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blueskrugs · 1 year

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More than a Memory | Quinn Hughes

I write quinn now, but apparently only for @matthewtkachuk. surprise babe! hope you enjoy this one, my latest @antoineroussel fic exchange fic! (and it’s not even late!) it was unbelievably hard not to message you about this while I was writing it.

special shoutout to my real-life Sam, who inspired more of this fic than I’d care to admit.

recommended listening: More than a Memory by Garth Brooks

length: 5.3k words

When you were ten years old, Quinn Hughes was your almost-first-kiss.

You still remembered the moment as if it were yesterday. In a rare quiet moment in the Hughes household, you were sitting on their living room floor with your eyes closed, where Quinn had told you to wait. You almost flinched when you felt Quinn’s fingers brush your wrist. You cracked open one eye. Quinn was carefully winding a friendship bracelet around your wrist and tying it in a knot. You squeezed your eyes shut again.

Quinn pressed his forehead to yours. You didn’t dare breathe.

The back door slammed, Jack or Luke, probably, and you both jolted away from each other. Quinn kneed you in the side as he tried to roll away from you. You were both breathless with nervous laughter—and you with a little bit of pain—when Jack appeared in the doorway. He looked between the two of you for a moment with all the confusion of an eight year old who didn’t understand his older brother.

“Come outside, and play with us,” Jack complained.

It was January in Toronto, and it was cold out. Jack didn’t seem to care about that part. You and Quinn shared a look, but you both grabbed your coats and hats and followed Jack outside.

That had been over ten years ago.

You and Quinn had grown apart over the years after that day. Once best friends, you quickly felt like you were becoming strangers. Quinn started focusing more on hockey, and your friendship fell through the cracks. It was painful for a while. You missed Quinn terribly, even though he hadn’t gone anywhere. There was a whole year where he barely spoke to you at all, even though you spent all day in the same classrooms.

Eventually, hockey took the Hughes family to Michigan, and you lost contact with Quinn entirely. You did your best to forget about Quinn, but you kept the thin green friendship bracelet looped around your wrist.

But that was then, and this is now. That was before you grew up, before you left your family behind and moved across the country to Vancouver. Before, well, everything.

You didn’t think much about Quinn Hughes these days. You knew he’d been drafted out here, but you didn’t pay much more attention to his career than that. It was for your own sanity, really. Besides, Vancouver was a big city. The odds of you ever running into Quinn were pretty low.

Or so you thought. You run into Quinn for the first time at the grocery store of all places. You almost don’t recognize him at first, and he doesn’t see you, too focused on the bags of frozen vegetables. You freeze—fitting, for the aisle you were standing in. You debate just turning around and leaving the aisle, but you really need green beans, and they’re the last thing on your grocery list for the week.

“Excuse me,” you say, edging past Quinn’s cart and reaching for the bag of green beans.

“Oh, sorry,” Quinn says. He starts to move out of the way, but stops, staring at you. You meet his eyes briefly before carefully looking over his left shoulder. “Do I know you?”

You couldn’t remember what you looked like when you were 13 and saw Quinn for the last time, or imagine what he could see in your face now that would still be familiar. Quinn looks the same, yet different. Older, obviously, but it’s enough that you’re not sure you would have recognized him yourself if he weren’t an NHL player in the same city you lived in. His hair has grown out longer than you can ever remember it being, and there’s a day or two worth of stubble across his cheeks. Underneath it, he’s Quinny, but not the Quinn you knew.

You’ve been quiet for too long. Quinn’s still staring at you, trying to figure out where he knows you from. You could lie. Tell him you’ve never met before and move on.

What you say instead is: “We went to primary school together, actually.”

There’s a horrifying moment where you think Quinn still won’t recognize you. His eyebrows draw together in confusion, and you wish you hadn’t said anything at all. The moment passes, Quinn’s face clears, and, before you know it, he’s stepping around both of your carts to wrap you in a quick hug. He’s pulling away before you can even convince yourself to hug back.

“Oh my God, of course, Y/N!” Quinn says. “I didn’t know you lived in Vancouver now.”

You don’t have the time to explain all the reasons you left Toronto, so you say, “Yeah, it’s a recent thing. Needed a fresh start, y’know?”

Quinn nods like he does know. He’s moved around enough he might actually know. “I need to get going, but it was good to see you,” he says. “We need to get coffee some time, catch up, yeah?”

You find yourself nodding. Quinn smiles at you one last time before turning and walking away. You realize that you don’t even have his phone number. Whatever. He probably didn’t really mean anything by it, and you’re probably never going to see each other again. For real this time.

The second time you run into Quinn Hughes is actually your fault. You take a personal day off work on a Friday, but you feel too restless to sit around your too-small, too-empty apartment. You Google “ice rinks near me” and end up at Robson Square.

It’s easy enough to rent skates, and you are stepping onto the mostly empty ice before you can let yourself think too hard about it. You don’t know the last time you’d been ice skating. Years, probably. You wobble a bit at first, but it isn’t long before muscle memory kicks in, and you are gliding along as well as you can on the rough ice. It is early enough in the afternoon that it isn’t too crowded, only a few other families and college-aged couples, plus one other lone skater on the other end of the rink from you. It doesn’t take an expert to identify him as a hockey player, but you would recognize that skating anywhere. You had grown up skating alongside him and his brothers in Wedgewood Park back in Toronto.

Quinn isn’t wearing anything Canucks-branded, which is probably why no one else has recognized him. He’s skating in smaller circles than the rest of the crowd, not really paying anyone else any mind. You’re too far away from the door to double back and make an escape, but Quinn still hasn’t seen you, either. You keep skating, praying Quinn doesn’t look up from his crossovers.

A young child skates past you, then, laughing as they escape their parents. You skate sideways to avoid getting in the way, forgetting how close you’d gotten to Quinn. You are still looking over your shoulder for the kid’s parents when you bump into someone, and you’re both tumbling to the ice.

You had also forgotten how much it hurt to hit the ice.

You end up on top of Quinn, your legs tangled together, Quinn’s hands gripping your elbow and your hip.

“Oof,” he says. He looks up at you properly for the first time. “Oh, hi.”

“Hey,” you say, still a little breathless from falling. And maybe a little bit from being so close to Quinn. You choose to ignore that part.

Quinn winces. “D’you mind-”

“Right, fuck, sorry.” You remove your elbow from his gut. You start to roll off Quinn. His hands tighten for a split second before he lets you go. You were going to start drawing attention to yourselves soon if you don’t get off the ice, but you still lay on your back for a moment, trying to catch your breath.

Next to you, Quinn is already getting to his feet. He brushes the snow off his pants and holds out a hand for you. You debate ignoring it; you know how to skate, and you know how to get up after falling. You certainly don’t need Quinn’s help.

You roll to your knees and take Quinn’s hand, letting him pull you back to your feet. You drift close for a second, practically into Quinn’s chest. You both took a step backwards. Quinn starts skating again without letting go of your hand, and you have no choice but to skate after him.

Until Quinn realizes you were still holding hands, and he drops yours like he’s been burned.

You step off the ice as soon as you reach the door, not looking to see if Quinn is following you. You hear him sigh before he steps off too.

You find a bench and begin yanking at your skate laces with numb fingers. Quinn sits beside you and pulls your hand away. He rubs absently at your cold fingertips. You should have worn gloves.

“Hey, you’re not leaving already, are you?” he asks softly.

You shake your head. You don’t know. You don’t know if Quinn wants you anywhere near him, or if you want to stick around. This was supposed to be a nice afternoon by yourself, not another one haunted by ghosts of your past.

You miss the days when you knew how to act around Quinn, when you didn’t even have to think about it.

“What’re you even doing here?” you ask, deflecting. “Surely you have no shortage of access to ice.” It’s teasing, but it feels forced. A reminder of the reason your friendship fell apart all those years ago.

Quinn shrugs. “It’s nice, sometimes,” he says, “to get outside and skate like we used to as kids.”

You think you might understand, a little. “Yeah,” you say, speaking just as softly as Quinn.

“Haven’t seen you around much,” he says next.

That’s by design, a little bit. It hasn’t been hard, exactly, to avoid running into Quinn at the only place you know you have in common—the grocery store.

“Been busy,” you lie. You go to work, you go home, alone. You’ve been dragged out to happy hour after work a few times with your new coworkers, but you always duck out after one drink.

Quinn shoots you a sideways look like he can still see through you, even after a decade. He pulls out his phone, unlocks it, and hands it to you, before squatting down and beginning to untie your skates.

“Well, if you can spare some time, you still owe me a coffee,” he says, staring carefully at his fingers. You look up from typing your number into a new contact. “I owe you coffee?” you splutter. Quinn grins up at you, and you can’t help but laugh. You only have a vague idea of how much Quinn makes these days, but it is definitely more than you.

Quinn follows you over to the counter to return your skates. “You don’t have to leave just because I’m here,” he tells you.

You force yourself to smile at him over your shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself, I just don’t think I’d be able to get up after another fall like that.” You’re already feeling stiff and cold from your hard landing on the ice. It might be a little bit to avoid making small talk with Quinn, too. “I’ll text you, okay?”

Your friendship with Quinn begins again in fits and starts after that. You do end up meeting for coffee: one sorta-painful Saturday morning, trying to fit a decade’s worth of the important stuff into an hour and a half. Quinn’s busier than you, practices and games and road trips, but he texts when he can. You find it easier than you expected to respond to his dumb memes and inane small talk. You dodge his attempts to hang out again. You’re not sure you’re ready for that, but you’re not entirely sure why.

Then, Quinn texts you that Jack and the Devils were going to be in town the next week, along with his parents. You didn’t even know Jack had gotten drafted to the Devils. Your heart aches for things you didn’t even know you were missing out on.

You open the text, but don’t answer it for days. Quinn finally calls you.

“You know, my parents are going to be pissed if they find out you’re avoiding them,” he says when you answer. He almost sounds angry.

“Fuck, hello to you, too,” you snap.

Quinn huffs. “Hi, you’ve been ignoring me,” he says. “C’mon, they’re looking forward to seeing you,” he adds. “My mom especially.”

You wish you could flip Quinn off right now. Ellen always was your favorite Hughes. You hadn’t even realized he had told his parents you were in Vancouver now.

“Quinn, I haven’t been to a hockey game in years,” you try. It’s a weak excuse, and you both know it.

“So?” Quinn says. “Listen, my mom already got you an extra ticket, you have to come.” He pauses. “Even Jack is excited to see you,” he wheedles.

“Have you told everyone I moved to Vancouver?” you ask.

“Well, not everyone,” Quinn says. “Just my family, and a few teammates.”

“So, pretty much everyone,” you laugh.

“I was excited!” Quinn defends, but he’s also laughing. “It’s not everyday I run into my best friend after ten years.” He has a point there. “I’ll text you the details, okay?” Quinn is saying, and then he’s hanging up.

You end up getting dragged out to dinner with the four Hugheses the night before the game, despite your protests, citing family time and other shit that Ellen doesn’t buy.

“You’re taller than me,” you complain, when Jack bounds out of Quinn’s car in front of the restaurant and wraps you in a hug. The last time you’d seen him you still had a few inches on him, at least.

“You should see how tall Lukey is now,” Jack says. “He’s taller than both of us.” Jack is laughing, but you can hear how much it’s killing him that his baby brother is taller than him.

God, you hadn’t even thought about Luke. “Shit, is he in college now?” That can’t be right.

Ellen smiles at you over her shoulder as you all head inside. “He just started his second year at Michigan.”

“He’s all the smartest out of all three of us,” Quinn whispers in your ear, a hand hovering over the small of your back. You imagine you can feel the heat of his palm across the distance and through your thin sweater.

It’s easier than you thought to lose yourself in the rhythm of conversation and get swept away in the controlled chaos that occurs with the Hughes family. You argue with Jack over appetizers, and you both take turns making fun of Quinn. It’s familiar, like a well-worn pair of shoes.

Ellen turns to you after the dinner plates have been cleared away, and Jack and Quinn are bickering good-naturedly over who has to foot the bill. There’s a worried look in her eyes that immediately sets you on edge.

“I’d had no idea you moved out to Vancouver,” she starts. “It’s been so long since your mom and I chatted.”

For as close as you and Quinn had been growing up, it only made sense that Ellen and your mom had become good friends, too, between supervising play dates and coordinating carpools. You hadn’t known if they’d kept in touch at all since the Hughes family moved to Michigan.

Ellen goes on. “Did that boy—oh, what’s his name—move with you?”

“Sam? Oh, no, that’s…over,” you say. That is the reason you moved across the continent at all. This isn’t the time or place for that part of the conversation, though. “Just me out here,” you say, uncomfortable.

“Sam?” Quinn asks, at the same time Jack says, “Who’s Sam?” Quinn looks worried, while Jack looks delighted by this development.

You wave your hand in a way you hope seems nonchalant. “Just an ex-boyfriend.” That answer isn’t good enough for either of them; Quinn’s frown deepens, and Jack’s eyebrows go up. “We were together for a while, I don’t know, everyone thought he was it for me, I guess.” You had even thought that Sam was it for you.

You had never been more wrong.

The boys let it go, and you turn back to Ellen. She tsks. “That’s too bad, your mom said you two were so cute together.”

You had been once, you supposed. “Yeah, well,” you say awkwardly. You’ve probably already said too much. You’re saved by the waitress delivering the bill, reigniting Jack and Quinn’s argument.

Quinn hugs you tightly outside the restaurant. “We need to hang out more,” he says firmly. “Quit fucking avoiding me.”

“Language,” Ellen warns from behind you. You laugh at the face Quinn makes. Jack ruffles your hair on the way past. You aim a kick at him, but he dodges you, cackling. You manage to grab onto the back of his shirt and reel him in for a hug, too.

“Missed you,” he admits. “Don’t be a stranger,” he adds. “Quinn knows where you live now, he will find you.”

It would be threatening if you hadn’t known these boys since you were literal children, and if Jack weren’t still about as intimidating as a puppy. Still, Quinn’s looking seriously at you over Jack’s shoulder, and you don’t doubt that he will start showing up at your front door to drag you out of the apartment.

October bleeds into November. It becomes harder to avoid Quinn and his pointed texts, but the Canucks go on the road for a week, saving you from coming up with excuses. You know Quinn too well to expect that he’d let his mom’s mention of your ex go without an interrogation.

But you slip up before Quinn gets the chance to confront you. Your anniversary with Sam is—was—November 14th. You buy a bottle of wine and drink it alone in your empty apartment. You find yourself calling Quinn without thinking about it, memories of years past blurring together.

“Hello?” Quinn mumbles when he answers the phone. Shit, you’d forgotten he’s on the East Coast—Boston? Buffalo? You’re not sure right now.

“Shit, sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” You feel like you’re on the verge of tears, and Quinn must be able to hear it through the phone. “Forget it, I’m sorry.”

He sounds worried, more awake, when he speaks again. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

His words set something off in you, and you’re crying in between one breath and the next. So much has happened, and you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to tell the story and do it justice. You faintly hear Quinn sigh on the other end of the line. He’s quiet as you try to collect yourself, the minutes stretching out between you.

“Am I always going to be alone?” you finally ask. You take a shuddery breath.

Quinn yawns, and you wince, suddenly remembering that you woke him because you were feeling melancholy. “What? Of course not, why would you even ask that?” Quinn doesn’t sound angry, just confused.

“Everybody always leaves,” you whisper.

Quinn left. A string of worthless ex-boyfriends before Sam all left. Sam had been the one, you’d thought, the one who would stay.

You ended up leaving before he could.

“I’m not going anywhere this time,” Quinn says firmly. “Well, except for road trips, sometimes, and back to Michigan for the summer, I guess, but I’m bringing you with me to Michigan anyway, and you know what I mean.”

You giggle in spite of yourself. “I’m sorry for waking you,” you say again, fighting back a yawn of your own. Your head is starting to hurt.

There’s muffled rustling on Quinn’s end that tells you he’s shrugging. You’re still lying on your living room floor. You should probably move, go to bed, something. You drag a blanket off your couch and over yourself. Just a few more minutes.

You wake up to your phone alarm blaring next to your head the next morning. You groan and roll over. You never did make it to bed, and you’re sore and stiff from laying on your floor all night. You slap at your phone to turn your alarm off. It’s nearly dead, another consequence of falling asleep on the floor.

You drag yourself into the kitchen for a glass of water and a phone charger. Your call log is still open. The call with Quinn lasted hours; Quinn must have only ended it when he woke up this morning. You should probably apologize for drunk dialing and wallowing, again.

There’s a text waiting for you from Quinn, too: you owe me coffee again 💤

You roll your eyes and dislike the message to be annoying.

Quinn shows up at your door a few days later with coffee in hand. He shoulders his way past you before you can make up an excuse about being busy, despite the fact that it’s a Saturday morning and you’re definitely still in pajamas, and thrusts one of the cups of coffee at you.

You take it, suspicious. “I thought I was supposed to be buying you coffee, not the other way around,” you grumble. Quinn got your coffee order right, because of course he did.

“I’ll send you a Venmo request or something,” Quinn says, unconcerned. “Are you mad at me?”

You don’t know what you were expecting Quinn to say, but it definitely wasn’t that. “Am I— what?”

“Are you mad at me? For leaving Toronto?”

You were, once. That anger faded a long time ago, though, softened by nostalgia and simply missing your best friend. “What? No, not any more.” “Not any more?” Quinn echoes.

“I mean, I was, when we were younger, but that was stupid.” It wasn’t really Quinn’s fault, and, seeing how far he’s gotten now, you really can’t blame him for wanting to follow hockey for as long as he could.

“You said everybody leaves,” Quinn insists. “I left you.”

“Quinny, we were kids,” you say. “I’m not mad at you for something that happened over a decade ago, oh my God.”

“But you said—”

“I’m just tired of dating shitty guys, okay?”

“Oh.” Quinn takes a sip of his coffee. He opens his mouth, ready to argue some more.

“I’m not having any more of this conversation without coffee,” you say. You wave the cup of coffee in your hand for emphasis.

Quinn drops it after that.

Weeks pass. Quinn grows more insistent on spending time with you, whether it’s at your apartment or his, or sneaking in a breakfast or lunch not-date when your schedules allow. He even invites you to hang out with a few of his teammates, and you spend one surprisingly nice evening squished between Quinn and Brock on Quinn’s couch, playing video games that you’re not particularly good at. You and Brock spend most of the time ganging up on Quinn for some light bullying, much to Quinn’s despair.

You keep expecting Quinn to bring up Sam and your relationship again. He never does, but you see the way he watches you sometimes, the same “worried older brother” look he used to cast upon Jack and Luke. After a while, you and Quinn settle into a rhythm of friendship, not unlike the one you had when you were kids. You talk frequently, you hang out when you can.

You fan the flames of a childhood crush you thought had been extinguished a long time ago.

“Hey, are you going home for Christmas?” Quinn says randomly one afternoon in December. He’s sitting on your couch, craning his neck around to see you where you’re standing in your kitchen.

“Uh? No?” You’re still close enough with your family, but they understand why you avoid Toronto pretty much these days. There’s too many ruined relationships haunting those streets.

Quinn huffs. “What are you running from?” His face does something complicated before settling on worried again. “He didn’t, like, hurt you, did he?”

“Sam? No, absolutely not.” You reconsider. “I mean, like, emotionally, yeah, but that was just the break-up.”

Quinn cracks a small smile, but he still looks concerned. “So, you’re really not going home because of him?”

You shrug. “Easier to avoid running into an ex if you’re not even in the same city. Besides, I kinda…cut all ties and got out of dodge. It’s too awkward to go back now.”

Quinn’s eyebrows furrow like he’s trying to figure out what question he wants to ask next. “You really—” He switches tacks. “Do you—like—I’m going to Michigan, and it’s only for, like, a day, but you know my mom would love to have you, but only if you want, and—” He takes a deep breath. “Do you want to come to Michigan for Christmas?”

You stare at Quinn, unsure how to react. There was once a time when you were as comfortable in the Hughes’ house as your own. That was a long time ago, in a house in a different country. You feel like you and Quinn have been dancing around the question of whether or not your friendship could be something more—that tenuous moment from when you were 10 still not forgotten—and this feels like crossing that unspoken line somehow.

Quinn looks unsure now, watching you hesitantly from across the room.

“I don’t know, Quinn,” you say finally. “I don’t want to impose, and you barely get to see your family as it is—”

Quinn waves a hand at you. “Luke will be out in Halifax for World Junior’s by then, and I’m serious, you know Mom would love to have you.” He frowns. “You shouldn’t have to be alone on Christmas.”

It would be nice to not be alone for the holidays. You glance over at your sad little Christmas tree, still undecorated in a corner of your living room.

Still, “I’ll be fine,” you insist.

You expect Quinn to let it go, the way he lets a lot of things go with you lately. He’s been careful, afraid to push you into difficult conversations since you reconnected. Instead, he frowns harder and crosses his arms at you.

You’re almost glad for it, mentally preparing yourself for a fight.

“You’re coming to Michigan,” he says firmly. “I’ll book your fucking flight myself if I have to.”

“Q—” you start, but Quinn’s not done.

“What are you so afraid of? What did your ex do to you that you’re so scared to let people in? Ever since you’ve been in Vancouver, you keep everyone at a distance, even me. We used to tell each other everything.”

You don’t have the words to respond. You turn on your heel and stalk off towards your bedroom. You hear Quinn call your name, but you ignore him. You yank your bedside table drawer open, fishing around blindly until your hand closes around the item you’re looking for. You head back towards the living room.

Quinn’s still standing there with his arms crossed, looking angry and confused and hurt all at once.

You throw the object in your hand at Quinn. He catches it easily. Hockey player reflexes.

“A ring box? I don’t understand.” He opens the box carefully. Inside, nestled in the velvet, is a beautiful, sparkling engagement ring. Quinn stares at it, open-mouthed.

“We were supposed to get married,” you tell Quinn. Your voice sounds hollow, even to your own ears. “Sam and I, next summer.” Quinn takes the ring out of the box and turns it over in his hand. It glints in the light. “We’d met in college. God, I was so in love.”

“I still don’t—I don’t get it.”

You continue. “I came home from work one day and found him fucking one of our friends. Had been going on for a while, apparently. We were in the middle of planning the wedding, we were about to buy a house, everything. I was going to ask her to be one of my bridesmaids.” You let out a humorless laugh. You realize your eyes are wet. “I cleaned all my shit out of our apartment while he was at work a few days later, hid out at my parents’ for a few days. I think I had everything settled to move to Vancouver within a couple weeks.”

You watch as Quinn slots the ring back into its box.

You had needed the distance. It wouldn’t have been long before all of your friends found out about Sam, and you didn’t think you could handle the endless explanations of why your engagement had ended. Plus, Vancouver had brought Quinn back to you, and that was easily the best part of your year.

Quinn finally seems to notice your crying. “Hey, come here,” he says gently, opening his arms for you. You step into them without hesitation, letting Quinn wrap you in a hug. You let yourself linger, safe and comfortable in Quinn’s arms.

“You know, I used to be taller than you,” you mumble into Quinn’s chest. Those years had been nice. Quinn doesn’t tower over you now, but you’re tucked neatly under his chin. He pinches your side. You jerk and squirm away, laughing.

Quinn grabs you by the wrist suddenly, bringing your hand close to his face to inspect it. “What is this?” he asks, twisting the little, braided green bracelet around his finger until it tightens against your wrist.

You try to tug your hand away, but Quinn holds on.

“It’s a bracelet, Q, I know you’ve seen them before.” Quinn pinches you again, gently on the skin of your forearm this time. You whine at him.

“I gave this to you,” he says. It’s not a question. He finally tears his eyes away from the bracelet and looks at you. “I gave this to you,” he repeats, “when we were like, ten.”

“Yeah,” you say, helpless. You had no idea Quinn even remembered that day, or giving you the bracelet.

“You still wear it?” he asks. You shrug. “That was, like, over ten years ago, what the hell.”

You finally pull your hand free from Quinn. You shrug again, uncomfortable. “I didn’t start wearing it regularly until you moved to Michigan.” It had been a nice reminder of your best friend, and after a while, you honestly forgot it was tied around your wrist.

“I almost kissed you that day,” Quinn says thoughtfully.

If you were drinking something, you probably would have choked. You’re suddenly very aware of how closely you and Quinn are still standing. Quinn pauses. You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks, softly.

You nod before you can even think about it, winding your arms around Quinn’s neck and letting him pull you in by the hips. It’s better than it would have been at 10, yet it’s exactly what you breathlessly wished for all those years ago. Quinn’s lips move easily against yours, just as gentle as he always is with you.

When you pull away to catch your breath, you rest your forehead on Quinn’s shoulder. You’re both silent for a long moment.

“I have a confession,” you say.

“Another one?” Quinn squeezes your hip.

“I don’t think I’m ready for another relationship,” you admit.

Quinn squeezes your hip again. “Baby, I’ve been waiting on you since we were kids.” You laugh, smacking Quinn on the back of the head. “Ow, hey. This just means I get to woo you, yeah?”

You laugh harder. “Never fucking say that again, oh my God.”

Quinn sways a little bit, and you rock with him. “I mean it. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

“D’you promise?”

“Promise.” Quinn steps over to the couch, and you let him tug you until you land next to him. You rest your head on his shoulder again. “You definitely have to come home with me for Christmas now.”

You lob a decorative pillow at his head as he dissolves into laughter.

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