bellstwd - Tumblr blog

bellstwd · 1 year ago

Text

literally a masterpiece

day by day, year after year

summary: time flies when you're having fun, and summers on the lake fly by all too fast.

request: yes. CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS. SUMMER FIC.

warnings: honestly there's a big chunk o smut in this like I took it as friends to LOVERS ok it's not all smut tho promise ; If you're not into smut you could honestly scroll past it and still enjoy the fic!! nico hischier is portrayed as a little shit in this (baseless) ; lil bit of insecure!quinn. ; sort of au bc hockey is mentioned but not as biblically accurate as I like to be ; big summer friend group vibes ; barely edited i am sorry in advance :(

smut below the cut. minors dni also just a note for everyone: pls don’t allow fictional media to create false expectations for u.

word count: 20k

Summer in Michigan was hot, which was why your mother insisted on buying a house on the lake. Everything one could possibly need was in arms reach; the chain grocery store a 5 minute drive away; a liquor and corner store even closer. With your parents away on an extended trip, the lake house was all yours and your girlfriends'.

You're all laying on towels across the dock, sunbathing, and when you feel like it, taking a dip in the cool water. The neighbours hadn't made it back to the lake just yet, which explained why the water was so still. No boats or jet ski’s disturbing the surface.

“D’you know when those boys will be here?” your friend, Julie, asked as she turned onto her back.

“Who, the Hughes?” You clarified, though you knew damn well who she meant. You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking towards the dock closest to yours. It was close enough to swim to, but certainly not in one breath. “No, why?”

“Oh, come on. You have eyes.” Mila wiggles her eyebrows. Your girlfriends shared wide smiles. You blushed, a specific Hughes coming to mind.

“Who are you kidding? You are so hot for Quinn Hughes,” Chelsea rolls her eyes and grins.

“Good, stay in your lane!” Julie says before she jumps over the side of the dock. She, along with the rest of your friends, could run a Jack Hughes fan club. They absolutely fawned over him. Whatever it was they thought you were doing over the oldest Hughes boy, they were doing tenfold to poor Jack. It had always been that way, though.

Maybe it was because Quinn was so quiet.

Maybe it was because Jack was so easy to like.

Maybe it was because Luke was just a little too young.

You don't argue, because there are parts of you these girls know better than you know yourself. You hold them close to your heart, so close they could see right into it. You close your eyes when you turn over onto your back, enjoying the warmth of the sun on your skin.

You're all but ten years old the year your parents buy the lake house. It's a pretty pale blue with white trimming, with no need for renovations, which your dad likes, and it has a jacuzzi, which your mom likes. You stand outside on the big patio, trying to figure out what you like about the house. It looks onto the lake below, where you see a couple of boats and jet skis cutting through the otherwise calm water. The sun is high and it makes everything sparkle.

"Hey!" You hear someone call and you look around. "Come around!" You follow the sound, around to where the balcony wraps around the side of the house. "Over here!" Through the trees you see a boy waving both arms above his head. He barely clears the handrail, so he climbs up over it.

You're terrified for him. It's a long way down, maybe four stories if you consider the land sloping towards the water. There's another boy there, though, one that you can see clearly over the railing. He's maybe your height, and you hope he's got a tight grip on the smaller one. "You should tell your parents you want to live here."

"Yeah? Why?" You call back, straining to rest your chin on the bannister, a front row seat if he were to fall.

"'Cause we're here!" The little boy flashes a big smile, and you can see that he's missing a couple teeth. The boy next to him waves and gives you a matching smile. You want to tell them that your parents already bought the place, you'll be here every summer, when another boy comes into view through the small clearing in the trees.

"What are you guys yelling about out here? Jack! Get him down from there!" He rushes forward and yanks the small boy back inside the confines of the patio. The first boy is grumbling, and the second one is laughing, dragging him away. The third one looks through the tree branches, sees you, and yells, "Sorry about that!"

You don't meet them again until your dad calls you and your mom out onto the dock one random afternoon. The new boat he placed on order had finally arrived, and he had invited the neighbours to help roll it into the lake.

"You're not supposed to be pushing the boat," the same small boy says to you when you follow your dad to where the boat is still attached to his truck. Your mom chats with theirs over on the dock.

"Why not?" you question, crossing your arms.

"You're a girl. You can sit on the boat, but you shouldn't be doing the boat work," he tells you in a bossy tone you don't like. Up close, the gap between his missing teeth is a lot bigger. You look at your dad, who is busy chatting with theirs.

"She's got arms, she can push if she wants to." The other one says, giving his younger brother a nudge. The third boy is standing with your dads, as if he was part of their conversation.

"Honey, have you met the Hughes?" Your dad waves the three of you over. "This is Mr. Hughes and his sons, Quinn, Jack, and Luke." Your dad introduces you before you can tell him that, yes, you've met.

"These boys help me with our boat every year. Real good at taking care of her, 'specially Quinn here," Mr. Hughes puts a hand on the third boy's shoulder. You wonder if he's squinting like that because it's so sunny. No one else is. "You can stay up by the truck and control the wench, we'll get the work done down here. Little lady, do you want to sit in the boat when we get it into the water?" Mr. Hughes asks you, and your dad tilts his head, letting you make your own decision. Pettiness fully bloomed at the age of ten, you glare daggers at a smug looking Luke.

"I want to help push."

Luke scoffs. Jack laughs. Quinn doesn't say anything at all.

Your dad rewards their work by taking everyone out on the lake in the new boat. You sit beside your mom, who sits beside their mom. Luke is nestled in Mrs. Hughes' side. Jack and Quinn are up at the front of the boat with your dads. They let the two older boys take turns 'driving the boat.' The sky is every shade used to describe love, the sun kissing the water in the distance. The wind whipping through the boat is warm. You didn't know it, blowing raspberries across the boat at little Luke Hughes, but he would turn out to be right.

You would come back to the lake, year after year, because they were here.

You’re running around your front yard, ‘helping’ your mom plant flowers along the perimeter, when you see your neighbours come out from their front door. They drag big bags and load their car. “Why do you have skates in the summer?” You ask, and stare accusingly at Quinn, who holds a pair in his hands.

“Gonna go play hockey!” Luke yells, jumping out from behind him.

“Hockey? You can’t play hockey,” you say, little voice dripping with pettiness, “My dad watches hockey. You’re way too short.” Luke hated that.

“Don’t listen to her champ- she was watching Sid the Kid. She doesn’t know the first thing about hockey.” Mr. Hughes notices him and comes over, happily greeting each other.

“Why don’t you two come along?” Mr. Hughes asks your dad, “You can help run the drills and the scrimmage, I can explain the game a bit to her. Come hang out.” Your dad looks to your mom, who gives him two thumbs up.

You sit in a cold rink with your dad’s zip up hoodie over your shoulders. You didn’t have any of the right clothes to be inside an ice rink in July. It was freezing. You didn’t know places like this existed in the summer. Your dad puts on a pair of skates and is on the ice, with everyone else. One thing was clear when you saw the neighbours’ kids skating around with the other kids; they were good skaters. Everyone was skating but they were skating fast, stopping fast, and skating backwards really well. Your dad acquires a whistle, and is preparing everyone for puck drop.

Mr. Hughes tells you what that is, and why everyone is standing where they are. There’s a reason for everything. Certain players need to know what this is for themselves as well as someone else, their check. A good player knows all the reasons for anyone on the ice- has to know why their guy wants to be on that side of him, needs to know why he can’t let that happen. “Watch Quinn,” He points out his son near the net. Quinn skates back, boxes his check out in front of his own net, forcing the other guy to the outside corner.

A good player pays attention to the zones, can tell how fast a puck is moving as it’s coming. The lines are important: your side, the “neutral” zone, and their side. You want to be in their side as much as possible, but there are rules to going about doing so. “Look at what Jack’s going to do,” he points him out for you, he’s the one coming off the bench. The moment he does, he taps his stick to the ice. As soon as he receives the pass he steps over the big blue line, and Lukey flies by him headed right to the other goalie. Jack gives it to Luke, who puts it in the net.

“It’s really more of a winter sport,” Mr. Hughes admits to you, “but they enjoy it way too much to hang their skates in the summer.” You spend the rest of the afternoon going back and forth with Mr. Hughes on the bleachers.

You're eleven when you first hear the phrase, 'raised by women.' You hear it at the country club, sitting under the shade of the golf cart with your mom and others, playing caddies for a day.

"What little gentlemen those Hughes boys are turning out to be," Mrs. Hischier says, sipping from a straw in a glass. You look over, and sure enough, out of all the boys they're the only ones with their shirts still tucked, though Luke is pushing it.

"That's what happens when you're raised by women."

"You mean raised by the woman. El, what's your secret?" Your mom bumps shoulders with her. They're close- neighbours, boat seat buddies, and occasionally each other's summer babysitters. Mrs. Hughes laughs, doesn't take credit, tells them her husband does a lot, too.

You look out to the dads and boys, each gripping metal clubs. You've sat through enough courses to know the rotation. It'd be Mr. Zegras, then Trevor; Mr. Hischier, Luca, then Nico; Mr. Tkachuk, Matthew, and then Brady; Mr. Hughes, then Quinn, then Jack, and then Luke. Your dad's turn is between Brady Tkachuk and Mr. Hughes. You want to swing too, want to stand in the sun and hit a little ball with all your might. A loud crack makes you jump out of your thoughts, and your eyes settle on Quinn's follow through.

You're eleven when you make a friend out of Quinn Hughes. In middle school you're taught a lot outside of classrooms. It's a boy vs girl world. Boys are brash and brazen and aggressive. Why would anyone ever want a boy? But come summer, it was three boys you'd be stuck with.

You ask Quinn because you can't ask Luke- he's not even that good. Jack is out of the question. He's your age and boys your age are gross. Quinn is older, taller, wiser, at least, you think he is. You walk down their deck, where he's standing with his parents by their boat.

"Hello," you say politely, with all the niceties your mother taught you, "Can I play golf with you?" His parents look at each other, pretending to talk about the boat as they listen in on you.

"Huh? Why?" Quinn faces you fully with somewhat of a frown on his face. You've known him for a summer, seen him enough times to know he just looks like that. He doesn't tell you no, doesn't tell you girls can't. He's raised by a woman, after all.

"I wanna be good," you say, "and I think you're good."

He grins at the compliment- the biggest you've seen him smile. Says, "Okay," with a tug of his mom's dress.

"I think that's a wonderful idea, I'll put you two down for the junior driving range." Her eyes sparkle with something other than the reflection of the sun on the water.

You're thirteen the year you realize Jack is pretty. It's the first year your parents let you invite friends to the lake house. You're only allowed to bring two so you choose Julie and Megan. Julie's a no-brainer, she's your best friend. You invite Megan because she's the most popular girl in school. You think it's a good idea until you're stuck with her for three months. She's always on her phone, complaining about anything she can to anyone who will listen. Still, you try and enjoy your summer. Maybe she'll get her parents to pick her up a week early.

You and Julie are sitting in floaties, chatting and keeping close to the dock, where Megan sunbathes on a towel on her phone. A call of your name has you turning your head towards the familiar sound. Every year, they sound a little different, little changes in the pitch of their voices. You’d recognize them all the same.

You see Jack waving at you from their dock, but you know it wasn't his voice you heard. Your eyes narrow and scan up their deck. Where's Luke? The words are there on your tongue, but before you even open your mouth Julie shrieks as she's yanked underwater. Megan scrambles to her feet in panic, away from the edge of the water, clutching her phone to her chest. Jack jumps in like a lifeguard on duty, swimming towards the group of you.

When Luke and Julie surface they are both red in the face. Julie is gasping for air and Jack helps her get to the ladder up your dock. "Luke, you're the biggest idiot I have ever met." You tell him, watching him grab onto Julie's abandoned floatie.

"Odds were 50-50," he snaps at you, clearly embarrassed. He follows you, swimming back to shore. He hoists both floaties onto the deck and follows you out of the water.

"Are you okay, Jules?" You kneel down next to her, and rub her back as she tries to control her heaving. Jack stands, casting some shade on her, and Megan is quick to stand by his side. She adds to the shadow cast on Julie, but her eyes are on Jack.

"I'm okay!" she assures you with a cheerful voice, despite her coughing, "Just surprised me- is all." Your leg shoots out to kick Luke, who was standing uselessly.

"Ow- I'm sorry," he bends down next to you to apologize sincerely, "I meant to drown that," he refers to you, tone absolutely dripping, and you can't stop yourself from laughing. You wrap one arm around his shoulders, give him a side hug.

"It's nice to see you, too, Lukey." He drops the act, hugs you back. You both help Julie to her feet, and you're about to greet Jack properly when you notice someone else already has. Luke clears his throat, and Jack looks up. He moves forward to hug you, too.

"Hey, Sunshine," he calls you by a name you are only known by here, on this lake. "Who're your friends?"

You remember during your third summer in Michigan, the three brothers were going through their WWE phase. Every morning, they'd yell at you from their dock or their patio at the top of their lungs: 'Hey Sunshine! Can you hear the cannons? Kapow!' and flex and pose ridiculously. They never dared to do it again the following summers, but the nickname stuck and would always remind you.

"This is Julie and Megan," you introduce everyone, "And this is Jack and Luke. They're from next door. They're usually a blast when Luke's not attempting murder," you stick a sharp elbow into his side. "Where's Quinn?"

"He's working on the boat with dad. Should be ready by this afternoon," Luke reports excitedly.

"And why aren't you two aren't helping?" You cross your arms.

"We saw you and wanted to say hi," Jack shrugs innocently, "Do you guys want to come boating when it's ready?

"Yes," Megan answered quickly for the three of you. It was probably the most interest in doing anything she had expressed all summer. You were just happy she was getting involved instead of moping about bad cell service.

You're thirteen the year you realize Jack is pretty. It's not Megan and her googly eyes and lingering touches on his arm. No, that was all normal for Megan. Julie says his name a little too much, stares at him a little too long. You're staring at him too, across the boat. It's something between a squint and a glare, scrutinizing. You don't see it. You see brown curls that stick to his forehead with sweat and lake water. Your friends are much more interested in talking to Jack than you, which you don't like but don't fight either, and move up the boat.

"Can I try?" You ask Quinn, who was holding the wheel, and he steps aside, one hand on the wheel until you get both of yours on. Your dads are sitting behind you, talking through every sport under the sun. The four of you have all had your chance at the wheel before; the day you're all eligible, they'll take you to get your license. They'd love nothing more than to sit in the back with their feet up one day, or go golfing instead of chaperoning a boat day.

"Keep it straight," Quinn says, pulling the wheel ever so slightly. He lets go of the wheel again and you don't say anything. Among the three brothers, Quinn had the least to say. You preferred silence with Quinn over radio silence from your friends. You breathe deeply, enjoying the soft hum of the motor over the chatter in the background. "I think Megan likes Jack."

You give him a sideways look, "Uh huh."

"Does that bother you?"

Your eyebrows furrow, and you turn your head to look at him fully. "When did you become so chatty?"

He reaches out to straighten the boat again. He shrugs, ever so neutral. Out of the three, he's the hardest to get to, the hardest to bother. "You seem bothered by it," he says, "Otherwise, you'd be back there."

"I just want to get some practice in," You weren't all that bothered, you tell yourself, yet you refuse to even look over your shoulder. If anything, he's what's annoying you now, "I'm gonna get my license so I can drive around without them, whenever I want."

"I'm gonna get mine first," he tells you, and it's probably true. After a moment he adds something that is definitely true, "I think Megan likes Jack more than you."

You laugh. Hearing him say it makes you feel better, somehow. You feel seen; he validates your frustration. "I think so, too."

"Don't worry, it's always like that with Jack," Quinn says, an attempt to comfort you. He gives you another shrug accompanied by a small smile, and for the first time he looks bothered. It's his eyes that give him away, blue not like a clear day, but blue like the centre of a hurricane. You smile back. The boat hums beneath you.

You're fourteen when Quinn gets in your head. It's not even summer, though you're counting down the days. It'll be exactly three months and four days until summer vacation, three months and two days before you make it back to the lake. You sit in art class with Julie, across from two boys on the basketball team, when you feel your phone vibrate in your pocket.

Quinn: Heyy

You show Julie under the table and she raises an eyebrow, "What does he want?" You shrug, staring at your text chat. You can't even swipe because it's so short. The only previous messages are from last summer.

Quinn: Hey sunshine it's quinn

hey!! ty I'll save ur number :)

You're reading it over when he sends another.

Quinn: Sorry, that was Luke

haha, ok. how's jack and lukey?

He doesn't reply, and you have never focused on a text chat so much in your life. You check your phone throughout the day, throughout the week, but he never lights up your phone. By the weekend you think to let it go. It's not like he has anything to text you about. And he's older, they're always saying it only gets harder. He's probably busy doing his homework, like you. Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and it's a text from a boy but not the one you want.

Megan isn’t invited back the next summer. Quinn’s got his boat license, as he said he would, and it’s the first time you guys are out on the boat unsupervised. He drives down the water, picking up friends along the lake. You and Julie are comfortable in the back, and Jack and Luke are up front with Quinn, who always takes his role too seriously.

“Quinnnn, you’re the man,” Nico daps him up into a hug when he boards the boat. He looks down the boat, greets you and Julie. Nico is the same age as Quinn, and he drives too- only he doesn’t actually have his license. He’s too lazy to get it, and he'll get away with it for as long as he can. “Jack, where’s your friend? You know, the one.” He makes a face, which makes the whole boat snicker. He imitates Megan clinging to Jack’s arm, and quickly gets shoved off. “God, what’s her name?” He snaps his fingers, as if it would help him. He gives up, tapping Quinn, “Yo, pull over on your left here.”

Nico was probably Jack’s best friend, outside of his brothers. He’s a class clown and a loose cannon. He’s annoying, and crass, and loud, and terribly easy to like. He's everything Quinn isn't. He gives Luke pointers on picking up girls like they're trade secrets. Like Jack, he's easy on the eyes. You think that's why he gets away with all the stuff he does, charms his way out of anything. They're a devastating duo on the lake for sure.

He brings Luke up the random dock and disappears up the stairs. They return quickly, faster than you can suggest leaving them. They have two pretty girls in tow, who you recognize from the country club. Luke 's ears are red but he's grinning. You can see Quinn roll his eyes from where you sit at the back of the boat. Nico introduces Chelsea and Mila, and everyone except Quinn finds themselves at the back of the boat. You stare at his back until Jack's voice reels you back in. The conversation is something to do with how certain finishes make docks less slippery. It's nothing interesting, but you suspect Jack could read a telephone book and someone would listen. Even Chelsea and Mila pretend to for a bit.

Chelsea was slender with sharp features, like a supermodel with the height to match. She was easily the tallest person on the boat, clearing even Quinn, who had grown a lot since the previous summer. Mila had a rounder, friendlier face, and was only up to Chelsea's shoulders. You learned that Chelsea liked writing poetry and Mila's goal in life was to become a cat lady. It was hard to believe they weren't sisters, but best friends, like you and Julie.

Nico quickly grows bored of the lack of attention, and lucky for him, Quinn picks up Trevor, and then Matthew and Brady, who board with a bag of ice and a pack of fruit sodas for the cooler.

Matthew gives Quinn a break from driving, and he joins the back of the boat for the first time since setting sail. He leans on the edge of the boat, and you get everyone to squish in, so that he can sit on the cushions, too. "Thanks," he mutters, and sinks down next to you.

You know why he's not sitting on the side with the guys- he doesn't like Nico. He doesn't say much, seated next to you, but he would say even less if he were sitting over there. For Nico was everything that Quinn wasn't; all chatty and charming.

Your thigh rests over his ever so slightly, and you're made hyper aware of how hot his body runs. He leans back and you sit forward. He's still like stone, and you almost forget he's there, with your back half turned to him while you're in conversation with the girls. He doesn't sit for long, and heads back to the wheel, talking quietly with the older Tkachuk brother. His absence makes you feel cold. The surface of the boat is hot to the touch with the sun beating down on it.

The same group, the same night, gathered in the basement of the Hughes house. It was decidedly the biggest and their parents were the most accommodating. Your parents didn't mind if you and Julie were out at night, as long as you were close by. It certainly helped that they knew the Hughes personally.

Matthew opts out of the sleepover, claiming that 'he's too old for this,' and 'he's got better things to do', like calling his girlfriend. That left the ten of you, a mix of sitting and laying down in the Hughes' big comfy basement. The couch downstairs was even bigger than the one upstairs in the living room, you could all fit side by side. But why would you when there were bean bags and floor cushions that were just as comfortable.

You'd outplayed the board games and grew tired of the video games, and it had gotten to that hour of the night, where you would all sneak out to the lake and lay on the grass under the stars. You couldn't imagine doing any of this with anyone else- it was still very boys vs girls back home, and middle school boys were decidedly gross.

Nico reminds you that he's gross, too. "Hey Lukey, who would you rather see topless? Julie or Mila?"

The question cuts through the peaceful silence, and you hear someone sigh. The energy shifts, though no one moves, breaths held.

"Uhh, probably Julie." Luke answers awkwardly, but recovers fast, "Trevor: would you rather kiss five 10/10s, or french two 5/10's?"

You close your eyes as Trevor dissects the question and explains his thought process over something that would never actually happen. "... 5 is pretty good overall. I'm frenching the 5's. Higher possibility of getting to the next base.” You hear hands clap, likely Trevor and Nico high-fiving; for what, you have no idea. It's not like it would ever happen.

"Hey, Sunshine, whose bed would you rather sleep in? Jack or Luke?" Trevor asks you, and you hear coughing from Jack on your right. Luke is eagerly waiting for your answer.

“You know there are three of them, right?” You say to Trevor.

Nico laughs like a dog barks. “Quinn wouldn’t let you in his bed even if you begged him,” He makes you frown in the dark. Trevor snickers, and the group laughs lazily, because Nico is justsofunny.

“Mmm, I think I have to go with Lukey." You think before speaking, "Julie, who would you rather go swimming with, Jack or Benji?"

"Who the hell is Benji? Nah, keep it local," Nico cuts in while Julie thinks. You don't know what she's thinking about. She'll say Jack every time.

"Fine," you bite back at him, starting to get annoyed, "Jack or Brady?"

"And swimming? You can do better than that, c'mon now. Make it interesting at least."

"Since when are there so many rules to Would You Rather?" Chelsea speaks up in your defence. You feel her warm hand on your wrist; you don't have to face him alone. Nico's replies are grumbles.

"Jack?" It comes out like a question, as if she's unsure, as if she forgot what the original question was.

"I said choose someone other than Jack," Nico snaps.

"Dude, relax," Jack says, and when Jack says that you know Nico's getting wound up. He knows Nico, knows the ebbs and flows of his temper. It's getting tense now. Softly, he says, "Just go, Julie."

'Chelsea, if you had to choose, who would you rather see naked? Trevor or Brady?' Uhhh, Brady. Sure.

'Brady, would you rather shower with Sunny or Mila?' Sunny. Sorry Mila.

'Z, would you rather have Chelsea or Mila sit in your lap?' Mila, definitely, Mila.

'Sunshine, would you rather Netflix and chill with Quinn or Nico?'

You think about it. You're not sure what you're thinking about, because you'd rather drink a cup of lake water than be anywhere close to Nico Hischier. You're so familiar with Quinn that despite the night you can see his face, clear in your mind. You're silent for maybe a little too long.

"Are you actually thinking about it?" Nico's voice is provoking. It seems like he's calmed down, anger turning into shit eating mischief.

"Quinn," you say, jaw tight, controlling your own. But you've been petty since the age of ten, "Easily, Quinn."

"It's not like it would ever happen." Nico mutters. He's good at that, saying things under his breath for everyone to hear.

When Jack tells Nico to calm down, it's because he's getting out of hand.

When Quinn tells Nico to calm down, it's a warning.

"Move on, dude." Quinn doesn't like Nico, not really. You're not fond of Nico either, as fun and funny as he could be. It'd be two summers later that he'd give you a good reason.

Of course it's Jack that brings a girlfriend back to the lake first. Her name is Lola and her hair is a pretty shade of light brown so close to blonde, you're surprised it's natural. You learn that she's really good at wakeboarding. She's funny like Luke, and cute like Mila. She's sweet like you and easy to talk to, like Julie. Julie tries not to like her. But like Nico, she's hard to hate.

You're fifteen and meeting a girl like Lola makes you acutely aware of how your shirts fit a little tighter in the chest, and how your tummy folds when you sit down. She looks good in anything she puts on. You were never shy about being in your bathing suit before, but this summer you keep your tshirt on for as long as reasonably possible. Because you're fifteen and now you care what people think of you; want boys to like you, look at you the way Jack looks at Lola.

You were thirteen when you realized Jack is pretty. You're fifteen and you see what Megan saw in your friends. There had to be something in the lake water, because the boys back home don't look anything like they do. They changed every year, bit by bit, sure. But now Luke towers over you, curly hair like the cutest puppy in the pet shop, and Trevor's face is so much sharper, and Brady is as big as he is tall. Quinn looks so fluffy with his hair grown out, and his voice officially dropped. Not that he used it all that much, though he was grumbling about needing a haircut.

"Don't," you tell him quietly, as quietly as he said it. You're helping him with the boat, or more accurately, he's helping you with yours. Your dad is flying in late, and ever neighbourly, Mr. Hughes sends his best (and really only) boater for your assistance.

If he heard you, which he did, he doesn't say anything. The only indication that he did might've been in his eyebrows, which raised for less than a moment. He's focused on checking the oil, the engine, you're not really sure, honestly. You're just cleaning the dust off everything. "You finally getting your license this year?"

"With any luck, yeah." You want to keep him talking now that he’s opened up, "Any tips?"

"Uhh," he stops what he's doing, doesn't quite look at you. Maybe he's thinking. He's not good with his words so, "I can show you, after this?"

"Oh." Your eyes widen, surprised by how much you want that. Before you can reply, you hear shouts of your names.

"Morning!" Julie stretches both arms up to the sky, having just woken up. It’s nearly noon. She looks small on your back deck. You wave at her, and she makes her way down the stairs. You hear Quinn sigh softly, and if you weren't paying so much attention to him and his voice you would have missed it. You have maybe thirty seconds before she makes it to the boat.

"Later, yeah?"

He's quiet, and as Julie approaches he says on a deep exhale, "Yeah, okay."

Julie puts both hands on the boat, using them to help push her feet up off the dock for a few swings. "How's she lookin'?" she asks, peering over at what Quinn's got his hands on (she doesn't know either.)

"What?" Quinn asks, a bit too fast. His ears are red as he all but glares at your best friend. Julie squints at him, squints at you.

"The boat?" she deadpans. "When'll she be ready?"

"Soon," you answer for Quinn, who's retreating back into his shell. “We can probably take it out later this afternoon. I think Quinn said we need to check the… propellers.”

“Okay…” Julie says slowly, “Sounds boring. I’m gonna go eat breakfast with your mom. She says lunch is ready whenever you’re ready, by the way.”

You both watch her disappear up the deck, and Quinn turns to you, “The propellers are fine? We turned them on earlier.”

“I know,” you say, even though you really didn’t, “c’mon, I thought you were going to show me stuff?” You look up at him and turn the key to the boat to start the engine. He laughs, eyes widening as he catches up with your train of thought, takes the wheel from you and quickly pulls away from the dock.

There's not much to driving a boat on a lake, but he tells you what they'll ask of you on the exam, and goes through the motions with you. The two of you drive through every inch of Lake Bloomington, Quinn talking more than you had ever heard him in all your years of knowing him. You like the sound of him, want him to talk to you forever. So you keep him talking.

You ask him and he tells you. He tells you about his goals in life and when they’ll happen, not if. He tells you he’s not one to dwell on dreams. He’ll play in the NHL someday soon. You didn’t realize it was that serious for him, for any of the Hughes, but you tell him not to forget about you when he’s famous. You’re only partially joking. He tells you how he’ll pay off the lake house mortgage for his parents the moment he can. In his own way, he tells you he'll always be here, on this lake.

Jack asks you to take care of Lola while he’s out at the rink with the boys. You have Julie, Chelsea, Mila, and Lola over, and you’re lounging around the patio set on your back deck, the trees fanning you with a gentle breeze every now and then.

“Yeah, I want one like that, with its face all squished,” Lola is showing Mila a video of a cat on Instagram. They get along well. You got along well with her, too. And as much as she didn’t want to, so did Julie.

“So, are you guys in relationships, too?” Lola asks, turning a lazy day into an official girls day, hot gossip and all. “I’d be surprised if none of you are.”

“Chelsea just broke up with her boyfriend,” Mila says, and if they weren’t best friends it would have been jarring to hear it from anyone other than Chelsea.

“Good for you, girl,” Lola fist bumps Chelsea across the table. “Guys don’t deserve girls, honestly.”

“What do you mean? Aren’t you with Jack?” Mila asks. You try not to engage her as much, though you want to. Julie is your friend first.

“I am,” she smiles with a nonchalant shrug. She blushes, shows her love for him on her cheeks. “I just mean, you guys are so awesome to be around. Wars were fought over women, y’know? Boys are lucky to be around you. They don’t always deserve it, though. Chelsea knows what I mean.”

And you look at Chelsea, who cries into Mila’s shoulder. When she catches her breath, she tells all about her ex. She’s a writer, so she makes you fall in love with him too, drives you through from start to finish, takes you along the bends. She has such a way with words that you’re all crying by the end of it.

When Jack retrieves Lola it’s half past five. Chelsea’s mom picks the last two up not long after. After dinner, you and Julie lay in the grass by the water. The sun sets extra slowly that day.

You don’t need to look at Julie to know she’s crying. You put an arm around her, squeeze her tight, rub her back. “I hate that I like her.” She struggles to get the words out. “I hate it so much.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, “me too.” You hated how she was your age but so much cooler, prettier, wiser. You hated how she made knee length jean shorts look good. You hated how her hair was always perfect, even after wiping out on the water. You hated seeing your best friend cry.

She looks up from your shoulder when she feels you tense up. She lets out a small sob when she sees Jack and Lola, sitting on the Hughes’ dock, feet in the water. She stands and bolts up your patio stairs with tears flying off her face. She dodges Quinn on her way up.

“What are you doing here?” You ask when he reaches you. He ducks down, crawls behind some foliage and motions you to come with.

“Your dad let me in,” he says, but it’s not his regular quiet. He’s being sneaky quiet.

“Okay, that’s how you got here. What are you doing?”

“Spying on Jack, obviously. Are you staying or leaving?” He looks up at you and you feel bad that your first thought isn’t Julie, but you know her well enough that she’ll need time to calm down before you can talk to her again anyways. You make yourself small next to him, leaning towards him to peek around the trees in your way.

They’re laughing, and you note the way Jack’s hand rests on the deck, one arm crossed behind her. Not quite around her yet, but he fixes that quickly. He reaches sideways and hugs her to him. She lays her head on his shoulder and he doesn’t let go. The clouds are pink and they cradle the sun, casting the loveliest light over the lake. It’s picture perfect, their silhouettes on the dock and the setting sun.

As you spy on Jack and Lola watching the sunset, you realize that you’re watching the sunset with Quinn.

You're sixteen when your parents let you have a boyfriend, and you're surprised they like him enough to invite him to the lake that summer. He gets well along with Julie, who insists on inviting a friend of her own so she's not third wheeling all summer. You tell her that the gang will still be there, it's not like she's stuck with the two of you. Your parents seem more understanding than you, and let her bring Olivia. You like Olivia too, so of course you're excited to bring more friends to the lake.

Your boyfriend, Jason, is the first guy from school that asked you to hang out and didn't make it weird. He's got a pretty face, is tall and fills out his t-shirts with his broad shoulders. He's nice to you and nice to your friends and that's kind of all you look for in a guy at sixteen. Jason Robertson is popular in your middle school and he's popular on the lake, too. Maybe that's why Nico doesn't like him.

To Julie's joy, Lola is no longer in the picture. Olivia and Quinn get along well. You're surprised that he drops his resting bitch face when he talks to her. You suspect the only reason she's not going for Jack is because she knows Julie is. Jason sits in the driver's seat behind you, and you're perched on his knee as you drive your dad's boat down the lake. His arm holds you like a seatbelt, and he chats easily with Trevor, Chelsea, and Mila who are nearby. The only person Jason hasn't had much time with is Quinn, which is fine, because he always seems to be talking to Olivia. Since when does he talk so much?

"Eyes on the road, yeah?" Jason says, chin on your bare shoulder. His hand covers yours and pulls the boat back on path. His voice is the same pitch as Quinn's, and it's among the things you like about him. You hum absently, used to him being so close to you.

"I can take over, Sunshine?" Nico offers out of nowhere. He doesn't like you, but he seems to like Jason even less, hates him enough to be nice to you. He calls you by your nickname every chance he gets- something Jason doesn't have for you. Nico holds it over him like it's his. You have the right mind to tell him off, but you're not in your right mind. You were out on the lake with all your best friends, and you were getting annoyed, and for once it wasn't because of Nico.

"Yeah, fine," you let go of the wheel irresponsibly, walking away from Jason. He's fine to be left alone, after all, everyone else likes him. You walk to the back of the boat where they're wakeboarding and sit down next to Julie in the corner. She's next to Jack, her usual spot, and immediately notices you fuming. She turns to you, asks if you're okay with her eyes. You give her a nod, close your eyes and throw your head back on the seat. The Michigan sun is hot, uncomfortably so.

The Hughes installed a pool table in the basement, so of course all summer long there is a running tournament. There's a leaderboard on the mantle, keeping score. In an attempt to climb the standings, Nico gets alcohol involved. Brady convinces Matthew to boot, who only agrees if he stays to supervise. He sets you guys up with beer pong and drinks a bottle in front of the TV, playing Super Smash Bros. with Jack, Julie, and Mila. It's hard to get Quinn and Luke away from the pool table. It's hard to get Olivia away from Quinn.

You don't like the taste of beer so you're really avoiding losing. Trevor cheers on Nico and Chelsea across the table, and Brady helps you and Jason catch stray ping pong balls. Jason's on the basketball team, so you figure he'd be good at this, and he is.

It could be that he's drunk from drinking all the times Chelsea didn't want to. It could be because Jason's name is still above his on the chalkboard. It could also be because he just lost beer pong to him. Nico didn't like your boyfriend Jason, and he was being so nice to you to spite him that you almost forgot how awful he could be.

Nico whips a ping pong ball at him, misses. "Could it be more obvious that she doesn't even fucking like you, dude?" He's not yelling, but he might as well have been, the way the room falls silent. "She's been into Quinn since like, the sixth grade. Everyone here knows you're a cuck." Jack comes quickly, and you feel Jason breathing heavy beside you, until he's not. He leaves through the basement door, and you don't realize you're crying until Julie grabs you, wipes your face with her thumbs.

You hate the quiet, the room dead silent aside from Jack speaking to Nico in a hushed fury. You hate the way Olivia stares at you, eyes wide next to Quinn. Above all, you hate that Nico reads you for everyone like a children’s book at story time.

Julie’s now talking to you, but it's like you’re underwater, you can’t make out a thing. You look at Nico, who’s arguing with Jack. Behind him you see Quinn, who puts his cue stick down, lays it on the table.

“So I’m just supposed to let him walk all over me? Get real,” Nico snaps, and takes a shove at Jack. Trevor grabs Nico’s shoulder and pulls him back. Nico looks at you, his gaze as hot as his words are cold, “I’m not even wrong, am I?”

“Nico, you ruin everything.” You scream at him and take off through the same door as Jason. Your voice cracks at the end, all the hurt for them to hear. You’ve never been this upset before, not at home, and certainly not at the lake. This was your happy place.

Julie doesn’t run after you, and stops Luke from doing so. She knows you, knows you need to calm down before anyone can talk to you. She looks at Nico like he shot you, and he groans, rubs his hands over his face. He fears he's done more damage than it was worth. It's not his fault you were in the crossfire.

You cross through the trees between your houses, look up and see the light in Jason’s room on. He’s talking on the phone. You can’t face him, can’t face your parents right now, not with how much you’re crying. You sneak down the steps towards the lake. It’s very dark, the moon and stars covered by clouds that begin to cry with you.

The rain is cold, yet the night is warm. It doesn’t rain often in the summertime, but when it does it pours. You like the way it feels, soaking your hair and your t-shirt. Your tears run warm down your face, the only evidence you’re still crying. You sit there, mesmerized by the feeling of water falling from the sky and your eyes.

“Julie said you weren’t in your room.” You don’t need to look at him to know. There was only one person who had ever sat here with you. “Thought I’d find you here.”

“How’d you know?” Your voice doesn't sound like your own, weak and hoarse. Quinn lowers himself to the ground, sits down next to you. Every breath feels like a sob.

“Lucky guess.” You feel him shrug. This is the most he’s spoken to you all summer. The realization makes you cry even more. You’re soaked, and soon he will be too. You feel him place something over your shoulders, pull the hood gently over your head. You look over at him, now just in his t-shirt. His eyes look back at you softly, the ghost of a smile across his face. He leans back on his hands, one arm crosses behind you.

Jason's parents fly him back home the next day. You dread September but decide to make the most of what's left of your summer vacation. Quinn's driving the boat around, and it's just the six of you today. You notice that Olivia keeps her distance, instead lets Luke entertain her. He's entertaining, for sure.

"What are you doing?" Julie calls up to Quinn, slight alarm in her voice. You notice him slowing into a dock on the left, connected to the Hischier's house. Nico's standing there, as if he was expecting it. He's got his hands in his pockets and from where you're sitting you can see an ugly bruise around his eye forming. Quinn doesn't reply, just looks at you and calls you over with a tilt of his head. You do so, and everyone follows to the front of the boat, wanting to hear what he has to say.

"I'm sorry," he says, and for the first time, you think he actually feels bad about what he's done. The black eye certainly couldn't feel good. Quinn stays in the drivers' seat. He knows you can face Nico on your own. If anything happens, you have Luke and Jack by your side.

"Yeah? For what?" Your words are dull when you want them to be sharp. You're mad but you don't hate him like you want to. You grew up with him, and he's made you laugh a million times. It's hard to hate guys like Nico.

"For making you cry," he says gently, and you know it's the truth. He apologizes for what he's sorry for, because he's not sorry about what he said to Jason, not sorry for driving him away. "It wasn't cool and..." Nico's eyes drift from yours for a moment, behind you, to Quinn, "...I know it's not true." He lets out a weak laugh, "I mean, you and Quinn-"

You stop him before he can make things worse for himself, point to your own eye and ask, "That hurt?"

"Yeah, fuck me. Like, every time I blink." he whines.

"Good,” you say, and hear Quinn laugh. It's beneath the sound of the water swishing against the boat, but your ears are so tuned to him; you wouldn't miss such a pretty sound.

"We good, then?"

"We're good." Quinn quickly peels away from the platform and drives around in a tight circle, makes the water come up and spray Nico, who's left standing on the dock. He yells and cusses at the boat, but he laughs as much as you do. You wave at him getting smaller in the distance. He flips you off, and you give it right back with a smile.

You walk over to Quinn, leaning against the wall behind his seat, while his brothers and your friends return to the comfy cushions at the back of the boat. “Thanks, Q,” you make his nickname even shorter. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make it weird, but you know he heard you. You know by the way the tops of his ears turn pink and his shoulders roll back. He looks up at you over his shoulder quickly. The moment felt like an hour, his eyes look through you like you're made of glass. You blinked and he was looking forward, driving responsibly.

You're seventeen when Julie stops holding out for Jack. She's probably still his biggest fan, but she's not hung up on him like she used to be. She goes to homecoming with a guy that smiles like him. You don't go with anyone, for once. Neither does Jason. He's kind, kinder than you deserve, when he doesn't let anyone say anything bad about you when people gossip about your breakup.

You sit on the bleachers with the other dateless kids, scrolling on your phone. It's homecoming for Jack and Quinn, too. You open Quinn's story after seeing Jack post from the dance floor. The night feels even lonelier, seeing him repost a girl's story. There are no words, no emojis, it's just him in a suit, with his arm around a girl in a hot pink dress. She seems really close to him. He's holding her really close to him. You wonder if he'll bring her back to the lake, if you'll ever meet her. You wonder if he felt this way when you introduced them to Jason.

You're nervous for the Hughes to arrive this year- they come from Toronto, a little farther, travel a little longer. Luke texts you like a warning. They'll arrive this evening, Quin'll have the boat ready by tomorrow, they can't wait to see you. You tell him to help this time, and maybe he might. Your dad got the boat all ready, and you sit next to it, alone on your dock. It's 6:00pm and the sun is still high enough to light the sky. You feel footsteps ripple across the wood, more so than you hear them. You look over your shoulder, surprised to see Quinn coming down towards you.

His face is slimmer though his cheeks are still full. His hair is shorter than you prefer, but still fluffy, like you like. Before you know it, the sun starts its descent, and he's in front of you, and you're breaking your neck to look up at him from where you sit. "Hey," you look back at his house, see the lights turn on one by one, "What're you doing here?" He belongs on this lake, so that's not what you're asking. "Shouldn't you be unpacking?"

"Saw you and wanted to say hi," he shrugs, taking his hands out of his pockets. You've heard it before, though you can't quite remember when he stirs your thoughts like this. You smile and stand up to greet him properly. He's taller, you tilt your chin up ever so slightly, feel your eyes raise to meet his. He's actually pretty lanky, though it's not so obvious when he's next to Luke.

"Wanna take her for a spin?" You hop up onto your dad's boat, knowing he'll follow. He belongs on this lake. He has his drivers license now, he updates you, as he drives the boat down the lake. He's always been this way; first to the finish line. He's a high achiever, however nonchalant he is about it. You congratulate him, joke that he should help you get yours too, like he did your boat license. Whoever @abbeeclarke is, she doesn't make an appearance at the lake house. He doesn't mention her once, and neither do you. You let it go and avoid wearing hot pink.

You’re seventeen when you’re down bad for Quinn Hughes. You get it. You get his appeal. He’s stoic and gloomy and he’s all sharp edges. He looks like a question waiting for an answer, but you know if asked, he'll tell. He’s someone you want to like you. You like seeing the drastic change in his face when he sees you coming his way. How he relaxes, leans back; how he smiles small and wide. His shoulders shake when he laughs. You like when you exchange glances cross the boat, or the basement; you like the way his gaze makes it feels like it’s just you and him.

From playing Would You Rather in the grass to beer pong in the Hughes' basement, the stakes only get higher. After all, a game is only fun when someone has something to lose. You watch Mila spin the bottle. It lands on Trevor who practically drags her to the closet, and closes the door before anyone can even start the timer.

Everyone picks up a Wii remote- readying up for another round of Mario Kart. You learn that three laps across three maps take about seven minutes to complete. You're in second, until you blue shell Quinn for first. He doesn't lose often, grumbles to you, "You sure you need driving lessons?"

You laugh, the alcohol in you swaying you off balance, and you straighten yourself with a hand on his bicep. Chelsea pours shots for everyone who doesn't make top three. The glasses hit the table the same time Trevor and Mila come out of the closet, giggling and wiping their mouths.

The group circles up around the bottle again. Quinn spins and you sit on your knees, watching it slow to a stop. It lands on Chelsea, and you can't help but see how much she looks like that girl on Quinn's Instagram. Chelsea doesn't move, looks across the circle to Quinn, and you beside him. Her eyes flicker to yours, and you can't make out what she's saying with her eyes. She doesn't move.

"Pass," Quinn pours himself two as per the rules of the game, using your shot glass for the second. The group isn't quiet about it, the exception created for the Hughes' sake on the odd chance a player lands on their sibling. It's never used to pass just for the sake of passing. "I'm calling it a night," he says, doesn't look at you when he leaves up the stairs. You hear the basement door shut at the top, and that's when you realize you're staring after him.

"Fuckin' buzzkill, eh?" Nico huffs, changes the game. "Chelsea, truth or dare?" We move away from the bottle on the floor, settling into the conversation pit.

"Truth," Chelsea's smart. Nico's dares aren’t worth hearing. You all know each other well enough. When Nico's asking, it's more like Truth or Drink.

"Boo. Did you want to go in the closet with Quinn?"

"Not really." She does it again, looks at you. She smiles, says evenly, "Sunshine, truth or dare?"

"Dare." You're drunk.

"Sneak into Quinn's room." Chelsea's words give the night new energy. This game, on par with Would You Rather, is interesting now that the stakes are raised. Trevor and Brady's eyebrows raise, and they drop their conversation, turn their heads towards the game.

"That's all?" You're drunk. You have to be.

"Come back with the shirt he was wearing, to prove you did," she adds, and they jeer you to your feet.

"It was Leafs' shirt," Luke clarifies for everyone. You look at Julie, who shakes the bottle of Absolut watermelon. You can always back out, you just have to drink. Rules are rules.

Jack distracts her with a hand over hers, setting the bottle back on the table. He nods for you to go with a mischievous grin, "Quinn's is the one next to the bathroom."

Bedrooms were off limits, always has been. No matter how much your parents liked the Hughes boys and no matter how much their parents trusted you. It's why the Hughes renovated their whole basement for you crazy kids. You take the stairs step by step, hearing Nico grumbling about, 'I swear to god...'

You know the Hughes' house well, what with all grabbing emergency towels and helping Mrs. Hughes pack boat lunch, and all the times your parents dropped you off on date night; you've become familiar with it's halls and creaky steps over the years. All the bedrooms are on the second floor, which is uncharted territory for you. Identical white doors, you choose the right one thanks to Jack. You don't knock- it'd be too loud, with his parents' room at the other end of the hall. There's no light under their door, which makes sense as it's half past one. You open the door quickly, step in, and rest your back on the other side of the door. You don't want to get caught in his room, but you don't want to get caught in the hall of it outside either.

Quinn's room is exactly what you expected, not that you spend much time thinking about it. It's dark, but your eyes adjust within a few breaths. There are posters of athletes on his wall, hockey sticks sitting in the corner. There are clothes all across the floor. The laundry bin by his closet isn't even full but there are clothes spilling out of it, like he just missed the basket. There are random bottles of water scattered like easter eggs, the floor, his bedside table, his windowsill. His window is open, and it's strikingly cold.

"I don't want to talk about it, Luke," you hear Quinn groan from his bed. He's under the covers, facing the wall where Sidney Crosby stares back at him.

"It's- It's me," you whisper, press yourself against the door even more. He stills, silent, then sits. The blanket rustles as he jolts up. There's a girl in his room. He's eighteen and there's a girl in his room and that girl is you.

He gets out from under the covers and swings his legs over the side of the bed. The moon beyond his bedroom window casts light on the right side of his face. Your breath hitches when you meet his eyes. He doesn't kick you out, doesn't get angry. He asks if you're okay. "Come here," he says, urges you forward, "I can't hear you."

You cross the room towards him, maybe four steps, and sit at the very edge of his bed. Not too close, not close at all, in fact. Not enough to make it weird, you hope. You tell him your mission. "I need that shirt."

He grabs a handful of his shirt, the one he's wearing, "Has to be this one?" he questions, watches you swallow and nod silently. He wonders who put you up to this, wonders who he has to thank tomorrow. Because he smiles at you, backlit by the moon. You're glowing, each stray strand of your messy hair frames you like a halo. "I'll take it off if you take off yours."

What? The question doesn't make it past your throat. The same Quinn who passed on making out in a closet, now trying to get you topless in his bedroom. On his bed. He's drunk, you tell yourself, drunk out of his mind. He has to be.

He doesn't hesitate for a moment, pulls his shirt over his head. It's nothing you haven't seen before- he's shirtless half the summer, soft abs on display. But it makes sense for him to be shirtless on the water. Not here in front of you, in his sweatpants with his hair all soft and messy. The moonlight casts shadows across his face that remind you he's older, he's got a whole year on you. You try to remind yourself he's the same Quinn that tries to carry all the groceries in one run, the same Quinn that helps your dad with the grill, and you with the boat. He's familiar, face impossibly unreadable but you know where to look for answers. His eyes, ghostly in the night, are having fun. He's having fun with you. He holds his shirt out to you, eggs you on, "I'll trade you."

Your fingers find the bottom of your own, and you begin to pull it up, slow because you're unsure. He thinks you're slow because you're a tease, audibly exhaling when you finally get it past your neck. The room is way too cold to be in sweat shorts and a bralette, but it's his words that makes you shiver. He's seen you in a bikini before, sees it all the time, but his eyes fall in a way they never would in the daylight. You lean forward to put your shirt in his other hand. He tosses it across the room, and when you reach for his blue Toronto Maple Leafs shirt, he drops it before you even feel the fabric.

He pulls you forward to him, and you struggle to keep your yelp of surprise in. Your hand grabs his bare shoulder and pushes him down on his back. His puts his hands on your hips, helps steady you as if he wasn't the one who knocked you off balance. He watches your face closely, a few centimetres above his, as he tests the water; a hand on the back of your knee adjust you so that he's in between them. His hand stays on the back of your thigh, searing. He's got you right where he wants you.

"Tell me to stop and I will." Is the last thing he says before he pulls your lips, and your hips, down on his. You'd be lying if you said you never thought about what his kisses would be like. Despite every opportunity, the bottle never landed on Quinn. Kissing him now, you fear you'd never be able to stop thinking about it.

He's thorough with his lips on yours and a hand in your hair. The hand on your hip guides you over his lap. You've never been kissed or held or wanted quite like this before. You feel him want you through his sweatpants, feel him want you on his tongue. He's minty, having must have brushed his teeth, but his breaths come in puffs of watermelon. You exhale a whine when his mouth leaves yours in favour for your cheek, then your neck. You don’t realize your hips are moving on their own until his hands are on your breasts, pushing them together for him. He kisses soft skin above your bralette, the thin fabric doing little to hide you. He squeezes hard enough to make you moan out.

You both freeze for one moment, two moments- making sure no doors open, no lights turn on in the hall.

He brings your attention back to him, bites hard on the inside of your breast, then soothes it with a suck that slowly starts to hurt more than the bite. You whimper, and he stops, looks up at you. He sits up and you sit up with him, straddling him properly now, sitting on your knees on either side of him. You use them as leverage to ride his lap more diligently. His hands grab your ass, fingers slip up under the hem of your sweat shorts. He squeezes softly and pulls, spreading you apart, creating a better slot for him to thrust against. You feel the difference immediately, melting into his chest, head over his shoulder. Everything about him is hot; the warmth from his body, his soft groans, how he looks at you through the hair that falls over his eyes.

He kisses you, different than the first, completely overwhelms you with him. All you can focus on is the drag of his hard cock against you, the position so perfectly right. It’s enough to get you off, chase something you don't know how to catch, and you moan freely into his mouth. You ride his lap eagerly, and if you were sober you might've been embarrassed showing him how much you want him.

“Be quiet for me,” he whispers as he pulls your head back, exposes your neck to him. He kisses, kisses, bites, then sucks. Not too high, nowhere too obvious. He still wants your dad to like him. He doesn’t want to get caught, and he doesn’t want to stop, and you’re gonna make him cum in his pants if he keeps listening to you. You whimper under erratic breaths; he’s so incredibly hard under you. Once he's satisfied he's given your tits the attention they deserve, he flips you over, lays you down in his double bed. He holds himself over you with one arm by your head, and his hand by your side. Your legs wrap around him, keeping him there, and he can't keep the smile off his face, looking at you.

Because it's you in his bed. It's you, eyes half lidded and shirtless and wanting him as much as he wants you. It's you, lips as soft as he always thought they'd be, kisses sweeter than he could dream. It's you, all marked up because of him. You pull him back to earth with a tiny tug on the garter of his sweatpants. He shakes his head, pecks to your lips. It's too short, he notes, as you follow after him, back arching as he pulls away. He comes back down to give you a deeper one, because he'll do nothing if not satisfy you.

"I'll take mine off if you take off yours," you whisper to him, slip a finger in the waistband of not his sweatpants, but his boxers. You tug at the clothes he has left. He swallows thickly, because he wants nothing more.

"Can't." It's the first time he sounds as affected as you feel. He closes his eyes, so he doesn't have to see you pout. Not that it matters, he's memorized every expression you've ever worn. "I... I don't have any condoms on me."

You remember that he's raised by a woman, and you're glad but it doesn't keep you from sighing softly. You remove your hand from his pants, bring your arms up around his neck. Your legs tighten around him, bring him back down against you. You wonder if he's aware of how wet you are through your shorts. He doesn't move, doesn't take things further, though you can see the want in his eyes. He's got more self control than you do, you'll give him that. Your hips move against him slowly, calves pushing him into you as hard as you please. You look him in the eyes when you tell him, "I don't care."

He watches you, blue eyes flicker over every detail of your face before he speaks, "You're drunk."

"I don't want you to stop."

His head drops down to your shoulder, lays a kiss there. He's strained, groans into your skin, "You're an angel."

"Please, Quinn."

"Can't," he repeats, and he sounds even less convincing than the first time. He hugs you, drops his body to yours, envelops you for a moment. Your hips still under his weight, but you don't find it in you to complain. You want this part of him, too. He rolls off you to the lay on his side, holds you to him. His thumb rubs the soft skin at your hip, dips under your shorts. His touch is so comforting, you almost let it distract you.

"I want it to be you." You're making things really hard. You're making him really hard.

You feel his hand slip under your shorts, and you're absolutely shut up. At first he's a little off target, but he's quick to find you where you need him, hot and wet, wetter than his dreams. You wonder if it's his first time too, as he runs a fingertip against you softly, too soft. He feels how much you want him, his finger dips inside despite the wet fabric of your panties. Your thighs fall open, give him access to all of you.

"Fuck," he mutters, and leans down to catch your parted lips. He wonders if it's your first time, when he slips his tongue in your mouth as he pushes your panties aside. His finger slips in so easily, you're so wet for him. He pulls away, breathless, and lays his forehead against yours, eyes shut tight as he feels inside you, soft and squishy and squeezing. He pulls back, drags along your walls in a way you need more of. Your hips lift, chase his hand, and he pushes back in, slow and firm, pressing your hips into the mattress. He sees your mouth fall open and he's quick to cover your mouth with his other hand, muffles the lustful sob that falls from your lips.

"Shh," he tuts, picks up the pace, which makes it worse. You're being louder than his palm can silence, and it makes him panic and loop his thumb in your mouth, pressing on your tongue. Your lips close around it, and he feels your moans vibrate as you start to suck it. He comes to the realization that he's probably going to cum in his pants tonight, but it feels good. You feel so good around his fingers. Your hands grip his forearm and his hand stutters. He adds a second finger, and your pussy grips them in a way that makes it hard to move, but he persists. You seem to like it when his palm is flush against you, so he does just that. The hand hooked into your mouth cups your face, and you lean into his touch, sucking quietly. Your eyes flutter open, and he almost lets himself go with way you're looking at him. You've got one hand gripping his straining forearm, and bring your other up to gently hold his palm to your face, like you're cherishing his touch. The arm you grip is getting tired, his wrist not used to being in this angle, but he's a high achiever, always has been.

"Quinn, I-" you try to say with his thumb in your mouth, but you're falling apart in his hands. He can feel it, hear it the way you're gushing around his fingers. "Oh, god," your back arches, presses the fabric of your bralette against his chest. He sees you through it, fingers pump steadily until you finally still in his arms. You curl up in his chest, and he wipes his fingers on his sheets before wrapping his arms around you. It's quiet now, your breaths the loudest sound in the room. You catch your breath before he does and move to straddle him again. He lays on his back, stretches his arms before putting his hands firm on your waist. He has a dopey smile on his face, smirks up at you and holds you still, doesn't let you try anything. "Quinn," you whine, thinking you were getting somewhere with him.

He sits up, leans back against his headboard, and you follow, inch ever closer. "We're not fucking tonight," he tells you, and before the words can break your heart he touches his forehead to yours, "I want you," he assures you, "God, I want you so bad," he confesses, and your hips thrust on impulse. He chuckles, and his arms wrap around you again, pulls you into a hug that you fear you’ll never stop craving. "If you still want it tomorrow-"

"Tomorrow, then." You say, before he can convince himself otherwise.

He smiles small, presses a kiss to your forehead, repeats, "Tomorrow, then." You nod, feeling mutually understood. You swing your leg over, get off his lap. "Where're you going?" he asks when you stand from the bed.

"Home?" You're trying to find your shirt from the floor in the dark.

"You sleep over all the time," he tries to reason.

"Yeah, downstairs with everyone else," You stop searching to look at him, laying in his bed. Shirtless, messier than he was before. You forget where you're going with your argument. "I'm not supposed to be here." He sighs, knows you're right, despite everything he wants. He gets up from his bed, and you feel small when he walks over and hands you a shirt, his grumbly silhouette daunting in dark. He pulls a hoodie over his head. "Where are you going?"

"At least let me walk you home." He looks over his shoulder at you from his closet. He walks back to you, puts a hoodie in your hands. "It's cold," he mutters, seemingly back to his stoic self again, but he always looks at you softly. The two of you escape from his room, and escape down the stairs. You can hear Brady and Nico snoring behind the closed door leading to the basement. You leave through the back, and he leads with his hands in his pockets. Your face is hot thinking about them and the way they felt on you tonight. The night breeze cools your skin. You think back to when you held his hand to your face, wonder what your hand would feel like in his.

Between your dock and his, he doesn't take his hands out of his pockets once. He doesn't reach for your hand, he doesn't even brush his arm to yours. He keeps his distance and you're painfully aware of the space between you. You should have taken it as a warning sign.

The next day you're driving your dads’ boat, dropping everyone back home because apparently you had 'drank the least.'

Julie had stumbled home before you woke up, and was surprised to see you in your bed. She gave you a weird look when on possibly the hottest day of the year you stepped out in a tshirt, but was way too hungover to ask questions. She helped you lug a cooler full of gatorade and ice onto the boat before sitting and texting the rest of them to hurry up, if they wanted a ride home. She opted to stay home to sleep, like Luke and Jack likely were. You wonder if Quinn will be the boy who cried hangover.

You hear the soft thumps of rubber on wood, the telltale sound of your friends marching down the steps. If you didn't know any better, you were witnessing the walk of shame. You would definitely be a part of it, had you not left the night early. You smiled, waved at Quinn, who waved back, herding the sorry teens down the dock.

You met them at the side, and the two of you ensured everyone got on the boat safely. Quinn sat beside Trevor and Brady, while simultaneously boxing Nico in from walking right off the side. Chelsea and Mila held each other, slumped peacefully. You move the boat slowly up the lake. It's just past noon and the sun is at it's highest point.

Occasionally you feel Quinn's eyes on your back, but his current task is too important to walk away from. Your swimsuit tie is visible at the nape of your neck, but you keep your dark grey t-shirt on. If Brady walks into the lake right now, Quinn didn't know how he was going to get him back in the boat. He's honestly out of breath, glad that Nico passed out in the middle of the boat, hopefully of exhaustion and nothing else. He's panting when you pull over at your first stop, Trevor’s house. Quinn walks him all the way up to his back deck, the blonde slumped against him the whole time. He did the same with Nico, and then you helped him with Chelsea and Mila.

You hand him a gatorade when he returns to the boat alone after dropping off Brady. "Do you want to switch? I can drive back," he offers, and you move to let him take the wheel. He reaches around you, trapping you between him and the wheel, and you hold your breath. He rests his chin on your shoulder as he turns the boat around, puts the boat in 9MPH, just has to keep the wheel straight until you see your house. He keeps one hand on the wheel and wraps the other around you, slips his hand under up your t-shirt. Your hands are on the wheel uselessly, purely decorative at this point. You find yourself arching, pressing back into him when his hand grips your breast, groping you in broad daylight. He had sailed a bit further into the lake, farther from the docks and parked boats on the side. "Angel, what's with the shirt?" With the hand under your shirt he tugs the collar down, finding what he was looking for.

He groans deeply, softly, looking at the dark hickeys across your chest, "What's the matter?" He pulls up your shirt, looks over your shoulder when he lifts it over your bikini top, the love bites on display for him "Don't want them to know you're all mine?" His lips land on your neck, threatening to give you one for all to see. He presses his erection to the swell of your ass and you moan out. He takes the opportunity to stuff the hem of your tshirt into your mouth. It serves two purposes; it keeps your body in full view for him, and muffles the draw of attention your utterly pornographic moans are.

"Both hands on the wheel, right angel? Keep the boat straight," he tells you. It's not hard, and it shouldn't be as hard as it is when he's grinding against you, rubbing his length between your bathing suit and his shorts. His fingers slip under the strings of your bikini bottoms, just so he can grip your hips and feel the skin unobstructed. He can barely keep his eyes off your marked up tits and occasionally one hand will come up and show them some love. He sits down on the drivers' seat, pulling you down with him. It's easier to rub against him, sitting on his lap like this. The angle has him dragging along your clit and the friction of his shorts on your thighs have you blushing and sweating.

“You still want this?” he asks you, breathing so attractively jagged.

“Kind of unfair to ask,” you look over your shoulder at him, “when you’ve got me like this, don't you think?” He chuckles, puts a hand on the wheel and straightens the boat while you continue to grind on him as you please. You subconsciously trace the length of him, gauge his size.

“I want it,” he tells you, low and honest, “Can you blame a guy for trying to convince you?” To your surprise, he pushes you down his lap, closer to his knee, holds you still there. “Tonight, then?” You groan. He's teasing you.

He definitely didn't expect you to place two hands on his knee and start riding his thigh. He must have underestimated how close you were, and if you turned your head to look at him you would have seen his eyes widen in the realization that he can make you cum again, right here and now. "Holy shit, Sunshine," he groans, and your heart flutters, remember who you are and who he is. Jack and Luke's older brother. The high achiever. The best driving instructor on the lake. "You're gonna make me cum in my pants again," he leans forward, presses his chest to your back, whispers softly in your ear, "Fuck."

You drag yourself across his thigh at a steady pace, the sheen of sweat building on you glimmered in the sunlight. You're lucky he's gagged you with your own shirt, because his hand had moved from your breast to the top of your swimsuit bottoms, and let himself in. He was pleasantly surprised with how wet you were, your swimsuit doing it's job at absorbing liquid. He lubricated his fingers with your honey and laid his hand to your front. You wonder if he knew, or if the stutter of your hips gave you away, but he found your clit and began to pet it, back and forth, firm and fast. He turned the boat quickly, facing away from the houses and shut off the engine. He wasn't that type of risk taker.

His free hand snakes up your breast, gives it a feel before slotting his wrist in between them, reaching up to pull you back into him by your throat. His grip isn't tight, but it's firm enough to hold you in place, back to his chest. It's harder for you to ride his thigh at the angle he's forced you into, but his fingers never leave your clit, now rubbing you in circles. "Is this how bad you want it?" he laughs in your ear, "Tell me you want it." All you could do is whimper and nod frantically, chasing your finish line. He smiles, and the hand on your throat helps take the shirt from your mouth. Your shirt falls down over his arm, wrinkly and damp. He turns your head to him, tilts your mouth up to meet his.

"I want it," You say agains his lips. You lay your head back onto his shoulder, tell Quinn, "I want you."

He looks at your face for what feels like hours, as he gropes your tits lazily, not letting up on his attention to your clit. You rub on his thigh erratically, his grip on your throat doing wonders to hide your desperate whines. "Oh, Angel, you're killin' me. You have no idea how much I want to be inside you right now," Quinn had never sounded so needy in his life, "Need you to want it."

"Q..." He quickly thinks to turn the engine on, hopefully mask the sound of you letting go. For the second time in the last twelve hours, you're breathing heavily against each other. "So..." you start, swinging your leg over so that you were sitting properly in his lap, "Tonight, then?" You lift your t-shirt, and wipe the sweat from the back of your neck.

He catches one last glimpse at hickey covered tits and makes note to rub a few out before he sees you later.

They say the hottest day of the summer tends to feel like the longest. It surely did, as the group lounged in and around the Hischier house pool, still recovering from the night before. The Hughes had a pool, too, but Nico's had better shading and seating all around.

You lay on a shaded couch with Julie, Mila, and Chelsea while the boys sat in and along the pool. Luke and Brady drifted on large floaties, and the rest of the guys either sat on the stairs or just had their feet in the water. The gathering needed no scheduling, it was an unspoken rule of the lake that every recovery day is a pool day. Quinn's got his back to you, and you're burning holes into him with the way you're staring.

"You alright, Sunshine?" Julie waves her hand in your face. You don't want to say anything yet, not until there's something to tell. Until then, you can't tell her that Quinn's acting weird, and part of it is because he's not acting weird at all. He's being so normal and it frustrates you.

"Yeah, I'm good," you assure her, finally redirecting your attention and finally looking at her.

"You're like, glowing," she says, though there's not much energy in her voice. She's hungover after all. She looks and sounds suspicious of you, if anything. Or maybe she's just suffering.

"Thank you?" You try to smile your way out of admitting anything. You'll tell her after tonight, get the whole story.

"Why don't we get in the pool?" Mila suggests already tying up her hair.

"I'm good here," you say quickly, "I don't want to get my hair wet today." Your friends look at you oddly, but don't push. They leave you on your own with a splash as they enter the water. You're not left alone for long, as Luke hops over the back of the couch to land next to you.

"Hey, Sunshine," he says, and just off his tone you know he knows something. It has to do with the way he can't keep his voice even to save his life. Could just be puberty... Your eyes narrow and you cross your arms over your chest.

"Hi Lukey," your voice is dripping with suspicion.

"How'd mission impossible go last night?" he asks, glances at you and then lets bounces off everyone in the pool. Luke Hughes was probably the most shit-eating person you had ever met, and so far he was playing it very cool.

"What'd he tell you?" you deadpan quietly. There's panic in your voice and in your eyes, while his glow with mischief.

"Nothin'," Luke Hughes was certainly the most shit-eating person you had ever met, "Why, is there somethin' to tell?"

Your face heats up, as if it the heat wasn't already unbearable in a tshirt. You were in the shade and the air was warm. "Shut up, Luke," you strike his arm with a fist and he feigns injury. Another body drops onto the couch, a little wet for your liking. The cushion starts to soak up the added pool water, and you inch away from Trevor and closer to Luke, who's at least dry.

"What's the deal, Sunshine?" Trevor's arm hangs over the back of the couch, "You're wearing more clothes than you have all summer." Of course he'd notice. He tugs at the collar of your cropped tshirt, and it hikes up a bit, the hem just lifting to show a bit of under boob. Thankfully you're still wearing your swimsuit despite having no plans to actually swim today, and probably for the next few days.

"Fuck off, Z," Luke swats his hand. Maybe he does know something, but you could care less in the moment, tugging your shirt down hard. Trevor raises his hands in apology when Quinn sits down on the other side of Luke. He doesn't look happy, though when does he ever, and you can't tell if he's glaring at you or Trevor. Deciding that you're not going to stick around and find out, you get up to get yourself a drink.

"Sunshine, can you bring the cooler down when you get back?" Nico calls from the pool when he sees you're heading inside. You wave your hand, letting him know you will. It's cool inside the Hischier house; they have air conditioning, after all. You feel your sweat drying two steps past the door. You kick off your shoes and head straight to the fridge, sighing happily as the cold air rushes you when you open it. You grab a cold can and press it to your cheek before cracking it open and quenching your thirst.

"Man, it's cold in here," Quinn says, coming through the door. You tense up, not in the mood to engage him right now. You turn around, ready to give him an earful, when he sets down the cooler by your feet. "Nico forgot that he had brought it down already, just needs a a refill," Quinn explains, already opening a bag of ice and pouring it in. You put your drink down and help him by dropping some beverages from the fridge into the ice filled cooler. He doesn’t say a thing, and neither do you, despite having a lot in your head. Do you even like me?

The refrigerator door closes and this time it’s your thoughts that chill you, enough to make you shiver. Because he never once said he like you. Sure, he said he wanted you, but at seventeen you knew those two things weren’t one and the same. The hickeys start to feel like plain bruises, your chest aching at the realization. Through all his gloominess, you liked him. You liked him when he had braces. You liked him when he got a bad haircut. You liked him in the summer rain, under the hot Michigan sun, and in the seasons when he was nowhere near. But he was a pearl, and you were still trying to figure out how to shuck an oyster.

It went against every standard you held yourself to. But you like him, so you sneak out to meet him by his dad’s boat, late into the night. He stands on his dock at one in the morning, hands in his pockets. Do you like me? The question is there, on the tip of your tongue, but you can't bring yourself to ask, ruin whatever could happen between you. He takes your hand, helps you onto the boat, and with the engine low, drives across to the quiet side of the lake and turns it off.

It's so quiet you can hear the water lapping at the side of the boat, and the distinct lack of energy lines you found in the city. The houses along the lake had all gone dark, save for any garden or outdoor lights. They join the stars, twinkling in the dark of night.

He's laid out what looks like every one of his moms blankets at the back of the boat and sits back on pillows you recognize from his couch. He pats the blanket next to him, but you move to straddle his lap, instead. His hands immediately find your hips, but his lips don't meet yours as fast as you expected them to. They part, asks you, "Are you sure about this?"

How can he ask that? When he's gone through all this trouble, already made you finish twice, and hasn't gotten a thing in return? How can he ask that, when it's so painfully obvious that you want him? That you've always wanted him; from the moment you knew how to want a boy, you wanted him. You think about telling him you've never been more sure of anything in your life. You also consider lying, tell him you just don't want to be a virgin anymore. But he knows you well, knows every tell you have. Not trusting your own voice, all you do is nod, lean in, and press your lips to his, hips rolling.

"Just say the word and we stop." He gives you an out, but the moment his tongue is in your mouth it doesn't cross your mind once.

Getting the condom on was trickier than you thought it would be, at least in the dark, lit only by the moon and stars. You both laughed when you rolled it on the wrong way, rendering it useless. He's glad Matthew gave him three, and the two of you manage to figure it out. He confesses that it's his first time actually having sex, and you're surprised and elated that he's doing it with you. You tell him he's your first, too, and you see the relief wash over his face.

You warn him not to leave any more marks on you, the existing ones will take long enough to fade. There wasn't much of the summer left, and it would be cooling down soon, but even you know how unusual it is for you to be covering up so much. He's got a dirty mouth, low groans of mine, mine, mine all across your skin. He kisses each healing hickey. You follow with soft moans of your own; yours, yours, I want to be yours. He fucks you slow and sweet and you feel like you might be.

You lay with your head on his bicep, both coming down from your climaxes. The stars blink back at you, and with your leg hooked over his torso, you reach down and pet his cock back to life. He's eighteen, just fucked for the first time, and he doesn't know when he'll get the chance to again, so of course he's getting hard. You've moved from his side to between his legs; of course he's getting hard. It's you, of course he's hard. He runs his hand through his hair, adjusts so he has a better view of you, not that it matters because as soon as you take him into your mouth, his head falls back against the cushions.

The warm summer air envelopes the both of you like a blanket. You're lying naked on the lake you both grew up on. He fills two condoms and you think he's finally spent, holding you like a little spoon, until you feel his dick get heavier against your inner thigh. You make no move when he reaches down, runs the tip of him along your slit, sopping wet from multiple orgasms. He threatens to dip in with each pass; up, down, up, down.

"Can I?" he asks, completely void of all rational thought. His breaths are hot in your ear and while you want nothing more than for him to fuck you raw…."I just want to be inside you... No moving, and I won't cum… Honestly, I think I'm out." He makes you giggle, and you scoot your hips back, push him in yourself. You both sigh contentedly, and he hugs you close, snugs his head in the crook of your neck.

You wake when the sun breaks the horizon. Thankfully the morning light wakes you up early, before any other boats hit the lake. You're definitely suspiciously parked, out in no mans land. Quinn's arm is around your waist, and with each sway of the boat, he gets harder inside you. His grip around you tightens, and you start to squirm against him. "Fuck, baby, stop moving..." He groans, and it's his morning voice that sets you off. You turn your head, look over you shoulder, and you want him all over again, moving your hips in time with the rocking of the boat to get yourself off on him. He tries to keep you still, but can't even control the way his hips move desperately against yours.

He doesn't pull out, as irresponsible as it is, he doesn't want to. He cums inside of you, and you like it so much you cum, too. Your hips slow to a stop, and your eyes widen when you feel the mess between your thighs. You scramble to sit up, unintentionally giving him a great view of his cum dripping out of you. As scared as you are, with the way he's looking at you, you feel like you're his.

Early that afternoon, you're in the passenger's seat of the Hughes' family car, while he drives you both to the nearest grocery store. Under the guise of helping pick up last minute items for the barbeque your parents were hosting tonight, you were running to the pharmacy to pick up Plan B.

It's Quinn that walks up to the counter and finds you in the drinks aisle with a box in his hand. Your mom texted you a list, so you do end up filling a cart with Quinn. Neither of you are too chatty this morning, nerves both high hoping there were no consequences to recent actions. You're surprised to hear your name called down the aisle, and it’s the Tkachuk brother's that find you two.

"Yo, fancy seeing you two here," Brady says, daps up Quinn and Matthew does the same.

"Just pickin' stuff up for my mom for tonight," you tell them honestly, but you don't miss the way Matthew's eyes flicker between you and Quinn. Quinn is really good at being neutral.

"Nice, so're we." Brady shows you his basket full of fruit and cheese.

"You're coming over later, yeah?" You try to hold a normal conversation with Brady while Matthew and Quinn have a silent one of their own. Matthew's grin turns shit eating when he catches wind of the little blue box sitting in your cart.

"Yeah, we'll see you then?" You're relieved when Brady takes it upon himself to walk away, taking Matthew with him. The older Tkachuk whistles low as he departs, patting Quinn on the shoulder as he goes. You whack the same arm.

"You told Matthew?" You whisper furiously, pushing the cart down the aisle.

"I never told him it was you," he cards a hand through his hair, looks down and looks at you as he does. An unfair, fail safe move; It should be illegal to take your breath away like that. "Who do you think gave me the condoms?"

The barbeque at yours is probably the last your families will all gather this summer, parents and kids all in one place that isn’t the country club. Your mom takes great pride in being a gracious host. You’re in the kitchen, helping her finish a couple platters. You look up out the window and see your dad handing Quinn a beer over the grill. Your parents didn’t mind giving you kids a drink or two, as long as it was low in percentage and no one was driving. He brings the bottle to his lips and finds you through the glass, gives you a big smile.

“Honey?” Your mom calls, “Are you coming?” She glances at Quinn out the window, tries to keep her smile to herself by bringing one dish to the table. You follow her out to the deck and set it down. The cropped tank top you’re wearing has a high neckline, keeping you safe from suspicion. You’re surrounded by friends and family on perhaps the nicest evening on the lake. The pretty patio lights your mom had your dad set up switched on; the sun now far enough that the solar panels couldn’t read its rays. You hold a plate for Quinn to take things off the grill and set it down on the table once it fills up. There's a long table in the middle of your patio, you and your mom had set up together complete with a tablecloth and floral details. As soon as the meat starts to hit the table, the guests flock to a seat.

Off the conversations of your parents, you realize that Quinn will be applying to colleges next year. Trevor is going to follow Brady to Boston, and Nico's going to try his hand at the hockey leagues back home in Switzerland. He's confident that he'll be able to catch a scout's eye from across the water. Chelsea got into UCLA, and Quinn wants to go to one with a good hockey program, after all, he has a big dream to achieve. He sits beside you, but hearing him talk about it makes the gap between you feel even bigger. You wonder if it shows on your face, because once glance at you and you feel his hand on your knee under the tablecloth. His touch is warm and assuring, but does nothing to settle your thoughts, if not distract you.

At the end of the night, you and Quinn sneak away, down the dock towards the lake. If anyone notices, they let the two of you go. You both did lots to prep and set up the night, the other kids can help bring things inside. You stop before the dock, on the grass; your usual spot. Knowing you're out of sight, sitting in the grass under the stars, he takes your hand in his. He's touched you all sorts of ways in the last three days, but you like this the most. He looks through you like glass, holds you like you'll shatter. "What's the matter, Angel? You seem bothered."

"I shouldn't be," you confess, "I guess... I feel like you're leaving me behind?"

Quinn hums, nodding slowly, thinking before he speaks. "It's harder to leave the lake this year, for me for sure." It's hard for me to leave you.

"I just mean, when you go to college and all..." Where does this leave us?

"I see." His thumb strokes the knuckles of your hand. "I..." like you but can't be in a relationship right now. He starts but doesn't finish, knows it's the wrong thing to say, so he tries to think of the right one. There are a lot of things in the way right now. He knows he should just be honest, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't scared out of his mind to say what he actually wants to say. "I'll miss you," he says, "I miss you every time, actually... remember when I said Luke texted you on my phone?"

It feels like ages ago, but you'd never forget the way your heart skipped in art class in eighth grade. But you're petty, always have been, "The time you left me on read?"

"Did I?" he chuckles under your glare, scratches the back of his neck bashfully. "I'm sorry, Angel," his arm comes around you, hugs you to him, "Well, it was me. I wanted to talk to you, just didn't want to talk about Jack and Luke and... I didn't know how to get any further with you. Can I text you?"

Your heart is like a stone skipping over water, your breaths shallow. "Okay..."

"Just okay?" he teases, leans down and brushes his nose to your cheek.

"Okay," you playfully shove him, "I'd like that." If you were being honest with yourself, you didn't want to be in a long distance relationship during your senior year. Whatever you have with Quinn would have to remain at the lake for the time being. And you would have to be okay with that.

The week passes by so quickly. It's Friday and you're sad, because all your friends are leaving, one by one.

Q ♡ : Good morning, beautiful.

Quinn texts incite both joy and anger in you. He's so painfully boyfriend material, and each morning he reminds you.

Morning

Q ♡ : Can you meet me at our spot?

Our spot. You have to remind yourself it's not happening. He's not going to get down on one knee, he's not going to ask you to be his girlfriend, he's not going to do anything of the sort. He's going to pack up his parents' car in a few hours and drive off to the airport and fly home and apply to a college far away and you won't see or hear from him until next summer.

Q ♡ : I want to see you before I go

I'll be there in 5?

Quinn's already there when you get to the grassy area just off your deck steps. Our spot. He's holding something covered in plastic wrap in his hand, with a little shovel at his feet. He sees you.

"What do you have there?"

"Something for future you," he hands it to you, lets you hold it in your hands. It's a box, wound tightly with plastic wrap.

"Future me?"

"Yup." He's pretty excited about whatever's inside, beaming as you turn it every which way. "I'm gonna bury it right here, at our spot. Next summer, you get to dig it up."

"What's stopping me from opening it right now?"

"Well, for one, a shit ton of plastic wrap. Second of all, me," he swipes it from you, and starts to dig a relatively deep hole in the ground. You crouch down, watching him work with his hands that you like so much, "and third, you won't." He drops the box in and you help him fill the hole. Your dirt covered hand brushes his, and he stops to smile at you.

"Do I have dirt on my face or something?"

"No, not yet." Before you can ask, he brings a hand to your face, and pulls you in. You fear it's the last kiss you'll ever share; a lot can change in a year. It's enough for you to set aside the thought of dirt on your face and kiss him back. His kiss is slow and lingering, and he barely pulls away when he does, resting his forehead against yours.

You find out Quinn got accepted into the kinesiology program at the University of Michigan, not through him but through Instagram. You text him congratulations and he tells you it's because they had the nicest rink. He's so close to the lake, you joke about meeting him there during his reading break. He leaves you on read and you wish you never said anything.

You complain to Julie, because she always knows when something is wrong. You’re in her bedroom, laying across the foot of her bed while she sits on her vanity chair. You have to tell her everything, she’s your best friend. Maybe not everything. Maybe you don’t mention that you fucked on the boat that she rides on every summer.

“Girl, you gotta get your mind off him.” She’s sorting her makeup brushes, talking to you through the mirror. “He texts you just to ghost you and that’s not fair! He doesn’t get to have you just when it’s convenient for him.”

She’s right, so you let her take you to the basketball team’s party that weekend. You play beer pong with Jason Robertson, for old times sake, and Julie captures it on her Instagram story. There’s no bad blood between you anymore, and the two of you dominate the table that night.

Quinn texts you for the first time in three weeks and you leave him on read.

Q ♡ : Angel, I’m missing you extra

Q ♡ : Are you mad at me?

Quinn is nineteen when he gets drafted for the Vancouver Canucks. He’s surrounded by family and he’s got 91 notifications and he can’t help but notice that none one of them is from you.

You’re eighteen the first summer you spend without Quinn. He’s busy in Vancouver, getting to know the city and his new teammates.

Julie takes it upon herself to make it the best summer ever. She pulls you from the depths of your own despair, and gets you back on your feet. Tells you the world doesn’t revolve around Quinn Hughes, and neither should yours. As much as she likes Quinn, she hates the way he has you moping around.

Our spot, he called it. You don’t find yourself there once that summer.

Quinn is twenty the next time you see him. He’s got the makings of a beard, he fills out his tshirts, and he looks as stoic and haggard as ever. He calls to you from his porch.

“Hey, Sunshine.” You didn’t think his voice could get any deeper. It’s hoarse from being used more than he’s used to. You sit up from where you lay across a patio chair, rush embarrassingly quickly to where you can see him through the trees.

“Quinn?” You hate the way you feel; your heart betrays every thought in your mind.

“I missed you,” he leans against the bannister, “Come over later tonight?”

His invitation is nothing like you think it is. You and Julie descend the steps of the Hughes’ basement to be greeted with a room full of faces, both familiar and not. Quinn comes to greet you while Julie makes her way to Jack, who’s surrounded by girls.

“How’ve you been?” He doesn’t hug you like Luke does. He keeps his distance, one hand on a red solo cup and the other in his pocket. “Did you bring Jason?”

“I didn’t. What’s with the small talk?” You mutter, crossing your arms over your chest, close yourself off to him.

He leans down ever so slightly, still doesn’t touch you once, “Nothin’ small about it,” he says, low in your ear. His confidence is new to you, and while your mind is still figuring out if you like it, there are butterflies in your stomach that certainly do. A lot has changed over the years. He pulls away, “Let me introduce you.”

You find out he’s only invited two guys from his college team. It’s Nico and Trevor that brought all the ladies, and are grumbling about it when they’re all interested in Jack. You giggle when they tell you, because there’s nothing that makes you laugh quite like Nico not getting what he wants. Quinn smiles softly at the familiar sound, and offers to get you something to drink. He hands you a watermelon vodka sprite and you wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. Running his hands through his hair, the backwards baseball cap, each lick of his lips.

The girls that don’t get Jack’s attention quickly decide that they’d gladly take any of the Hughes. You have the right mind to tell these college girls that Luke’s only seventeen, until you remind yourself that you have no ground to stand on. You were seventeen once, too.

You were seventeen when Quinn first puts his hands on you, you’re reminded of it when is hand finds your hip. You stare at him over the rim of your cup as he talks to the friends he introduced you to. His arm around you is loose, and while you want nothing more than to take a step closer, you don’t.

A girl comes up and asks him to be her beer pong partner, points behind her where Trevor and Mila are setting up the table. He glances at you with a look you’ve never seen in him before, and excuses himself to follow after her. Now your hip is cold and it has nothing to do with how short your crop top is.

You find Chelsea and Julie at the other end of the couch.

“You two are peas in a pod, you know that?” You and Julie are seemingly in the same boat, and Chelsea is all but amused.

“What are you jealous about?” Julie snaps at you, “You’ve had him in your pocket for the last how many years?” You rub your face with your hands, because that was then. Right now, he's playing beer pong with a girl you fear he finds much prettier than you.

“You know he’s only doing this because he saw you playing pong with your ex on Julie’s story, right?” Chelsea says.

“Huh?” Julie drawls, words extended by alcohol, “That was like, months ago.”

“You’ll probably remember this months later, too,” Chelsea’s eyes flicker to Jack, talking with a girl seated in his lap. Julie rubs her eyes, too.

“Whatever, I am so done with Jack Hughes.” You watch her storm off towards the pool table, and from where you sit, you see that Jack notices her bad mood, too. You pray that he gets up and follows her, and he does. You always want what you can’t have, and you hope Julie hasn’t closed her heart off to Jack just yet.

“So, he’s doing all this just to make me jealous?” You ask Chelsea, eyes on the brown haired boy tossing ping pong balls across a table.

“Mhm, fight fire with fire no?” she follows your line of sight, “Were you not doing the same when you decided to play with Jason?”

You don’t say anything because there’s nothing more to say. She’s absolutely right that you had Quinn in your head and your heart, however bitterly at the time. Your eyes widen, and you scramble to your feet. “I gotta go,” you rush out the side exit before Chelsea can respond. She doesn’t miss the way Quinn looks at his phone and leaves mid game, following after you only five minutes later. She’s a poet and hopeless romantic; she‘ll notice every glance and touch. Chelsea smiles softly to herself and takes Quinn’s place against Mila and Trevor.

Meet me at our spot.

“You never dug it up,” he’s breathing heavily when he gets there, as if he ran to you, “I thought you forgot.”

“I did, and I didn’t,” you say, defences up again. “Why didn’t you text me?”

“You’re the one who stopped texting me,” he responds fast, looking at you incredulously, then question for question, punch for punch, “Why didn’t you dig it up?”

“I didn’t want to,” your voice is cold, freezes over what you want to say. I didn't want to do it alone.

The look on Quinn’s face almost made you take it all back. He takes a step back from you, like you struck him. “Well, it’ll be here when you want it,” his tone doesn’t match yours. It’s soft and sad and he’s already walking away.

The taste of watermelon is bitter on your tongue as you walk home alone.

Julie stumbles home around half past one and passes out quickly. You’ve been lying in bed for hours trying to sleep, but your minds just keeps racing. Are they sleeping over at the Hughes? All those pretty girls?

You check you phone for the time, see a text from Quinn from an hour ago.

Q ♡ : I’m sorry

Q ♡ : Let’s dig it up together

He always saw right through you.

It’s four in the morning when you meet Quinn at your spot. He’s got a shovel in hand, the same one he used to bury it. This time, he hugs you when he sees you and you hug him tightly, breathing him in. “I’m sorry, Angel,” he speaks into the top of your head, “I shouldn’t have held anything against you…”

“I’m sorry, too,” you look up at him, keep him close, “I should’ve texted you back those times. I should’ve called.”

“You were busy,” he shook his head, “I understand.”

“I’ll never be too busy for you,” you tell him earnestly, and his gaze visibly softens, and the two of you get to digging. Quinn dusts the box off and begins unravelling all the plastic. Dawn breaks the night sky when he hands you the small box. You shake it to your ear, but don’t hear anything. He’s avoiding eye contact with you now, sits down in the grass and leans back on his hands. “Go on, open it.”

A year late too late, you open up the box to find a small, folded piece of paper.

Thank you for seeing me when no one else does. When I’m with you, I lack nothing. You mean everything to me.

I’ll never be the loudest guy in the room, but if you let me, I’ll never shut up about how much I love you.

“Don’t laugh, I literally had Chelsea proof-read it.” He’s forcing himself to watch your reaction, turns his face when you look at him. He falls back in the grass, doesn’t expect you to throw yourself at him the way you do. Your arms around his neck, you kiss him with all your heart.

“Nico is gonna lose his mind,” you giggle, pull away a couple millimetres, “Because I really have loved you all this time.”

He sits up, brings you with him, and kisses you as the sun starts to rise. “God knows, I’ve loved you for so long.”

You’re nineteen the summer you’re head over heels for Quinn. You tell your parents and they’re not surprised in the slightest. Your friends all claim to have known for years. Nico tries to take credit for setting you guys up. You sneak off to watch the sunset with Quinn all the time. He takes you on late night drives and even tours you through his old college campus. You’re his just as much as he is yours.

Quinn’s debuted in the big leagues, and he’s on track for the Calder Award. You care a lot more about hockey, now that your boyfriend plays professionally. You watch all his games no matter where you are, and he always makes sure to see you when he’s playing in your city.

Long distance is hard, but the two of you make it work. It’s a lot of long, late calls, post office problems, and good morning and good night texts, but not a day goes by that Quinn doesn’t make you feel loved.

When he’s with you, he can finally drop his shoulders, feel the connective tissue between his joints just release. He’ll never know rest like the relaxation he feels when he’s with you. And while his life is now in Vancouver, his heart remains on a lake in Michigan. He’ll return to it, year after year, because that’s where he knows you’ll be.

You’re twenty-two when he asks you to move in with him. You’re having a picnic at your spot on a warm summer day.

“I’m in my second year at NYU,” you shake your head, though you can’t help daydreaming of the idea of waking up next to him every day.

“UBC has a good program you can transfer into. With your transcript, there’s no way you don’t get in,” he presses on, “And… I’m gonna be captain next year… please, baby, I need you.”

He looks at you with his stupid puppy dog eyes, runs his hand through his hair. That’s all it takes for you to cave. “Fine, only if I make the transfer. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Quinn is twenty three when his home becomes yours. His lack of things is compensated with your abundance of personal touches. Cute couch cushions and bedsheets, stuffed animals, and house plants. On a good day, on a bad day, on days that were just plain long. He comes home and melts in your arms every time. What a privilege it is to be loved by you.

He no longer counts the days till summer.

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bellstwd · 2 years ago

Text

𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍 | 𝐣. 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬

₊⊹ summary | secrets are best kept buried, just like your tangled relationship with your best friend’s older brother.

₊⊹ warnings | unrequited love ( that heart wrenching shit ), cursing? weird mentions and descriptions of blood, cursing ( lots of it ), yelling / arguing ( LOTS of it ), heavy angst with a dash of laughter, kind of OMC x reader but not too much, jealousy, kinda possessiveness ( from jack… had to do it ), emotional distress and all that good stuff

₊⊹ pairings | jack hughes x f!reader , OMC x f!reader (briefly), best friend!luke hughes x f!reader

₊⊹ author’s note | i’ve returned from a milliom year hiatus with this BIG BITCH and i’m sorry for it. may write a pt. 2 w a happy ending bc i’m a slut for them. anyway, enjoy! request if you’d like. love you guys

You had existed within the world of Jack Hughes since your freshman year of high school.

Existed. Not an integral part, nor a spoke on the wheel of many friends he already had. Truthfully, you were only acquainted with him because of his younger brother, Luke; your freshman biology lab partner, and eventual best friend. Years had passed since you first met Luke—no longer were you the wide-eyed fifteen-year-old crossing the threshold from child to near-adult. Now, you were an adult. Twenty, with two more years of college stretched out before you, seemingly everything had changed.

Well, except for the lead weight chained to your ankle—the fundamental and inexorable truth that you were still in love with Jack Hughes.

It started as most consuming things do: a small idea, watered by brief looks, a brush of heated fingertips against your hand, or arm, or waist—or anywhere, really. A head rush that sent you meters under waves of excitement and anticipation. Loving Jack was like having a fever that never broke; it persisted, a dull ache that squeezed your skull each time he was near. Even now, five years later, the flashing of blue eyes—never brimmed with what you knew was embarrassingly reflected in your own—was enough to make sweat bead at your palms.

It never grew into more than a hope, a wishful desire. But wishing seldom got anyone anywhere, and it surely hadn’t helped you. When the months turned warm and spring faded into summer, the overwhelming ache of freedom that came with warm weather and the end of the hockey season drew Luke and his brothers to Sanibel—a beach so wrought with memories of youth and foolish memories that the idea of going another year made dread settle like steel in your bones. They’d bought it after a vacation there a few years ago, and the rest was history.

But, of course, Luke—the youngest of three—never took no for an answer.

“You can’t miss this year,” he had insisted. The Devils had their hopes cut short once more—this time in an second round exit to Carolina. Ergo, the expected departure time had been bumped up significantly. Vancouver had missed the playoffs altogether.

You stood silent, tearing away skin from your nail-beds as Luke leaned against the kitchen counter. The cold metal of the fridge pressing into the bare strip of skin on your back was the only thing keeping you present in the conversation.

You hated how Luke did this—he’d take your silence over text as an invitation to barge his way into your apartment, destroying the barrier of safety and excuses a phone provided, and ask you face-to-face. And how could you say no? You never had before, and look where that got you. No closer to removing hooks branded with the name Jack from your heart.

“Luke…” you sighed, only dropping your hands when blood bubbled to the surface of your torn skin. Pain rippled down your fingertips, but you ignored it. The dread that quickened your pacing heart was too overwhelming a sensation. “I don’t know—maybe I should—”

“Skip out?” Luke rounded the kitchen counter and came to stand in front of you. “No way, Bells. You have to come. Otherwise I’ll be alone all summer.”

You could have scoffed if you cared more. Bells. That dumb nickname Jack had given you years ago—according to him, it was because you were such a silent walker, you required a bell to be heard. Aside from the embarrassment you got from being called a childhood nickname even now, it reminded you that your existence was always going to be tied to Jack. A piece of him carried with you, a cage keeping your heart from beating without him; the bright red ribbon tied around your wrist that screamed I Love Jack Hughes!

No matter what, it would always be him. You tried; God, did you try. Hearing stories of his hookups, the life of a single, superstar hockey player should have been enough to send your stupid childhood crush to its grave, but as if cursed by a necromancer, the mere mention of Jack brought it right back to life. It was a cruel cycle that just wouldn’t end. And you knew going to that damned beach house would only prolong the life of the indestructible feeling more.

Jack was tarnished jewelry, rubbing your skin green and raw and wrong, and yet—you could never seem to take it off, even when it made you look foolish.

Silence fell like thick fog. Luke’s eyes roved along your face, as if trying to read a book with the letters smudged. “C’mon, Bells. You have fun every year, and I don’t want to have a summer without you.”

“Jack and Quinn will be there,” you said, voice low. Pathetic anxiety swelled in your chest like the forecast of a hurricane. Even saying his name tightened your veins. “Trevor, Alex, and Cole, too—I don’t need to go, Luke. Won’t it be weird?”

An unamused look graced Luke’s face. “You go with us every year. Why would it be different now?”

You wanted to curse Luke for being so persistent. Part of you wished you could just scream that you loved his brother, but couldn’t. You never could. Loving Jack ensured you lost someone—Luke, who would never get over the thought of you potentially sleeping with Jack; and well, if that failed, you also fully lost Jack. Unrequited love confessions made fools of ghosts.

To Jack, you were a ghost. Haunting his life, disrupting some times, but never there long enough to be seen. And even if he did, he convinced himself you weren’t there, that you didn’t even exist. Maybe it were best if you moved on and let yourself rest. Ghosts haunt their murderers, but Jack hadn’t killed you, you’d killed yourself—hoping, wishing, praying he would take a moment to believe and see you. But he never did. So you floated through his life until the moment you were no longer confined by unfinished business.

And maybe that was what you needed. Closure, the severing of a tie that was only hurting you to hold on to. And maybe, closure would come this summer. To look on Jack and not feel your heart race, but settle into a quiet murmur, a healthy pace—to free yourself from the confines of this painful love and finally move on. Haunt the graveyard no longer; sitting by and hoping he would place flowers by the grave.

“Okay,” you said quietly, glancing down at your sweater. Crimson marks stained the white fabric. You’d accidentally wiped your fingers on the cloth. “You win.”

Maybe this would be the summer you let go of Jack Hughes.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

The cry of gulls and gentle breeze of salt-bitter air welcomed you back as the car breezed past the Welcome to Sanibel Island! sign. It felt like a taunt, as if you were passing into the circus, the main star of a show you never signed up for. With Sanibel came Jack, and the potential end to a love you’d clawed onto for dear life for the last half-decade. It felt strange, almost wrong, to imagine a world where Jack Hughes didn’t exist as the basis for all romantic interests. To hold someone’s hand and not compare the texture to his. To lose the anticipated blush that warmed your face each time he glanced at you. Because losing Jack was like losing a piece of yourself—all your life you’d associated love with him, and what would there be afterwards?

Sandy beaches rolled endless at the horizon, dotted with the figures of vacationers and locals alike. You glanced to Luke, his hand working the steering wheel as he drove the long-winded path to the beach house. Strands of your hair were roused by the invisible hand of the wind, no doubt knotting it, but you were too enraptured in what ifs and a potential future to much care.

“Are you excited?” Luke asked, looking to you. Elbow leaned against the doorframe, you managed to work your mouth into a smile. Even if it was twinged with apprehension.

“Of course. I love it here. I’m glad you guys were rich enough to buy it.”

Luke laughed.

And that was true. Summer here felt endless. Nights spent on the beach, the tickle of warmth from a stick-lit fire cradling you against the rush of cold blowing off the ocean. The bitter rush of alcohol that stung your veins. Hair made wet by the sea, drying beneath the warm fingertips of sunlight. Skin richening into a burn, soothed only by aloe vera and a cold shower. Laughter between friends and the restless nights talking. All of it was perfect. For you, summer was Jack. Brief and sweet, the thing you looked forward to seeing each year. But it never lasted long enough to truly feel, something you could never touch.

You wondered if you made it obvious. If Luke suspected, or Quinn; the eldest Hughes was always the most perceptive. Any time Jack said something that made your teeth clench with hurt, Quinn glanced at you. A reassuring smile. The extended hand in the dark. But if he knew, he never commented on it.

“Who’s already here?” you asked, eyes catching on the brightly colored houses lining the beach. Blue, pink, the odd green, melding together as the car breezed into the strip of land the beach house rested on.

You almost dreaded the answer. “Quinn and Jack,” Luke responded, voice a little distant—his eyes scanned for the house, too focused on his task to much care for the cringe you gave at the mention of Jack’s name.

You shouldn’t have been surprised, really. It was his house. Yet you found yourself hoping you’d at least beaten him here so you could mentally prepare for his arrival. As it were, you had about five minutes to do that.

Tires crunched against sand as Luke pulled into the driveway. Lead solidified in your bones until you felt as though you were going to sink straight into the earth. A deep breath expanded your chest, and you watched as Luke took out his phone—presumably to text that he’d arrived. Escaping the car, Luke stared at you expectantly. Your body pressed against the doorframe, eyes glanced out at the horizon. Smeared like a painting across the sky, a myriad of colors—oranges, pinks, yellows—foretold the coming of night. Maybe you could stay in here until everyone was asleep, to sneak past Jack and not have to—

The door to the passenger side opened, and there stood Luke, a hand on his hip. Making grabby hands like a toddler, he motioned for you to come. “What’s up with you, Bells? You’re so… quiet.”

You snorted. “That’s not news.”

“You know what I meant,” retorted Luke, grabbing your elbow with a gentle grip. “What’s got your head off to sea?”

Your brother! you wanted to scream, but found your tongue bolted to the bottom of your mouth. Offering instead a smile, you allowed Luke to help you out of the Jeep. Soft sand caught your feet, cushioning the drop. It felt strange to be back here again, but somehow, you knew it wouldn’t be the same. A rueful feeling ached your bones. This would maybe be the last time you’d ever come to the beach house. If your closure went as you intended… there would be no more summers in Sanibel. No more late beach nights. No more salt air creating a stick sheen on your skin. No more Jack Hughes.

“Just thinking about summer,” was all you said.

Like everything, its temporariness was what made it special.

Together, you and Luke began to unpack the bags from the trunk of the Jeep. “Any fun activities planned this summer?” you asked, hoping to alleviate the tension making your head pound.

Luke gave you a backwards glance as he practically leaned his whole body into the trunk. “New bar opened on the strip,” he told you. “I think we have to go.”

Your eyebrows crinkled. “We’re twenty, Luke. And this is a tourist town, they’re going to ID.”

Luke only smiled, clearly not thwarted by your pessimism. “Lucky then that you don’t have to worry. I’ve got it all figured out.”

You didn’t want to ask how, so instead you sighed, hauling your bag onto your shoulder. “Whatever. But I am not ending up in jail because you want to underage drink in public, Luke.”

There was no response to that. Slinking past you with elegance you thought his large frame incapable of, Luke began walking up the driveway and towards the beach house. It looked exactly the same as it had last summer—a gentle gray exterior, like the storm clouds that sometimes brewed over the sea, and a darker roof. White wood bordered the many windows, some with their own balconies. Rust spotted the metal of the garage, slowly encroaching from the outside. A simple wood fence enclosed the sides of the house, leading to the back where you knew a pool hid. Everything was exactly the same, yet so different. Last time you were here, it all felt so unknown, like the end of the summer would make or break the rest of your year. You’d hoped then that maybe Jack would notice, that it would finally be the year he looked at you as more than Luke’s best friend. You’d packed your cutest outfits, the bikinis your friends said would make any man double-take, yet nothing worked. It had been the same as every year before. Jack was nice, but indifferent. Friendly, but inattentive.

However, this year wasn’t like every other year. You didn’t come here with starry eyes and a child-like hope that Jack would pick you after years of oblivion. You came here to finally let go of him, to move on, to bury a love you’d kept on life support for years and years, in the hopes it would come back to life.

Feet making indents in the sand as you walked up the driveway, you saw Jack’s car—a silver Mercedes-Benz—parked a bit ahead. You hated the stutter in your step when you saw it, and you hated more the stoppage in your heart when you heard laughter rounding the side of the house. There was two voices, interwoven and nearly indistinguishable, but you’d know his laugh anywhere, know it blind. All the feelings you’d shoved aside in favor of an aloof disposition crawled their way out of shallow graves. A shaky breath, the fluttering of your eyes, and suddenly—there he was.

Trailing behind Quinn, soaked black swim shorts clinging to wide thighs, a bare chest coated in droplets of water, tousled hair styled by the unconscious hand of water. He smiled, maybe at something Quinn had said, you weren’t sure, and it all came back. How could you get closure when he incited such a deep, profound longing in your soul? When he tugged you towards him the the moon to the tide?

You’d stopped walking. When, you weren’t sure. Time became an endless thing as Jack’s eyes flickered to you. Those blue eyes shot through with something you weren’t sure how to describe, but he grinned—at you—and then he was walking towards you. All at once you wanted to lob a rock at Luke’s head for making you come, and then kill yourself for even thinking for one moment closure would be remotely possible when you still were in love with Jack.

His presence was all-consuming, like stepping to close to the fire. Fingers worn by years of use brushed your own when he took your luggage, carrying it with ease. Even older than you, Jack never lost that youthful sense of delight you’d seen on kids when they got a new toy. He’d always been the sun. For you, and for everyone around him.

You’d never deluded yourself into thinking you were the only one who loved Jack, or wanted him. But it didn’t stop you from wishing you were the one he’d choose.

“Bells,” Jack greeted, warmth oozing from his words, so much that you wanted to yell at him that he wasn’t being fair. How could he expect you not to want him? How, when he was so nice to you, yet so indifferent? “How was the trip?”

Blinking, you allowed him to gathering your luggage and begin walking back to the house. Water transferred from his body to your tote bag, but you found yourself not caring. He could ruin everything you’d brought and it wouldn’t matter. They’d at least be stained with his touch.

“Good,” you managed, trying to keep your feet even on the lumpy sand. Why they’d decided not to install an actual drive way would never make sense to you. “Not a lot of traffic. Luke didn’t kill us, so that’s a plus.”

Jack laughed. It rumbled through his chest and echoed like a victory trumpet in the air. “He’s a shit driver,” he said. “Shoulda convinced him to let you drive with me.”

Tar filled your lungs. Words failed you, and so stupidity, you said: “But you drove with Quinn.”

Jack quirked an eyebrow. Readjusted your bag on his shoulder. “Quinn’s a big boy. He can travel alone.”

Before you could stop yourself, the words flew out of your mouth, “So you think I’m a little girl?”

Jack paused. Glanced over at you. The meeting of two sets of eyes holding extremely different emotions. After a moment, he cut the tension with another laugh. “You are two years younger than me.”

“So is Luke, and last I checked, he was the tallest,” you retorted, offering up a chuckle yourself. You didn’t want to give more, to give in. You had to keep that wall, even if there was already so many holes in it.

With his free hand, Jack tussled your hair, wiggling your head around. You batted him off, feigning annoyance, when really, you wanted him to keep touching you. You could have groaned. God, you were pathetic.

Entering the beach house was like entering freedom. It was typically decorated, that seaside aesthetic Ellen had done herself the first year the boys bought the house. Fishing net and shells in jars, accompanied by hanging hammocks and white coral displays hadn’t moved, and you felt the air greet you, blowing in from the open back door that looked over the pool—and the beach. Salty air snaked up your airway, a welcome sting. A missed one. You weren’t sure if you’d miss Jack or the beach house more.

Luke disappeared with Quinn, the latter offering a gentle smile—perhaps a little pity twinged in. That left only you and Jack, standing in the wide mouth of the living room, the sunset sky bathing your skin in those candle-light oranges you so loved. Beside you, the gentle pat, pat, pat of water dripping off of Jack’s shorts was all that was heard. You took a moment more to enjoy the feeling of peace you got from being here, before Jack snapped you back to the current with a throat clear.

“Want me to bring your stuff to your room?” Your room. The one you’d claimed all those years ago. A room that—after this summer, perhaps—would bo longer be yours. You’d spent hours decorating it, little trinkets imposed with sentiment covering the room. The sea blue sheets. The balcony overlooking the ocean. All of it would be gone.

You had to inhale to stave off the melancholia crawling up your throat like bile. “Yeah, thanks.”

It was hard not to look at Jack. He was always the center of attention—on the ice, off the ice; in his personal life, in the eye of the public. He just was. Never asked for it, always had it. Girls wanted him, boys wanted to be him. You imagined it got tedious after so many years, but at the same time, you wondered what it would be like to be that loved. So adored you could have anything and anyone. You found you’d trade it all for him, for Jack, if he simply asked. You knew he wouldn’t do the same. Why give up freedom for a small-town girl that his brother had dragged around for longer than he probably should?

Up the stairs, through a hallway, and there your room was. You tried to revel in it, in the finality of it all. Convinced you were never coming back here. That Jack would never carry your luggage for you again, making a mess of the floors just to help you out. Inside, you saw the bed was made just like how you left it. A small whale plush—affectionately named Hershey for the chocolate it had been holding when it was won at the arcade—was sat just before the pillows. You hadn’t left him there. Hershey was a cherish piece of history; Jack had won him for you, two years back. Whales were your favorite animal, a gentle giant, the crown of the sea. He knew it, and he had gotten him for you. Maybe that was what kept your hope alive, the little things, the moments where he was more than just an unreachable deity you prayed to repeatedly just for him to notice you.

You glanced over your shoulder as Jack placed your luggage down with a thud. He rubbed his hands together. “Found him downstairs,” he said, gesturing to Hershey, “figured I’d bring him home.”

Home. A word that made your gut turn. His home, but never yours.

“Oh, yeah,” you said lamely. “Wouldn’t want to lose Hershey. You tried so hard to win him.”

Jack scoffed. “I was playing against Trevor. I’d be embarrassed if I didn’t win.”

“Don’t talk about Trevor like that,” you teased with a smile. Finding yourself slipping back into the dynamic. You’d try to make him laugh, just to make him smile. Just to make him see you could make him happy.

Jack only rolled his eyes. You attempted to side-step him, only for your foot to catch his own. A hand immediately came to your rescue, steadying you. A hot flush pinkened your cheeks and slid down your spine. His breath fanned over your temple, a catalyst for every single one of your nerves fraying. You hated that he could do this to you, without trying, without caring, when you tried so hard to avoid falling back into him like a fool. It wasn’t fair—but when was love?

Jack pulled his hand away, the phantom of his fingers imprinted on your skin. Marked. Just like you’d always been. “Sorry,” you muttered, embarrassment eating at you.

His laugh was a reward. “It’s fine,” he responded. It was always fine with Jack. Never hard feelings. You didn’t think he had a aggressive bone in his body, even after years and years of playing physical hockey. “Even after all the years, you still can’t stay on your feet.”

A reference to your clumsiness. Which wasn’t clumsiness. It was just Jack. You never stumbled around anyone but him. “Yeah,” you bit out, probably harsher than intended. “Guess I haven’t changed.”

But you had. And you needed to find a way out of the hole that was Jack Hughes before you were buried alive.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

Letting go of things has never been easy. Marked with scratches and tears, everything you’d ever relinquished never left the same. How could it, when you’d spent so much time loving it, cherishing it, only for it to be cruelly ripped from your grasp? Letting go had never been easy, because you’d never been ready to lose what was taken, because it was never ready to leave you either. That’s why it was so easy to reason with yourself about finally moving on from Jack Hughes.

It wasn’t mutually assured destruction. There would be no blowing out of stars and creation of supernovas when you finally put the love to rest. Because it was you. It was never him. He didn’t love you—hell, he didn’t even know you loved him. Perhaps there laid the foundation for burial, a tomb within the dunes, marked with a single shell. When the time came, no claw marks would mar Jack’s skin. He was never yours to mark.

Two weeks had since passed. Settling in had always been easy, but this time, it felt like a final meal before execution. A good thing before the inevitable end. Nights spent by the pool, the reflection of the water a perfect mirror of Jack’s eyes. Drinking and laughing and talking—a chosen family, but one you’d soon depart. You’d always have Luke, the last cord of the fraying rope, unbreakable and timeless. But never again would you tug on that rope, just to see the other end. To move on from Jack would be to forget him, as much as you could.

The summer sun blistered overhead, biting your skin until red bloomed. Splayed out on a beach towel, you opted to suntan while the boys enjoyed the water. You’d get in, eventually, preferably when Jack was not in. You didn’t want the distraction of his body to further make you doubt your ability to handle change. Back facing the sun, you remained entranced by the book in front of you, instead imagining your love life was as explosive and beautiful as the story written for you. When you went to flip the page, something hit your back—a ball, you guessed, from the feeling of impact—making your already sunburnt skin sting like hell.

“Shit,” you cursed, placing your book face down in order to stand. Glancing to the side you figured the ball bounced off to, there sat the culprit: a black-and-white soccer ball, covered in patches of sand.

You heard some shouting, and opted to be a good samaritan and grab it. As you bent down to pick up the sandy ball, another pair of hands invaded your vision and brushed your own. Rightening, you saw a tall man—your age, presumably—who immediately began spewing apologies of all kinds.

He had that youthful look to him, the same as Jack. Golden curls fell around his eyes, slightly sandy, a bit wet, but gleaming like rays of sunlight. Familiar eyes, the blue of the sky after a storm, peered at you with a mixture of concern and apology. He was beautiful, in an artful way—a hand-sculpted effigy, lain in the town square to be worshiped. You figured with age and maturity he presently lacked, he’d be all the more beautiful.

But he wasn’t Jack.

“I am—so sorry!” he spewed words like bullets, hoping one apology landed. You bit down a laugh at the desperation leaking into his voice. “I wasn’t watching where I was kicking. Sorta shanked it—scratch that, really shanked it. Are you okay—I meant to ask—”

“I’m fine,” you cut him off, sparing him. As endearing as his apology was, you could see red rising to his face—you knew what it felt like. “Although I don’t recommend you shoot for the Premier League.”

Upon realizing you weren’t angry, the boy relaxed. “Yeah, as if,” he laughed, tossing the balls back and forth between his hands. “You are okay, right?”

Your eyebrow quirked. “Unless you’re secretly the Hulk, I don’t think you kicking a ball at me could do any serious damage.” Your fingers grazed the spot the ball struck. “Might have a weird mark on my back, ‘s all.”

Goldie Locks, as you’d taken to calling in him your head, circled around you and bent at his knees. His fingertips grazed the small of your back, rattling your spine into a shiver. You heard a subdued sound—something between a giggle and a sharp exhale of air through his noise—and twisted to look down at him.

“It looks dumb, huh?” you said, trying to feel the patter marked on your back with your fingers.

Goldie Locks shook his head. “You wear it well.”

“I better, or I’ll give you a matching mark,” you teased. He stood up, imposing. “Really, though, I’m fine…”

He caught on swiftly. “Jackson. Or Jack.”

You could have cursed the Gods and Fate and her trifling ways. Of course the first cute guy you find has to be him, but not be him. The great irony of life, you supposed it was. Finally ready to move on, and your tugged right back to square one.

A tight smile made its way onto your face. “Jackson.”

Jackson opened his mouth to say something, but the voice of the man you quite literally could not escape interrupted him. “Bells? You okay?”

You thought briefly of faking fainting.

“I’m fine,” you responded, without looking at Jack. You couldn’t. But you wanted to. “He just hit me with a soccer ball and was apologizing.”

Jack imposed into your vision anyway. Jaw working, the rapid flex of his muscles that told he ran to you. Suddenly, the sweltering heat was no longer the cause for your sweating. “Hit you?” he repeated, glancing to Jackson with a raised brow.

Shoved into an unwanted spotlight, Jackson immediately backpedaled. “Accident. Didn’t mean to hit your girl.”

Your girl.

Those two simple words repeated like a scratched vinyl in your mind. Jack’s girl. His. It was something that would have made past you puff your chest. It made present you feel sick. Another pull towards him. Another lock trapping you inside of the room. In the past, you wouldn’t have said anything—wouldn’t have fought it. You’d have waited to see if Jack would deny it; he always did. Another nail in the coffin. How many were needed until you finally understood?

But you were now actively trying to fight the feeling seemingly hardwired into your blood. The instinct that told you to love Jack. “Oh, we’re not dating,” you told Jackson. Blue eyes flittered to you—was he surprised? For once you denied, distanced. Was he confused? “He’s my best friend’s older brother.”

You didn’t know why you added that part. It wasn’t necessary—Jackson didn’t care about your relationships to Jack past the words not dating. But here you were, petty pride swelling in your chest at finally getting to stick it to Jack. Finally being the denier instead of the denied.

“Oh,” Jackson quirked his brow. Glanced at Jack; he said nothing. “Is it okay if I have your number?”

That shocked you. And it clearly shocked Jack, as well. His shoulders tensed, eyes darting to you. Gauging your response. You would have said no before. Would have made some dumb excuse. If you accepted, you distanced yourself from Jack, showed indifference. Past you couldn’t have that.

Present you could.

“Sure,” you said.

This summer would be different.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been on a date. Michael Neely in eleventh grade, but that was in major part because he looked entirely too similar to Jack—didn’t act like him, however. Didn’t smile like the sun’s envy. He just wasn’t Jack. For as long as you could remember, no one had been. Isolating yourself for years because of the off chance Jack would finally admit it, as if he’d been pulling a big joke on you and had actually wanted you back. But he never did. And you couldn’t wait around forever hoping he would. He never asked you to.

You went through your hair with a brush one final time before deeming yourself presentable. A knit green tank-top paired with denim shorts, warm vanilla perfume—one you’d used since Jack had offered a compliment on the scent—and a smile that you hoped appeared genuine. For once you were excited, not thinking of Jack, measuring Jackson up to him. You let Jackson be himself, undeterred by the ghost of your unrequited love.

The downstairs of the beach house was alive with loud laughter and conversation—you hated you could still pick out Jack’s laugh, could imagine his face when he did; the gentle scrunch of his nose, the squint of his eyes. You wondered if it would ever go away, that sixth sense. If you’d ever be truly and unapologetically free.

Rounding the corner, you were met with the sight of the three brothers playing what looked to be Chel, their eyes fixated on the large TV in front of the couch they were splayed on. You debated slinking out of the house, silent as they’d always teased you for being, just to avoid the awkward conversation you knew would come from the knowledge you—Bells, infatuated devotee of Jack Hughes—were going on a date with a boy you’d known a week.

Fiddling with your fingers, you stood at the back of the couch. Not wanting to interrupt their game, you went to simply tap Luke on the shoulder, hoping he’d eventually pause it. He wasn’t the one to do it, however. Luke and Queen groaned in annoyance when the screen paused, glancing over to the only person who could have done it. Jack didn’t spare them a glance. His homely blue eyes were on you, eyebrows furrowed. Following his gaze, Luke and Quinn gave you a once-over.

“Hell are you going all dolled up like that, Bells?” Luke asked, flicking you on the wrist.

You didn’t really think you were dolled up. “I have a thing called a date, Luke.”

That incited the expected awkward silence. As if drawn by a unbeatable force, you found yourself glancing to Jack. White-knuckled, he gripped the controller with such force you were surprised it didn’t break on him entirely. You briefly wondered what his issue was before Quinn spoke.

“With who?” Surprise laced his question, and you hated it. Hated that he thought you were incapable of moving on from Jack—or maybe he didn’t think you incapable, just averse.

“That guy from the beach, right, Bells?” Luke piped up, turning his body on the couch to face you. “What was his name? Jack?”

You ground your jaw. “Jackson.”

Luke shrugged. “Same thing.”

It wasn’t. You really hoped it wasn’t.

You turned to leave, intent on scurrying out like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, when a voice called you back. Always calling you back, just when you tried to leave.

“Bells,” Jack spoke, voice drawled. You didn’t turn. “Where are you going?”

You blinked at him, dumbfounded. “On a date…?”

“Where?” You figured it could have been a growl if he were less careful. Luke and Quinn glanced at each other. You fought back a scream.

Why do you care? Why now? When I’m about to move on? I spent so much time waiting for you. I’m done.

You wanted to scream those words at him, but of course, like most confessions, they went unsaid.

“The cove,” you humored him, eyes flicking to your fingers. When had they started bleeding? The cove, of course, was as it sounded: a small chunk of land past the rock barrier at the beach, cornered in by mangroves and hidden away from sight, Jackson claimed it the perfect place for a seaside picnic. You weren’t one to argue.

When Jack made no effort to respond, you finally left. Jackson wasn’t even there yet, but you couldn’t stay inside anymore. Indecision and confusion were eating away at your gut, turning your mind into a war zone. You didn’t understand—couldn’t understand. Years spent in the shadow of Jack Hughes had taught you to fear the light, that if you even for a second let the rays touch you, came the consequence of losing the shade forever. And you’d tossed those fears aside, let yourself into the light, and that only made the dark come back in full force.

It wasn’t fair. Why weren’t you allowed to move on? To finally break the bonds that you yourself had made? Jack had never kept you near, and yet now he didn’t seem to want to let you go. Like a child unwilling to relinquish a toy just because it was theirs.

You tried not to dwell on it. Not when Jackson pulled up, his 4Runner breaking the noise of gulls calls and rumbling cars. Not when he led you out to the cove, picnic basket in hand, like an old-timey romance your mother used to watch. You tried, but just like everything concerning not thinking about Jack, miserably failed. Jackson was attentive, sweet, he did it all right. And as much as you hated yourself for thinking it, it was true: he wasn’t Jack.

“Are you a local?” Jackson asked you. Your mouth closed around a strawberry, staining your fingertips red—better than blood, you supposed.

The tide lapped gently at the sand before your feet, spanning out from beneath the quilt laid beneath you and Jackson. Always coming close, but never quite enough to wet your feet. Gnarled roots of mangrove trees split the sand, boxing the little cove in. You remembered coming here with Jack once, when he was trying to make up for throwing you in the pool with your phone in your back pocket. He hadn’t set up a picnic, only sat beside you in the sand and offered you Hershey. A silent apology. One you never forgot.

Trying to build over that memory was like trying to filter the salt out of the sea. There was too much to ever fully get rid of it.

A breeze tickled your legs. Sand parted between your toes. Everything felt normal; normal, you realized, wasn’t always right.

“No,” you responded after some time, tossing the strawberry head to the sea. “I come here every year with my best friend, his brothers, and their friends.”

Jackson nodded. “The guy from the beach, the one I thought you were dating—” You fought the urge to cringe, “—that was Jack Hughes, right?”

Always the icon. Beloved, beautiful Jack Hughes.

You glanced at Jackson. He smiled. “Yeah, I’ve known him for years. His brother is my best friend.”

“Yeah, I remember you saying that,” he laughed, a whimsical sound. Off-key; pitched too high. You didn’t think you’d be able to differentiate it in a room of others. “How’d that even happen?”

You grinned. Memories of freshman year. Restless nights spent studying in Luke’s room. False trips to the bathroom just for a chance at a glance of his brother. “Luke and I met in our freshman year biology class. He absolutely sucked. Had to tutor the poor kid so he wouldn’t fail.”

Jackson shook his head, the mess of golden curls crowning him danced with the movement. Raising a finger, he wagged it at you as if apprehending a naughty dog. “Hold on now. Biology is damn hard, cut him some slack.”

You giggled. Almost cringed. You felt like a schoolgirl again, trying to slow time as a cute boy walked past. “Maybe if you’re a loser.”

More time passed, the sun’s rays dulled to a warm orange instead of a blinding yellow. The sea calmed. Unseen birds chirped and sung their tunes, never to be understood. Jackson asked questions, answered some. He indulged, dug deep, hoping for treasure. It was strange, to fix your hair and bat your lashes in the hopes of impressing a boy who wasn’t Jack Hughes. Stranger yet you were enjoying Jackson, even fantasizing about a second date. The cold fingers of the wind rose gooseflesh in its wake; your arms rose to combat it, folding against your body in hopes to retain heat. Jackson peered over.

“Cold?” he asked, presumptuous and forward and hoping; one arm already out of his cardigan.

You nodded, murmuring a thanks as Jackson draped his sweater over your shoulders. At once the smell of salt and secondhand smoke snaked up your nose, invaded your airways. It was so different from the warm amber you imagined your skin would faintly smell of if Jack made you his—he smelled like heartbreak and sleepless nights and longing, something you feared was permanently smeared on your flesh. You found yourself heating at the scent, blushing, a slight twinge of excitement at the thought of being claimed by another boy. Foolishly, maybe, you thought it could purge Jack from you, draw over the marks he’d made all over your flesh.

You’d had boys like you before, liked them back—felt the head rush that accompanied youthful yearning. None had ever compared to Jack. Like a stain on your favorite shirt, he’d never come out of your heart, a scar that pulsed every so often, a reminder that he was still there. That he’d never go away. You realized now, looking at Jackson—the soft lines that sprouted next to his eyes when he smiled, a mess of curly blond hair that seemed to fall perfectly in front of his eyes, catered specifically to his beauty—that the memories of wounds weren’t always bad. They weren’t just reminders that you’d been hurt, but that you survived.

Before your mind could conjure any wishful images of you and Jackson, he spoke, “Tomorrow night, there’s a beach bonfire.” His finger extended, curled a stray piece of hair out of your eyes. “Something the locals do every year to kick off summer.”

You smiled—genuinely smiled, not just a flash of teeth forced in order to hide a grimace. Not the smiles you got so used to giving Jack. “And you’re telling me this because…”

Banter. He could tell you knew where he was getting, yet wanted him to spell it out anyway. “Go with me? I think you’d enjoy it,” he said, voice gentle over the lap of waves against the shore. You could almost feel the world hold its breath, awaiting your answer. Would you cling to a hope and dream, or go with what was sitting in front of you? “Plus, having a pretty girl with a perfect personality on my arm wouldn’t hurt too bad.”

“Hmm…” You faked contemplation, tapping your chin. When Jackson flicked your forehead, you scoffed, batting at his hand. “Well now I’m reconsidering my answer, ass.”

Warm fingers wrapped around your wrist, caught it midair, a fish hooked on a line. Feverish, a heat you’d only associated with one person your whole life rose to your head as Jackson’s eyes met yours. Not blue, green. Your mind didn’t even attempt to paint over them, to erase his color, to make him him. Lips wet by eager tongues, a mutual desire. When had you last even considered another man romantically, sexually?

The answer was: not since Jack Hughes barged his way into your life and trapped your heart behind a wall, tossing away the key.

Before anything could be realized, before you could experience your first kiss in what felt like forever, a dull vibrating ripped the moment to shreds. Annoyance flashed in your heart, and a part of you told you to ignore it—but you couldn’t. What if something had gone wrong? Apologetically, you tore your eyes away from Jackson and dug your phone out of your back pocket.

The name flashing on the screen had your heart clenching.

Jack.

“Yes?” Confused, clipped. Why was Jack calling you?

“Oh, uh, hey,” came Jack’s voice—you frowned at his tone. He sounded as if he didn’t even know why he was calling. “I was just… calling to see when you’d be home tonight.”

A scream bubbled in your throat. This is why he was calling you? “This could have been a text.”

Jack laughed dryly. “Guess so. Figured you wouldn’t have seen it.”

You didn’t want to admit he was right. “It’s what…” You took your phone away from your face to look at the time. 8:43. “8:43? I’m not sure, Jack. We’re still at the cove.”

Shuffling on the other end. Your eyes darted to Jackson; he seemed intrigued at who was calling you. “Right, well… Luke wanted to know, so…”

You frowned. “Then why didn’t Luke call me?”

“Playing Chel,” was all you got in response.

Pettiness whirled in your chest like a maelstrom. For once you had the upper hand; cards hidden against your chest, not splayed out for all to see. Maybe with the right move, Jack would fold after so many years of winning. It was childish, you knew that, but the child in you who’d hoped and hoped and hoped only to get turned down every single time awoke—wanted Jack to feel the burn she’d felt when he’d sunk his hooks into her heart.

“I may not come home tonight,” you told him, relished in the pause. Jackson’s eyes flickered to you, curious.

“What?” Jack asked, voice darkened with knowing and other terrible emotions. “What do you mean?”

He knew very well what you meant.

“Absolutely fucking not.” You resisted the urge to recoil at the scorching flame simmering in Jack’s tone; he rarely ever spoke to anyone like that, least of all you. “You met him this week, Bells. If you aren’t home by 10:30 I’m coming to find you.”

Rage flared. You weren’t sure why. Maybe because you could pretend like he cared. As if he had any right to tell you when you had to be home. “So what? Now I have a curfew?” You didn’t want Jackson to overhear the spat, but it’s clear he was watching, listening, picking apart the conversation. “Forgot the part where you were my mother, Jack.”

“You’re staying in my house,” he retorted sharply. “10:30. I’m not kidding.”

After that, the line went dead.

Fire lashed in your veins, threatening to burn your being to ash. How dare he? Just as you inched out of the cage, he tries to drag you back in. Why did he care now? Why couldn’t he have before?

Why?

Tears taunted you. Tried to slip past your eyes. You had given so many tears to Jack, expected him to bottle them and place them on a shelf, a reminder to never hurt you again. He never did. The moon’s rays were a solace, an extended comfort from who knew loneliness better than anything. Soft fingers touched your arm, didn’t push—only rested there, a reminder of consolation.

“He’s like an older brother, huh?” Jackson tried to alleviate your melancholy, revive your playful spirit like a necromancer.

It only made you sadder. If only Jack were like an older brother, if only your heart hadn’t chosen him to beat for.

“Yeah,” you chuckled dryly. “Let’s be glad he won’t be there tomorrow.”

A bright grin tugged on Jackson’s lips. “So you’re coming?”

You smiled.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

10:15.

The bright light of your phone screen cut through the darkness as you walked up the sandy driveway to the beach house. The departing rumble of Jackson’s 4Runner interrupted the ballad sung by the cicadas and crickets, a sound that followed you all the way to the front door. Sliding your sunflower-adorned key out of your pocket, you fiddled with the lock before finally managing your way into the house. The biting cold of the summer night was promptly chased away by the inviting warmth, but you found yourself unwilling to remove Jackson’s green cardigan. Plastic buttons twirled between your fingers, a few stitches unraveled. Well-worn, loved—smelled like summer nights and escape. You smiled to yourself.

The hum of the TV, along with its vibrant glow startled you as you crossed into the living room area. Despite the somewhat early time, you hadn’t expected anyone to be awake. But there Luke was, curled up on the couch, watching Grease. You could have laughed if you weren’t more aware; Luke had always had a major small crush on Sandy, his guilty pleasure movie, one that came with summer nights and hours talking into the AM. Rounding the foot of the couch, you plopped down next to Luke, startling him out of what appeared to be oncoming sleep.

“Back already?” he asked groggily, clearing the gravel out of his throat. He straightened, blinked a few times. “I take it you didn’t get laid.”

You glared at Luke, silently cursed his teenage-boyishness. “Not everyone fucks on the first date, dick,” you retorted, smiling. “Someone here gave me a curfew. Said he’d come looking for me if I didn’t come back in time; I wasn’t too keen on testing him.”

Luke rolled his eyes. “Cockblock,” he muttered. “Which of them was it? Quinn? He seems like the type.”

“The other one,” you corrected, earning a confused look from Luke. “Exactly! That’s what I thought. Also, did you ask Jack to ask me when I’d be home?”

“No,” Luke drawled, raising an eyebrow. “Why would I?”

That son of a bitch.

Was he just dead set on denying you happiness? Why couldn’t he just admit to caring even a little about you? Why dress up good deeds as the requests of others? Nothing about Jack made sense; it never had. You supposed that was part of the appeal, the mystery of it all. A puzzle gathering dust on the shelf, tried and forgotten for its difficulty. You’d always had a knack for choosing the hardest games.

You waved Luke off, not wanting to hear his conspiracies tonight. Maybe tomorrow, when you didn’t have the weight of a thousand unanswered questions close to caving in your chest. “Nothing,” you said. “Are Quinn and Jack awake?”

Luke eyed you. He saw through you—always had. Yet, for the sake of your dwindling sanity, chose silence. “Quinn isn’t, no,” he told you. “Went to bed like an hour ago.”

“Old man,” you commented, earning a laugh. “And Jack?”

Luke’s eyes flickered to the door leading to the back porch. A warm orange glow was visible through the drawn curtains. “He’s in the pool, I think.”

You nodded. Came to a resolution in your withering heart. “Right,” you murmured, standing. Before departing, you pressed a kiss to Luke’s cheek. “Night, Luke. Go up to your room, if you fall asleep here, I won’t be able to carry you to your bed.”

Luke rolled his eyes, nudged your leg with his knee. “How unfortunate.” Then, he stood, and disappeared up the stairs.

Dread swarmed in your stomach like a tornado, wrecking every defense you’d built up these past weeks to keep out a certain boy. You feared damage control wouldn’t be enough this time, that you couldn’t rebuild if Jack shut you down now. But you had to confront him, had to at least tell him to stop controlling you if nothing else. This summer was meant to be your closure, the final chapter in a book you never thought would end. It felt more like the procession to the grave, not the closing of a door.

What if losing your love for Jack lost you him?

The back door swung open with a squeal, piercing the once thick silence. With your presence swiftly outed, you forewent attempting discreetness, and eased out onto the pool deck. Fingers of frost grabbed for your exposed skin, only combated by Jackson’s cardigan. Bones rattling, you wondered why on earth Jack was going for a swim right now of all times.

You heard the lapping of water, roused by movement, before you saw him. The fluorescent underwater lightning cut through the darkness and reflected on your face, a myriad of whites and blues that was distinctly Jack. When you came to the pools edge, your eyes focused on him—clad in nothing but a pair of blue swim shorts—floating ok his back, eyes closed, as if imagining himself in a different place. You almost felt sorry to ruin the fabrication of his mind. Remembering your anger, you pushed aside the feeling. Why should he be given peace when he’d never given you any?

Before you could even open your mouth, his eyes opened, as if sensing you. He adjusted, treading water, as you merely assessed each other. Waiting. Who would draw first? You. It had always been you.

“I’m home now,” you bit out, your leash gone; Jackson wasn’t here to judge you. “Happy?”

Water lapped at Jack’s collarbones. You almost envied it for being able to touch him so freely. His eyes darted around you, then stopped on the cardigan. Forest green, like Jackson’s eyes. You knew he knew; you hadn’t been wearing it when you left.

“Cute,” he commented, sarcastic and dripping with cruelty you’d never heard from him before. He parted the water with ease, as if he expected everything to bend to his will.

Jack stopped where you stood at the edge. You looked down on him for once, a prick of pride stinging you as for once you had the high ground. For once, he wasn’t able to confine you with his overwhelming presence and being. Fingers curled around the edge of the pool, his hair dripping tears of chlorine-tainted water down his face, Jack merely watched you, waiting a scolding, the tantrum of a child who had what she wanted torn away.

You thought if unfair someone could be so beautiful, especially when he could never be yours.

“What is your issue?” you snapped finally, folding your arms, protecting your glass heart from his insults he’d fire like arrows. “I asked Luke, he said he never asked you what time I’d be home. Was it fun for you? To ruin my date?”

Jack scoffed. Arms corded with muscle flexed, rose from the water; a heave and he was on his feet in front of you, your leverage lost. Water bled off his body like a torrent, soaking your shoes. Droplets flicked on Jackson’s cardigan, the water staining through. You stepped back instinctively, throat tight. You hated how, even now, he had an effect on you.

“Ruin?” he echoed, eyebrows creased. “Don’t be dramatic. It wasn’t like you were planing on staying out with him past 10:30. I was doing you a favor, giving you an out.”

Classic Jack; thinking he knew better than everyone else. “You weren’t, actually,” you hissed. “I didn’t need an out, Jack; I was enjoying myself. So much so I’m going out with him again tomorrow night.”

That was unnecessary to say, you knew. A bite only given to wound him, to prove you were capable of rising from your knees and tearing down the shrine you’d devoted to him for years. Because if Jack Hughes was no longer your sun, you didn’t need to revolve around him—shine only when he was near. Pathetic and driven by childish need to probe yourself, you wanted Jack to hurt—even if you knew he never would, that he couldn’t care less about who you loved and who you were with.

You just wished that he did.

A flicker of confusion. A frown, and then, “What?”

“Jackson invited me to the beginning of summer beach bonfire,” you told him, watching Jack’s jaw tense. You wanted to look away, but couldn’t—he’d always been so encapsulating. “It’s tomorrow night.”

His presence invaded every defense you’d placed up. Chin tipped to look at him, you felt suddenly claustrophobic, as if boxed in—everywhere you looked was him. Deep breaths made each muscle of his chest flex and tense, well-sculpted from years of punishing activity. You hated the flush that almost burned your face. You hated the thunder of your pulse that drowned out any noise but your racing heart. You hated the effect he had on you.

“You aren’t going,” he said simply, as if he had any say.

You frowned. “Yes, I am.”

Jack’s lip wrinkled. Condescension dripped from his voice. “No, you aren’t.”

You could have strangled him. You really could have. “You aren’t my father, Jack. You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I’m going.”

He smiled at you. Smiled like he thought you opposition was funny. “You met this guy this week, Bells,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Not only that, you have no idea who’s going to be at this bonfire. What if something goes wrong? You think Golden Boy is going to play the white knight?”

Ignoring what Jack had called Jackson, you turned to leave. You were absolutely not having this argument with him. Not when it was ultimately your decision and your life. Before you could even make it a step, a wet hand clamped around your arm, fingers closing around you like a vice—Jack spun you, unsteadying you. In an effort to save yourself a trip straight down, you threw up your hands, connecting palms with the rigid plane of Jack’s chest. Heat rose to your face, a feverish high sinking the logic of your brain. All of a sudden, you were sixteen again hoping Jack would come out of his room while you were in the hallway.

Breath deepened, you searched for an out—a way to defend yourself. The sword lying at your palms was cheap, but effective, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

But you did know better. And you knew he wasn’t; you just wished he was.

Jack smiled. Predatory. “Of Jackson?” Fingers loosened—you took the chance to escape, pulling yourself free of Jack’s hold. “If you’re going to try and make me jealous, maybe do it with someone who doesn’t have my fucking name.”

He breezed past you, disappearing inside like a shadow.

You looked down. Eyes grazing the cardigan. A wet handprint stained the arm. Jack’s handprint.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

Smoke thickened the air into a husky, palpable haze. Dozens of conversations overlapped into one massive dissonance, drowning out the harsh crash of waves upon the shoreline. Bathed in an amber glow provided by a massive fire housed upon a hearth of triangularly-laid sticks, the beach was alive with drinking and laughing and dancing. Sand cushioned your feet, sandals dangling in your hands. Jackson haunted your side, keeping close. He led you in deeper, parting throngs of people like the Red Sea. Greeting a few of them, introducing you.

Excitement turned your blood hot. Rebellion made it all the sweeter. Despite Jack’s vehement opposition against your coming here, you’d done it anyway. When the boys had decided to get a few drinks at the new bar that opened up, you feigned sun sickness as a result of a day at the beach. Whether or not they believed you didn’t matter much—they’d left, which allowed you the chance to be here.

All you had to do was be home before them, which shouldn’t have been difficult. They’d be home in the early hours of the morning.

Mingling with Jackson was simple enough—people didn’t much care who you were. Just that you existed. Beers were handed to you, drank quickly. You wanted to have fun, to let yourself exist without the shackle that was Jack Hughes dragging you back from any romantic venture. A heated hand slipped in your own; Jackson smiled at you. Stomach knotted in a ball, you downed the rest of your White Claw and grinned back.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asked, bending down to better carry his voice to you. The proximity of his face warmed your chest.

“Mhm,” you hummed, relishing in the head rush. Being drunk wasn’t something you did often, what with being underage. There were parts you hated, parts you sought. Like the current buzz of warmth that whispered false confidence through your bloodstream.

The confidence that made you lead Jackson to the water’s edge, hidden from the glow of the fire, shadows outlined by the light of the moon. Rosy-cheeked, you tossed your arms around Jackson’s neck and peered up at him. Although his countenance was lost in the darkness, you could make out blown pupils overtaking his eyes, parted lips lightly doused in alcohol. Water lapped at your feet, danced around your ankles. You didn’t care. Everything in your mind was screaming at you to just do it—kiss him and get it over with, get over with Jack.

Jack.

You hated that even in a moment like this, your mind went to Jack.

It was then—arms tossed around Jackson’s neck, the waves kissing your bare legs—that you realized you’d never let go of Jack. You couldn’t. He was too well in your heart, the patchwork of two souls. If you could, you would turn tail and run, find happiness on the road of abandonment. You wouldn’t have to worry about being alone, isolated simply because people found a piece of your life more interesting than the whole. You wouldn’t have to rebuild your shattered heart when another summer passed by without Jack loving you. You wouldn’t need to remind your heart not to give in to his toothy smile and infectious laugh.

But then, you wouldn’t have Jack. His smile, the devil’s disguise, a shot of oxytocin to the system. Touching of skin, unintentional yet entirely wanted, setting ablaze the wildfire that burned down your castle of wood. Nights spent by the pool, his face illuminated by the glow of underwater lights. The way he made your heart break and mend all at once, the high of a drug that you could never quit. Every time, you relapsed, reminded yourself why you loved Jack—why he was your favorite love, your only one. He didn’t want you for anything, he didn’t even want you.

And maybe it was that; the hypothetical, the possibility. The construct you’d built inside your head, trying to fit into the narrative every summer, but never getting the part.

“Jackson?”

He looked down at you. Green, not blue. Never blue. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think—”

All at once, your arms were falling, cradling empty space as Jackson was ripped away from your touch. A splash of water sent droplets launching into your skin and clothes. You shrieked, stumbled, looked for the culprit. And of course—there Jack stood, huffing, as if he’d run to you. You could barely make out his face, but you didn’t need to; you’d know him blind, by touch alone. Your eyes went down to Jackson, body engulfed in the shallow water. You pieced it together, came into the frantic understanding that Jack had pushed Jackson.

Immediately, you went to help Jackson, only to be tugged back by your elbow. “Jack! What the hell?”

He didn’t grace you with an answer—didn’t even look at you, actually. Those stormy blue eyes were on Jackson, murderous and heated. He shoved you behind him. “What are you doing, huh?” he barked. “Did you know you were giving a minor alcohol? She’s twenty, you fucking idiot!”

Tears of frustration turned your eyes wet, and air became scarce. You wanted to do something, but what could you even do? Jack was accustomed to ignoring you. Stares nipped at the back of your head. Conversation dulled into a lapse.

“Jack, enough,” you begged, the sheer desperation in your voice normally something you’d hate—you couldn’t be bothered to care now. “Please. I’m fine. It wasn’t Jackson’s fault. He didn’t do anything.”

“Stop,” Jack interrupted, eyes flashing to you, a warning. “I told you not to come. Stay out of this, Bells.”

“I had no idea, dude, I swear!” Jackson responded, pulling himself up from the water. Soaked head-to-toe, and dully embarrassed. “She did it herself, I didn’t offer her anything!”

It soured your mouth he was trying to shift the blame to you, even if he was being honest. Your eyes flicked to Jack, and all at once you were reminded why you chose to love him.

His hair was tousled, worked one too many times by frustrated fingers. Eyes wild and concerned, so raw that you could’ve convinced yourself he was that cut by your situation. You knew it wasn’t you; he was just a good person, an empathetic one. But still, you liked to imagine. You’d spent your life imagining what it would be like for him to love you.

“Jack, please, just—”

“Don’t you dare blame her,” Jack’s voice was strangled, as if barely bypassing a wall of fury. “What the fuck do you think this is? The blame game? I don’t care who gave her the alcohol. You brought her here.”

“Please, Jack, let’s just go,” you pleaded, voice tight—embarrassment crawled up your spine like the cold. Everyone was looking, observing the screaming match you’d unfortunately found yourself a part of. “People are looking.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he hissed, advancing on Jackson. Chest-to-chest. A size up; one you hoped wouldn’t result in traded blows. You’d never seen Jack so angry, so wrought with violence. He’d always been docile—kind.

“Why do you care?” Jackson finally snapped, shoving Jack backwards. You tried to intercede, only to be shut down. “She said she wasn’t your girlfriend. Stop acting like a jealous dick.”

Jack laughed. He turned around, facing you as he spoke. “She may not be mine,” he conceded, “but she sure as hell will never be yours.”

Everything was happening to quickly. Your mind struggled to process the entire interaction, how quickly it had all gone sour. Before you could question Jack, scold him, consider the root of his rage, you were being lifted by the middle, and promptly tossed over Jack’s shoulder.

Air fled your lungs, your head pulsed—both from the swift movement and your consumption of what was likely too much alcohol. Jack’s hand stayed on you, keeping you steady as he carried you through the crowd, cutting through blots of people who all looked just as confused as you felt. Anger sparked then, fanned by embarrassment and anger and frustration.

Slamming your fists into Jack’s well-muscled back, you spewed profanities at him. “Put me down, asshole!” He didn’t. Kept walking, over the boardwalk and into the parking lot. Jackson’s 4Runner taunted you. “Jack, let me go! Jack!”

And he did. Your feet felt unfamiliar as he placed you down with little preempt. He steadied you before you could fall, kept a hand on your arm even after. Your heart felt pulled in a million directions, throat filling up with sand—fossilizing in your own skin, mortification sawing pieces off of your soul. Jack looked furious, pacing in front of you. His silver Mercedes gleamed in the moonlight.

“Bells—” He cut himself off. His throat bobbed, ran a hand through his already messed hair. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Your teeth bared. “Me? And what about you, barging into my night and accusing my date of being a criminal? The fuck is wrong with you, Jack?”

Jack laughed. Mocking, mean. You half-wanted to punch him, felt the itch in your fingers. “Oh, forgive me for trying to help you,” he hissed. “What if cops had busted the bonfire, huh? If they’d got you? Do I have to remind you that you’re twenty, Bells? That’s a felony.”

He was right, and you hated it. “But did you have to do all that? Jackson didn’t even give me the alcohol, why did you push him into the water?”

“I already said I don’t care who gave it to you,” Jack grunted, closing in on you. A step back, and you felt your back press into the cold metal of his car. “He was with you. He let you drink.”

You rolled your eyes, tried to muster up a semblance of control. “He doesn’t know my age, Jack.”

“Then he’s a fucking idiot.”

Scoffing, you shoved him away from you. “Oh, is he? Or were we just on a second date, one that you completely ruined! He’s never going to speak to me again, Jack, so thank you for that!”

Faintly, you wondered how you went from adoring Jack to despising him. Maybe it was always meant to be like this. There was a fine line between love and hate.

Eyes flashing, Jack rounded on you. “A second date you shouldn’t have been on,” he snapped. “I told you not to go.”

“New flash: you’re not my keeper,” you said, feeling the anger wane into something worse—fatigue. You didn’t want to fight. Fighting with Jack felt like fighting a part of yourself. “How’d you even find me? You guys were at the bar.”

Jack paused; he noticed your deflated shoulders, sullen face. “SnapMap,” is what he said. He didn’t expand, and you didn’t ask him to.

Silence felt like the worse fog—thick and impenetrable, falling over you like a suffocating blanket. You didn’t know what to say. What could you even say? Jack would never tell you why he was so upset, you didn’t want to ask—didn’t want to hear another made up story he’d spew just to tear apart the hope in your heart.

It hit you then that maybe Jack did love you—or care about you in some capacity, but he’d never admit it. Dancing in circles, a choreography that never ended, you’d never know what Jack truly wanted; didn’t know if he even did. Probably figured you’d screw it up, would ruin a friendship—his and yours, yours and Luke’s. It was a losing battle either way. Every word he uttered cut to the bone, because it was meant to. When the shift started, you didn’t know. Maybe when he realized you were not always going to kneel at his alter, when you tried to escape.

Maybe then he understood, and still avoided—lied, all to protect himself and his brother. He knew, you knew. One wanted, the other avoided. None of it ended well. Heaven was breakable, and he couldn’t dare threaten his own peace. Not even to have you.

You knew then where you stood.

“Why?”

He shook his head, chewed on his lip. “Don’t.”

“Please, Jack,” you whispered. “You owe me an explanation.”

Did he not believe in love? Had a girl hurt him? Was it really Luke, or something else? Why wouldn’t he just try?

“Bells, don’t.”

Your hand reached out. Hoping, praying—it brushed his shirt-clad chest. He didn’t move back, finally looked at you. “You owe it to me, at least. I’ll drop it, I’ll never ask again.”

“We’d just… we’d screw it up,” he managed out, the blue of his eyes richening into a navy. His eyes darted around your face. “I can’t…”

What did it matter anymore? Everything was being bared. All of it. Your fear disappeared into dust; the yearning for a conclusion to this twisted knot of a love died. Just like it always did with Jack—you’d want him, try to forget him, and fail. A never ending loop. But before there had been no chance, now—now you weren’t sure.

“Can’t what?”

Jack didn’t respond. He dug into his pocket. Grabbed his key. “Get in the car.”

The stark change of situation caught you cold. “What—?” You shook your head. You weren’t going to lose this opportunity. “Jack, no. Talk to me. Please.”

“Get in the fucking car.”

You didn’t budge for a moment, then finally, “Okay.”

The drive was silent, thick with awkwardness. What could you say? You’d been so close to coming clean, to finally—after five years—admitting everything. It seemed like Jack had too, but something stopped him. Something always stopped him. You wished you could pick his brain, lay it all out to see the moment he’d stopped seeing you as a ghost, as Luke’s high school best friend. All because you’d tried to move on, because you’d hoped for happiness beyond his black hole persona. But of course, he always managed to drag you back in.

“It’s not fair,” you muttered aloud, semi-an accident. Jack’s eyes snapped to you, the dark road rolling out in front of you.

He worked his jaw. Adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “What isn’t?”

“You,” you grunted, looking out the window. “I try to be happy, move on. You’ve never wanted me before, I didn’t think it would matter. But when I try, you turn it into World War III.”

Jack didn’t say anything. Barely even moved. You wanted to scream, to leap out of the car, if only to see if he’d care enough to come back for you.

“Why now, Jack? Why not before?” you whimpered. Alcohol made you pathetic, even more so than usual. “What changed?”

“Bells,” he warned, nostrils flaring.

“No,” you protested, swiveling your body his way. “I deserve an answer, Jack. Please.”

Silence still.

“Stop the car.”

Jack looked at you. Up and down, before his focus returned to the road. “No. Stop having a tantrum.”

That nearly sent you into a murderous rage. “Stop the car or I’m jumping out.”

Jack scoffed. “You’re not going to jump out of a moving car.”

You clicked off the lock. Fingers tested the handle. When you tore the door open, the alarm blared; wind whipped your arm as you gripped the door, the darkened road greeting your eyes. Thankfully, no one else was out this late. Jack grabbed you with his free hand, slammed on the breaks and veered off onto the side of the road, just beyond the dunes. Beachgrass surrounded the car, the distant buzz of crickets the only thing you could hear as Jack cursed at you. Unbuckling his seatbelt and slamming the door shut, Jack glared at you.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped. You felt something akin to pride; he finally had a reaction to something. Cared enough to stop you.

“You won’t answer me,” you said, eyes darting around his face. The emergency interior lights of the car blinked into existence, lighting up your bodies. Jack’s face was flushed, eyes wild. “Please, just—”

“Fuck, stop saying that,” came Jack’s strangled plead, his head dropping.

You blinked at him. Confusion welled like a storm in your eyes. “What? Please?”

Silence. Jack’s head raised lazily, he looked distressed, mouth parted ever so slightly. A hand ran through his hair, mussed it more. “Fuck,” he cursed, low and gravely. “Luke is going to kill me.”

What was he on about? He looked like he was struggling, his hand gripping the steering wheel which such force his knuckles blanched. “What?”

“You’re his best friend,” Jack said. His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “If I… Bells, please…”

You had no idea what to do. What to say. “Jack, what do you mean? You aren’t making any sense.”

“I want to fuck you,” he bit out, leveling you with a furious look, as if he hated himself for that very fact. “But I can’t. If Luke found out, he’d hate you, or me, or us both. I can’t risk that, Bells, I can’t.”

He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than you. The very fact that he wanted to sleep with you sent you into a dizzy spell; normally, you would’ve wept with happiness at the sheer fact that Jack Hughes wanted you, in any capacity, but all you felt now was a resounding emptiness. He wanted to fuck you, to have you carnally, without anything attached. You loved him; not because he could give you brief pleasure, but because you knew how many freckles were on his back, how he drove with his left hand predominantly, how he quoted Camus but never actually read him.

It occurred to you then that this summer was different. Not because you were getting closure, or because Jack Hughes finally loved you back, but because you finally understood that the devotion you’d put in him for years should have been put in yourself.

You looked at Jack, and for once, didn’t feel that biting desire to touch him, to be wanted by him; now you knew you were, but for what? For once night, just to fade into obscurity? Either you had Jack entirely or not at all. You couldn’t tease yourself with a taste only to never be given the full experience. You didn’t think you’d survive the memory of it.

“I love you,” you said. Watched his reaction. The confession felt like the greatest heartbreak and the biggest relief.

He said nothing back.

And you weren’t heartbroken that he didn’t. You were relieved. Free.

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