#cm8

It was his fault. He kept you up late last night. He couldn't blame you for the way you clung to the pillow, drool pooling on the soft cotton, blanket haphazardly flung across your bare skin, and hair forming a knotty halo around your head. Much like he was last night, this morning he was struck by your beauty, no matter how much of a drooling mess you were. 

Cale sighed to himself, gnawing on his lip as he made himself turn away from you, wondering if he should wait for you to wake up, or simply just make you a warm tea to entice you out of bed. As much as he loves you, it felt like an itch on the inside of his skull as he realised the only way he could make his bed to finalise his morning routine was if you were out of the bed in question.

Every morning, Cale followed a simple yet non-negotiable routine - wake up, eat, wash his dishes, and make his bed. It was not up for debate, or at least, it never had been before. 

Rationally, he knew it would be fine if he didn't make the bed, that your sleep would always be more important, especially if he was the cause of your lack of sleep. And yet, it felt like an effort to get himself out of his bedroom and to his kitchen.

Sipping from his smoothie, Cale breathed deeply and attempted to distract himself by tidying his kitchen bench. There was nothing to clean. Furrowing his brows, he swept his eyes over the living room, free of clutter.

He was home late after his game last night, but you were still there from before he left, from when you and he wrestled, played, and made a mess of the house. When he arrived home, he hadn't noticed that you had tidied everything up in his haste to ravish you in celebration of his win. 

Cale felt his heart swell. He knew that even though you weren't a particularly messy person, you definitely didn't enjoy cleaning in the same way he did. You were comfortable with clutter in a way that he has never been before. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat, turning to see you shuffling out from the hallway, wrapped in the comfort of his bedshirt that he didn't actually sleep in last night, with comically fuzzy socks that he was sure would make you slip on the hardwood floors at one point or another. 

“Good morning, beautiful,” he cooed affectionately, watching you as you grabbed the blanket from the couch, pulling it over you with a small grumble. You shuffled towards him in the kitchen, bumping your forehead against the hard plains of his chest, sighing contentedly and snuggling a little closer into his warmth.

“G’ mornin’,” you yawned out. He carded his fingers through your messy hair, catching at your chin and lifting so he could meet your gaze. You smiled warmly as he leaned down to kiss you deeply, hungrily, swallowing your little moans that pulsed through his system. He pulled away, knowing that he didn't have time to delve into your flesh this morning and risk being late. 

“Did I wake you?” You shook your head.

“No, my alarm went off. I wanted to make sure I saw you before you left for practice today.” He smiled, and just like it always did when he looked at you like that, your heart skipped a beat. “Have to give you a good luck kiss, don't I?”

“It’s just practice,” his cheeks reddened. For the life of you, you couldn't understand how he could be so shy when you complimented him when he could unravel you shamelessly and without restraint in the container of the bedroom.

“Well, you need practice luck, too.” You kissed him again, shorter this time, before shuffling over to make yourself a tea. “I was thinking I could whip something up for us to eat tonight? Make a little date of it?” 

“Sounds amazing, I'll pick up some wine on the way home,” he nodded, heat blooming in his chest at the ways in which you looked after him. Checking his watch, Cale quickly made his way to the bedroom to make the bed.

“Could you pick up a white wine? I think that'll pair really nicely with what I have in mind.” You called out to him, pretending that you weren't overtly checking out his ass.

“Anything for you, beautiful,” he called back. “Can I grab you anythi-”

He stopped short, looking at the bed. The already made bed, sheets and blankets folded exactly the way he liked it, the corners tucked in all the right ways, the pillows fluffed and placed to perfection, and without a wrinkle in sight. 

“Sorry, what was that?” He distantly heard you respond. Cale was too stunned that you remembered every detail, that you even bothered to do this for him, especially when he knew for a fact you didn't really care to make your own bed back at your apartment. 

You were sipping from your mug when he walked back in the kitchen, removing the mug from your hands and placing it on the counter before he grabbed your face with both hands and pulled your lips in to meet his in the middle. You didn't hesitate to answer him in kind, working your mouth against his with muffled moans of pleasure, gripping his shirt to keep from toppling over from the force of his kiss. Cale's large hands still framed your face as the two of you separated, breathless yet wanting more.

“What was that for?” You puffed out, wishing he never stopped.

“You made the bed.” Cale answered firmly. You cocked an eyebrow in turn.

“Is that all it takes? If I had known sooner, I'd do it every time I sleep over.” He grinned, pressing his lips to your forehead. You shrugged, “I figured it's important to you since it's the first thing you do in the morning.”

“I love you.” Cale's soothing voice whispered over you, lighting you up from the inside out.

you don’t know when it started driving you crazy like this. maybe the fifth or sixth time you ended up beneath him, his messy blond hair falling across his forehead and his cheeks flushed warm with that permanent rosy glow. maybe it was earlier, when you realized cale makar could make love to you with such devotion you forgot how to breathe, but still somehow never quite give you the depth, the pressure, the pace you craved. he wasn’t timid, never that—just careful. just adoring. just so focused on keeping the moment sweet that he sometimes held himself back without even realizing.

tonight, though, your body is aching for more. he’s above you with his forehead resting gently against your cheek, blue eyes soft and half-lidded as he moves inside you with slow, tender strokes that make your chest tighten but leave you wanting something deeper. his hands cradle your hips like he’s handling something delicate, thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin as he whispers your name like it’s the only word he’s ever needed to learn. it’s beautiful, it always is, but the want twisting low in your stomach keeps tightening, and you finally let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

“cale,” you murmur, fingers slipping into his hair, tugging lightly at the soft strands just to get him to look at you. he lifts his head at once, cheeks flushed, breath warm against your lips as he asks if you’re alright. that’s what undoes you—the earnestness, the care, the way he would stop everything if you asked.

“I am,” you whisper, guiding his hips with your legs. “i just… need more. a little harder. please, baby.”

his eyes widen in the faintest flicker of surprise, not because he doesn’t want to give it to you, but because he never wants to overstep. you feel him hesitate for one heartbeat as if recalibrating, as if making sure he’s hearing you correctly, and then something gentle and determined settles across his features. he leans down to kiss you slow and warm, his lips brushing yours like a promise.

“if you want more,” he says softly, “i’ll give you more.”

he adjusts his grip on your hips, fingers sinking a little deeper, grounding you while he draws back and pushes into you with more pressure, more intention. still tender, still achingly intimate, but now there’s weight behind it, a rhythm that sends heat curling up your spine. you gasp into his mouth, and the sound makes his breath hitch. he watches you closely, not possessive, not rough, just deeply attuned—like every shift of your body is something he’s memorizing in real time.

“like that?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper as he moves with more purpose, letting his hips meet yours with the fuller, deeper motion you’d been begging for.

“yes… yes, just like that,” you manage, nails dragging lightly down his back. “don’t hold back on me tonight.”

his cheeks flush even deeper—rosy and warm, blooming all the way to the tips of his ears. you can feel the way your words melt something inside him. he kisses you again, slower this time, as if trying to anchor himself before he lets go even a little more.

“i never want to be too much for you,” he murmurs against your cheek, breath shivering as he thrusts deeper. “but if you need me to go harder… then i want to. i want to give you everything you’re asking for.”

he does, inch by inch, giving you exactly the amount of pressure and depth you crave without ever losing that soft, reverent way he touches you. his pace builds only when he hears the way your breath falters, when your hips rise to meet his, when your hands grip his shoulders like you’re afraid he might stop. he presses his forehead to yours again, eyes fluttering shut as he exhales your name like a prayer.

“still feeling good, baby?" he whispers, voice warm and earnest in your ear.

it does. god, it does, and you tell him so, over and over, until he can’t hold back the quiet, breathless sounds he makes only for you—those little broken sighs, those soft murmurs of your name that tremble with affection. he keeps you close as he moves, chests pressed together, bodies locked in a rhythm that’s finally exactly what you needed.

he’s still loving you, still touching you like you’re precious—but now he’s giving you all of himself too. all that quiet strength, all that unspoken want, all that steady devotion that makes you feel like you’re the only person in his world.

Cale smiles, and heads in the direction of the nursery. The door’s open, soft light spilling into the hallway from the lamp next to the rocking chair. He stands in the doorway for a few seconds, just looking at you, and your baby girl. Your hair is thrown up into a bun on the top of your head, you’re wearing an old shirt of his, and he doesn’t think you’ve ever looked more beautiful.

You look up when he arrives, your squirmy one month old cradled safely in your arms. Sophie’s wearing a navy blue sleeper, looking so comfortable and snuggly. Cale’s heart melts at the sight, immediately feeling all the tension and stress from the game melt from his body, replaced by a warm fuzziness starting in his heart, slowly spreading to the rest of his body.

“Hi my love,” you stand up and cross the room, leaning up on your tiptoes to kiss him. Cale’s hands find your hips, holding you close to him, chasing your lips as you fall back to your heels. “We missed you, and we’re really happy you’re home. Someone didn’t want to fall asleep.”

Cale sighs again, but this time it’s content, dropping his forehead to rest against yours. He gazes down at his baby girl, suspended lovingly and safely between her parents. She’s smiling softly up at the both of you, eyelids drooping as she fights sleep.

He moves his arms to be under Sophie, and you carefully transfer your little girl into her daddy’s arms. Cale’s entire demeanor softens the second he’s holding her, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her little forehead. You melt as you watch Sophie yawn and snuggle into Cale’s chest, her big eyes fluttering closed. She lets out a tiny huff, and then she’s fast asleep.

You look up to meet Cale’s eyes, but his gaze lingers on your daughter for another second. When he finally does make eye contact with you, his eyes are shining with unshed tears, holding Sophie as close to himself as possible.

“Wanna go lay down?” you ask. Cale nods, and you place your hand on his back, leading him to your bedroom.

The Avalanche won tonight, but it was hard-fought. A close call. Cale doesn’t like close calls, especially if he feels like he could’ve done something about it. You know that he’s struggling right now, and not just mentally. You saw him take a hit from a Minnesota player and wince, wince hard. Harder than he should’ve for a hit of that size. He skated off to the locker room, effectively putting your heart in your throat, but then he was back for OT.

Even now, holding Sophie. He’s got her in both arms, of course, but he’s supporting the majority of her weight with his right arm instead of his left.

He settles down on his side of the bed, adjusting Sophie so that her perfect chubby cheek is smushed into his shoulder, one of her little hands clutching the fabric of his shirt. You climb into bed next to him, pulling the duvet over your laps, snuggling close to him.

You look at him for a long moment, study the set of his brow, the stiffness in his jaw. His eyes are on yours, but there’s a distance to them, like he’s not fully here. His mind is still back in Ball Arena, analyzing every movement he and his teammates made on the ice. Yes, the Avalanche won, but the game wasn’t easy. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t luck that won them the game, not at all, but it took the team a while to pick things up and get their act together tonight. 

Usually, you tell Cale to leave it in the car. Especially since Sophie was born, you want him to be focused on Sophie, and on you. Not on hockey and the way a certain game went. “The past is in the past” is what you always tell him, and so far he’s been pretty good at it.

But tonight, you do something different.

“What’re you thinking?” your voice is quiet, careful not to disturb the peace and calm of your home. “Talk to me, baby.”

He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, just stares ahead at the TV above your dresser, turned off. He rests his cheek on Sophie’s head gently, rubbing her tiny back with his thumb. You can see the tears pooling in Cale’s eyes, the ones you know he won’t let fall. In all the years you’ve known him, all the years you’ve loved him and told him that it’s okay, you’ve only seen him cry two times.

Once at your wedding, when you were walking down the aisle in the most perfect dress.

Once the day Sophie was born. Her first little cry rang out in the hospital room, and tears were already streaming down his face. When the nurse laid Sophie in his arms, he was a blubbering mess.

Being a hockey player has changed Cale, in more ways than one. And that’s one of those ways.

“My brain is tired,” he says, voice quiet. His eyes are on the TV, locked onto the reflection of the three of you.

“Your brain is tired?” you repeat. His bottom lip wobbles, and your heart cracks a little bit at the sight of it. You reach a hand up to scratch the short hairs at the nape of his neck, hating anything and anyone who caused the look of distress on his face. “I’m here for you, Cale. Tell me what you feel.”

It takes him another few seconds to gather his words, and his courage. He shifts so he’s cradling Sophie in his arms, looking down at her sweet little face. Cale sniffs and hitches her a little bit higher on his chest.

“I’m hurt. It’s my shoulder, maybe my collarbone, I’m not sure. I lied and told everyone that I was fine and that I’m doing great but I’m not,” his voice is shaky, shoulders bunched up by his ears. There’s anxiety written over his entire demeanor, but he’s still talking. “I’m not the best player on the team, and I know that. But I also know that everyone relies on me. The team, the fans. I just… I don’t want to let anyone down.”

“Oh honey….” Tears have sprung to your eyes as well, heart aching for your husband. You kind of knew he felt this way, at least a little bit, but you didn’t think it was this bad. Cale’s usually so calm, collected. And the fact that he’s been playing injured? “Why haven’t you said anything? To me, or to your coach? Or any of the guys?”

Cale finally looks at you, eyes rimmed in red. “I don’t want anyone worrying about me.”

That’s it. You sit up, swinging your leg over his lap and sitting down. Once again, Sophie is nestled between you both, safe and warm and comfortable. Cale’s holding her close to his heart, as if giving himself strength, seeking comfort in your beautiful bundle of joy.

You cradle his face in your hands, looking at him for a long second, trying your hardest not to cry. “Cale Makar, you are my husband,” you tell him, voice steady, bordering on stern. “You are my husband and I love you, with all my heart. You are the father of my daughter, a wonderful man, and the only person I could ever imagine spending my life with. There is nothing in this world that is more important to me than you and Sophie. Your happiness is important to me, your health is important to me. I know… I know I tell you to leave hockey at the rink, but if you need to talk to me you can. If you need advice, we can talk things through. I don’t want you hurting yourself, physically or mentally, because you feel like you have to do it all yourself. You don’t. I’m here for you, my love. Always.”

Cale nods slowly, looking down at Sophie again, blinking rapidly to dispel the tears. All he says is, “I’m sorry.”

“No, no!” You use your thumb to tilt his head back up, and kiss the tip of his nose. Then both his cheeks, his forehead, and finally his lips. It’s a soft kiss, one full of love and care and as much support as you could possibly show him. You taste saltiness in the kiss, and realize that Cale’s crying. You pull away to find him keeping his eyes closed, shame evident on his face. “Don’t ever apologize. Not for this. I want you to get your head out of that mindset, stop thinking about other people. Think about yourself, honey, and how you feel.”

“I can’t help it,” he says, voice small. “I just want everyone to be happy. I want Bednar to be happy, I want the fans to be happy, I want the guys to be happy. Most of all, I want you and Sophie to be happy. I don’t want to burden you with things that aren’t your problem.”

You sigh, softly stroking his cheeks with your thumbs. “Your problems are my problems, in the same way mine are yours. We’re married, Cale. We do life together, right? When I tell you not to bring work home, I mean things like a petty argument with Devon, or one particular shot that didn’t go in the net. Not things like this, things that matter. You’re hurt, and you kept playing.”

Cale huffs. “Lots of guys do it.”

“I don’t care,” you tell him, leaning in to kiss him again. When you pull back, you shuffle a bit closer, sandwiching Sophie tighter between you, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Cale Makar, you are important. Not just as a good defenseman, as a hockey player, but as yourself. Not just as Sophie’s dad, or my husband, but as Cale. You need to prioritize yourself, and how you feel.”

He’s quiet for a few minutes, and you can tell by the look on his face that he’s taking in what you’re saying. Digesting it, unpacking it, thinking it through. He glances down at Sophie a few times, how peaceful she looks, sleeping in her daddy’s arms. Cale told you last week that being a father is the most fulfilling thing he’s ever experienced. He’s won a Stanley Cup, the most coveted award in Sports, and he’s never felt more joy or love than when looking at his daughter.

When you were pregnant, a few of the guys told him that he would feel like this. That there’s nothing quite like being a father. And even though he knew it would be true, that just placing a hand on your belly made his heart swell with love and pride, nothing compares to Sophie being here, in his arms.

“I’m gonna call Bednar… in the morning,” he still sounds unsure, but he said it, put it out into the world. “Tell him I need to get checked out by the team doctor. Officially. And I’m going to be honest.”

You smile. “Thank you.”

“And then… and then I’m going to come home. I’m going to hold Sophie, and help you take care of her. I’m going to tell you how I’m feeling, everything.”

Sophie starts squirming, and you lean back to give her some space. Her little face is scrunched, her lips moving like she’s trying to get milk out of your boob, and you both laugh a little bit at the sight. Cale sighs, but it’s not heavy with the weight of the pressure placed on his shoulders. It’s happy.

“Are you hungry?” Cale asks rhetorically, his entire being lighting up when her eyes crack open. “Oh yes my love, let’s go get you a bottle.”

“Cale, I can take her,” you get off his lap and reach for Sophie. “You just got back from a game, go watch a movie or read or something, relax.”

He doesn’t hand Sophie over, just keeps her tight to his chest. “No, um… I’d… I want to feed her. I missed her tonight and I wanna spend time with her. You can go to sleep, you waited up for me. I’ll get her to bed, too.”

You’re hesitant, but you can see the need to be with his daughter plain as day on his face, so you press a kiss to Sophie’s cheek, and to your husband’s, and nod. “Okay honey. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will,” he says, getting off the bed, careful not to jostle Sophie too much.

“Promise?” you ask.

“I promise.”

You smile, and start getting under the covers as he leaves the bedroom, heading downstairs to the kitchen to start making Sophie a bottle.

Even from all the way upstairs, you can hear him talking to her, and hear her cooing in response. Cale had a rough night, has had a rough couple of nights, and even though it’s a work in progress, you can already tell that things are going to be better. that he’s going to be able to talk to you, tell you how he’s feeling and what he’s thinking.

If you got your way, the two of you would be settling down on the couch, Sophie in bed, both of you with a mug of tea in your hand. But you know that’s not what he needs right now. You’ll get that talk later, maybe tomorrow, or the day after that.

But right now, Cale needs to be with his baby girl. And that’s okay.

Sometimes with Cale, he just needs to hear the words. Needs to be told that it’s okay to do certain things, like feeling his feelings and talking them out. It’s going to be hard, and there’s going to be a lot of trial and error, but it’s a start. Tonight, you gave him the permission. He doesn’t actually need it, of course, but in his mind he does.

You know that your husband is a prized player on the Colorado Avalanche, and you’re so incredibly proud of him. He’s worked hard his entire life for this, and to be on such a successful team is wonderful. However, sometimes you wish he cared a little bit less. Just to ease his own conscience.

You know that’ll never happen, though. He tries to act like it’s not true, but Cale Makar has big feelings, he loves a lot and he loves hard. His first love was hockey, and then you, and now Sophie. But just because he loves you and Sophie doesn’t mean he loves hockey any less. In fact, you think he might love it more. He wants to make you proud. Wants you to be proud of his achievements, of how good he does.

That’s just another reason you love him, though. As you get out of bed and tiptoe to the top of the stairs, you think about how lucky you are to have him. You sit on the first step and listen to him talk to Sophie, tell her how much he loves her, how perfect she is.

Cale doesn’t do anything halfway. And even though sometimes you think it’s okay if he takes a few steps back, you’ll always respect his love and dedication for everything he does, especially hockey.

He’ll get there, you know he will. Eventually he’ll be able to tell you what’s wrong right away, and won’t hesitate to confide in you. Things have gotten a bit more complicated since Sophie was born, and you’re both still adjusting to life as new parents. You’re making progress, and that’s what matters.

“We’re so lucky we have Mommy, huh Soph?” Cale asks, voice quiet in the tranquil kitchen. “She’s the best. I don’t think anyone’s loved me quite like Mommy loves me. I don’t know what I would do without her.”

Tears come to your eyes for the second time tonight, but this time they’re tears of happiness.

Cale thinks he’s the lucky one? He clearly has no idea just how lucky you are.

Not obviously. Not decisively. Just—if there’s a choice, he drifts your way. If you move, he adjusts. If you’re already seated, he takes the empty chair beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You notice. You don’t assume.

“Did you want this seat?” he asks one night, already halfway into it.

“Oh—no, yeah, it’s fine,” you say too quickly. “I mean—yeah, you can sit.”

He smiles. It’s small, polite, soft. “Okay.”

And then neither of you speaks for several minutes.

This becomes a pattern.

He brings you coffee sometimes, always the same order, never commenting on the fact that he knows it. You thank him every time like it’s a surprise. You ask how practice was. He asks how your day went. You both give answers that are detailed but carefully unremarkable, like you’re afraid of saying the wrong thing when there is, objectively, nothing at stake.

Except there is.

Everyone else sees it.

“Nobody has ever needed to kiss more than those two,” Nate says one afternoon, watching Cale lean in to hear you better, his hand braced on the counter just beside yours, close enough to feel.

“Are they dating?” someone else asks.

“No,” Necas says flatly. “They would combust.”

You and Cale exist in a constant state of near-misses.

Hands brushing when you pass things. Knees touching under tables. Long conversations that mean something and nothing at the same time. Late nights where it’s just the two of you, sitting side by side, talking about everything except the obvious.

You learn things about him that feel intimate without being romantic. That he hates small talk but does it anyway. That he replays conversations in his head afterward, wondering if he said something wrong. That he gets overwhelmed by noise and likes quiet places best.

He learns things about you the same way—carefully, gently. Your favorite walking route. The way you think better out loud. The fact that you downplay your own accomplishments instinctively, like you don’t want to take up too much space.

Neither of you ever crosses the line.

It’s maddening.

“Do you like her?” Devon asks him outright one night.

Cale freezes. “I—what?”

Devon stares at him. “Cale.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I mean. Yeah. Obviously.”

“Then why haven’t you done anything?”

Cale frowns. “I don’t want to make it weird.”

“It’s already weird.”

“Good weird,” Cale says immediately, then flushes. “I mean—comfortable weird.”

Devon sighs. “You’re impossible.”

You’re having a similar conversation across town.

“Are you into him?” your sister asks, exasperated.

You stare at the ceiling. “I think so.”

“Think so?”

“Yes?”

“You talk about him like he hung the moon.”

You groan. “I don’t know how to tell if he feels the same.”

“He sits next to you like it’s gravitational,” she says. “He brings you coffee. He listens to you like you’re the only person in the room.”

You hesitate. “What if that’s just… him?”

She stares at you. “I am begging you to open your eyes.”

The realization doesn’t hit like a lightning strike.

It arrives slowly, then all at once.

It’s a late night, quiet, the kind that feels suspended in time. You and Cale are sitting on opposite ends of the couch, conversation dwindling into comfortable silence. He’s scrolling on his phone. You’re half-watching something you’ve both already seen.

You look at him—and it’s like something in your chest shifts.

The way his hair falls into his eyes. The way his foot taps faintly when he’s thinking. The way he keeps glancing at you, like he’s checking you’re still there.

Oh.

The word settles, heavy and undeniable.

Oh.

You like him. Not casually. Not in a vague, someday way.

You like him like this—like your chest feels too small to hold it.

You inhale sharply without meaning to.

“You okay?” he asks immediately.

You turn to him. Your heart is pounding. “Can I ask you something?”

He straightens. “Yeah. Of course.”

You hesitate. He watches you like he’s bracing for impact.

“Do you ever,” you begin, then stop. Try again. “Do you ever feel like you’re holding something back because you’re afraid of ruining something good?”

His breath catches. “All the time.”

You meet his eyes. They’re open, earnest, terrified.

“Me too,” you say.

Silence stretches between you. It’s different now—charged, fragile.

Cale swallows. “Is this about… us?”

Your voice comes out small. “Is there an us?”

He lets out a shaky laugh. “I hope so.”

The confession is clumsy. Awkward. Perfect.

He admits he didn’t think you could possibly feel the same. You admit you thought his kindness was just politeness. You both laugh at how wrong you were, how long it took.

“I’m really into you,” he says finally, like he’s stating a fact he’s double-checked.

You smile, overwhelmed. “I’m really into you too.”

When he kisses you, it’s hesitant at first—like he’s asking permission even now. You answer by leaning in, closing the distance fully, finally.

It’s soft. Then it’s not.

Once it clicks, it clicks completely.

You fall into each other like you’ve been waiting years to stop holding back. It’s intense in its gentleness—hands always finding, always reassuring. Love that is quiet but total, steady and consuming all at once.

Everyone notices immediately.

“Oh thank god,” Nate says when he sees you together for the first time. “I was losing years off my life.”

Cale just smiles, unabashed now, arm firmly around your waist.

Later, when it’s just the two of you, he presses his forehead to yours.

“I can’t believe we almost missed this,” he murmurs.

You lace your fingers with his. “We didn’t.”

“No,” he agrees, holding you like something precious. “We didn’t.”

And it feels—finally—like exactly where you’re meant to be.

bonus:

The family skate is chaos in the way only something well-intentioned can be.

Kids wobble past clutching helmets two sizes too big. Parents cling to the boards with the quiet desperation of people who underestimated ice. Music plays too loud, laughter echoing off the glass, the rink full of movement and noise and warmth.

You’re lacing your skates when Cale crouches beside you, already done, helmet tucked under his arm.

“Do you want me to—?” he starts, gesturing vaguely at your laces.

“Oh—no, it’s okay, I’ve got it,” you say, immediately fumbling one anyway.

He smiles. “Okay. Just—tell me if you want help.”

You look up at him. “I will.”

You both freeze for half a second, like you’re still getting used to how easily that comes now.

On the ice, you stay close without even thinking about it.

Not in a showy way. Just—naturally. His hand finds yours. Your shoulder bumps his when you laugh. You forget to watch where you’re going because you’re too busy watching him.

“Careful,” he murmurs, guiding you gently away from a kid flying past.

“Wow,” you say. “You’d think you’ve done this before.”

He grins. “A little.”

You skate in slow circles, talking about nothing—what song is playing, how cold it is, how ridiculous the little kids look. At some point, you stop skating entirely and just stand there, foreheads touching, his gloves warm around your hands.

“You’re very distracting,” you tell him.

He ducks his head, embarrassed even now. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Across the rink, someone groans loudly.

“Are you kidding me,” Nate says, loud enough for several people to hear. “This is nauseating.”

Devon skates by, shakes his head. “They’re worse than we imagined.”

Necas doesn’t even slow down. “I hate this,” he says flatly. Then, after a beat, “Also, how did it take them this long?”

You laugh into Cale’s shoulder. “We’re being judged.”

He shrugs, completely unbothered, arms sliding comfortably around your waist. “I think we’ve earned it.”

“You’re insufferable now,” you say fondly.

He smiles at you—open, unguarded, like he’s stopped wondering if he’s allowed to be this happy. “Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

Later, when the rink starts to clear and the noise fades into a softer hum, you sit together on the bench, skates dangling, his arm draped around your shoulders like it’s always belonged there.

“I still can’t believe it took us this long,” you admit.

He presses a kiss to your temple. “I think we needed to be really sure.”

You lean into him. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He tightens his hold just slightly. “Me neither.”

From across the rink, someone makes a gagging noise.