♡

The apartment's dead quiet when you hear his key in the lock.

It's past midnight. Later than you thought, even with all the post-game stuff and the shower he probably stood under for way too long at the arena. You've been on the couch for hours, phone face-down because you couldn't take seeing the score anymore. Couldn't take the tweets, the media talking about what went wrong.

The door opens slow. Alex comes in and he looks wrecked.

Like someone hollowed him out. His hair's still wet, pushed back, and he's swimming in his hoodie that's too big. The bag on his shoulder looks like it weighs a million pounds. His playoff beard is the fullest you've seen it—dark, messy, makes him look even more tired somehow.  his eyes. Red around the edges, kind of glassy like he's not really here.

"Hey," you say, getting up.

He drops the bag. Doesn't even take his shoes off. "Hey."

You go to him and wrap your arms around him. For a second he just stands there, stiff. Then something gives. His arms come around you hard, too tight, face in your neck. The beard scratches your skin. He's not crying but his breathing is shaky.

"I'm sorry," he says into your neck.

"Don't." You run your fingers through his damp hair, then cup his jaw. The beard's coarse under your palm. "Don't apologize."

"We were so close.. His voice breaks.

"Alex." You pull back enough to look at him. Your thumb moves over his cheek, through his beard. There's a bruise forming you didn't notice before. "It wasn't just you. It's never one person."

He closes his eyes, leans into your hand like he's starving for it. His hand covers yours, presses it harder against his face. "Doesn't feel that way."

You don't know what to say. So you just hold him. Let him breathe. The silence stretches until his shoulders start to drop a little.

When he kisses you, it's desperate.

His hands frame your face and there's nothing gentle about it. It's need and frustration and wanting to feel literally anything else. The beard burns and you lean into it. Kiss him back just as hard, fingers curling in his hoodie.

"I need—" He breaks away, forehead against yours, breathing hard. "I just need to not think. Please. I need you so bad right now."

The way he says it does something to you. "Okay," you whisper. "Whatever you need."

He kisses you again, slower but still intense, walking you back toward the bedroom. You go with him, hands sliding under his hoodie to find warm skin, the muscle of his back. He's shaking a little. Could be exhaustion, could be emotion or probably both.

The bedroom's dark except for the streetlight through the curtains. Alex pulls his hoodie off, then reaches for you, hands going under your shirt. There's something frantic in how he touches you like he's trying to memorize your skin like you're the only real thing right now.

"Let me," he says, and it's almost a plea. His voice is rough. "Let me take care of you. Need to make you feel good. Need—fuck, I just need this."

You nod and he guides you back onto the bed, following you down. His mouth finds yours, then your jaw, your neck. The beard scrapes your skin and sends shivers everywhere. He's kissing and sucking at your neck and you know there'll be marks. His hands are everywhere—pushing your shirt up, unhooking your bra, touching your breasts softly.

"So perfect," he says, almost to himself. "So fucking perfect."

"Alex—"

"Just feel," he says against your collarbone. "Don't think. Just feel. That's all I want."

He's talking to himself as much as you.

His mouth goes lower. Down your chest, your stomach. Stops to bite at your hip. The beard drags against your belly and you squirm. You gasp when he hooks his fingers in your shorts and underwear, pulls them both down and tosses them. The air's cold but then his hands are on your thighs, spreading them, and all you can think about is the look in his eyes when he looks up at you.

"Fuck," he breathes. His grip tightens on your thighs. "You're so beautiful. So fucking beautiful and you're here and you're mine and-" He stops, shakes his head.

Something broken in how he says it like he needs to believe in something good.

He doesn't wait. His mouth is on you and his tongue drags through and your back arches. He groans against you, deep, and the vibration goes straight up your spine. His hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise. The beard scratches your inner thighs and it's almost too much. rough and soft at the same time, his tongue and his mouth and the burn of facial hair.

"God, yes," he mutters. "Need this. Need you. Need to taste you—fuck."

It's intense immediately. Alex goes down on you like nothing else exists. His tongue circles your clit, then dips lower, and the sounds are obscene. You thread your fingers through his hair, tug, and he moans.

"God, Alex—"

"Tell me," he says, muffled and desperate. "Tell me how it feels. Need to hear you."

"So good," you gasp. "You're so good, don't stop—"

He doubles down, sucks your clit into his mouth, and your hips buck. He holds you down with his forearm, keeps you pinned while he works you over. His other hand slides up to your breast, squeezes, thumb over your nipple.

"You're everything," he mumbles and his voice cracks. “Let me have this, let me make you feel good, please—"

There's desperation in it that's almost too much. The way he's losing himself in this, in you. Using your pleasure to anchor himself. His breathing's ragged, broken sounds that might be words.

You look down and the sight almost kills you. His eyes are closed, brow furrowed, and there's something pained in his face even as he devours you. The beard's wet now, glistening. It makes heat coil tighter in your belly like he's pouring all his grief into this, trying to drown everything out.

"You taste so fucking good," he says like a prayer. "So good for me. I don't deserve—fuck, I don't deserve you but I need you, need this—"

His voice is wrecked. Your thighs start shaking, tension building, and he must feel it because he slides two fingers inside you, curls them just right while his mouth stays on your clit. The stretch and the pressure is too much.

"Oh fuck—Alex, I'm—"

"Come for me," he begs. Actually begs. "Please, baby, I need to feel you come. Need it so bad. Need to know I can still do this, please—"

His fingers and tongue and the desperation in his voice push you over. Your orgasm hits hard, crashes through you, and you cry out his name. He moans like your pleasure is his, works you through it, fingers still moving, tongue still going, drawing it out until you're gasping and oversensitive and pushing at his head.

Even then he kisses your inner thighs, your hips, everywhere. The beard drags across sensitive skin and you shiver. When he crawls up your body his face is wet, pupils blown, and when he kisses you, you taste yourself on his lips, in his beard.

"Thank you baby," he whispers, and there's so much in those two words your throat gets tight. "Thank you—"

"Come here," you say, pulling him down.

He goes, almost collapses into you, and that's when you feel it. The hitch in his breathing. His shoulders shaking. You wrap around him immediately, one hand in his hair, the other on his back.

"It's okay," you whisper. "I've got you."

 He breaks. Not loud but quiet, almost silent. Just his breath catching and wetness against your neck where his face is buried. His hands grip you like you're the only thing keeping him here.

"I wanted it so bad," he chokes out. "We were so close. I really thought this was our year."

"I know."

"And now it's just over and I keep thinking about every shift, every play, everything I could've done—"

"Alex." You pull back enough to make him look at you. His eyes are red, wet. You brush your thumbs under them, feel the coarse beard. "You gave everything. I watched you."

"It wasn't enough."

"It was. You were." You kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his nose. "The outcome doesn't change that."

He makes this sound that's half laugh, half sob, and buries his face back in your neck. "Don't know what I'd do without you."

"Good thing you don't have to find out."

You hold him. His body pressed to yours, skin to skin. Slowly the tears stop. His breathing evens out. But he doesn't let go. Holds you tighter if anything.

"Stay with me," he mumbles, even though you're already here.

"I'm not going anywhere," you promise, kissing the top of his head. "I'm right here. All night. Tomorrow. However long."

His hand finds yours, laces your fingers together, brings them to his chest. You feel his heartbeat, still fast. "I love you," he says quietly. "I know I don't say it enough but I do so fucking much."

"I love you too." You squeeze his hand. "Win or lose. Always."

He shifts just enough to kiss you. Soft this time. Just gratitude and love and exhaustion. When he pulls back he's looking at you like you hung the moon.

"Thank you for being here," he says. "For waiting up. For everything."

"There's nowhere else I'd be."

He nods, settles back against you, head on your chest. Your fingers go back to his hair automatically. You feel the moment he finally relaxes for real tension draining, weight getting heavier.

"We'll be okay," you say softly.

"Yeah," he murmurs, already half asleep. "Yeah."

You hold him while he drifts off. Your fingers trace patterns on his back, through his hair, along his jaw. Feeling the playoff beard he'll probably shave tomorrow. The season's over, the disappointment will still be there in the morning, but right now he's here. Safe and loved and finally at peace.