#m.rempe

you've been a new york rangers die-hard since you were a kid, jersey collection deeper than most, stats memorized like trivia night gold. that's how you and matt clicked so fast, he loved that you could trash-talk the isles or debate line changes without him explaining a thing. now, you're at almost every practice, perched on the bench or chatting in the lounge, and everyone's favorite unofficial team mascot. they all know you're matt's girl. everyone.

today's no different. practice wraps, and you're laughing with alexis lafrenière about that overtime winner against the habs last week.

"dude, your celly was insane,"

you say, bumping his shoulder playfully.

"i rewatched it like five times."

lafrenière grins, that easy french-canadian charm on full blast.

"you think? next one, i'll do it just for you."

he winks, leaning a bit closer, hand lingering on your arm as he gestures wildly recounting the play.

from across the room, matt watches. helmet already off, hair a sweaty mess, towel around his neck. he's trying not to care, *duh* he knows you. knows you'd never. knows laf is just being laf, friendly with everyone. but something twists in his chest anyway. not anger. but, maybe he doesn't love sharing. he skates over slowly, towering even off ice in his gear, and drops onto the bench beside you. without a word, his big hands find your waist, pulling you gently but firmly onto his lap. you yelp in surprise, settling against his chest as he wraps arms around you like it's the most natural thing.

"hey babe,"

his lips brushing your ear, voice all gravel and warmth. his chin rests on your shoulder, eyes flicking to lafrenière with that subtle rempe stare, not mean, just to be clear. she’s mine.

lafrenière catches it immediately, hands up in mock surrender.

"whoa, big guy. just talking hockey." he laughs, backing off with a nod.

"i'll catch you later, y/n. good chat."

you twist to look at matt, eyebrows raised, but you're smiling.

"jealous much?"

he huffs, but his grip tightens affectionately, thumb tracing circles on your hip.

"not jealous," he lies, nuzzling your neck.

"just... reminding him. and you." his voice drops.

"you're coming home with me, right?"

you lean back into him, hand sliding up to tangle in his damp hair.

"always, matt. you know that."

he relaxes then he presses a kiss to your jaw, then your lips. the kind that says i trust you, i just love you too much. around you, teammates chuckle, someone yells ‘get a room, rempe!’ but he doesn't care. ignores them all.

later, in the car, his hand on your thigh the whole drive.

"laf's cool," he admits finally. "but he touches your arm one more time..."

you laugh, lacing fingers with his.

"he won't. and even if he does, i'm still your girl."

matt glances over, eyes softly looking at you.

"yeah. my girl." he squeezes your hand.

"don't want anyone thinking otherwise."

you get home, his place, your place now too and he's all over you before the door even clicks shut. backing you against the wall, kisses deeper, hands everywhere. lifting you easily, carrying you to the couch where he pulls you onto his lap again, like earlier but private now.

"love when you talk hockey with them," he whispers between kisses.

"fuck, so damn hot. but love more when you come home with me."

you smile against his mouth. "only ever you, matt."

With her graduation looming closer and the friends she'd consider living with all moving away from the city, she found herself in dire need of a roommate to split the cost of an overpriced, perhaps not entirely worth-it New York City apartment.

And when her older sister Delaney caught wind of the situation—a phone call in which Brynn had easily blurted out her panic—why, she had just the solution.

A smug glint in her green eyes, Delaney let the name tumble from her lips like all was finally right in the world. Like it was a destiny she'd been weaving by hand, carefully bringing threads of gold together for as long as she could remember.

Matt Rempe.

The boy who lived down the road from them growing up. The boy who happened to be the little brother of Delaney's best friends. The boy who also found himself needing a place to stay now that he'd put his foot through the NHL doors and didn't want to impede on a veteran teammate's hospitality any longer.

Brynn knew she'd been running out of options, so she reluctantly reached out to Matt for the first time in years, explained her situation with the dreading fear that she might end up homeless by summer and have to move back to Calgary if all else fails, and signed a lease with him that same week.

It isn't like she has ill feelings toward Matt, as annoying as he occasionally is in a typical little brother manner. They've been in the peripheries of each other's lives since before either of them was even born, spent a few hours in the same school building, though separated by the two years between them and their vastly different friend groups, saw the occasional morsel of each other on their respective siblings' Instagrams (because they didn't even follow each other).

But it was simply that.

They know each other, but they don't really know each other—not beyond the 'I know your older sister(s), that we come from the same place, went to the same school for some years, and that our families live just a few houses apart.'

It's the type of information that breeds enough comfort to know they're not getting majorly fucked over, but not the type that bridges a connection that makes their apartment feel like a shared home. Instead, they feel like they're entirely disjointed, like parallel lines that go about their business beside each other yet never crossing.

If Brynn is in the living room, Matt migrates to his bedroom to avoid encroaching on her space because that seems to be the way she drifts through the apartment, like a mouse trying to avoid being spotted. It's the same way she tries to rush through her morning routine so she doesn't hog the only bathroom in their apartment.

And if they happen to be in the kitchen together, their earphones are plugged in, and music blasts to fill the space of the little bubbles they live in.

Though not quite the ideal way of living, it's better than nothing.

It's better than living in a shoebox on the other side of the city, so far away from where she worked, that she spends most of her time commuting rather than at the office. Than living with a stranger like she did during her first year of college. Than burdening his teammate with taking up more space than he'd like, regardless of how thankful he is and how much his teammates assure him they don't mind. Than living alone, even if he sometimes feels like he is.

Matt would much rather see Brynn's shoes by the door than just his.

At least that means he has someone, that he isn't entirely isolated in an astir city like New York, that he has the smallest piece of home with him just down the hallway.

The only indication that Brynn has slipped out of her bedroom is the whining hinges of her door. Not even her feet make a sound against the scratched-up hardwood floor.

Matt spares her a glance over his shoulder, still stirring the iced vanilla latte he's making for her. He remembers the first time he got her dressed to take on the work day ahead of her—the moment he needed to remind himself that they'd reached the age where she could dress that way. Because, in his mind, her default is the frilly dresses and ribbons she grew up in.

Brynn offers the faintest smile as she reaches the kitchen and opens the fridge, scouring the ingredients for breakfast for both of them.

Interestingly, that's the one thing they somehow managed to agree upon—unspoken but agreed: Brynn makes their breakfast, and Matt makes their drinks.

It works most days.

(Brynn has definitely made more food than she can scarf down on her lonesome on accident when he's gone for away games, not that she'd admit that to anyone).

Wrapping her egg sandwich up to eat on her way to work, Brynn slips it into her workbag. A moment of hesitation hangs from her tongue before she spins around. "Hey, one of my friends is coming over later."

Matt's gaze lifts from his phone when he hears a faint mumble beyond his headphones. His mouth is half-stuffed with food, and his eyes are wide as if he's surprised to hear her abashed and raspy voice beyond her bedroom walls that sometimes echoes into his.

Brynn says his name, a sound that easily worms past the music blaring into his ears.

Realizing he hasn't responded, he swallows his food and moves one of his earpieces aside. A questioning hum urges her to repeat what she'd said, and he watches her red-painted lips move against her sunkissed skin.

How she looks like she's been soaking up the sun when summer has already waved goodbye amazes him.

Matt brings his eyes to hers, deep brown meeting moss green. He blinks away the cloud that briefly infiltrated his mind. "Yeah, okay."

Brynn tosses a thumbs-up, her lips pressing into an awkward, appreciative smile before she spins on her heel and walks toward the front door.

After a disastrous day at work, from spilling water across her lap in her cramped cubicle to her coworker making a mistake that she spent all day fixing for him, only to be met with snide remarks, the last thing Brynn wants is to come home to an apartment full of Matt's teammates.

She knows it's his space, too, and he was nice enough to text her beforehand that they'd be over, but that doesn't detract from the fact she wants to scream into her pillow in peace.

The front door closes with a slight slam, drawing attention from the living room as she slides out of her sneakers (because any knowledgable local knows to keep their heels at the office and commute in comfier shoes) and tosses her keys into the trinket dish by the shoe rack.

A heavy sigh flits past her lips when she sees the clutter of shoes on the floor, and she swears that she is one thing away from breaking down in tears right then and there, without regard for who's around to watch.

Brynn crosses the apartment, past the living room with a limp acknowledging wave at most, and into her bedroom. The door dulls the rumbling of the TV and the occasional comments from the guys playing Chel.

Her body flops onto her bed, another sigh dissipating into the fabric of her pale yellow pillowcase. She allows herself to lay there for five minutes, the silence of her room hindered by the cars honking from the crowded streets and the rain pelting against her window—a sweet mix of noises she's come to find comforting after the many years she's resided in the city.

Finally, she decides to lean over the edge of her bed and strains a muscle as she reaches for her phone in her work tote. Her thumb instinctively seeks her older sister's contact.

"Toughie, eh?" Delaney asks with a laugh when Brynn's face is still smothered into the mattress.

Brynn mumbles something unintelligible.

"Bee, look up."

She doesn't.

Delaney makes buzzing noises, and Brynn lifts her head to glare at her. "Works like a charm every time."

"I don't appreciate you mocking my love for bees."

"It's not mocking," Delaney says. "And by the way, the bottom of my shoe looks better than you right now, which says a lot because I stepped on dog shit on my way to work today."

Brynn's eyes immediately turn glossy.

Delaney panics. "Wait, no, don't cry!"

"It's just been such a shit day!" Brynn cries, recounting her day.

She appreciates that Delaney stays quiet as she vents her frustration over the most minute details. It does everything to foster the love she has for her older sister, and Brynn thinks she's forever glad to be related to Delaney.

For one, she would be homeless without her, but it's more than that. Delaney is her best friend—the person who wouldn't let go of her hand the moment she was born, the person who has cheered her on through every stage of life, the person who never hesitates to humble her until they're yelling up a storm at each other, the person who always picks up the phone.

Brynn is certain that as long as she has her sister, all is well.

"Let me guess," Delaney says, watching Brynn unwind for the night, "Alex?"

"Yes!" she nearly yells, letting her hair out of its too-tight ponytail. "Idiot doesn't know how to do his fucking job."

Delaney barks out a laugh—more of a cackle than anything. "You know..." Her lips hook up in a teasing smirk, and the sight of it alone is enough to prepare Brynn for whatever outrageous comment is headed her way. "You could ask Matty to give him a good beating or something. I'm sure he'd say yes without a second thought."

"Well, I don't think there are many thoughts to begin with," Brynn mumbles.

Delaney scolds her.

"We grew up together. I can say that about him."

"You don't act like you grew up together," Delaney says. "Bee, you can't possibly go the entire year without talking."

"Watch me."

Delaney sighs. "Why don't you wanna talk to him? I know his height's a little intimidating—"

"I'm almost six-one," Brynn scoffs. "I promise you his height's not off-putting."

"He's not a bad guy," Delaney continues. "You know that. You said it yourself: You grew up together. You two used to hang out when Alley, Steph, and I did."

Brynn groans in annoyance, flopping onto her back. "I'm aware, Dels. I don't know. We're different people now. I don't know how to talk to him anymore. Can't that be a reason?"

Delaney squints—watches as her younger sister slowly sinks into the thick material of her bright red Flames hoodie under her vigilant gaze. But the muscles in her face suddenly relax. "Yeah, I guess."

Suspicion flickers across Brynn's face. "You're plotting."

"No. No, you're right."

"Spit it out."

"Spit what out?" Innocence flutters Delaney's lashes, a light batting that paints her true intentions as anything but.

Brynn's gaze hardens.

"God, you're such a brat," Delaney grumbles.

"Hey!"

"Look." The fine fibres of Delaney's face morph with a gentleness juxtaposing whatever teasing had just ensued. "I don't think you're as different as you think." She taps her thumbs against her phone screen as she says that. "You know, I'm sure he still finds you cute. You used to find him cute, too."

"Hey—when have I ever said that?"

"You guys are just..." Delaney trails off, then shrugs, "older now."

Brynn huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, we don't have you, Alley, or Steph forcing us to play dress up so we can get married in front of our parents."

"Do you need us to come over and force you guys to start talking?"

"No."

Delaney smiles—soft like the petals of flowers in the hanging planters decorating their backyard in Calgary.

And as though he'd been listening to their conversation over the chatter of his friends and the dissonance of the TV, Brynn hears Matt shout her name from the living room. Her eyes briefly widen like saucers before she throws Delaney a questioning glance. "What did you do?"

Offense strikes Delaney's face. "I didn't do anything!"

"Yeah, right."

"Just go."

"Okay, okay," Brynn relents, scrambling out of bed and nearly getting her foot caught between her sheets. With Delaney still on the line, she slips out of her room quietly, an instinct born from the way she's lived the past few weeks.

Her hands tremble slightly. Not because she's terrified of Matt—there isn't much to be terrified of, in her honest opinion—but more at the wonderment of what she might've done for him to call her name out when he's never done that before.

Did she forget to start the dishwasher before she left for work? Are they out of plates and utensils and cups because of it? Did she accidentally stain their couch with her coffee without realizing it? Did she forget to move some of her things from the living room?

"Bee—stop shaking," Delaney whisper-shouts.

Brynn shows a very firm middle finger before peering around the corner, her tan face flooding with warmth when one too many eyes land on her. She feels too seen, and she hopes the puffiness under her eyes and the redness around her nose from crying has calmed.

Briefly, her gaze jumps, picking out the few familiar faces she knows: Braden's been over a few times, sometimes with Josée, and so has K'Andre—or Key, as he introduced himself. The rest are passing faces.

"Rude," Delaney scoffs, her voice carrying into the living room.

"Hi, Dels!" Matt clamours.

"Matty!" she screams, much to Brynn's chagrin, whose face pinches with embarrassment. "Matty, c'mere."

He clambers over the back of their dark green mid-century couch so as to not disturb his teammates' focus on the TV and makes his way to Brynn. She doesn't make an effort to tilt her phone toward him, so he crowds her space from behind to wave enthusiastically at Delaney.

But Brynn's thumb finds no hesitation in pressing the red button that ends the call. She leans out of Matt's space, twisting her body to meet his eyes for what feels like the first time in ages. Something about them exudes a childish joy—the warmth of their colour like a mug of hot chocolate sipped by the fireplace, a shade that reminds her of the bark of lodgewood pine trees back home.

They remind her of their youths in Calgary.

A sparse memory that has long faded at the hands of time.

She can barely remember when they last hung out—the last time their parents made them tag along whenever their sisters met, the last time they were anything other than background noise in each other's lives.

There was the exception, of course. When his father died. But even then, while he was a beacon of grief in her mind, she had been nothing more than a faded figure in the peripheries of his, too embroiled in what he'd lost to think otherwise.

Not that she can blame him.

And maybe she wishes she'd been a better person to him—offered her shoulder for him to cry on despite the years of silence between them—because she knows how much Ron meant to him.

To all of them.

"What's it going?" Brynn's face immediately scrunches with humiliation. "I meant, what's up—how's it going?"

Matt tilts his head with amusement. "What's it going?"

She says his name—a tired sigh that reveals the weight of her day. The sound falters his smile, but it remains steadfast on his face—softer, less mischievous. "Why'd you call me out here?" she asks.

"Have you had dinner yet?"

Brynn's eyebrows crease together. He's never asked her that before. He rarely asks questions as it is. But this is unchartered territory.

They don't ask each other about their day.

They simply don't ask.

End of story.

They manage in a case of coexisting.

"No..." she trails off. "Was that...all?"

Matt nods, and his grin returns to full strength to his face that's tinged with a gruesome yellow from a recovering bruise.

Her face twists slightly at the sight of it. She hates it if she's being honest—seeing the bruises he comes home with sometimes—but she knows it's collateral from his job, half of the reason why people like him so much. She's also sure he hears enough about it from his sisters and mother anyway.

Brynn traces his path as he goes around her and walks away without another word. Sheer confusion sullies her face before she turns to leave, but Matt spins back around and calls her name again.

"What?" she snaps.

"We gotta talk about switching up the teams." He juts his chin at her, and she knows it's in reference to the oversized, bright red hoodie with the Calgary Flames logo emblazoned boldly across her torso.

Bewilderment takes over her face, earning a few laughs from how stridently it contorts her features. "Absolutely not!"

"Looks like you've got some work to do, Remps," Braden teases, his voice loud enough for their friends to hear but not enough for Brynn.

She lets out a disbelieving scoff before finally returning to her room to call her sister again.

Brynn waits a few moments after the final 'goodbye' echoes against the apartment walls before slinking out of her room to make herself food. She's been waiting for Matt's teammates to leave, not wanting to intrude on their (abundant) time together by creating a ruckus in the kitchen that opens directly into the living room.

Her footsteps are light as she crosses the open layout of the apartment, music bellowing from her headphones. She doesn't hear the front door creak open, but she catches movement from the corner of her eyes, and her shoulders jump with her heart rate.

Quiet curses spill from her lips as she pulls her headphones off her head and leans forward, resting her forehead on the cold counter as whisking breaths flit past her pillowy lips.

Matt's eyes easily find her in the kitchen, and his face morphs with a soft expression of concern. His head tilts in observance as he toes his shoes off by the door. "You okay?"

"Scared me," she mumbles.

"Sorry."

Brynn spots the takeout bag before he plops it beside her. As its scent laces through the air, she catches a whiff of the food, and her stomach grumbles in comforting recognition.

"For you," he says. "Well, us. Halal Guys."

Her gaze flickers from the takeout bag to Matt, his molten brown eyes melting the sharp edges she's caged herself in, then back to the white plastic bag as he unloads the aluminum containers.

He slides one of them to her. "Combo platter."

"How'd you know what I get?" she asks.

A gentle pink flushes the skin of his cheeks and nose, crawling up the tips of his ears. He scratches the back of his neck. "Asked Dels."

The corners of her mouth tug up. "Knew she was up to something."

Matt huffs out a chuckle, and the sound seems to ease the tense knots in their muscles, massaging away, bit by bit, the imprints on their skin from the thread stiffly coiling them together.

"Thank you," Brynn says softly, thumbs peeling back the metal rim that keeps the plastic lid in place.

"Yeah, no problem." Matt nudges her arm.

Brynn scoops her dinner into her mouth with the plastic utensils packed in the bag, not caring to move to their square dining table just a few feet away—if it could be called a dining table.

It's usually left alone anyway, collecting dust particles that wisp by with more paths crossed than the inhabitants of this apartment. The dining table's too tiny for Matt to comfortably enjoy his meal without the brutal reality he's sitting on his lonesome taunting him and too open of space for Brynn to feel like she isn't being perceived when he evidently spends most of his time outside his room.

Predictably, Matt doesn't make that move either, as he indulges in the food he's seen her come home with after work one too many times. Delaney told him it's been her favourite since she first got it during her first year in college.

They eat in silence for a few minutes before he decides to speak up, his words stilted in a way that reveals the awkwardness he's trying to mellow between them.

"Was it a bad day at work?"

Brynn lifts her gaze. "Pardon?"

Matt repeats the question slowly, as if he's afraid she'll scurry out of view again if he speaks any louder.

"Oh." A sigh deflates her shoulders. "That obvious?"

He snorts. "Incredibly."

Brynn frowns, prodding at her food. "Sorry."

"For what?"

The question lingers in her head, and she, too, asks herself why she's sorry. It's not out of the blue for her to forego a greeting—even his friends know that. If anything, it was stranger that she even acknowledged them on her way in. Maybe she's sorry for the stomp in her step, but that seems stupid.

So she shrugs.

When they finish dinner, Matt grabs her empty platter and throws it out alongside his. He then leans against the edge of the counter, his eyes glinting juvenile.

"Before you run off again," he teases, watching the soft pink ripple across her face. His hand fishes into the pocket of his sweatpants, taking out the wrapped heart-shaped sucker, a few shades of red darker than her sweater. "Got you something."

Recognition rolls through Brynn, and her gaze shoots up to his. "You didn't..."

"I did." Matt grins proudly, rolling the white plastic stick between his thumb and pointer finger. "Maybe not straight out of the Brynn Jar—I don't even know where it is anymore, to be honest with you—but they're the same ones my dad used to get you."

A smile passes through her face when he mentions the Brynn Jar once displayed on the Rempes' shelf. Ron always gave her one whenever his daughters and Delaney roped her into hanging out with them. She figured it was because he felt bad for her.

And a part of her wonders if Ron had kept the jar full even when she stopped going over—once she was old enough to dig her feet into the ground and fend herself from her sister's insistence.

She feels bad, then.

She wishes she could get another one of those cherry-flavoured heart-shaped suckers from him one more time.

They always tasted better when they came from Ron.

"One second," she says suddenly, scrambling to her room.

Brynn comes back with a mason jar sheltered in her soft hands, its contents filled with an assortment of candies.

"You might not know where the Brynn Jar is, but I do." She lifts it to Matt's view, observing as he takes in the strip of painter's tape pressed against the curve of the glass, his father's familiar handwriting spelling her name across it.

Matt feels the air get knocked out of his lungs.

"Brynn Jar." Her voice is soft, almost childish, with the faintest hint of excitement tangled in her tone—perhaps for showing him that a piece of his father still exists with her.

"How..." Matt is at a loss for words.

Brynn examines the jar's exterior, smoothing down the peeling edges of the tape, oblivious to how he stares at her with some strange emotion. "Your mom gave it to me when you guys were cleaning some things out. I, um, never really thought about it once I stopped coming over with Del, to be honest with you, and I never thought your dad would've kept it, but he did. Clearly, still being used."

Something shifts in Matt as he listens to her ramble. A memory arises, one that recalls the way she sometimes prattled to him about the dolls she played with as they waited for their parents to wrap up their conversations at the end of their sisters' playdate.

Truthfully, he never understood the appeal, but it helped the time pass.

And maybe that's what made the apartment feel all the more isolating—the lack of Brynn's long-winded chattering that he knows she still does because her voice usually permeates the wall separating their rooms.

Indeed, they hadn't been all that close as children and even less so as they grew up, but she holds a place in his memories, and he wishes nothing more than to keep them in this moment in hopes that they won't go back to their wordless morning routines, that they can go back to how they were as kids.

But when he thinks about it, not much has changed.

Truly.

Their interactions have always been fleeting, and once more, they've found themselves together because of their sisters.

Still, maybe they can go back to being Matty and Bee instead of Matt and Brynn, for that seems too adult-ish for his liking.

"What?" Brynn's voice wiggles past his thoughts. She's finally caught on to his staring.

Matt shakes his head. "Nothing." He pushes himself upright and holds the sucker in the space between them.

Brynn smiles as she takes it, and it's as though the warm overhead lights in the kitchen glow a little brighter. "Thank you."

Things haven't changed much.

Well, really, that's a pessimistic way of looking at things.

They talk. Acknowledge each other with more than half-witted smiles in the morning, feel a little guilty about taking up space they pay for, let their voices be heard against the rumbling of the city beyond their apartment walls.

It's more than it's ever been.

The front door opens, and Brynn lifts her gaze from the book propped on her lap. She takes in the frowning wrinkles on Matt's forehead as he tugs on the tie of his game-day suit. A strange expression for a guy whose team had just won in the most electrifying way after being down a few goals entering the third period.

Brynn pulls her headphones to her neck, the echo of a Faye Webster song still faintly reaching her ears. "Picked some chocolate milk up on the way home," she says from their couch—softly, as though she's scared to wedge her way through whatever clouds his mind. "You ran out. It's in the fridge."

Matt pauses.

She hasn't said it aloud—no, she'd never—but the greens of her doe eyes gleam with the familiar shades of concern.

He doesn't say anything as he makes his way to the kitchen. A blast of cool air hits him as the refrigerator door sweeps open, and the corner of his lips twitch with a smile when he spots the brown carton beside her strawberry-pink one.

Something in his chest warms, even though it's not the first time. She's picked up some things for him while grocery shopping—usually some meats when their gargantuan pile of it runs low—but he thinks it's because she doesn't trust him to stay on top of his own meal plans.

Even in their stints of silence, she notices.

But she's louder about her observations now.

Matt pours himself a glass before heading to the living room, illuminated by the floor lamp danging over Brynn's head. He can feel her gaze heavy on him when he plops down on the opposite end of the couch.

She keeps her attention on him over the top of her book as the TV sprays light against his skin. She hasn't flipped to another page in a while.

"You guys won," she says plainly,

"That we did," he replies, just as casually, never shifting his focus from the TV. It takes a moment to realize what her words imply, and his eyebrows flash as he whips his head around. "Wait—"

She doesn't. "You're not buzzing like I thought you'd be."

"You keep up with our games?"

"Matt."

"No," he smirks, "this is news to me. Music to my ears."

Brynn shoots him a jaded look, growing mildly annoyed at his smugness. She shakes her head and puts her headphones back on. "Go back to your chocolate milk."

"You were gonna say something," he says.

Another shake of her head as she digs her fingers into her book, willing herself to find her spot again.

Minutes pass, steeped in a routine silence between them.

Then Matt turns down the volume of the TV.

"Are you doing anything on Saturday?" he finally asks, twisting his body to catch the entirety of Brynn in his view—from the way her knees are pulled to her chest to the divot in her voluminous hair where her headphones sit.

Her eyebrows pull together as she slides her headphones off again. "Why?"

"Casino Night?" His smile is uncertain. "With me?"

Brynn stares at him with an arched eyebrow, expecting the punchline of a joke, until his smile drops. Her grip on her book loosens, letting it flop against her thighs. "You're kidding."

"No," he says. "I'm being as serious as the star."

"You're such a nerd."

"Please?" His expression turns desperate.

Brynn pushes herself upright against the arm of the couch, ridding the slouch she slipped into. Her pointer finger pokes into her sternum. "Me?"

"The girl who was supposed to go with me just bailed, and it's too late to take a plus-one off."

Brynn chokes on a laugh. She doesn't take any offence to the fact she's his last-minute option.

"It's not funny!"

"Sorry." She clamps her lips together, but Matt can see the laughs she's trying to swallow like a sneaky puff of smoke. "Shouldn't be too difficult for you to find someone to fill in her shoes," she says. "Why don't you try Hinge or something? I know you're on it."

"Wh—"

"You matched with one of my friends a while back." Brynn bites back an amused smile when a furious blush spills across his cheeks. "Caroline. Dark hair, brown eyes, kinda looks like Ashtyn from junior high."

Recognition overtakes Matt's face. "I remember her. She ghosted me."

Brynn presses her hand against her mouth to push the sound of her laugh back down her throat. Her eyes gleam brighter when Matt gives her shin a shove.

"I'll do the dishes for a week if you say yes," he tries—to get her to shift the topic from his poor luck with dating apps, to get her to agree to go with him.

She taps her chin. "Interesting tactic. We have a dishwasher for a reason."

"Brynn."

"Are you sure you want me there?" she decides to ask.

Matt stares at her strangely. "Is there a reason why I wouldn't?"

"I don't know," Brynn grumbles, thinking only of superficial reasonings, which, really, seems to sum up their relationship—or lack of one. "What time is it?"

A sigh of relief topples past the seams of his lips, and his body relaxes against the cushions. He lets the TV reverberate through their apartment again. "Seven."

Brynn's gaze stalls. Her mouth then gently curves up as she returns to her book, flipping to the next page despite not processing what she'd just read.

"I am free on Saturday, by the way," she says, catching his charming smile over her book.

Saturday arrives much quicker than Brynn expects, and she finally gets to slip into the dress that's been hanging from her closet door since the night Matt asked her to join him.

She sucks in a breath, examining herself in the full-length mirror slanted against her bedroom wall. The stain of her navy blue dress drapes over her curves, trickling until it kisses the floor, even with the towering heels she's subjected her feet to that put her closer to Matt's height.

With a final once-over, Brynn heads out of her room. Her strides are enunciated by the clacking of her heels against their wooden floors, and Matt shoves his phone into his dress pants pocket when he hears the steps grow louder.

It's like a breath in his chest has been captured by her two hands when she comes into view. His eyes slowly trace up and down her figure, and suddenly, he feels underdressed in her presence, even in his pressed suit and neatly styled hair. "Woah."

Brynn clamps her bottom lip between her teeth, trying to ignore the searing heat permeating her skin. She watches the smile split his face as he rises from the couch.

"Is this okay?" she asks.

"Yeah," he says softly. "More than okay."

"Should I change my shoes?"

"Brynn," he stares blankly at her, "wear the heels. You know, I'm surprised you're not wearing anything Flames-related just to spite me."

"Me? Spiteful? Who would say such a thing?"

"Do I need to remind you of what we all called you growing up?"

"No, thank you," Brynn says with a cheeky smile. "Can you at least appreciate that I'm wearing the same shade of blue as your thirds, though?"

Matt can appreciate a lot more than that. "Seems like you put a lot of thought into this."

"I put a lot of thought into a lot of things."

"Blue's a beautiful colour on you, by the way," he charms. "Ready?"

They climb into Matt's car, and he lets her connect her phone to the sound system, her mellow taste of music complementary to his. He pretends he doesn't notice the way her eyes light up, instead focusing on getting them to the venue safely.

Just as well, Brynn doesn't acknowledge how foreign it feels to have him drive her around. She's used to the underground stench, humidity, and high-strung anxiety attached to riding the subway, not the fresh aroma of a clean, air-conditioned car.

Steph calls Matt halfway through, and Brynn picks up the phone for him and holds it near his mouth so he can hear what his older sister wants. Steph raises an eyebrow when she catches an echo of Brynn's voice cursing in the background when Matt accidentally knocks his phone from her grasp, but she doesn't bring it up. Unlike Alley and Delaney, she thinks she has a little more restraint in pointing things out.

They hang up once they reach the venue, and Brynn lets her gaze canvas the area, from the various poker tables to the guests dressed in elegant dresses and suits. A strange realization overcomes her: Though they come from the same roots in Calgary, this is the crowd Matt now associates himself with, wholly different from hers.

"Hey, Matty?" Her voice is small, and perhaps a part of her hopes he didn't hear her use the nickname their families used.

His head perks up, though. "What's it going?"

Brynn immediately rolls her eyes. "Never mind."

"Wait, no—" He pulls her aside, clasping her biceps. "Being serious now. What?"

"No, seriously, forget it," she says. "It's stupid."

"Bee..."

She hates that her childhood nickname flows so smoothly from her tongue, but hadn't his done the same on hers? Instinctual, easy, a sound of music.

"It's nothing," she says. "Just got overwhelmed for a moment."

Matt offers a sympathetic smile. "Hey, we'll be like our sisters. Two peas in a pod. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"That sounds a little predatory." Her serious expression only lasts a second before she's smiling at him, earning a lighthearted glare. "C'mon, let's go."

Brynn follows Matt as he approaches some of his teammates and their partners. She easily picks out the surprise that whirls in some of their eyes when they notice her standing with him. She doesn't blame them: He was supposed to go with someone else, and they've probably exchanged more words tonight than they have the entire time they've lived together.

Or maybe it's her height—a fleeting thought because she finally feels normal-sized after frequently being told she's intimidating in that department.

Perhaps the most surprising of all, though, Brynn clings to Matt's side for the night, never straying more than a few inches away from him, just as they've promised each other, unbeknownst to his teammates.

Though, in hindsight, it shouldn't be all that shocking: In a place where she knows no one, she would rather stick to the one thing—one person—she knew.

Brynn peers over Matt's shoulder as he's dealt two cards for a new round of blackjack. She keeps a neutral face when she notices his abysmal stack, taking a smooth sip of her drink instead.

He's going to need a miracle to win.

A choked noise sounds from her throat when Matt sends his elbow back subtly, bumping her hip like he knows her reaction without needing to spare her a glance. She always seems amused by his misfortune. But a smile creeps onto his lips anyway.

Matt doesn't have a miracle.

After several rounds that see him with more losses than wins, to his chagrin, they migrate toward the bar.

"Maybe you're just bad luck," he says, pushing his hand through his dark hair.

"Maybe you're just bad," Brynn shoots back, a slow smile unzipping her red-painted lips.

"Are you two even old enough to drink?" comes the teasing voice of Chris Kreider, who has found himself behind the bar.

"Funny." Matt turns his attention to Brynn. "Another one?"

She nods. "Yes, please."

"A cosmopolitan, please, Kreids," Matt says.

"Oh, you even brought out the 'please,'" he teases. One of the bartenders walks him through the process of making the drink.

Brynn thanks Chris for the drink, oblivious to the cheeky wink he sends Matt.

They loiter around the bar for a little, and Brynn observes her roommate being stopped every once in a while, brought into conversations with alumni, executives, and fans.

This doesn't feel real. Not entirely.

Of course, she knows this is Matt's world—that he's one of the lucky people who gets to play their sport and make a career out of it. He doesn't have her cyclical routine of waking up early, sitting in a cubicle all day, and going home at the same time every day, because his job has never called for something mundane like that.

But she's known Matt since before all of this.

To her, he's still Alley and Steph's little brother, Janice and Ron's youngest child and only son, the boy who lives a few houses down the road, an old schoolmate of hers, just another person from Calgary.

To her, they lived the same childhood.

To her, he's just Matty. Not Matt Rempe, the hockey player who'd made a name for himself his rookie year by getting into a fight on his first shift in the NHL.

And she feels a strange sense of pride—not one bred from keeping a close eye on his career from the start like his family has, but from knowing someone she grew up with has reached the dream they've had since they were kids.

A distant pride, perhaps.

"What?" Matt asks when he notices the peculiar gleam in her eyes.

Brynn shakes her thoughts away. "Nothing."

She sets aside her empty martini glass and her gaze trails. Excitement straightens her spine, and she grabs Matt's bicep, pointing out the photo booth in the distance. "Can we please go in it?"

"I'm not gonna say no, Bee," he laughs, holding his calloused hand out. She bites back a smile, sliding the softer pads of her fingers across his palm. They're not quite intertwined—more like a baby clinging onto a finger, in all honesty—as he leads the way, weaving through the sea of people with ease.

Matt peels back the curtain when they reach the photo booth, letting her slip into the small, lit-up space. Her body presses against the wall once he joins her.

"Do you really have to take up all this space?" she asks, trying to contort her body to find a more comfortable way of sitting now that his legs push into hers, his big frame imposing in whatever personal space of hers that no longer exists.

"It's not my fault these things weren't made for one giant, let alone two," Matt huffs before scooping Brynn onto his lap.

A squeak shoots from her throat as her arm clings to the back of his neck for stability. She dips her head enough to avoid hitting the ceiling, but her surprise is smothered by the awareness of his hands comfortably grasping her body like it'd been made for him.

Brynn meets his gaze, a little taken aback by how close their faces are. She can see the flecks of gold in his eyes now, feel the faintest brush of his breath against her skin. She hopes he'll credit the shivers undulating across her arms to the frigid air conditioning circulating through the venue.

"That works, too," she manages to get out, breaking their eye contact. A gust of air fills her lungs, swiftly stolen again when his grip tightens around her waist and thigh when she leans forward to touch the screen.

Numbers begin counting down the moment a flash would come to blind them.

They smile for the camera, their cheeks smushed together amidst the cramped space.

Snap!

Brynn lets a peace sign peak over Matt's head as he makes a funny face. She crosses her eyes, fills her cheeks with air, and sticks the tip of her tongue out.

Snap!

"Are you still ticklish?" he asks.

"Why would I ever tell you that?"

A mischievous grin peels his lips back, face glowing with unbridled joy when he digs his fingers into her sides. Her laughs bubble from her mouth like champagne, and Matt thinks it's the sweetest sound he's heard.

Snap!

"Okay, okay!" Brynn pushes his hands away. Her back slumps against the wall of the photo booth, and her chest heaves with heavy breaths, still airy with her laughs.

Matt's eyes twinkle as he takes in the bliss hanging from the threads of her soul, and his lips can't help but pull back some more, grinning wider.

Snap!

Brynn's eyes widen, head whipping to look at the screen.

Matt pulls back the curtain as she ungracefully slides off his lap. He follows her, watching her palms smoothen the wrinkles in her satin dress as he reaches for the two printed strips of photos. He feels her crowd his space, peeking over his shoulder to survey the images that perfectly capture their smiling faces and the much more dangerous fondness creeping out near the end.

Brynn takes one of them and delicately slips it into her clutch. She doesn't know where she'll keep it, but she knows she will. Maybe she'll show Delaney to prove that she and Matt get along just fine.

They stay at the venue for a little longer until Matt is given the a-okay to leave. He shoves his hands into his pockets as they walk down the sidewalk, the brisk East River air winding through the buildings and whispering the hopes that built the city.

"Hey," Matt says softly.

Brynn hums in acknowledgment, hugging his suit jacket tighter around her frame.

"Brought you something."

Her gaze shoots to the ever-familiar heart-shaped sucker in his palm. She bites back a smile and takes it. "I'm gonna start thinking you'll hand me one of these every time I see you."

"They come in bulk," he says with a casual shrug that slides her purse down his arm. "Have to use them up somehow."

"May as well start handing them out to your teammates while you're at it."

Matt shakes his head. "It's not the same."

Brynn huffs out a laugh as she tears the wrapper off.

Sweet appreciation tapers out the edges of his face. "Thank you for joining me tonight."

They reach his car.

"Thank you for inviting me," she says. "This was fun. But next time, try to win a game."

Matt rolls his eyes, opening the door for her. Her words take a moment to process, and a smirk slants his lips. "Next time, eh?"

After a few days of planning, Delaney and Alley find themselves in New York for a weekend girls' trip.

Oh, and to see their younger siblings, too!

(But mostly to spend time with each other).

It's been far too long since they've been together—all (or most) of them.

Music blethers away from the jukebox on the other side of the dim East Village-almost-Alphabet City dive bar. They've heard this song two times before in the span of ten minutes, but they don't entirely mind it—the ruckus of pool balls smacking together and drunk people hollering mask the repetitive notes enough.

Brynn clings to her upright cue, bearing most of her weight. Her other hand cradles a cold IPA bottle close to her chest, its slick condensation wetting her skin. She watches intently as Alley lines her cue with a striped cue ball.

"Damn it!" Alley curses when the ball barely misses the pocket.

"Next time," Delaney reassures.

Brynn rounds the table for her turn. She can hear the squabbling of the older guys in the back of her head when she places her IPA on the headrail. Bending forward, she fixes her aim, but her gaze briefly flickers up to find Matt still at the bar. A thickness clamps around her throat when she notices the pretty brunette talking to him. She blinks away whatever momentary feeling infiltrates her, refocusing on the game at hand.

The solid red ball shoots into one of the corner pockets. Then, the purple.

"I can't believe we're getting bullied by my baby sister," says Delaney, watching another ball tumble into a pocket.

Brynn stands upright after failing to pocket a ball. She wipes away the ring of condensation her drink left behind on the headrail before backing away. She barely makes it a few feet when a hand gently glides over her waist.

Her head snaps up as Matt crosses in front of her to grab his cue from Delaney. Not an unwanted presence. Colour returns to her fingers, and her tendons loosen against her skin.

"What's wrong with you?" she asks, noticing his slightly panicked face as he comes back to her side.

Matt leans down, the woodsy musk of his cologne pouring into her space. "Girl at the bar wouldn't leave me alone. Just need her to back off."

Amusement tangles on her face.

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"Your face did."

Brynn rolls her eyes, though she's hyper-aware of the ones burning into them from a distance. "Hug me from behind."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Going all in," he blows out before smoothly drawing Brynn into his grasp, his arms snaking around her torso, careful not to smack her face with his cue.

"Oh, please," she says, using one of his corded forearms that keep her firmly nestled against his equally firm chest as an armrest, her drink mere inches from her lips, "if I was going all in, I would've told you to put your hand on my ass and give me a smooch."

"Oh, God," Matt's face twists, "don't say smooch like that. Why can't you say kiss like a normal person?"

Brynn simpers as she leans her head back onto his shoulder, peering up at him with a mischievous glint in her mossy eyes. "Smooch." Her grin widens at his exacerbated expression. "Smooch, smooch, smooch."

"You are such a child," he says, pinching her waist over her dark blue shirt. His chest rumbles with laughter when she squirms and sends an elbow into his stomach.

"Because that was the mature response," Brynn snarks, though she can't ignore the fluttery feeling in her stomach when he hugs her tighter.

She goes back to watching Alley and Delaney drunkenly goof off with each other, unaware that Matt can't shake off the feeling that this feels so right—having her in his arms, the weight of her body pressed against his.

It's like she fits so perfectly with him, and it makes his heart thunder raucously against his ribcage. He hopes she doesn't feel it against her back.

"You know, this usually happens the other way around," Brynn tells him when he takes her cue. Her now empty hand finds its place on his forearm, her thumb unconsciously smoothing over his skin. "The unwanted presence."

Matt tilts his chin down, eyes tracing the side of her face. She's so close. His throat swells up. "Usually," he agrees. "Not always."

Brynn hums in amusement. "So what was the deal-breaker? She was cute."

"One of the reasons isn't even her fault," he says. "She's just short. Like, really short."

With a laugh tucked away into her chest, Brynn looks up at him. "Really?"

"Dude, there's only so much bending down I can do before I end up looking like Quasimodo."

The image he's conjured up in her head finally forces her amusement out of her throat. "And the other reason? Or plural—reasons, I guess?"

"She just would not take no for an answer. I'm honestly both terrified and impressed by her dedication."

Brynn frowns. "I'm sorry."

Matt shrugs it off. He reaches into his pocket and holds a sucker in front of her face. Not even the strongest of men could fight off the urge to smile when she turned sharply to face him, her eyes gleaming with childish excitement that outshines the overhead lights hanging above the pool table.

"You're such a dork," she says.

"Hey, gotta thank you somehow, and you know, they come in bulk."

Brynn stuffs the sucker into her mouth before taking her cue back and jutting her chin at the pool table. "It's your turn, big guy."

Matt untangles himself from her, ignoring the whispers between Alley and Delaney. He's known them long enough to know not to question anything. As he sets up his aim, he's aware of another set of eyes preying on his every move, but he likes the feel of these ones more—the same ones that send his heart running and his skin burning with a comfortable warmth.

And it's somewhat mortifying knowing that the only girl's attention he wants is Brynn's. It's unfounded, perhaps a little desperate even.

They still spend much of their days as hermits in their own worlds—moments that far outweigh the times they spend sitting in shared spaces, dabbling in a conversation that's never entirely meaningful.

It's better, though.

Still, he finds himself wishing their time at Casino Night seeped into their daily lives. The way she looked like an angel amongst men, skin dewy with whatever highlighter she'd sprinkled on, golden hair pinned out of her face yet billowing over her shoulder, navy blue dress perfect against the curves and dips of her figure. The way she seemed to loosen up around him, let herself shamelessly laugh with a few of his teammates and their families, let herself hang on his arm like he was the most desirable object and she knew he belonged to her and her only.

Kind of like how they're being right now.

And maybe it's the rarity of these interactions that have him clawing for more.

Whatever it is, the thoughts have his mind racing, too distracted to accurately hit the ball into a pocket.

He curses and drags himself back to Brynn's side.

She pats his back so casually it makes his soul cringe. "Where's your drink?"

"I had one," he grumbles. "Chugged it all out of misery back there."

Brynn laughs. "Alright, let's go get you a drink you can actually enjoy. On me, and I'll protect you from the scary girls."

Matt doesn't know where to begin—whether to demur her offer to buy him a drink or defend himself from needing any sort of protection, as she'd said so teasingly. But before he can decide, she's already giving both of their cues to Delaney and stringing him back to the bar, fingers clasped around his as he'd done on their way to the photo booth.

"Operation: Become Sisters is making progress," says Delaney.

Alley bites back a sly smile, sneakily taking a photo of her brother and his roommate walking away to send to Steph. "I feel like I've skipped ten different chapters, but I'll take it."

Brynn slips into an empty spot between two people. She's entirely aware of Matt's hand settling near the base of her spine—a small reassurance that she didn't lose him in the crowd—as she twists her torso to get a better glimpse of him. "What'd you have last time?"

Matt's eyebrows pinch together as he leans forward. "Hm?"

The sudden—and unexpected—proximity has her throat bobbing. Her gaze briefly flickers over the fading cut on his sharp cheekbone, the locks of his hickory hair that swoop up behind his ears, and the soft glimmer in his eyes. She repeats her question with her breath trapped in her lungs.

"Actually, can I try what you have?" he asks.

Brynn passes over her nearly empty drink and watches his lips wrap around the rim, watches him tilt the bottle up until it hits the brim of his cap, watches his throat bob with each gulp. She knows what this implies—the breathlessness, the staring, the tenderness that pervades her smile—and she tries to fight the boisterous thundering of her heart.

She fails.

Quite miserably.

And she doesn't help her case when she spins his cap around, letting the dim bar lights catch against the slopes of his face. His unwavering eye contact lights a fire in her soul that leaves her wanting more.

So much more.

A slow smile drags across his mouth as he flags a bartender down, reciting an order of two IPAs. He's about to lay his card down when he sees that Brynn has beaten him to it. He shoots her a look.

"I said we'd get you a drink, didn't I?" she says, lips tilted in a smirk that barely detracts from her flushed face.

Matt rolls his eyes.

The bartender places two bottles in front of them, and Brynn grabs them both before swivelling around to make a quick escape from the crowded bar. She knows it sounds cliché, and she hates to even think of it, but when her gaze connects with Matt's, it is like the world around them ceases to exist.

All she can come to see, hear, smell, and feel is him. So lost in the feeling of having his attention, so lost in the feeling of his hand brushing against hers as he reaches for his glass, the way he clinks it against hers, the way he seems to move so nonchalantly—a complete contrast to the dizzying affection swirling in her brain.

She wants to ask her brain where the hell this is all coming from.

Is it the close proximity they've found themselves in more times than they ever have when they first started living together? Is it the shared memories of the past that keep them tied together? Is it the molten brown eyes that look at her so softly, so attentively, juxtaposing the belligerence on the ice that leaves his face scabbed and splotchy with blues, blacks, and sickening yellows?

Whatever it is, it makes her feel like the greediest person alive: wanting, craving, desiring.

Brynn doesn't let herself ponder on it more, though. She can't entertain it.

But everything around her screams of him—the sucker she shoves into her mouth, his cologne that clings to her from being in his arms, the sight of his sister with hers, the key to their apartment that pokes into her skin through her jeans.

"I'm gonna use the washroom," Brynn tells him, shoving her drink into his hand and slipping away without another thought.

She splashes water on her face as though the frigidity of it will snap her out of this romantic trance—this momentary lapse of judgement—that's taken over her body.

It doesn't, but it was worth a try.

So, Brynn has no other choice but to suck it up and return to the pool table.

After a few more drinks and a couple more rounds of pool, the four of them decide it's time to wrap up their antics at the bar and head out for a late-night pizza run.

Brynn feels a drowsiness cloud her mind, weaving through her legs until she's dragging her feet across the concrete sidewalk. She's not even doing most of the work—Matt has his arm around her shoulders, mindlessly lugging her forward—but she's beyond tired.

Not drunk—not even tipsy or a slight buzz.

Simply tired.

She wants nothing more than to crawl into bed, and she can feel her body beginning to lean further into Matt's as though she envisions falling onto her mattress.

"Hey, Matty?" she says, her voice coarse.

"Yeah?"

"Catch."

Matt's eyes flash open as his arms come around her securely. "Woah, hey, you okay?" he asks, tugging her upright. His question captures Delaney and Alley's attention from up ahead. "Did you get roofied or something?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," she mumbles, oblivious to his concerned look. "But no," she sighs, "just sleepy."

"Jesus," Matt mumbles, reaching for her purse that slipped down her arm and hanging it from his shoulder. He curls her arm around his neck before scooping her off her feet.

A squeak slips from her throat, but her body eases again, and her head finds his shoulder. "Thank you."

He gives her ribs a squeeze.

"You got her?" Delaney asks.

"Yeah, I got her," Matt assures.

"Her second year of college," she then adds. "When she got roofied. You looked confused."

"Oh."

They continue wandering through the brownstone-lined sidewalks, where the streetlights spill a buttery glow that pools softly under the dark shroud of night.

Matt spares a fleeting glance at Brynn, and he swears the light unfolds a halo above her head, a soft glow that seems almost transcendental. Perhaps he's taken one too many blows to the skull, but surely it isn't blasphemous to think his roommate is a vision of divinity, is it?

No, it's merely an undeniable truth—an astute observation that even the unseeing can discern.

Especially as she drifts into slumber. Her face softens, unguarded, serene. Her lashes rest like whispers against her cheeks, and each gentle breath slips past her plump lips.

And he feels the telltale thrum in his chest, the breath snagging in his throat, and—

Oh.

Oh.

He knows.

He knows exactly what this means.

No matter how often he tells himself it's beyond his control—how his body reacts to being in the presence of a gorgeous woman with a racing heart and flushed skin—he knows it's a fickle argument.

He'll argue anyway.

Tonight, he'll blame the alcohol.

Because Matt Rempe does not have feelings for his roommate, of all people.

For two weeks, Brynn had the apartment to herself.

She's come to realize she doesn't like it, and she's excited to have him back.

The front door whines open, and Matt can hear the low echo of the TV in the living room. His spine straightens with eager anticipation as he kicks his shoes off.

"Bee?" His voice is soft, a gentle ripple against the calm whisper of John Keating professing to his students to seize the day that hums against the plan walls of their apartment.

He finds her stretched across their couch, passed out under the beige knitted throw blanket, cocooning her body like she's been shivering. The black sling cradling her arm to her torso sticks out like the blinking lights on a cop car, its black strap starkly contrasting the paler skin of her neck.

She looks peaceful under the gentle glow of the TV, and Matt feels guilty for letting his duffel bag fall off his shoulder and thudding against the scratched-up hardwood floor.

Stirring onto her back, Brynn's eyes flutter open, her vision blurry with sleep until Matt's face comes into focus. Disoriented, she looks around like she's expecting a full house, then reaches for the end table for her phone that blinds her. A curse falls from her lips as she nestles back into the throw pillow in an attempt to rid herself of the colourful dots swirling behind her eyelids.

Matt chuckles. "It's almost midnight."

"Thank you," she mumbles into the fluffy fabric of the throw pillow.

Brynn waits for a second, inhales, contemplates how she wants to sit up, and then exhales defeatedly. She peeks through one eye to find Matt watching her with a raised eyebrow. She holds her hand out, fingers wagging with silent instructions.

Matt's lips tip upward as he pulls her up. The blanket gathers around her waist, and his gaze latches onto the sling she's wearing from a self-defence class gone wrong.

"I don't wanna talk about it," she says.

"Okay," he whispers.

"There's, um, food in the fridge if you haven't eaten yet." Brynn points to the general area of the kitchen. "It's take-out, so don't expect a homecooked meal."

Matt's stare softens, lingers even. "Thank you."

He grabs his duffel bag and retreats to his room.

Brynn decides to stay up for a little longer when she hears the shower start running—to keep Matt company. A few minutes later, her attention pulls from the TV when the bathroom door clicks open.

A cloud of steam billows into the hallway, and Matt walks out with a towel hanging dangerously low around his hips. Water drips down from his hair, down the planes of his chest, and over the ridges of his muscles. Brynn forces herself to look away before he can notice.

Matt returns, clothed in his Thunderbirds sweatpants and a sweater that hugs his broad shoulders nicely, with a plate of microwaved dinner. He situates himself beside Brynn—close enough that their arms brush together as he shoves food down his throat, yet distant enough to claim it as coincidental.

He can feel her gaze on him. Her eyes trace every angle of his jaw, every scar blemishing his skin, every curve of his eyelashes, until they stay stagnant, and he knows what she's staring at: The glob of blue and black on his right cheekbone that throbs and heats under her attention, as though that's not what it's begging for.

"I don't wanna talk about it," he parrots her words.

"Okay," she whispers, too, and returns her gaze to the movie.

Matt places his empty plate on the coffee table in front of them before leaning back to try and follow along the plot. Gravity begins to weigh his head down, and he tries to fight off his exhaustion because he can tell Brynn is entranced by the film, but his spine curves sideways until he's leaning on her.

A wince reaches his ear, and his head snaps up when he realizes he's resting on her hurt shoulder.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

Brynn pushes past the numbing pain radiating through her left arm and chest and waves him off.

Matt shifts—wiggles around until he can rest his head on the cushion behind her shoulder instead. He gives her a sidelong glance and finds the faintest of smiles on her lips that makes his chest warm—not the same warmth his bruise emanates, but the gentle kind that reminds him of laying under the sun.

The end credits roll through their screen, and Brynn sniffles through her thanks because Matt's been holding the box of tissues out for her for the last thirty minutes of the movie. She takes the box so he can load his plate into the dishwasher, and she thinks he'll retreat for the night after the long trip and flight, but he finds himself beside her again.

Her gaze darts back to his bruise, and Matt tries to ignore it—even tries to focus on how cute she looks with her puffy eyes and pink-tipped nose. How someone can look that pretty after crying, he isn't sure. But what he is sure about is not even that can distract from the weight of her stare.

Matt sighs, throwing his head against the cushion. "It's just another bruise, Bee."

Her lips purse together. "Next to the one you got before you left that hasn't fully healed yet."

"It's part of the job," he says, though he notices the greens of her eyes have conformed with a softness he's yet to acquaint himself with, and as iotas of time pass, he discerns a layer beneath it—one he's even more a stranger to.

The silence between them rings in Brynn's ears. Maybe it's an after-effect from how she'd landed on the mat in her self-defence class that jostled her brain around. It has her itching to break it.

"Does it hurt?" she asks, kind of dumbly. "The bruise, I mean?"

Matt notches an eyebrow, but he doesn't question it. "Not as much anymore."

"Can I look at it?"

He lifts his head—a silent passing of consent into the space between them—and the amber glow of the floor lamp puts the bruise under a spotlight.

Brynn twists her body to face him. Her free hand goes to the unmarred side of his face—the side she can reach—and there's a slight furrow between her eyebrows. Concentrating as she gently maneuvers Matt's face to the side. The added glow of the TV screen caresses his skin and accentuates the dark shadows of his face, including the marbling colours that taint his cheekbone.

Maybe she might think it's pretty—the nebulous swirls of blue and black that remind her of the sky before the first beam of sunlight appears above the horizon, the fading yellow like the crisp autumn leaves before they capitulate toward the earth.

Maybe she might think it's pretty if it isn't on his skin.

"You're thinking," he says when she pulls her hand back. His brown eyes are wide with wonder as they scrutinize every twitch of her muscles and every emotion that dances across her face.

"We're twinning," she says. "Kind of."

Brynn tugs the collar of her oversized pyjama shirt, revealing the similar ripples of discolouration plaguing her shoulder.

Matt studies it, remembers it even after she lets go of her shirt. He understands, in a way, why she had looked at him like that. He thinks the bruise looks fine on him—as another blob of colour—but he despises how it looks on her.

"You know," he says, their gazes latching on, "imagine my surprise when I'm on the bus and I get a picture of you at the doctor's office, especially since I'm pretty sure that's the first time we talked since I left."

A sheepish smile tips up the corners of her lips—toothy and childish. She lets her hand find its way back to his face, pretending to examine the bruise again, and he lets her. Though, there isn't much to look at: It's just another splotch under his repertoire, nothing unusual, nothing special about it.

Brynn's eyes turn downward. She knows it's part of his job, as he so gracefully reminded her—the scrums, the fights, the battered body—and she's been known to enjoy the scrappy shoving that comes with the sport, but when it's always him night after night? That changes things.

But she knows it's not quite her place to meddle because what exactly does she know about his job?

He has to know better. The team has to know better. Don't they?

That's their job. They're professionals. They're the experts.

The thought doesn't quite ease her, though, and the concern remains. It festers in her stomach, makes it churn uncomfortably, makes her chest clench with dread.

And it overtakes her senses until all she can do to reel herself in is loosen her grip on his face, but his hand circles her wrist, keeping her hand slotted against his jaw. Her eyes drop to his fingers, the searing heat burning into her skin.

Matt whispers her name, and she meets his gaze, feeling the exact moment the blood from her heart decides to pump through her body a little faster. "Stop looking at me like that."

Brynn's frown deepens as she retracts her hand. "Like what?"

"I don't know. That."

"That doesn't help me at all," she says flatly. "Look, I'm just worried for you."

"It's just another bruise," he reiterates.

"And then another, and another, and another. More headshots, more hits." Brynn pauses with disdain for the way the words sit on her tongue. "You're gonna get CTE, Matty, and you're gonna give other people CTE."

"I don't have CTE, Bee," he immediately demurs, though it isn't lost on either of them that he hasn't acknowledged the second part of her statement.

Because they know.

That's the unfortunate truth.

And Brynn doesn't know if she should tell him that she wishes he stayed in Hartford. Because she knows he doesn't play as aggressively there, and though it might wound the newfound comfort she's found in him and send her into another frenzy of finding someone to take his place, she thinks it's worth it if it means fewer people get hurt.

She's not comforted by that reality.

So, their silence lingers.

"But you could," she finally says. "In the future. Now. You wouldn't know until you died." She looks away, chewing on her lip, certain it'll draw blood. "At that point, it doesn't really matter to you, does it?"

Matt scans the side of her face. "Hey," he says softly. "I'll be fine."

Brynn pauses, then sighs. She reaches for the remote and begins her search for something they both might enjoy, even though she knows neither of them is likely to make it through the entire thing. The way Matt's head hits the cushion with a heavy thump is evidence enough.

Still, they don't make any effort to retreat into their rooms.

Brynn has always loved Matt's mother, Janice.

She's a kind woman—hardworking, independent, loving, supportive, the glue that binds that family together. She always makes sure to give her kids the universe, to cheer them on through each of their journeys, no matter where it takes them. It's why she's in New York right now.

Matt has a plan to take Janice to lunch at the cute, slightly overpriced place a few blocks away. Brynn told him about it when he was brainstorming things to do with his mom. She and her friends used to go there after finals as a treat for their hard work, and she assured him that her numerous stops had made her recognizable enough that she'd try to beg them to squeeze in a last-minute reservation.

"Is Bee joining us?" Janice asks.

"She's meeting us there," Matt says, glancing at the text from his roommate confirming that.

They head outside, greeted by the typical city song that bounces off the mid-spring air, humid with the foretellings of a storm that will hit them later at night. Weaving past the cluster of tourists and busybodies, Matt and Janice reach the restaurant with a line going around the corner of the block.

"Matty!" Brynn shouts from the door, dressed in her white button-up tucked into her gray slacks. She waves them over, and they hurry toward her, feeling guilty for skipping past the line when they'd just gotten there.

Brynn immediately engulfs Janice in a brief hug—so quick that Janice barely has time to process and return it before she pulls away. She pulls them into the restaurant, expressing her gratitude to the hostess they pass on their way to the table.

Mia sends her a flirty wink and wave.

The round table they're seated at is drowning in the sunlight pouring through the tall windows, and Matt swears it casts an angelic glow onto Brynn's skin—a glow that only brightens when she smiles.

He watches Janice and Brynn talk, entirely okay with the fact he's barely acknowledged at times. After all, he gets to see and talk to his mom more than Brynn does, and he adores how animated they are, completely sucked in on the conversation, nodding along and offering supportive commentary.

Matt almost laughs when Janice offers him up to sock Brynn's coworker.

"My sister said the exact same thing!" Brynn exclaims.

"Dels did what?"

Amusement curls Janice's face.

The food comes and goes, but the chattering continues. Brynn can feel a childish flame warm her chest, something that seems to fill her cheeks a little more and brighten her eyes with excitement and wonder.

When the time finally comes to pay for their lunch, Matt nudges Brynn's hand away when she reaches for her purse. She can only watch as he opens his wallet, and her heart stutters when she notices the photobooth strip from Casino Night a few weeks ago slipped in there, creased in half where his wallet folded. She hopes the layers of makeup caked on her face shield the blood rushing to her cheeks.

"You'll be at the game tonight?" Janice asks as they wait for the waiter to return.

Brynn reluctantly nods.

"Only took me saying I'd cook dinner for a week straight if she went," Matt inserts with gaiety to disguise the fact it's not about her undying loyalty to the Flames anymore. She'd made that clear when they'd argued just before he went to pick Janice up from the airport about how she didn't want to watch him speed-run everyone's neurological decline in real time.

Janice's gaze flickers between them when the air briefly turns tense and Brynn's expression has hardened.

"Alright, I'll see you tonight." Brynn hugs Janice once they leave the restaurant.

Without saying anything, Matt holds out a familiar sucker.

Brynn pushes his hand away. "Keep it," she says. "You paid for lunch."

"Please?" Matt says. "They come in bulk."

She decides to take it, oblivious to the smile it brings him. "You remind me every time."

Neither of them notices the recognition washing over Janice or the glossiness threatening to mask her eyes.

Brynn wiggles her fingers in a departing wave before running off in the direction of her office building.

The long workday reaches its anticipated end, and Brynn makes a pitstop at the apartment to change out of her work attire before scrambling over to Madison Square Garden; she almost wishes she didn't because now she's late. Her sneakers pad down the stairs in her section to find her seat beside Janice. Once she does, her face is flushed, and her chest rises and falls with each quick breath.

"I'm sorry!" Brynn blurts, putting her hands on her knees to catch her breath. "There was a delay on the subway, and the buses were stuck in traffic, and it's slippery out there."

Janice immediately pulls Brynn into her seat, concern morphing on her face. "Did you run here?"

Brynn nods through her clipped breaths, almost wincing. "Didn't wanna leave you alone for too long."

"I would've been fine, Bee."

"Well, I know." Brynn flips her head upside down to gather her frizzy hair into a ponytail. "But I'd feel bad, and Matt wouldn't want you alone."

Janice shakes her head at that. Her gaze traces Brynn's appearance, and humour invades her mind. "Your roommate is on the ice right now, and you're not showing support."

Brynn looks at the bench as Matt finishes his shift. They're away enough that she isn't sure he can see them, but she feels it—the weight of his stare that she's beginning to familiarize herself with. He must know where they're sitting. She tugs the collar of her dark blue hoodie from her neck, a far cry from Janice's jersey bearing her last name. "At least I'm wearing blue."

"At least," Janice repeats dramatically.

"I'm loyal to my roots," Brynn says with pride.

The Rangers win that night, and Brynn can hear the electrified hoots and hollers from the locker room as she and Janice wait alongside the other families. She feels a little out of place there—the non-family, non-wife, non-girlfriend out of them—and she's beginning to wish she didn't have the height of a mammoth so she can hide away.

"Hey, Roomie!"

Brynn's head perks up at the voice that clearly doesn't belong to Matt.

"Matthew's teammate." Her words are punctuated with confusion.

"Look who finally made it," Braden teases. "Still won't rep us, eh? Not even a shirt?"

"You can at least appreciate the fact she's wearing the same shade as our thirds," comes Matt's voice from behind. He hugs his mom before propping his elbow on Brynn's head, his eyes locked on her face as she scrunched her nose in mild distaste. He was right that night, when she was dressed up: Blue's a gorgeous colour on her. "It's progress."

Braden's expression shifts into amusement. He nods at Matt before walking away to find Josée.

Brynn turns her head, eyes peering up at Matt. "Ready to go, roomie?"

"I told him not to call you that."

"Clearly worked out well," she chaffs.

"C'mon." Matt spins her and clasps her shoulders from behind, gently pushing her toward the exit. "Let's head home."

Home.

Janice smiles softly, as though her heart didn't break into a million little pieces hearing Matt call some other place home instead of the house that'd seen him grow up, but she's comforted that he found a home—a place to call his own and a place he sought safety and reprieve in—and it's with little Bee from down the road.

Taking Matt's outstretched hand, Janice follows them to their home.

There's a scream.

Matt startles awake when he hears the high-pitched, blood-curdling sound, and a jolt of panic goes through him.

"Bee?" he shouts.

"I'm fine!" comes her muffled response.

Matt groggily reaches for his phone, the bright screen blinding him with the time that reads '2:38.' A groan vibrates through his throat before his ears pick up on the trampling footsteps that crash into his door.

"I'm sorry," Brynn whispers.

Matt sits up, barely making out her silhouette against the dark. He reaches for his bedside lamp, letting the honey-yellow light hug her trembling figure, tears glistening in her eyes. Perturbation straightens his spine. "Hey, what's going on?"

"There's a spider in my room."

Matt stares at her deadpan.

"I lost it," Brynn says quietly. "Can you look for it?"

Though he sighs, Matt climbs out of bed. He doesn't bother slipping on a shirt as he leaves his room and goes down the hall toward Brynn's. She creeps after him, hiding behind his taller stature and peeking over his shoulders as he flicks her bedroom light on.

She doesn't travel beyond the doorway as Matt spans every corner of her room, even poking at the clothes draped over her desk chair. Never would she admit that her breath catches at the mere glimpse of him—the messy hair sticking out in all different directions, the sleep still tangled softly and peacefully on his expression, the ridges of his muscles on his bare torso.

For a while, it distracts her from why he's in her room in the first place—a space so sacred that he's never stepped foot into it, just as she never steps into his.

Until tonight.

Minutes pass before Matt tosses his hands up in defeat. "Bee, it's, like, three in the morning right now. I give up. I'm sure it's gone by now."

"I don't wanna sleep in here. I'm scared."

Matt gives her an amused yet sympathetic glance. "Take my bed, then," he says without a second thought. "It's better than the couch."

He retreats into his room without any chance for Brynn to argue, leaving the door wide open for her to follow. She doesn't. He says an inviting utterance of her name, and her footsteps quietly tread after him.

With the haze of adrenaline fading from her mind, Brynn feels awkward in the sanctity of his room. Her eyes jump from the family pictures on his desk and shelves to the jersey encased in a frame with his last name on it.

It's endearing and sentimental. He's like Alley in that sense.

Matt flops onto the mattress and tucks himself under his comforter without much thought, ready to fall back asleep. He looks relaxed, and Brynn's ready to suck up her fears and scurry back to her bed to not disrupt his peace, but the firm pats on the empty space behind him has her crawling under the sheets.

The bedside lamp turns off, and the air becomes stilted as Brynn lies in the dark. She forces her breaths to slow so she isn't being too loud, taking up too much of his space that he's generously opened up to her.

This feels no different from how they'd started out.

"Matty?" she says quietly, glancing over her shoulder.

He hums in acknowledgment.

"Thank you."

Matt rolls onto his other side. "Never would've pegged you as someone deathly afraid of spiders."

Brynn swivels around defensively. "I am not!"

"Really?" Matt arches an eyebrow. "Didn't you just say—"

"It was crawling on me," she frowns.

"Oh, so scary," he teases.

Brynn glares at him, a stare that even the shadows can't conceal and a stare that hardens when his lips peel back into a smile.

Matt opens his arms. "C'mere."

"Why?"

"I'm a cuddler," he says easily like it's a well-known fact.

Brynn snorts. "Should've known, coming from the guy who said something about being all cuddled up in the penalty box that one time."

A mischievous glint passes through Matt's eyes. "Careful. Might start to think you actually watch my games."

Failing miserably at masking her smile, Brynn shakes her head. "So you gonna protect me from the big, scary spider running loose in this apartment?"

Matt feels stupid with his arms still waiting for her, so he pulls her into his grasp, face scrunching in an adoringly aggressive way to match his tight hold around her shoulders. "Don't you worry, Bee," he says, throwing his leg over her hip. "You're in good hands."

Brynn unburies her head from his chest with amusement and pats his leg. "Is this really necessary?"

An innocent smile dances across his face. "Incredibly."

"You are something else," she says. "G'night, Matty."

Morning comes much quicker than any of them would like, yet Brynn awakens feeling much more rested than she expects, like the air has reached every crevice of her lungs that it didn't use to, like her bones have stretched out, no longer compressed under the force of gravity.

She hasn't forgotten the fact she's not in her bed, and it's not hard to deduce that the peace rousing her from her slumber has everything to do with the body enveloping hers.

She's in denial. Not an idiot.

And that flicker of greed taunts her again. She wants more of this feeling—the calmness that speaks of purling lake water during the balmy summer days, the tranquillity of birds chirping before the world starts, the warmth of childhood nostalgia that brings a smile to her lips.

Her body inches closer to Matt's, chasing the closeness they've started indulging in—a closeness she eagerly awaits when she walks into the kitchen in the morning or when he comes home from a game or roadie.

Blood rushes to her face when his hold seems to tighten around her, but she can't think much of it before Matt's alarm rips through the placid air.

Matt groans in annoyance before reaching for his phone to silence the repetitive noise drilling into their minds. He wants to go back to sleep, but he's awfully aware of the presence still wrapped in his arms, and he knows his racing heart won't let him rest again.

"Mornin'," Brynn mumbles, eyes peering up at him in a way that leaves him entirely at her will. "Can you look for that spider again?"

"Dude," he complains, flipping onto his back, "I just woke up."

Brynn sits up. "Please? We both have work to be at soon."

"Wow, you even said please," Matt humours, earning a smack with a pillow. He grunts, then sighs. "Five seconds."

"One."

"No."

"Two."

Matt shoots her a glance.

She has a cheeky smile stretching across her dry lips. "Three."

"Brynn."

"Four."

"I'm telling your mom that you're being annoying."

Brynn rolls her eyes. "Real mature."

"Because that's what you were being just now," says Matt.

"Matthew. Spider. Please."

His face twists. "Please never call me Matthew again," he says, climbing out of bed. He only makes it so far before realizing the lack of footsteps behind him. "Well, don't just sit there."

Brynn scrambles off his bed and trails him toward her bedroom again, this time with a cup in his hand. She watches him explore her room from the doorway again, engrossed in the way the morning light, a sweet halo atop his head, softly catches his face.

"You know, it might not even be in here anymore," Matt says, making her bed after ruffling her sheets around.

"Then it better be outside."

Matt snickers. "Sounds like someone's scared."

Brynn rolls her eyes again, but the action is cut short when she hears a high-pitched scream. Her hand smacks against her mouth to swallow her laugh when she catches the last few moments of Matt's towering figure jumping.

He curses before diving forward to slap the cup over the spider. A breath of relief relaxes his shoulders.

"Sounds like someone's scared," Brynn mocks as she goes to her desk, retrieving a slip of paper for him to slide under the cup.

"Funny." Matt shoots her a sassy look, snatching the paper from her. "It came out of nowhere."

Brynn bites back her grin as she opens her window so he can release the spider back into the wild. She runs out of the room as Matt closes the window, heedless of the sheer confusion etched on his face. It fades when she returns with a childish excitement glowing from within.

"What're you hiding?" he asks with suspicion.

Brynn holds her palm out, and Matt stares at her fondly. "Spotted the bag of suckers on your desk."

"You can't just steal my gimmick," he says, though he takes the sucker anyway. "You're welcome, by the way."

"Thanks, Matty," she says softly. "Anything in particular you want for breakfast?"

"You know I eat whatever you make."

"I know, but as a thank you for the whole spider thing. Tell me what you want."

You, he nearly finds himself blurting out, but he shoves that response down his throat with every ounce of force he can conjure. "Pancakes?"

"Okay."

Matt thinks it'd be easier for Sisyphus to reach the top of the hill than for him to tear his gaze away, but he perseveres, and he walks out of her room to get ready for the day. Still, his mind always trails back to the feeling of waking up with her in his arms, remembering the way she sought him out when she was scared.

God, he yearns for it all over again.

And the thought leaves him with the realization that he is down bad. He doesn't know when he stopped trying to argue against it.

Brynn meanders into the kitchen long after Matt; he still wonders how she's the same girl he grew up with when he sees her dressed professionally. He doesn't mind the look on her, though.

He thinks everything she wears is absolute perfection.

Even the ratty pyjamas she barged into his bedroom in last night.

"You're almost out of vanilla syrup," Matt says, sliding her iced latte toward her.

"I'll buy some on the way home."

"I have most of the day to kill after morning skate. I was gonna go to the store after."

"Okay, charge me for it," she says, though she knows he won't. Neither of them is particularly good at keeping track of who owes what, and it's gotten progressively worse each day their friendship blooms.

Breakfast goes by quickly; before either of them knows it, it's time to head out for their respective days. Brynn follows Matt into the elevator, and their ride down is prosperous with a conversation they didn't want to end in the kitchen.

If anyone had asked them a few months ago if they would struggle to end a conversation, they would have laughed. But today, they're standing outside with wide grins, their bodies animated with chatter that barely fades.

The workday calls, though, and Brynn knows she has to get herself to the office, just as Matt knows he has to bring himself to Tarrytown.

"I'll see you when you get home," she says.

Matt brings her to his side without thinking and sweetly kisses her forehead. He walks off before he can notice the way she remains there, lips parted with surprise yet cheeks burning hot with giddiness.

Key's laugh taunts Matt once he climbs into the car.

"What did I just do?" Matt asks with wide eyes. "I'm so fucked."

"Took you long enough to realize," Key smirks, pulling out of the parking space. He gets as close to a walking Brynn as possible before rolling down his window, ignoring Matt's hisses to stop. "Hey, Brynn!"

She spins around.

"Need a ride to work?"

Brynn furrows her eyebrows, her gaze briefly darting to Matt in the passenger seat. "Um...sure? It won't make you guys late?"

"No, not at all!" Key waves her over.

As Key rolls the window up, Matt stares ahead. "I think you just killed me."

Brynn doesn't dare question Key's laughter as she clambers into the back seat.

The notification comes in, nearing midnight, that the Rangers clinched a playoff berth. Brynn tears her gaze from her laptop when her phone screen awakens to announce it—though she still won't admit it, she does have their notifications on—and her lips twitch with a smile before she returns to her work.

She'll congratulate Matt when he gets home. She thinks it'll be a while until then if they celebrate their accomplishment tonight, but considering how unprepared she feels for her upcoming presentation with some of the big-wigs in her company, she'll likely still be awake by then.

Brynn barely makes it onto the next slide when her phone starts ringing. Her furrowed eyebrows deepen when she sees Matt's contact on her screen, but she picks up anyway.

"Are you busy?" he asks—his voice a low mumble over the shouts in the background.

"Depends why you're calling," she says.

"Clinched playoffs," Matt says casually, but Brynn can feel the excitement oozing from him through the phone. "Celebrate with us?" He doesn't give her more than a moment of silence before speaking again. "Or are you still working on your presentation?"

Brynn's face twists apologetically, even though she knows he can't see her. "I'm sorry. We can celebrate some other time."

"It's okay," he tells her earnestly. "Yeah, we can do something later."

"Perfect," Brynn says softly. She hears his name get called, and she knows it's time to wrap up their call. "Have fun, Matty. And congrats."

Matt sneaks in a thank you before hanging up, and Brynn sighs as the apartment simmers with silence again. Her mind briefly wonders what it would be like if she took up his offer, but she doesn't allow herself to think about it any longer before forcing herself to focus on the graphs, numbers, and bullet points on the slide deck.

Time passes slowly, and Brynn alternates between making edits, researching some added points, and projecting the presentation on the TV to practice her lines. Still, as daylight creeps closer, she stares at the ceiling, deliriously imagining her presentation as she mumbles her script like a chant.

But her head bucks up when the front door squeaks open, and she gives Matt a thin smile when their eyes connect.

"You're still up," he states.

"Technically, I'm down," she says, her head thudding against the floor again. "You look sober enough."

"Pardon?"

"To get yourself into bed," Brynn says.

"Is that why you haven't gone to bed?" he asks. "Waitin' on me?"

"No." She notices a shadow inching closer until Matt is standing directly above her.

Amusement notches an eyebrow on his face. "Do you need help getting yourself to bed?"

"No." Brynn sluggishly shakes her head. "Give me five seconds."

"One."

"No."

"Two."

"Stop."

"Three—not so fun, is it? Four."

"Matthew."

"Five." He bends down and loops his arms under hers, lifting her onto her feet despite her protests (legs kicking, arms swinging, voice whining, and all).

Brynn huffs, fixing the way her sweater envelops her body. Her expression wants to ease under Matt's dorky grin, but there's an undying crabbiness that keeps her eyes narrowed and arms crossed over her chest.

Still, his cheeriness perseveres.

"Would you be okay with my sisters and mom staying here?" he asks. "If not, we can get them a hotel."

Brynn sighs, doused in weariness. "Yeah, that's fine. Your sisters can take my bed. I'll sleep on the couch."

"We're not kicking you out of your room."

"Seriously, it's fine!" she snaps, her tone leaving no room to argue. Her ears ring when a silence draws on. "Look, I'm going to bed. We can talk about this in the morning."

Matt supposes this means he'll have to broach the subject of Steph's boyfriend tagging along, too—a detail he forgot to mention earlier—some other time.

He lets her trudge into her room with a—surprisingly gentle—slam of her door. His eyebrows lift in bewilderment as he ignores the way it feels like they've just taken three steps back, though another second tells him he's being a little dramatic.

Pushing through his own exhaustion, though, he retreats to his room before slinking into the kitchen. He thinks Brynn might be asleep by the time he makes it to her door in his pyjamas, but the dim lights spraying onto the floorboards from inside give him reason to suggest otherwise.

His knuckles rap against the door, and he hears the soft 'Come in' that speaks more of the roommate he's more used to nowadays.

Brynn's on her bed, laptop open like she's trying to crank out an assignment due in thirty minutes all over again. She notices the steaming mugs that look tiny in Matt's hands.

"Are you annoyed with me?" he asks.

A moment hands between them.

"No," she says with a sigh, digging the heel of her palms into her strained, red-lined eyes. "I'm sorry."

Matt notices her glassy eyes when their gazes connect and offers a small smile. He walks further into her room, avoiding the clothes strewn across the floor, and bumps his knee into the side of her mattress. "Can I sit here?"

Brynn nods, taking one of the mugs. "Thank you."

"You're gonna do well," he tells her, placing his hand on her shoulder reassuringly. "You've still got time before you have to present anyway."

"I know," she says, fiddling with the end of the tea bag's string, "and I'm sorry for snapping at you."

Matt gives her an affectionate nudge. He's ready to get up when Brynn closes her laptop and puts it on her bedside table, taking it as his sign to leave.

"Did you have fun tonight?" she asks instead.

"Yeah, it was fun," he says cooly. "Would've been nice if you were there."

"Didn't need me to ward off any more girls, did you?" Brynn teases, resting against her headboard and pulling her knees to her chest.

A laugh accompanies the shaking of his head. "No," he says, sitting beside her when she pats the empty spot. His gaze tracks the tiny details decorating Brynn's room—from the bulletin board with sentimental photos (and oh, my God, is that the photo strip from Casino Night?) and ticket stubs to the little doll adorning traditional Tsuut'ina clothing on her desk. "Do you miss home?"

"I miss being near the people I love," she says, her reflection in her tea staring back at her—an amalgamation of her parents and their ancestors before them threading across her face, telling a story of love and historical suffering that sometimes leaves her feeling diluted and estranged from her heritage. "But I like my life here, so leaving had to have been worth it somehow." A soft smile curves her lips before she sips her tea. "Do you?"

"Miss home?" he asks, craning his head against the headboard to stare at the ceiling. "Or like my life here?"

Brynn shrugs noncommittally. "Both."

"Yes. To both."

"That's all you're giving me?"

A smile stretches across Matt's face, though he doesn't muster up the courage to look at her. "I'm grateful that we live together, Bee." He sees her head whip up out of the corner of his eyes. "When I feel a little out of place here, it's comforting to know a piece of home is on the other side of the wall."

Brynn doesn't quite know what to say, and it dawns on her that maybe she should've opened her arms up to him from the very beginning, even if she'd believed they'd outgrown their childish friendship born from forced proximity. She's endured moving to New York, too, and she knows how isolating the city can be—how small it can make even the biggest man feel, how it can feed on the tiniest drop of insecurity.

She would've killed to have someone welcome her warmly, especially someone with the same level of familiarity she and Matt have.

And those words find their way to Matt's ears, laced with a newfound guilt.

"Hey, don't worry about it," he says veraciously. "Look at us now. I actually know what your room looks like now."

Brynn huffs out a laugh as she leans her head against his shoulder. Her stomach flutters when his hand finds her knee and reassuringly squeezes it. Before he can withdraw his hand, she hugs his arm close to her chest, hoping he won't feel the thunderous thump, thump, thump of her heart, yet hoping for it all the same.

Maybe he'll feel what her mouth lacks the courage to say.

"I'm glad we live together, too, by the way," she mutters, words rippling against her drink as she goes for another sip.

"Do you remember if our sisters ever made us pretend like we lived together?" Matt asks.

"Just us two, or all of us?"

"Just us."

"Matty," she gives him a deadpanned stare, "you were my pretend husband since we were born. They definitely had us living together at some point."

"Correction," he says as if hearing her refer to him as her (pretend) husband didn't spark something in his chest, "since you were born. I was two, Bratty Bee."

A gasp slices through her throat. "You said you'd never bring that nickname back!"

Matt laughs. "Oh, c'mon, it was funny! You were such a brat when we were kids. You know, it broke my heart whenever you threw a tantrum when our sisters made us hang out together."

The jesting gleam in his eyes and the dramatic flare in his voice are enough to make Brynn roll her eyes. She rests her head on his shoulder again, unable to resist the urge to lean against him, to feel him in any capacity.

"When's the next time you're going home?"

"Easter, probably," she says. "Why?"

"Just wondering."

Brynn tilts her chin up, her steady breaths pelting against his jaw. "Might try a summer trip, though."

Matt looks down at her, eyes briefly flickering to her lips. "Yeah?"

She hums. "Might ask my roommate to join."

"You were, eh?"

"So, what d'you say, Roomie?" she asks.

"I'll have to check my schedule," he says teasingly. "But I think I could do that."

Brynn returns a soft smile as nostalgia continues to seep into their conversation. They quickly forget the initial fatigue that racked through their bodies until their words slur like they've had too much to drink, and slowly, their eyes droop shut.

Their minds slip into a peaceful slumber beside each other.

The living room is loud with the sound of gunfire, plastic buttons and sticks clacking, and two voices chattering over the cacophony of the video game projected on the TV. Matt finds himself texting Brynn if he and Braden are being too loud between rounds, but that's met with a shout from her bedroom for him to stop texting her after the fourth time.

Braden snickers. "Seems like you and Roomie are finally getting along."

Matt shrugs, ignoring the heat spilling across his skin. "I mean, we live together."

"Let's run it back a few months when you two wouldn't even talk," Braden teases. "So, what'd it take?"

"Bribery." Matt juts his chin toward the random sucker on the coffee table. "Lots of bribery. My dad used to give her those all the time."

Braden raises his eyebrows in surprise. "And she hasn't fallen in love with you yet?"

Matt shoots him a look, starting a new game. "Just friends."

Braden makes an incorrect buzzer noise. "Try that again. Make it more believable this time."

"It's more Pavlovian than anything."

"Pavlovian," Braden scoffs. "Does she know you kept trying to sneak away to get home to her the other night?"

"Keep your voice down!" Matt hisses.

"Oh, no, she doesn't," Braden sings with amusement.

"I'm okay with how things are right now," Matt says. "I can't tell her I like her."

"Why not?"

"Because what if she doesn't feel the same way? You do know our sisters are best friends, right? And my mom thinks she's literally an angel on Earth—I think the brat is closer to the Devil most days—and her parents sent me a package and hosted a watch part back in Calgary for my NHL debut. Oh, and we live together! Do you know how awkward it'd be for everyone if she didn't feel the same way?"

Braden takes a moment to process the rushed words that sound like they were expelled all in one breath. "At least you'll know you get along with your in-laws."

Matt groans—both because of Braden's comment and because his character just died. But the frustration snaps into fear when he hears a door quietly close and sees the bathroom lights illuminate under the door. His head whips around to Braden, but his attention is still steadfast on the TV.

Oh, fuck.

He hopes Brynn didn't hear a single word he said.

His heart crawls up his throat when she walks out of the bathroom, but she doesn't pay the living room any mind—doesn't even utter a greeting to Braden. Instead, she walks to the kitchen, and Matt is grateful another round has started so he can focus on something else.

"Hey, Roomie," Braden calls.

"Matthew's teammate," she finally acknowledges, reaching for a glass in the cabinets. "Matty, where d'you keep the syrup?"

"Wait, Bee, come here!" Matt beckons over his shoulder.

"Why won't you tell me where the damn syrup is?" she huffs as she pads over. "Do you know how miserable my coffee is when you're gone?"

Matt doesn't respond, his mind entirely enraptured by the video game, but he still manages to yank her onto the couch and shove his controller into her grasp. "Make sure I don't die," he says as he stands.

Brynn stutters through her protests. "Matt, I don't know what any of these buttons do!" she panics, fingers jumping across the controller in hopes it will do something. "Matthew!"

Braden and Matt's laughs warm the air.

"You're already doing better than Remps," Braden says, earning an offended cry from his teammate.

Sweat gathers along Brynn's hairline as she miraculously keeps Matt's character alive despite the heavy fire. She's certain her butt is nearly off the couch, too absorbed by the game, and Matt laughing as he walks back into the living room only seems to confirm that.

He sits next to her but doesn't ask for his controller back. Instead, his gaze latches onto her—the way she bites her bottom lip in concentration, rolls her shoulders back each time she makes a mistake, and wipes her forehead when she gets the chance. A fondness creeps into his smile.

"Beginner's luck," Matt grumbles when Brynn makes it through the round.

She rolls her eyes and high-fives Braden. "Maybe you're just bad."

"And to think I made your coffee," he says. "It's mine now."

"You don't even drink coffee, idiot."

Braden snickers when Brynn snatches her coffee from Matt's hand, though she's contrastingly gentle when handing him the controller. He's sure his surprise reveals itself on his face when she makes no move to scurry back into her room, just as she normally does when he comes over to hang out with Matt.

Another round starts, and Brynn bounces in and out of the conversation lapping between Matt and Braden, preferring to sip on her drink. Her gaze jumps between the chaos on the TV and her phone as she scrolls between social media apps.

Matt nearly freezes when her head leans against his shoulder like always. His mind replays the conversation he and Braden had before she joined them; he still frets over whether she overheard.

Braden asks Brynn if she's going to one of the upcoming playoff games.

Once again, to his surprise, she is.

When Matt adds the conditions under which she agreed to go (he has to talk to their landlord about the water leaking from their dishwasher), Braden holds the bribery comment with a deeper understanding. Though, he suspects Brynn is simply doing it for the bit now based on the affection clinging to her subdued, cheeky smile.

Brynn places her empty glass on the coffee table. She pretends that her heart hasn't jumped out of her chest with glee when she tucks herself into Matt's side and he doesn't push her away; rather, his arm drapes around her and keeps her flush against him. He continues deftly battering the buttons on his controller like normal.

But they can only stay in that position for a short while before discomfort starts to knit through their bodies: Matt can feel his muscles begin to tingle and numb, and Brynn starts to feel stiff and cramped, so she lets herself slide down until her head's on his lap, body curled up so she doesn't intrude on Braden's space. His arm comes back to his side, resting his elbow on the side of Brynn's head despite her lighthearted grumbles.

Braden is all too aware of the panicked glance he receives from Matt, but his expression only contorts smugly.

It doesn't take long for Matt's character to die again. He seethes at the TV, though he's promptly reminded of who's lying on his lap when his controller smacks into her face.

"Ow!" she grouses.

"Oh, shit, sorry!" Matt gently cradles her head against his chest, his thumb soothing her temple.

"Jesus, Remps," Braden titters.

"I'm okay," she mumbles, unburying her head.

Matt wrenches the throw pillow beside him and plants it onto his lap for Brynn's head. He offers a thin smile when she utters a faint thank you, and he's not sure what part of his mind takes over, but his fingers go to play with her hair, twirling the ends and breaking up tangles. She doesn't seem to mind, though, and he's thankful for that strange boost of confidence.

He pretends to be nonchalant about everything as he and Braden jabber away, but he thanks the heavens that Braden is too focused on the game and Brynn is equally distracted by her phone so that neither of them can see his rosy and flustered face.

His phone buzzes, and Brynn lifts her head peculiarly quick so he can reach into his pocket. She rolls onto her back, and Matt can feel the tempestuous weight of her attention flickering onto and off him like a bored child playing with the light switch. He's about to ask her about it when he finally reads the notification that came through.

Bee Littlelight i like you too :)

Matt's head snaps down to see Brynn already looking at him, her lips curved up nervously. His lips are parted in shock, and he doesn't really know what to do, but he isn't left with a choice when her phone interrupts their eye contact.

Another text comes in.

kiss later when schneids leaves? TALK i meant talk later

Matt does his best not to laugh, especially when she smacks her hand over her mouth. He tilts his head to see past the obstruction called her phone, and what's visible from her face is about as red as the Flames sweater she always wears (just to spite him, he's come to realize now).

Brynn taps away at her phone again, lightning fast. A giggle slips into the air.

but i wouldn't mind kissing either

Matt stares fondly at her.

What a dork.

But hopefully, his dork.

One he wouldn't mind kissing either.

Brynn's counting down the seconds until she can leave.

Finally done with the presentation that had plagued her mind for the past few weeks, she was dragged to accompany her bosses and their clients to dinner at some fancy restaurant in Midtown.

It's been hours of putting up fake smiles and forcibly laughing at a few out-of-touch jokes sprinkled with the occasional enjoyable moment, but she won't complain that her stomach got to enjoy the enormously expensive meal that would forever remain beyond her financial capabilities.

Eventually, and much to Brynn's excitement, dinner wraps up. She sticks around for a final round of pleasantries before bolting toward MSG, eternally grateful that the restaurant is in the area.

Perhaps, in another life, she has a calling for runway modelling with the way she manages to take her blazer off, take her folded jersey out of her purse and slip it on, and tie her hair up in record time—all while on the run in heels, too.

Although her shoes clack loudly against the floor with each step she takes, it is nothing compared to the electrifying energy inside the arena, fueled by shouts and music pumping through the speaker. At some points, Brynn thinks she might blow an eardrum.

She finally makes it to her section denoted on her ticket, and she spots Matt's family from a mile away. A sharp exhale makes it past her lips—preparatory—before she hurries down the steps and squeezes past people until she reaches the empty seat left for her beside Steph.

"This can't keep happening," Janice laughs when she notices Brynn's heaving chest and flushed face. Her eyebrows jump when Brynn takes her blazer off, revealing the jersey she never thought she'd wear. "Wearing a lot more than blue today."

Brynn wants to hide away, a feeling that contrasts her casual shrug. "You know, I figured it was about time."

"They grow up so fast!" Alley says, fanning away her pretend tears.

Steph's boyfriend gives Brynn a sympathetic look. "Welcome to the club, kid."

"Thanks, James," Brynn deadpans.

The second period starts, and Brynn knows she'll never hear the end of it—how loudly she was cheering until her throat was scratched raw, whipping the rally towels with the might of a thousand soldiers, joining the rowdiness of other fans when the officials made a call against them.

Maybe her loyalties are starting to shift.

Just maybe.

Her antics continue into the third period, and by the time the game ends with an exhilarating win for the Rangers, Brynn believes she could collapse right then and there.

But she doesn't.

Instead, she follows Matt's family to wait for him.

It's a strange feeling to find herself there again, and it's an even stranger feeling to know that she technically belongs there now. A reality she'll have to get accustomed to eventually—that although their roots in Calgary had started to diverge into separate lives, the branches were starting to come together again in a new crowd they share once more.

When Matt finally emerges, Brynn lets him greet his family (and James) first. She watches tenderly as he goes from hug to hug, and her heart sparks with anticipation for hers.

Matt wastes no time before looping his arms around her, nearly squeezing the air out of her lungs like she's a stuffed doll. Her hearty laughs fill his ears, though the sound softens when he kisses her rosy cheeks, lips leaving a lingering warmth along her skin.

"You look good," he says quietly. "Told you blue was beautiful on you."

And in typical fashion, Brynn rolls her eyes.

But the gesture is cut short when she feels the growing familiarity of Matt's lips on hers, and every bratty drop in her body fades away.

When they pull away, she asks, "Let's go home?"