"It was an impulse buy," you say. "You should keep it, actually. I never wear it, and it looks nice on you."

Lily's smile takes on a different quality. One you've seen before, and are too afraid to investigate. "Thanks. Do you want any help there?"

You lower your hand, frowning at the overlarge bump of eyeliner in the middle of your lash line. "I'm useless without Marlene."

"Aren't we all," Lily agrees. She comes to join you in the bathroom. "But I think sometimes it's easier when you're not working on yourself. Can I?"

You turn, passing her the pencil. Lily wets a cloth and takes her face in her hand to hold you still while she cleans off the mess you've made.

"It always looks like I've hardly done anything," you say with your eyes closed, "so I add a bit more, and then I look insane."

"You don't," she chides softly, though there's a smile in her voice. "You look gorgeous, it's just that you can only see the problems. And like I said, it's easier when someone else does this for you."

"Because you have a steadier hand?"

"No." She hardly has to murmur for you to hear, and you're struck, rather abruptly, with the epiphany of how close Lily is to you. Marlene does your eyeliner for you nearly every time you go out, but it's never felt like this. "Perspective."

Lily sweeps the dry side of the cloth across your lid, creating a fresh palate, before setting it down. You open your eyes, catching only a glimpse of her before she cups your face again, liner in hand, and gestures for you to close them.

Your body has caught onto what's happening now, though. Your every nerve thrums with awareness. You feel the brush of faux fur against your leg as she steps closer. The graze of her knuckle as she draws the pencil gently across your lash line. The (perhaps imagined) warmth of her closeness. Your heart flutters in your throat.

"If you wanted," you say, using the opportunity of your closed eyes to muster a bit of courage, "we could just stay here. Then you could go home after two, and Mary would be happy with you."

A pause. "Actually, I wouldn't mind dancing for a while," says Lily. Her hold shifts as she moves to your other eye. "I liked your first idea, though. Maybe we stay for a little while, and then when we're sick of it, come back here for the night."

Her thumb brushes beside your eye, correcting something, and your breath catches. Lily's touch lifts.

"Would that be okay?" she asks.

You blink your eyes open. This close, you can see the flush risen beneath her freckles that you couldn't when she was in your bedroom. You think Lily has to know she's beautiful, but sometimes you wonder if she knows the extent of it. You feel confident that even if she did—if she understood her power to stop hearts, to derail trains of thought and upset swarms of stomach butterflies—she'd only use it for good. That's just who Lily is.

"Yeah," you reply. "That sounds perfect."

"Great." She smiles and brushes a thumb under the corner of your eye again. "Well, done. You look really pretty."

"Thanks to you."

“I looked there already.”

“You very clearly didn’t,” you laugh.

He squints at the tie like it personally offended him before grabbing it. “Okay, well. In my defense—”

“You really don’t have one for this.”

“I was gonna say I’m tired.”

“You slept for twelve hours last night.”

He rolls his eyes and jokingly says, “It’s hard being me.”

You snort softly and go back to fixing your earrings while he disappears back into the bedroom.

Tonight is the wedding of Tyler Toffoli and Cat Toffoli, well technically a vow renewal mixed with an outrageously fancy anniversary party with family and friends, but everyone’s been calling it “the wedding” anyway.

The entire Sharks team got invited, which means Macklin has spent the last three days pretending not to care about this event while somehow asking you seventeen separate questions about what you’re wearing, if you're excited, what you think it will be like, etc.

A knock sounds against the bathroom doorframe, breaking you out of your thoughts, “Can you help me?”

You look up immediately, “With what?”

“My tie,” he says sheepishly. 

You smile to yourself. Of course.

When you walk into the bedroom, he stops in front of the mirror on the back of the door, in his dress pants and a white button-down, the tie hanging untied around his neck, while he looks mildly irritated about the entire situation.

Your expression softens a little involuntarily, he looks unfairly good, even if he doesn’t necessarily look put together. 

“What?” he asks immediately, catching you staring through the mirror.

“Nothing,” you quickly answer. 

“That’s a lie.”

“You clean up nice,” you admit.

The corners of his mouth lift instantly. “Yeah?”

“Don’t let it get to your head, handsome.”

He grins, “Too late.”

You roll your eyes fondly and step closer, putting your hand on his shoulder and pushing a little so he turns to face you. Once he’s turned around you fingers automatically reach for the tie around his neck, and the second you move into his space, his hands settle at your waist.

Always touching. It’s become his biggest habit, and you can’t really complain, it’s nice having that sense of knowing he’s always there.

“You know,” he says casually while watching your hands work, “I should probably learn how to do this myself eventually.”

“You say that before every formal event, and I always agree with you.”

“And yet here you are,” he retorts. 

“Macklin.”

He defends himself immediately, “I’m just saying maybe I like when you do it.”

Your chest warms stupidly at him saying that. You tighten the tie properly before smoothing the collar of his shirt down afterward, “There.”

He looks down at you instead of turning to the mirror again, “Perfect.”

You furrow your brows and a small smile creeps onto your face, “You didn’t even check.”

“Don’t need to,” he exhales shortly. 

You stare at him for half a second before laughing softly and patting lightly at his chest, “You’re ridiculous.”

He hums, his eyes not leaving your face. You start to move away to finish getting ready yourself, but before you can, his fingers hook gently into your wrist.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Turn around.”

You blink at him before slowly turning to face the mirror.

“Oh,” he says quietly behind you.

Your dress is deep blue, silky fabric falling smoothly down your body with an open back that dips lower than anything you’d normally wear. You’d struggled with the ties at the nape of your neck for almost ten minutes before tying them halfway decent, and telling yourself it was something to worry about later. 

Macklin’s hands settle lightly near the dip of your back for a second, his knuckles brushing up and down your skin lightly, “You need help?”

You nod, “Please.”

His fingers skim carefully against your neck as he takes the ties between his fingers, slowly figuring out the best way to secure them while making them look nice.

His movements are incredibly gentle and unhurried, and you feel his fingertips graze your skin once he figures it out. Your breath catches slightly at the touch of his skin on yours. When he's done, the front of the dress finally looks right and feels secure.

“You look…” he starts quietly, before you can thank him for helping you.

You glance back over your shoulder. “What?” you ask softly.

He just shakes his head once while your eyes meet his in the mirror, like he can’t figure out the right wording.

“Beautiful. You’re beautiful."

The sincerity in his voice hits harder than the compliment itself, and your expression softens instantly, “Thank you.”

His eyes meet yours in the mirror then, warm and impossibly tender. For a second neither of you move.

Then Macklin clears his throat lightly and pats your waist once. “Okay,” he says, “If we leave now we’ll only be fashionably late instead of offensively late.”

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The “wedding” is beautiful, insanely beautiful. 

String lights glow overhead, tables are lit by candlelight, and soft music drifts across the outdoor reception space while the California sunset melts gold across everything.

You barely make it ten feet into the venue before Macklin gets pulled into conversations by teammates, coaches, friends, family of the Toffolis that have heard nothing but good things about him.

You don’t really mind though, you like watching him here. Suit jacket slung perfectly over broad shoulders, tie slightly loosened now because he kept messing with it on the drive over, smiling easily while talking to people. Like this is his element, just talking to and being around other people. 

Every once in a while he glances across the room just to make sure you’re still nearby, and every single time without fail, his eyes soften when he finds you. 

Dinner passes in a blur of laughter and champagne and stories from people at your table.

Sometime between courses, Macklin steals a bite of food directly off your plate without asking, which honestly shouldn’t surprise you anymore, considering he’s been doing that since you were teenagers.

You immediately narrow your eyes at him from across the candlelit table, “Did you just take my ravioli?”

He shrugs, still chewing.

“You literally have the exact same thing on your plate; you don't have to steal mine.”

“Yeah but yours looked better,” he argues.

You stare at him blankly while he grins and takes another bite before you can stop him. “That’s unbelievable actually,” you mutter, trying not to laugh.

“You still love me.”

You just swat at his hand as he tries to pick off another piece of food from your plate.

The people around the table are deep in conversation, something about old Sharks stories and hopes for a playoff run, but Macklin barely seems interested in any of it now that food’s been placed in front of him.

“You should try this,” he says suddenly, cutting a piece of steak before holding the fork toward you.

You blink at him. “First you're stealing my food and now you're giving me yours?”

“It's like a trade,” he says easily. “Just try it.”

You laugh softly under your breath but lean forward anyway, letting him feed you the bite while he watches your reaction way too expectantly. Your eyes widen slightly. “Okay wait, that’s actually incredible.”

“I told you.”

“Better than the ravioli. Can I have some?”

Macklin immediately slides half his plate toward you without hesitation, “Of course, take whatever you want.”

Your chest warms a little at how automatic it is for him, like he wants you to enjoy everything more than him.

Later, when dessert arrives, you end up too full to finish yours, but Macklin steals bites from your plate between conversations anyway.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mumble as he takes another forkful of your cake.

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I was going to, I was saving it.”

He laughs, “No you weren’t.”

You try to glare at him, but it completely falls apart when he reaches over to wipe a tiny smear of frosting from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The gesture is so casual and practiced, that it makes your stomach flip anyway.

“There,” he says softly, like he doesn’t even realize what he just did.

You stare at him for half a second too long. “What?” he asks immediately, catching your expression, thinking something is wrong.

“Nothing,” you answer quickly.

His eyes narrow slightly like he knows you’re lying, but before he can say anything, someone further down the table starts calling for everyone to head toward the dance floor.

Macklin glances toward the music starting up across the reception space before looking back at you again.

“You want to dance?” he asks from beside you.

You think about it briefly before answering, “Depends.”

“On?”

“How embarrassing you’ll make it.”

He mocks offense, “I’m a phenomenal dancer.”

You stare at him, your blank expression not faltering this time. 

He grins. “Okay that was a lie.”

A slower song starts playing then, and Macklin stands before you can even fully process it, “C’mon.”

You blink up at him. “Seriously?”

“Yes seriously.”

“You hate dancing.”

“I don’t hate dancing. Plus you like dancing, so come on.”

You open your mouth to argue again, but still, he holds his hand out expectantly until you finally laugh and take it. 

The second you step onto the dance floor,  his hands settle at your waist while yours loop loosely around his neck.

“You know,” you say lightly as you start swaying together, “our wedding would have better music than this.”

His eyebrows lift instantly, “Our wedding?”

You immediately laugh, “You know what I mean.”

“No no, keep going,” he insists. 

“You’re annoying,” you say, with no real annoyance in your voice whatsoever. 

He smiles thoughtfully, “I just think it’s interesting you jumped straight to our wedding specifically.”

You narrow your eyes while he grins smugly.

“I’m being serious though,” you continue. “This playlist is too safe.”

“What would you play then?”

You gasp dramatically, “Oh my god, you don’t know me at all.”

“I’m just asking!”

“You need songs people scream-sing to, like songs everyone knows and everyone likes.”

“At a wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Horrible take.”

You scoff, a somewhat offended look on your face, “It’s a fantastic take.”

He laughs softly under his breath while pulling you slightly closer, so your bodies are flush against one another. 

“What would you play then?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “Stuff people can actually dance to.”

“You just said you hate dancing.”

“I hate public dancing.”

“That’s exactly what dancing at a wedding is, especially if it’s your own wedding.”

He grins, and the conversation keeps light after that, all just jokes. Teasing about terrible wedding songs and which flower arrangements are the best, and whether or not he’d ever allow a cheesy photo booth at a wedding (he wouldn’t, and you agreed).

“You’d cry during your vows,” you tell him confidently.

“No I wouldn’t,” he tries to protest. 

“You absolutely would.”

“Well I think you’d cry first.”

“I definitely would cry first, I can’t argue with that.”

“See?” he teases. 

“But you’d still cry, especially if I was already crying.”

He hums thoughtfully like he’s genuinely considering it, “Maybe…probably.”

The music changes again to a different song, slower now. The dance floor dims slightly beneath softer lighting while conversations around you blur together.

Macklin’s hand slides absentmindedly against the small of your back, while he keeps his other firmly at your waist.

“You know what I’d want?” he asks quietly, the conversation becoming more intimate. 

“What?” you reply. 

“A really small wedding.”

You blink slightly, surprised by the sincerity in his tone now, “No huge thing?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “I mean…maybe enough for family and friends, but nothing insane.”

“I like that idea, I’d want a small wedding too.”

His expression softens a little, “What else would you want?” he asks.

You smile softly, “I think I’d want it somewhere warm.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Somewhere near water maybe, I think that would be nice.”

He nods slowly like he’s filing that information away somewhere important.

“And good food,” you continue seriously.

“That’s your priority?”

“Yes, absolutely. Bad food means a bad wedding because everyone would be in a bad mood.”

“That’s crazy,” He laughs again, forehead dipping briefly against yours while you sway together.

You don’t notice at first how the conversation slowly continues to change throughout the night. At some point the joking fades away completely, because suddenly you’re talking about first dances, and whether vows should be private before the ceremony or spoken publicly. About what it would be like with kids running around the reception and what honeymoon destinations are at the top of your list. 

Every answer comes easily, like you’ve both thought about it before, as if a part of each of you has quietly wondered what forever together would actually look like. 

The craziest part might be that neither of you seem scared by it, you're discussing it like you're excited.

Later, after dancing and dinner and speeches, your heels finally start killing you. They’ve actually been killing you almost all night but you’ve gotten good at ignoring it. You try not to complain about it, but Macklin notices the discomfort on your face. 

“You okay?” he asks immediately while you walk back toward your table and you sit down immediately.

“Fine,” you huff, immediately regretting it because there’s annoyance and upset laced in your tone. 

“You sure?” he asks. 

You sigh dramatically, “My feet hurt.”

“How bad?”

“Like maybe I’ll amputate them when we get back to the hotel.”

He snorts softly before immediately crouching beside your chair.

“Macklin.”

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Taking these shoes off your feet, “ he says as he immediately starts working on the delicate ties wrapped around your ankles from your heels.

His hands are warm against your skin, and his movements are slow and careful like he’s handling something fragile. The ribbon on your shoe has knotted more from hours of dancing, and he frowns softly in concentration while loosening it.

“You tied these too tight,” he murmurs.

You know better than to argue, because his stubbornness wouldn't let you, so you just let him do his thing. His eyes are still focused downward while his thumb brushes lightly against the inside of your ankle after finally undoing the knot. The red marks left behind from the ribbons make his expression soften immediately.

“Oh, baby.”

“It’s fine,” you mumble, suddenly embarrassed by how gentle he’s being about it.

“No, that looks like it hurts, does it hurt?”

“Just a little sore,” you admit, “It’ll be fine in a little while.” 

You watch him quietly as he slides the heel off your foot carefully, setting it on the floor next to him before he immediately moves to the other one.

There’s something about the way he does it that makes you realize how lucky you got with him. No teasing, no rushing, just complete attentiveness, like taking your shoes off to make sure you’re comfortable is suddenly his top priority.

The second heel comes free shortly after, and he lightly rubs his thumbs over the sore spots on the backs of your ankles.

You melt further into the chair you’re sitting in, “Oh,” you sigh.

He smiles softly, amused, “That better?”

“So much better.”

He keeps his hand around your ankle for another second longer than necessary before gently setting your feet back on the cold tile of the floor and standing up again, placing a kiss on your cheek as he does. 

Without a word, he slides your shoes underneath his own chair so nobody accidentally kicks them away. The gesture is so small and would be completely irrelevant to anyone else but for some reason your chest gets a little tight. 

“What?” he asks softly, catching your expression.

You smile faintly. “You’re just really good to me.”

His entire face changes at that, “Well,” he says quietly after a second. “Yeah.” He says it like it’s completely obvious, like there isn’t another option because to him you deserve nothing but the best, all the time. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

By the end of the night, you’re completely exhausted. The good kind. The kind that comes after you have a really good day, surrounded by people you care about, and the day after you get to do absolutely nothing except rest and think about how good this day was. 

You end up leaving the venue barefoot, your heels dangling from Macklin’s hand while his other hand stays firmly wrapped around yours. The night air hits you immediately and you shiver, it feels so cold compared to the warmth of the reception hall. 

Without even pausing, Macklin slips his suit jacket off his shoulders and drapes it around you carefully.

“Mack, you’ll be cold.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”

You try to argue again, but he’s already tugging the jacket more securely around your shoulders, smoothing the lapels down. It smells exactly like him. His cologne that you love, and laundry detergent from the dry cleaners. Of course there’s that something underneath it all that’s very distinctly him. 

“Better?” he asks quietly. You nod, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself, “Much. Thank you.”

He pulls you closer by the hand, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, “Anytime, baby.” 

The parking lot is farther than you remembered it being earlier, and the path cuts through a stretch of grass surrounding the venue. Macklin immediately slows his pace when he notices you looking down at the pavement.

“Careful,” he says softly, tightening his hold on your hand, “There’s rocks over here.”

He guides you carefully around a rough patch in the sidewalk, still carrying your shoes and his loosened tie thrown over his shoulder now.

“You know,” you mumble sleepily, leaning slightly into his arm as you walk, “this is very husband behavior of you.”

Macklin glances down at you immediately, lips twitching, “Oh yeah?”

You hum in response. 

He smiles, “You calling me your husband already?”

You smile lazily, “Maybe.”

He doesn’t say anything, but that might be his favorite thing you’ve ever said to him. 

The grass is cool beneath your feet when you step off the sidewalk, and Macklin immediately moves closer beside you.

“Wait,” he says quietly. Before you can ask what he’s doing, he gently pulls you toward the smoother path, his dress shoes already flattening the grass.

“Walk where I walk,” he murmurs.

Your heart stutters stupidly at the gesture.

The venue lights glow warmly behind you now, and the music is faint in the distance. Everything feels quieter out here, and much slower in contrast to the celebration you were just at.

You’re tired enough at this point in the night that you stop filtering your thoughts.

“I liked tonight,” you say softly.

Macklin looks over at you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile faintly, “It was just so happy.”

He grins, “Yeah it was.” 

You keep walking slowly across the grass, your body warm inside his jacket, and exhaustion is beginning to make you softer around the edges.

“Mack?”

“Hm?”

“If we ever get married,” you mumble sleepily, “I think it’ll be perfect.”

He smiles immediately. “Yeah?” 

“Yes.”

“I’ll be sure to make sure everything’s perfect for you,” he says softly. 

“Even if I say no country music at all?” 

At that, he gasps dramatically, “Okay, now we’re having our first fight.”

You grin tiredly up at him while he opens the car door for you.

“You love me,” you say. 

“I do,” he responds immediately.

Then, quieter as he helps you carefully into the seat so your bare feet don’t touch the pavement again, he says: “So much.”

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The car ride back to the hotel is almost silent, save for the sound of the heat running through the vents and the tires humming against the pavement. Your heels are abandoned somewhere on the floorboard while you sit curled sideways against the center console, feet tucked under you on your seat. 

Macklin’s suit jacket is now draped over your lap because you got colder halfway through the drive, and neither of you are really talking anymore; you’re too sleepy.

Your fingers lazily play with his while the city lights blur past outside the windows.

“Mack?” you mumble softly after a while.

“Hm?”

“Thank you for being so sweet to me.”

His hand tightens slightly around yours, “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“Okay...but thank you anyway.”

He laughs quietly under his breath, and glances down at you in the passenger seat. 

Your breathing has evened out and your face is completely relaxed, hand still in his. He realizes you’re asleep, and his eyes soften even more. 

When he comes to a red light, one of his hands comes up carefully to brush hair away from your face while you sleep, your head resting on your seat, tilted slightly towards him. 

Macklin steals glances at you the rest of the drive to the hotel. At your smudged makeup from the long night, your sleepy, relaxed look, the way you adjust your hand in his even while you’re asleep. At one point he shifts your hand, and brings it up to his lips to press a soft kiss against your knuckles, then another to the back of your hand.

And then the thought hits him so hard it almost startles him; I’m gonna marry her. He’s thought about it before, hypothetically. The two of you had been talking about it all night but nothing you said was ever that serious. He doesn’t think it in a vague distant way, now it’s more like a fact settling somewhere at the front of his mind, and he’s never been more sure about anything in his life.

requests are open ♡ Also, I've been wanting to expand who I write for lately, so if there’s anyone you’d like to see, lmk!! :)

“I looked there already.”

“You very clearly didn’t,” you laugh.

He squints at the tie like it personally offended him before grabbing it. “Okay, well. In my defense—”

“You really don’t have one for this.”

“I was gonna say I’m tired.”

“You slept for twelve hours last night.”

He rolls his eyes and jokingly says, “It’s hard being me.”

You snort softly and go back to fixing your earrings while he disappears back into the bedroom.

Tonight is the wedding of Tyler Toffoli and Cat Toffoli, well technically a vow renewal mixed with an outrageously fancy anniversary party with family and friends, but everyone’s been calling it “the wedding” anyway.

The entire Sharks team got invited, which means Macklin has spent the last three days pretending not to care about this event while somehow asking you seventeen separate questions about what you’re wearing, if you're excited, what you think it will be like, etc.

A knock sounds against the bathroom doorframe, breaking you out of your thoughts, “Can you help me?”

You look up immediately, “With what?”

“My tie,” he says sheepishly. 

You smile to yourself. Of course.

When you walk into the bedroom, he stops in front of the mirror on the back of the door, in his dress pants and a white button-down, the tie hanging untied around his neck, while he looks mildly irritated about the entire situation.

Your expression softens a little involuntarily, he looks unfairly good, even if he doesn’t necessarily look put together. 

“What?” he asks immediately, catching you staring through the mirror.

“Nothing,” you quickly answer. 

“That’s a lie.”

“You clean up nice,” you admit.

The corners of his mouth lift instantly. “Yeah?”

“Don’t let it get to your head, handsome.”

He grins, “Too late.”

You roll your eyes fondly and step closer, putting your hand on his shoulder and pushing a little so he turns to face you. Once he’s turned around you fingers automatically reach for the tie around his neck, and the second you move into his space, his hands settle at your waist.

Always touching. It’s become his biggest habit, and you can’t really complain, it’s nice having that sense of knowing he’s always there.

“You know,” he says casually while watching your hands work, “I should probably learn how to do this myself eventually.”

“You say that before every formal event, and I always agree with you.”

“And yet here you are,” he retorts. 

“Macklin.”

He defends himself immediately, “I’m just saying maybe I like when you do it.”

Your chest warms stupidly at him saying that. You tighten the tie properly before smoothing the collar of his shirt down afterward, “There.”

He looks down at you instead of turning to the mirror again, “Perfect.”

You furrow your brows and a small smile creeps onto your face, “You didn’t even check.”

“Don’t need to,” he exhales shortly. 

You stare at him for half a second before laughing softly and patting lightly at his chest, “You’re ridiculous.”

He hums, his eyes not leaving your face. You start to move away to finish getting ready yourself, but before you can, his fingers hook gently into your wrist.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Turn around.”

You blink at him before slowly turning to face the mirror.

“Oh,” he says quietly behind you.

Your dress is deep blue, silky fabric falling smoothly down your body with an open back that dips lower than anything you’d normally wear. You’d struggled with the ties at the nape of your neck for almost ten minutes before tying them halfway decent, and telling yourself it was something to worry about later. 

Macklin’s hands settle lightly near the dip of your back for a second, his knuckles brushing up and down your skin lightly, “You need help?”

You nod, “Please.”

His fingers skim carefully against your neck as he takes the ties between his fingers, slowly figuring out the best way to secure them while making them look nice.

His movements are incredibly gentle and unhurried, and you feel his fingertips graze your skin once he figures it out. Your breath catches slightly at the touch of his skin on yours. When he's done, the front of the dress finally looks right and feels secure.

“You look…” he starts quietly, before you can thank him for helping you.

You glance back over your shoulder. “What?” you ask softly.

He just shakes his head once while your eyes meet his in the mirror, like he can’t figure out the right wording.

“Beautiful. You’re beautiful."

The sincerity in his voice hits harder than the compliment itself, and your expression softens instantly, “Thank you.”

His eyes meet yours in the mirror then, warm and impossibly tender. For a second neither of you move.

Then Macklin clears his throat lightly and pats your waist once. “Okay,” he says, “If we leave now we’ll only be fashionably late instead of offensively late.”

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The “wedding” is beautiful, insanely beautiful. 

String lights glow overhead, tables are lit by candlelight, and soft music drifts across the outdoor reception space while the California sunset melts gold across everything.

You barely make it ten feet into the venue before Macklin gets pulled into conversations by teammates, coaches, friends, family of the Toffolis that have heard nothing but good things about him.

You don’t really mind though, you like watching him here. Suit jacket slung perfectly over broad shoulders, tie slightly loosened now because he kept messing with it on the drive over, smiling easily while talking to people. Like this is his element, just talking to and being around other people. 

Every once in a while he glances across the room just to make sure you’re still nearby, and every single time without fail, his eyes soften when he finds you. 

Dinner passes in a blur of laughter and champagne and stories from people at your table.

Sometime between courses, Macklin steals a bite of food directly off your plate without asking, which honestly shouldn’t surprise you anymore, considering he’s been doing that since you were teenagers.

You immediately narrow your eyes at him from across the candlelit table, “Did you just take my ravioli?”

He shrugs, still chewing.

“You literally have the exact same thing on your plate; you don't have to steal mine.”

“Yeah but yours looked better,” he argues.

You stare at him blankly while he grins and takes another bite before you can stop him. “That’s unbelievable actually,” you mutter, trying not to laugh.

“You still love me.”

You just swat at his hand as he tries to pick off another piece of food from your plate.

The people around the table are deep in conversation, something about old Sharks stories and hopes for a playoff run, but Macklin barely seems interested in any of it now that food’s been placed in front of him.

“You should try this,” he says suddenly, cutting a piece of steak before holding the fork toward you.

You blink at him. “First you're stealing my food and now you're giving me yours?”

“It's like a trade,” he says easily. “Just try it.”

You laugh softly under your breath but lean forward anyway, letting him feed you the bite while he watches your reaction way too expectantly. Your eyes widen slightly. “Okay wait, that’s actually incredible.”

“I told you.”

“Better than the ravioli. Can I have some?”

Macklin immediately slides half his plate toward you without hesitation, “Of course, take whatever you want.”

Your chest warms a little at how automatic it is for him, like he wants you to enjoy everything more than him.

Later, when dessert arrives, you end up too full to finish yours, but Macklin steals bites from your plate between conversations anyway.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mumble as he takes another forkful of your cake.

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I was going to, I was saving it.”

He laughs, “No you weren’t.”

You try to glare at him, but it completely falls apart when he reaches over to wipe a tiny smear of frosting from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The gesture is so casual and practiced, that it makes your stomach flip anyway.

“There,” he says softly, like he doesn’t even realize what he just did.

You stare at him for half a second too long. “What?” he asks immediately, catching your expression, thinking something is wrong.

“Nothing,” you answer quickly.

His eyes narrow slightly like he knows you’re lying, but before he can say anything, someone further down the table starts calling for everyone to head toward the dance floor.

Macklin glances toward the music starting up across the reception space before looking back at you again.

“You want to dance?” he asks from beside you.

You think about it briefly before answering, “Depends.”

“On?”

“How embarrassing you’ll make it.”

He mocks offense, “I’m a phenomenal dancer.”

You stare at him, your blank expression not faltering this time. 

He grins. “Okay that was a lie.”

A slower song starts playing then, and Macklin stands before you can even fully process it, “C’mon.”

You blink up at him. “Seriously?”

“Yes seriously.”

“You hate dancing.”

“I don’t hate dancing. Plus you like dancing, so come on.”

You open your mouth to argue again, but still, he holds his hand out expectantly until you finally laugh and take it. 

The second you step onto the dance floor,  his hands settle at your waist while yours loop loosely around his neck.

“You know,” you say lightly as you start swaying together, “our wedding would have better music than this.”

His eyebrows lift instantly, “Our wedding?”

You immediately laugh, “You know what I mean.”

“No no, keep going,” he insists. 

“You’re annoying,” you say, with no real annoyance in your voice whatsoever. 

He smiles thoughtfully, “I just think it’s interesting you jumped straight to our wedding specifically.”

You narrow your eyes while he grins smugly.

“I’m being serious though,” you continue. “This playlist is too safe.”

“What would you play then?”

You gasp dramatically, “Oh my god, you don’t know me at all.”

“I’m just asking!”

“You need songs people scream-sing to, like songs everyone knows and everyone likes.”

“At a wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Horrible take.”

You scoff, a somewhat offended look on your face, “It’s a fantastic take.”

He laughs softly under his breath while pulling you slightly closer, so your bodies are flush against one another. 

“What would you play then?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “Stuff people can actually dance to.”

“You just said you hate dancing.”

“I hate public dancing.”

“That’s exactly what dancing at a wedding is, especially if it’s your own wedding.”

He grins, and the conversation keeps light after that, all just jokes. Teasing about terrible wedding songs and which flower arrangements are the best, and whether or not he’d ever allow a cheesy photo booth at a wedding (he wouldn’t, and you agreed).

“You’d cry during your vows,” you tell him confidently.

“No I wouldn’t,” he tries to protest. 

“You absolutely would.”

“Well I think you’d cry first.”

“I definitely would cry first, I can’t argue with that.”

“See?” he teases. 

“But you’d still cry, especially if I was already crying.”

He hums thoughtfully like he’s genuinely considering it, “Maybe…probably.”

The music changes again to a different song, slower now. The dance floor dims slightly beneath softer lighting while conversations around you blur together.

Macklin’s hand slides absentmindedly against the small of your back, while he keeps his other firmly at your waist.

“You know what I’d want?” he asks quietly, the conversation becoming more intimate. 

“What?” you reply. 

“A really small wedding.”

You blink slightly, surprised by the sincerity in his tone now, “No huge thing?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “I mean…maybe enough for family and friends, but nothing insane.”

“I like that idea, I’d want a small wedding too.”

His expression softens a little, “What else would you want?” he asks.

You smile softly, “I think I’d want it somewhere warm.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Somewhere near water maybe, I think that would be nice.”

He nods slowly like he’s filing that information away somewhere important.

“And good food,” you continue seriously.

“That’s your priority?”

“Yes, absolutely. Bad food means a bad wedding because everyone would be in a bad mood.”

“That’s crazy,” He laughs again, forehead dipping briefly against yours while you sway together.

You don’t notice at first how the conversation slowly continues to change throughout the night. At some point the joking fades away completely, because suddenly you’re talking about first dances, and whether vows should be private before the ceremony or spoken publicly. About what it would be like with kids running around the reception and what honeymoon destinations are at the top of your list. 

Every answer comes easily, like you’ve both thought about it before, as if a part of each of you has quietly wondered what forever together would actually look like. 

The craziest part might be that neither of you seem scared by it, you're discussing it like you're excited.

Later, after dancing and dinner and speeches, your heels finally start killing you. They’ve actually been killing you almost all night but you’ve gotten good at ignoring it. You try not to complain about it, but Macklin notices the discomfort on your face. 

“You okay?” he asks immediately while you walk back toward your table and you sit down immediately.

“Fine,” you huff, immediately regretting it because there’s annoyance and upset laced in your tone. 

“You sure?” he asks. 

You sigh dramatically, “My feet hurt.”

“How bad?”

“Like maybe I’ll amputate them when we get back to the hotel.”

He snorts softly before immediately crouching beside your chair.

“Macklin.”

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Taking these shoes off your feet, “ he says as he immediately starts working on the delicate ties wrapped around your ankles from your heels.

His hands are warm against your skin, and his movements are slow and careful like he’s handling something fragile. The ribbon on your shoe has knotted more from hours of dancing, and he frowns softly in concentration while loosening it.

“You tied these too tight,” he murmurs.

You know better than to argue, because his stubbornness wouldn't let you, so you just let him do his thing. His eyes are still focused downward while his thumb brushes lightly against the inside of your ankle after finally undoing the knot. The red marks left behind from the ribbons make his expression soften immediately.

“Oh, baby.”

“It’s fine,” you mumble, suddenly embarrassed by how gentle he’s being about it.

“No, that looks like it hurts, does it hurt?”

“Just a little sore,” you admit, “It’ll be fine in a little while.” 

You watch him quietly as he slides the heel off your foot carefully, setting it on the floor next to him before he immediately moves to the other one.

There’s something about the way he does it that makes you realize how lucky you got with him. No teasing, no rushing, just complete attentiveness, like taking your shoes off to make sure you’re comfortable is suddenly his top priority.

The second heel comes free shortly after, and he lightly rubs his thumbs over the sore spots on the backs of your ankles.

You melt further into the chair you’re sitting in, “Oh,” you sigh.

He smiles softly, amused, “That better?”

“So much better.”

He keeps his hand around your ankle for another second longer than necessary before gently setting your feet back on the cold tile of the floor and standing up again, placing a kiss on your cheek as he does. 

Without a word, he slides your shoes underneath his own chair so nobody accidentally kicks them away. The gesture is so small and would be completely irrelevant to anyone else but for some reason your chest gets a little tight. 

“What?” he asks softly, catching your expression.

You smile faintly. “You’re just really good to me.”

His entire face changes at that, “Well,” he says quietly after a second. “Yeah.” He says it like it’s completely obvious, like there isn’t another option because to him you deserve nothing but the best, all the time. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

By the end of the night, you’re completely exhausted. The good kind. The kind that comes after you have a really good day, surrounded by people you care about, and the day after you get to do absolutely nothing except rest and think about how good this day was. 

You end up leaving the venue barefoot, your heels dangling from Macklin’s hand while his other hand stays firmly wrapped around yours. The night air hits you immediately and you shiver, it feels so cold compared to the warmth of the reception hall. 

Without even pausing, Macklin slips his suit jacket off his shoulders and drapes it around you carefully.

“Mack, you’ll be cold.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”

You try to argue again, but he’s already tugging the jacket more securely around your shoulders, smoothing the lapels down. It smells exactly like him. His cologne that you love, and laundry detergent from the dry cleaners. Of course there’s that something underneath it all that’s very distinctly him. 

“Better?” he asks quietly. You nod, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself, “Much. Thank you.”

He pulls you closer by the hand, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, “Anytime, baby.” 

The parking lot is farther than you remembered it being earlier, and the path cuts through a stretch of grass surrounding the venue. Macklin immediately slows his pace when he notices you looking down at the pavement.

“Careful,” he says softly, tightening his hold on your hand, “There’s rocks over here.”

He guides you carefully around a rough patch in the sidewalk, still carrying your shoes and his loosened tie thrown over his shoulder now.

“You know,” you mumble sleepily, leaning slightly into his arm as you walk, “this is very husband behavior of you.”

Macklin glances down at you immediately, lips twitching, “Oh yeah?”

You hum in response. 

He smiles, “You calling me your husband already?”

You smile lazily, “Maybe.”

He doesn’t say anything, but that might be his favorite thing you’ve ever said to him. 

The grass is cool beneath your feet when you step off the sidewalk, and Macklin immediately moves closer beside you.

“Wait,” he says quietly. Before you can ask what he’s doing, he gently pulls you toward the smoother path, his dress shoes already flattening the grass.

“Walk where I walk,” he murmurs.

Your heart stutters stupidly at the gesture.

The venue lights glow warmly behind you now, and the music is faint in the distance. Everything feels quieter out here, and much slower in contrast to the celebration you were just at.

You’re tired enough at this point in the night that you stop filtering your thoughts.

“I liked tonight,” you say softly.

Macklin looks over at you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile faintly, “It was just so happy.”

He grins, “Yeah it was.” 

You keep walking slowly across the grass, your body warm inside his jacket, and exhaustion is beginning to make you softer around the edges.

“Mack?”

“Hm?”

“If we ever get married,” you mumble sleepily, “I think it’ll be perfect.”

He smiles immediately. “Yeah?” 

“Yes.”

“I’ll be sure to make sure everything’s perfect for you,” he says softly. 

“Even if I say no country music at all?” 

At that, he gasps dramatically, “Okay, now we’re having our first fight.”

You grin tiredly up at him while he opens the car door for you.

“You love me,” you say. 

“I do,” he responds immediately.

Then, quieter as he helps you carefully into the seat so your bare feet don’t touch the pavement again, he says: “So much.”

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The car ride back to the hotel is almost silent, save for the sound of the heat running through the vents and the tires humming against the pavement. Your heels are abandoned somewhere on the floorboard while you sit curled sideways against the center console, feet tucked under you on your seat. 

Macklin’s suit jacket is now draped over your lap because you got colder halfway through the drive, and neither of you are really talking anymore; you’re too sleepy.

Your fingers lazily play with his while the city lights blur past outside the windows.

“Mack?” you mumble softly after a while.

“Hm?”

“Thank you for being so sweet to me.”

His hand tightens slightly around yours, “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“Okay...but thank you anyway.”

He laughs quietly under his breath, and glances down at you in the passenger seat. 

Your breathing has evened out and your face is completely relaxed, hand still in his. He realizes you’re asleep, and his eyes soften even more. 

When he comes to a red light, one of his hands comes up carefully to brush hair away from your face while you sleep, your head resting on your seat, tilted slightly towards him. 

Macklin steals glances at you the rest of the drive to the hotel. At your smudged makeup from the long night, your sleepy, relaxed look, the way you adjust your hand in his even while you’re asleep. At one point he shifts your hand, and brings it up to his lips to press a soft kiss against your knuckles, then another to the back of your hand.

And then the thought hits him so hard it almost startles him; I’m gonna marry her. He’s thought about it before, hypothetically. The two of you had been talking about it all night but nothing you said was ever that serious. He doesn’t think it in a vague distant way, now it’s more like a fact settling somewhere at the front of his mind, and he’s never been more sure about anything in his life.

requests are open ♡ Also, I've been wanting to expand who I write for lately, so if there’s anyone you’d like to see, lmk!! :)

The first sign that something is wrong is the silence.

Not the peaceful, domestic kind you get on a slow Monaco morning — the kind where the sea hums against the rocks and Charles pads around the apartment humming whatever tune is stuck in his head. No, this is the charged silence. The kind that means your boyfriend is thinking very hard about something, and that something is probably stupid.

You find him on the sofa, arms crossed, jaw set, staring at his phone like it personally offended him.

“Hi, love,” you say, leaning down to kiss his cheek.

He doesn’t move. Not even a twitch.

Oh. He’s really in it.

You slide onto the sofa beside him. “Okay. What’s wrong.”

“Nothing,” he says, in the tone of a man who is absolutely lying.

You raise a brow. “Charles.”

He exhales through his nose, still refusing to look at you. “I am fine.”

“Charles.”

A beat. Then, with the most tragic sigh you’ve ever heard:

“I saw something.”

You try not to smile. “Something like…?”

He finally turns the phone toward you, and there it is — a TikTok edit of you and your co-star from your latest film. A montage of behind-the-scenes clips, red carpet moments, and a shot of him lifting you during a stunt rehearsal. The comments are full of ship names and heart emojis.

But that’s not what makes Charles’ jaw clench.

It’s the audio.

Your song.

The one you and Charles claimed after a road trip two years ago. The one he plays every time he picks you up from the airport. The one he hums when he’s cooking. The one he swears is “ours and only ours.”

“Oh,” you say softly. “They used—”

“Yes,” he snaps, offended on a spiritual level. “Our song.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Baby—”

“And the comments,” he continues, scrolling aggressively. “Look. Look at this. ‘They have better chemistry than any real couple.’ Better chemistry than any real couple? Any?”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “You know they’re just fans having fun.”

“I am fun,” he insists, deeply unconvincing. “I am very fun.”

You kiss his shoulder. “You are.”

He huffs. “I am not jealous.”

You snort. “You’re pouting.”

“I am not pouting.”

He is absolutely pouting.

You take the phone from his hand and set it on the coffee table. “Charles.”

He stares straight ahead, arms crossed tighter. “I do not like this ship.”

“I know.”

“It is a bad ship.”

“I know.”

“He is not even your type.”

You smile. “And what is my type?”

He finally looks at you, eyes softening despite himself. “Me.”

You cup his cheek. “Exactly.”

He melts a little — but only a little. “Still. They should not use our song.”

You climb into his lap, straddling him, and his hands immediately settle on your hips like it’s instinct. “You want me to tell the entire internet to stop using it?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Tell them it is copyrighted. Tell them it is illegal.”

You laugh, pressing your forehead to his. “I don’t think that’s how copyright works.”

“It should be,” he mutters.

You kiss him — slow, warm, reassuring. His hands tighten on your waist, his pout easing as he kisses you back. When you pull away, his eyes are softer, less stormy.

“You know I love you,” you whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But I do not like seeing you with him.”

“It’s acting.”

“I know.” He sighs. “But the edit… it was very well done.”

You grin. “So you admit it was a good edit.”

“No,” he says immediately. “I admit nothing.”

You laugh again, brushing your nose against his. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous,” he insists, then ruins it by tightening his arms around you like you might disappear. “I just do not like sharing.”

“You’re not sharing,” you say softly. “You’re my boyfriend. He’s my co-star.”

He nods, but you can tell he’s still thinking about it. So you take his face in both hands, forcing him to meet your eyes.

“Charles,” you say gently. “There is no ship. There is no chemistry. There is no secret romance. There is just a very good editor on TikTok and a bunch of fans who like to imagine things.”

He blinks. “So you do not think he is handsome?”

You laugh. “He’s fine.”

“Fine?” Charles repeats, like he’s testing the word for danger.

“Fine,” you confirm. “But he’s not you.”

He softens again, leaning into your touch. “Good.”

You kiss him once more, slow and lingering. “You want to know something?”

“Yes.”

“I only ever listen to that song with you.”

His breath catches, and you feel him relax fully for the first time since you walked in. “Really?”

“Really.”

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. “Okay. Then I am less angry.”

“Less?”

He shrugs. “I am still a little angry. But I will survive.”

You smile against his neck. “My dramatic boy.”

He nudges your temple with his nose. “Your boy.”

You stay like that for a moment — tangled together, the tension gone, the apartment warm and quiet again.

Then Charles pulls back slightly, eyes narrowing. “But if they use our song again—”

“Charles.”

“I am just saying.”

“Baby.”

He sighs, defeated. “Fine. I will try to be normal.”

You kiss him again. “Thank you.”

“But I am still blocking the account.”

“CHARLES.”

He grins, finally teasing again. “What? I am protecting our intellectual property.”

You shove his shoulder, laughing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me.”

“I do.”

He kisses you, soft and slow, thumb brushing your cheek. “Then come here,” he murmurs. “Let me remind you why we have a song.”

You settle against him, his arms wrapping around you, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. He presses a kiss to your hairline, then another, then another.

“Next time,” he whispers, “I want to be in the edit.”

You laugh. “You want fans to ship us?”

“Yes,” he says proudly. “I want them to know I am the main character.”

You shake your head, smiling. “You already are.”

He beams, satisfied at last, and pulls you closer.

And just like that, the storm passes — replaced by warmth, by soft kisses, by the quiet certainty that no TikTok edit in the world could ever compete with this.

With him.

With the two of you.

the familiar melodies of taylor swift are gently playing through your wired headphones - wired because you've lost two pairs of airpods and can't afford a third set. instinctively, your eyes find the rearview mirror like you're the one driving, your own exhausted face starting back at you. you frown at yourself, looking away.

your taxi driver is taking, his thin lips moving animatedly expressing as he - oh he's talking you.

you tug your headphones out, abruptly stopping your music. "i'm sorry, what was that?"

"are you from new york? or vacationing?" the driver repeats himself, eyes kind from where he glances at you in the mirror.

"i'm here for work, actually." you tell him, deciding to pack up your phone and headphones for the remainder of the drive, shoving them in your duffle bag.

"ah okay, what do you do for work?"

you knaw on your lip - you've never really known how to answer that question. you're technically a professional figure skater. you went to boston university for skating and competed on the world woman's figure skating team. but that didn't always pay the bills, so you split the rest of your time working reception at a house league arena and teaching figure skating to kids 5-7.

"I teach figure skating," you settle on. the taxi starts to move again, the driver taking a sharp left turn that jolts you sideways in the backseat.

"some kids need your help here?" the driver laughs gently, working the wheel to weave the car through traffic.

you breath a little chuckle, eyeing the traffic. "something like that."

a few weeks ago you had been approached by somebody apart of the social administration team for the national hockey league asking if you'd be interested in a mini youtube series where they had professional skaters come and teach nhl players how to figure skate.

at first you were going to pass on the opportunity. your boyfriend of two years had broken up with you only a week before the nhl reached out to you- claiming he wasn't in love with you anymore and needed a fresh start. you were crushed - and honestly still are. you thought there was no way you'd be able to focus on teaching professional athletes how to arabesque properly all while navigating you're first real breakup.

but after really mulling it over, you decided that it could be the distraction you needed in your healing process. you told them yes and two weeks later you were on the train from boston to new york city - all your stuff packed in your nike duffel bag. it shouldn't be too overwhelming, you think. after all, it wasn't just you that would be teaching, there'd be four other figure skaters there with you. the email wasn't too informative about how it would all work, but it gave you basic information like schedule, times, and the actual idea of what was being filmed.

you'd each be assigned an nhl player from the teams in the surrounding areas, and you'd be responsible for not only teaching them how to figure skate, but creating a brief routine for the nhl youtube channel - then again preformed for one of the local kids hockey teams. as well, all proceeds from the video would be given to the kids - which was obviously amazing.

the taxi pulled up to the sheltered entrance of your hotel, which thankfully the nhl was paying for. after all, this trip wasn't one where you'd be getting commission and were solely here voluntarily - so you appreciate how kind the nhl has been with expenses.

"here you go," your taxi driver turns over his shoulder and gives you a warm smile, "need help with your case?"

you shake your head, "i've got it, thank you." digging through your bag to grab some cash, giving it to the old man before making your exit.

he thanks you politely. "good luck teaching those kids," he says. "I know how hard they can be to get through to."

"oh i'm ready for it."

with that you make your way into the hotel, checking in at the reception desk. the hotel is like ridiculously nice and a bag boy even takes your suitcase from you and preemptively delivers it to the room before you get there.

immediately once you get into your room, you exhale tiredly. you shower quickly, barley getting to admire how stunning the bathroom was because of your lacking levels of energy. you don't even dry your hair before you're getting into bed, setting an alarm before closing your eyes.

your stomach is tickling with nerves as you begin thinking about your day tomorrow - the unknown of it all making you anxious. you just pray your designated nhl player is a good listener, patient and a good partner.

— Day One

"and this is the rink - obviously nothing crazy but it is the rangers practice facility so it's definitely nice," mark, the main personal of the admin team gestures to the stark white rink behind him, an excited smile on his face as he talks to you all.

just the smell of the ice has you smiling, and any lingering feelings of anxiety you were feeling about this week were disappearing. you breathe happily, taking another look around the arena facility.

"look at that ice." beside you, another figure skater gleams, her dark brown eyes transfixed on the sheet in front of you. she had introduced herself earlier as shay, her bubbly personality quickly exposed as she started asking you a million questions excitedly. "I can't wait to tear it up."

you quirk a brow slightly, lips pulling into a smile. "well, i'm not sure how much actual figure skating we'll get to do between teaching."

she groans and you giggle at her dramatics.

"alright, guys so," mark claps his hands together, gathering all figure skaters and media personals attention. "we're going to head back to the meeting room and the players will be arriving shortly - once they get here we will go over the process of partnering up and the schedule."

you enter the meeting room soon after, shay at your side - a spring in her step. as you make your way back to the table you'd earlier left your duffle bag (stuffed full with anything you may need), you can't help but feel eager to learn which players would not only be participating, but which player you would be assigned to.

the skaters take various seats in the room, but mostly stick together - opting for the two oval tables towards the side of the room. demi, a small blonde girl, takes a quick seat beside you, immediately resting her chin on her palm as she leans in. "who do you guys hope is here?" she smirks, her voice quiet as she asks. demi doesn't wait for an answer before she speaks again, "i'm hoping for trevor zegras."

out of the corner of your eye you watch as shay gives an unimpressed look. you fight off the knowing smirk that begins to make its way on to your face - you weren't going to be the one to tell the blond that the chances of zegras coming to new york from the other side of the country was very unlikely.

"i'm hoping for somebody who doesn't mind a challenge," you say gently, "doesn't matter who."

demi just hums uninterested, eyes leaving you and moving over towards the front of the room. just as she does so, mark along with another older gentleman enters the room, the latter of the two holding a stack of papers in a brown folder, the word "CONFIDENTIAL" stamped in bold font on the front.

instantly, you become nervous again. the door reopens a few seconds later, and five men walk into the meeting room, laughing and chatting with one another as they do so. based on the pure build of them, you know they are the nhl players you'd all be teaching. you didn't know too much about hockey, and without them wearing their teams jersey you had no idea who played for who. they all look around the same age, which was likely around yours.

in the middle of the five hockey players stands a very tall man - so tall that immediately you feel nervous. teaching somebody that tall and long limbed to figure skate would be difficult and an extreme learning curve. you can only hope whichever skater gets paired with him is patient (and you hope it's not you or shay). ideally somebody shorter and stocky would be best as they'll have an easier time learning spins and bends.

"alright, now that we are all here," mark starts, taking the stack of papers into his hands. "i'm going to go over the jist of what we're doing." he flips open to the first few pages, scanning it quickly before he starts again. "okay so, here's how it's going to work. James and I have preemptively paired each skater with one of our athletes, which was completely random - rempe don't start." one of the players laughs gently, dismissing marks teasing.

"the next couple days will have a lot of filming, so be prepared for the cameras and for my media crew to be all over you." another round of laughs echo throughout the room, and you smile gently. "to my hockey players, please be kind and respectful with the skaters - there already doing a great deal by coming here to teach you, so don't make it difficult."

James is the one to continue, his deep voice projecting around the room. "any and all proceeds from our tiktok and youtube accounts will be given to the new york rockets little league team. as well, the figure skater and assigned player will be preforming a mini routine for the rockets team before our hockey players will be playing a game with them - understood?"

a murmur of agreements can be heard throughout the meeting room. mark clears his throat, beginning to read off his papers. "shay biles, raise your hand for me," like told, shay happily puts her arm in the air, waving slightly. mark beams, "perfect, okay, john beecher this is your partner."

john waves back gently, nodding his head in greeting from across the room. shay definitely got lucky, you think. john seems kind, his eyes gentle and smile bright as he looks at shay. beecher is a name you've heard living in boston, and your younger brother has definitely screamed his name at the tv while watching the bruins. you feel a bit upset that you hadn't gotten john, at least that way you'd have living in boston to relate to.

one of the girls you hadn't really had a chance to talk with is called out next, and she gets paired with an islanders player. she seemed relatively content with her partnership, her smile wide and eyed slightly shiny as anthony greeted her from across the room- perhaps she was a fan of duclair.

demi is called for next. the blonde grins smugly, waving her fingers in a way that seems very amorous. "dawson mercer this is your figure skating partner." the nhl star in question raises his hand from between his crossed arms in greeting, giving the bright blonde one quick wave.

you swear you can hear demi mumble something to you about dawson being 'kinda cute', which makes you feel a bit awkward - you don't know is demi wants you to respond or just stay quiet and nonchalant. shay seems to of heard demi's comment, and she nudges you side gently. shay's smile is barley noticeable, but you see it, and you have to hide you face.

"okay, y/n y/l/n..." mark calls your name and your stomach swoops. the reality of the situation all feels a bit daunting - reminding you of when a teacher would randomly call on you in primary school. your hand moves upwards, your elbow still resting on the table top as you wave gently. mark smiles triumphantly, "ah wonderful - okay matt rempe this is your partner."

it feels like the room goes silent, the constant mumbling and laughter from the table of nhl players comes to a halt. nervous and confused, you eye them all, waiting with anticipation for matt rempe to make himself known - although based on the pause of commotion in the meeting room, it seems like everybody but you is already acquainted with him.

just then, the tallest one that had caught your eye earlier leans forward. you can feel your stomach come up your throat before quickly dropping down to your feet. matt's lips tug up in a slinky smile, jerking his head once in greeting. you can't believe your luck. of course you'd get paired with the borderline giant guy - you can't even begin to fathom how much taller he'll be on skates. you're not too sure yet how you're going to teach him to figure skate gracefully, especially when it comes to spins and gliding - both of those naturally being more difficult to do when you're taller.

you look away. the combination of matt's confident greeting and your own personal turmoil about his height all too much. you swallow nervously, fuck.

you can already tell from the way matt carries himself and how his co-workers act around him that he is the kind of guy who's very...vainglorious. that had you feeling even more timid about teaching him - still dealing with the affects of your heartbreak and learning how to handle everything on top of that was a very different feeling.

and just as the cherry on top, demi leans closer to you from across the table, her voice a quiet, teasing hum as she talks out of the side of her mouth. "lucky duck - you got the hottest one."

double fuck.

soon after the mini breakdown in your head - all figure skaters, hockey players and media personnel were directed back down to the ice level of the rink. the former two groups quickly getting ushered towards the dressing rooms of the practice facility to change into appropriate clothes for skating.

thankfully all the other skaters opted for a more toned down, casual figure skating attire, so you don't feel out of place in your flare leggings, leotard and align zip up. shay looks like she's wearing something similar to you, smiling at you warmly before leaving. so that anxiety slowly settles down.

shakily, you pull your hair into a ponytail, tugging to ensure it's tight and in place. you take a slow breath, preparing yourself for the day ahead of you. slipping on your skates, you've already decided you're not going to let any hockey player change your self-healing journey - the main reason you accept the offer was to heal. you breathe a smile, tightening your skates.

as you approach the ice, you take a momentary pause - observing the scene infront of you. most of the other skaters were enthusiastically chatting with their assigned nhl players, laughing and smiling as they stretched. the atmosphere around you was filled with anticipation and excitement, which had you stomach buzzing.

you step onto the sheet of ice, your eyes darting throughout the sea of skaters and media team. there's more people and camera crew than you were originally expecting, with a good chunk of the arena filled with professional filming cameras, wires, and photographers. with a push forward, you begin to make your way into the crowd, weaving through the chaos in search of matt rempe.

you've heard talk about the name matt rempe - living in a hockey based household with your brother and dad, his name was bound to come up. unfortunately, the talk you've heard hasn't been all sunshine and flowers. matt has made a name for himself in the nhl by fighting - which obviously wouldn't be a problem with your teaching because hopefully he doesn't want to fight you. that as well as his flirtatious personality though has you still feeling a bit worried.

you still haven't caught sight of him yet, which seems odd considering his towering frame. you're definitely not the shortest of all the figure skaters by any means, but you definitely have a smaller stature in compared to your partner and some of the others crowded towards the one side of the rink.

you push forward as you glance over your shoulder - eyeing behind yourself to try and catch sight of matt. you come to a halted stop, your body being held still.

"whoa," a voice breaths with laughter above you, large hands finding your shoulders to stop your movement. "gotta watch where you're going- just saved you from tripping over a pile of wires."

you jerk your head up, finding the soft but teasing brown eyes of matt rempe staring down at you. "matt!" you exclaim loudly. he raises his brows with amused suprise, which immediately has you flushing with embarrassment - you curse yourself for your uncool exterior. "hi! matt. sorry, I'm your skater, my names-"

"y/n," matt says your name - tone a combination of gentle and amusement, your clear borderline frantic state fresh on his mind. he releases the gentle grip on your shoulders in favour of dropping his hands back down against his side. "I remember."

"right, sorry." you laugh gentle, hands nervously fiddling with the zipper of your jacket - a bad habit you'd always had has been fiddling with your clothes as a distraction. you think it's because it helps focus your energy on something else - negative or positive. during your breakup, you think you destroyed two separate strings of hoodies.

you clear your throat, dropping your hands. "have you ever figure skated before?" instantly you regret your awkward question - and you try not to cringe at yourself.  you can only hope you don't come across...unintelligent or discombobulated. the chances of a hockey player participating in this sequence of figure skating related events/ filming of he knew how was very unlikely.

matt looks himself up and down before eyeing your through his lashes, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "I definitely have not."

you chuckle awkwardly, ringing your hands. "right, of course not. you probably would've turned down all this figure skating stuff if you knew how. after all why would you willingly volunteer to get bossed around and be taught something you already knew how to do! sorry, I feel like i'm rambling."

"you apologize a lot." matt laughs, eyes glimmering with charm in the arena lighting above. "you don't need to."

"sorry-" matt's brows raise, immediately cutting you off from another apology. "im not going to finish that."

matt smiles fondly.

just then, somebody approaches you both. he looks maybe 2 or 3 years older than you, with dark hair and standing around 6 feet tall. he's got a phone clutched in his hand, and a media lanyard around his neck. "hey," he smiles when he approaches, "i'm david. i'm apart of the social admin team for the nhl and i'll be filming you guys for the tiktok content - which will be today."

you shake his hand gently, "y/n, nice to meet you." matt follows suit, shaking david's hand in greeting. david briefly discuss the filming process with you and matt, and tells you what to expect with the cameras while you're teaching. david’s instructions, although speedy, make you feel more confident in the day - finally having a clear rundown of the process lifting a weight of your shoulders.

david directs you both towards the benches where some of the other partners are stood - waiting their turns in front of the camera. some groups are  with their own social media team, filming for instagram and tiktok accounts. the lighting is dimmed on your half of the rink, providing the filming side with correct studio lighting. there's a small dunkin coffee station set up right by the bench entrance, filled with multiple coffee flavours, takeaway cups, creamers, sugar and even a box of donut holes.

you grab yourself a large paper cup, filling it to the brim with decaf. you don't even bother grabbing cream or sugar - taking three hearty gulps of coffee in hopes to get some hyperactive energy.

lowering the cup from your face, you catch sight of somebody as they skate up beside you. you glance over, just to see matt grab one of the cake flavoured deserts and shoving the whole thing in his mouth. he catches your gaze, and he smiles - mouth full of donut and all.

your brows raise in surprise, his clear comfortability almost has you feeling envious - for his sakes you're trying your best to lighten up and he just is already. you clear your throat twice, "need some coffee to wash all that down?"

matt eyes your cup and he almost makes a face. he swallows heavily, shaking his head. "i'm good - takes more than tiny donut hole to take me down."

you nod with understanding, an amused smile pulling at your mouth - you raise your cup, taking a sip to mask your enjoyment.

matt indulges in one more donut, dusting his hands free of any icing against the front of his rangers jersey. you cringe momentarily, resisting the urge to reach out and wipe away any remnants. "so," matt starts, finishing the last few chews of the donut, "how long have you seen skating?" 

"my whole life," you tell him, happily taking another sip of your drink. "my mom was a figure skater so as soon as I could walk she put me in lessons," you continue, "which obviously seems a little controlling - but i'm glad she did...the opportunities i've had and the memories i've made are just unbelievable."

you pause and take a moment to think about your figure skating journey and just how thankful you are being put in lessons that young - you're not sure where you'd be without skating. you lost your mom when you were 15 - only 8 years ago. figure skating was always a way to stay connected to her and her memories. seeing your dad's blissful face when he watches you compete is always so fulfilling.

matt nods almost solemnly, as if he knows what you were thinking off. he shifts so his entire body is turned towards you, giving you his full attention. "that's actually pretty amazing - where do you compete?"

"i've gone to worlds a handful of times, which is just crazy at my age." you laugh in disbelief just at the thought. first time you went to worlds was when you were 16 years old, and a two more times when you were 17 and 18. you were one of the youngest competitors at being freshly 16 - only two girls from japan and canada being the same age.

matt's brows furrow, "how old are you know?"

"23 right now," you answer, "but I started competitively training when I was 12 and went to the first championship series when I was 16."

"holy crap," he laughs, nodding his head impressed - lips quirked in a half smile. "do you still train competitively? is all this your full time job?"

after another drink of your coffee, you sigh with ponder. "honestly - no. I still work in figure skating - teaching kids in my free time at the arena back home - hence why i'm here. it's just...." you trail off, brows furrowed as you try and find the right words. competing at the levels you used to was a lot. the diet was extremely strict, the training was intense and your mental and physical health was not good. you love skating and you'll always continue to teach it, but actually competing is something you'd never subject your body to again.

"too much." matt nods in understanding, answering for you.

you smile in conformation, "too much." you can tell by matt's sad and understanding smile that he knows exactly the strain and intensity you'd dealt with - he is an athlete after all. you clear your throat, "but i'm excited to be here though, I promise."

he dissolves into laughter, shoulders shaking. "don't worry, I didn't think you weren't."

you breath in relief, your moment of silent worry that matt would think you weren't grateful for the opportunity you were in slipping away. "so how come you decided to do this?" you ask curiously, topping up your coffee cup with more decaf. it overfills, sloshing over the rim as you look at him. silently, you curse, releasing the latch to stop the liquid from pouring out.

matt smiles fondly as you switch hands, moving your cup out of your wet hand. thankfully, it's not scorching so you're not burnt but you're wet and a little embarrassed. you're trying to shake the liquid off your hand when matt wordlessly grabs a napkin out of the stack on the table, gently grabbing your wrist as he pats your skin with it.

you swallow gently, watching him clean the coffee off your hand. matt doesn't seemed fazed, eyes focused on your sticky skin as he answers your question. "honestly, I don't think I was their first choice - they asked Schneider first but he declined. i'm glad they asked me next though, because i'm always looking to try new things." your hand is dry now, and matt balls the napkin up before throwing it into the trash can. he smiles, "and figure skating is on skates right, so I mean i've already got that part down."

in a moment of vulnerability, you spin back to properly face him. you go to speak, "can I be honest with you?"

he nods.

you continue, "tall people and figure skating don't always go hand in hand- when you're tall things like twizzles and jumps and flexibility don't come as easy. so when I first saw you I remember thinking I felt bad for your partner," you laugh once, "and then once I found out that you were my partner I got really nervous. I just...," you pause, sighing, "I don't want you to feel like you can't do it properly or as well as some of the shorter players or feel upset because I can't show you everything- i'm rambling again, sorry I-"

"y/n," he hums playfully, "the only thing i'll be upset about is if you keep apologizing for no reason." he spins on his skates so that his back is towards the coffee table, his side bumping into your front teasingly. he rests against the edge, hands gripping the table to keep himself steady.

you breath a laugh, mimicking his position. your arms brush together, and you belly sort off...wobbles. "I know, I know - I just want this to be good."

"it will be," matt smiles triumphantly.

david comes shuffling over again, now with a mini ring light attached to the media branded cellphone. he beams, coming to a shaky stop. he gestures to his phone, "i've got to get you two for a tiktok before the youtube crew takes you." david then goes into what you need to say and maneuvers you both to a more aesthetically appealing background.

you begin, smiling brightly at the camera and praying your eyes aren't squinty with the bright light. "hi tiktok i'm y/n and ill be teaching new york ranger, matt rempe, how to figure skate this week."

"stay tuned for exclusive content and behind the scenes on the new york rangers tiktok and instagram page - as well for the full videos on youtube." matt concludes, looking down at you briefly.

"great - that's amazing guys! i'll catch up with you both later." then david scoots away, back towards the exit off the rink where some media tables are set up - full of equipment, passes and extra water bottles and snacks.

next thing you know you and matt are both being ushered in front of the cameras for your segment of todays filming. like david, one of the directors - a middle aged blonde woman with a encouraging voice - tells you how to start and what to say. she ensures you if either of you need a break and/or further instructions to not hesitate to stop and ask.

with that being said, matt begins to video off. he stands tall, large arms held behind his back as he stands perfectly on the mark. "I'm matt rempe from the new york rangers and today I'm learning how to figure skate," matt smiles with exaggerated nervousness, eyeing you.

you giggle quietly, "and i'm professional figure skater, y/n y/l/n and today i'll be teaching matt the basics of figure skating - starting off easy for ole matt."

his arms come loose, and he holds his hands up in a surrender like position, turning towards you. "okay if im being honest I think i'll get the hang of this pretty easily," matt admits confidently.

smirking, you eye him, "let's see." you push off, skating away gracefully, spinning back around to face your partner. "ready for your first set of moves?"

"born ready."

-

you finishing off one of the quicker spins, making your final turn before gracefully skating out of the motion - demonstrating for matt.

his brows raise in shock, eyes slowly meeting the camera. staring down the lens. he shrugs doubtfully, cracking his neck in preparation. "my turn."

matt tries to recreate the spin, slowly and wobbly twizzling around the ice. it's definitely not perfect as he can't seem to stay in the same area and he only makes it around four full times before beginning to slip out. "that's crazy." he laughs in disbelief. "show me again."

"just-" you sigh with a smile, getting back into position to twizzle around once again. "like that."

matt tries again, and although his second attempt was more more successful, he was still a bit unstable with his movements. the tall athlete comes to a wobbly stop, brown eyes closing in discomfort. you know that face all too well and immediately you know he hasn't spotted - which is your own fault for not teaching him. "i'm dizzy,"matt puts his hands on his knees, leaning over to try and ground himself. "I don't even know how you do that."

once he's no longer feeling nauseous, you quickly teach him the importance of knowing how to spot.

-

matt's hands are heavy in yours, his grip tightening to mimick your hold as you both attempt another jump - granted it's a bit difficult considering his height. regardless, it's successful and he lands pretty much perfectly.

you encourage him further as you both skate, praises happily spilling from your mouth as you him skate gracefully - well, as graceful as somebody that tall can. you slow ever so slightly, tightening your grip again to signal for another jump.

matt's tongue pokes out and his brows furrow with concentration. he pushes off the ice like you showed him, jumping into the air. he lands again, a warm laugh leaving him. "oh my god!"

"great!," you beam, bringing you both to a slow stop. then you tell matt that he has to attempt jumping on his own and his once smile is quickly flipped.

-

"okay matt we gotta dip," you hum knowingly, already sensing his disappointment - matt's earlier distain towards low level figure skating moves ringing in your head. "dig real low."

like suspected, matt groans - it's not that he doesn't want to try and do the move because he knows that's why he's here and he wants to make your experience pleasant. he's groaning because he knows how him trying will end.

matt's first dip down to the ice is successful, and you gleam, gliding along beside him. "look at how low you are!"

matt continues to slide along the ice, one of his long legs extended in front of him. he's practically holding his breath, concentrating on making another successful dip down. it isn't much longer before he slips, landing roughly on his back.

matt groans in displeasure, his arms falling dramatically as he rolls on the ice. the sight of the tall man laying on the ice like a child has you laughing into your palm, eyeing him gently.

he pushes back onto his knees before standing to his full height, brows furrowed. "are you laughing at me?" matt questions you, his own laugh slipping out between his uncomfortable groans - the wind just about knocked out of him from the fall.

your hands fall from your face, raising in surrender. "i'm not even laughing cause it's funny. it's just like-"

"I was digging for you." matt claims cheekily - referring to your earlier comment about matt needing to dig deeper into figure skating. "I wanted to go low for you." he's gently rubbing his elbow, a grimace still on his face.

"I know. you were actually very low I was impressed."

-

you expertly lean into your spin, bending your back to complete the movement.

matt squints unsure. "i'm having a hard time committing to that right now."

-

you move forwards, quickly stopping your skates as you swing your body from side to side - skate blades tearing into the ice in a jerk like motion.

matt watches you closely from where he takes a momentary break against the boards. "oh so we are doing slow mo now?"

"yup." you chirp, rounding back towards him.

"fuck me," he huffs out, pushing off the wall. they'll definitely have to bleep that out.

-

your back is practically pressed into matt's chest, breathing gently as you push your bodies together. "give me your other hand," you remind him gently. "goes on the hip."

like told, matt's large hand rounds in to the dip of your hip, securely holding onto your body in preparation for a glide. against your other hand, his fingers flex slightly, fixing his grasp.

"okay and you're going to push off the ice."

"okay," he mumbles from above the top of your head. he goes to push off the ice, but from pure instinct he kicks off too strongly and too quickly - his legs wobbling as he practically launches you both. matt curses, toe picking to a stop.

"woah," he breaths a laugh. "not smooth, eh? let's redo that."

you laugh gently, and you pull him back into proper position. "you got it, just focus on the journey rather than the destination."

"I can't concentrate when you're looking at me like that." matt says, a small teasing smirk following as you both get ready to glide again.

"oh my god." you mumble.

-

matt's breathless, hands on his hips as he collects himself after trying to do more practice on his solo jumps. he looks dead at you, lips tugging up into a smirk, panting as he tries to collect himself. "we don't need to do any triples axels today."

you giggle through your own breathlessness, sympathetically patting his padded shoulder. "you've worked hard enough."

"i'll do a triple axel probably next session." he jokes, shrugging nonchalantly. you scoff, pushing against his shoulder teasingly.

-

"i'm sweating," matt huffs.

-

"why are you standing like that?" you laugh, pausing your demonstration to skate over towards matt.

"what do you mean? that's just how I stand." it's definitely not how he stands - and he's looking rather uncomfortable as he attempts to balance on his toes, his knees bent.

you can only laugh in disbelief. in an attempt to fix his awkward posture, you push against his chest with one hand, trying to angle him backwards while your other hand attempts to keep his lower back in proper position. "you're ridiculous - you look like jason kelce ready to catch a football."

-

"I think my hips are too far forward," matt hums thoughtfully, teetering uncomfortably.

"yeah?" you question.

"yeah," he nods with confirmation, swishing his hips around in a circular motion - trying to loosen his muscles. "they're too tight - everything's too tight." he sends an exaggerated wink in your direction, trying to further us attempt at a dirty innuendo.

you splutter, heat rising to your face. "stop it."

-

finally after a tiring and eventful couple hours, you and matt are done skating and filming for the day. it's only a couple minutes of an interview like questionare on the other end of the ice - away from jamie drysdale as his figure skater begins to go over turns before you get to get changed.

you're exhausted by the time you're walking out of the change room - swapping your athletic zip up for an oversized hoodie and figure skates for your slip ons. you let your ponytail down, fluffing the kinks from your hair as you begin to make your way down the hallway towards the parking garage entrance.

thankfully, yesterday when you arrived you had an email from the nhl informing you that your rental car, courtesy of the nhl, had arrived to your hotel and the keys were with reception. you're very thankful, because spending all your money on taxis wouldn't be ideal.

you’re right at the car, your finger already placed against the unlock button on the rented key fob when someone calls your name, the familiar voice echoing through the concrete parking garage.

matt comes up beside you just as you turn around - a friendly grin on his lively face.

you smile politely. "hey."

he breaths a greeting, "hi." matt doesn't say anything else - only continuing to look down at you gently, an unknown expression along side his gaze.

your brows come together with amused confusion, your lips changing into a slight smirk. "everything okay?" you ask, leaning back against your car door.

he blinks out of his stare, shaking his head slightly. "yeah, sorry. just wanted to thank you for today - you're really patient and like super chill. i'm looking forward to tomorrow and working with you further - god knows I didn't make it the easiest task."

"oh," you breathe, "thanks, matt that's really kind of you to say. you're great at this, don't worry."

he laughs softly, "thanks - still not sure about those spins though."

you giggle gently, the thought of matt's green complexion and woozy eyes still fresh in your mind. you tug your tongue, poking at his bicep "spotting," you remind him.

"right, spotting," he kisses his teeth, nodding with thought. his mouth opens briefly, nothing but silence coming out - but then he sighs, "you're ridiculously good, y/n, i've been blown away by you."

you swallow thickly, completely shocked at his kind words and warmhearted complexion. he smiles sheepishly, like he might be embarrassed by his straightforward compliment. you muster up a grin, fiddling with the edge of your sweatshirt. "that means a lot to me - thank you."

"you're welcome," he says sheepishly, rubbing one of his large palms over the back of his neck. matt steps backwards, eyes meeting yours. "i'll see you tomorrow, y/n."

"i'll see you tomorrow, matt."

— Day Two

like yesterday, you and matt ended up being one of the first skating partners to be filmed. which was kind of nice, because after the hour or so of teaching him, you got to have a break. granted today both you and matt had to stay for some extra interview style filming and then proceed to begin to practice the 40 second - 1 minute routine needed for a few days time.

you had already finished your question session for the day, so you were sat comfortably on one of the benches. the sounds of shay's skates gliding across the ice as she taught john some more complex spins was a soothing noise - giving you a moment to reflect.

last night after your long day spent with matt, you had gotten back to your hotel exhausted once again - eyes practically fluttering closed on the elevator ride up. you had briefly checked social media before heading to bed in search for some brain distraction before sleep - only to be met with your exes instagram story with another girl: the two looking very cozy together.

that sent you into a depressive spiral, which included lots of self doubt and crying. it's not even the fact that he had moved on from your relationship quickly, but the thought of him having no regards for how you may feel had you feeling sick - your self doubt and insecurities in full force.

your eyes had still hurt from your night of crying when you woke up - definitely still puffy as you showed up at the rink. you definitely hadn't been as layed back today, and most of your responses were short and quick - your movements not as precise or clean. your heartbreak was beginning to affect you on the rink...all because of a stupid instagram story. you honestly felt bad for matt having to deal with you and you can only hope you're not ruining his experience.

the sound of somebody stepping up onto the padded area of the benches has you snapping out of your daydreaming, looking up at the source to see matt hobbling towards you - the padding affecting his skate blades.

matt was coming from filming some interview content with david like you had previously done - now taking a seat beside you on the bench before you'd both have to practice the routine. matt sits close enough to you that his arm bumps yours, but he doesn't seem to mind the closeness - making no effort to move away from you, keeping your limbs pressed together.

"good job today." you smile gently towards him, but it doesn't meet your eyes. quickly, you turn your attention back towards the rink - john beecher's laugh a nice distraction.

matt smiles politely even though you're not looking at him, "thanks - you too."

you shoot him a questioning glance, but there's a ghost of a smile on your face - his little quip getting to you. it makes matt beam, eyes trained on you even as david zooms over to take some behind the scenes pictures of you both - he's gone before you even have a chance to pose.

you find the ice, instinctively thinking about your ex once again. you're almost angry at yourself for doing so - you took this opportunity to try and heal and get over the heartbreak back in boston. and matt was so nice yesterday, already providing you with a comfortable distraction in your healing journey.

matt nudges his skate covered foot against yours, pulling you out from another moment of daydreaming. "you trying to steal some teaching techniques from shay or something?"

"what?"

"you keep zoning out over there." he laughs gently, his elbow nudging into you in one last attempt to get you to crack.

you laugh, but it's definitely forced - shaking your head as you try and clear your summersault of thoughts.

matt sighs, eyes dancing over your dull expression. "sorry if this comes across weird, but...are you okay?"

you shoot him a glance. "what do you mean?"

he shrugs, "I don't know you just look off - sorry if that's too harsh. it's just…yesterday you looked much more, I don't know, happier? or maybe more hyper? sorry if i'm overstepping, just thought I'd be a decent human being and ask." matt seems to nervously run a hand over his flowing hair, awkwardly tugging his jersey away from his neck as he rambles. "i've noticed something all day and I just thought...I don't know."

you frown gently. you've never been one who could easily control your emotions and they are always easily depicted on your face. today was no exception, and matt has clearly caught it. although you weren't planning on getting into your lingering heartache, you owed it to your partner to at least give him something. besides, matt noticing something was up with you based solely on your body language and waiting until you weren't in front of cameras to ask about it....was rather sweet and considerate of him.

matt continues to apologize to you, his eyes frantically searching your face for any notable signs of discomfort.

you press further into his side to gather his attention, doing your best at sending him a playful smirk. "hey if i'm not allowed to excessively apologize without a reason - neither are you."

your teasing has matt breathing a sigh of relief, but his brows still are drawn together in question. "so i'm not overstepping?"

you shake your head. "you being perspective and asking me if i'm okay is not overstepping."

his brows change, shooting up in suprise. "so you're not okay is what you're telling me?"

you sigh gently, "just...having a hard time recently. nothing that deep, truly. stupid stuff."

on cue, your cell phone resting in your lap lights up with a notification, and like clockwork both you and matt look down at the glowing device. the notification isn't even the problem - just some stupid twitter notification about sydney sweeney and her new movie.

"is that your boyfriend?" matt asks you gently.

he's referring to your lockscreen picture - one that contains you and your ex laying together on the beach. matt had seen the lockscreen photo that you still hadn't had the heart to change - too attached to the memories of what once was. that was the problem.

"no, sorry - he's," you pause, debating if you're really about to tell matt - a guy you're just really getting to know - about your sad excuse of an ex. "he's my ex-boyfriend."

you can practically see the gears turning in his head, his eyes darting around your face to further take in your expression. matt puts all the clues together, humming gently. "is that why you're upset?"

for a brief moment you continue to debate about what to say. telling an nhl player about your ex wasn't exactly what you were expecting to do today, but you also don't really have any sort of outlet for your feelings. back home you sort of don't have any friends - your best friend ashley had moved to ohio for school a year ago and you had your family, but even they could be dismissive and non understanding about your heartbreak. you think matt may just be the next best thing.

"yeah," you finally sigh, "he broke up with me only a couple weeks ago."

"i'm sorry," matt says immediately, eyeing you softly. "what happened - if that's okay to ask?"

"well," you laugh breathily, your disbelief clear in your tone. "he decided that after two years he didn't love me anymore - and based on his story last night…he's already moved on. i'm not even upset that he's moving on, it just hurts to see you know?" you're weren't really expecting to spew all that, but matt doesn't seem to mind as he nods thoughtfully.

"yeah," he agrees, "similar thing happened with my ex, so in some capacity I can understand how you're feeling." he pauses, eyeing the ice once again. you find yourself following suit, watching as shay shows john how to properly do his spread eagles. "you're pretty badass for dealing with my gangly limbs and whining all while being heartbroken- if I was in your spot I probably wouldn't of come."

"that's why i'm here, actually," you laugh thoughtfully, "I thought it would be a nice distraction from all that bullshit going on at home. teaching you how to skate and making new memories. plus, you don't whine as much as I thought you would've." glancing back towards him, you see that he's already looking down at you - a smile tugging at his lips at your teasing.

"really? glad to hear i'm a good student then."

you squint at him, "well I didn't say you are good."

the sound of your further teasing has matt cackling, his head tilting back as he takes in your comment. you giggle gently, already feeling the slightest bit lighter.

"oh okay, I see how it is!" he smirks, "well, my dearest teacher is there anything I can do to improve my grade?"

you're glad that matt has taken well to your teasing, and has even continued to further your lighthearted back and forth - a pleasant conversation to help distract you from your rather tiring day. the combination of a rough night without much sleep and practically exercising all day has you left feeling exhausted.

you tap your chin in a faux thought, lips pursing outwards as you hum, "maybe if you can teach me how to throw a left hook i'll bump your mark up."

"oh so you're only here to brush up on your fighting techniques," he pauses with a hearty laugh, "I see how it is!"

you shrug unapologetically, crossing your skate covered feet over.

"do you watch hockey?" matt hums after a moment. you frown at his rather unprompted question, and you watch him quizzically - his large body bent as he re-ties his skates. you don't say anything at first, so he looks back at you over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised. "I'm only asking because you seem like you knew that I fight - I won't like...banish you if you're not a rangers fan."

you laugh. "sort of," you pause, taking a thoughtful breath. "my brother and my dad - who I live with back in boston, well, they're big bruins fans -" matt makes a disgruntled face out of habit, which has you stifling a giggle. you continue, "i've heard your name before because you fight - my brother likes you."

matt nods understandably. "what's your brothers name?"

"gavin - he just turned 10." a pang of homesickness hits you, and you really wish that your family was in new york with you, exploring the city and watching you teach.

matt smiles gently, "I'll have to meet him one day."

"he'd like that." you say instantly - not even thinking about what that would mean. how that would include matt rempe being with you in boston, or how it would be you and gavin visiting him in new york. "what about you, any siblings?"

"sisters," his face lights up, "steph and alley. they stay in calgary with my mom."

"they must be really proud of you." you hum truthfully, resting your chin on your shoulder as you smile up at him.

his smile widens, clearly very close with his mom and sisters. "they are - but i've honestly never seen them more excited about me skating, than they've been knowing you're teaching me figure skating." he laughs.

"are you telling your family about me?" you squawk with joy, eyes glimmering with playfulness.

before he has a chance to respond, the sound of demi's high pitched voice is interrupting - and it has you looking away from matt's face and back towards the rink. demi is looking at dawson with impatience, her tone coming across very short and irritated. poor dawson, you think, he must be dying inside. although you're not sure if you were any better than that today, remembering your rough start.

thankfully the devils forward just smiles and nods understandably- and you can only hope demi's temper comes across as a staged dynamic between the two of them: bossy and forgiving.

beside you, matt leans in closer, his breath warm against the shell of your ear as he whispers. "looks like I definitely ended up with the best skater." you meet his eyes curiously, and that has matt subtly gesturing towards demi, brows raised in disbelief as her impatience has now turned into obvious flirtation. you're glad matt thinks you're more tolerable than demi.

you snap your hand up towards your mouth in an attempt to cover and stifle your giggle. both of you watch as dawson tries to attempt a cantilever after demi's poor demonstration, and you can't help the roll of your eyes as demi immediately begins reprimanding him.

although her teaching skills were anything but good, you can tell that dawson also wasn't really trying and wasn't as loose with his movements - in fact, it kind of looks like dawson doesn't want to be there at all.

you turn your head into the side of matt's arm, directing your whispers into him so your voice has no chance of carrying throughout the arena. "seems like I got the best nhl player."

matt smirks once you pull away, and he bumps his  shoulder with yours. "obviously."

you scrunch your nose, "even if he is a goon."

matt's head snaps towards you, a look of shock combined with amusement on his face. "hey!" he scolds with a laugh.

matt doesn't have an opportunity to tease you further, words interrupted when shay and john make their way towards the bench, both of them looking tired after their skating session and interviews. regardless, they are both smiling and chatting cheerily as they sit down beside you.

shay is instantly bringing a ray of sunshine with her, happily greeting you and instantly chatting and giggling to you about some crazy thing she heard demi tell another one of the skaters regarding something matt doesn't quite pick up on.

he's too busy noticing how shay's presence seems to be one of the last puzzles pieces in helping you feel better and look more relaxed. your eyes continue to widen and sparkle as you laugh, and how you don't seem to venture off into daydream land while listening to john and shay animatedly go over how john almost ate shit during a glide. it's all very sweet. matt barley knows you and already he doesn't want to see you feel anything but happiness. 

without any deliberation, matt grabs your phone from your lap quickly, a smirk on his face once he sees your shocked face. he opens the camera icon, bringing your phone upwards so it is capturing all four of you on the bench. you don't get a chance to scold him before matt gets their attention. "hey guys, let's get a picture."

"oh yeah," beecher smirks, bumping into shay - which sends her body sliding into yours, and like a butterfly affect sends you into matt's side, tightly tucked into him. "everyone try to look happy and not exhausted." beecher playfully adds.

shay playfully rolls her dark eyes - clearly used to johns personality already. to further his point, john holds two fingers up behind shay's head, giving her faux bunny ears for the camera. shay leans into further your side, her head on your shoulder as she blows a kiss - while you choose to wrap your hands around matt's building forearm, practically hugging his limb as he snaps the picture.

later when you're back in your hotel room - there are three things that take you by somewhat of a surprise. the first being two instagram follows from john beecher and matt rempe - you follow both back immediately.

the second is your brother linking you a tiktok.

it's a clip of you and matt from a distance, clearly filmed by david - the two of you were whispering to one another and giggling, and it was captioned 'plotting'. your brother had texted his excitement about you getting partnered with matt rempe - which had you smiling.

the surprising part wasn't even the tiktok, it was how at ease you looked in his presence. you almost can't fathom it, because it's not just about looking at ease but you were at ease around matt.  you want to try and deny it, but you can't - whatever you're beginning to feel in his presence is undeniable.

you knaw at your lip, going into your camera roll to find the photo matt had taken of you all a few hours ago - four smiling faces starring back at you. you all look happy and like you want to be with one another - unlike the picture of you and your ex on your lockscreen. you sigh gently, but there's a gentle, content smile on your face. you make the new picture your wallpaper, replacing your ex for good.

— Day Three

you knock three times against the large wooden door of the quick home, softly to not seem too eager but loud enough so you'd be heard.

you sigh gently, adjusting the bag against your shoulder so it sits comfortably. you can't believe you're actually here - waiting for matt rempe to let you inside jonathan quick's home. this morning when you woke up, you had an instagram message from matt - some corny text that pretty much asked for your number. which, obviously had your stomach swooping and as you gave it to him.

spending the past few days with matt has been really...pleasant. although you've literally known him for only three days- the amount of time spent together makes that feel like it's been years. you're pleasantly surprised with how nice, funny and adaptable matt has been with you. thinking back to before you met matt, you can't even fathom how silly you had felt leading up to everything- the nerves you had been battling regarding the week now seem ridiculous. and you hate to sound like demi, but matt's face is certainly a bonus to everything else - you also hate how that thought is beginning to make you feel.

you had spent a good amount of time today choreographing the mini routine with matt during your lesson. you wanted to make sure matt had a say in what was happening so that way you could ensure he was capable and comfortable with the routine. it all seemed to be going very well, and matt had seemed to really have a grasp of the routine.

so tonight when he texted you asking for some more help and practice - going as far to invite you to the quick's house where he'd be living for the upcoming season - you had been slightly confused. it wasn't like today was your only day for practicing the routine as all the skaters and respective nhlers had two hours tomorrow morning before needing to preform - that way it was fresh in their mind. so you'd been a bit unsure of why he wanted to have you come over tonight when tomorrow you could provide any clarity and help he was seeking.

regardless of those thoughts, you drive over to the house...ready to help matt practice your figure skating routine in a nhl superstars living room - yeah, what is your life right now. through all the disbelief and curiosity of the situation though, you did want to succeed in your partnership and win the kids votes with your routine, so you're happy matt was serious about it all.

the door clicks open, and the butterflies in your stomach flutter quickly. the idea of spending extra time with matt have the little bugs increasing in speed, sending your skin through joyful vibrations. matt smirks, leaning against the doorframe. "hey."

"hi," you breathe, adjusting your hoodie as you do so. matt looks so comfortable, clad in a black henley top and team branded athletic shorts- showing of the muscles he's put on during the offseason. suddenly you feel a bit sloppy - not even bothering to take your hair down from its scraggly bun before coming over. you chuckle awkwardly, "you called for me?"

your poor attempt at a posh accent lands, and matt's laughter is warm, filling your chest with its own hot feelings as he chuckles about your joke. "I did - wanna come in?"

you nod. matt opens the door wider, gesturing for you to make your way into the large foyer. immediately you feel out of place, the grand entryway practically the size of your living room and kitchen combined back home. it's almost completely silent inside, saved from the youtube playing quietly in another room. "this is really nice." you breathe out, kicking off your shoes beside the welcome rug.

matt huffs in laughter - a sound that's become way too familiar. from behind you, matt grabs the strap of your bag, his long fingers brushing your shoulder as he slips it off your arm. "I know right - i'm very lucky."

brushing off matt's touch on your shoulder, you laugh once, blindly following matt as he moves through the large space - presumably leading you towards one of what you assume is many living spaces.

"and who would've thought i'd also be getting lucky" you attempted joke quickly turns your face hot, the realization of what just come from your mouth has you feeling embarrassed. you slow in your steps, covering your burning cheeks with your hands. "wait, that came out wrong."

matt laughs over his shoulder, shooting you a playful glance. "you little freak." he teases, "I never would've thought the sweet, innocent looking girl who I first saw across the room in the meeting room would be such a little perv."

his obvious teasing and taunting smirk had you groaning with further embarrassment, dragging your feet as you make your way in his direction. "matt i'm literally dying here - throw me a bone at least."

matt's brows raise with surprise, and his laughter increases - like he's in disbelief. then, it hits you, another accidental sexual innuendo burning your face to an impossible shade of red. your mouth parts at a loss for words, and your eyes close to further your shocked state. "i'm just going to leave."

matt reaches out to you and he grabs your wrist gently, dragging you through the last bit of remaining space between you. the feeling of his touch has your eyes snapping open, you once parted lips snapping closed quickly. you stare up at him with softness and a little bit of shock- now closer than you ever could have imagined.

his bottom lips juts out - all wet and pouty as he slowly blinks down at you. "don't leave - I need you here."

you swallow nervously and automatically your breathing quickens in space. matt's words are sitting heavy in your ears and millions of thoughts about his soft confession swirl around your head. softly, you question his words. "you need me here?"

matt's pout transforms into a gentle smirk and his eyes squint at you questionably. you can see the teasing comment brewing from a mile away. "yeah because I want to go over our routine - get your mind out of the gutter, y/n."

"oh my god." you sigh, your eyes rolling playfully as matt begins to giggle to himself like a school boy. you shake your head in admirable disbelief, "you're such a-"

matt interrupts, "an amazing and perfect guy?"

"little shit." you correct, quirking a brow upwards in his direction.

"whatever you say ma'am," matt sing songs, his grip on your wrist tightening ever so slightly, guiding you in the direction of the living room - babbling how if you keep making unnecessary sexual comments he'll never get to learning the routine properly.

all you can do is hide your growing smile and blush while his back is turned.

matt knows the routine like the back of his hand. you show him solo once before you make him join in - and he almost perfectly execute his moves. it slightly furthers your confusion about him asking for extra help from earlier, but you brush those thoughts away. you get about 30 minutes of practice in and although neither of you are on ice skates, it's still a successful practice -  matt is moving as if there was a set of blades beneath him.

it isn't long before matt is sighing dramatically, taking a break from twizzling - he just about had carpet burn on the soles of his feet from the friction. he takes a messy gulp of water, the sound of plastic crinkling echoing through the empty house. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, "okay i'm beat - I gotta save the rest of my energy for tomorrow."

you laugh softly, quirking your head as you eye him. "I think you've got enough energy built up to last for the rest of your life."

"yeah yeah," he dismisses your teasing remark with a smile, hand waving you off. "wanna watch a movie or something?"

you eye him, "a movie?"

he nods, completely unfazed by your doubtful tone. "yeah - ever heard of one?"

you ignore his blatant teasing, your eyes flickering towards the large rustic clock hanging above the kitchen nook - directly across from the large family room.  "are you sure?" you question, wide eyes darting between the time and matt's awaiting face, "it's almost 8...I don't want to intrude."

matt scoffs gently, like he was disgusted that you'd even think that. his lips tug upwards in a soft smile, spinning his water bottle between two fingers like a basketball would. the sight of him toying with the plastic bottle is a momentary distraction, and you find yourself watching his long fingers like a weirdo.  "I like spending time with you - so yes im sure."

matt's words have you looking away from his hands, and you find his soft stare even more distraction than his fingers.

oh.

"you do?" you question meekly, gently fiddling with your hoodie once again. your nerves are growing once again, but this time they're purely because of matt and his borderline romantic confessions. that combined with his eye contact, and constant teasing smile have you feeling rather giddy.

he nods like it should be obvious to you and then he just starts to just walk away - gesturing for you to follow him with a simple nod of the head over his large shoulder.

you're not sure what you were expecting from matt's bedroom, but you don't think it was what you were seeing. it was just so...homey. it's in the basement of the quick house - which was obviously a ridiculously nice and expensive looking spare room.

the room has clearly had a woman's touch, with elegant decor and furniture, but matt had definitely made his mark around the space. his laundry is spread out on the floor near the hamper - not in it and there are a couple miscellaneous knickknacks on top of his bedside table and the tall dresser in the corner.

he's got a pair of wireless beat headphone's hanging off the corner of a picture frame - an image of him and his mom staring back at you. his bed is made, but it's still messy with a throw blanket pulled astray near the top of the bed and pillows squished together - looking like that's where he'd been lounging before you got here.

there's a few hockey sticks sitting up against the closet door and -

"are you going to come join me over here or am I just going to pick the movie all by myself?" matt's annoying teasing question has your eyes falling in his direction. you blush at how entranced you had been by his bedroom - reminding yourself of a 13 year old girl who is in her crushes space for the first time.

to further his point, matt pats the empty side of the bed, beckoning you over with the hand that wasn't holding his remote. in your snooping daze, you'd completely disregarded matt getting comfortable in his bed and turning on the tv -further illuminating the room.

"i'm not a dog," you giggle, making your way over to him despite your attempt at sounding annoyed. you climb into his rather large collection of blankets, burritoing yourself between them. your limbs immediately thank you as they finally have a chance for relief. "and if you think i'm letting you pick a movie you're certainly wrong."

matt gets himself into a more comfortable position, resting his head on his arm as he scrolls through the options on netflix. he turns his head towards you leisurely, and the pillows puff at the movement. "and why's that?"

you shrug gently, eyes meeting his. "you'd probably pick like...slapshot or something that I don't want to watch."

he laughs softly. "and your pick would be better?"

immediately, you hum with confidence. "absolutely it would."

his brows raise and he silently challenges your claim. "okay and what movie would that be?"

naturally, your eyes flat back towards the tv screen - the small collection of movies matt had stopped on mid scrolling staring back at you. there's nothing that initially catches your eye, but right at the end of the list there's one film that nobody could resist.

"pitch perfect," you state, looking back towards matt. his eyes are still on you and his face expression is soft. you clear your throat gently, and your eyes flicker. "not only is it actually funny, but it's a unique story with friendship and romance - there is truly nothing better. it's probably my favourite." you weren't lying, it was one of your favourite movies. something about the film had always held such a special place in your heart, and you couldn't never ignore it when you saw it.

matt could tell you were passionate about the movie franchise based solely on the way your eyes flickered as you talked. he's seen that look on you before - anytime you laughed at his jokes or when you were skating it made an appearance. matt shrugs nonchalantly and clicks the play button. "i've never seen it."

your eyes widen with surprise, "really? matt oh my god." the lighting from the movie's opening scene is shining on you, illuminating both of your flushed faces in the dim bedroom. "well thank god I saw it on there."

"thank god," matt mimics you teasingly. "now quiet down i'm trying to watch the movie."

you laugh into the pillow you'd stolen earlier, trying your best to focus on the movie playing and not matt's side profile - but it proves to be rather difficult.

unfortunately, it's not long before your eyes start fluttering, the long day catching up to you. soon enough, you feel them properly close and you're not strong enough to fight off the much needed sleep.

matt feels a gentle pressure on his shoulder, and he finds that your head has gravitated towards him in your sleep. the sight of your rosy cheeks and puffy lips have him smiling fondly, doing his best at staying still to ensure you would be well rested for tomorrow - he'd make sure to wake you in the morning with plenty of time for you to get ready.

slowly, his eyes flicker back towards the movie that he's obviously seen many times before - he grew up with three woman in the house for gods sake. he just couldn't disappoint that sparkle in your eyes.

— Day 4

you wake up groggily at first, eyes squinting through the unfamiliar bedroom. you focus on the hockey sticks against the wall and feel the warmth of a body next to yours and soon you come to - finally recalling your whereabouts.

you sit up quickly. "oh my god I fell asleep." you sigh, hands panic searching through the blankets in a desperate search to find your phone. in your peripheral, matt hold's out your phone - and you don't miss the teasing look he gives you with it.

"I was just about to wake you up - wasn't going to let you be late." matt mumbles sleepily. he shoves your phone into your hoodie pocket before you have a chance to take it from his hand.

you jump out of bed hurriedly, fixing your disheveled messy bun as you do. his comforting words fall on deaf ears, and you feel panicked. you can feel your heart reaching and the adrenaline pumping through your body. "i've got to shower and then I have to make sure i've got my preforming clothes ready - oh gosh, I also was supposed to text shay and help her go over a move for her routine and-"

"hey," matt says gently, gently taking ahold of your biceps - grounding you. you didn't even notice him get out of bed, as you were too busy going over the endless notes app you had curated in your head. his thumbs stroke against your skin soothingly, distracting you from your moment of anxiety. "I made sure you'd have enough time for anything like that, okay? and look I don't even need to wake you up, so you've got a few extra minutes to spare. you're okay."

you nod at his reassuring voice and for the first time since waking up in a state of confusion and panic, you feel like you can breathe properly. "okay," you smile gently, allowing a much needed exhale to escape from your heavy lungs. "i've gotta go now."

matt releases his comforting hold on your arms, shuffling backwards a few steps to give you some space. although you definitely weren't opposed to his presence so close, you now didn't have to crank your neck upwards to look at him properly. "okay," matt responds, running a hand through his sleep disheveled hair.

"thank you!" the relief you feel in that moment is like nothing else, and you finally let yourself smile properly. although, you still feel rushed thinking about everything you needed to do in the next two hours. you're just thankful matt was planning on waking you with enough time to spare. you're overcome with gratitude for matt's kind gestures spanning over the last 24 hours and you can't help yourself from showing it. quickly, you dart up on the tips of your toes, placing your hands on matt's thick chest for balance as you reach up to plant a kiss on his cheek.

matt's eyes widen with surprise, and an amused smile tugging at his mouth at your action. he looks down at you softly, but you don't catch it, too rushed in gathering yourself and heading out. "i'll see you later!"

you're out of the quick's house faster than your feet can handle, and you make it to your rental car parked in the long oval driveway in record time.

it's not until your driving away, gracie abrams voice soothing you over the radio as you turn onto the road does your brain catch up to your own actions. your mouth falls in shock.

you had kissed matt. on the cheek granted, but still. you curse yourself, holding a hand to your forehead to try and calm your rapid heart and burning skin.

-

nervously, you knaw on your thumb - nibbling on the skin around your nail bed until it becomes uncomfortable. the metallic taste on your lips is a momentary distraction from your own frantic brain. you can't stop thinking about matt - more specifically, the kiss you had smacked onto his cheek as the sun was rising.

your mind is reeling thinking about what he is making of your random burst of affection. is he weird out or uncomfortable by the kiss? did he care? did he not want to preform with you anymore? does he regret inviting you over last night?

it doesn't help that you're at the practice arena and matt hasn't shown up yet. all the other partners had been on time, and all of the skaters and respective nhl stars were already going over their routines. not you though - you waited nervously in the musky scented hallway, still tearing away at your thumb as you watched the doors.

you think that matt must be upset with you. he was late because the kiss had put him off and he was procrastinating spending time with you. your lips release your thumb and immediately you run the hand over your freshly styled hair, feeling yourself become somewhat emotional as you begin to pace the hall.

just as think to call it quits, pack up your stuff and just go home, the door swings open. matt walks in  looking slightly breathless, eyes heavy as he searches the area. he spots you rather quickly and begins to make his way over, an unreadable look on his soft features.

immediately, you start to apologize. "i'm so sorry matt! I shouldn't have kissed you - it was so rude and unprofessional of me! I can understand if you're mad at me or want a new partner." you ring your hands out nervously, eyes not once straying from his face - desperately trying to get an insight on his expression.

matt's eyebrows pull tightly towards the centre of his face, and he shakes his head confused. "what? i'm not mad at you."

you swallow, "you're not?" matt shakes his head no, and a small smile begins tugging at the one corner of his mouth.

still feeling confused and worried, you find yourself frowning, "then how come you were late?"

"am I late?" he questions curiosity, not intending to receive an answer. matt doesn't make an effort to actually check the time or anything, and he only shrugs with nonchalance- his always playful smirk growing. "I stopped at a coffee shop - do want decaf or regular?"

you blink. "what?"

he laughs once. matt puts the takeout tray down on one of the benches lining the hallway corridors, slipping the two drinks out from their respective holes. you hadn't even noticed matt had been carrying coffees until just now - when he walked in, you were too damn anxious to focus on anything. he lifts the two cups closer to you, "decaf coffee or regular coffee? I don't have a preference so i'm fine with either."

"decaf," you finally mumble. matt smiles, passing you the local cafes branded paper cup. you eye the lid, fiddling with the opening flap as you try and and attempt to collect your own scrambled thoughts. "so you're not weirded out?"

matt swallows his mouthful of coffee, "by what?"

you laugh once, tone full of disbelief. "I kissed you."

his brows raise, "yeah you did."

"i'm sorry I don't understand what's happening right now." you sort of laugh out - the confusion of the whole situation coming to a head. you press your hand to your forehead, looking towards matt through your lashes as you try and gauge his unreadable facial expression. you're not so much worried about him being angry with you now, because clearly that's not the case. he seems really casual about the whole thing, which has your stomach flipping.

"right now," matt takes a step towards you, practically pressing himself against you with his frame. his tongue slips out, wetting his bottom lip as he stares down at you. "we are having some coffee before heading out to practice our figure skating. we are also briefly discussing how you jumped me this morning and attacked me with a kiss."

his teasing and exaggerated explanation immediately has you feeling much lighter about the situation- your earlier panic dissolving. you gently scoff at him, and you can't think of anything else besides flicking him in the chest - a small punch of retaliation. "matt seriously I was panicked thinking I fucked this up."

he laughs gently, a shake of his head following suit. "no," his words are like a whisper, a gentle tone that kisses the skin of your face as he speaks. there's a twinkle in his eye, one that comes anytime he wants to push your buttons. "i'm used to your pervy antics by now." with his free hand, matt reaches towards you and fluffs your hair around, covering your face as he does.

you screech, the sound quickly forming into a giggle as you try and swat him away. it proves to be a difficult task without your vision and the use of both hands - your decaf cup still clutched tightly, liquid sloshing around as you squirm.

matt's laughter subsides and he slows to a pause - his free hand gently brushing any strayed curled hair back into its proper place. your vision is back, no longer impaired by the strands of your hair.

he swallows gently and you can feel his fingers tickling along your hairline. matt tucks some final strands comfortably behind your ear, fingers grazing the shell. your previous smile slowly fades as you watch him and his eyes that are solely focused on you. matt's hand doesn't leave the side of your face, fingers cradling your over cheek and against your ear.

you have never been so entranced by anybody like the way you are with matt. for god sakes, you've only known the guy less than a week, but there was something about him that felt so much like home - a safe space for you and your heart. it was almost scary how quickly you find yourself beginning to heal because of a man you barley know. but that's just it, you think, it feels like you've known him a lifetime.

"let's get to practicing," matt says reluctantly, pulling away from your body after stroking your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. the cool air of the arena replaced his warm embrace and you shiver gently. he places down his coffee cup beside the tray he'd earlier left on the bench, "I can see duclair's routine and it looks too good - we gotta beat him."

you breathe out with laughter, placing your cup beside matt's almost full one. "let's not forget the reason we are just starting practice is because you were late." you begin to walk with matt towards the rink, the icy scent filling your nostrils.

matt scoffs, "yeah because I got you a coffee." he steps onto the ice, immediately twirling so he's facing you. wordlessly, he helps you step out onto the ice, grabbing your hand.

"bribery will get you nowhere."

he snorts, "okay you better remember that when you try and plant another kiss on me-"

you yelp, hand coming up to cover matt's mouth before he can continue.

-

matt had absolutely blown you away. he nailed the mini figure skating routine, which not only made you feel good about your teaching abilities but also had you feeling proud of matt - his hard work and commitment to learning something new was admirable.

the feeling of finishing the routine was amazing in itself - but when matt had smiled brightly down at you before wrapping his thick arms around your waist in a hug, spinning you around (the perfect twizzle may you add) was just even more incredible. you don't even find yourself caring how the affection might look in the eyes of the camera or the thousands of fans who will be watching. you’re too happy with everything to worry.

once all the routines have been preformed, the little league team had decided that demi and dawson were the winners. although you were slightly disappointed with loosing, you heard some of the boys giggling about how 'hot' demi was and how cool it was that dawson knew jack hughes - so you weren't too concerned about your routine being lacklustre: the win wasn't decided on skill.

so although the kids didn’t declare you and matt the champions - matt's lingering touches and sweet grin had you feeling like a winner.

— Day 5

"we are not naming him rempire state building."

you pout at matt's statement and your arms tighten further around the gigantic duck plushie. "please - I love that name."

"it's not even a name." matt challenges, his laughter like a sweet melody over the rambunctious sounds of bells and coasters. he continues, "it's just my last name added onto a famous skyscraper."

you tut your tongue, "and that's just it - your last name." cradling the duck closer to your face, you rub the fluffy fur along your soft jawline. matt gives you an unimpressed look, but the smirk pulling at his lips contradicts his stare.

the wind picks up slightly, and a cool breeze comes - slipping between carnival booths and rides and sending a chill over your exposed skin. shivering, you hug the duck plushie closer, attempting to warm yourself up.

the goosebumps on your skin have you wishing you’d brought some kind of jacket. that has you thinking back to only a few hours ago, when matt texted you.

matt rempe

hey, beecher and drysdale wanted to take you, shay and emilia out to the carnival tonight for your last night in new york!

matt rempe

also as like a huge thank you for putting up with our annoying asses for the past week

matt rempe

please say yes to me or ill cry

y/n y/l/n

big baby

y/n y/l/n

i'd love to go to the carnival with you

matt rempe

i'll pick you up in 30

matt rempe

and bring a jacket, it's supposed to get cold

obviously, you forgot a jacket. the wind continues its gnarly sweep, and the summer night temperature drop has you thinking of fall weather. you subconsciously seak human warmth and you shuffle in close, tucking yourself into matt's side.

matt chuckles knowingly at your shivering. he picks out some of the fluffy cotton candy he'd be keeping in his hoodie pocket - letting the sticky desert melt on his tongue. "I told you to bring a jacket."

"I forgot." you're pouting again, tucking your face into the duck.

matt swallows the treat in his mouth, and his steps decrease in speed as he comes to a slow stop. wordlessly, he pulls off his black sweatshirt, and he holds it out to you. "here."

"I don't want you to be cold." you say timidly, your eyes darting between the article of clothing and matt’s expectant eyes.

"I don't want you to be cold," he laughs softly, furthering his gesture. "give me perv so you can put the hoodie on."

you eye him. the real reason matt didn't want to name your beloved stuffed duck that he'd won at one of the balloon popping games rempire state building was because he wanted to name it perv. immediately you expressed your disagreement- you were not naming the cute stuffed duck perv.

regardless, you hand him the duck in exchange for the article of clothing. the cool summer air has you further feeling chilled and you don't waste anymore time. you pull on the sweatshirt, and immediately your enveloped by the lingering body heat and smell of matt. "thanks."

he smiles, passing back the stuffed animal which you immediately begin hugging tightly once again. matt reaches into the pocket of now your hoodie, pulling out the bag of cotton candy so he can further snack as you begin to start walk along again.

"I think you should rethink the name perv," he pitches between chewing, his arm brushes against your shoulder as you both leisurely stroll the fairgrounds. "it's cute."

"it's not cute," you squawk, "it's quite literally perverted." reaching towards him, you reach into the plastic bag and rip off some of the blue cotton candy. plopping it on your tongue, your fingers become sticky as it melts, and you suck the crystallized candy clean off.

matt watches hazily and he swallowing thickly. clearing his throat, his eyes find the crowd infront of him once again, distracting himself with the busy grounds. "you're no fun." he says after a pause, and he side eyes you playfully with a smirk on his face. "just wanted to name it after you."

you laugh loudly and steal some more cotton candy from the mixed bag. "that makes it worse! why you insist on calling me perv is way beyond me."

suddenly, beecher throws his arm around your shoulders, coming up behind you with shay hot on his heels. it scares you momentarily, but you have no chance to scold him as john starts steering you towards the other side of the carnival grounds. "we're all doing that."

to accentuate his words, he points towards the neon lights of the laser tag sign. it lights up the dusk fallen fair - hues of green, blue, and red covering your body as john guides you towards the pop-up.

"oh god," shay all but whines from behind you, her feet dragging. "I suck at laser tag." she states once you’re all standing at the end of the lineup, her dark lips forming into a pout.

john's arm leaves your shoulders so he can turn towards shay - presumably to pester her about her lack of enthusiasm.

matt pulls on the pocket of your (his) sweatshirt, tugging you towards him and eliminating the little bit of space that was between you. you hold your breath with anticipation, letting matt practically manhandle you as he tucks you into his torso. he looks down at you with a playful expression, "you've played laser tag before?"

matt’s possessive handling from just moments ago has your adrenaline running and you’re not sure if you can form a coherent sentence. you shake your head no, glancing up towards matt through your dark lashes. clearing your throat, you ask, "is it hard?"

he smirks, "you'll be fine."

you're definitely not fine. you’ve since discovered that laser tag is not your forte, and to make it worse, matt got put on the opposite team with shay, emilia and jamie. you had beecher on your team, but he was no help. you haven't seen him since the beginning of the game when he started to run away from you - shouting about he had the perfect snipping spot.

the laser tag gun is heavier than you expected, and you keep having to dodge acne prone teenagers who have their sights set on targeting you.

the light up vest you have to wear is hurting your shoulders, the rough material rubbing against your skin uncomfortably with every move you take. the neon signs are providing the only light source in the space, and you keep have to squint to get a proper look at your surroundings.

for what feels like the hundredth time, you peek around the corner you've been hiding behind, trying to look through the shadows to make sure the coast is clear. you want to at least make it to the other side of the course before the game ended. a shadow dashes by, quick on their feet. you hold your breath, trying to stay still to not get caught. just when you think you're in the clear, the silhouette turns to you and darts behind your corner.

the lighting above adjusts, flashing a dark blue. you continue to hold your breath with anticipation and prepare for the stranger to shoot your target and eliminate you. the light moves over their face, and you can finally see them properly. instantly, you breathe out with relief.

matt's smirk makes your stomach feel warm as he looks down at you, his laser gun hanging loosely at his side. "how's it going?" he asks playfully. matt reaches towards your vest, teasingly tugging on the arm opening.

you huff with exhaustion and let the gun you’d be dripping for dear life fall to your side. "I haven't gotten a single target because i've been too scared to move - I don't think i've left this corner in 10 minutes. and these kids from your team, by the way, keep trying to find me."

matt chuckles lowly, his teeth igniting underneath the blacklight above. "I know - they keep talking about trying to get out the 'hottie'" he air quotes with his fingers, mimicking their words.

you pull an uncomfortable face, and a strangled whine passes through your lips, your eyes closing with a combination of embarrassment and annoyance. "i'm toast."

the sounds of running shoes stomping on the ground and children's laughter grows louder, signalling that they were getting closer to your hiding spot. your eyes widen.

quickly, matt wraps an arm around the dip of your waist and he pulls you against his chest. he spins you both around so that you're pressed further against the wall, deeper in the corner. you're both completely enveloped in darkness, and you can only make out the silhouette of matt’s features.

your mouth opens, but your words immediately dir on your tongue. quietly, matt shushes you with a playful quirk to an eyebrow, the top of his index finger brushing along your bottom lip to further his point.

all you can muster is a slow nod in response, as you’re too overwhelmed by the feeling of matt all over you to form any words. the way his strong chest flush was against your breasts, and his hips pushing against the pudgy part of your stomach. matt's arm is still tightly nestled around your waist, and he makes no move to change that.

you can only hope that he can't feel your rapid heartbeat or staggered breathing - the nerves you was currently experiencing were just downright embarrassing.

"this may be a bad time," matt's voice is barley audible over the sound of the post malone song playing over the speakers and the distant sounds of people laughing and talking. "but you smell really good."

you tilt your head farther back to and properly look at him. your chin practically presses to his chest as you do, reminding you of just how tall he is. "what?" you whisper meekly in question.

"all I can smell is your shampoo," a faint smirk appears at the corner of matt's mouth. "I can't help it, your head is right under my nose."

you were adorably struck, a little smile beginning to grow on your lips. "so what you're trying to say is you've been sniffing me?"

he huffs out a laugh, "no - it's just a strong scent."

you swallow gently, blinking slowly. between you bodies, your hand begins to tingle with numbness, and you slowly maneuver it out- pressing your palm flat shading matt’s stomach. you fight the urge to clutch the material of his soft shirt in your hands - wanting to grasp as much of him as you could.

matt jerks slightly, and his eyes meet yours through the dark. his adam apple moves as he swallows thickly, and you can feel his fingers flex around the softness of your waist.

you breath quickens, and you drop the laser gun to the ground. matt doesn’t flinch at the sounds, his eyes never leaving your face. now with your hand free, you let it slide along the side of matt’s torso, slowly tickling him with your nails. you need him in every way possible. you need his laughter, and his teasing smiles, and his touch, and you desperately need his kiss.

you lick your lips slowly, your tongue making sure all creases are moistened. “matt,” you whisper with vulnerability. this time, you don’t fight your own urges, and you let your fingers take whole of his shirt, keeping him pressed to you. “being with you is healing my heart.”

a genuine smile takes over matt’s face - not one of his slay playful or teasing smiles, but a real one. his eyes hold admiration, darting between your face as if he can’t decide which feature of yours to look at. at some point, he must have also abandoned his gun - the hand he was using to hold it now reaching towards your face. matt holds your cheek tenderly, thumb pushing some hair off your face and holding it to your ear.

“I see her!” the shrill voice of a pre-teen yells out from behind some faux rock structure.

matt pulls away quickly and bends down to grab his laser gun. it has you blinking hard, shaking your head to try and clear the fog that had clouded there within the last few minutes. your skin is on fire, and your aching all over. thoughts of matt now feel impossible to not have.

you lean down to grab your own abandoned gun. as you stand back up, you’re met with the familiar teasing eyes of matt, and he’s borderline laughing to himself. he’s got his laser gun pointed at you, the stream of red light directly hitting your target.

"matt," you warn, "don't even think about it." although you’re pleading, you can help the giggling that falls from your mouth along with your words. you can’t even form the thought of shooting him first, too wrapped up in the attention of right now.

matt cocks his head playfully, "think about what?" he questions you brightly, gun still aiming directly at your glowing vest.

you take off, running back out into the main area of the course. you can feel matt hot on your heels, and the adrenaline of it all has you shrieking in laughter as you try and escape him.

usually after such an intense moment with somebody, you were unable to shake off the shaking feelings and tension that came with it. but with matt, you’re immediately moving forward. the comfortability you’re experiencing with him is something you’d never believed in. honestly, you never really though friendship could exist in romantic interests.

if their was anything you learned from you ex, it was that relationships were meant for sex, lying, and deception. now you know that’s not what a relationship means and having trust, fun, and friendship is the only kind of relationship foundation you deserved.

— Three Weeks Later

opening your email to find a thank you from the nhl social admin team a week after arriving home was a nice surprise. the mass email was inviting you and the other figure skaters to an all expenses paid trip to new york, where you'd get to watch the rangers home opener.

the way your stomach flipped at the thought of seeing matt again was so sensational. you weren't aware that it was possible for you to miss somebody as much as you did him.

the morning after the arcade, matt has insisted on driving you to the train station after he helped you return the rental car. he didn’t want you to pay for an uber, and frankly you didn’t feel like it either. the goodbye hurt you, and you remember your throat feeling scratchy with emotions while he hugged you. matt had pulled back, momentarily eyeing your soft lips….and then the train started to board and you had to leave matt and new york behind.

your chest clenches at the thought, but instead of pain that had been tugging at your heart- it was beating for a whole knew reason.

you accepted the trip offer immediately and you were already planning on what you’d wear to your first ever hockey game - nothing to do with wanting to look your best for your crush…totally not.

briefly, you think about texting matt to tell him about the trip you’d be making, but you ultimately hesitate. you don't want to affect his play or focus in the rangers home opener. if all he can think about is you watching in the crowd, it could negatively impact his game. long story short, you’d hate to be the reason he feels overwhelmed.

you had texted shay soon after responding to the email invite, and she had excitedly told you she’d be making the way down from pittsburgh to be there. thankfully, shay was up to date on your ongoing feelings for matt, so the together the two of you brainstormed over text, ways to suprise matt.

your stomach was spinning with excitement for the remainder of weeks before you’d be with matt again.

—

hockey games were turning out to be more fun than you initially expected. the fans around you were all so enthusiastic and cheerful that you couldn’t help but join in. shay and you had been chanting and jumping for three whole periods. anytime the rangers scored the building became electric, and you understood why the players would thrive off that feeling.

like planned, with only 5 minutes remaining in the third and final period of the game, rangers leading 6-2, you opened the camera on your cell phone. first, you and shay smiled brightly for a picture, both of you wearing your blue and red rangers memorabilia. the second picture was the ice, capturing the players zipping around from 15 rows up the stands.

y/n y/l/n

*attached: two images

hey I think shay and I got lost? can you

help us identify this arena ??

the period ends soon after, and you and shay wait a few minutes for the majority of the crowd to disperse. then, using your passes gifted from the nhl social administration team, you both make your way towards the players tunnels.

your phone buzzes.

matt rempe

what?

matt rempe

are you seriously here?

instantly, you’re smiling and the butterflies fluttering around your belly increase by thousands. you lean back against the cool wall to keep yourself from buckling forward - knees going weak with anticipation.

y/n y/l/n

come out of the locker room and find out

a couple of long, antagonizing minutes pass before you see matt. he walks out of the locker room, appearing from behind the grand new york rangers branded doors. his eyes dart through the cluster of his teammates, their families and staff collected in the waiting area - eyes frantically searching for you.

like gravity, your eyes finally lock. instantly, your mouth morphs into a smile, and you push off the stone wall so that you're once again standing upright. you pocket your cellphone in your jeans back pocket, and your cheeks burn with warmth.

matt pushes his way through the crowd, apologies tumbling off his lips quickly as he rushes through the room to try and get to you.

shay mentions something about seeing you back at the hotel room, but you can’t even fathom her words. as matt gets closer to you, you can feel your body spin with excitement - it's all so different from anything you've felt before. it’s refreshing and feels just so right.

finally, matt gets through everyone and he finally reaches you. instantly, he grabs ahold of your flushed cheeks with his large hands. the smell of arena shower soap fills your senses, and your grin triples in size. the scent is so familiar- so matt.

he doesn't say anything to you, but he does lean down and connects your lips together. it feels so right. it feels like he’s the puzzle piece you’d been missing, or the feeling you’d get when you’d find your airpods after months of looking everywhere - kissing matt feels like decaf coffee and the rush of figure skating and the most beautiful song lyrics.

you didn't know kissing could be so pleasant. the way matt's lips caress yours and skillfully slip along yours have you melting into a sticky puddle.

you sigh into his mouth, and your own hands reach out to touch him. they slip into the opening of his his suit jacket, resting on the sides of his strong torso.

matt’s back is bent forward in a way that's borderline uncomfortable, and soon his upper back will start to burn from the strain - but matt didn't care. he had missed you so much…more than he's ever missed anybody in his entire life. the feeling was so unbelievably foreign to him, but he never wanted it to go away - never wanted you to go away.

your lips separate for a second, and you take the opportunity to catch your breath. you chest is heaving along with matt’s but that doesn’t stop him for almost immediately leaning back in - pressing two more much softer kisses to your glistening lips.

one of his teammates whistle teasingly in the room, but you can't even hear it - the only sounds in your ears is the pumping of your own blood, and matt’s breathy groans against you.

he pulls away and a slow, flirtatious smirk crawls its way across matt's flushed face. his thumbs gently run along the indent of your cheekbones, a soothing feeling contrasting your frantic heart. "I should've done that the moment I met you." he breathes the confession.

your laughter was a familiar and welcoming melody, dancing through the crowded room and filling matt's chest with joy. "that would've been ridiculous, matt." you tell him honestly, hugging his torso and resting your chin on his chest.

"yeah," he agrees with a playful gleam, "but that's how long i've been meaning to do it. I haven't stopped thinking about since the moment I saw you in the meeting room last month. when you left on that train, I thought I was going to fall to my knees in agony.”

his dramatics have you rolling your eyes, but you’re grinning nonetheless. “you’re such a-“

“little shit?” matt interrupts knowingly.

you shake your head, “charmer.”

the air between you turns thick once again. matt leans back down towards you, and he captures your mouth in another breath stealing kiss.

he pulls back an inch, eyes still closed as he rests his forehead against yours. “can I confess something really charming?”

you giggle. “oh god, what is it?”

“I don’t even like coffee - only bought two that day so you’d have options.” he smirks playfully.

“little shit.”

matt blows a raspberry to the space between your neck and shoulder, erupting a shriek from you as you try to escape his tickling lips.

you'd make the long distance work - you'd both work together to make your new connection work from different cities. although, you think it can't be too difficult. if you can manage to fall for a stranger with a broken heart, just imagine how much you can accomplish with a healed one.

“God, I love this song.”

The sound came blasting through the speakers, crackling over the noise of voices as you pressed your palms flat against the sticky wooden table before you, a soft smile curling at your lips as the synth began to build softly through the crowded bar.

You were currently wedged into the corner booth of a smokey bar, your third drink dripping condensation onto the beer mat below and soaking it through. The London heat had settled over the city like something cruel, clinging to your skin and offering no relief indoors or out.

You looked up to find Lando already watching you.

Not just looking. Watching. 

A gleeful grin spread across his face like he’d been waiting for this exact reaction. “Tears for Fears? Really?” he asked, amusement laced through every word as he lifted his lukewarm beer to his lips.

“It’s a classic, the melody is so damn good. You just don’t get it,” you teased, leaning forward over the table and keeping his bright eyes captured in yours. “Some of us have taste, Norris. You don’t need to be so jealous.”

Lando barked out a laugh, his head tipping back as a bead of sweat disappeared beneath the collar of his t-shirt. Your eyes followed before you could stop them. Which felt like something you probably shouldn’t unpack.

“Yeah, because liking eighties tracks means you have taste.”

“You’re just jealous,” you shot back, taking a sip of your vodka cranberry before nodding your head to the rhythm. “I know you don’t get to appreciate music the way I do, you’re too busy being world champion.”

Lando grinned at that and, as always, your own smile widened in response. There had always been something deeply unfair about his smile. Maybe it was how easily it dragged one out of you. Maybe it was because, after all these years, it could still make your pulse skip in a way that felt vaguely concerning.

You chose not to think too hard about either.

Ever since you’d first met back before either of you could properly form a coherent sentence, Lando had been your best friend. You’d met during primary school when he’d accidentally pulled your braid trying to climb to the top of the climbing frame and you’d shoved him off in revenge, fully expecting him to burst into tears.

Instead, he’d looked back up at you from the ground, eyes bright and face split with a grin. He’d pointed right up at you and proudly declared that you were his best friend.

And that had pretty much been it.

Twenty years later and here you still were. Cramped into the corner of a London bar, enduring the first stretch of summer heat after you’d begged him to come out with you before he disappeared back into racing after a short break.

Your other friends had all bailed at the last minute, though that never really bothered you. You loved them, you really did. But no-one got you like Lando did. And, if you were being completely honest, you liked knowing no-one got him quite like you either.

“You and your bloody tunes,” Lando muttered. Before you could ask for another drink, Lando was already sliding your usual towards you after catching the bartender’s eye. “You looked like you wanted another,” he shrugged.

Your chest did that annoying fluttering thing again. You ignored it. Best friends knew each other’s drink orders. That was normal.

Probably.

“I didn’t even know you ordered,” you said softly, your voice catching in your throat.

And Lando just shook his head before launching into a story about what he and Max had apparently gotten up to earlier that week, chaos spilling from every word. You listened the way you always did, entirely invested in whatever nonsense left his mouth.

Halfway through the story, he reached across the table and brushed a strand of hair away from where it had stuck to your lip gloss. The movement was absentminded. Casual. Like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Maybe he had. He didn’t pause. Didn’t seem to realise what he’d done.

You, unfortunately, noticed immediately. Along with the warmth crawling up your neck. You blamed the weather. 

Then he laughed again at his own story and instinctively looked at you first. Like your reaction was his favourite part. It always was. And that felt dangerous enough that you quickly looked away.

Later, you both stumbled out of the bar and dragged yourselves giggling through warm London streets towards the tube station, your hand wrapped tightly around his as you crossed the road.

It stayed there longer than necessary. Neither of you mentioned it. 

You were too busy laughing as he dramatically complained about nearly being recognised by a group of drunk girls outside a kebab shop.

And you didn’t notice when he pulled out his phone. You didn’t notice the soft smile that overtook his face as he looked at you. You didn’t notice him opening a playlist with your name buried in the title.

Or adding the song from the bar carefully alongside years worth of moments he’d never been brave enough to say out loud.

Instead, you kept talking. And Lando kept loving you quietly.

Just as he always had.

You knew surprises weren’t exactly Lando’s thing. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the kind everyone else liked. Surprise parties. Birthday presents. Unexpected wins.

What he hated was being surprised. Which just so happened to be one of your favourite hobbies.

It wasn’t often you managed to sneak up on him. The first time had been after school when he’d invited you over for tea and his mum had cornered you in the living room to show you baby pictures while begging Lando to wash the dishes.

(You ignored the way your twelve-year-old heart had done something embarrassingly dramatic at the sight of his wild curls, chubby cheeks and eyes that somehow looked exactly the same.)

You’d eventually escaped his mum and crept into the kitchen where Lando stood elbow-deep in soap suds. The scream he let out when you grabbed his shoulders had been truly spectacular. You’d laughed so hard you nearly cried.

But what had stuck with you wasn’t the scream. It was how quickly his entire body had relaxed when he realised it was you. How his panic had dissolved into laughter almost instantly.

You’d loved that. Maybe a little too much. And so, naturally, you made it your mission to do it again whenever possible.

Which explained why you’d kicked off your trainers before slipping your key into the door of his Monaco flat. Max had texted to let you know Lando was still in the gym downstairs, giving you plenty of time to execute your masterpiece.

You’d told Lando you couldn’t get time off work to watch him race in Monaco this year. You were still offended he’d believed you so easily.

Your trainers dangled from your fingers as you padded through his flat, your overnight bag heavy against your shoulder as you made your way to the spare room.

Your phone buzzed moments later.

[10:52am] Max F: eagle has left, eta 5 mins.

You bit back a laugh. You quickly shoved your bag and shoes into the wardrobe before making your way into the kitchen, pressing yourself against the wall behind the partition.

He always went straight to the kitchen after the gym. Always. You knew him embarrassingly well.

You heard the key turn in the lock and had to physically stop yourself from laughing. Then came his humming. Soft and absentminded. The sound of shoes being kicked off. Sock-clad footsteps against the floor.

Your stomach fluttered stupidly at how easily you could picture him. Then he appeared.

Sweaty hair. Grey vest clinging to his skin. Back muscles shifting as he bent into the fridge. You stared for slightly too long. And firmly blamed the weather for the sudden heat rushing through your body.

He grabbed a snack before placing his phone on the kitchen counter. Then wandered into the living room.

And suddenly, a truly terrible idea struck you. You slipped from your hiding place and grabbed his phone, unlocking it with the passcode permanently burned into your brain.

His mum’s birthday. Normal best friend information. Entirely normal.

You opened Spotify and searched for the loudest, most obnoxious song you could think of, fully intending to blast it through his headphones. Then your eyes caught something.

A playlist. Your name.

Your breath caught. Before your brain could fully process it, you clicked a heavy metal song and turned the volume all the way up.

A scream erupted from the living room. You clamped a hand over your mouth to stop your laughter as something crashed loudly to the floor.

“I fucking knew Max was being dodgy!” Lando shouted. His footsteps thundered back towards the kitchen.

You darted toward your hiding spot. Too slow.

A hand wrapped around your wrist. His phone was snatched from your hand before your back slammed gently into his chest. You squealed as his arm curled around your waist, locking you against him while you kicked uselessly.

“One day I’m actually going to have a heart attack, you know,” Lando laughed into your ear. “And my death will be entirely your fault.”

The warmth of his chest pressed against your back. The smell of soap and sweat. His breath ghosting your skin. Entirely too much. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t have me any other way, would you?” you laughed, still reaching for his phone.

“What are you doing?” Lando asked as you dug your elbow into his side. He yelped, his arm shooting upward as you jumped for his phone.

“I wanted to be nosey.”

“You’re always nosey,” he murmured, tightening his arm around your waist as you wriggled. Your entire nervous system seemed alarmingly aware of where his hand rested.

Then you said it. “I thought I saw a playlist with my name.”

Everything stopped. His arm loosened. His breathing changed. And when you looked up at him, all the laughter had vanished. You jumped once more and managed to grab his phone. You barely made it two steps before his hand wrapped around your wrist again.

Tighter this time.

“Stop,” you froze. Then quieter: “Please.”

The word hit you like cold water. You turned. Lando looked terrified. Actually terrified. His eyes were wide. Jaw tight. Bottom lip caught between his teeth. Like whatever was on that phone mattered far more than you understood.

And suddenly this didn’t feel like a joke anymore. Your smile faded. “I’m sorry,” you said softly. “I didn’t mean to…” you handed him his phone. “I was just taking the piss, Lan.”

He shoved the phone into his pocket far too quickly. Then forced a grin onto his face. “I know, idiot,” he said too fast. Too rehearsed. “I finally got you back,” he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around you. “Now give me a hug and tell me why I shouldn’t rescind your spare key.”

You squealed as his sweaty body crushed into yours while you shoved at him. Everything looked normal again. Everything sounded normal again.

But later that night, curled up in his spare room, your mind kept replaying the same thing. 

The playlist with your name. And the look on his face when you almost opened it.

Like you’d come dangerously close to discovering something he wasn’t ready for you to know.

And for the first time in your life, you found yourself wondering if there were parts of Lando you didn’t know at all.

And strangely— the thought made your chest ache.

Weeks had passed since that day in his flat. And no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, you couldn’t. 

There had been something in Lando’s eyes that day. Fear. Real fear. The kind you’d almost never seen directed at you. And it had lodged itself somewhere beneath your ribs ever since.

Even now, as you stood in the crowd of orange, watching him climb onto the top step at the podium, you couldn’t quite shake it.

His face was split by that blinding smile. His eyes were red with exhaustion and pride. Champagne soaked his race suit. His family stood beside you, screaming themselves hoarse. Your arms were wrapped tightly around one of his sisters as all of you looked up at him like he’d hung the bloody moon. Another home win. Another milestone.

And yet— something still felt wrong.

Lando had never hidden things from you. Never snatched his phone away. Never looked at you like you’d stumbled across something dangerous. You knew his passcode. God, he would regularly throw his phone at you to answer texts when he was driving or too hungover to form a sentence.

So why had a playlist made him panic?

You’d thought about asking him. A hundred times. But every time, you remembered the way his breathing had changed. The way his hand had shaken. The way he’d looked almost cornered.

So you stayed quiet.

You briefly considered asking Max. Then immediately decided that was perhaps the worst idea you’d ever had.

And if you were being honest— this wasn’t even new.

There had been long drives through English countrysides where you’d reached to change whatever painfully generic playlist he had on, only for him to slap your hand away and tell you to stop ruining the vibe.

There was the time at university when you’d asked for his Spotify login while drowning in dissertation stress and he’d told you he refused to become your personal bank account.

At the time, you’d rolled your eyes. Now you wondered if he’d simply panicked.

Your forehead rested against the cool car window as the drive back to the hotel dragged on. Your thoughts were louder than the celebrations happening around you. What was he hiding? And why did it hurt this much?

You knew him. You knew how soft he got at three in the morning. How cruel he could be to himself after bad races. How he always put his family before himself. How much he truly hated fish. How he once admitted, quietly, that if racing hadn’t worked out he thought he might’ve liked photography.

You knew everything. And he knew everything about you. Or at least— you’d always thought he did.

A horrible thought crept in.

What if one day that changed? What if one day you stopped being the first person he called? What if someone else knew him better? What if one day he built a life that didn’t instinctively make space for you?

The thought hit so hard your throat tightened. You’d cried about that exact fear once. Drunk and exhausted and clinging to his shirt while you sobbed that one day he’d outgrow you. 

He’d held your face and promised— never. 

And yet.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself back into the conversation around you. Celebration plans. Dinner reservations. Afterparties. You nodded where appropriate and prayed you were being ridiculous.

Because you didn’t know how to be anything less than what you were to him. And maybe that was its own problem.

Lando opted for a low-key celebration. Which was how you found yourself dressed up and sitting cross-legged on his hotel bed while he got ready.

He’d locked himself in the bathroom. Not before enduring several minutes of you relentlessly mocking his curl routine until he’d practically slammed the door in your face.

Steam curled beneath the bathroom door. You could hear him humming softly to himself. His suitcase lay half-open on the floor. One of his hoodies was tossed across a chair. His aftershave lingered in the room. Everything felt unbearably him.

You’d been ready for over an hour. He hadn’t even needed to ask before texting you his room number and telling you to wait there so you could leave together.

You were halfway through losing a stupid game on your phone when boredom finally won. With a dramatic sigh, you flung yourself backward onto the bed.

And that was when you saw it. His phone.

Sitting on the bedside table. Left completely unattended.

Your stomach dropped. 

Don’t. Your brain screamed at you not to do it. It was invasive. Cruel. Not you. But the ache in your chest had grown too loud to ignore.

Slowly, you sat up. Your hand trembled as you reached for it. Even then, you hesitated. Because if he found out— if this broke whatever existed between you— you weren’t sure you’d survive it.

But you needed to know. 

So you unlocked it. Opened Spotify.

And froze. There it was. A playlist.

The cover photo was from his thirteenth birthday party at Laser Quest. You in blue. Him in red. Your hair in ridiculous pigtails. His curls completely feral. Both of you grinning like your lives depended on it. His arm wrapped around your shoulders. Your hand gripping his waist. 

Your chest tightened. Then your eyes moved upward.

songs that sound like home (your name)

Your breath left you in a shaky exhale. Then you noticed the number beneath it. Dozens of songs. Years worth.

And as your trembling finger pressed play— your entire world tilted.

And the memories came rushing back like a flood.

2013 — Little Things.

“I still don’t understand why we have to learn this stuff. Like, when am I ever going to use algebra in real life?” you whined dramatically, lying on your stomach across your bed with your school skirt wrinkled beneath you and your legs kicking lazily in the air.

You’d been staring at the same equation for nearly ten minutes and were no closer to understanding it.

Lando, meanwhile, was absolutely no help. He sat cross-legged on the floor with his back pressed against your bed, sketching absentmindedly in his English textbook that you were almost certain he was supposed to be writing in.

“If you ever want to be my engineer one day, then you really do need to learn it,” he replied, tipping his head back to grin at you.

You rolled your eyes and leaned over the edge of the bed to flick his forehead. “You’re boring, Norris. I thought you said you were just bringing me with you. I didn’t realise I had to earn my place.”

You rolled onto your back, staring dramatically at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to your ceiling while late afternoon sunlight spilled through your curtains.

“You’re annoying,” Lando shot back. “Why would I keep you around for free?”

“Can’t believe you’d treat your best friend like this,” you snorted. The words came softer this time, your amusement melting into something quieter.

Eventually, the room settled into a comfortable silence. Lando continued doodling in his exercise book while pretending to write something profound. And you stared at your maths worksheet, silently begging it to explain how on earth you were supposed to simplify 4m + 5 + 2m - 1.

Your laptop sat open on your desk, music crackling softly through its poor-quality speakers. Then familiar guitar strings floated through the room. A grin immediately tugged at your lips.

“Oh no,” Lando groaned.

You ignored him entirely and started singing along. Loudly. Slightly off-key. Entirely committed. Lando shook his head, though he was already smiling.

“Oh come on, Lan,” you sang between lyrics. “How can you not love this song?”

“You love every song.”

“I do not,” you gasped dramatically. “I only like the ones with good lyrics.”

“Good?” he scoffed. “I think you mean questionable.”

“Hey,” you leaned over the edge of the bed again and lightly smacked his curls before letting your fingers absentmindedly tangle through them. “You just don’t understand One Direction the way I do.”

Lando let out an exaggerated sigh as the song continued to play. The guitar plucked softly through the room. Your singing gradually became quieter.

Then softer. Then faded completely.

He frowned. The gentle tugging in his hair had stopped. The whispered lyrics had disappeared.

Lando pushed himself up from the floor and turned. You were lying on your back. One hand rested over your chest. The other was still stretched toward where his hair had been moments before.

Your eyes were closed. Your breathing had evened out. Your lips still moved faintly with the lyrics, like your body hadn’t quite realised you were falling asleep yet.

And Lando— stilled. Completely.

The world narrowed to the soft hum of your laptop. The warm afternoon light spilling across your bedroom floor. The rise and fall of your breathing.

He noticed everything. The way the tip of your nose was pink from rubbing at your allergies all afternoon. The tiny crease between your brows that only appeared when you were tired. The way your lips looked impossibly soft as they ghosted the final lyrics.

I’m in love with you and all your little things.

Lando’s breath caught. Because that was it, wasn’t it? It wasn’t one big moment. It was every tiny thing. Every laugh. Every argument. Every song. Every stupid maths worksheet. Every version of you.

And all he could think was— oh fuck.

Later that night, despite loudly maintaining that he hated the song, he still found himself adding it to a playlist. He told himself it was because the song reminded him of that afternoon. Of you singing badly. Of your terrible maths skills. Of your weird obsession with One Direction.

He ignored what it really meant. Even then— he knew he was lying.

2014 — Happy.

You were gripping Lando’s arm hard enough to probably cut off his circulation. Your face was buried firmly in his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as terrifying sounds blasted through the television speakers.

You had absolutely no idea why you’d convinced yourself this was a good idea. It was a rare free Friday night for Lando. Karting had started taking over his life and weekends like this were becoming rarer and rarer.

He’d begged you to come over. You’d tried to be responsible and told him he needed rest. Then thirty minutes later you’d shown up at his house in your comfiest clothes holding a bag of Kinder chocolate, popcorn, and a horror DVD your older cousin had sworn was “more funny than scary.”

Your cousin was a liar.

Lando had protested immediately. You were both pathetic when it came to horror films and always had been.

He’d suggested literally anything else. But all it had taken was one dramatic pout and your best puppy dog eyes before he gave in with an exhausted sigh.

And now— you were both suffering the consequences.

Another horrifying screech echoed from the television. You practically climbed into his lap.

“Jesus Christ,” Lando yelped.

“Don’t say his name right now,” you whispered frantically. “What if that makes it worse?” 

Lando stared at you for a long moment. Then burst into laughter. You glared. “This is serious Lan.”

“You’re literally shaking.”

“You are too.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Because annoyingly— you were right.

You were pressed so tightly against him that your legs were half tangled with his, one of your hands clutching the fabric of his t-shirt. And Lando was trying very hard not to think about any of that. Particularly not the way your hair smelled like your shampoo. Or how your heartbeat seemed to sync with his every time you clung tighter. Or how he would quite happily sit through ten thousand terrible horror films if it meant you kept holding onto him like this.

He also tried very hard not to think about how fast his own heart was beating.

By the time the film finally ended, you were scrambling for the remote like your life depended on it.

“I don’t understand why you do this to yourself,” Lando groaned from the sofa, throwing the last piece of chocolate into his mouth. “You hate horror films.”

“Because it gives me an adrenaline rush and I always forget how much I hate being scared.”

“That is genuinely one of the stupidest things you’ve ever said.”

“Thank you.”

You flipped through channels desperately. Anything to erase the images now haunting your brain.

Then— music. Your entire face lit up.

“Oh no,” Lando groaned immediately. The opening beats of Happy filled the room. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Lan,” you launched yourself off the sofa and grabbed both of his wrists. “It’s a happy song. You know you secretly love it.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“You’re lying.”

You tugged him upright before he could protest further. Soon you were dancing wildly around his living room. Completely off beat. Sliding in socks across the wooden floor. Nearly knocking over a lamp. Laughing so hard neither of you could breathe properly.

Lando tried resisting for approximately twenty seconds. Then, as always— he gave in.

Because he always gave in to you.

You spun beneath his arm. He nearly dropped you. You both collapsed into hysterical laughter. And for the first time since the film ended— you forgot to be scared.

By the time the song ended, you were breathless. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

And when his mum entered the room to politely tell you both to stop screaming lyrics at midnight, you dissolved into fresh laughter.

As she walked away shaking her head, you fell straight into Lando’s arms. Still giggling. Still breathless. Your head rested against his shoulder as your breathing slowly steadied. And for a moment— everything felt warm. Safe. Easy.

Lando looked down at you as you melted into him without hesitation. Trusted him without question. And something in his chest tightened painfully.

Later that night, despite loudly declaring Happy was the most irritating song ever written— he still added it to the playlist. Because now all he could hear when it played was your laughter.

And all he could think about was how much he loved being the person who made you feel safe.

2017 - Feel Good.

You had been quiet the entire car ride. Which was deeply unsettling. You were rarely quiet. Usually your words spilled out faster than your brain could catch them.

But tonight— nothing. Lando kept glancing over at you as he drove through quiet streets with no real destination in mind. He was just driving.

Because when you’d called him sobbing so hard he could barely understand you, all coherent thought had abandoned him. He’d thrown on shoes. Forgotten a jacket. And left his house within thirty seconds.

When he pulled up outside yours, his chest had tightened painfully. You were wearing one of his old hoodies. One he’d left at your house months ago. Your shoulders were slumped. Your usual bounce completely gone.

You looked so heartbreakingly small walking toward his car that Lando had to physically stop himself from getting out and pulling you into his arms.

Instead— he unlocked the door. You climbed in. Offered him the smallest smile imaginable. And absolutely shattered him.

Your eyes were red and swollen. Your lips looked raw from chewing at them. Mascara streaked beneath your eyes. Like you’d been crying long before you called him.

And Lando wanted— desperately— to fix it. He wanted to ask who did this. He wanted names. Addresses. Potentially a shovel.

Instead— he started driving.

An hour passed before you finally spoke.

“He broke up with me,” your voice sounded shredded. Like every word hurt to say. Lando’s stomach dropped. He knew exactly who you meant. The older boy from college you’d spent weeks talking about. The one who made your face light up. The one Lando had smiled politely about while quietly dying inside.

You’d spent weeks gushing about how sweet he was. How thoughtful. How funny. And every single time Lando had wanted to scream— I could love you better than this.

Instead, he’d smiled. Because that’s what best friends did. Even when it killed them.

You let out another broken sob. Your face disappeared into the sleeve of his hoodie. There were dark mascara stains smeared across the fabric. And Lando thought they were the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

Because it meant you came to him. Always him.

His grip tightened around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He wanted to reach for your hand. Wanted to wipe your tears away. Wanted to tell you this boy was an idiot. Wanted to tell you he’d spend the rest of his life proving you deserved better.

Instead— he reached forward and turned on the radio.

A familiar beat blasted through the speakers. You looked at him through wet lashes.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re crying too loudly.”

A watery laugh escaped you. And Lando nearly drove into a lamppost because that sound felt like oxygen returning to his lungs.

By the chorus, your fingers were tapping against your knee. By the second verse, you were quietly singing. By the end— you were smiling. Small. Fragile. But real.

And Lando would’ve replayed that song a thousand times if it meant seeing that smile again. After that— you talked. About how he’d broken up with you over text. About how humiliating it felt. About how stupid you felt for not seeing it coming.

And Lando listened. He said all the right things. Soft things. Steady things. The things best friends were supposed to say. Even while every selfish part of him wanted to ask why you kept choosing boys who would never love you properly.

At some point your words slowed. Then stopped entirely. He glanced over. You’d fallen asleep. Your head resting against his shoulder. One hand loosely tangled with his on the centre console.

Like touching him was instinct. Like it was home.

Lando nearly broke right there.

Instead— he kept driving. Long after he should’ve taken you home. Long after the petrol warning light came on. Because he knew the second he dropped you off— you’d wake up heartbroken again.

And if he could give you one more hour of peace— he would. He always would.

Later that night, after helping you inside, past your concerned parents and making sure you drank water and washed your makeup off— he searched the song just to add it to the playlist.

Because it made you smile through heartbreak. Because your laugh had returned. Because your hand had reached for his without thinking. Because for one brief moment— it had almost felt like you were his.

And he was weak enough to treasure even that.

(You never told him your boyfriend had ended things because he said he couldn’t compete with Lando. That secret stayed buried deep inside you. Right next to the terrifying truth that maybe— you hadn’t wanted him to.)

2018 — Yellow.

You’d been there for almost every version of Lando. You were there when he first discovered karting. When he’d come home after watching races with his dad, eyes bright and voice breathless as he talked about how one day that would be him.

You were there through his years in junior formula. Through impossible schedules. Through wins. Through losses. Through exhausted phone calls and rushed airport goodbyes.

You’d attended enough races with his family that people occasionally assumed you were a Norris too. Neither of you ever corrected them.

When he joined McLaren’s young driver programme, you’d cried so hard his sisters laughed at you. When he became a reserve driver, you sent him embarrassing videos of yourself sobbing at your television.

And when he finally got the call— a Formula One seat. A real one. Next year. Alongside Carlos Sainz. You thought your heart might burst from pride. And maybe break a little too.

It wasn’t technically a going-away party. Everyone knew Lando would be home constantly. Mostly because he physically couldn’t stay away from his mum for very long.

But it was still a celebration. A marker. A before and after. You’d helped plan everything with his mum and sisters. 

And now the night had blurred into one long haze of laughter. Fairy lights hanging from the garden fence. Smoke from the barbecue lingering in the summer air. Music drifting from speakers. Too much food. Too many drinks.

Your feet aching from dancing. Your stomach hurting from laughing. And beneath all of it— grief. Quiet. Sharp.

Because everything was changing. And you hated yourself a little for mourning something you should’ve been celebrating.

You were proud. God, you were proud. But you were sad too. And no matter how hard you tried— you couldn’t seem to shake it.

By the time the evening began winding down, most people had retreated inside for warmth. Everyone except you and Lando.

You sat wrapped in a blanket in the garden. Your legs stretched out in front of you. Lando lay beside you with his head in your lap. Your fingers lazily moved through his curls as both of you stared at the sky.

“That one’s definitely Orion.”

You snorted. “That is absolutely not Orion.”

“It is.”

“It’s literally a plane.”

Lando squinted. “That feels unnecessarily embarrassing for me.”

You laughed softly. And he thought again how it was his favourite sound in the world.

Then a song began drifting through the garden speakers. Your entire face lit up.

Lando smiled instantly. “You really love this song.”

“I’m going to get it tattooed one day.”

He tilted his head slightly to look at you. “Oh yeah?”

“Definitely.”

“Where?”

You frowned thoughtfully. “Haven’t really thought that far ahead.”

He laughed quietly. “Of course you haven’t.”

Then— silence. Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just full.

Your fingers slowed in his hair. Your eyes drifted downward.

And suddenly you became painfully aware of how close his face was. How soft his expression looked. How his eyes kept flicking to your mouth.

Your breathing faltered. So did his. Your hand moved from his curls to his jaw. Your thumb brushing softly across his skin. Lando stopped breathing entirely.

For one suspended, impossible moment— you leaned down. And Lando genuinely thought his entire life was about to begin. He wondered if this was it. If every year of waiting had somehow led here.

Your lips parted. His eyes fluttered shut. And then— 

“Thank you,” his eyes opened. You were smiling sadly. “For always being there for me,” your fingers still traced his jaw. “I’m really going to miss you, Lan.”

And just like that— the moment shifted.

Lando swallowed the sharp sting of disappointment. Because of course your first instinct was to love him gently. Even when accidentally breaking his heart.

He reached up and covered your hand with his. “I’m not leaving you,” his voice was quiet. Certain. “I could never leave you.”

Your throat tightened. “You promise?”

He sat up slightly. Close enough that your noses almost brushed. “I promise that no matter where I go,” his eyes locked onto yours. “You’ll always have me.”

And maybe that should’ve felt like friendship. Maybe it should’ve felt simple. Instead— it felt like standing too close to something life-changing.

So you did what you always did when things with Lando felt too big. You smiled. He smiled back. And neither of you mentioned how close you’d come to changing everything.

And once again, almost ritualistic, long after you’d gone home, Lando added Yellow to the playlist. Because it sounded like summer. Like promises. Like almosts. Like you.

And if he spent an embarrassing amount of time wondering what would’ve happened if you’d leaned just a little further— well. That stayed between him and the playlist.

2019 - Liability.

You hadn’t even stepped into the hotel room yet and you could already feel his frustration. It clung to the air. Heavy. Sharp.

The race had gone horribly. And you knew him well enough to know exactly what was happening inside his head.

He was brutal with himself. Always had been. He could win and still focus on what went wrong. He could achieve something incredible and immediately tear himself apart over what he should’ve done better. And no matter how many times you reminded him how extraordinary he was— that voice in his head always seemed louder.

You’d spent years trying to quiet it. Tonight was no different. You knocked softly on his hotel door. Then waited. And waited.

Your stomach twisted. Because there was always a chance he wouldn’t let you in. That he’d choose isolation instead. And you’d respect that. Even if it broke your heart.

Then finally— the door opened. Lando stood there in grey sweats and an old t-shirt. His hair was messy. His eyes tired. His jaw tense.

But the second he saw you— something shifted. Not completely. But enough.

You lifted the bag of sweets in your hand like a peace offering. “I come bearing emotional support sweets.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. And he stepped aside.

That tiny movement felt like victory.

You’d learned a long time ago that pushing Lando never worked. He talked when he was ready. Your job was simply to stay.

So that’s what you did. You kicked off your shoes and dramatically launched yourself onto his bed. Sprawling across it like you paid for the room yourself. Lando sat near the headboard, shoulders still rigid with tension.

“Never thought I’d get to see this side of the world,” you said after a while, opening the sweets. “Becoming friends with you was actually a brilliant financial decision.”

A small laugh escaped him. Forced. But present.

You kept going. “You know, I found these bracelets at a market yesterday,” you held yours up proudly. “I was going to get you one but they didn’t have idiot sizes.”

He huffed a real laugh this time. Your chest warmed. Progress. “The dumplings here are incredible by the way. Life-changing, honestly,” he looked at you properly now. “I think I might move here solely for dumplings.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“You know me.”

“I unfortunately do.”

And so it continued. You rambled. About markets. About your flight. About bad tourists. About a waiter who hated you. Anything to pull him out of his own head.

And slowly— his shoulders dropped. His jaw unclenched. His eyes softened.

By the time an hour passed— his smile looked real again. And your heart nearly burst with relief.

“Do you want to listen to some music?” you asked softly. You moved beside him at the headboard, slipping beneath his duvet like you belonged there. Maybe you did.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

Your shoulder brushed his. Then stayed there. Neither of you moved away. Your pulse did something strange. You ignored it.

You pulled out your phone and opened a playlist you’d carefully built for nights exactly like this. Songs for when Lando forgot how incredible he was. Songs for when you didn’t have the right words.

Lorde began playing softly.

The room went quiet. Your fingers found his hand beneath the duvet without thinking. Like muscle memory. Like instinct.

Lando looked down at your intertwined hands. Then at you.

Your head rested against his shoulder now. Your breathing slowly evening out. He could feel every inhale. Every exhale. Every place your body touched his felt electrically alive. His heart stuttered painfully against his ribs.

And then— you fell asleep. Typical. But, you were still holding his hand. Still tucked against his side. Still trusting him with every fragile part of yourself.

Lando looked down when you let out the tiniest snore. And he smiled so hard it almost hurt. Because no one knew how to love him like this. Quietly. Patiently. Without asking for anything in return.

And God— he was so hopelessly in love with you it felt terminal.

Later that night, after carefully untangling himself so he wouldn’t wake you— he added more songs to the playlist. Because it reminded him of your hand finding his in the dark. Of your head on his shoulder. Of how your love always arrived in the exact form he needed.

And how terrifying it was that you still didn’t realise you already owned his entire heart.

2024 - cardigan.

The atmosphere was electric. It buzzed through your veins so violently you thought you might explode from it. The screams. The chanting. The tears. The heat.

Everything blurred into one overwhelming moment. And yet somehow— all you could see was him. Standing on the top step. His first win. Finally.

Your face was soaked with tears. Your cheeks hurt. Your chest physically ached from how hard your heart was pounding. You’d watched the entire race barely breathing as he defended against lap after lap.

And when he crossed that finish line— you’d screamed so loudly that his mum had burst into laughter before pulling you into her arms.

Only then had you realised you were sobbing. Properly sobbing. Completely undignified. You didn’t care.

Your best friend had just won his first Formula One race. And the world finally felt correct.

You’d always known he was destined for this. Even before either of you really understood what racing meant. There had always been something extraordinary about him.

You saw it the day he’d looked up at you from the ground after you shoved him off the climbing frame. That ridiculous grin. That spark in his eyes. That certainty.

Maybe that was why you’d agreed to be his best friend so easily. Because some part of you knew your life would always be brighter with him in it.

You watched him disappear into a sea of orange as the celebrations roared around him. His family clung to him. His team cried. Champagne sprayed everywhere.

And you stayed back. Even though every part of you wanted to launch yourself at him. Wanted to kiss his stupid smiling face. Wanted to tell him you loved him.

That thought hit you so suddenly you almost stopped breathing. You blinked it away. Absolutely not. You were emotional. That was all.

Then he stepped onto the podium. And you forgot how to breathe all over again. Because he looked— beautiful.

There was no other word for it. Sunlight caught in his curls. His jaw sharp beneath the spray of champagne. His smile so bright it bordered on blinding.

As the British anthem played, all you could think was: He belongs there. He always had.

Hours later, once the chaos in the garage had calmed slightly— you ran. Straight at him.

Lando barely had time to react before you launched yourself into his arms. He stumbled backward with a startled laugh before his hands locked around your waist. Lifting you effortlessly.

Your legs instinctively wrapped around him. And suddenly— everything else disappeared. The noise. The team. The cameras. The celebration.

Gone. 

All you could feel was him. Warm. Sweaty. Sticky with champagne. Real. Your face buried into his neck. His breath hot against your skin.

“I’m so fucking proud of you, Lan,” you whispered brokenly. Your voice cracked. “You were incredible today.”

His grip tightened around your waist. And when he spoke, his voice sounded dangerously soft. “I’m just glad you were here.”

Your entire body went still. Your heart stuttered violently. Because he said it like it mattered. Like you mattered.

And that felt far too dangerous to unpack.

So like always, you didn’t.

Later, exhausted and slightly tipsy, you found yourself in the backseat on the drive to the hotel. Your forehead rested against the cool glass. Your headphones played softly. Your entire body hummed with emotional exhaustion.

Then— his hand landed on your bare knee. You physically jolted. Electricity tore through your body so sharply your breath caught. It felt like every nerve ending you possessed had suddenly become aware of him.

You turned sharply. Lando was already watching you. His curls still damp. His cheeks flushed. His eyes impossibly soft. Golden under the streetlights. He looked unfairly beautiful.

He nodded toward your earphones. You pulled one out slowly.

“What’s on the playlist today?” His voice was quiet. His thumb absentmindedly brushed across your knee. Once. Twice. Your brain completely short-circuited.

You forgot every word you’d ever known. Forgot how breathing worked. Forgot your own name, probably.

“I—” Nothing. Your lips parted uselessly.

Lando’s eyes dropped to your mouth. Then flicked back up. And suddenly the air felt dangerously thin.

So instead— you shoved the earbud toward him. Coward.

He took it. Listened for a moment. Then laughed softly. “Taylor Swift?”

You exhaled shakily. “I like her lyrics.”

His hand finally left your knee. And you hated the loss instantly.

Later that night, drunk and still buzzing from victory, Lando added the song to the playlist. Because your legs had wrapped around him like instinct. Because your body reacted to his touch like it meant something. Because you looked at him like he hung the stars.

And for the first time in years— he allowed himself to believe this might actually have a happy ending.

2025 - Everywhere, Everything.

Lando knew it was a terrible idea. Max had certainly told him it was a terrible idea. His mum probably would’ve agreed.

And yet— when you casually suggested spending two weeks with him in Monaco before pre-season testing began— he said yes before his brain could intervene.

Which was objectively idiotic. Two whole weeks. Just you. Just him. Alone. In his flat. Wandering sun-drenched streets. Getting tipsy in tiny restaurants hidden from tourists. Falling asleep on the sofa during films. Talking until three in the morning about childhood memories.

It was a spectacularly terrible idea for someone hopelessly in love with his best friend. Especially after Miami. After the way you’d looked at him. After how your body reacted to his touch.

He’d almost convinced himself you felt it too.

Then two weeks later— you’d tried setting him up with a girl in a bar. And yelled at him when he turned her down.

So clearly— he was an idiot. And this? This was simply him volunteering for emotional torture.

By day seven, being woken by your singing had become routine. Terrible singing. Loud singing. Entirely confident singing. He usually found it deeply annoying.

He secretly adored it.

Dragging himself from bed, hair a mess and sleep still heavy in his bones, Lando expected to find you singing while doing something normal. Brushing your teeth. Doing laundry. Scrolling your phone.

What he didn’t expect— what stopped him dead in the doorway— was you dancing in his kitchen. Morning sunlight spilled through the windows. Your bare feet slid across the floor. Your phone blasted from the counter.

And you— God. You were wearing his clothes. One of his oversized t-shirts which swallowed your frame. A pair of his shorts hung low on your hips. Your hair was messy from sleep. You were singing lyrics that were definitely incorrect while attempting to cook breakfast.

And Lando forgot how to breathe. Completely. Because it looked— dangerously— like home. Like Sunday mornings ten years from now. Like every future he’d quietly imagined but never let himself fully want.

His chest physically ached from it. Because this was everything he wanted. And none of it was actually his. You were still just his best friend. And that felt unbearably cruel.

He stood there far longer than he should have. Just watching. Watching you dance terribly. Watching you smile to yourself. Watching your hips sway off beat. Committing every second to memory.

Then you spun around. And screamed. “Lando!” You clutched your chest dramatically. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

He laughed softly. “Now you know how it feels.”

You narrowed your eyes. Then turned back toward the stove. “Get out.”

“What?”

“I’m making you breakfast.”

“It smells burnt.”

You gasped. “It is caramelised.”

“It smells like smoke.”

“Get out, Norris!”

Lando raised his hands in surrender, laughing as he retreated. And somehow— he fell even harder.

A few minutes later, you appeared balancing two plates. He watched you set breakfast down with an unnecessarily proud expression.

Shockingly— it was edible.

You talked through breakfast. About a bizarre dream you’d had. About a dog you saw yesterday. About absolutely nothing.

And Lando sat there watching morning light hit your face and thought: This is it. This is everything. This is what people write songs about. This is what forever should feel like.

And it was killing him. Because he couldn’t have it.

“So,” you asked brightly, stabbing your fork into your eggs, “what’s the plan today?”

Lando nearly said: Stay exactly here forever.

Instead, he smiled. And let you plan another day he’d replay for the rest of his life.

After breakfast, he insisted on washing up. You bounded around the table. Then— without thinking— pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thanks, Lan.”

And walked away. Just like that. Like you hadn’t completely altered his molecular structure. 

Lando froze. Plate still in hand. Heart pounding so hard it physically hurt. His skin burned where your lips touched him. And for one completely delusional second— he let himself imagine chasing after you.

Pulling you back. Kissing you properly. Telling you everything.

But instead— he stood perfectly still. And accepted the devastating truth. He was going to be in love with you for the rest of his life. Whether you ever loved him back or not.

Once again, after you’d both gone to bed much later than you should have, he added another song to the playlist.

Then lay awake staring at his ceiling until sunrise— wondering how something could feel so much like forever and still not be his.

You couldn’t breathe.

As You Are In Love began to swell through the speakers, it felt like your entire body was shutting down. Your hands trembled violently. Your chest ached. Your face was soaked with tears, mascara dragging down your cheeks as years of memories crashed into you all at once.

Every song. Every moment. Every tiny memory he had treasured enough to save. He had taken the most ordinary moments of your life and turned them into something sacred.

And somehow— every single song had been about you. You felt sick with it. Not disgust. Not fear. Just overwhelming, all-consuming emotion.

Because how had you missed this? How had you missed him?

Before you could gather a coherent thought— the bathroom door opened. Steam spilled into the room.

And there he was.

Lando walked out of the bathroom adjusting the collar of his shirt, curls still damp from his shower. “Before you say anything,” he began lightly, “my mum bought me this shirt and I know it looks slightly divorced dad but—”

He stopped. Completely. His eyes landed on you. Your tear-streaked face. His phone in your trembling hands. The music still quietly filling the room. And all the colour drained from his face so quickly it terrified you.

You watched the exact moment he understood. The exact moment his entire body seemed to lock up. 

“Oh,” the word barely existed. His throat bobbed harshly. “It’s not—” He stopped himself. Because what exactly was the lie? That the playlist wasn’t about you? That he hadn’t spent half his life loving you? That every song didn’t belong to a version of you he had adored? His breathing became uneven. “I can explain.”

“Lando—”

“No,” his voice cracked so sharply it made your heart lurch. “Please— please just let me explain before you say anything.”

And suddenly he looked terrified. Not embarrassed. Not awkward. Terrified. Like this was his worst nightmare unfolding in real time. Like he was watching his entire future collapse. He didn’t come closer. Didn’t dare. Because this— this was the moment he had spent years avoiding.

He was twelve years old when he started that playlist. A stupid little coping mechanism. A place to put feelings that felt too enormous for a twelve-year-old boy to understand. And over time— it became everything. Every version of you. Every memory. Every almost. Every moment he loved you so much it felt unbearable.

And now you knew. And he was certain he was about to lose the most important person in his life. “I know it’s pathetic,” he laughed weakly, though it sounded more like he was breaking apart. “I know it’s insane and creepy and I should’ve deleted it years ago but I—”

His voice broke completely. His eyes squeezed shut. “I didn’t know what to do with how much I love you,” your entire body went still. And Lando mistook your silence for devastation. He nodded to himself like he was bracing for impact. “That’s fair.”

Your face crumpled further. “Lando—”

“No, it’s okay,” he was crying now. Actually crying. And it looked like it was killing him to keep speaking. “I know you don’t feel the same,” that sentence physically hurt to hear. “I know that,” he inhaled shakily. “But I swear to God I never wanted anything from you.”

His voice cracked again. “I was happy just being your best friend,” he laughed bitterly through tears. “Well— not happy. That feels dramatic. But I could live with it,” he looked at you then. Completely wrecked. Because he had nothing left to hide. “I could survive loving you quietly,” your breathing turned ragged. “But I couldn’t survive losing you.”

That shattered something inside you. Because suddenly— everything made sense. 

Every boyfriend you compared to him. Every moment of jealousy you swallowed. Every electric touch. Every almost kiss. Every irrational fear of him falling in love with someone else. Every time your heart had screamed his name while your brain called it friendship. Every version of your future that felt wrong unless he was standing in it.

Oh.

Oh.

You had been in love with him for years. Maybe forever. And you had both wasted so much time being afraid.

A broken laugh escaped through your tears. “You absolute idiot.”

Lando blinked at you. Completely confused. “What?”

And then you moved. Fast enough that he barely had time to react before your hands framed his face. Your thumbs wiped away tears he clearly hadn’t even realised had fallen.

And then— you kissed him.

And the world stopped. Completely. His lips were warm. Soft. Familiar in a way that made no sense and yet felt entirely right. Like your body had been waiting years for this exact moment.

Lando froze for half a second. Then he kissed you back like he’d been starving. One hand buried itself in your hair. The other wrapped around your waist and pulled you impossibly closer. And suddenly there was no space left between either of you.

No room for fear. No room for doubt. Just years of buried love finally spilling free.

The kiss was desperate. Tender. Messy with tears and laughter and disbelief. Every almost. Every longing glance. Every song. Every moment. All of it led here.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless. Foreheads pressed together. Laughing in stunned disbelief.

“How long?” you whispered.

Lando let out a shaky laugh. “Honestly?” His thumb brushed your cheek. “I think I came out of the womb loving you.”

You laughed through tears. “God,” you collapsed into him again, hiding your face in his neck. “We are such idiots,” his arms tightened around you instantly. “I don’t think I’ve ever known what it feels like not to love you, Lan.”

He went completely still. Like he needed to hear it again to believe it. “You love me?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “You made an entire playlist documenting our love story and you’re still asking stupid questions?”

He laughed so hard it broke into a sob. And kissed you again. Softer this time. Reverent.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “So much it’s actually embarrassing.”

“I’m sorry I looked through your phone.”

“I’m sorry I made a secret psycho playlist.”

You snorted. “It’s disgustingly romantic actually.”

His smile nearly blinded you.

Later that night, after hours of talking and kissing and laughing and saying I love you in increasingly ridiculous ways— you fell asleep wrapped in his arms. Your back pressed to his chest. His lips brushing lazy kisses against your shoulder. Like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real. 

At some point during the night— you quietly stole his phone. Opened the playlist. And smiled.

You changed the title.

songs that sound like home (finally mine)

Then you added one final song.

When Lando found it the next morning— the sound of his laughter woke you. Followed very quickly by him kissing you like he planned on doing it for the rest of his life.

And for the first time— forever didn’t feel frightening. 

It felt exactly like home.

wallow in your own snotty tissues and scratchy throat that you'll inevitably be too lazy to get up and make a honey laced tea to soothe it. god, you can see it now. all this meaning going into your job today was an absolute no go, and calling in sick was the first thing you did after staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror for 5 more minutes.

it's then, when you can't stand the sickly sight any longer, that you shuffle down your apartment hall until you're able to flop face down on your blanket infested couch—letting the sound of the baseball game on tv lull you in and out of sleep for hours.

—

if arber xhekej had to guess why he didn't see you in the usual shared elevator journey this morning, he would assume that you had slept in.

knowing you, and he's sure he does, it wouldn't be that obscure of a concept. it’s that, or you had to go into work early, rather than the usual 8 a.m. time you're both usually leaving at.

the relationship you and your athlete neighbour have is...complicated. not in an awkward way, or a way that is only one person not understanding that the other is totally not feeling it. you guys flirt, and laugh, and meet by the communal mail boxes to flirt even more while sorting through the same letters over and over.

to the outside perspective, you're practically dating, just without all the physical aspects—sigh. you make sure the two plants he bought don't wilt while he's away (plants that unbeknownst to you, sever bought solely for that purpose of you doting around his apartment like a housewife.) he leaves you little goodies in your mail box—like your favourite cookies or single flower stems. you even watch movies together every friday night on his couch when arber doesn't have games. almost cuddling under the fluffy duvet. your feet definitely tucked under his thigh. his eyes always on your face more than the tv.

it's nice. it's a routine. one that when you break, he notices. your lack of presence in the elevator this morning being just that. and like he already concluded, arber chalked it up to you sleeping in. not un-common because you never know when to put youtube down and actually go to sleep.

another thought was that maybe you had the day off today—arber had already decided before entering your favourite coffee spot that he would get you one just in case you were home.

but then, on his way home from the practice rink, he notices your mail slot full, and he could only just stare at it with a frown, your coffee order in his hand like it's second nature. you didn’t get your mail, which means you haven’t left your apartment.

so obviously arber is knocking on your apartment door before curiosity can kill the cat within him. three soft taps with his knuckle to get your attention. coffee cup burning his calloused palm.

you barley hear the sound over the pressure in your ears and the tv, but inevitably you do catch it, sighing loudly when you realize you'll have to get up and answer it. I mean realistically, you could ignore it, but what if it's the police who need your assistance solving a crime you forgot you witnessed.

right.

you turn off criminal minds, because the jays game got boring, and pull yourself up, shuffling in fuzzy socks towards the door. blanket around your shoulders and nose rawer than grocery store meat.

pulling open the threshold with as much strength as a newborn baby, you're met with a familiar sight, one that despite your lack of enthusiasm for living right now, has your heart rate increasing.

arber straightens, eyes sweeping over you—your stuffy nose, clammy skin and last nights pyjamas still clad on your body despite it being almost 2 in the afternoon.

"oh y/n baby," he sighs gently, looking into you're sleepy gaze. "you're sick." not waiting or needing a reply from you, he moves past your hunched frame and places the coffee down on your counter before turning back to you.

"you're burning up," he notes, brushing your forehead with the back of his hand with as much gentleness as a bunny. "have you taken anything?"

you sniffle, voice hoarse as you answer. "don't have anything." you tell him weakly, pulling the blanket tighter around your cold arms. when you woke up this morning, you were firstly hoping to pop a couple cold and flu's into your system and try and push through the day—working means a paycheck and that means paying your bills—but you didn’t have any. not in the bathroom, or in the cupboard above the microwave. and no way you were going out for some, so you just gave up on that idea.

arber's frown deepens. "you should've texted me."

"didn't wanna bug you."

"I want you to bug me," he insists. when you just shrug, unsure and still hazy, arber sighs gently and runs one large hand through his shower damp hair—like he's trying not to loose his mind at that revelation. then he's rubbing at his jaw. then shifting again, hands in his hips when he meets your eyes.

"okay," arber starts, "i'm gunna run to my place and get some meds for you, and you're gunna hop in the shower-"

your mouth parts, a protest already coming from the back of your scratchy throat. but he beats you to it, pointing a thick finger at you with just enough authority to show he cares.

"you'll feel better when you're clean. no arguing."

if you had enough energy, you'd roll your eyes. you know he's right, and that washing off the nights sleep and sweat will feel good.

he continues, "and then we'll load you up on drugs and then we'll pull up bad netflix movies."

you huff like the idea is stupid, but are already half smiling at the thought.

"i'll let you use me as a pillow." he matches your grin, rubbing along your arms without a second thought.

honestly that sounds like the start to a heavenly nap on the sexiest man you've ever seen. but regardless, you turn you red, runny nose up with as much prissiness you can conjure. "maybe I don't want to lay on you. you're too hard."

"you love my rock hard body." arber retorts so quickly that it takes you a second to hear it. once you do, you're immediately flustered, but he's too busy ushering you towards the bathroom door for you to dwell on it.

"shower." he tells you, flipping on the light so you see that dreadful sight of yourself for the second time today. you grimace.

you meet his eyes through the mirror. "bring me back your duvet too. It's comfy."

he raised an amused brow, "you've got plenty of blankets."

"but I want yours." you whine like a child, making arber roll his eyes. he turns away to turn on the faucet, and the room soon start to warm with steam. he turns back to you expectantly, hands in his hoodie pocket.

you pout, "please."

"fine," he breaks instantly. "now shower."

you watch as he stalks towards the door, a triumphant tingle behind your ribs. "yes sir."

he shoots you a look before disappearing behind the wall, and despite the ache in your cheeks and fullness in your sinuses, you let yourself to smile.

—

by the time you've scrubbed your skin raw of any stink and clamminess, you've become completely exhausted and lightheaded from the heat. meaning you promptly ended your shower before you can be sure if you've properly washed all the conditioner out—that's a problem for another day, preferably when you're not on deaths doorstep. you don't bother brushing your hair or moisturizing, too tired to do anything but put on your oversized fuzzy robe and shuffle back out into your living space.

you notice three things immediately. one is that arber has tidied up your mess—including the collection of snotty tissues that had been on the coffee table, and the dirty dishes in the counter. the second is that there's a half empty box of cold and flu medicine next to the coffee he brought you, as well as a cup of water which now accompanies it. and the third, and the most heart wrenching, is arber himself, now wearing sweats and a fitted t-shirt (fucking hello biceps), stirring something that’s bubbling on the stove top.

he looks over his shoulder when he hears your footsteps come to a halt. his eyes trail over your bare legs and then bare neck, like even though you look like the grim reapers next victim, he still thinks you're sexy.

"look at that," he muses, "you're clean."

you sniffle, feeling miserable despite everything as you make your way towards him—the heat from the flame warming you through the robe.

you stop next to him. "what are you making?"

"mums chicken soup," he stirs it again, and you can almost smell the broth through your congestion. "also known as the flu killer."

you manage a half snort, but it doesn't really land. it has arber peeking down at you again, and his brows draw together in concern. all earlier signs of playfulness, although brief, completely breaking away. "you doing okay?"

in a moment of weakness—or exhaustion, or calm, or sickness, or whatever it is—you move closer until you're able to just…slump against him. cheek pressed into his warm bicep and arms loosely wrapped around his forearm.

you hum, "tired."

arber puts the spoon on the little plate besides your stove so he's able to brush your push hair further back from your forehead. then he lingers, fingers dancing over your eyebrow and cheek bone in a soothing, petting like manner.

"let's take your meds then, okay."

nodding dumbly, you kind of let him man handle you towards the couch, where he tucks you under his duvet—which smells so much like him that you want to cry. he out stretches his hand, two yellow pills in his palm.

but you're too tired to actually reach from them, so you just open your mouth. that has arber snickering, but he doesn't tease you otherwise. he places them on your tongue, and then passes you the cup of water he had poured when you were showering.

once you've swallowed, he takes the cup and puts it on the coffee table. "i'm just gunna finish up the soup and then i'll come cuddle, 'kay."

when you respond, your voice is hoarse. "mhmkay."

as you watch him in your tiny kitchen, making you his moms soup and humming some song under his breath that was definitely playing on the radio this morning, you can’t help the way your stomach flips. because here's this guy, taking care of you better than any boyfriend you've ever had. and it doesn't help that he keeps looking over at you every minute or so, probably making sure you haven't died or something equally as dramatic.

and suddenly you're filled with so much happiness and gratitude that when arber does finish up and sit down gently beside you, you're immediately tucking into him—jostling the bowl of soup you failed to notice in his hands.

"woah," he muses, stretching just enough to put the soup on the table but still acting as a human pillow for you. "easy girl, you almost got covered in carrots and celery."

you ignore him, nuzzling in further to his soft skin.

arber sits back, careful, and rubs at your knee over the blanket. his other hand cups your face, urging you to meet his gaze. "what's this for baby?"

the pet name has you feeling a little emotional, which is so embarrassing you can't even sit on that without wanting to tear up. so instead, you just sniffle and shrug for the umpteenth time. "thank you for being so nice to me, you didn't need to do all this."

for a moment, arber is just confused. brows drawn and lips downturned. because he feels like what he's doing doesn't need a thank you. not from you. not ever.

his thumb sweeps over your cheek. "don't be silly. I care about you." then because apparently he wants to send you into a coma, he lets his lips brush the spot between your eyebrows. a lingering kiss that has your eye lids fluttering closed.

"let's watch that movie you're obsessed with. that one with the weird title. anguish thongs." he says once he unfortunately pulls back, leaving you feeling cold and a little sad.

"angus, thongs and perfect snogging." you correct him, giggling softly despite yourself.

"still firey even when you're sick," arber grabs the remote, loading up prime. he grins back at you, "must be why I like you so much."

and that has you turning hot all over.

you end up cuddling on the couch for the entire movie. he keeps making stupid jokes that have you playfully flicking his side, and he yelps like you've shot him. he keeps pressing little kisses to your forehead between classic one liners in the movie, which makes you fucking float—or maybe that's just the two extra strength meds kicking in. who knows.

he makes you eat the soup he brought over, holding the bowl to your chin when you whine that you're too tired to do so. and of course he spoon feeds you too, because you're so cute and he simply just wants to baby you to the extreme.

you only manage to eat half, but arber praises you like you just ran a marathon with two broken legs.

when the credits roll, you turn your head to face him, something twinkling in your eyes that makes him swallow roughly. "feeling better?" arber asks under his breath after a beat, rubbing at the knee you've got pressed up into his ribs.

"a little," you match his level, voice barley a whisper above the sound of the tv and heavy breathing between you. "i'm mostly just tired now."

he notes the way your eyes flutter, the exhumation you’ve been battling throughout the day slowly taking its toll. "go to sleep, y/n."

you make a quiet, unimpressed sound, your voice thick with congestion as you burrow deeper into his side. "I don't want to fall asleep on you."

his arm tightens a little where it's wrapped around you, warm and steady, like he's already decided you're not going anywhere. "don’t lie." he teases.

"no, i’m serious," you mumble, though the way your eyes keep slipping half shut betray you. you nuzzle your cheek into the soft fabric of his shirt, faintly smelling like his laundry detergent and something distinctly him. "don’t you have a game to get ready for?"

arber totally does have a game tonight, and if his sense of time serves him right, he should be settling down for a pre-game nap right about now. but that doesn’t stop him from shaking his head, nothing but seriousness in his gaze. “i’d skip it for you."

you lift your head just enough to look at him again, brows knitting together despite how heavy everything feels. "arber." you warn.

"i’m serious." there’s no hesitation in his voice. no teasing edge. just quiet certainty that has you pausing.

you study him for a second, then narrow your eyes slightly. "say swear."

a small smile tugs at his mouth. "swear."

something in your chest shifts at that—soft and achy overtop of the virus lodged in there. you drop your head back against him, but this time you're more aware of everything. the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the way his thumb absently brushes against your side like he doesn't even realize he's doing it.

"why are you so nice to me?" you ask quietly. hesitant.

arber goes still for half a second. "are you serious?"

you nod against him, sniffling lightly. "yes. you don't need to be here, or be nice, or bring me coffee every day..." you trail off, hoping that your neighbour understands where you’re trying to go with this conversation.

thankfully, he does. his arm tightens just a little, grounding you. "I do it because you're like…my favourite person ever."

the words hit harder than you expect. you tilt your head up again, searching his face. "I am?"

"god, yes." he lets out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, shaking his head like he can't believe you're even questioning it. "i’m like...stupidly obsessed with you. seriously, I turn into a sixteen year old virgin around you."

a weak laugh slips out of you—half embarrassed, half flustered—which turns into a weak cough. “oh my god, stop."

"it’s the truth," arber insists, quieter now, voice losing its joking edge. he shifts slightly, facing you head on while still managing to keep ahold of your weak frame. "getting to see you smile at me across the elevator, or in the laundry room, or even when you're leaking snot and smell like garbage—"

"—hey!" you protest, trying to shove at him, but it lacks any real strength.

he continues on, unaffected. "—it makes even the worst days better."

you go completely still against him, the words settling between you like a warm cup of tea.

and then you notice the way he's looking at you. absolutely no tease, or joke swimming behind his familiar gaze. it’s pure love and purity—leaving you feeling a little overwhelmed and warm.

his gaze drops, slow and unintentional to your chapped lips, and your breath catches behind your teeth.

the apartment feels smaller now, shrinking to nothing but the quiet hum on the fridge and arber. you’ve got no choice but to become hyper aware of everything now—the way your legs are tangled together under the blanket, the warmth of his hand at your side, the way your heart is suddenly beating too fast for someone who's supposed to be sick.

he’s going to kiss you, or at least he’s thinking about it. "arber," you whisper his name, your voice softer now, almost unsure. "i’ll get you sick."

"that’s okay," he shrugs, already leaning closer, his forehead almost brushing yours. his voice dips, gentler and with a hint of something so him all the nerves in your veins disappearing. "just promise you'll take care of me when I do."

you fingers curl into the front of his shirt without you thinking about it, grounding yourself in something real. "promise." you tell him, breathless.

there’s a tiny pause—like he’s committing the moment to memory. and then, after what feels like a lifetime of flirting and gentle smiles and dreaming of something more, arber closes the distance and kisses you.

it’s soft, careful and unhurried. like he’s hyper aware that you’re fragile right now. like he’s trying to show you that it’s more than just one kiss, or a single moment.

his lips are warm against yours, lingering just a second longer than tentative, just short of confident. and you don’t dare think of pulling away. If anything, you lean into it, instinctively closer, chasing the warmth of him in a way that has nothing to do with the chill that's been clinging to you all day.

the kiss doesn’t last as long as you’d like it to, but you’re also grateful because it was getting hard to breath. he pulls back barely, just enough to look you in the eyes.

there’s a quiet, stunned smile on his face as his hand pulls your hair away from your neck. "see?" he murmurs. "worth it."

“you’re so annoying.” a soft, tired laugh escapes you, and this time when you settle back into him, it feels different—closer and heavier in the best way.

his hand resumes its slow, absent movement against your side. "you love it," he tells you softly, brushing his thumb along your arm, "now, go to sleep so you can get better and we can do that again.”

To say it had been a difficult evening would be flirting with understatement. But the moment you open the flat door, the smell hits you and your shoulders drop before you even realize they were tense. A tired groan slips from your throat.

The weight of the day loosens, just a little.

In the kitchen, separated from you only by the counter that keeps the space open to the living room, George has his back to you, instantly recognizable. Mostly because of his signature state of undress. Anyone who didn’t know him might assume he simply doesn’t own shirts, the only coverage being an apron tied neatly around his waist.

Soft jazz drifts from the Alexa resting on the counter, and he sways lightly where he stands, distracted, entirely surrendered to the moment.

You smile, setting your bag down.

On your way into the kitchen, you nearly trip over the rug and let out an irritated, “Fuck,” which finally makes George lift his eyes from whatever he’s doing.

“You alright there?” he asks, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

You let out a quiet laugh, nudging the rug back into place with your foot before walking over to him. When you finally reach him, George takes two steps to the side, making room for you. With a small hop, you settle yourself on the clear stretch of counter beside the sink.

“Hi,” you say, letting your head fall forward as though your body can barely hold itself up.

George tips the chopped onion from the board into the pan, and this time it’s his turn to let out a soft laugh.

“Hello, you,” he says, reaching into the drawer for a spoon. “Rough day?”

You sigh, lips forming a small pout.

“Very, very rough. They’re awful,” you mumble.

In less than a second, he’s beside you, spoon dipped into the pasta sauce he’s making. He holds it out toward you without a word. You open your mouth automatically.

“Jesus,” you say around a mouthful, covering it quickly with your hand out of habit.

It’s so good the reaction slips out before you can stop it. George’s smile slowly spreads.

“Oh? That good?” he asks, nodding slightly, as if encouraging the verdict.

“That’s obscene,” you say, already opening your mouth for more like an impatient child.

With a fresh spoonful, he indulges you. The rich mix of cheese and spices fills your senses.

“Mmm. Wow. You’re actually outdoing yourself.”

He turns to lower the heat before facing you again. His hands come up behind you, and his gaze drops briefly to the back of your neck. Without comment, he unclasps your necklace and slips it into your hands.

“Right,” he says lightly. “Out of my kitchen.”

“Hey!” you protest as he takes your free hand and helps you down from the counter.

“Off you go. Have a shower, put something comfortable on.” He gives your shoulder a light push, steering you out of the kitchen before reaching back for the spoon. “I’ll stay here and set the table for Her Majesty. And later you can tell me all about those horrible people from your work.”

For a second longer than necessary, you just stand there, looking at him, at the kitchen, at the soft jazz drifting through the air, and something in you doesn’t quite want to move yet.

George tilts his head toward the hallway in silent instruction. You roll your eyes, he makes a little shooing motion with both hands. You exaggerate a wounded pout, dropping your head in mock defeat before finally turning to go.

You don’t even see him slip off toward the laundry room behind the kitchen. The next thing you register is a clean towel landing over your head. You catch it with a laugh, tugging it down into place before continuing down the hall.

The next morning, George steps out of his bedroom a little after you, adjusting his Mercedes shirt over his frame and hooking his sunglasses into the collar. You’re standing in front of the hallway mirror, finishing off your lip gloss before turning toward him with narrowed eyes, the cap still halfway to closing.

He glances down at himself, suddenly self-conscious.

“What?” he asks, tugging lightly at the fabric of his shirt as if checking for a stain.

You walk over, tipping your chin up and motioning him closer with your hand — a silent come here, because the height difference is absurd.

George leans down without question.

You lift your fingers to his hair, adjusting a few strands back into place.

“Okay. Good,” you declare, giving him an approving thumbs-up.

He shifts in front of the mirror you were standing in front of moments ago and tilts his head from side to side, checking his hair.

“Had breakfast?” he asks.

You nod.

“And you didn’t wait for me? That’s betrayal, that is,” he complains lightly.

“You were sleeping like a rock.” You fold your arms loosely. “I tried waking you. Didn’t work. Nudged you like five times.”

You walk over to the counter and pick up the lunch bag.

“Buuuuut… I packed yours. You can eat at work.”

You hand him his breakfast.

He huffs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re far too clever for your own good,” he says.

You shrug lightly, the kind of gesture that makes it very clear you’re already aware of that fact. George rolls his eyes.

“Come on. I’ll drive you to work,” he says, pulling his keys from his pocket with one hand while holding the lunch bag with the other.

It isn’t exactly a daily occurrence, but it’s something you take advantage of whenever George happens to be around. He catches your bright smile and chuckles quietly to himself as he watches you go grab your things.

When you come back, the door is already open, and the two of you head down to the car together.

“As you know, I’m packing today,” George says, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel while the other shifts gears as the car slows at a light.

“Yeah.”

“I’m off to race. Just four days. I’ll fly back the night after.”

He glances at you briefly before looking back at the road, fingers tapping once against the wheel in that absent rhythm he falls into when thinking ahead.

“You’re not going to rest before coming back?” you ask, turning slightly in your seat to face him.

The indicator clicks softly as he changes lanes.

“I’d much rather rest at home, honestly,” he says, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “But I’ll let you know.”

He reaches blindly toward the center console, offering you the water bottle without looking — muscle memory more than intention.

“Alright,” you reply, taking the bottle automatically and twisting the cap open.

“You should come as well. They keep asking about you,” he adds, eyes still on the road. “We could stay a few extra days.”

“Everyone at Mercedes is lovely. I’d love to go, you know I would.” You take a sip from the water bottle, eyes still on him for a second before lowering them. “But I can’t pause the project right now.” You twist the cap back on and slide the bottle carefully into the cup holder. “My vacation actually lines up with your triple header, though. So I’ll be at three races in a row.”

His hand stills on the steering wheel. It’s subtle, just a slight tightening of his fingers before he glances at you properly this time, no half-look. A full one.

“You will?”

The light ahead turns red and he slows, the car coming to a smooth stop.

“And you’re only telling me this now?” he says, a laugh slipping into his voice despite himself. “Casually — as though this isn’t absolutely brilliant news?”

You grin.

“I knew you’d like it.”

His mouth curves before he can stop it, the smile breaking through fully now.

“Yeah,” he admits, shaking his head once in quiet disbelief. “I really do.”

The light turns green and the car moves again, the engine humming as George drives the last few blocks in thoughtful silence.

Your workplace comes into view sooner than either of you expects.

He pulls into a spot and parks smoothly, the engine cutting off.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then George unbuckles his seatbelt first, the click sharp in the quiet car. Instead of reaching for the door, he turns toward you fully, waiting.

“You probably won’t be here anymore by the time I get home, so…” you say, unfastening your own seatbelt, the strap sliding back into place with a soft whir.

Your hand lingers on the buckle for half a second before you look at him.

You smile to yourself, amused, knowing he’s still a little affected by the news. It’s been a long while since you last went to the paddock — and he isn’t the only one who’s missed it.

When he smiles back, you pull him into a tight hug, and he returns it instantly. After a moment, you lean away just enough to cradle his face gently between your hands.

“Be careful out there with those cars. The halo protects you from a lot of things, but not everything. Don’t be silly,” you say, your voice carrying a mock severity, like a mother sending her child off to karting practice.

He nods, eyes fixed on yours as if absorbing every word completely. You continue in the same tone:

“And eat properly. There won’t be a little lunchbox waiting for you on the other side of Europe, so you actually have to take care of yourself.”

He nods again, his hand coming to rest lightly at your elbow.

“If there’s any gossip, I expect a full report.” You wink, and he smiles a little sheepishly. “And… well, I guess that’s it.”

He looks at you as if expecting something more, then purses his lips the way he always does when he’s about to deliver a very well-thought-out piece of information.

“You’re not going to remind me to buy the local spices?” George asks, one eyebrow lifting.

Your eyes widen slightly before you release his face, letting your hands rest on his shoulders instead.

“Oh! Right! The local spices,” you say, lifting your index finger as if continuing a checklist. “And a plushie. You haven’t brought one back in ages.”

He laughs.

“Alright,” he says, leaning in to press a careful kiss to your forehead. “Have a good day at work. Take care of yourself as well.”

Your hand moves to the car door handle, lingering there for a moment before you finally push it open.

“Come back soon, George,” you murmur as you step out.

“Always do,” he replies quietly.

You don’t answer, just smile before closing the door.

You walk toward work, and behind you, his car waits a second longer than necessary before slipping back into the flow of the street.

Already on the other side of the continent, inside the Mercedes facilities, George goes about his work with the precision of someone who has been doing this for years. He studies telemetry data, revisits old races where he made serious mistakes and others where everything went remarkably right, analyzing his own movements as though they might reveal what comes next.

Someone approaches from behind — a familiar face from the team. George slips one earphone out and greets them. The conversation flows easily, familiar laughter and easy smiles, and they ask about you the way someone asks after a relative. George answers just as naturally, as if speaking about his own life.

You’re doing well. You couldn’t come because work has been keeping you busy, but you said you wished you were there. And then he adds:

“She’ll be at the triple header. That’ll be nice.”

There’s an obvious smile on his face.

The day goes on, and the next one comes just the same. He does everything — speaks to everyone, takes part in interviews, moves through the intensity of race weekends like someone born for it, because in many ways, he was. It’s the realization of a dream. George loves what he does, loves everything he has worked for and achieved.

You’re at home. A friend came over for the weekend because you always find race weekends unbearably empty. She’s stretched out on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn in her hands, while you pace behind it, visibly tense.

Your special-edition Mercedes shirt, signed, like all of them are, hangs loosely over your pajama shorts. Every now and then, you pull the cap down over your eyes, as if that might protect you from what’s about to happen.

The commentator’s voice rises, running through the key details as the final four minutes tick away. Your eyes lock onto the number 63 on the screen. You’ve already chewed every nail you have left.

His car moves to the side and—

He overtakes.

The race ends. George finishes P2.

As promised, George comes home that night. You’re not asleep, of course.

The moment he opens the door, he’s met with a bear hug that nearly knocks him off balance. You practically jump into his arms, legs wrapping around his hips while his arms tighten around you instinctively.

“P2! P2! P2!” you chant, swaying slightly in his hold.

He laughs, burying his face deeper into your neck for a second before carefully setting you back down on your feet.

His eyes lift toward the dining table and take in what you’ve laid out: champagne, proper champagne, not that podium rubbish, two glasses, crisps, and pan-fried courgette.

He loves courgette.

“Would you look at this. Special treatment, is it?” he asks, one eyebrow lifting.

You shrug, like it’s nothing at all.

“It’s what my champion deserves.”

“I’m not a champion. I’m P2,” he says, but he’s visibly pleased.

“Oh, hush. Come on. Let’s eat.”

You tug him by the arm toward the table, stepping away only long enough to grab the champagne and pour into both glasses while he takes a seat. You move to your usual spot, the chair along the side, close to him as he sits at the head.

With exaggerated elegance, George lifts his glass and waits for you before making a move. You pick up yours and extend it toward him.

“Alexa, play Soft Instrumental Jazz For All Your Activities, please,” he says, looking straight at you, which makes a complicit smile spread across your face.

The device glows blue.

“Playing Melody on 5th Street by Oli Venn from Soft Instrumental Jazz For All Your Activities on Spotify.”

“Thank you, Alexa. You’re brilliant,” he adds gravely, before finally tapping his glass gently against yours — a soft clink.

“To your P2 today. And to all the poles still to come,” you say, taking a sip.

“To your project,” he replies smoothly, “and to the dog we’re going to adopt.”

You blink. “Oh?”

“Yes. I’m not sure when yet, but it’s happening.”

The conversation carries on the way it always does: easy, gentle, slipping naturally from one subject to the next. He fills you in on things he had already mentioned over text, paddock updates, small stories, the people who asked about you. You talk about your work too, about the friend who stayed over, about what you’ll need from the supermarket and the best time to go.

Eventually, you both decide that, with the triple header coming up, it’s better to leave the monthly grocery run until after you’re back. Neither of you wants food going bad in the fridge again — the lingering smell from past mistakes is a lesson painfully learned.

When dinner ends, George helps you clear the table. He carries the plates to the sink, and there’s a silent agreement between you that the dishes can wait until tomorrow. You put the champagne away and store the leftovers in the fridge.

Jazz continues to drift softly through the air, and as you walk past George, he catches your hand smoothly. You barely notice it at first, not until your arm stretches behind you and you turn back, confused. He raises an eyebrow and gently pulls you toward him.

“I think this moment calls for a dance. A P2 dance, don’t you?” he says, invitingly.

You laugh and nod, your hands settling on his shoulders. George’s hands find your waist, and with an ease that feels almost rehearsed, the two of you glide through the space between the dining area and the living room, moving together to whatever song Alexa has decided to play next.

“Thank you for dinner,” he says sincerely, his voice soft.

“Of course, George,” you reply. He smiles.

When the song ends and another begins, you both come to a stop. Your hands slide down from his shoulders before you step closer, pulling him into one last hug.

“You need to rest. Tomorrow we’re doing absolutely nothing,” you tell him.

“Can’t wait,” he answers, a smile evident in his voice.

At last, the contact breaks, and he leans down to press a courteous kiss to your hand like a proper lord.

“Good night, fair madam.”

You let out a laugh.

“Good night, George.”

With a wink in your direction, he finally heads off toward his room, and you do the same, retreating to yours.

The first day of the triple header arrives with an excitement George wasn’t expecting.

When he wakes up, you’re already a whirlwind moving through the flat. Clothes are scattered everywhere, waiting to be sorted; toiletries are lined up on the sofa; a tied-up trash bag sits by the door, ready to be taken out before you leave for the airport. Nearly everything is prepared.

“Good morning?” he greets, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands.

“Morning, handsome! We’re on holiday!” you announce, stepping out from behind the counter with both arms raised. “Well, I am. You’re not, ha-ha.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose and walks over to the sofa, picking up the neatly stacked Mercedes shirts resting on the armrest.

George shakes one of the shirts out with a small snap, inspecting it like it requires professional evaluation.

“Do I need all of these?” he asks, holding up two nearly identical team polos.

“Yes,” you answer immediately, not even looking at him. “You spill things.”

He narrows his eyes slightly. “I do not.”

“You absolutely do. Sauce. Coffee. That weird oil you use when you’re hovering around the mechanics pretending you know what you’re doing.”

That makes him laugh properly this time.

He folds one of the polos with surprising precision before setting it into the open suitcase. You move past him again, brushing his shoulder without thinking, reaching for your passport on the counter.

“Did you pack chargers?” you ask.

“Yes.”

“Both?”

“Yes.”

“The one that only works if you bend it at a specific angle?”

He pauses.

“…I will pack that one now.”

You grin triumphantly and step closer, slipping past him to grab it from the drawer.

“Excited?” you ask suddenly, softer this time.

He considers it.

“For the racing?” he replies.

“For all of it.”

He looks around. The half-packed suitcase, the scattered clothes, you standing there with his faulty charger in hand like you’ve just won a battle.

“Yes,” he says simply.

When you arrive at the airport, Charles and Alexandra are already there. They greet you from afar, and you immediately run toward the girl, who runs toward you as well, the two of you colliding into a tight hug. You’d been so happy when George told you they would be traveling with you.

George comes up right behind, carrying both suitcases. Charles leans casually against Alexandra’s luggage, and the two share a knowing look, the kind that silently says, “these girls…”. When you finally pull apart after nearly fainting at the sight of Alexandra’s engagement ring for the first time, George steps forward to congratulate her. You pull Charles into a hug.

You’re halfway to boarding the jet when Charles glances at George with an expression that spells trouble.

“So,” he begins lightly, “when is George finally going to propose as well?”

Alexandra elbows him immediately.

“Stop it,” she mutters.

He only laughs.

“Well, I don’t know…” George says, his gaze dropping to you conspiratorially, which says everything. “Would you say yes if I asked you to marry me?”

“Absolutely not,” you reply without missing a beat, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

He looks at Charles and gives a small shrug.

“Well. There you have it.”

The only thing you catch is Charles muttering, “My God, will they ever sort that out?” before everyone settles into their seats.

Pretending to be George’s social media manager, you hold your phone right up to his face while the two of you walk through the paddock, competing dramatically with the real media team trailing behind.

It’s easily the most entertaining part of the day.

“Since you’re here…” the actual social media guy says, turning the camera toward you.

You immediately lift a hand to cover your face, laughing.

George lets out a quiet snort.

“We’d like to know… does George give you trouble at home?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. I can still back out of this, can’t I?” George says, feigning irritation.

You lower your hand and pretend to think.

“Well… no. But he does autograph the groceries.”

The media guy laughs.

George nods seriously.

“Obviously. Imagine how great it is to eat sweetcorn straight from a tin signed Russell 63.’”

He gestures vaguely.

“You could even resell it at a premium, frankly.”

The social media guy takes another step closer, clearly enjoying himself.

“And does she give you trouble, George?”

George hums thoughtfully. “Oh, absolutely. Makes a slave out of me. Forces me to drive her everywhere.”

You glance at him from beneath your lashes, utterly unimpressed.

“You are such a liar. Honestly. And not even a little ashamed.”

“Look straight into that camera and say it’s a lie,” he says, pointing at the phone. “I dare you.”

You look directly at the camera, planting your hands on your hips.

“George Russell lies.”

He rolls his eyes and makes a dismissive gesture toward the social media guy.

“That’s enough. She’s grounded now. No public appearances until the end of the month.”

You gasp dramatically.

“Unbelievable. This is censorship.”

The social media guy laughs behind the camera. “We’re keeping that in.”

George points at him. “You absolutely are not.”

You lean toward the phone one last time. “See you next month, everyone.”

The social media guy finally turns off the camera and waves goodbye as you both approach the Mercedes motorhome. Toto Wolff is standing nearby with Susie, who lights up the moment she sees the two of you arriving together.

“You came! I thought George wasn’t serious,” Susie says warmly.

George looks personally offended. “What is this? Why does everyone suddenly think I’m a liar?”

Toto laughs, stepping forward. He places a hand on your shoulder in that almost paternal way of his before giving your hand a firm squeeze.

“How are you, young lady? Everything alright?”

“All good, Toto. I’m happy to be here,” you reply with an easy smile. “How about you two?”

“We’re very well,” Susie says. “We’re just off to speak with the Academy girls, but we’ll be back shortly.”

“Make yourself at home,” Toto adds. “They’re waiting for George inside, but you already know your way around.”

The farewell is easy, casual. And then they head off, leaving the two of you standing just outside the motorhome.

“Alex said the girls are getting together in the hospitality. I think I’ll spend some time with them while you’re working,” you say.

“Alright. I’ll find you later,” George replies.

You lean in to kiss his cheek, and his arm wraps around you in a quick, familiar hug before you both turn in opposite directions.

“Have fun!” he calls out just before breaking into a jog the rest of the way inside.

The conversation around the table revolved around Alex’s engagement ring. She was glowing, and everyone was genuinely happy for her. There was a softness to the group — an unspoken familiarity shaped by race weekends, waiting rooms, and the quiet understanding that came from loving people whose lives rarely stood still.

Eventually, after one last lingering look at the diamond sparkling on Alex’s finger and a wide smile, Isabella finally turned to you. She rested her chin on her folded hands, curiosity written all over her face.

“And you and George? How long have you been together?” she asked.

You took a sip of your juice, and the answer came as quickly as it always did.

“Oh, we’ve been living together for… four years? Yeah, I think that’s right.”

She looked impressed and leaned back in her chair.

“Wow. That’s a long relationship.”

Alexandra cut in, slightly uncomfortable after a brief glance shared with Lily — the kind that said more than she meant it to.

“Ah, she and George aren’t… actually a couple,” Alexandra said with a tight smile.

You looked from one to the other, eyes widening.

“Oh! Is that what you meant?” You smile, shaking your head as you trace a finger along the rim of your glass. “No, no. I needed somewhere to stay when I first moved to Monaco for work. A mutual friend introduced us because George had a spare room.”

You pause briefly, almost amused. “I was only supposed to stay there until I found my own place.”

You don’t notice the weight of the silence that lingers at the table for a beat too long until Alicia gently breaks it.

“That’s… really nice,” she says, always careful with her words. “If you ever need to, I’m moving to Monaco to be closer to Ollie. A roommate is always welcome.” She pauses, then adds playfully, “That goes for all of you. Except Alex.”

She delivers the last part in a teasing tone, and just like that, the table slips back into laughter — wedding plans, venues, guest lists, the kind of bright joy that fills the air easily.

It’s only you who doesn’t fully join in.

You smile when expected, nod at the right moments, but your thoughts stay somewhere else — circling what you said, and what Alicia offered. Every now and then, your fingers drift to the bracelet around your wrist, absentmindedly twisting it as the conversation carries on without you.

The weekend unfolds exactly as it should: media duties, dinners with good company, and George walking you to your bedroom door like a proper gentleman before heading to his own. You waking up far too early just to wake him, the two of you strolling through the paddock together, you lingering behind the scenes, chatting easily, completely integrated into it all.

The practice sessions come, the close calls, the tense moments, then race day arrives. And when George finishes P2 again, you celebrate in parc fermé, because this time, you’re there. You can breathe in the sweet, unmistakable scent of champagne soaking into the damp race suit.

The smile on his face is priceless, and it reverberates through your body as if it belongs to you.

And then, just like that, the weekend folds itself away. Flights. Suitcases. A blur of goodbyes and quiet hotel corridors.

You move on to the next week — the penultimate race of the season, but your mind isn’t where it should be. In fact, it hasn’t been for days now. You keep thinking. And thinking. And thinking.

You’re in his room, having just arrived and settled in. George sits at the edge of the bed, elbows resting loosely on his thighs, phone forgotten in one hand, while you lie sprawled across the mattress, staring up at the ceiling.

He watches you for a moment before speaking.

“Your thoughts are rather loud tonight,” his voice is light, though softened at the edges. He rubs a thumb absently along the side of his phone. “Care to share what’s going on in that head of yours, or shall I wait for you to turn the volume down?”

You let out a small breath of a laugh through your nose, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

“Alicia said that if I ever needed to, she has a spare room.”

His fingers still.

George shifts slightly, setting his phone beside him on the bed before turning his head toward you.

“Did she?” he asks, tone neutral, almost polite.

You nod faintly, one arm sliding behind your head.

“We were just talking. The girls. They asked when we… well, when we… met.” The word comes out a fraction too late. “I told them the story. About the flat. After university.” Your fingers trace an absent pattern over the duvet. “That we agreed it would be temporary.”

A quiet beat passes.

George exhales softly through his nose, gaze dropping to his hands as he rubs his palms together once, thoughtfully.

“Right,” he murmurs.

You shift slightly on the bed but don’t look at him. Your eyes remain fixed on the ceiling because you… don’t quite know where else to look.

“And then?” you ask quietly.

He furrows his brow and turns slightly, giving you his profile. There’s a flicker of surprise in his expression, almost indignation. As if the question itself isn’t entirely fair.

“And then what?” he asks, quieter now. “I don’t really know what you expect me to say.” He looks away briefly. “Are you saying you don’t want to live with me anymore?”

A pause.

“It’s been four years.”

Four years.

You close your eyes.

“It has been four years,” you admit softly.

He notices the question you avoided — but he doesn’t bring it up. Instead, George stands and walks over to his suitcase, unzipping it with more focus than necessary as he pulls out his pyjamas.

You understand.

Of course you do.

Even if the weight of it feels new — and strangely unfamiliar.

You slide off the bed, the mattress dipping back into place as if you’d never been there at all. You slip your phone into your pocket and head toward the door, slower than usual.

Halfway there, you pause.

You turn back.

He’s still by the suitcase, shoulders slightly tense, taking things out of the bag he doesn’t really need to unpack, only to put them back again.

“Good night, George,” you say softly, a quiet hesitation threading through the words, bracing for silence.

He stills for a fraction of a second before looking up, giving you only his profile again — because he knows you’re capable of seeing everything. A small smile appears, not automatic, but offered.

“Good night,” he replies.

You hold his gaze a moment longer than you mean to. Then you leave, closing the door gently behind you.

The consistency begins to falter. George doesn’t finish on the podium in any of the final races, but you don’t see any sharp shift in him. He’s still George.

He hasn’t been talking to you much, that’s true — but there are reasons for that. Loose ends to tie up. Debriefs that stretch longer than they should. There’s always something left unfinished before you can properly go home. It’s never really the end of a season. You know that.

He just seems more tired. A little less steely. Quieter. Less like the man who signs your shirts and pickle jars with exaggerated ceremony, and more like a driver at the tail end of something long and demanding.

You can’t blame him so you stay.

You board the flight after a particularly difficult meeting for him. They wanted to understand what, beyond the car’s performance, had shifted — why he hadn’t quite managed to reach the same level he’d been operating at before. But George couldn’t offer them anything concrete. Just the promise that preparations for next season would be sharper, heavier, more relentless. That he would be ready to give everything he gave this year — and more.

George sleeps through the entire flight and still, when you reach the front door of your flat, he looks utterly exhausted.

You both leave the suitcases by the door, leaning against the small cabinet in the entryway. There’s an unspoken agreement that you’ll unpack tomorrow. Or the day after… or eventually.

George slips off his jacket and hangs it up, then reaches a hand out for yours. You give it to him, and he hangs it beside his with the same quiet care as always.

“I think I’ll try to sleep a bit more,” he says, already unbuttoning his shirt.

You watch him for a moment, his face, the faint crease between his brows carved by a worry you wish you could smooth away with your thumb until it vanished completely, leaving only that easy, familiar joy behind.

Instead, you nod.

“Okay,” you say softly. “I’ll make some tea. Do you want a cup?”

He shakes his head. That never happens.

And then he leaves you there, with no desire for tea at all.

You can’t sleep, so you stay in the living room with the lights low, trying to read a book only to realize you’ve read the same page five times without absorbing a single word.

Your eyes drift to George’s bedroom door more often than you’d like, then pull away again, as you tug the blanket up to your chin as if it could shield you from whatever it is that still hasn’t been named.

It’s only half an hour later that his door opens.

“You still haven’t gone to bed?” he asks quietly.

The sight almost makes you cry: George wearing only a pair of sleep shorts, his hair a complete mess, eyes faintly swollen with a kind of sleep that never quite came.

You shake your head.

“I’m not sleepy,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek.

He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. His tongue brushes over his lips as he looks down at the floor, rocking slightly on his feet. You tilt your head to the side.

“I can’t sleep,” he admits, like it’s a secret. “Would you… well, would you mind lying down with me? Just until I fall asleep, maybe. I don’t know. I suppose that sounds a bit odd.”

You don’t answer right away. Your brows lift because… because this is new. And of course, he takes your silence the wrong way.

“Right. Yes. It is odd. That’s alright, I—”

“George,” you say, cutting him off. He looks up at you. “I’ll sleep with you. Of course I will.”

He stops. Just for a moment. A moment so quiet it doesn’t even stretch. He looks at you as if searching for something, some sign that you only said it to be polite, that it wasn’t real. But you’re already getting up, setting the book down on the sofa.

And then… you’re walking toward him. You take his hand. And lead him to his room.

You lie down first because George doesn’t seem to have fully understood yet that this is actually happening. You know why: this is forbidden territory. You’ve never slept together before. Not on trips, not at home, not even when he was ill or when you were. This is the line that was never crossed. This isn’t normal.

And yet, when he lifts his eyes, you’re already there — lying back against the pillows, pulling the blanket up slightly in a quiet invitation he accepts with hesitation.

He approaches the bed carefully, watching you as though you might vanish if he moves too quickly, and then lies down beside you. You don’t hesitate. Your arms slip around him, guiding him closer until he’s resting against you, using you as a pillow. Your fingers find his hair, stroking slowly.

“You can sleep now,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.

George melts. He doesn’t even hug you back, just stays there, resting against you as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

You hum softly, some melody he recognizes from the instrumental jazz playlists you share, and at last his eyes drift closed. With your fingers absentmindedly playing with his hair, and the quiet song carried gently by your voice, he finally falls asleep.

George wakes the next morning to the soft sound of your breathing above his head. His eyes take a moment to adjust, the room still dark — blinds drawn shut, the only light coming from the humidifier glowing faintly atop the dresser.

In the next moment, he realizes he can’t move — your arms have caged him in, and your legs are nearly tied around his in a knot. But he doesn’t want to move, so it’s alright. He’s content to stay there, holding you for a few more minutes, or hours, or however long it takes for you to rest completely.

He stays like that a while longer, eyes closed though sleep doesn’t come, thinking about… well, he can’t lie. He’s thinking about the conversation. The same way he had the night before when he couldn’t sleep, and on the plane when it slipped into his dreams, and in the car, during practice sessions and races.

George, who had always known how to separate his personal life, his professional world, and his emotions, now found himself unable to tell where one ended and the other began.

When you wake, it’s so quiet he almost doesn’t notice.

You glance down at the tangled mess of limbs the two of you have become, and your first instinct is to pull away because this… this isn’t how things are. It looks too much like something you don’t do, something you’ve never been.

But then George’s eyes meet yours.

You blink once, sleep slowly fading, and realize he looks like he’s about to cry.

“What is it?” you ask, your voice rough with sleep, still soft enough to sound gentle.

His gaze slips away as he lets his forehead rest against your collarbone.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper.

Your hand moves to the hair at the nape of his neck, stroking lightly — comfort, but also a quiet request for him to look at you.

“Hmm? George…”

He lifts his face again, and now you can see it clearly.

Exhaustion.

“I asked you not to go,” he repeats.

You’re a little startled, a little worried, your mind still hazy from having just woken up. Your fingers move gently through his hair, brushing a few strands back behind his ear.

“Love, go where?” you ask, the familiar nickname slipping out naturally between you, your brow furrowing as your forehead comes to rest against his.

“Go. To Alicia’s. To the flat next door. To nowhere,” he says, eyes still closed.

Oh.

That’s it.

It was always that.

You let out a slow breath through your nose, and he opens his eyes, unable to understand why you’re laughing now.

“George,” you say softly, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He looks at you, a little confused. He doesn’t say anything, but you can see the question forming plainly on his face.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you repeat in a whisper. “And I definitely won’t manage to if you keep squashing me like this. How am I supposed to make us breakfast when you’re holding me hostage here?”

For a moment, you think George truly isn’t going to let you go. He looks at you as if you’re some sort of Christmas miracle, his post-sleep face still marked with the faint imprint of having rested against something textured, the creases soft but visible along his cheek.

Then he nudges his nose lightly against yours, stealing a quiet laugh from you. And finally, finally, he lets you go, dramatically collapsing back onto the bed.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and, before standing up, add casually,

“You’ve got morning breath. Go brush your teeth before you dare show up in my kitchen.”

On your way to the door, you feel a pillow hit you square in the back. You burst into laughter, not even turning around as you head toward the kitchen.

Something has changed. You’re not sure what it is, but it has.

You’re at the supermarket. The shopping list is in your hands, and you point to the crisps on the very top shelf. George — perfectly suited for retrieving things far, far out of reach — stretches his arm and grabs them for you as if it’s nothing.

Natural. Fine.

Except his other hand rests lightly against the small of your back while he does it.

You don’t quite understand the behaviour, but you don’t question it either. You just stand there, a little stiff, and when he lowers himself again to place the packet into the trolley, his hand doesn’t move away. In fact, he uses both hands to gently guide you aside, clearing the way to the cart.

You blink. And the shopping continues.

In the car, you put on a song. It’s loud, full of twists, with an incredible beat that makes you dance like a child. George knows it too, so he sings along with you — shouting the lyrics and drumming against the steering wheel when the chorus hits. He even does the classic little pout and head-bobbing motion like a turtle.

When the car stops at the light, he looks at you. It’s nothing, really. Just a second too long — and you… you register it.

Then the car moves again.

At night, you both get ready for dinner. Alex and Lily invited you, so of course you’re going. When has George ever said no to Alex in his life?

You rest after the supermarket, watching a film — each of you on your side of the sofa, a large, heavily buttered bowl of popcorn between you to share. When it’s time to get ready, George nudges your leg with his big toe and gestures toward the bedroom with a tilt of his head.

“I’ll go get ready. Otherwise we’ll be late,” he says.

You nod. He stands. You stand too. He turns off the TV; you take the popcorn bowl to the kitchen. Together, you brush away the small crumbs left on the sofa, and then each of you heads off to your rooms.

From the bathroom, he calls out for you to bring his shaving cream. Wandering through the flat in your robe, you grab it from his dresser and take it to him. He thanks you, and you continue on to the laundry room to pick up the bra you want to wear.

An hour later, George is ready, sitting on the living room sofa with his suit perfectly adjusted, scrolling through his phone with his legs crossed, his foot bouncing absentmindedly.

You step out of your bedroom.

“George, can you help me zip this up?” you ask, one hand reaching behind your back to hold the fastening of your dress in place.

He nods, still looking at his phone as he locks the screen, then stands, slipping it distractedly into his pocket. His eyes lift to you.

You don’t notice it — but George blinks once more than necessary before stepping closer, moving with careful, almost measured caution. His hand moves to the zipper, and your perfume reaches him before he even begins to pull it up with ease. He exhales. His finger brushes lightly against the skin of your back, and you have a small, completely involuntary spasm — your ribs tightening for a second, your body swaying without meaning to. He steadies you with one hand at your waist, then finishes pulling the zipper closed.

Done.

“Thank you,” you say, brushing your hair off your shoulder and letting it fall down your back.

He hasn’t quite stepped away yet. He busies himself with his cufflinks, though they don’t seem to need fixing.

“Of course,” he says.

It’s only outside the restaurant, while you’re waiting for Alex and Lily, that he looks at you again — the easy conversation between you thinning for a second. He seems unsure of himself, hands slipping into his pockets before he finally says,

“You look beautiful.”

He’s said it so many times before that you don’t immediately understand why it feels different now. Maybe it’s the pause beforehand. Maybe it’s the hesitation that wasn’t there before. Still, you answer.

“You don’t look too bad yourself.”

He looks at you. You look at him. There’s the faintest smile at the corner of his mouth, and one mirrors it on yours. For a moment, it feels like you’re standing in something quiet and shared — something that belongs only to the two of you.

And then… Voices

You both step apart a little too quickly, like teenagers who think they’ve been caught doing something they weren’t supposed to, and turn to greet your friends.

Two nights later, it’s you who calls for him.

You’re in the living room — he’s on the simulator, you’re on the sofa reading your book. Eventually, he finishes his session, saying something through his headset to whoever he’d been playing with, then stretches, arms lifting as he lets out a quiet groan.

“Done?” you ask, glancing up at him.

“Mm-hm,” he replies, tipping his head back.

You set your book aside and trace absent patterns along the fabric of the throw, thinking for a moment. He stretches, rolling his shoulders, eyes drifting around the room until they settle on you — still curled into the sofa with your book.

Something soft crosses his expression.

“George,” you say quietly, even though he’s already looking at you.

“Hm?”

“Do you remember when I slept in your room the other night?” A pause. “I… haven’t been sleeping much.” You glance at him. “Would that be alright?”

“Oh,” he says, concern slipping into his voice. He’s already climbing out of the simulator before the word is fully out. “I… yeah, sure. I just need to grab a few things from my room, alright? Then we’ll go to yours.”

You nod.

He’s gone almost immediately, disappearing down the hallway toward his bedroom.

You sit there for a second longer than necessary. And then — a small smile curves at the corner of your mouth.

Tonight, the walk to the bedroom isn’t dramatic. It isn’t wrapped in hesitation or that fragile tension from the other night. This time, it feels simple. Intentional.

You go ahead of George, slipping off your earrings and setting them carefully on the dresser. You straighten the bed out of habit, smooth the sheets with your palms, then lower the lights until only the soft glow of the bedside lamp remains.

A quiet calm settles over the room.

Then you hear his footsteps in the hallway.

He pauses at the doorway.

You turn toward him.

“You took your shirt off,” you say — and instantly wish you hadn’t.

George glances down at himself, blinking.

“Yeah, I— well… you know I sleep like this. I can… put it back on, if you’d rather.”

You blink, then shake your head quickly.

“No… no, oh my God. Of course you sleep like this. I know that,” you mumble, words tangling together as they leave you.

He watches you for another moment before a quiet laugh escapes him. Your hand comes up to your forehead.

He steps closer, finally entering the room properly and coming to stand in front of you. Your eyes stay on his face, but it’s impossible not to let them drop for a second. He notices, of course.

“See something you like?” he teases, his voice low and amused.

You roll your eyes and give him a light push, suddenly very aware of how warm his skin feels beneath your fingers.

“Come on. Let’s sleep.”

You both climb into bed — him first, you right after. George lifts the covers over the two of you, and you stretch slightly to switch off the bedside lamp before settling properly against the mattress.

In the complete darkness, George slips an arm around your waist and gently pulls you closer. You don’t protest. In fact, you don’t say anything at all — you press one lip against the other, hiding a small smile, and nestle into his body.

And just like that, the two of you fall asleep.

This whole sleeping-together arrangement — always wrapped in slightly awkward requests — goes on for another week before it begins to feel almost normal.

You don’t even ask anymore.

His bedroom, once minimalist, slowly starts to merge with your things: a bottle of perfume appearing on the dresser, a folded pair of pyjamas in the first drawer, then two, then three. Your skincare products follow soon after, lined up carefully beside his things — objects that clearly don’t belong to him, yet somehow already do.

One night, you notice him poking at them with quiet curiosity.

“Find something interesting there?” you ask, stepping into the room, drying your hair with a towel.

He lifts a serum in one hand and a moisturiser in the other, studying them like unfamiliar machinery.

“You have far too many things,” he says, turning the bottles slightly as if the labels might explain themselves. “How does any of this work? I only use three things.”

And then you get an idea.

“Come here,” you say, taking his hand and tugging him gently toward the bathroom.

Still looking slightly bewildered, and somehow still holding the moisturiser, he lets himself be led. You gesture toward the closed toilet lid. He arches an eyebrow.

“Just sit down,” you say, rolling your eyes at him.

He does, slowly, like he suspects this might be a trap. Before he can say anything, though, you hurry back to the bedroom to grab what you’ll need — the little pouch and the things still resting on the dresser.

When you return, you’re already in your pyjamas, a towel wrapped loosely around your hair, strands escaping near your neck where they’ve begun to dry. You step closer without hesitation, as if dragging him into your nighttime routine is the most obvious thing in the world.

“What exactly is happening?” he asks.

“Skincare.”

“I do skincare.”

“I know,” you say, already tying a soft headband around his hair, pushing his fringe back until it sticks up in every direction. The sight makes you laugh under your breath. “But now you’re doing my skincare.”

“You’re laughing at me, but this feels rather serious,” he says, suspicious.

“Oh, it is serious,” you reply, holding up a bottle. “Cleanser first. And absolutely no cheap, ridiculous soap. Close your eyes.”

He closes his eyes. You step closer, and one of them opens again, just a quick check. You’re standing there with the cleanser in hand, mere inches from his face. You shrug. A smile spreads across George’s lips, and he obediently shuts his eyes again.

The moment the first drops of cleanser touch his skin and you bring the little sponge to his face, he pulls a dramatic grimace.

“This thing is freezing,” he complains. “Feels like that gel they use for pregnancy ultrasounds.”

Good Lord, this man’s brain. You frown, a laugh escaping anyway.

“How many ultrasounds have you even been to in your life?”

You keep working the cleanser gently across his skin.

“You’d be surprised,” he says.

You pause just long enough to glance at him suspiciously.

“You’re secretly a father and never told me? Because I feel like that’s something I should know.”

You dampen the towel slightly and bring it back to his face, carefully wiping away the cleanser. George keeps his mouth firmly shut so he doesn’t end up tasting soap.

When you need to reach for something higher on the counter, you use him for balance without thinking, a hand braced lightly on his shoulder. You grab the bottle, then settle back down on his lap, the product now in your hand.

His palm comes to rest on your thigh automatically.

You don’t notice at first. You’re too focused on twisting the cap open. It’s only when you tilt the bottle to pour some into his face that you notice the stillness. His hand hasn’t moved. And he’s… tense.

“You’re breathing weird,” you say softly, before you can stop yourself.

A flicker of embarrassment crosses his features, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re sitting on me,” he replies, equally quiet.

That makes your lips part slightly. The joke is right there. You could take it. You usually would. But you don’t.

You let a few drops of serum fall onto his cheeks, closing the bottle before setting it carefully on the sink. Then you begin to spread it gently across his skin.

George watches your eyes for a moment and just before you fully notice, he closes his own.

Your fingers keep moving, slow and careful, smoothing the product along his face. And then your thumb brushes once, accidentally, maybe, along the corner of his mouth.

His hand tightens, just a little.

When you’re done, you reach out to grab the towel to wipe your hands because… well, you’re not going to say it out loud. But you really don’t want to get up.

“George… now we move on to the—”

You stop yourself mid-sentence.

His eyes are open.

His other hand comes to rest against your back, almost absentmindedly, as though steadying you without quite realizing it. You don’t finish what you were going to say. You don’t say anything at all. Your gaze stays caught on his, your lips parting slightly just to let the air pass.

All at once, the bathroom feels smaller.

Closer.

George’s eyes drift slowly across your face, unhurried, searching, until they settle on your mouth. His head tilts upward, almost without intention, like his body moves before he has the chance to think better of it.

Your hand rises to his face again, your thumb brushing slowly over his lower lip.

George looks dangerously close to begging. His lips tremble beneath your touch.

And then you finally shatter whatever restraint still exists between you.

Your hand lifts first, fingers sliding into his hair, pushing the headband up and off without breaking eye contact. It falls somewhere behind him, forgotten. You lean in, your mouth finding his with intention. It isn’t hesitant the way it should be. It isn’t gentle. Maybe it shouldn’t have happened at all, but now… it’s ravenous.

A possessive sound slips from George’s throat as he leans into you, deepening the kiss instinctively. One hand tightens at your waist, fingers pressing just enough to pull you closer, while the other slides slowly up your thigh.

A soft sound escapes you, something that could very easily be called a moan.

That undoes him completely. George is ruined.

He rises to his feet with you still in his lap, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. The towel that had been wrapped around your hair slips loose and falls to the floor.

He presses you back against the wall, the kiss never breaking, fierce, hungry, his mouth moving against yours as though he truly intends to consume you. Years and years of nothing and everything at once spilling over into a desperate fusion of something neither of you even knew existed.

George breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, only for his mouth to move to your neck instead. He kisses, bites, sucks at your skin, and you simply tilt your head back, granting him access, your lips parted as you try to catch your breath. Your hands cling to his back, searching for something steady to hold onto.

He bites a little harder at the curve where your shoulder meets your neck, and when a surprised little cry escapes you, he laughs low and pleased before lifting you away from the wall and carrying you toward the bedroom, still kissing you the entire way.

You wake in the middle of the night and, for a brief moment, it feels like nothing has changed.

Then you glance over your shoulder.

George is right there — his lips resting against your shoulder, his hand intertwined with yours in the loose embrace that keeps you tucked against his body.

Completely naked.

Oh my God.

A quiet laugh slips out of you, half-muffled into the pillow — but of course he hears it.

“What’s so funny?” George asks, his voice so sleepy it’s almost ridiculous.

“We’re naked,” you whisper.

He shifts slightly, and you know he’s looking now. A second later, you hear that unmistakable laugh of his, low and warm, and you feel the mattress dip as he lifts himself just enough to brush his nose against your earlobe.

“We are indeed,” he murmurs.

Your head tips back against his chest, and his hand slides up, gently cupping the side of your jaw. Your smile is small, sleepy, and painfully real.

“You alright?” George asks softly, his thumb brushing under your chin.

You nod and purse your lips, waiting for a kiss. He smiles and leans down, pressing a slow, warm kiss to your mouth, his hand finally sliding over your skin until it reaches a particularly sensitive spot.

“Alright,” you murmur, still with your eyes closed, lips lingering just inches from his. “But, hey, careful with that wandering hand. I might want to do everything all over again.”

“Oh, imagine that. What a terrible fate for this poor George.”

You laugh. He laughs. Then you turn fully toward him.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, and he nods as if it’s the highest compliment.

Now you’re facing each other, eyes smiling more than your mouths.

“Why doesn’t this feel weird?” you ask quietly.

His lip twists in a thoughtful shrug, and his fingers begin tracing absent patterns along your hip.

“I think it was meant to happen a long time ago.”

You nod.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he echoes. Then, softer, “But it’s good.”

“Yeah. It’s good.”

“Very good.”

“Very good.”

He’s laughing quietly now, and so are you. Then George leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Do you want tea?” he asks.

“Mmm. I do,” you reply.

He shifts as if to get up and gestures toward the door with his head.

“Shall we?”

You glance down at yourself.

“Naked?”

He shrugs lightly.

“It’s our house.”

Your smile grows even wider.

Yeah. It is our house.

You take his hand, and without a single worry in the world, the two of you walk out to the kitchen exactly as you are.

You’re getting ready to travel for Christmas, but before that, there’s one more plan: Alex and Lily invited you both to the cinema to watch a film before everyone heads off in different directions and you won’t see each other again until pre-season.

Now you and George are sitting in the car, you finishing off your ponytail while checking your reflection in the mirror.

“Are we telling them?” you ask, lifting an eyebrow.

“Hmmm… no,” George replies thoughtfully. “I think we should wait until the start of the year. Keep it a secret.”

“Okay. Yeah, I like that,” you say.

You both lean in instinctively, laughing under your breath, your lips brushing in a quick, conspiratorial kiss.

And then—

Tap. Tap.

A knock against the window.

When you open your eyes, Alex’s enormous grin on the other side of the glass makes you let out a small, startled squeak.

“What is that?!” George says, turning sharply.

He spots him, laughs, throws his head back and covers his eyes with one hand.

“Well,” he sighs dramatically, “there goes the mystery.”

But Logan just smiles that crooked, bashful smile, a shy crescent that tugs at the corners of his mouth until the edges of his teeth peek through, and then he rubs the back of his neck like he’s apologizing for existing. He’s got a hundred excuses tucked into the sleeves of his oversized hoodies—the ones he always shrugs into when the team is going out to celebrate a win or to just feel young and invincible in some overpriced club downtown. He’ll mumble that he’s tired or that he has a phone call with you, which, to his credit, is rarely a lie. You’re the one constant thread in all his tangled nerves, the one place he can let himself unravel without fear of anyone picking apart the pieces.

Every time the guys pile into Ubers with their cologne sharp as fresh-cut pine, you’ll find Logan still sitting on the sofa, long legs folded up under him, phone in hand, face lit by the gentle glow of your texts. He’s the kind of boyfriend who would rather spend a Saturday night on Facetime with you than in any bar on earth. He’ll fall asleep there, cheek pressed to the screen, breathing soft and even. It makes Michael roll his eyes so hard you’d think they’d get stuck.

“Jesus Christ, man,” Michael will say, exasperation slathered all over his voice as he watches Logan smile dopily at the picture you sent of your dinner. “You’re domesticated. You’re like a pet bunny. You know that?”

Logan only lifts his head, pink rising under his cheekbones. “I just…like being home.”

He never says it out loud, but the truth is simpler than that. He likes being where you are—even if “you” is just a warm little rectangle of a phone screen some nights. He likes the safety of it, the predictability of you loving him back. There’s no music too loud to hear his thoughts, no hands clapping him on the shoulders until they ache. Just your voice drifting to him soft as the snowfall piling up outside the window.

He’s the boyfriend who writes you long messages when he’s on the road, thumbs flying over his screen because he’s afraid if he doesn’t tell you every detail—how the bus smelled like stale energy drinks and the arena lights were too bright and he forgot his good luck charm in his hotel room—you’ll somehow slip further away. He sends you blurry photos of hotel carpets and the skyline from his window and the little coffee cup with your initial he found at a souvenir shop, because he can’t help but think of you wherever he is.

His teammates call him whipped. They say it with affection but with that brand of teasing that slides under your skin if you let it. Clayton will bump his shoulder and tell him he should at least pretend to have a life outside your little cocoon. Sean and John will threaten to come drag him out themselves. Barrett jokes he’s going to steal your number and send you a restraining order as a prank.

But Logan just shrinks a little into the collar of his hoodie, hair drifting over his forehead as he blushes and tries not to look too smug about it. Because he knows it’s true—he is completely, hopelessly yours.

He’s the boyfriend who remembers the tiny things you say offhand—that you were craving the salted caramel hot chocolate from the cafe by the rink, that you’d been meaning to watch a certain movie, that you felt too tired to cook. He’ll slip out between practices and drive across town to bring you what you mentioned, then act like it was no big deal when he shows up, sneakers wet with melted snow. You’ll thank him, and he’ll look like he’s trying not to combust with happiness, cheeks pink, eyes darting anywhere but your face.

When he does agree to go out with the guys, it’s never for long. He tries—God, he tries—to look like he’s enjoying it, standing a little apart with his drink clutched in both hands, eyes flickering to the door every few minutes like he’s memorizing the escape route. Eventually, someone will catch him texting you, thumbs working frantically, and Sean will come over to ruffle his hair and tease him until he ducks his head and mumbles something about checking in.

The second he can leave, he does. He doesn’t even care about the goodbyes anymore—he’ll text the group chat his apologies as he slips out into the cold night, breath fogging the air. He’s the boyfriend who walks home with his hands in his pockets, thinking about how soft your hair will feel under his chin when he pulls you into bed, how you’ll smell like that lotion he likes, how your sleepy voice will wrap around his heart like the gentlest fist.

Michael will tell him he’s pathetic, that he’s twenty-one and acting like some lovesick teenager. But Logan doesn’t mind. He’s always been a little afraid of everything—the crowds, the noise, the unknown. Loving you is the one thing that never scares him. It’s the one thing that feels as natural as breathing, as inevitable as the snowfall dusting the rooftops.

So he doesn’t make a New Year’s resolution to change. He thinks maybe this is exactly who he wants to be: the boy who would rather be yours than be anything else.

It had been one of those evenings that felt stitched from a fairytale—the snow outside falling in fat, lazy flakes, the lamplight turning everything amber and hushed. Logan had you tangled up with him on the couch, his arms circled tight around your waist, his chin hooked over your shoulder. He smelled like clean laundry and the faintest trace of his cologne, that gentle cedar that made you want to breathe him in forever.

He mumbled love-drunk confessions into your hair like he couldn't help it, voice quiet and cracking with the weight of it. "You have no idea how much I love you," he whispered, pressing kiss after kiss along your temple, your cheekbone, the tip of your nose. "Can't even think straight when you're this close."

You giggled, trying to duck away from his relentless mouth, but he only shifted, pinning you back against the cushions as he trailed his lips down your jaw. His hands were everywhere—splayed over your ribs, thumbs brushing under your sweater, fingertips tracing mindless patterns over the skin of your hip as though he was mapping out the places you made him feel safe. Your laughter spilled out in squeaks as he nuzzled your neck, breathing you in like you were oxygen. "Logan, you're ridiculous!"

"Yours," he insisted, voice rough with sincerity. "All yours. Don't want to be anywhere else. Ever."

You were about to say something back—something equally mushy, knowing you'd both end up a pile of sighs and kisses—when the door to the condo practically exploded open.

"SURPRISE, LOVEBIRDS!" Michael's voice boomed in like an avalanche, so loud it actually made Logan jolt and smack his forehead off yours with a dull thud. You both yelped. Logan's arms shot around you protectively like you were under attack.

And then there was Hank. A giant tangle of fur and slobber, bounding in on his leash, yanking Josh half off his feet. The dog went straight for the couch with singular purpose, tail whipping the air. He practically body-slammed you both, giant paws thudding onto Logan's chest while his drool splattered everything in a three-foot radius.

"HANK!" Josh cackled, trying to haul him back, but it was hopeless. Hank's tongue was everywhere, hot and wet on your cheek while Logan sputtered and tried to hold him off with one hand, the other shielding your face.

Michael was doubled over laughing, actually wiping tears from his eyes. "Oh my God. I told you, Josh! He's whipped as fuck. Look at him!"

Josh's shit-eating grin could've powered a small city. He kicked the door shut behind them with one boot. "I dunno, man," he drawled, gray eyes gleaming. "I thought you guys were exaggerating. But this is pathetic even for him."

Logan was bright red, hair mussed, hoodie riding up so you could see the pale stripe of his stomach. He let out a strangled noise of horror. "Get out! We were—this was private!"

"Private?" Michael repeated, scandalized. "Buddy, you're literally cuddling like a koala in heat. You don't do private anymore."

Hank gave an enthusiastic bark, knocking a lamp askew with his tail. Josh whistled low. "Nice place, though. Really roomy. You know what I'm thinking?"

Michael slapped him on the back. "New Year's party venue!"

Logan's eyes widened in abject terror. "Absolutely not!"

Josh ignored him entirely, flopping onto the armchair and throwing his feet up on Logan's coffee table. "I'm serious. We move the coffee table, keg in the corner, DJ playlist, maybe those twinkly lights you got for Christmas? Boom. Vibes."

Michael was already scrolling on his phone. "Making the guest list right now. I'm telling you, this is happening. He can't stop us."

Logan turned to you, wild-eyed, one arm still loosely around you even as he gestured frantically at his so-called friends. "Tell them no. Tell them this is our space. They can't just... invade like this."

You tried—tried so hard—not to laugh. But you were shaking with it, biting your lip as you looked at his flushed, scandalized face. Hank chose that moment to lay his giant head in Logan's lap, drooling happily all over the pale fabric of his sweatpants.

You wiped a tear from your eye and squeezed Logan's knee. "Babe," you said, barely keeping it together. "Maybe you should loosen up a little. It's just one party."

Logan's jaw dropped. "You traitor."

For two solid days, the Utah Mammoth groupchat has been blowing up with plans for this ridiculous party. Michael renamed the chat "Cools’s House Party" and refused to change it back, even after Logan threatened to leave. Every few hours someone drops in with a new idea—Sean wanting to bring his own speaker system, Clayton offering to DJ, Barrett insisting they have to do a midnight toast to ring in the new year. Even John, the so-called responsible one, is texting about how many folding chairs they might need.

They all keep tagging Logan with excited thank you messages. "Thanks for hosting, man!" "You’re the best, bro." "Can’t wait to trash your living room lol." Logan has read none of it. His phone is face-down on the coffee table, vibrating periodically with fresh notifications he pointedly ignores while burrowed into your side. He hasn’t moved for hours except to shift even closer, whining under his breath every time you so much as lean away to get up for water.

Every time the chat dings he just makes this low, despairing groan in your ear. "They’re not really going to do it, right? Tell me they’re not serious." And you have to pat his hair and soothe him with your voice, pretending you’re not amused by how deeply betrayed he seems. It’s like watching a man mourn his own funeral.

By the time the night of the party actually comes around, the entire apartment feels like it’s buzzing with impending doom. You’re in the bathroom getting ready, applying makeup in the mirror—not anything fancy, but enough to feel cute. There’s music playing on your phone, something upbeat to keep your nerves in check. Logan is nowhere in sight at first—you assume he's sulking on the couch—until you hear the soft scuff of socks on the tile and he stumbles in behind you.

His arms go around your waist immediately, pulling you back into the solid wall of his chest. He’s unshaven, blond hair messy like he’s been raking his fingers through it all day. He smells like...well, nothing good. A little bit of sweat and stale hoodie. You wrinkle your nose but his arms just tighten, chin hooking over your shoulder as he peers at your reflection in the mirror with bleary devotion.

"You look so pretty," he mumbles against your neck, voice wrecked with exhaustion. "Stay here with me. Don’t go out there."

You squirm in his grip, trying not to laugh as you wiggle away just enough to breathe. "Logan. You need to shower. Seriously."

He sighs dramatically, pressing his forehead to your hair. "What’s the point? I’m not going downstairs. I’m not going to that...that den of sin."

You snort. "Sure, babe. Just humor me and get clean? For me?"

He groans but finally lets you go, stepping back with his hair sticking out in every direction, hoodie rumpled. "Fine. For you. But I’m coming right back up here after."

"Sure you are," you say breezily, smacking his butt as he walks past. He yelps like an affronted cat before pulling off his hoodie in one swoop, revealing the pale stripe of his back and the waistband of his worn sweats that he shucks off with a huff. He shoots you a scandalized look when you giggle.

"Stop staring," he mumbles, cheeks flushed.

"Stop being cute," you shoot back.

He flips you off half-heartedly before pulling the shower curtain closed. You can hear the spray start up, the hiss of hot water filling the room and the steam starting to gather. You lean against the counter, touching up your lipstick, the two of you bantering back and forth through the curtain.

"Bet you're regretting inviting them now," you call sweetly.

A wet slap of hand against tile. "I. Didn’t. Invite. Them."

"Mmm, okay, host with the most."

"You're a traitor."

"Love you too."

He huffs, water pattering around him. After a minute you start to smell your own shampoo—that floral, creamy scent that is unmistakably yours—and pause mid-swipe of eyeliner.

"Logan," you say slowly, suspiciously. "What the hell are you using in there?"

There's a guilty silence. Then, meekly: "...Your shampoo."

You groan, rolling your eyes even as you smile, utterly charmed. "Logan. That stuff is expensive."

Another pause. Then a muffled, petulant whine from behind the curtain: "It smells like you."

The steam is billowing so thick you can barely see your own reflection in the mirror, curling in soft, languid ribbons around your shoulders as you lean in, squinting through the fog to reapply your lipstick. Behind the faded floral curtain, there’s the slosh of water and the occasional clatter of Logan’s clumsy elbows smacking into the tiled walls. He’s muttering curses under his breath, voice muffled by the spray.

"You better not be using all my conditioner too," you call out, dragging the crimson color across your bottom lip, smacking it experimentally.

There’s a scandalized squeak from the other side. "I’m not a monster! Just the shampoo. And—maybe the face wash. It’s nice. Smells like you. Makes me feel...calm."

You roll your eyes so hard it aches, but you’re smiling anyway. The steam beads along your lashes, makes your hair start to frizz at the ends. You wipe your palm across the mirror to see better, leaving a squeaky streak. "Logan. Baby. You need to be more independent, you know. Like a big boy."

A strangled sound of outrage. You can picture him in there, long, pale limbs tangled up like a baby giraffe trying to stand, soap suds everywhere. "I am independent!" he protests shrilly. "I live alone!"

You snort, dabbing at your eyeliner. "You live alone but you use all my expensive products, text me 47 times a day, and act like the world is ending if I go out without you."

A sulky silence. Then a petulant, grudging: "That’s...not fair."

"Oh it’s absolutely fair," you sing-song, delighted. You lean against the counter, breathing in the lush scent of your own stolen shampoo wafting through the humid air, that creamy floral note that always made him bury his face in your neck. "You’re a total barnacle. An adorable, clingy, whiny barnacle."

There’s the sound of wet slapping as he presumably pounds a fist on the tile in protest. "Take it back."

You laugh, loud and bright, the sound bouncing off the tile. "Nope. Barnacle Logan. That’s your new contact name."

He groans, and the water hisses louder as he moves directly under the spray to sulk. "I hate you."

"You love me."

Silence. Then, quieter, raw and unguarded: "Yeah. I really do."

Your breath catches a little, the air thick and damp and heady with shampoo and soap and Logan’s ridiculous honesty. You glance down at the sink, pressing your lips together to keep from letting the giddy, swoony feeling show too much. "Yeah," you say, voice gentler. "I know."

There’s another pause, then a rustle of movement. "Hey. Come here."

You snort. "Logan. You’re naked."

"And?" he shoots back, indignant and muffled. "Nothing you haven’t seen before. I wanna see you."

You roll your eyes but your cheeks flush. You push off the counter, steam coiling around your legs like cats, and step closer to the tub. Your hand lands on the edge of the curtain. "Behave."

"No promises."

You peel it back just enough to see him—dripping wet, hair plastered to his forehead in dark gold strands, eyes huge and blue and so open it actually hurts to look at. He’s squinting through the steam at you like you’re the only thing that matters. Water traces the slope of his collarbone, pools in the sharp hollow of his throat.

He looks ridiculous. And beautiful. And so, so yours.

You lean over the edge of the tub, the steam curling thick and warm between you, and cup his flushed, wet face in both hands. He startles a little at the sudden closeness, those wide blue eyes blinking under the drizzle of the shower, darkened blond strands of hair plastered to his forehead in a dripping halo. He opens his mouth to protest—maybe to tease you back, maybe to tell you you're going to get your clothes wet—but you don’t give him the chance. You surge forward, kissing him hard.

He makes a startled, muffled sound that vibrates into your lips, arms coming up automatically to wrap around your waist and pull you even closer. Water splashes over the edge of the tub, soaking into your socks, but you don’t care. His mouth is so warm, so desperate. He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that can save him, like every exhale is your name. One hand scrabbles at your hip, slick with water and soap, trying to keep you from pulling away even as you both break to breathe, your noses brushing, breath mingling in the humid air.

"Logan," you whisper against his lips, voice breathless. "You’re gonna make me soak through my clothes."

"Good," he huffs, stubborn and so painfully sincere. "Stay. Don’t go anywhere."

You give him another quick, hard kiss, biting at his bottom lip until he groans and tilts his head back to bare his throat, those pale lashes fluttering shut. You pull away with a soft, wet smack and press your forehead to his, both of you panting, the sound of the shower still roaring around you. "I have to go greet everyone," you murmur, fingers stroking the slippery strands of hair back from his forehead. "They’re going to be here any minute."

He lets out the most pitiful whine you’ve ever heard—a real, guttural, full-bodied sound of protest that makes you snort and slap a hand over your mouth. His grip on your waist tightens, like he's about to haul you in with him fully clothed. "No," he moans. "Tell them to fuck off. Tell them the party’s canceled. Tell them you’re mine."

Your heart flips at that—because even when he’s being the clingiest, sulkiest barnacle on earth, he’s yours, and he’s so earnest about it. But you manage to push at his chest, gently but firmly, feeling the wet heat of his bare skin under your palms. "I’ll come back," you promise. "But you need to hurry up. Please, for me. Clean up. Put on something decent."

He groans again, slumping under the spray, water rivuleting down the planes of his chest. "Hate this. Hate them. Hate you."

You roll your eyes. "I love you too."

You slip out of the bathroom with one last look—he’s pouting like an angry, damp cat, hair dripping in his eyes, water sheeting over his narrow shoulders. You shake your head fondly, pulling the door closed behind you and padding down the hall. The music is still going on your phone, something bass-heavy and cheerful, and you hum along despite your own nerves buzzing like static under your skin.

Then—the doorbell rings.

You freeze for half a second before cursing softly and rushing down the stairs. The apartment is already in disarray: furniture scooted back to make room for dancing, twinkle lights strung haphazardly over the curtain rods, a folding table in the corner that Michael insisted would make a perfect bar. You smooth down your hair, wipe the lingering steam-sweat from your forehead, and put on your brightest, fakest host smile as you unlock and swing open the door.

Michael bursts in first, arms thrown wide like he’s entering a wrestling ring, a grin splitting his face. "THE PARTY HAS ARRIVED!" he bellows, loud enough to make you wince. Behind him, Sean and John pile in carrying bags of chips, solo cups, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire case of cheap beer. Clayton is fiddling with a portable speaker in one arm, waving at you distractedly with the other. Barrett comes last, toting a bottle of champagne and wearing a smug grin, his girlfriend tucked under his arm, rolling her eyes at the chaos but smiling anyway.

The cold night air spills in behind them, smelling of frost and car exhaust. You stumble back a step as the whole Mammoth horde pours in, stomping snow off their boots, laughing, shouting greetings. Someone shoves a case of seltzers into your hands. Another flicks on the living room lamp so hard it rattles.

"Welcome to Cools’s house, where the drinks are free and the host is MIA!" Michael crows, earning a round of hoots and cheers. Sean is already throwing his coat on the back of your armchair, cramming bags of chips into Logan’s kitchen cabinets like he's moving in for good.

Sean’s girlfriend leans in to kiss your cheek in greeting, her perfume warm and powdery. "You look cute," she says conspiratorially over the din. "Brave woman, hosting this circus."

You grin back, frazzled but game. "I think Logan's planning to hide in the bathroom the entire night."

Michael catches that, snorting as he cracks open a beer. "He fuckin' better not. I'm getting him drunk tonight if it kills me."

You wince, casting a glance over your shoulder toward the dark hallway. Somewhere up there, Logan is probably listening in horror, hair still wet, face buried in his hoodie like it can save him from this social Armageddon.

And you’re pretty sure you can hear him groan from all the way upstairs.

Logan finally slouched downstairs after your pleading, hair still damp, face sulky and flushed from the too-hot shower, hoodie hanging off his sharp collarbones. He tried to sneak past Michael like a hunted animal, but Michael was on him in seconds, slinging an arm around his shoulders with all the subtlety of a bear trap.

“THE MAN OF THE HOUR!” Michael roared, nearly toppling them both as the entire room whooped. Logan gave you a look of naked betrayal as you half-laughed, half-cringed. The Mammoth boys chanted his name, loud enough to rattle the twinkle lights. Logan muttered something vicious under his breath—something that sounded suspiciously like "I hate all of you"—but they ignored it entirely, someone pressing a red Solo cup into his hand before he could escape.

He clutched it like it might bite him. You watched him sniff it warily, lips curling in distaste. “What is this?”

“Vodka-cran, easy starter,” Sean assured him with mock-sincerity. “It’s basically juice.”

Logan narrowed his eyes at it like it had insulted his mother. But everyone was watching, Barrett recording on his phone while Michael and Josh jeered, so he raised it to his lips with the kind of solemn resignation most people reserved for signing organ donation papers. He winced as he swallowed. The room exploded in cheers.

That first drink went straight to his ears, turning them a brilliant pink. He tried to retreat, but Michael physically herded him back to the makeshift bar. “Oh no. Oh no no no. We’re just getting started.”

You tried to intervene, grabbing Logan’s wrist, feeling the fine tremor under your fingers. He wouldn’t quite meet your eyes. "You don't have to—"

“Gotta,” he mumbled, voice cracking. “They’ll never shut up.”

Shot number two was tequila. Someone poured salt onto the back of his hand with excessive ceremony, Barrett shoving a lime wedge between his fingers. Logan gave you the most pathetic, beseeching look you’d ever seen in your life as the salt burned against his pale skin. You tried to hold it together, but your grin cracked wide. He glared at you the entire time he licked it off, slammed the shot, and bit the lime so hard the juice squirted down his chin.

By shot number three—some unholy cinnamon whiskey—his eyes had gone glazed, pupils blown wide. He was leaning on the counter, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair falling in damp, unruly waves around his face. He giggled at something Michael said that wasn't even remotely funny, nose scrunching, teeth showing in that dopey way that made your heart ache. You were buzzing yourself, three drinks in and warm all over, but nothing compared to Logan. He was gone.

At some point, the music changed to something filthy, bass so deep it shook your ribs. The living room morphed into a writhing mess of limbs and laughter and glitter from someone's spilled craft bin. You lost track of Logan until you found him in the kitchen, slumped against the fridge, blinking at nothing.

“Hey,” you laughed, voice sticky with sugar and booze. “You alive?”

He startled violently, hitting the fridge so hard the magnets clattered to the floor. Then he focused on you. And lit up like the goddamn sunrise.

“BABE,” he crowed, flinging his arms out. You nearly toppled as he grabbed you, mashing his mouth to yours with all the grace of a drunk toddler. His lips were hot and wet and eager, tongue clumsy and greedy. You squeaked against him as his hands fumbled under your shirt, icy from holding his cup, making you arch away with a breathless shriek.

“Logan, oh my God—”

He just whined, chasing your mouth, trying to press you back against the fridge door so hard it rattled. The whole time he muttered nonsense, slurred and urgent: “So pretty. Fuck, so pretty. Mine. You’re mine. Don’t wanna share. Hate them. Hate this. Just wanna—wanna be—fuck—”

You were breathless, laughing helplessly even as you kissed him back, his hair sticking to your lips with sweat. Someone wolf-whistled from the doorway and Logan actually growled at them, clamping both arms around your waist possessively. He was shaking with it, chest heaving, pupils blown so wide there was barely any blue left.

“Baby,” you tried, voice soft despite your giggles. “You’re so drunk.”

He shook his head violently. “’M fine. More shots.”

“Absolutely not.”

But Michael was there, devil on his shoulder, pressing another tequila shot into Logan’s wavering hand. You watched, horrified and delighted, as he tried to throw it back and ended up gagging halfway through, coughing so hard he nearly doubled over. He shoved the glass at Michael, glaring like he’d been personally betrayed. Then he turned back to you, eyes wet, lip trembling. “They’re mean.”

You snorted. “They’re your friends.”

He lunged forward again, pressing his nose into your neck, inhaling so hard it was obscene. “Just wanna smell you,” he slurred. “Smell so good. Better than them. Better than anything.”

You were so drunk you just cradled his head, carding your fingers through his damp hair. “Okay, okay. Calm down. We’ll get water.”

But he refused to let you go. He pressed you into the fridge so firmly your breath hitched, kissing your neck sloppily, moaning in your ear like he couldn’t help himself. You could barely breathe for laughter and heat, aware of your friends cackling and cheering behind you. Somewhere in the din Michael shouted, “Get a room!” and Logan gave them the finger without looking up, too busy dragging his mouth across your collarbone.

Eventually you managed to pry him off with promises of more kisses if he drank some water. He went, whining the whole time, clutching your hand like a lifeline. When you entered the living room for the countdown to midnight and another sloppy kiss, he flipped off Sean with both hands and shouted something incoherent about "stealing his girl" even though Sean was dancing with John and his girlfriend and had never looked more unimpressed.

***

It’s well past midnight, the apartment a humid, chaotic mess of music and half-shouted jokes and the sticky tang of spilled liquor on laminate. You’re trying to catch your breath in the kitchen, plastic cup sweating in your hand, when you hear the hooting and cackling from the living room.

You peer around the corner, and there he is. Logan. Your Logan. Wedged into the battered sectional with half the team draped around him, a joint passing lazily between them. Barrett is narrating something absolutely unhinged, voice pitching up and down, while Michael hoots with laughter. Clayton is half-asleep on the floor, eyes glassy and red. And in the middle of it all is Logan, his long body slouched deep into the couch cushions, hoodie sliding off one shoulder. His hair is messy, flattened where someone ruffled it, his cheeks flushed crimson and eyes glassy, dilated so wide they’re all pupil. He’s giggling like he can’t stop, mouth wet and shiny, hand fluttering to his chest every time someone passes him the joint.

When he brings it to his lips, he misses the first try. Michael roars with laughter, slapping Logan’s knee hard enough to make him yelp and nearly drop it. He fumbles for it with shaking fingers, eyes so wide they look alien, a scared little animal in a snare trap. But then he takes the hit, cheeks hollowing, eyes closing in bliss. The exhale is ragged, smoky, and when he opens his eyes he’s not even seeing them—just staring at nothing, mouth slack.

You feel a cold dread pool in your gut. That’s too much. He’s too gone. You shove your drink onto the counter, stalking forward with your pulse hammering in your ears. When you reach the couch, he doesn’t even notice you at first. He’s blinking slowly, breathing shallow, fingers twitching like he’s forgotten how to hold them still.

"Logan," you say sharply, voice slicing through the din. His head jerks, eyes struggling to focus. He blinks at you with a slack, confused smile, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re real. "Hey. Hey, baby. Come on. Get up."

He tries. He really does. His legs kick uselessly against the floor, his arms flailing for purchase. You take his hands, feeling them clammy and limp in yours, and tug. He slumps forward onto you with a groan, forehead knocking into your collarbone. His hair is damp with sweat, the scent of cheap weed clinging to him like a second skin.

"Nnnnn—where’re we goin’?" he slurs against your shirt. His breath is warm and reeks of smoke. Someone hoots from the couch—Michael, probably—but you don’t look back. You just wind an arm tight around his ribs, feeling them flex as he breathes shallow and ragged. "I’m—I’m chillin’, s’good. S’fine."

"It’s not fine," you mutter, voice low but urgent as you push your shoulder under his and haul. He whines, resisting at first, but his knees buckle easily. His weight collapses into you. "We’re going somewhere quiet. Come on."

He’s mumbling the entire way down the hall, limp and boneless, forehead pressing into your temple, breath hot and panting. "Don’—don’ wanna go. S’party. M’partyyyyy…" His voice cracks into a pitiful whine, and your heart twists painfully. You hush him gently, hand smoothing over his side, feeling the tremor under your palm.

You drag him—nearly carrying him—into his little den. His so-called man cave. But really it’s this absurdly gentle space, all warm throws and oversized pillows and three different candles in vanilla and sandalwood that he only lights when it’s just the two of you. There’s a tiny bookshelf in the corner with all the paperbacks he actually finishes, battered spines and dog-eared pages. A battered record player humming with faint static, the pile of vinyls arranged so carefully by mood.

You kick the door shut with your foot and lower him onto the couch. He collapses like a marionette with cut strings, arms falling limp at his sides. His head rolls to the pillow, blinking slowly up at you, pupils so wide it’s all black, the blue a thin, trembling halo. "S’you," he slurs, voice cracking with wetness. "Babe. Babe I—I can’—feels weird."

Your heart aches so badly it’s a physical pain. You drop to your knees beside him, cupping his flushed, sweaty face in both hands. His skin is so hot. His lashes flutter like he’s fighting sleep, or tears. "I know," you whisper, smoothing your thumb over the wet corner of his eye. "I know, love. Shh. You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you."

He whimpers, pressing his cheek desperately into your palm. "I don’—I don’ like it," he slurs, voice breaking. His eyes squeeze shut, two tears leaking free and cutting clean tracks through the flush of his cheeks. "’M too high. Feels bad. Don’—make it stop."

You brush the tears away with shaking fingers, your own throat tight. "I know. I know, baby. Just breathe. Just look at me, okay? Just me. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere."

He sobs once, a broken little sound, trying to curl in on himself. You push him gently onto his back, tucking the throw around his shaking shoulders. You reach for the old green candle on his nightstand, the one that smells like cedar and moss, and light it with trembling fingers. The match flares and dies, leaving warm amber glow and soothing scent in the air. The static from the record player hisses and pops like a fire, and you keep petting him, gentle and rhythmic.

"Here," you murmur, pulling his hand to your chest so he can feel your heart beating. "Breathe with me, okay? In… and out…" You exaggerate it, deep and slow, and after a moment, he tries to copy you. It’s shuddery, hitching, but he tries. "That’s it. Sweet boy. So good for me."

His eyes crack open, watery and unfocused, but fixed on you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth. His fingers flex against your chest, grabbing for you like a lifeline. "Love you," he mumbles, voice shredded and raw.

You bite your lip against the sob threatening your own throat, leaning in to kiss his damp hair, your lips pressed to his temple. "I love you too," you whisper, voice wrecked. "More than anything. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere. Just keep breathing with me, baby. Just keep breathing."

He’s shivering despite the warmth of the room, lashes clumped wetly against his flushed cheeks, eyes struggling to stay open. You can see it building—the way his mouth twists, the soft groan vibrating in his chest. His stomach gives another loud, ominous churn, and he whimpers like a wounded animal.

“Oh God…” he croaks, breath hitching. “I’m gonna—”

You sit bolt upright, looking wildly around the dim little den. Your gaze lands on the battered old trash can tucked by his desk—you lunge for it, dragging it across the carpet with an ugly scraping sound. He barely gets it into his lap before he folds over it with a wet, miserable retch, his whole body curling in on itself. You wince, but your hands move automatically, sliding into that soft, fine hair of his, sweeping it back from his clammy face as he chokes and sputters.

“Shh, breathe—Logan, baby, it’s okay. Let it out, I’ve got you.”

He gags again, fingers scrabbling at the rim of the bin, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes. His shoulders jerk with each heave, the wretched sounds echoing off the walls. You feel the way his spine arches under your hand as you rub slow, steady circles between his shoulder blades, voice dropping to that low, soothing hush you know calms him even at the best of times.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here. Just get it up, okay? Don’t fight it. I’m right here. That’s it—good boy.”

He shudders, spitting weakly into the bin, making a wounded keening sound that tears your heart in half. The candle you lit still burns on the little table, its warm cedar scent wrapping the room in sleepy hush, but it can’t mask the sharp, acrid stink of sick. You try not to breathe it in, focusing instead on Logan’s shivering form. When he lifts his head at last, he looks ruined—eyes red and glassy, drool slicking his chin, blond hair tangled in damp ropes around his ears.

He tries to speak and his voice breaks on a sob. “’M sorry. I’m so—so gross—”

“Stop that,” you whisper fiercely, cupping his hot, damp cheek. “None of that. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

He whines, forehead pressing to your palm, tears leaking freely now, and you press your lips to his temple, feeling the salt on his skin. Your other hand slides down his back, stroking firmly, grounding him. He gives another weak gag and you nudge the bin closer, steadying him as another miserable retch wracks his ribs. You keep your voice steady, calm, even though your own throat feels tight.

“That’s it. Breathe, baby. Just breathe. Good boy…you’re doing so good.”

It feels like forever before he finally slumps back, the trash can tipping sideways onto the carpet. He makes a pitiful sound and wipes at his mouth with the back of his shaking hand, eyes fluttering half-shut. You haul it away quickly, tucking it aside, then sink back onto your knees, gathering him into your arms like you’re scooping up something precious. He doesn’t resist—just melts, all 180 lanky pounds of him draped against you like a boneless cat.

You press kisses into his hair, his temple, the sticky line of his cheekbone. “There we go. That’s better. Shh. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

His fingers twist weakly in your shirt, breath hitching in exhausted sobs. “Don’t go,” he slurs. “Please…stay…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promise, voice breaking a little. You shift until you’re half lying on the couch with him, pulling the soft green throw over both of you. He clings to you like a drowning man, nose buried in your throat, the scent of sweat and sick and your stolen shampoo clinging to both of you.

Your fingers card gently through his hair, still damp, the fine strands sliding between them like silk. His breathing evens out slowly, the jerky hitch of sobs tapering into exhausted, damp snuffles. The candle flickers, warm and low, its light dancing on the walls, casting both of you in a sleepy glow.

You can feel the shudder of his ribs as he exhales, voice a hoarse whisper against your skin. “Love you. So—so much. ’M sorry.”

You press another kiss into his hair, squeezing him tight. “Love you more. Nothing to be sorry for. I’ve got you. Always.”

Eventually the tremors in his limbs stop. His fingers relax, curling slack against your side. His breathing deepens, warm and damp against your collarbone. You feel your own eyelids grow heavy, every muscle sinking into the couch beneath you, the hush of the room and the weight of him pressed close lulling you down with him.

You fall asleep like that—tangled together, surrounded by the low glow of candlelight, your fingers still buried in his hair, the scent of cedar and shampoo thick in the air. His cheek is pressed against your neck, breath warm and slow, and even in sleep, his arm is locked around you tight enough that you know he’s never letting go.

You wake to a vicious, throbbing headache that pulses behind your eyes in time with your heartbeat, a relentless pounding that makes you squeeze them shut harder against the early winter light filtering through the blinds. The air is stale with the smell of last night’s spilled beer and extinguished candles, sweet wax clinging in the back of your throat. But worse is the weight draped over you—Logan’s entire lanky form, half on top of you, cheek mashed into your collarbone. He’s drooling, warm and damp, breath hitching in little huffs against your skin.

You groan and shift, and it only makes him grumble in protest. He tightens his arm around you instinctively, long fingers flexing on your ribs, his nose burrowing deeper into your shoulder. A line of cool drool smears wetly along your shirt. You wince, stifling laughter despite the pounding in your skull, and gently card your fingers through his mussed blond hair. It’s soft as silk, damp with sweat at the roots, sticking up in all directions like he’s been electrocuted. When you speak it’s a scratchy rasp: "Logan. Baby. You’re...kind of...soaking me."

He just snuffles wetly, mouth opening with a faint click as more drool leaks out. You sigh, your headache flaring. It takes a careful, painstaking operation to pry him off you—lifting one of his slack arms from around your ribs, shifting his bony knees that have somehow jammed between yours, wincing as he makes sad, wounded sounds the entire time. Finally you ease his head onto the pillow, where he promptly flops with a sleepy whine, lashes fluttering against flushed, tear-stained cheeks. He’s out cold again in seconds.

You take a minute to breathe. Your own mouth tastes like stale vodka and regret. You wipe at your collarbone, grimacing at the sticky damp spot on your shirt, then push yourself up onto shaky legs. The candle is still guttering in its dish on the low table, half its wax melted over the side. You snuff it out with a hiss of your fingers and stand there blinking, pressing your palms to your aching temples. The world seems too bright, too loud, your own pulse a roaring static in your ears.

When you finally push open the door, it’s like stepping into a war zone. The living room is an unholy disaster—cups everywhere, sticky with dried, congealed mixer, beer cans rolling underfoot. Someone’s spilled salsa across the rug in a congealed smear of red and orange. The coffee table is tilted on one leg, with a collapsed folding chair half beneath it like roadkill. There’s a single cowboy boot perched inexplicably on the back of the couch, and the twinkle lights are hanging sad and broken, half of them blinking erratically like a dying star. The air reeks of booze, sweat, and the ghost of weed smoke, stale and sour.

You survey it for a good thirty seconds, lip curled in pure horror. Then you take a single decisive step back. "Nope," you mutter, voice raw. "Not today."

You shuffle back down the hall, ignoring the throbbing behind your eyes, socks scritching on the floor. When you re-enter the little den, Logan hasn’t moved at all—still sprawled sideways on the couch, hair fanned across the pillow in a blond halo, mouth open in a soft, slack O. He’s snoring lightly, one hand curled against his chest like a child clutching a security blanket. Your heart squeezes painfully tight at the sight. Even after everything, he’s so impossibly soft.

You ease back down onto the couch and gently gather his head into your lap. He mumbles something incomprehensible, nose scrunching as his lashes flutter, but he doesn’t wake. You start stroking your fingers through his hair, combing out the snarls carefully, smoothing it back from his flushed, vulnerable face. He lets out a small, broken sigh, sinking deeper against you. The room is quiet except for the hum of the furnace and the low hiss of winter wind outside.

You lose track of time like that—just carding your fingers through the fine strands of his hair, pressing your thumb to the arch of his cheekbone, memorizing every freckle, every faint scar. The doorbell of his phone buzzes against the floor, vibrating loud and obnoxious. Logan flinches in his sleep, letting out a pathetic squeak, and you shush him softly, pulling the phone closer. It lights up with "Michael calling."

You hesitate, then swipe to answer with your free hand, pressing it to your ear. "Yeah?"

There’s a beat of surprised silence. Then Michael’s voice, lower and rougher than usual. "Oh. Shit. It’s you. Uh. Hey. Sorry."

You glance down at Logan, who is drooling anew in your lap, utterly defenseless. You brush his hair off his forehead. "Hey," you rasp back, voice kinder than you mean for it to be. "He’s out. Like...really out."

Michael exhales loudly. You hear the scrape of a chair, a mumbled curse. "Yeah. Fuck. Look...I know we’re assholes. I just...I wanted to say sorry, okay? For pushing him so hard. We just...we just want him around more. He disappears for weeks. Doesn’t answer sometimes. It’s...it’s not the same without him."

You swallow, your throat dry and sore. Your fingers never stop moving in Logan’s hair. He nuzzles closer, smearing spit on your thigh. "I know," you say quietly. "He knows too."

Michael sniffs. He sounds uncharacteristically serious. "I know he’s...like that. I just...look, can you maybe...I dunno...tell him to make that his resolution? To come out sometimes? For us?"

You let out a slow exhale, eyes stinging. Logan’s breathing deepens, lashes fluttering, lips parting on a sleepy sigh. You tighten your fingers in his hair, thumb brushing over the pulse at his temple. "We’ll see," you murmur. "I’ll try."

Michael clears his throat. "Okay. Cool. Uh. Tell him...tell him we love the bastard. Even if he’s a fucking hermit."

You huff a quiet, watery laugh. "Yeah. I will."

You hang up without waiting for anything else, letting the phone fall gently to the carpet. Logan shifts in your lap with a soft whine, blinking blearily up at you. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot, the blue of them watery and shining like sea glass. His lips are chapped, parted on a shallow breath. He looks wrecked. He looks perfect.

"Hi," you whisper, fingers brushing along his cheek. He blinks slowly, confusion melting into sleepy wonder, pupils dilating as he focuses on you. A dopey, adoring smile curves his mouth.

"Hi," he whispers back, voice wrecked and raw. He shifts, burrowing closer, nuzzling into your belly with a pathetic little groan. "Mine."

You tug at the hair on the nape of Macklin's neck, and the sound that escapes him is strangled, caught between surprise and need. He tries to stifle it, but you catch it, smiling against his lips. It makes something in your chest warm, knowing you can pull those kinds of noises out of him. His heart is beating so fast, like it's trying to match yours, and you can feel it through the ridiculous grandpa sweater he's wearing. The thing is soft under your fingertips, maybe a little scratchy from age, but the warmth it holds is all Macklin.

He feels so good against you—all nervous tension, shaky breaths, and the weight of his arms when they wrap around your waist, trying to pull you closer. His lips part as you deepen the kiss, and you feel his hesitation, like he's wondering if he should take it further. He doesn't have to. You push into him more, and his breath catches when you slip your hand up under his sweater, running your fingers along the waistband of his pants, barely brushing the skin there. You like the way his stomach flexes, like he can barely handle it but doesn’t want you to stop.

His hands find your hips, clumsy but earnest, and you can feel his fingers press into you, almost like he's trying to memorize how you feel against him. The dark room around you fades into nothing, the only light left coming in faint and gray through the window—a dying sunset, snowflakes slowly drifting past the glass. Everything is quiet except for the sound of your breathing and the occasional soft sigh from Macklin when you do something that pulls at the tension in him, makes him shiver under your touch.

You pull back a little, just enough to see his face. His cheeks are pink, lips slightly parted, and you feel his gaze flicker from your eyes to your mouth, like he’s waiting, needing you to take the lead. There's a nervousness there, sure, but beneath it, you see it—the raw want, the way he looks at you like he’s scared he’s dreaming and any second now he'll wake up. It makes you want to ruin him a little, to show him that this isn’t something he’s imagining. That you're right here, with him, wanting him just as badly.

You lean in, nipping at his bottom lip before trailing your kisses along his jaw. His head tilts back instinctively, a shaky exhale escaping him when you reach his throat. You can feel him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing under your lips, and it makes you smile. You let your hands wander, running over the lines of his stupidly cute sweater, feeling the muscles tense beneath the soft fabric. There’s something so endearing about him in this moment—the mix of dorky and nervous and impossibly sweet. You wouldn’t want anyone else here.

"You’re so fucking cute," you whisper against his skin, and you feel him shudder, his grip on your hips tightening.

"Shut up," he mumbles, but there's no heat behind it, just a flushed sort of embarrassment. His ears are bright red, and you kiss just below his jaw again, feeling the way he goes practically boneless at the contact. You wonder if he even realizes how much he gives away when you touch him—how you can tell he’s trying so hard to keep up, to do this right, but all you really need is for him to be here, exactly like this.

You tug at his sweater, fingers brushing up under the hem, feeling the warmth of his skin. He makes another sound, this one lower, almost desperate, and you can’t help but smile against him. His hands slip under your shirt, fingers barely grazing your skin, like he’s still testing how far he can go without overstepping. You can feel his hesitation, the nerves thrumming just beneath his desire.

Just when you’re about to encourage him to go further, the sound of something shatters the bubble around you. It takes you a second to realize it's his phone vibrating on the coffee table, and he groans, forehead dropping against your shoulder.

"Ignore it," you whisper, your voice rougher than you intend, but he hesitates. You can feel him weighing it, that innate sense of responsibility he can't quite shake. He finally pulls back, glancing at the screen with a frown.

"Weather alert," he mutters, and you both turn to look out the window. The snow that had been falling softly before is now heavy, thick flakes blurring everything beyond the glass. It's suddenly so much darker, the last of the sunlight gone, leaving just the blue-gray of twilight. You blink, realizing how long you must have been wrapped up in each other. 

Macklin blinks at his phone screen, his mouth opening like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out at first. You can almost hear his brain working, piecing together the situation—the snow piling up outside, the way the roads are probably getting worse by the minute. He frowns, biting his lip, and then he starts talking, words tumbling out in that adorably awkward way of his.

“I mean, uh, we could try to call a ride? Or I could, like, try to dig your car out, but the roads, um, they might be—” He pauses, looking at the window again, and you can tell he’s worrying, already trying to figure out every possible way to get you home safely. He’s always like this—so responsible, so careful, like he has to make sure everything is perfect for you. It’s sweet, in a way that makes your heart ache a little, even if sometimes you just want him to relax.

You watch him for a moment, the way his eyes flicker around the room, his brow furrowed in concentration. He’s already listing off more options, but you reach out, putting a hand on his arm, and he blinks, looking at you.

“Mack,” you say softly, and his eyes meet yours, wide and a little uncertain. “I could just stay over.”

For a second, it’s like he doesn’t understand. His mouth opens, then closes, and you watch the blush start to creep up his neck, his eyes widening. “Stay?” he echoes, his voice a little higher than usual.

“Yeah,” you say, smiling at him. “I mean, it’s probably safer than trying to drive anywhere right now, right?”

He swallows, and you can see the way he’s trying to process it, his eyes flicking to the window, then back to you. “I… I guess,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, if you’re okay with it. I don’t—I mean, we haven’t—” He stops, the blush on his cheeks deepening, and you can’t help but smile at how flustered he is.

You know what he’s thinking about. You’ve tried to take things further before, but Macklin always pulls back, his face flushed and his breathing ragged, mumbling something about how he just loves kissing you and doesn’t want to rush anything. It’s endearing, really—the way he’s so careful, so sweet, like he’s scared of messing up or going too far. You love that about him, the way he’s always so focused on making sure you’re comfortable, even if it means he’s left a little worked up and embarrassed by the end of it.

“Mack,” you say softly, and he looks at you, his eyes wide and a little nervous. You reach up, brushing your fingers along his jaw, feeling the way he shivers at the contact. “It’s okay. I want to stay.”

He blinks, his lips parting, and you can see the way his shoulders relax just a little, the tension easing out of him. “Okay,” he says, his voice soft. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

You smile, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips, and you feel the way he melts into it, his hands coming up to rest on your waist. He’s still a little tense, like he’s not quite sure what to do with himself, but you can feel the way he’s trying, the way he’s slowly letting himself relax.

When you pull back, his cheeks are still flushed, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips, his eyes soft as he looks at you. “Um, I think I have some extra blankets,” he says, his voice a little shaky. “And, uh, pillows. If you want.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound soft and warm in the quiet room. “Mack, you don’t have to make me a bed on the couch,” you say, and his eyes widen, his blush deepening.

“Oh. Right. I mean, I just… I didn’t want to assume…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck, and you can see the way his ears are bright red, his eyes flicking away from yours.

“Hey,” you say, reaching out to take his hand, threading your fingers through his. He looks at you, and you smile, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I want to stay with you. In your bed. If that’s okay.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s trying to make sure he heard you right. Then he nods, his lips pulling into a shy smile. “Okay,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. That’s… that’s okay.”

*** The air in Macklin’s room is warm, the soft light from the bedside lamp casting a golden glow across the space. His room is simple but cozy, with a dark green comforter on the bed and a small pile of books stacked on the nightstand that you’re sure he hasn’t read. You run your fingers along the edge of the comforter as you wait, hearing the faint sound of water running in the bathroom down the hall.

You glance at the clothes Macklin left for you on the bed—a plain gray t-shirt and a pair of navy gym shorts. The shirt looks soft and well-worn, the kind of thing that’s probably his favorite to wear on lazy mornings. The shorts, on the other hand, are massive. You hold them up, laughing softly at just how oversized they are compared to you. Still, it’s endearing—just like everything else about Macklin.

You slip the shirt over your head first, the fabric falling against your skin with a faint scent of detergent and something distinctly him. It’s long enough to cover you mid-thigh, which makes the shorts feel unnecessary. You try them on anyway, but they’re loose and awkward, slipping low on your hips no matter how much you adjust them. After a moment of debating, you decide to ditch them entirely, leaving you in just your underwear and his t-shirt. It feels… nice, in a way you didn’t expect. Like you’re wrapped up in a piece of him.

You take a deep breath, smoothing the hem of the shirt over your thighs before padding down the hall. “Macklin?” you call softly, stopping just outside the bathroom door. “Are you decent?”

There’s a pause, followed by the muffled sound of him spitting into the sink. “Yeah,” he replies, his voice a little shaky. “Come in.”

You push the door open, stepping inside. He’s standing at the sink, a toothbrush in one hand, shirtless and wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants that hang low on his hips. His hair is slightly damp, curling at the edges from his shower. He glances up at you in the mirror, and the moment his eyes land on you, they widen.

He turns to face you fully, toothbrush frozen mid-air, his gaze flickering from your legs to the oversized shirt hanging loose on your frame. You see the exact moment his brain short-circuits, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red as his eyes dart away, like he’s embarrassed for looking too long. But his eyes keep wandering back, no matter how much he tries to resist.

“Hey,” you say softly, perching on the edge of the counter beside him. You tuck one leg under the other, your bare thigh brushing against the cool surface of the sink. “Do you have an extra toothbrush?”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at you, his mouth slightly open, looking utterly lovesick and completely baffled. His gaze drops to your legs again before snapping back to your face, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.

“Macklin,” you tease, leaning closer to nudge his arm. “Toothbrush?”

“Uh…” He blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to reboot himself. “Yeah. Yeah, um, it’s in the drawer.” He sets his toothbrush down with trembling hands, pulling open a small drawer beside the sink and fishing out a packaged toothbrush. He hands it to you without meeting your eyes, his ears blazing red.

“Thanks,” you say, unwrapping the toothbrush and running it under the faucet. He watches you in silence, his gaze darting between your face and your legs like he’s trying to be subtle and failing miserably. It’s adorable, the way he’s so clearly flustered but can’t seem to stop looking at you. His eyes flicker up to your face, then down to the oversized shirt again, and you can’t help but smile. It’s endearing how utterly disarmed he is by you in his clothes—like he’s never seen anything more captivating in his life. As you start brushing your teeth, you glance at him, noticing how he’s frozen in place, still standing right where he was. His hands are on the edge of the sink, gripping it like he needs the support.

“So,” you say around the toothbrush, your voice slightly muffled, “Have you ever been snowed in before?” You’re trying to keep the conversation light, but the way he’s looking at you—or trying not to look at you—makes it hard to focus. His gaze keeps drifting to your legs, then back to your face, like he’s worried you’ll catch him staring.

He blinks, your question pulling him back to reality. “Uh, yeah. A couple times,” he says, but his voice is distant, distracted. “Not like this, though. Not with…” His words trail off, and he clears his throat, his blush deepening.

“Not with what?” you prompt, raising an eyebrow at him as you rinse your toothbrush.

“Not with you,” he mumbles, so softly you almost miss it. His eyes dart to yours, then away again, his ears bright red. He’s doing that thing where he shifts his weight nervously from one foot to the other, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. It’s impossibly cute.

You finish rinsing and set the toothbrush down, your gaze softening as you watch him. “Mack,” you say gently, and he looks at you, wide-eyed, like he’s bracing himself for something.

But instead of teasing him, you reach out, resting your hand on his forearm. His skin is warm under your touch, and you feel the way he tenses for just a second before relaxing, leaning ever so slightly into your hand. “It’s just me,” you say, your voice quiet but reassuring. “You don’t have to be nervous.”

He swallows hard, and for a moment, he just looks at you, his eyes searching yours. Then, without saying a word, he steps closer, his hands finding your hips as he moves to stand between your legs. His touch is hesitant at first, like he’s still not sure if this is okay, but when you don’t pull away, he relaxes, his fingers tightening slightly against you.

“You… you look really good in my shirt,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes drop to the fabric again, like he can’t help himself, and you see the way his cheeks flush even deeper.

You’re about to reply, but before you can, he leans in, pressing a soft, tentative kiss to your cheek. Then another, this time closer to the corner of your mouth. His hands slide up from your hips to your waist, and you feel the warmth of his palms through the thin fabric.

“Mack,” you say softly, your voice catching slightly as his lips brush against your jaw. He’s so close now, his breath warm against your skin, and you can feel the nervous energy radiating off him. But there’s something else there too—a quiet, unspoken need, like he’s been holding back for so long and finally can’t anymore.

“I just… I really like you,” he says suddenly, his voice shaky but earnest. His words tumble out in a rush, like he’s been holding them in and can’t keep them bottled up any longer. “Like, a lot. And I… I don’t know if I’m doing this right, but I just… I want you to know that.”

Your heart feels like it might burst at how sincere he is, how completely open and vulnerable he’s being. You reach up, cupping his face in your hands, and he leans into your touch, his eyes closing for a moment like he’s savoring it.

“Macklin,” you say, your voice soft but steady, “You’re doing everything right. I promise.”

He opens his eyes, and the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters—makes your breath catch. Then he’s kissing you, and it’s slow and sweet and so full of emotion that it makes your chest ache in the best way. His hands move to your lower back, pulling you closer, and you can feel the way he’s shaking just a little, like he’s overwhelmed but doesn’t want to stop.

When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel the way his breath mingles with yours, warm and unsteady. “I really like you too,” you whisper, and you see the way his face lights up, his smile soft and a little shy.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice hopeful, and you nod, brushing your thumb along his cheek.

“Yeah,” you say, leaning in to kiss him again. This time, he doesn’t hesitate, his arms wrapping around you fully, holding you close like he never wants to let go.

For a moment, you’re sure he’s going to crush you. The breath whooshes out of your lungs as he holds you close, his face buried in the curve of your neck. He’s so warm, his body heat seeping through the oversized shirt you’re wearing, and you can feel the slight tremble in his hands where they press against your back.

“Mack,” you whisper, laughing softly. “I’m gonna suffocate if you keep squeezing me like this.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his cheeks still red but his expression so soft it makes your heart ache. “Sorry,” he mumbles, though his arms don’t loosen. “I just… I don’t want to let go yet.”

“You don’t have to,” you say, brushing a strand of damp hair away from his forehead. His skin is warm under your fingers, and the way he looks at you—like you hung the moon in the sky—makes your chest feel impossibly full. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiles, shy and a little wobbly, before burying his face in your neck again. “You smell really nice,” he murmurs, his voice muffled but earnest. The words send a ripple of warmth through you, and you tighten your arms around his shoulders, letting your fingers play with the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

The two of you stay like that for a moment, wrapped up in each other, the world outside fading into nothing. The snow can keep falling, the night can stretch on forever, and you wouldn’t care as long as you have this—the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the way his breathing evens out as he relaxes against you, the warmth of his hands where they rest against your back.

Eventually, though, the pull of exhaustion starts to creep in, and you shift slightly, feeling the cool edge of the bathroom counter against your thigh. “Come on, Mack,” you say softly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We should get to bed.”

He makes a noise of protest, low and almost pouty, tightening his grip on you. “I don’t want to,” he mutters, and you can’t help but laugh at how endearing he is, even when he’s being stubborn.

“You’re gonna fall asleep standing up if you keep this up,” you tease, but he just shakes his head, his face still hidden in your neck.

“Then I’ll just… hold you here,” he mumbles, his voice laced with sleepiness. “Forever.”

“Macklin,” you say, a little firmer this time, though there’s no real heat behind it. “You can hold me in bed. It’ll be more comfortable for both of us.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, and the reluctant pout on his face makes your heart squeeze. But then his expression shifts, something soft and determined settling in his eyes. Before you can say anything, his hands slide down to your thighs, and with an ease that catches you off guard, he lifts you off the counter.

“Mack!” you yelp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders as your legs dangle for a moment before you hook them around his waist. He’s so steady, so solid beneath you, and the effortless strength he’s showing sends a little thrill through you.

Macklin holds you securely as he carries you down the hall, his steps careful but confident. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, and it’s adorable how he’s trying so hard to keep it together even though you’re sure he’s still a little flustered from earlier. His arms are warm and steady, and you let yourself relax into him, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

“You didn’t have to carry me, you know,” you murmur, though there’s no real complaint in your voice. In truth, you’re enjoying this more than you care to admit.

“I know,” he says, his voice soft but a little shy. “I just… I wanted to. Is that okay?”

You lift your head to look at him, and the earnestness in his expression makes your heart squeeze. “It’s more than okay,” you say, brushing your fingers lightly over his shoulder. “You’re pretty strong, huh?”

His cheeks flush, and he ducks his head slightly, his grip on you tightening just a little. “I mean, I guess? It’s not that big of a deal…”

You smile, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “It’s a big deal to me.”

Macklin glances at you, his eyes wide and a little dazed, like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. But then he smiles, shy and sweet, and it’s enough to make your chest feel warm all over again.

The room is cozy, and your gaze drifts to the bed, where the dark green comforter looks invitingly soft. Macklin moves to pull back the covers, revealing… oh. A body pillow tucked against one side of the bed, its soft gray cover slightly wrinkled like it’s been well-loved. Your eyebrows lift in curiosity, and a mischievous grin spreads across your face.

“What’s this?” you ask, gesturing toward the pillow. Macklin freezes, his ears going bright red as his gaze darts to the offending object.

“It’s, uh… nothing,” he stammers, quickly turning away to fuss with the corner of the blanket. “Just, you know, a… pillow.”

“A body pillow,” you clarify, your tone teasing but gentle. “Mack, do you cuddle this thing when you sleep?”

“No!” he says, far too quickly, and the way his voice pitches higher gives him away completely. “I mean, maybe? I don’t… it’s not a big deal or anything. It’s just… there.”

Your smile softens as you step closer, resting a hand on his arm. “Hey, it’s cute,” you say, your voice warm and sincere. “You like holding something while you sleep. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

He glances at you, his blush deepening, but you can see the way his shoulders relax just a little. “It’s not… I mean, I just got used to it. When I’m on the road or, you know…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck again, and the vulnerability in his voice tugs at your heart.

“Well,” you say softly, “if you need something to hold tonight, I’m right here.”

The smile that spreads across his face is so pure, so full of quiet joy, that it makes your chest ache in the best way. “Okay,” he says softly, his voice tinged with awe. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

You climb into the bed first, settling against the pillows as Macklin hovers awkwardly for a moment, like he’s not sure where to put himself. You pat the space beside you, and he hesitates before sliding in, careful to leave just a little bit of space between you.

“Mack,” you say, your tone teasing but affectionate, “I’m not made of glass. Come here.”

He swallows, his blush returning, but he scoots closer, his arm slipping around your waist with a hesitance that makes your heart squeeze. When you rest your head against his chest, you can feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s perfect,” you murmur, nuzzling closer.

For a while, the two of you just lay there, the quiet hum of the heater and the muffled sound of the snowstorm outside wrapping around you like a cocoon. His fingers trace gentle patterns on your back, and you let out a contented sigh, your hand resting over his heart.

“You’re so good at this,” you say softly, breaking the comfortable silence.

“At what?” he asks, his voice tinged with confusion.

“At making me feel safe,” you reply, lifting your head to meet his gaze. The sincerity in your eyes makes his breath catch, and you see the way his throat works as he swallows hard.

“You… you make me feel safe too,” he admits, his voice barely audible. His hand tightens just slightly on your back, like he’s grounding himself in the moment.

You smile, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The relief and affection in his eyes is enough to melt you completely, and as he pulls you closer, you know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. 

“It’s not a big deal baby,” he’d cooed, bundling you up tightly in his arms. “Think of it like a test run since your lease is ending soon. If you like being here you can just move in then!” You’d held your protest on the matter back for once in your life when you cast your eyes around and saw the room riddled with your presence: hair ties on his bedside table, your shirts cuddled up neatly next to his in the closet, extra firm pillows stacked on one side of the bed, even your bra, discarded hastily, that you really did need to pick up. The idea did make logical sense.

However, it still gave you pause. You knew Arber would insist on paying for the rent in full. You’ve always hated him spending anything on you for fear that if things ever went sour, it might be something you’d feel guilty about. Arber just didn’t get it. He should, coming from a blue collar background, but at the first whiff of being able to provide for himself and the people he loves without worry, he did just that. He takes pride in doing that. Though he is not very long removed from the lifestyle that you still find yourself in, your hesitations ring foreign to him sometimes. Your insistence on buying things for the apartment and yourself, saving for months and still having to scrounge to fly out for the odd away game, and skipping drinks at the bar to keep your tab down, have all been points of contention in your relationship. Arber just wants to provide for you, keep you from worrying about the aforementioned things, but maintaining financial independence is something you’ve emphasized, potentially too many times, as being important to you. 

Still, Arber is unrelenting. Sneaking his credit card over the counter while tempting you to look at the cute dog across the street, food for two (well, three with how he eats) appearing in his fridge, the odd designer piece being placed in one of your drawers, be it at your place or his… He always insisted, with a damning kiss to your protesting lips, that you’d pay him back in other ways.

And so tonight, you guess, is one of those ways. Arber had dummied Zach Kassian in the first. You watched with held breath as he rag dolled the older man to the ice and marched himself right to the box, arms pumping the air with testosterone riddled adrenaline. While in the moment, you always watch his fights through split fingers, his time in the sin bin and any replays you might sneakily watch before he gets home, ignite a different set of feelings. Arber had found out about your little secret after his first preseason fight; you’d had three cups of tea the next day and took a half day at work. Unfortunately, you think you’ve Pavlov’d the idiot into fighting more. Much to the dismay of your Arber’s medicine cabinet. While you’re resolute on not giving in tonight, you saw his split hand leaking blood onto the penalty box floor and know it will need more tending to when he gets home. 

Home. To your shared apartment. The one you have a set of keys to that is on a ridiculously high floor of a beautiful building in downtown Montreal. A sigh escapes your lips as you forcibly push down the guilt creeping up your throat like heartburn. 

You busy yourself with menial tasks until Arber gets back: empty and reload the dishwasher, put a load of towels in the wash, shower and do your skincare, write a grocery list for the week… Even the chores remind you of your grievance. The realization of how much Arber’s little plan has caused codependence to permeate your lifestyle releases a huff from your chest. 

Fear has driven your active prevention of this type of lifestyle well thus far. But clearly not well enough as you take in the sheer amount Arber has spent on you, as exemplified by the apartment, and how interconnected your daily lives are. Your frustration mounts at being incapable of upholding multiple things so morally important to you. Arber is not to blame. Not for loving you fiercely and wanting your life to be comfortable. You just wish you’d been more perceptive of the changes and flimsiness of your backbone. 

With your annoyance peaking and all the timing of a dumbass idiot, Arber waltzes through the door. He radiates cockiness as he takes in your form standing mere feet from the front door.

“Waiting for me were ya sweetheart?”

You can’t stop yourself from rolling your eyes; your childish annoyance at how much you love your boyfriend and love living in his stupid fucking apartment with him, taking over. You turn on your heel and begin a pouty stomp up the stairs. Curse him for being so pretty and confident and stupid and and– just absolutely everything you love to hate right now. 

“Baby that was my best fight yet and you’re gonna make me work for it?” His voice drifts up the stairs after you but your pace is unrelenting. And it’s the fact that if you weren’t currently in the middle of an unjustified rageful spiral, you’d have already jumped him (and he knows it) that has you retaliating,

“Jesus Arber! Maybe you should stop assuming that doing your job entitles you to sex!” 

Yet down by the doorway, Arber, the self proclaimed kind and gentle guy, accustomed to the sharpness of your hangry tongue or the unpredictability of your insecurities, gives pause rather than rising to your jab. He’s still for a moment. After a heartbeat, the arc of his confused brow accompanies him toeing off his dress shoes and his dissipating cockiness. He pauses before following you up the stairs, unsure if he should take his tie off or leave it on for you to loosen like always. He sets his keys in the bowl on the entryway table, something you’d brought over the other day. He notices a pink gel pen list hanging on the fridge, pinned by a magnet from your favorite coffee shop. 

With assured steps, Arber makes his way upstairs, following the warm white glow toward your en suite bathroom. He peers cautiously around the doorway. Your eyes, filled with an annoyance similar to that of a rain dampened cat, meet his. 

“Well come on then. I saw the cut on your hand.” You mutter, emotionless, eyes darting back toward where you’re rifling through bandaids and antiseptic. 

“Still gonna play nurse even when you’re pissed with me?” Arber’s question lifts at the end, forced upward reactionarily by a squeeze of his heart. He knows then that you’re not really upset with him; he’d have had the door slammed in his face promptly after a pillow and blanket were tossed in his direction if you were. He takes a cautious step toward you, arms swirling around your torso and head dropping to the perfectly shaped crevice in your neck. 

The last remaining shreds of petty protest against a crime Arber himself hasn’t even committed, have you writhing gently in his grasp. 

“Arber–”

“Shhh,” he hushes softly, “ ‘M not tryna get with you. Put those claws away will ya?”

Your head rolls back against his ducked shoulder. You refuse to meet his eyes as the last of your anger bleeds away into tepid frustration; your love for being in his strong arms at any time grows to outweigh your desire to maintain this cold front and shrug him off. The stillness of your frame urges Arber to press an unassuming kiss against your soft skin.. and another… and maybe one more for good luck.

“What’s going on baby? Something happen?” The roughness of his quiet voice causes your pulse to hum. This feels like home, you think, which fuels a surge of fresh frustration. 

“I– just take your shirt off would you? I’m tired and wanna get this over with so I can go to bed.” You surge forward to break from his grasp. Spinning on your heel, you cross your arms indignantly to accompany the pointed look you give him. You watch Arber pick his words carefully. 

“You always do it for me…” 

It’s obvious then that he’s not nervous or frustrated or treading carefully with you. He’s being his normal teddy bear self in hopes that his vulnerability will encourage yours. Your permafrost layer melts at the realization. Now shy under his honest gaze, your eyes fall to his dress shirt and tie. You’d picked this tie for him before he left. Arber always claimed he was color half-blind. Really he just wanted to try and kiss you while your focused face was so close to his, your tongue peeking out in concentration. Nimble hands reach to unthread the knot he haphazardly retied postgame.

He’s silent as he watches, though his eyes speak loudly of his love. With self assuredness he has come to expect, you place the unraveled tie on the counter behind you and move swiftly to unbutton his shirt. 

“Can’t get blood on this damn thing again. Dry cleaner can’t get the stain out my ass…” Arber smiles at your muttered musings. Your hands slip over his now bare chest to rid him of the garment. Without instruction, he turns to sit on the closed toilet. With sure hands, you reach for the isopropyl alcohol you’ve singed his skin with many times now and prepare a cotton round. You notice you don’t have to prod at his knee with your own: he’s already created a space for you between his legs.

“Why are you upset baby?”

Your eyes flick to his for the first time in a few bated minutes. Arber’s stare is so genuine you chew your answer a few times before opening your mouth. Having to say it out loud causes you to bristle one more fruitless time. 

“Cause we’re like… so fucking domestic its ridiculous.” Your hands fiddle restlessly with the drenched cotton pad, not moving to press it against his skin. 

Arber’s endeared smirk is immediate. He thinks it's cute when you’re frustrated. Unafraid hands reach for the back of your thighs, tugging gently to place you well within his personal space. His strong fingers brush up and down your legs. You reach to thumb at his collarbone, looking for something to do to dissipate your uneasy energy. Arber gives your ass a gentle squeeze, drawing you impossibly closer to him. 

“Soo.. you’re pissed about a pink gel pen list on our fridge…” His teasing tone has Hades flames sparking in your eyes again. Without hesitation or remorse, you press the cotton pad idle in your hand to a cut under his left eye. 

“Oww shit! Fuck baby give a guy some warn–” 

“Your fridge!” You hiss, before gasping and falling slightly forward. You catch yourself on Arber’s shoulder and try not to blush at the way your boyfriend’s hands squeezed and pulled at your body on reflex. 

“Y/N we’ve been over this.” Arber groans softly, both in pain and frustration. 

“Okay and? Don’t get pissy with me about it if I wanna make it clear that this is your apartment and–.” 

“Sweetheart, you just shoved rubbing alcohol so hard into my face I felt it in my ass okay? Gimme a break here.” His sigh is muddled by a breathy chuckle, his grip loosening a fraction. 

Arber creaks his eyes open slowly to find you sheepish and blushing. Your stare however, in contention, remains confident, unwavering. Arber’s hands skate over the curve of your ass up to your waist. His eyes are kind. 

“Come ‘ere. White flag baby… truce.” Always bending at the will of his strong hands, you let him move you to straddle his hips. His hands roam innocently, Arber finding comfort in your closeness. A gentle drag of the cotton across his cut has you setting the piece aside. Your arms come to reach around his neck, flicking his backwards hat off his head. His nose brushes yours. You fiddle gently with his damp hair. 

“Soo… it’s not our house?” Arber asks gently after a few beats. Your bangs fall from behind your ear as you shake your head softly. With careful fingers, Arber drags his hand over your cheek to replace your hair behind your ear. As you lean into his palm a feather light fraction, Arber hums.

“Alright… that’s okay sweetheart. I get it.” Another pause. “Are you scared about it being our house? What is it that’s upsetting you?” His voice is sure, even. 

You try to craft your explanation but it’s wildly distracting looking into Arber’s eyes and seeing the moon he’s hung for you. Even worse when he places the softest kiss on your lips.

“You can do it honey, it’s okay.” With an encouraging tap to your ass, you find your voice.

“I… I’m worried you’ll resent me for taking so much from you.” 

Your head droops before you can see the confusion quickly overridden by love in Arber’s expression. His nose bumps your forehead.

“You’re my home… what’s mine is yours.” 

He says it like it’s simple.

The unassuming kiss on your forehead and then cheek makes you believe maybe it is.

You’re sure it is when you see the purity of Arber’s expression. Your thumb reaches out to brush his cheek in hopes to see if he’s real; that a man could look at you the way Arber is right now.

“You can still be as independent as you want, I’m sorry if I’ve been too much.” You shake your head insistently, not knowing how to articulate verbally that the way he loves you is already more than you think you deserve. 

“That’s why we’re doing baby steps though, right? Until you see I’m for real.” He adds.

A snort follows a few moments later as does a teasing squeeze from Arber.

“I mean you’re the one who brought the onion chopper over and that ridiculously specific laundry detergent.” He smiles at you as he jostles you in his lap, boyish glee making him the most handsome you’ve ever seen him. Your armor falls without your consent, a smile to match Arber’s betraying you. 

“You told me you love the onion dicer…” At this Arber laughs. You lean forward to kiss the smile off his lips, getting lost for a moment.

“You’re right I did.” He pulls you back with his hand splayed across your neck and thumb under your chin to kiss you deeper. The feel of his hard chest against yours and his locks slipping through your fingers distracts you for a moment. You’re so in sync with each other you’re not sure if your hips roll over his on your own accord or if Arber does it for you.

If anyone ever told me that Macklin Celebrini—NHL rookie, hockey prodigy, Mr. I-Can-Skate-Backwards-Faster-Than-You-Can-Walk—was bad at dating, I would’ve laughed in their face. The guy had half the city showing up to watch him breathe on the ice. Girls held up signs with his name at games. TikToks about his jawline had millions of views.

But then again, I am his best friend. And best friends learn the weird stuff no one else sees.

Which is why, on a completely normal Tuesday afternoon, Macklin burst into my apartment without knocking, holding a brown paper bag and looking like he was about to announce his retirement from hockey.

“I need your help,” he said dramatically, dropping the bag on my couch.

I eyed him over my coffee mug. “Is it legal help? Because I only took one business law class in college, and I got a C.”

He rolled his eyes and flopped next to me. “No. Worse. It’s dating.”

I blinked. “Dating… is worse than jail time?”

“For me? Yeah.” He ran a hand through his messy hair. “I’m bad at it, Y/N. Like, really bad. My idea of a date is picking up takeout and watching game highlights.”

“Romantic,” I deadpanned.

He groaned. “See? I need help. I need… I don’t know… practice.”

I raised a brow. “Practice?”

“Yes.” He sat up, suddenly looking way too earnest. “Be my practice girlfriend.”

I choked on my coffee. “I’m sorry, your what?”

“My practice girlfriend,” he repeated slowly, like it was the most normal sentence in the world. “You know. Fake dates. So I can learn how to be… good at this.”

I stared at him, torn between laughing and checking if he had a fever. “So, let me get this straight. You, Macklin Celebrini, future NHL legend, want me to fake-date you so you can… what? Practice holding hands in public?”

“Yes!” He looked relieved I understood. “Exactly. We’ll go on practice dates, you’ll tell me what I did wrong, I’ll fix it, boom—I become the perfect boyfriend. Easy.”

I squinted at him. “You realize how insane that sounds, right?”

“Please, Y/N.” He gave me puppy eyes. It was unfair, really. Six-foot-something hockey players shouldn’t be allowed to look that soft. “You’re my best friend. You already make fun of me on a daily basis. You’re perfect for this.”

“Wow,” I said dryly. “I feel so honored to be the chosen one.”

He grinned, sensing victory. “So you’ll do it?”

I sighed. “What exactly does a ‘practice girlfriend’ do?”

“Go on fake dates with me,” he said promptly. “Tell me what I did right, what I did wrong. Like a performance review.”

I smirked. “Oh, so I get to judge you? Harshly?”

“Brutally,” he confirmed. “I can handle it.”

I leaned back, considering. Honestly, it sounded… fun. Fake dates, free food, getting to mess with Macklin? What was the downside?

“Fine,” I said finally. “I’ll be your practice girlfriend.”

He fist-pumped like he’d scored a goal. “Yes! Okay, first date tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

I raised a brow. “You’re awfully confident for someone begging for dating lessons.”

“Hey,” he said with a grin, “practice makes perfect, right?”

--

By the time the next evening rolled around, I was regretting every single life choice that led me here.

I mean, what was I even supposed to wear to a fake date? Nice enough to look date-ready, but not so nice that it screamed I’m trying too hard for my fake boyfriend who is also my best friend who I am totally not into?

Yeah. My brain was a circus.

So, naturally, when Macklin showed up at my apartment right on time, I opened the door wearing jeans and a cute sweater… and immediately realized he was in a plain hoodie and joggers.

I blinked. “This is your big date outfit?”

He looked down at himself, then at me. “What? This is peak casual-chic.”

“Casual-chic?” I snorted. “You look like you just rolled out of bed.”

“Hey, this is the first date,” he defended. “Low pressure. You can’t go full suit-and-tie on the first one.”

“Uh-huh.” I crossed my arms. “So what’s the plan, Mr. Practice Boyfriend?”

He grinned, all confident like he hadn’t just referred to himself as ‘bad at dating’ yesterday. “You’ll see.”

Turns out, the plan was the hockey rink.

Which… honestly? I should’ve seen coming.

The place was empty when we got there, just us and the faint echo of our footsteps. Macklin was carrying his skates over his shoulder like some kind of sports movie protagonist.

I raised a brow. “So your big romantic gesture is… ice time?”

He looked slightly offended. “Ice time is very romantic. Picture it: just us, under the arena lights, skating hand-in-hand—”

“—while I break my neck trying to keep up with you?” I cut in.

He smirked. “I’ll catch you. That’s, like, Date 101.”

Once we were on the ice, though, I had to admit… it was kind of magical.

The rink was quiet except for the scrape of our skates. Macklin was annoyingly good, of course, gliding around like gravity didn’t apply to him. Meanwhile, I was clinging to the boards like they were the only thing between me and certain death.

“Romantic, huh?” I called out dryly as he skated backward toward me.

He grinned, all cocky. “You’re doing great.”

“I’m literally holding onto the wall.”

He stopped in front of me, offering a hand. “Let go.”

I gave him a look. “You just want me to fall so you can swoop in like some Hallmark movie hero.”

He smirked. “Maybe. Or maybe I want to skate with my practice girlfriend. Ever think of that?”

I rolled my eyes but took his hand anyway. It was warm, steady… and way too big around mine.

Not that I noticed.

Of course, because the universe loves irony, I tripped five seconds later.

“Whoa—!”

Macklin caught me easily, laughing as I clung to his arm. “Ten out of ten form,” he teased. “Very graceful.”

“Oh, shut up,” I muttered, but my face felt hot.

We didn’t let go of each other after that.

By the end of the night, we were sitting on the empty bleachers, both a little breathless. Macklin handed me a bottle of water and looked way too smug for someone who nearly got body-checked by my flailing arms earlier.

“So,” he said, “review time. How’d I do?”

I pretended to think very hard. “Hmm. Points off for the outfit. Big points off for laughing when I almost died. But… you did buy me hot chocolate afterward, so I’ll give you a seven out of ten.”

“Seven?” He looked personally offended. “That was easily a nine date.”

I smirked. “You’re lucky I’m grading on a curve.”

He grinned, leaning back on the bleachers. “Guess I’ll just have to earn that ten.”

Something about the way he said it made my stomach do a weird little flip.

But whatever. It was practice, right?

--

By the time our second “practice date” rolled around, I realized two things:

Macklin Celebrini was taking this whole practice boyfriend thing way too seriously.

I was not prepared for him to actually be… kind of good at it.

Because this time, he showed up at my door holding a bouquet of flowers.

“Uh,” I said brilliantly, staring at them. “Did you steal those from someone’s garden?”

He looked deeply offended. “These are professionally purchased flowers, thank you very much. A whole twelve dollars at the grocery store.”

I bit back a laugh, accepting the slightly lopsided bouquet. “Wow. Nothing says romance like clearance carnations.”

“Hey, it’s the thought that counts.” He grinned. “Plus, you said I needed to up my game, right? Boom. Flowers. Date-level: expert.”

“Mm-hmm.” I sniffed the bouquet, which honestly looked like it was losing the will to live. “This screams romantic tragedy, not expert.”

“You’re a harsh critic,” he muttered as we headed out.

This time, he didn’t tell me the plan. Just grinned like a kid with a secret until we pulled up at—

“Mini golf?” I said, raising a brow as we got out of the car.

He shrugged, all casual. “Classic date move. Fun, competitive, low pressure.”

“Do you always narrate your date strategies out loud?”

“Only to my practice girlfriend,” he said with a grin.

Turns out, Macklin was terrible at mini golf.

“Wow,” I said as his ball ricocheted off the fake windmill for the third time. “The NHL star can shoot a puck at fifty miles an hour but can’t putt a golf ball through a clown’s mouth.”

He gave me a look. “This is harder than it looks.”

“It’s literally a straight line.”

“Yeah, but the windmill’s judgmental,” he muttered, lining up another shot.

I nearly doubled over laughing when he missed again.

Halfway through the course, it started to rain.

“Of course,” I muttered, pulling my hood up. “Because what’s a date without the dramatic weather moment?”

Macklin grinned, holding his jacket over both of us as we made a run for the covered picnic area.

We ended up sitting there, shoulder-to-shoulder, rain drumming on the roof above us.

“So,” he said, shaking water out of his hair, “how am I doing so far?”

I pretended to consider. “Points for flowers. Big points for making me laugh when you missed, like, half the holes.”

“On purpose,” he said quickly.

“Sure,” I said dryly. “But you lose points for the rain. Zero romantic planning there.”

He grinned, bumping my shoulder. “So… eight out of ten?”

“Seven and a half.”

He gasped. “Brutal.”

By the time the rain slowed, we were walking back to the car, still teasing each other about his tragic mini golf skills.

And that’s when it happened.

He reached for my hand.

Casually. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And maybe it should’ve been—we were fake-dating, technically—but something about it felt… different.

Warm. Steady. Not like practice at all.

I didn’t say anything, though. Just held on and tried not to think too hard about the fact that my heart was beating way too fast for someone whose “boyfriend” was allegedly fake.

When he dropped me off later, he leaned against his car, looking all smug. “So? Final rating?”

I smirked. “Eight out of ten. Mostly because you missed that last shot and looked like you were about to cry.”

“I was giving you the win,” he said, grinning.

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

He gave me a little salute. “Next time, I’m breaking nine. Just watch.”

--

By the third fake date, Macklin was acting like a man with a plan.

“Tonight,” he announced dramatically as I opened the door, “we’re going for peak romance.”

I eyed the grocery bags in his hands. “Does peak romance involve… Doritos?”

He smirked. “Not just Doritos. Movie night. Classic rom-com style. Bonus points for blanket fort construction.”

“Ambitious,” I said, letting him in. “Do you even know how to build a blanket fort?”

He looked deeply offended. “Y/N. I am an elite athlete. Blanket fort engineering is well within my skill set.”

Turns out, he was… actually pretty good at it.