honeyslibrary

[honeyslibrary]

omg i absolutely love otter and your fic for him was so good

Thank you so much!!!! 🥹🩵🩵🩵🩵

[honeyslibrary]

Game Five | Jake Oettinger

Pairing; Jake Oettinger x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Established relationship, SMUT, cursing, angst(?), edited once, not sure what else

Summary; Stars are eliminated from the playoffs with a 6-3 loss from Edmonton on home ice.

Word Count; 2k

Authors Note; I will be very shocked if Pete DeBoer is still employed by the Dallas Stars come next season. Absolutely asinine comments to make about your franchise goaltender. Anyways, my first time writing for Jake! Hope I did alright! ☺️ I honestly thought there would be a lot more fics for him then there is...Sooo if you have a favorite Otter fic please let me know 🙏🏽 -Honey

The drive home is a heavy silence, thick with the weight of disappointment and frustration that hangs between you like fog. Jake doesn't speak. Hasn't said a word since you left the arena twenty minutes ago. Doesn't glance your way, doesn't acknowledge the soft music you turned on to fill the void. Just stares ahead through the windshield, jaw locked tight enough that you can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin, knuckles white around the steering wheel like he's trying to strangle it.

The city lights blur past in streaks of amber and red, but you're not really seeing them. Your attention is fixed on the man beside you, on the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his breathing is still too controlled, too measured. You know better than to try to pull him out of it, you've been here before, in this exact passenger seat, watching him wrestle with demons that have nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with it at the same time. He's not ready, not tonight. Not after that game. Not after those words that cut deeper than any blade ever could.

Two goals on two shots in the first period. Pulled seven minutes in, walking that long, shameful trek to the bench while eighteen thousand people watched in stunned silence. And then DeBoer afterward, throwing numbers and blame like knives during postgame media, his voice steady and clinical as he dissected Jake's performance for the world to see. "The reality is if you go back to last year's playoffs, he's lost six of seven games to Edmonton. And we give up two goals on two shots in an elimination game...That's a pretty big sample size."

Your stomach had twisted hearing it, imagining Jake's face go blank in that way it does when he's putting walls up.

When you finally pull into the driveway of your shared house, the one you bought together last summer, Jake doesn't pause. The car engine dies with a quiet rumble, and he's out before you can even unbuckle your seatbelt. He doesn't wait for you, doesn't hold the door, just heads straight inside and makes a beeline for the bathroom. The water starts running almost immediately, too hot, the pipes groaning in protest.

You take your time gathering your purse, your jacket, wanting to give him the space he needs. The house feels different now that Jake's season is officially over, bittersweet in a way that hurts yet again. You change into one of his old practice shirts, the fabric soft and worn, smelling faintly of his cologne and something that's just uniquely him. Nothing else besides panties, and the shirt that hangs to mid-thigh and makes you feel wrapped in his embrace even when he's not around to give it.

You climb into bed with the TV on low, some late-night talk show host making jokes you're not really listening to. The shower is still running, has been for fifteen minutes now, and you can almost feel the scalding water he's standing under, trying to wash away the sting of failure and public criticism. You wait patiently, because that's what you do. That's what you've always done.

When he finally emerges, he's wrapped in steam and nothing else, a towel around his waist that he drops almost immediately. His hair is damp and disheveled, skin flushed pink from the heat, and there are still droplets of water clinging to his shoulders, his chest. He looks raw, vulnerable in a way that makes your heart ache. His eyes meet yours for a fraction of a second, brown and wounded and angry, and then he's moving with purpose and desperation.

Towel dropped. No words. No gentle preamble or soft touches.

He climbs onto the bed and kisses you like he needs to breathe and you're his only source of oxygen. Like he has to have this, has to have you, or he might just fall apart completely. His mouth is frantic against yours, all tongue and teeth and barely controlled hunger, hands tugging at your shirt with an urgency that speaks to something deeper than desire.

You let him. You want him to. You've been waiting for this moment, knowing it would come, knowing he would need this release, this way of proving to himself that he's still worth something to someone. His hands are everywhere—tangling in your hair, skimming over your ribs, pulling at the hem of his shirt until you lift your arms and let him strip it away.

He doesn't bother with your panties, just pulls them to the side with a roughness that only makes your breath catch, makes heat pool low in your belly. There's something intoxicating about being wanted this desperately, about being the safe harbor he runs to when the world feels like it's crumbling around him.

He slides his cock into you with one devastating thrust, burying himself to the hilt with a low, guttural groan that vibrates through both your bodies. He's thick and hard and perfectly right, filling you completely, and his body is tense above you, every muscle coiled tight with frustration and need. His movements are unrelenting as he starts to move, hips snapping against yours with a rhythm born of desperation rather than finesse.

"Fuck," he mutters, voice rough and broken in your ear, hot breath making you shiver. "Two fucking shots. Two."

The words are bitter, self-deprecating, and you wrap your legs around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, taking everything he's willing to give and asking for more. Your hands smooth over the broad expanse of his back, feeling the play of muscle beneath skin that's still damp from his shower.

"Team didn't fucking show up," he growls, the sound vibrating against your throat where he's buried his face. His hips snap into yours harder, more punishing, like he's trying to fuck the anger right out of himself. "Defense might as well have stayed in the locker room. But it's all my fault, right? Always is."

You thread your fingers through his hair, the short strands still wet at the ends, holding him close as his pace grows harsher, more erratic. You can feel the tension radiating from every inch of him, the way he's wound so tight he might snap at any moment. "No, baby." You whimper out.

"They skate around like it's fucking preseason," he continues, each word punctuated by a deep, punishing thrust that has you gasping, seeing stars. "Give up breakaways like party favors. But I'm the one getting roasted on national TV."

His breathing is ragged, harsh pants against your skin, and he's angry. He's furious at his teammates, at his coach, at the media, and at himself most of all. But not at you. Never at you. You're his sanctuary, his safe place to fall apart, and he knows you'll catch every piece of him that breaks off.

"They hung me out to dry for three fucking games," he groans, voice cracking slightly on the words. "I can't be in net and score goals too."

You press your lips to his jaw, soft and quick, tasting salt and frustration and something that's purely him. Your own arousal is building, heat spreading through your body like wildfire, but this isn't about you right now. This is about him, about giving him what he needs to survive another night, another loss, another public humiliation.

"I'm here," you whisper, voice steady despite the way he's making you shake. "I'm right here, Jake."

He groans into your neck, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he doubles down, fucking you harder, like he's chasing something he's afraid he'll never catch, some sense of worth or validation that always seems just out of reach.

"Pete wants a scapegoat? Fine," he bites out, and you can hear the bitterness in his voice, the way any respect for his coach was slowly going down the drain with every passing minute. "I’ll be it."

Your back arches off the mattress, body slick with sweat and heat and the friction of skin against skin. Your nails rake down his back, leaving red lines that he'll feel tomorrow, marking him as yours in the most primitive way possible. You moan his name, the sound torn from your throat as he hits that perfect spot inside you, as the tension coils tighter and tighter in your core.

He catches your mouth again, tongue sliding against yours with urgency, desperate to try and pour everything he can't say into the kiss.

"Fuck, baby, you take it so good," he growls against your lips, and his voice is wrecked, absolutely destroyed. "Always here for me, never giving up on me. Never putting the blame on me like everyone else."

The words make your heart clench, make you clutch him tighter, feeling your own climax build with the raw emotion in his voice, the desperation in his movements. He's falling apart in your arms, coming undone in the most beautiful, heartbreaking way, and all you want is to catch every piece of him and hold them safe.

"Come with me," you whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear, breath hot against his skin. "Let go, Jake. Please."

And when he finally does, when he buries himself deep and moans your name like a prayer, it's a breakdown. A surrender, a need too big for words or logic or anything beyond the innate human desire to be held, to be wanted, to matter to someone even when the rest of the world seems determined to write you off.

You follow him over the edge, your own pleasure crashing through you like a tidal wave, clinging to him with everything you have, giving him your own surrender without question or reservation. Your bodies move together in those final moments, finding a rhythm that's purely instinctual.

After, he doesn't pull away like he sometimes does when the vulnerability gets to be too much. Instead, he stays pressed to you, still inside you, still connected in the most intimate way possible. His forehead rests against your collarbone, breath slowly evening out, and you can feel the gradual loosening of his muscles as the tension finally starts to drain away.

"I don't know what the hell I'm doing anymore," he murmurs, and the admission is so quiet you almost miss it.

You kiss his temple, and your hands move to trace gentle patterns on his back, delicate and soothing. "You're doing your best. That's more than enough."

"Is it, though?" He lifts his head slightly to look at you, and his eyes are so brown, so lost. "Because it doesn't feel like enough. Feels like I'm failing everyone. The team, the fans, you..."

"Never me," you say firmly, cupping his face in your hands. "You could never fail me, Jake. Good game or bad, you're still the man I chose, still the man I love."

He exhales slowly, a shaky breath that seems to carry some of his pain with it. His arms tighten around your waist like you're his lifeline, like if he holds you close enough, maybe the rest of the world, with its expectations and criticisms and crushing weight of professional sports, will go quiet for just a little while.

"I don't want to talk about hockey anymore," he says after a long pause, voice small and tired.

"Then let's not," you say softly, pressing another kiss to his forehead. "The rest of it can wait until tomorrow."

And he does. He stays curled around you, breathing you in, letting your heartbeat steady his own. In the upcoming days, they'll be end of the season interviews where he'll have to face the music again, locker room clean outs, or maybe a meeting with management. But tonight, in this bed, in your arms, he's just Jake. Not a goaltender or a disappointment or a cautionary tale. Just the man you love, holding onto you, finding comfort in you.

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[honeyslibrary]

psssh hi… accepting requests for jake oettinger 😊

[honeyslibrary]

Sex Therapy | Quinn Hughes

Pairing; Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Established relationship, fluff, alluding to smut, reader works in a hospital, edited once, not sure what else

Summary; Reader had a hard day at work and Quinn is finally home from a 10 day road trip

Word Count; 3.0k

Authors Note; I binged the show The Pitt and that inspired readers job lol. Also the title is sort of random, I just named it after Sex Therapy by Robin Thicke (the song I listened to while writing this, feel free to give it a listen while you read along) Any thoughts & reblogs are appreciated! 🩵 -Honey

The fluorescent hospital lights still burned behind your eyelids as you fumbled with your keys in the dim hallway of your apartment building. Your scrubs clung uncomfortably to your skin, and the familiar ache in your feet reminded you of the twelve-hour shift that had finally come to an end. The emergency department had been particularly brutal tonight: three car accident victims, two cardiac arrests, and a steady stream of patients that never seemed to end. Your body felt heavy with exhaustion, but more than that, your heart felt heavy with the weight of the day's losses and small victories.

As you turned the key in the lock, you noticed the warm glow of light spilling from beneath the door. Your pulse quickened slightly, Quinn was supposed to be coming home from the road trip today, but you hadn't been sure when exactly he'd arrive. The team had been gone for a week and a half, playing five games across the country, and you'd missed him with an intensity that surprised you even after two years together.

The door opened before you could push it fully, and there he was. His hair was slightly tousled from travel, and he was wearing the soft gray henley you'd bought him last Christmas, smiling at you with those warm hazel eyes that always seemed to see straight through to your soul.

"Hi, baby," Quinn said softly, his voice carrying that familiar gentle tone he reserved just for you. He stepped forward, careful to leave space between your bodies, knowing your routine by now. Instead, he cupped your face gently in his hands and pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that tasted like coming home. It was soft and welcoming, full of the longing that had built up over ten days apart.

When you separated, you leaned your forehead against his chest for just a moment, breathing in the scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely him. "I missed you so much," you whispered against the soft cotton of his shirt.

"I missed you too. More than you know." His thumb traced along your cheekbone. "Rough day?"

You nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of everything settling back onto your shoulders. "Long day. Really long day."

Quinn's expression softened further, if that was possible. He'd learned to read the subtle differences in your tired. There was regular tired from a normal shift, and then there was this bone-deep exhaustion that came from days when the job took more from you than usual.

"I'll run a bath," he said, pressing another gentle kiss to your forehead. "Be right back."

You kicked off your sneakers by the door, your feet sighing in relief as they hit the cool hardwood floor. The apartment looked exactly as you'd left it that morning, except for Quinn's travel bag sitting by the couch and his jacket draped over the back of a chair. The sight of his things scattered naturally throughout the space made something tight in your chest finally begin to loosen.

You padded to the kitchen and sank onto one of the barstools at the island, letting your head fall forward onto the counter. From the bathroom, you could hear the sound of water running, followed by Quinn moving about. A few minutes later, he appeared in the doorway.

"Tub's ready," he said, and something about the simple statement made your eyes prick with tears. After the day you'd had, the thought of sinking into hot water felt like the most luxurious thing in the world.

You made your way to the bathroom, where Quinn had lit the small candles you kept on the windowsill and dimmed the overhead light. The bathtub was filled with steaming water, and you could smell the eucalyptus scent of the Epsom salts he'd added. Your favorite bath towel was warming on the radiator, and he'd even thought to put your silk robe on the hook where you could easily reach it.

"Quinn," you breathed, turning to find him leaning against the doorframe with a soft smile.

"Take your time," he said. "I'll be right outside if you need anything."

You changed out of your scrubs, leaving them in a pile that you'd deal with tomorrow, and sank into the hot water with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in your soul. The heat immediately began working on the knots in your shoulders and the persistent ache in your lower back from being on your feet all day. You closed your eyes and let yourself float for a few minutes, feeling the stress of the day beginning to dissolve.

A gentle knock on the door pulled you from your meditative state. "Can I come in?" Quinn's voice was quiet, respectful.

"Please," you called back, and the door opened to reveal Quinn carrying two wine glasses and a bottle of the Pinot Grigio you'd been saving for a special occasion.

"Figured you coming home alive from another shift was special enough," he said with a small smile, settling cross-legged on the bathroom floor beside the tub. He poured wine into both glasses and handed you one, the cool glass a nice contrast to the warm water.

You took a sip and felt some of the last tension leave your body. Quinn had changed into boxers and a wife beater, clearly settling in for the long haul. This was something he'd started doing early in your relationship, giving you space to decompress and talk through your day when you needed it. He'd quickly learned that your job wasn't something you could just leave at the hospital, that sometimes you needed to process the emotions and experiences out loud before you could truly be present at home.

"Tell me about today," he said gently, taking a sip of his own wine and settling more comfortably against the bathroom cabinet.

And so you did. You told him about Mrs. Patterson, the elderly woman who'd come in with chest pain that turned out to be anxiety about her upcoming surgery. You told him about the seventeen year old who'd been brought in after a skateboarding accident, how scared he'd been, and how you'd held his hand while they waited for his parents. You told him about the man who'd had a heart attack in the parking lot, how the team had worked for forty minutes to bring him back, and how it hadn't been enough.

Quinn listened without interruption, occasionally asking gentle questions or making soft sounds of understanding. He'd learned not to try to fix things or offer solutions, you didn't need that. You just needed someone to witness the weight of what you carried, to acknowledge that the work you did mattered and that it was okay for it to affect you.

"I'm sorry about Mr. Hendricks," he said quietly when you finished telling him about the patient you'd lost. "You did everything you could."

"I know," you said, voice thick with emotion. "It's just... some days are harder than others, you know?"

"I know." Quinn reached over and gently traced his fingers along your arm where it rested on the edge of the tub. "I'm proud of you. Every single day, I'm proud of the work you do, the lives you save, the comfort you give people in their scariest moments."

You felt tears prick your eyes again, but these were different. Not the exhausted tears of earlier, but something warmer, more healing. "Thank you," you whispered. "For this, for listening and stuff."

Quinn smiled and leaned forward to press a kiss to your damp forehead. "Of course."

You sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, sipping wine and letting the hot water continue its work on your tired muscles. Finally, you looked over at Quinn, really taking him in for the first time since you'd gotten home.

"Now tell me about you," you said. "How was the trip? How are you feeling about the games?"

Quinn's expression shifted slightly, and you could see him weighing how much to share. The team had gone 2-3 on the road trip, including two particularly tough losses that you'd watched on your phone during breaks at work.

"It was rough," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "The Boston game especially. We had it, you know? We were up by two going into the third, and then..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm cut out for this captain thing. The guys look to me to set the tone, to keep everyone's heads up when things go sideways, and I just... I felt like I let them down."

You studied his face, seeing the frustration and self-doubt he tried so hard to hide from everyone else. This was Quinn in his most vulnerable state, not the confident captain the media saw, not even the supportive partner he was with you most of the time, but the young man who sometimes felt the weight of expectations crushing down on him.

"You know what I see when I watch you play?" you said softly. "I see someone who never gives up. Someone who's the first one back to help defend and the last one to stop trying to make something happen. I see you talking to the rookies between shifts, making sure they know they're supported. I see you taking responsibility for things that aren't your fault because you care that much about the team."

Quinn looked up at you, surprise flickering across his features.

"You're learning," you continued. "Leadership isn't something you just wake up one day knowing how to do perfectly. It's something you grow into, and you're growing into it beautifully. The team wouldn't have chosen you if they didn't believe in you."

"Sometimes I miss being able to just focus on my own game," he admitted quietly. "Now I'm thinking about everyone else's confidence, everyone else's performance..."

"That's what makes you a good captain," you said. "You care. But Quinn, you can't control everything. You can't save every game single handedly, just like I can't save every patient. All we can do is show up, do our best, and trust that it's enough."

Quinn was quiet for a long moment, processing your words. Finally, he smiled, a real smile this time, not the media-trained one he wore for interviews.

"When did you get so wise?" he asked, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Probably somewhere between my third cup of coffee and my fifteenth hour on my feet today," you said with a small laugh. "But also, I learned from watching you. You do the same thing for me when I have hard days."

You shifted in the water, which was still perfectly warm, and reached for the small bottle of body wash on the edge of the tub. "I should probably actually wash up while I'm in here," you said, squeezing some of the lavender-scented gel into your washcloth.

Quinn watched as you began to soap your arms and shoulders, his eyes soft with affection. "Here, let me help," he said, moving from his spot on the floor to kneel beside the tub, his hand taking the cloth from you. "Turn around."

You shifted so your back was facing him, and felt his gentle hands begin to work the soap across your shoulders and down your back. His touch was firm but gentle, working out the knots of tension that had settled there during your long shift. You let out a soft sigh as his thumbs found a particularly tight spot between your shoulder blades.

"Better?" he asked.

"Much better," you murmured, letting your eyes drift closed as he continued his ministrations.

After a few more minutes of his careful attention to your back and shoulders, Quinn's hands moved to your hair. "Lean back," he said softly, and you tilted your head back as he cupped water in his hands to wet your hair thoroughly.

You felt him reach for your shampoo bottle, and then his fingers were in your hair, working the soap through from roots to ends with a gentleness that made your eyes flutter closed. This was pure luxury, the feeling of someone else's hands massaging your scalp, working away the stress of the day along with the antiseptic smell of the hospital that seemed to cling to everything.

"I love your hair," Quinn murmured as he worked, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles across your scalp. "I missed being able to touch it, to smell your shampoo on the pillow next to me."

You made a soft sound of contentment, completely relaxed under his touch. "I missed your hands," you admitted quietly. "The way you hold me like I'm something precious."

Quinn's movements paused for just a moment at your words, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion. "You are precious. You're the most precious thing in my world."

He continued washing your hair with infinite care, taking his time to work the shampoo through every strand before carefully rinsing it out, cupping water in his hands to pour over your hair while shielding your face from the stream. Then came the conditioner, which he worked through the ends of your hair with the same meticulous attention.

"You're really good at this." you hum, your voice dreamy with relaxation.

"We've been dating for what, two years?" Quinn said with a soft chuckle. "I have a lot of practice."

While the conditioner sat in your hair, Quinn picked up the washcloth and began to finish washing the rest of your body with the same attention he'd given your hair. His touch was intimate but not demanding, loving rather than lustful, and you felt yourself melting further into the warm water.

"Quinn," you said softly as he rinsed the conditioner from your hair with the same gentle precision.

"Mmm?" he hummed, focused on making sure he got every last bit of soap out.

"Thanks for taking care of me."

He pressed a soft kiss to the side of your neck, his lips warm against your damp skin. "You don't have to thank me, you never have to." he said simply. "I love you."

The water was finally starting to cool, and you could feel your skin beginning to prune slightly. Quinn seemed to notice at the same time, reaching for the drain plug.

"Ready to get out?" he asked, already reaching for the warm towel he'd prepared earlier.

You nodded, feeling refreshed and renewed in a way that went far beyond just being clean. As you stood up slowly, water cascading off your body, Quinn was there with the towel, wrapping it around you with the same gentle care he'd shown throughout the entire bath.

But this time, as he rubbed the soft terry cloth over your arms and back, there was something different in the air between you. The exhaustion was still there, but it was the good kind now, the kind that came from being completely relaxed and cared for. And underneath it, you could feel something else stirring, a warmth that had nothing to do with the hot water and everything to do with the way Quinn was looking at you.

"I missed you so much," you said again, your voice barely above a mumble as you looked up into his eyes.

"I missed you too," Quinn replied, his hands stilling on the towel as he held your gaze. "Every single day. Every night lying in those hotel beds, wishing I was here with you instead."

You reached up to cup his face, your thumb tracing along his cheekbone. "You're here now," you said softly.

"I'm here now," he agreed, leaning into your touch. His eyes were dark and warm, full of love and longing and something deeper that made your breath catch.

Without breaking eye contact, you let the towel drop to the floor. Quinn's gaze flickered down briefly before returning to your face, and you could see the desire there, carefully controlled but unmistakable.

"Bedroom?" you whispered, and Quinn nodded. He blew out the bathroom candles, before leading you out of the steamy bathroom.

The bedroom felt cool after the warmth of the bath, and you could see that Quinn had been busy before he'd brought in the wine. He'd picked up the clothes you'd strewn about earlier in a rush, cleaned off the bed, and opened the window just a crack to let in some fresh air. The action made your heart swell with love for this thoughtful, wonderful man.

You turned to face him in the muted lamp light, suddenly feeling almost shy despite everything you'd just shared. It had been ten days since you'd been together like this, and your body felt hypersensitive, alive with anticipation.

"We don't have to do anything," Quinn said softly, reading your expression. "If you're too tired, we can just go to sleep. I just want to be close to you."

But that wasn't what you wanted. The bath, his hands on you, it had all served to awaken something in you that had been dormant during your time apart. You wanted him, wanted to reconnect in the most intimate way possible, to show him with your body what your words couldn't fully express.

"I want you," you said simply, "I want to be with you, maybe just go slow? I'm a little tired."

Quinn's smile was soft and full of love. "Whatever you want, baby," he promised, his hands coming up to frame your face. "We have all night, and nowhere to be tomorrow except right here with each other."

You can find the 18+ extended cut of this fic, (2k+ words of smut), on my Patreon, or via the direct link: HERE

[honeyslibrary]

just wanted to say i absolutely adore the sweet girl universe <3

omg!! this means so much to me because I love it so much too 😭😭🥹

[honeyslibrary]

Kindergarten Blues | Quinn Hughes

Pairing; dad!Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); fluff, dad Quinn being soooo adorable, not sure what else

Summary; It's Scarlett's first day of kindergarten, and a certain someone is a mess (installment in the Sweet Girl universe)

Word Count; 3.4k

Authors Note: I love this so so much 😭 -Honey

The first hints of dawn streaked through the curtains of your bedroom as your alarm gently chimed. You reached over to silence it before it could wake Quinn, who was still fast asleep beside you. His face was peaceful, the worry lines that often appeared during hockey season smoothed away. You allowed yourself a moment to watch him, knowing that today would be an emotional one for your little family.

Today was Scarlett's first day of kindergarten.

The thought sent a flutter of anxiety through your chest. How was it possible that your baby girl was already old enough for school? It seemed like just yesterday that Quinn was holding her tiny newborn form in his hockey-calloused hands, looking terrified and awestruck all at once.

You slipped out of bed, padding quietly to the bathroom to brush your teeth and splash some water on your face. The house was quiet, that special kind of stillness that existed only in the early morning. You checked the time, 6:30 AM. Perfect. You had planned everything meticulously to ensure a smooth, unhurried morning for Scarlett's big day.

The lunch you'd prepared the night before waited in the refrigerator: a heart-shaped sandwich (peanut butter and honey, her favorite), apple slices arranged in a flower pattern, carrot sticks, a small container of ranch dip, and a special first-day-of-school cookie you'd picked up from her favorite bakery. Her brand-new lunchbox, sparkly purple with hockey sticks along the border, a special custom order that had made her squeal with delight when she opened it—sat on the counter, ready to be packed.

You started the coffee maker, knowing Quinn would need the caffeine boost this morning. He'd been putting on a brave face about Scarlett starting school, but you caught him looking at baby photos late at night several times in the past week.

With the coffee brewing, you made your way to Scarlett's bedroom. The door was decorated with wooden letters spelling out her name, each one painted by Quinn during your pregnancy. His way of nesting. You pushed it open gently, peeking inside.

Your daughter was sprawled across her bed, one arm flung over her head. Her wild brunette curls, just like Quinn's in texture and color, were spread across her pillow. The covers had been kicked to the foot of the bed, her favorite stuffed penguin clutched tightly against her chest. The penguin had been a gift from Luke and Jack when they'd played the Canucks last season, and it had rarely left her side since.

You sat on the edge of her bed, brushing a curl away from her face.

"Scarlett," you whispered, running a hand gently over her back. "Time to wake up, baby."

She stirred, burying her face deeper into her pillow.

"Sweet girl," you tried again, using Quinn's special nickname for her. "It's a big day today."

Her eyes fluttered open, revealing those striking hazel eyes that were an exact copy of her father's. For a moment, she looked confused, then understanding dawned on her face and she bolted upright.

"Is it school day?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep but vibrating with excitement.

You nodded, unable to suppress your smile at her enthusiasm. "It's school day, baby."

She threw her arms around you, squeezing tight. "I'm gonna be a kindergartener!" she declared, as if it were the most impressive achievement in the world. And to her, it was.

"You sure are," you agreed, returning her hug. "Should we go wake Daddy?"

Scarlett nodded vigorously, already scrambling out of bed. She raced down the hallway in her Care Bear pajamas, gifted by your coworker last Christmas, her bare feet pattering against the hardwood floors.

You followed more slowly, watching as she burst into your bedroom and launched herself onto the bed.

"Daddy! Daddy! It's school day!" she exclaimed, bouncing on the mattress.

Quinn groaned dramatically, pretending to be annoyed by the wake-up call, but you could see the smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He reached out and grabbed Scarlett mid-bounce, pulling her into a bear hug as she squealed with delight.

"Is it your first day already?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep. "I thought that was next year."

"No, Daddy," Scarlett giggled, squirming in his grasp. "Today! September fifth! You promised you'd drive me in your truck!"

"Did I say that?" he teased, tickling her sides. "I can't remember making such a promise."

"You did!" she insisted between fits of laughter. "You pinky swore!"

"Well, if I pinky swore, then I definitely have to do it," Quinn conceded solemnly. "Pinky swears are sacred."

You watched from the doorway, your heart so full it felt like it might burst. Quinn caught your eye over Scarlett's head, and the look that passed between you was one of shared amazement. How did we get so lucky?

"Okay, sweet girl," Quinn said, releasing her from his grip. "If you're going to be a kindergartener today, you should probably get dressed, right?"

Scarlett nodded seriously. "In my new outfit," she specified. "The one with the sparkly stars."

"That's right," you confirmed. "And what about breakfast? What does a kindergartener eat on her first day?"

"Pancakes!" she declared without hesitation. "With blueberries and maple syrup. The real kind from Canada, not Aunt Jemima." She butchers the name, but it’s amusing nonetheless.

Quinn laughed at that. "That's my girl, already a maple syrup snob at six years old."

"Uncle Brock says the American stuff is just sugar water," Scarlett informed you both primly, repeating something she'd overheard at a team barbecue.

"Does he now?" you asked "Well, why don't you and Daddy get started on those pancakes while I grab your outfit?"

Scarlett scrambled off the bed, tugging Quinn's hand. "Come on, Daddy! I'll help crack the eggs!"

"Just what I need in the morning, eggshells in my pancakes," Quinn muttered, but he was smiling as he allowed himself to be pulled from the bed.

You headed to Scarlett's room, opening her closet to retrieve the outfit she'd picked out weeks ago for this special day: a denim jumper with silver stars embroidered across the front, a light purple t-shirt to go underneath, white leggings with more stars along the sides, and her prized possession, light-up sneakers that twinkled with each step. It wasn't the most coordinated outfit, but it was pure Scarlett. Bright, vibrant, and unapologetically herself.

Downstairs, you could hear the sounds of Quinn and Scarlett in the kitchen: the clatter of mixing bowls, Scarlett's high, excited voice, and Quinn's deeper responses. By the time you joined them, flour dusted the countertop, and Quinn had a streak of it across his forehead.

"Mommy, I'm making the best pancakes ever!" Scarlett announced, standing on her step stool by the counter, wooden spoon in hand.

"I can see that," you said, setting her clothes on a clean section of counter. "The kitchen is wearing almost as much batter as is in the bowl."

Quinn shot you an apologetic look. "We got a little excited with the mixing."

"It's a special day," you conceded, dropping a kiss on his flour-dusted cheek. "I think the kitchen can handle a little mess."

While Quinn supervised the pancake cooking, you helped Scarlett get dressed in her chosen outfit. Her excitement was contagious, and you found yourself getting caught up in her joy as she twirled to make her sneakers light up.

"Mommy," she said suddenly, her expression turning serious. "Can you do my hair in pigtails today? With the purple ribbons? I want to look pretty for my teacher."

"Of course, sweet girl," you replied, using Quinn's nickname without thinking. "You're going to be the cutest in the class."

After breakfast, which was indeed quite delicious despite the mess involved in its creation, you took Scarlett to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She insisted on doing it herself, "because I'm a big girl now," but you took over brushing the back molars.

Then came the hair styling. You sat her on a stool in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully parting her blonde curls down the middle and working each side into a neat pigtail. The purple ribbons were tied into perfect bows, and when you were finished, Scarlett beamed at her reflection.

"I look like a princess," she declared, a descriptor that perfectly encapsulated your daughter's dual obsessions.

"The prettiest princess I've ever seen," Quinn agreed from the doorway, now showered and dressed in dark jeans and a button-down shirt, far more put-together than his usual off season attire of athletic shorts and a t-shirt.

You raised an eyebrow at him. "You clean up nice, Captain."

He shrugged, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. "It's a big day. Thought I should make an effort."

While Quinn helped Scarlett put on her backpack, a miniature version of his Canucks gear bag, complete with the number 43 and "HUGHES" emblazoned on the side, you grabbed her lunch and the small chalkboard sign you'd prepared the night before.

Outside, the morning was crisp and clear, a hint of autumn in the air despite it only being early September. Quinn's truck was parked in the driveway, freshly washed for the occasion.

"Picture time!" you announced, holding up the sign that read "My First Day of Kindergarten" in your neatest handwriting.

Scarlett posed proudly in front of the house, holding the sign with both hands, her smile so wide it seemed to take up half her face. Quinn stood back with you, his arm around your waist, watching as your daughter preened for the camera.

"She's going to be fine," you whispered to him, sensing the tension in his body. "She's so ready for this."

"I know," he murmured back. "It's not her I'm worried about."

After what felt like a hundred photos, solo shots of Scarlett, pictures with you, with Quinn, with both of you, with just her backpack, with her lunchbox, it was finally time to leave for school.

"I call shotgun!" Scarlett yelled, racing toward Quinn's truck.

"Nice try, sweet girl," Quinn laughed, opening the back door instead. "Kindergarteners ride in the back seat. Captain's orders."

Scarlett huffed but allowed herself to be buckled into her booster seat. "When I'm seven, can I ride in the front?"

"When you're sixteen," Quinn countered.

"Eight?"

"Fifteen."

"Nine?"

"Fourteen and that's my final offer."

You listened to their familiar negotiation game with a smile as you climbed into the passenger seat. This was their thing, a back-and-forth that could go on for ages, neither one ever actually expecting to win but both enjoying the verbal sparring nonetheless.

The drive to Scarlett's elementary school was short but seemed to stretch on forever. You glanced back frequently, watching as Scarlett's eyes widened at the sight of other children walking hand-in-hand with their parents toward the school building.

Quinn was unusually quiet, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. You reached over, placing your hand on his thigh, offering silent support. He gave you a tight smile in return.

Finding a parking spot proved challenging, with every parent accompanying their child on the first day, but Quinn eventually wedged his truck between a minivan and an SUV.

"Ready, sweet girl?" he asked, his voice admirably steady as he helped Scarlett down from her seat.

She nodded, suddenly looking much smaller with her oversized backpack and lunchbox. She reached for both your hands, positioning herself between you and Quinn.

The walk to her classroom was a blur of activity. Other parents taking photos, teachers greeting new students with bright smiles, older children rushing to find their friends after the summer break. Through it all, Scarlett held tight to your hands, her initial bravado tempered now by the reality of what was happening.

Outside Room 8, a young woman with a warm smile and curly brown hair stood greeting each child. A name tag on her dress read "Ms. Jones."

"You must be Scarlett," she said, kneeling down to your daughter's level. "I'm Ms. Jones. I'm so excited to have you in my class this year."

Scarlett inched slightly closer to Quinn's leg but managed a small "Hi."

"I love your pigtails," Ms. Jones continued. "And those shoes are amazing! Do they light up?"

Scarlett nodded, stomping one foot to demonstrate. The action seemed to bolster her confidence. "My daddy got them for me. He's the captain of the Canucks."

Ms. Jones' eyes flickered briefly to Quinn, a flash of recognition there and quickly suppressed. To her credit, she redirected her attention immediately back to Scarlett. "Well, that's very exciting! We have a special helper job called 'Line Leader' in our classroom. Maybe you'd like to try that today?"

Scarlett's eyes widened. "Like a captain?"

"Exactly like a captain," Ms. Jones confirmed. "Would you like to come in and see where your cubby is? You can put your backpack away."

Scarlett looked up at you and Quinn, seeking reassurance. You nodded encouragingly, even as your throat tightened with emotion.

"We'll be right here," Quinn promised, his voice rougher than usual. "We're not leaving yet."

That seemed to be all the encouragement Scarlett needed. She let go of your hands and stepped forward to take Ms. Jones' outstretched one.

"I'll bring her right back to say goodbye," the teacher assured you both before leading Scarlett into the colorful classroom.

As soon as Scarlett was out of sight, you felt Quinn's hand grip yours tightly. You turned to look at him and were startled by the sheen of tears in his eyes.

"Quinn," you murmured, squeezing his hand. "Are you okay?"

He tried to smile but it wobbled precariously. "Yeah, I just... she's so small, you know? And that backpack is almost as big as she is, and what if the other kids aren't nice, or what if she gets scared and we're not there, or what if—"

"Quinn," you interrupted gently, turning to face him fully. "She's going to be fine. She's strong and smart and friendly. She's got this."

He nodded, taking a deep breath. "I know. I know she does. She's the bravest person I know, and she's only six." He laughed shakily.

You smiled. "Remember when she was four and insisted on skating with the team during family skate? No fear whatsoever."

Quinn's eyes softened at the recollection. "She went straight up to Demko and told him his pads were too big and that's why he kept falling down."

"And he just nodded like she'd given him the most profound advice," you added, laughing.

The brief walk down memory lane seemed to steady Quinn somewhat, but when Scarlett reappeared in the doorway, backpack stowed and ready to officially start her day, you felt him tense beside you.

"Mommy! Daddy! I have my own hook with my name on it!" she exclaimed, pointing back into the classroom. "And there's a reading corner with beanbags and a science table with a real microscope!"

"That sounds amazing, sweet girl," Quinn said, kneeling down to her level. "Are you ready for your first day?"

Scarlett nodded enthusiastically, but then hesitated. "Will you come get me after school is over? Promise?"

"Wild horses couldn't keep us away," Quinn assured her, pulling her into a tight hug. "I'll be counting the minutes until I see you again."

You watched as he held onto her just a fraction longer than necessary, his eyes squeezed shut as if committing the moment to memory. When he finally released her, you could see he was fighting back tears.

"Have the best day, baby," you said, taking your turn to hug her. "We can't wait to hear all about it later."

Scarlett beamed at you both, then turned to Ms. Jones, who was waiting patiently nearby. "I'm ready now," she declared with all the gravity a six-year-old could muster.

"Excellent," Ms. Jones smiled. "Say goodbye to your parents, and then we'll find your seat for morning circle."

"Bye, Mommy! Bye, Daddy!" Scarlett called, already moving toward the classroom. "Love you infinity!"

"Love you infinity plus one," Quinn responded automatically, your family's familiar farewell.

And then she was gone, disappearing into the classroom with one last wave and a flash of light-up sneakers.

You and Quinn stood frozen for a moment, staring at the spot where she'd been. Around you, other parents were wiping away tears or hugging each other for support.

When you turned to Quinn, you were startled to see tears flowing freely down his face.

"Quinn," you whispered, pulling him a few steps away from the classroom door for privacy.

He tried to speak but choked on the words. Instead, he pulled you into a fierce hug, burying his face in your neck. You could feel the dampness of his tears against your skin.

"It's okay," you soothed, rubbing circles on his back despite the lump in your own throat. "She's okay."

"I know," he managed after a moment, his voice muffled against you. "I just... when did she get so big? I still remember the first time I held her, she was so tiny I was terrified I'd break her."

You smiled at the memory. Centered, unflappable Quinn Hughes, renowned for his composure under pressure on the ice, completely undone by a seven-pound newborn.

"And now she's walking into that classroom like she owns the place," he continued, pulling back slightly to look at you, his hazel eyes, so like Scarlett's, swimming with tears. "When did that happen?"

"One day at a time," you replied simply, reaching up to wipe a tear from his cheek. "That's how it always happens."

Quinn took a deep, shuddering breath, collecting himself. "I thought I was prepared for this," he admitted. "I even gave myself a pep talk in the shower this morning."

"Did it include 'don't cry in front of the other dads'?" you teased gently.

He groaned, glancing around to see if any of the other parents had noticed his breakdown. "Petey is never going to let me live this down if he finds out."

"Your secret's safe with me," you promised, linking your arm through his as you began walking toward the exit. "Although I have to say, I'm a little surprised. I thought I'd be the emotional wreck today."

Quinn shrugged, his composure slowly returning. "I think it hit me harder because... well, she's my little angel, you know? We have our morning skates and our secret handshake and our special pregame rituals. And now she's going to have this whole life that doesn't include me."

The vulnerability in his admission made your heart ache. "She'll always be your little girl," you assured him. "School doesn't change that."

He nodded, though he still looked a bit lost. "I just hope she has a good day."

"She will," you said confidently. "And then she'll come home and tell us all about it, and tomorrow will be a little easier, and the day after that easier still."

You reached the truck, and Quinn opened your door before walking around to the driver's side. Inside, the silence felt heavy with the absence of Scarlett's chatter from the back seat.

Quinn stared at the school building through the windshield, making no move to start the engine. "Is it ridiculous that I want to sit in the parking lot all day, just in case she needs us?"

You reached over, taking his hand in yours. "Not ridiculous. Very sweet, but not practical."

He sighed, finally turning the key in the ignition. "I suppose you're right."

"How about this," you suggested. "Let's go get breakfast, just the two of us. When was the last time we did that?"

Quinn considered this, a small smile finally breaking through his melancholy. "Probably before Scarlett was born."

"Exactly. We can go to that diner you like, the one with the ridiculously strong coffee."

"And the breakfast casseroles?" he asked, perking up slightly.

"Those very ones," you confirmed. "And then we can take our time, maybe walk along the seawall, and still be back with plenty of time to pick her up."

Quinn nodded, finally putting the truck in reverse. "Okay, yeah. That sounds good." He glanced at you, love and gratitude evident in his expression. "Thank you."

"For what?" you asked.

"For knowing exactly what to say. For being strong when I'm a mess. For giving me the most amazing daughter in the world." He leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "For everything."

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[honeyslibrary]

Luke Hughes Masterlist

All of my Luke Hughes fics found in one place for your convenience! I hope you enjoy my writing 🤍

NSFW A-Z Headcannons (6.5k) (18+)

↳ Based on this request: "NSFW Luke Hughes boyfriend headcannons?"

Tangled in You (2.3k) (18+)

↳ Lazy morning sex with Luke.

Sunshine (7.8k)

↳ Based on this request: "can you do one about luke where like they are long distance since he moved to NJ and they finally get to spend the summer together after being apart the whole season"

I Love You, I'm Sorry (4.5k)

↳ Reader and Luke get a taste of how difficult being in a long distance relationship is.

[honeyslibrary]

Native Tongue | Nico Hischier

Pairing; Nico Hischier x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Smut, cursing? (can’t remember lol), fluff, established relationship, edited once

Summary; Reader asks Nico to teach her some Swiss German

Word Count; 4.6k

Authors Note: This is so simple and the smut is more rushed than I’d like but I still love this so much. This was my first time writing for Nico and I’d say I did pretty okay? Translations are from Google so hopefully those aren’t too butchered 🙏🏽 Love you guys!! Accepting requests for Nico pls send if you have any 🩵🩵 -Honey

P.S: Scrolling Pinterest to find pics for the title/cover and oh my God is he beautiful. The brown eyes and dimples combo will do it every time I’m actually giggling at work I want him sooooo badly

The soft glow of a bedside lamp cast shadows across Nico's apartment, the warm light complementing the muted tones of his bedroom. Outside, Newark was alive with its usual evening bustle, but inside, time seemed to slow to a gentle rhythm. It was one of those rare off nights during the season. No game, no travel, just time to breathe.

You had been dating Nico Hischier for just over three weeks now. Everything still carried that new relationship electricity: the flutter in your stomach when he texted, the warmth that spread through your chest when he smiled at you across a room, the way his Swiss accent thickened when he was tired or excited.

Tonight was simple. No fancy dinner reservations or planned activities, just you and him, lying on his bed, shoulders touching, talking about anything that crossed your minds. The conversation flowed easily between you, jumping from childhood memories to favorite movies to plans for the upcoming weekend.

His hand was resting in yours, and you traced the lines of his palm with your fingertips, feeling the calluses that told stories of countless hours gripping a hockey stick. These were the hands that had cradled pucks, won face-offs, and occasionally, thrown punches in defense of teammates. Now, they were relaxed in yours, trusting.

"Does this feel good?" you asked, pressing your thumb into the center of his palm in small, circular motions.

He hummed in contentment. "Very. Where did you learn to do this?"

"I had a friend who was a massage therapist. She taught me a few things." You continued working on his hand, moving to his fingers, gently pulling and stretching each one. "Hockey players need hand massages, right? All that stick handling."

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. "It's not something we talk about, but yes. Hands, wrists... they take a beating."

"Well, consider this a service to the Devils, then. I'm helping maintain their captain."

His smile was visible even in your peripheral vision. "Very thoughtful of you."

You both fell quiet for a moment, comfortable in the silence. The soft whirr of the heating system provided a gentle backdrop to your thoughts. Outside, a car horn honked, distant and unimportant.

"Can I ask you something?" you said finally, your voice soft in the dimly lit room.

"Anything."

"Would you teach me some Swiss German? Just a few phrases?"

Nico turned his head to look at you, his expression curious. "Really? Why?"

You shrugged, still focused on massaging his hand. "I don't know. It's part of who you are. I want to know all parts of you." You paused, suddenly feeling a bit vulnerable. "Plus, I think it sounds beautiful when you speak it."

He was quiet for a moment, and you worried you'd said something wrong. But when you finally looked at him, his eyes were soft with an emotion you couldn't quite name.

"That's... no one has ever asked me that before." He shifted to face you better. "What would you like to learn?"

You grinned, excited. "Start with the basics? Hello, goodbye, thank you?"

Nico nodded, looking thoughtful. "Alright. So, 'hello' is 'grüezi' in Swiss German."

"Grüezi," you repeated, the unfamiliar word clumsy on your tongue.

His smile widened. "Not bad for a first try. Try again, but it's more like... 'GRÜE-tzi' with emphasis on the first part."

"Grüezi," you attempted again, trying to mimic his pronunciation.

"Better! Now, 'goodbye' can be 'uf widerluege'."

You laughed. "That's a mouthful. Uf... wider..."

"Widerluege," he finished, his voice patient. "It literally means 'until we see each other again'."

"That's actually beautiful. Uf widerluege," you tried, the words feeling foreign but fascinating on your lips.

"And 'thank you' is 'merci vielmal'."

"That sounds part French!"

Nico nodded. "Swiss German borrows from many languages. We're surrounded by different cultures."

"Merci vielmal," you said, feeling proud when his eyes lit up at your decent pronunciation.

"Perfect! You're a natural."

The praise warmed you. "What else can you teach me?"

Nico thought for a moment. "How about... 'I like you'? That's 'Ich mag dich'."

"Ich mag dich," you repeated, looking directly into his eyes as you said it.

Something shifted in his expression, his eyes darkening slightly. "Very good."

"And how would you say 'I really like you'?" you asked, your voice dropping to just above a whisper.

"Ich mag dich würklich sehr," he replied, his voice equally soft.

You repeated the phrase slowly, "Ich mag dich würklich sehr."

His eyes never left yours as you spoke, and you noticed the way his breathing seemed to have quickened slightly. Feeling emboldened, you placed his hand down and shifted to face him fully.

"What about..." you hesitated, "how would you say 'kiss me'?"

The atmosphere in the room changed, charged with unspoken tension. Nico's eyes dropped to your lips for a brief moment before meeting your gaze again.

"Küss mich," he said, his accent thicker than before.

"Küss mich," you whispered.

He didn't move immediately, his eyes searching yours for confirmation. Then, slowly, he leaned in, his hand coming up to cup your cheek as his lips met yours in a soft, questioning kiss.

When he pulled back, his expression was serious, almost lustful. "Say something else," he requested, his voice rougher than before.

"What should I say?"

"Anything," he replied. "Just... in Swiss German."

You cast your mind back to the phrases he'd taught you, feeling a strange power in knowing how much it affected him to hear you speak his native language.

"Grüezi," you said softly, watching his reaction. "Ich mag dich würklich sehr."

His exhale was shaky. "Again," he whispered.

"Küss mich," you repeated, more confidently this time.

He closed the distance between you once more, this kiss deeper, more certain. His hand moved from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you responded eagerly, your own hand coming to rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken under your palm.

When you separated, both of you were breathing harder. The look in his eyes was intense, almost vulnerable in its honesty.

"You have no idea what it does to me," he admitted, his voice low, "hearing you speak my language."

"I think I'm getting an idea," you replied with a small smile. "How do you say 'I want you'?"

His eyes darkened further. "Ich will dich."

"Ich will dich," you repeated, maintaining eye contact.

A soft groan escaped him. "Your pronunciation is terrible," he said, but his tone was affectionate, teasing.

"Then teach me," you challenged, shifting closer to him.

"Say it again," he instructed, his hand now resting on your waist.

"Ich will dich."

"The 'ch' is deeper, from the back of your throat," he explained, his fingers drawing small circles on your hip.

You tried again, inadvertently making the same mistake.

He shook his head, a smile playing at his lips despite the intensity in his eyes. "No, listen to me. Ich."

"Ich," you repeated, still not quite getting it right.

"Here," he said, bringing his hand up to touch your throat gently. "You feel it here when you say it correctly."

You tried again, focusing on the sensation under his fingertips.

"Better," he nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "Now the whole phrase."

"Ich will dich."

"Perfect," he whispered, and then his lips were on yours again, more urgent this time, his hand sliding from your throat to your hair, fingers tangling in it as he pulled you closer.

You responded in kind, your hand moving up his chest to his shoulder, then to the back of his neck, feeling the short hairs there. The kiss deepened, his tongue seeking entrance, which you granted readily, a small sound of pleasure escaping you.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you catching your breath. "How do you say 'beautiful'?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Schön," he replied, equally quiet.

"Du bist schön," you attempted, guessing at the structure.

His eyes widened slightly in surprise before crinkling at the corners with his smile. "That's right. You're learning quickly."

"I have a good teacher," you replied, running your fingers lightly through his hair.

He closed his eyes briefly at your touch, then opened them again, his gaze intense. "It's strange," he said softly.

"What is?" you asked, still running your fingers through his hair.

"Hearing someone speak my language... it's like hearing a piece of home." He caught your hand in his, bringing it to his lips to kiss your knuckles. "Especially someone I care about."

The tenderness in his gesture made your heart flutter. "Even if my pronunciation is terrible?"

"Especially then," he laughed softly. "It's... I don't know how to explain it. When you speak English, you're just you. But when you try to speak Swiss German..." He paused, seeming to search for the right words. "It's like you're reaching for a part of me that not many people here get to see."

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at his words. "I want to see all parts of you, Nico."

His eyes darkened at that, and he shifted slightly, bringing himself closer to you. "Say it again," he murmured.

"What?"

"Ich will dich," he prompted.

You repeated the phrase, trying your best to match his pronunciation, "Ich will dich."

A small groan escaped him, and he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was deeper, more urgent than before. His hand moved to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek as his tongue sought entrance, which you granted eagerly.

When you broke apart, both breathing heavily, there was an unmistakable hunger in his eyes. "I don't know why it affects me so much," he admitted. "Hearing you speak Swiss German. It just... does something to me."

You smiled, feeling a surge of power at the knowledge. "Then I should probably keep practicing," you said, your tone deliberately innocent even as you shifted closer, eliminating the last bit of space between your bodies.

"Absolutely," he agreed, his hand moving to your waist, fingers slipping just under the hem of your shirt to touch bare skin. "It's important to practice."

"Küss mich," you whispered, remembering the phrase he'd taught you earlier.

He didn't need to be told twice, his lips finding yours again as his hand splayed across your lower back, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the heat of his body through your clothes, the solid strength of him as he held you.

"One more phrase," you breathed when you separated for air. "How do you say 'I want you to touch me'?"

His eyes, already dark with desire, seemed to grow even more intense. "Ich will, dass du mich berührst," he replied, his accent thicker than usual.

You tried to repeat it, stumbling over the unfamiliar sounds, and he smiled, the expression somehow both tender and predatory.

"Close enough," he murmured, and then his hand was moving, tracing a path up your side with deliberate slowness.

"And how do you say 'don't stop'?" you asked, your voice catching as his fingers traced patterns on your skin.

"Hör nicht auf," he told you, watching your face intently.

"Hör nicht auf," you repeated, the words turning into a soft gasp as his touch became more purposeful.

His hand slid higher beneath your shirt, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs tantalizingly slow. The warmth of his palm against your skin sent shivers down your spine, each touch igniting something deep within you. His eyes remained fixed on yours, gauging your reactions, seeming to find satisfaction in every small catch of your breath.

"Another phrase?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that you could feel through his chest where it pressed against yours.

You nodded, not trusting your voice as his thumb traced lazy circles just below the underwire of your bra.

"How about 'please'?" you managed, your voice slightly unsteady.

His lips quirked into a small smile. "Bitte."

"Bitte," you echoed, the word barely audible.

Something flashed in his eyes. Hunger, affection, and something deeper that made your heart race. "Say it again," he instructed, his hand stilling its movement.

You understood his game immediately. "Bitte," you repeated, more urgently this time.

His smile widened slightly, satisfaction evident in his expression as his hand resumed its exploration, this time venturing higher. His touch was confident but gentle, asking permission without words.

"Yes," you breathed, answering his unspoken question.

And then his mouth was on yours again, hot and demanding, as his hand finally moved to cup your breast over your bra. You arched into his touch, a small moan escaping into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, his kiss deepening as his thumb brushed over the fabric covering your nipple.

Your own hands weren't idle, moving to explore the firm planes of his chest through his t-shirt. You could feel the defined muscles beneath the soft cotton, the result of years of athletic training. Feeling emboldened, you tugged at the hem, silently asking for permission to remove it.

Nico broke the kiss long enough to help you, sitting up slightly and pulling the shirt over his head in one fluid motion before tossing it aside. You took a moment to admire him: the broad shoulders, the lean muscle, the scattered freckles across his skin that you'd never noticed before.

"Schön," you said softly, using one of the few words he'd called you that seemed appropriate.

His expression softened at your use of his language. "That's my line," he replied, reaching to touch your face with gentle fingers. "Du bist wunderschön."

"What does that mean?" you asked, leaning into his touch.

"You are beautiful," he translated, his eyes never leaving yours.

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten with emotion. You leaned forward to press your lips to his collarbone, then moved higher to the sensitive spot just beneath his ear that you'd discovered during your earlier make-out sessions. He inhaled sharply, his hand moving to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

"Your turn," he murmured, tugging lightly at the bottom of your shirt.

You nodded, allowing him to help you remove it. The cool air of the room raised goosebumps on your newly exposed skin, but they were quickly replaced by warmth as Nico's hands moved to your waist, drawing you closer again.

His kisses became more insistent, trailing from your lips to your jaw, then down your neck. You tilted your head to give him better access, sighing with pleasure as he found a particularly sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder.

"How do you say 'more'?" you asked breathlessly.

"Meh," he replied against your skin, the word followed by a gentle nip that made you gasp.

"Meh," you repeated, and felt him smile against your neck before he continued his exploration, his mouth moving lower to the swell of your breasts above your bra.

His hands found the clasp of your bra, but he paused, looking up to meet your eyes. "Is this okay?" he asked, suddenly serious.

You appreciated his care, his constant checking in. It was one of the things that had drawn you to him, his consideration, his respect, his unwillingness to assume.

"Yes," you nodded, adding with a small smile, "Ja."

He unhooked your bra with practiced ease, sliding the straps down your arms and setting it aside. There was reverence in his gaze as he looked at you, his hands coming up to cup your breasts with gentle pressure.

"Beautiful," he whispered, this time in English.

You felt a flush spread across your chest and up to your cheeks, but there was no embarrassment in it, only warmth at the naked admiration in his eyes. He lowered his head, replacing one of his hands with his mouth, and you arched against him, a soft moan escaping your lips.

His tongue circled your nipple before taking it between his lips, the gentle suction sending sparks of pleasure coursing through you. Your hand moved to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, encouraging him.

"Nico," you breathed, his name a prayer on your lips.

He hummed in response, the vibration adding another layer to the sensation. His free hand wasn't idle, moving to give your other breast equal attention, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak in rhythm with his mouth.

The dual stimulation was intoxicating, but you wanted more. Your hands moved down his back, feeling the shift of muscle beneath warm skin as he moved. You traced the ridge of his spine, then moved lower, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

He lifted his head from your breast, eyes dark with desire as they met yours. "Tell me what you want," he said, his voice rough.

You considered using one of the Swiss German phrases he'd taught you, but in this moment, you wanted complete clarity. "I want to feel you," you said simply. "All of you."

His expression grew serious, though the hunger in his eyes didn't diminish. "Are you sure? We don't have to rush anything."

The care in his question made your heart swell. Three weeks wasn't a very long time, but in those weeks, you'd spent nearly every free moment that he had together. You'd talked for hours, shared meals, watched games, exchanged stories about your lives. There had been countless kisses, increasingly heated make-out sessions, but you'd both been content to take things slowly. Until now.

"I'm sure," you nodded, reaching up to touch his face. "I want this. I want you."

He turned his head to press a kiss to your palm, the gesture unexpectedly tender amidst the heat of the moment. "I want you too," he replied, his accent thicker than usual with emotion. "But we go at your pace, okay? You tell me if you want to stop, anytime."

"I will," you promised.

He nodded, seemingly satisfied, then leaned down to capture your lips again. This kiss was different—slower, deeper, more deliberate. His hands moved to your waist, then lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans. He looked at you again, a silent question, and you nodded.

With careful movements, he unbuttoned your jeans and helped you shimmy out of them, leaving you in just your underwear. His eyes traveled over your body with appreciation, but there was also something protective in his gaze.

"Your turn," you said, reaching for the drawstring of his sweatpants.

He helped you, pushing them down and kicking them off. Now both of you were down to your underwear, the thin fabrics the only barrier between you. You could feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against your thigh, and the knowledge that you affected him so strongly was intoxicating.

His hand moved to your hip, fingers tracing the edge of your underwear. "May I?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

"Please," you nodded, adding with a small smile, "Bitte."

The corner of his mouth quirked up at your use of Swiss German. Slowly, maintaining eye contact, he slid your underwear down your legs, his touch leaving trails of fire on your skin. Once they were removed, he took a moment just to look at you, his expression a mix of desire and something that looked remarkably like awe.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured, shaking his head slightly as if in disbelief. "I don't know what I did to deserve this."

"You're just you," you replied simply, reaching for him. "That's more than enough."

He came willingly into your arms, his body covering yours, the weight of him a delicious pressure. You could feel every inch where your skin touched his, chest to chest, hip to hip, legs tangled together. His hand moved between your bodies, fingers tracing patterns on your stomach, then lower, seeking permission in your eyes before venturing further.

You nodded, your breath catching as his fingers found your core, exploring with gentle curiosity. He watched your face intently, learning what made your breath hitch, what made your back arch, what drew sounds of pleasure from your throat.

"Küss mich," you whispered, remembering the phrase he'd taught you earlier.

His eyes darkened at your use of his language, and he leaned down to comply, his kiss hungry and deep as his fingers continued their skilled movements. You were lost in sensation, the world narrowing to just this, his touch, his taste, the weight of him above you.

When he pulled back from the kiss, his eyes were serious. "Do you want to continue?" he asked, his voice rough with restraint.

"Yes," you nodded without hesitation. "Do you have...?"

"Protection? Yes," he confirmed, reaching toward the nightstand drawer.

You took the opportunity to help him remove his boxers, your eyes widening slightly at the sight of him fully naked. He was beautiful. All lean muscle and smooth skin, his body a testament to years of athletic discipline.

He retrieved a condom from the drawer, and you watched as he rolled it on with practiced movements. Then he was hovering over you again, his weight supported on his forearms on either side of your head, his eyes searching yours.

"Are you sure?" he asked one more time, his voice gentle.

The care in his question made your heart swell. "I'm sure," you nodded, reaching up to touch his face. "Ich will dich," you added, using the phrase he'd taught you earlier.

A groan escaped him at your words, and he leaned down to kiss you deeply as he positioned himself. "Tell me if you need me to stop," he murmured against your lips.

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as he began to push forward, entering you with carefully slow. The sensation was intense, and you focused on your breathing, on relaxing, on the feeling of him gradually filling you.

When he was fully seated, he paused, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing as uneven as your own. "Okay?" he asked, concern evident in his voice despite the strain of holding still.

"More than okay," you assured him, shifting your hips slightly to adjust to the feeling of him inside you. "You can move."

He started slowly, with gentle, measured thrusts that allowed both of you to adjust to the sensation. His eyes never left yours, watching for any sign of discomfort, but all he would find was pleasure building with each movement.

Gradually, as your body relaxed and welcomed him, his pace increased. Your hands moved to his back, feeling the play of muscles as he moved above you, within you. The room filled with the sounds of your combined breathing, occasional moans, and the rustle of sheets.

"Okay?" he asked again, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control.

"Yes," you gasped, arching to meet his thrusts. "Don't stop—Hör nicht auf."

His rhythm faltered momentarily at your use of Swiss German, a groan escaping him. "You're killing me," he muttered, but there was affection in his tone beneath the desire.

He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly stars exploded behind your eyelids as he hit a spot deep within you that sent pleasure coursing through your veins. "There," you breathed, "right there."

Understanding immediately, he maintained the angle, his thrusts becoming more purposeful. One of his hands moved between your bodies, finding the bundle of nerves at your center, circling with just the right pressure.

The dual stimulation was overwhelming, pleasure building rapidly within you. You could feel yourself teetering on the edge, every muscle tightening in anticipation.

"Nico," you gasped, feeling the tension coiling tighter.

"I've got you," he murmured, his voice strained but reassuring. "Let go. I want to see you."

His words, combined with the relentless rhythm of his hips and fingers, pushed you over the edge. Pleasure crashed over you in waves, your body arching against his as you cried out his name. He worked you through it, his movements slowing but not stopping, prolonging your pleasure for as long as possible.

As you came down from your high, you became aware of his still-rigid length inside you, of the tension in his muscles as he held himself in check. You reached up to touch his face, bringing his eyes to meet yours.

"Your turn," you said softly, clenching around him.

A groan tore from his throat, his control visibly slipping. "Are you sure? I can—"

"I want to feel you," you cut him off, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper. "Let go."

Something in your eyes must have convinced him, because with a shuddering breath, he began to move again, his rhythm more urgent now. You watched his face, fascinated by the play of emotions: pleasure, concentration, and something deeper that made your heart race.

His movements became more erratic, his breathing harsh, and you knew he was close. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him down so that your bodies were pressed together, chest to chest.

"Ich will dich," you whispered in his ear, remembering how strongly he'd reacted to you speaking his language earlier.

The effect was immediate. He groaned, deep and guttural, his hips jerking against yours as he found his release. You held him through it, hands stroking his back, murmuring encouragement as he shuddered above you.

For a long moment afterward, neither of you moved, content to stay connected, his weight a pleasant pressure, his breath warm against your neck. Finally, he shifted, carefully separating from you and moving to dispose of the condom in the bathroom.

When he returned, he immediately gathered you back into his arms, pulling the rumpled sheets over both of your cooling bodies. You settled against his chest, listening to the gradually slowing beat of his heart, feeling utterly content.

"Are you okay?" he asked after a while, his voice soft in the dim room.

You nodded against his chest. "More than okay."

His hand moved to stroke your hair, gentle and soothing. "That was..." he seemed to search for the right word.

"Amazing?" you supplied, tilting your head to look at him.

He smiled, the expression soft and genuine. "Amazing," he agreed, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. "But I meant what happened between us. It's not just physical for me."

The vulnerability in his admission made your heart swell. "It's not just physical for me either," you assured him, reaching up to touch his face. "I really care about you, Nico."

His eyes softened at your words. "I care about you too," he replied, his accent thicker with emotion. "Very much."

You settled back against his chest, feeling his arms tighten around you. Outside, Newark continued its evening bustle, car horns honking and sirens wailing in the distance. But in here, in the soft glow of Edison bulbs, there was just the two of you, wrapped in warmth and newfound intimacy.

"Teach me one more phrase," you murmured, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest.

"What would you like to know?" he asked, his voice rumbling beneath your ear.

You thought for a moment. "How do you say 'stay with me'?"

He was quiet for a beat, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. "Blieb bi mir."

You repeated it, looking up to meet his eyes as you did. "Blieb bi mir."

His expression was tender as he looked down at you. "As long as you'll have me," he promised, pulling you closer.

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Rookie Card | Jack Hughes

Pairing; Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Fluff, established relationship, little to no knowledge of Costco (I've never been lol), edited once, that's it I think!

Summary; Jack finds out that reader keeps a certain card in her wallet

Word Count; 3.1k

Authors Note: I feel like if this happened IRL he'd be such a little shit about it and would not stop teasing 😭 Also I don't have a Costco membership idk what they sell there and I did not look it up to be accurate 🥴 -Honey

You knew this Costco trip was a mistake the moment Jack grabbed the cart.

"I'm driving," he'd announced with that lopsided grin that still made your stomach flutter after eight months together. That grin had gotten you into this relationship in the first place. The same one he'd flashed at you across the bar the night you met, when your friend had elbowed you and whispered, "Holy shit, that's Jack Hughes," and you'd pretended not to know exactly who he was.

Now that same grin was steering an overloaded shopping cart through the warehouse chaos of Costco on a Sunday afternoon, which felt considerably less charming.

"Slow down," you call out as he narrowly avoids clipping an elderly woman examining a stack of discounted bestsellers. "This isn't the ice, Hughes."

Jack shoots you a look over his shoulder. "I'm being careful! Besides, we need to beat the sample rush. Those little pizza bagel things go fast."

You roll your eyes but can't help cracking a smile. For a professional hockey player who regularly gets body-checked into boards, Jack has an almost childlike enthusiasm for the free samples at Costco. It's endearing, even if his cart navigation skills leave much to be desired.

Two hours later, the cart is piled dangerously high with everything from the mundane essentials you actually came for (paper towels, coffee beans, that specific brand of Greek yogurt Jack insists is the only acceptable post-workout snack) to the impulse purchases that somehow found their way in when you weren't looking (a 2.5lb bag of dried mango slices, a folding camp chair, and what appears to be an industrial-sized container of protein powder).

"Do we really need all this?" you ask, eyeing the mountain of products as you approach the checkout area.

Jack looks genuinely confused. "Which part don't we need?"

"I don't know, maybe the trashcan sized candle?"

"You said your apartment always smells like hockey gear!"

"I meant you should do laundry more often, not turn the place into a Yankee Candle outlet."

He shrugs, unrepentant. "Trust me, I'm doing us both a favor."

As you approach the front of the store, Jack steers the cart toward the self-checkout area.

"The regular lines aren't that long." you comment, glancing at the regular checkout lanes where actual employees could help with the small mountain of purchases you've accumulated.

Jack scoffs. "Self-checkout is way faster. Plus, I'm basically a professional at scanning."

"Since when?"

"I did a grocery store commercial last season, remember? Spent like three hours scanning the same box of cereal from different angles."

You bite back a smile. "I'm pretty sure that doesn't translate to actual scanning skills."

"I forgot you were the expert," he rolls his eyes, smiling as he maneuvers the cart into the self-checkout lane.

The Costco self-checkout is already chaos. The cart is overloaded, the scanner next to yours keeps yelling "place item in the bagging area," and Jack is too busy pretending the jumbo box of Goldfish is a dumbbell to be remotely helpful.

"Four pounds of pure cracker power," he announces, curling the box in perfect form. "Could be a new workout trend. Snackercise."

An exasperated mother with twin toddlers shoots him a look that's half annoyance, half recognition. You've gotten used to the double takes, the whispers, the occasional autograph requests. Jack handles them with ease, always friendly, always gracious, never making it weird. It's one of the things you admire about him, even if you're still adjusting to dating someone whose face is plastered around the city.

Today, thankfully, the mother is too focused on keeping her children from dismantling the candy display to approach. Jack sets down the Goldfish box with a mock grunt of exertion and turns his attention back to you.

"Want me to scan stuff?" he offers, reaching for the box of protein bars you're holding.

"I've got it," you say quickly, having witnessed his "scanning skills" on previous shopping trips. The last time you let him take over at Target, you'd ended up with three accidental duplicates and one item that never made it into the system at all.

You're juggling a case of sparkling water and trying to scan your membership barcode from the app when you groan.

"It's not loading," you mutter, tapping frantically at your phone screen where the Costco app has frozen on a loading icon. "Can you just get my wallet? It's in the pink one, middle pocket of my bag."

Jack perks up like you just asked him to defuse a bomb. "On it," he says, already elbow deep in your tote. "Why do you carry so much stuff in here? Are you secretly a suburban mom?"

"Just grab the wallet," you sigh, shifting the sparkling water to your other arm. The self-checkout machine beeps impatiently, its screen flashing a demand for your membership ID.

"I'm exploring uncharted territory here," Jack narrates, rummaging dramatically. "I may need supplies. Possibly a headlamp."

The employee monitoring the area, a tall guy appearing about your age, wearing a faded Yankees cap, glances over with amusement. You feel a flash of self-consciousness, aware of how you and Jack must look: bickering over a shopping cart like you've been married for decades rather than dating for months. It's comfortable, though. That's what surprised you most about being with Jack, how quickly the comfort came, how easily you fell into each other's rhythms.

Jack pulls out a crushed receipt, a Tide pen, and a tampon like he's on Let's Make a Deal. "Is this a snack bar? Why do you have a Canadian penny in here? What year even is this?"

"Jack." Your patience is wearing thin. The case of water is getting heavier by the second, and the lady behind you is starting to make pointed throat-clearing noises.

"Okay, okay," he says, finally fishing out your wallet and flipping it open. "Looking for the ol' Costco membership—" He hands you the card, "wait a sec."

You pause mid-scan, turning slowly at the change in his tone. "What?"

He's gone still. Smirking.

"No way." His voice cracks slightly as he pulls out a small, glossy rectangle. "Is this? Babe, is this my rookie card?"

Your stomach drops. "Oh my God, Jack. Give me that."

The blood rushes to your face so quickly you feel light-headed. Of all the things he could have found: the ancient gum wrapper you keep forgetting to throw away, the fortune cookie paper with the embarrassingly accurate prediction about meeting a handsome stranger, even the crumpled CVS receipt from when you panic bought three different pregnancy tests after a condom mishap last month (all negative, thankfully), he had to find THAT.

"You carry this around?" he laughs, holding it up like he's found hidden treasure. "In your wallet. Next to your license. And your credit card. I’m literally next to your driver’s license.”

You lunge for it, nearly dropping the sparkling water. "I forgot it was even in there!"

It's a lie and you both know it. The card is in pristine condition, carefully tucked into one of the clear plastic sleeves in your wallet where most people would keep photos of loved ones or emergency contact information. You'd bought it four years ago, back when Jack was just starting to make headlines, back when you would never have dreamed you'd one day be sharing takeout on his couch while he complained about his coach's defensive strategy.

He dodges you like a child on a sugar high, rookie card still in hand. "You've been walking around with literal 18-year-old me in your purse this whole time?" He holds it toward you, pointing at his face. "Look at this haircut! I look like I was just let out of a Boy Scout meeting."

"Stop talking," you hiss, your face fully on fire as the self-checkout voice robotically reminds you to please place item in the bagging area.

The employee at the front is now openly watching your exchange, a slow smile of recognition spreading across his face as he realizes exactly who Jack is, and exactly which card Jack is holding. Great. Just what you need: a witness to your humiliation.

"Oh, this is rich," Jack says, shaking his head. "You, giving me crap about being cocky, but meanwhile? You've got a personal Jack Hughes shrine in your wallet."

You glare at him, wishing desperately for a sinkhole to open beneath your feet. "Do you want me to put that card in the trash right now?"

He snorts, finally slipping it back into its slot with fake reverence. "Absolutely not. That thing's probably worth, like, eight bucks."

"Try a couple hundred," the employee chimes in helpfully, then immediately holds up his hands in surrender when you shoot him a death glare. "Sorry. Just saying."

"See?" Jack grins. "You're carrying around, what, Nathaniel's monthly rent in your wallet? That's dedication." He gestures to the Rangers fan, who apparently is named Nathaniel and who apparently needs to mind his own business.

You snatch the wallet out of Jack's hands, cheeks still burning, and you return to scanning items with aggressive efficiency.

"So," Jack says, leaning against the bagging area with his arms crossed, watching you work with infuriating amusement. "When exactly were you planning to tell me you were a fan?"

"I wasn't hiding it," you mutter, scanning a jar of almond butter with unnecessary force. "I told you I watched hockey."

"Yeah, but you never mentioned having a collection of hockey cards. Of me, specifically."

"It's not a collection. It's one card."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "Mm-hmm. And are there others at home? Like, do you have a special album or something? Holy shit, do you have posters?"

"No," you say, a beat too quickly.

The truth, which you would rather die than admit right now, is that you do own exactly one poster. It's from a sports magazine spread three years ago, and it's been carefully rolled up and stashed in the back of your closet since your third date with Jack, when things started to feel serious enough that you realized having his face on your wall would be deeply weird.

"You hesitated," Jack says triumphantly. "There are posters."

"There are no posters," you insist, though your traitorous complexion is probably giving you away. You've always been a terrible liar, a fact Jack discovered during your first attempt at playing poker together, when he cleaned you out of chocolate-covered almonds (your chosen betting currency) within twenty minutes.

"You know," he says, taking pity on you and beginning to bag some of the scanned items, "it's kind of cute."

"It's embarrassing," you correct him, focusing intently on scanning a pack of chicken breasts.

"Why? You're a hockey fan who happened to start dating a hockey player. That's not weird."

"It's weird if I was specifically a fan of you before we met."

"Were you?" he asks, and there's a note of genuine curiosity beneath the teasing now.

You sigh, pausing your scanning marathon. "I watched your games sometimes. I thought you were good." You look up at him, considering how much to reveal. "I liked how you played, like you were actually having fun, not just doing a job. It was... I don't know. It made the game more exciting."

Jack's expression softens, the teasing glint fading into something warmer. "That's... actually really nice."

"Don't let it go to your head," you warn, but you're smiling despite yourself.

"Too late," he says, tapping his temple. "Already filed under 'Evidence My Girlfriend Thinks I'm Amazing.'"

The self-checkout machine beeps demandingly, reminding you that you've paused too long between scans. You return to the task at hand, but the tension has dissipated, replaced by a comfortable rhythm as Jack bags while you scan.

"You know," he says after a moment, carefully arranging a tub of laundry detergent next to the candles, "I have some of your work saved on my phone."

You look up, surprised. "What?"

"Those illustrations you did for that children's book about the penguin? I downloaded them. They're in a special album." He shrugs like it's no big deal, but there's a hint of vulnerability in the admission. "I show them to the guys sometimes. Demko's kid loves the one with the penguin on the skateboard."

"You... show my work to your teammates?" The thought of Jack's hockey buddies, men whose names appear on jerseys and in ESPN headlines, looking at your penguin drawings is surreal.

"Yeah. I'm a fan." He says it simply, without the teasing edge from before.

You don't know what to say to that, so you just keep scanning, but something warm unfurls in your chest. It's been like this since the beginning, moments of revelation that catch you off guard. Reminders that beneath the public persona and the franchise player status, Jack is just... Jack. A guy who gets excited about Costco samples and saves your artwork on his phone.

Jack leans in, way too pleased with himself, as you scan the last few items. "I'm starting to think you were a fan before you were my girlfriend."

"I hate you," you say, but there's no heat in it.

"No you don't."

You glance at him. He's grinning like an idiot, casually bagging your industrial-size trail mix like this isn't the most embarrassing moment of your life.

"Okay, maybe I don't," you mutter, swiping your credit card.

He bumps your shoulder. "It's okay, babe. I'd carry your rookie card around too. If you had one."

"What would a children's book illustrator's rookie card even look like?" you wonder, punching in your PIN.

"First professional doodle," Jack says thoughtfully. "Maybe that red panda you showed me, the one you drew for your niece's birthday card."

"That was awful. I gave him six toes."

"It had character," Jack insists. "Very avant-garde."

You roll your eyes so hard it's a miracle they stay in your head. "Let's go before you start reciting your career stats to the family behind us."

"Oh, I would never—" He pauses, then turns to the man waiting in line. "Did you know she keeps my rookie card in her wallet?"

"JACK."

He laughs, loud and unrestrained, as you grab his arm and drag him away from the checkout area, your face flaming all over again.

"You're the worst," you inform him as you navigate toward the exit, receipt clutched in your hand.

"And yet, you keep my rookie card with you at all times," he counters, skillfully steering the cart around a display of seasonal patio furniture. "Makes a guy wonder what else you might be hiding."

"My deep regret about agreeing to date you?"

"Nah, that's written all over your face." He grins. "I'm thinking more like, do you have a scrapbook? Did you write my name with hearts around it in your diary? Ooh, did you have one of those fathead wall decals?"

You stop walking, fixing him with your most serious expression. "Jack. If you ever want me to sleep over at your place again, you will drop this immediately."

He considers this for a moment, then mimes zipping his lips. "Dropped."

"Thank you."

You resume walking, pushing through the exit doors into the parking lot. The late afternoon sun hits your face, warm against the crisp autumn air. Jack moves ahead to guide the cart, his shoulders relaxed under his faded blue henley, hair slightly mussed from where he ran his hands through it while deliberating between two different coffee brands for twenty minutes.

"I forgot to ask," he says as you reach the car, "are you coming to the game on Thursday?"

"I have that deadline for the fox book illustrations," you remind him, helping to load bags into the trunk of his SUV. "But I could come to Saturday's game maybe?"

Jack nods, lifting the case of water with ease. "Saturday works. Oh, don't forget, there's that charity thing on Sunday."

"Gala thingy?"

"Yeah." He slams the trunk closed. "Bring your wallet though."

You narrow your eyes, pausing with the shopping cart halfway to the return corral. "Why?"

"In case anyone asks for your autograph," he says with exaggerated seriousness. "After, you can show them my rookie card, tell them you knew me when."

You groan, abandoning the cart to march back to him. "I swear to God, Hughes—"

But before you can finish your threat, he catches you around the waist, pulling you against him. "You're cute when you're mortified," he murmurs, and then he's kissing you, right there in the Costco parking lot, with the orange glow of sunset painting everything gold.

When he pulls back, you keep your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm. "I'm never taking you shopping again," you inform him.

"Yes you are," he says confidently. "You need someone to reach the top shelves."

"I can bring a stepladder."

"A stepladder won't tell you interesting facts about protein powder or help you pick out deli meat."

"Those are selling points?"

He kisses you again, quickly this time. "Admit it. Shopping with me is an adventure."

"A nightmare," you correct him, but you're smiling. "A recurring nightmare where I'm trapped in Costco forever with a hockey player who thinks jumbo sized everything is a personality trait."

Jack laughs, releasing you to retrieve the abandoned shopping cart. "Come on, nightmare's over for today. Let's go home and figure out where we're going to put that giant candle in your apartment."

"Your apartment," you counter. "You bought it, you store it."

"Fine, but you have to remind me to burn it. And not burn the apartment down."

You watch him return the cart, the easy grace in his movements, the way he nods politely to an older couple walking past. When he returns, he slides into the driver's seat beside you, immediately reaching for your hand across the console.

"So," he says as he starts the engine, "should I be concerned about any other professional athletes you might have rookie cards of? Am I competing with, like, the entire NHL draft class of 2019?"

You squeeze his hand, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "And here I thought you'd dropped it."

"I'm just saying, I should know if I'm in an open relationship with you and a wallet full of hockey cards."

"Just drive, Hughes."

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Compression Shorts | Jack Hughes

Pairing; Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Allusion to smut, established relationship, not sure what else, edited once

Summary; Reader gets turned on by Jack's compression shorts

Word Count; 0.4k

Authors Note: Might be posting a birthday blurb for him later as well 🩵 -Honey

You shuffle into the living room mid-yawn, hoodie sleeves pulled down over your hands and sleep still clinging to the corners of your eyes. The apartment exists in that particular morning silence, broken only by the low murmur of game commentary drifting from the TV, last night's Devils game replaying as though it might end differently this time.

Jack is sprawled on the couch, gaze fixed on the screen with the intensity of someone decoding ancient text. His hair forms damp waves from his post-skate shower, droplets occasionally falling onto the shoulders of his worn team hoodie. An untouched protein shake sits on the coffee table next to his phone, condensation forming a perfect ring on the wood. His laptop rests beside him, paused video clips waiting for his analysis.

But your eyes don't register any of those details first.

No, they lock onto the compression shorts.

Black. Tight. Unforgiving in how they cling to the sculpted terrain of his thighs, his hips, the sharp cut of his muscles. His shirt has ridden up just enough to reveal the subtle hollow of his lower abdomen, the kind of casual intimacy that shouldn't hijack your thoughts at 9 a.m., but here you are, mind suddenly wide awake.

You linger in the doorway, shoulder pressed against the frame. "So... this the new film study dress code?"

Jack doesn't glance up. "What?"

You arch an eyebrow, gaze deliberately tracking down his body. "The shorts. Very serious athlete behavior happening here."

That captures his attention. He looks down at himself, then up at you, a slow smirk spreading across his face.

"It's laundry day," he says, with a shrug that manages a tiny bit of arrogance. He knows exactly what you're alluding to.

"Sure it is," you murmur, stepping into the room. "Complete coincidence you're sitting there like an Instagram thirst trap?"

His grin widens, lazy and unrepentant. He stretches one arm along the back of the couch, sinking deeper into the cushions like he's settling in for something. "If I'd known this would get your attention, I would've started watching game tape like this weeks ago."

You settle beside him, tucking your legs beneath you, but your eyes betray you, flicking back to his thighs. Once. Twice.

Jack notices. Of course he does.

"You're staring," he says, voice tinged with amusement.

"You're not wearing real clothes."

He turns toward you, the smirk deepening into something more deliberate. "What, is this making you nervous?"

You roll your eyes, but there's heat rising to your cheeks. "I'm just saying, maybe don't be surprised if I accidentally shut that laptop and climb into your lap."

Jack closes the laptop immediately, and sets it aside with purpose.

"Well," he says, voice dropping to a register that sends a current through your body, "I was done watching anyway."

You can find the rest of the fic (smut, 18+) on my Patreon, or via the direct link: Here

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I Love You, I'm Sorry | Luke Hughes

Pairing; Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Long distance relationship, angst, not sure what else, edited once

Summary; Reader and Luke get a taste of how difficult being in a long distance relationship is.

Word Count; 4.5k

Authors Note: This is a part one. I’d love your thoughts on what you think the ending should be. I personally love angst, but I know a lot of you love happy endings, so let me know (: As per usual, reblogs are appreciated 🩵 -Honey

It's late, nearly midnight in Ann Arbor, and your room is dim except for the soft glow of your laptop screen. Outside, snow is falling in slow, half-hearted flakes that dissolve before touching the ground, visible only when they drift through the cone of yellow light from the streetlamp below. Your desk is cluttered with notebooks, highlighters with their caps missing, and a half-eaten granola bar that's been sitting there since noon, its wrapper curled at the edges.

When Luke picks up, he's backdropped by the familiar off-white walls of his place in Jersey, hair damp and curling from a post-practice shower. He's wearing that oversized black Kith hoodie — the one he practically lives in, frayed at the cuffs from constant wear — and his voice comes through, slightly distorted by distance and poor connection.

"Hey."

You smile, automatic, muscle memory that hasn't faded despite everything. "Hey."

There's a beat of silence where neither of you rushes to fill the space. It's not awkward. Just... distant. Like the signal is fine, but the connection is still lagging, caught somewhere between Ann Arbor and Jersey, lost in the miles between what you were and what you've become.

"You look tired," he says, eyes scanning your face through the screen.

"Thanks," you deadpan, but self-consciously run a hand through your unwashed hair.

He smiles, a little, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way that still manages to make your heart stutter. "Rough day?"

You nod, feeling the weight of hours spent hunched over textbooks and lab equipment. "Had a three-hour chem lab and then my professor went rogue and assigned us a ten-page paper due Monday, even though it's supposed to be a five-week course project. So, yeah. Classic Thursday."

"Damn." He leans back against his headboard, the wood making a soft thunk. You can see the edge of a team photo taped to his wall, the corner peeling. "I don't miss that."

"You're telling me," you say, rubbing your eyes until pinpricks of light dance behind your closed lids. "I've had coffee for dinner two nights in a row. My blood is basically caffeine at this point."

He watches you for a second, eyes softening with something like concern or maybe nostalgia. Then asks, quieter, "Is it still like... non-stop all the time?"

You hesitate, fingers playing with the frayed edge of your sleeve. "Yeah. I mean, I guess I'm getting used to it again." The lie tastes stale on your tongue.

Luke nods slowly, a micro-expression of hurt flashing across his face so quickly you almost miss it. Then he glances away for a second, like he's thinking about whether or not to say something. When he looks back, there's something different in his eyes. Not annoyed, just... worn down, like fabric that's been washed too many times.

"I was trying not to bug you," he says, carefully measuring each word. "With the whole settling-back-in thing. Figured the first couple weeks of school would be hectic, so I didn't want to be, like... all over your phone."

You shift in your seat, the old wooden chair creaking beneath you, uneasy. "You're not bugging me."

"I don't know," he says, fingers absently tracing the team logo on his hoodie. "It kind of feels like I am."

You go still. He's not raising his voice. He's not accusing. But it hits anyway, like a door closing quietly but firmly in your face.

"I mean, you barely text me," he continues, voice level but threaded with something raw. "We haven't FaceTimed in... what? Over a week? And when we do talk, it's usually because I called first."

You swallow, suddenly too aware of how quiet your room is, just the faint hum of your laptop fan and the distant bass from someone's music three doors down. "I've just had a lot going on."

"I know," he says quickly, too quickly. "Me too. But... it's been a month now."

You glance at him. His jaw is tight, a muscle working at the corner, and he won't quite meet your eyes, instead focusing on something just past your shoulder.

"I was giving you space because I thought you needed it," he says, voice dropping lower. "But now I'm starting to feel like maybe I'm just... not part of your life anymore. Not really."

Your chest aches, a physical pain that spreads outward like ice cracking. "Luke—"

He cuts in, not unkindly, but with a firmness that makes you flinch. "I'm not mad. I just... I didn't think this would be so one-sided."

You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a pathetic defense: "You know I suck at texting."

He gives a short laugh. Not mean, just tired, the kind that carries no actual humor. "Yeah. I do. But I thought you'd try. Because this is different now. We're not two blocks apart anymore. We're two states apart. I can't just swing by after practice or meet you at Espresso Royale with those stupid chocolate croissants you like." His voice catches slightly. "You're all I've got, and half the time, it feels like I'm not even crossing your mind."

"That's not fair," you whisper, the words hanging in the air between you like frost.

He meets your gaze, and it's the quiet in his voice that stings the most. "It doesn't have to be fair, it's how I feel."

You press your fingers to your forehead, like that'll stop the swirl in your brain, the mounting pressure behind your eyes. "I wasn't trying to ignore you. I've just... I don't know. Everything's overwhelming again. And I guess I thought if I didn't reach out, it would hurt less. Like... not reminding myself how far away you are."

He looks at you for a long second, the blue light of his screen making shadows under his cheekbones. "It hurts anyway."

And there it is.

The truth neither of you wanted to face, finally spoken aloud. Your fingers go cold.

You look at him, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his fingers fidget with the drawstring of his hoodie, twisting it into a knot and then releasing it. You feel like you're staring at something that's slipping through your hands, slow and inevitable, like sand or water or time.

He sighs, quiet, the sound barely reaching your speakers. "I'm gonna head to bed. Early skate tomorrow."

You nod, barely, feeling numb. "Okay."

He doesn't hang up right away, and for a second, it seems like he might say something else, something to soften or backtrack. Offer a lifeline. But instead, he just gives you a small, sad smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Goodnight."

Then the screen goes dark.

And you're left staring at your own reflection, sitting in the silence you built, with only the soft tapping of snowflakes against your window for company.

You wait for a text that doesn't come.

The next morning, you send him a message, something casual about hoping he had a good practice, a peace offering disguised as small talk. Usually, he responds within minutes. This time, your phone stays silent for hours, until finally, mid-afternoon: It was fine. Pretty tired though.

No questions about your day. No follow-up. Just five words that feel like a door closing.

You tell yourself it's nothing. He's busy. He's tired. But the pattern continues. Your texts receive shorter and shorter replies, sometimes hours later, sometimes not until the next day. He doesn't call. When you try calling him on Sunday night, he doesn't pick up, just texts back twenty minutes later: Sorry, was out with the guys. Talk later maybe?

Later doesn't come.

By Wednesday, the realization hits you with startling clarity: this is what it feels like to be on the other side. This is what you've been doing to him for weeks.

Thursday night, you're sitting in the library, pretending to study organic chemistry but really just staring at your phone, willing it to light up with his name. It doesn't. A week ago, you would have been annoyed by the interruption. Now you'd give anything for it.

Your roommate slides into the chair across from you, giving you a strange look. "You okay? You've been staring at that same page for like, twenty minutes."

"I'm fine," you mumble, but your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears.

"Luke?" she asks, eyebrows raised.

You look up, surprised. "How did you—"

"Well, for starters, you've checked your phone approximately eight hundred times in the past hour. And you've got that look."

"What look?"

"Like someone stole your favorite hoodie." She pauses. "Which, by the way, isn't that his Devils hoodie you're wearing right now?"

You glance down. It is. Luke left it with you when he left for pre-season, and you've been sleeping in it for weeks. It still smells faintly of his laundry detergent and that cologne he pretends not to use.

"He's not talking to me," you admit finally, the words feeling strange in your mouth. "Or, well, barely. It's like... he's just gone cold."

Your roommate doesn't look surprised. "Girl, are you stupid? You've been doing the same thing to him for weeks."

The bluntness of her assessment stings. "I've been busy," you protest weakly.

She gives you a look that makes it clear she's not buying it. "We're all busy. That's college. But you don't see me ghosting my boyfriend back home."

"I wasn't ghosting him," you insist. But even as you say it, you know it's not entirely true. You were keeping him at arm's length, minimizing contact, treating him like an obligation rather than a priority.

"So what are you going to do about it?" she asks, closing her notebook and giving you her full attention.

You stare at your phone again. No new messages. "I don't know."

Friday morning, you check your phone the moment you wake up. Nothing. Friday afternoon, between classes, you find yourself opening your photos, scrolling back through pictures of the two of you. Friday night, you cave and call him. It goes straight to voicemail.

Hey, Luke. It's me. I just... I miss you. Call me back?

He doesn't.

Saturday passes in a blur of anxiety and regret. By Sunday, you're sitting on your bed surrounded by unfinished assignments, your laptop open to a half-written paper, but all you can think about is him.

The silence stretches into a second week. His social media offers glimpses of a life continuing without you: team photos, a night out bowling, a video of him laughing at something one of his teammates said. He looks fine. He looks happy. He looks like he's moving on.

It's only when you're scrolling through your calendar to check a due date that you realize what tomorrow is: one month since he helped you move in. One month of being apart. You'd talked about celebrating somehow, doing something special over FaceTime. Now you wonder if he even remembers.

Monday morning, your phone pings with a text as you're walking to class.

Can we talk tonight? 9pm?

Your heart jumps into your throat. You text back immediately: Yes. Definitely.

The day crawls by with excruciating slowness. By 8:45, you're sitting at your desk, hair combed, room hastily tidied, wearing a sweater he once said brought out your eyes.

At exactly 9:00, your laptop chimes with an incoming call. You take a deep breath and click "accept."

Luke appears on screen, looking tired but more serious than you've ever seen him. There's none of the warmth from before, none of the easy familiarity. Just his eyes, steady and questioning.

"Hey," you say, voice small.

"Hey," he replies. Then, after a pause that stretches too long: "So, I think we should talk about what happens now."

You swallow hard, suddenly afraid of what "now" might mean. "Luke, I'm sorry. I know I messed up. I know I made you feel like you weren't important, and that's not true at all. I was—"

"Stop," he says, not unkindly but firmly. "I don't need apologies. What I need is to know if this is even worth fighting for anymore."

The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication.

"Because," he continues, voice steady but with an undercurrent of hurt that makes your chest ache, "I can't be the only one trying here. These past two weeks... this is what it felt like for me, for a month. Waiting for calls that never came. Checking my phone fifty times a day. Wondering if I still mattered to you at all."

You feel tears threatening, but you blink them back. "You do matter. You matter so much."

"Then why didn't you act like it?" The question isn't angry. It's genuinely confused, which somehow makes it worse.

"I don't know," you whisper, and then, forcing yourself to be honest: "I think I was scared. Of how much I missed you. Of how hard this was going to be. It felt easier to just... pull back. To pretend I was fine on my own."

He's quiet for a long moment, considering this. "And are you? Fine on your own?"

You look at him, really look at him, and shake your head slowly. "No. These past two weeks have been awful. I hated every minute of it."

"Welcome to my world," he says, but there's less edge to his voice now. "So what do we do? Because I can't go back to how things were before. I won't."

The silence stretches between you, full of all the things you've left unsaid. You know you're at a crossroads. You can make more promises, beg for another chance. Or you can face the truth: that long distance is harder than you thought, that you're both changing, that maybe what you had belongs to a different time, a different version of yourselves.

Luke waits, his expression unreadable. The choice is yours.

"I don't know how to fix this," you admit finally, voice barely above a whisper. "But I want to. I really want to."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes your heart ache. "I want to believe that."

"You can," you say, leaning forward. "Luke, these past two weeks... I've been miserable. And it made me realize that I've been taking you for granted. I've been acting like you'll always be there, waiting, no matter how I treat you."

He's quiet for a moment, eyes searching yours through the screen. "Why should this time be any different?"

It's a fair question. One you've been asking yourself all week.

"Because now I know what it feels like to lose you," you say simply. "And I never want to feel that way again."

He looks down, and you can see him weighing your words, deciding whether or not to believe them. When he looks back up, his eyes are guarded.

"I need more than words," he says. "I need to see it. In your actions."

You nod, relief and anxiety tangling in your chest. "I know. I understand that."

"Do you?" he asks, and there's a challenge in his voice. "Because what I need is for you to make time for us. Real time. Not just when it's convenient for you or when you don't have anything better to do."

You flinch at the truth of it. "I will. I promise."

He shakes his head slightly. "Don't promise. Just do it. Or don't. But I can't keep...hoping things will get better. That's the part that kills me, you know? The hoping."

You feel tears threatening again, but this time, you let them come. "I'm sorry," you whisper. "I'm so sorry, Luke."

His expression softens just slightly. "I know you are. But I'm not looking for an apology. I'm looking for change."

You wipe at your eyes, nodding. "So...what now?"

He seems to consider this, then says, "Now we take it day by day. See if we can build something that works for both of us. But I need you to be honest, with yourself most of all. If you can't do this, if you don't want to do this, then let's not drag it out."

The words hit you like a physical blow. "Is that...is that what you want? To end it?"

Luke's gaze is steady. "What I want is a relationship where I don't feel like I'm chasing someone who's always running away."

The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything that's been said and everything that hasn't.

"I'm not running," you say finally. "Not anymore."

He nods, but there's still hesitation in his eyes. "Okay."

"Okay," you echo, not sure what else to say.

"I should go," he says after a moment. "Early morning tomorrow."

Panic flares in your chest. "Wait, can we talk again?"

The question hangs in the air. Before, he would have been the one asking that. The one worried about when the next call would be. Now it's you, and the role reversal isn't lost on either of you.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "I don't know. When do you want to talk again?"

You recognize the test in his words. "Tomorrow? I don't have class until eleven. We could have coffee together. Virtually, I mean."

He considers this. "I'll be up at six for training."

"Six is fine," you say quickly, even though you haven't voluntarily seen six a.m. since high school.

His eyebrows rise slightly. "Really?"

"Really." You've never been more certain of anything.

He studies you for a moment longer, then nods. "Okay. Six it is."

"I'll be here," you promise.

"We'll see," he says, and it stings, but you know you deserve it. Before he ends the call, he pauses. "You're wearing that sweater I love."

"What?" You glance down, feeling heat rise to your face. "Oh yeah."

The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile, the first real smile you've seen from him in weeks.

Then the call ends, and you're left staring at your reflection again. But this time, it's different. This time, you're not paralyzed by indecision or regret. This time, you know exactly what you need to do.

You set your alarm for 5:45 a.m. Then you open your calendar and begin to carve out time, real time, for the person who matters most. Not leftover minutes between classes or half-attentive late-night calls when you're too exhausted to really talk. Actual, intentional time.

It won't be easy. Nothing worth having ever is. The distance is still there. Your schedule is still overwhelming. His hockey season is just getting started.

But as you close your laptop and get ready for bed, you realize something: you're not just fighting for Luke. You're fighting for yourself, too. For the person you want to be. Someone who knows what matters and acts like it. Someone who doesn't take love for granted.

You curl up under your blankets after changing back into his Devils hoodie. Outside, the snow continues to fall, covering everything in a clean, white blanket. Like a fresh start.

Morning will come early. But for the first time in weeks, you're looking forward to it.

The blaring of your alarm cuts through your dreams like a knife. You groan, blindly pawing at your phone until the noise stops. Your room is dark, the sky outside still black. For a moment, you lie there, disoriented, wondering why on earth your alarm is going off at this ungodly hour.

Then you remember. Luke. The call. Six a.m.

You force your eyes open, squinting at your phone screen.

7:28 a.m.

Your stomach drops. No. No no no.

You bolt upright, suddenly wide awake, heart hammering against your ribs. How did this happen? You set your alarm. You remember setting it for 5:45.

But the evidence is right there on your screen, mocking you: three missed alarms, all snoozed in your half-conscious state. And worse, two missed calls from Luke.

"No," you whisper, panic rising in your throat as you fumble to call him back. It rings once, twice, three times. Then his voicemail.

You try again. Straight to voicemail.

Your hands shake as you type out a text: Luke I'm so sorry. I slept through my alarm. Please call me back.

Nothing.

You try calling once more. Voicemail again.

Please Luke. I swear I didn't mean to. I set three alarms.

The message shows as delivered, but there's no response. You sit in the cold light of morning, the reality of what's happened sinking in like lead. One chance. You had one chance to show him you were serious, that things would be different.

And you blew it.

By 8:15, you've tried calling five more times. Each time, straight to voicemail. Your roommate finds you sitting cross-legged on your bed, still in his hoodie, staring at your phone like you can will it to ring through sheer force of desperation.

"Whoa," she says, taking in your expression. "What happened?"

"I messed up," you manage, voice hollow. "I was supposed to call Luke at six this morning. I slept through my alarm."

She winces. "Ouch."

"He won't answer," you continue, feeling tears build. "He probably thinks I just... didn't care enough to wake up."

Your roommate sits on the edge of your bed. "Did you explain?"

"I tried. He's not responding."

"Give him some time," she suggests. "He's probably at practice anyway, right?"

You nod weakly. She's right. He's probably on the ice right now, skating through drills, trying not to think about you. Or worse, thinking about you too much.

"What do I do?" you ask, hating how small your voice sounds.

She considers for a moment. "You wait. And then you try again. And you don't give up after one mistake."

The words echo in your mind as you drag yourself through your morning routine, as you force yourself to attend your classes even though you can barely focus on what your professors are saying. By late afternoon, you've checked your phone approximately a thousand times. Nothing from Luke.

At 4:17, just as you're leaving your last class, your phone finally buzzes. You nearly drop it in your haste to check.

Can talk now. Call me.

Your heart races as you find an empty bench outside your building and call him with trembling fingers. He picks up on the second ring.

"Luke—" you start, the relief of hearing his voice almost overwhelming.

"Are you kidding me?" His voice is tight, controlled, but you can hear the hurt beneath it. "Seriously? After everything we talked about last night?"

"I know," you say quickly. "I know how it looks. I set the alarms, I swear I did. I even set three of them. But I must have turned them off in my sleep. I never even heard them."

"Right." His tone is flat with disbelief.

"It's true," you insist. "Luke, please. You have to believe me. I wouldn't do that to you. Not after last night."

There's a long pause, and you can almost see him pacing in his dorm room, running a hand through his still-damp hair, trying to decide if he believes you.

"You know what the worst part was?" he says finally. "I actually got excited. I set up my laptop on the kitchen counter while I made breakfast. I thought... I actually thought this time would be different."

The quiet disappointment in his voice is worse than if he'd yelled.

"It will be," you say, desperate. "It is. Luke, I messed up. I know that. But it was a mistake, not a choice. I wanted to talk to you this morning. I was looking forward to it."

Another silence stretches between you. Then, quietly: "I think we need to take a break."

The words hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. "What? No. Luke, please—"

"I can't do this anymore," he says, his voice oddly calm. "I thought I could. I thought if we just talked it out, if you just understood how I was feeling... but this morning made it clear."

"It was one mistake," you plead, tears filling your eyes. "One morning."

"No," he says, and the gentleness in his voice somehow makes it worse. "It's not just this morning. It's every morning. It's the fact that I keep hoping things will change, and they never do. It's the fact that I'm constantly disappointed, and I'm starting to think that's just... how it's going to be with us now."

"It won't," you whisper.

"Maybe not," he concedes. "But it's how I feel. And I can't keep feeling this way. It's killing me."

You press a hand to your mouth, trying to stifle a sob. "So what, we're just... done? Just like that?"

He sighs, and you hear so much exhaustion in that sound. "I don't know what we are. I just know I need some space to figure out if this is even worth fighting for anymore."

"Of course it is," you say, voice breaking. "Luke, I love you."

"I love you too," he says quietly. "But right now, that's not enough."

The finality in his voice sends a chill through you. "How long?" you manage to ask. "How long of a break?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I need to focus on hockey. On myself. And honestly, maybe you do too."

You want to argue, to fight, to promise him that you'll do better, that you'll be better. But the words stick in your throat because deep down, you know he's right. You haven't been the person he needs. You haven't even been the person you want to be.

"Okay," you say finally, the word barely audible.

"I should go," he says after a moment of heavy silence.

"Luke—" you start, not ready for the call to end, not ready for whatever comes after.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" he cuts in, voice soft. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Keep the hoodie. It looks better on you anyway."

Before you can respond, the call ends.

You sit there on the cold bench, phone clutched in your hand, tears streaming down your face. Around you, students rush to classes, laughing, talking, completely unaware that your world has just imploded.

Eventually, you make your way back to your apartment. Your roommate takes one look at your face and opens her arms without a word. You collapse into them, the sobs you've been holding back finally breaking free.

"He's gone," you choke out. "He's gone and it's my fault."

She holds you as you cry, stroking your hair, telling you it will be okay. But you know it won't be. Not for a long time.

That night, you curl up in your bed, still wearing his hoodie. You know you should take it off, that it will only make things harder, but you can't bring yourself to do it. Not yet. Outside, snow is falling again, heavier now, erasing footprints, covering everything in blank whiteness.

Your phone sits dark and silent on your nightstand. No goodnight text. No plans to call tomorrow. Just emptiness where there used to be him.

My Patreon, where you can find exclusive fics not posted anywhere else: HERE

[honeyslibrary]

Hihi… I loved your pregnancy fix with Quinn, maybe a little follow up fic to see what he would be like on mother’s day and how he would surprise the reader etc?

here 🩵🩵

[honeyslibrary]

First Mother's Day | Quinn Hughes

Pairing; Dad!Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Established relationship, fluff, edited once! 

Summary; Reader's first mother's day with Quinn and baby Scarlett (installment in the Sweet Girl universe)

Word Count; 1.1k

Authors Note: This is super short, I didn't really have as much time to write earlier as I thought I would (celebrating my mommy and all) but I wanted to post this because I think it's so cute, and I absolutely adore Scarlett and Quinn so much. Hope you like it! And to all the mothers out there, mother figures, and those yearning grieving a child, today we celebrate you, happy mother's day. 🩵 -Honey

The scent of coffee overloads your senses. Not the harsh, burnt kind Quinn sometimes makes in a rush before morning skate, but the good stuff, your favorite vanilla blend. You wake slowly, caught between sleep and something sweeter, that blurry liminal space where dreams dissolve into morning. The aroma wafts through the bedroom like a gentle announcement: today is different. Today is special. 

A small giggle confirms it.

Your eyes flutter open, vision still hazy with sleep, but your heart recognizes them instantly. Quinn stands by the window, morning light haloing his disheveled hair, wearing a well-worn UMich hoodie and some black joggers. Against his chest, he cradles Scarlett as if she contains the universe—which, in many ways, she does. Her tiny fingers tug at his drawstring, her round cheeks flushed with morning warmth, eyes sparkling with five-month-old mischief far too vibrant for this early hour.

"I love you, my sweet girl," he whispers, pressing his lips to the crown of her head where wisps of baby-fine hair catch the sunlight.

You watch silently, savoring the tableau they create.

"Okay," he murmurs to her, "time to wake Mommy."

You quickly close your eyes, surrendering to this game of pretend. The mattress dips beside you moments later. Quinn's calloused fingertips brush hair from your temple with surprising tenderness. Then comes the familiar weight of Scarlett settling against your chest, her heartbeat a hummingbird's flutter against yours.

"Happy Mother's Day," Quinn says, his voice still rough-edged from sleep yet softened by adoration.

Your eyes open to meet his. Scarlett squeals with delight at your awakening, her little body writhing with excitement. You laugh, instinctively securing her before she can tumble from the bed.

“Good morning, my love.” you murmur, brushing your nose against hers. “And good morning to you, too.” You add, glancing up to Quinn.

"She was perfect this morning," Quinn says, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "We've been conspiring."

"Have you now?" You press your lips to Scarlett's rosy cheek. "What kind of conspiracy?"

Quinn leans over and presses his lips to your forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling away to place a small cream-colored envelope on the nightstand. "Step one. Breakfast is warming downstairs. Step two: read the note after we eat. Step three: you're forbidden from doing anything remotely resembling work today."

"That's an ambitious plan," you say, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"That's why you have me—your very handsome husband." His eyes dance with mischief. "Full-time, highly qualified in diaper changes and nap supervision."

"Qualified, you say?"

"I passed the test last night—she only protested once when I wrestled her into that ridiculous giraffe sleeper."

You snort softly. "She loves that giraffe sleeper."

"And I love you," he says, leaning down to press his lips to yours. "More than anything."

You pull apart with a content sight, hand reaching up in an attempt to smooth some of his bedhead. "You realize she's five months old, right? You could've handed me a dollar store card and I still would've cried."

His smile softens. "I know. But you deserve more than that."

And you do. You know that. But hearing it from him, seeing it reflected in the way he's planned this morning, makes it real in a way that settles deep in your bones.

Downstairs, breakfast waits on the kitchen table: your favorite croissant sandwich with the sharp cheddar from the farmer's market, a bowl of juicy blackberries that stain your fingertips purple, and that warm vanilla coffee he made just the way you like it—extra cream, just a little sugar. You sit wrapped in his hoodie while he bounces Scarlett on his knee, narrating every one of her babbles like it's the most important conversation in the world.

"Oh really?" he says, leaning closer as she makes a string of nonsensical sounds. "That's your opinion on climate policy? Fascinating perspective. Very nuanced."

You watch them over the rim of your coffee mug, memorizing the way Quinn's hands, hands that can send a puck flying with pinpoint accuracy, now move with such care as they wipe drool from Scarlett's chin.

When the last blackberry is gone and your coffee mug sits empty, you finally reach for the envelope. Inside is a note, handwritten in Quinn's messy, barely-legible scrawl that has brought heat to your cheeks with many different love notes over the years.

You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. And now you're the best thing that's ever happened to her, too. Watching you be her mom has made me fall in love with you in a way I didn't even know was possible. Check the diaper bag. Love, Q.

You're already misty-eyed as you unzip the diaper bag hanging by the door. Inside is a small box, midnight blue against the chaos of baby wipes and spare onesies.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You open it to find a delicate gold chain, simple and elegant against the velvet. Hanging from it is a tiny "S" and a heart-shaped charm engraved with two sets of initials—yours and Scarlett's—interlocked like vines growing together.

"Oh my God," you whisper, running your thumb over the cool metal.

Quinn is behind you before you can turn, a hand wrapping gently around your waist as he rests his chin on your shoulder. He smells like home—like detergent and that woodsy cologne you bought him three Christmases ago.

"I wanted you to have something just for you and her," he murmurs against your ear. "Something you could wear every day, close to your heart. A reminder that you're her whole world. First Mother's Day... felt like the right time."

You close your eyes, overwhelmed by the quiet earnestness in his voice, the weight of what this day means, the feel of your daughter's initial pressed against your palm.

You turn in his arms and hug him tightly, sandwiching Scarlett between you. She makes a noise like she wants in on the moment too, her small hand patting against your collarbone with surprising strength.

"You're unbelievable," you whisper into the curve where his neck meets his shoulder.

Quinn's chest rises and falls with a deep breath. "No. You are." His voice catches slightly. "You gave me everything. I just wanted today to feel like a thank you."

And it does.

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[honeyslibrary]

Hey all! 🩵 A bit of housekeeping:

I will be updating my layout a bit. I will be making an NHL specific master list just to further clean things up on my profile.

Tomorrow I will be posting a Mother's Day installment of Sweet Girl, so if you haven't read that already, feel free to.

I'm looking to expand my horizons and write for some new hockey players, so if you have any question on whether I will write for someone, feel free to submit an ask or even a request. Here is a list of players I would love to write about, but need to research a bit further first:

Nico Hischier

Trevor Zegras

Nathan Mackinnon

Matthew Tkachuk

Wyatt Johnston

Hopefully going to be posting the first chapter of Best Friends Brother soon. I know it's been a long time, which I do apologize for the wait, but hopefully within the coming weeks!!

That's really all that I got. Might try and come up with a posting schedule, but inspiration is so sporadic for me, I'm not sure if I would follow it well, but it's in the the back of my mind for sure!

Hope you guys are doing well, and hope everyone has a good start to their week tomorrow. My inbox is open (: -Honey

[honeyslibrary]

Sunshine | Luke Hughes

Pairing; Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Established relationship, fluff, overuse of '—' probably (I can't help myself I'm sorry😞), edited once! 

Request; 'can you do one about luke where like they are long distance since he moved to NJ and they finally get to spend the summer together after being apart the whole season’

Word Count; 7.8k

Authors Note: Thanks so much for the request, friend!! This was pretty fun to write, and I hope you like it!!. I won't spoil anything in the author's note, but let's just say this is kind of a self insert, aka something I occasionally fantasize about. Any thoughts + reblogs are appreciated!! Love you guys!! -Honey

The scent of fryer oil clung to your clothes as you pirouetted between tables, delivering plates with a flourish that wasn't part of your usual workday choreography. You caught yourself humming between orders, your smile wide enough to make your cheeks ache by mid-shift. Every time the door chimed, your heart performed a little somersault before settling back when it wasn't him, even though you knew perfectly well Luke wouldn't be walking through the restaurant's doors tonight.

"Earth to crazy girl," Mia teased, bumping your hip with hers as she passed with a tray of drinks. "Table six has been trying to get your attention while you've been daydreaming about hockey boy." 

"I wasn't—" you started to protest, but the knowing smirks from your coworkers silenced you. Marcus, wiping down the counter, made exaggerated kissing noises. 

"Two months," you reminded them, feeling warmth creep up your neck. "You'd be excited too."

"Oh, we know," Mia laughed. "You've only mentioned it every fifteen minutes since you clocked in." 

You'd originally planned to join his parents at the airport, had even begged your manager for the night off, but Friday nights were non-negotiable at Lakeside Grill. The bitter disappointment had faded to resigned acceptance, tempered by the knowledge that in just a few hours, the distance that had stretched between Michigan and New Jersey would finally collapse. 

When you finally shed your name tag and push through the back door into the crisp April air, the clock on your phone reads 11:32 PM. Your fingers trembled slightly as you unlocked your car, the exhaustion from your double shift evaporating at the prospect of seeing Luke. You slid into the driver's seat and immediately called, pressing the phone to your ear as it rang. 

You'd texted him obsessively throughout the day. First when their plane departed Newark, again when they landed in Detroit, and several times after that with increasingly transparent excuses. 

"Hey, you," Luke answered, his voice a warm rumble that made your stomach flip. In the background, you could hear the familiar chaos of his summer home. Dishes clinking, Jack's laugh, what sounded like ESPN playing on the TV. 

"I just finished up work," you said, trying to keep the breathless anticipation from your voice as you navigated out of the parking lot. "I'm on my way over." 

There was a pause, some shuffling on his end. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped a notch lower. "How about you just come over tomorrow. It's late." Your hand froze on the gearshift. A car behind you honked as the exit to the main road remained clear but your vehicle didn't move. 

You waved an apologetic hand and pulled out, trying to process his words. "You don't want to see me?" The question slipped out before you could soften it, vulnerability naked in your voice. The red traffic light ahead bathed your dashboard in crimson, matching the flush of embarrassment warming your face. 

Luke's chuckle filtered through the speakers, but it sounded strained. "Course I do, don't be silly." A pause. "It's been torture, honestly." The light changed to green, its glow illuminating the empty intersection as you accelerated through. 

Something felt off. The Luke who had FaceTimed you just yesterday had been counting down the hours until you'd be together again. "Then why?" You didn't bother hiding the confusion or the hint of hurt that crept into your tone. The late-night streets of your small Michigan town stretched empty before you, streetlights creating pools of yellow that your car passed through rhythmically. 

"It's late, sunshine. I don't want you making the drive over." His voice was gentle but firm, the tone he used when his mind was made up about something. 

Your fingers tightened around the steering wheel. "It's only half an hour." Even that was generous at this hour, with the freeways clear and most of the town asleep, the drive to the lake house where he spent his summers would be closer to twenty minutes. You'd made the journey so many times you could navigate it half-asleep, following the winding roads until they opened up to the glittering expanse of water and the cape cod style house that his brothers had bought after making it to the NHL. 

The property had quickly become your second home over the past two years. The silence stretched between you, filled only by the soft rush of air from your car heater and what sounded like Luke moving to another room, the background noise fading. 

He let out a small sigh, that particular sigh you'd come to recognize, the one that signaled the conversation was effectively over. "I'll see you tomorrow, I promise. I'll come and scoop you around eleven?" 

You caught your bottom lip between your teeth, worrying the chapped skin there as disappointment settled heavy in your chest. Two months of falling asleep to texts instead of his heartbeat, of watching his games on a screen rather than from the stands, and now another night alone when he was just a short drive away. "Fine," you finally conceded, the word coming out more clipped than intended. You softened your tone, not wanting your reunion to start with tension. "I miss you, that's all." 

"Miss you more," he replied, and despite your disappointment, the familiar phrase made your heart constrict. "See you tomorrow, okay?" 

As you hung up and turned your car toward your apartment instead of the lake, questions swirled beneath your resignation. In two years together, through multiple separations due to his hockey schedule, Luke had never once not wanted to see you immediately when he got home. Something wasn't adding up, but perhaps it was just exhaustion clouding your judgment. Tomorrow would bring clarity, you told yourself, even as a nagging unease settled beside the anticipation that had carried you through your shift.

Sleep came fitfully that night, your dreams a fragmented mix of anticipation and unease. You didn't set an alarm, allowing yourself to sleep however long your body wanted. Once awake, you reached for your phone with eyes still half-closed, only to jolt fully awake at the notification glowing on your screen.

Lukey [8:12 AM]: Good morning, baby. Wear your favorite sundress today. 

You blinked at the message, sleep evaporating as your thumbs moved quickly across the keyboard. 

You [9:34 AM]: Good morning to you too. Why the specific request?

The reply came almost immediately, as if he'd been waiting for you to wake up.

Lukey [9:35 AM]: Don't worry about it :)

You [9:35 AM]: What are you up to?

Lukey [9:36 AM]: If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it? See you at 11 ❤️ 

Curiosity thoroughly piqued, you tossed aside your comforter and padded to the bathroom, suddenly grateful for the deep conditioning treatment you'd given your hair last night. The disappointment of not seeing him had translated into a lengthy self-care ritual. Face mask, hair treatment, a leisurely shower, a coincidence that now seemed to be luck. 

Standing before your closet an hour later, freshly showered and made up with more care than your usual weekend routine, your fingers skimmed past hangers until they found the familiar fabric. The pastel yellow sundress had been an impulse purchase last summer, right before a family barbecue, the first one that Luke attended with you.

You still remembered the way Luke's eyes had lingered when you'd first worn it, how he'd whispered "You look like sunshine." when your cousins were out of earshot, thus birthing the familiar term of endearment. The dress flowed around your knees as you twirled once before the mirror, the delicate floral pattern catching the morning light. You paired it with simple sandals and minimal jewelry, just some small dangly earrings and a necklace Luke had given you last Christmas. The familiar weight of the pendant against your collarbone was comforting, a tangible reminder of promises whispered across pillows and state lines. 

At precisely 10:57 AM, a knock sounded at your apartment door. Your heart somersaulted in your chest as you crossed the living room, taking one steadying breath before turning the handle. And there he was. Luke filled the doorframe, taller than you remembered somehow, his broad shoulders blocking out the morning light from the hallway windows. His curly hair was shorter than when you'd last seen him, the fresh cut accentuating the sharp angle of his jaw. But his eyes, those warm green eyes that crinkled at the corners, were exactly as you remembered, now widening slightly as they took you in.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moved. Two months of FaceTime calls and late-night texts crystallized into this single point of reconnection, the air between you charged with everything unsaid. "Hi," you breathed finally, the single syllable barely audible. 

Luke's face broke into that crooked smile that never failed to make your stomach flip. "Hi yourself, sunshine." And then the space between you disappeared as he stepped forward, one arm circling your waist while his other hand cradled the back of your head.

The kiss was gentle at first, a reacquaintance, before deepening into something that spoke of lonely nights and patient waiting. When you finally pulled apart, you noticed the faint circles under his eyes that the phone camera had never quite captured. "You look tired," you murmured, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. 

"Worth it," he said simply, stealing another quick kiss before adding, "I've missed this face." 

You smiled against his lips. "Just my face?" 

His laugh rumbled through his chest, vibrating where your bodies pressed together. "Among other things." His gaze dropped to your dress, appreciation evident in his expression. "You look beautiful." 

"Like I'd forget your not-so-subtle favorite," you teased, stepping back to give him a proper view with a small twirl. 

Luke caught your hand mid-spin, interlacing his fingers with yours. "Ready to go? I've got plans for us." 

"Is that why you wouldn't let me come over last night? Secret preparations?" The question was light, but curiosity still nagged. 

A flicker of something, hesitation perhaps, crossed his face before his smile returned. "Something like that. Come on, chariot awaits." 

His Ford Bronco sat in your apartment complex's parking lot, freshly washed by the looks of it. Luke opened the passenger door with an exaggerated bow that made you laugh before sliding into the driver's seat beside you. "So where are we—" 

"Nope," he interrupted, turning the key in the ignition. "No questions. Just trust me?" 

You settled back against the leather seat, watching his profile as he navigated through the Saturday afternoon traffic. The familiar contours of his face, the way he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the radio, the scent of his cologne filling the enclosed space, all of it felt like coming home after a long journey. 

Twenty minutes later, Luke turned onto a familiar tree-lined street, and your heart gave a little leap of recognition as Marigold's distinctive blue awning came into view. "You remembered," you said softly as he parked, eyes fixed on the cozy brunch spot where you'd had your first official date two years ago. 

Luke's expression softened. "Course I did." 

Inside, the hostess led you to a corner table by the window. The same table, you realized with a start, where you'd sat that first morning, nervous and trying not to show it. The restaurant hadn't changed much: still the same exposed brick walls covered in local artwork, still the hanging plants creating pockets of privacy between tables, still the mouthwatering smell of their famous lemon-ricotta pancakes permeating the air.

"I took a chance they'd have an opening," Luke admitted as you settled into your seats. "Called them last week from Jersey."

"You did?" His smile turned sheepish. 

"Yeah." He reached across the table, taking your hand in his. "But brunch isn't the only surprise." 

From his jacket pocket, he withdrew a small velvet box, sliding it across the table toward you. Your breath caught in your throat as your fingers hovered over it. "Luke..." 

"It's not a ring," he clarified quickly, a flush creeping up his neck. With trembling fingers, you opened the box to reveal a delicate silver bracelet, its chain fine and shimmering in the sunlight streaming through the window. And there, dangling from the center, was a perfectly crafted silver lily, small but intricately detailed, your favorite flower. "Happy belated anniversary," Luke said softly, watching your face. "I know the flowers I sent weren't much—"

"They were perfect," you interrupted, remembering how the unexpected delivery had brightened your apartment on that otherwise ordinary Tuesday in March, your actual anniversary.

"But I wanted to give you something more permanent," he continued. "Something you could have with you even when I'm not." Tears pricked behind your eyes as you lifted the bracelet from its velvet nest. 

"It's beautiful." Luke took it gently from your hands, motioning for your wrist. 

As he fastened the clasp, his fingers lingered against your pulse point. "I had it custom made at a small shop in Grand Rapids. The jeweler thought I was crazy with how specific I was about the lily." 

You turned your wrist, watching the charm catch the light. "Thank you," you whispered, emotion making your voice thick. "I love it. I love you."

"I love you too," he replied, the simple declaration filling the space between you with everything that two months apart had left unsaid.

The words hung in the air between you, warm and familiar and heavier in person than through a phone screen. A comfortable silence settled as the waitress approached with steaming mugs of coffee, giving you both a moment to collect yourselves. 

"So," Luke said after taking a sip from his mug, "tell me everything I missed. And don't say 'nothing' because I know how that brain of yours works." 

You laughed, stirring cream into your coffee. "Well, Mia at work has been relentless with the teasing. You should have heard her last night when I kept checking my phone between orders."

"I hope you set her straight about how incredibly cool your boyfriend is," he grinned, leaning forward on his elbows. 

"Oh absolutely. I told them all about your exciting life of hotel rooms and ice baths." 

Luke clutches his chest in mock offense. "You wound me. What about the glamorous team plane rides? The thrilling post-game interviews where I say the same five phrases in different orders?"

The laughter that bubbled up from your chest felt like releasing a breath you'd been holding for two months. This, the easy banter, the way his eyes never left your face even as he reached for his water glass, this was what FaceTime couldn't replicate. 

Your orders arrived with impeccable timing: lemon-ricotta pancakes for you (just as you'd had on your first date) and the breakfast skillet loaded with everything for him. Luke immediately cut a piece of his pancake, raised an eyebrow in silent question, and you nodded, opening your mouth to accept the offered bite. "Still as good as you remember?" he asked, watching your reaction intently.

You closed your eyes briefly, savoring the perfect balance of savory and sweet. "Better."

The conversation flowed as naturally as it always had, filling each other in on the details that text messages couldn't capture. The way his new teammate Brett had adopted a stray cat that now terrorized him and his wife, how you started going on morning walks while listening to old funk albums, his ongoing battle with the dry cleaner that keeps giving him the wrong suits. 

As you shared the last bite of pancake, Luke checked his watch with what seemed like exaggerated casualness. "Got somewhere to be?" you teased, dabbing your mouth with a napkin.

"Actually," he said, signaling for the check, "we do have somewhere to be. If you're up for another surprise."

"Another one? You're spoiling me, Hughes." 

His smile turned mischievous. "Day's just gettin' started, sunshine."

Back in the Bronco, Luke turned up the radio, your favorite station already programmed in, and headed toward the highway instead of back toward your apartment or the lake house. "Going to give me a hint?" you asked, watching the familiar landmarks of your town give way to the interstate.

"Not a chance," he replied, reaching over to lace his fingers through yours. "But you might want to grab your sunglasses from the glove compartment. It's supposed to be bright today."

A little over an hour later, your curiosity peaked as Luke guided the Bronco off the highway and followed signs toward Detroit. Your mind raced through possibilities. A museum? A concert? Shopping? Nothing felt quite right for the secretive smile playing at the corners of his mouth. When he finally turned into a massive parking lot and you caught sight of the distinctive entrance sign, your jaw dropped. "The Detroit Zoo?" you exclaimed, straightening in your seat. "Luke, how did you—"

He parked the car, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Know that you've been wanting to come here? Particularly to see the new penguin exhibit that opened while I was gone?" He tapped his temple. "I pay attention."

"But I never mentioned—" You paused, realization dawning. "You stalked my Facebook."

"Maybe," he admits, reaching into the backseat for a small backpack you hadn't noticed before. "You shared it about a month ago, commenting about how you hadn't been to the zoo since you were a kid. I might have done some planning right then and there."

Warmth spread through your chest at the thought of him, tired after practice or a game, scrolling through his feed and filing away this small detail about you. Not just remembering it, but building it into today's reunion. "You never cease to amaze me," you said softly. 

Luke leaned across the center console, brushing his lips against yours. "That's the plan, sunshine. Keep you on your toes for the next sixty years or so." 

The zoo was bustling with weekend visitors, families with strollers and couples walking hand-in-hand beneath the canopy of spring trees. Luke purchased tickets at the entrance booth, waving away your offer to split the cost with a firm "Anniversary, remember?"

"Our anniversary was in March," you reminded him, accepting the map he handed you.

"Which makes this our belated celebration," he countered, pointing to a spot on the map. "Penguins first? Or do you want to wander and find them later?"

You studied the map, noting the penguin habitat was on the far side of the zoo. "Let's save them for later. Build up the anticipation."

The day unfolded like something from a dream, the kind where everything aligns just right. Luke kept his arm around your waist as you wandered from exhibit to exhibit, stopping to watch the tigers lounging in the sun and the otters tumbling playfully in their pool. He listened attentively as you shared random animal facts you'd accumulated over the years, never once making you feel self-conscious about your enthusiasm.

"Did you know giraffes have the same number of vertebrae in their necks as humans do?" you asked as you watched one gracefully bend to drink. "Just seven, but theirs are way longer."

"I did not know that," he said, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Tell me another one." 

By the time you reached the polar bears, the clouds had given way to the bright sun that glinted off the water in their enclosure. Luke guided you to a shaded bench nearby, unzipping the backpack to reveal two bottles of water and a container of sliced fruit. "You thought of everything," you marveled, gratefully accepting the water.

"Mom helped," he admitted, offering you a strawberry. "She packed this this morning while I was picking up your bracelet." You glanced down at your wrist, where the silver lily caught the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves above. 

"So that's why you didn't want me coming over last night." 

A flicker of something, the same hesitation you'd noticed earlier, crossed his face before he nodded. "Had to keep the surprise intact." 

You studied him for a moment, noting the way his eyes didn't quite meet yours. "Luke Warren, are you hiding something else from me?" 

He popped a grape into his mouth, taking his time chewing before answering. "What if I am?"

"Then I'd say you're being very mysterious for someone who usually can't keep a secret to save his life." You bumped your shoulder against his. "Remember when you tried to surprise me for my birthday last year and ended up telling me the plan three days early because you were too excited?" 

Luke laughed, the sound echoing in the open air. "That was different. This is... bigger." 

"Bigger than my birthday?" 

Instead of answering, he stood, offering his hand. "Come on, I think it's time we found those penguins." 

The Polk Penguin Conservation Center was everything the article had promised, a stunning 326,000-gallon aquatic habitat where deep-diving penguins swam with breathtaking speed past the glass viewing areas. You stood transfixed as they rocketed through the water, their bodies sleek bullets of black and white. "They look like they're flying underwater," you mumble, pressing a hand against the cool glass. 

Luke stood behind you, his arms encircling your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder. "Worth the wait?" 

"Absolutely," you breathed as a particularly bold penguin swooped close to the glass before darting away in a flurry of bubbles. You could have stayed watching them for hours, but eventually the growing crowd prompted you to move along, making your way through the rest of the habitat. As you emerged back into the sunlight, Luke checked his phone, typing something quickly before pocketing it again. 

"Everything okay?" you asked. 

"Yes," he assured you, taking your hand again. "Just checking in with the parents. Dad wanted to know if we'll be back for dinner." 

"Will we?" 

Luke smiled, the secretive edge returning. "That depends on you, actually. But first, I have one more stop in mind." He led you along the winding paths until you reached the zoo's central garden, a beautiful space with flowering bushes and a small pond where koi fish swam lazily beneath lily pads. A musician was playing guitar on a nearby bench, the gentle melody floating through the air. Luke drops his backpack. "Dance with me?" Luke asked, extending his hand with a formal bow. 

You glanced around at the other zoo visitors, some watching the musician, others passing by on their way to the next exhibit. "Here? Now?" 

"Here. Now." His eyes held yours, unwavering. "Don't leave me hangin'." 

Placing your hand in his, you let him pull you close, his arm wrapping securely around your waist as you began to sway to the gentle rhythm of the guitar. The yellow fabric of your sundress fluttered around your knees, catching the afternoon breeze. A comfortable silence fell between the two of you as you held each other following the chords. 

"I used to imagine this," he murmured against your hair. "During away games. When I couldn't sleep in hotel rooms. I'd close my eyes and remember how it feels to hold you like this." 

Your throat tightened with emotion. "Me too. Except I'd wear your old Devils hoodie and pretend it still smelled like you." 

Luke pulled back just enough to look at your face, his expression softening. "I'm sorry about last night. I should have just told you to come over. Would have saved us both a lonely night."

"It was worth it for all this," you assured him, gesturing to the beautiful garden around you. "Perfect day." 

"Not quite perfect yet," he said, something shifting in his tone. 

Before you could question him, he stepped back slightly, still holding your hands in his. The musician, you noticed with sudden clarity, had switched to a slower, more deliberate melody that sounded strangely familiar. Luke was lowering himself to one knee on the brick pathway, and the world around you seemed to freeze in place. 

"Luke," you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. 

"I told you earlier that the bracelet wasn't a ring," he said, voice steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes. "But I never said there wasn't a ring." From his pocket, he withdrew a small velvet box, different from the one that had held the bracelet, this one midnight blue instead of black. Around you, other zoo visitors had begun to notice, a small crowd forming at a respectful distance. 

"I had this whole speech planned," Luke continued, looking up at you with those eyes that had captivated you from the very first day. "About how these past two years have been the best of my life. About how even when we're apart, I feel connected to you in ways I can't explain. About how I want to build a life with you that's as beautiful and unexpected as finding you was in the first place." 

He opened the box to reveal a ring that caught the sunlight, sending prisms of light dancing across your dress—a solitaire diamond on a delicate band, simple yet stunning. 

"But standing here now, looking at you in that gorgeous dress with those eyes that see right through me, all I can think to say is this: I love you. More than hockey, more than anything. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you." His voice caught slightly. "I know we're both young, and we don't even live in the same state half the year, but none of that matters to me. When you know, you know. And I've known since that first summer that you're the one I want to build my life with. Will you marry me?" 

Time seemed suspended as you looked down at him: the boy who had become a man before your eyes, who sent you souvenirs from every state he traveled, who beat the Tetris levels you couldn't, who loved you more than you ever thought possible. "Yes," you whispered, then louder, "Yes, Luke. Of course, yes." 

His face broke into that brilliant smile you loved so much as he slid the ring onto your finger with trembling hands. The small crowd that had gathered broke into applause as he stood and pulled you into his arms, lifting you slightly off your feet in his enthusiasm. When he set you down, he pressed his lips against yours eagerly, rushed passion and genuine happiness flittering between mouths before allowing you to examine the ring, now sitting perfectly below the delicate lily bracelet on your wrist. "So this was the plan all along." 

Luke laughed, pressing his forehead against yours. "Quinn and Jack were helping me set up. I had candles and flowers all over the lake house, planning to propose there. But I changed my mind last minute." 

"This was perfect." you said softly. Your lips form a pout, catching his lips delicately, before he pulls away.

"Everyone's waiting at the lake house. My parents, your parents, Quinn, Jack, they're all there for dinner. If you're up for it." 

You smiled, shaking your head in amazement. "You really did think of everything." 

"I had many months to plan," he reminded you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "And now I have a lifetime of loving you to look forward to." 

As you walked hand-in-hand toward the zoo exit, the afternoon sun warm on your shoulders and the weight of the ring still new and thrilling on your finger, you couldn't help but think of how truly blessed you were. "Ready to go tell everyone?" Luke asked as you reached the parking lot, his Bronco waiting like a chariot to carry you to the next chapter. 

"Ready," you confirmed, squeezing his hand as the future unfurled before you, as bright and promising as the yellow dress you wore and the boy who loved you. 

The drive back to the lake house felt surreal. You kept stealing glances at your left hand, where the diamond caught the late afternoon light streaming through the windshield. Luke caught you looking for the third time and smiled, squeezing your knee gently. "Happy?" he asked, eyes flicking between you and the road.

"I keep thinking I'm going to wake up," you admit. "That I'll be back in my apartment, and you'll still be in New Jersey, and this whole perfect day will have been a dream." 

Luke's hand moved from your knee to capture yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips for a soft kiss. "Not a dream, sunshine. Though I'm pretty sure I've dreamt about this exact moment more times than I can count." 

As the highway gave way to the familiar winding roads that led to the lake, a mix of excitement and nervousness fluttered in your stomach. "So everyone already knows? That you were proposing today?" 

"Well, they knew the plan," Luke amended with a hint of mischief in his voice. "But they don't know your answer yet." 

"You weren't sure I'd say yes?" You raised an eyebrow, unable to keep the smile from your face.

Luke's cheeks flushed slightly. "I was... cautiously optimistic." He turned onto the tree-lined private road that led to the property. "But Jack kept teasing me about having a backup plan. As if I could ever have a backup plan for you." 

The familiar house came into view, its large windows reflecting the golden afternoon light off the lake beyond. In the circular driveway sat your parents' familiar sedan, parked alongside another car and what you recognized as Jack's truck. Your heart performed a little somersault at the realization that they had all gathered here, waiting for this moment. Luke parked the Bronco and turned to face you fully. "Ready to get ambushed?" 

"As I'll ever be," you replied, leaning across the console to press a quick kiss to his lips. He caught you before you could pull away, deepening the kiss with a newfound urgency that made your head spin. 

When he finally broke away, his eyes were darker, more intense. "Just wanted one more moment where it's just us," he explained softly. 

Hand in hand, you approached the front door. You smoothed down your sundress with your free hand, suddenly acutely aware of the day's adventures in your slightly windblown hair and sun-kissed cheeks. The door swung open before Luke could even touch the handle, revealing Jack, his smirk eerily similar to Luke's own. 

"Well, well, well," he drawled, leaning against the doorframe with crossed arms. "Look what the cat dragged in." His eyes dropped pointedly to where your hands remained intertwined, then to the ring now adorning your finger. His smile widened impossibly further. "Guess baby brother didn't chicken out after all." 

"Shut up, Jack," Luke said good-naturedly, shouldering past him into the house. The familiar scent of something pasta, rich with garlic and herbs, made your stomach growl despite the late brunch. 

"They're here!" Jack called out, unnecessarily loud given the fact that everyone was already gathered. 

There was a flurry of movement as people emerged from the kitchen and living room area. Your mother appeared first, her eyes immediately finding yours with a question in them that was answered by your beaming smile. Behind her came your father, trying and failing to look casual despite the slight redness around his eyes that suggested he might have been more emotional about this day than he was letting on. Ellen appeared next, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her face lighting up as she took in the scene. Quinn followed, a beer in one hand and his phone in the other, clearly in the middle of recording the moment. 

"Well?" Ellen prompted, looking between you and Luke with barely contained excitement. "Do we have news to celebrate?" 

Luke turned to you, his eyes soft with an unspoken invitation for you to share. The weight of everyone's gaze felt momentarily overwhelming until you lifted your left hand, the ring catching the light streaming through the windows. "We're engaged," you announced, your voice strong despite the emotion making your heart race. 

The room erupted in cheers. Your mother was the first to reach you, pulling you into a tight embrace that smelled of her familiar perfume. "I'm so happy for you, sweetheart," she whispered against your hair, her voice thick with emotion. Over her shoulder, you caught sight of your father shaking Luke's hand before pulling him into a quick, firm hug. The sight of the two most important men in your life embracing sent a fresh wave of emotion through you. 

"Let me see, let me see!" Ellen exclaimed, gently extracting you from your mother's arms to examine the ring. "Oh, Luke, you did good. It's absolutely perfect." 

"Just like her," Luke said, the simple statement causing a fresh round of happy tears to spring to your eyes. Quinn approached next, phone now pocketed as he wrapped you in a bear hug that lifted you slightly off your feet. 

"Welcome to the family, officially," he said, setting you down with a grin. "Though we've considered you a Hughes since Luke first brought you home with those puppy dog eyes two years ago." 

"I did not have puppy dog eyes," Luke protested, though his expression as he watched you being welcomed by his family suggested otherwise. 

Jack slung an arm around Luke's shoulders. "You still have puppy dog eyes" He turned to you with a wink, teasing. "Life with no chance of parole for you, eh?" 

"Jack," Ellen chided, though her smile remained firmly in place. 

Your father cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. He was not typically a man of many words, preferring to express himself through actions rather than speeches. But now he raised the glass of what appeared to be whiskey that Jim had just handed him. "To Luke and his impeccable taste," he began, his voice gruff with emotion. "And to my daughter, who has never looked happier than she does right now. May this be just the beginning of a lifetime of joy for you both." 

"Hear, hear," Jim echoed around the room as glasses were clinked together. Luke found his way back to your side, his arm sliding naturally around your waist as if it belonged there. Which, you supposed, it did. 

"Dinner's almost ready," Ellen announced. "The boys have been grilling all afternoon, and I've got about six side dishes that need final touches." She turned to you with a warm smile. "But first, I think these two need a moment to breathe. Why don't you two get some air?"

Luke shot his mother a grateful look before guiding you toward the back of the house. As you slipped out the sliding glass doors onto the expansive deck, you heard the animated chatter resume behind you—your mother already deep in conversation with Ellen, no doubt discussing wedding details you hadn't even begun to consider.

The late afternoon sun hung low over the lake, casting long golden reflections across the rippling surface. The wooden dock extended from the grassy backyard into the water, bobbing gently with the mild waves. It was your favorite spot at the lake house, where you and Luke had spent countless hours talking, swimming, or simply sitting in comfortable silence.

"You okay?" Luke asked as you reached the end of the dock, both of you slipping off your shoes to dangle your feet in the cool water. "I know it's a lot all at once."

You leaned your head against his shoulder, watching a pair of ducks paddle by in the distance. "I'm really good," you assured him. "Just processing that this is real. That you're really here, and we're really engaged, and our families are inside already planning our wedding probably."

Luke chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest where you were pressed against him. "Mom's had a Pinterest board for at least a year. I caught her looking at it over Christmas."

"You're kidding."

"Dead serious. Quinn ratted her out." He kissed the top of your head. "But we don't have to decide anything right away. We can take our time, do this however we want."

You nodded, grateful for his understanding. The two of you sat on there, on the end of the dock, your head resting on his shoulder, for a few minutes, watching the sun setting along the water.

Soon enough, the sliding door opened, and Jack's voice carried across the yard. "Lovebirds! Mom says dinner's ready, and Dad's threatening to start without you!"

Luke stood first, offering you a hand up that you gladly accepted. Before you could head back toward the house, he tugged you gently into his arms, one hand cupping your cheek with impossible tenderness.

"Thank you," he murmured, his eyes searching yours.

"For saying yes?" you teased lightly.

He shook his head, expression serious despite the smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "For making every homecoming feel like this. Like no matter where hockey takes me, I have something infinitely more valuable to come back to."

Your heart swelled as you rose onto your tiptoes to brush your lips against his. "Always," you promised.

The word hung between you, as golden and full of promise as the sunset beginning to paint the sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink. It was a promise neither of you made lightly, to be each other's constant in a world of variables, to be home for each other no matter the distance.

Hand in hand, you walked back toward the house where your families waited, the yellow sundress swishing around your knees and the evening breeze carrying the scent of grilled steak and the subtle promise of summer. The weight of the ring on your finger still felt new and thrilling, but the feeling that bloomed in your chest as Luke held the door open for you, that feeling was as familiar and essential as breathing.

Inside, the dining table had been set with Ellen's best dishes, bottles of champagne chilling in ice buckets at either end. As you took your seat beside Luke, surrounded by the people who had shaped both of your lives, the conversation and laughter flowing as naturally as the lake waters outside, you couldn't help but think that for all of Luke's careful planning and perfect surprises today, this moment of belonging, outside of his proposal, was the next best gift.

Jim raised his glass once everyone was seated, his expression uncharacteristically emotional. "To the future Mr. and Mrs. Hughes," he toasted, his voice steady despite the moisture gathering in his eyes. "May your love story continue to be written with the same beauty with which it began."

As glasses clinked and smiles were exchanged across the table, Luke's hand found yours beneath the tablecloth, his thumb brushing over the ring he'd placed there just hours ago, an unspoken reminder that this was just the beginning.

"I love you," Luke whispered for your ears alone.

You squeezed his hand in response, knowing that whatever the future held, whatever cities hockey might take him to, whatever challenges might arise, the foundation you'd built together over the past two years was strong enough to weather any storm.

"Love you, too," you echoed softly.

Dinner stretched languidly into the evening, multiple courses interspersed with stories and laughter that left your cheeks aching. Your father, usually reserved, had warmed up after his second glass of wine, regaling everyone with embarrassing childhood stories that made you hide your face in Luke's shoulder. Luke's arm had remained draped across the back of your chair, his fingers occasionally brushing against your shoulder in a gesture so casually intimate it made your heart flutter even after two years together.

"Remember when she insisted on wearing her tutu to soccer practice?" your mother chimed in, eyes twinkling with mischief. "The coach didn't know what to do with her."

"In my defense," you protested, "I was five, and I thought tutus were appropriate for all athletic activities."

"Not much has changed," Luke teased, earning himself a playful jab to the ribs. "What? You still have strong opinions about athletic wear."

"Says the man who refuses to wear anything but black compression shorts under his gear for 'luck,'" Quinn interjected, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

The conversation flowed easily between hockey stories, childhood memories, and tentative wedding ideas that Ellen couldn't help but slip into the conversation. Jim had opened a second bottle of champagne somewhere between dessert and coffee, insisting that such an occasion warranted proper celebration.

As the clock on the mantel chimed ten, your father stifled a yawn. "I hate to be the one to break up the party," he said apologetically, "but some of us don't have the stamina of you young folks anymore. Early meeting tomorrow."

"Yeah," your mother agreed, though her reluctance was evident in her voice. "It's a bit of a drive back."

Ellen nodded, beginning to gather some of the dessert plates. "We're gonna get going too, actually."

"You're leaving?" Luke asked, surprise evident in his voice as he looked between his parents.

Jim exchanged a knowing glance with Ellen before clearing his throat. "Thought we'd give you two some privacy to celebrate properly."

"We're out too," Quinn nods, already standing and shooting Luke a barely concealed wink. 

"That's right," Jack added, his expression all innocence despite the mischief dancing in his eyes. "Wouldn't want to be a third and fourth wheel on your engagement night."

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you realized what they were doing, orchestrating an obvious exit to leave you and Luke alone in the lake house. Luke's arm tightened around your shoulders, his own face slightly flushed.

"You don't have to—" you began, but Ellen waved away your protest.

"Nonsense, sweetheart. You two deserve some time alone after being apart for so long. Besides," she added with a gentle smile, "It seems only right that you should have it to yourselves tonight."

The next fifteen minutes were a flurry of hugs, promises to call tomorrow, and last-minute wedding suggestions that you nodded along to without fully processing. Your mother hugged you especially tight at the door.

"I always knew he was the one," she whispered against your ear. "From the first time you brought him home. The way he looked at you, like you were everything."

Emotion tightened your throat as you squeezed her back. "I love you, Mom."

"Love you too, sweetheart." She pulled back, dabbing at the corner of her eye. "Enjoy your night, we'll talk details soon."

You and Luke stood on the porch, waving as both families piled into their respective cars. Quinn shot Luke a thumbs up from the passenger seat of Jack's truck, and Jack made a gesture that Luke quickly responded to with an obscene hand signal of his own, hidden from the parents' view.

"Brothers," Luke muttered, despite the smile playing on his lips

With final waves, both cars pulled away down the private road, headlights sweeping across the front of the house before disappearing around the bend. You stood in the doorway watching until the red taillights vanished around the bend, Luke's arm secure around your waist.

"Alone at last," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I think that's the fastest I've ever seen my family clear out of here."

You laughed, leaning into his embrace. "They weren't exactly subtle about it."

"Subtlety isn't really a Hughes family trait," he admitted with a grin, leading you back inside and closing the door behind you. "But I can't say I'm complaining."

The house felt different now. Quieter, more intimate, the spaces that had been filled with laughter and conversation now containing only the two of you. The dining room table still held the remnants of your celebration dinner, champagne glasses with lipstick marks and cake crumbs telling the story of the evening's festivities.

"Should we clean up?" you asked, though the thought of mundane chores seemed at odds with the electric anticipation humming beneath your skin.

Luke shook his head, taking your hand. "Tomorrow. I have something to show you first."

Curiosity piqued, you allowed him to lead you through the familiar path up the wooden staircase. When you reached the door to his bedroom at the end of the hall, he paused, turning to face you with an expression that mingled nervousness and excitement.

"Close your eyes," he instructed softly.

You did as he asked, heart fluttering with anticipation. You heard the door creak open, felt Luke's hands gentle on your shoulders as he guided you forward into the room. The subtle scent of roses reached you before he spoke again.

"Okay. You can look now."

When you opened your eyes, a soft gasp escaped your lips. The room was transformed from the familiar space you remembered. Dozens of candles in various sizes were arranged across every surface, unlit but ready to cast their warm glow. Rose petals in deep crimson created a path from the doorway to the bed, where they were scattered across the navy comforter in a striking contrast. The curtains had been drawn back to reveal the panoramic view of the moonlit lake, silver light dancing across the gentle waves.

"Luke," you breathed, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. "When did you—"

"I had help," he admitted with a sheepish smile. "Jack and Quinn set this up while we were at the Zoo. It was supposed to be part of my original proposal plan, but...ya know." He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "I still wanted the night to be special."

You crossed to him, rising on tiptoes to cup his face in your hands. "It's perfect," you whispered, emotion making your voice catch. "All of it."

With careful movements, he pulled away, and reached for the bedside table, retrieving a lighter to begin illuminating the candles. One by one, small flames sprang to life around the room, casting everything in a warm, golden glow that made the rose petals seem to shimmer. When the last candle was lit, Luke dimmed the overhead light, leaving only the dancing flames and moonlight to illuminate the space.

"There," he said, turning back to you with such tenderness in his eyes it made your breath catch. "Now it's perfect."

You moved toward him, drawn like a magnet to his warmth, his solidity, the familiar scent of his cologne mingling with the fresh rose petals and lake air drifting through the partially open window.

"I missed you." you whispered, reaching up to trace the strong line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble. "Two months is too long."

Luke caught your hand, turning it to press a kiss to your palm. "I'll quit the NHL," he murmured against your skin, "just wanna be with you."

"Oh wow," Your eyes widened with amusement. "I think Devils fans would kill me."

"We can go off the grid." A teasing smile on his lips as he drew you closer. "Survive off of my ELC money."

Your fingers traced the neckline of his shirt, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric as you threw your head back with a laugh. "Whatever would we do with all that time alone?" you asked, your voice deliberately innocent despite the heat building between you.

Luke's eyes darkened as his hands slid from your waist to your hips, drawing you impossibly closer. "I have a few ideas," he murmured, his voice dropping to that low register that always made your stomach flip. "Starting with properly celebrating our engagement."

You can find the 18+ extended cut of this fic, (5k+ words of smut), on my Patreon, or via the direct link: HERE

[honeyslibrary]

could we get more quinn during pregnancy like him being so overprotective 💕

Hello friend! Thank you so much for the request, my apologies for the long wait. You can find your completed request HERE. 🤍

[honeyslibrary]

Overprotective | Quinn Hughes

Pairing; Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Pregnancy, mention of body issues, established relationship, fluff, not sure what else, edited once.

Summary; Based on this request: ‘could we get more quinn during pregnancy like him being so overprotective 💕’

Word Count; 4.1k

Authors Note: I started writing this months ago and finally finished the rest this morning lol. Thank you so much for the request, friend! Sorry it took months and months, but I hope you like it nonetheless 😊 As per usual, any thoughts + reblogs are appreciated! - Honey

You loved Quinn. God, sometimes the depth of it frightened you—how he'd become your everything: your anchor, your confidant, the one who could coax laughter from you even through tears. But lately, that love had been tested in ways you never anticipated. Since crossing the six-month threshold of your pregnancy, something had shifted. Quinn, always attentive, had intensified his protectiveness to an almost suffocating degree. What began as endearing had transformed into something that scraped against your nerves, and though you recognized his good intentions, his constant vigilance was wearing you thin.

The Hughes lake house offered no respite, not in the thick of late July's oppressive heat. Humidity pressed against your skin like a damp wool blanket, the shade of towering oaks providing little comfort. The lake's surface glittered enticingly in the distance, a cool relief you were too pregnant and too exhausted to enjoy. Your swollen feet throbbed, your back ached with persistent pressure, and your patience had dwindled to almost nothing.

Quinn, now shadowed your every movement as if you might dissolve into air the moment he looked away. You couldn't use the bathroom without his offer of assistance, couldn't pour water without him swooping in to take over. Any attempt to lift even the lightest object earned you his gentle rebuke, as though you were fashioned from spun glass rather than flesh and bone.

Initially, you'd appreciated his attentiveness, genuinely. The foot rubs, the constant comfort checks, his insistence that you elevate your feet, these gestures were thoughtful and quintessentially Quinn. But now? You were pregnant, not terminal. While you understood his motivation was love, it increasingly felt like suffocation, his presence perpetually hovering at the edges of your space, poised to intervene at any moment.

Today was especially difficult. Dylan Larkin was hosting his annual summer barbecue, and naturally, you were all invited. Quinn and his brothers, Jack and Luke, weren't just friends with their fellow hockey player; they trained together every summer, making gatherings like this a tradition. It should have been a relaxed afternoon of friendship, food, and laughter by the lake.

Instead, you found yourself rifling through your dresser, frustration building as you searched for something, anything, that might make you feel less like an inflated balloon. You'd considered a sundress, something light to combat the July heat. But at six months pregnant, your body seemed to have transformed overnight, rendering your favorite clothes unrecognizable on your new frame. You held up a preferred dress, stared at it for a moment, then tossed it back with a sigh. The prospect of squeezing into anything fitted, or even remotely flattering, felt futile.

Your reflection caught your eye, and your heart sank. The growing belly was one thing, Quinn had repeatedly assured you he loved how you looked carrying his child. But all you registered were the swollen ankles, the puffy fingers, the way your hips had widened with startling speed. Everything felt heavier, more awkward, and despite reminding yourself this was part of the journey, you couldn't silence the voice whispering that you looked... simply fat.

You glanced back at the open drawer, chewing your lower lip as frustration bubbled up. Nothing seemed right, everything either clung in all the wrong places or felt constricting. You cast another dress aside with a huff, lowering yourself to the bed's edge, one hand resting on your swollen belly.

Footsteps approached from the hallway, followed by Quinn's gentle voice. "You almost ready, babe?"

Quinn, ever supportive, constantly reminded you that you weren't fat, you were pregnant. Nurturing your child, and every bodily change was beautiful to him. But despite treasuring his reassurances, they didn't always penetrate. Not when faced with swollen extremities and puffy cheeks, and clothes that no longer fit as they once had.

You released a soft groan, staring at the rejected pile in your lap. "I'm trying, but I hate everything I put on."

Quinn entered the bedroom, concern furrowing his brow as he crossed toward you. "Why? What's wrong with them?"

"Everything," you muttered, feeling tears prick at your eyes. "I'm huge. Nothing fits right. I look ridiculous in all of this." You gestured at the discarded dresses, as if they were co-conspirators in your discomfort.

Quinn's expression immediately softened as he knelt before you, resting his hands gently on your knees. He gazed up, hazel eyes swimming with concern. "You don't look ridiculous," he said softly. "You look beautiful, you know that."

You offered a half-hearted smile that didn't reach your eyes. "You say that, but I don't feel beautiful. I feel... like I'm walking around in someone else's body. Like nothing fits anymore, and everything just looks... wrong."

Quinn frowned slightly, his thumbs drawing small circles on your knees. "I know it's hard," he said, voice gentle. "I can't pretend to know what it feels like, but I do know you're not seeing what I see."

You raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Oh? And what do you see?"

He smiled, leaning closer. "I see my wife carrying our baby, looking more amazing every day. I see someone strong, someone literally growing another human being inside her, and that's... that's incredible to me." His voice lowered, soothing yet sincere. "You're not just pregnant, you're amazing. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes."

You bit your lip, feeling the familiar warmth he always kindled when you were at your lowest. It didn't erase your frustration or bodily discomfort, but it lightened the weight pressing down on you. He always knew exactly what to say, how to ground you when emotions spiraled. That was Quinn, steady and dependable, even when you felt anything but.

You sighed, shoulders slumping as you looked down at your belly again. "It's just... hard," you said quietly. "Some days, I feel great. Then others, like today, I feel like I'm carrying a watermelon and wearing a balloon suit. I just want to look normal again."

Quinn's hands moved to your hips, gently pulling you forward for a soft kiss on your forehead. "You are normal," he murmured against your skin. "And I'm not just saying that because I love you, though, I do love you. A lot."

A soft laugh escaped you, easing some of your inner tension. "I love you too."

He pulled back slightly, brushing a strand of hair from your face before standing and offering his hand. "Come on. Let's figure this out together. You don't need to stress over this."

You hesitated briefly before taking his hand, allowing him to pull you to your feet. He moved to the closet, flipping through hangers with purpose. "What about this one?" he asked, producing a loose, flowing dress you hadn't considered. "It's perfect for the heat, and you'll look amazing in it."

You studied the dress, your resistance softening. "Okay, fine," you conceded with a small smile. "I'll try it."

Quinn grinned, satisfaction evident, and handed it to you. "I bet you'll look stunning."

You rolled your eyes at his confidence, but inside, you felt lighter. As you slipped into the dress and faced the mirror, you realized he was right, it fit comfortably, and you didn't hate your reflection. The fabric flowed loosely around your body, hugging your belly just enough without constraint.

Quinn watched from the bed, his smile widening as you turned to face him. "See?" he said, rising to wrap his arms around your waist, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "Told you. Beautiful."

You melted into Quinn's embrace, his warmth and steady breathing soothing away the last remnants of your frustration. You wanted to linger in this bubble of comfort, but your eyes caught the clock in the corner. "We should get going, yeah?" you said, your voice breaking the quiet between you.

Quinn continued tracing lazy circles on your lower back before following your gaze to the wall clock. He nodded. "Yeah, you're right," he agreed softly, though unhurried. "Everyone else is already downstairs."

A frown tugged at your mouth as you realized they'd been waiting. Guilt twisted in your stomach. "Sorry," you mumbled, eyes dropping to the floor as you began pulling away. "I didn't mean to keep everyone waiting."

Quinn's response was immediate, pulling you back to face him. He shook his head, a playful smile curving his lips as he cupped your cheek. "Don't apologize, goober," he said, his tone affectionate, the nickname dissolving any tension. "It's no big deal." You couldn't help laughing at the familiar endearment, what he called you when you were making mountains of molehills, something pregnancy hormones had amplified lately.

He tilted his head, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Seriously," he continued, voice low and soothing, "they're not going anywhere without us, and nobody minds waiting. Especially me."

You met his gaze, finding such easy warmth there, no impatience or frustration, just Quinn being Quinn, steady and patient. His eyes held yours, and you felt tension ebbing from your shoulders, the nagging guilt in your chest softening. He made waiting for you sound so simple, like your pace, your feelings, mattered.

You inhaled deeply, releasing it slowly, and nodded. "Okay," you said, a grateful smile forming. "Thanks."

He grinned, his hand slipping from your cheek to your hand, fingers intertwining. "Of course," he replied, squeezing gently before pulling you closer.

Hand in hand, you descended the stairs, Quinn's thumb drawing soothing circles on your skin. At the bottom, just as Quinn had promised, Jack, Sophia, and Luke waited in the living room, chatting casually and scrolling through phones. Jack sprawled on the couch, legs extended, while Luke leaned against the armrest, phone balanced in one hand. Sophia sat cross-legged in the armchair, effortlessly stylish even in casual summer attire.

"Sorry for the wait," you apologized, cheeks warming with sheepishness, though you knew it wasn't necessary.

Jack rose from the couch with an easy grin, dismissing your apology. "No big deal," he assured, his smile reassuring. His easygoing nature had always comforted you. "We weren't rushing."

Luke, ever sweet, nodded approvingly, smiling warmly. "Yeah, you look really pretty," he added, sincerity evident.

You couldn't help smiling back. "Thanks, Lukey," you said, ruffling his hair as you passed, earning a playful groan as he ducked away.

The group gathered and headed for the door. Quinn held it open, and you stepped into the golden warmth of late afternoon. The air remained thick with summer heat, but a gentle breeze made it bearable. The scent of freshly cut grass and distant barbecues permeated the neighborhood, embodying summer's essence.

Sophia fell into step beside you, linking her arm with yours in easy friendship. She leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. "By the way, you look absolutely gorgeous," she insisted, serious yet affectionate. "That dress is perfect on you, and the color really enhances your skin. You're glowing, and I mean that."

Warmth spread across your cheeks at her compliment.

"Thank you," you replied, smiling gratefully. "And you look stunning as always." It was true, Sophia always managed effortless beauty. Even today, in jean shorts and a flowing tank top, red hair cascading down her back in loose waves, she looked ready for a photoshoot. Jack's attraction was undeniable.

Sophia laughed softly, bumping your shoulder. "Stop, you're making me blush."

You shared a quiet laugh, walking side by side toward the truck, your mood lifting progressively. At the vehicle, Quinn automatically opened the passenger door, and you slid in with a relieved sigh, grateful to be seated. One pregnancy perk, automatic claim to the front seat. It helped that Quinn was almost always the designated driver for group outings, something you increasingly appreciated.

He leaned in slightly as he helped with your seatbelt, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. "Good?" he asked.

You nodded, offering a soft smile. "Good," you confirmed.

With everyone else boarding, Jack and Luke hopping into the back with ease, Sophia sliding between them, Quinn started the engine. The truck rumbled to life, pulling from the driveway onto the road. Open windows let warm summer air rush in, whipping through your hair and carrying neighborhood sounds: distant lawnmowers, faint cicada hums, occasional dog barks. You settled back, a sense of calm washing over you.

The vehicle filled with laughter and easy conversation, light with the brothers' usual teasing banter. You and Sophia exchanged amused glances, occasional laughter punctuating the journey.

The twenty-minute drive to Dylan and Kenzi's passed comfortably. The high summer sun cast golden light over everything as Quinn drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. Upon arrival, distant laughter and barbecue aromas greeted you before the house came into view. Their lakeside home, a sprawling two story with a yard designed for gatherings, welcomed you. The crowded driveway forced Quinn to park along the curb under a large oak's shade. You exited the truck, gravel crunching beneath your feet as you surveyed the scene.

As you closed your door, you spotted another familiar face approaching. Alex, one of Quinn's hockey friends, made his way toward your group, radiating easy smiles and relaxed energy. His sun-kissed skin and athletic build evidenced hours spent on ice and in the gym, like the others. Luke greeted him first, bounding from the backseat with characteristic enthusiasm. "Hey, man!" he exclaimed, clapping Alex's back.

Jack followed with a side hug, while Sophia offered a friendly wave. Alex's grin widened as he acknowledged Sophia before turning to Quinn. You watched the men approach each other with a familiarity born of shared training hours.

They exchanged greetings with a quick handshake and side hug, smiles broadening as they swapped typical pleasantries. Their ease spoke of an unspoken bond that transcended the game, forged through shared struggles on and off the ice.

Quinn stepped aside, making space for you to greet Alex, and you offered a warm smile. "Hey, Alex," you said, your tone friendly yet understated. The familiarity of knowing him these past seasons had established a comfortable rapport.

He returned your smile, his expression characteristically bright. "Hey, Y/N," he replied, leaning in for a brief, friendly embrace. Alex possessed that rare, effortless charm that made everyone in his orbit feel welcome. Pulling back, he gestured toward the gathering. "Lyndsey's already back there with Archie," he mentioned, referring to his wife and firstborn.

You nodded eagerly, looking forward to reconnecting with her. The three of you proceeded up the driveway, conversation flowing naturally. Music drifted from the backyard alongside bursts of laughter from the assembled guests. The aroma of grilled meats and roasted vegetables permeated the air, awakening your appetite. The summer breeze carried a distinctive blend of scents, sunscreen, freshly cut grass, lake water, instantly placing you at ease.

Rounding the corner revealed the full scene. The backyard hummed with conversation, friends and family scattered across patio furniture or gathered near the grill, cold drinks in hand. Dylan, ever the consummate host, commanded the grill with an expansive grin, while Kenzi floated between groups, ensuring everyone's comfort. The setting felt like a welcome embrace. Fairy lights strung through trees, a cooler of drinks nestled in the shade, a table laden with appetizers.

You spotted Lyndsey near the refreshments, just as Alex had indicated, laughing with other partners of players. When she noticed your approach, she waved with enthusiasm, her face brightening in recognition. Alex gave you both a knowing smile before joining her, leaving you and Quinn to integrate yourselves into the gathering.

As you surveyed the scene, friends connecting, laughter rising above the music, the lake shimmering in the distance, Quinn's hand settled at the small of your back, guiding you toward the group. The gesture was familiar, comforting even, but something about it made you acutely aware of how he'd been steering you all day, as if you might suddenly forget how to walk.

"There's an open chair over there," he murmured close to your ear, nodding toward a cushioned patio seat near Lyndsey. "Why don't you sit down and I'll grab you something to drink? Water? Or maybe some of that strawberry lemonade Kenzi always makes?"

You nodded, forcing a smile despite the slight twinge of irritation. "Lemonade would be great," you said, heading toward the seat he'd indicated. You'd barely taken three steps when his hand caught your elbow.

"Watch the step there," he cautioned, pointing to a barely perceptible dip in the patio stonework. "Don't want you to trip."

"Thanks," you replied, your tone tighter than intended. The concern in his eyes was genuine, which only amplified your guilt for feeling annoyed. You knew he meant well, but being treated like fragile china was beginning to grate.

Lyndsey brightened when she saw you approaching, shifting her son Archie to her hip as she stood to greet you. "Y/N! You look amazing," she exclaimed, leaning in for a one-armed hug. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I'm carrying a bowling ball," you admitted with a laugh, sinking gratefully into the chair. "But I'm good. How's this little guy doing?" You reached out to touch Archie's chubby hand, smiling as his fingers curled reflexively around yours.

"Growing like a weed," Lyndsey replied, her face softening as she gazed at her son. "And into everything. Just wait, it seems like one minute they're kicking inside you, and the next they're trying to climb the bookshelf."

You were about to respond when Quinn appeared with your lemonade, setting it carefully on the side table before crouching beside your chair. "Here you go, babe. I got you some of those little cucumber sandwiches too, since I know you've been craving them." He placed a small plate on your lap, then frowned, adjusting the chair cushion behind you. "Is this comfortable enough? I can grab another pillow if you need more support."

"I'm fine, Quinn," you assured him, conscious of Lyndsey watching with barely concealed amusement. "Really."

He nodded, but his brow remained furrowed. "Just let me know if you need anything. I'll be right over there talking to Dylan, but I'll keep an eye out." He pressed a kiss to your temple before straightening. "Don't get up without me, okay? Some of these stones are uneven."

As he walked away, Lyndsey raised an eyebrow. "Wow," she said quietly. "That's... intense."

You sighed, taking a sip of the lemonade. "He means well."

"Oh, I know," she nodded sympathetically. "Alex was the same way with Arch. Not quite to that level, but close. He once followed me around Walmart for thirty minutes because he was convinced I shouldn't be pushing the cart."

The conversation shifted to easier topics as more friends joined your circle. The afternoon mellowed, the heat softening as the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon. You found yourself relaxing despite the occasional glances Quinn cast your way, checking on you from across the yard.

After about an hour, the gentle pressure on your bladder became impossible to ignore. You excused yourself and carefully stood, stretching your stiff back before making your way toward the house. You'd barely taken five steps when Quinn materialized at your side as if summoned.

"Everything okay?" he asked, his hand automatically finding the small of your back again.

"Just need the bathroom," you reply.

"I'll walk you," he said immediately, guiding you as if you weren't perfectly capable of finding your way to a bathroom you'd used dozens of times before.

Inside the house, blissfully cooler than the yard, you paused in the hallway. "Quinn, I can make it to the bathroom on my own."

"I know," he said, but his hand remained at your back. "The floor might be slippery, though. Kenzi was saying something about having mopped this morning."

The bathroom visit itself was mercifully private, but when you emerged, there he was, leaning against the opposite wall, scrolling through his phone. He looked up with a smile. "Feel better?"

"Quinn," you began, keeping your voice low to avoid being overheard by other guests. "You don't have to wait for me. I'm pregnant, not incapacitated."

His expression shifted to one of mild hurt. "I just want to make sure you're okay."

"I know, and I love you for it, but—" You cut yourself off, not wanting to have this conversation in someone else's hallway. "Let's just go back outside."

His hand returned to your back, and you bit your lip to keep from saying something you might regret. You'd barely rejoined the party when Dylan called out from the grill.

"Food's up, everyone!"

The crowd migrated toward the long tables set up on the lawn, loaded with side dishes and condiments. Quinn guided you toward a seat at the end of the table. "So you'll have more room," he explained, before hurrying off to fill a plate for you. You watched as he moved along the buffet, carefully selecting items and occasionally shaking his head at certain options.

When he returned, he set a plate in front of you with a proud smile. "I got you a little of everything. Except the potato salad, I wasn't sure about the mayo, and I know spicy foods have been giving you heartburn, so I skipped the buffalo chicken dip."

You stared at the plate, something tight coiling in your chest. "Quinn," you said quietly. "I can get my own food."

"I know, but I thought this would be easier. You shouldn't be on your feet that long."

The tightness expanded, pressing against your ribs. "I've been sitting for an hour," you pointed out, your voice strained. "Walking to the buffet table isn't going to hurt me."

His brow furrowed. "I'm just trying to take care of you."

"I don't need to be taken care of every second of every day," you replied, the words sharper than intended. A couple of heads turned your way, and you lowered your voice. "I appreciate the thought, but you're being—" You paused, searching for the right word.

"Being what?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"Suffocating," you finally said, the word hanging between you like a physical presence. "Quinn, I love you, but you're treating me like I'm made of glass, and it's driving me crazy."

His eyes widened, genuine hurt flashing across his face. "I'm just worried about you. About both of you." He glanced at your belly, then back to your face. "Is that so wrong?"

The vulnerability in his expression made your frustration waver, but you pushed on. "No, it's not wrong to worry. But there's a difference between being concerned and... whatever this is." You gestured vaguely between you. "I can't even go to the bathroom without an escort."

Quinn's shoulders slumped slightly. "I didn't realize it was bothering you that much."

"Because every time I try to say something, you look at me with those puppy dog eyes, and I feel like a monster for complaining about someone who cares so much." You sighed, running a hand over your face. "But Quinn, I need to breathe. I need to feel like myself, not just a vessel for your baby."

The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted their harshness. Quinn's face fell, and he looked away, swallowing hard.

"Quinn," you began, reaching for his hand. "I didn't mean—"

"No," he said quietly, squeezing your fingers. "You're right. I've been... I've been overdoing it." He met your gaze again, his expression softening. "I just, the idea of anything happening to you, to either of you, it terrifies me. But that's not an excuse to make you feel smothered."

You felt a lump form in your throat, your earlier frustration dissolving into something more complex. "I know," you whispered. "And I love that you care so much. I just need a little space to be myself, too."

He nodded slowly, a small, rueful smile tugging at his lips. "I can try to dial it back. No promises that I won't slip up, but I'll try."

"That's all I'm asking," you said, offering him a tentative smile in return. "And I want buffalo chicken dip, heartburn be damned."

Quinn's laugh was soft but genuine, the tension between you easing slightly. "Mhm, I'll get you some ," he agreed, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I love you. Both of you."

"We love you too," you replied, your hand finding his under the table. "Even when you're driving me crazy."

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