It's a Great Day for Hockey

—

The farmers market in town was only open twice a week, and people seemed to treat it like a sacred ritual. It spilled across the waterfront parking lot with pop-up tents in mismatched colors—weathered greens, bright reds, sun-faded blues—and folding tables full with summer produce, homemade preserves, sunflowers in metal buckets, stacks of sourdough wrapped in wax paper. There was the distant sound of a guitar from someone perched on an overturned crate, playing something slow and pretty, and the occasional bark of a dog tied to a lamppost.

You were doing your best not to buy everything.

The plan was to keep it simple while you were out here. A few weeks at your friend’s place on the lake. No plans, no calls, no email. A soft reset. You'd arrived two nights ago, and this morning, after a swim and a lazy coffee on the porch, you'd driven into town with a tote bag and a grocery list that said things like “berries” and “greens” and “don’t forget eggs this time.”

You were standing at a stall shaded by a faded yellow umbrella, one of the busier stands, where an older woman—gray braid, freckles across her cheeks, and hands that looked like they’d seen decades of soil—was managing a small crowd. She had jars of honey lined up like little golden trophies, baskets of mixed nuts, tiny cartons of blueberries and raspberries and strawberries stacked into loose pyramids.

“These strawberries are from my own garden,” she said, proudly, as you reached for a second carton. “Not the big ones, but sweet as anything you’ll find.”

“Oh, I believe it,” you said, lifting one of the cartons to your nose. “They smell insane. Like actual strawberry, not that plastic fake scent.”

She laughed, pleased. “The heat’s been good to them this year. Hot days, cooler nights. They’re good for flavor.”

You reached for a third carton—because let’s be real, you were going to eat them by the handful on the dock tonight—and glanced at the nuts. “Do you roast these yourself?”

“All of them. Maple-glazed, rosemary sea salt, chili and lime... just made a batch last night, actually.”

“Dangerous,” you murmured, picking one up and turning it over, already knowing you were going to buy it.

“Tell my husband,” she shot back, winking. “He blames me for all his snack cravings.”

You grinned and leaned in closer to the table, one arm curled around your growing stash. That was when you heard his voice.

“Hi, Elsie.”

Just that—low, steady, quiet. You didn’t even register who it belonged to at first.

But Elsie, the honey-and-berry empress, lit up immediately. “Oh! You made it,” she beamed. “I was wondering if I’d see you today. Got your honey here somewhere—hang on, let me find the big jar.”

You glanced up then.

He was big. Broad. T-shirt and jeans, a ball cap pulled low over his forehead, a big mason jar of honey already cradled in his hand. And for a second, you didn’t really recognize him so much as… feel him. Like an orbit you’d just stumbled into without meaning to.

You blinked once, maybe twice. You weren’t close enough to see the color of his eyes, not really, but the shape of his mouth was familiar in the way that certain famous people are—someone you’ve seen on TV in a way that doesn’t click right away when they’re wearing beat-up sneakers and pushing their sunglasses up on their nose.

He gave you the briefest nod. Just a flick of his chin and something polite in his expression.

You returned it with your own—a quiet acknowledgement that you were two strangers occupying the same summer air.

And then you turned back to your berries, heart ticking a little faster than before. Not because he was hot—though yeah, Jesus—but because there was something calm about him. Solid. He didn’t feel like a stranger, even though he clearly was.

You were waiting to pay, shuffling your foot slightly against the dirt, when you noticed a cluster of people hovering by the flower stall. They weren’t being subtle. One had his phone angled toward the table, like he was pretending to photograph the sunflowers, but the lens was definitely turned toward him.

You turned slightly and caught sight of them. One of them met your eye and chuckled before looking away. You looked back at the man, who seemed completely unfazed, shifting the jar of honey from one hand to the other.

“Hey,” you said, just loud enough for him to hear, your voice casual, a little amused. “I don’t want to alarm you, but you’re being stalked by multiple people with cameras and very little shame.”

He glanced at you, surprised, and then actually laughed—a quiet, warm sound from deep in his chest.

“That obvious?” he said, glancing toward the flower stall. He had a nice voice. A little scratchy, a little dry, like he hadn’t spoken to many people yet today.

“Honestly? Yeah,” you said, leaning in slightly. “It’s not your face that’s the problem though. It’s that comically large jar of honey. You’ve got like… lumberjack energy right now. People are intrigued.”

That made him huff out another laugh, one eyebrow raised as he looked down at the jar in his hand.

“This is the medium size,” he said with mock seriousness.

Your lips curved. “Liar.”

“I swear,” he said, lifting it slightly like he was showing evidence in court. “She’s got one twice the size in the back.”

“That’s not even honey anymore,” you said. “That’s syrup storage. That’s for wintering bears.”

He grinned. Like, actually grinned. It was one of those slow, lopsided things that crept up on his face and made the air feel warmer around him.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “Next time I’m prepping for hibernation.”

You smiled too, feeling oddly light.

Elsie returned to the front of the stall, hands full of paper bags and cash tucked under her elbow. “Alright, who’s next?”

You took a step forward, balancing your haul of berries and nuts, and he gestured with his honey. “Go ahead.”

“You were here first,” you said.

He shrugged. “I’m still deciding if I want to risk the chili nuts.”

“You absolutely do,” you said over your shoulder as you moved to pay. “They’re criminally good. Just don’t blame me when your mouth is on fire.”

“Noted.”

Elsie gave you a paper bag and told you your total. You fumbled for your wallet, fingers brushing the edge of your phone, still half-aware of the camera clicks somewhere behind you.

As you passed the bills over, you felt it again—that strange weight in the air. Like something shifting. He was standing right there, just a couple feet behind you. Not talking, not crowding. Just present.

You turned to leave, paper bag crinkling in your grip, thinking you might check out the bakery stand down by the water—maybe grab something fresh for tomorrow morning.

You were a few steps away, already fading into the crowd again, when you heard his voice behind you.

“Wait—hold up a sec.”

You turned, and he was standing there, shifting the massive jar of honey from one hand to the other like it had started to earn its weight.

“I just realized,” he said, eyebrows raised. “I never got the name of my protector.”

You blinked, caught off guard, then laughed. “Your protector?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, entirely straight-faced. “You alerted me to a potential ambush. That’s heroic behavior. I feel like I owe you at least a name.”

You cocked your head, biting back another smile. “You were going to be taken down by a couple of teenagers and their iPhones?”

“Could’ve been worse,” he shrugged.

You barked out a laugh at that. “Good point.”

He cracked a grin. “See? You get it. So—name?”

You shifted your weight slightly, heat still rising on the back of your neck from the way his eyes had been on you. But it was gentle. Not pushy or prowling, just kind. Curious. Like he’d already decided you were interesting and was willing to let the universe unfold that at its own pace.

“Y/N,” you said.

He repeated it, softly, like he was trying it out. “Y/N…”

Then, after a beat, offered his hand. “Sidney.”

You stared at it for a second, amused.

“Yeah,” you said, slipping your fingers into his. “I gathered.”

His laugh rumbled up, warm and unbothered. “Thought I’d at least pretend to be humble.”

“You’re holding a gallon of honey like a trophy. Not much room for humility there.”

“That’s fair,” he said, releasing your hand—his fingers warm, a little rough at the edges. “So, are you just visiting, or…?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I’m staying out on the lake. Friend’s place. Just for the summer.”

His face lit slightly. “Nice spot?”

“Stupidly nice. Like, insultingly peaceful. It’s offensive, how perfect it is.”

He smiled again. “You staying long?”

You tilted your head. “Few more weeks, at least.”

And that, apparently, was enough for him.

“Come on, then,” he said, nodding toward the rest of the market. “You’ve got the berries. I’ve got the weaponized honey. Let’s cause some chaos.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. “Chaos, huh?”

“Well, light chaos,” he clarified, walking beside you now. “Like, fruit-based mischief. The fun kind.”

You eyed the jar still tucked in his elbow. “You’re gonna pull a muscle carrying that thing around.”

“I have a strong grip,” he said, tone deadpan.

You nearly choked. “That a brag?”

He looked sideways at you, totally serious. “Maybe.”

You snorted. “Jesus Christ.”

He grinned. “What? I just meant I work out a lot. You’re the one making it dirty.”

“Oh, I am the problem?”

“Definitely,” he said, a little too quick. “You were already flirting with chili nuts back there. I’m just following your lead.”

“God, I was flirting with the chili nuts,” you admitted, laughing as you adjusted your grip on your bag. “I’m easy like that.”

“I can see that,” he said, eyeing the three cartons of strawberries. “You panic-bought fruit like someone who’s emotionally vulnerable to snack tables.”

“First of all, rude. Second of all, yes.”

You passed a stand full of hand-woven baskets and crocheted dishcloths, a big golden retriever sprawled out under one of the tables, panting. You dodged a kid with ice cream dripping down his arm. Someone was selling lemonade in mason jars with herbs floating on top, like potions.

Sidney didn’t seem in any rush. He moved slowly, easily, like he didn’t mind people occasionally glancing over at him. A few more pictures were being snapped in the periphery, but no one was intrusive. He didn’t even flinch.

“You come here often?” you asked, then immediately winced. “Sorry. That was the worst fucking line I’ve ever delivered.”

He smirked. “You sure? It felt like it had potential.”

You laughed. “Okay but seriously. Do you come here a lot?”

“Pretty often, yeah. I grew up around here. Still come back when I can. It’s a good place to just… slow down, y’know?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice softer now. “That’s why I’m here.”

He looked over at you. “You need to slow down?”

“I needed to stop,” you said honestly. “Everything in my life was just… fast. Fast and loud and always pushing toward the next thing. So when my friend offered her place on the lake, I didn’t even think. I just packed a bag and drove.”

“Best decisions are like that,” he said. “No overthinking. Just… instinct.”

You both paused at a flower stall, sunflowers stretching in all directions. Sidney leaned forward slightly, sniffed at a bunch of tiny pink blooms. You took a mental picture of it—the serious hockey player giving delicate little flowers the sniff test.

You nudged him with your elbow. “Getting some for your honey?”

He blinked. “My what?”

You pointed at the jar. “The honey you’re about to write poetry about.”

“Okay, now you’re mocking me.”

“Only a little.”

He picked up a sunflower, twirled it in his fingers. “I’ll have you know this honey is legendary.”

You held up your hands in mock surrender. “I believe you, sir. I bow to your superior knowledge of bee vomit.”

He gave you a sideways look. “That’s hot.”

You laughed so hard you snorted.

He grinned wider. “What? You make syrup jokes, I make bee jokes.”

“You are way too pleased with yourself.”

He leaned in slightly, shoulder brushing yours. “You laughed.”

You didn’t say anything, just tried to hide your smile by reaching for a daisy.

He noticed. You could feel him notice. Not with words, but in the pause between them. The way his eyes lingered for half a second longer than necessary. The way his body didn’t move away.

“You’ve really never been to this market before?” he asked.

You shook your head. “First time. First everything, really. First trip here, first time in this province, first time meeting a guy who flirts with honey.”

“I wasn’t flirting with the honey,” he said, feigning offense. “I was honoring it. There’s a difference.”

“Mmm. Sure.”

He looked at you again then. Long enough that it made your chest feel weirdly full.

You didn’t know what to do with that. Not yet.

You ended up walking the entire market with him. From the honey stall all the way down to the docks, where the breeze carried the scent of saltwater and cinnamon from a nearby baked goods stand. You didn’t really have a plan. Neither did he.

It just... kept happening.

Every time you looked at him—laughing with a vendor about the price of garlic, crouching down to pet a dog with a floral bandana, squinting into the sun with one hand shading his eyes.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome. Though, Jesus, was he ever. The kind of handsome that was rugged and familiar, a little rough around the edges but softened by a very clear comfort in his own skin. He walked slow. Didn’t rush. Made small comments about tomatoes like they were full conversations. The man had opinions about basil. You were doomed.

The funny thing was, no one really swarmed him. A few people did notice—especially kids. They’d tug at a parent’s sleeve and whisper, point, or tiptoe close with wide eyes. You’d started gently stepping aside at first, giving him space, but he never once brushed it off.

“Can I get a picture with you?” one little boy asked, shy and tugging at the hem of his t-shirt, sticky fingers clutched around a half-melted ice cream cone.

Sidney didn’t hesitate. Just crouched down to the kid’s level, honey jar still under one arm, and said, “Of course, buddy. Want to hold the honey? You’ll look tougher.”

You’d snapped the picture on the mom’s phone, grinning as the boy beamed, clutching the jar like it was a golden trophy.

“You’ve got a gift,” you said as you handed the phone back.

Sidney shrugged, almost bashful. “Kids don’t care about much. Makes it easy.”

You bought more than you thought you would. A small bag of arugula, a wedge of sharp cheddar, some heirloom tomatoes that looked like abstract art. Sid grabbed eggs from a woman who’d drawn tiny smiley faces on the cartons. He got suckered into a tub of peach jam (“It’s limited edition,” the vendor said solemnly, as if it were a private release), and you told him he was weak.

And then came the bananas.

You had no business buying bananas. But there they were, bright and beautiful, hanging in bundles from a wooden beam like prizes.

“You’re getting those?” Sidney asked, lifting an eyebrow as you inspected a bunch.

You looked at him, cradling your now-heavy bag in one arm. “Yeah, I mean… for smoothies, probably.”

He tilted his head. “Or…”

You narrowed your eyes. “Or?”

“I make a mean banana bread,” he said, and the cocky glint in his eye made your stomach flip a little.

You stared at him, deadpan. “Don’t make wild promises you can’t keep.”

“I’m not. I take it seriously. I brown the butter sometimes.”

You blinked. “Okay, now I’m listening.”

“Chopped walnuts if you want ’em. Little cinnamon. Sometimes a maple glaze.”

You exhaled dramatically. “Jesus Christ. That’s not banana bread, that’s porn.”

He grinned. “I told you.”

You looked at him, debating, then nodded slowly. “Fine. You bring me banana bread, I’ll bring the strawberries. It’s only fair.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Please do.”

You paid for the bananas, tucking them carefully into your tote. They were probably going to get bruised to hell in your backseat, but you didn’t care.

And finally, as you were strolling down the last row—past a stand selling beeswax candles shaped like woodland creatures—you gestured vaguely toward the honey still clutched in his arm.

“Okay,” you said, bumping his shoulder lightly. “I’ve let it go for a while, but I have to ask… what the hell are you doing with that much honey? Are you building a shrine? Running a secret bakery? Making a face mask?”

He looked down at the jar like he’d forgotten he was carrying it.

“I put it in everything,” he admitted. “Tea, marinade, peanut butter toast, chicken thighs. Sometimes I’ll just eat it off a spoon like a raccoon.”

You snorted. “Like a raccoon?”

He nodded solemnly. “Dark kitchen. Midnight craving. One spoon. Don’t judge me.”

You held up your hands. “No judgment. I’ve eaten pickles out of the jar while standing in front of the fridge in my underwear. I can’t throw stones.”

He looked delighted by this. “Now that’s a visual.”

“Don’t get too excited,” you said. “They were bread and butter pickles. Very controversial choice.”

“I can work with that,” he said, and there was a playful weight in the way he looked at you. Like he liked the idea of imagining you in his kitchen, in your underwear, holding a pickle. Jesus.

It had been easy the whole time. Too easy, really. You kept expecting the conversation to drift, for something to stall, but it never did. It just kept... unfolding.

Which is probably why your brain had started spinning the second you got near the edge of the market again. You were trying to figure out how to draw the moment out—maybe invite him to coffee, or casually say you were around later. You didn’t want to leave yet. Not even close.

But you didn’t have to ask.

Because he looked at you as you passed the last tent and said, casually, like it wasn’t a question he’d been sitting on for twenty minutes,

“You busy tonight?”

You turned your head, a little too fast. “No, I’m not.”

“Good,” he said, lips twitching like he was holding back a smile. “Because I’ve got this giant thing of honey, and I’m a really good cook…”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is this another flirt disguised as a food offer?”

“Definitely,” he said, shameless. “But also I mean it. I’d really like to spend more time with you. Maybe get to know you a little better. Thought dinner might be a good start.”

You smiled, heart flipping in your chest like it had found a trampoline. “You’re in luck. I love food-based romance.”

He held out his phone. “Number?”

You handed him your phone and then you took his, typed your number in, and labeled it Y/N – banana critic.

When he saw it, he laughed again. “Brutal.”

“I’m keeping you humble.”

He took his phone back, slipped it into his back pocket, and gave you yours. “Let me at least walk you to your car?”

You shook your head. “No need. I’m right across the street.”

You nodded toward it—your baby-blue Bronco, sun-warmed and a little dusty, parked beside a leaning post box like it had been waiting for its big entrance.

Sidney looked over and blinked.

“That’s yours?” he asked.

You started walking backward toward it. “This baby can climb a tree, you’ll see, Sidney.”

His laughter followed you all the way across the street.

The drive back to the lake house was short, maybe fifteen minutes max, but you took the long way anyway. Just let yourself roll the windows down, elbow propped on the door, hair getting wild in the wind while your fingers drummed absently on the steering wheel. The sun was just starting to dip—low enough to warm the tops of the trees and cast everything in that soft, syrupy gold that made even the gravel roads feel romantic.

You kept replaying it. The walk through the market. The way he laughed as you left. The easy weight of his eyes when he asked if you were free tonight. It was wild how natural it had all felt. Like you’d known him longer than the hours you’d actually spent together. Like you’d just picked up where something left off.

By the time you pulled into the gravel driveway, tires crunching beneath the Bronco’s weight, your chest was a full-on pressure cooker of excitement and nervousness. You shut off the engine and just… sat there. Hands still on the wheel. Bag of farmer’s market goods in the passenger seat. Radio still murmuring softly from the dash.

Five whole minutes passed like that.

You stared out at the lake—calm and barely rippling in the warm breeze—and thought, Okay. What now?

You needed to bring something. Obviously. You couldn’t just show up empty-handed. Not when he was cooking for you. Not when he said it so sweetly, like it meant more than just a meal. And he didn’t strike you as the type to throw something together last minute either. The man browned butter for banana bread.

So… what? Wine?

You glanced at the market bag. The tomatoes were perfect. The greens were fresh as hell. You had berries, nuts, maple syrup, a literal bouquet of basil. You could make a salad. Or a tart. Or—

“Fuck,” you muttered, slumping forward against the wheel. “Why is this suddenly high-stakes?”

It wasn’t. But it was. You hadn’t been this flustered since high school. Choosing outfits for a date. Trying to make it seem effortless while also spiraling over whether you were doing too much or not enough. It was humiliating and delightful.

You peeled yourself out of the car and headed inside, tossing your keys on the kitchen counter and unloading your groceries with half your mind elsewhere. You kicked off your shoes, padded to the bathroom, and stepped into a quick shower—lukewarm to cut through the heat, just long enough to calm your nerves.

The whole time you stood there, water slipping down your back, your thoughts ran wild.

Should I have flirted more? Did I flirt too much? What if this is just him being polite? What if I show up with a whole-ass bottle of wine and he was thinking, like, tea and board games?

You stepped out, toweled off, and stood in front of your bedroom closet in a robe, staring. Paralyzed by the stupid simplicity of it all.

“I’m a grown woman,” you whispered to no one. “Pull it together.”

In the end, you went with something soft. A white linen top that tied at the waist, and a pair of loose high-waisted shorts. Clean skin, fresh hair, a hint of gloss. Comfortable. Pretty. Nothing that screamed I want to jump you, but also nothing that hid the fact that yeah, okay, maybe you wouldn’t mind jumping him.

You wandered back into the kitchen barefoot, your hair still damp, and stared at your pile of produce. You could still make something. Salad was easy. Caprese. Peach and burrata. But something in you hesitated—he’d bought fruit and veggies too, and if he really meant it about being a good cook, you didn’t want to step on that. You wanted to show up and let him take care of that part.

But dessert?

Dessert you could do.

And if he liked sweets—if he really did like banana bread—then a warm, brown sugar chocolate chip cookie might just be the way to his damn heart.

You moved easily, tying your apron behind your back and pulling ingredients like it was second nature. You weren’t a pastry chef, but you knew your way around browned butter and flaky sea salt. You toasted the edges just right, soft in the middle, cooled them barely on the rack before you slid a few into a container, still warm. Not the whole batch. You’d leave some at home. But enough to say I thought of you. I wanted to bring something sweet.

And then came the waiting.

You had time, technically. It wasn’t even seven yet. But you didn’t know what time dinner was supposed to happen, because neither of you said it. And you didn’t want to message first. You really didn’t.

So you tried to distract yourself. You read. You rearranged the fridge. You watered the sad tomato plant on the porch that was barely clinging to life. You checked your phone.

Nothing.

You left it on the table. Walked away. Paced.

Came back.

Still nothing.

You blew out a breath, flopped down on the couch, and whispered aloud, "Fuck this."

Because honestly? What were you doing?

You were a grown woman. A woman who owned a sexy blue Bronco and baked cookies for hot men who flirted with honey jars. You weren’t going to sit here and wait for a text like some kind of lovesick Victorian pen pal.

You picked up your phone and typed out a message before you could second guess it.

You: Hey, just got back to the lake house. What time should I come over?

It wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t overeager. It was normal. It was chill. You were chill.

You hit send and immediately locked the screen like it might explode in your hands.

It buzzed five seconds later.

You opened it faster than you’d ever opened anything in your life.

Sidney: How's right now?

Your heart did a weird little thing. Like a skipped beat but warm.

Sidney: I just finished prepping. come hungry.

And then—

Sidney: Also if you bring dessert I might fall in love with you.

You stared at your phone, warmth flooding your face, your throat, your chest.

“Well,” you murmured, grinning stupidly. “Buckle up, Sidney.”

You packed the cookies carefully. Wrote a little label on a sticky note: warning: dangerously good and stuck it on top. Double-checked your keys, smoothed your hair one last time in the mirror, then walked down to your car.

You climbed in, started the engine, and gave the dash a pat. “Alright, baby,” you said under your breath. “Let’s go knock his socks off.”

You pulled out of the driveway as the sun dipped lower behind the trees, nerves still flaring in your chest but excitement chasing right behind them, one heartbeat out of reach.

The drive to Sidney's place felt like it stretched on forever.

You’d followed the directions he sent you, but for the life of you, you couldn’t seem to remember any of the landmarks he’d mentioned. The trees kept getting thicker, closing in, their dark shadows like they were pushing you further into the woods. The road narrowed too, gravel crunching under your tires in a way that felt almost like you were being swallowed by the forest itself.

You passed the same crooked mailbox three times now—its rusted red flag a lazy salute to your confusion—and still hadn’t turned into the driveway. At least, you didn’t think you had. Nova Scotia’s winding lake roads all looked the same after a while: canopies of green overhead, flashes of blue water through the trees, gravel dust curling up behind your tires. You swore the directions he texted made sense when you read them earlier, but now your GPS kept insisting you were driving through “unnamed road,” which felt rude. And the nervous flutter in your chest had grown full-blown wings.

Finally, on the fourth pass, you spotted it. Not a sign or a marker—just a discreet break in the trees where two weather-worn tire tracks curved off the road and into the woods. Barely visible. Almost secret. It was so Sidney, you thought. Of course his place would be hidden. Of course it would look like no one lived there, like you had to be invited to even notice it.

You turned in, your tires crunching over gravel, your car rumbling along the uneven path. Then, after what felt like a minute or two of winding deeper in, the driveway opened into a small clearing.

Sidney’s house stood just beyond the tree line—multiple stories, gray shingle siding, wide porch. Cozy. Private. There was a canoe leaned against the side of the house, an old deck chair facing the lake you could just barely see beyond the back edge of the property, and what looked like a basketball net nailed into the side of a pine tree.

He stepped out the front door the second you parked, his big frame filling the doorway like he’d been waiting. A dish towel slung over his shoulder, dark t-shirt and black shorts, no shoes. The porch light was already on behind him, casting a soft yellow glow over the welcome mat and the two planters flanking the door, both full of herbs—basil in one, rosemary in the other.

“I thought you were fucking with me,” you called as you climbed out of the Bronco, your voice carrying in the quiet evening. “That driveway is practically a secret portal.”

Sid grinned, one hand bracing against the doorframe. “Yeah, you drove past it three times.”

You stopped short, laughing, keys swinging between your fingers. “How do you know that?”

“I was watching from the window. I figured you’d get it eventually. But I was about two minutes away from calling in rescue.”

“You’re horrible.”

“You’re the one who almost ended up in the next township,” he said, stepping down from the porch and meeting you halfway across the clearing. “Glad you made it.”

He hugged you—just as warm and easy as you imagined, no hesitation—and your body relaxed into him without question. You’d thought about this hug too much while baking.

“Also,” he said as he stepped back, eyeing the small tote bag you were carrying, “I smell cookies.”

“I baked,” you said, holding the bag up like a trophy. “It was that or a bottle of wine, but the wine situation at my place was sad. This was safer.”

“Nice. I have a sugar addiction.”

“I was banking on that. Brown sugar chocolate chip.”

He looked genuinely stunned for a second, hand pressed to his chest like you’d just proposed. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Is it working?”

He didn’t say anything right away—just held your gaze, something quiet flickering behind his eyes. Then he nodded seriously. “It’s working.”

Inside, his house smelled like roasted garlic and something lemony—fresh herbs, maybe chicken—and the warmth hit you instantly. It wasn’t overly modern or bachelor-cavey. If anything, it was understated, full of soft wood tones and open space, like the house was designed to breathe. A record player sat in the corner, a few records stacked beside it. A bookshelf against the wall, half-filled. A framed photo of what looked like Cole Harbour’s youth hockey team from the 90s hung near the doorway, right next to a small chalkboard that read: “Do not forget the garlic bread, idiot.”

“Tour?” he offered.

“I’m guessing that’s the kitchen,” you teased, pointing at the source of the smells.

“Damn, you are observant.”

He led you through the house casually, hand brushing against your lower back more than once—never obvious, but never accidental either. The living room flowed into the kitchen, which opened out onto a back patio. Past that, the lake stretched wide and still. A dock hung out into the water, and a pair of Adirondack chairs sat side-by-side, a bottle of wine already chilling in a metal bucket between them.

You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Were you expecting company?”

“Only if she didn’t get lost.”

“Smartass.”

“Hungry?”

You nodded, taking another deep inhale. “Starving.”

He gestured toward the island where some stuff was already laid out—two plates, a salad bowl, a wooden board with sliced bread, a bottle of olive oil. You settled onto one of the stools as he moved around the kitchen with surprising ease. You noticed it immediately: the quiet sureness of someone who actually cooked, not someone playing host. He stirred something on the stove, turned off the oven, plated with care. You watched his hands, broad and capable, the veins on his forearms standing out when he twisted open a jar. When he bent to grab something from a drawer, you looked away—catching your own reflection in the microwave door and realizing how hard you were staring.

“I was serious about the banana bread, by the way,” he said as he plated the chicken. “It’s like... award-winning.”

“Oh yeah? Got a trophy for that?”

“Just my mom’s approval. Which, arguably, is harder to get.”

“Okay, I definitely want to try it now.”

He slid a plate toward you. “Only if you keep baking me cookies. This might be a dangerous barter system we’ve got going.”

“Next thing you know, we’ll be exchanging pies like suburban neighbors,” you said, slicing into your chicken. “I’ll bring over a peach cobbler, and you’ll be like, ‘Hey, wanna fuck?’”

He almost choked on his water. You smiled innocently as he coughed into his elbow.

“Jesus,” he laughed, wiping his mouth. “Give a guy some warning.”

You shrugged, taking a bite. “I warned you about the cookies.”

Dinner was easy. He asked about what brought you to the lake—just a friend’s place, needing to disconnect—and told you he’d been laying low this summer. Resting. Reading a bit. Trying to learn how to do nothing. You talked about your job, the city, how loud everything always felt. He nodded like he understood that exact ache. The kind that makes you crave silence and sky and mosquito bites.

You talked about stupid things too—terrible movies you’d watched, how you accidentally insulted a goose the other day, why blackberries were the superior berry. He argued in favor of blueberries. You agreed to disagree, mostly because he looked like he’d take berry loyalty very seriously.

By the time the plates were empty and the wine bottle half-gone, you were leaning across the counter, elbow propped up, just watching him talk.

“I don’t really... do this,” he admitted at one point, rubbing the back of his neck.

“What? Cook?”

He shot you a look. “No. Like—this.”

You smiled. “Invite strange women into your forest cottage and seduce them with chicken and lake views?”

He chuckled, cheeks a little pink. “Exactly.”

“Guess you got lucky then.”

He gave you a look at that—soft, curious, like he was trying to figure you out. But instead of saying anything, he just reached across the counter and gently tapped his index finger against yours. A slow, quiet gesture.

“I think I did.”

From then on Sidney stayed leaned against the counter, arms folded, attention only on you. No phones. No glancing at the time. He just let you talk. Whatever you wanted. Whatever crossed your mind. You could’ve rambled about your favorite childhood cereal, or your irrational hatred of decorative pillows, and he’d still be standing there like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

He laughed at your dumbest jokes, the kind no one else really found funny—your sarcastic little jabs and silly impersonations. He even encouraged them, trying to bait more out of you with his own nonsense.

"You know if this hockey thing ever doesn’t work out for me,” he said at one point, licking a smear of melted chocolate off his thumb, “I think I’d be pretty decent at banana bread porn. Just, like, real steamy kitchen content. Flour on my arms. Real slow whisking shots. Moist loaf close-ups.”

You choked on your cookie. “Moist loaf close-ups?”

“Yeah. Like, slowww pull apart shots. You know the ones.” He exaggerated a wink. “I’d clean up.”

You covered your face, half-horrified, half-dying of laughter. “You’re actually disgusting.”

“You’re welcome,” he grinned, pleased with himself as he slid another cookie toward you. “Have another. You’re gonna need sugar to handle this level of seduction.”

And God, he really did enjoy the cookies. Said your brown sugar to butter ratio was “suspiciously perfect.” Told you they were “dangerous” and then proved it by eating four, like it was nothing.

At some point, you tried his banana bread too—still warm, slices cut thick, soft and sweet in that maple-syrup sort of way. You told him he wasn’t lying: it was genuinely delicious.

“I told you I was a good cook,” he said, giving you this proud, boyish smile that lit up all the angles of his face. “I don’t throw that around lightly.”

He leaned back against the island, arms crossed now, watching you chew with your mouth half full as you mumbled something about how your cookies were still better.

And that was the whole night, really. Just talking. Joking. Swapping dumb stories. Telling him about the lake house, the smell of the pine trees in the mornings, how you sometimes woke up to weird callings in the mist. He told you how peaceful it was out here, how it made everything quiet in his head when the season ended. You nodded and told him you understood that better than he probably thought.

He asked about your family. You asked about his. You told him about how your mom always left the kitchen lights on, and he said he still wasn’t allowed to touch the thermostat in his parents’ house. You told him you couldn’t stand lukewarm coffee. He told you he didn’t drink much coffee and apologized in advance if that was a dealbreaker. You told him it was close.

It was all so easy. Everything about it. About him.

There were no awkward silences. No overcompensating, or trying too hard. Just... ease. A gentle tug toward one another. Something natural and quiet and obvious.

You talked well past midnight. The light caught his stubble, bringing out the curve of his mouth when he smiled at something you said.

Eventually, the clock nudged you into noticing the hour. You glanced at your phone, surprised.

“Shit,” you said softly, not ready to go. “I should probably head out. I’ve gotta, you know, not sleep over and kill the romance.”

That made him laugh—really laugh, full and crinkly-eyed. He tilted his head at you. “You think that’s what would kill it?”

“Well, no,” you shrugged playfully. “But I feel like we gotta space things out, keep the tension alive. You’ll be bored of me if I stick around too long.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “You’re already wrong.”

You ducked your head, trying to play it off with a little smirk, but he was still looking at you when you glanced back up—like he was trying to memorize you. And part of you wanted to stay right there in his kitchen forever.

He walked you to the door, a loaf of banana bread wrapped in a cling wrap tucked under your arm. He insisted you take it. Said it’d help with the withdrawal symptoms, since he didn’t know when he’d see you next—then added that he definitely wanted to, if you were up for it.

You told him you were. That you really were.

And he didn’t kiss you—though you kind of thought maybe he might. The kind of kiss that would’ve ruined you in the best possible way. But instead, he just smiled softly and ran a hand through his hair, standing in the doorframe as you walked away, his voice low and warm when he said goodnight.

And that’s how you drove home. Late at night, windows down, banana bread in your lap. Thinking about him. About how easy it was. How much you liked him already.

You didn’t sleep right away.

You replayed it all.

The stupid jokes.

His laugh.

The way he never took his eyes off you.

The part of you that already wanted more.

And somewhere in your chest, that tug again.

That quiet, gentle, unmistakable pull.

The very next day, you saw him again. It was like you couldn’t stay away from each other, even if you tried.

He texted you early—“You around today?”—and then followed it with, “I want to show you some places.” You replied faster than you meant to. You hadn’t even had coffee yet, still curled in the sheets, phone pressed to your cheek as if it had whispered something private.

When he pulled up, he honked once and leaned over to open the passenger door. You caught your reflection in the window as you walked up—smiling, obviously falling, clearly not hiding it well. He smiled at you like you were something he was proud to be picking up.

You complimented his car—classic, well-kept, surprisingly clean.

“I didn’t think you were a road trip kind of person,” you said, watching the stretch of Nova Scotia roads wind past.

“I’m not,” he replied, his eyes glancing over at you with a little smile tugging at his lips. “But there’s something nice about driving aimlessly with someone. You know, just letting the road take you wherever it wants.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that. There was an unspoken truth in his words. It wasn’t just about driving, it was the shared space between you two that felt almost old, like you’d been doing this together for years.

He played his music, and you—being the music nerd you were—started pulling out compliments, trying to slip in as many subtle references to obscure bands you knew, hoping to see if he’d catch them. At first, he was casual about it. He hummed along, not really acknowledging your compliments. But then—when the second song of the playlist kicked in—you saw it. His eyes flickered with that mix of embarrassment and pride.

“You—uh, you like this song?” he asked, clearly trying to play it off but not hiding the slight blush creeping up his neck.

You grinned, leaning back in your seat. “I love it. Honestly, your taste is solid. You really know what’s good.”

He looked flustered, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the steering wheel. “Well, I don’t know about that. I just pick what I like.”

“I’m just saying,” you said casually, “if you ever wanted to DJ a set at a bar or something, I think you’d pull it off.”

He laughed, but you could tell it was a little sheepish, and you loved that. “I’ve never really thought about it. But now that you mention it.”

You both chuckled, the conversation moving into something less specific but more comfortable as you passed through the scenic landscapes. And that’s how the day went—sometimes in his truck, sometimes walking down some random road you both had never been on, talking about nothing and everything.

At one point, he shared a story about getting lost in the woods when he was younger, looking for his favorite fishing spot. You laughed and teased him, making a joke about how it was probably his attempt at “finding himself,” which made him groan and shove you lightly. He grinned and said, “I was about twelve. I didn’t need to find myself—I needed to find the way out.”

That was the kind of day it was. The easy, breezy, unhurried rhythm of your time together.

A week later, it was your turn. You invited him over to the lake house. The air was cooler by then, the kind of autumn-breeze mixed with lingering warmth, the perfect kind of night for cooking something simple and intimate. You'd planned on something easy—pasta or stir fry—but you couldn’t not pull out the ingredients for more brown butter cookies. There was just something so right about having him in your space while you baked.

Sidney wandered into your kitchen with that familiar casual confidence, leaning against the counter while you started the butter. He seemed fascinated with your process—how you kept the heat low on the stove, how you didn’t rush the brown butter phase, just letting it get golden and rich. His eyes followed every motion of your hands, every sprinkle of sugar or flour, like you were the first person ever to make cookies in front of him.

“So, you’ve got a thing for brown butter, huh?” he asked, trying to sound serious but his lips were twitching like he knew what was coming.

You just shrugged. “It’s an art form, Sid. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Excuse me? I totally understand,” he said, raising his brows in mock offense. “I’m practically a dessert aficionado.”

You burst out laughing, shaking your head. “You don’t even know what a brioche is.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I do know how to eat it. And that's what really counts.”

“Touché,” you said, tapping the spoon in your hand against the bowl. You glanced over at him, amused. “But you know what? If you’re lucky, I’ll let you taste test.”

His face lit up, and that grin? It was pure trouble. “Taste test? I think you’ll be doing the tasting.” He winked.

You ignored that, focusing instead on the warm scent of the cookies filling the room. And before long, you had him stirring sugar and flour into a bowl with a concentration that made you chuckle.

The kitchen was full of soft laughter, the clink of measuring spoons, and the hum of some classic vinyl that you noticed was playing in the background. You looked up from the oven to find him staring at the record player—just looking at it, soaking it in like it was a relic.

“I have a problem,” he admitted sheepishly. “I’m obsessed with records. I can’t stop buying them.”

“I can tell,” you said, following his gaze to the stacks of albums piled next to the turntable. “I like it, though. There’s something about them—about physical music. I mean, there’s so much more intention behind it than just, you know, clicking a button.”

Sidney nodded. “Exactly. It’s like... every time I put one on I’m slowing down.”

That was when he got up and walked over to the shelf, picking through the albums like he was selecting an heirloom. He put one on the turntable, and the soft crackle of the needle finding its place made you smile.

“We’re gonna need some wine for this,” you said, already reaching for a bottle.

“No argument here.”

The wine was poured, the cookies were cooling on the counter, and you both leaned into the moment. The conversation flowed into something more comfortable, a rhythm of shared glances and half-formed thoughts. And then, before you knew it, the both of you were swaying slowly in the kitchen, a glass of wine in hand, the smell of warm sugar and butter mixing with the rich tones of the music.

It was like being wrapped in the sound. The moment felt soft.

“I didn’t know you could dance,” you teased softly, your hand resting lightly on his chest.

He chuckled, a little embarrassed. “I’m not great at it. But... when the moment calls for it.”

You smiled, a slow thing, like you had all the time in the world to just be. You never wanted the moment to end, just this slow, comfortable stillness between you two.

“You smell like butter and brown sugar,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your cheek.

“Don’t get any ideas, Sidney. I’m still keeping the romance alive.”

“Too late,” he grinned. “This is the most romantic moment of my life.”

And the. he pulled back, smiled, and kissed you. It wasn’t rushed, not too much. Just a simple, slow kiss, full of promises unspoken. When he pulled away, you found yourself even more lost in him. He had that way of making everything around you disappear, leaving only the two of you in this bubble of quiet affection.

A week later, he’d planned a lake day—one you definitely didn’t expect. He picked you up early in the morning, bringing coffee from your favorite spot. The boat was waiting in the back, tied up at the dock, the sun already high and warm above the water.

The ride on the boat was everything you could’ve imagined: the wind in your hair, the water splashing against the hull, and him leaning back in his seat, letting you take the wheel for a few minutes. You were pretty sure he just wanted you to sit in his lap. When you asked if this was necessary or just convenient, he said, “Very necessary,” and kissed your shoulder before you could object.

“You sure you trust me with this?” you asked, grinning as you steered.

He leaned forward, his chest against your back, and wrapped his hands around yours on the wheel. “If I didn’t, I’d be sitting in the back seat,” he said, his breath warm against your neck.

You couldn’t help but feel that flutter again. The one you tried not to acknowledge too much.

When you swam, you both dove in and splashed around like kids. He’d laugh, his face scrunched with pure joy when you tried to race him, splashing water at each other like it was a competition that mattered. And maybe it did, a little.

When you got back to his place, there was a lightness in your chest, and the evening stretched on just as easily as before. You picked up takeout. Wine. Settled in on the covered deck, wrapped in blankets, the sounds of the lake around you.

And then, after a few minutes of easy silence, you pulled out your phone and played your next movie.

“Inland Empire,” you said. “It’s weird. It’s David Lynch. You’ll probably hate it, but I need someone to watch it with me.”

Sidney sat, wide-eyed, staring at the screen in stunned silence as the film spun into its bizarre, surreal nightmare.

And when that madness ended, you put Practical Magic as a palette cleanser—which he got into disturbingly fast. By the time Sandra Bullock was running down the street to her in-movie love, Sidney had curled his arm around you and was mouthing along to “This Kiss.” You fell asleep like that, half on top of him, your head tucked into his chest, your legs tangled with his.

And when you woke up—warm, still sleepy—and he asked you if you were still hungry like he was, his voice low and hoarse from sleep

Things just sort of eased into place after that. You didn’t talk about what you were, didn’t define it with titles or draw any lines around it. You just… kept showing up. He kept showing up. And somewhere in that stretch of quiet Nova Scotia days and long golden evenings, the thread tethering the two of you only pulled tighter.

You weren’t sure when exactly you started waiting for his texts first thing in the morning, or when you stopped feeling nervous about sending the first one. You weren’t sure when you started craving the sound of his laugh, or the way he’d lean in and look at you when he wanted to make a point—eyebrows raised slightly, head tilted, full attention wrapped around you like a damn blanket. But at some point, it became second nature.

He took you skating with him one day. It wasn’t even a plan. It just kind of happened. He mentioned it in passing—said he was heading to the rink—and something in your tone when you replied, a subtle “that sounds fun,” must’ve been enough.

It felt a little absurd how nervous you were. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen you trip over your own feet before. But something about skating—with him—felt different. You had never skated with a generational hockey talent before. And you weren’t sure if it was the idea of looking like an idiot in front of him, or just the intimacy of it. The way he’d have to hold your hands, or your waist, or—God—the small of your back. Maybe all of it.

He was so gentle that first day. Patient in a way that made your stomach twist. He was wearing his practice gear, black and gray, and his hair had that slightly sweaty flop to it that made you want to press your face into his neck. He waited on the ice with one hand outstretched, gloved, smiling just slightly when you took longer than usual to step out.

You weren’t even on the rink for thirty seconds before he was holding your hips. Like it was nothing. Like it didn’t make your whole body go warm. “There you go,” he murmured, voice soft, that perfect rasp in your ear. “You're a natural.”

You snorted. “You’re literally dragging me.”

He just grinned, tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear before skating backward, pulling you gently forward. You didn’t even notice the warmth in your cheeks until you felt the cold sting them.

He’d lean in sometimes and whisper fake sports commentary in that deep voice, narrating your baby steps like you were competing for Olympic gold. You giggled the entire time, your hand hitting his chest as he said something completely unhinged about your “outstanding edgework” while you tried not to fall on your ass.

Afterward, when you sat on the bench to take off your skates, he kissed the top of your head. You blinked up at him, and he just looked at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You were amazing,” he said quietly. “Seriously.”

And that was just the start of it.

Sometimes he’d take you with him when he trained—just casual off-season sessions, but even then, you were floored by how intentional he was. How much he gave, even when no one was watching. You’d sit off to the side with an iced coffee or a smoothie, watching him go through drills, working himself into that calm, focused rhythm. There was something almost reverent in the way he treated the game—even in the offseason—and it made you fall for him even harder.

You’d wait for him after, toss him a towel, and he’d kiss your cheek or your shoulder, all sweaty and flushed. “Did I look cool?” he’d murmur into your ear as he hugged you from behind.

You’d roll your eyes. “So cool. I can barely stand it.”

The first time you met his friends, it was at a quiet bar, tucked between two closed storefronts off the main drag. He’d given you a heads-up earlier that day while you were sprawled on his couch, half asleep on his chest. He had his hand under your shirt, just lightly tracing your back while you mumbled about how the lighting in Wild at Heart was giving you a headache.

“I want you to meet my people,” he said softly. “My best friends. If you want.”

You did. Obviously.

So you picked out something cute—not too much, not too little—and tried not to think about how important this felt. You had this soft ache in your chest the whole ride over, like something real was starting to take root.

They were warm. Loud in a sweet way. A little teasing. You could tell they adored him, and the second you sat down at the table, you felt like the air shifted—like the puzzle piece slid into place. They asked you what you did, what you liked, and you found yourself talking about your favorite records and your Sunday morning coffee rituals.

At one point, one of Sid’s closest childhood friends nudged your elbow and said, “We heard all about you already. Farmer’s market girl. Record collector. Cookie maker.”

You blinked. “What?”

He jerked his thumb at Sid. “That’s what he calls you. Farmer’s market girl. Record collection woman of his dreams.”

You turned to Sidney, eyebrows raised. He was blushing so hard he looked sunburnt.

“I didn’t call you that,” he muttered into his drink. “I said you liked the farmers market.”

“Uh huh.” You smirked, bumping your knee against his under the table.

He groaned, but he was smiling, gaze cast down at the table. “I might’ve mentioned a few things.”

You leaned into him later at the bar, whispering, “You like me, huh?”

He just kissed you. Deep. Confident. One hand in your hair. One on your hip. He kissed you like the bar didn’t exist. Like it was just the two of you in that whole damn town.

You slept at his place for the first time that night.

And you had sex. Finally. Slowly. Like he meant it. Like he was waiting for it. Like he’d been thinking about it every night since you met.

He was soft, then teasing, then borderline obsessed with the sounds you made. The way your body moved. He took his time with everything—taking off your clothes, kissing his way down your body, murmuring that he wanted you to feel good, that he needed to make you feel good.

At one point, he said, voice strained against your mouth, “You know, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m not gonna last long.”

You laughed, breathless, pulling him closer. “You better. You’ve been flirting with me over vegetables for weeks. I earned this.”

He smiled and kissed you again. And again.

Afterward, when you were curled up against him, skin still warm and humming, he just whispered, “Stay.”

You did. You fell asleep in his bed for the first time that night, tangled in sheets and one of his t-shirts, limbs still aching in the best way.

He made you breakfast the next morning, wearing gray sweats and no shirt, still a little sweaty from an early workout. The whole kitchen smelled like maple syrup and melted butter, and you sat at the counter with your chin in your hand, just watching him.

“This is peak domesticity,” you joked.

He glanced over his shoulder, smiling. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

You grinned. “I mean this. You. Shirtless. Flipping pancakes. I feel like I’m in a commercial for hot men who cook.”

He fake-tossed a pancake at you with the spatula and you both burst out laughing.

Later that week, he had training again with a few of his hockey buddies, and you used the time to explore the little town more. You hadn’t planned on doing much, but then you passed a record store that looked like it had been frozen in time—dusty windows, warped signage, and a chalkboard out front that read: New arrivals: Bowie, Stevie, Fleetwood, Springsteen.

You spent almost an hour inside. Sifting through crates. Listening to the clerk talk about rare pressings. You found a vintage copy of Static and Silence for yourself and this weird Canadian folk album from the 70s that you were sure Sid would love just for how strange it was. You grabbed a few CDs, some silly stickers, and a tiny patch that said You are exactly where you need to be.

When you got back to his place, he was shirtless in the garage, cleaning his gear and blasting a record. It felt almost unfair how him he looked in that moment.

You marched right up to him and showed off your haul, one thing at a time, like a kid showing off their backpack after the first day of school. “And look,” you said with a grin, holding up the sheet of stickers. “For the Bronco.”

His eyes went wide in horror. “Absolutely not.”

“C’monnnn. Just one.”

“I let you put a Mazzy Star sticker on my coffee mug. That’s your limit.”

You pouted. “You’re no fun.”

He pulled you into his chest, one arm around your waist, kissing your temple. “I’m so fun. I’m just also a man who knows the worth of a pristine vintage vehicle and standards.”

You stood there in the open garage, leaning against him, feeling like you belonged. The record played behind you. His hand slipped into yours. And it didn’t feel new anymore. It felt like something you’d been waiting for. Like something you were finally ready to let yourself have.

From then on, you started keeping a toothbrush at his place.

It was his idea—of course it was—but he brought it up like it wasn’t a big deal, like it was purely logistical. Like, “You’re always here, might as well have a toothbrush that doesn’t taste like minty regret and come from a travel kit.”

You rolled your eyes and said something smart about his brand of toothpaste being aggressively bland, but you still let him buy you one. Pink handle, extra soft bristles, shoved gently into the same mug as his on the bathroom counter.

Without either of you naming it, his house started to feel like yours too. He liked the sound of your sandals flopping into the hallway. Liked seeing your tote bag by the couch. Liked how your hair ended up in his brush, in the shower drain, in the passenger seat of the Bronco. He liked when you teased him for playing it safe behind the wheel—called him Grandpa under your breath, leaned over to nudge his knee at stoplights and tried to reach for the gear shift just to bother him.

That poor vehicle. You treated it like a second home—blankets in the back, tote bags on the seats, a trail of empty La Croix cans in the console. And Sid… Sid drove it like it was a glass slipper. Always cautious. Always overly gentle.

Said something about how if anything happened to your Bronco on his watch, he’d never forgive himself. So you let him, because truthfully? You loved watching him in your car, arm out the window, baseball cap on backwards, one big hand settled lazily at the top of the wheel like he had all the time in the world. That bronzy Canadian summer skin, always a little too red because he never put on enough sunscreen unless you slathered it on yourself—grumbling the whole time, calling it “too cold” when you rubbed the lotion in while straddling his lap on a lounge chair at the lake.

He’d complain about the sunscreen, then beg you not to get heatstroke. It was a fair trade.

“Baby,” you told him one day as he slowly maneuvered over a rickety trail, “you’re driving like this thing’s gonna crumble under you. It’s built for this.”

“I just don’t want to fuck it up,” he said, gripping the wheel like you were on the edge of a cliff.

“She can climb a tree, Sid. Let her be wild.”

“You’re the only wild one in this car.”

He’d kiss you when the red lights lasted long enough. Slow. With a little bite at the end. The kind of kiss that made you want to crawl into his lap right there. And you did, once. In the middle of nowhere. Off some side road near the lake. It was messy and chaotic and someone honked at you when they passed by.

“We are adults, Sidney.”

“I know,” he huffed, breathless, “but you looked at me like that, what was I supposed to do?”

“Resist temptation.”

“Impossible.”

Mornings were slow and sticky with heat. If you stayed over, which by now was almost every night, you’d wake up tangled in his sheets, his arm heavy over your waist. He always woke up first, always kissed the spot below your ear to make you hum and roll into him, sleepy and warm. He’d say, “C’mon, get up. Walk with me,” and you’d groan like it was the biggest inconvenience in the world before climbing on his back like clockwork, arms locked around his neck, cheek pressed against the top of his spine while he carried you barefoot down the slope toward the dock.

He said he liked the walks. You think he just liked holding you.

You had a water bottle tucked under your arm the whole time and a pocket-sized sunscreen in your back pocket, which you reapplied for him halfway through every time, whining dramatically about how you were dating the palest man in Nova Scotia and it was a full-time job keeping him from spontaneously combusting in the sun. He laughed every single time, and then kissed you anyway, sunscreen and all.

“You’re gonna look like a lobster,” you warned him once, rubbing it into his shoulder blades.

“And you’re gonna look like a pervert if you keep straddling me like that in public,” he groaned. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“You’re not slick. I know you like it.”

He grinned up at you, hands on your bare thighs. “Maybe I just like you on top.”

Sometimes the walks ended in the hammock, your legs tangled together and his hand absently running up and down the back of your calf. He’d read. You’d play music off your phone. Once, you napped so hard you woke up with your face stuck to his t-shirt and drool on your chin, and he looked down at you like you’d just offered him the moon.

And the sneaking around in his house? Insane. The man lived alone. No one was coming in. But it was a thing, somehow—you whispering, giggling behind your hand, tugging him down the hallway like you were going to get caught. Like there was some strict no sex in the kitchen rule. And Sidney played along, every time. Hands all over you as he backed you into a wall, muttering, “You’re gonna get me in trouble,” like it wasn’t his house. Like the two of you weren’t already half-dressed from sunbathing out back, still tasting of wine and lake water and salt from your skin.

Sometimes you’d tease him about it later. “Who were you hiding from exactly?” you asked one afternoon, brushing crumbs off the counter as you sat up in your tank top and shorts, legs swinging, hair still slightly damp from your shower.

Sid, still shirtless and toweling off, grinned as he reached over to steal a grape from your bowl. “You, obviously.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re the one always groping me in your own damn hallway.”

He just hummed, nudging your knee with his hip. “Can’t help it.”

You didn’t mind staying over. You liked how tidy he kept things, but not obsessively. You liked how his bed always smelled like his detergent, and how he let you steal his T-shirts without saying anything. You liked his bathroom mirror cluttered with your little beauty bag, your toothbrush next to his.

You liked how often he kissed you for no reason.

Meeting his parents had come up gently, and to your surprise, not with the kind of pressure that usually made your stomach flip. It just…happened. A few days before his birthday, you tagged along to a quiet dinner at their place, and before you could overthink it, you were sitting at the table sipping wine and talking about local art exhibits with his mom, laughing with his dad about how bad Sid was at texting.

“She never responds either,” Sidney muttered.

“You always text like you’re writing a business email,” you shot back.

“You text like you’re on fire and typing with your elbows.”

But they liked you. His mom especially. Gave you an extra helping of salad, kissed your cheek when you left. Told you to “come back soon, sweetheart,” in that warm way that made your eyes sting a little. Sidney didn’t even try to play it cool afterward—he took your hand in the car and brought it up to his mouth, kissed your fingers one by one like he’d been holding that in all night.

And then his birthday.

The man had the audacity to plan a trip for you for his birthday. When he first told you, you were lying in his lap on the deck, sipping wine and fiddling with a loose string on the hem of your shorts. You tilted your head up at him, squinting. “You know it’s your birthday, right?”

He just shrugged. “Yeah, but I wanna spend it with you. Thought we could get outta town.”

You blinked. “So let me plan something for you, then.”

“Nope.”

“Sid—”

“I already booked it.”

You sat up. “Are you serious?”

He pulled a folded piece of paper from behind his back, so smug it made you groan. “Surprise.”

You opened it, saw the reservation info—secluded coastal cabin, two nights, no cell service, hot tub.

“You’re so annoying,” you muttered, smiling.

“You’re gonna love it.”

He was right.

The cabin was tucked away on a quiet inlet, the kind of place you could only get to if you meant to find it. Big windows, creaky floors, endless trees outside. You wore one of his hoodies the whole time. He let you win at cards the first night, then wrestled you onto the couch when you started talking shit about your victory. You got drunk on a bottle of wine that was probably too nice for the spaghetti you made, and you made out in the hot tub like teenagers until your teeth chattered and he carried you inside.

You woke up in the same bed, the next morning, to the sound of birds and the feel of his hand sliding up the back of your thigh. “Happy birthday,” you whispered into his mouth as he kissed you awake.

“Best one ever,” he mumbled.

He meant it.

It was there, while you were brushing sand off your thighs and trying to coax him into the water again, that he said it. Just blurted it out while you were adjusting your sunglasses.

"I'm in love with you."

You looked up, heart flipping into your throat. “Really?”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “God, yes.”

You bit your lip. Looked at him, the way his eyes locked onto yours, soft and steady and serious in that way only Sidney Crosby could pull off.

"I'm in love with you too."

He didn’t say anything at first. Just came toward you, arms out, picked you up and kissed you right there—messy, sand still clinging to your knees, breeze whipping your hair around both your faces.

He whispered it again into your mouth when you kissed him back.

Said it when you pulled him into bed that night, slow and deliberate and a little drunk off wine and affection.

He said it the next morning, too, when he made you heart shaped pancakes, kissed your temple, and told you again this was already the best birthday of his life even though it was already over.

—

It started before you realized it. A small thing, a nothing moment, barely even noticeable at the time.

But now you couldn’t stop it.

It was late December. You and Sidney were back in Nova Scotia for the holidays, tucked into the soft quiet of his parents’ house. It was the kind of cold that stayed clinging to your skin even when you were inside. A kind of stillness that only ever seemed to settle over places you’d known for too long.

The visit had been good. Calm, full of soft mornings and bundled walks, way too much food. There was one afternoon that stuck in your mind more than the rest. You were out shopping with one of his oldest friends, and he’d asked for your help picking a ring for his girlfriend. He said he had no idea what he was doing and trusted you. You’d been flattered, honestly. Nervous too. You’d wandered glass cases while Sidney stood nearby, quiet but supportive, chiming in only when he saw you really hesitate.

You’d said something like, "God, if anyone ever gets me something like that, I better be unconscious when they pay for it."

And Sidney had just smiled. A real one. Soft around the edges.

You didn’t think much of it then. You’d talked about marriage before. He’d said, more than once, that he wanted it with you. That you were it for him. That he couldn’t imagine anything else. There was no big speech, no dramatic moment. Just quiet declarations over dishes in the sink. Hands brushed together while making the bed. I want to marry you, one day. Like it was a given. Like he was sure.

But since coming back to Pittsburgh, something’s been off.

Not in a way that screams wrong, just in a way that doesn’t feel right. Not entirely. Not completely.

You’ve been trying not to let it get to you. Because it’s not like he’s pulled back completely, he still kisses you goodbye in the morning, still tells you he loves you. But it’s different now. Off-center. Like something is happening to him, and he won’t let you know what it is.

There’s a kind of presence people have when their thoughts are elsewhere. You know it. You can feel it. That’s what it’s been like with Sidney lately.

He's still Sidney. He still folds your socks when he does laundry, still brings you a cup of tea when you're curled up in the corner of the couch. But when you speak, sometimes he answers with a delay. And when you're quiet, he doesn't always notice.

He's careful with his phone now in a way that he never used to be. Always screen down. Always locked. Once or twice, you’ve walked into the room and he’s slid it under a blanket or held it a little too long before setting it aside. Not sneaky, maybe, just strange.

You haven’t said anything. Not yet. You don’t know how to ask what you're even afraid of. You don’t know how to say hey, can you please stop avoiding me because it’s slowly killing me, because what if that’s too much? What if that pushes him away more?

He’s tired. You know the season has been weighing on him. You’ve been together long enough to know how he gets around this time of year. When the schedule picks up, and the pressure climbs, and his body starts to feel a little heavier, game after game. You’re trying not to make it about you. You’re trying.

But it’s hard, sometimes.

Because you live with him now. A year and a half of shared space, shared grocery bills, shared soft piles of laundry, and shoes by the door. You know his routine down to the minute. You know what kind of tea he makes when he’s in a good mood versus the coffee he drinks when he’s trying to stay awake through a slump.

And lately, it’s been the slump coffee. Every day.

You keep telling yourself it’s fine. That he’ll come around. That maybe he’s just holding tension in places you can’t reach. You don’t want to be the reason he feels even more pressure. So instead of confronting it, you’ve started making little adjustments.

You stopped asking him to pick dinner. You don’t lean on him as heavily at the end of the day. You kiss him goodnight a little quicker. Not because you want to, but because you’re afraid that if you linger, he might pull away.

It’s a Tuesday night now, exactly one week before your anniversary, and you’re standing barefoot in the kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta sauce that’s starting to bubble a little too aggressively. You adjust the heat, shake the wooden spoon, and glance at the clock.

He should be home soon.

You’ve kept the day low-key. Didn’t text him much. Didn’t ask when he’d be done. You’re just trying. Trying to give him space without feeling like you’re losing something in return. Trying not to fall into that sticky headspace where every pause in conversation feels like an omen.

The table is already set. Nothing fancy, just two plates, two forks, water glasses filled halfway. You even sliced some bread, not because he asked, but because you know he likes it toasted and a little burnt on the edges. You do that for him. Even now.

You reach for your wine glass–only half-full. You haven’t even taken a sip yet. You’re trying not to drink too much on the nights where things feel like this, because you don’t trust your mouth not to spill all the questions you’ve been trying so hard not to ask.

Something like…

Is it over?

Are we okay?

Do you want space?

Am I too much?

The front door clicks.

You hear the shuffle of his keys, the soft thud of his shoes, and then his voice–low, tired, familiar.

“Hey, babe.”

You turn, soft smile already in place. “Hey. You’re home just in time.”

He walks in slowly, his movements not rushed, but not easy either. You watch him scan the room, watch his eyes land on you, and hold for only a second longer than necessary. Then he’s pulling his jacket off, folding it over the back of a chair.

“Smells good,” he says, not looking at you.

You hum. “Hope it tastes good.”

He walks over and kisses the side of your head. His lips linger. Just long enough for your breath to hitch, for your heart to kick a little harder in your chest. And then he’s moving past you, grabbing the plates, starting to serve.

It’s still him. But something is missing. Not gone. But held tight behind his ribs where you can’t reach.

You sit across from each other, knees nearly brushing under the table, and talk about nothing. The game tomorrow. A grocery list. Some weird video your friend sent you. You talk like roommates. Like friends. Like people who are both trying not to name what’s wrong.

He laughs once. Smiles twice. And when he reaches across the table to take your empty plate, his fingers graze yours–and he flinches.

Just slightly. Like he wasn’t expecting the contact. Like touching you startled him.

He catches himself quickly, clears his throat, and stands. “I’ll do the dishes.”

You nod, already shrinking inside yourself. “Okay.”

You sit there for a minute too long after he turns the faucet on. You hear the water running. The clink of silverware. And silence between you.

You should say something. You should. But instead, you pick up your wine glass, drain the rest, and wonder how much more space you’re supposed to give someone before you start feeling like you’re no longer there.

It’s only Tuesday. A week before your anniversary.

And you’re already afraid of what next Tuesday will feel like.

Wednesday came and went like any other midseason day. Familiar. Routine. Tired.

You woke up alone, which wasn’t uncommon on game days. Sidney had already slipped out–probably hours before–and left the faint scent of his cologne behind on the pillow and the sweatshirt he’d tossed at the foot of the bed. You laid there for a few minutes after your alarm went off, eyes open but not really seeing anything, just letting the silence crawl over you. Eventually, you dragged yourself out of bed and into the kitchen.

The house was still. Kind of cozy, in a way. Cold morning light spilled through the windows, stretching across the hardwood floors and bouncing faintly off the countertops. You liked mornings like this–quiet, slow. But it didn’t escape you that they used to feel different. Fuller, maybe. Warmer.

You texted him sometime mid-morning.

You: Morning. What times puck drop tonight?

He replied quickly, which you appreciated.

Sid: 7. Doors at 5:30. Should be quick.

You almost replied with want me to come? but stopped yourself. You hadn’t gone to every home game lately. You used to–almost religiously–but things had changed. Not bad changed. Just evolved. You were both busier, and if you were being honest with yourself, it had started to feel like he preferred going through game day alone.

Instead, you grabbed your keys and headed to the grocery store.

It wasn’t even busy, which felt like a miracle. You wandered the aisles slowly, only half-focused on your list. Picked up more snacks than you needed, spent far too long in the produce section staring at a mango you didn’t even end up buying. You even got those cookies Sidney likes–the ones he pretends are “just okay” but finishes in one night. Just in case.

Back home, you put everything away and scrolled through your phone while sitting on the kitchen counter. That’s when the text from your mom came in.

“Just found this again,” your mom wrote. “You two are my favorite people.”

It was a photo of you and Sidney. Probably two years old. You were back home, you remembered that much. He was behind you, arms slung around your waist like it was the easiest thing in the world, chin on your shoulder while you laughed. Not smiled–laughed. Your eyes were crinkled, mouth open, head tilted toward him like you were incapable of existing anywhere else but in that moment. He wasn’t even looking at the camera. Just at you.

You stared at it for too long.

You saved it. Didn’t say anything back to your mom. You weren’t sure why she sent it, but you weren’t in the mood to unpack it either.

That night, you laid low. Made yourself dinner–frozen pizza and a salad you didn’t really eat–and climbed into bed early. You tried to stay up to wait for him, but the moment your head hit the pillow, the weight of the day finally caught up with you.

You were asleep by the time he got home.

You didn’t feel him slip into bed, but somewhere deep in your half-conscious state, you felt him press a hand to your hip. Maybe a kiss to your shoulder. Or maybe you dreamt that. You couldn’t be sure anymore.

Thursday was quiet.

You woke up to the sound of Sidney getting dressed. Still half-asleep, you reached for him instinctively, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt just above his waistband. He glanced down, then leaned over and kissed your forehead.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmured, voice scratchy. “I’ll see you after skate.”

You grunted in response, letting him go even though your chest pulled tight when he left the room. He closed the door softly behind him. You rolled to his side of the bed, buried your face in his pillow, and tried not to overthink the sudden absence of his usual I love you.

You spent most of the morning cleaning. Tidied up the kitchen, did a couple loads of laundry, reorganized a drawer you hadn’t touched in months just because the silence in the house was starting to itch at your skin. By the time your phone rang, you were elbow deep in the back of the linen closet and had forgotten how to breathe normally.

It was your sister.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, hitting answer and tucking the phone between your shoulder and cheek. “I thought you died or something. You haven’t texted me in days.”

“I was giving you space!” she shot back immediately. “God forbid you spend a few days without me breathing down your neck. What’s up? You sound grumpy.”

You paused. Then shrugged, even though she couldn’t see it.

“Nothing. Just been quiet around here.”

She went quiet for half a second. Long enough for you to know she knew something.

“You and Sid okay?”

“Yeah,” you answered too quickly. “I mean—yeah. He’s just been tired. Lot on his plate. You know how it gets this time of year.”

“Sure,” she said lightly, though you could hear her skepticism. “Well, how about you get your ass out of that house this weekend and let me spoil you for once?”

You blinked, shifting your weight. “Spoil me?”

“Yeah. Like a little self-care day. Nails, coffee, maybe some shopping. You look like someone who could use a little attention.”

“I do not look like anything right now,” you argued, dragging a blanket off a shelf. “I’m in sweatpants and haven’t worn a bra since Monday.”

“Exactly,” she said. “You're practically begging me for an intervention.”

You huffed a laugh, grateful for her. “Okay. Yeah. That actually sounds good.”

“Good! Saturday, I’m kidnapping you. No arguing.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you said. “Though if you try to make me get short almond-shaped acrylics again, I’m out.”

She laughed, full and real. “Please. We’re going short and square. You’ve traumatized me with those talons.”

“I scratched my own face with those last time.”

“You scratched my face.”

That night, you brought it up over dinner.

Sidney had picked up Italian food on the way home from the game. It was a small thing, but one that landed. You lit a candle on the table–not because the moment needed it, but because it made you feel like you were trying.

You took a bite of your food, then looked at him across the table. His hair was damp from a shower, skin flushed from the heat, a few drops of water still clinging to the collar of his t-shirt.

“So,” you started casually. “I made plans with my sister for Saturday.”

He looked up, fork stilling. “Yeah?”

“She’s insisting on a self-care day. Nails, coffee, possible emotional breakdown in a changing room, the works.”

His mouth pulled into a smile. A real one. Not that tired, distracted one you’d grown used to over the past few weeks. “That sounds good. You deserve that.”

You tilted your head, surprised by how relieved he looked. “You okay if I’m gone most of the day?”

“Of course.” He waved a hand. “Take your time. Have fun. You need a day to let someone else take care of you for once.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. That sounded dangerously close to romantic.”

He smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”

“You’re so lucky I’m not making you get a pedicure with me.”

“I’d rather fight a bear,” he deadpanned, taking another bite of pasta. “You know how ticklish I am.”

You grinned, cocking your head. “I do know that. Interesting how that only comes up during pedicure season and not during—”

“—Do not finish that sentence,” he warned, pointing his fork at you.

You laughed so hard you almost choked.

He reached over, hand brushing your wrist, and for a moment the distance between you flickered. Gone. A heartbeat of something familiar.

“You sure you’re okay?” you asked gently, not pushing. Just enough to let him know you were still paying attention.

He nodded, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

You smiled at him. Not all the way. But enough.

“Okay. But if you die before our anniversary, I’m putting that on your gravestone. ‘He was just tired.’”

He groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “Please don’t.”

“Oh, it’s already happening. I’ll even add your stats.”

“I’m taking your name off my emergency contact form.”

“Too late. You’re stuck with me.”

You said it with a joke in your voice.

He didn’t laugh that time.

He just looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes, then reached across the table and tangled your fingers with his.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know I am.”

Friday started soft.

Sidney had an off day, which meant no early alarm, no half-awake shuffle into the kitchen, no lukewarm kisses before he disappeared into the cold for skate. Just the two of you, blinking awake in the gray morning light, limbs tangled beneath the sheets and the blanket kicked half off the bed. You’d stirred first, your cheek still warm from where it had been pressed to his chest.

He grumbled something when you moved. Probably a “Don’t go yet,” or a “Five more minutes.” You couldn’t tell–his voice was still sleep-rough and gravelly, and you were too distracted by the arm he slung back around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“You hungry?” you eventually whispered, even though you knew the answer.

His hand was already sliding up the hem of your sleep shirt, fingers warm against your skin.

“Not for food,” he murmured.

You snorted and slapped his chest. “You’re disgusting.”

He just grinned against your shoulder and didn’t let go.

Eventually, the promise of coffee and bacon became more tempting than groping under the covers, and you both dragged yourselves to the kitchen. You worked together like always–him at the stove, you chopping fruit, leaning on each other like second nature. The radio was on, your favorite station, humming low in the background between clinks of plates and the crackle of eggs in the pan.

Breakfast was easy. You sat on the counter and fed him pieces of toast while he stood between your knees, shirtless and smug. You bickered about how much butter was too much butter. He tried to sneak his hand under your thigh when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

“I will stab you with this butter knife,” you warned, mouth full.

He licked jam off his thumb and winked. “Not the worst way to go.”

By late morning, he’d retreated into the living room to watch film on his laptop, headphones in, posture tense in the way it always got when he was trying to anticipate every possible play that might go wrong. You left him to it, heading into the backyard with your headphones and your little gardening gloves, determined to fix the planters that had been bugging you all week. You spent hours pulling dead leaves, repotting herbs, humming to yourself as you wiped dirt from your face and cursed at a stubborn root.

The two of you barely saw each other all afternoon, passing in and out of the kitchen at different times. He’d touch the small of your back when he walked by. You’d kiss the crown of his head when he didn’t notice. But neither of you really talked much.

It wasn’t until around four, after you’d showered and changed into a pair of fresh sweats, that you finally collapsed onto the couch and let yourself melt into a rom-com marathon. You didn’t plan the theme–it just happened. My Best Friend’s Wedding came on, and you didn’t have the heart to change it. You curled into a blanket, let your body relax fully into the cushions, and tried not to think too hard about anything.

Sidney wandered in sometime during Runaway Bride, earbuds hanging around his neck, a protein bar half-eaten in his hand. He stood behind the couch for a beat, watching the screen with vague interest.

“You watching a wedding movie?” he asked, amused.

You peeked back at him, pillow tucked under your chin. “Don’t act surprised. I’m always watching wedding movies.”

“That’s true,” he muttered, dropping down beside you. “You’re probably secretly planning ours through movie references.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, okay. Let me just call Diane Keaton real quick, get her on board.”

“She’d officiate the hell out of it.”

“Only if we let her wear shoulder pads.”

He chuckled and reached over to steal part of your blanket. You didn’t even complain when he did. Just scooted a little closer, letting his arm rest behind you on the back of the couch, his thigh pressed warmly against yours. You felt him kiss your temple not long after. Gentle. Familiar.

And then during 27 Dresses, you caught him staring.

Not once. Not casually. Over and over again.

You’d laugh at something and glance at him–only to find him already looking at you. When you turned fully, he’d play it off. Pretend he was watching the movie. Sometimes, he’d reach over and brush your hair back or squeeze your thigh gently. You didn’t say anything, but the knot in your chest started to pull a little tighter.

He wasn’t distant tonight. Not like the other nights.

It was good. So good. And that’s what made it almost unbearable.

Because it wasn’t consistent. It was like watching the sun come out for an hour after a week of clouds–just long enough to make you miss it more once it’s gone.

“You okay?” you whispered sometime near the end of the movie.

He nodded, eyes still on the screen. “Yeah.”

But his voice caught a little. Just barely.

You let it go. Because what else could you do?

Saturday morning came early.

Your sister showed up at your door like a damn hurricane in yoga pants.

“Let’s go, we’ve got nails to ruin and baristas to confuse with our orders.”

You laughed, slipping into your shoes. “Wow, so chipper for someone who didn’t even bring me coffee.”

“I am the coffee.”

“Okay, well I’ll be vomiting now.”

Sidney was in the kitchen, finishing his smoothie, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed as he watched you. You grabbed your jacket and kissed his cheek.

“Be good,” you teased.

He smirked. “No promises.”

Your sister waved at him as you dragged her out the door. “Take care of your woman, Crosby. She’s fragile.”

“I’m standing right here,” you muttered.

“Emotionally fragile,” she corrected. “Physically? You could probably kill me.”

You snorted and shoved her toward the car.

At the salon, you sat across from her, hands soaking, brain buzzing. You told her everything. Not all at once, but in pieces.

“Like, I don’t think he’s cheating. I hope. Really, I hope. Or anything dramatic. I’m not worried—just confused.”

“Because he’s acting weird?”

“Yeah. Like—he loves me. I know he does. He just hasn’t really been there, lately. It’s like he’s next to me, but his head’s somewhere else.”

She watched you carefully, nodding.

“I asked him if he’s okay the other night. He said he’s just tired. But I don’t know if that’s true anymore.”

“It’s probably just hockey,” she offered, sweet and easy. “He gets weird when he’s stressed, right?”

“Yeah. He does.”

“You’re probably just being sensitive.”

“I am sensitive,” you agreed. “It’s one of my best qualities.”

She laughed, then pointed at your swatch card. “Okay. Nail color. What are we thinking?”

You eyed the bold red that always caught your attention. “I was kinda thinking red? Like a really rich, hot one.”

Her eyes widened slightly–just enough for you to notice.

“Maybe not red,” she said quickly. “Could be bad luck?”

You frowned. “Bad luck?”

She shrugged, all fake nonchalance. “You said things feel off. No need to tempt fate, right?”

You eyed her, skeptical. “You’re full of shit.”

“Absolutely,” she grinned. “But I’m also right.”

You sighed and pointed to a soft white instead. “Fine. Something neutral. Like my slowly deteriorating emotional state.”

“Beautiful choice.”

You got home around five, bags in hand, and called out the second you stepped inside.

“Baby, your sugar mama’s back!”

Sidney appeared from the living room, rubbing the back of his neck, wearing an old hoodie and gym shorts that made your stomach do a weird little flip. He looked soft. Comfortable. A little nervous.

You held up your hand, fanning your fingers. “White. Like a fresh start. Or snow. Or surrendering to a hockey boy who refuses to tell me what’s wrong.”

He took your hand and examined your nails like they were a rare gem. Kissed your knuckles. “They look good. Really good.”

You grinned, shrugging your jacket off. “I also went shopping. Bought you a couple things.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.” You tossed the bag at his chest. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

He peeked inside, pulling out a new sweatshirt and a dark blue polo. He blinked, caught off guard.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to. I saw them and thought of you.”

He looked at you, quiet for a moment, before stepping forward and wrapping his arms around your waist. He didn’t say anything at first. Just held you. Face buried in your neck.

You hugged him back, threading your fingers into his hair.

“Hey,” you murmured. “Whatever it is we’re okay. Right?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes searching your face.

“Yeah,” he said. “We’re okay.”

The way his throat moved when he swallowed said more than the words ever could.

Sunday started off tense in your chest, even if you couldn’t quite say why. You got up early, earlier than usual on a game day, and took your time getting ready. Showered, did your hair, put on just enough makeup to feel like you were trying without making it a whole thing. You picked out an outfit that was comfortable but cute. Appropriate for an arena. Appropriate in case someone caught a glimpse of you beside Sidney.

You hadn’t gone to a game in a long while. The distance–or whatever it was–had made you hesitant. But today was the last one before a short break in the schedule. He hadn’t said you should come. He hadn’t said you shouldn’t either. And you figured maybe showing up would say more than pushing with words ever could.

He looked surprised to see you in your usual seat, in the way his eyes crinkled just a bit and his mouth quirked when he spotted you. Not wide-eyed or stunned–just relieved. Like maybe he’d needed you there too.

They won. The team looked sharp. Sid played like he had something to prove. A fire under his feet, that kind of dangerous focus that made the whole arena hum. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. Couldn’t stop yourself from smiling when he skated past the glass, wiping sweat from his brow, mouth tight with adrenaline.

He didn’t text you right after. Just sent a little heart emoji when you messaged him: "Good game. You were fucking ruthless."He sent a wink too. You knew what that meant.

By the time he walked through the front door of the house, freshly showered and still pink from post-game heat, he looked good. Too good. Smug and warm and easy in his own skin.

“Hey, baby,” he called, tossing his things in the corner like he’d lived there all his life. “What’s for dinner?”

You narrowed your eyes from your spot on the couch. “What am I, your housewife now?”

“I mean, I’m open to it. You’d look hot in an apron.”

“Don’t need the apron. Just heels.”

He groaned and collapsed beside you. “Fuck, don’t start. I’m already half-hard from the goal.”

You snorted. “You're disgusting.”

“Only for you.”

You turned to him, knees tucked under you, watching as he leaned his head back, the muscles in his neck soft and lazy now. You didn’t even realize how tightly you’d been holding yourself until you let your hand rest on his thigh and felt him lean into it.

“What?” he said eventually, glancing at you from under his lashes.

“Nothing,” you said softly. “You just seem… good today.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, “I am good today.”

You waited, hopeful.

He reached over and played with the hem of your sweater. “Actually… I was thinking.”

“That’s always dangerous.”

He flicked your thigh. “I was thinking—what if we took a trip?”

You blinked. “A trip?”

“Yeah. Just… get out of the city for a bit. Go home.”

“Home?”

“Nova Scotia,” he said, like it was the simplest thing. “Back to the lake house. It’s been a minute since we were there.”

Your stomach fluttered.

The lake house wasn’t just a vacation spot. It was the place. The place he brought you when things got too loud. The place where he kissed you for the first time under the stars. Where you had sex in a freezing car because you were too impatient to wait until the heat kicked in. Where he told you he wanted to build a life with you–when you weren’t even sure he meant it yet.

It was a safe place.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Fuck, yes. Please. Let’s go.”

He smiled. A full one. Like he’d been holding it in for days.

“We fly out tomorrow. Noon.”

You blinked. “Wait—you already booked it?”

He kissed your cheek. “Yep. Had a feeling you’d say yes.”

Packing was easy. You didn’t overthink it. Somehow, the anniversary slipped your mind entirely–buried beneath the glow of him being warm with you again, of the idea of leaving the city behind for a few days and just being. He helped you fold sweaters, tucked your thick socks into the corners of your suitcase like he always did. You grabbed the book you hadn’t finished and two bottles of wine, just in case.

When Monday came, you were ready and excite.

The flight was smooth. Private, quiet, no press. Just the two of you and a shared playlist on his headphones. He let you nap against his shoulder, rubbing lazy circles into your thigh while you dozed, your mouth half-open and your legs tangled with his.

When the wheels touched down, the nerves came back–not in a bad way, just a buzz under your skin. Familiarity. Nostalgia. His hand found yours easily.

By the time you pulled up to the house, it was already golden hour–light flooding the porch and scattering across the surface of the lake like something out of a dream. The windows glowed warm. Everything looked the same.

You kicked your shoes off the second you stepped inside. The scent of the place hit you all at once–wood and clean linens and something that always lingered from last time. Him. You ran your fingers along the entryway table where you’d once dropped your wet swimsuit, the one he’d peeled off you on the stairs, laughing as you’d slipped.

Sidney followed you in with the bags, dropped them, and wrapped his arms around you from behind.

“You remember the time you tried to seduce me with s’mores out back?”

“You mean the time I successfully seduced you with s’mores?”

He hummed, lips on your neck. “You were wearing those stupid little pajama shorts. What was I supposed to do?”

“Exercise some fucking restraint.”

“I was exercising. You should’ve seen the cardio I got from hauling your ass inside.”

You laughed so hard you nearly fell forward.

Dinner was surprisingly romantic.

Sid took the reins, told you to sit and let him handle it. You kicked your feet up on the armrest of the couch and watched him chop garlic like he was auditioning for a cooking show. He didn’t let you help, even when you offered–just handed you a glass of wine and told you to relax.

“You’re trying to get me drunk,” you teased.

He looked over his shoulder and winked. “What gave me away?”

“I dunno, maybe the full pour.”

He plated pasta and seared chicken, added roasted vegetables and that garlic bread you always begged him to make. You were genuinely touched. Even the napkins were folded.

“Jesus Christ,” you said when he set the table. “Did Martha Stewart possess you?”

He smirked. “I just thought you deserved a nice dinner.”

You sat across from him and twirled your fork slowly through your pasta, still watching him with a kind of disbelief.

“You’re being really fucking nice to me today.”

He froze for a second. Just a flicker. Then softened.

“Maybe I’m always nice and you’re just mean.”

You scoffed. “You were absolutely planning to avoid me all week until I spontaneously combusted. Don’t act innocent.”

He reached over the table, took your hand. “I’m sorry I made you feel like that.”

Your throat tightened. The food suddenly felt too hot in your mouth.

“You didn’t… I mean… maybe a little.”

“I know I’ve been in my head.”

You didn’t push for more. Just nodded. Grateful that he acknowledged it at all.

The rest of dinner was quiet, warm. He kept stealing bites from your plate and you let him. You poured him the rest of your wine and he grinned like you’d handed him the keys to your soul.

Afterward, you took turns doing the dishes, flicking soap bubbles at each other like you were sixteen again.

You were halfway through drying the last plate when he came up behind you, hands on your hips.

“Remember the time you bent over the sink and asked me to fuck you like we were strangers?”

You barked a laugh. “That was because we were drunk and you were wearing your captain jersey.”

He nipped at your ear. “Still the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You turned, face flushed, drying towel still in hand. “Sid.”

“What?”

“You’re not slick.”

He smirked. “I know.”

You leaned into his chest, burying your face there for a moment, letting the feel of him ground you. He smelled like garlic and cologne and something warm. Something safe.

He kissed the top of your head and didn’t let go.

The night had ended slow and sweet.

You’d both ended up in bed around nine, full from dinner, half-tipsy from a third bottle of wine Sidney insisted you had to open because, “we’re on vacation, babe, live a little.” You’d curled into each other with The Wedding Date playing–your pick, obviously. Sidney only groaned about it for like twenty seconds before giving up and letting his hand sneak up your shirt instead, palm splayed against your stomach, thumb rubbing lazy little circles under your ribs.

“Can’t believe you’re making me watch Dermot Mulroney seduce Debra Messing,” he mumbled against your collarbone.

“You’re just mad no one’s asked you to be a fake boyfriend for money.”

He laughed and kissed your shoulder. “I’d pay you to let me fake date you.”

“You already do. It’s called buying me dinner.”

He grinned against your skin and squeezed your hip. “Fuck, you’re right.”

You were out cold before the third act. The kind of sleep that wraps around you thick and warm, the way your body just gives in when you feel safe and fed and loved. You barely remembered the end of the movie.

The bedroom was dim and quiet when you woke the first time. A soft glow came from the TV on the dresser, the loading screen of the movie rolling with gentle music as Dermot Mulroney whispered something smooth to Debra Messing–something you would’ve melted for if your heart wasn’t suddenly pounding from the empty space beside you.

Sidney wasn’t in bed.

You blinked groggily, reached out across the sheets. The dent was still warm. You could hear movement, subtle but unmistakable–fabric rustling, a soft thump like something being set down too fast. From the closet.

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t want to startle him. Maybe he was looking for something. Maybe he couldn’t sleep either.

You closed your eyes and tried to melt back into the blankets, ignoring the ache in your chest that came every time you woke up alone lately. After a few minutes, he returned. The mattress dipped under his weight. And then there was warmth–his arms slipping around you from behind, the familiar feel of his face burying into your hair.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmured against your temple. “I got you.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t want to risk sounding uncertain, or needy, or worse–suspicious. So you just nodded, or maybe twitched your fingers over his arm, hoping it passed for comfort.

This happened twice more. Each time, he got up quietly, tried not to wake you. You heard the soft creak of the closet door, a faint zip. And each time, he came back more energized, more electric.

The third time, you felt his lips against your hairline.

“You’re so fucking cute when you snore,” he whispered.

“I don’t snore,” you muttered, not even opening your eyes.

“Babe,” he said, voice smiling. “You literally make whale sounds when you’re dreaming.”

You sighed, barely holding back a laugh. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, and kissed you again.

You woke to more kisses–soft ones, warm ones, trailing along the edge of your jaw until they reached the corner of your mouth. You stirred, felt his weight hovering over you a little, one arm braced on the mattress, the other tracing light patterns on your stomach under the blanket.

“Morning, baby,” he whispered. “Happy anniversary.”

You opened your eyes, bleary and confused for a second, then blinked fast. “Oh shit. That’s today?”

He grinned, eyes dancing. “Smooth.”

You groaned, covering your face with both hands. “Nooo. I thought it was—fuck, I thought it was tomorrow. I swear.”

He kissed the inside of your wrist, then your cheek, then your neck. “It’s today. And I’m taking you out. So get your ass ready.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “Out where?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said, dragging the word out like he was dangling a steak in front of a starving dog. “So dress like you know it’s your anniversary and you might get lucky.”

You threw a pillow at his head. “You will get lucky, dipshit. That’s the bare minimum.”

He caught it easily, tossed it back, and then leaned in again, voice low against your ear. “I’ll take care of you tonight, babe. Promise.”

Your cheeks flamed. You smacked his chest. “Sidney!”

He just grinned, smug as hell, and stood up to stretch–shirt riding up slightly, revealing the sliver of toned stomach you’d gotten very acquainted with over the years.

“God,” you muttered. “You’re such a slut.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You got dressed after a long shower, letting yourself move slowly through your skincare, hair, the soft shimmer of a body oil that smelled like flower blossoms and vanilla–something that reminded you of warm months, good memories, lighter times.

You pulled on a white blouse. Your skirt was long, floral, hitting down to your toes with a flirty slit up the side–barely noticeable until the breeze hit it just right. You added your favorite sandals, the strappy ones he once said made your feet look “illegal.”

When you stepped out into the hall, he was waiting by the front door.

And he looked good.

Dark jeans, dark blue polo, the one you’d bought him, underneath an open overshirt–light blue-gray, almost slate. The kind of look that was understated but somehow devastating. Like he hadn’t tried too hard, but you knew he definitely had.

His eyes lifted when he saw you. Stayed lifted.

“Holy shit,” he said, slowly. “Are you trying to kill me?”

You smiled, fiddled with the sleeve of your blouse. “Just figured you might like me to try today.”

He walked over, hands landing softly on your waist, eyes warm. “You could wear a trash bag and I’d still trip over myself.”

You smirked. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

His brows lifted. “Babe. I slipped once—”

“You fell trying to take off my bra. In socks.”

“That floor was waxed like an ice rink and your bra was—”

“Fort Knox?”

He groaned, pulled you in tighter. “Why do I tell you anything?”

You laughed, pressing your forehead to his chest. “Because you love me.”

He kissed your hair. “That’s the only reason I haven’t buried you in my backyard.”

You smiled. But there was something in your chest, tight and delicate, like a string pulled taut across your ribs. You didn’t know why. Everything felt… right. But it also didn’t. Not completely.

He was jittery, still. But not distant. Not like before. He was warm again, present. Almost vibrating with something unspoken.

Maybe it really was just the anniversary. Maybe he’d been planning something all along. Maybe it was you who’d been losing your mind, not him.

Maybe.

“Where are we going?” you asked again when you got in the car.

“Still a surprise.”

You sighed dramatically. “You know I hate not knowing things.”

He leaned over, kissed the side of your neck, just under your ear. “You’ll like it. Promise.”

And you believed him.

You had to.

Because if you didn’t believe him now, you didn’t know if you’d survive what that meant.

The drive felt familiar, but not quite. You kept catching landmarks out of the corner of your eye–places that used to mean something when everything was new and stupid and thrilling, when Sidney was just that guy from your orbit who'd become your favorite gravitational pull. But the turns weren’t exact. The timing was off. This wasn’t the route to any of your usual haunts–no trails, no hidden lookouts, no seafood shacks or tiny cafés with mismatched chairs and old regulars who knew Sidney by first name.

He had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh, thumb rubbing light circles just above your knee, skin warm under your skirt. The windows were cracked slightly; the scent of salt and pine drifted in with the cool breeze. Somewhere behind you, the lake sparkled under the patchy sunlight, half-shadowed by a mix of late spring clouds and the stubborn remnants of chill air that hadn’t quite released its grip on Nova Scotia.

“Hey,” he said softly, glancing over at you like he’d been sitting on the question for miles. “You remember that place—the first one you agreed to go out with me?”

You turned your head toward him slowly, lips quirking. “The Italian place with the weird-ass candle holders?”

He laughed. “God, yeah. Those things looked like melted lava.”

You nodded, smiling. “And the servers wore all black like it was a funeral.”

“But the food was good.”

“The food was amazing,” you agreed. “That ravioli? I still think about that ravioli.”

Sidney grinned. “I knew you were the one when you practically licked the sauce off the plate.”

“Oh fuck off,” you laughed, smacking his arm. “It was truffle cream, I’d do it again.”

“Honestly? Me too.”

You chuckled softly, letting your fingers trace little patterns where his hand rested on your leg.

“But didn’t it close?” you asked after a beat, eyes narrowing as you glanced out the window again. “Wait—are we headed that way?”

He shrugged, a little too casually.

“I thought it shut down years ago.”

“It did,” he said, flicking on his blinker for a left turn. “But… there’s a new place there now. Same building, different owners. My buddies said it’s actually better.”

You blinked. “Better than that ravioli?”

“That’s what they said.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Who are these mysterious food snob friends you’re suddenly listening to?”

He just smirked. “Guys I trust. Guys who also wanted to lick their plates.”

“Oh, well then,” you said, dry as hell, “in that case, take me immediately.”

He laughed again and squeezed your leg. “Figured since we’re here and it’s our anniversary, might as well indulge a little.”

You smiled but didn’t say anything, just let yourself sink back into the seat. You stared out the window again, the scenery a mix of small-town charm and rugged natural beauty. Trees dense and heavy with summer promise, houses scattered like secrets, and glimpses of the lake flashing like coins tossed into the wind.

The closer you got, the more your chest tightened. Not in a bad way–at least, not entirely. Just that strange, thick feeling that always came with returning to your beginnings. The restaurant. This town. Him. You.

He had to park a little farther than usual. The lot close to the restaurant–new or not–was already packed. Sidney muttered a few curses as he circled once, then twice, before finally sighing and settling into a spot down a narrow side street with cracked pavement and overgrown shrubs clawing the sidewalk.

“Perfect,” he said, clearly unimpressed. “Romantic walk through the fuckin’ wilderness.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh no, not walking. On our legs. However will we survive.”

“I should’ve packed a wagon,” he deadpanned, slamming the door shut and rounding the car to meet you.

“You act like you don’t have the stamina of a mountain goat.”

“That’s in bed, babe.”

You snorted, linking your fingers with his as you started walking. “You’d know.”

He bumped your hip with his. “Damn right I would.”

The walk was actually beautiful.

The chill caught you off guard at first–your skirt fluttered against your legs, hair lifting slightly in the breeze, the scent of lake water and cedar fresh and sharp in your nose. But the sun was trying, really trying, to break through the clouds. And when it did, it lit everything in this hazy, golden way that made even the cracked sidewalk and crooked fencing look poetic.

Sidney walked close, his hand wrapped tight around yours like he was anchoring himself. Or maybe you. You didn’t know anymore.

“You okay?” you asked after a few quiet blocks, glancing up at him.

He looked down, eyes soft. “Yeah. You?”

You nodded. “I think so.”

You didn’t push further. He didn’t either.

Instead, he pointed out a corner market that used to sell weird European candy, and you told him about the time you bought expired gummies there on accident and were sick for three hours.

He laughed so hard he almost tripped over a loose brick.

By the time you reached the restaurant, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

The building was the same, technically, but it felt completely different now. Gone were the dark, heavy curtains and gothic candle holders. Now it was light, bright–big windows, soft white lights strung around the perimeter like fireflies, flowers in small glass vases on every visible table. A chalkboard sign out front read the day’s specials.

It smelled like garlic and lemon and wine.

You looked up at him. “Okay, your mysterious plate-licking friends might be onto something.”

He smirked. “Told you.”

“Still want ravioli though.”

“They’ve got it,” he said, pulling open the door for you. “But don’t lick the plate this time. We’re in public.”

“No promises.”

He leaned in close, breath warm against your ear. “You lick anything in public tonight, I’m gonna make you pay for it later.”

Your breath caught.

“Sidney—”

“You started it,” he said, eyes sparkling, smug as hell.

You just shook your head, walking into the restaurant, heart pounding. The kind of pounding that came from anticipation. From hope. From something else you couldn’t name, not yet.

You were warm from the walk, and colder now that he’d let go of your hand.

But the inside was cozy. The lighting was perfect. And he was here.

You told yourself, quietly, carefully, not to expect anything. Just to enjoy this. Just to breathe.

But the truth curled in your stomach, like the sun behind the clouds, aching to break through.

Please, you thought, as the hostess led you to your table. Please let tonight be the start of something again.

And sure enough, breakfast had been nothing short of perfect.

You’d both ordered too much, like always–Sidney going for some loaded breakfast sandwich monstrosity that required two hands and a strategy, while you’d gone full brunch mode with lemon ricotta pancakes and a side of crispy bacon, “for balance.” You shared a fruit plate that you both ignored, sipped fresh coffee and laughed about stupid things–the server’s deep confusion over Sidney’s name spelling, your ongoing debate about who was better at Wordle, the fact that your bacon was suspiciously shaped like the province of Alberta.

He paid, of course. You tried to argue, also of course. It was tradition by now. You teasing, him grinning, saying “Babe, please. Let me pretend I have my shit together.”

Now, full and warm and the good kind of sleepy, you found yourself wandering the street just off the restaurant’s patio, your hand in his, your head still buzzing a little from how good it felt to just be near him like this again.

The rain was just beginning to come down. Not quite a drizzle, but not a full downpour yet either. A whisper of mist that clung to the edges of your sandals and kissed the tops of your bare shoulders. Goosebumps chased up your arms, and before you even said anything, he was shrugging off his overshirt.

“Here,” Sidney said, draping it over your shoulders with a sort of rough gentleness that always made your throat close up. “Don’t need you catching pneumonia on our anniversary.”

You snorted, slipping your arms into it. It smelled like him. Clean cotton and aftershave and something a little woodsy that you could never name but always knew. “I think it’s just rain, not the plague.”

He gave you a look. “You sneeze once and I’m calling in a med evac.”

“Jesus, dramatic much?”

“Excuse me for loving you.”

You smiled, the kind of smile you couldn’t stop if you tried, the kind that pulled at your cheeks and made your heart feel way too big for your chest. You didn’t say anything. You just reached for his hand again and gave it a squeeze.

The street was cute–old cobblestone patched with newer asphalt, flower boxes under window sills, string lights still up even though it was midday. Most of the shops were boutique-y: a bakery with handcarved signs, a tiny bookstore that looked like it might actually be someone’s converted living room, a shop that only sold local honey and jam, apparently.

You pointed at a little ceramic penguin in a window display of what looked like a gift shop run by someone’s kooky grandmother. “That’s you,” you said, poking the glass with a grin.

Sidney raised an eyebrow. “The penguin?”

“Yeah. Look at his face. He’s serious. He has a job to do. But he also probably makes great banana bread.”

He stared at it, squinting. “…I hate how accurate that is.”

You laughed and pulled your phone out of the overshirt pocket–his pocket, big and worn-in–and snapped a picture. Then another, of the little crooked birdhouse hanging off a streetlight. Then another, of the puddles catching reflections of the cloudy sun.

He watched you like he always did when you didn’t think he was watching–soft-eyed and a little dazed, like you were the only thing in the world that made sense to him.

“You’re such a nerd,” he said, quietly.

You glanced back at him, smirking. “Why?”

“Pictures of puddles?”

“They’re pretty. Shut up.”

“You’re pretty,” he muttered.

It was under his breath. But you caught it anyway. Your stomach flipped.

“You’re such a sweetheart today.”

He rolled his eyes but he didn’t deny it. Just gave your hand another squeeze and pulled you a little closer as the drizzle started to pick up.

By the time you got halfway down the block, the rain had gone from a light mist to something steadier–thicker drops that tapped off your sandals and left tiny dark marks on the floral fabric of your skirt. But the air was still warm, and the sun, somehow, was still breaking through above the clouds, giving everything this weird magical glow.

You paused outside a little flower cart and leaned in, brushing your fingers over some tulips. “We should get some for the house,” you said.

“You trying to kill another batch?”

“Excuse me, I kept that orchid alive for three months.”

Sidney raised his eyebrows. “That orchid was already dead, babe.”

“You’re dead.”

“Okay.”

You grabbed a photo of the cart too–pastels against the gray sky, your phone case slick with mist now. And that’s when you felt it–a heavier drop, then another, then a whole series of them thudding against your skin like a warning.

“Shit,” you muttered, blinking up at the clouds. “It’s getting worse.”

Sidney looked up too, then back at you. His hair was already damp, curls starting to lift. Water streaked the bridge of his nose. He looked stupidly hot in the rain. Unfair.

You tugged at the collar of his overshirt, clinging a little tighter to it. “We can head back,” you offered. “It’s not like I need to get pneumonia to feel loved.”

But he just shook his head.

“Nah. You’re still exploring. And rain won’t kill us.”

You blinked at him. “You’re the one who was just calling in a med evac two seconds ago.”

He grinned. “Yeah, well. Now you’ve got my shirt on, so you’re invincible.”

You laughed, hard, stepping closer into him. Your shoes squelched slightly on the wet stone.

“Okay, calm down, Captain Canada.”

He brushed some hair over your shoulder, his touch feather-light. “We’ll head back when you’re ready. Just don’t slip and crack your ass.”

“Oh no, not my ass,” you said dramatically. “It’s your favorite part of me.”

“It’s not,” he said. “But it’s top three.”

You arched a brow. “Go on.”

He grinned again. “Number one: your mouth. Number two: those eyes. Number three: that ass. Maybe tied with that little spot on your hip I kiss when I’m trying to get you to lose your mind.”

Your face flushed hot. “Jesus.”

“Want me to keep going?”

“No,” you said quickly, eyes darting to an older couple passing by under a too-small umbrella.

“Yes you do,” he said.

You shook your head, cheeks aching from smiling now. Rain pattered harder around you, but somehow you didn’t feel cold. Not with his hand in yours, not with his stupid shirt wrapped around your shoulders, not with the way he kept watching you like he couldn’t stop.

You walked another few blocks before the rain really started coming down.

At that point, you both gave in.

Sidney tugged you under a small awning next to the bookstore and kissed your forehead, drops of water sliding down your temple. You tilted your face up to him, your mouth just inches from his, breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t kiss you then. Just tucked a strand of wet hair behind your ear and whispered, “You happy?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Really happy.”

And you were.

Even with the rain, even with the ache in your chest you still couldn’t name. Even with the nagging sense that he was carrying some secret–something weighty and brewing–you felt full. Alive. Loved.

“I think we’re officially soaked.”

“Mmhm,” he hummed, content. “We should probably turn back.”

You nodded... then turned away from the area where the car was parked.

“Or we could go that way.”

He blinked, then smiled. “Of course we could.”

The hike wasn’t exactly planned. Like, at all. You were both wearing absolutely the wrong shoes, your sandals slipping slightly on the wet gravel path and Sidney’s jeans gradually turning that dark, clingy shade of drenched. His hair was curling up more than usual, clinging to his forehead, and the sleeves of his shirt–now yours–were completely soaked through. The hem of your skirt had a nice little mud border going. Honestly? You looked like you had survived a romantic natural disaster.

And neither of you gave a shit.

Because you were together, and you weren’t on a schedule, and the path you were on led to the water. Not just any water. The water–the one you both had wandered to countless times over the years, both separately and together. Where you'd sat on the rocks and kissed like teenagers long after you weren’t teenagers anymore. Where he’d once told you he loved you with a goddamn mouthful of granola bar and you’d cried anyway. Where you’d once skipped stones together and he made a dumb comment about the shape of your ass and you tackled him straight into the lake.

So yeah. Wet shoes were not gonna stop you.

By the time the trees broke and the trail sloped down to the shoreline, your fingers were cold, your hair was practically dripping, and Sidney’s entire upper half looked like he’d taken a shower fully clothed. But the second you saw the water stretching out before you, glassy and silver under the cloudy sky, you felt your chest expand.

It was quiet. Not just because no one else was dumb enough to hike in a rainstorm, but the kind of quiet that felt sacred. The kind of quiet you didn’t want to fill with anything but the sound of your own breathing and the low hum of Sidney beside you.

“I can’t feel my toes,” you said casually, stepping off the path and toward the rockier edge.

“I could’ve told you sandals were a mistake,” he replied, voice full of smugness.

“I look cute though.”

“You always look cute,” he said, bumping his shoulder into yours. “But also slightly unhinged.”

You grinned, shaking your head and stepping toward the edge of the water. Rain dotted the surface in little dimples, and the sun–miraculously–was still doing its damnedest to shine through a break in the clouds, casting those weird streaks of light across the lake like someone had smudged gold paint over the gray.

Your hands were damp and chilled but still warm inside his, and his shirt hung off your shoulders, heavy now with rain, clinging to your back like a second skin. The walk was ridiculous, probably borderline miserable for anyone else, but you both looked like idiots smiling through it.

You stepped over a cluster of mossy stones, your foot catching slightly. “God, this is not sandal terrain. I’m gonna slip and fucking die.”

“If you do, I’ll die too,” Sidney said solemnly from behind you.

“Very Romeo and Juliet of you.”

“Except less poisoning, more blunt force trauma via wet shale.”

You crouched down by the water when you spotted it. Smooth, flat, maybe just slightly bluish-grey–a perfect pebble. You picked it up and turned it over in your hand, already grinning before you even spoke.

“Okay,” you said, standing up and brushing your hands off on your skirt, “this is yours now.”

Sidney turned toward you, his brows up. “Why? I don’t collect rocks, babe.”

You walked it over to him, placing it squarely in his palm. “Because if we were penguins, and I were a guy, and I gave you this rock, it would technically mean we were married now. That’s how it works. Pebble equals penguin proposal.”

He stared at you, water dripping down his hairline, cheeks flushed with wind and wet. “You’re telling me this rock just bound us in holy matrimony?”

You nodded solemnly. “Yup. We’re officially husband and wife. Pittsburgh Penguin tradition.”

Sidney barked out a laugh, turning the stone in his hand. “I was gonna skip it across the water…”

“You skip that rock, and I’ll skip you,” you threatened, poking his chest with a damp finger.

“Well,” he smirked, slipping it into the pocket of his jeans, “guess I better hold onto it, huh? Can’t throw away my marriage rock.”

You both laughed, your stomach flipping for reasons you couldn’t even name. Maybe it was the rain, or the joke, or just being out there with him, alone in the gray world.

He stood there for a minute after that, just watching you as you pulled your phone out and wiped the screen with the hem of his shirt. You angled it toward him first, catching the soft look on his face.

“Say hi to the people,” you murmured, and Sidney gave the camera the flattest wave known to man, grinning sideways as you panned the shot.

“Hi. I’m a soggy penguin husband.”

“Now say hi to our future penguin children,” you joked.

“Already planning names,” he said. “Rocky. Pebbles. Baby Nugget.”

“Jesus Christ.”

You panned back toward the lake. The clouds had cracked open just enough that long, golden beams were falling across the water like spotlights. You turned a little, adjusting your frame.

“This would actually be a really nice place for someone to propose,” you said offhandedly, more to yourself than to him, as you panned across the lake.

Sid didn’t respond.

You didn’t notice.

Not at first.

You were too focused on getting the shot, on capturing the way the light hit the rocks just right. But a second later–maybe two–you turned back, thumb ready to hit the stop button–

–your entire world shifts.

Because there he is.

Sidney.

Down on one fucking knee.

Mouth twitching like he’s fighting off a smile. His hair’s dripping, his jeans are soaked through, his knuckles are tight around a velvet black box in his hand, and his eyes are looking up at you in that way–that way–that melts your spine into nothing.

You feel your brain short-circuit. Your mouth opens.

Your phone slips right from your fingers and thunks against the wet ground.

Sopping wet, rain in his lashes, that pebble still tucked somewhere in his jeans, and the softest, surest look on his face you’d ever seen in your life.

Your hand flew to your mouth, eyes wide, already stinging with tears.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, your voice shaky, your whole body still except for your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “What…?”

Sid laughed softly, almost sheepishly. “Hi baby. Uh… surprise.”

You were frozen.

And then he opened it.

And you gasped.

The ring was perfect.

Timeless, gleaming like something meant just for you. Like something made of sunlit glass and soft mornings and every damn second you’d ever spent loving him.

“I’ve had this for a while. Since December, actually.”

Your eyes snapped to his, and he nodded, eyes glossy now too.

“I didn’t know how to do it. I kept psyching myself out. Every time I looked at you, I’d get this rush of—of panic and love and just—Jesus, it scared the hell out of me. Because you’re the one for me. You’ve always been the one.”

You felt the tears spill over now, couldn’t even try to stop them.

He smiled, licking a raindrop off his bottom lip. “You make me feel like I’ve got something to lose. Something I’d do anything to keep. I know I’ve been acting off, but it wasn’t because I was doubting this. I was just scared of screwing it up. I didn’t want to ruin what we have by not doing this right.”

“Sidney,” you whispered, completely breathless.

He looked up at you with this open, shining face, the most beautiful, terrified man you’d ever seen.

“So. Now that we’ve hiked through wet gravel in the rain on our anniversary, I have to ask—”

He exhaled, his voice catching just a little. “Will you marry me?”

You choked on a laugh-sob, one hand still covering your mouth, the other reaching for him instinctively. “Are you serious?”

His brows lifted, like–what do you think?

“Yes, I’m fucking serious.”

“You want to marry me?” you whispered.

He blinked, stunned. “Are you—babe are you kidding? There’s no one else I’d even think about marrying. It’s always been you.”

That broke something in you.

You laughed–giggled, really, through the tears, wiping your face with the sleeve of his shirt still hanging off your shoulders. “You dumbass.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Of course it’s a yes, Sidney, oh my God—”

And then you dropped to your knees too, straight into the gravel and water, not caring one fucking bit, and kissed him like your life depended on it. Your hands cupped his face, the ring box still between you both, and you kissed and cried and laughed into his mouth.

When you pulled back, forehead to his, both of you soaked and shivering and grinning like lunatics, he whispered, “We can count the penguin rock as the official proposal, if you want. That one was better.”

You shoved his shoulder, breathless. “That was a joke, Crosby.”

“Too late. Legally binding.”

“You’re legally stupid.”

“But I’m legally yours,” he teased, slipping the ring onto your finger, his hands shaking just a little. “Guess that makes you legally stuck with me.”

You leaned in, kissed his lips again, soft and amazed.

“Good,” you whispered. “That’s exactly where I want to be.”

The walk back to the car was ridiculous.

Completely, utterly, stupidly ridiculous.

You were soaked. He was soaked. Your sandals were sloshing. His jeans looked like they’d been painted on by the rain. Your hair was sticking to your neck, and you had a leaf caught somewhere in the hem of your skirt. But neither of you could stop smiling. Not even for a second.

It wasn’t really walking so much as floating, anyway–feet weren’t totally touching the ground the way they normally did. Your knees were wobbly. Your brain was buzzy. Your hand was heavy in the best way. That ring on your finger glinted even through the misty air, even under the blanket of drizzle. Like it belonged there.

And you kept giggling like you were drunk on something far stronger than mimosas, tugging on Sidney’s hand and leaning into him like your body couldn’t physically keep upright under the weight of your joy.

“Oh my God,” you laughed for what had to be the sixth time in a minute, burying your face in his neck, your arms wrapping around his shoulders from the side as you walked. “I can’t believe you actually fucking did that.”

Sidney groaned, half-laughing himself. “Jesus, you’re gonna make me cry again,” he muttered, pulling you in closer, his arm wrapping tightly around your waist like he was scared you’d float away if he didn’t hold on.

You didn’t walk so much as stumble and sway your way down the gravel trail, shoes sliding every now and then, your laughter hiccuping out of your chest. Sidney held you up every time you nearly lost your footing, which was often. But his face–God, his face.

He looked like he could breathe for the first time in months.

“You’re really happy?” he asked quietly, ducking his head so he could kiss your temple. “You’re not—like—freaking out a little on the inside?”

You tilted your face up and kissed his chin, still walking. “I mean, I am freaking out. But like... in a good way. Like, holy-shit-I’m-gonna-marry-the-love-of-my-life way.”

Sidney exhaled something halfway between a laugh and a groan and kissed your cheek again, this time slower, like he just needed the contact.

“I was so fucking scared to do that,” he admitted, voice rough. “Like, not because I didn’t want to. God, I’ve wanted to since—fuck, I dunno—since forever. But I kept overthinking it. Kept worrying I’d mess it up. That it wouldn’t be enough.”

You looked at him like he was speaking a language you’d never heard.

“Sid,” you said, stopping mid-step to face him, your hands still clutching his shirt near his waist, “you literally proposed to me at a lake in the rain with a fucking penguin pebble in your pocket. Do you know how un-fuck-up-able that is?”

He grinned, sheepish. “Yeah, well, I didn’t plan that part.”

You squinted at him. “Wait, you planned the rest of it?”

Sid sighed and ran a hand through his wet hair, slicking it back. “Since December.”

Your jaw dropped. “December?!”

He nodded, slow and guilty. “Yeah. You remember when we were helping one of my friends pick out a ring for his girlfriend? You said something about your dream ring. Like, just in passing. But I wrote that shit down immediately.”

You covered your mouth, stunned.

He kept talking, the words spilling out now like they’d been bottled too long.

“I called the place the same week. Had to have it made because, y’know, you have very specific taste and I wasn’t gonna fuck that part up. And then I started thinking about the trip. Like, where to go, how to do it. And the whole time I just kept making myself sick with anxiety because I didn’t want to blow it.”

You were grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “Sidney—”

“And then you started watching all these rom-coms about weddings and shit and I was like, ‘Oh fuck, she knows, she knows and she’s hinting at it and I’ve missed the window—’”

You snorted. “I was just watching My Bestfriends Wedding, dumbass.”

He groaned. “Yeah, and then Runaway Bride right after that? You were playing games.”

“I wasn’t!”

Sidney looked betrayed. “You literally watched 27 Dresses the same day I put the ring in my underwear drawer”

You burst out laughing. “Oh my God, you’re so fucking dramatic.”

“I thought it was a test!”

You tugged him to a stop, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You’re insane,” you whispered into his shirt. “And I love you so much it hurts.”

He bent his head down and kissed you again, slower this time, lingering, a little sigh leaving his mouth when your arms tightened around him.

“I know now.” he whined, eyes wide and exasperated. “But at the time I was spiraling. I was up in the middle of the night digging through my suitcase trying to make sure I hadn’t lost the damn ring.”

“You’re such a fucking dork,” you whispered. “I’m obsessed with you.”

“I just kept panicking,” he admitted against your lips. “Like, what if I fuck it up? What if the timing’s wrong, or you think it’s corny, or you’re not ready? I’ve been nauseous with it, babe. Like full-body nausea. Couldn’t even sleep last night—I kept waking up and messing with it in the closet.”

You gasped, swatting his stomach. “I knew you were doing something! You kept crawling back into bed all weird and clingy.”

“I was psyching myself up! You looked so peaceful and then I’d touch your hand and remember we’re not married yet and I’d start sweating.”

Sidney leaned back a little so he could look at your face. His hands found your hips, then your cheeks, thumbs brushing at the rain on your skin that wasn’t even rain anymore, just tears and wind and too much love.

“I just wanted it to be right,” he murmured. “I kept chasing this idea of a perfect moment. Like, something from a movie. I wanted the weather to cooperate, I wanted the timing to be perfect, I wanted to be dressed better, or for you to be wearing something I could remember in, like, exact detail for the rest of my life—”

“I am wearing something cute, you asshole.”

“I know, I know,” he laughed. “But the point is—I thought I needed everything to align. And then today, when we were just walking and you were all wet and happy and handing me rocks like a fucking sea bird, I realized that the only thing I needed was you. You are the perfect moment.”

Your whole face broke at that. Your throat closed. You could barely get the words out around it.

“Jesus Christ, Crosby,” you whispered, gripping the front of his shirt. “You’re gonna make me suck your dick in the car.”

Sidney snorted so hard he doubled over for a second. “Please don’t. The seats are fabric and we’re already drenched.”

You giggled again, shameless. “Fine. Rain check. Pun intended.”

He kissed you, again, for what felt like the millionth time, still laughing, the kind of messy, grateful kiss that tasted like both relief and rain.

Your heart clenched.

You sniffled, blinking away another wave of emotion. “You know, despite what everyone thinks, you really are such a sap.”

“You’re literally crying on me right now.”

You pouted dramatically, but he just pulled you tighter.

“Don’t ever take that ring off,” he murmured in your ear. “You hear me?”

“I won’t,” you promised. “Never. I’ll wear it even when you piss me off.”

“I don’t piss you off.”

“You’re so annoying sometimes.”

He kissed the side of your neck. “Yeah, but I’m your husband-level of annoying now.”

You froze in place again. “You’re gonna call yourself my husband every five minutes, aren’t you?”

“Hell yeah.”

“You’re gonna abuse that privilege so hard.”

“Babe,” he said with a shit-eating grin, “you’re legally obligated to laugh at all my bad jokes now. You gave the pebble.”

You shoved his arm and kept walking, but your hand found his again, fingers lacing without even thinking.

You stretched up and kissed him, long and slow, rain sliding down your cheeks. When you pulled back, he looped both arms around you and practically lifted you off the ground, laughing as you wrapped your legs around his waist.

“Careful,” you muttered against his jaw. “If you keep holding me like this, I’m gonna try to fuck you in the truck.”

He snorted. “Not in the truck. We just got engaged. Don’t want you bruising your ass on the gear shift.”

“Oh my God,” you laughed, clinging to him. “Can you imagine explaining that at the ER?”

“‘Congratulations, Mr. Crosby. And how did your fiancée dislocate her hip again?’” he mimicked, setting you down gently

You smacked his chest. “You’re a nuisance.”

He winked. “Your nusiance.”

The rest of the walk was slow and stupid and absolutely drenched. You kept touching your ring like you needed to be sure it was real. You kept laughing, pressing your face into his shoulder, kissing his arm, his neck, whatever you could reach. Every time you did, Sidney would stop walking, kiss your hair, whisper something like, I love you so fucking much, and just hold you there for a minute like he needed the world to stop spinning long enough to catch his breath.

And you let it.

Because what the hell else could you do?

You were engaged to the love of your life.

And no amount of rain was gonna wash that away.