#cb98 x reader

“Did you sleep good?” He questions again, and even though you cannot fully make out each of his features you can feel his gaze on you.

“I thought you just told me to go back to sleep.” You joke, rubbing your nose into his skin before kissing it lightly.

“That was before I remembered how much you like how I sound in the mornings.” He quips back, going to reach under your shirt, which was an old shirt of his, rubbing his thumb on the dip in your back.

You pick your head up off his warm skin, resting your chin on his peck as you look at him. Easier to see now since your eyes had adjusted to the dark.

“How much time do you have?” You whisper, your finger tracing shapes on his bare chest.

Connor didn’t give you a verbal response, but instead flips you over so you were pressed into the mattress as he looms over you. His gold chain hanging down from his neck, swinging slightly with the motion.

“I’ve got plenty of time.”

—

Connor in fact, did not have plenty of time.

He was almost late if he was being completely honest. But he wouldn’t tell you that. It was hard enough leaving the bedroom knowing you were still in bed. Hard enough leaving with the image of your body covered only by his sheet. So on the speedy ride over he tried to shake those thoughts clear, not needing to crash because he was thinking about you.

But, unsurprising to him, he couldn’t shake the thoughts. He wore a smile as he hurried into the building, giving a quick hello to the people he passed on the way. He always smiled when he was thinking about you, but this morning he seemed to glow.

“Bedsy!” He hears Kaiser yell to him. “Cutting it a little close aren’t we?” He jokes, finishing lacing up his skates.

“Yeah, yeah.” Connor laughs, waving him off as he was the last person to get changed before heading out to the ice.

—

Practice seemed long today. Maybe that’s because he was preoccupied still. Even hours later Connor couldn’t get you out of his head. Again, not that you ever left, but he couldn’t get the images out of how you looked, how you felt.

Fuck. I need to get home.

He thinks to himself as his teammates make their way back into the locker room. All of them joking and pushing each other around. Connor did love all the guys, but he couldn’t find an ounce of care in this current moment.

As he made his way back to his space, he pulled off his shirt, and the laughter and voices to his left seemed to die down. Not that he was really paying any attention to them anyways. But then he hears it.

“Bedsy, what the fuck man.”

That caught his attention, and as he looks towards his captain and teammates he now notices the complete silence in the locker room. Something that is so unheard of that it makes him worried.

“What?” He asks, continuing to take off his hockey gear.

“Did you win the fight at least?” Vlasic asks, laughing as he sits down on the bench.

Okay, now Connor is confused. But every set of eyes burn into him, and he starts to feel uncomfortable at the gazes of his entire team.

“What are you talking about?” He asks, stopping what he was doing.

“Uh, don’t tell me you don’t feel that.” Vlasic says, smirking so wide that Connor was starting to get annoyed.

“What fight? What am I missing?” He asks the masses.

“Your back dude, looks like someone clawed you up pretty good.” Frank says, trying not to laugh at the situation.

As soon as Frank said it, Connor knew exactly what everyone was staring at. Of course he did. And as the locker room broke out into laughter, Connor couldn’t find even an ounce of embarrassment in his bones. As he looks in the mirror he sees them for the first time. And Jesus, it does look like he went toe to toe in a fight. Your long fingernails dug into his skin, leaving a trail all the way from his hips to his shoulders. Along some parts of the lines he could see some bruises starting to form.

But as he continues to looks in the mirror, he has only one thought cross his mind. He wants to wear these marks forever.

“Sorry that I’ve got a woman that loves me.” Connor jokes, knowing you’ll keel over from horror when he tells you about this.

The chirping is consistent until Connor slides his hat on and makes his way towards the exit. The guys making kissing noises and saluting as he walks by.

“No one mention this to her next time you see her, yeah?” Connor says, pointing to the guys as he opens the door. “I know you all love her but she’s going to want to crawl in a hole after this.”

All the guys nod and laugh, agreeing to not chirp you about the animalistic scratches you left on your boyfriend.

“Have a good night Bedsy!”

“Tell lovely Y/N we say hello!”

“Can I be the godfather?”

Where all things Connor heard as he left, shaking his head he got into his car, starting it up and making his way back to you.

Connor decided he couldn’t wait to tell you, so he pressed the voice button on his car, telling it to call you. You pick up right away, and the sound of your voice soothing him.

“You might want to prepare yourself for the game tomorrow, baby.” Connor says, turning his blinker on, waiting for the light to change.

“What do you mean?” You ask, confusion coating your voice.

“I mean I’ve got some new decorations that the guys saw today. When you see them tomorrow prepare for something to be said.”

“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.” You say, and even though Connor isn’t with you he can tell you’re smiling by how your voice sounds.

“I have some deep claw marks down my back, happen to know anything about those?”

You were silent. Before you let out of biggest ‘oh my god’.

Connor’s laughter booms through your end of the phone, and you just groan.

“Con that’s so embarrassing!” You say, setting your phone down and putting your head in your hands.

“Not sure embarrassing is the right word. I’m actually pretty proud to wear them.”

“CONNOR.” You scold, laughing a little.

You had tons of reasons you loved your boyfriend, Connor.

He was kind in a quiet way that most people never got to see. He remembered the tiniest things, like foods you absolutely hated or the exact playlist you needed when deadlines were choking you.

He laughed at your stupid memes from TikTok he sometimes never understood and never once made you feel dramatic for crying at dog rescue videos. He was safe and your home.

But God, those biceps.

They weren’t even the main reason but they were absolutely in the top five. Maybe top three on days when he wore short sleeves.

Today was one of those days.

Chicago in early November was pretending it wasn’t about to get brutal, so Connor had thrown on a plain black t shirt that should have been illegal. The cotton clung to his chest and stretched across his shoulders, but the real crime was happening from the deltoid down.

The sleeves ended exactly where the swell of his biceps began, like whoever designed the shirt knew precisely what they were doing to people like you.

The fabric was tight enough that every time he moved you could see the shift of muscle underneath, the way the peak rose when he lifted his arm even a fraction.

You were both in the kitchen of his downtown apartment, supposedly making breakfast. In reality he was flipping pancakes one handed while you sat on the counter beside the stove, legs swinging, shamelessly staring.

“You good over there?” he asked, voice low and amused as he slid another perfect pancake onto the stack. He flexed his right arm a little as he reached for the spatula, the muscle bunching under tan skin.

You giggled. “Define good.”

He laughed under his breath and turned the burner off, then finally faced you fully. Both arms crossed over his chest now, which only made everything worse. The sleeves rode up higher. You were going to die on this counter and it would be entirely his fault.

“Come here,” he said, tilting his head.

You hopped down without hesitation and crossed the three steps between you. The second you were close enough, your hands found their favorite spot: palms sliding over the hard curve of his left bicep, fingers curling as much as they could around it. And they still didn’t meet.

“Morning check in?” he teased, watching your face like he already knew the answer.

“Obviously.” You gave a little squeeze, testing, like this was a serious scientific experiment and not just you being completely gone for your boyfriend’s arms. “I have to document growth, Connor. This is important research.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And?”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. “Definitely bigger.”

It was a lie and you both knew it. They’d been this ridiculous for months now, he had big biceps already three years ago. But the ritual was sacred: you checked and he flexed. You pretended to measure with your hands like a complete gremlin. He asked if you were sure. You said yes and felt heat pool low in your stomach every single time.

He unfolded his arms and suddenly your feet weren’t on the floor anymore. One smooth motion and his hands were under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing and you were back on the counter, only now he was standing between your knees.

“Show off,” you muttered.

“You started it.” His voice dropped, playful but rough around the edges. “You’re the one who can’t keep her hands to herself before I’ve even had any breakfast.”

You slid your palms up slowly, tracing the line where muscle met shoulder, then back down again. “I have a very serious condition. It’s chronic and incurable, and the only treatment is touching your biceps whenever possible.”

“Whenever possible, huh?” He leaned in. “So if I wore long sleeves today you’d suffer?”

You pulled back just enough to glare at him. “That would be cruel and unusual punishment. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be able to touch them.”

“You know you’re obsessed, right?”

“You knew that when you started dating me.”

The first time you saw girls on TikTok tying delicate satin bows around their boyfriend’s biceps, most guys played along sweetly, flexing just enough to make the bow tight and maybe even break.

You closed the app, looked across the room at Connor, sprawled on the couch and thought: yeah, no. That trend was made for Connor.

Three nights later, you’re both on the living room floor, some random movie playing as background noise. You’d bought a spool of baby pink satin ribbon the day before and planned on how to get him to do this with you.

He was in the middle of talking about what they were doing at practice today, when you crawled over with the ribbon hidden behind your back.

“Babe,” you say, innocently.

Connor stops talking immediately. He knows that tone. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” you lie, then straddle his lap before he can escape. “Hold your arm out.”

He raises one brow but obeys, stretching his right arm across your thighs. The muscle shifts under his skin as he straightens it, already unfairly defined even relaxed.

You loop the ribbon around the thickest part of his bicep, the satin whispering against his skin, and tie it into a perfect bow right on top of the peak.

Connor glances down, lips twitching. “Am I supposed to wear this?”

“Just flex,” you whisper, barely breathing.

He doesn’t even try to play coy. One deliberate curl of his fist and the bicep swells, and the ribbon snaps with a soft pop. The ribbon flutters to the floor like defeated little flag.

Your brain blue screens.

“Oh my gosh,” you blurt, voice cracking somewhere between awe and desperation. “That’s so attractive.” You grab his wrist. “Do it again.”

He laughs. “There’s no ribbon left.”

You’re already scrambling for the spool, cutting another length. “Second attempt.”

Nights when you and Connor were in bed, the rest of the world simply stopped existing.

It didn’t matter that tomorrow he had morning skate at 9am or that your inbox was probably on fire or that the wind off Lake Michigan was rattling the windows like it wanted in.

None of it reached the little universe you built under his charcoal duvet. Here, time moved in heartbeats and the slow drag of his fingers along your hip.

Connor slept warm like a human furnace designed specifically to ruin you for every other season. On the nights when Chicago tried to freeze your soul, you just burrowed closer and let him thaw you out.

He rolled onto his back first, stretching that ridiculous wingspan until his left arm flopped across your pillow in open invitation. You didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

You scooted in immediately, sliding your head onto the perfect shelf of his bicep, cheek pressed to the hard curve of muscle, nose tucked against the soft skin of his inner arm. The position left your own arm draped over his chest, fingers splayed over the steady thump of his heart.

“Hi,” you whispered into the dark, lips brushing skin.

He hummed, low and sleepy, and flexed once, just enough that the muscle under your cheek turned to stone for a second before relaxing again.

You smiled against him and let your eyes fall shut.

A few minutes later he shifted again, turning toward you, sliding the arm you weren’t using as a pillow underneath your neck so he could spoon you properly.

The movement was smooth, he’d done it a hundred times and still made it feel like choreography made just for you. Now the bicep you’d been lying on became the one wrapped around your shoulders from behind, pulling you tight against his chest.

His other arm, the one that had been across your waist, came up slowly, until his forearm rested on the pillow right in front of your face.

The veins shifted under the skin, faint in the dim light, and you actually sighed. “Happy?” he murmured against the back of your neck, lips brushing your skin.

You answered by pressing a kiss into his forearm, then another and then one more because you could. “My life is officially complete,” you said, voice muffled against him. “I have achieved peak existence. I can die now.”

He laughed quietly. “Wow, you’re so dramatic.”

You traced one finger along the line where muscle met his tricep. “These arms keep me warm, keep me safe, and double as the world’s best pillow.

His hand found yours in the dark, threading your fingers together and pulling your joined hands down to rest over your stomach.

Some nights you talked until you both fell asleep: silly things about the future, about the dog you were definitely getting once his schedule calmed down, about whose turn it was to pick the next vacation.

Tonight neither of you needed words. The quiet was perfect. His breathing evened out behind you, slow and deep, and you matched it without thinking.

You felt the moment he slipped into real sleep, his grip loosened just slightly and the arm across your chest became pure deadweight warmth. You smiled into the dark and let yourself follow him under, cheek still pressed to the steady rise and fall of his bicep, completely surrounded by him.

Grateful didn’t even begin to cover it.

“Connor Bedard. He was brought into Northwestern Memorial about fifteen minutes ago. We’re trying to reach his emergency contact.”

There’s a subtle shift in the air around you. Like something small but heavy has been placed on your chest.

“I think you have the wrong number,” you say carefully. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

A pause. Keyboard clicks.

“This is the only number listed. You’re saved under ICE.”

ICE. In Case of Emergency.

Your brain runs through possibilities the way it does when a plan goes wrong. Wrong digit. Old number. Administrative error.

“That’s not possible,” you say. “I’m not— I don’t know him.”

“He was struck by a vehicle in the middle of an intersection,” she continues, gentler now. “He’s stable. Likely a concussion. We just need someone here.”

Struck by a vehicle.

Your hand tightens around the phone.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, because that’s the rational answer. “I can’t help.”

You hang up.

You stand very still in your kitchen.

Then you look at your calendar.

Then at your front door.

You do not do things like this. You do not abandon your afternoon because of clerical errors involving strangers. You do not insert yourself into messy, unpredictable situations.

You grab your coat anyway.

Northwestern Memorial smells like antiseptic and stale coffee and too many emotions packed into fluorescent lighting.

You approach the front desk like you’re checking into a hotel you didn’t book.

“Hi,” you say. “I got a call earlier. About Connor Bedard?”

The nurse looks up, scanning your face.

“You’re the emergency contact?”

You straighten. “Apparently.”

She nods. “He’s still unconscious. Concussion. Some bruising. You can sit with him.”

You don’t correct her. You don’t know why.

Maybe because you already came this far. Maybe because someone should be there.

He looks younger than you expect.

That’s your first coherent thought when you step into the room.

You know the name now, you googled him in the elevator and nearly dropped your phone when you realized exactly who you accidentally became responsible for. A professional hockey player too young for hospital rooms.

He’s pale against the white pillow. There’s a cut at his temple. His mouth is slightly open in sleep, like his body gave up mid-sentence.

You set your bag down quietly.

His clothes are folded in a plastic bin on the chair. Hoodie. Sweatpants. Sneakers unlaced.

You hesitate.

Then you start organizing.

You smooth the hoodie out properly. Refold it neatly. Line up his shoes. Stack everything so it looks intentional instead of abandoned.

It makes you feel less helpless.

His wallet is in a clear belongings bag. You check his ID, because you need to confirm this is real.

Connor Bedard.

It is.

You exhale slowly.

“Okay,” you murmur to him, even though he can’t hear you. “You’re fine. This is fine.”

You call the towing company listed on the police slip in his pocket. You handle it efficiently. You take notes in your phone. You ask practical questions.

You do not think about the fact that you are essentially cosplaying as someone important in his life.

When you sit down beside him, it’s almost evening.

The room is dimmer. Quieter.

You watch the steady rise and fall of his chest.

You don’t mean to stare.

But you do.

You notice the crease between his eyebrows. The way one hand curls slightly against the blanket. The faint flush under his skin where bruises are forming.

You feel… responsible.

Which is insane.

You don’t know him.

Still, you reach out and adjust the blanket where it’s slipped.

An hour later, his fingers twitch.

You sit up immediately.

“Hey,” you say, too quickly. “Hi. You’re okay.”

His face tightens. He makes a small, confused sound. His eyelids flutter open.

His eyes land on you.

They’re clearer than you expect. Sharp. Assessing.

He stares.

You stare back.

There’s a long silence.

Then, hoarsely, “Are you the lady who hit me with your car?”

Your jaw drops. “What? No.”

His brows draw together. He looks around the room, then back at you.

“Then why are you here?”

You cross your arms instinctively, defensive. “I’m your emergency contact.”

He blinks.

“My what?”

“They called me. You listed my number. ICE.”

“That’s not—” He winces slightly. “That’s not possible.”

“Well, it is,” you say crisply. “And when I told them they had the wrong number, they said I was the only one listed. So.”

“So you came?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I'm painfully aware.”

There’s something almost incredulous in his expression now.

“Then why are you folding my clothes?”

You glance down. You’re still holding his hoodie, smoothing the sleeve without realizing.

Heat creeps up your neck.

“They were wrinkled,” you say, like that explains everything. “And your car was blocking traffic, so I had it towed. It’s at Lakeshore Auto. I didn’t make any medical decisions, don’t worry. I specifically did not authorize anything. I just— took care of a few things.”

He just stares at you.

“You got my car towed?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know me.”

“No.”

A beat.

“Are you always like this?” he asks slowly.

“Like what?”

“Stressed about strangers.”

“I’m not stressed.”

“You look stressed.”

You absolutely are.

Your shoulders are tight. Your jaw is set. You haven’t stopped scanning him for signs of deterioration since he opened his eyes.

“You were unconscious,” you say sharply. “You were alone. Someone had to make you were okay.”

His gaze softens slightly at that.

“I'm okay.”

“How would you know?” you shoot back.

There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes now. Faint. Disbelieving. He studies you like you’re the strange one here.

You suddenly realize you haven’t offered him anything.

“Do you need water?” you ask abruptly. “Or juice? They said you shouldn’t eat heavy food yet but I can ask about crackers.”

Before he can answer, you’re already standing.

“Wait—” he starts.

“I’ll be right back.”

You escape into the hallway because his eyes are doing something to your composure.

At the vending area, you lean against the wall and breathe.

You don’t know this guy.

He is not your responsibility.

And yet.

You grab water anyway.

When you come back, he’s sitting up a little higher.

He looks more awake now.

More real.

You hand him the cup carefully.

“Small sips,” you say automatically.

He obeys, watching you over the rim.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Because suddenly, giving him your name feels like crossing a line.

“I should go,” you say instead. “Your real emergency contact is probably on their way.”

His expression shifts — something between confusion and disappointment.

“You’re just leaving?”

“You’re conscious,” you say. “Mission accomplished.”

“That’s not—”

You step back toward the door.

“Your car’s handled,” you add. “Your stuff’s here. I didn’t steal anything.”

“I didn’t think you—”

“You’d be surprised what concussions do to people.”

A tiny, reluctant smile tugs at his mouth.

You falter for half a second.

Then you’re gone.

Connor stares at the closed door long after you leave.

The room feels noticeably emptier.

He looks at the perfectly folded hoodie on the chair.

At the neat stack of his things.

At the towing receipt placed carefully on the table with a time stamp and location.

“Hey,” he says when the nurse steps in later. “The girl who was in here earlier. The one who… organized everything.”

The nurse smiles knowingly.

“She left.”

“Yeah. I know.” He hesitates. “Do you still have the number she was called from?”

A pause.

“We do.”

He updates his emergency contact properly before discharge.

Carefully.

Correctly.

Then he asks for yours.

Your phone rings the next evening.

You stare at it.

You knew this might happen.

You answer.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” he says. His voice is steadier now. Warmer. “It’s Connor. From the hospital.”

“I assumed.”

A soft laugh. Then a beat.

“I fixed my emergency contact,” he says. “So you won’t get any more dramatic calls about me.”

“Good.”

Another pause.

“I was kind of hoping,” he continues, more tentative now, “that I could buy you coffee.”

You don’t answer immediately.

“Why?” you ask.

“Because you showed up for someone you don’t know,” he says simply. “And you took care of things. And I didn’t even get your name.”

Your chest tightens in a way you don’t like.

“It’s weird,” you warn.

“I know.”

“You thought I hit you with my car.”

“Well, I was concussed.”

You almost smile.

There’s a long second where you could say no. Where you could tuck this into the neat box of strange things that happened once and never again.

Instead—

“…Okay,” you say. “Coffee.”

The relief in his exhale is immediate.

“Okay,” he echoes.

「 SJS 」 ⋯ MACKLIN CELEBRINI ⌣ 💋

(001) ♡ Lazy morning kisses

Mack and you usually woke up at the same time, him for his morning training and you to go to work. It was almost always very rushed because you both liked to spend five more minutes cuddling, which meant you were in a bit of a hurry afterwards. All that changed on your days off. You turned off the alarms, and since you were a heavy sleeper, you were always the one who took the longest to wake up what gave Macklin the opportunity to watch you for a while as you lay there. Then, little by little, he would start giving you small, tender kisses all over your face, starting slowly on your cheeks, moving up to your temples and forehead, then slowly back down your nose, never missing the tip, and sometimes stopping at your eyes. Never missing your lips, of course, by the time he reached them, you were already starting to wake up. He took his time with your lips, giving you little kisses and then a few longer ones. By then, you were already starting to kiss him back, and he continued on to your ears, down your neck, into the hollow of your shoulder, and all the way down. By the time he finished, you were wide awake and smiling, asking him to start again. Macklin, feeling like the luckiest man alive to have you, began kissing you all over once more.

(002) ♡ Good luck make out before a game

Superstitions? What were those? Macklin only believed in good luck, and his good luck was you. If he didn't kiss you like there was no tomorrow before a game, he didn't feel quite right when playing, and when they were away, he genuinely had a hard time. But at home, if you didn't attend the game with him, he would have to perform his little ritual in your apartment before leaving for the rink, but if you were going to watch the game, he would wait until he had all his gear on, look for you in the busy hallways, and take you into any room that was deserted. You always got nervous because he looked at you so intensely and the kiss was so passionate that you really understood how important it was to him. He took his time looking at every feature of your face, how perfect they were in his eyes and how much he loved them, then he would carefully start kissing you. At first it was softer and slower, but it only took a few seconds for him to grab the back of your neck to hold you tight and bite your lower lip a little so you would open your mouth and he could slip his tongue in. He explored every corner of your mouth as if it really were going to be the last time. Every now and then, he would pull away for a second so you could catch your breath. Sometimes you would even see a thread of saliva connecting you, and then he would bring your mouths together again so he could continue. Macklin lost track of time and the more you kissed the hotter he got somehow you could even feel his hard on through the gear, and when he heard the team shouting looking for him, he finally pulled away from you, breathing heavily, his cheeks red and his lips swollen and realization kicked in for how horny and excited he was making him feel extremely embarrassed as he got out of the room to jump on the ice.

「 SJS 」 ⋯ WILL SMITH ⌣ 💋

(003) ♡ Little peaks while cooking together

One of the things you loved doing with Will was cooking. You weren't experts or anything like that, but you both did very well enough, and when it was time for dinner, when you were both home after a long day at work, there was no better moment for you than spending time together in the kitchen, talking about everything and nothing at the same time, although Will had his little routine to start with. You usually start preparing everything on your own, since you get home first and were the first to shower and get ready. Will always arrives a little later and joins you about ten or fifteen minutes later. Fresh out of the shower, wearing only his pajama pants and with his hair still wet, he would come into the kitchen and carefully approach you from behind to wrap his arms around your waist and start giving you fond kisses. He always gave you the first one right behind your head and moved down your neck, where he would tickle you a little. He would continue with your cheeks and go down again to your shoulders, where the kisses became louder, making you giggle. And to finish, he would turn you around so that you were facing him and give you a kiss on the mouth, a big one, where more often than you'd like to admit, you had to break away because he was trying to slip his tongue into your mouth and start something that neither of you would be able to stop.

(004) ♡ Making out in the car after winning a game

As soon as you get into the car, Will drops his head back and lets out a sigh with a big smile. You look at him proudly and smile back. You can see how tired he is after playing so intensely throughout the game, and after a couple of minutes of each of you sitting in the car in comfortable silence, trying to calm the euphoria after the victory, Will turns his head toward you and slowly moves closer. If there's one thing he likes more than winning, it's having you there with him to see it and give him a little reward. Your mouths meet slowly and the kisses start out slow and small, but they soon become longer and more intense, and before you realize it, you're both almost out of breath and your hands are tangled up in each other's bodies. Will kisses you harder and harder, the kisses become much wetter and your mouths are full of each other. Unable to wait any longer, you start touching his crotch over his pants, and he starts to let out little grunts. His kisses don't stop and become increasingly hotter, and before you know it, you're also moaning as you feel him pinch your nipples. In your hand Will couldn't be any harder, and suddenly you pull away from him, leaving a string of saliva connecting you, and without meaning to, the temperature in the car rises due to the obscenity of the scene. Without taking your eyes off Will, you run your tongue over your hand and slowly move down to his pants to slip your hand inside and grab his hard cock. You see him roll his eyes for a moment and throw his head back from the pleasure you're giving him, and after a moment he comes to his senses and moves closer to you to continue kissing you in the most sensual way you've ever been kissed. By the time you realize it, you're alone in the parking lot, breathing heavily and a little embarrassed to think about who might have seen you, but that feeling doesn't last long because as soon as you get home, a new round begins.

「 NYR 」 ⋯ MATT REMPE ⌣ 💋

(005) ♡ Head kisses

The difference in height between Matt and you was obvious, impossible to deny when he looked like a towering giant, and sometimes that was an advantage for him when he was with you. There was nothing he liked more than when you asked him for help when you couldn't reach one of the top shelves or when you were in bed and he could wrap his whole body around you and, of course, kiss you, especially on the head, because he just had to look down and bend over a little. He did it all the time. When you were at home cooking, he would come up and kiss you on the head while telling you how good it smelled. When you went to get groceries and he had to get something from the top shelf, he would kiss you on the head when you thanked him after putting it in the cart. At a Rangers event, while you were greeting all his teammates and doing some small talk with each one of them, he would kiss you on the head and stay by your side. And so it was all day, all the time. Kissing you on the lips was fine, very fine indeed, but there was something special about kissing you on the head because of the obvious difference between you.

(006) ♡ Angry make out after getting into a fight during a game

The moment you walked through the locker room door and saw Matt, you knew the fight had been more serious than usual. He usually liked to agree to fights to make the game more exciting, but this time you just saw him snap and start throwing punches. He had been given ten minutes for misconduct, and before he was off the ice, you were already on your way to see him. When he looked up and saw you, you could see the anger in his eyes, and in less than a second he was standing next to you, slamming the door shut. He grabbed you tightly by the hips and you let out a small grunt of surprise. He pressed you hard against the door and before you knew it, his mouth was on yours with force and rage. You knew him, you knew something had happened in the fight and he needed to let it out, and this was his way. You let him and tried to keep up with him, but it was too much. You were breathing heavily and Matt kept going down, focusing on your neck, leaving marks for sure. You felt more and more excited. Rough sex with him was nothing new, and you liked it. He kept kissing you everywhere, reaching your breasts, which he had exposed without much effort thanks to the neckline you were wearing. He would surely leave marks there too. You couldn't stop moaning. His hand slipped into your pants without warning and, pulling aside your panties, he began to massage your clit quickly. "He told me it wouldn't take much to get a whore like you to switch teams," he said without warning, and now you understood everything. Without further explanation, Matt continued to cover your body with kisses and his fingers were still on your pussy. When he reached the bottom, he pulled your pants off with a sharp tug and started eating you out. "You're mine, no one else's, only mine," he said again as you exploded.

「 CHI 」 ⋯ CONNOR BEDARD ⌣ 💋

(007) ♡ Check kisses with his friends around

Connor loved you like no one else ever had, always thinking of you first and putting you ahead of everything else. But there was one thing he still found a little difficult: showing affection in public. Yes, he would hold your hand when you were out and about, and sometimes he would give you a little kiss on the head, but not much more than that. You didn't mind at all. You knew him and you knew what he was like. Whether he kissed you in front of his friends or in front of the cameras was the least of your concerns. Still, after a couple of years of dating and feeling completely confident that you could joke around with him without making him uncomfortable, you liked to see him blush from time to time. You usually liked to put him "on the spot" in front of his friends, so when you all went out to dinner together or got together on the spur of the moment, you would sit on his lap, whispered the most trivial thing possible in his ear, and when you got up, you gave him a big, loud kiss on the cheek or lips and went back to doing your thing while you watched the color rise to his face and his friends started teasing him for still acting that way after all these years together.

(008) ♡ Kissing your whole body before eating you out

Oral sex was almost as important to Connor as sex itself. He loved giving and receiving, but when it came to giving, it was extremely important to him that each time was better than the last, not only to know that you enjoyed it and were always satisfied, but also to feel fulfilled. He took pride in knowing that with so little effort he could make you see stars. He loved to undress you completely and leave you standing in front of the bed or the sofa, depending on where you were doing it. He would stand behind you and, before getting to the main event, he liked to "prepare" you, which was more like making you a little desperate. First, he would brush your hair away from your back and start kissing your neck, slowly moving towards your shoulders, first in one direction and then the other, moving down your arms a little and jumping to your waist, arriving right in the middle of your spine and continuing downwards. By the time he reached the lower part of your back, the kisses were wetter, and from time to time he would also drag his tongue, leaving a trail of saliva on your body. Then he would kneel down, still behind you, He continued kissing your hips and the cheeks of your ass, occasionally giving you little bites, too. He continued further down until he reached the back of your thighs, and there you could feel his breath between your legs. He loved to excite you like that, and by the time he whispered for you to open your legs, he was already aroused, too. So when his tongue finally made contact with your clit, you were already completely wet, and his erection, which he had brought on himself, was painful.

「 MIN 」 ⋯ QUINN HUGHES ⌣ 💋

(009) ♡ Kissing you a million times when he drops you at your job

Parked right in front of the building where you work, Quinn at the wheel as he did almost every day when he dropped you off before going to his morning practice, with you in his arms. He had one arm around your neck and the other squeezing your cheeks as he covered your face with kisses, most of them landing on your cheeks and lips, but there were always a few stray ones that ended up on your nose or near your eyes. You would giggle as, after what seemed like an eternity of kisses, you would tell Quinn to let you go because you were going to be late. Little by little, he let go of you, and once you fixed your hair and touched up your makeup, you got ready to leave, but just before you touched the car door to open it, Quinn grabbed you again and started all over, making you laugh once more. After another little eternity, he finally let you go, and you were able to get out of the car. Every day was like that, and you loved his little routine of kissing you before letting you go.

(010) ♡ Wet slow kisses to work you up

Quinn and you liked to relax together at home, whether reading a book, watching a movie, or simply existing next to each other, although such moments were rare given your busy lives. Still, when they did happen, they always ended the same way: sex. And Quinn, knowing you as he did, knew what he had to do to turn you on and make you beg. He slowly moved closer to you and began to kiss you softly all over your face until he reached your lips, and what started out sweet and careful turned dirty and rushed. The kisses continued down your chin and onto your neck, getting wetter and wetter. Obviously, in order to go further down, your clothes had to come off, and without much thought, Quinn undressed you with ease. He spent a long time between your tits, and by the time he was done, they were covered in his spit. He continued down and stopped just below your belly, then carefully but confidently turned you over and started again from your neck to your back, and when he was approaching your crotch again, the kisses began to slow down and get warmer, making you desperate. Your soft sighs began to turn into moans, and without meaning to, you began to beg him, making him let out little, somewhat evil giggles. By the time Quinn was along your legs and paying too much attention to the inside of your thighs, combining kisses with nibbles, you were on the verge of crying out of desperation. Looking into your eyes, he knew it was stupid to kept making you both suffer to find the release you needed.

「 MTL 」 ⋯ ARBER XHEKAJ ⌣ 💋

(011) ♡ Kissing your hands because they're so tiny compared to his

Arber was obsessed with your hands, or at least with how small they were compared to his, which is why when you were together he spent all his time holding your hand, tracing little circles with his thumb on your palm and gently caressing it. Clearly, after a while of dating, he did it unconsciously, but there were still those occasions when he would suddenly look at your hands together and all he could think about was how small and cute yours were, and that reminded him of how much he loved you for some reason. When those moments of realization occurred, he would instantly bring your hand to his mouth and give you one or several kisses, regardless of where you were, whether on vacation with friends, the two of us alone at home watching a movie, or out to dinner with his parents and brother, it didn't matter. For Arber, kissing your hand was like a privilege he had to take advantage of whenever he could.

(012) ♡ Desperately making out with you after being on the road

Every time Arber came back from being on the road, as soon as you heard the click of the keys in the door, it took him just a few seconds to drop all his things at the entrance and rush over to you. Before you knew it, his lips were desperately pressed against yours, and it took even less time for you to feel his tongue on your lower lip and your teeth asking for permission to enter. You tried to take it slow, but the moment he noticed a small opening, you already felt the heat of his tongue all over your mouth. His hands, also desperate to touch you, made a very clumsy journey all over your body. You felt him grabbing the back of your neck and shortly after grabbing your wrists, but at the same time he wanted to squeeze your ass and feel your breasts in his hands. Everything was very fast and messy. Between breaths, he kissed your neck, very wet and rough, although never to the point of hurting you or making you feel uncomfortable. His hands also slipped inside your shirt and grabbed your breasts, squeezing your tits gently as he continued down and reached your pants. He put his hands inside and began to slowly pull them down while his mouth nibbled your nipples over your clothes. By then, you were a mess of sensations, you couldn't stop moaning and whispering his name while he told you how much he had missed you. From the moment he walked through the door until you were tangled up in the sheets, only a few minutes had passed, but they were so intense that they felt like an eternity after two weeks without feeling each other.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

The first interaction happened by chance. You were standing against the elevator wall, earbuds in, scrolling through emails, when he stepped in, balancing a bag that looked like it could fit a small child.

“Morning,” you said automatically, glancing up.

He nodded briefly, eyes still hidden under the brim of his baseball cap. “Hey.”

The elevator hummed softly. You looked at him again. “You move in recently?”

He looked at you, and for a second you thought he was going to ignore the question. Instead, he gave a small shrug. “A couple months ago.”

“Cool. I’m down the hall,” you said, trying to sound friendly.

“Nice. I’m… yeah, same,” he said. He gave a polite little smile.

The two of you rode the rest of the way in silence, the elevator ticking floor by floor. When the doors opened, he stepped out, muttering a quiet, “See you around,” and disappeared down the hallway, leaving you staring after him for a moment longer than necessary.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

It was a Wednesday evening the next time you saw him. You were coming back to the building from dinner with a friend when you noticed him struggling with a massive duffel and a few bags of groceries.

“Do you need a hand with that?” you asked, tilting your head.

He glanced at you, surprised, then gave a small, tired smile. “Uh… yeah, that would be great.”

You grabbed two of the grocery bags and matched pace with him as he carried the duffel.

“Wow,” you said, trying not to stumble. “How do you…carry all that?”

He laughed softly. “Lots of practice. Not that it’s perfected yet.”

“You’re doing fine,” you said, smiling.

Once you reached his door, you set the bags down.

“Thanks,” he said, adjusting the duffel. “I owe you one.”

You waved it off. “No, I’m just happy to help.”

He grinned faintly. “Well…thank you..”

And just like that, he disappeared inside his apartment, leaving you on your own in the hallway.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

A week later, the roles were reversed. You were juggling a gallon of milk, a bag of vegetables, a loaf of bread, and a couple other bags in the elevator. When the doors opened on your floor, there he was, clearly waiting for the elevator.

“Hey,” he said casually. “Need a hand?”

You blinked. “Oh, no, if you have to go somewhere, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s no worry, I’ve got a minute. Besides, I still owe you one.” He joked

You laughed at that and he grabbed a couple bags from your arms. He carried them for you as you made your way to your door. Once you got it unlocked, you opened it fully and gestured toward the counter.

“Here, set it down,” you said.

He stepped in, carefully placing everything on the kitchen counter.

“Thanks,” you said, smiling. “I would have definitely dropped something if it weren’t for you.”

“Anytime,” he said, his voice steady, the kind of calm that made it easy to talk to him.

Just then, your roommate appeared from her bedroom, scrolling on her phone. She froze mid-step, staring at him.

“Oh my god…” she whispered.

You glanced at her, confused. “What?”

She looked at him, eyes wide. “Connor Bedard?”

He froze for a moment, awkward, almost like he’d been caught sneaking into the building. “Uh… hi,” he said quietly, scratching the back of his head.

You frowned. “Connor…who?”

Alanna turned toward you, grinning uncontrollably. “You don’t know? Connor Bedard! The NHL player! The Blackhawks!”

Your jaw dropped slightly. “Oh…wow. I… I didn’t realize.”

He gave a small, embarrassed smile, looking down at the floor. “Yeah… that’s me.”

You felt a little awkward but tried to stay normal. “Right. Okay. Nice. Well… thanks again for the help with the groceries.”

“Of course,” he said. “Happy to help. Anytime.”

As he left, your roommate rambled on about hockey, stats, and goals, but you found yourself tuning her out and instead thinking about the neighbor you’d been seeing across the hall, who carried giant bags, smiled quietly, and seemed entirely human.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

A few days after the grocery incident, Connor knocked on your door, looking unusually casual in a hoodie and sweatpants, no big bag in sight.

“Hey,” he said, smiling at you. “I was thinking… since you now know who I am, maybe you’d want to…watch a game with me?”

You raised an eyebrow. “A game… like, of hockey?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning lightly. “I know you don’t watch hockey, and that’s fine. But I can explain it. Like…step by step. If you want. No pressure. Just…you and me.”

You hesitated, trying to picture sitting through a hockey game with a professional player.

“You’re serious?”

“Totally,” he said. “You can leave anytime. Or even just sit quietly and eat snacks. I promise I'll try to make it not boring.”

You laughed lightly, shaking your head. “Okay… sure. I’ll come over. But I get to pick the snacks.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Deal.”

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

Later that day you knocked on his door, and he opened the door immediately, stepping aside to let you in.

“Hey,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

His apartment was surprisingly normal. A few framed jerseys, a neatly arranged shelf of books and board games, and a large TV. His hockey bag was tucked into a corner with a few hockey sticks leaning on the wall next to it.

“Coffee?” he asked, already reaching for mugs.

“Sure,” you said, setting your grocery bag down and taking out the snacks you brought.

Trail mix, some candy, and popcorn. He raised an eyebrow at the assortment.

“Good choices.”

You thanked him and sat on the couch, the game paused for a commercial, as he leaned against the coffee table, remote in hand.

“Okay,” he said, “here’s the deal. I’ll explain what’s going on, and you can ask as many questions as you want at anytime. Got it?”

“Got it,” you replied.

He pointed at the players warming up on the ice. “See those guys? They pass the puck, trying to score. The goalie is obvious… your main obstacle to scoring a goal. Lines are rotations of players that change every few minutes.”

You nodded, trying to absorb it all. “Lines rotate… okay. Got it.”

“Power plays are the fun part,” he said, smiling slightly. “When one team has more players because someone got penalized. That’s usually when the game gets interesting.”

“All right, that sounds cool.” You smirked, glancing at him. “You make it sound way more fun than the commentators do.”

He laughed softly. “They make it sound dramatic. I’m just trying to make it understandable.”

During a commercial, you handed him a cup of popcorn.

“You know,” you said, “it’s weird thinking about you being famous. You seem so normal.”

He grinned, taking a bite. “Yeah. I like knowing you like this. Less pressure.”

“Less pressure for you, sure. But for me, it’s weird. I feel like I should be impressed or… I don’t know. Starstruck or something.”

He shook his head. “Please don’t be. You’ve already been super normal about all of this, which is… rare.”

You smiled at that. As the game went on, he explained little things: why the puck moved the way it did, how players anticipated each other, why a certain play was smart. You asked questions and occasionally made jokes about the commentators, and he laughed at your observations.

After the second period, you stretched your legs, and he got up to refill drinks.

“You know,” you said quietly, “this is actually… fun. I didn’t think I’d say that about hockey.”

He looked at you, a faint smile on his face. “Good. That was the goal. Not to convert you into a fan… just to make it…enjoyable.”

You nodded, feeling a little glow of warmth in the quiet apartment, the city lights faintly glowing outside the window.

When the game ended, you gathered your things to leave.

“Thanks,” you said. “For letting me… sit through all that.”

He shrugged casually, still smiling. “Anytime. You made it fun.”

“Yeah, okay,” you said, laughing lightly. “Next time, I get to pick the game snacks again.”

“Deal,” he said, grinning.

Your heart was pounding as you slipped down the hallway of the Vancouver hotel, hoodie pulled over your head, wearing nothing underneath but tiny sleep shorts and one of you boyfriend's old Blackhawks shirts.

Ten days. Ten entire Days without him. Phone calls and FaceTime didn’t count — you needed him.

He'd been on the road, all over the US and Canada, but you two lived in your shared apartment in Vancouver and it just so happens that was his next stop.

The second you softly knocked on the door open, Connor grabbed you and pulled you inside, locking it behind you with a soft click.

“Finally,” he breathed, backing you against the door and kissing you like a man starved. His hands were everywhere — sliding under the hoodie, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against his bare chest. He was only in a pair of tight black boxers, hair still messy from lying in bed pretending to sleep.

“Missed you so fucking much,” he whispered between deep, desperate kisses. “Every night, I was thinking about you.”

You whimpered into his mouth, fingers threading through his hair. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you either… need you so bad, Connor.”

He walked you backwards toward the big king bed, never breaking the kiss. Clothes came off fast — his hoodie over your head, your shorts shoved down your legs, his boxers kicked somewhere across the room. By the time your back hit the mattress you were both completely naked, skin hot and desperate.

Connor sat against the headboard and pulled you on top of him, hands gripping your ass as you straddled his lap. His cock was hard and leaking against your thigh.

“You’re so wet already,” he groaned, sliding two fingers through your folds. “Fuck, baby… all this for me?”

You nodded frantically, grinding down against his fingers. “Please, Connor. I’ve been empty for days. Need you inside me.”

He didn’t make you wait.

You wrapped your hand around his cock, lined him up, and slowly sank down. The stretch was intense after so long apart. Both of you moaned loudly the second he bottomed out.

“Ahhh— fuck,” you whined, head falling back. “You’re so deep… missed your cock so much.”

Connor’s grip on your hips tightened, a low groan rumbling in his chest. “Shit— you feel too good. Ride me, baby. Please.”

You started moving, rolling your hips in deep, needy circles before bouncing on his cock. It felt incredible. Every drag of his thick length against your walls had you whimpering and moaning without control.

“Mmm— Connor… oh my god— yes—”

“Shhh, baby,” he hissed, eyes fluttering. “You gotta be quiet. The whole team is on this floor.”

You tried. You really did. But it had been too long, and he felt too perfect. Your moans kept getting louder, whinier, more desperate with every bounce.

“Ahh— fuck— Connor, you’re so big— feels so good—”

His hand flew up and clamped firmly over your mouth.

“Quiet,” he growled, voice strained but dominant. “I mean it. Unless you want someone hearing how loud my girlfriend gets when she rides me.”

The muffled sound you made against his palm was pathetic. You kept riding him harder, eyes rolling back as his cock hit that perfect spot over and over.

“Mmmph— mmmph—!” you cried, the sounds vibrating against his hand.

Connor’s head tipped back against the headboard, lips parted. “Fuck… you’re so loud tonight. Can’t even control yourself, huh?”

You shook your head, moaning desperately into his palm while you bounced faster. Spit was starting to coat his fingers. Your pussy was soaking his cock and thighs with every wet slap.

After a minute, Connor pulled his hand away only to shove two fingers deep into your mouth instead.

“Suck,” he ordered, voice rough. “Suck my fingers so you don’t wake up the entire hotel.”

You moaned loudly around his digits, sucking them greedily — tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, eyes locked on his as you rode him like you were trying to break him. The taste of his skin mixed with the obscene sounds of your pussy taking his cock made everything ten times filthier.

“Goddamn,” Connor groaned, hips thrusting up to meet you. “Look at you… sucking my fingers like a good girl while you fuck yourself on my cock. So fucking pretty.”

“Mmmph— mmph—!” you whimpered around his fingers, sucking harder, drool slipping down his hand and wrist.

Connor’s free hand gripped your ass, helping you bounce faster, deeper. The bed was starting to creak quietly.

“You’re gonna get us caught, baby,” he panted, but he was smirking, clearly loving how desperate you were. “All those pretty noises… can’t stay quiet when you’re this needy for me.”

You nodded frantically, tears of pleasure slipping down your cheeks as you sucked his fingers like it was his cock. The pressure in your belly was building fast and hot.

Connor could feel you tightening around him. “You close? Yeah? Gonna cum all over my cock while you suck my fingers like a little slut?”

You moaned loudly around his fingers, nodding desperately. Your hips started moving faster, almost frantic.

Connor pushed his fingers deeper into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. “Then cum for me, baby. Let me feel it.”

You shattered.

Your cry was loud even muffled by his fingers, body shaking violently as your orgasm crashed through you. Your walls clenched hard around his cock, pulsing again and again. Connor groaned, thrusting up into you through your orgasm, chasing his own.

“Fuck— I’m cumming—Y/N—!”

He pulled his fingers from your mouth and kissed you hard, swallowing both of your moans as he spilled deep inside you, hips stuttering.

You kept grinding slowly on him through the aftershocks, whimpering softly into his mouth until you were both spent and trembling.

Connor pulled back, breathing hard, and brushed your messy hair out of your face. His eyes were soft now, full of affection.

“Ten days was way too long,” he whispered, kissing your forehead, your nose, your lips. “I’m stealing you every road trip from now on.”

You smiled, still catching your breath, and nuzzled into his neck. “Good. Because I don’t think I can go that long without you again.”

He rolled you both onto your sides, still buried inside you, wrapping you up in his arms. His fingers gently traced your spine as your breathing slowed.

After a few quiet minutes, you felt him twitch inside you again.

Connor let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. “Already?”

You grinned, gently rolling your hips. “Round two?”

He flipped you onto your back, hovering over you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

For years, you had been proud of being easy to love.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

You were understanding. Patient. Flexible. The kind of girlfriend who never made a scene when plans changed last minute, who smiled through phone calls that started with I’m so sorry, baby, who learned the difference between a optional skate and mandatory practice before most people even learned the names of Connor’s teammates.

You knew what his life demanded from him.

You knew hockey wasn’t just a job for Connor Bedard. It was the thing he had chased since he was old enough to hold a stick. It was early mornings, aching muscles, ice baths, media scrums, flights at ungodly hours, trainers, coaches, expectations, pressure. It was the sound of an entire city placing its hope on his back before he was even old enough to rent a car.

And you loved him for it.

You loved his dedication. You loved the boyish focus that came over his face when he watched game tape on the couch, one arm wrapped around you like holding you was muscle memory. You loved the way he lit up after a win and the quiet, hollow way he folded into himself after a bad game. You loved that hockey was part of him.

You just hadn’t realized, until much too late, that you had started becoming the part he could afford to forget.

At first, it was little things, dinner reservations canceled because practice ran long, movie nights delayed because he wanted to get extra shots in, your calls going unanswered until close to midnight because his phone was buried somewhere in his stall, his mind still stuck on a bad shift from the second period.

He always apologized.

That was the thing.

Connor was never cruel. Never dismissive on purpose. Never the kind of boyfriend who snapped at you for wanting his attention or made you feel stupid for missing him. When he remembered, he loved you with this almost startling softness. He brought you coffee without asking. He memorized your comfort shows. He kept your favorite blanket on his couch even though it didn’t match anything in his apartment. He kissed the top of your head when he passed behind you in the kitchen, like his body naturally looked for yours.

So you forgave him, again and again and again

“It’s okay,” you would say, even when it wasn’t “I understand,” you would promise, even when the disappointment sat heavy in your chest “After the season, things will be calmer,” you told yourself.

Then the season ended, and training started, then summer came, but there were sponsorship shoots and charity events and skills work and development camps.

Then the new season began, and everything repeated, you became good at making yourself smaller inside his life, you stopped asking for Saturday mornings because those were for recovery, you stopped suggesting dinners on game days because he liked to keep a routine.

You stopped calling when he was on the road unless he called first, you stopped telling him when you were upset because he always looked so tired, and there was something guilt-inducing about adding your hurt to the weight already on his shoulders.

The worst part was that Connor never noticed the difference, he still thought you were happy because you were still kind, he still thought you were fine because you were still there.

Your birthday fell on a Friday that year.

Connor had known about it for weeks. Months, technically, since your birthday had been marked in his phone calendar since the first year you dated. He had asked you what you wanted to do in that sweet, distracted way of his, chin resting on your stomach while you played with his hair on the couch “Nothing big,” you had said. “Just dinner. Maybe cake with everyone after.”

He had looked up immediately. “Everyone?”

You smiled. “My friends. My parents. A couple of your teammates if they’re free. Nothing crazy.”

“I’ll be there,” he said, you raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” His face softened like the question hurt him. “Of course I’m sure. It’s your birthday.”

And because you were still trying, because some tired, hopeful part of you still wanted to believe that all you had to do was wait for the right moment and Connor would come back to you fully, you believed him.

You bought a new dress.

Not an expensive one. Not flashy. Just something soft and pretty that made you feel like yourself when you tried it on in the mirror. You made a reservation at a restaurant you loved, the kind Connor always said he wanted to take you to but never found time for. Your friends offered to help decorate your apartment afterward for cake and drinks, and your mother called twice to ask whether Connor needed her to save him a parking spot.

“He’ll be there,” you said, you said it so easily the first time, the second time, when your best friend Maya glanced at Connor’s empty chair fifteen minutes after the reservation started, you said it with a laugh.

“Practice probably ran a little late.”

At thirty minutes, you checked your phone under the table, No message, at forty-five, your dad leaned toward you and asked quietly, “Everything okay, honey?”

You smiled so fast your cheeks hurt “Yeah. He’ll be here.” at an hour, the waiter asked if you wanted to wait a little longer before ordering dessert.

Your friends looked at you, your mother looked down at her lap, Maya looked angry enough to break something, you looked at Connor’s empty chair and felt something inside you go terribly still.

Because you weren’t surprised.

That was the moment, not the missed dinner, not the unanswered texts, not the fact that your birthday candles were waiting at your apartment and your boyfriend was nowhere to be found.

It was the quiet, devastating realization that some part of you had expected this.

Some part of you had known, from the second you put on the dress, from the moment you fixed your hair in the mirror, from the second you told everyone he would come, that there was always a chance Connor would forget to choose you.

And you hated how unsurprised you were, you hated that your heart didn’t even break loudly anymore, it just sank, like it was tired.

When dinner ended, everyone tried too hard to be cheerful, your friends sang loudly. Your dad hugged you longer than usual. Your mom kissed your forehead and whispered, “You deserve to feel special today.”

You almost cried then.

But you didn’t.

You waited until everyone left your apartment after cake. Waited until Maya lingered by the door, holding her coat in her arms, staring at you like she knew you were one soft word away from falling apart “Come stay with me tonight,” she said.

You shook your head. “I need to talk to him.” Maya’s mouth tightened. “He doesn’t deserve a conversation tonight.”

“Maybe not,” you whispered. “But I deserve one.”

She hugged you hard before she left, the apartment was quiet afterward, too quiet.

There were balloons tied to the backs of chairs. Half a cake sitting on the counter. A bottle of champagne unopened because you hadn’t been able to pretend that much. Gifts stacked neatly near the couch. Your shoes abandoned by the door after your feet started aching.

You sat on the sofa in your birthday dress and stared at the clock. 23:47. your birthday was almost over.

Connor arrived at 00:18.

You heard his key in the lock first, then the door opened slowly, carefully, like he already knew.

He stepped inside with his hair still damp from a shower, a black hoodie thrown over his shoulders, and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Not gas station flowers. Not something thoughtless. They were your favorites. The exact ones. The kind you had once pointed out at a market two years ago, surprised he had remembered.

His face crumpled when he saw you sitting there “Baby.”

You didn’t move, Connor shut the door behind him, the flowers trembling slightly in his hand “I’m so sorry,” he said immediately. “I’m so, so sorry. Practice ran late, and then media wanted extra stuff, and my phone died, and I swear I thought I could still make it. I was going to call you from someone else’s phone, but then—”

“Don’t.”

The word came out soft, that made it worse, Connor stopped like you had shouted, you looked at him then. Really looked at him.

He looked exhausted. Guilty. Panicked. Younger than he usually did under the harsh kitchen light. His eyes flicked around the apartment, taking in the decorations, the cake, the gifts, the proof of everything he had missed “I messed up,” he said. “I know I did. I’ll make it up to you. Tomorrow. Anything you want. We can go away on the next break. I’ll take you wherever you want. I’ll—”

“This isn’t about my birthday.”

His brows pulled together. “What?”

You swallowed, your throat hurt “This isn’t about tonight. Not really.”

Connor took one step closer. “Then what is it about?”

You let out a shaky breath and finally said the thing you had been avoiding for months “I don’t feel chosen by you anymore.”

The flowers lowered slightly in his hand, the apartment felt colder “I choose you,” he said quickly. “Of course I choose you. I love you.”

“I know you love me.” Connor looked thrown by that, as if he had expected the fight to be about whether he loved you or not, you wished it were that simple.

“You love me,” you continued, voice trembling. “But you don’t show up for me. And I have spent so long telling myself that those are the same thing because I didn’t want to be unfair to you.”

His face went pale “I know hockey matters,” you said. “I know your career matters. I’ve never asked you to choose between me and the thing you’ve worked your whole life for. I would never do that to you.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“But somewhere along the way, you started acting like because I understood, I didn’t need anything. Like because I’m patient, I don’t get hurt. Like because I’m always here, you don’t have to make sure I still feel loved.”

Connor’s eyes filled, he shook his head once, almost violently. “No. No, that’s not what I think.”

“But it’s how you act.” That silenced him, you looked down at your hands because looking at him made it harder.

“I kept waiting for it to get better. After the season. After the road trip. After the next game. After the next stressful week. But there’s always something next, Con. There’s always going to be hockey. There’s always going to be pressure. There’s always going to be someone who needs you.”

You forced yourself to look at him “And I can’t keep being the person who gets whatever is left.”

His lips parted, but nothing came out, the flowers slipped lower until they hung uselessly at his side “I’m sorry,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

You nodded, tears finally spilling over “That’s the problem.”

Connor flinched, you stood slowly. Your legs felt unsteady, but your voice stayed calm, and somehow that made his panic worse “I think we need to end this.”

“No.”

It came out instantly, he dropped the flowers on the table and crossed the room so quickly you stepped back on instinct. He noticed and stopped, hands lifting slightly like he wanted to reach for you but knew he had lost the right “No,” he said again, quieter. “Please don’t say that.”

“I’m tired, Connor.”

“I can fix it.”

“You always say that.”

“I mean it this time.”

Your laugh was tiny and broken. “I think you meant it every time.”

That hurt him, you saw it land, Connor dragged a hand through his hair, breathing hard, eyes shining. “Tell me what to do.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Tell me and I’ll do it.”

“I have been telling you,” you whispered. “For months. In every way I knew how without begging you to love me properly.”

His expression collapsed.

“I don’t want to beg,” you said. “I don’t want to compete with your career. I don’t want to spend every important day wondering if you’ll remember that I matter too.”

“You do matter.”

“But I don’t feel like I do.”

Connor’s tears finally spilled over, he wiped at them quickly, almost angrily, like he didn’t have the right to cry when he was the reason you were breaking.

You walked toward the bedroom, he followed one step behind, voice cracking “What are you doing?”

“Packing a bag.”

“No, baby, please. Please don’t leave tonight. We can talk. We’ll talk all night. I’ll call the guys, I’ll call Coach, I’ll—”

You turned around “Connor.”

He froze, the way you said his name destroyed him. Not Con. Not baby. Not the soft, familiar version of him that lived only in your mouth.

Connor.

“I’m going to Maya’s,” you said. “I need space.” He looked like he wanted to fall to his knees, maybe he almost did.

“Can I call you?” You wiped your cheeks. “Not tonight.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.”

His jaw trembled, you packed in silence while he stood in the doorway, helpless and shattered, watching you fold pieces of your life into a bag.

When you walked past him, he whispered, “I’m sorry I made you feel alone.”

You stopped for half a second, then you kept walking Connor didn’t try to stop you, but when the door closed behind you, you heard the broken sound he made through the wood.

And that almost made you turn back, almost.

But not enough.

The first night without you, Connor didn’t sleep, he sat on the floor of the apartment surrounded by birthday decorations and stared at the bouquet he had been too late to give you.

He kept replaying your words.

I don’t feel chosen by you anymore.

At first, his mind tried to defend him, practice had run late, his phone really had died, media had been unavoidable, he hadn’t meant to miss dinner.

He loved you.

He loved you so much that he had imagined every version of his future with you in it. He had saved money for a house one day and pictured where your shoes would go by the door. He had thought about rings more than once, quietly, nervously, scrolling through photos and then closing the browser because he was terrified he’d pick the wrong one. He had imagined kids with your eyes. He had imagined summers away from the city, mornings where hockey wasn’t screaming for his attention, a future where everything was calmer and he could finally give you all the time you deserved.

But then your voice cut through every excuse.

Love isn’t the same as showing up.

By three in the morning, Connor understood the ugliest part, he had been loving you in the future, someday, he would buy you the house.

Someday, he would propose, someday, when the schedule got easier, he would take you on the trips he had promised, someday, when the pressure settled, he would be more present.

Someday.

Someday.

Someday.

And while he was busy building a future in his head, he had left you alone in the present, the next morning, he texted you once.

Not a paragraph, not a desperate flood.

Just:

I know you asked for space. I’m going to respect that. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m here when you’re ready.

Then he put his phone down and cried in the shower where no one could hear him, at practice, everyone knew.

Connor wasn’t the kind of person who could hide devastation well. He was quiet on normal days, but this was different. His face was hollow. His movements were sharp and mechanical. He missed a pass he could have made blindfolded and slammed his stick against the boards hard enough that Nick Foligno skated over and stared at him “What’s going on?”

Connor shook his head. “Nothing.” Nick’s expression didn’t change, Connor lasted three seconds.

“She left.”

Nick didn’t ask who, he already knew.

After practice, Connor sat in his stall with his gear half-off and told him everything, not dramatically. Not with excuses. Just the truth, stripped raw “I missed her birthday,” Connor said, voice low. “But it wasn’t just that. I’ve been missing everything.”

Nick leaned forward, elbows on his knees “You love her?”

Connor looked up, offended by the simplicity of the question “More than anything.”

“Then stop thinking love is something she’s supposed to just know.”

Connor looked down, Nick’s voice gentled. “You’re young, Bedsy. And you’ve had hockey demanding everything from you since you were a kid. But relationships don’t survive on intention. You don’t get credit for the version of yourself you planned to be later.”

Connor shut his eyes “She said she got whatever was left.”

Nick sighed “Then don’t try to win her back with big gestures. That’s not what she asked for.”

Connor swallowed hard. “What do I do?”

“You become someone who doesn’t make her ask twice.”

So Connor tried, at first, you didn’t answer him, he didn’t blame you, for one full week, he sent one message a day. Not begging. Not pressuring. Not asking when you were coming home.

Just small, accountable things.

I spoke to the team about adjusting my post-practice media when possible. I should’ve done that before.

I started using the shared calendar again. Not because it fixes anything, but because forgetting things that matter to you can’t happen anymore.

I passed the bakery you like today. I didn’t stop because I know showing up uninvited isn’t respecting your space. But I thought of you.

I’m sorry for all the nights I made you feel like you were waiting for me to remember you.

You read them, you didn’t respond, Maya hated him on principle for a while “He sounds miserable,” she said one night, sitting cross-legged beside you on her couch while you stared at your phone.

“He is.”

“Good.” You gave her a look, she shrugged. “What? I’m on your side.”

“I know.”

“But?”

“But I miss him.” Maya softened, of course you did.

Missing Connor was the worst part. The apartment smelled like him when you went back to collect more clothes. Your favorite mug was still in his cabinet. The blanket on his couch still held the shape of every night you had curled into him after games. His hoodie sat in your overnight bag, packed by accident, and you cried into it so hard one night that Maya quietly took it and washed it because she couldn’t stand seeing you break over cotton.

You missed him but missing him didn’t erase the ache of being forgotten.

Two weeks after you left, Connor called your dad, your father told you because he had never lied to you, not even when you were little and asked if the family dog was going to die “He asked if he could come by,” your dad said carefully.

You stiffened. “What?”

“Not to see you. To talk to me and your mom.”

Your stomach twisted “What did he want?”

Your dad paused “To apologize.”

You almost laughed because it hurt too much “He apologized to you?”

“And your mother.”

“For what?”

“For making us watch you make excuses for him.” you went quiet, your dad’s voice softened “He cried, honey.”

You closed your eyes.

“I’m not telling you that to make you feel bad,” he said. “I’m telling you because I think he finally understands that love doesn’t just hurt the two people in it when one of them stops showing up.”

Your mother told you later that Connor had stood in their living room with shaking hands and red eyes, looking nothing like the confident young man the world praised every night “He didn’t ask us to convince you,” she said. “He didn’t ask what he should say to get you back. He just said he was sorry for making your birthday a night you had to survive.”

That was the first crack in your resolve, not because it fixed anything, but because Connor had gone to the people who loved you and taken responsibility without making himself the victim.

The second crack came three days later, you had a terrible day at work.

The kind of day where nothing catastrophic happened but every small thing scraped against your already bruised heart. By the time you reached Maya’s apartment, you were exhausted and cold and trying very hard not to cry in the elevator.

There was a paper bag waiting outside the door, your favorite soup with your favorite bread next to a small container of the chocolate mousse from the restaurant Connor had missed.

No note asking you to call him, no dramatic apology, just one sticky note.

You forget to eat when you’re sad. No pressure. Just dinner.

You stood in the hallway and cried, Maya opened the door, saw the bag, and sighed “I still hate him,” she muttered.

But she took the soup inside and warmed it up for you, Connor kept showing up in careful ways, not loud ones.

Not ones designed to be seen.

When your car needed an oil change, he didn’t offer to take it in like he normally would have. Instead, he texted you the number of the place you trusted and said he had already checked they had an appointment open Saturday, but he wouldn’t book it unless you wanted him to.

When your younger cousin had a school play, Connor sent a message the morning of.

Good luck to Lily tonight. I know she was nervous about her solo.

You stared at that one for a long time, you had told him about Lily’s play weeks before your birthday back when you thought he wasn’t listening.

He had been listening, he just hadn’t acted like it mattered, that realization hurt in a different way because it meant the love had been there.

It meant the problem had never been absence of feeling, it had been absence of effort, a month after the breakup, you finally agreed to meet him.

Not at his apartment.

Not at yours.

A coffee shop in the middle of the city, during the afternoon, when there was no risk of the conversation getting blurred by nostalgia and soft lighting.

Connor was already there when you arrived, he stood too quickly, nearly knocking his knee against the table “Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

He looked thinner. Tired. Still beautiful in the unfair way that made your chest hurt. His hair was hidden under a beanie, his hoodie plain, his eyes fixed on you like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked.

There was a cup waiting across from him, your order, he noticed you looking “I asked before ordering,” he said quickly. “They said they could remake it if you came later and it got cold. I didn’t want to assume.”

That almost undid you, you sat down, for a moment, neither of you spoke, then Connor said, “Thank you for coming.”

You nodded.

He took a breath. His hands were wrapped around his cup, knuckles pale “I wrote a whole speech,” he admitted. “Then I realized it sounded like I was trying to talk my way out of something I acted my way into.”

Your throat tightened “So I’m not going to do that,” he said. “I’m just going to tell you the truth.”

You looked at him, Connor’s eyes were wet, but steady “I thought loving you meant building something for us later. I kept telling myself the hard parts were temporary. That if I worked hard enough now, I could give you everything someday. A house. Stability. A life where you never had to worry. And I convinced myself that made the missed things okay because I was doing it for our future.”

He swallowed “But you were alone in the present. And I didn’t see it because seeing it would’ve meant admitting I was failing you.”

Your eyes burned.

“I don’t want to be the guy who only knows how to love you when it’s convenient,” he continued. “And I don’t want to be the guy who makes you grateful for crumbs because he’s busy.”

You looked down at your coffee, Connor’s voice cracked “I hate that I became that guy anyway.” A tear slipped down your cheek, he didn’t reach for you, that mattered.

“I’m not asking you to come back today,” he said. “I want you to. God, I want you to. But I know I broke something, and I know me being sorry doesn’t put it back the way it was.”

You wiped your cheek.

“What are you asking for?”

“A chance to earn your trust again.” He inhaled shakily. “Slowly. However you want. And if the answer is no, I’ll respect it. I’ll hate it, but I’ll respect it.”

You studied him for a long moment “I don’t know how to trust you anymore,” you whispered.

Connor nodded, tears falling freely now “I know.”

“I don’t want to be someone you schedule because you’re scared of losing me.”

“You’re not.”

“But how do I know that?”

His face twisted with pain “You don’t,” he admitted. “Not yet.” that honesty hurt more than a promise would have, he looked down at the table “I started talking to someone,” he said quietly.

Your brows pulled together. “Like a therapist?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “A sports psychologist, but also just… about life. About how I treat everything like if I work harder, I can fix it. But I can’t outwork hurting you. I have to actually change.”

You stared at him.

“I should’ve done it before,” he said. “I know that.”

You both sat there in the quiet noise of the coffee shop, surrounded by people living ordinary lives while yours felt split open on the table between you.

Finally, you said, “I can’t come home yet.”

Connor nodded immediately “Okay.”

“And I’m not promising we’ll get back together.”

His breath hitched, but he nodded again “Okay.”

“But…” You looked at him, heart pounding. “We can talk. Sometimes" for the first time in weeks, something like hope moved across his face, not joy, he knew better than to look joyful over the bare minimum, just hope.

“I can do sometimes,” he whispered, so that was where you began, soometimes.

Sometimes Connor called after practice, and when you didn’t answer, he didn’t spam your phone. He left one voicemail telling you about his day, asking about yours, and reminding you that you didn’t have to call back unless you wanted to.

Sometimes you met for coffee, sometimes you walked together through cold Chicago streets with space between your hands where there used to be instinct.

Sometimes it felt easy, and that scared you, sometimes it felt impossible, and that scared him.

Connor learned.

He learned to tell you when his schedule changed before you had to ask, he learned not to make promises until he had checked whether he could keep them, he learned that “I’ll try” meant nothing if it wasn’t followed by action.

He learned that flowers were nice, but remembering your presentation at work mattered more.

He learned that you didn’t need grand vacations as much as you needed him to sit across from you at dinner and not check his phone every five minutes, he learned that choosing you was not one dramatic decision.

It was hundreds of small ones, it was calling you before he watched game tape, not after he was too exhausted to speak, it was telling his trainer he had somewhere to be and leaving when practice actually ended.

It was showing up at your apartment with groceries and asking if he could cook for you, then leaving after dinner because you weren’t ready for him to stay, it was apologizing without making you comfort him.

It was accepting that some days, you were still angry, one night, two months after your birthday, you finally snapped.

He had come over to help you put together a bookshelf. It should have been simple. Domestic. Safe.

Instead, halfway through sorting screws, you looked at him sitting on your floor in sweatpants, tongue caught between his teeth as he frowned at the instructions, and you were suddenly furious.

“Why now?”

Connor looked up. “What?”

“Why now?” you repeated, voice shaking. “Why did it take me leaving for you to become this version of yourself?”

He set the screwdriver down slowly, you stood, pacing because if you stayed still, you would cry “I asked for you before. I needed you before. I was lonely before. And now you’re here, and you’re trying, and that’s good, but it also makes me so angry because you could have done this the whole time.”

Connor’s face crumpled “I know.”

“You could have loved me like this when I still felt safe with you.”

His eyes shone “I know.”

“And now I’m the one who has to figure out if I can trust you again. I’m the one who has to heal from what you didn’t notice.”

He nodded, wiping at his cheek with the heel of his hand “You’re right.”

“I hate that you’re agreeing with me.”

A broken laugh escaped him, wet and miserable. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Fight back,” you said, crying now. “Make an excuse. Tell me I’m being unfair. Give me a reason to stay mad.”

Connor stood, but kept distance “I can’t,” he whispered. “Because you’re not being unfair.”

Your face crumpled.

He looked destroyed by it “I wish I had a better answer,” he said. “I wish I could tell you I didn’t understand or that I was too young or too busy or too under pressure, but none of that changes what it felt like for you. I did have reasons. But I used them like excuses. And you paid for that.”

You covered your mouth.

Connor’s voice broke “I hate that I hurt you into needing proof that I love you.”

That was the first time you let him hold you again, you didn’t plan to, one second you were crying in the middle of your apartment, and the next Connor was there, arms around you, holding you like he was afraid to hold too tightly but more afraid to let go.

You sobbed into his hoodie, he cried into your hair “I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over. “I’m so sorry. I’ve got you. I’m here. I’m here.”

And for once, he was.

The first game you attended after the breakup was in January, you didn’t sit with the WAGs.

You bought your own ticket because you weren’t ready for the questions, the looks, the assumptions. Connor didn’t know you were coming. You told yourself it was better that way. Less pressure. Less expectation.

Chicago won in overtime and Connor scored the winner.

The arena exploded, you stood with everyone else, heart lodged in your throat, watching him get swallowed by his teammates against the glass.

Then his eyes found you, you didn’t know how, there were thousands of people there, all screaming, all moving, all wearing the same colors.

But Connor found you, for one suspended second, the entire arena seemed to blur, his face changed, not into surprise exactly.

Into something softer, something like gratitude, he didn’t make a scene. Didn’t point. Didn’t turn it into a moment for the cameras, he just pressed his glove against his chest once, small, private, yours.

You left before he could ask you to wait, by the time you got home, there was one message on your phone.

Thank you for coming. I know you didn’t come for me to know, but I’m really glad I saw you. Get home safe.

You stared at it for a long time, then you typed back.

Good goal.

His reply came almost instantly.

Thanks. I was trying to impress this girl.

You laughed, actually laughed, then cried because laughing with him still felt like coming home.

The night things truly changed wasn’t dramatic, no storm, no hospital scare, no grand confession in the rain.

It was a Tuesday, Connor had a rare evening off. Weeks earlier, he had asked if he could take you to dinner. Not somewhere expensive. Not somewhere that screamed apology. Just the little Italian place near your apartment where you used to go before everyone knew his name.

You agreed.

Part of you expected something to go wrong, a late meeting, a surprise interview, a call from the team.

Some reminder that hoping was dangerous, but at six exactly, there was a knock at your door, Connor stood on the other side in a dark coat, cheeks pink from the cold, hands empty, no flowers, no gifts.

Just him “I thought about bringing something,” he admitted when you opened the door. “Then I thought maybe being on time was the thing.”

Your lips parted, then you smiled, it was small but real “Good choice.”

Dinner was quiet at first, then less quiet, then almost normal He told you about a prank in the locker room. You told him about Maya’s disastrous date. He listened with his whole face, laughing in the right places, asking questions that proved he was paying attention.

Halfway through dessert, his phone buzzed.

You saw it, so did he.

His eyes flicked down,for one awful second, your body remembered, the waiting, the empty chair, the excuses.

Connor reached for the phone, your stomach dropped, then he silenced it without looking and turned it face down on the table “My agent,” he said. “I told him I’m unavailable tonight unless something’s on fire.”

You swallowed “You can answer if you need to.”

“I don’t need to.”

“But what if it’s important?”

Connor looked at you “You’re important.”

The words were simple, no drama, no speech, just the truth, your eyes filled with tears, Connor’s expression softened, but he didn’t reach across the table. He waited.

You were the one who slid your hand toward his, he stared at it like it was something sacred, then he took it, his thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and careful “I’m scared,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I’m scared I’ll come back and everything will be good for a while, and then one day I’ll look around and realize I’m waiting again.”

Connor’s jaw tightened “That’s my biggest fear too.” You looked at him in surprise.

He nodded “Not because I think I’ll stop trying. But because I know I’m capable of hurting you when I’m not paying attention. I didn’t think I was before. I do now.” He took a shaky breath. “So I don’t want you to just trust me blindly. I want us to keep talking. I want you to call me out. I want to keep seeing someone. I want to make sure I don’t only change because I’m afraid of losing you.”

Your tears slipped over “I loved you so much,” you said.

Connor’s face crumpled “Loved?”

You squeezed his hand “Love,” you corrected softly. “I love you so much.”

His eyes shut, for a moment, he looked like the words physically hurt him, like relief could be painful when it came after starving “I love you too,” he whispered. “I never stopped.”

“I know.”

This time, when you said it, it didn’t feel like an excuse, it felt like a beginning, you didn’t move back in immediately.

Connor didn’t ask you to.

That mattered too, you kept your apartment. Kept your space. Kept rebuilding a life where he was wanted, not required, but slowly, carefully, he became part of it again.

He came over on off nights and cooked badly until you took pity on him and taught him how not to burn garlic, he remembered your friend’s promotion party and arrived with you, not three hours later.

He called from the road before bed, sometimes tired, sometimes quiet, but always present, on nights when he couldn’t talk long, he told you that instead of disappearing.

On days when you felt old hurt rising, he sat with it, he didn’t punish you for needing reassurance, he didn’t rush you into being okay.

He loved you in the present.

And little by little, the future stopped feeling like a place where you had to wait to be happy, your next birthday came quietly.

You didn’t plan a party, part of you didn’t want to give the day that kind of power again, Connor didn’t push, he simply asked what you wanted.

“Something small,” you said. “No surprises.”

“No surprises,” he promised.

That morning, you woke up to a text.

Happy birthday, baby. I’m already grateful I get to show up for this one.

You stared at it in bed, heart aching, then came another message.

Door in ten minutes. Coffee first. Then breakfast. Then whatever you want. My phone is off unless you tell me to turn it on.

You opened the door ten minutes later in pajamas, hair messy, eyes suspiciously wet, Connor stood there holding two coffees and a paper bag from your favorite bakery.

He smiled softly “Hi.”

“Hi.”

He stepped inside and set everything on the counter, no balloons, no crowd, no overcorrection.

Just coffee. Warm pastries. Your favorite flowers already arranged in a vase he must have dropped off with Maya the night before because he knew showing up at your door with a bouquet might remind you too much of the night everything broke.

You noticed, of course you noticed, Connor watched you notice “I didn’t want them in my hands this time,” he said quietly.

Your throat tightened, you walked toward him and wrapped your arms around his waist, he froze for half a second before holding you back “I’m here,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes against his chest “I know.” he breathed out shakily “I’m going to keep being here.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, there were still things to heal. You both knew that. Love did not erase history just because it wanted to. Trust did not return fully grown. It had to be rebuilt, piece by piece, choice by choice, ordinary day by ordinary day.

But Connor had learned the thing he should have known all along, love was not just the future he imagined for you.

It was the morning coffee, in the answered call, in the kept promise, in the empty chair that would never be empty again if he had any power to reach it.

It was choosing you when no one was watching, it was showing up not because he almost lost you, but because you deserved to be loved by someone who came before the breaking point.

Connor brushed his thumb over your cheek “Happy birthday baby” he said softly, you smiled through your tears, and this time, when you looked at him, you didn’t feel like you were waiting for him to choose you.