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capquinn · 7 days ago

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Shelter | Q. Hughes

summary: with another baby on the way, quinn is doing everything he can to stay afloat — caught between bug’s meltdowns and the emotional waves of a second pregnancy, he's trying to hold his family together. request: yes (sort of...) pairing: quinn hughes x reader content: dad!quinn, pregnant!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, bug cries, reader cries, he cries, everybody cries. word count: 7k ↪ main masterlist | dad!quinn masterlist

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Quinn feels like he’s walking a very thin line.

No — scratch that. He feels like he’s standing in the middle of a storm, caught between two colliding weather fronts, completely powerless against the way they crash into each other. There’s no predicting when it will hit, no safe place to take cover, no strategy to outrun it.

Because it’s never just you. And it’s never just Bug. It’s the both of you, moods shifting like the tide, always feeding into each other, never directed at one another but somehow always crashing straight into him.

And some days? Some days, it’s manageable.

Like today.

When he walks into the living room and finds you on the couch, arms crossed, a deep, dramatic sigh falling from your lips, staring blankly at the wall like it personally wronged you. Just minutes ago, he’d heard you laughing over something silly on TV — bright, loud laughter that made him think today might be one of the easier days. But now? Now you’re quiet again, moody and withdrawn, and the change is so swift he feels like he missed something critical.

"You okay?" he asks, careful, like he’s stepping around a landmine.

"Fine," you reply clipped.

He exhales, tilting his head.

"You sure?"

You don’t answer immediately, just sigh again, heavier this time, shifting like even sitting is exhausting.

"I’m just… tired."

Quinn waits, giving you space to say more, but you don’t. Just stare at the ceiling like it holds all the answers, hands resting on the curve of your bump, absently rubbing in slow, mindless circles like your mind is somewhere far away, somewhere he can’t quite reach.

"Did something happen?" he tries again, gentler this time.

Your head shifts in a faint shake, lips pressed tight as if the words are there but you don’t have the energy to form them.

"No. Nothing. I just…" You trail off with another sigh, irritation flickering behind your eyes. "Forget it."

And he recognises it then — the way you start to pull inward, the subtle shift in your tone, the way your sentences taper off, unfinished. He feels it in his chest, the first quiet gust of wind signalling the storm that’s just starting to build.

He barely has time to process it before, across the room, Bug — who had been happily colouring only seconds ago — lets out a huff, flopping onto her stomach.

Quinn watches as she sprawls out, face smushed against the floor, limbs star fished, exhaling another deep, woe-is-me sigh.

He fights the urge to laugh, because God, you really are the same.

"You okay, Buggy?" he asks, already bracing himself.

She peeks up at him with one eye, just barely, like the sheer force of her emotions is physically weighing her down.

"No."

A storm is imminent. He can feel it.

Quinn inhales slowly. "Wanna tell me why?"

Bug turns her head to the side, cheek squished against the rug, and gives him the saddest little shake of her head.

"No."

Quinn flicks his gaze back to you. You’re staring at Bug like she just spoke your soul into existence.

"You don’t know why either, do you?" he asks, lips twitching just slightly.

You meet his eyes, brows furrowing.

"I don’t wanna talk about it," you mumble.

Quinn presses his lips together, nods once. Okay.

Sometimes, the only way to get through a storm is to wait it out. Quinn knows that some tempers can’t be soothed with logic, some moods can’t be unraveled with words. Some storms, like this one, don’t need him to fight against them. They just need him to stand in the middle of it and let it rage.

So he doesn’t ask again. Doesn’t try to pry an answer out of either of you. Doesn’t try to fix it, even though every instinct in his body tells him he should. Instead, he does the only thing he can do.

He moves.

Crosses the room, drops onto the couch beside you with a quiet oof, and stretches an arm across the back, fingers grazing your shoulder. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t press, doesn’t try to force the storm to settle. Just makes room. Just waits.

You sigh, slow and heavy, but you shift, curling into him, cheek pressing against his chest, body melting into his warmth like the eye of the storm finally found its way to you. His arm drops, wrapping around you, rubbing slow, absent circles against your arm.

Then he looks at Bug. She’s still on the floor, cheek smushed against the rug, eyes peeking up at him, waiting.

He pats the cushion beside him.

“C’mere, Buggy.”

She sniffs, pushing herself up onto wobbly little arms, dragging herself over like she’s trudging through the worst day of her life. Quinn watches as she climbs up, tucking herself into his other side, curling in small and warm, sighing just like you had.

And just like that, the storm settles.

No thunder. No more crashing waves. Just quiet, the kind that lingers in the air after the worst of it has passed. The kind that feels a little fragile, like it could roll back in with the right gust of wind, but for now, in this moment, there is peace.

Bug sniffles again. “I was sad, daddy.”

Quinn presses a kiss to the top of her head, his voice quiet, steady.

“That’s okay, Bugs. Some days are just like that.”

You let out a small, tired laugh against his chest, and it’s not much, but it’s enough.

Because sometimes, you don’t need to outrun the storm.

You just need to wait it out together.

But other days? It’s chaos.

It’s stepping into the whirlwind the second he wakes up — Bug already teetering on the edge of a meltdown before breakfast, hair tangled and pyjamas half on, her voice pitching high because you poured the cereal in the wrong bowl. Again.

You’re standing at the counter, unmoved, hand clenched around a spoon, your jaw tight and eyes glazed like you’ve already lived an entire day before the clock reaches seven o'clock.

“I told you,” Bug sobs, pushing the offending bowl away from her, “I want the pink one.”

“I know,” you mutter, fatigued. “But the pink one’s in the dishwasher, baby.”

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

She wails again, louder and sharper, face scrunching as tears roll hot down her cheeks and Quinn barely has time to step in, swooping her up before she hurls the spoon across the room.

It’s Quinn, caught in the middle. Again. It’s the only place he seems to exist lately. Wedged between tantrums and tension, between Bug’s tears and your silence, between holding it all up and watching it all fall apart anyway.

It’s watching Bug melt down in his arms, her tiny body wracked with sobs, while over his shoulder, you stand by the counter, wiping at your eyes, trying not to let him see you falling apart, too.

It’s the exhaustion weighing on his shoulders, the constant push and pull, the feeling that no matter how fast he moves, no matter how hard he tries, he’s always one step behind.

It’s knowing he has to be the steady one — has to be patient with Bug, has to be gentle with you, has to keep everything from tipping over. It’s feeling like every time he soothes one storm, another is already rolling in, relentless, giving him no time to breathe before he’s pulled under again.

And then, just when he thinks he has a handle on it —

It’s Bug sobbing before preschool, her little arms locked tight around his body, shaking as she begs him "please don’t go, daddy. I won’t see you when I get home."

And that’s not like her.

Bug has always been so good about goodbyes, so easy about his road trips, her little voice always chirping “see you soon, daddy! Win lots!” without a second thought. But today? Today, she’s wrecked. And so are you.

You’re standing by the door, rubbing your belly, looking just as lost as she does, eyes misty, voice barely above a whisper as you murmur, "I don’t know what’s wrong. She never does this."

Quinn exhales, slow and tight, arms still wrapped around Bug’s tiny frame, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast. His grip is firm, steady, but inside, he feels anything but. His pulse is hammering, heartbeat drumming against his ribs like a warning, like he’s already bracing for impact.

“Yeah… I know.” He doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t have an answer that will make this easier.

“Maybe she’s just having a rough morning.” But the way you say it — it’s not convincing, not even to yourself.

Quinn’s jaw tightens. His shoulders feel like they’re carrying a weight he can’t shake, like every second is stretching longer, heavier, pressing in on all sides.

“Maybe.” But he doesn’t believe it either.

Because it’s not just Bug. It’s you, too.

You, looking at him like you need him to fix it, like you need some kind of reassurance that this is just a phase, that this is just passing rain, that this isn’t something bigger. And he wants to. He wants to promise you that. But the words catch in his throat, swallowed by the weight of it all. Because it’s been weeks of this — Bug clinging, unraveling, her emotions rolling in like crashing waves. And you, right there beside her, all fraying nerves and overwhelmed tears, feeding off each other, amplifying the storm.

Quinn takes a breath, exhales through his nose, and turns back to Bug.

"Bug, baby, you’ll have so much fun at school," he tries, smoothing a hand over her hair, pushing damp strands away from her tear-streaked face. "You love preschool, remember?"

"Not today!" she wails, curling into his chest, fingers fisting his hoodie like she’s trying to anchor herself to him. "I wanna stay with you."

And God, that one hits hard.

Because Quinn wants to stay. Wants to pick her up and tuck her into his side and tell her "okay, Bug, you can stay with me today." Wants to call the team, push his flight back a few more hours, push the world aside for just a little longer.

But he can’t.

And you know he can’t, but you need something from him, too. You’re still standing by the door, trying to steady yourself, trying to be the strong one even though your eyes are glassy, even though you look seconds away from breaking down yourself.

The pressure is building. He feels it in the silence stretching between you, in the weight of Bug pressing against his chest, in the way your fingers rub absently at the curve of your belly, steadying yourself, like you’re waiting for him to do the same.

He wants to be there for both of you, wants to hold Bug tighter, press a kiss to your forehead, tell you "it’s okay. You’ve got this. She’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine." But it’s too much at once. The wind is howling, the waves are rising, and he feels stretched thin trying to brace himself against the force of it all.

But he knows you need him to go. You need him to walk out before you start crying, before it turns into a full meltdown that none of you will come back from. You need him to rip off the bandaid before Bug convinces herself he’s staying, before she starts believing that if she holds on just a little tighter, just a little longer, he won’t leave at all.

So he sighs, pressing a lingering kiss to Bug’s temple before gently, carefully, peeling her off of him.

"I love you, Bugs. I’ll be back soon soon, okay?"

She doesn’t answer. Just hiccups, wiping her face on her sleeve, sniffling as you pull her into your arms.

And then your eyes meet his over the top of her head, full of something raw and helpless, like you don’t know what to do with all the emotion swirling in the room. Like you’re begging him for an answer, for reassurance, for something.

And God, leaving you like this hurts.

It’s not an easy exit, and it’s not clean. He has to pry himself away from it, has to force himself out the door, has to resist the pull of turning around and staying just a little longer.

Because it doesn't stop at Bug. Leaving her is always hard, but leaving you — like this, lost and overwhelmed, feeling it all so deeply — cuts deeper every time.

Because lately, it’s you who worries him most.

You, so off-kilter, so unlike yourself, so overwhelmed by everything that’s changing. And it’s not like when you were pregnant with Bug — back then, it was just you and him, just the two of you navigating the unknown together with late-night name lists and soft hands over your belly when she kicked. The days were slower. There was room to breathe. But now? Now there’s Bug and her big emotions to balance — her meltdowns, her sudden clinginess, the way she seems to unravel right alongside you — and you’re drowning in it.

You’ve been unraveling for weeks, worn thin by exhaustion, by hormones that send you swinging from teary to irritable to brittle in a breath. They crash into you like waves you don't see coming. One minute you’re fine, steady on your feet, the next you’re barely holding it together, blinking back tears at the sink while Bug wails over something small, something that shouldn’t matter.

And Quinn — Quinn is just trying to keep up. Trying to be your anchor, trying to be steady, but still, somehow, always a step behind, caught between your storm and Bug’s, trying to soothe one without making the other worse.

And maybe that’s the hardest part.

The fact that Quinn can’t fix it, and it’s tearing him apart.

He can’t figure out what you need. How to make this easier for you. How to take even a fraction of the weight off your shoulders when you won’t let him shoulder it with you.

Because you don’t tell him. Not like you used to.

You let the silence stretch, let the weight of it settle between you instead of reaching for him, instead of saying "this is hard, I need you, I don’t know how to do this." And Quinn would give anything to hear that. To hear something. Because he’s trying so hard but he doesn’t know what to do when you won’t let him in.

And the space between you keeps growing, widening like the tide pulling back before the crash. Conversations have turned clipped, exhaustion settling in too deep for either of you to bridge the space.

He reaches for you in bed, fingertips skimming your back, but you turn away, not because you don’t want him, but because you don’t even know where to begin. He doesn’t say anything. Just stills behind you. Leaves his hand hovering there for a beat too long before slowly withdrawing, settling back into the sheets like maybe if he doesn’t move too much, the space between you won’t feel so wide.

So the pressure keeps mounting, thickening the air, pressing down on Quinn from all sides. He’s drowning in it, desperate to fix it, to ease the weight crushing both of you, to be the one who steadies the ship before it all capsizes.

And then, the lightning strike.

The morning when you snap.

When he reaches past you for a coffee mug, presses a sleepy kiss to your temple, murmurs a soft "g’morning, baby," and you recoil, the sharpness in your voice splitting the air like a crack of thunder.

"Quinn, can you just—"

It’s too sharp, too sudden, too much for something so simple.

His hand pauses on the cabinet.

You inhale sharply, eyes squeezing shut like you already regret it, like you already hate yourself for it, but it’s too late. It’s already hanging heavy in the air, thick and suffocating.

He exhales slowly. Measured. Careful. Like he’s trying to track a storm without a radar, trying to trace the spark that lit the fuse but the truth is, he has no idea what just happened.

"What?" he asks, trying so hard to keep his voice neutral. "What did I do?"

"Nothing," you mumble, voice tight. "You didn’t — just forget it."

He can’t forget it, and he also knows better than to push when you’re like this, wound tight, brittle around the edges, balancing on the precipice of frustration and exhaustion and something you haven’t quite named yet. You’re a live wire in bare hands.

But, still, the response grates. Not because you’re upset — he can handle that. Not the weariness in your eyes — he knows it well.

It’s the silence that follows. The wall that goes up. The way you don’t let him in. The way you won’t let him shoulder even the smallest fraction of whatever’s sitting so heavy on you.

He exhales slowly, steadying himself, trying to meet you where you are.

"Baby," he tries again, softer this time.

You stand there, tense, fingers tightening around the fabric of your shirt, staring somewhere past him like if you don’t acknowledge the moment, maybe it won’t settle between you like all the others have lately. Like another weight added to the pile.

And maybe that’s what gets to him the most.

Not the sharpness in your voice, not even the exhaustion clinging to your features — understands all of that. But this. The distance. The way you don’t talk to him like you used to, don’t let him in, don’t give him anything to work with. It’s like watching a door slowly close, inch by inch, and he’s still standing on the other side, waiting, hoping, reaching for someone who used to reach back.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Can you just talk to me?”

It comes out rougher than he means it to, frustration bleeding through the exhaustion, through the endless cycle of tiptoeing around this, around you. Around the way things have been unraveling, thread by thread, while he’s been trying so damn hard to keep the house from splitting at the seams.

And for a second, the silence that follows feels deafening.

Like thunder, rolling in just after the strike.

You press your lips together, your breath coming a little too fast, a little too uneven, and for a second, he thinks — maybe. Maybe this is where the storm breaks. Maybe this is where you finally let it all out, finally let him in.

But then, finally, barely above a whisper, "I don’t wanna fight."

And it’s not a fight. Not yet. But the air is thick with something unresolved, the kind of tension that settles heavy in the walls, in the space between you, in the quiet that should be comfortable but isn’t.

Quinn stands there in the middle of the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, chest tight, heart hammering.

Because this isn’t new. It’s never just one thing — it’s every moment that’s been pushed aside with a quiet “not now,” every heavy breath exchanged across the dinner table, every look that lingers too long but says nothing at all. It’s the soft sighs, the brittle “I’m fine,” the way everything keeps getting postponed — later, tomorrow, when there’s time.

Only there’s never time. Just distance. Just silence dressed as survival.

But it doesn’t stay like this. Not for much longer.

Because Quinn’s never been the kind of man to let storms rage unchecked. Never been the type to let the space between you stretch too wide, to let things fester and rot in the silence.

Except this time, he did.

This time, he let it build for weeks. Figured you needed space. Figured, like always, you’d come to him when you were ready. He didn’t want to push, didn’t want to risk being one more weight pressing down on you — afraid that if he reached too soon, too hard, you’d only pull further away.

So he waited.

And waited.

But you haven’t come.

And this storm? It hasn’t passed.

It’s lingered. A low-pressure system that settled over your home like a weight. It crept in quietly, in the stillness after long days, in the hush of the night when Bug’s cries echoed down the hall and neither of you moved fast enough. It’s soaked into everything, in the silence between you, in the quiet way you move around each other like you’re trying not to stir the air, like even a whisper might trigger the downpour.

It’s in the sighs you don’t explain, in the moments where his hand reaches for yours and only grazes your sleeve. In the way your shoulders curve inward like you’re trying to weather it alone. It’s there in the space between what you need and what he can’t seem to figure out how to give — lightning just waiting for a place to strike.

And Quinn is trying. He really is. He's trying to be steady. Trying to hold the line. He tells himself it’s just a phase, just exhaustion, just the weight of everything pressing down. That you need space. That you’ll come to him, like you always have, when the fog lifts and the words come easier.

Because sometimes, that’s what you needed. Back then, when it was just the two of you, when emotions swelled and you needed room to breathe, to process, to untangle yourself from whatever had you feeling off-kilter, space was good. A quiet moment alone, time to let the frustration settle, to come back to each other with clear heads and soft apologies — it worked. It made sense.

But it’s different now.

Now, space feels like distance, and distance feels like a crack waiting to split wide open. Now, there’s Bug and her big emotions. Now, there’s you, carrying another baby, carrying the weight of change, carrying all the moments he’s missing when he’s away. Now, when you pull away, it doesn’t feel like breathing room — it feels like a warning sign.

And every day that passes without addressing it, every night spent in silence, every conversation left unfinished, makes it feel less like weather and more like climate.

So tonight, when he hears the creak of your footsteps down the hall, hears the soft click of the bedroom door closing, he doesn’t wait. Doesn’t tell himself you need more time. Doesn’t lie to himself about the sky clearing.

He follows.

Quietly, carefully, he pads down the hall and pushes the door open, stepping into the thick of it, into the eye of the storm. He settles carefully onto the mattress beside you, leaving space — giving you space to speak, to move closer, to do anything.

But you don’t.

You just stare at your hands in your lap, fingers curling into the fabric of your shorts, and Quinn watches the way your shoulders rise and fall, notices the tension gathering like you’re bracing for something.

He exhales softly, rubbing a tired hand along his jaw.

"I'm trying," he murmurs, finally breaking the silence.

Your gaze flicks up, lips parting slightly, your chest tightening.

"I swear, I am," he says, quieter now. "I know Bug has been a lot, and your hormones, and the stress, and I know you’re just trying to get through it." His voice wavers for the first time, breath catching slightly as he drags a hand down his face, fingers gripping at his knee when they settle in his lap. "But I need you to talk to me. I don’t know how to help if you won’t let me in. If you keep pretending you’re fine when you’re not."

His voice isn’t sharp. It's not angry. It's just... tired. Not in the way he always is after road trips, after back-to-backs, after late nights followed by early morning skates — but in that bone-deep, heavy way that comes from holding too much for too long.

"I just—" He exhales sharply, tilting his head back against the headboard, dragging a shaky breath into his lungs. "I feel like I don’t know how to make this easier, how to fix it. I don’t know what to do anymore. How to help you, how to help Bug."

Your throat tightens, guilt pressing hard against your ribs.

"Quinn—"

"It’s killing me." His voice breaks over the words, and your heart clenches, because Quinn doesn’t break. Not like this. "I feel like I’m watching you fall apart, watching Bug fall apart, and I can’t—”

He stops abruptly, pressing the heels of his palms over his eyes, shoulders curling inward, like if he doesn’t he’ll completely unravel. His breath is heavy, chest rising and falling too fast, and then you hear it — a sound you’ve rarely heard from him, quiet and choked, a sob he can’t quite swallow down.

"I feel like I'm failing you both."

It slips out before he can stop it, before he can soften it into something easier to hear, and as soon as it’s in the air, it lingers — sharp, cutting. And God, you feel it. Feel it settle deep in your chest, feel the way it steals the breath from your lungs.

Because he’s never said something like that before. Not like this. Not with tears streaking silently down his cheeks, eyes squeezed shut as if he’s ashamed of it. Not in a voice that sounds like it’s been scraped raw, like the words cost him something just to say.

Quinn’s never been one to unravel. He’s quiet by nature, steady in the way he moves through the world. He carries things inward, processes slowly. He’s always been careful with his words, measured with his emotions — not cold, never that, but composed. Grounded. He doesn’t let things boil over. Doesn’t let them spill.

And this? It isn’t something he does. Not because he’s trying to be strong, but because he’s always been wired to endure. To hold it together. To keep going, even when it hurts.

Your hand moves on instinct, settling against his knee, desperate to ground him, to pull him back before he sinks too deep.

"Quinn," Your voice wavers and you barely get his name out before the weight of it all crashes over you.

His shoulders rise and fall with another sharp inhale, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t look at you. Just keeps pressing his palms into his eyes like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will, fighting to regain control, fighting to hold onto whatever strength he thinks he still needs to have.

And that — that — is what undoes you.

"Baby, hey," you whisper, barely above a breath. "Look at me."

For a moment, you think he won’t. That he can’t. That if he does, if he meets your gaze, if he lets you see all of it, he might actually break.

But then, slowly, he drops his hands.

And when he looks at you, really looks at you — your heart shatters.

His eyes are glassy, jaw tight, lashes damp with tears, his expression so raw it knocks the breath right out of you. He swallows hard, shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it, but there’s no taking it back now. No shoving it back down.

He’s unraveling, and you can see it. See the way he’s been holding too much, how it’s been slowly crushing him, how he’s been trying so hard to keep everything together while you’ve been falling apart. See the way it’s eating at him. The guilt, the helplessness, the constant push and pull of trying to keep up with you and Bug while barely keeping himself above water.

And God, it wrecks you.

You shift without thinking, curling into his side, arms wrapping around his middle, pressing your cheek to his shoulder like you’re trying to hold him together with your whole body. And for a moment, he doesn’t move. Just sits there, stiff, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to fall apart, not sure if he should.

But then he exhales, shaky and broken, and his arms come around you. He pulls you closer, pulls you into his lap, like if he holds you tight enough, close enough, maybe the ground won’t feel like it’s giving way beneath him.

His face finds your shoulder, burying into the curve of your neck, and his whole body shudders with the force of the breath he lets out.

"You could never fail me," you whisper, voice barely holding steady. Your fingers slide into his hair, slow and gentle, nails brushing lightly along his scalp, trying to soothe, trying to settle.

Then your hands slide down to cradle his face, thumbs brushing along the sharp line of his jaw, coaxing him to lift his head and look at you. For a second, he resists — eyes squeeze shut again like he’s bracing himself, like he’s afraid of what he’ll see in your face. But when they open, you make sure you make sure he finds only calm. Only love.

"I mean it," you whisper. "You’ve never let us down. Not once. Not me, not Bug. You are everything we need, Quinn."

A sharp breath rushes out of him, like he’s been holding it in for weeks.

You press your lips to his temple, slow and aching, like an apology wrapped in affection. I’m sorry you ever felt that way. Sorry for the silence, for the way you shut him out, for every time he reached for you and found nothing to hold onto.

You linger there, breathing him in, hoping it says what you haven’t found the words for. That you’re still here. That you never meant to leave him standing in the storm alone. That you love him, more than you’ve said lately.

And maybe he hears it. Maybe he feels it in the way you hold him now, tighter than you have in weeks. Because his hands tighten too, curling into your back, tethering himself to you. And when he exhales, it’s steadier. Softer. A little less like the weight of everything is his to carry alone.

"It’s just… different this time," he murmurs after a moment, voice rough at the edges like he’s been trying to make sense of it for weeks but still hasn’t found the words. "It wasn’t like this with Bug. You weren’t—" He stops himself, jaw tightening. "I don’t mean—"

"I know," you whisper.

Because you do. He’s not blaming you. He’s not making this your fault. He’s just trying to make sense of it the same way you are.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” he adds quickly, tone softening immediately. “I just… I don’t know. You were still tired and emotional, sure, but we were —” He trails off, mouth twisting like the memory stings a little. “Happier, I think.”

You don’t say anything. Just nuzzle closer, biting your bottom lip. Guilt pressing in.

“We used to fall asleep on the couch talking about names. You’d make me drop everything when Bug kicked just to feel her. And now —” He breaks off, voice tightening. He swallows hard. “And now I walk through the door, I don’t know what version of you I'm coming home to. I don’t know if I should talk or keep quiet. I don’t even know if you want me here sometimes."

The words sting, and not because they’re unfair. But because they’re true.

You inch closer, guilt already starting to burn at your chest. Your nose finds the scruff of his cheek, breath catching as you press into him, barely touching but needing to be closer.

“I always want you here.”

He exhales, a shaky breath against your ear.

“It doesn’t feel like it,” he murmurs, voice brittle and splintering at the edges.

And the silence that follows is brutal — thick and sharp, like standing in the wreckage of something you didn’t mean to break.

His thumb moves in slow, steady circles against your back, like he’s trying to settle a tempest he can’t see but knows is there.

And all you can do is lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, eyes shut tight — like maybe, just maybe, if you hold him close enough, he’ll feel everything you have yet to say out loud.

Your voice comes out small, barely more than a whisper. “I know I haven’t been easy, and I'm—”

"You don’t have to be," he cuts in, gently but firmly, the words spilling out before you can finish. "I just need you to let me in," he murmurs, voice low, unwavering.

His arms tighten around you, solid and warm, like he’s trying to anchor you to him, trying to keep the distance from creeping back in.

"I don’t care if you’re mad, or sad, or exhausted, or don’t even know what you’re feeling. I can handle all of it — I want to handle all of it. To be in it with you. But don’t—" his breath catches, and he presses his forehead to your temple, exhaling slow. "Don’t shut me out. Don’t act like I’m just another thing to manage. Like I’m something else making this harder."

His words land heavy, settling in the space that’s grown too wide these past few weeks. And maybe that’s what stings the most — how much truth there is in them.

You close your eyes, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, because he’s right. That's exactly what you have been doing.

You have shut him out. You’ve held him at arm’s length, convincing yourself it was easier this way. Because some days, it was simpler to let the distance sit between you, easier to let the weight of it build instead of unpacking it, to let the storm build rather than admit how much you’re struggling beneath it.

"I’m sorry," you whisper, voice small, uneven, barely holding together at the seams.

Quinn shakes his head instantly, shifting beneath you, like the words sting more than they should.

"That’s not—" he exhales sharply, pressing his palm against his forehead, shaking his head before wrapping his arms more securely around you. "That’s not what I want, baby. You don't have to apologise."

His chest rises and falls against yours, breath warm against your hair. His voice is quieter when he speaks again, rough at the edges like it’s been sitting heavy in his throat for too long.

"I just needed to say it out loud," he murmurs. "To you. That this is a lot. And that I'm... I’m struggling too."

Hearing it like this, quiet and raw, knocks the air from your lungs.

And now the guilt crashes over you like a rogue wave, pulling you under before you have time to brace for it. It presses heavy, suffocating, settling in the spaces between all the ways you let the silence stretch too far, let the exhaustion dictate your words, where you let the distance grow instead of reaching for him.

Because God, you’ve felt alone these past few weeks — adrift, overwhelmed, buried under exhaustion and the hormones you can't control, and Bug’s big emotions — but you never stopped to think that maybe he has too. That maybe, while you’ve been sinking, he’s been out in the storm, fighting to keep you all afloat, barely keeping his own head above water.

And now, hearing him admit it — hearing him tell you just how worn thin he really is — makes everything you overlooked painfully clear. You knew, in some distant way, that Quinn was tired. But you hadn’t let yourself see it fully. You hadn’t noticed how carefully he'd wrapped himself in quiet; how the calm he wore wasn't peace, but exhaustion. How close he'd come to breaking, waiting quietly for you to see it.

The ache triples, guilt sharp and bitter as your fingers twist into his shirt before you can stop them, gripping tight like an anchor, like you can hold him here, hold him up, the way he’s been trying to do for you.

Your throat tightens as you whisper, "I should’ve seen it."

Quinn shakes his head immediately, his arms flexing around you, one hand splaying wide against the small of your back, the other slipping up to cradle the back of your head. His thumb brushes slow, soothing strokes against your hair like he’s trying to keep the wind from howling, steadying the sails before the storm hits. This is him trying to keep you from turning inward, from spiralling into blame.

"Baby," he exhales, tipping his forehead against yours. "Don’t."

But how can you not?

How can you, when you feel his breath shake against your skin? When he’s been carrying all of this alone, when you’ve been so wrapped up in your own unraveling that you never saw him fraying too? When it finally hits you that every sleepless night, every tantrum soothed, every moment spent steadying you and Bug, he was never steady himself?

You can’t help it. Because now, the guilt is a storm of its own, building too fast, too heavy to hold back.

Quinn feels it before he even sees it.

The shift. The way your breath catches, stutters, like the wind just changed direction, gathering force. The way your shoulders tense, then tremble, like the weight of the storm pressing against you is too much to hold back.

And he knows.

Knows the way your body reacts before the downpour. Knows the way your fingers tighten their grip — on fabric, on him, on anything solid — when you’re trying to hold yourself together. Knows the way your chest rises too fast, the way your throat works through a swallow that doesn’t quite make it past the lump sitting heavy there.

Knows the warning signs.

Because he’s seen your storms before. He’s weathered them, stood at the eye of them, braced against them, held you through them. And now, as the first crack of thunder rolls through your body — a tiny, barely there inhale that catches in your throat — he knows another one is coming.

And he doesn’t want that for you.

"Baby," he whispers again and and it’s not more a pet name — it’s a plea. It's a a quiet, desperate thing, frayed at the edges. Please don’t go there. Please don’t blame yourself. Please don’t break because of me.

His forehead stays pressed to yours, hands tightening around you.

But you just squeeze your eyes shut, pressing yourself closer, and that’s when he really feels it. The tiny shake of your shoulders, the uneven rise and fall of your chest, the way your body curls inward, instinctively seeking shelter.

Your voice comes out ragged. "I should've known. I was so wrapped up in myself that I didn't—"

"I know," he murmurs softly, cutting through your words. And it’s not a dig, not an accusation, just fact. Just something true between you.

And that hurts worse.

Because you never saw it clearly enough. Because he never told you. Because you never asked. Because you’ve both been drowning in separate storms, hands outstretched, but never quite finding each other.

His hand slips lower, sliding over your back, pulling you in until there’s nothing left between you but warmth and the quiet understanding that you’re in this together. That you should’ve been in this together all along.

"What do you need?" His voice is softer now, lips brushing against your hair, the question almost hesitant — like he’s afraid you’ll shut him out again.

You shake your head, barely a movement, barely enough to count, but it’s there.

"Just you."

And God, that nearly knocks him over.

Because he can do that.

He can be that.

He can be yours. He is yours.

He presses a lingering kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, and a final one just beneath your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. His fingers slip beneath the hem of your hoodie, pressing firm and steady against your skin, like he’s making a promise without saying a word.

When your next breath shudders through you, breaking against his collarbone, Quinn just holds on tighter.

"I’ve got you," he murmurs.

You don’t say anything, just hold onto him, letting the quiet settle between you, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing pull you back, slow and measured, like waves finally lapping at the shore instead of crashing against it. Like the first stillness after days of wind.

And then, before the weight of everything can creep back in, Quinn exhales, deep and slow, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours.

"We’re okay," he murmurs, pressing his lips to your hair, the warmth of his breath sinking into your skin. "We’re gonna be okay."

And for the first time in weeks, you believe him.

Then he shifts, nose nudging at your neck as he tucks himself in closer, like he’s been aching for this, for you. His arms tighten, drawing you in like he’s gathering something precious, something fragile that he almost lost. You feel it in the way his body softens against yours, shoulders finally beginning to uncoil.

Then, his breath evens out, slower, like he’s finally letting himself rest, and it feels like something cracking open and being put back together all in the same moment. Like all the weight you've both been carrying is finally lifting, piece by piece, no longer just his and no longer just yours to bear.

Like after weeks of drifting in separate storms, you’ve finally found your way back to the same shore, the waves settling, the worst of it behind you.

#i promise they love each other #reader is overwhelmed and quinn is overwhelmed and i’m overwhelmed #i blacked out writing this like i swear i ended on 3.5k words 2 weeks ago and now we're here #dad!quinn #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes #capquinn’s requests #capquinn's writing #hockey fic

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