baby, come touch the pearl

Belfast

June 2024

Nathan watched as the makeup artist did the finishing touches on your makeup. You were already in full costume and had your signature Targaryen platinum blonde wig. Now you were filming the arrival of the Targaryens in Ashford.

“You look really good in that wig.” Nathan commented from his spot in your chair that had your name printed on the back.

“I’m not dyeing my hair if that’s what you’re suggesting,” you laugh along with the makeup artist. “I’m fine with my regular hair.”

“You’d look good with any hair color.” Nathan replied. Soon you were told filming would start in a minute. After saying goodbye to Nate and leaving with the makeup artist, you were now inside of a carriage with the child actor who was playing your daughter.

Nate watched from behind the camera as filming started. He payed close attention when it was your time to appear on the screen. In character, you approached Lord Ashford and stood next to your ‘husband’, keeping your ‘daughter’ close by. A thousand thoughts were running through Nate’s mind.

She looks so good. I can’t believe I’m dating her. She looks ethereal.

After finishing the scene, you immediately praised the little girl playing your daughter. She didn’t have that many lines, but you still celebrated her performance. “You’re crushing it, love.” You gave her a quick high five.

There was a small break since one of the cameras wasn’t working properly so you went back to Nate. As you approached him, he took a quick picture of you in your dress. When you noticed, you smiled at him then quickly got shy when he kept taking photos.

“Theres my princess.” Nathan wanted to give you a kiss real bad, but he didn’t want to mess up your makeup.

“Future Queen Alyssa Targaryen.” You clarified.

“Now I want to see that happen. Where the creator of the show? I need to have a talk with him. I need to see Queen Alyssa.” Nathan teased.

“Keep dreaming, my love. If you’ve read the book, Queen Alyssa dies of a broken heart. It’s tragic. First she lost her husband during the trial of seven, then remarries but she’s unhappy then she becomes a widow again and she couldn’t take the loss so she passes away,” You took a seat in your chair and used the fan provided by the makeup department. “If I had the chance to have her have a happy ending, I would take it. She deserved a good ending.”

“Not all of it was depressing. Didn’t she have that one on one moment with Maekar’s son who became king?” Nathan’s words caught you by surprise.

“What are you talking about?” You questioned.

“There’s a scene after Egg is crowned and he finds Alyssa in her room and he comforts her and if I remember correctly, Alyssa tells some sort of joke that gets her laughing so hard, she almost passes out from laughing. It’s the first time she’s laughed in years.” Nathan said as if it was common knowledge.

“Nate . . .” You couldn’t believe he remembered.

“What? I read,” He shrugged. “You’ve been talking about this role since you got the call to send in your audition so I ordered all the books and read them during flights. I know this character means a lot to you so I wanted to know what happens to her.”

In the background, you heard the producers call all the actors back on set. You quickly places a chaste kiss on Nate’s lips. “Have I ever told you that you’re the perfect man?”

“You’re really going to call me that and leave me here? Babe, you’re killing me here.”

—

—

January 2026

liked by mackinnon29, hbomax and others

yourusername princess alyssa targaryen 🖤 a knight of the seven kingdoms is now available to watch!

mackinnon29 my favorite princess

bmarch63 where’s your dragon?

targaryensthrone um actually there’s no dragons in the show because they’re all gone because of the dance of the dragons ☝🏼🤓

bmarch63 boooo 👎🏼

yourusername get out old man

avscup just watched the first episode and dare I say it’s better than house of the dragon 🧍🏻‍♀️

targlover can’t believe baelor and alyssa become king and queen and live happily ever after 🥰

teamblackstan bro is going through the five stages of grief and the show just started

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liked by nhl, drat_29 and others

mackinnon29 i heard the best princess in all of the seven kingdoms is in this

yourusername princess alyssa’s number one fan

puckknowledge if you think you’re princess alyssa’s number one fan, you are mistaken. that title belongs to nathan mackinnon

sidnate_8729 this means so much to me

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—

February 2026

When you met Grace on a night out with your friend, you didn’t expect the two of you to grow so close.

It was one of your first nights out as a newly minted 21 year old. You’d only brought your closest friend with you to the club to keep things lowkey. You weaved through the crowded floor, drink in hand, when you accidentally bumped into a pretty blonde girl.

To your surprise and thankful, she laughed instead of getting annoyed, and the two of you ended up chatting at the bar for nearly an hour. By the end of the night, you exchanged numbers with the promise of “we should hang sometime”.

You hadn’t taken it too seriously at first, she was a few years older than you so you were sure she’d grow bored of you. But after a couple of coffee dates, the two of you realised how close you’d gotten and despite the small age gap, it felt like you’d known each other forever.

On midsummer Grace invited you over to her family’s house for a casual backyard celebration. Saying how there would be only a few people, mostly her family, her parents, her younger brother. Adding the fact that he’s 19 and how you might have to deal with him.

You’d shrugged it off with a laugh. Younger guys had never been your type, especially not your friend’s little brother. The idea barely registered as you agreed, excited more about spending time with Grace than anything else.

And that’s what you thought too. Until the moment you pulled up to the Smith family’s house that evening. Grace greeted you at the door with a bright hug, handing you a cold drink before tugging you through the house and out into the sunlit yard. She guided you through the yard, until your eyes landed on the blond.

He was taller than you’d pictured, with messy blond hair catching the golden light, he was shirtless and yes, you didn’t mean to look at how nice his abs were, but you couldn’t help it when your eyes kept looking. He was undeniably attractive but that was it.

The first few times you came over after that, each visit chipped away at your indifference. The way his blue eyes stared at you a second too long, his voice when he asked about your day, how his laugh seemed deeper when it was directed at you.

He was handsome, handsome type that crept up on you until you found yourself noticing every feature of his. The way his shirts stretched across his chest, the flex of muscle in his arms when he reached for something.

And it didn’t take long for Will to make his move. That summer, during yet another gathering, he caught you alone by the side of the house grabbing another drink from the cooler. He leaned against the wall, giving you a smile showing his all 32. “Hey.. since you’re around so much, mind if I get your number?” he asked. “Just in case.”

You smiled and handed it over. The thought of you thinking it was ‘just in case’ crossed Will’s mind of course, but Will knew it wasn’t just that.

Will started texting you like two nights after asking for your number. Firstly he started telling you about training, questions about your favourite songs, what you were doing on the weekends and lastly he soon started texting you good morning messages.

You honestly even kept waiting for the guilt to hit so you’d text Grace and say, “Hey, your brother won’t stop messaging me” but the time never came because you enjoyed it more than you wanted to admit. Some nights you even caught yourself typing first, heart picking up when his reply popped up within seconds or sometimes when you thought he wouldn’t reply and you’d embarrass yourself.

Grace had seen the two of you on your phones more than once, eyebrows raised but she never pushed. And you convinced yourself she didn’t suspect anything.

Without Grace around as a buffer, Will was different. And by the time you were close friends, you started to suspect maybe he was into you.

Will was aware of you being older. He knew from the start the way older guys gravitated toward you like moths to a flame. Confident men in their twenties and beyond, with their careers and effortless charm, lingered at bars or parties whenever you were around.

He couldn’t blame them really, the way you carried yourself with assurance that came from having a few more years of life figured out, and it was magnetic.

Will knew you shut most of them down politely, only letting a guy buy you a drink if it was harmless and your friends were there. Will told himself he could do that too, hell, he wanted to be the one getting you drinks, pulling out your chair, making you laugh until your eyes crinkled at the corners.

But not because he was trying to play catchup, but because he wanted your attention on his terms. As himself. The version of him that lit up when you texted first, the one who remembered your favorite flowers and told you things he wouldn’t really tell anyone else.

Being younger meant he got reminded of the gap constantly. Girls your age were supposed to want someone established, someone who didn’t still get carded at certain bars. Will felt it every time you got approached in public. He started positioning himself behind you at gatherings or nights out, his chest sometimes brushing your back, his hand sometimes ghosting near your waist.

And when he thought his jealousy couldn’t get worse, it hit hardest the night you visited him in San Jose.

The sharks had just pulled off a win, Will had texted you to wait by the side exit where a few players sometimes stopped for quick autographs. As he promised he won’t be too long.

You stood near the door, scrolling on your phone, paying little attention to the thinning crowd. Until a tap on your shoulder made you turn. Celebrini stood there, offering a friendly smile. “Hey, you waiting for Will? You’re his friend, right?”

You nodded, returning the smile. “Yeah, that’s me. Oh, you’re Macklin, great game tonight, by the way. I’ve seen you play pretty much, I think you’re amazing.”

“Thanks,” he chuckled, cheeks slightly reddening at the thought of talking about himself. “Appreciate it. It’s kinda crazy Will left you standing out here alone, though.”

You laughed lightly, shrugging. “No, it’s totally fine. I don’t mind waiting, and now I’m not really alone.” The words were appreciative, your tone warm as you chatted with him.

Will had stepped out just in time to catch the exchange, he froze a few feet away, his bag slung over his shoulder. Macklin’s comment sank deeper than it should have, he knew it wasn’t anything overtly flirty, but to Will it echoed every online comparison he’d seen.

Social media loved pitting them against each other, and in Will’s mind, it always circled back to you. You were stunning, confident, older so why wouldn’t you look at Macklin and see exactly what you were “supposed” to want?

Now that you were 23 and Will had turned 21, the season had ended on a bittersweet note, and you found yourself on yet another visit to San Jose.

By now you were one hundred percent sure Grace suspected something. Every time you mentioned flying out to see Will, her responses was anything along, “have fun with my brother” or “tell Will I said hi.. and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She never judged you, and if anything, she seemed supportive.

Will had offered you his place since Macklin was away for the worlds, leaving the apartment empty. He suggested going out for drinks with a few of his friends tonight, and you agreed. Why stay cooped up alone when you could watch him laugh under the lights?

The group was lively at first, but after an hour or so, his friends started peeling off with a smirk. “Oh, we know,” one of them said something along those lines, with a wink as they grabbed their jackets. “We’ll leave you two to it.”

You both kept it light tonight, a couple of well made cocktails sat between you, fruity and refreshing. The conversation flowed easily, until eventually Will excused himself joking about how alcohol pee hits different and quickly went to the bathroom.

He wasn’t gone long, the men’s line moved fast, and he was heading back toward your seats less than three minutes later. But when his eyes found your spot at the bar, his steps faltered.

Some guy was now sitting in his stool. He was leaning in, saying something that made you laugh. A fresh drink sat in front of you, condensation already beading on the glass. You looked entertained, polite but engaged, nodding along as the stranger gestured.

Will’s stomach dropped. He had thought you were past this. Past letting guys buy you drinks just because they could. He believed you were finally enjoying his company enough that you didn’t need the attention from anyone else and apparently he’d been wrong.

The jealousy he’d carried since the start, flared hot and ugly in his chest. Maybe this is it, he thought bitterly. Maybe you really are just Grace’s friend, and that’s all you’ll ever see me as. The younger brother who’s fun to text but not enough to choose.

But who was he fooling? If you turned around right now and asked him to do something, he’d do it without hesitation like a damn puppy, tail wagging, heart fully invested. That’s how deep he was in this.

Will sighed and made his way back to the bar. His eyes locked on you immediately, and yours found him just as fast. Something changed in your expression but he pushed forward anyway.

“Excuse me,” Will said, voice edged. “Mind if I get my seat back?”

The guy turned, eyebrows raised. “Your seat-?”

“He’s here with me, actually,” you cut in, gesturing toward Will with a small smile. The stranger looked between you two, then shrugged.

“Well, okay then. I’ll see you around.” He slid off the stool and disappeared into the crowd.

Will sat down, but the easy joy from earlier had vanished. Every time you tried to restart the conversation, he answered with short, clipped responses.

You realized quickly that he was annoyed. “Will, do you want to go home?” you asked softly after another one word reply.

He nodded once. “Yeah, let’s go.”

The uber ride back to his apartment was quiet. As soon as you stepped inside, Will headed straight for the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water like he needed something to do with his hands.

You followed, leaning against the counter. “Will, is there something wrong?”

He shrugged, not meeting your eyes. “It’s just funny, I guess. You’re out with me and then some guy buys you a drink right in front of me.”

You stepped closer until you were standing right in front of him, tilting your head up to catch his eyes. “Are you jealous?”

His cheeks flushed. “No, I’m not-”

“You definitely are,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Before he could deny it again, you leaned up slowly, brushing your lips against his in tease. That was all it took, Will’s restraint snapped. He pushed forward, capturing your mouth in a hungry kiss. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him as the tension finally broke open between you.

You pushed your body flush against his until your hips met, feeling the hard line of him straining against his jeans. His hands slid slowly down from your waist to your ass, grabbing a generous handful and squeezing hard enough to make you moan into his mouth.

His fingers dug into your thighs next, patting them in a clear signal. You jumped, wrapping your legs around his waist. Will turned, not breaking the kiss and set you down on the kitchen counter. You slid your hands up to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair as he pressed forward between your spread legs.

He kissed down your jaw to your neck, sucking a dark love bite just below your ear before soothing the sting with his tongue. You gasped, tugging at his hair, hips rolling instinctively against him.

“Will..” you breathed.

He hummed against your skin, hands roaming greedily under your shirt. But you wanted more than the kitchen counter, so you pushed him back gently and jumped down, taking his hand and tugged him along.

Will followed for only a few steps before his patience broke. He scooped you up bridal style without warning, making you laugh breathlessly as he carried you faster down the short hallway.

Will laid you down gently on the bed, your head sinking into the pillows as he hovered over you, propped up on his elbows. One hand cradled your chin, while the other slipped under your shirt, warm palm gliding over your stomach.

He leaned back in, kissing you deeply. Your tongues meeting hot, the taste of cocktails and pent up longing mixing between you. You sighed into his mouth, fingers tracing the muscles of his back.

Will pulled away just long enough to sit up on his knees and tug his shirt over his head. Your mouth watered at the sight, you’d known he was attractive since the first time you saw it, but this was different. His body had filled out even more from the extra gym work, his tempting v line disappearing into his jeans.

He looked like he belonged on a magazine cover, not in your arms.

You sat up, taking his wrist and guiding his hand to the hem of your shirt. He understood instantly and pulled it over your head, revealing the red lace bra underneath. Will’s eyes widened, his lips parting.

Will swore this was the best thing he’d seen in his life. He skipped everything else because no one compared and now that you were here, looking like this, he knew he didn’t deserve it but he was so fucking grateful.

He asked shyly, “Can I take it off?”

You nodded. His fingers fumbled with the clasp for a moment, his nerves and eagerness making him clumsy until it finally gave way. He tossed the bra aside and eased you back onto the pillows.

His mouth found your neck again, then trailed lower, kissing across your collarbone before reaching your breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue swirling. The moan that escaped you seemed to encourage him.

“God, you sound so pretty,” he murmured against your skin, and continued downward, lips brushing over your stomach. When he reached the waistband of your jeans, his fingers slipped inside, eyes flicking up to yours for permission.

“Please,” you breathed.

Will didn’t think twice and unbuttoned your jeans and dragged them down slowly, taking your matching red lace panties with them. Once you were bare, he settled between your legs, kissing your inner thighs softly, not wasting his time to work his way higher.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice full with want. “So fucking wet already.. all for me?”

He hooked your legs over his shoulders, strong hands gripping your thighs to hold you open. The first slow lick up your center pulled a sharp gasp from you. Will groaned at your taste, the vibration sending sparks through your body. He licked again, tongue circling your clit before sucking it gently between his lips.

Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tightening as pleasure built. You pushed him closer when he found the perfect rhythm, hips rolling against his mouth. Will hummed in approval, the sound low and filthy.

He slid one finger inside you, then two, curling them just right while his tongue worked your clit faster. The combination had your back arching, moans growing louder. Will’s free hand stayed firm on your thigh, keeping you pressed to him as he devoured you like a man starved.

Will kept going, like he’d been waiting years just to taste you. His tongue circled your clit with perfect pressure while his fingers curled deep inside, hitting that spot that made your thighs shake. You were bucking against his face now, hips chasing the pleasure as it built higher and higher.

“Will- fuck, right there,” you gasped, fingers tightening painfully in his hair.

He groaned against you and used his strength to pin your hips down to the mattress, holding you still so he could devour you exactly how he wanted. The added pressure pushed you over the edge, your orgasm crashed through you hard, back arching off the bed as you cried out his name.

He didn’t stop and licked you through every wave until you were trembling and breathless, thighs clamped around his head.

He finally pulled back, lips shiny and breathing ragged. He sat up, quickly unbuckling his belt and shoving his jeans and boxers down in one impatient motion. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed, the tip already glistening.

Will crawled back over you, hovering close. “Was that good?” he asked, almost shy.

“Fuck yeah,” you laughed breathlessly. “Never had better. Jesus, Will.”

He grinned, pride flashing across his face, and leaned down to kiss you, as you tasted yourself on his tongue. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours. “Can you take more? I don’t want to push-”

You nodded immediately.

His smile was bright and relieved. Feeling bold, you planted your hands on his chest and flipped both of you over. Will let you take control, moving until his back rested against the headboard and you climbed into his lap, straddling him, knees on either side of his hips.

You wrapped your hand around his cock, stroking him slowly before lining him up. Then you sank down inch by inch, taking him inside you. The stretch was perfect, filling you completely. Will’s head fell back against the headboard with a groan.

“Fuck.. you feel so good,” he breathed, hands gripping your waist tightly. “So tight.. a-and so warm.”

You started moving, rolling your hips in a steady rhythm. When you leaned backward, bracing your hands on his thighs, the angle shifted and hit a new spot that made you moan loudly. Will’s grip tightened, helping guide you, sometimes pulling you down harder onto him with each thrust upward.

“Shit- just like that,” he cursed, eyes locked on where your bodies joined. “You’re going to kill me. What a w-way to die.” He joked, moaning while trying to talk.

A few moments later, you leaned forward again, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your chest to his. Your fingers scratched lightly down his back, leaving faint red lines that only seemed to spur him on. Will buried his face in your neck, kissing and biting as you rode him faster.

“I’m so fucking in love with you,” he whispered hotly against your skin, voice breaking with pleasure.

The words, combined with the way he filled you and the friction against your clit, sent you spiraling again. You came hard around his cock, squeezing him rhythmically as waves of pleasure rolled through you. Will groaned loudly, hips stuttering.

“Baby- I’m close,” he warned.

You kept moving through your orgasm until he lifted you just enough to pull out. He stroked himself twice more and came with a deep moan, thick ropes landing across your stomach and lower chest. His head tipped back, breathing heavy, face flushed with satisfaction.

You still sat in his lap, both of you breathing hard as you came down from the high. A lazy smile tugged at your lips when you finally caught your breath. Will looked at you like you’d hung the stars, his hands still gently holding your hips.

He leaned in for one more soft kiss before carefully lifting you off him and laying you back down on the pillows. “Stay right here”.

He disappeared into the bathroom and returned moments later with a warm, damp cloth. With gentle touches, he cleaned his release from your stomach and between your thighs.

Once he was done, he tossed the cloth back into the bathroom and rummaged through his closet. He slipped on a pair of black boxers, then brought you one of his soft t-shirts and another pair of his boxers.

Will climbed back into bed and lifted the sheets. He opened his arms wide in invitation and you didn’t think twice, sliding in and pressing your chest against his as you both lay on your sides. Your arms wrapped around his waist while his circled you, one hand stroking slowly up and down your back. You tangled your legs together, bodies fitting perfectly.

“It was amazing,” you murmured against his skin. “Thank you.”

Will kissed your forehead, lips lingering there. “I know,” he agreed. “Goodnight” Wrapped in each other’s warmth, the steady beat of his heart against yours lulled you.

The next morning you woke up still tangled in each other exactly as you’d fallen asleep. Your legs were intertwined, your face pressed against Will’s chest, and his arm was wrapped securely around your waist.

You shifted slightly, and Will stirred, humming softly as he woke. “How’d you sleep?” Will asked a few minutes after waking up.

“Definitely better than other nights when the bed beside me is empty,” you replied with a small smile.

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. Will’s fingers traced lazy circles on your lower back before he spoke again.

“Y/n.. this is honestly so embarrassing, but after last night, what do I have to lose?” He swallowed. “Yesterday made me realize how much I really want to be with you. I’ve known it for a long time of course, because every time I saw you with other guys, letting them buy you drinks, it drove me crazy. But I always felt like I’d just be ‘Grace’s younger brother’ to you. And I think last night proved I can’t let you go and I don’t want to.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he continued, the words tumbling out.

“I know you’ve had other options, but I ignore everyone else just for you. I just need to know, was this something real? Or was I just a nightstand for you because-”

You lightly hit his chest. “Okay, first of all, don’t say it like that.” You softened your voice. “And no because it was genuine. Why would I ever hook up with my friend’s brother if I didn’t want you? I’m here in bed with you because I want you. The truth is.. the day I saw you, I thought you were cute. I told myself it was just a first impression and it would fade, but it never did. I’ve never really been into younger guys, but I think I’m really gone for you, Will. Sometimes the best things come when you least expect it.”

Will’s face lit up with a shy, happy smile. He let out a little giggle. “I’m actually into older women, if you didn’t know.”

You laughed. “So.. how are we going to tell my sister about this?” he asked.

“I mean, she’s not stupid. She’s probably suspected for a while but we’re definitely not telling her the details of last night,” you said, grinning.

Will nodded, laughing. “Agreed.” He pulled you closer. “Now tell me.. what was your actual first impression of me that day on midsummers?”

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Saturday morning slips in soft and bright, sun sharpening the crystalline edges of last night’s snowfall and bouncing light across the kitchen tiles. You slip your toes into the memory of warmth, cushioned socks still hot from the dryer, and shuffle toward the counter where the French press waits. Outside the window Cale has carved himself into the landscape, beanie low, shovel flashing silver as he sends plumes of powder arcing over the driveway. His hair peeks out along his forehead, soaked through and darker at the ends, while the sharp winter air paints his already flushed cheeks into a deeper, almost comical rose. That weirdly adorable rosacea has always made him look like he just finished laughing too hard, even when he’s suit-and-tie serious about hockey.

The kettle sings. You pour and watch steam curl up into the kitchen air, the scent of hazelnut beans filling the house you both moved into three months ago. It still feels new, the unpacked boxes gone but the thrill of shared space lingering in every corner. Three years of being attached at some invisible hinge, pressed together through road trips and morning skate alarms, and now there’s a pile of matching slippers by the door, your fleece jacket draped over his Avalanche hoodie. Denver hasn’t truly decided whether to welcome you, but the snowflakes plastered to the window screens make it look like a snow globe that got shaken up just for you two.

You glance back outside and catch him grinning to himself between shovel strokes, breath fogging, eyes so vividly blue they seem lit from within. He’s been forcing that grin the last few days, trying to walk off the heaviness of not having his family here. The storms rolling over the Rockies locked airports shut, and his parents and siblings are stuck in Calgary. You’d heard him on the phone this morning, gentle voice trying to console his mom for not making it down for Christmas, quietly apologizing as if he could control weather systems. Hockey schedules have him occupied—morning skates, meetings, practices—but his shoulders have been tense lately, a little sloped when he thinks you’re not looking. He loves his team, loves this city, yet the idea of empty guest rooms during the holidays gnaws at him.

The front door groans open, a gust of biting air hitting the kitchen. Cale stomps snow from his boots, shovel thunking against the frame. “Driveway’s clear,” he announces, breathless delight mingling with a soft tremble of cold. “Neighborhood kids are out building a fort. Battle of Colorado happening on the sidewalk.”

He shrugs off his coat, hanging it on the chair back, and you are struck again by that stupidly endearing flush smeared across his cheeks and nose. It makes his light features more gentle, the angle of his jaw softened by warmth. He looks like winter itself met blush and decided to stay.

“God, you’re beautiful,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.

He steps closer, smile tipping higher despite the red. “I’m literally a mess of ice.” He cups your waist and kisses your forehead hard enough to leave a chill. The coffee mug you’re holding tilts as he slides up to your lips, kissing you soft and sweet—and freeze-your-face-off cold.

“Cale!” You jerk back, scrunching your nose, huffing a laugh. “Your nose is freezing!” You rub at your face as if that will erase the sting, dramatic gasp and all.

He looks ridiculously pleased. “But did I mention the driveway’s clear?”

You poke his chest, still warm from layering though damp at the collar. “You could have warned me.”

“You love me.”

“Against my better judgment,” you tease, leaning into his chest regardless. He wraps his arms around your waist, something in that simple hold unfurling tension you didn’t realize you’d been carrying.

The coffee press hisses as it sinks, thick dark liquid pooling. You hand him a mug, watching as his fingers curl around the ceramic. He sighs into that first sip, eyes fluttering half closed. His lashes are still dusted with stray snow, and his hair sticks up in strands that will never lie flat without your interference. You reach up and thumb a lock into place, achingly aware that little domestic rituals like this are exactly what you’d always hoped for without knowing it.

“You know,” you start softly, “we’re still going to have a perfect holiday. Even if the dinner table only has two chairs occupied.” You glance toward the window, snow-laden pines shining under a shy sun. “We’ll FaceTime your family, watch your mom’s Christmas breakfast prep disaster happen in real time.”

He laughs, the sound bubbling with relief. “My mom would kill me if I told you about that disaster, but yes, exactly. We’ll duct tape the iPad to the counter so they can supervise.”

“I’m already planning the menu. Your cousin sent me her gingerbread recipe as a bribe to make sure you don’t get sad.”

His smile softens, and you can see the emotions shifting behind his eyes—gratitude, ache, excitement. “Three years,” he whispers, thumb rubbing circles over your back. “We moved in just in time for the biggest storm of the decade. I keep thinking how different it would’ve felt if we weren’t together.”

“We are together,” you say, tucking your chin against his chest. “In every storm.”

His heartbeat thuds steady, a metronome against your ear. Outside, snow drips from icicles, the day promising more brightness than the week that came before. Amid the scent of coffee and the distant noise of kids’ laughter filtering through double-paned windows, Cale presses another kiss to your forehead. “You make everything feel warmer,” he murmurs. “Even when I’m bringing in the Arctic.”

“Bring the Arctic all you want,” you reply, curling at his side. “Just keep that cold nose away from my face until I’m ready.”

He feigns offense. “I can’t help it, it’s part of the package.”

“Blue eyes, hockey player body, freezing nose,” you tally with a grin.

“And I recently added ‘live-in snow removal service’ to the resume.” He snuggles closer, body thawing against yours. The house creaks in pleasant agreement, pipes humming softly. Somewhere inside you, contentment settles like a heavy blanket, your mind drifting through quiet backstory flashes—those late-night phone calls before you moved in together, marathon drives to catch his away games, the way he’d go pink down to his collarbone when you cheered for him in person. Every minute led here, a Saturday morning where the only plan is comfort.

By noon the house smells like cinnamon and pine, the giant candle you lit earlier warring with the real evergreen in the corner that Cale insisted on hauling home despite the snowstorm last week. He’d promised the tree a place of honour, arguing that if his parents couldn’t be here at least their ornaments could. Now, as afternoon light glints through the living room, boxes of decorations crowd the rug, each one labeled in his neat block letters—CALE, CHRISTMAS—, reminders of traditions that somehow survived the move across countries and leagues.

He kneels beside the open box, expression reverent as he untangles decades of ribbon and glitter. Every time he pulls something new out, he offers a story without you prompting, as if setting the tree is a conversation with ghosts of holidays past. “This one,” he says, holding up a clay skates ornament, “Taylor made when he was in kindergarten. He glued the laces to the wrong side, so it looks like tiny weapons.” His blue eyes shine with fond mischief. “My mom refused to throw it out.”

He settles it on a branch, the tree’s needles trembling under his careful touch. The sun hits his face in gold streaks, warming the rosy flush that still lingers on his cheeks. You watch from the couch, a mug of tea nestled into your palms, heart heavy with affection. The scene unfurls like a dream—the quiet house, a fabric throw draped over his shoulders, your blended lives more seamless than any of the ribbons he struggles with.

“I never told you the first time I thought about living together.” He says it offhandedly, but the words hang in the air. He’s still kneeling, hands in the ornament box, but his attention flickers toward you, gaze soft. “We were on the phone the first few months we dated. You were in your little studio apartment, and I could hear the noisy neighbors through the wall. You were still taking classes, exhausted, and I just…” He swallows, the memory hitting him hard. “I wanted to drive over, scoop you up, and put you somewhere safe, where you could sleep and wake up without stress. That’s when I knew I didn’t just want you visiting Denver—I wanted you in every room.”

Your breath catches. You’d been balancing long-distance then, surviving on screen-time and brief reunions between road trips. Back then you’d thought about it too, wondered what it would be like to toss a sweater on his couch and just never leave. Now here you are, a combined laundry basket at your feet. The reality isn’t Friday night movie montages exactly—it’s errand lists and late-night laundry and watching him lace up skates on TV while you make dinner half-awake—but it’s so much better because of those tiny, almost mundane details that anchor your days together.

“You should have told me,” you say, but you mean it in gratitude. “Maybe I would have moved sooner.”

He shrugs, eyes gleaming. “I didn’t want to scare you. We had our rhythm, and I didn’t know if you’d want to deal with me being on the road so much.”

“You’re worth the empty bed nights,” you reply, letting the truth tumble out before it can be filtered. “Even when you’re gone, it feels like you’re here. Your socks invade my drawers and your notes are stuck to the fridge.”

His laugh cracks, not from humor but from emotion. He stands and steps around the tinsel-littered floor to the couch, easing down beside you. His thigh presses against yours, warming your leg through fleece. “I love you,” he says, tone reverent enough to rival any vow. “And I know I say that all the time, but I want to keep saying it. Forever, if you’ll let me.”

You tuck your toes under his leg, battling the rush of heat that travels to your cheeks. When he gets earnest like this, the world narrows to the breath between you. He brushes a thumb over the back of your hand, tracing lines as if memorizing creases he’s already memorized a hundred times.

“Forever sounds good,” you whisper, voice steady despite the swell in your chest.

He nods, satisfied, and leans his head against your shoulder. You stay like that for several quiet minutes, watching the lights blink on the tree even though they’re not plugged in yet. Outside the snow has mellowed, and thin sunlight paints the street in pale gold. Somewhere in the distance a car engine struggles to start, but inside there is only the soft tick of the clock and the faint, steady rhythm of his breathing.

Eventually he pulls away with a little hum, stretching his arm. “We should make the sugar cookies before it gets too late.” He stands, offering you a hand. “Mom said we have to keep the tradition alive or she’ll revoke her Christmas card privileges.”

You roll your eyes and let him pull you up. “I will do it for your mother.” You poke his flushed cheek. “Only for her.”

In the kitchen, the counter becomes a battlefield of flour, measuring cups, and stolen spoonfuls of dough. He smears flour across his own nose in an attempt at humor, and when you laugh, he beams like a little boy caught fingerpainting. He doesn’t talk about hockey once, though you know the season churns in the back of his mind—line combinations, film sessions, plane rides. Here, in the warmth of your kitchen, he lets himself be just Cale, not the defenseman with a franchise on his shoulders.

As the cookies bake, he slides behind you, hands sliding around your waist. “Thanks for today,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know I’ve been… off.”

“You’ve been working so hard, baby,” you answer, leaning into his solid frame. “There’s a difference.”

He inhales as if he’s trying to memorize your scent, the spices in the air, everything that says home. “Still. You’ve been holding me up in quiet ways. Shoveling the driveway helps distract me.” He smiles into your shoulder. “So does this.”

You close your eyes, letting the simple truth of it dissolve the nagging ache of plans that didn’t happen. This afternoon may be an improvisation, a holiday stitched together from tradition and invention, but you can feel it strengthening something between you. When the oven timer dings, you pull apart reluctantly, frosting and sprinkles waiting to make their annual appearance.

Later, as you ice cookies with a level of precision that would impress any pastry chef, he strings the lights on the tree, humming off-key. You catch him glancing over every few minutes, a soft expression carved into his features. The rest of the day stretches ahead—maybe a walk in the snow, maybe a movie marathon, maybe just more silence stitched with lazy conversation. Either way, this is only the beginning.

Twilight drapes itself over downtown Denver like a velvet scarf, neon signs humming to life while the cold tucks sharp teeth into every stray breeze. You and Cale step out of the rideshare and onto the sidewalk outside Union Station, bundled into matching scarves that his grandma mailed last week with a note insisting they were picture perfect for holiday dates. The plaza glows under strings of bulbs, the building’s façade splashed with red and green lights. Couples skate on the temporary ice rink, their laughter floating up to mingle with faint strains of a Sinatra cover drifting from a nearby speaker.

Cale tightens his grip on your hand, guiding you through clusters of people. He looks like a walking winter advertisement—cheeks flushed cherry-red from the cold, straight hair tucked under a beanie, blue eyes bright as the lights streaming above. Every time he exhales, his breath curls in white clouds around his face, and you can’t help memorizing the visual, wanting to tuck it somewhere safe. This city moves differently in his company, as if the brick and glass knew his stride.

You both gravitate toward the hot cider stand like it’s a magnetic beacon. The vendor greets Cale by name, Denver perks still catching you off guard. “Two, please,” he orders, voice soft and easy. 

While the guy ladles steaming cider into paper cups, Cale nudges you with his shoulder. “Remember when we got stuck in that blizzard in Calgary and you insisted on walking to get coffee?”

“You mean when you forgot your gloves and I had to lend you my mittens? Hard to forget the sight of a pro hockey player in pink pom-pom mitts.”

He laughs, cheeks deepening in color. “You still remind me every chance you get.”

“Because you let me.” You take the cups, handing him one. The heat seeps through your gloves, warming fingers chilled from the night air.

He sips, eyes sliding shut for a second, and you watch his expression shift from playful to contemplative. You lean into him, letting his arm curl around your shoulders, and together you wander the plaza. A nearby art installation—giant glowing spheres stacked into a tower—throws shifting colors across his face, blues and purples mingling with his natural flush. You’ve never seen him look more content. The noise of the crowd, the sharp scent of roasted chestnuts from a street vendor, the distant rumble of light-rail trains all blur into background music.

You pause near the skating rink, watching a little girl wobble forward while her father skates backward, encouraging her. Cale’s gaze follows them, softened by something reminiscent of longing. You know he’s thinking about his own father, teaching him to skate on a rink back in Calgary, stories he’s retold with a reverence that makes those memories feel like your own. Without prompting, he squeezes your hand.

“Maybe one day…” he trails off, eyes fixed on the little girl giggling as she grips her dad’s hands, “maybe we can have a kid of our own. I know you’d love to watch me teach them how to skate.” He punctuates it with a laugh, trying to lighten the thought, but your heart has already skipped a beat. It’s the first time he’s voiced the idea so plainly, no joke to deflect it, just a simple, hopeful piece of future hanging between you.

“I’d frame the photos,” you say, voice steady despite the overwhelming tenderness swelling in your chest. “Just to embarrass you both.”

He smiles, yet his eyes carry an aching sincerity. “You’d be the best mom,” he murmurs, almost more to himself than to you.

You lean your head against his shoulder, watching the rink lights spin circles over the ice. “You’d be a ridiculous skate coach,” you counter. “Charts, assignments, stickhandling drills for toddlers.”

“They’ll be skating before they can walk,” he jokes, though emotion threads through his words. “Just like my dad did with me.”

He quiets then, attention caught by the way the girl’s father lifts her, spins her gently. You feel him thinking about home, the family waiting, the empty seats at the table this year. You tighten your arm around his waist, fitting your body closer to his. He responds by kissing your temple, that cold nose nudging your skin but not bothering you tonight.

“The rink’s busy, but we could still skate,” he says, half wistful, half daring.

“You sure your fans won’t mob you?” you tease lightly.

“If they do, they’ll have to deal with rink etiquette. No elbows on the boards, no selfies mid-spin.” He takes a more serious breath. “Besides, I just want to skate with you. Slow, probably sliding all over because the ice is chewed up, but still.”

You nod, heart a melange of nostalgia and anticipation, and follow him toward the rental booth. He’s recognized twice before you even lace up—one teenage boy in a Nuggets beanie asks for a photo, and Cale obliges with that effortless awkwardness, the rosacea flush intensifying under the cold and the shy gratitude. The kid walks away chattering into his phone, probably already telling every group chat that he just met Cale Makar, and you catch the pride dancing across Cale’s features. Not ego, just gentle appreciation for the place and people he now calls home.

The rink guard opens the gate and you step onto the ice, blades biting into grooves piled thick from earlier skaters. The cold seizes your lungs at first, but the world narrows to the scrape of metal, the weight of his hand wrapped around yours. You’re not graceful, not tonight, not with boots that always feel two sizes heavier, but Cale navigates the uneven surface like he’s back on pristine arena ice. The rosy flush in his cheeks deepens when he glances at you.

“Hold onto me,” he says softly. “I won’t let you fall.”

“I know,” you answer, and you mean it way beyond the rink.

He guides you around the perimeter, a slow glide, other skaters weaving past with bells on their laces. You drift past a couple sharing hot chocolate, an elderly man skating alone with surprising elegance, a group of teenagers racing dangerously close to the boards. At every turn, Cale keeps you balanced. He chuckles when your footing slips and steadies you effortlessly, his hands warm despite the chill.

“I still think about that first time you saw me play,” he muses, voice low enough to carry only between the two of you. “You were in that ridiculous purple sweater, standing in the family section.”

“It was a great sweater,” you defend, although you’re smiling at the memory. “And I was there because I couldn’t stand watching you through a TV screen anymore.”

“I looked up, saw you shouting, and forgot about the game for a full shift.” His grin is crooked. “Coach almost benched me.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Totally worth it.” He spins you gently, your blades wobbling but not slipping, his hands braced at your waist. “I still feel like that sometimes—like I see you and everything else blurs.”

Heat rises to your face despite the cold. “That’s so corny,” you whisper, though your heart is melting under the weight of the confession.

“True things usually are.” He halts near the center, pulling you close, breath pooling in a silver cloud between your faces. “I keep thinking how this is our first Christmas in the same house. No flights, no crammed weekends. Just… us.”

“Us and the blizzard,” you point out.

“And the blizzard.” His eyes gleam. “But even the storm feels less harsh with you.”

Music changes, a slower song spilling across the ice. Cale slides one hand into yours, the other still on your waist, and starts to sway. You try to follow, letting the rhythm guide your steps, trusting his balance to compensate for your lack. The world shrinks to a kaleidoscope of twinkling lights and murmured laughter. Every so often he leans down, brushing his forehead against yours, that gentle, steady contact grounding you in the moment.

“You know what else is missing this year?” he murmurs.

“What?”

“Your insane tradition of wrapping every gift at two in the morning on Christmas Eve.”

You choke a laugh. “I can still do that.”

“You won’t need to. Because…” He pauses, gaze slipping away briefly. “I already wrapped everything.”

“You?” You gape. “You used tape?”

He pretends offense. “I can wrap. It’s, like, geometry.”

“I need proof.”

“You’ll see on Christmas.” He flushes deeper. “I wanted to take the stress off you. You’ve done so much already.”

You think about the house decorated with strings of lights he hung without complaint, the hours he spent shoveling the driveway, the way he’s called his parents daily to make sure they don’t feel forgotten even though they initiated this holiday tradition. The softness inside you sharpens, a blade of gratitude.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

He shrugs. “I like taking care of you.” The words are simple, no grand gesture attached, yet they wrap around you like a promise.

Eventually you glide toward the exit, stepping off the ice with stiff legs and aching calves, and collapse onto a bench to pull off skates. He kneels to loosen your laces, thumbs brushing your ankles with patient care. People bustle past, but he moves as if the two of you are alone in the universe, stream of consciousness focused entirely on you.

“Well, where to next?” he asks once your boots are back on.

“There’s that old bookstore around the corner,” you suggest. “The one with the strings of fairy lights in the windows.”

“Sold.” He stands and helps you up. “Lead the way.”

You weave through the crowd again, shoulders bumping, conversations merging into a communal hum. Cale keeps his arm around you, body heat easing the bite of the wind. In your peripheral vision, Union Station glitters like a backdrop in a holiday movie, the towering wreaths and towering arch glowing like stage pieces. Somewhere behind you, the rink speakers switch to a jaunty carol, the kind that would normally make you roll your eyes, yet tonight it folds into the perfect soundtrack.

For a heartbeat you imagine what future nights might look like—a toddler in a puffy jacket waddling between you, the two of you bringing your families together in this city, Cale still blushing every time a camera catches him, still stealing your gloves when he forgets his own. The thought warms you more effectively than any cider.

He catches your expression. “What are you thinking about?”

You consider downplaying it, but you choose honesty. “Years from now,” you say, “when we come back to this spot with a kid who wants to skate, how we’ll tell them that tonight is where we planned our first real holiday together.”

His eyes soften into a shade you’ve never been able to describe. “God, you’re it for me,” he chuckles.

He lifts your gloved hand to his mouth, kissing the knuckles through the wool. The night swallows you whole, a gentle, glittering cocoon, and neither of you knows that tucked away in the pocket of his coat, next to the warmth of his palm, a small velvet box waits for its moment.

Monday drapes itself in gray, Denver smothered under a low ceiling of clouds that promise more snow but haven’t committed. You wake to the soft percussion of sleet ticking against the bedroom window, the faint hum of the heater kicking on, and the empty space next to you where Cale usually sprawls, limbs akimbo like he fought off a dream. He left before dawn for practice, pressing a kiss to your temple while you half-slept, murmuring that he’d be back early, that he wanted to spend the afternoon with you. The promise carried warmth even through sleep, and now, as you shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks, the smell of his aftershave clings to the hallway, proof that he’d lingered just long enough to comb his hair and tug on his Avalanche hoodie.

The counter holds a note weighed down by a small pinecone. In his neat handwriting he’s scribbled: “Back by 1. Cider leftover in the fridge. Also, don’t forget to water the tree (apparently it’s thirsty?). I love you.” You grin, tuck the pinecone into the bowl of clementines as if it belongs there, and brew coffee. The kitchen is quiet, the kind of morning stillness that feels like the world breathing out, and you wonder if he’s already on his way home, if he’s pulling into the driveway as you pour creamer into your mug.

By twelve forty-five the garage door groans, footsteps thump upstairs, and the front door swings open. Cale steps in bundled in team merch, cheeks punched pink by the cold, hair a little damp from snowflakes melting under the beanie. The rosacea flare splashes across his cheekbones, only enhanced by the brisk air. He kicks off his boots, smiles with his entire face when he spots you curled on the couch with a blanket.

“You watered the tree?” he asks, pulling the beanie off and shaking out his dirty blond hair.

“I give it pep talks too,” you reply. “Growth mindset.”

He laughs, the sound rich with relief. “Good. Otherwise it might need a sports psychologist.”

He settles beside you, sliding under the blanket, his body radiating chill that quickly warms as you drape yourself across his lap. The television plays softly, some old black-and-white holiday movie he likes because it reminds him of late-night reruns with his siblings. He wraps one arm around your shoulders and rests his chin on the top of your head.

“I missed you,” he murmurs after a beat, as if he hasn’t been gone more than a few hours. “The rink was freezing and all I could think about was getting back here.”

You tilt your head to meet his gaze. “Isn’t every rink freezing?”

He makes a face. “This was special. Someone messed with the thermostat. I swear my eyelashes froze during video.”

“You made it back alive. Proud of you.”

His grin softens, the edges turning inward. “I wanted to tell you something.” He hesitates, thumb stroking your shoulder. “Nate asked me how I was doing with the holidays, with my family stuck in Calgary. I told him I was okay, that I had you. For the first time, saying it felt like more than just an answer. It felt… permanent.”

Your heartbeat stutters. “Permanent?”

“Yeah.” The word hangs between you, gentle and certain. “Like this isn’t a temporary arrangement. I’m not visiting your life and you’re not visiting mine—we built one together.” He pauses, eyes searching yours. “I’ve never felt that before.”

Emotion presses against your sternum, trying to climb into your throat. You nuzzle closer, letting his heartbeat steady yours. “I feel it too,” you confess. “Waking up alone this morning felt wrong, even though you were only gone for a few hours. We’re stitched together in all these tiny ways.”

His cheeks redden further, not just from cold. “I know we talk about the future sometimes, but lately I keep thinking about what’s next. Not in a rushing kind of way. Just… excited.”

You catch the edge of anticipation in his voice, the way he can’t quite sit still. He shifts, one knee bouncing, the restlessness of somebody carrying a secret on the verge of spilling.

“What do you want to do today?” you ask, wanting to steer into something simple, to keep this cocooned time just the two of you. “We could bake more cookies, call your mom, go for a walk before the next storm hits.”

He chews his lip. “I was thinking we could take a drive. Maybe up to Lookout Mountain. The weather’s supposed to hold for a few hours.”

You blink. That overlook was your first weekend adventure after moving to Denver, a spontaneous trip that ended in you wrapped in a blanket on the hood of his car, watching the city lights glitter below. It’s a place that holds quiet significance, a marker of beginnings and whispered secrets.

“Now?” you ask, out of surprise.

“Yeah,” he says, voice gaining confidence. “I already packed hot chocolate in a thermos. And blankets. And, uh, extra gloves so I don’t have to steal yours.”

There’s something in his expression, nervous energy, that makes your pulse quicken. Still, you nod. “Let me get dressed.”

Within half an hour you’re bundled in layers, boots laced tight, scarf tucked under your chin. He holds the door for you, his own jacket zipped up to his chin. The rosacea flush is still vivid, amplified by excitement. He runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it down before tugging his beanie back on.

The drive west winds through snow-dusted neighborhoods where kids roll massive snow boulders into lopsided snowmen. The higher you climb, the heavier the clouds appear, but the roads have been plowed recently, asphalt gleaming wet under the muted light. Cale taps the steering wheel to an upbeat holiday song, humming under his breath. Every so often he glances over, eyes shining.

“You okay?” you ask softly, studying his profile. The strong cut of his jaw, the way the cold brings color to his face, the slight furrow between his brows.

“More than okay,” he answers. “I’ve been thinking about this for days.”

“About driving up a mountain?” you tease.

“About being with you on top of one,” he replies, tone earnest enough that the tease melts away. “I like the view. It makes everything feel smaller.”

He turns onto the narrow road that snakes up to the lookout. Snow banks hug the edges, pine trees bowing under the weight of frost. When he parks near the overlook, the city sprawls far below, the skyline softened by the winter haze. You both step out into biting wind, pulling collars up, breaths immediately puffing white.

He uncaps the thermos and pours hot chocolate into two travel mugs, handing you one. The steam curls up, sweet and thick. You lean against the guardrail, sipping slowly, letting the heat sink into your palms. The air smells like cedar and impending snow. Denver sprawls in the distance, lights just starting to glimmer as afternoon slides toward evening.

Cale stands beside you, shoulders brushing yours, gaze fixed somewhere between the horizon and whatever thoughts are rattling behind his eyes. His hand fidgets in his pocket, repeatedly, as if testing something.

“You’re really jumpy,” you observe.

“I’m good,” he insists, words puffing out, fogging the air between you. “Just… thinking.”

“About?”

He turns, eyes locking onto yours. The wind musses his straight, dirty blond hair under the beanie, and his cheeks are more flushed than the cold can account for. He sets his mug on the guardrail, then takes yours, placing it beside his. When he reaches for your hands, yours are shaking slightly, though whether from cold or anticipation you can’t tell.

“I keep trying to find the right words,” he says quietly. “To explain how you make everything feel lighter. How the last three years showed me what it means to actually be in a partnership, not just dates squeezed between road trips. Moving in with you felt like exhaling after holding my breath for too long.”

Your pulse thunders. He squeezes your fingers, blue eyes searching your face as if memorizing every shift.

“I know my family couldn’t get here,” he continues, voice steadying. “I know the snow turned this holiday upside down. But it also reminded me that home isn’t a place. It’s you. Wherever you are, I want to be there.”

He takes one deep breath, shoulders lifting, and goes very still. When he slips his hand into his jacket pocket and drops to one knee in the snow, your vision tunnels.

The world shrinks to the man kneeling before you, cheeks flushed like a sunrise, blue eyes bright even under the overcast sky. Wind whips around you, but all you hear is the pounding of your own heart and his voice.

“I love you,” he says, and the words are a promise, heavy and gentle all at once. “I knew it the first time you made fun of my postgame interview. I knew it when you moved to Denver to build a life with me. I knew it when we made pancakes at midnight and when we fought over where to put the couch. I want every morning, every snowfall, every hockey season with you. Will you marry me?”

Time fractures. The snow-laden trees hold their breath, the city lights blur, your eyes brim with tears that freeze instantly on your lashes. All you can do is nod, the yes bursting out of you before you can form a full sentence. “Yes,” you manage, voice shaking with laughter and sobs tangled together. “Yes, Cale!”

He exhales a choked laugh, relief and joy colliding in his expression. He opens the small velvet box, revealing a ring that catches the muted light and throws it back in shimmering sparks. When he slides it onto your finger, his hands tremble, the calluses on his fingertips rough against your skin. The ring settles perfectly, a circle of promise nestled beside your heartbeat.

You haul him up before he can say anything else, throwing your arms around his neck. He wraps you up tight, burying his face in your scarf, nose pressed against your jaw despite the cold. Your breath hitches, laughter spilling out uncontrollably, muffled by his coat. Snowflakes land in his hair, on your lashes, melting as soon as they touch the heat radiating from your embrace.

“I was so scared,” he admits against your ear, words soft enough that only you hear them. “Not about you saying no. Just about making it perfect.”

“It is perfect,” you whisper back. “It’s us. On a freezing mountain with hot chocolate and snow in our boots.”

He kisses you then, slow and sure, breathing you in as snow swirls around. His lips are cold, his nose icy, but none of that matters. Everything distills into a single flash of feeling: belonging. The city below sparkles on, unaware, while up on the mountain the two of you stand at the edge of one chapter and the beginning of another.

When you finally return to the car, your boots squelching snow, he keeps glancing at your hand, at the ring catching the dim afternoon light. Every time he looks, a new grin breaks across his face. You rest your hand on his thigh as he drives, the weight of the ring unfamiliar but right, as if your finger had been waiting for it all along.

Back home you step inside, shaking off the cold, and the tree greets you with twinkling lights and pine scent. You stand in front of it, both of you still in your coats, your hand lifted to study the ring again. Cale comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

He rests his forehead against yours, breathing steady, heartbeat syncing with the quiet hum of the house. Outside, the wind nudges at the windows. Inside, the laundry basket overflows, the mugs from earlier sit abandoned on the counter, and your hand glows with a new weight. He takes it in his, thumb brushing the ring, the smallest smile anchored in awe. 

All Nate can think about is getting home to you and Milo. You’d called him last night, and he’d answered the phone laying flat on his back on the hotel bed, listening to the TV play something random in an attempt to get his mind off of it. You told him about your day, that you went to Target and got Milo a few new swim trunks for the summer, and that they’re all really cute. And what you made for lunch. And dinner.

That’s always been one of Nate’s favorite things about you, your ability to talk about anything and everything, in an attempt to get his mind away from everything that transpired last night.

Right before you hung up, the sound of Milo crying over the baby monitor filled Nate’s ears, and he had to hold back a groan. Milo turned one a few weeks ago, and he’s been pretty clingy, specifically with Nate. For some reason it wasn’t as bad during the regular season, but as soon as the playoffs started, Milo got especially sticky with his dad. He asks to call Nate fifty times a day, wants to wear his jersey with Daddy on the back, and fights sleep as much as possible because he wants to be put down by Nate.

That’s the only bright side in this whole clusterfuck. Milo’s getting his dad back for teh next few months.

The forty five minute drive from DIA back home is undoubtedly the longest forty five minutes of Nate’s entire life. All he wants is to hug you, hug his son, and have a lazy day at home. Maybe he’ll take Milo and Maggie out for a walk around the neighborhood, go to Milo’s favorite playground for a bit.

He sent you a quick text when he was five minutes away, and felt all the tension leave his body when he pulled into the driveway exactly five minutes later to find you and Milo standing in the front yard, waiting for him.

“DADA!” Milo squealed as Nate opened the car door, smiling wide at the sight of his son bouncing excitedly in your arms. He was already reaching for his dad, making grabby hands. Nate didn’t hesitate to grap him from you, immediately wrapping Milo up in a big, tight hug. Milo laid his head on Nate’s shoulder, his little arms falling around his dad’s neck. “Dada, Dada, hi!”

Nate melts at his son’s sweet voice, at how excited he is to see him. He’s spent the last few weeks feeling so incredibly guilty for not being here as much as Milo needs him, but he’s here right now. He’s going to be here until October. Obviously, Nate needs to train and practice, and keep in shape in the offseason, but he’s going to spend as much time as possible with his baby boy.

“Why don’t you take Milo inside, and I’ll get your stuff,” you suggest, laying a hand on Nate’s shoulder as you stand up on your tiptoes to kiss him. Milo’s entire face is lit up with a smile, excitedly hitting Nate’s shoulders gently. “I don’t think he would like it very much if you put him down,” you say with a smile.

Milo cried in your arms for hours last night, begging for his Dada, and now that he finally has him, the last thing you want to do is separate your son and his father.

Nate looks baffled at the suggestion. “No, baby, what? I’ll just get my stuff later, it’s okay.”

You shake your head. “Go inside with Milo. Spend a little bit of time together, just the two of you. I’ll get your stuff,” you insist.

Nate’s still hesitant, but he nods, kissing you once more before taking Milo inside. Milo’s babbling nonsense excitedly, placing his little hands on Nate’s cheeks, leaning forward to give his Dada a messy kiss. Nate smiles and kisses is son’s chubby cheek, making his way to the recliner in the living room, sitting down and settling Milo on his lap. Milo can’t stop smiling, snuggling into Nate’s chest, sighing contentedly.

“I missed you, bubba,” Nate murmurs, softly kissing the top of Milo’s head. The smell of his baby shampoo combined with the feeling of his soft hair nearly brings tears to Nate’s eyes. After being apart from his son for so long, and how horrible he felt during that entire series with VGK, being reunited with him feels like being able to breathe again. You once described being a parent as having your heart living outside your body, and that’s exactly what it is. Holding Milo again, seeing him smile and be excited to see him… absolutely nothing compares. “I love you so much, Milo Graham. Don’t ever forget that.”

Milo just giggles and uses his dad’s shoulders to pull himself to a a standing position on Nate’s lap, looking at his dad like he hung the moon and the stars.

Nathan MacKinnon has won a Stanley Cup, and nothing has ever felt more fulfilling than being a father. Milo is the light of his life, his favorite person in the whole entire world. You’re a close second, a very very close second, but still. You feel the same way. The connection you both have with your son is special, and you wouldn’t give it up for anything.

After a few minutes of cuddling, Milo gets bored, and starts babbling about Bluey, so Nate reaches for the remote. As soon as Bluey is turned on, both Nate and Milo go silent, locked in to the epsiode. Nate likes to tell you that he doesn’t really care about Bluey, but you know that’s not true. And when you walk into the living room ten minutes later, after getting everything from the car and putting all the bags in the right places so Nate can unpack later, you smirk as your suspicions of him loving Bluey just as much as his son are confirmed when you walk into the living room and find both your boys staring at the TV.

It doesn’t take long for Nate and Milo to fall asleep. Milo’s tired from how badly he fought sleep last night, insisting on staying awake until Nate came home. Nate’s exhausted from the game last night, and the fact that he was unable to sleep due to not being able to stop thinking about it, despite your greatest attempts to take his mind off of it from your phone call.

They’re cuddled together on the recliner, comforted by each other, and the safety of being at home together. You throw a blanket over them, leaving Bluey playing as white noise, and then start going about your day.

The rest of the day is calm, peaceful. When Nate and Milo wake up from their nap, Milo’s energy is renewed. They go into the backyard and play with Maggie for a while. You sit on the porch with your laptop, working on the things you’ve been pushing off the last few days in favor of making sure Milo was happy and comfortable.

Watching Nate and Milo together always warms your heart, brings a smile to your face. You giggle as Milo tackles Nate, both of them laughing, Maggie barking excitedly near them.

Getting swept in the Western Conference Finals was tough, and it’s something that Nate is going to be beating himself up over for the next few months, probably longer. You try your best to have him give himself some grace, but you know that it’s not that easy.

You can see though, that when he’s with Milo, all of that is gone from his mind. That when Milo is in Nate’s arms, the only thing he’s thinking about is being a good present father.

Nate insists that the two of you take Milo to his favorite park in the neighborhood, so you do that after dinner. Milo sat on Nate’s lap during the entire meal, wanting to be as close to his dad as possible. You tried to put him in his high chair, but he started screaming and crying, so you allowed him to sit with Nate. Nate definitely wasn’t complaining, smiling wide and feeding his son without complaint. He didn’t even look upset in the slightest when Milo accidentally smacked Nate’s mashed potatoes, sending them splashing around the table. He just laughed and grabbed a napkin, wiping the potatoes off Milo’s face.

Milo has the time of his life at the park. You sit on a bench and play fetch with Maggie while Nate plays on the jungle gym with Milo. You usually play with them, but you know that the only person Milo wants right now is Nate, so you let them have their time together. Sometimes, when Nate gets like this, you think about how intimidating he is on the ice, and wonder what fans would think of seeing him like this, soft and sweet and at the complete and utter mercy of a one year old.

By the time bedtime comes around, Milo’s absolutely tuckered out. Nate gives him his bath and gets him ready for bed, which gives you some time to yourself. You do a face mask and cuddle into bed with your kindle, a trashy reality television show playing on the TV. You make your way into Milo’s room after his two stories, give him a kiss on the cheek and say goodnight, before Nate puts him down.

Unlike last night, Milo falls asleep in seconds, and is out like a light. You smile, heart feeling full, and say to Nate: “He just missed his daddy.”

Back in you and Nate’s bedroom, after his shower he comes and lays his head down on your chest. Your hand immediately finds its way to his hair, combing your fingers through it and scratching his scalp in the way you know always calms him down. He’s freshly shaven, all evidence of the playoffs gone, humming humming contentedly as he burrows into the plushness of your chest.

“I’m glad I’m home,” he murmurs, voice muffled slightly. “I’m… upset, of course. That was probably the worst playoffs series of my career. But I’m home now, with you and Milo. And that’s all that matters right now.”

You kiss his forehead softly. “We’re glad you’re home too, my love. I know you think you’re defined by how well you play, but Milo and I don’t care. We’re proud of you no matter what.”

“That’s sweet,” Nate grumbles, “but that was embarrassing. Getting swept by Vegas? It’s not just that it’s Vegas, it’s… I wanted to kill that fucking goalie. I wanted to punch him so fucking bad.”

“I know,” you say, trying to soothe him with your tone and continuing to massage his head. His hands have formed fists at your sides, and all you want is for him to release that stress again. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You tried your best, and that’s what matters.”

Nate huffs, eyes drifting closed. You know that nothing you say right now can make it better, can make him forget everything that happened, every move he made, every mistake.

From the very beginning of this series, Nate has made it his personal goal to make number 79 wish he was never born. You’d been so devastated when he was signed to VGK, horrified at the doors this could open, the implication that the things he did don’t matter because he’s “a good goalie.” Nate was heartbroken too, at what that meant for the league, and for the women that are hockey fans. He couldn’t even begin to fathom what it felt like for you, and other women who had to witness a man who did such a horrible thing, still being allowed to play professional hockey.

So the fact that Nate failed to take VGK out of the playoffs? You know it hurts, that he won’t let himself forget it until next year.

For right now though, he’s home. You and Milo have him back for the summer, and that’s all you’re going to think about. The first few days will be tough for Nate, but he’ll forget pretty quick. At least, he won’t dwell on it while he’s at home. Nate makes it a priority to be present when he’s with his family, which is something you appreciate more than words can express.

Nate falls asleep cuddled into you, arms wrapped around your waist, legs tangled together under the sheets. He looks so soft like this, so pretty and calm and relaxed.

You fall asleep to the sound of Bob’s Burgers playing on the TV, and Nate’s steady snoring. The next few months are going to be fun, both calm and chaotic, and you can’t wait. The summer is your favorite season for lots of reasons, but the biggest is that Nate is home with you.

It was a bittersweet homecoming, but you’re glad that he’s back. And even though Nate’s bummed about the outcome of the playoffs too, you know he’s glad to be home, too.