make you miss me • q. hughes

52

Quinn's shoulders raise up and down steadily. My index finger traces over his face gently. Over the shape of his nose, lips, across his eyebrows. I can't get enough of this sight. Him. Here. Anywhere.

"Good morning," he mumbles, eyes closed.

I smile. Simply move forward to kiss him because he looks so perfect. There's no words to describe it. I'm so in love it's terrible. Our lips move lazily. More pecks than any actual kisses. Quinn grabs my leg that's tossed over his waist and pulls me up to be straddling him. His arms wrap around the back of my neck and pull me as close to him as possible. Our lips barely even break apart.

That's all we do for a few moments. We kiss and kiss and kiss. It's pure peace. The absolute definition of peace is waking up and kissing Quinn Hughes for a little bit. It's perfect. It's beautiful. It feels so nice. But, the day has to start. I tap his shoulder a few times and he lets me sit up. He smiles up at me. Oh, he's gonna hate me.

"Chore time," I say.

His smile collapses into confusion. "What?"

"You thought you were going to come here and not experience farm chores?" I teasingly ask.

* * * * *

Finch and I are sitting in lawn chairs in the large doorway of the hay barn, jars of sweet tea in our hands. I draw a few hearts in the condensation with my free hand. There's a grunt and a bale makes its way onto the stack. Quinn wipes some sweat off his forehead and lets out a deep breath. This man should've been a blue-collar boy with how good he looks doing all this.

"He's coming to my Draft Day, right?" Finch asks.

"No!" Quinn shouts before going for another bale.

I roll my eyes. "Yes, he is. Whether he likes it or not."

"Why doesn't he want to again?"

"Because he doesn't want to take away from you," I explain. "Doesn't even think Luke should go."

"That's crazy," Finch mumbles in the way teenage boys do when they don't care what you think.

I take a long sip. "He'll be there."

"What? Gonna drag him by his hair?" He jokes.

"God no, his hair is too gorgeous for that," I say completely serious. "I'll knock him out and lug him through it all. Weekend at Bernie's style!"

"Won't that fuck up his face?" He says. "Wouldn't that be too gorgeous to fuck up?"

"I think he's hotter a little roughed up."

"Who's hotter?!" Quinn calls over.

"Mind your business!" I snap.

Finch snorts out a laugh. "He's your boyfriend. He should know how hot you think he is."

"Does Luke know how hot you think he is?"

"You bet your ass he does." The lack of hesitation in his voice nearly scares me. Not that he notices because he's a teenage boy. "Did you put whiskey in your tea?"

"It is eleven in the morning, Finch," I fake scold.

There's a groan of frustration from our choring boy over there. I watch him mumble something before dragging himself over to us. He glares down at me. I can't even be mad he looks so good. All sweaty and tired. Although, he's going to be a bit more upset with me in a second down.

He leans down, takes a sip of my tea, and immediately spits it out next to my chair. Dramatically, Quinn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Scout, it's not even noon."

My brother bursts out laughing. Quinn continues to look at me in disbelief. Me? I'm just confused. Because what the fuck? Why does every man I know have so much attitude? I asked Trevor a question about himself and he told me to Google it this morning.

"Shouldn't you be moving bales?" I ask.

"Gee, thanks for noticing I finished, babe," he retorts.

Again, with the attitude. I was gonna let him be done after this. I think he needs more farm-life experience. If I ever talked back to my dad on a chore day, I'd be getting two more days of chores. This is ridiculous.

"Let's get you another thing to finish then, babe," I say.

Finchy sits up straighter. "Don't you think—"

"Stay out of this."

* * * * *

Quinn flops onto the bed face down. His voice comes out muffled. "I'm so exhausted."

"You smell bad," I tell him.

"Give me a second to live and I'll go shower," he mumbles. "You could join me."

"You really just said that?" Quickly, I smack his ass. "In my childhood home? With my parents and younger brother and dogs?"

He props himself up. "You just smacked my ass? In your childhood home? With your parents and younger brother and dogs?"

"You're annoying," I say.

"I'm tired," he says.

Part of me wants to feel bad. Part of me does, I swear. But honestly? The sight of how good he looked doing manual labor was too good to feel bad. I mean, come on. He looked good. He always looks good even when he looks like he hasn't slept in days. When he has a cut on his face. Always. It's unfair.

So I don't feel bad!

"You'll live." I shrug at his gasp. "You have to. So you can come to Finch's draft."

"I'm not going," he states, sitting up.

"Yeah, you are."

"Nope."

"Yeah."

"Nope."

"Yeah."

"Nope."

"Yeah."

He sighs and gives up. "Nope!"

"You're going," I say.

"I'd love to see how you'll force me to go."

"Don't have to force you. You're simply going."

**************
a/n
scout vs the sassy man apocalypse