#More than a Vancouver sunset

[zuucc]

MORE THAN A VANVOUVER SUNSET: What if…

… Mat had given in?

Summary: What If Mat had given into Emma, that night in his car? What if he’d thrown his principles out the window and given into what they both wanted so badly? This story is a spin on what would’ve happened in Mat’s car that night after their trip to Sunset Beach - the trip that definitely was not a date - if Mat hadn’t been so stubborn, and so adamant about taking her on a date first.

Warnings: Smut, more cursing than actual sentences

Word Count: 3600 (including excerpt)

Author’s note: I wrote the first 50.000 words to More Than a Vancouver Sunset when I was supposed to be writing my bachelors thesis. That´s just about three years ago now, which is just mind blowing on its own. The fact that this story still spins through my head still, is maybe even worse? Anyways, I’ve got a week long exam and just like before, that makes me want to write everything but that. It´s not like MTAVS doesn’t have enough smut as it is, but banging my head against table has got me coming up with all kinds of shit. Needless to say - it’s spicy. I know I’m not really on here anymore, and for most people I’m just someone you’ll occasionally see on someone’s Mat Barzal, Tyson Jost or William Nylander fic rec list. I don’t even think half the people I used to talk to on here back then are still here, but I hope this finds someone who’s interested. And this could be read as a stand alone, you do not have to have read the 80k nightmare that is More Than a Vancouver Sunset to read this.

I hope you enjoy.

In cursive, you will find an extract from More Than a Vancouver Sunset, with what leads up to this story. If you haven’t read the full story - Mat has previously stated that Emma is not the kind of girl he’d just fuck, he would like to take her on a date first. He’s brought her to watch the sunset at the beach, but didn’t call it date out of fear. Though it really feels like a date to Emma and he did end up kissing her.

~

His hand started laced with hers, their fingers intertwined, resting in her lap as they began the drive back home. The conversation flowed freely, and it hit Mat square in the chest that though their lives had taken completely different paths after high school, they still shared many of the same experiences and they still had so much in common – hell they’d even ended up in the same city. Soon, his hand was gripping her thigh lightly and Emma’s own hand curled around his wrist, moving back and forth in a soothing manner. 

“I have to admit, my crush on you came back pretty quickly,” he hummed, looking over at her for a split second before he turned his attention back to the road ahead, causing Emma to laugh. 

“Yeah, a little faster than I’d like to admit,” she agreed, and Mat nodded along. He was pulling onto her street, but he didn’t want to let her go just yet. The digital clock on his dash had pushed past eleven and Emma’s parents’ house was dark when he pulled into the driveway. He turned the car off, already knowing that he wouldn’t just be saying goodbye and backing out again. He looked over at the beautiful girl sitting next to him, and she was already looking back at him. They both smiled, looking at each other for way too long before they both burst out in giggles. They’d talked non stop all the way back and now it seemed that they were both out of words. 

“Come here,” Mat chuckled, pulling her closer by her hand and meeting her halfway. They both smiled into the short kiss, their eyes meeting for a second before their lips did, though this time the kiss was loaded with all the sexual tension that had seemed to make the air thick all around them. Emma’s nose brushed against Mat’s before the kiss deepened, the open mouthed kiss sending warmth through both their bodies. While Emma slid her hands up his chest, Mat’s dropped to her thighs, his grip a bit tighter and moving a bit higher than where it had been on the way home. 

Mat hummed into the kiss when her hands slid back to his neck, her fingers instantly moving into his thick hair and curling into fists. Their tongues met in a slow slide against each other, sending a wave of want crashing between Emma’s thighs, as she moaned into the kiss – not even embarrassed at the sound, simply just wanting his lips on hers, or anywhere else on her body – that’d be fine too, and his hands roaming. Mat could feel his pants getting tighter with every kiss they shared and Emma seemed to get more impatient; little moans slipping past her lips, her fingers clenching in his hair, doing everything she could to press herself closer to him, only to be stopped by the center console. Mat reached for the little button on the side of his seat, taking his seat the last few inches back. 

“What are you doing?” Emma asked, not pulling far away, her lips still moving against his while she spoke. 

“Just come here,” he hummed, kissing her hard but quick as he placed one hand on the back of her thigh and the other sliding across her back to curl around her waist. He pulled her body closer to his before he simply lifted her over the center console with very little help and effort from Emma, letting her straddle his lap. That in itself had Emma grinding her hips down onto his immediately, making a groan escape his throat in unison with the moan she pressed against his mouth. 

“Fuck, Em,” Mat said, groaning into her kiss, his hands on her hips as she ground against him. The shortened version of her name falling from his lips along with his hardening member under her, hit her perfectly between her legs whenever she rolled her hips over his, and it was pushing her further along the road to desperation. His hands moved slowly up her sides as their lips slotted together, so slowly it nearly had Emma placing her hands on his to push them to where she wanted them most. He pulled away from her lips, his own glistening and swollen as he looked up at her with dark, lust-filled eyes. Emma looked back at him with the same look on her face, her lips parted as she tried to catch her breath. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly and Mat’s attention was caught, his hands finally covering her breasts. He kissed her deeply, but only for a few seconds before he started a trail down the side of her neck as Emma pushed her hair back out of the way for him. 

“Let me take you out on a date,” he spoke, his lips moving against the sensitive skin right beneath the line of her jaw. One of his arms wrapped around her waist while the other stayed on her boob, massaging it in his hand. Emma’s neck craned back to let him have as much space as possible, her hand fisted in his dark curls. 

“I thought this was a date,” She breathed, her body pressing against his, desperate to be with him – desperate to have him naked against her, desperate for him to be inside her. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head against her as he kept leaving kisses down her neck. Emma moaned as he found a particularly sensitive spot. She rolled her hips into his and she could feel him fully hard beneath her. She was sure the particularly nice thong she’d decided to wear was soaked through. 

“You don’t have to take me out first – before you fuck me,” she moaned, clenching her fist in his hair. The words falling from her mouth along with the pull of his hair had Mat groaning and pulling back from where he’d been leaving kisses on her skin.

“I’ll take you out – tomorrow,” he said, making Emma swallow hard. He really wasn’t going to fuck her tonight, and she didn’t know how to deal with the fire burning in the pit of her stomach. She pressed her forehead to his, closing her eyes. They were both breathing hard. 

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” she sighed, brushing her nose against his. Matt chuckled, kissing her lightly, but long enough to leave a tingle on her lips. 

“I’m sure you can feel what you’re doing to me,” he breathed, placing his hands on her hips and pushing her against him. A breathy moan fell from her lips, making a soft smile tug on his. 

“I’m so wet right now, I’ll probably leave a mark on your pants,” Emma told him, not even embarrassed about it. He was wearing a pair of dark green cargo pants that did wonders for both his ass and his thighs, so no, she wasn’t going to be embarrassed about leaving a mark on them. Not when he was making her feel like this. 

“You can’t just say that,” he groaned, letting his head fall back on the headrest. Emma smirked, trailing her fingers down his chest, towards his abs. Mat locked his gaze to her fingers, following them down his torso all the way until it slipped under his t-shirt. He looked up at her again as her hand flattened out over his abs. 

“And you can’t just look like this, and kiss me like that, and expect me to not be wet for you,” she dared, feeling brave and risky now. She was horny, and she’d practically begged for him to fuck her already, so she had nothing to lose. This time it was Mat who smirked.

“What made you decide to wear this dress tonight?” he asked, his smirk turning cocky as his hands moved from her hips to her thighs. Emma smiled, looking out the window for a second to compose herself. 

“I like the way it fits around my hips,” she grinned. He somehow managed to look even more smug than he already was with his fingers curling around the side of her thighs, pulling her just a little bit closer. 

“So, you did this on purpose?” he asked then, his hands moving back to her hips, but this time under her dress. His thumb rubbing back and forth on a spot right beneath one of the double bands on her thong, and then slipping under it just to tease. 

“I did – I even put on nice underwear for you,” she said. He could hear the hitch in her breath when he pulled his thumb away and let the band smack back on her skin. 

“You’re not even wearing a bra,” he smirked, having already figured that out when she climbed into the car hours ago now and he’d sure gotten it confirmed when he had his hands on her earlier, only feeling the thin material between his hands and her boobs. 

“Doesn’t mean I’m not wearing a nice pair of undies, though,” she smirked back, finding his smug expression faltering just a little bit. With his attention fully on her, Emma moved her hand out from under his shirt, finding the hem of her dress instead and lifting it just enough for him to see the white lace covering her most intimate part, and the two bands sitting high on her hips. 

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, letting his hands fall back down to her thighs, his thumb sliding underneath the lacy fabric. He looked up to meet her stare, keeping eye contact as the finger slipped further down to where the material was actually soaked. Pushing the thong to the side, he let his finger slide through her slit, watching her as her mouth fell open and her eyes closed. 

“I thought you had to take me on a date first,” she breathed, letting her head fall to rest her forehead against his, her fingers finding their place in his hair again. 

“That was just before fucking you,” he smirked, though through his tone it was clear that he was nearly as affected as she was. Emma moaned as he slipped closer to her hole, almost falling against him. Their noses brushed against each other and their lips met just as he slid one long finger into her. The desperate moan vibrating against his lips sent blood rushing towards his dick, even if he’d been hard for a long time already and he could feel himself twitching in his pants. The moan that followed when he pressed another finger into her had him wondering what sounds she was going to make when he’d get to push his length into her. He would’ve fucked her right there in the front seat of his car if he hadn’t been so fucking stubborn. But there was the fact that he didn’t want to have sex with her for the first time in his car in her parents’ driveway. He wasn’t really much of a romantic, but he’d like to take his time with her – in a bed. 

“Fuck, Mat,” she groaned, her lips capturing his before she pushed her tongue against his. Oh, what she’d do to have his tongue between her legs right now. Mat loved the way she said his name, and he looked forward to hearing her moan it again as he placed his thumb on her clit and started rubbing circles. He started pumping his fingers in and out of her, her juices running down his fingers and making him want nothing more than to lick it all up. Her mouth fell open as he curled his fingers inside of her, her head falling back as a string of moans left her lips. 

“Just want to taste you, baby,” he mumbled as she gasped at the loss of his fingers, her eyes heavy as she followed them into his mouth, his lips locking around the two long fingers dripping with her arousal. The pet name sent another wave crashing through her body, and that, along with the sight of Mat licking her juices off his fingers, had her falling forward, her lips and tongue against his as soon as his fingers were pushing back inside her. The taste of herself mixed with what she learned was the taste of Mat, was something she could definitely get used to. 

“Oh my god,” she moaned against his lips, the feeling of his fingers deep inside her too much, yet far from enough all at the same time. She pulled away from his kiss and immediately reached for the straps of her dress that were tied in little bows on her shoulder, tugging at their ends and letting the front fall down to expose her bare chest.

“It’s too fucking hot in here,” she whined, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Mat’s lips hung slightly open, lips burning red and and glistening from kissing her. His eyes were dark and lustful, alternating between her face and her naked chest, her pink nipples begging him to touch them.

“You are unbelievable,” he mutters, more so to himself than to Emma. She grins, unsure if it’s her body or her persistence he’s referring to, but happy with herself either way. She grips his t-shirt in her fist and pulls him closer, pushing up on her knees in order to let him fit his mouth around her nipples. The moans erupting from her throat were so desperate that she’d normally be embarrassed, but she was desperate and she couldn’t care less in that moment.

“Fuck, Emma,” he cursed again. She’d started meeting him halfway as she fucked herself onto his fingers, meeting his knuckles as he thrusted the length of his fingers into her.

“You’re really making me do this, huh?” He asked, more so rethorically. His words were barely audible as he dragged his lips from one of her boobs to leave a trail of wet kisses up to her collarbones.

“What?” Emma breathed, too focused on the feeling that was filling her body and gathering into a big ball of pleasure in her lower stomach, begging to explode.

“You’re making me break my promise, baby,” he whispered, his lips having made their way up her neck, stopping right beneath her ear. He couldn’t take it anymore, he needed to be inside her. Never before had he wanted something so badly. Sure, he could make her come with his fingers, and she would be somewhat satisfied, but the way she was begging for him? It did things for his ego that he couldn’t really explain and he needed to give her what she wanted - what they both wanted. He’d never felt so wanted by anyone. And truthfully, it was starting to hurt with how incredibly hard she was making him.

“Fuck, really?” She nearly cried, gasping as he pulled his fingers out of her. His fingers were wet with her arousal, but neither of them cared when he placed both hands on her hips and pushed back on his thighs. He nodded to answer her question.

Emma hurried to get her hands on the waistband of his pants, opening the button and pulling down the zipper as fast as she could. Simultaneously, Mat slipped his thumbs into both his pants and his boxers, ready to pull them down as soon as she’d gotten them open. Emma cursed again as his erection finally sprung free and slapped against his abs - his t-shirt having ridden up ages ago.

“Fuck, Emma, come here,” he begged, reaching out to grab her hip to pull her closer with the one hand and finding the button on the side of his seat, reclining it in order to make the ordeal easier. It would’ve been easier to move to the backseat, or just sneak into Emma’s bedroom, but right now this just needed to happen as fast as possible. He needed to be inside her as fast as possible.

“Oh god,” Emma breathed as she maneuvered her legs in the tight space, watching him spit into his hand before wrapping it around his dick and lathering it up.

“Come,” he demanded, and Emma felt herself fall towards him. Her hands found his sturdy shoulders and she lifted herself up from his lap for him to finally line himself up with her opening.

“Fuck, Mat,” she sighed as he pulled her underwear aside and let his tip run through her slit. They both moaned in relief as she finally sunk down onto him.

“I just need you to know- fuck,” Mat started, but interrupted himself as she lifted herself off of him before quickly sinking back down. Emma wanted nothing more than to cover his lips with hers and just get lost in it, but it seemed like he needed to get something off his chest.

“I want you, in every single way,” he went on, stopping to breathe and curse to himself. His hands had found their way back to her, one hand on her hip and the other was gripping her ass, helping her keep a steady rhythm as she rode him.

“Not just like this. But god do I want this, too,” he managed to tell her. Emma’s lips spread into a wide smile, feeling full in every single sense of the word.

“Me too, Mat, me too,” she agreed, leaning her forehead to his and very willingly complying when he pressed his lips to hers. Everything that had happened between them up until then had happened fast, and so had this. But Emma knew it was right, even if it was absolutely terrifying at the same time. Emma’s fingers fisted into the thick locks of hair on the back of his head, and their tongues finally met. They made out desperately as their hips met repeatedly, Mat planting his feet into the floor of the car to be able to meet her hips every single time she came sinking down on him.

“I’m so close, Mat,” Emma sighed, adjusting her feet on the side of the seat to be able to up her speed.

“Me too, baby,” Mat agreed, letting his head fall back to watch her as she sat spread out on top of him, her chest glistening with sweat and her arousal having spread out on her inner thighs and Mat, too. One of her legs were extended over the middle console and into the passenger seat and that way Mat could see the way he was buried inside her, how he was covered in her juices. His thumb found its way to her clit and he watched her close her eyes in pleasure, her teeth clamping down on her bottom lip.

“Oh, god, now,” she cried, pushing herself forward to fall against him again. They’d never done this before, but somehow Mat knew what she meant. His arms wound around her, holding her close to him, as he thrusted up into her with all the power he had as she moaned and clawed herself to him - leaving marks on his shoulder as she finally came. He didn’t let go himself until he could hear her moans slowing down and coming to an end.

“Fuck, Mat, that was just… Wow,” Emma managed to say, still breathing heavily. She lifted her head from where she’d collapsed into his shoulder, a wide smile spreading on her lips when she pulled back and saw the one already on his lips.

“I know, I’m… I’m glad we did that,” he admitted, even though he had been so adamant on waiting til after he’d taken her on a date.

“Me too,” Emma laughed, relaxing into his lap again. The feeling of his softening dick inside her was warm and comfortable.

“To be fair, I really thought that was a date,” she grinned and Mat shook his head with an embarrassed smile on his lips. A blush crept up his already pink neck - Emma might not be able to see it with how hot they both were, but he could feel the blush settle on his neck and cheeks.

“It was supposed to be, but when I saw you this morning I just didn’t have the balls to call it that,” he admitted, his hands were running up and down the outside of her thighs as they spoke.

“You didn’t have to call it that, Mat. You didn’t have to say the word date for me to understand that the guy who’s been flirting with me for weeks and even told me that he wants to take me on a date and then fuck me, is asking me on a date when he’s asking me to come watch the fucking sunset at the beach. Like, I thought we’d established that I am quite smart a long time ago,” Emma laughed, and Mat had to cover his face with his hands as he laughed along. She was right, it definitely sounded like a date.

“So, if it makes you feel better, we can just say that it was a date,” she shrugged, smiling that gorgeous smile that Mat had been falling for every single time he’d seen her since he was assigned seats next to her in high school.

“Okay, fine. But I’m still taking you out tomorrow,” he grinned.

“I’m not gonna stop you,” Emma mirrored his smile, leaning forward to press her lips to his again.

“I meant it though, what I said about wanting everything, not just sex,” he reminded her, struggling to keep eye contact as he said it. It was important to him that she knew how he felt. She was more than just a one time thing.

“I know, Mat. Me too,” she said, kissing him once more.

“But I really do want the sex, too,” he smiled cheekily, making Emma throw her head back laughing.

“Me too,” she agreed, leaning in again for a deep kiss.

[hugheshischier4313]

YOU MISS HIM DON'T YOU | Q. HUGHES

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 | Quinn Hughes x fem!reader 

𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 | Emotional cheating (not on Quinn),  angst, fluff, oblivious!reader and Quinn, soft!Quinn, neighbors-to-lovers, reader x OC (Andrew, reader's boyfriend), alcohol, flirting. 

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 | Months into your friendship with Quinn the two of you finally admit to what's been there all along. 

 🎧 Playlist | 📷 Pinterest Board

Based on a scene in Season 3 of Desperate Housewives (No spoilers in the writing. Bolded words are quoted from the show): “Don't tell me nothing happened. We’ve been fighting over this all week. You miss him, don't you?”

𝗪/𝗖 | 6.8K

𝗔/𝗡 | hi lovelies, thank you for being patient with me for the full fic of this idea. The lines indicate time jumps, they jump back and forth to different scenarios of reader and Quinn through the time they have spent together. I absolutely love these two and this idea and I couldn't find a perfect ending. I rewrote multiple endings and ultimately decided to just make a part two when I finally figure it out. Hope you enjoy, love ya!

It had been a wonderful night, the wine glass in your hand still full, the bottle sitting on the coffee table. The random episode of Bob's Burgers in the background forgotten, adding nothing more than a soft glow to the room. As you sat there listening to Quinn talk about his summer back in Michigan, you found yourself examining him. The way his eyes roam the room as he speaks, the smiles before he lets out a laugh and the way his hands run through his hair occasionally.

"You should have visited, even for just a weekend. You would have thought this was way more entertaining if you were there." Quinn teased as he finished his story. You pushed down the feeling of guilt as you smiled back at him, poking a finger into his shoulder. "I wouldn't have let you live it down if I had been there. So it's probably for the best," You teased back, but the truth was you had wanted to visit Quinn over the off-season, but when the time came, life had another plan.

_________________________________

"You should come down for the week. The sunrise and sunset alone would make the trip worth it. Imagine spending your week off by the lake, a beautiful sky for you to take pictures of. I can send you a ticket, just say the word." As the smile crept onto your face, so did the slightest tinge of pink. You had been putting away groceries when your AirPods had read the message out loud. Quinn had a habit of making fun of your love for the sky. Always calling you out, shrieking, 'The sky is so pretty' like you had repeatedly done (in a terrible attempt to match your voice). You swear you could hear it through the text despite him being over 2,000 miles apart. 

When Andrew's call came through, you found your phone and typed the text about sending it. "Y/N! I got it, I got the promotion!" His voice came booming out, and the excitement was evident in his voice. "Congratulations, Andrew!" you reciprocated his excitement. "And what better time than before you have a week off. I was thinking of going away for the week, maybe Banff? I'll rent us the cabin we had when we went last time." He kept ranting, too excited to keep anything in, but his voice was drowned out by the thought of Quinn. 

"I have to go, but I'll send you the flight information later tonight. I can't wait to see you." Andrews's voice didn't falter, almost like he was on autopilot, just rambling what he knew to say. They exchanged their quick goodbyes before he hung up. 

As if to taunt you, the next sound into your ear was' NEW MESSAGE FROM QUINN 'Or even just for the weekend if you have other plans for your week off.' As you looked back down at the phone and saw the unset message,  'A whole week of sunset pictures? Count me in Q'; the thought of deleting it weighed heavily on you. 

The truth was you had truly missed Quinn this summer. You had moved to Vancouver for grad school in the fall, and as luck would have it, Quinn lived in the apartment next to you. In the past 10 months, you had known each other; the only time you hadn't seen each other was when he had away games. And even then, when he returned, he made it up to you by devoting time to be with you. He bought you a postcard from all the cities he played in, and you had them displayed on your fridge. He signed all of them after the few glasses of wine you shared after one of his longer roadies.

You had (in your tipsy state) jokingly told him to sign one so you could sell them if he ever decided to be a jerk to you. And as he did, you knew you could never sell them; they meant too much to you. He had made a joke about writing nonsense on them to lower the value if you tried. Over the off-season, you found yourself religiously turning them over to look at his little notes, his penmanship holding inside jokes that you held dear to your heart.

As you stood there staring at the postcards on your fridge, thinking of the brunette, you couldn't help but feel the guilt in your chest. The nagging thought that your friendship with Quinn may not be as platonic as the two of you acted.

Why were you standing there thinking of another man when you were just on the phone with your boyfriend? You hadn't and would never cheat on Andrew, but the world seemed to disappear when you were with Quinn. Time slipped by faster, and you longed to sit on a couch with him again.

And at that moment, it had become apparent that you no longer had a choice; you had to choose between the two men, Andrew or Quinn? But then again, it wasn't really a choice between the men; it was a choice between right and wrong.

'Sorry Quinn, I can't this week. Take lots of pictures for me. Can't wait to see them when you're back.' Send. It was vague, and you knew he could send them to you whenever, but you also knew that, at least for this week, he couldn't be your primary focus. You needed to focus on your partner and his accomplishments.

_________________________________

As you had sat in a surprisingly unpopulated section of the airport for a Friday night, you haphazardly skipped through Instagram stories until you were faced with Quinn's private story of him on the boat with his friends. You had no reason, or right, to be this upset, but as you looked at the sunset on the picture's horizon, you couldn't stop yourself from hitting the call button. 

The phone barely rang once before you heard his voice, and you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. "Hey, I was j-" His voice was laced with exhaustion as if whatever physical activity he was doing was still fresh. And you found yourself more clam than you had been in days. Oh, how you had missed his voice.

"Are you upset with me?" The words were rushed and tumbled out before you could comprehend the repercussions. You knew that now was not the time to be having this discussion. You were sitting in the corner seats at the airport, waiting for your plane to begin boarding. But it had been two days since that last message you sent, and you had heard nothing from Quinn.

You had been a little hurt when you spent all of Thursday waiting for a response from the brunette. He had never taken more than a few hours to respond to you, which is why you had given him the benefit of the doubt that Wednesday night after you sent the last message. But now that you had spent the entirety of your workday contemplating writing a new message, you were upset, and the Insta story had only added fuel to the fire.  

"No, of course not. Why?" His voice was genuine and calm, a nice contrast to the loud background on both sides of the phone. You figured he was still on the boat with his friends. "Oh, I just figured you were upset since I haven't heard from you." You felt stupid for calling and continuing to talk despite it being obvious he wasn't alone. "But I'll let you go; sorry for calling." you hit the red button before you had time to overthink. Your voice had become weak, and you hated that you were taking time away from him and the time he had to spend with his friends and family.

You had the overwhelming feeling to cry, but you didn't know if it was because of guilt for Andrew or Quinn or because any doubts you had that Quinn was mad at you had disappeared. NEW MESSAGE FROM QUINN: 'Give me 10 minutes, I'll call you back'. The message held an inevitable dominance over it; there was no question that it was a conversation that had to happen, and it had to happen now. 

_________________________________

Quinn had known about your boyfriend from the very beginning. He had seen you together, bringing boxes to the apartment beside his, and noticed you immediately. He wished he could say it had all been innocent, but the first thing he saw was how your legs looked in the tennis skirt you had been wearing. You bent down to pick up a fallen pillow as he exited his car in the parking garage. His eyes lingered on you, and he forced himself to turn away before you noticed. He swore he would offer to help you before he met eyes with Andrew as he stepped out of the parking garage elevator.

"I didn't mean to; it just happened. You were bent over, in a skirt, right outside my car; it was hard to look away when I didn't expect you to be there." Quinn had a slight pink tone to his features right now, and you were smiling, trying to suppress a laugh. You stood in the kitchen, pouring the margaritas into your cups.

"You mean the skirt I'm wearing right now? Is that why you mentioned it? Quinn, you could have kept that secret forever. I mean, you couldn't waterboard that information out of me." You were always more giggly when drinking, which was contagious to Quinn. "But since you didn't, I'm gonna use this against you for the foreseeable future."  The laugh left you when you got back to Quinn's couch. "I'll try not to make any sudden movements that may catch you off guard," you teased as you stood before him and handed him his drink.

"It's not funny; I've felt bad about this for months." he tried to be serious, but the smile never left his face. As you nodded with a smirk on your lip, you turned from him after he grabbed the glass, "Y/N, I'm serious." He wasn't; he could never stay upset with you, even in a joking manner. 

"I guess I'll just go back to my apartment then; I don't want to bring back any of your past shame." your body once again turned towards him as you leaned down over to hug him, "Bye, Hughes, I'll make sure to only wear this when you're out of town." He let out a sarcastic 'ha.' "You don't have to leave; I can control myself. I promise." he rolled his eyes and slowly got up to stop you.

"I don't know; I think the only logical answer is to wear your Drew sweats." You had pivoted and ran to his room before he could reply. You had bugged him countless times to try them on over the past months; you had just wanted to see if they were worth the hype because the black sweats had been sold out forever (and maybe, subconsciously, because of your past love for Justin Bieber). And every time he said no, you took this as your opportunity to try them and bug him simultaneously.

Being in Quinn's room was familiar to you. You had spent most days at one of the two apartments, and sometimes that meant laying in his bed watching TV after he had just returned from a string of away games or after a challenging game or practice. You had worn his clothes before, too; it was always in a platonic way, the first time you had locked yourself out after being out on a run when it started raining. You lost your key on the run, and the concierge was gone for the night. You had also spent the night; he let you sleep in his bed and took the couch. 

As you ran into the room, you closed the door behind you and walked into the closet, closing that door, too. You had found the sweats and slowly walked out of the closet. There was no sight of Quinn, and the bedroom door was still closed. You walked towards the door, sweats in your hand, as you called out to him, "Q? Are you -" But you were cut off as he tackled you onto the bed next to you.

The two of you lay on the bed laughing before turning to face each other. The laughter died down, and you were smiling and looking at each other. The two of you lay there for a while, not saying anything until you broke the silence, "Your eyes are a different color every time I see you, but today I can see every shade in them." You don't know why you needed to share your observation with him, but it felt right. "You cut your hair." He reached out to tuck a strand behind your ear and play with the end of another. His voice had been so him, soft yet dominant. It was true; you had gotten a slight trim the day before and a few longer layers at the bottom of your hair, a small and simple detail that could have been missed. In fact, he was the only person to notice; none of your classmates or even Andrew, although over Facetime, had noticed. 

The room felt heavy as you looked from his hand in your hair to his eyes again, stopping to look at his lips for a second. And when you reached his gaze, it was unreadable. "I -" A phone began to ring as Quinn was about to speak. You could see a shift in his demeanour as you continued to look at him. He got up to find the cause of the sound. "It's your phone." He walked it over to you before heading out to the living room again. The phone illuminated ANDREW CALLING.

You looked towards the empty doorway as you brought the phone up to your ear. "Hey you," your playful voice sounded forced, and the smile on your lips was even more so. "Hey, I have a surprise for you. The notification said it was in the lobby." This shocked you, not only because it was a surprise but because Andrew was never one for small gestures. It was always something big like him ordering 4 dozen roses to your desk after your fourth date. But he had never just sent you or given you something randomly.

Andrew could be a sweet guy; you worked together before he asked you to have dinner with him. You knew you were moving and had no intention of starting anything serious before moving to Vancouver, but he had been so persistent, and it felt nice to have a distraction with all the craziness of moving. But living in different provinces has brought no comfort to either of you. It felt like pen pals most of the time. You would call him a few times a week and talk for an hour before he had to go. There had been a few times where you could have sworn you heard someone else there, but the times you mentioned it, it felt like the fight had been more trouble than the issue itself.

And maybe subconsciously, you felt like a hypocrite. Your relationship with Quinn was platonic, but the number of times you were confused as a couple in public could be seen another way. In fact, you hated to admit it, but it felt like you communicated more with Quinn when he was away than with your boyfriend. 

"There's something for me in the lobby of my apartment complex? Andrew, what did you do? It's 7pm?" As you started talking, Quinn walked into view, bringing your drinks and extending to you. "It's a surprise; you should go get it now; I'm assuming it's just on the concierge desk based on the picture." You stared up at Quinn as you listened to Andrew, "Okay, I'll be down in a minute, and I'll call you back once I have it." The phone call was quickly over. 

"What did you order?" Quinn asked with a smile, used to all the packages you've received. A few that had been too heavy for you to carry on your own that Quinn had taken himself. Even when they hadn't been too heavy, he would carry them for you if he was there. "I'm not sure, Andrew sent it to me." You could have sworn there was a look on his face that was gone as quickly as it appeared. "You want me to go with you in case you need help?" there was no hesitation in your quick reply of 'yes.'

As the two of you walked down the hall, you were overly aware of the distance between you. It was no different than it had been in the past, but there was a particular charge. The words shared and unshared in the bedroom hung heavy. "So I never got to even put the sweats on," you joked while waiting in front of the elevator. "You can borrow them when we get back up if you want," his answer made your breath hitch. He had never let you try them on, much less borrow them.

He looked at you, letting you walk into the elevator first. The ride down was quick and quiet, but how you looked at each other made everything race faster. Your heartbeat quickened as you saw his slight deviation towards your lips before making their way back up. "Quinn," your voice came out as a low plea; whether it was to continue or to stop was uncertain. He stepped closer to you as the two of you stood in silence for a brief moment before the doors opened. As you stepped out, your heart felt heavy.

As you made your way towards the front desk, you saw the back of a man at the desk, but when you heard the voice,  it made you freeze. Andrew he was in your lobby waiting for you, Quinn failed to notice your pause and ran into you. However, before you could tip forward, Quinn had steadied you with a hand on your arm and waist. Andrew called out when he turned around. 

"Andrew! What are you doing here?" You didn't miss the look he gave the sight of the two of you or how his gaze only lingered on Quinn's hand on your waist as he walked closer. You unhooked yourself from Quinn to hug Andrew. The hug was stiff; he held himself higher, and his head hadn't moved from the position it had been in before. You figured he was still looking at Quinn. 

"I wanted to surprise you; we settled a case earlier than expected, so I took a few days off." You had pulled yourself to his side, a view of both him and Quinn. They kept looking towards each other, completely ignoring you. "Well, Andrew, this is my friend I always tell you about, Quinn. He introduced himself the day I moved in, remember? He lives next door to me." Andrew smiled down at you as you continued. "Quinn, you remember Andrew." Quinn looked from you to Andrew before extending his hand. "Good to see you again, man." Andrew hesitated before shaking his hand. 

There was a quick silence before Quinn grabbed his phone from his pocket and looked at the screen, excusing himself, "I have to make a phone call; I'll see you around," but before he could walk off, you gave him a side hug goodbye. You had done it a thousand times before, and feeling like you couldn't because Andrew was there didn't feel like a good sign, so you did it anyway. "I'll text you," you quietly said as you let go.

The next few days had been uneventful, showing Andrew around Vancouver. The hallway had felt unusually empty each time you passed, hoping to run into Quinn. A string of away games was starting that Monday, and when you came back from dropping off Andrew at the airport on Sunday night, you noticed the bag sitting in front of your apartment door. 

The black sweats were inside with a note, 'I'll pick them up when I'm back. Enjoy :). ~ Q" He never asked for them back

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"Hey," his voice was clear despite the pixilated quality of his Facetime call. He was wearing a white T-shirt, his hair was wet, and he had a look on his face you had never seen. "Hey Q," your pulse felt overwhelming as if anyone who looked at you could see it throbbing against your neck. "Are you having a good time back home?" It was a buffer; you didn't know what Quinn wanted to say, and judging by the look on his face, you weren't sure you wanted to.

"Andrew called me." His voice was blunt, direct to the point, despite the few seconds he stared at you, hesitating to continue. "He asked if I was sleeping with you." His eyes held yours while the rest of his face had no expression. "What?" The nervous laughter that filled the air around you was nothing more than a way to suppress the hurt and anger of this new confession.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry Quinn. I don't know why he's been so paranoid lately. It seems like he misinterprets everything I mention to him as something else." For the last two months, you had known that Andrew suspected your friendship with Quinn was something more. He had brought it up the last time he was in Vancouver and again over the phone a few weeks ago (although it had been in retaliation to the question you had asked him about the girl with him in a video his friend had posted on their story). 

"Did he misinterpret it, or did he just see what is obvious that you and I can't admit?" The question was loaded with truths that weren't meant to come out. The look that the two of you shared through the screen had only confirmed it. In a split second, months of ignorance had led to a confession when the two of you were thousands of miles apart.

His breathing was heavy; you could hear it through the phone; he had a look on his face that closely resembled his look when his team lost in the Playoffs. It was the look you saw in the mirror this morning when you had not heard from him. It was the split-second look he had in the lobby the day Andrew surprised you.

Everything playing in your head; all the nights he would knock at your apartment after a game with a box of food, the way you would pack him an 'after-game snack' consisting of oranges, a granola bar and a fruit snack (which he teased you about until you mentioned it was like they did in little leagues), the way your breath hitches every time he gets shoved or falls. 

All the times, the two of you had gone for a drive when life felt too heavy, and you shared secrets you had never told anyone before. The way he took off your makeup when you had gone out one night or how he knows your coffee order for every cafe you go to. Quinn and you had been in the in-between since you first hung out. 

"I mean, how long are we going to pretend like nothing is happening?" His voice was calm and demanding, with a hint of subdued anger or annoyance you hadn't picked up. "Quinn, I -" You were at a loss for words; nothing could genuinely capture how Quinn had made you feel. 

You knew you were safe with Quinn around, not only in a physical sense but emotionally. The way he made you feel heard and seen. The two of you were floating in two separate worlds, but the weight that engulfed you was the same. You understood the complication of pressure and leadership; you understood needing to be the most prominent presence in the room, even if you weren't the loudest. You understood the pressure of wanting, no needing, to be the best for everyone else even if it tore you apart. 

It was all those things and more that drove you together, the ability to soothe the ache the buildup of burden had left sacred on the two of you. When you felt a crushing weight on you, the only thing that could alleviate it was being around the man who had quickly become your best friend. Immediately, he knew whether you needed to just sit and cry while he comforted you or go for a drive so you could yell out lyrics or if you needed him to just talk about mundane things.

And you do the same; you knew by the way he left the ice, by the way, he knocked on the door, by the way, he walked down the hallway toward your apartments. You knew when to go over to him so he could catch the recaps, and you knew when to invite him to yours to force him to ignore the criticism. You knew that even after a winning streak or after a goal, he needed comfort, understanding the overwhelming feeling of the slightest reprieve until the next game.

And the honest truth was that you had pushed back any romantic feelings because you knew without a doubt he was your person. You had never been one for friendship with men, and when your friends asked about what you could have in common with a professional hockey player, you never knew what to tell them. Because from every book, movie, series and scenario you knew, as cliche as it was, the only quote that could describe what the two of you shared was, 'Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.' 

"Y/N, please." His voice was barely above a whisper, a plea to say anything. "It doesn't have to change anything. I just need to know; I didn't mean to hurt you; I tried to give you space. I've tried to respect your relationship." He had been ignoring you to avoid hurting your relationship, and in the process, the two of you were the only ones who were hurt. "Quinn." There was only one way you could describe it: "You consume me." Despite the tears that fell, you stared at him through the phone, wishing he was there with you, wishing your plane was going to Michigan. 

"Now boarding flight-" The announcement couldn't have come at a worse time; there was so much to say, and an airport right before boarding was not ideal. "That's my flight." You wiped your tears as you stared at the man on the screen. "Y/N, I'm sorry for bringing this up now; it's not my best moment." he was trying to cheer you up; he wanted you to know that everything would be okay. "Quinn, I don't know what to do," your voice was a quiet plea to understand what was to come.

"Given everything that was said and that we're in two different countries right now, I think we should take some time to digest. I know you're spending time with him, and I don't want you to feel overwhelmed. I think we should take the next week or two." your heart was breaking, but your mind knew that was the best option. And for the first time since the beginning of the conversation, you thought of Andrew, and the slight tinge of annoyance arose again. 

Quinn must have noticed because he was quick to interject his following comment with the most sincere look, "But before you go, I just need you to know that you consume me too." He had his signature half smile as he continued, "You are the most amazing woman I have ever met. I think about you constantly. I think about you when I look at the sky, when I'm practicing with my brothers, when I go out with friends and when I lie in bed. I watch for you in the crowd during warm-ups. You've become one of my favourite people so quickly, and I'm so glad of all the apartments in the city, or even just in the building; you moved into the one next to mine." 

You smiled as the tears fell; if there had ever been any doubt, you now knew for sure that Quinn was your person. "I'll be forever grateful that the universe brought me to you too." And with a quick goodbye and promise to reach out in two weeks, you were in your seat on the plane. 

Your mind racing with thoughts of Quinn and the revelations that had come to light and then again to Andrew. You didn't know why, but your annoyance was morphing into slight anger, the idea that he had called Quinn and accused him of sleeping with you. What annoyed you more was that he had done that and hadn't mentioned it to you. He hadn't mentioned the idea of your friendship with Quinn being something more since that one phone call a little over a month ago. 

You sat with that feeling for the rest of the flight. 

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"Okay, fine, you are mad at me! But name one thing that I have done to deserve it!" Andrew was standing on the opposite side of the room. His breathing was heavy as he ran a hand through his hair. "You called Quinn." your voice was laced with a hint of sadness and betrayal. The statement was simple and direct but held a meaning that both of you knew would change everything. 

The argument had started with something so small: the two of you walking on eggshells the past few days and your passive-aggressive comments when he mentioned anything related to Vancouver. Over the past few days, you had tried to get Andrew to admit to calling Quinn; he wasn't stupid; he had connected the dots and was simply choosing to ignore it (which infuriated you even more). The days dragged on; waking up and getting ready in silence, spending the day exploring, trying to avoid long conversations at all costs, getting ready for bed with few words and getting into bed facing away from each other. 

Andrew's response had taken a second longer than it should have. His hesitation made it clear that he was surprised by the direct approach, almost as if he hadn't thought you would say anything.  "You're damn right I did, I've seen the messages, the glances, the pictures. What was I supposed to do? Pretend that nothing was going on?" His voice was slightly louder as his eyes narrowed on you. 

"Nothing was going on. He never touched me." you raised your voice, but the words weakened. Your hands were flailing around, trying to emphasize your point.  The tears behind your eyes aching to be let free. It was too much, and you knew the implications of your words. This time, however, Andrew didn't hesitate to answer; his reply, even louder than before, came out the second you were done talking. "And I wasn't gonna sit around and wait until he did."  

The two of you stood there staring at each other, chests heaving, eyes full of emotion. You sat on the counter stool beside you before looking away from Andrew and placing your head in your hands, elbows propped on the counter. You heard his footsteps getting closer, and soon, Andrew was pulling out the stool next to you. 

You glanced at him from your peripheral view; he was staring at the kitchen in front of him, a look of contemplation on his face. "Do you have feelings for him, Y/N?" you diverted your eyes back to the counter. The question caught you off guard, "Hmm?" you could feel his eyes on you again, but you couldn't gain the strength to look up. "Do you have feelings for Quinn?" Each word was emphasized by the slight pause he took between them. 

Although you couldn't meet his eyes, you mustered enough courage to look up from your hands towards the kitchen. "I would never cheat on you, you know that." you shook your head as you said it, knowing it wasn't the answer he sought. "That's not what I asked." you wanted to look at him, to tell him he was all you wanted, that there was nothing between you and Quinn, but that wasn't the truth, and all you could do was continue the slight head shake you had started. 

Andrew didn't say anything for a bit, but you could hear the sound of his movement as he repositioned himself on the stool and leaned closer to you. "Did you fall for him?" His voice was softer and more quiet, slightly above a whisper. You tried to speak, but the tears beat you. As the tears left your eyes, you looked towards Andrew. His eyes were glued on the fridge, his expression hurt, and his eyes held a slight gloss. "Oh god," he was avoiding eye contact with you now. 

You stared at him a moment longer, trying to calm down, "Nothing happened." your voice was shakier than it had been all night, and the tone held no conviction. He turned his head slightly, the two of you locking eyes. "Don't tell me nothing happened. We've been fighting over this all week." He turned away before he even finished his sentence. Your tears continued, "You miss him, don't you?" The look on his face had hardened, but his voice remained the same. He knew the answer; it had been evident every time he called you, and you were alone or when he would try to call, only to be met with a text saying you were on the phone but would call him back. 

You kept your eyes on him; the guilt weighed heavy on you. The implication of every choice you had made since the first interaction with Quinn ran through your mind. You couldn't put your thoughts into words or rationalize your feelings. "I'm sorry." It wasn't even a valid answer, but it was all you could think of. Your emotions were running too high, and you needed a breather. He leaned back on the stool and let out a breath, but a few tears trickled down as he did. "Damn" His voice was barely audible; if you hadn't been looking at him or if the room hadn't been so quiet, you would have missed it. 

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It hadn't been your intention to end things with Andrew that way. Despite all the issues the two of you shared, you didn't want to hurt him. When you talked everything through the following morning you both knew the relationship had been over longer than either of you cared to admit.  It had been as civil as a breakup could be, and the guilt that had once overwhelmed you started to blur.

As you looked out the plane window and saw Vancouver, you felt the missing pieces of you start to come together. It was strange how life finds a way to bring you exactly where you need to be. Accepting your graduate program at The University of British Columbia led you to a weekend of exploring and apartment hunting in Vancouver. You had found your apartment complex by accident; you had been lost looking for another building when your eyes landed on it. The large winders on every floor practically shoved you into the lobby, and when you applied, only one unit was available for your expected move-in date. It had been a long shot, and somehow you ended up winning. 

You could recall the sound of a car pulling into the attached parking garage as you pulled a box out of your trunk, unintentionally knocking down a pillow in all the commotion. As you bent down to pick it up, you could hear the car door open and close before hearing a few footsteps. They stopped as you located your missing pillow; as you stood back up, you turned to find the stranger but found yourself searching for Andrew after hearing his voice. As you stood there waiting for him to grab another box, you looked towards the elevator and saw the stranger standing there. You couldn't see his face; he was just a blur of brunette hair and a gray outfit as the doors closed, and although you couldn't make out all his facial features, you could have sworn you saw him give you a smile before the doors closed completely. And before you even had a chance, Quinn captured your attention. And unbeknownst to you then, you had made a lasting impression on him, too. 

As you stared at the city, music in your ears, in the back of the Uber home, you could see every moment you and Quin shared. Every mundane moment, from knocking on his door in the morning with breakfast bagels and coffee to drunk conversations in the back of a car after a night out celebrating to sitting in either of your living rooms watching a movie with your commentary. It was like watching a montage scene, and it felt freeing because, for the first time, there was the possibility for something more. The feeling of longing had been hidden underneath your guilt, coming hand in hand, and now both were gone, instead replaced with something positive. 

"Miss, you have a package." The voice of your building's concierge brings you back to reality. It was a relatively wide rectangular box; you hadn't ordered anything that would come in a box of that size, which fueled your curiosity even more. "Thank you." You smiled and offered a kind goodbye before walking to the elevator. 

Without hesitation, another image of Quinn flew into your mind as the elevator doors closed. The first time you spoke was in the elevator up to your floor. He smiled, encouraged you to enter the elevator first, and asked if you needed help with your box despite carrying his bag. However,  after declining his offer, he made no other effort to continue the conversation. The two of you casually glanced at each other as the doors closed, waiting for the movement to begin, but when it didn't, you looked over to the right side of the door and laughed slightly. "What floor do you need?" he asked with a slight chuckle. "Sixteenth, please." You returned his chuckle and smiled. You watched as he clicked the sixteenth button but no other. "Are you on the same floor?" You could hear excitement in your voice, but you pushed it down. "Yeah, guess that means we're neighbour neighbours" Once again, that damn smile felt contagious; he felt contagious. 

When you reached your floor, you found yourself walking faster than usual to reach your door. It had only been a week; somehow, everything was completely different yet utterly the same. You walked into the apartment and set the package down on the counter, needing to know what was inside. Opening the lid, you are met with the most beautiful arrangement of your favourite flowers. There were different shades of your favourite colour, layering beautifully on each other, but what caught your eyes was the distinct blue rose in the middle, an envelope sitting directly on top. 

The envelope had your name written on it with the handwriting you had come to memorize. Inside was a postcard from Michigan, "Y/N, I can't get you out of my head. Only two more weeks left before I'm back in Van, and I can't wait to see you again. I found this while I was out, and it reminded me of you.   -Q" You held the card close to you for a second; it had the faintest mix of florals and Quinn's cologne. You looked at the fridge before deciding to keep the note in your room. It felt intimate, something you wanted to keep between you. Something caught your eye when you took the flowers out of the box and into a vase. Inside the envelope was a small plastic bag; you reached for it and found a necklace. 

A delicate chain with a small pendant with a sun and a moon, and when you turned it over, your breathing hitched; there was a small 43 engraved. When you read the note, you assumed the postcard was what he had seen, but it was the necklace. He had seen a necklace encompassing the sun and moon, something you were passionate about, and he had added something personal. The engraving must have been something he did; the probability that it had been done in manufacturing was slim to none, making it all the more special. You put it on and never wanted to take it off. 

You grabbed the postcard off the counter and lifted it closer to your chest before taking a close-up picture from your lips to showcase the necklace and postcard, "I'm thinking about you too. To the longest two weeks that will ever exist. To the sun and the moon and back." And as you hit the send button, you couldn't help but think about what was yet to come.  

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[missmaymay13]

the night we met - q.hughes

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q.hughes x fem! oc | 25k

warnings : talks of su!cide, depression, anxiety, abu$e

summary: In a city of noise and pressure, two quiet souls—Quinn Hughes, the Canucks captain burdened by expectation, and Ava Monroe, the lonely daughter of a billionaire—find each other at their lowest. What begins as a silent connection in the dark becomes a lifeline, as they quietly piece each other back together. Through whispered confessions, found family, and healing love, they learn that sometimes, the gentlest stories are the most powerful—and that the right person can bring you home without ever saying a word.

a/n: I’ve working on this for a little bit now and I wanted to make sure I was happy with how it came out. I say it every time but I think this is my favourite thing I’ve written so far. I really hope you guys enjoy this.

masterlist

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From the outside, Ava Monroe had everything. The kind of everything that was splashed across glossy magazine covers and whispered about at exclusive dinner parties hosted in candlelit dining rooms with ten-thousand-dollar floral centerpieces. She lived in a sprawling mansion perched high in West Vancouver, with sweeping, cinematic views of the Pacific that made the sunsets look like they were painted just for her. The marble-floored foyer echoed with each step beneath her designer heels, and there was always someone paid to anticipate her needs—a private chef who prepared meals she rarely had an appetite for, stylists who dressed her like a mannequin, tutors who guided her through a curriculum designed to craft the perfect future. Her world was curated like an art gallery: everything polished, everything perfect.

But no one ever asked her if she felt at home in it. In truth, Ava had felt like a guest in her own life for as long as she could remember—present but not wanted, displayed but not held. A beautiful ghost wandering through a museum of someone else's making. Her every breath felt choreographed, like she was part of a play she never auditioned for.

Her name carried weight. Ava Monroe. Daughter of David Monroe, real estate tycoon turned international mogul, whose face was on the cover of Forbes more than it was in her life. And her mother, Sally—a socialite whose reputation for elegance was only matched by her absence. Together, they were Vancouver's power couple, untouchable in their glass tower of privilege. But Ava? She was the glass. Transparent. Fragile. On display, but invisible. A footnote in their empire.

From the outside, it looked like the dream. But inside, it was a mausoleum of unspoken words and unmet needs. A house that echoed with the absence of love. A girl who grew up surrounded by beauty and yet felt none of it belonged to her. Money was the answer to every problem, but it never asked her how she felt. It bought silence instead of comfort. And Ava—young, soft, desperate Ava—learned how to exist quietly within it. Learned how to smile for the cameras while dying in the dark. Learned how to shrink her soul until it could fit into the cracks of other people's expectations.

Money masked the emptiness. But it never filled it. It never could. It could buy her everything—except the feeling of being wanted.

She remembered the gold trim of her bedroom walls better than her father's laugh—if he even had one. The sound of his voice was a memory blurred by distance and business calls, always clipped and impatient, never warm. She couldn't recall a single bedtime story or a moment where he looked at her like she was something more than a fleeting responsibility. And her mother—God, her mother's perfume—that suffocating cloud of white jasmine and vodka, always seemed to arrive before she did. It clung to the drapes, to Ava's pillows, to her hair, long after her mother was gone. Longer than her embrace. Longer than her love, if it had ever existed at all. Her mother's touch was cold, her gaze colder. Ava used to press her small hands to the windows and watch her leave, praying she'd come back softer. She never did.

Ava's childhood was a mosaic of jet lag and hotel suites. She'd stood at the base of the Eiffel Tower, floated in gondolas down Venetian canals, and tasted sushi in Tokyo that melted on her tongue like snow. Her passport was thick with stamps by the age of ten. But none of those places felt like home. Home was a concept Ava didn't understand. Not really. Her childhood home in Vancouver was more like a museum—perfectly curated, but hollow. A stage built to impress, but never to comfort.

Her father was always gone. He existed in phone calls, scheduled meetings, and brief appearances in tuxedos at charity galas. When he was home, he was on his phone, always pacing, always tense, and Ava quickly learned that the way to his attention was through perfect grades or crisis-level tantrums. He preferred the grades. It cost less to reward her than to soothe her. When she got her first A+ in primary school, he handed her a bracelet worth more than some people made in a year, kissed her on the forehead, and left the room. She kept the bracelet in its box. She wanted his words, not his money. But words were too expensive for him.

Sally Monroe, meanwhile, was more ghost than mother—a haunting, a flicker in the corner of the room, a presence that came and went like perfume dissipating into stale air. She floated in and out of the house, high on champagne and attention, always late, always dismissive, like motherhood was a performance she never auditioned for. Her stilettos clicked across marble floors like a metronome of neglect, and her laughter echoed through hallways Ava was never invited into. Ava can still hear her words like a wound that never scabbed over, each syllable slicing deeper than the last.

"You ruined my body, Ava," she once spat, wine glass in hand, eyes glassy and unfocused.

"If I didn't have you, I could've been someone," she slurred another time, brushing past her daughter like she was a smudge on her perfect reflection.

"Why can't you just be normal for once?"

Ava would replay those moments in her head, over and over, like a broken record. The cruelness wasn't random—it was ritual. Her mother's disdain was the wallpaper of her childhood, unavoidable and slowly peeling away at her self-worth. Every glance in the mirror became a question: What was so wrong with her that even her mother couldn't love her? And still, some pathetic part of her held onto hope—that one day Sally would walk through the door, take Ava's face in her hands, and say she was sorry. That she was proud. That she wanted her.

But apologies were for people who felt remorse. And Sally Monroe never looked back.

Words sharpened like razors over time, and Ava bled internally for years. She bled in silence. She bled with a smile. Every glance in the mirror felt like she was trying to live up to a version of herself that never existed. She would stare at her reflection and wonder what exactly about her had made her mother unravel.

The only solace she ever knew was Brenda.

Brenda was the nanny who stayed far past her job description. She was the one who tucked Ava in, made her soup when she was sick, brushed the knots out of her hair while humming lullabies. Brenda was the one who held her after nightmares, whispered that she was special, that she was loved—words no one else ever said and meant. Brenda was home. When the world felt too loud, Ava would crawl into Brenda's arms and let herself feel small, feel held. Brenda was the only person who ever looked at Ava like she mattered. Not as a responsibility. Not as a paycheck. But as a person.

And then one day, Brenda left too.

Ava was fifteen. Her parents claimed she had to go—"boundaries," her mother had said with a smug twist of her lips. Ava didn't eat for three days. Her silence screamed at them, but no one listened. Brenda cried when she packed her last bag. Ava sat on the stairs, arms wrapped around her knees, watching her only source of love walk out the door. It was the first time she thought about disappearing. The first time she wondered what death felt like.

That's when the darkness started to curl around her, quiet and relentless. It wasn't a sudden collapse. It was a slow, steady erosion. Each day chipped away at her until there was nothing left but skin stretched over silence.

By sixteen, the depression was a thick fog that clung to her skin, seeped into her lungs, made every breath feel like drowning. The anxiety followed like a shadow. Panic attacks in the middle of the night, the overwhelming sense that she was suffocating inside her own skin. Her heart would race for no reason, hands trembling, chest tightening until she gasped for air like she was underwater. She wore silk and diamonds, but her ribs felt like they were collapsing.

She sat in therapy offices decorated in muted pastels, nodding while older women scribbled notes and offered her lavender tea and affirmations. Ava learned how to lie in those offices. Learned the right things to say so they'd stop probing, stop calling her parents, stop suggesting medication that her mother would scoff at anyway. The therapists saw her as a sad rich girl. Nothing more.

No one noticed she was slipping. Maybe they did, but they didn't care. Or they thought she'd be fine. She was Ava Monroe, after all.

At school, she was the quiet girl with perfect hair and vacant eyes. People wanted to sit next to her, invited her to parties she never showed up to, tagged her in photos she wasn't in. No one really saw her. The friends she made wanted status, not connection. They clung to her for the proximity to power, the name, the lifestyle they thought they could sip like champagne through her. They smiled in selfies and whispered about her when she turned her back. Her name got her into rooms, but her presence was irrelevant.

She deleted her social media when she turned seventeen. The silence was better than the noise. She didn't want to see the curated versions of people pretending to live happy lives, or the forced smiles of people who didn't know what it meant to ache.

Most nights, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the paint until her vision blurred. The silence was oppressive, curling around her like a second skin, smothering her slowly. She would lie motionless, the hum of the city outside her window reminding her that the world was still spinning, even if she wasn't. Each night bled into the next like watercolors running down the page, indistinguishable in their loneliness.

She often imagined what it would be like to simply vanish. To evaporate into the night air like breath on cold glass. Would anyone notice the absence of her quiet footsteps? The unoccupied chair in the lecture hall? The unread text messages on her phone? She doubted it. The idea that she could disappear without disrupting anything was both terrifying and oddly comforting. Some nights, the thoughts spiraled into places too dark to speak of—into fantasies of escape that stretched into eternity. A long, uninterrupted silence.

But something always tethered her to the edge. Sometimes it was the faint sound of Brenda's lullabies echoing in her head, like the memory of warmth. Sometimes it was a stranger's smile on the street or the way a poem broke open her chest just wide enough to let a sliver of hope in. A foolish, desperate hope that someone—anyone—might look at her one day and actually see her. Not the name. Not the money. Just her.

She never told anyone about those thoughts. Who would she tell? Her mother would laugh. Her father wouldn't even pause his call. And everyone else? They only knew how to love her shadow, never her soul.

There was no one to tell. So she carried it all alone, night after night, in a bed that felt too big, in a world that felt too empty.

Not Ava Monroe, the heiress. Not Ava Monroe, the girl with a platinum card and a perfect smile. Just Ava.

She turned eighteen and moved into her own condo in downtown Vancouver, a sleek place her father paid for and never visited. It was cold. Quiet. She painted one of the walls just to feel like she owned something in her life. She chose a soft green. Brenda would've liked it. The color softened the sterile white that made everything feel like a hospital.

University came next, more out of obligation than ambition. She studied literature because it felt like an escape, a place where pain was beautiful and loneliness had purpose. Her classmates admired her writing, but they never knew the stories came from somewhere real. She wrote about girls drowning in oceans of expectation, about mothers who forgot how to love, about the sound of being forgotten.

On weekends, she wandered the streets of Vancouver, alone with her earbuds and playlists of sad songs. Sometimes she sat at cafes and watched people laughing over lattes, wondering what it would feel like to belong to someone's world like that. Other times, she would walk along the seawall in Stanley Park, letting the crashing of waves drown out the noise in her head. She liked rainy days best—something about the grey skies made her feel less alone, like even the weather understood her.

She was twenty-one now. Twenty-one and still haunted by a childhood that looked perfect in pictures. Twenty-one and still trying to figure out who she was beneath the layers of privilege and pain. Twenty-one and still waiting for someone to stay.

The thing about being hollow is that it echoes. It makes everything louder. Loneliness. Grief. Desperation. The ache of never being chosen.

And Ava Monroe's whole life had been one long, aching echo.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The city of Vancouver glittered under grey skies, caught in that strange, beautiful limbo between rain and light. The kind of grey that wrapped itself around buildings like a heavy blanket, soft and suffocating all at once. For Quinn Hughes, the skyline had become a blur—glass towers that reflected versions of himself he no longer recognized. Faces he used to know stared back from the mirrored windows: the hopeful rookie, the quiet brother, the boy with wide eyes and big dreams. But now, the reflections were hollowed out, distorted. He no longer knew which one was real.

He sat in his high-rise apartment overlooking the city, the window cool against his shoulder as he leaned into the silence. His breath left faint fog on the glass, fading faster than the thoughts in his head. The world outside moved with its usual rhythm—cars zipping through puddles, cyclists hunched against the drizzle, pedestrians rushing somewhere with purpose, umbrellas bobbing like tiny shields against the storm. But inside, Quinn felt still. Stuck. Forgotten.

The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound. The kind of silence that pressed against your chest and made you question if the world would even notice if you were gone. He hadn’t spoken to anyone all day. Not because no one called—he just didn’t answer. Some part of him hoped someone might show up anyway. But no one did.

The loneliness wasn’t loud. It was quiet and creeping, like fog under a doorframe. It seeped into his bones and made everything feel a few shades colder. He had the view, the prestige, the life people envied. But none of it meant anything when the only voice he heard was his own, echoing through empty rooms.

He blinked slowly, letting the rain blur his vision, and for a moment, he imagined the skyline disappearing. The city swallowed by mist. And him, sitting there, unnoticed. A ghost in a glass tower.

They called it an honor. They said it was a privilege. They said he earned it.

But when Quinn was named captain of the Vancouver Canucks, it didn’t feel like a crown. It felt like a shackle.

He remembered the headlines. The social media storm. The debates.

He’s too quiet. He’s not vocal enough. He’s not a leader. He hasn’t won anything.

People questioned his worth like it was a commodity they could bid on. They dissected his posture, his words, his facial expressions like analysts on a mission. Every move he made was magnified, every mistake weaponized. He was under a microscope, and the scrutiny burned.

He tried to drown it out. He told himself it didn’t matter, that he didn’t owe the world anything more than his effort. But it mattered. It mattered more than he wanted to admit.

Because all Quinn Hughes ever wanted was to be good enough.

Not just for the team. Not just for the fans. For his brothers. For his parents. For himself.

He grew up with a stick in his hands and the weight of expectation already on his shoulders. Being the oldest meant being the example. The one who knew the right answer. The one who paved the path not just for himself, but for everyone who came after. Every step he took was supposed to be a guide for his brothers, a light to follow. But what people didn’t understand was that he had paved that path with pieces of himself—with sleep he never got, with tears no one saw, with bruises he never let anyone treat.

Every time someone praised his poise, they didn’t see the nights he stayed up wondering if he was enough. Every time someone called him steady, they didn’t see how hard he worked to hold the cracks together. Each season, each game, each injury chipped away at him like erosion on a cliffside—slow, relentless. There were days when his body moved on autopilot, when he looked in the mirror and felt like a stranger was staring back. The boy who once dreamed with fire in his chest now looked at his reflection with tired eyes, wondering when the light inside him dimmed.

He wore his role like armor, but underneath it, he was breaking.

There were mornings he couldn’t get out of bed without pain shooting down his spine. Nights he iced his knees in silence while his teammates laughed across hotel hallways. Games where he played through injuries he should’ve rested. And still, when the final buzzer blew and the Canucks fell short yet again, he took the blame.

Always, it was Quinn.

He bore it in his posture, in the way his shoulders slumped when no one was watching. In the way he lingered on the ice after practice, skating until the rink emptied and all that was left was his shadow. He bore it in the bags under his eyes, the ache in his muscles, the distant look that had settled into his face.

And yet, no matter how hard he pushed, how much he gave, it never felt like enough.

His life looked like a dream from the outside. The penthouse apartment. The cars. The designer suits. The headlines. The cheers. But inside, it all felt empty. Like he was moving through a world made of glass, afraid to breathe too hard in case it shattered.

He tried to fill the void. With late nights and loud music. With drinks and shallow company. With bodies that meant nothing, tangled in his sheets, saying all the right things in the moment and disappearing before morning. But when the sun rose, so did the silence. And the ache.

It was always there.

The ache of being needed, but not known. The ache of being seen, but not understood.

Quinn carried the team like a secret. He never wanted the credit. Just the weight. He thought maybe if he carried enough of it, he could finally prove something—to himself, to the critics, to the kid he used to be who dreamt of the NHL and didn’t know how lonely dreams could become.

He watched the city pass him by from his window. Rain streaked the glass. The clouds hung low. Everything was tinted in shades of grey. His phone buzzed from the counter. Another text. Another obligation. He ignored it.

Sometimes, he wished he could disappear for a while. Not forever. Just long enough to remember who he was beneath the layers. Beneath the jersey, the title, the expectations. He didn’t even know what he liked outside of hockey anymore. Who was he when he wasn’t on the ice?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember the last time he laughed—really laughed. The kind that made your chest ache and your eyes water. The kind that felt free. Unfiltered. Nothing came.

He hadn’t laughed in a long time.

He had teammates. He had family. He had people. But the truth was, Quinn Hughes felt more alone now than he ever had in his life. And he didn’t know how to ask for help.

He didn’t know how to say that the pressure was crushing him. That every game felt like walking a tightrope with no net. That every loss carved something deeper into his chest. That sometimes he stood under the shower for an hour just to feel something real.

There was no off switch. No escape. He was Captain Hughes now. He had to be calm. Composed. Controlled.

But inside, he was drowning.

There were moments, late at night, when he’d walk the seawall alone with a hoodie pulled over his head and his breath fogging in front of him. Moments when he’d sit by the water and wonder what life would be like if he weren’t Quinn Hughes. If he were just... someone. Anyone. Free to feel without the fear of letting someone down.

Because that’s what it always came back to: letting people down.

He thought of his brothers. Jack with his bright smile and boundless energy. Luke with his quiet brilliance. They looked up to him. They always had. And that scared him more than anything. Because what if they saw the cracks? What if they saw how tired he was? What if they saw that some days, he didn’t want to lace up his skates? That some days, he resented the game that had given him everything and taken just as much in return?

He hated that part of himself. The part that felt bitter. Burnt out. Hollow.

He turned from the window, the sky outside darkening with the promise of another cold Vancouver night. The apartment felt too quiet. Too sterile. He poured a drink, not because he wanted one, but because it gave his hands something to do. The whiskey burned down his throat. It didn’t help. It never did.

Quinn sat on the edge of his couch, elbows on his knees, the glass dangling loosely from his fingers. He stared at the floor and wondered how much longer he could keep doing this. Keep pretending. Keep performing. Keep carrying.

He wanted something different. Something real.

He didn’t know what that looked like. Not yet. But he knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t the headlines. It wasn’t the jersey. It wasn’t the cheers that faded as quickly as they came. It wasn’t the way people only saw him when he was winning.

He wanted someone to see him when he was losing.

Really see him.

Not Captain Hughes. Not the defenseman. Not the franchise savior.

Just Quinn.

And maybe, one day, someone would.

But tonight, the only sound was the rain.

And the hollow echo of a man trying to hold himself together.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The air inside Rogers Arena was thick with loss. It clung to the walls, to the empty seats, to the damp gear hanging in open lockers. The kind of silence that followed a season-ending defeat was unlike any other. It wasn’t loud. It was heavier than that. A kind of grief that pressed itself into the bones of the room, into the stitching of the jerseys, into the very air itself. And in the middle of it all, alone under the dim fluorescent lights of the locker room, Quinn Hughes sat perfectly still, still in full gear.

His skates were unlaced but still on. His gloves, damp with sweat and frustration, sat clenched between his knees. The rest of the team had long cleared out—some silent, others trying to shake it off with forced laughter and hollow reassurances. Quinn hadn’t moved. His eyes were locked on the floor, seeing everything and nothing all at once. The same square of tile beneath his skates stared back at him like it had answers he’d never find.

The Canucks had missed the playoffs.

Again.

He ran through every moment of the game like a looped reel in his head. The fumbled breakout. The missed stick lift. The turnover in the second period that shifted the momentum. The bad line change. The penalty that cost them the equalizer. What if he had blocked that shot? What if he had skated faster? Thought quicker? Passed sharper?

What if he was just better?

It was always him. He could’ve done more. He should’ve.

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, his head cradled in his hands like it was the only thing keeping it from splitting apart. The weight of his helmet pressed into his forehead, the hard shell biting into his skin, but he didn’t take it off. It felt safer somehow, like a shield between him and the failure echoing in his bones. His fingers gripped at his hair through the fabric of his gloves before letting go, too tired to even hold himself together. His breathing was shallow, each inhale an effort, like even his lungs didn’t want to take up space. The room felt massive and shrinking all at once, like the walls were closing in on him while stretching into an infinite, hollow void. His pulse thundered in his ears, louder than the silence, louder than the thoughts shouting in his head. And still, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because moving meant facing it. And right now, he wasn’t sure he could survive that.

They made a mistake.

Not just naming him captain.

Drafting him.

Quinn didn’t know when those thoughts started to grow roots in his chest, but they were in full bloom now. What if he was a bust? A wasted draft pick? All this time, everyone talked about his skating, his vision, his composure—but what did any of that matter if he couldn’t get his team there? If he couldn’t lead them?

What if he was never meant to be enough?

What if he peaked too early?

He slowly peeled off his gloves and dropped them to the floor with a soft thud that echoed louder than it should have in the empty locker room. His fingers trembled, tingling from the cold sweat that had long dried against his palms. The ache in his knuckles pulsed like a second heartbeat. He flexed them slowly, like the pain might root him back into his body.

He stared at the gloves for a moment, his chest tightening. They looked so small on the floor. So defeated. Just like him.

He exhaled shakily, the sound catching in his throat. Then he braced himself against the bench and pushed himself up. His legs screamed in protest, muscles stiff and bruised from the game, from the season, from everything. The weight of his gear felt unbearable now. The jersey that once filled him with pride now felt suffocating, like it was pressing down on every bone.

His shoulder pads creaked as he moved, the Velcro at his sides sticking stubbornly as if even his equipment didn’t want to let go. The familiar routine of undressing after a game felt foreign. Wrong. His body went through the motions, but everything inside him was numb. Disconnected.

He didn’t bother taking off the rest. Just the gloves. Just enough to stand. Enough to move.

And so, step by step, like a sleepwalker, he drifted toward the showers. Not with purpose. Not even with intent. Just the instinct to hide somewhere the world couldn’t see him fall apart.

The water hit his skin, hot at first, then numb. Steam rose around him, curling into the air, catching the yellow of the overhead lights. He leaned his forearm against the tile and rested his head against it, eyes shut tight. His breath stuttered.

And then the tears came.

They ran down his cheeks, hot and quiet, blending seamlessly with the water cascading from the showerhead. He didn’t sob. He didn’t make a sound. He just cried. The kind of crying you didn’t even know you were doing until it had already broken through. His shoulders trembled under the pressure of all he carried, all he never said aloud.

He didn’t know how to do this anymore.

He didn’t know how to keep pretending.

How to wear the 'C' like it didn’t burn his chest.

How to keep skating when he was skating on empty.

He stayed under the water until it ran cold, until his skin was numb and his chest felt hollow, the ache in his sternum blooming deeper with each passing second. The icy spray carved through the steam and sliced against his shoulders, but still, he stood there. Rigid. Breathless. Hoping that if he just stayed a little longer, it would rinse away the guilt, the weight, the disappointment he carried like a second skin.

He tilted his face toward the stream, letting it pour down over him, blinding his eyes and filling his ears until the world outside was muffled into nothing. He wished it could drown everything out. The voices. The headlines. The pressure. The relentless whisper in his own head telling him he was a failure. That he’d let everyone down. That he was just pretending.

When he finally moved, it was mechanical. He reached for a towel without looking, barely registering the shivers that had taken over his body. Each motion was slow, deliberate, like his limbs were moving through molasses. He got dressed without looking in the mirror—he couldn't bear to. Not tonight. Not when all he would see was hollow eyes and the wreckage of who he used to be.

The locker room was even quieter now, echoing with emptiness. He grabbed his keys from his cubby and made his way down the hall, his footsteps the only sound bouncing off the concrete walls. The back exit opened with a metallic click, and he stepped out into the cold embrace of the night, where even the air seemed to exhale with grief.

He drove through downtown Vancouver like a ghost. The city glowed with artificial life—streetlights, neon signs, headlights weaving through traffic. His hands gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles pale. He turned off the music. He couldn’t stand the sound. Not tonight.

When he pulled into the underground parking lot beneath his building, he didn’t move right away. He stared at the elevator doors, engine ticking as it cooled. His eyes burned.

Then, slowly, he shifted the gear into park, turned off the ignition, and stepped out.

But he didn’t go to the elevator.

He walked. Back up the ramp, through the quiet lobby. Past the sleeping doorman and out the revolving door. Into the cool night, where the mist clung to his hair and the scent of the sea drifted in from the harbor.

His feet took him to the waterfront without thinking.

He sat down on a bench facing the water, a familiar spot tucked just far enough from the streetlights to feel hidden—like the world had deliberately carved out a pocket for solitude. He didn't need light. Not tonight. He needed the shadows, the quiet, the place where he could unravel without the risk of being seen. The night stretched out before him like a great velvet curtain, draped in shades of sorrow.

The moon hung low and full, its glow casting a pale sheen across the surface of the harbor, soft and eerie like a whisper. The light shimmered on the dark water like spilled silver, rippling with every subtle breath of the breeze. It felt like something ancient was watching—not judging, just witnessing. Bearing quiet testimony to the ache in his chest.

Waves lapped quietly against the edge, a rhythm too soft to offer comfort, but enough to remind him that time was still moving even when he wasn't. Even when it felt like everything inside him had come to a halt. His breath came slow and fogged in the cold air, a small trace of life in a body that felt otherwise hollow.

Across the harbor, the city looked like it was sleeping. The lights in the high-rises twinkled like constellations behind glass, but there was no warmth in them. They were cold and distant, a mockery of connection. From here, the skyline looked soft, like someone had taken an eraser to its sharp edges—like the whole world had blurred, and he was the only thing left in focus.

There was no one else around. No footsteps. No voices. Just Quinn and the darkness and the distant, indifferent city. No hum of conversation. No rattle of a bike chain. No hint of movement on the quiet street behind him. Just the low thrum of the city breathing somewhere far away, out of reach.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was vast. Cold. Like standing in the middle of a frozen lake with nothing but the creaking ice beneath your feet. The kind of silence that made every heartbeat echo too loud, every breath feel like a scream in a cathedral.

And in that space between heartbeats, he let himself sink into the stillness. It wasn’t comfort he found there, but a numbness that offered a temporary shield from the thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind. He didn’t cry. Didn’t breathe deeply. He didn’t feel worthy of either.

He just existed. Quiet and alone. A silhouette on a bench, washed in moonlight and regret. A man with the weight of a city on his shoulders, with no one to help him carry it.

And somehow, that felt like both a punishment and a mercy. Because in that solitude, at least he didn’t have to pretend. At least out here, in the dark, he could stop performing for a world that only loved him when he was winning.

Quinn slouched forward, hands clasped together, his breath visible in the air. He stared at the reflection, wishing he could fall into it. Dissolve into the dark and start over. Be someone else.

The thoughts returned.

What if he never lived up to who he was supposed to be? What if he let everyone down? His team. His family. Himself.

He pressed his fists to his eyes.

He wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t even sure he ever had been.

He didn’t see her at first. His eyes were still on the water, lost in thought, in shame, in questions that never seemed to end. The world around him had blurred, dulled to nothing but the rhythmic lapping of the tide and the slow rise and fall of his breath. The bench, the ground, the sky—it all felt far away. He was so deep inside himself that the rest of the world ceased to exist. So when the wooden slats shifted just slightly beneath him, when the gentle weight of another person settled quietly on the far side of the bench, it felt more like a ripple than a presence. A shift in the atmosphere. A soft reminder that he wasn’t, in fact, entirely alone in the dark.

A girl had sat down beside him.

She wore a grey sweater, hood pulled up over short brown hair. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, her shoulders drawn in like she was trying to take up less space. She didn’t look at him. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, on the water, on the moonlight that shimmered across it.

Her eyes were glassy. She’d been crying.

Despite choosing to sit on the only occupied bench in a stretch of empty ones, she didn’t acknowledge him. It was almost like she didn’t even register that he was there. Or maybe she had—and chose not to care. She made no shift to the side, no polite nod, no glance of curiosity or apology. She just sat, arms crossed tightly around herself, a human question mark curled inward.

Her shoulders were hunched so tightly it looked like she was folding into herself, like she wanted to disappear. The kind of posture that said: don’t look at me, don’t ask, don’t speak. Her body language broadcasted it louder than words ever could. She didn’t seem to want to be seen, and yet she had come to this exact bench, as if drawn by some unspoken gravity.

She just sat there, staring at the water like it held answers. Like if she stared hard enough, long enough, the waves might part and whisper something she needed to hear. Something to make staying feel like less of a mistake.

And Quinn didn’t say anything either.

For a long time, they sat in silence.

The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward. Just heavy. Weighted with things neither of them could say. The occasional car drove by behind them, its tires hissing on the wet road. Somewhere nearby, a gull cried out and the water lapped softly against the shore. It was the only sound that felt honest.

He didn’t know who she was.

But she looked like she was drowning too.

Ava Monroe had never meant to sit on that bench.

She had never meant to be anywhere at all, not tonight.

The fight with her mom had been brutal. Ugly. The kind of words that didn’t just hurt—they hollowed her out. Scarred deeper than fists ever could. Ava had gone to her mother out of desperation, aching for some kind of connection, some shred of maternal warmth, a single thread to hold onto. But all she got was venom, sharp and cold and unforgiving.

The words weren't just cruel—they were confirmation. Confirmation that every terrible thing she had ever believed about herself was true. That she was a burden. That she wasn’t wanted. That she wasn’t enough. Her mother’s voice didn’t just echo in the room—it rooted itself in her chest, in the hollow spaces already carved out by years of neglect and silence. It made her feel microscopic. Like her existence had always been some colossal inconvenience.

Ava left that house feeling like a ghost. Like a girl made of glass. Each step home felt heavier, more meaningless. There was nothing left in her—no fire, no fight, not even the quiet defiance she used to carry just to get through the day. She felt like she didn’t belong anywhere, not even in her own skin. Like the world had gone on without her a long time ago, and she’d only just realized it.

"You’ll never be enough."

"You ruined everything."

"You were a mistake."

The words sliced her open, deep and surgical, with a precision only a mother could wield. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t cry. She just stood there, frozen in place, absorbing every blow like a sponge, letting it soak through her until she was heavy with shame. It was like watching her own soul disintegrate in real-time. Her hands hung limp at her sides. Her heart didn’t even race—it just slowed, like it had given up trying.

She moved on instinct, her body carrying her out the door and down the street like she was sleepwalking, like something detached had taken over and was pulling the strings for her. The city was buzzing around her, but she didn’t hear it. Didn’t see it. She was a shell.

When she got back to her apartment, the lights were too bright. Too artificial. They revealed too much, illuminated all the places inside her that were cracked and bleeding. She walked past the mirror without looking. She knew what she'd see: nothing. Just hollow eyes. A stranger.

And then she saw the bottle. It was just sitting there. Quiet. Waiting.

She picked it up.

Stared at it.

Her hand shook as she unscrewed the cap. She poured them out into her palm, white tablets spilling like tiny bones into the center of her hand. The weight of them felt enormous. Final.

She sat on the floor, cold and silent, and stared at her shaking hands. Her breathing came shallow, like the room had been drained of oxygen. Her thoughts were louder than ever, a storm behind her eyes: You’re a failure. A disappointment. A mistake. Unlovable.

The silence was so total, it felt like the world had already moved on without her.

And for one long, harrowing moment, she almost let go.

She shook them gently, the pills rattling like distant thunder in the quiet room—a sound so small, yet impossibly loud in the silence.

Her fingers shook.

Her breathing was shallow, barely there, each inhale catching like her lungs had to think twice before choosing to keep going. The silence in the apartment pressed against her ears, not soft or gentle, but brutal—the kind of silence that made your skin crawl, like the walls were whispering all the things you were too afraid to say out loud.

It was too quiet. Too still. Like the world had stopped moving just to watch her unravel. The ticking of the clock felt like a taunt, counting down a life she didn’t want to keep living. Her heart didn’t feel like it beat anymore—it thudded, dull and mechanical, like a broken metronome.

Everything inside her felt empty and echoing, like she had become a hollow thing, carved out piece by piece by the people who were supposed to love her. She didn’t even cry. There weren’t tears left. Just a vast, suffocating stillness, as if even grief had abandoned her now.

But something stopped her.

A voice she couldn’t name. A feeling in her chest. Like someone was holding her wrist. Telling her to wait. To breathe.

She put the pills back in the bottle.

Put on her sweater.

Walked.

And now she was here.

Sitting beside a stranger.

Alive, but unsure why.

She didn’t know who he was. Didn’t care. All she knew was that he was as still as she was. As broken. That something about the way he stared at the water made her feel less alone.

They didn’t speak.

But their silence was the loudest thing either of them had heard all night.

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. Neither of them moved.

Quinn glanced at her. Just once.

And for a second, she met his eyes.

Just a second.

But in that second, he saw her pain. She saw his.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, they both breathed a little deeper.

Together.

The night didn’t fix anything. It didn’t heal them. But it didn’t break them further, either.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

That night, they didn’t fall apart.

They just... sat. And survived.

Side by side.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Quinn looked across to her one more time.

Really looked.

It wasn’t just the way the moonlight framed her face or the way her sweater hung like armor against the night. It was the stillness in her body, the haunting in her eyes. There was something about her—something not loud, not obvious—but deeply known. A ghost of a memory wrapped in velvet pain. A shape he hadn’t seen in years but still knew by name, as if she'd been waiting on the periphery of his life all along.

His eyes traced the soft outline of her jaw, delicate and trembling like it held back a thousand words. The faint sheen of dried tears clung stubbornly to her cheeks, catching the moonlight like salt-crusted silver. But it was her expression that stunned him. That deep, quiet devastation. The kind of brokenness people learn to wear like perfume—undetectable unless you’ve worn it too. She didn’t just look sad. She looked emptied. As if she’d bled out every last feeling and was only now discovering what it meant to be a shell.

And the way she held herself, shoulders slumped like her bones could no longer carry the weight of being alive—it almost looked rehearsed. Like she'd practiced disappearing. Like she’d spent years perfecting the art of looking okay while silently screaming.

And then it clicked.

Of course he knew who she was.

Her last name was practically stamped into every corner of the city.

Monroe.

David Monroe. Real estate titan. Investor. Philanthropist. A name stitched into the very fabric of the city. His empire touched everything—commercial towers, luxury condos, high-profile foundations. And the Canucks? They were just another line on his ledger. A silent but steady benefactor of the organization, his influence loomed like the skyline his company had helped build. Every player knew that name. You couldn’t be part of the team without brushing shoulders with the Monroes.

Every year, they hosted a lavish charity gala—an affair of such extravagance that even seasoned veterans couldn’t hide their discomfort. Held in a grand ballroom glittering with crystal chandeliers and lined with tables draped in silk, the event was a performance of wealth and image. Silver champagne trays floated between guests, the air filled with the soft clinking of crystal flutes and rehearsed laughter. The players would show up in tuxedos, practice their media smiles in the car, and take photos for the press like it all meant something. They thanked the Monroes with polite handshakes and obligatory small talk, careful not to overstep, careful to appear grateful.

It was the kind of night where everything sparkled, except the people who had to pretend to belong there.

Quinn remembered her father clearly.

David Monroe was the one standing on stage, smiling beside ownership and management, when Quinn first pulled on the Canucks jersey on draft night. A handshake, a picture. Flashbulbs. Cheers. Everything about that moment had felt like a coronation. Quinn Hughes, savior of the franchise. Golden boy.

But he didn’t remember seeing her.

Not until now.

And now that he had—he couldn’t unsee her. Ava Monroe, the invisible girl behind the empire. The one who should've glowed under the same lights, been photographed on red carpets, toasted by men in suits, wrapped in everything that came with a name like hers. But she hadn’t. Somehow, she had slipped through the cracks of her own legacy, choosing shadows over chandeliers. Sitting beside him now, she looked like a ghost aching to be felt, not seen—like someone who had spent her whole life being too visible in the wrong ways and invisible in all the ways that mattered.

There was a haunting in her presence, the kind that made you want to apologize without knowing what for. And Quinn did. He wanted to say sorry for a world that forgot her. For a father who used her last name like currency while letting his daughter starve for affection. For the cameras that had never panned her way. For the years she must've spent wondering if her life was even her own.

And then, just as the recognition settled into his bones, she looked up.

Tear-stained eyes. Silent. Red-rimmed.

And she knew.

Of course she did.

Quinn Hughes. The prodigy. The captain. The promise.

The man who was meant to lift the city. To carry its hopes like a crown and wear its failures like chains. To lead the team through the fire and still emerge smiling. To be the one who fixed everything, even when he was the one silently falling apart. He was the face on the banners, the name in the headlines, the reason kids wore number 43 jerseys. And no one ever stopped to ask what that weight might be doing to the boy underneath it all.

She blinked at him, slowly, and something passed between them—something unspoken and deeply human, like the kind of look you give someone when you both know what it means to want to disappear. A silent understanding that didn’t need translation. A breath of shared grief, heavy and unrelenting, that wrapped around them like a fog neither of them could escape. In that fragile second, it was like they were looking into a mirror made of pain—different stories, different scars, but the same hollow ache behind their eyes. The world didn’t shift around them, but something inside did. Something wordless and aching that whispered, I see you. I feel it too.

Both of them had grown up being told they were meant for greatness.

Both of them knew what it felt like to suffocate under that weight.

Both of them were breaking.

The emptiness echoed between them like a heartbeat. A soundless ache that needed no explanation.

And then, after a pause that felt like it stretched out forever, Quinn swallowed hard, the tension in his jaw finally giving way. He turned his body slightly toward her, hesitant, uncertain, but needing to say something before the silence drowned them both.

"I—"

His voice cracked, and he had to start again.

"I don’t know if I’m good enough for this," he said quietly, almost like he was confessing it to the ocean. "I don’t know if I’m good enough for anything. At all. And I feel like I’m slowly falling apart and breaking."

The words sat in the air, raw and trembling.

She didn’t respond. Not with words.

A tear slipped down her cheek. Another.

"My, uh... my thought was that this would be my last night," She said, her voice barely a whisper. Her voice was thin. A ghost of itself. "It almost was."

Quinn’s breath hitched, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t.

She looked down at her hands, still clenched tightly in her lap, knuckles white. The air around them suddenly felt sharper, like the world had stilled to listen.

Quinn turned his head just slightly, not wanting to push, but needing to hear her.

Ava swallowed hard, her throat raw. "I had them all in my hand. The pills. I sat on the floor of my bedroom, staring at them. And for a second, it was the only thing that made sense. Like I could finally stop the screaming inside my head. Like I could finally rest."

She took a shaky breath, then another, like her lungs were relearning how to function. Her voice was a flicker, something barely lit. "But I didn’t. I don’t know why. Something in me—some tiny, quiet part that still believed in something—just... wouldn’t let me. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was nothing more than habit. But I couldn’t do it. My hand was trembling so hard I thought I was going to drop everything."

Her stare fell distant, glassed over again. "I was sitting there, on the floor, holding my life in one hand and everything I hated about myself in the other. And all I could think was... no one would notice. Not really. My phone wouldn’t ring. No one would come looking. The world would keep spinning and I’d just be another girl who didn’t make it. And for a moment, that felt like peace."

She paused, her voice breaking on the next exhale. "But then something happened. Something I can’t explain. Like the tiniest part of me screamed. Like my own soul refused to be snuffed out without one final fight. I put the pills back. I stood up. I walked out the door. I didn’t even grab a coat. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew if I stayed one second longer, I wasn’t going to make it."

Her eyes finally flicked up, not to look at him, but past him, to the water. "So I ended up here. Still breathing. But not really living. Just... floating. Empty. I didn’t want to be found. I just didn’t want to disappear without someone knowing I was ever here in the first place."

The words hung between them, bare and bleeding. A confession not meant to earn comfort, just to be heard.

She didn’t cry when she said it. She sounded hollow. Like she’d already cried all the tears there were to cry.

And Quinn didn’t speak.

He just listened.

Because he knew what it felt like to be so tired of being alive that even breathing felt like a burden.

The honesty clung to the air like smoke. Fragile. Heavy.

Another tear traced the curve of Ava's face. But she still didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her silence said enough. It said: Me too.

And maybe that was the first moment they truly understood each other. Not because of their names. Not because of who they were supposed to be. But because beneath all of that—the legacies, the expectations, the titles—they were just two broken people whose pain happened to echo at the same frequency. Two souls who had come to the water's edge not to find answers, but to surrender. And yet, somehow, they'd collided. Quietly. Gently. Without ceremony. Just a breath between strangers who were anything but.

Their silence wasn’t passive—it was deliberate. Thick with everything they couldn’t say. A communion of ghosts sitting side by side. Each aching, each unraveling, each choosing not to fall apart simply because the other was still sitting there. Still breathing.

And in that aching silence, something passed between them—not a promise, not a rescue, but a thread. Fragile. Unspoken. I see you. I feel it too.

As if pulled by gravity, they shifted.

Slowly. Quietly. As if afraid to shatter whatever had taken root between them.

They moved closer.

Ava’s shoulder brushed Quinn’s.

The contact was barely there, but it was enough. Enough to ground them both.

Quinn didn’t flinch.

Neither did Ava.

That small touch, that simple warmth, threaded something through them—a fragile thread of safety in a world that had offered them nothing but cold.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was real.

Their bodies didn’t shift again. They didn’t hug. They didn’t hold hands. They just sat, shoulder to shoulder, their pain seeping into one another, until it didn’t feel so sharp. So singular.

They were two souls trapped under the same foot of pressure.

Two hearts with too many cracks.

Two people who had spent years suffocating in silence, and somehow found breath in each other.

Ava closed her eyes and leaned just slightly into his side. Not enough to be a plea. Just enough to say, I’m still here.

Quinn stayed still. But his head dipped ever so slightly in her direction. His shoulder curved toward hers. His eyes remained on the water, but his thoughts were finally somewhere else.

And in that moment, they both felt it.

A shift.

The beginning of something neither of them had words for.

A presence. A tether. A reason.

They sat like that for a long time. The world moved on without them—cars passed, waves rose and fell, the city lights blinked in patterns too fast to follow. But they didn’t move.

Minutes turned into hours.

The pain didn’t disappear. But it dulled. Muted.

Like someone had finally lit a candle in the dark.

And though they didn’t say another word, they didn’t need to.

The silence had changed.

It was no longer a void.

It was a shelter.

And sometimes, that was enough to begin again.

Just as the wind picked up, brushing past them like the breath of something ancient, Quinn turned his head slightly toward her. His voice was soft, barely there. "I see you," he said. Three words, but they felt like a lighthouse cutting through fog.

Ava didn’t answer right away. But her breath hitched, and then steadied. She turned her gaze to him slowly, her eyes tired, but no longer empty. "I see you too," she whispered.

They didn’t say anything else. There was nothing left to say. So they leaned gently into each other, the contact quiet but constant, and let the silence settle around them like a blanket.

The night stretched long, and the darkness never lifted, but they stayed. Two shadows on a bench, side by side.

And somehow, that night—that fragile, fleeting night—was enough for them to choose to stay a little longer in the world.

Enough to make it through one more sunrise.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The first light of dawn broke slowly, as if unsure whether it was welcome. It crept over the horizon in soft hues—faded gold, gentle blush, the faintest whisper of blue. The waves caught it first, the gentle lapping of water at the harbor edge shimmering like liquid gold. Then the sky followed, spreading it across the city like the slow reveal of a secret.

Neither of them had moved.

Quinn and Ava sat shoulder to shoulder on that old wooden bench, the air around them still heavy with the weight of everything that had passed between them. It wasn’t the kind of silence that screamed. It was the kind that exhaled—soft, worn, exhausted. The kind that said, you’re still here, and so am I.

The cold had settled into their bones, deep and aching, but they hadn’t noticed. Not really. Because something warmer had wrapped itself around them, invisible but steady. A shared understanding, a tether. The gravity of the night had forged something fragile and indelible between them—something they didn’t understand yet but felt all the same.

The silence between them had shifted from one of pain to one of comfort. From a quiet cry for help to a quiet offering of presence. No more apologies. No need for explanation. Just breath in the cold. The subtle rhythm of two people choosing, again and again, not to leave. Shared breath. Shared survival. And in that stillness, the beginning of something neither of them could name, but both of them needed.

The sunrise wasn’t beautiful. It was quiet. Muted. The kind of sunrise that didn’t demand attention, just offered presence. There were no vivid streaks of fire across the sky, no brilliant crescendo of colors. Just a slow, tender brightening. The world easing itself into wakefulness. It rose like a sigh—tired, cautious, and real.

And that, somehow, felt perfect.

Because that morning wasn’t about beauty. It wasn’t about spectacle. It was about surviving the night. About making it through the hardest hours and finding, somehow, that the sky still turned. That the sun still rose. That breath still came.

The light didn’t feel triumphant. It felt earned. Like something cracked open quietly and let the day slip in.

Quinn shifted slightly, straightening his back with a quiet exhale. He rubbed at his face, the exhaustion of the night finally catching up to him. Ava followed, stretching out her legs, feeling the pins and needles in her feet as blood returned to limbs left too still for too long. Her fingers flexed slowly, grounding herself back into her body.

They didn’t speak.

There was no need.

What could they say that hadn’t already been said in silence?

Instead, they exchanged a glance. A quiet, reverent thing. A moment of mutual understanding that needed no words. It lingered, not rushed or fleeting, but long enough to say everything that mattered. There was something sacred in it—a silent bow of gratitude, a recognition of shared survival. They didn’t smile. Didn’t cry. They just looked at each other with the kind of raw honesty that only exists after darkness has been witnessed together. It was their way of saying, I see you. Thank you for staying.

And softly, Quinn spoke again. His voice was hoarse. "I see you."

Ava met his eyes, her own rimmed with a different kind of tear this time—not despair, but something gentler. "I see you too."

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t cinematic. But it was enough.

Ava stood first. Her body protested, stiff and cold, but she didn’t mind. She tucked her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie, glanced down at Quinn, and gave the smallest of nods. He rose with her, slower, heavier, but he stood.

They didn’t hug.

They didn’t exchange numbers.

They didn’t make promises.

They just parted ways.

She walked one way, toward the edge of downtown, her steps slow, as if her body was still catching up to the weight of what had just happened. The hoodie swallowed her small frame, the sleeves too long, her hands still hidden inside them. With every step, she felt the echo of their silence, the comfort of it, trailing behind her like a ghost she wasn’t quite ready to let go of.

He walked the other, toward the towers he called home, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, not from the cold but from something deeper—an ache, a lingering presence pressed into the slope of his spine. The bench faded behind them, but the feeling of it stayed—like warmth that lingered long after the fire had gone out.

The city slowly came alive around them—joggers blinking against the light, dog walkers tugging sleepy pups along wet sidewalks, the hum of traffic stirring awake. The world resumed its rhythm as if nothing had happened, as if two broken souls hadn’t just sat in the quiet and saved each other without saying so.

And neither of them looked back.

But both of them carried it. That night. That moment. That bench. A memory soft and sacred, stitched into the fabric of their morning.

They didn’t need to say it aloud. There was an unspoken agreement between them now. A silent pact forged in the dark: this night belonged to no one else. It was not for telling. Not for sharing. It was theirs. Only theirs.

And somehow, that knowledge was enough to steady their steps.

That should’ve been the end.

But it wasn’t.

Because somehow, a week later, they both ended up back at that same bench.

It wasn’t planned. Neither of them expected it. Quinn had taken the long way home after a game, a loss that twisted in his chest like a knife and refused to loosen its grip. His body ached, but not from the ice—from the weight of the night, the disappointment of another failed attempt at being enough. He didn’t want to go back to his apartment. The silence there wasn’t just silence; it was sharp, punishing, an echo chamber of regret. The lights were always too bright when he walked in. The air always too still. The emptiness too honest.

So he drove with no destination, his hands on the wheel but his thoughts miles away. His chest heavy. His eyes burning. He didn’t know where he was going until he got there.

That bench.

The one that had held him when he couldn’t hold himself.

The one where someone had seen him and stayed.

And Ava—she hadn’t planned it either. But she couldn’t stay in that house. Not after the latest fight. Not after hearing the same accusations echo off the walls. Not after being told she was ungrateful. Spoiled. A waste.

She had walked out into the night without a destination. Without a plan. Just a desperate need to breathe. To exist somewhere her pain wasn’t questioned or ignored. She didn’t know where her feet were taking her. Only that she needed to follow them.

And like something pulled from a quiet promise, from the magnetic pull of shared grief, they ended up there. As if the bench itself remembered them—held their pain from nights before, waited patiently beneath the city’s noise for their return. It wasn’t just a coincidence. It felt fated, like a hidden current in the universe had gently ushered them back to each other, back to that sliver of peace they had carved together in the dark. A place that didn’t demand anything but presence. A place that somehow knew what they needed before they did. They arrived without purpose, without preparation, but their steps mirrored the same ache, the same longing—to not be alone with the weight they carried. To be met in the middle of their ache without question. And again, the bench made room. Again, they sat. Together.

At the bench.

At the edge of the world.

Within minutes of each other.

Their eyes met.

Quinn’s breath caught.

Ava’s shoulders, tight with tension, eased.

She sat first.

He followed.

And that night, they stayed until the stars faded.

It became a rhythm. An unspoken routine.

They never texted. Never called. Never asked, will you be there?

But somehow, they always were.

Maybe not every night. But often enough that the bench no longer felt like just a bench. It became something sacred. A place of reckoning. Of retreat. Of quiet rebuilding.

They brought coffee sometimes. Wore warmer clothes. Sometimes one would arrive to find the other already waiting, and nothing needed to be said. The presence alone was enough. Familiar. Reassuring.

And each night, they shared a little more.

Quinn spoke about the pressure of being captain. Not in the way reporters asked about it, but in the way it sat on his chest at 2 a.m., making it hard to breathe. He talked about the fear of failure. The guilt of losing. The exhaustion of being everything to everyone and still feeling like nothing to himself.

Ava listened. Not as a fan. Not as a girl dazzled by his fame. But as someone who knew what it meant to crumble. To carry weight you never asked for.

And Ava, in turn, spoke of her loneliness. Of growing up in a house full of noise but no warmth. Of disappearing behind her father’s money, behind her mother’s scorn. Of wanting, so desperately, to be loved without condition.

Quinn didn’t offer advice. He didn’t tell her to be strong. He just listened. Sat with her in the stillness. Let her be.

And so it went.

Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. Some nights were filled with stories, confessions, tiny truths whispered into the dark. Other nights, they just sat side by side in silence, their presence saying everything their mouths couldn’t.

They didn’t touch. Not beyond the occasional brush of shoulders. Not beyond the quiet comfort of nearness. It wasn’t about that.

It was about knowing.

About being seen.

About sharing pain without having to relive it.

They came as Quinn and Ava. Not the captain burdened by expectations and headlines. Not the heiress veiled in privilege and shadowed by neglect. Just two souls stripped of their titles, peeled back to their most human selves. Two people with fractures in their bones and too much weight in their hearts—weight that made it hard to breathe some days, impossible to stand on others. And yet, they stood. Or sat. Or simply were. They didn’t need to perform. They didn’t need to impress. They didn’t need to be anything more than exactly what they were in those moments: quiet, unraveling, healing. The bench didn’t care about what jerseys they wore or whose name came on checks. It welcomed them as they were. And together, they began to stitch the pieces of themselves into something new—not flawless, but whole in a different kind of way.

And little by little, something began to shift.

The bench became a bridge.

They laughed sometimes. Quiet, soft laughter. The kind that didn’t echo, just lingered in the air like a promise. It wasn’t loud or forced—it was shy at first, like they were rediscovering what it meant to feel light for even a second. Ava would tell him about old books she loved, the ones with pages yellowed from being read too many times, stories that had been her escape when the world felt too cruel. She’d describe the characters like friends, like pieces of herself she never knew how to share until now.

Quinn would talk about skating. Not just the game, but the movement. The way it felt to glide when the world grew too heavy, how the ice made sense when nothing else did. He spoke about the quiet before a puck dropped, the clarity in motion, how for just a few seconds, everything else fell away and he could breathe. Sometimes he brought her old playlists from the locker room, laughing about the bad ones, smiling over the ones that stuck. Ava once brought him a thermos of chamomile tea because she said it smelled like peace. They didn’t make it a big deal. But he drank every drop.

Some nights she’d bring a book and read aloud, her voice soft and even, Quinn listening with his eyes closed, as if the sound alone was enough to stitch something inside him back together. Some nights he’d point out constellations, giving them wrong names on purpose just to make her roll her eyes and laugh, really laugh—head tipped back, teeth showing, that rare kind of laugh that healed something hidden.

They didn’t need plans. Just the bench. Just each other. And the quiet joys they built, one breath at a time.

And the pain didn’t vanish.

But it changed.

Because now, they weren’t carrying it alone.

They were still broken.

But broken didn’t mean empty.

And in each other, they found space to heal.

Quietly.

Softly.

Without rush.

Without expectation.

Without fear.

The world still didn’t know about those nights. No one ever would. And that was the point.

It was theirs.

Just Quinn.

Just Ava.

Two shadows who collided at the edge of their breaking point, and stayed long enough to remember what it meant to begin again.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Eventually, they moved on from the bench.

It wasn’t sudden. It was a slow drift, like everything else between them. A natural, quiet shift from one space to another. The bench had become their place, their anchor—but like all things born from pain, it wasn’t meant to hold them forever. Healing required movement, and without realizing it, they’d begun to crave something more than the comfort of shared silence. They wanted light. Warmth. A kind of closeness that didn’t depend on the shadows.

Quinn had been pestering her for weeks.

"You haven’t seen it? Seriously? Ava, it’s the movie," he’d say with mock indignation, hand over his heart as if she’d personally offended his taste in cinema.

"I don’t know," she’d reply with a small shrug, teasing but cautious. "I’m not in the mood for something sad."

"It’s not sad. Okay, well, it kind of is. But in a good way. In a ‘you’ll cry but also feel seen’ kind of way."

He’d keep bringing it up at the end of their nights at the bench, each mention softer, more coaxing. Until one night, she sighed, smiled faintly, and said, "Fine. Let’s watch your movie."

That night, they didn’t go to the bench.

Instead, they found themselves in his apartment. It was the first time she’d been there. He had tried to tidy up beforehand, but it still looked lived in—soft piles of laundry, a few mugs on the counter, books stacked haphazardly beside the TV. It smelled like pine soap and popcorn, and it felt safe. Not perfect. Not curated. Just like him.

They sat next to each other on the couch, sharing a worn fleece blanket Quinn had pulled from the back of the couch, its corners frayed, edges soft from years of use. He’d made popcorn, which she’d half-spilled trying to get comfortable. They laughed about it, brushing kernels off the floor, her giggling melting into his quiet chuckle. The room buzzed with the easy kind of energy they didn’t get to feel often—light, open, effortless.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

They watched in silence, the kind that meant they didn’t need to fill the space between them. It was the kind of quiet that felt sacred, a quiet formed not from awkwardness but from complete ease. The room seemed to hold its breath with them, lit only by the flickering of the screen and the faint rustle of popcorn shifting in the bowl on Ava’s lap.

Occasionally, Ava would glance sideways at him, not just watching him, but seeing him. The way he leaned forward during the emotional scenes, how his hands twitched slightly during moments of tension, the way he mouthed his favorite lines as if they were prayers. He didn’t just watch the movie—he felt it, deeply, letting it thread through him like a song he knew by heart. His eyes were wide, glassy even, but soft. Focused.

He didn’t talk during it. Not once. Just sat there, wide-eyed and still, like he was living it again, like he was seeing parts of himself on the screen he didn’t often show. Every so often, his chest would rise with a slightly deeper breath, and Ava would mirror it without thinking. They were in their own quiet rhythm, bound by a story that wasn’t theirs but somehow spoke to both of them anyway. The silence between them said more than any words could have—it said, I’m here. I understand. And that was enough.

When the final scene faded and the music swelled, neither of them reached for the remote. The room sat in silence for a while, except for the soft hum of the credits and the world outside.

"You were right," Ava whispered.

Quinn didn’t look away from the screen. "Told you."

She nudged his shoulder with hers beneath the blanket, a small gesture of warmth. He glanced at her, and for a second, the smile on his face wasn’t weighed down by anything at all.

The hockey season was long over.

For a few months, the noise quieted. The headlines stilled. The fans moved on to other sports, other distractions. And Quinn—he had become visibly lighter. The stress lines in his forehead softened. The haunted look in his eyes began to fade. His days were slow. His nights were gentler. He took walks. He cooked. He laughed more.

It was like the pressure had been peeled off, even if only temporarily. He could breathe again. He could be Quinn, not Captain Hughes.

But with the end of the season came the inevitable.

Summer. And Michigan.

He hadn’t talked about it yet, not out loud. But it had been lingering. A quiet shadow at the edge of every day. A low hum behind every laugh. A weight pressing down on his chest when the nights got too still. It was the kind of thought that crept in during the softest moments—when her head was tilted back in laughter, or when she was watching the world pass outside his window with that faraway look in her eyes. The thought that he was leaving. That time was slipping through his fingers like sand, grain by grain, and soon this fragile pocket of peace they’d built would dissolve. He felt it in the silence between them. In the long pauses that stretched a little longer each day. It was a countdown, not just to his departure, but to a shift he didn’t know how to navigate. And the worst part was—he didn’t know how to tell her. How to put into words the ache of loving something so gentle and knowing it couldn’t last in this exact way forever. So he kept it tucked away, a secret pulsing in his chest, waiting for the courage to speak it out loud.

He was going home. To his family. To the lake. To the place where he could hide from the world for a while.

But not from her.

He didn’t want to leave her.

Ava had been his quiet salvation. His rock. The person who never expected him to be anything other than human. When the weight of the captaincy crushed his chest, she never once told him to be strong. She just sat with him in the dark and let him breathe. When the headlines screamed his name or fans threw blame like darts, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t care about stats, didn’t ask about press conferences, didn’t bring up hockey unless he did.

With her, he wasn’t a franchise player or a golden boy. He wasn’t a fixer of broken teams or the hope of a city. He was just Quinn—the boy who liked quiet nights, who sometimes needed to be held without asking, who laughed softly when she rolled her eyes, who listened to the same song on repeat because it made him feel less alone.

She gave him space to fall apart. To speak without being judged. To not speak at all and still be heard. She made silence feel like safety. And he needed her—more than he ever realized—because for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like he was holding the world alone. He didn’t feel like he had to.

And he knew, in that complicated, painful way, that she needed him too.

So the night after the movie, when they were sitting in the kitchen sharing a bowl of cereal at 1 a.m.—because Quinn claimed cereal always tasted better after midnight—he finally said it.

"I have to go home next week."

Ava looked up slowly, spoon halfway to her mouth.

He saw it instantly—the flicker in her eyes, the stiffening of her shoulders. She tried to smile. She tried to play it cool. But she wasn’t very good at hiding how she felt.

She dropped her head, focusing on her bowl. "Oh. Yeah. That makes sense."

Quinn hated how her voice changed when she tried to be brave.

Without thinking, he reached across the counter and touched her hand. She froze.

Then he stood and walked around to her side of the table, crouching down in front of her like he couldn’t stand the space between them any longer. And then—he hugged her.

Their first hug.

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, and she buried her face in his shoulder, arms hesitating before folding around him like she was afraid he might vanish. When she finally did hold him back, it was with a grip that trembled, like she was holding onto something fragile but vital. Her hands curled into the back of his sweatshirt, and he felt her breathing grow uneven against his chest.

His fingers pressed gently into her back like he was trying to memorize the shape of her, not just physically, but emotionally—every piece of her he’d come to know and need. He didn’t want to let go. Neither did she. It was one of those moments that stretched beyond time, where the ache of goodbye wrapped itself around the warmth of presence.

They weren’t just hugging—they were trying to stay whole, just a little longer. Trying to carry the memory of this moment into the spaces where their hands wouldn’t be able to reach. And in that grip, in the silence, in the tremble of their bodies against one another, they both knew: letting go was going to feel like breaking.

He held her there for a while.

"I’ll call you every night," he murmured. "Okay? Every night. I promise."

She didn’t respond. Just nodded against his chest, but her arms tightened around him, just slightly. Like she was trying to memorize the shape of this moment, hold it in her body so she wouldn’t forget what it felt like to be needed like this. Her breath hitched once, and then again, and he could feel the way she was trying not to fall apart entirely. But she was trembling, and so was he.

And for the first time in a long time, Quinn cried. Quiet tears. The kind that slipped out without warning, catching on his lashes before falling onto the top of her head. His chest ached with the kind of sadness that didn’t shout—it simply settled, low and slow, into every part of him. He didn’t sob. He just let the tears fall, like something inside him had finally run out of ways to hold it all in.

He didn’t know how he’d be okay without her. How to wake up without her quiet texts. How to fall asleep without her voice lacing through the dark. He didn’t know how to let go of someone who had found all his broken pieces and made him feel like they weren’t something to be ashamed of. He didn’t know how to leave when every instinct in his body was screaming to stay.

So he held her tighter. As if that could freeze the clock. As if maybe, just maybe, if he held her long enough, time would pause, and they wouldn't have to say goodbye—not yet. Maybe not ever.

He kissed the top of her head. She didn’t pull away.

Michigan was quiet.

It was green and warm, the trees stretching overhead like old friends. The lake glistened with sunlight that bounced in a thousand directions, and his childhood home looked the same, down to the worn wooden steps and the wind chime that clinked softly when the breeze passed through. He fell back into the rhythm of home, but it didn’t feel quite the same.

His mom met him at the door with a long, wordless hug. She didn’t ask anything. Not yet.

But she saw it.

She always saw everything.

She watched him during those first few days. Not closely, not with suspicion. But with the gentle curiosity of a mother who knew her son had been hurting. She noticed the way he checked his phone constantly. The way he lingered near the window after dinner. The way his moods shifted in the evenings, how his restlessness would suddenly vanish around midnight.

She noticed the smile, too.

The one he wore when he slipped out to the dock. The one he didn’t even realize had crept onto his face.

And so, she didn’t ask.

She let him have that secret.

Each night, like clockwork, Quinn would sit on the dock with his phone pressed to his ear, feet hanging over the edge, toes brushing the cool wood worn smooth by years of childhood summers. The water below reflected moonlight like shattered glass, shifting gently with the breeze, a quiet mirror to the thoughts swirling in his head.

He would talk quietly, his voice softer than it ever was in the city. Some nights, he laughed—those rare, low laughs that came from somewhere deep, bubbling up like relief. Other nights, he spoke in hushed fragments, sometimes pausing between words just to listen to the sound of her breathing on the other end. And on some nights, they said almost nothing at all. Just stayed connected. Just were. The silence never felt empty with her. It felt held.

He would eventually lie on his back, letting the wood press into his shoulders, the lake air cool on his face. The stars above him stretched endless and quiet, like someone had thrown glitter across black velvet. His phone rested on his chest, warm against his heart, Ava's voice still ringing in his ears like a lullaby. Some nights she read to him. Some nights they made up constellations and gave them stupid names. Some nights they listened to the same song over and over again, letting the lyrics fill the spaces where words couldn’t reach.

And always, always, he stayed until the last word, the last laugh, the last breath of her presence faded into sleep. Because even from hundreds of miles away, she was the only thing that made him feel close to whole.

They talked about everything and nothing.

About books. The ones they’d read as kids, and the ones they never finished because life got in the way. About the sky—how it looked different in Michigan than it did in Vancouver, how sometimes clouds held stories and the stars made promises. About what they ate that day, even when it wasn’t exciting, even when it was just cereal or cold leftovers, because the mundane started to feel sacred when it was shared.

They talked about the ache in their chests that showed up when the world grew too quiet. About what it meant to long for someone you hadn’t known forever but who felt like home anyway. About the strange beauty of missing someone who wasn’t family, who wasn’t a lover, but who had become something more essential—like a lighthouse, like gravity, like air.

Sometimes they didn’t need words. Sometimes it was just the soft rustle of wind through his phone speaker, the distant sound of a car in the background of her call. They filled the spaces not with stories, but with the simple assurance: I’m here. I haven’t gone anywhere. And that, more than anything, kept them both afloat.

One night, he asked her to describe the bench to him.

"It’s lonely without you," she said.

He closed his eyes. "You’re not alone. I’m there. Just on the other end of the line."

And she believed him.

Other nights, he read to her. Passages from his favorite book. Descriptions of the lake. The way the water caught fire at sunset. They’d fall asleep on the phone more than once, whispering until their words faded into breath. There were no rules. Just the comfort of knowing the other was there.

His mom never interrupted. But sometimes, she’d step out onto the porch and see him there, lying on the dock, eyes full of stars. His silhouette, outlined by the faint silver of moonlight, looked younger somehow, like the boy he used to be before the world placed so much weight on his shoulders. The phone was always pressed gently to his ear, and she could see the subtle curve of a smile tugging at his lips—soft, unguarded, the kind of smile she hadn’t seen in years.

And her heart would ache in the best way. Ache because she recognized that someone, somewhere, was reaching into her son’s darkness and lighting a candle. Someone was listening to him, truly listening, in the way only people who have learned to sit with pain know how. She didn’t know what they talked about. She didn’t need to. The way his shoulders relaxed, the way his breathing slowed, the way he lingered in that same spot long after the conversations ended—all of it told her what she needed to know.

She’d watch for a moment longer, letting the quiet scene imprint itself in her memory, before stepping back inside. Because what he had out there on that dock wasn’t hers to claim or question. It was sacred, healing, his. A piece of peace she’d prayed he would find, even if it didn’t come from her.

Someone was healing her son.

Not fixing him. Not changing him.

Just holding the broken parts gently enough that they stopped hurting so much.

She didn’t need to know who it was.

But she hoped they knew what they meant to him.

And maybe, just maybe, what he meant to them.

Because when Quinn finally came back inside each night, his shoulders were lighter. His smile was softer. His eyes were clearer.

And for the first time in years, he looked like someone who believed he could be okay again.

And all because somewhere out there, someone was assembling him again.

Piece by piece.

With love that didn’t need a name yet.

With care that didn’t ask for anything in return.

And with the quiet, powerful promise of a connection strong enough to survive even the distance between them.

Quinn and Ava. Still broken, but still healing. Holding onto a thread of connection that reached across state lines and time zones, woven through whispered phone calls, unspoken understanding, and the memory of arms that didn't want to let go. They weren’t whole yet, but they didn’t need to be. Not when they had each other—soft, steady, and there. Even miles apart, they found their way back to one another, night after night, word by word, breath by breath. And that was enough. For now, that was enough.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Ava’s summer had gone differently than she’d imagined.

She had pictured long walks along the waterfront, more quiet calls with Quinn, late nights under moonlight where healing happened slowly and gently. She imagined space to breathe, mornings without pain, silence that wasn’t sharp. She had imagined peace—not total, not perfect, but something close enough to quiet the ache inside her.

But life had other plans. And it started, as it always seemed to, with her mother.

It was a Thursday night. The air outside was humid, heavy with the weight of July. The kind of heat that clung to skin and made the air taste like metal. Inside the Monroe house, the air felt even thicker. The windows were closed, the blinds drawn, and the silence had a pulse of its own—waiting, watching. Ava was curled up by her window, her favorite spot when she needed to forget where she was. She had headphones in, a playlist Quinn had made her playing softly, anchoring her to something safer, something real. The soft hum of the music, his careful curation of lyrics that understood her better than most people did, made the world feel just a little less cruel.

Until her name rang out through the house.

"Ava!"

Her mother's voice, sharp and slurred, cut through the melody like glass against skin.

The spell was broken. She sighed, carefully removing her headphones and sliding off the windowsill. She padded down the stairs on bare feet, moving like a ghost through her own home. Every movement was familiar. Predictable. This wasn’t new.

In the kitchen, her mother stood swaying, wine glass in hand, her eyes glazed with the kind of fury that had nowhere else to go. Her lipstick was smudged, her hair wild, her expression twisted with something bitter and ugly.

"What?" Ava asked, her voice neutral, steady—a mask she had learned to wear early.

"What the hell is this attitude? Don’t talk to me like that," her mother snapped, slamming the glass down on the granite counter with a sharp crack that made Ava flinch.

"I wasn’t," she replied calmly, standing her ground. "You called me. I just came down."

"God, you think you’re better than me now, huh?" her mother snarled, eyes narrowing. "Since when did you get so full of yourself? So fucking self-righteous."

Ava stood still. She could feel her heart racing, but she wouldn’t show it. Not this time.

"I don’t think I’m better than you. But I’m not going to let you keep doing this to me."

Her mother tilted her head, mock confusion bleeding into rage.

"Doing what, exactly? Raising you? Giving you a roof over your head? Feeding you?"

"No. Tearing me down. Making me feel like I was a mistake. Like I’ll never be enough. I’m not your punching bag. Not anymore."

And in that moment, the air in the room shifted—no longer merely still, but suffocating. It pressed against Ava’s chest, a living thing, thick and trembling with unspoken violence. The flicker of rage in her mother’s eyes wasn’t new; Ava had seen it before in a hundred quiet slights and shouted insults. But tonight, it looked different. Not just angry—unhinged. It crackled like static in the air, raw and unchecked, simmering beneath the surface with a force that threatened to spill over. Her mother's pupils were blown wide, her jaw clenched tight, lips curling with disgust. Something inside her had snapped, and it wasn’t going to be restrained. Ava felt it—like standing on the edge of a storm, knowing the lightning was already too close.

She moved quickly, her fingers wrapping around Ava’s wrist with a grip so tight it made her wince. Her mother’s nails dug into her skin, leaving crescents that would still ache days later. And then, before Ava could speak again—

Smack.

A hand across her face. The sound cracked through the room like a whip, sharp and unnatural, echoing off the cold tile like the slap of thunder before a storm breaks. Time slowed for a moment as the pain registered—an immediate, searing bloom that spread across her cheek like wildfire. The heat radiated outward, red and raw, and her skin stung like it had been scalded. Her eye watered involuntarily, the shock stealing her breath before the ache could even fully set in. Her body rocked with the force of it, a sway that felt more like being untethered than being struck. But she didn’t fall. She didn’t scream. She just stood there, heart pounding in her ears, a storm behind her ribs, staring into the space between pain and defiance where her voice had finally risen—and her mother had tried to silence it.

She looked up.

Straight into her mother’s face.

"You are embarrassing," she said, her voice low and controlled. "And I’m done letting you walk all over me. Maybe your life turned out shitty, but that’s not my fault. That’s yours."

Another hit. This one harder. Her head snapped sideways, pain blooming just beneath her eye. She didn’t cry. She only straightened again, breathing shallow but steady.

And then, the front door opened.

The heavy click of the latch was jarring in the silence.

"What the hell is going on?"

Her father’s voice rang out, low and commanding, but beneath it was something heavier—a tremor of disbelief, of dawning horror. David Monroe stood in the entryway, framed by the glow of the hallway light, his presence suddenly too large for the space. His suit was slightly wrinkled, the tie loosened like he’d just barely made it home, briefcase hanging forgotten in his hand. But it wasn’t the tiredness of his long day that defined him in that moment—it was the way he stood utterly still, like his world had just been cracked open. His gaze swept the room and landed on his daughter—on the redness blooming across her cheek, the bruise beneath her eye, the fear she wore like a second skin. And just like that, the tension rolled off him in waves, not from stress, but from rage—cold, deliberate, and deeply paternal. The kind of rage that only exists when you realize you’ve failed to protect what matters most.

Sally spun to face him, her expression crumbling into something falsely fragile.

"David, it’s not what it looks like, I swear! She was yelling at me—completely out of control. You know how she gets when she thinks she’s right about something. She wouldn’t stop. She kept pushing and shouting and—I didn’t know what to do! I felt threatened, David. I really did. She was coming at me, and I just—I panicked, okay? She was acting like a completely different person. I’m the one who felt unsafe in my own home. She made me feel like the villain, and all I’ve done is try to be her mother. She’s been impossible lately, and I—David, you have to believe me!"

But he wasn’t looking at her. He looked at Ava.

And he saw everything.

The flushed cheek. The swelling bruise already forming. The tear that had slipped down without her noticing. The way her wrist was still red and marked. And more than that—he saw the resignation in her eyes. The fatigue. The pain she no longer even tried to hide.

He dropped the briefcase.

"Get out."

"What? David, she—"

"I said get out."

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It cut through the room like a blade—cold, controlled, and laced with a fury so precise it chilled the air. The stillness in it was more terrifying than any yell could ever be, because it held finality. A reckoning. It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. A boundary drawn not in anger, but in protection. And in that silence, in that unwavering tone, the whole house seemed to hold its breath, because everyone knew: there was no coming back from this moment.

"Go pack a bag. Go to your sister’s. You are not staying here. Not after this."

Sally sputtered, tried again to protest, but it was useless. Ava didn’t even look at her.

David moved to his daughter as if on instinct, something primal and protective rising from within him that left no room for hesitation. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, and for a heartbeat she remained stiff—rigid with shock, with pain, with disbelief that this moment was even happening. But then something in her broke open, not from weakness, but from the exhaustion of holding everything in for so long. She gave in, crumpling into him like a wave folding into the shore, her hands gripping fistfuls of his shirt like a child who had waited too many years to be caught.

Her body trembled against his, and David felt it all—every sob she wouldn't let out, every bruise he hadn’t stopped, every silence he hadn’t noticed. Guilt rushed through him like ice, swift and sharp. He had failed her. Not just tonight, but for years. He’d left her in a house where her pain went unseen, unheard, unanswered. And now she was breaking in his arms and all he could do was hold her, whispering apologies he knew weren’t enough.

"I’m so sorry," he breathed, his voice thick, cracking at the edges. "God, Ava, I’m so sorry. I should have seen it. I should have known."

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her weight against him said everything. The way her fingers curled into his chest, desperate to hold on, desperate not to be let down again.

He tightened his grip and lowered his head, pressing it to hers as though he could somehow shield her from every blow she’d already taken. And in that moment, all he wanted was to go back—to every missed sign, every late night, every moment he hadn’t been there. But he couldn’t. So he stood there instead, rooted, holding his daughter like a lifeline, like a man trying to say with his arms what his words never could.

"I’m sorry," he whispered.

She didn’t speak. But she didn’t pull away either.

He held her tighter.

"This is over. She will never lay a hand on you again. I swear to you."

She closed her eyes. Let herself believe it. Just for a moment.

"I should have protected you," he said again. His voice cracked. "I should have been here."

And she finally spoke. Quiet. Steady.

"Then be here now."

That night, everything changed.

Sally left in a storm of haphazard packing and venomous muttering, her suitcase dragging behind her like a carcass of bitterness and regret. The sound of the wheels scraping across the tile echoed through the hall like an exorcism. When the door finally slammed shut behind her, it was as if something rancid had been purged from the walls of the house. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was reverent. It was peace reclaiming its place after years of torment. It was the first exhale after holding your breath for too long.

David stayed by Ava’s side, almost afraid to leave the room, afraid she might disappear or that the strength she showed might crumble if she were left alone. He hovered at first, unsure, guilt still clawing at his chest. But Ava didn’t push him away. She didn’t say much. She didn’t have to. Her presence allowed his, and that was enough. He made her tea with trembling hands, fingers fumbling with the kettle like he hadn’t done something so ordinary in years. He found the first aid kit in the hallway cabinet and pressed a cold compress gently to her cheek, his touch reverent, like he was tending to something sacred. And when he apologized, again and again, Ava finally reached up and placed her hand over his.

"Stop," she whispered. "I heard you. I need you to be here. Not to say it. To show me."

And he nodded, eyes glassy, heart breaking open in his chest for the girl he hadn’t known how to save. That night, they sat in the quiet for a long time. No TV. No distractions. Just two people slowly stitching together the space between them.

Ava went to bed in a room that finally felt like hers. Not a prison. Not a trap. But a place where her voice had been heard. A room where the shadows no longer whispered her worthlessness back to her. A place where, for the first time in years, she didn’t have to brace for a door slamming or a voice rising.

The bruise on her face took a week to fade. But the thing that bloomed inside her that night—the fury, the clarity, the self she thought had been buried for good—that stayed. It grew roots. And with every passing day, she stood a little taller, spoke a little louder, breathed a little deeper.

Because for the first time in her life, Ava wasn’t afraid of taking up space.

And for the first time in a long time, she believed she might actually deserve it.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

From that day on, David Monroe became a different kind of father.

He didn’t announce it. There were no grand speeches, no dramatic gestures to mark the shift. It was quieter than that. More intentional. He started coming home early. Left his phone face-down during dinner. Took a step back from the relentless machinery of the company and let his second-in-command carry the weight he’d once insisted on shouldering alone. Where there used to be boardrooms and flights and conferences, there were now shared breakfasts with Ava, long walks through Stanley Park, and slow mornings that allowed space for conversation. He asked questions. He listened. Really listened. And most importantly, he looked at her like he was seeing her—not the heiress, not the troubled teen, not the reflection of his failings—but his daughter. His child.

And in the small moments, Ava started to feel it too.

Not everything was fixed. But the tension that once lived in the walls began to soften. Her room didn’t feel like a cage anymore. The echo of slamming doors had disappeared. Her face healed, but more than that, something inside her had started to mend. It wasn’t linear. Some days were harder than others. But for the first time in her life, she believed that healing was possible. That she was allowed to take up space without apologizing for it. She smiled more. Laughed, even. The guilt that used to settle on her shoulders like wet sand began to lift.

And when Quinn returned from Michigan, as if drawn by some invisible pull, they found each other again.

No texts were exchanged. No call to meet. There didn’t have to be. The connection between them was something unspoken, something carved into the marrow of their bones. It moved in whispers, in intuition, in that aching familiarity that exists between people who have seen each other at their absolute lowest. Their bond defied explanation—it had always existed beneath the surface, simmering gently, waiting for the moment they would need it again.

So when the air in Vancouver turned warm and humid, and the sky burned soft at the edges with the promise of summer's return, they simply showed up. At the bench. The one by the water where everything began. The same wooden slats worn down from years of weather, still creaking under weight, still welcoming. As though the universe had gently reached out with an invisible hand, nudging them back toward the only place that ever felt like sanctuary. It didn’t need to shout or point—just whispered softly: go now. They're waiting.

There he was, sitting with his elbows on his knees, looking out at the water like it held the answers to questions he hadn't yet asked. Ava didn’t make a sound as she approached, but he turned anyway—as if he felt her there before he saw her. Their eyes met, and something settled in both of them. Relief. Recognition. That aching kind of warmth that only comes from being missed.

They said nothing. Just moved toward each other like gravity had decided for them. He opened the blanket he had brought, and she stepped into it, sinking into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arm draped over her shoulders, her head rested gently against his chest. They laid there in silence, the water stretching out before them, the stars quietly blinking in the sky above. The city buzzed behind them, distant and irrelevant. In that moment, it was just them.

Two quiet souls with too much history and not enough words.

They didn’t need to speak. They never had.

Their breathing synced, rising and falling in a rhythm so effortless it felt orchestrated by something bigger than them. His fingers moved gently against her arm, drawing absentminded circles that whispered reassurance against her skin. Each pass of his fingertips was a soft reminder that she wasn’t alone, that he was there, and that the silence between them was anything but empty. Her hand, slow and deliberate, found the hem of his sweater—that familiar place where fabric met warmth—and curled there, anchoring herself in the presence of someone who had seen her unravel and hadn’t flinched.

They had been apart for months, but this—this space, this contact, this hush that wrapped around them like a cocoon—made time feel irrelevant. It wasn’t just comfort. It was communion. Like their hearts had never stopped whispering across the distance, tracing constellations in one another’s absence. And now, reunited, they could finally hear what had always been there. That steady hum of knowing, of safety, of belonging. A closeness that asked nothing, proved nothing, but simply was.

It was the kind of reunion that didn’t require explanation. Just presence. Just breath.

And then came the night of the Monroe Gala.

It was an annual tradition, always hosted in the grand ballroom of one of Vancouver’s finest hotels—chandeliers dripping with light, golden accents reflecting off the champagne flutes, soft classical music humming beneath the din of polite conversation. The Monroe name was printed on every wall, gilded on every place card. Cameras flashed as donors and dignitaries arrived, each trying to catch the attention of the city's elite.

But this year, something was different. Ava stood next to her father the entire night.

David hadn’t asked—he insisted. And for once, she didn’t mind.

She wore a simple black satin gown, elegant and understated, the fabric catching the light with every graceful movement she made. It flowed around her like a whisper, the kind of dress that didn’t need embellishment to draw attention. Her hair was swept into a soft bun, a few delicate strands framing her face, and her makeup was minimal—just enough to highlight the natural beauty she was finally learning to own. But it wasn’t her dress or her makeup that turned heads. It was her presence. The way she carried herself with a quiet, unshakable strength that hadn’t been there before. A stillness that commanded respect without demanding it. She wasn’t just attending the gala; she was reclaiming the space she had once shrunk inside of. Every step she took was a silent declaration.

David kept a proud hand on her back, steady and constant, as he introduced her to guests. It was protective but not possessive, proud but not overbearing—a father who had come to understand his daughter’s worth in the way he should have all along. For once, his presence beside her didn’t feel like a spotlight; it felt like support. And Ava, radiant beneath the golden chandeliers, met each handshake and greeting with grace and a poised confidence that made people pause, look again, and wonder who she truly was beneath the satin and silk.

"This is my daughter, Ava," he’d say with a smile that reached his eyes. "She’s doing incredibly well in school. Top of her class. Strong as ever."

No one brought up Sally. Not once. Not in passing, not in whispers behind champagne glasses, not in speculative glances. It was as if the woman had been erased from memory, a name swallowed by the elegance of the room and the power of Ava’s presence. And David, for all his pride and poise, didn’t let her shadow stretch across this night. He didn’t allow it. This was Ava’s moment. Hers alone.

She smiled, nodded, shook hands, posed for the occasional photo, but her mind wandered.

Because across the room, Quinn was there.

Tall, composed, dressed in a sharp navy suit. His hair was slightly tousled in that effortless way only he could pull off. He looked different here—not out of place, but dressed in armor. His hands tucked into his pockets, his expression polite but reserved. He mingled with his teammates, with the Canucks GM, with sponsors and fans. But his eyes were scanning the room.

For her.

Their eyes met across the ballroom, and it was like the world stilled, folded inward, until the only thing that existed was the space between them. They didn’t smile. They didn’t wave. They just watched each other, a kind of watching that felt like remembering and longing all at once. Ava’s breath caught in her throat, her heart aching with the pressure of everything she couldn’t say. And Quinn—his posture steady, his eyes unreadable but soft—looked at her like she was the first quiet breath after drowning. It was a silent conversation layered with everything they had endured in the months apart. A quiet, aching kind of yearning that throbbed in the stillness.

I missed you.

I know.

I’m here.

So am I.

As the night wore on, they moved through the space like magnets drawn by a thread. David introduced Ava to a dozen important faces, but each time she turned, she could feel Quinn’s gaze finding hers. When he laughed at something Brock Boeser said, she caught the moment his smile faltered just slightly—because she wasn’t beside him. And when she shook hands with Tyler Myers, she felt Quinn watching, his gaze unreadable.

Eventually, the inevitable happened.

David and Ava approached a small cluster of men—Quinn, the GM, Brock, and Elias. Golf was the topic of choice, spoken with that kind of lighthearted competitiveness that only athletes could pull off. The laughter was easy, the posture relaxed. Ava stood a step behind her father, her eyes immediately finding Quinn’s.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she.

They just gravitated toward one another until, somehow, they were side by side. The space between them dissolved with a familiarity so profound, it felt rehearsed by the universe itself. Their arms brushed once—a fleeting stroke of fabric against skin that made Ava's breath hitch. Then again, slower this time, as if the universe was drawing their lines closer. And on the third, they didn’t pull away. They stayed.

Shoulder to shoulder, standing like twin sentinels in a crowd of strangers, the contact was quiet but absolute. A low pulse of warmth spread from where they touched, down their spines, into their lungs. Ava felt her anxiety melt just slightly, the noise of the room dimming, her thoughts softening. Quinn tilted slightly closer, the smallest gesture, like a lean into gravity. And together they stood—not speaking, not shifting, simply existing in the kind of silence that nourished.

For a moment, neither of them listened to the conversation. They didn’t hear the jokes about sand traps or the groans about bad swings. They were simply there. Together. Anchored.

David turned and, with the proudest smile, said, "Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Ava."

She extended her hand politely, introducing herself with a poise that made her look older than she felt. Quinn gave the smallest nod, his lips twitching, like he was trying not to smirk.

"Nice to meet you," he said softly, eyes never leaving hers.

They had to pretend.

Pretend like they didn’t know every jagged edge of each other’s trauma—each wound, each scar, each moment that nearly broke them. Like they hadn’t fallen asleep on the phone night after night, their voices the last thread tethering each other to sleep, murmured goodnights passed like fragile lifelines. Like she hadn’t once read him poetry in the early hours of the morning, her voice trembling over words not her own, until they cracked open something inside him that he hadn’t dared to touch in years, and he cried—not just from the words, but from the way she saw him, really saw him. Like he hadn’t once driven across the city at midnight, headlights cutting through fog, just to be near her, just to sit on the floor of her room and say nothing while she stared blankly at the wall, her silence heavier than any words. Like they weren’t each other's refuge in a world that had offered them far too many reasons to stop trying. Like they weren’t still carrying pieces of each other in places no one else could reach.

They had to pretend like they weren’t tethered by something deeper than most people in that room would ever understand.

Like if it weren’t for Quinn, Ava wouldn’t be here.

And if it weren’t for Ava, Quinn would have walked away from the game he loved.

They stood quietly, shoulder to shoulder, both masters of silence, both carrying more than anyone knew. And while the rest of the room buzzed with noise and expectation, they existed in their own bubble. One glance. One breath. One heartbeat.

That was enough.

For now.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Somehow, later that night, Quinn and Ava found themselves away from all the eyes, tucked behind velvet curtains and down a quiet hallway, onto a narrow balcony that overlooked the city. It felt like they had stumbled upon it by accident, but both of them knew better. The pull between them had always been magnetic, quiet and deliberate, and it had led them here—out of the spotlight, away from the polished smiles and the swirling conversations. Just the two of them. Just how they liked it.

The air was crisp and cool, the summer breeze biting at her bare shoulders, and without a word, Quinn slipped his suit jacket from his shoulders and draped it gently over her. Then, like gravity had always meant him to, he stayed close. His arm wrapped around her back, resting just above her waist, drawing her into his warmth. She leaned into it with a sigh, one that felt like it had been trapped inside her all evening.

The city lights glittered below them, casting soft gold and silver glows onto their faces. Neither of them spoke at first. There was no need to fill the silence. The world outside buzzed with energy and expectation, but here—on this hidden balcony—time felt suspended. They turned toward each other slowly, their gazes meeting in a softness reserved only for the quietest of truths.

Their voices, when they came, were hushed. Gentle. Full of intimacy. It wasn’t what they said—it was how they said it. Like they were catching up on lifetimes rather than hours. As if the conversation from the night before, curled up on Quinn’s couch in hoodies and tangled legs, hadn’t happened just twenty-four hours earlier. As if time with each other never felt like enough.

He told her about his mom asking questions. About Luke and Jack teasing him, but softer than usual. She told him about her father pausing in the middle of breakfast to ask her how she really was. How she answered him honestly.

They laughed quietly, shared fragments of their lives, their voices slipping between them like the breeze winding around their bodies. Ava’s hand found his. Their fingers interlaced without fanfare, like they were meant to. Like they always had.

They craved each other’s presence in a way that neither of them could quite articulate. It was an ache in the bones, a whisper that lingered in the quiet moments when the world slowed down. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t desperate. It was patient and persistent, like the tide returning to shore. Every brush of their hands, every shared look, every heartbeat that seemed to echo in tandem reminded them that the world felt more bearable with the other nearby.

It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was all-consuming in the gentlest way—like warm water rising slowly around them until they were submerged in comfort. Being together didn’t feel like fireworks or explosions. It felt like exhaling. Like the pause between waves. Like breathing after forgetting how to. It was the soft kind of safety that asked nothing, yet offered everything. It was steady. It was healing. It was home.

Eventually, they knew they had to go back. The world would start to wonder. So they disentangled slowly, reluctantly, the weight of the party pressing back against their little sanctuary. They stepped inside, the heavy doors closing behind them like a secret, and returned to the crowd, slipping seamlessly back into their silent game of eye tag.

Longing looks drifted like invisible threads across the room—delicate, deliberate, and too soft for anyone else to notice. They passed between them in glances that carried weight, in stares that lingered just a second too long. Ava could feel him in the room like a current beneath the surface of calm water. Even when her back was turned, she knew exactly where he was. It was instinctual now, the way she tracked him without searching, the way her body seemed to orient itself around his presence.

Quinn was woven into the night, stitched into the seams of her awareness. Like his gaze had painted itself onto the architecture of the ballroom—carved into the corners of mirrors, hidden in the shadows between chandeliers, echoing in the hush between conversations. He was there in the stillness. In the pause before the music swelled again.

Every time their eyes met, it felt like the rest of the world blurred, like the space between them collapsed into memory and possibility. It was quiet, desperate longing. Not just for touch, but for the kind of closeness they weren’t allowed to show here. The kind they could only hint at through parted lips that said nothing, and eyes that said everything.

When the night came to a close, and the last of the toasts had been made, David began his rounds. He shook hands with the team, warm and gracious, all the pride of a father written into his smile.

And Ava stood there, just a few feet away from Quinn.

So close. Yet still oceans apart.

She stared at him, and he stared back. Neither moving. Neither speaking. Just holding on through the space between them. And in that glance, they said everything they couldn’t say out loud.

Stay.

I will.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Fundraiser after fundraiser. Event after event. Gala after gala. It was always the same.

There was a rhythm to it now—the way Ava and Quinn would find themselves orbiting the same glittering rooms, under the same glowing chandeliers, surrounded by clinking glasses, velvet gowns, and the quiet murmur of old money. These were nights meant for appearances, for networking and public smiles. And yet, for them, they had taken on a different meaning. They became a ritual of sorts. A dance.

They never arrived together. They never left together. But they were always there. Always watching.

She stood by her father's side, poised and elegant, every inch of her radiating a quiet, cultivated grace. The dress she wore shimmered beneath the golden chandeliers, catching the light each time she moved, but it wasn’t the fabric that made people pause when they looked at her—it was the composure, the soft confidence in the way she held herself. The kind of strength not learned overnight but forged through fire and healing. There was something magnetic about her silence, a steadiness in her stillness, like she didn’t need to speak to be understood. David often rested a hand gently on her back, not to guide her, but to show the world he was proud.

Across the room, Quinn lingered with his teammates, half-listening to stories about summer golf trips and rookie antics, his drink untouched, the condensation leaving faint circles on the bar. His posture was casual, familiar to those around him, but his eyes—they betrayed him. They moved past people, past clinking glasses and shallow chatter, to find her. Always her. No matter where she was in the room, he found her. Even if she was half-turned, speaking to someone else, he knew. Like her presence lived in his peripheral vision. Like a magnetic pull beneath his skin.

And when their eyes met—briefly, quietly—everything else fell away. The world dimmed. The noise dulled. It was just them, across the distance, tethered by something invisible and unshakable. The kind of connection that didn’t require words or permission. Even in a crowded ballroom. Even in a sea of faces. The invisible string between them never faltered. It only grew stronger, more certain, more sacred.

They had mastered the art of silent presence. Of being near, but not too near. Their glances were small offerings. Wordless affirmations. I'm here.

Sometimes, Quinn would catch her in mid-laugh, head tilted back slightly, eyes crinkled at the corners, and his chest would tighten. Sometimes Ava would look up to see him politely declining a drink, his fingers tracing the edge of the glass, and she'd know he was counting down the minutes until they could be alone.

Every so often, someone would notice. One of Quinn's teammates. An old family friend of Ava's. Someone would glance between them and furrow their brow.

Eventually, Brock and Petey began to catch on. It wasn't just in the obvious ways—not just the glances or the quiet way Quinn seemed to tune out everything but a single presence across the room. It was deeper than that. It was in the ease of his movements during practice, in the softness of his voice when he spoke to the trainers, in the subtle calm that had settled into his shoulders like a long-held burden had finally been set down.

They saw the change in him before they saw her. The lightness in him. The subtle peace. The way his temper didn’t flare as easily. The way he lingered longer in the locker room, not because he was avoiding something, but because he had somewhere he wanted to be afterward. The way his phone would buzz mid-conversation, and he’d glance at it, eyes lighting up in a way neither of them had seen in a long time.

Petey noticed it first after a morning skate. Quinn had sat on the bench longer than usual, sipping his water, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth for no apparent reason. Brock picked up on it later, when Quinn turned down a night out in favor of heading home early—again.

There was something different about him. Something quieter. Something warmer. Something that felt like the first breath after breaking the surface of a deep dive. They didn’t know who she was yet. But they knew what she was doing to him.

And they were grateful for it.

“You’re different lately,” Brock had teased once, nudging him with his elbow after a press conference.

Quinn shrugged. “Just focused.”

Petey raised an eyebrow. “Focused, huh?”

He said nothing more, just offered a faint smirk and pulled his cap low. But they knew. Of course they did.

They didn’t push. They didn’t need to. Because they remembered the nights Quinn went silent in the locker room, the way he would sit with his head in his hands, shoulders hunched and trembling slightly, eyes distant as though he was somewhere far away. They remembered the nights he left the arena without a word, ghosting through the exit like he wanted to disappear into the dark, burdened by invisible weights that the rest of the world never saw. They remembered the sting of watching him crumble under the pressure, carrying the weight of a franchise, a name, and expectations so heavy no one his age should have had to bear them.

And now, he was present. He was grounded. He stayed after practices, laughed more freely, smiled without flinching, and leaned in during conversations instead of drifting out. He moved through the world with a kind of steadiness that was new, earned, and deeply felt. There was a fullness to him, a quiet confidence that hadn’t been there before, like he had finally allowed himself to be held by something—or someone—other than the game. And whatever or whoever had given him that, they weren’t going to interfere. Because Quinn wasn’t just surviving anymore. He was healing. And they weren’t about to question the one bright thread that had started to stitch him back together.

And David Monroe—the man who spent a lifetime reading contracts, reading negotiations, reading people—read his daughter the same way.

He noticed the subtle tilt of her head when Quinn entered the room—that barely perceptible shift in her body that spoke volumes. He noticed how her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, how her stance softened in the way that people do when they feel safe. The shift in her voice when she greeted him was unmistakable, too—a quiet warmth that hadn't been there before, a kind of familiarity laced with unspoken joy. There was a glint of something softer in her eyes, something David hadn’t seen in a long time: hope. It shimmered beneath her lashes when she looked at Quinn, not flashy or bold, but real.

And maybe it was in the way she leaned in slightly, even when they weren’t talking. Maybe it was in the way her laughter carried just a little further when Quinn was near, fuller, less guarded. Maybe it was in the way she always seemed to know where he was, even if her back was turned. Whatever it was, she didn’t have to say a word. David knew. He knew in the same way a father knows when something inside his daughter has changed—not in fear, not in pain, but in healing. In comfort. In love.

But he never asked.

Never pushed. Never demanded to know.

Instead, he offered something rarer: trust.

He’d excuse himself from conversations at just the right moment. He’d conveniently get caught up with a donor when Ava and Quinn found themselves standing nearby. And most notably, he’d offer, again and again, with quiet confidence:

“Quinn, would you mind driving Ava back tonight? Her driver’s been rerouted.”

Even when they both knew that wasn’t true. Even when her driver was parked right outside. It was never about logistics. It was about space.

David offered it to them the way a father offers love when he doesn’t quite know how to say the words. With open doors. With quiet knowing. With the kind of steady, behind-the-scenes support that didn't demand acknowledgment or praise. He made space for them gently, without ever announcing it, always a few steps behind, always watching without hovering. He knew enough not to interrupt something still delicate and forming, something unspoken and sacred. But he could feel it—the gravity between them—and rather than stand in the way of it, he simply stepped aside.

In the way he lingered in conversations a little longer when he saw them drawn together. In the way he made himself scarce just as Ava started looking around for an escape from small talk. In the way he mentioned Quinn’s name with familiarity, like someone already considered family. He didn’t overstep. He didn’t press. He just made sure they knew he saw them. That he trusted them. That they were safe, and they were seen.

On the nights Ava stayed at the Monroe home, David would pass by her room, the soft spill of her laughter filtering through the crack in the door. Her voice, light and unguarded, speaking into the phone like it was the most natural thing in the world. It didn’t take much for him to recognize the voice on the other end. He’d seen Quinn smile that same way, phone in hand, thumb brushing the screen, eyes warm with something he rarely let the world see.

And then there were the late nights.

The soft creak of the front door. The shuffle of feet on the tile. Her silhouette slipping out into the quiet dark, only to return hours later with the faintest curve of peace around her mouth. She never said where she went. He never asked. But he could see it in her eyes. The steadiness. The gratitude.

Her chauffeur confirmed it once, in the casual way longtime employees do.

"Nice kid comes around a lot," he’d said, leaning against the car as David stepped out one morning, his tone casual but warm with unspoken approval. "Shows up like clockwork. Never loud, never late. Always polite—calls me sir, if you can believe it. Keeps to himself mostly, but he's careful with her. Stays in the car sometimes, waits until the lights are on before driving off. And when he does walk her in, he never lingers longer than she wants him to. Just makes sure she’s safe. You can tell he cares, even if he doesn’t say much. Been doing it for months now. Since before the summer started, even when school was still in session. Honestly? Feels like he's been here longer than that. Like he's part of the rhythm of the place now."

David had only nodded.

He didn’t need confirmation. He just needed to know she was okay.

And when it came to Quinn Hughes, he knew she was.

He’d always admired the young defenseman. Not for his stats, not for his name. But for the way he carried himself. Humble. Quiet. Steady. The kind of man who didn’t demand the spotlight, but still lit the way for others. The kind of man David hoped his daughter would meet one day, when she was ready.

And now, it seemed, she had.

David never said anything. Not directly.

But one evening, Ava walked into her apartment, tired from class, her shoulders heavy with the day. And there, on her kitchen counter, was an envelope. Small. Unassuming. Her name printed on the front in familiar, slanted script.

Inside, a single ticket.

Canucks Family Suite.

Next to it, a bouquet of lilies. Fresh, fragrant, wrapped in soft tissue and tied with a satin ribbon.

And tucked inside the bouquet was a note, folded neatly. In her father’s handwriting, blocky and precise:

I’m glad you’re happy. Enjoy the game, sweetheart. Tell Q I say hi.

Ava stood in the center of her kitchen for a long time, the note pressed to her chest, her fingertips brushing over the familiar scrawl of her father’s handwriting as if it were something fragile and precious. The air around her felt still, suspended, as if the world had paused to give her this moment—this moment where the past and present met in a quiet, breathtaking kind of peace. Her eyes stung with something tender, something deep and sacred, a soft ache blooming in her chest that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with being seen. Truly seen.

It wasn’t permission. It wasn’t approval. It was deeper than that. It was trust. It was understanding. It was a father’s love given not with conditions or expectations, but with a steady hand and a hopeful heart. It was a message: * I trust you. I love you.*

And in that stillness, Ava felt something inside her settle. A lifelong ache she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying softened, just a little. It was love, quiet and sure. The kind that didn’t ask questions. The kind that didn’t need to be proven. The kind that just... was.

She didn’t text him to say thank you. She didn’t need to. He already knew.

That night, she wore the jersey Quinn had left for her. The one that still smelled faintly of his cologne. The one that had become a second skin on nights when the world felt too sharp. She tucked the ticket into her bag and made her way to the arena.

The family suite buzzed with polite chatter, children balancing popcorn tubs on their laps, partners snapping photos through the glass. Ava sat alone, her hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes trained on the ice.

And then he skated out.

Helmet tucked under one arm, his stick resting against his shoulder, his eyes flicked upward—toward her.

Just once.

But it was enough.

He smiled. Slow. Soft. The kind of smile that reached the corners of his eyes.

And this time, she smiled back.

Wide. Unafraid. Home.

A few rows down, David watched the exchange, his heart quietly swelling with a kind of warmth he hadn't felt in years. His hands were folded in his lap, but his grip softened as he took them in—his daughter and the boy she hadn’t quite named yet. His chin tilted upward slightly, like he was catching sunlight, though it was only the gentle glow of the rink lights reflecting in his eyes. And what he saw wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t grand. But it was everything.

There was something so gentle in their exchange, so sweet and unguarded, that it rooted itself deep in his chest. The way Quinn looked up like the world paused when he saw her. The way Ava smiled back without a hint of hesitation. That silent thread between them—invisible to others but so very visible to a father who had learned to look—wasn't just connection. It was care. It was safety. It was the soft, tender shape of something real beginning to bloom.

And David—a man who once wondered if he’d ever get to see this kind of light in his daughter again—felt nothing but gratitude. For the quiet between them. For the steady presence Quinn had become. For the fact that in a world that demanded so much of both of them, they had found each other.

He smiled too.

Because this—this was all he had ever wanted for her.

Not perfection. Not prestige.

Just peace.

And someone to hold her steady when the world tried to pull her apart.

And he smiled too.

Because this—this was all he had ever wanted for her.

Not perfection. Not prestige.

Just peace.

And someone to hold her steady when the world tried to pull her apart.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Eventually, it happened.

After a week of distance, of nothing but texted good mornings and tired, late-night voice notes, Quinn returned from a stretch of away games in the States. A week apart wasn’t long in the grand scheme of things, but it felt like an eternity to both of them. After so many nights spent orbiting each other’s presence, to suddenly have nothing but a phone screen was a sharp absence.

So when he finally got back to Vancouver, there was no hesitation. No ceremony. Just the quiet thud of the door closing behind him and the soft, wordless pull of Ava’s arms as they collapsed into each other in the dim comfort of her apartment.

They ended up in her bed, legs tangled beneath the covers, the low hum of a television show playing in the background. Neither of them paid attention to the dialogue. The screen flickered, casting soft colors across the room, but their world had narrowed to each other—to the warmth of bodies reunited, to the gentle exchange of breath in a space that finally felt whole again.

Quinn laid on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other curled gently around Ava’s waist. She faced him, her fingers resting lightly against his chest, eyes tracing the sharp curve of his jaw, the dimple in his chin, the soft slope of his nose. It was quiet, reverent almost, the kind of silence that said everything.

Their foreheads pressed together.

Like an anchor. Like a prayer.

As if the touch could absorb all the ache, all the exhaustion, all the pieces of the past still lodged deep inside.

Quinn's fingers gently brushed a piece of hair from her face, tucking it slowly behind her ear with the kind of tenderness that made her stomach flutter. His hand lingered there, the pad of his thumb grazing the curve of her cheek like it was something sacred. It was such a small gesture, but it was full of reverence—as though he were memorizing her, as though her softness was something he needed to commit to memory in case the world ever tried to make him forget. His eyes searched hers, not in question but in quiet certainty, and when he finally took a breath, it trembled slightly, his voice low and raw and steady. The words that followed were barely above a whisper, but they rang through her like a cathedral bell, reverberating in her chest, anchoring something deep and aching inside of her with the weight of truth.

"I love you so much, Ava."

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t dramatic. But it held weight. A gravity that made her heart still for a moment.

Her eyes met his, glassy with something close to awe, and she reached up, cupping his face in her hands with a gentleness that nearly broke him.

"I love you so much, Quinn."

And then their lips met.

Soft. Slow. Healing.

Like the breath after a storm. Like the beginning of something safe and endless.

In that kiss, it was as if they were transported—to a different place, a different version of the world where nothing had ever hurt them, where every crack had been mended, every bruise gently kissed away. It wasn’t just a kiss, it was a release. A surrender. A soft unraveling of everything they had held in for too long. It was warm and still and whole, the kind of kiss that stitched them back together from the inside out. In that moment, their bodies remembered safety, their hearts remembered peace. Every aching memory, every lonely night, every self-doubt and lingering wound faded into the background.

For a few heartbeats, they forgot what it meant to carry pain. Forgot what it was to be broken. There was only the hush between them, the taste of belonging, the way their souls seemed to fit together like pieces that had always known where they belonged.

They were just two people who loved each other.

And for the first time, that was more than enough.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Ava attended every game she could. If she could make it, she was there. She sat quietly in the family suite, tucked between executives and loved ones, her eyes always scanning the ice for #43.

And it was inevitable, really, that eventually she would run into Ellen Hughes.

It was during a highly anticipated game—the Canucks versus the Devils. A Hughes family reunion of sorts, with Jack and Luke skating for New Jersey while Quinn stood on the opposing blue line. The suite was buzzing with excitement, filled with friends, distant relatives, and family friends.

Ellen had made her rounds with practiced warmth. She greeted the WAGs, the team staff, the donors and their spouses. And eventually, her eyes fell on a girl she didn’t recognize.

She was sitting at the far end of the suite, small and tucked into her seat, her body angled slightly away from the crowd as though trying not to draw attention. But there was something about her posture—something familiar. She wasn’t avoiding people. She was just comfortable in her own space.

Curious, Ellen approached.

"Hi there," she said with a soft smile. "I don't think we've met. I'm Ellen. Quinn's mom."

Ava's head snapped up, and her heart immediately jumped to her throat, thudding so hard she swore Ellen could hear it. Her breath caught, and for a split second she forgot how to speak, how to move, how to be. She hadn’t expected this moment—not so soon, not like this. Her eyes widened slightly, and a nervous flush crept up her neck, blooming across her cheeks as recognition dawned. Of course she knew who Ellen Hughes was. Quinn had spoken of her with reverence and warmth, had mentioned her kindness and strength. And now here she was, standing just feet away, reaching out not with suspicion, but with genuine interest. Ava forced a smile, her palms suddenly clammy, and willed her voice to be steady, to not betray the storm of nerves unraveling inside her.

"Oh," she said, standing quickly and smoothing her sweater. "Hi. I’m Ava. Ava Monroe. My dad’s David Monroe—he's one of the team's silent donors. I… I sometimes come to games with him."

Ellen nodded thoughtfully, but her eyes didn’t move. They stayed on Ava.

There was something about her. Something that tugged at Ellen's chest in a way she couldn't quite explain. A familiarity, a presence. A quiet gentleness that felt known, though she was sure they had never met. The girl’s posture, the way she sat with graceful reserve, like she was holding something close and sacred—Ellen couldn’t look away.

And then the players took the ice. The lights brightened, the music swelled, and her son stepped onto the rink. The roar of the crowd rose up like a wave, but Ellen barely heard it. Her eyes were on Quinn. And his eyes? His eyes were searching.

Not for his father. Not for her. Not for the fans.

They locked onto the far edge of the suite.

To her.

And in that one look, everything else fell away.

Ellen watched as his face softened, his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, and the tension that had built during warmups dissolved like ice under the sun. His expression wasn’t just love. It was longing. A yearning so deep, it was visible even from all the way up here. A look that said, There you are. I can breathe again.

It hit Ellen like a memory—a summer evening by the lake, Quinn laid out on the dock, his eyes turned toward the stars with that same quiet peace. That same softness.

And now she saw it again.

Not because of the game.

Because of the girl.

And Ellen saw it.

The look.

The look that lit his entire face.

She followed his gaze and then looked back to Ava. And suddenly, it all clicked. The jersey wasn’t just a Hughes one. It was a game-worn #43. His first one. And Ava wasn’t just some donor’s daughter.

She was the girl.

The one who had existed only in quiet murmurs for months. The one whose name hadn’t been spoken, but whose presence had echoed in every shift of Quinn's energy. The one Ellen had wondered about late at night, when she noticed her son checking his phone more often, when she heard the smile in his voice during calls, when he talked about "someone" who made things feel easier.

She was the one who had pulled her son back from the edge. Who had reminded him, not with grand declarations but with steady hands and soft silence, that he didn’t have to carry the weight of the world alone. The girl who had entered his life like a whisper, and yet managed to soften every sharp edge he carried. The girl who brought stillness to the storm.

And now, seeing her here, Ellen understood everything.

Every look. Every shift. Every softened breath her son had taken over the past several months.

This was her.

The one who had become his home.

After the game, as players filtered off the ice and families began gathering their things, Ellen watched as Ava lingered. She didn’t move to leave like the others. She stayed in the back, her coat draped over her arm, her gaze fixed on the hallway leading to the locker rooms.

And when the crowds began to thin, Quinn reappeared.

He wasn’t obvious. He never was. But he moved with intention. He walked right past the others. Right to her.

And the way he looked at her—that same quiet, awe-filled expression he wore that summer on the dock, when the world was still and the stars were just beginning to shine, like he was seeing the whole universe unfold before him. But this time, he wasn't looking at the sky—he was looking at her. With a reverence that made it seem as if she held constellations in her eyes, like every part of him had been waiting for this one second of clarity. There was no mistaking it, no downplaying the depth of it. That look held stories, memories, hopes he hadn’t dared to name. It was a gaze filled with yearning, with a kind of stillness that only comes when you find the thing you didn’t even know you were missing. It was the look of a man who had come home—and found that home in her.

That’s when Ellen knew.

This girl. This quiet, kind-eyed girl.

She was the one who had been stitching her son back together.

And when Ava began to make her way out, ready to quietly leave before anyone could say anything, Ellen stepped in gently.

"Why don’t you come with us?" she asked, her voice warm, inviting. "We’re going out for dinner. Nothing fancy. Just family."

Ava blinked. "I… I wouldn’t want to intrude."

Ellen smiled. "You wouldn’t be. Please."

There was a look in Ellen’s eyes—soft, knowing, and impossibly kind. A look filled with gentle recognition and something deeper than just polite interest. The same look David Monroe had when he realized the truth, when he saw the way his daughter smiled with her whole heart for the first time in years. It was the look of someone who understood exactly what was unfolding, even if it hadn’t been said aloud. A mother’s intuition, quietly affirming what she had already pieced together long before introductions had been made.

Ava felt the weight of it settle over her chest—not heavy, but grounding. She felt seen, not just as Quinn's quiet constant, but as someone who mattered on her own. And in that moment, she felt the doors to something bigger opening, something she had always tiptoed around. A family, a place, a seat at the table. She felt welcome.

So when Ellen extended the invitation, Ava couldn’t say no. Not because she felt obligated. But because she wanted to. Because this, whatever this was, felt like the beginning of something sacred.

They went to a quiet restaurant downtown. One the Hughes family knew well. A booth in the back was waiting, and Quinn reached for her hand beneath the table as they sat. She gave it a gentle squeeze.

Dinner was easy.

Ava was quiet, like Quinn, but she listened well. Asked thoughtful questions. Laughed at the right moments. And slowly, the Hughes brothers started to lean in a little more. Ellen and Jim exchanged a glance across the table.

They watched the way Quinn passed Ava the pickles from his plate without asking, and how she did the same with her tomatoes. How they shared a single glass of water, how Ava refilled it halfway through without a word. How they leaned into each other during the lull in conversation, foreheads brushing like they couldn’t quite believe they were still allowed to be near.

It was like watching a dance.

Soft. Natural. Magnetic.

And when dinner ended, and they all stood to leave, one by one the Hughes family pulled Ava into tight hugs.

From Jim’s strong embrace to Luke’s teasing grin, to Jack’s quiet "Glad you're here. Really."

And then Ellen. Who held her for a little longer.

As if saying, Thank you.

For bringing their Quinn back.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

After dinner, they parted ways outside the restaurant. The night had cooled, the sidewalks quieter now, as families dispersed and city lights blinked sleepily overhead. Quinn and Ava didn’t speak much as they walked. They didn’t need to. Their hands were still intertwined, fingers laced with the kind of familiarity that spoke louder than any words.

Somehow, without planning, they ended up at the bench.

Their bench.

The same one by the water. The one where it all began.

The moon hung low and bright above them, casting silver reflections across the calm harbor. The city buzzed behind them, but here, it was quiet. Safe. Like always.

They sat side by side, shoulders brushing, the hush of waves lapping gently below. Quinn leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, while Ava curled slightly into his side. Her head found his shoulder, and his cheek rested against the top of her head.

For a while, they didn’t say anything. They just listened—to the water, to the cars in the distance, to their own hearts beating in rhythm again.

"You know," Ava murmured after a while, "I didn’t think I’d ever feel this again. Safe. Loved. Not just by you… but by the world. By your family."

Quinn turned his head, brushing a kiss to her temple.

"You were always worthy of it. You just needed someone to remind you."

A small smile tugged at her lips, and she leaned further into him.

"You did more than remind me. You showed me."

He looked out at the water, his voice a whisper.

"You saved me too. I was drowning and didn’t even realize it. And then there you were. Just... quiet and strong and exactly what I didn’t know I needed."

She tilted her head to look up at him. "Do you think we would have found each other if everything in our lives had gone differently?"

He considered that, then shook his head gently.

"No. But I think we found each other exactly when we needed to. Broken, but still whole enough to see the light in the other."

She reached up and touched his cheek. "You were always the light, Quinn."

He closed his eyes for a moment, holding her hand against his face.

They stayed there until the sky began to shift—the deep navy of night giving way to pale hints of morning. The first signs of a new day stretching out before them.

And as the sun began to rise, spilling warmth across the horizon, they knew.

They had survived the darkness.

Together.

And now, they had a future.

Hand in hand, they sat on that bench. Their bench. Not as two people weighed down by the past, but as two hearts who had found their way back to themselves—through love, through healing, and through each other.

This was their beginning.

And it was everything.

[bordysbae]

hey!!! it's me again :) i was just wondering if you could do a fic where the reader is trevor's sister, and she's with luke, but the fic is based on a combination on mine, stay stay stay, and that's the way i loved you by ms. taylor herself

ps. i actually love your writing sm 🫶

“my michigan boy”

luke hughes x zegras!sister

do you remember we were sitting there by the water, you put your arm around me for the first time.

as you and luke watch the sunset lower by the second, he wraps an arm around you as both of your guys’ toes dangle off of the dock. you rest your head on luke’s shoulder, embracing the final days of summer. the final days until you both head off to college, and before your guys’ brothers head back to california, new jersey, and vancouver.

“i’m gonna miss this, i mean i miss every summer spent at the lake house, but especially this one,” you state softly.

“and whys that?” luke mumbles, nearly lost in the orange and pink sky.

“because of us. it’s been too long of us just being awkward around each other, i’m glad we finally made it to where we are now. but it sucks, you’re staying in michigan for college and i’m going all the way to wisconsin”

“i know, but we’ll keep in touch, i promise. plus we’re both gonna see each other on winter break, and spring break too.”

“luke, it’s just that-“ you begin to say, but you’re cut off by trevor calling you both over to the fire pit to make s’mores with everyone. luke stands up and hurries over to make sure he gets a s’more, but you walk slow behind him. your older brother walks over closer, and grabs your attention by standing directly in front of you. “you okay?” he asks.

“yeah, just thinkin’”

“what about?”

“me and luke. we aren’t dating, but we’re definitely more than friends. anyone can see that, but we’re going away to college next week. there’s no point in dating, but i don’t want us to be left as nothing, y’know?”

“don’t date him, that’s a dumb idea. you’re going away to college, and you don’t want to be held back by a long distance relationship. plus luke is gonna be focusing on hockey. if you guys are really meant to be it’ll happen when it needs to,” trevor tells you.

“since when are you such a romantic,” you playfully elbow him, earning yourself a smack on the back of the head, “yeah yeah, shut up.”

and he says, “you look beautiful tonight.” but i miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain.

you and luke left things quiet in michigan. you never addressed the elephant in the room—the elephant being that you were both going away to college— so now you’re on a date with a guy you met at a bar last month.

“you look beautiful tonight,” he smiles, making you blush.

“oh thank you, aaron! you don’t look too bad yourself,” you smile, as you both head into the restaurant. aaron is sweet, but he’s just not luke. this is the second date, and he’s just careless in a way. he loves to talk about himself, and sure, he listens to what you have to say, but he doesn’t listen to the way luke did.

“what are your plans for winter break next week? you staying here?” aaron asks you, catching you off gaurd. he never really asks much about you, so you’re happy to be able to get some words in about yourself.

“oh! i’m going to michigan, my parents live there! i’m staying with my family friends at their lake house, which technically doesn’t serve the same purpose it does during the summer, but it’s always fun to go ice skating on the lake!”

“oh cool! i was hoping maybe we could hang out, but i guess i’ll just have to text you!” aaron chuckles, making you blush slightly.

it’s not that you don’t like aaron, you very much do, it’s just that he isn’t the same as luke. you and luke could talk about any and everything for hours, but with aaron it’s all just a little too unfamiliar for you. you even missed the fights you and luke would have. i mean sure, they sucked in the moment, but as soon as they were over, they were immediately forgotten. and then luke was your world’s axis again. he made your world spin.

you took the time to memorize me, my fears my hope and dreams. i just like hanging out with you, all the time

back in michigan, all is going well. you and luke are slightly awkward, since the tension from summer was never resolved, but you guys are still close as always. but what you didn’t expect to happen was for your brother to accidentally spill the beans about aaron, in front of everyone.

“ew, you still talk to aaron?” trevor exclaims, as he tosses your vibrating phone at you from from across the living room.

“who’s aaron?” quinn asks, pestering like the annoying boy he is.

“yeah y/n, who’s aaron?” luke questions, turning his head towards you. your heart begins to race.

“we went on a couple dates, that’s all,” you begin to explain, but before you can finish your explanation luke leaves the room. everyone’s eyes follow him as he exits, then they all turn back towards you with sheepish smiles. you sigh, and chase after luke. you hear him close the back door, so you go outside onto the deck. he’s sat under the awning, with his head resting upon his hands.

“luke, let me explain,” you sigh, as you sit next him.

“no don’t, it’s not like we were dating anyways. i mean we’ve both hooked up with other people while away at college, i don’t know why i’m upset. you don’t have to explain yourself, you did nothing wrong,”

“oh luke, yes i did. i knew all along that all i wanted was you, but i saw you going to these parties and shit, so i felt like i needed to move on too. i toyed with aaron’s feelings, just for it not to work,” you say, making luke look up from his lap at you.

“what are you saying?”

“that i love you, luke hughes,” you smile, making him blush.

“i love you too, y/n zegras,” he says, leaning in to kiss you. he cuffs your cheeks, as your hands make their way through his curly hair. suddenly luke pulls away and gasps, startling you.

“remember when you said you’ve always wanted to kiss someone in the rain? cmon!” he exclaims, immediately pulling you up from the small step, and into the pouring rain. your guys’ laughter could be heard from a mile away, until it’s silenced by luke’s lips crashing against yours.

“i like hanging out with you luke, we should do this more,” you giggle, making luke smile.

“do what, kiss more? or hang out more?”

“both. you’re my michigan boy.”

[multistanw0m4n]

Synopsis: Kevin and crew go skiing in Vancouver but what's hotter, the romantic drama or the chocolate?

Word count: 1.5k

Pairings: Reader x Canada Line??

Warnings: Fluff, very slight Kevin angst, hot tub scene, best friend Chanhee, I think that's all...

Author's note: This is my first Tumblr story sooo take that as you will.

It's HEAVILY inspired by scenes from 'To All The Boys I've Loved Before' and 'Boy Meets World' S5: E14 (but you don't have to know either to enjoy). It came to me after what Kevin said in their Ultimate Bias interview. Also I'm a new deobi so I hope I wrote everyone correctly.

______________________________________

Kevin takes his 11 friends (The Boyz + Y/N minus Jacob) to his favorite ski resort in Vancouver. He chose a resort specifically knowing that Chanhee didn't plan on going out even once. They all arrive in the resort's lobby at around 6 p.m. and sort the rooming situation (Y/N of course getting her own). Once situated, most of the boys rush up stairs to drop off their stuff and put on their gear.

"Ready to see the slopes?" Kevin ask in English, directing his question towards Y/N. Y/N looks at the excitement on Kevin and Eric's face, then sides eyes the boy next to her, Chanhee looking less than happy to be surrounded by snow.

"I think I'll miss out today. The sun looks like it's going to set soon and I'm not trying to learn snow sports in the dark." She rubs her arm.

"Yeah, it gets more dangerous as the day goes on." A soft English voice catches the group off guard, them turning to see a boy around their age in a doorman uniform.

"Ja-Aye-Cobuh." Eric pronounces, sliding his finger across the boy's golden nametag.

"Yes, Jacob's the name, and if you and your friends want to keep cool, I'd suggest staying in tonight and helping yourself to our complimentary hot chocolate bar!"

"Hot chocolate? I'll take a cup, thanks buddy." Eric says patting Jacob's shoulder before turning away. "Anyways Y/N you in or out?"

"Yeah, there's no such thing as 'keeping cool' up here. Come on Y/N." Kevin pleads. She looks at him and ask herself how she could say no to those eyes, but she glances at Chanhee's blank expression and makes up here mind.

"You guys be safe. And save some energy for me tomorrow, okay? How does hot chocolate and Korean skincare sound?" Y/N turning towards Chanhee and speaking so that he can understand. He nods and Kevin sighs before waving them goodbye.

Flash forward to Y/N's solo room, her and Chanhee on opposite sides of bed. Y/N's laying down on her back allowing gravity to keep her Hello Kitty face mask on. Chanhee's sitting crisscrossed and facing her, the TV behind him.

"Why didn't you go skiing with Kevin? I know you're like, in love with him."

She quickly sits up, mask plopping down onto her lap.

"I'm not 'in love' with Kevin and damn it Chanhee, you made me waste good collagen!"

"Sorry but there's no way you came all the way on this trip just to pity me and not to make out with Kevin."

"Sure did, I knew there's was no way you'd stay warm with out your, bestie!" Youngie jumps up to hug Chanhee, him cringing and resisting.

"You know, there's another way we can warm up." The boy teases.

Next thing you know the two are outdoors surrounded by trees bigger than their hopes and dreams. A bright sunset quickly changed to a black sky filled with stars, the deafening silence of the night interrupted by the sound of cicadas shaking their wings.

The hot tub bubbles, a teal blue light illuminating the air around it.

Chanhee steps in first, his gray swim shirt turning darkening where the water meets it. He chuckles a visible breath, a result of the grueling outside temperature. He offers Y/N his hand, her untying her robe before taking it and stepping in.

They aren't alone for long as their friends hurry past them and towards the resort, whooping and hollering as the snow crunches beneath their feet. Kevin stops, and heads towards Y/N's corner of the hot tub, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

"You look nice, Y/N. Do you mind if I get changed and join?"

A chill goes down her spine as he grins and walks away.

"Want me to leave?" Chanhee ask.

"You better not." She sighs. They suddenly hear more footsteps and the pair turns to see Jacob from earlier. He's in a long-sleeve black swim shirt but the sleeves are rolled halfway up. His blue swim trunks littered with rubber ducks work in contrast, showing off his cute side.

"Come to call curfew?" She questions, remembering he spoke English.

"Actually, I'm off the clock. This is my favorite way to wind down." He slowly steps in, taking up one of the remaining empty sides as to not sit next to Y/N or Chanhee across from her.

They chat some more before Kevin and Sangyeon join them, both in their trunks but neither wearing a shirt.

Y/N quickly looks down, growing nervous at the sight.

Kevin sits next to Jacob and Sangyeon's with Chanhee, the two striking up their own conversation.

"You missed the perfect ski." Kevin says, eyes on Y/N.

"I guess, but me and Chanhee created some fun of our own."

"Okay... but promise you'll join me tomorrow?"

"I promise."

"Come here and prove it." He dares, holding out his pinky.

"Can't you just take my word?"

"Nope, get over here." He pats the space next to him, now feeling the eyes of Jacob.

"Why do you want me over there so bad?" She hesitantly stands up making her way to him.

"Don't worry about it." He quickly ends as she sits so close that their legs touch, but neither of them move. She reaches out and connects their fingers, Kevin taking this chance to use his other hand and poke her side. She gasp at the tickle and shoves some water at his chest. "Oh it's on!"

The two splash water at each other, not hearing Jacob's silent objections on the matter.

Finally, Kevin takes a handful of water and throws it blindly, it somehow ending up all over Chanhee's face.

"Bestie!" Youngie shouts, making her way over to him to quickly wipe the drenched hair off his face.

Sangyeon takes Chanhee's side, the two rush inside and upstairs as Y/N grabs her robe and stays with Kevin and Jacob in the lobby.

"I'm so sorry." Kevin looks down. Y/N looks distant, worry for her friend clouding her mind.

"It's okay, but we at the resort take safety very seriously. Maybe let's just have everyone stay in their rooms for the night." Jacob ends and Kevin nods. His eyes flash to Y/N before making his way to his room.

Y/N stays in the lobby, water dripping from her swimsuit as she's lost in thought.

"You're probably cold. Let me grab you a blanket and some hot chocolate." Jacob smiles.

"You don't have to, I know you're off."

"I don't need to be paid to help out." He says. His smile puts her at ease as she takes the mug from his hands. He sips on a cup of his own as he sits down in a large bay window.

She follows, taking in the scent of her beverage.

"So, what's it like working in the mountains?"

"It's great. I always feel best surrounded by nature, which is why I've come here every winter since I was 16."

Y/N hums, sipping from her mug, whip cream covering her top lip.

"Oh, I got you." Jacob slowly leans in, their eyes meeting as their faces sit centimeters apart. He lifts a napkin to wipe her mouth, letting out a soft chuckle as he leans back. Y/N could only pray he didn't hear her heart pounding. "And what about you? What brings you out here?"

"I- I prefer warmer weather, but my friend Kevin has talked about bringing us to his favorite resort for the longest time, I just couldn't let him down."

"Ah Kevin, I see him and his family come in pretty often. The last time was around February, except he only came with one other person. Some girl I didn't recognize."

Wait, Kevin brought a girl here in February? Like his birth month February? Back then Y/N had tried to thrown him a suprise party but he claimed he could make it do to a last minute family emergency. Was he lying?

It's been 10 months since and she's still chasing after someone who's never seemed to like her back.

"I guess it's kind of romantic up here." Y/N looks out at the snow.

"Yeah, I've always dreamed of falling in love, snow falling as I'm snuggled up by a window, hot chocolate in my hands... " Jacob says looking opposite of them at the roaring fireplace.

She smiles up at him and he returns it, his presence making her warm inside and out. She'd never felt this way about anyone other than Kevin before. In fact, right now she wasn't even sure if she'd ever felt this way about Kevin.

They chat some more before their trance gets broken by a group of male voices.

"Last one up the hill buys everyone coffees!" Haknyeon shouts, Changmin and Sunwoo pushing to get in the front.

"Y/N? You're still in your robe?" Juyeon ask, Chanhee by his side, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Yeah, I should probably get changed and ready for bed."

"Bed?" Hyunjae ask, zipping up his puffer jacket.

"At 7 in the morning?" Younghoon's question follows as he adjust his shoes.

"7!? What do you mean 7!?" She whips her head back to the window, the sun rising for what felt like was just an hour into the night. "We talked all night?" She mumbles to herself, not missed by Kevin.

"You talked to him all night?" His voice filled with confusion and hurt.

[smileysvech]

What are some of your favorite hockey boy fics? 🥰

this is not an exhaustive list by any means, so you can check my fic rec tags here and here, but these are some of my favorites (most of these include smut so please respect authors’ warnings if you’re not 18+)

andrei svechnikov

fake numbers and date numbers by @matsbarzal

glittery by @comphy-and-cozy

the love countdown series by @behoright

meet me at midnight by @senditcolton

the mystery of love by @comphy-and-cozy

playing pretend by @idontgiveaflyinggrayson69

sundress season (and the sequel) by @comphy-and-cozy

when it gets crisp in the fall (and these follow up fics in the same universe: x x) by @idontgiveaflyinggrayson69

andrei svechnikov/brady skjei

the after party and the after party II by @comphy-and-cozy

andrei svechnikov/dylan coghlan

919 temptations by @hoesforthecanes

brady skjei

adore you by @comphy-and-cozy

do I really have to tell you? by @senditcolton

midnight rain by @comphy-and-cozy

mat barzal

more than a vancouver sunset by @zuucc

praising you by @eberles

we've come so far baby by @mendeshoney

mat barzal/tyson jost

summer nights by @hookingminor

jt compher

our love was made for the movies by @jostystyles

slow mornings by @comphy-and-cozy

something to dream about by @comphy-and-cozy

mikko rantanen

bad for business by @comphy-and-cozy

you’re the reason I come home by @senditcolton

tyson jost

baby, you make me crazy series by @hookingminor

how I look on you by @hookingminor

like this series by @matbaerzal

longshot by @flashyfucker

open your eyes by @matbaerzal

matt martin

matt martin x sugar baby!reader blurb by @comphy-and-cozy

we're a bad idea by @senditcolton

[toasttt11]

questions

October 12, 2023

Connie had accepted Kevin’s invitation to hang out with Alex, Lukas and him.

Alex has spent the day showing them all around some parts of Chicago and they eventually ended up going to one of the beaches in Chicago that has a pier and they decided to start walking around for a little while before they all head back to their separate homes.

Kevin and Lukas both gasped excitedly in unison seeing a corn dog cart and they both immediately went off running towards the corn dog cart just leaving Connie and Alex alone.

Connie awkwardly played with her fingers having not spent any time alone with Alex yet and he makes her very nervous but a different type of the normal nervous but she was not sure what type.

“Those two.” Alex shook his head chuckling fondly watching as Lukas and Kevin were running and pushing each other.

Alex spared multiple glances towards Connie as they walked at a calmer pace than Lukas and Kevin. Alex is still in awe of her eyes every time he sees them. Alex does not want to admit how much he thinks of Connie with barely even knowing her yet and it does not help at all that her eyes are just unforgettable.

“What’s your favorite color?” Alex randomly blurted out and bit his lip for just blurting out random question.

“My favorite color?” Connor repeated looking very puzzled and Alex did not blame her as it is a very random question and very random to just ask that.

“I want to get to know you more.” Alex shrugged smiling slightly bashful at her making her nod.

“Blue.” Connie said before softly adding, “But not bright blue but light blue soft like the sky in the early morning.” Connie slightly rambled and blushed when she realized she had been rambling, something she does not do often.

“Light blue.” Alex smiled softly enjoying her reasoning and glad he got to hear her reasoning, “I like Orange but not neon orange, soft orange like the sunset.” Alex gave her a lopsided smile making her smile softly back at him appreciating how he responded.

“Favorite season?” Connie softly asked as they stopped walking sitting and decided to sit down on a bench as they watched Kevin and Lukas waited in line for corn dogs and waited for them to come back.

“Summer. I love being out on the water and the warm weather is my favorite.” Alex easily responded, summer was when he got to spend the most time with his family.

“Hmm, i don’t like warm weather.” Connie scrunched up nose slightly having always hated the heat, she grew up in Vancouver warm weather is not something she likes and the warmest in Vancouver is still very comfortable, “I like winter because it snows.”

“I do not like the snow.” Alex scrunched his nose shaking his head, he has always hated the snow and it was something he never looked forward to every winter.

Connie blinked looking shocked for a moment, she couldn’t understand how anyone doesn’t like the snow. “You don’t like the snow.” Connie deadpanned looking at Alex oddly making him laugh shaking his head no.

“I like being warm.” Alex smiled making Connie reluctantly nod understanding not everyone likes cold weather.

“What’s your favorite food.” Alex questioned, he is really glad their friends got distracted so he could get the chance to learn more about Connie but also spend time with her alone.

“Sushi.” Connie quickly answered no hesitation in her answer, Sushi has always been her favorite food since she could remember.

“Really?” Alex hummed surprised that was her favorite food.

“I’m from Vancouver.” Connie’s reply had more sass to it that she rarely let out and Alex couldn’t help but smile wider glad he gets to hear it.

“True.” Alex agreed as Vancouver is near the bay so seafood is very good there, “So you got lucky getting drafted to Chicago then?” Alex asked rhetorically, Chicago has some of the better seafood as well.

“Mhm.” Connie nodded in agreement so far everything seafood she has had here is very good.

“What’s yours?” Connie asked looking around the pier and let out a sigh not seeing any cameras pointed at them yet and felt some tension leave her shoulders.

“Burgers.” Alex reasoned chuckling at her disbelieving face, “I know it’s basic.”

“It’s what you like.” Connie just shrugged smiling sweetly.

Alex smiled back enjoying Connie’s natural sweetness and her genuine kindness she seems to always have.

Kevin and Lukas both sat down on either sides of Connie and Alex happily munching on their corn dogs that were definitely not on their meal plans making Alex and Connie share an exasperated look and smile.

The four all decided to head home after Kevin’s and Lukas finished their corn dogs having been out the whole day already exploring and already walked most of the pier.

Kevin had drove them all and Lukas was sitting in the front seat with Connie and Alex sitting in the back seats.

Kevin drove to Connie’s apartment first and pulled into the front entrance of her apartment building.

“Thanks Kev.” Connie softly mumbled to her friend as she got out of the car.

“Always Beds.” Kevin smiled at her watching as she got out of the car closing the door and waving at them.

“Hold on i’ll be right back.” Alex blurted out to Lukas and Kevin and hopped out of the car quickly catching up with Connie.

Lukas and Kevin shared a very suspicious look of Alex’s behavior towards Connie, they have noticed how he seemed to stare at her a lot and was always glancing at her but haven’t thought anything of it, but maybe they should have.

“Connie!” Alex soflty called out jogging slighty as he caught up with Connie right as she stepped inside the front lobby.

“Alex?” Connie looked confused as Alex was now standing next to her.

“Let me walk you up?” Alex soflty asked looking nervous as he sheepishly rubbed the back of his head.

Connie narrowed her eyes not sure why he wants to walk her up, “Sure.” Connie nodded and continued walking towards the elevator.

Alex could see the hidden question Connie had for why he is walking her up, “Just wanted to see you get home.” Alex sheepishly explained, he just didn’t feel right letting her walk to her apartment alone and it felt wrong to not make sure she got home safe.

Connie soflty nodded seeing he was being kind and she could appreciate that, “Thank you.” Connie softly thanked him giving him a small smile as the elevator dinged opening up on her floor and she walked out with Alex following her.

“This is me.” Connie gestured to the door she stopped in front of and she unlocked the front door and opened it.

Alex got a glimpse of her apartment and noticed it was pretty bare and didn’t have much in it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Alex said as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. They had a morning practice tomorrow.

“Yeah.” Connie nodded and stepped inside her apartment waving bye as she closed her front door.

[spnbaby-67]

Her Surprise (Revised Edition for 2025)

Chapter Nine: Yours, Truly

The last day of the convention always felt bittersweet.

The high of panels, photo ops, concerts, and chance encounters lingered in the air like the last note of a song you didn’t want to end. But Y/N walked into the vendor hall that Sunday afternoon feeling lighter than she had in months. Maybe even years. A weekend of shared memories, laughter, stolen moments... and Jensen.

She tried not to overthink it. To keep it all in the moment. But her heart wasn’t listening.

He’d texted her that morning.

Jensen: “Hope you got some sleep. See you soon, sunshine. :)”

She may or may not have screamed into her pillow.

Now, standing in the autograph line that wrapped around the ballroom twice, she clutched her photo op print between her fingers, trying not to bend it. Her heart beat loud in her ears as she inched forward.

Ari stood beside her, bouncing on her toes, already gushing about getting Rob’s autograph and asking Osric about D&D campaigns.

"You look like you’re gonna pass out," Ari whispered.

"I feel like I might," Y/N admitted.

The line moved. Closer. Closer.

Then she was next.

Jensen sat at the table in front of her, Sharpie in hand, chatting casually with a fan before her. He wore a flannel shirt and a backward baseball cap, his laugh easy and low. When the fan left, he looked up—and his eyes lit up.

"There she is," he said, voice warm. "Hey, sunshine."

Y/N smiled nervously and stepped forward.

"Hey," she breathed, placing the photo down gently in front of him.

"This one’s my favorite," he said, eyes flicking to the dancing photo from the op. "You made that moment special."

She felt her cheeks flush as he uncapped the Sharpie.

But just as he leaned down to sign, a voice behind her whispered loudly enough for them both to hear.

"Probably paid extra for all that attention. Poor guy, pretending like he cares."

Y/N froze.

A beat passed.

Then Jensen straightened. Slowly. His smile faded, not into anger, but something far more unsettling—quiet disappointment. He looked up, gaze fixed over Y/N’s shoulder.

"Hey," he said gently, to the person behind her. "I know it’s easy to make assumptions from the outside looking in. But kindness isn’t a performance. Neither is friendship. So before you judge someone you don’t know, maybe take a second to ask yourself why it bothers you so much to see someone else happy."

Silence.

Y/N stood rooted to the spot, blinking back the sting in her eyes.

The person mumbled something, cheeks flushed with shame. "I’m sorry," they said softly. "I didn’t mean it."

Jensen looked at Y/N. "You okay?"

She nodded, voice too thick to speak.

He signed the photo carefully, then slid it back to her. But before she could walk away, he gently took her hand.

"Wait for me after autographs," he said. "There’s something I want to share with you. Just us."

Her brows lifted. "What is it?"

"Rooftop," he said simply, and smiled. "Sunset. Dinner. Quiet."

Her heart somersaulted.

"I’ll wait," she whispered.

Hours later, the ballroom was empty, the echoes of a thousand voices slowly fading. Y/N waited in the hotel lobby, clutching the photo Jensen signed to her:

To Y/N — The brightest light in the room. Thank you for being real. Yours, truly. — J

She touched the words like they were fragile.

"Hey," came a voice behind her.

She turned—and there he was.

Flannel gone. Jacket on. A soft smile. Two takeout bags in hand.

"Hope you’re hungry," he said.

She was. For food. For air. For the moment. For everything.

He took her to the rooftop terrace of the hotel, where a string of warm fairy lights had been set up around the railing, and a small bistro table waited for them with two chairs.

"You did all this?" she asked.

"Well," he chuckled, setting down the food, "I bribed Ari with a latte and she made a few calls. But yeah."

They sat, shared dinner under a sky that turned shades of tangerine and plum. Vancouver stretched below them, twinkling and alive.

They talked for hours. About work. Family. Childhood. Grief. Insecurities. Dreams.

And for the first time, Y/N didn’t feel like she had to shrink herself to fit into someone else’s comfort.

She just was.

And that was enough.

As the sky deepened to navy, Jensen leaned back in his chair, looking over at her. "You make it easy to be myself."

Y/N swallowed hard. "That’s what you’ve done for me all weekend."

He tilted his head, watching her carefully. "So... what happens now?"

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

"When we go home. You back to your world. Me to mine." He toyed with the edge of a napkin. "Do we just let this be a perfect memory, or do we... try something more real?"

Her heart beat harder. "Do you want something more real?"

He looked up. "Yeah. I really do. But only if you do too. No pressure, no expectations—just honesty."

She smiled softly. "Then let’s try. One step at a time."

He reached for his phone and held it up. "May I?"

She gave him hers too.

They exchanged numbers with small smiles and quiet glances. Then Jensen leaned forward on his elbows.

"I meant what I said earlier, Y/N. You’re a light. And people are drawn to that. Don’t ever let anyone dim it. Especially not people too afraid to shine themselves."

She looked down at their phones side by side. "This feels... surreal."

"It’s real," he whispered. "As real as you and me sitting here right now."

A breeze picked up as they leaned back in their chairs, watching the city lights sparkle. And when she reached for his hand this time, he was already there, waiting.

This wasn’t the end.

This was only the beginning.

[pyotrkochetkov]

Do you have any fic recommendations for when you need a pick me up? I’d appreciate some.

this comes at the perfect time because i could use a pick me up right now and these always make me feel warm inside:

warm honey - mat barzal

praising you - mat barzal

more than a vancouver sunset - mat barzal

mini fan - andrei svechnikov

adore you - brady skjei

fake numbers and date numbers - andrei svechnikov

all i've tried to hide - andrei svechnikov

baby svech - andrei svechnikov (part of the when it gets crisp in the fall universe but every svech girlie has probably already read that)

love countdown series - andrei svechnikov (my allllll time favorite characterization of drei like he is written perfectly it makes me feel so smiley and insane i cannot @behoright bitch come back pleaseeee 💔)

eye on you - andrei svechnikov

love me tender love me sweet - andrei svechnikov (and all of her svech fics basically she has a lot)

(and because i'm a whore a good threesome will pick me up)

919 temptations - dylan coghlan/andrei svechnikov

how the gold glisten - pyotr kochetkov/andrei svechnikov

open invitation - anthony beauvillier/mat barzal

the after party - brady skjei/andrei svechnikov

i also have a fic rec tag with a lot of amazing content that you should also check out :)

[zuucc]

Vet jeg er noen år for sein lol men jeg har lest boken din sånn tre ganger nå, den er sååå bra omg

(Også alltid morsomt å finne fellow nordmenn in the wild;))

Jeg er nesten aldri på Tumblr lenger, bare innom av og til, men herregud så hyggelig dette var å se i innboksen❤️❤️ Tusen takk

[piousperjuror]

I still think I should have asked her.

Would it have been rude? Could I have taken her aside?

I ask these questions when I recall the nights before she gave birth. She had an uneasy smile about her. It was winter, and night fell quickly. She was sitting on the couch, centred against the backdrop of the upstairs front windows. She glowed without daylight, as she always does… did. She did.

She mocked herself for her swollen, golem feet. I remember the hens gathered around her on the floor, trying to keep everything light and airy. We were suspended in that moment above a terrifying reality that had not been actualised, but one which was inevitable.

My cousin N was murdered last summer. It is genuinely difficult to say that. I have said things are difficult to say before without knowing what that saying meant. The words do not form easily. I cannot dwell for long periods of time on the subject. It hurts me to try and feel what that means.

The last time I saw her was in my parent’s backyard, two summers prior. She had a knack for making everyone feel blanketed by the warmth of her compliments. She seemed better. We knew she had stayed in Vancouver for a while. We spoke about men: our shitty exes, stalkers, and horrifying experiences as women. We sat on the wooden bench next to the out-dated glass table. We rested our feet on cool concrete, surrounded by the afterglow of a sunset and the sound of intermittent traffic.

Admittedly, the attention was focused on my first cousin, M. She was stunning, but her ostensibly cold exterior hides the anxious heart of someone who has known how to be one of the ugliest versions of herself. M was now someone who knew they could not go back.

I knew during my year abroad she had been in a terrifyingly abusive relationship with that guy. That guy who thinks of nothing but his next high and his own feelings - because his family taught him nothing else is important. His mother, betrayer of her own sex, belittled M’s claims. Her neighbours, strangers to her pleas and witness to the precursor of a potential fate, did not. I am grateful to these strangers, and it made me feel guilty I did not do more. How I despised those Italian-Canadian wives who spoilt their sons and ignored their daughters.

Growing up in a traditional Italian diaspora of Toronto has challenges. Family image is paramount. We are all told without telling how we must be at home, contrary to what is taught by our Anglo, mangiacake schools.

I was lucky to be born into a family without that ‘sacred’ family structure. I was raised in the more diverse areas of the city. I was exposed to many cultures and freedoms: some of which my suburban high school colleagues were not afforded.

However, instilled in me was a virus that was planted in my early adolescence: the belief that silence is of better measure than truth.

And silent I was, thinking about the phone call I received early morning in Manchester from Costa Rica while M took her first trip with that scumbag, low life, slug. My texts were frantic, and I panicked thinking my cousin was stuck in a foreign country. She never mentioned him. I had no knowledge of this relationship starting. You can imagine the surprise when he texted me from her phone to admit defeat. Foreign numbers, unsaved, sending her “I love you” apparently warrants a test call from a paranoid abuser. One who is currently not where he should be: behind bars and removed from any society or greater opportunity.

My rage. How could she let this happen? Didn’t I tell her? Did I tell her… ?

I texted her. I gave her my cursory opinion. Never direct. We must never be direct - lest it is your fault. They have to realise it on their own, K.

Silly me. Remember what others do.

Sitting in the dark and being ‘eaten alive’ by pests, we continued hearing her stories. I couldn’t help but feel if I had called her incessantly she might have saved herself.

N was usually quiet when she was high. Always giggling. She felt, off? After M was finished her story, holding her leg close to her chest, we all froze. It was as if our shared experiences closed around us, and we collectively understood. It was eerie - as if a cloud of heavy armour had been shed. That is when N started to speak.

It was surface level speak. The speak women speak like to other women in our culture when they cannot or will not divulge too much directly. Who else runs away to the other side of one of the largest countries in the world to get away from their son’s father? And why else?

I told her how she should find herself someone like my husband out there. Was this to break the tension? Did I feel awkward and not want to press her? I remember feeling I wanted to know more. I can see myself now screaming at the shadowy memory of who I was before for not asking.

Would she have told me? I don’t think she would. She told the cops, or so she said. She had “no faith in them. They’re useless.”

And they were. The courts were less than useless.

Looking back, we should have seen the signs. I struggle with that guilt. I am asked, “did she not tell you because she didn’t know if anyone would want to listen?”

The day it happened, I found the news articles from that year prior to the pandemic. He had been charged with uttering death threats, and breaking into her home where she had continued to rent. He had been charged with possessing a weapon, and potentially assault.

Why weren’t we told, Mom?

Everything has a habit of coming out after it is too late. When the time for proper actions has passed.

Global News took hours and several reposts to get the story right, but they were the only ones that cared. She shared a headline with another woman who was killed by her ex-partner. I manically flicked through all the coverage I could find.

It is hard to accept that I will not see her again.

I found a video of N recently from D’s baby shower where she won a prize. The last shower she had been to involved her hiding a pregnancy.

She nearly chokes on all the water during the game. She walks back to our table, struggling through laughter and correcting her breathing. You can hear my trademark, inherited laugh:

“Don’t die.”

[rockislandadultreads]

New Title Tuesday: Mysteries

A Disappearance in Fiji by Nilima Rao

1914, Fiji: Akal Singh would rather be anywhere but this tropical paradise—or, as he calls it, “this godforsaken island.” After a promising start to his police career in his native India and Hong Kong, Akal has been sent to Fiji as punishment for a humiliating professional mistake. Lonely and grumpy, Akal plods through his work and dreams of getting back to Hong Kong.

When an indentured Indian woman goes missing from a sugarcane plantation and Fiji’s newspapers scream “kidnapping,” the inspector-general reluctantly assigns Akal the case, giving him strict instructions to view this investigation as nothing more than cursory. Akal, eager to achieve redemption, agrees—but soon finds himself far more invested than he could have expected.

Now not only is he investigating a disappearance, but also confronting the brutal realities of the indentured workers’ existence and the racism of the British colonizers in Fiji—along with his own thorny notions of personhood and caste. Early interrogations of the white plantation owners, Indian indentured laborers, and native Fijians yield only one conclusion: there is far more to this case than meets the eye.

Murder at Midnight by Katharine Schellman

Regency widow Lily Adler is looking forward to returning to Hertfordshire to spend time with the family of her late husband. She is also excited that Captain Jack Hartley, her friend and confidante, will be visiting his own family after a long voyage at sea. With winter quickly approaching, Lily is most excited at the prospect of a relaxing and enjoyable Christmastide season away from the schemes and secrets she witnessed daily in London.

At a neighborhood ball, she soon becomes reacquainted with a friend of her late husband, Peter Coleridge, a wealthy man who not only manages Irish investments, but also a fund that most of the locals of Hertfordshire take part in. There, she also learns Jack’s sister, Amelia, is the subject of much of the neighborhood gossip—although Amelia refuses to explain if there is any truth to it. For a brief moment, Lily wonders if she ever really left London.

When a snowstorm forces several guests, including both the Adlers and the Hartleys, to stay the night, Lily quickly deduces that all is not well this holiday season. In the morning, a maid discovers the body of a guest in the poultry yard, shot to death—and he is the same man that is scandalously linked to Amelia.

Lily accepts the offer to assist in the investigation, but will she find more than what she bargained for the more she digs? Or will she herself be buried deep within the snow?

This is the fourth volume of the "Lily Adler Mystery" series.

The Body in the Back Garden by Mark Waddell

Crescent Cove, a small hamlet on Vancouver Island, is the last place out-of-work investigative journalist Luke Tremblay ever wanted to see again. He used to spend summers here, until his family learned that he was gay and rejected him. Now, following his aunt’s sudden death, he’s inherited her entire estate, including her seaside cottage and the antiques shop she ran for forty years in Crescent Cove. Luke plans to sell everything and head back to Toronto as soon as he can…but Crescent Cove isn’t done with him just yet.

When a stranger starts making wild claims about Luke’s aunt, Luke sends him packing. The next morning, though, Luke discovers that the stranger has returned, and now he’s lying dead in the back garden. To make matters worse, the officer leading the investigation is a handsome Mountie with a chip on his shoulder who seems convinced that Luke is the culprit. If he wants to prove his innocence and leave this town once and for all, Luke will have to use all his skills as a journalist to investigate the colorful locals while coming to terms with his own painful past.

There are secrets buried in Crescent Cove, and the more Luke digs, the more he fears they might change the town forever.

The Sunset Years of Agnes Sharp by Leonie Swann

It has been an eventful morning for Agnes Sharp and the other inhabitants of Sunset Hall, a house share for the old and unruly in the sleepy English countryside. Although they have had some issues (misplaced reading glasses, conflicting culinary tastes, decreasing mobility, and unruly grandsons), nothing prepares them for an unexpected visit from a police officer with some shocking news. A body has been discovered next door. Everyone puts on a long face for show, but they are secretly relieved the body in question is not the one they’re currently hiding in the shed (sorry, Lillith).

It seems the answer to their little problem with Lillith may have fallen right into their lap. All they have to do is find out who murdered their neighbor, so they can pin Lillith’s death on them, thus killing two (old) birds with one stone (cold killer).

With their plan sorted, Agnes and her geriatric gang spring into action. After all, everybody likes a good mystery. Besides, the more suspicion they can cast about, surely the less will land on them. To investigate, they will step out of their comfort zone, into the not-so-idyllic village of Duck End and tangle with sinister bakers, broken stairlifts, inept criminals, the local authorities, and their own dark secrets.

This is the first volume of the "Agnes Sharp Mysteries" series.

[adamsea-boat]

Boats Beyond The Dock: Types Of Boats That Redefine Freedom And Income

Owning a boat is more than just having a vessel tied up at a dock — it’s an open door to adventure, lifestyle upgrades, and even business opportunities. Understanding the different types of boats can help you find the right fit, whether you’re dreaming of leisurely weekend cruises, planning water-based getaways, or considering a side hustle on the water.

Let’s explore the possibilities boat ownership offers — from thrilling recreation to turning your boat into a smart income stream.

The Many Faces of Freedom: Types of Boats for Every Lifestyle

Each boat type offers a unique experience. Whether you’re exploring calm rivers, chasing offshore excitement, or hosting a party on the water, there’s a perfect boat for the job.

Here are some popular types of boats to consider:

Pontoon Boats — Pontoon boats are known for their stability and spacious design, making them perfect for families, social gatherings, and relaxed cruising. They are easy to maintain and customize, and their flat decks provide ample space for activities. These boats are particularly well-suited for lakes and calm rivers, where they offer a smooth, enjoyable ride. They are also an affordable option compared to other boat types.

Fishing Boats- Fishing boats come in all shapes and sizes, from bass boats to larger fishing cruisers designed for both freshwater and saltwater adventures. With specialized storage for gear and a layout that maximizes space for fishing, these boats are made to offer an efficient and comfortable experience on the water.

Sailboats — Sailboats offer a quieter and more eco-friendly experience on the water. For those who enjoy the challenge of sailing, a sailboat provides both a recreational outlet and the freedom of navigating by wind. Sailboats come in various designs, from small boats perfect for day trips to larger vessels suited for extended journeys.

Powerboats — If speed and adrenaline are what you’re after, powerboats are the way to go. These boats are designed for fast cruising, water sports like wakeboarding, and long-distance trips. Cigarette boats, which are built for speed, fall under this category and are popular among thrill-seekers.

Houseboats- For those looking for something more akin to a floating home, houseboats are an excellent choice. These boats are designed for longer stays on the water, offering the amenities of a traditional home, including kitchens, bedrooms, and even bathrooms. Houseboats are especially popular on lakes and slow-moving rivers.

Yachts -For those who want luxury and comfort on the water, yachts are the ultimate choice. Offering expansive interiors, top-notch amenities, and plenty of room for hosting, yachts provide a five-star experience while cruising. Though more costly and requiring more maintenance, yachts cater to those who want to enjoy an upscale boating lifestyle.

What is the most common boat type?

Key Features of Pontoon Boats:

Spacious flat deck, perfect for hosting gatherings

Stable and safe, making it ideal for families with children and pets

Great for socializing, fishing, and relaxed cruises

Affordable compared to other boat types

Low-maintenance, with cost-effective upkeep

Recreation Meets Revenue: How Boat Ownership Can Pay Off

Owning a boat doesn’t mean it sits idle when you’re not using it. Many owners are finding creative ways to earn from their vessels.

Rent Out Your Boat

Short-term rentals have become incredibly popular. Depending on your location, you can list your boat on local rental platforms and attract weekend users or tourists. A well-maintained pontoon or sailboat can be rented out for:

Private parties

Fishing excursions

Scenic lake or river tours

If you live in a boating hotspot, such as Florida or Vancouver, seasonal demand can keep your boat booked and earning.

Offer Guided Experiences

With the help of a licensed skipper, boat owners can offer guided charters. These can range from romantic sunset sails to full-day wildlife tours. Boats like river cruisers or catamarans are excellent for these experiences and offer the added benefit of higher pricing.

Resale Value

The market for boats for sale is active year-round. Keeping your boat in good shape and well-documented can help it sell faster when you’re ready to upgrade or cash out. Whether you’re posting listings online or through local dealers, there’s high demand for used boats in coastal regions or areas with popular boating destinations.

Boating as a Lifestyle Choice

Beyond financial gain, owning a boat brings priceless lifestyle benefits:

Adventure — Whether it’s wakeboarding, snorkelling, or island hopping, there’s no shortage of excitement.

Relaxation — For many, a sailboat or pontoon offers peace of mind far from the noise of land life.

Social Connection — Hosting friends on your boat creates unforgettable experiences.

Skill Building — Navigation, safety, and maintenance skills make boaters more confident and independent.

These personal rewards often outweigh the costs, making ownership a fulfilling pursuit.

Final Thoughts: Navigating Toward Your Perfect Boat

The journey of boat ownership begins with understanding the types of boats that fit your goals. Whether you’re planning casual weekends, epic voyages, or profitable ventures, there’s a boat built just for you.

When paired with the right mindset and a little planning, a boat can transform from a leisure toy into a powerful lifestyle asset — and potentially a smart investment.

If you’re considering taking the plunge, now might be the perfect time to explore your options and discover the freedom that floats.

[liosmithsworld]

Trending Now: The Top Travel Destinations for 2025

By 2025, people in the world are eager to travel around the globe to visit unusual attractions and to come back to the famous places. Thanks to recently emerging global tourism and many cheap flights being offered by airlines, there has never been a better time to travel. Here is a list of the ten best travel destinations for 2025 where tourists will get only the most exquisite experiences, while spending much less than expected.

1. Seoul, South Korea: A Modern Cultural Hub

Seoul is a progressive city with palaces that show traditional customs combined with the modern age newest technologies. According to others, on the bustle of the Myeongdong street and the silence of the Gyeongbokgung Palace, Seoul is the only city of the kind. There is now a plethora of cheap flight offers for tourists who would like to visit South Korea.

Top Places to Visit:

Gyeongbokgung Palace

N Seoul Tower

Myeongdong Shopping Street

2. Medellin, Colombia: The City of Eternal Spring

Well known now for its climatically temperate weather and dramatic geographical terrains, Medellin has evolved into a youthful and hospitable city. Take cable rides to get great city sceneries, visit Comuna 13, and learn to hang out at night. Colombia on this South American gem that can be visited in the year 2025 once you purchase the cheap airline tickets available.

Top Places to Visit:

Comuna 13

Plaza Botero

Arvin Park

3. Santorini, Greece: A Romantic Escape

Santorini is famous for its immaculate white houses, azure blue-domed chapels and spectacular sun sets; it is paradise for the individual traveler and honeymooners. With low cost flights to Greece this is the time to get to know this mesmerizing island. Akrotiri Archaeological Site. Tic Escape Santorini’s iconic white-washed buildings and stunning sunsets make it a dream destination for couples and solo travelers alike. Cheap flights deals to Greece make this enchanting island more accessible than ever.

Top Places to Visit:

Oia Village for sunsets

Akrotiri Archaeological Site

Red Beach

4. Sydney, Australia: The Harbor City

Today it steals the heart with its symbols that include the Sydney Opera house and the Harbour Bridge. Ride a ferry towards Manly Beach, walk through the Royal Botanic Garden, and taste the Sydney’s newest food offerings.

Top Places to Visit:

Sydney Opera House

Bondi Beach

Royal Botanic Garden

5. Prague, Czech Republic: The City of a Hundred Spires

Prague enchants visitors with its Gothic and Baroque façade which facilitates its position as a unique tourist destination in the New Europe. Visit the famous Charles Bridge and got to its legendary beer gardens, observe the Astronomical Clock work.

Top Places to Visit:

Charles Bridge

Prague Castle

Old Town Square

6. Kigali, Rwanda: A Gateway to Natural Wonders

Kigali is a clean and safe city through which is easier to access Rwanda’s amazing wildlife. Volcanoes National park is where you can go gorilla trekking or take a boat ride on Lake Kivu here the waters are calm.

Top Places to Visit:

Kigali Genocide Memorial

Volcanoes National Park

Kimironko Market

7. Vancouver, Canada: Urban Living Meets Wildlife

Vancouver is that dual city, where you can hike nearby mountains and swim in the sea, and together with it – be surrounded by big city’s character. See the sights of Stanley Park, dine all around the world, or go for a drive up to Whistler.

Top Places to Visit:

Stanley Park

Capilano Suspension Bridge

Granville Island

8. Buenos Aires, Argentina: The Paris of South America

Buenos Aires does particularly well to enchant tourists through the richness of its heritage, impressive architecture and sensual dances. Explore the Art Nouveau neighborhood of La Boca, walk pass the Colon Theater, and taste Argentine steak.

Top Places to Visit:

La Boca Neighborhood

Recoleta Cemetery

Teatro Colón

9. Auckland, New Zealand: Adventure Awaits

New Zealand has a unique feature that will attract tourists and that is; Auckland will be the best place to start discovering New Zealand natural beauty. The Auckland skyline is best viewed from Mount Eden, world–famous Waitomo Glowworm caves are relatively close by, and the city boasts a pleasant, maritime atmosphere.

Top Places to Visit:

Sky Tower

Waiheke Island

Mount Eden

10. Marrakech, Morocco: The Red City

Marrakech makes startling sensorial impressions, stretching from its souks, which are as animated as they are visually intense, the extramural gardens, and the palaces, many of which are mesmerizing. Walk through the markets of the Medina, go to the Majorelle Garden, and relax in a Moroccan hammam.

Top Places to Visit:

Jardin Majorelle

Bahia Palace

Medina Souks

Notes on How to Get a Cheap Flight

1. Book Early: Get the cheapest fares when you book your flights a few months in advance.

2. Be Flexible: It’s important to note that when traveling few travelers go during off peak seasons or mid-week and thus air fare will be cheaper.

3. Set Alerts: Consult flight comparison sites to constantly check for fares and to sign up to for notification of cheap flight deals.

4. Consider Budget Airlines: Most of the time you will find that the budget airlines provide these airline tickets at a cheap rate to various tourist attractions.

5. Bundle Deals: There are usually always listings of low cost flights and hotels that are affordably priced as part of the package.

Final Thoughts

The world is large enough to offer wonderful places to visit. With nowadays wide variety of cheap flights, there is no better year than 2025 to start planning your travel and go on an adventure. To and from cultural attractions, stunning landscapes, or tranquil retreats – all these great choices attract tourists of any type. Now is the time to start planning, and book your seats with cheap flights and bring your travel dreams into reality.

[eranjayne]

Andrea's Sunset Session | Tsawwassen Photographer

Perfect weather, perfect attitudes and perfect photos!

Man oh man, do I love the people that I get to see every year (and sometimes more than once a year)! Andrea’s extended family of 6 makes the trek from Vancouver every summer to come wander the fields and beaches of Centennial Beach with me. The two grandmothers are best buddies and usually they travel together in one of their sporty little Mazda Miatas, and it puts a smile on my face every time I…

[gautammander]

Best Places to Visit during a Winter Vacation in Canada

Canada is a winter wonderland that offers many experiences and stunning vistas. It is known for its wide and diverse terrain. This jewel of North America is the second largest country in the globe in terms of total area, spanning the Atlantic, Pacific and Arctic oceans. Canada is a magical place to visit in the winter with its vast plains, stunning coastline areas and impressive mountain ranges. There are countless experiences to be had, from vibrant cities to peaceful towns blanketed in snow.

Canada has something for any winter fan whether your dreams involve skiing in the Rockies, touring colourful cityscapes or relaxing in warm winter resorts. Major cities like Toronto, Montreal and Vancouver as well as the nation's capital, Ottawa, provide distinctive seasonal attractions that highlight the rich cultural and environmental legacy of the nation. Get your Canada visa now to avoid missing out on these amazing locations and start planning an amazing winter getaway!

Here are the Best Places to Visit during a Winter Vacation in Canada

1. Turkey’s Bolu:

Bolu a hidden gem in northern Turkey situated between Istanbul and Ankara, is well-known for its amazing winter sports and cold-weather activities. The region's varied terrain which consists of rough mountains and lush forests, makes for the ideal setting for outdoor activities. A great place to start your exploration of Kartalkaya a top ski resort known for its immaculate slopes and beautiful views is Kaya Palazzo Ski & Mountain Resort. Bolu provides a distinctive combination of winter sports and cultural experiences, whether you're hitting the slopes or touring neighbouring historic sites and national parks.

Bolu offers more than just skiing; in addition, travellers may explore its museums and old mosques to get a true sense of the local way of life. The town's colourful past and historic architecture create a rich cultural tapestry that goes well with its wintertime activities. Bolu offers a wonderful winter escape, complete with local cuisine to enjoy and a tranquil mountain setting. Bolu is a great option for people looking for adventure and culture in a breath taking winter environment.

2. The Rideau Canal:

Skating on Ottawa's famous Rideau Canal makes any winter visit to Canada incomplete. Almost eight kilometres long, this ancient skate way is the largest in the world, comparable to nine interconnected Olympic-sized rinks. More than a million people visit the canal in January to take in the essence of winter in Canada. Skating along the canal provides a distinctive viewpoint of Ottawa's wintertime appeal, complete with breath taking views of the city's monuments and a joyous ambiance.

3. The gentle Tofino sunsets: 

Tofino is a quaint hamlet on the west coast of Vancouver Island, known for its untamed natural beauty and breath taking sunsets. Tofino is known for its mild environment, but wintertime there provides a special chance to see the striking contrast between calm sunsets and wild waters. The town's historic woods and sandy beaches are especially more charming in the winter offering a peaceful diversion from the busier summer months.

4. The Arctic in Canada: 

Located in Canada's Arctic archipelago, Nunavut is a large and sparsely populated region that offers a genuinely unique winter experience. This isolated area, renowned for its bitter cold and bleak surroundings, provides travellers with an opportunity to see some of the world's most breath taking winter vistas. There is nowhere else on Earth like this strange, extraterrestrial setting with its bitter cold temps and vast, snowy landscapes.

In addition, wintertime in Nunavut offers a unique chance to witness the captivating aurora borealis which is frequently visible in all of its splendour under clear night sky. Those who face the bitter cold are rewarded with breath taking natural beauty and cultural insights into the indigenous Inuit way of life even though the extreme conditions are hard for the weak of heart. For those looking for a genuinely spectacular winter experience, the Arctic winter in Nunavut offers a remarkable encounter.

5. Concrete Block: 

The World Pond Hockey Championship is held in Plaster Rock, which is a prominent location in the center of Canadian ice hockey tradition. Encircled by wintry woodlands this sleepy village becomes the focal point of an exciting ice hockey competition that draws teams from the US, Canada and Great Britain. The tournament is a unique winter event that highlights the community's intense love for the sport because of its beautiful environment and competitive attitude.

6. Vancouver: 

Renowned for its breath taking scenery Vancouver is a top winter destination with a wide variety of activities. The city's moderate winter temperatures let visitors enjoy outdoor activities without the bitter cold, making it a nice change from snowier locations. World-class restaurants, shopping, and museums are just a few of Vancouver's many cultural attractions, which make it a desirable winter retreat for anybody looking for a mix of sophisticated urban living and rustic charm.

Conclusion:

Travellers of all stripes can find a wide range of destinations in Canada's winter paradise. Every place offers a different way to experience the season, from the arctic adventures in Nunavut and the serene sunsets in Tofino to the snow-capped peaks of Bolu and the ice charm of the Rideau Canal. Whatever your winter holiday needs exciting winter sports, cultural excursions, or tranquil natural beauty Canada has it all. The first step in realizing your wintertime ambitions for individuals who intend to visit these amazing locations is to apply for a Canada visa.

Anywhere in Canada you decide to travel, you will have an amazing trip thanks to the wide variety of winter activities available there. The vibrant urban life of Vancouver and the thrilling ice hockey action in Plaster Rock are just two of Canada's winter travel spots that offer lifelong experiences. Get a Canada visa, embrace the season, and experience the wonders of a Canadian winter by setting off on a journey that highlights everything this breath taking nation has to offer.