ewy

Sukuna seemed genuinely unconcerned by any pressure, certain that he could study the night before and pass, seeing no merit in fretting the way that you currently were. Meanwhile, you’d reached the point where you were certain you’d already run out of time, and were ultimately doomed to failure. 

Even though you’d diligently kept up with your studies during your time in Kyushu, you were certain that it hadn’t been enough. Missing out on smaller seminars and workshops by studying remotely was practically a death sentence in your area of study. 

Might as well just give up now because you were fucked. 

“I’m going to have to re-do the year anyway, why am I trying so hard to fail?” 

Sukuna frowned, pausing his game and moving to linger next to the bed you were currently laying on. You were propped up on your elbows, lip quivering as you continued to look at your notes, afraid that if you glanced at Sukuna you’d instantly burst into tears. 

He had that effect on you. If you were ever feeling low his comforting presence would always bring out the waterworks - sometimes it was annoying how ineffective you were at holding yourself together whenever he’d show you the smallest shred of concern. 

“You’re like the smartest person I know,” Sukuna said softly, his form casting a shadow over you. “I don’t think you could fail if you tried.” 

“You called me stupid the other day.” You could practically hear him roll his eyes. 

“Yeah, because for someone so smart, you can be really dumb.” The bed creaked beneath his weight as he took a seat beside you, warmth radiating off his body. “Always coming up with silly ideas like how you’re gonna fail, when we both know that’s not happening.” 

“It might-” you started, turning to finally look at him. Just as you’d expected, the sight of his concerned expression had you choking on your words, eyes instantly growing watery. 

“Come here, baby.” He whispered, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you into his chest. You let the warmth of his hoodie encase you, tears finally spilling over once you were secure within his embrace.

“I’m gonna fail- I can’t- I’m just too far behind.” 

“Baby, you’ve been studying for weeks now. When was the last time you took a break outside of grabbing a few hours of sleep?” He had a point, and it wasn’t like you could dismiss that with a lie when you’d literally been studying in his room - he could see plain as day that you’d barely been taking breaks. 

If he knew how little sleep you’d been getting while he was off away in dreamland, he’d probably be even more frustrated with you. 

“I don’t have time,” you mumbled into his hoodie.

“You’ve studied more than literally anyone I know. You have time.” Gently peeling you away from the safety of his hoodie, a hand came to rest below your chin, tilting your face up to make you look at him properly. “We’re gonna go get some fresh air.” 

“It’s like 11pm already,” you mumbled. 

“So? Doesn’t look like you were planning on sleeping any time soon anyway.” He stood up and tossed a coat in your direction. “Put that on, I don’t want you catching a cold.” 

Knowing that he was probably right, and that it was pointless to oppose him whenever he set his mind to looking after you, you pulled the jacket on as asked. You found that your tears were already drying by the time you were appropriately togged up for the weather, giggling as Sukuna pushed a beanie onto your head.

“Perfect. Aren’t you just adorable?” He cooed, before flicking you softly in the forehead and ushering you out of his room. 

The house was silent as the two of you headed out into the night. Choso was probably staying over at Yuki’s place, and Sukuna had mentioned that Toji had been seeing someone lately and was likely spending the night with her. It was a little strange to not hear the ambient noise of one of the two other boys milling around - you’d become accustomed to their presence over the last few weeks. 

Not quite sure what Sukuna had in mind in terms of a destination, you let yourself be led along beside him, basking in the warmth of his hand tangled with yours. Even if his presence still had your heart pounding, you’d gotten to the point where being with him felt easy and comfortable, no longer anxious about what he might think of you. 

Because you knew that he loved you. 

He’d proved it over and over again. 

You’d shown him all of your worst sides - he’d seen you at your most stressed, most anxious, most grief stricken - and he’d still stuck with you, rewarding you with that gentle affection that was reserved exclusively for his precious girlfriend. 

“I think you’d like the game I’m playing right now,” he said, filling the comfortable silence as you wandered together, enjoying the night air. “Once exams are done you should play it. I’d find it funny to watch which choices you’d pick.” 

You had to admit that your interest had been piqued by the game he was currently fixated on, but you’d been too focussed on your revision to really pay attention. “You’ll make fun of me though,” you said with a pout, recalling how hard he’d laughed when the two of you had played PEAK together.

A smile lit up his face, clearly recalling the same memory. “There’s no actual gameplay in this one, it's all just pointing and clicking. I really think you’d love it.” Sukuna went on to explain the outline of Disco Elysium and its overall appeal, only faltering when the two of you passed a 7/11. 

The warmth pouring out through the automatic doors was inviting, and you felt your stomach growl. It was hard to recall the last time you’d actually eaten anything of substance. Both you and Sukuna had been so invested in your own tasks that the day had largely gone by without either of you noticing. 

“We should probably grab something to eat, huh?” He suggested, giving your hand a squeeze. “You’re probably just grumpy because you’re hungry.” 

“I’m not grumpy.” 

You were, but there was no way you were going to admit to it when he had a big shit-eating grin on his face. 

“Sure, baby. But let's give some food a go anyway.”

The two of you wandered into the inviting warmth, milling around until you picked something you wanted. You decided on tuna onigiri, while Sukuna grabbed himself a piece of fried chicken from the warm food section at the counter. He paid for both of you, despite your protests, clutching your hand as he led you back outside and over to a bench in the little park across the road. 

The place was deserted. No one with any sense wanted to be out this late in weather this cold, and you found yourself pulling your jacket closer around you, grateful for your gloves as you pulled your hands from your pocket to unwrap your onigiri. 

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Sukuna asked, his breath visible in the cold air. 

“Of course.” You didn’t think you’d ever forget that evening in the bakery - the way that your heart had raced at the sight of him was etched in your mind forever. Well, that and just how grateful you’d been for his presence on one of the scariest nights of your life. He’d truly been your knight in shining armour that day. 

“I think about it whenever I get fried chicken from a convenience store,” he said with a fond smile. 

You tilted your head in question, not particularly connecting the dots. “Why?”

“Because the Family Mart chicken is what put everything in motion that day. If I hadn’t gone to the convenience store that evening I would’ve been on the train home by the time those guys stopped you in that alleyway. But because I’d gone to buy chicken, I was in the right place at the right time and then…” He gestured between the two of you, clearly trying to think of the right words. “And then all of this happened.” 

You giggled. “So you’re saying that our whole relationship is thanks to famichiki?” 

“At least somewhat.” He laughed. As he finished off his food, he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close to his side. The way that his body always seemed to stay warm no matter the circumstances was impressive, and you found yourself huddling close against him to try and heat yourself up. “I feel like your dad had something to do with it too.” 

You hummed in agreement. There was no denying that your father had been playing cupid for a while. From the very first time that you and Sukuna had met, your father had been urging you forward with the concept of a relationship, keen for you to find happiness with someone who he perceived as being right for you. 

And his judgement really couldn’t have been better. 

His work in puppeteering your union really felt like some lovely final gift that he’d provided you, making sure that you were finally happy and safe before he left you behind. 

Although, your dad definitely didn’t do all the work. 

“I think your effort also had a lot to do with it,” you pointed out. 

Considering that you’d literally run from Sukuna the first time he’d tried kissing you, you had to praise the man’s patience and tenacity. Most guys would’ve given up on a girl for far less than that. You didn’t consider yourself to be low maintenance and you’d leant on him a lot over the last few months. 

And yet here he was, as loving as ever. 

He shrugged. “You make me wanna try, so it didn’t really feel like effort.” Your heart skipped at the casual nature of his comment, a deep flush washing over your cheeks. 

“Corny,” you mumbled, hiding your face in his shoulder to stop him from seeing how much you were blushing. He knew anyway, laughter rippling through him as he reached for your face, fingers brushing your lips gently as he tilted your chin up towards him. 

“Only for you.” 

Leaning down, his lips brushed yours tenderly. While he’d kissed you thousands of times, it somehow still always felt like the first - a moment of pure joy and excitement, the giddy feeling of being a girl with a crush who actually likes her back. 

You still couldn’t believe that he was yours, that he wanted a future with you. 

It felt silly to be stressing over exams that you’d most likely pass when you had the best thing that had ever happened to you sitting at your side. Through all the bad, you really needed to start appreciating what was good. 

And Sukuna was very good. 

Breaking the kiss, he peered down at you with those deep crimson eyes, the irises lit up in the yellow light of the streetlamp overhead. He looked beautiful, just as he always did. 

“Feeling a bit better, baby?” He asked, and you offered him a hum of affirmation. 

He’d been right - you really did need a break. You’d been so locked in on reading your notes that you’d almost forgotten that there was a whole world outside of your exams next week. 

And no matter what happened, the Earth wasn’t going to stop spinning. 

Somehow that came as a comfort. 

“Good. Now, when we get home we’re going to bed, and I’m going to stay up to make sure you actually get some sleep,” Sukuna said sternly. 

“Aw, we’re going straight to sleep?” You shot him a suggestive look, a sweet pout on your lips. It seemed to completely disarm his serious demeanour and he shook his head in disbelief, a grin playing on his lips.

“Okay, we can make out a little first.”

“Oh thank god.” You giggled, leaning your head on his shoulder, your heart feeling at ease. 

Tomorrow you could get back to studying, and maybe you’d wake up the next morning feeling just as stressed out as ever. But that evening, snuggled up against the man that you loved, it really felt like everything was going to work out just fine. 

—

Your exams came and went, giving way to a few very stressful weeks in which you flip-flopped between pretending you didn’t care about the result, and hyperventilating over the idea of having to re-do the year if you’d failed. 

At some point Sukuna stopped trying to convince you that you’d passed, because despite all the logical arguments surrounding the fact that you’d worked hard, and had extenuating circumstances leading to more leniency on your grading anyway, everything always fell upon deaf ears. 

So instead, he focussed all of his effort on distracting you, which was something he’d always been excellent at, proceeding in all the usual ways by making you watch various movies, taking you out to nice cafes, and spending hours tangled up together in his sheets. His efforts at distraction were also how you found yourself completely absorbed in Disco Elysium, spending days trying to solve the game’s mystery, all while Sukuna sat at your side, offering cryptic hints and advice. 

You could understand how he’d been so preoccupied by the game when he should’ve been studying, and it did an excellent job of taking your mind off things for hours at a time. 

Not that there was any point to all your worrying anyway, because when your final grade was shared at the start of march, just as the weather started to warm, you discovered that you’d passed with flying colours - just like Sukuna had said you would. 

You really were dumb sometimes.  

That gave way to plenty of celebration with your friends, followed by a few peaceful weeks leading up to graduation, in which you and Sukuna were free to relax together with no cloud hanging above your head. 

At least, beyond the vague concern regarding what the hell you were supposed to do now that school had finished. 

Sukuna was already mid-way through the interviewing process for a graduate scheme appropriate for people with engineering degrees. You were almost envious of how certain he seemed to be about his future, moving along with it mechanically like he’d always had a clear plan in mind. 

Meanwhile, you had no idea what you were meant to do. 

You weren’t sure you were interested in some grad scheme, especially not when all the literature related schemes seemed to dump you straight into some corporate marketing job that would no doubt suck your soul after the first year. You weren’t built for dealing with frustrating stakeholders and circling back - you just couldn’t imagine yourself feeling happy in an office setting. 

But that left you adrift, because with a degree like yours, what other direction were you supposed to go?

After a year that had constantly put you under pressure and left you more stressed than you’d ever been, you really wanted to enjoy some time without the weight of big decisions looming in the distance, but this wasn’t one you could escape. 

Even with all of Sukuna’s assurances that he could look after you for a while to give you a break, you knew that you didn’t want to be so dependent on him in that way. 

You’d have to reach a conclusion soon. 

But you tried to put your concerns aside as best as you could as graduation approached midway through March. Sukuna and all your friends seemed so happy and carefree, everyone’s spirits high in the temperate spring weather as they celebrated their final days as students. 

You weren’t going to be the one to drag the vibes down just because you couldn’t figure out what you wanted out of life. It wasn’t like all your friends knew what they were going to do - they were simply living in the now and seeing where life took them. 

After years at university you were owed a moment of peace before entering a new cycle of fretting, and that’s what you promised yourself that graduation was going to be.

The afternoon that you finally received your degree was lovely and warm, not unlike the day that you’d first met Sukuna nearly a year prior. You were wearing a green dress beneath your robes, more ecstatic than you could’ve imagined as you walked across the stage, receiving a handshake and your diploma, which felt so precious in your hands. 

You hadn’t really expected to be there. 

The last year, perhaps even the last few years, had felt like you were constantly trekking up a mountain with no summit, fighting just to take a single step. To some extent, you’d wondered if you’d ever come out of the other side after all the suffering that had been tossed your way. 

But there you were - a graduate. 

Despite it all, you’d made your way through. 

When you’d imagined this moment in the years gone by, you’d imagined it to be a little different. You’d expected to look out into the crowd and see both your parents, eyes shiny with pride, infinitely happy with the accomplishments of their little girl. It hurt to look towards your mom and see a stranger sitting to the left of her, in the position where your father should’ve been. 

He would’ve been so proud of you. 

Perhaps bitter disappointment should’ve hung in your chest, and maybe under different circumstances a desperate feeling of grief might’ve overwhelmed you as you exited the stage. But as your eyes swept to the right of your mother, those sad feelings were drowned beneath the brightness of Sukuna’s smile.

He was there and he was alive. 

The void that your father’s death left in your heart would never dissipate, the grief was something you’d carry with you for as long as you lived, but your heart would grow bigger around it. 

There was still so much love for you to experience in your life, and even in your worst year, you found the best thing you ever could’ve imagined. 

And you’d hold on to that happiness as fiercely as you knew your father had wanted you to. 

“Congratulations sweetie!” Your mother exclaimed once you’d found her at the end of the ceremony, wrapping you up in a tight embrace. Sukuna was standing nearby, letting you have your family moment. The engineering graduation had already taken place the day before, so you were certain that his social battery was running low where sappy family matters were concerned. 

There had been a surprisingly lovely heart to heart between him and Wasuke after he’d crossed the stage, and you could only assume that he wasn’t looking for a round two of that display. 

“Oh you look so lovely, let me take a picture!” She fumbled about with her phone camera for a few moments while you waited awkwardly for her to figure it out. In the end, Sukuna had to step in and show her what to do, treating your mother with that same gentleness that he reserved for very few people. “Perfect! Get in the picture Sukuna, you should have one together.” 

Sukuna’s cheeks were flushed a soft shade of pink as he approached you, wrapping an arm tightly around your shoulders and pulling you close. Your mother told you to smile for the picture, but she really didn’t need to - you were certain that you were already beaming. 

Satisfied with her photo, your mother moved her attention to her phone, scrolling through the snaps she’d taken. Meanwhile, Sukuna took the opportunity to focus on you, drawing you into a more full hug. Your face was buried into his chest, breathing in the scent that had grown so familiar to you over the last few months. 

“I’m so proud of you.” He whispered into your hair.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” you replied. You were certain that he was going to wave that statement off, go ahead and say that it was all down to you, but that simply wasn’t the truth of the matter. Without Sukuna you would’ve fallen apart - be it from the incidents with Hiromi or from the loss of your father. 

He’d held you together at a time when you were right at the edge of falling apart, and you owed more to him than he’d ever understand. 

“You’ll never have to do anything without me.” Your heart fluttered at his response, peering up at him and pushing yourself up on your tiptoes to meet him in a fleeting kiss. You were eager for more passion, to have him kiss you with the ferocity that he usually would, but you’d save that for a moment when your mother wasn’t watching you. 

“So, still up to go out for steaks?” Your mother asked, offering the two of you a smile. “My treat. I understand if you want to go and hang out with your friends though! I won’t be offended.” 

While a handful of your friends had graduated with Sukuna yesterday, most had walked the stage at the same time as you, which meant that they were also somewhere within the mess of people currently milling around on the university lawn. You imagined that most of them were probably engaged with their parents for the time being, just like you were. 

The plan was to all meet up later anyway. Satoru and Suguru had just moved into a new apartment together and wanted to use graduation as an excuse to have everyone over, but until 8pm at least, you had no plans keeping you from grabbing steak with your mother. 

You knew which place she wanted to go to - you hadn’t been there in years, not since your parents had gotten divorced. It had been your father’s favourite when you were young, a steakhouse strongly entwined with dozens of memories from your childhood. 

The perfect place to go as a celebration for stepping into real adulthood. 

“Yeah, I want to go!” You hesitated for a moment, playing with your next words in your head, wondering if it was right to voice them out loud when you were still uncertain of them. “We should stop by the bakery on the way, since it's nearby.” 

Both your mother and Sukuna regarded you with surprise. It was a place that you’d avoided like the plague since your father’s death, visiting only a handful of times when your aunt had been doing a preliminary cleanout of the place. Since then the building had stood silent, waiting for you to make a decision on what to do with it. 

“If…you’d like to.” Your mother was careful in her wording, clearly not sure what to make of it. Sukuna’s fingers interlaced with yours, giving your hand a soft squeeze in a silent show of support. 

He’d caught onto your intentions quicker than your mother had. 

“I just- I’ve been thinking about it. Thinking about what to do with it. But I don’t think I’ll really know until I go there. Today seems like as good a day as any.” 

Smiling, your mom offered you a nod. “If that’s what you’d like. I’ll go and pull the car around, you kids wait here.” 

Your mother scurried off through the crowd, and Sukuna gave you a tug on the hand, calling for your attention. You stared up at him through your lashes. “Sounds like you’ve maybe made a decision already?” He asked. 

“Maybe.” You responded shyly, playing with his fingers. “I just want to be sure.” 

—

Six months later you were standing in the centre of the bakery, staring up in dismay at the picture you’d hung up behind the counter. It was completely lopsided and, now you’d taken a step back, you could see that it wasn’t in the central position that you’d believed it to be when standing up close. 

The gap of wall to the right of the image was far larger than the gap on the left, leaving the framed image noticeably asymmetrical, which meant you were going to have to start again and put yet another nail in the wall. 

Perhaps you should’ve waited for Sukuna to get home from work like he’d suggested - hanging pictures really was a two person job, and for this one in particular it was important that you got the placement right.

It was a painting made by your father when you were young - a watercolour image depicting the outside of the very bakery that you were currently standing in. You’d found it when you and Sukuna had finally gotten around to clearing out the apartment above, recalling a fond memory of sitting across the road at your father’s side, painting away on your own little canvas while he rendered the masterpiece before you. 

The image captured a moment in time, and you could hardly believe that it had been left to gather dust in some storage cupboard upstairs. Now that he was gone, you wanted to display it as a way of honoring his memory, and where better to put it than within the bakery itself? 

Now that you were on the path to reopening the place with your own changes, it felt nice to have something displaying how it had looked before the bakery had fallen into your hands - almost like the soul that your father had curated was still there and shining on, even if he wasn’t there to tend to it himself. 

Letting out a sigh, you walked back over to the picture and took it down, using the back of your hammer to pry the nail out from the wall. Just as you were grabbing the measuring tape to give a third attempt at aligning the image properly, the bell jingled above the door and you peered over your shoulder to see your boyfriend. 

He looked as handsome as ever, with his pink hair a little tousled, his t-shirt sticking to him slightly thanks to the humidity which had stuck around into September. His red eyes were glimmering with interest as he observed the scene, and you were glad he hadn’t walked in two minutes earlier to witness how terrible a job you’d done of hanging the painting. 

He definitely would’ve made fun of you. 

“Hey, baby.” 

“Hey,” you said, throwing the measuring tape down and making a beeline for him, throwing your arms around his neck and pushing up onto your tiptoes to kiss him. “Good day?” 

“Pretty busy - glad it's the weekend.” he said with a sigh, his fingers instantly finding solace in your hair. He’d started his graduate scheme back in May, and while the money was good, the job was relatively demanding. 

Relaxing into his hug, you placed a couple of gentle kisses on his neck, amused at the way that he was leaning some of his bodyweight on you in exhaustion. “I can cancel with Yuki and Choso tomorrow if you want? Satoru and Suguru will be there to help anyway so I don’t think they really need us.” 

Sukuna scoffed. “No, it's fine. Satoru’s useless at moving boxes, he gets too distracted by things. I’ll have more energy tomorrow, I just need a good night’s sleep.” 

“If you’re sure?” 

“Always so worried about me,” he said, peering down at you with a smug smile. “So cute.” 

“Well, I also don’t want to move boxes so I suppose I have an ulterior motive.” You confessed with a giggle. Considering that you’d been spending all of your time clearing out and renovating a space you weren’t keen to spend your weekends doing more of the same. But you did adore Yuki, and if Sukuna was still up for it, you’d still be going. 

At least you could all hang out and have some pizza afterwards - that had been Choso’s promise to you in exchange for helping them move. 

“How cunning.” He laughed, kissing you on the forehead before moving his attention to the bookshelves lining the left wall. “Oh, you got more books?” Detangling himself from you, he walked over to get a closer look, scanning the additions to your collection. 

The bookshelves were one of the many features that you’d added to the bakery over the last few months. Rather than being a grab and go bakery, you were eager to rebrand it into more of a reading cafe, integrating your passion for literature into the space and giving patrons an opportunity to settle down with a book or magazine as they whiled away the hours with a coffee and pastry.

As such, you’d bought plenty of bookcases and magazine racks, and had spent the last few weeks filling them up as best you could. 

You’d mostly done that with the help of your aunt, moving collections of yours and your father’s books down from the apartment upstairs, as well as scouring various second hand stores to buy books as cheaply as possible. 

That project had been coming along well. 

You’d also used much of your inheritance to replace some of the furniture in the bakery - the tables and chairs which had been scattered haphazardly in the space before weren’t the most comfortable or aesthetically appealing items, so you purchased some nicer furnishings which matched the vibe you were going for. 

Despite the additions, the base that your father had created was still present, and you left the counter and wallpaper just as they’d always been. You didn’t want everything to disappear, you still wanted that familiarity of a place that you’d known your whole life. For that reason you were keeping the name too. 

You were just going to market it a bit differently once you were ready to open. 

“Oh, you put Ship of Theseus down here?” He asked, scanning along the spines of the newly added books. 

“Yeah, I can put it back upstairs if you want though? I just figured since we’ve both already read it we might as well leave it for someone else to take a look at.” 

“Yeah, it's fine. It just feels nostalgic. I think I was reading that the first time I met you.” 

You smiled at the memory, recalling how you’d been nervously shuffling about behind the counter as Sukuna had taken a seat and brought out a book which you certainly weren’t expecting a guy like him to read. 

God, you’d been so scared of him that day he’d first walked into the bakery. 

Now here he was, comfortably milling about in your shared space, inspecting the tiny additions that you’d made to the bakery that afternoon. Later that evening the two of you would go up to your shared apartment and cook dinner together, before watching some trashy TV, making out, and falling asleep in each other’s arms. 

The idea that you’d be here when you’d first met him a year and a half ago was unthinkable. 

“Want help with the picture?” He asked, gesturing towards the counter. 

“Please,” You said with a nod, stepping back and letting Sukuna get to work with the measuring tape, using the level to see how the picture would look on the wall and marking out the edges on the wallpaper with a pencil. He went about it in a far more surgical manner than you did. 

It really was better to leave it to him. 

Hammering a nail confidently into the wall, he turned to you for a moment. “Stand in the middle of the room for me, baby. You can let me know when it looks straight.” He lifted the framed painting onto the wall, adjusting it under your careful instruction until you were certain it looked right. 

Coming over to join you and review the placement himself, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, gazing up at the painting hanging so nicely above the counter. 

“Happy?” 

You hummed, staring at it a little longer. The image always summoned a strange feeling in you - sorrow wasn’t quite the right word, for it was a warmer emotion than that - perhaps longing felt closer. It was nice to know that your father’s hands had crafted what hung in front of you, but it made you feel desperately sad all the same. 

“You don’t think my dad would be mad at all the changes, do you?” You asked, sweeping a hand in the direction of the bookshelves. 

It was a worry that had tugged at the edge of your mind for a while, one of the many fears that had held you back when making the decision as to whether you even wanted to keep the bakery. You knew you’d have to make changes, knew you’d turn it into a place for you, but it was hard wrestling with the idea that it would be a desecration of his memory. 

Perhaps you should’ve kept it pristine, just like in the painting. 

Your worries fled at the sound of Sukuna’s deep laugh, chuckling for a few moments before pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Baby, you could tear this place down and I don’t think he’d be mad at you. All he ever wanted was for you to be happy.” 

Letting out a huff of breath, you conceded to that without argument, because who could ever deny your father’s desires on that front?

“Yeah. I guess you’re right,” You whispered, leaning closer into Sukuna’s arm, basking in his familiar warmth.

And as you stared up at the painting, in the bakery that was all yours, with the man that you loved at your side, you could finally see for the first time that you were doing exactly what your father had always wanted.

You were happy. 

a/n: after almost a full year of writing this fic we're finally at the end. I started writing this at one of the hardest times in my life and it did so much to help me heal, it'll always hold a special place in my heart even if writing it grew difficult for me towards the end when I'd moved on from the feelings that made me write this in the first place.

I've had so many lovely messages throughout writing this fic, and I've been so moved by how many people going through grief have mentioned finding comfort in this story. I'm glad that it can provide happiness to others in the way that it did for me when writing it.

I'll probably do some one shots about these two in the future, but for now all of my focus will be on my other ongoing fic crazy in love, and a couple of other sukuna projects that I'm working on in the background.

thank you so much for reading and sticking with me throughout this journey, I appreciate all of you <3

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Toji’s never been a man of many words.

Always the quiet one, sharp green eyes constantly assessing his surroundings, his mind always calculating before he ever bothers to speak.

A trait he inherited from his no good father.

But somehow today, you’ve rendered him completely mute.

Minutes slip by in tense silence, each one dragging heavier than the last. You wonder if he even heard you. Your admission that you did try to tell him about your son, but you gave up.

The two of you are still sitting on your couch, the soft lamplight pooling around you, and his head is bowed, dark hair falling forward to shield his eyes.

You see through him anyway.

His hands are rigid around your baby book, his knuckles white, the leather-bound cover bending slightly under his grip. You had his baby almost six years ago. You wanted to tell him. You tried to tell him.

But he never gave you the chance.

You gave up on him. And the bitter truth is, it was all his fault.

And yet, to your shock, you realize you’re not the only one who’s emotional.

Toji Zenin, the man who’s painted as a ruthless, cold-blooded bastard in every tabloid and headline, has tears running silently down his face.

You notice the glint of one sliding down his cheek and falling into his lap, just barely missing the photo album in his hands. He subtly shifts it out of harm’s way, and that small, almost instinctive motion nearly breaks you.

“Shit, Y/N.” His voice finally cuts through the silence, hoarse and raw. The shaky breath he exhales makes your heart clench; it sounds like something heavy is cracking inside him.

“I didn’t invite you here to make you cry,” you murmur softly, tension threading your voice.

The sight of him like this, unraveled sets off every instinct to reach for him, to touch his hand or shoulder and offer comfort. But your mind holds you back.

You’re confused.

You thought you’d be angrier than this.

And maybe you will be later. You always imagined, in your loneliest nights, that you’d feel some grim satisfaction watching him regret everything, that you’d relish the weight of guilt finally pressing on him.

But you don’t.

Instead, watching him like this, a man who’s always been untouchable, now so visibly shaken makes your throat tighten with a lump you can’t swallow down.

When he reopens the book, it surprises you.

He turns each page slowly, like he’s afraid of missing something, and his hand stills on one in particular.

It’s a photo of you and Megumi on his first birthday: a tiny cake frosted in uneven baby blue buttercream, scattered with star-shaped sprinkles and a single lit candle. You’re more dressed up than usual, a touch of makeup softening your tired features. Megumi, just a little bigger than in the earlier photos, is achingly sweet in a navy blue romper, cheeks round and flushed.

Beneath the picture, in your careful handwriting, are the words:

“It’s your first birthday, Megumi! Mommy made this cake for you. The icing isn’t perfect, but I’m sure I’ll get it right next year! I love you. You’re my biggest blessing in this life. – Mommy.”

Toji stares at that picture for what feels like forever, his expression unreadable but his silence deafening. And then, you see it. The sharp crack in his composure. The way his eyes flicker with something heavy, suffocating.

He notices what’s missing in an instant: there’s no one else there. No friends. No family. No him.

It’s just you and Megumi, alone in this tiny apartment,

Yet you still decorated the table, baked a cake he couldn’t even eat yet, and set your phone on a timer to capture these memories by yourself.

Something inside Toji caves.

Regret doesn’t come close to describing the feeling twisting violently in his gut. Is there a word for this? For the kind of pain that feels like it’s eating him alive from the inside out? Maybe it’s self-loathing. Maybe it’s worse.

Whatever it is, it makes him feel small. Pathetic.

He’s an idiot.

An egotistical, stupid, selfish, blind idiot.

And he's well aware that all of this, every second of this pain, is his own doing.

“Toji.” His name leaves your lips in a voice so soft it nearly breaks him in two.

He finally tears his gaze from the book to look at you. And in that moment, you’re taken aback. His eyes are greener when he cries, impossibly vivid, like shards of sea glass catching the light.

You force yourself to look away, lowering your head, your fingers absently picking at nonexistent lint on your sweater.

“He’s five now” you murmur, your voice soft as if the words themselves are fragile. “Turns six next week.”

Your fingers twist together in your lap, knuckles white. “He, um… has been asking about you. And like I told you, since I ran into Suguru and he gave me your number, I’d been holding back. I think I was scared. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when I finally could, I don’t even know why but-”

“Y/N.”

His voice cuts through your rambling, low but firm.

Toji shuts the book with a quiet thud, the sound heavier than it should be, and leans forward, elbows on his knees. His hands drag down his face as he exhales a deep, shaky sigh, fingers momentarily hiding his expression.

“None of this… is your fault,” he says at last, voice low and rough, like gravel scraping together.

“It’s mine. Fuck, this is all on me. Don’t apologize to me. Ever.” The words are sharp, almost biting, like he’s scolding you for even daring to take on his guilt.

If the mood weren’t so heavy, you might’ve laughed.

That was always Toji, ready to fight your battles even against yourself.

Back then, he’d get mad at you whenever you’d say sorry too quickly, whenever you’d shrink back in some pointless argument or let someone walk all over you. “You’re too soft,” he used to tell you, like it was a bad thing. Maybe it was.

You nod quietly, your heart pounding, your mind a haze of disbelief. He’s sitting right next to you.

After all these years, after everything, this man who once felt like your entire world now feels like a ghost, flesh and bone but belonging to another life, dragged reluctantly into your present.

Toji’s gaze shifts, no longer fixed on you but drifting toward the far corner of your cozy living room.

His sharp green eyes land on the Christmas tree, strung with soft yellow lights and flickering rainbow ones, ornaments dangling in a chaotic but charming mix.

Some clearly old, carried over from your childhood, each placed with care. At the base, a small pile of gifts rests, wrapped in bright paper with cartoon reindeer, their cheerful design almost mocking the heaviness of the moment.

“When’s his birthday?” Toji asks suddenly, his voice flat, detached, like he’s speaking through fog. His eyes stay locked on the tree.

You blink, startled by the abrupt question. “December twenty-second” you answer softly. “Almost a Christmas baby.”

The corner of your mouth curves up in a small, watery smile. “It’s tricky around this time. I always have to separate his birthday and Christmas presents.” Your attempt at lightness falls flat; Toji doesn’t react, his expression unmoved, still staring at the tree.

Your brow furrows. Toji’s always been indifferent about Christmas, never cared much for birthdays either - his own was too close to the holiday for him to bother celebrating.

So why does he look like this now?

Your eyes follow his line of sight, scanning the tree. And then you see it.

There, catching the glow of the lights, is a single ornament that stands out from the rest: a delicate crystal heart, its surface refracting warm yellows and soft rainbows as it sways slightly on a silver string.

It’s beautiful, clearly more expensive than anything else on the tree. But that’s not why he’s staring.

It’s because he gave it to you. Years ago.

You tense, gaze snapping away from the ornament as if it burned you.

You don’t even know why you keep putting it up every Christmas. Some sentimental streak you’ve never had the courage to shake. Maybe it’s pathetic, clinging to a piece of him like that.

And now that he’s noticed, the weight of that choice sinks heavy in your chest, heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed, but damn it - you do.

You feel the need to change the subject before it could even begin.

“Toji, I have to ask” you start, voice shaking, terrified you’ll shatter whatever fragile calm lingers between you.

He looks at you then. Really looks. The weight of his gaze alone knots your stomach tighter, and your words falter.

“I still don’t… I never knew why you - you know, left. And I don’t really need to know anymore. It’s ancient history now.” You pause, swallowing hard.

“But I need to know if you want to be in Megumi’s life. I could live with you leaving me, but…” You can’t look at him, can’t bear to see whatever’s written on his face. Your eyes stay fixed on your lap.

“But please… you can’t do that to Megumi.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, soft enough that he’d have to strain to catch it.

The silence that follows feels endless, suffocating. You let out a shaky, pained breath.

“I-it’s okay if you want nothing to do with us. Please just… tell me now. You don’t even have to meet him. I can let him down gently.” You say, wiping your eyes with the sleeves of your sweater, scared to look directly at him.

Toji stays quiet for a long time. Long enough that the silence between you becomes unbearable, stretching taut like a wire you’re afraid might snap.

You risk a glance at him, and he’s just… staring. Not at you, not really. His emerald gaze is fixed somewhere beyond you, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, a sound halfway between a sigh and a scoff.

“You really think I’d bail on my own kid?” His voice is low, rough around the edges. He leans back against the couch, dragging a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to piece together what the hell he’s supposed to say. “I get it, I ain’t exactly got the best track record. But I ain’t that much of a piece of shit.”

Your heart stutters at that. You want to respond, but your throat feels tight, the words stuck somewhere in your chest.

Toji glances at you now, and the weight of his attention makes you shrink a little. But there’s something softer in his eyes. Something you can’t quite name.

“I didn’t leave ‘cause of you. Or him. Hell, I didn’t even know about him” he says, voice quieter now, almost grudging. “You…I was just an idiot, I wish Suguru told me sooner.”

You flinch, shame pricking at your chest. “I-”

“I’m not mad,” he cuts you off, tone more even. “I just… missed a lot of time I can’t get back.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes flicking toward the ornament still hanging on the tree. “But I ain’t goin’ anywhere now. If Megumi wants me around, I’ll be there.”

There’s a heaviness to his words, not a threat but a promise. The kind of promise Toji Zenin doesn’t make lightly.

“...You sure?” you ask, voice trembling.

He huffs a laugh, low and humorless. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

When he finally looks back at you, really looks, his expression softens by just a fraction. “I fucked up” he says quietly, the words almost strangled. “I don’t know if I could ever make it right, but… I’ll try.”

Your chest tightens, a painful squeeze that leaves you breathless. Before you can stop yourself, your eyes sting, tears pooling faster than you’d like.

Toji notices immediately - of course he does.

His jaw flexes, a faint crease appearing between his brows as his hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but hesitates. “Please don’t cry,” he mutters, sounding almost panicked, like the words are dragged out of him. “I’m sorry. Shit, Y/N… how do I fix this?”

You shake your head weakly, a helpless shrug lifting your shoulders. You don’t have the answer either. “I’m just… feeling a lot right now,” you manage, voice trembling despite your best effort.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, the furrow between his brows deepening. For a long moment, he just stares at you, his hands curling into fists like he’s fighting himself.

“...Can I hold you?” The question is rough, almost whispered, like he’s afraid the wrong move will shatter you completely. “I don’t… I don’t deserve it. But-” He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I just I don’t wanna see you cry like this.”

The words make your throat tighten even more, tears threatening to spill again. He looks so out of his depth, wide shoulders tense like he’s ready for rejection but hoping anyway.

You nod, barely, and that’s all it takes. He’s moving toward you carefully, cautiously, like you’re something fragile he doesn’t trust himself to handle. When his arms finally wrap around you, they’re firm but tentative, holding you close without trapping you.

The warmth of him seeps into your trembling frame, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek grounding you. His breath shudders against your hair, and you swear you feel him murmur something that sounds like, “I’m so fucking sorry,” low and raw, almost like he doesn’t want you to hear it.

But you do, and you let out a soft, shaky breath.

And God, you hate yourself for feeling your heart give into him so easily after everything.

After years of pain, betrayal, and loneliness. You should be furious. You should be keeping him at arm’s length and screaming. Yet, here you are, clinging to him, letting the familiar warmth of him dull the ache in your chest.

Your mind screams at you to be angry, to remind yourself how much he hurt you - but your heart, betraying you as it always has, doesn’t care.

You could stay here for hours in his arms.

You’ve dreamed of this moment for years, and yet -

He still left you. Heartless, cold, like you were nothing.

If it weren’t for Megumi, would he even be here? Would he be apologizing, hugging you, stroking your back like he still cared? Or would you still be standing alone in this apartment, waiting for a ghost that never returned?

Guilt and longing tangle in your chest as you tense, gently pulling away from him, and instantly regretting it as the cool air of your home brushes against your skin. He lets you, careful not to push too far, his dark brows knitting in concern.

“I, um…sorry,” you mutter lightly, brushing away what must be the last of your tears. You notice his furrowed expression, almost exasperated - and you want to laugh. But you don’t.

God, he looks like an older Megumi right now.

He’s opening his mouth, likely to scold you for apologizing, but you cut him off with a rush of resolve, awkwardly avoiding his gaze. “We shouldn’t… we’re back in each other’s lives for Megumi. It’s best we don’t revisit the past,” you say, voice tentative but firm.

He quirks a dark brow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hugging you is revisiting the past?”

“Acting like you care about me is,” the words tumble out sharp and unguarded, before you can stop them. His green eyes widen, and for a heartbeat, you falter, wishing you could take them back.

“Y/N, I do care about you" Toji says, low and earnest, but you don’t want to hear it.

“That doesn’t matter now" you cut him off, panic coiling in your chest.

The conversation is heading somewhere you’re not ready to go, and your hands fidget in your lap, twisting the edge of your sweater. He seems to sense you shutting down; his gaze sharpens, serious and intense in a way that jolts you.

“Y/N, wait. We need to talk about this-”

“I don’t want to” you admit finally, forcing your eyes to meet his with as much steadiness as you can muster. Vulnerable and wide open, your heart still feels lodged in his hand from years ago, and you can’t give him another piece of it yet.

Toji exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for years. His hands twitch at his sides, unsure whether to reach for you again or remain rooted in place.

“Okay” he says finally, voice low, rough, tangled with pain and longing. “But I don’t want to barge into Megumi’s life, have him think Mom and Dad don’t get along. We have to address the past at some point.”

Your chest tightens, the lump in your throat heavier than ever.

The thought of him stepping into your son’s life after all these years coils something tight inside you, a knot of fear laced with reluctant hope. You want to protest, to tell him he doesn’t deserve it, that he has no right.

But your throat closes, words catching on the weight of everything unsaid. And at the end of the day, you’re relieved he’s here.

You hate your traitorous heart.

“I know I fucked up,” Toji murmurs, voice rough, his green eyes searching your face like he’s afraid of what he’ll find. “But I need to try. For him. For you, if you’ll let me.”

You look away, fingers twisting the hem of your sweater. “I don’t know if I can just let you,” you whisper, the words raw and trembling, carved out of longing and old hurt.

He nods slowly, like he expected nothing less. “Yeah.” His gaze drops to the floor for a beat before locking back onto you, steady and unflinching. “I’ll try anyway, I want to make this right y/n.”

Something in his tone, bare and almost pleading, cuts through you. You bite your lip hard, fighting back the tide of emotion that threatens to pull you under.

Finally, after what feels like forever, you nod. Small. Careful. “Okay. For Megumi. But what happened between us can wait.” The words are barely audible, like you’re confessing them to the quiet more than to him.

He exhales softly, relief flickering across his face for the briefest moment, so fragile you almost miss it. That softness, foreign and tender, makes your chest ache in ways you can’t name.

“When can I meet him?” he asks, voice low.

You swallow, surprised by his calm resolve. “I was hoping before his birthday party. But I know you’re probably busy.”

“I’ll clear my schedule. How’s tomorrow sound?”

You blink, stunned. “Are you sure? You can take some time to think about this.”

“Y/N,” he interrupts gently but firmly. “I’m sure. I’ll be here.”

The room settles into a quiet so fragile it feels like it might shatter with a breath. The past still looms heavy between you, a shadow neither of you can outrun. But for now, he’s here. You’re here. And maybe, for tonight, that’s enough.

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The next morning creeps in, and Toji’s schedule is wiped clean.

He doesn’t give a damn if his CFO’s skull explodes in today’s meeting, he has more important duties to attend to. Duties… as a new father.

Not that there’s a stroller or a diaper bag in sight. No, instead Toji stands at your front door with a glossy, oversized box tucked under his arm. A brand-new gaming console. His hopeful peace offering.

Six-year-olds like video games, right?

You had texted him last night after your awkward goodbye, numbers now officially exchanged, to tell him not to bring gifts. But with Megumi’s birthday and Christmas around the corner, Toji figures he has years of missed holidays to make up for.

Why not start now?

He’s outside your door at 9 AM sharp, exactly like you’d agreed. The plan: pick you and Megumi up and take you to a cozy breakfast spot tucked away in another part of the city.

The winter air bites at his skin, his breath puffing out in soft clouds. He shifts his weight, heart thudding like he’s about to face down an opposing business partner rather than his own five-year-old. 

Truth is, Toji Zenin is ready to crap his pants. Not that he’d ever admit it.

Then, the door swings open.

You appear, as effortlessly beautiful as ever, hair freshly styled, dark-wash jeans hugging your frame, and a soft jumper that makes you look cozy enough to curl up with. Your eyes flick to the shiny box in his hands, and your brows pull together. “Seriously, Toji? I told you no gifts.”

“Y/N, what the hell does a six-year-old even talk about?” he blurts out, looking absurdly out of place for a man of his size and presence. “I needed a crutch.”

You have to bite your lip to keep from smiling. 

Seeing the infamous, intimidating Toji Zenin practically shaking at the thought of meeting your tiny son is… priceless. Yesterday, everything had been heavy with nostalgia and grief. 

Maybe this is why today feels lighter. Now, you have a chance to enjoy watching him sweat.

“Toji, it’ll be fine. How’d you even get that so fast?” you ask, nodding to the console.

“Promised my assistant a raise if he did this for me and came back from vacation early. Guy’ll do anything for cash,” he mutters darkly.

You pause, brows raised. “I don’t even want to know.”

“Probably not,” he admits.

“Alright, well, come inside. He’s watching TV,” you say, giving him a small smile as you turn to open the door wider.

Before you can step back, his large hand closes around your arm, startling you. “Y/N, wait.”

You turn, brows raised in curiosity, while his jaw tightens like he’s working up the nerve to speak.

“What’s he like?” The words come out low, almost hesitant. He releases your arm quickly, as if realizing he shouldn’t have grabbed you, his gaze flicking away for a second.

“He’s… a lot like you, actually,” you admit with a knowing smile, one that’s both fond and a little nervous.

Toji’s face falters, and he mutters a quiet, “Shit.”

You snort at the reaction, nodding. “Don’t curse around him by the way. He’ll make you put money in the swear jar.”

“You have a swear jar?!”

“He’s five, Toji. Of course we have a swear jar.” You sigh, resigned, because you’re very much a victim of that jar yourself.

He grits his teeth, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “We’re getting off track here. How do I get him to like me?”

You cross your arms, biting back a smile. “For starters? Maybe stop looking like someone’s holding you at gunpoint.”

He blinks at you, caught off guard, then huffs a laugh and glances away, cheeks flushed - and not just from the cold. “Shit, I’m nervous, okay? Feels like I’m gonna say the wrong thing and he’ll hate me forever.”

You tilt your head, unimpressed. “We’ve got bigger issues than that, Toji.”

He scoffs. “What the hell could be worse than that?”

“Hypothermia, if we keep standing out here. Then Megumi won’t have any parents. Let’s go inside.” You snort, reaching back to grab his arm and tugging him in as you open the door to your warm apartment.

Toji freezes for half a second at the casual touch, his green eyes going wide. He’s terrified of what’s coming next but stupidly thrilled by the way your hand curls around his arm, like it’s natural, easy, like it used to be.

He has no right to blush at something so small, but he does anyway.

Motherhood looks good on you. You’ve always been beautiful, one of the prettiest girls in all his classes back then, he’d always thought so. But now, there’s something new, a warmth, a glow that’s only made you more magnetic.

Or maybe he’s just got rocks for brains and is too drawn to the fact that you’re the mother of his son, despite everything between you.

“Megumi, honey,” your voice pulls him out of his thoughts, soft but steady. “Look who I brought.”

He blinks and realizes you’ve already led him further into your home, boots still on as you stop in the middle of the living room.

Toji’s gaze immediately snaps to the couch.

There he is.

A tiny figure perched among a nest of throw pillows. His mop of spiky black hair sticks out in every direction, stubborn and wild, and his wide green eyes - Toji’s green eyes - blink up at him with the kind of unimpressed stare only a child from his bloodline can manage.

Megumi’s dressed neatly in dark jeans and a crisp button-up layered under a warm sweater, his little sneakers dangling off the edge of the couch, patterned with cartoon dogs. 

The scene is quite adorable, with a cartoon murmuring quietly on the TV in the background and the smell of your morning coffee drifting faintly through the air.

Toji freezes for half a second, his chest tightening. He’d seen all the pictures, you’d even sent him a dozen more last night, but it’s different seeing him in person. Seeing his son.

It feels like staring at a mirror twenty-something years younger, all sharp angles and stubbornness now miniature form in chubby cheeks and big eyes. 

And just like that, Toji's heart turns to mush. No words exchanged, yet he knows with bone-deep certainty he’d kill and die for this tiny human without hesitation.

“Hi, Megumi,” Toji says at last, his voice low but steady after a quiet breath.

Those big green eyes don’t blink. They stay locked on him, steady and unyielding, as if the boy is carefully sizing him up. He doesn’t say a word, even as you slip away from Toji’s side and move toward him, your hand gently leaving the man’s arm.

“Megumi, this is Toji. Your daddy. Remember this morning I told you he’d come?” Your voice is soft as you kneel beside the couch, taking Megumi’s small hand in your own.

The boy finally stirs, nodding slightly. His little fingers curl tighter around yours, and it is clear he is deeply wary of the towering man in his home.

The only other man he had ever seen this big was probably Sukuna, Yuuji’s strange tattooed uncle. But even Sukuna didn’t feel this intimidating!

Toji swallows hard, suddenly remembering the large box tucked under his arm. You catch on, seizing the opportunity and deciding to use it as a bridge between them.

“He was happy to know you wanted to meet him, and he even brought you a gift before Christmas,” you whisper conspiratorially, loud enough for Toji to hear. The man could kiss you right now for the heavy lifting you’re doing here.

Megumi’s reaction is minimal though, just as you expected. His gaze flickers briefly to the box in Toji’s arms, avoiding his father’s face entirely.

Toji takes that as his cue and steps further into the room, crouching slightly as he shows Megumi the gift. The box is so big it looks like it could take up half of Megumi’s small frame.

You gasp, feigning excitement, really doing gods work for both of them. “Look, Megumi! Wasn’t this on your wishlist for Santa Claus?” you ask brightly, taking the box from Toji and presenting it to your son.

Megumi’s eyes linger on the box for a moment longer before he slowly nods, leaning closer to you. 

His small hands clutch at your sweater as he scoots into your side, tucking his head against your shoulder like he wants to disappear.

Your smile is soft and reassuring as you rub his back, tilting your head to catch Toji’s eye. You mouth, he’s just shy, offering him a little shrug as if to say give him time.

Toji straightens, watching the two of you with a look that’s hard to place. 

He expected this, he's really a stranger to this child - he knew Megumi wouldn’t come running into his arms or beam at him like in some cheesy holiday movie, but seeing his boy so small and so unsure twists something deep in his chest.

“Yeah, that’s alright,” he murmurs quietly, his voice rough but gentle now. He sets the box carefully down on the coffee table, his massive hands strangely tender with the bright ribbon all around it. “No rush, kid. You open it whenever you feel like it.”

Megumi peeks at him from over your shoulder, his green eyes narrowed but still curious.

You press a soft kiss to the top of his head and whisper, “See? Daddy’s nice. He brought you something special!” Your voice is low and soothing, almost a lullaby, and you feel the tightness in Megumi’s little body ease just slightly under your touch.

Toji keeps his distance, lowering himself onto the arm of a nearby chair. The movement is deliberate, as though he’s trying to shrink himself down, to be less overwhelming. 

His gaze flicks to you, gratitude written plainly on his face, before drifting back to his son. 

There’s something vulnerable in his eyes, a sharp contrast to the man’s towering frame, a man who looks like he could crush the world but is terrified of scaring his own child.

You know you’ll have to take the reins today. The two Zenin men in your life are both frozen, two halves of the same stubborn coin, and their only shared ground seems to be you.

“Well,” you murmur gently, shifting Megumi in your arms, “since we’ve all met, I think it’s time we get some breakfast. We can’t start the day on an empty tummy, can we, Megumi?” Your words are soft and coaxing, and Megumi rests his head on your shoulder, clutching your sweater in a vice grip.

Toji notices the quiet breath you take before rising to your feet, his sharp eyes catching the way you steady yourself. Carrying Megumi has become harder with every passing day, his little body growing heavier, but you shoulder the weight without complaint.

The urge to help you nearly overwhelms him. He wants nothing more than to reach out and pluck the boy from your arms like it’s nothing, to give you a moment of relief. 

But he knows neither of you are ready for that comfort yet, so he stays put, hands curling against his knees as he swallows the instinct.

For now, just being in the same room will do.

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The morning is sharp and cold, your breath misting in the air as Toji holds the door open for you and Megumi.

His car gleams in the pale winter light, a sleek black machine that looks out of place parked along your quiet street. You settle in the back with Megumi, tucking him close under his little jacket, his head resting against your shoulder as he clutches his favorite plush keychain in one hand.

Toji circles around to the driver’s side, slipping into the seat with an ease that betrays his nerves.

He glances at you in the rearview mirror as he starts the engine, the low hum filling the silence. “Seatbelts on?” he mutters, his voice calm, though you notice his fingers tightening briefly around the steering wheel before he pulls out of the driveway.

You can't help but lift an amused brow at that, Toji never really having been one to care about car safety before.

The city passes by quickly, winter casting everything in muted tones. Frost clings to car windows, and holiday decorations hang in shopfronts, glowing faintly even in the daylight.

The ride is quiet but not uncomfortable; Megumi stays nestled against you, thumb brushing over the soft ears of his keychain, while Toji keeps sneaking glances at the two of you through the mirror.

There’s something soft in his expression, though he hides it quickly whenever your eyes catch his.

It’s not long before the car slows in front of a little café tucked between a bookstore and a small boutique, its sign hand-painted and its windows fogged from the warmth inside.

The place looks the same as it always has, cozy and inviting, golden light from all the strung up fairy lights spilling out onto the frosted sidewalk.

Your breath catches for a moment. You recognize it instantly.

“Toji,” you murmur, stepping out of the car as he comes around to open your door. “We’ve been here before.”

He pauses, glancing at you with a hint of surprise, though a faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “You remember that?”

You give a small nod, your gaze flicking briefly toward the café

“Yeah.” Your voice is soft, almost cautious.

The memory of the two of you in that very corner booth years ago surfaces unbidden, him leaning back in his seat with a lazy grin, you laughing at something you can’t even remember now, the smell of cinnamon and coffee lingering in the air. It all feels like a different lifetime.

You tighten your grip on Megumi’s small hand, grounding yourself in the present. “It… hasn’t changed much.”

Toji just shrugs like it’s nothing, though you catch a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes as he steps closer, his large hand hovering near your back without quite touching.

Inside, the café is warm and alive with quiet morning chatter. The air smells of coffee and sugar, the clinking of plates and soft music from an old speaker creating a comfortable buzz.

Wooden tables are lined with potted plants, and a fireplace crackles near the back wall, adding a faint smoky scent to the air. You guide Megumi inside, his small hand tucked in yours, while Toji takes a step ahead to request a booth, his deep voice catching the attention of a few servers who greet him with familiarity.

It feels like stepping into a memory, though now there’s a child’s small fingers curled tightly around yours and a man across from you who feels both achingly familiar and entirely changed from the one who first brought you here.

Before you know it, the three of you are seated in a corner booth. You and Toji sit opposite one another, Megumi sandwiched in the middle, though he’s made a point of pressing himself firmly against your side, practically glued to you.

You catch Toji’s eye and offer a small, sheepish smile.

The comforting scent of cinnamon and fresh bread drifts through the café as a waitress approaches with warm professionalism, handing out menus. Megumi gets a colorful, ocean-themed one along with a small box of crayons, which he immediately begins to fiddle with, twisting them between his little fingers.

The silence between you all lingers for a few beats, broken only by the soft clinking of dishes and the low hum of conversation from other tables. Finally, Toji clears his throat, his deep voice awkward but trying. “So, Megumi… see anything on the menu you like?”

Megumi glances up, cheeks puffed, his expression serious as he narrows his green eyes at his father. “I’m reading.”

You bite back a laugh, glancing at Toji and leaning closer to explain. “He’s in kindergarten, so he’s just learning. He insists he doesn’t need my help.”

Megumi turns his sharp little gaze on you, pouting. “I can read, Mommy. Better than the other kids in my class.”

You raise your brows at his indignation, fighting a smile at the way he’s judging you both so harshly.

Toji leans back in the booth, watching his son with an amused glint in his eyes. “Yeah? You’re the best reader in your class, huh?”

Megumi gives him a short, decisive nod, lips pressed into a little line.

“Well, that’s good. Means you’re smart. Got that from me,” Toji says with a small smirk, sitting back like he’s just dropped some great truth.

Megumi’s green eyes narrow, his small hands gripping the edge of the menu. “Mommy’s smarter.”

You press your lips together, fighting a laugh as Toji’s smirk falters.

“Is she now?” Toji leans forward, feigning offense. “I don’t know, kid. I was at the top of my class back in the day, even better than your mom.” You can't help but roll your eyes at that one. He'd just barely gotten a better grade than you in one class, and has clearly never let it go.

Megumi gives him a long, unimpressed stare. “You cheated.”

You actually snort at that one, covering your mouth with your hand as Toji’s jaw drops in mock outrage.

“Hey, I did not cheat,” he says, defending himself with mock sternness. “I was just that good.”

Megumi crosses his arms, skeptical as ever. “You look like you cheat.”

Your composure is broken, a borderline evil smile on your face as Toji leans back in his seat, defeated. The tension at the table lightens just a fraction despite megumi’s mean side eye, he returns to his kiddie menu a moment later, narrowed eyes slowly going over each word as if to prove his own point.

Megumi glances at Toji one more time, like he’s still not sure he believes him, before scooting closer to you and tugging lightly at your sleeve. He leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you.

“I want the chocolate waffles.”

You glance down at him, his serious little pout tugging at your heart, but you school your features into something calm. “That’s a lot of sugar for breakfast, baby,” you murmur gently.

His lips press together in a thin line, his brows furrowing. He pulls back just enough to pout at you, then flicks his gaze toward Toji, as if silently signaling for backup.

Toji, catching the look, quirks a brow. “What?”

Megumi tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing with a mix of frustration and determination.

“She says I can’t have the chocolate waffles.”

Toji’s brows lift, and for a split second, he looks like he’s calculating the stakes of this moment: his first real parenting decision. He can either undermine you and be The Fun Dad, giving his kid a mountain of sugar at 9:30 a.m., or agree with you and hope to stay on your good side.

You’re watching him closely, and the weight of that stare makes his decision for him.

“Mm.” Toji leans an elbow on the table, glancing between the two of you, his expression softening. “Well,” he says slowly, “if your mom says no, you gotta listen to her.”

Megumi’s jaw drops, scandalized. “Aren’t dads supposed to be helpful? Yuuji lied.”

You clap a hand over your mouth to stifle your laugh. Toji’s jaw, on the other hand, drops in offense. “Yuuji?! Sukuna’s nephew? What else is that little brat telling you?”

Megumi squints at him like he’s the disappointment of the year, then turns dramatically to bury his face in your side, a little huff escaping him.

“Yuuji is my friend!” he announces from your lap. “And he said if you came, you’d be cool. Hmph.”

You blink, wide-eyed, glancing at Toji. You and Jin are absolutely going to have to start regulating what Yuuji and Megumi discuss at school.

Toji, though, looks far more rattled by the revelation than by his own five-year-old’s judgment. “What are the odds of that…” he mutters, shaking his head.

You can see the gears turning in his head - Sukuna had probably mentioned school events for Yuuji a dozen times, and now Toji’s realizing his best friend met his son before he did. You lean forward quickly, wanting to get ahead of that thought spiral.

“Sukuna met Megumi on accident too,” you explain gently. “I had a playdate planned with Yuuji and his dad, but Sukuna had to come instead.”

Toji’s jaw tightens, sharp eyes narrowing, his expression hardening in that quiet way that makes your stomach twist. Sukuna, his closest friend, had known about Megumi and said nothing?

He could understand Geto, at least. Geto had given you Toji’s number, encouraged you to reach out. But Sukuna?

“I see,” Toji says flatly, voice low, his gaze flicking back to his son like he’s grounding himself.

You chew the inside of your cheek, your pulse picking up. You can practically see him replaying every moment Ryomen had lied to his face, covering for you.

You weren’t exactly fond of your ex-friends anymore, but you didn’t want them to get in trouble with Toji because they were keeping your secret.

“I also asked Sukuna to… y’know, give me time,” you murmur carefully, voice soft, vague enough for Megumi’s sharp little ears.

Megumi stirs in your lap at your tone, his big green eyes darting between the two of you curiously, and you instinctively press a kiss to the crown of his head, hoping to soothe him before he can sense the tension crackling between the adults.

Toji glances back at you, something unreadable in his eyes, then exhales slowly. “Don’t worry about it, Y/N.” His voice is rough but calm, a deliberate choice, and he rakes a hand through his inky black hair like he’s trying to shake off the tension instead of letting it show.

The weight of Toji’s stare lingers, the air at the table tight and heavy. He looks like he’s biting back a hundred thoughts, and you’re about to speak again when a small voice cuts through it.

“Who cares about Yuuji's uncle?” Megumi mutters, his little brow furrowed as he tugs at your sleeve. “I just want my waffles.”

You blink at him, startled, before a soft laugh slips past your lips despite yourself. Toji lets out a low snort, his broad shoulders loosening as he leans back into the booth, the sharpness in his expression finally softening.

“Fair enough, kid,” Toji rumbles, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You press a kiss to Megumi’s dark hair, smiling as you shake your head. “Priorities, huh?”

Megumi gives a firm little nod, attention swinging back to the ocean-themed kiddie menu like nothing in the world mattered more than breakfast.

And just like that, the storm in Toji’s eyes fades, replaced by something softer as he watches his son, his gaze steady but warm.

“Maybe we can share those waffles,” you say gently, threading your fingers through Megumi’s soft hair. “You and me. But only if you eat some fruit too.”

Megumi perks up, clearly considering this compromise, though he still sneaks a side-eye at Toji, as if silently holding him accountable for not siding with him earlier.

“Yes please, Mommy,” he murmurs, squishing his cheek against your shoulder and settling there, perfectly content in what he considers the comfiest place in the world. You smooth a hand over his back, offering Toji a hesitant smile.

“I’m hoping you can play the stern parent moving forward. It’s kind of hard to win against him,” you say softly, jokingly.

Toji snorts, leaning an elbow on the table, his lips quirking. “I don’t know, Y/N. We’re fucked then.”

Megumi whips around so fast it’s like he’s been struck by lightning, leaping off your lap to glare at his father with wide, scandalized eyes.

“That’s an ugly word!” Megumi declares, his small voice full of righteous fury. “You gotta pay up when we go home!”

Toji freezes for a moment, eyebrows raised - not because of the scolding, but because of something else entirely. That soft warmth he thought he’d buried long ago flickers to life in his chest at those two simple words.

Megumi doesn’t realize what he just said, and you probably don’t either. But Toji does.

Because the idea sounds almost too good to be true.

Going home. With you. With him.

And in that quiet moment, as Megumi huffs and leans back into your side, Toji makes himself a silent promise.

at first, he figured it was temporary. you were just settling in, maybe a little too quickly, but regardless, it was probably just a phase. hell, he even thought he might catch a break during november. you know, the whole ‘no nut’ thing going around. but nope, you lasted three whole days. three. and on day four, it was like something inside you snapped— because you came back swinging harder than ever.

tuesday night. 12:46 a.m. toji was laying in bed, phone charging, pillow over his head, already exhausted from a long day of work.

and just when he thought he might get some peace, he hears it:

“fuckfuck, right there, oh my goddd—”

he groaned into the mattress. it wasn’t the porn. it was you. again.

and lately, it had started bleeding into everything. gotten so bad to the point where he swore he could hear you even when you weren’t home. he’d walk past your empty room during the day, fully locked up, and still think he could hear those breathy little whines echoing faintly from inside. your voice was imprinted on his fucking brain. sometimes when he closed his eyes, he swore he could hear the faint buzz of your vibrator like phantom noise.

you were haunting him.

then, the next morning?

like nothing ever happened.

you’d walk into the kitchen wearing your stupid little slippers and oversized tee like a good girl, yawning as if you weren’t the reason he was up all night, cock hard and jaw clenched. you didn’t even look at him with shame or guilt, not even an ounce of embarrassment.

like you didn’t just finger yourself to a compilation of tentacle hentai for two and a half hours straight.

toji had finally had enough.

+

you didn’t hear him come in.

not at first. you were too far gone— back arched, slick fingers stuffed inside you as another video played, screen propped up on your pillows. your thighs were shaking. your eyes were glossy. you hadn’t even cum yet, but you’d been edging yourself for almost an hour, pussy so wet the sheets were damp beneath your ass.

then the door creaked open.

you sat up halfway, blinking, chest heaving, “toji—?”

he didn’t say anything.

just stepped inside, shirtless and pissed off, dark hair messy like he’d just rolled out of bed, eyes low with something you couldn’t quite place.

“what the hell—”

“you don’t know how to be quiet, do you?”

you flinched.

he shut the door behind him, locked it.

“every night. moaning. whining. crying into your fucking pillow—” his voice dropped as he stepped closer, towering over you now, gaze sliding down to where your fingers were still between your thighs, glistening with your arousal.

you yanked your hand back. “i-i didn’t think you—”

“didn’t think i could hear you?” he scoffed. “sweetheart, the whole building can hear you.”

your breath hitched.

you should’ve been embarrassed. maybe even scrambled to cover up. but you didn’t. you couldn’t. your heart was pounding, your pussy was throbbing, and your body was still soaked from the half dozen orgasms you hadn’t let yourself have yet.

“you know what your problem is?” he asked, eyes narrowing as he crouched in front of the bed, one knee pressed to the mattress. “you don’t know how to ask for help.”

you stared, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between panic and desire. he reached forward, grabbed your vibrator— warm, wet, softly humming, and tossed it to the floor.

“gonna shut you up for real.”

before you even got the chance to speak, he’s already dropping down between your legs, his huge palms spreading them apart, pulling your hips closer to the edge of the bed. his mouth was on your pussy right away. no teasing, no warm-up. he licks straight through your folds, wide and heavy, collecting all the slick you had worked up for the past hour.

“you don’t know when to stop,” he muttered, breath hot against your core. “so i’ll do it for you.”

his hands clamp down on your thighs, nails pressing crescents into your skin. his tongue works you open, licking everything, sucking on your clit before dipping down again. your whole lower half was a disaster. sticky and overheated, juices leaking down your crack while his spit slides over it, pooling between your thighs. he groaned into you, the sound rough and low, and the second he heard you whimper, he slid two fingers inside you without saying a word.

you gasped— tight around him already, walls fluttering from the stretch. he curls them instantly, fucking them in slow, deep strokes as his mouth seals around your clit and sucks hard.

“f-fuck, toji—” your voice broke a little when you said his name.

he doesn’t let up.

his fingers pumped into you steady, knuckles deep, thumb rubbing circles into your clit when his mouth pulls away just for a moment. he’s watching you now, watching the way you react— how you clench everytime he curls his fingers just right.

“you make this much of a mess by yourself, baby? fuckin’ dripping—” he muttered, voice thick, a string of spit still clinging from his lips to your cunt.

then he lets another glob fall, watching it land right on your clit before pushing it in with his fingers, leaning down again to lick around them, fucking you open with his hand.

you screamed.

your legs kicked, heels digging into the bed, hands flying to his hair— pulling, gripping, trying to stop him because it was too much.

he just moaned.

“t-too much, wait, wait, i—!”

you cum hard. your legs shaking, pussy squeezing around his fingers as your orgasm hits full force. you cry out as your vision went white and your brain flatlined. but he didn’t stop. he fucks you through it, tongue lapping up your cum, dragging it back into you with this obscene, slurping groan, like he couldn’t get enough.

when he finally pulls away, his fingers slid out soaked and glistening, he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean, savoring every drop.

“get on all fours.”

you blinked, barely able to breathe.

“now.”

you scrambled up before you could think, limbs unsteady, body still twitching from the comedown. your chest rose sharp and shallow as you flipped over onto your hands and knees. hands trembling where they pressed into the sheets, ass high up in the air like you were presenting it for him— because you were.

you heard him behind you. the soft rustle of fabric, the harsh clink of his belt being unbuckled. his pants hit the floor with a heavy thud, and then, a wet slap.

his fist, pumping along his cock. slow, heavy strokes. breathing deeper now.

you didn’t even have to look back to know he was staring. you could feel it. the heat of his gaze crawling down your spine, burning low in your stomach. your walls clenched on nothing in anticipation, hole fluttering around the emptiness, desperate to be filled.

and then you felt it.

his tip— thick, hot, flushed— pressing between your folds, dragging slow through the mess he’d made earlier. he rubbed it up and down, coating himself in your slick, teasing your entrance while your hips jolted everytime he passed over your clit.

“this what you wanted, baby?” he murmured, breath warm against your back. “been fucking yourself for weeks just to stay empty, begging for something real.”

you nodded frantically, biting your lip so hard it almost bled.

and then he slammed into you.

you screamed into the pillow, whole body jerking forward from the force of it. he didn’t give you a second to adjust— just bottomed out, buried to the hilt, his pelvis flush against your ass.

“so loud,” he growled, fucking into you with bruising force, the sound of skin slapping against skin already bouncing off the walls. “so fuckin’ noisy all the time. whining, moaning, always actin’ like a dumb little slut in heat—”

you were gushing. literally.

your pussy took him deep with every thrust, swallowing him whole, over and over, no resistance. the flood between your thighs was nonstop. wet, loud, splattering out around the base of his cock with every movement. your thighs were already soaked. his were worse.

“you like this shit, don’t you?” he groaned, grabbing your hips harder. “like being used, fucked stupid, so wet for me i can barely stay inside, fuck, baby, you’re making a mess.”

you sobbed into the sheets, mouth open, jaw slack, eyes rolling. you didn’t care.

you were writhing, whining, gooning on his cock like you’d never touched yourself a day in your life, already close to cumming again because he was hitting so deep, grinding against that spot that made your legs go numb.

“p-please- need it, need more—”

“more?” he scoffed, laughing under his breath. “can’t even hold yourself up and you’re still beggin’? greedy lil thing.”

his palm lands a harsh strike to your ass, then grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back until your spine arched. he fucked into you harder, every thrust faster than the last, hips snapping against yours with a punishing pace.

“then take it.”

you came again.

a sharp, overwhelming release forced out of you, squirting all over his cock with a squelch so loud it made him groan, eyes locked on the mess coating his length. the spray hit his thighs, ran down his balls, made everything slippery. his hips stuttered for just a second, slick pouring out of you in waves as your pussy clenched around him, still trying to milk him for more.

“jesus- fuck- keep doing that and i’m gonna ruin you.”

you couldn’t even speak. couldn’t form words. your mouth was open but empty, tongue hanging out, drool leaking onto the sheets below you. all you could do was take it— whimpering while he used you like a toy, grunting with every heavy thrust, cock battering your walls over and over.

he leaned over you then, chest colliding your back, one hand still in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tight it hurt. his mouth ghosted over your ear.

“should’ve done this weeks ago,” he whispered. “then maybe you wouldn’t be such a brat.”

+

you passed out after round three.

he fucked you until your legs fully gave out. until your eyes rolled back. until your muscles seized, overstimmed, crying into the sheets and begging him to slow down.

he never once did.

he stayed buried inside you for a full minute after, cock twitching, both of you panting, drenched in sweat and cum and everything else.

you fell asleep on his chest.

and for once— for once— your room was quiet that night.

…though not for long.

because in the morning, he woke up to you already rutting against his thigh.

“toji,” you whispered sweetly, shameless as ever. “wanna go again?”

he dragged a hand down his face, still hard.

“fuck. yeah.”

There’s a pause.

“How insane?” Morgan asks cautiously.

“Pretty insane.”

“Scale of one to ten?”

“Solid eight.”

“Okay.” Mitch can hear Morgan moving, probably walking to somewhere more private. “Hit me.”

“I need you to call Tessa.”

“My wife?”

“Do you have another Tessa?”

“I mean, no, but-”

“I need you to call Tessa and ask her to call Scott Moir.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“Why,” Morgan says slowly, “would I ask my wife to call her former ice dance partner?”

“Because he coaches Y/N Y/L/N.”

“The ice dancer who just won gold?”

“That’s the one.”

“Okay. And why do we need Scott?”

“Because Macklin Celebrini is in love with her.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Celebrini. The kid. First overall pick. Plays for the Sharks. He saw Y/N after the game tonight and completely lost his mind. Like, fully stopped functioning as a human being. And Crosby has decided that we all need to intervene.”

“Crosby decided this?”

“He pulled me into a literal closet to discuss it.”

“A closet.”

“A storage closet. There were mops.”

Morgan starts laughing. “Oh my god.”

“It’s not funny!”

“It’s extremely funny. Sidney Crosby, captain of Team Canada, three-time Stanley Cup champion, is playing matchmaker.”

“Technically we’re all playing matchmaker. He just initiated it.”

“And he wants Scott to do what, exactly?”

“Get Y/N and Celebrini in the same room somehow. Create an opportunity. I don’t know, Crosby was vague on the specifics.”

“Because it’s an insane plan.”

“I’m aware!”

“And you want me to pitch this to Tessa.”

“Yes.”

“My wife. Who is an ex-professional athlete with an actual day job and a literal Olympic champion and probably has better things to do.”

“Also yes.”

Morgan is quiet for a moment. Mitch can hear him breathing, thinking.

“Does this kid actually like her?” Morgan asks finally. “Or is this just Crosby being weird?”

“Apparently he stared at her for like a full minute without blinking. Multiple teammates had to physically move him.”

“Okay. That’s-”

“A lot?”

“I was going to say kind of sweet, actually.” Morgan pauses. “Tessa loves this kind of thing. You know that, right?”

“I was hoping.”

“She’s gonna call Scott immediately.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a yes. I’ll call her now.”

“Thank you.”

“But Marns?”

“Yeah?”

“If this goes sideways, I’m telling everyone it was your idea.”

“That’s fair,” Mitch says, and hangs up.

***

Morgan calls Tessa at 3:45 PM Toronto time.

She picks up on the first ring.

“Hey babe,” she says. “How was your work out?”

“Exhausting. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

“Okay?” She sounds intrigued now. “What’s up?”

“How would you feel about calling Scott?”

“Scott?” There’s a smile in her voice. “I just talked to him yesterday. He’s losing his mind over Y/N and Tristan winning. Why?”

“Because-” Morgan pauses. “Okay, this is going to sound insane.”

“I’m listening.”

“Apparently Macklin Celebrini, the Sharks kid, saw Y/N at a hockey game and had some kind of emotional crisis. And now Sidney Crosby has decided that the entire Canadian Olympic men’s hockey team needs to play matchmaker.”

Silence.

Then Tessa starts laughing.

“Are you serious?” She asks.

“Completely serious. Mitch just called me. Crosby pulled him into a closet to discuss strategy.”

“A closet?”

“Apparently it was very serious.”

Tessa is fully cackling now. “Oh my god. This is the best thing I’ve heard all week.”

“So you’ll call Scott?”

“Are you kidding? I’m calling him right now. This is amazing.”

“You think he’ll go for it?”

“Morgan.” Tessa’s voice is warm, affectionate. “Scott Moir is one of the most romantic people I know. Of course he’ll go for it. He’ll probably already have a plan before I finish explaining.”

“You’re the best.”

“I know. Love you. I’ll text you after I talk to him.”

“Love you too.”

She hangs up.

Morgan sits there for a second, staring at his phone, wondering how his Friday afternoon turned into coordinating an international matchmaking scheme.

Then he shrugs and heads back to wipe down his equipment.

***

Tessa calls Scott at 4 PM Toronto time, which is 10 PM in Milan.

Scott is in his hotel room, reviewing footage for next weekend’s exhibition gala program, when his phone rings.

“Tess?” He answers. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s great. But I need to tell you something, and you’re going to love it.”

“Okay?”

“Macklin Celebrini is in love with Y/N.”

Scott stares at his laptop screen.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The hockey player. First overall pick. Plays for the Sharks. He saw her at the Canada-Switzerland game and apparently had a complete meltdown. Sidney Crosby is orchestrating a matchmaking operation and he needs your help.”

Scott sits back in his chair.

“Sidney Crosby,” he says slowly, “is matchmaking.”

“I know!”

“For Y/N.”

“Yes!”

“And he called you?”

“He called Mitch Marner, who called Morgan, who called me, who is now calling you. It’s like telephone but for romance.”

Scott starts grinning. “This is incredible.”

“I knew you’d love it.”

“Tell me everything.”

Tessa relays the story as she understands it — the game, the staring, the intervention, the closet conversation. Scott listens, his grin getting wider with every detail.

“This kid has no idea, does he?” He asks when Tessa finishes.

“I don’t think so. Do you think Y/N would go for it?”

“I think-” Scott pauses. “I think Y/N has been so focused on skating for so long that she doesn’t let herself think about anything else. But yeah. If there’s a connection? She’d go for it. She just needs a push.”

“So you’ll help?”

“I’m offended you even have to ask. Of course I’ll help.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know yet. Let me talk to Crosby. Get a sense of what we’re working with.” He pauses. “Is this kid actually good, or is he just some random player who got starstruck?”

“He’s good. Really good. And from what Morgan said, he’s a good person too. Little awkward, maybe. Very earnest.”

“Perfect. Y/N hates cocky.” Scott’s already pulling up his phone, scrolling for Crosby’s contact from 2010. “I’ll call Sidney tonight. We’ll figure something out.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Obviously.”

“And Scott?”

“Yeah?”

“This is very cute. You playing matchmaker.”

“It’s called growth,” Scott says, and Tessa’s laugh is the last thing he hears before they hang up.

***

Scott calls Sidney Crosby at 10:15 PM Milan time.

Sid picks up immediately.

“Scott Moir?” He says, and he sounds almost nervous, which is wild because this is Sidney Crosby.

“That’s me. Tessa called.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay.” Sid takes a breath. “Thanks for—I know this is weird.”

“It’s not weird. It’s great. I love weird.”

“You do?”

“I was an ice dancer for twenty years. My entire career was weird. This is nothing.”

Sid laughs, and Scott can hear the relief in it. “Okay. Good. So Tessa explained?”

“Kid saw Y/N, lost his mind, you want to engineer a meeting.”

“That’s the gist, yeah.”

“Tell me about him. Celebrini.”

“He’s-” Sid pauses, choosing his words. “He’s a really good kid. Talented, obviously. First overall for a reason. But he’s also got this—he’s earnest, you know? He cares about things. He’s not jaded yet.”

“How old?”

“Nineteen.”

“Same as Y/N.”

“Exactly.”

Scott leans back against his headboard, thinking. “What happened at the game?”

“He saw her in the stands. Completely froze. I’ve never seen anything like it. Jarvis literally had to push him to get him moving again.”

“And he hasn’t talked to her?”

“No. He’s convinced she’s out of his league.”

“Is he right?”

“Maybe. But he’s nineteen and awkward and she’s an Olympic gold medalist who’s basically perfect, so I understand the intimidation.”

Scott grins. “She’s not perfect. She’s neurotic and competitive and she stress-eats Swedish Fish before competitions.”

“She sounds great.”

“She is great. So here’s what we do.” Scott’s already formulating a plan, the same way he used to plan out programs, seeing the pieces fall into place. “You don’t have a game the day after tomorrow, right?”

“We’ve got practice in the morning but we’re free after.”

“Okay. I’ll make sure Y/N is where she needs to be. You make sure Celebrini’s there too. And then-” Scott pauses. “Then we engineer a very natural, very casual meeting.”

“How?”

“Leave that to me. I’ve got an idea.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Probably. But it’ll work.”

Sid is quiet for a moment. “Why are you doing this? You don’t know Macklin.”

“No,” Scott agrees. “But I know Y/N. And I’ve watched her give everything to skating for three years. She deserves something for herself. Even if it’s just a conversation with a cute hockey player who can’t stop staring at her.”

“He really can’t,” Sid says, and there’s a smile in his voice.

“Then let’s give them both a chance.” Scott pauses. “But Crosby?”

“Yeah?”

“If this kid breaks her heart, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“That’s fair.”

“Glad we understand each other.”

They hang up, and Scott immediately texts Tessa.

Scott: Operation Olympic Matchmaking is a go.

Tessa: I knew you’d love this.

Scott: I’m texting Y/N now. Wish me luck.

Tessa: You don’t need luck. You’re Scott Moir.

Scott: Damn right I am.

***

Scott is beginning to realize that you are dangerously easy to manipulate.

He’s walking through the Olympic Village with you toward a random meeting room in Building C, and you’ve asked exactly zero follow-up questions about why Buzzfeed wants to interview you with puppies in an unmarked room in a residential building instead of, say, a proper studio or literally anywhere else that would make sense.

You’re just walking next to him, humming something under your breath, completely trusting, and Scott is having the uncomfortable realization that if he were a kidnapper instead of your coach, you would already be in an unmarked van.

“So they’re just bringing the puppies here?” you ask, adjusting your Team Canada hoodie.

“Yep,” Scott says.

“To the Olympic Village.”

“That’s what they said.”

“And they specifically requested me?”

“You and Tristan, but he’s stuck doing a segment with TVA Nouvelles, so it’s just you.”

“Huh.” You seem to accept this without question. “What kind of puppies?”

“I don’t know. Puppy puppies.”

“That’s not a breed, Scott.”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.” You’re smiling now, that genuine excited smile that makes you look about twelve years old. “I love puppies.”

“I know,” Scott says, and he does know, because you’ve mentioned it approximately ninety-eight times since he started coaching you. You follow every dog Instagram account. You stop to pet every dog you see on the street. Last year at Worlds you missed a team meeting because you were playing with a Corgi in the hotel lobby.

You’re obsessed with dogs.

Which is why Scott knew this would work.

Still. The ease of it is concerning.

“We should talk about stranger danger,” he says.

“What?”

“Like, we should have a conversation about how you would absolutely get kidnapped if someone told you there were puppies somewhere.”

You look at him. “Scott, are you kidnapping me?”

“No.”

“Then why are we talking about this?”

“Because you asked zero follow-up questions about this Buzzfeed thing.”

“You’re my coach. I trust you.”

“That’s exactly what a kidnapping victim would say.”

“Are you having a stroke?”

“I’m having a realization about your critical thinking skills.”

You shove his shoulder, laughing. “I’m not going to get kidnapped. I’m an Olympic athlete. I’m very aware of my surroundings.”

“You’re about to walk into an unmarked room because someone said there would be puppies.”

“You said there would be puppies.”

“Exactly.”

You stop walking. “Scott. Is there actually a Buzzfeed interview?”

Scott keeps walking. “Of course there is.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

“Weirder than usual.”

“We’re here,” Scott says, stopping in front of a door marked Conference Room 3B. It’s at the end of a hallway in one of the residential buildings, quiet and out of the way, exactly the kind of place where no one would think to look. Perfect.

You look at the door. Look at Scott. “This is a conference room.”

“Very observant.”

“I thought we were going to a studio?”

“Change of plans. They’re setting up inside.”

“I don’t hear puppies.”

“They’re very quiet puppies.”

“That’s not a thing.”

Scott opens the door. The room is empty. No cameras. No Buzzfeed crew. No puppies. Just a conference table, some chairs, and fluorescent lighting that makes everything look vaguely institutional.

“Scott-” you start.

“Go on in,” Scott says, gesturing. “They’ll be here in a second.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have to grab something from my room. I’ll be right back.”

You look skeptical now, which is good, which means your survival instincts are finally kicking in, but Scott is already gently pushing you into the room.

“Scott-”

“Two minutes. I promise.”

He closes the door.

You hear the lock click from the outside.

“Scott?” You try the handle. It doesn’t turn. “SCOTT?”

His footsteps are already disappearing down the hallway.

You stand there, alone, in an empty conference room, and slowly realize what just happened.

“Oh my god,” you say to the empty room. “Maybe I am too trusting.”

***

Macklin is not a suspicious person by nature.

He’s trusting. Optimistic. The kind of guy who assumes the best in people and situations, which has served him well in life and hockey and generally not being a cynical disaster at age nineteen.

Which is why, when Sidney texts him at 2:30 PM and says Mario Kart tournament in Conference Room 3B at 3. Be there, Macklin doesn’t question it.

He loves Mario Kart.

The team has been talking about doing a tournament since they got here.

Conference Room 3B is a weird place to hang out, but whatever. Maybe it’s the only room with a free TV.

He shows up at 2:52 PM, wearing joggers and a Team Canada t-shirt, his hair still damp from the post-practice shower.

Sid is waiting outside the door.

“Hey,” Macklin says. “Am I early?”

“No, perfect timing.” Sid opens the door. “Everyone else is running late. You can go set up.”

Macklin walks in.

The room is empty.

No TV. No Nintendo Switch. No Mario Kart. No teammates.

Just an empty conference room and-

You.

Standing by the window, arms crossed, looking extremely confused and slightly annoyed.

Macklin stops walking.

His brain makes the Windows shutdown noise.

“Uh,” he says.

You turn around.

Your eyes meet his.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Behind Macklin, the door closes.

The lock clicks.

“SID?” Macklin spins around, grabbing the door handle. It doesn’t turn. “SIDNEY?”

“Have fun!” Sid’s voice comes through the door, already moving away.

“WHAT-”

But he’s gone.

Macklin turns back around.

You’re staring at him.

He’s staring at you.

The fluorescent lights hum.

Somewhere in the building, someone’s playing music.

“Hi,” Macklin says, because his brain has apparently decided that single-syllable words are the current maximum capacity.

“Hi,” you say back.

More silence.

“So,” Macklin tries. “Mario Kart?”

“Puppies,” you say.

“What?”

“I was told there would be puppies.”

“I was told there would be Mario Kart.”

You both look at the empty room.

“I don’t see puppies or Mario Kart,” you say.

“No,” Macklin agrees.

“I think-” you start.

“We’ve been set up,” Macklin finishes.

“Yeah.”

You both stand there.

Macklin is trying very hard not to stare at you, which is difficult because you’re right there, five feet away, in a Team Canada hoodie and leggings and no makeup and you’re somehow even more beautiful than you were at the hockey game. Your hair is in a ponytail. You’ve got a scrunchie on your wrist. You look tired and annoyed and perfect.

“I’m Macklin,” he says, because apparently his brain has rebooted and decided that introductions are the logical next step.

“I know,” you say.

His heart does something complicated.

“You do?”

“You’re kind of hard to miss. First overall pick. Game last night.” You pause. “Nice goal, by the way.”

“Thanks. You-” He stops. Starts again. “You won gold. Ice dance. The Hadestown program.”

“You watched it?”

“Like six times.”

The words are out before he can stop them, and Macklin wants to die. He wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He wants to go back in time and not say that.

But you’re smiling.

“Six times?” you ask.

“I—yeah. It was-” Macklin runs a hand through his hair, which is definitely doing something stupid right now. “It was really beautiful. The program. You were—both of you were incredible.”

“Thank you.” You’re still smiling, and it’s doing something to his cardiovascular system. “Tristan’s my partner. We’ve been skating together since we were nine.”

“That’s—wow. That’s a long time.”

“Yeah. He’s basically my brother at this point.” You lean against the conference table. “So. Your team set this up?”

“I think so? Sid said there was Mario Kart.”

“My coach said there were puppies.”

“That’s-” Macklin can’t help it. He laughs. “That’s actually kind of genius. If someone told me there were puppies, I’d probably follow them too.”

“Right? I was literally thinking about being kidnapped on the way here.”

“Please tell me your coach talked to you about stranger danger.”

“He did! Extensively! While walking me directly into this trap!”

You’re both laughing now, and it’s easier suddenly, the tension breaking, the absurdity of the situation overriding the awkwardness.

“Okay,” you say, wiping your eyes. “Okay. So they locked us in here.”

“Seems like it.”

“For what? To force us to talk?”

“I think that was the plan, yeah.”

“That’s-” You shake your head. “That’s so stupid.”

“Is it though?” Macklin asks before he can stop himself.

You look at him.

He looks back.

“I mean,” he continues, committing now because there’s no going back, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you since I saw you for the first time last week. But I was too scared to just walk up and introduce myself like a normal person. So maybe this is—I don’t know. Maybe this isn’t the worst thing.”

You’re quiet for a moment.

“You wanted to talk to me?” You ask.

“Yeah.” Macklin’s face is definitely red. He can feel it. “Is that weird?”

“No. I just-” You pause. “You stared at me after the game.”

Oh god.

“You saw that,” Macklin says.

“Everyone saw that. It’s on TikTok.”

“Of course it is.” Macklin sits down in one of the conference chairs because his legs have decided they’re done holding him upright. “I’m sorry. That was—I didn’t mean to be creepy.”

“You weren’t creepy.” You sit down too, one chair away from him. “You were just … intense.”

“I didn’t mean to be intense either.”

“Why were you staring?”

Macklin looks at you.

You’re watching him, your expression open, genuinely curious, and Macklin makes a decision.

“Because,” he says, “you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

Your eyes widen.

“And,” he continues, because apparently he’s decided to just go for it, “I watched your program about six times like I said, and it made me cry. Actually cry. I’m a hockey player. We don’t cry. But I watched you skate and I-” He stops. “You tell stories on the ice. That’s what it felt like. Like you were telling me something true.”

You’re not saying anything.

Macklin panics.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “That was too much. I’m not good at this. I’ve been awake for like three days and I’m exhausted and I just—I should stop talking.”

“No,” you say quietly.

“No?”

“Don’t stop talking.” You’re smiling now, soft, genuine. “That was—that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about my skating in a long time.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Macklin lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” you echo.

You both sit there for a moment, the silence comfortable now instead of awkward.

“So,” you say finally. “We’re locked in here.”

“Seems like it.”

“Should we try to get out?”

“Probably.”

Neither of you moves.

“Or,” Macklin says, “we could just talk? Since we’re here? Since they went to all this trouble?”

“You want to talk to me?”

“I’ve wanted to talk to you for like eight days.”

You laugh, and it’s the best sound Macklin’s ever heard.

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s talk.”

***

Outside the door, Scott and Sidney are standing guard.

Well. “Standing guard” is generous. They’re leaning against the wall, talking quietly, occasionally checking their phones.

“How long do we leave them?” Sid asks.

“At least an hour,” Scott says.

“An hour?”

“They need time. You can’t rush these things.”

“What if they hate each other?”

“They won’t.”

“How do you know?”

Scott gives him a look. “I’ve coached Y/N for three years. I know when she’s interested in someone. And based on what you told me about Celebrini, he’s already halfway in love with her.”

“That’s not-” Sid stops. “Okay, that’s probably accurate.”

“So we give them time. We let them figure it out.”

Down the hall, Tom Wilson appears, followed by Seth Jarvis and Brad Marchand.

“Status report?” Tom asks.

“They’re talking,” Scott says.

“How do you know?”

“I can hear them through the door.”

All four hockey players immediately press their ears to the door.

There’s laughter coming from inside.

“Oh my god,” Seth whispers. “It’s working.”

“Of course it’s working,” Scott says. “I’m a professional.”

“You’re something,” Sid says, but he’s smiling.

Inside the room, you and Macklin are still talking, completely unaware of the conspiracy happening directly outside, and for the moment, that’s exactly how it should be.

***

You’ve been talking to Macklin for twenty minutes, and you’re starting to understand why the universe conspired to lock you in a room together.

He’s funny.

Not in a trying-too-hard way, but in a genuine, slightly self-deprecating way that makes you laugh without meaning to. He tells you about getting drafted, about moving to San Jose, about his mom crying during his first NHL game and his dad trying not to cry and failing.

“They were in the stands,” he says, “and I looked up during warmups and my mom was already sobbing, and I was like, ‘Mom, the game hasn’t even started,’ and she just-” He makes a gesture. “She just kept crying.”

“That’s sweet.”

“It was humiliating. But also sweet, yeah.”

You tell him about growing up in London, Ontario, about starting skating at four, about the first time you and Tristan did a lift and you fell and gave him a black eye.

“We were nine,” you say. “And he didn’t even cry. He just held ice on it and said, ‘We’ll get it next time.’“

“That’s actually adorable.”

“It is, right? He’s the best.”

“Are you guys-” Macklin stops. “Sorry, that’s—never mind.”

“Are we what?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Macklin.”

He looks embarrassed. “Are you and Tristan … you know. Together?”

You stare at him.

Then you start laughing.

“Oh my god,” you say. “No. No, we’re—Tristan is very gay.”

“Oh.” Macklin’s face does something complicated. “Oh. Okay.”

“Did you think-”

“I didn’t know! Everyone kept saying he was, based on vibes, but I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to assume-”

“The vibes are correct.” You’re still grinning. “Tristan is extremely gay. We actually have the same taste in men, which is a problem when we’re both single and going to the same events.”

“That sounds complicated.”

“It’s mostly just funny.” You pause. “Why did you want to know?”

Macklin looks at you.

You look back.

“Because,” he says carefully, “I wanted to know if I had a chance.”

Your heart does something stupid.

“A chance at what?” You ask, even though you know.

“At taking you to dinner. Or coffee. Or … I don’t know. Whatever people do when they want to get to know each other better.”

“You want to get to know me better?”

“I—yeah. Yes. Very much yes.”

You smile.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Let’s have coffee. Or dinner. Or whatever.”

Macklin grins, and it’s bright and genuine and makes him look even younger.

“Really?”

“Really. But-” You hold up a hand. “Not until after your next game. You need to focus on hockey.”

“I can focus on hockey and have coffee with you.”

“Can you though? Because you literally stopped functioning when you saw me after your last game.”

“I’m never going to live that down.”

“Probably not.”

He’s still smiling.

You’re still smiling.

Outside, there’s a knock on the door.

“Time’s up!” Scott’s voice calls through.

The lock clicks.

The door opens.

Scott, Sid, and approximately six other people are standing in the hallway, all of them grinning like idiots.

“So,” Scott says. “How’d it go?”

You look at Macklin.

Macklin looks at you.

“Good,” you say.

“Really good,” Macklin adds.

Tom Wilson actually whoops.

“I told you it would work!” Seth says, high-fiving Brad.

Sid just looks satisfied.

Scott crosses his arms. “You can thank me later.”

“I’m going to kill you later,” you tell him.

“That’s fair.”

You and Macklin stand up, walking toward the door, and as you pass Scott, you lean in close.

“There were no puppies,” you whisper.

“There was something better,” Scott whispers back.

And looking at Macklin, who’s currently being chirped by his entire team about his “date” with the ice dancer, you think Scott might actually be right.

***

The Olympic Village dining hall is not romantic.

It’s a massive cafeteria-style space with industrial lighting, hundreds of tables, and approximately seventeen different food stations serving cuisine from around the world. There’s a constant hum of conversation in a dozen languages, the clatter of trays, the occasional sound of someone dropping a plate. It smells like a combination of pasta, disinfectant, and the particular chaos of feeding several thousand elite athletes at once.

It is, objectively, the worst place to have a first date.

Which is why, when Macklin suggested meeting here for dinner, you said yes immediately.

Because calling it a “date” in the Olympic Village dining hall feels safer somehow. Lower stakes. If it goes badly, you can just grab your food and leave. If it goes well … well, you’ll figure that out when you get there.

You show up at 7 PM, which is when you agreed to meet, wearing jeans and a Team Canada t-shirt because this is casual, this is just dinner, this is not a big deal.

(You changed outfits three times. Tristan watched you have a crisis and offered zero helpful input beyond “they’re all fine” and “you’re spiraling.”)

Macklin is already there, waiting by the entrance, wearing joggers and a hoodie and looking just as nervous as you feel, which is oddly comforting.

“Hey,” he says when he sees you.

“Hey,” you say back.

There’s a pause.

“So,” Macklin says. “Dinner?”

“Dinner,” you confirm.

“Cool. Great. Let’s-” He gestures vaguely toward the food stations.

You both grab trays.

The dining hall has everything. There’s a pasta station, a salad bar, a grill, a sushi counter, a dessert section that’s genuinely overwhelming. Every country’s athletes have different dietary needs and preferences, so the IOC basically just said “fuck it, we’ll make everything.”

You head to the pasta station because carbs are always the right choice.

Macklin follows you.

“I’ve been eating so much pasta since we got here,” he says, watching the chef prepare his bowl. “Like, an alarming amount.”

“Same. I think I’ve had pasta for dinner every night this week.”

“No regrets though.”

“Zero regrets.”

The chef hands you your bowl, and you notice immediately that the pasta is shaped like the Olympic rings.

“Oh my god,” you say, holding it up. “Look at this.”

Macklin peers at your bowl. “Is that-”

“Olympic ring pasta.”

“That’s incredible.”

“That’s the most Olympic thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m getting that too,” Macklin tells the chef, who looks very pleased with himself.

You move through the stations, both of you grabbing bread, some vegetables that you’ll probably not eat, and then, because you’re in Italy even if it’s the contained Italy of an Olympic Village, tiramisu from the dessert section.

“I’m getting two,” Macklin announces, putting two slices on his tray.

“That’s ambitious.”

“I’m an athlete. I need fuel.”

“You need therapy, but okay.”

He laughs, and you feel stupidly proud of yourself for making that happen.

You find a table in the corner, slightly away from the main crowd, and sit down across from each other.

For a moment, you both just look at your Olympic ring pasta.

“This feels very official,” you say.

“Should we take a photo?”

“Absolutely.”

Macklin pulls out his phone, and you both angle your bowls so the Olympic rings are visible. He takes the photo, looks at it, grins.

“I’m posting this,” he says.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Why not?”

“Because then everyone will know we’re having dinner.”

“Everyone already knows we’re having dinner.”

He has a point.

You look around the dining hall. At a table about fifteen feet away, you can see Tristan sitting with two other Canadian figure skaters, very obviously watching you. When you make eye contact, he waves enthusiastically and gives you a thumbs up.

You flip him off.

He blows you a kiss.

“Is that your partner?” Macklin asks.

“Unfortunately.”

“He seems supportive.”

“He’s a menace.” You twirl some pasta around your fork. “Your team’s here too, you know.”

“What?”

You nod toward a table on the other side of the dining hall, where approximately eight members of Team Canada hockey are sitting. They’re not even pretending not to stare. Seth Jarvis is actually pointing at you. Tom Wilson is holding his phone up like he’s filming.

Macklin puts his head in his hands.

“I’m going to kill them,” he says.

“Get in line. I called dibs on Tristan.”

“Maybe we should just accept that we have no privacy.”

“Maybe we should start charging admission.”

Macklin looks up, smiling. “That’s actually not a bad idea. We could make a fortune.”

“Olympic Village dinner theater. Coming to a cafeteria near you.”

“Starring two people who were forcibly locked in a room by their well-meaning but unhinged mentors.”

You’re both laughing now, and it’s easy, easier than you thought it would be. The anxiety that’s been sitting in your chest since you agreed to this starts to loosen.

“Okay,” you say, taking a bite of pasta. “So. We’re doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Getting to know each other. That’s what you said, right? In the room?”

“Right. Yeah.” Macklin eats some of his own pasta, and you watch him process the Olympic ring shape with the delight of a child. “This is so cool.”

“Focus, Celebrini.”

“Sorry. Yes. Getting to know each other.” He sets down his fork. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. Normal stuff?”

“What’s normal stuff?”

“Like-” You think. “Okay. What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.”

“What kind of blue?”

“Is there more than one kind?”

“There are like fifty kinds of blue.”

“Okay, um-” He looks around, then points at the San Jose Sharks case on his iPhone. “That blue. The one on the flag.”

“That’s teal, but I’ll accept it.”

“What about you?”

“Also blue. But like-” You look out the windows. “That blue. A clear winter sky.”

“We both like blue.”

“This is a very promising start.”

Macklin grins. “Okay, my turn. What’s your-” He pauses. “Actually, I already know a lot about you.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I watched a lot of interviews after your program went viral.” He looks slightly embarrassed. “You’re from London. You started skating when you were four. Your favorite movie is Pride and Prejudice. You’re scared of heights but not falling. You have a cat named Poutine.”

You stare at him.

“That was creepy,” he says quickly. “That was absolutely creepy. I’m sorry. I just—I wanted to know more about you and I kind of fell down a rabbit hole and-”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“What?”

“I don’t have a cat. Poutine is Tristan’s cat. He was in the background of one of my Instagram stories and everyone assumed he was mine.”

“Oh.” Macklin looks relieved. “So I didn’t completely nail the research.”

“You did pretty well though. Little stalker-y, but thorough.”

“I prefer … enthusiastically interested.”

“That’s literally just a nice way to say stalker.”

“Yeah, okay, fair.”

You’re smiling though, and he’s smiling back, and across the dining hall someone’s phone flashlight goes off like they’re trying to get a better photo.

“This is insane,” you say.

“Want to leave?”

“No.” You surprise yourself with how quickly you say it. “No, I—I’m having fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You take another bite of pasta. “Okay, my turn. Tell me something I can’t find in an interview.”

Macklin thinks about this, chewing slowly.

“Okay,” he says finally. “When I found out I went first overall, I cried.”

“That’s not—people probably know that.”

“No, I mean—I went home after the draft, after all the media stuff, and I got in my childhood bed and I just cried. Because I was so happy and so terrified and I didn’t know if I was good enough.”

His voice has gone quiet, genuine.

“I still don’t know sometimes,” he continues. “If I’m good enough. If I deserve it. It’s a lot. People expect things. And I want to be that guy, the one who lives up to it, but I’m also just—I’m nineteen. I’m still figuring it out.”

You don’t say anything for a moment.

“I get that,” you say finally. “The expectations thing. Everyone wants us to be Tessa and Scott. Everyone wants the next great Canadian ice dance team. And I want that too, but also—sometimes I just want to skate because I love it. Not because I’m trying to be someone else.”

“Exactly.”

“And the scared thing. I’m scared all the time. Before every competition. During every competition. That I’m going to fall or mess up or prove everyone right who said I wasn’t good enough.”

“But you won gold.”

“And I’m still scared.” You look at him. “I think that’s just part of it, maybe. Being good at something doesn’t mean you’re not terrified of losing it.”

Macklin nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense.”

You eat in comfortable silence for a moment.

Then, from somewhere across the dining hall, music starts playing.

You both look up.

When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s amore …

You and Macklin make eye contact.

You both start laughing immediately.

“Are you kissing me right now?” Macklin calls out, looking toward his teammates’ table.

Tom Wilson stands up and bows.

The entire hockey table is losing it, laughing and filming and thoroughly enjoying themselves.

“WHEN THE WORLD SEEMS TO SHINE,” Tom sings, badly, “LIKE YOU’VE HAD TOO MUCH WINE-”

“THAT’S AMORE!” The rest of the table joins in.

Other diners are starting to notice. Some are laughing. Some are filming. A group of Italian athletes at a nearby table actually start clapping along.

“I’m going to switch citizenships,” Macklin says, but he’s laughing too hard to sound serious.

“At least they’re committed to the bit,” you offer.

“They’re committed to ruining my life.”

At your table, Tristan has stood up on his chair.

“WHEN THE STARS MAKE YOU DROOL,” he sings, gesturing dramatically at you and Macklin, “JUST LIKE PASTA FAZOOL-”

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!” You yell.

“THAT’S AMORE!” Tristan sings back.

The entire dining hall is watching now. Someone near the pasta station starts slow-clapping. A group of curlers joins in on the chorus.

You look at Macklin.

Macklin looks at you.

“This is the most embarrassing first date in history,” he says.

“This is incredible,” you counter.

“Really?”

“Are you kidding? This is-” You gesture at the chaos around you, the singing, the laughter, the sheer absurdity of it. “This is perfect.”

Macklin’s expression softens.

“Yeah?” He asks.

“Yeah.”

The song reaches its crescendo, and approximately half the dining hall is singing along now, and someone — you think it’s Sidney Crosby but you can’t be sure — has started conducting like it’s a symphony.

When it finally ends, the applause is deafening.

Macklin is bright red.

You’re pretty sure you are too.

“So,” Macklin says, once the noise dies down. “Still having fun?”

“The most fun,” you confirm.

“Want to get out of here?”

“Desperately.”

“There’s a courtyard. It’s quiet.”

“Lead the way.”

You both grab your trays, bus them, and head for the exit.

As you walk past Tristan’s table, he grabs your arm.

“How’s it going?” He whispers.

“I hate you,” you whisper back.

“You love me.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Is he nice?”

You glance at Macklin, who’s waiting by the door, looking back to make sure you’re following.

“Yeah,” you say. “He’s really nice.”

Tristan grins. “Good. Go. Have fun. Use protection.”

“TRISTAN.”

“Emotional protection! I meant emotional protection!”

“I’m leaving.”

“Text me later!”

You catch up to Macklin at the door.

“Your partner’s intense,” he observes.

“You have no idea.”

***

The courtyard is quieter.

There are still people around — athletes walking, talking, enjoying the evening — but it’s manageable. The sun is setting, turning everything gold and pink, and there are string lights hung between the buildings that haven’t been turned on yet but probably will be soon.

You and Macklin find a bench away from the main paths and sit down.

“That was-” Macklin starts.

“A lot?”

“Memorable.”

“That’s a nice way to put it.”

“Your tiramisu survived,” he points out, nodding at the container you’re holding.

“So did yours. Both of them.”

“I told you I needed fuel.”

You open your container and take a bite. It’s good — really good, the kind of good that makes you close your eyes and appreciate it.

When you open them, Macklin is watching you.

“What?” You ask.

“You look like you’re having a religious experience.”

“I take my tiramisu very seriously.”

“I’m learning that about you.”

You take another bite, just to prove your point.

Macklin opens his first container and tries it. His reaction is similar to yours — eyes closed, full appreciation.

“Okay,” he says. “I get it now.”

“Right?”

“This is incredible.”

“We’re in Italy. Even the Olympic Village has good tiramisu.”

“I’m going to miss this when we leave.”

“When do you leave?”

“Depends on how far we make it. Medal rounds are next weekend. You?”

“My part is done other than the exhibition gala. But I’m staying through the closing ceremony. Tristan wants to ‘soak it all in.’” You make air quotes. “His words.”

“That’s nice though. Getting to watch everyone else.”

“Yeah. I’m excited to watch more hockey.”

“Yeah?”

“I mean-” You pause. “I’ll be cheering for Canada either way. But also, specifically, maybe cheering for you.”

Macklin’s face does something that makes your chest feel warm.

“I’d like that,” he says.

“You would?”

“Having you there? Yeah. That would be—yeah.”

You’re both smiling now, and the courtyard is getting darker, and the string lights flicker on, and it’s almost aggressively romantic in the way that only accidentally romantic situations can be.

“Can I ask you something?” Macklin says.

“Sure.”

“Why did you say yes?”

“To dinner?”

“Yeah. You could have said no. After the whole locked-room thing. You could have just gone back to your life. But you said yes.”

You think about this.

“I think-” you start. “I think because you were honest. In the room. About being scared and wanting to talk to me and all of it. You didn’t try to be cool or play it off. You just—you were real.”

“I’m not sure I know how to be anything else.”

“Good. Don’t learn.”

Macklin looks at you for a long moment.

“Can I be honest about something else?” He asks.

“Always.”

“I really want to kiss you right now.”

Your heart stops.

Restarts.

Does a full gymnastics routine.

“But,” Macklin continues quickly, “I know it’s the first date, and we’re in public, and people are probably watching-”

“They’re definitely watching.”

“-and I don’t want to be the guy who moves too fast or makes you uncomfortable or-”

You lean over and kiss him.

It’s quick. Soft. Over before your brain fully catches up to what your body just did.

When you pull back, Macklin is staring at you.

“Sorry,” you say. “You were spiraling.”

“I was—yeah. Okay.”

“Was that okay?”

“That was-” He blinks. “Can I do it again?”

“Yes.”

This time, he kisses you.

It’s longer. Sweeter. His hand comes up to cup your face, and yours finds his shoulder, and somewhere in the background you can hear people cheering but you genuinely don’t care because Macklin Celebrini is kissing you in the Olympic Village courtyard under string lights and it turns out every romantic comedy you’ve ever watched was right about everything.

When you finally break apart, you’re both grinning like idiots.

“So,” Macklin says.

“So,” you echo.

“That was-”

“Really good?”

“Extremely good. Top tier. Gold medal worthy.”

You laugh. “Did you just make an Olympics joke?”

“I’m multifaceted.”

“You’re a dork.”

“Can a dork kiss you again?”

“Absolutely yes.”

So he does.

And across the courtyard, hidden behind a pillar, Tristan and Seth high-five.

“OPERATION OLYMPIC ROMANCE IS A SUCCESS,” Seth announces, too loudly.

“SHUT UP,” you yell, not breaking away from Macklin.

“NEVER!” Tristan yells back.

Macklin starts laughing against your mouth, and you start laughing too, and the kiss dissolves into just joy. Pure, uncomplicated, first-date joy.

“Our friends are insane,” Macklin says.

“The absolute worst,” you agree.

“Want to stay out here anyway?”

“Definitely.”

So you do.

You sit on the bench, Macklin’s arm around your shoulders, your head on his chest, and you eat your tiramisu and talk about nothing and everything until the courtyard gets too cold and you both have to admit that you should probably head back.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” Macklin asks as you’re walking back toward your buildings.

“You have practice.”

“After practice.”

“You need to focus on hockey.”

“I can focus on hockey and see you.”

“That didn’t work out great at the last game.”

“That was before I actually knew you. Now that I know you’re real and not a hallucination, I’ll be fine.”

“A hallucination?”

“Long story.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Is that a yes?”

You stop walking. Look at him. He’s got tiramisu on the corner of his mouth, and his hair is doing something stupid, and he’s looking at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Yes,” you say. “Tomorrow.”

“Great. Perfect. Amazing.”

“Now wipe your face. You have dessert on it.”

He does, badly.

You reach up and do it properly, and he catches your hand and kisses your palm, and it’s so smooth that you’re genuinely surprised.

“Where did that come from?” You ask.

“I have no idea. It just happened.”

“Do it again.”

He does.

And somewhere in the distance, “That’s Amore” starts playing again, and you both dissolve into laughter, and this — this ridiculous, chaotic, perfect first date — is exactly what you needed.

***

Long distance is hard.

That’s what everyone tells you when you and Macklin decide to make this work after the Olympics. Your friends, your family, random people on the internet who have Opinions about your relationship based on three Instagram photos and a TikTok of you at a Sharks game.

Long distance is hard. Long distance never works. You’re both too busy. You’re too young. It’s going to fall apart.

And yeah, okay, it is hard.

Hard when Macklin’s on a road trip and you’re halfway through a post-Olympic tour around Canada and the clashing schedules means you’re ships passing in the night, communicating through voice memos and texts sent at 2 AM.

Hard when you have a bad practice and all you want is to curl up next to him on the couch, but he’s in Dallas and you’re in Montreal and the best you can do is FaceTime while he sits in his hotel room eating room service.

Hard when the Sharks play the Maple Leafs and you’re in the stands at Scotiabank Arena and Macklin looks up at you between shifts and you can see how much he wants to come up there, and you want him to, but there are 19,000 people and a sheet of ice and an entire hockey game between you.

But it’s also good.

It’s really, really good.

Because Macklin comes to Montreal whenever the Sharks play the Canadiens, and he stays an extra day if he can, and you cook him dinner in your apartment and he pretends it’s great and orders pizza after you fall asleep.

Because you fly to California for endorsement meetings and media appearances, and you add an extra day to the trip so you can stay with him in San Jose, and his teammates chirp him mercilessly but also clearly love you because you brought homemade cookies from your mom and all-dressed chips, which apparently are “way better than American potato chips” according to Tyler Toffoli.

Because you FaceTime every day. Sometimes for five minutes, sometimes for two hours. Sometimes you don’t talk at all, just leave the call running while you do your own things — him playing video games, you foam rolling and watching reality TV.

Because when you won your first Grand Prix assignment in October, Macklin sent flowers to the rink. Red roses with a note that said told you that program was gold medal worthy. Now go prove it again.

Because when the Sharks won their first game of the 2026-27 season, you posted a photo of you in his jersey with the caption that’s my boyfriend!!! and Macklin called you crying-laughing because “you can’t just post things like that when you’re in a different country.”

(You did not care. You did it again.)

So yeah. Long distance is hard.

But Macklin is worth it.

Which is why you’re here, in San Jose, sitting in the SAP Center in the Friends and Family suite, wearing Macklin’s jersey and trying not to have a full emotional crisis about the fact that this is your first time watching him play here.

At home.

In teal.

In the arena where 17,000 people are screaming his name.

“You good?” Asks the woman next to you. She’s in her forties, also wearing a Sharks jersey, and she’s been very nice about explaining various Sharks traditions that you, a lifelong Leafs fan, don’t know.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s just a lot.”

“First game at the Tank?”

“First game watching him play here, yeah.”

She smiles. “It never stops being overwhelming. I’m Will Smith’s mom. I’ve been coming to these games for years and I still get nervous.”

“That makes me feel better.”

“He’s going to be great. He always is.”

You nod, because she’s right. Macklin is great. You’ve watched him play a dozen times now — in person, on TV, on grainy streams when the game isn’t broadcast in Canada. You’ve watched him score goals and make assists and skate with the kind of confidence that makes you forget he’s twenty.

You’ve also watched him get hit.

A lot.

Which is the part you’re not great with.

The puck drops.

The game starts.

Macklin is on the first line, centering between Smith and Sherwood, and he looks good. Fast. Focused. He wins the opening faceoff and the Sharks maintain possession for the first forty-five seconds before Colorado gets it back.

It’s a fast game. Chippy. Both teams are fighting for playoff positioning even though it’s early in the season, and you can feel the tension from your seat.

Midway through the first period, Macklin gets an assist on a Smith goal, and the Tank erupts, and you’re on your feet screaming before you even realize you’ve stood up.

“THAT’S MY BOYFRIEND!” You yell, which is becoming your signature move apparently.

Will’s mom laughs. “You’re good for morale.”

“I’m very enthusiastic.”

“We love enthusiastic.”

The first period ends 1-1. The second period is more of the same — fast, physical, lots of hits. Macklin takes a hard check into the boards in the defensive zone and you physically flinch, but he pops back up, shakes it off, keeps playing.

“He’s tough,” Will’s mom observes.

“I know. I hate it.”

“You get used to it.”

“Do you?”

“No. But you get better at pretending.”

The Sharks score again early in the second. Then Colorado ties it. Then the Sharks score. Then Colorado ties it again.

By the time the third period starts, it’s 3-3 and you’re stressed.

You’re also loving it, which is confusing, but you’ve learned that hockey does that to you. Makes you feel seventeen emotions simultaneously.

Five minutes into the third, Macklin is in the corner battling for the puck with one of Colorado’s defensemen — you don’t catch the name, but he’s big and physical and playing aggressively.

They’re shoving each other. Nothing unusual. This is hockey. This is how it works.

And then the Colorado player says something.

You can’t hear it from your seat. You can’t even see his mouth move. But you see Macklin’s reaction.

He stops.

Completely freezes for half a second.

And then he drops his gloves.

“Oh shit,” you say.

The Colorado player looks surprised, but he drops his gloves too, and then they’re fighting — actually fighting, fists swinging, jerseys grabbed, the kind of hockey fight that happens maybe once every few games if you’re lucky.

The crowd is going insane.

You’re standing. You don’t remember standing, but you’re on your feet, hands pressed to your mouth, watching Macklin throw punches like he’s done this a thousand times even though you’re pretty sure he hasn’t.

“GO CELEBRINI!” Someone behind you screams.

The refs break it up after about twenty seconds. Both players are sent to the penalty box — five minutes each for fighting.

Macklin skates off the ice, his jersey half-pulled over his head, his hair a mess, and he looks up at the section where you’re sitting.

Your eyes meet.

He grins.

You shake your head, but you’re smiling too.

“What was that?” Will’s mom asks.

“I have no idea,” you say honestly.

But you’re about to find out.

***

The Sharks win 5-4 in overtime.

Macklin gets the game-winning goal, which is objectively incredible and also means the post-game media availability is going to be entirely focused on him.

You wait in the family area, which is a room near the locker room where players’ families and partners wait after games. There are couches, a TV playing the post-game coverage, snacks that you’re stress-eating because that fight is still replaying in your head.

Will’s mom gives you a hug before she leaves. “Welcome to the Sharks family,” she says. “You’re going to fit right in.”

You’re watching the post-game press conference on the TV when you see it happen.

Macklin is at his stall, still in his gear minus the pads, his hair sticking to his forehead. He’s answering questions about the winning goal, about the team’s performance, the usual stuff.

And then a reporter asks what everyone’s been waiting for, “Macklin, you dropped the gloves in the third period, which isn’t something we see from you often. What sparked that fight?”

There’s a pause.

Macklin leans into the microphone.

“He said my girlfriend’s Hadestown program was overrated,” Macklin says, completely serious. “Said it shouldn’t have won gold.”

The room goes silent.

Then erupts.

Reporters are talking over each other, trying to ask follow-ups, but Macklin just keeps going.

“And I just—I snapped,” he continues. “That program was a masterpiece. It was technically flawless, artistically brilliant, and emotionally devastating. She and Tristan on it for months. They deserved that gold medal. And this guy-” Macklin shakes his head. “This guy wouldn’t know art and technicality if it slapped him in the face.”

Someone in the press room laughs.

“So yeah,” Macklin finishes. “That’s why I dropped the gloves. No regrets.”

The reporter tries to ask another question but Macklin is already standing up, done with media, and the feed cuts to the studio analysts, who are all grinning.

In the family room, you’re standing in front of the TV with your hand over your mouth.

“Did he just-” you start.

“He absolutely did,” says one of the other WAGs in the room, laughing. “Oh my god. That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“He fought someone over ice dance.”

“He fought someone over you.”

Your phone is already blowing up.

Tristan has sent approximately fifteen texts, all in caps, all variations of OH MY GOD DID YOU SEE THAT.

Your mom has sent a heart emoji and that boy is a keeper.

The Sharks official Twitter account has posted a clip with the caption Macklin Celebrini: Elite centerman. Art enjoyer. Devoted boyfriend.

It has 40,000 likes in three minutes.

You’re going to kill him.

You’re going to kiss him.

You’re going to do both, in that order.

***

Macklin emerges from the locker room twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in regular clothes, looking slightly sheepish.

“Hey,” he says when he sees you.

“Hey,” you say back.

There’s a pause.

“So,” he starts. “About the fight-”

You grab his collar, pull him down, and kiss him.

Hard.

He makes a surprised noise against your mouth but recovers quickly, his hands coming up to cup your face, kissing you back with the kind of enthusiasm that suggests he’s been thinking about this for the last hour.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless.

“What was that for?” He asks.

“For defending my honor.”

“I mean, he was wrong. Your program was incredible.”

“Mack.”

“What?”

“You fought someone because they said my ice dance program was overrated.”

“He was objectively wrong!”

“You don’t fight! You’ve had like one fight in your entire career!”

“It’s two now.”

“Oh my god.”

“Are you mad?” He looks genuinely uncertain.

“Mad? I’m-” You stop. “I’m the opposite of mad. That was the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Really?”

“You dropped the gloves over ice dance, Macklin. You defended my artistic merit. You called it a masterpiece on national television.”

“It is a masterpiece.”

“I’m going to kiss you again.”

“Please do.”

So you do.

And then again.

And a few more times for good measure.

“Okay,” Macklin says when you finally let him breathe. “So you’re not mad.”

“I’m extremely not mad. I’m actually kind of turned on, which is confusing because violence is bad.”

“Hockey violence is different.”

“Is it?”

“It’s—look, I don’t make the rules.”

You laugh, leaning into him, and he wraps his arms around you.

“You know it’s going to be everywhere, right?” You say. “The fight. The press conference. All of it.”

“I know.”

“People are going to make edits.”

“Probably.”

“There’s going to be a TikTok trend.”

“Almost definitely.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

He pulls back to look at you. “Y/N, I just told an entire press room that your ice dance program was technically flawless and artistically brilliant. I’m pretty sure everyone already knows how I feel about you.”

“And how do you feel about me?”

“I’m in love with you,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Your heart stops.

“You—what?”

“I’m in love with you,” he repeats. “I’ve been in love with you since that first dinner in the Olympic Village when you ate tiramisu like it was a religious experience. Maybe even before that. Maybe since I saw you in the courtyard. I don’t know. But I know I’m in love with you now.”

You’re crying.

You’re actually crying, tears running down your face, and Macklin’s expression immediately shifts to panic.

“Oh no. Oh shit. Was that too fast? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“I love you too,” you interrupt.

“-said it so soon, I just wasn’t thinking—wait, what?”

“I love you too, you idiot.”

His face transforms. “Really?”

“Really. I’ve been in love with you since you told me I was the most beautiful person you’d ever seen. In that conference room. When we were locked in together.”

“That was eight months ago.”

“I know.”

“We’ve been in love with each other for eight months and neither of us said anything?”

“Apparently.”

“We’re so bad at this.”

“The worst,” you agree, and then you’re both laughing and crying and kissing, and somewhere in the hallway Tyler Toffoli walks by and yells “GET A ROOM” but neither of you care.

***

You’re at Macklin’s apartment, curled up on his couch, watching the replay of the game on his laptop.

“I can’t believe you did that,” you say for the fifteenth time.

“Which part?” Macklin asks. He’s got his arm around you, playing with your hair, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“All of it. The fight. The press conference. The-” You gesture at the screen, where the clip of him defending your program is playing again. “‘Wouldn’t know art and technicality if it slapped him in the face.’ Someone’s going to put that on a t-shirt.”

“I’ll buy one.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me.”

“I really do.”

Your phone buzzes. It’s a text from Scott.

Scott: Just watched the press conference. That kid really loves you.

You: I know.

Scott: Don’t fuck it up.

You: I won’t.

Scott: Good. Also, tell him I said nice hit. Very protective. I respect it.

You show the text to Macklin.

“Scott Moir respects my fighting,” he says, reading. “That’s cool.”

“He’s the one who locked us in a room together.”

“We should send him a thank you card.”

“We absolutely should.”

You settle back against his chest, watching the game replay. The Sharks are skating, Macklin is celebrating his goal, and somewhere in the stands, there’s a shot of you in his jersey, hands over your mouth, pure joy on your face.

“Look,” Macklin says, pointing. “That’s you.”

“I look insane.”

“You look beautiful.”

“I’m literally screaming.”

“Beautifully.”

You elbow him gently. “You’re such a sap.”

“You love it.”

“I really do.”

The game ends on the screen. The Sharks celebrate. The camera catches Macklin looking up at the stands, finding you, smiling.

“Can I tell you something?” Macklin asks.

“Always.”

“I was so scared. At the Olympics. When we met. I was terrified you wouldn’t like me.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No. You were — you are — this incredible, accomplished, beautiful person who just won Olympic gold, and I was just some hockey player who couldn’t stop staring at you.”

“You’re not just some hockey player.”

“I felt like it. In comparison to you.”

You turn to face him properly. “Macklin. You were drafted first overall. You’re living your dream. You score game-winning goals and fight people who insult ice dance. You’re-” You pause. “You’re the best person I know. And I’m so lucky I got locked in that room with you.”

“Me too.”

“Even though there were no puppies?”

“Even though there were no puppies.” He kisses your forehead. “Though for the record, I would get you a puppy if you wanted one.”

“You would?”

“I would get you anything you wanted.”

“All I want is you.”

“That’s very convenient, because you already have me.”

You kiss him, soft and sweet, and outside the window San Jose is alive with light, and somewhere in Montreal Tristan is probably texting you again, and somewhere in the world the video of Macklin defending your program is going viral, and none of it matters because you’re here.

With him.

With the boy who saw you across an Olympic courtyard and decided you were worth fighting for.

Literally.

“Hey,” Macklin says against your lips.

“Hey,” you say back.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Good.” He grins. “Because I’m planning to keep you for a really long time.”

“How long?”

“Like … forever? Is forever weird? That might be too much-”

“Forever sounds perfect,” you interrupt.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And eight months after meeting in an Olympic Village, three hours after Macklin dropped the gloves to defend your artistic integrity, and exactly fifteen seconds since you realized this was what you wanted all along, you kiss him again and think about how sometimes the best stories start with a conspiracy, a locked door, and two people who were brave enough to take the chance.

Even if that chance involves fake puppies, Mario Kart lies, and a singing rendition of “That’s Amore” in an Olympic dining hall.