m i n

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ynuser baddie o’clock

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mackcelebrini bro

▸ ynuser wait shut up

▸ mackcelebrini ik who you posted this for

user1 you’re gorgeous wow

user2 mack in the likes??

▸ user3 who is she lol

▸ user4 y/n l/n! her dad works for the canucks and she’s been friends with macklin since forever

user5 mack’s gf?

▸ ynuser i’d rather eat my toe

▸ mackcelebrini BROOO

y/n & ivar’s dms on instagram

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ynuser new york so far!!

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user6 what’s been your fave place in ny so far ?!

▸ ynuser been loving buffalo!!

mackcelebrini 1st picture

▸ ynuser hehe

user7 SWEARR THATS MACK IN THE FIRST PIC

▸ user8 nah it can’t be isn’t he in vancouver training?

user9 stenberg in the likes… her being in buffalo where his draft is…

▸ user10 does this confirm that stenberg is indeed a shark PLS PLS PLS

▸ user11 the concept of him being a shark AND dating mack’s best friend wow

text messages between y/n + mack & y/n’s tweets

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ynuser IVAR STENBERG YOU ARE OFFICIALLY A SHARK🦈🦈

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ivar.stenberg thank you for everything min älskling

▸ user12 his pet name for her i cant do this

user13 officially off the market (quite literally)

user14 love how y/n was so supportive at the draft 🥹 i saw her reassuring him the whole time and talking to his family

▸ user15 AWW i love this for the both of them

fraserminten another hockey boy for the books

▸ ynuser the only one i love *

▸ _connorbedard sap

liked by mackcelebrini, gavin_mckenna27 and 79,281

ivar.stenberg a dream come true. thank you to everybody who’s supported me and thank you to the sharks organization. 🦈🩵 let’s go

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ynuser my fave boy is gonna be with my best boy next season!!

▸ user16 ivar being y/n’s fave boy & mack being her best boy 😭😭😭 best nhl trio ever

mackcelebrini congrats man! 🍾

user17 you make your old man real proud stenberg

user18 scored a spot next to celebrini and a gf bro is insanely lucky

gavin_mckenna27 see you in the nhl! 🔥

—

You have a bad habit, and honestly, you are fully aware of it, yet you indulge anyway because it feels good. It’s not drugs or gambling or anything like that. It’s far simpler, far stupider, far more addictive.

Social media.

Specifically, the corner of social media dedicated to your fiancé. You should be getting ready for the day. You should be doing the grown up things on your to do list. You should be answering emails or maybe folding the laundry that has now reincarnated itself as a second mountain range in the corner of your bedroom. But no. Your phone is warm in your hand, the brightness on low, and your thumb is doing that lazy scroll thing that Sid swears is frying your brain cells one by one.

He tells you often. Sometimes playfully, sometimes with that bewildered concern of a man who lived his whole adult life without needing the internet to validate anything about himself. “It’s not good for you, baby,” he’ll say, leaning in the doorway with a towel slung over his shoulder after practice. He always looks so serious when he says it too, like this is some personal thing he needs to solve. “All that staring at a screen, you won’t sleep right.”

And then you remind him, every single time, that you sleep perfectly fine. Mostly because he exists. Mostly because he exhausts you in ways technology never could. He blushes when you say that.

Still, the habit lives.

Because he doesn’t get it. He thinks it's black and white, that people dislike him because of rivalry reasons, or love him because they live somewhere that sells black and gold bumper stickers on every street corner. He thinks it’s all about teams, logos, markets, the geography of fandom.

He has no idea.

Goodness gracious, the editors. The talented, brilliant ones who take game clips and turn them into cinematic thirst traps that would make a nun reconsider her vows. The people who sync his skating stride to sinful RnB beats. The ones who isolate that stupid little smirk he does after scoring, or the way he adjusts his helmet during warmups like he’s auditioning for the lead role in your private fantasies.

You would pay them. Commission them like a wealthy patron of the arts. You’d happily slide into their DMs with hi, yes, I have exclusive footage of this man in sweatpants, please do something with it.

You never do, because you know Sidney would implode. Spontaneously combust. Turn into dust and float away on the next breeze over Pittsburgh. Sometimes he catches you watching one of them and gets so adorably flustered. He’ll groan, “Stop looking at that shit,” and then fail to hide the way his neck turns pink, as if he didn’t just walk into the room looking every bit like the reason thirst content exists.

You follow a handful of accounts, and by handful you mean at least eight of them, all dedicated to one very specific niche. Not the highlight-clip editors, not the thirsty TikTok mashups, not the fan cams. You love those, obviously, but the pages that absolutely own your soul are the archives: the people who dig through old game photos and year-by-year folders and forgotten press day albums and upload a new Sidney Crosby picture every morning like it’s the weather report.

They’re your daily vitamins at this point. Hydrate, eat breakfast, scroll the Sid archive pages.

You don’t have to go spelunking through ancient Tumblr graveyards or internet forums from 2010. These beautiful, generous strangers have done the digging for you. They drop little gems constantly. Young Sid with the longer curls. Sid in bad jeans that somehow look good on him. Sid smiling. Sid holding puppies. Sid holding babies. Sid in his early captain era, too serious for his own good but pretty enough to make your knees touch.

Your life is improved by this content. You’re not ashamed.

And then it finds its way to your screen. A photo you haven’t seen in a while. A photo that reminds you exactly why you followed the account.

The 2011 Winter Classic.

Sid in that navy/powder blue jersey. The outdoor game. The helmet. The jawline. The absolute peak of early-20s Sidney Crosby, stupidly handsome in a way no human being had any business being. You literally freeze with your thumb mid-air. You blink once, twice, like the image might disappear if you stare too hard. Spoiler: it does not. It only gets worse, because you pinch and zoom.

Holy shit.

You can’t help it, you roll onto your stomach, elbows digging into the mattress, feet kicking once behind you because the photo hits you with that oh, no, he was hot before he even knew how hot he was.

You stare at him. Handsome now, handsome then, handsome always. It’s honestly unfair that someone could be that talented and look like that. Some people struggle with one decent photo a year. Meanwhile, Sids looked like a walking heart attack since puberty.

“Wow… I’d let him ruin my life even then.”

You say it like an absentminded confession to no one in particular. A private admission. A truth you would absolutely never say to his face because he’d probably never shut up about it.

Except.

Except you don’t realize you’re not alone anymore.

Not until the mattress dips on either side of your body, one large arm planting down beside your left elbow, another beside your right. A shadow falls over you. Warm breath brushes the back of your shoulder.

Then a voice.

“Who?”

You turn your head slightly, just enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. He is leaning over you, caging you in with his arms, chest brushing your back. His hair is still damp from his shower.

You click your phone off like that will erase the evidence. “No one.”

He hums. “Who?”

You shake your head, face hot enough to preheat an oven. “No one, seriously. Don’t worry about it.”

He lowers himself enough for his chest to settle fully against your spine. 

“I didn’t ask if I should worry,” he murmurs, still hovering over you, still way too close. “I asked who.”

You bury your face in your pillow because of course. Of course this is happening. Of course the universe decided that he needed to overhear you being a thirsty menace to past versions of him. You giggle because panic does that to you.

“It’s nothing,” you say into your pillow, voice muffled and way too high-pitched to be believable. “Seriously, drop it.”

Sidney does not drop things. Not on the ice, not in real life. He’s smiling. You don’t have to see him to know it. You can feel it. That stupid little grin pressing into your shoulder blade.

“Who?” he says again.

“Sid,” you whine, kicking your feet against the bed once. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

He moves one hand from the mattress to your waist, fingers curling in that way he does when he wants your attention. When he wants information. When he wants to win.

You stiffen.

“Oh no,” you breathe, because you know exactly what’s coming.

He pokes your side.

Not just once, either. He pokes again, a little more purposely, right in that spot that makes your legs jump and your stomach contract.

“Sid,” you squeak, swatting blindly at him, your elbow hitting air because he dodges like the trained athlete he is. “Quit it.”

“Who are you talking about?” His fingers skim your ribs. “Who would ruin your life, huh? Who sounds so interesting this early in the morning?”

You laugh and twist under him, the phone wobbling in your hand as you try to keep it from slipping. “Stop stop stop, I’m serious!”

He doesn’t stop.

“Oh my god,” you cry, half laughing, half mortified, pushing at his forearm. “Sidney! Knock it off!”

“Just tell me who.”

You bury your face deeper into the pillow, your voice muffled, your dignity on its last breath. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Baby,” he says, “you literally drool on me in your sleep. You can tell me.”

“Sid!”

He pokes your side again.

“Okay! Okay, fine!” you gasp, grabbing his wrist to get him to quit tickling you. “You. You handsome idiot.”

You can practically hear the gears in his brain screeching to a halt.

“Me?” he asks, sounding so genuinely confused that you almost burst out laughing again.

“Yes, you,” you groan, rolling halfway onto your side to look back at him. His face is right there, close enough that your noses almost brush. 

“You’d let me ruin your life?”

You smack his arm. “Yes, Sid. Any version of you could’ve walked into my life and I would’ve rolled over like a puppy.”

He blinks, absorbing that. Then he blushes. A bright red starting at his neck and blooming up toward his cheeks like a sunrise.

“Show me,” he says quietly.

You groan again, but for a different reason this time. “No, you’re gonna make fun of me.”

“Baby. Show me.”

You unlock your phone with a sigh so dramatic it should win an award. You scroll back to the photo and hold it up over your shoulder so he can see.

“Aww geez,” he mutters, and then he buries his face in your back like a man trying to escape the world. His forehead presses against the back of your neck. “Why that one? I look twelve.”

“You look hot,” you correct, wiggling your hips a little because you know it will make him groan harder. “Really hot.”

“I can’t believe you said you’d let that guy ruin your life.”

“I would. Happily.”

He groans again, louder this time, face still hidden in you like he’s trying to disappear. His hands slide to your hips and squeeze.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles into your shirt.

—

You can’t imagine a better partner to have chosen to do this with. You think that sometimes when you’re brushing your teeth, or when you’re halfway through folding laundry and your hands just stop moving. Sidney. Sidney, of all people. Steady, warm, endlessly patient Sidney, who has somehow taken this new role and stepped into it like he’s been practicing his whole life.

You’re only around thirteen weeks along, if you’ve counted right. Time feels different now, like it’s bending around you instead of marching forward the way it used to. Your body feels different too. Not crazily, not yet, just small things that stack on top of each other. A little more tired. Hungrier at weird times. The faint, constant awareness that something is happening inside you, whether you’re thinking about it or not.

Sidney thinks about it constantly.

You’ve never seen him like this, not even close. Not before big games, not during playoffs, not even during those stretches of the season when hockey seems to consume every inch of him. This is different. There’s a lightness to him that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. You’ll catch him smiling at nothing while he’s tying his shoes, or staring into the fridge like it’s just told him a secret.

At night, when you’re curled up together in bed, his phone is always in his hands. Not scrolling through the news like he sometimes does. He’s reading. Articles. Forums. Lists. You know because he keeps clearing his throat like he’s about to speak, then stopping himself, then trying again.

“Did you know,” he says one night, voice low so he doesn’t fully pull you out of the half sleep you’re drifting in, “that right now the baby’s vocal cords are starting to form.”

You hum softly, eyes closed, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Is that so.”

“Yeah.” There’s awe in his voice. Genuine awe. Like he’s talking about something miraculous instead of a biological process. “And fingerprints. They’re unique already. That’s crazy, right.”

You shift closer to him, your leg draping over his, your hand resting on his chest. His heart is steady under your palm. You wonder, not for the first time, how you got this lucky.

He downloaded the app weeks ago. The one that tells you how big the baby is. He pretended it was just curiosity at first, but you know better. Every Thursday morning his phone lights up with a notification, and he opens it like it’s a gift meant specifically for him.

“This week it’s the size of a nectarine,” he tells you over breakfast one day, sliding his phone across the table so you can see the little illustration. “A nectarine. Can you believe that.”

You glance down at your stomach instinctively, one hand flattening there like you might be able to feel something if you focus hard enough. Thirteen weeks doesn’t look like much yet. A slight curve on some days, nothing on others. Still, Sidney looks at you like you’re carrying the entire universe.

He reaches for your hand, thumb rubbing slow circles into your knuckles. He does that a lot now. Touching you like he’s reminding himself that this is real, that you’re real, that this isn’t something he’s going to wake up from.

The first scan date has been circled on the calendar for two weeks. Literally circled. In thick red marker. He even added a little note underneath. First ultrasound. You teased him about it at the time, told him he was being crazy. He just smiled and said, “I don’t care.”

He keeps checking the calendar anyway. As if the date might move if he doesn’t keep an eye on it. Every morning he glances at it while the coffee brews, counting down the days under his breath. You hear him sometimes from the other room, mumbling numbers like he’s doing mental math.

And when the day of the appointment finally comes Sid’s already up and pacing.

He’s trying to be quiet about it, tiptoeing in that ridiculous careful way, but he’s still big and solid and very much a man who can’t contain the kind of excitement coursing through him. The floorboards creak under his weight. The closet door clicks shut. Then open. Then shut again. And again.

You blink into the morning light and find him standing at the dresser, staring down at something.

“Sid?” Your voice is thick, sleep-heavy.

He startles, then tries to pretend he didn’t. “Hey. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“You sorta sound like you’re doing laps.”

“I’m not.” He clears his throat. “I’m… preparing.”

“For what?” You yawn. “The Olympics?”

He turns, face bright and absolutely guilty. “For the appointment.”

“You’ve been prepared for two weeks.”

He doesn’t deny it, just walks over and crawls into bed like his body can’t help magnetizing toward you. He wraps an arm around your waist, presses a fat kiss to your cheek, and then pulls back like he suddenly remembers the rule he made for himself this morning: do not smother her with excitement before noon.

“Sid,” you whisper, smiling, “you’re allowed to be excited.”

“I know.” He glances at the clock. “I just… it’s eight. The appointment isn’t until eleven forty five.”

“And we’ll get there on time.”

He hesitates. “Or early.”

“Sid.”

“What? Early is good.”

“Not forty-five-minutes-early good.”

He gives you a look that very clearly says yes, forty-five-minutes-early is exactly as early as he wants.

You shake your head, laughing softly. “You’re unbelievable.”

He doesn’t answer, just blushes slightly and drags his hand across your stomach in a slow pass, his gaze softening like it always does now.

“I just want today to go well,” he murmurs. “That’s all.”

Of course you get there forty-five minutes early.

Of course you do.

The waiting room is clean and bright, the air smells like the grossly sterile scent of a medical office. There’s a TV in the corner playing some daytime cooking show where a woman is aggressively sautéing onions, but Sidney is acting like it’s the most engaging entertainment he’s ever seen. His leg is bouncing with enough force to shake both of your chairs.

You fill out the clipboard of paperwork: insurance forms, medical history, the usual. You write your name three times, date of birth twice, answer questions you’ve already answered on the form they emailed you last week.

Sidney keeps glancing over at the forms like he wants to help but also knows he’d probably mess something up.

“You okay?” you ask him quietly.

“Yeah.” His knee jumps again. “I’m good. I’m… great. You need anything? Water? Snack? A blanket? I can get a blanket from the car.”

You stare at him. “Why do we have a blanket in the car?”

“In case you get cold.”

“Sid, it’s like 80 degrees out.”

He shrugs, cheeks pink. “You still might get cold.”

You reach out and put your hand over his knee to stop the bouncing. He tries, he really does, but the energy builds right back up until he’s tapping his foot instead. You watch him for a second, and god, he’s beautiful when he’s excited. His eyes bright, hair sticking up a little because he kept running his hands through it earlier, the faintest flush high on his cheeks.

He leans close, voice soft. “I can’t believe we get to see the baby today.”

“I know.” You smile. “Me too.”

“You think they’ll show us everything?”

“Probably.”

His lips twitch. “Including the sex?”

“Mm might be too early. And also we still haven’t decided if we want to know.”

He groans. “I swear, it’s killing me.”

You nudge his shoulder. “You’re the one who said you wanted to wait.”

“I know, but I didn’t realize how… curious I’d be.” He looks away, sheepish. “I blame the app.”

You laugh. “The app?”

“It keeps saying stuff like ‘this week your baby is learning reflexes’ or ‘your baby might be sucking their thumb’ and I just… I want to know who they are.”

Before you can respond, a nurse appears in the doorway with a clipboard. “Y/n? We’re ready for you.”

Sid jumps to his feet. He grabs your bag, your water bottle, your jacket, practically tries to take the clipboard to the nurse before you gently tug it back.

“Come on,” you whisper, amused. “Let’s not terrify the staff.”

The hallway is a little cold, the walls lined with framed photos of babies and families, little thank-you notes written in childish scrawl. Sid slows down for the first time all day, falling into step beside you. He places his hand on your lower back as the nurse leads you into a small exam room.

She runs through the basics with you.

“So today we’ll confirm dates, check your hormone levels, and of course do the ultrasound. First things first, I’ll need a urine sample.”

Sid’s head snaps up. “Do you want me to hold your stuff?”

You lift the small plastic cup. “Sid. I think I got it.”

He flushes. “Right. Sorry. I just… yeah.”

You brush your fingers against his shoulder on your way past, and he relaxes instantly.

When you come back, he’s sitting stiff and upright like he’s guarding the room. He relaxes a little when you sit down again, taking your hand in his and rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.

Then comes the blood draw. You look away. Needles have never been your thing. Sid squeezes your hand, the pressure warm and grounding.

“You’re doing great,” he murmurs.

“It’s just blood.”

“You’re still doing great.”

You can’t help smiling.

The tech finally wheels in the machine. Sid grips your hand like he’s about to leap out of his seat. The tech spreads the cold gel on your stomach. You hiss and Sid flinches like he felt it too.

“You okay?” he asks immediately.

“It’s cold. Not deadly.”

“Still.”

Then the wand touches your skin, and the black-and-white world on the monitor comes alive. Static. Then shapes. Then something unmistakably growing flickers into view, a little human.

Sid’s breath catches.

“Oh my god,” he whispers.

The tech smiles. “There’s your baby.”

Sidney’s hand tightens around yours, not painful, probably just stopping himself from crying.

“That’s… holy shit,” he breathes. “That’s our baby.”

You watch him more than the screen. Watch his face transform. Watch the amazement soften every sharp line in his face. He leans forward, eyes wide and shining.

The tech clicks through measurements, narrating softly. “Everything looks perfect. Heart rate is strong. Baby is moving… there we go. That little thing there? That’s a hand.”

Sid lets out a small laugh that breaks mid-breath. “They’re waving. Jesus. They’re actually waving.”

The tech prints images, sliding the warm glossy sheets into your hands. Sid looks like he wants to hold them but is afraid he’ll wrinkle them somehow.

“You can take them,” you say, nudging the pictures toward him.

“You sure?” His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Sid. They’re yours too.”

He takes the photos like they’re made of glass. He studies them closely, thumb brushing the corner, eyes softening with each second.

“I already have a frame,” he admits quietly. “Picked it up last week.”

You grin. “Of course you did.”

“I didn’t want to jinx anything,” he says, voice trembling just a little. “I just… I thought… maybe it’d be nice to put the first photo somewhere safe.”

You lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder as he stares at the printouts like he’s looking at his whole future.

“We’re really doing this,” he says softly. “We’re actually having a baby.”

You nod, heart full. “Yeah,” you whisper. “We are.”

Sid presses a kiss to your temple, one hand still clutching the ultrasound photos like they’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

And for him, they probably are.

—

Sixteen years ago you were twenty. And him, he was twenty two, still baby–faced in that way he’d always pretend to be embarrassed about, even though he knew it made people adore him. You remember the weight he carried, even if he never admitted he felt it. Everyone called him Sid the Kid, even though he wasn’t really a kid anymore, but maybe that was the point. He was what people wanted youth to look like, hope shaped into a person, a promise in skates. Five years since he’d been drafted, one year since he’d lifted the Cup over his head with that wild, disbelieving grin, and now the world wanted another miracle. The goal, always the goal: gold.

And you remember the version of him from that time so clearly, even now. Twenty two, impossibly focused, impossibly earnest, the kind of boy who clung to routine like religion. He wanted you at every single game, like you were the charm that steadied him. The one match you missed… God, he never let it go. It was this stubborn little superstition he stitched into both of your lives. Same seat, same jersey, same breakfast. If he tied his skates the same way, then you ate the same granola, then he touched the boards with his glove right before puck drop, then maybe, maybe the universe would obey.

And every night he called. Even when he was exhausted, even when team bonding ran late, even when he had no energy for anything except you. Same conversation, same cadence, as if repetition might coax fate into lining up in his favor.

“Hey, baby,” he’d murmur, voice low and soft, almost shy.

“Hey, Sid.”

“You okay?”

“Mhm. You?”

He’d pause, slow breath, the sound of sheets shifting under him. “Yeah. Better now.”

And you’d pretend you weren’t melting into your pillow.

You played along because he believed in patterns more than most people believed in God, and somewhere along the way you started believing too. If he did this, and you did that, and neither of you broke the chain, then everything would work out. Because he was Sidney Crosby, and he carried a country, and he carried you too.

And now, now he’s thirty eight.

Thirty eight feels like a strange age on him. Not bad, not worn, just… strange. Like a number that people like to throw at him as if he doesn’t already feel every year of it in his bones when he wakes up. Thirty eight and no longer Sid the Kid, not by a long shot. Now he’s Sid and the kids, the old man in the locker room who still outplays half the league, who still shows up two hours before everyone else because he doesn’t know how to unlearn the discipline that built him. But sometimes, if you catch him from the corner of your eye, you swear you see him exactly as he was at twenty two: laughing into your neck after a win, hair damp with sweat, telling you that you have to wear the same socks next game because “it worked, babe, don’t mess with it.”

Nineteen seasons with the C on his chest. Almost two full decades of being the steady center of gravity in every rink he’s stepped into. Sometimes you think about that, the way he was nineteen when he first put that letter on, barely grown. And now he’s Captain Canada in every sense of the title, even when he isn’t wearing the maple leaf. Three Cups, one World Championship, two Olympic gold medals, and here he is again, chasing another. Because of course he is. Sid doesn’t know how to stop chasing, stop pushing, stop proving that he’s still here.

Even when people keep reminding him he shouldn’t be. That he’s too old. That he’s outlasting his era. That his career is older than the revolving door of rookies who were toddlers when he scored that golden goal. You watch him pretend those comments don’t get under his skin, but you know him too well. They land. They linger. They dig little bruises into that space inside him where he stores every expectation, every criticism, every fear he refuses to say out loud.

You’ve seen the way he winces in the mornings now, the way his hips crack when he gets out of bed, the way he stretches just a little longer before practices. You’ve seen the way he pads into the kitchen late at night with a heat pack tucked into the waistband of his sweats. But then he looks at you with that soft smile, the one that curves just slightly on his left side, and he says something like “Baby, my back is killing me. Can you…?” and taps the spot between his shoulder blades like he doesn’t know you’re already moving toward him.

He begs for massages now, hands braced against the kitchen island while you work your thumbs into the knots along his spine. He groans, too dramatic for someone his size, and mutters things like “I swear, I wasn’t this pathetic at twenty two,” and you always answer with something like “You weren’t this cute at twenty two either,” which makes him laugh and lean his head back against.

Thirty eight and softer with you than he ever let himself be with the world.

And he still flew you to Milan, like he did for Vancouver in 2010 and Sochi in 2014.

He insisted, actually. Practically shoved his credit card into your hand before remembering that everything you own is already his and everything he owns is already yours. But he still tried. Told you he wanted you there. Told you it felt wrong when you weren’t there. Told you it wasn’t superstition, not anymore, he just played better when he knew you were close.

Except you stayed separate, the same way you had at twenty. Same hotel pattern, same sleeping arrangements, same emotional distance that wasn’t really distance but ritual. You stayed in your own room because that’s how it always worked before big games, and he didn’t even fight it. Just kissed you slow in the hallway before you split off, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling, his voice quiet when he whispered “Night, baby.”

You still wore the jersey.

His jersey, the one he likes on you more than any dress you’ve ever owned. You still followed the superstition, even if it wasn’t superstition anymore. It used to feel like you were indulging him, playing along with the charming little routine of a twenty two year old who believed the universe bent for his habits. Back then it was cute and ridiculous and intimate in the way young love often is. Now it feels like something sacred, a thread that connects who you were to who you are.

Because when you sit in the stands now, jersey on, hands tucked into your sleeves the way you always do, you feel the past settle with you. You feel twenty two year old him. You feel twenty year old you. You feel every game you attended, every phone call you listened to half-asleep, every kiss outside arena doors, every quiet inhale before he stepped onto the ice.

He once told you, half asleep on your shoulder, that the happiest he had ever been was stepping onto the ice in Vancouver during warmups and hearing the crowd. It was the sound of a country lifting him up.

He wanted Milan to feel like that.

And it did. For a while. Even though things were so different now, some things were still exactly the same. He still tied his skates the same exact way. He still traced the logos on the ice during warms ups. He still looked for you in the stands during the anthem. He still needed you wearing the jersey, even if he pretended he didn’t. His superstitions never left him. They just grew up with him. And your superstitions became part of his. Gold was still the ultimate goal. Sixteen years later, he still wanted to bring it home for you.

Which is maybe why the injury feels like the end of the world. Because it isn’t supposed to go like this. Not him. Not Sidney. Not in the quarter-final. Not when he’s chasing a storybook ending. You’ve seen him take harder hits in regular season games. You’ve seen him walk away from collisions that made you shut your eyes.

But this one… something is off the moment they make contact. The angle, the pressure, the torque of his skate, you can’t tell exactly what. You just know that something is wrong. He absorbs it, sticks in the ice, keeps his balance, and you see the set of his jaw as he tries to push off again. Then his stride falters. Just a little. Just enough.

He skates to the bench on his own, because he always does. He hates making scenes. Hates showing pain. But his posture is wrong, his shoulders tight, his hand gripping his stick just slightly higher than usual like he doesn’t trust the other side of his body to behave.

And the bench knows immediately. The team doctor leans forward. The coaching staff stiffens. A teammate pats his back much too gently. You feel cold. Even under the layers, even with your hands tucked into your sleeves. It didn’t happen in Vancouver. It didn’t happen when he was Sid the Kid, golden and untouchable. It didn’t happen when Canada needed a hero. So why now? Why Milan? Why this? Why him?

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You don’t injure Sidney Crosby in the fucking quarter-final. That isn’t the universe he built his routines around. Vancouver was gold, a straight line from hope to triumph. Milan was supposed to be that too. A perfect loop. A full-circle moment. A promise kept.

Everyone prayed it was something simple. A tight muscle, a bad angle, a cramp. Anything other than what it looked like. Anything other than the nightmare scenario. Because you never want to be Team Canada without your guy. Without Sid. And you, God, you were right beside him when they did the imaging. He wasn’t saying much, not then. Just small things, muttered under his breath.

“Probably nothing.”

“They’re being overly cautious.”

“It tightened up on the play, that’s all.”

You just squeezed his fingers every time the tech adjusted him. You stayed quiet because if you spoke, your voice might betray the truth you already knew. And when the imaging was over, when the trainer spoke too gently, when Sid said “Yeah, okay… okay, thanks,” in a voice that didn’t sound like him at all, he didn’t even attempt to go back to his team hotel. He just followed you with his head down.

He didn’t ask to come with you. He just did. Your hotel, the one that was always forbidden territory. Too much temptation, too much closeness, too much routine-breaking. He never crossed into your space during tournaments unless the job was done. Unless the medal was secured. Unless everything was finished. That was his line, always.

But when you unlocked the door, he didn’t wait for you to invite him in. He walked straight past you, dropped his bag on the floor, and lowered himself onto your bed. You stood there for a moment watching him, his arm flung over his eyes, his chest rising too quickly.

“Sid?” you said softly.

He swallowed. “Just… lie with me for a minute. Please.”

You slipped off your shoes and climbed in beside him. He pulled you close as soon as your head hit the pillow.

He burrowed into your neck, voice muffled. “It’s bad, isn’t it.”

You threaded your fingers into his hair. “We don’t know yet.”

He huffed a humorless breath. “I know my body. This isn’t a tweak.”

His hand drifted down to his thigh, resting there like he could will stability back into the muscle. You watched the way he didn’t even try to put weight on that leg when he shifted, the way he winced with every small movement.

Later, when you were brushing your teeth, he tried standing. You heard the way he cursed.

“Shit… fuck, that’s not good.”

You walked over immediately. “Let me help.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“It isn’t.”

He sighed. “Yeah. I know.”

He didn’t play in the semis. He got one day of rest, one day of hope, one day of pretending the universe might bend in his favor again… but the next morning, his leg still wouldn’t cooperate. Another player wore the C. And everyone felt it. It wasn’t disrespectful, it wasn’t unearned, but it wasn’t him. The whole bench looked… incomplete.

Still, he went. Still, he sat in the dressing room. Still, he supported every single guy like it was his full-time job. He was smiling. Encouraging. Calm. Captain Canada even without the letter on his chest. Because he would do anything for his team. Anything to lift them. Anything to make sure the spotlight stayed off his injury and on their ability.

His parents flanked you on either side in the stands. His mom kept touching your arm like she could ground herself through you. His dad had his hands folded so tightly you worried his knuckles might snap. The whole situation felt wrong. Inside out. Severely messed up in a cosmic way.

And Sid… Sid was trying so hard not to stir anything with the media or with the fans. Trying not to look upset. Trying not to let disappointment leak out. But then, when no one else was around, when he was alone in the dressing room, he texted you.

Sid: How does it look from up there? Are we okay?

You: They’re hanging in. But it feels wrong without you.

Sid: Yeah. I know. Trying not to think about it.

Sid: Wish I was out there. Wish the leg would just cooperate.

And before you could reply, a final message came through.

Sid: Please tell me you’re wearing the jersey. I need that piece of superstition. Even if I can’t play.

You looked down at the leaf on your front and typed.

You: Always.

You even pray for him the night before the gold medal game. It isn’t the usual kind of prayer people do, it’s more this soft plea whispered into your pillow, shaped exactly like his name. You know it’s useless, you know the universe isn’t suddenly going to stitch his leg together overnight, but you still do it.

Because USA vs Canada in the Olympic final feels like déjà vu from a lifetime ago. Vancouver all over again. That golden goal replayed so many times it’s practically a hymn. Every promo clip, every highlight reel, every nostalgic sports montage, they all end with him screaming in triumph, helmet thrown, arms lifted. Except this isn’t Vancouver.

You wanted it for him so badly. Maybe more than you wanted it for the team. But you’re not surprised when the lineup drops and his name isn’t on it. You don’t even cry, which shocks you. You just sit there on the edge of the bed with your phone in your hands. Because if he CAN’T play, then he won’t. He would never take a roster spot out of pride. Never steal minutes from a healthy forward who could help. He only ever wanted to earn things the right way.

Still… your heart aches imagining him. Skates tied, gear on, jersey pulled over his pads because he always dresses for the big game whether he's playing or not. Sitting in the dressing room pretending this doesn’t gut him. Pretending this isn’t the exact kind of game he was made for.

You sit with his parents throughout the match. And Canada plays their hearts out, they really do. But it’s different without him. Like the ice tilts in the other direction. Like something weighty is missing in the center of the bench. You can almost see how badly they miss his presence on the ice, that glue he brings. They fight, they battle, they go for it, but when the puck hits the back of the goal…

Silver.

Not Vancouver gold.

Not Sochi gold.

Milan silver.

It stings even though you know it shouldn’t, because silver is still monumental. But all you can think is that he deserved a chance. He deserved to try. And then, through the swarming cameras and the on-ice stuff, you see him.

Full uniform. Skates laced meticulously even though he didn’t touch the ice. Standing on an injured leg because he refuses to limp. His hair in the arena lights looked fully silver. He was not the jet-black-haired boy in Vancouver anymore. He was a man, seasoned, weathered, beloved, nearing the edge of something he didn’t want to name. He moves from teammate to teammate, no doubt telling them that they played well, that they did their best. You can see in his eyes that he means it. You can also see in his eyes that he is hurting.

Because he couldn’t help them win.

Then he does the media line anyway. Of course he does. He sits beside the coach in a full press segment. You hear him apologize in one interview. He shouldn’t. He had no part in this loss. But that’s who he is. Shouldering the disappointment. Shielding his players.

And then, finally, when the chaos dies down, he finds you.

He walks toward you slowly, the silver medal hanging heavy around his neck. When he reaches you, the first thing he does isn’t speak. He just leans forward and presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in like you’re the oxygen he hasn’t had in hours.

You touch his cheek softly. “Hey, baby.”

He closes his eyes, voice barely above a whisper. “This isn’t how I wanted it to go.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I should’ve been out there.” He exhales shakily. “I could’ve helped. Even one shift. Even—”

“Sid.” You take his face in your hands, make him look at you. “You did everything you could. Everything.”

He swallows hard. “I wanted gold for them.”

You smile gently. “I wanted gold for you.”

His eyes soften at that, going glassy around the edges.

“And I’m proud of you,” you tell him quietly. “Just like I was in Vancouver when you scored that goal. Just like I was in Sochi. I’m proud of you in Milan too.”

“C’mon…” he whispers, voice cracking just a little.

You wrap your arms around him, feel the tension in his shoulders, the tremor of disappointed adrenaline still running through him. His embrace tightens, careful of his injured leg but desperate all the same.

“You’re still my favorite player in the whole world,” you murmur against his neck. “Gold or silver or nothing at all.”

He laughs softly, brokenly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You pull back, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Always. Always always.”

He looks at you then with eyes warm and tired and full of a love that has lasted half your life.

You slide your fingers into his. “Let’s get you back to the hotel, Captain.”

“You’re proud of me?”

You kiss his temple, right where the silver threads of hair catch the light.

“Always.”

His medal shines a bit under the harsh arena lights. Silver against silver hair. Silver against a heart that has always been gold.

—

Sid felt something was wrong the moment you called him Sidney.

He was upstairs, towel low around his hips, hair still damp and curling at the ends the way it always did after a shower. He had been outside all morning, splitting wood even though he didn’t really need to, just burning off energy. The house was for the most part, quiet in that comfortable way you both liked. Fire crackling downstairs. Wind blowing against the windows. Everything normal.

Until your voice floated up the stairs.

“Sidney?”

He stopped dead in the hallway, one foot still half inside the bedroom. Water dripped from his hair onto the hardwood floor. He didn’t even notice.

Sidney.

Not Sid. Not babe. Not honey or love or whatever sweet thing you’d called him that morning without thinking about it.

Sidney.

He stood there longer than he should have, replaying the day like a tape. Every interaction. Every word. Every look. Had he said something weird? Had he brushed you off? Had he missed something obvious because he was tired or distracted?

He hadn’t even seen you much that morning. You’d been quiet, yeah, but quiet wasn’t new. You were allowed to be quiet. Still, it didn’t feel right in his bones and in his heart.

You called again, louder this time. “Sidney.”

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

Now he had to decide. Rush down like something was wrong, which could make it worse if you were already annoyed. Or take it slow, casual, pretend everything was fine, which could also make it worse if you needed him immediately.

He went with somewhere in the middle. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants, didn’t bother with a shirt, and headed downstairs, trying to keep his steps normal, not too fast, not too slow. His heart was thudding anyway. Hard enough that it felt like he could feel it in his neck.

When he reached the kitchen, you were already there. You were standing at the counter, kettle steaming softly, mug in front of you. Hair loose, face a little pale, shoulders slightly hunched like the weight of your own body felt heavier today. You didn’t look angry. You didn’t look anything at all, really.

Which somehow made it worse.

“Hey,” he said carefully. “You called?”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Yeah. I was gonna ask if you could make me some tea.”

He immediately stepped forward. “I can do that.”

You shook your head, already reaching for the kettle. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

“Oh,” he said. Then, because he didn’t know what else to say, “What kind?”

“Chamomile.”

“Okay,” he said quickly. “I’ll do it. I don’t mind.”

“It’s already done,” you said, not unkind, just flat. “I already poured it.”

He watched you add honey. Stir slowly. Set the spoon down.

“Did you need anything else?” he asked. “Water? Toast? I can make you something.”

You shook your head again. “No. I’m good.”

“You sure?” he pressed. “You look… off.”

You huffed a quiet laugh that barely had humor in it. “I’m fine.”

“Oh,” he said again. “Okay.”

He shifted his weight. Cleared his throat. “I didn’t hear you come downstairs.”

“I tried not to make a lot of noise.”

“Right,” he said. “Yeah.”

He watched you lift the mug, hands wrapped around it like you were cold even though the fire was going strong in the other room. He resisted the urge to grab a blanket. Didn’t want to crowd you. Didn’t want to annoy you more.

God, was he annoying you?

“I’m gonna sit by the fire for a bit,” you said, already turning away.

“Okay,” he said immediately. “I’ll be right there. If you want.”

You shrugged. “Do whatever.”

Shit.

He let you walk away before following, giving you space even though every instinct told him to close the distance. You settled on the rug in front of the fireplace instead of the couch. That was another thing. You usually liked the couch. Usually liked him beside you, legs tangled, feet tucked under his thigh. This was new. He sat down on the couch anyway, careful, perching on the edge like a guest in his own house. The fire popped softly. Outside, the wind picked up again.

Minutes passed.

“You cold?” he asked finally.

“A little.”

“I can grab you a blanket.”

“I’m okay.”

He was absolutely losing his mind.

Internally, he was kicking the shit out of himself. What did I do? What did I miss? Was it something stupid? Something small that grew legs when he wasn’t paying attention?

He tries not to make it obvious that every nerve in his body is tuned to you, but he also keeps himself in the general vicinity like if he wanders too far, something worse might happen. Like he’ll miss the moment where you finally say, hey, you fucked up, and he won’t be there to fix it fast enough.

So he stays.

You stay quiet.

When you do move, it’s slow. You shuffle into the kitchen for more water. You drift back toward the fire. You don’t ask for anything. You don’t complain. You don’t snap. You just… exist. Wrapped in that blanket.

He stays on the couch for at least an hour, then on the arm of it, then eventually on the floor a few feet away from you, back against the coffee table. Close enough to feel involved. Far enough to not intrude. He pretends to scroll on his phone but keeps glancing up every thirty seconds, checking your posture, your breathing, the way your shoulders rise and fall.

“You comfy?” he asks quietly after a while.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He swallows and nods. Dinner time sneaks up on him. He realizes it when his stomach growls and he immediately feels guilty about it, like needing food right now is somehow selfish.

“Hey,” he says gently, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m gonna make somethin’, okay?”

You hum in response, eyes never leaving the fire.

“Nothing fancy,” he adds quickly. “Just… easy.”

“Okay.”

He cooks like he’s trying not to make noise. Opens cabinets slower than normal. Sets things down instead of dropping them. He makes something warm and simple. Soup. Grilled cheese. He cuts yours into triangles because he knows that’s how you like it.

He brings a bowl over and sets it on the coffee table, crouching down in front of you. “I made soup. You don’t have to eat it now. Just wanted it here in case.”

You look at it, then up at him. “Thank you.”

He forces a small smile. “Of course, baby.”

He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t touch you. Just retreats back a step and sits on the floor again. When you take a few spoonfuls, he feels a ridiculous rush of relief.

Later, he puts on a movie. One you’ve seen a million times. He keeps the volume low and pulls the curtains even though it’s already dark out. He grabs another blanket and drapes it over his lap, then hesitates before bringing it to you.

“You want another one?” he asks.

“Yeah. That’d be nice.”

He lays it over your shoulders carefully, tucking it around you without letting his hands linger too long. He misses touching you even if he did so last night. An hour passes like that. Maybe two. He makes more tea. Sets it down within reach. Brings cookies from the pantry, the soft kind you like, and pretends it’s no big deal.

“Thought you might want somethin’ sweet,” he says.

You smile faintly. “Thanks.”

At some point, he disappears upstairs and comes back down with your pillow tucked under his arm. The one that smells like your hair products. He holds it out awkwardly.

“I figured… laying down here can’t be great on your neck.”

You accept it, nestling it under your head. He watches you get more comfortable and feels like he’s done something right for the first time all day. He brings your phone charger next. Just sets it beside you, plugs it in.

“Your battery was low,” he murmurs.

You glance at your phone, then at him. “You think of everything.”

If only you knew.

Every so often, he tries again.

“You need anything?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

He stops asking after a while, worried even that is too much. So he just stays. Sits. Watches. Worries. He tells himself you’re just tired. Maybe overwhelmed. Maybe he’s reading too much into it. But the way you called him Sidney earlier keeps echoing in his head, and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s hurt you somehow and doesn’t even know where to start apologizing. He runs a hand over his face, exhales slowly, and leans back.

By the time he realizes how late it’s gotten, the fire has burned down to a small glow. The movie is long over. The only sound now is the soft ticking of the clock in the kitchen and the clicking of the heat turning on and off.

He realizes he’s been waiting. Waiting for you to say what you always do. Come to bed, Sid. Or, you ready? Or sometimes you don’t even say anything at all, you just stand up, stretch, and look at him with that little smile of yours.

But it doesn’t come because you’re asleep.

Curled on your side on the floor. One hand is curled near your face, the other resting loosely against your side. Your mouth is parted just slightly. There’s a faint wetness to your temple that wasn’t there this morning.

“Oh, babe,” he murmurs, barely louder than the last crackling of the fire.

He checks the time on his phone and swears quietly under his breath. It’s late. Later than he meant it to be. Later than he likes it to be on a night before a game.

He crouches beside you, careful not to move the blanket. For a moment he just watches you, conflicted. You look peaceful. Too peaceful to wake. But also… you’re on the damn floor.

He’s picked you up a hundred times like it’s nothing. Half asleep, fully asleep, laughing, protesting. You always joke that it’s unfair how easy it is for him. He could scoop you up right now, carry you upstairs, tuck you into bed, crawl in beside you, wrap himself around you the way he always does. That’s what he should do. But his head is loud tonight. Too loud. You shift slightly, brow knitting for half a second, and then your eyes crack open.

“Sid,” you murmur, voice thick with sleep. Nasally. Scratchy.

He freezes.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You blink a few times, focus slowly finding him crouched there. “You didn’t,” you say. “You’re thinkin’ too loud.”

He huffs out a helpless little laugh. “Didn’t know I could do that.”

“Mm. You can,” you say, eyes already drifting shut again. “Go to bed.”

He frowns. “Hey, no. C’mon. Let me get you upstairs.”

You shake your head, stubborn. “I’m good right here.”

He hesitates, hand hovering near your shoulder but not touching. “You sure? I don’t want you sleeping on the floor, babe.”

“I’m comfortable.”

His mouth opens, then closes. His brain immediately latches onto the word comfortable and twists it into something else.

“You’re gonna wake up sore,” he says instead. “And then you’ll complain about it.”

A corner of your lips lifts. “I promise I won’t complain to you.”

To you. That lands weird. His stomach drops again.

Is that it? Is that why you’re mad? Did he brush you off about something earlier? Did he not listen?

He doesn’t even realize he’s gone still until you shift again and reach out, fingers curling around his ankle.

“Sid,” you murmur, squeezing lightly. “Go to bed.”

“You sound stuffed up,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

“I’m okay.” You sniff, like you’re proving his point without meaning to. “And you need to sleep,” you add. “You’ve got a game tomorrow.”

There it is. The responsible reminder. The one you always give him. The one that usually makes him smile. Tonight it just makes his stomach hurt.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “But I can bring you pajamas. Or I can sleep down here with you. Couch is fine. Floor’s fine. I don’t care.”

Your eyes open again, a little more this time. You look at him like he’s sweet and ridiculous and missing the point.

“No. Go upstairs. I’m good.”

He swallows. “You sure you don’t want me here?”

You squeeze his ankle again, firmer this time. “Go. Please.”

Please.

That’s new too.

“Okay,” he says, voice quiet. “Okay.”

He stands, reluctantly, every step away from you feeling wrong. At the stairs, he pauses and looks back. You’re already settled again, eyes closed, breathing steady, hand tucked back under the blanket.

What the hell just happened?

He brushes his teeth. Changes into pajamas. Slides into bed alone, the space beside him cold and untouched, and stares at the ceiling. His mind won’t stop. You sent him to bed. Let him sleep alone. Stayed on the floor by yourself. He turns onto his side, facing your empty spot, and exhales slowly.

Okay. Don’t panic. Don’t make it worse. You said you’re fine. You said go to bed.

So he does what you asked. But sleep takes a long time to find him. And when morning comes, he wakes up before his alarm.

He’s been half conscious for a while, drifting in and out, listening for any sound from downstairs that never comes. He gives up on sleep entirely when the clock ticks past a time he normally would have already been up on a game day anyway.

He pads downstairs in socks, steps careful out of habit, and stops when he sees you.

You’re still there. Your hair is fanned out against the pillow. Your face is tense. He crouches beside you immediately.

“Hey,” he whispers, even though he knows you won’t answer. “Baby.”

He presses the back of his fingers lightly to your cheek and frowns. You’re warm. Not just cozy warm. Warm warm. His thumb brushes your temple, then your hairline. You stir a little but don’t wake. Just sigh and tuck your chin closer to your chest like a cat.

“Okay,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay.”

He debates carrying you upstairs again, but you look so settled. He doesn’t want to push. Not again. So he leaves you. Not far. Never far.

He does his usual stretches right there in the living room, mat rolled out near the couch. He moves quietly through the routine but his eyes keep drifting back to you. You don’t wake. Not when he lunges. Not when he twists. Not even when his phone buzzes with a morning notification.

That’s not like you.

He showers quickly, gets dressed, ties his shoes. When he comes back down, you’re still asleep. He stands there for a second, hands on his hips, watching the rise and fall of your breathing. He makes breakfast even though he knows you won’t eat it right away. Eggs. Toast. Fruit. He fixes you a plate and slides it into the fridge with a little note stuck to the top in his messy handwriting.

Eat when you wake up. Text me, okay?

He hesitates before leaving, bending down to press a kiss to your forehead. You’re still unnaturally warm. He lingers just a second before he pulls away.

At the rink, he moves through everything on autopilot.

The guys chirp him a little, nothing unusual. He laughs when he’s supposed to. Focuses when it matters. But there’s a part of him that’s split off, constantly checking the time, wondering if you’re awake yet. Wondering if you saw the note. Wondering if you’re still mad.

He sends you a text during a quiet moment sitting in his stall.

Sid: Morning, beautiful. I made you breakfast. Hope you slept okay. Love you.

He stares at the screen longer than he should.

No reply.

“Alright,” he mutters to himself. “That’s fine.”

The game comes and goes. He plays well. They win. The horn sounds and the boys pile on each other, grinning, loud, sweaty, happy.

He checks his phone again as soon as he’s back in the room.

You: Good luck today. Go get em

He types back immediately.

Sid: Thanks, baby. Miss you. See you soon.

No reply after that either, but at least it’s something. Proof you’re not upset enough to ignore him completely. Proof you’re thinking about him at all.

On the way home, he takes a detour to the grocery store. He gets to wander the aisles like a man on a mission without a clear goal. Flowers first. He grabs the prettiest ones, the ones he’s sure you’ll like, then second guesses himself and adds another bunch. Ice cream. Your favorite flavor. The good kind. Then a different kind, just in case. He pauses, staring at a display of candles, then shakes his head and keeps walking.

“Don’t overdo it,” he mutters. “Jesus.”

He adds soup to the basket. Tea. Honey. Things he doesn’t consciously register as sick care, just comfort. Just… insurance.

At checkout, he stares down at the pile of things and exhales slowly.

Maybe you’ll forgive him.

Forgive him for what, he doesn’t know. He just knows he wants to fix it. Wants to make whatever wrong he’s done easier to handle.

He loads everything into the car, sits there for a second with his hands on the wheel, taking deep breaths.

Okay. He’ll go home. He’ll ask gently. He won’t push. He’ll listen.

But when he finally does get home, the house feels… different.

Not tense like before. Not heavy like before.

He sets the grocery bags down on the counter, keys clinking softly, and that’s when he hears the shower turn off upstairs. A few minutes later, soft footsteps on the stairs. He looks up just as you round the corner. You’re freshly showered. You’re wearing clean clothes, one of his shirts, but you move like your body is made of sand instead of bone. Slightly sluggish.

And then you see him. Your face lights up immediately. Which, honestly, he was not prepared for. You just walk straight to him and wrap your arms around his middle, pressing your cheek into his chest.

“Hi, honey,” you murmur.

Sidney freezes for half a second.

Then instinct takes over and his arms are around you, pulling you close, holding you tight like he’s been bracing for this without realizing it. He buries his nose in your hair, breathes you in, relief flooding his chest so fast it almost makes him dizzy.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Hi.”

You linger there, hugging him longer than usual. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t move. Just rocks you gently side to side. When you finally pull back, your eyes flick to the counter behind him. To the flowers sitting there, bright and full and a little ridiculous.

Your brows knit together, shy and curious. “Why did you get me flowers?”

His ears go pink.

“No reason,” he says too fast.

You smile. “Okay.” You reach out and touch them, fingers brushing the petals carefully. “They’re very pretty.”

“Thought so,” he murmurs.

You sniff suddenly, hard enough that it’s noticeable. Then again. You rub at your nose with the back of your hand, wincing a little.

He frowns immediately. “Hey. You alright?”

“I feel like shit.”

He blinks. “What?”

You glance up at him. “Yeah. I’ve been feeling awful since yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding slowly. “Headache, sore throat, chills. I thought maybe it’d pass but it just… didn’t.”

He stares at you, mouth opening and closing once before he finds words. “You’ve been sick?”

You tilt your head. “Pretty sure I came down with something.”

“Oh.” Then, immediately, “Wait. You’re not mad at me?”

You stare at him.

“What?” you ask, genuinely confused.

“You weren’t… upset?”

“With you?” You laugh, then cough softly into your hand. “Why would I be upset with you?”

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, embarrassed now that the panic has nowhere to hide. “I don’t know. You called me my full name. You barely talked. You slept on the floor alone. You told me to go to bed alone.”

Your eyes widen slowly.

“Oh my god,” you press a hand to your forehead, shaking your head. “Sid, I was not mad at you.”

He exhales hard, half laughing, half groaning. “I thought I fucked up so bad.”

“You thought I was pissed?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. “I thought you were furious. Like, the worst kind where you go all quiet on me.”

Your laughter grows, soft and wheezy and a little nasally. “Oh my god. No. I was just trying not to move because everything hurt.”

He stares at you for a second longer, then pulls you back into his chest, forehead dropping to yours.

“I spent all night trying to figure out what I did,” he mutters. “I bought you flowers and ice cream and chocolate like I was apologizing for murder.”

You snort. “That explains the groceries.”

“I was gonna ask you if I messed up but I couldn’t build up the courage.”

You tilt your head back to look at him, expression softening. “I’m sorry if I came off that way. I didn’t even think about it.”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “I should’ve noticed you weren’t feelin’ good.”

“You did. You just… thought it was something else.”

He kisses your forehead, lingering there. “You scared the shit outta me.”

You smile, tired but fond. “You’re cute when you worry.”

“Don’t tell anyone that,” he murmurs.

You laugh again, then sag into him slightly, exhaustion catching up with you now that the misunderstanding is gone. He tightens his hold immediately.

“C’mon,” he says softly. “Let’s get you on the couch. Or bed. Or wherever you wanna be that isn’t the floor.”

“Mmm,” you hum. “Fireplace.”

He smiles. “Figured.”

He picks you up without thinking this time, and you don’t argue at all.

You gripped Matt’s larger hand in yours as you two walked into the bar, every corner filled with players and staff from the Rangers organization.

It was your and Matt’s first Halloween celebration with the team and the other wags had been telling you how exciting the weekend always was, how sometimes they didn’t even know how they made it home, how many babies had resulted from the weekend.

“This place is packed.” He dipped down to whisper in your ear.

You nodded in agreement, the bar was the usual go to for the players so it wasn’t your first time there but it was definitely your first time seeing it this busy.

“Hey! You kids made it.” Kris cheered as his eyes found the two of you, a wide smile taking over his face as he came closer.

You leaned into Matt’s touch as you felt one of his large arms come to rest over your shoulder, the weight of his arm heavy but comforting in such a loud and busy place.

“Yeah! Cant believe how full this place is.” Matt laughed.

“I told you kids we know how to throw a party.” Kris shrugged with a smile, “Can I get you two anything to drink?” He asked

“No we’re good for tonight, got a lot to do tomorrow.” Matt answered for you, the both of you agreeing to have a sober evening.

The brunette nodded before he was pulled away into another conversation, you turned in Matt’s hold his arm dropped but his hand quickly came to rest on the bottom of your back over the silky material of your dress.

“Wanna dance?” You asked.

“Hmm?” He questioned, brows furrowed as he leaned down a little closer.

“I asked if you wanted to go dance with me..” You replied this time speaking louder.

A smirk took over your boyfriend’s face at your words, he didn’t even reply as he closed his hand around yours and tugged you to the dance floor.

Matt would admit he wasn’t the best dancer and sometimes he looked a little awkward but he’d never miss the chance of having you pressed against him as you swayed back and forth to whatever song the club was playing.

The song playing was upbeat but sensual, you pressed your front to his back, his hands coming to rest on your waist as you started to move your hips against his groin.

Butterflies swarmed in your stomach at his heavy touch, looking down you admired the way his fingertips nearly met thanks to the length of them, how wide his hands looked sprawled over your stomach when he moved them to pull you closer to him.

Matt was a big man, there was no doubt about that and while sometimes it was a struggle dating someone so much taller, most times you loved it.

You two danced for a while, and by the time you pulled away you could feel Matt’s cock poking your back, his grip much stronger, while you were depending on his grip to keep you standing.

“I’m gonna get a drink.” You pulled away, flushed and didn’t wait for his reply before you booked it to the bar.

Making your way to the bar you spotted one of the other girlfriends, giving her a quick hug you two dived into a conversation.

“If your little red riding hood then I’m guessing Matt is the big bag wolf?” She smirked.

You blushed at her suggestive tone, it was no secret how much bigger Matt was then you, the way one of his hands swallowed yours, how he towered over you, how one hand was able to effortlessly wrap around your neck.

You didn’t get a chance to reply before a body was pressed against the back of yours, you jumped forward in surprise but the familiar smell of Matt’s cologne has you calming down.

You quickly leaned into his warmth as his hands came to rest on both sides of you, trapping you against the wooden bar.

You friend winked at you before scurrying away with a smirk on her face.

“You know I think this dress is a bit short little miss red.” He spoke in your ear, breath hot against your skin.

“Is that so?”

“Mhm” you could feel his lips twitch into a smirk as his lips were still close to your ear, the deepness of his voice sending heat rushing through your body.

“Maybe you should do something about it.” You shrugged.

“Oh should I?”

“Yup.” You smirked turning to face him, his deep eyes dropping to your chest, the sweetheart neckline enhancing your breasts even more,

The tension grew as his eyes locked with yours, his large hands coming to rest on your hips now, their grip firm as he pulled you into him.

“And what exactly is it that you think I should do about it?”

“I don’t know..” you trailed off, fingers tracing invisible patterns on his chest over his dark shirt, standing on your tippy toes before speaking up again.

“Maybe take me home.., rip it off, shove my face into the pillows.”

The groan he let out was almost animalistic, his grip tightening just a bit as he pulled you flush against him this time.

You could feel his chest move in and out as he dipped down, “you wanna know what I think I should do?”

“What?”

“I think I should take you home, push this slutty little dress up and fuck you stupid, watch as those pretty tears stream down your face, maybe wrap my hand around that little throat..” he spat, his voice dark as he expressed all the things he wanted to do to you.

You couldn’t help the small whimper that broke free at his words, the thought of being pinned under his massive body as he took care of you in ways no one else ever could had your cunt practically dripping.

“Take me home Matt, now.”

That was all the Canadian needed before his hand was in yours and he was rushing out the bar, ignoring the voices of his teammates as he pulled you along.

The car ride home was tense, his left hand gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white while the other drummed impatiently against the exposed skin of your thigh.

Finally reaching your shared apartment you both moved fast, getting to your apartment in record time Matt had you pinned against the door the second it was shut.

His lips were locked on yours in a hot kiss as he picked you up from the ground, your legs wrapping around his middle as his hands dropped to your ass.

You moaned against his lips as he took a handful through your spandex, the feeling shooting sparks to your cunt.

You held onto his neck as he began to walk through the apartment, lips parting as you made your way down his neck, sucking lightly below his ear earning you a deep sigh of pleasure.

Flicking on the bedroom light Matt threw you down on the large bed, watching amusingly as you bounced on the plush material.

You watched from your position as he stalked towards you, his eyes dark and face determined, like a predator hunting their prey.

He was quick to remove the heeled boots you wore before removing your little cape and hood he yanked you back down the bed by your ankles.

He groaned as he pulled your spandex and panties off in one go, revealing your dripping cunt, sitting wet and ready for him.

“Matt please.” You whined, bucking your hips in attempt for some sort of friction only for him to back away.

“Please what?” He smirked.

“Fuck me, please.”

He didn’t need to hear more before his hands were dropping to his belt, undoing the metal clasp before tugging his jeans and boxers down.

He watched in awe as you played with yourself while you waited, your small fingers not doing nearly as much as his large ones would but they were enough.

“Ready?” He asked softly as he pumped himself a few times.

“Yes please.” You begged again and who was he to keep you waiting?

Running his thick tip against your folds he slid inside your welcoming cunt slowly, both of you moaning in sync as he filled you up.

Your head dropped back at the burn, fingers still working your clit to keep the pleasure flowing until he had you filled to the brim.

He gave you a second to adjust before he began his thrusts, he wasn’t waiting anymore before snapping his hips roughly against yours.

Throwing one of your legs over his shoulders he watched as you took him effortlessly now, his cock coated in your juices as you moaned out incoherent babbles.

He loved the way your leg barely even touched his shoulder, how if he bent you just right way he could see the tip of his cock in your lower belly, and don’t get him started on seeing your throat covered by one of scarred hands.

“Fuck Matt!” You moaned, “S’ so big, fuck..”

“You’re doing so good for me baby, my good girl” he groaned, reaching up to pull down the top of your flimsy dress allowing your tits to spill free.

He adjusted the two of you a bit before he leaned forward, your knees tucked against you as he leaned down, his cock hitting an even deeper part of your body.

He drowned out your shriek with his lips, his hands moving to grope your breasts, his rough fingers pulling and pinching on the sensitive buds of your nipples.

He could feel you begging to clutch him tightly, a sign you were close he pulled your legs apart and moved so he was now on top of you.

His large body completely covering yours as he pinned you to the bed, the added weight and closeness of your body edging you further and further towards the edge.

You were struggling to keep your eyes open as the pleasure got more intense with each thrusts, the pleasure becoming so overwhelming.

Matt hissed as your nails scratched down his back, the stinging sensation only pushing him to keep going.

“I’m so close.” You whimpered, eyes opening for a second to catch a sight of Matt’s pleasured face, his eyes locked on your face as he read your expression.

“I know baby, go ahead and come for me.” He cooed, one of his hands moving to rub your clit.

Your entire body shook as you came around his cock, the tightness of your cunt bringing Matt to his climax with you.

He continued to fuck both of you through your highs, matched whimpers coming from both of you as he finally slid out and laid down next to you.

You both remained silent for a while, the only sound filling the air was the heavy panting coming from the both of you.

Finally Matt stood and walked towards your bathroom, returning a few seconds later with a warm wash cloth and towel.

He kneeled between your legs as he cleaned you as gentle as possible, cooing softly when you whined against the touch.

Once he got you cleaned up and exchanged your costume for one of his large shirts he got himself dressed before tucking you in while he went to get bottles of water.

Returning with two bottles in one hand and your favorite chips in the other he handed everything to you before climbing in next to you, pulling your warm body against his.

“Wanna watch Adventure time?” He asked as he turned the tv on.

“You just fucked me stupid and now we’re gonna watch cartoons?” You laughed.

“I mean..yeah, What’s wrong with Adventure time?”

“Nothing honey, I’ll watch whatever you’re feeling.” You smiled with a shake of your head, cuddling into his large chest as he pressed play.

immediately when matt sinks into your snug, gummy walls, it’s perfect.

years upon years of friendship and almost moments—from pigtails and braces, getting jealous over his past girlfriends when they called you, with that pitiful smile on their face, and your relationship with matt, cute. fights and sneaking tequila and matt fighting the surge to kiss your tears away anytime you cry, all of that has lead up to this.

boiled and bubbled into a sloppy, tension filled kiss that just screamed: finally!

now you’re pressed flat into his expensive, plush mattress. thighs spread in a way that’s borderline painful, achy in your hips bones but nonetheless welcomed where they bracket his strong hips.

hovering above you, matt is breathing heavily. bare chest damp with sweat, which should gross you out but it does the complete opposite. so much so that you can’t stop yourself from reaching out, a ghost of a touch against his ribs. keeping him close—needing him to be.

“oh my—fuck,” he cuts himself off with a rumbly curse, slowly increasing the speed of his thrusts. one of his impossibly large hands—the hands you used to only allow yourself to dream about touching you so intimately—grabs the back of your thigh, hitching it higher, towards your chest.

it opens you up in a way that feels glorious, and also allows him to fully sheath himself inside you. because of course he’s massive. just a few minutes ago, when you’d pulled him out of his athletic shorts between lazy kisses, you’d been left momentarily frozen at the sheer size of him.

but now, all you can think about is how badly you need him in you. moving at this very pace—right between too slow and too fast. hard enough to leave you breathless but not enough to bruise.

you mewl, lashes fluttering as your eyes begin to close. but you force yourself to keep them open, because you don’t want to miss a single moment of this.

“matt,” your breath catches at a particularly sharp thrust, making your toes curl and heart palpitate in your chest.

he looks up at you, eyes half lidded and hazy in a way that says he’s in this. lost in the feeling of you and your love and friendship.

then, he almost lets out a laugh, a breathy sound that makes you want to pull him down for another kiss. “i’ve been thinking about this,” matt huffs, angry plum coloured tip hitting your cervix like it belongs there. “been thinking about this for years.”

—

The wedding feels like it had happened a lifetime ago, a year will do that to you, though the group chat still pinged a few times a week with photos, memes, and the occasional wedding picture someone’s aunt had finally gotten around to uploading. You kept it muted but didn’t have the heart to leave it. Every now and then, someone would mention something Sidney had said or done, and even though your stomach always turned a little at the mention of his name, you never looked away.

You left early the morning after, bag over your shoulder, coffee in hand, dress from the night before shoved unceremoniously into your luggage. You didn’t see Sidney again after that dance. You hadn’t expected to, really. You weren’t even sure why it disappointed you. There was a moment you’d hoped he might appear before you pulled out of your parents’ driveway, say something else, anything–but your phone stayed silent, and he never came.

Your boyfriend–well, your ex now–helped you unpack. Took you out for tacos the night you guys got home. Told you how much he missed you. He kissed you gently, and your chest stayed hollow.

You broke things off a few weeks later. You told him it wasn’t fair to either of you, and that was the truth. He was good to you. But there was always someone else tucked somewhere inside you–someone who’d never really left. And that didn’t feel fair to carry anymore.

So you buried yourself in work.

Your boss was thrilled. You were responsive, stayed late, handled every last-minute change and crisis with crazy focus. It helped, in a way, to keep your hands busy, to keep moving. You reorganized the filing system no one asked you to. Picked up projects that had been sitting untouched in your shared drive for months. You started biking to work again. Your friends noticed the difference in you and chalked it up to the breakup. You let them. It was easier than trying to explain the ache you still didn’t fully understand.

Your mom texted you updates about Sidney every now and then. She’d mention he stopped by the house, or that he looked good, healthy, tan. You never asked for updates, but you never asked her to stop either.

And it was through your mom that you found out he was spending summers in Cole Harbour, he had for years. Quietly. Just training, she said. He kept a low profile, and had a house by the lake. Ran in the early mornings. Was polite and kind when he came by. Always asked how you were.

That last part made your throat burn.

You didn’t have his number. You remembered that sometime last September after the wedding, lying on your couch, exhausted after a ten-hour day, scrolling through the group chat. He hadn’t said anything in it for a while. But he was in it. You scrolled up, heart in your mouth, back to the wedding day. The blurry photo of the two of you at the table, leaning into each other, laughing at something you couldn’t remember. His hand on the back of your chair. Your knee pressed lightly to his.

You’d felt so close to him that night. Close in a way you hadn’t in years.

And then–nothing.

You stared at the contact number attached to his name in the chat. Just a series of digits. You’d never saved it. Never messaged him after. You didn’t even know if he'd answer.

You were both adults. If he wanted to talk to you, he could. Right?

You tried not to wonder too much about what he was doing. Who he was seeing. But of course, you did. You always did.

And you waited.

And somewhere between his silences and yours, the ache just kept humming. That quiet, low ache. The one that told you both it wasn’t finished yet.

Lately though, something had started stirring again.

That old itch to leave. To run. To reinvent.

You weren’t unhappy where you were, not really. But it didn’t feel like yours. It never had. Not in the way you secretly wished it could. You’d decorated your apartment with warm tones and soft light. Put a plant in every room. Bought a yellow kettle just because it made you smile. But still–something was missing.

Home.

Not a place. Not really a person either, or at least not one you’d allow yourself to name. Just a feeling. A gut-deep sense that you belonged somewhere.

You thought about California. You had a friend there–your old roommate, someone with a dog and a spare room and sunshine year-round. Or maybe Vancouver, just for the coastal change. Or London. Or anywhere you didn’t have history bleeding into your walls.

You found yourself clicking through flight deals like it was a hobby. You caught yourself staring at your bookshelves and wondering how many boxes it would take. You told yourself it was seasonal cleaning, another spring shifting into summer. But the piles started to build as weeks went by.

Keep.

Sell.

Donate.

Your furniture was already listed online. Your lease was up in two months, the end of August, and you hadn’t renewed. You hadn’t told anyone. Not your parents. Not Janie. Not your brother. Because if you told them, they’d try to talk you down. Ask questions. Wonder why.

And you didn’t have an answer that didn’t sound like a confession.

Because nothing ever felt like home.

Not since that backyard a year ago. Not since that slow dance. Not since that damn tuxedo and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he remembered from the entire wedding.

And still–he hadn’t called.

Not once.

You sometimes imagined it. The screen lighting up with a number that didn’t need a name. Or running into him accidentally on purpose if you visited your parents for the weekend. Or catching him in town, in line at the bakery with his cap pulled low. You’d say his name. He’d turn around. There’d be that pause.

But none of that happened.

All you got were updates.

And then your mom asked if they could come to yours for your dad’s birthday. “It’d mean a lot to him,” she said. “We haven’t seen you in forever.”

You told her you’d check with work. That you had some deadlines, maybe a trip. You didn’t mention that your apartment would probably be empty by then. Or that you hadn’t slept a full night in weeks because you kept waking up wondering if you were doing the right thing.

Because it’s one thing to leave. It’s another to admit that you’re still running.

And running from what, exactly?

The guy who held your hand at your best friend’s wedding like he’d never stopped thinking about you?

The guy who danced with you like something old had cracked open again?

The guy who didn’t call?

It wasn’t fair. Not to him. Not to yourself. But the wound was deeper than logic. It sat under your ribs and whispered, You’ll never feel that way again.

And you hated how true it felt.

You figured it would be easier to say yes to whatever plans they had than to explain why you didn’t want them coming to you.

So you agreed, eventually, to the trip your brother pitched–Europe, for your dad’s birthday. A handful of cities and plenty of walking, a few too many group selfies, and a series of elaborate dinners your dad insisted on paying for. It was the kind of thing that looked picturesque in photos, but you’d been in a bit of a fog ever since the wedding.

You didn’t tell them that. You couldn’t. Your mom was already so thrilled just to have you with them–cried three times the first day alone, once on the plane and twice on the cobblestones outside the Airbnb in Lisbon. Wiped her eyes and hugged your face and said, “You don’t know how much I missed this. You. All of us.”

So how the hell were you supposed to tell her the truth? That you weren’t planning on staying in Canada for much longer. That the trip wasn’t just a family vacation–it was your way of buying time before disappearing again.

You just smiled and hugged her back. Told her you were happy to be there. Which wasn’t a lie, not entirely.

There were happy moments. Like when your brother and Janie couldn’t stop talking about the Amalfi Coast and how much wine they’d had on their first wedding anniversary. Or when your dad got tipsy and took over the aux at dinner, playing songs from your childhood and dancing badly in his seat. Or when your mom lit up seeing every church and every fountain, and somehow cried again at every new view. It was sweet. It was everything they needed.

And you were okay. Just a little bit... outside of it. Like you were floating behind glass. Close enough to feel the warmth, but too removed to sink into it fully.

Sidney came up once, at dinner in Barcelona. Your brother brought him up casually–something about how he should’ve been there, too, how he was practically family. “He’s basically my brother,” he said, smiling, spearing a slice of grilled pepper onto his fork. “We should’ve invited him.”

You tried not to react. Just reached for your glass of water, heart sinking a little like it always did when his name surfaced.

You didn’t ask.

And you definitely didn’t say anything that night in Barcelona, not about Sidney, not about how you still felt hollow from dancing with him and then disappearing like it had never happened. Like you hadn’t fallen for him all over again, embarrassingly fast and heartbreakingly slow.

The truth was… you weren’t looking for anyone. You were looking for something–but you didn’t know what. A reset. A clean break. A place where no one knew you or expected anything of you. Where you wouldn’t catch glimpses of Sidney on TV and feel like your chest was going to fold in on itself.

Because it wasn’t just about the wedding. It wasn’t just about the dance or the way his hands had felt on your waist or the way his voice had dropped when he told you he didn’t want the night to end.

It was everything. The whole history. Years of it.

The boy who lived across the street. The teenager who used to pass you the puck in your driveway. The young man who grew up too fast. The friend who was always almost something more–except the timing was always wrong.

And now? You didn’t know if the timing would ever be right. Or if you could even afford to find out.

You just knew something had to change. That if you stayed still any longer, you were going to unravel.

So when the trip ended, and you touched down back on Canadian soil, your mind was already spinning. You’d smiled and hugged your parents goodbye, promised to call soon. You hugged Janie too–tighter than she probably expected–but still said nothing. 

You were tired. Not from the travel, but from pretending you didn’t feel like you were always half a second from breaking.

It was a quiet Wednesday when you told her. Over two weeks had passed since you got back from Europe and you still hadn’t unpacked. Not really. You’d opened your suitcase, peeled your dirty laundry from the clean, tossed the things you wore most into the washing machine, but everything else had stayed folded in the same arrangement it had when you’d left. You figured… what was the point? You were leaving anyway.

The puppy had been the reason you’d even answered the FaceTime. Janie had texted earlier with “Pick up when you can! Gotta show you someone” and something about her tone–or the emoji–made it impossible to ignore. You had been sitting on your kitchen counter, bare feet against the cool cabinet door, a mug of tea going cold beside you when the screen lit up again.

Janie’s showing you the puppy–some tiny, clumsy mutt they found at a shelter just outside the city. He’s adorable, little brown paws too big for his body, flopping over himself as he chases a sock around their living room like it’s his full-time job. You’re smiling for real for the first time in days.

“Wait—look how he falls over,” Janie says, turning her camera, giggling, the phone a little shaky. “He’s so fucking dramatic. Just like your brother.”

You laugh. “Poor thing.”

“Your brother or the dog?”

You smile faintly. “Either or.”

Janie’s on the floor in leggings and a college hoodie, hair in a messy bun, face bare and glowy. She looks happy. Settled. The kind of settled that used to scare you when you were younger and now just makes you ache with longing. She’s got everything you thought you maybe didn’t want. A husband. A house. A whole life rooted in place.

The puppy climbs into her lap. “Anyway,” she says, scratching under his chin, “how’re you holding up? You look tired.”

You shrug. “Jet lag. And I think I’m getting a cold.”

Her eyes narrow like she doesn’t believe you.

“What?”

“Your place looks empty,” she says, casually. Too casually. “Like… really empty.”

And it’s not even accusatory. It’s just said in passing. But your chest tightens like you’ve been caught with something sharp and secret in your hands.

You could lie. You really could. Say you’re just reorganizing. Decluttering. That summer’s almost over even though its not. That you're experimenting with minimalism like a psycho.

But you don’t. You just stare for a second and then say it–like a car crash, low and inevitable.

“I think I’m gonna leave.”

There’s a pause. Just the sound of the puppy’s panting and Janie’s hand stilling over his ears.

“What?”

“I—” You don’t look at the screen. “I think I’m gonna move.”

“Move?” Her voice goes small. “Like… move move?”

You nod. It’s barely perceptible, but you feel it all the way down to your gut. “Yeah.”

“To where?”

“I don’t know yet. I was thinking maybe California for a while, or even somewhere warmer. I don’t know. Just… away.”

The puppy hops off her lap, like he knows the mood’s shifted. Janie sits up a little straighter, clutching the phone. “When were you gonna tell me?”

“I didn’t know how to bring it up.”

“We were together in another country for two weeks straight,” she says, not mean, just stunned. “We shared rooms. We shared toothpaste. What do you mean you didn’t know how?”

“I thought I could make myself stay,” you admit. “I thought if I said it out loud, I’d ruin any chance of that.”

Janie’s eyes water, just a little, the way they always do when she’s not sure whether she wants to cry or yell. “You’re still my best friend, you know? That doesn’t go away just because I married your brother.”

“I know that.” You sound like a child. “I do.”

“Then why do you keep shutting me out?”

You shake your head. “I’m not—”

“You are,” she says, and this time her voice does crack, just slightly. “You are.”

There’s a pause where neither of you say anything. You feel like you’re twelve again, about to cry in the back of a car on the way home from summer camp.

“I just…” You sigh. “I needed to make the decision without being talked out of it.”

Janie sniffs. “So you think I would’ve talked you out of it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“That’s bullshit.”

You nod. “It is.”

You both go quiet again. Janie wipes her cheek and exhales. “Okay. Well. I still think it’s stupid.”

You smile through the ache. “Noted.”

“But,” she adds, softer now, “I’m glad you told me. Eventually.”

“Yeah.” You bite your lip. “Me too.”

You leave it on good terms. Sort of. She says she loves you. You say you’ll keep her posted. She says the puppy misses you already. You pretend you don’t cry after you hang up.

But then–of course–your brother texts. Then he calls. Then your mom does.

The news moves fast in your family, especially when it’s something big. Something that could break hearts. Something that sounds suspiciously like you packing up and running away again. You don’t answer the first few texts. But when your mom calls, and you have to pick up because… it’s your mom.

She doesn’t even say hello. Just: “You’re moving?”

You let your head drop back against the cabinet. “Hi, Mom.”

“Don’t ‘Hi, Mom’ me. Is it true?”

You sigh. “Yes.”

There’s rustling on the other end, probably her pacing the kitchen like she always does when she’s overwhelmed.

“Where?” she asks. “And why?”

“I don’t know. I just… need something else.”

She exhales through her nose. “Is this about Sidney?”

You don’t answer.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Please don’t.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “You know I always thought the two of you would find your way back.”

“Yeah, well…” Your throat’s tight. “I’m done waiting around.”

“Is that what you think you’ve been doing?”

You press your eyes shut. “I don’t know. I just know I don’t feel like I belong here anymore.”

That gets her. You hear her sniffle. “You’re my daughter. You always belong.”

“I know. That’s not what I mean.”

“I know,” she says. “I know, baby.”

You both breathe quietly for a while. Then she says, “You know, I was talking to your dad… we’d love for you to come visit. Maybe just for the weekend, before you go. We don’t know when we’ll see you next.”

“I’d like that,” you say honestly.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“And maybe I can fly out with you when the time comes? Help you get settled?”

“Yeah,” you say again. “I’d like that too.”

She smiles into the phone. You can hear it. “You remember when we dropped you off at college?”

“God,” you laugh weakly, “don’t remind me.”

“You cried the whole time. Your dad almost turned the car around.”

“I was scared.”

“You’re still scared,” she says gently.

You don’t say anything.

“But you’ve always been brave.”

You press your fingers to your temple and nod, even though she can’t see you.

She tells you she loves you, and you tell her back. And when you hang up, you feel a little more fragile than you’d like to admit. 

The weekend in Cole Harbour crept up on you faster than you thought it would.

One second you were tossing your weekender bag onto your bed, telling yourself you’d start packing tomorrow–and the next, your mom was texting from the front seat of the car in your apartment’s parking lot, a simple We’re here when you’re ready, sweetie.

There was a tightness in your chest you couldn’t quite shake as you locked up the place behind you. You felt strange. The air was thick, humid, heavy with late August heat, and you kept checking your phone, wondering if you’d missed something–though you hadn’t. Everything was fine. Everything was perfectly fine.

Except you were leaving.

And no matter how much you’d tried to romanticize it–your big decision, your clean break, your fresh start–it still felt like walking away from something that hadn’t finished yet.

You tucked into the backseat of your parents’ car, hugged your mom, handed your dad a coffee you made before you came down, and settled in for the drive. They asked about work, about what time your flight was scheduled for next week, about if you’d found a new place.

You answered. You smiled. You joked. You changed the subject when it got too close to why now or what are you hoping to find out there that you don’t already have here?

You didn’t tell them the truth. Not really.

Your first night’s all family.

There were hugs at the door of your childhood home, shouts of surprise from your cousins who hadn’t realized you were coming, your brother throwing a dirty dishtowel over your shoulder just to be annoying, your dad telling anyone who’d listen, She’s leaving us for the other coast, you believe that? like it wasn’t something he’d already accepted.

Your mom was quiet, though. Not sad exactly, but... observing. Watching you.

It was simple: you all went hiking just before sunset. A group of you–your brother, Janie, your parents, and a few cousins–took the forest trail behind your uncle’s place that curved out into a scenic lookout of the bay. It was stunning. Blue and gold and green as far as the eye could see.

Your dad carried a cooler up in one arm like a pro. Janie packed little charcuterie boxes she passed out when you reached the top. You sat with your knees tucked up under your chin and just listened.

And for the first time in a while, you didn’t feel pulled in a hundred directions. Your mom walked beside you just before the sun dipped beneath the horizon, nudging your shoulder with hers.

“You remember the first time we brought you up here?” she asked, her voice soft.

You smiled. “Barely. I think I cried the whole way up.”

“You were five,” she laughed, wrapping an arm around you. “You threw a tantrum halfway. Your dad bribed you with gummy worms.”

You laughed, too, because it sounded about right.

“It’s nice, being here,” you said after a moment. “I always forget how quiet it is.”

She looked at you knowingly. “It’s the quiet places that remind us what we’re really feeling.”

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need to.

The second night was for the girls.

Janie, your mom, and you headed out on the boat with drinks and sweaters and a bunch of leftover pasta salad from the night before. It was muggy out, but the breeze on the water helped. You sat barefoot in the bow, legs stretched out, Janie beside you, both of you watching your mom steer with ease.

“You’re not taking enough with you,” Janie commented, her brow furrowed. “I saw your apartment. It’s too clean.”

You sighed. “I know.”

“You need to make a list. Like a real list.”

“I did,” you said. “My mom’s making me go over it again later.”

“Damn right I am,” your mom called out from behind the wheel. “You’re not getting across the country and realizing you forgot all your socks.”

Janie leaned in closer, her voice low. “Be honest. Are you really gonna go through with it?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared out at the water for a long moment.

“I think I have to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You swallowed. “I want to. I mean—I don’t not want to. I don’t know, Janie. I think part of me hoped I’d come home and it would just…feel wrong. Like something would stop me.”

“And does it?”

Your lips pressed into a line. “No.”

Your mom stayed quiet for a moment, hands steady on the wheel. “I still think it’s about him,” she murmured eventually.

You exhaled, a tired sort of laugh. “It’s not about him.”

“But partly?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Yes, Mom,” you admitted. “I guess you could say that.”

The last night was the send-off.

Janie, your brother, a bunch of cousins, a few family friends–you all took up three tables at the local bar, ordered a criminal amount of drinks and shared plates, and toasted every two seconds to Y/n moving the fuck on, as your brother so eloquently phrased it.

There was music and dancing and rounds of shots that made your eyes water. You kissed Janie’s cheek after your third whiskey sour, told her you loved her, and she said it back like she meant it.

Your brother wrapped you in a sweaty hug, ruffled your hair like he used to when you were little, and slurred out, “Don’t forget who your real family is when you get all L.A. on us.”

“I’m not moving to L.A.,” you muttered against his chest.

“Close enough,” he laughed, swaying a little.

“Seriously, though,” Janie said later, when it was just the three of you on the patio, catching your breath. “You’re really gonna do it?”

You nodded, heart heavy. “Yeah. I think I am.”

Your brother sighed and tipped his head back. “Fuck, man. You couldn’t have given us more time to get used to the idea?”

“I didn’t give myself more time.”

He looked over at you, suddenly serious. “Is it really just about work? Or—”

“Don’t.”

“What? You know we’re not stupid.”

“I know that,” you said quietly.

You stayed like that for a while, watching the stars blink into the sky, feeling every minute tick by with the ache of someone saying goodbye without actually saying it.

Your phone buzzed in your back pocket. A simple notification from the airline. A flight delay.

You didn’t open it.

You just let it sit there. Another pushback.

Everyone was halfway between sloppy drunk and blackout by the time you stepped outside to be alone. Laughter spilled from the open doors of the bar, warm light flickering from inside as someone held the door open just long enough for the music to follow them out.

You were leaning back against the brick, shoes pressing into the packed dirt walkway. Your phone was already in your hand, buzzing from the unanswered text you’d ignored from your roommate in California. You gave her a call.

It rang twice before she picked up. “Hey!” she greeted immediately, the background on her end filled with music and chatter, probably a bar as well. “Dude, I was just about to text you again. How’s the party?”

You smiled, eyes drifting across the gravel parking lot, lit in patches by the yellowy-orange glow of the overhead bulbs. “It’s good. Real good. Loud. We’ve hit that stage of the night where everyone’s either doing shots or confessing secrets. Or both.”

She laughed. “Sounds about right. Where are you now?”

“Stepped outside for a second. It’s warm out, I needed a break.”

“God, I’m jealous. I wore a damn sweater out and I’m sweating through it. So much for ‘cool California. nights.’”

You chuckled. “You’re in San Francisco, what’d you expect?”

“Fair,” she conceded. “How’s Cole Harbour? Did everyone cry when you showed up?”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Not cry, but… yeah. It’s been nice. Saw pretty much everyone. My mom’s clinging like I’m going off to war, but she’s trying to play it cool.”

“God, I love your mom. I still think about that time she made me cry with those roasted carrots.”

You smiled wider now, chest warm. “She’ll love to hear that. She keeps saying this whole thing reminds her of dropping me off at college. Which is just… a lot.”

“Aw,” your roommate said, quieter now. “It’s gonna be okay, you know?”

“I know.” You scratched at your hairline, brow pulling faintly. “Just feels weird. Like I can’t tell if it’s actually happening yet.”

She got that. She always did. “It’s a big move,” she said gently. “It’s okay for it to feel weird.”

You nodded to yourself, lips pressing together.

“I can’t wait till you’re here though,” she added brightly, “We’re gonna eat so much Thai food and walk around barefoot and get drunk at stupid flea markets.”

You grinned. “I’m holding you to that.”

“Good,” she said. “And you better not back out. I’ve been telling everyone you’re coming and now I’ll look like a liar if you bail.”

You were about to answer when you felt something shift.

Footsteps on the gravel.

You turned your head instinctively, casual–until your breath caught in your throat.

Sidney.

Walking across the lot with a few guys you didn’t recognize. Laughing at something one of them said. Ball cap low on his brow, white t-shirt clinging to him in the humidity, familiar in the most stupidly devastating way. The way his shoulders rolled forward just a bit, like he was carrying everything and nothing at once.

He looked good. Unfairly so.

You straightened. Something about the sight of him made your fingers curl tight around your phone.

He saw you. Of course he did. Paused. Said something to his friends. They peeled off and disappeared inside the bar without hesitation, not even waiting for him to follow.

Your heart started beating in your ears.

“Hey,” he said as he approached, voice lower than you remembered, or maybe that was just the nerves.

“Hey,” you returned, swallowing.

There was a silence. Not hostile. Not even awkward. Just heavy. Charged.

He nodded toward your phone. “I can let you—”

“No, no,” you said quickly, pulling it away from your ear. “I’m—sorry, hold on.” You returned to the call. “Hey, I’ll call you back?”

Your roommate caught something in your voice. “Is that—?”

“I’ll call you back,” you repeated, then hung up.

Sidney’s eyes were already on yours when you looked back up.

“You look good,” he said, after a beat.

You gave a small smile. “You too.”

He nodded once, jaw flexing. “Been a while.”

“Yeah.” You crossed your arms lightly, more for something to do than any defensiveness. “I’ve been… good.”

His gaze searched yours like he was trying to figure out how much of that was true. “That’s good,” he said after a moment. “Glad to hear it.”

“How about you?” you asked, brushing hair out of your face. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” he said. “Just starting to prep for the season. Heading back to Pittsburgh in a week or so.”

You nodded slowly. “That’ll be nice. Back into the rhythm of it.”

“Yeah.”

More silence. Not uncomfortable, but not comfortable either. Your eyes traced the crack in the pavement near his shoe.

He looked at you again, brow faintly furrowed. “Your mom told me,” he said, voice neutral, “That you’re moving.”

You blinked. “…So the cat’s out of the bag.”

He gave a soft exhale of something like amusement. “Guess so.”

You looked up at him, eyes meeting. “West coast,” you said.

His brows rose just slightly, eyes narrowing. “That far, huh?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded again, taking that in. “Big move.”

“Yeah,” you echoed. “Kind of a leap, I guess.”

There was something in his face that made your throat go tight. Something soft, and unreadable. Like he wanted to ask a hundred questions and didn’t know if he had the right.

You saw him open his mouth slightly— But you cut in first, too quickly. “I should get back inside.”

He straightened just a little. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

You smiled faintly. “Didn’t mean to leave everyone hanging.”

He nodded, stepping back like giving you space was his only real option.

“It was nice to see you,” you said gently.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “You too.”

You slipped back inside before he could say anything else. Before you could second guess yourself. Before you could ask him if he ever missed you the way you still missed him.

Inside, the music was louder. People grabbed you, pulled you back into the rhythm of the party like you’d never left. You let them. You leaned into it. Janie wrapped an arm around your shoulder, slurring, “You’re my baby sister, y’know that?” and kissed your cheek. You laughed until your ribs hurt.

You and Janie did karaoke. Something embarrassing and stupid and full of shouting and joy. You felt lighter for a second.

Sidney and his guys eventually blended into your group. Not directly, not overwhelmingly–but they were there. And Janie pulled them in like she always does. You felt him before you saw him. Heard his voice in the periphery.

He never hovered. You never looked too long.

But every now and then— A glance. A quiet smile. A soft nod. A heartbeat too long before looking away.

You told yourself you were imagining it. You told yourself you had to be. You told yourself you were already leaving.

And maybe you were.

But he was still there. And he still looked at you like that.

Like maybe he was already missing you, too.

When you get home that night, you’re warm in the way that only a night like that can make you. Tipsy but not gone, body a little sore from dancing, cheeks aching from how much you smiled. You’ve been hugged within an inch of your life, toasted to, teased by cousins, gassed up by old friends, and soaked in this unspoken, sweet send-off. The “baby” of the group finally flying the furthest from the nest.

You leave your sandals by the door, toe them off lazily, a little buzzed and more than a little tired. Janie had gotten sloppy drunk near the end of the night, clinging to you, whispering things in your ear she’d never say sober.

"Maybe if he sees you again... maybe he’ll say something." Her voice had been syrupy and slow, slurred around the edges. "Maybe you’ll stay. Maybe he’ll finally say something and you’ll stay."

You’d just laughed it off at the time, tucked her hair behind her ear and kissed her cheek and told her she was drunk. But now, as you brush your teeth in the dim light of the bathroom mirror, her words linger.

The face staring back at you is tired, but not just from the night out. There's something heavier sitting behind your eyes. A dull ache, like homesickness for something you’ve never quite been able to hold onto. Maybe a version of life you always wanted, but never really reached.

You hadn’t even said goodbye. You didn’t even know if he was still there when you left the bar. He could’ve walked out right after you. He could’ve stayed until last call. You don’t know, and it feels a little too raw to ask anyone who might.

You're still chewing on it as you settle onto your mattress that creaks every time you shift. It’s pathetic how small your world has become in the past few weeks–an empty apartment, boxes half-packed, a phone charger snaked across the floor to keep you tethered to the world.

And yet, in the quiet of that too-dark room, your mind goes back to him.

You wonder what would’ve happened if you’d stayed outside for a second longer. If you hadn’t walked back in. If you’d just… said something. Told him. Asked him. Told him you were moving because you can’t sit still, not when everything around you feels like it’s closing in. Told him you were afraid–afraid that you’d wake up one day and realize you waited too long. That you already have.

But instead, you smiled. Told him it was nice to see him. And walked away.

You feel ridiculous, lying here in your childhood bedroom fantasizing about a man you’ve known your entire life, as if he’s still a dream and not a memory. And you hate it. You hate that after all this time, after all the distance and the choices and the years in between, he can still walk up beside you and look at you like he’s remembering the same things you are.

He looked good. God. Of course he did.

That calm kind of handsome. Still in shape, still steady, still Sidney. His hair shorter than you remembered, a bit neater. Laugh lines deeper. That voice. Still warm. Still low and thoughtful and measured in the way he always spoke, like he was never in a rush even if he should’ve been. Like he wanted every word to matter.

You press your palm to your chest as you lie there, as if that’ll calm the stir just under your ribs. You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That it was just a conversation. That you’re just drunk. That nostalgia is a hell of a drug and that’s all this is. But your gut knows better.

It’s always been him. That’s the sick truth of it. Even when you dated other people. Even when you tried to fall in love with someone else. Even when you told yourself you were over it, over him, over all of it. It’s always been him.

But love hadn’t been enough.

Not then. Maybe not now.

And maybe that’s what keeps your mouth shut every time you come close to telling him. Because if it wasn’t enough then, when everything was younger and softer and more forgiving–what chance does it stand now, when you're both a little worn down and more complicated?

You sigh and let your eyes drift toward the ceiling, where the streetlamp’s glow barely spills through the blinds. You have to get some sleep. You’ve got a long week ahead–finishing up the packing, canceling utilities, handing off your keys. The flight. Your mom meeting you at the airport. The beginning of something new, again.

And yet…

Part of you–an embarrassingly big part–wished he’d followed you outside again. Wished he’d told you not to go. Wished he’d said something other than “big move.”

Even if he was hurt, he didn’t say it. Even if he knew you were avoiding it, he didn’t push. That was always the problem with you two. No one ever pushed hard enough. Maybe that’s what love is, or at least what it should be–messy and desperate and bold. But what you had… it was something else. Something softer. Too soft.

You fall asleep with your arm draped over your stomach and your cheek half-pressed to the pillow, a quiet ache thudding behind your ribs.

The next morning comes too fast. Your phone alarm goes off at 7:00 AM sharp, and your eyes feel heavy like they were stitched shut in your sleep. The house smells like toast already. Bacon. Coffee. A familiar kind of morning. Your last morning here, at least for a long while.

You shuffle into the kitchen with your hoodie pulled up halfway and your socks mismatched. Your mom's already moving around the kitchen like she’s been up for hours.

“There she is,” she says without turning around. “Sleeping beauty.”

You grunt and sit at the table, pulling your knees to your chest and resting your chin on them.

“Late night?” she asks.

You nod into your knees.

“Too much to drink?”

“Only a little.”

She sets a mug in front of you–your favorite one, the chipped one from your first year of college. She doesn’t say anything about the way you clutch it with both hands.

“Everyone’s coming over in an hour,” she says. “Pancakes, eggs, bacon, hashbrowns. Your uncle's bringing fresh strawberries.”

“Nice,” you mumble. “A whole send-off.”

She smiles at you–fond and sad all at once.

“You ready for it?” she asks.

You blink. “Breakfast?”

“California.”

You exhale slowly, watching the steam rise from your mug.

“Not really. But I have to do it.”

She’s quiet for a second. Then she asks, “Do you?”

You look up at her.

She shrugs. “I just wonder sometimes if you’re running from something or running to something.”

“Can’t it be both?” you ask quietly.

She nods, like she understands. “Just… don’t keep leaving pieces of yourself behind everywhere you go. You only get so many pieces, you know?”

Your throat tightens.

“I know.”

You eat breakfast surrounded by family, by noise, by people who love you even if they don’t understand you. Janie’s hair is a mess, and she’s hungover as hell, and she still sits beside you with her head on your shoulder, whispering that she’s gonna throw up if she looks at the scrambled eggs again.

You leave around noon, hugs and tears and “call me when you land”s echoing behind you as you load into the car. You fly back to your apartment in silence. The whole way there, your heart is loud in your chest.

When you step inside. The air is stale. The silence is deafening.

You have an air mattress. You have suitcases. You have one more week here.

Your last few days in your apartment ended up the strangest of your life, almost like walking through a haze of things that should matter, but somehow don’t. 

The night before you’re set to leave feels quiet in a way you hadn’t quite anticipated. Not peaceful, not nerve-wracking either–just… quiet. Final. Like the world around you is politely dimming its lights to let you sort through the chaos in your own head without any distractions.

Your apartment is echo-y now. Even the sound of your footsteps crossing the hardwood feels exaggerated. There’s no couch to absorb the noise, no clutter left to keep things cozy. Just you, your carry-on, a stack of folded clothes you’ll wear on the flight tomorrow, and your half-deflated air mattress pushed up against one wall. The curtains are still up, at least–thank god–so the light filtering through the windows at golden hour doesn’t feel so aggressive. It settles softly over everything, like a blanket trying to keep you calm.

Your car downstairs is loaded. You did that earlier with a playlist playing and your apartment door propped open with your shoe. It felt surreal, hauling suitcases out of your life. Your favorite lamp. Your good boots. A framed photo of you and Janie on your 23rd birthday that you tucked into a beach towel and wedged between two sweaters. Your mom’s going to meet you at the airport tomorrow–bright and early–for the flight to California. It’s all happening.

Still, you’d been dragging your feet. Packing had taken longer than it needed to for the little amount of stuff you still had. You kept pausing between tasks, staring at walls, re-reading old postcards and notes from birthdays, eating half a popsicle and leaving the other half to melt in the sink. You kept telling yourself it was okay to move slow. This was a big change. You were allowed to be cautious.

You lie back on your air mattress, the ceiling fan whirring gently above you, and let your hand rest across your stomach as you breathe out.

And then the buzzer sounds.

It cuts through the stillness sharply, so out of place it startles you. You lift your head, eyes narrowing toward the door like you’re not sure you actually heard it. You’re not expecting anyone. Your friends always text first, always knock three times if they’re being cute and don’t want to announce themselves. You haven’t had visitors in weeks. There’s nothing left to visit.

You push yourself up slowly and head to the buzzer, pressing the button to speak.

“Hello?” you ask, cautious, unsure.

There’s a second or two of silence, just static… and then a voice you haven’t heard through that speaker, ever:

“I’m outside your building."

Sidney.

You don’t even respond. You don’t ask him to wait or tell him to hold on or even press the button to buzz him in. You just stand there for a beat, heart fully dropping into your stomach. Then you spin on your heel, rip your door open and bolt for the stairs.

You skip the elevator. You don’t want to waste the time waiting for it. It feels stupid but your legs move faster than your thoughts. Four flights down and your feet are flying. You catch the railing at every landing, fingertips trailing the cold metal. Your heart is racing so hard it’s ringing in your ears. Your chest is tight in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.

When you hit the last step and swing open the door to the street, there he is.

Leaning against the brick beside the buzzer panel, wearing a soft grey tee that clings a little too well to the shape of his shoulders, a fitted black hat tugged low over his brow. His hands are in his pockets. His head lifts the second he hears the door creak open.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

You just walk straight toward him like your body decided for you, like there’s nothing else you could possibly do. You step right into his arms without hesitation, right into the warm, solid, familiar space you’ve known your whole life, and he catches you like he never stopped knowing how.

His arms wrap around you instantly, securely, pulling you in tight. Your face presses to his chest. His hand slides up the back of your shirt–just enough to settle flat against your spine. He holds you like he’s been waiting a long time to. Like he knew you’d come. Or maybe like he needed this more than he let on.

Your arms loop around his waist, your fingers clutching the back of his shirt, fisting the fabric. You breathe him in and it’s him. Not just any person. Him. The smell of the detergent you always remember, the warmth of his body, the way his chest rises and falls slow and steady like he’s trying not to let go too soon.

There are so many things you could say. So many thoughts you could let tumble out if you wanted to. But nothing comes. Nothing needs to. The silence between you says everything right now.

You hold him, and he holds you, and for the first time in months–maybe longer–nothing feels heavy anymore.

You don’t feel like you have to be anywhere else. Not tomorrow, not next week. Not on a plane or on a new coast or in a brand new apartment surrounded by strangers and palm trees.

You don’t know how long you stand there on the half-lit sidewalk with your arms wrapped around Sidney, the buzz of the streetlight above you flickering in and out, casting the two of you in short waves of shadow and light. You can feel the hard press of his shoulder under your cheek, the way he doesn’t loosen his hold even when your breathing steadies. It’s almost suffocating, but in a way you don’t want to pull free from. 

You’re the one who breaks the silence.

Your voice is quiet, hoarse from disuse and nerves, cheek still pressed against his shirt. “What are you doing here?”

You feel him exhale like he’d been holding his breath since the moment you opened the door. He pulls back slightly–not all the way, not enough to let go, just enough to tilt his head down and look at you. You lift your chin a little, just so your eyes can meet his.

Sidney’s expression is… raw. Not fragile, not weak–just real. Vulnerable in the way only he can be, with that guarded strength that always had to fight for softness. You’ve seen him like this before. Once. Maybe twice. And never like this.

“I wasn’t planning to come,” he says after a long pause, voice low and rough. “I tried not to.”

You blink, surprised. “Okay…”

“I didn’t wanna show up like this. I thought it’d be selfish,” he says. “I had a flight out of Halifax yesterday morning. I sat at the gate and didn’t get on.”

Your brows draw in. “What?”

He laughs under his breath, but there’s no humor in it. “Fucking ridiculous, right?”

You don’t say anything, not yet. Because you can’t. You can only stare at him–at this man who’s been haunting your days and dreams–and wait for him to keep going.

Sidney drags a hand over his face, his other still resting on your lower back. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he admits, jaw tightening. “Especially after the bar. After seeing you again like that.”

You swallow. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze drops to the ground for a second, and you can tell he’s working through it. Organizing the mess of thoughts behind his eyes.

“I was hoping it wasn’t true,” he says eventually. “That you weren’t really leaving.”

Your stomach flips, twists, then sinks all in the same breath.

“I didn’t wanna risk it,” he continues. “Didn’t wanna spend the rest of my life wondering what might’ve been if I’d just said something to you.”

That hits you like a fucking freight train.

He looks back up at you, eyes wide and so heartbreakingly honest it physically hurts.

“I know it’s not fair,” he says. “I know I’m late. And I’m probably the last person you wanna see right now. I just—”

He exhales through his nose, frustrated. Sid always had trouble with this part. Not because he didn’t feel things deeply–God, he felt everything too deeply–but because saying it out loud always came with weight.

He looks at you like he’s bracing for impact.

“You live an hour flight from home,” he says. “You’ve been there how long now? Two years?”

You nod a little. “Yeah.”

“And we still didn’t talk.”

You flinch, just slightly. It’s not an accusation, but it still stings. Because it’s true.

He catches the look on your face and shakes his head. “I’m not saying it’s your fault. Or even mine. I know it’s both of us.”

You want to respond, but you can’t. Not yet. Because your throat’s tight, your fingers are curled into the fabric of his shirt, and you’re not ready for what you know is coming next.

Sid presses his lips together and glances at the peeling hallway doorway behind you, like maybe it’ll give him courage.

“But now you’re moving to a whole other coast,” he says, voice thickening. “And I know I’m gonna lose you forever.”

You feel it like a wound reopening.

“I’m being selfish. I know I am,” he says, more to himself now. “But I couldn’t let you go without saying goodbye first. Without seeing you. Without…”

His eyes come back to yours.

“I just—I had to know,” he says. “I had to ask.”

You whisper, “Ask what?”

Sidney holds your gaze. Doesn’t blink.

“If this is what you really want.”

The air outside feels like it gets thinner. 

“If you’re sure,” he says, “if you’re really ready for this move, if you’re happy, then I’ll get out of your hair. I’ll drive straight to the airport and get on the next flight. You won’t hear from me again. I mean it.”

He pauses, hands tense where they’re holding you.

“But if there’s even a small part of you that still wonders…” he breathes, “about what we could’ve been. What we might still be…”

His voice cracks–just barely.

“Then I needed to be here.”

You say nothing, because your heart is suddenly in your throat. And your lungs. And everywhere.

“I know I fucked up,” he adds. “I let it go on too long. I kept thinking it’d get easier with time, that I’d forget it, forget you. But I didn’t. I can’t.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed and still. And he just keeps going.

“I know we’ve always been just—just shy of something real. Always a little too late or too far apart. And maybe this is just another one of those times. But if there’s even a chance that we stop…”

He takes a breath.

“You don’t have to go,” he says softly. “Not unless you want to. Not for the wrong reasons. You don’t have to keep leaving.”

It falls quiet.

And Sidney is the only thing that feels real right now. He always has been.

You blink rapidly, chest aching.

Because he’s right. He’s right about all of it.

You have spent years running. Telling yourself new places would fix old wounds. Moving cities, crossing bridges, changing time zones. You thought distance would erase the ache of loving someone you couldn’t have.

But it never went away. Not really.

And now he’s here. In the most unexpected way. Just raw and messy and real.

For the first time in a long, long time… you don’t feel like you need to run.

Not from him.

Not from yourself.

And definitely not from the thing that’s been between you all along. The thing that’s always been just a little more than love.

Sid blinks, looking down for a beat, nodding as though he already knows your answer. “Can I—” He clears his throat, tugging at the hem of your shirt. “Can I come up to your apartment?”

You don’t even hesitate when you murmur, “Yeah… come up,” because the idea of standing in the dim, humid night with everything pressing down between you feels unbearable. Not when this is Sidney. Not when your chest is cracked wide open just from the sight of him.

The two of you climb the stairs in silence–your feet heavy, his echoing behind yours, steady and unhurried. You don’t look back, but you can feel him at your heels, every step a reminder that he really is here, that you’re not imagining him. When you reach your floor, your hands tremble faintly, unlocking and opening the door.

Sid’s eyes roam over it all, not hurried, not casual, just quiet and deliberate. Like every scuff on the wall was proof of something he’d missed. Like he was trying to reconstruct the ghost of your life here without ever having stepped into it until now.

You don't speak. You can't trust your voice. Instead, you watch the way his jaw flexes, the subtle lines carved deeper at the corners of his mouth. He looks…older here. Not in years, but in weight. The kind of heaviness you carried when you knew you were running out of time.

The silence between you stretches long. Comfortable, at first. Familiar. Then it shifts. Turns heavy with all the years you haven’t said what you wanted to. All the years you’ve pretended like your heart wasn’t already spoken for. His eyes find you, soft and searching. You’re standing there in your empty apartment, shoes now kicked off haphazardly by the door, the faint hum of your old fridge in the next room. This place is barely yours anymore, but you still feel exposed in it. And he still feels like home.

Your lips part to speak, to say something–anything–but no words come. So you just look at him instead. Take him in. His face, so achingly familiar. Those deep, steady eyes, slightly red-rimmed like he didn’t sleep last night. The slight scruff at his jaw, the way he always gets when it’s offseason and he lets things slide for a bit. 

He looks like he’s about to say something again, but you raise your hand–just a little. Just enough for him to wait. To let you try.

“I don’t wanna go,” you admit softly, the words a breath more than a voice. Your throat burns. “I don’t wanna go, but I don’t know what else to do, Sidney.”

His mouth twitches like it’s about to say your name, but you shake your head gently and keep going. “I keep thinking about when we were kids. When everything felt easier. We just—existed together. No pressure. No… pain. And I think about all the ways I messed this up. All the times I should’ve said something. All the flights I shouldn’t have taken. All the times I could’ve just—stayed.”

Your eyes sting and your breath catches a little, but you don’t stop.

“I want to go where you go. I always have.”

And then he’s shaking his head, so subtly, like he’s barely holding himself back. His hands come up to your face, rough thumbs brushing beneath your eyes like he’s memorizing you. He leans in–close, but not touching his forehead to yours. Just near. Just there.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You don’t have to try and find a new place or a new version of you or whatever it is you’re chasing. You don’t have to keep looking for something you already have.”

He swallows hard, like it physically hurts.

“I didn’t come here planning to say this shit, okay? I didn’t plan any of this. I was halfway through packing for Pittsburgh when I realized I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get on another fucking plane and pretend I’m fine knowing you’re not there. Knowing that this was it.”

You blink at him, lips parting.

“I don’t want you to go,” he says firmly. “I don’t want to let you go. Not again.”

Your heart stutters.

“I’ve wasted too many years,” he continues, his voice low and raw and shaking a little. “Too many nights just—laying there, thinking about what it’d be like to have a life with you. Wishing I’d just fucking said something when I had the chance. Wondering if I’d missed it. Wondering if I’d ruined it.”

His hands are still on your cheeks, but one drops to your shoulder, then your arm, then your waist. His touch is steady. Grounding.

“I don’t want to wonder anymore,” he says. “I don’t want to settle for anything that isn’t you.”

You blink, but the tears spill anyway. He catches one with his thumb.

“There’s nobody else, Y/n. Not for me. Not ever.”

Your stomach twists.

“I want you,” he says again, firmer now. “When I fly back to Pittsburgh tomorrow night, I want you on that flight with me. I want you in my bed. I want you in my kitchen, arguing about takeout versus home-cooked meals. I want you leaving your shit all over our place. I want to wake up beside you. I want to fall asleep with you. I want to know that when I leave for a road trip, you’ll be there when I get back. That you’ll be at my games, cheering me on.”

He exhales, a long, hard breath like he’s emptying out every part of himself.

“I want you when we come back to Cole Harbour in the summers. I want you on the dock with me. In my parents’ kitchen. In my lap at your brother's stupid bonfires.”

You let out a wet, choked laugh at that, and he smiles faintly, brushing your hair back.

“I want you when it’s hard,” he says. “I want you when I’m pissed off and tired and feel like shit. I want you when you’re pissed off and tired and don’t want to talk. I want to fight with you, and make up with you, and build something real with you.”

His voice lowers, almost to a whisper.

“I want you, Y/n. Not just for a few months. Not just in memories. I want you for good.”

Your knees feel weak. Your heart is racing and aching and floating all at once.

“I don’t want to be a fucking idiot who lets the best thing in his life walk away again because he was too scared or too slow or too—whatever. I’m here now. I’m saying it. I want you.”

The quiet stretches again. You stare at him and he stares right back.

And you think, this is what it’s supposed to feel like.

Weightless and grounded. Safe and terrifying.

Right.

“I sold all my stuff.”

“What?”

You nod, a little embarrassed now that it’s out there. “All my furniture. Everything. My couch, my bed. My dresser. My car’s packed with whatever I didn’t sell. I have like… a few suitcases and a box of random things left. That’s it.”

You don’t even mean to laugh, but you do. A quiet, tired one that spills out against his shoulder. “It’s kind of pathetic.”

Sidney’s brow furrows for all of two seconds–then, in that typical Sidney way, his face softens like it always does when he’s trying not to smile. “That’s not pathetic,” he says, letting his hand smooth over your back. “It’s kind of perfect.”

You blink up at him. “Perfect?”

He nods, eyes twinkling now. “Yeah. It’s perfect. I’ve got plenty of furniture. And Pittsburgh’s got like, I don’t know, a thousand malls and a million department stores. You want a bed? I got a bed. You want a dresser? Let’s go to one of them and fight about building one. Want a couch? Great—I’ll make sure it’s one I’m never allowed to pick out alone again.”

You snort despite yourself, your heart flipping over the comfort in his voice, the casual confidence in his future-thinking.

“I’m serious,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours for a beat. “Little things like that? We don’t sweat ‘em. That’s the easy part.”

You nod slowly, still trying to wrap your head around how light everything suddenly feels. Like the weight of your own indecision–weeks of carrying it around in your chest–is finally being lifted, little by little, by his presence. By his words. By his hands on you like he’s afraid you might disappear again.

You’re still nodding when he sighs and gives you the smallest, crookedest smile. “God, my family is gonna lose it.”

Your brows jump. “Lose it like… they’re gonna be mad?”

“Mad?” he echoes, then laughs like you’ve just said something ridiculous. “Are you kidding? My mom’s been on my ass for like five years now asking when she’s getting grandkids.”

You blink at him. “Sidney.”

“I’m not saying we have to give her them right now,” he says quickly, grinning like he’s enjoying your reaction. “I’m just saying… she’s gonna be thrilled. And my dad’s gonna act all chill about it, but he’ll ask me all about it when I see him again.”

“Oh my god.” You drop your head against his chest again. “You cannot tell them yet. You have to give me like… a week. Or a day. Or at least until I’ve slept in a real bed again.”

“I’m not telling them tonight,” he says, laughing against your hair. “But I am telling them soon. Because they’re gonna be happy for us. Everyone will. You know that, right?”

You don’t answer right away.

You do know that–at least, you think you do. Your mom’s going to cry, probably later tonight when you tell her she won’t be flying to California with you. Your brother’s going to pretend he didn’t see this coming, but you know he did. Janie’s going to scream and ask for every detail and probably demand to be your maid of honor even though there’s no wedding, not yet, probably not even close. It’s all going to feel overwhelming and beautiful and unreal in the way that your life never really has.

“I’m still scared,” you whisper, barely loud enough for yourself to hear.

Sidney just hugs you tighter. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

His voice goes low. “But not scared like before. Not scared of you. Not of this. Just scared of fucking it up again. Of wasting more time.”

“You’re not going to fuck it up.”

“You either.”

You rest your cheek against the warm cotton of his T-shirt and close your eyes. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, and you feel him shift slightly to wrap both arms around your waist, swaying the tiniest bit like standing still might make him forget this is real. Like maybe you’ll drift away again if he doesn’t keep moving.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” you murmur after a minute.

“I couldn’t not come.”

You lean back a little to look at him again. His eyes are already on you.

“Even if you were moving halfway across the world,” he says, “I’d still have come.”

You search his face like you’re looking for the fine print in his promises. The cracks that used to live there. But there aren’t any. Just him. A little tired, a little overwhelmed, but standing right in front of you and not running this time.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Okay.”

A smile creeps onto his lips. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He exhales, like maybe he’s been holding his breath for months. Then he leans in, resting his forehead to yours, eyes falling closed for a long, quiet moment.

“Thank fuck,” he breathes. “I don’t think I could’ve handled losing you again.”

“You’re not going to.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

He nods, still smiling against your skin. “Good. Then we’ve got a lot of shit to figure out. Like where your three suitcases are gonna go. And how fast we can get a new mattress delivered. And how to break the news to our parents without my mom trying to move in with us.”

You laugh into his chest, warmth blooming all the way down your spine.

For the first time in a long time, the idea of staying doesn’t feel like settling. It feels like returning. Like rebuilding. Like beginning.

And you can’t wait.

— 

—

It had rained the night before. That kind of east coast rain that soaked the earth through and made the air heavy and still the next morning, like the world hadn’t yet decided whether it was going to sweat or sigh. The backyard was quiet at first, just the rustle of wet leaves and the soft clink of your mom’s coffee spoon against her chipped porcelain mug. Then the frenzy started—not all at once, but in slow-building waves. A misplaced floral centerpiece here, a tablecloth creased the wrong way there. Someone couldn’t find the mimosa glasses. Your aunt was already asking if the eggs had been overcooked. The back gate was sticking again.

You sat on the edge of your childhood bed, bare feet brushing the worn carpet, hands resting still in your lap like they were waiting for instructions. The smell of lemon polish and toast drifted up from the kitchen, mixing with the faint scent of your old lotion, the one you always used when you were younger, still tucked into the back of your dresser drawer. You’d put it on last night without thinking. Muscle memory. The small things always came back first.

Your phone buzzed from the nightstand. Just your brother checking in. “U up?” it said, like it wasn’t the first big day of the weekend. Like you hadn’t both been going over every last detail for weeks. Your thumbs hovered over the screen for a second before you replied with a thumbs-up emoji. No words. There never really needed to be between you two. Especially not today.

Outside, you could hear the thrum of voices getting louder. Chairs scraping against the patio bricks. The neighbor’s dog barking once, then going quiet again. It was all familiar—painfully so. A backdrop of a life that used to be yours, that sometimes still felt like it was, in the right light.

You hadn’t lived in Cole Harbour in years. Twenty-two when you left, with two suitcases and a very sure step, telling yourself it was time. There were things you needed to do, things that couldn’t be done here. And maybe a part of you hoped it would help, help you forget that some stories stay unfinished. Help you put space between yourself and the ghost of something that never quite was.

Sidney.

The name alone stirred something in you. Not a sharp pang, not anymore. Just something old and low and settled, like a sigh you’d learned to breathe around.

He was, of course, going to be here. You knew that. You had known it the moment your brother and Janie called you last year to say they were finally getting married. You were the maid of honor. Sid was the best man. No surprises there.

Your brother’s best friend since before they had knees full of hockey bruises and dirt-stained jeans. The kid from down the street who practically lived at your house all summer, who knew the code to your garage door and could always find the hidden snacks in the back of the pantry. The one your parents adored. The one Janie used to elbow you about every time he so much as looked your way for longer than necessary. “Just wait,” she’d whisper with a grin. “You two are it.”

But real life has a funny way of skipping the part where things fall into place just because people think they should. He’d gone, of course. Became Sid the Kid. The golden boy of Cole Harbour, then of Canada, then the world. And you had clapped for him every time. Genuinely. Proudly. Quietly. You had never chased him. Never clung to something half-formed. You loved him in your own way—from a distance, in silence. And eventually, you let him go without ever having to say it.

It wasn’t a dramatic falling out. No heartbreak, no fights, no door slammed shut. Just a slow, quiet fade—the kind that settles into your bones before you even realize it’s happened. You still visited home now and then, still talked to your brother, still sent a text here or there when someone’s parent got sick or when there was news worth sharing. But you and Sidney? Somehow, you always missed each other. Maybe it was bad luck. Maybe not.

And now, after all this time, you’d be spending the next forty-eight hours in his orbit again. Rehearsal, toasts, dances, photos, brunch. All the little moments stitched into a wedding weekend that would pull the two of you closer than you’d been in years. Best man and maid of honor—the old punchline everyone used to toss around like a prophecy.

Only now, you weren’t that same girl who used to watch his games from the floor of your parents’ living room, chin in your hands. And he wasn’t the boy who used to steal your hoodies and leave them in the backseat of your brother’s car. You had a life. A job you liked. A city you didn’t hate. And a partner—new, but good. Steady. Kind. The kind of man your brother liked. Which mattered more than you cared to admit.

But he wasn’t Sidney.

And even if you would never say it out loud—even if you’d never betray what you’d built, what you’d chosen—you knew, deep down, that there was a part of you still shaped like him. Quietly. Permanently.

The smell of bacon had been the thing to drag you fully out of bed—that, and the sharp sound of your mom’s voice calling your name from the bottom of the stairs like you still had soccer practice in an hour and were about to miss the carpool. You’d groaned into your pillow, shoved your face against the cool side, and tried to pretend you weren’t a grown woman back in your childhood bedroom with the faint shadow of your old posters still ghosting the wall.

It was too early to be annoyed, but too late to go back to sleep. You pulled your hair into a clip, grabbed the sweatshirt you’d left on the back of your desk chair, and padded barefoot down the stairs.

“Jesus, Mom,” you muttered as you reached the kitchen, voice scratchy with sleep. “You trying to raise the dead?”

Your mom turned from the stove, spatula in hand, a smear of flour across her apron. “You think I can get over thirty people fed on schedule without a little yelling? You’re lucky I didn’t start banging pots.”

You looked past her at the chaos: platters of fresh fruit and mini muffins on the counter, eggs in two separate pans—one scrambled, one some kind of frittata—a tray of tiny croissant sandwiches next to a bowl of lemon water with mint floating on top like she was hosting a fucking bridal magazine shoot.

“I thought this was supposed to be casual,” you said, pulling a mug from the cabinet and pouring yourself coffee.

“It is casual,” she said, throwing you a look. “Casual doesn’t mean half-assed. You think Janie’s mother is gonna show up with Costco muffins? Please.”

“God forbid.”

She pointed the spatula at you. “Don’t you start.”

You grinned behind your coffee mug, then leaned on the counter, watching her fuss with the bacon. The back door was already open, letting in the morning breeze and the faint sound of your dad dragging folding tables across the patio bricks. The backyard looked honestly, beautiful. String lights criss-crossed from the garage to the fence. White linen tablecloths, mismatched chairs that somehow worked. A wooden bar station was set up under the tree with glass pitchers of juice and sangria sweating in the sun.

“Where’s Dad?” you asked.

“Yelling at your uncle for putting the ice bucket on the wrong table.”

“Classic.”

“And your brother’s out there too,” she added, glancing toward the yard. “He said he wanted to make sure the speaker situation didn’t ‘embarrass him.’”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “That sounds about right.”

Your mom wiped her hands on a towel and looked at you—really looked at you—with a little smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“What?” you asked suspiciously.

“Just wondering if that sweet man of yours is going to make it this weekend.”

There it was. The gentle poke. The nudge in the ribs.

“He’s in Chicago,” you said, sipping your coffee. “Busy all weekend. But he’s trying to fly in tomorrow afternoon for the reception.”

“Trying to?”

You gave her a look. “Mom.”

She raised her hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying. Big weekend. Would be nice to see him, that’s all.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but your brother chose that exact moment to come in through the back door, hair sticking up, t-shirt slightly damp with sweat. “Hey,” he said. “You up?”

“Clearly.”

He glanced at the kitchen clock. “You ready for the circus?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Good. Me neither.”

You smiled, bumping your shoulder against his as you both walked out to see the yard was slowly filling up with uncles carrying folding chairs, kids already kicking a soccer ball around, Janie’s cousins adjusting the spacing of the tables.

“Think your guy’s still making it to the reception?” your brother asked casually.

You gave him a small nod. “He’s gonna try. Said he might catch a red-eye.”

“He’s solid,” your brother said, and it wasn’t just to be nice. He meant it. He liked your boyfriend. You could tell.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “He is.”

You didn’t say, but he’s not the one who makes me forget my own name when he walks into a room. You didn’t say, he’s not the one I’ve loved since I was fifteen and didn’t know what the hell to do with it.

You didn’t have time to think about it much longer. Because that was the moment you heard your dad call out, “Hey! Look who finally decided to show his face!”

And when you turned, the air shifted in your lungs like it had weight again.

There he was.

Sidney.

Baseball cap low over his brow, white t-shirt soft and worn like it had survived a dozen summers, sleeves tight around his arms in that way you hated yourself for noticing. Jeans slung low on his hips. Clean-shaven. Tan from time spent outside. He smiled as he stepped into the backyard—easy, unbothered, like no time had passed at all. Like he hadn’t just reappeared in the middle of your family’s life after years of silence and space and nothing.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. Your pulse did that stupid thing it always did when you looked at him too long—stumbled once, twice, then leveled out like it had learned to lie.

He found your eyes almost instantly, like he’d been looking for them the whole time.

And you swear—swear—something in your chest cracked open just a little as he made his way towards you.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and familiar and maddeningly calm.

You blinked. “Hey.”

That was it. That was all. Two fucking words. And still it felt like something sacred, something buried beneath years of goodbyes that were never said.

Your brother pulled him in for a hug, slapped his back hard enough to make him laugh.

“Bout time you got here, asshole,” he said.

Sidney shrugged with a lazy grin. “Flight got in late.”

“You drive from the airport?”

“Would’ve, but your dad insisted on picking me up.”

Your dad, now fussing with the grill, called out, “Damn right I did. Kid’s practically my second son.”

That made everyone laugh—warm, easy, affectionate. And you stood there in the middle of it, still holding your mug, still barefoot, still absolutely drowning in the realization that seeing him again felt like home in a way nothing else had in a very, very long time.

Eventually, Sid turned to you again. “You helping run the whole show?”

You nodded slowly. “You know how my mom gets.”

He chuckled. “Same as ever?”

“Worse, actually.”

His eyes softened as he stepped a little closer. “You look good,” he said, like he wasn’t even thinking about it—like it just slipped out.

You felt your throat go dry. “So do you.”

And just like that, it was like no time had passed at all. Like you’d seen him just a few days ago instead of years. That old rhythm settling back into place before you could stop it. The comfort, the ease—the weight of all the things that were never said curling up like a cat between you.

By the time brunch really got going, the backyard felt like a full-on garden party. People had spread out across the lawn, some under the big tree, some wandering back toward the food tables, others sinking into the cushioned patio chairs with coffee cups and mimosas in hand. Your mom was in her element—circulating with a pitcher of orange juice, pointing out which muffins were gluten-free, reminding people (kindly but loudly) to please, for the love of god, use coasters on the new outdoor furniture.

You had just finished helping your aunt fix the paper napkin situation—“they’re supposed to be fanned, not stacked like a sad little deck of cards,” she’d scolded—when you wandered back toward the long table under the umbrella, still adjusting your outfit as you went. You didn’t even realize what had happened until you were halfway into the seat.

The one beside Sidney.

It wasn’t planned. At least not by you. But when you looked around—your brother already deep in conversation across the table, Janie chatting with someone’s cousin, your parents distracted near the buffet—you noticed how everyone had just left it open. Like there had never been another option. Like it was already written into the seating chart, even though there wasn’t one.

Just like always.

Sidney turned to glance at you as you sat. “Hey,” he said again, low and warm, like it was a continuation of the last one.

“Hey,” you echoed, tucking your foot beneath your leg, pretending the butterflies in your stomach hadn’t just gone full riot.

There was a small, charged silence as you poured yourself a glass of water. The air between you was thick with things unsaid, like the dust of old memories had been kicked up and neither of you knew how to breathe through it yet. You could hear him shift slightly in his chair, the denim of his jeans brushing against the fabric seat.

You caught him watching you once or twice—quick glances. Soft, familiar. Like he was still trying to get his bearings in the reality of you sitting there beside him. And you weren’t any better. The curve of his profile. The way he tilted his head when someone was talking. How his thumb tapped against the side of his glass like it always used to do when he was thinking. It was stupid, how easily the rhythm came back.

But still neither of you said much. Not right away. Not when it felt like the weight of everything was pressing into the small sliver of space between your shoulders.

Then came the stupid magic trick.

“Alright,” Sid said suddenly, loud enough to get your brother’s attention across the table. “You still haven’t figured this one out, have you?”

Your brother looked up, immediately suspicious. “Don’t start with that bullshit again.”

Sid grinned. “Come on, just one more shot. This time you’ll get it.”

You frowned a little, watching him pull a coin from his pocket and lean forward like he was about to reveal the secret to the universe.

You knew exactly what was coming.

Because it wasn’t his trick. Not really.

It was yours.

You’d shown it to him when you were maybe fourteen. The two of you had been stuck in the backseat of your parents’ car on the way to a hockey you, bored out of your skulls while your brother blasted some awful pop-punk CD up front. You’d had that coin in your hand and showed him how to slide it across your knuckles, do the fake thumb switch, all while hiding the real sleight of hand beneath the edge of your sleeve.

It was so simple. So dumb. But it always worked the first time.

And watching him now—years later, after everything—you felt a strange, unshakable warmth bloom somewhere in your ribs.

He hadn’t just remembered it.

He’d kept it.

“Alright, watch close,” he told your brother, brows drawn in fake concentration. “Coin goes in this hand…” He waved his other hand over it, made a few exaggerated flourishes with his fingers. “And—poof. Gone.”

Your brother groaned. “It’s not gone. It’s in your damn sleeve.”

Sid held his hands up, innocent. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay. So check.”

Your brother rolled his eyes and tugged at Sid’s sleeves like he was unwrapping a Christmas gift he didn’t trust. Nothing. The quarter wasn’t there. Just fabric and arm.

“…Fuck,” your brother muttered, sitting back with a half-smile. “I hate you.”

Sid laughed. That deep, easy kind of laugh that used to make you feel like the center of something special. And then—without even really turning his head—he nudged you gently with his elbow.

“Still works,” he said softly, just for you.

You didn’t even try to hold back your smile. “Barely.”

“You showed me that trick, what—a million years ago?”

“A million and some,” you said. “Back of my dad’s car. You couldn’t stop dropping the coin between the seats.”

He looked at you then and there was something unspoken in his expression. Not quite nostalgia. Not quite longing. Maybe something in between. A softness.

“I never forgot it,” he murmured.

Your heart twisted in your chest, almost painfully. “Yeah,” you said. “Neither did I.”

The noise of the brunch swelled around you again—someone calling out for more coffee, your mom fussing with the serving trays—but it all felt far away. Fuzzy. Like the edges of the world had blurred and narrowed until it was just the two of you again.

You noticed how his knee brushed yours under the table, not deliberate, not quite accidental. How his hand rested on his thigh, fingers relaxed but close enough that if you moved your own just a few inches…

You didn’t.

Of course you didn’t.

But you thought about it.

He glanced down at the table for a moment, then back up. “You ever still do it?”

“What, the trick?”

He nodded.

You laughed under your breath. “Only when I’m really bored. Or trying to impress a kid. I taught it to my neighbor’s daughter last summer. She lost the coin under my couch and made me move it.”

He smiled again—smaller this time. “I can see that.”

You tilted your head. “You still doing it at parties to impress people?”

“No,” he said, eyes gleaming with something playful and dry. “Just weddings.”

You let out a soft snort, looking down at your plate as your cheeks warmed. God, you hated how easy it still was. How natural. Like you’d slipped right back into the same script, the same rhythm, without even realizing it.

And you don’t mean to spend the whole day with him.

It just… happens.

The brunch bled into early afternoon the way the best days always did—slow and warm, without anyone realizing how much time had passed until the sun had shifted halfway across the yard. Guests lingered longer than planned. Coffee was refilled, leftovers wrapped in foil and stashed in coolers, and your mom refused to let anyone leave without a baked good “for the road,” even if the road was two streets away.

Sidney stayed. Of course he did.

By then, it didn’t even feel like a question. Like gravity had kicked in, and somehow, you just kept finding yourselves orbiting around each other.

When your mom began rallying people to help clean up, he was already at your side collecting used glasses and stacking plates before you could even ask. You were both elbow-deep in soapy water within ten minutes—him washing, you drying, the two of you shoulder to shoulder in the same kitchen you’d grown up in.

“You’re scrubbing that like it owes you money,” you said, nodding toward the dish he’d been focused on for far too long.

“It does,” he deadpanned.

You snorted. “You need better material.”

“I’m out of practice.”

You tossed him a towel. “Still got good hands, though.”

He froze for half a second before cracking a grin. “That a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Too late.

He bumped his hip against yours lightly. “I missed this.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

Because you missed it too.

After the last dish was done and the final folding chair was stacked against the garage wall, you retreated into the kitchen to start on the floral arrangements that were definitely behind schedule. Janie’s cousin was supposed to help, but she disappeared sometime around the second round of sangria. You didn’t ask questions.

Sid stuck around, trailing behind you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You know what you're doing?” he asked, eyeing the buckets of blooms on the counter like they might attack him.

“Nope,” you said cheerfully, grabbing the shears and a roll of floral tape. “But I watched a lot of YouTube videos last night, so that basically makes me a professional.”

He laughed, then nodded toward the peonies. “Where do you want me?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Asking a lot of big questions today, huh?”

He gave you a look. “I’m serious.”

You handed him a bunch of eucalyptus. “Strip the bottom leaves. Leave a little stem. Don’t cut off a finger.”

You worked side by side for the next hour, him quietly following your instructions, you occasionally pausing to rearrange what he’d done without telling him. He noticed. You both pretended he didn’t.

“I forgot how bossy you are,” he muttered, trying to fit one more dusty miller into a mason jar without snapping the stem.

You didn’t look up. “I forgot how slow you are.”

“I’m deliberate.”

You smirked. “Sure.”

But it was good. Easy. That strange, beautiful kind of right that had always existed between you. Every so often you’d catch his eyes on you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. And maybe you weren’t doing much better—your gaze lingering on the slope of his neck, the curve of his jaw when he leaned in to grab another flower.

It shouldn’t have felt like this.

But it did.

Later, upstairs in your old bedroom, it only got worse.

Or better.

Or both.

The room hadn’t changed much. Same faded posters on the wall, same bookshelf lined with paperbacks, a few trophies, an old lamp that buzzed if you turned it past the third notch. The bed was made. The dresser still had a sticky drawer. There was something mildly horrifying about steaming a row of grown men’s tuxedos next to your childhood collection of sea glass and friendship bracelets.

You were crouched over your steamer, barefoot and frustrated, trying to get a stubborn crease out of a bridesmaid dress that absolutely did not want to cooperate.

Sid was sitting on your bed, slowly working his way through a stack of jackets.

“You sure I’m not ruining these?” he asked, holding one up and eyeing the seams.

“You’re not,” you muttered, then paused. “But maybe don’t burn a hole in the best man’s.”

He smirked. “He’ll understand.”

You rolled your eyes, standing and stretching your arms over your head. “How are we only halfway through?”

“Because you insisted on doing Janie’s cousin’s dress twice.”

“Because it looked like it was rolled in a suitcase and then sat on.”

He leaned back against your pillows like he belonged there. Like he remembered being there—because, god, he had been there. So many times. Eating snacks on the floor. Playing cards on the bed. Sneaking in after midnight when your brother was already asleep and he just wanted to talk to someone who got it.

You caught his eyes on you again, quiet and unreadable. But not really. Not to you.

“What?” you asked softly.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

You didn’t believe him. But you didn’t push.

And for a second, everything felt so loud. Like the past was pushing its way into the room, crawling up the walls, whispering all the things neither of you had ever said.

You looked away. “Don’t go getting all protective now. That’s my brother’s job.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Yeah, but I was doing it first.”

You didn’t have anything to say to that.

You just sat there in the middle of your childhood room, surrounded by half-steamed suits and the soft hum of old memories that hadn’t ever quite let go.

He was watching you again. You could feel it.

“Do you ever think about…” he started, then trailed off.

You swallowed hard. “About what?”

He blinked. “I don’t know. This.”

You turned back to the steamer. “We were kids.”

“I know.”

There was a long pause.

“But sometimes,” he added quietly, “I still feel like that kid when I’m around you.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because the truth was—you did too.

And maybe that was the problem.

You clear your throat. “We were so dumb, weren’t we?”

“Speak for yourself.”

You roll your eyes. “You were so dumb.”

He smiles. “Okay, fine. I was a little dumb.”

“And a coward.”

“Absolutely.”

“And a bad texter.”

“Still am,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you didn’t try either, you know.”

Your gaze finds the floor. “I didn’t want to chase you.”

“I never asked you to.”

“But you didn’t stop me, either.”

Silence again.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t move. Just breathes.

“Do you ever think about it?” you ask quietly.

He exhales. Not a sigh, not quite. Just a long, slow breath like he’s been holding it in for a long time.

“Only all the fucking time.”

Your heart cracks clean down the center.

And then—like it never happened at all—he gets up and reaches for the next suit.

The two of you finish the steaming in silence. It’s not awkward. Just weighted. Like the air between you has gotten thicker, harder to move through.

When you drive the dresses over to Janie’s parents’ house, he goes with you. Carries the bags without being asked. Jokes about stealing one of the suits for “old time’s sake.” You laugh. He grins. You talk in the car on the short way there. About nothing. About everything.

Favorite road trip snacks. That one time he got food poisoning in St. Louis. How you once kissed a boy behind the movie theater who ended up becoming an accountant and now has five kids.

“I knew about that,” he says, glancing at you. “The movie theater.”

You squint. “How the hell would you know that?”

“I heard about it. From your brother, I think. Or Janie. One of them was pissed. Said the guy was a dick.”

You laugh. “He was a dick. I made him walk me home.”

Sidney smiles at the road. “Good.”

When you pulled into the gravel driveway, people were already starting to gather for the quick rehearsal. Folding chairs were stacked along the fence. A few of Janie’s uncles were arguing over whether the rental arch would hold up in the wind. Her little cousins were chasing each other with sticks, and one of your brother’s groomsmen was very obviously trying to flirt with a bridesmaid and failing miserably at it.

“Feels like a graduation rehearsal,” you said under your breath.

Sidney let out a low laugh. “Except there’s way more alcohol involved.”

“And less crying. Hopefully.”

“Debatable,” he murmured, nudging your elbow as you both stepped into the backyard.

You were instantly swept into the buzz of last-minute logistics—who’s standing where, what music will be played, when exactly to start walking, whether Janie’s cousin actually knows how to work the bluetooth speaker.

Sidney was pulled aside by your brother, and you could hear them arguing about whether the groomsmen should have their hands clasped in front or just let them hang by their sides.

“Just don’t look like idiots,” Janie said, cutting in, exasperated but smiling. “That’s the bar.”

Sid raised his eyebrows. “Low expectations. I can work with that.”

You eventually found yourself with the rest of the bridal party, standing in a loose line as Janie’s mom clapped her hands and waved her notes around like she was stage managing a Broadway production.

“Alright, alright, let’s get this rolling. Best man and maid of honor, you're first up.”

Sidney stepped beside you automatically. His arm brushed yours. He glanced over, gave you a look—soft, almost teasing.

“You ready?”

“For a backyard wedding rehearsal?” you asked. “Think I can manage.”

“Still cocky,” he murmured.

“Still annoying.”

You walked together from the sunroom doors down the uneven stone path that had been cleared between the flower beds, timed to the vague sound of a phone speaker playing some version of an instrumental love song that definitely had a few notes out of tune. The “aisle” hadn’t been dressed yet—no petals, no chairs in formation—but you could picture it. You could picture the way Janie would light up walking down it. How your brother would probably forget to breathe. You’d both waited so long for this day.

At the end of the walk, you and Sidney paused. The rest of the party clapped like it was a job well done, and you both dipped in mock theatrical bows.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Really laughed. And he was laughing too, eyes crinkled, like the two of you had just pulled off something far more impressive than walking ten yards.

You walked through it two more times. Each time it felt easier. Surer. Each time you caught yourself smiling a little longer when he looked at you. Each time his hand brushed your back to gently guide you forward and your skin felt like it had been waiting years for that exact contact.

After the final run-through, Janie’s dad clapped his hands and declared it “good enough for government work,” and everyone broke into scattered, easy conversation. There were plans to head to the bar down the street—nothing fancy, just pitchers of beer and greasy food and the kind of laughter that only really happened in groups like this. The kind of laughter you only got in rooms where everyone had known you before you were anything but yourself.

You stood off to the side, watching everyone gather their things, shoes clicking against the flagstone. Sidney appeared at your side again, just like he always did.

“You coming?” he asked, his voice soft, hopeful.

You gave him a small smile. “Can’t. I’ve still gotta ice the cake.”

He blinked. “Wait, you’re doing the cake?”

“Janie wanted something homemade. I said I’d do it.” You shrugged. “It’s that kind of wedding, you know?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I know.”

You clasped your hands behind your back and rocked on your heels a little. “Plus, I still need to make sure the lights are strung up right in my parents’ yard. And the tablecloths are all wrinkled to shit. And the playlist needs tweaking. It’s fine. It’s good. I’ve got it.”

His brow furrowed. “You’re doing all of that tonight?”

“Someone’s gotta.”

There was a pause.

“You sure you don’t want help?”

You looked up at him, surprised.

“I mean—” he scratched the back of his neck “—I don’t mind. We could split a beer. Hang the lights. You can boss me around some more. Just like old times.”

Your heart twisted.

You wanted to say yes.

God, you wanted to say yes.

But that ache—low and slow and constant—reminded you this was still a life he dipped into like a summer storm, not something he stayed for.

“I’ll be alright,” you said quietly.

Sidney nodded. Not disappointed exactly, but… something close. Something quieter. Something heavier.

“Okay,” he said. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

You gave him a soft smile. “Bright and early.”

He took a step back, then stopped. “You really sure? You’re doing a hell of a lot.”

You shrugged again, trying to play it off. “Comes with the title, right?”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t push.

Just looked at you for a long moment. Like he wanted to say something else but couldn’t quite find the words. Like if he stayed a second longer, it might break him a little.

And then, with one last nod, he turned and followed the rest of them down the driveway, his shoulders broad, his pace slow, like maybe—maybe—he was hoping you’d call him back.

You didn’t.

You stood there under the soft wash of string lights that hadn’t been plugged in yet, watching him walk away, heart tugging painfully against your ribs.

And even though you’d spent the whole day with him, even though you’d laughed and touched and felt something that hadn’t existed in years—you still missed him the second he was gone.

When you got back to your parents’ house it was empty, the kind of quiet that only ever existed after a full day of voices. The screen door clicked shut behind you, and the silence swallowed the last of the sunlight filtering in through the kitchen window. Shoes kicked off. Hair out of the way. Your dress swapped out for bike shorts and an old university t-shirt that had definitely seen better days. You exhaled as you glanced around the kitchen.

Time to get to work.

You start with the fairy lights.

The tent’s already half-assembled in the backyard, a long, pale canvas skeleton stretched out across uneven grass and clumps of flowers that your mom swears weren’t planted last week, but definitely were. The fairy lights are looped haphazardly through the rafters, the extension cords bundled like nests of panic in every corner.

You plug them in one at a time. Each strand flickers to life with a tiny sigh of electricity.

Warm. Golden. Gentle.

It helps. Somehow.

What doesn’t help is the damn tent.

You wrestle with it for thirty minutes. At one point you curse so loudly you’re sure someone five blocks over heard. The center pole keeps sliding. One side collapses entirely. You should call your dad. You should call anyone.

But you don’t.

You’re stubborn, and this tent is not going to win. Not tonight.

So you grit your teeth and keep at it, knees in the dirt, arms aching. When you finally get it standing properly, you drop to your ass in the grass, sweat clinging to the back of your neck, and just breathe.

One problem down.

“Yeah,” you mumbled. “Who needs CrossFit.”

You made your way to the side yard and started hauling the extra chairs and tables out of storage. Dusty, cobwebbed, probably a decade old—but they’d do. You lined them up on the lawn and hosed them down, the pressure washer sputtering like it needed support. Mud splashed up your legs. You didn’t care. Your socks were soaked. You didn’t care about that either.

The seat covers and tablecloths went straight into the laundry. You tossed in more detergent than anyone with common sense should. If one of them still came out smelling like the basement, you were burning it.

You washed the mismatched dinnerware in the kitchen sink while humming a half-remembered Norah Jones song under your breath. Something soft and old, something you hadn't thought about in years until today. Until him.

And yeah, fuck, you’d be lying if you said he hadn’t been lingering in the back of your mind like static. Like a hum. Like something your body kept tuning into without permission.

He wasn’t supposed to feel so close. So here.

You lined the plates up to dry and wiped down the counters. Pulled out the boxes for the wedding favors. Little jars of homemade jam with tags that still needed tying and labels that still needed sticking. You didn’t touch them yet. Just stared at the pile, promising yourself you’d get to them in a minute. Or two. Or an hour.

And then you found the cake topper.

It had been wrapped in bubble wrap inside a shoe box labeled “DO NOT LOSE.” You peeled it open, blinked at it, then burst out laughing.

“What the hell,” you muttered, lifting it by the tiny plastic base.

It’s horrifying. The figurines look nothing like your brother and Janie. The groom’s face is too long, the bride’s hair too yellow and their eyes are staring off in opposite directions like they’re both actively regretting this.

Neither of them looked remotely like Janie or your brother.

You hold it up, tilt your head, then glance at your paintbrushes still sitting in a mason jar near the microwave.

You could fix it.

Maybe.

You turned it over in your hands, debating whether to paint it, break it. Then finally you set it down.

The fridge hummed at your back, and you remembered the cake. Three tiers. Vanilla sponge. One layer already covered in lemon curd because you’d had too much wine when you baked it the other night and got experimental.

You pulled it out and set it on the counter, fingers automatically checking the edges. Then you opened the pantry, grabbed powdered sugar and butter, and started prepping the frosting.

And that’s when you heard the knock.

One tap.

Then another.

You frowned and wiped your hands on your shirt as you walked to the back door.

And there he was.

Sidney.

Holding a brown paper bag in one hand and a case of beer in the other.

His t-shirt was soft and rumpled, his hair a little messy. He looked at you like he wasn’t sure you were real.

You blinked. “Didn’t you leave with everyone else?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. And then I left them.”

You stared. “You snuck out of your bestfriends pre-wedding bar night?”

“Yup.”

You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest. “Why?”

He held up the beer. “Because you’re icing a wedding cake alone.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t explain the bag.”

He lifted it a little higher. “Fries. Burgers. Some questionable chicken fingers. Possibly poutine, but the guy behind the counter wouldn’t confirm.”

You paused.

Then opened the door wider.

“Get in here.”

He stepped inside like he’d never left. You watched him set the bag on the counter, open the fridge, and start putting the beers inside like it was his fridge.

“I thought you were gonna play darts and get nostalgic with the guys,” you said.

“Yeah,” he said, not looking at you. “And then I realized I’d rather be here.”

You hesitated.

“Why?”

He finally turned, eyes steady on yours.

“Because I wanted to.”

You didn’t know what to do with that. What to say to that.

So you didn’t say anything at all.

You just handed him a spatula, nudged the frosting bowl toward him, and turned back to the cake.

He grinned. “You’re gonna let me help decorate?”

He licked a bit of frosting off his thumb. “This feels like a trap.”

“Welcome to wedding prep.”

You worked in silence for a while after that. Him holding the bowl steady. You smoothing out the top of the cake like your life depended on it. Occasionally, he’d pass you a wet towel or adjust the music playing off your phone

It was quieter now, but the kind of quiet that held something warm beneath it. The kind of quiet that felt like a conversation waiting to be had. Like your heart and his were speaking a language your mouths couldn’t yet translate.

Eventually, he leaned his hip against the counter and looked at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

“You know,” he said softly, “this cake’s gonna be the best part of the whole wedding.”

You scoffed. “Please. You haven’t even seen the bar. You wanna try?"

You lift the spatula toward him, frosting-covered and halfway through smoothing the second tier. Sidney raises both brows like you’ve just offered him an organ.

“To do that?”

You nod, stepping back. “Come on. It’s not rocket science. You just… scoop, swipe, spin.”

He frowns, hesitating like the cake is a bomb. “You sure you want me touching that thing?”

“Sidney,” you sigh, “you played through broken limbs in multiple playoff series over the years but you’re scared of buttercream?”

“You make it look easy,” Sidney said, leaning a little too close over your shoulder. His voice was low, warm, familiar in a way that made your neck prickle. “It’s just... like spackling a wall, right?”

You blinked at him. “If your wall is made of sponge cake and costs your sanity, sure.”

He grinned.

You passed him the angled spatula anyway. “Alright, hotshot. Show me what you’ve got.”

He cracked his knuckles, rolled his shoulders, and gave you nod. “I was born for this.”

You took a cautious step back and crossed your arms. “Please don’t butcher my masterpiece.”

He dipped the spatula into the frosting bowl like he’d seen you do—slow, deliberate—and slapped a generous amount onto the side of the top tier.

You winced. “Okay. Less… aggressive.”

He dragged the frosting across the surface, but instead of smooth, elegant strokes, the cake started to resemble stucco. Lumpy, uneven stucco.

“Shit,” he muttered, tongue caught between his teeth.

“Gently,” you coached, biting back a laugh. “It’s not a defensive zone.”

“I don’t like this,” he said flatly, trying again and failing to make it better. “This is worse than icing my own bruises.”

You cackled, grabbing a towel to dab a little frosting off the base. “Oh my God. Sid. This is a wedding. Not an art therapy session.”

He looked at you with faux offense. “I’m trying.”

“You’re failing.”

He sighed and dropped the spatula into the sink with dramatic flair. “Alright. You win. I’m retiring from the cake-decorating game with a perfect record of one disaster.”

You leaned back against the counter, grinning. “It’s honestly kind of perfect. Like, ‘crafted by the hands of someone who tried really hard but should never do this again.’”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my ability to decorate a wedding cake,” he deadpanned.

You snorted, and the two of you stood there for a moment, both looking at the lopsided, slightly dented upper tier of the cake. It was charming in a way that made your heart ache. Like it had a story. Like it was loved.

“Alright,” you say. “Time to fix the monstrosity.”

“The topper?”

You pull it out of the box and hold it between you like it might start cursing.

Sidney squints at it. “Why does it look like your brother’s been possessed?”

“Right?” you mutter. “And Janie looks like a gremlin.”

He nods solemnly. “That’s a crime.”

You grab the paint box your mom keeps for craft nights and haul it to the counter. “Let’s make them hot.”

Sidney grins. “Finally. A wedding task I’m qualified for.”

You spend the next hour painting the little figures, laughing the whole time. He gives your brother abs, you paint Janie’s eyeliner on with terrifying precision. At one point, he dips the brush too far and ends up with paint on his cheek, which you dab off with your thumb before realizing how close your faces are.

Neither of you mentions it.

You left the topper dried on a paper towel, you moved on to the wedding favors—rows of little glass jam jars that still needed ribbons and tags.

He tied one ribbon and immediately groaned. “This is so not in my skillset.”

You rolled your eyes and moved closer, fingers brushing over his as you fixed his knot. “Good thing I’m here to supervise.”

You were dangerously close now, shoulder to shoulder, arms pressed together, knees bumping under the table as you leaned in to reach the far row. The tension was so natural you barely noticed it anymore—but it was there. Buzzing beneath the surface.

“I forgot how good you are at this stuff,” he murmured after a while.

You looked up. “At what?”

“Organizing chaos. Bossing people around. Making everything feel like it’s gonna be okay.”

You paused.

“Well,” you said, trying to play it off. “I did spend four years managing toddlers at a rec center. Turns out it’s excellent training for weddings.”

He smirked. “Is that what I am? A toddler?”

You shrugged. “Emotionally? Debatable.”

He laughed, and you smiled because you missed that sound—his real laugh, the one that cracked open his face and made his eyes go soft. The one you’d memorized long before you even knew you were in love with him.

After the favors were done, you both carried the chairs into the backyard.

“You thinking long rows or circles?” he asked.

“Circles?” You stared at him like he’d suggested a dunk tank. “This isn’t an AA meeting.”

He shrugged. “Just thought it’d be more communal.”

You squinted at the space. “Okay. Fine. Let’s try it.”

You spent the next twenty minutes setting the chairs up in a wide circular formation. Then you stood back and stared at it.

“I hate it,” you said flatly.

“Told you,” he said, smug.

“You literally suggested it.”

“And you approved it. That’s on you.”

You sighed and started dragging chairs around again. He joined in, and the two of you rearranged them into neat rows this time—only to realize the tables wouldn’t fit that way.

“Goddammit,” you muttered.

Sid dropped into a chair dramatically. “We’re going to die out here.”

You laughed, then sat beside him with two fresh beers from your dad’s basement stash. “If we’re going down, at least we’re drinking good stuff.”

The beer went down smooth. The night settled around you like a worn blanket—soft, warm, familiar. The air smelled like grass and sugar and possibility.

You leaned back, watching the string lights blink to life above you.

“You know something’s gonna go wrong tomorrow, right?” you said quietly.

He nodded. “Of course.”

“Something always does.”

He glanced at you. “But it’s still gonna be a good day.”

You turned your head to look at him.

“You think so?”

He shrugged. “It’s a wedding. Two people who love each other saying, ‘Let’s do this.’ That’s the whole point, right? The rest is just—” He waved his bottle. “—frosting.”

You were quiet for a beat. “You always did have a thing for metaphors.”

“You always did have a thing for cake.”

You smiled down at the beer bottle in your hands. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

He didn’t say anything after that, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind that stretched long between people who knew each other. People who didn’t need to fill the quiet to feel full.

Eventually, you stood and gathered the bottles.

“You staying to help me clean this up?” you teased.

Sidney gave you a look. “Like I’d leave you to it.”

He followed you back into the house, and you didn’t stop him. You didn’t pretend to protest. You just let him move with you, beside you, like he belonged here—because in some ways, he always had.

And by the time everything was wiped down and packed away and the lights were turned off and the doors were locked, the sky had gone fully black. The stars were out.

You stood together on the porch for a long moment.

You could feel it again, that pull. That ache.

The quiet gravity of something inevitable.

And when he said goodnight, it was soft. Almost reluctant.

You didn’t watch him leave this time.

But you felt the hollow he left behind.

Same as always.

~

The wedding morning crept in slow, soft, and golden—the kind of summer light that filtered through gauzy curtains and made everything look like it belonged in a memory, not real time. You’d woken up early without needing an alarm, the weight of the day already humming in your chest before your eyes even opened.

Janie’s parents' house was already alive with quiet movement by the time you got there. The living room had been overtaken with curling irons and hairpins, coffee cups half-full and sweating into coasters, the scent of hairspray mingling with cinnamon rolls. One of the younger bridesmaids was doing a face mask in the corner while another played the same three Taylor Swift songs on repeat from her phone. A speaker somewhere softly buzzed with oldies. Someone kept misplacing their shoes. Someone else was panicking about a dress zipper.

But the chaos was calm in its own way. Like everyone knew this was what the beginning of a forever kind of day looked like.

You stood at the kitchen island curling the last pieces of one of the bridesmaids’ hair, bare feet on the cool tile, your hands moving almost automatically. This was your happy place, oddly enough. Tending to people. Making sure they looked and felt beautiful. Making sure things worked the way they were supposed to.

Janie looked beautiful. Radiant in a way that made your chest ache. Her skin glowed. Her hair curled just the way she liked it. She had her mom’s necklace on, the one you all swore she’d lose before today. She hadn’t. She looked like every version of herself from every year you’d known her—all stitched into one breathtaking woman standing in front of you in a robe and slippers.

When your brother called—right in the middle of her makeup—her face crumpled before she even answered. You watched her hand shake slightly as she pressed the phone to her ear and whispered a teary “Hi, honey,” before bursting into tears, laughing through it. The bouquet he sent arrived right after. Sunflowers, because they reminded him of that trip they took when they were eighteen and broke and stupid and completely in love.

Your own eyes welled up, and you weren’t the only one.

Everyone cried at least once that morning. Janie’s mom and yours both let it out when she stepped into the dress. You helped zip it up, hands steady, breath catching when you saw yourself in the mirror beside her. God. This was real now. All of it.

She looked at you, eyes full of love, and whispered, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

You just smiled, brushing a hand down the lace at her side. “You’re gonna wreck all of us, you know that?”

She laughed and then sniffled and immediately started blotting her face with a tissue while cursing her waterproof mascara.

You stepped away for a moment to collect yourself, standing in the hall outside the living room where everyone else was buzzing. You leaned against the wall, eyes closed, listening to the laughter and the shuffle of feet and the sound of your own heart pressing against your ribs.

You wondered how it was going at your parents’ house.

Probably like a zoo.

You pictured the groomsmen in various stages of readiness. Your dad and Janie’s dad trying to wrangle them into some type of order. Someone using too much cologne. Your brother probably calm and steady, until his tie wouldn’t cooperate. And Sidney…

Sidney ironing his shirt, sleeves rolled up, tongue caught in his teeth while he concentrated. Taking the lead in corralling the chaos. Playing along with the dumb jokes. Smiling that shy, crooked smile that could still undo you.

You shook the thought from your head. No time for that now. No space for it.

Eventually, it was go-time.

The guests were arriving. The backyard was set. The flowers were placed. The music was queued. And one by one, the bridal party lined up in order. You smoothed Janie’s veil one more time and gave her a kiss on the cheek before slipping into position. Sidney was already waiting in the sunroom, standing near the door, tie perfect, suit crisp.

He looked ridiculous. In the way that made your stomach twist. Like he had no business being that handsome when you were this emotionally vulnerable.

His eyes lit up when he saw you. And you felt it again—that shift in the air, like gravity remembered itself.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, like a secret.

“Hey,” you breathed, smoothing your dress even though it didn’t need smoothing.

“You look…”

You raised a brow. “Careful.”

He laughed, soft and quiet. “I was gonna say beautiful. But I could go with, uh… ‘passable.’ If that’s safer.”

You smiled. It reached your eyes.

“Thanks,” you said. “You clean up okay, too.”

He shifted his weight. Glanced down at his dress shoes. “Do we know what we’re doing?”

“Vaguely.”

He nodded. “Good.”

A pause. Long enough to feel like something could be said. Like maybe the weight of everything between you—the years, the silences, the closeness—might spill over.

But then the music started.

Everyone shifted.

The groomsmen straightened up. The bridesmaids checked their bouquets. The sun poured in through the sunroom windows like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

And just like that, it began.

You and Sidney walked out together—best man and maid of honor. For what felt like the billionth time in your lives. Every school dance. Every birthday party. Every made-up backyard ceremony when you were kids. You’d always been the two flanking your brother and Janie. Like you were orbiting around the same center.

It felt right.

Too right.

Your arm was linked in his. His fingers brushed against your wrist. Your pace matched without thinking. He was warm beside you, steady. And in your head, all you could hear was your heartbeat.

The ceremony itself felt like a blur. Soft and warm and spinning just a little. Janie’s vows cracked on the last sentence. Your brother choked up halfway through his. Someone’s baby wailed at the exact wrong time and then immediately calmed down when Janie smiled at them. Everyone cried. Everyone.

You caught Sidney brushing at his eye discreetly once.

And then it was done.

The kiss. The cheer. The applause. The breath that everyone had been holding finally let out.

They were married.

You stood there, bouquet in hand, your cheeks aching from smiling so hard. And across from you, Sidney looked like he’d just witnessed magic.

And maybe you had.

Because in that moment, watching your best friend marry the love of her life, standing beside the man who—against all your better judgment—still held pieces of your heart in places you didn’t talk about…

You felt it.

The ache. The wonder. The possibility.

And it wasn’t just Janie and your brother who had stepped into forever.

It was the part of you that remembered love as something patient. Something quiet. Something that never really let go.

And it was the part of Sidney that never stopped waiting for the right moment.

Even when it never quite came.

By the time everyone trickled into your parents’ backyard for the reception the sun had started its slow descent, and you swear—swear—it had never looked more beautiful.

Not in that overly-curated, perfect kind of way. But in the real kind of beautiful. The kind that was built on effort and love and chairs you sprayed down yourself just yesterday.

Everything had come together. Somehow.

The tent was strung with the fairy lights you wrestled with. The tables you and Sidney rearranged three times were now covered in mismatched tablecloths and little jam jar favors, already half-raided by kids sneaking spoonfuls of berry preserves. The centerpieces were simple, garden-style—baby’s breath and daisies from your aunt’s backyard. The cake, now perfectly imperfect with that slightly wonky upper tier and the hand-painted topper, sat on a side table like a monument to chaos and teamwork.

Cocktail hour blurred by in a haze of laughter, clinking glasses, passed pastries, and the occasional rogue frisbee someone’s cousin insisted on bringing.

And now—now the string lights were starting to glow as the sky shifted from coral to lavender to navy, and people were finally settling into their seats for dinner.

You and Sidney had been ushered to the long table reserved for the wedding party, directly beside the small sweetheart table where your brother and Janie now sat. She was glowing. He looked like he still hadn’t caught his breath.

Sidney pulled out your chair. Like it was instinct. Like he hadn’t missed a beat in the years between.

“Why, thank you,” you teased as you sat down, smoothing the fabric of your dress.

“I’m a gentleman,” he said, deadpan. “Don’t act surprised.”

“You did try to body check me into a snowbank when we were fifteen.”

“I also gave you my jacket afterward.”

“Because you got us lost.”

He just smiled, smug. “And you still helped me with math homework the next day.”

You scoffed and reached for the bottle of wine on the table between you. “You were lucky I was in a good mood.”

He bumped your elbow gently with his. “You were always in a good mood back then.”

Your hand stilled for a second.

The words weren’t loaded. They didn’t need to be. But they landed somewhere deep in your chest.

Because it was true, wasn’t it? You had been softer then. Lighter. Easier with your joy. He’d seen you in ways few people ever had.

You poured two glasses and changed the subject.

The music shifted—mellow, romantic. The kind of instrumental track that told everyone to hush for just a moment. Everyone turned.

Your brother and Janie walked slowly into the open center of the lawn-turned-dance-floor. He whispered something in her ear that made her throw her head back in a laugh you could feel in your chest.

They swayed, and the world softened.

Sidney leaned toward you just slightly, his shoulder brushing yours. “Remember their prom dance?”

You smiled. “She wore those rhinestone heels.”

“That she kicked off halfway through the night and walked home barefoot.”

“And he carried her through the parking lot because she stepped on a pinecone.”

You both chuckled softly, eyes still fixed on the couple twirling in the golden light.

“She’s been in love with him forever,” you murmured.

He nodded. “And he’s never looked at anyone else.”

Dinner followed. Roasted chicken, grilled vegetables, buttered potatoes, a salad that somehow vanished faster than anything else. People mingled, chairs shifted. Someone’s toddler stole a roll off the sweetheart table. Someone’s uncle took over the aux for five minutes and played ‘American Pie.’

You and Sidney stayed seated, talking.

You talked about what shows you were watching. About how you missed breakfast sandwiches from that shop near your old high school. About a summer road trip you both remembered, where the A/C broke and someone got sunburned through the car window.

You didn’t ask him about his life now, not really. He didn’t ask about yours, either.

It was unspoken—whatever you didn’t say, you still knew.

The music shifted again. Upbeat now. Bolder. Someone dragged your grandma onto the dance floor and she ate it up, hips swaying, hands clapping. More people joined. Couples. Cousins. Friends you hadn’t seen in years.

The fairy lights blinked. The stars blinked back.

And then—

“You wanna dance?”

You turned your head.

Sidney was already looking at you, soft and sure and impossible to say no to.

You raised an eyebrow. “You dance now?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “For you? Always have.”

Your heart did something—a misstep, a flutter, a leap.

You didn’t trust your voice. So you just stood.

He followed.

And suddenly, you were in the middle of the backyard, surrounded by music and string lights and people laughing and clapping—and none of it mattered.

Because it was you and him again. Like it always had been.

He rested one hand on your waist. Not low. Not possessive. Just enough.

Your hand found his shoulder.

And you danced.

Not well. Not choreographed. Not even really in rhythm.

But it was easy.

It was good.

He spun you once, badly. You laughed. He tried again. You let him.

“Still terrible at this,” you murmured, grinning up at him.

“I’m carrying the team,” he shot back.

You bumped your hip into his. “You wish.”

He laughed, head tilting just slightly down. Close enough to smell his cologne again. That warm, steady scent that had burrowed into your memory years ago and refused to leave.

“You know,” he said softly, voice barely above the music, “I missed this.”

“Weddings?” you teased.

“Us.”

Your heart clenched.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because you had missed this. You missed him.

And standing there, swaying in a circle you’d drawn for yourselves, you realized the ache between you was less like a wound now and more like a tether—long, stretched, frayed at the ends, but still holding.

Sidney didn’t let you go. Not after that first dance. One song had turned into two, then three.

And suddenly it felt like you’d been dancing forever.

Not in a bad way. Not even in the way that made your feet ache or your dress feel too tight or your smile start to droop. But in the way that made time melt, made the moments stretch into something suspended—something you weren’t ready to step out of just yet. The night was buzzing around you, glowing with a kind of golden blur. Love floated like pollen in the air. Warm and light and soft.

The dance floor was completely full now—your parents, Janie’s aunts, a handful of toddlers spinning in circles, your brother in his wrinkled shirt letting Janie lead her niece around like a parade. Everything was joy. Everything was loud and lovely and lit by fairy lights strung overhead and the occasional flicker from someone’s camera flash.

And still, Sidney’s hand was at your waist. His fingers relaxed now, like they knew their place there. Like they remembered.

The music had faded into something slower without either of you really noticing. A low, sway-heavy song, no lyrics, just soft guitar and subtle piano and something about it that made you feel like the world had shrunk down to just the two of you.

He held you a little closer now, but not possessively. Just like he didn’t want to let go.

And honestly, you didn’t either.

Your voice was low when you spoke. “Do you remember Janie’s 18th birthday? That party in her parents’ basement?”

Sidney let out a breath of a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “The one with the broken karaoke machine?”

You nodded. “And those horrible frozen margaritas someone’s cousin brought in a cooler.”

“Oh my God,” he groaned. “I’ve never been so sick in my life.”

“You tried to sing with a fever and a black eye.”

“I did not have a black eye.”

“You absolutely did. It was from a pick up game—”

“Okay, fine. But I nailed the bridge.”

You rolled your eyes. “You screamed the bridge.”

Sid grinned. “And everyone cheered.”

You shook your head with a smile, and it went quiet for a few beats, the music filling the space between your bodies as you shifted in place, still swaying.

After a moment, you asked, “How are things in Pittsburgh?”

It came out softer than you intended. Like you were afraid to actually hear the answer.

He blinked, like the question caught him off guard. “They’re… alright,” he said after a second. “Good, even. Mostly.”

You gave him a look. “That sounds fake.”

He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “It’s just—y’know. Same thing, different season. Routines. Practice. Home games. Media. The usual.”

You nodded slowly. “And… personally?”

His eyes flicked to yours.

He shrugged, mouth quirking with a tight smile. “It’s quiet.”

Quiet.

You didn’t press. You just nodded, because you understood exactly what he meant. Maybe better than you wanted to admit.

You glanced down for a second, watched the toes of your shoes brush softly against his. “I feel like I haven’t asked you about any of this in forever.”

He didn’t answer right away. But his thumb brushed the side of your waist, absentminded, like a current running through him.

“You used to be the only one who ever asked,” he said quietly. “Like, really asked.”

That hit harder than you expected.

You looked up at him again. His expression was unreadable, the kind of blank you knew was hiding a whole storm underneath. The kind he wore when he didn’t want to give something away.

Your voice dipped lower. “How long will you be in town?”

“Well,” he said. “Most of the summer probably.”

“That long?”

He shook his head. “Yeah. Well sort of. I’m going on a trip next Wednesday.”

You nodded.

Then he asked it.

“How long are you here?”

Your heart clenched.

“Tomorrow,” you said softly. “I leave tomorrow.”

He stopped moving for half a second. Just half a second. But you felt it.

“Oh.”

The word landed like something being dropped into water.

And then you both kept swaying, like maybe if you didn’t stop moving, you wouldn’t have to face the fact that the weekend was about to end.

That this—whatever this was, this moment between you—would be over, too.

“Guess it didn’t really hit me until now,” he said, voice quiet. “How quick this went.”

You looked at him, throat tight. “I know.”

He glanced away, jaw tightening slightly before he said, “These last two days… I had a really good time.”

You nodded. “Me too.”

And it wasn’t just small talk. It wasn’t just pleasantries.

You meant it.

Because you had.

You’d felt more like yourself in the last forty-eight hours than you had in maybe years. You’d laughed more. You’d relaxed more. You’d remembered versions of yourself that you thought were long gone.

And it was because of him.

Sidney looked at you again, and this time there was something sharp in his eyes—something that made your stomach dip.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed this,” he said.

You swallowed. “I did.”

There was a lump growing in your throat and you weren’t even sure why—wasn’t like anything had happened. Not really. No declarations. No goodbyes. Just you and Sid and everything you couldn’t say dancing its way around the silence.

And then, in a voice quieter than you expected, he asked:

“Do you ever wonder how it happened?”

You looked up at him. “How what happened?”

His gaze was steady. Sad, almost. “How we lost each other.”

You froze.

The music kept playing. People kept laughing. Your parents were slow dancing near the bar sharing a glass of wine, Janie was now crying over a card someone had written her, your brother was chasing a flower girl who’d stolen his sunglasses. But all of that faded into something blurry.

Sidney kept going, his voice low like he wasn’t entirely sure he should be saying this aloud.

“We were close, y’know? Really fucking close. For years. And then we just… stopped. You stopped calling. I stopped trying, I guess.” His mouth twisted. “Maybe it was mutual. Or maybe I just convinced myself it was.”

You tried to say something. You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

He gave a short, dry laugh. “I just don’t know how we went from talking every damn day to this. Catching up over someone else’s wedding and pretending it doesn’t hurt.” He shook his head. “I mean, fuck, Y/N… I used to tell you everything. I used to need to tell you everything. And I thought—I thought I was your best friend. Like you were mine.”

You exhaled, shaky. “You were.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah? Doesn’t feel like it.”

Your chest cracked a little.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I don’t know what happened either. I really don’t. I think we just… grew up. Life happened. And I didn’t mean to let so much time pass. I swear I didn’t.”

His eyes dropped for a second. He looked like he was trying to hold something in—something sharp, something old.

He looked back at you and said, so plainly it nearly cut you in two, “I miss you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I miss you every time something good happens. Or something really fucking bad. Or nothing at all. I miss you in the in-between. I’ll be halfway through something stupid and I’ll think, ‘God, I gotta tell Y/N,’ and then I remember I can’t. That you’re just… not there anymore.”

Your heart twisted.

“And I’ve only ever wanted all of you,” he finished, voice catching just slightly at the end.

Your voice cracked when you answered, “You think I didn’t feel the same?”

He blinked.

“I’ve gone to your games,” you blurted.

Sid’s brows pulled together.

His mouth parted, stunned. “You came to my games?”

You glanced up at him. “Over the years. Just a few. I didn’t… I didn’t make a thing of it. I never said hi, I just sat up in the stands. It was the closest I could get to you.”

His expression shattered. Quietly. Subtly. But you saw it happen.

“I always looked for you,” he said. “Every single time. I thought—God, I thought maybe one day I’d turn around and you’d just be there.”

“I was,” you whispered. “You just didn’t know it.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Because I didn’t know how to explain what I was doing there. And I was scared if I said anything… I’d want more.” You bit your lip. “And I wasn’t allowed to want more.”

His expression softened into something achingly tender.

“And now,” you went on, “we’re standing here like no time has passed, but all the time has passed. We missed it all. Everything. We don’t even know each other anymore.”

“Bullshit,” he said, sharp. “I still know you. I know your laugh. I know the way your shoulders tense when you’re overthinking. I know when you’re holding your breath. I know when you’re about to cry.” His hand skimmed just slightly up your spine. “I still know you.”

You closed your eyes. Let your forehead rest lightly against his chest. Just for a second.

It felt like peace. Like pain. Like home.

And then, in a voice so soft you could’ve imagined it, he asked: “Why didn’t it ever work for us?”

It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t an accusation.

It was just honest.

Raw. Earnest. And full of the kind of love that had waited in silence for too many years. He looked so open. So devastatingly full of love and pain and quiet disbelief. Like he couldn’t understand why it didn’t work, because he’d never stopped wanting it to.

And God, it almost brought you to your knees.

You’d asked yourself the same question in the quietest parts of the night. When you couldn’t sleep. When your heart was aching. When someone who wasn’t Sidney made you laugh, and it didn’t feel the same.

And for the first time, you were ready to try and answer.

“I think—”

“Sweetheart?” your mom’s voice cut through the air like a knife wrapped in silk.

You blinked, still wrapped in Sidney’s arms. Still wrapped in everything unspoken.

You turned slightly and saw her standing just a few feet off the dance floor, her hands wringing together, eyes soft.

“Sorry to interrupt, sweetie,” she said gently. “But someone’s here for you.”

You frowned. “What?”

She gave a small nod toward the house. “He’s waiting by the back door.”

You followed her gaze. There, standing awkwardly just outside the back entrance, was him.

Your boyfriend. His outline backlit by the kitchen light, his tie loosened, holding his phone like he’d just parked and come straight in. You’d told him not to bother. He said he’d try anyway. And apparently, he had.

You turned back to Sid, heart in your throat.

His face had changed. You saw the confusion first—then the realization. And then something resigned. Something that slashed through you like glass.

He nodded once. Small. Controlled.

You opened your mouth to explain. To do something.

But he shook his head—just once. Subtle. Final.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice barely audible. “Go.”

Your heart twisted.

“Sid—” you tried, because you had to say something—anything to soften the crack.

But your mom had already stepped into your place, gently taking your hand and brushing her thumb across your knuckles like a quiet usher. Her expression said everything. Go on, sweetheart. Do the right thing.

And even though every fiber of you wanted to stay planted right there in his arms—to tell him everything, to say, It was always you. It’ll always be you—you didn’t.

You didn’t say anything at all.

You just walked away.

You walked toward the man who was good. Kind. Safe.

And with every step, it felt like you were leaving a piece of yourself behind on that dance floor. Like you were bleeding out in the quietest, most polite way possible.

You didn’t turn around.

You didn’t let yourself.

But if you had, you would’ve seen him standing alone now. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders heavy. Watching the spot where you’d been just moments ago.

Because leaving him behind on that dance floor?

Leaving this behind—whatever it had been, whatever it could’ve been?

It felt like walking away from the person you’d always belong to.

From the man you dreamed of building a life with.

From a version of love that lived so deep in your bones, you weren’t sure who you were without it.

And you did it anyway.

Because you’d grown up. Because timing was never on your side. Because sometimes love doesn’t equal right.

You walked toward the man waiting for you.

But you knew no matter how warm his arms felt, no matter how kind his smile, he wasn’t the one who got the pieces of you that were still scattered in Sidney Crosby’s hands.

—

There’s no alarm blaring when you wake up, no early flight, no morning skate, no frantic scramble for protein bars or lost gloves. Just warmth, the smell of whatever fabric softener his mom uses, and Sidney’s arm heavy across your waist like he’s silently reminding you he’s here.

He’s breathing steady against the back of your shoulder, and for a second, you just lie there letting it soak in. The room is still dark, winter light barely breaching the curtains in that pale, silvery way Nova Scotia seems to specialize in. The house is quiet. You can hear a faint clatter downstairs, maybe one of his aunts or his mom getting an early start.

Sid shifts behind you, his face nudging into your hair. His voice comes out rough and sleepy. “Time is it…?”

You smile into the pillow. “Like… almost ten.”

He groans, dramatic enough that you feel it vibrate through your spine. “Well, shit. That’s a record.”

“You’re welcome,” you mumble, rolling a little so you can see his face. His hair is smashed on one side and adorable. “One full morning of sleeping in. Miraculous.”

He cracks a lazy grin. “Don’t get used to it.”

“You literally promised you’d relax this trip.”

He kisses your cheek. “I’m relaxing. Look at me. Very relaxed. Extremely relaxed.”

“You look like a man pretending to be relaxed,” you tease, poking at the crease between his brows, the one that shows up whenever he’s thinking about hockey, even if he swears he isn’t.

He catches your hand, presses a quick kiss to your palm, then pushes up onto an elbow so he can actually look at you.

“You doing okay?” he asks quietly. “With everything? With… being here?”

You nod, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “I’m good. I promise. Nervous, but… it’s been nice. Really nice.”

His eyes light up. “Good. I want it to feel good for you.” He leans in, bumps your nose with his. “And if anybody says anything stupid, I’ll throw them in a snowbank.”

You laugh. “Very festive.”

He shrugs, smug. “Works every time.”

You let him pull you in again, his arm wrapping around you, his chin fitting on top of your head as he exhales like life finally gave him permission to slow down. You stay like that for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, drifting in and out of sleep, until he presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs, “We should probably get moving. Mom’s gonna wanna drag you around town.”

You groan dramatically into his chest. “But I’m warm.”

“You can be warm downstairs too.”

“But I’m warm right here.”

He laughs into your hair. “You’re such a pain in my ass.” He says it lovingly.

Eventually, he pries himself out of bed with the slow determination of a man who really would like to stay horizontal but knows he can’t. You follow him, grabbing the sweatshirt he tossed over a chair the night before.

Downstairs, the house already smells like coffee and something sugary. His mom is in the kitchen humming along to Christmas music, and she greets you both with a smile that makes the nerves in your stomach loosen.

Sidney drops a kiss to her cheek. “Morning, Mom.”

“You two slept in,” she teases, eyebrows raised.

“That was my fault,” you admit, stepping beside him.

“No,” Sid says immediately, almost defensively. “It was my fault. I set like six alarms and snoozed all of them.”

His mom just laughs. “Good. You need rest.” Then she waves a wooden spoon. “Eat something before you two run off again.”

Because of course you’re running off. You’ve been running off every day since you got here, mostly because Sid gets twitchy after forty-eight hours off the ice. He’s taken you skating at what feels like every rink within a thirty-mile radius. Outdoor, indoor, frozen pond, empty practice rink only he has the key for.

While you’re pouring coffee, he comes up behind you, chin on your shoulder. “We have time to kill before everyone comes over,” he says, voice low and suggestive in that stupid way that makes you warm. “Wanna go for a skate?”

“You have too much energy.”

He kisses your jaw, smug. “Yeah, but you like it.”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see your face. “Fine. But I get the TV tonight.”

“You already get the TV tonight,” he reminds you. “It’s our deal.”

“Oh, right.” You smirk. “So I can pick whatever I want.”

He freezes, then groans. “Please don’t make me watch that one baking competition again.”

You turn around and pat his chest sympathetically. “Baby, that’s the point of the deal.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, defeated, “I really screwed myself with that one.”

After breakfast, the two of you bundle up and drive to the little outdoor rink he basically grew up on.

He helps you lace your skates even though you keep insisting you can do it yourself. He just shrugs and says, “Habit,” like he hasn’t been taking care of everyone around him since he was ten.

You step onto the ice and he’s already grinning, tapping his stick against yours. “Race you?”

“Nope,” you say immediately. “Not happening. You just wanna watch me bust my ass.”

“I’ll catch you,” he offers, too quickly.

You snort. “You’re full of shit.”

He gasps dramatically. “Wow. Is that really what you think of me?”

“Yes. Very much.”

He laughs, bright in the cold air. “Fair enough.”

After maybe thirty minutes of skating and teasing and him showing off by doing little turns behind you, he finally stops near the boards, leaning on his stick while you catch your breath.

“You’re getting better,” he says, gentle and genuine.

You arch a brow. “I think you’re just being nice.”

“No, you are. You don’t grab my jacket every three seconds anymore.”

“Only because you yelled at me last time,” you remind him.

He smirks. “I didn’t yell.”

“You kinda yelled.”

“I raised my voice with love.”

You shove him lightly with your shoulder, and he bumps you back.

By the time you head back to the house, your whole face is incredibly warm, and your stomach is fluttery in that stupid way that happens every time he looks at you like you’re his soft place to land.

Inside, the house is louder now. It feels like his whole extended family has arrived. Someone’s laughing in the living room, and you can hear his dad talking about some old hockey story with one of his cousins.

Sid tosses your gloves onto the bench by the door. “Mom’s probably in full hosting mode already,” he says, shaking snow out of his hair. “You can escape to the living room if you want. I’ll help her with whatever she needs.”

You touch his arm lightly. “I can help too.”

He gives you this soft, crooked grin. “Go sit. Relax. You’ve been anxious since we got here.” He nudges you gently toward the living room. “Go. I’ll be right there.”

You settle onto the sofa, pulling a blanket over your lap. Across from you, on the coffee table, there’s a stack of old photo albums. Probably stuff his mom pulled out for holiday nostalgia.

You glance toward the kitchen. Sid’s still talking to his mom, his hand resting on the back of her shoulder like he’s the resident gentle giant.

You reach for the top album without really thinking.

The cover cracks softly when you open it.

Right there, on the very first page, is a photo of Sidney at maybe three or four years old. Tiny. Round cheeks. A mop of impossibly curly hair exploding in every direction. And in his little chubby hands… a hockey stick far too big for his tiny body.

Your breath catches.

Because holy shit… he’s cute.

Painfully cute.

Before you can even process the way your entire chest melts, he drops onto the couch beside you, thigh pressed warm against yours, the cushions dipping under his weight. He squints at the page like maybe if he stares hard enough, the photos will magically disappear.

“You really went for the top one, huh,” he says, voice already resigned.

You grin, a hand innocently smoothing over the plastic page. “It was looking at me.”

“It’s a fucking trap,” he mutters. “My mom always leaves the embarrassing ones on top.”

“Embarrassing?” You glance at the photo again. “Sid… you have the cutest hair I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Don’t start,” he warns. He leans in anyway, knee nudging yours. “I can feel the judgment radiating off you.”

“That’s affection.” You flip the page before he can stop you.

He tries to move forward and casually close the album, but you catch the corner and yank it back against your chest.

“No.” “Yes.” “No, Sid.” “Yes, absolutely yes,” he counters, reaching again.

You hold it out of reach, your elbow practically embedded into his ribs. “Back off. I’m enjoying myself.”

He collapses backward dramatically, rubbing his face. “This is a nightmare.”

The next photo is tiny-Sid in a jersey so big it looks like it’s swallowing him whole. He’s standing in what looks like someone’s basement. His back is to the camera, but the name on the jersey is huge.

CROSBY 1

Your heart squeezes. “Sidney,” you whisper, “why were you so tiny?”

“I don’t know,” he grumbles. “I was a child.”

“You were an angel. An angel with a lot of hair.”

He gives you a funny look. “What does that even mean?”

You tap the picture. “Look at this. This jersey is doing all the work. You were just along for the ride.”

Sid leans against the back of the couch, tipping his head back like he’s begging the universe for patience. “I swear.”

But he’s smiling, the corners of his mouth tugging up even as he pretends to suffer.

You flip to the next picture. He’s on the ice, maybe four years old, wearing gear that looks like hand-me-downs. His tiny body is bent over in full concentration, blade on the ice as if he’s about to faceoff, while another little kid behind him is… sitting flat on the ice with a hula hoop, pulling it from the hands of someone else. 

You choke out a laugh. “Who is that?” Sid leans in, squinting. “I only remembered that he ate snow more than he played hockey.”

“Oh, you were already the serious one.”

“I was focused,” he says, defensive. “And he was eating dirty frozen water.”

You’re giggling, the sound soft and bright. Sid tries to nudge the page closed with a single finger.

You block it again. “Stop it.” “I’m helping.” “No, you’re not.” “Yes, I am.” “You’re being sneaky,” you say.

He grins. “Yeah, but you love me.”

You pretend not to react, but he notices the way you look away. His eyes soften.

Then you turn the page again.

And your jaw drops.

Baby Sid. Like truly baby baby. Maybe not even talking yet. He’s holding a Montreal Canadiens baby bottle like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His curls are wild, his cheeks are full, and he’s giving the camera a blank stare.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “Sidney.”

“Oh no,” he mutters. “That one is controversial.”

You look at him slowly. “Sid… you were a Habs baby?”

“I didn’t have a say.”

“You did,” you argue, “and you chose chaos.”

He groans and drags his hands down his face. “Can we skip this part?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “This is crucial information.”

He laughs quietly, nudging your knee with his. “I hate you.”

“You do not.”

He doesn’t answer that, just nudges you again, softer this time.

The next page has him holding a trophy. He’s maybe seven or eight, cheeks puffed, smile huge. And it’s the same smile he uses now. 

Your voice softens. “This is your exact smile now.”

Sid looks at it and his eyes go distant for a second, the way they do when he’s remembering something buried deep. “That was my first trophy. My Dad set up a shelf so I could fill it with more.”

“You were already thinking ahead.”

“Baby, I was already dreaming of the Stanley Cup,” he admits with a sheepish grin.

You shake your head. “I can’t believe you peaked this early.”

“I’m ignoring you,” he tells you. “I’m absolutely ignoring you.”

But he comes back for more.

You flip to the next page and burst out laughing.

It’s him, trying extremely hard to be a goalie. He’s wearing a helmet too big, a black and red glove, holding a stick just right for him. He’s standing in front of a tiny net in the basement like he’s facing down a Game 7 overtime shot.

“Oh,” you breathe.

“Okay, look,” Sid starts, straightening. “I was testing career paths.”

“You look like you’re about to combust.”

“I wasn’t going to combust.”

“Sidney, you look so excited.”

He groans and leans over, forehead pressing dramatically to your shoulder. “Why are you making me relive this on Christmas?”

You stroke his hair. “Because you’re adorable.”

“Stop saying that.”

“No.”

He groans louder, hiding his face.

You turn another page.

And everything in you melts.

It’s his mom, kneeling behind a tiny, tiny Sidney, slipping a Blue Jays backpack onto his little shoulders. The bag is basically the size of his whole body. He’s turning his head to smile back at her, big and bright and trusting.

“This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He peeks. “The backpack was heavy.”

“You look like it might knock you over.”

“I think I fell like three times. Mom carried it after that.”

Your heart is fully puddle-shaped now.

Then… then you turn to the photo that takes the cake.

Sidney, about a year old, sitting in a high chair. There’s a birthday cake in front of him, white frosting, blue piping, one single candle. He’s gripping the tray with small hands, staring at the cake with the most blank, unimpressed expression you’ve ever seen.

You actually gasp. “Sidney.”

He makes a strangled noise. “Oh god.”

“This,” you say, pointing at it with force, “is the greatest picture ever taken of you.”

“No it isn’t.”

“It absolutely is.”

He tries to close the book again.

You glare. “If you close this book one more time I will bite you.”

He freezes. “You’ll what?”

“I’m not kidding.”

There’s a slow grin spreading across his face. “You’re threatening me over a baby picture?”

“It’s justified.”

He leans back into the couch, arm sliding along the backrest behind you, smug but blushing slightly. “You like seeing me as a kid, huh?”

“I love it,” you admit, the truth slipping out before you can filter it. “It’s… I don’t know. It’s sweet. You were sweet.”

He stares at you a moment too long.

Then he clears his throat. “I still am.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah. You still are.”

He looks down at the photo again, then back at you.

“You really like that one?” he asks quietly.

“Sid… I adore this one.”

He doesn’t hide the way that hits him. Doesn’t hide the tiny smile tugging at his lips. Or the faint blush rising on his cheeks.

He leans his head against yours, voice barely above a murmur. “You can show my mom that one when she comes in. She loves when people coo over baby me.”

You smile, tipping your head onto his shoulder. “Oh I will. I’ll hype you up so much.”

He laughs under his breath. “You already do.”

You turn another page, settling deeper into him, your legs curling sideways on the sofa. He adjusts too, automatically tucking his arm around you.

The album rests across your thighs.

And Sidney Crosby, fully grown, hockey legend, grumpy adult with a soft spot for precisely one person, sits there with you and lets himself be seen. In oversized jerseys, in toddler birthday cakes, in first trophies, in wild baby curls.

...

IV.

Sid’s introduction to your world came later than maybe it should’ve.

For five months, almost everything between you had existed inside his. Inside Pittsburgh, inside the team schedule, inside the machinery of hockey where he knew how to move and what every room was for and which version of himself to wear in each one. Even when things between you had gotten more personal than either of you had probably meant for them to, it still lived mostly on his ground. His guesthouse. His kitchen. His routines. His quiet little systems for eating, sleeping, stretching, recovering. His way of trying to help you.

Maybe that was naive. Actually, it definitely was. Because your life had not stopped existing just because Pittsburgh had gotten its claws in you for a while. Your world was still there. Waiting. Full of meetings and scripts and agents. So when you told him you had to be in New York for the weekend, his first feeling was something he hated admitting even to himself.

Fear. Because he didn’t want to be that guy. Didn’t want to be some self-important fucking supervisor monitoring your progress like he’d earned the right. Didn’t want to turn into one more person standing over your shoulder waiting to see if you’d behave. He’d been trying so hard, maybe harder than he should’ve, to make sure whatever this thing was between you never felt like control. Suggestions, yes. Routine, yes. A different way of living, yes. But not surveillance. Never that.

Still, it had been five months. Five months of consistency. Five months of him doing his best, every day in small boring ways, to help you like he’d swore to himself he would. That promise stayed with him. So when you packed a bag and kissed his cheek in that way you’d started doing lately, telling him you’d be back in a couple days, he stood in his kitchen after you left feeling more off-balance than it should’ve made him feel.

It was only New York. Not the moon. You were not a child. You were not his. And he had the weekend off, which somehow made it worse. Because idle time gave his head room to start filling in blanks. He told himself not to be ridiculous. Told himself you had work. Told himself people traveled for work every day without it turning into a big deal. Told himself that if his first instinct every time you stepped outside the tidy little perimeter he’d built around your life in Pittsburgh was panic, then maybe he needed to take a hard look at his own issues.

Still, he thought about you more than he wanted to. Saturday morning, then Saturday afternoon. A few texts. Nothing unusual.

You: Landed.

Sid: Good.

You: Riveting conversation as always.

Sid: You knew what this was when you signed on.

You: To be fake dating a hockey robot?

Sid: Exactly.

You: Tragic for me.

He smiled at that. He tried to shake it off. Went for a workout. Did groceries. Took a long walk because the weather was decent enough for once. Came home and stood in his own kitchen with a knife in his hand, chopping vegetables for no reason other than it gave him something productive to do. And then you called. That, more than anything, changed his day. Not a text. Not some short little update. A call. He wiped his hands on a towel and looked at your name on the screen for half a second before answering, already braced for something he could not have named if someone asked.

“Hey.”

Your voice hit his ear bright and so fucking clear. Not drunk. Not laughing too hard or talking too fast. You sounded excited. “Hi,” you said, “Are you busy?”

“No.” He set the knife down. “What happened?”

“Jesus, you make everything sound like there’s been a crime.”

“You called me sounding weirdly happy. I’m adjusting.”

“I don’t sound weirdly happy.”

“You do.”

Then your voice dropped into a mock-serious version of itself. “Okay, well, maybe I do.”

He could hear movement on your end, fabric rustling, the thump of a door somewhere, maybe a hotel suite or some absurd Manhattan apartment borrowed for the weekend by people with too much money and too little shame.

“What happened?” he asked again, gentler this time.

And then you told him. About the meeting. About your team. About the script they’d just put in your hands. You talked so fast at first he had to concentrate to catch the idea of it, you were lit up in a way he had maybe never heard before. Not even in Pittsburgh on good days. This was different.

“They want me for it,” you said, like you still couldn’t quite believe your own mouth. “Like actually want me for it. I had the meeting this morning and it went fucking great.”

“That’s good,” he said, and immediately hated how small it sounded.

“Good?” you repeated. “Sid, it’s really good.”

He smiled then, shaking his head at himself. “Okay. It’s really good.”

You made a pleased little sound. He could picture you while he listened, which maybe should’ve embarrassed him more than it did. The script was probably already bent at the spine because you’d started reading the second it hit your hands.

“It’s a great part,” you went on. “Like actually good. Not just good for me, not just better than what I’ve been getting good. It’s just good. And the director’s amazing, and the script’s amazing, and my team thinks if I don’t fuck this up, this could be…” You trailed off for a second, like you didn’t want to say too much. “Big.”

“You’re not gonna fuck it up.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You laughed, a little shakier. “Well, apparently Project Sober is really paying off.”

The second you said it, his stomach dropped. Project Sober. It hit him wrong every time, but hearing it in your voice did something worse. Because you weren’t saying it like a joke exactly. There was irony there, sure, and maybe a little bite, but there was something else too. The awful understanding that this good thing, this exciting thing that should’ve belonged to your talent and your years of grinding through an industry that had no business surviving you, was also being measured against how well you’d behaved lately. How well you’d played nice. How presentable you’d become.

“Don’t call it that.”

You made a soft noise. “What?”

“That.”

“It’s okay.”

No, he thought. It isn’t. But he didn’t say that. Instead he asked, “Have you eaten?”

Which made you laugh outright. “Oh my God.”

“It’s a fair question.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“Have you?”

“Kind of.”

He closed his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“I had coffee.”

He let out a long breath through his nose. “That’s definitely not an answer.”

You laughed again, and there was so much joy in it that he could forget about everything else for a second. Maybe it was the relief. Maybe it was the fact that he’d spent the whole fucking day bracing for the wrong thing. Maybe it was just that he wanted to see you. Just because he wanted to. Wanted to be there while you were happy. Wanted to see your face when you talked about the script. Wanted to stand in the same room as this version of you instead of trying to hold it through a phone line.

It was impulsive. Stupidly, embarrassingly impulsive. Which was how he found himself booking an unplanned flight to New York less than an hour later like he had lost his goddamn mind. He didn’t do things like that. Ever. Sidney Crosby planned. Sidney Crosby scheduled. Sidney Crosby worked his life down to routines and habits because that was how he stayed sane.

Sidney Crosby did not throw clothes into a bag and head to the airport on a free weekend because a girl sounded happy on the phone and he couldn’t shake the ache to be near her. And yet. He didn’t even really know what he was walking into. Just that you’d texted him the hotel name after he finally admitted what he was doing.

You: Wait. You’re serious?

Sid: Apparently.

You: You’re getting on a plane?

Sid: Already in the car.

You: What the fuck.

Sid: You seem pleased though.

You: Shut up.

Then, right after that: Hurry.

By the time he got to your hotel, it was dark out and he felt out of place. New York felt like a place that could eat people and still be hungry. Maybe that was why stepping into your floor, your hallway, your borrowed little pocket of the city felt so strange. Like he was finally brushing up against the world that had made you.

You opened the door before he’d even knocked twice. And fucking hell. You looked happy. 

“You actually came.”

He should’ve said something smarter than what came out. “Yeah.”

You stared at him for half a second, then broke into this little smile and stepped forward like you couldn’t help it. The hug was quick, but not really. That was the problem with the two of you lately. Things kept starting as one thing and turning into another.

You threw your arms around him and his hands landed at your waist on pure instinct, steadying you when you came into him a little too fast. He felt the script press awkwardly against his side where you were still holding it. You laughed into his shoulder, half breathless, and he found himself squeezing once before he remembered to let go. When you leaned back, your hands stayed on him a second longer than they needed to. Then you held up the script between you like it was an offering.

“Look.”

“Hi first, maybe.”

“I already said hi.”

“You attacked me.”

“That was affection.”

“That’s debatable.”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed his wrist, dragging him properly inside. Your agent was there too, perched in an armchair with her legs crossed and a phone in one hand, looking relieved the second she saw Sidney like his arrival meant she could finally tag out.

“Oh thank God,” she said. “She’s been vibrating for two hours.”

You pointed the script at her. “That’s rude.”

“It’s accurate.”

Sidney smiled politely, shrugging his coat off. “Good meeting?”

Your agent gave him a look. “Great meeting. Better than great, honestly.”

You were already shoving the script against his chest. “Tell him.”

But she was gathering her things, still smiling in that tired, professionally pleased way agents did when something finally went right.

“I’ve told it six times,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.”

“You’re leaving?” you asked.

“You don’t need me right now.” Your agent glanced between the two of you, subtle as a brick. “And I’d like to quit while you’re happy.”

“Wow.”

“Read the script,” she said to Sidney on her way out. Then, lower, “She’s really excited about this one.”

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her you turned to him immediately, bouncing a little on the balls of your feet. “Okay,” you said. “Sit.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You have to help me.”

“With what?”

“With lines.”

He stared at you. “You want me to what?”

“Run lines with me.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m completely serious.”

He laughed and set his bag down by the couch. “You’re an actress.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m a hockey player.”

“Also obvious.”

“The most acting I do is those stupid Inside the Pens things. And even that’s barely reality TV.”

You gasped dramatically. “Excuse you. That’s performance.”

“It is not.”

“It is if you’re bad at it.”

He pointed at you. “Exactly.”

You grinned like that only strengthened your case. “So you admit you’ve got range.”

He almost groaned. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You flew to New York to celebrate with me and now you’re refusing to support the arts?”

He laughed again because the accusation was so ridiculous and because you were standing there with this script in your hand looking like joy had made you a little reckless. That was contagious, apparently.

“Fine,” he said. “But if I’m bad at it, that’s on you.”

“Oh, you’re definitely gonna be bad at it.”

“Good.”

“Okay,” you said, already moving toward the couch. “Okay. Come on.”

The next hour, then two, and three went. You tucked yourself up on one end of the couch, feet under you, script open and full of tabs and notes already. He sat beside you with his own copy that you’d apparently had printed because of course you had, and from the second he started reading opposite you, it was clear he had no fucking idea what he was doing and you were mean about it.

“Why’d you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a hostage.”

“I’m reading the words.”

“You’re murdering the words.”

He looked down at the page. “This line’s ridiculous.”

You snatched the script out of his hands long enough to read it yourself, then burst out laughing. “It is ridiculous.”

“It sounds insane.”

“It’s a period piece.”

“That doesn’t make it less insane.”

“It literally does.”

“Nobody talks like this.”

“Actors do.”

“Actors need help.”

You leaned into him laughing at that, shoulder knocking his arm, and the touch lingered a second too long before either of you moved away. That kept happening. The excitement in the room made both of you looser, less careful. You reached for him without thinking when something amused you. He touched your knee to steady you. You leaned across him to grab a pen from the table and he caught the scent of your hair. None of it was a big deal on its own. That was almost what made it worse. It felt natural. Like the line between fake and real had gotten lost somewhere along the way and neither of you had stopped long enough to redraw it.

At one point you got so frustrated that you flopped back against the cushions and threw an arm over your face. “This is fucking stupid.”

He looked over. “The script you’ve been obsessed with for six hours?”

“Yes.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m an actress.”

“There it is.”

You peeked at him from under your arm. “Be helpful.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

He reached over and tugged lightly at your wrist until you let your arm drop from your face. “Do it again,” he said.

You groaned. “Sid.”

“Do it again.”

You looked at him for a second, then exhaled and sat up. “Fine.”

So you did it again. And this time, because he’d stopped worrying so much about sounding stupid and started paying attention to what you needed, he caught more. Where you stumbled. Where you were trying too hard to sound one way when the line wanted another. Where a pause mattered more than the words themselves. He didn’t know shit about acting. He knew that. But he knew you. Or enough of you by then to recognize when something worked and when it didn’t.

“Wait,” he said once, raising a hand. “Say that last part slower.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

“Because you speed up when you don’t like the line.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah.”

You looked back down at the page. “Huh.”

“Try it.”

You did. And then you looked up at him with this grin that made him feel helpful. “That was better.”

He shrugged, trying to play it off. “Told you.”

“You’re annoyingly perceptive.”

“You’re annoyingly dramatic.”

“That one’s already been established.”

Room service trays showed up at some point because he finally made you order real food, and you sat cross-legged on the bed later with fries balanced precariously on a napkin while he read opposite you from the armchair by the window. You stole pieces off his plate. He made a face when you reached for his water after abandoning your own. You caught him smiling at you once and immediately pointed at him with a french fry.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was something.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

He shook his head and looked back down at the page, but he could still feel you looking at him. By the time midnight moved into something later, the pages were sliding out of your hands. Your excitement had worn itself into exhaustion. He noticed before you did.

“You’re done.”

You frowned at him from where you were half under the duvet, script balanced against your bent knees. “I’m not done.”

“You’re barely conscious.”

“I’m fine.”

“You just said the wrong character name.”

You looked down at the page. “Did I?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.” You dropped the script onto your stomach and stared at the ceiling. “I’m so happy.”

He looked over at you. Your eyes were already closed. Not asleep. Just resting. “I know,” he said.

Your lips curved into the tiniest smile. “It feels scary,” you admitted.

That, more than anything, sounded like you. He set his own script aside and leaned back against the headboard, looking over the room, the mess you’d made of it together. Papers everywhere. Empty plates. You in the middle of the bed looking younger than twenty-two for a second, then older than that the next.

“Good things can be… scary,” he said after a moment.

You opened one eye. “That was disgustingly earnest.”

He huffed a laugh. “Go to sleep.”

“You staying?” you murmured.

The question was simple. The answer should’ve been too. He should’ve said he’d take the couch, or he’d get another room, or he’d head back home like a sane person who hadn’t already pushed himself beyond his own boundaries just by getting on the plane in the first place.

Instead he looked at you and said, “Yeah.”

“Okay.”

He killed the lamp on his side. You burrowed under the blankets with a sleepy little sigh, then, after a few seconds, moved closer. Just near enough that he could feel your warmth. It was the first time you’d ever slept in the same bed. It took him a while to realize. At first it was just awareness. The shape of you beside him. The rustle of sheets. The faint smell of you on the pillow.

Then it became everything else. How careful he suddenly felt with his own body. How awake he was, even tired. How strange it was that something so simple could feel this intimate when the two of you had already spent months circling each other in every other possible way. Mornings. Kitchens. Cars. Couches. Guesthouse doors half open. Long talks into the night when you can both barely keep your eyes open. So much closeness, and yet this felt different. Maybe because there was no need for it. No agent. No team. No public angle. Just you. Just him. After a while, when he’d almost convinced himself you were asleep, you spoke into the dark.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for coming.”

His eyes stayed on the ceiling. “Yeah.”

You made a sleepy little sound. “That’s all you’ve got?”

He smiled to himself. “You’re welcome.”

“Better.”

“You sounded happy.”

“I was.”

He didn’t answer right away. Because what he wanted to say was bigger than the room. What he wanted to say was that hearing it had made his whole day rearrange itself. That he’d gotten on a plane because the thought of you being this happy alone in a city that probably had a hundred ghosts in it felt wrong. That he had no business being the person you called with news like that and yet he was, and it meant something to him.

What he said instead was, “I wanted to see you.”

When you answered, your voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m glad you did.”

A few minutes later, your breathing evened out for real. He stayed awake longer than he should’ve, staring into the dark. At some point in the night, you drifted nearer, your hand ending up loose against his side. He didn’t move it. Just lay there, still as hell, with the thought that maybe this had stopped feeling like PR a while ago. He wondered if you’d agree.

Maybe the second he’d heard your voice on the phone and booked the flight. Maybe before that. Maybe the first time you’d looked at him across a dinner table in Pittsburgh wearing sunglasses indoors and not been anything like the monster people kept trying to warn him about.

Either way, lying there with you asleep beside him and your script falling off the bed in pages around your feet, Sid knew that this was personal to him now. And that scared him a little too.

V.

A few weeks after the season ended, Sidney found himself in Los Angeles.

That alone felt strange enough to keep turning over in his head during the flight out, then again in the car from the airport, then again when he was standing in the entryway of your house with his duffel by his feet and the California heat still clinging to his skin from outside. Usually, by then, he was gone. Usually the second the year released its grip on him, he headed back home to Canada, back to the lake house. He liked leaving. Needed it, honestly. Needed the water and the space and the version of himself that did not belong to a rink or a camera or a million people with opinions.

Usually, he would’ve said no. The season’s over. I’m heading home. I’ll see you when I see you.  It wouldn’t have been unusual. It wouldn’t even have been a thing. And yet, when you asked, he said yes. You had been standing in his living room when you mentioned it.

“You should come with me.”

He’d looked up from the book in his lap. “To L.A.?”

You’d shrugged one shoulder. “For a bit.”

“You’ve got filming.”

“I know.”

“You’re gonna be busy.”

You were quiet behind him for a second, then, “Yeah.”

That had been what got him. So he said yes.

And then he was standing in your house in Los Angeles, looking around at a place that felt more lived in than that Pittsburgh rental ever had, but still touched by the same strange rootlessness that seemed to follow you no matter where you went. The bones of the place were gorgeous. Big windows. Pale floors. Light everywhere. There were more signs of you here than there had been in Pittsburgh. Scripts stacked unevenly on a side table. Shoes kicked off by the couch. A throw blanket abandoned in a heap instead of folded into submission. A candle burned down low near the sink. He’d have to say the guesthouse might’ve become your place though.

You came down the hallway and the second you saw him really there in your foyer, your whole expression changed. It still did that sometimes. Like you forgot for a second that he had said yes, then remembered, and the remembering made something in you warm. Like it did for him.

“You made it.”

He snorted softly. “That’s usually how flights work.”

You rolled your eyes and walked right into him anyway, arms looping around his middle. His hands found your waist. He held you there a second; the feel of you against him made the whole trip feel less strange.

“You look tired,” he murmured.

You groaned into his chest. “That’s because I am.”

He huffed a laugh. “Great welcome.”

“Shut up.”

“You asked me to come.”

“And now I’m warning you.”

He leaned back enough to look at you. “About what?”

You gave him a look. “Set.”

That was his introduction. Not just to the glamorous, polished, red carpet side of your world that publicists and photographers and magazine profiles liked to pretend was the whole thing. Not the manageable version. Not the marketable version. The real machinery. The pressure. The hours. The way a person could disappear inside a production without anybody calling it disappearance because technically they were still standing upright.

He felt that before he saw it. That first day he was up before his alarm because his body had never really learned any other way to exist, but even he thought the hour was a little insane when he stepped into your kitchen and found you already there leaning over the counter with both hands braced against the stone and your eyes half shut like you were trying to gather yourself before the day got its teeth into you.

He walked over, set a glass of water in front of you, then another because he knew you’d drain the first one too fast just to get him off your back.

You squinted down at them. “Jesus.”

“What?”

“Did you put a hydration curse on me in my sleep?”

He reached into the fridge. “Drink one.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

That got the smallest smile out of you.

He made breakfast while you sat at the island, one leg folded under you, staring at your phone and then not really looking at it. You had pages in front of you too, parts of the script covered in notes and highlighted lines and arrows that only made sense to you.

He slid a plate in front of you.

You glanced down. “That’s a lot.”

“It’s breakfast.”

“It’s a banquet.”

“It’s eggs and toast.”

“It’s judgment.”

He ignored that and took the seat beside you, eating while watching you pick at yours. After a minute he said, “You nervous?”

You took too long to answer. “A little.”

That was honest. Too honest to make him want to tease.

He nodded once and reached for his water. “Okay.”

You looked at him. “That’s all?”

“What do you want me to say?”

You lifted one shoulder. “I don’t know. Something wise.”

He chewed, swallowed, then deadpanned, “Don’t suck.”

You let out a laugh and he smiled into his coffee.

“There,” he said. “Feel better?”

“Fuck you.”

But you were smiling. That was how the first day went, and the second, and the third. Even in a place that didn’t belong to him, Sidney started finding ways to belong there anyway. He sat in your trailer and ran lines with you. That became one of his jobs. Your trailer was colder than it needed to be and smelled faintly like hairspray and coffee and those makeup wipes that somehow all smelled the same to him no matter the brand. There were scripts everywhere. Pages taped to mirrors. Pages folded into bags. Pages marked up so heavily you could barely read them. He’d sit across from you in the tiny built-in booth or in the folding chair by the vanity while you paced barefoot from one wall to the other, mouthing lines, stopping, starting again.

At first he still felt ridiculous about it. He’d hold the script and say, “I still don’t know why you trust me with this.”

You’d be halfway through pinning your hair up and answer, “Because you tell me when I sound fake.”

“I don’t know shit about acting.”

“No,” you’d say, catching his eyes in the mirror. “You know how to do it with me.”

That shut him up every single time. So he kept doing it.

He had lunch with you. He made a point of it after the second day, when he realized the flow of the set seemed built to keep you barely functional. He’d show up with actual food, or have something brought in that looked like it might keep a person alive longer than two hours. Rice, chicken, vegetables, soup, sandwiches that were more than bread and dreams. At first people around you looked mildly startled by it, like they weren’t used to somebody interfering with the ecosystem.

You were sitting in your trailer one afternoon with your legs folded up under you, face half done for the next scene, reading through a new page of rewrites when he came in balancing containers.

You looked up and blinked. “What’s that?”

“Lunch.”

You stared. “Why?”

He set it all down on the table. “Because it’s noon.”

“There’s catering.”

“You mean the room with six kinds of stale pastry and one weird salad nobody’s touched?”

You made a face. “That salad is evil.”

“Exactly.”

You watched him open containers, your face cycling through a few emotions like it always did when he cared about you too obviously.

“What?”

He looked up. “What what?”

“You keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” You gestured toward the food, toward him. “Taking care of me.”

That could’ve gone wrong. Could’ve turned into one of those tense little moments where your pride flared and his own stubbornness answered it and suddenly the room got too small.

Instead he just leaned in and said, “Maybe I just think you should eat lunch.”

You stared at him. Then you exhaled through your nose and reached for the fork. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah.”

“But this smells good.”

He smiled. “That’s because it’s lunch.”

You threw a napkin at him.

He was there when you needed to chill out. That was maybe the bigger thing. The harder thing to explain if someone asked. There were all these small moments on set that seemed harmless until you watched enough of them pile up. The way people were always poking at you. Touching up your face. Adjusting your clothes. Changing lines. Changing marks. Asking for one more. One more take. One more angle. One more rehearsal. One more pass at something when you already looked tired out.

Everybody wanted something from you all the time. And worse, they often talked around you while they did it. Like you were a piece of machinery they all had joint custody of. He heard it constantly.

“She’ll need to be sharper in the next one.”

“We can slim this line down, she’s carrying too much here.”

“No, no, get her another coffee.”

“She looks a little tired under the eyes.”

“We need her back in ten.”

Never you need. Never what do you need. Just her. She. Asset. Product. Face. Performance. It got under his skin fast. Maybe because he understood pressure too well not to recognize it when he saw it dressed up differently. He knew what it meant to be judged on your ability to show up and deliver something people felt entitled to. He knew what it meant to be tired and still have to be good. He knew the way a whole machine could keep moving around you even when your own body was begging you to stop.

But even with that understanding, your world unsettled him more. Because in hockey, at least in his experience, the performance was the thing. On set, it felt like more than that. It was all of you. The body comments started subtle enough that if he’d heard only one, maybe he could’ve convinced himself he was being protective for no reason. But there was always one more.

“That angle’s great on her collarbones.”

“Her bloat is bad today.”

“Can we tighten this a little more at the waist?”

“She looks incredible when she’s a little leaner in the face.”

And the worst part was how normal it all sounded. How you barely reacted, which told him all he needed to know about how long you’d been dealing that kind of shit. He stood near video village one afternoon watching lighting get adjusted while you were off to the side in costume, talking quietly with someone from wardrobe, and one of the producers muttered something to another guy about how “keeping her in shape” during this shoot was going to be a full-time job.

Sidney turned his head so slowly it almost strained his goddamn neck. The producer caught the look and laughed like they were all just in on the same joke. Sidney didn’t laugh. He just stared until the guy looked away first. That night, back at the house, you found him up later than either of you should’ve been awake.

“What?”

He glanced over. “What what?”

“You’ve had that look on your face for like three hours.”

“Nothing.”

“Sid.”

He exhaled. Then he said, “The way they talk about you.”

“Yeah,” you said quietly.

“That’s normal?”

“For set?”

He didn’t answer right away because apparently the wrong answer was yes. “Jesus,” he muttered.

You picked at a loose thread on the hem of the shirt. “That’s actually a pretty mild day.”

“Mild?”

You glanced up at him then and tried for a little smile, but it barely held. “You should hear awards season.”

“You’re a person.”

“Breaking news.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

That made you stop.

“You’re not some fucking thing they get to manage into shape,” he said. “You’re not a machine. You’re not a body. You’re not…”

He stopped because he was saying too much and not enough at once. He just couldn’t get the words out. It felt like they were lodged in his throat like a piece of gum. You were looking at him like you didn’t know what to do with the fact that he was angrier about it than you were. Or maybe not angrier. Less used to it. That was probably worse.

“It’s easier if I act like it doesn’t bother me.”

He knew that off course he knew that. He just hated it. So he started doing what he could. He got you a giant water bottle and slapped a Penguins sticker on it because he knew it would annoy you into using it.

You held it up the day he gave it to you and stared at the logo. “This is hostile.”

“You’ll know which one’s yours.”

“It’s manipulative.”

“You gonna drink the water or not?”

You glared at him. Then took a long sip while maintaining eye contact.

He smiled. “There you go.”

He reminded you to drink water so often it became a habit.

“Take that with you.”

“You’ve had coffee already.”

“That’s not water.”

“Finish the bottle.”

At first you’d mock him for it. Eventually you just started reaching for the bottle when he looked at you a certain way.

He gently told an overeager assistant no. That one happened on a day that had already gone too long. You were just coming out of a hard scene and some assistant with a headset and too much eagerness hurried into your trailer doorway before you’d even sat down.

“Hey, if we can just grab you for a quick rehearsal while they reset, that’d be amazing.”

You were halfway to saying yes on pure muscle memory. Sidney saw it happen. Saw the automatic compliance. He stepped in before you could get the word all the way out.

“No,” he said, still polite. “She’s taking her break.”

The assistant blinked. “It’ll just be five minutes.”

“Then it can wait five minutes.”

The assistant laughed a little. “Production really wants to keep moving.”

“And she really needs to sit down.”

The kid looked past him at you, maybe expecting you to override it. You didn’t. You were too busy staring at Sidney like you’d never seen him quite like that before. Finally the assistant mumbled something about checking back and disappeared. Sidney turned around and found you still looking at him.

“What?”

You shook your head once. “Nothing.”

“That’s not nothing.”

You sat down slowly on the little trailer couch, script still in your hand. “You just said no for me.”

“You needed a break.”

You looked down at your pages. Then, almost to yourself, “People don’t usually do that.”

But as the weeks went on, the pressure built. He saw it in your shoulders first. Then in the way your laugh came easier in company and left faster in private. Then in the tiny signs he was learning too well. The coffee that kept appearing in your hand before sunrise. The way some set PA or assistant or “friend” from your team always seemed to have something lined up for you at the end of the day too, some “cute” little offer wrapped in a joke.

“A shot before the scene, c’mon, loosen up.”

“A drink after wrap, babe, you earned it.”

Just banter. Just this industry’s version of normal. Just people who had known you forever and had long ago stopped being able to tell the difference between caring for you and keeping you useful. Every single time, Sidney noticed. Every single time, there was a moment. A glance. The joke would be tossed your way and your eyes would find his. And you would choose. Sometimes you rolled your eyes and kept walking. Sometimes you laughed it off.

He started seeing the rot around the edges of your whole structure. The team that had been with you since you were a literal baby. The assistant who knew your coffee order but not when to leave you alone. The manager who laughed off concerns as “just her process.” The publicist who loved talking about momentum and image but looked weirdly blank whenever the subject of your actual health came up.

Even your parents started hovering again. Just sniffing around when the set got higher profile, when the money got bigger, when it looked like maybe you were having one of your upswings and there might be something to attach themselves to. Sidney met them twice in one week and disliked both interactions so much it was almost impressive. Your mother touched your cheek like she was checking whether your makeup had settled right. Your father asked more about the script and the producers than he did about you. Neither of them seemed to notice when you got quiet. Sidney noticed. Of course he did.

He found you in the backyard sitting on the low step by the pool, still in some half-removed version of your day. He lowered himself down beside you.

“You okay?”

You gave a tiny shrug. “Sure.”

He looked out over the water. “You hate when they’re here.”

You made a face. “That obvious?”

“To me.”

“Sometimes I think everyone likes me best when I’m… useful? I think.”

“That’s not true.”

You let out a soft breath. “It’s true enough.”

He didn’t argue. Instead he nudged his shoulder against yours. Then he said, “Your team sucks.”

You looked over. “Wow. Profound.”

“I’m serious.”

“No, I know.”

“I think they suck.”

“You’re very brave.”

He ignored that. “You need better people.”

“Sid…”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Neither am I.”

Because this was the structure. The whole shitty scaffolding that had held your life up, badly, for years and years. Familiar enough to feel permanent even while it hurt you. He understood that too well not to know what he was really asking. Not just to swap a publicist or fire an assistant. To admit the whole thing might be poisoning you. He reached for your hand before he could talk himself out of it. Turned it over. Pressed his thumb into your palm once.

“You don’t owe them the rest of your life,” he said quietly.

You looked down at your joined hands like they were something happening to somebody else. “Feels like I do.”

So he tried to fix even more. He started asking questions. Started making calls. Started leaning on the people he trusted to find the names of people in your world who were actually good at their jobs and not just good at keeping a machine running no matter what it cost the person inside it. A better agent. A better publicist. A manager who understood boundaries. Someone whose first concern when they said your name sounded like you, not your market value.

He did not ask permission every step of the way. Maybe he should have. But by then, every day on set was giving him more evidence that if he waited for the existing people around you to suddenly grow consciences, he’d be waiting forever.

When he finally brought it to you, it was late, both of you exhausted, scripts and takeout containers cluttering the kitchen table and he slid a folder across the table. You looked down at it. Then up at him.

“What’s this?”

“Names.”

“Of?”

“People who might actually give a shit if you’re alive.”

That got your full attention. You opened the folder slowly, eyes moving over the pages. Resumes. Notes. A few highlighted names. Contact info. His own handwriting in the margins because of course he’d made notes. For a second you didn’t speak.

“You did all this?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

How the hell was he supposed to answer it? Because I love you was way too big and maybe not even a thing either of you was ready to hear. Because I can’t stand watching them use you up was too honest. Because somebody should have a long time ago was the truest thing in the room.

So he said, “Because they’re not doing right by you.” You kept staring. He went on before he lost the nerve. “You need people who care whether you make it to the next project in one piece. Not people who keep you upright enough to cash in.”

You looked back down at the folder, fingertips tracing the corner of one page. “You’d do that for me?”

He frowned. “I just did.”

Then your eyes got shiny so fast he almost looked away just to give you dignity, but you were already shaking your head at yourself like you were annoyed by the whole thing.

“Fuck,” you muttered.

“Hey.”

You put the folder down and covered your face with one hand for a second. “No, I’m fine. I’m just…”

You dropped your hand and looked at him. “It makes me feel crazy that you noticed.”

“Of course I noticed.”

You blinked hard and looked away. “Most people don’t.”

“They do,” he said. “They just don’t care enough to make it their problem.”

Your mouth trembled around something like a smile. “And you do?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

You stared at him silently then you stood up so suddenly the chair legs scraped the floor and came around the table before he could think about what you were doing. When you reached him, you didn’t say anything. You just got into his space, hands bracing on his shoulders, and folded yourself against him. He held you tight. You were shaking just a little. He pressed his face into your hair and closed his eyes.

“It’s okay,” he murmured.

You laughed weakly against his neck. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it should be.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still on him, your face so close that for one insane second he thought about just leaning in.

Instead you whispered, “Thank you.” He shook his head once. But you held his gaze and repeated it. “Thank you.”

“I’ve got you.”

On set, after that, people started adjusting to his presence differently.

They stopped seeing him as a visiting boyfriend-shaped accessory and started realizing he was paying attention. That he remembered names. That he noticed when you had not sat down in hours. That he would absolutely hand you water in the middle of a conversation if he thought you looked weak. That if someone pushed too hard at the wrong time, he’d step in with that maddening politeness that somehow shut things down faster than a shout ever could.

Sometimes you’d catch his eye across set when some old pattern tried to grab hold of you, when someone laughed and held something out they should not be holding out, when the end of a brutal day made every easy bad decision look nicer than it was. And he would just look at you, reminding you that there were other ways through the night.

A lot of the time, that was enough. A lot of the time, you came back to him instead.

So he kept doing what he could. Kept trying to build a better structure around you before the old one swallowed you whole again. And you, floored by the fact that he would go to these lengths with the whole rotten thing just because it was hurting you, kept looking at him like he was something you still didn’t quite know how to believe in.

That was the problem. That was always the problem.

...

...

+I.

After all that filming, Sidney probably should’ve known an industry event would be the thing that tested everything. Filming had done its number on you. So of course by the end of it you were ready for a free night. An after party, held at an expensive hotel that tried very hard to look effortless while every square inch of it was curated to death. The kind of room, Sidney thought the second he stepped into it, that had probably helped build half your worst memories.

You had been excited for it too. That was maybe the hardest part. You had talked about it while getting ready, perched on the edge of the bed in a hotel room with one bare leg folded under you, one earring still not in, your makeup half finished, talking with your hands.

“I want you to meet people,” you’d said.

He’d been standing by the dresser knotting his tie, watching you through the mirror. “I’ve met people.”

“You’ve met my set people.”

He smiled a little. “That counts.”

“No, it doesn’t.” You pointed at him with your mascara wand. “Those are work people. I mean my people.”

Your people. Friends. Or at least whatever fucked up version of friendship your world allowed, which he was still trying to understand. You were excited to introduce him. Excited to have him there. Excited to celebrate with him. Celebrate what, exactly, he wasn’t even fully sure. The end of filming, probably. The role. The fact that you had made it through a brutal shoot with your skin still mostly on. The fact that, publicly at least, things were still going well. Maybe just the simple thrill of having survived something hard and wanting one bright night at the end of it.

Sidney understood that. He also hoped, maybe selfishly, that this would be the night that proved you no longer needed him, that he got you back to a good place before he let you go. That thought had started coming more and more lately, and he hated how loaded it sounded. Not let you go in some possessive way. Just the reality of it. Summer would end soon enough. His own life would pull him back home eventually. He could not stay in L.A. forever, protecting you from every bad room and every bad joke and every hand that reached for you like it owned the right.

His feelings had gotten too complicated for him to pretend otherwise. That was the truth. Somewhere between Pittsburgh and New York and your set and the late nights and the things he’d started fighting on your behalf, this had stopped being an image exercise. He was not doing justice to the original arrangement anymore. He knew that. He knew it every time you smiled at him a little too sweetly, every time you reached for him, every time his whole day changed because your voice on the phone sounded a certain way.

But underneath all that messy private shit he had not even begun to sort through, there was still the same instinct he’d had from the beginning.

Help her.

Keep helping her.

Help her until she can stand on her own two feet, even if it hurts him, even if he has to walk away eventually.

So he went to the party. It was not his usual kind. A hockey party, even a fancy one, still had some recognizable center of gravity to it. Guys got loud. Somebody inevitably told a story that got filthier every time it was repeated. There was always a point where things tipped toward sloppy, but at least the sloppiness was straightforward. 

This was different. This was all movement and air kisses and people saying darling. Conversations layered on conversations. Laughter that sounded real from across the room and fake from three feet away. Waiters drifting by with champagne flutes and tiny things on trays nobody actually wanted to eat. Music low enough that people could keep gossiping over it without ever having to stop.

Sidney felt out of place immediately. He was aware of how little he knew how to talk to these people. Aware that he was being looked at with curiosity that had nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with why he was there and, more specifically, why he was there with you. Aware, too, of the fact that you stayed right by his side from the moment you stepped into the ballroom.

That helped. You touched his arm when you guided him toward one group, then another. You leaned into him when someone tried to hog you for too long. Every now and then he’d look down and catch your wicked smile, like you were pleased to be showing him off a little.

He didn’t drink.You weren’t drinking, and he was not about to stand there with anything stronger than water in his hand while the whole room kept offering temptation up to you in crystal glasses. So he took water. Just water. Every single time. Waiters passed. He took water.

Someone’s friend tried to hand him a whiskey. He smiled and said, “I’m good.”

A producer with too-white teeth clapped him on the back and said, “Come on, Crosby, live a little.” 

Sidney lifted his glass and said, “I am.” Water. Again.

A few people noticed. Of course they did. At one point some actor he vaguely recognized from somewhere leaned against the bar near him and said, “That’s a pretty disciplined look you’ve got going there.”

Sidney glanced down at the water in his hand. “It’s glamorous, right?”

The guy laughed. “Painfully.”

You heard that and looked at him with this huge grin, all teeth and bright eyes and something that looked almost proud. That, embarrassingly, felt better than any drink would’ve.

There were people who recognized him too. That part felt more normal than everything else. Recognition was easy. Recognition made sense. A couple men near the center of the room turned out to be hockey fans and lit up the second someone said his name out loud. One of them, some older studio executive with silver hair and a tan that looked painted on, shook his hand with both of his and launched straight into a whole speech about watching him since he was a rookie.

“My sons were obsessed with you,” the man said. “We had your jersey in the house. Drove my wife insane.”

Sidney smiled politely. “That’s nice of you.”

“No, seriously,” the guy kept going. “Unbelievable player. And she’s been trying to explain icing to me all night, which frankly I still don’t understand.”

He looked toward you on that last part, and you laughed.

“You never will,” you told him.

The executive clutched his chest. “You see what I’m dealing with?”

Sidney looked at you, one eyebrow lifting. “You explaining hockey?”

You shrugged, pleased with yourself. “I’m multifaceted.”

“That’s one word for it.”

You smiled even bigger at that, like his teasing in a room full of people felt like its own private gift. Mostly, though, he stuck by you. That became his whole evening. And there were so many comments. Jesus Christ. Multiple people told you how great you looked. You heard it over and over in different variations as the night moved on.

“You look incredible.”

“You look so healthy.”

“Oh my God, babe, your skin.”

“You’re glowing.”

“You look amazing, seriously.”

They all meant well, maybe. At least some of them probably did.  You took all of it with that PR perfect smile you practiced together, the one that acknowledged without inviting too much. Boring and safe, just like his.

“Thank you.”

“That’s sweet.”

“So good to see you.”

You were doing great. That was the problem too. You were doing everything right, and he could still feel how hard you were working for it. 

One woman in a black silk dress drifting by with a martini in hand touched your elbow and said, “You need one, honey.”

You smiled. “I’m good.”

She widened her eyes. “At this party?”

“Especially at this party.”

The woman laughed and moved on.

Later, a guy who smelled like cologne and cigarettes lifted his own glass toward you and said, “Champagne? We’re celebrating.”

You shook your head. “I’ve got one.”

He squinted at your water. “That’s tragic.”

Before you could answer, Sidney said, “Depends how the morning looks.”

The guy laughed like that was charming and wandered off.

You shot Sidney a glance after.

“What?”

“You’re getting snippy.”

“I’m not.”

“You are a little.”

He took a sip of water. “Maybe people should stop trying to put stuff in your hand.”

Then came the friend. Sidney knew this one mattered. You had been talking to a small group near one of the balconies, your body a little more relaxed than it had been with the industry people, when a woman came in and changed your whole face the second you saw her.

“No fucking way,” you said, and actually broke into a grin that looked years younger than the one you wore for everyone else.

“There she is,” the woman said, dragging you into a hug. “You bitch.”

You laughed into her shoulder. “You disappeared.”

“I was working.”

“You’re always working.”

“And you’re one to talk.”

When you pulled back, she looked at you up and down, hands still on your arms, and her expression was probably meant kindly. “God, you look great.”

There it was again. But from her, it landed differently. More personal.

“Thanks,” you said, lighter than you probably felt.

Then she noticed Sidney. “Oh my God. Mr. Hockey.”

Sidney almost cringed. You rolled your eyes. “Please never call him that again.”

The woman laughed. “Sorry. Hi.”

She introduced herself. Sidney shook her hand. She seemed nice enough. Longtime friend, if he had to guess. She asked Sidney how he was handling all this. He admitted, truthfully, that he was mostly trying not to embarrass himself. She laughed. You looked happy with that answer. He relaxed enough to think maybe this part of the night would stay easy.

Then she tilted her head at you and said, “Seriously, though. You look healthy. Like, really healthy.” There was that word again. Healthy.

You smiled politely. “Thanks.”

“No, I’m serious,” she said. “The tabloids are all over it. Pittsburgh and Mr. Hockey helping you get better, that whole thing.”

“Yeah, well.”

Your friend leaned in a little, lowering her voice like she was about to ask something very personal. “How long has it been now?”

You blinked. “What?”

“How long have you been sober?”

Sidney felt you hesitate. He hated that hesitation. Your eyes found his and that was all it took. “Nearly a year,” he said.

And you just nodded along. “Yeah,” you said. “Nearly a year now.”

Your friend’s face lit up. “That’s amazing.”

Sidney smiled politely. “She’s been doing great.”

Your friend squeezed your arm. “I’m proud of you.”

You thanked her. But Sidney felt the tension in your body after and he leaned closer when your friend got pulled into another conversation.

“You okay?”

You kept your smile in place because there were still people close enough to see. “Mm-hm.”

He lowered his voice. “Hey.”

You looked at him then, “I’m fine.”

He nodded because pushing in the middle of a room full of strangers was not going to help. Still, he stayed even closer after that. More friends came through. Some were genuinely warm. Some were a little too nostalgic. It was the stories that Sidney started hating more as the night wore on. The insistence on your “wild days” like they were some adorable blip everyone should laugh about now that you looked composed with him beside you.

One man with a laugh that was already too loud said, “Remember Chateau that one time? Jesus Christ.”

You groaned immediately. “Please don’t.”

“No, come on,” another woman said, already laughing. “She was standing on the banquette in six-inch heels.”

“That narrows it down none,” you muttered.

Then the first guy pointed at you. “You were always the last one standing.”

“Unfortunate,” you said dryly.

“More like the loudest one standing,” the woman corrected.

Someone else chimed in, “Until she wasn’t. Then she was always throwing up by the end of the night.”

Then Sid said, light enough to pass as a joke, “That might’ve just been alcohol poisoning.”

One guy snorted like he didn’t know if Sidney was kidding. You looked at him. He kept his face the same.

The woman recovered first with a little, “Okay, Dad,” and tried to laugh it off.

Sidney smiled. “Just saying.”

He wasn’t a fan of any of it. Not the stories. Not the way people kept trying to bait you into nostalgia for versions of yourself that had probably been miserable. Not the repeated offers to “lighten up” or “have one” or “come on, babe, it’s a party.”

At one point a man you clearly knew, maybe an old publicist or stylist or something adjacent, waved a glass under your nose and said, “You used to be way more fun than this.”

“Good thing I’m prettier now,” you said.

The guy laughed. But after he moved away, Sidney turned to you and said under his breath, “That was shitty.”

You tipped your head, still looking out at the room. “That was Tuesday.”

He stared at you. Then, because apparently tonight was full of things that made him want to swear at strangers in tuxedos, he muttered, “Your friends suck.”

“They’re not all my friends.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“You’re doing okay.”

He almost laughed at that. “I’m doing okay?”

“Yeah. You look less like you wanna fight somebody.”

“I still might.”

“Please don’t. It’d be bad for my image.”

He huffed. “That ship’s sailed.”

Then another tray of drinks drifted by. A waiter stopped near you. “Champagne?”

You looked at it. But Sidney saw the way your eyes lingered longer than they needed to. The room was full of glittering glasses and people acting like drinking was as natural as breathing, and he saw exactly how exhausting it must’ve been to keep saying no inside a place built entirely around yes.

The waiter turned toward Sidney too. “Sir?”

Sidney lifted his water. “We’re good.”

A little later, out near the terrace where the air was cooler and the noise from inside wasn’t so overwhelming, you stood beside him looking out over the city. Your heels were in your hand.

“My feet are killing me,” you said.

“That’s what happens when shoes are stupid.”

You looked over. “You’re wearing dress shoes.”

“Those are different.”

“How?”

“They’re not weapons.”

You smiled to yourself and leaned your hip against the railing. After a while you said, very quietly, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He looked at you. “Do what?”

“With my friend.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I kinda did.”

“Why?”

That question again. Always that question. He could’ve lied. Instead he looked back out over the city and said, “Because I hated the way you hesitated.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“I know.”

You rolled your shoes a little in your hand, eyes on the skyline. Then you asked, almost like you were embarrassed by it, “Was that okay?”

He turned to you fully. “What?”

“The answer.”

He held your gaze. “Yeah,” he said. “It was okay.”

You nodded once. But he could still see it, the strain of the night starting to show through. The effort. The way your shoulders had scrunched up toward your ears, the way your mouth kept relaxing between smiles only to pull itself back into shape when someone looked your way. You were still doing great. Still charming. Still funny. Still the life of the party when people gathered around you. But he was close enough now to feel the labor of it.

And that scared him more than he wanted it to. Because if this was you doing well, if this was you managing it, then what did the breaking point actually look like? He couldn’t bring himself to ask. Instead he reached out and took your shoes from your hand.

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Carrying these.”

You laughed. “Why?”

“Because you’re barefoot.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

He shrugged. “It’s easier.”

You stared at him for a second, then smiled. “Okay, Mr. Hockey.”

He groaned. “Absolutely not.”

That made you laugh harder, and for a moment the tension left. Just for a moment. Then the terrace doors opened again and another wave of people spilled out around you, bringing with them more noise, more offers, more stories, more ways for the room to reach for you. 

He didn’t think anything of it when you left for the bathroom after. You probably just needed a breather from socializing so much. Why would he? You’d drained two full glasses of water and most of a third by then. You’d leaned in close enough for your shoulder to brush his and said, “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.”

He’d nodded and said, “You want me to come with you?”

You’d made a face. “To the women’s bathroom?”

He’d almost smiled. “You know what I mean.”

“I’ll live.”

You’d touched his wrist once then drifted off through the crowd with your clutch tucked under your arm. He’d watched you go for maybe two seconds. Then he’d looked away. He even thought that maybe when you came back you’d want to go home. You’d done well. You’d been charming and tolerant of all the bullshit for a lot longer than he would’ve expected. He figured maybe the bathroom would give you a minute to breathe, you’d come back, find him, and lean in close enough to say I’m done, can we get the fuck out of here.

And he wouldn’t have minded that at all. Wouldn’t have minded taking you back home, getting you off your feet, getting takeout, watching you wash the whole evening off your face while he sat on the edge of the bed and tried not to think too hard about everything. So he stayed where he was. Alone, technically, but not really. Nobody in that room was ever alone for long.  A couple of your costars came up to him while he waited. That was nice, actually. One of them was a guy from the movie, someone Sidney recognized from set because the two of them had ended up eating lunch at the same folding table more than once when everything got busy. He came over with and older man beside him who was holding a glass of bourbon.

“Crosby,” the actor said. “You surviving?”

Sidney lifted the water a little. “Barely.”

“That bad?”

“It’s different.”

“That’s a diplomatic answer.”

“I’m learning.”

The other man, older, maybe another actor or somebody behind the camera, shook Sidney’s hand and said, “She seems happy you’re here.”

That caught him a little. He just said, “Yeah?”

The older man smiled. “Yeah.”

And because Sidney didn’t know what to do with that, he went with something safe. “She was excited for tonight.”

“She’s good at this stuff,” the actor said, glancing vaguely out at the room. “Even when she hates it.”

Sidney looked at him a little closer then. The actor noticed and laughed under his breath. “That sounded dark. I just mean, she knows how to work a room.”

Sidney nodded once. “Yeah.”

Then they started talking hockey. The actor turned out to be from somewhere in Ontario and had grown up hearing about him. The older man knew enough to ask decent questions and not the usual dumb ones. They talked playoffs. Summer training. The weird overlap between their jobs and his. Somebody made a joke about marks on a set not being all that different from systems on the ice if you squinted.

Sid relaxed into it. That was the problem. He had this bad habit when he was talking to people, especially one-on-one or in a smaller circle, of dropping all the way into the conversation. It happened at dinners. At team events. In locker room corners after practice. He didn’t think about it because usually he didn’t need to.

Usually the person he was waiting for came back.

At some point one of them went to the bar. The guy had already been holding a bourbon when he came over. So when he excused himself, saying, “I’m gonna grab another,” Sidney nodded absently, still half listening to the other talk about a game he’d gone to as a kid.

Then, a little later, when he returned with another glass in hand, Sid realized something. Because hadn’t he already had one before you left for the bathroom? His eyes went toward the bar. Then toward the part of the room where he thought you’d gone. Then back to the actor in front of him, whose mouth was still moving through some story that Sidney suddenly realized he’d stopped hearing.

He tried to spot you without making it obvious he was looking. You were probably with your friends. That was the most logical explanation. You’d gone to the bathroom, maybe run into someone on the way out, maybe gotten pulled into one of those little standing clusters of women in nice dresses laughing too hard over old stories. The room was full of those little circles. He could see three from where he was standing.

He saw your friends. Or at least some of them. A few of the same women from earlier, standing in a loose group near the far side of the room near a large window. Another cluster by the bar. A couple people he vaguely recognized from over the past months, faces from set visits or dinners or stories. He didn’t see you among them. You could be behind someone. In another group. Actually in the bathroom, maybe fixing something or just taking a second to breathe.

He stayed in place a little longer because to suddenly bolt into the crowd after, what, five minutes, eight maybe, would’ve made him look insane. Overbearing. Exactly the thing he kept trying not to be. And then someone asked him where you were.

A woman in silver who’d been hovering at the edge of the conversation stepped a little closer, looked around, and said, “Where’s our girl?”

Sidney’s mouth went a little dry. “Bathroom, I think.”

The woman laughed softly. “Uh-oh.”

“What?”

She waved one hand like it was nothing. “Nothing. Just, you know.”

He didn’t know. “What?”

The actor beside her gave a tiny groan like he already regretted wherever this was about to go. “Maya.”

“What? It’s true.”

Sidney looked between them. “What’s true?”

Maya smiled at him like people did when they thought they were letting you in on a joke. “When she reconnects with her friends like this,” she said, “that’s when…forgive me for this, but it's when the party girl comes out.”

He smiled, because years of press had taught him how to smile when he wanted to say fuck off. “Yeah?”

“Oh, she’s a riot,” Maya said, laughing. “They don’t call her the life of the party for no reason.”

The actor muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath, but she kept going, oblivious or choosing to be.

“Seriously, once she gets going? Forget it. There's a reason the press loves her when the parties end.”

He laughed once, but even then it sounded fake. “Right.”

Maya tilted her head. “Oh, come on. You know that side of her.”

He looked straight at her. “No, I can’t say that I do,” he said.

The actor cleared his throat. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

That should have reassured him. It didn’t. Because now there was a before, which had been you going to the bathroom, and an after, which was everybody else apparently acting like your disappearance was some cute, inevitable thing he ought to understand. He didn’t understand anything. He checked his watch. He couldn’t remember exactly what time you’d left. How the fuck could he not remember? He’d been there. Right there. He’d watched you go. He’d had your shoes in his hand the whole time like some idiot placeholder for the fact that you would obviously come right back.

It felt like ages. Maybe it hadn’t been. Maybe it had. He checked anyway and saw numbers that meant nothing because he didn’t know what he was measuring them against. He set his empty water glass on a passing tray so fast the waiter looked startled.

The actor beside him said, “Hey, man, I’m sure she just ran into someone.”

Sidney nodded once but he was already looking even harder. “Yeah.”

And then more time passed. Too much. Way too much. Or maybe twenty seconds. Or five minutes. That was what panic did. It fucked with time until every second felt useless and every glance at a clock made him more nauseous. He checked his watch again. Then again later and realized that twenty minutes had passed since the last time he’d checked. Twenty. How the fuck was time passing so fast? He looked up so quickly he almost felt dizzy.

A man he did not know had drifted close enough to notice and said, “You okay?”

Sidney smiled, the expression wrong on his face. “Have you seen her?”

The man blinked. “Uh…”

“The actress. She was just here.”

“Oh.” The man looked over his shoulder vaguely, unhelpful as hell. “No, sorry.”

Sidney nodded and was already moving before he finished. He went to the nearest group of women first, one of whom had been talking to you earlier.

“Hey,” he said too fast. Then corrected, “Sorry. Have you seen her?”

One woman frowned. “Just now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Another one laughed. “She’s around.”

“Around where?”

They exchanged a glance. “I’m not sure,” the first one admitted. “I thought she was with you.”

“I thought so too.”

He moved on. The room had started to feel enormous now. Not beautiful. Just dark and full of blind spots. He checked the terrace. Nothing. He pushed through the crowd toward the bar, his shoulders tense enough that people looked at him when he passed. Someone tried to stop him, saying his name, but he didn’t even really hear it. At the bar he looked at every stool, every body leaning against the wood, every glass lifted and passed. No you.

A bartender came over with that automatic service smile. “What can I get you?”

Sidney looked at him. “Did you see where she went?”

The bartender hesitated. “Sorry?”

He described you too quickly, then more carefully, then with your name. The bartender’s face brightened.

“Oh, her. She was here earlier.”

Sidney’s stomach dropped lower. “When?”

The bartender shrugged helplessly. “A little while ago.”

“A little while ago when?”

The bartender looked caught off guard, because of course he had no fucking idea what Sidney meant by that. A little while ago at a party could mean two minutes or thirty.

“She talked to someone over there, I think,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the lounge area.

Someone over there. I think. Sidney thanked him anyway because his mother had raised him right and apparently panic could not beat manners out of him completely, then headed in the direction the bartender had pointed. Nothing. There was people everywhere. But no you. He checked the hallway toward the bathrooms. The music got duller there, the carpet swallowing the sound of his shoes, the air cooler and less stuffy. A couple stood pressed too close by a framed mirror. Someone laughed behind a half-open door to a private room. He ignored all of it and went straight to the women’s restroom.

Then he stopped. Because obviously he couldn’t just walk in there. For one deranged second, he considered it anyway. Instead he stood outside like a man losing his fucking mind and waited for the first person to come out. She was older, on her phone, and startled when he stepped into her path.

“Sorry,” he said immediately. “I’m sorry, this is weird. Was there anyone else in there? About this tall, dark dress, barefoot?”

The woman blinked. “In the bathroom?”

“Yes.”

She frowned in thought. “No. I don’t think so.”

“You’re sure?”

She looked more concerned now. “I didn’t see anyone but two women in red.”

“Okay.” He stepped back. “Thanks. Sorry.”

He checked the men’s room too, because at that point who the fuck knew, and got a couple annoyed looks for peering in like a lunatic. No you. He turned back down the hallway and checked his watch again. The numbers changed nothing. Still too much time. Still no you.

His chest felt wrong now. He had only drunk water all night and still he felt like he might throw up right there on the hotel carpet. He told himself to think. Think. Not spiral. Where would you go? Bathroom. Bar. Friends. Terrace. Maybe upstairs? No. Why upstairs? Unless with someone. Unless hiding. Unless–

His brain tried to offer possibilities and each one got worse than the last. He went back into the room and headed straight for one of your friends, the one from earlier who had asked how long you’d been sober.

She was laughing at something someone else said when he got to her side.

“Have you seen her?”

“Oh. Uh.” She looked around. “No. I thought she was with you.”

“I thought she was with you.”

The woman’s mouth tightened. “She went to the bathroom, didn’t she?”

“A while ago.”

“How long’s a while?”

“I don’t know.”

Now she looked worried too.

Another friend drifted over. “What’s going on?”

“He can’t find her.”

Sidney dragged a hand over his face.

“Did she say anything to you?” he asked. “Did she mention going somewhere?”

Both women shook their heads.

One said, “She was fine.”

Fine.

Back to the terrace. Nothing. Far balcony this time. Nothing. Near the floral wall where people kept taking photos. Nothing. A side lounge half hidden behind giant curtains. Nothing. He checked his watch again. Another 30 minutes had passed. How? How the fuck was time passing so fast? He could feel sweat at the back of his neck now under the collar of his shirt. His heart was beating too fast. Somebody brushed his shoulder and he actually flinched.

Every face became a potential answer and then a disappointment. Every woman in a dark dress seen from the back made him hopeful before she turned and became somebody else. Every closed door suddenly looked sinister. He kept picturing you in fragments. You in the bathroom staring at yourself in the mirror trying to breathe. You on some hidden terrace with old friends and a drink in your hand. You cornered by someone who knew exactly what buttons to push. You crying. You laughing too loudly. You slipping back into some version of the night everyone else in this room found charming and he found terrifying.

He hated not knowing which possibility to fear most. That was the worst part.

It ended up being some random drunk guy who saved him. Sidney would hate that detail later. Would hate that of all the people in there, all the polished faces and expensive clothes and fake concern and old friends and industry parasites and half-friends and real friends and whoever the fuck else was orbiting your life that night, it was some stranger with whiskey on his breath and a loosened bow tie who gave him the first useful answer he’d gotten in hours.

He had just come back from checking the hallway near the bathrooms for the second or third time, when the guy sort of stumbled in his way with that overly familiar grin drunk people got when they thought they were being helpful.

“You’re Crosby,” the guy said, smiling too wide.

Sidney barely stopped moving. “Yeah.”

“Fuckin’ legend.”

“Thanks.”

He was already trying to step around him when the guy lifted a finger like he’d remembered something important. “Your girl,” he said.

“What?”

“Your girl. The actress.”

“Yeah?”

“I saw her.”

“Where?”

The guy lifted his drink and pointed vaguely upward. “There’s, like, an after afterparty. Presidential suite. Couple floors up. I saw her go that way. I think.”

Sidney stared at him. “You think?”

The man shrugged. “Pretty sure, man. Everybody interesting went up there.”

Everybody interesting.

“You know. Upstairs. Smaller crowd. Real party.”

Sidney stepped closer. “You saw her go up there?”

The man squinted, trying to line his own memory up. “I think so. Yeah. Pretty sure. She was with some people.”

Some people. Of course. He just turned and walked, then kept walking faster until it almost became a run once he hit the hallway. The way to the elevators felt too long. That was also what panic did, apparently. It stretched space just like it stretched time. The corridor from the bathrooms to the bank of elevators could not have been more than a few dozen yards, but by the time he reached it, it felt like he’d crossed a city. Every second in that hallway felt stolen from him. He hit the call button once. Then again. Then realized he was jabbing it like that would do anything.

“Come on,” he muttered to no one. “Come on.”

The elevator took forever. It felt like he aged in front of those brushed metal doors. Two women in glittering dresses joined him, laughing about something, and he had to stand there while they adjusted clutches and checked lipstick in the reflective doors like the world was not ending in front of him.

One looked over and said, “You okay?”

He didn’t answer. The elevator finally opened and the ride up felt even longer. He stood in the corner with his jaw locked and watched the numbers crawl upward while his mind ran ahead of him. You laughing too hard. You crying. You vanished into one more room full of people who called chaos charming because it was happening to somebody else. He kept thinking of the hesitation when your friend had asked how long you’d been sober. Kept hearing Maya say party girl. Kept seeing the waiters with trays of champagne moving through the ballroom and your eyes lingering too long.

By the time the doors opened on the top floor, his hands were shaking. The presidential suite had one of its double doors propped open. It was louder and dirtier than the gathering downstairs. He walked in and felt sick immediately. People were everywhere. On the couches, standing in doorways, leaning over each other, half sprawled across chairs with drinks in their hands. There were bottles on every surface. Glasses abandoned with lipstick on the rims. Ice melting into buckets. Jackets on the floor. Somebody was smoking near a cracked window even though they definitely should not have been.

It took him barely a second to find you. And one more to stop breathing right. You were in the center of the room. And you were drunk. And for one horrible second, he barely recognized you. You were sitting on the arm of a giant cream-colored sofa with your head tipped back in laughter at something someone said, one hand wrapped around a glass you definitely hadn’t been holding downstairs. Your hair was undone. Your lipstick smeared. Your eyes too bright and too unfocused, your whole body loose and not in the comfortable way he knew, but something more gone.

Drunk. Not just tipsy. Not just warm and giggly and having one after a hard night. Incredibly drunk. How the fuck had you gotten that drunk that fast? He had only lost you for what, barely an hour, and yet somehow whatever version of the evening he had been trying to keep from sliding sideways had gone all the way off the cliff while he was downstairs losing his fucking mind. He stood there looking at you and had no words. None.

He couldn’t even tell, in that moment, exactly what he was feeling. Disappointment might have been part of it. Horror too. Hurt, definitely. But the second the word disappointment started to form in his head, shame followed right behind it, because what right did he have to be disappointed? What right did he have to act shocked if this was what your life had actually been, what your world had trained you for, what everyone had warned him about and he had kept trying to believe effort could outwork?

What exactly had he thought he was doing all these months?

What had he thought all of this was?

Whether you were sober for all the time you’d been together, all the months of smoothies and water bottles and sleep and quiet and little domestic rituals and the way he’d built his entire summer around keeping you steady, he suddenly didn’t know.

Maybe he’d been stupid. Maybe he’d been seeing what he wanted to see because it made loving you easier. Because yes, fuck it, that was the word even now whether he liked it or not. He loved you. And he was standing in a presidential suite full of strangers and seeing, in one nauseating second, just how little that love had apparently been able to do.

You saw him. That was the worst part. You saw his face. And whatever you saw there made you cower. He crossed the room anyway. He didn’t remember deciding to. He just got there. By the time he reached you, you were already trying to put the pieces of yourself back together enough to function. He didn’t know what his face looked like, but you were trying. Trying so hard, actually. Trying to look less drunk. Trying to smile. Trying to be some version of yourself that made this not what it was.

“Hi,” you said. He stared at you. You looked down first. Then, quietly, to the people around you, “I should go.”

Someone groaned. “Already?”

Another voice said, “No, come on.”

You shook your head, trying for a little smile and not quite finding it. “I’m serious.”

One of your friends, already halfway to sloppy herself, leaned in and stage-whispered, “Mr. Hockey’s here to turn you into a pumpkin?”

Sidney didn’t answer that. You didn’t either.

Another touched your arm. “You’re fine.”

That nearly made him snap right there. Instead he said, calm enough that it scared even him, “She’s leaving.”

The woman looked at him, then at you, then got her hand off your arm. You looked at him for half a second, then away, then back, and the tears were not there yet but the awareness was. The shame was. When you finally started moving toward the door, you stumbled on the first step. He caught you by the waist.

“Easy,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

That was the first thing he’d said to you since he’d gotten there besides she’s leaving, and hearing the strain in his own voice made him feel worse. You leaned into him more than you probably realized, your shoulder against his chest, your arm caught awkwardly around his because it was the only way you were staying upright. He could feel every small misstep in your body. Every humiliating sign of just how far gone you were.

The hallway was too quiet after the suite. The elevator came too slow again. When the doors closed, you looked at the floor and said, “You don’t have to hold me that hard.”

He loosened his grip, then immediately tightened it again when you swayed. “You’re gonna fall.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

The mirrored walls showed you both too clearly. Him tense and pale and furious at the world and maybe a little at you and mostly at himself. The elevator doors opened on the lobby level and the cool air hit both of you. He got you through the lobby one slow step at a time. People looked. He hated that. Hated the curiosity. Hated the glances. Hated the possibility that someone in that giant room was already memorizing your face and your gait and saving for tomorrow. He hated himself for caring about that too, when the most important thing was right there under his hand.

He guided you outside toward the line of waiting cars and said, because he had to say something before his own head exploded, “I don’t understand.”

You laughed this thin little broken sound. “I know.”

“That’s not…” He dragged a hand over his face. “I don’t understand.”

You turned your head to look at him, eyes glossy and unfocused. “You were never gonna be the one to fix me.”

He had no response to that. Because what the hell was he supposed to say? No, I know? I wasn’t trying to fix you? I was just trying to keep you alive long enough for you to believe you deserved better? Everything in him felt useless. What did any of it mean if time in the wrong room erased the whole version of the night he thought he was protecting? So he said nothing. That was maybe the second worst thing he could have done. And because he said nothing, you kept going. Of course you did. Your voice got meaner and more hurt with every minute passed.

“I know that look.”

“What look?”

“That one,” you said, motioning vaguely at his whole face. “That disappointed one.”

“I’m not…”

“Yes, you are.” Your words started bunching together slightly, not slurred beyond comprehension, just softened enough that it hurt to hear how far gone you were. “You think you’re hiding it, but you’re not. You’ve had that face all night.”

He swallowed hard. “I’m trying to get you home.”

“Exactly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means this whole fucking thing.” You lifted one hand between you, letting it fall again. “You. Me. Pittsburgh. Smoothies and routines and water bottles and all this…” You broke off, pressing your mouth into a line like the words were not landing where you wanted them to. “You thought if you just gave me enough attention I’d be somebody you could live with.”

“That’s not what I thought.”

“Then what did you think?” you shot back immediately.

He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He knew the best thing for you now was not the hotel. Not another elevator. Not another room in a building full of people from the celebration and the suite and all the bad decisions still happening above your heads. Home. Your house. Your actual house. Or at least to the house that had, for a little while, become close enough to home that he’d built part of himself inside it. So he got you a car. Someone at the front desk made a call. The concierge asked questions and he answered them. Then there was a blackout car out waiting to take you away.

You were quieter by then. He got you into the backseat carefully, ducking to keep your head from hitting the frame though you were trying to insist you were fine for probably the third time that night.

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That voice.”

He looked at you. You were folded awkwardly into the leather seat, all the “life of the party” bullshit gone out of you and replaced. He buckled you in because you were not doing it properly yourself. Your heels he set by your feet on the floorboard. Then he stepped back. And you knew. He saw the second you knew he wasn’t getting in. Your hand shot out and caught his. Tight. Too tight for how weak your grip should have been by then. He looked down. You were staring up at him with tears in your eyes, huge tears that made you look more vulnerable than everything else had.

“Sid.”

He shook his head once and your fingers tightened harder around his hand.

“Don’t.”

He tried gently to pull back but you would not let him.

“Please.”

That word nearly made him get in with you. He crouched a little by the car door so he was more level with you, one hand braced on the frame, the other trapped in your grip.

“You need to go home.”

“You’re coming with me.”

The words came out too quickly, too slurred. He rubbed a hand down his face because Jesus fucking Christ.

“Don’t.”

“I mean it.”

“You’re drunk.”

That landed. Your face crumpled in this tiny, terrible way.

“So what?”

He stared at you. He knew he couldn’t get in the car with you.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No,” you said again, more urgently now. “No, come with me.”

“You need sleep.”

“I need you to stop looking at me like that.”

He swallowed. “I’m not…”

“You are.” Your voice cracked there. “You are,” you repeated. “And I know you think you’re being nice by not saying it, but I can still fucking see it.”

The driver continued to look very hard at the windshield. Because there you were, crying in the backseat, holding onto his hand like if you let go you’d fall somewhere he could not follow.

“Come with me,” you said again, quieter this time. “Please.”

He closed his eyes. He should have gone with you. Maybe. He’s thought that a thousand times since. He should have gotten in the car. He should have taken you home. He should have stayed until morning. He should have kept his promise better than this. But in that moment, all he could think was that if he went with you, he did not know what version of himself would be waiting on the other side of this. The man who wanted to help you? The man who loved you? The man who had just found you drunk out of your mind in a private suite after spending the last hour tearing himself apart looking for you? He didn’t know. And he didn’t trust any of those versions of himself to say the right thing once they were alone with you.

So he shook his head again. And you got angry. Of course you did. Your tears were still there, but something meaner took over your face. Mean not because you were cruel by nature, but because hurt and alcohol and shame were a vicious combination.

“You don’t get to do that.”

He looked at you. “Do what?”

“Leave when it stops being good.”

His face changed before he could stop it. You saw that too.

“Yeah,” you said, “That.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No?” You leaned forward as much as the seatbelt let you. “You get to swoop in and save me when I’m fun and trying, but the second it gets ugly enough you just…” You made this helpless, furious motion with your free hand. “Stop.”

“Stop,” he said again, quieter.

“You stop.”

He didn’t even know what that meant. Maybe you didn’t either.

There was too much bleeding together now. Months of almosts and routines and fights never had and things never said. The original arrangement. The real thing that had grown in its place. The hope he had let himself have. The anger and fear of tonight. The sight of you in that suite. The tears in front of him now. You kept hold of his hand and the tears in your eyes slipped out now, and the more he said nothing, the more frantic you got.

“I’m fine,” you said, which was insane. “I’m literally fine.”

He said your name. A warning. A plea. He’s not even sure which. But you were already spiraling harder.

“You think I don’t know what this looks like? You think I didn’t see your face up there?”

“I’m trying not to make this worse.”

You laughed wetly. “Worse? Sid, this is who I am.”

“No.”

“Yes.” Your grip on his hand tightened. “Yes, it is.”

He should have stopped there. But because he was exhausted and sick to his stomach and so far past his limit that the truth came out, he said it.

“I don’t understand why you choose to act like a bad person.”

Your face fell. Like something in you had been holding itself up by threads and he’d cut the last one without even meaning to. Your lips parted a little. And in your eyes, for one godawful second, he saw it. Recognition. Not of the words themselves. Those were old by now. Those were familiar. Those had probably lived in your world a long fucking time.

But recognition that they had come from him. That was what killed it. That was what killed both of you right there. And in that silence, Sidney felt the exact moment he failed you. Not finding you. Not getting you out. Not keeping the promise he’d made to himself. Those had all been failures too, maybe. But this was the one that cut deepest. Because he had just sounded like everyone else. He saw you realize it.

He wanted to take it back. Wanted to say no, that’s not what I meant, that’s not what I meant at all. What he meant was I don’t understand why you keep choosing the thing that hurts you when I have spent months trying to build you somewhere softer to land. What he meant was I am scared. What he meant was I love you and I am so fucking scared. What he had actually said was something uglier. A sentence that sounded too much like everyone else in your life.

Then you pulled your hand back. You sank against the seat and didn’t look at him anymore. Just turned your face toward the opposite window and said, in a voice gone very small, “Okay.”

Neither of you said anything else. What could there even be after that? Then he closed the door. He stood there one second longer than he should have, staring through the tinted glass at the shadow of you inside, and then the car pulled away. He did not go back to your house for his things. He could not make himself do it. He could not stand in your kitchen or your bedroom or any of the places that started to feel shared and pretend this hadn’t happened. Could not risk seeing you again before the night had even finished gutting him. Could not let himself be there if you woke up and looked at him with that same expression from the car. He did not go back upstairs. He did not even go back into the hotel long enough to pretend he had any interest in the rest of the night. He called for a car, got to the airport, and flew back to Pittsburgh that night feeling like he had left half his skin behind somewhere over Los Angeles.

The flight was a fucking nightmare. It was a nightmare because there was nowhere to put his thoughts. By the time he landed in Pittsburgh, he felt like half a person. He barely remembered the drive from the airport to his place. Only that the city looked gray and completely wrong, because he had brought the wrong version of himself back with him.

You were right. He had not and he could not been the one to fix you.

By the time he got back to his place, dawn was barely beginning to thin the dark. The guesthouse was as dark as the night you left it. Innocent-looking, almost. He unlocked it with hands that were no steadier than they had been in that elevator and stepped inside. At first he only stood there. The little space felt wrong now. Too tidy in some places. Too you in others. A sweater slung over the chair. A hair tie on the bathroom counter. A mug in the sink. The bed unmade from the last morning you had woken up there. Little pieces of your life threaded through his home like evidence of a version of things that might already be dead.

And then he tore the place apart. Every drawer. Every cabinet. Under the bed. Closet shelves. Bathroom vanity. Suitcase pockets. The little table by the couch. The kitchen. The freezer, for some reason. Places he had already looked before in passing and places he had never let himself look too hard because some part of him hadn’t wanted to know. He was looking. And he found it. Of course he did. A bottle tucked behind sweaters in the closet. Another half hidden in the back of a bathroom cabinet behind unopened skincare shit. Two empties in the bottom of a tote bag he recognized as one you used when you went back and forth between Pittsburgh and L.A. Some full. Some empty. All of them real. All of them there.

He stood there holding cold glass in one hand and felt something inside him go blank. Like his body had finally reached the point where feeling any more would kill him. He set the bottles on the counter one by one. He looked at them. This evidence. This proof. Not of your failure. He knew that, somewhere deeper than the hurt. Proof of yours? No. Proof of his own ignorance maybe. Proof that while he had been building routines and carrying water bottles and telling himself he was helping, there had been a whole other reality right under his nose. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the opposite wall for a long time. The room still held traces of you everywhere, and now the bottles too, lined up on the counter like a final ugly punchline. 

He had not fulfilled his promise. That was the truth of it. He had promised himself that he would help until you could stand on your own two feet. But he had never really known where the ground was under you. And now, with the city waking up around him and the first ray of sunshine shining through the windows, he had this horrible feeling that the next time he saw your name in the press, it would not be for the movie. Not for the talent. Not for the work you had been so alive about.

It would be because you could not get better. Because you could not break out of it. Because the world loved a girl falling apart a lot more than it ever loved the work of trying to survive. He sat there in the wreckage of your hidden life and his own failed hope, and for the first time since this all began he had no plan.

No routine. No way to fix what had already broken. Just the bottles. Just the knowledge that when it mattered most, he had let you go.

He had not just failed to help you. He had become one more person you could point to when people asked why you never believed good things stayed.

—

—

I. 

Project Sober.

It was such a fucking stupid name that Sidney had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from reacting when he first heard it. It was just so painfully obvious what they were doing that giving it a polished little title almost made it worse. Project Sober. Like it was some kind of campaign. Like it was a rebrand. Like you were a mess on a spreadsheet and they just needed to move a few numbers around until the optics looked cleaner.

He’d sat there and listened anyway. That was what Sidney did. He listened. To coaches, to management, to teammates, to people who thought they knew what was best for him, for the team, for the image of everything. He’d gotten good at sitting still while other people talked in circles. Good at keeping his face neutral while words like strategy and exposure and crossover got thrown around like they weren’t talking about two actual people.

Your people had their version of it. His people had theirs. But they all seemed to agree on one thing, which was that you needed fixing. You drank too much. You swore too much. You complained too much. You didn’t smile enough when cameras were on you. You didn’t play nice with interviewers. You had a habit of looking bored, irritated, or completely done with everybody around you. There were stories about you all the time. Some of them stupid but got printed because there had to be something printed. Some of them worse. Nights out that ran too long. Mornings that looked rough. Publicists having to smooth shit over after you’d said or done something that made people act scandalized for forty-eight hours.

When people kept repeating the same things, eventually they started to harden into fact. Sidney knew that. He also hated that he knew it because it meant an ugly part of him had started picturing you before he met you. The version of you everybody else had made up for him. A beautiful disaster. A headache in expensive shoes. Some spoiled actress who’d had everything handed to you since you were little and still somehow insisted on making a wreck of your own life. And maybe that was unfair. But he was twenty-five, not fifty, and he wasn’t some all-knowing fucking saint no matter how badly people wanted to dress him up like one.

He had his own reputation too. Reliable. Steady. Clean-cut. Safe. The kind of man parents liked. The kind of athlete sponsors loved. The kind of face you attached to things when you wanted people to stop worrying. So of course somebody got the bright idea to put you beside him. If the hockey golden boy was seen with the actress everybody couldn’t stop talking about, then maybe some of his image would rub off on you. Maybe if people saw you around someone boring in the most marketable way possible, they’d stop waiting for you to implode. Maybe if Sidney Crosby was willing to be linked to you, then the public would take it as proof that you weren’t as bad as everyone made you seem.

Or maybe, his camp had said more delicately, it might encourage you to make better choices. That had pissed him off a little. As if he was supposed to be what, exactly? A handler? A babysitter? Some clean little moral compass they could drop into your life and hope you’d straighten the fuck out from proximity alone?

Still, he’d said yes. Part of it was obligation. Part of it was curiosity. Part of it, if he was being honest, was that he wanted to see for himself.  So dinner got arranged. Private room. Nice restaurant. Quiet enough to talk. Public enough that nobody could accuse either of you of bolting after ten miserable minutes and setting the whole thing on fire before it even started. On the drive over, he found himself more keyed up than he wanted to be.

That annoyed him. He sat in the car with one hand braced against his thigh, thumb tapping once, then stopping when he noticed it. He knew this place. Pittsburgh made sense to him. You didn’t. You weren’t from here. As far as he knew, you weren’t particularly interested in the city, in hockey, or in anything attached to his world. That was part of what made the whole setup feel so forced. If not for everyone involved, the managers and publicists and whoever the fuck else, there was no reason your paths would’ve crossed at all.

And still, he kept thinking about what he’d say first. He wasn’t some idiot who forgot how to talk to women. He could hold a conversation. He could be polite. But this felt different because everything around it was manufactured. Too many people had a stake in it. Too many people were waiting to see if the first impression would be good, bad, salvageable, promising. He could feel all that pressure sitting on the meeting before it even happened.

By the time he got to the restaurant, he was already tired of the whole thing. The hostess led him to the back. He thanked her, adjusted the cuff of his shirt, and walked in expecting, at best, a trainwreck trying not to look like one. Instead, he found you sitting quietly at the table in a pair of sunglasses, one elbow resting near your water glass, fingers touching the stem of a margarita glass like you hadn’t decided yet whether you wanted another sip.

He’d expected noise somehow. Bigger energy. A room taken over by your presence. Someone loud and hard to miss. But you were just sitting there. Pretty but otherwise quiet. Composed. Tired, maybe. You looked up when he came in. Even behind the lenses, he could feel your attention land on him. For one strange second, neither of you said anything.

Then he stepped closer and gave you a small, awkward smile. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

Your voice was softer than he expected. That threw him too. He pulled out his chair and sat down across from you, suddenly aware all over again of his own hands and posture and the stupid fact that he suddenly felt shy.

“Thanks for coming,” he said.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Then, because apparently he was the one initiating everything just like everybody had predicted he would, Sidney reached for the menu even though he’d already looked it over online earlier, more out of needing something to do with his hands than because he needed to read it again.

“You been to Pittsburgh much?”

“No.”

He looked up from the menu. “No?”

You shook your head. “Not really my scene.”

“What, steel city not doing it for you?”

“I mean,” you said, “partying with hockey players sounds fun.”

He looked at you again, trying to figure out if you were kidding. Maybe you were. Maybe you weren’t. You just sipped your margarita like it didn’t matter either way. He smiled despite himself and looked back down at the menu, mostly because if he kept looking at you too long it was going to become obvious he was recalibrating in real time.

This wasn’t how they’d described you.

A server came by to ask about drinks, and Sidney ordered water. Just water. Partly because he always defaulted to caution when he didn’t know how to feel about a situation yet. Partly because if this whole thing really was, in some deeply insulting way, supposed to be about him stabilizing your image, then the last thing he needed was a drink in his own hand while he figured out what your deal was.

The server glanced at your glass, then at you.

“You’d like another margarita?”

“No. I’m good.” Then, after thinking for a little longer, “Actually, fuck it. Yeah.”

The server nodded like that wasn’t the least bit unusual. Sidney did too, because he wasn’t about to start making judgments over one drink with dinner. When the server left, you leaned back slightly in your chair and touched the frame of your sunglasses.

“You can ask.”

He frowned. “Ask what?”

“Whatever you’re obviously wondering.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“Yes.”

He glanced at the sunglasses. “Long night?”

You let your head tip back. “Longer morning.”

So you were hungover. That should’ve made him feel what, vindicated? Concerned? Wary? Instead it mostly made him look at you a little harder. Your voice was steady. Your posture was decent. You weren’t slurring, weren’t being erratic, weren’t even particularly rude. If he hadn’t been told again and again what your habits were, he might’ve just thought you were tired and uninterested in small talk with a stranger who’d been volunteered as your image rehab.

“You didn’t have to come,” he said before he could stop himself.

“Neither did you.”

Fair enough.

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

He asked you about work. He mentioned a movie of yours he’d seen on a plane during a road trip. Told you he’d liked it. Told you he’d actually recommended it to other guys after, which was true even if it made him feel a little stupid admitting it aloud. He expected you to brush him off or make some joke at his expense.

“That one?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“Huh good or huh bad?”

“Just didn’t think you’d pick that one.”

He shrugged. “Why?”

“It’s not exactly a hockey movie.”

He laughed. “I have range.”

That one actually made you smile. And there it was. Not attraction exactly. Or maybe not only that. More like relief. Relief that there was a real person sitting across from him. Relief that the dinner was not turning into the disaster everybody had half prepared him for. Relief that he wasn’t going to spend two hours dragging conversation out of somebody who clearly wanted to be anywhere else. You still wanted to be somewhere else, probably. He wasn’t dumb. But you were trying more than he expected. He could work with trying.

The bread came. Then the soup of the day. You ordered it after barely glancing at the menu, like you did not care what it was as long as it was warm. He ordered something with protein and vegetables and all the boring shit that had become muscle memory by then. You took another sip of your margarita. He took a drink of water. The contrast between the two of you could’ve been funny if he looked at it from far enough away.

He found himself wondering about you the more he spoke. Not just what the headlines got wrong. He was already starting to think that answer was a lot. He wondered what you were like when nobody was trying to manage you. Wondered what kind of childhood led to a twenty-two-year-old looking like she already knew exactly how to disappear while sitting right in front of someone.

By the time the second margarita was half gone, you had not gotten louder. You had not gotten sloppier. If anything, you’d loosened only enough to stop looking like you were waiting for the dinner to end badly. And Sidney, against his better judgment, was starting to relax too.

He looked at you across the table and thought, not for the first time that night, that this was not what they told him it’d be. And because he was Sidney Crosby, because he always had to be the one stupid enough to care, he made the choice right there to keep talking. To keep trying. To be the one who reached first.

That was probably his second mistake. But at the time, all it felt like was dinner. A quiet room. Good food. Water in his glass, salt on the rim of yours. Your voice getting a little easier each time he gave you another question. His own shyness becoming something steadier.

By the end of the night, he knew two things for sure. The first was that you were not what they’d said. The second was that he wanted to know how bad they’d lied.

II. 

The first time you came to Pittsburgh after that dinner, it was for a game.

Another setup, obviously. Another arranged appearance by people who liked to pretend they were guiding things with a gentle hand when really they were shoving two lives together and waiting to see what shape the collision took. Still, Sidney found himself thinking about it more than he should have in the days leading up to puck drop. He wouldn’t have called it obsessing. Just noticing every time your name drifted through his head while he tied his skates, while he taped his stick.

You were there. He tried his hardest not to look toward your seats. And mostly, he didn’t. Mostly.

There were stretches of the game where he stayed exactly where he needed to be, mentally and physically, every thought on the puck and the ice and the pressure of bodies and the game he trusted more than almost anything else in his life. Then there were those stupid, human little moments in between, during a whistle, or lining up for a faceoff, or skating past with his heart beating quick, when his eyes betrayed him and moved up for half a second toward the section where he knew you were sitting.

He only indulged once in a while. That was the lie he told himself, anyway. You weren’t wearing a jersey. He didn’t expect you to. If anything, he’d been half expecting some version of you that looked amused by the whole charade, all expensive coat and crossed legs and a face that said this is cute, but let’s not get carried away. Instead you were dressed like yourself. Good coat, good shoes, hair done, face unreadable from where he was. No team colors. No performative nod to the cameras beyond the fact that you were there at all.

But you stayed. You stayed the whole game. You didn’t duck out early. You didn’t give the impression you were bored enough to crawl out of your own skin. You stayed in your seat, watched, clapped when everybody else clapped, stood when the arena stood. 

Afterward he didn’t see you. Not in the family room. Not in the hallway. Not lingering near the places players’ wives and girlfriends and whoever else tended to gather after games. It might’ve just been too much. He told himself that when he got home. Then, after standing in his kitchen for a while with a glass of water and postgame adrenaline that kept him up late, he sent you a text.

Sid: Thanks for coming.

It was simple and he didn’t expect an answer. But you did.

You: Of course. Had fun. Hockey’s kinda violent, huh?

He smiled at that. Actually smiled alone in his kitchen like an idiot, reading a text from a girl he barely knew and had absolutely no business already finding endearing. He texted back something dry about that being the appeal. You answered again. It wasn’t a long conversation, not anything deeply personal, but enough. 

Then you came to another game. And another. And another. At first it still felt performative, like a publicity stunt people were trying out to see if it stuck. Your face in the stands, his name attached to yours in little entertainment blurbs and sports gossip columns, the whole thing presented with that certainty media always had when they thought they’d found a narrative that could feed itself. Actress spotted at Penguins game. 

By the fourth game, somebody had forced you into a jersey. It looked wrong on you. Like somebody had wanted proof of concept and had draped it over your shoulders for the cameras. You were wearing it, yes, but not happily. Even from the ice he could tell. There was something in the way you held yourself, too aware of it, too aware of being looked at in it. You were trying.

You still flew home right after the games. Wherever home really was for you at that point, he wasn’t always sure. L.A. sometimes, New York sometimes, wherever your team had you scheduled, wherever your life actually existed when it wasn’t being nudged toward his. He’d ask sometimes where you were headed next, and your answers were never the same.

“Back west.”

“Back east.”

“Back to the place with my toothbrush.”

Once he laughed and said that didn’t narrow it down much.

You’d shrugged. “That’s kinda the point.”

The Pittsburgh house came later. Her team got her a whole home, people said. Though “got” probably meant financed through a maze of contracts and image budgets and maybe some of your own money thrown at it because nobody in your world did anything simply if they could make it expensive first. Sidney only heard that there was a place for you now. A Pittsburgh base. Somewhere to stay without constant flights in and out.

He tried not to imagine how that must have felt. Being handed a house in a city you hadn’t cared about before all this. Being placed. Stationed. Like a very pretty exile. By the time you actually stayed for longer than a couple nights at a time, nearly two months had gone by. Games. Flights. Texts. Articles. Another game. Another little headline about how good the two of you looked together.

He went over there on an off day. Purely so you two could get to know each other better, he told himself. Purely because this whole thing was weird, and if he was going to keep doing it, the least the two of you could do was become actual people to each other. It was hard to do that when your schedules almost never aligned. His life ran on schedules so strict he barely had to think about it. Yours seemed to run on exhaustion, late nights, delayed mornings, and whatever kind of shit came with being wanted in ten places at once by people who never asked nicely.

When he got to the house, it was pretty clear nobody had built it for living in. It was beautiful, technically. Polished hardwood floors. Expensive furniture. Art on the walls that looked selected by committee. Throw blankets folded too neatly over the arms of a sofa no one ever really sat on. The kitchen looked like a kitchen in a magazine, not a kitchen anybody had ever stood in at midnight barefoot and upset with a spoon in one hand. The whole place had that staged quality to it, like a realtor’s wetdream.

Sidney nearly lost his mind just looking at it. He stood there while you shut the door behind him, taking in the pristine counters and the empty surfaces and the weird absence of anything that really made the space yours besides a pair of sunglasses tossed carelessly near a fruit bowl and a charger plugged into the wall by the couch.

“This place is creepy,” he said before he could stop himself.

You laughed that dry sound he was learning he liked too much.

“Thank you,” you said. “I feel insane in here.”

He turned toward you. “There’s nothing in it.”

“I know.”

“No books. No clutter. No anything.”

You lifted a shoulder. “There’s alcohol.”

That made him look at you weird. He didn’t mean to. It’s just what his face did.

“I’m kidding,” you said, though he wasn’t sure if you were.

Then you walked past him into the kitchen. He followed, glancing around as you opened the fridge. That was almost worse. There wasn’t much in there. Bottled water. Fancy juices. Cold takeout. Half a lemon rolling around in the crisper.

“You eat any of this?”

You peered into the fridge. “Sometimes.”

“That means no.”

“That means I get food delivered.”

“Yeah. I figured.”

“Are you here to inspect me?”

“No.” The answer came too fast. Then he exhaled and added, “I’m here because we barely know each other.”

“That was almost honest.”

“Almost?”

“You also looked like you were gonna have a stroke when you saw my fridge.”

He laughed, because unfortunately you weren’t wrong.

After that, he came by on off days when he could. Sometimes for an hour, sometimes longer. Sometimes you were still half-asleep when he got there. Sometimes you were more awake, sprawled across that too-clean couch in sweatpants while some entertainment channel recycled stories about people you probably knew.

The guesthouse idea was one he blurted out on accident. He’d been sitting on your back porch, telling you what time he had to leave the next morning to Boston for his roadtrip, what his day looked like, how stupid it was that by the time he was free again you’d probably be heading out. You were sitting on the railing in one of his sweatshirts by then, though he was trying not to read too much into that because you’d stolen it after complaining your place was freezing and then just never given it back.

“You know,” he said, more casual than he felt, “you could just stay at my place.”

“In your house?”

“In the guesthouse.”

You made a face immediately. “That feels quick.”

“It’s not like that.”

That was probably not the smoothest possible response, but it got the point across.

“It’s separate,” he said. “You’d have your own space. It’d just make more sense than this back-and-forth all the time.”

“You want me as, what, your backyard tenant?”

He huffed a laugh. “Like a roommate.”

“That’s not what a roommate is.”

“You know what I mean.”

For a second he thought you were going to shut it down completely. Maybe you should have. Instead you tilted your head. “You ask girls to move into your guesthouse a lot?”

“You think there’ve been enough girls around to make that a pattern?”

That made you smile. Which was how he knew he had you. After more back-and-forth and more skepticism from you and more insistence from him that it was practical, not weird, not some giant leap into intimacy the way it sounded, you agreed. And once you were there, he did what he always did when he cared. He folded it into his world. He didn’t force you into anything. He wouldn’t have called it force even in his own head. It was invitation. Encouragement. Small suggestions. Tiny things that seemed reasonable when offered one at a time.

Morning alarm. You hated that one. The first few times you slept through it, but when you finally started waking up around the same time he did, you looked like the sun had punched you awake. He’d knock on the door, coffee in hand or sometimes something healthier because he was already beginning to wage his own quiet war against your habits, and you’d answer glaring at him.

“You’re disgusting,” you muttered once, taking the smoothie he’d brought.

“That’s dramatic.”

“You’re cheerful before nine a.m. That’s evil.”

“I’m not cheerful.”

“You made me a smoothie.”

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

“That’s cheerful behavior, Sidney.”

Still, you drank it.

Then practice. Not attending. But getting used to the shape of his days. The way he came back from the rink tired. The way everything around hockey had order to it. Meals when they were supposed to happen. Stretching when it was supposed to happen. Sleep when it was supposed to happen.

He let you see what good looked like to him. That was how he thought of it then, though later he’d hate himself a little for how simple he’d made it. Good meant structure. Good meant discipline. Good meant getting ahead of your own worst instincts before they had the chance to get you. So he’d say things while handing you something from the blender, casual enough that maybe they wouldn’t sound like rules.

“Try this instead of another coffee.”

Or when you looked wrecked in the afternoon after being up too late the night before, “If you go to sleep before midnight, you might not need anything to knock yourself out.”

You’d roll your eyes. You did that a lot with him. But sometimes you listened. He’d wake up and find you already up too, following him into the kitchen while he made breakfast, bitching softly about the hour and stealing pieces of fruit off the cutting board. You teased him constantly about his routines.

“Do you schedule when to blink too, or is that freestyle?”

He’d ignore you. Then, “You’re awake, though.”

And you’d make a face because he had you there.

He saw effort and thought it meant healing. That was his mistake. But it didn’t feel like a mistake then. Then it felt like standing in his kitchen while you leaned against the counter in one of his T-shirts, drinking the stupid smoothie you’d once mocked, wrinkling your nose and saying, “This still tastes like lawn clippings, by the way.”

And him answering, “You still drank it.”

Then it felt like seeing your guesthouse lights go out earlier than they used to and taking comfort in that. He started believing that if he just kept showing you what good looked like, you might choose it. Maybe even keep choosing it.

III. 

The whole thing was working. When this first started the articles had been brutal. He hadn’t gone looking for them, but they were hard to miss when this thing started. People shoved screens in front of him. PR people summarized the coverage with weird little pleased grimaces, even when the wording was ugly, because at least ugly meant attention. 

A timeline of your troubled past.

Your latest bad move costs your fans again.

Inside the spiral.

The meltdown years.

Your face attached to words like unstable and cautionary and addicted, like your whole life had been flattened into one long stumble from one terrible decision to the next. Like there was something morbidly entertaining in watching a beautiful girl self-destruct in public, then pretending to be concerned about it after. Now the articles looked different. Not all of them. There were always still a few jackals circling, still a few entertainment writers who clearly missed the old version of you they could package and sell in neat little disaster updates. But the tide had turned.

Radiant in Pittsburgh.

A softer side of Hollywood’s wild child.

The actress turning things around.

A surprising new chapter.

Positive articles. Encouraging articles. The kind of shit that probably would’ve made most people feel relieved, maybe even grateful. The kind of coverage your agents ate up with a spoon because it meant momentum and opportunities and the possibility of your name being usable again in rooms where people liked pretending morality mattered.

Sidney’s camp liked it too, of course. They liked that he looked less robotic. Less rink, lift, sleep, repeat. Less captain carved out of regulation and routine. Which in hindsight was almost funny considering how quickly people swung the other way once you were attached to him. Now the same discipline that had once made him seem stiff suddenly made him seem stable. A man instead of a machine.

He could appreciate that, in theory. He just couldn’t bring himself to care about it as much as everybody else did. Whatever had gotten him into this in the first place, whatever weird concern there had been about his image or his personality or how the public was perceiving him, it all felt stupidly small now compared to what this had become in his own head. Because the more he knew you, the worse those articles sat with him. That was the real issue. He also knew things the public didn’t. Or maybe worse, he knew things they’d been allowed to know once and then decided didn’t matter.

He learned how early all of it had started for you. The work. The cameras. The grown-up expectations laid across your shoulders when you were still small enough that your feet probably hadn’t touched the floor in makeup trailers. He knew your childhood stories because over weeks and months of these weird little half-domestic, half-staged days together, you’d told him things in fragments. You didn’t tell him about your life like it was tragic. You told it like it was normal. You’d be sitting on the counter while he made eggs, or curled into the corner of his couch with your knees up and some giant T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, and you’d mention something in passing that made his whole body go still.

How you learned to sleep in moving cars between sets because there wasn’t always time to go home. How a producer once told you not to cry because your face swelled and that cost people money. How there’d always been adults around, always someone doing your hair or feeding you lines or telling you to be sweeter, quieter, cuter, easier. How your first panic attack happened in a costume trailer and everyone thought you were being dramatic because you were eleven and had just worked a fourteen-hour day.

And you’d say all of it like you were talking about the weather. Sometimes even with a little laugh, like you knew he was going to make that face if you didn’t soften it for him first.

“You look horrified,” you told him once.

“Because that’s insane.”

“That’s just how it was.”

“No,” he said, sharper than he meant to. “That shouldn't have been just how it was.”

“See, that’s why I tell you things,” you said. “You react like a person.”

That one stayed with him. A lot of things you said stayed with him. Maybe that was why he got more sensitive than he should have. Because now he knew the distance between the version of you people sold and the version of you he got. He knew how funny you were when you were half-awake and grumpy and mean. He knew how thoughtful you could be, how you noticed things and pretended you didn’t. He knew you took your coffee with too much sugar when you were tired enough to stop pretending you liked it black. He knew you hated mornings but loved blue hour. He knew you weren’t “difficult” in the way they said it.

You were bruised. A little defensive. So when the question came during a scrum, Sidney was already in the wrong frame of mind for it. Usually he handled it fine. Better than fine. On autopilot, mostly. That was his thing. Stay steady. Keep it short. Keep it boring enough that nobody could twist it into something bigger. But that day one of the reporters smiled a little too bright before asking about you, and Sidney felt it.

“You’ve had a lot of support in the building lately,” the guy said. “What’s it been like having that around more consistently?”

“It’s nice,” he said. “She’s got a busy schedule, so whenever she’s in town, it’s good to see her.”

Safe. It should’ve ended there. It almost did. Then another voice came from the left. “Have you been helping her adjust to Pittsburgh, or is she helping you loosen up a little?”

A few people laughed at that.

Sidney gave the kind of half-smile he used when he wanted something to pass without looking irritated. “Probably a bit of both.”

Again, enough. Again, not enough for them. Somebody else jumped in. “She’s gotten a lot of positive attention lately. Do you think being around the team environment, being around you, has had a good influence?”

That was the one. He’s heard uglier. Heard meaner. But there was something about the phrasing that rubbed him the wrong way. Too certain that you needed influence. Too certain that whatever progress people were seeing had to belong to the presence of a man, a team, a system, something outside of you. His first instinct was the one he trusted most. Lock it down. Keep it close to the chest. Say nothing. Give them nothing. Let it stay what it was between the two of you, which was not really dating and not really fake anymore either, but certainly not theirs.

Except that wasn’t the reality of this setup, was it? This whole thing existed because it was supposed to be seen. Because your names in the same sentence were meant to do something in public. He couldn’t suddenly pretend privacy was the goal when publicity had built the house.

So he answered. “She’s talented,” he said. “And she works hard. I think people forget that.”

A couple of pens moved faster. Cameras stayed trained on him. He could feel them lean.

The first reporter pounced again. “What do you admire most about her?”

That should have annoyed him. It did, a little. But now that he’d opened the door even that much, shutting it completely would only make more noise. Sidney glanced down for half a second, then back up.

“She’s been doing this since she was a kid,” he said. “I think people make a lot of assumptions without understanding what that’s actually like. She handles more than people give her credit for.”

That was probably already too much. He knew it while he was saying it. And sure enough, another voice came right in after.

“So you feel protective of her?”

That one did piss him off. “I think I respect her,” he said. “That’s what I said.”

Somebody tried another question but he was already stepping away. He headed back to his stall and was met with noise. Teammates chirping him. Group chats lighting up. Probably his agent too, already deciding whether that had been a good soundbite or too much.

He ignored all of it. What got him was when you texted.

You: You didn’t have to do that.

Sid: Had to say something.

Sid: They were being assholes.

You: They usually are.

That night when he got home, you were sprawled on the couch in the main house with your legs thrown over one armrest, some movie on mute, an open bottle of sparkling water on the coffee table and your phone face-down beside it. No alcohol in sight, which a few months ago would have made him feel disproportionately relieved. Now it just felt like one detail among many.

You looked over when he came in.

“I meant it,” he said, before he’d even fully taken off his coat.

Your eyebrows lifted. “Jesus. Hi to you too.”

He huffed out a laugh despite himself, dropping his keys into the bowl by the door. “Hi.”

You pushed yourself up a little, making room for him on the couch though there was plenty already. He sat down, elbows on his knees for a second before leaning back. “I still meant it.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean it. All of it.”

“You don’t have to do stuff like that.”

He frowned. “Do what?”

“Talk about me like…” You made a vague little motion with one hand. “Like that.”

He studied your profile. “Like what?”

You let out a breath, annoyed already. “Like I’m worth defending, I guess.”

He leaned back harder into the couch cushion, one arm stretching along the back of it behind you, not quite touching. “You are.”

Your mouth twitched, humorless. “That’s sweet.”

“I’m not being sweet.”

“No,” you said, glancing at him now. “You’re being very… Sidney.”

He would’ve argued that if he knew what the hell it meant. Instead he said, “They asked, I answered.”

“You answered like you know me.”

He held your eyes. “I do know you.”

Then, because you were you, you ruined the moment on purpose. “That’s probably your first mistake,” you muttered.

He laughed. “Yeah? You warning me?”

“I’m trying to be responsible.”

“You?”

You looked offended. “Fuck you.”

“There she is.”

Later, after dinner, after you’d made fun of the way he folded dish towels and he’d retaliated by mocking the bizarre contents of your purse, the two of you ended up in the bathroom upstairs with him standing at the sink and you in front of the mirror. It started as a joke. He’d said something about the way press worked, how there were tricks to it. You’d rolled your eyes and said, “Yeah, okay, Captain Media, enlighten me.”

And because he was half amused and half too serious by nature, he actually did. He stood beside you, watching you in the mirror while you leaned against the counter.

“It’s not complicated,” he said. “It just takes practice.”

“You’re literally talking to someone who’s been on camera since diapers.”

“That’s different.”

You looked at him in the mirror. “How?”

He thought about that. “When I get shit,” he said slowly, “it’s usually about how I played. What I did on the ice. Bad game, good game, whatever. It’s still criticism, but it’s about performance. They’re asking me about hockey.”

You were quiet. He went on. “With you…” He hesitated, then said it anyway. “They ask like you’re the problem. Not what you did. So you need scripts,” he said.

You actually laughed at that. “Oh my God.”

“I’m serious.”

“Of course you are.”

He ignored your tone. “If somebody asks something loaded, don’t answer the loaded part. Pick the safe part.”

You turned to face him now, crossing your arms. “Demonstrate, coach.”

He pointed the comb at you. “Okay. Somebody asks, ‘How are you handling all the concern around your behavior lately?’”

You groaned immediately. “I’d tell them to eat glass.”

“Exactly. Don’t do that.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“You say, ‘I’m focused on work right now, and I’m grateful for the support.’”

Your face went flat. “That sounds like a hostage statement.”

“It sounds boring.”

“Same thing.”

“Boring is good.”

“Fine. Again.”

So he did. Again and again. He walked you through dodges. Through redirects. Through the smile you gave when you wanted to acknowledge a question without encouraging a follow-up. Through the laugh that lightened the room without inviting more. Through when to say no comment and when to say, “I’m not getting into that,” and when to make it sound softer than you felt.

You copied him at first in an exaggerated voice that made him roll his eyes. Then you started trying. He could see it happen, the change from mockery into concentration. He stood behind you once while you faced the mirror and practiced that camera-ready smile, the one that needed to look warm but not fake, easy but not eager. You hated it.

“I look insane.”

“You look fine.”

“I look like I’m about to endorse toothpaste.”

He laughed. “Try again.”

You did.

“Less teeth,” he said.

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’m helping you.”

“You’re ruining my life.”

“Keep your chin down a bit.”

You adjusted.

“Don’t overthink it.”

“That’s impossible.”

He moved closer without really thinking about it, just enough to catch your eyes in the mirror. “Hey,” he said. “It’s not about making them like you.”

You looked at him.

“It’s about giving them less to use against you.”

“Those aren’t the same thing,” you said quietly.

He shook his head. “No.”

You held his gaze in the mirror for a second longer than usual. Then you looked down and reached for the lip balm by the sink, twisting it open just to have something to do with your hands.

That became your thing. Little media rehearsals in odd corners of the house. In the kitchen while he cooked. In the car on the way somewhere. In the entryway while you were half dressed for some event and irritated with the shoes you’d been talked into wearing. He’d throw out a question. You’d answer badly on purpose. He’d correct you. You’d call him bossy. He’d tell you to stay on message. You’d tell him his message sucked. And somehow it became fun.

Once, at the breakfast table, he asked, “How do you respond if they ask whether Pittsburgh’s changed you?”

You took a sip of coffee and said, “I say the steel city gave me a rash.”

He nearly choked on his orange juice.

Another time he asked, “What if someone brings up an old article?”

You didn’t even look up from the toast you were buttering. “I say, ‘Which one? There were so fucking many.’”

He put his face in his hands. But even while he was teaching you the mechanics, even while he was trying to armor you up with the only tools he really trusted, he was beginning to understand the limit of what he was doing. When people came for him, it was about the job. The power play. The loss. The captaincy. The slump.

When they came for you, it was about whether you were a mess, whether you were lovable, whether you were too much, too little, too sexy, too mean, too drunk, too thin-skinned, too cold, too alive in ways that made people uncomfortable.

They judged his performance. They judged your personhood. And that was a difference bigger than he could solve. 

He realized it one afternoon after one of your practice runs. You’d just finished answering some pretend red carpet question in front of the mirror. Then, the second you were done, the smile fell right off your face. Gone. Like a light switched off.

You caught his eyes in the mirror and said, very quietly, “You get that this only works if they already want to let me live, right?”

Sidney leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms folding. “They don’t have to want to let you live,” he said after a second. “They just have to get bored.”

You stared at him. “That is such a hockey player answer.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You turned fully then, crossing your arms over your chest. “You really think if I keep my smile nice and my answers short enough, they’ll just move on?”

He didn’t answer right away. Because the truth was, part of him did believe that. Or wanted to. Wanted to believe routine and strategy and patience could blunt anything if you applied them hard enough. But another part of him had eyes. He’d seen the way people looked at you before they even spoke. The way some interviews were made to be like traps from the first second. The way even compliments got turned into little humiliations when they wanted them to.

So he pushed off the frame and walked closer. “I think,” he said carefully, “it gives you a better shot.”

You held his gaze. Then, after a moment, your shoulders dropped a little. “Okay,” you said.

Not convinced. Still, the next day you practiced again. And the next.

Because for all the shit you talked, for all the sarcasm and eye-rolling and muttered fuck this under your breath, you did try. You stood there with him and learned. His defensive little tricks. The ways he’d been keeping reporters from getting too close to anything real since he was barely out of high school himself.

He gave you his tools because he didn’t know what else to give. And for a while, under the kinder headlines and the approving calls from agents and the weirdly positive attention surrounding the two of you, it almost felt like enough.

Almost.

...

The cherry lollipop is already starting to feel insufficient.

You're curled into Arber's side on the couch, the bright red candy clicking softly against your teeth with each nervous suck. The movie is playing, but you're not really watching it. Your focus is entirely on the restless energy building beneath your skin, the familiar ache that demands something more substantial, something more grounding than sugar.

Arber shifts beside you, his arm tightening around your shoulders. He doesn't need to ask, he can feel the subtle tension in your body and the way you're squirming just slightly.

"Not enough?" he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear.

You hum a negative sound around the lollipop, leaning your head back against his chest. He chuckles softly. Without another word, he gently takes your hand, his large fingers wrapping around yours as he guides the lollipop from your mouth and sets it on a napkin on the coffee table.

The loss is immediate, a small whine escaping your throat before you can stop it.

"Shh, I've got you," he says, his voice impossibly gentle. He brings his own hand up to your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "Open up for me."

You do, parting your lips without hesitation. He carefully presses his index finger into your mouth and the relief is instantaneous, a wave of calm washing over you.

His finger is warm and solid, a grounding presence. The texture is infinitely better than the smooth candy. You can feel the faint ridges of his fingerprint, the rough callus from his hockey glove and taste the slight saltiness of his skin. It's real, it's solid, it's him.

You close your eyes, letting your tongue explore the shape of him. You trace the line of his nail, the firm pad of his fingertip. Your lips seal around the base of his finger, creating a gentle suction as you begin to suck, a slow, rhythmic motion that soothes the last of the restless energy from your system.

This is what you needed. Not the distraction of sugar, but him.

Arber makes a soft sound of contentment, his free hand moving to stroke your hair, his fingers combing through the strands. "That's it," he whispers, his breath warm against your temple. "Just like that. You're doing so good. Just relax for me."

You do, melting further into his embrace. You can feel the slight pulse in his fingertip, a steady rhythm that matches your own slowing heartbeat.

You suck a little harder, your tongue pressing against the underside of his finger and you feel his chest expand with a deep breath.

After a few minutes, you can feel the need shifting, needing more fullness. You make a small noise, a gentle plea and he understands immediately.

He carefully adds his middle finger alongside the first and the sensation is perfect. The stretch is slight but satisfying, the fuller presence is exactly what your body was craving.

"Better?" he asks, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, your eyes still closed as you suck gently, then a little harder, your tongue swirling around the digits. The calluses on his palm brush against your chin, a rough contrast to the smooth skin of his fingers.

It's a sensory experience that grounds you completely, pushing out all other thoughts until there's only the taste of him and the weight of his fingers in your mouth.

Time seems to slow, the minutes stretching into a comfortable haze. You're dimly aware of the movie still playing, of the fading light outside, but none of it matters. All that matters is the solid presence of Arber beside you, the way he's holding you and the way he's letting you use his fingers to soothe the restless part of your soul.

Eventually, you feel the last of the tension drain away, replaced by a deep, boneless contentment. Your sucking slows, becoming gentler, more about comfort than need.

Arber seems to sense the change too. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin. "Good?" he whispers.

You hum a positive sound, your eyes fluttering open to look up at him. His expression is soft, full of affection and understanding.

"You're so good to me," you murmur, your voice slightly muffled by his fingers still in your mouth.

The first thing you learned about Roman was that he hated asking for help.

The second was that he desperately needed it.

He stood in the entrance of his Nashville home with one hand wrapped around a coffee mug that had probably gone cold hours ago. His tie was crooked, dark circles shadowed his eyes, and a faint smear of something—peanut butter, perhaps—marked the sleeve of his white dress shirt.

Behind him, chaos unfolded “Papa, Liv stole my dinosaur!”

“I didn’t steal it! He left it!”

“It was sleeping!”

Roman closed his eyes for half a second, you pretended not to notice.

His oldest, five-year-old Leo, appeared around the corner wearing one shoe, a Nashville Predators jersey, and an expression of complete betrayal. His younger sister, three and a half-year-old Olivia, followed him with the disputed dinosaur tucked protectively beneath her arm.

Roman looked between them and then back at you “I should probably warn you that mornings are not normally this bad.”

A loud crash came from the kitchen, Roman winced “They’re usually worse.”

You couldn’t stop the quiet laugh that escaped you. His shoulders relaxed slightly, as though your reaction had given him permission to breathe.

The agency had told you the basics before arranging the interview.

Roman was a professional hockey player. He had two young children. His wife had passed away from cancer almost two years earlier. He needed someone who could work around a demanding and unpredictable schedule, travel occasionally, and understand that the children were still grieving.

What they hadn’t told you was how grief seemed to live inside the house, it wasn’t obvious at first.

There were toys scattered across the floor, colorful drawings covering the refrigerator, and school pictures displayed proudly along the hallway. Olivia’s tiny shoes had been abandoned near the staircase, and Leo’s hockey bag sat open beside the front door.

It looked like a normal family home.

But there were also photographs of a beautiful woman everywhere.

She was laughing beside Roman at their wedding. Holding a newborn Leo against her chest. Sitting in a hospital bed with Olivia curled beside her, both of them wearing matching headscarves. Kissing Roman beneath a Christmas tree.

She had not been erased.

You respected him for that immediately.

Roman set his mug down and lowered himself in front of his children “Guys, this is Y/N. She might be helping us while I’m at practice and when I have games.”

Olivia studied you suspiciously “Are you replacing Mama?”

The question landed heavily in the room, Roman’s expression crumbled for only a moment before he carefully controlled it “No, sweetheart.”

You crouched so you were closer to her height “No one could replace your mama,” you said softly. “I’d only be here to help your dad and spend time with you.”

Olivia hugged the dinosaur closer “Do you know how to braid hair?”

“Three different kinds.”

Her eyes widened,

Leo remained less impressed “Do you know anything about hockey?”

“A little.”

“My papa is the captain.”

“I heard something about that.”

“He’s really good.” Roman rubbed the back of his neck, visibly embarrassed, you looked at Leo solemnly

“I’ll have to watch him play before I decide.”

For the first time, the boy smiled, Roman hired you that afternoon.

—

Your first weeks in the Josi household were mostly about learning its rhythm.

Leo woke up early but refused to get dressed until after breakfast. Olivia wanted her sandwiches cut into stars, except on Thursdays, when she preferred hearts. Roman made coffee strong enough to resurrect the dead and forgot to drink it almost every morning.

He tried to prepare everything before leaving for practice, even though that was supposed to be your responsibility.

Lunches packed. Backpacks checked. Laundry started. Emergency phone numbers left on the counter despite the fact that they were already saved in your phone.

“I can handle it,” you reminded him one morning as he rushed around the kitchen.

“I know.”