Chat, Does Not Wanting To Watch A Preseason Game Make Me Not A True Hockey Fan?

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i will be your father figure / put your tiny hand in mine / i will be your preacher teacher, anything you have in mind / i will be the one who loves you, til the end of time | sidney crosby⁸⁷

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⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 11.5k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you needed a job, sidney crosby needed a nanny. it was supposed to be simple—watch the kids, keep your head down, and finish your phd. but nothing about sidney was simple, and the longer you stayed, the harder it became to ignore the way your heart betrayed you every time he did something so dad-like it hurt.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | age gap (reader is 22, sid is 36), single dad!sid, mentions of divorce, deadbeat mom, daddy issues storyline thats a big part of the plot (hence the title), mild angst, pining, tensionnnnn, sid being an unaware dilf, reader being so down bad it’s pathetic, teasing, banter, alcohol consumption, soft moments, so much tension it’s physically painful

⟢ ┈ 𝐞𝐯'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | this was supposed to be slutty but then it turned into mutual emotional damage with a side of yearning. and i know this is a reader insert but the backstory is very needed in this plotline.

and there will probably be a part 2, not sure yet. i had too much fun writing sid as the most dad-like man to ever exist, and reader being so in denial about the way he’s literally perfect. if you like slow burn and suffering, this one’s for u<3

Sidney Crosby was used to chaos.

It came with the territory—fifteen years in the NHL, two kids, and an ex-wife who made divorce court feel like a seven-game series with no overtime winner. He could handle pressure. Thrived under it, even. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for single parenthood.

It had been a year since the ink dried on the divorce papers, and yet, somehow, things still felt unsettled. He had the kids most of the time, which was exactly what he wanted, but balancing their schedules with his own? That was a whole different challenge. There were early morning skates, team meetings, and road trips stacked against school drop-offs, bedtime stories, and the occasional existential meltdown over why six-year-old Jack’s favorite dinosaur didn’t have enough fossils to be officially classified.

Then there was Olivia—eight going on seventeen—who had mastered the art of an unimpressed stare long before she ever learned to tie her skates. She adored her dad, but she was sharp, a little skeptical, and old enough to remember how bad things had gotten with her mom before Sidney finally walked away.

Samantha, his ex-wife, had been—how to put it lightly—a mistake. The kind of mistake that came with an expensive wedding, two kids, and a prenup she’d tried (and failed) to contest. They had been young, and Sidney, for all his talent and discipline on the ice, had been naïve. He thought love meant pushing through anything. She thought love meant power, control, and a lifestyle she wasn’t willing to give up. When she realized Sidney wasn’t going to let her spend her way through his contract extension, things got nasty. Fast.

The custody battle had been brutal, but in the end, the courts sided with stability—and stability had always been Sidney. Still, Samantha had just enough visitation to make things difficult. She’d cancel last minute, show up late, make promises she had no intention of keeping. Olivia was starting to see through it. Jack, not so much. He still ran to the door whenever she said she’d come.

Sidney hated that part the most.

Which was why, after months of barely holding it together, he finally admitted he needed help. Not from family, not from teammates, but from someone neutral. Someone who wouldn’t look at him like he was some tragic, overworked martyr but would actually help him fix things.

So, for the first time in his life, Sidney Crosby hired a nanny.

And that’s where you came in.

The nanny search had been a last-resort kind of thing. The idea of bringing a stranger into his home, into his kids' lives, felt unnatural. Sidney wasn’t used to outsourcing his responsibilities. He was the guy who showed up. Always. But showing up wasn’t enough when he was running on fumes, barely holding together the pieces of his carefully managed life.

His teammates had suggested things. “Get a chef, man.” “Hire a personal assistant.” “You need a live-in nanny, like, yesterday.” But it wasn’t that simple. He didn’t want someone cooking quinoa bowls and pretending to know his kids. He wanted someone real. Someone who wouldn’t just clock in and out but who could meet Olivia’s sharp eyes without flinching and actually listen to Jack’s endless dinosaur facts.

The search had been exhausting. Too many candidates who looked at him with stars in their eyes, seeing Sidney Crosby instead of a dad desperate for help. Too many who were stiff, impersonal, or, worst of all, the kind who called his kids “adorable” but clearly had no patience for a high-energy six-year-old and an eight-year-old who had mastered sarcasm young.

Then, there was you.

You weren’t what he expected.

At twenty-two, you were younger than most applicants, but you had this quiet confidence about you, the kind that made Olivia’s skeptical stare turn curious instead of dismissive. You didn’t treat Jack like a little kid; you took his dinosaur knowledge seriously, even challenging some of his facts, which instantly won you favor. And you didn’t treat Sidney like some hockey superstar or a pitiful single dad in over his head. You were professional, sure, but also… normal. Like this was just a job you wanted to do well, not some golden opportunity to get close to a famous athlete.

The fact that you were a Ph.D. student at the University of Pittsburgh was the kicker. You weren’t looking to nanny forever. You had a life, goals, things outside of this. That made him trust you more. You were busy, too. Just in a different way.

He hired you after the second interview.

It was supposed to be temporary—help through the season, maybe reassess in the summer. But Sidney had a feeling, deep down, that once you settled in, things wouldn’t feel temporary at all.

The first week was awkward.

Not because you were bad at the job—you were great. But because Sidney wasn’t used to sharing control. He still found himself hovering when you helped Jack with breakfast, stepping in when Olivia needed help with her math homework, even though you clearly had it handled. It took effort for him to step back, to let you take the reins on little things, to not micromanage every second of his kids' lives.

Jack took to you immediately, eager to show you his dinosaur books, his Lego collection, and every single one of his hockey cards. He followed you around the house like a shadow, peppering you with questions about your classes, your favorite color, whether or not you believed in aliens.

Olivia was harder.

She didn’t dislike you, but she watched. She observed. She wasn’t mean—just cautious. She’d been through enough to know that adults came and went, that some were worth trusting and some weren’t. It wasn’t personal. It was just… how she protected herself.

You handled it well. You didn’t force yourself into her space. You let her warm up on her own terms, and slowly, bit by bit, she did.

The first real breakthrough came one night when Sidney was stuck late at practice. You were helping Olivia with her homework, and she sighed, erasing the same math problem for the third time.

“I’m just not good at this,” she mumbled, frustration evident in her voice.

You didn’t brush it off or tell her she was wrong. Instead, you nodded thoughtfully. “Math was hard for me too, you know. I used to get so mad at it.”

Olivia blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah. And now I’m doing a Ph.D., and I still get mad at math sometimes.”

That made her smile—just a small one, but it was something.

By the time Sidney got home, Olivia had finished her homework without a meltdown, and Jack was half-asleep on the couch, curled up under a blanket you’d thrown over him.

It wasn’t some life-changing moment, but for Sidney, it was proof. Proof that he’d made the right choice. That maybe, for the first time in a long time, things were finally settling into place.

And he wasn’t sure why that scared him so much.

You needed the job more than you let on.

On the surface, it looked like a side gig—something to help pay the bills while you worked on your Ph.D. at the University of Pittsburgh. People assumed you were just another overachiever balancing too much at once, trying to make things work. And sure, that was part of it. But the real reason? The one you didn’t talk about?

You were broke.

Like, dangerously close to losing your apartment, eating ramen five nights a week, debating whether coffee was an essential expense broke.

Grad school wasn’t cheap, and while you had scholarships covering tuition, the rest—rent, books, food, transportation—was on you. You’d been juggling part-time jobs for months, tutoring undergrads, working late shifts at a bookstore, even considering barista work despite your well-documented inability to make a decent latte. Nothing paid enough, and nothing gave you the flexibility you needed for research, teaching assistant duties, and the mountain of work that came with your dissertation.

You were drowning.

Then, you saw the listing for the nanny job.

At first, you almost dismissed it. You weren’t a professional nanny. Sure, you had experience—you’d babysat all through high school and undergrad, worked summer camps, and even helped raise your younger siblings when your mom had to work long hours—but would Sidney Crosby, the Sidney Crosby, really hire someone like you?

But the pay was good. Really good. And the hours? Surprisingly flexible.

You could make it work.

So, you applied.

And then somehow, impossibly, you got the job.

Why were you so good with kids? Because you got them. You knew what it was like to be a kid who needed someone to show up.

Growing up, your home life had been… complicated. Not bad, not in a way people whispered about, but hard. Your mom was a single parent, working two, sometimes three jobs just to keep things afloat. Your dad wasn’t in the picture—he left when you were young, and you stopped waiting for him to come back a long time ago. That left you as the oldest, the one who had to step up. You packed lunches, helped with homework, figured out how to soothe scraped knees and temper tantrums. You learned early how to be patient, how to listen, how to read between the lines of what kids said and what they actually meant.

You didn’t resent it. If anything, it made you better. It made you someone people trusted. Someone kids trusted.

So, when Olivia was wary of you, keeping her distance, you understood. You’d been that kid, too.

And when Jack rambled on about dinosaurs for twenty minutes straight, you didn’t just nod along distractedly—you engaged. You asked questions. Challenged his theories. Because you knew what it felt like to be small in a world that didn’t always take you seriously.

You weren’t just good with kids. You were exactly what they needed.

And maybe, deep down, this job was exactly what you needed too.

--

The grocery store had become a thing.

At first, you weren’t sure if Sidney had ever actually taken Olivia and Jack shopping himself or if food just magically appeared in the house whenever they needed it. But by the second week, you realized it was a necessary trip—Jack burned through snacks like a full-grown athlete, and Olivia had opinions about what was in the fridge.

So, you made it part of your weekly routine. A little adventure, something to break up the monotony of school, homework, and structured schedules.

And a month into the job?

You actually liked it.

You liked the way Jack made even the most boring errand feel like an expedition, weaving through the aisles like he was navigating a jungle, determined to find the best cereal. You liked how Olivia, who had been so reserved at first, had started easing into the role of The Responsible One, rolling her eyes at her brother but subtly making sure he didn’t wander too far.

You liked them. A lot.

That day, the three of you were deep in the snack aisle when it happened.

“I don’t get it,” Jack announced, dragging his fingers along the shelves as he scanned for his favorite granola bars. “Why don’t they have dinosaur-shaped ones? That would be way cooler.”

“You should write a letter to the company,” you suggested, nudging the cart forward. “Start a petition.”

Jack lit up like you’d just handed him a million dollars. “Wait, could I do that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Whoa.” He nodded, like you’d just unlocked an entirely new part of his brain.

Olivia, walking slightly ahead, snorted. “You’re creating a monster,” she muttered. But there was no bite in it—just mild amusement.

You were about to respond when Olivia suddenly stopped in the middle of the aisle, staring at something on a display shelf near the end.

You followed her gaze.

Vinyl records.

More specifically, a Taylor Swift vinyl.

“Wait.” You slowed the cart. “You have a record player?”

She blinked, as if realizing she had reacted to something without thinking. But then, after a beat, she nodded. “Yeah. My uncle got me one for my birthday.”

“That’s actually really cool.” You stepped closer, reading the label. Red (Taylor’s Version). “Good choice.”

Olivia hesitated, her fingers hovering over the edge of the plastic wrapping. “…do you like her?”

You let out a scoff that was so deeply offended that she actually cracked a small smile. “Do I like her? Olivia. I have been a Swiftie since I was, like, twelve. I have been through it. The ‘Speak Now’ era? Devastating. ‘Reputation’? Life-changing.”

Her eyes narrowed, like she was assessing if you were for real. “You know about the eras?”

You gasped dramatically. “Olivia, I could write a thesis on the eras. I could teach a course.”

Something shifted in her then—something subtle, but important.

Because for the first time since you’d started this job, she wasn’t speaking to you like an adult. She wasn’t guarded, cautious, or testing you. She was just an eight-year-old girl standing in a grocery store, holding a Taylor Swift album, grinning.

“…What’s your favorite album?” she asked, like this was the real test.

You tapped your chin, playing it up. “That’s a huge question. I think I have to go with ‘Folklore,’ but ‘1989’ is a classic.”

She nodded approvingly, and then, a little quieter, admitted, “I like ‘Red’ the most.”

You nudged the album in her hands. “Then I think we should probably get this, don’t you?”

Her grip tightened, like she hadn’t actually expected you to agree. “Dad would say no.”

“Well, I’m not Dad.” You leaned in conspiratorially. “And I think this qualifies as an essential purchase.”

Olivia bit her lip, fighting back a smile. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Jack groaned from behind you. “This is boring. Can we go back to the dinosaurs?”

You rolled your eyes but grabbed the vinyl off the shelf, placing it in the cart with a decisive thunk. “Nope. We’re having a moment, Jack. You’ll live.”

And for the rest of the trip, Olivia didn’t walk ahead.

She walked beside you. Talking. Smiling. Just being a kid.

And maybe, for the first time, you felt like you weren’t just the nanny. You were part of something.

Dinner that night was a little different.

Usually, mealtimes were at the table—Sidney liked structure, and you could tell he wanted to keep some sense of normalcy for the kids. But tonight? Olivia had a request.

“Can we eat in the living room?” she asked, her voice a little hesitant, like she expected the automatic no that probably came most of the time. “Just this once? We can watch The Eras Tour while we eat.”

Sidney, fresh off practice and visibly exhausted, had raised a brow. “The what?”

You gasped. “Sidney. The Eras Tour. The concert film. The biggest cultural event of our time.”

He gave you a blank look. “You’re joking.”

“Absolutely not.”

Jack, already seated at the table, piped up. “What’s an era?”

“A long time,” Olivia mumbled, shoving a piece of chicken onto her fork.

“In Taylor Swift terms,” you corrected, “it’s a concept. A legacy. A lifestyle.”

Sidney pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, sure. Living room it is.”

And so, you all sat around the coffee table, plates balanced in laps, watching as Taylor Swift took over the screen.

Jack had fought hard against sleep.

For the first hour of The Eras Tour, he’d fidgeted through every ballad, perking up only when the stadium lights on screen exploded into color. He’d even tried to pretend he cared—asking Olivia questions about why Taylor Swift had so many different outfits and whether she was richer than their dad (Olivia had assured him that she absolutely was). But by the time Taylor launched into Enchanted, his little head had started dipping against Sidney’s arm.

He barely made it through Reputation before sleep won.

Now, he was completely out, his face smushed against a couch pillow, his legs tangled in the throw blanket Olivia had draped over him earlier. His mouth was parted just slightly, deep breaths pulling him further into whatever dream world he’d sunk into. You doubted a freight train could wake him at this point.

Sidney sighed, shifting slightly. “I should put him to bed.” His voice was quiet, careful not to disturb his son.

You nodded, tucking your legs under you on the couch. Olivia was still curled up in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes fixed on the screen. She’d barely moved all night, utterly absorbed in the concert. Even now, as All Too Well (10 Minute Version) started playing, she just stared, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the couch cushion beside her.

Sidney stood slowly, careful not to jostle Jack too much as he scooped him up. The six-year-old barely stirred, just tucked his face further into his dad’s chest with a sleepy murmur.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” Sidney murmured, heading toward the stairs.

Olivia didn’t respond.

You watched her for a moment, waiting for her to comment on how Jack always passed out first, or maybe some sarcastic remark about how you and Sidney were so uncultured when it came to Taylor Swift. But she stayed quiet, eyes still locked on the screen, a little crease forming between her brows.

Something in her posture had shifted.

She looked… small.

Not in the literal sense—Olivia had always carried herself like she was older than eight, like she’d already learned not to expect much from the world. But now, curled into herself like that, her expression unusually unreadable, she actually looked her age.

A kid trying really hard to hold something in.

You adjusted the blanket over your lap, keeping your voice light. “Okay, we made it to Red. Pretty legendary.”

Olivia didn’t respond at first. She kept watching, but there was something distant in her eyes, like she wasn’t really seeing it. Then, quietly, she said, “I don’t see my mom.”

It was so soft you almost didn’t catch it.

You stilled, glancing at her. She wasn’t looking at you—her gaze was still fixed on Taylor, like if she focused hard enough, maybe she wouldn’t feel the weight of what she’d just admitted.

Your stomach twisted, but you kept your voice even. “Yeah?”

She swallowed. “She’s… busy. She says she has to work a lot. That it’s important.” Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the couch cushion. “I think she just doesn’t want to see us.”

Your chest ached at the quiet finality in her voice, the way she said it like she had already made peace with it. Eight years old, and she spoke like someone who had long since stopped hoping for something different.

You didn’t say anything right away. You knew better than to rush into a response, to give some generic reassurance like Oh, I’m sure that’s not true!—because Olivia wasn’t a kid who believed in sugarcoating. She wouldn’t take comfort in some empty promise.

So, instead, you let the silence settle. Let her lead.

A beat passed. Then, finally, she exhaled. “She moved to New York last year. Said there were better job opportunities there.”

You nodded slowly. “That must’ve been really hard.”

She shrugged, but it was too forced to be nonchalant. “She wasn’t around much before that, anyway.” A pause. Then, with a small, bitter smile: “Jack doesn’t even notice. I mean, I don’t think he remembers what it was like before. He was little when they got divorced.”

You stayed quiet, giving her space to keep talking.

She hesitated, then hugged her knees closer to her chest. “It’s different for me.” Her voice dipped lower. “I remember everything. The fighting. The way they stopped talking to each other unless they had to.” She bit her lip. “The way Dad tried to hide it from us.”

Your throat tightened.

She finally glanced at you, her expression carefully measured. “It wasn’t like, some big thing. No one threw plates or anything.” She exhaled through her nose, like she was frustrated with herself for even explaining. “But it was worse, in a way. It was like… watching something fall apart really, really slowly. Like, at first, you think maybe they can fix it, but then one day you just know they won’t.”

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. “That’s… a lot to deal with, Olivia.”

She let out a humorless little laugh. “Yeah. I guess.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter: “Dad never talks about it.”

You stayed quiet, sensing that she wasn’t finished.

“He just… acts like it’s fine. Like it’s normal that she doesn’t come to our games, or our school stuff. Like it’s normal that she only calls on birthdays.” Her fingers tightened in the fabric of her pajama pants. “And I know he’s not fine. I know he hates it. But he just—he doesn’t say anything.”

Your heart ached for her.

For Sidney, too.

Because it made sense, didn’t it? Of course he wouldn’t talk about it. Sidney Crosby had spent his entire life being the person everyone leaned on. The one who took the pressure, the expectations, and carried them. He didn’t complain. He didn’t show when he was struggling.

But Olivia saw.

She wasn’t a kid who needed things spelled out for her. She noticed when her dad got that faraway look in his eyes during Jack’s hockey practices, like he wished things were different. She noticed the way he never said anything bad about their mother, even when she deserved it. She noticed how hard he worked to make sure they were okay, even if it meant pretending he was.

And Olivia? She was just like him. Carrying everything on her little shoulders.

She turned her gaze back to the screen, where Taylor was singing about a love slipping through her fingers. “I don’t think he ever wanted us to know how much it hurt.”

Your heart broke at the way she said it—so certain, so resigned. Like it was just the way things had to be.

You took a breath, choosing your words carefully. “You know… just because someone doesn’t talk about something doesn’t mean they don’t want to.” You hesitated. “Maybe he just doesn’t know how.”

She was quiet for a long time.

Then, finally, she nodded. Just once. She didn’t say anything else, but she didn’t have to.

Instead, she shifted slightly, leaning the tiniest bit closer—not quite touching, but close enough that if either of you moved even an inch, your shoulders would brush.

And you stayed like that.

Silent. Together. Letting All Too Well play in the background, filling the spaces between the words she wasn’t quite ready to say yet.

The house was quiet when Olivia finally went upstairs for bed, leaving you alone in the dim glow of the TV. The Eras Tour had ended, but neither you nor Sidney had moved to turn it off yet. The screen sat idle, a soft instrumental playing as the credits rolled, filling the otherwise silent space.

You let out a slow breath and rubbed your hands over your face. Tonight had been… a lot.

Olivia opening up had been unexpected, and it left this tight, aching feeling in your chest. You could still hear her voice—quiet but firm, steady in that way that only kids who had to grow up too fast could be. And even though she hadn’t said it outright, you knew she was waiting for someone to prove her wrong. To prove to her that not all parents disappeared, that love didn’t always have an expiration date.

And Sidney?

God. It hurt to think about him.

The way he carried everything on his own, the way he tried so damn hard to keep it together for them. You had seen that kind of quiet suffering before.

And maybe that was why you had always been so shy around him.

It was ridiculous, really. You were 22 years old—you shouldn’t be acting like some nervous teenager around your boss. But Sidney Crosby was just… intimidating in a way you couldn’t quite put into words.

It wasn’t just that he was him—the legend, the hockey star, the man whose face had been on cereal boxes when you were growing up. It was the fact that he was so much more than that.

He was a dad who knew the exact way Jack liked his peanut butter sandwiches cut. A man who kissed his daughter’s forehead before leaving for practice like it was second nature. A person who had been burned by love but still got up every day and did his best for the two little people who needed him most.

And he was—

Well, handsome.

It was stupid. So, so stupid. But every time he walked into a room, your stomach did this ridiculous little flip, and it wasn’t fair that someone could make a hoodie and sweatpants look that good. It wasn’t fair that he had the kind of presence that made you hyper-aware of yourself—of the way you spoke, of the way your cheeks got hot when he so much as looked at you.

It was just a stupid crush. A stupid, completely inappropriate crush.

You exhaled, shaking the thought away, and stood up, stretching.

Time to go home.

--

It had been through everything with you—your old, beat-up Ford.

You’d had it since you were sixteen, bought secondhand with money you had scraped together from summer jobs. It had seen late-night study sessions, spontaneous road trips, and more break-downs than you could count. You knew it inside and out—the little rattle it made when you hit a certain speed, the way you had to jiggle the key just right to get the engine to turn over.

And tonight?

Tonight, it had chosen violence.

You turned the key. Nothing.

No roar of the engine, no reluctant chugging, not even a weak attempt at life. Just silence.

You tried again.

Click.

You almost screamed.

Instead, you let your forehead drop against the steering wheel, inhaling sharply through your nose.

Not tonight. Not after everything. You were already emotionally drained, already exhausted, and this? This was just the cherry on top.

You pulled your phone from your pocket, already opening the Uber app, because absolutely not. You were not dealing with this right now. You’d handle it in the morning. Right now, you just needed to—

A knock on your window made you jump.

Your heart leapt into your throat, and for a split second, you thought you were about to be murdered in Sidney Crosby’s driveway. But then you turned, and there he was, standing outside in the glow of the porch light, his hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie.

“Car trouble?” His voice was muffled through the glass, but even in the dim light, you could see the way his brows were drawn together in concern.

You rolled the window down halfway, feeling absurdly embarrassed. “Yeah, it—” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “It’s old. It does this sometimes.”

Sidney didn’t say anything at first. He just stepped back, hands on his hips, assessing the car like it was a problem he could solve if he stared at it hard enough.

Then, before you could stop him, he was crouching down to peer under the car like some kind of mechanic dad.

Your stupid, traitorous heart clenched. “Sid—”

“Pop the hood,” he said, already moving to the front.

You blinked. “What?”

He shot you a look. “Pop the hood.”

And because you were too flustered to argue, you did.

He lifted it with ease, leaning in to inspect the engine, muttering something under his breath. You sat there, gripping the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white, watching as he fiddled with something like this was normal.

Like it was normal that he was being so fatherly and competent and stupidly attractive about it. Like it was normal that this whole situation was making your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite name.

Eventually, he let out a sigh and shut the hood, wiping his hands on his sweatpants. “It’s not starting tonight.”

You groaned. “Yeah, I got that part.”

He quirked a brow. “You calling a tow?”

You shook your head, holding up your phone. “Uber.”

Sidney frowned.

And not just any frown. It was that dad frown, the one you’d seen him give Jack when he suggested eating four popsicles in a row. The one that brooked no argument.

“Yeah, no,” he said flatly. “You’re not getting in an Uber this late.”

Your stomach flipped. “Sidney, it’s—”

“I’ve got a guest room.” He shrugged, like it was the most obvious solution in the world. “Sleep here tonight. We’ll deal with your car in the morning.”

You stared at him. “I don’t want to impose—”

“You’re not.” He tilted his head, giving you a look that was way too soft for your heart to handle. “C’mon. We’ll make a night of it.”

You exhaled sharply, but… you didn’t argue.

Because for the first time in a long time, someone was looking out for you. Someone was saying, Hey, you don’t have to handle everything alone.

And maybe that was why, as you followed Sidney back inside, something in your chest cracked open just a little bit wider.

Sidney made a beeline for the fridge as soon as you stepped inside, moving through the kitchen like he’d done it a thousand times before—which, obviously, he had, considering it was his kitchen. But there was something oddly comforting about watching him in his own space, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, posture loose, movements easy.

The whole house was quiet now, Olivia and Jack fast asleep upstairs, and the silence felt heavier in the absence of the kids’ usual chatter.

Sidney pulled open the fridge door, scanning its contents before reaching inside and pulling out a bottle of beer. He twisted the cap off with practiced ease, taking a long sip before glancing over at you.

“You want one?” he asked.

For half a second, you actually thought about it—not because you particularly wanted a beer (you weren’t even sure if you were in the mood to drink anything), but just because the idea of having one with Sidney Crosby was somehow hilarious.

But before you could even open your mouth, he snorted and shook his head, muttering, “Never mind. You’re probably too young.”

You froze.

Your entire body stilled. And then, slowly, you blinked at him, because what.

You let out an incredulous laugh, eyebrows practically hitting your hairline. “Wait—what?”

Sidney just shrugged, taking another sip of his beer like he hadn’t just personally attacked you. “You’re, what, twenty?”

Your jaw dropped.

Your actual jaw dropped open.

“I’m twenty-two,” you said, voice high with offense, like that extra two years would suddenly make him view you as a fully grown adult.

Sidney didn’t even look remotely phased. If anything, his lips twitched, like he was amused by your reaction. “Yeah, exactly.”

You gasped. “Sidney.”

“What?” He gave you an actual, real-life smirk, eyes flickering with amusement. “That’s barely legal drinking age.”

“Barely legal drinking age? Oh my God—” You threw your hands up. “I am a grown woman.”

He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Uh-huh.”

“I am, and I’ll have you know that I have been drinking—” You cut yourself off so fast you almost choked.

Sidney raised an eyebrow, watching you flounder like it was his favorite pastime. “Yeah?”

You scowled. “Legally. I’ve been drinking legally. For over a year.”

“Wow. Over a year?” He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, that really changes everything.”

“Oh, shut up,” you muttered, but it lacked any real bite because he looked so damn entertained, and you hated that it made your stomach flip.

Sidney shook his head, still smirking, and then—just to drive the nail further into your coffin—he reached into the fridge, grabbed a carton of orange juice, and poured some into a glass. Then he slid it across the counter toward you with a straight face.

“There you go, kid.”

You gaped at him.

“Are you serious?”

Sidney grinned, taking another sip of his beer. “Yup.”

Oh.

Oh, this was bad.

Because up until now, you had been convinced you were at least in the friend zone—which sucked, but you could deal with it.

But this? This was worse.

This was the daughter zone.

You weren’t just a kid to him—you were, like, some innocent, helpless little thing who needed to be protected from beer. Like you were Jack, asking if he could stay up past bedtime.

And your stupid, idiotic crush went into a full-blown meltdown over it. Because what the hell were you supposed to do with that?

How were you supposed to deal with the way he teased you so effortlessly? The way his voice dipped into something softer, just for a second, like he genuinely thought you were too young to be dealing with broken-down cars and late-night beer?

It was horrible.

And it was attractive as hell. Which was stupid.

You crossed your arms over your chest, staring him down. “You know, I could drink you under the table.”

Sidney snorted. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.”

He smirked again, smirked, and you almost threw your juice at him. “I don’t know, kid. You might need a nap halfway through.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re just mad because I’m young and full of life.”

That made him laugh, a low, warm sound that sent actual, real shivers down your spine.

“Yeah, that’s exactly it,” he said dryly. “I’m jealous.”

“You should be.” You lifted your juice in a mock toast. “I’m in my prime.”

Sidney just shook his head, utterly unbothered, before taking another sip of his beer.

And you, unfortunately, had to stand there and grapple with the fact that you were completely screwed.

You stared at the glass of orange juice sitting in front of you.

Then you stared at Sidney, who was still smirking like this was the funniest thing in the world.

Then back at the juice.

Because the worst part—the absolute cherry on top of this entire humiliating situation—was that you actually liked orange juice.

Like, a lot.

And you were thirsty, damn it.

So, after a long, dramatic pause, you picked up the glass and took a sip, maintaining perfect eye contact with Sidney just to prove a point.

You hadn’t even set the glass back down before he burst out laughing.

“Oh, that’s too good,” he said, shaking his head. “You were so offended, and you’re drinking it anyway.”

You scowled. “I like orange juice, Sidney. I’m not gonna let you win out of spite.”

He was grinning, and it was so unfair, because no man should look that attractive while actively mocking you. “I don’t know,” he teased. “You were pretty worked up about it. You sure you don’t wanna—what was it?—drink me under the table?”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “I walked right into that one.”

“You did.” His voice was filled with way too much amusement, and when you peeked up at him, he was still smirking around his beer bottle, entirely too pleased with himself.

You squinted at him, watching as he took another sip, posture loose and obnoxiously relaxed, like he wasn’t single-handedly ruining your life with his casual teasing.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you accused.

“Yeah,” he said easily. “I am.”

The audacity.

You exhaled sharply, picking up your juice again. “You know, you can laugh all you want, but this is actually good.” You took another sip, lifting your eyebrows in mock challenge.

Sidney snorted. “Yeah, it’s juice. Of course it’s good.”

You pointed a finger at him. “Exactly.”

“I just think it’s funny,” he said, like he wasn’t actively enjoying this. “You got so defensive about being an adult, and then you went and drank the juice.”

“Oh, my God.” You groaned. “I am an adult, okay? I just also happen to enjoy a refreshing glass of orange juice.”

“Uh-huh.” He looked entirely unconvinced.

You narrowed your eyes. “You know what? This is why your daughter is in her Taylor Swift phase.”

Sidney actually winced, like you had physically struck him, and it was so satisfying that you almost cheered.

“Oh, that’s low,” he said, shaking his head.

You grinned. “It’s the truth. Olivia is at the age where she’s realizing you’re old and lame.”

He sighed dramatically. “First the juice, and now this. You’re just determined to ruin my night, huh?”

You gasped, pressing a hand to your chest. “I would never.”

He laughed at that—really laughed, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners, and you felt that traitorous flutter in your chest again.

It was so unfair.

Because this was nice.

The teasing, the banter, the way he was actually joking with you instead of just treating you like the kids’ nanny. And maybe that was why your stupid crush decided to fully combust in that moment.

Because you weren’t even in the friend zone. You were in the daughter zone, and somehow that was infinitely worse, and yet here you were—still crushing, still falling harder just because he poured you some stupid juice and laughed at you.

It was pathetic.

And, honestly?

It was so predictable, daddy issues and all.

Sidney took the last sip of his beer, setting the empty bottle on the counter with a soft clink. He stretched his arms over his head, his t-shirt lifting just slightly at the hem, revealing a hint of toned stomach before he let them drop back down.

“All right,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion. “You should get some sleep.”

You braced yourself for the inevitable teasing, the inevitable kid comment—but it never came.

Instead, he just looked at you—really looked at you, the exhaustion in his face softening into something gentler. It wasn’t because you were young or because he thought you couldn’t handle staying up late—it was just late, and he cared enough to tell you to rest.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because it wasn’t patronizing.

It was just him being him—Sidney Crosby, good father, good man, genuinely good person.

And all you could do was nod.

“Yeah,” you said, clearing your throat as you pushed away from the counter. “Yeah, I’ll, uh… I’ll head up.”

He gave you a small, tired smile. “Guest room’s all yours.”

You murmured a quiet “thanks” before grabbing your phone and heading toward the stairs, but you could still feel him watching you as you left the room.

That should’ve been the end of it.

You should’ve gone up to the guest room, crawled into bed, and fallen asleep immediately. Instead, you lay there, wide awake, staring at the ceiling like a complete idiot.

Because you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t even in a normal crush way—it wasn’t about his arms, or his voice, or how frustratingly handsome he was when he smirked.

No.

It was the fatherly stuff that got you.

The way he so easily checked out your car without hesitation, like it was second nature to take care of things for you. The way he poured you a damn juice because he thought beer wasn’t for you. The way he tucked Olivia in, the way he held Jack so effortlessly, the way he made them feel safe even when their world had been shaken apart.

He was a good dad. No, he was the best dad.

And his ex-wife?

She didn’t deserve him.

Not even a little bit.

You hadn’t even met her, but from the little Olivia had told you, she barely even tried. She had two amazing kids who would’ve done anything for her, who had wanted to see her, and she had just… not shown up.

Meanwhile, Sidney had stepped up and been everything.

Everything a father should be. Everything a partner should’ve been. And she had thrown him away. It made your stomach churn just thinking about it.

You turned onto your side, pressing your face into the pillow and groaning softly. Because, God, this was so predictable.

So cliché. Daddy issues and all, falling for the single dad who made you feel safe for the first time in years.

You wanted to cringe at yourself. But mostly? Mostly, you just wanted to sleep.

And with Sidney Crosby on your mind, that felt damn near impossible.

--

The next morning, you woke up to the smell of coffee.

For a second, you forgot where you were, the unfamiliar ceiling throwing you off, the bed too soft, the blankets too crisp. But then it all rushed back—the broken-down car, the teasing, the orange juice, the way Sidney had looked at you right before you’d gone upstairs.

You groaned into your pillow.

It was too early to be thinking about him like that.

Forcing yourself to sit up, you ran a hand through your hair and grabbed your phone off the nightstand. The time read 7:12 AM, which meant the kids were probably already up, and Sidney—being the actual superhuman that he was—was definitely awake.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself before padding out of the room and heading downstairs.

The house was warm with the early-morning light, and you heard Jack’s little voice before you even made it to the kitchen.

“I want pancakes!”

You grinned to yourself.

“Yeah?” Sidney’s voice, still rough with sleep. “Well, I want to win another Cup, but we don’t always get what we want.”

You had to bite back a laugh.

“But, Dad—”

“Relax, buddy. I’m making them.”

Jack cheered, and when you stepped into the kitchen, you were greeted with the sight of Sidney at the stove, flipping pancakes like he did this every morning. Which, you guessed, he probably did. He was still in sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair a little messy from sleep, a mug of coffee sitting on the counter next to him.

Olivia was at the table, flipping through a book, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else, and Jack was bouncing on his toes near the counter, waiting for his pancakes like his life depended on it.

Sidney glanced up, spotting you.

“Morning, kid.”

You glared. “Don’t start.”

He smirked, then nodded toward the coffee pot. “There’s fresh coffee.”

You muttered a quiet “thanks” before making a beeline for it, pouring yourself a mug and taking a sip like it was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

“So, did you sleep okay?” Sidney asked, flipping another pancake.

You leaned against the counter, watching as Jack tried to sneak a chocolate chip from the bag Sidney had been using for the pancakes. “Yeah, thanks for letting me stay. Sorry for the whole, you know, car dying situation.”

Sidney shrugged. “Not your fault.”

“Still.”

Olivia looked up from her book, but then she squinted at you. “Wait. Did you sleep in the guest room?”

You frowned. “Uh… yeah?”

Olivia made a face. “Oh. You should’ve taken Dad’s bed.”

You choked on your coffee.

Sidney snorted. “Olivia.”

“What?” she said, looking genuinely confused. “It’s the comfortable one.”

Sidney shook his head, flipping the last pancake. “You guys eat up. I gotta go get ready for practice.”

Jack cheered again, immediately diving into his stack of pancakes, and Olivia, still unbothered, turned back to her book.

Sidney slid a plate across the counter toward you. “Eat.”

You sighed, but sat down, knowing better than to argue.

And as you watched him move around the kitchen—calm, collected, fatherly as ever—you felt that same ache in your chest from the night before.

Because this wasn’t your life.

But for some reason, you wished it was.

Sidney slid a plate of pancakes in front of you like it was nothing—like it was completely normal for him to just make breakfast and look after everyone while simultaneously being the most attractive and responsible man alive.

And then, because apparently he wasn’t done ruining you, he leaned against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and—so casually it nearly short-circuited your brain—said, “So here’s the plan for today.”

You blinked. A plan?

Like, he had been thinking about this? About you?

Your stupid car? Your life?

You took a sip of coffee to cover how flustered you felt. “Oh?”

Sidney nodded, all business, like he had been mentally scheduling everything since last night. “I’m taking you to the mechanic after we drop the kids off.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he kept going. “I already know what’s wrong with it. It’s just the alternator.”

You blinked. “How—?”

Sidney shrugged. “Checked it out last night.”

You stared at him. Because—of course he had. Of course, while you had been spiraling about how he was the best dad ever, he had been outside, under the hood of your car, figuring out what was wrong like it was second nature.

He took another sip of his coffee, completely unbothered, while your entire soul left your body.

“And I’m coming with you,” he continued. “Because mechanics like to take advantage of girls.”

Your brain short-circuited again.

You narrowed your eyes. “I am not a girl.”

Sidney smirked. “Yeah? Tell that to the guy who tried to charge my sister two hundred bucks for an oil change last year.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“…Two hundred?”

Sidney gave you a knowing look.

You sighed.

“Fine,” you muttered.

But inside?

Inside, you were melting.

Because who even thought like that? Who went out of their way to protect people like that? To make sure you wouldn’t get scammed? To check out your car and figure out the problem so nobody could lie to you about it?

Your chest ached, and you hated yourself a little for it.

You were so weak.

And you scorned yourself for it.

Because this was exactly why you had promised yourself you’d never be like this. Never feel like this.

But, God, Sidney made it so difficult.

Maybe that was because, deep down, you had always wanted someone like this.

Someone who just took care of things.

Someone who thought ahead, who made plans, who didn’t wait for you to ask for help before stepping in and making sure you were okay.

You had never really had that before.

You had been the eldest daughter, raised by a single mother who had been doing her best but had never really had time to be the kind of parent who worried about things like broken cars and alternators and mechanics overcharging people.

No, that had been you.

You had been the one making sure your little brother had packed a lunch for school, the one who had learned how to fix things when they broke because there wasn’t anyone else to do it. You had been the one answering the door for debt collectors, the one figuring things out, the one making the grocery lists and making sure nothing slipped through the cracks.

And you had been good at it.

You still were.

But sometimes—sometimes you had wished there had been someone to help. Someone to just… think of things before you had to think of them. And maybe that was why Sidney made your chest ache the way he did.

Because you had never had that before, and now here he was—being exactly that person. Not just for his kids, but for you. And maybe he didn’t even realize he was doing it, but it didn’t matter.

Because it was so easy for him. And it made you feel safe in a way that made your stomach twist.

Because you had spent your whole life not needing anyone. And yet—somehow—Sidney Crosby was making you want to lean in.

Just a little.

--

The school drop-off was quick. Jack practically launched himself out of the car, already halfway to the front doors before Olivia had even finished unbuckling her seatbelt.

“Bye, Liv,” you said.

She turned to you, and—much to your utter shock—she gave you a small smile. “Bye.”

You almost froze in place.

But before you could fully process what had just happened, she was out of the car, disappearing into the school without a second glance.

You turned to Sidney, eyes wide. “Did you see that?”

He smirked. “Yeah. She likes you.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest. And you hated how much that meant to you.

Sidney pulled away from the curb, effortlessly maneuvering through morning traffic. “Alright, next stop—the mechanic.”

You sighed, slumping back against the seat. “Do you, like… do this for all your nannies?”

Sidney glanced at you, amused. “What?”

“Just—” You gestured vaguely. “Fix their cars? Make plans for them? Tell them they’re getting scammed before it even happens?”

He snorted. “Not really, no.”

You frowned. “Then why me?”

He shrugged, eyes on the road. “Dunno. You’re just… good with the kids. They like you.”

You swallowed. Because that meant something. It meant a lot.

And you weren’t sure what to do with that.

The moment Sidney pulled into the mechanic’s lot, you knew you were in good hands. Not because of the mechanic—no, he barely looked up from whatever he was doing.

It was Sidney.

He had that calm, composed, but don’t-mess-with-me energy that commanded a room without trying. He stepped out of the car with purpose, shutting the door with just the right amount of force. Not aggressive, but firm enough to say, I am not to be taken advantage of.

You followed, feeling like a little duckling trailing behind him like some kind of displaced housewife.

The mechanic—Joe, according to the nametag on his greasy coveralls—finally looked up, taking one glance at your car and letting out a low whistle. “What do we got here?”

Sidney didn’t even blink. “Alternator’s shot.”

Joe nodded, rubbing his hands on a rag. “Yeah? Let’s take a look.”

You rocked on your heels as Joe popped the hood, shining a flashlight over the engine. “Yep, that’ll do it. You’re looking at about… probably $1,100, give or take. Labor’s the killer, y’know how it is.”

You almost choked.

Sidney, however, remained unbothered. “That’s funny. ‘Cause I checked it last night, and it’s just the alternator. You and I both know that’s, what—two, maybe three hundred?”

Joe’s smile tightened. Sidney did not budge.

You watched, absolutely fascinated, as Sidney leaned against the counter, completely at ease, like he had all the time in the world. “So,” he continued, slow and deliberate, “you wanna try again? Or should I take my business somewhere else?”

Your jaw dropped.

Joe sighed, rubbing his temples. “Lemme—” He gestured vaguely toward the back. “Lemme check with my guys.”

Sidney nodded, all patient and controlled, but the minute Joe disappeared, you turned to him, shocked. “How—how did you do that?”

Sidney smirked. “Men don’t like getting called out for their bullshit.”

You blinked. “So, you just… intimidate people into lowering prices?”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “It’s not intimidation. It’s just knowing when someone’s trying to screw you over.”

You stared at him. Because, damn.

You knew Sidney was good at hockey. That he was kind. That he was an amazing dad. But this? This was something else entirely.

This was a guy who stood up for people. This was a guy who protected people without them even having to ask.

And God, did it make your stomach flip.

When Joe came back, he was begrudgingly willing to do it for $150.

Which was insane. Which was basically magic.

You wanted to high-five Sidney or something, but before you could, Joe sighed, glancing between the two of you. “You guys wanna wait inside? Shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

You nodded, but then—Joe’s gaze softened, and he smiled. A knowing smile.

“You’re lucky your husband knows his stuff,” he said.

Your heart stopped. Sidney did not correct him.

You swore time froze for a second.

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, your brain trying so hard to form words, but all you could do was glance up at Sidney—who looked completely unbothered.

Like… he wasn’t rushing to fix it. Like he wasn’t that pressed about the misunderstanding. Like it wasn’t even worth correcting.

Joe didn’t wait for a response—he just gestured toward the small waiting area, already moving toward your car.

And you?

You were still standing there, trying not to let your brain explode. Because what the hell was that?

What the hell was Sidney Crosby not correcting that for? What did that mean? Were you reading too much into it? Or—

“C’mon,” Sidney said, oblivious to your inner crisis, nodding toward the waiting area.

And because you couldn’t exactly just stand there, you followed.

But your heart was still doing things. And you really, really wished it wouldn’t.

After settling your car situation (which still felt like a miracle thanks to Sidney’s intervention), you felt compelled to repay him somehow.

“Let me take you to lunch,” you said as he drove, eyes focused on the road. “As a thank-you. My treat.”

Sidney gave you a side glance, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Your treat?”

“Yes.” You crossed your arms. “I have a job, you know.”

“I know,” he said, smirking. “I just don’t think I’ve ever been taken out to lunch by my nanny before.”

Your stomach flipped, but you rolled your eyes to cover it up. “Well, there’s a first for everything. Do you have practice today?”

“Not till later.”

“Perfect,” you said. “Lunch it is.”

You ended up at a casual bar-slash-lunch spot, the kind of place that had burgers, wings, and good beer on tap. It was easy, relaxed—which was exactly what you needed after the whole morning of watching Sidney Crosby do battle with a mechanic.

The conversation was effortless.

Somewhere between ordering your drinks and the food arriving, you fell into a rhythm of casual banter—mostly about Olivia and Jack.

“Jack’s convinced he’s going to the Olympics,” you said, stirring your straw in your drink. “Like, now. At six years old.”

Sidney smirked, shaking his head. “Kid’s got big dreams.”

You snorted. “Yeah, but have you seen him skate? He’s like a baby giraffe out there.”

Sidney laughed, and it was so genuine, so real, that you felt it in your chest. “He’ll figure it out.”

You nodded. “Yeah. He’s persistent. I’ll give him that.”

Sidney took a sip of his drink, leaning back in the booth. “And Olivia?”

You hesitated, but the smile stayed on your face. “She’s… coming around.”

Sidney’s expression softened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “She actually smiled at me today. And—don’t freak out—but I think she has like, a crush on a boy in her class now.”

Sidney groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “God help me.”

You laughed. “Hey, at least she’s acting like a kid again.”

That seemed to strike a chord with him, because the laughter in his eyes faded just a little, replaced by something deeper. A comfortable silence settled over you both. The kind that didn’t feel awkward or forced—just… nice.

And then, quietly, Sidney said, “I really appreciate you, you know.”

Your heart stuttered.

He wasn’t looking at you. He was picking at the label on his beer bottle, like he was trying to find the right words.

“I mean it,” he continued. “What you do… what you’ve done for Olivia and Jack—it’s more than I could’ve asked for.”

You swallowed. “Sid…”

“She was really struggling,” he said, voice low but steady. “After the divorce. I mean, Jack was too, but Olivia…” He exhaled, finally looking up at you. “She’s always been the serious one. The one who takes everything in. And when the divorce happened, it was like… she stopped being a kid. She thought she had to be the responsible one. She thought she had to hold everything together.”

You nodded, because you understood that. More than you cared to admit.

Sidney shook his head, eyes flickering with something heavy. “I didn’t know how to help her. I tried. But…”

He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck, and your chest ached at the sight of it.

Because here he was—Sidney Crosby, the guy who had everything together, the guy who fought tooth and nail for his kids—and yet, in that moment, he looked so lost. Like he still didn’t know if he was doing it right.

You reached for your drink, just to have something to do with your hands. “You’re a good dad, Sidney.”

He let out a hollow laugh. “I don’t know about that.”

“You are,” you insisted. “You fought for them. You fight for them. And Olivia—she sees that. She might not always say it, but she does.”

Sidney studied you, something unreadable in his expression.

“You’re the first person to get her to act like a kid again,” he finally said. “That means more to me than you know.”

And just like that, your heart broke open.

Because you knew what it felt like to carry weight that wasn’t yours to carry. You knew what it felt like to be the one who had to be strong. And Olivia—God, Olivia—she had been right there, drowning in it, until you’d somehow managed to pull her back to the surface.

The server came by with your food, breaking the moment, and Sidney cleared his throat, straightening up.

But the words hung between you, unspoken but there. And you? You felt completely unraveled.

For a moment, you just sat there, stirring the ice in your drink, thinking about everything he’d said. About Olivia. About how much she’d been hurting.

You inhaled, slow and careful. “I get it, you know.”

Sidney looked up from his plate, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” You hesitated, organizing your thoughts. “I get what Olivia’s feeling. I get why she tried to be the responsible one.” You picked at the napkin in your lap, voice quieter now. “Because I did the same thing.”

Sidney didn’t say anything, but he put his drink down. He was listening.

“My mom had me young,” you started. “She wasn’t even out of college yet. And my dad… well.” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “He wasn’t interested in the whole family thing.”

Sidney’s jaw tightened.

“He left when I was four,” you continued, eyes flickering up to his. “And I guess, in some ways, I don’t even remember what it was like when he was around. But I remember what it was like after. I remember how my mom had to work two jobs. How tired she always was. How—” You swallowed. “How I felt like I had to make up for him leaving.”

Sidney’s expression softened, his brows knitting together like he was piecing you together in real-time.

“I started helping out more. Taking care of things that weren’t really my responsibility. By the time my little brothers was born, I was basically their second parent.” You let out a breathy laugh. “I mean, I was nine and I was making school lunches. I was helping with homework. I was doing all these things because I thought it would make things easier for my mom. I thought if I could just be good enough, she wouldn’t miss him. We wouldn’t miss him.”

Sidney’s hand flexed against the table.

“But the thing is…” You shrugged, forcing a small smile. “It never really worked. Because I was still just a kid. And sometimes kids need someone to tell them it’s okay to be a kid.”

Sidney exhaled, like something was clicking into place.

“That’s why I see so much of myself in Olivia,” you admitted, tracing the rim of your glass with your finger. “I know what it’s like to feel like you have to hold everything together. To feel like you have to be the adult when things fall apart.” You looked at Sidney then, your voice quieter, but steady. “And I think that’s why I care about her so much.”

Sidney’s brows drew together slightly, his beer resting untouched on the table between you. His eyes, deep and thoughtful, didn’t waver. He was listening—really listening.

You took a slow breath, letting the moment settle before continuing.

“The thing is, I know it’s not true,” you said. “I know she doesn’t have to be that way. That she’s just a kid, and she should be able to be a kid.” You exhaled softly, shaking your head. “But when you feel like everything around you is out of control, stepping up feels like the only option. Even if it’s not fair. Even if it’s not right.”

Sidney said nothing, but something shifted in his expression.

So you went on, voice careful, deliberate.

“I think… I think she’s starting to see that she doesn’t have to be the one holding everything together anymore.” You offered a small, knowing smile. “That she has someone who will do that for her. And that’s because of you, Sidney.”

His jaw tensed, but he still didn’t speak.

You could see it—the self-doubt, the way he carried the weight of the divorce like a failing on his part. He didn’t have to say it out loud for you to know he wondered, late at night, if he was enough. If he was doing enough.

And you couldn’t stand it.

“You’re a good dad,” you told him, voice firm.

His throat worked as he swallowed, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t know about that.”

“You should,” you said, unwavering. “You should know. Because you are.”

He scoffed under his breath, running a hand over his jaw. “You don’t see me at two in the morning, staring at the ceiling wondering if I’m screwing this all up.”

“Sid,” you said, gentler now. “You love them. You show up for them. You fight for them. Do you know how many kids don’t get that?”

Something flickered in his eyes, but he stayed quiet.

You hesitated for only a second before you said, “I didn’t.”

Sidney’s gaze snapped back to you.

You kept your voice light—too light. “Dad used to call sometimes. When I was little. But it got less and less over the years. By the time I was Olivia’s age, I stopped expecting it. I stopped waiting.”

Sidney hadn’t touched his beer. Hadn’t moved an inch. His jaw was tight, his hands clasped loosely together on the table, but his expression was unreadable.

You cleared your throat. “That’s why I know Olivia’s lucky. Even if she doesn’t always feel like it right now. Even if it’s been hard, and things are messy, and divorce sucks—she’s got you. You’re there. You’re trying. And she knows it.”

Sidney exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah, well. I wish that was enough.”

“But it is,” you insisted, leaning forward slightly. “That’s what I’m saying. You being there? That’s everything.”

Sidney’s gaze lifted to yours, and for the first time all night, there was something unguarded in his expression.

“I mean it,” you said, quieter now. “She doesn’t have to wonder if you’re going to come home. She doesn’t have to hold her breath every time the phone rings, hoping it’s you and being disappointed when it’s not. She doesn’t have to think she has to earn your love, Sid. She just has it.”

His jaw clenched.

“She’s lucky,” you finished. “Even if she doesn’t fully see it yet.”

For a long time, Sidney didn’t say anything. He just watched you.

And then, finally, he shook his head, voice low and steady.

“Your father,” he said, “is the lowest kind of man there is.”

Your breath caught.

“To walk away from his kids?” Sidney’s voice was rougher now, edged with something deep and unapologetic. “To leave you and your mom on your own? That’s… that’s not a man. That’s a coward.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t used to people saying it like that. You weren’t used to people saying anything at all about it, really. It had always been just one of those things—something people knew but never directly acknowledged.

But Sidney wasn’t mincing words.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he continued, voice quieter but still firm. “Neither of you did.”

Your hands felt a little shaky, so you pressed them together in your lap. And suddenly, it hit you.

This wasn’t just about your dad. This was about Sidney, too.

Because as much as you had lived your life wondering what you had done to make your father leave, Sidney was here—right here—terrified that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he gave, it might never be enough. That he might still lose his kids in some way.

So this time, when you spoke, your voice was softer. More sure.

“You’re nothing like him.”

Sidney looked at you.

“You’re a good dad,” you repeated. “You’re the kind of dad kids deserve.”

Something in his expression changed.

It was small, barely perceptible, but it was there—a flicker of something unspoken, something that settled between you like an understanding neither of you fully grasped yet.

And it wasn’t bad.

Not at all. But it was different.

Sidney exhaled deeply, finally leaning back against the booth. His hand scrubbed over his jaw like he was trying to find the right words, something you’d noticed he did whenever he was thinking hard about something. The air between you felt heavier now, weighted down by the conversation, by everything you’d laid out between each other.

Finally, he looked back at you.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice quieter now, but still sure. “Really. I—” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, a humorless little chuckle leaving his lips. “I needed that.”

His fingers tapped against the glass of his beer, and then, suddenly, his expression twisted.

“Oh—shit, I mean—” He winced, shaking his head quickly. “Not, like—not that your story is a good thing or—Jesus.” He huffed out an exasperated breath, looking genuinely horrified at his own words. “I just meant—”

You laughed. Hard.

The immediate, sincere panic on his face only made it funnier.

“Sid, relax,” you grinned, covering your mouth as you shook your head. “I know what you meant.”

Sidney groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah, well, that makes one of us.”

That only made you laugh harder.

He watched you for a moment, exhaling slowly, before finally shaking his head. “I’m gonna be honest. I don’t think I’ve embarrassed myself this much since the last time I fell in practice and took out, like, three guys on the way down.”

Your grin widened. “Wow. That bad, huh?”

“Oh, worse,” he said, pointing at you with his beer bottle before taking another sip. “Way worse.”

You shrugged, resting your chin on your palm. “I don’t know. I thought it was kinda endearing.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “You would.”

You shot him a smug look. “I do.”

He let out another soft chuckle, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, he looked back up at you, something more serious in his gaze.

“No, but really,” he said, voice lower, more steady this time. “Thank you.”

And that time, there was no fumbling. No awkward backtracking. Just genuine gratitude.

You felt your chest tighten slightly, the warmth of his words settling somewhere deep in your ribs.

Before you could find a way to respond, though, you realized something.

Sidney was still looking at you.

But not the same way he usually did.

His gaze was heavier now, slower, his expression just slightly more relaxed than it had been all night. His fingers absentmindedly traced the condensation on his beer bottle, and his eyes, dark and warm and a little unreadable, stayed locked on you in a way that sent a sudden rush of heat up your spine.

Oh.

You swallowed, your brain short-circuiting.

Because the way he was looking at you? You knew that look.

The lazy, half-lidded gaze, the way his lips were just slightly parted, how he lingered a beat longer than necessary on your face before his eyes flickered ever so briefly down, then back up—

Yeah. You knew that look.

And oh, you were in trouble.

Your stomach flipped, your skin going hot all over, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze. “Are you okay?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.

Sidney blinked, like he was suddenly remembering himself. Then, he cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his seat. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” he repeated, this time with a little more certainty. Then, as if sensing the shift, he smirked. “Why? You worried about me?”

You scoffed, but your heartbeat was still too fast. “Not even a little.”

He hummed, taking another slow sip of his beer, and damn it, his eyes were still on you.

And it wasn’t like that.

It wasn’t obvious, or aggressive, or even something you thought he was aware of doing.

But it was… different.

And maybe, just maybe, you weren’t imagining it this time.

---

If you're fifteen or older an still sleep with a stuffed animal please reblog this.

My friend is embarrassed and thinks she’s the only one and I said id prove her wrong.

---

I'm so freaked out man

please don't lose

Oil please win

Actually dying of stress

---

hallmates | quinn hughes

warnings: voyeuristic themes (thin walls), masturbation (fem), dirty talk, wet dreams, drunkenness, quinn pining but barely, garland mentioned before i found out he followed trump and tucker carlson on instagram..., PROTECTED p in v (for once), the smut in this is not as strong as previous pieces of mine, use of Y/N. pairing: quinn hughes x fem!reader summary: when fem!reader moves in next to qh, there are two instances where she forgets just how thin the walls are. the second time, quinn is sure to remind her. wc: 5746

Your first grown-up job out of college has been great. You like your coworkers, you’re not bored with your daily tasks, and they gave you a very generous relocation package for your move to Vancouver. You were lucky enough to find a nice apartment with the money, and you paid the first three months’ rent easily. It’s your first one-bedroom apartment, finally living on your own for the first time in your life, and almost everything is perfect.

Almost everything.

Your one gripe is that you can hear your neighbor through the wall when he gets home from his job at weird hours, or when he has friends over during weeknights when you’re trying to prepare for work the following day, or even when he hosts holiday parties for what sounds like fifty-plus people.

It happens often enough that you’re annoyed when his presence makes itself known, but you’re not the kind of person to go over and tell him to knock it off. Plus, you decided that you’d give him a pass because it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose.

Well, that, and he’s cute.

The first time you met was on move-in day. You were lugging your suitcases up the stairs leading to the apartment and he offered to help you carry them in. He took them both– one in each hand– and lifted them like they were nothing. He brought them all the way to the lobby, then smiled softly at you instead of saying “You’re welcome” when you thanked him. You had to talk to the security guard to get your key before ascending up to your floor in the elevator, and in that time, the cute boy had disappeared. You hadn’t caught his name, but you had texted your best friends and informed them that there was at least one hottie in your building.

You learned his name the second time he helped you carry something up the stairs. You had gone grocery shopping at the market down the street and had conveniently forgotten your reusable bags. Before you realized your mistake, you had gone a little crazy with the fruits and vegetables. You’d had to pack all of your goodies into two bursting paper bags that one of the vendors had on hand, and they were filled to the brim. You made it all the way to the bottom of the steps to your apartment when the handles of the bags tore off and all of your hard work was suddenly for naught.

The bags went crashing to the pavement, dirty and littered with the fallen leaves that hadn’t been corralled when they first made their way to the ground, and the prized red onion that you were going to chop up tonight as part of your dinner rolled about a foot away. 

All in all, you should’ve been glad it was the onion. You always peel the skin off of an onion before you cook it, and you always wash it thoroughly before cutting it up, but you reacted like it was the end of the world. Your prized onion was tarnished by the ground, which was silly, because they come from the ground in the first place. 

The onion rolled all the way to your neighbor’s feet. He was arriving home with a friend, a short brunet with floppy hair and a mustache. “You okay?” Your neighbor asked. He picked up the onion and cradled it in his palm.

“I’m fine,” you replied. “Just not sure how I’m going to carry all of this upstairs without the handles.”

“We’ll help out. You live next to Huggy, right?” The friend said, bending down to lift one of the bags. He cradles it in his arms and your neighbor does the same.

“Huggy?” You asked, furrowing your eyebrows.

Your neighbor, in the meanwhile, had blushed beet-red and stooped down to pick up the other bag of groceries. “That’s me. It’s a nickname.”

“Huggy Bear,” his friend cooed, bumping his arm and knocking your neighbor off balance. 

“It’s Quinn. My name. You can call me Quinn,” your neighbor said, diverting your attention from the silly nickname.

“How do you know which apartment I live in, Quinn?” You questioned. You walked alongside the men as they took your groceries up the stairs, into the elevator, and into your apartment.

Quinn had cut his friend off by replying first. “Moving in makes a lot of noise. I live next door and we share a wall. You weren’t really quiet when you built your bed. I’m glad you have somewhere to sleep, but I could live without the expletives.” He reveals the information with a smile, the same slight curve of his lips that you’re starting to really admire.

That was that. They dropped the groceries off on your kitchen counter and you thanked them for the help, then sent them on their way.

The third time you saw Quinn– well, it started this whole mess. He’s been nice to you twice, so you thought you would repay him with the best thing you could think of: brownies. You’d just gotten the recipe from your aunt to make them from scratch and, hey, he’s a guy, right? Guys like baked goods. 

The quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Not that you’re trying to get to Quinn’s heart. You wouldn’t mind it, but you’re not… trying.

Thirty minutes later, you’re knocking on Quinn’s door with a plate of brownies. Half of your goods are on the platter, ready for Quinn to dig into. The rest are on your counter, their yummy scent rising in waves from them like in a cartoon and waiting for you to return. 

You only know that he’s home because you can hear him through the wall. After he told you that the walls were thin, you’d been noticing the same thing. It wasn’t just when he gets home or when he has people over. You can hear him moving around and cooking throughout the day. You can hear his sports channels through the wall– yes, that’s right, channels. Multiple. You’re not sure, but he might have two or even three TVs. 

Long story short, Quinn’s home. It takes him a few minutes to come to the door when you knock. “Who is it?” He asks, voice muffled through the door.

“Your friendly next door neighbor,” you reply. “With a plate of fresh brownies.”

The lock slides open and Quinn appears from behind the door. You hold the plate out to Quinn and he takes it from you with one hand. The other rests above his head on the doorframe. He leans over you, smiling softly. 

Suddenly, you don’t know what to say. You don’t know where you were going with this. Your eyes are drawn to his neck, which looks muscular and, well, biteable.

“Enjoy the brownies,” you squeak out, then you turn on your heel and bolt away.

Like any normal woman who is shocked by her sudden visceral attraction to her admittedly-hot next door neighbor, you call your best friend. She talks you through it for a little while, then starts to stray into enemy territory: “Go out, Y/N. Get your mind off of it. Have a drink, get a little tipsy, then go over to his place and tell him how hot you think he is. You’ve never heard a girl’s voice, right? I feel like you would’ve, if he has a girlfriend. The worst he can say is that he’s not interested.”

When you try to weasel out of it, speaking in low tones so that Quinn doesn't hear you through the wall, she reminds you that your resolution for this “new stage of your life” was to stop being so anxious about what someone could say to you. You had declared that you wouldn’t let your own anxiety affect your ability to be vulnerable, especially not with the people that you find attractive. 

Damn your best friend. How dare she look out for you. She even promises to call you in four hours to check in on your drunkenness.

You make plans with the girl in your office that you’ve been taking lunch with. She’s also new– not compared to you, but within the past year. She remembers what it was like to be brand new to Vancouver, so she’s eager to go out with you and offer up her friendship. She takes you to two bars in the downtown area: when the first one gets too full with what she calls “the sport crowd,” you move to the next.

Your coworker’s favorite liquor is tequila. After three shots, which make you cringe despite filling your stomach with warmth, she pulls your troubles out of you. You tell her all about your “sexy” roommate– that’s right, Quinn has been upgraded from “hot” to “sexy” as a result of the alcohol– and she encourages you to try and bag him, just like your best friend did. She agrees that there’s no reason not to and that you should be fine because you’ve been bolstered by the tequila.

She tells you about the person she’s currently seeing and how confusing it is, rambling on and on. When the time comes, and you’re still out, your best friend does call. You talk to her for a second, then she meets your coworker through speakerphone, and they bond over the fact that they both think you should hook up with Quinn.

You party into the night, getting more and more loopy. Your confidence skyrockets by the end of the evening and your drinks are tasting like water. You’re probably too far gone to actually talk to Quinn tonight, but who cares? You feel good. You needed a night out like this.

By the time you’re getting in the Uber, there’s a goofy smile that hasn’t left your face since maybe your fifth drink. You’re able to stumble up the stairs to the lobby and gleefully greet the nighttime security guard at his desk, then you ride the elevator up to your floor. You look up and see yourself in the mirrors on the ceiling of the elevator, which is a treat for Drunk-You. It’s almost a shame when the elevator dings, having finally reached your floor, and you have to leave.

You walk down the hall and consider going up to Quinn’s door, but your phone vibrates in your pocket and you dig it out. It’s the newly minted group chat between you, your coworker, and your bestie. It distracts you, and the clock in the top left corner informs you that you’ve gotten home at a crisp 1:30am, so you decide to go to bed. 

You go to bed, alright. You get ready, you get comfy, and then you remember Quinn’s neck. 

The skin looked so soft. The hair from his beard had started to creep down towards his adam’s apple, but it was neatly maintained. You can imagine how scratchy it would be in your palms, or against your cheek when he graces you with a little kiss, or against your neck while he sucks hickeys onto your skin… or against the sensitive expanse of your own thighs.

You know just how sensitive and delicate the skin is on your thighs because it’s where your fingers are dancing. 

As you drift off, mind still foggy from your drinks, your touch starts to feel much more like you imagine Quinn’s would. His big fingers, on that manly hand, would touch you so carefully. He’d be so determined to play you like a fiddle.

As you imagine your very sexy next door neighbor touching you, you’re making a lot more noise than you realize. It starts with a whimper here and there, then crescendos into actual moans and desperate keens. You’ve shoved your face into the pillow below you, but it does very little to muffle your moans– considering you’re a big fan of breathing, your face is more turned to the side so that you don’t actually suffocate yourself while in the middle of getting off. Your middle two fingers are shoved into your cunt, your index finger erratically sliding against your clit. 

“I know, baby, you feel so good. You want it so bad, don’t you?” Quinn’s imaginary and gently deprecating words wash over your brain like an intrusive thought. 

You bite your lip and turn into the pillow, pleading with him belligerently into the cushion. You’re fighting for your life in this little fantasy, feeling so overwhelmed, and the man you’re imagining isn’t even here. But, in your mind, he’s the one with his fingers inside of you, making you gasp out his name once when his finger passes over your clit just right. In your mind, he doubles down and turns you into a mess. The drinks clogging your mind are able to make it feel more real.

You’re so caught up in your own pleasure that you forget just how thin the walls are. You miss the sound of your neighbor tossing and turning in his bed, even standing at one point and pacing around his bedroom.

It’s only after you come that you hear his bedframe creak with the weight of his body and the faint music that he seems to be playing– maybe just as white noise to fall asleep. You write it off and succumb to the clawing hands of your own slumber. 

You see Quinn again the next day. You’re heading to work with a heavy hangover weighing on you– why did you listen to your best friend when she told you to go out on a Sunday? Why did you listen to your coworker when she brought out the second and third round of shots?– and Quinn seems to be heading to his own job. You still don’t know what that is.

You meet him in front of the elevator, waiting for its doors to open and let you in. You’re honestly not sure if the movement will make you feel more sick, or even push you over the edge and make you dizzy and on the verge of throwing up, like getting out of bed did when you woke up later than you meant to and you had to rush to get ready. Everything is too bright.

Quinn yawns three times in two minutes. You’re the only two in the elevator and the silence is growing more uncomfortable than the ache in your head, since you consider Quinn to be your… friend now? General acquaintance, distant crush, or next-door neighbor might be a better categorization. 

“Long night?” You ask. 

His cheeks turn pink, bizarrely, and Quinn seems determined to face straight forward. His eyes look a little more deer-in-headlights today, rather than the calm and serene blankness that you’re used to. Not that you’re used to looking into Quinn’s eyes. “Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you apologize, feeling for him. You’ve been the victim of a restless night many times over, so you know how dreadful it is the following day. “Do you know why?”

Quinn swallows harshly. “Um, I have an idea.”

It’s a weird answer, only because he doesn’t elaborate any further. You keep waiting for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. That is, until the elevator arrives in the parking garage under the complex, when Quinn starts to head one way towards his car and you start to go the other way to your own. To make things even more confusing, Quinn says in a very stilted voice, “Thanks for the brownies.”

Then, like you did when you dropped the brownies off the previous day, he bolts. 

At first, you’re confused, but you let it go. Maybe he was late for work. At least he took the time out of his day to thank you for the brownies, right?

You consider gifting him some of your sleepy-time tea, since he was having trouble sleeping and it’s clearly affecting him. Then you think to yourself that if you kept bringing Quinn treats, you would seem like a cat dropping a mouse at their owners’ feet… so you decide not to.

You feel vindicated with your choice in the coming days. Each time Quinn sees you, his eyes go wide and he scampers away as quickly as he can. It proves itself to be very confusing because he was so nice before. 

After a tough week at work, and another near-miss with Quinn, you’re just… tired. It’s been a weird few days. What you really want is to snuggle up in your bed, throw on some ambient music, drink a glass of wine, light a candle, and fall asleep early– after blowing out your candle, of course. You’d be damned if you were the reason the entire apartment burned down in the middle of the night.

You’re lucky enough that your plans for the night work out. You get to settle in with a book– a spicy romance novel that your coworker recommended to “take the edge off if you won’t knock on Quinn’s damn door.” She seems to think that the reason you’re having a bad week is because you haven’t hooked up with Quinn yet. You don’t think there’s any correlation.

There does seem to be a correlation between the spicy book, the mention of Quinn, and what happens later. You fell asleep with your book open against your chest, having been lulled to sleep by the comfort of your own home. 

It starts simple. Quinn’s lips are sliding against yours, his hand resting securely on your waist. You’re laying in bed and you’ve got a thigh over his hip, grinding into his generous length. Before you know it, and in dream-land it seems like a flash, Quinn’s length is inside of you. He’s got a thumb on your clit while the other plays with your hair, sweet kisses gracing your lips. Quinn’s content teasing you, thrusting as shallowly as he wants and leaving you whining for more. 

“Quinn,” dream-you insists between kisses. 

“Not enough for you, sweetheart?” dream-Quinn chides playfully, his voice riddled with fondness. “You weren’t even supposed to take my cock tonight. But no, you just had to be full. You couldn’t be content with warming me either, huh? You need me to fuck you whenever you want. Isn’t that right, baby?”

“Quinn, I need you,” you confirm, whining a little bit and pursing your lips so he finds them again.

“Music to my ears,” Quinn tells you with a smile. “Let me make you come, yeah?”

“Quinn,” you moan again, his touch reducing you to a mess that can only say one word: his name.

You wake to a loud knock on your apartment door. “Y/N!” The person calls, and it sounds like a man, which alarms you in your freshly awoken state.

You roll out of bed and tug on your bathrobe, which you had thrown in the dryer during your first stint in bed, the one that had sent you into sleep. And– and– had sparked that weird dream that has you wet in your panties and wishing Quinn had been there when you woke up.

You tie the belt of the robe around your waist and look through the peephole– it is Quinn. Your wish came true, in a bizarre way. He’s here and he looks concerned. He’s lifting his hand to knock again, but you open the door.

“Quinn, what’s–”

“Are you okay?” He asks. He’s wearing sweatpants and an undershirt, as well as his tennis shoes. He probably just slipped those on to come over here. “You were saying my name. I heard you through the wall. You said you needed me. Are you hurt? Is something wrong?”

The barrage of questions leaves you rattled. You blink in surprise, trying to process all of his inquiries. “What?” You ask, squeezing your eyes shut hard to try and wipe the sleep away. 

“You were saying my name,” Quinn repeats. 

You squint, crossing your arms over your chest. “I was asleep,” you say, aware of how confused you sound.

“You were asleep,” Quinn repeats. He blinks twice, then repeats himself, sounding more sure. “You were asleep.”

“I was asleep,” you agree.

Quinn goes to leave, then faces you again and tilts his head to the side. “What were you dreaming about?” He asks. 

You feel your face flood with embarrassment. You’ve never been good at controlling your expression. “It was nothing.”

“Was I there?” Quinn checks. “Is that why you were saying my name?”

“You were there,” you confirm, hoping it’s enough to satisfy him and he leaves. 

Quinn smiles. He looks extra handsome when he smiles. He was smiling at you in your dream. He was doing a lot of good things in your dream. If only you could fall asleep and jump right back in– you were so close and his cock was filling you so well. 

“What was I doing in this dream?” Quinn crosses his arms and takes a step closer to you. 

You move closer to the door, keeping your hand on the doorknob, ready to slam it behind him as soon as he heads back to his apartment. “I don’t remember,” you lie. “You know, most people forget their dream within ten minutes of waking up.”

Quinn nods, still smirking. “You didn’t forget this one, though, did you?” He teases knowingly. 

“Bits and pieces.”

The next thing Quinn says is Earth-shattering. 

“Were you dreaming last time, too?”

You wish you could melt into the floor or camouflage yourself against the wall. You had a theory that Quinn had heard you getting off through the wall the night that you were drunk, although you don’t imagine that he understood your wanton noises. That was why he was running away so much. 

But… he’s not running away this time. He’s here and he’s pressing you for more and more details.

“What do you mean?” You ask, swallowing hard.

“The last time you were saying my name,” Quinn prompts. “Were you asleep then, too?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.”

“No, I don’t think so,” You reply, scrubbing over your arms. It’s a sign of being uncomfortable. Hopefully Quinn picks up on that and goes, sparing you any further humiliation. You’ll never talk to him again. He’s heard you make sex noises twice, and now you know that he knows. It’s embarrassing.

Quinn takes another step forward. He’s right in the doorway now, inches away from stepping across the threshold and entering your apartment. “If you have another dream,” he says, pushing his long sleeves up to his elbows and revealing his arms. He dips his head, lowering his voice to a timbre that has you growing damp again. “You know where to find me.”

Like a final stamp of approval on an official document, Quinn touches the knot at the front of your robe. It’s a brief, fleeting touch and it’s so close to where his hands were originally planted in your dream.

He turns to leave and gets all of three steps away before you call him back. “Quinn.”

“Mhm?” He asks, knowing smile on his face. 

“How, um… how much did you hear?” You scratch the back of your head awkwardly. 

“The first time?” Quinn asks. “Or this time?”

You don’t really want to know the answer, but you nod anyway. “Uh...both?”

“Well,” Quinn says. “Today, you didn’t seem to get very far.”

No thanks to you, you think bitterly. I would’ve liked to see how that dream ended.

“But the first time, I heard everything,” Quinn informs you with a little shrug. “You… you sound really pretty when you come.”

It’s a sheepish admission and it has your jaw dropping. You fishmouth at him for a second, unable to think of something to say. He can just say shit like that? What? How?

“I guess I was hoping…” Quinn licks his lower lip, then looks you up and down. “That if I interrupted you this time, I’d get to… experience the real thing. Not just listen in through the wall.”

“You want…” you trail off, overwhelmed by the information he’s giving you. Quinn wants to have sex with you? But he’s your neighbor crush– this is a new development in the dynamic that you were not expecting. You’re not usually the kind of girl whose little crushes are reciprocated, at least, not like this.

Quinn raises his eyebrows, waiting for you to complete the sentence. When you don’t, he asks another question. “What was I doing in your dream, Y/N?”

“We, um, we were in bed,” you stammer out, feeling unsure. He wants to know– he’s made that very clear. Still, you’re somewhat reluctant. It might be coming off as coyness by accident.

“Can I come in?” Quinn asks. “I need to get the full picture. I don’t know what your bed looks like.”

You stand aside and allow him in. You close, and, out of habit, lock the door behind him. He follows you to your bedroom. You try to see it through his eyes for the first time, although you’ve been living here for a while, so it’s hard. It’s just your bedroom.

“So this is where we were,” Quinn says. “Then what?”

“We were laying down,” you explain.

Quinn starts to take off his shoes, then his socks, then he climbs into your bed. “Like this?”

You feel lightheaded. What is he doing? This is so bizarre.

“Kind of?” You reply. You join him. “It was more like– this?” You pull at his arm until he lays on his side, facing you. You face him, bringing his elbow up so it rests on the pillow. 

He asked, you remind yourself. He wants to know. He asked. It’s weird, but you’re just showing him. 

You resolutely avoid his eyes, which have been trained on your face this whole time. Your cheeks are probably going to remain stained pink from the constant blush on your skin. You lay your head on the curve of his arm, then touch his cheek. Just his cheek. You’re still avoiding his eyes. It’s getting harder. “And then, um, my leg was over your hip, too.”

“Like this?” Quinn asks, bringing his warm palm to the curve of your knee and guiding your leg into place. He leaves his hand there.

“Like that,” you confirm faintly. 

All of your neurons are firing like crazy, making you question if this, too, is a dream. Has your subconscious gotten so meta that you can’t decipher what’s real and what’s fake?

“What else did we do?” Quinn’s voice has dropped to a whisper. His hand is still on your thigh.

“Well, your hand was here,” You say, correcting him and bringing his hand to your waist. “And you…”

Quinn gives your waist a little squeeze. “I… what?”

“You were kissing me,” you say, your voice barely a breath. This can’t be real. 

Quinn surprises you. “Good,” he murmurs. “I’ve been waiting to do that.” He leans in, letting his lips ghost over yours before he meets you completely. He’s hesitant, waiting for you to relax with him. 

You don’t fully, still confused from waking up and the fact that this happened so quickly and in such a bizarre way. When he pulls away, you voice your confusion. “Are you real?” You question under your breath.

Quinn chuckles, leaning in to kiss you again. “I’m real.”

He continues to kiss you. Over and over, until you finally melt into his touch and start to do exactly what you were doing in your dream– grinding against him. 

“Were you doing this in your dream?” Quinn asks. He’s helping guide your movements and you can feel him swelling beneath you. He’s not wearing underwear– you can tell. You want it, bad, and now that you’ve been kissing him, you’re more willing to explain the rest of your dream to him.

“More,” you breathe out. “I needed your cock inside me.”

Quinn makes a noise of surprise, but the way he kisses you after you say that reveals his enthusiasm.

“And you were talking to me,” you reveal as Quinn starts to meet your rolling hips. “You were– you were teasing me for being so needy.”

“What was I saying?” Quinn’s hand twitches against your waist, pulling you closer. He licks into your mouth briefly, then pulls back. “What had you begging for me, sweetheart?”

“Making fun of me,” you exhale. “Saying– I couldn’t get enough of you. That I was greedy and that I couldn’t be satisfied with just warming you–”

“Warming me,” Quinn repeats quietly, interrupting you.

You talk over him. “So you had to fuck me, but you weren’t really fucking me– you were just, inside, barely moving and your thumb was on my clit.”

“As if I could hold myself back like that,” Quinn scoffs. You grab the sides of his shirt and tug petulantly, bringing him in for another kiss. You’re addicted. 

“Show me,” you invite. “Show me how you’d fuck me. Show me what you’d do differently. Please. You came all the way over here– I want to make it worth your time.”

Quinn groans into your mouth, bringing his hand from your waist to the tie of your robe. “Really?”

“Don’t make me ask again,” you say. “I was so close in my dream.”

Quinn reacts to that in the same way. “Fuck, let me get my fingers in you first–”

“No.”

“No?” Quinn repeats, pulling away from you. 

“Not no,” you correct, bringing your hands to his waistband and snapping the band impatiently. “Just– I want your cock. Just your cock. Please fuck me, Quinn.” You kiss him sweetly one more time. “Please?”

“Undress yourself,” Quinn says. “I want to see all of you.”

“You too,” you reply. “Take your clothes off.”

As you undress, untying the knot of your belt and tossing the robe to the floor of your bedroom, you talk. You take your big t-shirt off, asking, “Condom?”

Quinn digs into the pocket of his sweats, having shed his shirt. He pulls out a foil– just one, sadly– and tosses it to you. 

You catch it, tearing the edge of the packet and taking out the ring of plastic inside of it. You push your panties down with one hand, while Quinn loses his sweats. As soon as his cock is revealed to you, hard and pink at the tip, you jump into action. You’re rolling the condom on quickly, unable to help yourself from pumping his shaft a few times.

“Quit,” Quinn remarks, batting your hand away and laying back down. He’s on his side, pulling your thigh back over his hip and resuming the position from before. He puts his hand under your jaw, then guides his cock to your opening. He pushes in, rolling his hips until every single inch is sheathed inside of you. “Fuck, baby. You feel so good.”

“You’re big,” you reply, holding his shoulders and tilting your pelvis forward to encourage him to move. “Filling me so nice, Q.”

“Q,” Quinn echoes, his voice sounding a little strangled. “That’s– that’s nice.”

You wonder if he’s holding back. He always seems to when it comes to talking to you. After a while, maybe he’ll give you something more than his shy words and his hesitant admissions. He’s in your bed now, but he’s still holding back.

He starts to rut against you, finding a rhythm in which his cock slides in and out of your heat. The movement is smooth because you’re so wet from dreaming about him, then kissing him, and now having him inside. Even though there’s the barrier of protection between you, he’s warm and you can feel the way his skin stretches over his veins and his tip. That, combined with the scrape of his member against your fleshy walls, creates something so warm inside of you that you can’t help but ask for more.

Quinn gives you everything you ask for like he can’t imagine doing anything else. Soon enough, he’s holding himself up slightly by his elbow so he has some leverage to fuck into you harder and faster. 

You’re moaning, pulling him closer and threading your fingers through his hair. “Quinn,” you’re saying, repeating the word that inspired him to come over in the first place. 

He’s saying your name, too. He’s whispering it into your ear and into your mouth as he presses kisses wherever he can reach. He thrusts, he says your name, he kisses. He thrusts again, he says your name again, and he kisses you again. It’s an endless cycle, a perpetual loop. It’s soft and sweet, even though the way he’s fucking you is anything but. His thrusts are sharp and pointed, hitting the right spot inside of you as often as he can. 

The kiss to your neck is your undoing. He’s sucking a bit, biting down just barely, and his tongue works against your pulse point. It’s too much, too full of something deeper. You let go, making the noise he likes so much– the noise that he said was pretty, and he meant it, even as bashful as he looked when he said it. Your moan mixes with his name again.

Quinn spills into the condom shortly after, touching you reverently and letting his hips jerk and twitch through his release. 

You feel innately close to him, like you’re part of him. It’s bizarre how one hookup with your cute neighbor leaves you feeling satisfied and unsettled– ‘unsettled’ because, well, why would you feel so close to a man you’ve slept with once and only had a few genuine conversations with?

Quinn eases your thoughts by letting you know that he feels, at least, a little bit similar to you. 

“Can I take you to dinner?” He asks. “I’m busy most of the time, but I want to take you out. Let’s make time to have a real date.” Quinn pauses. “Unless you don’t want to– if you just want this, that’s okay. I just– I’d feel stupid if I didn’t ask.”

You touch his mouth, effectively silencing him, even though you hadn’t meant to. You just wanted to feel his lips move while he spoke. “I’ll go to dinner with you,” you agree. “If you sleep here tonight.”

Quinn smiles. “Done.”

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I’m loving the long hair sm

quinn i think its time for a haircut…

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The fact that my tv is not letting me watch this is diabolical

Like bro💀….I live here….this game is happening literally a 25 minute drive away

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CONNOR BROWN!!!

I LOVE YOU

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who else already feels like they’re going to throw up

Cutie

GAWD DAMN HE IS SO FINEEEEEEEEEEEE

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Tweet of the day!

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