#lugke hughes imagine

[missmaymay13]

dear god - q.hughes

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

q.hughes x fem! oc | 9k

summary: No matter how hard Quinn tried to push Vanessa away—out of fear, guilt, or the belief that he didn’t deserve her—she kept finding her way back to him. Even when he shattered her heart, even when he left her in the dark, she still showed up. And in the depths of his pain, when he was broken and terrified and finally honest about how much he loved her, it became painfully clear: she was the one constant he couldn’t live without, and no amount of distance or silence could ever truly keep her away. based off of the song 'dear god' by tate mcrae

a/n: alright guys i wont lie i had such a hard time finishing this story. i couldnt get the story to flow properly, i struggled filling the gaps between parts and i will probably rewrite this in the future. i think it honestly needed to be longer but i just didnt have the mental capacity for that rn lol. so sorry in advance if it seems like a rushed/ jumbled mess but also pls enjoy lol!

masterlist

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The Hughes cabin was humming with life, the late June air thick with the warmth of summer and the buzz of celebration. The sharp scent of lakewater mingled with firewood and the stale tang of cheap beer soaked into the creaky deck boards—remnants of years of memories clinging to every surface. The night vibrated with energy: music, laughter, the crackle of a dying bonfire—but all of that faded now, giving way to something softer. Quieter.

The music had long since died down, replaced by the occasional drunken laugh echoing from inside. Most of the lights were out, save for the dim porch bulb casting an amber halo across the dock—a lone beacon in the dark. Overhead, the stars stretched wide, scattered and bright, as if the universe itself had spilled over Michigan.

Vanessa Calder—Nessa to the Hughes family—tipped her nearly-empty beer bottle back, letting the last warm drops slide down her throat. She sat curled into the corner of a docked boat, knees hugged to her chest, a flannel wrapped around her like armor. It smelled faintly of lake air and sunscreen and teenage boy—probably Luke’s. She didn’t care. It was familiar.

She didn’t even know why she came out here. One minute she was in the crowd, laughing, dancing, swaying under string lights—and the next, she was seeking stillness. The cabin felt loud in more ways than just sound. It always did. And when things got too much, she slipped away.

She thought about senior year. College. The looming unknown. And the ache that came when she thought about not having Jack beside her through it all.

So she came out here. To the dock. To the lake. To the silence.

She didn’t hear the soft steps until the boat dipped slightly.

Her heart jumped—and then she saw him.

Quinn Hughes.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just eased himself down across from her, beer in hand, unopened. He moved like he always did—carefully, deliberately, like he was carrying something fragile inside him and couldn’t afford to let it spill out.

His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends like he’d just showered or taken a swim. He wore a hoodie, sleeves shoved to his forearms, and basketball shorts that hung loose on his frame. The moonlight caught on the sharp lines of his face—his cheekbones, his jaw, the shadows under his eyes. He looked like a secret. Something sacred.

Nessa swallowed hard.

“Didn’t think anyone else was awake,” she said, her voice soft, like she didn’t want to disturb the quiet.

Quinn glanced at her. “Couldn’t sleep.”

And that was it.

Silence again. But not uncomfortable. Just… new.

She had known Quinn for years, but always from a distance. Jack’s older brother. The one who’d already made it. The one who slipped in and out of their lives like a breeze through an open window. He was kind, always, but there was a distance to him. Like he lived just slightly out of reach.

And maybe that’s why she never tried to close the gap.

But Quinn? Quinn had noticed her. Always had.

She didn’t know that, of course. That when she first came over to the cabin at thirteen—cast on her wrist, big pink backpack slung over one shoulder—he’d noticed how easily she made Jack laugh. That she never tried to impress anyone, never tried to belong. She just... was. Loud and opinionated and loyal as hell. She told Jack he was a baby for being scared of bugs and then squashed one with her cast like it was nothing. He’d never forgotten it.

He’d told himself, back then, she was just Jack’s friend. That was the rule. But rules got harder to follow as she got older. As he did.

Now, sitting here across from her in the boat, her hair tangled in soft waves, her arms curled around her knees, her eyes lit only by moonlight—it felt dangerous. How easy it was to notice her. To see her. Not as Jack’s best friend. But as her.

She broke the silence again.

“I’m scared.”

Quinn’s head tilted slightly. “Of what?”

“Everything,” she said with a soft laugh. “Senior year. Leaving. I know what I want to study but it doesn’t make it easier. Everything I know is slipping away, and I’m pretending I’m fine with it.”

He nodded slowly. Thoughtfully. “It’ll shift. It always does. But you’ll adjust. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for.”

She turned to him, brow raised. “You don’t even really know me.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “I know you more than you think.”

Something flickered across her face.

“Jack talks about you. All the time,” he said, voice low. “You’re part of this family. I remember the first time you came here. You had that cast. That backpack. You told Jack to stop whining and dared him to jump in the lake. You’ve always been... unshakable.”

Nessa laughed, surprised. “I forgot about that.”

“I didn’t,” he said simply.

And he hadn’t. Not a single second.

She leaned back, her fingers absently playing with the edge of the flannel. “I think I’m just afraid of losing everything I know. Jack’s been my constant. My reset button. We’ve never crossed that line—we’re just... us.”

Quinn’s voice was quiet. “That kind of bond’s rare.”

She nodded. “Yeah. But even rare things change.”

He looked down at his beer, turning it in his hand like he was weighing something unspoken.

“I miss them all the time,” he said suddenly. “My family. Vancouver’s... a lot. People think once you hit the NHL, you’re set. But it’s isolating. I miss birthdays. Holidays. Luke’s entire high school career. I try to stay grounded, but sometimes it feels like I’m just... drifting.”

Nessa looked at him—really looked. The weight of his words made him seem less like the polished pro everyone else saw, and more like a person. A boy far from home, doing his best to keep from unraveling.

“I always thought you had everything figured out,” she whispered.

He let out a breath. “I don’t think anyone really does.”

Their eyes met again—and something shifted.

The air between them crackled. Like a string pulled tight, waiting to snap.

He leaned in first. Slowly. Giving her time to pull away.

But she didn’t.

Her breath caught as she closed the distance, their lips brushing—tentative, testing. Then deepening. Natural. Hungry in the softest way.

His hand found her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek. Her fingers curled into the hem of his hoodie, grounding herself in the heat of him.

And then it all unraveled—quietly, beautifully. Clothes slipped away. Fingers trembled. The boat rocked beneath the weight of bodies learning each other with reverence.

They didn’t speak. Words would’ve shattered the moment.

After, they lay tangled together, skin damp with sweat and lake air. Her head against his chest, his fingers tracing circles on her back. Hearts racing.

Then, laughter. Uncontrollable. Breathless.

Nessa rolled away, grinning. Dropped the blanket.

And jumped.

The splash echoed across the lake.

Quinn blinked, stunned. Then—without thinking—he followed.

She was waiting, slick hair clinging to her neck, eyes wild with moonlight. She looked like a painting. Untouchable.

He found her easily, pulled her close. Kissed her again. And again. Water between them. Limbs tangled. Everything suspended in that moment of stolen bliss.

It felt like freedom. Like everything he’d been running from had finally caught up.

If the world had frozen then, maybe it would’ve stayed simple.

But nothing ever stayed simple.

Not when desire ran this deep. Not when fear clawed just as hard.

Because Quinn Hughes—who spent years keeping his walls up, who spent years pretending he didn’t see her—couldn’t stop now.

He couldn’t get enough of her.

And he knew, deep down—

She was going to be the one thing he couldn’t hold onto.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Vanessa Calder graduated from the University of Michigan with a degree in broadcasting and a résumé that screamed work ethic—internships, sideline reporting, hours behind and in front of a camera. It hadn’t been easy—nothing ever was—but she made it. She crossed the stage in heels, shook hands, hugged Jack Hughes afterward while he cried harder than her parents, and looked toward the future with a cautiously optimistic heart.

Her friendship with Jack never wavered. If anything, it grew stronger. He flew her out to games when he could, always with a plus-one ticket and a “just say yes.” And when Luke was still at UMich, she was basically his emergency contact. Luke called her more than his RA. Whether it was late-night study cramming, dragging him to his first flu shot, or teaching him how to do laundry without shrinking his socks, Nessa had become part of the Hughes family.

They were her family.

And then—she landed the job.

Her first real offer. The kind you dream about when you’re up at 3 a.m. with caffeine jitters and too many browser tabs open. A rinkside reporting position with an NHL team, straight out of college.

The Canucks.

Vancouver.

The adrenaline had barely settled when the email arrived. She accepted within minutes. No hesitation.

But when the rush wore off, her hands were shaking.

Because she knew what that meant.

Quinn.

The last time they’d really spoken, it was that summer. The party. The dock. The kiss. The lake. Her legs tangled in his. His hands tracing her spine.

And then?

Nothing.

No texts. No calls. Just distance.

And not the obvious kind.

Quinn hadn’t ghosted her like a normal guy. He did it with surgical precision. A subtle, practiced avoidance that hurt more than silence ever could. When she was around, he wasn’t. When she texted, he replied with one word. When she laughed at a joke, he looked away.

She could still feel the ache of it. The humiliation. The confusion. The sharp sting of not knowing why.

And Jack? Jack never suspected a thing. Because why would he?

As far as he knew, nothing ever happened.

She could never tell him.

“Hey, Jack, by the way—your brother and I had sex on your family boat and then he ghosted me. Hope that’s cool.”

Yeah. No.

And the kicker?

When Jack found out she’d accepted the job in Vancouver, he FaceTimed Quinn right in front of her. Put him on speaker.

“Yo, Q—you gotta keep an eye on Nessa now that she’s out there. She’s gonna kill it. But still—watch her back, alright?”

Her entire body went still. She wanted to crawl into the couch cushions.

A) She didn’t need watching.

B) Quinn Hughes was the last person she wanted watching over her.

But the Hughes family? Overjoyed. Jim called her their “West Coast daughter.” Ellen cried happy tears. The idea of their sons having family in every NHL city made them beam.

So she packed up. Signed a lease on a too-small apartment near the arena. Hung up her Michigan memories on the walls. She told herself she’d be fine. She always was.

But that ache?

It hadn’t gone anywhere.

Not when she still didn’t understand why Quinn had left her behind like she never mattered.

The first day was a blur. Nervous excitement. Curled hair. Light makeup. Blazer pressed. She wore the gold ‘H’ necklace Jack gave her before he left for Jersey. A good luck charm.

Her smile was practiced. Her handshake steady. But by hour two, her confidence began to slip. Names blurred. Faces blended. The weight of the newness settled on her shoulders like a storm cloud.

And then—just as the tour was ending—

“Let’s swing by the players’ side,” her guide said cheerfully. “Oh—and here comes our captain now. Huggy! Come say hi!”

She turned.

Quinn Hughes stepped out of the locker room like some kind of sick cosmic joke.

Hair damp. Stubble along his jaw. Canucks shirt clinging to his frame in a way that should be illegal.

Her stomach dropped.

His eyes locked with hers.

He froze for a fraction of a second.

But only a fraction.

Then the mask slipped into place. Calm. Professional.

Their tour guide smiled. “I’m told you two know each other well!”

Her heart lurched.

Quinn’s face didn’t flinch. “Welcome to the team.”

His voice was polite. Empty.

Like she hadn’t once slept wrapped in his hoodie, skin against skin, lips tangled in his name.

She smiled, tight and polite. “Good to see you again.”

Liar.

Because it wasn’t good. It was a punch to the gut. It was confusion and pain and unresolved anger all wrapped in a perfectly-tailored Canucks shirt.

Then came the second blow.

The guide grinned. “He’s been talking you up, by the way. Said you were the perfect fit when we were discussing new hires.”

Her mind blanked.

She blinked.

What?

He recommended her? After avoiding her for years?

After acting like she was invisible?

Quinn’s expression remained unreadable. A flicker, maybe, behind his eyes—but it vanished.

The rest of the day was a blur.

Nessa went through the motions. But her thoughts were chaos.

Why would he do that? Why pretend she didn’t exist for years and then tell his team she was the “perfect fit”? Was it guilt? Was it... something else?

She didn’t sleep that night. Just stared at the ceiling of her new apartment, listening to the hum of the fridge and the quiet tick of betrayal that had never fully gone silent.

And Quinn?

Quinn had been holding his breath since the second he saw her name on that hire list.

When the media team asked for input, he should’ve said nothing. Should’ve kept his distance like he always did.

But he didn’t.

Because she was brilliant. She was the perfect fit. And because some pathetic, aching part of him wanted her near. Even if she hated him. Even if she never looked at him again.

It was selfish.

He knew that.

But Quinn Hughes had spent years trying to forget the feel of her skin under his palms, her breath in his ear, the sound of her laughter echoing off Michigan lake water.

He couldn’t.

He told himself the distance was for her. That he was protecting Jack. Protecting her. That if he stepped back, she’d be spared the chaos of his life.

But that was a lie.

He’d been protecting himself.

Because when she looked at him like she saw him—really saw him—it scared the shit out of him.

So he buried it.

Built a wall.

Pretended the summer night that changed everything was just a memory, not a turning point.

But now, with her walking the halls of his arena, wearing that little gold ‘H’ on her neck—

He felt it all again.

And worse?

He knew he didn’t deserve to feel anything at all.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The Canucks had a home game, and something felt off from the first shift.

Quinn was tense. Off-balance. His passes weren’t sharp, his zone entries sloppy. He second-guessed himself in ways he never did. It showed in every shift, every rotation. By the third period, the frustration was radiating off him like heat. A cheap hit along the boards triggered him—he shoved back, exchanged words, nearly dropped gloves. The refs stepped in before it escalated further, but the damage was done.

He was ejected. Just like that.

The crowd buzzed with confusion. It wasn’t like him. He didn’t snap. He didn’t get emotional.

Until now.

Vanessa watched it all unfold from her position rinkside, heart in her throat. She barely registered the commentators murmuring beside her or the producer in her earpiece asking for updates. Her eyes tracked Quinn’s retreating back as he disappeared down the tunnel, jaw clenched, helmet under his arm. He didn’t look back.

She didn’t expect to see him again that night.

But when she returned to her office after postgame interviews—shoulders tight, heels aching—he was there.

Leaning against the wall across from her door.

His hair was still damp from the shower, curling at the ends. He’d thrown on a suit jacket but hadn’t bothered to button it. His tie was gone. His expression was unreadable—but his eyes were dark. Stormy. Like something was building beneath the surface and he didn’t know where to put it.

Her breath caught.

He didn’t say anything.

“Let’s go,” he said.

It wasn’t a request. It was quiet, but certain.

She stared at him, frozen in the doorway, her hand still on the knob.

He didn’t explain.

She didn’t ask.

She just grabbed her coat, slipped her bag over her shoulder, and followed.

They didn’t speak as they walked through the quiet back halls of the arena. No words. No explanation. His hand came to rest lightly at the small of her back—not possessive, but grounding. Familiar. Her skin buzzed under the touch.

Outside, he opened the passenger door of his car for her.

She slid in.

The drive was silent.

No music. No talking. Just the soft hum of the engine, the glow of city lights, the occasional flicker of his knuckles tightening on the steering wheel.

She didn’t ask where they were going.

She didn’t need to.

When he pulled into the underground garage of his apartment building, her stomach twisted. The last time she’d been here... she didn’t let herself think about it.

They took the elevator up in silence. He unlocked the door. She stepped inside.

It was quiet. Lived-in. A little messy. Blankets askew on the couch. A half-empty water bottle on the counter. His duffel bag in the corner, unzipped and spilling gear.

She stood in the entryway, unsure, while he paced a few feet away—silent, tense, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“Why am I here?” she asked, her voice low.

He turned to her slowly.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly.

He looked wrecked. Not in the way athletes did after games—but in the way people did when they were unraveling and had nowhere left to hide.

And still—he was beautiful. Soft stubble, eyes heavy with something he wasn’t saying, shoulders bowed under the weight of too much held in for too long.

Her heart hurt.

He stepped closer.

She didn’t move.

He stopped only when she was within reach—close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. He planted his hands on the doorframe behind her, not touching her, but caging her in. Not threatening. Just... overwhelmed.

He was breathing like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

She looked up at him. “Quinn…”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t kiss her.

Just stared at her like she was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

So she leaned in first.

And when their lips met, it was nothing like last time.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative.

It was messy. Desperate. Loaded with every word they hadn’t said.

He kissed her like he’d lost control of something he’d been keeping locked away. Like if he didn’t kiss her, he’d fall apart.

She matched him—fingers tugging at his shirt, pulling him closer, like this was the only way to understand each other.

They found the couch without trying. Her bag hit the floor. His jacket slipped off his shoulders. Their hands were everywhere—rushed, frantic, but still careful in the way only people who had once been everything to each other could be.

It wasn’t about sex.

Not really.

It was about needing.

It was about not knowing how else to say, I’m still here.

When they collapsed together, tangled in blankets, sweat cooling on their skin, he buried his face in her neck. Said nothing. Just breathed.

And for the first time in a long time—

She let him stay.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It happened again the next week.

Another loss. Another late night. Another knock on her door just past midnight.

He didn’t say much. Just stood there, hoodie pulled over his head, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes shadowed and tired. And she let him in.

No questions. No rules. No promises.

It became a rhythm. A quiet agreement that neither of them ever spoke aloud. After a bad game, he’d show up. And she’d let him.

Some nights they barely spoke. Others, he’d collapse onto her couch, bury his face in her lap, and let her run her fingers through his hair while the silence pressed in heavy around them. He never cried. Not once. But there were nights when the weight of him—his body, his breathing, the way he held on—felt like he was barely holding it together.

They slept tangled up in each other, skin against skin, limbs draped like safety nets. Some mornings he was gone before the sun came up. Other times he made coffee, handed her a mug like they were just any other couple starting their day. And for a few fleeting moments, it felt normal. It felt real.

But then the door would click shut behind him, and she’d be alone again.

And the ache would return.

Because she was falling back into him.

Willingly. Stupidly. Softly.

She knew it wasn’t sustainable. She knew she couldn’t keep letting him in without him ever really staying. But the quiet after he left felt worse than the hollow before he came.

So she took what she could get.

Until, one night, it wasn’t him who showed up.

It was her.

She knocked on his door after a particularly brutal game—one where he didn’t just play badly, but looked lost. Like he didn’t even recognize himself on the ice. The kind of game that would’ve eaten him alive. The kind of night she knew he’d be spiraling.

He opened the door, and for a second, he looked surprised. Then he stepped aside.

They didn’t make it to the bedroom. She kissed him hard, fast, pushed his jacket off his shoulders, and he let her. Let her take control. Let her pour every word she didn’t know how to say into the way she touched him.

Afterward, she lay in his bed, heart thudding, staring at the ceiling. He was beside her, silent. Awake. Breathing steady.

“This isn’t nothing,” she said, quietly.

He didn’t respond at first. Just turned his head, looked at her like she’d pulled the floor out from under him.

“I know,” he said eventually. “It never was.”

But that was all he gave her.

And she wasn’t sure it was enough.

But then he started showing up after wins.

Not just the hard nights—the ones where his frustration clung to him like a second skin—but the good ones too. The ones where he played well. Where the team pulled off a comeback. Where the locker room was loud and buzzing with adrenaline.

And still, he came to her.

She opened the door to find him smiling. Not broken. Not unraveling. Just Quinn.

At first, it caught her off guard. She didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t know what part of him was reaching for her when he wasn’t hurting. But he came inside like he belonged there. Like she was the only place he wanted to be, whether the night had gone to hell or not.

It drove her crazy.

Because it felt like something. Like progress. Like maybe this wasn’t just a pattern built on pain and need. Maybe he wanted her even when he wasn’t falling apart.

But he still didn’t talk about it. Didn’t give it a name.

He’d kiss her like she was his favorite secret. Slide his hands under her shirt and hold her like he couldn’t bear to let go—but when morning came, it was still the same routine. Coffee. A quiet goodbye. The soft click of the door.

No conversation. No clarity. Just the weight of everything left unsaid.

And it ate at her.

Because if he wanted her when he was hurting, and he wanted her when he was happy—

Then what the hell were they doing?

She couldn’t ask. Not yet.

But she was starting to wonder how much longer she could keep pretending it didn’t matter.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no explosion. No screaming match in the middle of the night. No door slamming, no shattered glass. Just a slow, quiet unraveling. A steady erosion of the pieces of herself that had been holding onto hope—hope that maybe, eventually, he would be ready. That maybe, if she just stayed soft and patient and open, he’d reach for her the same way she kept reaching for him.

She kept waiting for him to say something. To name it. To acknowledge the weight of what they were doing. To admit that the line between comfort and love had long since blurred. She waited for a look. A moment. A shift. Anything to tell her that he saw it, too—that he felt it the way she did.

But he never did.

And it hollowed her out.

The nights blurred together. Her apartment no longer felt like hers—it felt like theirs, in all the ways that hurt. The ghost of him was in every room. A hoodie slung over the kitchen chair. A pair of socks left under her bed. A coffee mug that always seemed to reappear in the sink. A toothbrush in the medicine cabinet he never acknowledged, but always used.

He was everywhere. But not really hers.

Not in the way that mattered.

She started noticing things she used to excuse. The way he’d kiss her so softly, but then retreat—pulling back like it scared him. The way his eyes would lower whenever she asked a question that came too close to the truth. How he’d murmur her name in the dark with reverence, but never once in the daylight. Never when anyone else could hear.

It made her feel like a secret. Like a refuge. Like a place he came to hide when the world became too much. And she loved being that safe space for him. But she was also tired of being temporary. Tired of being the in-between. Tired of being the thing he needed, but wouldn’t claim.

She tried to be okay with it.

She tried to tell herself that what they had—this quiet, aching almost—was enough. That even if he never called it love, even if he never gave it a name, she could still hold onto the pieces of it that felt real. His hands on her hips. His head on her chest. The way he’d whisper things into her skin like prayers.

But slowly, quietly, it began to chip away at her.

Until the night it finally cracked open.

It was a Thursday. The air was heavy with impending rain, the kind that hadn’t started yet but clung to everything. He came over late, like he always did. Smelled like clean laundry and the faint sting of post-game sweat. A fresh bruise bloomed beneath his cheekbone—he didn’t mention it, and she didn’t ask. That was their unspoken rule. Don’t ask. Don’t push. Just exist in the space between.

She let him in. Because she always did.

He kissed her like he missed her. Like she was the only thing tethering him to the ground. They didn’t talk. Just touched. Undressed in the dark. Fell into each other like a pattern they knew by heart.

After, he lay sprawled across her bed, scrolling idly through his phone like he wasn’t unraveling her with every second he didn’t speak. She sat at the edge, wrapped in one of his T-shirts, staring out the window. The city lights blinked back at her, soft and indifferent.

She didn’t speak for a long time.

When she did, her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Are you ever going to tell me what this is?”

Quinn froze. His thumb paused mid-scroll. Slowly, he turned to look at her. Something in his face shifted, tightened.

“Ness…”

“No,” she said, still quiet but firmer now. “I need you to tell me. Because I’m going insane. You come here. You sleep in my bed. You hold me like I matter. And then you leave like none of it means anything.”

He sat up, legs over the edge of the bed. Hands clasped together between his knees.

“You know it means something,” he said.

“Then say it,” she pushed. Her voice cracked around the words. “Say what it means.”

He was silent.

She let out a broken laugh—bitter, exhausted. “Exactly.”

“Nessa, this isn’t simple—”

“No,” she snapped, standing. “It’s not. But it could be. If you just let it. If you just chose me. If you stopped hiding behind excuses and fear and whatever this is.”

She was shaking now. Her chest tight with the weight of every unspoken word she’d carried.

He looked up at her like she was breaking his heart. But still—he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t fight.

Still.

Tears stung behind her eyes, hot and sharp. But she didn’t let them fall.

“I can’t keep doing this,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I can’t keep giving you all these pieces of me if you’re never going to take them.”

He stood then. Reached for her like it was instinct.

She stepped back. One foot. That was all.

“No,” she whispered. “You don’t get to touch me if you’re not going to stay.”

The room went still.

He looked at her, completely gutted.

And then he nodded. Just once. Small. Devastated.

She turned before he could see her cry.

This time, she was the one who left.

And for the first time since this all began—

He didn’t follow.

He didn’t move for a long time after she left.

He just sat there, still half-dressed, the sheet tangled around his waist, staring at the door like it might swing open again. Like maybe she’d come back. Like maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. Like if he stayed still long enough, the ache in his chest would dull, or maybe vanish entirely.

But the silence settled in heavy. And it stayed. It crept into the corners of the room, coiling around the spaces where her presence used to live. It seeped into the air, into his bones, until the entire apartment felt like a museum of what used to be.

The next few days passed in a haze. He didn’t sleep much. Didn’t eat. His routines dulled into muscle memory. Wake up. Practice. Skate. Shower. Pretend. He played like a shadow—still there, but not fully. He hit his marks but lacked his edge. His passes were sharp, his skates fast, but there was no fire in him.

The guys noticed. JT asked once if he was good. Hughes nodded, offered a quick "Yeah, all good," and slipped out before anyone could press. But everyone knew. Something was off. Everyone saw it.

He kept thinking about her standing by that window. Her voice when she said, "You don’t get to touch me if you’re not going to stay." It echoed louder than anything else in his life. Louder than the skates on ice, louder than the crowd after a win, louder than the silence that followed her leaving.

He remembered her face, the way her eyes looked tired but hopeful. The way her voice didn’t shake until the very end. She hadn’t been angry. That was the worst part. She’d been done.

The apartment felt hollow now. Too clean, too quiet. Her hoodie still hung behind the bathroom door. Her scent lingered on his pillow, faint but present, clinging like a ghost that refused to let go. The extra toothbrush sat untouched in the medicine cabinet. Her favorite blanket—the one she always pulled around her shoulders like armor—was still folded in the corner of the couch.

He kept replaying everything he hadn’t said.

He thought about her hands, always cold. How she’d tuck them under his hoodie. The way she would narrate random things out loud while brushing her teeth. The sound of her laugh when she was tired, how it cracked like she didn’t have the energy to fully hold it in.

He thought about texting her. Calling. Driving to her place and standing at her door the way she had so many times for him. But fear rooted him in place.

What if she didn’t want him back?

What if he said everything he should’ve said months ago, and she just looked at him the way she did that night—calm, tired, and done?

He told himself she needed space. That she deserved that. That he was giving her time to breathe.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

He was still scared. Scared to be enough. Scared to fail at something that meant more to him than any game ever had. Scared to admit that he loved her, and had for longer than he ever let himself believe.

And worst of all—he was scared that now it was too late.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Vanessa didn’t see him for two weeks.

Not at the rink. Not after games. Not in the tunnels, not in warmups, not even in passing. It was as if he’d rearranged his entire existence to avoid her, and she hated how much it hurt. How much it still felt like rejection.

She told herself it was a blessing. She needed space. Needed distance. But her chest still clenched every time she walked into the arena and didn’t see him. Every time she opened the team group text and saw his name without a reply. Every time she passed the visitors’ bench and caught herself scanning for his profile.

The silence gutted her at first.

It made everything feel louder—her thoughts, her doubts, her heartbeat echoing in the silence of her apartment. She’d grown used to his presence, to his steady breathing beside her, to the way he always pulled her in close even when he was half-asleep. Now, it was just her and the quiet.

But then the silence hardened her.

She buried herself in work. Took every available assignment. Said yes to back-to-backs, to feature shoots, to sideline interviews she used to avoid. Anything to fill the time, to keep her from sitting in the stillness long enough for the ache to take over. She got good at pretending.

She was professional. Polished. Composed.

But under it all, she was unraveling.

Nights were the worst. When the world slowed down. When the distractions stopped. When she lay in bed with her phone pressed to her chest, staring at the ceiling. Thumb hovering over his name, always wondering—if she messaged him, would he answer? Would it even matter?

She never sent it.

She couldn’t be the one to reach out.

Not again.

She saw glimpses of him through the lens of her job. In highlight reels. In locker room interviews she had to edit. He was composed, focused. A professional.

But she saw through it. She knew what his real smile looked like. And it wasn’t that.

And still—he said nothing. Reached for nothing.

She held her silence like a shield. A fragile kind of pride. But it didn’t protect her from the ache. From the way her body still curled toward the space he used to fill. From the echo of his voice in the back of her mind, whispering her name like it was something sacred.

She missed him.

God, she missed him.

But she couldn’t go back to what they were.

She couldn’t keep playing the safe space if he wasn’t ever going to make her his home.

So she waited.

Not with hope—hope had burned out weeks ago, flickering away with every unsaid word and closed door.

She waited with dignity. With clarity. With the kind of quiet strength that came from choosing herself for the first time in a long time.

If he came back, he’d have to do it on his own.

He’d have to mean it.

He’d have to fight.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It all came to a head near the end of her first season.

The pressure of making it to the playoffs was on everyone's mind—media, staff, fans—but for Quinn, it wasn't just about points and standings. He was injured. Had been for most of the season. A nagging, persistent issue he'd pushed aside for too long had finally caught up to him.

And when the scan came back, when the team doctor looked him in the eyes with that grim expression and said the words he already feared, it hit him like a freight train.

"You’re out for the rest of the season."

It felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs. His stomach dropped. His throat closed. For a moment, he couldn’t hear anything but the pounding in his ears.

He sat there, silent, numb. Hands clenched into fists so tight that his injured knuckles turned white. Every word that followed blurred. Something about rehab, recovery time, timelines. None of it mattered.

Because it was over.

He was supposed to be their leader. Their captain. The one who stood tall when the team needed him. And now, at the most critical time of the year, he was benched. Useless. Broken.

He thanked the staff with a quiet nod and left the facility without saying a word. He barely made it to his car before the first sob ripped out of his chest. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly he thought it might snap in half. And for the first time in years, Quinn Hughes cried like a kid.

Not the silent, stoic kind of tears he’d trained himself to shed in private. But the full-body, breathless kind. The kind that left his throat raw and his face flushed. The kind that emptied something deep inside.

He didn’t go home right away. He drove around for hours, circling the city with no destination. At one point, he parked in an empty lot overlooking the water and stared out, trying to breathe. But nothing felt real.

His body ached. His pride burned. And worst of all, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Vanessa.

She should’ve been the first person he called. The one he leaned on. The one who would sit next to him, not saying a word, just being there.

But he’d destroyed that. Torn it apart with his silence. With his fear.

He remembered the night they crossed that line. The boat. The stars. The way her laugh had echoed over the water. The way she looked at him like he was more than just a hockey player. Like he was Quinn.

And he remembered the morning after, the way the light hit her bare shoulder as she stirred in his bed. The quiet peace of it. The way he panicked.

Instead of telling her he loved her—because God, he did—he shut her out. Put up walls. Pretended it was nothing.

He hurt her. Repeatedly. And she pulled away.

So now, here he was. Alone. Broken in every way. And the only person who could truly reach him had every reason to walk away.

His family noticed. Ellen noticed.

And eventually, she called Vanessa.

Ellen, who had always been like a second mom. Who’d helped her through college stress and lonely holidays. Who made her tea and let her curl up on the Hughes' couch like she belonged there. Who’d always referred to her as “our girl” in group texts and had slipped her a bracelet for good luck before her first day with the Canucks.

Ellen sounded tired. Worried.

“Can you check on him, Nessa? He’s not letting us in. But maybe... maybe he’ll let you.”

How could she say no?

How could she explain to Ellen that her son had dangled her heart like a puck in a shootout—teasing, drawing her in, only to leave her flailing when he skated right past? That he made her feel like first-line material behind closed doors, and a healthy scratch in public?

So she didn’t. She sucked it up. Bit down the resentment. Swallowed the ache. And she found herself standing in front of a door she knew too well. The paint chipped near the bottom where his hockey bag always hit it. The doormat crooked like always.

She knocked softly, half-hoping he wouldn’t hear. Half-hoping she could turn around and leave and say she tried.

But he did.

And when the door opened, her breath caught.

Quinn looked... broken.

There were bags under his eyes, dark and heavy. His cheeks had thinned out. His hair stuck up in uneven waves, like he hadn’t brushed it in days. He wore an old hoodie—one she remembered from college—and sweatpants that sagged at the waist. And his eyes, those warm hazel eyes, were dull.

Her heart clenched.

Of course she knew he was injured. She worked for the team. She’d spent the last few weeks asking players about his absence in press conferences. But this? This wasn’t just about being off the ice. This was something deeper. Something heavier.

Suddenly, she felt a pang of guilt. For shutting him out. For assuming he was fine. But then she reminded herself—no. Her feelings were valid. He’d hurt her, too. He’d left her hanging in the worst kind of emotional limbo. That didn’t go away just because he looked like a ghost now.

When he opened the door that evening and saw Vanessa standing there, arms crossed, eyes guarded but filled with something he couldn’t name, it nearly undid him.

Her presence brought both relief and devastation. Relief because she was there. Devastation because he didn’t deserve it.

it was like walking into a stranger’s apartment.

Coffee rings stained the counter. Dishes sat crusted in the sink. A blanket was tossed haphazardly on the couch, and empty Gatorade bottles were stacked near the recycling bin but hadn’t made it in. Takeout bags crowded the trash. The TV remote was on the floor.

It looked like a college dorm. Like Luke’s old place in Michigan, not the home of a 25-year-old NHL captain.

She looked at him.

“Shower. Now.”

Her voice left no room for argument. It wasn’t a request—it was a command.

Quinn blinked, almost confused, but nodded slowly. His shoulders slumped like he was back in Michigan and Ellen had just scolded him for leaving wet towels on the floor. Without another word, he shuffled toward the bathroom.

The second the water started running, Vanessa got to work.

She moved through the kitchen first, tossing the trash, scraping old food into the bin, loading the dishwasher. She wiped down the counters with a damp cloth she found under the sink, fluffed the couch pillows, folded the blankets. She paused when she found his book on the floor—spine bent, pages warped. She placed it gently on the side table.

Then she opened the fridge.

And sighed.

It was practically empty. A few sauces. Half a bottle of orange juice. Old takeout containers that had long passed the acceptable window of consumption. She checked the expiration dates. Grimaced. Closed the fridge.

She pulled out her phone and opened a grocery delivery app.

She ordered the basics. Eggs. Bread. Chicken breasts. Pasta. Fruit. Soup. Snacks. A case of water. Some of his favorites—salt and vinegar chips, the protein yogurt she used to catch him eating in the middle of the night when they shared hotel rooms.

And when the order was placed, she moved back to the living room.

The sound of the shower was still running, but something about the apartment already felt... less heavy.

It was the first time in weeks that she’d felt like herself around him again. Like she could do something. Like she wasn’t powerless.

Like maybe—just maybe—he was finally ready to let her in.

But that didn’t mean she’d make it easy for him.

Still, when the shower kept running and the minutes ticked on, something inside her shifted. It was just a little too long for someone to be in there, even someone as emotionally clogged as Quinn Hughes. Vanessa stood by the kitchen island, arms crossed, fingers tapping against her bicep. The buzz from the refrigerator was the only sound in the apartment besides the steady stream of water behind the bathroom door.

She told herself it was fine. He probably just needed a few extra minutes. Maybe the water was helping his sore muscles. Maybe he was just letting the steam do its thing. But a sliver of worry pushed its way under her skin. She knew Quinn. And something about the silence behind that door felt wrong.

Curiosity, concern, and a little guilt warred in her chest. Finally, she padded toward the bathroom, feet quiet against the hardwood. She paused in front of the door, knocking gently.

"Quinn?"

No answer.

The doorknob was warm in her hand. She hesitated—counted to five—then turned it.

Steam spilled out in thick waves, fogging her glasses and curling around her legs. The bathroom smelled like eucalyptus and soap and something faintly metallic. Her eyes scanned through the haze, finally landing on him.

He stood under the water, unmoving. Shoulders slumped forward, head slightly bowed, eyes wide and startled like he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. It was a look she recognized, one she hadn’t seen since he was nineteen and she found him stress-baking banana bread at two in the morning during finals week.

Only this wasn’t funny. It wasn’t charming. It was heartbreaking.

"You okay?" she asked, voice quiet but cutting through the fog like a blade.

His face crumpled in frustration, embarrassment flashing across his features.

"No," he muttered. "I—I can’t open anything. Shampoo. Soap. My grip’s shit right now."

He lifted his hand like proof, fingers barely curling around the empty air.

Her stomach twisted.

There was a long pause where she didn’t say anything. Just watched him. Watched the water cascade over his tense shoulders, watched how small and worn down he looked. Her throat burned.

Then she sighed. A soft, tired sound.

She stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind her.

He turned, confused, blinking at her through the mist. "Nessa, what are you—"

But she was already moving. Unbuttoning her shirt, slipping it off with slow precision. Then her jeans. Her bra. Underwear. She folded each item carefully, placing them on the closed toilet lid like she’d done this a hundred times before. Because she had. 

Quinn’s eyes didn’t leave her, not for a second. He looked stunned—still as stone, mouth parted slightly.

"What are you doing?" he asked again, softer this time.

She stepped into the shower without hesitation, water hitting her skin with a familiar heat.

"Just be quiet and turn around," she said, voice calm, steady.

He obeyed without argument.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was reverent. Heavy with everything they hadn’t said, with everything they’d avoided. She reached for the shampoo, popped the lid, and poured a small amount into her hand.

Then her fingers were in his hair, massaging the soap into his scalp with slow, deliberate care.

It was the kind of touch that unraveled him.

His eyes fluttered shut, and for the first time in what felt like forever, his shoulders dropped. Really dropped. Not just a sigh or a stretch—but a full-bodied exhale, like the tension he’d been carrying for months was finally dissolving beneath her hands.

She worked the lather in gently, tracing the shape of his skull, letting the pads of her fingers press into him in a way that felt grounding. Healing.

When she rinsed the shampoo out, her hands slid down to his back, lathering soap, moving in circles over tight muscles, down his spine, across his shoulder blades. He twitched slightly under her touch.

"Don’t get any ideas," she warned, lips curving slightly.

A dark chuckle escaped him, low and tired. "Too late."

But he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her. Didn’t cross a line.

He just let her take care of him.

And when she was done, she reached for the towel on the hook outside the glass door.

"Rinse off," she said softly, stepping out, steam swirling around her. "I’ve got dinner for you out there."

She didn’t wait for a reply.

He turned, still silent, watching her disappear behind the closing door.

Alone again in the shower, Quinn leaned against the cool tile, water still rushing over his skin, and let his forehead rest against the wall.

It was weird.

Weird because it was nice.

Nice in a way that made Quinn’s chest ache.

Nice in a way that made him feel like shit.

As the water soaked into his hair again, he let the guilt rise. Let it sit heavy and choking in his throat.

Because he thought about all the ways he’d failed her.

About how long he’d been drawn to her—how Jack brought her around and she was sunshine wrapped in sarcasm, and he had to dig his nails into the inside of his palms to keep himself in check. She was off-limits. Always had been. And then she wasn’t. And then she was, but he’d already tasted what it felt like to have her.

That night on the boat changed everything.

It broke his rules. Broke him.

And instead of facing it, he shut down. Pretended it didn’t happen. Pulled away because it scared him.

He saw the pain in her eyes when he did. And he still kept going. Kept taking from her when it suited him. And when she finally gave him a taste of his own medicine—when she closed the door on him—he realized just how badly he’d fucked up.

Because the ache he felt in her absence wasn’t just about sex. It was about her. Her laugh. Her sarcasm. Her voice calling his name across the rink. Her presence.

He felt disposable. Rejected.

And that’s probably how she had felt every time he used her and left.

It wasn’t a good feeling.

Not even close.

And now? He was terrified he’d realized it too late.

When Quinn emerged from the bathroom, his skin still warm and flushed from the shower, he padded quietly into the living room wearing nothing but a pair of sweats and a fresh hoodie. Steam clung to his damp curls, and he rubbed the towel once more over the back of his neck before tossing it into the laundry hamper.

He froze.

There she was. Vanessa.

Standing in his kitchen, barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, scooping steaming soup into a ceramic bowl. She moved easily through the space, grabbing a spoon, setting it on a folded napkin, pouring water into a glass beside it. She looked like she belonged there—like she’d done it a hundred times before. The sight of her in his kitchen sent a ripple through his chest, something tight and unfamiliar. Something that felt suspiciously like longing.

He didn’t say anything. Just leaned against the doorway of his bedroom, watching her.

What if this was every night? he wondered.

What if he hadn’t messed it all up?

"It’s chicken noodle," she said, not looking up. "Figured it’d be easy on your stomach."

He took a shaky breath. "Why are you doing this?"

She paused. Then set the ladle down with a quiet clink. "Because Ellen asked me to."

His chest caved. Of course. "So this is pity."

Her eyes snapped to his, fire flickering behind them. "Don’t do that. Don’t twist this. You’re the one who pushed me away, remember? You’re the one who couldn’t even look at me in public after making me feel like I was the only person in the world behind closed doors."

His hands balled into fists. "I didn’t know how to handle it!"

"Then you shouldn't have touched me!" she shouted, the sound of her voice splitting the quiet. "You shouldn't have looked at me like I was yours and then acted like I was nothing."

His voice cracked. "I was scared."

"So was I!" Her eyes brimmed with tears. "But I stayed. I gave you everything. And you made me feel like I was begging for scraps. Like I wasn’t worth being seen."

He stepped forward, jaw clenched. "I never meant to hurt you."

"But you did! You broke me, Quinn. And now I’m here, cleaning your kitchen, feeding you, and I don’t even know why!"

He dropped into a chair, face in his hands, shaking. "Because I love you."

The words hung in the air, trembling and raw.

She froze.

"What?"

He looked up, eyes shining, voice barely holding together. "I love you. I am so goddamn in love with you that it physically hurts. I think about you constantly. I miss you even when you're standing in front of me. I know I don’t deserve to say it—not after everything—but it’s the truth. And I promised myself I wouldn’t hurt you. That I’d protect you. That I’d never cross that line with Jack’s best friend. But I did the opposite."

He stood slowly, inching closer. "I used you when I was hurting. I treated you like a secret because I was terrified. Terrified of what it meant. Terrified that I’d ruin it, ruin you. And I did."

She blinked fast, trying to hold it together, arms hugging her ribs like she was trying to contain everything that wanted to spill out.

"You did ruin it," she whispered. Her voice was soft but sharp. "You made me feel like I was disposable. Like I was your escape, not your choice."

He nodded, pain flickering across his face. "I know. I know I don’t deserve your help."

She swallowed hard. "You don’t."

He sucked in a breath that rattled in his chest. "Then why are you here?"

She stepped closer, stopping just in front of him. She tilted her head up, eyes locking with his, and for a second, it felt like time paused.

"Because I can’t stand seeing you like this. Because no matter how much you hurt me, I still care. And I hate that I do. But I do."

His breath hitched. "You shouldn’t."

Her hand lifted, trembling slightly as she ghosted her fingers over his cheek. "Let me help."

His head dropped, forehead pressing against hers like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"I’m scared," he whispered. The words trembled on his tongue.

She didn’t flinch.

"Scared to let myself go. Scared to fall for you completely and not know how to stop. Scared of needing you. Scared that if I let myself have this—have you—I’ll ruin it like I always do."

His voice cracked open. "Scared of a future with you. Because what if I break it? What if I lose you? What if I lose myself?"

And he looked so small in that moment. So vulnerable. His hands hung at his sides, twitching like they wanted to hold her but didn’t believe they were allowed.

She reached for him instead. Wrapped her arms around him and gently lowered them both to the kitchen floor. They sank down together, a tangle of limbs and trembling hearts, backs against the cabinet, knees folded, breathing ragged.

He collapsed into her, head buried in her shoulder, his entire body shaking like he couldn’t hold in the weight of everything anymore. Her fingers found his curls, threading through them gently, grounding him.

"I’m so scared," he said again, his voice barely audible. "Because of how much I love you. Because of how much I need you. I can’t function without you. I don’t eat. I don’t sleep. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror without thinking about what I did to you. The thought of you being gone? It fucking terrifies me."

Her chest clenched. She pressed her lips to his temple, a soft, lingering kiss that said everything her words couldn’t yet.

"Please, Quinn," she whispered against his skin. "Let me help. Let me be there for you. Let me love you out loud. You don’t have to do this alone. Not anymore."

He lifted his head slowly, eyes meeting hers. Red-rimmed, exhausted, but open. Searching. The kind of look that begged for forgiveness even when he didn’t think he deserved it.

And something in him cracked wide open.

He nodded.

Not because he thought he was worthy.

But because he believed her.

And for the first time in weeks, he let himself be held. Let the walls fall. Let the fear speak. Let the love in.

Let himself fall.

Let himself love her.

Not in secret. Not in fear.

But in the quiet, honest way they both needed.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough to start healing.

[missmaymay13]

home is with you - j.hughes

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

j.hughes x fem!oc | 13k

summary: jack was a patient person, and he was willing to wait as long as everlyn briar needed to realize that he was there for her.

masterlist

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Quinn Hughes knew a lot about hockey.

Ask him about any game in the last decade—NHL or juniors—and he could give you a detailed play-by-play, rattle off stats like they were embedded in his DNA, and even tell you the name of the ref who made that terrible call in the second period. Hockey ran through his blood. It was his language, his rhythm, his safe place.

Academics, though? That was a different story.

It wasn't that he wasn't smart. He was just... uninterested. Unmotivated. The kind of kid who could get through most classes on charm and bare-minimum effort, skating by (pun intended) with a shrug and a smile. But junior year hit different. The coursework was harder, his travel schedule was crazier, and even Ellen—his endlessly patient, fiercely supportive mom—was starting to worry.

So she did what any mom would do: she found him help. Enter Everlyn Briar.

She was a sophomore, which at first felt weird to Quinn. A younger student tutoring him? But it took less than five minutes into their first session for him to realize Everlyn wasn't just smart—she was brilliant. The kind of person who didn't just know the answers, but understood them. Who explained things like it was no big deal, casually dropping SAT vocab like it was regular slang. She was taking AP classes in everything and somehow managing to be the captain of the school's volleyball team.

And not just on the volleyball team—she ran it. Confident, poised, competitive as hell.

Quinn didn't know people like her existed in real life.

He also didn't expect to like her.

At first, he resented the whole tutoring setup. It made him feel dumb, and if there was one thing Quinn Hughes hated, it was feeling dumb. But Everlyn had this way of making you feel like you were capable. Like you could be just as smart as her if you tried. She had an addicting personality—effortlessly cool, quick-witted, with a sense of humor that caught him off guard more than once.

And then there was her smile.

God, that smile. Bright and full of mischief, like she was constantly in on a secret she might let you in on if you were lucky enough. It was the kind of smile you couldn't forget, even if you tried.

Their tutoring sessions slowly evolved into something else. Something casual, something natural. They'd meet in the library or the back corner of the local coffee shop, but more often than not, their study sessions would end with them laughing over inside jokes, sharing stories about their teammates, or mock-roasting each other over their wildly different Spotify playlists.

Within a few months, they were inseparable.

It wasn't long before their social circles started to blur. Everlyn met Quinn's friends from the team, and he got introduced to her volleyball crew. Weekend hangouts became group events—bonfires, house parties, late-night diner runs. It was all fun and games until people started dating each other and everything got predictably messy.

Typical high school chaos.

There were breakups that forced the group to awkwardly take sides, dramatic friend group rifts, and one infamous party where someone tried to stage an "intervention" for a relationship that wasn't even official. Through it all, though, Quinn and Everlyn stayed solid. He'd show up to her games, she'd come to his. They were always seen together—heads tilted close in conversation, sharing drinks, stealing fries off each other's plates without asking.

Years would pass before either of them realized just how much those years mattered—how foundational they were. Before either of them would understand that what they built back then, in classrooms and crowded kitchens and half-lit basements, was going to follow them far beyond high school.

Because this isn't just Quinn's story.

It's Jack's too.

And for Jack Hughes, Everlyn Briar wasn't just some girl his brother used to hang out with.

She was the girl.

The one he was never supposed to fall for.

⸻ It started small.

At first, Everlyn would stay a few minutes after her tutoring sessions—just long enough to chat with Quinn before he got dragged off to practice or dinner. Then she'd linger a little longer, helping him pack up his notes, maybe sneaking in a few teasing jabs about his handwriting or his inability to remember historical dates. Eventually, Quinn started inviting her over for actual study sessions at his house.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, Everlyn Briar became a regular fixture at the Hughes household.

It was Ellen's idea, really. She was over the moon about Quinn's sudden improvement in school—how he seemed lighter, less tense. His grades had gone up, but more importantly, so had his confidence. And she noticed it wasn't just the academics. Her son was happier. There was a spark in him again.

So of course, Ellen wanted to meet the girl responsible for that.

That first invitation came wrapped in the form of a casual offer: "Why don't you just stay for supper, sweetheart?" And Everlyn, who had only meant to drop off a study guide, hesitated just long enough for Ellen to smile and wave her into the kitchen like she'd already been part of the family for years.

It was so simple. So easy. So warm.

Everlyn didn't realize how much she needed that warmth until she felt it.

The Hughes house was nestled at the top of a long driveway, the kind of home that looked like it had history—scuffed baseboards, picture frames lining the hall, cleats piled by the door. It smelled like home-cooked meals and dryer sheets, and the moment she stepped inside, she could feel something shift in her chest.

There was life here. Real life.

Trophies filled the shelves—some polished and gleaming, others dusty with age. Framed photos covered the walls, capturing every phase of childhood: first goals, missing teeth, family vacations. Hockey sticks leaned against corners. A dog barked from the backyard. Laughter echoed from upstairs.

It was messy in the way that made your chest ache with comfort.

She could've cried.

Because back at her own house, it wasn't like this. Not anymore. The silence there was deafening, broken only by the sound of raised voices behind closed doors or the slam of a front door that never quite shut all the way. Her parents were in the middle of what could only be described as a war disguised as a divorce—ugly, drawn-out, venomous. And lately, Everlyn had become the easiest target.

It wasn't physical. Not exactly. But the emotional toll? That was harder to explain.

The tension followed her like smoke. Her mom was sharp with her words, her dad cold with his distance. The house was split in invisible lines—rooms she couldn't go into without a fight, conversations that ended in tears, meals that were eaten in silence. And she, caught in the middle, found herself suffocating more and more with each passing day.

So she escaped. Any chance she got.

Practice. Study halls. Library sessions that lasted until closing. Couch cushions at friends' houses. Empty locker rooms. Anywhere but home.

Which made the Hughes' house feel like a gift from the universe. An oasis.

The first person to greet her that day—besides Quinn—was a thirteen-year-old Luke Hughes, peeking cautiously from behind his older brother's shoulder. He had that awkward middle-school lankiness, all limbs and big eyes, his dark hair a little messy like he'd been running around all day. Shy but clearly curious, he gave her a wary glance, unsure of what to make of the girl standing at his front door with a backpack and a too-kind smile.

"Hey," Everlyn said softly, crouching down just a little to his height. "You must be the famous Luke. I've heard you've got a killer slapshot."

Luke blinked, then gave the tiniest, bashful nod—cheeks already a bit pink. And just like that, she'd won him over.

From then on, he was her shadow anytime she visited. Offering her cookies, showing off his hockey cards, even once letting her watch him play NHL on the Xbox. Luke Hughes was a soft, sweet soul—and he, like the rest of the family, made space for Everlyn without asking for anything in return.

Next came Ellen and Jim.

They met her with hugs, no hesitation, like she was already part of something. Ellen's warmth was maternal and immediate—offering her water, asking if she was hungry, complimenting her necklace. Jim's was quieter but genuine, his handshake firm, his smile kind. And both of them went on and on about how grateful they were to her for helping Quinn—not just with school, but with his peace of mind.

"You've brought such a light to him," Ellen had said, eyes crinkling. "I don't know what we'd do without you."

Everlyn had smiled and said thank you, but the words clung to her like armor. A light. She didn't feel like a light lately. Not with everything going on at home. But maybe, just maybe, here... she could be.

She was still soaking it all in—memorizing the faces in the photos on the walls, the way the floor creaked in certain spots, the steady hum of a home that felt alive—when the front door opened again.

And in walked Jack Hughes.

He was fifteen then. Already taller than most of the guys at school, with dark, boyish hair that curled a little at the ends and those unmistakable Hughes eyes—sharp, expressive, like they could see straight through you if he wanted to. His backpack was slung lazily over one shoulder, cheeks a bit flushed from biking home, and there was a faint scowl on his face until he rounded the corner and saw her.

Everlyn.

His brother's friend.

The one he wasn't expecting to look like that.

Jack froze for half a second, and it was only noticeable if you were really paying attention. His mouth opened just slightly, like he was about to say something and forgot the words. His eyes did a quick sweep—face, hair, eyes, outfit. And then he recovered, tossing on that signature smirk he wore like a badge.

"Hey," he said coolly. "You must be Everlyn."

She looked up from the couch, smile blooming. "And you must be Jack. I've heard a lot about you."

"Only the good stuff, I hope."

"That depends on your definition of 'good.'"

Quinn snorted from the kitchen, and Jack rolled his eyes. But his gaze didn't leave her. Something about her pulled at him—a softness behind her confidence, something that made his usual smoothness falter just a little.

And when she smiled at him—really smiled, all teeth and light—Jack Hughes, the confident, cocky middle brother, felt his heartbeat do something stupid.

Like skip.

He'd seen her before, sure. In the hallways at school. At volleyball games he'd gone to half-heartedly with Quinn, back when she was just a name he'd heard in passing. But seeing her now, in his home, on his couch, laughing with his brothers?

She wasn't just a name anymore.

And he didn't know it yet—but this girl, this friend of his brother's with the soft voice and the sharp mind, was about to change everything.

⸻

It was subtle at first.

A lingering glance here. A too-long laugh there. The way Jack's eyes would flick toward her in a crowded room, like his brain was hardwired to track her presence no matter what else was happening.

Jack Hughes had a crush.

A real one. The kind that made your chest tighten and your thoughts trip over themselves. But this wasn't just any girl. This was Everlyn Briar. The girl who tutored his older brother. The girl who had somehow woven herself into the fabric of the Hughes home like she'd always belonged there. The girl who showed up with a smile and stayed with a purpose.

And Jack—who usually had no trouble flirting, who could talk circles around most girls his age—suddenly found himself stammering or going completely silent anytime she looked at him for too long.

He hated it.

Well, no. He didn't hate her. God, no. He hated the situation.

Because she was Quinn's friend. His tutor. His person. And there were unspoken rules about that kind of thing—lines that brothers just didn't cross. So Jack kept it cool. He played the role of younger brother, occasional background comic relief, the charming but harmless kid who just so happened to stare a little too long when she wasn't looking.

But all of that restraint unraveled a little the night Quinn decided to throw a party.

Their parents were out of town for the weekend—a rare escape for Ellen and Jim to have a weekend to themselves—and Quinn, being a senior with a newly found sense of confidence and freedom, took full advantage.

The guest list was mostly hockey friends and volleyball players, a mix of athletes and classmates that made the house feel loud and alive by 9 p.m. Jack got the nod to invite some of his own people too, a gesture from Quinn that meant more than it seemed.

Jack wasn't exactly part of the "cool" senior crowd yet, but he could hold his own. And when he found out Everlyn would be there—of course she'd be there—he felt this strange mix of nerves and excitement hum beneath his skin all day.

He played it off well. Showed up in a backwards hat and his best hoodie, dapped up his friends, cracked jokes in the kitchen while snagging handfuls of chips. But all of it—every last bit—was background noise.

Because the second Everlyn walked through the door, it was like gravity shifted.

She was wearing a soft, oversized crewneck and jeans with a rip in the knee, nothing overly flashy or dramatic. Her hair was half up, half down, effortlessly undone, and she wore that familiar look of ease and lightheartedness that made her glow in every room.

Jack could barely breathe.

She looked beautiful. Not in the "done-up for a party" way, but in the "this is just who I am" way. She laughed with her whole body, tossing her head back when one of her friends made a joke, squealing when she missed her last cup in beer pong by a half inch. Every reaction was real—genuine, unfiltered, and full of life.

And Jack?

Jack was down bad.

He nursed a red solo cup and watched her from across the room, his gaze drifting back to her like a reflex. He tried to distract himself—mingled, played a game of flip cup, even tried talking to a girl from his grade who'd clearly been waiting for him to notice her. But none of it landed.

His attention was elsewhere. Always.

And then, at some point in the night—around 1:30 a.m., when the music had dipped into mellow territory and some people had already started crashing on couches—he realized he hadn't seen Everlyn in a while.

Like, a while.

It wasn't like her to just disappear without a word, especially not from a party like this. And something about that silence scratched at the back of his brain.

So Jack set his cup down and started looking.

He did a quick sweep of the main floor—kitchen, basement, backyard. Nothing. He passed by groups of people talking, laughing, someone snoring softly under a blanket on the recliner, but no sign of her. His steps grew quieter as he crept upstairs, the noise from below fading into a dull hum.

And that's when he found her.

The door to Luke's room was cracked slightly, soft light filtering out into the hallway. Jack pushed it open just enough to peek inside—and his heart stilled.

Everlyn was curled up on the far side of Luke's twin bed, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other resting gently across Luke's chest. The youngest Hughes was sound asleep, face relaxed in that vulnerable way only kids have when they're completely safe. A "Fast and the Furious" movie played quietly on the TV, Vin Diesel's voice barely audible over the low rumble of cars on screen.

Jack stood frozen in the doorway.

There she was. Not at the center of the party, not surrounded by friends or attention or lights—but here. With Luke. Tucked into a quiet room, keeping him company, protecting him in the smallest, softest way.

His throat tightened.

Behind him, he heard quiet footsteps and turned to find Quinn standing there, eyes a little glassy from a few drinks but still focused.

"She's been checking on him all night," Quinn said, voice low. "Kept sneaking upstairs just to make sure he was okay. I think he was a little overwhelmed with all the noise, and she didn't want him to feel left out. Ended up tucking him in about half an hour ago, I guess."

Jack didn't say anything at first. He just watched her for a moment longer, taking in the way her brow was slightly furrowed in sleep, how her fingers were still gently curled around the blanket like she didn't even realize she'd nodded off.

"She's got a big heart," Quinn added, clapping Jack softly on the back before heading downstairs again. "We're lucky to have her around."

Yeah, Jack thought, his pulse thudding. He really was.

Because in that moment, standing in the hallway with the light from Luke's room casting a soft glow over Everlyn's sleeping face, Jack Hughes fell just a little deeper into something he couldn't name.

It wasn't just the way she looked tonight. It was the way she was. The way she made herself small to protect others. The way she made herself present when no one else remembered to be.

The way she already cared for his family like it was her own.

And for Jack Hughes, there was nothing more important than family.

So yeah. His crush? It wasn't going anywhere.

Not now.

Not ever.

⸻

If Everlyn Briar had to make a list of the best days of her life, two moments would sit at the very top: Quinn's high school graduation, and the day he got drafted to the NHL.

Both days were drenched in joy, but for different reasons. Graduation felt like the end of a chapter, the beautiful culmination of everything they'd built together—study sessions, long nights, practice runs, pep talks in the hallway, inside jokes exchanged during fire drills. Draft day, though? That felt like the beginning of something. The launch of a dream.

And she was there for all of it.

She still remembered Quinn's graduation day like it was etched in sun. The weather was perfect—clear skies, a breeze just strong enough to ruffle the sea of navy blue gowns lined up in rows on the football field. Ellen was crying before the ceremony even started. Jim pretended not to be emotional, but she caught him wiping at his eyes with his sleeve more than once. Luke was the only one trying to play it cool, muttering about how boring the speeches were while secretly filming every second on his phone.

Everlyn sat with the Hughes family, sandwiched between Ellen and Luke, and beamed like it was her son crossing the stage. Her hands were sore from clapping, her cheeks aching from smiling, but she didn't care. Seeing Quinn walk across that stage, cap tilted slightly, grinning ear to ear as his name was called? That was her best friend. And she couldn't have been more proud.

That night, they went to prom together.

It wasn't romantic—not exactly. It was one of those things they'd decided months in advance, a casual promise made in between chemistry notes and late-night FaceTimes. But when the day came, and Everlyn stepped out of her car in a pastel yellow silk dress that caught the light like liquid sunshine, Jack had nearly dropped the bowl of cereal he was holding.

She was glowing. Absolutely glowing.

Quinn, to his credit, played it cool. He met her at the top of the driveway in a navy suit that matched her dress perfectly, his tie just slightly crooked, which she fixed with a teasing smile and a soft touch. Ellen took so many photos, shouting at them to get "just one more!" while Jim muttered something about missing the days when prom meant sitting on the couch with cartoons and juice boxes.

At prom, Everlyn and Quinn were the couple everyone pointed to—even if they weren't a couple at all. They danced to every song, even the slow ones. They laughed until their sides hurt, took blurry selfies, and snuck out early to get milkshakes at the diner down the street. Somewhere in the middle of it all, Quinn managed to snag a make-out session with a senior volleyball player (thanks to a little not-so-subtle wingwoman energy from Everlyn), and he spent the rest of the night grinning like he'd just scored the game-winning goal.

But the real crown jewel came a few weeks later: draft day.

Everlyn still remembered how tightly Quinn had gripped her hand that morning. They'd flown out west with the whole Hughes crew—Ellen, Jim, Jack, and Luke—and even though the energy was pure chaos, it felt like magic. The kind of day you knew would change everything.

The venue buzzed with anticipation. Reporters hovered like hawks, camera flashes strobing across the crowd. Families in tailored suits and perfectly curled hair. Players fiddling with their ties, bouncing their knees, checking their phones every five seconds.

But Quinn? He was steady. Calm. Like he'd been waiting for this moment his whole life.

Because he had.

And when Vancouver called his name—Quinn Hughes, selected seventh overall by the Vancouver Canucks—the room erupted. Ellen gasped. Jim clapped hard enough to sting. Jack yelled something indistinct, probably profane, over the roar of applause.

Everlyn?

She stood up so fast she knocked over her chair.

She threw her arms around him, and the hug they shared was the kind of thing you felt in your soul. Tight. Breathless. The kind of hug that said, we did it. That all the long nights and frustrations and growing pains were worth it. She buried her face in his shoulder and whispered, "I'm so proud of you," more times than she could count.

He hugged her back just as fiercely. "Couldn't have done it without you, Eve."

He meant it.

The hours that followed were a blur of interviews, handshakes, smiles, and congratulations. Quinn was passed around from one media outlet to the next, pulled into rooms with cameras and sponsors and flashbulbs. And in the swirl of it all, Everlyn found herself drifting toward the one person who felt just as out of place as she did.

Luke.

He was quieter than usual, maybe overwhelmed by the spotlight or just missing the familiarity of home. Either way, he stuck close to Everlyn's side, and she didn't mind one bit.

They wandered the venue together, sipping soda from plastic cups, taking photos with cardboard cutouts, watching the draft board update in real time. At one point, she let him lean his head on her shoulder, his hair slightly messy from his button-down shirt collar.

"You okay, bud?" she asked gently.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "Just... a lot."

She nodded. "I get it."

They didn't need to say much after that. Sometimes, comfort was just existing beside someone who didn't need you to explain how you were feeling. And Luke, in many ways, felt like the little brother she never had.

He'd called her "Evie" for the first time that day. Just once, slipping it in casually when she handed him a packet of Skittles from her purse.

It stuck.

And she didn't realize it then—but Jack had noticed.

He'd been across the room, getting a bottle of water, and he'd looked up just in time to see her crouched next to Luke, laughing at something he said. Her hand resting on his shoulder, eyes soft, her entire posture folded into care.

Jack hadn't said a word. Just watched.

And felt that same tight pull in his chest that had started months ago. The one that always showed up when she was near.

Because Everlyn wasn't just a part of their lives anymore.

She was their life.

And Jack Hughes was starting to wonder if he'd ever be able to untangle his heart from hers.

⸻

When Quinn left for Michigan, everything shifted.

It wasn't abrupt. More like the slow fade of background music when a scene ends. His absence was a quiet hum in the Hughes house, a space that felt too big without his voice filling it. His name was still spoken daily—on calls, in casual conversation, mentioned when Luke would repeat something funny his oldest brother used to say—but the energy had changed.

And with Quinn gone, so too was Everlyn's usual reason to be around.

She didn't disappear, not completely. Luke wouldn't let her. He texted her almost every day, sent her TikToks and memes, even guilt-tripped her with sad selfies captioned "you abandoned me" until she agreed to come by. Saturday mornings and Sunday afternoons became their thing—quick visits that turned into full-day hangouts, movies on the couch, post-practice runs to the smoothie shop.

But it wasn't the same. Not like it used to be.

Until Jack had an idea.

Jack Hughes had always been the sharpest of the three brothers. His brain worked fast, calculated odds like a chess master on a sugar high. And when he realized Everlyn's visits were becoming fewer and farther between, he knew he had to do something.

So, naturally, he tanked a math exam.

Not completely—just enough to raise a few parental eyebrows. He followed it up with a lazy English quiz and a conveniently "forgotten" science worksheet. By the end of the week, Ellen was concerned, Luke was suspicious, and Jack was already plotting his next move.

"I think I need help," he told his mom with carefully rehearsed sincerity. "Like... tutoring help."

Ellen blinked. "You? You've had straight A's since third grade."

"Yeah, well," he shrugged, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling. "Maybe I peaked early."

Ellen didn't question it further. Within an hour, she was on the phone with Everlyn, practically begging her to step in.

And when she agreed? Jack almost jumped out of his seat in joy. Almost.

The first tutoring session was a masterclass in subtlety.

He showed up with his notebook wide open, pencil twirling between his fingers, and an expression that screamed I'm totally lost. Everlyn raised a brow the moment she saw his notes—color-coded, flawlessly organized, every assignment completed with precision.

"Okay, Einstein," she said, smirking as she slid into the chair across from him. "What exactly do you need help with?"

Jack scratched the back of his neck, doing his best impression of a sheepish student. "Literally everything."

But Everlyn wasn't just smart—she was Everlyn. She saw through him within the first ten minutes.

Especially when he started "accidentally" getting easy questions wrong, or pretending to mix up formulas he clearly had memorized. At one point, she gave him a pop quiz on vocabulary and he aced it in under a minute. His face turned the lightest shade of pink when she smiled at him afterward, tilting her head like she was onto something.

She never called him out.

Not once.

She just played along. Grinned when he fumbled a fake answer. Rolled her eyes when he exaggerated his confusion. And when the session ended, she leaned in with that same mischievous spark in her eyes and said, "By the way... we've got a home game Friday. You should come."

Jack blinked. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she said, grabbing her bag. "I'll save you a seat."

He went.

And he didn't stop going after that.

Watching her play was... something else. She was electric on the court. All 5'6 of her moving with fire and finesse, jumping higher than anyone expected, hitting balls with a precision that made the crowd gasp. Jack sat in the stands with Luke, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, trying to look nonchalant while fighting the urge to stand every time she scored.

She was fierce. Fearless. Unstoppable.

It did things to him.

After her games, she'd find him outside the gym, sweaty and glowing and absolutely radiant. Sometimes she'd toss him a teasing smile, asking, "Did I impress?" like she didn't already know the answer. And he'd say something dumb like, "You were okay," just to make her roll her eyes.

He loved when she rolled her eyes at him.

In return, she started showing up to his games. Sometimes she'd sit beside Luke, sometimes she'd bring one of her friends. Once, she even wore his NTDP jersey over her sweatshirt—completely nonchalant, like it meant nothing.

It meant everything. Seeing her in the stands with his name and number on her back sent shivers down his spine. 

Jack played like he had something to prove when she was in the crowd. Moved faster. Sharper. Pushed harder. His coaches noticed, his teammates noticed. He noticed.

And God, she was really starting to know his world too. She could match Trevor's chaotic energy beat for beat, holding her own against his wildest banter. Cole Caufield called her "the team MVP" after she roasted three of them during a team dinner. They adored her. Everyone adored her.

Jack wasn't even jealous. Just in awe.

He watched her laugh with his friends, toss popcorn at Luke, joke with his mom, and still somehow make time for him—quiet moments in the car, shared glances across the room, inside jokes exchanged through nothing but a look.

They were becoming close. Real friends.

And maybe that should've been enough.

But it wasn't.

Because somewhere between the tutoring sessions and the post-game fries, Jack's feelings had spiraled into something he couldn't hide anymore. Not from himself. Not from the way his stomach flipped when she touched his arm. Not from the way his pulse picked up when she said his name a little too softly.

He was falling for her. Fast.

And it scared the hell out of him.

Because she was leaving soon. Graduation was around the corner. College applications were already in, and she'd been talking about campuses in other states. Other coasts. Her life was about to expand in ways his couldn't touch yet.

And Jack?

He was just starting to feel like she saw him as more than Quinn's little brother.

So now, every laugh they shared felt a little too short. Every hug a little too brief. Every goodbye a little too heavy.

He knew the clock was ticking.

But God, if he could just freeze time for a little while longer... just a few more "tutoring"sessions, a few more late-night texts, a few more games where she wore his name on her back...

Maybe he could find the courage to tell her how he felt.

Before it was too late.

⸻

She was gone now.

Off chasing sunshine in California, trading small-town hallways for sprawling palm trees and crowded lecture halls. UCLA looked good on Everlyn—of course it did. Top volleyball program. Dream business school. A campus that buzzed with potential. It was everything she had worked for, everything she deserved.

But for Jack Hughes?

It felt like something had been hollowed out of him the moment she left.

He didn't say goodbye like he should have. Not really. He gave her one last hug, half-sincere, half-guarded, a little too quick. He told her to have fun. She promised to keep in touch. She didn't look back when she got in the car.

And then she was gone.

Jack tried to pretend it didn't affect him. He threw himself into hockey, training harder than ever in preparation for his draft year. He focused on speed, strength, footwork—anything to keep his mind off the ache that curled around his ribs every time he caught a glimpse of her old volleyball hoodie in the laundry room.

But autopilot only lasted so long.

Luke was quieter too. Less sunshine, more shadow. He didn't say it out loud, but Jack could feel it—Everlyn's absence hung in the Hughes house like a missing puzzle piece. Meals were quieter. Weekend movie nights didn't feel the same. Even Ellen had made a comment once, half-joking, "I miss our fourth child."

Jack missed her in ways he didn't have words for. Missed the way she used to steal fries off his plate. The way her laugh bounced down the stairs before she did. The way she made everything—everyone—feel lighter.

And then came Thanksgiving.

Quinn was coming home from Michigan. That was expected. The house had been buzzing with preparations all week—Ellen bustling through the kitchen, Jim dusting off the leaf for the dining room table, Luke threatening to eat the pie before it was even baked. Jack was looking forward to it, sure. But even the idea of a full Hughes reunion couldn't quite lift the haze that had settled in his chest since September.

Until the door opened.

And everything stopped.

It was Quinn standing there, his suitcase by his side, a trimmed beard on his jaw that made him look more like a man than a teenager. He grinned wide, stepping into the warmth of the house, pulling Luke into a one-armed hug.

But Jack barely registered his brother's return.

Because behind Quinn, suitcase in hand, stood Everlyn.

Her hair was longer now, sun-kissed and wavy in a way that only California could do. She wore an oversized hoodie with her school's logo on the sleeve and that same soft expression she always had when she was trying not to cry from happiness.

Time froze.

And then it crashed into motion.

Quinn stepped aside just in time for Everlyn to drop her bag and launch herself into Jack's arms.

"You're here," he whispered into her shoulder, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

"Of course I'm here," she murmured back. "Where else would I be?"

She smelled like vanilla and travel and something achingly familiar. Jack didn't let himself hold her for more than a second too long—but God, did he want to.

Then came Luke, barreling down the stairs like he'd been summoned by fate itself. "EVE!"

She barely had time to turn before he was lifting her off the ground, arms wrapped tight around her waist.

"Missed you so much," he blurted, voice muffled against her hoodie. "You're not allowed to leave again. I'm serious. I'll hide your passport. I'll chain your suitcase to the water heater."

She laughed, and something in the house shifted back into place.

Home.

That's what she was. What she had always been.

Jack stood back and watched her with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. She still looked at him the same way—fond, soft, maybe a little amused. And he'd gotten better at hiding how her gaze lit a fire under his skin. Better at swallowing the lump that rose in his throat when she was near.

She knew, of course.

Of course she knew.

She was Everlyn Briar. Too observant. Too intuitive. She could solve calculus in her head and read body language like a second language. Jack's not-so-subtle stares. The way he hovered near her but never quite reached. The way he smiled too hard when she was around.

And Quinn? He knew too. Jack could feel it in the sideways glances, the way his older brother's smirk would twitch upward anytime Jack so much as offered to get Eve a drink.

But no one said anything.

Because Jack never said anything.

And maybe that's why nothing ever happened.

The weekend was a blur of traditions and warmth. They ran the annual turkey trot that morning—Jack and Luke sprinting ahead like maniacs, Everlyn laughing breathlessly as she tried to keep up. They came home to Ellen's legendary spread: turkey so tender it fell apart, stuffing soaked in butter, mashed potatoes Jack would defend with his life.

It was loud. It was chaotic. It was perfect.

And when the night wound down, it felt almost scripted.

Just like old times, Everlyn slipped upstairs after dessert, claiming she was "just checking on Luke." And just like always, no one questioned it. She found him curled up in bed with the newest Fast and Furious playing, already half-asleep.

She climbed in beside him without a second thought.

Jack found them later, lights dimmed, movie credits rolling. Luke snoring softly. Everlyn curled against him, one hand draped protectively over her like Luke was afraid she would disappear if he let go. 

It made his heart ache in ways he didn't know how to name.

Because for the first time in months, everyone was home.

Everyone.

And still, something about her felt impossibly far away.

⸻

Time had a strange way of looping in on itself.

One minute, she was cheering for Quinn on his draft day, wiping away tears in between interviews and snapshots, her dress wrinkled from hugging everyone in sight. And then—just like that—it was years later, and she was back in that familiar whirlwind. Only this time, it wasn't Quinn's name echoing through the arena.

It was Luke's.

She had promised herself she wouldn't cry. Really, she had. She made it halfway through the morning with dry eyes and a steady smile. But the second his name was called—Luke Hughes, drafted to the New Jersey Devils—it was over.

A mess. A disaster, honestly.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, breath catching in her throat, trying desperately not to smudge the mascara she'd put on with care. Josh Norris had leaned over halfway through the ceremony, gently tapping her shoulder with a tissue and whispering, "Don't worry, he's the last Hughes to be drafted so you won't have to do this all over again next year."

She laughed through her tears.

Because this moment—this—was sacred.

Luke was beaming next to his buzzing brothers up front, his hands shaking just slightly as he held up his new jersey. And her heart swelled with something fierce and maternal, the same way it had when he was thirteen and scared to come downstairs to a party, when she tucked him in during Fast & Furious marathons, when he looked at her like she hung the stars just for him.

He was grown now. Taller. Broader. More confident. He was mature. Luke Hughes was no longer the little boy she once met. 

He was a man now.

But he'd still held her hand before the draft started.

Still leaned into her shoulder when the nerves kicked in.

Still whispered, "I'm glad you're here," like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

She had always been a safe space for him. And she always would be.

⸻

Jack had changed too.

Not overnight. Not all at once. But the slow kind of change that creeps in between seasons. Years had passed. His name had been called. His life had launched in ways most people only dreamed about.

And with every new city, every new headline, every new spotlight—he still thought about her.

They stayed in touch. Little messages. Summer meet-ups. Inside jokes exchanged over text. But distance made it easier to push those feelings away. He had flings, distractions, moments of temporary interest. He convinced himself it had passed.

That what he felt for her was just nostalgia.

Until she came back.

She graduated from UCLA in 2022—business degree, communications minor, a resumé that practically glittered. And then, in the kind of twist only the universe could write, she landed her first job in New Jersey. A start-up company. PR and account management. Fast-paced. Groundbreaking. Local.

Jack didn't find out until a week after she moved in.

He meant to message her first. He really did. But time slipped, and she was adjusting, and he didn't want to seem overeager.

Until she received a package at her new apartment. No note. No message. Just a red New Jersey Devils jersey—his jersey—and two tickets to their home opener.

He knew she'd understand.

And she did.

⸻

That night, she walked into the Prudential Center and it felt like the world had hit rewind. Only this time, the crowd was bigger. Louder. Older. And Jack? Jack wasn't a boy anymore.

He was Jack Hughes now.

Franchise face. Highlight reel superstar.

And the second she saw him skate out onto the ice, she felt her heart stop for a beat.

Because he wasn't the lanky, backwards-hat-wearing teenager who used to fake bad grades just to sit beside her. He was taller now. Broader. His movements were sharp, calculated. Every stride held purpose. The crowd roared and chanted his name when he touched the puck. He didn't just play hockey. He commanded it.

She couldn't take her eyes off him.

And he?

He felt her the second she stepped into the arena.

Didn't see her at first. But he felt her. Like gravity.

After the win, he found her in the tunnel. Same smile. Same soft eyes. But different now. Grown. Glowing.

"Hey, stranger," she said, tugging lightly at the jersey he'd sent.

He laughed, that same dopey grin breaking across his face. "Looks better on you."

They hugged—longer than they should have. He smelled like ice and sweat and home. And when they pulled back, something unspoken lingered in the air between them. A pause. A beat. Something that had never quite gone away.

They went out for drinks after, just the two of them. A quiet bar, warm lights, quiet music humming in the background. He looked different here too. Not just older—steadier. The way he carried himself, the way he ordered her drink without asking, the way he leaned back and watched her talk like he was cataloging every word.

He wasn't cocky. Just... sure of himself.

It was attractive. She wouldn't lie.

And Jack? Jack felt like he had been punched in the chest.

Because she was even more beautiful now. Effortlessly radiant. Still that same warmth, still that same grace. But there was something new too—something confident, something grown.

He kept staring at her. In the flicker of candlelight, with her hand curled around her glass and her lips curved in that same soft smile, Jack felt like he was sixteen all over again.

Breathless.

Totally wrecked.

Totally in love.

And it scared the hell out of him.

⸻

They made it a tradition—weekly coffee runs, dinner or drinks after games, late-night walks through the city. She fit into his world like she always had. Seamlessly.

She met the team. Jesper pulled her into a bear hug like they hadn't missed a day. Dawson was polite and immediately impressed. And Nico? Nico looked like he was about to make a move—until he caught Jack watching her.

Just one look.

That's all it took.

No one made a move after that. No one had to.

Because it was obvious.

She was Jack's girl.

Maybe not officially.

Maybe not yet.

But everyone knew.

Especially him.

⸻

It started the way it always did—with a ticket.

Every home game, like clockwork, Jack left two tickets for Everlyn at will call. No message. No pressure. Just a quiet gesture, a ritual of theirs that said you're welcome here. Always. And she'd used the first one nearly every time.

But the second?

She never had. Until now.

Jack's world tilted the second he saw her walk through the tunnel with someone else by her side.

He was tall. Blonde. Crisp linen shirt. One of those designer watches that practically screamed my dad plays golf with your CEO. The kind of guy you'd expect to see ordering a $19 martini and not blinking. His name was Jordan, and he shook Jack's hand with the kind of over-firm grip that tried too hard to say something.

Jack didn't flinch, but God, he wanted to.

Jordan asked questions like he was running an interview—"How's the ice this season? Do you ever get recognized on the street?"—and Jack answered through clenched teeth, polite but cold. He watched as Jordan rested a hand on Everlyn's back, too casual, too familiar. She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

Still, Jack put on the happy face.

Because that's what he did. He wasn't going to ruin anything for her—not now, not ever. She looked happy. And if that was real... well, then Jack could deal with it. He'd spent years pushing those feelings to the back of his mind. What was a few more months?

But it was a few more months.

And Jordan didn't go anywhere.

He became a fixture. At games. At dinners. Tagging along to post-game drinks, always ordering for the table like he knew what everyone wanted. Everlyn still made time for Jack, but it was different now. Tighter. More filtered. Coffee dates became his favorite part of the week—not because they were exciting, but because they were just her. No Jordan. No compromise.

Just them.

Just how he liked it.

⸻

The lake house in Michigan was supposed to be a sanctuary.

It always had been. A safe haven carved into the summers. A place where the Hughes brothers could take a breath, train hard, play harder, and be surrounded by the people who made the noise feel quiet.

It was Quinn's idea to bring everyone together that summer—an annual tradition, their own off-season camp that just so happened to include boats, beers, and more competitive tubing than anyone should legally survive.

The house buzzed with energy. Quinn had his old teammates in town—Josh and Dalton Norris, all heart and chaos. Luke brought his crew from Michigan—Dylan Duke, Mark Estapa, Ethan Edwards, each of them slipping seamlessly into the rhythm of the house. Jack, of course, had Trevor and Turcs, whose personalities were basically caffeine personified.

And Everlyn?

She brought Jordan.

The mood shifted the second they arrived. Jordan barely greeted anyone before making a beeline for the deck, muttering something about needing to "take it easy" after the drive. The Hughes boys watched Eve with subtle worry, noting the way her shoulders tensed, the way she scanned the room like she was looking for permission to be herself again.

They tried to bring her in. Quinn cracked a beer and started loading up the boat. Jack blasted a playlist of her favorite cheesy country songs. Luke ran to get the rope for tubing.

"Come on," Quinn called out, tossing her a life jacket with a grin. "Let's get out there."

She smiled—small, tight—but before she could step forward, Jordan touched her wrist.

"You don't have to go, babe. I was hoping we could chill here, have a drink or two. You've been talking about relaxing all week."

The way he said it wasn't cruel. Just expectant.

And Everlyn, as always, folded.

"Yeah," she said, her voice barely above the waves. "That sounds nice."

She took the jacket off. Handed it back to Quinn. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.

The brothers all exchanged a look.

Jordan hadn't just dimmed her light—he was stomping it out, slowly.

⸻

Quinn didn't wait long.

As soon as Jordan disappeared back to Jersey, he pulled Everlyn aside. They slipped down the dock together, away from the buzz of the house and the music, until it was just the lapping of the water and the heaviness of unspoken words.

He didn't sugarcoat it.

"You're not okay," he said.

She froze. "Quinn..."

"You don't laugh the same. You don't light up the way you used to. I watched you talk yourself out of joining the boat like you were doing him a favor for existing."

She blinked hard. "It's complicated."

"No, it's not. He's not your partner, Eve. He's your leash."

That broke her.

Her lip trembled. She turned away for a second like she could hide it, but Quinn stepped forward, pulled her into a hug, and the truth spilled out like water over a dam.

It was like this in Jersey. Jordan always had a reason why she shouldn't go out. Why she should stay in. He didn't trust the hockey scene. Didn't like her independence. The lake house made him uncomfortable. Her made him uncomfortable.

Quinn listened, jaw clenched.

"You don't deserve this," he said firmly. "You never did. You're allowed to be loved out loud, Everlyn. Not hidden. Not controlled."

She cried. God, she cried.

But when she went to bed that night, her decision was already made.

⸻

The next morning, she called Jordan.

She ended it. Direct. No stalling. No soft exit.

He didn't take it well.

He accused her—accused her of having feelings for one of the Hughes boys. "It's always been one of them, hasn't it? I should've known the second you made me come to this dumb lake house."

He hung up before she could say anything back.

And it hurt. It did. She was human, after all.

But she walked out onto the dock not five minutes later, barefoot, hoodie over her bikini, and looked out at the water where Jack and Trevor were laughing on the boat. The sun was shining. The breeze was warm. Luke waved at her from the deck, and Quinn handed her a beer with a proud smirk.

She was home.

And this time, there was no one telling her she couldn't enjoy it.

⸻

Jack couldn't stand it anymore.

Everlyn was smiling again, sure—but not the way she used to. Her laugh was a little quieter, her jokes a little softer, like she was afraid to take up too much space. She still had that spark, but it flickered instead of burned, like someone had dimmed her and walked away.

And Jack? Jack wanted to reignite her.

So he made it his mission to bring her back to life—one small act at a time.

He started with breakfast.

She always loved pancakes. He remembered that. Waffles were fine, but pancakes? Pancakes made her eyes light up. So every morning, when someone inevitably asked what to make for the house, Jack was the first to say it:

"Pancakes. Definitely."

He'd sneak her the last piece of bacon when no one was looking, tucking it onto her plate with a smirk. He'd always save her a seat next to him. And when the kitchen got too loud or crowded, he'd silently pass her the syrup like it was their secret language.

He got up early now, before the sun even stretched across the lake, because he knew she liked her morning runs. He'd tie his shoes and jog beside her, matching her pace, letting her pick the music. They didn't talk much—didn't need to. Just ran side by side, feet hitting the dirt road in quiet rhythm, breaths syncing up like clockwork.

He volunteered for errands now too. Grocery runs. Beer pick-ups. Ice refills.

"I'll go," he'd say casually. "Eve, wanna come?"

She always did.

They'd play music too loud in the car. Race to find the weirdest flavor of chips in the store. Argue over the right ratio of peanut butter to chocolate. He'd lean into her cart, throw in random things just to make her laugh. Her smile was starting to come back, slowly, piece by piece.

And Jack? Jack was falling all over again.

⸻

The fire crackled as the night crept in.

They'd spent all day out on the boat—tubing, flipping off docks, laughing until their stomachs hurt. By the time the sun dipped below the trees, everyone was sun-drenched, half-tipsy, and high on that unbeatable summer haze.

So naturally, they circled the fire pit.

Everyone gathered on the chairs or sprawled out on blankets, drinks in hand, cheeks still flushed from the sun. The playlist was low in the background, country twang giving way to soft indie beats. Someone tossed another log onto the fire, and the stories began.

First came the classics—Quinn's worst playoff beard attempts, Trevor's infamous grocery store prank, Jack's rookie year mishaps. Then came Luke's awkward high school phase, complete with dramatic reenactments of him failing to talk to girls at school dances.

Luke rolled his eyes and grumbled, "Yeah? Well you did the exact same thing when you first met Eve."

Everyone paused.

"You couldn't even sit next to her at dinner for months," Luke went on, completely unbothered. "Because you had such a massive crush on her."

Jack felt the color drain from his face, then immediately return with a vengeance.

The fire masked most of it, but the way his ears burned gave him away.

"OHHHH," Turc and Zegras chorused at the same time. "NO WAY."

Jack laughed a little too hard, trying to brush it off. "That's such a lie, Luke. C'mon."

But then Eve turned toward him, eyes soft, a smile creeping onto her lips. She looked at Quinn first—he gave a knowing nod—and then gently placed her hand on Jack's back.

"It's okay, Jack," she said sweetly. "I thought it was cute. But you were really bad at hiding it."

Dead. He was dead.

"You knew?" Jack asked, face frozen in panic.

"Of course I knew," she said with a small laugh. "I've always known."

And as if that wasn't enough to end him entirely, Ellen strolled out of the house with a tray of cookies and chimed in with perfect timing:

"Oh, Jack. Everyone knew."

The chorus of "OOOOHHHHH!" exploded around the fire.

Trevor nearly fell off his chair. Quinn tossed a marshmallow at Jack's head. Luke looked smug as hell. Jack buried his face in his hands, muttering something about never showing his face again.

It was harmless. All in good fun.

But the second the teasing died down and the yawns started, people began peeling off into bedrooms, one by one. The lake grew quieter, the fire dimming to embers.

And Jack stayed behind.

⸻

He sat there alone, elbows on knees, head tilted back to watch the stars. The air was still warm, but the night felt heavy in a way that pressed on his chest.

She knew. This whole time. He'd spent years hiding feelings he thought would ruin everything—only to find out that she'd seen them from the start.

And she hadn't run. She hadn't pushed him away.

She thought it was cute.

"God," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "I'm such an idiot."

Then came the soft sound of feet on grass.

A blanket settled across his shoulders. A familiar head rested gently against his own.

He looked down and saw her—Everlyn, curled into his side, wrapped in the same blanket, her cheek against his shoulder. Barefaced, makeup long gone, hoodie pulled over her knees.

"Don't worry about it, Jacky," she whispered. "I thought it was adorable. I thought you were adorable."

His heart flat-out stopped.

She thought he was cute too.

He blinked, eyes wide, trying to process what those words meant. What this meant. Her voice was low and sleepy, but there was no mistaking the sincerity in it.

She hadn't said it to tease him. She meant it.

Without thinking, he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer, letting her warmth melt into his side. She didn't flinch. Didn't move. Just sighed and settled in.

His hand rested at the small of her back, thumb brushing the fabric of her hoodie. His heart was racing.

She always took care of them—of everyone. Always made sure Luke had what he needed, that Quinn had someone to ground him, that Jack didn't feel invisible. She was the glue, the safety net, the one who never let herself fall until she knew they were all okay.

And the thought that she had spent so long dimming herself for someone who couldn't see her? Who wouldn't see her?

It made Jack's jaw clench.

He'd been there. Right there. And he hadn't stepped in. Hadn't spoken up. He'd let her walk through that alone because he was too scared of what it would mean for him.

Never again.

Not after this.

⸻

Things had found their rhythm again.

Back in Jersey, back in their bubble, back in that comfortable hum of familiarity that made every day feel like a deep breath. But this time, there was something more. Something better.

Because now Luke was here too.

Everlyn had 2 out of 3 Hughes boys back under one roof, and it was like someone had finally returned the missing pieces of her soul. She hadn't realized how lonely she'd been until her days were filled again—trips to the rink, late-night Mario Kart tournaments, homemade pasta nights where Jack burned the garlic bread and Luke put entirely too much cheese in the sauce.

It was chaos. It was home.

They shared a three-bedroom apartment in Hoboken with a view of the skyline and a couch that had seen more naps than conversations. When they signed the lease, Luke had casually mentioned the third room being for "hockey gear or guests," but they all knew the truth.

That room was hers.

She didn't officially live there. Not on paper. But she might as well have. Her stuff was in the drawers. Her favorite cereal was on the shelf. Her slippers were by the door. Half her wardrobe was draped across the back of the desk chair. She came and went freely, sometimes staying a night, sometimes staying a week, no one ever asking when she'd be back—because they already knew.

That room would always be waiting.

It was one of the few places in the world where she never had to ask if she belonged.

⸻

One night, she was actually home in her own apartment—a rare occurrence, considering how often she found herself curled up on the Hughes' couch with a blanket and a mug of something warm. She had just gotten out of the shower, wrapped in her comfiest robe, hair twisted up in a towel, when her phone rang.

Quinn.

It started with the usual—how was your day, did you eat, how's the new campaign going, tell Luke to call his mother. But somewhere between casual updates and light teasing, the conversation shifted. Deepened. As it always did with Quinn, eventually.

"I've been thinking about... Jordan," she admitted quietly, eyes focused on the ceiling.

Quinn didn't interrupt. Just waited.

"I just—I feel stupid," she said. "I let him control so much. I let him talk me out of things I loved. I let him make me feel small. And I knew better. I always knew better."

"Evie."

His voice was soft. Steady.

"You're not stupid. You're human. And you left. That's the hard part. You did it."

She swallowed. "It still makes me feel like I lost a year of myself."

"You didn't lose it," he said. "You reclaimed it. One day at a time."

There was a long silence.

Then, like it was nothing at all, Quinn added: "It was nice of Jack to make you smiling his top priority this summer."

Her heart paused.

She sat up a little straighter, eyebrows tugging together. "What?"

"Jack," Quinn repeated. "It was nice of him. To make sure you smiled again."

She opened her mouth, but no words came. Her thoughts were caught in a whirl—memories of pancakes, early morning runs, gas station trips, firelight laughter. The way Jack always showed up in exactly the way she needed.

Quinn continued, voice low and casual.

"He's a nice guy."

Everlyn narrowed her eyes. "I know that, Quinn. I grew up with him."

"No," Quinn said, and this time, his voice had a different weight to it. A quiet emphasis.

"I mean... he's nice."

She stilled.

It was such a simple word. But the way he said it—the subtle dip in tone, the almost affectionate cadence—shifted the meaning entirely.

It wasn't just about kindness. It was about care. The kind of nice that went deeper than polite gestures and well-mannered smiles. It was the kind that showed up when you needed it. The kind that held space without asking for anything in return.

Jack was nice.

He was thoughtful in a way most people weren't. Protective without being possessive. Gentle in a way that made you feel safe. He was the kind of man who made sure everyone else had what they needed before taking anything for himself. He remembered your favorite things and brought them home without saying a word. He loved quietly—but completely.

And suddenly, it hit her:

Jack had always been like that.

With her.

She hung up the call shortly after, claiming she was tired. But sleep never came easy that night.

She laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, Quinn's words echoing like ripples in her chest.

He's nice.

Jack, who always made sure her coffee was right.

Jack, who checked her tires when it snowed.

Jack, who gave her space when she needed it, and warmth when she didn't know she did.

Jack, who never stopped showing up.

She turned her head, looking at the empty side of her bed.

And she thought: Am I crazy?

Was she insane for even considering it? For letting her thoughts wander into dangerous territory? For entertaining the possibility that maybe—just maybe—the boy she'd grown up with, the one who had waited and waited without ever saying it out loud, could be the one she was supposed to see all along?

She rolled onto her side, clutching the pillow to her chest, eyes heavy with questions.

What if she ruined it?

What if she broke the family that saved her?

And worse... what if he didn't feel the same anymore?

What if she had waited too long?

⸻

The annual charity gala had always been part of the routine.

One of those must-attend events on the Devils' calendar. Glitz, glam, donors, handshakes, perfectly staged photo ops—and beneath all that, a chance to raise money for good causes. Jack had done a few now. Eve had come with him to the last one, and the arrangement had always been easy. Casual. Fun.

This year? Different.

She could feel it. In her chest. In her stomach. In the way she stood a little too long in front of the mirror trying to decide between earrings. It had started subtly—just a thought, a whisper of a feeling—but after that conversation with Quinn, it was like a switch had flipped.

She was aware now. Hyper-aware. Of how Jack looked at her. Of how he always waited for her to walk through the door first. Of how he always held her things, brought her snacks, fixed her laces when she wore shoes with ties. Things he'd always done... but things that now screamed louder.

He was nice. But not just that. Not anymore.

He was steady. Thoughtful. Quietly romantic in ways that weren't about flowers or fanfare—but about presence. Constant, unwavering presence.

And for the first time, she wondered what it meant that he never expected anything in return.

⸻

They were supposed to go as a trio—her, Jack, and Luke. But then Luke had the audacity to fall in love and get himself a girlfriend, leaving Everlyn to go solo with Jack. She'd teased him about it for a full week, but truthfully... it made her nervous.

This wasn't just another event. Not this time.

The lead-up felt different. More intimate. Jack had taken her shopping, trailing behind her in boutiques, giving honest feedback with that same crooked grin. He didn't complain once, even when she tried on twelve different dresses and only narrowed it down to two. He just watched. Waited. Carried her purse and snacks and made sure she didn't talk herself out of something she loved.

They picked her gown together.

A maroon silk number that hugged her curves and dipped just low enough to be elegant without being too much. It made her skin glow. It made his mouth go dry.

She said yes to it when he whispered, "That's the one," with a look in his eyes that stayed with her all night.

⸻

The day of the gala, Everlyn turned their shared space into her own personal glam studio. She spread her makeup across the bathroom counter, curled her hair in sections, and took deep, grounding breaths every few minutes to keep from spiraling into full-on nerves.

It didn't help that Jack was being Jack.

Bringing her little snacks every hour like clockwork.

A granola bar. A handful of grapes. A pack of those crackers she loved from the bodega.

He kept her water bottle full, placing it within reach like it was part of the process. "Drink," he'd remind her with a little tap on the shoulder. "No dehydration meltdowns today."

She couldn't help but smile at him. He was in sweats and a hoodie, hair tousled, lounging on the couch while she transformed herself into someone worthy of red carpets.

She didn't know it, but Jack was suffering.

He kept stealing glances through the half-open door, catching flashes of her bare shoulders, the soft shape of her face under golden bathroom light. She was already stunning, and she wasn't even done yet.

When she finally stepped out—hair swept into a soft updo, makeup glowing, maroon gown clinging in all the right places—Jack stopped breathing.

No exaggeration.

She walked into the living room and time froze.

Luke was the first to recover, standing up with a big smile. "Whoa. You look incredible, Eve."

She smiled, smoothing her dress down nervously. "Thanks, Lukey."

Jack?

He was just standing there, mouth slightly open, staring like he'd never seen a woman before.

Because he hadn't. Not like this.

This wasn't just Everlyn, his best friend, the girl who made pancakes and knew how he liked his coffee. This was Everlyn, the woman. Powerful. Elegant. Ethereal.

Maroon and gold and glowing from the inside out.

He stepped forward slowly, all black tux hugging him perfectly—hair freshly cut and styled, thanks to her insistence, and now gelled into something polished but still him.

"You..." he finally managed, voice rough. "You look unreal."

Her cheeks flushed, and for a moment they just stood there, looking at each other, the noise of the apartment fading into silence.

"I had help," she said softly, nodding toward him. "You picked the dress, remember?"

"Still," he murmured. "Doesn't feel real."

And the way he looked at her then?

It was reverent.

Not hungry. Not lustful. Just... soft. In awe.

Like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

And maybe she was.

⸻

The gala started the same as every other year.

Bright lights. Sparkling gowns. Clinking glasses. Jack and Everlyn moved through the crowd like they always had—effortlessly side by side. He guided her gently through the sea of donors and sponsors, a hand resting on the small of her back like he'd always belonged there.

But this time... that simple touch felt different.

It was warm. Steady. Firm in a way that made her feel held—not just escorted. Not just shown off.

Protected.

And Everlyn couldn't stop thinking about it.

Jack chatted easily, charming everyone as usual, but her body was attuned to him. The whisper of his palm. The careful way he shifted her gently toward conversations. The pride in his voice when he introduced her as his date—even if it was unspoken, unofficial.

She didn't say anything. Couldn't.

Because every time she looked at him tonight, all she could hear was Quinn's voice in her head.

He's nice.

Not just nice. Jack Hughes nice. The kind of nice that meant pancakes in the morning and water bottles filled without asking. The kind that stood beside you silently until you were ready to speak.

And right now, he was looking at her like he was seeing her for the first time—even though he'd always seen her.

⸻

The DJ opened the floor for slow dances, and Jack didn't hesitate.

He turned to her with a soft, crooked smile. "Come on."

They'd danced together before. Plenty of times. It had never meant anything before. But now? As they found their spot on the dance floor, facing each other, hands tentatively finding their place—it meant everything.

The music hummed low, a soft melody that wrapped around them like a secret. Her hand slipped into his, the other resting on his shoulder. Jack's free arm slid around her waist with quiet confidence.

And then... stillness.

They were swaying. They were dancing. But all Jack could focus on was the way Everlyn was looking at him.

Intensely. Softly. Like she was searching for something and finding it in his face.

He studied her—tried to decode it. Her eyes were locked on his like she couldn't look away. And for the first time in all the years he'd known her, he realized she was finally seeing him back.

"What's on your mind, Evie?" he asked, voice just above a whisper.

She didn't answer.

She just kept looking at him. Drinking him in. Her mind was running wild—flashing through every moment that had led them here.

The shy dinners when he couldn't look her in the eye. The fake bad grades. The way he always showed up. Every summer spent putting her first. Every little thing she'd brushed off as "just Jack being Jack."

But now she understood.

He'd been in love with her this whole time.

And she'd missed it.

She swallowed, breath hitching. "You," she said softly.

Jack blinked. "Me?"

"I can't stop thinking about you."

He stared, stunned. Heart leaping. Breath catching. He scanned her face again and again, like he needed confirmation that this was real—that she was real.

And then it hit him.

The look in her eyes.

The one he'd been wearing for years.

She had it now. That open, unfiltered, aching gaze that he used to hide behind smirks and excuses. She was seeing him—really, truly seeing him—and God, it made his chest burn.

The song ended, but Jack didn't hear the music stop. The room disappeared. His grip on her hand tightened as the MC's voice faded into the background.

They returned to their table, but Jack couldn't focus. Couldn't breathe.

He was spinning.

Eve sat beside him, her hand resting on top of his. It wasn't new. Not really. But tonight, it was loaded. Charged. Different.

Jack needed air.

⸻

He slipped out without a word and found himself on the rooftop.

The city stretched beneath him, lights flickering, the hum of cars far below. He paced, hand tugging at the collar of his tux, heart pounding out of rhythm.

He was scared. Not of her—but of hope.

Because this was everything he wanted.

And that's when he heard it.

The door opened with a soft click.

He turned—and there she was.

Glistening in moonlight. Her maroon gown catching the breeze. Her updo slightly loosened from the night. Her eyes... locked on his.

They didn't speak.

Didn't need to.

The air between them was thick with unsaid things. It wasn't silence. It was a conversation without words. A thousand unspoken truths floating between them like stars.

Jack looked at her like she held the answers to questions he hadn't dared ask. And Everlyn looked at him like she finally, finally understood what was right in front of her.

And then—they ran.

No hesitation. No overthinking. Just gravity.

They met in the middle. Arms around each other. Breathless. Shaking.

Their foreheads pressed together. Their hands clung tight.

"Jack..." she whispered, barely breathing.

He closed his eyes, voice cracking. "I know, Everlyn... I know."

And then—he kissed her.

Years of waiting, of wondering, of almosts and maybes—gone.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't polished. But it was everything. His hands clung to her waist like she was the only thing keeping him grounded. Her hands framed his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks like she was memorizing the feel of him.

The city roared beneath them.

But up there, on that rooftop, it was silent.

Just two hearts, finally meeting in the middle.

Just two souls, saying what words never could.

⸻

It had been over a year since that night on the rooftop.

Since the city went quiet, and Everlyn stopped running, and Jack finally stopped waiting.

Since the moment their hearts collided in the most certain kind of way—the kind that didn't need promises made with words, because it was all written in the way they looked at each other.

Since then, nothing had been the same.

And yet—everything felt like home.

Every morning, Jack woke up with that same quiet awe he'd had since he was fifteen. The way she hummed while brushing her teeth. The way she'd press her forehead to his before leaving for work. The way she poured her love into everything around her without hesitation or fear.

Every day, he fell harder. Every day, he chose her again.

And Everlyn? She felt like she'd finally exhaled.

Jack Hughes was steady. Warm. Deeply kind in the ways no one else got to see. And he loved her in a way that didn't demand attention—but deserved every bit of it. There was no show, no need for validation. Just him. Quietly hers.

They had made a life together. Not flashy. Not perfect. But theirs.

⸻

It was summer again.

Which meant one thing: the Hughes Lake House was alive.

It was tradition at this point. Offseason hit, and the boys flocked to Michigan like it was a pilgrimage. Quinn was already there, helping Ellen prep bedrooms. Luke had brought a handful of friends from around the league—Macklin Celebrini and Will Smith had become the wide-eyed younger brothers of the group overnight. The Tkachuk brothers had showed up in full chaos mode. And Jack had pulled together the old NTDP gang, making it feel like high school and the NHL were blending into one summer-long sleepover.

The lake house was laughter. Inside jokes. The smell of sunscreen and grilled food and dock water. The soundtrack was country music, clinking beers, and the occasional "WHO let Matthew drive the boat?!"

For the rookies, it was a dream. For the veterans, it was therapy.

And for Everlyn?

It was heaven.

She had her hands full—braiding wet hair, making sure no one left without sunscreen, yelling across the dock to make sure Macklin and Will weren't about to snap their necks trying new wakeboard tricks.

She was the same Eve she'd always been—loving and giving, with open arms and no limit to the space in her heart. She even tucked the rookies in like she had done for Luke all those years ago. Whispering reminders in the dark like,

"You don't have to lose who you are to belong here." "If you can't be yourself with someone, that's not someone worth staying for."

Words she'd once needed herself.

⸻

Jack stood at the door that night, watching her speak to Macklin and Will.

She was seated cross-legged on the living room floor, her maroon hoodie slipping off one shoulder, still in her swimsuit from earlier. Her voice was soft. Reassuring. Patient.

Jack felt his chest ache.

Because God, he loved her.

More than he'd ever loved anything in his life.

She was light. She was grace. And somehow—she was his.

⸻

He found Quinn on the back deck not long after. The moonlight danced across the lake in silver ripples. The sound of crickets filled the quiet. Jack stepped beside him, hands in his pockets, heart full.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment.

Until Jack broke the silence.

"She's... she's really..."

"I know," Quinn interrupted, smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "I know, Jack."

He turned toward him, eyes warm. "I'm so happy for you two. I always knew. But seeing it? It's different. It's real."

Jack laughed softly, almost shy.

"I have it picked out, you know..."

Quinn blinked. "What?"

Jack looked down. Kicked the toe of his shoe against the deck.

"The ring. I got it. Not for now. I want to wait a little longer, but... I just know. She's it. She's always been it. And I got it early as a promise. A vow. For when I'm ready. For when she's ready."

Quinn just stared at him. Then stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.

It wasn't long. Wasn't loud.

But it was everything.

Two brothers, standing under a sky they grew up beneath, holding the future in their arms.

Inside, Eve stood in the kitchen, sipping from a mug of tea. She looked around at the house filled with laughter, light, and people she loved.

And her eyes found Jack through the window.

He was looking back at her.

And somehow, she knew.