LOGAN

You're already running late and you know Will will be pacing in your living room, impatient as always. The soft click of your lipstick tube closing breaks the silence of your bedroom as you give yourself one final look in the mirror.

"Almost ready!" you call out, slipping into your heels and smoothing down a nonexistent wrinkle before heading out the door.

You find him exactly where you expected, standing by the window, arms crossed with a frown on his face. He turns when you enter the room and his expression immediately softens. It always does that when he looks at you.

"Finally," he says, but there's no real annoyance in his voice. He closes the distance between you, his hands coming to rest on your waist. "You look amazing."

You smile up at him. "You clean up pretty well yourself."

His fingers trace the bare skin of your back where your dress dips low. "Maybe we should just stay in tonight."

You swat at his playfully. "No way. Everyone's expecting us."

Will sighs dramatically but keeps his hands on you as you grab your purse from the couch. "Fine. But I'm driving."

"Obviously," you reply with a laugh.

It's always been this way, Will driving you everywhere, his hand occasionally finding your thigh during the drive and his eyes flicking to you more often than the road.

The restaurant is already bustling when you arrive, your friend group occupying a long table near the back. As soon as you walk in, heads turn and people wave you over.

"There you are!" someone calls from the middle of the table.

Will's arm immediately wraps around your shoulders, pulling you flush against his side as he navigates through the crowded restaurant. He leads you to two empty seats, making sure to take the one next to you before anyone else can claim it.

"Sorry we're late," you say, greeting everyone with hugs and smiles. Will watches each interaction closely, his hand never straying far from your back or arm.

As the evening progresses, you find yourself engaged in conversation with a few friends across the table, laughing and sharing stories. You're so absorbed that you don't notice Will growing quieter beside you, his jaw tightening slightly.

"Hey," he says, his voice low in your ear. "Remember that thing we needed to talk about?"

You turn to him, confused. "What thing?"

He gives you a look that you can't quite decipher. "The thing for next weekend. Come outside with me for a minute."

You excuse yourself, following him out into the cool night air. A shiver runs through you instantly, the evening breeze raising goosebumps on your bare arms.

"What's up? Is everything okay?" you ask, rubbing your arms for warmth.

"Everything's fine," he says, his eyes narrowing as he notices your reaction to the cold. Before you can protest, he's shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders. "I just wanted a minute alone with you before everyone else steals all your attention."

You laugh, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself, not noticing the intensity in his gaze as he watches you wear something of his. "They're not stealing my attention. I'm just being social."

"I know," he says, his hands flexing at his sides as if resisting the urge to touch you. "I just don't like sharing you."

Before you can respond, one of your guy friends comes stumbling out of the restaurant. "There you are! We're ordering shots if you want to join."

Will's posture stiffens, his jaw clenching almost imperceptibly. "She's good. We'll be back in a minute."

Your friend looks between you both, an awkward smile on his face. "Right. Well, don't take too long."

When he's gone, you turn to Will with a raised eyebrow. "That was rude."

"He'll live," Will says dismissively, stepping closer. "You're still cold." Without waiting for a response, he pulls you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you and rubbing your back. "Better?"

You nod against his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. "Much better. Thanks."

"Anything for you," he murmurs, his chin resting on top of your head. "You know, you look incredible tonight. Not that you don't always look incredible, but tonight... something's different."

Your cheeks flush at his compliment. "It's just the dress."

"It's not just the dress," he says softly, his arms tightening around you. "It's you. You always shine, but tonight you're blinding."

You pull back slightly to look up at him, your heart fluttering at the raw emotion in his eyes.

"Will...we should probably go back inside. Before they send out a search party."

He sighs but follows you back to the table, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back. For the rest of the dinner, he keeps you close, his arm draped across your chair, his fingers occasionally tracing patterns on your shoulder.

When it's time to leave, Will helps you with your jacket, his hands lingering on your arms as he adjusts the collar. "You're staying at my place tonight," he says, not a question but a statement.

"I am?" you ask, surprised.

"You are," he confirms. "It's too late for you to go home alone."

You don't argue, it's easier to agree than to fight with him when he gets like this. Besides, you've stayed over countless times before.

The drive back to his place is quiet, a Lana Del Rey song playing softly in the background. Will's hand rests on your thigh, his thumb stroking back and forth in a rhythm that's both comforting and distracting.

"You were quiet at dinner," you say, breaking the silence.

He glances at you before turning his attention back to the road. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

"Things," he says vaguely. "Us."

Your heart skips a beat at his words. "What about us?"

"Nothing bad," he reassures you, his fingers squeezing your thigh gently. "Just… how much I love having you around."

You smile, relieved. "I love being around you too. You're my best friend."

Something flashes in his eyes at your words, but it's gone too quickly for you to identify. "Yeah," he says, his voice suddenly tight. "Best friends."

At his apartment, he immediately takes your jacket, his fingers brushing against yours as he does. "Make yourself comfortable," he says, disappearing into the kitchen.

You curl up on his couch, pulling a blanket over yourself. When he returns with two mugs of hot chocolate, he sits right beside you, his arm immediately wrapping around your shoulders.

"You know," he says, handing you a mug, "I've been thinking about that trip we talked about taking."

"To the cabin?" you ask, sipping the warm chocolate.

"Yeah. Maybe we could go next month? Just the two of us."

"That sounds amazing," you say enthusiastically. "But what about everyone else? They'll want to come too."

"I was thinking it could just be us this time," he says, his voice casual but his eyes watching you intently. "Like old times."

You consider it for a moment. "That would be nice. It's been a while since it's just been the two of us."

A small smile plays on his lips. "Exactly. Just us."

The next day, you're at the mall with a few of your friends, including Will. As usual, he sticks close to your side, his hand occasionally brushing against yours as you walk through the crowded stores.

"I need to find a dress for that party next week," you say, pulling him toward a clothing store.

"I'll wait outside," one of your guy friends says. "Clothes shopping isn't really my thing."

"Me neither," another agrees. "We'll grab coffee and meet you guys back here in an hour."

As they walk away, Will's arm immediately wraps around your waist. "Good. Now it's just us."

You laugh, used to his constant need for physical contact. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe," he admits, his fingers tracing circles on your hip. "But you love it."

You don't deny it, because you do, in a way. You've always loved how protective he is, how he always makes sure you're safe and comfortable. You've just never questioned why he needs to be so close, why he seems to relax when it's just the two of you.

In the dressing room, you hold up a few options, seeking Will's opinion on each one.

"That one," he says immediately when you step out in a deep blue dress. "Definitely that one."

You turn to look at yourself in the mirror. "Really? It's a bit more revealing than what I usually wear."

"It's perfect," he insists, coming up behind you to rest his chin on your shoulder. "You look incredible."

His eyes meet yours in the mirror and for a moment, you see something there, something that runs deeper than friendship. But it's gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual easy smile.

"Fine," you say, turning back to face him. "I'll get this one."

His hands rest on your waist as you look at yourself again. "You know, if you wear that to the party, I might have to fight some guys off."

You roll your eyes. "You're so dramatic."

"Am I?" he asks, his voice suddenly serious. "Or am I just being honest about how other guys see you?"

Before you can respond, your other friends return, coffee in hand. "Find anything good?" one asks.

Will's arm tightens around your waist. "She found the perfect dress. But no one else is allowed to see it until the party."

Your friends exchange knowing looks, but you miss it completely.

"Hey, I'm gonna grab a pastry from that stand," one of your guy friends says, gesturing toward the kiosk across the walkway. "Want to join me?"

"Ooh, yes please!" you reply, already turning to go with him. "I'm starving."

You start to walk away, but Will's hand on your arm stops you. You look back at him questioningly.

"I'll come too," he says, his eyes already fixed on your friend.

Your friend holds up his hands in mock surrender. "No need, man. We'll just be a minute."

Will's jaw tightens, but he forces a smile and lets go of your arm. "Fine. Don't be long."

You roll your eyes at his overprotectiveness but hurry to catch up with your friend. As you walk away, you can feel Will's eyes on you, but you don't turn back around.

Left alone, Will turns his attention back to the remaining friend, who's watching him with an amused expression.

"What?" Will asks, his voice defensive.

You met Cale Makar when you were six years old.

Technically, he met you.

You had been sitting on the curb in front of your house, glaring down at the bloody scrape covering your knee after falling off your bicycle. Your pink helmet was crooked, one shoelace was untied, and the bicycle itself had been abandoned dramatically in the middle of the sidewalk.

You had been trying very hard not to cry, then a boy with flushed cheeks and messy brown hair stopped in front of you, his hockey stick still held in one gloved hand “Are you okay?”

You sniffled, straightening your shoulders “Yes.”

He looked at your knee “You’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” It hurt terribly.

The boy remained silent for a moment before reaching into the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a slightly crushed packet of fruit snacks and held it toward you “My mom gives me these after hockey.”

You stared at the packet “Why are you giving them to me?”

“Because you look sad.”

“I’m not sad.”

He nodded seriously “Okay. But you can still have them.”

That was the beginning.

Cale helped you push your bicycle home, even though his house was in the opposite direction. He waited on your front steps while your mother cleaned your knee, and when you came back outside with a bandage covered in tiny yellow stars, he was still there.

You split the fruit snacks between you, after that, there was rarely a day when Cale wasn’t somewhere nearby.

You attended the same elementary school, lived only three streets apart, and spent nearly every afternoon together. When Cale had hockey practice, you sat in the cold arena with a coloring book balanced on your knees. When you had dance recitals, he sat beside your parents wearing a tie his mother had forced him into, clapping louder than anyone else when you appeared onstage.

He taught you how to skate, you taught him how to braid friendship bracelets.

He was terrible at it.

“You made all the colors crooked,” you complained, inspecting the bracelet he had tied around your wrist when you were nine.

“It’s supposed to look like that.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It’s unique.”

“It looks broken.” Cale frowned at the matching bracelet around his own wrist “I like it.” you looked at him for several seconds before softening “Fine. I like it too.” He wore it until the threads became so thin that it finally fell apart during practice.

When you were twelve, he punched a boy for pulling your hair, when you were thirteen, you helped him study for a history test by turning important dates into ridiculous hockey statistics, when you were fourteen, he walked you home through a snowstorm because neither of your parents could reach the school.

At fifteen, everything began to change.

Not dramatically.

There was no sudden moment when you looked at Cale and understood that he was no longer simply the boy who traded snacks with you or let you borrow his hoodie.

It happened slowly, it was noticing how much taller he had grown over the summer, it was the warmth spreading through your chest whenever he smiled at you from across a crowded hallway, it was recognizing his footsteps outside your bedroom before he knocked on the door, it was the way your stomach twisted when girls began appearing at his hockey games wearing his number.

Cale never seemed particularly interested in the attention.

He was polite, occasionally awkward, and entirely oblivious whenever someone flirted with him, you were not oblivious “Emma likes you,” you told him one afternoon.

You were lying beside each other on the floor of his basement, pretending to do homework while a movie played quietly in the background.

Cale stopped writing “Emma who?”

You turned your head toward him “Emma Richards.”

He stared blankly “She sits behind you in math.”

“Oh.”

“She’s been to your last four games.”

“A lot of people come to the games.”

“She wears your jersey.”

“So does my mom.” you threw a pillow at him, Cale caught it before it struck his face “What?”

“She likes you.”

He studied you carefully “Why do you care?”

Your heartbeat stumbled “I don’t.”

“You sound like you care.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“With what?”

“Getting a girlfriend.”

His expression shifted in a way you couldn’t understand “I don’t need help.”

“You’ve never even kissed anyone.”

Cale’s cheeks turned pink “Neither have you.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“It seems relevant.”

You sat upright, crossing your arms “You could kiss Emma.”

“I don’t want to kiss Emma.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like her.”

“Then who do you like?” The question hung between you, Cale’s eyes remained fixed on your face, his expression strangely nervous. For one impossible second, you thought he might say your name, instead, he looked down at his notebook “No one.”

You ignored the disappointment settling inside your chest “Right. Me neither.”

Neither of you mentioned the conversation again.

A year later, Cale took someone else to the winter formal, you told yourself it didn’t bother you, you even helped him choose his tie, the girl’s name was Natalie. She was kind and pretty, and you hated yourself for resenting her when she had done absolutely nothing wrong.

“You look nice,” you told Cale when he stopped by your house before the dance. He stood awkwardly in your living room wearing a dark suit, his hands buried inside his pockets “You think?”

“Your tie is crooked.”

“I knew something was wrong.” You stepped closer and reached for it, Cale became completely still as you straightened the fabric against his chest. You could feel him watching you, but you kept your attention on the knot “There.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Neither of you moved, his face was so close to yours that you could see the faint freckles scattered across his nose. You wondered what would happen if you leaned forward, then a car horn sounded outside, Cale stepped back “That’s probably Natalie.”

“Probably.”

He hesitated beside the door “You’re sure you don’t want to come?”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“You could come with us.”

“As your third wheel?”

“As my friend.”

The word hurt more than it should have, you smiled anyway “Go have fun, Cale.”

He left reluctantly.

You watched from the window as Natalie climbed out of the car and greeted him with a hug. Cale glanced back at your house before getting inside, you spent the rest of the evening eating popcorn with your mother and pretending that your chest didn’t ache.

Cale came to your house after the dance.

It was nearly midnight when he tapped on your bedroom window from the roof of the porch, you nearly screamed “What are you doing?” you whispered after pushing the window open.

“Can I come in?”

“You’re in a suit.”

“I know.”

“It’s snowing.”

“I noticed.”

You stepped aside, letting him climb through the window, Cale’s hair was damp with melting snow, and his cheeks were red from the cold. He loosened his tie before sitting at the foot of your bed “How was the dance?” you asked.

“It was fine.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Not really.”

You tried not to appear too relieved “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Did Natalie do something?”

“No. She was great.”

“Then why are you here?”

Cale looked at you “I wanted to see you.”

The answer left you speechless, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, folded napkin. When he opened it, there were two slightly crushed cookies from the dessert table inside “They had the chocolate ones you like.”

Your heart softened painfully “You stole cookies for me?”

“I took them.”

“That’s stealing.”

“They were free.”

“You still hid them in a napkin.”

“So they wouldn’t get frosting on my pocket.” You took one of the cookies and broke it in half, Cale smiled, you sat beside him on the bed, sharing stolen desserts while snow gathered outside your window.

Neither of you spoke about Natalie, neither of you spoke about how close his hand was to yours, by graduation, everyone knew Cale was leaving.

His hockey career was already carrying him toward places far beyond your neighborhood. You were proud of him. You had always been proud of him, but standing inside his bedroom while cardboard boxes covered the floor, you realized that being proud did not make saying goodbye any easier “You’re acting like I’m disappearing,” Cale said.

You folded another sweatshirt and placed it into the open suitcase “You’re moving thousands of miles away.”

“We can call.”

“You hate talking on the phone.”

“I’ll learn.”

“You’ll be busy.”

“Not too busy for you" you looked down before he could see how much those words affected you, Cale sat beside the suitcase “You could come visit.”

“I will.”

“You promise?”

You turned toward him “Of course I promise.” he held out his little finger, you stared at it “We’re eighteen.”

“And?”

“You’re asking me to pinky promise.”

“It’s legally binding.”

You laughed and hooked your finger around his “Fine. I promise.”

Cale didn’t release your hand immediately, his thumb brushed over the side of your finger, his expression becoming serious “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Your breath caught “What?” he looked nervous. More nervous than you had ever seen him before an important game or exam “I…”

His phone rang on the desk, the sound made both of you jump, Cale closed his eyes briefly “It’s my dad.”

“You should answer.”

“It can wait.”

“He’s probably calling about the flight.” Cale looked at you for another second before releasing your hand “Right.”

You never discovered what he had intended to say.

Distance changed things, even though neither of you wanted it to, at first, you spoke every day, Cale sent photographs of campus, the arena, and the terrible meals he attempted to make when he was tired of dining hall food.

You sent updates about home, photographs of his parents’ dog, and recordings of his younger brother making fun of how frequently Cale mentioned you.

Then life became busier.

Practices became more demanding. Your own classes became more difficult. Sometimes his games overlapped with your exams, and sometimes your calls went unanswered because one of you had fallen asleep.

Still, Cale remained the first person you called when something wonderful happened and the person you wanted when everything went wrong.

When he was drafted, you cried harder than his mother, when he made his NHL debut, you watched from your apartment wearing the old crooked friendship bracelet he had made you, now preserved carefully inside a small glass frame.

When he scored, you screamed so loudly that your roommate ran into the room believing someone had broken in, Cale called you later that night “Did you see it?”

“Did I see it? Cale, I nearly suffered a heart attack.” he laughed, the sound warm despite the exhaustion in his voice “I wish you were here.”

Your smile faded slightly “Me too.”

There was silence “Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I miss you.”

Your throat tightened “I miss you too.”

You almost told him then, you had loved him for years, maybe you had always loved him. But Cale was beginning a life that was larger and more complicated than anything you had imagined for either of you. You were afraid that telling him would feel like adding another responsibility to his shoulders.

So you said goodnight instead.

Years continued passing, Cale became one of the best players in the world, but to you, he remained the boy who forgot to replace the empty milk carton and called you whenever he needed help choosing a birthday present for his mother.

You visited Colorado whenever your schedule allowed, he returned home during the summers, every reunion felt effortless, as though no time had passed at all and every goodbye became harder, there were other people.

You dated a classmate for six months, Cale dated a woman he had met through friends.

Neither relationship lasted.

You never discussed why.

Whenever Cale mentioned another woman, you smiled and asked polite questions while a familiar ache spread through your chest, whenever he saw photographs of you with another man, he became unusually quiet.

His teammates noticed “You’re glaring at your phone,” one of them observed as Cale sat inside the locker room.

“I’m not glaring.”

“You look like you want to fight it.”

Cale locked the screen “It’s nothing.”

“Is that Y/N?”

Cale glanced sharply toward him “How do you know about Y/N?”

“You talk about her constantly.”

“I do not.”

“You told us she broke her arm when she was eleven.”

“She fell out of a tree.”

“You also told us she hates raisins, collects old postcards, and once dressed as a traffic cone for Halloween.”

“She lost a bet.”

“Sure.”

Cale frowned.

The photograph was still burned into his mind, you were standing beside a man at a friend’s wedding, smiling while the man’s hand rested against the small of your back. Cale had spent years convincing himself that he had time.

Time to become settled, time to understand what he could offer you, time to find the courage to risk the most important friendship he had ever known.

But perhaps time was exactly what he had been losing.

The following summer, Cale returned to Calgary earlier than expected, you discovered this when someone knocked on your apartment door at eight in the morning.

You opened it wearing an oversized shirt and sleep shorts, your hair tangled around your shoulders, Cale stood in the hallway with two coffees and a paper bag.

You stared at him “What are you doing here?”

“Good morning to you too.”

“You said you weren’t coming home until next week.”

“I changed my flight.”

“Why?”

He lifted the bag “I brought breakfast.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I missed you.” Your irritation disappeared immediately.

You stepped aside.

Cale walked into the apartment as though he belonged there, placing the coffee on your kitchen counter before examining the photographs attached to your refrigerator.

Most of them included him, birthday parties. Graduations. Summer trips. His first visit after college. A photograph of you on his back after he had carried you across a muddy field.

Then he saw the newest one.

You stood at the wedding beside the same man from the photograph online “Who’s that?” Cale asked.

You followed his gaze “Daniel.”

“Daniel who?”

You raised an eyebrow “Are you interrogating me?”

“No.”

“You sound like you are.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“We met a few months ago.”

“Are you dating?”

You turned toward the coffee, hoping he wouldn’t notice your expression “We’ve been out a couple times.”

Cale’s jaw tightened “You never told me.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“I’m never too busy for you.”

The familiarity of those words made your chest ache “You don’t have to know everything about my life, Cale.”

“I thought I did.”

“So did I.”

He fell silent, the tension between you was unusual and uncomfortable, you pulled two breakfast sandwiches from the bag “You brought bacon.”

“You like bacon.”

“You remembered.”

“I remember everything about you.”

You looked at him, Cale appeared to realize what he had said, but instead of retreating, he held your gaze, your phone vibrated against the counter. Daniel’s name appeared on the screen, Cale’s eyes dropped toward it “Are you seeing him today?”

“He asked me to dinner.”

“Don’t go.” The words came so quickly that you thought you had misunderstood “What?” Cale swallowed “Don’t go to dinner with him.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like him.”

“You haven’t met him.”

“I don’t need to.”

You stared at him in disbelief “You don’t get to come home unexpectedly and decide you don’t like someone simply because I went on two dates with him.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re acting ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“Cale.”

“I know.” He dragged a hand through his hair and turned away, you had watched Cale face crowded arenas, endless interviews, and some of the most intimidating athletes in the world without appearing afraid.

But standing inside your kitchen, he looked terrified “I saw the photograph from the wedding,” he admitted.

“What photograph?”

“The one where he had his hand on you.”

Understanding dawned slowly “Are you jealous?”

Cale released a breath “Yes.”

Your heart began pounding “You’re jealous.”

“I’ve been jealous for years.”

You forgot how to breathe, Cale stepped closer, though he still left space between you “Every boyfriend. Every date. Every man who looked at you and understood immediately what I was too afraid to admit.”

Your voice emerged as a whisper “Admit what?” his eyes met yours “That I’m in love with you.”

The room became completely still “You’re in love with me?”

“I think I always have been.”

Your eyes burned “You can’t say that.”

Cale’s expression fell “Why not?”

“Because I’ve spent years trying to stop loving you.”

The pain disappeared from his face, replaced by stunned hope “You love me?”

You laughed unsteadily, wiping beneath your eyes “Of course I love you, Cale. I’ve loved you since we were teenagers.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried.”

“When?”

“The day I left for college.”

You remembered his bedroom. The half-packed suitcases. His nervous expression before his phone rang “That’s what you were going to say?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me later?”

“Because you seemed happy. Then I was playing all the time, and everything was changing, and I didn’t know whether asking you to be part of my life would be fair.”

“You were already part of mine.”

“I know that now.”

You shook your head “We wasted so much time.”

Cale moved closer “We don’t have to waste any more.”

Your chest tightened “What if this ruins everything?”

“You’re already everything.” The words broke through the final pieces of hesitation you had been carrying for years, Cale lifted his hand slowly, giving you enough time to stop him. His fingers touched your cheek, warm and slightly unsteady “Can I kiss you?”

You had imagined this moment in a hundred different ways, at school dances, in airport terminals, at your childhood home while snow fell outside.

None of your imagined versions included tangled hair, cold coffee, or a paper bag of breakfast sandwiches sitting between you, somehow, the reality was better “You took long enough,” you whispered.

Cale laughed softly before kissing you, the first touch of his lips was gentle and careful, as though he still couldn’t believe you were allowing it, then your hands curled into his shirt, pulling him closer.

Cale kissed you again.

Years of stolen glances, unfinished conversations, and feelings hidden beneath friendship disappeared in a single breath, when you separated, his forehead rested against yours “You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to do that.”

“Probably fewer times than I have.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

You smiled “You’re still not getting credit for waiting twelve years.”

“I was trying to be respectful.”

“You were being an idiot.”

“That too.”

Your phone vibrated again, Cale glanced toward it “Daniel?”

“Probably.”

He looked worried “You should answer.”

“I’ll text him later.”

“You don’t have to cancel because of me.”

“I’m not canceling because of you.” You touched his cheek “I’m canceling because I was only going out with him to convince myself I could move on.”

Cale’s gaze softened “And can you?”

“Apparently not.”

“Good.”

You narrowed your eyes “Don’t sound so pleased.”

“I’m extremely pleased.”

You kissed him again before he could continue, telling your families should have felt significant, instead, it was humiliating “You owe me fifty dollars,” Cale’s brother announced the moment you walked into the Makar family home holding hands.

Their mother gasped.

“You bet on us?”

“I said it would happen before Cale turned thirty.”

Cale stared at him “That isn’t supportive.”

“I’ve been waiting since middle school.”

Your mother was no better “You finally told her?” she asked Cale.

You looked between them “You knew?”

“Honey, everyone knew.”

“We didn’t know,” you protested.

“That was the problem.”

Dating Cale was surprisingly similar to being his best friend, he still stole food from your plate, you still reminded him of birthdays and appointments, he still called after road games, although now he ended every conversation by telling you he loved you.

There were differences too.

His hand found yours whenever you were near, he kissed your forehead when he passed behind you and after years of sleeping in separate rooms during visits, you finally understood how comforting it was to fall asleep beside the person who had known you nearly your entire life.

Several months later, you found Cale sitting on the floor of your childhood bedroom, you were spending Christmas with your family, and he had disappeared while everyone gathered downstairs “What are you doing?” you asked.

Cale looked up from an old box “Your mom said our school pictures were in here.”

“You’re snooping.”

“She gave me permission.”

You sat beside him, photographs covered the carpet, there was one from your first day of school. Another from your thirteenth birthday. One showed Cale asleep against your shoulder during a family road trip.

He picked up a photograph from the winter formal.

You hadn’t attended the dance, but your mother had apparently taken a picture of the two of you before Cale left, you were fixing his tie. Cale was looking at you as though there was no one else in the room “I loved you then,” he said quietly.

You leaned your head against his shoulder “I know.”

“You know now.”

“I think some part of me knew then too.”

He searched through the box before pulling out something tangled beneath a stack of old birthday cards, a faded friendship bracelet, the threads were crooked and nearly colorless with age.

Cale smiled “You kept it.”

“Of course I kept it.”

“It looks terrible.”

“It’s unique.”

He laughed, recognizing his own childhood defense, you took the bracelet and tied it carefully around his wrist. It was too small now, so it rested loosely across two of his fingers “You know,” you said, “you promised we’d be best friends forever when you gave me that.”

“I remember.”

“You kept your promise.”

Cale looked at you with the same softness that had been there when he was nine years old, sitting beside you on the curb with fruit snacks between you “I intend to keep it for the rest of my life.”

You smiled.

“Good.”

He kissed you slowly, surrounded by photographs documenting every version of the two of you, children, teenagers, best friends.

Two people who had spent years circling the truth without realizing that love had been growing quietly between them the entire time.

Cale had been there for scraped knees, school dances, college departures, career changes, and everything in between, he had always been the person you searched for first, the person who felt like home.

Falling in love with him had not happened suddenly, it had happened in hockey arenas and snowstorms, in stolen cookies and late-night phone calls, in every goodbye that hurt too much and every reunion that felt too easy.

You had not fallen in love with Cale all at once, you had fallen slowly.

Softly.

You had learned to say no without making it sound like one.

It was a skill you had perfected during the six years you had spent raising Oliver “No, sweetheart, we don’t need that cereal. The one at home tastes exactly the same.”

“No, we can’t get the dinosaur backpack today, but maybe we can put it on your birthday list.”

“No, honey, Mommy isn’t hungry. You can have the last piece.” The words always came with a smile, a kiss to his hair, and some kind of promise that distracted him from everything you couldn’t give him.

You had gotten pregnant at seventeen.

While your classmates worried about university applications, graduation dresses, and who they would take to prom, you had been sitting in a doctor’s office with your mother beside you, staring at the tiny flicker on a screen that would become your entire world.

Oliver’s father had disappeared before your stomach had even begun to show.

At first, he had promised he would be there. Then his replies became shorter. His visits became less frequent. Eventually, his number stopped working altogether.

You had stopped expecting him to return years ago, it had been you and Oliver from the beginning.

You worked as many hours as you could, accepted help only when absolutely necessary, and learned how to stretch every dollar until it felt almost impossible. Oliver never went without anything important. He had warm clothes, food in his stomach, a safe apartment, and more love than he knew what to do with.

But hobbies were different.

Hobbies cost money and hockey, as far as you knew, cost more than almost anything else.

That was why you immediately shook your head when Oliver came running out of school one afternoon with a bright red flyer clutched between his mitten-covered hands “Mommy!”

He nearly collided with your legs, his backpack bouncing against his small shoulders “Careful.” You caught him before he could slip on the icy pavement. “What happened? Why are you running?”

“Look!” He shoved the paper toward you so quickly that it crumpled between his fingers.

Across the top was the Montreal Canadiens logo. Underneath it, in large letters, was an announcement for a children’s skating program being hosted at the team’s practice facility.

Several Canadiens players would be attending to teach local children the basics of skating.

Oliver stared up at you with wide, hopeful eyes “Can I go?”

Your stomach tightened, you read the flyer again, already searching for the cost before you reached the second paragraph “It says it’s free,” Oliver added eagerly, pointing to the word as though he had already anticipated your concern. “Madame Girard read it to us.”

Free, that helped, but not enough.

The program might be free, but skates weren’t. A helmet wasn’t. Gloves, pads, sticks, registration fees, and every other expense that would come later certainly weren’t.

You knew your son, Oliver did not like things halfway.

If he learned to skate, he would want to play hockey. If he played hockey once, he would want to join a team. And if he joined a team, you didn’t know how you would ever afford to keep him there “Baby…”

His excitement dimmed before you even finished, you hated how well he had learned to recognize that tone “It’s just skating,” he said quietly. “Not real hockey.”

“I know.”

“They have skates there. It says.” Your eyes moved farther down the page, all equipment would be provided. Of course he had already memorized every possible argument “You don’t even have to buy me anything,” Oliver continued. “And I’ll be really careful. I promise.”

“That isn’t what I’m worried about.”

“Are you worried I’ll fall?”

“A little.”

“I fall all the time.”

You nearly laughed despite yourself “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“I always get back up.” His answer came so simply that it made your chest ache.

Oliver looked so much like you that sometimes it startled you. The same eyes, the same nose, the same determined line between his brows whenever he wanted something badly enough.

You crouched in front of him, adjusting the hat that had slipped over one of his ears “Hockey can be really expensive, Ollie.”

“But this is free.”

“This program is free. But what happens if you love it?”

His face scrunched in confusion “Would that be bad?”

The question struck harder than it should have, you looked down at the flyer in your hands.

You had spent so much of Oliver’s life trying to protect him from disappointment that perhaps you had begun preventing him from experiencing things at all “No,” you whispered. “Loving something wouldn’t be bad.”

“So I can go?” You hesitated for another few seconds, then Oliver pressed his mittened hands together dramatically “Please, Mommy. Please, please, please. I’ll clean my room every day.”

“You should already be cleaning your room.”

“I’ll clean your room too.”

That finally made you laugh “Okay.”

His mouth dropped open “Okay?”

“One session,” you clarified. “We’ll try it once.”

Oliver threw himself into your arms so hard that you almost fell backward “Thank you! Thank you, Mommy!”

You held him against you, closing your eyes as he bounced excitedly in your embrace, you only hoped you hadn’t just introduced him to something you wouldn’t be able to continue giving him.

The Canadiens’ practice facility was larger than Oliver’s entire school.

He walked beside you with one hand wrapped around two of your fingers, his head turning in every possible direction as volunteers guided families toward the registration tables.

There were Canadiens logos on the walls, photographs of players, and children everywhere dressed in red jerseys.

Oliver had insisted on wearing the Canadiens shirt your younger brother had given him for Christmas. It was slightly too big, hanging almost to his knees beneath his winter coat, but he had refused to take it off “Do you think the players will see my shirt?” he whispered.

“I think it’ll be difficult not to.”

“Do you think Cole Caufield will be here?”

You looked down at him “I don’t know.”

“He’s number twenty-two.”

“I know.”

“He scores lots of goals.”

“I know.”

“He’s not very tall for a hockey player.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile “Maybe don’t say that to him if you meet him.”

“It’s not mean,” Oliver defended. “Madame Girard says we shouldn’t be sad about things we can’t change.”

You stopped walking “Definitely don’t say that to him.”

Before Oliver could respond, a volunteer greeted you and asked for his name, you completed the registration forms while he stood pressed against your side, nearly vibrating with anticipation.

A few minutes later, he was fitted for skates, a helmet, elbow pads, and gloves. Everything was supplied by the program, just as the flyer had promised, Oliver looked down at himself in complete wonder “Mommy, look.”

“I’m looking.”

“I look like a hockey player.”

Your heart squeezed “You do.”

He lifted his helmeted head, beaming at you, for a moment, all of your fears disappeared beneath the sight of his smile, then he attempted to stand. His skates slipped in opposite directions, and he grabbed your arms before he could fall “Okay,” he muttered. “Maybe not yet.”

You laughed and helped him shuffle toward the rink entrance.

Several Canadiens players were already on the ice, skating between groups of children. Parents filled the stands, holding phones and waving whenever their children looked toward them.

Oliver stopped the second he spotted the players, his gloved hand tightened around yours “That’s Nick Suzuki,” he whispered urgently “He’s the captain.”

“I recognize him.”

“And that’s Juraj Slafkovský.” You nodded as though you hadn’t spent the previous evening looking up the Canadiens roster so you wouldn’t embarrass him “And that’s…”

Oliver gasped.

You followed his gaze, a smaller player in a red Canadiens practice jersey was crouched near the boards, helping a little girl adjust her grip on the skating aid in front of her “Cole Caufield,” Oliver breathed.

Cole looked toward the entrance at that exact moment, his eyes landed on Oliver, who was still staring at him as though he had just seen a superhero come to life.

Cole smiled and lifted one glove in a wave, Oliver immediately hid behind you.

You blinked.

The child who had talked about Cole Caufield for three days had suddenly forgotten how to function “Was that him?” you asked teasingly.

Oliver peeked around your coat “He waved at me.”

“He did.”

“Why?”

“Probably because you were staring at him.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You didn’t blink for thirty seconds.”

Before Oliver could argue, one of the instructors called his group toward the ice, his excitement vanished, he stared at the surface in front of him, then at the other children already wobbling away from the boards “You’re okay,” you assured him.

“What if I fall?”

“You told me you always get back up.”

“That was before I saw the ice.”

You crouched carefully beside him “You don’t have to do it if you’re scared.”

Oliver looked from you to the rink “I want to.”

“Then being scared is okay.”

He swallowed “Will you stay?”

“The entire time.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

With one final nervous breath, Oliver stepped onto the ice, his skates immediately slid forward. Before he could hit the ground, two gloved hands caught him beneath his arms “Got you, buddy.”

Oliver froze.

Cole Caufield steadied him, keeping one hand against his shoulder until his skates stopped moving “You okay?”

Oliver stared at him, Cole waited. You stood on the other side of the glass, trying desperately not to laugh at your normally talkative son’s sudden silence.

Cole glanced toward you, eyebrows raised in a silent question, you smiled apologetically “He knows who you are,” you called through the open gate.

Cole looked back at Oliver “Oh, yeah?”

Oliver finally nodded “You’re number twenty-two.”

“That’s me.”

“You score lots of goals.”

“I try to.”

“And you’re not very—”

“Oliver.” His helmet snapped toward you, you gave him a warning look, Cole’s lips twitched “I’m not very what?”

“Old,” Oliver finished quickly, you covered your face with one hand, Cole laughed “Well, thank you. I think.”

Oliver seemed to relax at the sound, Cole helped him place both hands on a plastic skating aid “Have you skated before?”

“No.”

“That’s okay. I fell the first time I skated too.”

Oliver looked suspicious “You did?”

“Definitely.”

“How many times?”

“I don’t remember.”

“A lot?”

Cole glanced at you again “A lot,” he confirmed.

That seemed to be exactly what Oliver needed to hear. He pushed forward carefully, his skates moving only a few inches, Cole stayed beside him “That’s it, small steps.”

Oliver took another.

Then another.

Within minutes, he had made it halfway down the boards with Cole skating backward in front of him, every time Oliver’s legs began to slip, Cole caught him. Every time he looked toward you, you waved and smiled.

You should have been watching your son.

Instead, you found yourself watching Cole too. There was something unexpectedly gentle about him. He never rushed the children or laughed when they fell. He crouched to their level when they spoke, listening seriously even when one little boy spent nearly five minutes explaining the exact design he wanted painted on a future goalie mask.

And with Oliver, Cole seemed especially patient, perhaps it was because Oliver continued asking questions “How fast can you skate?”

“Pretty fast.”

“Faster than Nick?”

“You should ask Nick.”

“Do you ever get scared before games?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you cry when you lose?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do grown-ups cry?”

“All the time.”

Oliver considered that answer for a moment “My mom cries in the bathroom sometimes because she thinks I can’t hear her.”

Your smile disappeared.

Cole’s eyes immediately lifted toward you, you looked away, heat spreading across your face. Children had no respect for privacy “What do you do when that happens?” Cole asked carefully.

“I sit outside the door.”

“That probably helps her.”

“I think so.”

“It definitely does.”

Your throat tightened, Cole didn’t look at you again, and you were grateful for it, he simply guided Oliver forward, one small step at a time.

By the end of the session, Oliver could move several feet without holding the skating aid. He still fell constantly, but each time he pushed himself back onto his knees with a determined little grunt.

Cole was there every time, offering a hand but waiting to see whether Oliver wanted to stand on his own, when the session ended, Oliver refused to leave the ice “Five more minutes,” he begged.

“You said that ten minutes ago,” you reminded him from the gate.

“I’m practicing.”

“The next group needs the rink.” Oliver looked toward Cole for support, Cole lifted both hands “Your mom’s the boss.”

Oliver sighed dramatically and shuffled toward the exit.

Cole helped him off the ice before kneeling to remove the guards from his borrowed skates “You did really well today,” he told him.

“I fell fourteen times.”

“Only fourteen?”

Oliver’s eyes widened “Is that good?”

“For your first day? Very.” Cole held out his fist, and Oliver eagerly bumped it with his glove, then Cole looked up at you “You’ve got a natural.”

You laughed softly “You don’t have to encourage him.”

“I’m serious. He’s fearless.”

“He was terrified twenty minutes ago.”

“Being fearless doesn’t mean you’re never scared.” Cole glanced at Oliver, who was now attempting to walk toward a volunteer without lifting his skate blades from the rubber floor. “It means you try anyway.”

You watched your son nearly trip over his own feet “He definitely tries.”

Cole stood, pulling off one of his gloves “You’re coming back next week, right?”

Your smile faltered, the program ran for six sessions, but you had only committed to one, Oliver had already reached the equipment table and couldn’t hear you “I’m not sure.”

Cole’s expression changed slightly “Did he not like it?”

“He loved it.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

You knew he wasn’t trying to pry. His voice held only genuine confusion, but embarrassment still settled heavily in your stomach “There isn’t a problem.”

Cole studied you for a second. You busied yourself with gathering Oliver’s coat and shoes “The program is free,” he said gently. “And all the equipment stays here for the kids.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to buy anything.”

“I read the flyer.” He went quiet, you closed Oliver’s small backpack more forcefully than necessary “I’m sorry,” Cole said. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

The immediate apology softened you.

You sighed and glanced toward Oliver, who was telling a volunteer about the fourteen times he had fallen “I know the program is free,” you said quietly. “But hockey isn’t.”

Cole remained silent.

“He’s six. He doesn’t understand that this might be the only time he gets to do something like this.” You folded Oliver’s scarf before stuffing it into his coat sleeve. “What happens when the program ends and he asks to keep playing? What happens when he wants skates that actually belong to him or wants to join a team? I can’t afford that.”

You hated saying it aloud.

You especially hated saying it to someone whose entire life revolved around the sport you could barely imagine paying for “I just didn’t want him falling in love with something I’d have to take away later,” you admitted.

Cole looked toward Oliver.

For several seconds, neither of you spoke, then he leaned against the boards beside you “My parents made a lot of sacrifices for hockey.”

You looked at him.

“Equipment, travel, tournaments. My brother played too. It wasn’t easy.”

“I imagine NHL contracts make it worth it eventually.”

Cole smiled faintly “They didn’t know I’d play in the NHL when I was six.”

“No, but you were probably good.”

“I was six,” he repeated. “I spent half my practices looking at the ceiling and asking when we got snacks.”

That pulled a reluctant laugh from you, Cole’s smile grew “There are programs that help with equipment and registration,” he continued. “Secondhand gear, community funding, foundations. Hockey is expensive, but there are people working to make it less impossible.”

You looked back toward Oliver “I don’t want charity.”

“It isn’t charity.”

“It feels like it.”

“It’s giving a kid the chance to play.” you crossed your arms over your chest, Cole’s tone remained gentle “You’ve already decided you can’t give him hockey before you’ve found out whether he even wants it.”

“That’s because I know what it’s like to want something you can’t have.”

Cole’s expression softened “And you’re trying to protect him.”

“Yes.”

“But maybe this isn’t something you need to protect him from.”

Oliver suddenly came racing toward you in his socks, carrying a participation certificate “Mommy, look! Cole signed it!”

You accepted the paper before it could bend “That’s amazing.”

“And he said I did good.”

“You did do good.”

Oliver looked up at you hopefully “Can we come again next week?”

You felt Cole watching you, though he made no attempt to interfere, you looked at your son’s flushed cheeks and messy hair. He was happier than you had seen him in weeks “One more session,” you said.

Oliver cheered, Cole smiled, you pointed at hi “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

One more session became two, then three, by the fourth week, Oliver no longer needed a skating aid. He wasn’t graceful, but he was fast—or at least he believed he was.

He would push himself across the ice with quick, uneven strides, his arms extended for balance while Cole followed behind him. You began looking forward to Saturdays more than you wanted to admit.

Not only because of Oliver.

Cole always found you before the session began, sometimes he brought Oliver a hot chocolate from the players’ lounge, sometimes he sat beside you in the stands while another instructor helped Oliver lace his skates. Once, when your bus had been delayed and you arrived ten minutes late, Cole had been waiting near the entrance.

“We thought you weren’t coming,” he said, Oliver rushed toward the equipment room “You thought Oliver wasn’t coming,” you corrected. Cole shoved his hands into his jacket pockets “Both of you.”

You pretended not to notice the warmth spreading across your cheeks.

You also pretended not to notice how often he looked toward you from the ice, at first, you convinced yourself he was checking whether Oliver’s mother was watching him. Then you realized he did it even when Oliver was with another player.

Cole would catch your eye through the glass, smile, and return his attention to the children.

It was harmless.

That was what you told yourself, he was kind. You were grateful. Nothing more needed to happen.

Your life was complicated enough.

You worked full-time at a dental office, attended evening classes twice a week, and raised Oliver alone. You didn’t have time to date, especially not someone whose face was printed on jerseys throughout Montreal.

Besides, men your age rarely knew what to do when they learned you had a six-year-old.

Some became uncomfortable. Some treated Oliver as an inconvenience. Others were interested until they understood that you couldn’t disappear for spontaneous weekends or stay out until two in the morning.

Oliver always came first.

There was no negotiation, Cole seemed to understand that without ever being told. When he asked you to get coffee after the fifth session, he didn’t ask whether you could find someone to watch Oliver. He nodded toward the small café across from the facility “Do you guys have time before you head home?”

Oliver answered before you could “Can I get a muffin?”

Cole smiled “I think that can be arranged.”

The three of you sat near the window, Oliver happily pulling apart a blueberry muffin while telling Cole everything he had learned about penguins at school, Cole listened as though the information was vital “They can’t fly,” Oliver explained seriously.

“That seems unfair.”

“But they can swim really fast.”

“So they’re basically fish birds.”

Oliver’s face lit up “Fish birds.”

You stirred your coffee, hiding your smile behind the cup, Cole glanced at you “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are a little,” Oliver informed him.

“Thank you for defending me, buddy.”

“You called penguins fish birds.”

“I stand by it.”

Oliver dissolved into giggles, you watched them, something unfamiliar and dangerous unfolding inside your chest.

It wasn’t simply that Cole was good with Oliver.

Plenty of people could be charming with a child for an hour, it was the way he included him naturally. He didn’t speak to you over Oliver’s head or act as though your son was preventing the two of you from having a proper conversation.

To Cole, Oliver wasn’t an obstacle, he was part of the conversation, part of the invitation, part of you. When Oliver left the table to choose a sticker from the café counter, Cole leaned closer “So, I have a question.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It isn’t.” you waited “Would you let me take you to dinner?”

Your fingers tightened around your coffee cup “Cole…”

“It doesn’t have to be a big thing.”

“You’re asking me on a date.”

“That’s usually what dinner means.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you became a mom when you were seventeen.” you stared at him “Oliver told me.”

“Of course he did.”

“He also told me you make the best grilled cheese, you’re scared of spiders, and you sing in the car when you think he’s asleep.”

Your embarrassment grew with every word “I’m going to have a serious conversation with him about oversharing.”

Cole smiled “I know you work six days some weeks. I know you’re taking classes because you want to become a dental hygienist. I know you always bring an extra pair of mittens for Oliver because he loses one almost every time you leave the house.”

You looked toward your son, he was still examining the stickers “And I know you spend so much time worrying about giving him enough that you don’t realize he looks at you like you gave him the entire world.”

Your throat tightened, Cole’s smile softened “I know enough to want to know more.”

“You play for the Canadiens.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“People know who you are.”

“Sometimes.”

“My life doesn’t look like yours.”

“I’m not asking it to.”

“I have a child.”

“I noticed.”

“He comes first.”

“He should.”

There was no hesitation, no disappointment, no subtle attempt to convince you that perhaps, eventually, you could put someone else first. Cole simply accepted it “He will always come first,” you repeated.

Cole nodded “That doesn’t mean there can’t be room for anyone else.”

Oliver returned to the table with a glittery dinosaur sticker pressed to his coat “Look, Mommy.”

You smiled at him “I see it.” He turned toward Cole “Are you coming to our house?” your eyes widened “Oliver.”

“What?” He looked between you. “He asked about dinner.”

Cole pressed his lips together, clearly fighting a laugh, you narrowed your eyes at him “Don’t encourage him.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Oliver climbed back into his chair “We have spaghetti.”

“I love spaghetti,” Cole said.

“Cole.”

He finally laughed “All right. I’ll stop.” but when you looked down at your coffee, you couldn’t stop smiling.

Your first date happened at a small Italian restaurant two weeks later.

Your mother watched Oliver, though he had loudly complained that he wanted to come too “It isn’t fair,” he had declared while you stood in front of your mirror, trying to decide whether your dress looked too formal. “Cole is my friend.”

“He was my friend first,” Oliver continued. “I met him on the ice.”

“You’ll survive one evening.”

“Are you going to kiss him?”

You nearly poked yourself in the eye with your mascara wand “Why would you ask that?”

“Grandma said it’s a date.”

“Grandma needs to mind her business.”

Oliver appeared in the doorway, wearing his dinosaur pajamas “If you marry him, can I play hockey for free?” You stared at him through the mirror “That is absolutely not how marriage works.”

“Can he live here?”

“You are getting very far ahead of yourself.”

“Can I call him Dad?” Your hand stilled, Oliver’s expression remained innocent, but the question settled painfully between you, you turned in your chair “Come here.”

He walked over, and you pulled him gently between your knees “Cole and I are only going to dinner.”

“But if he becomes your boyfriend?”

“Then he would be my boyfriend.”

“Not my dad?”

“No.” You brushed his hair away from his forehead. “Being someone’s dad is a really big job. It doesn’t happen just because someone dates their mommy.”

Oliver looked down at the floor “I don’t have one.”

Your chest broke a little more every time he said it “You have me.”

“I know.”

“And Grandma, and Uncle Daniel, and so many people who love you.”

“But not a dad.” You pulled him into your arms “No,” you whispered. “Not a dad.”

Oliver rested his cheek against your shoulder “Cole would be good at it.” You closed your eyes, that was exactly what frightened you.

Cole never pushed.

Not when you hesitated to let him pick you up at your apartment, not when you refused to introduce him as anything more than Oliver’s skating instructor, not when you cancelled your third date because Oliver woke with a fever , instead, Cole showed up at your door with soup, children’s medicine, and a Canadiens blanket “You didn’t have to come,” you told him.

“I know.”

“You have a game tomorrow.”

“I’m aware.”

“You should be resting.”

“I can rest here.”

He spent the afternoon on the opposite end of your couch while Oliver slept against your chest. Cole watched game footage on his tablet with headphones, occasionally looking over to make sure you didn’t need anything.

When Oliver woke, warm and miserable, Cole played cartoons with him until he fell asleep again, he didn’t make a big production of helping.

He simply did it.

Over the following months, Cole became woven into your lives so gradually that you barely noticed it happening, his extra toothbrush appeared beside yours.

A small pile of his clothes formed in the bottom drawer of your dresser.

Oliver began asking whether Cole would be joining you before you even mentioned weekend plans, Cole attended Oliver’s school performance and sat beside your mother, clapping louder than anyone when Oliver delivered his single line.

He learned which vegetables Oliver would eat and which ones required negotiation, he knew that nightmares meant Oliver needed the hallway light left on and that thunderstorms usually sent him climbing into your bed.

Most importantly, Cole never tried to replace anyone.

He didn’t demand a title, he didn’t force affection, he let Oliver decide what their relationship would become, the skating program eventually ended, but Oliver’s love for hockey did not.

You had known it wouldn’t.

The final day, he left the ice with tears streaming down his face “I don’t want it to be over.”

You crouched in front of him, wiping his cheeks “I know.”

“I want to keep skating.”

“We’ll figure something out.” It was the same kind of promise you had made his entire life, a soft answer designed to delay disappointment.

This time, Oliver recognized it “You said hockey costs too much.”

Cole, standing a few feet away, went still, you glanced at him before returning your attention to Oliver “We can look at different programs.”

“But can I play on a team?”

“I don’t know, baby.”

Oliver’s lower lip trembled, Cole stepped closer “Hey, Ollie.” Oliver turned toward him, Cole knelt beside you “Do you remember what I said on your first day?”

“That you fell a lot.”

“Besides that.”

Oliver sniffed “That being scared is okay.”

“And what else?”

“I don’t know.”

Cole nudged his knee gently “I said you were fearless because you kept trying.” Oliver nodded “So we’ll keep trying,” Cole said. “Your mom and I will figure it out.”

Your head snapped toward him “Cole.” he looked at you calmly “We’ll figure it out.”

Later, after Oliver had gone with your mother to choose a celebratory snack from the vending machines, you pulled Cole aside “You can’t promise him things like that.”

“I didn’t promise anything.”

“You told him we would figure it out.”

“We will.”

“No, I will.”

Cole’s brows furrowed “Why?”

“Because he is my responsibility.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to pay for him.”

“I didn’t say I was going to.”

“But that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking there are a dozen youth hockey organizations in Montreal, and I know people involved in most of them.”

You crossed your arms “I don’t want you calling someone and getting him special treatment because you’re Cole Caufield.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I won’t.” You hadn’t expected him to agree so easily, Cole took out his phone “What are you doing?”

“Looking up the community equipment program I told you about.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

His fingers moved across the screen “There’s an application for registration support, it’s based on household income, not who someone knows.” You stared at him, Cole held the phone toward you “You can apply. Oliver gets the same opportunity as every other kid in the program. No special treatment.”

You looked down at the webpage “They cover equipment?”

“Some of it. There’s also an exchange program for used skates.”

Your eyes burned unexpectedly, you blinked hard, refusing to cry inside the Canadiens’ practice facility “I didn’t know where to start,” you admitted.

“That’s okay.”

“I should have figured it out.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m his mother.”

Cole’s expression softened “Being his mom doesn’t mean you have to know everything.”

“It feels like it does.”

“You’re allowed to ask for help.”

“I’ve been doing everything alone for six years.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how not to.”

Cole slipped his phone back into his pocket “Then start small.” you looked at him “Let me help you fill out the form.”

“That’s your definition of small?”

“I was going to suggest letting me carry the equipment bag, but we haven’t bought one yet.” a laugh escaped you through the tears you were trying to suppress, Cole smiled and stepped closer “Just the form,” he promised. “You make every decision. I’ll just sit beside you.”

You looked through the glass toward Oliver, who was showing your mother a bag of chips, then you looked back at Cole “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Just the form.”

His grin widened “Just the form.”

Oliver made the team.

It was a beginner league with Saturday morning practices and games that mostly consisted of children chasing the puck in one enormous group, he wore secondhand skates, borrowed shoulder pads, and a helmet funded through the community program.

You had never seen him happier, Cole attended the first game wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, hoping not to draw attention away from the children.

It didn’t work.

Within ten minutes, half the parents had recognized him, Cole signed a few autographs but politely redirected every conversation toward the players on the ice “I’m here for number nine,” he said, pointing toward Oliver.

Oliver scored his first goal by accident.

The puck bounced off another child’s skate, hit Oliver’s stick, and slowly slid across the line while the goalie was looking in the opposite direction, Oliver stood frozen for two full seconds.

Then he lifted both arms and screamed.

You jumped to your feet “That’s my baby!” every head in the stands turned toward you, you didn’t care. Cole was already standing beside you, cheering nearly as loudly.

Oliver looked into the crowd, his eyes found you first, then they moved to Cole. He pointed at both of you through the glass. After the game, he came flying out of the locker room still wearing half his equipment “Did you see?”

“We saw,” you laughed as he crashed into you.

“I scored!”

“You did!”

Cole crouched beside him “That was a beauty.”

“It was an accident,” Oliver admitted “They all count.” Oliver threw his arms around Cole’s neck, Cole froze. So did you.

Oliver had hugged him before, but this felt different.

Perhaps because he held on, perhaps because Cole’s arms slowly wrapped around him in return, one hand settling protectively against the back of Oliver’s helmet “You came to my game,” Oliver whispered.

“Of course I did.”

“Will you come to the next one?”

Cole looked over Oliver’s shoulder at you “As long as your mom wants me here.” Oliver released him and turned toward you “Do you?”

Your heart felt painfully full, you met Cole’s gaze.

He had never asked for more than you were prepared to give. He had stood beside you exactly as promised, never taking control, never making you feel incapable.

He loved Oliver.

You could see it in every expression, every patient answer, every Saturday morning he spent at a rink when he could have been sleeping after a game. And somewhere along the way, you had fallen completely in love with him too.

“Yes,” you said softly. “I want him here.”

Oliver smiled “Every game?”

You laughed “We’ll check his schedule.”

Cole reached for your hand, his fingers slipped between yours with an ease that still amazed you “Every game I can,” he promised.

Oliver nodded, satisfied, then he looked between the two of you “Can I call you Dad now?”

The hallway went silent, your breath caught, Cole’s hand tightened around yours “Ollie,” you began gently but Cole lowered himself until he was eye level with him “Do you want to?”

Oliver nodded.

“You know you don’t have to, right?” Cole asked. “You can call me Cole forever, and I’ll still come to your games. I’ll still help you practice. I’ll still care about you exactly the same.”

“I want to.”

Cole’s eyes turned glassy, you covered your mouth with your free hand, Oliver shifted nervously “Is it okay?”

Cole pulled him into his arms “Yeah, buddy,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “It’s more than okay.”

Oliver hugged him tightly.

You watched them, tears finally slipping down your cheeks, six years earlier, you had sat in a doctor’s office convinced that your life was ending.

In reality, it had only been beginning.

The road had been harder than you could have imagined. You had spent years counting every dollar, questioning every decision, and trying to become every person Oliver might ever need.

You had believed accepting help meant you had somehow failed, Cole had shown you otherwise, you had not failed because Oliver needed more people to love him.

You had succeeded in raising a child whose heart was open enough to welcome them.

Cole stood with Oliver still clinging to his side and reached for you, you stepped into his embrace. Oliver became squished between you, laughing as he complained that he couldn’t breathe.

Cole kissed the top of his helmet before pressing his lips to your forehead “I love you,” he murmured, you leaned into him “I love you too.” Oliver wriggled until his face appeared between you.

“I love hockey.”

You and Cole both laughed “We know,” you told him.

“And I love you.” Your expression softened “I love you too, baby.”

Oliver looked at Cole “And I love Cole.” Cole closed his eyes briefly, his smile trembling at the edges “I love you too, Ollie.”

For once, you weren’t thinking about what came next.

You weren’t calculating the price of new skates or worrying about next month’s schedule. You weren’t wondering whether something good would eventually be taken away.

You simply stood between the two people you loved most, surrounded by the sound of children laughing and skates cutting across the ice, you had brought Oliver to the program believing hockey might give him something you couldn’t afford.

Instead, it had given both of you something money could never buy.

You had known Mathew for so long that you couldn’t remember meeting him.

There was no clear beginning to your friendship. No first introduction preserved in either of your memories. There had simply always been Mat.

Mat stealing pieces of fruit from your lunchbox during elementary school, Mat waiting outside your house with his bicycle discarded carelessly on your lawn, Mat convincing you to sit through hours of hockey practice because he promised to buy you hot chocolate afterward, Mat calling you from tournaments when he was supposed to be sleeping, whispering into the phone so his teammates wouldn’t hear him admit that he missed home.

You had been there before the packed arenas and screaming fans. Before the expensive suits, endorsement deals, magazine covers, and verified social media accounts. Before strangers began behaving as though they knew him because they watched him play hockey a few nights each week.

To you, he was still the boy who had broken your mother’s kitchen window while attempting to prove he could hit a tennis ball farther than you.

He was still the teenager who had shown up at your house after being drafted, clutching his new jersey in trembling hands because the magnitude of his dream coming true had finally overwhelmed him.

He was still your best friend.

And that was precisely why you had never allowed yourself to believe he could become anything more.

Mat’s arm was stretched along the back of your couch as he watched you move around your tiny apartment kitchen “You’re avoiding me,” he announced.

You didn’t turn around. “I’m making pasta.”

“You’ve been making pasta for forty minutes.”

“The sauce requires patience.”

“You poured it out of a jar.”

You glanced over your shoulder, glaring at him, Mat grinned, completely unbothered. He was wearing a dark sweatshirt and gray sweatpants, his hair still slightly damp from the shower he had taken after practice. He looked unfairly comfortable in your apartment, his long legs spread out beneath your coffee table like he lived there.

In some ways, he practically did.

He had a key. He kept extra clothes in the bottom drawer of your dresser. His preferred coffee creamer was permanently stocked in your refrigerator, despite the fact that you hated it. Your neighbors no longer blinked when they saw one of the most recognizable athletes in New York walking through the building with takeout bags balanced in his arms.

But during the past few weeks, something had shifted between you.

Mat had become more attentive than usual, More affectionate. He touched your waist when he moved behind you in the kitchen. He rested his hand on your thigh while you watched movies. He looked at you for too long, his expression softening whenever you caught him.

At first, you had tried to convince yourself it was nothing.

Mat was naturally affectionate. He hugged his teammates, kissed his mother’s cheek, and regularly invaded your personal space without invitation. It was simply who he was. Then he had asked you to attend the Islanders’ charity gala with him.

Not as his friend, as his date. You had laughed because you assumed he was joking, he hadn’t laughed with you. Since then, you had been avoiding the conversation “You still haven’t answered me,” Mat said.

You stirred the sauce even though it didn’t need stirring. “About what?”

“The gala.”

“I told you I’m working.”

“You’re not.” Your hand stopped, Mat leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees. “Your coworker switched shifts with you.”

You slowly turned around. “How do you know that?”

“I asked.”

“You asked my coworker about my schedule?”

“I went to get coffee. She was there.”

“You hate the coffee from my job.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“You once said it tasted like boiled cardboard.”

“It does.” He shrugged. “But you work there.”

That was Mat’s irritatingly simple explanation for everything. Why had he sat in the corner of the café for four hours while you worked a double shift?

Because you worked there.

Why did he drive almost an hour through traffic to eat reheated leftovers in your apartment?

Because you lived there.

Why had he flown you to Vancouver when your mother had surgery, rearranging his entire offseason schedule without telling you?

Because you needed him.

He made devotion sound ordinary. As if loving you—in whatever way he loved you—was as natural as breathing. You turned back toward the stove. “I don’t want to go.”

“Why?”

“I just don’t.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

Mat stood. You heard his footsteps cross the kitchen before he stopped behind you, he didn’t touch you, although you could feel the heat of him against your back “Did I do something?” he asked quietly.

The vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache “No.”

“Then why have you barely looked at me since I asked you?”

“Because you shouldn’t have asked.” Silence filled the kitchen, you immediately regretted the words. When you turned, Mat was staring at you with his eyebrows drawn together “What does that mean?”

“It means you should take someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

“You could have anyone.”

“I know.” The confidence of his answer irritated you more than it should have, you released a humorless laugh. “Right. Exactly.”

Mat’s frown deepened. “Exactly what?”

“You’re Mathew Barzal.”

“Yes. We established that about twenty-eight years ago.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I genuinely don’t.”

You switched off the stove and pushed past him, suddenly unable to stand inside the small kitchen with his body occupying most of the available space. Mat followed you into the living room “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There obviously is.”

“Can you please drop it?”

“No.”

You spun around. “Why not?”

“Because you’re my best friend, and you’ve been acting like I proposed that we rob a bank instead of asking you to come to a party with me.”

“It isn’t just a party.”

“It is to me.”

“You’ll be photographed.”

“So?”

“People will assume things.”

“What things?”

“That we’re together.”

Mat held your gaze, you waited for him to laugh. To look uncomfortable. To dismiss the possibility immediately. Instead, he took a step closer “Would that be so terrible?”

Your heart stumbled painfully “Mat.”

“What?”

“You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t mean them.”

His expression changed, the playful impatience disappeared, replaced by something quieter and more serious “You think I don’t mean it?”

“I think you’re confused.”

“I’m not.”

“You’ve been single for a while, and I’m familiar. I’m safe.”

“You are familiar. You are safe.” He paused. “Neither of those things means I’m confused.”

You folded your arms over your chest, attempting to protect yourself from a conversation you had spent years avoiding “Mat, please.”

“No. You don’t get to decide what I feel and then tell me I’m wrong.”

“I’m trying to save us from making a mistake.”

“Wanting you isn’t a mistake.” The words landed between you with enough force to steal your breath, Mat watched you carefully. There was no teasing in his expression. No uncertainty.

He meant it.

Somehow, that frightened you more, you shook your head. “You don’t want me.” His jaw tightened. “I just said I do.”

“You think you do.”

“Stop telling me what I think.”

“You date models, Mat.”

“I’ve dated two models.”

“That’s two more than most people.”

“What does that have to do with you?”

“Everything!” Your voice broke through the apartment, louder than you intended, Mat fell silent.

The embarrassment came immediately, burning across your face and down your neck. You looked away from him, fixing your gaze on the worn rug beneath your feet “You don’t understand,” you whispered.

“Then help me understand.”

You wanted to refuse.

You wanted to pretend there was nothing wrong, serve the pasta, and return to the comfortable version of your friendship where Mat was yours without truly belonging to you.

But he was standing there, waiting and perhaps you had grown tired of carrying the truth alone

“You belong with someone who fits into your life.”

“You fit into my life better than anyone.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?”

You swallowed hard “A hockey girlfriend.”

Mat blinked. “What is a hockey girlfriend?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Someone beautiful. Someone who knows how to dress for events and looks good in every picture. Someone confident who can walk into a room full of strangers and doesn’t spend the entire night wondering if everyone is laughing at her.”

Mat’s face softened, but you continued before he could interrupt.

“Someone with an interesting career who doesn’t come home smelling like burnt coffee and cleaning products. Someone who doesn’t spend half her paycheck on rent for an apartment where the bedroom door doesn’t close properly.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the crooked door down the hallway “It really doesn’t close,” he admitted. You glared at him through the tears beginning to blur your vision “Not helping.”

“Sorry.”

You wiped beneath your eyes impatiently. “Someone skinny,” you forced yourself to add. “Someone who doesn’t have to change outfits six times because everything makes her feel enormous. Someone blond, probably, because that seems to be what hockey players like.”

“I like brunettes.”

“You’ve dated blonds.”

“I’ve also eaten raisins. That doesn’t mean they’re my preference.”

Despite yourself, a strangled laugh escaped you, Mat stepped closer, but you immediately moved back. His smile disappeared.

“You’re not listening,” you whispered. “People would look at us and wonder what you’re doing with me.”

“People wonder why I make half my decisions. I’m still allowed to make them.”

“I would embarrass you.”

“You could never embarrass me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I watched you throw up in a decorative planter at my cousin’s wedding.”

“I had food poisoning.”

“You drank eight glasses of sangria.”

“The fruit made it difficult to count.”

“My point is, we survived it.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I know.” Mat’s voice softened, He closed the remaining distance slowly, giving you enough time to move away, you didn’t. “I know it isn’t funny,” he repeated. “But listening to you talk about yourself like this is killing me.”

You stared at the logo printed across his sweatshirt because looking into his eyes felt impossible. His fingers gently touched your wrist “Do you honestly think I care what color your hair is?”

“It isn’t only about my hair.”

“I know. You think you aren’t skinny enough. You think your job isn’t impressive enough. You think you’re too quiet, and that your clothes aren’t expensive, and that somehow any of that matters more than the fact that you’re you.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple to me.”

“Well, it isn’t to me.”

“I know.” His thumb moved slowly over the inside of your wrist “That’s the part I didn’t understand,” he admitted. “I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That I’ve been in love with you for years.” Your head snapped upward, Mat looked terrified.

Mat, who played in front of thousands of people. Mat, who faced reporters after terrible losses and tolerated strangers dissecting his every mistake. Mat, who had always seemed incapable of being intimidated by anything. He was terrified of you.

“You’re lying,” you breathed.

“I’m not.”

“You would have said something.”

“I tried.”

“When?”

“When we were seventeen and I asked if you’d ever date a hockey player.”

“You asked whether I would date Sidney Crosby.”

“I was testing the waters.”

“You chose the most famous hockey player in Canada.”

“I panicked.” A disbelieving laugh left you, Mat’s mouth lifted slightly “Then there was your twenty-first birthday,” he continued. “I tried to kiss you outside the restaurant.”

“You tripped.”

“I leaned in, you stepped backward then I tripped.”

“I thought you were drunk.”

“I was drunk. I was also trying to kiss you.”

Your mind searched through years of memories, suddenly rearranging moments you had misunderstood. The lingering hugs, the jealousy he denied whenever you dated someone, the way every girlfriend Mat had ever had seemed to dislike you before properly meeting you.

The late-night calls, the spare key, the coffee creamer, the fact that Mat always came home to you.

“You never said anything,” you whispered.

“You never acted like you wanted me to.”

“Because I didn’t think I was allowed to.”

His forehead creased. “Allowed?”

“You were my best friend. Then you became…” You gestured helplessly at him. “This.”

“A guy standing in your apartment?”

“A famous professional athlete.”

“I was already playing professional hockey when you made me drive across the city because you saw a spider.”

“It was huge.”

“It was the size of a blueberry.”

“It moved quickly.”

“You trapped it under a mixing bowl and put a chair on top of the bowl.”

“I didn’t want it escaping.”

Mat’s lips twitched, but his eyes remained serious “You never treated me differently,” he said. “Do you know how rare that is?”

“You’re still you.”

“And you’re still you.”

“That isn’t the same.”

“It is to me.”

He lifted your hand and pressed it against the center of his chest. Beneath your palm, his heart was beating rapidly “You think I need someone who understands the cameras and the events and all the other bullshit that comes with hockey,” he said. “I don’t. I need someone who understands me.”

Your fingers curled slightly against his sweatshirt.

“You know when I need space before I ask for it. You know I pretend I’m not upset after a bad game because I hate feeling like I disappointed people. You know I can’t sleep when I’m anxious, so you talk to me about absolutely nothing until I stop thinking.”

His hand covered yours “You knew me before anyone was watching. And after everyone started watching, you were the only person who still saw the same kid.”

“Mat…”

“You’re the first person I call when something good happens. You’re the person I want when everything goes wrong. When I picture going home, I don’t picture Coquitlam or New York. I picture wherever you are.”

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks, Mat released your hand only to cup your face “And for the record,” he continued, brushing one tear away with his thumb, “I think you’re beautiful.”

“You have to say that now.”

“I absolutely don’t.”

“You’re trying to convince me to date you.”

“I’m doing a terrible job if you still think I’d lie to accomplish that.”

You gave him a watery smile, his gaze moved over your face with such open affection that you almost had to look away “I love your hair,” he said. “Especially when you complain about it being impossible and then leave it all over my bathroom.”

“I have never used your bathroom.”

“You stayed at my place for three weeks while your building had a plumbing problem.”

“That was different.”

“I found a hair on my jersey months later.”

“Brunette hair is easily identifiable.”

“That’s not the argument you think it is.” You rolled your eyes, but Mat’s expression grew serious again “And I love your body.”

Your smile faded. His hands dropped from your face, resting carefully against your waist “Not despite anything,” he said. “Not because I’m being nice. I love you exactly as you are.”

You tensed instinctively beneath his touch, Mat noticed, he always noticed. His hands immediately loosened, but he didn’t remove them “You don’t have to believe everything tonight,” he whispered. “I know I can’t undo years of you feeling like you’re not enough in one conversation.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever feel like enough for your world.”

“Then maybe my world needs to change.”

“You can’t change your entire life for me.”

“I’m not changing my life. I’m telling you that you’re already part of it.”

You looked at him, searching for hesitation, there was none “What about my job?”

“What about it?”

“It’s awful.”

“You hate it?”

“Most days.”

“Then I’ll support you while you find something you like. But I’m not embarrassed that you work at a café. You work harder than nearly everyone I know.”

“It isn’t glamorous.”

“Neither is hockey. I spend half my life in sweaty equipment with grown men yelling at me.”

“You earn millions of dollars.”

“That does improve it.”

You laughed again, shaking your head, Mat smiled, relief briefly softening his features, then his thumb brushed over your side “And you don’t need to become one of the women you see online,” he said. “You don’t have to dress like them or look like them or act like them. I don’t want a hockey girlfriend.”

“What do you want?”

“You.”

One simple word, it shouldn’t have been powerful enough to dismantle every defense you had built, but it did.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

“I am too.”

“You don’t look scared.”

“I’ve been trying to tell my best friend I’m in love with her for ten minutes, and she keeps accusing me of having a blond fetish.” A surprised laugh burst from you, Mat grinned “There you are.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are a little.”

“Only enough to stop you from crying.” His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes, you looked at him for a long moment “What happens if we ruin everything?”

“What happens if we don’t?”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“No, but it’s the question that has kept me awake for years.”

Your breath caught, Mat leaned closer, slowly enough that you understood exactly what he was asking. His forehead touched yours “I’m not asking you to suddenly become confident,” he whispered. “I’m not asking you to walk into that gala and pretend you aren’t nervous. You can spend the entire night holding my hand. We can leave after ten minutes. We can skip it completely and eat pasta here.”

“The sauce might be burned.”

“It came from a jar. We’ll recover.”

You closed your eyes briefly “What are you asking me for, then?”

“A chance.” His nose brushed yours.

“One real chance to love you the way I’ve wanted to.” Your heart was beating so hard you wondered whether he could feel it through the small distance between you “And if I’m terrible at this?”

“You’ve watched me attempt to assemble furniture. You know I have a high tolerance for failure.”

“You put an entire bookcase together backward.”

“The instructions were unclear.”

“They had pictures.”

“I was under pressure.” You smiled, your hands finally settling against his chest, Mat’s expression softened as he looked down at them, then he looked at you again “Can I kiss you?”

You had imagined this moment more times than you would ever admit.

In those fantasies, you had always been different. Thinner. More confident. Wearing something beautiful instead of old leggings and a faded sweater. Your hair had been styled, your skin perfect, and your hands hadn’t trembled when they reached for him.

But Mat wasn’t looking at an imaginary version of you, he was looking at you. The real you.

The woman who smelled faintly of tomato sauce and had cried hard enough that her eyes would be swollen in the morning and he still wanted you

“Yes,” you whispered.

Mat kissed you gently. There was no desperate urgency. No dramatic collision of mouths after years of suppressed feelings. It was soft, patient. His hand cupped the back of your neck while the other remained at your waist, anchoring you against him without pulling you closer than you were prepared to be.

It felt familiar and entirely new at once, like discovering that the home you had been searching for was the place where you had always lived.

When he pulled back, his lips remained close to yours “You okay?”

You nodded, dazed “That was…”

“Good?” he suggested.

“Unexpected.”

“I confessed my love first. There was some warning.”

You lightly shoved his chest, Mat laughed and caught your hand, bringing it to his mouth. His lips brushed your knuckles. The tenderness of the gesture made your chest tighten again “You really want me to go to the gala with you?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“As your date?”

“Yes.”

“People might say things.”

“People always say things.”

“What if they don’t think I’m pretty enough for you?”

Mat’s amusement disappeared, he brought your hand back to his chest “Then they’ll be wrong.”

“It won’t bother you?”

“It’ll bother me that it hurts you.” He paused. “But it won’t make me question you and it definitely won’t make me ashamed of you.”

You studied his face “What will you do if someone asks who I am?”

A slow smile spread across his lips “I’ll tell them you’re the girl I’ve been in love with since I was seventeen.”

Your cheeks warmed “You cannot tell reporters that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s embarrassing.”

“For you or for me?”

“For me. You apparently have no shame.”

“Correct.”

You rested your forehead against his chest, hiding your face, Mat wrapped both arms around you. His cheek settled against the top of your head, and for several quiet seconds, neither of you spoke.

You could hear the rhythmic beating of his heart “You know,” he murmured, “my mom is going to be unbearable.”

Your stomach dropped. “Your mom?”

“She has been waiting for this since we were kids.”

“She knows?”

“Everyone knows.”

You pulled back sharply. “Everyone?”

“My parents. Your parents. My sister. Half my childhood friends.”

“And nobody told me?”

“They assumed you knew.”

“I didn’t know!”

“Apparently, I was obvious.”

“You dated other people.”

“I was trying to move on.”

The admission erased your outrage “Did it work?”

Mat looked at you as though the answer was self-evident “I’m standing in your apartment while pasta burns behind us.” Your eyes widened “The pasta!”

You rushed toward the kitchen, but Mat caught you around the waist before you could escape, a laugh left you as he pulled you back against his chest. “Let it burn,” he murmured, pressing his face into your hair.

“I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

“I’ll order something.”

“You complain every time I order delivery.”

“I’m feeling generous.”

“You’re only saying that because you finally kissed me.”

“Exactly. This is the happiest day of my life.”

“You were drafted into the NHL.”

“Second happiest.”

“You won the Calder.”

“Third.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me.” The words stilled you, Mat seemed to realize what he had said at the same moment. His grip loosened slightly, giving you room to step away.

You didn’t.

You turned in his arms “I do,” you admitted quietly. Hope transformed his entire face “I’ve loved you for years. I just never thought I could have you.”

Mat’s eyes shone as he leaned down “You’ve always had me.” This kiss was different. Still gentle, but no longer tentative.

Mat kissed you like someone who had spent years waiting for permission. Like someone finally arriving at the destination he had been moving toward his entire life and for the first time, you allowed yourself to believe him.

Not completely.

The insecurities didn’t disappear because Mat loved you. You knew there would be difficult days. Photographs you would hate. Comments you shouldn’t read but inevitably would. Events where you would compare yourself to every woman in the room.

Loving Mat wasn’t going to magically teach you how to love yourself.

But when you finally attended the gala two weeks later, wearing a simple dark dress you had nearly returned three times, Mat looked at you as though every other person in the room had vanished.

He didn’t release your hand when the cameras began flashing, he didn’t hurry you through the photographs when you stiffened beside him, Instead, he leaned toward your ear “You look beautiful.”

“You’ve said that twelve times.”

“I’m trying to make it thirteen.”

“You don’t have to keep reassuring me.”

“I know.”

His fingers intertwined with yours.

“I want to.”

A reporter called Mat’s name and asked him to identify the woman standing beside him. You felt his hand tighten around yours, Mat looked at you first.

A silent question. You swallowed your fear and nodded, his smile was immediate “This is YN,” he said proudly. “My girlfriend.”

The title sent a wave of warmth through your chest.

Another reporter asked how you had met, Mat’s smile softened as he glanced at you “She’s my childhood best friend.”

“And now?”

His eyes never left yours “Now she’s finally letting me take her on a proper date.”

The reporters laughed, but you barely heard them. Mat lifted your joined hands and kissed your knuckles.

You knew the photographs would spread online before you even reached your table, you knew strangers would have opinions.

Some would call you beautiful. Others wouldn’t understand. A few might decide you weren’t thin enough, glamorous enough, or interesting enough to stand beside him.

But Mat wasn’t looking at them, he was looking at you.

The brunette girl from Coquitlam who had sat through his hockey practices and answered his midnight phone calls, the girl with the tiny apartment and the terrible job. The girl who had never believed someone like Mathew Barzal could choose her.

Except Mat hadn’t chosen you because he had become famous and suddenly noticed you standing nearby.

He had chosen you when you were children, he had chosen you through every city, every season, and every version of himself. And when the room became too loud, Mat leaned down and whispered the truth he intended to spend the rest of your lives proving.

You hadn’t thought much of the video when you first saw it. In fact, you hadn’t even realized someone had been recording.

It had happened after one of JJ’s practices, during a small fan event the team had organized. A crowd had gathered along the barriers outside the rink, jerseys and hats held out eagerly as the players made their way down the line, signing whatever they could before heading home.

You had stayed a few steps behind with Lilly balanced on your hip.

At two and a half years old, your daughter had already decided that these events were extremely serious business.

She watched her father closely, her little blue eyes following every movement of the marker in his hand as he signed jerseys, hockey cards, caps, and even someone’s phone case.

Every few seconds, she waved at the fans as though they had come specifically to see her “Hi!” Lilly called brightly, lifting her mitten-covered hand.

A few people immediately waved back, you smiled, adjusting the tiny Peterka jersey beneath her winter coat “Are you helping Daddy?” you asked.

Lilly nodded with complete seriousness “Daddy sign.”

“Yes, Daddy’s signing.”

JJ continued down the line, smiling and talking with fans as he went. He was trying to move quickly without making anyone feel rushed, leaning over the barrier whenever a younger kid struggled to reach him.

Lilly watched proudly until JJ accidentally skipped someone.

A young girl, probably around ten or eleven, had been standing slightly behind two adults. She held a jersey against the barrier, but when the line shifted, JJ moved past her without noticing.

The girl’s expression fell, you noticed it at almost the same moment Lilly did. Before you could say anything, Lilly began wriggling in your arms “Down, Mama.”

“Lilly—”

“Down!” You lowered her carefully, keeping one hand on the back of her coat while she hurried the few steps toward JJ.

He was already signing something for the next person when Lilly reached him. She grabbed the bottom of his sweater and tugged.

JJ looked down immediately “Hey, Liebling,” he said, bending slightly. “What’s wrong?”

Lilly pointed back toward the girl “You missed her.” JJ glanced in the direction of her tiny finger “What?”

Lilly tugged his sweater again, more insistently this time “You missed the girl, Daddy.”

Her little brows were pulled together, clearly concerned that he wasn’t understanding the urgency of the situation. The people nearby began smiling, JJ followed her gaze and finally spotted the girl holding the unsigned jersey.

“Oh.” His expression immediately softened. “I’m sorry.” He stepped back down the line, crouching slightly so he was closer to the girl’s height “I didn’t see you there,” he apologized. “Do you still want me to sign it?”

The girl nodded quickly, her disappointment disappearing as JJ took the jersey “Where should I sign?”

“Anywhere.”

JJ smiled and signed across one of the numbers before handing it back “There you go.”

“Thank you.”

JJ glanced down at Lilly, who was still standing beside him with one hand holding onto his sweater “Did I fix it?” he asked.

Lilly inspected the jersey as though she personally needed to approve the signature. Then she nodded “Good job, Daddy.”

The crowd around them burst into laughter, JJ pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh as he picked Lilly up “Thank you,” he told her. “I’m glad you’re here to supervise me.”

Lilly wrapped one arm around his neck “You have to sign everybody.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“No missing.”

“No missing,” JJ agreed solemnly.

You shook your head, smiling as he continued signing with Lilly perched against his side. For the rest of the line, she paid close attention, every time JJ signed something, Lilly nodded approvingly.

Whenever someone stepped forward, she pointed at them to ensure he had noticed, at one point, JJ jokingly asked, “Am I allowed to go home yet?”

Lilly looked down the remaining line “No.” The fans laughed again, JJ sighed dramatically “Okay. Boss says no.”

You had assumed that would be the end of it. A sweet moment during an ordinary fan event.

Nothing more.

The following morning, you woke up to your phone vibrating repeatedly on the nightstand. At first, you ignored it.

Lilly had woken during the night after losing her favorite stuffed rabbit beneath the crib, and you had spent nearly twenty minutes searching for it while JJ tried to convince her that a stuffed bear could temporarily perform the same duties.

It could not. According to Lilly, only Bunny knew how to sleep properly.

So when your phone continued buzzing shortly after seven, you buried your face deeper into the pillow, beside you, JJ groaned “Your phone.”

“I know.”

“It’s been going for five minutes.”

“You check it.”

“It’s your phone.”

You reached blindly toward the nightstand and grabbed it, there were dozens of notifications. Messages from friends, tags on Instagram and even a text from JJ’s mother,

you blinked at the screen “What happened?”

JJ opened one eye “What?”

“I have thirty-seven messages.”

“Did someone get traded?”

You turned toward him “Why is that always your first assumption?”

“Because people usually text a lot when someone gets traded.”

You opened the message from one of your friends.

Your daughter is famous.

Below it was a link to a TikTok, you sat up “JJ.”

His eyes closed again “Hmm?”

“Why is Lilly famous?”

That got his attention, JJ sat up beside you, his hair sticking up in several directions “What do you mean?”

You opened the video.

It had been posted by someone who had attended the fan event the previous afternoon.

The beginning showed JJ moving along the line signing autographs. Then the camera shifted slightly, capturing Lilly hurrying toward him and pulling on his sweater.

The text across the screen read

When his two-year-old daughter noticed he accidentally missed a fan before he did.

The audio had picked up everything.

“You missed her.”

“You missed the girl, Daddy.”

And finally “Good job, Daddy.”

The video ended with JJ carrying Lilly while she carefully monitored the rest of the line, you glanced at the view count.

Then you looked again.

“750.000?”

JJ leaned closer “What?”

“This has seven hundred and fifty thousand .”

“Already?”

“It was posted last night.” You scrolled through the comments.

She said absolutely no fan left behind.

The tiny sweater tug because this was an emergency.

‘Good job, Daddy’—she trained him well.

JJ Peterka’s toughest coach is apparently two feet tall.

The way she immediately noticed the girl looked sad. What a sweet kid.

She was not letting her dad continue until he fixed his mistake.

Another comment had more than one hundred thousand likes.

Protect Lilly Peterka at all costs.

JJ took your phone, staring at the screen “She went viral?”

“Apparently.”

“For telling me I missed someone?”

“She was very authoritative.”

JJ replayed the video, Lilly’s tiny voice filled the bedroom again.“No missing.” A smile slowly appeared on his face “She’s cute.”

“She’s bossy.”

“She gets that from you.”

You stared at him, JJ immediately corrected himself “She gets her kindness from you.”

“That was a very fast recovery.”

“I’m good under pressure.”

“You’re really not.”

Before JJ could respond, the bedroom door creaked open, Lilly appeared in the doorway wearing mismatched pajamas, Bunny tucked beneath one arm. Her hair was tangled around her face “Mommy?”

“Good morning, baby.”

She shuffled into the room, JJ set your phone aside and held out his arms “Come here, famous girl.” Lilly climbed onto the bed, crawling directly into the space between you, you kissed the top of her head “Did you sleep well?”

She nodded, pressing Bunny against JJ’s chest “Bunny sleep good too.”

“I’m glad,” JJ said.

Lilly looked at the phone in his hand “What watching?”

“You,” JJ answered.

Her face brightened “Me?”

He played the video again, Lilly watched silently as the small version of herself ran toward her father on the screen. When the video ended, she pointed at the phone “Daddy missed her.”

“I know,” JJ said. “Everyone knows now.”

Lilly’s brows furrowed “Why?”

“Because someone put the video online.”

She stared at him, clearly unimpressed by the explanation “You missed her,” she repeated. You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing, JJ nodded seriously “Yes, I did.”

“I told you.”

“You did.”

“And then you signed.”

“I did.”

Lilly smiled proudly “Good job.”

You laughed, leaning your head against JJ’s shoulder “I don’t think she understands that she’s gone viral.”

“She doesn’t even understand what viral means,” JJ said.

Lilly looked between you “I’m viral?”

“No baby ” you told her gently. “You’re Lilly.”

She accepted that answer immediately “I’m Lilly.”

“Yes, you are.”

By the time JJ arrived at the rink later that morning, the video had reached nearly a million and a half of views. You knew because he texted you from the locker room.

They won’t leave me alone.

A second message arrived moments later.

Someone printed a picture of Lilly pointing at me and put it above my stall.

You laughed and replied.

Good. You need supervision.

JJ sent back a photo, someone had taped a screenshot from the video to the wall. Beneath it, in large capital letters, was written:

NO MISSING.

Later, one of his teammates posted a short clip of JJ walking into the locker room while several players shouted, “Good job, Daddy!” JJ tried to ignore them, but the red creeping across his cheeks gave him away. When he returned home that afternoon, Lilly ran toward him the moment the door opened.

“Daddy!”

JJ barely had time to drop his bag before she wrapped herself around his legs “Hi, Liebling.” He lifted her into his arms and kissed her cheek “How was your day?”

“I colored.”

“What did you color?”

“A dog.”

“Was it good?”

Lilly nodded “Good job, Lilly?”

“Good job, Lilly,” JJ confirmed.

You appeared from the kitchen, smiling when you saw them “How was practice?”

JJ narrowed his eyes “Terrible.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

You leaned against the doorway “Did everyone remind you not to miss anyone?”

“Repeatedly.”

Lilly looked at him “No missing, Daddy.”

JJ closed his eyes briefly “You too?”

She patted his cheek “Everybody.” You burst out laughing, JJ looked at you over her shoulder “This is your fault.”

“How is this my fault?”

“You encouraged her.”

“I didn’t teach her to notice when someone was left out.”

His expression softened “No,” he admitted. “You did teach her that.”

You walked toward them and smoothed Lilly’s hair away from her forehead “She noticed that the girl was sad.”

“I know.” There was something warm in JJ’s voice as he looked at your daughter. He had watched the video more times than he would ever admit, not because millions of strangers had seen it, not because fans were calling Lilly adorable or joking that she was already managing his career.

He loved it because she had noticed.

In the middle of the noise, the crowd, and the excitement, Lilly had seen one person being overlooked and she hadn’t hesitated to do something about it.

JJ kissed her temple “You’re a good girl, you know that?”

Lilly nodded confidently “I help.”

“You did help.”

She rested her head against his shoulder, Bunny squished between them. After a moment, she lifted her head again “Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Next time, sign everybody.”

You covered your mouth, already laughing, JJ looked toward the ceiling as though searching for patience “Yes, boss.”

You were already lost in it.

The house had been too quiet for too long. Mitch’s road trip had stretched into ten days, and every night without him left you aching. Tonight you’d finally given in. Fresh out of the shower, skin still warm and damp, you’d climbed into the middle of your shared bed completely naked, pillows propped behind you, legs spread. One hand cupped your breast, thumb brushing your nipple, while the other slid down between your thighs.

You were soaked. Two fingers circled your clit in lazy, wet strokes while you pictured him — his voice in your ear, his weight pinning you down, the way he always groaned when he first pushed inside you. Your hips rolled up to meet your own hand. A soft, needy sound slipped out of your throat “Fuck, Mitch…”

You didn’t hear the front door. Didn’t hear his suitcase drop in the hallway.

You only realized he was home when the bedroom door creaked open and his low, rough voice cut through the quiet “Well, shit.”

Your eyes flew open. Mitch stood in the doorway, still in his travel hoodie and joggers, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, staring at you like he’d just been punched in the chest. His gaze dropped straight to where your fingers were buried between your legs.

You froze, heart hammering, face burning “Mitch— you’re— you’re home early, I—”

“Don’t you fucking dare stop.”

His voice was gravel and heat. He dropped the bag, kicked the door shut, and crossed the room in three strides. But instead of climbing onto the bed, he dragged the big armchair from the corner and planted it at the foot of the mattress, facing you. He sat down, legs spread wide, and never once looked away from your hand.

“Keep touching yourself, baby. I want to watch.”

You whimpered, equal parts mortified and desperately turned on. Your fingers twitched against your clit.

“Wider,” he ordered, voice low. “Let me see.”

You obeyed, knees falling open. Mitch’s eyes darkened. He shoved his joggers and briefs down just far enough to free his cock — already thick and half-hard — and wrapped a big hand around it. He stroked once, slow and deliberate, thumb swiping over the head.

“Jesus Christ, look at you,” he muttered. “Couldn’t even wait for me to get home, huh? Had to get that pretty pussy all worked up thinking about me?”

You nodded, breathless. “Missed you.”

“I can tell.” His fist moved again, lazy. “Two fingers. Inside. Now.” You slid them in with a wet sound that made him groan. His cock jerked in his grip.

“Fuck, that’s it. Curl them. Just like I do when I’ve got my mouth on you.” He watched your wrist move, watched your stomach flutter. “Good girl. Now your clit with your thumb. Slow circles. Don’t rush it.”

You followed every instruction, hips twitching, soft little moans falling from your lips. Mitch matched your rhythm with his own hand, eyes locked on the slick shine of your fingers every time they pulled out.

“Pinch your nipple,” he said. “Harder. Yeah, just like that. I know how sensitive you get when you’re this worked up.”

You gasped, back arching. The dual sensation — your own fingers inside you and the sharp tug on your nipple — had you shaking “Mitch— I’m close—”

“Not yet.” His voice was firm but fond. “Take your fingers out. Just rub your clit. Light. Tease it.”

You whined but obeyed, circling the swollen bud with barely any pressure. Your thighs trembled “Look at me,” he said.

You did. His eyes were black with heat, jaw tight as he stroked himself faster. “You have any idea how many times I jerked off in hotel bathrooms thinking about this? About coming home and finding you just like this?”

You moaned his name again, desperate.

“Put your fingers back in,” he ordered. “Three this time. Fuck yourself with them while you rub your clit. I want to hear how wet you are.”

The stretch made you cry out. You were so close it hurt “Please—”

“Come for me.” His voice cracked with want. “Right now. Eyes on me. Let me see you fall apart.”

You shattered with a broken sob, thighs clamping around your own hand, fingers buried deep as your walls fluttered and pulsed. Mitch’s hand sped up on his cock, eyes glued to your face, to the way your body bowed off the bed.

“Fuck— fuck, baby—” He came with a low, guttural groan, thick ropes of cum painting his stomach and the hem of his hoodie. His head tipped back for a second, throat working, before his gaze found yours again, softer now but still burning.

For a moment the only sound was both of you breathing hard.

Then Mitch stood.

He stripped the rest of the way in seconds — hoodie, joggers, everything — and crawled onto the bed like a man starved. He caught your wrists gently, pulling your wet fingers from between your legs and bringing them to his mouth. He sucked them clean, eyes never leaving yours.

“Missed you so fucking much,” he whispered against your skin.

You reached for him, still trembling from the aftershocks. He came down over you, caging you in, and kissed you deep and slow — the kind of kiss that said he’d been counting days too. His cock, still hard, dragged against your thigh, hot and slick.

He didn’t rush.

One big hand slid under your knee, hitching your leg up and open as he settled between your thighs. The blunt head of his cock nudged your entrance, still sensitive and fluttering. He pushed in slowly — inch by careful inch — until he bottomed out with a shared, shaky exhale.

“God, you feel good,” he breathed against your mouth. “So warm. So fucking tight around me.”

He didn’t thrust. Not at first. He just stayed buried deep, rolling his hips in tiny, grinding circles that dragged the head of his cock against that spot inside you with devastating precision. His forehead pressed to yours. One hand cradled the back of your neck while the other stroked slow lines up and down your side.

“Missed this,” he murmured. “Missed being inside you. Missed the way you look at me when I’m this deep.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, and he started to move — long, slow, deliberate strokes that let you feel every ridge, every vein. The wet sound of him sliding in and out filled the room, filthy and perfect. He kissed you between every thrust — your mouth, your jaw, the corner of your eye when it fluttered shut.

“Open your eyes, baby,” he whispered. “Want to watch you.”

You did. The intimacy of it — the eye contact, the unhurried pace, the way he kept murmuring how much he’d missed you, how good you felt, how he never wanted to leave again — had tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. He kissed them away.

He built you up slowly, patiently, until your second orgasm crept up on you like a tide. Your walls tightened around him in rhythmic pulses. Mitch groaned, hips stuttering for the first time.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Come on my cock. Just like that. Fuck— I’ve got you.”

You came with a soft, broken cry, clinging to him. He followed you over seconds later, burying his face in your neck as he spilled deep inside you with a low, shaking moan. His hips kept moving through it — tiny, shallow thrusts — drawing it out for both of you until you were both oversensitive and trembling.

When he finally stilled, he didn’t pull out. He just shifted enough to take some of his weight off you, one hand stroking your hair back from your damp forehead.

“Hi,” he said softly, a little smile tugging at his mouth. “Surprise.”

You laughed, weak and breathless, and pulled him down for another slow kiss “Welcome home.”

You hated the mirror more than ever tonight.

The full-length glass in your bedroom didn’t just reflect your body — it reflected every change you’d been trying to hide. The soft, rounded belly that now had a gentle, plush overhang when you stood relaxed. The heavy, full breasts that sat lower and fuller than they used to, their weight making them sway with every small movement.

The thick thighs that rubbed together softly when you walked. The wide hips and the big, round, jiggly ass that had become so plush it spilled over your hands when you tried to cover it.

You stood in front of that mirror in nothing but one of Timo’s old oversized Devils t-shirts, arms wrapped around your middle like you could make yourself smaller. The gala dress was crumpled on the floor where you’d ripped it off in frustration. One look at how the fabric had clung to every new curve, every soft roll, every jiggle, and the tears had come fast.

You felt too much. Too soft. Too changed.

Timo Meier — 6'1" of pure, powerful NHL muscle, the star winger who could have any woman — deserved someone sleek and confident. Not this version of you.

The front door clicked open “Schatz? I’m home.” His deep voice carried that warm Swiss lilt that usually melted you. You heard his footsteps, then he appeared in the bedroom doorway — damp dark hair, stubble shadowing his strong jaw, black henley stretched tight across his broad chest and thick arms.

His dark eyes found you immediately and the easy smile vanished “YN.” He was across the room in three strides, large hockey-calloused hands settling gently on your shoulders. “Baby, what’s wrong? You’ve been crying.”

You shook your head, voice cracking. “It’s stupid. I tried on the dress for the gala and… everything looks wrong. My body changed so much, Timo. My stomach is soft and round, my boobs are heavy and they sag now, my thighs are huge, my ass is so big it jiggles. I feel huge. I don’t feel sexy. I feel like I’m not enough for you anymore.”

Timo’s expression darkened, not at you, but at the words. He pulled you hard against his chest, one big hand cradling the back of your head, the other splaying wide across your lower back, pressing every soft inch of you to every hard inch of him.

“Nein. Stop right there.” His voice was low, firm, and full of heat. “I don’t want someone skinnier. I don’t want some thin girl who doesn’t fill my hands, who doesn’t give me something real to hold onto. I want you. I want every single change. I want this soft belly. I want these heavy tits. I want this big, perfect ass. I want you, YN. Only you.”

Your breath caught. He’d never said it so bluntly before.

He stepped back just enough to look into your eyes, his hands sliding down to grip your wide hips possessively. “You think I want some skinny model who disappears when I grab her? Fuck no. I want my hands overflowing with you. I want your boobs looking perfect in my huge hands — heavy and soft and filling every inch of my palms. I want this big ass riding my cock, bouncing on me while I watch every ripple, every jiggle. That’s what I want. That’s what gets me hard. That’s what makes me come so fucking hard I see stars. You. Exactly like this.”

Tears pricked again, but this time they were different — relief, heat, the slow unfurling of something warm and wanted in your chest.

Timo’s hands were already moving under the hem of the shirt, lifting it slowly, deliberately. “We’re fixing this right now. You’re going to watch. You’re going to see exactly what I see.”

He peeled the shirt off until you stood bare in front of the mirror. Your instinct was to cover yourself, but he caught your wrists and brought them down to your sides “Look,” he ordered softly, stepping behind you so his tall, muscular frame framed your softer, curvier one in the reflection. “Look at what’s mine.”

His big hands slid over your soft belly first, fingers sinking into the plush roundness, lifting and squeezing so the flesh jiggled gently. “This belly… I fucking love it. So soft, so warm, so perfect to grab when I’m buried inside you. These changes made it rounder, fuller. I want to kiss every inch. I want to feel it move against me when I fuck you deep.”

His palms moved upward, cupping the heavy weight of your breasts from behind. They overflowed his large hands, soft and warm and sensitive. He lifted them, squeezed them together, thumbs brushing your hardening nipples until you gasped.

“These tits…” His voice dropped into a rough growl. “Look how perfect they look in my huge hands. Heavy. Full. They fill me up completely. I don’t want perky little things that don’t give me anything to hold. I want these. I want to feel their weight. I want to watch them bounce and sway while I fuck you. I want to suck on them until you’re shaking. They’re perfect exactly like this — bigger, softer, mine.”

You were already wet, thighs pressing together. Timo noticed. One of his hands slid down between your legs from behind, fingers gliding through your slick folds with a satisfied hum.

“So wet for me already, baby. Just from hearing how much I want this body.” He pushed two thick fingers inside you, curling them slowly. “These changes made your pussy even better — softer, wetter, gripping me so tight. I love fucking this pussy. I love how it feels when you come around me now.”

He worked his fingers in and out while his other hand kept kneading your breast, rolling the nipple. In the mirror you watched everything: his dark eyes locked on your reflection, his strong forearms flexing, your soft belly shifting with every breath, your heavy breasts moving in his grip, your face flushing darker as pleasure built.

“Watch yourself,” he murmured against your ear. “Watch how beautiful you look when I touch you like this. No more hiding. This is what I want every night.”

He withdrew his fingers, brought them to your mouth, and you sucked them clean without being told, eyes never leaving the mirror. Timo groaned behind you “Good girl.”

He stripped quickly — henley gone, revealing the hard planes of his chest and abs, the powerful thighs built from years of skating. His cock was already rock-hard, thick and heavy, curving up toward his stomach. He pressed it against the cleft of your ass, hot and insistent.

“Bend forward a little put your hands on the mirror and legs spread baby”. You obeyed, heart pounding. He lined up behind you, the thick head of his cock nudging your soaked entrance. “Keep watching. I want you to see every inch disappear inside this perfect pussy.”

He pushed in slowly — thick, stretching, perfect. You watched in the mirror as your face went slack with pleasure, as your soft belly shifted, as your heavy breasts swayed beneath you, as his hips finally met your ass and he was buried to the hilt.

“Fuck, baby…” Timo’s hands gripped your wide hips, fingers sinking into the plush flesh. “Look at that, how your body is taking all of me. So full, so perfect.”

He started thrusting — long, deep, deliberate strokes that made your entire body ripple with every impact. Your soft belly jiggled. Your heavy breasts swung heavily. Your big ass rippled and bounced against his hips. The wet sound of skin on skin filled the room.

“I love this,” he growled, voice rough. “Love how you jiggle for me. Love how this soft belly moves when I fuck you. Love how these heavy tits swing. Love this big ass, so plush, so perfect to grab. I don’t want skinny. I want this. I want you riding me later so I can watch this ass bounce on my cock while I hold these tits in my hands. But first… come for me like this. Watch yourself come on my cock.”

One arm wrapped around your waist, his hand splaying over your soft belly while the other reached around to rub your clit in tight, fast circles.

The combination of his thick cock dragging over that perfect spot inside you, his fingers on your clit, the constant stream of praise, the visual of your own body being loved so thoroughly in the mirror — was overwhelming.

Your orgasm hit hard.

Your legs shook violently. Your pussy clenched and fluttered around his cock in rhythmic pulses. You gushed around him, wetness dripping down your thighs as you came with a broken cry, body trembling and rippling everywhere.

In the mirror you saw it all: your soft belly contracting, your heavy breasts heaving, your face twisted in raw ecstasy, Timo’s intense gaze locked on you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“That’s it, baby — come for me. Fuck, look at you… so gorgeous… your body is perfect… taking me so well… I love every soft inch of you…”

He fucked you through it, drawing it out until you were whimpering and oversensitive, then slowed, still buried deep inside you.

But he wasn’t done.

Timo pulled out slowly, turned you around, and kissed you deep and filthy before guiding you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed. He sat down on the edge, facing the mirror, and pulled you forward until you were straddling him but facing away from him, toward the mirror. Reverse cowgirl. with your back to his chest, your big ass toward him, the full-length mirror reflecting everything in front of you.

“Ride me,” he ordered, voice dark with want. “I want to watch your big ass bounce on my cock. I want to feel these perfect tits in my hands while you do it. And I want you to watch every second of it.”

You reached down, wrapped your hand around his thick, slick cock, and sank down onto him in one slow, smooth motion. The stretch was even deeper in this position. You both groaned.

Timo’s big hands immediately came up to cup your heavy breasts from behind, lifting and squeezing them, thumbs circling your sensitive nipples. “Fuck yes… look at that. These tits look perfect in my huge hands. So full, so soft, overflowing exactly the way I want. I don’t want smaller. I want these. I want to feel their weight while you ride me.”

You started to move — slow rolls of your hips at first, then lifting up and sinking back down. In the mirror you watched everything: your own face flushed and pleasure-drunk, your heavy breasts bouncing and swaying in his grip, your soft belly shifting and jiggling with every movement, and behind you.

Timo’s intense expression, his powerful thighs flexing, and the obscene, perfect sight of your big, round ass bouncing on his thick cock. Every time you sank down, your ass rippled and jiggled against his hips. Every time you rose, you could see his cock glistening with your wetness before you took him deep again.

His hands never left your breasts — squeezing, kneading, lifting them so they looked even fuller in the reflection. “That’s it, baby… ride me just like that,” he groaned, voice strained. “Look at your big ass bouncing on my cock. Fuck, it’s perfect. So plush, so round, so mine. I want this every night. I want you riding me while I hold these tits. I don’t want anyone else. I don’t want skinny. I want you — soft and full and perfect. Look at how beautiful you are. Look at how your body moves for me.”

You rode him harder, faster, chasing another orgasm. The visual in the mirror was filthy and intoxicating — your curves on full display, his hands worshiping your breasts, your ass bouncing and rippling every time you dropped down onto him.

The wet sounds, the slap of your ass against his thighs, his low groans and filthy praise in your ear — it was too much and not enough all at once “Come for me again,” Timo growled, one hand leaving your breast to reach down and rub your clit while you rode him. “Come with my cock buried in this perfect pussy and my hands full of these perfect tits. Show me how much you love riding me.”

The orgasm crashed over you even harder than the first. Your whole body seized, pussy clamping down around him like a vice as you came with a sob, ass jiggling wildly as your hips stuttered.

Timo held you through it, still squeezing your breasts, still murmuring praise“Fuck — yes, baby… look at you… coming so hard on my cock… your big ass shaking… these tits in my hands… perfect… you’re perfect…”

You were still pulsing around him when he snapped his hips up to meet you, fucking up into you from below with short, powerful thrusts until he buried himself deep and came with a guttural groan. You felt every hot pulse of his release flooding you, his cock twitching inside your still-fluttering walls.

For a long moment you stayed like that — impaled on him, both of you panting, staring at the reflection of your joined bodies. His cum started to leak out around his cock, glistening on your thighs. His hands were still gently cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing softly over your nipples.

Timo pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then your neck. “See?” he murmured. “This is what I want. You. Exactly like this, every soft curve, every change, every jiggle, every bounce. I don’t want skinnier. I want my hands full of you., i want this big ass riding me, i want these perfect tits in my hands. You’re it for me, YN.”

He carefully lifted you off him, turned you around, and pulled you into his lap facing him this time. He kissed you slow and deep, all tongue and reverence, while his hands roamed your body — stroking your soft belly, squeezing your hips, cupping your ass.

Then he laid you back on the bed and spent the next hour worshipping you with his mouth and hands.

He kissed every inch of your soft belly, murmuring how much he loved the way it felt, how it moved, how it was his favorite place to rest his head after a long game.

He sucked and licked your heavy breasts for long minutes, groaning at their weight and fullness, telling you again and again how perfect they looked and felt in his hands.

He spread your thick thighs and ate you out slowly and thoroughly until you came again on his tongue, his big hands gripping your plush flesh the whole time. When you were boneless and glowing, he cleaned you gently with a warm cloth, then pulled you into his arms under the covers.

Your head on his chest, one of his big hands tracing lazy, loving circles over your belly, your hips, your thighs — everywhere you’d once felt insecure “No more hiding from the mirror,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to your hair. “If you ever feel that way again, you tell me. I’ll remind you. I’ll put you in front of that mirror and show you again how much I love this body. How much better it is now. How it was made for me to hold, to fuck, to love.”

You nodded against his chest, tears slipping out — happy ones this time “I love you, Timo.”

“I love you too, my beautiful girl.” His hand kept stroking your soft curves. “All of you. Every single change, every soft inch. You’re exactly what I want. Always.”

You fell asleep wrapped in his strong arms, safe, desired, and completely loved — exactly as you were. Soft. Curvy. Changed. Perfect.

And when you woke up hours later to the feeling of his hands already roaming your body again, you didn’t hesitate.

You let him pull you in front of the mirror once more.

Because now you knew exactly what he saw.

By the time Luke pulled into your parents’ driveway, the snow had started falling harder.

Large, soft flakes drifted against the windshield and melted beneath the wipers, while the ones that landed on the hood began forming a thin white layer over the dark paint.

The entire street looked peaceful.

Warm Christmas lights glowed from every porch. Wreaths hung from nearly every front door. Somewhere nearby, children were laughing as they dragged a sled along the sidewalk.

It looked like the kind of Christmas evening people wrote songs about.

Inside the car, neither of you had spoken for the last twenty minutes, Luke kept both hands wrapped around the steering wheel even though the engine had been turned off. His shoulders were tense beneath his sweatshirt, and his eyes remained fixed on the house in front of you.

Your childhood home, your entire family was inside waiting for you. Waiting for both of you.

They thought you and Luke were arriving after spending the first half of the holidays with his family in Michigan. They thought you had spent the drive arguing over music, stopping for coffee and sharing snacks the way you always did.

They thought Luke would carry your suitcase upstairs while you complained that he had packed too many clothes, they thought he would sleep beside you in your childhood bedroom, they thought you were still together.

No one knew that two weeks earlier, you had stood in the kitchen of the apartment you shared in New Jersey and ended your relationship. No one knew that Luke had slept on Jack’s couch afterward because neither of you could bear being in the same apartment.

No one knew you had cried into one of his old Michigan sweatshirts until the fabric was damp.

The breakup had not been loud, there had been no betrayal. No other person, no single unforgivable moment that made it easier to walk away.

That almost made it worse.

You had simply spent months slowly losing each other, Luke was always tired. Always preparing for a game, recovering from one, watching film, answering calls, leaving for road trips or trying to mentally return from them.

You had tried to understand, at first, you told yourself it was only the beginning of the season. Then you told yourself things would calm down after the holidays. Then after a difficult stretch of games. Then after the next road trip.

Eventually, you realized you had built an entire relationship around waiting for Luke to have time for you. And Luke, without meaning to, had started treating your patience as something permanent.

Something he didn’t have to protect. You had been the one to finally say the words "Maybe we shouldn’t be together anymore" Luke had stared at you for several seconds then he had quietly asked if that was really what you wanted.

You had waited for him to fight, to tell you that you were wrong, to ask you to stay. Instead, he had nodded “Okay.” That single word had destroyed you more than any argument could have.

You had agreed to tell your families after Christmas, individually. Calmly.

You had told yourselves there was no reason to ruin anyone’s holiday, especially when both families already had plans built around the two of you attending together.

At the time, it had seemed mature. Reasonable.

Now, sitting beside Luke in the dark car while your grandmother watched from the living-room window, it felt like the stupidest decision either of you had ever made. Luke finally exhaled “We can still tell them.”

You turned toward him “Right now?”

His jaw tightened, through the windows, you could see your mother moving around the living room, adjusting the gifts beneath the tree. Your father passed through the hallway carrying extra folding chairs.

Your cousins ran behind him wearing matching Christmas pajamas.

And sitting in her usual armchair near the window was your grandmother, watching the driveway. She lifted one hand, slowly.

Then waved directly at the two of you, you ducked beneath the dashboard. Luke turned his head “Did you seriously just hide from your grandma?”

“She knows things.”

“She’s eighty-three.”

“She knew my cousin was pregnant before my cousin did.” Luke glanced through the windshield again, your grandmother had not moved. She was still watching the car with narrowed eyes “She might be looking at something behind us.”

“There’s nothing behind us.”

“A tree.”

“She planted that tree. She knows what it looks like.”

Luke swallowed “Okay.” You lifted your head cautiously “She’s going to know the second we walk inside.”

“Then we act normal.”

You gave him a flat look “We haven’t acted normal around each other in months.” Luke’s expression shifted, only slightly. But you saw it. You always saw it. The smallest tightening around his eyes, the subtle way he pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek when something hurt him.

Even after ending your relationship, you could still read him more easily than anyone else, Luke looked back toward the house “We only have to make it through four days.”

“Four days,” you repeated.

“Four days is nothing.”

“Four days, three family dinners, one Christmas party and church with my grandma.”

“Easy.”

“We also have to share my room.” His hand froze against the steering wheel, that was the one detail neither of you had properly discussed.

Your childhood bedroom only had one bed, the guest room had been turned into a temporary playroom for your cousins, your aunt and uncle were staying in the basement, and every couch had already been claimed.

Luke turned slowly “You said there was a couch.”

“There is.”

“Where?”

“In the basement.”

“That’s fine.”

“My uncle sleeps down there.” Luke frowned “He stays awake until three in the morning watching war documentaries, and he snores during the parts he finds boring.” Luke leaned his head back against the seat.

You stared forward “The bed isn’t that small.” He turned toward you again “It’s a full.”

“You’ve slept in it before.”

“When we were together.” The words landed heavily between you, you looked down at your hands. Luke closed his eyes for a moment “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Neither of you moved, then the porch light flickered twice. Your father’s usual signal that he could see you sitting outside. Luke rubbed both hands over his face “Four days.”

“Four days,” you agreed, then you both stepped out of the car and began pretending, your mother opened the door before you had even reached the porch “There they are!”

She pulled you into a hug first, squeezing you tightly enough that your cheek pressed against her shoulder “You’re freezing.”

“We just got out of the car.”

“You should’ve worn a warmer coat.”

“I’m wearing a coat.”

“It’s decorative.” Before you could argue, she released you and immediately wrapped her arms around Luke “My favorite hockey player.”

Luke laughed, it was soft and easy, familiar. The sound caught you off guard, you had not heard him laugh like that around you in a long time.

Not fully, not without exhaustion sitting beneath it “Don’t let Dad hear you say that,” you warned.

Your father appeared behind her “Too late.” Luke smiled and shook his hand, but your father ignored it and pulled him into a hug “Good to see you, kid.”

“You too.”

“You hungry?”

“Always.”

“Good. Your mother made enough food for your entire team.”

“That’s because you keep inviting people,” your mother argued. Your youngest cousin came charging down the hallway “Luke!”

He collided with Luke’s legs at full speed, Luke reacted without hesitation, bending down and lifting him into his arms “Hey, buddy.”

“I got a hockey stick.”

“You did?”

“It’s red.”

“That sounds fast.”

“It is fast.” Your cousin immediately launched into a long explanation about the stick, a goal he had scored in the driveway and why he was certain he would be drafted before he turned twelve.

Luke listened seriously, he asked questions, he nodded at the right moments, he looked exactly as he always had inside your parents’ house. Comfortable, loved, part of everything. For one dangerous second, you forgot that he wasn’t yours anymore.

Then your grandmother spoke from the living room “Come here, sweetheart.”

You knew immediately she wasn’t talking to you, Luke’s eyes flicked toward yours before he walked into the living room. Your grandmother held both of his hands between hers and studied him. Not subtly, her eyes moved over his face, his shoulders, the dark circles beneath his eyes “You’re thinner.”

Luke smiled politely “I don’t think so.”

“You look tired.”

“Busy season.”

“You look sad.” the room went quiet Your mother sighed “Mom.”

“What?” your grandmother asked. “He does.”

Luke glanced at you, you looked away too late. Your grandmother noticed, of course she noticed, then her attention moved toward you “And you look miserable.”

“Grandma.”

“It’s Christmas. People are supposed to look happy.”

“We were in the car for hours,” you said quickly. “I’m tired.” Luke stepped toward you, his hand settled against the small of your back.

The touch was careful, deliberate. Entirely for your grandmother’s benefit but your body reacted anyway. The warmth of his palm spread through your coat. Your shoulders automatically softened before you remembered that you weren’t supposed to lean into him anymore “Long drive,” Luke agreed. “She slept through most of it.”

That part was technically true. You had pretended to sleep for almost two hours because silence felt less painful than trying to speak to him.

Your grandmother looked down at Luke’s hand against your back, then she looked at your face “Hm.” That single sound frightened you more than an accusation would have.

Your mother clapped her hands “Come on. Get your bags upstairs before dinner.”

Luke reached for both suitcases automatically “I can carry mine,” you said.

“I know.” He picked it up anyway, you followed him upstairs. Every step felt painfully familiar. Luke knew exactly which floorboard creaked near the bathroom. He knew your father kept the hallway too cold during winter. He knew your bedroom door had to be lifted slightly before it would close properly.

He knew your home almost as well as his own.

Once you were inside the bedroom, Luke set your suitcase near the closet, then he closed the door. The moment the latch clicked, you stepped away from him. His hand fell from your back, the loss of contact was immediate. Your room looked almost the same as it had when you were seventeen.

Fairy lights were wrapped around the headboard. Old photographs lined the mirror. Books you no longer read were stacked along the shelves.

The stuffed bear Luke had won for you at a summer fair two years ago sat on the window seat. His eyes landed on it, you noticed. He noticed you noticing, neither of you said anything. Luke placed his bag near the desk, then both of you looked at the bed, it felt smaller than you remembered.

“We can put pillows between us,” you said.

Luke nodded “Sure.”

“And no touching.”

“Obviously.”

“You take the side near the wall.”

“You always sleep near the wall.”

“We’re not together anymore. You don’t have to remember things like that.”

The words came out sharper than you intended, Luke’s face fell. Only for a second “Right.” You turned away and began opening your suitcase even though you had no intention of unpacking, behind you, Luke cleared his throat “Your grandma knows.”

“She suspects.”

“She looked at me like she was trying to identify a body.”

You almost smiled “She’ll watch us the entire time.”

“So we need rules.” You turned back toward him, Luke leaned against the desk and crossed his arms “We act like we’re still together around everyone,” he said. “Nothing ridiculous. Just normal.”

“What does normal mean?”

“Holding hands.” Your stomach tightened.

“Sitting together.” You said nothing.

“Maybe hugging.”

“Maybe?”

Luke exhaled “You know what I mean.”

“And kissing?” His eyes lifted to yours, the room felt too warm “We can avoid it.”

“My family hangs mistletoe.”

“Then we avoid the mistletoe.”

“My uncle hangs it everywhere after he’s had a few drinks.”

“Then we avoid your uncle.”

“He’ll chase us.”

“I’m faster than him.”

“Not indoors.” Luke almost smiled, you hated how badly you wanted to see it fully “We don’t talk about the breakup while we’re here,” you said.

“Fine.”

“We don’t argue.”

“Fine.”

“We don’t sleep together.” His eyebrows lifted “In the same bed,” you corrected quickly.

“I knew what you meant.”

“You made a face.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.” Luke shook his head “And we don’t let Grandma get either of us alone,” you continued.

“Definitely.” A knock sounded against the door, both of you jumped apart despite already standing several feet away. Your grandmother’s voice came through the wood “Dinner in five minutes.”

You looked at Luke, he looked at you, neither of you answered. After several seconds, your grandmother added, “I know you’re both in there.”

“We’ll be down,” you called, her footsteps moved away. Luke stared at the door “We’re not making it four days.”

“No.”

Dinner was worse than either of you expected, your family seated Luke beside you, naturally. Your mother kept adding food to his plate. Your father asked about the season. Your cousins wanted stories about Jack and Quinn.

Luke answered every question patiently, he told them about Jack stealing his phone on the plane. He explained why Quinn was worse at responding to messages than anyone else in the family.

He laughed when your uncle claimed he could still skate faster than Luke if given enough time to stretch. Meanwhile, your grandmother watched both of you from across the table.

You tried to ignore her, halfway through dinner, your aunt turned toward Luke “So, are you two spending New Year’s together?” Your fork paused halfway to your mouth, Luke answered first. “Yeah.”

The word came out too quickly, your grandmother’s eyes narrowed “Where?”

Luke’s hand disappeared beneath the table, then his palm settled over your knee. You inhaled sharply, he glanced at you, silently asking if it was okay. You forced yourself to relax “We haven’t decided,” Luke said. “Maybe New Jersey. Maybe Michigan.”

“You should go to Michigan,” your mother said. “Ellen would love having everyone home.”

“I’m sure she would,” you murmured. Luke’s thumb moved over your knee, once, then again. A small, absentminded stroke, exactly the way he used to touch you during dinners when he knew you were overwhelmed.

The familiarity of it made your chest ache, you looked at him, Luke seemed to realize what he was doing at the same time, his hand went still. Across the table, your grandmother raised one eyebrow, you quickly placed your hand over Luke’s.

His fingers turned upward and intertwined with yours, you continued holding hands beneath the table long after your grandmother looked away. After dinner, everyone moved into the living room for drinks and Christmas movies.

You sat beside Luke on the couch because sitting anywhere else would have looked suspicious, he stretched one arm along the back cushions behind you.

You left a careful space between your bodies. Your youngest cousin noticed immediately “Why aren’t you cuddling?”

You nearly choked on your drink, Luke stared at him “What?”

“You always cuddle.”

“I’m sitting right beside her.”

“That’s not cuddling.” Your cousin looked personally offended, Then your grandmother spoke from her chair “He’s right.”

You turned toward her, She continued knitting as if she had not said anything, Luke shifted closer, His thigh pressed against yours. Then his arm moved from the back of the couch and settled around your shoulders, He pulled you gently into his side “There,” he said to your cousin. “Better?”

Your cousin nodded “Yeah.”

Your grandmother did not say anything, You remained tucked against Luke for the rest of the movie. At first, your entire body felt rigid, you were painfully aware of every place you touched. His arm around you, his thigh against yours. Your cheek near his chest, his fingers resting over your shoulder.

Then, slowly, your body betrayed you, you relaxed. Luke’s breathing was steady beneath your ear, every time someone laughed, you felt the movement through his chest. His thumb occasionally brushed against your upper arm, you remembered countless nights spent exactly like this in New Jersey, Luke arriving home after a game and collapsing beside you, his head in your lap while you ran your fingers through his hair. Falling asleep against him halfway through a movie and waking when he carried you toward the bedroom.

You missed him, the realization made your eyes sting. You had spent the last two weeks trying to convince yourself you only missed the routine. The apartment, the companionship. But sitting beside him made the truth impossible to ignore.

You missed Luke, you missed his warmth, his laugh, the way he always handed you the first sip of his coffee even though you ordered your own, the way he called for you when he couldn’t find something that was directly in front of him.

Breaking up had not made the love disappear, it had only left nowhere for it to go. When the movie ended, you stood too quickly, Luke’s arm slipped from your shoulders.

“I’m going to bed.”

Your mother frowned “Already?”

“Long drive.”

Luke stood too. Your grandmother looked up from her knitting “You’re both going?”

You forced a smile “That’s usually how couples work, Grandma.” Her eyes narrowed at the word couples, Luke placed his hand against your back “Goodnight.”

Upstairs, you brushed your teeth while Luke changed in the bedroom. Then he took his turn in the bathroom while you changed into an oversized T-shirt and shorts. By the time he returned, you had arranged three large pillows down the center of the bed, Luke stopped in the doorway “That seems dramatic.”

“You agreed.”

“I didn’t realize you were building a border.”

“It’s an emotional support wall.”

His mouth twitched. Luke pulled off his sweatshirt, leaving him in a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants. Your gaze dropped to his chest before you could stop yourself, you looked away.

Too late, Luke noticed, neither of you mentioned it. He switched off the overhead light, leaving only the fairy lights glowing around the headboard. Then he climbed into the side near the wall, you slipped beneath the blankets on the opposite side.

For several minutes, neither of you moved, the bed felt crowded despite the space between you. Then Luke shifted, one pillow fell onto the floor. You immediately grabbed another and pushed it into the gap “This bed got smaller,” he muttered.

“You got bigger.”

“That sounds like a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.” A quiet laugh escaped him, you stared toward the ceiling, your chest tightened “I missed that.”

Luke became still “Missed what?”

“You laughing.”

Silence stretched between you.

“I still laugh,” he said softly.

“Not around me.”

“You haven’t exactly given me much to laugh about lately.” The warmth disappeared, you turned your head toward him “We said we weren’t going to talk about it.”

“You brought it up.”

“I said I missed your laugh.”

“And I said—”

“Forget it.” You rolled onto your side, facing away from him. For several minutes, the only sound was the radiator clicking beneath the window. Then Luke spoke “I missed you too.”

Your eyes closed “That isn’t what I said.”

“I know.” You tightened your grip around the blanket “Goodnight, Luke.”

“Goodnight.”

You woke sometime after midnight with your face pressed against Luke’s chest. The pillow barrier had collapsed completely, one pillow was on the floor. Another was crushed near the foot of the bed. The last one had somehow ended up behind Luke’s back.

Your arm was wrapped around his waist, one of his hands rested beneath the hem of your shirt, warm against your lower back. Your legs were tangled together beneath the blankets, for one drowsy second, you forgot. You forgot the breakup, forgot the rules, forgot the distance that had grown between you.

Then Luke shifted in his sleep, his fingers spreading against your skin, and everything returned at once. You tried to pull away without waking him. Luke’s arm tightened automatically “Stop moving,” he mumbled.

“Luke.” His eyes slowly opened, he looked down at you, then at the position you were in. Neither of you moved “I didn’t do this on purpose,” you whispered.

“Neither did I.” his voice was rough with sleep, his hand remained beneath your shirt.

“You’re still holding me.”

“So are you.” You quickly removed your arm from around his waist, Luke pulled his hand away. Cold air replaced his warmth immediately, you rolled toward the far edge of the bed.

This time, neither of you slept much. The next morning, your grandmother caught you alone in the kitchen, you had woken before everyone else and gone downstairs in search of coffee. You were standing at the counter when she entered without making a sound.

You nearly dropped your mug “Grandma.”

“You’re jumpy.”

“You sneak around.”

“I walk.”

“You walk like a ghost.”

She ignored you and sat at the kitchen table “Make me tea.” You prepared it exactly the way she liked and placed the cup in front of her. Then you sat across from her, she studied your face “Luke loves you.”

Your stomach twisted “I know.”

“You love him.”

You looked down at your coffee “Grandma—”

“Did he cheat?”

Your head snapped up “No.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Did he do something cruel?”

“No.”

“Did you?”

“I don’t think so.”

She took a sip of tea “Then why did you break up?”

The kitchen seemed to tilt, you stared at her. Her expression remained calm “How did you know?”

“You haven’t looked at him once when you thought someone was watching.” You swallowed “And he looks at you constantly when he thinks nobody is.”

Tears burned behind your eyes “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Relief rushed through you, your grandmother placed her cup down “But pretending for everyone else is foolish.”

“We didn’t want to ruin Christmas.”

“Christmas has survived worse things than a breakup.”

“Mom would be devastated.”

“Your mother survived raising you. She’ll survive this too.”

You wiped quickly beneath one eye “We’re telling everyone after the holidays.”

Your grandmother watched you carefully “Are you certain there will still be a breakup after the holidays?”

You looked away “It wasn’t working.”

“That wasn’t my question.” Footsteps sounded in the hallway, Luke entered wearing yesterday’s sweatpants and a wrinkled T-shirt. His hair was messy from sleep. He stopped when he saw you sitting across from your grandmother, his eyes immediately moved to your face “Everything okay?” Your grandmother smiled “Perfectly.”

Luke clearly did not believe her, he walked behind your chair and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. The gesture was quick, instinctive. Your heart clenched.

“I’m making breakfast,” he said. “You hungry?”

You nodded because you did not trust your voice, your grandmother watched everything “Hm.”

The rest of the day was spent preparing for the Christmas Eve party.

Luke helped your father shovel the driveway, he carried boxes down from the attic for your mother. He let your cousins cover him in tinsel while he attempted to hang garland around the staircase. You tried to avoid being alone with him. That became harder once the relatives began arriving, everyone greeted Luke like he belonged there.

Your aunt handed him a wine bottle she could not open, your uncle dragged him into a debate about hockey, your cousins begged him to go outside and play in the snow. No one treated him like your boyfriend anymore, they treated him like family. And Luke looked completely at home among them.

You found him in the kitchen later, helping your mother make cookies.

Flour was smeared across one cheek “You’re doing it wrong,” you said automatically. Luke glanced up “I’m following your mother’s instructions.”

“My mother thinks measuring is optional.”

“Your mother is standing right here,” she called from inside the pantry.

You reached for the bowl “You’re overmixing.” Luke lifted it out of reach “I’ve got it.”

“You’re ruining the dough.”

“It’s cookies.”

“That doesn’t mean they deserve less respect.”

Luke smiled down at you, a real smile. Soft and fond, for one second, you forgot you were supposed to be guarded. Then your mother came back carrying a bag of sugar, she stopped in the doorway and looked between you.

Her expression softened “You two are going to be exactly like this when you’re eighty.”

The smile disappeared from your face, Luke lowered the bowl, your mother did not notice. She set the sugar on the counter and walked away again.

Luke stared down at the dough “I used to think so,” he said quietly.

Your throat tightened “Luke.”

“I know. We’re not talking about it.” He placed the bowl on the counter, when he tried to walk away, you caught his wrist, Luke stopped, his eyes moved toward your hand wrapped around him.

You released him quickly “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

His eyes lifted to yours. There was too much history in the room, too many unspoken apologies “You don’t have to apologize,” he said. “We both let it happen.”

“I should’ve tried harder.”

“So should I.” You looked down, Luke’s voice softened “I didn’t stop loving you.” Your breath caught, he stepped closer. Before either of you could say anything else, your uncle appeared in the doorway.

“Mistletoe!” You jumped apart, your uncle stood behind you holding a sprig over both of your heads with a wide grin. Several family members began gathering in the hallway “I told you,” you muttered to Luke.

Luke looked upward, then at you “We don’t have to,” he whispered.

Everyone was watching, you could have laughed, you could have kissed his cheek. Instead, you placed one hand against his chest and leaned up.

Your lips met his.

Luke went completely still, for one painful second, he did not respond. Then his hand cupped your jaw, his other arm wrapped around your waist. The kiss deepened before either of you remembered it was supposed to be pretend.

Your family cheered, your uncle whistled, but the sound became distant. All you could feel was Luke, the familiar pressure of his mouth, the warmth of his hand against your face, the way his thumb brushed beneath your cheekbone.

It was not careful anymore, it was desperate. Like he had been trying not to kiss you since the moment you got into his car. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt and then, without warning, tears filled your eyes. One escaped first, then another. Luke felt it, he pulled back only far enough to look at you. His forehead remained pressed against yours.

Your family was still laughing and talking around you, unaware that anything had changed. Luke’s expression immediately softened “Hey,” he whispered.

You tried to turn your face away, Luke kept his hand gently against your cheek “Don’t.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re crying.”

“I know.”

His thumb wiped beneath your eye. The tenderness of it only made more tears fall, you hated that you were crying in front of him. Hated that you could not stop “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Luke shook his head “No. Don’t apologize.” you closed your eyes, he kissed you again.

This time, softly, not for the mistletoe, not for your family. His lips moved against yours with painful gentleness, as though he knew you might fall apart if he kissed you any harder.

You did anyway.

A quiet, broken sound escaped your throat, Luke pulled you closer, one hand sliding to the back of your head. Your tears dampened his fingers, he continued kissing you through them, each kiss slower than the last.

Your cheek, the corner of your mouth, your lips again. You could feel him breathing unevenly. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were shining too.

The hallway around you had gone strangely quiet, your grandmother stood at the back of the group. Her expression was not amused anymore, your mother looked confused “Sweetheart?”

You quickly wiped your face “I’m okay.” Luke kept his hand around your waist, you could feel the tension in his body “I just—” You forced a laugh. “I’m tired.”

Your uncle slowly lowered the mistletoe, no one seemed convinced. Your grandmother stepped forward “Give them some space.” your mother opened her mouth, but your grandmother gave her a look.

Slowly, everyone began moving away.

Luke did not release you, the second the hallway cleared, you stepped away from him “I need a minute.”

You turned before he could respond and went upstairs. You barely reached your bedroom before the tears returned, you sat on the edge of the bed and pressed both hands over your face. The door opened behind you, Luke stepped inside and closed it.

You did not look up “You shouldn’t have followed me.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you crying alone.”

“That’s ironic.”

Luke froze, you regretted the words immediately but you were too tired to take them back. He remained near the door “I deserve that.”

You wiped your cheeks angrily “No. I don’t want to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Fight.”

“We’re already fighting.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then talk to me.” You looked at him, Luke’s face was pale, his eyes were red around the edges “You shouldn’t have kissed me like that,” he said.

Your chest tightened “Everyone was watching.”

“You could’ve kissed my cheek.”

“You kissed me back.”

“Because I’m still in love with you.” His voice cracked on the final word, you stared at him. Luke dragged one hand through his hair “This whole weekend is messing with my head. Sharing a bed with you. Touching you. Your family acting like I’m still part of everything.”

“You are part of everything.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You broke up with me.”

“You agreed!”

“Because you told me you weren’t happy anymore!” Luke’s voice rose for the first time. “What was I supposed to do? Tell you that you weren’t allowed to leave?”

“Maybe you could’ve asked me to stay!”

The words tore out of you, Luke fell silent. Your chest rose and fell quickly “I wanted you to fight for us,” you whispered.

“You were the one leaving.”

“Because I thought you didn’t care.”

“I didn’t care?” His voice broke. “I could barely breathe after you said it.”

“Then why did you let me go?”

“Because you looked exhausted.”

“So?”

“Because I thought loving you meant letting you leave if being with me was hurting you.”

Tears filled your eyes again “I wanted you to choose me.”

“I thought I was.”

“No, Luke. You thought being in the same apartment meant you were choosing me.” He looked down.

“You stopped seeing me.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“I saw you.”

“You saw that dinner was in the fridge. You saw my shoes by the door. You saw me sleeping when you got home.” Your voice shook. “But you didn’t see me.” Luke’s face crumpled slightly, you continued before you lost the courage “I knew your schedule better than my own. I knew when you needed silence after a bad game. I knew when not to ask questions. I knew when you needed food, sleep or space.”

Luke’s eyes filled.

“And I kept telling myself that understanding you was how I loved you. But eventually, understanding you meant there wasn’t any room left for me.”

He looked away “I was trying.”

“I know.”

“I thought I was doing everything I could.”

“I know.”

“I paid attention.”

“You remembered my coffee.”

“I remembered everything.”

“Except when I told you I was lonely.”

Luke went quiet, your tears spilled over again “Every time I tried to talk to you, you said later. After the game. After film. After the road trip.” You pressed your lips together. “Later never came.”

Luke sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“That was the problem.”

“I thought you understood.”

“I did understand. Until understanding you meant disappearing.” For several seconds, neither of you spoke, the sounds of the party continued downstairs. Music, laughter, glasses clinking together.

It felt impossibly distant, Luke stared at the floor “I was scared.”

You frowned “Of what?”

“Everything.”

He rubbed both hands over his face “Hockey felt hard. I felt like I was disappointing everyone. Coaches. Teammates. My family. Myself.” He swallowed. “And you were the only part of my life that felt safe.”

Your anger softened despite yourself.

“So I assumed you’d always be there,” he continued. “I came home and shut down because I thought I didn’t have to perform around you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I know. But I stopped giving you anything.” His voice dropped “I treated you like you were permanent instead of treating you like someone I needed to keep choosing.” You sat beside him, leaving a small gap between you, Luke’s hands were clasped tightly between his knees “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You looked down “I’m sorry too.”

“For what?”

“I should’ve told you sooner.”

“You tried.”

“I should’ve made you listen.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

Your tears fell silently, Luke looked at them, then at you “I don’t know how to fix this.”

Your chest ached “Neither do I.”

“But I want to.”

You closed your eyes “Luke.”

“I mean it.”

“You miss me.”

“Yes.”

“You’re emotional because we’re here.”

“No.”

“It’s Christmas. Our families are downstairs. We’re sleeping in the same room. Of course this feels different.”

“It felt wrong before Christmas too.”

You looked at him.

Luke shifted closer “Every morning, I woke up expecting you beside me. Every time something happened, you were the first person I wanted to tell.” His voice trembled “I kept reaching for my phone to text you. I went home once and stood in the kitchen for ten minutes because your mug was still in the sink.”

You wiped beneath your eyes.

“Jack told me to throw it in the dishwasher. I almost punched him.”

A wet laugh escaped you, Luke smiled faintly, then his expression became serious again “I don’t want to pretend we’re together anymore.” Your heart dropped, Luke reached for your hand “I want us to actually be together.”

You stared at him.

“I want to start over,” he continued. “Not go back to how things were. I don’t want that either.”

“You can’t promise everything will change because you feel guilty.”

“I know.”

“You’ll get busy again.”

“I know.”

“You’ll have bad games.”

“I know.”

“You’ll be tired.”

“I know.” His fingers tightened around yours “But I can learn how to be tired without shutting you out. I can learn how to have a bad game without making you feel like you’re bothering me.” Your lips trembled “I’ll go to counseling with you.”

You looked at him.

“I’ll turn my phone off when we’re having dinner. I’ll stop saying later when you’re telling me something matters.”

“Luke—”

“I’ll show you.” His voice broke “I know saying it isn’t enough. So let me show you.”

You looked down at your joined hands “And I’ll tell you when I’m hurting,” you whispered. “Before I convince myself leaving is the only option.”

Luke nodded.

“I don’t want you to have to chase me.”

“I would.”

“You didn’t.”

“I thought you wanted me to let you go.”

You looked at him “I didn’t.”

Luke’s face twisted with emotion “I’m sorry.” You moved closer without thinking, his hand rose to your cheek “Can I kiss you?” The question nearly broke your heart. Luke had kissed you hundreds of times before, sleepy kisses in the morning, quick kisses before games, laughing kisses in the kitchen.

He had never needed to ask but now he waited. His thumb trembled slightly against your cheek.

You nodded.

Luke leaned in slowly. His lips touched yours with impossible gentleness, you tried to hold yourself together. You lasted only a few seconds. The moment his other arm wrapped around your waist, a sob caught in your throat.

Luke stopped, you shook your head quickly and pulled him back “Don’t stop.”

His forehead pressed against yours “You’re crying.”

“I know.”

“Are you sure?” You nodded, tears slipping between your closed lashes “I missed you.”

Luke’s breath shook “I missed you too.”

Then he kissed you again, you cried against his mouth. Quietly at first then harder. Your hands clutched the front of his shirt while tears ran down your cheeks and dampened his skin.

Luke kissed you through every one of them again, he brushed his lips over yours, then your cheek, then back to your mouth. His thumb wiped beneath your eye, but the tears kept coming faster than he could catch them.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered between kisses.

“No.” He kissed you again “Don’t apologize.”

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate that we got here.”

“I know.” Luke pulled you onto his lap, holding you carefully, your arms wrapped around his neck. You buried your face against his shoulder and cried.

Luke pressed kisses into your hair “I’m here.”

“You weren’t.”

The words came out muffled against his shirt, his arms tightened “I know.”

“You left me alone even when you were beside me.”

“I know.”

“I needed you.”

Luke’s breathing broke “I know.” You lifted your face, tears were running down his cheeks now too “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry I made you feel like you didn’t matter.”

You touched his face, Luke turned and kissed your palm “You matter more than anything.”

“Then don’t forget again.”

“I won’t.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“You’re right.” He pressed his forehead against yours “But I can promise that when I mess up, I won’t hide from it. I’ll listen. I’ll fix it. I’ll do the work.”

You searched his face, Luke kissed you again. You were still crying, but the kiss felt different now. Less desperate, more certain. His hand remained against your cheek while your fingers tangled in his hair.

When you finally pulled away, neither of you moved far, Luke’s nose brushed yours “Are we still broken up?” he asked quietly.

A shaky laugh escaped you “I don’t know.”

“That’s not very romantic.”

“This isn’t a proposal.”

“Good. I don’t have a ring.” You hit his shoulder lightly, Luke smiled through the tears. The bedroom door creaked open, both of you turned.

Your grandmother stood in the hallway. She looked completely unapologetic “How long have you been standing there?” you asked.

“Long enough.”

“Grandma!”

Luke wiped quickly beneath his eyes, your grandmother walked into the room and closed the door. She pointed at Luke “Do you love her?”

“Yes.” He answered immediately.

She pointed at you “Do you love him?”

“This isn’t your business.”

“That means yes.”

She folded her arms “Good. Then stop behaving like two tragic characters in a Christmas movie and have a proper conversation.” Luke blinked “I think we just did,” you said.

“Parts of one.”

Your grandmother looked at Luke “You neglected her.”

His expression fell “I know.”

“You cannot fix that by crying prettily in her childhood bedroom.”

Luke nodded “I know.”

“You will have to change.”

“I will.”

Then she turned toward you “And you cannot leave someone just to find out whether they’ll follow.”

You stared at her “That feels unnecessarily direct.”

“I’m old. I don’t have time to be subtle.” Luke almost laughed, Your grandmother’s expression softened “Love is not enough by itself. But it is a reason to do the work.” She walked toward the door, before leaving, she looked over her shoulder “And put the pillows back on the bed before your mother comes upstairs. They’re all over the floor.”

Your face burned “Nothing happened.”

“I didn’t ask.”

The door closed, Luke covered his mouth, you stared at him, then he laughed. The sound grew until his shoulders shook, a laugh escaped you too “She’s terrifying,” he said.

“I warned you.”

Luke’s laughter slowly faded, he looked at you “I mean it.”

“So do I.”

“I want to try again.”

You swallowed “Slowly.”

“As slowly as you want.”

“No pretending everything’s fixed.”

“It isn’t.”

“And counseling.”

“I’ll book it.”

“You don’t even know who to call.”

“I’ll find someone.” you smiled faintly, Luke reached for your hand “I’m choosing you.”

Your eyes filled again, he immediately leaned closer “Oh, no.”

“What?”

“You’re crying again.”

“You keep saying things.”

“I’ll stop.”

“Don’t.”

Luke smiled softly and kissed your forehead. That night, you removed the pillow barrier, neither of you mentioned it. Luke lay on his side facing you, one hand rested cautiously on the mattress between you.

You watched it for a moment.

Then you moved closer and placed his arm around your waist, Luke held you immediately. Not tightly enough to trap you, just enough to remind you he was there “Are you okay?” he whispered.

You nodded against his chest “I think so.”

“You can wake me up if you’re not.”

“You’re impossible to wake.”

“I’ll try harder.” You smiled into his shirt, Luke pressed a kiss into your hair “I love you.”

Your throat tightened “I love you too.”

He held you for the rest of the night.

On Christmas morning, your family gathered around the tree in matching pajamas, Luke sat beside you on the floor while your cousins passed out presents. His knee pressed against yours, your hands were linked between you.

Your grandmother watched from her chair, when no one else was looking, she raised her eyebrows. You rolled your eyes, Luke leaned closer “What was that?”

“She wants to know if we fixed it.”

“Did we?”

You looked at him. His hair was messy. His cheeks were pink from the warmth inside the room, and he was wearing the ridiculous Christmas sweater your mother had bought him the year before.

You squeezed his hand “We’re trying.” Luke smiled, he lifted your joined hands and kissed your knuckles. Across the room, your grandmother nodded once.

Your mother noticed “What are you three doing?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly. Your grandmother lifted her coffee “They’re still together.” your mother laughed “Obviously.”

Your families had been trying to get you and Kaiden together for years.

It had started when you were teenagers, back when every family gathering involved someone making a joke about how cute the two of you would look together.

At first, it had been harmless.

His mother would make sure the only empty chair at dinner was beside Kaiden. Your father always seemed to need Kaiden’s help with something whenever you were home. Your mothers exchanged suspicious looks every time you laughed at one of his jokes, and both families had developed the irritating habit of disappearing whenever you and Kaiden ended up in the same room.

They had never been subtle.

“You know Kaiden is still single,” your mother would mention casually. You would look up from your phone. “That sounds like a personal problem.”

“He’s such a nice boy.”

“He pushed me into a lake when I was twelve.”

“You threw his shoes into the water first.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

Meanwhile, Kaiden received the same treatment from his side of the family.

Your father regularly informed him that you were too busy to meet anyone decent. His mother kept inviting you to dinners whenever he came home during the offseason. His grandmother had once asked whether you preferred gold or silver jewelry because she wanted to know what kind of engagement ring Kaiden should buy.

Kaiden had nearly choked on his drink. You had laughed until your stomach hurt. Neither of you admitted that the idea of being together had never felt as ridiculous as you pretended it did.

You had known Kaiden for almost your entire life.

You knew he rubbed the back of his neck whenever he was nervous. He knew you hated tomatoes but somehow loved ketchup. You could recognize his mood simply by the way he walked into a room, and he always knew when you were upset even when you insisted you were fine.

He had been there through awkward childhood phases, graduations, terrible relationships and family emergencies. You had been there through junior hockey, the draft and every major transition that followed.

But timing had never worked in your favor

Whenever Kaiden was home, you were dating someone, whenever you were single, he was living in another city or too focused on hockey to allow himself to think about anything else.

So you both became very good at pretending.

Pretending your hugs did not last too long, pretending you never noticed when someone flirted with the other, pretending you did not compare every person you dated to each other, pretending your families were completely wrong.

That particular summer, however, neither of you had anyone else.

And your families noticed immediately.

The invitation to your cousin’s engagement party arrived near the beginning of the offseason. She had rented a large venue outside the city, and although she claimed the celebration would be intimate, nearly a hundred guests were expected.

Your parents were supposed to drive with you.

Twenty minutes before you needed to leave, your mother suddenly appeared in the doorway of your bedroom with one hand pressed dramatically to her forehead “I have a terrible headache,” she announced.

You slowly lowered the mascara wand you were holding “A headache.”

“Yes.”

“The same headache you had last month when Kaiden’s family invited us to dinner?”

She ignored the accusation “Kaiden offered to drive you.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Did he?”

“His mother called.”

“Of course she did.” When you walked outside, Kaiden was leaning against his car.

He wore dark trousers and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. His hair was slightly messy, as though he had run his fingers through it repeatedly while waiting.

You stopped for half a second, it was enough for him to notice. His mouth lifted into a small smile “You ready?”

“You volunteered for this?”

“My mom volunteered me.”

“That sounds more believable.”

He opened the passenger door, you stared at him suspiciously “What?” he asked.

“Our mothers are going to be unbearable after this.”

“They’re already unbearable.”

The drive to the venue was easy, it was always easy with Kaiden. Music played quietly while you talked about his season, your job and the strange little changes that had happened while he had been away.

Eventually, the conversation returned to your families “They’re planning our wedding again,” you told him.

Kaiden glanced toward you. “Again?”

“Your aunt thinks we should get married somewhere in the mountains.”

“She mentioned that.”

“You didn’t tell her to stop?”

“I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

You stared at him, he managed to keep a straight face for three seconds before laughing “You’re terrible.”

“You’re the one who told my grandma we would name our first daughter after her.”

“She cornered me.”

“You gave her hope.”

“I panicked.”

By the time you arrived, you were still laughing, your mother, whose headache had apparently disappeared quickly enough for her to attend after all, watched you enter together with an expression of poorly concealed satisfaction.

“She looks healthy,” Kaiden murmured.

“It’s a miracle.”

For the first hour, the two of you remained close without intentionally doing so.

When Kaiden went to the bar, he brought back your usual drink without asking. You fixed the folded collar of his shirt while he listened to one of your uncles discuss hockey. His hand rested against the small of your back whenever the room became crowded, guiding you around people instinctively.

Your families noticed everything. You ignored them. Eventually, Kaiden was pulled away by several relatives who wanted to ask him questions about Montreal and the upcoming season.

You found your cousin, congratulated her properly and then joined a group of old school friends near the bar.

That was where the man approached you. You vaguely recognized him as a friend of your cousin’s fiancé, though you could not remember his name.

At first, he seemed harmless, he complimented your dress and asked how you knew the couple. You answered politely, then he moved closer, you stepped back “Can I get you another drink?” he asked.

“No, thank you.”

“Come on. Just one.”

“I already have one.”

He smiled in a way that made discomfort crawl along your skin “Then maybe we can go somewhere quieter.”

“I’m not interested.” You tried to move around him, he stepped sideways and blocked your path. “Don’t be like that.”

Your polite expression disappeared “Move.” Instead, he reached for your wrist, you jerked your hand away “Don’t touch me.”

His face hardened slightly “I’m just trying to talk to you.”

“And I said no.” The room was loud. People were laughing and dancing only a few feet away, but no one seemed to notice the growing tension. The man leaned closer “You came with that hockey player, right?” You did not answer.

“He’s not your boyfriend.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“So you’re single.”

“That does not mean I’m interested.” You tried to move again, he caught your wrist properly this time, his fingers tightening when you attempted to pull away “Let go of me.”

He laughed under his breath. “You’re making a scene.” Your stomach dropped, then his hand was suddenly ripped away. Kaiden appeared between you so quickly that you barely processed where he had come from.

He pushed the man’s arm back and positioned himself fully in front of you “She told you to let her go.”

Kaiden’s voice was low and controlled, that control was more frightening than shouting would have been. The man straightened. “We were talking.”

“No. You were harassing her.”

“She can speak for herself.”

“She already did.” Kaiden stepped closer. “You decided not to listen.”

The man scoffed “What are you, her bodyguard?”

Kaiden’s jaw tightened “I’m the person giving you one chance to walk away.”

The man glanced around. A few nearby guests had begun to notice. He looked back at Kaiden and forced a laugh “You hockey guys really think you can do whatever you want.”

“This has nothing to do with hockey.” Kaiden’s shoulders were rigid “It has to do with you putting your hands on someone after she told you not to.”

The man took a step forward. For one awful moment, you thought he might try to provoke Kaiden into a fight. Kaiden did not back away, your cousin’s fiancé and two other guests hurried over before the situation could escalate “What’s going on?” your cousin’s fiancé asked.

“This guy needs to leave,” Kaiden said.

The man shook his head. “He’s overreacting because I was talking to her.”

“You grabbed me,” you said, your voice shaking despite your effort to control it. “Twice.”

Your cousin’s fiancé looked at him in disbelief “Are you serious?”

“She was flirting with me.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

Kaiden turned his head slightly toward you. His expression softened for only a second before becoming cold again when he faced the man “She told you no.”

The man muttered something under his breath.

Kaiden took another step “What did you say?”

“Kaiden,” you whispered.

He immediately stopped, not because he was afraid of the other man. Because you had asked him to, your cousin’s fiancé pointed toward the exit “You need to go.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

He walked away, escorted by another guest. Kaiden watched him until he disappeared through the doors then he turned toward you. Every trace of anger fell from his face “Are you okay?”

You nodded too quickly “I’m fine.”

His eyes moved over you carefully.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

“Your wrist.” You looked down, faint red marks were already forming where the man had grabbed you. Kaiden saw them, his expression changed again “I’m going to kill him.”

“No, you’re not.”

“He left marks on you.”

“Kaiden.”

His breathing was uneven, you reached for his hand. The moment your fingers touched his, some of the tension left his shoulders “Take me outside,” you said quietly.

He nodded.

Kaiden guided you through the crowd, keeping himself between you and everyone else. His hand remained at your back, protective but gentle, as though he was afraid even the slightest pressure might upset you.

Once you reached the patio, he led you past the other guests and toward a quieter area near the edge of the property.

The cold air struck your bare arms, without a word, Kaiden removed his jacket and placed it around your shoulders “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

Your hands were trembling, you shoved them into the sleeves so he would not notice. He noticed anyway.

Kaiden stepped closer “Do you want me to call your parents?”

“No.”

“Your cousin?”

“No.”

“Do you want to leave?”

You hesitated “Yes.”

“Okay.” There was no disappointment or argument.

He did not tell you that you should stay or that the night did not have to be ruined. He simply took out his phone and sent a message to his mother telling her the two of you were leaving.

The entire drive home, Kaiden kept glancing toward you. You rested your head against the window, staring into the darkness. He did not pressure you to speak, he turned the music off and drove with both hands tightly wrapped around the wheel.

When you arrived at your house, the windows were dark. Your parents had remained at the party. Kaiden parked but made no move to leave “I can go inside alone,” you said.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I know that too.” You looked at him, he finally turned off the engine.

“I’m not leaving you alone unless you ask me to.”

Something in your chest loosened.

“Come inside.” Kaiden followed you into the house, the moment the front door closed, your composure broke. The fear you had been pushing down since the man grabbed you finally rose to the surface.

Your breath caught, Kaiden froze “Hey.”

You covered your face with your hands “I’m okay,” you insisted, even as your voice cracked.

“You don’t have to be okay.”

That was all it took, Kaiden moved toward you slowly, giving you time to step away. Instead, you walked into him, his arms wrapped around you immediately. You buried your face against his chest and started crying.

Kaiden held you without speaking, one of his hands cradled the back of your head while the other moved gently along your spine.

He did not tell you to calm down, he did not promise that nothing bad had happened. He simply let you shake against him until the worst of it passed.

“I hated that,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I kept telling him no.”

“I know.”

“And he looked at me like it didn’t matter.”

Kaiden’s arms tightened “It mattered.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt “I felt stupid.”

“No.” His answer was immediate and firm “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I should have walked away sooner.”

“He blocked you.”

“I should have called someone.”

“You shouldn’t have needed to.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, Kaiden’s eyes were glassy “You’re upset,” you whispered.

“I saw him grab you.” His voice broke “And for a second, I couldn’t get through the crowd.” you stared at him “I could see you trying to pull away, and I couldn’t reach you fast enough.”

“You did reach me.”

“What if I hadn’t?”

“I would have figured it out.”

“I know.” He cupped your face carefully “I know you can take care of yourself. I’m not trying to make you feel helpless.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I never want you to feel like you have to handle something like that alone.” Your heart began beating harder, Kaiden looked away, running one hand over the back of his neck. It was the movement he always made when he was nervous “I’m about to say something, and I know this is probably the worst possible moment.”

Your voice was quiet “Say it.”

He exhaled “Our families have been trying to set us up for years.”

Despite everything, a weak laugh escaped you “That’s not exactly a secret.”

“I’ve spent all that time pretending it annoyed me.”

“It does annoy you.”

“No.” He looked directly at you “What annoys me is that they figured it out before I was ready to admit it.” Your breath caught, Kaiden stepped closer. “I have feelings for you.”

You stared at him.

“I’ve had them for years.”

“Kaiden…”

“I tried to explain them away.” His words came faster now, as though stopping would make him lose the courage to continue. “I told myself I cared because we grew up together. I told myself I was protective because our families are close. I told myself I only noticed the people you dated because everyone talked about them.”

His jaw tightened “But every time I came home, you were the first person I wanted to see.”

You could not speak.

“I hate hearing about your dates,” he admitted. “I hate watching someone else touch you. I hate leaving because I’m always afraid I’ll come home and you’ll have found someone who gives you everything I was too scared to offer.”

“Why were you scared?”

“Because you matter too much.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does to me.” He gave a humorless laugh “If I asked you out and you said no, I wouldn’t just lose someone I liked. I could lose my best friend. I could ruin every family holiday. I could make you uncomfortable around me.”

“You wouldn’t lose me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

Kaiden’s eyes searched yours, you reached for his hand. His fingers closed around yours immediately “Our families weren’t the only people pretending,” you confessed. He went completely still “I liked you too.” his lips parted “For years,” you continued. “I just thought you never saw me that way.”

“I always saw you that way.”

“You dated other people.”

“So did you.”

“Because you never asked me.”

“You were always with someone.”

“Because you never asked me,” you repeated.

A disbelieving smile slowly appeared on his face “We wasted years.”

“We’re idiots.”

He laughed softly, then his gaze dropped toward your mouth “Can I kiss you?” The question was so gentle that it nearly made you cry again “Yes.”

Kaiden lifted his free hand to your cheek, he waited, giving you one last chance to change your mind. You leaned closer and his lips met yours softly. The kiss was slow and careful, without pressure or urgency. It carried years of restrained affection and all the words neither of you had been brave enough to say.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours “Are you sure?” he whispered. You kissed him again, that was your answer.

Kaiden stayed with you for the rest of the night.

He found an ice pack for your wrist and wrapped it in a dish towel before holding it carefully against the red marks. He made tea even though neither of you drank more than a few sips. When your parents arrived home and learned what had happened, Kaiden explained everything while you sat beside him with your hand in his.

Your father wanted to return to the venue immediately, your mother cried.

Kaiden never let go of you.

The following morning, the man attempted to contact your cousin and claimed the entire situation had been misunderstood.

Kaiden was furious, your cousin, however, had already spoken with several witnesses.

The man was no longer welcome at any future family event. When he sent you a message accusing you of exaggerating what happened, Kaiden saw your face change while you read it.

“What did he say?”

“Nothing important.”

Kaiden held out his hand, you gave him the phone. His jaw clenched as he read the message “He does not get to do this.”

“Kaiden, don’t respond.”

“I’m not going to threaten him.”

“That is not as reassuring as you think.”

He looked at you “I’m not going to do anything that makes this harder for you.” his voice softened “But he does not get access to you anymore.”

Together, you blocked the number.

Kaiden checked your doors before leaving that evening, even though both of you knew the man had no idea where you lived. Then he kissed your forehead and asked if he could take you on a real date the following night.

“You mean the party wasn’t our first date?”

“You cried on my shirt.”

“You confessed your love to me.”

“I said I had feelings for you.”

“You said you hated everyone I dated.”

“I was emotionally compromised.”

You smiled “Yes, you can take me on a date.”

Your families found out almost immediately, neither of you officially told them. Kaiden’s mother noticed him smiling at his phone during breakfast. Your mother caught you wearing his jacket three days after the party.

Within a week, both families behaved as though they had personally achieved something extraordinary “We always knew,” your mother said proudly.

“You did not know,” you argued.

“We absolutely knew.”

“You interfered until something happened.”

“Same result.”

Dating Kaiden felt strangely natural. There was no uncomfortable stage of learning how to fit into each other’s lives because you already knew them by heart.

He knew when you needed space and when you needed him to hold you. You knew which losses would stay with him longer than he admitted and which jokes could pull him out of a bad mood.

The friendship remained beneath everything. It made the love feel safer, stronger.

Within two months, you were spending almost every night together. By the third month, Kaiden had given you a key to his place. By the fourth, you had stopped pretending the small collection of clothes in his closet was temporary.

Everyone teased you about moving quickly, neither of you cared. You had not really started from the beginning, you had started with years of history. Years of knowing each other. Years of trust.

Five months after the party, Kaiden took you back to the lake where you had spent most of your childhood summers. It was late in the evening, and the shoreline was quiet “You’re acting strange,” you told him.

“I’m not.”

“You’ve touched the back of your neck at least ten times.” He immediately dropped his hand, you stopped walking “Kaiden.”

He took a breath. Then he lowered himself onto one knee, your hands flew toward your mouth. For once, you were completely speechless.

Kaiden looked terrified “I know this is fast,” he began. You laughed through the tears already filling your eyes “Our families are going to be unbearable.”

“They already helped me choose the ring.”

“Traitor.”

“They threatened me.”

“Your grandmother?”

“She’s terrifying.” You laughed again, Kaiden’s expression softened “I know it has only been five months,” he continued. “But I’ve known you my entire life.”

The humor disappeared from his face.

“I already know who you are when you’re happy, when you’re angry and when you’re scared. I know how you take your coffee. I know you steal the blankets and deny it. I know you pretend not to cry during movies even when you’re obviously crying.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks.

“And I know that loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” He opened the small ring box “I wasted years being afraid that telling you how I felt would ruin what we had.” His voice trembled “I don’t want to waste another day being afraid.”

You covered your mouth with one hand.

“Marry me.” He smiled nervously “Please.”

You nodded before he had even finished speaking “Yes.”

Kaiden’s shoulders dropped with relief.

“Yes?”

“Yes, Kaiden.”

He stood so quickly that you barely had time to laugh before his arms were around you. He kissed you as you both cried, nearly dropping the ring into the grass before managing to slide it onto your finger.

Your families started planning immediately.

What had originally been discussed as a long engagement quickly became a wedding only three months later.

Exactly eight months after the engagement party where everything between you had changed, you stood at the end of an aisle surrounded by the two families who had spent years waiting for that moment.

Kaiden stood beneath an arch covered in greenery and white flowers. The ceremony was held beside the same lake where he had proposed.

His eyes filled with tears the second he saw you. Your father offered you his arm “I’m going to say something you’re going to hate.”

“Please don’t.”

“We always knew.” You groaned, he laughed and kissed your temple. As you walked down the aisle, Kaiden never looked away from you.

When you reached him, he took both of your hands “You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded “You?”

“No.” You almost laughed, he then said “I’m trying not to cry.”

“You’re already crying.”

“So are you.”

Your families watched with smug, emotional expressions.

During the vows, Kaiden promised to always listen when you spoke, to stand beside you without ever standing in front of you and to make sure you never felt alone.

You promised to choose him in every city, every season and every version of the future. When the officiant pronounced you married, Kaiden kissed you beneath the summer sky while both families erupted in applause.

At the reception, your mothers gave a joint speech. It was exactly as terrible as you expected.

They included childhood photographs, old stories and a detailed timeline of every failed attempt they had made to set you up “You manipulated us,” you accused afterward.

Kaiden’s mother smiled. “And now you’re married.”

“That does not make it acceptable.”

“Are you unhappy?”

You looked across the room. Kaiden was speaking with your father, one hand wrapped around his drink. As though he felt your gaze, he looked toward you.

His entire expression changed, he excused himself immediately and crossed the room “What happened?” he asked.

“Our mothers are taking credit for our marriage.”

“They did force me to drive you to the party.”

“You protected me at the party.”

“You agreed to marry me.”

“Exactly. We did the important parts.”

Kaiden smiled and wrapped an arm around your waist “Let them have it.”

“Never.”

He kissed your temple “Mrs. Guhle.”

Your argument disappeared. You looked up at him, he smiled, clearly pleased with himself “You did that on purpose.”

“I’m going to say it constantly.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You married me anyway.”

Only eight months earlier, you had entered a party beside the boy your families had spent years insisting was right for you. You had left holding the hand of the man who had loved you quietly for almost as long as you had loved him.

It had never been the wrong person.

Moritz had always believed there were certain sounds he would remember for the rest of his life.

The roar inside Little Caesars Arena after his first NHL goal. The sharp crack of a puck hitting the boards during an otherwise silent practice. Your laugh the first time he had attempted to cook dinner in his apartment in Mannheim and nearly set off the fire alarm.

He never imagined the most haunting sound would be silence.

The silence of your shared house when he came downstairs and realized you were gone. But hours earlier, neither of you had known that everything was about to fall apart.

You didn't meant to listen.

Moritz was in the living room, sitting sideways on the couch with his feet resting on the coffee table, his laptop open in front of him. You could hear the familiar mixture of German voices coming through the speakers as you walked down the hallway.

He had been talking to some of his oldest friends from back home for almost an hour. Normally, you would have joined them.

You knew most of them. You had grown up in the same general circle, had attended some of the same parties and spent countless summers sitting beside Moritz at crowded tables while everyone argued over football, hockey and whatever ridiculous topic his friends had chosen for the night.

But you had been tired after work, so you had left him alone and gone upstairs to shower.

You were passing the living room on your way to the kitchen when one of his friends laughed loudly enough to make you pause “I still can’t believe you actually ended up with her.”

Your steps slowed, Moritz chuckled. “Why?”

“Because it started as a bet.”

The smile disappeared from your face. There was another burst of laughter through the laptop. You remained hidden behind the wall, your fingers curling around the edge of your sweater “Come on,” another friend said. “You remember. We all said she would never agree to go out with you.”

“And I said she would,” Moritz answered.

“Exactly. Then you spent the entire night trying to prove us wrong.”

The others began talking over each other, recalling a night you remembered very differently.

The party where Moritz had first pulled you away from the noise and asked whether you wanted to get coffee with him the following morning. The day that had changed everything.

You had always believed he had asked because he liked you.

Because after years of friendship, he had finally looked at you and seen something more. Not because a group of boys had challenged him to do it “You were so determined to win,” one friend teased. “And now look at you. She moved across the world for you.”

Your stomach dropped, Moritz said something in response, but you didn’t hear it.

Your pulse was pounding too loudly. You backed away before he could notice you standing there, nearly colliding with the console table in the hallway. You caught yourself and hurried upstairs, closing the bedroom door as quietly as possible.

"She moved across the world for you"

You had, you had left Germany for Detroit. You had left your parents, your friends, your job and every familiar corner of the city where you had grown up. Moritz had never forced you to come, but when he admitted that the distance was becoming unbearable, you had made the decision.

You had chosen him. Even when people warned you that your life would revolve around his career.

Even when you spent the first few months in Detroit crying in grocery store parking lots because you couldn’t find the right ingredients and missed hearing your own language everywhere.

Even when Moritz was traveling and you spent entire weeks alone in a country where you barely knew anyone.

You had stayed because you loved him. Now you couldn’t stop wondering whether your entire relationship had begun because he wanted to win a stupid bet.

You sat on the edge of the bed and stared at your hands.

There had always been a quiet fear inside you that you had given up too much. That one day Moritz would realize your sacrifice was larger than his feelings.

You had pushed it aside every time he kissed you goodbye before a road trip, every time he called from a hotel room because he knew you hated sleeping alone, every time he whispered that Detroit finally felt like home because you were there.

But now every memory felt tainted.

The bedroom door opened twenty minutes later “There you are.” Moritz leaned against the frame, smiling. “I thought you fell asleep.”

You looked up at him, his smile faltered “What happened?”

“Was I a bet?” The color drained from his face. It was all the confirmation you needed, you stood abruptly. “Oh my God.”

“No.” Moritz immediately stepped into the room. “No, YN. It isn’t what you think.”

“I heard you.”

“You heard part of it.”

“I heard your friend say our relationship started as a bet, and you didn’t deny it.”

“Because it wasn’t—” Moritz dragged a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t really a bet.”

A humorless laugh escaped you. “That makes it so much better.”

“I’m explaining it badly.”

“You asked me out because your friends thought you couldn’t.”

“I had wanted to ask you out for months.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Because I was terrified that you didn’t feel the same way!” His voice rose with desperation, but you were already shaking your head.

“Then they challenged you, and suddenly it became easier?”

“They didn’t challenge me to date you.” Moritz moved closer, but stopped when you stepped backward. The distance seemed to hurt him. “They were teasing me because I kept talking about you but refused to do anything. They said you would never say yes because I had waited too long.”

“And you wanted to prove them wrong.”

“I wanted to finally tell you how I felt.”

“You wanted to win.”

“No.” His voice broke around the word. “I wanted you.” You turned away from him, pressing your fingers against your forehead. You desperately wanted to believe him but humiliation had already settled beneath your skin.

“Did everyone know?” you asked quietly. Moritz hesitated. Your head snapped toward him. “Did everyone know except me?”

“They knew I liked you.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

He swallowed. “They knew about the conversation that night.”

You felt sick. All those times you had visited Germany together. All those dinners where his friends had smiled at you, joked with Moritz and treated your relationship like something they had watched unfold.

Had they been laughing behind your back? Had they looked at you and remembered the girl Moritz had won?

“I moved here for you,” you whispered.

Moritz’s expression crumpled. “I know.”

“I left everything.”

“I know, and I will spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret it.”

“What happens when you get bored?”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“When the excitement is gone? When there’s nothing left to prove?”

“YN, stop.”

“You got the girl. You won the bet. What comes next?”

“There was no prize!” Moritz insisted. “No money changed hands. Nobody dared me to sleep with you or pretend to love you. They pushed me to ask out the woman I was already in love with.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. You nodded slowly, tears burning your eyes. “Exactly.” You walked toward the closet and pulled out a suitcase, Moritz stared at you for several seconds before understanding what you were doing.

“No.”

You placed the suitcase on the bed “YN, no.” He crossed the room and put his hand over the zipper. “We can talk about this.”

“I can’t talk to you right now.”

“Then yell at me. Be angry. I don’t care, but don’t pack.”

“I need space.”

“Take the guest room.”

“I need space away from you.”

His hand fell from the suitcase as if you had burned him, you started throwing clothes inside without folding them.

“Where are you going?” You didn’t answer “Are you going back to Germany?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please, just tell me where you’re going.”

“I said I don’t know, Moritz!” He flinched. The sight almost made you stop, but then you remembered the laughter coming from the laptop, you continued packing, Moritz stood helplessly beside the bed, his breathing uneven “I love you,” he said.

You froze with one of your sweaters clutched against your chest “I love you more than anything,” he continued. “I should have told you about that night. I didn’t because it felt meaningless compared to everything that came afterward.”

“It wasn’t meaningless to me.”

“I understand that now.”

“No, you don’t.” You finally looked at him. “You still have your life, Mo. You have hockey. You have the team. You have people here. I only have you.” His face twisted with pain “And now I don’t even know whether I ever really had you.”

“You do.” He approached carefully. “You have all of me.”

You stepped away before he could touch you “I need to leave.”

Moritz looked as though he wanted to argue, but something in your expression stopped him. He moved away from the bed, you finished packing enough clothes for several days, grabbed your passport and carried the suitcase downstairs. Moritz followed you silently, his face pale.

At the front door, you reached for your coat “Please don’t drive when you’re this upset,” he said.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Let me call someone.”

“There’s no one to call.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, Moritz looked devastated. You didn’t wait for him to respond.

You walked outside and closed the door behind you. You didn’t go to the airport immediately. You drove aimlessly for almost an hour, tears blurring the unfamiliar streets until you finally pulled into a parking lot and turned off the engine.

Your hands were trembling when you reached for your phone. There was only one person you could think of.

Your older brother answered on the second ring “Hey, Kleine. Everything okay?” the sound of Leon’s voice broke whatever control you had left.

“No.”

His tone changed instantly. “What happened?” You covered your mouth, trying to quiet the sob that escaped “YN?”

“I need somewhere to go.”

“You have somewhere to go.”

“Leon—”

“My house. Always.” You heard movement on his end, followed by a door closing. “Where are you?”

“Detroit.”

“I know you’re in Detroit. Are you at home?”

“No.”

“Are you safe?”

“Yes.”

“Did Moritz hurt you?”

The anger in his voice was immediate “Not like that.”

“What did he do?”

You stared through the windshield. “I’ll explain when I get there.”

Leon was silent for a moment “You’re coming to Edmonton?”

“If that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay. Book the flight. Send me the details. I’ll pick you up.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re my sister,” he said firmly. “You could never be a burden.”

Moritz remained standing in the entrance long after your car disappeared. He didn’t know how much time passed before his phone began ringing from the living room.

His friends were still connected through FaceTime, Moritz walked back toward the laptop in a daze. One of them smiled when he appeared. “There he is. Did YN finally—”

“She heard you.”

The smile vanished “What?”

“She heard everything about the bet.” The call fell silent, Moritz stared at the screen, anger slowly replacing the panic that had consumed him “Why would you call it that?”

“We were joking.”

“She left.”

His friend’s face paled. “Moritz—”

“She packed a suitcase and left because she thinks I built our entire relationship on a joke.”

“We didn’t mean—” Moritz ended the call, he grabbed his phone and called you. It rang until voicemail.

He called again, and again. By the sixth unanswered call, he was struggling to breathe.He sent messages instead.

Please tell me you’re safe.

You don’t have to come home. Just tell me where you are.

I’m sorry.

I should have told you.

Please, YN.

None of them were delivered as read. Moritz sat on the bottom step of the staircase with his phone in his hands, staring at the front door.

He remembered what you had said. I only have you.

He had known Detroit was difficult for you. He knew you missed Germany. He knew you had struggled to create a life outside of his schedule. But he had never fully understood how alone you felt. He had been so grateful that you had followed him that he had failed to consider what it had cost you.

His phone buzzed. For one hopeful second, he thought it was you. It was Lucas.

You coming to dinner or did you forget again?

Moritz stared at the message before typing back.

YN left.

Lucas called immediately “What do you mean, she left?”

Moritz explained, his voice becoming increasingly unsteady as he recounted what you had overheard. Lucas listened without interrupting, then he said, “You’re an idiot.”

Moritz closed his eyes. “I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

“I said I know.”

“She moved to another continent for you.”

“I know that!”

“Then why did she have to overhear from your friends that asking her out started as some kind of challenge?”

“It wasn’t a bet.”

“It obviously sounded like one.”

“I tried to explain.”

“And you expected her to stand there and calmly listen while realizing everyone knew something about the beginning of her relationship that she didn’t?”

Moritz pressed his palm against his forehead.

Lucas’s anger only grew “She gave up her entire support system for you, Mo. Do you understand how terrifying that probably was? She trusted that you were worth it.”

“I love her.”

“I know you love her. That doesn’t mean you didn’t hurt her.”

Moritz’s eyes filled. “I don’t know where she is.”

The anger disappeared from Lucas’s voice “Have you checked her location?”

“She turned it off.”

“Friends?”

“She doesn’t know anyone here well enough to stay with them.”

Lucas was quiet “Her brother,” he said.

Moritz sat straighter “Leon.”

By the time your flight landed in Edmonton, you were emotionally and physically exhausted. Leon was waiting near baggage claim in a hoodie and baseball cap, his hands shoved into his pockets.

The moment he saw you, his entire expression softened. You abandoned your suitcase and walked directly into his arms. Leon hugged you tightly, one hand pressing against the back of your head like he had when you were a child “I’ve got you,” he murmured.

You cried against his chest. He didn’t ask questions until you were inside his car, even then, he waited until you began talking. You explained the FaceTime call, the supposed bet and Moritz’s attempt to clarify what had happened.

Leon listened with his jaw clenched “So his friends pushed him to ask you out,” he said once you finished.

“Because they thought I would reject him.”

“And did anyone actually bet money?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did anyone promise him something if you said yes?”

“I don’t know, Leon.”

“I’m not defending him,” he said quickly. “I’m trying to understand exactly how badly I need to hurt him.”

Despite everything, a small laugh escaped you, Leon glanced toward you. “There she is.”

Your smile disappeared just as quickly “What if I ruined my entire life for someone who only wanted me because his friends said he couldn’t have me?”

“You didn’t ruin your life.”

“I moved to Detroit.”

“You can move again.”

“I left my job.”

“You can find another one.”

“I left everyone.”

“And everyone is still there.” Leon reached across the console and squeezed your hand. “Germany didn’t disappear because you followed someone you loved. And neither did our family.” You looked out the window, trying not to cry again.

“You’re allowed to be angry,” he continued. “You’re allowed to decide that what he did was unforgivable. But don’t call yourself stupid for loving him. That part was honest, even if you’re questioning whether his was.”

Moritz called Leon before you had even reached his house, Leon looked at the screen and handed the phone to you.

You shook your head. He declined the call. It rang again thirty seconds later, then a third time. Finally, Leon answered through the car’s speaker “What?”

“Is she with you?” Moritz asked immediately. You closed your eyes, Leon glanced at you before responding. “She’s safe.” Moritz released a broken breath “Can I talk to her?”

“No.”

“Leon, please.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“I need to explain.”

“You had years to explain.”

“I know.”

“You let her move across the world without telling her that your friends considered your first date some kind of victory.”

“It wasn’t a victory. I had already loved her for years.”

You opened your eyes.

Moritz continued before Leon could respond “They teased me because I was pathetic around her. I couldn’t speak properly whenever she walked into a room. That night they said there was no chance she would say yes because I had spent so long treating her like a friend that she couldn’t possibly see me differently.”

His voice shook “I said she might. They said I was delusional. That was the entire bet. There was no money. No prize. Nothing. They told me to prove it, and I finally found the courage to ask.”

You stared down at your hands “Then why didn’t you tell her?” Leon demanded.

“Because I was ashamed that I needed them to push me. I wanted her to believe I was confident.”

“Well, congratulations. Now she believes you manipulated her.”

“I know.”

Silence filled the car.

Then Moritz spoke again, much more quietly.

“Is she going to come back?”

Leon looked at you.

You turned toward the window.

“I don’t know,” Leon answered. Moritz made a sound that was somewhere between a breath and a sob “I lost her,” he whispered. "I know she’s safe, but I feel like I lost her.”

Your eyes burned, Leon’s expression softened for only a second before becoming guarded again “She needs time.”

“I’ll give her anything she needs.”

“That includes leaving her alone.”

Moritz was silent “Okay,” he finally said. “Just…tell her I love her.”

Leon ended the call, neither of you spoke for the rest of the drive, you stayed in Edmonton for five days. Moritz respected your request for space, but every morning, he sent one message.

Nothing demanding. Nothing that required an answer.

I hope you slept okay.

It snowed today. You would have complained about the driveway.

I spoke to my friends. They want to apologize, but I told them not to contact you unless you ask.

Your plant is still alive. Barely. I’m trying.

The fifth message was longer.

I finally understand that loving you wasn’t enough if I made you feel alone here. I should have helped you build a life that didn’t depend entirely on me. I should have told you the truth about that night, even if it made me look insecure. You deserved to know every part of our story. I’m sorry I made you question whether any of it was real. It was real to me before I ever asked you out, and it has been real every day since.

You read it three times, Leon found you sitting at his kitchen island with your phone in your hands “You miss him,” he observed.

“I’m still angry.”

“Those things can happen at the same time.”

You looked at your brother. “Do you think I’m being dramatic?”

“No.”

“Do you think I should forgive him?”

“That isn’t my decision.”

“You hate when you can’t tell me what to do.”

“I really do.”

You smiled weakly, Leon poured himself coffee before leaning against the counter “I think Moritz was an idiot,” he said. “I also think he sounded genuinely terrified that he had lost you.”

“He embarrassed me.”

“Yes.”

“He should have told me.”

“Yes.”

“But he didn’t actually date me because of a bet.”

“From what I understand, no.” You stared at your phone again, Leon sighed. “You love him. He loves you. Unfortunately, that doesn’t automatically fix anything.”

“I know.”

“But it might be worth letting him try.”

Moritz was at practice when Lucas skated toward him and deliberately slammed a shoulder into his. Moritz barely reacted, Lucas circled back. “You look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you slept?”

“Not really.”

“Good.” Moritz glared at him, Lucas’s expression remained stern. “Did you talk to her?”

“No.”

“Did you apologize?”

“Yes.”

“Properly?”

“I don’t know.”

“That means no.”

Moritz leaned against his stick. “What am I supposed to say that I haven’t already said?”

“That you understand why she left.”

“I do.”

“No, you understand why she misunderstood the conversation. That isn’t the same thing.” Moritz frowned, Lucas continued, “She didn’t leave only because she thought she was a bet. She left because that conversation confirmed every fear she already had about moving here for you.”

The words landed painfully.

“She thinks she has no one,” Lucas said. “You should be asking yourself how she reached that point while living with you.”

Moritz looked down at the ice “I thought she was happy.”

“Maybe she was. Maybe she was also lonely.” Lucas tapped his stick against Moritz’s skate “You can’t ask her to come back to the same life she ran from.”

When you returned to Detroit, you didn’t tell Moritz, Leon offered to fly with you, but you insisted you needed to do it alone. The house looked exactly the same. You parked your car crookedly near the curb, the porch light was on despite the afternoon sun.

You unlocked the door quietly, Moritz was asleep on the couch.

His laptop rested unopened on the coffee table. A blanket had slipped halfway onto the floor, and he was wearing the same Red Wings sweatshirt he had worn the day you left.

Your plant sat on the windowsill, several leaves were drooping, but it was alive. You set down your suitcase.

Moritz’s eyes opened, for several seconds, he stared at you as though he didn’t trust what he was seeing. Then he sat up so quickly the blanket tangled around his legs “YN?”

“Hi.” He stood but didn’t approach “You’re here.”

“I’m here.”

His eyes filled immediately “I thought I lost you.” The words were barely audible, your throat tightened “I thought I lost everything,” he continued. “Not because you left the house. Because I realized you had been standing beside me for years, and I still failed to make you feel secure in what we had.”

You looked down.

“I’m sorry,” Moritz said. “There wasn’t a real bet, but I understand why hearing it described that way destroyed your trust. I should have told you the whole story when we started dating.”

“You should have.”

“I was embarrassed.”

“You let me be humiliated instead.”

His face crumpled. “I know.”

“You let me sit with those people without knowing they all remembered our first date as you proving something.”

“I told them what they did was cruel. They thought it was harmless, but it wasn’t. None of them will contact you unless you decide you want to hear their apologies.”

You nodded slowly.

Moritz took one cautious step forward “I had feelings for you long before that night. I have messages to Lucas from before our first date. I have conversations with my sister where I asked how to tell you. I can show you everything.”

“I don’t want evidence.”

He stopped.

“I want to trust you without needing evidence.”

Moritz’s eyes closed briefly. “Okay.”

“I don’t know how to do that yet.”

“Then we’ll take as much time as you need.”

You studied him “I can’t be alone here anymore, Mo.”

“You won’t be.”

“You can’t promise that when you travel constantly.”

“No, I mean we need to change things.” He took a breath. “I spoke to Lucas. And my agent. There are German community groups in the area, and I found a language program that needs volunteers. There are jobs similar to what you did back home, too. I know that doesn’t solve everything, and I shouldn’t have waited until you left to look.”

Your eyes filled with tears

“I don’t want you to build your life around me anymore,” he said. “I want you to build your life beside mine. Your own friends, your own work, your own places that feel like home. And if Detroit never feels like home, then we figure that out together too.”

“You would leave?”

“If hockey takes me somewhere else someday, yes. But right now, I mean we can spend more time in Germany during the summer. You can visit Leon whenever you want. Your family can stay here. Anything that makes this feel less like you gave up your whole world for mine.”

You wiped at your cheek.

Moritz looked at you with so much fear that it hurt “I didn’t ask you out because I wanted to win,” he said. “I asked because my friends forced me to admit that being scared was going to cost me the person I loved. You saying yes wasn’t the moment I won a bet.” He swallowed “It was the moment you gave me a chance I never thought I deserved.”

You stared at him for a long time “I’m still angry.”

“You can be angry.”

“I’m not ready to pretend everything is fixed.”

“I don’t want you to pretend.”

“And your friends aren’t staying here the next time they visit.”

“They can stay in a hotel.”

A small laugh escaped you through your tears.

Moritz’s shoulders lowered slightly, but he still didn’t move closer “Can I hug you?” he asked.

The question nearly broke you, You nodded, Moritz crossed the space slowly, as though any sudden movement might make you disappear again. When his arms wrapped around you, he held you with careful desperation. You pressed your face against his chest, His heart was racing “I really thought I lost you,” he repeated into your hair.

“You almost did.”

His arms tightened “I know.”

You remained there for a long time, surrounded by the home that no longer felt quite as empty as it had before. Nothing was magically repaired.

The hurt still existed. The unanswered questions still needed difficult conversations, and forgiveness would take longer than one embrace.

But Moritz wasn’t asking you to forget.

He was asking for the chance to rebuild what he had damaged and for the first time since you had overheard that call, you believed the beginning of your relationship didn’t have to define its ending.

You pulled back enough to look at him “Leon is still angry with you.”

Moritz gave a shaky laugh. “I assumed.”

“And Lucas?”

“Also angry.”

“Good.”

“I deserve both.”

You rested your forehead against his “You’re going to have to work very hard to make this right.”

“I will.”

“For a long time.”

“For the rest of my life, if that’s what it takes.”

This time, when he told you he loved you, the words didn’t erase the pain, but they gave you somewhere to begin “I love you too,” you whispered. Moritz closed his eyes, relief softening every tense line of his face.

Then he held you again—not like someone celebrating a victory, but like someone who finally understood that your love had never been something he won. It was something you had chosen to give him.

The first time Macklin told you not to come to the hospital, you assumed it was the medication speaking.

He had been taken off the ice on a stretcher less than an hour earlier, his body frighteningly still beneath the arena lights while the entire building fell into a suffocating silence.

You had watched the hit from the family suite.

One second, Macklin had been chasing the puck into the corner. The next, another player caught him awkwardly from behind, sending him shoulder-first into the boards before his head snapped back and his legs folded beneath him.

He did not get up.

Not after the whistle, not when his teammates crowded around him, not when the medical staff rushed onto the ice.

You could not remember leaving your seat. You only remembered someone grabbing your arm before you reached the hallway leading toward the locker room.

You remembered asking whether Macklin was conscious. Nobody answered quickly enough, that hesitation nearly destroyed you.

By the time you were finally allowed downstairs, he had already been transported to the hospital for imaging. A team employee drove you there, speaking softly from the front seat, but the words passed through you without meaning.

Possible spinal injury, loss of sensation, precautionary testing, specialists. Every phrase sounded worse than the one before it.

You called his parents with shaking hands. You sent messages to his siblings that you rewrote several times because you could not figure out how to explain something you barely understood yourself.

Then, while you sat in the hospital waiting room with your knee bouncing uncontrollably, your phone lit up.

Macklin: Don’t come back here yet.

You stared at the message, you read it again, then a third time. You were already there.

Before you could answer, another message appeared.

Macklin: Please. I don’t want you seeing me like this.

Your throat tightened.

You: I’m already at the hospital.

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared then returned.

Macklin: Go home.

You blinked at the screen, wondering whether fear had made you misunderstand something so simple.

You: I’m not leaving you alone.

His response came immediately.

Macklin: The doctors are here. The team is here.

Not you, he did not say but you read it anyway. You pressed the phone against your chest and closed your eyes.

Macklin was scared. That was all this was.

He had always hated being seen as vulnerable. Even when he was sick, he insisted he was fine until he could barely stand. When he hurt his hand during a game once, he tried to hide the swelling from you by keeping it inside the pocket of his sweatshirt.

This was another version of that stubbornness, a more terrifying version, but still him. So you stayed.

When a nurse eventually brought you to his room, she warned you that he was overwhelmed and that the doctors were still waiting for a specialist to review his scans. Nothing had been confirmed, those words should have comforted you.

They did not.

Macklin was lying almost completely flat when you entered. A brace surrounded his neck, and wires disappeared beneath the hospital gown covering his chest. A cut marked his temple, and a bruise was beginning to darken along his cheek.

His eyes found yours immediately. For one second, the mask slipped, you saw relief. Then his expression hardened “I told you to go home.”

His voice was rough and quiet.

You stopped beside the bed. “And I ignored you.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I’m your girlfriend.”

Macklin looked toward the ceiling, his jaw tightened “They don’t know if I’ll play again.”

The words seemed to drain every bit of oxygen from the room. You had known it was possible. You had heard the doctors whispering. You understood the scans were serious.

But hearing Macklin say it made the possibility real. You reached for his hand, he pulled it away before you could touch him. The movement was small, it still felt like a slap.

“Mack—”

“I can’t feel two of my fingers properly.” His voice cracked, you forgot how to breathe “They said it could be inflammation pressing against something. It might improve when the swelling goes down.” He swallowed. “Or it might be nerve damage.”

“We don’t know yet.”

“I know what they said.”

“Then you know there’s still a chance everything will be okay.” He closed his eyes, you waited for him to respond. He did not, you stayed beside him anyway.

The doctors eventually ruled out permanent damage to his spine.

The swelling was severe, and the nerves in his shoulder and hand had been affected, but Macklin could walk. He could move his arms. The sensation in his fingers began returning, although it came and went for the first several days.

Those were the victories everyone celebrated, the harder truth came later. No contact for the foreseeable future, months of rehabilitation. Additional tests before anyone could discuss a return to the ice.

And if the nerves failed to heal properly, there was a chance he would never be cleared to play professional hockey again.

A career-ending injury scare.

That was how the media described it. A scare, as though Macklin had simply been frightened, as though his entire future had not cracked open beneath him.

When he was discharged, you took him home, he barely spoke during the drive. You tried several times to start a conversation, asking whether the seat was comfortable, whether his shoulder hurt, whether he wanted you to stop for food.

Each question received the same answer “I’m fine.” He was not fine, you knew that and he knew you knew but neither of you said it aloud.

Once you reached the apartment, you helped him inside, organized his medications and set alarms on your phone so he would not miss a dose.

You prepared the couch with pillows even though he refused to sit there. You made soup he barely touched. You helped him change his shirt when the sling made it impossible for him to manage alone.

Through all of it, Macklin remained almost completely silent.

“Lift your arm a little,” you murmured, guiding the sleeve carefully over his injured shoulder. He did as instructed.

“Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“You’re grimacing.”

“I said it doesn’t hurt.”

You paused “Okay.” You finished dressing him and stepped back, Macklin kept his gaze on the floor “Do you need anything else?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

You waited but he did not look at you. Eventually, you left the room.

That became your routine. You cooked. You cleaned. You drove him to appointments. You sat in waiting rooms while specialists examined his hand and shoulder.

You learned his rehabilitation schedule and wrote every exercise down so you could help him remember what came next.

You answered messages from his family when he did not have the energy. You ignored the reporters outside the practice facility. You slept beside him without touching him because every time you moved closer, his body stiffened.

He did not tell you to leave but he did not ask you to stay either, you just convinced yourself that was enough.

Macklin was frightened, grieving and in pain. He did not need you to force him into a conversation before he was ready.

He needed stability, so you became stable. Every morning, you placed his medication beside a glass of water. Every afternoon, you reminded him to ice his shoulder.Every night, you asked whether he wanted you to stay in bed with him.

He always shrugged. You stayed anyway.

Sometimes you woke to find him staring at the ceiling, other nights, you heard him crying quietly in the bathroom with the tap running so you would not notice.

You never confronted him. You simply waited outside the door until he returned. He never acknowledged that either.

Weeks passed, the apartment became suffocating, you missed his voice. Not the brief answers he gave doctors or the polite thank-yous he offered trainers.

You missed the way he used to tell you every insignificant detail of his day. You missed his terrible jokes, his laughter from another room, the way he always filled silence because he hated when things felt too serious.

Now silence was all he gave you.

One evening, after another appointment where the specialist refused to offer a definite timeline, Macklin sat at the kitchen counter while you prepared dinner.

The doctor had said there was improvement, not enough to guarantee anything. But improvement.

You had tried to focus on that “They said the grip strength is better,” you said carefully while cutting vegetables. “That’s good.”

Macklin stared at the countertop.

“And they seemed happy with the sensation coming back.”

Nothing “You could probably ask them more about the skating timeline at the next appointment.” His fingers curled against the counter “Mack?”

“I heard you.”

You lowered the knife “I know. I was only trying to—”

“I heard everything the doctor said.” His voice was sharper than it had been in weeks.

You turned toward him “I know you did.”

“Then stop repeating it.”

“I’m trying to be positive.”

“Well, stop.”

The words stung, you set the knife dow “Okay.” You returned to preparing dinner, behind you, Macklin released a bitter laugh “You always do that.”

You looked over your shoulder. “Do what?”

“Act like everything is okay.”

“I don’t think everything is okay.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You stared at him “I know you’re scared.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say that like you understand.”

Your chest tightened “I never said I understood exactly how you feel.”

“You keep acting like you do.”

“I’m trying to help.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

The kitchen fell silent, you wiped your hands slowly on a towel “No,” you said. “You haven’t asked me for anything since the accident.”

Macklin pushed himself away from the counter “Exactly.” You frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I never asked you to stay here and do all this.”

For a moment, you could only stare at him “I wasn’t going to leave you alone.”

“Maybe you should have.”

His voice rose, something inside you cracked “Macklin.”

“What?”

“I have spent weeks taking care of you while you barely look at me.”

“I never told you to.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Yes, I did.” He stood abruptly, the stool scraping loudly against the floor. “You just decided you were going to move in here and watch me every second of the day.”

“I already practically lived here.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

“Before this!” He gestured toward his injured shoulder, his hand, the bottles of medication lined along the counter. You flinched, Macklin saw it.

But he was too angry to stop “Before I became someone who needs help putting on a shirt. Before every person in the league started talking about whether my career was over. Before I became this pathetic thing you have to take care of.”

“You are not pathetic.”

“I don’t need you telling me what I am.”

“I’m not telling you—”

“You are always here.” His voice broke into a shout “Every appointment, every exercise, every meal. You’re constantly asking if I’m okay, if I need something, if I’m in pain. I can’t breathe without you watching me like you’re waiting for me to fall apart.”

Tears burned behind your eyes “I’m watching because I’m worried.”

“I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“That isn’t your decision.”

“Then maybe this is.”

The sudden calm in his voice frightened you more than the shouting, Macklin’s chest rose and fell rapidly. You stared at him “What are you saying?”

His expression hardened “I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

Everything inside you went still, you waited for him to take it back. He did not, your lips parted, but no sound came out. Macklin looked away first.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No.” Your voice trembled. “You’re angry.”

“I’ve had weeks to think about it.”

“And you haven’t spoken to me once.”

“Because there was nothing to say.” You recoiled as though he had struck you, Macklin swallowed. For one second, guilt flickered across his face, then it disappeared behind the anger again “I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Be your project.”

“You are not my project.”

“You cook for me, drive me everywhere and follow me around like I’m going to break.”

“You were almost paralyzed.”

“I know!” His voice echoed through the apartment “I was there, Y/N. I’m the one who couldn’t feel my hand. I’m the one who was lying in that hospital bed wondering whether everything I’ve worked for was gone.”

“And I was standing beside you, thinking I might lose you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I am losing you now.”

Macklin’s face twisted, you stepped closer “Look at me and tell me this has nothing to do with the injury.” He remained silent “Tell me you stopped loving me before that game.”

His jaw tightened.

“Macklin.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Your eyes filled “You’re trying to make me leave because you’re afraid I’ll eventually choose to.”

“Stop pretending you know me better than I know myself.”

“I know you’re terrified.”

“I said stop.”

“You think if hockey disappears, there won’t be anything left for me to love.”

“Stop!” Macklin slammed his good hand against the counter, you jumped. The room went completely silent.

Macklin stared at you, breathing hard, the anger vanished from his expression the moment he saw the fear on yours but the damage had already been done.

You picked up your phone from the table with trembling fingers “Fine.”

His face paled slightly “You’re leaving?”

“You just told me you don’t want to be with me.”

“I know what I said.”

You nodded slowly “Then I’ll go.”

Something shifted in his expression. Panic, perhaps but he did not stop you. You opened your contacts and called Robin.

She answered after the second ring “Hi, sweetheart. How’s he feeling today?”

The tenderness in her voice almost broke you, you turned away from Macklin “Robin, are you nearby?”

There was a pause “What happened?”

“I need you to come over.”

Macklin straightened behind you “You don’t have to call her.” You ignored him.

“Is he hurt?” Robin asked immediately.

“No. Not physically. I just…” Your voice cracked. “I can’t leave him alone.” Robin understood without needing the full explanation “I’m on my way.”

The fifteen minutes before Robin arrived felt endless, you moved around the apartment quietly, gathering the few belongings you had accumulated there.

A phone charger, your skincare products from the bathroom, a sweatshirt Macklin had given you months ago, a pair of shoes beside the door. He remained in the kitchen, watching you.

Neither of you spoke.

When you entered the bedroom to collect your bag, Macklin followed you “You don’t have to take everything.”

You froze, then you looked at him “Why wouldn’t I?”

His mouth opened, nothing came out.

“You broke up with me.”

“I know.”

“So I’m taking my things.”

Macklin looked toward the bed “You could leave some stuff.”

The broken uncertainty in his voice made your chest ache “Why?”

He rubbed his hand over his face “I don’t know.”

“That’s the problem, Macklin. You don’t know what you want, but you’re willing to destroy us while you figure it out.”

He flinched, you placed the last of your belongings in the bag “I would have stayed.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“You don’t understand what this is going to be like.”

“Neither do you.”

He stared at you.

“You might never play again,” you continued softly. “You might recover completely. You might spend months angry and miserable. I don’t know. But I was willing to face every version of it with you.”

Macklin’s eyes turned glossy “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“I never needed you to ask.”

The doorbell rang, Macklin closed his eyes. You lifted your bag onto your shoulder and walked past him. Robin entered using the spare key before either of you reached the door.

Her gaze moved from Macklin to your bag, her face fell “What happened?”

Macklin looked away, you swallowed against the lump in your throat “Can I talk to you outside?”

Robin nodded immediately, you stepped into the hallway together, leaving the apartment door partially open. The moment Robin touched your arm, your composure shattered.

“He ended things.”

Her expression changed instantly “He did what?”

You wiped your cheek quickly “He hasn’t spoken to me properly since the hospital. I’ve been staying here, taking him to appointments and helping with everything. I thought he just needed time.”

Robin glanced through the doorway toward her son.

“He exploded tonight. He said he never asked me to take care of him. That I was always watching him. That he didn’t want to be my project.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“And then he said he didn’t want to be with me anymore.”

Robin’s jaw tightened, you had rarely seen her angry “He’s scared,” you whispered. “I know he is. And I know he doesn’t mean half of what he said.”

“That doesn’t excuse it.”

“I know.”

Robin took your hand “You don’t have to protect him from me.”

“I’m not.” You looked down. “I just don’t want him alone tonight. He had a difficult appointment, and he’s been struggling more than he admits. His medication is on the counter. He needs the blue bottle before bed, and the doctor changed the dosage for the other one.”

Robin listened carefully as you explained everything, his exercises. The numbness that still appeared occasionally. The food you had prepared. The next appointment written on the calendar.

You handed her the notebook where you had recorded every instruction from his medical team.

Robin looked at it, then at you “You’ve been doing all of this by yourself?” You nodded, tears filled her eyes.

“He doesn’t deserve you right now.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“He’s still your son.”

“And you are still someone I love.”

That nearly broke you again. Robin pulled you into her arms, you clung to her, crying silently against her shoulder “I didn’t want to leave him alone,” you whispered.

“I’ve got him.” Yyou nodded, Robin held your face between her hands “Go home. Call someone you trust. Don’t stay by yourself tonight.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“That is exactly what Macklin keeps saying.”

A weak laugh escaped you, Robin gave you one last hug, then you stepped back. Through the open doorway, you saw Macklin standing in the kitchen.

His eyes were fixed on you, he looked devastated. For one second, you almost went back inside. Almost crossed the hallway and told him you understood. Almost gave him another opportunity to hurt you.

Instead, you adjusted the bag on your shoulder “I hope you get better, Macklin.”

His lips parted.

You did not wait for him to answer, Robin did not speak to him until she heard the elevator doors close. Then she entered the apartment and shut the door behind her.

Macklin remained in the kitchen, his eyes were red “Don’t.”

Robin placed the notebook on the counter “Don’t what?”

“Lecture me.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “Sure.”

“I was planning to ask whether you meant it.” Macklin looked down.

Robin waited “Did you stop loving her?”

His jaw tightened “No.”

“Did you want her to leave?”

“No.”

“Do you want the relationship to be over?”

His breathing became uneven “No.”

Robin nodded once “Then what exactly did you accomplish?”

Macklin pressed his palm against his eyes “I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Take what?”

“Her looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like she was worried. Like she was waiting for me to break.”

Robin’s voice softened “She was worried because she loves you.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Macklin’s face crumpled “She shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

“That was not your choice to make.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s signing up for.”

“Neither do you.”

“That’s the point.”

“No, Macklin. The point is that you are terrified she will leave once she realizes hockey might be gone, so you punished her for a decision she had not made.”

He gripped the edge of the counter “I didn’t mean to.”

“You meant enough of it to say it.”

“I wanted her to stop looking at me like I was someone she had to save.”

Robin pushed the notebook toward him “She did not stay because she thought you were helpless.” Macklin glanced down at the pages filled with your handwriting.

“She stayed because you are her partner.” His eyes filled “You did everything possible to make her feel unwanted, and she still refused to leave until she knew someone was here with you.”

Macklin sank onto the stool, his shoulders shook. Robin moved closer but did not embrace him immediately “You are allowed to be scared,” she said. “You are allowed to be angry. You are allowed to hate what happened.”

Macklin covered his face.

“But you are not allowed to destroy someone who loves you because you cannot imagine why she would stay.”

A sob escaped him, Robin finally wrapped her arms around her son “I messed everything up.”

“Yes,” she said honestly.

Macklin cried harder.

“But that does not mean it cannot be fixed.”

You did not answer Macklin’s first call or his second. By the fifth, you turned your phone off.

He sent messages, long ones, apologies, explanations, promises. You did not read them for several days. You needed silence that belonged to you rather than silence forced upon you by him.

Robin checked in, but she never pressured you. She only told you that Macklin was safe, attending his appointments and finally speaking to a counselor arranged through the team.

That mattered.

Not enough to erase what happened.

But it mattered.

Almost two weeks passed before you listened to the voicemail he had left the night you walked away, his voice was broken “I didn’t mean it. I know that probably doesn’t matter because I still said it, but I didn’t mean it.”

There was a long pause “I wanted you to leave because every time you looked at me, I remembered how close I came to losing everything. And then I realized you were something else I could lose.”

He inhaled shakily “I thought if I made you go now, it would hurt less than watching you realize later that I wasn’t the person you wanted anymore.”

Another pause “I know that was selfish. I know it was cruel.” His voice cracked “You took care of me while I treated you like you weren’t there. And when I finally spoke, I used every fear I had to hurt you.”

You covered your mouth with your hand.

“I don’t deserve another chance just because I’m sorry. But I need you to know I love you. Hockey or no hockey, injury or no injury, I love you. And I’m sorry I made you feel like your love was something I had to protect myself from.”

The voicemail ended, you listened to it twice more. Then you cried, Macklin’s first day back on the ice came almost a month later.

It was not a full practice.

Only a private rehabilitation session with a trainer and a member of the medical staff, Robin told you about it the night before, she did not ask you to go, she only said, “He’s terrified.”

You barely slept.

The next morning, you drove to the practice facility and sat in your car for fifteen minutes before entering.

The building was nearly empty, you stayed near the top row, partially hidden behind the glass. Below, Macklin stepped onto the ice. He looked different, he still had the same natural balance that once made skating look effortless. But now every movement was careful.

Measured, he glided forward slowly, turning once before looking toward the stands, his gaze found you almost immediately.

Macklin stopped.

Even from a distance, you saw his chest rise sharply, he said something to the trainer, then skated toward the nearest gate. He struggled with the latch using his injured hand before the trainer opened it for him.

Macklin removed his helmet and stared up at you “You came.”

You walked down the stairs “I wanted to see you skate.”

His eyes filled “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I almost didn’t.”

He nodded “That would’ve been fair.” You stopped a few feet away, the distance between you felt enormous, Macklin looked down at the helmet in his hands “I’m seeing someone.”

Your eyebrows lifted “A therapist,” he clarified quickly. “The team arranged it.”

“That’s good.”

“I should’ve done it sooner.”

“Yes.”

He accepted the blunt answer “I’ve been trying to understand why I did what I did.”

“And?”

Macklin swallowed “I thought hockey was the only reason people saw something valuable in me.”

Your chest tightened.

“And when they said I might never play again, I felt like everything that made me worth loving disappeared.”

“Mack—”

“I know that isn’t fair to you.” He looked up. “You never made me feel that way. You did the opposite.”

Tears blurred your vision

“I was ashamed that you had to help me. I hated that you saw me scared. And instead of telling you that, I punished you for staying.”

“You did.”

“I know.”

“You let me believe you stopped loving me.”

“I know.”

“You made me take care of you while you ignored me, and then you treated that care like something I had forced on you.”

His eyes closed briefly “I know.”

“I don’t know how to forget that.”

“I’m not asking you to.” You studied him, Macklin stepped closer but remained careful not to touch you “I’m asking for the chance to prove I can do better.”

“What happens if you get bad news again?”

“I tell you I’m scared.”

“And if you want space?”

“I ask for it without making you feel unwanted.”

“And if you never play again?”

His jaw tightened, for several seconds, he could not answer. Then he looked toward the ice “I’ll probably fall apart.”

You waited.

“I’ll be angry. I might hate hockey. I might not know who I am for a while.” He returned his gaze to yours. “But I won’t decide you’re better off without me.”

Your tears fell “You don’t get to push me away for my own good.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to make choices for me.”

“I know.”

“And you cannot ever speak to me like that again.”

“I won’t.”

“You can’t promise you’ll never be angry.”

“No.” His voice trembled. “But I can promise I’ll leave the room before I use that anger to hurt you. I can call my mom, my therapist, the team counselor. Anyone. I won’t make you the target again.”

You looked at him for a long time “I’m still angry.”

“You should be.”

“I don’t trust you the way I did before.”

“I’ll earn it back.”

“That might take a long time.”

“I’ll wait.” The answer was immediate, you exhaled shakily. Macklin’s eyes searched yours “Can I hug you?”

You hesitated, then nodded. He approached slowly, wrapping his uninjured arm around your waist, at first, you kept your hands at your sides. Then his face pressed against your shoulder, and his body began trembling “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Your composure broke, you wrapped your arms around him carefully “I thought you hated me.”

“Never.”

“You made me feel like you did.”

“I know.” He cried against you, holding on as though you might disappear.

You pulled back enough to see his face “I’m not coming back to the apartment today.” Macklin nodded, even though the disappointment was clear “Okay.”

“And we’re not pretending everything is fixed.”

“Okay.”

“You keep going to therapy.”

“I will.”

“And we start slowly.”

“Anything you want.”

A weak laugh escaped you “That sounds dangerous.”

“I’m trying not to argue.”

“You’re doing surprisingly well.”

His mouth curved into the smallest smile, then it faded “I love you.”

Your chest tightened, you were not ready to say it back as easily as before. Macklin seemed to understand “You don’t have to say it.”

“I do love you,” you whispered. “That’s why it hurt so much.”

His eyes closed “I know.”

You touched his cheek “Go finish your session.”

He glanced toward the rink “Will you stay?”

The question was quiet. Careful, not a demand, not an assumption a choice offered to you. You nodded “I’ll stay.”

Macklin released a shaky breath, then he put his helmet back on and returned to the ice, his first few strides were hesitant. The next were steadier.

When he looked toward the stands, you were sitting there, not because the fear had disappeared, not because the relationship had magically repaired itself, not because his career was suddenly safe.

You stayed because this time Macklin had asked instead of deciding for you and when he stepped off the ice, he did not pretend to be fine.

Dating william in secret had been exciting for approximately three weeks. After that, it had mostly become exhausting.

At first, you had understood why he wanted privacy.

William was still young, still establishing himself with the San Jose Sharks and still learning how to live beneath the attention that followed professional athletes. Every game was analyzed, every mistake was replayed and every person standing too close to him could become the subject of online speculation.

You knew how invasive hockey fans and media could be better than most people. You had been born in 2003, the oldest child of Patrick and Christina Marleau and the only daughter among five children.

The Sharks organization had watched you grow up.

Some of the longtime staff members still remembered you running through the hallways of the arena wearing one of your father’s jerseys, the fabric falling almost to your ankles. You had spent your childhood around locker rooms, family lounges, charity events and team dinners.

You had watched strangers analyze almost every part of your father’s life. His career, his marriage, his children.

Even though none of you had chosen to become public figures, people had always believed they were entitled to opinions about your family.

So, when William had asked whether the two of you could keep the relationship private for a while, you had agreed.

You understood wanting something that belonged only to the two of you. At least, you thought you did.

Privacy meant not posting each other on social media, privacy meant avoiding public displays of affection when cameras were nearby, privacy meant not answering questions about your relationship or allowing strangers to dissect every detail.

But what William wanted slowly became something else, it became arriving separately everywhere. It became pretending you barely knew each other whenever his teammates were nearby. It became stepping away from him whenever someone entered a room.

It became watching him introduce you as Patrick Marleau’s daughter instead of his girlfriend. It became sitting several seats away from him at dinners while he laughed with everyone except you.

And after almost a year together, it no longer felt like privacy, it felt like shame.

The worst part was that nearly everyone in San Jose already knew you, you had always belonged around the Sharks. William was the person making you feel like you did not.

Your family did not know about the relationship either, that had been partly your decision. You knew that once your brothers found out, there would be questions, teasing and probably several unnecessary threats.

Your father had spent years telling them the same thing “You protect your sister.” It did not matter that every one of them was younger than you.

Landon, born in 2006, was only three years younger. He was usually calm, but he had inherited your father’s ability to become terrifyingly quiet whenever someone hurt a person he loved.

Brody, born in 2009, was considerably less subtle. He would ask direct questions and demand direct answers, even when nobody had invited him into the conversation.

Jagger, born in 2011, noticed almost everything. He was the kind of person who could tell you were upset before you had spoken a word.

And then there was Caleb. Born in 2015, he was twelve years younger than you and somehow the most protective of all your brothers.

It was ridiculous, he was still young enough to lose his hockey equipment and ask you to help him find it, but he acted as though your father had appointed him as your personal security guard.

William had always found it funny “You know Caleb stared at me for ten minutes today?” he had whispered once after visiting your family home.

“He does that.”

“I think he knows.”

“He’s ten.”

“He’s intimidating.”

“You play against grown men for a living.”

“Yes, but grown men don’t ask why I’m looking at their sister.” You had laughed then, Now, you wondered whether William would have hidden you so easily if your brothers had known.

The Sharks charity event had been marked on your calendar for weeks.

You had attended similar events throughout your childhood, first beside your parents and later on your own. You knew many of the sponsors, older staff members and families connected to the organization.

For once, you had hoped William might allow himself to act like your boyfriend.

You were not expecting a public announcement, you did not need him to post a photograph or stand in front of reporters and confirm your relationship.

You only wanted to sit beside him.

that was all.

You wanted to share a table without pretending it had happened accidentally, you wanted to look at him without watching him immediately glance around to see whether anyone had noticed, you wanted to leave the event together rather than waiting fifteen minutes between exits as though you were doing something wrong.

You finished getting ready inside William’s apartment, he stood near the bedroom doorway, watching you adjust the strap of your dress, the silence lasted long enough that you eventually looked at him through the mirror.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“William.”

He shifted his weight “You look beautiful.”

A faint smile touched your lips “Thank you.”

He walked toward you and placed his hands against your waist, for a moment, everything felt normal. His lips brushed your bare shoulder before he rested his chin there, meeting your eyes in the mirror “You’re staying here tonight, right?”

Normally, you would have answered without hesitation, instead, you asked, “Are we sitting together?”

William’s expression changed, it was subtle. Someone who did not know him might not have noticed but you knew him. You felt his hands loosen against your waist.

“I don’t know where everyone’s assigned.”

“You told me yesterday that players could choose who sat at their tables.”

“I said I thought they could.”

“So choose me.”

“Baby.”

Your stomach sank, it was only one word, but you already knew where the conversation was going “What?”

William stepped away from you “There are going to be a lot of people there tonight.”

“I know.”

“Reporters too.”

“I know.”

“And sponsors.”

“I have been attending Sharks events since before you knew how to skate.” His jaw tightened.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

William looked toward the floor “I just think tonight might not be the best night to change things.”

You stared at him “Change things?”

“To tell everyone.”

“I didn’t ask you to stand on a table and announce that we’re sleeping together. I asked to sit beside you.”

“People will ask questions.”

“They already ask questions.”

“And we’ve managed to avoid giving them answers.”

You laughed once, although nothing about the situation was funny “Of course.”

William’s expression softened “Please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like I’m trying to hurt you.”

“You are hurting me.”

“I’m trying to protect us.”

“No. You’re protecting yourself.”

“That isn’t fair.”

“Neither is making me feel like your dirty secret.”

“You are not a secret.”

“Do your teammates know we’re together?”

William did not answer.

“Does your coach know?”

Silence.

“Does anyone besides your family in Sweden know?”

“My family counts.”

“You know what I mean.”

William ran a hand through his hair “I just need more time.”

“You’ve had almost a year.”

“I know.”

“How much more time?”

“I don’t know.”

The answer settled heavily between you, you looked at the man you loved and realized he could not even tell you when he might finally be ready to admit that you existed in his life.

William reached for your hand, you pulled it away before he could touch you. His face fell.

“We should go,” you said.

“YN—”

“We’re arriving separately, aren’t we?”

He hesitated, that was enough. You collected your purse and left his apartment without waiting for him.

The event was held inside a ballroom overlooking San Jose. By the time you arrived, the room was already filled with players, staff members, sponsors and their families.

People greeted you warmly.

Several longtime Sharks employees hugged you and asked about your parents. One of your father’s former teammates wanted to know how Landon was doing. Someone else joked that it was strange seeing you arrive without one of your brothers following behind you.

You answered every question automatically.

Across the ballroom, William stood with several teammates, he looked handsome in his dark suit. He also looked directly at you before quickly looking away.

The small rejection hurt more than it should have.

You were surrounded by people who had known you since childhood, yet the person who knew you most intimately acted as though acknowledging you would create a scandal.

You found your assigned table and William was not seated there, you had known he would not be, but seeing his name card across the room still made something ache inside your chest.

During dinner, you tried to participate in the conversations around you.

You smiled when expected, you laughed when someone shared a story about your father, you answered questions about your family.

But your attention repeatedly drifted toward William’s table.

A young woman was seated beside him. You recognized her as the daughter of one of the event sponsors. She was beautiful, confident and clearly interested in him.

William was polite. Nothing more, you trusted him enough to know that. But trust did not make it easier to watch.

She leaned toward him whenever she spoke, she touched his sleeve while laughing. At one point, someone at the table said something that made her glance between you and William.

William’s shoulders tensed, the woman turned toward you. You forced a polite smile. She smiled back before returning her attention to William.

You wondered what had been said, perhaps someone had noticed him looking at you, perhaps they had asked whether he knew you. You could already imagine his response.

Of course I know her. She’s Patrick Marleau’s daughter.

Not his girlfriend, not the woman whose toothbrush sat beside his, not the person he called after difficult games, not the one who stayed awake with him when he doubted himself, not the person who knew the exact expression he wore when he was anxious, tired or homesick.

Only Patrick Marleau’s daughter.

The woman touched his arm again, you looked down at your plate, swallowing hard. You did not blame her.

As far as she knew, William was single.

That was what finally broke you, it was not another woman flirting with him. It was the knowledge that William had deliberately created a world in which everyone had every reason to believe he was available.

You pushed your chair back, the sound caught the attention of several people at your table “Excuse me,” you murmured. You collected your purse and walked toward the exit, you heard your name behind you before reaching the ballroom doors. You kept walking.

“YN.”

William caught up with you in the hotel lobby, his hand closed carefully around your wrist.

You immediately pulled away “Don’t.”

His expression changed “What happened?”

“You know what happened.”

“Was it the woman beside me? Because I wasn’t—”

“This isn’t about her.”

“Then what is it?”

You stared at him, even now, standing inside a mostly empty lobby, he kept several feet between you. There were no cameras nearby, no teammates, no sponsors and still, he was acting as though being seen too close to you was dangerous.

“I’m leaving.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No.”

William frowned “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

The words made him go still.

You hated that tears were already burning behind your eyes. You had spent the entire evening trying not to cry, but standing in front of him made the humiliation impossible to contain “You made me sit across that room and pretend I didn’t love you.”

“I didn’t make you—”

“You did.”

William stopped speaking.

“You knew how I felt before tonight,” you continued. “I told you I couldn’t keep doing this, and you still decided that protecting yourself mattered more than protecting me.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Then why couldn’t I sit beside you?” He opened his mouth, nothing came out, you nodded slowly “That’s what I thought.”

“YN, please.”

“I don’t want to be your secret anymore.”

“You’re not.”

“Stop saying that.” Your voice cracked. “Stop telling me I’m not a secret when you won’t even look at me in public.”

“I look at you.”

“And then you look away.”

Panic appeared in William’s eyes, he stepped closer. This time, when he reached for your hands, you let him take them, only because you knew it might be the last time.

“I love you,” he said.

You closed your eyes “That makes it worse.”

“How?”

“Because you love me when nobody is watching.”

“That isn’t true.”

“It feels true.”

“I don’t know how to fix this right now, but I can. Come home with me and let’s talk.”

“We have talked.”

“Then we’ll talk again.”

“You’ll apologize. I’ll cry. Then you’ll kiss me until I convince myself I can wait a little longer.” William’s face crumpled “But I can’t wait anymore,” you whispered.

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m done.”

He shook his head immediately “No.”

“William.”

“No. You don’t get to decide that while you’re upset.”

A tear slipped down your cheek “I’m not deciding this because I’m upset. I’m deciding it because I have spent months feeling like I’m not enough for you to claim.”

“You are enough.”

“Then why have you never chosen me where anyone could see?”

William stared at you, the silence answered for him again, you carefully pulled your hands from his “I love you,” you said. “But I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

“Please don’t leave.”

“I have to.”

“Give me one more chance.”

“You’ve had hundreds of chances.”

“I didn’t know I was losing you.”

“I told you.”

“I thought we had more time.” The desperation in his voice almost made you stay, almost. But staying because he was afraid would not erase the months you had spent wondering whether he would ever be proud enough to stand beside you.

You stepped backward, William followed “I’ll tell them,” he said quickly. “I’ll go back inside and tell everyone.”

“You’d only be doing it because I’m leaving.”

“Because I finally understand what this has done to you.”

“You should have understood when I told you.”

“I should have.” His voice broke. “I know that now.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting a sob “I need to go.”

“YN—”

“My driver is outside.”

“I’ll take you home.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“I don’t want to go home with you.” The words destroyed him, you saw it happen. His shoulders lowered, his mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out. For a moment, he looked young and completely lost, you wanted to wrap your arms around him, you wanted to tell him you did not mean it.

Instead, you turned and walked away.

Your father knew something was wrong the second you entered the house. Patrick was sitting in the living room with your four brothers when the front door opened.

Caleb noticed you first, his face brightened before he saw your expression “Why are you crying?” Every head turned toward you, you wiped quickly beneath your eyes.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Caleb insisted.

“I’m tired.”

Brody muted the television, Landon stood from the couch. Jagger remained quiet, watching you with the observant expression that usually meant he had already figured out more than everyone else.

Your father’s gaze moved over your dress, your purse and your red eyes “You were at the Sharks event.”

It was not a question.

“Yes.”

“Did something happen?”

“No.”

Caleb walked directly toward you, at eleven years old, he was still shorter than you, but the expression on his face was severe “Who made you cry?”

Despite everything, a broken laugh escaped you “No one.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Caleb.”

“Dad said we have to protect you.”

Patrick exhaled slowly “I might have created a problem.”

“You definitely did,” Christina called from the hallway.

Caleb ignored them “Was it a boy?”

You looked away, all four brothers reacted immediately “Oh my God,” you muttered.

Landon crossed his arms “Which boy?”

“There is no boy.”

Jagger spoke quietly “It’s Eklund.”

Your head snapped toward him, the room became silent “How do you know?” Brody asked.

Jagger shrugged “He looks at her weird.”

“He does not.”

“He does,” Caleb agreed.

“You’re eleven. What do you know about someone looking at me weird?”

“I know I don’t like him.”

“You liked him yesterday.”

“Yesterday he hadn’t made you cry.”

Your eyes filled again, your father stood. The teasing disappeared from his expression immediately. He walked toward you and placed a hand against the back of your head, pulling you against his chest.

That was all it took.

You began sobbing into his shirt, your brothers went quiet.

Patrick did not immediately ask for an explanation. He simply held you, one hand moving slowly over your hair the same way he had when you were younger.

Your mother entered the room, she looked at you and then at Patrick “What happened?”

You struggled to answer “I broke up with William.”

Caleb’s eyes widened “You were dating him?”

“Caleb,” Christina warned.

“For almost a year,” you admitted.

Brody stared at you “A year?”

“It was private.”

“Private from us?” Landon asked.

“Private from everyone.”

Jagger’s expression hardened “He didn’t want people to know?”

You wiped your face “He said he was protecting the relationship.”

“And what did you say?” Patrick asked.

“That I didn’t want to hide anymore.” Your father’s jaw tightened, Patrick did not become visibly angry often.

He did not need to, his silence usually said enough, Caleb moved closer “Did he say you weren’t his girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Then why did he hide you?”

“I don’t know.”

Caleb’s face twisted as though he had personally been betrayed “I’m going to fight him.”

“You are eleven.”

“I can still fight.”

“He’s a professional hockey player.”

“I play hockey too.” Brody snorted despite the tension, you covered your face “Please don’t fight anyone.”

Patrick pressed a kiss against your hair “No one is fighting anyone.” Caleb looked disappointed “But,” your father added, “William and I may have a conversation.”

“No.”

Patrick looked down at you “Dad, please. I handled it.”

“He hurt you.”

“And I ended the relationship.” Your voice broke again, your father softened “I know.”

“I just want to sleep.”

Christina wrapped an arm around you, “Come on.” As she guided you upstairs, Caleb followed, you turned “What are you doing?”

“Protecting you.”

“From what?”

He thought for a moment “In case Eklund climbs through the window.”

You almost laughed “He is not climbing through my window.”

“I’m still sleeping on the floor.”

“Caleb.”

“I already decided.”

Your mother shook her head “Your father really did create a problem.”

William called fourteen times that night, you did not answer, he sent messages until nearly three in the morning.

Please talk to me.

I’m sorry.

I told the guys.

I know that doesn’t fix it.

I should have done it before.

Please let me see you.

You turned your phone facedown, Caleb was asleep on a pile of blankets beside your bed, one of your old pillows beneath his head.

You stared at the ceiling until morning.

The following days were worse than you expected, William did not stop trying. Flowers arrived at the house, your father accepted them, read the card and carried them upstairs without comment.

Your favorite coffee appeared on the front porch the following morning, a handwritten letter arrived the day after that.

You left all of it untouched, you were not trying to punish him. You were trying to remember why you had left. Every apology made you question yourself, every message made you miss him.

You missed waking up beside him, you missed the way he spoke Swedish when he was tired, you missed watching him cook while pretending he had not called his mother for instructions, you missed his laughter. You missed your best friend.

But you did not miss being hidden. That was what you repeated whenever your hand hovered over his name.

One week after the event, William sent another message.

I’m not asking you to forgive me. I only want one opportunity to talk. Somewhere you feel comfortable.

You stared at the message for nearly an hour. Eventually, you agreed. He asked whether he could meet you at your parents’ house the following afternoon.

It was not a date.

You told yourself that repeatedly while getting ready, William was coming over so the two of you could talk.

Nothing more.

There would be no expensive dinner, no dramatic public gesture, no pretending that one week apart had erased almost a year of hurt.

Still, your stomach twisted when the doorbell rang. You heard Caleb shout from downstairs “He’s here!”

Before you reached the bottom of the staircase, your father opened the front door “William.”

“Mr. Marleau.” William sounded nervous “I’m here to see YN.”

“I know.”