#dylan larkin fic

The warmth of Dylan’s palm wrapped around the door handle carefully, as if the simple turn of it would wake anyone sleeping inside. It was cool to the touch, warmed by his careful grasp, as he turned it slowly–just like he had countless times before–and pushed the heavy door open with a tired push. The door squeaked on its hinges, leaving Dylan to wince as he peered through the darkness for any signs of life. 

All the lights in the condo were off, and the only thing he could hear was the quiet hum of the nightlife on the city streets multiple stories below. A car honked. Puddles splashed. A drunk girl squealed. And Dylan smiled. It sounded like home. 

He placed his bag down on the floor as he kicked off his shoes. His every action was quiet, careful and deliberate. He didn’t want to wake her. 

After a long road trip with a late-night flight, Dylan always looked forward to the same thing: coming home to her. 

The scent of her perfume in the air. Her keys on the console table, the feminine touches around the living room that took his place from being a place to sleep to a home they shared–right down to her shoes that he always tripped on in the hallway…

Dylan froze, his heavily tired body suddenly jolting awake. 

A single hand reached out, blindly searching for the light switch on the wall as if he had never turned it on before. 

The overhead light was a sterile brightness that shocked his eyes into a series of tight blinks before they could focus. They fixated on the key bowl first. Her keys rested nestled in the bowl, tangled with his, but the space where her purse rested beside his was void. Empty. Just like the space on the floor where her heels always rested in the way on the floor. 

And it hit him. 

He didn’t need to walk any further into the condo to know that the framed photos that lined the shelf would be gone. Her throw blanket, the one they always found themselves cuddled under on movie nights, were missing. Nothing would remain but traces of dirt on the windowsill where her plants craved the morning sun. Everything that had been hers–or more hers than his–was gone.

For a long moment, he stood there, a single hand raised to his face as his eyes shut. 

He loved her. 

She knew that, didn’t she? 

Dylan had said it in every way he could. Small gestures like holding her hand or subtle touches when they were on dates. He bought her anything she wanted, even when she didn’t ask or he didn’t have to, just because he could. They went on trips together. She met his family and he hers–they were a serious couple, together for years. But she wanted more. More than Dylan knew how to give. 

A heavy breath rattled through him. Deep, quivering, struggling with realization he had come home to face. And still, the air carried the scent of her–the faint sweetness of vanilla and cherry blossoms–like she had just left. 

His eyes shot open, and he jumped over the ottoman that stood between him and the window. His heart pounded so loudly in his ears that he couldn’t hear the city that was still awake and thriving beneath them. But he could see it, her car, still idle in the valet.  

Dylan didn’t think. He just ran. 

Dylan ran out the door and into the stairwell because the elevator would have been too slow. He took them two at a time, sock-clad feet pounding against the concrete. By the time he reached the bottom, where he burst through the fire exit and into the street, she had already begun driving away. 

If she hadn’t slammed on the brakes, she would have hit him. 

He wouldn’t have been mad if she did. But her tires screeched, the car jerking inches away from his kneecaps. His palms met the warmth of the hood, his breath ragged and throat burning as if he completed an extended shift on the ice. Dylan tasted iron in the back of his throat as he stared through the windshield at her wide eyes and parted lips. Rainwater soaked into his socks as he stood there, unmoving, trying to catch his breath. 

The shrill honk of her car horn sent him jumping back, breaking him from his stare and sending him into the depths of a puddle outside her driver's side window. 

“Don’t go,” his voice cracked as he caught her glance through the half-open window. “Please. I’ll do better–just tell me what you need, and I’ll–”

“Dylan,” she sighed, her voice soft but firm. There would be no getting back together this time. “There’s nothing you can do. We’ve talked about this. We’ve tried—”

He could hear her heavy sigh as her grasp tightened around her steering wheel. She had voiced her concerns more times than he would admit to anyone. The late-night talks that turned into arguments. Arguments that lead to gifts for his shortcomings. It wasn’t enough–because he couldn’t change the one thing she needed the most: to be put first. 

But as long as Dylan was playing in the NHL, she would always come second to his career. 

Dylan reached in, his hand wrapping around the glass of the window, preventing her from closing it. “I love you, it’s only ever going to be you–”

She leaned her head back against the seat, her gaze directed up at the sunroof to avoid looking at him. “Don’t make this more difficult than this needs to be, Dylan. Please.”

His hand slipped away from the window, and her finger was quick to secure it back in place. He could only see the outline of her as she put the car into drive, leaving him to stand in the roadway aglow with the red light of her brake lights. He stood there, in the middle of the street, the cold rain soaking his clothes, even after she was out of sight. 

Dylan knew he should have seen it coming. He should have done more to stop it–but what could he have done? Retire just after the team named him captain? The thought left him numb. The ache that consumed him suddenly gone and left with the dread of what ifs?

What if he had never been named captain?

What if he finished college and lived a normal life?

What if she chose to stay? Would they have both gone back up to bed and pretended she hadn’t tried to leave him? Would things have really changed, or would she just be more careful about leaving next time?

The thoughts haunted him as Dylan padded back into his apartment building, leaving a trail of wet footsteps behind him, only to be met by the shrill sound of the fire alarm going off. He triggered it when he went out the emergency exit. The roar of a fire engine rattled him from outside as he waited by the stalled elevator, too defeated to take the stairs back up to the apartment that was as good as empty. 

He forced a smile when the firefighters came in, his name leaving their lips with surprise. With a breath, Dylan put on the persona he only brought out for the media. The one that wasn’t haunted by a loss–or his break up–and he pretended he hadn’t been the one to set off the alarm. And he pretended not to hear the one firefighter ask him about his shoes as they reset the fire panel after the building was given the all-clear. After a quick picture, he slipped back into the elevator with the residents who evacuated when the fire alarm sounded. It wasn’t many of them, but enough to leave Dylan dreading the long ride up. 

By the time the elevator reached his floor, he was alone. His head hung low as he walked down the narrow hallway and pressed his palm against the cool surface of the door, as he had many times before. But this time, he didn’t open it with caution or wince as it welcomed him with its screech, because this time, there was no one left for him to wake up.

After practice, the air was thick with sweat and heavy with silence. The guys already knew. Dylan could see it in their subtle glances and low whispers. Maybe the fact he hadn’t smiled all morning had given it away, or maybe it had been in the wives and girlfriends group chat long before he even knew she was leaving. The gossip always reached the guys, even if they never admitted it. 

Engagements. 

Infidelities. 

Pregnancies. 

Breakups. 

The announcements worth celebrating always came with congratulations. A domino effect of words, one “about time” or “this is huge, man” after the next as each player admitted they already knew or had come to know in the locker room discussion. But a breakup? There were no words, just glances and apologetic glances because they were never man enough to put it into words. Their silence said one thing: they pitied him. 

No one mentioned her name. No one brought up his missed passes or shots fueled so strongly by frustration that they could have shattered the glass. And no one stood in his way during a scrimmage that he met with such intensity it was like a game seven must-win for the Stanley Cup kind of game. By the end, he was sweat-drenched and exhausted, sitting in his stall in the locker room, muttering quiet goodbyes until he was alone in the room. 

When he knew he was alone, Dylan leaned back in his stall. The back of his head found the support of the wall, his eyes shutting as he took a deep breath to try to shake the feeling of heaviness that settled over his chest.

Dylan didn’t want to go home; not when there was nothing to go home to. It didn’t feel like home without her there. Now, it was just a place to sleep when he wasn’t flying from one city to the next. It was a fact that hung heavily over him as he walked into the showers and stood under the stream until it sent tears rolling down the walls. 

After the shower, dressed in clothes that no longer smelled like sweat and his curls still heavy with wetness, Dylan found himself wandering down the street instead of back to his car. At first, he didn’t know where he was going as long as it was anywhere but home. With his head down and his headphones in, he walked what felt like aimlessly until he paused behind a crowd too thick to push through. Looking up, he saw a familiar sign. 

He almost smiled. 

It was a little coffee shop he’d been going to since he was a rookie. Back then, it hadn’t been so popular. There were days he was the only one in the shop, where he enjoyed a cup of coffee after practice and liked to take new girls on dates back when he spent late nights swiping left and right.

His heart dropped. He would have to start dating again. 

Dylan almost groaned as he got in line. The coffee shop had come under new ownership. A quick renovation, a new seasonal menu, and a few trendy social media posts later had people flocking to the shop to try their latest flavor of matcha or iced latte. 

When he reached the till, Dylan ordered his usual, every word and movement a routine act, like he were on autopilot. The cup was hot in his hand as he carried it, his eyes fixated on the dark liquid threatening to spill over the side of his cup as he moved for his favorite seat in the corner by the window. 

He settled into the vacant seat as he had many times before. His cup met the tabletop first. Then he took off his coat and draped it over the back of his chair. Then he sat down, and only then did he notice he was not the only one there. 

It was the soft clink of a ceramic mug meeting its plate that drew his eyes to you. You were sitting across from him, a book in your hand blocking your face. You didn’t even look away from the pages to acknowledge him staring, his jaw went slack with embarrassment. 

“Oh–I’m sorry,” Dylan managed, a single hand reaching for his cup as he turned in his seat, looking for a vacant table to occupy. “I didn’t realize–I’ll find another seat.”

He was half-standing, ready to move to another empty table that didn’t exist when you spoke. “It’s fine.” Your words were a hum that was laced with something that sounded like amusement. “You can stay. It won’t bother me, as long as you don’t try to talk to me until I’m done with this chapter.”

Dylan hesitated for a moment. Stuck between leaving the coffee shop and staying put in his seat. It was something in your tone that had him decide to stay. Something kind. Gentle. 

You didn’t look up again until you had slipped a bookmark between the pages and closed the book. When you did, it almost startled him. He didn’t know what to expect when the thick book was closed, but when your eyes met him with curiosity instead of recognition and pity, he found himself relaxed in his seat. 

“It’s pretty busy here, huh?” you said softly, your voice almost lost in the coffee house clamour.

“Yeah,” Dylan breathed out. “It’s not always this bad. Usually, I don’t have to fight for my favorite table.”

“Favorite table?” You scoffed, your head tilting in a way that made his chest tight. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sit here before.”

Were you teasing him? 

Dylan smiled, but barely. The corners of his lips tugged upwards for the first time since she left, and it didn’t feel like effort. “I’ve been out of town for a while. Easy for someone to swoop in and steal my spot.”

“Consider it conquered,” you said, grinning. 

His smile grew. Then he laughed. Not something forced, but a real laugh. It almost felt wrong to feel a semblance of joy, but he needed it more than he realized. 

“You’re funny,” he said, his smile still on his lips as he reached a hand out across the table. “I’m Dylan.”

Shaking his hand, yours was warm and delicate as you introduced yourself. You didn’t hesitate like a woman who was trying to think of a fake name to provide to a man who gave you unwanted attention. You seemed confident and genuine. He liked that. 

Slowly, you put your book into your purse, the weight of it straining the straps as you slipped them over your shoulder. You had somewhere to be, but were too kind to just up and leave. 

“Well, what do you say,” he started slowly, “same time tomorrow?” 

You smiled, and the weight on his chest didn’t seem so heavy anymore. 

“Same time tomorrow,” you agreed as you stood. “Goodbye, Dylan.”

You stood slowly, your bag clutched close as you carefully navigated through the coffee shop crowd and out into the street. He watched your every step, watching as your lips moved in a soft “excuse me” as you moved toward the door. And when you got outside, how your hand raised up to fix your scarf just right before you were gone. Lost somewhere down the street, out of sight but not forgotten.

The next day, Dylan was already at the table before the door chimed, announcing your arrival–and every single person before you. Each time the bell rang, Dylan stiffened in his seat, his stomach jumping up to the back of his throat as his eyes went to the door. Each unfamiliar face sent his stomach falling back down into the depths of his gut, his nerves running raw at the thought that you might not return to the coffee shop. 

He couldn’t blame you if you didn’t. 

You were mere strangers. He knew nothing more about you than your name, the book you were halfway done reading when you had slipped it into your bag the day before, and your favorite coffee order–and he had to bribe the barista with a generous tip for that information. 

Dylan’s eyes dropped to the oversized mug of creamy coffee. The heart design on top was undisturbed, but the coffee itself was undoubtedly starting to get cold. He reached out with two fingers, pressing them carefully to the outside of the mug, to feel the radiation of the warmth. Not quite cold enough to call it a waste, but growing closer to him needing to buy you another–or accept that you wouldn’t be coming and leave. 

Retracting his hand, Dylan glanced out the window and at the empty street. Raindrops trickled down the fogged window lazily. The patter, steady and light, teased the idea of snow. 

Shoulders rocked with a heavy sigh as he reached towards the back of his chair, gripping his jacket that hung there. It was going to be a cold walk back to the car.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Dylan saw a flash of color rush past the window. 

Then the door chimed. 

You came. 

Dylan’s hand relaxed around the back of the chair as he fought off a too-wide smile for one a little smaller. 

You were halfway to the counter when you noticed the cup waiting for you. “You didn’t have to do that,” you told him as you pulled off your wet coat. 

As you lowered down into place, he watched as your eyebrows raised slightly in surprise before lowering back into place again. “How did you-”

“Talked the barista into telling me your favorite order,” Dylan said. 

“Quite assuming of you to think I drink the same thing every day,” you countered with something that sounded like teasing in your voice. 

“Same drink, same spot… same book?” He asked slowly. 

Your hand dipped down into your bag, pulling out a new paperback, its cover pristine and a receipt tucked between the first few pages. You tapped it playfully with the tips of your fingers as you showed it to him. “Fished the other one last night.” 

Dylan’s head shook slowly as he let out a low chuckle. “You thought I’d stand you up, didn’t you?” 

“A little,” you admitted, tracing the edges of the pages with your thumb. 

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Dylan pulled out a small, worn book. The cover was half torn, and the spine was creased so many times that the title and author were no longer legible. 

“I wasn’t sure if I gave you the wrong idea yesterday,” Dylan placed the book down on the table, and his hand reached up to rub the back of his neck. “I’ve…” a heavy sigh rocked his shoulders, “I have been out of the dating game for a while.”

Heat blossomed out over his cheeks, spreading to the very tips of his ears as he cast his gaze back down at his book. Dylan didn’t know what he hated most: admitting that he was single, or being on what felt like a date mere days after a breakup. 

If what he wanted was a rebound, he should have been looking on dating apps for that, not coffee shops—you didn’t deserve the trouble he would put you through. 

“Date?” You spoke slowly, your lips grazing the edge of your coffee mug before you took a long sip that left you smiling. “You’ve got a book, I’ve got a book. Looks like a book club to me.”

Dylan's jaw slacked before he could stop it, his lips parting in a subtle breath of relief.

If he had slighted you, you didn't show it. There was a soft smile on your lips, and a brightness in your eyes that was warm. Understanding. 

“We can read for a while,” you suggested softly, “then we can talk about it, or whatever you want. Then we leave-” your cheeks darkened with color, your words growing quicker as you spoke, “whenever you get sick of me…”

Dylan’s features pulled back in a soft laugh. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

A silence fell between you that wasn’t dreaded or awkward. It was welcome as you both opened your books and welcomed the background noise that came with sitting together in the coffee shop. 

A chime at the door. The hiss of steaming milk. The sharp clink of your cup against its saucer after a long, satisfying sip. It was all just background noise as his eyes moved over the familiar words of his favorite book until he heard you laugh. 

It wasn’t soft, like you were trying to hide it. It was loud, all-consuming over your features as your lips spread out into a smile that sent your eyes squinting. You didn’t hold back, even as he stared–he didn’t even think you noticed, as he couldn’t help but become fixated on your happiness. 

Dylan couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a smile so pure outside of his teammates on the ice. You weren’t using it to hide that you hated that he had to go on another six-game road trip. The smile wasn’t a tool used to get something from him. It wasn’t a mask worn at a group event to hide that you weren’t having a good time. 

Your smile was real.

He wanted to see more of it, and it terrified him. What if there came a day that the smile you wore wasn’t true anymore? 

He had taken all the joy from his ex’s life. Could he risk doing the same to you too? 

“Dylan-” hearing his name leave your lips broke him from the trance he didn’t know he had fallen into. “Are you alright?” 

He didn’t know when, but you had caught him staring, and he didn’t know the state of his own expression when you did. But it was enough to raise concerns. Your attention belonged to him as you had closed your book around one of your thumbs to not lose your pace before you could shove your bookmark into place. 

“Yeah,” Dylan nodded, taking a deep breath as he tried to find his composure. “I’m great, actually. This was nice.” 

Your eyes narrowed for a moment, looking him over with a moment of disbelief before they widened. If you doubted him, you didn’t question it. 

He appreciated that. 

“It was,” you agreed, tucking your bookmark into place before slipping your book into your bag. “We should do it again. If you haven't gotten sick of me yet.” 

Dylan laughed softly. “Actually, I was hoping you’d want a change of scenery. Maybe dinner?” 

You paused, smiling as you pulled your bag up into your lap and began digging through it with one hand until you pulled out your phone. “You’ll be needing my number then?”

“How about this,” Dylan started slowly, taking your phone from you carefully. He opened your contacts and entered his name in full, punctuating it in the contact name with a coffee cup as if you would forget who Dylan Larkin was in your phone. “I will be out of town for the next week for work, so take my number and Google me. If you still want to see me again after that. Text me and we will arrange dinner.” 

“Google you-” you started, and he cut you off. 

“Yeah, please. I want to tell you, but I want to leave here thinking I’ll get to see you again.”

Your face fell into the same expression it had when it seemed you didn't quite believe him. Furrowed brows, the slight wrinkle of your nose, and slightly parted lips. You were confused. Maybe a little curious, and that’s exactly how he wanted you. 

“I don’t know if I should consider that mysterious or a red flag,” you told him. 

He laughed. “At this point, I don’t know either.”

Even after you texted him, and arranged a date and time for dinner, Dylan was still terrified that you wouldn’t show. His palms were sweating as he entered his favorite restaurant. The music hummed softly around him. Silverware clinked, and there was a whisper of voices that teased his ears with broken dinner conversation as the host led him to his table.. 

He reserved a quiet spot. A table at the back of the restaurant, near the window. It was something private, yet familiar—and unoccupied. You sat there, looking as nervous as he felt, your hand wrapped around a half-empty wineglass as you looked back over your shoulder at him. 

“I hope you don’t mind that I started without you,” you said to him slowly as you stood up to greet him. 

“I don’t mind,” Dylan assured with a smile, as he stepped forward then hesitated. 

He wanted to hug you. But could he? This was only your first real date.

You saw him hesitate. He could see it in the way your lips curled up softly at each corner, and how your eyes lit up before you dropped your gaze and stole the space between you. 

The feeling of your arms circling around him carefully sent a wave of heat through him. One that started in the depth of his stomach and rose to his cheeks in a soft shade of red. He hugged you with a single arm, his hand giving your ribs a gentle squeeze before he stepped back and found his seat across from you. 

“You look great,” he said, and when you offered a shy laugh in return, his heart felt tight in his chest. It was a tightness Dylan didn’t think he'd ever feel again–and for a moment he thought he imagined it until you smiled and he felt it hit him all over again. 

He was completely smitten. 

Dylan tried to hide it with restraint. He kept his smile small and the conversation light. Asking casual getting-to-know-you questions over dinner and a glass of wine. You barely knew each other, yet somehow everything clicked. 

Halfway through dinner, Dylan almost had to give himself a silent reminder: This was just the first date.

But it was his ex who did that for him.

He spotted her across the room, sitting at the bar. She was wearing her favorite little black dress, one that he had seen her wear countless times.  

The sight of her left his mouth dry. He reached for his glass of water and drank it back in long gulps that failed to quench his sudden, insatiable thirst. He knew the day would come, but he hadn't expected it would happen so soon. 

He also hadn't expected to feel… calm. 

Everything he had expected to feel the first time he saw her didn’t happen. There was no ache in his chest, nor burst of anxiety to consume him. What surprised him the most was that he didn’t feel the need to be seen by her. Dylan had no desire to walk over to her to say hello. To check in on how she was doing—to test the waters to see if she would take him back. 

There was only the faint recognition of someone who used to matter, but didn’t anymore. 

Every bit of sadness had already faded, quickly and quietly without him even realizing, because of you. 

All it took was accidentally sitting at the same table as you to change everything, but he hadn’t realized it. 

What he had before with her wasn’t love. It was an attachment to familiarity, to the comfort of having someone, and he had clung to it because it was constant—safe—even if they had both struggled through it until the very end. 

Sitting across from you was different. Dylan could have sat there in silence, watching the amber light dance across your features as you talked about anything. Being around you was enough, flooding him with a warmth that he couldn’t quite describe. It was a drive that made him want to be better, to be present in a way he hadn’t been before, and to have hope again.

A smile spread over his face, heat spreading out over his features so hot that he could feel it in the tips of his ears. His head shook slowly, and he hoped you didn’t notice as he tried to hide his smile behind another long sip of his drink. 

“What?” you asked, your smile growing to match his.

“Nothing,” he whispered, placing the empty glass back down on the table to wait for a refill. “I’m just really glad you came.” 

Dylan reached out to you with his right hand, and you returned his hold with your left. He held it carefully, his fingers grazing over your empty ring finger casually, and his chest went tight with hope. 

It was only the beginning, but Dylan was sure of one thing. He finally knew what love was supposed to feel like. 

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