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mamaspresley · 1 year

Text

slowly but surely

quinn hughes x f!reader; platonic!petey x f!reader

warnings: smuttish towards the end/suggestive themes; alcohol and drunkenness; swearing; cheating and toxic exes; reader is a chef and has tattoos; the ending might be a bit dodgy

word count: 17k

this gif got me smiling like an absolute fool

You’d only been standing outside in the mild Summer air for a few minutes, mind seemingly intent on conjuring up arguments as to why you should and shouldn’t give in and book a taxi back home, when the door to the hotel swivelled around. You could recognise it because the brush tickles the floor and makes a distinct swooshing sound – you knew no one had walked in because you’d been the only one on the pavement on that stretch of tarmac, so the only other option was that someone had left the party.

It was getting dark, the sunlight slowly crawling back over the tops of buildings, enveloping the entire city in a deep blue haze. The warm lights from the lobby didn’t do much to aid your vision through the blacked out glass when you turned around – out of habit more than anything.

Your bag for the night was hanging from your fingers, a black sparkly thing you’d taken from your mum’s wardrobe when you were seventeen, that she’d never had the heart to ask for it back, and you were dressed formally, in an astonishing scarlett dress. Obviously, you hadn’t exactly thought you’d be at the wedding reception for too long (strangers kept luring you into conversation), so you’d neglected to bring an extra layer. That reminder only seemed to strike gold when your skin erupted in goosebumps – coincidentally at the same time you’d made eye contact with the person that had just left the building.

Where you’d been previously unbothered about your current state of dress and appearance, you suddenly felt the material of the dress against your skin, and where the straps touched your shoulders; where the skirt caressed the backs of your knees. The way your hair was blowing gently in the breeze, and the inevitability of some of your makeup not being as perfect as it was when you first arrived.

“Hey.”

He spun around upon hearing your voice, and the crease between his brows seemed to disappear along with the tension in his shoulders. He was carrying a navy blazer in the crook of his elbow as he slowly made his way over to where you were standing, your phone now switched off as you carefully watched as the corner of his mouth twitched up into a shy smile of greeting.

The top buttons of his shirt had been popped open all night, and although neither of you had had the chance to talk to each other, you noticed that more than just two buttons were now undone.

“Hi,” he said, coming to a stop just a few feet in front of you, one hand comfortably resting in his pocket, “are you okay?” He asked, raising an eyebrow in concern despite the soft look that still decorated the lines in his face.

You could tell he was referring to the way you’d almost whimsically decided to pick up your things and leave the party without even so much as saying anything to anybody. He’d been keeping an eye on you all night, and you him – though you couldn’t really understand why; it seemed to just be a comfort thing considering the fact that he was the only person in the crowd of blurred faces that you knew.

Even saying you knew Quinn would be a bit of an exaggeration. He was a friend of a mutual friend, and you’d barely had a real conversation with him that extended past what sweet treats he’d like to eat from Petey’s cupboards.

You swallowed, something heavy and not unpleasant settling in your chest as you forced a smile for him, “I’m good. I just couldn’t really stomach being there for much longer, but I’m fine.”

You flashed an unconvincing smile, uncomfortably adjusting your stance. Quinn seemed to get the hint, because he nodded. An awkward silence descended between you both – one that seemed to make you even more aware of the fact that you’d both spent time in each other’s presence before today, yet seemed completely incapable of making conversation.

Since you partially knew a bit about Quinn, you had an idea that he wasn’t exactly the type of person to kickstart a conversation, despite being the one to initiate it and seek you out in the first place, so you crossed your arms, and the action seemed to drag Quinn’s attention away from the neon signs of the restaurants down the block. There was a faint hum of music coming from somewhere, and you registered the faint longing in his eyes as he dragged his attention away from the delicious aroma that you now found yourselves ensnared in.

“Are you hungry?” You asked, focused on the tone of your voice so as to not seem like you were accusing him of losing interest in you, but also one that hopefully mimicked the desperation for food that you were also feeling.

The plan had been to go home and put a frozen pizza in the oven, but that had been kicked to the curb when you were joined by Quinn, who also seemed to have found himself in a similar predicament.

His mouth quirked up for a brief moment, something shining in his eyes as he nodded, “I’m starving.”

You pressed your lips together to suppress the smile that was attempting to claw its way onto your face, and instead turned your head to the side, eyeing the tempting restaurants and enticing wafts of a mixture of different cuisines.

Italian…Mexican…Thai. Somehow you could smell them all, and it was the way your stomach seemed to ache that inspired you to gain the courage to turn back to his awaiting response.

“Me too,” you started, inhaling through your nose, “would you want to maybe get something to eat?”

You didn’t know why, but in that very moment, your brain had decided that then was a brilliant time to fear rejection from such a trivial question.

You knew what his answer was going to be, and yet somehow you feared an impossible sting at the mere idea of Quinn turning your offer down.

“I’d like that.” He replied, arching an eyebrow as he turned back to the restaurant lined block, “Do you have a preference for where, or…?”

He left the question unfinished, and tilted his head in your direction as you swivelled on your heels in the direction of crowded pavements and the inevitable sound of friendly laughter.

“No, you?”

Quinn shook his head, and upon coming to the conclusion that neither of you would suggest a place for fear of the other declining, you took one last look at the restaurants.

You hesitated for a moment. You knew these streets, you’d lived here for the past four years and had even dined in some of the places Quinn was looking at right now, but due to your indecision (you chalked it down to hunger – any food would do), you knew of a place.

So you turned to Quinn, “Do you trust me?”

“That depends.” Was his immediate answer.

“On what?” You found yourself asking, curiosity getting the better of you for just a moment. You were intrigued in what his answer would be. If you were being honest, you hadn’t even expected him to say he didn’t not trust you – in certain circumstances – and the admission, though small, warmed you slightly.

For the first time ever, you felt you were getting somewhere with him.

“Well…” Quinn started, his brows knitting together as his mind raced, “I wouldn’t trust you if I left my open bag of M&Ms out on a table and left the room. I think you’d eat some.”

You couldn’t restrain your smile or the short, shocked burst of laughter that flew past your lips before you could catch it and reel it back in. You couldn’t help but blush slightly when he turned his attention from a spot behind you and broke into a smile when he caught you laughing.

It barely took a couple of seconds before you’d calmed yourself, though the grin on your face hadn’t dimmed one bit.

You knew Quinn had a sense of humour – you’d even seen it in his bickering with Petey, but it was somehow different when the teasing was directed at you. It was more amusing and slightly endearing.

You found yourself nodding, “That’s probably a smart idea, actually.” You agreed, voice soft, “But would you trust me if I told you I know a nice place to eat?”

He paused – momentarily – as if he was caught off guard by something, and then he nodded, “Absolutely.”

“Okay–”

“Sell it to me.” He interrupted you, and when you turned your attention back to him from the direction you intended on taking him, it seemed even he was shocked by the blurting of his words. His eyes were wide and his mouth was pressed shut, as though he was on the brink of fighting sudden laughter, or mortification. Judging from the way he seemed to part his mouth and narrow his eyes, he looked as if it was the latter – and as though he wanted to take what he’d just blurted out back, but you were intent on keeping him out of his shell.

You cleared your throat, and he stopped his movements.

“Do I have a time limit?”

He chewed the inside of his lip, “Ten seconds.”

You raised your brows, feeling a surge of competitiveness and adrenaline enter your system. You had limited experience in selling things to people, but you knew the key was a unique selling point – an angle.

It didn’t take long to settle on one, and you knew if you chose this specific angle, Quinn would probably be even less inclined to trust you than he was before, but you were willing to risk it.

“Tell me when.”

There was a moment’s silence as he held you in anticipation, and you found your mind wandering to how you’d managed to get from A (being invited to the wedding of your ex) to B (discussing dinner plans with Quinn Hughes – of all people). And how you’d both forgone the previous awkward aura and slipped into an easier flow of conversation that seemed to be filled with secretive smiles and blushes gratefully hidden by the coveted curtain of night. Granted, you couldn’t exactly say that you were both completely comfortable to be in each other’s presence; you’d never been alone with each other longer than the time it took Petey to have a piss – and that awareness hung above your heads like a dangling bone, but it didn’t feel like you had to try too hard or think too much about making small talk.

Christ.

“Go.”

Quinn made you nervous.

You took a deep breath, thoughts slightly scattered upon the realisation, but persevered, your angle stuck at the forefront of your brain.

You held out your hand, flicking up your fingers as you listed off several points, “A five minute walk, it’s always quiet, good quality food, a nice drinks menu, friendly staff,” you were nearly out of breath, “and there’s another shocker element but it’s gonna be a mystery because I’m not telling you—”

“And stop.”

You’d been making eye contact with him the entire time. You hadn’t realised how intensely you’d been looking at him – mostly out of concentration – until you realised that you’d been watching him silently count to ten because your eyes were already on his mouth when he stopped you.

He gave you no time to overthink your actions, “A mystery, huh?” He rocked back on his heels slightly, his shoe kicking the back of the opposite foot as his eyes skittered around you, intent on not looking you in the face.

You nodded, folding your arms across your chest as a chillier breeze whipped past you. Your bag clipped your arm, so you lowered the hand holding it, still ensuring you kept a grip on your other arm as your goosebumps seemed to intensify somehow.

“Do I get a clue?” This time his eyes trailed back to you, and you missed the way his gaze flickered to your arms and the way the arm holding his blazer twitched.

You tilted your head at him, quizzically, “What part of ‘mystery’ and ‘not telling you’ do you not understand, Hughes?”

He shrugged, “All of it. Please woman-splain it to me.”

You froze. Mind blank.

You wanted to laugh, you really did, but a small part of you couldn’t move from your spot, mind intent of playing the tone of his voice over and over in your head until you were dizzy. His voice sounded…You didn’t know how to describe it, but it sent shivers of a different kind down your spine and your mouth went dry.

You covered your tracks fairly well and pretty quickly despite the fact that your brain seemed to short-circuit for a second, because you rolled your eyes, trying not to smirk at his words.

“Or I could just show you?” You offered, beginning to take slow steps away from him, your hand pointing in the direction you knew the restaurant to be.

He followed your hand to where it pointed, then his gaze flicked back up to your hopeful face slowly – he seemed to trace you from your outstretched hand, all the way up your arm and to your face, and you felt ashamed at how much a single look was affecting you.

So you increased your pace and dropped your hand, spinning on your heel as you pretended to walk away without him. You took three steps before looking over your shoulder, seeing him still planted to the spot right where you left him.

Until he caught you looking at him, and a bashful smile seemed to overtake his lost expression as he realised that, no, you weren’t leaving him behind – you were just waiting for him to catch up to you. He took quite a few long strides and, to your surprise, managed to cover the distance between you both, until he was walking alongside you, the soft material of his shirt brushing against your arm.

It was only when he nudged your arm that you realised he was holding out his blazer to you, “You’ve got goosebumps and I’ve seen you shiver a couple of times…And I’d rather have you alive and breathing because I’m actually pretty excited about seeing this place.”

You swallowed, eyes zipping between the obviously expensive navy blazer in his grip to his face. For some reason you were hesitant to accept his offer.

Accepting the blazer felt like committing to something else.

“Oh, it’s okay, we’ve not got long before we get there–”

“Five minutes, fifty minutes – either way, it’d ease my mind if I knew you weren’t cold.”

You slowly nodded, not bothering to argue with him as you both stopped on the sidewalk and he helped you into his blazer, his hands gentle as you threaded your arms through the sleeves.

“Thanks.” You muttered, feeling slightly sheepish that you’d try to deny it in the first place. You could feel the remnants of his body heat in the fabric from where he’d hugged it close to his torso carrying it.

He must have been pretty warm if you were almost instantaneously cured of your chills.

“You don’t have to thank me.” He smiled sweetly.

You carried on walking, unable to even look in his direction as you tugged the blazer tighter around your body, desperate to maintain as much heat as possible. The temperature seemed to drop even further in the next couple of minutes, and you almost felt guilty at taking Quinn’s only source of protection against the night temperatures, but once you remembered the sincerity in his tone and the firm glimmer in his eyes, it seemed to vanish.

“So,” Quinn started, both his hands now in his pockets as he kept his focus on the pavement, “were you there for the bride or groom?”

You sighed, a sudden pit of nerves settling in your chest. There was a reason you’d left the wedding reception shortly after the speeches.

Even thinking about it now makes you feel nauseous.

“Groom.” You said, “What about you?”

Quinn winced, “I was a plus one for someone on the Bride’s side, so neither, really.”

“And were they okay with you leaving?” You breathed a laugh, feeling a stab of guilt for being partially responsible for Quinn running out after you.

Quinn bit the inside of his cheek, the gesture immediately accentuating his cheekbones further, “Honestly, I only agreed to go because of the open bar, and he only invited me to go with him because he’d name dropped, and I’d pledged myself on a path to self-improvement, and part of that commitment was getting out more…So, here I am, I guess. And to answer your question, no, he didn't mind. He’s been trying to pick up a bridesmaid all night so he wasn’t paying much attention to me anyway.”

You’d found yourself trying not to smile at his behaviour since he’d first approached you, and it seemed this was one of the times you were struck dumb with how surprising Quinn was at times. It had barely been fifteen minutes in his presence and he’d already subverted most of what you thought you knew about him. You couldn’t help but laugh at his choice of words.

“You’ve pledged yourself on a path to self-improvement?” You weren’t condescending in any way, more curious as to the specifics of his vow, but you couldn’t help the slight teasing tone that edged its way into your voice. “What does that involve?”

He twisted his torso mid-step so he was partially facing you when he answered, and the tell-tale slight pink flush to his cheeks gave it away that maybe he was being completely serious after all, “Oh, you know…Stuff like saying yes to more plans with my friends, putting myself out there. Nothing too major, but enough to rescue my hermit crab status in society.”

Adorable.

That was all that was running through your mind, and you didn’t have it in yourself to get rid of it.

He said everything with such sarcasm that it contradicted his real meanings that just ended up seeming unsure of everything he was talking about.

You found yourself thinking back to whenever you’d been in the same room at Petey’s or out with a group of friends, and it felt like you’d missed something, because how could he have been right under your nose and you didn't notice? It could be the haze of alcohol that meant he didn’t hold back as much, or maybe it was the fact that there were less people around and more room for him to express himself, but he seemed like a different person than the Quinn you’d got to know with your friends.

Two years. Two years you’d known Petey, and a year and a half you’d known Quinn, and only now were you having a real conversation.

You could almost feel Petey’s evil laughter in the back of your mind.

“You’re not a hermit crab, you’ve come out with us plenty of times before.” You argued.

“Tell that to my family,” Quinn shook his head, a melancholy smile now on his face, “they think that because I don’t take pictures of anything that I don’t go out.”

“So on this path to self-discovery, you didn’t think to just take more pictures instead of forcing yourself to go out?”

Quin stopped in the middle of the pavement, clenching his jaw as he swung his head in your direction, a sigh of exasperation passing his lips as you too stopped, blinking in confusion.

“If only I’d have thought of that sooner.” He was being sarcastic, the drawl in his voice giving so much away, and you rolled your eyes as he started back up again.

“Funny.” You muttered back, grabbing him by the arm as he continued walking down the street, unaware of the way you’d stopped on the sidewalk, prepared to cross.

He didn’t say anything or convey surprise at your actions, and almost immediately you retracted your touch, before looking both ways and crossing the road, him hot on your heels. The restaurant you’d picked was small; built on two floors, with the windows of the bottom floor half blocked by the sidewalk. There seemed to be fairy lights hung in strips behind the glass, with posters of some sort of print on the front.

There were steps right in the middle of the building, leading to a door bracketed in by two large windows on either side, also decorated with string lights of different colours: red, blue, green, yellow. Behind those, the silhouettes of sparkling cardboard stars could be made out, blocking the view inside the restaurant.

It was quaint, and in the light – you knew by experience – anyone would walk straight past such a charming little diamond, but at night when the city was shrouded in darkness, it was hard to miss it; the twinkling lights acted as blinking stars and it was charming to look at. Tacky, maybe, but charming nonetheless.

You both came to a stop, necks craning to look at the building. It was a sight you’d seen many times before, and one that you never found yourself growing bored of, but you couldn’t help sneaking a glance at Quinn out of the corner of your eyes.

His mouth was parted slightly, but his eyes were difficult to read – Quinn was difficult to read. He was wearing that dumbfounded look – one that often reminded you of an exaggeration of being dazed and confused.

“Is it lit only by string lights?” Quinn asked, not tearing his eyes away from the view.

You shrugged coyly, nodding your head in the direction of the steps, silently asking the question.

He nodded, and you both made it up the steps, you heading through the door first and holding it open for Quinn – who audibly let out a low breath when he stepped into the threshold.

You guessed he must have been mildly impressed by the exterior, but judging from the way his eyes seemed to widen and his gaze kept flicking almost wildly from the ceiling, to the tables and back up to the ceiling again. It was almost as though he couldn’t make up his mind on where to look.

Even after a waiter had approached and even after you’d requested a table for two, Quinn hadn't stopped gawking at everything. You had no choice but to resort to poking him in his side to get his attention, and even when he was following behind you, you had no doubts he kept looking at the ceiling.

Like in the window, the ceiling was packed with lights. Some flashed, some softly glowed, and some remained one colour. The waiter had paused at a table tucked towards the back, and just like you’d previously promised, there was barely anyone else inside. A couple of lone stragglers sat huddled in their chairs, but apart from that, the only sound above the occasional clinking of cutlery was the soft hum of background radio.

“Thank you.” You took the menu from the waiter and got settled in your seat, shrugging Quinn’s blazer off and placing your bag on your lap.

You scanned the menu half-heartedly, not having the willpower to read the descriptions of the food after your stomach was already churning up a whole load of nothing. You already knew what you’d order, and putting yourself through the added torture of imagining dish after dish of steaming food only seemed to make that ache in your stomach even more painful.

“Is this the mystery you were talking about?” His finger pointed towards the ceiling, where illuminated chilli’s hung down above your heads, all different colours.

“Part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

You pulled a face, shrugging your shoulders, “Have you looked at the menu?”

He shook his head, furrowing his brows in confusion, until his eyes began scanning over the text. Then his face switched, brows shooting upwards in mild shock, “There’s something from nearly every cuisine here.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty awesome.” You agree, feeling proud of yourself for impressing him.

“What’re you having?” His eyes flick to yours over the top of his menu.

“Moroccan spiced pie.”

He nodded, thinking for a moment.

“Do you have any recommendations?”

“Shit, you really do trust me with your food, don’t you?” You breathed a laugh, arching a brow in his direction.

Quinn lowered the menu, an incredulous look on his face, and it suddenly dawned on you that maybe he knew more about you than you initially thought, “You’re a chef.” He stated, blinking once dramatically for effect, “I’d be stupid not to.”

You ducked your gaze, unable to control the way your cheeks warmed. You weren’t embarrassed by any means, just somewhat flattered that he’d remembered that; you were sure you’d only mentioned it once in passing when you’d been asked about work, and even then you weren’t aware that at the time Quinn was even listening.

Was he even there that day? You couldn’t remember.

“Just because I’m a chef doesn’t mean that you’ll like the food I suggest.”

“Oh, no, I think I will.”

“In that case,” you straightened, leaning over your menu. You didn’t know if Quinn had any specific dislikes or likes in food, so him putting you on the spot did put a little pressure on you – you wanted to get him something he’d like, something safe? But if he wanted to be safe, wouldn’t he have just chosen? You sighed, “I’d suggest a fusion dish? Maybe the teriyaki tacos with sesame nori?”

“Sounds good.” He put his menu on the table, and you were able to see his face properly under the new lighting. Despite the brightness of the lights and their combined effort, there always seemed to be a dimmed glow about the place – a soft illumination that somehow made the man in front of you look somewhat…enticing? You pulled your eyes away from his soft smile before you allowed yourself to change your mind or allow it to wander too far.

“I can’t believe they didn’t order enough food to feed everyone.” You found yourself talking, wondering exactly where that comment had come from considering the fact that your brain seemed hellbent on trying to distract itself from Quinn, therefore sending you into an inevitable whirlpool of not being able to think of anything but him.

“Right?” Quinn mumbled, his brows furrowing in something akin to concern as he remembered the night’s previous events, “Did you eat at all?”

You shook your head, “I had one slice of the small toast things they had, the ones with salmon and cream cheese on, but I didn’t have anything else. Did you manage to get anything?”

“I had two of what you had, and I tried to drink a couple of beers, but on an empty stomach? Didn’t think it was a great idea.” He shook his head in disbelief, trying not to smile at the ridiculousness of it all.

“It was pretty brave of you to even attempt the beers in the first place. How many did you have?”

“I had one and was halfway through the other and I think someone stole it – it was on the table and I went to the bathroom and it wasn’t where I left it when I came back.” He leant forward across the table, resting his crossed arms on the surface as though he was telling you a secret. He played into the notion, eyes scanning the room as if to suss out anything suspicious, before shielding his mouth with his left hand, “I heard they hired a wedding planner, and they were sure there would be enough food for everyone.”

Your jaw dropped, “Did they miscount their RSVPs or something? I don’t know how there was no food left when only half the people had gone up to the tables.”

“I have no idea, but if I ever get married I’m personally making sure everyone gets fed.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

There was a lull in conversation, and just as you went to adjust the straps of your dress, a hot plate was put in front of you.

Your stomach churned, and you didn’t think either you or Quinn even spoke when you were tucking into your meals. Judging from the way he nodded and didn’t stop to breathe through bites of taco, you could only rejoice in the fact that he obviously liked what you'd picked. Or, it was possible that his hunger had blinded his taste completely, but you relished in the former.

A win's a win.

It was when you’d both finished and were sitting back in your chairs that he’d spoken.

“I didn’t know you had tattoos?” He asked softly, and when you followed his line of sight, you noticed he was staring at the skin under your collarbone. Your neckline on your dress had warped slightly as your strap must have slipped when you were eating, providing him with a snippet of black ink.

You blushed unintentionally; you’d never considered your tattoos to necessarily be private to you, but not many people had seen them or even knew you had them, and for Quinn to know? It felt a little odd.

There was a voice in the back of your mind, and you didn’t know where it had come from or what its intentions were, but it muttered something briefly – and it sent your head spinning slightly.

It said: but it’s Quinn.

You didn’t know what it meant, but you offered Quinn a small smile, tucking your strap back up.

“Not many people do.” You hesitated. Usually you wouldn’t have expanded on the topic and just left the conversation in the dust, but he was looking at you earnestly, as though he was waiting for you to start talking – you knew he would listen as intently as he possibly could. You came to realise that he might have been quiet in group settings, but he absorbed every little piece of information like an everlasting sponge; he’d proved that much tonight, “I got that one,” you pointed at the patch of skin now covered by your dress, “when I was nineteen, and I’ve got a few now. Seven in total.”

He crossed his arms and leant on the table, eyes tracking down your arms and any exposed skin as though trying to spot another peek of ink. He settled on the crook of the inside of your elbow as you tilted your arm so he could get a look at the two that were on that side, “Do they have a meaning?”

“Most of them. I have one on my ribs that doesn’t mean anything, I just liked it in the shop. One of my friends in high school went on to do an apprenticeship for a tattoo shop back in Toronto and I let her practise a stick and poke design that she drew…It was risky but she was incredible, and I still go to her for all my tattoos.”

“They’re really pretty.”

You looked at him, only to find his brown eyes boring into yours, the flush from his new glass of beer pinking his cheeks – probably spurring on his boldness as well. You distracted yourself by taking a sip of your wine and playing with the stem to avoid his gaze.

“I know.” You replied.

There was a comfortable silence.

“I’ve had fun tonight.” You broke the silence.

“Me too.”

_ _ _

Petey didn’t have many parties, but when he did it was usually a small gathering anyway, and he always hosted in his apartment. His birthday bash was probably the craziest, though he’d once told you that somehow there were always more people that arrived than he’d invited. This time seemed to be no different.

You'd texted him on your way over, asking if he needed you to pick anything up from a store, so you’d arrived armed with a bag full of alcohol and another full of snacks – only to walk into chaos.

It reminded you of the Community episode you’d watched the other day where Troy walks in through the apartment to see several things on fire, furniture broken, and everyone trying their best to put out the chaos but only successfully making it worse.

That was the comparison that immediately came to mind when you shoved your way through the front door. Petey’s place wasn’t exactly small, but it was still packed to the brim with people. There was music playing somewhere, but over the chatter and shouting, you could barely hear it anyway. You had to push your way through the thick throng of drunkards to even make it to the table that Petey had clearly designated for snacks and drinks and even then you didn’t even have the room to pull everything out of the bags and onto the table; you’d displayed about half of what you’d bought when people started reaching in and taking stuff for themselves, at which point you’d given up even trying and moved around to the other side of the table to pour yourself a drink.

You downed it immediately.

When you’d gone to pour another, a hand gently touched your shoulder, and it was barely a moment later when Petey appeared, sliding in next to you.

“Thanks for getting supplies.” He yelled into your ear, and you could smell the alcohol on his breath already.

Petey didn’t drink often, and his party was barely about him anymore, more about the spectacle surrounding it, and it was hardly an hour in already. It gave you a pretty solid idea of what tonight would be like.

“This is insane.” You yelled back, knocking a gulp down. Your eyes were frantic, desperate to seek out a familiar face among the unrecognisable, and upon seeing no one but the blonde next to you, you took another gulp.

“I know. I might head out at some point—”

“It’s your party.”

“This is not my party; it’s out of control.” He held up his hands, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in apprehension. “I would say I’m surprised no one’s called the police, but even my fucking neighbours are here.”

“Is there anyone I can talk to?”

It was a vague and thinly veiled question – not entirely specific. It could have meant a million different things; you and Petey had quite a lot of friends in common for some very odd reasons, and you’d not said it with any particular motive at all. But Petey was looking at you weirdly, and it wasn’t because of the amount of alcohol already in your system.

He blinked, jerking his head away from yours for a minute and regarding you with suspicion.

“What?” You asked, furrowing your brows.

“Nothing.” He shrugged.

“I was just asking if there’s anyone I can talk to apart from you—”

“I know. You don’t have to defend yourself.” He smirked, leaning back slightly as he took a sip of his own drink, an eyebrow flicking up.

He fucking knew something.

You clenched your jaw, “I don’t like that look.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.” He shrugged, his smirk widening.

You tilted your head, the alcohol not helping to numb your growing frustration. You’d had a stressful day at work – even more so than usual; you’d heard rumours about a highly regarded food critic apparently planning to dine in your restaurant, so everything had been clamped down on to each miniscule detail. The last thing you’d really wanted to do tonight was come to a party with loud music, strobe lights and people you didn’t know. You didn’t particularly have the effort for social interaction, but you’d held out – for Petey’s sake.

And not only was it worse than you’d originally imagined, but the birthday boy himself was even planning on ditching, and you had yet to spot someone you were comfortable with.

Suffice to say, added on from your previous irate manner, you were a little pissed. It wasn’t Petey’s fault, or anyone’s really, but you just didn’t know if you wanted to stay.

“Quinn’s in the kitchen. It’s locked and he’s a little drunk too, but he told me the secret knock – watch, just do this.” He held up his hand, mimicking a pattern that you committed to memory.

“Why is he in the kitchen?” You asked, not intentionally pretending like you weren’t at least looking forward to seeing him – the last thing you wanted was for Petey to jump to conclusions, but you were going to have to at least put up with some teasing, because he’d most definitely noticed the recent dynamic change lately.

It was hard not to, considering you and Quinn went from not speaking a word to each other unless absolutely necessary, to Quinn approaching you and instigating a conversation – one that Petey had noticed neither of you seemed to shy away from. There were hesitant smiles and slightly awkward silences, but he’d noticed Quinn looked less distressed, and actually more like he wanted to be there.

But, of course, Petey didn’t voice that to you; he resorted to the odd teasing glance – very much like the one he’d given you earlier when you asked after a familiar face.

Now, however, he lifted his cup to his face to mask the smirk he was unable to control, and answered you carefully.

He didn’t want to be accused of ruining whatever it was that was going on, so he’d vowed to not meddle in your business – no matter how tempting it might be.

“He said, and I quote, ‘I need some me-time’, and I think he’d been here about forty-five minutes? He’d only just gone in by the time you arrived.”

You nodded, “I need some me-time too.” You patted him on the arm, “Happy birthday, Petey.” And kissed him on the cheek in a friendly gesture, and he nodded his head towards the locked kitchen door on the other side of the hustle and bustle in the living room.

“Thank you.” He muttered in response, before flashing a brilliant smile and turning his body to let you get past.

It took a lot of energy and shoving of elbows to make it through the living room. People seemed insistent on not budging when you’d politely asked them to move, though you did give them the benefit of the doubt that a, they were too drunk to comprehend anything anyone said, and b, couldn’t hear you shouting over the noise.

By the time you had made it and completed the secret knock that Petey had given you – you were sure the rhythm was familiar – there was nothing left to do but wait rather impatiently as someone knocked into your shoulder, sending you a little off balance. It was like being in an overly packed club, but the lights were on and you were on the verge of running out entirely.

Just as you were about to give up hope, and just as you raised your fist to repeat the pattern again, the door flew open, your hair momentarily whipping into your face. You barely had a moment to remove it from your face before a hand was gripping your wrist and leading you inside. Over the thumping of the bass, you vaguely registered the sound of a door slamming shut behind your head and the click of a lock sliding back into place.

After that, the music and noise from the other room seemed to dissipate, and you were standing in Petey’s kitchen – only the countertop lights on – with your heart pounding and head recovering from the sudden whirl of motion. You were sure you were blinking your eyes to clear the sudden fog, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the stark contrast from the mess in the other room to the absolute cleanliness of the kitchen. Sure, there were a few empty glasses near the sink, and a box of beer on the marble surface, but other than that, there wasn’t much to look at.

Until you registered the sound of a voice on the phone, and you looked to the floor, just a couple of feet in front of you.

Quinn was resting against the cupboards, his legs outstretched in front of him, and there was a phone held up to his face, a tinny voice exuding from the device.

“Who was that?”

Jack.

You averted your eyes from the scene in front of you, but your slightly tipsy frame of mind seemed intent on staring after Quinn. He was wearing a dark cap, placed backwards on his head, and a simple short-sleeved henley with jeans. Simple, but it didn’t stop your heart from quickening in your chest.

The guilt seemed to overpower that, though. You knew Quinn missed his family, and the knowledge that you’d stepped in on a FaceTime call with Jack? You wanted to walk back out into the party and let them have some time in private.

You did feel awkward standing there, looking a little dumb without a drink in your hand, and when Jack had asked who he’d let in, you had to turn your head, because suddenly Quinn was looking straight at you, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“Oh. I see.” Jack answered quickly, and Quinn turned back to the camera. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his cheeks flush under the low light of the kitchen. The alcohol you’d drunk seemed to embolden your actions, because upon seeing how flustered Quinn was as he stuttered to get his words out, you planted yourself on the floor next to him, a reasonable gap between your bodies.

He had no choice then but to tilt his phone so you were both in Jack’s eyeline, and the kid was already grinning from ear to ear, his hand coming up to wave in the frame, “Hey, Y/N. How are you?”

You smiled back at him. You’d spoken to Jack before on the occasion the Devils would play against the Nucks – neither Hughes brother seemed to pass up an opportunity to see each other when they had a game, and the two of you had had your fair share of interactions. Ironically, you knew more about Jack than you did Quinn up until the wedding a couple of months ago. The younger Hughes was friendly, approachable and incredibly smiley – somewhat the opposite of Quinn, though you were beginning to see that they were similar in more ways than not.

“I’m good, you?” You asked, pulling a knee up to your chest to rest your chin on.

“I’m very good. I’m fabulous, in fact,” he nodded, smile never fading, “but now that I see Quinn isn’t so lonely anymore, I think I’m gonna go…” He trailed off, and took a swig of a drink as you felt Quinn look at you out of the corner of his eyes briefly.

Jack took no notice of the action, “Anyway, miss you, Quinny, love you.” He blew a kiss through the phone, and Quinn smiled.

“Love you, miss you too, Jack.” This time Quinn waved at the camera, before Jack grinned again.

“See you soon.”

“Bye.”

Quinn dropped his phone in his lap and the silence that engulfed the both of you was achingly loud.

Until Quinn broke it.

“Hi.” Was all he said, turning to face you, his cheeks still slightly flushed.

You forwent the usual greeting, “What’s this about you being lonely?”

He breathed a laugh, adjusting the cap on his head, “Just that I got bored sitting here by myself, so I called Jack.”

“Did you prove you were ‘getting out’?”

Quinn nodded, folding his arms, “I put the phone next to the door so he could hear everything.”

This prompted a laugh from you, and you lent your head back against the cupboard door, “What did he say?”

“He told me that I’m too introverted for my own good, and that by hiding in the kitchen, I wasn’t putting myself out there, I was keeping myself in.” He answered with a good-natured eye-roll.

“He does have a point.” You admitted, rolling your head against the door to look at him, only to find he was already looking at you.

“Yeah, but you’re here too.”

“I haven’t vowed to socialise more.”

“Yet you still sought me out?” He raised both brows, laughing softly at the way you furrowed your brows and leant away from him as if you were disgusted by the accusation.

Intrinsically, yes, you had sought him out, but you’d outwardly asked Petey if there was anyone you knew and he happened to point you in Quinn’s direction, and you weren’t about to give either man the satisfaction of proving them right.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” you started, holding out your hands in surrender, “I’m only here because I asked Petey if there was anyone I knew, and he pointed me in your direction–”

“And you gladly followed.”

“Some might say that you were my last option because I was actually having fun out there. I just felt guilty for you being by yourself.”

“Some might also say that I was your first option and you immediately ran with it.”

“What are you drinking that’s making you so difficult tonight?” You deflected his statement, and you knew he’d picked up on the way you’d purposefully dodged actually answering what he’d said.

That had been the dynamic between the both of you recently: awkward starts when neither of you knew how to approach a conversation, but falling into a comfortable, teasing rhythm within minutes. It was weird how you’d gone from not talking to each other to being quite good friends within the span of four months.

You could have kicked yourself – this guy was right in front of you the entire time and you were only just realising it.

“Water.” He deadpanned and you tilted your head, not entirely believing him…until he reached above his head and produced a glass full of clear liquid, that upon smelling, you came to realise that he was indeed pumping himself full of water.

“I’m impressed.”

“That was my intention.”

“It was? I’m flattered.”

“Good.” He broke into a smile, and it was so infectious you couldn’t help but replicate it, “Would you like a drink?”

Your throat dried upon hearing those words, and you realised that even through the drinks, you’d not actually had anything that had quenched your thirst from dragging up two massive bags full of supplies, so you nodded, grateful for his offer, “What are the options?”

Seeing as you were both still comfortably sitting on the floor, Quinn had to slide himself over to the other side of the kitchen. You’d both been in Petey’s fridge many times before, but it always seemed to be a lucky lottery as to whether he had anything of real interest – a sentiment that you both seemed to take into account as you found yourself trailing after him.

The light from the fridge did more in illuminating the entire room than the lighting itself, and you both had to blink to allow your eyes to readjust to the sudden harsh, cool tones.

Your eyes landed on a bottle of electric blue smoothie and your mouth started watering.

“I fucking love this thing.” You found yourself reaching in and extracting the entire bottle before Quinn had the chance to comment, and this time you stood up, ducking under his arm as he held the fridge door open, and placed the bottle on the countertop, extracting a glass from the cupboard above.

It wasn’t long before you felt a presence press against your side as you poured the smoothie into the glass. Quinn was warm, and through your still tipsy haze, you could faintly make out his hot breath fanning your neck as he leaned over your shoulder to look at the bottle.

“What is it?” He asked, curiosity lingering in his tone.

“Pineapple, apple, guava and spirulina extract. And it is gorgeous.” You didn’t wait to screw the top back off before chugging half of the glass down, relishing in the coldness as it soothed your thirst.

Quinn moved closer, his torso pressing into your arm and the contact had you swinging your head to look at him. He held out his hand, clearly hesitating in saying something, and it was through the quick flick of his eyes between you and the glass had you connecting the dots before he could even open his mouth.

“Would you like to try some?”

He nodded.

“Want me to pour you a glass or…?”

He shook his head, “Can I just–”

“Yeah, sure.” You handed him the glass, feeling something foreign burrow itself in your chest.

He took a gulp, furrowing his brows as he tasted it properly, “Shit, this is good.”

“Right?”

He nodded, and before you could yank it back, he quickly tipped the rest of the glass into his mouth before you could protest.

You jaw fell open, and a short burst of uncontrolled laughter escaped you, “What the fuck was that?”

He shrugged, smirking as he placed the glass back down on the counter, “I was thirsty.”

You eyed the pint glass of water that he was slowly pushing out of your view with his fingers with distaste.

“How was your day?” The question caught you off guard, and you found yourself freezing in your spot.

It was so simple, yet domestic. A question your family used to ask when you’d come home from school, or what your friends would ask after a hard day at work. Coming from Quinn, though, the question seemed to take on an entirely new meaning.

To you, it meant something along the lines of ‘I care about you enough to ask about the trivial things’. It was simple, but it meant more than you thought it would.

He was probably just being polite, and now wasn’t the time to dissect everything he said and did.

You swallowed, your expression melting into one of neutrality. You’d opened your mouth to answer him, but nothing was coming out, and when you could feel the intensity of his gaze turning into something akin to recognition – as though he could sense the cogs turning in your mind – he seemed to soften, and nudged you gently in the arm in reassurance.

Truthfully, your day at work had been difficult.

And unlike Quinn, you hadn’t vowed to make more of an effort in the social scene, but after taking inspiration from the sentiment of his promise of self-improvement, you’d silently decided to somewhat draw from his idea.

Yours was to be more honest.

“Kind of stressful, actually,” you replied, “we’re supposed to have a food critic in at some point and everyone's strung pretty tightly…it’s a fast paced environment and one mistake could potentially be the difference between a good review and a bad one. If we get a bad one, there’s always that risk of not maintaining customers; it’s kind of a pivotal time right now.”

You couldn’t look at him when you were talking. You felt like an open wound with the threat of salt water on the horizon: terrified.

You’d always had a little trouble in talking about the personal stuff – it was why not a lot of people know about your tattoos. Yet, Quinn did.

And you were finding out that you trusted him more than you liked to let yourself – more than you’re comfortable with.

You found the strength to look at him, and were pleasantly surprised by the way he was looking at you. It wasn’t pity, or repulsion, or patronising in any way – it wasn’t any of the things you’d been scared to see. If anything, his brown eyes were soft, but held a glimmer of something you couldn’t recognise or associate with him just yet, and you knew right away that he was hanging onto every word you said.

When he noticed you looking at him, his mouth twitched into a hopeful half-smile.

You turned around and resumed your previous position on the floor, and he took the precious liberty of following suit, only instead of sitting right next to you, he chose to sit directly opposite. Your legs were still touching, but it meant you could see each other clearer instead of having to crane your necks at awkward angles.

“Where do you work?” He asked, using his arms as leverage to push himself against the cupboard again.

If he noticed your gaze stray from his face to the contours of his arms, he chose not to react.

“That place on Hornby Street.” You answered.

He tilted his head fractionally, his mouth parting in shock. You could tell he knew what you were talking about because he started to smile, “Holy shit, you work there?”

You nodded, feeling sheepish.

“And you’re the chef?”

“One of them.”

“I ate there three weeks ago.”

This time it was your turn to act shocked, “What?”

“Yeah, the best meal I’ve had in ages, and I’m not even exaggerating.”

“What did you have?”

He winced, “Basic. I had pesto pasta.”

“When?”

“I want to say…Thursday?”

“And you liked it?”

“Loved it. Like, I want to have it in an IV, I loved it that much.”

“Thank you, I think.”

He froze, his eyes slowly drifting from the countertop above your head to your smug face, “Fuck off.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He let out a sharp burst of laughter, one that made you jump. It must have shocked him some too, because he looked mortified for a moment after, until he’d remembered what he was reacting to.

“You cooked that?”

You nodded, “I make the pasta and pesto fresh, that might be why it was nicer than the usual pesto pasta.”

“Or maybe it was nice because you made it?”

You shrugged.

You knew the food you made was nice – it had to be if you cooked for a living, but you were never one to shy away from compliments of how good it was. You rarely did; you lived by yourself; whenever you’d go to a friends house, the last thing you wanted to do was cook even more food after a suffocating ay in the kitchen, so you tended to just order a takeaway; your family hadn’t even tried your food in a couple of years. To top all of that off, it was even rarer that you’d get recognised for your work when it was plated and fed to the customers – you’d only received one ‘compliment for the chef’ in your entire career so far, and even still your other colleagues don’t get many offered to them either.

So, hearing Quinn talk about your food that you’d made before he even knew that it was you that made it was nothing short of euphoric.

Quinn dipped his head, and when he next looked at you, something dropped in your stomach.

You could tell instantly that something was up.

“What?” You asked, the atmosphere now tense.

Something was hanging unspoken in the air above you both and it was unsettling. He looked a cross between pained and concerned, and his brown eyes seemed to hold a hint of torture.

“You know at the wedding?” He began, taking his cap off his head and fluffing his hair slightly, as though he was trying to play the question off as more casual than it really was.

In reality, it was casual. You knew it shouldn’t have incited the level of dread that had just accumulated in your very bones, but you had an inkling of where he was going with his question.

“Yes.” Your voice was tight, and your heart was hammering in your chest as you played with your hands apprehensively.

“Why were you so upset when you left?” He whispered it, as if afraid to break the delicate bubble you were both in.

You took a breath through your nose.

You hated talking about it, and you hated everything that was associated with it. The bitter taste of regret even thinking about it made you almost want to vomit, but the prominent flavour that stood out to you most was the burning – of anger.

“Um,” you started, taking a deep breath, unable to maintain eye contact with him, “I kind of knew Sam in college.”

“The groom?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, briefly looking up at him. He’d tensed, his arms now crossed over his chest, as though he had an idea of where you were going with it, “he was my first boyfriend in college, we started dating when I was nineteen and he was, like, twenty two, I think? And to say he was my first real boyfriend, we were pretty serious – we loved each other, and we were fine until he just broke up with me after a year, on our anniversary actually.” You laughed bitterly, rolling your eyes at the ridiculousness of it all – because in context, it really did make you want to just laugh. Not the usual laugh, but the belly laugh, gasping for breath and rolling around kind of laugh.

“It came out of nowhere?” He asked, voice soft.

You hesitated, “Sort of. We were arguing about little things, but it wasn’t anything detrimental. We’d forgive each other and move past it, you know?”

He nodded.

“I think I was in my second semester of my second year and I was nearly twenty one – he’d finished college by then, he was living in the area, and I think the first time I noticed something was up was when he’d refuse to let me stay over at his place. He stayed in this apartment; I was renting with a couple of my friends, but he’d never let me stay at his – which was really fucking sketchy. And I think the last fight we had before he broke it off was about that, and he stormed out – I mean, it wasn’t like I’d accused him of anything, I was polite about it, I wasn’t yelling, I just wanted to know – and he blew up on me about it, saying that I never gave him enough space – the works. And then a week later, he came by to pick up his stuff from my apartment when I wasn’t in and broke up with me in a ten second voicemail a day later.”

Quinn was silent. His eyes were wide, but there was something stony in his expression. His arms were still tightly crossed over his chest, and no matter how badly you wanted to not talk about this, you had to. You didn’t know where the resignation had come from – if it had been anyone else, you’d have just denied the entire thing and pretended that you didn’t feel too well, but that thought didn’t even cross your mind when it came to Quinn.

“Then he invited me to his wedding, and I naively went, thinking he just wanted to lay the past to rest or whatever, but it turned out he only wanted me there for the speech. You remember Macey’s speech, right?”

“The bride?”

“Yeah,” your heart was still pounding, but this part of the story had you almost anticipating his reaction to it, “anyway, she talked about when they met and when they started dating, and I didn’t think anything of it until I caught the dirty bastard smirking at me–”

“He didn’t.” Quinn sighed, shaking his head. His jaw ticked and there was an uncomfortable hardness in his eyes.

“He did.” You pressed your lips together in an attempt at a smile, but you knew it exuded more of a wince or grimace than anything, “Turned out they met about seven months into our relationship and he’d been cheating on me with her for the last five.”

You were met with silence.

A long silence.

“After our…meal, I got home and broke out the photo albums because most of that relationship was pretty much a lie, and I needed to know when—”

“You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

You scoffed, “You just happen to know that?”

“No, I just happen to know that a few flimsy fights about a valid subject doesn’t justify any reason for cheating.” He shrugged.

“Maybe I was too clingy. Or I wasn’t interested enough in him. Or maybe I was just a bad girlfriend because it was my first relationship–”

“You know it wasn’t your fault.” He muttered, unfolding his arms, a sad smile on his face.

You paused, taking a deep breath mainly to calm yourself. This was the first time you’d told someone about the entire truth – including the whole wedding disaster – and you were getting a little worked up. No tears, no sadness, just good old regret and frustration.

“Somehow that’s even worse.”

Quinn tilted his head in question, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, that if he did that without any incentive from me – I wasn’t a perfect girlfriend, and I never will be – but what’s stopping a future partner from not cheating too? There’s no guarantee they’ll be faithful, because they could just turn around one day and willingly choose another woman. And how the fuck am I supposed to figure that out?” You were at the talking hands stage. Your hands had a life of their own as you spewed off your train of thought, suddenly not giving much of a shit about what Quinn thought of you, because he’d let you get this far into the deep stuff, and he hadn’t shown any indication of shutting you up.

In fact, he rather seemed to be determined to prove a point with the way he kept opening his mouth to say something until your continuous rambling cut him off. He’d leant forward, legs now crossed underneath him, and he was seated at your knees.

“I’ll be honest, I have no idea how you’re supposed to know – there’s no manual for shit like that, and it’s scary–”

“It’s terrifying.”

“–and the last thing you’re gonna want to do is throw yourself into something, I get that.” He paused, gritting his teeth in thought, “But I will say that if you ever need me to run a background check on someone you have your sights on, I will be more than glad to help you out.”

You shook your head, smiling bitterly, “I appreciate that, I do. But it doesn’t change the fact that there’s no guarantee. How am I supposed to know if I picked the right guy?”

Quinn blinked, then swallowed, and the silence that stretched almost had you aware of the sudden palpable tension that had enmeshed you both. You were aware of the way you were both sandwiched together in the smallest area of the kitchen, and aware of the fact that he looked almost as frustrated as you felt.

“You won’t. I guess you’ll just have to find someone you trust beforehand. I know that’s not helpful, and I know it won’t solve anything that that fuckwit did, but you deserve so much more than guys like him.” The earnesty in his voice was shattering, and all you could do was sit still and watch him talk. “There’s something so screwed up about the entire thing, because I know, for sure, that if I was dating you, there’s no way I’d even be able to concentrate on anyone other than you. The fact that he acted that way, like he was some sort of target as well, I mean, fuck, that’s seriously – God, it just pisses me off so—”

You didn’t know where it came from, or whether you’d even realised what you were doing until you did it, because as he was ranting – his chest quite literally heaving and his neck reddening – your brain decided that that was the moment it would change the way it thought about Quinn Hughes.

Right then and there.

The revelation crashed through you, and somehow your physical reactions to his passion and presence remained the same – as though that desire and nervousness and excitement at being near him and talking to him had always been there; like it had just been simmering under your skin, waiting for you to just recognise what you were feeling. It wasn’t friendship, you knew that, but it felt like something more than just a crush.

Crushes were supposed to make you self-conscious and stutter, but you didn’t do any of that with Quinn, you just felt so comfortable. And safe.

Then you wonder why you kept coming up short with reasons why you trusted him – you fucking liked the guy.

And for some reason, when you came to that realisation, the only thing you could do that made sense was clamp your hand over his mouth to stop him talking, as if the spewing of words toppling out of his mouth would somehow correlate with how much you liked him. The unconscious theory was that if you stopped him talking, then maybe you wouldn’t get too ahead of yourself and start overthinking everything.

You weren’t quite at that point yet.

But clamping a hand over his mouth only seemed to have the opposite effect you intended.

Because you couldn’t see the lower half of his face, it only seemed to make you more aware of his eyes.

Through the haze of his spouting, his gaze had trailed from you to dart around the room as he tried to keep his own train of through from flowing smoothly, and as you effectively stopped him speaking, he slowly and carefully slid his eyes back to you, and after that astounding revelation, the eye contact only seemed to send chills down your spine. His brows furrowed, this time softening slightly – from sheer exasperation to pure befuddlement. And because you’d halted him entirely, his hair flopped right onto his forehead, his cap left abandoned in his previous position after he’d removed it earlier.

Fuck.

You didn’t know if you were stepping over the line when you looked straight at his flopped hair. You knew what you wanted to do.

The hand not on his mouth twitched from where it had automatically landed on his shoulder. Quinn noticed – or rather, felt the movement. His own eyes slipped from your face to the hand on your shoulder, and all it took was the amused quirk of one of his brows and the purposeful glance to the curtain of hair that had obstructed his view for you to practically give in to the spontaneous urge.

The hand on his shoulder gingerly reached up and you carded your fingers through the hair hanging over his forehead. His hair wasn’t curly, as such, more wavy, and you were still slightly alcohol-induced, so it took a moment for you to actually realise you were touching his hair. It was so damn soft.

You pushed it back, now able to see both his eyes.

Your cheeks were already blazing from the heated conversation, and you knew if they weren’t on fire then, they most certainly were now.

You felt him smile from under his hand, and a soft laugh threatened to pass your lips at the ridiculousness of it all. You went to remove the hand on his mouth, keeping the hand in his hair still because you knew if you removed it, there was no way it wouldn’t fall back into his face.

“When you get tired of stroking my hair, just let me know.” He said it with zero hesitation, and all cheek, and due to your closeness, it was the first time you could tell that despite the water he’d claimed to have been drinking, and despite drinking some of the smoothie, the unfocussed glaze in his eye, he was still a little tipsy too. Not drunk enough to do anything he would regret, but enough to give him a boost of confidence.

You shut your eyes and immediately rolled them upon reopening them again. Your hand was still woven into his hair, but you let it drop rather dramatically.

“You’re a dick.” You muttered under your breath, but made no attempt to move away. You wouldn’t have done fifteen minutes ago, so you weren’t about to clue him in on the fact that something had changed for you.

His grin widened, but he said nothing – not immediately, anyway.

“So why’d you shut me up?” He spun on the spot, pushing himself against the cupboard next to you.

You hesitated, mind foggy with what exactly he had been saying, “You were getting pretty worked up, and the last thing you needed was to pop a blood vessel.”

“So, all of a sudden you know what’s best for me?” There was no bite to his words.

“No, I didn’t say that,” you sighed, rolling your eyes and fighting a smile, “just that it’s cute that you’d defend me like that.”

“Cute?” He wrinkled his nose, “I am deeply passionate about the injustice you faced with that cheating fuckface.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

_ _ _

Sunday mornings were your epitome of heaven. They were your only free full day of the week, and you spent every morning the same – catching up on housework, making coffee, baking sweet treats that would last you the week, watching a few episodes of whatever it was you were behind on.

Just lounging around.

Sundays were your peaceful days – guaranteed no disturbance.

They were the days you knew you could curl up on your sofa, watch some TV and let your body recover from the intensities of work.

So, when a knock sounded on your apartment door, you didn’t think twice about it. It was a Sunday, who would possibly be wanting to see you on a Sunday? You hadn’t ordered any parcels lately, or invited anyone over, so you just assumed it was someone knocking on your neighbour’s door.

Until it sounded again.

And again.

And by that time, you were fairly irritated with whoever it was, because they were insistent, and weren’t about to leave you anytime soon, so you were left with no choice.

You hauled yourself up off the sofa, pausing the show you were halfway through watching.

Maybe the neighbours weren’t in and you had to look after one of their parcels?

By the time you’d made it to the door, the knocking had changed – it was a subtle change, but there was a familiar rhythm to it that was remarkably similar to…

You looked through the peephole and had to do a double take.

Nevertheless, you wasted no time in unlocking the door and swinging it open. You were conscious of the fact that you were only wearing your comfies, and that you’d neglected to make yourself presentable – but in your defence, this visit was incredibly spontaneous. If there was a scale of spontaneity for things you thought could happen on a Sunday, a plot twist in your show would have been on the high end of the scale, but Quinn Hughes rocking up unannounced at half eleven in the morning, with a hanger and dark suit draped over his shoulder was not even on there.

It broke the scale – especially because the guy had never even been to your apartment before. He didn’t have your address.

Which only begged the question – “How did you get my address?”

He blinked, slightly alarmed at your tone, “Petey. I hope that was okay? In my defence, though, I rang you a bunch of times and you didn’t answer, so–”

“It’s my fault?”

He paused, tilting his head and screwing his face up in a way that had you recoiling in offence – he was trying to suss you out.

“Essentially, yes.” Was his answer.

You were very tempted to shut the door. So tempted, you jerked it in its place to see if he would react to the sudden movement, and he did – slamming a palm against it to stop you shutting it in his face. The momentary alarm in his expression was picturesque. The only thing you could compare it to was the image you’d seen online when someone had managed to get a picture of his face when he was getting pushed up against the boards.

But the reason you knew you wouldn’t actually shut the door in his face is because your curiosity for what he was actually doing here overpowered every other inclination.

A gorgeous man – who just so happens to be one of your close friends – shows up at your door unannounced and carrying a suit over his shoulder? You had questions.

“That was rude.” He stated, only removing his hand when he was absolutely sure you weren’t going to shut it on him.

“Oh, so now you want to talk about manners?” You raised an eyebrow in his direction, leaning on the doorframe with your arms crossed.

The corridor was deserted, and as you leant forwards to look the other way, Quinn refused to budge out of your line of sight. In fact, he only seemed to step closer until you headbutted his chest. This time, instead of arguing or allowing to explain himself on your doorstep, you took the liberty of giving him the benefit of the doubt, and shoved your door open wider, allowing him to wander inside.

Your apartment wasn’t too big; you lived alone in Vancouver, so the rent wasn’t exactly low, and a part of you felt shy at Quinn seeing how cosy everything was. It was like baring a piece of your soul to him.

A chaotically organised, colourful, cosy part.

You could tell he was interested, taking his time to look around. When you shut the door behind him, he wandered over to his left, skimming a hand along your booth seats at the island, and then he seemed to drift back over to the right side of the apartment to where your sofa was, along with the TV hung up against the wall. Then his feet seemed to have a mind of their own, because whilst he was still eyeing up the stack of books and candles on your coffee table, he found himself at the windows lining the far side of your apartment, bathing your entire flat in the sharp morning light.

“This view is incredible.” He said, jaw dropping in awe as he took in the skyline of Vancouver.

You nodded, knowing he couldn’t see you, and made your way back to the sofa. He was wearing tracksuit bottoms with a yellow t-shirt, and judging from the navy ‘M’ painting the front, you knew it was a UMich shirt.

And you never thought you’d say this about anyone, ever, but he looked good in yellow. Really good.

“Thanks,” he spun around upon hearing the closeness of your voice, and you hung an arm over the back of your sofa, “would you like something to drink? Or eat?”

He shook his head, “No, thanks.”

There was a flash of disappointment. He wasn’t staying long, then.

You waited until he’d torn himself away from the windows and settled with you on the sofa, his suit laid carefully next to him.

“What are you doing today?” He interjected just as you were about to ask him what he was doing here. He looked strangely hopeful; his knee was bobbing up and down and he couldn’t look you in the eyes for too long without letting his gaze wander.

“I mean, it’s Sunday, so I was planning on romanticising a quiet life, but now I have a feeling that won’t be the case for whatever reason.” You rested your head on your fist, watching the oddly domestic scene as he kicked off his shoes and mirrored your movements.

“Well, I was thinking–”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Hey, be nice,” he scowled – clearly joking, “but I have this thing tonight. A game, and it occurred to me that you’ve not been to a game yet. It also occurred to me that you take Sundays off, so I was thinking, would you possibly do me the honour of coming to one of my games?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek, squinting his eyes as he waited for your answer.

You thought hard for about ten seconds – probably longer than necessary considering the fact that his invitation was pretty much a no-brainer anyway. It always was when Quinn asked you to do something.

You couldn’t help your brain from picking apart the way he’d said ‘my’ when he knew for a fact that you were also friends with Petey – really good friends with him, in fact. It was the blonde that had introduced you in the first place, and you couldn’t help but wonder if Quinn had intentionally worded it that way.

“I know it’s late notice, but I figured if I came by this morning you’d have more time to get ready so you’re not as stressed.” He offered, a slight grimace on his face. He thought you were rejecting him.

And you couldn’t lie, something clenched in your chest, both at his reasoning and consideration, as well as his sweetness in approaching the situation.

“I’d love to go with you.” You answered, and he immediately broke into a grin, the tips of his ears reddening as he blushed. He tried to play it off by turning his head away from you, but you could still make out the curve of his lips and the contours of his smile lines.

His happiness was so goddamn infectious it made you feel nauseous – in an unusually good way. Although it scared you to dwell on it, you couldn’t deny that the dynamic had changed between you both over the last couple of months – it started after Petey’s party and the little moments you’d shared on the floor of his kitchen, both intoxicated.

You couldn’t tell if it was because you’d had a recent epiphany and seemed to be more attuned to where he was, but you were sure something had changed. Perhaps a stare that lingered a little too long, or a colliding of glances that left you both turning away from each other a little flustered and hotter than you were before. You’d also somehow picked up an insane radar – one more like a magnet than anything, and somehow you’d always accidentally end up within a few feet of each other. If either one of you was feeling brave, perhaps there would be a teasing poke or brush of hands – nothing that couldn’t have been passed up as a serendipitous interaction.

Yet, with the way he’d reacted to you accepting his invitation, maybe you were wrong? Maybe that little voice in your head – the one too afraid to admit that maybe something could be made of this – was right?

Then again, you couldn’t hurt yourself more right now than by playing into that fantasy.

“Good, I’d like that.” He ran a hand through his hair, before reaching behind him and unzipping the suit.

It was a black suit, plain and simple, and as you stood up to inspect it further, you could tell by touch alone that it was of a fine quality. He’d draped two ties over the shoulders, one a dark red and the other a stripy blue. Even before he’d opened his mouth, you’d pointed to the red tie, and he nodded, offering you a grateful smile as he tucked the blue one back into the covering.

Truthfully, Elias had asked you if you wanted to go to a match before. You’d had varying excuses, mostly truthful, because you’d had work one time, then you were seeing your parents, and at one point you couldn’t go because you were ill.

It wasn’t as though you were trying to avoid going to a match on purpose, even if the prospect of having to navigate a busy, inevitably raucous arena by yourself was incredibly daunting – to the point a knot of apprehension had formed in your chest; your previous blow-offs had just been coincidental.

Petey had stopped asking after a while, and you never worked up the courage to ask him for tickets, even after he’d told you it’d be okay to do so – you just felt too guilty bothering him with such a hassle, so you’d eventually let the subject settle.

It didn’t quell your desire to go to a hockey match, though.

The only difference between you watching hockey now as to a year ago, was that you were keeping more of an eye out for Quinn than you were for Petey – it wasn’t hard to. He was an incredibly graceful skater, and played an unbelievable amount of minutes. It was hard to miss him on the ice.

The silence that had settled between you both was comforting, even despite the fact that you were both essentially standing up and doing nothing but looking at each other, fighting the embarrassing urge to keep a straight face and not blush.

“When do you need to leave?” You asked, changing the subject.

Quinn smirked easily, “Wanting to kick me out already?”

“The opposite, actually,” you admitted quietly, “I don’t really want you to leave.”

He tried to mask his pleasant surprise, his entire demeanour shifting slightly as his smirk melted into a soft smile as he placed his suit back onto the back of your sofa, “In that case, you’ve got me for two hours.”

___

There were three things you were hyper-aware of when you were sitting in your seat, embedded in a sea of black and white jerseys, music blasting over the speakers as the sound of skates and shouts erupted.

One: that he’d seated you against the glass, a few seats away from the bench, because (quote, unquote) that way you wouldn’t be able to distract him when he’s playing.

Two: that upon learning the only Canucks merch you had was a cap, Quinn had thrown you a spare jersey from the back of his car, his ears red as he apologised for not owning a Petersson one, and for giving you an old one of his instead.

Three: that you really fucking liked Quinn. Really.

So much so that when he’d subtly skated past you in the warm ups before the game, and winked at you under his visor, a sidewards smile on his lips – passing it off as nonchalant for the sake of the fans watching nearby – you had to leave your seat to down a drink before the game even started because your cheeks were practically burning with how much the simple action of acknowledgment had affected you.

Somehow, though, you’d made it through the game – concerned towards the latter fifteen minutes after Quinn had taken yet another puck to the face and raced off the ice to receive treatment. You knew he was fine; it had happened to him before, and you knew the more you dwelled on it, the more you’d worry, so you’d turned your attention back to the game, instead focusing on Petey.

You’d see him after, anyway. He’d told you he wasn’t on media duties, and after getting a puck to the face, you’d assume he’d be let off the hook a little easier – you weren’t entirely sure that was how it worked, but it seemed logical?

Which was how you’d found yourself back at your apartment, hopes not too high on him arriving back at your place within the next hour, the post-game analysis humming in the background as you manned a simmering pot of pasta.

You hadn’t bothered getting changed, and you’d had a cautious look through your cupboards, pulling out some painkillers and after realising that you didn’t actually know the extent of his injuries, had left the box out on the side. It wasn’t that you doubted the medical team wouldn’t have done a sufficient job – you just mostly wanted to show him you cared.

It was as you’d piled up your own spaghetti into a bowl, leaving Quinn’s portion warming in the microwave that there was a knock on the door. You took your bowl with you as you unlocked it, opening it wide to let Quinn through.

You followed him closely, shutting the door behind him. He hadn’t exactly looked at you long enough for you to assess his injury – too busy trying to shrug off the suit as he shamelessly stripped himself in the middle of your living room right in front of your eyes.

The first thing to go was his blazer, and you’d walked around him, back to the kitchen island, eyes flickering back to him as you spooned him his own bowl. It wasn’t exactly odd that the first thing he’d want to do was take off his blazer, but then he seemed to continue, and when he’d gone to unbutton his shirt all the way down, you’d frozen like a lovesick idiot. Neither of you had said anything to each other when he’d walked in, and now he was standing shirtless in front of you, either oblivious or ignoring your lack of speech and sneaky glances at the soft abs on display.

You felt something shift when he turned to look at you just as he bent down to snatch that Michigan shirt back out of his bag, eyes locking onto yours when he pulled it over his head.

It excited you and – quite frankly – had you swallowing and blood rushing through your body because it sent sparks flying throughout every single atom in your body. You felt uncomfortably hot, and the only thing you could do to try to diffuse the sudden tension was to divert your gaze away from him.

It hadn’t even occurred to you that you’d been caught staring, and if you were being honest, you weren’t all that bothered. He stripped right in front of your eyes – there wasn’t much you could have done to avoid not looking at him in the first place.

“So, what’s the damage?” You asked, walking past him once more to place his bowl on the coffee table as you leant back into your sofa, twisting yourself so you were almost eye level with his recently clothed torso.

He paused, leaning his hands on the back of your sofa as he leant forwards, face only inches from you – so close you could see his individual eyelashes and the slight rosy hint to his cheeks, as well as feel his breath against your own cheek. You blinked, unsure of how to react, before he was poking a hand under his eye – right across his cheekbone, where a bruise was beginning to blossom on his skin, varying shades of darkness.

You frowned, pulling his hand away so you could get a better view of it. It was a tactful decision on your behalf when you neglected to let go of his hand until the very last second, when you used your own to tilt his head to the side, catching his injury in the light.

It was a fractional movement, but you saw him swallow, his eyes still boring straight into you. You didn’t know if it was a natural reaction or because you’d gripped his chin and physically moved him, but his mouth parted slightly, jaw going slack in your hand.

You, however, fought to keep your attention on his injury – eyes only flicking to his for a millisecond, unable to resist. He’d been bleeding, and there was a horizontal scab forming directly on top of his cheekbone.

“There’s painkillers on the side if you need any.” You breathed, slowly retracting your grip.

He nodded, slightly tense, “Thanks.” Then, after a slight pause, “Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”

His hands went directly to his belt. You dropped your forkful of spaghetti in your bowl – shocked to say the least.

Somehow, it took him fiddling with his belt buckle for you to realise just how fucking pretty they were; you didn’t even know you liked hands until that very moment, seeing him expertly unbuckle himself with ease, and before you could let your mind wonder too far into the sudden fantasies that had purged your mind, you abruptly spun in your chair, heart racing and eyes staring blankly in font of you in complete bewilderment. Somehow, none of it felt real.

You were beginning to think he was doing all of this on purpose; that there was a plain insinuation behind your level of enjoyment and the fact that he was taking off his clothes in your front room.

Nevertheless, you remained somewhat normal in your reactions despite every morsel in your body burning with anticipation of something that wouldn’t happen. You turned your attention back to the TV, humming in agreement and spinning your fork in your bowl, desperate to prove you weren’t reacting to his actions, “Yeah, I did. I had fun. You were amazing, as usual. And the seats had a good view.”

You heard him laugh behind you. You weren’t aware you said anything that was funny, but you refrained from turning around, wanting to give him some privacy.

“We lost.”

You swallowed, looking at your bowl at his defeated tone.

It had been partly the reason you were on edge at his arrival in the first place; whenever Petey lost, he’d usually come over with the promise of a takeout, talk for half an hour and then sit and watch whatever you’d happen to agree on that night. You hadn’t had the chance to deduce Quinn’s post-match attitude, so this was all new territory, and your nerves were amplified because it felt like more was resting on how you reacted to his mood than it would have if it had been Petey in your apartment.

It felt like there was more to lose with Quinn.

“Didn’t impact my levels of enjoyment.” You tested the waters, waiting for a reply. When you didn’t get one, you continued, “I mean, I am disappointed for you and the team, and a little pissed you took a puck to the face again, but I mostly had fun just because I got to see you play.”

The rustling of clothing stopped behind you, and you strained your ears, desperate to gauge a reaction of some sort.

“Are you okay?” You poked, beginning to feel a little pit of dread form due to his lack of reaction.

He didn’t answer, just made his way around the sofa, picking up the bowl you’d left for him. You could feel him stop, eyes burning into the side of your face. You looked at him, noting the slight furrow to his brow as he looked from you to the bowl and back again – seemingly considering something important.

The hesitation on his face could have been from a number of things, but he was taking too long to answer a yes or no question, and it was sending you nerves haywire. Your cheeks flushed at the intensity of his gaze, and you paused eating as well, waiting for him to say something.

“Do you want to talk about it?” It was a futile question, and you were beginning to get slightly frustrated at his pensieve silence. You’d prefer it if he’d verbally voice his thoughts out loud so then you could get a grip on exactly what was racing through his mind.

He cleared his throat, just as a text buzzed through on your phone.

Petey: idk what you did but you broke quinn today

You: he’s unresponsive rn. catatonic. send help

Petey: WHAT DID YOU DO?

You: literally told him he played well and was glad i could watch him play.

Petey: symptoms?

You: i’d say silence but it’s not exactly out of character

You: he’s looking at me like i shot a horse in front of him though

Petey: oh

You: expand.

Petey: tell him to look at my messages IMMEDIATELY

You cleared your throat this time, placing your phone on the sofa next to you, turning back to Quinn, who’d abruptly turned his attention back to his bowl of spag bol, “Petey wants you to look at his message.” Was all you said.

He nodded, hand digging into his pocket and though it had only been a minute of silence since you’d asked the last question – not entirely long enough for the silence to become awkward, but long enough for Quinn’s neck to turn red, as though he’d only just realised he forgot to answer your question.

You waited patiently, concern slightly elevated when he coloured, blinking and awkwardly putting his phone back in his pocket, seemingly stuck with what to do with himself.

You couldn’t tell if he was horrified or downright confused, and as you spooned another forkful of spaghetti into your mouth, you couldn’t help the small smile of amusement that had crept onto your face.

“What the fuck is up with you tonight?” You found yourself asking, tone probably a little sterner than you’d initially intended — driven by the will it took you to squander the laugh bubbling up your throat as Quinn swung his head in your direction, eyes wide and an offended noise expelled.

“What the fuck is up with you?” He shot back, a telltale smile on his face, a drastic change to five minutes prior.

Petey worked his magic, then.

The tension in his shoulders seemed to evaporate and he seemed to gain some more energy, allowing him to freely overcome the imaginary blockage in his mind that meant he lost the ability to communicate with you for a bit. He seemed to melt back into the Quinn you knew how to communicate with.

Your jaw dropped, “What have I done?”

Quinn narrowed his eyes, as though he couldn’t quite believe your naivety to the situation, and when it was clear you genuinely had no clue what was happening, he rolled his eyes, “Little Miss 'I had fun just because I got to see you play’.”

Your eyes flickered to your TV, mind completely boggled at his reaction, before returning to him, unable to help the side-eye you were giving him as your mouth curled into a frown, “What about it?”

Quinn chuckled darkly for a second, “It’s like you genuinely don’t know the effect you have on me, or something.”

You shut your eyes, tilting your head in confusion as you let his words sink in properly. You held up a finger, but before you could speak he was talking again.

“On another note, this spag bol is delicious, you should be a chef — oh—”

You cut off his lame excuse of a joke, jabbing the held up finger into his side and finding a great deal of amusement in the way he yelped, automatically tensing, “Very funny. But let’s just backtrack a second—”

“Do we have to?” He groaned, cheeks red.

It was obvious he’d said his previous statement in a way that he’d meant for you to skip straight over it, and it was even more obvious that he was rather enjoying this confrontation of sorts, a smirk pulling onto his cheeks as he pretended to be embarrassed, turning his head at an angle and away from you as best as he could.

“Yes. We do.” You placed your bowl back on the table, now more confused than you had been at his sudden silence. “Because first of all, you come in and strip. Right in front of me—” You could tell he was about to protest, and you held up a hand, imploring him to keep quiet, “And then when I answered your question honestly, and then ask you ones in return, which — I don’t know if you know this, is how a conversation occurs – you just shut the fuck up and didn’t talk until Petey did whatever he did.”

He was ready to jump in, and placed his own bowl back on the coffee table, “The stripping thing was because I hate wearing suits around the house, they’re not exactly comfy for lounging around in—”

“What, you couldn’t get changed in my room?”

“No, because you wouldn’t have seen me that way—”

“What the fuck?” You gaped, unable to help laughing a little, “Was that you trying to flirt with me?”

He neglected to answer your question, instead carrying on with his original stream of thought, “And you can’t be oblivious to what you’re doing to me, surely? You’ve been saying all these things, even from the wedding, and I don’t know if you’re being intentional, but it makes me wonder—”

“Are you trying to tell me that my hints haven’t been landing with you?” You muttered, slightly concerned.

It was true, you had been giving him hints — hoping he’d at least recognise them. You thought it had gone straight over his head, but his words only seemed to confirm that he’d been collecting an armoury of sorts, and even despite all his collated evidence, seemed to lack the belief that you were meaning what you were saying.

You didn’t believe his disbelief — partly because (even though you had been slightly afraid of his rejection, you knew he’d let you down slowly) you’d not exactly been subtle with your comments.

Even Kuzy had picked up on it, and English wasn’t even his first language.

Quinn stopped, stared and breathed. He almost looked hurt, not including the sustained injury, “You meant all of that?” He asked, just as confused as you.

“Yes!” You all but yelled. “I just thought it all went over your head or that you were letting me down gently by not reacting or doing anything about it.”

At this he recoiled, looking offended, “Why the fuck would I reject you?”

You shrugged sarcastically, “Maybe because you haven’t given me much to suggest you’re even interested, dipshit.”

“Me? Not done anything to show I was interested?” He echoed, his voice getting higher in pitch as his disbelief skyrocketed. He jumped across the sofa to get closer, though you had a sneaking suspicion it was because his brain only seemed to think he was getting his point across if he told you face-to-face — in the more literal sense, “Okay, so the wedding? I chased you outside and then asked you if you wanted to get something to eat—”

“Because you saw me looking at you and didn’t want to be rude?” You reasoned.

You truly thought that was why he’d followed you out that night. Quinn was a polite guy, always following through and ensuring people felt welcome and included. That might had only been a reflection of that.

“Dude, no!” He winced.

“Don’t call me ‘dude’.” You pulled a face, and he nodded.

“You’re missing the fact that I fucking chased you from the conference room because I just couldn’t not talk to you that night.” He took a deep breath, running a stressed hand through his hair.

You pressed your lips together automatically, trying to hide the need to desperately touch him as a few strands still wet from his earlier shower hung limply in front of his face. You didn’t realise it but mouth parted slightly even imagining running a hand through his hair. You’d done it before at Petey’s party, but then you’d been a little intoxicated and given a helping hand in courage, but you had none of that now.

It was just you and Quinn.

“I don’t chase people on foot.” Was what he said then, “Ever.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

He groaned, his head collapsing in his hands, completely oblivious to the way you were trailing your eyes over the veins across his hands, and the curls on top of his head. You took a shaky breath, and it seemed to garner his attention because he lifted his face out of his hands slowly, furrowing his brows as he took in your nervous state.

“What’s up?” He asked, his eyes flicking between yours, a small smile slowly entering as you shook your head, taking a deep breath.

“You look way too hot right now.” You admitted quietly, clenching your jaw to contain yourself.

His reaction was instantaneous; his entire demeanour seemed to switch from frustrated to something unfamiliar. He swallowed, his smile diminishing. The only thing that seemed to bring you some comfort in his reaction was the way his eyes seemed to darken and his jaw flexed as his gaze travelled from your eyes straight to your lips in an incredibly unsubtle way. He wasn’t being shy.

His cheeks reddened and he paused, considering.

Then he lifted his hand and in one simultaneous notion he was guiding you towards him, hand gently resting on your neck, though before he’d even touched you you were leaning forwards to meet him halfway, both your mouths clashing in a greedy mess. His grip on you tightened in response to your hand tugging in his hair, and you found yourself being lowered to the sofa, Quinn’s arm snaking around your back as his body pressed you further into the cushion.

You allowed him to slot a knee between your legs, and neither one of you slowed your motions at the change of angle, mouths still moving against each other with a rhythm that would have had you guessing if you’d kissed Quinn before.

It was just so easy.

A desperate sound and slightly breathy moan escaped him when you tugged on his hair a little harsher, and it had you pulling him impossibly closer, his arms collapsed from where they’d been propping himself up, and every inch of him was pressed against you. With the newfound closeness, you could feel the way his chest was heaving clumsily, almost in time with your own hurried breaths.

Neither one of you wanted to pull away, your lips tingling and skin burning from where he slid a hand under the hem of your borrowed jersey.

You both lost your control embarrassingly easily, the added contact only fuelling your desires. You felt like a teenager again, with the way you were both rolling your hips into one another, leaving no choice but to pull away as your breathing became shallower, a delicious ache throbbing forming where you were both chasing the friction.

You both finished your spaghetti covered in blankets and smiling like lovesick idiots.

And then Quinn started laughing, “I know where all your tattoos are now.”

#art #quinn hughes

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