They’d been dating for a while now—long enough for routines to form, but never long enough for it to feel dull. It was the kind of relationship that grew in quiet ways. She learned what time he liked his coffee, how he always forgot his phone charger, and how he’d hum songs from the 70s while tying his skates. He wasn’t loud about love; he showed it in the way he always checked if she’d eaten after practice, or how he’d squeeze her hand once before every flight, like a silent “we’re okay.”

Summer was always his favorite. For once, hockey didn’t own his schedule. He could breathe, sleep in, take the boat out. They’d started this little tradition—weekends at the lake house. Just them, a cooler, and a playlist that was more hers than his, though he’d never admit how much he liked it. She’d tease him for pretending to hate her “soft summer songs,” but he’d still whistle along every time.

That morning, the sun had barely lifted when he leaned against the dock railing, coffee in hand. His hair still messy from sleep, a faded T-shirt hanging loose. She came out barefoot, wrapping herself in his hoodie. “You’re up early,” she murmured, rubbing her eyes.

“Can’t sleep,” he said, voice low. “Water’s too calm. Feels wrong not to be out there.”

It was so him—to crave motion even in peace. To need the ice, or the waves, or something to move against. She smiled, walking over to lean on his shoulder. “You never stop, do you?”

He turned, that half-smile of his showing. “You wouldn’t like me if I did.”

She thought about that a lot—the way he lived between stillness and drive. How he could spend hours perfecting a play, then spend the next day doing absolutely nothing and still feel restless. She’d learned to read the signs: the foot tapping, the long stares toward the horizon, the quiet sighs after calls with his brothers. He carried a lot that he didn’t say out loud, and she’d stopped trying to make him. He didn’t need fixing. Just space, and someone who stayed.

When they finally went out on the boat, the air was warm, still smelling like pine and lake water. He took the wheel, confident as always, but softer here than anywhere else. “I forget the world exists when we’re out here,” she said quietly.

“That’s the point,” he replied. “It’s nice not being ‘Quinn Hughes’ for a bit.”

She looked at him, the way the sun hit the side of his face, the little scar near his temple she’d once kissed after a game. “You’re still him,” she said. “Just… the version I like better.”

He laughed, not fully meeting her eyes. “Yeah? What version’s that?”

“The one who leaves wet towels everywhere and still thinks cereal counts as dinner.”

He reached out, nudging her leg with his knee. “You make it sound like I’m a mess.”

“You kind of are.”

But she said it with a grin, and he knew what she meant. He always knew.

As the afternoon faded into gold, music played softly from her phone—something slow, something that made the lake feel endless. He sat beside her, arm draped lazily around her waist, tracing circles on her skin with his thumb. They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.

Later, when the stars started showing and the air turned cooler, he looked out over the water and said quietly, “You ever think about how fast it all goes? Hockey, summers, us…”

She didn’t answer right away. Just leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Yeah. But I think that’s what makes it good.”

He nodded, eyes still on the lake. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Guess it is.”

The night settled around them, the water lapping softly against the boat. Somewhere in the distance, a song changed, and she reached over to lower the volume.

He stayed there a little longer, quiet and steady, the kind of calm that didn’t last but always meant something when it did.

And as the stars multiplied above them, neither said anything else. Because maybe some moments weren’t meant to be finished yet.