Frog and Quinn: Chapter Thirteen (Patreon)

While Quinn showers, I alternate between chewing overcooked pizza and rebuilding the bed pillow-by-pillow. There’s no way in hell I’m letting him sleep with a single sheet on the mattress while he made up the floor like I’m the Princess and the Pea.

Need I remind him—I am no princess. I am the princess’ bodyguard.

My phone lets out a soft chirp across the room. The new text tone puts me in a good mood. It’s like a baby chick cooing up at a mama bird. On my way to the dresser, my foot catches the strap of my duffel—stumbling forward, I try to stop my momentum, but my hip bone collides with the ornate seashell dresser knob.

Sharp pain shoots through my side. “Fuuuck,” I groan, holding my hip, and I swallow the thick bite of pizza crust. It goes down heavier when I see my cell phone’s screen on the dresser.

Scooter.

He texted again?

Maybe because I didn’t reply to his first text from earlier today which was a simple, yet generic what’s up?

This second text feels just as simple but far less generic.

Scooter: I miss talking to you.

The pizza churns in my stomach. I regret not blocking him like Quinn blocked Nessa—but I also understand why I didn’t. Why I haven’t. Scooter was clingy but he wasn’t Nessa-level bad. And even though I feel like he was my boyfriend, we were never technically an official couple. He never called me his girlfriend, and “boyfriend” was a word I only used in my head. We’d known each other almost six months before I broke things off, while Quinn had been in a very real relationship with Nessa. Boyfriend/girlfriend labels and all. It also lasted a little over a year.

Comparing the two feels futile. But I do it anyway.

Scooter and I—we only went on one real date together which also happened to be a triple date with Luna, Donnelly, Joana Oliviera and Scooter’s friend.

I wish I could remember the ins-and-outs of that disaster date. But I’d been guzzling lemon drops to fight off nerves, and I became the definition of blackout drunk. Everyone could have told me the night ended in fireworks and confetti, and I’d believe them.

They’re good people though. They told me the truth.

Scooter tried to spend the night with me even though I could barely walk on two feet. Quinn had been there on Luna’s detail. And allegedly—but also confirmed by four different people—Quinn punched Scooter just to get him away from me.

I wish I could remember it. I was there!

Fuck alcohol.

Fuck myself for needing five fucking lemon drops to withstand the night. I was nervous to have Scooter around Quinn and Donnelly. They’re SFO, and they hadn’t exactly been Scooter cheerleaders. More like the doom and gloom squad.

They didn’t understand how much Scooter’s friendship meant to me. How terrified I was of losing it. To the point where I agreed to a date because I could tell he wanted to be something more. I convinced myself that maybe we’d be a good couple. That the friendship could work just as well in relationship form. I just needed to give him a shot.

But the next morning, I woke up with a pounding migraine and world-class nausea. Scooter sent me a pic of his nasty black eye and told me Quinn went overboard. Everything was a big misunderstanding in his eyes. He was just trying to look out for me that night and get me home safe. His intentions were in the right place, and he did apologize for being a dick to Donnelly and for coming off badly to my friends.

I like giving people second chances.

I don’t know where I would be if I didn’t get one.

So it was easy to accept the apology. Easy to use the horrible date as an excuse to return to a friendly stasis. After that, Scooter and I just talked over coffee and called each other before bed. If there were group outings, I didn’t invite him because I was trying to avoid another brawl. But one time, almost a month ago, he kind of…invited himself.

Las Vegas.

The memory twists my face in an uncomfortable grimace.

“Kannika?” Quinn’s concerned voice fills the hollowed spaces inside me, and when I glance up, his gaze is planted on the phone in my palm. He holds a towel in a knot at his waist. The fabric slung so low that I can see the deep cut V-lines of his muscles that lead down beneath the hem of the towel. Water droplets from his damp hair skate along his bare chest.

I can barely process how attractive he is right now—so fucking attractive—because he looks like he wants to murder whoever’s on the other end of my cell.

“Is that Scooter again?” He tips his chin toward my phone.

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you look…distraught.” He takes a deep breath when he settles on the word. “And there’s really only a handful of people who can upset you that bad.” He isn’t wrong.

“I know I should block him.”

“Then why don’t you?” he asks, confused brows furrowing together. “He’s a piece of shit.”

“He was my friend.”

“Friends don’t try to get their friends drunk so they can coerce them into bed.” His voice is gasoline, and I’m the lit match. An inferno builds in the room, but not a pleasant one. Returning to Vegas, even in memory, is like stepping into the wreckage of a fire and wading through ashen debris. Lungs tight. Skin scorched.

“We don’t know he was trying to coerce me into bed,” I remind Quinn. “I was shrugging off the drinks pretty well.”

His eyes flame. “You keep making excuses for him.”

I know I do. 

My stomach unsettles more, and my grip tightens on my cell. “Maybe I just want to believe it was a real friendship. Maybe I just want to remember the good parts of him and forget the bad. Haven’t you ever wanted that?”

I regret asking as soon as his face cinches in a deeper grimace. Nessa. He’s thinking about her. I shake my head so hard, my hair falls out of the scrunchie. I bend down to pick it off the floor.

“What you want doesn’t change who he is.”

“I know he’s not a good person. Look...” I hold up the phone while I block Scooter, thinking maybe this will be enough for him to drop it.

Quinn doesn’t even exhale. He’s staring through me. “Why did you need his friendship so badly?” But the way his eyes bore into mine, it feels like he’s asking: Was our friendship not good enough?

My throat swells.

I blink a ton. I fight the urge to run away from this conversation. “You’re not going to understand.”

He winces like I shot him in the chest. “We spend almost every hour of every day together, Kannika. I know you better than ninety-nine percent of the people on this planet. What would I not understand?”

My brain buzzes with fear. Going down this road isn’t going to lead anywhere good. “We don’t have to do this tonight. It’s late. We’ve been traveling all day. You haven’t even eaten—” I push the pizza box at his chest.

He sighs heavily and takes it from me, keeping his other hand on his towel. Carefully, he sets the box on the bed, flips it open, grabs a slice and raises it in the air. “Happy?”

“Supremely.”

He takes a bite and mid-chew, he says, “Now answer my question. Stop evading.”

His no-nonsense tone makes me think the only way I’m getting out of this conversation is physically running away from it. And I will not be going back outside in the gross, armpit humidity. No, thank you.

I take a deeper breath before I speak. “You know me well, but not all of me. You know the basics like my favorite movie—”

“Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants,” he names correctly. His brows have furrowed considerably. Hurt cinching his face. “And I don’t understand how you can say that, Kannika. I know more than your favorite color and food. I know that you still have a pair of ratted old jeans from the sixth grade that you think are magical after watching that movie. I know that you were so pissed a magazine called mustard yellow an ugly nail polish color, you wore it for three whole months in revolt. I know that you love the sound of lawn mowers because your favorite neighbor used to cut the grass for your mom. I know you cry when babies are born in movies. And I know you hate that I know that.” He’s practically out of breath. “So…tell me now how I just know the basics of you.”

My eyes glisten. Emotion tunnelling through me as I try to sort through the painful, guarded pieces of my life. “I know you see me. I know you’re here for me. You have been since you became my roommate. But how can you truly understand me when we don’t talk about the deep, heavy shit? I haven’t been able to. Not with you. Not when you’re SFO.”

He blinks slowly, processing. “So you went to Scooter? Because he’s not a bodyguard.” 

I nod. “He listened to me during one of the hardest parts of my life. After Luna’s assault, I needed someone to talk to—” 

“I would’ve listened.”

I shake my head and rub the aching part of my hip. “You would have thought I was weak.”

His face twists. “Kannika—”

“It’s a known fact. Omega, Epsilon, Alpha. You’ve all been through a bunch of shit, and you bury your trauma. It’s expected that I do the same. So I did.”

He slides a hand through his hair, distressed. “That’s bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit,” I counter. “When’s the last time you’ve spoken about your issues to anyone on the team? Even me. You all hardy har har with each other. There’s levity and camaraderie, but when it comes to trauma and baggage, we have to pack it up and ship it off. Tell me I’m wrong.”

He’s quieter, then his eyes flit to my hip in concern. “Are you okay?”

I lift the edge of my silk pajama shirt. A nice reddened spot already forms at my hip. “I ran into the seashell knob.” I point it out, and I refrain from telling him I’m thinking of unscrewing it and taking it as a souvenir.

“You’re hurt. You should take the bed.” He’s already moving toward the floor.

No way. I step over my duffel bag and then plop down on the couch cushions that have been spread out on the ground. “Too late,” I say into a tight smile. I try to pull the humor here, but it’s a tough task with the unended conversation hanging in the air. I wonder if he’s going to just drop it and never return. If he’s realizing I’m right—I did need Scooter. Quinn couldn’t be that person for me. Maybe he still can’t.

His brows rise. “You know I can just pick you up and put you on the bed?”

I smile. “Do it and you can see my uppercut elbow. Last guy left with a split chin.” Humor vanishes fast as soon as I realize the weight of my words. “I didn’t mean—I would never hurt you.” My stomach is a noxious mess. I’m a mess. “Sorry. I don’t know why I keep saying the wrong things.”

Quinn sighs heavily and runs a hand through his thick hair. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Apologize.” He blows out a frustrated breath. “You’re not Nessa. I know you’re not her. You don’t need to skirt around what you’re saying.”

“It’s still insensitive—”

“It’s fine, Kannika. I’m not a child that needs bubble wrapped. Please don’t treat me like one.” He sinks down beside me. The couch cushion on the ground is stiff, but it’s better than the hardwood floor. His gaze bores through me. “And I do kind of want to see your uppercut elbow.”

“Okay, but not on you. I don’t want to cause harm to your perfect chin.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not perfect.”

“Everything about you is perfect,” I say way too quickly. My cheeks heat, and I hop up off the floor-cushion just to retrieve the pizza box. When I set it on his lap, he laughs, “You weren’t scared I was about to claim your spot?”

“No, I’d wrestle you for it. Friendly non-violent wrestling.” I groan into my hands and sink down next to him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I keep needing to clarify. And you just told me not to apologize. Like I’m incapable of taking directives from thirty seconds ago.”

He keeps chewing his pizza, watching me spiral. He also seems to be very comfortable lounging around in nothing but a towel.

“You’re supposed to cut in any minute here,” I tell him.

“No, I like this. Keep going.” He waves me on with his pizza slice. “You’re doing great.” He smiles.

A small smile lifts my lips.

“And you’re right,” he tells me grabbing a final slice. He flips the box closed and slides it across the hardwood away from us. “We don’t talk about the deep, heavy shit. Maybe we should change that—maybe…maybe we both need that?”

I wonder if this is because I keep bringing up Nessa like putting a finger in an infected wound. The texts from Scooter felt like that.

I don’t know if I look pale or haunted or both but he adds quickly, “Not tonight. I know it’s already late. But whatever kind of friendship you think you’re losing with Scooter, you can have that with me. You don’t need him. I won’t think you’re weak or not bodyguard material or whatever, and hopefully you won’t think I am either.”

“Never,” I say into a tinier smile. “And I’d like that.”

“Okay, cool.” He checks something on his phone. Maybe the clock. “Do you want to complete your homework? I can grab a Gatorade out of the vending machine on the third floor and give you time.” He heads to his duffel and digs through the contents.

I’m too stunned to reply. Homework is our code word for masturbating. He remembered about my desire to experience an orgasm when I completely and utterly forgot.

Towel still modestly around him, he pulls on a pair of gym shorts—without underwear—and I manage to say, “Maybe tomorrow. I’m too tired to maneuver my wrist tonight.”

He blinks slowly in a way that Quinn does when he’s trying to figure out an appropriate reply to me. Then he drops his towel to the floor and zips up his duffel, not even grabbing a shirt. I don’t blame him. The A/C might be working overtime but it’s still not a pleasantly cool temp in this room. He sinks back down beside me on the floor-cushion.

“You sure?” he asks.

I stare at him like he’s grown a horn. “Yes. But are you sure you should be sitting right here? I claimed the floor.”

“I’m going to move to the bed when I see you can actually fall asleep here.” He has the audacity to lay down.

I do the same.

We’re staring at one another almost in a competition. The silence only lasts thirty seconds before I say, “I have a problem, Quinn.”

“Don’t we all,” he says in a humored, husky voice. It might be my favorite combination. Bedtime Quinn. The kind of Quinn that’s still wrapped in light but can be tempted to get serious. To be drawn to the darkness we both like to evade.

I swallow hard. “I’m never going to sleep—and it has nothing to do with the floor. My brain is wired tonight.”

“I have the cure for that.”

“An orgasm?”

He shoots me a look.

I laugh. “I had to.”

I swear—he almost smiles. “It’s a story. Guaranteed to make you fall asleep faster than counting sheep.”

“A bedtime story?”

He nods. “But it’s in Portuguese.”

I know zero Portuguese. I don’t even speak Thai. I just know a handful of words that I picked up from my dad and Auntie Mint.

“Will it still work if I don’t know any Portuguese?” I ask.

“No clue. Wanna try?”

I nod eagerly. Mainly to hear Quinn speak the language. I’ve only heard him say a few sentences here and there to his siblings. Hardly ever an entire conversation. Never a story. But when he starts talking, I can’t distinguish a single word, but I hang on to each syllable. There’s something so beautiful about seeing this part of him.

We’re all pieces of a whole, and rarely do we get every single piece of a person. Rarely have I seen these deeper pieces of Quinn. His wants, desires, fears, and hopes. I start to ache to know them all. I try to sort out some words in my head. Try to remember them so I can look them up in the morning. I don’t want the story to end.

But my body weighs down in heavy sleep as if his voice carries an enchantment. A lullaby. I fight the effects. My eyes flutter. Stay awake, Frog. It hurts to keep them open. The light pains my vision. The darkness is as soothing as his voice.

I don’t know how long it is before the fight leaves me, and my body enters a soft, coaxing slumber.

Rustling noises outside the door lurch me awake. My brain becomes alert all at once like a flip of a switch. The lights are still on in the hotel room. I don’t know what time it is because I’m cocooned in the crook of Quinn’s armpit. His arm fitted over my shoulder, keeping me secured to his chest like a bed pillow. It feels far too intimate for friends, especially since I’m fairly certain there’s a wet line of saliva on his abs.

I fucking drooled on Quinn Oliveira.

Bury. Me. 

So he never made it to the bed? Because surely, he would have turned off the lights—so he must’ve fallen asleep beside me. Did I cuddle him or did he cuddle me? Does it even matter if we were both unconscious? We’re friends. This changes nothing.

It has to change nothing.

I might be okay losing Scooter, but I can’t—I cannot—lose Quinn as a friend. My heart hammers hard, especially when the noise outside becomes louder.

“Quinn,” I whisper and shove his arm.

His eyes snap open and before he says anything, I tell him, “I think someone is trying to break into the room.”

Thank you so much for reading Frog and Quinn's story! We hope you enjoyed this chapter as things are taking an emotional turn for this friendship. We love friends to lovers so very much, and it's been so fun getting write it with the added bodyguard trope. Obviously, this one ends on kind of a cliffy but you'll get the next installment in August. So keep on the lookout!

xoxo Krista & Becca

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“Frog and Quinn," Copyright © 2025 by K.B. Ritchie