be4chywritez

[be4chywritez]

Thank you

Hey guys,

I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you for 1,000 followers. It honestly means a lot that so many of you are here, reading what I write and connecting with it. Whether you’ve been around since the start or just found me recently, I appreciate every like, reblog, comment, and message.

This space has become something really special to me, and that’s because of all of you. So thank you—truly—for being here. 🌀🩵🩵

-beachy 🐚

[be4chywritez]

name is blurred for legal purposes, but like y’all my fics are not booty quacking amazing for people to be COPYING MY FICS

[be4chywritez]

you again? | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x fem!reader

After a disastrous first date, you and Quinn Hughes think you’ll never see each other again—until he shows up in your office… as your newest therapy client.

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

THIS IS MY WORK AND MY WORK ONLY. I DO NOT GIVE CONSENT TO ANY FORM OF “REWRITING” MY FICS

You agree to the date because your friend swears he’s normal.

“You’d like him,” she says. “He’s low-key. Dry humor. No red flags. And he’s hot. But like… tired hot.”

“Tired hot?”

“You’ll see.”

The app profile is vague. One picture—blurry, probably a cropped group photo. Bio says:

Hockey. Golf. Mostly quiet. Good at Mario Kart.

You message him because the Mario Kart line makes you laugh. He replies ten minutes later.

Only if you pick Yoshi. Anyone else is a war crime.

You meet him at a little place you like—a bar with decent food and mercifully low lighting. He’s ten minutes late, and when he walks in, he looks…

You squint.

He looks like he got hit by a truck, reversed over, and then forced to do media availability. His hoodie is slightly damp. His eyes are red-rimmed. He has the audacity to sniffle.

“Hi,” he says, voice rough. “Quinn.”

You blink. “You’re sick.”

“I’m not contagious.”

“Right.”

“I took DayQuil.”

“...Okay.”

You both sit.

It goes downhill immediately.

You ask normal questions. He answers in fragments.

“So, are you from around here originally?”

“Michigan. But I live here now.”

“What brought you to Vancouver?”

“Hockey.”

You sip your drink. “Right. Of course.”

He nods, sniffling.

“You play professionally?” you ask, just to clarify.

He glances at you. “Yeah. Canucks.”

“Oh. I don’t really follow hockey.”

“That’s fine.”

Silence.

You try again. “So besides that... what do you do for fun?”

He shrugs. “Not much. Golf in the offseason.”

You wait.

That’s it. That’s the whole sentence.

He reaches for his water and knocks over the salt shaker.

You press your lips together. “You know, we could reschedule.”

“I’m already here.”

“You’re clearly not feeling great.”

“I didn’t want to be a flake.”

“That’s very noble of you,” you say flatly, and he huffs a quiet breath that might be a laugh.

You spend the next ten minutes trying to scrape a conversation out of someone who answers like he’s being cross-examined in court.

Eventually, you set your fork down.

“This isn’t working, is it?”

He looks up, startled. “What?”

“This. Us. The date. It’s not going well.”

He opens his mouth. Pauses. Then nods. “No. I guess not.”

You sigh. “Okay. I’m gonna go.”

“I’ll get the check.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“I feel bad. You came out.”

You glance at him, and for a moment—just a second—you feel sorry for him. The hoodie. The puffy eyes. The way he keeps rubbing the side of his neck like he’s thinking hard about something he’ll never say.

But then he adds: “You ask questions like you’re a therapist or something.”

You raise your eyebrows. “I am a therapist.”

His face does a weird thing—like his brain short circuits and he reboots mid-sentence. “Oh. Shit. That makes sense.”

You stare at him. “Good night, Quinn.”

Two weeks later, your receptionist pokes her head into your office.

“New intake just arrived. Quinn H., 2:30 p.m.”

You freeze.

“No,” you say automatically.

She tilts her head. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, pulling up the intake form. “That can’t be right.”

You read the form. Referral: E. Pettersson Presenting concern: Work-related stress. Generalized anxiety. Difficulty with emotional processing. Client: Quinn Hughes.

You close your laptop and stare at the wall.

A minute later, there’s a knock on your door.

You don’t look up when you say, “Come in.”

You do look up when he says: “Are you serious?”

He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking like someone just told him he has to retake the SATs.

You stare back. “I could say the same thing.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Petey said you were good.”

You sit straighter. “Elias sent you to me?”

“Yeah. He’s worried about me or whatever.”

“I mean… fair.”

He glances up. “You gonna refer me out?”

You pause. “Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t treat someone I’ve had a personal relationship with.”

Quinn snorts. “We went on one date and hated each other.”

You nod. “True. Still personal.”

He looks at the wall. Then back at you. “I just— I don’t really want to start over.”

You sigh. “You could’ve led with that.”

“Not really my style.”

You hesitate. Think. One session. One session won’t kill you.

“Alright,” you say. “Let’s try. One session.”

He sits, awkward in the chair, like it might bite him. “So what now?”

You fold your hands in your lap. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

He talks more than you expected. Not easily—but once he gets going, it’s like he can’t stop. He talks about pressure. About expectations. About how he gets stuck in his own head. About never feeling good enough even when he is good enough. About how sometimes he feels invisible, and sometimes he wishes he was.

You say very little. You let the silence do its work.

At the end of the session, he stands slowly, almost reluctant.

“That wasn’t terrible,” he says.

You give him a bland look. “High praise.”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re still kind of annoying.”

You smile sweetly. “And you’re still emotionally repressed.”

Quinn pauses at the door.

“Hey,” he says. “I didn’t mean that thing I said. On the date. About you analyzing everything.”

You shrug. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” He shifts on his feet. “You were just trying to be nice. I was... sick. And stressed. And kind of a dick.”

You nod once. “Apology accepted.”

He clears his throat. “So, uh. See you next week?”

You smile. “Same time.”

Quinn’s slumped in your office chair, head tilted back, arms crossed. He's staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to count how many ways he’s trapped in his own head.

“I don’t get it,” he mutters. “Why is it still like this? I’ve done what you said—I've tried journaling, I’ve been getting sleep, I even stopped reading Reddit.”

You blink. “Wow. That one must’ve hurt.”

He gives you a weak smirk. “Little bit.”

You nod slowly. “Alright. You want to try something different?”

He looks at you. “Different how?”

“Out-of-office different.”

Quinn squints. “Like... a field trip?”

“Not officially,” you say. “But yeah. Come with me. I want you to try something.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing outside a strip mall building with blacked-out windows and a fluorescent sign that says: “Rage Room.”

Quinn looks at the door. Then back at you. “You’re kidding.”

You don’t blink. “Nope.”

“You want me to hit stuff?”

“I want you to let go of things without overthinking them.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is this even—like—allowed?”

“Ethically? Not ideal,” you admit. “But you said you didn’t want to start over. So you get me. And I say you need to get out of your own head before you spiral into another three-day silent shame cycle.”

He huffs a breath. “You’re weird.”

You smile. “You’re avoidant.”

The rage room smells like old rubber and drywall. A speaker’s blasting 2000s emo music at an almost disrespectful volume. A wall of bats, crowbars, and sledgehammers hangs like a weapons rack in a zombie movie.

Quinn’s in a beat-up hoodie and safety goggles, staring at a pile of breakables like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

You hand him a metal pipe. “Start small. Smash something.”

He hesitates. “Like what?”

You gesture to the row of ceramic mugs lined up on a folding table. “Pick your least favorite and commit a crime.”

He gives you a look. “You get weirder every week.”

“You get quieter.”

He walks up to the table, lifts the pipe, and smashes a mug with one clean, decisive swing.

It shatters like a tiny explosion. Glass skitters everywhere.

You wait.

“…Okay,” he mutters. “That was kind of satisfying.”

You grin. “There it is.”

Twenty minutes later, Quinn has completely entered his rage era.

He’s sweating, muttering under his breath between swings. You only catch bits and pieces—some unholy mix of “fucking power play,” “media bullshit,” and “Jack gets away with this stuff.”

He’s wrecked three keyboards, a set of old plates, and a plastic printer you brought from home that’s been jamming since April.

And finally, finally, when he stops—breathing heavy, shoulders tense—he leans back against the wall and lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

You pass him a bottle of water. He takes it, still catching his breath.

“That helped more than I want to admit,” he says.

You sit next to him, cross-legged on the padded floor. “Then why don’t you want to admit it?”

He shrugs. “It’s dumb.”

You tilt your head. “It’s not. It's physical release. Unfiltered emotion. No expectations. You don’t have to explain yourself.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “I think that’s the part I’m bad at. Not being explainable.”

You blink. That’s… unexpectedly honest.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I’m not loud. Or charismatic. I don’t want to be interviewed. I don’t want to sell myself. I just want to be good at what I do.” He pauses. “But everyone’s always trying to tell a story about me.”

You nod slowly. “So you feel like you’re not allowed to write your own.”

He glances at you. “Yeah. Exactly.”

You let the silence settle between you for a second.

Then, gently, you ask, “So what story would you write?”

He snorts. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Turn one good moment into a pop quiz.”

You smile. “I call it ‘holding space.’ You call it ‘being a pain in the ass.’”

“Both can be true,” he mumbles.

You nudge his arm. “Come on. Try.”

He sighs. Looks down at the dented metal bat in his hands.

“I think…” he starts, slowly, “...I’d write that I’m trying. Even if it doesn’t look like it. Even if I fuck it up. I’m still trying.”

You look at him for a long second. “That’s a good story.”

He shrugs, glancing away. “No one wants to hear that one.”

“I do.”

It’s out before you can stop it.

He blinks. His face shifts—something between surprised and soft.

You clear your throat. “Professionally speaking.”

“Right,” he says quickly. “Obviously.”

Another beat of silence.

“…But seriously,” he says, “this was good.”

You nod. “Next time we do yoga.”

He groans. “No thanks. That feels like a Jack thing.”

You grin. “Exactly.”

You walk out together. It’s raining lightly, just misty enough to make your clothes cling.

He stops at his car, hesitating before opening the door.

Then: “Hey.”

You turn.

“Thank you.”

You nod. “You’re welcome.”

Quinn’s quiet for a second. Then, very softly, “I don’t think I hated our first date as much as I acted like I did.”

Your breath catches.

You try to play it cool. “Because of me? Or the DayQuil?”

He laughs—low, real. “A little of both.”

“Noted.”

He opens his door.

“You’re still not allowed to flirt with your therapist,” you call after him.

“I know,” he says. But he smiles anyway.

Quinn stops coming to your sessions after the rage room.

At first, it’s just a reschedule.

“Practice ran late.”

Then a last-minute cancellation. “Bit of a travel day mess. Can we push to next week?”

Then nothing.

You try not to take it personally.

You’re a professional. You have to be. You remind yourself of this while reading over your clinical notes, chewing your pen cap like it might bite back.

Still, you can’t help but notice the shift.

He’s not just skipping therapy. He’s avoiding you.

Which—fine. It makes sense. The line got blurry. He opened up, got comfortable, probably caught himself too late. That happens sometimes.

But what bugs you isn’t that he stopped coming.

It’s that he didn’t say goodbye.

Three weeks pass.

You try to forget about him, but then Jack Hughes goes viral for doing donuts in a golf cart, and it’s all over your For You page.

Quinn’s in the background of the video, arms crossed, trying not to smile, and your stomach flips like you swallowed a rock.

You set your phone down and say—out loud, to your empty apartment— “Get a grip.”

It’s nearly 7 p.m. on a rainy Thursday when you hear a knock on your office door.

You glance at the clock. You don’t have anyone booked this late.

You open it slowly, cautiously.

Quinn’s standing there in a baseball cap and a hoodie like he thinks he’s undercover. His expression is unreadable.

“Hey,” he says.

You stare at him. “Are you lost?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Kinda.”

You lean against the doorframe. “You’ve missed three sessions.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t even email.”

“I know,” he says again.

You pause. “You okay?”

He looks down. “Not really.”

You step back. “Come in.”

He doesn’t sit on the couch. He hovers, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie like he’s not sure he should be here.

You let the silence stretch until it starts to fray.

Finally, he says, “I think you should refer me out.”

Your heart sinks.

“Oh,” you say, trying to sound neutral. “Okay. That’s fair. If you think someone else would be a better fit—”

“I don’t,” he cuts in. “You’re—you’re a good fit. That’s the problem.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

He drags a hand down his face. “I liked talking to you. Too much.”

You stare at him.

His voice gets quieter. “And then after the rage room… it didn’t feel like therapy anymore.”

You try to steady yourself. “We’ve kept clear boundaries—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “You’ve been... great. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But you did?”

“No, I just—” he stops, frustrated. “I couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t feel like something else.”

Something thick swells in your chest.

He finally meets your eyes. “I couldn’t come back in here and keep pretending I didn’t want to see you outside of this room.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

“Look,” he continues, his voice shaking slightly, “I don’t want to mess this up, and I don’t want to put you in a weird spot, but I— I want to try again. I want to go on a real date. With you. No DayQuil. No pretending it didn’t happen. Just... you and me.”

You let out a slow breath. “You understand the rules, right?”

He nods. “Six months. After termination.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You looked it up?”

He shrugs. “I looked a lot of things up.”

You stare at him. You think about your ethics board. You think about your job. You think about the way he looked in that rage room—focused, present, real—and the way his laugh got stuck in your throat after he thanked you. The way your fingers itched to reach for him and didn’t.

And you think: maybe it’s okay to want something, too.

You exhale. “Alright.”

Quinn blinks. “Wait—really?”

“I’ll refer you out. To someone I trust. And if you still want to try... after the required time... I’ll consider it.”

His eyes flicker with something bright. “You’ll consider it?”

You smirk. “You have to earn your second date.”

He grins, small and honest. “Fair.”

He stands to go.

At the door, he pauses. Looks over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says softly. “For what it’s worth... I think I got better. Not fixed. But better. Because of you.”

Your throat tightens. “Thank you.”

Quinn nods once. “See you when I’m legally allowed to flirt with you.”

“Countdown starts now.”

[be4chywritez]

That user stole another fic of yours

what the fuckkk, send it to me rachel.

Whoever copied my fic I hope your pillow is so unbearably hot.

[be4chywritez]

UPDATE

Hello babes! So if you haven’t noticed i haven’t been super active and that because ur girl was getting her degree, I am officially a marine biologist! Y’all will be getting more fics now that i’ve graduated, there is lots more to come i hope y’all stay for the journey!

with love,

beachy🐚

also side note i probably will go back to school for my masters even doctorates but for now im chillin

[be4chywritez]

big hands | luke hughes

luke hughes x fem!reader

rec: Can I request prompt 18. can we compare hand sizes with luke please. I love your writing!!

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

You weren’t trying to flirt. Honestly, you just liked the color.

“Hey, cool shorts. They kinda match my top.”

That’s what you said.

But to the guy in the salmon-colored Chubbies, that was apparently a green light to talk your ear off about his workout routine, his protein powder, his hedge fund internship, and his “self-discipline mindset.”

You tried to nod along at first. You really did.

But then he started talking about “grindset culture” and asked if you’d “ever been to Monaco,” and that was your cue.

“I’m gonna go find my friend,” you mumbled, already backing away.

He smiled like he’d won something. “You should come back later. I could show you my crypto portfolio.”

You escaped into the house, dodging couples pressed against doorframes and someone aggressively playing Rage Against the Machine in the kitchen. You found your friend—well, you found her foot first, sticking out from under a blanket on the couch in the guest room, tangled up with Econ Group Project Guy.

You blinked. “Oh. There you are.”

She lifted her head, hair messy, flushed and smiling like she’d just won the lottery.

You gave her a thumbs up and quietly backed out.

The porch was quieter. Cooler. Saner.

And there he was.

Luke Hughes, hoodie pulled over his head, legs stretched out on the porch swing like he’d been there the whole time. You knew him in that “friend of a friend who’s at all the same parties” kind of way. Hockey guy. Tall. Quiet. Pretty.

He looked up. “Hey.”

You exhaled, smile tugging at your lips. “Hey.”

“You alright?”

“Almost got crypto-kidnapped by a finance bro. But yeah. Solid six out of ten.”

He smiled, barely. “Need to lay low?”

“Very much.”

He shifted, scooting over just enough. You took the invite and plopped down beside him. The swing creaked under the weight, wood warm from the day.

For a second, it was quiet again. Not awkward. Just… easy.

“You’re not in Jersey?” you asked, realizing it out loud.

He glanced at you. “Nah. Couple weeks off.”

“Oh. Right, break. So naturally you chose… this circus.”

He gave a soft shrug. “Was either this or go golfing with my dad’s college buddies. Figured this would have better music and fewer guys named Chad.”

“Debatable,” you muttered.

He smiled at that, a little more real this time.

You let your head fall back against the swing, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Then, maybe two beats later: “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

You held up your hand. “We should compare hands. Y’know. For science.”

Luke raised an eyebrow. “For science.”

“Very important study.”

He looked at your hand for a second, then lifted his own and pressed it to yours.

The size difference was ridiculous. Your hand looked like it belonged to a doll.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “It’s like I’m a borrower.”

He huffed a laugh. “You said it, not me.”

“Can you even fit those in gloves? Or do you just wrap them in pillowcases and hope for the best?”

You felt him smile more than saw it, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours.

“Why do you care?” he asked, not unkind.

You thought about that. “I don’t know. You just seem like someone who does everything with quiet giant energy.”

“Quiet giant?”

You nodded, completely serious. “Like, you probably open jars for people without saying anything and then disappear.”

Luke tilted his head. “I mean. Yeah.”

You laughed. “Knew it.”

Then the shouting started.

“COPS!” someone yelled from inside. A door slammed. Another voice screamed, “RUN!”

Luke was on his feet in an instant. “Come on.”

You scrambled up after him, disoriented but trusting. “Wait, my friend—”

“She’s good,” he said, pointing through the window.

You turned just in time to see her half-climbing, half-falling out of the front window with Econ Guy behind her, both looking dazed and deeply satisfied.

You blinked. “Oh. Okay.”

Luke grabbed your hand without thinking. You didn’t mind.

By the time you made it to his car, the party was full-on chaos behind you. He opened your door, waited until you were in, then leaned over to check your seatbelt.

“You’re good?”

You nodded, heart still racing. “Where are we going?”

He just smiled a little and started the engine.

Twenty minutes later, you were sitting in a vinyl booth at a tired-looking diner with flickering lights and a specials board from three months ago. You leaned on the table, chin in your hand.

The diner buzzed with soft fluorescent light and the quiet clink of dishes being cleared in the back. And somehow, even though your shoes were still slightly sticky from someone's spilled seltzer back at the party, you felt more comfortable than you had all night.

You were halfway through a plate of pancakes and working your way through the fries like it was your job.

Luke was watching you with an amused tilt to his mouth.

“You’re really going in on those,” he said, stirring creamer into his coffee with the tiniest plastic stick.

You looked up with syrup-glossed lips. “I didn’t have dinner. I was too busy bedazzling my shirt and hyping my friend up to make out with someone academically unreliable.”

Luke grinned. “Is that Econ Guy?”

You stabbed your pancake with your fork. “Mmhmm. Hope they finish each other’s homework.”

Luke laughed, a quiet, breathy sound, and took a fry from the basket between you.

“Also,” you said, gesturing dramatically with your fork, “I’m like… ten percent tipsy, ninety percent starving. I could eat a table.”

“I feel like I should be concerned about the structural integrity of this place then.”

You gave him a look. “Don't slander Gary's favorite diner.”

He blinked, smile tugging. “Gary?”

“Your dashboard. We named him, remember? Reliable Gary.”

Luke shook his head slowly. “You're something else.”

“You keep saying that,” you said, taking another bite. “Gonna start thinking it’s code for ‘weird.’”

“It’s not,” he said, simple and soft. “I meant it.”

You felt that one in your ribs a little. Warmed by syrup and coffee and whatever that look was he gave you across the table.

You softened into it, chin resting on your hand. “I don’t really do this often.”

“Eat pancakes at 2AM?”

“No,” you laughed. “Hang out with people I barely know. Like… this is the kind of stuff I usually only do with my best friend. Or, like, people I trust not to be creeps.”

Luke leaned back in the booth, arms stretching out along the backrest. “And I passed the creep test?”

You pretended to squint at him. “Jury’s still out. But I did survive a party and a diner run with you, so…”

“I’ll take it.”

You yawned without warning, one of those soft, shoulder-hunched ones you try to hide but never quite can. Your body was catching up to your brain, your eyelids getting heavier by the minute.

Luke caught it.

“You ready to head out?”

You blinked at him. “Yeah. If I stay here any longer, I’ll try to marry the pancake lady.”

He chuckled and slid out of the booth. You followed, hands tucked into his hoodie sleeves now, full and warm and soft around the edges.

The car was quiet, except for the low hum of the road and the occasional soft thud of a crack in the pavement.

You were slumped in the passenger seat now, legs curled up, head tipping forward in slow, sleepy jerks you couldn’t quite control.

Luke glanced over, one hand on the wheel. “Hey,” he said gently. “You’re fighting it.”

You mumbled something that may or may not have been words, head tipping again, this time toward the center console.

“Okay,” he said, pulling over for a second, flashers on. “Hang on.”

You felt his hand—warm and careful—on the side of your neck, guiding your head just enough to rest against the headrest in a more natural angle. His fingers lingered there a second longer than they needed to, like he wasn’t quite sure he should let go yet.

“There,” he said, quiet. “Better.”

“Mmhmm.” You were already drifting, that touch grounding you just enough to let go.

He drove the rest of the way slower than necessary. Kept glancing over. You looked soft in his hoodie, mouth parted just slightly, one hand tucked against your cheek like you were dreaming something good.

When he finally pulled up in front of your building, he cut the engine and turned to you.

“Hey,” he said, brushing your arm gently. “Sleeping Beauty.”

You groaned. “Already?”

“We’re home.”

You blinked at him, slow and dazed, before giving a sheepish little smile. “My key’s in my back pocket. Sorry.”

Luke blinked, clearly not expecting that, but you just turned and flopped forward so your back was facing him, like it was the most casual request in the world.

He hesitated, then laughed under his breath. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

And with that, he reached—carefully, shyly—into your back pocket. His fingers brushed denim, then skin, and his ears went visibly pink in the streetlight. But he got the key.

“Victory,” he muttered, and you giggled as he helped you out of the car, one arm wrapped around your waist to steady you.

“I owe you fries,” you mumbled as he guided you to your door.

“You already said that.”

“Well, it’s still true.”

You were already drifting again by the time the lock clicked open. Luke guided you inside and over to your couch, helping you sit, then easing you down when it was clear your legs had no further plans for the night.

You blinked up at him sleepily. “You can just leave me here. I’ll evolve into furniture.”

He huffed a soft laugh and grabbed the throw blanket off the back of the couch, draping it over you. Your eyes were half-shut by then.

He looked around, spotted a notebook and pen on your coffee table, and jotted something quickly.

Before he left, he slid the note into your hand, gently curling your fingers around it like it was a secret.

He slid the key out of your door and double-checked the lock. The deadbolt clicked, and Luke lingered for a second, just staring at the handle like he might somehow see through it.

Then he blew out a quiet breath and walked back to his car.

The street was still, the world that weird in-between hush that only happens when it’s too late for late-night and too early for morning. Luke got in, sat for a second behind the wheel, hands resting lightly where they'd been for the last hour.

He smiled.

It snuck up on him—small at first, just tugging the corner of his mouth before it bloomed. He shook his head a little like what the hell just happened? but he didn’t stop smiling.

You were... something.

Tipsy but warm, soft around the edges. Rambling about salmon shorts and pancakes like it was the most important conversation in the world. Touching his hand like that meant something—like it wasn’t just a joke or a bit or a party game. You’d looked at him like you already trusted him.

And that part messed him up a little more than he expected.

Luke leaned back in the seat, resting his head against the headrest. His fingers tapped the wheel.

You’d mumbled something about evolving into furniture and then passed out on your couch like you’d done it before. Not in a sad way—just... safe. Comfortable. You let him make you comfortable.

And sure, he’d written down his number kind of on autopilot, like yeah, this is what people do, but he’d also curled it into your hand like it meant something. Like maybe you’d wake up and smile the way you had when you first saw him on the porch swing.

He started the engine and turned onto the main road, headlights slicing through the early morning dark.

The smile hadn’t left his face.

Not yet.

You woke to soft morning light cutting across the room, couch blanket half-kicked off and your mouth dry.

And something in your hand.

A folded note, written in blocky, slightly crooked handwriting:

Luke :) text me if you remember any of that. or if you want pancakes again.

734-430-8643

Your heart did a weird little loop.

And suddenly, the night before didn’t feel so blurry.

[be4chywritez]

come home to me | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x fem!reader

rec: Can you please write a story about Quinn asking Y/N to move in with him? Please add smut too!

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

warnings: soft smut, dirty talk and unprotected sex (be safe)

It’s late afternoon when you let yourself into Quinn’s place. You’re balancing takeout in one hand, your bag slipping off your shoulder, and when the door shuts behind you, it hits you again how familiar everything here feels.

Your shoes land right next to the others you’ve left here over the months. Your jacket joins his on the hook. The smell of his laundry detergent lingers in the air, warm and clean and so distinctly him that it makes your heart ache.

He’s in the living room, half-sitting, half-sprawled on the couch in sweatpants and a hoodie, scrolling his phone. When he hears the door click, he perks up instantly.

“Hey, babe,” he says, smiling like he’s been waiting all day to see you—which, honestly, he probably has.

“I brought Thai. Don’t say I never spoil you.”

“I never would,” he grins, already standing to help. “You spoil me all the time.”

There’s something in his voice. Warm, affectionate, but quieter than usual.

You glance at him as he takes the bags from your hand. “You okay?”

He hesitates. It’s small, barely noticeable, but you catch it.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Just tired. Long day.”

You don’t push—yet.

Instead, you both fall into your usual rhythm: eating on the couch with a random movie playing in the background, legs tangled, hands brushing occasionally. But even in the comfort of the moment, you can feel that he’s…elsewhere.

“You’ve been weird for a few days now,” you say softly, after the plates are pushed aside and you’re curled into him under the blanket.

He sighs. “I know.”

“You gonna talk to me?”

He nods slowly, gaze fixed on the screen, even though he’s not watching it.

“I’ve been thinking about us,” he says finally. “About how often you’re here. How it feels when you’re not. And I—I keep thinking about what it would be like if you just… lived here. For real.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t say anything yet.

“I didn’t want to just blurt it out,” he continues, voice low. “I wanted to ask you in the right moment. But then it started eating at me. Every night I fall asleep with you next to me feels better than any other night. And every morning you’re gone feels kind of… empty.”

You look at him, eyes soft. “Quinn…”

“I know we’ve been taking things slow, but this feels right. You already have half your stuff here, anyway,” he adds with a soft laugh. “Your shoes are winning the closet war.”

You grin, eyes misty. “That’s by design.”

He leans in, brushing his nose against yours. “I want you to move in. I want you here. In my bed, at my table, yelling at the toaster. I want to come home to you.”

You let that sink in. Not because you’re unsure—but because you’re overwhelmed by how much you want it, too.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” you whisper. “I love you, Quinn.”

His expression breaks wide open. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

The kiss he gives you is gentle at first—grateful. But it deepens fast, all the tension and longing he’s been holding in pouring out into it.

You shift into his lap, hands sliding under his hoodie. He exhales sharply when your fingers graze his skin.

“Need you to show me,” you murmur, voice thick with want. “That you want me here.”

His eyes darken instantly. “Bedroom. Now.”

You shake your head, tugging his hoodie up and over his head. “Here.”

He doesn’t argue.

Quinn’s lips crash into yours again, hotter this time—tongue sliding over yours, a quiet groan rumbling in his throat when you grind down against him in his lap. His hands are everywhere: gripping your waist, skimming under your top, brushing the swell of your breasts like he can’t decide what to touch first.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, flushed and breathless. “Take it off.”

You don’t hesitate. You lift your shirt and toss it to the floor, and his gaze drops instantly to your bare chest. He exhales like you just knocked the air out of him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hands coming up to cup your breasts. His thumbs brush your nipples, slow and teasing, and you arch into his touch, already soaking through your panties.

“You’re killing me,” you whisper.

He meets your eyes, voice lower now. “Not yet.”

He leans in to kiss down your chest, biting gently at your nipple before sucking it into his mouth, and you gasp, clutching at his curls. His other hand snakes down, pushing under the waistband of your leggings. His fingers find your heat in an instant, and he groans.

“God, you’re so wet already,” he murmurs, kissing back up to your neck. “Is that just from me asking you to move in?”

You bite your lip and nod.

He laughs, low and wrecked. “Yeah, we’re gonna be real good at living together.”

He flips you onto the couch in one smooth motion, your back hitting the cushions. He tugs off your leggings and underwear in one go, eyes glued to the slick between your thighs.

Quinn kneels between your legs, pulling his sweats down just enough to free his cock. It’s already hard and leaking at the tip, and your breath catches.

You reach for him, but he grabs your wrist gently and pins it above your head.

“Not yet,” he whispers, leaning over you. “Just let me take care of you.”

Then he’s lining himself up and sliding in—slowly, inch by inch, like he’s savoring it. You moan, back arching, one leg hooking around his waist to pull him deeper.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “Quinn—”

“I know,” he says through gritted teeth, eyes locked on yours. “You feel so fucking good. Always do.”

He starts moving, hips rocking into you with smooth, deep thrusts that make your whole body shiver. His free hand trails down your side, gripping your thigh and pushing it open wider.

“You like this?” he murmurs, voice all low gravel. “Letting me fuck you on my couch like you already live here?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “God—yes.”

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” he groans, pace picking up. “Taking me so well. All mine now.”

His thrusts get harder, rougher, but he never lets go of your hand—still pinned above you, fingers laced through yours. His forehead drops to yours, breath hot against your lips.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you cry out. “Yours, Quinn.”

Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave—your body tenses, pleasure crashing through you in waves. Quinn doesn’t stop; he fucks you through it, chasing his own high until he spills inside you with a low, desperate groan, hips grinding deep as he lets go.

For a moment, you both just breathe—his body heavy on yours, his lips brushing your cheek.

Then he finally releases your wrist, threading your fingers together as he pulls out slowly. You whimper at the loss, and he kisses you again, softer this time.

“You okay?” he asks, voice raspy but tender.

You nod, dazed. “Yeah. More than okay.”

He helps you sit up, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapping it around you both. You curl into him, your leg over his, your head on his chest.

“Still want me to move in?” you mumble with a lazy smile.

Quinn kisses your hair. “Baby, I’m never letting you leave.”

[be4chywritez]

gold & gentle | matt rempe

matt rempe x famous!reader

Wearing his 73, wrapped in sheets, kissed slow and sweet.

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

warnings: soft smut, allusions to p in v, matt being so yummy

You’re curled up in his lap, tucked into the plush hotel couch with the lights dimmed, your hair still styled from the event you just left. He hasn’t changed out of his suit yet—tie loosened, collar open, sleeves pushed up just enough to show his forearms. His hands are warm where they rest on your hips, broad palms steadying you as you move slow, languid, like the whole world has narrowed to just the two of you.

Your little gold necklace catches the light, the tiny 73 glinting just inches from his face. It bounces slightly with every soft roll of your hips, and his gaze is glued to it—fascinated, almost reverent.

Matt lifts one hand, fingers calloused from the ice but tender with you, and traces the pendant softly. “You always wear this,” he murmurs, almost shy about it, voice low and a little breathless.

You smile, brushing your nose against his jaw before kissing the corner of his mouth. “Of course I do. I like having a little piece of you with me.”

He exhales like you just knocked the air out of his chest. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing beneath your ear as he kisses you—deep and slow, like you’re fragile, precious, something to savor. He doesn’t rush. He never does with you.

When he pulls back, his eyes drop again to the charm nestled between your breasts. He watches it sway, his other hand tightening ever so slightly on your waist like he needs to ground himself.

“I love seeing it on you,” he says, voice rougher now. “Especially like this.”

You let out a soft, high sound as your hips sink down on him again, taking all of him. He’s so big, and yet he holds you like you’re made of spun glass. You whimper into his neck, arms wrapped around the shoulders of his dress shirt, your fingers curling into the fabric.

Matt kisses the spot just beneath your ear. “I’ve got you, baby,” he whispers, soothing. “Go slow. Just like that.”

His hands are everywhere—cradling your back, smoothing down your sides, thumbs stroking lazy circles into your skin. He treats you like you’re something sacred. Every movement, every kiss, every breath is about you.

The pendant rests right above your heart, warm now from the heat between you. Every time Matt leans in to kiss you, it brushes his chest—soft, fleeting, like it wants to be close to him too.

When it’s over, when your body is heavy and warm and you’re boneless in his arms, he doesn’t let go. He scoops you up gently and carries you to the bed, like you weigh nothing to him. He tucks the covers around you, grabs one of his t-shirts and helps you slip it over your head with quiet fingers and an even quieter kiss to your temple.

Then he slides in beside you, pulling you close until your head is on his chest and your leg’s hooked over his.

He toys with the necklace again, the tiny charm caught between his fingers. “You really like wearing my number, huh?” he murmurs.

“I really like you,” you whisper, voice sleepy and full of affection. “This is just my way of telling everyone.”

He presses a soft kiss to your hairline, then another, slower one to your forehead. “I don’t deserve you.”

You lift your head, meeting his eyes. “Don’t say that.”

Matt swallows hard. “I just mean… you’re you. And I’m just a guy who gets to fall asleep holding you every night. That still blows my mind.”

You smile, pressing a hand to his chest where his heart beats steady under your palm. “You’re not just anything. You’re mine.”

And that? That’s all he’s ever wanted to be.

You wake up to the smell of something warm and sweet and the sound of Matt’s deep voice murmuring thanks at the hotel door.

You blink slowly, blinking away the golden morning light that filters through the heavy curtains. The sheets are still wrapped around your bare legs, tangled from the night before, and the pillow beside you is still warm—though Matt’s no longer in it.

A moment later, he appears in the doorway, shirtless and sleepy-eyed, balancing a silver room service tray like it’s nothing. His curls are mussed from sleep, cheeks still a little flushed. When he sees you awake, his whole face softens.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and raspy. “Did I wake you?”

You shake your head, smiling as you sit up, clutching the blanket to your chest. “You brought breakfast?”

“I figured you’d be hungry,” he says, setting the tray on the bed with a kind of gentle care that makes your heart ache. “You barely ate anything last night.”

“You’re the one who burned all the calories,” you tease, voice still rough with sleep.

Matt laughs, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “You’re not wrong.”

You reach for a croissant, still warm from the oven, but before you can take a bite, Matt gently brushes a piece of your hair behind your ear. His thumb lingers at your jaw, his eyes soft.

“You’re so pretty in the morning,” he says, like it’s a fact, not a compliment. “Wearing my number, wrapped up in my sheets… you’re gonna kill me.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips anyway. “You’re such a sap.”

“You like it.”

He feeds you a piece of croissant before you can argue, and you hum as the buttery flakes melt on your tongue. Matt watches you like you’re the most important thing in the world.

The little 73 charm on your necklace glints in the morning light, still nestled against your chest. Matt’s fingers drift toward it again, like they’re pulled to it.

“You seriously never take this off?” he asks quietly.

“Never,” you murmur, swallowing another bite. “Not even in the shower.”

His throat works as he swallows, and you can see the way that affects him—how much it means. He kisses your shoulder, slow and lingering, before pulling you into his lap like you weigh nothing.

“I love you, you know that?” he says against your skin.

“I know,” you whisper. “I love you too.”

He holds you there, soft and strong, feeding you bites between kisses, the morning stretching out around you like a secret. Just the two of you, wrapped in hotel sheets, love hanging thick in the air, quiet and easy.

[be4chywritez]

love and basketball | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x fem!reader

rec:  If possible, can you write something about Quinn and his girlfriend playing basketball against each other during the summer, where she's beating him badly but in a humorous way?

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

The sun was starting to dip behind the trees, casting long streaks of amber across the driveway beside the lake house. The basketball hoop stood a little crooked on its base, backboard faded from years of lake summers. You wiped the sweat off your brow with the back of your arm and adjusted your grip on the ball.

Quinn was bent slightly at the waist, resting his hands on his knees and breathing heavier than he’d probably like to admit.

“You okay?” you asked, spinning the ball against your palm. “You’re looking a little winded.”

He stood up slowly and squinted at you. “I’m fine.”

“Sure. You just look like you aged ten years between possessions.”

“Maybe because someone,” he pointed at you, “keeps crossing me up like it’s the Finals.”

You snorted. “It’s not my fault your defense is mostly just… existing in my general area.”

“That’s how defense works!”

“Not when your feet are glued to the ground, babe.”

Quinn sighed and held his hands out, finally settling into a defensive stance. “Alright. Ball in.”

You didn’t say anything. Just took a breath, dribbled once, then blew past him on the left.

He shuffled to follow you, but his reaction time was half a beat too slow. You stopped short at the elbow, pump-faked—he jumped—and you casually stepped around him for a soft layup off the glass.

The ball hit the backboard and dropped through the hoop like it was rehearsed.

You turned and jogged backwards, a smug smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “That’s nineteen to six, by the way.”

Quinn walked in a slow circle and raked a hand through his hair. “There’s no way it’s that bad.”

You raised your brows. “You want to dispute the score now? Okay. Let’s call it eighteen to six. That better?”

He just stared at you. “I thought this was gonna be fun.”

You grinned. “It is. I’m having a great time.”

Quinn grabbed the ball, gave it a quick bounce, and walked it up. “One more possession.”

You crossed your arms. “What’s that, like a mercy possession?”

“It’s a redemption arc.”

“You’re not exactly giving main character energy right now.”

He shot you a look but tried to keep a straight face. You saw it twitch the moment he smiled, and you knew he wasn’t mad. A little salty, sure. But mostly amused.

Quinn made his move—head fake, spin, jumper from the free-throw line—and to his credit, it actually dropped.

“Look at that,” he muttered as it swished through. “Still got it.”

You clapped slowly, stepping in to take the ball. “Congrats. You’ll always have that one shot from game seven of ‘Me Getting Cooked at the Lake House.’”

He followed you toward the top of the driveway, still catching his breath. “You realize I’m gonna be sore for three days.”

You glanced back at him. “You say that like it’s my fault.”

“It is your fault!”

“Not really. You challenged me. All I did was win.”

Quinn opened his mouth to respond, then stopped short when you sank the game-winner with a clean, quiet jumper from the corner.

Twenty-one.

He stared at the hoop for a second, then looked at you, chest still rising and falling.

You shrugged. “Want me to carry you inside?”

“I want a rematch,” he said flatly.

“You want Advil and a long nap.”

“Also true.”

He walked toward you, shaking his head with a reluctant smile as you held your hand out for a high five. When he slapped it, you interlaced your fingers with his instead.

You leaned into him, cheek against his shoulder. “Still love me?”

“Even more. Unfortunately.”

It was just after ten the next morning when Quinn finally wandered into the kitchen. You were already on the couch with your coffee, legs tucked up under you, the lake glinting outside the wide windows. He moved slower than usual—carefully, like every step was being calculated.

You looked up from your mug. “Oh no.”

He didn’t answer, just eased himself into a chair like he was 85 years old and had slept on concrete.

“You alright there, Grandpa?”

Quinn glared at you from under his messy hair. “I can’t feel my quads.”

You tried not to laugh, but it didn’t last. “You’re not serious.”

“I feel like I got hit by a car.”

“Technically,” you said, sipping your coffee, “you got crossed over by your girlfriend.”

“That’s worse,” he muttered. “My dignity is in the lake.”

You set your mug down and padded over to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders from behind. “Would it help if I told you I was genuinely impressed with that one jumper you hit?”

“Are you trying to be nice or is this just more of your psychological warfare?”

“Little of both.”

He let out a long, slow sigh as you leaned your chin against his head. “I’m not doing that again.”

“Playing with me or attempting to defend me?”

“Yes.”

Before you could reply, Luke came into the kitchen, digging through the pantry. “Hey, you guys wanna hit the water after lunch or—”

He stopped mid-sentence, turned to look at Quinn, then squinted. “Why are you walking like that?”

Jack followed right behind him. “Did you sleep weird or something? You look wrecked.”

You stepped away from Quinn, grabbed your coffee again, and stayed quiet.

Quinn groaned. “We played basketball yesterday.”

Jack blinked. “Okay. And?”

“She destroyed me.”

Luke laughed immediately, loud and abrupt. “Oh my god, you’re serious.”

Jack leaned against the counter. “Wait, like... she beat you or like—”

“Dropped me,” Quinn said. “Over and over. My legs are gone.”

You took a long, slow sip and looked out the window. “It was a good game.”

Luke shook his head in disbelief. “I thought you were gonna cry when I beat you at pool last summer. How are you coping with this?”

Quinn tilted his head back with a groan. “Not well.”

Jack grinned. “Hey, it’s fine. At least she didn’t dunk on you.”

You looked over. “We didn’t have time. Maybe next game.”

Luke chortled. “You are terrifying.”

Quinn closed his eyes. “I know.”

You walked over and kissed the top of his head. “You’ll bounce back.”

He looked up at you, eyes a little narrowed. “I’m never playing you one-on-one again.”

You smiled. “That’s fair.”

-

The sound of clinking ice echoed off the bathroom walls.

"You’re not serious," Quinn said flatly, standing in the doorway with a suspicious squint.

You were hunched over the tub, dumping the third tray of ice cubes into the cold water. “Dead serious.”

“That’s like... too much ice.”

“There’s no such thing,” you said, rinsing your hands in the water with a smug grin. “You said your legs feel like they’ve been through a woodchipper. I’m just being supportive.”

Quinn gave you a long, slow look. “This is revenge.”

“Revenge implies I didn’t earn the win fair and square.”

He didn’t move, arms crossed over his chest, still in his hoodie and sweatpants like he wasn’t two seconds from being bullied into freezing.

You stood up, wiped your wet hands on a towel, and patted his cheek lightly. “Come on, champ. Time to chill those old man knees.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“You’re walking like you’re seventy-two.”

He groaned dramatically but finally shuffled into the room and started peeling off his sweats. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”

“You’ll be the first hockey ghost with joint pain.”

Quinn shot you a tired glare but climbed into the tub anyway, wincing the second his legs hit the water. “Oh my God—why is it so cold?!”

“It’s ice, babe.”

“You said like ten minutes!”

“I said until your legs stop screaming. So… twenty.”

He looked up at you with pure betrayal. “You’re evil.”

You plopped down on the bathmat beside him and handed him a towel to rest on the edge. “No, I’m nurturing. This is what love looks like.”

Quinn shivered violently. “I thought love looked more like warm blankets and back rubs.”

“Love sometimes looks like suffering for your own good.”

He reached down to flick a few floating cubes away from his knees. “I’m gonna have hypothermia.”

“Dramatic,” you muttered, handing him a mug of tea you’d brought in earlier. “Here. Hydrate and suffer in silence.”

He took it begrudgingly, holding it like it was a precious heat source, shoulders hunched up and eyes narrowed at you over the rim. “You’re never playing basketball again.”

By the time Quinn finally thawed out and got himself into bed, he was still pouting. He slid under the covers with the weight of a man who’d survived war, groaning like it took actual effort to lie down.

You didn’t even glance up from your book. “You’re not limping anymore.”

“Because my soul left my body in that bathtub.”

You snorted and dog-eared the page, then set your book aside. “You are so dramatic.”

He turned onto his side with a little huff, blanket pulled all the way up to his chin. “I was in the trenches.”

You rolled your eyes and turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into a warm, sleepy glow from the hallway light outside the cracked door.

You felt Quinn shift again—this time scooting closer. Then closer. Then a full dramatic sigh as his cold toes definitely on purpose touched your calves.

You jerked away. “QUINN. Are you serious?”

“Body heat,” he said, all innocent. “This is survival.”

“You’re literally warm now!”

“I could relapse.”

“Relapse? Babe, you took an ice bath, you’re not coming down with pneumonia in July.”

He didn’t answer. Just continued to press himself closer until his entire body was curved along your back, arm winding around your waist like he was clinging to a life raft.

You sighed, but didn’t fight it. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re warm,” he murmured into your shoulder. “And mean, but mostly warm.”

“You chirped me the entire game, called me ‘Steph with a grudge,’ and said I was lucky you weren’t ‘going full NBA.’”

He hummed. “You were lucky. If I wasn’t sore, I would’ve dunked on you.”

You turned your head, giving him a look over your shoulder. “You tried to do a layup and hit the rim.”

“That was the wind.”

“It was NOT windy.”

He broke, snickering against your skin before hiding his face in the back of your neck. “Okay, okay. I deserved the ice.”

“Thank you.”

“But you know what I don’t deserve?”

You tilted your head, curious. “What?”

He tightened his hold on you, pressing his cold nose behind your ear. “Being this sore and losing to someone who was talking trash with perfect mascara on.”

You laughed, your whole body shaking with it. “I told you I don’t play around.”

“You didn’t tell me you were gonna destroy me and look hot doing it.”

You turned to face him, pillow squished between you. “Would it have helped if I’d been ugly during it?”

He gave you a sleepy little smile. “Honestly? No. That would’ve been worse. At least this way I know I got wrecked by the love of my life.”

You blinked at him.

“You’re delirious,” you teased, but you couldn’t fight the smile spreading across your face.

“Deliriously in love,” he whispered dramatically, then immediately yelped when you flicked his forehead.

“Go to sleep, Hallmark boy.”

“Only if you promise not to do a post-game breakdown in your dreams.”

“No promises.”

He settled in with a content sigh, already half-asleep and still tangled around you.

And just before sleep really took him, he mumbled one last thing into your collarbone:

“Still calling a rematch.”

You smiled, eyes closed. “Keep dreaming, Quinner.”

[be4chywritez]

hold my hand | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x fem!reader

you’re cold Quinn is warm, boom problem solved.

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

The line is barely moving.

You cross your arms, trying to conserve warmth, exhaling a slow breath that fogs up in the cold air. It had seemed like a good idea at the time—going to this new food truck Quinn had been talking about all week, the one with the ridiculous wait times because they only did pop-ups every couple of months.

It wasn’t supposed to be this cold, though. You swear the weather app had said mild temperatures. Instead, it feels like winter has personally declared war on your hands.

You pull your sleeves down further, but it doesn’t help. The cold lingers, clinging to your fingertips no matter how many times you try to rub warmth back into them.

Quinn, standing beside you with his hands shoved into his pockets, notices.

“You cold?”

“No,” you lie, rubbing your hands together for emphasis. “I’m thriving.”

Quinn tilts his head, unimpressed. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s fine.” You wave him off, but the movement just reminds you of how stiff your fingers feel. “Once we get food, I’ll be warm. We’re, like—” You glance at the line ahead of you. Still way too many people. You sigh. “—almost there.”

Quinn doesn’t argue. Doesn’t call you out. He just exhales through his nose, and before you can react, he reaches for your hands.

His fingers wrap around yours, warm even through the chill. You blink at him, startled, but Quinn doesn’t hesitate—just starts rubbing slow, steady circles into your skin, like this is a perfectly normal thing to do.

“You’re actually frozen,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

“I’m fine.” You try to sound normal, like your brain isn’t currently short-circuiting.

Quinn does not believe you. He huffs, like you’re making this harder than it needs to be, then tugs you closer. And before you can fully process it, both of your hands are being pulled into the pocket of his jacket, along with his own.

It’s so warm.

The fabric is soft and thick, insulated in a way your sweater isn’t, and Quinn’s grip is firm, unwavering. His hand is still wrapped around yours, fingertips pressing lightly against your wrist, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your heart does something stupid.

You glance up at him. “Do you do this for all your friends, or…?”

Quinn scoffs, a quiet laugh under his breath. “Just you.”

And maybe you’re imagining it, but you swear he squeezes your hand just a little tighter.

You should say something.

Anything. A joke, a deflection—something to make this feel normal. But your brain has completely short-circuited, because Quinn’s hand is still wrapped around yours in the pocket of his jacket, warm and steady, like this is just a thing he does.

You blink up at him. “You know, I could’ve just stuck my hands under my arms.”

Quinn doesn’t let go. Doesn’t even move. He just raises an eyebrow. “That’s gross.”

“Okay, dramatic.”

“You think I’m gonna let you stand there looking miserable when I have a jacket?” His tone is casual, so casual, but his fingers tighten slightly over yours, his thumb brushing absently against your knuckles. “It’s basic problem-solving.”

You huff, trying to ignore the way your chest is doing things. “Pretty sure this is, like, advanced-level boyfriend behavior.”

Quinn does not react. At least, not in a way that’s immediately obvious. But his jaw shifts—just slightly. His ears, already pink from the cold, flush a little darker.

Your lips twitch. Oh.

You tilt your head, leaning in slightly. “Quinn, are you blushing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You totally are.”

Quinn exhales through his nose, deep, measured, like he’s regretting every life decision that led to this moment. But he still doesn’t let go of your hand.

The line finally moves forward, and the two of you step up automatically. Quinn sighs. “I should’ve just brought you gloves.”

“But then you wouldn’t get to be my personal space heater.” You grin. “See? I’m actually the one problem-solving.”

He gives you a look. “Yeah, okay.”

You nudge him lightly. “I’m just saying, if you wanted to hold my hand, you could’ve just asked.”

This time, Quinn definitely blushes.

Quinn doesn’t let go. Hasn’t let go.

Which means your hands are still tucked inside his jacket pocket, wrapped up in his, while you inch closer and closer to the front of the line.

You know you should let it go—should stop teasing him before he actually gets embarrassed and pulls away. But his ears are still pink, and his grip is just a little tighter than necessary, and honestly? It’s fun.

“So,” you hum, shifting slightly, feeling his fingers flex against yours, “was this your plan all along?”

Quinn, who had been so sure of himself five minutes ago, blinks. “What?”

“This.” You gesture vaguely to the situation, but it’s useless because your hands are still in his jacket. “Taking me to stand in a ridiculously long line in the freezing cold just so you could hold my hand.”

Quinn’s brows pull together. “You were the one who said yes.”

“Because you bribed me with food.”

“I didn’t bribe you.”

“Quinn.” You tilt your head. “You looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘If we go now, I’ll buy you two desserts.’”

His jaw shifts, barely. “That’s not a bribe.”

“What is it, then?”

Quinn pauses. And, for the first time since this started, you watch him actually think about it. Like he’s trying to come up with something else—anything else—and coming up short.

You grin. “Exactly.”

He exhales, deep, slow. “You are so annoying.”

“And yet you’re still holding my hand.”

That shuts him up.

His grip doesn’t loosen, not even a little. But he does look away, gaze flicking off to the side, like avoiding eye contact will save him from this conversation. It does not.

You lean in slightly, just enough to make him sweat. “Quinn.”

No response.

“Quinn.”

Still nothing.

You bump your shoulder against his. “Quinn, are you ignoring me?”

“I don’t know.” He shifts slightly. “Are we at the front of the line yet?”

You glance ahead. One person left. You roll your eyes. “You got lucky.”

Quinn hums, a little smug now, and you narrow your eyes, shifting again—this time on purpose.

His fingers twitch.

“You’re holding on pretty tight,” you muse, “for someone who—”

The cashier calls you forward.

Quinn immediately lets go of your hand, smoothly, effortlessly, like it never happened. Steps up to the counter, all business.

And—okay. Maybe you should’ve expected that. But you don’t have time to overthink it because the cashier is waiting, and Quinn, the traitor, is already placing his order like nothing happened.

You sigh, ordering yours before turning back to him, squinting. “You dropped my hand so fast.”

Quinn raises an eyebrow. “Did you want me to hold it while I paid?”

“Yes.”

That surprises him. His lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to double down.

Before he can recover, you hold your hand out. “Fix it.”

Quinn stares at you.

You stare back.

Then—after a long pause he exhales through his nose, grabs your hand again, and doesn’t let go.

[be4chywritez]

man vs. machine | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x fem!reader

Quinn takes a simple claw machine challenge way too seriously

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

Summer in Michigan had been great so far—days on the lake, bonfires, and lazy afternoons where you could actually get Quinn to slow down and relax.

A night at the roller rink hadn’t exactly been your idea.

But somehow, Jack and Luke had inserted themselves into your plans with Quinn, and now the four of you were at the most aggressively outdated skating rink in Michigan. The whole place smelled like burnt popcorn and questionable rental skates. The DJ was playing Low by Flo Rida for what had to be the third time.

Jack had already disappeared—probably making enemies with a group of middle schoolers—while Luke was currently smacking the side of a vending machine that had stolen his dollar.

Which meant Quinn had an opening to pull you toward the arcade.

"Finally," he muttered, barely looking back as he led you into the dimly lit room lined with old machines. “I was about two minutes away from throwing Jack onto the rink and letting the universe take it from there.”

You laughed. “I’d honestly respect that.”

Quinn huffed. “Me too.”

You were mid-step when you saw it.

The claw machine.

It was old, the kind with a slightly busted joystick and claw arms that had clearly given up on life. The stuffed animals inside were even worse—off-brand cartoon characters, unidentifiable blobs, and one absolute disaster of a penguin.

The penguin.

It was hideous.

Bubblegum pink, with little black eyes set just a bit too far apart, giving it the expression of someone who had just received life-altering news. Its beak was stitched on at an angle, and one of its wings flopped down like it had simply given up.

It was perfect.

You grabbed Quinn’s arm. “I need that.”

He followed your gaze. “That thing?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t question it. Just nodded, already pulling out his wallet.

“I got this.”

He did not got this.

The first attempt was bad. The claw barely brushed the penguin before swinging uselessly to the side. The second attempt? Somehow worse. The claw closed too early, missing everything entirely.

By the third attempt, Quinn’s jaw was tight, his grip on the joystick getting progressively more hostile.

You glanced at the screen. He had already spent ten dollars.

“Babe,” you started, biting back a smile, “maybe we should—”

“I’ve got it,” Quinn muttered, fully locked in.

That was when Jack and Luke finally found you.

Jack took one look at the situation and blinked. “Wait. This is what you guys snuck off to do?”

“He’s trying to win me the penguin,” you explained.

Jack squinted at the machine. “That ugly thing?”

Quinn didn’t even acknowledge him, completely focused.

Luke, on the other hand, grinned. “How much have you spent?”

“Not important,” Quinn said.

Jack leaned over and checked the screen. “Ten bucks?!”

Luke wheezed. “No way.”

Jack shook his head. “Dude.”

Quinn pressed the button. The claw dropped—

And completely missed.

Jack let out a sharp breath. “Yeah, no. This is painful.”

Luke looked amused. “You ever consider just… quitting?”

Quinn ignored them both, lining up another attempt like his entire career depended on it.

Jack nudged Luke. “Alright, someone’s gotta put him out of his misery.”

Luke sighed dramatically, then reached into his pocket for a token. “Alright, move over.”

Quinn shot him a warning look. “Don’t—”

Too late. Luke had already slid the token into the machine.

With an ease that should have been illegal, he adjusted the claw, barely hesitated, and pressed the button.

The claw dropped.

The claw grabbed the penguin perfectly.

The claw actually carried it all the way to the chute.

Luke bent down, picked up the penguin, and turned it over in his hands before offering it to you.

“For you, sweetheart.”

Jack blinked. “That was—” He exhaled. “Man.”

Quinn just stared.

Luke clapped a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “You still have hockey, dude.”

Quinn shoved him off and turned away. “I’m not speaking to you for the rest of the night.”

Luke grinned. “That’s fair.”

Jack snorted. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Quinn sulked. You happily hugged your slightly deformed pink penguin.

A win was a win.

[be4chywritez]

serious | oscar piastri

oscar piastri x fem!reader

rec: #37 with oscar piastri please? maybe they’re arguing or smth and he says something without thinking and reader starts crying? thank u!!

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

warnings: none except me being really high and writing this

You weren’t even sure how the argument started.

The plan had been simple—spend a quiet night with Oscar, finally get some time together before his schedule got crazy again. You had been curled up on his couch, legs thrown over his lap, teasing him about how helpless he was when it came to assembling furniture. It was harmless, the way most of your jokes were.

“You’d be lost without me,” you said with a grin, nudging his thigh. “Like, I’m pretty sure you’d still be eating your takeaway off a cardboard box if I wasn’t around.”

He chuckled at first, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t be lost—I’d just have a slightly more… minimalist lifestyle.”

“Minimalist?” You snorted. “Oscar, you didn’t even own proper plates before I got here.”

He rolled his eyes. “I had plates.”

“Oh, my bad, I meant one singular plate and a set of mismatched cutlery you probably stole from McDonald’s.”

You expected him to laugh, to play along like he always did. But instead, his expression shifted—his jaw tensed, his fingers drummed absently against your shin. The lighthearted teasing suddenly felt heavier, like you had unknowingly poked at something deeper.

You should’ve stopped there, but you didn’t.

“Face it,” you said, grinning. “You’d be a disaster without me.”

And that’s when he sighed, long and sharp, before muttering, “You never take anything seriously.”

Your smile faltered.

“What?”

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “It’s like nothing matters to you.”

The words cut deeper than you expected. You blinked, suddenly unsure if you had misheard him.

“Nothing matters to me?” you repeated, voice quieter now, more careful.

He sighed again, still not looking at you. “I don’t know, sometimes it just feels like you don’t take me seriously.”

Your stomach twisted.

“Are you—” You let out a breath, trying to steady your voice. “Are you actually saying that? After everything?”

He exhaled through his nose, frustration evident in the way his shoulders tensed. “You’re always joking, always acting like nothing’s a big deal. I get that it’s just how you are, but sometimes… I don’t know, sometimes I just wish you’d be serious for once.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening.

It wasn’t just the words—it was the way he said them, like he actually believed them.

Like he believed you didn’t care.

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as your vision blurred. You didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much that hurt. But the lump in your throat wouldn’t go away, and before you could stop it, a tear slipped down your cheek.

Oscar’s entire body stiffened.

“Shit,” he muttered, his frustration vanishing in an instant. His eyes widened as he reached for you, panic creeping into his voice. “Shit, shit, shit, c’mere.”

You turned your face away, wiping at your cheek quickly, but it was useless. Another tear followed, and Oscar groaned under his breath, like he physically hated himself for making you cry.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said hurriedly, shifting closer, his hands finding your face. “I swear I didn’t mean that.”

Your voice wobbled as you pulled back slightly. “Then why did you say it?”

He winced, his thumbs brushing over your damp cheeks, like he was trying to undo the damage. “I don’t know—I was frustrated, I wasn’t thinking.”

You let out a shaky breath. “You think I don’t take you seriously?”

“No,” he said instantly, voice thick with regret. “No, that’s not true. I know you do. I just—I was being a fucking idiot.”

You sniffled, eyes still glossy. “I always take you seriously, Oscar. I literally revolve my entire schedule around your ridiculous race calendar. I watch hours of onboard footage with you even though half the time I don’t even know what you’re analyzing. I show up to every race I can, I defend you when people online say dumb shit—”

“I know.” His hands were still on your face, his forehead now pressed against yours. His voice was softer now, desperate. “I know, baby. And I love that about you. I was just—I was just being an asshole.”

You swallowed hard, not fully ready to forgive him yet, but also not wanting to keep crying. His thumbs kept smoothing over your cheeks, his touch warm, grounding.

“I don’t like fighting with you,” you admitted, voice small.

“I hate fighting with you,” he murmured, tilting your face up slightly. “I especially hate making you cry.”

You let out a small, unsteady exhale, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt. “You really were an asshole just now.”

“I know.” He kissed the tip of your nose, then your forehead. “Biggest asshole on the planet. Probably breaking some kind of world record.”

Despite everything, you huffed a quiet laugh. “I was this close to throwing a pillow at you.”

“I deserve worse.” He kissed your cheek this time, soft and lingering. “Like, I don’t know, maybe being forced to watch an entire season of your guilty pleasure reality show.”

You narrowed your eyes. “The Bachelor?”

He groaned but nodded. “Yeah. If that’s what it takes.”

You pretended to think about it. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

His lips finally twitched into something closer to a smile. “So lucky.”

And then, finally, he kissed you—soft and slow, like an apology woven between every press of his lips.

You let yourself sink into it, because even when he was frustrating, even when he made dumb mistakes, he was still yours.

And you took that seriously.

[be4chywritez]

neck kisses | oscar piastri

oscar piastri x fem!reader

You love kissing up on Oscar, and this time it lands him in trouble.

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

warnings: use of y/n and like allusions to smut, but no real smut

It starts with a perfect day.

The kind that makes your heart feel full, your skin warm, your cheeks sore from smiling too much.

Oscar had insisted on a proper date—something that didn’t involve race strategy meetings, travel schedules, or rushed dinners between flights. So, you ended up at the beach, just the two of you. The sun had been high, the waves had been gentle, and Oscar had been… well, Oscar—smiling at you like you were his entire world.

You spent hours there, playing in the water, sharing an ice cream that melted too fast, and walking along the shore, fingers laced together like you’d done it a million times before.

Oscar's hand rests lazily on your thigh as he drives, his fingers tapping lightly to the rhythm of the song playing through the car speakers. It’s comfortable—easy.

Until you get an idea.

A very reckless, stupid, undeniably tempting idea.

The two of you had stopped at some random fast food place on the way back to his apartment, and now you’re parked in some empty lot, eating fries out of the same carton. The dim glow of the streetlights outside barely illuminates the car, making the space between you feel even smaller.

Oscar is mid-sentence—something about the race next weekend, about tire strategies, about things you should probably be paying attention to. But you aren’t. Not really.

“You know,” you mused, shifting slightly so you could turn toward him, “I never actually thanked you for today.”

Oscar’s eyes flicked toward you, suspicious. “For what?”

“For taking me to the beach,” you said smoothly, tilting your head as you let your fingers trail lightly up his forearm. “For driving me around. For looking—” you paused, letting your gaze drop to his exposed throat, “—really, really good in that hoodie.”

His lips parted slightly, his hand tightening on your thigh just a fraction. “Uh—”

Before he could say anything else, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his neck.

The effect was immediate.

Oscar inhaled sharply, his entire body tensing beneath you. His grip on your leg tightened as his free hand instinctively shot to your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “Y/N—”

“Mhm?” You hummed against his skin, letting your lips trail lower, feeling the way his pulse quickened beneath your mouth.

His breath hitched. “We are in a parking lot.”

You let your teeth scrape lightly over his pulse point before pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss there. “And?”

Oscar groaned, his fingers digging into your waist as if that would stop you. “And—you—fuck—” His head tilted slightly, giving you more access even as he tried to resist.

You grinned. “You were saying?”

His response was cut off by a sharp inhale as you sucked lightly at his throat, your tongue flicking over the warm skin before biting down just enough to make him jolt. His other hand abandoned the wheel entirely, wrapping around your thigh as he instinctively pulled you closer.

“Jesus—” he muttered, voice strained. His grip was firm now, his hands no longer hesitant as they roamed over your waist, your thighs, like he needed something to hold onto.

You pressed a final, lingering kiss just below his jaw, grinning against his skin. “I love how easy you are to mess with.”

Oscar exhaled shakily, his grip on you tightening. “I hate you.”

You didn’t even get a chance to respond before—

Thud.

The car jolted forward.

The two of you froze.

Oscar’s hands flew to the wheel, his eyes going wide as his head snapped up. “Oh—oh my god—”

Your stomach dropped as you turned your head just in time to see a very unfortunate tree now very much in front of the car.

Silence.

Your jaw dropped. Then you looked at Oscar, whose face was rapidly shifting from panic to pure, unfiltered mortification.

And then—

You lost it.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying and failing to stifle your laughter. “Oh my god—” you gasped, shaking with laughter as you leaned back against your seat. “Did you—did you just—” You could barely breathe, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Did you just get so flustered you hit the gas?”

Oscar groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “I—I wasn’t flustered—”

You threw your head back, cackling. “Babe, you just ran into a tree because I kissed your neck.”

Oscar groaned louder, slumping against the seat. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” you corrected smugly, wiping at your eyes. Then, just to be cruel, you leaned in again, brushing your lips over the still-warm mark you’d left on his neck.

Oscar snapped.

His hands flew to your waist as he abruptly yanked you into his lap, your knees hitting either side of his thighs. “No. Absolutely not.”

You grinned, settling comfortably against him. “Aw, baby, are you scared I’ll make you crash again?”

His hands tightened on your hips, his expression a mix of exasperation and something darker, something you weren’t used to seeing from him. His fingers dug into your sides, his lips parting slightly as he met your gaze.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered, but his hands were saying something entirely different as they trailed up your sides, over your ribs, pressing into your back like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to push you away or pull you closer.

You smirked, running your fingers through his messy hair before whispering against his lips—

“And yet, you can’t keep your hands off me.”

Oscar groaned again, but this time, he didn’t argue.

Oscar’s hands were everywhere. His grip on your waist was firm, grounding, but his fingers weren’t still—they kneaded at your sides, then trailed up your back, pressing into your spine before slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt, just enough to make you shiver.

His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide as he stared up at you, his chest rising and falling unevenly. You had him exactly where you wanted him, and he knew it.

You tilted your head, fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “You okay, baby?”

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip on you tightening. “You almost killed me and my car, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

You grinned, shifting slightly in his lap just to see him react. His hands flew to your hips again, holding you still as his jaw clenched. “I didn’t do anything,” you teased, your breath ghosting over his lips. “You were the one who hit the gas.”

Oscar groaned, his head falling back against the seat for a moment before he looked at you again, eyes flickering between your lips and the smug expression on your face. “I swear you do this on purpose.”

You pretended to think for a second. “Do what?”

His fingers flexed on your hips before suddenly dragging you forward, closing the small space between you. His nose brushed against yours, his voice lower, rougher. “Drive me insane.”

Your breath caught for half a second before you recovered, pressing your palms against his chest, feeling the way his heart hammered beneath your fingertips. “You love it,” you whispered.

Oscar exhaled shakily, his hands sliding up your back again, pulling you closer until your foreheads nearly touched. “I hate how much I do.”

Your heart flipped, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you let your fingers trail lower, playing with the hem of his hoodie. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

For a second, you thought he might break, that he might actually kiss you, that he might completely lose himself in you the way you wanted him to. But then—

A loud knock on the driver’s side window made both of you jump.

Oscar jerked so hard that his knee hit the steering wheel, his hands flying off your waist as he nearly knocked you off his lap in sheer panic.

Your head snapped toward the window, your heart hammering. A cop.

Well. Shit.

Oscar scrambled to roll down the window, his voice cracking. “Uh—hi, officer.”

The cop—a tired-looking man with a badge and a very unimpressed expression—peered into the car. Then, at the tree. Then, back at you two.

Oscar swallowed.

The cop raised an eyebrow. “You good, son?”

Oscar let out a nervous laugh. “Uh. Yeah. Just. Um. Just a little parking mishap.”

The officer looked at you, then at Oscar’s still-flushed face, then at your position half in his lap. His expression didn’t change. “Right.”

You bit back a laugh, but you weren’t sure how much longer you could hold it.

The officer sighed. “Try not to run over any more trees, alright?”

Oscar nodded so fast that you had to hide your face against his shoulder to keep from wheezing. “Yes, sir. Definitely. No more trees.”

The cop gave you one last knowing look before turning and walking back toward his car.

The second he was gone, you lost it.

Oscar groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “I am never recovering from this.”

You gasped for air between giggles. “Oscar. You crashed your car because I kissed your neck.”

Oscar muttered something under his breath before tilting his head back to glare at you. “I swear, if you bring this up to anyone—”

You grinned, leaning in again, pressing a kiss just below his ear. “What? You gonna lose control again?”

Oscar groaned. “I hate you.”

You smirked against his skin. “Liar.”

[be4chywritez]

trophy boyfriend | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x actress!reader

rec: can you PLEASE do like a actress!reader x quinn hughes and like hes just a dork around her

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

The hum of soft jazz plays in the hotel suite as your glam team moves around you like a well-oiled machine. A makeup artist dabs at the corner of your lips, a stylist adjusts the sparkling hem of your designer gown, and a hairstylist puts the final touches on your updo.

Across the room, Quinn is struggling with his cufflinks.

You glance at him through the mirror, watching as he frowns down at the small buttons, his fingers fumbling slightly. It’s adorable, really—the way this man can maneuver a puck at lightning speed but is absolutely defeated by formalwear.

With an amused sigh, you wave off your team.

“Okay, okay, I got it from here,” you say, standing up and making your way over.

Quinn lets out a breath of relief. “Thank god.”

You shake your head, taking his wrist in your hands. “You are an Olympic athlete,” you tease, carefully fastening the cufflink. “You have literal hand-eye coordination of steel. But this? This is what beats you?”

He huffs. “These things are impossible.”

You smirk, moving onto the next one. “They’re not impossible, babe.”

Quinn just watches you, his expression softening. The way your fingers move with ease, the way you’re so gentle with him, the way you look so stupidly beautiful up close.

And then, before he can stop himself—

“Jesus,” he breathes, low and awed. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Your fingers pause.

The words hit you straight in the chest, so raw, so genuine that it makes you blink up at him.

A slow smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah?”

Quinn nods, completely transfixed. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs rubbing over the fabric of your dress. “Like—so beautiful. I don’t even—” He exhales, shaking his head, almost in disbelief. “—I don’t even have words for it.”

You bite back a grin. “You just said a whole sentence, love.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple. “You know what I mean.”

You do. And the warmth in your chest tells you it’s mutual.

The luxury black SUV glides through the streets of Los Angeles, the distant flashes of cameras already visible as you near the venue.

Quinn shifts slightly beside you, adjusting the cuffs you helped him with earlier. He looks perfect—classic black tux, tousled hair, sharp jawline that’s gonna make Twitter implode in approximately thirty minutes.

But you can tell he’s a little on edge.

“You okay?” you ask, placing a hand on his knee.

Quinn glances at you, then lets out a small huff. “I just—” He rubs a hand over his face. “I feel like I don’t belong here.”

You tilt your head, squeezing his knee. “Why?”

He gestures vaguely. “I mean, look at me. I play hockey. My idea of a big night is, like… eating pasta before a game and going to bed by ten.”

You smile. “Sounds like a riveting lifestyle.”

“I’m serious,” he mutters, but there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

You soften, lacing your fingers with his. “Quinn, you do belong here. I wanted you here, with me. No one else. Just you.”

He glances at you then—really looks at you. The sincerity in your voice, the way you’re still holding his hand even when the cameras outside are waiting to catch every move.

And maybe… maybe he does belong here.

Or at the very least—he belongs with you.

The second your car door opens, the lights and noise explode.

You step out first, flashing an effortless smile, moving through the flashing cameras like second nature.

Quinn follows.

And immediately freezes.

The sheer volume of photographers, the shouted questions, the flashes—it’s all so different from the controlled environment of a post-game media scrum.

His expression doesn’t change, his posture stays stiff. He doesn’t react.

Except—when he looks at you.

You turn back, reaching for his hand. The second he takes it, his fingers curling around yours, something shifts. His shoulders drop slightly, his face loses the blank tightness.

The cameras eat it up—Quinn Hughes, usually stoic, softening the moment you touch him.

But the second you turn away to answer a question, he’s back to looking completely out of place.

The interviewers try.

“So, Quinn! How does it feel being at the Oscars with Y/N tonight?”

He blinks. “Uh… it’s cool?”

A beat of silence.

The interviewer laughs politely. You don’t even try to hide your smirk.

Quinn, to his credit, doesn’t crumble. But you can sense it—the way his hand tightens slightly in yours, the way his jaw tenses.

He’s not freaking out, but he’s not loving it either.

You make a quick decision.

Instead of lingering for more interviews, you squeeze his hand and lean in. “Let’s go inside.”

Quinn doesn’t hesitate.

As you lead him through the last waves of flashing cameras and into the safety of the venue, you feel it—his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

Like a silent thank you.

And when you glance up at him, finally out of the public eye, he gives you a small, private smile.

It’s the first real one of the night.

The theater is breathtaking—warm lights reflecting off golden décor, a hum of energy rolling through the crowd, the biggest names in Hollywood all gathered in one place.

At your table, Quinn sits beside you, his hand resting casually on your knee under the table. His touch is warm, grounding, everything you need to keep yourself from overthinking.

The show moves on, category after category, but as the night stretches on, so do your nerves.

And then—

“And now, the nominees for Actress in a Leading Role…”

Your name flashes across the massive screen, the camera cutting to you at the exact moment your heart slams against your ribs.

You don’t move.

You’re hyper-aware of the way your breathing slows, of how the applause fades into a quiet hum in your ears.

Then—Quinn’s hand tightens around yours.

You glance over.

His thumb sweeps over your knuckles—soft, steady, like he’s reminding you that no matter what happens, he’s right there.

"You got this," he murmurs. So sure.

Your pulse steadies. You squeeze his hand back.

The presenter opens the envelope.

“And the Oscar goes to…”

The pause stretches.

Your stomach flips.

And then—

They say your name.

For a moment, the world stops.

Your mind blanks, heart hammering, ears ringing. You barely register the way the crowd erupts, the way your co-stars cheer.

But Quinn?

Quinn is already on his feet.

He’s not over-the-top, but he’s clapping immediately, beaming. It’s pure instinct—his entire face lit up, dimples deep, eyes wide with pride, awe, love.

You push your chair back, standing on shaky legs, but before you go anywhere—before you even think about stepping onto that stage—you turn to him.

You throw your arms around his neck, holding onto him first.

His arms wrap around your waist without hesitation, his grip strong, his warmth grounding you.

And just as you pull away, you press a quick, breathless kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Then you’re moving—up the stairs, onto the stage, into the blinding lights, the golden statue placed in your hands.

You thank your director, your cast, your team. You keep it short, simple, heartfelt.

And then, just before you finish, your eyes drift back to where Quinn is still standing.

He’s still clapping, still smiling. Like you just hung the stars.

“And, of course,” you add, a small smile pulling at your lips, “to the person who reminded me every day that I could do this. Who never let me believe otherwise. Thank you, Quinn.”

The second you step behind the curtain, Oscar clutched in your hand, your heart still pounding, your eyes immediately scan for him.

It doesn’t take long.

Quinn is waiting just a few feet away, standing with his hands in his pockets, his smile so big it’s practically blinding.

And before he can say anything—before he can even move—

You run straight into him.

He barely has time to react before you throw your arms around his neck, jumping up slightly as his arms come around you.

He catches you with ease, his laugh warm against your ear.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your hands cradling his face. His skin is warm, his smile softer now, his hands still holding you tight like he’s not quite ready to let go.

“You did it,” he murmurs, voice full of something so deep, so real. “I knew you would.”

Your fingers brush over his cheek. “You sure?” you tease. “Because I seem to remember some panicked, middle-of-the-night doubts.”

Quinn huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, and I seem to remember talking you down from every single one.”

You grin, pressing your forehead to his. “I guess I should start listening to you more often, huh?”

He smirks. “You definitely should.”

A photographer calls your name softly, reminding you where you are, but neither of you move just yet.

You look at Quinn. He looks at you.

And then—

You kiss him. Soft, sure, just enough.

And when you pull back, he just grins, shaking his head like he still can’t believe you’re real.

Before you can say anything else, a stage manager ushers you onto a small carpet where reporters and interviewers lined up.

"How are you celebrating tonight?" the reporter asks, microphone extended toward you.

You barely hesitate. "Probably get In-N-Out with my boyfriend."

The press room bursts into laughter.

Quinn, just a few feet away, shakes his head but can’t hide his smile.

-

The smell of fresh burgers fills the car, the golden statue sitting between you in the backseat.

Quinn takes a sip of his drink, glancing over at you. "So, this is how an Oscar-winner celebrates?"

You tear open a packet of fries. "This is how I celebrate."

Before he can respond, your phone starts buzzing.

Jack.

You roll your eyes and answer, putting it on speaker.

Jack’s voice immediately fills the car. "HOLY SHIT."

Luke’s right behind him. "SHE ACTUALLY WON."

You laugh, reaching for your burger. "You guys stayed up to watch?"

"Duh," Jack says. "Quinn, dude, how the hell did you pull this off?"

Quinn groans. "Good to hear from you too, Jack."

Luke is still processing. "I mean, we always joke about you being the most unexpected couple ever, but like… you really went and did it."

Quinn just shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

And you?

You just squeeze his hand, because you wouldn’t want to be celebrating with anyone else.

You’re back home, fresh out of the shower, warm and sleepy as you crawl into bed next to Quinn.

The Oscar sits on the dresser.

Quinn rolls onto his side, watching you as you settle against the pillows. His hand drifts across your hip, his touch absentminded, lazy.

You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. “You tired?”

He hums. “Not as tired as you.”

You yawn—completely proving his point.

Quinn laughs, tucking you closer, his warmth melting into yours.

“Night, Oscar-winner,” he murmurs against your hair.

You smile against his collarbone. "Night, Hughes."

[be4chywritez]

crush on the waitress | luke hughes

luke hughes x fem!reader

Luke has a big fat crush on his waitress, and he thinks he blew his shot, but did he?

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

Luke hadn’t been back in Michigan long—just a few days into the break, and he was already back in the routine with his old teammates. Same group, same effortless banter, like no time had passed at all. Tonight, they had settled on some casual restaurant near campus, the kind of place that felt familiar even if you hadn’t been there a million times.

Luke wasn’t even paying much attention at first, just laughing at something Ethan said, but then he saw you.

You were waiting tables, moving easily from one to the next, balancing plates and conversations like it was second nature. And Luke? Luke got stuck. Mid-sentence, mid-laugh, mid-whatever he was doing before you walked into his line of sight.

He barely even noticed how long he had been looking until Mark leaned over.

"Did you hear anything I just said?"

Luke blinked. "Huh?"

Mark followed his gaze, then smirked. "That’s a no."

Mackie turned, catching on immediately. "Oh, this is good."

Luke felt his face heat up and quickly looked back at his menu, pretending to be extremely interested in the list of burgers. "I wasn’t even—"

"Yeah, you were," Ethan cut in. "You’re still doing it."

Luke sighed, but he couldn’t exactly deny it. You were just… effortlessly pretty. Not in some intimidating, untouchable way, but in a way that made it impossible not to look twice. Or, in his case, five or six times.

Before anyone could make another comment, you walked up to the table, pen and order pad in hand.

"Hey, guys! Welcome in," you said, offering a polite smile. "Can I get you started with something to drink?"

Luke knew he should just answer like a normal person, but instead, he sat there like an idiot while the rest of the table casually rattled off their orders. Then you looked at him, expectant, and he suddenly forgot how to function.

"Uh… water’s good."

You nodded, jotting it down. "Alright, I’ll be back in a minute with those."

You lingered just half a second longer, eyes narrowing slightly. "You look really familiar."

Luke knew that look. The same one people gave him when they were trying to place him but couldn’t quite connect the dots. He should probably just help you out—mention his name, drop something about hockey. But before he could say anything, you gave a small shrug.

"Maybe you just have one of those faces."

Luke opened his mouth to respond, but Ethan got there first. "Or maybe—"

"Don’t," Luke cut in, shooting him a look.

Ethan held up his hands in mock innocence. "I wasn’t gonna say anything."

"You absolutely were," Mackie said, shaking his head.

You glanced between them, amused but still a little confused. "Alright, well, let me know if it comes to you."

And with that, you walked off toward another table, leaving Luke to glare as his friends immediately turned on him.

"You’re useless," Mark said, shaking his head.

"Yeah, that was brutal," Mackie added. "Not even a ‘what’s your name?’ or a ‘do you go to Michigan?’ Nothing."

Luke just groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. "Can we please not?"

Ethan grinned. "Oh, no. We are absolutely talking about this."

Luke tried to shake it off, really, he did. But it was impossible not to look when you were right there, moving through the restaurant like you’d been doing this for years. There was something about the way you worked—effortless but focused, quick but never rushed. He caught himself watching the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, how you leaned in slightly when customers spoke, like you actually cared about their orders and weren’t just going through the motions.

It was oddly attractive. Not just the way you looked, but the way you carried yourself. Like you were completely in your element.

"Luke," Mark said, dragging out his name like this wasn’t the third time he’d had to get his attention.

Luke tore his eyes away, but it was too late. Ethan followed his gaze across the restaurant and immediately grinned.

"Alright, this is getting embarrassing," Ethan said. "At least pretend to look at your phone or something."

Luke ignored him, reaching for his drink. He wasn’t about to let them get under his skin.

And then you walked over to the bar, leaning on the counter as you talked to the bartender. Luke couldn’t hear what you were saying, but you were smiling, laughing at something he said.

And just like that, Luke hated him. Not in a serious way—he wasn’t delusional. He had no claim here. But still.

"Ohhh," Mackie hummed, noticing immediately. "Looks like you’ve got some competition, Hughesy."

Luke rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

Mark leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "I don’t know, man. He’s got the upper hand. He’s already back there, cracking jokes, getting smiles."

Ethan nodded in fake sympathy. "Tough break."

Luke took another sip of his drink, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.

"Damn," Mackie added, shaking his head. "You think she writes her number on his arm with a Sharpie at the end of the night? Or just hands it over on a napkin?"

"You guys are idiots," Luke muttered, but he couldn’t help glancing back over toward the bar. You were still talking to the bartender, your expression relaxed, comfortable.

Yeah, Luke definitely needed to get his act together.

By the time you came back with their drinks, the restaurant had gotten noticeably busier. You barely had time to set them down before you were already moving toward another table, greeting new customers and juggling orders.

Luke didn’t even pretend not to watch you. It wasn’t just that you were pretty—though, yeah, that was a big part of it—but there was something about the way you handled everything so smoothly. Balancing plates, dodging customers, laughing at something an older couple said like you actually enjoyed being here.

"You’re still staring," Mark muttered, smirking over the rim of his glass.

Luke didn’t even try to deny it this time. "Shut up."

"Great comeback," Mackie said. "Really showed us."

Luke ignored them, glancing toward the bar again. The bartender was helping another server, barely paying you any attention now. Not that it mattered. Luke knew his friends were just trying to get under his skin, and he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.

Eventually, the restaurant started clearing out. Tables emptied one by one.

You came by, collecting empty glasses from the table, clearly in less of a rush now that the dinner rush had died down.

"Still hanging in there?" you asked, stacking the glasses with practiced ease.

"Trying," Ethan said easily. "You must be wiped."

You shrugged. "Not too bad. Closing shifts get slow toward the end."

Mackie leaned forward slightly. "You do this full-time or just while you're in school?"

"Just while I’m in school," you said, setting down a fresh napkin that someone had knocked onto the floor. "I’m in law school at Michigan."

Luke, who had been quietly sipping his drink, blinked.

Law school.

"Jesus," Ethan said, eyebrows raising. "I barely made it through undergrad."

"Yeah, I think you barely made it in, too," Mark added, smirking.

"Okay, rude," Ethan shot back before turning back to you. "That’s impressive, though."

"Thanks," you said, smiling. "What about you guys? You all go to Michigan, right?"

"Yeah, we did," Mackie said. "Most of us played hockey here, but now we’re scattered in a few different places. Luke’s in Jersey, I’m in Montreal, Ethan’s—well, Ethan’s still here."

"Hey," Ethan said, feigning offense.

You laughed, glancing toward Luke, who had been suspiciously quiet. "What about you?"

Luke, who had been very much not listening, snapped his head up.

"Huh?"

The table went dead silent for half a second before Mark burst out laughing.

"Oh my God," Mackie said, shaking his head. "This is embarrassing for you."

Ethan grinned. "Didn’t hear a single thing she said, did you?"

Luke’s face burned as he scrambled to figure out what he had missed. You just raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

"I was just asking if you needed a refill or anything," you said, biting back a smile.

Luke groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I’m good, thanks."

Mackie sighed dramatically. "Man is down bad."

As the night stretched on, the restaurant emptied even more. A couple lingered in the corner, finishing off their drinks, and one guy sat at the bar scrolling through his phone, but aside from that, it was just you and Luke’s table.

You grabbed their check from the counter and made your way back over. "Alright, guys. I’ll leave this with you," you said, setting the little black folder in the middle of the table. "No rush."

"Appreciate it," Mark said, reaching for it first.

Before he could open it, Mackie leaned over, lowering his voice just enough to be mostly subtle. "Alright, Hughes. This is your shot."

Luke, who had been so close to getting through the night without another round of this, exhaled through his nose. "What?"

"Leave your number," Ethan said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Luke blinked. "No."

Mark smirked. "That was fast."

"Come on, man," Mackie nudged him. "You’ve been making heart eyes at her all night."

Luke shot him a look. "I have not."

"You definitely have," Ethan said. "At least a little."

"Yeah, at this point, it’s kind of sad if you don’t," Mark added.

Luke shook his head. "Not happening."

Mackie sighed dramatically. "What a waste."

"You guys are the worst," Luke muttered, standing up and grabbing his jacket.

They all threw down cash for the bill, Mark tossing in a tip before closing the folder. You came by a second later, grabbing it off the table with a quick, "Thanks, guys! Have a good night."

"Yeah, you too," Ethan said pointedly, dragging out the words and raising his eyebrows at Luke as they all walked toward the door.

Luke ignored him.

They stepped out into the cool night air, making it about halfway down the sidewalk before Luke suddenly stopped short.

Mackie turned. "Oh my God, are you actually going back in there?"

Luke groaned. "Shut up."

"You are!" Ethan grinned. "Oh, this is incredible."

Luke didn’t even give them the satisfaction of a response before turning and jogging back inside.

You were behind the counter, flipping through the checks and tucking them away when you looked up, surprised to see him. "Hey, everything okay?"

"Yeah," Luke said quickly. "Just—uh—" He held out a few extra bills, more than enough to bump up the tip Mark had left.

You glanced down, brows raising slightly. "You didn’t have to do that."

"I know," Luke said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just—"

You smiled, taking the cash and slipping it into the folder. "Thanks, Luke."

He nodded, standing there for half a second longer, like maybe he should say something else, but—nope. His brain had officially shut down.

So instead, he just gave you a small, sheepish smile before heading back toward the door, where his very entertained friends were watching through the window.

Mackie clapped him on the back the second he stepped outside. "You are so painfully awkward, man."

Luke groaned. "Can we go now?"

Ethan grinned. "Oh, don’t worry. We got everything we needed."

A few days passed, and Luke tried not to think about you.

He was back in Michigan, hanging out with his brothers and some old friends, doing what he always did during breaks—skating, goofing off, grabbing food with the guys. But every so often, his mind drifted back to the restaurant, to you.

Not in some overly dramatic, can’t-think-about-anything-else kind of way. More like a huh, I wonder if she’s working tonight kind of way.

And then, before he could stop himself, he was already thinking of excuses.

At first, he convinced himself he just wanted food. But then he remembered he had already eaten. Then he thought, Well, maybe just a drink, but that felt dumb, too. Eventually, he just sighed, stood up, and grabbed his keys.

"Where you going?" Jack asked, glancing up from the couch.

Luke hesitated for half a second before shrugging. "Just out for a bit."

Quinn, who had known him long enough to recognize when he was being weird, narrowed his eyes slightly. "Out where?"

Luke sighed. "Just a restaurant."

Jack smirked. "Are we supposed to pretend we don’t know which one?"

Luke rolled his eyes. "I hate you guys."

"You like her," Jack sing-songed as Luke walked out the door.

"I don’t," Luke called back, but Jack’s laughter followed him all the way to his car.

—

Luke pulled into the parking lot, telling himself it wasn’t weird. People went to restaurants alone all the time. He wasn’t being weird.

(He was absolutely being weird.)

Still, he walked inside, trying to act casual as he approached the host stand.

"Table for one?" the host asked, grabbing a menu.

"Uh, yeah," Luke said, rubbing the back of his neck.

He was being led toward a small table when he suddenly heard, "Luke?"

He turned, and there you were, standing near the bar with your bag slung over your shoulder, coat draped over your arm.

You were clocking out.

Luke, who had not planned on seeing you this soon, completely blanked for a second. "Oh. Hey."

Your lips quirked up in a small smile. "You here alone?"

Luke glanced at the empty table he was being led to, then back at you. "Uh. Yeah."

Your smile widened, clearly amused. "Bold move."

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, I—uh—I was just, you know… hungry."

"Right," you said, nodding, the teasing in your tone impossible to miss.

There was a beat of silence before Luke, like the absolute dork he was, blurted out, "You wanna sit?"

You blinked, like maybe you weren’t expecting him to ask, and Luke was this close to taking it back when you smiled. "Sure."

He tried not to look too relieved as he sat down, watching as you pulled out the chair across from him.

"So," you said, setting your bag down. "Big fan of solo dining?"

Luke exhaled a small laugh. "Huge fan."

You grinned. "Sure, Hughes."

There was a moment of comfortable silence before you asked, "So, what’s your deal?"

Luke raised an eyebrow. "My deal?"

"Yeah," you said, sipping your water. "I know you play hockey, but, like, what else? What kind of person voluntarily sits alone at a restaurant instead of just ordering takeout?"

Luke shook his head, laughing under his breath. "I don’t know. I guess I just like being out sometimes."

You hummed, considering. "Interesting. So, are you the type that just, like, people-watches and makes up stories about strangers?"

"Maybe," Luke admitted. "Are you?"

"Obviously," you said. "It’s the best part of working here. So many weird people."

Luke smirked. "Am I one of them?"

You tilted your head, pretending to think. "Hmm. You did come in alone after a group of guys bullied you into leaving your number and still didn’t leave it."

Luke groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You heard that?"

"Oh, I heard all of that," you said, grinning. "Very entertaining stuff."

Luke just shook his head, biting back a smile. "Great. Love that for me."

"You should," you said, leaning forward slightly. "It was kind of cute."

Luke blinked. "Wait. Really?"

You laughed. "Yeah, Hughes. Really."

Luke wasn’t sure how he got here, sitting across from you, somehow making conversation despite definitely being an idiot earlier that week. But he wasn’t about to question it.

You, on the other hand, looked completely at ease. Like sitting with him was the most normal thing in the world. Like maybe you didn’t think he was a total dork, despite the overwhelming evidence.

"So, law school," Luke said, fiddling with the edge of his napkin. "That’s intense."

"It is," you admitted. "But I like it. Keeps me busy."

"Busy enough that you don’t get to go out much?" he asked.

You smiled knowingly. "Why? You gonna tell me I should get out more?"

Luke huffed a small laugh. "I mean, I’m here alone, so I don’t think I can judge."

"True," you said. "But, yeah. I don’t get out much. Between classes, studying, and working, I don’t really have a ton of free time."

Luke nodded, thinking. "That’s kinda cool, though."

You raised an eyebrow. "Working all the time?"

"No," he said quickly, shaking his head. "Just—being that focused on something. Knowing exactly what you wanna do."

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. "You don’t?"

Luke exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "I mean, I do. Hockey’s kind of my whole life, but I don’t know. Sometimes I think about what’s next and it feels—" He paused, searching for the right word.

"Big?" you offered.

Luke nodded. "Yeah. Big."

You tapped your fingers lightly against the table. "I get that. When I first started law school, it felt like I was standing at the bottom of a mountain and had no idea how I was supposed to get to the top."

Luke met your eyes. "So what did you do?"

You shrugged. "Just kept climbing. One day at a time."

Something about the way you said it—so simple, so sure—made Luke feel lighter.

He liked this. Sitting here, just talking. No pressure, no expectations. Just… getting to know you.

And apparently, you didn’t mind getting to know him either, because the conversation kept flowing. You asked about his brothers, his favorite places to travel, how he got into hockey in the first place. He asked about your favorite classes, your dream job, whether or not you actually liked working at the restaurant.

The restaurant itself started slowing down even more, the last few customers trickling out. The staff wiped down tables, stacked chairs, getting ready to close.

You glanced at your phone and sighed. "I should probably head out soon."

Luke nodded, even though he wasn’t ready for the night to end. "Yeah, of course."

You grabbed your bag and stood, hesitating for a second before looking at him again. "So, Luke?"

"Yeah?"

You smiled, amused by how quickly he straightened up, suddenly on full alert. "You gonna keep coming here alone, or are you finally gonna ask for my number?"

Luke blinked, processing, before his brain fully caught up. "Oh. Right. Uh, yeah, I should—yeah." He fumbled for his phone, nearly knocking over his water glass in the process.

You laughed, shaking your head as you reached out and took his phone from him. "Relax, Hughes. You act like I just asked you to propose."

Luke groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "This is so embarrassing."

"Not at all," you said, smirking as you typed your number into his phone. "Very endearing, actually."

Luke exhaled a small laugh, shaking his head. "Glad I can at least be entertaining."

You handed his phone back and took a step toward the door, but then—before you could think twice about it—you turned back around.

Luke barely had a second to register what was happening before you leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. Except—he moved just slightly at the last second, and instead of landing on his cheek, your lips brushed the corner of his instead.

Luke froze.

Like, full-body shutdown.

And if he was a little pink before? Oh, he was definitely red now.

You pulled back, biting back a grin at the completely stunned look on his face. "See you around, Hughes."

Then, like you hadn’t just short-circuited his entire brain, you turned and walked out, leaving Luke sitting there—phone still in his hand, heart fully in his throat.

For a solid five seconds, he just stared at the door, trying to process. Then, he blinked down at his phone, your name and number still on the screen.

Jack was never gonna let him live this down.

But honestly?

Totally worth it.

[be4chywritez]

doomsday | max verstappen

max verstappen x ex!reader

and the funny thing is I would've married you. If you'd have stuck around.

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

Jamie’s hand rests on your lower back, warm and steady. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth—quick, familiar. It makes you smile, the kind that barely lifts your lips but lingers all the same.

The two of you stand near the center of the gala, champagne glasses in hand, surrounded by polished floors and too-bright chandeliers. You’re both dressed for the occasion—Jamie in a sharp black suit that fits him too well, you in a gown that makes you feel effortlessly put together.

You glance up at him, already knowing he’s watching you. His deep brown eyes meet yours without hesitation, holding that quiet sort of affection that’s easy to get lost in.

He squeezes your hand, then lifts it, pressing a kiss right beside the delicate ring on your finger. The gesture is easy. Thoughtless, almost. Like it’s something he’s always done, something he’ll always do.

You don’t pull away. You never do.

You’re so caught up in the moment, in the way Jamie just is, that you don’t notice the eyes locked on you from across the room.

Max.

His gaze sharpens the second he sees you. Recognition flickers, then his expression shifts—his focus drops to Jamie’s hand on your waist, then to your fingers laced together. His jaw tightens. His grip on the glass in his hand goes stiff.

You don’t see him. Not yet.

But he sees everything.

It isn’t until much later in the night that you finally spot him.

You turn, scanning the room, and suddenly—there he is.

He’s standing by the bar, his suit jacket unbuttoned, one hand wrapped around a drink he’s barely paying attention to. His hair is slightly mussed, like he’s run his fingers through it one too many times.

For a moment, you don’t react. You just take him in. It’s been a while since you last saw him, but he still looks the same in all the ways that matter—same sharp blue eyes, same way he tilts his head when he’s thinking.

When his gaze finally shifts and meets yours, something flickers in his expression.

You smile. Soft. Small. Automatic.

And just like that—you’re twelve again.

The summer heat was relentless, the pavement of your father’s racetrack almost shimmering under the weight of the sun. You sat on the pit wall, kicking your legs absentmindedly, a melting popsicle clutched in one hand.

Max was a few feet away, sitting on a stack of tires, still in his karting suit, sweat sticking blonde strands of hair to his forehead. He was sipping from a water bottle, eyes trained on the track, but every so often—he looked at you.

And every time he did, your heart did a little stupid flip.

“I don’t get why you sit here all day,” Max finally said, glancing over at you.

You shrugged, biting the inside of your cheek before answering. “It’s fun watching you drive.”

Max scoffed, but you didn’t miss the way his lips twitched, like he was trying not to smile. “It’s just practice.”

“Still cool.”

He went quiet, looking down at his gloves, tugging at the fingers. Then, softer:

“You think I’m cool?”

You froze, stomach twisting. “I mean—”

Max looked up then, and you knew he was teasing, but it didn’t stop the heat that crept up your neck.

“I think you’re okay,” you said, tilting your nose up for effect.

Max laughed, shaking his head. “Liar.”

You rolled your eyes, turning your attention back to the track, but the warmth in your chest didn’t fade.

Neither did the way Max nudged your knee with his, just lightly, just enough to make sure you were still paying attention to him.

Max clears his throat, his gaze flicking back up to yours. The weight of his stare is enough to make your fingers twitch, but you keep your expression even.

His voice is steady when he speaks. “Congratulations.”

It’s polite. Civil. The kind of thing you say when you’re supposed to say something—but there’s something else underneath it. Something you can’t quite name.

Still, you smile. “Thank you.”

Jamie squeezes your waist lightly, his other hand still wrapped around his drink. “Yeah, we’re really excited,” he says, completely at ease. “She deserves it.”

Max’s lips press together briefly, a barely-there twitch of his jaw. His hands slip into the pockets of his suit pants, and you can’t help but think it’s to keep them from doing something else.

There’s a pause, long enough that you expect him to leave it at that. But then—

“You always wanted this?”

The question is so soft, so subtle, that Jamie doesn’t even catch the shift in tone. But you do.

Your smile falters just slightly. “What do you mean?”

Max exhales through his nose, just short of a scoff, but there’s no malice in it. Just something that almost sounds like—regret.

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says after a moment, forcing a small smile. “It’s good to see you happy.”

And just like that—you hate him for it.

Because it’s the most Max thing he could do. To act like this is fine. Like he’s fine. To congratulate you with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, to act like this isn’t breaking him just a little.

It’s what he’s always done.

Jamie, ever the perfect fiancé, chuckles. “I’d hope so. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be doing my job right.”

Max’s lips quirk at that, but his eyes are still on you.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice almost lost in the noise of the room.

Jamie, oblivious to the tension threading itself between you and Max, checks his watch and sighs. “We should probably start making the rounds.” He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before giving Max a polite nod. “Nice finally meeting you, man.”

Max nods back, but he doesn’t look away from you.

You hesitate for half a second before following Jamie, your fingers brushing against his as he leads you into the crowd.

But just before you turn away completely, you glance back.

And Max is still standing there.

Watching you.

Like he always has.

Max watches as you and Jamie disappear into the crowd, your laughter blending with the hum of conversation and the soft clinking of champagne glasses. His jaw tenses.

He should look away. He should turn around, go find a drink, maybe flirt with someone just to distract himself. But instead, he stands there, rooted to the spot, watching the way Jamie leans down slightly when you whisper something to him, the way your fingers curl around his forearm so naturally.

You look happy.

And that should be enough.

But then—

You were sitting on the hood of an old car your father was working on, swinging your legs over the edge, the night air thick with summer warmth. The stars above were bright, but not as bright as the way Max was looking at you.

“You’re going to be a fucking Formula 1 driver,” you had said, breathless, beaming.

Max grinned, shaking his head, like he still couldn’t believe it. “Yeah.”

You let out a laugh, reaching forward to grab his hands, squeezing them between yours. “Max, this is insane! You’re actually doing it. You—”

Your words caught in your throat when you noticed it. The hesitation. The way his fingers twitched under yours, like he was trying to hold on and let go all at once.

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

Max exhaled, pulling his hands away, running one through his hair. “My dad thinks…” He swallowed hard. “He says I need to focus.”

You blinked, the weight of those words pressing down on your chest. “Okay…” you said slowly, carefully. “And?”

His gaze lifted to yours, and that’s when you knew.

The certainty you’d always seen in him—the unwavering belief that he was meant for something bigger—was still there. But there was something else now, too.

Resignation.

Understanding settled over you like a storm cloud. Your hands clenched in your lap. “Max.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I can’t—” He stopped, shaking his head. “We can’t.”

Your breath hitched, an invisible hand wrapping around your ribcage, squeezing tight.

“Max,” you whispered, softer this time, desperate. “I don’t—”

His jaw clenched, hands curling into fists at his sides, like he hated himself for saying it.

“I have to let you go.”

The words knocked the air out of your lungs.

He wasn’t just saying it. He meant it.

Because this was Max. He didn’t half-ass anything. If he was going to be an F1 driver, he was going to be the best. And if his dad told him that meant cutting ties, he would do it.

Even if it killed you both.

You felt the first tear slip down your cheek, but you refused to wipe it away.

Max watched it fall, his own eyes glassy, before he took a small step back.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Before you could beg him to fight for you, for this, Max turned and walked away.

You sat frozen on the hood of the car, watching his silhouette retreat under the dim glow of the streetlights, every step taking him further from you. He didn’t look back. Not even once.

It wasn’t until you heard the sound of his car door shutting that you realized you were shaking.

He didn’t wait for you to say anything. Didn’t give you a chance to argue or tell him that you didn’t care what his father thought, that you would’ve waited, that you would’ve been there no matter what.

Because it didn’t matter.

He had already made up his mind.

The engine roared to life, and before you could even blink, he was gone.

You stared after him, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, the summer air suddenly too thick, too heavy.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your dress, gripping it so tightly your knuckles turned white.

The night felt different now. Emptier.

You had never hated the sound of an engine more in your life.

Max blinks, snapping back to the present. His fists are clenched at his sides.

The memory lingers like a ghost, the weight of it pressing against his chest.

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. The air in the ballroom suddenly feels suffocating.

He can’t do this.

Not with you here. Not with him here.

He doesn’t bother with goodbyes. Doesn’t even think about what it’ll look like when he turns on his heel and heads straight for the exit.

He just knows that if he stands here any longer, he’s going to lose whatever fragile hold he has on himself.

And he can’t afford that.

Not now.

Not when you’re wearing his ring.

Max spots you the second he steps into the paddock.

It’s almost embarrassing how fast his eyes find you, like it’s instinct, like no matter how much time passes, some part of him will always be searching for you in a crowd.

You’re standing near the VIP section, talking to someone from the team, looking every bit the part of someone who belongs in this world. You’re radiant in the midday sun, laughing at something they said, your expression so effortlessly light, so happy.

For a split second, he wonders if maybe—maybe—he could just walk up to you. Say something, anything.

But before he can take a step, he sees him.

Jamie.

Walking toward you, so effortlessly yours.

And the way your face softens at the sight of him? The way your entire body seems to melt the moment he reaches for you, his hand slipping against the small of your back like second nature?

It knocks the breath out of Max’s chest.

It’s the same way you used to look at him.

He turns away before he can see more.

Max sits stiffly at the table, arms crossed, only half-listening as the team runs through strategies and feedback. His mind is elsewhere, stuck in a loop he can’t seem to break out of.

“Alright, before we wrap up,” one of the PR officers speaks up, shuffling through a few papers, “just a quick note. We received an invitation on behalf of a very special guest—"

Max doesn’t know why, but something in his chest tightens.

“They’ve invited the entire team to attend their wedding in a few months, so if any of you are interested, let me know, and we’ll coordinate.”

Someone slides an envelope down the table. It stops in front of him, pristine white with gold embossed lettering.

His stomach drops.

He doesn’t even need to open it. He already knows.

Still, later—on the plane home—he does.

The invitation is beautiful. Elegant. Timeless. Perfect.

And then he reads the words:

“Please join us in celebrating Mr. and Mrs. Alan.”

Jamie’s last name. Not yours. Not his.

Max swallows hard, blinking rapidly.

The ache in his chest is unbearable.

His apartment is dark when he gets back.

Max barely acknowledges the silence as he moves through the space, tossing his keys onto the counter. His feet carry him into his bedroom without thinking.

And then he sees it.

An old photo album, tucked neatly on his bookshelf.

He hesitates.

His mother gave it to him before he left for Formula 1, filled with pictures from his childhood. At the time, he had barely glanced through it, too caught up in the chaos of chasing his dreams.

Now, though—he pulls it down, fingers ghosting over the worn edges.

Slowly, he flips through the pages.

Photo after photo of him and you.

You at twelve, sitting on the fence at the racetrack, legs swinging as you watched him practice.

You at fourteen, grinning as you held up his first-ever karting trophy, even prouder of him than he was.

You at sixteen, curled into his side in the backseat of his dad’s car, fast asleep on the way home from a late-night race.

And then—one that makes his breath catch.

You and him at seventeen, standing beside his brand-new Red Bull contract, your arms around his neck, your face alight with so much love.

He closes the book.

Rests his forehead against it.

For the first time in a long time, Max Verstappen feels like he’s lost something he can never get back.

The room is too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet, not the kind that settles around you like a warm embrace. This is the kind of quiet that claws at your throat, makes it impossible to swallow, makes it impossible to breathe.

Your bridesmaids had left only minutes ago, promising to be back soon. “Just a little bit of alone time,” one of them had said, smiling. “So you can take it all in.”

You don’t know how to tell them that you’ve been trying to take it all in for months. That you’ve spent sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if love is supposed to feel like this—steady and soft and secure. Wondering why steady has never felt the same as electric.

Your fingers shake slightly as you adjust your veil, eyes flicking to the mirror.

You look like a bride.

Like someone who is about to step into forever.

And yet—

“Wow.”

A voice.

Soft. Familiar.

Max.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You don’t turn. Not yet. Maybe you’re imagining it. Maybe it’s a cruel trick of your mind, maybe—

“I mean it,” he continues, voice quiet, like even he isn’t sure if he should be here. “You look… breathtaking.”

You inhale sharply. Then, finally, you turn.

And there he is.

Max.

Standing in the doorway, wearing a suit you’re sure he had to be forced into. His tie is slightly loosened, like he’s already tired of the formality of the event. His hair is messy, like he’s run his fingers through it too many times.

And his eyes.

God, his eyes.

You don’t know how long you just stare at each other.

But eventually, you find your voice. A whisper, barely steady.

“Max.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since he walked in.

For a moment, he just looks at you.

Not the way everyone else has today.

Not with admiration, or awe, or even the soft fondness you’ve seen in Jamie’s gaze.

Max looks at you like he’s in pain.

And maybe—maybe he is.

Maybe that should make you feel better. Maybe it should make you feel worse.

Your throat is dry. Your hands are shaking.

So you do what you’ve always done around Max—you pretend.

You force a small, shaky smile and whisper, “Do you like it?”

His brows knit together.

“What?”

You swallow, forcing yourself to hold his gaze.

“My dress.” Your voice is quieter now, like something delicate. Like something breakable. “Do you like it?”

His breath stutters. He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you.

And then, quietly—

“Of course I do.”

It’s soft. It’s real.

It’s too much.

You nod, looking down for a moment, trying to breathe.

Max takes a step closer. Then another.

And then—

“Do you love him?”

It’s like being punched.

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a second, you can’t move. Can’t think.

“What?”

His jaw tightens. “Do you love him?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Max, don’t—”

“Just tell me,” he cuts in, voice rough. “Do you love him the way you loved me?”

Your chest tightens, and suddenly it’s too much.

“You don’t get to do this,” you whisper. “Not today. Not now.”

His voice is quiet. Devastating.

“I know,” he breathes. “But I have to.”

You shake your head. “Why?”

“Because I can’t watch you marry him.”

The words knock the air from your lungs.

You suck in a sharp breath, hands shaking.

And then, barely above a whisper—

“Then why are you here?”

Max exhales, runs a hand over his face like he doesn’t know the answer himself.

Finally, his voice breaks.

“Because I still love you.”

It’s a confession that comes too late.

A wrecking ball slamming into your chest, tearing through every wall you’ve spent years rebuilding.

You hate him for saying it.

For making you feel like you’re seventeen again, looking at him like he’s the only thing that has ever made sense.

Your voice is shaking when you speak. “You don’t get to do this.”

Max steps closer.

“Don’t marry him.”

It’s a plea. A desperate, selfish plea.

Your throat tightens, and for the first time all day, you feel like you might cry.

“Max.” Your voice is barely a whisper. “You left.”

His face crumbles.

“I know.”

“You left, and I—I waited,” you say, voice breaking. “I waited for so long, and you never came back.”

He swallows hard.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he admits. “I thought—I thought I had to choose. Between you and my career. Between you and everything else.” His hands clench into fists. “And I was so fucking stupid.”

You let out a broken, bitter laugh.

“Yes, Max. You were.”

Silence.

And then—

He moves.

And suddenly, his hands are on your face, and he’s kissing you.

It’s desperate. It’s reckless.

It’s everything it used to be.

And God help you—

You kiss him back.

For a moment, for a single fucking moment, you let yourself feel.

But then, just as quickly as you let it happen—

You break away.

You step back, gasping, hands trembling.

Max is staring at you, breathing hard, eyes wide and devastated.

And then, barely above a whisper—

“Don’t marry him.”

Your heart shatters.

Tears burn your eyes.

Slowly, you reach for his hands. He flinches but doesn’t pull away.

You press his hands between yours, squeezing them. Holding them the way you used to.

Then, softly, you bring them to your lips—kissing his knuckles, leaving the faintest smudge of lipstick behind.

The way something delicate and fleeting leaves its mark before it fades.

Max makes a broken sound, and it nearly undoes you.

You take a shaky breath.

And then—

“Goodbye, Max.”

You let go.

And then you turn.

And you walk away.

Your dress trails behind you, a vision in white. A bride walking toward the rest of her life.

Max doesn’t follow.

He doesn’t call out.

Because deep down, he knows—

You’re not turning back

[be4chywritez]

never grow up | hughes bro.

hughes bros. x sister!reader

your brothers don't want to let you grow up.

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

warning: completely fucked up timeline

The living room is a mess of wrapping paper and half-eaten cupcakes, remnants of what your mom swore would be a “small graduation party” but somehow turned into a full-blown celebration. You’re still holding onto a stuffed bear in a tiny cap and gown, a joke gift from Ellen, but Quinn keeps side-eyeing it like he’s considering stealing it just to make a point.

Luke is lounging on the couch, flipping through your high school yearbook with a growing look of horror. “Dude,” he mutters, nudging Jack. “She has, like, a whole section in here. How do we not know about half of these people?”

Jack takes the book and immediately flips to the senior superlatives. “Oh my god,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Please tell me you didn’t get ‘Most Likely to Break Hearts’—I don’t think I can handle that.”

You snatch the yearbook out of his hands and smack him lightly with it. “Relax. It’s ‘Most Likely to Brighten Your Day.’”

Quinn, who’s been suspiciously quiet, speaks up from the kitchen. “Yeah, well. That’s worse.”

You roll your eyes. “How is that worse?”

“Because it means people are gonna miss you,” Quinn says simply, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes you pause. Like the realization is just sinking in for him, too.

And that’s when it hits you—this is your last summer before everything changes.

It starts when you casually mention that you’re making a packing list.

“I mean, I don’t need to bring everything,” you say, folding a t-shirt as Quinn watches from the doorway. “I’ll be home for breaks anyway.”

Quinn’s arms are crossed, his face unreadable. “Right,” he says flatly. “Because you’ll totally want to come back to Michigan instead of spending breaks with your college friends.”

You glance up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs, but the tension in his shoulders is obvious. “Just that once you’re gone, you’re gone.”

Before you can argue, Jack yells from down the hall, “Why do you even need a list? Just bring what you have now. Do they not have Target where you’re going?”

You groan. “Jack—”

“I mean, really,” he continues, appearing in the doorway. “What could you possibly need that isn’t already in this house?”

Luke suddenly pops his head in too, pointing at you. “And if you think you’re taking the good blanket from the living room, you’re out of your mind.”

You throw a sock at him. “I bought that blanket!”

Jim, who’s been passing by, doubles back and frowns. “Wait, wait—who said you were taking anything from the house?”

You stare at him. “Uh… me?”

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, maybe I decide what leaves this house, and maybe my decision is that you stay.”

Jack smirks. “Yeah, Dad. Ground her.”

Jim actually pauses, rubbing his chin like he’s considering it. “You know what? If she can’t leave, then problem solved.”

“Oh my god.”

It happens at the dinner table.

Tension has been simmering all summer, but tonight, it boils over.

Jack is picking at his food, Luke is sulking, and Quinn has barely said a word. Jim, trying to keep the mood light, asks a simple question:

“So, kid, excited for move-in day?”

The room freezes.

You swallow, already bracing yourself for the inevitable.

Quinn drops his fork. “Oh, great. Let’s talk about it.”

“Quinn—”

“No, really,” he cuts you off. “Let’s talk about how you’re leaving and we all just have to deal with it.”

Jack scoffs. “We’re allowed to be upset.”

“Yeah,” Luke mumbles. “It sucks.”

Something inside you snaps.

“Oh, it sucks?” you echo, voice sharp. “That’s funny—because I don’t remember any of you feeling bad when you left me.”

Silence.

Quinn’s brows knit together. “What?”

You shove yourself back, your back now flat on the chair. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. Did you all forget how this works? You left first, Quinn. You packed up and went to Vancouver. Jack, you left right after, and then Luke followed.”

Jack opens his mouth, but you steamroll right over him.

“And guess what? Nobody asked me if I was okay with it,” you continue. “Nobody sat me down and said, ‘Hey, we’re all leaving, but we know it’s going to be hard on you.’ No. You guys left, and I was just supposed to be fine.”

Luke shifts uncomfortably. “That’s… different.”

“Oh, is it?” you snap. “Because it sure feels the same.”

They all look guilty now.

Jim exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “She’s got a point, boys.”

The weight of your words settles over the room, thick and suffocating.

You cross your arms. “So don’t sit here acting like I’m the bad guy for growing up. I learned it from you.��

And just like that, dinner is over.

Ellen has been quiet throughout dinner, letting the boys sulk and stew in their feelings. But when you throw down the ultimate truth bomb, she puts her fork down with a soft clink and just leans back in her chair, watching.

Jack shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. “Mom—”

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me,” Ellen says, taking a sip of wine. “She’s right.”

The boys look at her like she’s just committed some deep betrayal.

“But—” Luke tries.

Ellen raises a hand. “No. You don’t get to ‘but’ this. You all left her. And now that it’s her turn, you’re acting like she’s the one abandoning you.”

Quinn frowns at his plate. Jack rubs the back of his neck. Luke suddenly finds his drink very interesting.

Ellen sighs, a little softer now. “I get it. You love your sister, and you’re gonna miss her. But she’s not a little kid anymore.” She glances at you, giving you a small, knowing smile. “And you’re allowed to grow up, sweetheart.”

That’s when you feel the lump in your throat.

Jim, sensing the emotion rising again, claps his hands together. “Alright,” he says, standing up. “Dinner’s over. Boys, you will apologize when you’re ready. And if anyone else gets dramatic at the dinner table, I’m making you all sit at the kids' table for the rest of the summer.”

Jack huffs. “We don’t have a kids' table.”

Jim raises an eyebrow. “I will build one.”

Ellen just shakes her head, standing to start clearing plates. As she passes by you, she squeezes your shoulder gently—just enough to let you know she’s on your side.

Quinn was six, Jack was four, and Luke was two when Ellen and Jim walked through the front door with you bundled up in a tiny blanket.

Luke was still clumsy on his feet, gripping Quinn’s hand for balance as he stared at you with big, round eyes. Jack, ever the loud one, scrunched his nose. “She’s small.”

Quinn, the oldest, tilted his head. “How old is she?”

Ellen smiled, adjusting the beanie on your head. “Just a little younger than Luke.”

Jack frowned. “So she’s the baby?”

Jim nodded. “Yep. You’ve got a baby sister now.”

Quinn blinked at you, something protective already settling in his chest. “She looks squishy.”

Luke let out a little giggle, wobbling closer. His chubby hands reached out, poking at your cheek. Your tiny hand curled instinctively around his finger, and his face lit up like Christmas morning.

Jack, still suspicious, leaned in. “Where’d she come from?”

Ellen smoothed a hand over your head. “From a different family. But now she’s ours.”

Jack looked at Quinn, then back at you. “Do we have to keep her?”

Quinn smacked his arm. “Mom said she’s our sister, dummy.”

Jack huffed. “I’m just asking! What if she’s annoying?”

Jim chuckled. “Then you’ll just have to deal with it.”

Jack pouted. But then you made a tiny noise—something soft, a little curious—and Quinn’s hand was suddenly there, gentle against your back, like he already understood what Jack didn’t:

You belonged with them.

You avoid them. It’s not subtle, and you don’t care if they notice.

Jack walks into the kitchen for breakfast? You walk out. Quinn parks himself in the living room? You suddenly remember you have something to do upstairs. Luke tries to catch your eye across the dinner table? You focus really, really hard on your food.

At first, they pretend not to care. Jack scoffs and mutters, “She’ll crack first.” Quinn just sighs like he’s too old for this. Luke pouts but doesn’t say anything.

But as the days pass, it becomes clear: you’re serious.

Jim and Ellen, bless them, intervene before things get too ridiculous.

It’s a setup. You know it the second Jim corners you in the kitchen and says, “Need your help fixing up the boat.”

You’re about to refuse when he casually adds, “Jack’s already out there.”

You were twelve when Jack left for the NTDP.

He was throwing things haphazardly into his duffel bag, way less meticulous than Quinn had been. You sat on the floor by his bed, fidgeting with the strings on your hoodie.

“You’re really going, huh?”

Jack huffed a laugh, shoving more clothes into his bag. “Yeah, I mean… it’s not like I’m going to war.”

You frowned. “Feels like it.”

That made him pause. He turned to look at you, his usual cocky smirk softening. “Hey, don’t make that face.”

You tried to glare at him, but the lump in your throat made it hard.

Jack sighed, dropping onto the floor next to you. “C’mon, don’t be sad.”

You stayed quiet, picking at your hoodie. Jack nudged your arm.

“You know I’m gonna miss you, right?”

You scoffed. “Then don’t go.”

Jack groaned, flopping onto his back dramatically. “Ugh, you sound like Mom.”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe because she’s right.”

Jack sat up, resting his chin on his knee. He studied you for a second before reaching out to ruffle your hair. “Listen, baby Hughes, you’re my best little buddy. And you know what?”

You looked at him warily. “…What?”

Jack grinned. “I’m gonna be a big deal one day, and when that happens, I’m taking you with me.”

You wrinkled your nose. “To hockey?”

“To wherever I go.” He bumped his shoulder against yours. “Deal?”

You bit your lip, then nodded. “Deal.”

Jack grinned and held out his pinky. You linked yours with his, sealing the promise.

Of course, you didn’t know then that Jack’s world would get bigger, that he’d go from the NTDP to the draft to New Jersey. But you remembered his words.

Damn it.

When you step onto the dock, Jack is hunched over the open engine, frowning like he actually knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t. He’s wearing sunglasses and a backwards cap, and his shirt is already discarded on the deck like fixing the boat is some grueling manual labor.

You cross your arms. “I don’t see Mom or Dad supervising, so I’m assuming this is an ambush.”

Jack grins, but when you don’t smile back, his expression falters. He clears his throat. “Okay, fine. I may have—” he waves a wrench vaguely in the air “—suggested that Dad needed you out here.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So you’re admitting you need my help?”

Jack scoffs. “No, I—” he stops, narrows his eyes, and exhales. “Okay, maybe.”

A beat of silence stretches between you.

Then, quieter, he says, “You’re really mad, huh?”

You shrug, crouching down next to him. “Not mad. Just… tired of feeling like you guys only get sentimental when it’s convenient for you.”

Jack nods, tapping the wrench against his knee.

“Fair,” he says eventually. “But, like—cut us some slack. We’re not good at this whole… feelings thing.”

You give him a look. “I noticed.”

He huffs a laugh. “But we do love you.” He hesitates, like he wants to say something else, then just nudges your shoulder. “Even when you’re being dramatic.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. Jack sees it and grins.

Small steps.

You were nine when Quinn left for Michigan.

He packed his bags carefully, making sure his jerseys were folded just right. You sat on the edge of his bed, hugging your knees.

“You’ll come back, right?” you asked, voice small.

Quinn stopped, turned to you. “Of course I will.”

“But not for long.”

He sighed, crouching down so you were eye-level. “It’s not like that, baby sis. I’m not leaving you—I’m just… doing something for me.”

Tears welled in your eyes, and Quinn immediately pulled you into a hug. “Hey, hey. You’ll be okay.”

You sniffed. “What if I’m not?”

Quinn held you tighter. “Then I’ll come home.”

He did. But never for long.

Then Jack left. Then Luke.

And now, it was your turn.

Ellen hands you the list. “Take Quinn. And please, real vegetables this time.”

You grumble, but before you can argue, Quinn’s already waiting by the door.

The car ride is quiet.

Then, out of nowhere, Quinn sighs. “I’m sorry.”

You blink, caught off guard. “For what?”

He grips the steering wheel. “For making you feel bad about leaving. That wasn’t fair.”

You swallow. “Yeah, well… it does suck.”

He nods. “It does.” Then, softer, “You’ll always be our sister. No matter where you go.”

Something in your throat tightens.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, trying to sound unaffected, “maybe I don’t want to be the baby forever.”

Quinn smirks. “Tough luck.”

You huff, but for the first time in days, the silence between you isn’t so heavy.

Ellen and Jim had taken Jack to some tournament, Quinn was away with the Canucks, and for the first time, it was just you and Luke.

You were thirteen, and he was sixteen, but it felt like an even bigger gap back then.

You weren’t feeling great that day—some stomach bug or something—but you had stubbornly refused to call Mom about it.

Luke had been playing Xbox in the other room when he finally noticed you hadn’t bugged him in a while. He found you curled up on the couch, looking miserable.

"Why didn’t you say anything?" he asked, frowning.

You shrugged weakly.

Luke hesitated, then sighed. "Okay. Come on."

You blinked. "What?"

He grabbed a blanket off the chair and threw it over you before lifting you up.

"Luke—put me down!"

"Nope," he said, hauling you up the stairs. "You have two choices: you can walk to bed like a normal person, or I can keep carrying you."

You groaned but didn’t argue. You were exhausted.

Luke tucked you in (with way too much effort, like he thought you’d try to escape), then disappeared for a few minutes before coming back with ginger ale and crackers.

You stared at him.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"You’re being… nice."

Luke rolled his eyes. "Shut up and eat the crackers."

You smirked. "Are you gonna feed me, too?"

Luke groaned, dropping the pillow he was holding onto your face. "I take it back. I hope you feel worse."

But later that night, when you woke up feeling even worse, Luke was still awake, sitting on the floor by your bed with his phone.

"You need anything?" he asked groggily.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. "No."

Luke nodded and yawned. "Alright. Go back to sleep."

Luke drives. He doesn’t play music, which is weird for him. Usually, he’s blasting something obnoxious, forcing you to suffer through his terrible playlists.

He doesn’t say anything until you pull into the parking lot.

“I never thought about it like that,” he blurts.

You turn to him, confused. “What?”

Luke shifts in his seat. “That… you were alone when we left.”

His voice is small, guilty.

You sigh, staring out the windshield. “I didn’t want you guys to feel bad about it. You were chasing your dreams. It wasn’t like I wanted you to stay back for me.”

Luke frowns. “But you still missed us.”

“Yeah, dumbass.”

He huffs a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

After a beat, he hesitates. “You know you can always come back, right?”

You roll your eyes. “I know.”

Luke nudges your shoulder. “We’ll visit. All the time.”

You smirk. “Promise?”

He nods, grinning. “Obviously.”

For the first time all week, your chest feels lighter.

You’re sprawled on the dock, staring at the stars. It’s just the four of you—Jack, Quinn, Luke, and you. The air is warm, the lake is calm, and for once, nobody’s arguing.

Jack exhales. “So. This is it, huh?”

You nod. “Yep.”

Silence.

Then, quietly, Quinn says, “We’re really proud of you, you know.”

You blink, caught off guard.

Luke nods. “Yeah. Like, so proud.”

Jack scoffs. “Even though you’re leaving us.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite in it.

Quinn nudges your arm. “We meant what we said. You’ll always have us.”

You swallow, feeling that familiar lump in your throat.

Then, because you’re still their little sister, you smirk. “Yeah, yeah. You guys are obsessed with me.”

Jack groans. “God, I take it back—go to college already.”

Luke laughs. Quinn shakes his head. And for the first time all summer, everything feels right.

Because no matter how much things change, one thing never will:

You’ll always be their sister. And they’ll always be your brothers.