes still. “Leave it?”

Quinn reaches out quickly, grabbing his card off the counter. Her thumb absentmindedly runs over the embossed letters on the card once, then twice. “Just… yeah. Leave it.”

Luke watches her for a beat, head tilted slightly. “Okay,” he says finally.

“I'm charging you by the day,” says Quinn. “Just so you know.”

The corner of Luke’s mouth twitches. “So no long-term guest discount, then.”

Quinn lifts an eyebrow. “Long term?”

Luke grimaces slightly. “By the day is great, actually. Love it.”

Quinn snorts. “Thought so.” She turns her attention to her laptop, opening the guest booking application. She deftly starts typing in Luke's information, ignoring the fact that Luke’s watching her.

“Put Mum’s address in,” Luke says, absently rapping his knuckles on the wood.

Quinn’s fingers still briefly on the keyboard. “I did.”

Luke stops tapping. “Right.”

Quinn forges on. “Emergency contact?”

“Ah, fuck.” Luke leans back, looking conflicted. “Calum?”

“Michael,” responds Quinn firmly.

“Michael?” Luke stares at Quinn. “Really?”

“Calum is borderline nocturnal. Ashton is probably the reason you need an emergency contact.” Quinn’s already typing in Michael’s information. “Michael has successfully managed to keep two children alive so far. Thus, Michael.”

“Kind of a hot take,” says Luke, unable to keep a grin off his face.

Quinn scoffs. “Hardly.” She hits the space bar with slightly more force than necessary. “Calum just walked ten minutes in an active thunderstorm without a damn jacket and didn't think to call himself a taxi. Does that seem like emergency contact behaviour to you?”

“Harsh.” Luke nods solemnly. “Completely fucking accurate, but harsh.”

Quinn’s eyes flicker from the keyboard to Luke's face. Her nose twitches from the effort of trying to remain serious. Then she looks back down at her laptop, continuing to type. “Phone number?”

Luke doesn't answer her. Instead, he shoves his hand into his back pocket, pulling out his phone. Quinn watches, brow furrowed, as he quickly taps something on the screen. She hears the little whoosh sound of a text being sent.

Then her phone buzzes on the reception desk.

Quinn shoots Luke a look.

Luke looks back innocently. Too innocently.

Quinn grabs her phone. On the home screen, there's a text from an unfamiliar number.

hi

“Oh.” Quinn blinks at the screen. “Alright, then.”

“Your number’s on the welcome card. The thing on the nightstand.” Luke scratches at his stubble. “Put it in earlier. For administrative purposes. So. Yeah.”

“Sure,” says Quinn slowly. She squints at the hi.

Then, before she can talk herself out of it, she quickly taps her phone screen, bringing up the ‘add to contacts’ option. A blank contact field pops up, and she hesitates, finger hovering over her screen. Then she types Luke into the first name field. She leaves the last name field blank. She taps ‘done.’

Luke watches her, drumming his knuckles on the desk again. “So. That it?”

Quinn looks up at him, letting out a breath. She nods. “Yeah. That's it.” She grabs Luke’s card, sliding it back across the desk to him.

Luke slips it into his back pocket. Then he winces. “Ah, shit. Forgot to ask. Petunia?”

“Marked safe from Nell’s wrath,” replies Quinn. “As of this afternoon, she's the first dog ever allowed at Murphy’s Hollow. She should be honoured, really.”

“Christ, no.” Luke looks equal parts relieved and horrified. “She absolutely should not be. She's going to have a massive ego after this.”

As if on cue, there's a frantic scrabbling of nails on wood upstairs, followed by an annoyed bark. Petunia, still tucked away in room six, reminding them that her patience has limits. And that Luke has apparently exceeded them.

Luke snorts, looking up at the ceiling. “Drama queen.”

Quinn finally lets herself smile. “Have you met her owner?”

Luke shifts his gaze from the ceiling back to Quinn again, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Fuck. Tough crowd.”

Quinn shrugs. “Calling it like I see it.”

“Mmm.” The corner of Luke’s mouth twitches upward. “Right.”

There's a small thump and more scrabbling, accompanied by an impatient whine.

Luke exhales slowly. “So. Yeah.” He hitches a thumb toward the staircase. “I should –“

“Go,” Quinn finishes.

Luke blinks. “Yeah.” He drops his hand.

“Yeah.” Quinn clears her throat. “Before she scratches the floors. We just got those redone.”

Petunia, evidently in possession of supersonic hearing, barks indignantly.

“Alright, alright. Christ,” Luke mutters under his breath, walking over to the staircase. He reaches the foot of the stairs. He hesitates, then turns around to face Quinn again.

“What?” Quinn asks.

Luke smiles. “G'night, Quinn.”

Quinn bites on the edge of her bottom lip. But it still happens – she smiles. “Yeah. Good night, Luke. Go.”

And Luke does.

──────────────────

JULY 2015

Luke comes home from tour at 2:45 in the morning.

Quinn is sitting in the kitchen in her favorite spot, hidden in almost total darkness. She's drinking a cup of coffee. She's also completely ignoring Luke’s very polite (read: exasperated) request that she actually go to bed and get some sleep for once instead of waiting up for him.

To her credit, she tried to listen to him. She went to bed. She turned off the light. She stared at the ceiling. She lasted all of five minutes before she decided ignoring Luke was a far better option. It's been six weeks, for God’s sake. She has needs, and they all involve seeing Luke. Frankly, he's lucky she didn't show up at the airport to tackle him in international arrivals.

Luke unlocks the back door to the kitchen. He slips inside quietly and shuts the door behind him, his movements so deliberately slow and careful that Quinn has to desperately fight off the urge to laugh. He dumps his suitcase and guitar case on the floor, then stands up and stretches his arms and shoulders, letting out a soft groan of relief. He eyes the light switch briefly before deciding not to turn it on.

Quinn, hiding in plain sight, raises her eyebrows and waits.

Luke sighs with exhaustion. He takes two steps forward and promptly stubs his toe on the suitcase, letting out a loud curse.

Bingo.

Quinn presses her lips together hard, trying valiantly to keep a straight face. Unsurprisingly, she loses the fight about two seconds later, letting out a loud, helpless snort.

Luke, still bent over his foot, snaps his head in her direction, his brow furrowed.

Then he finally catches sight of her, and his face is like watching the sun come up – bright and stupidly, insanely beautiful.

“Quinn.” Luke grins and straightens immediately, stubbed toe abandoned.

Quinn shoves aside her coffee cup and hops off the kitchen stool, grinning back. “Hi. By the way, in case you haven't noticed, I don't listen.”

Quinn’s barely able to get the words out before Luke stops smiling and starts walking toward her instead. He's got that look on his face.

She knows that look, and she’s fucking in for it.

Luke crosses the kitchen in three long strides. He grabs Quinn’s face between his hands and he kisses her hard and impatiently, all teeth and tongue and six weeks of pent-up frustration. Without stopping, he walks her backwards until she's against the kitchen counter, the marble cool against the back of her thighs.

“Hi,” Luke mumbles into her mouth like an afterthought, his hands already moving restlessly from her face to her waist. He only manages to keep them there for a second before he makes a low, frustrated noise, tightens his grip on her hips and, without hesitation, lifts her up onto the kitchen counter.

Jesus Christ. Apparently, Luke has needs too.

“Take it easy,” Quinn hisses, trying desperately not to laugh. She then proceeds to do a spectacular job of ignoring her own advice, wrapping her legs around Luke’s waist and pulling him closer.

“No,” Luke mutters against Quinn’s lips, his voice already going deliciously rough. “Busy.”

“Gram and Gramps are here,” Quinn reminds him.

“Don't care.” Luke pulls away to bury his face in Quinn’s neck. He takes a deep breath, nipping at her neck affectionately. “Fuckin’ missed you.”

Quinn drops her head back, giving Luke better access.  “Can you miss me in a bed, maybe?”

“Hmm.” Luke bites at at Quinn’s neck one last time. Then he pulls back to look at her, grinning mischievously. “Nope.”

Quinn should fight back. Do the appropriate thing. But Christ, he's distracting – everything about him. And it's just kind of hard when he looks at her like… that.

Luke, apparently getting more wound up by the second, decides to violently derail her train of thought instead. He grabs her thigh and hitches it higher on his waist, his hand sliding back down her leg until it rests dangerously close to the hem of her shorts. Then he looks at her, waiting.

Every rational argument Quinn has immediately disappears into thin air, along with her grasp on the English language.

“Bedroom,” Quinn barely manages.

Luke shifts his hand slightly, stroking his thumb over her skin. He might as well have lit her on fire. “Yeah?”

Quinn, breathing hard, nods desperately – because it's common sense. They need to move to the bedroom. They have to move to the bedroom.

Then Luke shoots her another lazy, infuriating grin before shoving his hand under the hem of Quinn’s shorts and pushing aside her underwear, obliterating that plan in approximately three seconds.

“Kitchen,” says Luke casually.

It's at that exact moment that Quinn realizes there's a better chance of an asteroid hitting Earth than either of them successfully making it to her bedroom.

“Okay, you win,” Quinn concedes breathlessly, arching against his fingers.

Luke, looking entirely too pleased with himself, pulls his hand away. He dips his head back down, his mouth stopping just short of her own, close enough that his nose bumps hers. “Thought so,” he says under his breath.

“You're annoying,” observes Quinn.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Luke presses a quick kiss to her mouth. “Love you too,” he murmurs against her lips.

Quinn rolls her eyes, nudging him with her heels.

Luke doesn’t need the encouragement. He's already practically on top of her, sliding his hand into her hair, his kiss so open-mouthed and borderline obscene that it probably qualifies for a content warning.

Quinn’s hands wander up the back of Luke's shirt, instinctively finding her favourite part of him. She loves how solid Luke’s back is – the shift of muscles under her fingertips, the flex of his shoulder blades, all warm and broad and hers.

Then, just because she feels like playing with fire, Quinn very deliberately digs her nails in and drags them down Luke’s back.

Luke immediately lets out a deep, helpless groan into her mouth. “Quinn, I’m gonna –“

“Take your shirt off,” Quinn interrupts firmly.

“Christ,” Luke replies, his voice wrecked, already ripping his t-shirt over his head. It lands somewhere behind him. He doesn't bother looking to see where it ends up. He's too busy watching Quinn, his breath coming fast and uneven, his eyes dark and focused.

It's absurd, really. How stupidly, insanely badly she wants Luke when he's like this with her. How good he looks just standing there, staring at her like he needs her, making her brain short-circuit completely. He’s like a work of art.

A really fucking hot work of art whose pants need to come off as soon as possible.

Quinn’s hands slide to the waistband of his jeans like a heat-seeking missile. “These next,” she demands, because she's nothing if not efficient.

“You're mouthy,” notes Luke, looking equal parts delighted and turned on.

“Pants,” replies Quinn stubbornly, still operating on a singular wavelength. She reaches for the zipper on Luke’s jeans.

Luke catches her wrist before she makes it there.

“Watch it, Murphy,” Luke says, the words sounding like they've been scraped loose – low and raspy.

It’s a warning. It's also probably the single hottest thing Quinn has ever heard him say in her life.

There's a beat of silence. Quinn refuses to move. Luke holds her stare.

Luke breaks first.

He drops her wrist.

“Fuck it,” Luke says.

Then he's everywhere, all at once. His chest pressing against hers. The scrape of his stubble on her skin. His mouth on her neck, messy and impatient, teeth grazing her ear. The ragged sound of his breathing. His hands sliding up the front of her shirt, finding absolutely nothing between her shirt and her skin.

"You’re fucking kidding me,” says Luke.

Quinn grins at him. She reaches down, grabs the hem of her shirt, and pulls it over her head.

Luke stares at her. “Holy fucking hell.”

“What?” Quinn asks innocently.

Luke hauls her into him again, wrapping both of his arms around her and shoving his face back into her neck with a soft groan. “You,” he mumbles, voice muffled by her skin.

Quinn practically melts into Luke, threading her fingers through his hair. He smells warm, clean, a little salty – like him. She wants him to stay there, breathing into her neck. She wants him. “Missed you too, by the way,” she says quietly.

Luke lifts his head. His hair is tousled from her fingers, his eyes heavy-lidded. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Couldn't tell.”

Quinn wants to tell him that she loves him. Because she does. But she doesn't really need to say it anymore. He knows – has always known, really.

So she goes straight for his pants instead.

He doesn't stop her this time. Quinn’s fingers make quick work of the button and zipper, and she shoves his jeans and boxers as far down as she can reach, Luke roughly kicking them off the rest of the way.

She reaches out to touch him, but Luke swats her away easily.

“Nope.” Luke grabs at the waistband of Quinn’s shorts instead, tugging down hard. “Lift up.”

Quinn almost holds her ground.

Then she looks at Luke, all flushed and breathless, staring back at her like she's fucking oxygen to him, and God – she is just so embarrassingly gone for him.

So Quinn leans back on her hands, lifting her hips. Luke all but rips off her shorts and underwear, tossing them aside. He pushes her thighs open wider so he can slot himself between them, bracing both of his hands on the counter beside her.

Quinn’s… overwhelmed. It's like her brain’s shut down, and her base impulse is need, need, and more need. More Luke. More touching Luke. Her hands are already moving – the back of his neck where his hair is a little damp, the solid slope of his shoulders, the divots of his spine, the smooth curve of his hip bone, like a little map of all her favorite places.

Her fingers brush his lower stomach, and she feels Luke's breath hitch, his forehead dropping onto her shoulder. Even after three years, she still has a hard time believing that her touch can pull that kind of reaction out of Luke. It feels weird and wonderful and kind of fucking ridiculous, like wielding a superpower that only works on Luke.

Luke lifts his head to look at Quinn.

Quinn looks back at him. Her hand dips lower. She doesn't stop.

Luke lasts about three seconds.

“Need you,” says Luke, his voice totally wrecked. He slides his hands under her thighs and tugs her toward him, pulling her right to the edge of the counter.

Quinn braces her hands on his chest, letting out a shocked laugh. “What’re –“

Luke doesn't let her finish, cutting her off with a messy kiss that's all teeth and urgency. His hands slide along her legs, hitching them higher around his waist until there's no space left between them.

Then Luke’s rolling his hips forward, pushing inside of her, and Quinn forgets how to breathe.

Quinn’s nails dig into Luke's chest. “Ah – God, Luke –“

“Will you be quiet?” says Luke, voice strained but still carrying the tiniest thread of amusement.

“I'm trying,” shoots back Quinn.

“Loudly,” replies Luke, rolling his hips again.

Quinn lets out a frustrated noise as she tightens her legs around Luke’s waist. She slides her hands to the small of Luke’s back, fingers gripping tightly, trying to pull him closer. “Jesus Christ, Luke, will you just –“

Luke cuts her off by snapping his hips harder, deliberately pushing himself deeper.

Quinn proceeds to shut the fuck up.

“What?” Luke’s breathing is already uneven, his words coming out rough. He still manages a stupidly cocky grin, because he's Luke. “That good?”

“Harder,” replies Quinn faintly.

“Jesus, Quinn,” groans Luke.

Quinn smothers her grin in Luke’s shoulder.

For maybe the first time in his entire life, Luke listens to her. One of his hands slips out from under her thigh to grab her waist, keeping her steady on the counter as he picks up the pace, harder and deeper and relentless.

It's fucking delightful. It's also going to make her come obscenely fast if he keeps it up.

Unfortunately, Luke is very, very good at showing her the consequences of her own actions, and it's only about ten more seconds before it becomes clear she's going to lose her mind.

“Luke,” Quinn warns, barely managing to get his name out.

“Don't you fuckin’ dare,” comes Luke's fast reply.

Jesus Christ. “Luke, I –“ She can't even finish the sentence as Luke shifts his angle without warning, grinding against her, and it feels good enough that her train of thought just… disappears.

Luke responds by kissing her again – her mouth first, then her jaw, then the side of her neck, then back to her mouth, like he can't make up his mind.  “Yeah, that's it,” he breathes against her lips, his voice completely wrecked and vaguely awestruck, like he can't quite believe he's got her like this.

It might be the fact that it's been six weeks. It might be the fact that, apparently, she's turned on by encouragement. Luke’s encouragement while he's actively inside her, to be more specific. It's definitely the fact that Luke sounds absolutely ruined for her.

But it does it for her, and suddenly she’s coming hard, burying her face in Luke’s neck and biting at his shoulder in an attempt to keep herself quiet.

It fails. Spectacularly.

Luke's hips stutter. “Quinn. Did you just –“

Quinn, still collapsed against him, can't do anything but nod into his neck.

“Holy fuck,” says Luke hoarsely, almost reverently. His hips stutter again, his pace getting sloppy, like he can't keep himself in check. “That’s so – ah – fuck –“

By some miracle, Quinn manages to lift her head slightly, enough that she can press a messy, exhausted kiss to Luke’s jaw, right below his ear.

“Love you,” she says.

“Oh my fucking God,” grits out Luke desperately, losing his rhythm completely.

And that's what sends him over the edge. Three little words.

Luke slams his free hand on the counter next to Quinn. He closes his eyes and swears under his breath, gripping the counter hard enough that his knuckles turn faintly white. Then he's giving up, folding himself into her and burying his face in her neck.

They stay like that for a couple minutes. Luke presses his face deeper into Quinn's neck, breath hot against her skin. Quinn runs her fingers through Luke’s hair, slow and steady, until his breathing eventually evens out.

Luke speaks first. “Jesus, I think that was a record,” he mumbles.

Quinn laughs. “Speak for yourself.”

Luke snorts into her neck. Then he finally lifts his head to look at her. He's exhausted. He's also just… happy. “You're a pain in my ass.”

And when it comes from Luke as he’s giving her that slow, easy grin – yeah. It's definitely her favorite compliment.

Quinn clears her throat. “Alright. So.” She tries to keep a straight face. She can't, so she tugs at Luke’s hair instead. “It… might have been a record. Can't confirm or deny.”

“Bullshit,” replies Luke cheerfully. “Ten bucks says we woke your grandparents up.”

Quinn ignores him. “Bed.”

"Bed,” Luke agrees. “Sleep.”

Luke finally disentangles himself, and Quinn hops off the counter.

They start hunting for their discarded clothes in the darkness as quickly as possible. Luke tosses Quinn her shorts. Quinn finds Luke's t-shirt and throws it at him. Luke gives Quinn’s ass a blatant drive-by squeeze as he walks past her, still smiling. Quinn smacks him on the arm. Her shirt’s inside out. Luke doesn't zip his pants.

Quinn grabs both of Luke’s arms, pushing him insistently towards the staircase.

Luke shakes her off and kisses her instead, one hand sliding up to cup her jaw, his thumb stroking the skin just below her ear.

Quinn lets him. Mostly because she can't stop smiling into the kiss.

It's nothing like the kisses earlier.

It's like finally sliding into home.

They get about four hours of sleep. It's still a couple more than Luke's been used to on tour lately.

Quinn wakes up to Luke curled around her like a cat, face pressed into her neck, his breathing slow and steady. She can feel his stubble scratching her shoulder. His arm is slung loosely around her waist.

She rolls over to face him. Even in his sleep, Luke still manages to register her movement, his fingers pressing faintly into her skin like he's trying to hold onto her.

Quinn watches him for a second.

When Luke sleeps, he still somehow looks like the kid she met on the playground. The teenager she fell catastrophically, almost embarrassingly in love with at sixteen. And now, he looks like her boyfriend. The same guy she's watched walk across hundreds of stages with his best friends, sing the same songs she's known since they were fifteen, and somehow get famous for it.

She sees all of it – all of Luke – all at once, and sometimes she has no idea what to do with that.

Quinn reaches out and touches his face, running her thumb along his cheekbone. Luke lets out a warm, still-sleepy hum in response, leaning into her.

“Hey,” Quinn whispers.

“Mm.” Luke barely opens one eye. “Sleepy.”

Quinn smiles.

She needs to get up. She really, really does. She’s needed downstairs.

But then she looks at Luke – all sleep-warmed and shirtless, his hair messy from her own fingers, nestled in her sheets like he belongs there – and decides that she just needs five minutes with him like this. It's still not enough - it'll never feel like enough, not when it comes to Luke – but it'll do.

Because she's needed here, too.

Quinn pokes at his rib, and Luke automatically shifts slightly, lifting his arm. She immediately tucks herself into him, draping a thigh over his leg, and Luke wraps his arm his arm back around her.

“Better,” mumbles Luke, eyes still closed, a faint smile on his face.

Sometimes, Quinn gets Luke in bits and pieces. Before rehearsals and soundchecks. Between sets. After shows. At four in the morning. At three in the afternoon.

The first thing Quinn does is call Calum.

Calum doesn't answer.

Quinn is immediately deeply suspicious. Then again, it's barely 7 o'clock in the morning. Even on a good day, Calum rarely emerges from his room to grace anyone with his presence until well after noon – and, even then, he requires at minimum one cigarette and two cups of black coffee in his system before he's able to activate his critical thinking skills.

Like a heat-seeking missile, Quinn moves onto Michael next.

The phone rings three times. It goes to voicemail. Then Michael’s voice explodes through the phone. Quinn startles and swears, pulling the phone away from her ear. He cheerfully shouts at the caller to “leave a message and he might get back to them at some fucking point,” his words punctuated by the screams of his daughters in the background.

 It's utter chaos to listen to. Quinn is entirely unsurprised.

She waits for Michael’s recording to finish. When it finally beeps, Quinn says, very calmly, “Michael, just wondering. Do you have life insurance? Crystal’s going to need to file a claim.” She hangs up.  

Finally, Quinn calls Ashton. A FaceTime, because she knows they’re like catnip to him.

Ashton answers on the first ring. His face appears on Quinn’s phone, too close to the camera as per usual, rewarding her with a detailed view of his nose and forehead. He readjusts, the view panning out. He's tanned and relaxed, a wide grin on his face. He appears to be standing outside a Chili’s restaurant. He is wearing a cowboy hat for reasons unclear to Quinn.

Ashton offers no explanation. Quinn does not care.

“Q! What's up?” asks Ashton brightly.

"Luke is here," Quinn says. Straight to the point.

Ashton's smile drops abruptly. It's a stark contrast to the cowboy hat perched jauntily on his head and the absurdly giant neon pepper glowing on the Chili's sign in the background.

“Yeah,” says Quinn flatly. She feels a slightly hysterical laugh bubbling up in her chest. Ashton is inexplicably haunting a Chili’s at seven in the morning. Luke is upstairs in room six. Absolutely nothing about this morning feels connected to reality.

"The fuck do you mean, he's there?" Ashton asks. The video bobs a little as he sits down on a bench, like he needs something stable for this conversation.

"Luke is here,” Quinn hisses through clenched teeth. "At the inn. With a fucking bag, Ashton."

"The inn?" Ashton repeats, dumbfounded. "Why the fuck is he at the inn?"

“I don't know, why don't you ask him?” Quinn snaps, feeling increasingly mutinous. She stops herself, taking a deep breath. Then, more calmly: “Ashton. Did you know he was coming?”

"No." Ashton’s eyes are immediately shifty.

“Jesus Christ.” Quinn stares at the phone in disbelief. “You did.”

"Yes? No." Ashton looks pained. "Maybe? I knew he was coming back home. But the inn?” He lets out a slow breath. “Absolutely fucking not.”

Quinn pinches the bridge of her nose. “Okay. So. That's a thing, apparently. Why?”

The shifty expression on Ashton’s face has returned with a vengeance. “Calum’s home too.”

“Don't change the subject,” says Quinn accusingly. “I know Calum’s home. Calum told me first. Calum has a house here. Calum has the sleeping habits of a fruit bat. Calum is harmless.” She pauses. “Mostly.”

“Speak for yourself,” says Ashton darkly.

“Ashton.” Quinn makes an irritated noise at the back of her throat. “What is happening.”

“Fuck if I know,” answers Ashton.

“Liar.” Quinn squints at him. “You know something.”

Ashton rubs at his nose. “It's… possible I have contextual information.”

Quinn resists the urge to rip out her hair with frustration. “Spit it out.”

“Calum was supposed to tell you,” mutters Ashton. “He's better at this shit.”

“Calum is unconscious.”

“Fucking convenient,” Ashton says under his breath.

Quinn shoots him an absolutely filthy look. “Ashton.”

“Fine.” Ashton sighs heavily. “So. Luke. He's kind of… going through some shit lately. Might be losing the plot.” Ashton snorts. “Actually, no. Definitely losing the plot.”

Quinn stares at Ashton impassively. “He's going through some shit,” she deadpans. “And what kind of shit might that be?”

“Of the… divorce variety, if you will.” Ashton looks as though he would rather be fed through a meat grinder than continue having this conversation with Quinn.

“Divorce?” repeats Quinn, as though Ashton’s speaking a foreign language.

And then it finally hits her.

“Holy shit,” says Quinn faintly.

“Yeah.” Ashton presses his lips into a straight line.

“Luke’s… getting a divorce?” asks Quinn slowly.

“Got a divorce,” corrects Ashton. “About two months ago.”

“Oh,” says Quinn. Then again: “Oh.” Apparently the only word in the English language she is capable of forming at the moment. She sets her phone down on the desk, pressing her fingers to her temples.

“Q?” Ashton's voice is tinny and distant. “Where'd you go?”

To hell, apparently.

“I’m here,” says Quinn weakly.

“I need proof of life,” demands Ashton.

Quinn breathes in through her nose. She picks up the phone. Ashton’s still there, because of course he is, in his stupid little cowboy hat at a stupid little Chili’s restaurant. “Your hat looks stupid,” she informs him.

“Fuck.” Ashton looks deeply offended. “I said I needed proof of life, not a bullet directly to the heart.”

“Explain,” says Quinn.

Ashton rubs at his forehead. “It's been, like, six months? Happened right after we all decided to take a break after tour. It... wasn't this huge, terrible thing. Think he saw it coming. Just didn't want to admit it.”

Quinn blinks. “Okay.”

“He signed the papers two months ago. Said he was probably gonna go home for a bit. Hang out with Cal, maybe visit his parents. Work on some songs and process some shit. Alone,” Ashton clarifies. “We figured he was going to book a hotel room and go full recluse mode. Not –“ He gestures wildly at nothing in particular. “Whatever the fuck this was.”

“Right.” Quinn rubs at her eyebrow. “So.” She clears her throat. “Luke.”

Ashton waits.

“I gave him a room,” says Quinn.

Ashton raises an eyebrow questioningly. “Interesting choice.”

“Wasn’t really a choice,” says Quinn quietly.

Ashton doesn't say anything for a moment. Then he rubs at his jaw. “How long's he staying, then?”

It's at that moment Quinn realizes she has no fucking clue.

Ashton stares at her, the tiniest of disbelieving smiles on his face. “You don't know, do you?”

Quinn doesn't answer.

“Shit,” says Ashton, laughing.

“It's not funny.” Quinn abruptly stands from her desk chair. She starts pacing small circles around the desk, phone still held up.

“It kind of is,” responds Ashton, looking delighted.

“He's quite literally upstairs. I can go ask,” points out Quinn sullenly.

“I’m sure you could,” replies Ashton evenly.

Quinn stops pacing. “I need to go. It’s almost time for check in.”

Ashton barks out a laugh. “It’s seven in the morning, Q.”

“Goodbye, Ashton,” says Quinn firmly. She hangs up the phone before Ashton can respond.

Then she's standing in the middle of the room by herself.

Quinn hears a creak upstairs. Footsteps, steady and even across the hardwood floor. The pipes groaning as the shower turns on. It's normally reassuring – comforting, even.

But this time, it's coming from room six.

──────────────────

Quinn finds Luke in the dining room about a half hour later.

She doesn't mean to. She's starving. She wants Nell’s muffins. Sunday mornings are banana nut mornings, and they're her favorite. There are many things she will do for her guests, but relinquishing the first banana nut muffin of the day is not one of them, especially when it's fresh from the oven.

She wanders into the dining room, Petunia following at close range, and stops dead.

Luke is at one of the tables by the window, his back turned to her. The hair by the nape of his neck is slightly damp, curling against the collar of his t-shirt. He's eating breakfast, a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him.

Objectively, he’s minding his own business.

But he has a muffin. Banana nut. Her muffin.

“Absolutely not,” says Quinn to no one in particular.

Luke doesn't turn around.

Quinn lets out a breath and strides around the table to face Luke.

“You,” she says accusingly.

Luke startles, then looks up at Quinn. He raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“The muffin.” Quinn points accusingly at the baked good in question. “Did Nell give you that?”

“No,” answers Luke slowly, raising an eyebrow. “It was in the muffin basket.”

“Nell always gives me the first muffin,” says Quinn. She's painfully aware she's beginning to sound like she's throwing a temper tantrum. Unfortunately, she's also physically incapable of backing down.

Luke looks down at it blankly. “Is this even the first muffin?”

“It’s the concept of the muffin,” Quinn retorts.

“I see,” says Luke, still staring at the muffin. It’s increasingly clear that he does not.

Quinn lets out an irritated sigh. “Okay. Right. How long are you going to be here, exactly?”

Luke finally looks up from the muffin. “Dunno.”

Quinn stares at him uncomprehendingly. “You booked a room, Luke. What the hell do you mean, you don't know?”

Luke carefully avoids eye contact, shoveling in a mouthful of scrambled eggs. He chews thoughtfully for a moment, then swallows. “Didn't think about it yet.”

“Were you operating on a single brain cell and a prayer when you arrived here?” asks Quinn.

Luke considers this. “I would argue there was more than one brain cell involved.”

“Jesus Christ.” Quinn pinches the bridge of her nose.

Luke goes back to eating his eggs, apparently unfazed. “I'll figure it out.”

Quinn shoots him an annoyed glance. “That’s not an answer.”

“It's the one you've got for now,” says Luke drily.

Quinn narrows her eyes. “I need specifics.”

Luke puts down his fork. “Quinn,” he says evenly, “I am working on it. Jesus Christ, do you think I'm a squatter?”

“Actually, I think this is the very definition of squatting,” points out Quinn.

Luke stares at her for a beat. “I'm not squatting. I'm a paying guest.”

“I don't have your card information,” reminds Quinn.

Luke clears his throat. “I'm… going to be a paying guest.”

“And I'm going to need more details,” says Quinn.

“And I'll have them for you. Eventually.” Luke looks away, his jaw set. “I just… I need a sec, okay?”

Then Luke reaches up, pushing his hair off his forehead with a sigh.

Quinn's not looking, but she still sees it. The flash of matte silver metal on his left hand as it threads through his hair and disappears into his curls.

Luke’s wedding ring.

All of the air feels like it’s suddenly been squeezed out of Quinn’s lungs. She inhales quickly – barely audible.

Luke still notices. His eyes snap back to Quinn’s face immediately, and he stops, hand still in his hair. Then he drops it on the table, clearing his throat.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” mutters Luke. He lets out a breath, long and slow. “Who told you?”

Quinn presses her lips together. “Ashton.”

“You work fast.” Luke closes his eyes, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Oh, no.” Quinn laughs incredulously. “Do not give me that shit, Luke. You do realize how insane this whole situation is?”

Luke opens his eyes. He looks at Quinn. “I'm not stupid, Quinn.”

Quinn watches him for a second. She can't think of a response that can possibly cover her bases.

So instead, she reaches over and grabs the banana nut muffin from beside Luke.

Luke blinks at her. “Oh.”

“You need to understand that I have unequivocal muffin basket dibs at this inn.” Quinn takes a casual bite of the muffin. “As a paying guest, that is.”

Luke watches her, his mouth twitching slightly. “Noted.”

Quinn swallows. “You can come talk to me when you know what the hell you're doing.” She breaks off a piece of the muffin.

Then, for reasons she can't quite understand, she crouches down to offer it to Petunia. Petunia immediately lets out an excited groan, snuffling loudly into Quinn’s hand as she scarfs down the muffin.

“Interesting double standard,” Luke observes, watching Petunia reduce the muffin to a crumbled mess on the floor with impressive speed.

“Correct.” Quinn scratches Petunia under the chin. Petunia immediately licks her hand hopefully.

“Technically, that's still my muffin,” points out Luke.

“And it’s my inn.” Quinn straightens, taking another bite of muffin. “My rules. Ergo, my muffin.”

“Does this rule apply to all baked goods, or just the banana nut ones?” asks Luke very seriously. “Asking as a paying guest, obviously. One who really wanted that fucking muffin.”

“Check in like a proper human being and you'll find out,” replies Quinn without hesitation.

“So… yes?” Luke looks as though he's trying very hard not to laugh.

“I’m leaving,” replies Quinn. “If you're feeling particularly motivated, I'll be in my office.”

Luke shrugs. Quinn stares at Luke hopefully. Luke stares back impassively.

Then Quinn sighs loudly, leaving Luke to his bacon and eggs.

──────────────────

JUNE 2012

The next ten years pass by in the way childhood does - much too fast and terribly slow, all at once.

Luke is always there. In pictures, in her memories, under her skin. Beside her in a soccer jersey, hems hanging loosely to their tanned, skinned knees, arms around each other. In the picture her grandmother had framed of the two of them climbing the ancient oak tree outside the inn, mere moments before Quinn had fallen and broken her arm. Slumped against the wall with Calum during school dances, all three of them too awkward to join the crowd. Pretending that it didn't matter anyway.

Then, suddenly, they’re sixteen and there's a shift. Quinn can't remember when exactly it happened. She just remembers it felt like something close to inevitable. Luke's leg bumping up against hers under the table, then settling there. His fingers brushing hers while they walk home from school together, so brief that Quinn told herself it had to be an accident, then hoped it wasn't anyway.

It's not just him. Quinn’s guilty too – astoundingly so. She gets a small, secret thrill from watching the way Luke’s fingers move instinctively over the strings of his guitar. From sitting behind him in math class, in the same spot she'd had since they were six, rendered catastrophically incapable of basic addition at the sight of Luke’s back and shoulders. Trying desperately to focus on the equations their teacher was working through on the board, then failing miserably the second Luke turns around in his seat to talk to her, a smile already on his face.

It's like a fever she can't break, simmering under the surface, just enough to thoroughly piss Quinn off.

It comes to a head during a party, the first one of summer break.

Or, more specifically, the morning before the party, because Luke tells her they're going to Ashton’s party over breakfast. Luke’s got a mountain of eggs and sausage on his plate, and he's devouring it like he has approximately five seconds to live. Quinn is trying very, very hard not to look at the dot of jam by the corner of his mouth.

“No,” she says flatly.

“Yes,” says Calum. He’s sitting next to Quinn, eating a piece of toast. This is their summer routine – congregate at one of their three houses, scarf down breakfast, and immediately spend all day wandering the town or holed up in a garage working on music with the band. Quinn usually sits in the background listening while Ashton, Michael, Calum, and Luke mostly fuck around.

Except their fucking around was starting to sound good. Good enough to post on YouTube. Good enough to land local gigs. Good enough that they had a following. And, much to Quinn’s irritation, girls hanging off all of them.

Quinn takes a bite of her eggs. “Ashton can live without me at the party.”

“You promised him a beer pong rematch. He's going to be pissed.” Luke's words are muffled through a mouthful of eggs.

“You're spitting eggs on me,” observes Quinn.

“Shit. Sorry.” Luke doesn't look apologetic in the least, taking a sip from his glass of juice. Quinn watches the way his throat moves as he swallows, his thumb finally coming up to absently wipe away the bit of jam by his mouth.

Quinn turns to Calum. “Cal. Back me up. I know you think I'm annoying.”

“You are.” Calum smiles. “You still gotta go, though. No man left behind.”

Quinn turns back to Luke. “What if –“

“No.” Luke doesn't even look up from his sausage.

“You never even let me finish,” protests Quinn.

“You're going to say we should go and you'll come later. But you won't come later, because you're fucking lame. So, no.” Luke looks up from his plate, grinning at Quinn.

Quinn shoots him a dirty look. “I don't do that.”

“Did the last two parties,” mutters Calum under his breath.

Luke snorts loudly.

“Fuck off,” Quinn mutters, slamming her fork down.

“She likes Ashton,” says Luke to Calum.

Calum gives Luke a blank look.

Quinn stares at Luke in abject horror. “Did you sustain a head injury?”

“I know you,” says Luke, “and you’re into Ashton.”

“Please tell me how the hell you managed to arrive at this enormously flawed conclusion,” demands Quinn.

“Because… you’ve been fuckin’ weird lately. You get this look on your face all the time.” Luke drops his eyes, focusing instead on pushing a sausage around his plate. “And you never go to Ashton's parties.”

“I don't go to Ashton's parties because you're all drunk idiots and I'm tired of your shit,” answers Quinn with exaggerated patience. “Mostly yours, by the way. You physically needed me to put you to bed last time because you kept rolling off your mattress and didn't understand why.”

 “That didn't happen,” says Luke immediately.

“Oh, I can assure you it did.” Quinn grins at Luke.

“Quinn’s right,” adds Calum. “It was no fuckin’ surprise you failed tenth grade physics after that demonstration, dude.”

Luke ignores them, taking another swig of his juice. He’s silent for a moment. Then, more insistently: “You want him.”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “I can promise you, I genuinely do not.” She leans over and swipes a sausage from Luke’s plate.

Luke grins from behind the rim of his glass. “I already told him you're coming. He's probably getting the beer pong table ready as we speak.”

Quinn makes a helpless noise in the back of her throat, looking to Calum for support. Unfortunately, Calum’s staring down at his plate of toast, looking as though he deeply regrets his existence.

“Do not involve me in whatever the fuck this is,” Calum says.

“You’re welcome, by the way.” Luke points his fork at Quinn, still grinning. “Tell me you haven't wanted to fuck him on that beer pong table since the day you met him.”

Calum throws down his piece of toast. “Alright, then.”

“You have a lot of confidence for someone so deeply incorrect,” Quinn says to Luke.

“I have a lot of confidence for someone who’s definitely fuckin’ right,” says Luke, poking Quinn with his fork. He then takes it and cuts the stolen sausage in half, taking one half back and leaving the other for Quinn.

Quinn stares at Luke. “I can call 911 right now if you're having a medical emergency. I've heard paranoid delusions should be taken pretty seriously.

Luke lets out a laugh. “You’re so full of shit.”

“And you're full of what, exactly, other than delusion and stupidity?” retorts Quinn.

“Okay, will the both of you just shut the fuck up for once in your lives?” says Calum, exasperated.

Quinn and Luke both go silent, looking at Calum.

“You.” Calum points at Quinn. “You're going. We want you there. Stop being a pain in the ass. And you –“ He points at Luke. “Stop pissing her off. Use your fucking head. She doesn't like Ashton, dumbass.”

Luke opens his mouth, then closes it.

 “Fantastic choice,” says Calum, returning to his toast.

And that's how Quinn ends up squeezed in the backseat of Michael’s mum’s tiny Civic at 9 o'clock sharp, one canned tequila soda deep and already regretting several of her life choices.

 Specifically, the one that involved her climbing into the backseat of the car with Luke.

The cramped backseat makes Quinn feel insane, her cheeks flushed pink with heat and alcohol. Luke is close. Close enough that their knees keep knocking together every time Michael takes a turn too hard (which happened concerningly often), to the point that Luke stops readjusting and just leaves his knee resting against Quinn’s instead.

She has an extraordinarily difficult time pretending she doesn't notice.

Michael hits a bump, and Luke's head bangs theatrically off the roof of the car. Luke swears loudly, rubbing his head. He catches Quinn looking at him and grins, nudging her with his knee.

The problem is, Luke is already tipsy. He’s extra giggly, loose-limbed, his words tumbling out loud and messy. Quinn wants to be annoyed. Unfortunately, she isn't. In fact, it's embarrassing how much she likes him like this  – sitting beside her with a lazy smile, his eyes bright, talking with his hands too much. His arm slung casually across the back of their seats, fingers occasionally brushing Quinn’s shoulder.

Quinn wants to set herself on fire.

The feeling lingers the whole night, starting from the moment they step foot in Ashton’s backyard. He's got a bonfire going, a giant keg set proudly on display, and a couple of folding tables set up for beer pong.

Luke looks at the beer pong tables, an expression of sheer delight on his face. He bends down to Quinn’s height, his mouth next to her ear. “Hey, Murphy, sure you don't wanna fuck on the beer pong table?”

Quinn’s brain short-circuits immediately. Because – yes. She does. Just not Ashton.

Quinn manages to make a strangled, irritated noise, swatting Luke away. He retreats willingly, laughing.

There's a tap on her shoulder. It's Michael, one of her canned tequilas in his hand.

“Drink,” orders Michael.

Quinn looks at Michael. Then she looks at Luke. He's by the fire now, laughing obnoxiously loudly at something Calum just said, a hand wrapped loosely around the neck of his beer bottle. He glances around the yard, his eyes almost immediately landing on Quinn. He tilts his head a little, grinning at her.

Without hesitation, Quinn pops the tab on her can.

“Cheers,” she says to Michael, and promptly starts guzzling it.

“Jesus Christ, Quinn.” Michael watches her in awe.

“Another,” demands Quinn, handing him the empty can.

“Should I?” Michael eyes her apprehensively. “You're fucking scary.”

“Michael, just give me the can,” says Quinn exasperatedly.

Michael stares at her, then passes over the can.  “Enjoy throwing up in the bushes in two hours.”

Quinn rolls her eyes at Michael, popping the tab on her can. “I have self-control,” she scoffs.

It’s a lie. She absolutely does not, judging by the way that her gaze keeps wandering back over to Luke. He’s still watching her, completely ignoring whatever Calum’s saying now. He laughs when their eyes meet again and promptly flips her off.

Quinn rolls her eyes, brings the can up to her lips, and takes a healthy swallow.

Michael looks at Quinn, an amused expression on his face. “So. You gonna tell me about your little drinking game or what?”

Quinn squints at him. “What are you talking about?”

Michael lets out a short laugh, raising his eyebrows. “Y’know. The one where you slam back tequila every time Luke looks at you.” He takes an entirely too nonchalant drink of his beer.

Quinn immediately avoids Michael’s eyes. She tightens her grip on her can, and it makes a loud, metallic crinkling noise. “What? No.”

“So… what are we saying no to here? The game, or the Luke thing? Because those are two entirely separate questions requiring totally fucking different answers,” says Michael.

“There is no game. There is no thing,” insists Quinn.

“Are you even aware Luke’s doing the exact same fucking thing?” asks Michael. “Or are you just really sold on denying shit for some reason?”

Quinn’s stomach drops. She squeezes her can harder, the metal groaning in protest. “How many drinks have you had tonight?”

“Enough that I’m not fucking stupid,” answers Michael, taking a swig of beer.

Quinn blinks. The tequila can in her hand gives one final, loud crack, then crumples in defeat, leaking tequila onto Quinn’s fingers. Quinn looks down at it blankly. Then she looks back at Michael. “I –“

But Michael’s not paying attention. His eyes are fixed slightly over her shoulder, toward the fire. Toward Calum. And Luke.

Michael suddenly lets out a snort, not taking his eyes off them. “Fuck it.”

“What?” says Quinn stupidly.

Michael finally looks back at Quinn. “Yeah.” He grins. “I’d fuckin’ lose.”

Without further explanation, Michael claps her on the shoulder and walks away, leaving Quinn staring after him with her crumpled can of tequila.

And then, because apparently she’s a glutton for punishment, she looks back at the fire.

Luke’s not there.

Quinn lets out a sigh of relief.

 “You having fun yet?”

Quinn startles violently, dropping her can.

It's Luke, because of fucking course it is. He's materialized behind her like some kind of drunk, tall, perfectly timed apparition, beaming at her.

 “Jesus Christ, will you put a bell on?” mutters Quinn.

“No.” Luke shoots her a crooked smile, leaning forward conspiratorially. He’s stumbling slightly, his arm brushing Quinn’s. “More fun like this.”

“Sure.” Quinn, unfortunately, cannot stop staring at Luke. He's aggressively tipsy, his face flushed, eyes soft and crinkly, his dirty blond hair sticking to his temples from the summer humidity.

“So.” Luke points at her with the neck of his beer bottle. “Asked you a question. Glad you came yet?”

Quinn stares at him, warmth flooding her face. She feels suspiciously tingly – the tequila, probably, finally hitting her. “I… don't know,” she says slowly.

Luke tips back his bottle, swallowing the last bit of beer. He takes a step forward, reaching around Quinn to set his empty bottle on an abandoned chair right behind her. He's close enough that she can smell him – a weirdly comforting mixture of beer, salt, and sunscreen from this afternoon’s beach trip.

Then Luke steps back. Not enough.

Big mistake.

“And why the hell not?” asks Luke, still grinning, looking down at Quinn. They're too close – closer than necessary, practically chest to chest. He doesn't move.

Quinn looks at Luke. She opens her mouth. Closes it.

Then, before she can stop herself, Quinn grabs Luke by the front of his shirt and kisses him.

Quinn feels Luke freeze for approximately two seconds.

Unfortunately, two seconds is still enough time for Quinn to rapidly, overwhelmingly come back to her senses again. Cheeks burning with embarrassment, she loosens her grip on Luke’s t-shirt and pulls away.

She makes it about an inch before Luke lets out a noise of frustration. He grabs Quinn gently by the wrist, his thumb resting on her pulse point.

“Don't,” Luke says, his voice rough around the edges.

Quinn blinks. “What?”

“Don't go. Fucking hell, Quinn. I just –“ Luke trails off, staring down at Quinn with an expression caught somewhere between stunned and relieved. “Holy shit. C’mere –“

And then Luke is bending down and kissing her back. Extremely enthusiastically, Quinn would like to state for the record. He's kissing her hard enough that it sends them stumbling back a couple of steps, knocking over the chair behind Quinn as they crash into it. Neither of them notice.

Luke steadies her, hands moving instinctively to Quinn’s waist. Then, because Luke is apparently the world’s least subtle opportunist, his fingers drift underneath the hem of Quinn’s tank top. His hands settle on her hips, thumbs brushing against Quinn’s hip bones, and it sends an embarrassingly violent rush of blood to Quinn’s head.

For a brief moment, she considers dropping dead.

Fortunately, she has better things to do than drop dead. Like continuing to kiss the living shit out of Luke. And hopefully never coming up for air.

And maybe using the beer pong table for reasons other than those God intended it for, just as Luke suggested.

Fuck. Maybe she's the opportunist.

Quinn laughs into the kiss despite herself.

Luke pulls back, just enough to look at her. His eyes are unfocused and a little glazed. He's still looking at her mouth, vaguely annoyed. “What?”

Quinn snorts. “You. This. All of it. Fucking ridiculous.”

“Oh.” With great effort, Luke finally moves his gaze from Quinn’s lips to her eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yes, Luke. You just kissed me.” Quinn says, trying to sound rational. Irritatingly, it comes out sounding ridiculously fond instead.

“Think you started it, actually,” counters Luke. He looks deeply pleased with himself, eyes already wandering back down to Quinn’s mouth.

“Does it matter?” asks Quinn weakly.

“Yeah.” Luke grins. “Do it again.”

Quinn nearly blacks out.

Luke laughs, dropping his forehead to hers briefly. “Got a question.”

“Mmm?” Quinn hums. She’s feeling warm and fuzzy, a little wobbly. It might be from the tequila. It’s definitely from kissing Luke.

“Was it me you wanted to fuck on the pool table?” asks Luke, his voice completely deadpan. He presses his lips together in a spectacularly awful attempt to hide the grin on his face.

“Fuck off.” Quinn smiles at him.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” observes Luke. He can’t contain the grin this time, and it spreads across his face, uncontrollable.

“I’m not mad,” scoffs Quinn.

“You know I’m right,” says Luke. His hands are starting to absently wander again, fingertips grazing her bottom ribs.

“Like you were right about Ashton?” Quinn cocks her head at Luke, raising her eyebrows.

“Ah, fuck.” Luke looks pained. “Can we just… not?”

“Nope.” Quinn grins at Luke. “Gonna have to suffer for that one.”

 Then, just because she can, she reaches up and puts her hand on Luke’s cheek, her thumb brushing his jaw.

Luke leans into her hand. “Hi,” he says, like he’s seeing her for the first time all night.

Except he kind of is.

“Hey.” Quinn bites her bottom lip. Then she drops her hand and hooks her arm around the back of his neck instead, bringing him closer.

Luke lets out a small, involuntary groan. “Quinn.”

“Luke,” says Quinn.

“What in the fuck?” Luke laughs disbelievingly. Happily.

Quinn bumps her nose to Luke’s. She wants to kiss him again so badly that her entire body is practically vibrating with it. “What the fuck?” she repeats, smiling.

“So.” Luke grins. “Just gonna… do this, I think, yeah –“

Then he cuts himself off by tugging Quinn closer and kissing her again, like he’s too impatient to speak proper English.

Quinn could not possibly care less. Mostly because the way he's kissing her has also rendered her incapable of forming sentences.

“You owe me fifty bucks, Luke.” Ashton's voice floats from somewhere over Quinn’s shoulder.

Luke breaks away, resting his forehead on Quinn's. He sighs very, very deeply.

Quinn reluctantly turns her head. Ashton and Calum are both standing to their right, watching them. Ashton is positively gleeful. Calum looks exhausted.

“Hello? Fifty bucks?” asks Quinn.

“Yup.” Ashton beams. “Luke here bet me fifty bucks because he was so fucking convinced that you were into me. Would be stupid not to take it. Because of – y’know –“ Ashton snorts, gesturing to them both. “This. Easiest fifty bucks of my fucking life.”

“You're an asshole,” Luke mutters darkly. He's still looking at Quinn, eyes refusing to leave her face.

“And you're fucking blind, apparently,” replies Ashton.

“Go away,” says Luke.

“I might.” Ashton looks at Calum thoughtfully. “Cal, care to chime in?”

Calum considers this. He takes a slow sip of his beer. He swallows. Then he turns to Luke and Quinn.

“Finally. Don't fuck this up.” Calum points his beer bottle at them threateningly. “And don't be disgusting.”

Quinn rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to respond. But, fortunately for Calum’s pride, every possible comeback she has ready for him immediately dies a quick, efficient death.

Thankfully for Quinn, it's because Luke has made an executive decision to end the conversation by tugging her closer, resuming the incredibly important task of picking up where they left off.

Quinn laughs into the kiss, and Luke grins back against her lips, one hand coming up to cup the back of her neck.

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.