Random Shit I Want To Bitch About

He had worked for it, which was almost worse. Not with anything dramatic, because that wouldn’t have suited him and it wouldn’t have worked on you anyway, but with a kind of patient, unfair persistence that slid past your defenses by sounding harmless. He called more than once, always at odd hours when he was sleepy or driving back from the rink or sprawled somewhere alone in a hotel room with the television murmuring in the background. He texted you things that should have been easy to ignore and somehow weren’t: a photo of a truly appalling protein bar with the caption you’d hate this, a screenshot of a weather alert because apparently Dallas was trying to kill him with hail now, a blurry picture from the grocery store where he’d found real rye bread and felt compelled to announce it like a national emergency.

And then there was his face, which was not a fair negotiating tool and should probably have been regulated by law.

Every time you met him for coffee or answered a call or found him leaning against his car after practice, looking too big and too pleased with himself for any civilized city, he chipped away at your refusal with teasing that never crossed fully into pressure. He didn’t ask like a man issuing a challenge. He asked like a man who was oddly delighted by your resistance and fully prepared to spend time earning something better than it. One drink, he’d said. Neutral territory. No speeches, no weirdness, no guarantee that you’d agree to a second one. I just want to take you out properly once before you decide I’m terrible company.

You had said no twice, maybe three times if halfhearted eye rolls counted.

Then he’d shown up outside the campus library one evening to hand you a coffee because he was “in the neighborhood,” which was such obvious nonsense that you laughed before you could help it, and he’d looked at you like that was worth the drive all by itself. After that, your no got less crisp. Then one night on the phone, while you were half asleep and he was speaking in that low, worn-out voice he only seemed to use with you, he said, “You keep acting like one drink with me is legally binding,” and you’d made the mistake of smiling into the dark where he couldn’t see it.

So here you are, at your front door, trying not to think about how easily he’d talked you into this.

The apartment is quiet around you in that thin early-evening way it gets before the neighboring units begin their nightly soundtrack of footsteps and televisions and someone dragging something heavy across a floor for reasons you’ve never understood. Outside your windows, the Dallas sky is beginning to soften from harsh late-day brightness into gold, and the city feels suspended in that strange hour between heat and dark when everything looks deceptively forgiving. Your books are stacked on the coffee table because you’d been trying to work before getting dressed and failed spectacularly. A page of notes sits open on the couch with one sentence underlined three times and no real progress beneath it.

This is stupid, you think, for at least the fiftieth time. It’s one drink. People have one drink with old friends every day. People have one drink with exes, with strangers, with coworkers they barely tolerate. People in cities do this constantly and do not act like they are preparing for emotional trench warfare.

But then, most people do not have your particular problem.

Your particular problem has pale eyes and broad shoulders and a voice that goes rough when he’s tired. Your particular problem once knew the shape of your body before either of you had any business handling that kind of tenderness, and then he vanished into a future that was too large to fit both of you. Your particular problem has now reappeared in your city with a Stanley Cup ring, a lazy smile, and the kind of self-possession that comes from becoming very good at something in front of crowds.

It would be easier if he were arrogant. It would be easier if he wanted to pick up where you left off, or if he wanted to apologize until you had to tell him to stop. Instead he’s been infuriatingly normal in a way that keeps undoing you. Funny when he can tell you need it, quiet when you don’t. Curious without pretending he has a right to answers. He asks what you’re reading and then actually listens when you tell him. He remembers details. He has somehow become more dangerous with age by becoming less obvious.

Your phone lights up on the counter. here in two, his message reads, followed by a moose emoji that makes you exhale through your nose despite yourself.

Of course he doesn’t come up uninvited. That would have been the old village version of him, bounding through familiar doors like every house belonged partly to him. This Mikko waits downstairs in a building lobby with controlled access and polished concrete floors and potted plants too expensive to be real. This Mikko understands elevators and apartment etiquette and the shape of your boundaries, or at least he is trying to.

You grab your bag, check for your keys twice, and head down before you can convince yourself to call the whole thing off.

He is visible through the glass doors before you even step into the lobby, leaning against a dark car at the curb with one hand in his pocket and the other scrolling absently through his phone. Nice car is an understatement, though that doesn’t surprise you; professional athletes are a category of human that seem constitutionally incapable of driving anything modest. It gleams under the evening light in a way that makes your practical Finnish brain instantly start calculating absurd numbers and insurance rates. Mikko looks up when the door opens, spots you, and straightens with an expression that shifts too quickly from expectant to pleased.

There is no point pretending that doesn’t affect you.

He doesn’t wolf-whistle or do anything so obvious. He just looks at you with a warmth that lands like a hand between your shoulder blades. “Hi,” he says, and the word is plain enough to be harmless except for the faint smile folded into it.

“Hi,” you return, then immediately wish your voice had sounded less careful.

He opens the passenger door for you, which almost makes you laugh because teenage Mikko would never have thought to do that and adult Mikko has clearly picked up some habits in North America he wears with surprising ease. “I wasn’t sure if this counts as me being old-fashioned,” he says as you slide in, “or if you’ll make fun of me later.”

The inside of the car smells clean and expensive, leather and something faintly cedar-like that must be his cologne. You pull the door shut and fasten your seatbelt while he circles around to the driver’s side, and the silence that settles in the moment he gets in feels disproportionate to the small enclosed space. Not hostile. Not even uncomfortable exactly. Just dense with awareness, as if both of you can hear every version of yourselves that occupied silence differently before.

He starts the engine, glances over his shoulder, and eases away from the curb with the calm precision of someone who spends a lot of time driving through cities where people recognize him. His forearm rests lightly on the wheel, tanned and strong and dusted with pale hair, and you find yourself looking at his hands because looking directly at his face feels riskier somehow. Bigger than you remember. Scars in a couple of places. A ring glints briefly when he shifts his grip.

You turn your attention to the windshield and the road opening ahead.

“Traffic should be okay,” he says after a moment, in the tone of a man opening negotiations with the safest topic available. “Unless everyone in Dallas decided they need margaritas at the exact same time.”

“That seems likely.”

He huffs a laugh, quick and soft. “You’re right. That’s on me.”

A red light catches you both two blocks later, and the city around you glows in layers of glass and brake lights and soft dusk. A man jogs through the crosswalk with a tiny dog trotting furiously beside him. Somewhere nearby, a siren rises and fades. You fold your hands in your lap because otherwise you will fidget, and if you fidget too much Mikko will notice, and then he will probably say something mildly charming that makes it worse.

“This is weird,” you say finally, because the silence is beginning to feel self-conscious and because honesty, in small doses, still seems safer than pretending.

He glances over, one eyebrow lifting. “You in my car? Or me taking you out after you threatened not to?”

“Both.”

“Yeah.” He taps the steering wheel once with his thumb. “It is.”

There is relief in that, oddly. You had half expected him to glide through this with his athlete composure intact, all smoothness and easy confidence, as if ferrying women to drinks in luxury vehicles were simply another professional skill. But his voice carries the same faint awkwardness you feel. He isn’t immune to this either. Something in your shoulders loosens by a fraction.

“You don’t have to make it less weird on purpose,” you tell him. “You can just admit it.”

“I just did.”

“You did it politely.”

He cuts you a sideways look, almost smiling. “Do you want rude honesty instead?”

“Probably not.”

“Good,” he says. “Because I’m trying very hard to behave.”

That lands somewhere warmer than it should. You look out your window at a passing row of trees strung with tiny patio lights and try not to imagine what, exactly, he means by behaving. The week since the morning in his apartment has been full of almost-moments like that, little comments pitched lightly enough to deny and warm enough to feel. He’s flirtier when tired. More shameless over the phone than in person. In person he watches you after he says something, as if interested in the effect almost more than the line itself.

“You were less obnoxious at the bar than I expected,” you say instead, because the sentence arrives before you can examine whether it’s wise. “For someone being worshipped by half the city, you handled it pretty well.”

He lets out a surprised laugh, glancing over as he turns through an intersection. “That’s your review of my big playoff-clinch moment? Less obnoxious than expected?”

“It’s a compliment.”

“Only because I’m trying to be gracious on this date.” His mouth twitches, and he settles back in his seat a little. “I was kind of gone, honestly. Everything after the speech feels blurry.”

You fold your hands tighter in your lap, remembering exactly how flushed he’d looked, how the crowd had surged around him the second he stepped off the stage. “You seemed like you were enjoying yourself.”

“I was,” he says easily. “It’s hard not to when a room full of drunk strangers is yelling ‘Moose’ like they’ve known you forever.” Then his expression shifts, just a shade more thoughtful. “I didn’t expect to run into you in the middle of it, though.”

You look out the window for a second before answering. “Neither did I.”

He’s quiet for a couple of blocks. Not avoiding, exactly. Just thinking. You know that silence from long ago, the one he uses when he’s deciding whether the truth is worth the trouble of saying carefully. Traffic thickens near an intersection, slowing you to a crawl under a wash of red taillights. Somewhere in another lane, music spills out of an open window in a burst of bass.

“When I got traded to Carolina,” he says at last, voice even, “it felt like somebody picked up my whole life and dropped it on concrete. Then before I could even get settled there, I got sent here. I was tired and pissed off and trying not to show either.” He lifts one shoulder. “And then the team was good, and the room was good, and people actually made space for me without making me feel like some rental. So yeah. It started feeling right.”

You nod, because that answer is simpler and harder to argue with than the one your insecurities invented on their own. “That makes sense.”

He flicks you another glance. “You heard something else in it.”

You consider lying, but there is something exhausting about lying to someone who used to know your body as a language before you had learned how to guard it. “I heard that maybe some places get to keep you,” you say. “That’s all.”

Mikko’s mouth softens. Not pitying. Just careful. “That’s not what I meant.”

A ridiculous response rises first, something too sharp or too dismissive, and you let it pass without using it. Outside, dusk deepens by degrees, and the city starts lighting itself in layers. You think of all the ways memory cheats, how it takes one sentence and builds architecture around it. You think of being eighteen and hearing every departure as abandonment because there was no other scale large enough yet. Then you think of the man beside you now, navigating Dallas traffic with one hand and trying, in his imperfect way, not to trample old bruises just because he didn’t leave them on purpose.

“Okay,” you say, and this time you mean it enough.

He nods once, accepting that without trying to make too much of it. Another thing adulthood has apparently taught him: not every opening has to become a conversation to the death.

The awkwardness returns after that, but it is different now, less brittle. Still there, because of course it is. There is no universe in which you and Mikko Rantanen slide elegantly into dating without first ricocheting off ten years of unfinished business and mutual awareness. But it starts to feel survivable.

The place he parks in front of is not what you expected. From outside, it looks almost restrained, just a long low building with warm lights in the windows and a painted sign above the entrance that seems to promise something between casual and polished. You had pictured a sleek cocktail bar, maybe one of those dim downtown places with tiny glasses and too many smoked ingredients and bartenders who look faintly annoyed to be perceived. Mikko kills the engine, glances at the entrance, and says, with a confidence that immediately makes you suspicious, “It had good reviews.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not ominous,” he says, already getting out. “It’s one drink. Be brave.”

You follow him across the lot with your bag tucked close under your arm, and the second he pulls open the door, a wave of sound and bright, twanging guitar spills out into the night. It hits you in the chest before you even fully register what you’re hearing. Inside, the room is all polished wood and neon beer signs and the stomp of heavy boots against a worn floor, and there are at least twenty cowboy hats in your immediate field of vision.

You stop dead in the entrance, Mikko stops too, one hand still on the door, and slowly turns his head toward you. The expression on his face is so nakedly dismayed that you nearly laugh before you can stop yourself. “No,” he says under his breath, sounding personally betrayed by the entire state of Texas.

A woman in a fringe jacket brushes past you, and beyond her, a line of people is moving in perfect unison across an open section of floor while a country song with an aggressively cheerful fiddle saws through the speakers. Boots strike wood in a pattern so precise it seems rehearsed. Someone at the bar lets out a whoop. A man in a pearl-snap shirt spins his partner under one raised arm with such smooth confidence that it feels less like real life and more like you’ve wandered into a themed fever dream.

“This cannot be real,” you murmur.

“It’s very real,” Mikko says grimly, eyes sweeping the room as if searching for an emergency exit. “I think they’re dancing in formation.”

You stare at him. “You brought me to line dancing.”

“I did not knowingly bring you to line dancing.”

That does it. You laugh, sudden and helpless, the kind that shakes loose from your ribs before you can suppress it, and the tension that rode with you all through the drive cracks open just enough to let air in. Mikko looks at you, then back at the floor full of synchronized strangers, and his mouth finally gives in around the edges.

“Okay,” he says, huffing a laugh of his own. “You’re allowed to make fun of me for this one.”

“Oh, I absolutely will.”

“Fair.”

A hostess appears before either of you can flee, cheerful and entirely unsurprised by your obvious foreign distress, and asks if it’s just two tonight. Mikko says yes with the resigned dignity of a man who has been ambushed by regional culture and intends to survive it. You follow her deeper into the room, weaving past high tables packed with laughing groups and couples sharing baskets of fried things you cannot identify from a glance.

The whole place smells like beer, wood polish, citrus, and something smoky from the kitchen. Country music rolls through the room in broad golden waves, and every few seconds someone near the dance floor erupts into delighted shouting as if a particularly beloved sequence of steps has just occurred. You catch Mikko taking in the scene with a look of profound Scandinavian skepticism, and it almost softens you too much.

Your table ends up tucked against the wall near the back, close enough to the dance floor to hear the rhythmic slide-thump of boots but far enough away that you don’t feel in immediate danger of being recruited. Mikko pulls your chair out without comment, and you slide into it while trying not to stare too openly at the room. It’s like sitting inside a cultural misunderstanding that also happens to serve alcohol.

For a few moments, neither of you says anything. You both reach for the menus, though it becomes clear almost immediately that neither of you is really reading. The silence isn’t empty. It almost never is with him. It stretches warm and watchful across the table while your surroundings keep crashing around it in loud Americana.

Finally you look up and catch him already looking at you.

Not idly, either. Not distractedly. The full weight of his attention is on your face, steady and unembarrassed, and there’s something in it so intent it sends a pulse low through your stomach. He doesn’t seem to realize how obvious he is, or maybe he does and simply doesn’t care. Under the amber lights, his eyes look darker than usual, heavy-lidded and fixed on you with a focus that has nothing to do with the menu in his hands.

“What?” you ask, because you have to say something.

He blinks once, as if surfacing, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m still stuck on the fact that I managed to shock you with a bar in Texas.”

“You didn’t shock me,” you say. “I’m just trying to process why everyone here appears born wearing boots.”

He glances toward the dance floor, where another set begins and the entire crowd seems to know exactly what to do before the first beat lands. “I think this is military training.”

You laugh again, and he smiles fully this time, relaxed by the sound in a way that feels almost too intimate for a first date that neither of you is calling that too loudly. A server comes by, all bright lipstick and practiced efficiency, and asks what you’re drinking. Mikko lets you order first, then asks for whiskey with the kind of careful pronunciation of American brands that suggests he still doesn’t entirely trust them.

When she leaves, the music swells into some song about trucks and heartbreak, and a fresh wave of dancers fills the floor. You prop your elbows lightly on the table and tilt your head toward the chaos. “Have you ever done that?”

“Absolutely not.” He folds his hands in front of him and leans back in the chair. “I spent my childhood on skates. There wasn’t time for whatever this is.”

“Cowboy choreography?”

“Exactly.”

You watch a pair of women in matching hats move through the steps with terrifying precision. “I think if someone tried to teach me, I’d cry.”

The drinks arrive, and the first cold swallow helps settle the weirdness of the evening into something almost manageable. The bar is loud enough that conversation has to be slightly pitched toward each other, which means Mikko keeps leaning in when you speak, one forearm resting near his glass, broad shoulders taking up more space than the chair was ever designed to allow. Every time he shifts closer, the cedar-clean scent of him brushes across the table. You try very hard not to notice.

You look down first, tracing the condensation on your glass with one fingertip. “How are playoffs making you this calm?” you ask.

He lets you do it, though the look in his face doesn’t disappear. “I’m not calm. I just know the part where panicking doesn’t help.” He takes a drink, swallows, then adds, “Also I’m on a date in a cowboy bar with you, so my brain is busy.”

Your fingers still on the glass. “This was your idea.”

“I know.” He looks almost amused by his own suffering. “I’m saying the pressure is self-inflicted.”

You snort softly. “Poor thing.”

“Exactly. No sympathy for me at all.”

A new song starts, faster this time, and half the room cheers like they’ve been waiting all night for it. Someone near the front actually whoops loud enough to cut through the music. You and Mikko both turn instinctively toward the dance floor, where the moving bodies reset into rows again with eerie communal certainty.

“I need to ask,” you say. “If one of them tries to drag us out there, what’s your plan?”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “I’m faking a knee injury.”

You grin into your drink, and when you look up again he’s watching you with that look once more, the one that strips all the light humor out of the space between you and replaces it with something quieter and far more charged. He doesn’t smile right away. He just looks. At your mouth for half a second, then back to your eyes. 

Your body reacts before your mind can assemble a reasonable response. There’s a small tightening low in your belly, a pulse of awareness sharpened by the memory of him shirtless in morning light, by the slow sleep-soft murmur of his late-night calls, by the fact that he keeps talking to you as if there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. You shift in your seat and immediately resent the fact that he probably notices that too.

“What?” you ask again, softer now, because it’s becoming absurd.

He tips his head, considering you with infuriating calm. “You laugh differently now.”

You blink. Of all the things he could’ve said, that wasn’t on the list. “That’s not even a real observation.”

“It is.” He takes another sip, then sets the glass down carefully. “You still do that thing where you try not to at first, like you don’t want to give in. But when you forget yourself, it’s louder. Better.”

Warmth creeps up your neck. “You sound very sure for someone who hasn’t known me in years.”

“I’m getting to know you now.”

It’s just a fact he’s chosen to take seriously. It would be easier if he flirted like a normal idiot instead of occasionally saying things that settle under your ribs and refuse to move.

You force a little dryness back into your voice. “And your current scientific conclusion is that my laugh improved.”

“One of several conclusions.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” He shifts closer to hear you over a burst of applause from the dance floor, and in the movement his knee brushes yours beneath the table. Neither of you pulls away immediately. “You act like you’re less impressed by me than everyone else, which I respect.”

“That’s because I am.”

His mouth twitches. “Sure.”

“I knew you before endorsements and giant trucks and whatever this is.” You wave vaguely at the room, the city, the whole impossible shape of his life. “You don’t get bonus points for becoming expensive.”

He laughs at that, low and real, then rubs one hand over his jaw. “That might be my favorite thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It’s true.”

“I know.” His expression softens around the edges. “That’s why I like it.”

There it is again, the way he says things that should be easy and somehow aren’t. You look away toward the dance floor, where a couple has abandoned the line formations entirely and is now spinning each other around with joyful recklessness. One of them nearly crashes into a table and recovers without spilling a drop. The whole bar seems to run on some unspoken confidence you can only admire from afar.

He watches the dance floor for another few seconds, then turns back to you with a look that is halfway between mischief and resignation, like he has just decided to make his own evening worse on purpose. “Do you want to try?” he asks, tipping his chin toward the moving crowd. “One dance.”

You stare at him over your glass. “You cannot be serious.”

“I’m very serious,” he says, and the smile threatening at the corner of his mouth tells you the opposite. “We’re already here. We should at least humiliate ourselves properly.”

“You said you were going to fake a knee injury.”

“I changed my mind.” He leans forward a little, lowering his voice like he’s making an illicit proposal. “Come on. If it’s awful, we can leave immediately and spend the rest of the night insulting Texas from a safe distance.”

You should say no. You do say no, or something close to it, but the protest comes out weakened by the fact that he’s already standing and holding out a hand to you across the table. There is something so unfairly familiar about that gesture, about the easy expectation in his face that you’ll take it, and maybe that’s why you do. Or maybe it’s the whiskey warming through your blood, or the absurdity of the room, or the fact that his eyes are bright and coaxing and you have never been especially good at resisting him when he looks like he’s having fun.

His hand is warm and dry around yours as he guides you into the current of people near the edge of the dance floor. Up close, the whole thing looks even more impossible, all those boots striking in clean rhythms, bodies turning in neat rows as if everyone in Texas was issued the same instructions at birth. You and Mikko end up shoulder to shoulder among a cluster of equally uncertain newcomers, and for one second you both just stand there, watching with the intent concentration of people trying to decode a bomb manual.

“This is already terrible,” you mutter.

“It’s definitely bad,” he says under his breath, eyes fixed ahead. “But I believe in us.”

The song kicks in hard, and everyone around you starts moving at once. Mikko reacts half a beat late and takes one step in the wrong direction, which means he clips your ankle immediately, and you both break into startled laughter before you’ve managed three counts. He catches your elbow to steady you, broad hand firm and instinctive, then tries to recover by turning his mistake into something deliberate. It doesn’t work. Two steps later you nearly collide with the woman on your other side, and Mikko says something in Finnish under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a prayer.

You are so busy laughing that your body forgets to be self-conscious for a minute. The steps don’t come naturally, but after the first disastrous round you start to catch pieces of the pattern. Slide, tap, turn, heel, whatever comes next. Mikko glances over at you every few beats to see if you’re still alive, and every time your eyes meet, one of you loses the count again. He moves well in spite of everything, not because he knows the dance but because he has always understood balance, momentum, and the shape of another body nearby. Even fumbling, he looks frustratingly athletic. Even confused, he adapts too fast.

“You are annoyingly coordinated,” you say as you both narrowly avoid smashing into another couple during a turn.

He grins, breathless now, and the flush in his cheeks has deepened under the lights. “You’re not doing bad.”

The song ends to applause and stomping boots, and before either of you can properly decide what to do next, the music changes. The room seems to exhale. The fast beat softens into something slower and heavier, a drawling melody built around steel guitar and a low pulse of drums, and the dance floor reorganizes itself with startling efficiency. Rows collapse into pairs. Hands find waists. Bodies turn inward.

You blink. “Oh no.”

Mikko glances around, then back at you, and something in his face quiets. The joking ease doesn’t vanish, but it loosens, giving way to a softer concentration that raises the hair at the back of your neck. “Do you want out?” he asks, and the question is genuine, not goading.

You should say yes.

Instead you hear yourself say, “No. I think that might make it weirder.”

His mouth curves slowly. “Probably.”

He steps closer, careful enough that you could still stop it if you wanted to. His hands settle at your waist, broad and warm through the fabric between you. The contact feels absurdly familiar and completely different all at once. Teenagers had held each other one way, all urgency and nerves and stolen privacy. This is slower. More deliberate. More dangerous because neither of you is pretending not to know what your bodies are capable of anymore.

You place your free hand on his shoulder, and he draws you in just enough that your feet can move together. The first sway is a little awkward, not because he doesn’t know how to lead but because you’re both too aware of every inch closing between you. Then the rhythm settles. His palm shifts slightly at your waist, anchoring you, and the room blurs around the edges until the music becomes a backdrop rather than a spectacle.

He’s taller than everyone else nearby, which means you fit easily in the space he makes for you. It shouldn’t matter how naturally your body adjusts to his. It matters anyway. The scent of whiskey and clean soap folds around you when you breathe in. His thumb moves once, absent-mindedly, against your side, and a pulse starts low in your stomach.

Neither of you talks at first. The silence here feels different from the ones at the table. Thicker. His gaze had done most of the work there, but now his hands are involved, and that changes everything. His eyes are on you when you look up, not playful now so much as intent in a way that makes your breath come shorter. He dances better than he line-danced, which is deeply irritating and not at all surprising. He has always been good at anything that involves rhythm and pressure and close attention.

“See,” he murmurs after a while, “this is more our speed.”

“Our speed?”

“Less choreography. More improvising.” His hand at your waist slides a fraction, not indecently, just enough to make your pulse jump. “You always did better when you could feel it instead of count it.”

The music glides on around you. Somewhere to your left, glasses clink and someone laughs too loudly, but it all sounds far away. You wet your lips and immediately regret it when his eyes drop to your mouth for a second. “That’s a very convenient theory.”

He leans in a little, his breath warm near your ear now because the room is too loud for quiet voices to travel any other way. “You want to know something?” he says, and the change in his tone is subtle but unmistakable, deeper and silkier, as if the words are being dragged over something hot. “I’ve been trying not to think about how you’d feel like this.”

Your fingers tighten on his shoulder before you can stop them. His hands don’t press harder, but it does become more possessive somehow, his palmm fitting more fully against the curve of you as he guides you through another slow turn. Heat flashes through you so abruptly it feels almost humiliating. “That’s not very polite date conversation,” you manage.

“No,” he agrees easily, and his mouth is close enough now that if you turned your head even slightly you’d feel it. “But this bar isn’t exactly polite either, so maybe I’m adapting.”

There is laughter in the room, another wave of movement around the dance floor, but he keeps you in that small suspended space as if the crowd exists only at the edges of your vision. He dips his head closer, and his voice brushes the shell of your ear so softly that your knees nearly give in from the intimacy of it. “You smell good,” he says, and the sentence shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. “And every time you look at me like you’re deciding whether I deserve to touch you, it makes me a little crazy.”

You inhale too sharply. He notices. Of course he notices. “Mikko,” you say, and his name comes out thinner than you intended.

He hums, the sound deep in his chest where it reverberates through the small distance between you. “I know.” His lips don’t touch you, but they hover near enough to make the air feel charged. “I’m behaving. Mostly.”

That almost makes you laugh, but the sensation dies on its way out because his hand has shifted again, splaying wider over your lower back as he turns you slowly through the next measure. The movement draws you closer against him for a beat, not enough to be scandalous in a room full of couples, but enough that you feel the heat of his body, the breadth of him, the restraint in how carefully he is not taking more than you’ve given. 

He says your name once, not as a plea and not as a warning, just low and thoughtful, as though he’s trying it against the shape of this moment. Then he bends closer again. “If we weren’t here,” he murmurs, “I’d tell you exactly what your face has been doing to me all night.”

You close your eyes for half a second because that is somehow worse than anything explicit could have been. Your mind fills in what he doesn’t say with humiliating speed. Him in the doorway of your apartment building looking at you like he already knew he was in trouble. Him across the table with his glass in one hand and that hungry patience in his eyes. Him now, warm and solid and impossibly present, saying just enough to leave the rest burning behind your ribs.

When you open your eyes, he’s watching you with a kind of lazy focus that tells you he can read at least part of the effect he’s having. Not smug. Not exactly. Just attentive, and maybe a little thrilled by your loss of composure. “There you are,” he says softly.

“That’s very annoying,” you whisper, because you need some thread of yourself back and sarcasm is the quickest one available.

His smile deepens against your temple. “Mm. But you stayed.”

You should step back. The song is nearly over anyway. You should tell him he’s full of himself, or that this is moving too fast, or that his playoff brain has short-circuited every sensible instinct he owns. Instead you let him guide you through the final slow sweep of the music while your hand stays planted on his shoulder and your body remains entirely too willing against his. You can feel his breathing now, measured but heavier than before, and when the last note fades and the room breaks into applause again, neither of you moves right away.

It’s only a second, maybe less. A pause. A held breath.

Then Mikko lifts his head, looks down at you with his eyes gone dark and warm under the amber lights, and says, in a voice pitched for you alone, “We should probably sit down before I stop being such a gentleman.”

That finally gets a breathless laugh out of you, though it comes tangled with the very real need to put some distance back between your bodies before the whole room notices the temperature change. He lets you go slowly, as if neither of you entirely trusts abrupt movement right now, and keeps his hand at the small of your back as he guides you off the floor. It isn’t until you reach the table and the noise of the bar closes over you again that you realize your pulse is beating high in your throat and his jaw is tight in a way that says he might not be bluffing nearly as much as he sounded.

You spend the next two weeks becoming a person you do not entirely recognize.

Not in the dramatic sense. You still go to campus, still read too much and sleep too little, still answer your mother’s messages with selective honesty and still forget to buy enough groceries before the weekend. The ordinary framework of your life doesn’t collapse just because Mikko has somehow worked his way into it again. If anything, the ordinariness makes the rest of it feel more dangerous, because now desire has office hours and grading deadlines and grocery runs wrapped around it, and that makes it harder to dismiss as a temporary fever.

You and Mikko do not go from one slow dance to a grand declaration, because neither of you seems interested in making things easy in that particular way. Instead you leave the honky-tonk bar a little flushed and too aware of each other, and in the parking lot he kisses you for the first time as adults, leaning you lightly against his car with one hand warm at your waist and his mouth patient for about three seconds before it stops being patient at all. It is not the same as kissing him at seventeen. You knew that already, but knowing it intellectually is different from feeling the full proof of it in your body.

Teenage kissing had always felt like discovery, every touch amplified by nerves and secrecy and the shock of wanting so much with no language for what to do with it. This is different. He still tastes like whiskey and mint and himself, but now there’s weight behind him, confidence and restraint moving together in a way that nearly undoes you on contact. He kisses like a man who has spent a decade learning the shape of hunger and doesn’t need to rush unless rushing is the point.

You pull back first, not because you want to but because if you do not, you will absolutely climb him in a parking lot while boots thump and steel guitar drones faintly through the walls. He rests his forehead briefly against yours, breathing hard enough to make you feel vindicated, and says, very quietly, “Good choice, saying yes.”

You should have rolled your eyes. You should have made a cutting remark and reclaimed the high ground. Instead you laughed into his shoulder and let him drive you home with your hand in his for half the ride and the kind of silence that says something has very definitely begun.

After that, the problem becomes logistics and timing and the persistent cruelty of adult life. Every time one of you edges close to saying yes with your whole body, something interrupts.

The first time happens on your couch after a weeknight drink that turns into him helping you carry a too-heavy box of books up from your car and then somehow staying for tea he claims is terrible but drinks anyway. You’re halfway across his lap, your fingers in his hair, when your phone starts blaring from the kitchen because your advisor has emailed an “urgent” correction to the schedule for the seminar you’re supposed to assist the next morning. You ignore it once. He ignores it with you, kissing down your throat with a slow concentration that makes your toes curl. Then it rings again, this time with your mother’s name on the screen, and the guilt slams into you hard enough to break the spell.

Mikko sits back while you answer, one hand still spread over your thigh, and listens to you switch into Finnish so fast it almost makes him grin. By the time you hang up, your mother reassured and your inbox soothed just enough to stave off disaster, the mood has thinned into something softer. He kisses the inside of your wrist and says he should go before he starts hating your university personally. You make him wait long enough in the doorway to kiss him breathless again, but that’s where it ends.

The second time is at his place after a home win that leaves him buzzing with adrenaline and too much life under his skin to sleep. He texts are you awake? close to midnight, and because you have already become exactly the kind of woman who answers that text from a hockey player, you go. He opens the door wearing sweats and a grin, still damp from the shower, and the second you step inside he walks you backward toward the kitchen counter like he’s been replaying the image all the way home.

He’s more urgent that night, though still careful. Hands everywhere, mouth hotter, his body keyed up from the game and the crowd and the exhaustion that comes after using himself hard. You end up sitting on the counter with your legs around his waist, kissing until your lips ache, his palms sliding under your top and over your bare back as if he’s trying to memorize the whole map by touch. When you tug him closer, when your nails drag lightly at the back of his neck and he mutters something wrecked in Finnish against your mouth, you think this is it.

Then his phone starts vibrating across the island in a relentless, bright-faced march.

He ignores it at first. Then it stops. Then it starts again. On the third call he groans into your shoulder and reaches blindly for it, scowling so hard you nearly laugh. “If this is Roope,” he mutters, answering without looking, “I’m blocking you.” A torrent of Finnish explodes back at him loud enough that even you catch enough to understand teammate emergency, and whatever expression he makes while listening confirms it. Something about a flat tire, a forgotten charger, and somebody getting locked out of somewhere they absolutely should not be locked out of. He closes his eyes like he’s asking God for patience, then hangs up and presses his forehead to your collarbone.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you say, trying and failing to sound properly irritated while he laughs against your skin.

“Professional athletes,” he says bleakly. “Very stupid in groups.”

He still kisses you again before he leaves, long and apologetic in a way that isn’t really an apology so much as a promise of unfinished business. You stand barefoot in his kitchen after the door shuts behind him, mouth swollen, body aching, and consider hating all of Finland on principle.

The third time isn’t really interrupted from the outside, which somehow makes it worse. It happens after one of his away games, when he gets back late and comes over anyway because apparently distance now means he misses you after forty-eight hours like some deranged person. You let him in wearing one of your oldest sleep shirts and no bra, which turns out to be an incredibly foolish choice because he notices immediately and makes a sound low in his throat that nearly folds you in half.

That night gets further than the others. The make-out session starts in your hallway and stumbles to the bedroom by instinct and accumulated impatience. There are hands under clothes and mouths on skin and a kind of half-laughing desperation that keeps breaking through because neither of you can quite believe this is still unfinished. He gets you down to underwear and a kiss-drunk haze, and you get his shirt off, then his belt open, and there’s a moment when he kneels between your thighs and just looks at you like he could stay there for hours.

Then you both stop.

Not because you want to. That’s what makes it so maddening. He’s braced over you, breathing hard enough that his chest rises visibly, and you can feel his restraint like a second heat in the room. His thumb traces your hip once, then again. “You okay?” he asks, and it’s so sincerely timed that it cracks you open a little.

You are okay, mostly. Just suddenly aware that this is not teenage urgency in a bedroom by the lake, not some inevitable continuation of what once was. This would be new. Chosen. Adult in a way that means you can’t hide behind youth if it becomes complicated. You can’t pretend it means nothing when it obviously means at least something, even if neither of you is dumb enough to make speeches about it. So you say, after too long, “I want to. I just…”

He doesn’t push. He drops his forehead to your stomach and laughs once, quietly, without amusement. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

He stays the night anyway, mostly clothed, one arm around your waist while the ceiling fan turns overhead and your body throbs with incompletion. In the morning he makes coffee and steals your toast and kisses the back of your neck while you pretend not to melt. It shouldn’t feel intimate enough to be dangerous when you haven’t even slept together yet, but it does. Maybe because the not-yet starts to gather its own charge, each interruption turning into another layer of anticipation neither of you can fully joke away.

After that, it becomes a pattern. Not a deliberate one, but a real one all the same. The door closes, and one of you reaches first, and then you’re both gone.

A rainy afternoon at his place after practice turns into him pinning you lightly against the hallway wall, kissing you until you’re both breathless and clumsy, only for his building concierge to buzz up because a package needs signing and apparently cannot wait three minutes for human dignity. A stolen hour in your apartment between his meetings and your reading group ends with your friends from the department arriving downstairs twenty minutes early to pick you up for a birthday outing you completely forgot was that night. Another evening gets derailed because he tweaks something at training and insists he’s fine while very obviously not being fine, so you end up with an ice pack on his shoulder and your legs over his lap while he complains about aging like he’s eighty.

And through all of it, there is kissing. So much kissing it begins to feel like a language all its own.

He kisses differently depending on when you catch him. Sleepy kisses against your temple when he stays too late and you’re both pretending not to care how domestic it looks. Distracted, absentminded kisses while he stands at your stove stealing pieces of food and asking questions about your research he only half understands but genuinely wants to hear answered. Fierce kisses after games, when he still has adrenaline in his blood and presses you against the nearest stable surface like your mouth might settle him. Tender ones too, though you try not to dwell on that word, because tenderness has a habit of growing teeth if you feed it.

Hands under clothes become expected. Being alone with him starts to mean ending up half-undressed whether or not that was the plan when one of you knocked on the other’s door. He likes touching you through fabric almost as much as without it, which would be annoying if it weren’t so effective. You learn the exact sound he makes when you drag your nails lightly over his scalp. He learns how to pin your wrists with one hand just enough to make you shiver, then release before it becomes too much. You grind against each other on couches and kitchen counters and once, memorably, in the underground parking garage of his building with the car door shielding you from absolutely no one except bad decisions.

You go home from him more than once with your lips bruised and your body humming so hard you can’t fall asleep for hours. He leaves your place looking equally wrecked, jaw tight and eyes darker than usual, and texts you from the elevator things like you’re actually trying to kill me and next time I’m locking your phone in another room. You respond with dry cruelty for the sake of self-respect, but by then even your sarcasm feels complicit.

You tell yourself there is no rule saying you have to make the first time into an event. You are adults. Adults have sex all the time without symbolism and without spiraling over what comes after. Adults especially do not need to turn it into some grand reclaiming of the past just because they once loved each other in a place full of birch trees and mosquito-bitten summers. But the truth is, your body knows before your mind admits it. Every interrupted night leaves you wanting not only relief but completion, a version of this where desire isn’t always paused and laughed off and postponed because life barges in. You want him, yes. That part is simple. More than simple. But you also want this version of you and him to finally exist somewhere concrete instead of forever bracing at the edge of it.

The decision comes on an ordinary Thursday, which maybe feels fitting.

You’ve had a long day on campus and a longer phone call with him after, one of those winding conversations that starts with his complaint about film review and ends with you sitting on the kitchen floor because you lost track of time. He sounds exhausted and amused and a little needy in the way he gets when the playoffs press closer and his body is all tension under the surface. At one point he says, half joking and half not, “If you keep showing up in my head during meetings, it’s going to become a workplace issue.” You tell him that sounds like a personal failing. He says your voice is doing absolutely nothing to help.

After you hang up, you sit there for a long minute with your back against the cabinet and your phone in your lap and the shape of him all over your imagination. Not the memory of the boy. Not even only the man who looks at you across tables and kitchen counters like he’s trying to take a bite he’s generously postponing. The whole maddening, current, living thing. Him in your apartment eating cereal straight from the box because athletes apparently never evolve past ten. Him barefoot in his kitchen with his hair wet from the shower. Him in bed, sleepy and sweet and a little shameless. Him trying to behave and not entirely succeeding.

Something in you gives.

Not collapses. Not spins out. Just decides.

You stand up, cross your apartment, and open the closet where you’ve hidden the thing you took from his place two weekends ago and absolutely never meant to keep for this long. One of his suit jackets, black and beautifully cut and smelling faintly of his cologne and clean wool. You stole it in a fit of mischief after he changed for some team event in your apartment because it was closer to the arena, and when he noticed it missing later, he only laughed and said he’d collect it eventually. Since then it’s hung at the back of your closet like a loaded thought.

Tonight it becomes a plan.

The drive to his building feels surreal in the way all reckless choices do once they’ve moved past theory and into action. Your pulse beats hard in your throat the whole way. You almost turn around at one red light, then another. You picture his face when he opens the door and tell yourself if he looks surprised in the wrong way, if he hesitates, if anything about the moment feels off, you can laugh it off and leave with enough dignity still attached to survive.

By the time you park and step into the lobby, your nerves have sharpened into something clear and bright. The elevator ride up is the worst part. Too much time to think, too much mirrored wall and humming machinery and the very real awareness of what you are about to do. By the time the doors slide open, your skin feels electric.

His hallway is quiet. The city glows beyond the windows at the end of it. You walk to his door with your heart trying to beat out through your ribs and knock before your courage can make alternate arrangements.

You hear movement inside almost immediately. Footsteps. Muffled voices too, though your brain doesn’t process that part at first because your own pulse is too loud. The lock clicks. The door opens just a little.

Mikko appears in the gap, one hand still on the handle, expression relaxed in that easy private way he wears when he expects no surprises. It changes the instant he sees you standing there in his jacket. His eyes travel down and back up with obvious confusion, then heat, and his mouth opens.

You don’t let him say whatever he was about to say.

You take a breath, grab both sides of the jacket, and pull it open.

Cool hallway air brushes your skin. His gaze drops, and this time it doesn’t come back right away. The look on his face is almost enough to wreck your nerve and your knees at once, because desire hits him so clearly it’s visible, a full-body stillness followed by a tightening around the mouth that says every decent thought in his head just got shoved into a corner. You have maybe two seconds to enjoy that before you hear laughter behind him.

Actual laughter. Male. Multiple voices.

You freeze, then close the jacket so fast it almost counts as self-defense. “What was that?”

Mikko shuts his eyes for one single pained second, like a man being punished by a god with excellent timing. Then he opens the door the rest of the way.

And there they are.

His apartment, which in your imagination one minute ago contained a bed and soft lighting and maybe a very short path to finally losing your mind properly, is full of Finnish men. Large Finnish men. Hockey-player large, all shoulders and forearms and expensive casual clothes draped over bodies built for contact. Playing cards are spread across the dining table beside piles of chips and beer bottles and bowls of snacks that have somehow made his sleek apartment look like the common room of a very wealthy dorm. The television is muted in the background. Someone has clearly been laughing at something before your dramatic entrance landed like a grenade in the doorway.

For one endless heartbeat, no one moves.

Then every single face in the room turns toward you with varying degrees of interest, surprise, and immediate, painful comprehension.

You consider death.

Mikko, to his credit, doesn’t laugh. Not at first. He makes a choking sound that is probably the strangled remains of your name, then scrubs one hand down his face while still holding the door with the other. “Okay,” he says to no one and everyone, voice gone rough in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with embarrassment alone. “This is… not what it looks like.”

You stare at him. “That is maybe the stupidest thing anyone has ever said.”

That breaks the room. Not into chaos, but into grins and ducked heads and a burst of badly concealed amusement from the table. Someone mutters something in Finnish that you don’t fully catch but absolutely understand in spirit. You wish the polished floor would open and take you.

Mikko steps back just enough to let you in or flee, and because fleeing now would require passing all of them in the hallway anyway, you choose the version of humiliation that happens upright. You walk in with as much dignity as a naked woman in a borrowed suit jacket can reasonably gather, and he closes the door behind you while trying very hard not to look delighted and doomed at the same time.

“Guys,” he says, the word carrying the resignation of a man whose private life has just been kicked into fluorescent visibility. “This is—”

He says your name, and it lands in the room differently than it does when he says it alone. More formal somehow. More precious for the effort to keep it ordinary.

A chorus of greetings follows, some in English, some in Finnish, all of them far too warm for your current blood pressure. A few of the men lift their beers at you like this is an entirely normal way to meet someone. You manage a strangled hi and keep the jacket clutched shut with both hands.

Then one of them stands, grinning already, and you recognize him from television and from the stories Mikko only half tells when he forgets how much of this world is still unreal to you. Roope Hintz. Light-haired, sharp-eyed, with the look of someone enjoying this perhaps a little too much while still possessing enough social grace not to say the worst thing in his head.

“Minä tiesin,” he says immediately, pointing at Mikko with the satisfaction of a man whose suspicions have just been confirmed in spectacular fashion. Then he switches to English for your benefit. “I knew it was serious when he started disappearing after practice.”

Mikko turns toward him with a look that should, in theory, shut the whole thing down. It doesn’t. If anything, Roope’s grin broadens, because clearly this is not the first time he has seen Mikko caught in some private disaster and decided to enjoy it instead of helping. The rest of the table has the decency to look away in patches, though not enough decency to stop smiling into their drinks.

“Shut up,” Mikko says in Finnish, which only seems to encourage them further.

You are still standing just inside the entry, clutching the jacket shut over your body with both hands like it might turn into armor if you squeeze hard enough. Heat climbs all the way from your chest to your face, and it feels impossible that a person can remain upright through this level of mortification. These aren’t random teammates in the abstract anymore, either. Now they are men with names and faces, other Finns in a strange city, looking at you with the unmistakable expression of people very quickly understanding exactly what you intended when you showed up at the door wearing almost nothing.

Roope recovers first, because of course he does. He steps around the table and offers you a hand with theatrical politeness, though his eyes are sparkling so hard it nearly ruins the effort. “Roope,” he says in English, as if you could possibly have missed the identity of the man Mikko has complained about often enough to make him a recurring character in your mind. “We’ve actually met. Sort of. A long time ago.”

You blink, then memory flickers, grainy and distant. A summer tournament, maybe, or one of those crowded junior events where boys with giant gear bags existed in packs and all the adults seemed to subsist entirely on coffee and stress. A narrower face, younger and less amused but recognizably the same. “Right,” you say, your voice too high, then try again. “Right. U18s.”

Roope points at you like you’ve won something. “Exactly. See? I told him you’d remember me before he wanted you to.”

Mikko gives him a flat stare. “I have never said that.”

“No, but you thought it.”

Another laugh runs around the table. A couple of the others nod hello and introduce themselves, and you manage to return each greeting with enough basic politeness to pass as civilized even though your internal monologue has become one long screaming sound. They are all friendlier than you want them to be. It would almost be easier if they were rude. Instead they are warm, curious without prying, and so openly entertained that it makes your whole situation feel even more absurd.

One of them, broad and brunette and already halfway into a fresh beer, lifts his hand in a little wave. “Nice jacket,” he says.

You could die.

Mikko, to his credit, steps slightly into your line of sight then, not blocking anyone exactly but redirecting the room’s focus just enough to let you breathe. His hand comes to the small of your back for one brief second, grounding and familiar, and if you weren’t already fighting for composure, that might have been the thing that undid you. “Okay,” he says, more to the table than to you, though his voice has gentled. “Everybody’s very funny. Enough.”

The room obeys in the technical sense only. Conversation resumes, cards reshuffle, and the moment loosens around the edges, but there’s still a current of laughter under everything. You can feel it like static. There is no possible version of this evening in which these men forget what they just saw, or more importantly, what they very much almost interrupted.

You glance toward the hallway and then back at Mikko. He looks torn between concern, arousal, and the kind of baffled delight that means you have just handed him a story no one in his life will allow him to live down. “I’m going to…” You falter, because what exactly is the dignified ending to I arrived here naked under your suit jacket to proposition you and instead found a room full of professional athletes eating pretzels? “Take a shower,” you say at last, because it is the first practical thought to land. “If that’s okay.”

His eyebrows lift just slightly. “Yeah. Of course.”

You nod too quickly, grateful for any path that involves a door and running water. “Great. I’m doing that.”

Roope, the traitor, raises his beer. “Good plan.”

You do not dignify that with a response. Mikko squeezes your back once, almost imperceptibly, and tilts his head toward the bedroom hallway. 

The second you make it into the bathroom and close the door behind you, you lean against it and shut your eyes. The room is cool and modern and maddeningly calm, all stone and glass and clean lines, while your pulse is still trying to tear itself out through your throat. Somewhere beyond the walls, muffled voices and intermittent laughter drift through the apartment, and now every burst of amusement feels suspicious. They’re definitely talking about you. They should be. You showed up like a sex dream with bad timing and practically introduced yourself by flashing the doorway.

You make a strangled noise at your own reflection in the mirror and shove the jacket off your shoulders. It lands over the closed toilet lid in a dark heap, and seeing it there makes the whole thing feel even stupider somehow. His jacket. Your plan. The look on his face when you opened it. The noise from inside. Roope fucking Hintz grinning at you like he’d been waiting years to confirm a theory.

The shower turns on with a clean metallic click, and you shove the handle too far toward hot on purpose. Steam begins to rise almost immediately, fogging the edges of the mirror and blurring your flushed face into something less incriminating. You step under the water and let it hit your shoulders hard enough to sting.

It is absolutely too hot, and you leave it that way.

The first minute is just survival. Water pounding over the back of your neck, your palms braced against the cool tile, your breathing gradually evening out under the cover of the spray. You had intended tonight to feel bold, maybe a little outrageous in a controlled, private way. You had not intended to accidentally perform naked determination for the Finnish subsection of the Dallas Stars. That distinction seems important, though not useful.

Once the embarrassment eases by a fraction, your brain does what it always does when trapped alone too long with hot water and no distractions. It begins to overwork every possible angle until all of them are raw.

What exactly are you doing? Not in the broad existential sense, though that’s never far away, but specifically here, with him, at this point in your life where most of your days are structured, demanding, and built around work you care about. You are not seventeen. You are not waiting for a boy between midnight and dawn while your parents sleep down the hall. There is no innocence left to hide inside, no excuse of youth if your judgment turns out to be ridiculous. Showing up at his place in a stolen jacket because you finally got tired of all the interruptions is not something a girl does because she doesn’t know better. It’s something a woman does because she knows exactly what she wants and is brave enough, or reckless enough, to walk toward it.

That should feel empowering. It mostly does. Unfortunately, it also feels exposing.

Because wanting him is one thing. That part has become impossible to deny, especially after the last several weeks of almosts. Your body knows what it wants every time he touches you. Every kiss lately has carried the unfinished charge of all the times life barged in too soon, and it has started to feel ridiculous that two functioning adults with this much chemistry keep getting thwarted by teammates, phones, family members, and practical caution. But wanting him physically is only part of what complicates this. The rest is subtler and therefore much more dangerous.

He has somehow become folded into your days.

Not just in bed-thoughts or late-night calls or the involuntary thrill of hearing his key in your lock when he swings by after practice. He has slipped into the softer spaces too. He sends you weather complaints and dumb grocery-store photos and weirdly thoughtful questions about your research. He remembers details from conversations you assumed he half-missed. He leans in your kitchen like he belongs there and listens while you rant about faculty politics with the same attention he gives game film. He has started to feel less like a reopened chapter and more like a current one, and that is not nearly as easy to joke about.

You push your wet hair back and tilt your face into the water until it runs into your eyes.

There’s also, if you’re being honest, the very specific image of his face at the door. Not the embarrassment after. Not the poker table, the greetings, Roope’s stupid knowing grin. That first second. That full-body, stunned, hungry stillness when he thought it was just you and him and all the waiting was over. You replay it and immediately have to grip the tile harder. He wanted you tonight. There had been no ambiguity in that.

The water keeps pouring, and your thoughts grow less linear with the steam.

What if he’s annoyed? Not by you exactly, but by the timing, by the whole scene, by having his private life dropped into the middle of poker night like a live grenade. What if he thinks it was too much? What if he thinks it was funny in a way that cools the whole thing? Worse, what if he thinks it was endearing and now all his friends know enough to tease him for the rest of the playoffs? The thought of being a running joke among Finnish NHL players makes your stomach knot in ways that are not remotely sexy.

And yet beneath all that is another truth, stubborn and hot and impossible to rinse away. If he came in right now—if he opened the shower door and stepped under the water with you and looked at you the way he did in the hallway—you would probably forget every sensible thought in your head. Which is, frankly, not the kind of self-knowledge you enjoy having.

You stay there longer than necessary. Long enough for the mirror to cloud over completely and the room to fill with steam. Long enough to convince yourself you should probably emerge wrapped in a towel, accept whatever version of this evening remains salvageable, maybe laugh it off, maybe leave after a drink and some bruising small talk. Long enough that the shock of the first few minutes fades into a slower tension that sits low in your body and refuses to go anywhere.

Fifteen minutes, maybe a little more, pass before you hear the bathroom door click open.

At first you think you imagined it under the noise of the shower. Then the air shifts, just slightly, and there is the distinct sound of someone setting something down on the counter. Your head turns before your thoughts can organize, and through the blurred glass and steam you make out the broad shape of him.

Mikko steps in without warning, steam curling around the breadth of his shoulders, water sluicing down the hard lines of his chest as if he belongs to this whole damn room. He’s naked, skin flushed from the heat, cock already heavy and half-hard between his thighs, and he never breaks eye contact as he closes the glass behind him, sealing you both in. His palm settles on your hip, thumb stroking once, steadying you even though you’re pressed into tile, breath caught high in your throat.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, that low brush of sound over the shower’s rush, and you do because there’s no sense pretending otherwise now. His hands skim from your waist to your ribs, then angle you back against him, your spine fitting against the velvet weight of his chest, water running over both of you. His mouth finds the wet line of your shoulder, teeth grazing skin in a slow claiming, and his left hand slides down your belly, fingers spreading possessive and sure.

He touches you like he’s already memorized every pulse and wants to learn it again. Long fingers part your slick folds, dragging lazy circles over your clit that make your knees buckle, and he just hums, that deep satisfied sound vibrating along your spine. He doesn’t rush. He rubs and dips, coats you in your own slick until the pads of his fingers glide like sin, and when he finally slips one inside, the stretch makes you gasp, your cunt clenching around him instinctively.

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes against your neck, accent thick now, breath hot in the steam. “Feel that. Open up for me.”

He keeps you steady with his other arm locked across your middle, anchoring you to his chest while he works a second finger inside, curling them deep, stroking your spot until you’re breathing ragged, hips rolling helplessly to chase the pressure. He keeps his touch measured, coaxing rather than frantic, building you up, preparing every inch for what’s coming. His palm drags across your clit in slow circles between thrusts, pushing slick through the swollen bundle, and every time you moan he answers with a low grunt, all heat and approval.

“Been waiting to feel you like this,” he murmurs, cheek against your wet hair. “All that patience. Worth it.”

Your head tips back against his chest as he withdraws his fingers, rubbing your clit one last time, making your thighs tremble, then he turns you to face him, big hands guiding your hips until you’re pinned against the tile, water pounding over both of you. His mouth claims yours with a hunger so focused it steals your breath, tongue stroking deep, teeth scraping your lower lip. When he breaks away he’s panting, eyes blown wide, and his hands grip under your ass, lifting you effortlessly, back pressed to the wall, his cock hard and hot between you.

You wrap your legs around his waist automatically. He holds you there like it’s nothing, muscles flexing in his forearms while he aligns himself, thick head rubbing through the slick he worked into you. He makes you feel weightless and pinned all at once, the strength under his control a new kind of high. He thrusts shallow at first, sliding through your folds, nudging against your clit with every drag, letting you feel how wide he is, how hard he is, teasing your entrance until you whimper.

“Mikko,” you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

“I know,” he murmurs, and then he sinks in slowly, steadily, filling you inch by devastating inch. The stretch is a dull burn that turns molten fast, your walls clamping around him, taking him deeper. He presses his forehead to yours, breath trembling out through his nose as he pushes that last bit, seating himself fully inside you until you take all of him, cock thick and throbbing, pulsing deep.

He holds there, letting you adjust, letting the fullness settle, then he rocks back, nearly pulling out before driving back in, harder. You cry out, legs locked around him, and he starts a rhythm that’s all power and intent, hips snapping forward with thrusts that pound into your softest places. He keeps you pinned against the tile, strong hands gripping under your thighs, the water pounding on his back, his mouth trailing down your throat, licking, biting just enough to make you shiver.

He pistons into you, slow at first, teasing, then faster when your breath breaks on moans, when your body clenches around him every time he buries himself to the hilt. His cock drags along your slick, gummy walls, hitting all the places his fingers prepared, stretching you deliciously. You can feel every vein, every twitch, and he groans into the crook of your neck every time you tighten, every time your cunt grips him like it’s trying to keep him there forever.

“So good,” he murmurs, the words broken into gasps. “Every day, I swear, I think about this. I want you to be the only one I fuck for the rest of my life.”

The sentence drops like a weight between you, heavy and molten, and something in your chest stutters at the raw truth of it. He isn’t dramatic about it. It’s just there, uttered with the same quiet conviction as his movements, as the care in how he holds you, the way he keeps you steady against the slick tile.

He kisses you again, slow and deep even while his hips keep driving into you, mixing tenderness with the relentless snap of his thrusts. One of his hands slides lower, fingers finding your clit, circling in tight wet patterns that send shocks of pleasure through your belly. He keeps fucking you, strong and measured, and rubs your clit with the other hand until the pressure spirals out of control.

Your sounds turn high, broken, and he is right there with you, grunting, humming, whispering yes into your hair every time your cunt clamps around him. He moves faster, thrusts hitting harder, the rhythm growing rougher but never careless, until the tension inside you breaks all at once. You shatter on his cock, orgasm ripping through you in violent pulses, thighs shaking around his waist. Your cunt squeezes him in tight, rhythmic clutching, and he groans, a raw sound ripped from his chest, fucking you through it, hand working your clit until the pleasure borders on pain.

He keeps you pinned as you ride it out, letting you flood around him, sweat mixing with water, his own breath ragged in your ear. He stays inside you, cock throbbing against those sensitive walls, and when your orgasm finally starts to ebb, he shifts his grip, hooks your leg higher, and starts to move again, chasing his own finish now with thrusts that turn rougher, urgent.

“Look at me,” he rasps, pulling back enough to capture your mouth again. “Let me see you.”

You hold his gaze, eyes locked, bodies grinding, and the intimacy of it makes your aftershocks flare again. He fucks deep, relentless and controlled, teeth bared as he swallows every sound you make, hand slipping to your ass to pull you harder into his strokes. You can feel his cock swelling inside you, feel his breath stutter, and then he thrusts once more, hard, and spills into you with a broken moan, hips jerking, fingers biting into your skin as he pumps through it, filling you with warmth, cock pulsing deep.

He doesn’t let you slide down right away. He holds you close, cock still buried in your slick, fluttering cunt, breathing against your ear, those low satisfied hums rolling through his chest. His hands stroke your back, your thighs, soothing touches that make you melt against him even as your muscles tremble. He presses his lips to your temple, then your jaw, whispering soft praise into your skin.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, easing you down slowly when his strength finally relents, keeping you steady until your feet find the tile. “My girl.”

You’re unsteady, boneless, but he keeps you close, cock slipping out with a wet slide that makes both of you groan. He turns you under the spray, rinsing you with slow hands, fingers massaging shampoo through your hair like this is the most natural follow-up in the world. Steam curls around you both, and your body still sings with what he gave you.

When you glance up, he’s looking at you with that same intense focus that started this entire spiral. There’s no teasing now. Just the calm certainty of a man who finally has exactly what he wanted, and intends to keep it.

You wake in stages, surfacing through warmth and softness and the distant hush of city noise filtered high above the street, and for one drowsy second you don’t move because your body already knows this isn’t your apartment. The mattress is deeper, the sheets cooler and heavier, and the air smells faintly of clean laundry. Then the memory of last night rolls through you in one molten wave, and awareness settles low in your body with a delicious ache that makes you inhale sharply into the pillow.

You're sore in all the best ways.

Not hurt, not strained, just used. Thoroughly, sweetly, unmistakably used. The inside of your thighs feel tender when you shift, and there’s a deep warmth between your legs that instantly brings back the shower steam, his hands under your ass, the low rough murmur of praise against your skin. Heat slides up your neck before your eyes are even fully open.

Sunlight pours through the wall of windows in broad pale gold stripes, softer than it had looked the first time you woke here hungover and horrified. Then it had felt exposing, all that glass and polished space and bright morning truth. Today it feels almost indecently beautiful. The city beyond the bedroom is washed in early light, towers gleaming clean against a blue sky, and the whole room has that rare quiet richness some mornings carry when nothing urgent has barged in yet.

You stretch a little under the sheet and immediately regret and enjoy it in equal measure. Every small movement wakes another trace of him in your body. The drag of his mouth at your throat. The weight of his chest over yours later, in bed this time, when the shower turned into towels and laughter and another long, slow round that left both of you limp and tangled in the dark. His hand half asleep on your hip in the middle of the night, sliding there on instinct when you shifted closer.

You open your eyes fully, smiling into the pillow before you can stop yourself.

He’s already awake.

Mikko lies on his stomach beside you, head resting on his folded arms, face turned your way as if he has been there for a while just looking. The sheet rides low over his hips, leaving his back bare in the light, all broad shoulders and the long clean line of his spine disappearing under rumpled cotton. Sleep has softened him a little. His curls are mussed into something boyish at the crown, and the sun catches in his eyes, turning the pale blue brighter, clearer, almost gold at the edges.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just watches you wake with a look so open and quietly pleased that it makes something in your chest loosen before your brain can defend itself.

There’s no smugness in it. No stupid masculine triumph, no joke waiting at the corner of his mouth. Just a kind of warm, almost disbelieving satisfaction, like he’s seeing something he wanted and still hadn’t fully trusted himself to expect. It makes him look younger and older at the same time, less like the public version of himself and more like the private one you keep catching in fragments.

For a while neither of you says anything, and the silence doesn’t ask to be filled. It settles over the bed like another sheet, warm and light and almost sacred in the pale spill of morning. You lie there facing each other with the city glowing beyond the windows and the evidence of last night in every tender part of your body, and it feels as though something inside you has finally gone still after weeks of humming too hard.

Mikko shifts first, only a little, drawing one arm out from under his chin. The movement drags the sheet lower over his waist, and his bare shoulder catches the light, gold at the edge, the small scars and freckles on his skin made soft by sun. He reaches toward you with a slowness that makes the gesture feel considered rather than casual, and then his fingers are in your hair, brushing one loose strand back from your face.

It is such a small thing.

That is what makes it almost unbearable.

His knuckles skim your temple, then the curve of your ear, and his hand lingers there for a second as if he likes the shape of your face under his palm. You don’t move. You hardly breathe. Last night had been heat and wanting and the sweet wreck of finally giving in, but this is gentler than any of that, and somehow it lands deeper. There is no crowd outside this moment, no team, no campus, no years between then and now trying to explain themselves. Just this bed, this light, and the quiet fact of him touching you as if he has every reason to be careful.

His eyes stay on yours the whole time, clearer now in the morning, the green in them almost translucent where the sun catches. You can see the fatigue in the faint shadows beneath them, and the softness too, a kind of peace that doesn’t sit on him often. Hockey players, you have learned, carry alertness in their bodies even at rest. Some part of them is always prepared to get up, to move, to brace. This morning he looks unguarded in a way that feels private enough to be trusted with.

You lift your hand and touch his wrist before you think too much about it. His skin is warm. The pulse there beats steady under your fingertips. His mouth curves, not into a grin, not into anything teasing, just the smallest, most helpless smile, and your own answer comes just as quietly.

“You’re really here,” he says after a while, voice rough from sleep and used sparingly, as if he doesn’t want to disturb what this is by saying too much into it.

The words could have been lighter in someone else’s mouth. They could have been a joke about the stolen jacket or your dramatic entrance or waking up together after all those false starts. But he says them like a man still letting reality settle into place, and that makes your throat tighten a little.

“So are you,” you say, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to.

He breathes out through his nose, almost a laugh, though not quite. His fingers drift once more over the hair he tucked back, tracing the edge of your cheekbone with the backs of them, and your heart does something slow and helpless in your chest. You are suddenly, acutely aware of how full it feels there. Not frantic. Not fragile. Just full. Like something has been poured carefully into a vessel that had gone too long carrying only itself.

You look at him and see too many versions at once, and somehow they don’t clash. The lanky village boy who used to whisper at your bedroom door past midnight. The young man on television in green and white, mouth set and shoulders broad under arena lights. The one who came into the shower last night and held you as if strength and tenderness had never been separate things. The one lying in this bed now, watching you like morning itself has surprised him by being this good.

His thumb ghosts once over your lower lip, and then his hand settles lightly at the side of your neck. “I like waking up with you,” he says.

He doesn’t dress it up. He doesn’t look away after, either. He just tells you, plain and honest, and the simplicity of it slips under your ribs more cleanly than anything grander could have.

You smile, though it feels a little unsteady around the edges. “That’s good,” you murmur. “Because you’ve done it multiple times now.”

That almost pulls a laugh from him, but he seems unwilling to let the softness break. He inches closer instead, his face near enough now that you can feel the warmth of his breath. “This one’s better,” he says quietly.

It is. You both know why. The first time had been all confusion and aspirin and panic and the clumsy terror of finding each other where neither of you expected to be. This morning has none of that. You chose this. Both of you did. There is a calm in that knowledge that changes the air in the room.

You slide your hand up his arm until your fingers rest against his shoulder, feeling the heavy warmth of him under skin gone loose with sleep. He leans into the touch in such a small way you might have imagined it if you weren’t watching him so closely. Your bodies are still separated by a little space and a tangle of sheet, but it feels temporary, almost ceremonial, like a pause before gravity finishes its work.

Outside, somewhere below, the city moves on without you. A distant siren climbs and fades. Light shifts across the floorboards. None of it reaches the bed.

Mikko’s gaze dips for a second, then rises again. “Come here,” he says, barely above a whisper.

You go without hesitation.

The sheet slides and catches around your legs as you move closer, and he opens one arm to make room, gathering you against him with an ease that makes it feel as if this has already happened many times. Your knee brushes his thigh, then your hips meet, and the heat of his bare chest against yours is so immediate and familiar that your eyes close for a second on instinct. He fits around you carefully despite his size, one hand at your back, the other settling at the nape of your neck.

His chin rests lightly against the top of your head. You hear his heartbeat before you consciously notice it, slow and solid under your cheek. He exhales into your hair, and it sounds like relief.

three months ago, yourself and mikko were actively jumping each others bones. always stealing glances in the lobby, groping each other in the hallway, mikko trailing kisses along your neck while you tried to unlock your door, and having sex: on a regular basis.

it was pretty much dating - only without the labels and commitment. it was good while it lasted. really good.

you had been new to the building when you introduced yourself to your handsome, tall, and blond neighbour. his accent had your stomach swooping, and the way his large hand had covered yours as they meet in a greeting had your cheeks flushing. mikko was just as enamoured with you as you were with him, and he invited you out to the bars that night. one thing led to another and he was bringing you into bed, treating you to three orgasms.

you two were obsessed with one another. he made you breakfast when he didn't have early practice, and you made him laugh after a bad game. not to mention the toe curling, earth shattering sex: you still think about it (not without cursing yourself for it). the situationship was perfect.

but then something changed. you had been at one of his games, waiting for him with the rest of the girls in the tunnel. he had greeted you like normal, large forearm wrapping around your shoulders, hips pressing into your backside. somebody said you two were a cute couple and...mikko got cold. you just laughed it off, respecting the agreement you both had, but mikko had pulled away from you. he didn't touch you for the rest of the night and didn't even hang around you at the bar afterwards.

you asked him about it in the elevator that night. you're not even sure what you fought about, and can't remember what you threw at him or what he said back. and then you went into your respective apartments and didn't talk again.

you were hurt. hurt because maybe you did want a full relationship with mikko, not just the sex and non commitment. you wanted love. you were ready for love with him. clearly, mikko found that laughable and now here you were.

today, in that elevator, you and mikko rantanen were not friends.

you sigh, looking up towards the electric screen which lets you know you're almost on your floor. you can feel mikko look over at you, but you don't give him the satisfaction of eye contact - because when there's eye contact there's usually a sour look, followed by a jab and then before you know it you're arguing.

still feeling mikko's stare, you finally give in and look back towards him. you raise your brows when he doesn't look away. "what?" you snap.

"you look like shit." he deadpans. his accent sounds thicker today, which unfortunately sends the butterflies loose in your stomach.

registering the actual words he said, rather than the finnish accent, you sigh loudly. "gee, thanks."

mikko takes a hand out of his pocket, running it through the fresh buzz cut atop his head. "rough day at work?"

your brows pull together, "why do you care?"

"i don't." mikko says immediately, "just making conversation."

"well don't."

the ding of the elevator has you looking away, breaking the staring match between you. the metal doors open at your shared floor.

you adjust the strap on your shoulder, stepping forward to leave the stuffy space. mikko moves at the same time, which results in you bumping into his strong chest. you shut your eyes in frustration, taking a sow breath through your nose.

"go ahead," mikko huffs, hand outstretched towards the hallway.

"no, please," you shove your hand out, "be my guest."

"really, I insist." mikko grits.

the elevator doors shut again and you huff, pushing the button so they slide open once more. this time you don't wait for him, pushing past mikko and down towards your apartment.

you can hear him following behind you, probably too close for your liking, so you don't dare turn around to see. digging through your bag, you find your keys.

you miss the keyhole the first time, dropping your keys to the ground.

upon hearing your hushed curse, mikko looks down to his right to see you bent over, black scrub pants hugging your hips in a way that's so right it has his own pants getting tighter.

you stand back up, shoving your key in aggressively, ignoring the blonde's snicker as you open the door. just before you are out of his sight, mikko calls you back.

he's half way inside his own apartment, gripping the door his his long fingers. "same time tomorrow?" you give him an odd look which has the corners of his lips turning up in a subtle smirk. "our elevator ride. are you going to be in a mood again?"

you squint, "is this funny to you?"

"no," he says quickly, "it's not funny. that's what makes this awkward hating thing so much fun."

"akward hating thing?" you mimick, "god you're so incredibly infuriating."

mikko tongues his cheek, "thank you."

you scoff once again, slamming the door.

—

"I had a really good night."

"yeah, me too." you lean farther against your open door, looking up to meet the eyes of your tinder hook up. you're pretty sure his name was jett, but you can't be too sure.

after, like mikko predicted, your rough day at work, you spent the night scrolling dating apps in hopes of feeling something. jett (maybe) was nice. he caught your attention and before you knew it - he was in your bed. it wasn't something you typically did - but with your long work day yesterday on top of mikko's quips, you needed to get laid. it helped that jett (you're pretty sure) was 6 foot of solid muscle.

"well," he says, patting against his jeans once, "I should probably get going to work."

you laugh, "I should as well."

then he leans in, down into your space. you can hear an apartment door open just as jett (probably) closes the gap between you both, placing a heavy kiss on your dry morning lips. he pulls away with a small smile, bidding you goodbye once more before taking the stairs down to the lobby.

the door next to yours clicks shut. "seriously?"

you suppress a groan, turning your body so you can face mikko. "what?" you grit out, crossing your arms over your horse pyjama shirt - you're pretty sure it was a gift from erik johnson, hopefully mikko doesn't remember that detail.

"parading your hook up for the world to see?" clearly, he's not concerned about you wearing his friends gift, because he's not even looking at you when he bites out the snarky question -too busy locking his apartment door.

he's dressed in a similar outfit as the night before, and knowing the time, mikko is most likely on his way to morning skate.

"like you said, rough day at work. needed to blow off some steam."

mikko eyes your sickly sweet smile, clearly trying to get him to bite back. so he mirrors your expression, pocketing his set of keys and turning towards you. "well, you've always loved blowing."

you can feel yourself flush at his sexual innuendo. your clear your throat, "are you done?"

"are you done making out with random men in the hallway?" there's a certain bitterness to his words that has you scoffing.

you can't help but bite back, "I wasn't making out with him. we were saying goodbye with a quick kiss."

"whatever you want to call it." he huffs. he moves past you without another look in your direction, his shoulders tight. mikko sounds more miserable than normal with his last comment - he almost sounded...

you laugh out and it has mikko stopping in his tracks, shooting a glare over his strong shoulder. "what?"

you clap your hands together gently, subconsciously already having turned your body in his direction. "oh my god! you're jealous."

he bellows a deep laugh, spinning back around. "jealous? me? no, i'm not jealous of your sorry excuse of a parting kiss."

"ah, you're so jealous. this is fun to watch." you smirk.

"this is a common area. leave the PDA at home next time?”

"this is my home." you tease, shrugging your shoulders.

mikko pauses, almost taking a step towards you. much to your disappointment, he doesn't engage, just licks his teeth and turns around, stalking grumpily to the elevator. his thick thighs are flexing as he moves, back muscles shifting as well. both are just as drool worthy, and it has you feeling hot again.

he makes it to the elevator and scratches the back of his neck as he waits for it to arrive.

you don't wait around, shutting the door before he can look back at you. leaning against the door, you close your eyes, taking deep breaths. and just like you always did when you saw him, you think about what went wrong.

you can never come up with an answer through, just in a loop of what was.

—

the avalanche had won their game. it had mikko feeling good, leaning back casually in the elevator as he enjoyed the peaceful journey up.

although he was a little dissatisfied because you hadn't been in the elevator, he tried not to dwell on it. because of his game performance, media had run later than usual, so he had missed you on your way home from work.

the door dings open, and mikko's subtle smile that had been adorning his face all night fell. he sees harvey, the old man who runs the maintenance at your open apartment door, a sullen look on his face as you two speak.

he starts making his way to his own apartment, and the conversation becomes clearer.

"the family upstairs had already vacated for the night," harvey sighs, "but the guys will be here really early to fix it, it's too dangerous otherwise."

mikko can't help but peek inside when he passes, and the sight before him immediately has him stopping. "holy crap," he whispers behind harvey.

you groan at his presence and it lights an unpleasant fire in his stomach.

"what happened?"

you watch as mikko looks at your ceiling, the once white plastered flat area now half fallen down, cracks covering the space. "it's fine," you sigh.

harvey's eyes widen, "it's not fine, and i'm not sure how long it will take to repair. you gotta get out of here."

you meet mikko's large blue eyes, swimming with what you think is concern. but it's mikko, you think, so it's definitely more amusement at your predicament rather than care for your well being.

harvey turns toward the 6'4 athlete behind him, "the residence above her had fell asleep with the bathtub running, which is obviously a big no no. the floor got so wet and soft that it cracked, and then when they moved around in a hurry to stop the water, the floor gave out, leaving this hole and all these cracks."

"shit," mikko whispers, and then his eyes meet yours again. "are you okay?"

you don't allow his question to affect you, only sending him a quick nod. "yes, it's fine."

harvey, although a sweet man, sends you a deadly glare. "no, i'm not letting you stay here. you got somewhere you can go?"

you frown, swallowing thickly. "maybe? hotels are still open right?"

harvey is in the middle of a shrug when mikko pushes closer to your open door. "she can stay with me."

you send him a bewildered look, "like hell i'm staying with you."

harvey's brows pull together ever so slightly, sending you a concerning glance, "you two know each other?"

"we're neighbours"

"we're friends."

you say at the same time. you give mikko another disapproving look but he just shrugs.

"we're friends and neighbours," the blonde tells harvey, sending him a shiny grin. "pack a bag and let's go. you're not staying in a hotel alone."

you grit your teeth. "mikko, it's fine."

"y/n." he warns through a smile, "I insist."

harvey just smiles, "well, what a gentleman."

you send the maintenance manager a tight lipped smile, doing your best to look happy at the new arrangement, "oh you have no idea."

harvey doesn't catch on to your tone as you spin around, slightly stomping through your apartment to gather your things. you find a duffel bag pretty quickly, shoving an array of clothes into it.

"don't forget anything," you hear mikko call into your apartment, "harvey says it might be a couple days."

you scoff to yourself, unplugging your charging cables from the outlet, "mikko you're forgetting I live here, I can pop over if i need anything."

"not if it's a construction zone."

you don't brother answering, only rolling your eyes. he is right, you won't be able to access your things properly if there's men in here patching up your ceiling and any other damages caused. so you do pack your skin care and makeup, along with things like your meds and all your underwear.

you meet mikko back at the door with slow steps. he's not looking at you when you approach, himself and harvey in a conversation about something or other and you can't be bothered to listen in and find out about. you shift on your feet, trying not to panic about having to live with your ex hookup for the foreseeable future.

you eyes wander around your now dusty apartment, the con-caved ceiling behind you and the drywall covering the floor. you knaw your lip, trying to keep your emotions at bay.

"alright, let's get out of harvey's hair and head next door." mikko says, as if he could sense your worries.

you blink tiredly, "ok."

mikko rolls his eyes when you push past him, arm brushing his abdomen. he's glad you don't linger there, because he can feel his abs tense at your touch. he follows behind you, pulling out his keys.

your standing silently at his closed door, switching weight between your two feet, no doubt uncomfortable from the weight of the bag on your shoulder and the situation you're about to be in.

mikko sighs gently, unlocking the door.

quietly, you enter. it's just like it was three months ago: suspiciously clean. you suppose it's because mikko was very rarely home, and when he was, he wasn't making a mess. mikko always liked that you were the opposite, leaving a tornado anywhere you went. you werent dirty messy, just messy enough that mikko felt like he was at home. your socks were usually left on his couch, a mug on the coffee table, your lipgloss on the bathroom counter.

you place your bag on one of his bar stools, eyeing his back suspiciously as he bends to look into his fridge. "you thirsty?" he mumbles.

"are you not going to make fun of me?" you blurt out, brows raised.

mikko faces you with a look of confusion, "why would I make fun of you?"

you scoff, "my apartment literally fell apart, leaving me helpless. this is exactly the situation you'd be sure to drive me up the wall about."

mikko has a filthy thought at your words - images of him pressing you against the wall of his room with his body. your legs spread open as he thrusts up into you.

he clears his throat, "no. i'm not going to make fun of you."

"oh." you frown slightly.

mikko catches it and his chest fills with guilt. you just look so exhausted and stressed and kind of adorable. he shakes his head to try and be rid of his feelings. "want a tea?"

you fiddle with your thumbs and sigh gently, "I only like - "

"chee tea," he interrupts you, pulling out and waving around the flavoured tea packet from the cupboard.

he pronounces it wrong, like he always has. "it's chai tea." you correct gently.

mikko flicks on his kettle, "that's what I said, chee."

you suppress the giggle that works its way up your throat.

"are you going to say thank you?" he teases a moment later, long thick fingers preparing your drink. you ignore how he makes it in your favourite flamingo mug, and uses two perfectly sized scoops of sugar...feelings would resurface other wise.

"thank you." you quip, accepting the mug once he slides it over the counter. it easy when he's like this, you think. this is the mikko that you fell for many months ago. you don't dwell on those thoughts much longer, picking up your mug to take a sip of the tea.

he made it perfectly, even though the temperature burns your mouth a little. you hiss, and mikko gives you a knowing look. "don't start." you warn.

he chuckles, "wasn't going to."

you nod, blowing on the top of the beverage before taking another sip.

mikko turns back your direction after putting away the milk carton, crossing his impossibly large biceps over his chest. "you can have the bed. i'll take the couch or I can get out the air mattress for myself...i'll put it in the office."

you put your hand up, "no. i'm not going to be responsible for you getting a shitty sleep on the couch and then sucking on the ice as a result. you take your bed."

he smirks, "it would be your fault." he teases and you send him a look, "i'm being serious. take the bed, i'll be fine."

"don't try this with me," you warn, "i'll take the couch."

you see his face scrunch up in annoyance, "why can't you accept my kind gesture?"

"because, mikko," you breath, "I can't go in your room and sleep in your bed, it's... it's too much."

his shoulders deflate and you look away, back down into your steaming mug grasped tightly between your hands.

"I was just trying to be nice - I can be nice sometimes."

"yeah, thanks, but i'll be okay." you whisper.

it's silent for the rest of your tea, and mikko busies himself with doing the few dishes in the sink.

after, mikko grabs extra sheets and a blanket from his closet and helps you make your bed on the couch. nothing is shared between you but the occasional brushing of limbs, which obviously has you feeling nervous.

"i'll be leaving early tomorrow, we have a road trip." mikko says in the middle of fluffing a pillow.

you nod, "okay."

"but stay here until your apartment is done. i'll only be gone three days. there's no point in spending money on some shitty hotel room."

he's not even looking at you and it makes you almost sad. "are you sure?"

he grunts, "obviously."

"obviously," you mimick, in a high pitched voice. you clear your throat, finishing tucking the sheet underneath the plush couch cushions.

his lips quirk up in amusement, "I don't sound like that."

"obviously," you tease him, standing to your full height.

he joins you, all 6"4 of him towering over you. "i'll leave the key on the counter if you're sleeping."

you nod, "i'd hope so."

he gives you a look.

"goodnight," you smile sickly.

mikko raises a brow, "goodnight, y/n."

you spend the night turning and tossing. you can't believe what's happened. your apartment, staying with mikko...it was very overwhelming. you try not to think about how the last time you slept on this couch, you were sleeping beside the finnish native. his hair was longer then, his skin tan from the summer. he wanted you back then, and now...he hated you for reasons unknown.

he hadn't been that intolerable tonight, you think. he didn't nitpick you too bad, and he made you your favourite tea - helped you get your bed ready. it gave you a glimmer of hope that maybe things could get better. maybe you and mikko could get that friendship back that you missed so much.

but the morning came. you were awake when mikko exited his room, dressed in his slacks and a button down. he didn't even say anything to you, only tossing the keys beside you on the couch.

and your glimmer of hope is gone.

—

thankfully, although the damage looked like a lot of work, it only took two days for everything to get fixed in your apartment.

you were pretty much only in mikko's apartment to sleep. your last couple shifts at the hospital kept going into overtime, resulting in 10 hour days that left you exhausted. there's nothing to really clean up at his apartment, so you just grab your stuff and get relaxed back into your own space.

you're glad you didn't spend too much time at his place, because the whole apartment was filled with memories - ones that were so soft and sickly sweet they left a bad taste in your mouth.

you were off on saturday, which was the day mikko was coming home from the avs road trip. it was just after 11 p.m when mikko knocked on your door. your eyes had been fluttering closed on the couch, body on the verge of sleep when he arrived.

you look through the peephole even through you knew it would be him, your hand clutching onto his gold key.

"you got my key?" are the first words mikko says.

your lips tug down, brows scrunched together. "yes," you scoff.

he raises his brows, his palm up and outstretched in your doorway. you slap his key down in his hand with a sarcastic smile. "thanks." you grit.

"relax," he whispers, shaking his palm out after your rather harsh slap. "no need to get all irritated."

you take a step back, mimicking his high brows, "you're the one who came here with an attitude."

mikko laughs once, "I don't have an attitude, but thanks."

mikko walks away from you, granted it was about four steps before he stopped at his door, angrily shoving the key in the lock and jiggling the knob until the door opened.

he doesn't look at you, barley flinching when your door shuts with a rather loud bang for this late at night. he takes a gentle sigh, walking into his apartment. mikko had already tried to get into his apartment before he knocked on yours, figuring you'd still be living there - clearly not. he was in a shitty mood because the team lost both games on the road, ending their winning streak and all he wanted to was climb into bed - not knock on your door and argue.

he tosses his duffle bag by the legs of the bar stools, huffing as he pours himself a glass of water. he lets his eyes wander around the space, surprised that there's no mess or sign of anybody living there (like usual).

then he sees that damn flamingo mug, your lipgloss smeared on the rim. mikko then opened the cupboard above the kettle, and finds that all your chai tea bags are gone.

a gentle smile takes over his face and he gently closes the cabinet. he leaves the mug by the sink and heads to bed.

—

8 months ago

your eyes scan through the section of shelves that carry the boxes of tea bags, hands on your hips as you search for your desired pick.

you hum, dancing from flavour to flavour; green, orange pekoe, english breakfast, apple cinnamon...

"I don't see chee." mikko states. he's mimicking your stance with his hands on his hips, one foot propped out in a way that makes his thigh look extra strong.

your brows furrow, a glimmer of a smirk appearing, "chee? that's not a tea."

"you said chee." mikko muses, turning his large body towards yours.

"chai," you correct with a smile, "pronounced like lie."

mikko hums once, and then tries again "ch...ee."

you laugh and mikko throws you a playful look, "don't make fun of me." then his bottom lip juts out, looking plump and wet.

you mimick his face and his arms fall flush with his sides. you laugh again, stepping forward into his chest. "i'm not, i promise," the end of your scentence is quiet, pushing up on your toes to grab mikko's face.

he closes the distance between you, kissing your pouted lips deeply. his hands grip your hips over the blue sundress you're wearing, pulling you impossibly closer.

with a groan, you drop back down to the heels of your feet, breaking the kiss before mikko can slip his hands under your dress. "we're in public."

mikko grunts, "let's go home then."

home.

you breath a laugh, "we can once I find my.." you turn towards mikko just as he reaches for the top shelf, grasping onto a box of your beloved chai tea.

"I got the chee," mikko smirks, "let's go."

you giggle, grabbing onto the cart to push it down the isle. mikko tosses in the box and slaps your butt gently.

—

"fuck." your curse, fiddling with the nut that holds your shower pipe to the shower head.

you had finished a night shift at the hospital, wanting nothing more than to get home and shower off any traces of sweat, antiseptic or bodily fluids that may be on you, but of course, your shower head breaks off as soon as you turn it on.

you drop your arms again, running a hand through your oily hair, freshly down from your ever so tight bun. you had already contacted the front and asked for maintenance, but they couldn't do anything until tomorrow and there was no way you were going to stew in your filth until then.

"god damn it," you huff, pulling out your phone. you open your contacts and scroll until you find him. you knaw your lip, hesitantly opening the chat and typing a message.

y/n

hey, sorry to message you but my shower is broke and I need help fixing it. can you help?

you shut your eyes at how desperate your message come across. you don't wallow much longer because your phone buzzes with a response.

mikko rantanen

who is this?

your mouth drops open slightly, because, was he being serious. when another message doesn't come through you start typing.

y/n

it's y/n. you seriously deleted my number that fast?

mikko rantanen

I thought it's what you would've wanted me to do

oh. you frown ever so slightly. your phone buzzes again.

mikko rantanen

i'll come help you

y/n

the doors open. let yourself in.

you attempt to get the pipes back together once more while you wait, which turned to be very unsuccessful.

you're up on your tip toes when mikko walks into your apartment, making his way to the bathroom he's showered in many times before. he takes a moment to admire the way your scrub top has ridden up, exposing the dimples on either side of your spine.

mikko clears his throat and you jump slightly, turning towards him with your shower head clutched tight.

"having some trouble?" he teases, brows raised at your flushed cheeks and messy hair.

your squint, "listen, i've had the longest shift at work and all I want to do it shower. maintenance cant do anything until tomorrow. the last person I want help from is you, so please don't provoke me."

his big hands shoot up in surrender and he takes a step back, "I can leave if you really don't want my help."

you take a big sigh, closing your eyes momentarily. "no. although I many not want your help, I need it. can you fix my shower?"

he smiles triumphantly, "happy to help."

you send him a close mouthed smile, and you push the shower head to his chest, hitting right between his hard pecks. mikko looks down slowly and then his eyes dart back to you. "what's the magic word?"

"mikko." you deadpan.

"nope, that's not it."

"please." you grit out.

he smirks, hands overlapping yours. for a moment, your shocked at his bold movement, but then his fingers are gripping the shower part and your remember he's literally just grabbing the things you shoved at his chest.

he steps into your tiled shower, biceps flexing as she starts to work on putting the parts back together. you can see the tiny trail of hair below his navel as his arms lift, leading down beneath the band of his athletic pants.

mikko fixes it in like, 5 minutes, which was a little bit annoying. even more annoying when he sends you a knowing smirk: a little I could fix it and you couldn't smirk.

you tilt your head with a sarcastic face, "my hero."

he breaths, "I know right."

"don't push it." you say, your hand out infront of him to further your words. mikko chuckles slightly at that, watching as you move past him and test the dial, turning on the shower and watching the water as it successfully pours out the head.

"thanks," you say quietly, "now leave. I can't be in these dirty clothes any longer."

"you're welcome," he says deeply, "not going to walk me out?"

you send him a glare over your shoulder, "go away."

he tongues his cheek with a smirk before walking out. when you step into the steamy shower and finally have a moment to reflect, you realize that it was the first time since you and mikko 'broke up' you didn't truly argue. it was...refreshing.

—

7 months ago

mikko's strong arms wrap around your waist, your soft skin only covered by his dress shirt.

"wondered where you went." his voice is hoarse, words mumbled into the crook of your neck as he leans in.

you sigh contently when mikko's lips start pressing gentle kisses to your exposed shoulder and throat column.

"the sunset is really pretty today." your head falls back against mikko's chest, fingers tracing the veins along his hand. the warmth of the august sun is settling on your exposed skin, a reminder of the dwindling summer.

"you're really pretty," mikko teases, kissing your cheek as his hands slide down your body, slipping underneath the hem of his shirt to touch you. "thought you maybe left."

you spin around, arms coming up to warp around his neck. mikko's hands grab a fistful of your naked ass, tugging gently. "wouldn't do that unless you knew I was leaving."

he smirks, "good." then he leans down, capturing your lips in a hot kiss that has you moaning out.

you're thankful that your apartments balconies are enclosed, because you didn't want anybody to see the way mikko has you come undone on his balcony.

—

you have a bag of garbage in your hand and smiley face slippers on your feet when you run into gabe landeskog and his wife melissa in the hallway. it's almost 8 p.m. and the sight of them has you stopping dead.

"y/n," they smile in unison, all white teeth and blonde hair invades your space as they swoop you into tight hugs.

when you and mikko were seeing each other, you were often with him when the team all hung out. you had grown close with the landeskogs, and you and melissa often texted and had lunch dates.

"hey," you say, very aware of the star pimple patch stuck your forehead, "how are you guys?"

"good," gabe says gently, "i'm getting close to getting back out there."

you smile, "that's amazing."

the elevators ding, opening just as cale makar makes his way out, heading in your direction. your brows furrow, because why the hell are you running into two avalanche players in an apartment they don't live in.

"what's going on?" you breath a laugh, watching as cale smiles politely in your direction, moving past you and the landeskogs. then he knocks on mikko's door and everything makes more sense.

"mikko is having a party," gabe says, "it was his turn to host."

just as gabe finishes his scentence, the door next to yours swings open, revealing the finnish native dressed in a black hoodie and light jeans. you can smell his cologne and your knees almost buckle.

"you didn't know?" melissa asks.

you shake your head, switching the garbage bag to your other hand before your fingers have the chance to cramp.

"moose!," gabe calls out, pulling you under his arm, "you're having a party and didn't invite y/n? have you no soul?"

your eyes widen as gabe laughs. cale's expression mimics yours, mumbling something incoherent before moving past the winger and into the rather crowded apartment.

"oh, it's fine." you tell the couple, "mikko doesn't have to. we aren't really friends."

"and?" gabe questions.

"you're our friend," melissa smiles, tugging a strand of your hair playfully.

mikko looks at you all sheepishly and that has you swallowing thickly. "you don't need to, mikko. seriously i'm like totally not ready to mingle with people," melissa gives you an all too knowing look, "seriously i'm in my pyjamas."

"then get changed," gabe sing songs, releasing your shoulders. swiftly, he takes the garbage bag out of your hand. "i'll do this, you go get ready."

gabe leaves, somehow knowing where the hell the trash shute is. you curse the swede silently. melissa sends you a poke and a smile before leaving you in the hallway, crossing the threshold into mikko's apartment.

mikko is still standing there, staring at you with an emotionless expression.

you shrug, "seriously, I don't have to come if you don't want me to."

he sighs gently, "the doors unlocked." then he leaves, shutting the apartment door between you.

you nod to yourself, spinning right around and back into your own apartment. you do the best you can at getting presentable. not wanting to waste the skin care you had already applied by putting on makeup just to wash it off, you just rip off your pimple patch - thankfully the redness has disappeared.

you drag a brush through your hair before putting on the first pair of leggings you find and and plain fitted tshirt. you don't bother with shoes and keep your smiley slippers on. you spray your perfume and then you're leaving, turning to your right and letting yourself into mikko's apartment.

the smell of cologne hits you immediately, but you expected that in a room full of men with too much money. you smile politely at faces you recognize, making your way through the space, teammates of mikko's stopping you to greet you excitedly, hugs and small talk alike. nathan even cracks a smile when he sees you, which was crazy.

you see that mikko has set up a table for drinks near the built in fireplace. there's nothing crazy on the table with it being the middle of the season, and most of the bottles look untouched. melissa is standing there, and you march your way over.

"melissa," you hiss, "i hate you for this."

she smiles at you, "don't hate me. gabe started it."

"yeah and when I find him i'm going to kick him in the dick."

the blond snorts, pouring 7 up into her cup of tequila. "everyone is so happy to see you though, everybody misses you."

you frown, "I miss them too." and you do. although they were mikko's teammates primarily, they had become your good friends in the months you two were seeing one another. logan o'connor and his fiancé always wanted you to join their hikes, bowen byram was constantly sending you new imessage games and devon towes was always talking to you about all your mutually watched tv shows.

the team had been your only friends when you moved to denver, and now you barley saw them.

you clear the emotions from your throat, "maybe if mikko wasn't so stuck up and -"

"hey, ross!" melissa says quickly, deescalating your upcoming flur of anger. the brunette in question turns towards you both, already sporting his wide, shining smile. "ross, you remember y/n, right?"

ross colton then turns his body towards you, and you blush under the gaze of an attractive man (what's new). ross has always been handsome to you, all styled hair and strong muscles. he was pretty. pretty in a way that was almost distracting and way out of your league.

"yeah, I haven't seen you in forever."

you notice that melissa has slipped away, and you have to remember to flick her arm for that later.

"how have you been?" ross smiles.

"i'm okay," you breathe, "all things considered."

"you look great."

"really?" you wince, "i'm pretty sure this shirt has a stain on it and my skins all oily from the pounds of moisturizer i put on..."

"i'm complementing you, y/n, take it."

your cheeks heat up, "okay. thank you ross. you clean up nice." you immediately regret that, your choice of a compliment coming off very grandma like. "I mean-"

"thank you," he smiles.

"you didn't think I sounded like an elder?"

ross laughs gently, seemingly standing closer than he was when your conversation first started. "no, I'll take any compliment from a pretty girl like you."

"like me?" you splutter.

he laughs again, arm reaching out to squeeze your bicep. "is that okay?"

mikko, your brain screams. what about mikko?

"yeah," you whisper anyways. you tell your brain to zip it: because why the hell would you be thinking about mikko. I mean sure, ross wasn't as tall as mikko, or as big as mikko. you've always liked blondes, but brunette hair was good too.

"okay," ross whispers back. you flash him a smile and he releases your arm. "how about you put your number in my phone? we can hang out when our schedules line up."

you almost jump for joy. this is what you wanted, you think. ross seems stable, like he wants more than just that unfulfilling hookup culture that mikko wanted. "yeah," you say, "for sure."

you punch in your number, adding a little smiley face emoji beside your name in the contact.

"sweet," he smiles, pocketing his phone, "I gotta get back to logan but i'll text you."

"alright," you nod once, "i'll be seeing you."

"yeah," then ross leaves, disappearing back into the small crowd of people gathered in mikko's apartment. you watch as ross joins o'connor and a couple other people on the couch, taking his seat. for a moment you let yourself wonder if ross knows his teammate has been all up in your guts on that very couch.

you snap out of it, turning back to the table and making yourself a drink.

"what the hell did he want?" mikko's deep voice mumbles from above you.

you sigh, "nothing."

he moves so he's standing closer to your left, making his own drink beside you. "didn't look like nothing." mikko mutters.

you roll your eyes, turning to face him. "are you watching me?"

he looks into your eyes, "it's hard not to notice when you're eye fucking my teammate."

"I was not-" you pause, surveying the expression of the blonde's face. his brows pull together when you suddenly stop speaking, eyes burning into yours inquisitively. "why is it any of your business anyways?" you question.

"you're in my house." mikko spits. his cup is still only half made, abandoned on the sticky table top.

"you're jealous again."

he laughs, "that's funny."

"am I wrong?" you ask, arms crossing over your shirt. mikko watches the way your boobs push together in your v-neck, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

"i'm not jealous, i'm being absolutely reasonable." mikko sighs, "my ex is flirting with my teammate right infront of me. am I not allowed to question it?"

"am I really your ex if we never dated?"

mikko looks taken back by your question, licking his lower lip as you stare at one another. then he's clearing his throat, stepping closer to you.

he chooses to ignore your last question, only answering the initial accusation, "why would I be jealous of somebody like him?"

you gulp, looking up at him as mikko leans down slightly to whisper.

"maybe you should back off a little," you bite out. mikko scoffs at your threat and it has you frowning, "just because you didn't want me, doesn't mean somebody else doesn't."

mikko pulls a face of what seems like confusion, "you don't even know what you're talking about."

you roll your eyes at his rude accusation, your throat tightening with all too familiar emotions. you look away quickly, leaving mikko to watch as you turn on your heels and leave him standing alone, left with nothing but both untouched drinks on the table.

—

melissa has an expensive pair of dark sunglasses on when you sit down - so tinted you're not even sure if she notices you at first, busy looking over the menu.

"hey," she greets with a smile - clearly aware of your presence.

"hi," you huff. you're still in the burgundy v-neck from the night before, you've only switched out your black leggings for a pair of jeans - smiley slippers turned converse.

melissa texted you early the following day after the get together at mikko's apartment, buttering you up with the promise of breakfast and what she claims as 'quality time with your best friend' - she had you at breakfast.

"I didn't see you leave last night," melissa muses.

you laugh gently, "that was the point."

she eyes you over the menu, one perfectly shaped brow raised. "something happen?"

the menu that you had previously picked up was slapped down to the table. irritated, you run your hands through your straightened hair, a heavy breath leaving your lips. "mikko happened! god, mel, he's so fucking frustrating."

she sends you a small pitiful smile, "what he do this time?"

what he do this time - because melissa knows better than to assume you two have just stopped your arguments and sudden hatred and just left one another alone. she is too smart and knows you and mikko too well: both stubborn.

"well, it's started when ross asked for my number -"

"he did?!" melissa gleams.

"yeah, anyways," you dismiss, "he was all in my business because he saw ross and I talking - he was basically shaming me for talking to a friend. like are you kidding?!"

she hums, "sounds like he was jealous."

"yes!" you chant, "he totally is and i told him he was and that made it worse. he said 'why would i be jealous of someone like him?'" you mimick the finnish natives deep voice and then scoff, "god melissa, what does he even mean by that."

melissa takes a slow sip of her orange juice, brows pulled together. "sounds like he's trying to convince himself all while trying to tell you. maybe he's still got some feelings for you-"

"definitely not," you cut your friend off, "he made that clear when he blew me off at the thought of being in a relationship with me."

the blonde frowns gently.

"I don't even like fighting with him," you whine, "but he seems so admit of poking the damn bear until I have no other option but to bite back."

"gabe says that mikko never talks about what happened," melissa says gently, "anytime somebody asks him about you, he shuts down. maybe you two need to have a conversation and find out why."

you brows draw together, "why what?"

"why he never talks about what happened and why he treats you in a way that consists of arguing and jealousy." melissa says. you pull a face so she sighs, "something isn't right about it - don't you think you owe it to yourself to figure it out."

you pick up your menu again, "I don't want to get my feelings hurt again. although we fight, i'd rather not get along then not have mikko in my life at all."

melissa looks like she has something else to say, but then a young teenage employee is stopping at your table - effectively ending her train of thoughts.

"hey guys, i'll be your waiter today, what can we get started for you?"

nobody brings up mikko for the rest of the meal - you make sure of that. busy asking your friend about the kids and your shared book club.

the rest of the day is spent by yourself in your apartment, watching movies until your eyes start to hurt - a sign for a break and to start your dinner.

you're mid bite of chicken alfredo when somebody knocks at your door. the sound has you freezing, slowly placing down your fork to stand.

through the peephole you see mikko standing there, eyes looking down the hall as he waits for you to answer. you swallow your chicken, wiping your face before you open the door.

mikko looks almost surprised to see you, most likely assuming you wouldn't answer after your last conversation- you're honestly surprised that you did.

"last night," he starts, "I was mean. I hurt your feelings."

mikko pauses, watching your face for any sort of reaction - waiting for you to say something. you don't though, only crossing your arms and raising your brows as if urging him to continue.

"i'm sorry." he sighs.

"okay," you hum, "thank you for apologizing."

mikko shoves his hands in his pockets but immediately takes them back out. he's clearly debating saying something more, you can tell by the pull of his face and by the way he rubs the back of his neck.

"what?" you deadpan.

mikko looks at you shocked for a moment, brows raised and eyes wide. then his shoulders fall and he's sighing, "whatever happened between us a couple months back - can we just move past that? I'm tired of fighting with you."

you blink three times...'whatever happened between us' - like he wasn't the one who blew you off. although you want to defend yourself and your feelings, you don't.

you take a deep breath, "sure. we can move past that."

a ghost of a smile graces his plump lips. "maybe we can even be friendly?"

you squint, "we will see."

he bites his lip, "c'mon i'm trying to be nice."

"last time you tried to be nice it ended with getting your keys thrown at me."

his mouth drops open ever so slightly, "I didn't throw them at you, I lightly tossed them beside you." mikko argues.

you raise your brows at the blonde, and with the look on your face he stops himself, taking a slow breath through his nose and plastering a smile on his face.

"so what do you say?"

mimicking a sarcastic grin, you uncross your arms and jut your small hand in his direction. he looks down at your palm and tongues his cheek, a small breath of a laugh leaving his lips. mikko grabs your hand in his own, shaking it once.

"no more arguing," you hum.

mikko smiles, "no more arguing."

—

5 months ago

"hello? are you listening to me?"

mikko blinks hard, "what?"

bowen byram just lets out a hearty chuckle, swishing around the beer in his bottle against the high top table.

"I said -"

mikko's eyes dart away, moving through the crowded denver bar until he spots you again. your head is thrown back, laughing at something melissa has just told you.

you're holding a clear cup of some orange drink in one hand, your other palm pressed against the pale pink material of your summer top.

mikko has never known someone so beautiful, he thinks.

as if you can feel his stare, your head turns and you're locking eyes with one another. immediately, mikko feels his lips tug up in a smirk.

you smile back. one of your eyebrows pull up in a question for his stare.

mikko just shrugs, slow smirk becoming impossibly bigger. you shake your head in disbelief, a breathy giggle slipping between your lips. it has mikko biting his lip, not once breaking the eye contact between you.

"wow, you must really like her."

bowen's words have mikko clearing his throat, head swiveling around to meet his young teammates gaze. bowen's wearing a knowing smirk, taking a slow sip of his beer.

mikko shrugs but smiles with all his teeth. that's enough of an answer for bowen.

—

not arguing with mikko is actually not as hard as you initially thought it would be. sure, sometimes you both can't help yourselves and start poking at one another about stupid things.

but in the elevator you just smile at one another politely and ride up to your floor in peace - sometimes even small talk is exchanged between you. mikko even goes as far as taking out your garbage so you don't have to trek down to the trash shute. it's...nice - familiar. he's starting to remind you of the mikko you were in love with and that always sends your heart rate sky rocketing.

you're thinking about your and mikko's change of relationship while you're cutting your celery - which you probably should've been paying more attention to, rather than thinking about the 6"4 attractive sex god you once had the pleasure of having. your hand slips, the knife you had been using veering to the left and catching your index finger.

you hiss, dropping the blade to grab your finger. "fuck."

the blood seeping out beneath your fingers is enough indication that you had nicked your skin. suddenly you're panicking, everything you know about your profession exiting your brain. you have always been good with human fluids and injuries- that's why you got offered the job in denver in the first place: you were a great nurse. but anytime it came to your own body and self inflicted injuries - you clamped up.

with another shaky breath you leave your apartment, struggling momentarily to open the door without the proper use of your hands. you use your elbow to knock on mikko's door, praying that he's between a practice and game.

it's not a moment later that he opens the door, his eyes a bit hazy - probably just waking up from a nap.

you feel yourself get emotional, tears beginning to leak down your cheeks while you stand in front of him.

mikko's eyes widen and he reaches out to you, eyes dancing between your face and blood covered fingers. "what happened?"

you sniff, "I cut myself, and i'm too scared to see if I need stitches."

"oh, for the love of— come in and let me check." mikko guides you into his apartment with an arm around your shoulders, his free hand is over top yours, applying more pressure to your wound. you get to his bathroom, and you finally get a glimpse of yourself in his mirror.

your mascara is smudged under your eyes and your lips have swelled up like the typically did when you were crying.

"okay, let me see." mikko whispered, his hands prying your tight grip away until he can see your finger.

your eyes clench shut, and your breath quickens as you cry harder.

"i'm going to run it under the water so I can see it better, okay?"

"okay," you whisper. you let your eyes open so you can watch as he manoeuvres your finger under the tap. your breathing is a bit laboured which has mikko using his free hand to rub your back - if you weren't so emotional you'd probably be blushing.

"looks like it's not bleeding anymore."

you wince as you watch the water turn red, washing away the blood.

mikko's eyes dart to the side of your wet face, brows pulled together in the middle. "does it hurt?"

you shake your head, "I - no, I don't think so. I don't know," you cry.

he doesn't laugh or tease you about your stuttering, he just eyes you gently. he brings your hand back towards himself, using the paper towel by his sink to dry your finger. "it's not deep - doesn't need stitches. you probably cut it weird, that's why it bled like that-" he smirks gently, "but you're smart so you probably knew that."

you've stopped crying for the moment, and mikko is grateful for that. he wipes the skin with alcohol before putting a baindaid on your finger.

he's wrapping the tails around your digit when you sigh, your free hand coming up to wipe your face. "i'm sorry if i woke you up from your nap, I know how important they are."

mikko shrugs, "you're more important than a nap." you feel yourself soften at his words. he taps your freshly bandaged finger twice, a close mouth smile on his face. "that feel okay?"

"yeah," you whisper, "thank you, mikko."

"that's what friends are for, right?"

you nod, "right."

he thumbs behind him, back into the hallway that leads to his living room. "did you want to stay? you were pretty upset."

you huff, images of your crying face flashing through your mind, "don't remind me...i've never been an attractive crier."

he laughs gently, "nah, you looked," he hums for a moment, "pretty." mikko almost reaches up and brushes away your stray hairs, but he doesn't.

you wish he had. you clear your throat, eyes wandering down to your covered finger. you run your pinky over the edge of the baindaid as a distraction, "always a flirt." you tease him.

you look up just in time to watch mikko smirk softly, a tinge of pink covering the tips of his ears. "only for you."

there's a moment then, were your eyes and mikko's met in a soft gaze. thousands of emotions and unspoken words swimming between them. you breathe out, your minty breath hitting the white crinkled fabric of his shirt.

he blinks slowly and you mistake him for being tired - bored of your meltdown. you shake your head, breaking eye contact. "i'll go now," you take a few steps back, "let you get rest...i don't want to be responsible for you playing like shit."

your comment has mikko thinking about when you last slept in his apartment, vacated out of your own. although he's hurt by your sudden change of attitude, he doesn't show it. he knows you don't want the soft connections and commitment, so he just nods, "well it would be your fault."

you pause with a gentle smile, also thinking back to that night you spent on mikko's couch just a few weeks ago. you say goodbye again and walk out of his apartment, still fiddling with the brown bandaid on your finger.

mikko wishes you stayed.

you wish mikko wanted you.

—

4 months ago

you shove another one of your favourite chocolate cookies in your mouth, chewing quickly. the movie on tv isn't anything new, in fact you'd seen the hunger games well over 100 times by now. it still has you hooked though, blindly shoving another cookie in as your eyes watch the screen.

the tea mikko made you before the movie started is probably cold by now, sitting in the flamingo mug you claimed on the coffee table. when mikko said he'd never seen any of the hunger games movies you had sat him down, pushing him to the couch and bribed him with a make out and some dry humping to watch the movie. spoiler alert: it worked.

another cookie is in before you swallow the previous one, crumbs falling down your hoodie.

you're eyes snap to your right when mikko's thumb brushes your lips, gently wiping stray chocolate crumbs of your mouth.

"watch the movie," you say between swallows.

he breaths a laugh, "I am."

"no," you tease," you're watching me."

he just shrugs, clearly not feeling guilty. using the sleeve of your hoodie, you wipe over your mouth. mikko's brows come together and he pushes your hand away, using his own hands to wipe of the smudges of chocolate.

you flush, which makes him smirk. then he's pulling your face towards his. it isn't long after that you have to rewind the movie, missing the most important parts because mikko and you got distracted with each other.

—

two weeks after the whole crying in your old situationships/neighbour/friends apartment - you get a text from melissa landeskog.

you finish a gulp of wine, picking up your buzzing phone.

mel landeskog

gabe says mikko has been happier...

mel landeskog

did you take my advice and talk?

you sigh, placing down your glass.

y/n

we haven't really talked about it, no.

y/n

but you'll be happy to know we called a truce

y/n

and it's kind of working? we haven't had a real fight in a couple weeks

you catch yourself smiling at your phone at the mere thought of mikko. you stop yourself with a shake of your head just as a reply comes through the phone.

mel landeskog

yay! this is progress

mel landeskog

does that mean you can come to the game tomorrow night to keep me company? i haven't hung out with anybody but the kids in forever.

y/n

only if you buy me a beer

that's how you ended up at the ball arena, a place that just a few months ago you never thought you'd step foot into again. you have luke landeskog between your body and the plexiglass of the rink, your hands tight on his little hips.

gabe still isn't playing, not yet out of the lengthy healing process of his last injury. melissa still liked to bring the kids to games though. linnea loved seeing all her uncles and friends at the arena, and luke was starting to get to the age where he recognized what was happening in front of him.

"look, linnea!" melissa exclaims, bent down to her daughters level, "is that nate?" the blond is pointing through the glass and in the direction of the star player.

linnea giggles, shouting a yes and bangs on the boards. nathan's too far to hear her, but the little girl is excited anyways.

luke dances in your grip, hands pressed to the glass with a gummy smile. you laugh at his excitement, pointing out players as they warm up around you.

you're looking at melissa when a body comes at you, nathan's skates snowing the boards as he makes a hard stop. the kids giggle and wave excitedly as he waves back at them, his own smile cracking on his lips.

"does mikko know you're here?" melissa asks.

you send her a bewildered look, eyes wide. you pray nathan can't hear her question. "mel, people can hear you, ya know?"

your friend giggles, shrugging her shoulders. "well? does he?"

"no," you say, "why would I tell him?"

"you do know he plays for this team right?"

you whip your head around to look at her, but she's sporting a teasing grin, clearly trying to egg you on.

"ha ha," you muse, looking back through the plexiglass to watch the avs warm up.

"do you like mikko?!" linnea shouts up at you.

melissa shushes her immediately, reminding her to use an inside voice. you take a deep breath and try to remember that children are just curious.

"of course I do," you smile, "we are friends."

"oh, are you?" melissa muses.

you send her a look before glancing back down to the strawberry blond girl. "do you like mikko?"

"yes!" she cheers, banging on the glass when you see another player approach in your peripheral vision. "hi mikko!" linnea cheers.

your head snaps up, locking eyes with the man of the hour. you're at an advantage with the ice being a foot lower than the stands and you're almost eye level with mikko. he's still a bit taller though, and that's just hot in itself.

you wish you didn't flush at the sight of him, knowing that melissa would tease you about it later.

his brows raise slightly, surely wondering why the hell you're at the game. then he smiles all slow and syrupy at you....and you might just die.

you tickle one side of luke, using your other hand to take one of his chubby fits and wave it in mikko's direction. the fin smiles at the baby, tapping his stick against the glass at him. luke laughs, pushing against the surface.

then mikko takes his stick and hits the glass by your face, pulling your attention away from the kid. he gives you one more smile before turning away, although he stays in the same spot, just practicing his stick handling with his back turned to you.

you make the mistake of looking at melissa and she's already beaming at you, a raise to her brows. "friends indeed," she hums.

"stop." you warn, cheeks surely permanently flushed red for the foreseeable future.

after the third period ends with an avalanche victory, it's only minutes after the team leaves the ice your phone is buzzing in your lap.

mikko rantanen

i didn't know you were coming

mikko rantanen

want me to drive us home?

you smile at the way he worded the question, even though there was nothing special behind his words.

"I know who y/n is texting," melissa sings in a baby voice to luke, hugging him in her lap.

you ignore her.

y/n

melissa drove me

mikko rantanen

that's not what i asked. do you want me to drive us home?

his assertive texts give you a momentary flashback to other times mikko had been assertive with you. there's nothing to overthink, you remember. mikko is simply just offering to take you back to your shared apartment building - a place he's already going. he's saving melissa a trip, if anything.

y/n

okay, yeah.

you pocket your phone and turn towards your friend. "mikko is going to take me home."

melissa smirks, "I thought so."

you roll your eyes playfully but stand up from your seat, bidding goodbye to the landeksogs and making your way through the arena and down into the avs locker room hallway, flashing your badge at the security guards.

when mikko spots you, he smiles. in that moment it was easy to get caught up in the familiarity of your old selves - walking back to mikko's car and talking about the game. your heart cracks at the memories, because no matter what he's still the guy who doesn't want to love you the way you craved him too.

—

3 months ago

you're breathless, chest heaving up and down as you lay flat on your back. a smirk is playing on your lips, heart racing as you take a moment to collect yourself.

mikko rolls over and up on to his elbow, leaning over your body. he's smiling softly down at you.

"i like the freckles on your nose," he whispers, "and the ones on your cheeks. and i like your eyes and your lips."

you grin, a hand reaching up to run through his blonde curls - the action much softer than minutes ago when your were gripping his hair at the roots as he brought you over the edge.

"or I just like you." mikko muses, his free hands moving up until he can hold your face, his thumb stroking gently over your cheek bone.

"always the charmer," you whisper back. "I like you too."

your words send prickles down mikko's spine, the redness of his skin deepening down his chest and up past his neck.

his hand leaves your cheek and scoops behind your back, bringing your body flush to his own. your naked boobs push against his strong chest, his large leg slotting between yours.

sex with mikko was always phenomal, but the tenderness he showed you after was always the best part.

_

your pleather jacket makes a crinkly noise as you uncross your arms. you pull out your phone from the oversized pocket to check for an unread text from ross colton. you knaw on your lip again, and you're sure all your lipstick is gone now form the constant nibbling. there's no texts, no missed calls, no unheard voicemails.

you're being stood up - on fucking valentine's day. you shift on your feet in the hotel lobby, leaning forward to see if maybe ross has pulled up to the curb - waiting for you in a car with a bouquet of roses. but nobody is there.

you're embarrassed, standing alone in your tights and skirt. you even put on your favourite red top to match the holiday aesthetic. you did your makeup nice and styled your hair for what?

you sigh, pocketing your phone again. you can already feel the looks of pity from maintenance man harvey and jaclyn: the middle aged woman who runs the front desk.

you're going to go upstairs and cry - that's the only thing to do. you spin on your heels, avoiding eye contact as you sulk back towards the row of elevators. your hand shakes as you reach out and push the button.

the doors open not 10 seconds later. your eyes meet mikko's just as he pulls out his phone.

"hi," he whispers, blinking three times fast. he looks handsome. he's wearing dark jeans and white dress shirt. the first two buttons are undone, exposing his chain. he's got a gray peacoat on as well, pulling the look together.

"hey," you force a smile, "sorry, i'm going up."

his eyes dance over your face, no doubt taking notice of your teary eyes and flushed cheeks. "are you okay, y/n?"

"i'm great," you cheer quitely. you side step him, walking into the open elevator. his body spins to follow your movement, worried eyes still on yours. "just going to head to sleep. long day."

"are you sure-"

"yes, i'm fine." you chirp, the elevator doors sliding closed and separating the two of you.

mikko takes a deep breath, staring at the silver doors as they carry you up to your shared floor. you we're definitely not okay.

"she was stood up."

mikko turns, eyeing harvey and jaclyn as they sit behind the lavish reception desk. harvey is taking a slow sip of what smells like coffee, brows raised as he looks at him.

jaclyn was the one who spoke, her lips turned in so she can kiss her teeth.

mikko frowns, taking four big steps forward until he reaches the table, leaning on it as he eyes the employees. "she was?"

"huh uh," harvey hums, "she came down here twenty minutes ago all dolled up and she just stood by the door until, well, you saw her go upstairs."

"she didn't have to say anything," jaclyn says, "you don't get all dressed up for valentine's day for no reason. whoever she was supposed to see tonight - they didn't show up."

mikko curses silently, running a hand over the top of his head. his hair is longer now, pieces of blonde hair curling between his fingers. "I feel terrible."

"you didn't do anything wrong," harvey says, "but you could be the one to make it right."

mikko's brows furrow together, "what do you mean?"

"you're friends right?" mikko nods.

"then go check on her." jaclyn interrupts. "unless you're heading somewhere."

"no, I'm not." mikko does have somewhere to be. him and a couple of the single guys on the team were going to hit up a local bar and get a couple drinks. he was already opening the text thread to tell them he wouldn't be there.

"here," jaclyn hums, plucking a pink rose from the vase that sat on top of the reception desk. "take this and go make her happy."

mikko thanks them, getting back to the elevator and pushing the button rather frantically until the doors open.

25 minutes have passed since you'd made it back up to your apartment. you cried while scrubbing the makeup off your face, but thankfully your tears have stopped. you swapped your skirt and jacket for your favourite pink sweat set. you're moping around your kitchen, glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. you huff, moving to push them back up but a series of knocks on your door stops you.

you don't bother checking who it is, pulling open the white door slowly with a blank expression.

mikko looks up when the door creaks and he watches your face contort into one of cunfusion.

"what are you doing here?" you whisper.

"I live here," he teases. "this is for you," he hands you the delicate rose, and you frown while holding it to your chest.

"what is happening right now?"

"i'm not going to let you be alone on valentine's day, y/n."

"how do you know-"

"come with me." mikko grabs a hold of your free hand and brings you next door. you've noticed now he's not wearing his coat anymore, and another button of his shirt has come undone.

you walk into his apartment and are greeted with the tv on, its light casting a cool glow in the living room. it smells like candy, thanks to the candle on his kitchen counter. there's a few lamps on around the apartment and your favourite chocolate cookies are on a plate centered on the coffee table.

"what's all this?" you ask, words gentle as you gawk at the space infront of you.

he shoves his hands in his pockets, "I thought because you didn't get to go out for valentine's day, I would get you over here to relax and watch a movie."

"mikko-" you stop yourself, rose still clutched in your palm. "you didn't need to do all this."

"I wanted to." he insists. then he walks into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle.

you watch him wordlessly, your mouth hung open. he opens his cabinet and takes out a chai tea bag, plopping it into that mug you love so much.

confused, your brows furrow. "where did you get those?"

mikko glances at you over his shoulder, "what? the chee tea bags? i've always had them."

you don't mention his mispronounced word, walking forward until you are standing beside him. "no. when I stayed here a little bit ago, I finished them off."

he nods slowly, "okay. I bought more." he pours the steaming water into the cup, the liquid turning brown as the tea bag gets soaked.

"you don't like chai tea." you whisper.

he shrugs, scooping two piles of sugar into the mug. "no, but you do."

oh.

you look up at him with a million emotions, placing the rose down on the counter. mikko clears his throat, passing you the cup. "let's watch a movie."

you two end up on the couch moments later, both with your own throw blankets as the movie starts. mikko had chosen 'love, rosie' which was one of your favourite movies for valentine's day. you had told mikko this during one of your very first pillow talks and you're surprised he remembered.

"did you not have plans tonight?"

mikko looks over at the sound of your voice. you're not looking at him, eyes still on the screen while you hold you drink.

he shrugs, "nothing important."

"really?" you meet his eyes, "you were dressed up."

"just a thing with a couple of the guys," mikko says, "wasn't anything I wanted to go to anyways." he adds when he sees your worried face.

a beat passes.

"this movie reminds me of you."

your brows raise, "because I told you i liked it?"

mikko ponders momentarily, lips pursed. then he shakes his head, "you remind me of rosie. you and her love the same way."

you're speechless in that moment, eyes wide as you look at him. mikko's head falls back against the couch cushions, what looks like a smile beginning to tug at his lips.

"anytime I miss you, I watch this movie."

then you begin to smile, following suit and leaning back into the plush cushions. "that's a really nice thing to say to me."

"Thought that after all the terrible things we've said, I better say something worth while."

by the time to movie finishes you're both laughing with one another, the movie filling a void of happiness in both of your chests. only you had cried during the wedding scene - but you always had.

the credits begin to roll when you feel mikko's eyes on the side of your face. you don't hesitate to look over at him. "what's up?"

he bites his lip, "are you going to tell me who stood you up?"

your face falls, "how did you know I got stood up?"

"harvey and jaclyn are very perspective," he hums. you just nod once, taking a slow bite of your cookie. mikko continues, "plus you looked upset when I first saw you."

another nod.

"so," mikko hums, "who stood you up?"

"I don't want to tell you."

he chuckles gently, "why not?"

you don't crack a smile and that has mikko sitting up straighter, brows furrowed as he reaches out towards you. "why not?" your nervous expression had his stomach plummeting ever so slightly. "do I know him?"

you sigh, "yeah, but - "

"tell me."

"mikko, I don't want to start anything-"

"tell me who."

"seriously, you can't do any-"

"y/n." mikko warns.

you exhale deeply, hands falling down to your lap so you can fiddle. you don't look at him when you say, "it was ross."

the next morning at practice, mikko cross checks ross colton into the boards, definitely harder than necessary for a practice drill.

when ross turns around his face is red, "what's your problem dude?!"

mikko leans down slightly, "apologize for standing y/n up or a cross check will be the least of your worries."

ross scoffs, pushing off of mikko's chest, mumbling a 'yeah, whatever' on his way past.

mikko was fuming. if ross wasn't his teammate he would've smashed his face into the ice as soon as he stepped out. to ask his ex out in his apartment to then stand her up on valentine's day...mikko couldn't think about that or he would chase ross down.

—

it's after 10 when mikko gets home from his game, exhausted from the hard battle with the bruins. he is still wearing his suit, minus the tie, while he fills a cup with orange juice.

the avs lost, which was always frustrating. that combined with the ross thing was putting the blonde in a very sour mood. he chugs his drink in three gulps.

there's a soft knock on his door as he rinses the dish. he makes his way over, brows furrowed with annoyance at being bothered so late. he pulls open the door.

you stand in the hall, "did you say something to ross?"

mikko sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "listen..."

"I told you not to say anything." you show him your phone, the screen displaying the very brief chat between you and ross.

mikko frowns, taking your cell.

ross colton

i know standing you up was shitty

but tell your guard dog to back

the hell off

y/n

what?

ross colton

mikko. he fucking checked me

and told me to apologize or whatever

y/n

I didn't want...

mikko doesn't read the rest, scoffing as he gives you your phone back. "he's a dick," he muses, "I told him to say sorry to you, not treat you like a child."

you shove your phone in your jeans back pocket, "mikko, I didn't want you to say anything. the last thing I wanted was to put you in an awkward spot. this is why I didn't want to tell you-"

he leans against his door frame, arms crossed. "even if you didn't tell me who it was, i would've found out."

"mikko," you sigh, frustrated.

"if you think I wasn't going to say anything after he stood you up...you don't know me very well. nobody should treat you that way, y/n. you deserve more than that. better than that.."

your shoulders deflate, "stop saying things that..." you stop yourself, bottom lip coming between your teeth.

mikko gulps, pushing off the doorway. "stop what?"

your eyes bore into his, hesitant but desperate all at the same time. "stop saying things that make me want to kiss you."

mikko feels himself get warm, stomach swooping with nerves he hasn't felt since he met you. he takes ahold of your hand, pulling you into his apartment by the tips of your fingers. you go willingly, stumbling forward until you can push the door shut. mikko holds your gaze the entire time, pushing your body against the now closed door.

you tilt your head up so you can look at him properly. he's still gripping your hands, thumb running along your knuckles in a way that's so gentle and familiar it had your knees feeling weak.

a hoarse whisper, "kiss me." mikko squeezes your hands three times quickly and licks his lips, "please."

you don't need to be told again, pushing up on the balls of your feet until you're close to his face. mikko leans down just enough so you can press your lips against his.

his brows pull together, enchanted by the soft press of your mouth on his. you pull back after 5 seconds. mikko's eyes flutter open just as yours do, chests tight as you stare at one another.

just as you go to drop down again, mikko's hands are on you, one arm gripping your back to pull you up against his abdomen and chest, holding you to him. his other hands finds your face, just as both your hands grab his shoulder and neck and then you're devouring each other.

the kiss is passionate, full of heat and longing for what once was. months upon months of not having one another all boiling down into this heated exchange.

his hand is hot on your face, an all so familiar feeling that has you reeling with anticipation. the thought has you smiling into the kiss, mikko following suit. you're placed back to the ground and mikko is bringing you over to his couch, not once stopping the clash of teeth and lips you're both locked in.

he spins you around so that the back of your legs hit the couch cushions. the feeling has you dropping down, breaking the kiss as you fall into the plush cushions. mikko towers over you with a gentle smile. "you're so beautiful." then he's dropping to his knees infront of you, grabbing your legs to pull you to the edge of the couch.

you squeal, legs falling open to cage him in. using your hands, you push off his black suit jacket, the expensive item falling to the floor beside him. you smirk when his biceps flex underneath the tight material of his dress shirt. "I need you so bad, mikko."

he groans quietly. his hands dart up and pop open the button of your jeans, quickly tugging down the zipper. you help him when he moves to tug the denim down, lifting your butt off the couch so he can pull them away, soon joining his suit jacket.

mikko pushes your legs further apart, placing wet kisses against your thighs. he starts at your knee cap, slowly making his way down to your core.

he has one hand wrapped around the thigh he's kissing, and his other hand reaches forward, tugging your underwear to the side until you're exposed.

the air against your core has you whining, bucking your hips up. mikko smirks at the sight, "where do you need me, kulta?”

you moan at his native tongue, head rolling back. mikko wrapping your other leg in his arm has you looking back down at him, lip between your teeth. he's looking at you with raised brows, so close to where you want him.

"I need you on my pussy, mikko, please."

mikko has always been a good man, you think. because after your first beg he dives in, licking a heavy strip up your folds until his tongue reaches your clit, gently rubbing the sentive nub.

you moan loudly, your hand reaching out to grab ahold of his curls. you're thankful that he's started to grow out his start of the season buzz cut, because in this moment you'd never been happier to tug and pull his blonde locks.

he sucks oh so perfectly on your clit, and you think you could cum already. he pulls off with a pop, his long thick fingers immediately taking over and plunging into your hole, slowly pumping in and out.

your mouth falls open as he looks into your eyes, "you taste so good - better than I remember."

he continues pumping his digits into your warmth. using his other hand he pushes up to your face, capturing your lips in a messy kiss. the taste of yourself combined with his fingers and sloppy kiss have you cumming.

you groan loudly into his mouth, legs shaking as he works your through your orgasim. "fuck," you heave, head falling back. "you're so good at that"

"yeah?" mikko teases with a smirk.

your fingers start fiddling with his buttons, "yeah." you confirm. "you're wearing too many clothes."

you drag his dress shirt down his arms, gasping as more and more skin is revealed. he looks better shirtless than you remembered.

"so are you," mikko mumbles, clearly not bothered by the way you're ogling his arms and abdomen. he rips off your oversized t-shirt, leaving you completely bare. "no bra?" he smirks.

"no," you giggle, "i was getting ready for bed...oh."  mikko attaches to one of your nipples, sucking on the bud until it becomes painfully hard.

he switches to your other boob, his hand wasting to time groping the unattended nipple.

"mikko, I wanna...please I need you inside me."

he release your boob and nods at you, eyes glazed over. "fuck...yeah, lemme..." mikko stands up, grabbing your hands so you're also at full height. his hands start fiddling with his dress pants, eyes burning into your bright ones as he does. you smile slowly, your own fingers joining in helping him take off his pants.

he finally gets them off, pushing them down his legs until they fall around his ankles. you blink slowly, watching the way his boxers strain to contain his hard dick. you reach forward, palming him through his boxers until he moans, eyes downcast to watch you stroke him over his underwear.

"take these off." you whisper, locking eyes with him through your lashes.

he swears, waisting no time in pushing down the last article of clothing that stands between you.

you smile gently, hands running up his strong chest until you reach his neck. mikko reaches down, connecting your lips in another desperate kiss. he missed you so much, he could kiss you for the rest of the night and be satisfied with only your lips.

your hands drag back down his collarbones, down his pecks until they rest over his nipples. he shivers at your touch until you're giggling, pulling away from the kiss.

mikko's hand slips between your bodies, making its way between your legs until he finds your core, still dripping with your release.

as he's gathering your slick you groan, gripping his bicep to keep yourself upright. "where do you want me?"

mikko just might melt. he slicks up his cock, pumping it slowly. "fuck, kulta, on your back. I need to see you."

your stomach swoops. you get back to the couch, dropping onto your back infront of him. automatically your legs fall open, making room for the 6"4 winger.

mikko wastes no time climbing on top of you, slotting between your thighs just like he used to. "you ready?" he asks you, still fisting himself, the tip of his dick pressing against you.

you nod, hands holding onto his broad shoulders. "yes, fuck, please."

with that, mikko lines up with your entrance and wastes no time pushing into you. in sync you both moan, eyes fluttering closed at the familiar sensation.

he begins thrusting, the hand that was previously pumping himself grabbing ahold of your thigh, hauling it over his hip until you can wrap your calf around his lower back.

"you feel so right...so good." mikko huffs, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth. he trails his lips down your face until they get to your neck, sucking on your sweet spot.

'you feel so right'

you could cry at that, because it did. you missed him so much that you couldn't believe what was currently happening. mikko's thrusts become harder, sending you up the couch in a way that so hot - you're moaning loudly.

"mikko..." I love you.

"I know, fuck." he grunts, his eyes flickering down to where your bodies connect.

but he doesn't know, you think. you feel a tear slip out of your eye and you turn your head, trying to ignore your brain and let your body go back into its euphoric state.

it's not hard when mikko is quite literally splitting you in half, thrusting in a way that's so deep it has you tightening around him. "I think i'm close." you rasp, meeting his blue eyes once again.

he was already watching you, mouth hung open as he breaths heavily. "you gunna cum on my cock?"

you nod, "yeah."

"cum on me," he moans. your eyes squeeze shut, your walls clamping down on his dick as you hit your peak, releasing all over him.

you moan once again, body falling flat against the couch cushions. mikko's thrusts increase speed, spluttering slightly as he chases his own release.

"i'm gunna cum here, m'kay?" he presses his free hands against the bulge in your lower stomach. it has you nodding, moaning quietly.

it's only three sharp thrusts later until he pulls out of your entrance, rubbing his dick over your stomach as his cum shoots hot and sticky over you. he grunts loudly, pumping his dick a few times until all of his seed is on you.

"fuck." he moans.

"yeah," you rasp.

mikko's eyes flicker up to meet yours and he smiles softly. he crawls back up your body, and just when you think he's going to kiss you again, he leans over the side of the couch to grab his suit jacket. he uses the material to wipe up a majority of his cum.

"isn't that expensive?" you muse.

he shrugs, balling up the fabric and tossing it near the bar stools. "i'll get it dry cleaned."

you smile very briefly, "not worried about them seeing your cum all over it?"

he cracks a smile, "maybe i'll just throw it out."

his eyes flicker down to your plump lips and you feel yourself flush. he leans in, eyes fluttering a few times. then he's pulling away, clearing his throat. "do you work tomorrow? you should probably get some sleep, no?"

you swallow thickly, sitting up. "yeah, it's probably late." you didn't work tomorrow, but facing the embarrassment of being kicked out after a hook up was not something you needed right now.

mikko knaws his lip, "okay, yeah...yeah, i've got practice tomorrow."

"okay," you hum, busying yourself by throwing your clothes back on. you curse yourself for having jeans on, having to jump slightly to pull them over your uncomfortably wet underwear. "i'll see you around, right?"

"of course," mikko hums, "neighbours and all."

you let yourself out, mikko watching your back with a frown.

when you get into your own apartment, nothing can stop the sobs that rips from your chest.

__

you hadn't seen mikko all day. you heard him leave for practice around 7, and he returned a couple hours after that.

you had moped around your apartment all day, nothing but guilt of the day prior and regret for not confessing weighing heavy on your chest.

you had called melissa earlier in the day, already crying before she picked up. you had vented about your feelings, and what happened the night before and how you couldn't just be another hook up for mikko. instead of an 'I told you so' from your friend, she was so supportive. this time in a much lighter sense, she suggested you talk to him and just lay your heart out there - talk about everything.

"if he's not the one, then you telling him won't change anything. but if there's something there...it will be worth it."

—

three days has passed and you still hadn't seen mikko - not in the elevator, not in the hallway or lobby. he hasn't reached out and it sort of had you feeling angry. you're not in high school - you were grown adults. and sure, even if he didn't want you the way you wanted him, he should have the decency to tell you. not repeat the whole hating game that you had already gone through.

the avalanche didn't have a game today, you had checked. you hadn't even heard mikko leave for any sort of practice or team thing - he must've had an off day.

you were ready to talk. you wanted to know why all those months ago he blew you off and started hating you. you wanted to know what went wrong. you needed to know if you were just a booty call.

so you matched over there, placing three heavy knocks on the white apartment door that belonged to mikko rantanen.

a beat later the door is pulled open. he's wearing a long sleeve team branded shirt and sweatpants. at the sight of you his face changes, brows pulling together in what seems to be confusion.

"6 months ago...why did you stop talking to me?"

he pales, "what?"

you sigh heavily, "why when after somebody said we'd make a cute couple...why did you turn on me. why did you start hating me?"

he stands up straighter, shoulders back. "what? I didn't turn on you...I was respecting you if anything."

"respecting me?" you bite out, "mikko you did anything but respect me."

"that's not true," he says, "I wanted it to work out but you changed...in the elevator that night-"

you breath a laugh, "that's not true! I didn't change - I loved you the entire time!"

his face falls and he takes a step back, "what?"

"god mikko," you laugh, "I was just respecting the stupid arrangement. the whole friends with benefits thing we had. but I loved you...god, I loved you so much. and then when we fought in the elevator...you blew me off just at the thought of being with me - being in a relationship....you broke me. and then you started picking fights and being an asshole so I fought back! because I wasn't going to let you continue to stomp on my heart without doing anything about it."

he runs a hand over his face, "are you being serious?"

you hands fall to your sides and you feel your eyes welling up with tears. "the sex was a mistake mikko. if all you want is sex...I can't do that with you. I thought maybe you felt something for me - a couple nights ago I..." you take a shaky breath, "mikko, I love you."

he takes a step towards you, a frown tugging on lips. "that night in the elevator...I thought that you didn't want me anymore. I only started being angry with you when I thought you hated me. i've never hated you, y/n, never. I thought you only wanted sex."

"what?" you whisper. at some point during your confession you had stepped into his apartment. the door remained open behind you so mikko reached forward, pushing the door closed gently. you watch him the entire time.

"I only argued with you because it was the only way I got to talk to you after we ended our relationship. I only got mad at you because I couldn't have you anymore. I only got jealous because I didn't think any guy was worthy of you or your time - and there not! you're so amazing."

"mikko-"

"a couple days ago, when he had sex again...it felt so right. the entire time I was so happy just to be with you again I couldn't bare the thought of being just a hook-up so I pretend it was more."

you sniffle, tears falling down your cheeks. "we were really bad at communicating huh?"

he takes another step towards you, "I've kept a box of chee tea in my cabinet since i met you and i've kept your chocolate cookies in there as well. I watch love, rosie every night and I cry at the wedding scene. there's a picture of us still up in my room. I've never not wanted you in every way humanly possible."

mikko grabs a hold of your face, tilting your head back until your eyes meet. "do you remember when we went to the grocery store together that one time? and we got the tea?"

you nod.

"that was the moment I fell in love with you."

you stomach swoops and your mouth goes dry.

mikko's lips curl gently, "and do you remember when you had to stay here with me after your ceiling fell?"

another nod.

"that's when I realized i'd never stop loving you...and I haven't. i'm in love with you. and i'm so sorry for not telling you before, i'm sorry for pulling away from you all those months ago. i'm sorry."

"im sorry too," you whisper, "I should've just talked to you." you laugh gently, "melissa told me I should've."

he laughs too, "gabe told me the same thing."

"maybe we should've listened to them."

mikko smirks all slow and hot and you blush. "yeah, we should've." mikko's thumb rubs your lower lip, tracing the outline gently. "I want you to be with me. all the damn time."

"I want that too," you smile, gripping mikko's wrists by your face. "now, please kiss me."

mikko smiles, leaning down and pressing a long kiss to your lips. he never planned on stopping.

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