zzointerme

[zzointerme]

the best day | s. crosby

warnings: some language

summary: Sid comes home after a long road trip and is immediately sucked into the chaos of his three children.

request: Can we get a dad Sid fic, like coming home from a road trip and seeing his family (I personally think he gives boy dad but girl dad Sid is cool too) and just embracing all the chaos of it?? I love ur work!!!

word count: 4.3k

a/n: I had a lot of fun with this one omg. original asker I hope I did your request justice! If not please don’t hesitate to reach out!!! enjoy it guys I have more to come <3

—

The house had been a whirlwind of little feet, snack wrappers, and endless laundry piles for the past ten days. With Sidney gone on his longest road stint of the season so far, you’d had the full reins of the Crosby circus—and while you were used to solo-parenting during stretches of the season, this one had dragged a bit longer than usual. Ten days. Eleven if you counted the departure that had cut breakfast short. But who’s counting?

You had. You’d counted every bath time meltdown, every spilled cup of juice, every "Mom, watch this!" shouted from the top of the couch when you were mid-diaper change. But there was also the good stuff. Mornings where all three of them woke up in a snuggle pile, Luca’s strong five-year-old legs tangled in yours, Alex drooling a little into your shirt, and Mallory cooing with her sleepy curls stuck to her forehead. There were driveway hockey games until it got dark, stick-handling drills taught by Luca to Alex, and Mallory giggling every time someone smacked the puck too hard and hit the garage door.

You’d managed. You always did.

This morning, though, felt different. Lighter. Hopeful. The boys had slept in a bit, worn out from backyard chaos the night before, and Mallory had woken up in one of her chirpy moods—babbling to her bunny plush and banging her chubby fists on the crib mattress like a tiny dictator summoning her kingdom. You’d scooped her up and breathed in her neck, that sweet, warm scent that only a baby can have. You mumbled a quiet, “Dada’s coming home today,” and she’d squealed like she understood.

Now, the house was clean, or as clean as it could be with two boys and a baby, the laundry was done (you had at least three clean loads folded and stacked, even if none of it was put away), and you were walking the boys through the grocery store while Mallory was strapped to your chest in the carrier, tugging on the drawstring of your hoodie with chunky fingers.

“I want to get Daddy the big cookies,” Luca said, skipping ahead a little as you navigated the cart toward the bakery section.

“You always want the big cookies,” you teased, adjusting the strap across your shoulder. “You mean the oatmeal chocolate chip ones?”

He nodded furiously. “The ones with the gooey middles. Daddy said those are his ‘favorite of all time.’” He stretched the words out dramatically, mimicking Sid’s voice.

“Of all time,” Alex repeated, practically bouncing on his toes. “But what if they don’t have them?”

“We improvise,” you said, steering the cart with one hand while gently rubbing Mallory’s back with the other. “You think Daddy’s gonna mind if he comes home to just chocolate chip instead?”

Luca and Alex exchanged a solemn look. “He won’t mind,” Luca said, dragging out the word like it pained him to say it. “But he might be a little bit… disappointed.”

You laughed softly. “Tragic.”

Alex grinned up at you, missing one of his front teeth. “Can I pick out the juice for dinner?”

“As long as it’s not bright blue,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him playfully.

“Green?”

You shrugged. “Borderline.”

He nodded, satisfied with the challenge.

Mallory shifted against your chest, her face nuzzling into your hoodie before she popped her head back up and looked around, eyes wide like she owned the store. She’d been more and more alert lately— more curious—grabbing at everything, drooling on the straps of her carrier, and trying to mimic every single noise her brothers made. She’d started sort of babbling some version of “dada” the day after Sid left. He’d almost cried on FaceTime when you showed him.

The bakery section smelled like sugar and nostalgia. The boys hovered around the cookie counter, faces pressed close to the glass like little food critics, debating between their usual pick and a seasonal cinnamon one that had sparkles on top.

You leaned over the cart, picking out a pack of the oatmeal chocolate chip. “Let’s stick with what we know,” you said. “Dada doesn’t do glitter cookies.”

Alex pouted. “But I do.”

“You, baby boy, are a glitter cookie,” you said, tapping the tip of his nose.

The woman behind the counter smiled at the boys. “Helping Mom today?”

“We cleaned the house!” Luca said proudly. “I vacuumed all the crumbs. Even under the couch.”

“I put the pillows back,” Alex chimed in. “And I sorted socks. Mommy says it’s ‘em-portant.’”

You laughed again, cheeks warm. “They’ve been my little dream team today.”

“Bet Dad’s excited to come home to that,” the woman said, sliding your pack of cookies across the counter.

“He better be,” you muttered with a grin, checking the time on your phone. Sid’s flight is set to land in half an hour. “Alright, guys, produce section and then we can head out.”

“What’s for dinner?” Luca asked, falling into step beside you, fingers brushing the side of the cart.

You adjusted Mallory again and shrugged. “I was thinking grilled chicken, some potatoes, maybe broccoli. Something easy.”

“But fancy?” Alex asked.

“Fancy enough that Daddy thinks I tried.”

He giggled and grabbed your hand. “You always try, Mommy.”

You blinked, heart skipping in that way it sometimes did when they said things like that out of nowhere. You leaned down to kiss the top of his head, breathing in the faint scent of his apple shampoo and sweat and whatever mess he’d gotten into earlier.

At checkout, Mallory started getting squirmy, so you slipped her out of the carrier and held her on your hip while bagging up the groceries. The cashier commented on her cheeks—as everyone always did—and Mallory responded by blowing a loud raspberry and waving one dimpled hand like a queen. You could already feel the ache in your back from carrying her, but you didn’t mind. Her weight was comfort now. Familiar.

“Can we listen to the playlist Daddy made us?” Luca asked once you were in the car, groceries loaded, all three kids strapped in.

You turned the key in the ignition and smiled. “Of course we can.”

It was a mix Sid had made a few weeks ago. Songs for the boys, mostly. A few for Mallory. Some of them were ones he’d grown up listening to with his own parents and others were just silly tracks the boys liked to dance to. But tucked in the middle were a few quieter ones. The kind that made your throat tight when you listened too closely. The kind that made it clear that Sidney, for all his gruff silence and media polish, was a man head over heels for his family.

As the first song came on, the boys started singing from the back seat, half in tune, half shouting. You glanced in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of them—Luca tapping the rhythm on his thighs, Alex doing some kind of air-drum routine. Mallory leaned against the side of her car seat, thumb in her mouth, eyelids starting to droop.

“Almost home,” you whispered, reaching back and smoothing baby girls' curls. “And Daddy’ll be there soon.”

The idea sent a warm flicker through your chest. The house was ready. The kids were clean. Dinner was planned. The long stretch without him was nearly over.

And that meant, finally, you’d get to slide into his arms again—the one place that still felt like quiet in the middle of all this chaos.

You made a right at the light, headed toward home, already picturing him standing in the doorway, bag slung over his shoulder, that soft tired smile on his face when he saw all four of you waiting.

But that had to wait, because it all fell apart about ten minutes before Sidney was due to walk through the front door.

Dinner was being prepped and simmering on the stove, the smell of garlic and cream and roasted chicken winding through the house like a soft, savory promise. The table was already set, candles unlit but placed—because the boys had insisted on a “fancy welcome home”—with their little plastic forks beside the real ones, and Mallory’s tiny bowl and spoon laid out on her tray. The dishwasher hummed softly in the background. For a few brief minutes, it had almost felt serene.

And then chaos took hold. As usual.

The kitchen clock ticked down from 4:48 and you were elbow-deep in a half-stirred sauce when Alex let out a “HEY!” so loud you flinched and nearly dropped the whisk. You turned just in time to see him pointing an accusatory finger at Luca, who stood guiltily beside the rug, a foam boxing glove slipping off his hand and the long black shaft of Sidney’s stick held awkwardly at his side.

“I said no high shots!”

“It wasn’t high!” Luca shouted back, face flushed and sweaty, curls sticking to his forehead. “It was a wrister!”

“You hit me in the boob!”

You pressed your lips together to avoid laughing, wiping your hands on the dish towel tucked into your waistband. “Okay, that’s enough boxing hockey for one day. Go take the gloves off and pick something else before someone loses a tooth or… gets hit in the chest again.”

They groaned but listened, though not without muttering to each other in that ridiculous hushed whisper they thought you couldn’t hear.

“I didn’t even cry when he hit me.”

“Because you didn’t know I hit you!”

“I did too!”

You just shook your head, returning to the stove. The house smelled good—real food good. Chicken roasting in the oven, potatoes crisping up with garlic and rosemary, broccoli steamed and tossed in butter.

Honestly? You were proud of yourself. You’d handled it all—three kids, one house, two hockey-stick-swinging maniacs, and one teething baby. And the finish line? It was so close.

By the time 4:56 rolled around, the boxing gloves had been abandoned on the kitchen floor (one still attached to a stick, for reasons you would never understand), and the boys had taken up position at the kitchen island in their seats.

“Don’t start without me!” Alex barked, his little hands slamming the counter as you set the box of Jenga in front of them.

“I won’t!” Luca snapped back, already reaching for a piece.

“Guys,” you said, “you always start before each other and it always ends in chaos.”

They both looked at you with wide-eyed innocence. “We’ll be gentle this time.”

You snorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Mallory was plopped into her high chair with a soft little oof of protest, which she immediately forgot about as soon as you handed her a stick of celery and one of her favorite teething “toys”. She latched onto both like a woman on a mission, her chubby hands gripping and gnawing while she stared at her brothers like they were the best live-action show on TV.

And of course, the Jenga game devolved into exactly what you expected: chunky little fingers knocking into the tower, Luca pulling from the bottom when Alex said top only, pieces clattering to the floor every three minutes, and you resetting it almost as fast.

“I want the pink one,” Luca said, reaching for a block that didn’t exist.

“There is no pink,” you said.

Alex leaned forward, tongue poked between his lips in concentration. “Okay. Watch this. I’m gonna take this one—”

CLATTER.

They both shrieked.

“Luca moved!”

“No I didn’t! You breathed too hard!”

“Oh my God,” you muttered to yourself as you started stacking again.

You didn’t hear the front door open.

You didn’t hear the shuffle of Sidney’s bag hitting the floor, or his keys hitting the little ceramic dish by the entryway, or the sound of his footsteps padding down the hall.

You did hear his voice though.

“Hey.”

It wasn’t loud, wasn’t dramatic. Just that familiar, calm tone that made something in your chest go loose and warm all at once.

You turned around before the boys even registered it, cheeks already warm and tired eyes blinking at the sight of him.

He looked like home.

Coat on, Polo soft and wrinkled from the plane, scruff thick on his jaw. And that smile—that smile—crooked and quiet and just for you.

You didn’t even say anything. You crossed the kitchen in a couple steps and threw your arms around his shoulders, burying your face in the side of his neck as he dropped everything to hug you back.

His arms came around you with that familiar pressure—solid and safe and strong enough to hold it all.

“Hi,” you mumbled, eyes stinging for no reason except the fact that he was here. Finally.

“Hi, baby,” he whispered into your hair.

You pulled back only enough to kiss him—slow and soft and lingering. He leaned into it, hands warm on your waist, and it was the kind of kiss that made the whole world fade for a second. Made it feel like just the two of you again.

Which, naturally, did not go unnoticed.

“Yuck,” came Alex’s voice from behind you. “They’re doing kissing again.”

“Ewwwwwwww,” Luca echoed with genuine horror.

You pulled away laughing, forehead still pressed to Sid’s cheek as you mumbled, “You’ve been gone a week and they’ve turned into full-blown critics.”

“Did they say ‘again’?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he looked past you.

“Multiple times,” you said. “Apparently I’m not allowed to kiss my own husband.”

“Terrible rule,” he said, turning just in time to see the boys finally launching out of their seats like rockets.

“YAY!”

“YOU’RE HOME!”

It was chaos.

Luca tripped over the boxing glove still attached to the stick and barely caught himself. Alex rounded the corner like a linebacker and nearly took out the island stool. Mallory shrieked so loudly from her chair it sounded like a fire alarm.

And Sidney?

He laughed. That warm, crinkly-eyed, can’t-help-it laugh you missed so much.

“What happened to my quiet, peaceful house?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You had a quiet, peaceful house. Until you gave me three miniature versions of yourself.”

He crouched just in time to catch them both—Alex hitting him first, arms around his neck, followed by Luca flinging his entire body into his side like a WWE move.

“Whoa, whoa! Easy!” Sid said, laughing, nearly toppling backward. “You guys get stronger while I’m gone?”

“Did you bring candy?”

“Did you see my drawing?”

“Did you win?”

“Did you eat gross hotel food?”

Sid looked up at you from the floor, both boys wrapped around him like clingfilm, and grinned. “Have they been like this all week?”

“This is them mild,” you said.

Mallory had both fists banging against her tray now, little body shaking with excitement.

“Da-da-da-da-da!”

Sidney’s head snapped toward her instantly. “Is she saying—?”

“Nonstop,” you confirmed.

He stood up slowly, still holding Luca on one hip while Alex dangled from his arm like a koala. “Hey, bug,” he cooed. “Did you miss Daddy?”

She squealed and flapped and you quickly unclipped her from the chair, setting her on the floor where she immediately made a beeline for him with her unsteady crawl.

“Go get him, baby girl,” you said softly, watching the entire scene unfold with your heart basically trying to melt through your ribs.

Sid crouched again, arm out, and Mallory threw herself into him with her little head tucked under his chin and her fingers tangled in his shirt.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, holding all three of them like he’d never let go. “How did I survive ten days without this?”

“I have no idea,” you said, arms crossed, watching your family pile on top of each other like a bunch of overexcited puppies. “Because I barely did.”

He smiled up at you. “Come here.”

“I’ve got the potatoes—”

“I don’t care.”

You laughed and leaned down to kiss his cheek, brushing Mallory’s wild hair out of her eyes, as the boys started shouting over one another again about Jenga and boxing hockey and who got to sit next to him at dinner.

Chaos.

Absolute, beautiful chaos.

After a few minutes Sidney took Mallory and changed her into fresh pajamas with tiny skating penguins on them, her curls fluffier. Now they were curled up on the sofa. Dinner was twenty minutes out, which meant you should’ve been pouring drinks, pulling the rolls from the bag and—

“Can we play hallway hockey with Daddy?” Alex asked breathlessly, like it was the most urgent ask in the world.

Luca popped around the island a half second later. “Please can we, Mama? Please? Just a quick one.”

You glanced toward the living room where Sid was stretched out on the couch, baby Mallory splayed across his chest like a starfish, her little legs twitching in her nap.

“She just fell asleep,” you whispered.

“Not asleep,” Sid called from the couch, eyes still closed. “She’s fake-sleeping. I know the difference.”

You raised an eyebrow, walked over, and gently poked her squishy thigh. Sure enough, her eyes popped open like she’d just been waiting for the cue.

“Traitor,” you said to her as she kicked happily.

Sid sat up slowly, shifting her upright against his chest. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

The boys cheered and bolted down the hallway toward the front closet, already shouting over each other about who was going to be goalie first.

Sid came into the kitchen, tightening the baby carrier straps around his chest as you handed Mallory over, now fully alert and giggling like she already knew what she was in for.

“You’re playing with her strapped on?”

“Obviously,” he said. “Moral support.”

“She’s gonna whack you in the face with her stick.”

“She’s team captain,” he grinned, reaching into the utensil drawer. “Where’s her stick?”

You handed over the mini pink foam stick from the play bin by the pantry. She immediately grabbed it like she knew exactly what she was doing. Which, of course, she didn’t.

He raised his brows as he looked down at her. “You ready, coach?”

Mallory gave a mighty eeeeeh! and wiggled in his grip like she was being prepped for battle.

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, smiling like an idiot as you watched all of them march back into the hallway.

Alex had already rolled out their makeshift foam puck. They had the mini goals set up—one by the base of the stairs and the other near the mudroom. The hallway was long and had scuffed baseboards that bore the full history of rainy days, inside soccer, and countless rounds of “puck tag.”

“I brought you my lucky stick,” Alex announced proudly, handing over a slightly worn, knee-high blue hockey stick with his name and a Lightning McQueen sticker on it.

Sidney took it, crouching down just a little so he was at eye level with him. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. You’ll need it.”

Sid looked at you over Alex’s head and mouthed, I’m gonna pay for this tomorrow.

You stifled a laugh. “Stretch first,” you called. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I never warm up,” he said, already crouching low. “We go in raw.”

“That’s what got us three kids, genius,” you muttered to yourself.

The first few minutes were pure chaos. Shrieking. So much shrieking.

Luca and Alex took off at full speed like the rules of physics didn’t apply. Sid, kneeling to try and keep pace with them (and not decapitate someone with a stick meant for a child), held Mallory against his chest while she swung her foam blade enthusiastically into the air, catching him in the jaw twice and barely missing an eye on the third swing.

“I think she’s trying to fight me,” he grunted.

“She’s training to be a goon,” you called from the doorway.

“She gets that from you,” he said, ducking as Luca ran past him with the puck.

You watched like it was the Stanley Cup Final. The game didn’t have real rules. It never had. It was basically a free-for-all of slapping the foam puck back and forth, calling out nonsensical play-by-plays, and celebrating every single goal like it was a game-winner.

At one point, Alex tripped over his own feet, face-planted into the carpet, popped up, and yelled, “I’m okay!” before charging again.

Luca scored the first goal. Sidney was clearly going easy, dramatically whiffing a few shots and groaning like the boys were too fast for him.

“Mallory!” Alex shouted. “Your team’s losing!”

“She’s conserving her energy,” Sid said. “Like a real MVP.”

“She’s just chewing her stick!” Luca argued.

“She’s multitasking.”

But around the five-minute mark, the tides turned.

You could see it in the way Sid’s shoulders shifted—he was still kneeling, still careful, but now his posture had just a little more purpose.

He blocked a shot with his thigh. Poked the puck away from Luca with a grin.

“Oh no,” Alex shouted. “He’s trying now!”

“Yup,” Sid grunted.

“I knew this would happen!” Luca wailed dramatically.

“What happened to being nice?” Alex asked, running across the hallway to guard the net.

Sid raised an eyebrow. “You guys said this was real hockey.”

Luca dove toward the puck, missing by inches. Alex swung his stick a little too wide trying to block it. Mallory shrieked joyfully from her perch as Sidney tapped the puck right past both boys and into their goal.

“GOOOOOAL!” he yelled, lifting Mallory’s tiny hand into the air like she was raising the Cup.

“I saw that!” Alex cried. “You can’t do that! Mallory didn’t even do anything!”

“She’s literally on the ice, buddy,” Sid said through a grin. “It counts.”

“Rematch!” Luca shouted.

They regrouped and came back stronger—charging, giggling, half tackling him at one point. Mallory squealed when Luca slid on his socks into her dad’s shins.

You leaned in, recording on your phone, heart so stupidly full you thought it might melt into your socks.

“Water break!” Alex shouted seven minutes in, flopping dramatically onto the hallway floor.

Sid stood above them, sweaty curls stuck to his forehead, Mallory gnawing her stick and making wet sounds of approval.

“You guys are brutal,” he said.

“You cheated,” Luca replied, chest heaving.

“I’m just good,” Sid teased, tapping his stick on the ground.

Sid grabbed his water glass from earlier and passed it around. Mallory reached for it, so he tilted the glass toward her carefully, letting her wet her lips while she smacked at the cup.

Then—without warning—Luca darted up again, grinning like a bandit.

“NO BREAKS,” he yelled. “SURPRISE ATTACK!”

He hurled himself forward with the puck, and Alex met him with an equal lunge, the two of them smacking sticks, laughing and tangled, the puck ricocheting toward the side wall.

Sid went to intercept, adjusting Mallory’s carrier as he moved. “Here we go—Daddy with the breakaway!”

The boys collapsed into a pile in front of the net, groaning dramatically, sticks tangled beneath them. Mallory, clearly sensing the victory, squealed and bounced in her carrier harness, clapping her tiny hands.

“I think you broke them,” you said, checking the timer. “One minute.”

And that’s when it happened.

The final face-off. The boys were panting, flushed, eyes wild with determination. Sid crouched low, dropped the puck, and before you could blink, both boys lunged at it.

Luca’s stick got there first.

Unfortunately, so did his elbow.

There was a little stumble, a clumsy collision of limbs, and then Alex was on his butt, blinking fast.

“Uh oh,” you murmured, setting your phone down and stepping in—but then—

“My tooth!”

Alex lit up.

“Wait! My tooth!”

Sid immediately dropped his stick, crouching down. “Let me see.”

Alex opened his mouth, and sure enough—blood on his bottom lip, and a tiny gap where his front tooth used to be.

Luca gasped. “I did it! I knocked it out!”

“It was already wiggly!” Alex said quickly. “You helped!”

Sid blinked. “You okay, bud? That didn’t hurt too bad?”

Alex shook his head proudly. “Nope. I’m a hockey player now!”

You handed Sid a tissue, and he gently cleaned Alex’s mouth while Mallory made grabby hands toward her brother’s face.

“I’m gonna put it under my pillow,” Alex said, voice muffled. “And then the Tooth Fairy will come and bring me a million dollars.”

“She usually does like, a couple bucks,” you said cautiously.

“I’m getting a million,” Alex declared.

“I want a tooth to fall out too!” Luca added, sticking his finger in his mouth.

You leaned back, checking the time on the oven.

“Okay, future millionaires—go wash your hands. Dinner’s ready in like thirty seconds.”

The boys scrambled down the hallway—Alex carefully cradling his tooth in a tissue, Luca babbling about which tooth he should “wiggle the hardest.”

Sid stood, adjusting Mallory’s carrier again. “I think your son just made his NHL debut.”

“I saw,” you laughed, rubbing his shoulder. “Might want to ice your knees later.”

“Worth it,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “That was the best game I’ve played in months.”

You smiled, heart fluttering, and reached for Mallory’s tiny foot to give it a gentle squeeze.

“Good game, Captain.”

She squeaked, still clutching her chewed-up foam stick like a trophy.

And just like that, the oven beeped.

Dinner was ready.

The house smelled like home.

And your whole team was back together.

The boys had already started arguing about who would sit next to Daddy for dinner. Ten minutes ago, you had a clean, quiet house.

Now?

Your sons were sticky, sweaty, and missing teeth.

Sid was limping just slightly.

Mallory’s hair looked like she’d been in a wind tunnel.

And dinner smelled like heaven.

Everything—everything—was exactly how it should be.

—

[zzointerme]

only you — j. hughes

an — inspired by this tweet. jack looked too good yesterday

masterlist

the hotel room door clicked shut behind you both, drowning out the noise of fanatics fest, leaving only the soft hum of the air conditioner and jack’s dramatic groan as he flopped onto the bed like he’d just lost a playoff series.

“i’m never trusting a barber in this city again,” he muttered, face buried in the duvet, hair sticking out in sad, uneven tufts.

you leaned back against the door, crossing your arms, the hem of your denim mini skirt brushing the tops of your thighs. the cropped top you wore shifted as you exhaled slowly, fighting the grin tugging at your lips.

“jack, it’s really not that—”

he turned his head just enough to glare at you with one eye. “don’t. lie.”

your grin slipped out before you could stop it. “okay. it’s… kinda tragic.”

“thank you. so supportive,” he groaned, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling like it held all of life’s answers. “i need a hat. i’m wearing a hat. no one can see this.”

you pushed off the door and sauntered over, dropping onto the edge of the bed. “you’re not wearing a hat, jack. you’re not your gorgeous hair.”

he lifted his head just enough to eye you, gaze dragging down your legs, over the curve of your waist where your top revealed a sliver of skin. “you’re really gonna sit there looking like that and expect me to focus on my hair?”

you smirked. “stop deflecting. sit up.”

with a sigh, he did as told, leaning against the headboard. you knelt between his legs, fingers threading through his hair, trying to salvage what you could. his hands, as if on instinct, slid up your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your top, before gliding down to rest on your bare thighs.

“you’re distracting me,” you said, trying to sound stern but your voice softened under his touch.

he grinned lazily. “not my fault you look this good while playing hairstylist.”

you rolled your eyes and focused on your task, parting his hair down the middle, smoothing it so it framed his face, soft and boyish — like your own personal ‘90s heartthrob.

“there,” you said, sitting back on your heels to admire your work. “better.”

he gave a mock serious nod. “so what you’re saying is, you want me looking hot for other women tonight?”

your hands froze. your breath hitched just barely, but he caught it, his smirk growing.

your eyes narrowed, and before he could react, you ruffled his hair. hard. the neat part was gone, replaced by a mess of soft waves sticking out in all directions.

“you wish, hughes,” you snapped, pushing off the bed and standing, brushing your hands down your skirt like you were wiping off the irritation. “find your hat. maybe i do want to cover that stupid hair.”

jack threw his head back and laughed — loud, genuine, the kind that always made your chest ache because you loved it so much, even when you wanted to strangle him.

“oh my god, you are mad!” he said, eyes bright, grin wide. “you’re actually mad! this is great. you’re so hot when you’re mad.”

that only made your scowl deepen as you turned your back on him, arms crossed, stomping toward the tiny table by the window.

“stop laughing at me, jack,” you said, voice dripping with petty indignation.

he didn’t. if anything, he laughed harder, pushing off the bed to follow you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind.

you tried to stay annoyed, but his voice was soft now, warm and low, and his arms around you felt too good.

you huffed, leaning back into him despite yourself. “you’re an idiot.”

“but atleast i’m yours.”

you rolled your eyes, but your lips curved in spite of yourself.

you stayed facing the window, arms crossed tight over your chest, pretending to admire the view when really your reflection in the glass betrayed you — lips pursed, brow furrowed, cheeks flushed with that mix of jealousy and affection you could never quite untangle when it came to jack.

behind you, he moved quietly at first, like he thought he could sneak up without you noticing. but you felt the shift in the room, the warmth of him as he stepped close.

“baby,” he said again, voice lower now, playful but careful, like he was treading the line between teasing and making it up to you. his hands found your waist, thumbs brushing soft circles against your sides. “i was joking.”

you didn’t respond, not right away, letting the silence stretch.

but then he dipped his head, nose brushing your hair aside so his lips could graze just below your ear, soft and deliberate, like he knew exactly how to break down your walls.

“you really think i care what anyone else thinks?” he murmured, voice warm enough to melt steel. “i’ve got you, my beautiful, jealous, possessive girlfriend that’s all i want.”

you swallowed hard, trying to hold on to your indignation. his arms tightened around you, pulling you back against his chest. the heat of him, the familiar weight of his chin resting on your shoulder — it was too easy to lean into it, too easy to forget you were supposed to be mad.

“you’re an idiot,” you muttered, but it came out softer than you intended.

he smiled against your skin. “your idiot.”

you rolled your eyes even as your lips betrayed you, curving up at the corners. but you weren’t letting him off that easy.

“doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” you grumbled, though you let your hands drop to rest over his where they were splayed on your stomach.

he hummed, kissing the spot below your jaw, then lower, trailing slow, apologetic kisses down your neck. “what if i said you’re the only one i want looking at me tonight?”

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t, not when he was doing that.

“what if i said i don’t care about my hair, or the attention, or anything else?” his lips curved into a grin against your skin. “just want you, mad or not.”

you sighed, your resolve slipping. “you’re so annoying.”

“and you love me anyway.”

his hands slid up, palms warm against your ribs, thumbs brushing just under your top again, this time slower, more tender. his nose nudged your temple, his breath soft on your cheek.

“come on, baby,” he whispered. “don’t be mad. you’re too pretty to pout.”

you turned in his arms finally, letting him see the stubborn glint still in your eyes, but also the affection that no amount of teasing could hide.

“fine,” you said, poking his chest. “but you owe me. big time.”

he grinned, leaning down to steal a quick kiss. “deal. whatever you want. just don’t stay mad. i can’t make it through the day— you’re too hot when you’re mad, it’s distracting.”

and just like that, your fake annoyance crumbled, replaced by a laugh you tried and failed to smother as he kissed you again, deeper this time, hands framing your face like he wanted to memorize the feel of you.

© 2025 M34TTHEWS

[zzointerme]

𐔌 　 ⁺　𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 𓂃۶ৎ

݁ ˖ ──── quinn hughes 𝑥 gf!reader

in which you help and quinn and jack shoot their bath and bodyworks commercial in the lake house kitchen

❕. . . fluff , language

✉️ cami ; needed to write a little something with the ad video cause I thought it was the funniest thing. need summer bf quinn so bad actually😩 working on the celly requests as we speak I promise 🤞

you straighten your spine and take a deep breath as you feel a cramp start at the base of your back. the specific position you currently found yourself in was the root of your discomfort but hopefully this would be the last take.

when you had volunteered to help your boyfriend quinn and his brother jack shoot their bath and bodyworks commercial you hadn’t exactly known what you were getting yourself into.

the duo had spent half their time bullying the other for saying the wrong thing and the other half was spent trying to control their giggles that threatened to escape them each time they opened their mouths.

you shoot trevor a grateful look as he places a glass of cold water on the counter in front of you before taking a seat a few feet away.

“okay, from the top. let’s make this the last one please” you tell the boys, holding up the phone.

“hi I’m jack hughes” jack starts off flashing his signature grin to the camera

“and I’m quinn hughes” quinn mutters

“and we’ve partnered with Bath and Bady—ugh” jack grunts, slapping both hands to his cheeks as he stumbles over the words again

“there’s so many words in this. why can’t we just say ‘we’ve partnered with BOB for fathers day’ and then whatever the fuck is after that” jack whines

“who’s bob?” quinn asks confused and jack rolls his eyes slightly

“bath and bodyworks” jack says in a ‘duh’ tone

“that would be BAB you dumbass. and no, using acronyms that aren’t usually acronyms just sound douchey, even for you who would usually get away with something like that” quinn informs his younger brother, readjusting the order of the bottles that jack just messed and signalling for you to go again.

you almost got to the half point mark this time before jack messed up again.

“if you don’t wanna use that we’ve got the monogamy—“

“it’s mahogany, not monogamy jack” you correct, amusement clear in your voice as quinn sighs annoyedly. your boyfriend only had so much patience for media stuff on a good day, and it was quite obvious that he didn’t have any time to entertain it today.

“what the hell is mahogany?” jack questions, nose scrunching as he inspects the bottle like it holds all the answers to life.

“don’t pretend like you know what monogamy is either” trevor quips earning a swift glare from jack and a cackle from the other room where luke was banished to after one too many ruined takes by his sarcastic comments.

“more than you that’s for sure” jack mumbles and puts the bottle down with a huff.

“maybe we should take a little break” you suggest sensing your boyfriend’s at his wits end.

jack and trevor walk off to the living room still exchanging jabs back and forth and quinn closes the distance between you, pulling you into his arms and burrowing his face in the crease of your neck.

“let’s go somewhere. just you and me. get away from these idiots for a few days” quinn mumbles, pressing kisses all over the exposed skin at your neck.

“baby we just got here” you giggle, pulling his head back so you could make eye contact. you lean close and kiss his nose softly causing the annoyed expression to fall into a content, bashful one.

“we can do date night tho? i’ll take you to one of my favourite restaurants in the city” he asks hopefully, pressing another kiss to your jaw as if that would convince you, and it certainly helped.

“is that where you took all the girls back when you were in college?” you tease, the hint of jealousy obvious in your tone despite the joking way you meant it.

“only the hot ones” quinn jokes, wincing with a chuckle when you hit him on the chest, capturing your hand and pressing a kiss to your wrist.

“I’m kidding! it’s a hughes family favourite. never taken a girl there. want you to be the first and last” he says, putting that same hand on his chest right over his heart.

“if we finish the bath and bodyworks video then yes we can do date night,” you say and quinn practically sprints to his spot behind the counter again

“jack! come on, we gotta finish this. I have a hot date tonight,” quinn yells, throwing you an exaggerated wink and you giggle while shaking your head as the other boys come barreling into the kitchen again.

[zzointerme]

I LOVE THE AWKWARDNESS

Extra Foam, Extra Blushes - J. Woll

Hey, Lovelies! I’m so excited to share my first Joseph Woll fic with you all! It’s short, sweet, and full of cute, awkward moments. Big thanks to @tonyspepfor for the amazing idea that inspired this story! 💖

I hope you enjoy reading it! ✨

For more fun: masterlist

---

Joseph Woll was sweating.

Not in a literal way—he wasn’t on the ice, and it wasn’t exactly hot outside in the middle of a Toronto winter—but in an oh my god, I’m about to embarrass myself kind of way.

He had been coming to this coffee shop for months. At first, it was just about the coffee. Then, it was about you.

It didn’t make sense. He didn’t even know you, not really. You barely knew him, past his usual order and the bits of small talk he could choke out between his awkward stammers. But still—he was hooked. He never believed in love at first sight. Thought that stuff only happened in movies or to guys way smoother than him. But here he was, heart flipping over itself because of you.

He tried to tell himself it was just a crush. Just some fleeting, stupid thing.

But then he’d walk in, and you'd be standing there—leaning against the counter, fingers tapping absently on the register, or tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you concentrated on writing down an order. And every time, it hit him like a slap to the face.

It wasn’t just your smile, though God, that was unfairly cute. It was the way your eyes lit up when you spoke, the way you rocked on your heels when you were thinking, the way you twirled the end of your pen when you were distracted. He noticed it all. He liked it all.

And today? Today, he was going to try.

The bell jingled as he stepped inside, and you looked up—resting your elbow on the counter, eyes catching his like you'd been waiting for him.

“Hey, Jo!” You straightened a little, brushing your hands over your apron. He didn’t know if you realized you did that every time you saw him. Like you were subconsciously making yourself look more put together. Like you cared, just a little, about what he thought.

And that? That made his brain short-circuit.

“Hey—” He was so focused on not sounding like a complete idiot that he didn’t realize he had stopped walking too soon—until the guy behind him bumped into him, making him stumble forward.

“Oh, sorry, man,” the guy muttered, stepping around him.

Joseph turned back to you, ears already burning. “I—I meant to do that.”

You blinked, then let out a quiet laugh, biting your lip like you were trying to hold back something bigger. Joseph's face burned instantly—great, now you were laughing at him. He wanted to sink into the floor but settled for rubbing the back of his neck, hoping it hid how red his ears were.

"Right. Totally," you said, shifting your weight, your fingers twitching at your sides like you wanted to fidget with something.

Jo groaned internally. Great start, bud.

He straightened up, forcing himself to act normal—even though looking at you made his entire nervous system go haywire.

"Sooo," you said, tapping your nails lightly against the counter. "Same as always?"

He hesitated. He could just say yes, keep it simple. But no. Today’s Joseph was taking risks.

"Actually," he said, shifting slightly, "what’s, uh… what’s your favorite drink?"

Your eyes widened slightly. "Oh! Um—well, I really like the caramel oat milk latte. Kinda basic, but, y'know."

God, even the way you said ‘y’know’ was cute.

"Cool," Jo nodded. "I’ll, uh—I’ll get that, then."

You tilted your head, eyebrows pinching together slightly. "Really?"

"Yeah." He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual. "Gotta, uh—switch things up. Live a little."

Live a little? Why did I say that?

But instead of laughing at him, you just exhaled a small breath—like you were surprised—before nodding.

"O-okay," you said, turning toward the espresso machine.

Jo exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against the counter. He could feel the nervous energy buzzing in the air between you two. He knew he needed to be smoother, but his brain was barely working as it was.

"So, uh," he blurted, just to fill the silence, "you, uh—you know I play for the Leafs, right?"

Oh my god, why did I say that? This is so lame.

You froze—like actually, physically froze—before whipping your head around so fast you almost knocked over a cup.

"Uh—yeah," you said, voice suddenly an octave higher. "Yeah, I—I know. Like, I watch your games. I mean, the Leafs' games. Not you specifically. That would be totally creepy. But, you know, I’m from Toronto and everything, so—yeah. I’m not creepy at all…."

You stopped, horrified at your own rambling, fingers tightening around the milk pitcher like it was your last grip on reality.

Jo was already too nervous to laugh, but god he wanted to. Not at you—just at how impossibly adorable you were when you got flustered. But his brain wasn’t cooperating, so instead, all he managed was:

"Oh, that’s cool." He nodded. "Cool. Cool, cool, cool."

Why did I say ‘cool’ five times?!

You cleared your throat, gripping the cup a little too tightly as you poured the steamed milk in. "You're, um—you’re really good, by the way."

Jo blinked.

His brain blinked.

"You—" He coughed, suddenly feeling like his limbs weren’t working properly. "You think I’m good?"

Your shoulders stiffened. You turned back to him, eyes wide, like you couldn’t believe you had just said that out loud.

"I—I mean—yes? You—you’re a professional hockey player, so—so obviously you’re good, I just—I just meant, um—"

Jo was so in love with you. Like, painfully in love with you.

He let out a laugh—awkward, slightly breathless—rubbing the back of his neck. "Well—uh—thanks. That, uh—that means a lot."

You nodded quickly, hands trembling slightly as you put the lid on his cup.

Jo swallowed hard. This is it. Say it. Just say it.

"So, um—" He cleared his throat, praying his voice didn’t betray just how wrecked he was over this. "Since I’m, uh, trying new things today…"

You glanced at him, fingers curling slightly against the counter, your head tilting just a little. He could see the curiosity in your expression, the way your brows lifted slightly, waiting for him to continue. That tiny movement nearly sent his brain into a tailspin.

"I was, uh—wondering if you’d maybe want to, um, get brunch? With me? Sometime?"

The second the words left his mouth, his stomach flipped. He had no idea how you were going to react. Was that too forward? Too weird? Too—

And then—

Jo shifted his weight a little too quickly—

Crash.

His hip slammed into the napkin dispenser, sending it flying off the counter. The metal container hit the floor with a clatter, napkins exploding in every direction like some kind of tragic comedy.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Jo stood there, ears burning, mentally calculating the fastest way to flee the country.

You gasped, eyes wide. "Oh—oh my God—"

"N-no, I—I'll get them—" Jo blurted, immediately crouching down to scoop up the mess—

And at the same time, you instinctively stepped out from behind the counter, kneeling down to help.

Neither of you realized just how close you were—until you turned at the same time and—

Bump.

Your forehead knocked into his, not hard, but enough that both of you immediately reeled back, hands flying to your heads.

"SORRY!" Jo practically yelped.

"No, no, I—I wasn’t—" you stammered at the same time, your voice just as flustered.

For a moment, you both just sat there, frozen, faces burning, staring at each other like two people who had completely lost control of the situation.

And then—

Laughter.

It started small, breathless, slightly strangled—like neither of you could believe this was actually happening. But then it grew, spilling into something uncontrollable, something that shook Jo’s shoulders as he dropped his head, chuckling in complete disbelief.

When he finally looked up, you were still laughing, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, hands over your mouth like you were trying to hold it in. It was the best thing he had ever seen.

He exhaled, still grinning, rubbing his forehead. "So, uh… is that a no?"

You bit your lip, shaking your head quickly, still breathless from laughing. "N-no! I—I mean, yes! I mean—I would like to—um—yes. A date. With you. That would be—nice."

Jo let out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. His heart felt like it was doing victory laps inside his chest.

Slowly, both of you stood up. Jo awkwardly wiped his palms against his jeans, still trying to process what just happened. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, avoiding his eyes for half a second before glancing back at him, your face still warm.

"Oh," he said, trying—and failing—to sound casual. "Cool."

Your lips twitched like you were holding back a laugh. "You really love that word, huh?"

Jo opened his mouth to protest—only to realize that, yeah, he had definitely said cool at least six times in the past few minutes. His ears burned. "I—I have other words," he muttered.

"Mhm. Sure."

Still smiling, you grabbed a marker and, right in front of him, started writing on his cup. Joseph watched, heart hammering, as you bit your lip, cheeks warm like you were suddenly feeling just as shy as he was. When you finished, you slid the cup toward him and quickly busied yourself adjusting the napkin holder—like maybe you were trying to avoid looking directly at him.

He glanced down.

Jo :)

And underneath it—your number.

Jo blinked. Looked at you. Back at the cup.

By some miracle, he managed to mutter a "Thanks" before heading for the door—only to nearly trip over the curb outside. He caught himself at the last second, cheeks burning, grinning like an absolute idiot.

Best. Coffee. Ever.

[zzointerme]

can i req a auston matthews x reader where they are in a like semi-secret relationship and the whole team is at a bar dancing after a big win and they are just in their own world dancing together

Sorry darling, this took me way too long, but I hope you’re going to like this🫶

Warm and Sneaky

You’re warm from the drinks — flushed cheeks, heavy limbs, a soft buzz spreading through your chest — but your fingers are still cold. Not frozen, just that stubborn kind of chill that clings after a long night out. The bar isn’t technically cold, but the music’s too loud, your legs are aching, and it’s the kind of late where everything starts to feel dreamlike — a little loose around the edges.

And then there’s Auston.

Just standing a few feet away like it's nothing — hoodie slung over his broad shoulders, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, tattoos winding lazily over the muscle of his forearms. One hand curls around a half-finished drink, the other tucked into his pocket, like he’s settled in for the night with nowhere better to be.

He radiates warmth. Not just because of the fleece hoodie — though that oversized thing practically begs to be stolen — but because he is warmth. The kind that settles deep, that lingers. The kind of heat that feels like it was made just for you.

His skin holds the soft gold of a late July afternoon, still sun-kissed even in the dead of winter. His eyes are brown and slow-burning — the kind that melt like caramel or whiskey left too long on your tongue. His black hair is a little messy, falling over his forehead in a way that softens him further, especially when he leans in and looks at you like you’re the only person in the room.

And then there’s his body — broad, steady, the kind that makes you feel small just by proximity. Protective without trying. He’s a human furnace you want to curl up against. And you don’t even question the need to be near him — it feels natural. Instinctual. Like gravity.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the hour.

Or maybe it’s just him.

Because even though he’s doing nothing special — just standing there, hoodie loose around his frame, that easy look on his face — your body’s already moving. Pulled toward him.

You don’t stop to overthink it.

Your fingers twitch.

And then you reach for the hem of his hoodie.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step back. Just arches a brow as your cold hands catch the edge of the fabric.

“What are you doing?” he asks, entirely without protest.

“Getting warm,” you say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Don’t move.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes — amusement, maybe surprise — but no resistance. If anything, he’s just waiting to see what you’ll do next. And he loves this — loves when you take what’s already yours.

So you slide your arms around his waist and duck under the hoodie from below like you own the place. It hikes up a little, your face emerging just beneath the neckline, eyes bright as you glance up at him.

The scent of him hits you all at once — clean laundry, cedar, something sharper from his cologne, and something else that’s just him. Familiar. Warm in the way memories are.

He laughs, startled and soft, his chest rising under your cheek as his arms instinctively lift to give you space.

“Jesus,” he mutters, his voice vibrating through your whole body. “You’re insane.”

“I’m freezing!”

“Your nose is freezing,” he says, incredulous. “I can feel it on my skin.”

“That’s literally the point.” You tilt your head, peeking up at him again, chin resting lightly against his sternum. The hoodie’s all bunched around you both now, like a tent. “You’re big. I like it.”

You nuzzle your cheek against him, chasing the heat, and feel the deep breath he draws in response. He’s still got that half-amused smile — the lazy one that says he’s mildly annoyed but completely gone for you.

“I’ll get you a new one,” you mumble, smug and cozy. “Since I’m clearly stealing this one in broad daylight.”

That earns a real laugh — sharp, involuntary — one of those ones that bursts out of him before he can help it.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “This is my favorite Patagonia hoodie.”

“What? Why not?” you grin, poking his chest. “I’ll get you something better.”

“You have terrible taste in hoodies.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” he insists, dipping his chin so his face is closer to yours. “You bought Willy that one that said ���Chill Daddy’ in glitter letters.”

“It was ironic!”

“It was traumatizing.”

You laugh into his chest, the hoodie slipping further over your head as you burrow in. His hands settle against your back, anchoring you there as the two of you sway slightly where you stand.

“I’m serious,” you say, voice muffled against his shirt. “I’ll get you one from that pretentious LA store you like. With the stupid long sleeves and the tags that itch.”

“You mean Balenciaga,” he deadpans.

“Exactly! See? I know your taste.”

“I don’t want a pity hoodie from someone who wore cowboy boots with a silk skirt last week.”

“They were cute!”

“They were a cry for help.”

“Oh please — I’m not taking fashion advice from a man who wears a paperclip as an earring.”

“Right. Coming from Miss Socks-with-Sandals. Are you sure you wanna start this conversation?”

You gasp, all mock outrage, and give him a dramatic thump on the chest. He catches your hand mid-swing, lacing your fingers together without even thinking. Your hand ends up sandwiched between his and the heat of his chest, and you fall quiet for a moment.

Still tucked under the hoodie, you look up at him, eyes soft.

“You’re really not gonna let me replace it?”

“Nope.”

“Even though I’m literally inside it like a human backpack right now?”

“Especially because of that.”

There’s a pause. A long, slow beat of shared breath, close space, and that look he gives you when he thinks you’re not paying attention — the one that’s so full of quiet affection it makes your stomach flip.

“I don’t want a new one,” he says, voice low. “I like this one. With you in it.”

You break into the stupidest, softest grin, your whole face lighting up before you can stop it. You press a gentle kiss against his chest, right over where his heart beats steady and strong.

“I love you, Papi.”

“I love you too, Mami.”

---

From across the bar, the new guys are watching.

It’s not exactly intentional — more like inevitable. Because how do you not look when someone is crawling inside the team captain’s hoodie like it’s their own personal shelter?

Scott Laughton narrows his eyes, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. “Okay, am I drunk,” he mutters to Brandon Carlo, “or is she literally... inside his hoodie?”

Carlo doesn’t respond right away. He’s too busy staring. Auston’s just standing there — big and steady, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other loosely resting on your back like it belongs there. You’re fully bundled up inside his clothes, face peeking out from the neckline like this is the most obvious, casual thing in the world.

“I thought they weren’t a thing,” Carlo says finally, brows furrowed. “She’s Nylander’s sister, right?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Yeah, she is.”

They both slowly turn to look at the booth behind them, where the rest of the Leafs are hanging out like this is just another Tuesday. Mitch is scrolling TikTok. Morgan’s sipping his beer. William — your older brother — is chewing his dinner slowly, completely unbothered.

“Hey,” Scott says, gesturing toward the scene across the bar. “Do you guys see that?”

Mitch glances up lazily. “Yeah?”

“That’s not weird to you?” Carlo asks. “She’s practically in his hoodie.”

Willie doesn’t even look. “She’s probably just cold.”

“She’s always cold,” Morgan adds, smirking into his drink.

“No, like—” Scott waves a hand. “That’s not just cold. That’s...that’s domestic. Like I’m watching a Hallmark movie in real time.”

“They’re like this all the time,” Mitch shrugs. “Nothing new.”

Carlo stares. Auston shifts his stance slightly, adjusting to your weight like he’s done it a thousand times. Your head’s resting just under his chin now, and you look… safe. Like you’re home.

“She’s in his clothes,” Scott emphasizes. “That’s not a casual-friend move.”

“Oh no,” Morgan agrees, “they’re definitely in love.”

“But they say they’re not,” Mitch says, grinning.

“And they’re extremely bad at lying,” adds Jarnkrok, like it’s a known fact. “But they’re committed to it.”

“Wait,” Carlo says, glancing again at Willie, “you’re just... okay with it? That’s your sister, man.”

Willie finally looks up, shrugs. “She’s happy. He’s good to her.”

Scott looks back at you and Auston. Auston’s rubbing slow, lazy circles against your back now, eyes half-lidded, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. You’re tucked under his chin, arms locked around his middle, completely still — not speaking, not even moving — like the entire world has narrowed down to just this one, quiet space.

And it’s silent. Just stolen glances, the occasional flicker of a smile, and the way you sway slightly like music’s still playing just for you.

“This is crazy,” Carlo whispers, like he’s witnessing a miracle. “They really think they’re being subtle?”

Willie pops another fry into his mouth. ��Oh yeah. Total stealth mode.”

“They’re not even talking,” Scott says. “They’re just... standing there. Together.”

“They do that a lot,” Mitch replies, casually reaching over to steal a piece of meat off William’s plate. “No words. Just cuddling.”

“Nobody even care anymore” Morgan adds, nodding in agreement.

“They never say anything,” Mitch says, rolling his eyes. “Ask them and it’s always—” he lifts his fingers to make exaggerated air quotes, “—‘good friends.’”

Carlo rubs a hand down his face. “This is like watching two golden retrievers try to keep a secret.”

“You should see them on road trips,” Jarnkrok jumps in again. “She joined the physio team last year, and since then, they’ve been inseparable. On the plane, she’s always the first to curl up on his shoulder or lap, headphones shared, totally knocked out while he zones out or watches game footage. When Auston’s stressed before a big game, she’s the only one who can calm him down — a quick forehead kiss or a few quiet words, and he’s ready to focus again. They grab meals together in the team hotel, swapping bites and teasing each other about their routines. She knows exactly how he likes his pre-game coffee and when he needs a break. And don’t even get me started on their hoodie exchange — it’s basically a running joke that half his merch ends up on her.”

Scott is still staring. “And you’re all just... fine with this?”

Willie shrugs again. “Auston doesn’t mess around. If it wasn’t real, he wouldn’t be touching her like that.”

Across the bar, Auston leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. You don’t even react — like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s happened a hundred times.

“Alright, this is starting to be a little too much,” Mitch grumbles, squinting like the sheer force of his disgust might shatter you two apart. “There’s cute, and then there’s I might barf cute—and we’ve definitely crossed that line.”

“Isn’t that just called love, Mitchell?” Morgan drawls, not looking up from his drink.

“It’s called unfair,” Mitch mutters. “Steph’s back in Toronto with the baby and I’m stuck here watching them make eyes at each other like nobody else exists. I feel abandoned.”

“You trying to stop them with dirty looks and it won’t work,” Mo adds. “You’ve tried, like a hundred times. They’re in too deep. It’s a lost cause.”

Willie lifts his glass, the corner of his mouth twitching with a barely-there smile. “Let them be.”

Across the bar, Auston shifts slightly, one hand resting low on your back, the other tucking more of his hoodie around your shoulders like it’s his full-time job to keep you warm. You tilt your head against his chest without thinking, lips curved faintly, eyes shut.

“I miss Steph,” Mitch groans. “She’d be gagging with me right now.”

“She’d also be filming it,” Morgan adds, “and sending it to your mom. They made some bet on when Y/N and Auston are gonna break the news.”

“How do you even know that, man?” Mitch mutters.

“Tessa’s in on the bet too,” Morgan replies, a loving smile playing on his lips as he mentions his wife.

They all glance over again.

You’re practically asleep on your feet now, swaying slightly in Auston’s arms as he rubs lazy circles into your back. His chin rests on your head. You breathe in sync.

William smiles at the sight of you. His chest swells with a quiet, proud love watching you being so safe and so loved. After all, this is all a big brother could wish for. Auston looks up from holding you and catches William’s eye. His soft smile twists into a cocky, playful grin — like he’s silently saying, Yeah, I’m lucky, and I know it. William shakes his head with a quiet laugh, the kind that holds respect and a little bit of fond amusement. No words are needed — just a shared understanding and the unspoken bond they both have for you.

[zzointerme]

TRYING NOT TO, JACK HUGHES

summary: the day before quinn and emmeline's wedding, you are sent on a last-minute road trip to fix a major emergency with quinn's infuriating younger brother, jack. what starts as a tension filled drive turns into something far more complicated as old grudges, misunderstandings, and an unexpected moment forces you to confront the past. with wedding chaos unfolding around you, you are forced to figure out whether your connection is just fleeting or something worth holding onto.

warnings: enemies to lovers, jack being a bit of a dick but so is the reader? fake fiancée/wife for quinn, a couple of uses of curse words, one or two mentions of alcohol

wc: 14.4k

notes: call me patrick swayze the way i'm coming back kids! holy shit genuinely the longest thing i've ever written but i really love it. i also love the fake character i've created in emmeline. she's perfect for quinn. hope y'all enjoy love you!!

The scent of freshly cut grass hung in the warm summer air, clinging to the polished marble floors and driftwood beams of the yacht club’s grand lobby. You stood in the centre—clipboards, binders, and last-minute instructions spilling from your arms—as a flurry of staff moved around you, wrapping garlands of faux flowers around railings, and helping the last flow of guests get checked into their rooms. Outside, the water glittered under the late afternoon sun, serene and still—the exact opposite of your current mental state.

Tomorrow was the big day. Emmeline’s big day.

The thought alone made your heart clench—not in the way some girls felt about weddings, but because Emmeline was your person. Cousins by blood, but closer than sisters. You were both only children, raised more like twins than distant relatives. You knew the way she chewed her thumbnail when she was nervous, the breathy laugh she let out when she was trying not to cry, and how deeply—stubbornly—she loved Quinn Hughes, the man she was about to marry.

You were her maid of honor, and you would make this perfect. Even if it meant re-tying bows, wrangling both the flower girl and ring bearer who were both under the age of 6, and micromanaging every floral arrangement down to the angle of the damn tulips.

“These need to face outward,” you said, approaching the tall centrepiece being adjusted at the welcome table. “We want the blooms to greet people, not glare at the ceiling.”

You took over the flower-adjusting, angling the blooms towards the entryway. 

And that’s when you heard it—the low hum of a luxury engine. The kind that didn’t sputter or whine, but purred like it belonged.

You turned toward the wide front windows just in time to see a sleek black Range Rover pull up to the curved drive. Its glossy body caught the sunlight like a mirror. The back door swung open before the SUV had fully stopped, and out stepped Quinn—tall, lanky, dark; the total opposite of Emmeline, but maybe that’s what made them work so well.

You smiled instinctively. He was good for her. Kind in the quiet, steady way. The kind of man who held doors and remembered anniversaries without needing reminders. Emmeline was lucky.

But then another door opened.

And your heart dropped.

Out came Jack.

His suit bag was slung over one shoulder, dark blond curls windblown, sunglasses perched like a crown of arrogance atop his head. He looked taller than you remembered. Broader too.

The smile brought on by your cousins' fiancé quickly vanished at the sight of his brother.

Jack spotted you quickly, too, as the groomsmen climbed the marble entry steps. His eyes flicked over you with quick precision—clipboard, binder, pencil behind your ear, the purposeful way you stood like you owned the lobby. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the sight. Of course, you’d overtaken the planning. Of course, you were micromanaging every last detail. He was surprised, frankly, that you hadn’t demanded Quinn and his groomsmen be at the wedding venue at the same time as you were, instead of letting them spend the week at the family lakehouse as they had. 

You ignored the presence of the middle Hughes sibling, smiling at Quinn as he entered the lobby. “Hey groom,” you smiled, stepping forward. “Nervous yet, or just pretending not to be?”

Quinn grinned and walked in for a hug. “Only excited,” he said, pulling you in. “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

When you pulled back, Jack was there too, lingering just behind him, sunglasses now hanging from the collar of his t-shirt. His eyes locked with yours. A smirk that nearly curled into a sneer tugged on his lips.

“Ma’am,” he said, mock saluting you.

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Quinn gave his brother a warning glance, but Jack simply let out a breathy laugh through his nose as he stepped past you. Jack’s shoulder just barely grazed yours, but it was enough to make your spine stiffen. He knew exactly what he was doing—calculated, casual, just irritating enough to make it seem accidental. You turned slightly, watching him saunter toward the welcome table and delicately graze one of the tulips you’d just adjusted, tipping the bloom back towards the ceiling. 

“Please,” you said coolly, “try not to mess anything up in the five minutes you’re here.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder with a crooked smile. “Jesus Christ, y/n, it’s the bride that’s supposed to be controlling, not the maid of honor.” 

You felt your teeth grind against one another, a slurry of evil words bubbling to the surface, before Quinn spoke up. “Guys, please,” he started, shifting uncomfortably beside you. “Can you not go at it all weekend?”

“I’m not ‘going at’ anything,” you said through gritted teeth, never taking your eyes off Jack. “I’m just asking him to stay out of the way.”

“Gonna be hard for the best man to stay out of the way.” Jack snorted. “Y’know you’re kind of taking the fun out of the whole weekend for me?”

You took a step forward, pointing the clipboard at Jack. “This weekend isn’t about you having fun, Jack. It’s about your brother and Emmeline. Try and remember that.”

His smile flickered just enough for you to catch it. “Trust me,” he said, voice dropping slightly, “no one’s forgetting who’s running the show.”

Quinn cleared his throat. “Okay. Great reunion, everyone. Can we maybe not start the weekend with a fight?”

Neither of you said anything, but the look Jack gave you was enough. It was a challenge—one he’d clearly enjoy stretching out over the next forty-eight hours. You could already picture it: sly comments during the rehearsal dinner, backhanded compliments during speeches, finding little ways to push your buttons every chance he got.

“Fine,” you said, stepping back and motioning toward the grand staircase. “Groomsmen are in the west wing, second floor. Your rooms are labeled. Try not to switch them around for fun.”

Jack winked. “You wound me.”

You didn’t answer. Just turned on your heel and walked away, jaw tight, footsteps sharp against the marble floor.

The wedding hadn’t even started, and already Jack was under your skin like a splinter, exactly where he wanted to be.

If you could have it your way, you would never have to see Jack this weekend. You would never see him for as long as you lived. 

It’s hard to believe there was a time when you couldn’t wait to meet Jack. 

That summer, two years ago now, felt like a dream. Emmeline had just hit the one-year mark of living with Quinn in Vancouver, and everything was suddenly moving fast. She was blissed out and in love, and when she invited you to join her at the Hughes’ lakehouse for a week in July, you said yes before she even finished asking. A week's vacation at a nice-ass lakehouse, doing nothing but lounging on the lake in the summer sun? There was no reason to say no.

You’d only ever seen Quinn’s brothers in tagged Instagram photos or in quick NHL highlights that Emmeline made you watch when she was tipsy and bragging. But still, you were curious. And nervous. You wanted to make a good impression. These were the people Emmeline was beginning to think of as family—and by extension, people who might one day be yours too.

The first day at the lakehouse was golden hour from beginning to end—long stretches of dockside lounging, frozen margaritas, casual games of spikeball that turned surprisingly competitive. And then Jack arrived.

He walked onto the deck barefoot, wearing swim trunks and a backward cap, his tan lines sharp, his grin easy. You remember exactly how your stomach flipped, the unbidden flutter. He had that kind of charisma that wasn’t loud but insistent, magnetic even when it didn’t try to be. And the worst part? He knew it.

Still, he was polite. Friendly, even. He offered to help carry your bag upstairs after dinner and held open the screen door without a word. There was something about the way he looked at you, too—assessing, a little smug, but interested. You caught him watching you during breakfast the next morning, the way his head tilted slightly when you laughed too hard at something Emmeline said. You thought, maybe. Maybe there was something there.

But then that afternoon, something changed.

You had just finished changing into the bikini you’d splurged on just for this trip, heading down to the dock to hopefully add to the nice tan you’d begun to develop. You froze at the door to the screened porch when you heard Quinn ask his brothers what they thought about Emmeline. They had glowing reviews. Of course they did, who wouldn’t absolutely love her? Then you heard Jack’s voice come through.

“Yeah, no, Emmeline’s great,” he said. “She’s chill. Fun. And she doesn’t make you feel like you’re five minutes late to a meeting she scheduled in her head.”

A pause. Someone snorted—probably Luke.

“I mean, her cousin’s cool too,” Jack added, like it was an afterthought. “Just... very on top of things. Like, I blink wrong and I feel like I’m getting silently judged for not folding my towel right.”

Another laugh. Jack spoke again.

“Don’t get me wrong, she’s pretty. Smart, too. But I don’t know, man—she’s just trying too hard or something; trying too hard to prove herself. It’s a lake week, not a job interview.”

Quinn had muttered something you couldn’t hear—hopefully a weak defense—but Jack kept going.

“I mean, it’s not a shock she’s single. I couldn’t imagine dating something like that and lasting more than a week.”

Your stomach twisted before the words even finished leaving Jack’s mouth.

You stood frozen on the threshold of the porch, the screen door creaking slightly under your grip, but none of them noticed. They couldn’t see you—thank god. You weren’t sure what your face looked like in that moment, but it definitely wasn’t something you wanted them to witness.

The heat you’d been chasing for your tan rushed to your cheeks instead, a flush of embarrassment so sharp it made your skin prickle. Trying too hard? Your chest tightened like someone had cinched a belt around it, breath caught somewhere halfway between a gasp and a scoff. You’d spent the whole morning organizing breakfast cleanup because no one else seemed inclined to lift a finger. You’d brought extra sunscreen, made a shared playlist, and reminded Luke twice about reapplying after he had started turning a light shade of pink yesterday. You weren’t trying to prove yourself, at least, not consciously. You were just being helpful. Friendly. Yourself. But to Jack, it all came off as performative. Forced.

It stung. God, it burned. Not because it was the worst thing someone could say, but because it came from him—the one who’d made you laugh by the fire last night, who’d teased you about your marshmallow-toasting technique, who you’d maybe, maybe been starting to like. Just a little.

Now all you could feel was the sting of humiliation—and a rising, quiet fury behind it. You stepped back from the porch, as silently as you’d come. Let them sit there and laugh. Let Jack think whatever he wanted.

You didn’t confront him. You didn’t cry. You just stopped trying.

The rest of the week, you kept your distance. Jack seemed to notice the change, but if he cared, he didn’t say anything. The few times you did interact, it was cold. Cordial on the surface but laced with sarcasm. He’d ask if you were “running the guest itinerary” or if he needed to check in for breakfast. You’d fire back with biting commentary about him showing up late to dinners and vanishing before clean-up.

By the end of the trip, the two of you were locked in a kind of mutual disdain that no one else quite understood. Emmeline didn’t push it—she figured you’d both just gotten off on the wrong foot. Quinn mostly tried to pretend it didn’t exist.

But it never really went away. And now, two years later, you were standing in the middle of a wedding you were trying to keep perfect, while Jack Hughes was doing his best to derail your sanity one smug smirk at a time.

It would have been easier if he were just an asshole. But Jack wasn’t heartless—he was good with his brothers, made Emmeline laugh, and was now helping your aunt, Emmeline’s mom, carry her suitcase up the stairs to her room. 

That’s what made it worse.

Because somewhere beneath the friction and insults and eye rolls was the memory of a boy you almost liked.

And the gut-deep irritation of knowing he could have liked you too.

˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

Emmy

FIZZBOMB!!!!!!

When the text appeared on your phone screen, you raced out of the reception hall and towards the bridal suite. Fizzbomb was the code word invented by you and Emmeline when you were 10 and 11. It was meant to signify that one of you needed help; when you were 16 and at your first party, you texted fizzbomb to Emmeline because you had gotten too drunk to have one of your parents pick you up, so she came to get you. When Quinn was taking Emmeline out for an evening, and she was convinced that he was proposing, she texted you fizzbomb to help her get ready so she looked perfect in the proposal photos. 

You gave the door to the bridal suite a short knock, but realized that to be futile, considering the noise you could hear coming from within. When you walked into the suite, your jaw practically dropped. 

The room looked like a tornado had touched down somewhere between the vanity and the velvet chaise lounge. Dresses hung crooked on hangers. Makeup brushes littered the counter like fallen soldiers. And in the center of it all stood Emmeline—usually the picture of poise and Pinterest-worthy perfection—frantically digging through one of her matching polka dot suitcases.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, yanking out a matching lace lingerie set that was no doubt meant for the wedding night. The rollers in her hair had begun to come loose, her blonde hair just barely holding them in place. “No, no, no, no—this can’t be happening.”

You stood frozen in the doorway for a second too long before stepping into the chaos. “Hey… what’s going on?”

Emmeline’s head snapped up at the sound of your voice, her eyes wide with panic.

“The rings!” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I can’t find the rings!”

Your stomach dropped. “Wait—what?”

“The wedding bands,” she clarified, as if you’d somehow misunderstood. She stumbled to her feet, stepping in front of you and placing her hands on your shoulders. “They’re not in the box. They’re not with the jewelry. I checked my bag, the dress bag, the bathroom—they’re not here.”

You blinked at her. “Okay. Okay, let’s just slow down for a second.” But she was already pacing, muttering under her breath, and clutching her wedding notebook that had every checklist, every to-do list, everything about the wedding handwritten in Emmeline’s perfect, loopy handwriting. “Where were they last? Where do you remember them being?”

“They were in the velvet box—Quinn’s grandma’s box—the one I put in the top drawer of my nightstand at the lake house so I wouldn’t forget them,” she said in a rush. “But then I packed everything, and I thought I brought them, but they’re not in my jewelry bag, they’re not in my makeup case, and I just tore apart my suitcases, but—” she flung out her arms helplessly “—they’re not here.”

You tried to stay calm for both of you. “Okay. Okay. So… maybe Quinn has them?”

Emmeline’s eyes lit up for a second. “Maybe! Maybe I gave them to him and just forgot, or—or he grabbed them before he left!”

Emmeline practically sprinted out of the room, with you hot on her heels. You dodged a floral arrangement, startling Quinn’s teammate and his girlfriend as you raced down the corridor to the grooms’ suite. Emmeline didn’t even knock—she burst through the door, breathless and wearing a worried look.

Quinn sat at the table, poker chips and cards scattered in front of him, surrounded by the rest of his groomsmen. His wide grin vanished when he spotted his fiancée in the doorway, crazy-haired and red-faced. 

Quinn dropped his hand of cards, standing and stepping over to Emmeline. “Emmy? Are you—”

“Do you have the rings?” she asked, voice tight with panic.

Quinn blinked. “Do I have the— No, I don’t have the rings, I thought you had them.”

Emmeline let out a strangled sound. “No, I thought I had them, but they’re not in any of my bags, and they’re not in my purse, and now I’m thinking… Quinn, I think I left them at the lake house.”

A few members of the bridal party—you not included as you genuinely felt like you couldn’t spend a week in the same house as Jack without murdering him—spent the week leading up to the wedding weekend at the Hughes family lake house for some R&R. Emmeline left a couple days early so she could get settled before the wedding and give her body time to relax.

He frowned. “You left a few days before me. I thought you grabbed them then?”

“I thought you grabbed them after me!”

“No, babe, you told me you were bringing them because you didn’t trust me not to lose them.”

You and Quinn locked eyes for a beat. He looked pale.

“They’re still at the lake house then,” he said flatly. “Three hours away.”

A thick silence settled over the room as the full weight of the situation landed on everyone. Then Emmeline let out a squeak of horror and dropped into the nearest armchair like a marionette who’d had her strings cut. Her wide green eyes began to well with tears. Quinn was at her side in seconds, taking her into her arms and offering her words of comfort. 

You looked between them—Emmeline curled into Quinn’s chest, trembling and teary-eyed, and Quinn rubbing her back with one hand while gripping his phone in the other.

Emmeline had planned this wedding down to a T, making sure every detail was perfect and in her control. She’d been dreaming of this day since she was a little girl. You’d seen the Pinterest board she made when she was sixteen—an elaborate collection of lace gowns, waterfront venues, color palettes in butter yellow and ivory, long banquet tables beneath canopies of string lights. Back then, it had seemed like a fantasy—a collage of someday. And now, somehow, it had all come to life. Every last inch of it.

This was her dream unfolding in real time. You weren’t about to let something like this ruin it.

“How far is the lake house from here?” you asked.

Quinn glanced up at you. “Three hours or so?” 

“Two hours and fifty-one minutes… with no traffic.” Jack supplied.

You turned and shot him a glare you hoped conveyed the exact amount of annoyance you felt. “Thank you, Google Maps.”

He just shrugged.

You turned back to Quinn and Emmeline. You thought for a second, then nodded. “I’ll go. I’ll drive to the lakehouse and get the rings.”

Emmeline jerked her head up, mascara already smudging under her eyes. “What?” she asked, sniffling. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. It’s just a few hours. I know what the box looks like, you know you trust only me to go get them… And if I leave now, I’ll be back before the rehearsal dinner even starts,” you said it as calmly and confidently as you could, already pulling your phone from your pocket to check traffic.

Emmeline stood up from the chair and stepped in front of you, her laminated brows creasing together. “You are not driving six hours round-trip by yourself. That’s insane.”

“Emmy, I just flew to Detroit on my own three days ago,” you argued. “This is literally nothing compared to that. You don’t need to worry.”

“Honey, she’ll be fine,” Quinn interjected.

Emmeline shook her head, hands still fluttering like she couldn’t decide what to do with them. “That’s different. That was planned. This is—this is a panic trip,” she argued, sitting forward now. “You’ve barely slept, and I don’t want you white-knuckling it on some back road while I’m here trying not to throw up.”

You softened a little at her distress. “I’ll be fine. I’ll stop for coffee, I’ll blast your stupid pilates playlist that pumps you up, I’ll—”

“Take Jack,” she interrupted, as if it were obvious.

Your body went stiff. “Absolutely not.” 

“Why not?” she asked, blinking at your sudden tone.

“Because—” you struggled, flailing for a reason that didn’t sound as childish as it felt. “Because I can just go! I don’t need a babysitter.”

She narrowed her eyes, all bridezilla panic momentarily replaced by sisterly suspicion. “He’s the one who drove everyone down. He has the car. You don’t.”

That brought you up short. Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Still. There’s gotta be—”

“She’s right,” Quinn said reluctantly from Emmeline’s side, stroking her shoulder. “Jack’s the only one with a car that’s not rented or part of the shuttle fleet.”

“You’re all forgetting I can Uber to the lake house if I have to,” you said weakly.

Emmeline crossed her arms. “And you’re forgetting that I know you. You’ll pretend you’re fine but spend the entire time trying not to cry because you hate being alone in confined spaces with people you don’t know.”

You wanted to protest, but she was right. Of course, she was right. She was the one person who knew you inside out, back to front. Emmeline sat up straighter as you hesitated, a plan now forming in her head. “He’ll drive. You’ll ride. You can even nap if you want. I don’t care how it happens, I just care that someone brings the rings back before I walk down that aisle without them.”

Both you and Jack spoke at the same time:

“I’m not going with him.”

“I don’t wanna go with her.”

You blinked at each other. Jack looked like he wanted to vanish. You were pretty sure you wanted to as well.

Your eyes snapped towards Emmeline. Because, for the first time during her perfectly planned and executed wedding week, she yelled.

 “Oh, for the love of God! Can the two of you give up this stupid hatred you have for one another for one fucking second and do this for me!”

The room fell into a stunned silence. You stared at Emmeline, momentarily stunned into silence. She never yelled. Not like that. Not when her boss took credit for the proposal she’d spent three months perfecting. Not when she moved in with Quinn and they dropped her grandmother's piano down five steps. Not even when their neighbor's dog ran through their screen door for the fourth time and broke a vase that was a family heirloom. 

Jack shifted uncomfortably beside you, clearly just as rattled. His mouth opened like he was going to argue back, but then he caught the look on Emmeline’s face—pleading, furious, and one exhale away from breaking completely.

You took a breath and looked at her, really looked at her. Her shoulders were tense, her lower lip trembling, and her hands were clenched tight around the arms of the chair like it was the only thing anchoring her to the floor. This wedding wasn’t just a party. It was the culmination of months of planning, color-coded spreadsheets, sleepless nights, and calls to vendors that always seemed to go to voicemail. It was her dream, carefully and lovingly constructed—her one shot at a perfect memory—and it was slipping.

And the rings? They weren’t just any rings. They were symbols. A legacy from Quinn’s grandmother. Heirlooms that had been handled with care and reverence. Leaving them behind had to feel like a betrayal of everything she’d worked for.

You exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping in surrender. “Fine,” you said. “I’ll go with Jack.”

Jack held up his hands. “I still haven’t agreed to this.”

You looked pointedly at him. “We’re going.”

Jack muttered something under his breath, but when you went to retort, you caught him watching Emmeline too, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

“Come on,” you said, brushing past him.

But before you made it two steps, Emmeline was on you, wrapping her arms tightly around your shoulders, burying her face in your neck. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice raw. “I’m sorry I yelled.”

You hugged her back, tighter than you intended. “It’s okay. You only yelled a little.”

“She definitely yelled a lot,” Jack said unhelpfully from the side.

You pulled away from Emmeline to glare at him. He held up his hands in surrender, but there was a flicker of a smirk at the corners of his mouth that made your stomach turn in the way it always did when he smiled.

Emmeline pulled you back to her. Her eyes were lined with tears, but looked slightly steadier than they had moments ago. You gently brushed away the tears that slipped down her cheek with your fingers. “We’ll be back. With the rings. I promise.”

She nodded, eyes still glinting with tears, but steadier now. “Drive safe. Don’t kill each other. And… thank you. Again.”

You nodded and turned to leave, Jack following a few steps behind.

As you walked down the hallway toward the exit, your steps echoing against the walls, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, taut and tense. Outside, the sun beat down on the parking lot like it had no idea the world was falling apart. Jack hit the unlock button, both of you moving toward the car in sync, climbing in with synchronized sighs.

The doors shut with a loud, heavy thud.

Jack started the engine and pulled out of the lot. “So…” he said, glancing sideways at you. “This is gonna be a blast.”

You slumped in your seat, arms crossed. “Just drive.”

˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

And drive Jack did—at mach fucking ten. “Jesus Christ, Jack, slow down!” you snapped, gripping the door handle like it might detach and fly off.

“I’m not even going ten over,” he said without looking at you, his knuckles white on the wheel.

“You took that last curve like we were in a Fast and Furious reboot.”

“We’re on a schedule,” Jack said pointedly. “In case you forgot, someone left the goddamn wedding rings three hours away.”

“That someone is about to be your sister-in-law,” you reminded him, shooting him a look. “And she’s also practically my sister, so you can shut the hell up about it.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Not blaming her. I’m just saying if we want to make it back before the rehearsal, maybe don’t bark at me every time I tap the gas.”

You muttered something under your breath that definitely wasn’t polite.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you lied.

A tense silence settled in the car again. The highway stretched in front of you like a never-ending punishment. The new Laney Wilson song came to an end on the radio, seamlessly transitioning into “Last Night” by Morgan Wallen. You groaned, reaching over to the touchscreen on the dashboard and switching the channel. 

“Woah, go back, I like that song,” Jack said, switching the channel back. 

“God, of course you do. That song literally makes my ears bleed,” you complained, switching the channel back again.

“It’s catchy,” Jack said, flicking it back on again.

“Jack, I swear to God—”

He raised his voice to drown you out. “I know that last night, we let the liquor talk—”

“Oh my God, you sound like a drunk raccoon,” you said, smacking the power button so hard the whole console beeped in protest. Silence filled the car again, save for your aggravated breathing.

Jack’s jaw ticked. “You always do this.”

“Do what? Have taste?”

He huffed, shaking his head. “No—this thing where everything I like suddenly sucks.”

“You like Last Night by Morgan Wallen. That’s not a personality trait, Jack.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry we can’t all be elevated enough to only listen to indie folk sung by sad men with acoustic guitars.”

“At least they write lyrics that aren’t pulled from a rhyming dictionary and a six-pack of Busch Light.”

Jack gripped the wheel tightly. “You know what? Fine. Let’s just sit here in silence, like two fuckin’ zombies, because that’s so much more fun.”

“Sounds perfect,” you said, turning to stare out the window.

A beat passed. Then another.

Jack reached for the console again.

You didn’t even look. “Don’t.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were. I can feel it.”

Jack let out a slow, theatrical sigh. “You are the most stubborn human being I’ve ever met.”

“Better than being tone-deaf with garbage taste.”

“Oh my God,” he muttered. “I hope they put your name on the wedding program next to ‘Honorary Music Snob’ so everyone’s prepared for the shit music the DJ’s gonna be forced to play.”

“I hope you trip walking down the aisle.”

“Well,” Jack said with a sharp smile, “you’ll be walking with me, so when I fall, I’m dragging you down with me.”

Thick silence fills the car, only broken by the surrounding sounds of traffic and rubber tires crunching on the asphalt. Jack didn’t dare touch the screen again out of fear of hearing your nagging voice jumping on his back about his music taste. Despite your mutual disdain for silence, you didn’t want to back down from the stance you’d taken, so you let the radio stay muted.

As if summoned by the bitter tension in the car, the GPS chirped with a sudden change in tone—a cheery, far-too-optimistic “Rerouting to avoid delay. Estimated arrival time: 2:37 PM.”

You frowned and leaned forward. “What now?”

Jack glanced at the screen and groaned. “There’s a wreck up ahead. Looks like it’s taking us off the main highway.”

You sighed, adjusting your seatbelt. “Great.”

“Relax, Debbie Downer, it’s only adding like, ten minutes to our time,” Jack said, motioning to the dash. “We’ll be back with time to spare.”

The new route snaked through what could only be described as the forgotten veins of America: cracked blacktop roads, lined with skeletal trees and rusted-out mailboxes. The scenery turned more rural by the second, old barns sagging in open fields, tractors parked like relics in yards, and roadside signs that hadn’t been updated since the Bush administration.

“Jesus, are we being lured to a second location?” you muttered.

Jack scoffed. “Calm down. GPS knows what it’s doing.”

You eyed the pothole he narrowly missed. “Does it? Because this looks like a place where horror movies start.”

He didn’t respond—probably because the next bump hit hard enough to rattle your teeth. You gripped the armrest, casting a sidelong glance at him.

“Maybe slow down, Lewis Hamilton. This car is not built for off-roading.”

“I’m going thirty,” he snapped, but eased off the gas anyway. A silence stretched between you again, frayed and worn thin.

Then came the sound you never want to hear on a deserted back road: a loud popping noise, followed by rattling and the sound of rubber dragging across the pavement.

Jack cursed under his breath, pulling over to the gravel shoulder in front of the only landmark for miles—a faded, crooked sign that read “Ace’s Diner” in chipping red paint. 

Jack killed the engine and stepped out with a grunt. You followed, shielding your eyes from the late-afternoon sun. Sure enough, the front left tire was completely absolved from air.

“God fucking dammit.” Jack cursed, tugging a hand through his dark blond curls.

“Please tell me you know how to change a tire?” you said hopefully.

“Oh, I can change a tire,” Jack said. Your brows raised in hope, posture straightening as you realized you might not be screwed. “But I don’t have a spare.”

Your hopes immediately deflated, a deep groan escaping your lips as you looked up at the blue Michigan sky. 

“I’ll call Triple-A.” Jack sighed, pulling his phone out of his pocket and strolling down the shoulder.

You reached into the rolled-down window, grabbing your sunglasses from the cupholder. The mid-July sun beat down on your exposed shoulders, sweat immediately beginning to seep out of your skin. 

Jack came back a few minutes later, shoving his phone into his shorts pocket, the set of his jaw doing all the talking.

“They said it’ll be at least an hour,” he said grimly. “Maybe longer if the guy has to come from the next town over.”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “An hour? In this heat?”

Jack shrugged, wiping the back of his wrist against his damp brow. You shifted your weight onto one hip, arms crossed. “I can’t stand in the sun for an hour, Jack. I’ll melt.”

Jack snorted, one eyebrow climbing. “Oh, come on. You can’t stand in the sun for an hour? You? The same girl who laid out on the dock at the lakehouse for eight hours straight with Emmy, looking like you were auditioning to be a rotisserie chicken?”

“That was different,” you said defensively. “That was controlled sun. Lakehouse sun. With SPF and an umbrella and a Yeti cup full of ice water.”

“This is sun,” Jack said, arms spread toward the wide, blinding expanse of sky. “It’s literally the same sun.”

“No. This is hellfire, death-ray sun,” you argued, pointing to the shimmering heat rising off the road like something out of a cartoon. “And we’re in the middle of nowhere without an ounce of breeze, a speck of shade, or even a goddamn iced coffee to our names.”

You spun on your heel, fanning yourself with your hands. The rundown diner came into your eyeline. The place looked like it hadn’t seen a health inspection since the early ’90s, but it was standing—and hopefully air-conditioned.

You turned back to Jack. “Let’s go in.”

Jack made a face like you’d suggested swimming in a septic tank. “What? No. That place looks like it serves food that’ll give us tetanus.”

“Then don’t eat,” you said, already walking backwards toward the door. “You can roast out here with your flat tire and heat stroke while I sit in air-conditioning and order greasy diner food. Your call.”

Jack looked from the car to you, eyes narrowing like he was weighing whether stubbornness was worth dehydration. You could practically hear the gears grinding.

You pulled the sunglasses down the bridge of your nose, looking at him over the top. “Coming?”

With a long-suffering sigh and a muttered curse, Jack slammed the car door shut and trudged toward you.

A little brass bell jingled as you stepped inside, immediately hit with the blessed wave of cold air. You nearly moaned.

“Thank God,” you whispered, pausing under the vent like a plant soaking up rain.

Jack stood beside you, arms crossed, squinting around at the outdated booths and laminated menus resting on sticky tables. “You realize this place is 100% haunted,” he muttered.

You ignored him, heading toward the bar top and perching on one of the cracked vinyl stools. The seat let out a dramatic creak under your weight. Jack reluctantly took the one next to you, eyeing it like it might collapse.

“If a ghost wants to serve me fries and a Diet Coke, I say let him,” you said, grabbing a menu that was wedged between two ketchup bottles.

A woman in her forties shoved through the swinging kitchen doors wearing a waitress uniform that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 50s, her nametag reading Tanya. She looked you both up and down like you were intruders in her soap opera rerun.

“Is that your fancy black car out there with the flat?” she asked.

Jack nodded.

“Well, you’ve probably got an hour or two before AAA gets out here if you called ‘em,” Tanya said knowingly. “Y’all ordering or is it just ice water and complaints?”

You grinned. “No, we’ll order, just give us a sec.”

Tanya shuffled off, back into the kitchen. “If I die from eating a burger in this place, I’m haunting you,” Jack said as soon as she was out of earshot.

You nudged his shin with your sandal under the counter. “Perfect. Then I can blame the ghost every time someone plays Morgan Wallen.”

Jack groaned, resting his elbows on the countertop and bowing his head in his hands. “You’re insufferable.”

You smirked. “And yet, you followed me inside.”

He tilted his head towards you. “Only because you’re slightly less unbearable than a heatstroke.”

“Aw,” you said, fluttering your lashes. “You always know how to make a girl feel special.”

Jack just shook his head, but there was the faintest curve of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Jack was quiet for a minute, pretending to read the laminated menu like it held the secrets of the universe. You let the silence linger, amused by the fact that it was the first time in hours it didn’t feel tense—just tired, maybe. A little heat stroked. But not tense.

“So,” he said, voice casual in a way that meant it wasn’t casual at all, “no date to the wedding?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“The wedding,” he repeated, like you were slow. “Emmy and Q’s. You flying solo, or did you finally cave and bring someone to shut your mom up?”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back. “Why do you care?”

Jack shrugged, mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile. “Morbid curiosity.”

“No date,” you said after a pause, fiddling with the edge of your straw wrapper. “I was seeing this guy, but turns out he was cheating on me with one of his coworkers.”

Jack winced. “That fucking sucks.”

“Yeah…” you sighed. “What about you?”

“What about me?” he said, eyes still glued to the menu.

“You here alone? Or is there a secret girlfriend stashed away somewhere?”

Jack gave a low chuckle, finally looking towards you. “No secret girlfriend.”

You tilted your head. “Really? Mr. Big Shot Hockey Prodigy can’t find a date for a wedding?”

Jack shrugged again, and this time, it wasn’t deflection—it was something closer to resignation. “Hockey’s kind of… all-consuming. There’s always something. Practice, travel, games, off-season training. Even when I’m not on the ice, I’m thinking about being back on it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So you’re saying hockey’s the reason you’re single.”

He looked at you evenly. “It’s the truth.”

You hummed. “I don’t know. That feels like a cop-out. Like yeah, you’re busy, but you could make it work if you actually wanted to.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you said. “There are surgeons with soulmates. Firefighters with families. Astronauts who FaceTime their wives from space. You can’t tell me a guy with a bus schedule and meal prep can’t send a text back or plan a date.”

He looked at you for a long moment, the weight of the conversation hanging somewhere between sarcastic banter and something heavier, unspoken.

“That’s fair,” he said eventually, his voice quieter.

You blinked. “Wait—did Jack Hughes just admit I was right about something?”

“I said it was fair,” he clarified, lips twitching. “Let’s not get carried away.”

Tanya returned with two glasses of water and a pen tucked behind her ear. “Y’all ready?”

You both glanced at each other. Jack gestured for you to go first, and you ordered your burger and fries. He ordered the same, begrudgingly.

Tanya shuffled off again, disappearing behind the swinging kitchen doors with a tired sigh. In the meantime, you and Jack filled the silence with light conversation—mostly about how the Yankees' season was going, the weird decor of the diner, and the fact that the ketchup in front of the two of you was nearly empty. It wasn’t anything deep, but it passed the time. A couple of minutes later, Tanya reappeared, balancing two steaming plates on her arms and wearing a faint smile as she slid your burgers in front of you with a practiced motion, plates clinking softly against the bar.

You barely waited for Tanya to step away before picking up your burger, the smell alone making your stomach twist in anticipation. The first bite was everything—greasy, savory, perfectly charred—and you practically melted into the booth as you chewed. A soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat, somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, hand already reaching for another bite. “I haven’t eaten since like… eight this morning. This is the best decision I’ve made all week.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, taking a bite of his own. For a second, he looked like he was ready to make a joke, but then his expression shifted. He chewed slowly, then nodded, a little surprised. “Okay… okay, I judged too fast. This is actually a really good burger.”

You gave him a smug look, mouth still full. “Told you.”

You both fell into a quiet rhythm again, focused on your food. The diner buzzed faintly around you—Tanya clattering dishes behind the counter, a weathered radio playing old country tunes, the hum of a fan in the corner barely cutting the heat.

Jack made quick work of his burger, leaving behind nothing but a smear of ketchup and a few lonely pickles. He picked at his fries next, choosing only the crispest ones to eat with a level of scrutiny that bordered on obsessive.

You were halfway through your own plate when he finally spoke again, dragging the words out like he was picking them carefully.

“So,” he said slowly, “how’s maid of honour world domination going?”

You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He gave an exaggerated shrug, but you could see the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth again. “Just saying… Emmy’s color-coded itinerary didn’t exactly scream laid-back vibes. I figured it had your fingerprints all over it. Or your iron grip.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were grinning. “Okay, first of all, that itinerary was a joint effort. And second, yes—I am organized. It’s called being helpful.”

“Sure,” Jack said, drawing out the word like he was humoring you. “Helpful. Some might say a little type A. Maybe even… controlling?”

“Alright, I am type A. I like schedules. I make lists. I have opinions about font hierarchy. But at least I’m not emotionally stunted and allergic to the words ‘let’s communicate.’”

Jack blinked, caught between a snort and a look of offense. “Ouch.”

But you weren’t laughing now. Because the word—controlling—had hit something, knocked a memory loose. And suddenly you were back at the lakehouse, standing just out of sight in the hallway. 

Now, you shifted on your stool and stared at the condensation sliding down your own water glass. “You know,” you said quietly, “you’ve actually called me that before.”

Jack tilted his head, eyebrows pinching slightly. “What?”

“Controlling. Intense.” You met his eyes. “That’s what you said the first time we met—at the lake house. The second morning, you were on the porch with Luke and Quinn. You made jokes about me being controlling. Then you said you thought I was trying too hard, and it was no wonder I was single—because you couldn’t imagine being with something like me for more than a week.”

He was quiet for a beat. The lightness from earlier seemed to vanish from his face like someone had flicked off a switch as the memory of his words flooded back into his head. “Wait—what? I—hold on.” He set his glass down a little too hard. “You heard that?”

You nodded, keeping your expression steady even though your chest felt like it was slowly folding in on itself.

Jack ran a hand through his hair and sat back. “Shit. I didn’t… I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I swear.”

“But you said it.”

“I—yeah. I did. And I was being an asshole.” He paused. “Honestly, I don’t even remember the context. But I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I was probably just—” He exhaled. “Trying to seem clever. Or funny. Or… I don’t know. Cool, maybe?”

You arched a brow. “By casually trashing me?”

He winced. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry.” He looked at you again, earnest now, no trace of the smirking, water-sipping version of him from five minutes ago. “You being the way you are? That’s not a flaw. That itinerary? It was kind of genius, if I’m being honest. Emmy would’ve had a panic attack without it.”

You stared at him for a second, unsure of what to say. The memory of that night had haunted you more than you’d let on. You weren’t even sure why it had mattered so much. But now that it was out, it felt… strange. Lighter, maybe.

“You really don’t remember saying it?” you asked, voice softer this time.

“I remember being a coward about things,” Jack said. “And saying dumb stuff because I didn’t know how to deal with the fact that you—” He stopped himself. His jaw flexed, like he was debating how much to give away. “You threw me off,” he finished, quieter.

Your heart did that annoying fluttery thing you’ve been trying to ignore since you’d met the green-eyed boy in front of you.

You looked at him for a long moment, the edges of your hurt softening into something quieter, more complicated. Maybe it was the way he wasn’t meeting your eyes now, or how his voice had lost all that practiced charm. Or maybe it was just the fact that he’d actually said sorry, which you weren’t sure you’d ever heard from him before.

Still, you swallowed, the next words catching in your throat before you forced them out.

“I guess I should apologize, too.”

Jack blinked. “For what?”

“For the way I acted. After I heard what you said. I could’ve talked to you. I could’ve… I don’t know, given you a chance to explain. But instead, I went full scorched-earth. Cold shoulder. Eye-rolls. Passive aggression.” You gave a weak, self-deprecating smile. “I took the hostile route because it felt easier than admitting I was hurt.”

His expression shifted—some mix of understanding and regret. “You had every right to be hurt.”

“Maybe. But I didn’t exactly take the high road either.”

A quiet beat passed between you, thick with the strange, tentative weight of two people trying to untangle a knot that had been there too long.

Jack shifted on his stool, his knee brushing yours briefly as he leaned a little closer. When he spoke again, his voice had gone softer. “For what it’s worth… I’m glad we’re not just pretending we don’t know each other anymore.”

You gave a tiny nod, then dropped your gaze to your glass. The condensation had pooled into a perfect ring on the bar top beneath it. Your hand, still resting near the glass, felt strangely aware of the few inches that now separated it from his.

“Me too,” you said.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The noise from the kitchen filtered in—clattering pans, muffled laughter—but it all felt far away. You looked over at him again and found him already watching you. There was nothing smug in it. Just quiet, steady warmth.

“You still think I’m trying too hard?” you asked, voice light but curious.

Jack’s mouth tilted into a lopsided smile. “No,” he said. “I think you care. About things. About people. And sometimes that looks like trying hard. But I don’t think that’s a bad thing anymore.”

Your chest tightened at that, in the good way. The scary way. You hadn’t even realized you’d leaned in slightly, drawn by the low, honest rhythm of his voice. Neither of you pulled back.

A long pause, and then:

“You still think I’m emotionally stunted?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You gave him a look. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

A beat of laughter lingers between you, softer this time—real. The kind that crinkles the corners of your eyes and tugs something loose in your chest. You're both still leaning in slightly, like neither of you noticed how close you've gotten until now. His knee brushes yours again, deliberately this time, and your breath catches—not because of the touch itself, but because he doesn’t pull away.

You look at him. Really look. His green eyes, usually so guarded or teasing, are uncharacteristically open, searching yours with something uncertain but sincere. There's no smirk. No deflection. Just Jack, raw in a way you’re not used to seeing him.

And then, without thinking, or maybe because you've both been thinking about it for far too long, you kiss him. Or Jack kissed you. Either way, your lips met halfway, soft and hesitant.

It’s tentative at first, like both of you are breaking a rule and you’re scared you’re about to be caught. But he answers with the way his hand lightly brushes your cheek, his thumb grazing the edge of your jaw. The kiss deepens for just a breath, soft, sweet, startling in its gentleness.

When you pull back, your heart is doing that fluttery, annoying thing again, wild against your ribs like it’s trying to make sure you can’t ignore it this time. For a beat, you both just stared at each other, wide-eyed and wordless.

Your mind scrambled to process the moment—what had just happened, what it meant. Your mouth opened, then closed again. Jack blinked, color rising fast into his cheeks as he suddenly stood, too fast, knocking his stool back a few inches.

“I’m, uh—I’m gonna check on AAA. See how far they are,” he says quickly, already halfway toward the door like physical distance might buffer the emotional whiplash.

Before you could respond, he was out the door, the bell overhead jangling in his wake.

The silence he left behind was deafening.

You sat there, staring at the door for a long moment. Your fingers brushed your lips, still warm. What the hell just happened?

You leaned forward, elbows planting on the countertop, as if your middle fingers massaging your temples were going to help you organize your thoughts. You weren’t supposed to feel this way. You’d spent years hating Jack, despising him. But now…

Your heart fluttered in your chest.

You glanced out the window. Jack was standing a few feet from the car, pacing in small circles, phone to his ear. Even from here, you could see how flustered he was. His free hand kept running through his hair, and he looked like he was thinking too hard.

You didn’t speak when he came back inside, and he didn’t either. The air was tight, stretched thin with everything unsaid. But your eyes met for a second—just one—and it was enough to make your stomach flip. You didn’t speak when Tanya left the bill in front of you, or when Jack wordlessly gave her his card and covered both your meals. 

The AAA guy arrived less than ten minutes later, equipped with a spare tire. Jack stood silently beside the car, hands shoved in his pockets, posture tight with something he didn’t want to name. You hung back near the diner door, arms crossed, fingers grazing your lips now and then as if trying to erase—or remember—the feel of his mouth on yours.

Neither of you said anything as the tire was changed. The mechanic made a few comments about the summer heat bearing down on the day. The air smelled faintly of rubber and asphalt as the AAA guy gave a final tug on the new tire. Jack nodded, muttered a thank you, and barely waited for the man to pack up before sliding into the driver's seat again. You followed without a word, tugging your seatbelt across your chest with fingers that still felt a little too aware, a little too shaky.

He started the car. The engine roared softly to life. Neither of you said anything.

Outside, the sky was dipped in late afternoon gold, the edges of the clouds glowing orange where the sun caught them. Jack kept his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, but you noticed the tension in his jaw. The way his thumb tapped an erratic beat against the steering wheel. The way he blinked just a little too long at stop signs. Like he was stuck in his own head.

You weren’t doing much better. You watched the trees blur past your window and tried to breathe normally, tried to ignore the phantom sensation of his lips on yours.

You didn’t know what the kiss meant. You didn’t know what he thought it meant. Maybe it had been a moment—a blip. A mistake. Or maybe…

The lakehouse came into view faster than you expected. Familiar and quiet, nestled between tall trees and wrapped in a fading light that made the windows glow. Jack pulled into the driveway and put the car in park. Your seatbelt was already coming off before the doors were unlocked.

“I’ll grab the rings. I won’t be long.”

Jack nodded once, still not looking at you. You opened the door and stepped out, sandals crunching on gravel, the door thudding closed behind you.

As soon as you were gone, Jack let out a slow breath, dropping his head back against the headrest. The sound echoed faintly in the quiet of the car, the only accompaniment the ticking of the engine cooling down and the occasional rustle of wind through pine.

He closed his eyes.

“What the hell did I just do…” he muttered aloud, voice barely above a whisper.

His fingers scrubbed over his face. The kiss hadn’t been planned—it had just… happened. Or maybe it hadn’t just happened. Maybe it had been building for a long time, and neither of you had wanted to admit it.

He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Smooth move, asshole.”

Because now he didn’t know what was worse: the kiss itself or the uncertainty in your eyes afterward. He’d thought you kissed him back. Thought. But what if he misread it? What if it had been hesitation, not reciprocation? What if the heat in your eyes hadn’t been longing, but confusion?

Or worse—pity.

He cursed under his breath, palms flattening against the steering wheel like he could squeeze the truth out of it. “God, did I screw this up already? We were just starting to not hate each other.”

He could still feel it, though—your lips soft against his, your breath catching just a little. That startled sound you made, not pulling away. Your fingers twitching, like maybe you’d wanted to touch him and didn’t.

He sat there, trapped in that overthinking spiral, the memory of the kiss looping in his brain like a song stuck on repeat. He could still taste the moment, the gentleness of it. The way his heart had slammed against his ribs like he was back on the ice for his first game.

And now, everything felt unsteady. Not just between you, but inside him. Because this wasn’t some casual crush. It hadn’t felt light or meaningless. It had felt real. And that terrified him more than he wanted to admit.

Jack’s spiral of thoughts was snapped when the car door swung open, and you hopped in. He spotted the small white bag containing the ring boxes in your hand. Jack sat up straighter automatically, trying to school his expression into something neutral.

He failed.

You didn’t say anything right away, just slipped back into the seat beside him and clipped your seatbelt. But your gaze drifted to him, lingering on his profile.

Jack caught it, eyes flicking over. For a second, it felt like you might say something. Ask. Acknowledge. Clarify.

But you didn’t.

And neither did he.

Instead, he started the engine again. The soft purr filled the space between you, and the silence settled in once more.

The drive back to the wedding venue was quieter than any you’d shared before—and that was saying something, considering how often you two fell into mutual, petty silence after an argument. But this wasn’t angry silence. It was… something else. Heavy and tense, full of sharp edges and delicate threads, you were both too afraid to touch.

The radio played on, and when another Morgan Wallen song came on, you didn’t even reach to change it. Jack didn’t tease you for your exaggerated sigh the way he normally would. He didn’t even glance your way. He just stared straight ahead, one hand gripping the wheel, the other limp in his lap, fingers twitching now and then like he was thinking of saying something and couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.

You stared out the window, watching as the trees blurred into a green smear. Your hands were folded in your lap, nails digging into your own skin. You hated silence like this—not angry, not cold, just... uncertain.

You could still feel the kiss. Not just the press of lips, but the weight of it. The intent. The way Jack’s thumb had grazed the edge of your jaw, featherlight, reverent.

Your heart did that annoying flutter again just thinking about it. You clenched your jaw, forced yourself to exhale slowly through your nose. You’d spent years hating Jack. And now this?

By the time you pulled into the venue’s gravel lot, the sun had sunk low enough to cast long shadows across the property. The rehearsal dinner had already begun; you could hear music and laughter drifting through the open doors. String lights glowed like fireflies overhead, and the scent of roasted vegetables and grilled steak lingered faintly on the warm air.

Jack cut the engine, but neither of you moved right away. The silence remained, thick and taut, stretching like a rubber band on the verge of snapping.

You opened the door first. The sound startled both of you slightly—proof of how deep in your own heads you’d been. Jack followed suit, and you stepped out together, though the space between you felt far wider than the physical few feet.

Emmeline and Quinn were already standing near the back doors of the venue, Emmeline shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, Quinn lifting a hand in a half-wave. Relief crossed Emmeline’s face when she spotted you both.

“There you are!” she called out, walking toward you. “God, Q and I were so worried.”

“We had a flat,” you offered, holding up the small white bag with the ring boxes tucked safely inside. “All good now.”

Quinn nodded, walking up behind Emmeline. “Damn. You guys okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, voice low and even. He didn't meet their eyes.

You passed the bag to Emmeline, whose smile faltered just slightly as her eyes darted between the two of you. Her brow knitted ever so subtly. You could see the question forming behind her eyes—What happened?

But she didn’t ask. Maybe she could tell it wasn’t something either of you was ready to say aloud.

Instead, she simply said, “Glad you made it,” and squeezed your hand once before stepping back.

Quinn clapped Jack on the back. “Dinner’s basically done, but the bar’s still open. Both of you look like you could use a drink.”

You nodded numbly and followed them up the steps into the venue, Jack a pace behind. You and Jack split off the moment you walked in. Not obviously, but instinctively—like two magnets flipped the wrong way. You busied yourself with the wedding coordinator, nodding along as she listed off timing and music cues. Jack drifted to the groomsmen, feigning engagement in some joke Josh was telling.

Once or twice, your eyes met across the space. You spotted him across the room, talking to your parents, likely meeting them for the first time, when his gaze flicked to you. In a heartbeat, everything that had happened in the diner came rushing back like a flash flood.

You looked away first.

You finally got hold of Emmeline, stealing a quiet moment together while the chaos of the wedding loomed just beyond. You sat at an empty table, sipping a gin & tonic, listening to her fuss over the final seating chart.

“I swear, if Aunt Delia asks to be moved one more time, I’m putting her at the kids’ table.”

You laughed softly, but your eyes drifted again to Jack, who was leaning against one of the deck railings, talking with Quinn. He laughed at something Quinn said, the curve of his smile familiar and so Jack it hurt.

But it was different now. You felt different now. The kiss had carved something open between you, and now every glance, every breath felt like a balancing act on a wire you didn’t remember agreeing to walk.

Emmeline’s gaze followed yours and, again, you saw that flicker of understanding in her eyes. But she didn’t press. Instead, she leaned closer and murmured, “What the hell happened between you and Jack?”

You blinked, then nodded too quickly. “Nothing, nothing. Just a long day.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she let it go, looping her arm through yours. “Come with me. We’re doing a shot for the bride.”

˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

The bright early morning sun seeped through the sheer curtains, casting a peaceful glow on the hotel room. You groaned as you sat upright, stretching out the soreness that settled deep in your bones.

You hadn't slept much. Maybe a couple of hours, tops. And not for lack of trying. You tried to listen to music and white noise. But the moment your head would get quiet, he would come back. Jack. The kiss.

It played on loop in your mind—soft lighting, heart beating loud in your chest, his hand on your cheek, the surprised look in his eyes when it was over. Then that awful silence in the car. The Morgan Wallen song. The one you hate. And how you didn’t even complain.

But this morning? This morning is… beautiful. Unfairly so. The kind of morning that feels like it’s been curated just for a wedding: sun filtering through gauzy curtains, birds chirping obnoxiously in the trees outside your window, the breeze lifting your hair when you crack the glass open. It smells like lilacs and cut grass.

You glance at your phone. 7:13 a.m. You’re needed in the lobby by eight to help with last-minute decorations, and Emmeline has already texted twice with a bubbly sort of nervousness that makes you smile despite yourself.

The moment your feet hit the floor, though, something settles inside you—a steadiness. This isn’t your wedding. It’s Emmeline’s. She deserves your best today. Whatever happened between you and Jack last night…it can wait. You can compartmentalize. You’re excellent at compartmentalizing.

You don’t even bother to change out of the satin pyjama set that Emmeline had bought for all the bridesmaids, heading down to the lobby, where a quiet hum of activity already buzzes. String lights are being tested, chairs straightened, and a staff member consults a clipboard like it’s the Bible.

The scent hits you first—sweet, heady, unmistakable. Roses, eucalyptus, and something else more potent, weaving through the air.

You turn just as the florist breezes through the lobby doors, arms full of bouquets wrapped in tissue and satin ribbon. She’s balancing a second tray on her hip, trying not to jostle the carefully arranged blooms.

“Hi!” she calls with a polite smile, breathless but bright-eyed. “Delivery for Emmeline Scott—bride and bridesmaids' bouquets?”

“That’s me—well, not the bride, obviously.” You offer a sheepish smile as you step forward to help, brushing your hair behind one ear. “I can take some of those.”

The florist starts to hand off the top bouquet when—

“Wait! Don’t touch those!”

You freeze, arm midair.

The shout echoes too loudly across the pristine lobby, startling both you and the florist. Heads turn. Your heart stutters as you spin toward the sound of it.

Jack is coming down the staircase two steps at a time, hair still wet from a shower, shirt rumpled like he threw it on without looking. There’s a small, frantic crease between his brows, and he’s got that look—somewhere between alarmed and furious.

You blink, momentarily stunned by his urgency—and, okay, the fact that he looks like a walking disaster in the most distracting way.

“You can’t touch those,” he says again, voice lower now as he reaches you, a little out of breath. “They’ve got lilies in them.”

You frown, confused. “What—?”

He gestures to the bouquet still hovering in the florist’s arms. “Right there—see?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, just steps forward and lightly turns the arrangement so the offending flowers are front and center. “You’re allergic. Seriously allergic.”

It takes a beat for that to register, because you are. It’s a mild reaction for most, but for you, even the scent can trigger a chain reaction that could land you in the hospital. Your throat tightens at the realization, not from the allergy, but from the thought: he remembered.

You’re about to say something when Jack rounds on the delivery driver with an edge to his voice. “You were told no lilies. Someone could’ve died.”

The poor driver stammers, clearly taken aback. “I—I just picked up the order—”

“It’s not your fault,” you cut in quickly, reaching for Jack’s arm. “Hey. Seriously. It’s okay. I didn’t touch them.”

But Jack doesn’t look at you right away. His jaw’s tight, the muscle there ticking. “You could’ve, though.”

You gently tug his arm, grounding him. “I didn’t.”

That does it. He exhales, finally turning to look at you. There’s something intense in his expression, something you don’t know what to do with—like he’s still coming down from the idea of you in an ambulance instead of here, in pyjamas and bare feet, in the middle of a sunlit lobby.

He rubs a hand over his face. “I’ll get it sorted. Give me five minutes.”

Before you can argue, he’s already pulling out his phone and walking away, dialing as he goes.

You try not to stare at him. It’s hard not to. You’re still trying to get used to this version of Jack. The one who kissed you. The one who looks at you a second too long. The one who, apparently, now knows the ingredients in a bouquet well enough to spot allergens from across a lobby. You didn’t even know he knew about your allergy.

You glance back at the florist, who mouths a silent sorry, and you wave it off with a grateful half-smile. “Don’t worry. Crisis averted.”

A few minutes later, Jack reappears, phone still in hand, hair wind-tousled from stepping out into the breeze.

“They’re sending replacements,” he says, a little gruff. “No lilies. They’ll be here in forty-five minutes.”

You blink. “You convinced them to redo everything?”

“Yeah,” he huffed, barely looking at you. “I mean, we wouldn’t want you to go into anaphylactic shock mid-aisle.”

Then, without giving you a second to respond, he turns on his heel and walks off.

You stare after him, heart annoyingly out of rhythm again.

Not because of the lilies.

But because he remembered.

˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

The air in the bridal suite was filled with Emmeline’s favourite songs and hairspray, the chatter between bridesmaids and stylists filling the space. The floor was a flurry of fabric and half-sipped mimosas, with Emmeline perched in an armchair, wrapped in a white robe embroidered with bride in cursive across the back. Her smile was tight with nerves, hands clasped in her lap as one of the makeup artists prepped her skin.

You were seated nearby, sipping orange juice through a glass straw, your robe slightly slipping off one shoulder. A gentle buzz of anticipation vibrated in your bones—wedding mornings had a strange kind of magic, and this one, Emmeline’s, felt especially charmed.

Then came the knock. A quiet, polite tap against the wooden door, followed by the sound of it creaking open.

Jack’s head appeared in the gap, tousled hair and a sheepish grin giving him away immediately. Your pulse spiked at the sight of him—part nerves, part something else that you hadn’t quite named yet. His eyes scanned the room, and when they landed on you and your hair wrapped up in large rollers. 

“Hey,” he said, voice low so as not to disrupt the calm. “Can I borrow you for a second?”

You stood instinctively, brows pulling together. “Is everything okay?”

Emmeline’s eyes widened in the mirror. “Wait—why? Is something wrong?”

Jack stepped fully into the room, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “No, no. Sorry. I didn’t mean to freak anyone out.” He looked at Emmeline. “I just need her help with the flower girl real quick. Nerves or shoes or… something.”

Emmeline blinked at Jack through the reflection. “Okay, just uh—you’re supposed to be next to get your makeup done,” she said to you.

You turned to Emmeline, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Your mom can start getting her makeup done now—I'll be back before it’s your turn.”

Emmeline blinked. “Okay. But if anything is wrong—”

“It’s not,” Jack promised, already backing into the hallway. “Scout’s honor.”

You slipped out with him, tugging the sash of your robe tighter as the door closed behind you. The corridor was quieter than you expected, the kind of hush reserved for churches and very big moments. You glanced at Jack. His pace quickened.

“She’s not having a meltdown over flower petals, is she?”

He blew out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s no flower girl issue. That was a lie.”

You stopped. “Jack.”

“I panicked,” he muttered. “It was the first thing that came to mind. But it’s Quinn. He’s freaking out. Like… real bad.”

“Why?”

Jack looked over, his brows drawing together. “He lost his vows.”

You stared at him. “His vows?”

“The handwritten ones. Only copy. He wrote them in a little notebook because he said typing felt ‘insincere,’ and now he can’t find them.”

“Oh my god.”

“Exactly.”

You both picked up your pace.

By the time you reached the groomsmen’s suite, the energy was starkly different from the bridal calm—music was off, ties were untied, and Quinn was pacing like he was trying to wear a hole through the floor. His hair wasn’t done, and he was muttering to himself, half-dressed in a white button-down and socks.

“Hey,” Jack said gently. “I brought reinforcements.”

Quinn turned, eyes wide. “I checked everywhere. I had them last night. I remember practicing. I had this whole thing about the lake—about how we met—and now I can’t even remember what I wrote. I feel sick.”

You crossed to him, putting a hand on his arm. “We’ll find them. Okay? Let’s retrace your steps. Where were you when you last saw them?”

He swallowed. “I was in Jack’s room… then he went to bed, so I left. Then I think I took them to the kitchen at some point, cause I was starving and the chefs said they had leftovers from dinner. Then I went to Luke’s, but he said I was muttering too much and made me leave—”

“Luke’s room,” you and Jack said in unison.

Without another word, the three of you moved down the hall. Luke’s door was ajar—of course it was—and the faint smell of cologne hit you the moment you stepped in.

Jack headed to the desk while you beelined for the armchair, where a dress shirt was hanging half-on, half-off. Quinn hovered in the doorway, silent and nervous.

You dropped to your knees, checking beneath the bed and side tables. Nothing.

Then Jack made a sound—a triumphant half-laugh, half-gasp.

He held up a small, black faux-leather notebook. “Found them.”

Quinn exhaled like someone had just lifted a mountain off his chest. He moved forward quickly, grabbing them from Jack’s hand, eyes skimming the pages like he couldn’t believe they were real.

“I owe you both so much.”

“You owe me a drink,” Jack said. “And a thank-you in your vows.”

Quinn turned to you. “Seriously. Thank you.”

You gave him a soft smile. “You’re going to marry the love of your life in less than two hours. You’ve got this.”

Jack nudged you gently. “Come on. Let’s get you back before Emmeline thinks I kidnapped you.”

You followed him into the hallway again, pulse finally starting to level. But as Jack glanced sideways at you, his voice low, something else fluttered in your chest.

“You’re good in a crisis,” he said.

You looked up at him. “I work well under pressure.”

He smirked. “Noted.”

And though the crisis was over, the buzz in your chest didn’t fade.

˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

The ceremony unfolds like something from a dream—light streaming through stained glass, the delicate rustle of fabric, and the steady hum of love filling every pew. You’re barely holding it together as the vows are exchanged. Words so personal and full of promise that your heart aches a little, as though some small part of you longs to be seen like that, held like that, chosen like that.

You cry—not dramatically, but quietly, the kind of tears that gather slowly and fall before you can even think to wipe them away.

When they kiss—sealed now in every legal, emotional, and spiritual way—the room erupts in cheers. You’re clapping and cheering like everyone else, watching through damp lashes as the couple walks back down the aisle, glowing, triumphant, wildly in love.

The recessional begins, and Jack offers his arm, as planned. You hesitate only a second before slipping your hand through, and together you walk down the aisle. The room blurs a little with the soft focus of flowers and applause and music, and yet Jack beside you is the one thing that feels sharply, unmistakably real.

When you reach the grand, vaulted lobby with its marble floors and floral arrangements taller than you, he turns to you. There’s a small smile on his face, something gentler than you’ve seen in hours. Maybe days.

Jack had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head since the early morning. And yet, now that he was standing in front of you, flushed and radiant in the soft post-ceremony glow, hand still tucked in the crook of his arm, he felt completely unprepared.

God, you were beautiful.

It had hit him like a sucker punch when he first saw you this morning in the lobby, barefoot and bleary-eyed in those satin pyjamas, hair wild and cheeks flushed from sleep. You were half-asleep and entirely unaware of how close you’d come to disaster with the lilies, and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to wrap his arms around you. Not just to keep you safe, but because it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Then in the bridal suite, with your hair up in massive rollers and your robe slipping off one shoulder, laughing softly. Then your steady presence as you attempted to calm Quinn, as if it were the easiest thing. He’d felt something settle heavy in his chest. You were chaos and calm all at once. A contradiction he couldn’t stop watching.

But now?

Now he could barely breathe.

There was something about this version of you that wrecked him—composed, poised, glowing in the aftermath of vows and violins and a room full of love. Your dress shimmered under the chandelier light, catching reflections of the roses behind you. Your eyes were still damp from tears, lashes clumped just slightly, and you were chewing the inside of your cheek in that way you did when you were trying not to feel too much.

And all Jack could think was Wow.

He remembered the exact second he’d seen you walk into the church, bouquet clutched tight and face tilted upward like you were catching light with your skin. His breath had caught somewhere in his throat, and he’d had to look away, not because he wanted to, but because the look on your face had felt too intimate to witness.

And the worst part?

He didn’t even know where the line was anymore.

Not after last night. Not after the kiss. Not after the way you’d touched his arm in the lobby like it meant something. Not after the way you had looked at him just now, cheeks warm from crying, smile slipping onto your face.

He wants to tell you. God, he wants to tell you.

You look stunning. That you’ve been knocking the wind out of him since seven this morning. That he keeps replaying the kiss in the car like it’s his personal version of slow torture. That you’re the only thing he’s seen clearly all day, despite the chaos and ceremony and flowers and vows.

But just as he opens his mouth, just as the words begin to gather in his throat—

“There you two are!”

A burst of voices and movement breaks the moment like a stone through glass. The bridal party floods the lobby behind you, laughter and congratulations spilling into the space like champagne overflowing a glass.

Someone claps Jack on the shoulder. A photographer pulls you to the side for a photo of the bridesmaids.

And just like that, the moment vanishes.

˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

After the photos, you all make your way into the reception hall.

It’s breathtaking. Truly. The kind of beauty that makes you pause in the doorway.

Golden light spills from chandeliers strung with crystals, mingling with the glow of hundreds of delicate string lights wound through the rafters like fallen stars. The tables gleam with polished glassware and candlelight, and soft jazz plays in the background, blending with the sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and footsteps on polished floors.

Everything is perfect.

You try—really, truly try—to focus on Emmeline and Quinn. On their joy, on the way Quinn can’t stop stealing glances at his wife like he still can’t believe it’s real. On Emmeline’s bright smile as she and Quinn spin and twirl to “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You”.

But it’s hard. Because no matter how hard you try, your gaze constantly drifts to Jack. You try not to watch him, but you do. Of course you do. How could you not? He looks good. Sharp suit, tie hanging loose around his neck, his hair now curling a little at the ends from the humidity. 

And every time your eyes are pulled to Jack, you find his green ones already on you. 

Not just glancing. Not just noticing. Watching.

It makes your stomach do this slow, nauseating flip. Not unpleasant, just… overwhelming. 

You busy yourself with anything—laughing too hard at Emmeline’s father’s toast, fussing with your napkin, trying not to spill champagne when someone proposes yet another toast—but Jack is there. Always just at the edge of your vision. Sometimes talking to Quinn or one of the groomsmen, sometimes nodding along to someone else’s story, but his attention always strays.

You’re standing near the edge of the dance floor when you finally crack.

The laughter and clinking glasses, the swirling dresses and shimmering lights—it all starts to feel a little too loud, too much. You step away quietly, unnoticed. It’s not dramatic. You just… need a breath.

The venue opens onto a terrace that overlooks the lake. Beyond it, the water stretches out dark and glassy, the sky above littered with stars. 

The air is cooler than you expect, the kind of gentle, refreshing chill that only comes after a day of heat. You wrap your arms around yourself out of habit rather than cold, your heels clicking softly against the stone path as you make your way toward the water. The canopy of string lights above glows like fireflies frozen mid-flight, casting your shadow in a hundred directions.

The noise from the reception drifts in on the breeze—bass from the speakers, laughter echoing across the lawn, the occasional clink of glass. But out here, it feels quieter. Calmer. Like the entire world has decided to hold its breath.

You settle near the railing, arms resting on the cool metal, looking out at the water as it glitters faintly under moonlight. The silence is almost enough.

Then, you hear the footsteps, the clacking of dress shoes against pavement. You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

His presence announces itself before he says a word. That quiet, deliberate energy of his. A stillness wrapped in intensity. You hear him pause a few feet behind you. A beat. Two.

“Running away?” he asks quietly.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s standing a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, hair a little messier now, curls looser around his forehead. The tie is completely gone. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar.

“Just needed air,” you reply, your voice low. “Too many people. Too many feelings.”

He steps closer, his shoes crunching faintly on the gravel. “Yeah. It’s a lot.”

You turn to face him more fully now, leaning one hip against the railing. “I thought maybe if I slipped out, I’d get a minute to think.”

Jack’s eyes search yours, serious now. The teasing is gone.

“Did it help?” he asks.

You swallow. “No.”

A beat. Just long enough for the breeze to rise and fall again.

Jack shifts, jaw working like he’s trying to find the right words. Then he breathes out and just says it:

“About the kiss.”

You feel it instantly—that jolt in your chest, like someone pulling a thread too tight. You glance down at your hands, fingers curling around the metal railing. “I figured we’d pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Is that what you want?”

You don’t answer immediately. The silence between you stretches.

Then, softly: “I don’t know what I want.”

Jack exhales a quiet laugh—one that’s more self-conscious than amused. He closes the space between you until you’re nearly shoulder to shoulder, his voice quieter now.

“I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. The kiss. The car. You.”

He pauses. “And I know it was messy. I know we were yelling, and we hated each other…literally yesterday, and the whole thing feels like some kind of fever dream…”

You glance at him.

“…but I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” he admits, his voice raw around the edges now. “And I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

Your breath catches. “Jack…”

“I know we weren’t supposed to like each other. That was kind of the deal, right? Keep it civil for our Quinn and Emmy’s sake, tolerate each other long enough to make it through this wedding weekend without bloodshed.”

You laugh softly, the sound almost startled.

He goes on, eyes flicking to your face. “But then you started showing up in all the spaces in my head where you weren’t supposed to be. Laughing in the bridal suite. Crying during the ceremony. Standing barefoot in that fucking hotel lobby in satin pajamas.”

You look down, a smile tugging at your mouth despite yourself.

“And I know it’s fast,” he says. “I know we’ve gone from sworn enemies to whatever this is in the span of just barely twenty-four hours. But if you feel even a fraction of what I feel…”

Your heart is pounding.

“…then maybe we should stop pretending this isn’t happening.”

Your throat is tight. “It is confusing,” you whisper. “We were supposed to hate each other.”

“I still think you’re insufferable,” Jack says, grinning now, but his eyes are too soft for it to land like a joke. “But God help me, I don’t think I can go back to not caring about you.”

You inhale slowly. The words settle in your chest like something sacred.

Then you say, quietly, “I haven’t stopped thinking about it either. The kiss. You. All of it.”

Jack’s expression shifts—relief, warmth, maybe even a little fear. “So… what do we do?”

You glance up at the string lights above you. The world feels smaller here, wrapped in twinkle and quiet.

“I think we should stop pretending,” you say.

And that’s all it takes.

He steps in closer, one hand coming up to rest against your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. You lean into the touch without thinking, your own hands finding his chest, the fabric of his dress-shirt soft beneath your fingertips.

There’s a heartbeat between you—a pause, one last breath before everything changes.

Then he kisses you.

And this time, it’s not rushed or stolen or unsure. It’s deliberate. Full. The kind of kiss that unfurls heat low in your stomach and steals the ground from under your feet. His other hand finds your waist, fingers splaying against the yellow satin fabric as he draws you in, close enough to steal your breath all over again. Your hands slide up, threading into the back of his hair.

You kiss him like you’ve been waiting all night. Like maybe you’ve been waiting longer.

When you finally part, your lips still tingling, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath shallow. The kiss lingers between you, slow and certain this time—not impulsive, not confused. Just real. 

Jack exhales, leaning back slightly to look into your eyes. “So…what now?”

You smile, small and tentative. “I guess we go back in before someone sends a search party.”

He chuckles. “Right. But…after that? What about after the wedding?”

You hesitate, because it’s a good question. After the wedding, everything scatters. Guests go home. Real life starts back up. The weekend magic evaporates.

But then you look at him—this boy you thought you couldn’t stand, who ended up holding lily bouquets away from you like he was shielding you from poison, who kept glancing your way during the entire reception like you were the only one in the room.

You reach for his hand. “After the wedding… we figure it out.”

He squeezes your hand. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You walk back together, not talking much, but your fingers stay laced. And this time, when you re-enter the reception, people notice. Emmeline catches your eye from across the dance floor, her gaze examining the sight before her before widening. You watch as her manicured hands grip her new husband's arm tightly and she urgently whispers something to him. Quinn’s eyes flick towards you, a matching shocked look coming across his face.

Later, when the party is dying down and the stars are starting to peek through the canopy of lights, Jack asks you to dance. There’s no more tension, no more rivalry—just a slow song, a full heart, and a whole new beginning unfolding between you.

[zzointerme]

oscar piastri x emotional/sensitive!reader ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

content: fluff, comfort, love language overload, emotional vulnerability, soft protective oscar vibes.

– Oscar doesn’t say much when he first realizes how sensitive you are, but he notices everything. Every flicker in your expression, the slight change in your tone, the way your eyes gloss over when you're overwhelmed — he picks up on all of it, silently adjusting his behavior to make you feel safer.

– He never tells you to "calm down" or "stop crying." Never. If you cry, he just pulls you into him, strokes your back with slow, steady movements, and lets you fall apart in peace. He’ll whisper things like, “I’m right here,” or “It’s okay, you can cry,” while tucking his chin over your shoulder.

– You're the type to get overwhelmed by good and bad emotions — like, you cry watching underdog wins or get quiet when people are too loud or aggressive. And Oscar? He becomes your human noise-canceller. Just a calm hand on your thigh under the table, or a glance across the room like, “You okay?”

– He sends you voice notes when you're having a rough day. They're short and calm, always starting with a little sigh like, “Hey… I know today’s been a lot,” and ending with a soft, “I love you, alright? I’ll be home soon.”

– The way he holds you when you’re sad. Not tight, but firm. Like he’s grounding you. His hoodie sleeves are long and cozy, and he always lets you hide your face in them. He’ll wrap his arms around your head and let you stay there for as long as you need.

– You’re super expressive when you're happy too — jumping up and down after good news, tearing up because you’re proud of someone, always wearing your heart on your sleeve — and he adores it. Quiet little smirks when you’re telling a story passionately, just looking at you like you’re magic.

– You overthink things sometimes, and Oscar knows better than to say “don’t worry.” Instead, he sits beside you, legs touching, and goes, “Let’s talk it out.” He listens until you get to the real reason you’re upset — and then helps you untangle it with calm logic and gentle validation.

– He remembers the things that make you feel better. That one tea you like when you're spiraling. The way you like your hand held (fingers laced, always). Your favorite soft blanket. The playlist that calms you down. And sometimes, he prepares them without you asking, just… because he knows it’s coming.

– He doesn't get uncomfortable when you're emotional in public. If you're crying in a restaurant or anxious in a crowd, he doesn’t get flustered — he just focuses on you. One arm around your back, shielding you. A soft “Want to leave?” whispered near your ear.

– One time, you said “sorry for being too much,” and he got visibly upset. Not at you, but at the idea that you thought that. He held your face in both hands and went, “You are never too much for me.” And you believe him, because he means it.

– He never teases you for being sensitive. Not even lightly. To him, your softness is a strength. Your big feelings, your empathy, the way you care deeply about everything — it’s part of what makes you you. And he’s obsessed with that.

– Your softness doesn’t make him uncomfortable — it grounds him. It reminds him to slow down, to feel more, to appreciate things. He tells you that all the time. Like, “You make me feel more human.”

– And when he’s upset or stressed? You give him that same safe space. No pressure, no fixing. Just open arms and soft silence. He doesn’t talk much, but your presence alone pulls the knots from his chest. He once said, “You're the calm after the storm, always.”

©p1girlfriend

[zzointerme]

mack freaking out and spam calling and texting you after he finds out him and sidney crosby are playing on the same line and you’re just smiling and laughing, in awe of how adorable he looks

you’re brushing your teeth, humming through the foam, when your phone starts lighting up like it’s possessed. not once. not twice. seven times in a row, back to back to back—macklin’s name with all caps, too many exclamation marks, no real punctuation structure.

MACKY 💚 babe babe BABE you need to answer pick up PICK UPPPPP SOS BABE IM ON A LINE WITH SID SIDNEY CROSBY AAAAAAA

your mouth’s still full of toothpaste but you’re already grinning, heart doing that thing it always does when he loses his mind a little and forgets how to breathe. his texts keep coming in bursts, full of typos and unfinished thoughts like his fingers can’t move fast enough to keep up with his brain.

im gonna pass out what if he thinks i suck what if he hates me do u think he’ll think im annoying i cant even feel my legs rn oh my god oh my god he talked to me said “let’s go, mack” like it was NBD i think im gonna black out

he calls. again. and again. and again.

you finally answer, mouth still minty and laughing softly into the speaker. “hi, superstar.”

“babe,” he gasps like he’s been underwater for six years. “i—i’m gonna throw up. sidney crosby. i’m gonna be skating with him. like next to him. on a line. a real, world championship game line. what if i trip over my own feet? what if he thinks i’m a loser? i touched his stick. not even on purpose. he was passing it and my glove brushed it. do you think that’s like bad luck? did i curse the stick?”

you’re trying so hard not to cackle. you picture him pacing around the locker room hallway, cheeks flushed red and hair all over the place, probably still in half his gear. probably looking around in panic like someone’s gonna snatch the dream away before it really happens.

“babe,” you say through a giggle, “you’re so cute right now it’s insane.”

he groans. “no, no, don’t say that. this is serious. i’m having a crisis and you’re giggling like i just told you i bought new socks. sidney crosby—do you get it? my screensaver is him. you picked it.”

you flop back onto your bed, phone tucked between your shoulder and ear, smiling like you’re holding a secret too soft to share with the world. “you’re gonna do amazing. he’s gonna love playing with you.”

“you really think so?” he asks, all breathless and raw like he’s eleven again and still wearing his first pair of skates.

“i know so,” you say, and god, if he were here you’d kiss his pink cheeks until they got even blotchier. “you’re fast. you’re smart. you’re fucking talented, mack. he’s lucky to have you on his line.”

quiet for a beat. then: “you’re gonna watch tonight, right?”

you laugh. “you think i’d miss watching my sweet little macky play with his hero?”

he groans again, but this one’s different—drawn out and dramatic, a little shy. “don’t call me that while i’m trying to be professional.”

“you’re literally whining into the phone in your gear,” you remind him.

“…okay yeah. that’s fair.”

and you can see him now, standing with one skate on, one off, clutching his phone in both hands like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth. eyes still wide, hair a mess, mouth curled in that bashful way it always does when he feels too much all at once.

“you’re gonna be amazing,” you say again, soft and sure. “go make sid fall in love with you like i did.”

“he’s not allowed to,” he mumbles. “you’re the only one who gets to.”

you grin, nose scrunching against your pillow. your mack. still the same adorable little teddy bear, even when he’s lining up beside hockey royalty. still the boy who calls you thirty times in a row just to tell you he touched his idol’s stick.

and god, you love him so much it hurts.

[zzointerme]

wasteland, baby.

Summary: Your journey with Auston during the 2024 playoffs, where everything changes.

We need to talk.

Four words no one EVER wants to hear from their partner. Or read. Or...anything.

Auston had sent the text exactly 18 minutes ago and you’d been spiraling ever since.

You were sitting in your car outside his condo for at least ten of those minutes, engine off, fingers clenched tight around the steering wheel as if you could throttle the meaning out of that one vague, horrible sentence.

Did he want to break up? Did he cheat? Did he ask for a trade? Had he realized that dating you was some sort of colossal mistake and now he had to fix it before playoffs?

Your chest was tight, stomach twisted up in a knot that might never come undone.

You don’t even remember walking up to the door.

With a trembling hand, you forced yourself to knock. It’s not loud. Just a soft, uneven tap-tap-tap that gives you away before you even open your mouth.

The door swings open.

He's standing there in sweats and a hoodie, hat on with tufts of hair sticking out of the back, curls damp like he’d just gotten out of the shower. He looks tired—more than tired. Haunted by back-to-back home losses and whatever weight comes with being Auston Matthews in April. Even in the midst of leading the league in goals.

"Hey," he says softly, voice lower than usual. His eyes flick across your face like he’s reading your pulse in every blink.

"Hi." The word barely escapes your lips. You clear your throat, forcing your chin up. “Let’s just get this over with. I’m a big girl, I can handle it.”

His brow furrows. “What do you mean ‘get it over with?’”

You laugh—but it’s brittle, edged in panic.

“Auston, you literally texted me ‘we need to talk.’ That's the universal code for ‘I think we should break up.’ Everyone knows that.”

He hesitates for a second and you're seriously regretting every decision you’ve ever made because it has led you to this very moment.

And then he laughs—a short, exhale of disbelief—and runs a hand down his face. “Babe, no. Oh my god. No, that’s not—I didn’t mean it like that.”

He steps back, letting you in. Felix trails behind him, tail wagging like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. He noses at your leg, whines softly.

You blink down at him. “Hey, buddy,” you whisper, scratching behind his ears. Felix presses into you like he can sense the leftover adrenaline in your bones.

Auston waits until you take off your shoes before tugging you into his arms, wrapping you up like he needs to feel you breathing to relax.

He kisses the top of your head. Then your temple. Then your lips—slow, careful, like he’s afraid you’re still going to vanish.

If this is the last kiss you’re ever going to get, you want to savor it before he gives you whatever earth shattering news he’s holding onto.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I should’ve phrased it better. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Your hands slide under the hem of his hoodie, settling against the warm skin of his back. You can feel his heartbeat against your chest. It’s a little fast. Yours still hasn’t slowed.

“Then what did you want to talk about?” you ask, quieter now.

He sighs and guides you to the couch, where Felix hops up and curls into his usual spot. Auston sits beside you, close enough to touch, but still a little tense.

“The playoffs,” he says, voice low. “I just, I wanted to be honest. The schedule’s brutal. I’m gonna be gone a lot, and even when I’m not physically gone, I might not feel totally here, y’know?”

You nod, throat tight. He glances at you and keeps going.

“I don’t want you to think I’m ignoring you, or losing interest, or pulling away. I care about you. So much. More than I expected to this early on. But I also—this is the biggest part of my year. The goal is the Cup. It always has been. I need to be locked in with the boys, and I just didn’t want that to come off like I was locking you out.”

There’s a pause. You let his words settle. Let yourself believe him. Trust him.

You take a breath. “I get it, Aus. I do.” You curl your fingers around his. “This is your job. Your dream. I’m not here to get in the way of that. So thank you. For saying it instead of just disappearing.”

His shoulders relax just enough that you notice it. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ll miss you like hell. But I’d miss you even more if you lost yourself trying to split in two.”

He exhales a breath you didn’t realize he was holding. His eyes soften, the kind of look that makes your chest ache.

“God, you’re so great.”

“Yeah, I know,” you deadpan, nudging him lightly. “So great I thought you were going to break up with me and still came over.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth—gentle, warm, apologetic. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

You nod. “It’s okay. Just…please try your best to come back with the Cup.”

He laughs quietly, resting his forehead against yours. “That’s the goal.”

“Ah, I see what you did there.”

The hours pass too quickly, the evening a blur of quiet conversation, shared silences, and Felix curling up at your feet like he’s guarding something precious. When it’s time to leave, Auston walks you to the door, his fingers laced through yours like letting go would physically hurt.

You're not ready either.

You pause just before reaching for the handle, turning to face him. He’s already watching you— his honey brown eyes hooded and warm, like he’s memorizing every detail of your face in high definition for the days he won’t be able to see it. His thumb strokes the inside of your wrist—barely there, but enough to make your breath catch.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” you ask, teasing, but not really.

His smile curves, slow and deliberate. “You have to go,” he murmurs, stepping closer, close enough for your bodies to brush. “Because if you don’t, I’m gonna forget every single thing I just said about staying focused.”

You tilt your chin up, matching his energy. “I wouldn’t complain.”

He leans in, close enough for his breath to ghost across your lips. “You’re not helping. At all."

Then his mouth is on yours.

It starts soft—sweet, even—but there's a heat humming beneath it, a current that builds as his hands slide to your waist and pull you flush against him. You melt into the kiss, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers diving into the curls at the nape of his neck. He groans softly into your mouth, a low, involuntary sound that makes your stomach flip.

You kiss him like you’re trying to make the next nine days disappear. Like maybe if you pour enough of yourself into this moment, it’ll last.

His grip tightens, then roams—up your spine, firm and steady, anchoring you to him. Your hips brush, and the spark of contact lights you both up from the inside out. His tongue slides against yours, slow and deliberate, until your knees weaken and your back finds the support of the wall behind you.

He pulls away just enough to whisper against your lips, breath ragged. “You really know how to test my self-control, don’t you?”

You smirk, dragging your nails lightly across the back of his neck. “I like seeing you flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” he lies—then kisses you again, harder this time. Like he’s trying to undo the inevitable. Like he’s trying to burn the taste of you into memory.

Felix huffs from the couch, dramatic and perfectly timed.

Auston leans his head back and laughs, breathless. “Cockblock.”

You both laugh, but when you meet his eyes again, the moment hangs heavier. The goodbye lingering between you starts to settle.

He reaches for the door again, but your fingers curl around his wrist.

“I just need one more. Something to hold me over while you're gone,” you murmur, already stepping into him.

He walks you backward until your hips bump the kitchen counter, then lifts you up like it’s nothing. The cool surface meets the backs of your thighs, but all you can focus on is him—his hands holding your face, his mouth crashing into yours. This kiss is heat and want, all breath and desperation, his tongue sliding against yours with a low, wrecked sound in the back of his throat.

One of his hands disappears into your hair, angling your head so he can kiss you deeper. You feel him everywhere—his chest against yours, the pressure of his fingertips, the tension barely leashed in the way he moves.

When he finally pulls back for air, his lips hover against yours. “Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You breathe out a soft laugh, forehead resting against his. “Just giving you a little extra motivation.”

You hop off the counter, legs a little wobbly, and reach for the door again.

“Call me when you land in Boston?” you ask, fingers lingering on the handle.

He nods. “I will. Promise.”

You step outside. The air feels colder somehow.

He doesn’t close the door right away. Just watches you walk to the elevator. You glance back just before the doors close.

Auston is still there.

One hand braced on the doorframe. A ghost of a smile.

Eyes on you like he’s trying to count the seconds until he gets to see you again.

You don’t say goodbye.

Neither does he.

You just keep looking.

Until the doors close, and he’s gone.

The next nine days are a blur. Deadlines, meetings, scrolling through your phone like it might bring him closer. But living in Toronto while dating one of the city’s biggest public figures?

Painful.

He’s everywhere. You see his face on billboards during your drive to work, his voice sounds in commercials over brunch, he's on highlight reels in the background of bars. And yes, you’ve texted here and there. A few “good mornings,” the occasional “how was practice.” But it’s not the same. It’s not his voice in your ear, or his hand on the small of your back. It's not him.

And no one really knows. You haven’t told your friends—partly because you’re not ready to share, partly because you know what would follow. Questions, curiosity. Some would want to meet him. Others would ask for tickets. Everyone would have something to say. You’ve only said you’re seeing someone. That you’re happy. That’s all they need to know.

Auston’s not known for putting his business out there anyway. Rumors, speculations, grainy photos in the offseason—but two public relationships in eight NHL seasons tells you all you need to know. Privacy matters. And the last thing you need is someone digging up photos of you from grade eight.

Game one in Boston? A disaster.

5–1. Not the kind of start anyone wanted. Not you. Not the city. Definitely not the team.

You didn’t hear from him that night. Twenty-one minutes of ice time probably left him drained and face-first in a hotel pillow before you even left your friend's house, where you'd been watching the game. Still, the next morning you texted him—something simple. One game doesn’t define the series. Game two is yours.

You didn’t expect a reply. But he liked the message. Sent a single blue heart.

And somehow, that was enough of a boost of energy to get you out of bed.

You cleaned your apartment, packed a week’s worth of clothes, and drove downtown to Auston’s. Melissa, his dog sitter, greeted you warmly. Felix had already gone for his walk, she said, and was snoozing by the window when you stepped inside. The second he spotted you, though, the fluffball practically launched himself into your legs, whining until you scooped him into a hug.

Being with Felix felt like being with Auston. He was spoiled, dramatic, and occasionally too smart for his own good—but so, so sweet. The two of them were more alike than you’d ever tell them.

By the time puck drop rolled around for game two, Felix was tucked against your side, one paw on your thigh, his head resting on it like you were a human pillow. He stayed there the entire game.

And Auston? He played out of his mind.

One goal. Two assists. A 3–2 win to tie the series.

The second the final buzzer sounded, your heart jumped into your throat. He was coming home. And the only thing you wanted was to kiss him. Talk to him. Feel him.

You felt like some army wife waiting for her husband to return from war—only, you weren’t married, you were staying in a million-dollar condo, and his version of war was a high-stakes hockey tournament with a thirty-pound silver trophy at the end of it.

It was just past 1 a.m. when you heard the door open. A soft shuffle, the click of keys hitting the counter. Then—

There he was.

Auston didn’t even bother putting his bags down properly. He just dropped them by the door and walked straight into the living room.

Right to you.

You barely had time to register him before he dropped onto the couch, onto you, arms wrapping around you like he could fold you into his chest.

“You’ve been home for five minutes and you’re already trying to suffocate me?”

“Suffocation’s my love language,” he mumbles, shifting so you’re straddling his lap. “Now, there's something I've been thinking about since the minute you left last time.”

He kisses you slowly, thoroughly—like he’s trying to remember every curve of your mouth. His lips are soft, his hands warm on your back, and God, he smells like hotel shampoo and his usual cologne and a little bit like sweat and flight delays. You breathe it in like oxygen.

He’s home.

One of Auston’s favorite things about you—though he’s never really said it out loud—is that you’re his escape. With you, he’s not #34. Not the guy expected to carry a franchise. You don’t pepper him with stats or ask him about power plays or bring up what the Toronto media thinks he should’ve done on the penalty kill. You just... talk. Or don’t. Sometimes it’s enough to sit in silence and let the noise of the outside world fade.

Tonight, you talk about the Biebers’ baby announcement. How he wants you to meet Justin and Hailey soon. You ramble about brunch—some crème brûlée French toast you swear changed your life. He insists his chef Chris needs to steal the recipe immediately.

“I missed this,” he whispers into your neck. “Nine days was a really long time.”

“It was,” you admit, jaw cracking with a yawn. “I hated it.”

“Me too.” He yawns too, stretching with a groan. “You ready for bed?”

You nod, letting him pull you up off the couch, stealing a quick kiss.

Felix sprints up the stairs the second you stand—clearly knowing the drill. You both brush your teeth side by side, bumping shoulders in the mirror. Auston hands you one of his shirts—your favorite, the worn-soft one with the tiny hole near the collar.

You fall asleep with your head on his chest, legs tangled, his breath warm on your hair.

And for the first time in over a week, your world feels like it's moving at a normal pace.

2:47 a.m.

Auston had passed out the second his head hit the pillow. The kind of dead-to-the-world sleep that only happens after a grueling game and days of travel. It lasted exactly thirty-two minutes.

He’d felt off since the plane landed—achy, sore, heavier than he should feel two games into a series. At first, he’d chalked it up to playoff wear and tear. But now?

Now his insides were twisting violently, like his stomach was trying to crawl out through his throat. A cold sweat had broken out along his spine. He threw the duvet off, rolled onto his side, curled in on himself, and clenched his eyes shut like that would stop it.

He was overheating, but shivering. Skin on fire, teeth nearly chattering. He took long, slow breaths—counting them like he could outlast it.

He couldn’t.

An hour later he was lurching out of bed, barely making it to the toilet before he vomited so hard it knocked the wind out of him. His arms trembled as he clutched the rim, back arched in protest, body betraying him over and over.

The sound of retching yanked you out of sleep like a violent thunderstorm.

Your first real night of deep sleep in days, wrecked in seconds.

Immediately, you sat upright, heart pounding, reaching for Auston. All you found were empty sheets. Then you heard it again. Guttural, awful, the sound of someone being ripped inside out.

You scrambled into the bathroom.

“Oh my god, baby.”

He was on the floor, hunched over the toilet, dripping sweat. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through. His hands were white-knuckled on the porcelain, arms visibly shaking from the effort.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” you whispered, kneeling beside him, your hand rubbing firm circles over his shoulder blades.

“F—fuck,” he panted, head hanging. “It hit so fast—I couldn’t—”

He gagged again, jerking forward violently, ribs seizing. You winced as he coughed and spat and gasped for breath, his body wrung dry but still convulsing.

“Okay,” you murmured, trying to sound calm. “Um—I’m gonna grab some water. Don’t move.”

He groaned. “I honestly don’t think I can.”

You flushed the toilet for him. He slumped forward, resting his head on the cool ceramic, breathing hard. Felix padded in behind you and curled up beside him protectively, like he sensed something was really wrong.

You bolted downstairs—panic fueling your movements. You grabbed water bottles, painkillers, a bottle of Prime, and, miraculously, a thermometer from the back of a guest bathroom drawer. You returned to the bathroom moments later, breathless.

Auston had managed to rinse his mouth. Barely. He looked like hell. Pale. Damp. Eyes glassy with fever. Felix now sat practically in his lap.

You dropped to your knees and pressed the thermometer into his mouth. “Here, water. Just sip. Slowly. Do you feel any better?”

He shook his head, lips pressed shut around the thermometer. You soaked a washcloth in cold water, wrung it out, and pressed it to the back of his neck.

Beep.

You looked down.

103.1

Your stomach dropped. Your brain short-circuited.

Auston was sick. Really sick. And no one knew. Not the team. Not the media. Not his coach. Just you. And game three was in thirty-seven hours.

You watched, helpless, as he threw up again—water, this time. His body couldn’t keep anything down.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, voice shaking. “You’re okay. Just let it out.”

Once the worst of it passed, he let you help him stand. He was dead weight against you, legs barely cooperating. You guided him to bed, peeled off his damp shirt, and laid a fresh towel across the pillow before easing him back down. You laid the cool rag across his forehead.

He blinked at you—eyes glazed with fever.

“Baby,” you said gently, “I need to unlock your phone. Just for a second.”

He didn’t argue. Just barely raised his head as you held it up. His face unlocked it, and he collapsed right back onto the bed.

Who the hell were you going to call? You'd met Steph Marner in passing, once. You didn't even know if Sheldon Keefe knew you existed so that was out of the question. You scrolled through his extensive contact list and settled upon your safest choice.

Judd.

Auston's agent and basically his right hand man. Judd went with him everywhere. He would know exactly what to do. You shared the contact with yourself and put Auston's phone back on the charger, immediately calling your new lifeline.

No answer. His phone must have been on Do Not Disturb. You weren't surprised, it was barely 6am.

You called again.

And again.

Finally—on the fourth ring—his sleepy voice on the end of the line hit your ears. "This is Judd. Who is this?"

“Hi—it’s me. Y/N. I’m really sorry, I know it’s early, but—Auston’s sick. Really sick. And I didn’t know who else to call.”

There was rustling on the other end. A sharp breath and a few curse words. “How bad?”

“Bad. His fever’s 103. He can’t keep water down. He’s sleeping now but I don’t think he could stand up again if he tried.”

“Okay. Okay, good job. I’ll get the team docs over within the hour. I’m on my way.”

“Thank you,” you exhaled. “Seriously.”

“You did the right thing. Just keep him cool. I’ll see you soon.”

Just like Judd promised, Dr. Forman and half the Leafs medical staff arrived in what felt like minutes, filing into Auston’s bedroom with quiet urgency. It was like watching a pit crew descend on a totaled race car.

They took vitals, blood pressure, checked his pupils, asked questions you didn’t know how to answer—when did the vomiting start? Was there a fever spike? Had he eaten sushi in the last 48 hours?

The moment they hooked up the IV and you saw the clear liquid drip into his arm, you had to swallow hard against a wave of emotion. Auston didn’t even flinch. His arm lay limp at his side, barely twitching when the needle went in. Even though the man was covered in tattoos and built like a linebacker, that scared you more than anything.

His skin was graying. His lips looked painfully dry. And he hadn’t said a full sentence in over an hour.

The doctors promised to monitor him throughout the day and said they’d reassess later to determine his availability for game three.

You already knew what Auston would say. “I’m fine.”

But you weren’t sure he'd be able to get out of bed today, let alone play a full game tomorrow.

They were gone within the hour, replaced by a series of soft knocks on the front door.

You padded downstairs, assuming it was Judd again—maybe back with more electrolytes or a doctor from Switzerland. Instead, you opened the door to four people...and immediately wished you were wearing literally anything else.

Two older adults stood in front, both holding suitcases. The woman had warm, curious eyes. The man had a neutral expression, the kind that probably didn’t change much in crisis—or weddings. Behind them stood two younger women, both staring at you like they’d just walked in on a very intense hostage situation.

There was a pause.

You suddenly became extremely aware of the fact that you were in one of Auston’s oversized hoodies, with a visible stain near the pocket, and your hair looked like you’d been electrocuted during a tornado. Which was, coincidentally, how you felt.

“Hi,” the woman said gently, stepping forward. “I’m Ema. Auston’s mom.”

You immediately stepped aside, trying not to panic. “Oh—hi! Yes! Come in, sorry. I just—yeah. Sorry.”

“This is my husband Brian,” she continued, gesturing. “And these are our daughters, Alex and Bre.”

“I’m Y/N,” you said quickly. “I...I don’t know if Auston’s mentioned me.”

“He has,” Bre said, grinning. “I forced it out of him a couple weeks ago when I caught him smiling at his phone like an idiot.”

Alex snorted. “Let me guess. He didn’t tell you we were flying in?”

You shook your head. “He, um...didn’t really get the chance. He’s—he’s actually really sick. The team doctors just left. That’s...kind of why I look like a raccoon who lost custody of her kids.”

Brian frowned instantly. “He’s sick? When did this happen? I talked to him last night and he seemed fine.”

“It started early this morning. He woke up feeling awful and he’s been completely out of it since. He couldn’t keep anything down. He’s upstairs resting now. They gave him an IV.”

Ema’s hand flew to her mouth. “Dios mío. My baby.” And without waiting another second, she turned and made a beeline for the stairs.

“Wait, so let me get this straight,” Bre said, blinking. “Auston—my brother, Auston—threw up. In front of you. And let you take care of him?”

You gave a half-smile. “He didn’t exactly have a choice. He was on the bathroom floor clinging to life. I thought he was gonna pass out cold.”

Alex looked vaguely impressed. “Wow. He must really like you.”

“I think he just physically couldn’t argue.”

“Oh my God,” you said suddenly, cheeks flushing. “I didn’t even offer—do you guys want water or coffee or anything? Help with your bags?”

“No, you’re good,” Bre said, already dropping her purse and sitting on the couch like this was a regular Tuesday. “But we do have a few questions for you.”

Brian sighed like a man who’d done this song and dance before, taking his and Ema’s bags to one of the guest rooms without another word.

Meanwhile upstairs, Ema stepped into the master bedroom and nearly staggered at the sight.

Her son—her baby boy—was curled under a blanket, IV in his arm, lips cracked and colorless, cheeks flushed with fever. He looked ten years younger and ten pounds lighter. She moved quietly across the room, hand to her chest, tears threatening.

She sat on the edge of the bed and brushed his damp curls back from his forehead.

“No hockey,” she whispered softly, fiercely. “No games. No cameras. Just rest. You get better, okay? That’s the only thing I care about.”

Alex and Bre settle on opposite ends of the sofa, coffee mugs in hand, eyes flicking over you like customs agents. They’re polite—smiles and thank-yous—but every question has a security-checkpoint edge. And you really couldn't afford to be put on their No Fly list.

Bre starts her expert questioning, “so… what do you do when you’re not reviving my brother from the dead?”

“I'm a Global Wealth Management Specialist at Scotiabank.” And currently an unlicensed ICU nurse, you almost add.

Alex speaks up next. “And you two met… ?”

“At a charity gala in October. If he’d felt human this morning, he’d have warned me you were coming. Believe me, I’d have surrendered the hoodie and staged a hair intervention.”

Both sisters laugh but the appraisal lingers—part protectiveness, part hope.

Before the next interrogation round, the front door bangs open and Judd strides in, half-jogging up the stairs. Twenty minutes later he trudges back with Ema, looking as if someone replaced his blood with cold coffee.

Judd sinks down onto the loveseat, “he’s a statue. The man hates sitting still and hasn’t even twitched.”

“Doctors think it’s really bad food poisoning, maybe viral," you inform him. "They’ll said they'll reassess this afternoon.”

Ema’s eyes sheen. Brian’s palm lands gently on her shoulder. She snaps into mom mode.

“I need tortilla-soup ingredients, oatmeal, Sprite, ginger…Chris just got here—I’ll text him a list.”

Kitchen drawers bang, phones beep. Brian and Judd start muttering about ‘contingency plans’—code for what the hell do we do if he can’t skate tomorrow? Bre and Alex retreat to grab a nap. You finally steal five minutes, gather a change of clothes from the master closet, and slip into the guest bath. The hot water drums your back, drowning out the clatter of voices downstairs.

Auston surfaces from fever-dream sludge, every muscle aching like he played three overtimes in full gear. His eyes track an unfamiliar tube taped to his forearm. IV. Throbbing headache. Lips cracked.

Phone. 10:04 a.m. Training-staff text: REST. NO RINK.

Another from Dad two hours ago: Landing soon.

They were here. His family. They were in this house. And you—his girlfriend of four months—had met them without him even getting a warning out. No prep. No soft launch. No time to be your buffer, your protection. No time to clean the puke off his hoodie or the fear out of your eyes.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, attempting to sit up. His muscles screamed. Felix moved from the foot of the bed and curled close under his arm like he knew his dad was unraveling.

Auston dropped his head back against the pillows.

“It’s gonna be a long day, Snuff,” he mumbled, gently stroking the dog’s fur.

Just then, his door creaked open.

His mom slipped in like she always did when he was sick—soundless and soft, already reading him before he could speak. He felt like he was five again.

“Auston,” she breathed, clearly relieved to see his eyes open. “It’s good to see you up a little, papi. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a Cybertruck,” he muttered, his voice dry and frayed. “Glad you guys made it though. Um…” He swallowed. “Where is she?”

Ema raised an eyebrow. “She?”

“Mom,” he said, almost groaning. “Where’s Y/N?”

Understanding dawned on her face.

"She’s fine," Ema said, her voice easing into gentleness. "She's showering off whatever germs you tried to gift her. We like her, by the way. She’s been a warrior all night.”

“Did I scare her off?” His voice cracks.

Ema smiles, settling into the little bit of room Felix left on the other side of Auston. “No. If anything, she’s more worried about you than hockey, and that tells me plenty.”

Auston sags back, relief and fever combining in a light-headed swirl. “So…you met her.”

“I did,” she replied, walking toward him to check his forehead again. “And she’s still here, so clearly we didn’t scare her off.”

“I didn’t tell her you were coming,” he said, eyes drifting closed again for a second. “I forgot. I didn’t warn her. She met everyone and I wasn’t even there to—”

“Auston.”

He blinked open at the tone in her voice.

“She handled it. She’s kind. Smart. We like her,” Ema said simply. “She’s been up all night taking care of you, by the way. She looked half-dead herself when we walked in, but still stood at the door and let us in like she was the hostess and not your fevered nurse.”

He winced, pressing a hand to his eyes. “God, I hate that. I didn’t want her to have to deal with any of this. I didn’t even… we didn’t even talk about meeting families yet.”

“I figured,” Ema said, pulling his blanket up over his shoulder. “But life happens. And sometimes, it throws up all over your plans. Literally, in your case.”

He laughed weakly, coughing halfway through. “Mom…”

She kissed his forehead again, warm and grounding. “You need to rest. I’m making your favorite soup, the team doctors are coming back this afternoon to reassess, and once she’s out of the shower, I’ll tell her you’re asking for her.”

He nodded, eyes already sliding shut again.

“…Tell her I’m sorry,” he murmured, “that she had to meet the circus without the ringmaster.”

Ema smiled, smoothing back his damp curls.

“She’ll hear it from you soon, mijo. And don’t worry. I think she likes the circus.”

She left quietly, heart clenched and full at the same time.

Outside the bedroom, she found you barefoot in the hallway, towel slung over your shoulders, hair damp.

“He’s awake,” she said softly. “And asking for you.”

Your lips parted. “Really?”

Ema smiled. “Go on, mija. He needs you.”

You stepped past her, breath catching in your chest.

Whatever this was—messy, unplanned, sickly and chaotic—it was also very real. And in that moment, as you reached for the doorknob, you were more sure than ever: you weren’t going anywhere.

You push open the door softly, just enough to peek in.

"Aus?"

He's propped against a few pillows, eyes open and hazy, hand resting protectively over his stomach like it’s a wound. His face is pale, lips cracked, and a thin sheen of sweat still clings to his temple. But he manages a small smile when he sees you.

“Hey,” he says hoarsely. “Come here.”

You don’t hesitate, crossing the room so fast Felix lets out a grunt and scrambles off Auston’s lap, hopping to the far side of the bed like he needs quiet but still refuses to leave his side.

You sit gently on the edge beside him. “You’re awake. How are you feeling, patient zero?”

“Very funny,” he rasps, voice still dry but amused. “I feel…better, honestly.”

You narrow your eyes, not buying it for a second.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters. “I do. And I’m playing tomorrow.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I'm shocked.”

He leans his head back against the pillow, wincing slightly, hand still rubbing light, unconscious circles over his abdomen. “Let’s talk about the real emergency, my family. First of all, I’m so—”

“If you’re about to apologize for getting violently ill and forgetting to mention that your parents and sisters were flying in, please don’t.” You shake your head gently. “Seriously. It’s fine.”

He looks at you with a soft guilt behind his eyes.

“They’re great,” you continue. “They’re sweet, and they absolutely adore you. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

“I know, but still…” he exhales shakily. “I should’ve been there. You met my entire family in a ratty hoodie with puke on it and no warning. I should’ve helped make it less scary. And instead, I was in a full-blown fever coma while you played hostess and nurse.”

“Baby,” you say gently, placing your hand over his on the blanket. “This wasn’t exactly something you could plan for. It’s fine. You’re good. You’re here. I just want you to get better. Preferably soon, because I’m pretty sure Judd is five seconds away from crying.”

Auston lets out a weak laugh and immediately presses his hand firmer to his stomach. “He’ll be fine. I’m sure he and my dad are downstairs right now crafting about eight contingency plans.”

“That’s actually exactly what they’re doing.”

He closes his eyes and smiles. “Of course they are.”

You let yourself lean into him slightly, forehead just brushing his shoulder.

The two of you sit there in silence for a beat. Then Auston’s face twitches. His nose scrunches.

“…Wait. Do you smell that?”

You lift your head. “The soup?”

His entire face goes slack with dread.

“Oh no,” he whispers, eyes suddenly wild. “That’s my mom’s chicken tortilla soup. I can smell the lime and cilantro—”

He lunges weakly forward, grabbing the trash can from the floor and dragging it close just in time. His whole body curls as he vomits again, nothing but bile this time, and your hand immediately finds his back, rubbing slow, gentle circles over his shoulder blades.

You whisper something soothing, but he can’t really hear it.

Auston’s breathing is shallow, head tipped back against the pillow, eyes half-shut. You’re about to wipe his mouth again when he croaks out—

“Can you…grab the mouthwash?” His voice is strained, almost pleading. “I’m gonna puke and I can’t deal with the taste.”

You nod immediately, hopping up to grab the travel-size bottle from the bathroom. By the time you’re back, he’s already gripping the trash can again with both hands, knuckles white, swaying slightly like he’s trying to out-stare the wave coming for him.

You kneel beside him, unscrewing the cap as fast as you can, but it’s too late—his whole body tenses, and he heaves again into the bin. It’s dry, painful, and drawn-out.

Downstairs, you can hear the shift in the house like a needle dropping on a record. Bre’s voice from the hallway: “Is that him again?”

Judd’s already halfway to the stairs. “Shit.”

In the kitchen, Ema freezes with a spoon in hand. The pot on the stove simmers behind her, untouched.

Brian closes the fridge slowly. “That sounded bad.”

Alex appears in the doorway to the kitchen, lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s still throwing up?”

“He couldn’t even smell the soup,” Judd mutters grimly walking back down, grimly looking toward Ema. “As soon as it hit the air, he lost it.”

Ema puts the spoon down like it weighs a hundred pounds. “I didn’t think—he always wants that when he’s sick. That’s his comfort food.”

“I know,” Judd says gently. “But his stomach isn’t ready. None of him is.”

Ema brushes at her cheek with the back of her hand. “I feel helpless.”

Bre leans against the wall, arms folded but face softening. “I hate this. I hate hearing him like that. It sounds like it hurts.”

Alex nods, trying not to tear up herself. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this sick.”

Judd looks toward the stairs. “She’s been up there with him nonstop. She hasn’t even eaten.”

Ema turns, wiping her hands on a dishtowel with sudden urgency. “I’m taking it off the stove. Maybe he’ll handle crackers later. I can make some tea instead. Something gentle.”

Brian squeezes her shoulder. “That’s good. That’s what he needs.”

Back upstairs, Auston finally slumps back against the pillows, eyes glassy and skin gray. You hand him a wet cloth and he presses it over his eyes, completely spent.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, voice wrecked. “I’m sorry. Again.”

“Stop apologizing,” you whisper, placing the mouthwash next to the bed, though he doesn’t have the energy to use it yet.

You stroke his hair back from his forehead and glance toward the door, already hearing the cautious footsteps of someone heading up to check on him again.

“Do you want me to tell them you’re okay?”

He shakes his head weakly, eyes still closed. “No. Just…just tell them not to make any more soup.”

The consensus, unanimously, is that Auston needs to sleep.

He’s still curled up on his side, one hand resting over his stomach like a weight he can’t put down, eyelids heavy and glassy. You’re half-sitting, half-leaning against the headboard, brushing your fingers through his hair.

“Why don’t you nap, mijo?” Ema says softly from the doorway, arms crossed over her chest like she’s trying not to physically hold him from afar. “Your body needs rest.”

“I’ve been sleeping all day,” he mumbles, though he’s clearly fading again. “It’s boring.”

“You threw up soup smell, I think your entertainment privileges are revoked,” you murmur.

That gets a faint huff of a laugh, but he doesn’t argue again. A few minutes later, he’s out. Not just lightly dozing—fully, deeply asleep, breathing even, chest rising in slow, heavy intervals like his body has finally given in.

When the medical staff returns a few hours later, they’re more serious this time. They adjust his IV, add another bag of fluids and administer a low-dose antibiotic to jumpstart recovery in case it isn’t just food poisoning. They check his vitals, talk quietly to you and Ema while he sleeps, and promise they’ll be back in the morning to reassess.

He stirs as they leave, blinking sluggishly at you. “I’m not throwing up.”

“You’re not,” you say gently. “That’s a win.”

His stomach rumbles, just loud enough to make Ema perk up with too much hope.

“Wait—do you think you could eat something?” she asks.

“Maybe.” He shifts upright slowly. “Something easy.”

You fetch him a small bowl of oatmeal while Judd cracks open a sleeve of saltines like it’s treasure. Auston manages to eat a few spoonfuls, sipping at water in between bites. When he swallows his last cracker without flinching, Ema nearly bursts into tears.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathes, hand covering her mouth.

You catch her expression—her whole body trembling with relief—and without saying anything, you shift on the bed and pat the spot beside her son.

“Here. You take over,” you whisper. “You’ll sleep better near him anyway.”

Ema doesn’t hesitate. She crawls in, careful not to disturb Auston too much, and immediately rests her hand on his back, rubbing slow circles just like you had earlier. Felix shifts to lie at the foot of the bed, quiet and unbothered, the perfect nurse.

You stand, brushing your hands off on your leggings, and lean over to kiss Auston’s forehead. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything, okay?”

“Mm,” he hums, barely conscious, already halfway back to sleep. “Thanks.”

The house stays quiet that night, but no one truly rests.

Brian is in one of the guest rooms, seated in a chair with the lights dimmed. He’s dozing in and out, arms crossed, brow furrowed deep with worry. He knows Auston won’t sit this game out without a fight, and the idea of him playing through illness makes his stomach churn.

Bre and Alex are in the other guest room, whispering before falling asleep. Neither one wants to admit how scared they were seeing their brother like that—pale, limp, quiet. He was always the strong one. They don’t know how to help, so they do the only thing they can. They sleep. They’ll deal with the fallout tomorrow.

Downstairs, you’re on one couch, curled under a throw blanket with your phone face-down beside you. Judd is across from you, hands behind his head, legs dangling over the arm of the sofa. Neither of you says much before sleep wins.

“You good?” he asks, just once.

You nod. “We’re getting there.”

Judd closes his eyes. “It’s gonna be a hell of a couple days.”

In the master bedroom, Ema doesn’t sleep.

She stays tucked beside her son, smoothing his hair every so often, watching his breathing, wiping the sweat from his brow when it resurfaces. Felix sleeps with his chin on Auston’s shin like a little guardian. Ema whispers prayers in Spanish that she used to say when he was a baby. He doesn’t stir. Doesn’t vomit. Just sleeps.

When morning comes, Auston wakes with a bit more color in his cheeks, a little less weight in his eyes. He sits up carefully, stretches, feels the IV port still taped to his skin, and groans.

Ema jolts. “¿Todo bien?”

He nods. “Better.”

She doesn’t cry again, but she comes close.

“I think I can go in,” he says, already reaching for his phone. “Just drive there. Slow. Take it easy.”

“You sure?” she asks, hopeful but hesitant.

“I need to move,” he says. “Game three’s tonight. I’ve got time.”

Ema watches him get up and head to the bathroom, steady but still a little fragile.

She doesn't stop him. She just whispers a thank you to no one in particular.

Auston miraculously makes it through morning skate. He looks pale and gaunt in the locker room, tugging on his gear with slow, deliberate movements, but he doesn’t complain. He takes his usual pregame nap—it lasts longer than normal, nearly two and a half hours—but no one says anything. Not because it isn’t noticeable, but because they’re all too afraid of what it might mean if they do.

Nothing about this gameday goes according to routine. First, there's too may people around, watching him like he's a ticking time bomb. Second, he’s quiet. Too quiet. No chirping, no pregame playlist, no nervous jokes to loosen the mood. Just a heavy, unsettling silence. He’s dressed and ready to head out, suit hanging off his frame a little looser than usual, eyes sunken and complexion dull.

"I'm going to be fine," he says, preemptively, catching the stares. “This is the playoffs. Nobody’s playing at 100% right now.”

"Nobody’s playing at less than 40% either," Alex mutters under his breath, crossing her arms. “Just—be careful. If you aren’t feeling well, don’t push yourself too hard. It’s a long series.”

He nods, offering hugs and quiet see-you-laters. You don’t say anything when it’s your turn—just wrap your arms around him and hold on a little longer, resting your head against his chest. You feel how warm he still is, how shallowly he’s breathing. You don’t want to say don’t play. You know he wouldn’t listen. So you hope the hug says it all.

23 minutes and 16 seconds.

That’s how long he plays.

You have no idea how he made it through the entire game, and neither does his family. Ema and Brian look physically ill through most of it—hands clenched, eyes wide, shoulders taut with tension. Bre and Alex don’t speak during the third period. Judd is glued to the railing in the box, jaw locked, watching Auston like he’s waiting for him to keel over on the ice.

After the final whistle, it takes over an hour for Auston to come out of the locker room.

The players who’ve done interviews are already trickling past the tunnel where you’re all waiting. You try not to look as worried as you feel, but it’s getting harder with each passing minute.

“Can you…” you murmur, glancing at Judd, “…maybe see what’s happening? He’s been in there for a while.”

Judd doesn’t argue. He gets on the phone immediately, pacing and whispering, hand braced on his hip like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. You hate that you’re trying to read his face, but the more he nods, the more your heart drops.

He hangs up and sighs, running a hand down his face.

“He’s getting another IV. He was super dehydrated. Almost passed out in the locker room. They’ve got him in the trainer’s room right now getting fluids. Should be out in 10 or 15.”

No one says anything. Not for a long time.

When Auston finally appears, he looks… wrecked.

He didn’t bother putting his suit back on. He’s wearing team-issued grey sweats and a hoodie, hood pulled up despite the sweat beading at his temple. His face is ashen. There are faint tremors in his hands, one of which is pressed to his stomach like he’s trying to keep it from caving in. His gait is sluggish, unsteady. Like he’s walking underwater.

You rush to him the second you see him, hands reaching for his elbow instinctively. He gives you a weak, apologetic smile and silently presses his car keys into your palm.

“Can you drive?” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I really don’t think I should be behind the wheel right now.”

“Of course,” you murmur, cupping his jaw for a moment. “You ready to go?”

He swallows hard, nodding once. “Yeah. Just… slow, please.”

In the car, he reclines the seat back the second he’s in, tugging his hoodie tighter around himself. He flips on the AC and angles all the vents toward his face. His breathing is shallow, every exhale an effort. You keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, gently rubbing circles.

“You okay?”

“I’m good,” he says, but the sound he makes a second later—a faint groan as he shifts in the seat—betrays him.

Five minutes from his building, he suddenly sits up. “I need you to pull over. Now. Please.”

You swerve to the shoulder just in time. His door flies open and he’s bent double, vomiting violently onto the side of the road. You reach out instinctively, but wait until he’s done before resting a hand on his back.

“Jesus,” he mutters, wiping his mouth. “Okay. Okay, I’m good.”

You don’t believe him, but you nod. “Let’s get you home.”

By the time you get to the condo, it’s all hands on deck.

You’re half-carrying your 6'3" boyfriend from the car to the elevator, and once you’re upstairs, Brian and Judd are waiting. They each take an arm, helping him up the stairs to his room. Auston doesn't speak. Doesn’t even take his shoes off. He collapses face-first onto the bed and passes out instantly, hoodie still clinging to his sweat-damp skin.

You let him sleep. He needs it.

Judd and Brian spend the next hour on the phone with the team doctors, weighing options, asking pointed questions about whether this is sustainable—whether they should consider pulling him from the lineup. Ema sits at the edge of the bed, brushing the hair off Auston’s forehead, tears in her eyes. Her son just gave everything he had, and it's not enough. Not if this is what it costs.

Bre and Alex peek into the room, exchange a worried glance, and silently retreat. They’ve seen Auston exhausted before. But not like this.

You stay close, watching the rise and fall of his back, and wonder how much longer he can keep doing this—how much more his body can take before it forces him to stop.

He wakes up just past midnight.

Not gradually. Not groggy.

Suddenly and completely awake, blinking up at the ceiling like he has no idea where he is. His skin is no longer ghost-white. The pounding in his skull is gone. His stomach is calm. He’s…sweaty, yes. But otherwise?

He feels almost human.

He slowly pushes himself up and glances at the clock. 12:17 a.m. He shifts and hears a soft voice.

“You’re up,” you say quietly, sitting forward in the chair.

Auston turns toward her, surprised. “You stayed?”

“I wasn’t going to leave you alone like that.”

He swings his legs off the side of the bed and gives you a long look. “You’re too good to me.”

You smile, small and tired. “You were really sick, Auston.”

“Still don't feel 100% back.”

“But…?”

He stretches a little. “But I don’t think I’m dying anymore.”

You laugh under your breath. “Progress.”

He stands slowly, testing his legs. “Gonna shower. I smell like the flu.”

You walk out to the kitchen, where Auston’s mom is stirring a mug of tea.

“How is he?” Ema asks.

“Awake,” You reply. “Wants a shower.”

Ema doesn’t even pause. “Go in there with him.”

You blink. Bre snorts and Alex elbows her. “Sorry—what?”

“Just to make sure he doesn’t pass out and crack his head open,” Ema says calmly, sipping. “He lost a lot of fluid. And that boy’s stubborn. He’ll say he’s fine and then he'll slip and crack his head open.”

You hesitate. “Wouldn’t he—like—want you?”

Ema smirks, giving you a look. “For some reason, I highly doubt that. You should probably go.”

You knock on the bathroom door. “Auston?”

“Yeah?” he calls back, water running.

“Your mom’s making me come in and make sure you don’t pass out in here.”

He's quiet for a moment, letting the warm water continuously run over him. Then, “sure she is. You just wanna see me naked.”

You push the door open and shut it behind you. “Trust me, Matthews, I’ve never seen so much vomit come out of one human being in my entire life. Sex is the very last thing on my mind.”

There’s a pause. Then a raspy laugh from behind the frosted glass. “God, don’t remind me.”

“You projectile vomited on the side of the road. I will never forget that.”

He laughs again, then groans. “Okay, okay. I get it. You’re thoroughly turned off.”

“Yup. You’re officially on a very unsexy probation.”

You sit on the closed toilet lid, arms crossed, listening as he soaps up. He’s slow about it, and you doesn’t blame him. You can see the outline of his large frame behind the fogged glass, the slight wobble in his movements.

“You okay?” you ask after a moment.

“I think so,” he says. Then quieter: “Thanks for taking care of me.”

You smile to herself. “Anytime, Aus.”

There’s another pause before he speaks again. “You know, you could join me in here. For safety reasons.”

You snort. “You’re lucky I’m even in the same room after watching you puke a piece of your soul."

He laughs softly, “still worth asking.”

You shakes your head, smiling despite yourself, and get up to grab a clean towel.

The sun filters through the bedroom curtains just enough to make the room feel gently lit, the kind of soft, quiet morning light that doesn’t demand anything from you. Auston stirs first. His body feels… normal. He blinks up at the ceiling, surprised by how much better he feels—like he’s been pulled back from the edge.

The chills are gone. The tight grip around his ribs has loosened. His stomach has settled into silence. He’s still tired, sure, but not sick anymore.

He turns his head slowly and sees you curled on your side facing him, one hand tucked under your cheek, the other still resting gently on his arm like you never stopped making sure he was breathing.

God, he loved you.

He watches you for a moment. The tangled mess of your hair, the dried salt of worry still dusting your lashes. You're wearing his hoodie—still. It dwarfs you, but he loves that you haven't taken it off.

Without thinking, he reaches out and runs his fingers along the curve of your cheek, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You stirs slightly, then blink up at him, bleary and beautiful in that real, undone way that makes his chest ache.

“Hey,” you whisper, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Hey,” he says back, softer. “You stayed.”

Your mouth curves into a sleepy smirk. “Didn’t think you could survive another six hours without adult supervision.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Fair.”

Just outside the cracked bedroom door, Ema Matthews is halfway up the stairs with a fresh towel and a cup of ginger tea in her hands. She pauses when she hears voices—he’s awake. She steps silently back, giving them privacy. Listening for just a second more, her heart aching in the best way.

Inside, Auston shifts so he’s lying on his side, facing you. “What… day is it?”

“Thursday,” you murmur, stretching slightly, your voice warming. “You’ve been pretty out of it since Monday night.”

“Feels like I missed a month.”

You grin, brushing your nose against his arm as he snuggles closer beneath the covers. “You didn’t miss much. Just that my boyfriend was violently puking enough to fill a couple bathtubs, I met his parents while smelling like his vomit and wearing the same hoodie three days in a row, and I’m pretty sure I’m best friends with Judd now.”

Auston lets out a low, scratchy laugh, the sound hoarse but warm. His eyes crinkle, still glassy with exhaustion but glowing just a little brighter than before. “Oh yeah?”

“Yup.” You shift to face him, curling slightly into his side. “He doesn’t think I’m a blood-sucking gold digger anymore. I think I finally won him over.”

He chuckles again and lets his head fall onto your shoulder, cheek resting there like it’s the only place in the world he wants to be. The laugh vibrates softly against your skin. “Sounds like you weren’t busy at all.”

“Not really,” you murmur, wrapping an arm around him without thinking. Your hand rubs gentle, absent circles across his back, feeling the faint tremor in his muscles and the heat still clinging to his skin.

He goes quiet for a beat, like he’s trying to find the right words—or maybe bracing himself for them.

Then, slowly, Auston lifts his head and looks at you. His eyes, even tired, are steady and full of something heavier than gratitude.

“Thank you.”

You blink, confused for a moment. “For what?”

“For staying,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “For dealing with all the chaos. For taking care of me. For…not running away when I couldn’t even stand up without help.”

Your heart clenches. You cup the side of his face, brushing your thumb along the rough edge of his jaw. “You’d do it for me.”

“Still.” His throat bobs. “You didn’t have to. And you did. You didn’t even hesitate.”

The intensity in his gaze knocks the wind out of you. It’s not polished or pretty, it’s not the effortless charm he wears on game days. This is Auston raw—sick, worn down, scared—and still trying to love you the best way he can.

You nod, and without another word, he leans in and kisses you.

It’s slow, gentle—hesitant at first, like he’s afraid he might break something if he pushes too hard. The kind of kiss that says I missed this even though it’s only been a few days. The kind that lingers. No urgency. No need to rush. Just him, and you, and the quiet acknowledgment that this means something more.

When he finally pulls back, he keeps his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in.

“I don’t feel like I'm dying anymore,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm.

You smile. “Well, your breath is slightly better,” you tease, brushing your nose against his. “So I believe it.”

He groans and drops his face into the curve of your neck, lips barely brushing your collarbone. “I knew I should’ve brushed my teeth first.”

“Too late now,” you whisper, fingers threading into his hair. “I’m already exposed to every bodily fluid you’ve got.”

That earns you a weak laugh, muffled against your skin. He pulls you closer, like he still can’t believe you’re here.

And then it happens.

The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them—soft and unsure but impossibly real.

“I love you.”

You freeze. Just for a second. Your heart skids in your chest, but not from fear.

You pull back just enough to see his face. He looks terrified. Like he said it without meaning to. Like it slipped past the defenses he’s spent years building.

But you don’t flinch. You don’t run.

You lean in, smiling gently.

“I love you too.”

Relief crashes over his features—messy and immediate and so full of emotion that you feel your own eyes sting. He kisses you again, quicker this time, smiling against your mouth like he can’t believe this is real.

“Say it again,” you whisper. “Please.”

His thumb strokes along your cheek as he looks at you like you hung the moon. “I love you.”

You grin, cheeks flushed. “Again.”

He laughs, forehead pressed to yours. “I love you. I'll say it all day if you want me to."

Outside the bedroom door, Ema presses her hand to her heart, a tear slipping down her cheek as she listens.

Her son is going to be okay.

And better than that—he’s found someone who will love him through the sickness, through the sweat, through the chaos and the ugly, and not once ask for anything in return.

She tiptoes away, the smile on her face soft and certain.

[zzointerme]

I Love You, I'm Sorry | Luke Hughes

Pairing; Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Long distance relationship, angst, not sure what else, edited once

Summary; Reader and Luke get a taste of how difficult being in a long distance relationship is.

Word Count; 4.5k

Authors Note: This is a part one. I’d love your thoughts on what you think the ending should be. I personally love angst, but I know a lot of you love happy endings, so let me know (: As per usual, reblogs are appreciated 🩵 -Honey

It's late, nearly midnight in Ann Arbor, and your room is dim except for the soft glow of your laptop screen. Outside, snow is falling in slow, half-hearted flakes that dissolve before touching the ground, visible only when they drift through the cone of yellow light from the streetlamp below. Your desk is cluttered with notebooks, highlighters with their caps missing, and a half-eaten granola bar that's been sitting there since noon, its wrapper curled at the edges.

When Luke picks up, he's backdropped by the familiar off-white walls of his place in Jersey, hair damp and curling from a post-practice shower. He's wearing that oversized black Kith hoodie — the one he practically lives in, frayed at the cuffs from constant wear — and his voice comes through, slightly distorted by distance and poor connection.

"Hey."

You smile, automatic, muscle memory that hasn't faded despite everything. "Hey."

There's a beat of silence where neither of you rushes to fill the space. It's not awkward. Just... distant. Like the signal is fine, but the connection is still lagging, caught somewhere between Ann Arbor and Jersey, lost in the miles between what you were and what you've become.

"You look tired," he says, eyes scanning your face through the screen.

"Thanks," you deadpan, but self-consciously run a hand through your unwashed hair.

He smiles, a little, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way that still manages to make your heart stutter. "Rough day?"

You nod, feeling the weight of hours spent hunched over textbooks and lab equipment. "Had a three-hour chem lab and then my professor went rogue and assigned us a ten-page paper due Monday, even though it's supposed to be a five-week course project. So, yeah. Classic Thursday."

"Damn." He leans back against his headboard, the wood making a soft thunk. You can see the edge of a team photo taped to his wall, the corner peeling. "I don't miss that."

"You're telling me," you say, rubbing your eyes until pinpricks of light dance behind your closed lids. "I've had coffee for dinner two nights in a row. My blood is basically caffeine at this point."

He watches you for a second, eyes softening with something like concern or maybe nostalgia. Then asks, quieter, "Is it still like... non-stop all the time?"

You hesitate, fingers playing with the frayed edge of your sleeve. "Yeah. I mean, I guess I'm getting used to it again." The lie tastes stale on your tongue.

Luke nods slowly, a micro-expression of hurt flashing across his face so quickly you almost miss it. Then he glances away for a second, like he's thinking about whether or not to say something. When he looks back, there's something different in his eyes. Not annoyed, just... worn down, like fabric that's been washed too many times.

"I was trying not to bug you," he says, carefully measuring each word. "With the whole settling-back-in thing. Figured the first couple weeks of school would be hectic, so I didn't want to be, like... all over your phone."

You shift in your seat, the old wooden chair creaking beneath you, uneasy. "You're not bugging me."

"I don't know," he says, fingers absently tracing the team logo on his hoodie. "It kind of feels like I am."

You go still. He's not raising his voice. He's not accusing. But it hits anyway, like a door closing quietly but firmly in your face.

"I mean, you barely text me," he continues, voice level but threaded with something raw. "We haven't FaceTimed in... what? Over a week? And when we do talk, it's usually because I called first."

You swallow, suddenly too aware of how quiet your room is, just the faint hum of your laptop fan and the distant bass from someone's music three doors down. "I've just had a lot going on."

"I know," he says quickly, too quickly. "Me too. But... it's been a month now."

You glance at him. His jaw is tight, a muscle working at the corner, and he won't quite meet your eyes, instead focusing on something just past your shoulder.

"I was giving you space because I thought you needed it," he says, voice dropping lower. "But now I'm starting to feel like maybe I'm just... not part of your life anymore. Not really."

Your chest aches, a physical pain that spreads outward like ice cracking. "Luke—"

He cuts in, not unkindly, but with a firmness that makes you flinch. "I'm not mad. I just... I didn't think this would be so one-sided."

You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a pathetic defense: "You know I suck at texting."

He gives a short laugh. Not mean, just tired, the kind that carries no actual humor. "Yeah. I do. But I thought you'd try. Because this is different now. We're not two blocks apart anymore. We're two states apart. I can't just swing by after practice or meet you at Espresso Royale with those stupid chocolate croissants you like." His voice catches slightly. "You're all I've got, and half the time, it feels like I'm not even crossing your mind."

"That's not fair," you whisper, the words hanging in the air between you like frost.

He meets your gaze, and it's the quiet in his voice that stings the most. "It doesn't have to be fair, it's how I feel."

You press your fingers to your forehead, like that'll stop the swirl in your brain, the mounting pressure behind your eyes. "I wasn't trying to ignore you. I've just... I don't know. Everything's overwhelming again. And I guess I thought if I didn't reach out, it would hurt less. Like... not reminding myself how far away you are."

He looks at you for a long second, the blue light of his screen making shadows under his cheekbones. "It hurts anyway."

And there it is.

The truth neither of you wanted to face, finally spoken aloud. Your fingers go cold.

You look at him, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his fingers fidget with the drawstring of his hoodie, twisting it into a knot and then releasing it. You feel like you're staring at something that's slipping through your hands, slow and inevitable, like sand or water or time.

He sighs, quiet, the sound barely reaching your speakers. "I'm gonna head to bed. Early skate tomorrow."

You nod, barely, feeling numb. "Okay."

He doesn't hang up right away, and for a second, it seems like he might say something else, something to soften or backtrack. Offer a lifeline. But instead, he just gives you a small, sad smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Goodnight."

Then the screen goes dark.

And you're left staring at your own reflection, sitting in the silence you built, with only the soft tapping of snowflakes against your window for company.

You wait for a text that doesn't come.

The next morning, you send him a message, something casual about hoping he had a good practice, a peace offering disguised as small talk. Usually, he responds within minutes. This time, your phone stays silent for hours, until finally, mid-afternoon: It was fine. Pretty tired though.

No questions about your day. No follow-up. Just five words that feel like a door closing.

You tell yourself it's nothing. He's busy. He's tired. But the pattern continues. Your texts receive shorter and shorter replies, sometimes hours later, sometimes not until the next day. He doesn't call. When you try calling him on Sunday night, he doesn't pick up, just texts back twenty minutes later: Sorry, was out with the guys. Talk later maybe?

Later doesn't come.

By Wednesday, the realization hits you with startling clarity: this is what it feels like to be on the other side. This is what you've been doing to him for weeks.

Thursday night, you're sitting in the library, pretending to study organic chemistry but really just staring at your phone, willing it to light up with his name. It doesn't. A week ago, you would have been annoyed by the interruption. Now you'd give anything for it.

Your roommate slides into the chair across from you, giving you a strange look. "You okay? You've been staring at that same page for like, twenty minutes."

"I'm fine," you mumble, but your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears.

"Luke?" she asks, eyebrows raised.

You look up, surprised. "How did you—"

"Well, for starters, you've checked your phone approximately eight hundred times in the past hour. And you've got that look."

"What look?"

"Like someone stole your favorite hoodie." She pauses. "Which, by the way, isn't that his Devils hoodie you're wearing right now?"

You glance down. It is. Luke left it with you when he left for pre-season, and you've been sleeping in it for weeks. It still smells faintly of his laundry detergent and that cologne he pretends not to use.

"He's not talking to me," you admit finally, the words feeling strange in your mouth. "Or, well, barely. It's like... he's just gone cold."

Your roommate doesn't look surprised. "Girl, are you stupid? You've been doing the same thing to him for weeks."

The bluntness of her assessment stings. "I've been busy," you protest weakly.

She gives you a look that makes it clear she's not buying it. "We're all busy. That's college. But you don't see me ghosting my boyfriend back home."

"I wasn't ghosting him," you insist. But even as you say it, you know it's not entirely true. You were keeping him at arm's length, minimizing contact, treating him like an obligation rather than a priority.

"So what are you going to do about it?" she asks, closing her notebook and giving you her full attention.

You stare at your phone again. No new messages. "I don't know."

Friday morning, you check your phone the moment you wake up. Nothing. Friday afternoon, between classes, you find yourself opening your photos, scrolling back through pictures of the two of you. Friday night, you cave and call him. It goes straight to voicemail.

Hey, Luke. It's me. I just... I miss you. Call me back?

He doesn't.

Saturday passes in a blur of anxiety and regret. By Sunday, you're sitting on your bed surrounded by unfinished assignments, your laptop open to a half-written paper, but all you can think about is him.

The silence stretches into a second week. His social media offers glimpses of a life continuing without you: team photos, a night out bowling, a video of him laughing at something one of his teammates said. He looks fine. He looks happy. He looks like he's moving on.

It's only when you're scrolling through your calendar to check a due date that you realize what tomorrow is: one month since he helped you move in. One month of being apart. You'd talked about celebrating somehow, doing something special over FaceTime. Now you wonder if he even remembers.

Monday morning, your phone pings with a text as you're walking to class.

Can we talk tonight? 9pm?

Your heart jumps into your throat. You text back immediately: Yes. Definitely.

The day crawls by with excruciating slowness. By 8:45, you're sitting at your desk, hair combed, room hastily tidied, wearing a sweater he once said brought out your eyes.

At exactly 9:00, your laptop chimes with an incoming call. You take a deep breath and click "accept."

Luke appears on screen, looking tired but more serious than you've ever seen him. There's none of the warmth from before, none of the easy familiarity. Just his eyes, steady and questioning.

"Hey," you say, voice small.

"Hey," he replies. Then, after a pause that stretches too long: "So, I think we should talk about what happens now."

You swallow hard, suddenly afraid of what "now" might mean. "Luke, I'm sorry. I know I messed up. I know I made you feel like you weren't important, and that's not true at all. I was—"

"Stop," he says, not unkindly but firmly. "I don't need apologies. What I need is to know if this is even worth fighting for anymore."

The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication.

"Because," he continues, voice steady but with an undercurrent of hurt that makes your chest ache, "I can't be the only one trying here. These past two weeks... this is what it felt like for me, for a month. Waiting for calls that never came. Checking my phone fifty times a day. Wondering if I still mattered to you at all."

You feel tears threatening, but you blink them back. "You do matter. You matter so much."

"Then why didn't you act like it?" The question isn't angry. It's genuinely confused, which somehow makes it worse.

"I don't know," you whisper, and then, forcing yourself to be honest: "I think I was scared. Of how much I missed you. Of how hard this was going to be. It felt easier to just... pull back. To pretend I was fine on my own."

He's quiet for a long moment, considering this. "And are you? Fine on your own?"

You look at him, really look at him, and shake your head slowly. "No. These past two weeks have been awful. I hated every minute of it."

"Welcome to my world," he says, but there's less edge to his voice now. "So what do we do? Because I can't go back to how things were before. I won't."

The silence stretches between you, full of all the things you've left unsaid. You know you're at a crossroads. You can make more promises, beg for another chance. Or you can face the truth: that long distance is harder than you thought, that you're both changing, that maybe what you had belongs to a different time, a different version of yourselves.

Luke waits, his expression unreadable. The choice is yours.

"I don't know how to fix this," you admit finally, voice barely above a whisper. "But I want to. I really want to."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes your heart ache. "I want to believe that."

"You can," you say, leaning forward. "Luke, these past two weeks... I've been miserable. And it made me realize that I've been taking you for granted. I've been acting like you'll always be there, waiting, no matter how I treat you."

He's quiet for a moment, eyes searching yours through the screen. "Why should this time be any different?"

It's a fair question. One you've been asking yourself all week.

"Because now I know what it feels like to lose you," you say simply. "And I never want to feel that way again."

He looks down, and you can see him weighing your words, deciding whether or not to believe them. When he looks back up, his eyes are guarded.

"I need more than words," he says. "I need to see it. In your actions."

You nod, relief and anxiety tangling in your chest. "I know. I understand that."

"Do you?" he asks, and there's a challenge in his voice. "Because what I need is for you to make time for us. Real time. Not just when it's convenient for you or when you don't have anything better to do."

You flinch at the truth of it. "I will. I promise."

He shakes his head slightly. "Don't promise. Just do it. Or don't. But I can't keep...hoping things will get better. That's the part that kills me, you know? The hoping."

You feel tears threatening again, but this time, you let them come. "I'm sorry," you whisper. "I'm so sorry, Luke."

His expression softens just slightly. "I know you are. But I'm not looking for an apology. I'm looking for change."

You wipe at your eyes, nodding. "So...what now?"

He seems to consider this, then says, "Now we take it day by day. See if we can build something that works for both of us. But I need you to be honest, with yourself most of all. If you can't do this, if you don't want to do this, then let's not drag it out."

The words hit you like a physical blow. "Is that...is that what you want? To end it?"

Luke's gaze is steady. "What I want is a relationship where I don't feel like I'm chasing someone who's always running away."

The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything that's been said and everything that hasn't.

"I'm not running," you say finally. "Not anymore."

He nods, but there's still hesitation in his eyes. "Okay."

"Okay," you echo, not sure what else to say.

"I should go," he says after a moment. "Early morning tomorrow."

Panic flares in your chest. "Wait, can we talk again?"

The question hangs in the air. Before, he would have been the one asking that. The one worried about when the next call would be. Now it's you, and the role reversal isn't lost on either of you.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "I don't know. When do you want to talk again?"

You recognize the test in his words. "Tomorrow? I don't have class until eleven. We could have coffee together. Virtually, I mean."

He considers this. "I'll be up at six for training."

"Six is fine," you say quickly, even though you haven't voluntarily seen six a.m. since high school.

His eyebrows rise slightly. "Really?"

"Really." You've never been more certain of anything.

He studies you for a moment longer, then nods. "Okay. Six it is."

"I'll be here," you promise.

"We'll see," he says, and it stings, but you know you deserve it. Before he ends the call, he pauses. "You're wearing that sweater I love."

"What?" You glance down, feeling heat rise to your face. "Oh yeah."

The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile, the first real smile you've seen from him in weeks.

Then the call ends, and you're left staring at your reflection again. But this time, it's different. This time, you're not paralyzed by indecision or regret. This time, you know exactly what you need to do.

You set your alarm for 5:45 a.m. Then you open your calendar and begin to carve out time, real time, for the person who matters most. Not leftover minutes between classes or half-attentive late-night calls when you're too exhausted to really talk. Actual, intentional time.

It won't be easy. Nothing worth having ever is. The distance is still there. Your schedule is still overwhelming. His hockey season is just getting started.

But as you close your laptop and get ready for bed, you realize something: you're not just fighting for Luke. You're fighting for yourself, too. For the person you want to be. Someone who knows what matters and acts like it. Someone who doesn't take love for granted.

You curl up under your blankets after changing back into his Devils hoodie. Outside, the snow continues to fall, covering everything in a clean, white blanket. Like a fresh start.

Morning will come early. But for the first time in weeks, you're looking forward to it.

The blaring of your alarm cuts through your dreams like a knife. You groan, blindly pawing at your phone until the noise stops. Your room is dark, the sky outside still black. For a moment, you lie there, disoriented, wondering why on earth your alarm is going off at this ungodly hour.

Then you remember. Luke. The call. Six a.m.

You force your eyes open, squinting at your phone screen.

7:28 a.m.

Your stomach drops. No. No no no.

You bolt upright, suddenly wide awake, heart hammering against your ribs. How did this happen? You set your alarm. You remember setting it for 5:45.

But the evidence is right there on your screen, mocking you: three missed alarms, all snoozed in your half-conscious state. And worse, two missed calls from Luke.

"No," you whisper, panic rising in your throat as you fumble to call him back. It rings once, twice, three times. Then his voicemail.

You try again. Straight to voicemail.

Your hands shake as you type out a text: Luke I'm so sorry. I slept through my alarm. Please call me back.

Nothing.

You try calling once more. Voicemail again.

Please Luke. I swear I didn't mean to. I set three alarms.

The message shows as delivered, but there's no response. You sit in the cold light of morning, the reality of what's happened sinking in like lead. One chance. You had one chance to show him you were serious, that things would be different.

And you blew it.

By 8:15, you've tried calling five more times. Each time, straight to voicemail. Your roommate finds you sitting cross-legged on your bed, still in his hoodie, staring at your phone like you can will it to ring through sheer force of desperation.

"Whoa," she says, taking in your expression. "What happened?"

"I messed up," you manage, voice hollow. "I was supposed to call Luke at six this morning. I slept through my alarm."

She winces. "Ouch."

"He won't answer," you continue, feeling tears build. "He probably thinks I just... didn't care enough to wake up."

Your roommate sits on the edge of your bed. "Did you explain?"

"I tried. He's not responding."

"Give him some time," she suggests. "He's probably at practice anyway, right?"

You nod weakly. She's right. He's probably on the ice right now, skating through drills, trying not to think about you. Or worse, thinking about you too much.

"What do I do?" you ask, hating how small your voice sounds.

She considers for a moment. "You wait. And then you try again. And you don't give up after one mistake."

The words echo in your mind as you drag yourself through your morning routine, as you force yourself to attend your classes even though you can barely focus on what your professors are saying. By late afternoon, you've checked your phone approximately a thousand times. Nothing from Luke.

At 4:17, just as you're leaving your last class, your phone finally buzzes. You nearly drop it in your haste to check.

Can talk now. Call me.

Your heart races as you find an empty bench outside your building and call him with trembling fingers. He picks up on the second ring.

"Luke—" you start, the relief of hearing his voice almost overwhelming.

"Are you kidding me?" His voice is tight, controlled, but you can hear the hurt beneath it. "Seriously? After everything we talked about last night?"

"I know," you say quickly. "I know how it looks. I set the alarms, I swear I did. I even set three of them. But I must have turned them off in my sleep. I never even heard them."

"Right." His tone is flat with disbelief.

"It's true," you insist. "Luke, please. You have to believe me. I wouldn't do that to you. Not after last night."

There's a long pause, and you can almost see him pacing in his dorm room, running a hand through his still-damp hair, trying to decide if he believes you.

"You know what the worst part was?" he says finally. "I actually got excited. I set up my laptop on the kitchen counter while I made breakfast. I thought... I actually thought this time would be different."

The quiet disappointment in his voice is worse than if he'd yelled.

"It will be," you say, desperate. "It is. Luke, I messed up. I know that. But it was a mistake, not a choice. I wanted to talk to you this morning. I was looking forward to it."

Another silence stretches between you. Then, quietly: "I think we need to take a break."

The words hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. "What? No. Luke, please—"

"I can't do this anymore," he says, his voice oddly calm. "I thought I could. I thought if we just talked it out, if you just understood how I was feeling... but this morning made it clear."

"It was one mistake," you plead, tears filling your eyes. "One morning."

"No," he says, and the gentleness in his voice somehow makes it worse. "It's not just this morning. It's every morning. It's the fact that I keep hoping things will change, and they never do. It's the fact that I'm constantly disappointed, and I'm starting to think that's just... how it's going to be with us now."

"It won't," you whisper.

"Maybe not," he concedes. "But it's how I feel. And I can't keep feeling this way. It's killing me."

You press a hand to your mouth, trying to stifle a sob. "So what, we're just... done? Just like that?"

He sighs, and you hear so much exhaustion in that sound. "I don't know what we are. I just know I need some space to figure out if this is even worth fighting for anymore."

"Of course it is," you say, voice breaking. "Luke, I love you."

"I love you too," he says quietly. "But right now, that's not enough."

The finality in his voice sends a chill through you. "How long?" you manage to ask. "How long of a break?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I need to focus on hockey. On myself. And honestly, maybe you do too."

You want to argue, to fight, to promise him that you'll do better, that you'll be better. But the words stick in your throat because deep down, you know he's right. You haven't been the person he needs. You haven't even been the person you want to be.

"Okay," you say finally, the word barely audible.

"I should go," he says after a moment of heavy silence.

"Luke—" you start, not ready for the call to end, not ready for whatever comes after.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" he cuts in, voice soft. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Keep the hoodie. It looks better on you anyway."

Before you can respond, the call ends.

You sit there on the cold bench, phone clutched in your hand, tears streaming down your face. Around you, students rush to classes, laughing, talking, completely unaware that your world has just imploded.

Eventually, you make your way back to your apartment. Your roommate takes one look at your face and opens her arms without a word. You collapse into them, the sobs you've been holding back finally breaking free.

"He's gone," you choke out. "He's gone and it's my fault."

She holds you as you cry, stroking your hair, telling you it will be okay. But you know it won't be. Not for a long time.

That night, you curl up in your bed, still wearing his hoodie. You know you should take it off, that it will only make things harder, but you can't bring yourself to do it. Not yet. Outside, snow is falling again, heavier now, erasing footprints, covering everything in blank whiteness.

Your phone sits dark and silent on your nightstand. No goodnight text. No plans to call tomorrow. Just emptiness where there used to be him.

My Patreon, where you can find exclusive fics not posted anywhere else: HERE

[zzointerme]

CURRENT BOYFRIEND

staring…. macklin celebrini x reader

my take on the “my current boyfriend” TikTok trend featuring this cutie

You knew exactly what you were doing.

Phone subtly angled on the windowsill, front camera recording, you tried to act casual as Macklin leaned against the kitchen counter—sweatpants low on his hips, hair damp from his shower, abs on full display as he scrolled through his phone while eating a banana like he wasn’t personally responsible for your heart racing.

He didn’t notice the phone yet.

Perfect.

You walked up beside him, smiled sweetly, and with your voice soft and camera-ready, said:

“This is me with my current boyfriend.”

Macklin glanced up, a lazy grin pulling at his lips. “Hey, baby.”

You just smiled.

And didn’t say anything else.

His eyebrows pinched. “Wait… current?”

You pressed your lips together to fight the grin threatening to break through. You just gave him a casual shrug and kept the camera rolling in secret.

“Current?” he repeated, eyes narrowing like he was trying to do math he definitely wasn’t equipped to do right now. “What do you mean current? Like… temporary?”

You let out a thoughtful hum. “I mean… just current.”

He stood up straighter. “What do you mean just current?! That sounds temporary! Am I like—what, your boyfriend for now? Is there a waiting list I don’t know about?”

You laughed out loud.

Macklin stepped closer, banana in one hand, phone in the other. “Don’t laugh! That was weird! What was that?”

You looked at him innocently. “What? You are my current boyfriend.”

“Yeah, and I was under the impression I was gonna be your only boyfriend.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who said that?”

He stared at you, mouth open. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘WHO SAID THAT’?! You did! Multiple times! You cried during The Notebook and said ‘I hope we get old and die holding hands on a porch.’ Don’t try to lie!”

You were full-on giggling now, your shoulders shaking as he dropped the banana dramatically into the sink and walked away like he was re-evaluating his entire life.

“I’m not joking, Y/N!” he called from the hallway, turning back. “I’m fighting for my life right now. Do I need to send flowers? A four-page handwritten letter? Re-propose for boyfriend status?”

You finally picked up your phone and turned it to show him it was recording.

He squinted at the screen, saw the red recording dot… and immediately groaned.

“Oh my god. It’s a TikTok. I’m being emotionally manipulated on the internet.”

You smiled proudly. “You’re welcome.”

He walked back over, pulling you into his arms while still glaring at you. “I hope that video includes the part where I said I’d be your husband someday.”

“It doesn’t,” you said cheerfully.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He kissed your forehead. “No, I don’t.”

Then, after a pause:

“…Still gonna make a revenge video. Just you wait. I’m gonna say ‘this is me with my current girlfriend’ and then show a photo of my PlayStation.”

You snort. “I dare you.”

“Challenge accepted.”

[zzointerme]

The Album

Pairing: Clayton Keller x Fem!Reader Warnings: Suggestive discussions, talks of kinks/interests (very lightly) mostly just silly and fluffy. Summary: Clayton finds out you have a photo album on your phone of pictures and clips of him. Notes: Inspired by the ridiculous number of pictures of Clayton I have on my phone. Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :) Writing Masterlist

You're not really thinking when you say it, a passing comment after he shows you a picture he took with Schmaltz on the latest roadie. Just a quick 'adding that one to the folder', that gets an eyebrow raise and immediate curiosity from Clay.

It becomes a battle of wills. Your stubbornness not to show him the folder and his refusal to budge because he's simply too curious now to walk away from the conversation. In the end you're the one who folds; unlocking your phone and shoving it towards him already on the photo album that you keep your ridiculous number of photos and clips of Clay in...the folder you'd been adamant about never revealing to him because it was embarrassing.

The grin he has on his face says it all, wide, dimple on show as he swipes through photo after photo, clip after clip. You're groaning, sinking down against against the sofa cushions, a throw pillow pulled up to cover your face because you can't face the embarrassment.

"You really like me sweaty and bucketless, huh?" He flicks the screen over to the next picture of him on the bench. His hair is a mess, sweaty and sticking to his skin, chains out, the bucket is off, probably in his lap or handed off to someone to get adjusted. You have at least 10 pictures of him like that. All in a row, one after the other.

"Shut up..."

"It's cute, baby," It's cute how many pictures you have of him. It's cute how much you like him...he's had the nonchalant girls before. The one's that act cool, that don't make it clear how much they like you. You're not like that. You're a lover girl through and through, he can't doubt that you find him attractive or that you want him because it's all here in your phone for him to see, it's all written across your face, in your actions, in your words.

"It's embarrassing."

"It's not embarrassing to find your boyfriend hot, baby."

"Yes, it is!"

He just shakes his head at you and keeps scrolling. Photos of him with his hair free and sweaty. Clips of him spitting on the ice. So many clips of him chewing on a mouthguard or yelling orders at people. A few pictures of him with his black eye or bloody from some accident on the ice or another.

"Why are there so many clips of me yelling at people, baby?" He stops on one, he's frowning at someone, maybe Maccelli, yelling something that looks suspiciously like 'get your shit together'...it's a little embarrassing for him. He knows he can be a little intense on the ice sometimes, still trying to find that balance between giving direction and order and being a dickhead.

"It's hot..." You mumble pulling the pillow down slightly, enough to look at him over the top of it. You're all wide eyed, shy, feeling self-conscious because all of his attention is on you and what you find attractive about him.

"It's hot?"

"I don't know..." You try to pull the pillow back up to cover your face, but Clay's hand is there, tugging it down to stop you from hiding completely from him again.

"No, no, you don't get to back out of that one, sweet girl. Why's it hot?" He's being soft with you, gentle voice, rumbly. The one that makes you want to squirm in place and kick your feet...it makes it a little easier, even if the eye contact has your face on fire. Intense blue eyes fixed on your features, eager to see you as you answer him.

"I...I like when you're in charge and all captainy..." You've always liked Clay in charge. It's what drew you to him in the first place. He led and you followed and he led well. You could shut your brain off around him, it was easy to do because you knew he'd make sure you were good.

The smile he gives you is a little evil, smirking with one half of his mouth, looking at you from under his lashes as he starts to lean over you as you shrink back feeling giddy in the pit of your stomach in a way that has you pursing your lips in an effort not to giggle.

"You want me to tell you want to do, baby?"

"Shut up." It's got no bite at all, your face is as hot as it can get and Clayton knows he's got you as you squirm in place. You're practically lying on the couch, Clayton leaning over you like he's about to kiss you. Instead he just laughs, pulling back just enough to show you the phone again.

A clip of him spitting on the ice, something you can't even begin to explain...it's just hot. In a way that you can't fathom. It might just be because it's Clay. The idea of anyone else doing that a turn off not a turn on.

"Okay, okay, but what about these ones? You want me to spit on you too?" He's being mean, he knows he is, as you hide your face behind your hands, groaning in embarrassment, cringing away from your own phone.

"Clayton..."

There's a pause where he stops laughing, dropping the phone to the side so he can reach for your hands, pulling them away from your face so he can look at you.

"You know you can tell me if you do, right? I wanna know what makes you tick, what gets you goin' for me." He means it too. God, all Clayton ever wants is to please you. He doesn't care what that entails...so if you want him to spit on you he'll do it. If you want him to chew you up like a mouthguard he's all in. If you want him to get beaten up on the ice every night just to have something extra purple to look at he'd do it. For you he'd do it.

You shove at his shoulder but it barely moves him, frowning up at him with a pout.

"I'm telling your mum that you're a menace."

"What are you going to say? That I talk dirty to you and it's wrong? Think my mom might a bit scarred if you do that, baby." He laughs because the idea of you telling his mom anything that goes on in your bedroom is laughable. You'd never do it, you can barely talk dirty to him let alone tell his mom what he's been up to. Even if you did, his mom would just tease you about it probably. It'd be worse for you in the long run.

You throw your head back with a groan, neck long, cheek pressed into the couch cushions. Pretty. Embarrassed, but pretty. You're always pretty, it makes him lose his train of thought for a moment. It takes Clay a second just to get back to what he was going to say.

"Just talk to me...you've kept these for a reason, so why? Why all the mouthguard pics?"

You mumble under your breath, inaudible, as if you think he'll let you off the hook if you don't speak loud enough. His fingers come up to brush your hair from your face, backs of them grazing your cheek gently, softly. A reminder that he's not going to judge you, that he loves you.

"Can't hear you, sweet girl."

"I want you to bite me and mark me up like I'm that stupid mouthguard..." He's already laughing, head thrown back and it has you groaning, shoving at Clay's shoulders again, "shut up, it's embarrassing."

"It's cute." It's hot actually. His eyes already a little darker at the idea of marking you up like a personal painting, the idea that you'd let him even if you're acting all coy about it right now.

"It's embarrassing."

"What about the moustache pics?" The stupid moustache he tried to grow back in Arizona. Barely there, a laughable excuse for one especially when compared to Bainer and Schmaltzy.

"I don't know...thought you looked cute with it...even though its a pathetic attempt at facial hair." God, it was bad, you had it bad...because even that stupid moustache was cute. It made you want to kiss him. It made you want to kick your feet and squeal.

"Oh, you love me love me, huh?" He's back over you, hands on either side of your head, nose nuzzling against your own, invading your personal space because shit, you really do love him, huh? God, he loves it. He loves how openly you love him, even if you think it's embarrassing, even if you think he's going to run for the hills or laugh in your face.

"Shut up." You're mumbling, eyes looking away from his, off to the side, like he's not right up in your face right now, close enough that he might as well be kissing you.

"Well, I love you love you too."

The way he kisses you says it all really. Deep, passionate, loving like he wants to devour you because he does. God, you're it. You're everything. He loves that you keep photos and clips of him on your phone. He loves that you have an album just of him. That you screenshot pictures from the team insta and save pictures he sends you. That you love him so much that you keep that in your pocket every day.

What he doesn't tell you is that he has his own album too. Of you.

[zzointerme]

something about mack just always texting you throughout the day. you’re always on his mind and he just texts you silly stuff like “oh i saw this bouquet of flowers today and thought of you” with like a picture of said flowers and just silly stuff like that!

macklin’s texts are like him—soft, random, messy in the best way. his spelling’s not even bad, just a little chaotic sometimes, like his brain moves faster than his thumbs. he’ll text you from the locker room while half-dressed and getting chirped by will, or mid-lunch with a fork hanging out of his mouth. doesn’t matter where he is. if something reminds him of you, he’s sending it.

you’ll be in class or at work or doing something normal and then— macklin 🧸 saw these flowers and thought of ur cheeks [picture of a tiny chaotic bouquet, mostly yellow, one smushed carnation, and a leaf that looks like it’s been chewed on] macklin 🧸 u know how they’re always red and pretty n warm i mean not the flower like ur cheeks okay i’m gonna stop typing now before i die

or— macklin 🧸 do u think this duck would like me [picture of a very round duck near a fountain] macklin 🧸 he looked at me in a judgmental way. like he knew i bite my straw instead of sipping properly. anyway i miss u

once he sent you a selfie from the bench during warmups—helmet half-on, mouthguard hanging out of his lips, big green eyes squinting into the sun like a cartoon—and the caption just said: macklin 🧸 u think i look like a snack today or no be honest

and another time: macklin 🧸 saw a baby in a shark onesie n i had to walk away cause my chest felt weird macklin 🧸 like i was gonna cry n then fight god if he didn’t give me a baby w u one day. anyway how’s ur lunch

he texts you everything. when he wakes up: macklin 🧸 dreamt u were a mermaid and i drowned trying to kiss u

mid-practice: macklin 🧸 will called me a slut bc i smiled at ur name on my screen macklin 🧸 anyway i deserved it i miss u so bad rn

late at night: macklin 🧸 the hoodie u left smells like u and it’s illegal how good it makes me feel macklin 🧸 i mean i’m not high or anything but i almost cried holding it

sometimes he sends voice notes. slurred, tired ones where he sounds so soft and pouty and barely awake. “hi. ‘m laying down now. my face is in your pillow. ‘s really soft. i miss you. okay. that’s all.” then a beep. then another one, immediately after. “also i saw a star shaped like a heart tonight. i think that’s u.”

he sends random emoji combos like it’s a coded language: 🌞🐛🍓 = “you’re sunshine and you make me squirm and i wanna kiss your face and feed you fruit.” 🧠🫠💥 = “i miss you so much i can’t function and my brain is soup.” 🐨 = “i wanna crawl onto you like this.”

you could be gone for two hours and come back to twelve texts, three blurry pictures (usually of food he made, something you’d like, or something that looks insane and he needs your opinion), and five tiktoks he saved “bc this felt like u.”

you’re always on his mind. all day, every day.

and he never tries to be cool about it. he doesn’t ration affection, doesn’t second guess if it’s too much. he just thinks of you and then tells you. plain and simple. whether he’s at the rink or the grocery store or brushing his teeth with foam in the corner of his mouth, you’re part of every moment.

macklin 🧸 just walked past the ice cream aisle. u would’ve squealed at the new flavour they had. literally u would’ve jumped. i think ur feet would’ve left the ground. god ur so cute.

macklin 🧸 come home soon pls. miss ur face. miss ur voice. miss the way u always put ur cold hands on my neck even tho u know i’ll squeal like a child. i miss everything.

you smile like a dumbass every time. because he means it. all of it. he’s not trying to win you over or play a part or be romantic for the sake of it—he just is.

your phone buzzes again. macklin 🧸 forgot to say this earlier but u were in my dream again. u were wearing ur pjs and yelling at me to stop drinking milk straight from the jug. it was hot. ok bye.

[zzointerme]

current boyfriend — the hughes

an —this trend is soo funny i couldn’t help myself

masterlist

QUINN

your phone is propped up low on the kitchen counter, angled perfectly to catch the shot. the comments have been relentless — please do the current boyfriend trend with quinn, he’s gonna be so confused lol, we need his reaction.

you didn’t want to mess with him like this. not him. but the opportunity was perfect.

he’s still wearing the hoodie he threw on after his shower, sleeves pushed up, focused and gentle as he plates your dinner. the smell of garlic, lemon, and parmesan fills the room. he’s been in the kitchen for almost an hour, soft music playing, asking you to stay out until it’s done.

now, he sets the plate down in front of you with a proud, shy smile and leans down to press a kiss to your cheek.

“here you go, baby.”

you smile sweetly and pick up your phone as the plate is placed infront of you.

“look what my current boyfriend made me,” you say casually to the camera.

his body freezes behind you.

“…current?” he repeats.

you keep the bit going, biting into your pasta like you didn’t just cause minor heartbreak. “yeah. he’s so talented, huh?”

quinn shifts beside you, arms crossing lightly over his chest. “what do you mean current? like… is there an expiration date i don’t know about?”

you nod solemnly, playing it all the way through. “i mean… things happen. people change. contracts expire.”

he squints. “contracts? i didn’t sign anything.”

“well,” you hum, twirling your fork in the pasta, “this relationship has about three weeks left on it. depends on your performance review.”

he just stares at you now. silent. betrayed. lips parted in disbelief. “are you actually serious right now?”

you finally crack a smile. “no, i’m not serious,” you laugh. “you should see your face.”

he doesn’t laugh back. he stays exactly where he is, hovering over your shoulder, looking completely heartbroken but trying to act like he’s not.

you set your fork down immediately. “quinn…”

he doesn’t respond, just kind of leans there. still in the same spot, eyes down, his arms still folded but looser now.

you turn in your chair and reach up to grab his hoodie gently, pulling him closer. he lets you. doesn’t even resist, just sighs and wraps his arms around your shoulders when you hug him, chin resting near your temple.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “it was a trend. everyone begged me to do it.”

“you’re lucky i love you,” he mumbles, still not pulling back.

“you do love me,” you smile, hugging him tighter. “so much that you made me pasta and suffered emotional damage.”

he laughs into your hair, the sound muffled and soft. “never trusting your tiktoks again.”

you smile into his chest. “that’s fair.”

JACK

you know exactly what you’re doing.

jack’s sprawled out on the couch in sweats and a devils hoodie, hair messy from his post-practice shower, arm draped behind your shoulders like he owns the place. he’s barely paying attention, scrolling aimlessly on his phone with the tv playing some random series you’re both half-watching.

you quietly flip your phone camera on, start recording, and glance up at him.

“i’m here with my current boyfriend,” you say into the mic, voice light, eyes innocent.

there’s a beat.

jack doesn’t even turn his head. just freezes. then lowers his phone slowly.

“wait.” he squints. “what the hell did you just say?”

you suppress a grin. “what? i said i’m here with my current boyfriend.”

he snatches your phone mid-recording and pauses the tiktok, staring at you like you just told him you were leaving the country tomorrow with a stranger.

“current boyfriend?” he repeats, louder this time. “why would you say current like that?”

“jack…”

“no, no, no. what is that supposed to mean?” he’s full-on sitting up now, eyebrows high, hands gesturing like you just ruined his entire peace. “current implies there’s gonna be a next. and there isn’t a next. do you understand me?”

you blink, biting the inside of your cheek. “it’s a tiktok trend.”

he scoffs. “i don’t care if it’s a government-issued announcement. don’t put that into the universe.”

you start laughing, but he’s not done. now he’s up on his knees, pointing at you like he’s giving a lecture.

“let me make one thing very clear,” he says, deadly serious. “if i die—if i die—you are going to be alone forever.”

“jack—”

“no, don’t ‘jack’ me. alone. forever. end of discussion.”

you’re doubled over now, laughing into the couch pillow.

“and if you do get another boyfriend?” he leans in closer, wild-eyed. “i’ll haunt both of you. your dreams, your breakfast, your netflix queue. every time he kisses you, the lights will flicker.”

“oh my god—”

“and if he tries to make you dinner?” jack snorts. “the stove’s getting possessed.”

you finally pull the phone back, still breathless, still grinning, and stop the recording for real. he flops back against the couch dramatically, arms crossed, muttering something about “current boyfriend, my ass.”

you crawl over into his lap and press a kiss to his jaw. “you’re my only boyfriend.”

“forever?” he mumbles, eyes still narrowed.

“forever.”

he nods slowly. “good. because i’m serious. the haunting thing? that’s not a threat. it’s a promise.”

LUKE

you’re lounging on the couch in luke’s hoodie, his legs stretched across your lap as he scrolls on his phone. it’s late, the apartment is dim, and your tiktok is already recording when you say it:

“here with my current boyfriend.”

he doesn’t even look up right away. just blinks at his phone, takes a sip of water, then casually says, “that’s funny. i’m here with my current girlfriend, too.”

your head snaps toward him.

“what?”

he finally meets your eyes, totally unfazed. “yeah. she’s great. cool vibes. might keep her for a little.”

you stare at him. “luke.”

he shrugs. “depends on how this week goes.”

your jaw drops. he’s joking. you know he’s joking. but he’s also not blinking, and now you’re staring at him, heart skipping, eyes narrowing.

he keeps going. “and if it doesn’t work out, i already downloaded hinge.”

“luke trevor hughes!” you gasp, shoving his leg off you as you stand up. “you’re actually unbelievable—i’m breaking up with you.”

“that’s not my middle name” he replies nonchalantly. still not giving into her antics

he watches you stomp toward the hallway, one arm crossed lazily behind his head, the other still holding his phone. “oh no,” he says dryly. “please don’t leave me.”

you’re already halfway to the bedroom when he suddenly drops his phone, stands, and catches you around the waist with a quick, easy pull.

“nope,” he says, spinning you around and pulling you back into his chest like it’s nothing. “get back here.”

“let go of me,” you mumble, still pouting, trying to fight a smile.

“never,” he grins, peppering kisses across your cheek. “not letting my dramatic, jealous, adorable current girlfriend storm off in my hoodie.”

you groan. “stop calling me that.”

he laughs against your cheek. “why? you are my current girlfriend.”

“you’re such a menace. i hate you,” you mumble, arms folding as he holds you tight.

“yeah,” he smirks, resting his chin on your shoulder. “but i’m your menace.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. he kisses the corner of your mouth, proud of himself.

“you’re going to have to make this up with a lot of cuddles and kisses” she comments with her face still riddled with annoyance.

“let’s start now” he nuzzles into her next before leading them back to the couch.

© 2025 M34TTHEWS

[zzointerme]

clayton and play fighting? i feel like he’s the type to definitely practice wwe moves on his gf

also i hope you have a good day/night you deserve it queen ❤️❤️

Requests are currently closed while I work through current ones <3 (We're nearly at request reopening time though) Writing Masterlist

In your defence you really didn't think jumping on Clayton would end like this.

You'd just thought why not? Your boyfriend on the bed scrolling through his phone, unaware of the world, you? bored, clingy, wanting company. Why not dive at him? Why not rugby tackle him to the bed? Impulsive thoughts for the win really.

Except after Clayton got over the winding, the loud oomph that left him from you landing full bodied on top of him, he decided that this was a perfect chance for him to try out his own WWE moves like you were both 7 years old again. It seemed to spark something in him that had him throwing his phone off to the side and manhandling you in an attempt at wrestling.

It's how you find yourself face down on the bed, arm behind your back (lightly, so gentle you could literally slip your arm out of his grip with no resistance), Clayton's legs tangled with yours as he presses against you. Your cheek is pressing into the bedding, eyes rolling at him even thought he can't see it.

"I win. Say uncle." You can hear it in his voice, that smug grin that he's probably got because he's won, because you're underneath him. Like a kid who's beating his dad in an arm wrestling contest.

"You have an unfair advantage!" Your voice is muffled by the way your cheek presses into the bedding, it sounds a little silly but you refuse to just give in. Even though he's clearly stronger than you and has an advantage.

"Oh, yeah?"

"You literally do all those stupid workouts all the time, you freak." It's not fair. You're not being trained by professional trainers every season and off season. Clayton's stronger than he looks, deceptively strong.

"It's not very nice to call your boyfriend a freak, baby."

"Yeah...well you are...you put mayo on scrambled eggs." It comes out in a pouty sort of huff, you're being a bit silly, a bit goofy, a bit childish. But, that's the point of this right? You two acting like children rather than being all prim and proper and adult.

"I can't believe you're judging me right now when you are the freakiest little freak possible."

"Shut up..." Your cheeks warm, not wanting him to go into that long, deep list of issues that you know he'd happily pull out to win an argument even while he entertains your freakiness.

"Say uncle before I unload your laundry list of weird kinks, baby."

"No...." You're flipped over with ridiculous ease until you're facing him, back to the mattress, both of your arms pinned above your head by the wrists. His hands are fucking large, encompassing your wrists gently and holding them firm to the bed. Clayton lording over you like some sort of king, smug smirk pulling at his lips until that dimple is deep and evident. His hair is flopping deliciously into his face like some sort of hero out of a adventure movie and it makes you want to bite him.

"Baby, say uncle." He presses further into you, hips pinning you, weight heavy in a way that makes it harder to breathe. For multiple reasons really. It's hard to breathe whenever Clayton is this close.

"I don't wanna."

"You say uncle and we can do whatever you want." He's bribing you now, your eyes narrow at him, suspicious because he's too happy about this, too entertained.

"Whatever I want?"

"Anything."

"Cuddles?"

"If you say uncle, sweet girl."

You take a moment, pretending to weight it all up, to contemplate whether you truly want to admit defeat when it's clear you're never going to win this fight anyway.

"Uncle." You say it with a grin and the moment you do, Clayton flops fully on top of you, face pressing into your shoulder, breathing you in. Your wrists are released, fingers finding their way to his hair while his arms wrap around your waist until you're as close as two fully clothed people can possibly get.

So yeah, maybe you're not going to win a wrestling contest against Clayton anytime soon...but cuddles are better anyway.

[zzointerme]

Falling Into You | Matthew Knies x Fem!Reader

warnings! slow burn ish, mainly fluff, mentions of weed, slightly suggestive, and secret dating

word count: 7.1k

summary: You love your job as the athletic therapist for the Toronto Maple Leafs but you also seem to start falling for one of the players on said team. You swore to not catch feelings for him since it puts your job at risk but what if the risk is worth it?

a/n: first kniesy fic for my beloved @lovesickhughes !! I enjoyed writing this so I hope you guys enjoy reading it! (ps the title actually doesn't have any correlation to the fic itself lol)

You were the few rare people who could say that they loved their job. You loved every aspect of your job as the athletic therapist for the Toronto Maple Leafs. Since the start of your career, where your professor during your graduate studies somehow made a few calls to get you your job, you’ve been so thrilled to go to work every day. Your colleagues were a pleasure to work with, your job had you on your feet — a feature which you loved, and the players you worked with were always very nice.

A part of you adored the part where you got to wear your Toronto blue scrubs with a team logo clad zip up fleece and your fun sneakers every shift. The other part loved being able to meet so many different people while you worked. And obviously, being an athletic therapist in itself was a joy.

You walked in the brisk November breeze in Toronto, with a thin down jacket protecting you from the cold that’d been building up lately. You clutched the straps of your work purse closer to your body as you crossed the street towards the arena. It was nearly 6:45 AM and the city was already waking up with the occasional car horns and the shouts from down the street.

The warmth of Scotiabank Arena greeted you as you carefully closed the door behind you. You scanned your ID to enter down the long hallway where you said a quick ‘good morning’ to others who were also just starting work. You turned the corner to the large blue-painted double doors, you fished out the keys to unlock them and pushed the two open.

Your foot kicked the door stop to wedge at the bottom to keep them open before settling your purse on the nearby table. The bright fluorescent lights flickered on as you peeled off your coat, your scarf, and your purse to shove into your small designated locker. You started to get the small clinic ready for the long day ahead of you, first by checking the stock of supplies currently in the room. You mumbled to yourself a list of things to grab from storage,

“Okay, need white tape, pre-wrap,” You sighed, rubbing your temple in slight annoyance that your colleagues hadn’t stocked up the night before, “And maybe some extra electrodes and gel-”

“Hope I’m not bothering you,” A voice spoke up from behind you and you jumped slightly from being startled, your hand was pressed against your chest to soothe your racing heart when you spun around,

“Good morning,” You chuckled with a low shake of your head, “You scared me.”

He laughed lightly before offering you a to-go cup, “Sorry sweetheart, just thought I’d drop off a coffee for you since I know you’re in for a long day.”

You smiled as you took the drink from him, “Thank you Auston, that’s very sweet of you.”

Auston shrugged, “Working the game too right?”

You nodded as you sipped at the hot liquid, feeling the bitter taste run over your tastebuds and down your throat, “Yeah, going to be needing a few more of these later on.”

He chuckled as he patted your shoulder, “I’ll see you later, I think something’s up with my wrist again that I need you to check out.”

You hummed while he pulled away to head down the hallway, “I’ll see you later then.”

You watched the captain walk away before turning your attention back to your mental list. You braced yourself for another day of treating hamstring pain, sore wrists, ankle taping, and telling each player to stop training themselves to the point of injury. They never listened to you, only a nod and uh-huh yeah got it, before they got off the treatment bed and to their next stop.

The coffee from Auston was saving you, whether it was from keeping you warm in the chilly hallways to and from the supply stock or just keeping you awake in general. You worked through your several emails and the stack of paperwork that’d been sitting on your desk in the corner of the treatment room. The paperwork was definitely your least favourite part of the job, along with updating your notes on each player. You liked to keep track of small things they’ve mentioned in sessions, just so you could monitor them even when they say that everything feels fine. It was excessive, but it was important to you.

You hummed to yourself quietly as you opened the hydrocollator heat unit, to be greeted by a wall of steam — indicating that the heat packs were ready for the day.

“Morning!” You turned around to see Mitch Marner and Auston Matthews both entering the treatment room in their athletic wear. You checked the time to see that their morning skate must’ve ended, meaning the flood of hockey players was just beginning.

“Good morning, gentlemen. How’s that quad feeling, Matthews?” You asked the team captain as he sat down on one of the beds.

You continued to have your typical conversations with the different hockey players as you treated them. Often giving them a heat pack to help with blood circulation and muscle recovery, or providing them with deep tissue therapy with electrodes being placed on their point of injury. They often told you about their weekend plans or their most recent trip, all which you enjoyed hearing since a part of you lived through them as you never really left the city.

However, there was one hockey player who never seemed to make conversation with you — not that you would force them to, but rather because the rest were always social. Matthew Knies, one of the younger guys on the team, was always quiet when receiving treatment from you. 

Every time he comes in ten minutes early, always — he’s got his AirPods jammed in and that distracted, somewhere-else look in his eyes. He lowers himself onto the treatment table like he’s thinking about the next game or the one after that, gaze fixed on some point just beyond your shoulder. He gives a flat, “Morning,” if he remembers, and holds out his ankle like it’s a business transaction.

You tape him in silence. Efficient, practiced movements. Over, under, pull, press. He thanks you in a tone that might as well be pre-recorded. Then he’s gone.

You never pressured the guys to talk, if they didn’t want to then they didn’t have to. You don’t take it personally. Some players are chatty, some aren’t. Some want to talk about recovery protocols and shoulder mobility; others just want to get in and out. He’s young, focused, intense in that way rookies often are. You just did your job and what you’re being paid to do, which is treating them and assisting their recovery since their job as professional athletes takes a toll on their bodies physically. Although you noticed it was odd since you’d seen Knies outside of the treatment centre where he was loud, rowdy, and constantly joking around with his teammates. But then again, he could just be one of those people who open up to people that they’re comfortable with. You didn’t blame him, besides it wasn’t your job to psychoanalyze him.

So you continued to work the way you typically did, never minding the quiet when Knies was on the bed, “This okay?” You asked him as you attached the final electrode to his lateral ankle while your other hand started the IFC machine, “Not too high? I can adjust it if it’s uncomfortable.”

He shook his head, not looking up from his phone as his thumbs typed away, “No, you’re good.”

You nodded as you pulled away and started to clean up some of your supplies that were left on the table. You kept track of the time on your Apple Watch for Knies’ electrode treatment as you dropped some white towels into the used bin and reorganized the tape into their designated spot.

“Hey,” Mitch said to you as he poked his head in, “Just wanted to say that those stretched your prescribed for my wrist last week have been working wonders! It’s been feeling great and I didn’t notice any pain during practice today.”

You smiled at him, “I’m glad! I still want to check up on it later though.”

He nodded as he leaned against the doorframe, “Also, that Italian restaurant on Bloor St is fantastic — Steph and I stopped by to get a bite and the food was amazing.”

“The place you’ve been meaning to try?” You asked, to which he hummed an agreeing response, “I’ll definitely check it out with a few of my girls sometime soon.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Mitch chuckled before noticing the younger player on the bed, “Is he always this quiet?”

You glanced over to Knies, seeing him still focused on his phone, “Yeah, he’s typically like this but I don’t mind.”

Mitch shrugged, “He’s always a big yapper so I’m surprised Kniesy can actually shut up for once. Anyway, I’m heading out for a bit before the game, catch you later.”

“Bye Mitch,” You laughed to yourself as he waltzed away.

The guys were playing some sewer ball before their game with some music playing off of one of their blue tooth speakers. It echoed the concrete walls and floors along with their laughter and occasional chirps. Matthew was chatting with Willy while clutching onto his plastic water bottle,

“Yeah man, I dunno,” Matthew shrugged, “Just hoping they’d stop calling me about it, it’s just a pain in the ass.”

Willy barked a laugh before looking past Matthew’s shoulder to wave a small hello to whoever was behind him. He didn’t care to check, assuming it was another one of the guys or something. It wasn’t until Willy pulled away from their makeshift circle to grab the extra iced coffee that stood on a box and jogged in that same direction.

Matthew turned around to see Willy handing the drink to you, and watched as a large smile drew upon your face as you took the drink from him. He assumed you were thanking Willy as your hand placed onto his forearm before you pulled away and disappeared down the hall.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Willy said to Matthew as he returned, “What were you saying?”

Matthew furrowed his brows as he also tried to recall the conversation between the two of them, “Fuck, I can’t remember- Who was that?”

His eyes widened, “You joking right?”

Matthew only rolled his eyes, “No dude, who is she?”

“No fucking way, man!” Mitch laughed from the other side of Matthew, “Are you for real, Kniesy?”

“That’s Y/N, our AT,” Auston told Matthew with a mocking smile on his face, “I thought you went to get treated for that ankle pain today”

Mitch lowly shook his head in somewhat disbelief, “He did, I saw him there but he was so focused on his phone the entire time. Didn’t realize he didn’t even know who our AT was.”

A chorus of laughter filled the area as Matthew scoffed, “Alright, alright knock it off. So what if I don’t know Y/N, I’m sure Joey doesn’t know her either.”

“They’re actually really tight,” Willy told Matthew, “They grab coffee and chat pretty often outside of here.”

“So, you’re saying that I’m seriously the only one who didn’t know her name?” Matthew repeated as he watched all his teammates nod their heads and stifle their laughter, “She’s so quiet, it’s legit not even my fault.”

Auston rolled his eyes in amusement, “She’s the opposite, that girl is so chatty. You just ignore her when you’re getting treated.”

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

It was before their game and you were preparing for the multiple tape jobs that you need to do for each of the players. You noticed it immediately, the no AirPods. It’s the first thing you clocked when Knies stepped into the room. He paused just inside the door, glancing around like he’s not quite sure where to stand. You’re restocking the tape tower, kneeling beside a cart with a roll of white in one hand and your clipboard in the other.

“Hey,” He said with his voice low.

You looked up at him, noting his voice, the direct eye contact, and no earbuds.

“Hi,” You replied with your friendly tone as always.

He walked over and sat on the treatment table. You rose to your feet and grabbed the pre-wrap, keeping an eye on him as you approached. 

“Same ankle?” You asked as you crouched down.

“Yeah.”

You start wrapping, muscle memory taking over. It’s quiet for a beat, a little too quiet. He’s not scrolling his phone nor zoning out, he was just watching you work.

“This song’s new,” He spoke up, catching your attention away from his ankle.

You glanced up with a confused expression written across your face, “Sorry?”

“The playlist,” He clarified, “I haven’t heard this one before.”

You arched a brow, “You’ve been coming in here with your AirPods in for three months and now you’re commenting on my music?”

He flushed as he looked away, “I was… focused.”

“Uh-huh,” You said with the corner of your mouth twitching, “Well, thanks for noticing. It’s a new mix.”

He nodded like he’s not sure what to say next while you finish taping and pat his ankle lightly.

“All set.”

Knies doesn’t move right away, “You, uh… ever go out with the team after games?”

Your eyes narrowed just a little, “Not usually.”

He nodded again as he pushed himself off the table, “Cool, just wondering.”

You blinked as he left the room, leaving you confused as ever with his change of behaviour. But you didn’t let it bother you too much since you still had to treat all the other players before their game against the Kings, as you heard Mitch’s loud voice from down the hallway that snapped you out of your trance. 

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

The next few days brought more of the same. Knies kept showing up without his AirPods. You caught him hovering a bit longer after his treatments. He asked if your sneakers were new. Another time, he pointed at your coffee mug and said, “That quote’s funny,” even though it wasn’t particularly as it was just another cheesy mug you had grabbed in the check out line at Winners a few weeks ago. It was like watching a large dog try to act like a cat — awkward but kind of endearing.

He still didn’t talk much, but he was trying and you could tell. He'd meet your eye more often. Occasionally he'd mirror your small talk with asking if you had plans for the weekend, if you liked Italian food, if you’d ever tried paddleboarding of all things. Each time, it felt like he was pushing himself just a centimetre or two out of his comfort zone.

“You don’t have to make conversation, you know,” You said to him one morning while wrapping his wrist, “I’m not taking attendance.”

He gave you a small sheepish smile, “I know, I just feel like I should’ve learned your name from you and not from the guys.”

“You’re only the last one to do it, no big deal,” You teased with eyes twinkling in amusement.

He groaned, “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

A few weeks later, it was a back-to-back game weekend. You were exhausted, your lower back aching from leaning over treatment tables for too long. You had just finished setting up post-game recovery stations when you felt a tap on your shoulder.

You turned, and there was Knies and he was holding a smoothie.

“You looked dead on your feet,” He said awkwardly, holding out the drink towards you, “This one’s supposed to help with muscle soreness. I think… or maybe it’s gut health. Either way, it’s not poisoned.”

You blinked, as you slowly reached out for the plastic cup, “Did you get this for me?”

He shrugged, “Figured it was the least I could do.”

You took it slowly, unsure if this was a prank, “Thanks, that’s really thoughtful.”

He shoved his hands into his hoodie, “You uh, do a lot for us. Most of the guys don’t really say it, but I noticed.”

Something about his tone caught you off guard. It wasn’t smooth or rehearsed. It was genuine.

“Thanks, Knies,” You said to him with a warm smile, trying not to stare too hard at his dark lashes or the faint pink on his cheeks, “I’ll take gut health over muscle soreness any day.”

He chuckled, “You’re welcome, and you can call me Matthew by the way.” 

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

You started to notice his presence around you more when you were hauling a bulky crate of foam rollers and resistance bands from the storage room. The wheels on the crate had been jammed for weeks, and dragging it across the hallway carpet was like shovelling the March time sludge off of the longest driveway. You were bracing yourself for the familiar strain in your shoulders when a quiet voice piped up behind you.

“Need a hand?”

You turned, eyebrows already lifting in surprise.

Matthew stood there and out of his training jersey, fresh from a shower, curls still damp and sticking to his forehead as he held a protein shake and eyeing the crate. You’d almost said no, but instead you stepped aside.

He grabbed the other end with ease, hauling it down the hall like it weighed nothing, and didn’t say another word until you both reached the clinic treatment room and dropped it with a dull thud by the back shelf.

“Thanks,” You said to him, still slightly bewildered.

“No problem,” He replied casually, like he did this kind of thing every day.

Except he didn’t, not until recently.

After that, it became a pattern. He was suddenly everywhere but not in an annoying way, not in a suffocating way, just present. One morning you caught him restocking the tape tower while you were juggling a phone call and trying to log a player’s treatment report. He didn’t ask, he just saw you struggling and silently stepped in, peeling the shrink wrap off the white rolls and sliding them into place, one after another like how you always had them shelved. 

You had paused, still cradling your phone between your cheek and shoulder, to glance at him.

“You volunteering as an intern now?” You joked as you entered the treatment report into the system on your laptop.

He smiled without looking at you, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, “Figured I’d start pulling my weight.”

Professional boundaries, you reminded yourself. You weren’t here to flirt or banter or let one of your clients, no matter how good his jawline looked under the soft lights of the clinic or how his compression shirts made his shoulders and biceps look delicious, get too close.

But he, Matthew Knies, made it so damn hard.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

It became even harder after the coffee.

One morning, your name was called from the hallway just as you were rubbing the sleep out of your eyes in the supply room. You stepped out, brows raised, only to find Matthew standing awkwardly with a cardboard drink tray in hand.

“I uh, this one’s yours. No cream, just one sugar, oat milk, extra hot, right?”

You blinked twice, trying to understand the situation in front of you, “That’s… yes.”

He looked visibly proud of himself as he handed it over with a smile growing on his face.

“I saw the look you gave Auston last week when he brought you a hazelnut latte thing with soy milk,” He admitted with a slight grin, “Figured I’d pay more attention.”

You were too stunned to answer right away. Your heart did this little somersault in your chest, a gentle flutter of surprise that threw your entire day off-balance. You wrapped your hands around the warm cup, letting the steam hit your nose.

“Thanks, Matthew,” You mumbled with a small smile tugging at your lips.

And maybe he noticed because the next time, it was banana bread and then a small paper bag of roasted almonds, then a Tupperware container of pasta salad which he responded with a sheepish, “My sister makes too much and makes me take leftovers,”

You told yourself it was just friendly. A rookie trying to be nice. A player making an effort. How it was no different from you and Joey grabbing a coffee on Thursday mornings at the local coffee shop, or how Mitch would ask for your input when he was buying a gift for Steph, or how you would go shopping with Auston because he liked hearing your take on his fashion style. Even then, something about Matthew felt much more different than any of that.

It had been a long double-practice day and your feet were sore even with your new orthopaedic approved sneakers. Your hair was shoved into a claw clip that you only ever used when you were too tired to bother styling it. Your voice was dry and hoarse from repeating the same instructions to four different defensemen who didn’t know how to foam roll properly. You were exhausted beyond belief, and it didn’t help that Toronto was getting so cold with winter settling into the city.

The final lights in the arena clicked off behind you, and you wrapped your fleece jacket tighter around yourself as you stepped out into the early night. The snow fell softly down, glazing the sidewalk in a thin layer of white. You adjusted your toque and scarf and turned toward the TTC stop when you heard a car honk.

A sleek black SUV idled near the curb as the driver’s side window rolled down, and there he was, yet again.

“You’re not seriously walking to the subway in this,” Matthew called out to you, noticing how your nose was turning red from the windchill.

You tilted your head at him, amusement threading into your voice, “What, worried I’ll freeze into an ice cube? Don’t worry the station is just another block away,”

He shrugged, clearly not hearing you out,  “I’m not letting you take the train, Y/N, get in.”

You hesitated then stepped off the curb and headed to his luxury vehicle.

Inside the SUV, it smelled faintly of eucalyptus and leather and the faint residue of a vanilla air freshener clipped to the vent. Warmth blasted from the heater vents, fogging the windows slightly.

He didn’t make a move, didn’t say anything cocky or smug. Just kept his eyes on the road, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the indie playlist you’d always had on in the clinic.

You turned your head slowly to look at him, the city lights passing in golden streaks outside the passenger window.

“You really pay attention to things, huh?”

He glanced at you, then smiled, “Only the important ones.”

Your stomach flipped, goddamn it.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

And you don’t know when it started. Not really.

There wasn’t a single moment, there was no sudden cinematic shift where everything changed at once. It was slow and gradual. A soft, barely noticeable tilt. Like the way shadows stretch longer as the sun sinks lower — inevitable but subtle, until suddenly the whole world looks different.

Late-night texts that used to be about injury updates or recovery times quietly shifted into something else. “Let me know you got home safe” turned into “Wish I was driving with you again.” Quick check-ins became inside jokes. He started lingering after treatments, offering to help you close up by reorganizing the Theraband drawer, restocking the massage oil cabinet, just anything to stay a little longer.

Sometimes, he didn’t even say anything and he’d just be there. Sitting on the edge of the treatment table, head tilted, a lazy smile on his face while you moved around the room like a storm on legs. Watching you, he was always watching.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything more than being friends, that he was just friendly and that it was harmless – until the one night where you let him kiss you.

It was after an away game and the team was exhausted, the bus ride quiet, the locker room half-empty. You were restocking bandages behind the clinic curtain when he found you — just appeared, like he had a radar for when you were alone. Matthew said your name softly, and when you turned around, his eyes were warm and uncertain.

“Don’t yell at me,” He murmured, “I know I’m pushing my luck.”

You didn’t yell, you actually didn’t say anything at all. You let him take a step closer and let his hands hover near your waist, you let your forehead press against his chest for a heartbeat. You felt his heart speed up at the close proximities of your bodies, and then you let him kiss you — soft and slow, like he had been planning for this moment, and you kissed him back.

Now it’s a secret because it has to be.

You have rules, both personal and professional, and this breaks nearly all of them. He gets it and he understood where you were coming from. It was against the policies at work for both of you. You talked about it once, when you were curled up in the back of his car at 1 AM, headlights from passing traffic slipping like ghosts across the ceiling. You told him you weren’t ready to risk everything you worked for.

He nodded, “Then we don’t risk it.”

You’re not dating, not officially but the lines blur anyway.

There are late-night drives and kisses stolen in utility closets and locker room back corridors. His hoodie smells like cedarwood and worn leather, and you start keeping it in your office, telling yourself it’s for emergencies but wearing it when you stay too late. He picks up your coffee order without being asked. He knows the way your eyes dart when you’re overstimulated, how you braid your hair tighter when you’re stressed. He doesn’t say much, just appears when you need him — with food, or a smoothie, or his knuckles gently brushing yours like an unspoken “I see you.”

You think you’re being subtle when in reality you’re not.

Auston Matthews noticed, of course he did.

It starts innocently enough, during post-practice cooldowns, when guys are distracted and the room is buzzing but he sees the way Matthew’s eyes flickered over to you as you entered the space with various resistance bands. 

One day, he side-eyed Matthew during stretches and mutters, “Someone’s chipper today, you finally get a new mattress or what?”

Matthew just grunted, brushing off his captain, “Maybe I’m just in a good mood.”

“Mmhmm,” Auston hummed as he grinned, “Weird. You’ve just been very smiley lately.”

Matthew doesn’t respond and doesn’t even look at him, but you saw the way he tightened his grip on the resistance band in his hands.

Then Auston turns his attention to you, it was slow, at first. Barely-there comments dropped into casual conversation.

“Is it just me or do you look extra glowy today?” He asked as you passed by during the gear check.

You snorted with a shake of your head, “It’s sweat, Auston.”

“Still works for you,” He told you with a wink.

Matthew was across the room, watching and you could feel it. That simmering weight of his gaze, the way it darkened and sharpened, as Auston continued his not-so-subtle comments on you.

The next time Auston made a cheeky comment was with a, “You ever think about being a model instead of a therapist?” Followed by a knowing look, “Because you’d kill it.”

You nearly dropped the ice pack in your hands and your face immediately heated up and flushed pink, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” Auston grinned, folding his arms behind his head as he laid on the table, “You’re wasted in this job, too pretty to be patching up sweaty hockey players all day.”

The room got too warm and too quickly, you cleared your throat and turned away, fumbling with your clipboard.

Later, when you slip into the staff hallway, you feel a presence behind you, big and familiar and silent. Then a hand slides along your wrist and tugs you into a quiet alcove between two supply closets. A familiar scent of cedar, winter air, and his warmth.

He’s already kissing you before you can say a word. It’s rougher this time. A little desperate. His hands bracket your hips and his mouth is all heat and frustration, stealing the breath from your lungs.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead dropped to yours.

“You okay?” You whispered out as your hands landed on his broad muscular shoulders.

He doesn’t answer right away and his breath fanned across your cheek.

“You’re mine,” He told you quietly yet possessively, “Even if no one knows it.”

Your heart stuttered, warmth filling your chest and abdomen at his tone and his words.

“Someone’s jealous,” You said with a half-teasing voice.

“I’m not jealous,” He mumbled, though the heat in his voice betrayed him, “I just don’t like hearing someone else flirt with you.”

You look up at him, “Technically, I’m not yours.”

His jaw clenched as he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, “We both know that you’re lying right now.”

The words hang in the air between you, unspoken and dangerous and too, too tempting.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

It’s nearly midnight in New Jersey.

The hotel hallway is hushed, the kind of quiet that hummed with sleeping bodies and the occasional distant whirr of the elevator. A storm rolled through earlier, leaving a cushion of snow on the ground. You should be in your room, replying to emails or icing the bruised winger who swore he didn’t need treatment but would absolutely complain tomorrow morning.

But your feet moved before logic could catch up. Down the carpeted corridor, past the ice machine still rumbling in the corner room. Your hoodie was zipped up to your chin and you didn’t bother brushing your hair. You clutched a bag of ice packs against your chest like some excuse to be here.

Room 427.

You hesitated just outside the door, heart beating too loud in your chest.

Then you knock softly, just once.

The door opens almost instantly as if he’d been standing on the other side, waiting for you.

Matthew looked like he hadn't slept either. His hair is tousled, damp around the edges like he just ran his hands through it under the sink. He wore grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips and no shirt, a lazy crease down the middle of his chest where he must’ve been lying down. The lamp on the nightstand behind him casted a low golden glow across the room, warm and sleepy and intimate.

You don’t say anything and neither does he. He just stepped back, letting you in.

You move on instinct both quietly and cautiously — as if even the walls might be listening. The door clicks shut behind you with a finality that settled like a stone in your stomach.

“This is a bad idea,” You murmured, still not looking at him.

“Probably,” He agreed, with his voice just as soft, “But you’re here anyway.”

You glanced up.

He’s watching you the way he always does like you’re something fragile, something sacred, something he’s scared to touch too much for fear of breaking it.

The bed is unmade with the blankets scrunched up. The television is off. There’s a protein bar wrapper on the desk and his phone charging by the lamp. It’s all painfully ordinary, except for the tension stringing between your bodies, pulled so tight it might snap at the slightest move.

You dropped the ice pack bag on the chair, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

He takes a slow step toward you, by the time he’s close enough to touch, your breath has already hitched in your throat.

“You can still go,” He said almost like he meant it, “I won’t stop you.”

But when you don’t move and you don’t even blink, his hand rises, curling gently around your wrist. You feel the anchor of him, the warmth and steadiness that he always seemed to provide.

Then he kissed you.

It’s not urgent, not this time. It’s slow and meaningful. Like he’s memorizing the feel of your mouth, your breath, the curve of your jaw under his fingertips. 

You end up on the bed, tangled limbs and quiet sighs, your hoodie halfway off, your body pressed to his like you’ve been waiting your whole life to breathe in this exact air. He pulled you against him afterward, arms wrapped around your back, his chest warm and flushed against yours. There’s no words being exchanged, just the rhythmic lull of his heartbeat against yours.

You're curled up against him with your fingers grazing the soft line of his ribs,

A knock.

You jolted, immediately sitting up with his strong arms still across your thighs.

Then a voice, “Yo Knies? You up?”

Your body goes rigid as every nerve in your body catches fire.

It was Auston.

Knies sits up, already grabbing a hoodie from the chair to pull over his naked torso.

You’re flying off the bed before he can say anything, grabbing your melted ice bag, heart hammering.

“Bathroom,” He whispered, “Now.”

You darted across the room and slipped inside just as the lock clicked open. The bathroom is cold and silent. You press your back to the door, hands shaking. Your breath comes in quick, clipped bursts.

You can hear them on the other side of the door.

“Didn’t mean to barge in,” Auston said, his voice casual and slightly amused, “Saw your light was on. Got anything to eat?”

You imagined Matthew plastering on that half-lazy smile he wears when he’s trying to look unbothered.

“I dunno. Check the desk.”

There’s a pause before the unmistakable rustle of wrappers, then,

“Your room smells like vanilla,” Auston commented.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

“And... is that menthol?” Another pause, “You hiding your favourite therapist in here or what?”

The silence after that stretched for long, too long.

Then Matthew laughed low and easy, like it was all a joke, “You high or something?”

Another pause, then the shuffles of feet.

“Whatever, I’m taking your last protein bar.”

The door shuts again and you don’t move. At least not until Matthew opened the bathroom door, his face pale with adrenaline, hair a mess from dragging his hand through it a hundred times.

“I’m so sorry,” You said to him instantly, the words cracking out of you, “That was so fucking stupid, I shouldn’t have-”

“Stop,” He told you, gentler this time.

You meet his eyes. He’s still looking at you like you matter. Like you didn’t almost ruin everything and like you’re worth the risk.

But suddenly all the guilt, all the pressure, all the hiding — it swells up inside you like a flood.

“I don’t think I can keep doing this,” You mumbled quietly, “This sneaking around, it’s not just about me anymore, Matt. If anyone finds out, it’s your career too. Your team. I’ve worked too hard to be respected here. And now I’m scared every time someone looks at me too long.”

He nodded and he didn't interrupt, he just let you talk.

“I told myself I could handle it and that whatever this is would be temporary. But then you do shit like text me when I haven’t eaten, or notice how I wear my hair when I’m stressed, or memorize my coffee order like it matters,” Your voice cracked, “And suddenly I’m not just scared of getting caught. I’m scared of what it’ll feel like when this ends.”

His hand finds yours, squeezing it reassuringly.

“You think this is temporary?”

You opened your mouth, but the lie died before it could even take shape, so you closed your eyes instead.

“I don’t want it to be,” You admitted to the hockey player, “I think I’ve been pretending I don’t care because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And if it’s real... I don’t know how to protect myself anymore.”

Matthew took a breath before he took a step closer, “You don’t have to protect yourself from me.”

And something inside you finally comes loose. You fall into him, arms around his neck, face pressed to his chest, and you let yourself believe it. You want more. Not just the touches in the dark. Not just the late-night kisses and whispered hellos in empty hallways.

You want him fully, loudly, and messily – and maybe it’s time to stop hiding that.

The next evening, the air in the practice facility feels thick but not with humidity, but with tension you couldn’t shake. You kept your head down, hyper-focused on stretching routines and inventory counts, acting like you didn't notice the way Matthew kept orbiting near you. Like you can’t feel his eyes grazing your skin like a touch he’s not allowed to give.

But you feel it, every time. The looks, the brushes, and the silent pleas hidden in those ocean-blue eyes when he caught you biting the inside of your cheek or fiddling with the lanyard hanging around your neck.

And worst of all, you feel Auston watching everything with a smirk he’s not even trying to hide.

You're helping Willy with a resistance band when you hear it.

Low. Casual. Razor-sharp.

"Didn’t know you were so hands-on with the team,” Auston said from across the room, his voice just loud enough to carry, "Guess I should fake an injury, see what I get."

Your throat tightened and you glanced up, and he's looking right at you, wearing that boyish grin that means trouble.

Next to him, Matthew stiffened – it was subtle, but unmistakable. He was leaning against the treatment table, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The flicker in his eyes wasn't amusement, it contained fury.

“Knock it off,” He said to his captain through gritted teeth.

Auston raised his brows, amused, “What? I’m just saying she’s good at her job.”

You cleared your throat, “I’m right here, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Auston grinned even wider, “Trust me.”

You feel the heat rise in your face before you can stop it and that’s the worst part – that your body always reacts before your brain does, and that Auston and Matthew both saw it.

He turned away abruptly, you could practically feel the anger rolling off him in waves.

You fled to the supply room, with heart pounding in your ears, and hands shaking as you started reorganizing the tape shelf for the fourth time today. It was stupid, and you knew it, but it’s easier than facing the fact that maybe you’ve lost control of this. Of yourself.

The door opened behind you, softly with no knock. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“You can’t keep doing that,” You said, without looking up from the various rolls in front of you.

“Doing what?”

“Letting it show. You think no one notices, but they do. Auston definitely does.” You explained with a slight scoff in your voice.

“He’s a jackass.”

“He’s perceptive.”

You hear him exhale – low, frustrated, and then the room gets smaller and warmer. You felt him step closer, and then he's there, behind you, not touching, just existing too loudly in your space.

You turned, and his eyes locked on yours immediately.

“You’re shaking,” He told you softly.

“No, I’m not.”

He reached down and gently pressed his fingers against your hand. You hate how steady he feels, and how steady he makes you.

“You don’t have to keep pretending,” He mumbled out, “Not with me.”

Your laugh comes out brittle, “Matt, you don’t get it. I can’t afford to mess this up. If anyone higher up finds out-”

“So let them, let them find out.”

Your chest tightened, “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I’ve never meant anything more.”

There’s silence for a moment. You could hear the hum of the vending machine outside the room, the dull thud of a puck dropping to the floor in the hall.

“I’m so tired of hiding,” He confessed with his voice low and almost hoarse, “I’m tired of pretending that you’re not the only thing I think about every fucking day. That I don’t look for you in every room. That I don’t get pissed off when I see someone else making you smile.”

You blinked and your breath caught in your throat.

“I want to show you off,” Matthew continued, stepping closer, “I want to take you out. Sit next to you on the plane and not pretend it’s a coincidence. I want people to look at us and know, I want them to know you’re mine.”

The door opened behind him before you could speak.

Mitch.

He stopped mid-step, Gatorade bottle in hand. His eyes instantly widened, comically wide, as he took in the scene – your flushed cheeks, Matthew standing too close, both of you frozen like teenagers caught by a parent.

Auston appeared right behind him now also seeing the same thing, and grinned like a devil who just won a bet.

“Well, well, well,” Mitch said slowly as he dragged the words out like he’s savoring them, “That explains helluva a lot.”

Matthew doesn’t flinch. He turns his body halfway, planting himself in front of you protectively like it’s instinct, like shielding you is second nature.

Without hesitation, he said, “Yeah. She’s with me.”

You inhaled sharply.

Mitch blinked twice while Auston looked like Christmas came early for him, 

“Okay, okay, Kniesy. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“No shit,” Mitch told Matthew while shaking his head, “Okay, I owe Willy fifty bucks.”

Auston cackled, clapping Mitch on the back as they walked away allowing the door to shut again.

Silence.

You couldn’t speak and you couldn’t move. You just stared at Matthew, who looked more grounded now than he had in weeks. Like the dam finally broke and it didn’t ruin him, rather it freed him.

“I didn’t mean for it to come out like that,” He admitted, eyes softer now as they searched yours, “But I don’t regret it.”

You swallowed hard, “Matt…”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just please, stop pretending you don’t feel it too.”

He looked at you like he already knew the answer. Like he’s not afraid of the risks anymore and in that moment, neither were you.

Your lips met his immediately, as if they sealed the deal to the question he was asking. He melted into you, his arms pulling you by your waist closer to his chest as he felt your body relax at his touch.

"You already know what I'm going to say to that," You teased before pecking his lips lightly to which he responded with a large boyish grin.

[zzointerme]

Rookie Card | Jack Hughes

Pairing; Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Fluff, established relationship, little to no knowledge of Costco (I've never been lol), edited once, that's it I think!

Summary; Jack finds out that reader keeps a certain card in her wallet

Word Count; 3.1k

Authors Note: I feel like if this happened IRL he'd be such a little shit about it and would not stop teasing 😭 Also I don't have a Costco membership idk what they sell there and I did not look it up to be accurate 🥴 -Honey

You knew this Costco trip was a mistake the moment Jack grabbed the cart.

"I'm driving," he'd announced with that lopsided grin that still made your stomach flutter after eight months together. That grin had gotten you into this relationship in the first place. The same one he'd flashed at you across the bar the night you met, when your friend had elbowed you and whispered, "Holy shit, that's Jack Hughes," and you'd pretended not to know exactly who he was.

Now that same grin was steering an overloaded shopping cart through the warehouse chaos of Costco on a Sunday afternoon, which felt considerably less charming.

"Slow down," you call out as he narrowly avoids clipping an elderly woman examining a stack of discounted bestsellers. "This isn't the ice, Hughes."

Jack shoots you a look over his shoulder. "I'm being careful! Besides, we need to beat the sample rush. Those little pizza bagel things go fast."

You roll your eyes but can't help cracking a smile. For a professional hockey player who regularly gets body-checked into boards, Jack has an almost childlike enthusiasm for the free samples at Costco. It's endearing, even if his cart navigation skills leave much to be desired.

Two hours later, the cart is piled dangerously high with everything from the mundane essentials you actually came for (paper towels, coffee beans, that specific brand of Greek yogurt Jack insists is the only acceptable post-workout snack) to the impulse purchases that somehow found their way in when you weren't looking (a 2.5lb bag of dried mango slices, a folding camp chair, and what appears to be an industrial-sized container of protein powder).

"Do we really need all this?" you ask, eyeing the mountain of products as you approach the checkout area.

Jack looks genuinely confused. "Which part don't we need?"

"I don't know, maybe the trashcan sized candle?"

"You said your apartment always smells like hockey gear!"

"I meant you should do laundry more often, not turn the place into a Yankee Candle outlet."

He shrugs, unrepentant. "Trust me, I'm doing us both a favor."

As you approach the front of the store, Jack steers the cart toward the self-checkout area.

"The regular lines aren't that long." you comment, glancing at the regular checkout lanes where actual employees could help with the small mountain of purchases you've accumulated.

Jack scoffs. "Self-checkout is way faster. Plus, I'm basically a professional at scanning."

"Since when?"

"I did a grocery store commercial last season, remember? Spent like three hours scanning the same box of cereal from different angles."

You bite back a smile. "I'm pretty sure that doesn't translate to actual scanning skills."

"I forgot you were the expert," he rolls his eyes, smiling as he maneuvers the cart into the self-checkout lane.

The Costco self-checkout is already chaos. The cart is overloaded, the scanner next to yours keeps yelling "place item in the bagging area," and Jack is too busy pretending the jumbo box of Goldfish is a dumbbell to be remotely helpful.

"Four pounds of pure cracker power," he announces, curling the box in perfect form. "Could be a new workout trend. Snackercise."

An exasperated mother with twin toddlers shoots him a look that's half annoyance, half recognition. You've gotten used to the double takes, the whispers, the occasional autograph requests. Jack handles them with ease, always friendly, always gracious, never making it weird. It's one of the things you admire about him, even if you're still adjusting to dating someone whose face is plastered around the city.

Today, thankfully, the mother is too focused on keeping her children from dismantling the candy display to approach. Jack sets down the Goldfish box with a mock grunt of exertion and turns his attention back to you.

"Want me to scan stuff?" he offers, reaching for the box of protein bars you're holding.

"I've got it," you say quickly, having witnessed his "scanning skills" on previous shopping trips. The last time you let him take over at Target, you'd ended up with three accidental duplicates and one item that never made it into the system at all.

You're juggling a case of sparkling water and trying to scan your membership barcode from the app when you groan.

"It's not loading," you mutter, tapping frantically at your phone screen where the Costco app has frozen on a loading icon. "Can you just get my wallet? It's in the pink one, middle pocket of my bag."

Jack perks up like you just asked him to defuse a bomb. "On it," he says, already elbow deep in your tote. "Why do you carry so much stuff in here? Are you secretly a suburban mom?"

"Just grab the wallet," you sigh, shifting the sparkling water to your other arm. The self-checkout machine beeps impatiently, its screen flashing a demand for your membership ID.

"I'm exploring uncharted territory here," Jack narrates, rummaging dramatically. "I may need supplies. Possibly a headlamp."

The employee monitoring the area, a tall guy appearing about your age, wearing a faded Yankees cap, glances over with amusement. You feel a flash of self-consciousness, aware of how you and Jack must look: bickering over a shopping cart like you've been married for decades rather than dating for months. It's comfortable, though. That's what surprised you most about being with Jack, how quickly the comfort came, how easily you fell into each other's rhythms.

Jack pulls out a crushed receipt, a Tide pen, and a tampon like he's on Let's Make a Deal. "Is this a snack bar? Why do you have a Canadian penny in here? What year even is this?"

"Jack." Your patience is wearing thin. The case of water is getting heavier by the second, and the lady behind you is starting to make pointed throat-clearing noises.

"Okay, okay," he says, finally fishing out your wallet and flipping it open. "Looking for the ol' Costco membership—" He hands you the card, "wait a sec."

You pause mid-scan, turning slowly at the change in his tone. "What?"

He's gone still. Smirking.

"No way." His voice cracks slightly as he pulls out a small, glossy rectangle. "Is this? Babe, is this my rookie card?"

Your stomach drops. "Oh my God, Jack. Give me that."

The blood rushes to your face so quickly you feel light-headed. Of all the things he could have found: the ancient gum wrapper you keep forgetting to throw away, the fortune cookie paper with the embarrassingly accurate prediction about meeting a handsome stranger, even the crumpled CVS receipt from when you panic bought three different pregnancy tests after a condom mishap last month (all negative, thankfully), he had to find THAT.

"You carry this around?" he laughs, holding it up like he's found hidden treasure. "In your wallet. Next to your license. And your credit card. I’m literally next to your driver’s license.”

You lunge for it, nearly dropping the sparkling water. "I forgot it was even in there!"

It's a lie and you both know it. The card is in pristine condition, carefully tucked into one of the clear plastic sleeves in your wallet where most people would keep photos of loved ones or emergency contact information. You'd bought it four years ago, back when Jack was just starting to make headlines, back when you would never have dreamed you'd one day be sharing takeout on his couch while he complained about his coach's defensive strategy.

He dodges you like a child on a sugar high, rookie card still in hand. "You've been walking around with literal 18-year-old me in your purse this whole time?" He holds it toward you, pointing at his face. "Look at this haircut! I look like I was just let out of a Boy Scout meeting."

"Stop talking," you hiss, your face fully on fire as the self-checkout voice robotically reminds you to please place item in the bagging area.

The employee at the front is now openly watching your exchange, a slow smile of recognition spreading across his face as he realizes exactly who Jack is, and exactly which card Jack is holding. Great. Just what you need: a witness to your humiliation.

"Oh, this is rich," Jack says, shaking his head. "You, giving me crap about being cocky, but meanwhile? You've got a personal Jack Hughes shrine in your wallet."

You glare at him, wishing desperately for a sinkhole to open beneath your feet. "Do you want me to put that card in the trash right now?"

He snorts, finally slipping it back into its slot with fake reverence. "Absolutely not. That thing's probably worth, like, eight bucks."

"Try a couple hundred," the employee chimes in helpfully, then immediately holds up his hands in surrender when you shoot him a death glare. "Sorry. Just saying."

"See?" Jack grins. "You're carrying around, what, Nathaniel's monthly rent in your wallet? That's dedication." He gestures to the Rangers fan, who apparently is named Nathaniel and who apparently needs to mind his own business.

You snatch the wallet out of Jack's hands, cheeks still burning, and you return to scanning items with aggressive efficiency.

"So," Jack says, leaning against the bagging area with his arms crossed, watching you work with infuriating amusement. "When exactly were you planning to tell me you were a fan?"

"I wasn't hiding it," you mutter, scanning a jar of almond butter with unnecessary force. "I told you I watched hockey."

"Yeah, but you never mentioned having a collection of hockey cards. Of me, specifically."

"It's not a collection. It's one card."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "Mm-hmm. And are there others at home? Like, do you have a special album or something? Holy shit, do you have posters?"

"No," you say, a beat too quickly.

The truth, which you would rather die than admit right now, is that you do own exactly one poster. It's from a sports magazine spread three years ago, and it's been carefully rolled up and stashed in the back of your closet since your third date with Jack, when things started to feel serious enough that you realized having his face on your wall would be deeply weird.

"You hesitated," Jack says triumphantly. "There are posters."

"There are no posters," you insist, though your traitorous complexion is probably giving you away. You've always been a terrible liar, a fact Jack discovered during your first attempt at playing poker together, when he cleaned you out of chocolate-covered almonds (your chosen betting currency) within twenty minutes.

"You know," he says, taking pity on you and beginning to bag some of the scanned items, "it's kind of cute."

"It's embarrassing," you correct him, focusing intently on scanning a pack of chicken breasts.

"Why? You're a hockey fan who happened to start dating a hockey player. That's not weird."

"It's weird if I was specifically a fan of you before we met."

"Were you?" he asks, and there's a note of genuine curiosity beneath the teasing now.

You sigh, pausing your scanning marathon. "I watched your games sometimes. I thought you were good." You look up at him, considering how much to reveal. "I liked how you played, like you were actually having fun, not just doing a job. It was... I don't know. It made the game more exciting."

Jack's expression softens, the teasing glint fading into something warmer. "That's... actually really nice."

"Don't let it go to your head," you warn, but you're smiling despite yourself.

"Too late," he says, tapping his temple. "Already filed under 'Evidence My Girlfriend Thinks I'm Amazing.'"

The self-checkout machine beeps demandingly, reminding you that you've paused too long between scans. You return to the task at hand, but the tension has dissipated, replaced by a comfortable rhythm as Jack bags while you scan.

"You know," he says after a moment, carefully arranging a tub of laundry detergent next to the candles, "I have some of your work saved on my phone."

You look up, surprised. "What?"

"Those illustrations you did for that children's book about the penguin? I downloaded them. They're in a special album." He shrugs like it's no big deal, but there's a hint of vulnerability in the admission. "I show them to the guys sometimes. Demko's kid loves the one with the penguin on the skateboard."

"You... show my work to your teammates?" The thought of Jack's hockey buddies, men whose names appear on jerseys and in ESPN headlines, looking at your penguin drawings is surreal.

"Yeah. I'm a fan." He says it simply, without the teasing edge from before.

You don't know what to say to that, so you just keep scanning, but something warm unfurls in your chest. It's been like this since the beginning, moments of revelation that catch you off guard. Reminders that beneath the public persona and the franchise player status, Jack is just... Jack. A guy who gets excited about Costco samples and saves your artwork on his phone.

Jack leans in, way too pleased with himself, as you scan the last few items. "I'm starting to think you were a fan before you were my girlfriend."

"I hate you," you say, but there's no heat in it.

"No you don't."

You glance at him. He's grinning like an idiot, casually bagging your industrial-size trail mix like this isn't the most embarrassing moment of your life.

"Okay, maybe I don't," you mutter, swiping your credit card.

He bumps your shoulder. "It's okay, babe. I'd carry your rookie card around too. If you had one."

"What would a children's book illustrator's rookie card even look like?" you wonder, punching in your PIN.

"First professional doodle," Jack says thoughtfully. "Maybe that red panda you showed me, the one you drew for your niece's birthday card."

"That was awful. I gave him six toes."

"It had character," Jack insists. "Very avant-garde."

You roll your eyes so hard it's a miracle they stay in your head. "Let's go before you start reciting your career stats to the family behind us."

"Oh, I would never—" He pauses, then turns to the man waiting in line. "Did you know she keeps my rookie card in her wallet?"

"JACK."

He laughs, loud and unrestrained, as you grab his arm and drag him away from the checkout area, your face flaming all over again.

"You're the worst," you inform him as you navigate toward the exit, receipt clutched in your hand.

"And yet, you keep my rookie card with you at all times," he counters, skillfully steering the cart around a display of seasonal patio furniture. "Makes a guy wonder what else you might be hiding."

"My deep regret about agreeing to date you?"

"Nah, that's written all over your face." He grins. "I'm thinking more like, do you have a scrapbook? Did you write my name with hearts around it in your diary? Ooh, did you have one of those fathead wall decals?"

You stop walking, fixing him with your most serious expression. "Jack. If you ever want me to sleep over at your place again, you will drop this immediately."

He considers this for a moment, then mimes zipping his lips. "Dropped."

"Thank you."

You resume walking, pushing through the exit doors into the parking lot. The late afternoon sun hits your face, warm against the crisp autumn air. Jack moves ahead to guide the cart, his shoulders relaxed under his faded blue henley, hair slightly mussed from where he ran his hands through it while deliberating between two different coffee brands for twenty minutes.

"I forgot to ask," he says as you reach the car, "are you coming to the game on Thursday?"

"I have that deadline for the fox book illustrations," you remind him, helping to load bags into the trunk of his SUV. "But I could come to Saturday's game maybe?"

Jack nods, lifting the case of water with ease. "Saturday works. Oh, don't forget, there's that charity thing on Sunday."

"Gala thingy?"

"Yeah." He slams the trunk closed. "Bring your wallet though."

You narrow your eyes, pausing with the shopping cart halfway to the return corral. "Why?"

"In case anyone asks for your autograph," he says with exaggerated seriousness. "After, you can show them my rookie card, tell them you knew me when."

You groan, abandoning the cart to march back to him. "I swear to God, Hughes—"

But before you can finish your threat, he catches you around the waist, pulling you against him. "You're cute when you're mortified," he murmurs, and then he's kissing you, right there in the Costco parking lot, with the orange glow of sunset painting everything gold.

When he pulls back, you keep your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm. "I'm never taking you shopping again," you inform him.

"Yes you are," he says confidently. "You need someone to reach the top shelves."

"I can bring a stepladder."

"A stepladder won't tell you interesting facts about protein powder or help you pick out deli meat."

"Those are selling points?"

He kisses you again, quickly this time. "Admit it. Shopping with me is an adventure."

"A nightmare," you correct him, but you're smiling. "A recurring nightmare where I'm trapped in Costco forever with a hockey player who thinks jumbo sized everything is a personality trait."

Jack laughs, releasing you to retrieve the abandoned shopping cart. "Come on, nightmare's over for today. Let's go home and figure out where we're going to put that giant candle in your apartment."

"Your apartment," you counter. "You bought it, you store it."

"Fine, but you have to remind me to burn it. And not burn the apartment down."

You watch him return the cart, the easy grace in his movements, the way he nods politely to an older couple walking past. When he returns, he slides into the driver's seat beside you, immediately reaching for your hand across the console.

"So," he says as he starts the engine, "should I be concerned about any other professional athletes you might have rookie cards of? Am I competing with, like, the entire NHL draft class of 2019?"

You squeeze his hand, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "And here I thought you'd dropped it."

"I'm just saying, I should know if I'm in an open relationship with you and a wallet full of hockey cards."

"Just drive, Hughes."

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