so-writing

[so-writing]

Off Season 2 - Quinn Hughes

(Read the first part here)

He’s not easy to miss. 

You hear it instantly when Quinn’s oversized truck hauls ass into your normally quiet section of the neighborhood for the first time that summer. Unfortunately, the Canucks and the Devils missed the playoffs and you’re forced to deal with the Hughes brothers and their entourage much earlier than you hoped. It’s been several years since they moved in, one would think they’d be more respectful of their surroundings. 

They’re not though. 

Vehicle doors slam and the shouts of multiple people fill the once quiet morning air. It’s pushing 9AM, late enough for them to get away with being loud but early enough for the neighbors (read: you) to be irritated by it. 

Fairhaven spans the majority of the northern portion of the lake it shares a name with. When your parents built the home you live in now, there weren’t a ton of other people around. Now, nearly two decades later, the once empty lots are full, the open meadows are now manicured lawns, and boathouses dot the edges of the lake. The once empty streets are now lined with touristy shops, coffeehouses and diners. The once small town has developed into a small city and, for the most part, you’re fine with it. 

Growing up in Fairhaven was lovely, leaving for college and moving away was even better. You don’t dislike your hometown, but you never had any intention of coming back until your parents decided to buy an RV after they retired and travel the country in it. They didn’t want to sell, and you hadn’t secured a job post grad, so back to Fairhaven you went.

And, three years later, here you still are. Still living alone in your parents' big, empty house while they “vanlife” around the country. Still unemployed. You’re a work in progress, that’s what you tell yourself anyway. 

The urbanization of Fairhaven, oddly and specifically, ushered in more professional athletes than you would have expected. Most of them hockey players, three of them, the Hughes brothers. Unluckily for you, they bought the house next door and have spent their summers there ever since. 

You’ve met all of them at least once, Quinn being the one you’ve interacted with the most, and they’re fine, nice enough. It’s the chaos that they bring that really bothers you. The Hughes house has a revolving door all summer, with different groups of people constantly coming and going. 

It’s annoying but you tolerate it as much as you can. They’re only here for a short time. 

*

It’s awkward and you feel really, really dumb. Of course Quinn doesn’t remember you. He’s probably been introduced to more people in the last few months than you’ll ever be in your life, he can’t be expected to remember every single name and face. 

You can’t lie though, it does sting a little that he has no recollection of you at all, considering you’ve interacted a minimum of ten times. They’ve always been brief but damn, you’re a twenty-something woman living alone in a big lakehouse, doesn’t that suggest some mystery and invite intrigue on his part? 

Honestly, when you really think about it, probably not. Quinn likely doesn’t give a damn about mystery. It’s obvious when you look out on the lake and see him playing and partying on his boat with a bunch of women that mystery is very much something that doesn’t matter to him at all. 

You’re not jealous, not the slightest bit, it’s not like you started actively following the Canucks or keeping tabs on how Quinn’s career is going. You don’t even know the man, he could be an absolute nightmare. You’re definitely not jealous of the women that get to follow him into the house at the end of the night and close the door behind them while you sit on your porch nursing a glass of wine and wondering what’s taking place next door. 

Letting it go is for the best, you tell yourself. The hot neighbor is not and will not even be interested, and that’s fine. 

After a cold shower, hot cup of coffee and everything bagel with jalapeno cream cheese, you’ve put your latest interaction with Quinn in the past and have committed to finishing the first season of Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. You started watching two days ago but because you don’t have many other plans, you blew through it. Today was going to be no different, maybe you’d pause to take a walk around the neighborhood or go pick up a few groceries but there was nothing truly concrete to stop you from your housewives binge. 

It’s not as pathetic as it sounds, you tell yourself. You’re just a regular girl living in her parents house doing nothing except going running early in the morning and binging reality tv until she goes to sleep and repeats. 

You’re about three hours into your binge watch when a knock on the front door startles you off of the couch. You’re not expecting anyone so you ignore it. It’s probably one of those guys on segways with an ipad selling bug insurance or whatever the fuck it is.

After a few minutes of ignoring the bug guy at the door, he’s still being persistent as ever and the knocking hasn’t let up. He’s clearly determined to make a sale and you’re feeling particularly feisty after watching a fight between Lisa Barlow and Whitney Rose, so fuck it. 

“I’m not buying anything you’re selling,” swinging the door open, you don’t even give him a chance to get a single word of his sales pitch in. No fucking thanks. 

“Did you not see the no soliciting sign? Because it’s been posted for like twenty-five years at this point. Do you door to door bitches not know how to read?” 

The “bug guy” chuckles before taking a step back and throwing his hands up in defeat. He stands there for a moment before throwing his head back and bursting into laughter. It’s then that you realize the man knocking on your door isn’t a traveling salesman, it’s fucking Quinn Hughes.

You nearly trip over yourself apologizing. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Selling bug insurance, obviously.”

He’s being sarcastic and it should piss you off because he’s just interrupted your zen reality tv time and now he’s making fun of you, but you fold easily. You can’t help it. He’s so hot. 

“Obviously, I'm not buying. Did you need something?”

“I just wanted to apologize again, I know we’ve met, I was just being weird and panicking and in a mood. I fucking hate running. I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven, it’s fine.”

He lingers in your doorway a bit longer without saying anything before, “well ok, I just wanted to make sure we were cool.”

“We’ve always been cool.”

“Ok, good, yeah. So I'll see you tomorrow morning?”

“Yep, I always go out at the same time. It’s a date.”

What the fuck? Why would you say that? So dumb.

“Mhm,” Quinn shoves his hands into his pockets and turns to leave, “It’s a date,” he says without turning back to you as he cuts through your front yard to get to his own. 

The whole thing leaves you feeling mostly weird, kind of giddy and just a tiny bit hopeful. Maybe that whole mystery and intrigue thing actually does exist for Quinn. Abandoning the housewives, you rush upstairs and throw open your closet doors. The goal is to choose the cutest (without looking like you’re trying too hard) running outfit you own. 

After all, you’ve got a “date” tomorrow.

-

Note: unedited, fictional lake town, the first part got more attention than expected, thanks for the love <3

[so-writing]

Maybe Love, Mostly Soup - Quinn Hughes

Note: Oh heyyyy, it's 90F+ where I live so I wrote something cold and snowy (and slightly christmas-y) to cool down? I don't know, anyway enjoy <3

Not edited, feedback is loved and appreciated!

-

Cozy, snowy nights with Quinn are your absolute favorite. The flakes silently hit his windows while the lights of Vancouver twinkle below them. It’s rare, especially as deep into the season as it is, that you and Quinn get to spend an entire evening together and you intend to make the most of it.

You’ve been together just shy of four months, and have recently been spending more time at his place. It’s nice, both his apartment and just his presence in general. 

“I saw the stuff in the fridge that’s normally there,” Quinn comments as he twists the top off of a bottle of water, “are you making something? I figured we’d just order.”

“Quinn,” you scold him gently, “we’re not ordering food and having someone deliver it in this weather. The roads are covered.” 

“Fair,” he sets the bottle down and holds his hands up in defense, “so what are we having?” 

“It’s kind of cheesy, not literally, but like, it’s basic a little bit.” 

You’re nervous. Cooking isn’t something you’re great at, and you’ve never really made anything for Quinn, so this is already a little more daunting than you intended.

“Nah, I'm sure it’ll be delicious. You want my help?”

Considering his offer, you unload the necessary recipe items from the fridge and place them on the counter.

“Nope, I’ve got this, it’s just chicken noodle soup. Thanks though, Q.” 

“Of course babe,” your heart skips a beat, he’s never used a pet name for you before, “do you mind if I hangout here and observe?”

“Observe away.”

Quinn pulls the sleeves of his hoodie down over his palms, adjusts his beanie on his head and effortlessly pushes himself up onto the counter across from you, one that isn’t occupied with cooking ingredients.

“I’ll be right here, let me know if you need anything.” 

His smile causes your stomach to flutter but you ignore it and get to work. To start, half and peel a yellow onion, which was a fuck up because your eyes instantly start to water. 

“Shit,” you wipe your eyes with your shirt sleeve and try not to let Quinn see, careful not to injure yourself with the incredibly sharp knife in your hand. 

“You sure you don’t want help,” he’s seen, obviously, “onions don’t really bother me, i’ll do that.” 

He jumps down from the counter and takes your knife, the cutting board and the onion while you start new with carrots and celery. It takes little time, and before you realize, Quinn’s pulling a dutch oven out of the cupboard and turning on the stove. 

“Now, I’m no soup expert but if I had to guess, we probably have to cook these for a bit? And add some seasoning?”

“Right, did you peek at the recipe?” 

“Maybe,” the veggies simmer in the dutch oven for a few minutes before you add chicken stock, a few bay leaves and some fresh sprigs of thyme. 

It feels incredibly domestic, cooking with Quinn in his home while the Christmas lights on his tree slowly fade between color and white. The television is on in the living room, a Stars vs. Avalanche game long forgotten by you both. Your phones lay on the counter, untouched except for checking the recipe. It’s blissful, and what you picture when you think about the rest of your life. 

It feels too soon to talk about the future and its potential permanence, but in this moment, it’s lovely to think about. 

“Wow, rotisserie chicken, babe?” Quinn grabs the container of preshredded chicken and opens it, “I figured you’d be butchering and parting the chicken yourself.”

He’s obviously making a joke and you both laugh, but damn, way to ruin the fuckin moment you don’t even realize is happening, Quinn. It makes perfect sense though, because this is part of life with him. Quinn’s quick wit and sarcastic humor are two of your favorite things about him. 

Maybe later, much later, (when and if) things go that way, you’ll tell Quinn that when you first met him, all you knew about him was that he was a rich, hot professional hockey player and that was enough for you to fold easily and fall into his bed. It’s kind of embarrassing now, because he’s so much more than that and you would never want him to think you’re with him for the wrong reasons, but it is what it is. When and if the two of you do happen to make it all the way, you’ll both laugh about how ridiculous it is.

Right now though, you reply with a smartass, jokey comment, “if i’m going to look a chicken in the eyes while I end him, it should be for something more elaborate than chicken noodle soup,” and lean into him as he wraps his arms around you from behind. 

“Yeah, I have no idea how to get blood out of quartz anyway, so rotisserie was probably for the best.” 

“Ooh, Quinn, talk more about these gorgeous quartz counters. You know it gets me hot.” 

“I know what gets you hot,” he removes his arms from you and steps away, leaving you cold and missing his touch.

“Do you now?”

“Yeah,” he smiles widely and grabs two bags, “egg noodles!”

It’s so silly and he looks like a little kid as he empties the bags into the dutch oven and mixes them in.

“Chop up the dill and parsley, please. I’ll keep an eye on these. I’m getting fucking hungry and this is smelling good as hell.” 

It’s too early. It’s entirely too early to say it and you know that but you’ll allow yourself to feel it privately. You’re pretty sure you love him, and if you don’t entirely yet, you’re pretty fucking close. 

“Aye, aye, captain!” 

The two of you work in tandem, Quinn keeping an eye on the simmering soup while you chop the herb mixture. He removes the thyme and bay leaves while you add the parsley and dill. The scent of fresh herbs and savory chicken fills the kitchen, leaving you nearly salivating. 

“It’s got to simmer for a bit,” Quinn’s become a soup expert in the last forty-five minutes but you’re not complaining, “let’s sit.”

Quinn hops up on the counter again and taps the spot beside him, motioning for you to join him. You do.

“Why are we sitting on these luxurious quartz counters when you’ve got plenty of chairs, Quinn?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and then he takes your hand in his. 

“I used to do this when I was kid. Mom probably hated it, actually I know she did, but she never said a word. I loved to watch her cook, for whatever reason. I couldn’t tell you the last time I actually did it but I loved this tonight.” 

It means more than he knows but you stay quiet, hoping he’ll say more. 

“Thank you for this, for spending the evening with me.” 

You sit in silence for a moment before Quinn slides off the counter and turns to help you get down. The two of you are silent while he dishes out soup into bowls. 

“Where should we sit? Kitchen table? Living room by the tree?”

You smile, because now you’re sure. You’re sure you love him.

“Well”, you start, “I think there’s only one place for us to truly enjoy this soup,” he smiles at you and takes the bowl from your hands. 

The two of you sit side by side on the countertop, eating (mostly) homemade chicken noodle soup and enjoying each other’s company. 

Snow continues to fall outside, the lights of the city still twinkle, and Quinn thinks, maybe, he might love you.

-

Inspo for this came from here, request others? <3

[so-writing]

hi there! if you are still taking requests from the settings prompt list, I’d love to request “hospital waiting room with only one other person in it” + quinn hughes

such a fan of your lovely writing! i get so excited when i see you pop up on my feed <3

I love that and I love you! <33

Read here! Request here!

[so-writing]

Seven / Four - Quinn Hughes

This is a response to this ask. Happy holidays? I guess. Anyway enjoy some Quinn shit!

-

It’s crazy for a few reasons. 

Number one: You’re even here to begin with, because you don’t normally fuck with this holiday but you said ‘fuck it, let’s have some fun.’ You won’t do that again.

Number two: There’s no one else here. It’s the fourth of July and fairly late in the day but you’re the only person sitting, bleeding in the emergency waiting room.

Number three: You can’t believe your shithead of a boyfriend (soon to be ex) couldn’t be bothered to bring you here. 

The side doors open, the ones for walk-ins, and you turn to see who came in. They’re probably in a similar, or worse, state than you are. Fucking fireworks. Fucking hotdogs. 

Obviously. 

“Hey,” Quinn sits down next to you without anything other than a simple greeting. He was the last person you expected to see here. 

*

“I can probably do this! Grilling!”

You’re a little bit past your acceptable limit and should probably cool it on the drinks but it’s a “holiday” and you’re celebrating. David, your (soon to be ex) boyfriend has crossed the field with a lighter and every intention of lighting the first firework of the night. 

He does, and light explodes into the sky. Blue, your favorite color, light covers everything around you for a few seconds before nothing but the scent of gunpowder lingers.

“Babe,” he shouts across the grassy field, “hotdogs?!” 

“Hotdogs!” 

It should be easy. All you have to do is place them on the grill over the coals and turn them until they’re done. It is easy, until you get creative. 

“I’m thinking maybe i’ll carve little pictures into them, that’ll be cute, right?” 

“All that work is unnecessary for something you’re just going to eat anyway.”

It’s not the first time you’ve seen him this evening, Quinn is incredibly hard to miss, but it’s the first time you’ve taken true notice.

“Maybe, but where’s the fun in that?”

“The fun is in eating it, don’t carve pictures in the hotdogs, you’re a little drunk and should probably just relax by the fire. I’ll take the food off the grill.”

*

“Hey Quinn,” you wipe the tears from your eyes with the bloody towel wrapped around your hand and try to compose yourself, “what’s up?”

He chuckles slightly, “you know what’s up.”

“Yeah,” you swallow more tears and look down at your towel covered, cut hand, “I do. I’m sorry.”

It comes out entirely more pathetic than you’d wished but whatever, at least he’s here. At least someone’s here. You know everyone wants to get drunk and eat ribs on this day but damn, can nobody help someone in pain?

“Don’t apologize, just breathe, you’re going to be fine. It looks like a minor cut.”

“Really?”

“No.” 

The both of you laugh at that, filling the empty waiting room with a bit of humanity before a nurse calls your name. 

“Can you come back with me?”

“If you want.” 

“I want. Please?”

“Sure.” 

Quinn gets up and follows you into a small room. You hop onto the bed and he sits beside you as the doctor comes in and examines your hand. About an hour and eight stitches later, you want nothing more than to get the fuck out of the emergency room. 

“Thanks Quinn, for being here and dealing with me and all of that, thank you so much.”

He doesn’t seem to be bothered as he leads you to his car, “it’s no problem, you were hurt, now you’re healing. Can I do anything for you?”

“I’m actually kind of hungry.”

“Oh? Me too, what are you craving?”

“Would you hate me if I said hotdogs?” 

[so-writing]

Off Season - Quinn Hughes

Normally, summer is Quinn’s favorite time of the year. He gets to stop being the captain of the Canucks and the face of Vancouver hockey. He gets to leave the pressure of his on season behind, while he basks in the sun on the boat sipping his beverage of choice during his off. Summer is when he feels he’s at his most peaceful. 

This year is different.

The upcoming season could be his last hard push at leading the Canucks out of the regular season. If he wants to, he can walk freely to damn near any team he’d like. Everyone, if you’re not living under a rock, thinks he wants to. Quinn isn’t so sure though.

So, he’s determined not to let this summer slide easily by like those in the past. Quinn has been with the Canucks since he was drafted and there’s never been any real thought to giving himself entirely to anyone but the Canucks. There still isn’t, as long and he’s concerned, but the thought of leaving lingers in the back of his mind and weighs heavier than he’d like on his summer plans.

That’s why he decided to get into running. It isn’t the best idea he’s ever had, because he doesn’t fuck with running, at all. 

It’s not his thing but he’s come to find that the peace and quiet of the early mornings keep his hatred at bay for at least a little while. Every morning around 5:45 he pushes out the door with a water bottle and his thoughts and runs until it hurts his lungs. It’s a new development, one he doesn’t love but is slowly warming up to. 

At first, he’s sweating almost immediately but as the days of summer tick by, Quinn falls in love with the adrenaline rush that running gives, for the first time in a long time, he feels in control of himself completely.

He isn’t sure when he started noticing you. 

Someone he’s never met, never even seen before, runs his route around the same time he does. Quinn is jealous of your ability to make running look like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He watches you, trailing behind, as your hair whips back and forth and your arms pump through the run. He sees other things too but he tries not to look. 

It’s embarrassing that he notices because he’s not a creep at all, just a people watcher. One morning, early July, he gets ahead of himself and plows right into you. 

“Oh shit!” 

You tumble forward, barely catching yourself on the pavement and he follows, falling on top of you in an awkward mess. 

“What the fuck, man? Watch where the fuck you’re going!”

Heat springs into his cheeks immediately but he can’t help the smile that graces his lips as the two of you stand and dust yourselves off. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying much attention. I’m really sorry.”

“Oh, you weren’t paying attention? Could’ve fooled me.”

He’s caught. Yikes.

“Sorry, sorry about that,” he wants to collapse into himself. You’ve obviously noticed him and called him on it and he feels nothing but shame because of it. 

“It’s fine, I’m mostly kidding,” you extend your hand to shake, “nice to finally meet you running buddy.”

“Yeah, good to meet you,” he shakes your hand with a little too much force and gives you a small smile, “I’m not a creep I promise.”

“I know, I’ve seen you around enough to gather that.”

Quinn searches your face, hoping it’ll click and he’ll recognize you before this gets any more awkward than it already is. When nothing comes to him and then silence goes on too long, you laugh uneasily. 

“Damn Quinn, you really don’t know do you? We’ve only been living next door to each other since you and your brothers bought the place. I’ve introduced myself at least twice.” 

Holy shit, you’re the fucking neighbor? And you’ve met? And he couldn’t place your face or remember your name if his life depended on it?

“I’m really sorry, this is so shitty of me. I’m Quinn.”

You laugh at the situation, you’re a bit deflated and more than a little humiliated. You play it cool though, can’t let the hot, rich, pro athlete neighbor see you sweat. 

“Yeah,” you turn away from him and put your earbuds back in, “I know.”

Leaving Quinn behind, you break into damn near a sprint. The sooner you get away from him, the better. Holy shit, how fucking embarrassing and humbling at the same time. You don’t look at his house as you pass it and run up your driveway.

[so-writing]

setting prompts ˗ˏˋ ꒰ 🕊️ ꒱

¹⁾ a rural gas station in the middle of the night

²⁾ the last room at a drive-in motel in the small hours of the morning

³⁾ a cold, draughty church on a thursday night

⁴⁾ a stranger’s bedroom at noon

⁵⁾ a window seat on a red-eye flight during a storm

⁶⁾ a hospital waiting room with only one other person in it

⁷⁾ a sleeper train eight hours from its destination

⁸⁾ the first night in a new house, alone

⁹⁾ the steps of a wedding chapel in the rain

¹⁰⁾ a dingy truck stop after ten hours on the road

¹¹⁾ a divorce attorney’s office on valentine’s day

¹²⁾ the beach at ten on a monday morning

¹³⁾ a police station in a foreign country

¹⁴⁾ a coffee shop at two in the morning

¹⁵⁾ a concert venue, hours after the band’s set has finished

¹⁶⁾ a boat miles from land in any direction

¹⁷⁾ the third highest floor in a skyscraper

¹⁸⁾ the end of the line at a b-list movie star’s meet-and-greet

¹⁹⁾ a bar an hour after last call

²⁰⁾ an overgrown garden in a heatwave

²¹⁾ a car park lit only by streetlamps

²²⁾ a film set two days from the end of production

²³⁾ a graveyard in spring

²⁴⁾ the lap of someone who’s been gone for too long

²⁵⁾ a kitchen counter whilst dinner’s being made

[so-writing]

Peace v. Panic -- Quinn Hughes

Quinn’s life has never been so uncertain. He knows he’s the captain (that’s not going to change) of a team he’s not sure he still wants to be a part of (that’s obviously up for debate).

So, with his entire career hanging in the balance, Quinn needs some time to himself. He needs time to reflect and look deeper. 

Deeper is his code for spend the off season evenings comfortably tipsy out on the back deck with his friends and family. There are worse things he could be doing. 

This time in the summer is sacred for Quinn. This is his peace. He knows this is the only time he can truly slow down and he’s absolutely going to take advantage of it. 

It’s what he does best. 

*

Quinn’s sheets are the kind of soft that makes you want to sleep through whatever plans you have for the morning. 

He does just that, because his plans aren’t really that important and this is the first time he’s actually been able to truly sleep in without feeling any guilt in over a year. 

As much as he loves it, the captaincy drains him more than he cares to admit. There are so many things he has to consider, both on and off the ice, when it comes to his team. 

He loves his team. He really, truly does but he needs a break, this break. 

Someone has already brewed a pot of coffee, Quinn can smell it in the air as he heads downstairs toward the main living area. There’s nothing like the scent of fresh coffee wafting through his favorite place in the world. He pours himself a mug, adds his milk and sugar and steps out onto the back deck to take it all in. 

He lands in one of the deck chairs on the far side of the pool. The rising sun casts a golden shine across the lake. Quinn sips his (perfect, he thinks, the amount of milk and sugar is just right) coffee and stares out across the water. 

For the first time in a year, he’s truly at peace. He doesn’t have to be the captain of the Canucks. He doesn’t have to carry the weight of the team on his shoulders, not just as the captain but as their best player too. He doesn’t have to deal with all the bullshit he faces on an average day in Vancouver. 

Here, he can just be a regular guy who likes to spend his free time on the water. Here, he can be at peace. Here, he can just be Quinn. 

——

This place is simple, you think to yourself. The evenings are quiet and the sky is full of stars. That might be something people are into but the thought of the stillness makes it hard for you to breathe. 

You’re used to constant light “pollution” (it is, but you don’t like to call it that because the colors are beautiful) and the endless sound of sirens, shouts, and all the other noises that come with being in the city. 

Here, all you can make out are the sounds of your footsteps on the ground, crickets, and your own thoughts. It’s unnerving how slow a pace life moves out here. You decide you don’t like it, but you know you don’t have the option to leave. Not yet, anyway. You have to, like you said you would, give it some time and then you’ll decide whether or not you want to go back home.  It’s too early to decide on your future but it’s not too early to go back inside, shut the windows and pull the blinds in your room. The only light comes from your iPad playing a video of city sounds and lights. It’s the only thing keeping you sane, the only thing keeping you from falling into a sheer panic.

-

Note: I've started a new thing before finishing other things. Yikes, but whatever! enjoy!

[so-writing]

heyyyyy

It's the off season and I finally fixed my master list! She's looking a little bare, so let's fix that!

Send your prompt request with the player of your choice.

setting prompts ˗ˏˋ ꒰ 🕊️ ꒱

¹⁾ a rural gas station in the middle of the night

²⁾ the last room at a drive-in motel in the small hours of the morning

³⁾ a cold, draughty church on a thursday night

⁴⁾ a stranger’s bedroom at noon

⁵⁾ a window seat on a red-eye flight during a storm

⁶⁾ a hospital waiting room with only one other person in it

⁷⁾ a sleeper train eight hours from its destination

⁸⁾ the first night in a new house, alone

⁹⁾ the steps of a wedding chapel in the rain

¹⁰⁾ a dingy truck stop after ten hours on the road

¹¹⁾ a divorce attorney’s office on valentine’s day

¹²⁾ the beach at ten on a monday morning

¹³⁾ a police station in a foreign country

¹⁴⁾ a coffee shop at two in the morning

¹⁵⁾ a concert venue, hours after the band’s set has finished

¹⁶⁾ a boat miles from land in any direction

¹⁷⁾ the third highest floor in a skyscraper

¹⁸⁾ the end of the line at a b-list movie star’s meet-and-greet

¹⁹⁾ a bar an hour after last call

²⁰⁾ an overgrown garden in a heatwave

²¹⁾ a car park lit only by streetlamps

²²⁾ a film set two days from the end of production

²³⁾ a graveyard in spring

²⁴⁾ the lap of someone who’s been gone for too long

²⁵⁾ a kitchen counter whilst dinner’s being made

[so-writing]

Master List

Currently writing Hockey (mainly Quinn Hughes). Updated 7/15.

---

Active/Complete;

Don't forget to water the plants (Quinn Hughes); One | Two | Three | Four

Off Season (Quinn Hughes); One | Two

-

One Shots; Maybe Love, Mostly Soup (Quinn Hughes) Seven Four (Quinn Hughes)

Inactive;

Choke on this (Quinn Hughes); Preview

Peace v. Panic (Quinn Hughes); One

---

Old master list here. Includes Skarsgards, Vikings cast/characters, Outer Banks cast/characters, and old hockey stuff.

[so-writing]

Choke on This -- Quinn Hughes (preview)

Nothing comes easy for Quinn Hughes.

Except wealth and talent but we’re not fucking keeping score here.

He tries to remain cautiously optimistic anyway. 

What follows is a list of why he should stop fucking doing that. 

One: he captains a team that has never won a cup and is largely considered to be absolute shit. 

Two: His brothers are playing on the same team, something he wants to share in so fucking bad, and they’re having a damn good season. 

Three: The love of his life, or so he thought, just ended the relationship by revealing she’s been fucking just about everyone in Vancouver and that ALL (she claims) of them are better in bed than he ever was because he is boring. 

We’ll stop there because he’s not happy about that last one.

Boring? Quinn doesn’t fucking think so. He’s done too many things he won’t discuss publicly to allow her to shit all over him and to say he’s not adventurous in bed, no fucking thanks. 

Especially not from someone he planned to spend the rest of his life with. She doesn’t get to come in and shit on him and get away with it. 

Quinn isn’t, and has never been, interested in the bullshit.

You, on the other hand, thrive on the bullshit. 

What a pair you’ll be.

-

heyyyy, we're in the peak of missing Q season. feedback is loved and missed and appreciated <#

[so-writing]

don't forget to water the plants (4) (end) - Quinn Hughes

note: I have looooved writing this and I know a happy ending was wanted so I hope I delivered (I'm shit at writing happy) let me know what you think <3

one | two | three

--

Leaving him was easy, easier than you actually thought, but leaving this is an entirely different thing. 

This is your life and you still have to live it like normal, sans Quinn. That wouldn’t be a problem if he was a regular guy, but he isn’t. He’s the famed captain of the Vancouver Canucks and he’s fucking everywhere. 

You’re going grocery shopping? Quinn’s in an advertisement for Oreos, flashing a megawatt smile at you on the end cap of the aisle while you browse. 

You’re taking a walk? Canucks fans end up within earshot and they can’t stop fawning over how many minutes he plays a night and how naturally gifted he is. 

You can’t even pull into a fucking parking garage without seeing his likeness plastered on the side. Getting away looks better and better everyday because Quinn’s shadow looms so large in Vancouver that you can’t escape from it. 

There’s no healing from the loss of him when he’s everywhere and you just can’t fucking deal with it anymore.

So you leave, for real this time. 

—

Five years later

The sound of your alarm reluctantly pulls you out of a peaceful sleep, 5:43am. It’s entirely too early to be up and moving, especially after the late night you’ve had, but you have to work and the regulars at your shop are counting on you and your staff to caffeinate them for the day. 

“‘Morning Zero,” You shake off the sleepiness and sit up to pet the snoozing ball of fur curled up at the foot of your bed, “you want to come with me to the shop today?” 

Zero, your cat, doesn’t indicate any interest in leaving the bed and you can’t really blame him. 

Waking up super early was an entirely foreign concept before you moved to Seattle. You were used to being taken care of by someone else that took the morning shift, and sleeping late was a normal thing. 

Now, you wake up when the sun is in its early stages of rising and you’ve grown to love it. It hasn’t been easy but you’ve learned to welcome change. You grab your keys and lock the door behind you as you head into the crispy Seattle morning. 

It’s going to be just another normal day, probably.

“Flip the sign, I’m going to step out back for a second. Come get me if you get more than three guests, yeah?” 

Ava, your opening barista opens the doors and ushers the few customers hanging out and waiting into the coffee shop you bought two years ago. You pull a double shot of espresso into a cup with a bit of oat milk and step outside with it. 

Seattle has been sitting beneath Vancouver your entire life and you had never realized how truly beautiful it was. Your coffee shop sits nestled into a cozy area with a few other shops on a small block overlooking a little dog park with a small pond in the middle. It’s far removed enough from downtown to avoid the noise and chaos and the neighborhood is warm and welcoming. 

Your home even has a little backyard, something you never would’ve thought you’d ever have living alone. It’s nice, it's charming. 

It’s the perfect spot for your new life. 

This particular morning, you’re feeling a little weird and needing more time to think and drink your coffee than you would normally. Something is off but you can’t quite place it. Whatever, it’s fine, that happens occasionally. 

You’re in the middle of finishing your coffee when the back door opens and Ava bursts out of it, “holyshitquinnhughesisherehesthefuckingcapofthenucs!”

Your heart sinks. There’s no fucking way he knows you’re here, that this is your place. It has to be a coincidence. Maybe the Canucks are playing the Kraken tonight and the boys are in town early? Even if that were the case, you’re pretty far away from the arena and there’s no reason for any of the players to be this far out grabbing a morning coffee. 

Quinn was never really a coffee drinker anyway, what the hell is he doing at a coffee shop? 

You had no idea Ava was into hockey at all and she has no idea about your past. You intend to keep it that way. 

“You left him hanging while you ran back here to tell me that? Go back and serve him,” you school your face and keep the gentle scold as lighthearted as you can manage. 

You don’t get the change to see if Quinn recognizes you because you don’t dare go out front. Instead, you linger in the back by the milk refrigerators until Ava comes running back, gushing over him. After all this time, this fucking asshole still has such a hold on you that it keeps you from moving freely throughout the business you own.

Ava doesn’t object when you decide to close the shop early for the day, and neither do the rest of your staff, they’re just happy to have a surprise day off. She’s still starstruck from making a drink for and meeting Quinn Hughes that she skips happily to her car without bothering remove her milk stained apron. 

“I’ll wash it at home and bring it back in the morning,” she sing-shouts out her window as she speeds off. 

You, however, don’t leave as easily or as happily. Knowing he was here, in your place, after not a trace of contact in five years doesn’t sit well with you. The Canucks had a game last night and don’t have another one for two days, you googled it, there’s no reason for Quinn to be here. No reason other than the obvious one. 

It had become your mission not to follow his along with his life when you moved away. You didn’t want to know how his career was going or who he was dating and anything about him, really. You needed the space, but now, with him potentially creeping back into your life, you only feel one thing. 

Hurt. 

It’s been five year and just thinking about him fucking hurts. 

Giving Zero a quick scratch behind the ears, you don’t bother to remove your shoes before falling into bed and finally letting the tears fall. Tears you’ve been storing for half a decade and you hate every single one of them. 

Eventually, the crying gives way to sleep and fall hard, dreaming about coffee and hockey and the Quinn you used to know. The sound of your phone vibrating next to you doesn’t wake up and you miss the call. 

Missed Call. 6:43pm.

You’ve never been able to escape that fucking number, it’s appeared everywhere in your life for such a long time, even after you left him, but this is the first night that you’ve felt the weight of it in five years. 

You miss him, who he used to be because you don’t know him now, and you hate it. You hate it because you’ve built a good thing here in Seattle and even though you're doing it alone, you’re happier than you’ve ever been. 

Bringing Quinn back into your life is just going to fuck all that up. If he shows up at your shop again, you’re going to make his drink and send him on his way. 

You don’t recognize the number from the missed call, but just to be safe, you block it anyway.

*

The bell on the front door jingles, someone has just walked in and you try not to react. It’s 3:56, four minutes until the shop closes and you’ve sent the rest of the staff home for the day, deciding to close on your own and do some deep cleaning of both the espresso machines and your thoughts. 

You’re about to turn and greet the guest when they speak first, “sorry for coming in so late.”

The sound of their voice, his voice, the one you’ve reluctantly been missing, nearly sends you into a spiral. 

Quinn has just walked into your coffee shop, right before it’s about to close for the day, fucking last minute ass Quinn. 

You haven’t heard him speak in five years but there’s no mistaking it, he’s here. 

“I’ve always hated how last minute you tend to be, now you’re affecting my business with it.” 

It’s supposed to be a joke but it has apparently fallen flat because when you turn and face him, he’s as pale as a fucking ghost. 

Despite his surprised expression, it’s obvious that the years have been kind to Quinn. He’s filled out and matured nicely, looking more handsome than he ever was. He looks the same, but somehow completely different and it makes your stomach flip. You keep it cool though, you won’t do this on his terms, you’ve already done plenty of that in the past. 

“That was supposed to be a joke, Quinn, hi.”

He doesn’t say anything else, so you initiate whatever the fuck this is. 

“What can you get you?” 

“I, uh, I’m not sure, what’s good here?”

“Everything is good, what did you get yesterday?”

Quinn smiles softly for just a second before dropping back into his neutral expression and approaches the counter, “I figured you were here, I was hoping to run into you.” 

“I’m always here, I own the place. What can I get you?”

“A conversation about all the things I did wrong and all the plants I didn’t water.”

Well, that’s fucking annoying. You weren’t interested in doing this years ago and you’re definitely not going to fucking do it now. 

“A drink, Quinn, what can I get you to drink?”

“Right, sorry.”

“We’re about to close.”

“Sorry.” 

“You already said that.” 

“Sor—fuck, i mean, I don’t,” Quinn runs a hand through his annoyingly soft looking hair and you struggle to hold your resolve, “I’m completely fucking this up.”

You aren’t sure how you should respond, but the words come out before you can stop them.

“That’s what you do though, right? Isn’t it kind of your thing?” 

You know you’re being mean but you can’t help it, time doesn’t erase the shit he put you through and, suddenly, you’re smelling it as fresh as the day it was dropped. You know better, but you can’t help giving into your pettiness. 

“That’s fair, I’ll take an iced chai with soy.”

“We closed four minutes ago, sorry.” 

The tension hangs for a few seconds before you pull the plug on your customer service face and begin making Quinn’s drink, “I’m fucking with you, just jokes. When did you become a chai guy?”

“Shortly after you left, I was sleeping on chai, fuck me for that.” 

“Absolutely fuck you for that, chai is a treasure. Thanks for coming in, have a good day!”

You don’t give Quinn a chance to respond before you round the counter and shove the drink into his hands, practically pushing him out the door and locking it you. 

Bantering with him is still easy, even though brief, but you know as soon as you let him back in just a little, he’ll smash through your walls and earn the chance to hurt you again. 

No fucking thank you, Quinn Hughes, you don’t get to do this again. 

You don’t miss the smile on his face as he turns and leaves. 

You wait anxiously for him to show up the next day but he doesn’t. Two weeks pass and you start to get back to normal, slowly forgetting about the random encounter with Quinn. Maybe he got the closure he wanted, or the hint that you didn’t want to see him. Whatever the case is, you’re happy he hasn’t returned. 

He doesn’t belong in this phase of your life. 

Unfortunately, that’s not going to stop him from trying to get in. 

*

The end of April brings more than a decent amount of rain and chilly spring temperatures to match. It’s a little colder than you’d like, but you’re not mad at the constant rainfall and steady business it brings in. There’s a saying about how rain brings everyone inside. 

It brings them inside, into your coffee shop, and you love that for you and them alike. 

When the rain brings Quinn Hughes back into your shop, you’re ready. 

Ready to send him fucking packing just like you did before. 

“Can I get a small black coffee and a shot of espresso, please?” 

You ignore the few whispers of people further back in line, they know who he is, and turn to pour his coffee. 

“Sure, here’s your coffee, espresso shot will be at the end of the counter. Have a good day.” 

“Thanks.”

Quinn’s hands swallow the small cup as he makes his way toward the rest of his order. Instead of leaving, like you hoped he would, he sits down at one of the tables in the lobby and pulls out his phone. 

Hours pass and you try to continue your day like normal, but Quinn hasn’t left and the longer he sits, the more anxious you get. When the day comes to an end and everyone but him has left, you spend an extra long amount of time restocking and cleaning the milk fridges. 

“Quinn’s not leaving,” Ava bounces on the balls of her feet behind you, “I think he’s waiting for you.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, he didn’t have to.” 

He left without issue the first time, why the fuck is he hanging around now? 

“Well, he’s just going to have to wait, I’m busy.” 

Ava’s smart, she isn’t dealing with your stalling or listening to your bullshit.

“Something tells me he’ll wait as long as you make him, boss. Maybe you should take care of that.”

You should, she’s not wrong, but it’s not that easy. Quinn isn’t just anybody, he’s someone you loved wholly and someone you thought you’d spend your life with. He’s someone special, even now, even after all this time. 

“Probably, yeah, but I’m fucking scared.” 

It’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever been with her, with most people actually. 

“Yeah, but you’re never going to get over your fears unless you face them, right? When it comes down to it, he’s ultimately just a fucking guy. Imagine getting worked up over any other man? You wouldn’t. He’s no different, yeah?” 

You could kiss Ava on the mouth, and if you could afford it, give her a million dollar raise because she’s right. 

At the end of the day, he’s just a fucking guy. 

So why is it so fucking hard to sit across from him a the small cafe table he perched at this morning? 

“We’re closed, Quinn, you’ve got to go.” 

“I will, I just want to talk for a few minutes.”

“Ok, go on then.” 

He runs a hand through his hair and picks at his clothes and takes a drink from his long empty coffee cup before he finds the courage to say anything. 

“I wish I’d been here to see you open this place.”

It’s not what you expected. Something like ‘I miss you’ or ‘I’m sorry’ was what you planned to hear, but Quinn continues to surprise you, even now. 

“You’re happy here.”

It’s not a question, he’s also not wrong.

“Yes.”

“I can tell, even with me creeping out here in all day you’ve smiled so much, more than I remember you ever doing before.” 

“This is my business and I love it. Of course I’m happy and I smile.” 

Quinn hesitates for a minute before reaching into the small duffel bag he has and pulling out a small box. You know exactly what it is. Holy fuck. 

“I bought this about three months before we started to really fight,” he doesn’t open the box, instead sitting it on the table in front of you. 

You say nothing. 

“I’m glad I didn’t give it to you. Not because I’m trying to be shitty or anything, but because I’ve never seen you this happy. Not even back then. I never knew you wanted anything like this.”

“I didn’t know either, I kind of just happened upon this shop and everything fell into place.” 

“You’re right, everything did fall into place.”

Quinn doesn’t open the box, choosing instead to tuck it back into his bag. As much as you want to see the ring, it’s probably for the best you don’t. 

“I would love it to show you, but it’s not going to do any good. That ring is for someone else.”

It’s a weight off your shoulders you didn’t realize you were still carrying. It’s a release from the small room that you were previously, happily living in. It’s closure you didn’t realize you needed. 

“You’re right, thank you for not showing me.” 

“I’d like to start somewhere else,” Quinn smiles softly and turns to grab something from the floor beside him. 

You nearly shit yourself when you see what he brings to the table: a pink princess philodendron on the smaller side.

He smiles widely and you share it because you know, “this is a cutting isn’t it?”

A cutting of the plant he bought all those years ago.

“Yeah. I finally got my shit together and learned how to water plants.” 

[so-writing]

don't forget to water the plants (3) - Quinn Hughes

‘It’s lovely. Don’t forget to water it.’

It feels similar to a kick to the fucking gut but Quinn expects it. He knows you aren’t going to cave easily, maybe even not at all, but he has to try. You’re too important to him. He knows he’s done a shit job of making it known, but he’s got to start somewhere, right?

‘I won’t forget. Do you have any tips? Never really paid attention to plants before, what a fuck up that was.’

It’s a pathetic excuse, as flimsy as cardboard, but if it buys him a tiny bit of your attention, he’ll take it. Quinn lets out a sigh of relief because you’ve taken the time to respond to him, but on the other side of the city, you roll your eyes and scoff at his message. 

Vancouver feels like the biggest city in the world, until it doesn’t anymore. 

This isn’t what you want, and it’s the opposite of what you expected. You figured Quinn would leave easily and without commotion, hopefully moving on to the next one eager to jump into his bed.

He’s never really had any issue removing himself from anything he doesn’t want to be a part of but this isn’t that. Quinn is reaching out because he wants to. After dropping the ball for as long as he did, he’s now trying to pick it up and continue with business as usual. 

It’s fucking infuriating. 

Just when you feel like you’re ready to release Quinn and all his bullshit into the wild, here he fucking is, coming back begging to be leashed again. 

‘I have a few tips, but you’re absolutely not getting them. Are you kidding me with this shit?’

He isn’t ‘kidding you with this shit’ but he can’t help the chuckle that passes his lips. You’ve caught him, just like you always do. Quinn has always thought himself to be pretty intelligent, but he’s never been as sharp as you. It’s one of the things about you that he misses most. 

‘I’m trying here. Please talk to me.’

He regrets it as soon as he hits send because he knows, he knows, it’s going to make you go fucking nuclear. He should probably try to respond with something to fix what he’s just said but he’s scared, because he knows that will only make it worse.

What he doesn’t expect is a phone call. He answers and fully expects to be ripped apart. 

Quinn gets exactly what he expects.

Nearly twenty minutes of you yelling at him about how bad he fucked up and how entirely too late it was to change anything, and he just took it. You shouted into your phone until your voice went a little hoarse and he didn’t try to refute any of it. 

“Are you going to fucking say anything?!”

He wants to, he wants to say a lot of things but after all the yelling you’ve done, and to be fair, points you’ve made, Quinn isn’t really sure there’s anything left he can do. 

“You done yet?”

Quinn smiles a little because he knows that he’s going to set you off again. He struggles with that because he loves to fire you up and see the light in your eyes when you’re passionate about something. In the past, you’ve always been his girlfriend and (mostly) on his side, so this disdain you’re spitting at him is both brand new and entirely too familiar at the same time.

“Yes, yeah, Quinn, I’m fucking done.”

The call ends and Quinn hopes, though he knows it’s probably in vain, that you’ll send a follow up text. 

You don’t. He sleeps like shit that night, and a decent amount of nights after.

--

final part coming next week <33

part one || part two

[so-writing]

please write a happy ending for don’t forget to water the plants because i WILL cry bro

FINE

THATS FINE I GUESS

<3

[so-writing]

don't forget to water the plants -- Quinn Hughes

The first part // The second part

I'm currently writing the last part of this but I need a little input.

Happy ending or no? Send me a message and let me know! <3

[so-writing]

you cannot post that quinn work on my birthday and NOT have a happy ending i am so unwell right now oh my goddd (but seriously it’s so so good)

Haha happy birthday!

I’m working on the next part so maybe there’s a chance for some happiness? 😉

[so-writing]

don't forget to water the plants (2) -- Quinn Hughes

Read part one here! It is missing Quinn hours, enjoyyyyy!

--

It should be easy to pull the tattered sticky note off the window and toss it into the trash, along with the dead and dying plants you left for Quinn to dispose of.

Not cool, he thinks to himself as he places a new piece of tape over the dried edges of the post it note, not fucking cool.

It’s all he can think of at the moment, because he’s too busy putting pots into the sink for water and cleaning up dead leaves that had fallen to the ground. If he’s being honest, he’s never really given a fuck about your plants.

Until you stopped giving a fuck about them, because, what the fuck? Why would you leave them behind? You took everything, every ounce of you, erased from the home you once shared and you left your plants behind? 

It didn’t make sense to Quinn. 

Until it did. 

The only plant missing, as much as he didn’t want to admit to realizing it, was your snake plant.  Your favorite one. The only one you bought together.

*

“I think I want this to be the one?” 

“You don’t sound so sure,” Quinn comes up and hugs you from behind, “it doesn’t have to be this one.”

“No,” you shrug him off with a laugh while he pretends to pout, “this is the one.” 

“Fine,” Quinn rolls his eyes and pretends to be irritated, “but we’ve got to make sure that this one grows and thrives the best. It’s the most important one.” 

“It will, we’ll make sure.” 

*

Quinn doesn’t realize how deeply he feels until he’s hunched over the bathroom sink trying not to throw up. Salty tears slid down his cheeks and into his hoodie and no amount of heavy breathing and water settle his stomach. He wants to empty his body of everything that has anything to do with you because he knows he fucked up. 

If he’s able to get every piece of you out of him, maybe he can move on in peace. 

Several weeks pass. Quinn is dealing with an upper body injury that keeps him off the ice and he has more than enough time to sit with his thoughts because of it. 

He can’t move on, because he doesn’t fucking want to. 

Quinn has decided that he isn’t ready to give you up, even though he already did, because he made a mistake. 

The air in Vancouver is cold in early March and Quinn hurries into the greenhouse as fast as his feet can carry him. He talks to the people working about nearly every plant in the place before he settles on one he thinks is the best. 

“Thank you,” he smiles at the cashier, “have a great day.” 

He’s quick to leave and gentle with placing the new plant in the passenger’s seat of his car and buckling the seatbelt around it because why not? 

The drive back to Quinn’s apartment, the one you used to share, is short and he treats his new purchase like it’s worth a million dollars as he removes it from the car and takes it inside. 

She isn’t pricey, but she’s worth more than anything Quinn has ever touched. He isn’t sure why you don’t have one already. 

Quinn carefully removes her from the back of his car and walks gently up to his apartment with her in his hands. He sets the pot on the top shelf, the one with the most sunlight, and snaps a picture of her. 

It’s a risky move, the two of you haven’t had any contact in several months and Quinn knows you don’t want to talk to him. He can’t help himself though, he has to try one more time. 

'Hope you’re well.’

He snaps a photo of the plant, a philodendron—pink princess—and sends the message before tossing his phone on the couch and starting to spiral. 

“Hope you’re well? How fucking stupid? Obviously? Does it even make sense?”

Quinn is too busy talking himself off and then back on and over a ledge to hear his phone vibrate against his plush couch cushions. He doesn’t expect any response at all, but you read it immediately and, despite your hesitancy to be in his life again, you respond. 

*

Well, you roll your eyes and pretend to be unbothered by Quinn’s text, shit. 

You can barely believe you’re even hearing from him, let alone seeing a photo of a plant he purchased on his own. He has never given a damn about your green thumb, so there’s something deeply annoying this. 

It’s so nice that he’s purchased a plant, one you love, and is trying to give it the best life he can. Really, it’s wonderful, and he probably thinks he’s doing a good thing and working his way into your good graces. 

And, he would be there, if it wasn't months after the two of you ended your relationship. Quinn could buy a million fucking plants and treat them like goddamn royalty and he still wouldn’t get it. 

Because it’s too late. 

It feels like a final nail in the coffin. It feels like the end credits of a movie you spent entirely too long paying attention to and wasn’t even that good of a watch. It feels like it’s actually, truly over.

Because,

Quinn didn’t give a damn about your plants when you were together. He didn’t care at all about the love and care you put into them when you were in his life. He was never interested in learning about them or caring for them. They were just things, your things, that lived in your home and needed attention. 

Now, 

He is suddenly interested in and buying one of your favorite plants and seemingly treating it like gold. Which is great, that is absolutely great, but it’s too late, for you anyway. 

For the first time in a long time, because you’ve spent so much time missing Quinn so fucking much, you truly feel done.

'It’s lovely. Don’t forget to water it.'

[so-writing]

reblogging because part two is coming tomorrow

don't forget to water the plants -- Quinn Hughes

“Don’t forget to water the plants!” 

“I won’t,” he smiled easily as he picked up your bag, “have a good girl’s weekend, and don’t worry about the fucking plants. I’ll take care of them.” 

You laughed and followed him out into the hallway, hurrying to catch the elevator. You trusted him, he’d take care of them and everything would be fine.

**

months later

“I can’t do this,” Quinn runs his hands through his hair while pacing back and forth from the kitchen to the living room, “it’s so fucking exhausting.”

You said nothing, not sure how to respond to that because you weren’t quite sure when things got ‘so fucking exhausting’ for him. As far as you knew, things were good. Your sex life was pretty regular and the two of you rarely fought. 

“Do you hear me? It feels like I’m talking to a fucking wall.” 

“Yes, Quinn,” you finally spoke, “I hear you just fine.” 

“About fucking time.” 

This wasn’t him, not the him you knew, and you struggled with how to react to his hurtful words. If you were quiet, he seemed to get aggravated, but if you responded to him, he instantly got annoyed. There was no winning with this version of Quinn. 

So you said that, “there’s no winning with you!”

It came out louder than you intended, “It’s obvious that I can’t make you happy anymore. Why are we even doing this?”

He was quiet for nearly a minute, his pacing across the apartment coming to a stop, “great fucking question.”

The air between the two of you was thicker than it had ever been. You, sitting on the couch holding back tears, and Quinn, standing in the kitchen with his back to you, had reached an impasse. The past several months of fighting over things you couldn’t recall had come to a finally come to a head. 

“I should probably leave,” you didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to make it final, “this is your place and I’ve never really belonged here anyway.” 

His silence said everything you needed to (not) hear. This wasn’t your home, this wasn’t your place, this wasn’t your life anymore. 

“Give me some time to pack and I’ll go.” 

“Take a few days,” Quinn ran a hand through his hair and sighed, “we’ve got a few road games, I’ll stay somewhere else until we get back.”

It wasn’t until he closed the door behind him, for the final time you’d be there, that you finally let the floodgates open. Salty tears slid down your face as you grabbed your accessories from the bathroom and packed your clothes into suitcases you never thought would be used for this. 

The bedazzled Canucks jersey hanging on your side of the closet sent you into a teary spiral. It had taken nearly a day to place every little rhinestone and Quinn had loved the way it sparkled. You wanted to take it with you, because you had worked so hard on it and he didn’t deserve to keep it, but more than that, you wanted to hurt him. And you hoped, maybe, it would hurt him if he saw your labor of love, for him, hanging by itself in the closet you used to share.

You wanted to hurt him, as much as he had hurt you. 

The Canucks would be on the east coast of the states for the next four days. In that time, you scrubbed nearly all of your existence from the apartment you shared with Quinn. The kitchen was clear of any dishes, snacks, knickknacks, and decor that belonged to you. The living room couch was devoid of all comfy accent pillows and plush blankets you’d bought. The bedroom and adjoining bathroom showed no signs of you ever being there. By the time you were done removing yourself from Quinn’s place, only a few things remained that would remind him of you. 

It was done on purpose, and you knew, it would be the one thing that might actually break through his new, ugly exterior and truly hurt him, just as you wanted. 

Locking the door behind you for the final time, you sucked in a deep breath and pinched the bridge of your nose to stop the tears that wanted to fall. You’d cried over Quinn enough, time to let go. 

***

Quinn returned to a half empty apartment. He knew you’d leave, but the impact of you truly leaving didn’t really set in until he came home to shell of the home he once shared with you. Little pieces of you that used to decorate the space and make it special were now gone, replaced with dust and empty space. 

Your coffee mug, your toothbrush, your favorite pillow, every little piece of you had brightened the space left a dull opening that Quinn couldn’t quite figure out how he would fill. Every piece of you except one, or several rather, your carefully curated plant collection was left by the big window overlooking Vancouver. 

Once thriving, the plants were now turning brown and beginning to crumble. The dry soil was pulling away from the edges of the pots and dead leaves lay on the floor beneath the shelves. It wasn’t until he saw your dying collection, one that you put so much love and care into, that Quinn realized what he’d actually lost. 

He knelt down and began to pick up the fallen leaves when he noticed a post it note taped to the big window, the once sticky edges around the tape curled and peeling away.

don’t forget to water the plants