#nj devils

Luke wanders into the living room, a bowl of cereal in his hand that is, by volume, ninety percent marshmallow and ten percent grain. He nudges your feet with his own. “Tarnished brass? That’s bleak, Y/N.”

“I just spent thirty-six hours on my feet, Lukey. Thirty-six hours of retracting, suturing, and being yelled at for holding the Bovie wrong. The world is bleak.” You crack one eye open to glare at him. “And is it even noon? Why are you eating that?”

“It’s 11 a.m. It’s brunch,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He takes a loud, crunchy bite. “And I’m carbo-loading.”

Jack snorts from the floor. “For what? A riveting afternoon of playing Chel?”

“For the game tonight,” Luke says, pointing his spoon at Jack. “Unlike some people, I take my pre-game nutrition seriously.”

“My nutrition is fine,” Jack mutters, thumb swiping furiously across his screen.

“You ate a sleeve of Oreos for breakfast,” you point out, closing your eyes again. The light filtering through the massive windows of your new house feels like a personal attack. When they told you they got a place big enough for all three of you, you’d pictured a standard suburban house, not this sprawling modern thing with more glass than wall. It’s beautiful, but it’s a nightmare for post-call migraines.

“They were Double Stuf. More cream. That’s dairy. Calcium,” Jack argues.

“The logic is staggering,” you say, deadpan.

There’s a beat of comfortable silence, filled only by the sound of Luke’s crunching and Jack’s tapping. It’s moments like these that make the grueling residency almost worth it. For years, you were a ghost in your own family. A face on a screen, a voice over the phone from a dorm room at Stanford that felt like it was on a different planet. You missed birthdays, holidays, entire seasons of their lives. Moving here, into this house with your two younger brothers, was a tether back to reality. It was chaos and messy and loud, but it was home.

“So, you’re coming tonight, right?” Luke asks, his voice suddenly closer. You feel the couch dip as he sits on the edge by your feet.

You peel your eyes open again. “Luke, I love you. I love Jack. But the last thing I want to do right now is be surrounded by twenty thousand screaming people in a place that probably smells like stale beer and hot dogs.”

“Our arena does not smell like stale beer and hot dogs,” Jack says, offended. “It smells like victory. And overpriced popcorn. A classy smell.”

“And you wouldn’t have to be in the crowd,” Luke presses, his expression earnest and hopeful, a look he perfected around age five and still uses to lethal effect. “You can be in the family room. It’s quiet. Well, quieter. And there’s free food. Not Oreos, either. Real food.”

You sigh, running a hand over your face. You are so, so tired. The kind of tired that feels cellular, like every mitochondrion in your body has just given up. But then you look at them. At Luke, with his pleading puppy-dog eyes, and at Jack, who’s finally put his phone down and is watching you with an equally hopeful, if less overt, expression. They’re so proud of what they do. And they’re so ridiculously excited to have you here, to finally be able to share it with you. For years, they watched you chase your dream. Now, it’s your turn.

“Fine,” you concede. The word is barely out of your mouth before Luke is pumping a fist in the air.

“Yes! Let’s go!”

“But,” you add, holding up a finger. “I am not moving from this couch for at least four hours. I might not even be conscious for all four of them. Do not wake me unless the house is on fire.”

“Deal,” Jack says with a grin. “But if you drool on the new couch, I’m telling Mom.”

“Go eat your Oreos, Jack.”

He just laughs, and you let your eyes drift shut, the low hum of your brothers’ banter a better lullaby than any white noise machine.

***

Six hours later, you feel marginally more human. A two-hour nap, a scaldingly hot shower, and two cups of coffee have worked something resembling a miracle. You find yourself standing in front of your closet, a towel wrapped around your head, with absolutely no idea what one wears to a professional hockey game when one is the sister of two of the star players.

You can hear them downstairs, the sound of sticks clanking and a puck hitting a floor somewhere, followed by a triumphant yell from Luke and a string of curses from Jack.

“What’s the dress code for this thing?” You shout down the stairs.

“Just wear whatever!” Jack yells back. “But not a Rangers jersey or I’ll disown you!”

“I don’t own a Rangers jersey!”

“Good!”

Helpful. You settle on a pair of dark wash jeans that actually fit, a simple black sweater, and a pair of comfortable boots. It feels like a safe, neutral choice. When you get downstairs, Jack is lacing up his shoes by the door while Luke is trying, and failing, to juggle a hockey puck with his feet.

Jack looks up and gives you a once-over. “You look nice.”

“Thanks. You clean up alright yourself.”

He’s in a stylish, understated designer sweatsuit that probably costs more than your first car. He rolls his eyes at your comment, but there’s a small smile playing on his lips.

Luke finally loses control of the puck, and it skitters across the hardwood floor, stopping just short of your feet. He grins at you. “Ready to see what the hype is all about?”

“I’ve seen you play before, you know,” you remind him. “Countless rinks. Countless 6 a.m. practices my entire childhood.”

“Yeah, but this is different,” Jack says, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door. “This is the show.”

He’s right, of course. The drive to the Prudential Center is electric. Music blasts through the speakers of Jack’s G-Wagon, and you watch the city lights of Newark blur past. As you get closer, the streets are flooded with people, a sea of red and black jerseys. It’s a completely different world from the sterile, quiet halls of the hospital. It’s vibrant and alive.

They have their own entrance, of course. A private parking garage that leads directly into the bowels of the arena. The second you step out of the car, the energy is palpable. You can hear the distant roar of the early crowd, the squeak of sneakers on polished concrete, the low thrum of the building itself.

“Alright,” Jack says, turning to you. “Our gear is in the room. We’re gonna go get ready. Someone from guest services will come grab you in about twenty minutes and take you up to the family suite. Your name’s on the list. Just wait right here.”

Luke claps you on the shoulder. “Don’t get lost. And try to enjoy yourself. Seriously.”

“I will,” you promise.

They both give you a quick hug before disappearing through a set of heavy double doors, leaving you alone in the surprisingly quiet corridor. It’s strange, seeing them switch into work mode. The goofy kids you live with are gone, replaced by focused, professional athletes. It makes a fresh wave of pride swell in your chest.

A friendly-faced woman with a clipboard finds you exactly twenty minutes later and leads you through a labyrinth of hallways, up an elevator, and into a sleek, modern lounge that overlooks the ice. The room is already buzzing with players’ wives, girlfriends, parents, and siblings. The glass wall offers a stunning, panoramic view of the arena as it fills with fans. The sheer scale of it takes your breath away.

You find a quiet spot near the front, feeling a little out of place. You accept a bottle of water from a passing attendant and just watch, soaking it all in. You see them come out for warmups, easily spotting Jack’s #86 and Luke’s #43. They look so small from up here, but they move with a grace and power that’s mesmerizing.

The game itself is a blur of speed and controlled violence. You still don’t understand all the rules, but you understand the fundamentals. You understand the breathtaking skill it takes for Jack to weave through three opposing players, the incredible vision Luke has from the blue line. You find yourself on your feet, screaming with the rest of the crowd when Luke sets Jack up for a blistering one-timer that finds the back of the net. The arena erupts, a deafening, joyous roar, and in that moment, you get it. You really, truly get it.

The Devils win in a shootout, a nail-biting, dramatic finish that leaves the crowd euphoric. As you’re led back down to the ground level to wait for your brothers, you feel a genuine buzz of excitement.

You wait in a designated area just outside the locker room. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and ice. You can hear the muffled sounds of celebration from behind the closed door — shouts, laughter, loud music. Family members and friends are milling around, chatting happily.

Finally, the door swings open, and a stream of sweaty, gear-shedding players begins to trickle out. You spot Dougie Hamilton, his towering frame impossible to miss, and then Jesper Bratt, his smile as bright as the arena lights.

Then, the door opens again, and Luke comes out, his hair still wet from the shower, a huge grin plastered on his face.

“Hey! Did you see that goal?” He asks, pulling you into a one-armed hug that still manages to lift you off the ground slightly.

“I did! It was amazing, Luke. You both were incredible.”

Jack follows a moment later, looking equally thrilled. “See? Told you it was better than sitting on the couch.”

“Okay, you were right,” you admit with a laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”

“No promises,” he smirks. “Come on, there are a few guys we want you to meet.”

You follow them as they weave through the small crowd. It’s a surreal experience. These are faces you’ve only seen on TV, larger-than-life figures, and now they’re right here, clapping your brothers on the back, talking about the game.

“Hey, guys, this is our sister, Y/N,” Jack announces to a small group.

There’s a chorus of friendly greetings. You shake hands with Dougie, whose hand absolutely engulfs yours, and Jesper, who gives you a charming, almost shy smile.

“Great game, guys,” you say, feeling a little awkward but trying to sound confident.

“Thanks for coming out,” Dougie says, his voice a surprisingly gentle rumble. “It’s good to finally meet you. We’ve heard a lot about the genius doctor in the family.”

You feel a blush creep up your neck. “Hardly a genius. Just sleep-deprived.”

Jack slings an arm around your shoulders. “Don’t let her fool you, she’s the smart one. We just hit a puck around.”

As they’re all laughing, you feel a shift in the energy of the group. You see Jack and Luke’s eyes move to someone just over your shoulder.

“Nico! Get over here!” Jack calls out.

A man turns from his conversation, and for a second, the noisy hallway seems to go completely silent in your head.

He’s not as tall as Dougie, but he carries himself with a quiet authority that makes him seem to fill the space. He’s handsome in a way that’s almost startling up close — sharp jaw, kind eyes, and a smile that’s just starting to form as he approaches.

This is Nico Hischier. The captain.

He comes to a stop in front of the group, his eyes flicking from Jack to Luke, and then to you. And when his gaze lands on you, it just … stays.

There’s a palpable pause. It’s probably only a second, maybe two, but it stretches, thick and charged. His smile, which had been casual, softens into something different. Something more focused. His eyes, a warm, deep brown, seem to be taking in every detail of your face. It’s an intense look, but it’s not unnerving. It’s … appreciative. Curious.

Luke, ever oblivious, claps him on the back. “Nico, this is our sister, Y/N. The one we were telling you about.”

Nico finally breaks his gaze, blinking as if coming out of a trance. He extends a hand to you. His grip is firm, his palm warm.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” he says. His voice has a slight accent, a smooth, melodic cadence that you can’t immediately place. Swiss-German, your brain supplies, recalling some pre-season interview you half-watched. “Jack and Luke, they talk about you all the time.”

“All good things, I hope,” you reply, finding your voice. You pull your hand back, but you can still feel the phantom warmth of his touch.

“Only good things,” he confirms, his eyes finding yours again. He doesn’t look away.

From the corner of your eye, you see Jesper subtly nudge Dougie with his elbow. Dougie glances from Nico, to you, and back to Nico, and a slow, knowing grin spreads across his face. You don’t notice. Jack and Luke certainly don’t notice. They’re too busy basking in the post-win glow.

“Y/N’s a doctor,” Jack says proudly, puffing out his chest a little. “A surgeon.”

Nico’s eyebrows raise in genuine surprise. “Wow. That’s … very impressive.” His gaze doesn’t waver. It’s like you’re the only two people in this crowded, loud hallway. “You are living here now? In Jersey?”

“I am,” you confirm. “Doing my residency at University Hospital. I’m actually living with these two knuckleheads.” You gesture with your thumb towards your brothers.

“Hey!” They both protest in unison.

Nico laughs. It’s a nice sound. Warm and genuine. “Well, I am sure that is … an experience.”

“You have no idea,” you say, a real smile breaking out on your face.

“So, what did you think of the game?” Nico asks, his body angled slightly toward you, effectively closing off the circle to just the two of you.

“Honestly? It was incredible. So much faster in person than on TV.”

“It is, yes.”

“That goal Jack scored in the second …” you start, turning slightly to include your brother. “Luke, that pass was insane. How did you even see him?”

Luke launches into a technical explanation, and Jack jumps in to add his own perspective. You listen, nodding along, but you’re acutely aware of Nico. He’s not watching them. He’s watching you. He’s listening to your questions, watching the way your face lights up when you talk about the game.

“We’re gonna head out to grab a bite,” Jack announces to the group. “You should come, Y/N. Celebrate the win.”

Your internal battery, which had been hovering around fifteen percent, suddenly plummets to five. The thought of more socializing, of a loud restaurant, is physically painful.

“Oh, I don’t know, Jack. It’s late, and I have to be at the hospital at a truly ungodly hour tomorrow morning.” It’s not a lie. Rounds start at 5 a.m.

“Oh, come on,” Luke whines. “Just for a little bit. One drink.”

“Luke, I can’t. Seriously. Another time.” You give him an apologetic look. You feel a pang of guilt, but the exhaustion is a physical weight on your shoulders.

“Residency is that demanding?” Nico asks quietly, his expression full of something that looks like concern.

You meet his eyes. “It’s … a lot,” you admit. “But it’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”

“That is something I understand,” he says softly, a small, sad smile on his face. He understands sacrifice. Of course he does.

“Well, we won’t keep you, then,” Nico says, his tone polite, but you see a flash of genuine disappointment in his eyes before he masks it. “It was really nice to finally meet you, Y/N.”

“You too, Nico,” you say. You offer a wave to the other guys. “Great game again, everyone. Jack, Luke, I’ll just grab an Uber.”

“No way,” Jack says immediately. “We’ll drive you. We can meet the guys there.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s fine. Go celebrate with your team.”

“Hughes responsibility,” Luke says, pointing between himself and Jack. “We got you here, we get you home.”

You know it’s a losing battle. “Fine. But you have to be quick.”

As your brothers say their goodbyes to the team, promising to meet them at the restaurant in thirty minutes, you catch Nico’s eye one last time. He’s talking to Jesper, but his attention isn’t on the conversation. He’s watching you. Jesper says something to him, and Nico just nods, his gaze never leaving yours until you turn to follow Jack and Luke down the hall.

The entire walk to the car, you can still feel the weight of his stare.

In the car, Jack is buzzing. “So? What’d you think? Nico’s a good dude, right? Best captain.”

“He seems really nice,” you say, your voice even. You stare out the window at the passing streetlights, the image of Nico’s warm, intense eyes burned into your mind.

“Yeah, he’s great,” Luke adds from the back seat. “Takes his job super seriously, but he’s a good guy. Funny, too, once you get to know him.”

Neither of them mentions the way he looked at you. The way he couldn’t seem to look at anyone else once you were there. To them, it was just a normal introduction. Captain meets teammate’s sister. Nothing more.

But back in the hallway outside the locker room, the conversation is very different.

As soon as the three of you are out of earshot, Dougie slings a massive arm around Nico’s shoulders.

“Dude,” he says, a huge grin on his face.

Nico blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from the empty space where you just were. “What?”

Jesper is practically vibrating with suppressed laughter. “What? He says ‘what’?” He asks Dougie, his English lilting with his Swedish accent. “‘What?’ he asks. Like we are blind.”

Nico frowns, a confused look on his face as he looks between his two teammates. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“You didn’t take your eyes off her, man,” Dougie says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. “Not for one second. I thought your head was gonna spin right off your neck.”

A faint flush creeps up Nico’s neck. “She is their sister. I was being polite.”

“Polite?” Jesper scoffs, failing to hide his grin. “Nico, my friend. Polite is a handshake. Polite is ‘nice to meet you.’ What you were doing … that was not polite. That was …” he searches for the right word, gesturing with his hands. “That was like watching a nature documentary. The lion, he sees the gazelle.”

“I did not see a gazelle,” Nico says, his blush deepening. He starts walking toward the exit, trying to escape the conversation. Dougie and Jesper easily keep pace with him.

“You’re right, you’re right,” Dougie says, trying to sound serious but failing miserably. “A gazelle is a bad comparison. Y/N seems much smarter than a gazelle. She’s a surgeon.”

“My point is,” Jesper says, jogging a little to get in front of Nico and walk backwards, “you have heart eyes, Captain. Big, stupid, heart eyes.”

Nico stops and runs a hand through his damp hair, a mix of frustration and embarrassment on his face. “Okay, okay. She is … nice. She is very nice. And beautiful. Is this what you want to hear?”

Dougie and Jesper exchange a triumphant look over his head.

“It’s a start,” Dougie says sagely.

“So,” Jesper begins, a mischievous glint in his eye. “When do you ask her out?”

Nico’s head snaps up, a look of mild panic on his face. “Ask her out? I cannot ask her out.”

“Why not?” Dougie asks, genuinely confused.

“She is Jack and Luke’s sister,” Nico says, as if this is the most obvious and insurmountable obstacle in the world. “They are my teammates. My friends. You do not just … ask out your friend’s sister.”

“Says who?” Jesper challenges. “This is not a rule. This is a movie plot. You are not living in a movie, Nico.”

“It is a rule,” Nico insists, his jaw setting stubbornly. “An unwritten rule. Of respect.”

Dougie just shakes his head, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Man, you are so screwed.”

Nico sighs, the adrenaline of the game completely gone, replaced by a swirling, unfamiliar mix of excitement and dread. He thinks of your smile, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you laughed at your brothers. He thinks of the intelligence in your expression when you talked about the game, the weary-but-determined set of your shoulders when you mentioned your residency.

He’s the captain of a National Hockey League team. He faces down 250-pound defensemen and 100-mile-per-hour slap shots without flinching. He’s supposed to be cool, calm, and collected.

But the thought of asking you for a cup of coffee? That, for reasons he can’t quite comprehend, feels like the most terrifying thing in the world.

“I am not screwed,” Nico mutters, mostly to himself, as they head out into the cool night air.

Jesper just pats him on the back. “Denial, my friend. It is the first stage.”

***

The sleep you’re getting isn’t really sleep. It’s a series of disjointed, thirty-minute naps snatched between periods of groggy consciousness. You’re curled on the couch, a thick blanket pulled up to your chin, drifting in a grey limbo. A night shift in the surgical ICU has scraped you raw, leaving you feeling hollowed out and frayed at the edges. The house is blessedly, beautifully silent. For now.

The silence is shattered by the sound of the front door being thrown open with enough force to rattle the minimalist art on the walls.

“We’re home!” Luke’s voice booms through the open-concept living space, followed immediately by Jack’s.

“And we brought a casualty of war!”

You groan, pulling the blanket over your head. It’s like living with a pair of enthusiastic, six-foot-tall golden retrievers. You love them more than anything, but their volume control is permanently broken.

“Use your inside voices,” you mumble into the cushion, your words muffled and thick with sleep.

“We can’t, this is an emergency!” Luke insists. Heavy footsteps approach the couch. “A medical emergency. Get up, Doc.”

Something wet drips onto the floor near your head. Then another drop.

Slowly, reluctantly, you push the blanket down and crack an eye open. The first thing you see is a pair of scuffed white sneakers. The second thing you see are the dark red droplets dotting the light oak floorboards next to them.

Your eyes travel up. Past the track pants, past the team-issued sweatshirt, to a face. It’s Nico. And he’s holding a blood-soaked towel to his left cheekbone.

In an instant, the exhaustion recedes, pushed back by a surge of adrenaline. Your surgeon brain switches on. You sit bolt upright, the blanket pooling in your lap.

“What the hell happened?” You demand, your voice now sharp and clear. You’re already assessing the situation. He’s standing, conscious, alert. No signs of concussion from this distance, but the bleeding is steady.

Nico offers you a weak, slightly lopsided smile. “High stick. It is my own fault. I was admiring my pass.”

“He’s being modest,” Jack cuts in, coming to stand beside his captain. He’s still in his practice gear, smelling faintly of ice and sweat. “It was a total accident. Fights broke out and everything. It was awesome.”

“Jack,” you warn, your eyes narrowed.

“Right, sorry. Medical situation.” He gestures wildly between you and Nico. “Anyway, Scott was dealing with Noeser because his knee kind of exploded, so the medical room was a mess, and Nico here was just going to let them use glue on him. Glue! On his face!”

Luke nods emphatically, taking up the narrative. “And we were like, ‘No way, dude. You’re the captain. You’re too pretty to have some huge, ugly scar on your face for the rest of your life.’ And then I was like, ‘Wait a minute …’” He points at you with a dramatic flair. “‘We have a plastic surgeon!’”

“I’m not a plastic surgeon yet, I’m a resident,” you correct automatically, your gaze still fixed on the cut. “And you can’t just bring bleeding people into the house.”

“Why not? It’s our house,” Jack says, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world. “And it’s Nico. He’s practically family. Just … stitch him up. Please? Look at him. He’s pathetic.”

Nico, who has been watching this exchange with a look of quiet amusement mixed with pain, shoots Jack a mild glare. “Thank you, Jack. Your concern is very touching.” He then looks back at you, his expression turning apologetic. “I am so sorry to bother you. They insisted. I told them I am fine. We can go.”

He makes a move toward the door, but you’re already swinging your legs off the couch and standing up.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Sit down,” you command, pointing to one of the stools at the massive kitchen island. “And take that towel away so I can see.”

For a second, nobody moves. They just stare at you. The shift from half-dead sister on the couch to surgeon-in-charge was instantaneous and complete.

Nico is the first to react. He gives a small nod and walks over to the kitchen island, perching on the edge of a stool. Your brothers watch with wide, impressed eyes.

He slowly lowers the towel. The cut is clean, but it’s deep. It starts just at the crest of his cheekbone and runs about an inch and a half toward his temple. It’s gaping slightly, still oozing blood. It’s not a disaster, but Jack was right. If this wasn’t closed properly, it would absolutely leave a nasty scar.

“Okay,” you say, your mind already running through the steps. “It needs sutures. Definitely. I have a practice kit upstairs. Don’t move. Jack, get me a clean bowl of warm water and some washcloths. Luke, find the first aid kit under the sink and bring me the entire thing.”

They scramble to follow your orders, clearly thrilled by the real-life medical drama unfolding in their kitchen.

You take the stairs two at a time, your exhaustion a distant memory. You find the case in your closet — a full suture kit you use to practice your technique on pig’s feet and silicone skin pads. It has everything you need: needle drivers, forceps, scissors, and several sterile packets of sutures and needles. You grab a pair of disposable gloves and a few alcohol prep pads from your nightstand and hurry back downstairs.

When you return, the scene in the kitchen is one of controlled chaos. Jack is sloshing water onto the counter as he sets down a bowl, and Luke has dumped the entire contents of the first aid kit onto the island. Nico is sitting exactly where you left him, a fresh towel pressed to his cheek, watching the Hughes brothers’ antics with an air of patient resignation. He looks up as you approach, his eyes meeting yours.

“You do not have to do this,” he says, his voice low and serious. “I can go to the hospital.”

“And wait six hours in an emergency room for some intern to close you up with stitches that are twice as big as they need to be? No thanks,” you say, your tone brisk and professional. You set your kit on the counter. “Besides, this is what I do. It’ll take me ten minutes. Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

You pull on the gloves with a practiced snap. The sound seems to echo in the suddenly quiet kitchen. Even Jack and Luke have stopped moving, their attention fully on you. You dip a clean cloth into the warm water and gently gesture for Nico to lower the towel again.

He does, his eyes never leaving your face.

“This might sting a little,” you say softly as you bring the warm, damp cloth to his skin.

You work with practiced efficiency, your touch surprisingly gentle. You carefully dab away the blood, cleaning the skin around the laceration. You’re hyper-focused on the wound, on the depth, the edges, making sure there’s no debris. But you are also acutely, unavoidably aware of him. Of the heat radiating from his skin. Of the subtle way his muscles tense under your touch. Of the fact that his eyes are tracking your every movement.

“You are very calm,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble.

“It’s my job to be calm,” you reply, your gaze still on his cheek. You take an alcohol pad and tear open the packet. “This will be cold. And it will sting more than the water.”

“I think I can handle it.”

You press the pad to the skin around the cut, and he flinches, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. But he doesn’t pull away. He just sits there, perfectly still, trusting you.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

“Is he crying?” Jack asks from across the room. He’s now leaning against the fridge, watching with rapt attention. “Are you crying, Captain?”

“No, I am not crying,” Nico says, his eyes still closed. “Your sister is torturing me. There is a difference.”

You can’t help the small smile that touches your lips. “Almost done.” You dispose of the pad and open your suture kit. The metallic gleam of the instruments is familiar and comforting. You load a small, curved needle holding a thin, hair-like black thread into the needle driver.

“Alright, here comes the worst part,” you announce. You pick up a syringe and a small vial of lidocaine. “I’m going to numb the area. It’s a small needle, but you’ll feel a pinch and then a burning sensation for a few seconds as the anesthetic goes in. After that, you won’t feel a thing. Okay?”

He opens his eyes and looks at you. The depth of his gaze is startling. He gives a single, slow nod. “Okay.”

“Just try to hold still.”

You lean in closer, your left hand coming up to gently cup his jaw, tilting his head just so. His skin is warm, a day’s worth of stubble scratching lightly against your gloved fingertips. His breath hitches, a barely perceptible thing, but you feel it. For a fraction of a second, your professional focus wavers. You’re suddenly aware of his jawline, of the mole just below his ear, of the scent of his cologne mixed with the clean, cold smell of the hockey rink.

You swallow and refocus. You position the needle at the edge of the wound. “Deep breath in … and out.”

He breathes out as you slide the needle in, expertly injecting a small amount of lidocaine just beneath the skin. He winces, his jaw tight under your hand, but he doesn't make a sound. You repeat the process on the other side of the cut.

“That’s it,” you say, pulling back. “The worst is over. We’ll just give that a minute to work.”

You busy yourself with arranging your instruments, giving him a moment. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him watching your hands as they move with purpose and precision.

“You have done this many times,” he states. It’s not a question.

“A few,” you say. “Though usually not in a kitchen. And usually on people who are fully sedated.”

He chuckles, a soft, breathy sound. “I can pretend to be asleep if it helps.”

“No, I might need you to … oh, I don’t know, not pass out on the floor.”

“I will do my best.”

You gently tap the skin near the cut with the tip of your forceps. “Can you feel that?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Good.” You take a deep breath and lean in again, picking up the needle driver. “Alright. Here we go.”

This is where your world narrows. The kitchen, your brothers, the exhaustion — it all fades into a soft, blurry background. All that exists is the small patch of skin in front of you, the gleaming instruments in your hands, and the task you need to complete.

You place your left hand back on his jaw to steady him. The angle is awkward, so you have to lean in very, very close. Your face is just inches from his. If you were to turn your head slightly, your foreheads would touch.

You take the edge of the skin with the forceps, and with a smooth, practiced motion, you push the needle through, drawing it out the other side. You begin the precise, rhythmic work of laying down the stitches. A simple interrupted suture. You’re meticulous, focusing on everting the edges perfectly to minimize scarring.

Nico is unnaturally still. You expect him to be watching your hands, or looking at the ceiling, or squeezing his eyes shut. But he’s not.

He’s looking at you.

No, that’s not quite right. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at your mouth.

You’re concentrating, your own lips slightly parted in focus. And his gaze is fixed there. It’s an intense, unwavering stare that you can feel more than you can see. It’s a palpable weight on your skin. A low hum of energy passes between you in the small space you share.

Your heart gives a funny little kick against your ribs. You try to ignore it, to attribute it to the residual adrenaline. You’re a professional. He’s a patient. He’s your brothers’ teammate and friend. But the intensity of his focus is making it difficult to breathe normally. It feels … intimate. Far too intimate for a minor medical procedure at a kitchen island.

You clear your throat, needing to break the charged silence. “So … a high stick, huh? Was it one of ours or one of theirs?”

His eyes flicker up to meet yours for a second before dropping back down to your lips. “Theirs,” he says, his voice a little rough. “An accident.”

“Do you get in a lot of fights, Captain?” You ask, your voice quieter than you intended. You’re starting the second stitch.

“Not if I can help it.”

“Why not?” You pull the suture taut, your movements fluid and economical.

“There are better ways to lead.”

His answer is simple, direct, and it makes you pause for a beat. You glance up and meet his eyes. There’s a seriousness there, a depth you hadn’t expected. The jokey, casual facade is gone.

“Like getting your face stitched up in your teammates’ kitchen?” You ask, a ghost of a smile playing on your lips.

His own mouth quirks up on one side, the side that isn’t numb and swollen. “Exactly like this. It builds character.”

You laugh, a quiet puff of air. The sound feels loud in the stillness. You go back to your work, tying off the second stitch with a perfect surgeon’s knot.

From the living room, the sound of an explosion and a triumphant yell from Luke signifies that your brothers have lost interest in the surgery and have moved on to their video games. The noise provides a strange, normal backdrop to the highly abnormal situation unfolding in the kitchen.

You’re halfway done. Four perfect, tiny black stitches are now holding his skin together. You have to lean in even closer for the last few, to get the right angle near his temple. Your hair, which you’d hastily tied back, comes loose, a stray strand falling across your cheek. You try to blow it away, but it doesn't move.

Before you can think to move your hand, his own hand — his right one, the one that isn’t gripping the edge of the counter — comes up. He moves slowly, as if not to startle you. With a surprising gentleness, he hooks his index finger around the stray piece of hair and tucks it behind your ear.

His fingers brush against the shell of your ear, against your skin. It’s a fleeting touch, but it sends a jolt straight through you, sharp and unexpected.

Your breath catches in your throat. You freeze, needle driver hovering over his skin. You finally look up, really look at him.

His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide. He’s not looking at your lips anymore. He’s looking right into your eyes, and the raw, undisguised emotion you see there makes your stomach do a slow, dizzying flip. It’s not just appreciation. It’s not just curiosity. It’s the look Jesper Bratt had called “heart eyes.” And now, seeing it up close, you understand. Oh, you understand completely.

His hand is still there, his fingers resting for a moment against your hair just above your ear. The silence stretches, thick and heavy with unspoken things. The pew-pew-pew of video game lasers from the other room feels like it’s coming from another dimension.

Nico seems to realize what he’s done, where his hand is. He pulls it back quickly, as if burned, and clears his throat.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, looking down at his lap. “The … hair. It was in your way.”

“It’s fine,” you manage to say, your voice sounding strange to your own ears. “Thank you.”

You force yourself to look back down at the wound, but your hands are trembling slightly. You grip the needle driver tighter. Get it together. You’re a surgeon. This is a patient. But the mantra feels flimsy, useless against the blush that is now creeping hotly up your neck. You are suddenly, intensely aware that you are a woman, leaning over a very handsome man, in your kitchen, at two in the afternoon.

You finish the last three stitches in record time, your movements a little less fluid, a little more jerky. You snip the final thread, the tiny sound of the scissors seeming to sever the tension between you.

You pull back, taking a deep breath and creating a much-needed space between your bodies.

“All done,” you announce, your voice overly bright. You start cleaning up your instruments, your hands still not quite steady.

Nico gently touches his fingers to the bandage you’ve placed over the stitches. “I felt nothing.”

“That’s the lidocaine. It’ll wear off in a couple of hours. It’ll be sore,” you say, reverting to your professional doctor-voice. It’s a shield. “Take some Tylenol or ibuprofen if you need to. Keep it clean and dry for the first twenty-four hours. I’ll take the stitches out in five to seven days. Don’t let one of the team trainers do it, they’ll just yank them out. Come back here.”

You didn’t mean for the last part to sound like an order, but it did.

He looks up at you, a real, genuine smile spreading across his face, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. The sight of it does another stupid thing to your insides. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jack, alerted by the sudden cessation of surgical activity, wanders back into the kitchen. He peers at Nico’s face.

“Whoa,” he says, his eyes wide. “Dude, it looks amazing. You can barely even see it. Y/N, you’re like a wizard.”

“It’s my job, Jack,” you say, stripping off your gloves and throwing them away.

“Still. That’s pretty cool.” He claps Nico on the shoulder. “See? Told you she’d fix you right up. Now you won’t scare little kids.”

Nico stands up from the stool, rolling his shoulders. He turns to you, his expression serious again.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice full of a sincere gratitude that makes you feel shy. “Really. For taking the time. I know you were sleeping.”

“It’s okay. I’m glad I could help,” you say, trying for casual. You risk a glance at his face and immediately regret it. He’s still looking at you with that same unnerving intensity.

“I owe you,” he says.

“No, you don’t. Just … try not to get hit in the face with a stick again anytime soon. My services aren’t cheap.” You try for a joke, but it falls a little flat.

“I will pay you,” he says immediately, reaching for his wallet.

“Don’t be an idiot,” you and Jack say in perfect unison.

Jack throws an arm around Nico’s shoulders. “She’s not gonna take your money. You can pay her back by scoring a hat trick on Saturday. C’mon, I’ll drive you home.”

“Let me know if the bleeding starts again or if it gets really painful,” you call after them as they head for the door.

Nico stops in the entryway and turns back. Luke is yelling at the TV in the other room, and Jack is already halfway out the door, but Nico just looks at you.

“I will,” he says. And then, more softly, so only you can hear, “Thank you again, Y/N.”

Then he’s gone. The front door clicks shut, and the house is quiet again, save for the sounds of digital warfare.

You stand alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the remnants of your impromptu clinic. You stare at the spot on the floor where you first saw the drops of his blood. You slowly lift a hand and tuck a piece of your own hair behind your ear, your fingertips brushing the same spot his did. A phantom tingle lingers on your skin.

Your exhaustion comes crashing back, ten times heavier than before. But it’s different now. It’s mixed with a strange, thrumming energy, a nervous flutter deep in your stomach.

You think back to the neat row of stitches on a man’s face, a man with impossibly kind and intense eyes, and you realize with a sinking, thrilling feeling, that you had just performed a medical procedure on Nico Hischier. And you’re not entirely sure which one of you was left more flustered.

***

It’s been four weeks since you stitched up your brothers’ captain in your kitchen. Four weeks of long days bleeding into longer nights, of sleeping in call rooms and living off stale coffee and protein bars. In that time, you saw Nico exactly once more in a clinical capacity. He had come back, as instructed, on a crisp Saturday morning. You removed the seven tiny black sutures from his cheekbone in a procedure that was somehow even more excruciatingly intimate than putting them in.

The silence in the kitchen had been thick, charged with the memory of the last time he’d sat in that exact spot. He had thanked you, his voice low and sincere. You had noted, with a professional and detached satisfaction, that there would be no scar. And then he had left. You hadn’t seen him since.

Now, it’s Friday night. The tail end of a brutal eighty-hour week that culminated in a twelve-hour Whipple procedure. You don’t remember driving home. You don’t remember changing out of your scrubs and into a pair of worn-soft sweatpants and one of Luke’s old Michigan hoodies that swallows you whole. You only remember the magnetic pull of the living room couch, and the blissful surrender as you fell face-first into a cushion.

You’re deep in the weeds of a nonsensical dream involving a talking retractor when the sound of the doorbell, loud and shrill, pierces through the fog. A moment later, the front door opens, and a wave of noise crashes into the quiet house.

“Did you get the wings? Tell me you got the garlic parm,” Luke is saying.

“Of course I got the garlic parm, I’m not an animal,” another familiar voice replies. Dougie Hamilton.

“Let’s go, boys, let’s go! First game is me and Bratter versus the Hughes clowns,” another voice shouts.

There’s a chorus of boisterous greetings, the thud of sneakers on the floor, the rustle of takeout bags. The living room is suddenly full of very large, very loud men.

You groan, burying your face deeper into the couch. Maybe if I don’t move, they’ll think I’m a decorative pillow and leave me alone.

“Ah,” Jesper Bratt says, his voice much closer now. “It seems the surgeon is in her natural habitat. Passed out on the couch.”

“Dude, she’s always sleeping here,” Jack says, his tone a mix of amusement and affection. “It’s like her charging station.”

“Well, we need this station for Chel,” Luke announces. “The TV is the main event. Alright, Y/N, up and at ‘em.”

You feel a hand on your shoulder, gently shaking you. “Five more minutes,” you mumble, your voice thick with sleep. “Patient’s not coded yet.”

“She’s talking in her sleep,” Luke laughs. “Come on, Y/N. Go to your actual bed. It’s way more comfortable.”

“No,” you whine, shrugging his hand off. “Comfy here.”

As Luke prepares to shake you again, a quieter, more deliberate voice cuts through the noise.

“Stop.”

The hand on your shoulder disappears.

“What?” Luke asks.

“Let her sleep,” Nico says. His voice is calm but firm, carrying an authority that makes everyone pause. “Look at her. She is exhausted.”

You can’t see him, but you can picture the scene perfectly. Your idiot brothers, well-meaning but clueless. And Nico, ever the captain, ever observant.

“Yeah, but we gotta play,” Jack argues, though his voice has lost some of its conviction. “Where else are we gonna hook up the PlayStation?”

“We can wait,” Nico says simply. There’s a beat of silence.

“Or,” he says, his voice softer, more hesitant now. “I can … I could just carry her upstairs. To her room. So we do not wake her.”

The silence that follows this suggestion is profound. It’s so quiet you can hear the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. You can feel the weight of at least four pairs of eyes on your unconscious form. You strain your ears, waiting for Jack or Luke to laugh it off, to tell him not to be weird.

Instead, you hear Jack clear his throat. “Uh. You sure, man? She’s not, like, a feather. She eats carbs.”

“I think I can manage,” Nico replies, a hint of dry amusement in his tone.

You hear Luke shrug. You can actually hear the fabric of his shirt move. “Okay, whatever. If you wanna. Her room is the second door on the left at the top of the stairs. The one with the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign she stole from a hotel.”

Your mind, sluggish and syrupy with sleep, struggles to process what’s happening. He’s going to what?

Before you can formulate a protest, or even fully comprehend the plan, you feel it. Strong, warm hands sliding carefully under your back and beneath your knees. There is a moment of weightlessness, and then you are being lifted, scooped from the couch with a surprising, effortless grace.

Your body, limp with sleep, instinctively curls inward. Your head lolls and finds a natural resting place in the crook of his neck, your cheek pressing against the soft fabric of his hoodie. He smells good. Like clean laundry and crisp autumn air and something uniquely, warmly Nico. It’s a comforting scent. It pulls you deeper into the dream-like state.

You hear Jesper let out a low whistle from somewhere behind you. “Okay, Cap,” he says, his voice laced with laughter.

Nico says nothing. His movements are slow, deliberate, clearly focused on not jostling you. You can feel the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beating against your ear. You can feel the flex and release of the muscles in his arms and chest as he carries you towards the stairs. It’s the safest you’ve felt in a very long time.

He navigates the stairs with a quiet sureness. Each step is solid, even. He doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t even breathe heavily. When he reaches the top of the landing, he pauses for a moment, shifting your weight slightly to push open the second door on the left.

He steps into the darkness of your room. The only light is a thin sliver of moonlight filtering through a gap in the curtains. He crosses the room to your bed, and the scent of your own space — lavender and clean linen and the faint, papery smell of textbooks — rises up to meet you.

With the same care he used to lift you, he lowers you onto the mattress. The bed dips under your combined weight, and for a moment, he’s leaning over you, his arms still supporting you as he settles you onto the pillows. He gently extracts one arm, then the other, from beneath you.

You let out a soft, contented sigh and roll onto your side, away from him. He hesitates for a second before pulling the thick, fluffy comforter up over your shoulders, tucking it in around you like you’re a child.

He stays there for a moment, a dark silhouette against the moonlight. You’re not really asleep anymore, but you’re not quite awake either. You’re floating in the peaceful space between. You can feel him watching you. The air is still, holding its breath. He thinks you’re completely oblivious, a sleeping body to be moved from point A to point B. But even in your exhaustion, you are acutely aware of his presence, of the gentle, careful way he’s treating you.

Finally, he turns to leave. The spell is about to break. He’s going to walk out that door, go back downstairs to the noise and the games, and you’ll be left alone in the quiet dark. A sudden, inexplicable panic flares in your chest. You don’t want him to go.

Your hand shoots out from under the covers, your fingers clumsy and uncoordinated but finding their mark. You grasp the thick, soft material of his hoodie sleeve.

He freezes, his back to you.

“Stay,” you whisper, the word a sleepy, breathy thing.

He turns around slowly. You can’t see his expression in the dark, but you can feel his surprise, his hesitation.

“Y/N?” He says, his voice barely a murmur. “You are awake?”

“Mmm, no,” you reply, which makes absolutely no sense. Your grip on his sleeve tightens. “Don’t go.”

“I … I should,” he stammers. He takes a half-step back, but your grip holds him in place. “The guys are downstairs. You need to sleep.”

“Please,” you say again. You tug on his arm, a weak but insistent pull. “It’s cold.”

It’s not cold. The comforter is thick and you’re wearing a hoodie. But it’s the only word your sleep-addled brain can supply.

“Y/N, you’re not thinking clearly,” he says, his voice a low, strained whisper. He sounds panicked. “You are half-asleep. You don’t—it is Nico. I have to go.”

He’s trying to be a gentleman. He’s trying to do the right thing. But your exhausted, subconscious mind doesn’t care about the right thing. It only cares about the warmth and the safety and the comforting presence of the man standing beside your bed.

You tug again, this time with a surprising surge of sleepy strength. “Stay with me.”

The pull is just enough to throw him off balance. He stumbles forward, his knee hitting the edge of the mattress. With a quiet curse, he tries to right himself, but your grip is relentless. He pitches forward, catching himself with one hand on the bed, but the momentum carries him down. He lands on the comforter beside you with a soft whoof, a tangle of limbs and surprised air.

He lands on his side, propped up on an elbow, looking down at you. You’ve rolled onto your back to accommodate his fall, and now your faces are only inches apart. You can see the whites of his eyes in the gloom, wide with shock.

“I am so sorry,” he breathes, already trying to push himself back up. “I did not mean to …”

But you just let go of his sleeve and, without a word, you roll back onto your side, facing away from him, and snuggle your back right up against his front. You take his arm — the one he isn’t using to prop himself up — and pull it over you, holding it against your stomach like a teddy bear.

Nico goes completely, utterly still. He’s a statue lying in your bed. He isn’t breathing.

“Y/N,” he whispers, his voice choked with panic. “What are you doing? I cannot … this is not right. I have to leave.”

“So warm,” you mumble into your pillow, already drifting off again.

This, apparently, is the final blow to his resolve. He stays frozen for another ten seconds, his mind clearly racing, trying to find an honorable escape from this deeply compromising, incredibly comfortable situation.

Then, with a long, slow, defeated sigh, he gives up.

He lets his body relax, sinking a little deeper into the mattress. He’s still on top of the covers, still fully clothed in his jeans and hoodie. But he lets his head rest on the pillow next to yours. The arm you’ve captured stays draped over you. He smells your hair, the lavender shampoo you use. He feels the soft, even rhythm of your breathing against his chest. He’s exhausted from a week of hard practices, and your bed is an oasis of warmth and comfort.

Just for a minute, he tells himself. I will stay just for one minute until she is fully asleep, and then I will go.

He closes his eyes.

***

An hour later, the Mario Kart theme music is blaring from the living room TV.

“I’m telling you, the blue shell is a mechanism of pure evil!” Jack yells, throwing his controller onto the couch in disgust.

“You are just mad because I am a better driver,” Jesper says smugly, doing a little victory dance on the rug.

Luke, who came in fourth, leans back and stretches. “Man, I’m starving. Where’s that pizza? And where the hell is Nico? Did he go home?”

“I haven’t seen him,” Dougie says, scrolling through his phone. “He carried your sister upstairs like an hour ago. Maybe he’s using the bathroom?”

“For an hour?” Jack says with a frown. “That’s a long time. Maybe he got lost.”

“How can he get lost? There are four rooms up there,” Luke says, standing up. “I’m gonna go check on him. Make sure Y/N didn’t sedate him and try to harvest his organs for research.”

Jack laughs and follows him. “Yeah, good call. She gets weird when she’s tired.”

They jog up the stairs, their footsteps loud in the hallway. They’re still laughing as Luke pushes open your bedroom door, which was left slightly ajar.

The laughter dies in their throats.

They stand in the doorway, side-by-side, their brains slowly processing the scene in front of them. In the dim moonlight, they see you, sleeping peacefully on your side. And they see their captain lying beside you, also fast asleep, his arm draped protectively over you, your back tucked up against his chest.

For a full thirty seconds, neither of them moves or speaks. They just stare. Jack’s mouth is hanging slightly open. Luke blinks several times, as if trying to clear his vision.

Then, they look at each other. An entire, silent conversation passes between them. A look of shock gives way to confusion, which then slowly, simultaneously, melts into pure amusement. A huge, shared grin spreads across both their faces.

Luke clears his throat. It’s not a loud sound, but in the quiet room, it’s enough.

Nico jolts awake as if he’s been electrocuted. His eyes fly open, wide with panic. He takes in his surroundings — your bed, you sleeping beside him, your brothers standing in the doorway — and the color drains from his face.

He scrambles to sit up, carefully untangling his arm from around you so as not to wake you. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“Guys,” he starts, his voice a hoarse, panicked whisper. “Guys. I swear. It is not what you think.”

Jack and Luke just continue to grin, their arms crossed.

“She was asleep,” Nico rushes on, running a hand through his hair distractedly. “And I put her in bed, and she … she grabbed me. And she was talking in her sleep, and she pulled me … I lost my balance. And then I just sat down for a second, to wait for her to fall asleep again, and I … I must have dozed off. Nothing happened. I promise you. On my life, nothing happened.”

He’s rambling, his accent getting thicker with his panic. He looks from Jack’s amused face to Luke’s, searching for any sign of anger, of the impending fight he’s sure is coming.

But it never comes. Instead, Luke lets out a quiet snort of laughter.

“Dude,” Luke says, shaking his head. “Relax.”

“Breathe, man,” Jack adds, his grin widening. “We’re not gonna kill you.”

Nico stares at them, utterly bewildered. “You are … not mad?”

“Mad? Why would we be mad?” Jack asks, stepping into the room. He gestures between you and Nico. “Look, man, our sister has been married to medicine for the last ten years. She goes to work, she comes home, she falls asleep on the couch. That’s her whole life. Honestly?” He leans in conspiratorially. “It is nice to see her with an actual human being for a change.”

Nico is floored. This is not the reaction he expected. “No, but you do not understand,” he insists, still whispering frantically. “This is your sister. I have so much respect for her. For you. I would never … we did not … we just slept.”

“Yeah, we get it, Romeo, you’re a gentleman,” Luke says, waving a dismissive hand. He glances at your sleeping form, his expression softening. “Just … don’t wake her up. She’ll be a monster tomorrow if you do.”

Nico can only stare, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. His mind is short-circuiting. He had run through a thousand scenarios, and all of them ended with him getting punched, or at the very least, yelled at. This calm, amused acceptance was not on the list.

“So …” Nico says, unsure of what to do now. “Should I … go?”

Jack and Luke look at each other again.

“Nah,” Jack says with a shrug. “You look pretty comfortable. And the pizza’s probably here. We’re gonna go eat.”

Luke points a finger at him. “Don’t hurt her, or whatever. You know the drill.” He then gives Nico a big, goofy thumbs-up. “Have a good night, dude.”

And with that, they turn around, walk out of the room, and quietly pull the door closed, leaving Nico sitting on the edge of your bed in the near-total darkness, completely and utterly baffled.

He looks at the closed door. He looks at you, sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the entire exchange. He looks back at the door.

He’s been left in his teammate’s sister’s bed. On purpose. And he has absolutely no idea what to do next.

***

The first thing you register is the light. It’s a soft, grey morning light, filtering through the blinds and painting stripes across a room that is distinctly yours. The second thing you register is the warmth. A solid, living warmth pressed against your entire backside, an arm draped securely over your waist, and the slow, steady puff of breath against the back of your neck.

Your eyes flutter open. It all comes rushing back in a dizzying, mortifying wave: The exhaustion. The arrival of the team. Nico’s offer. Being carried upstairs. Asking him to stay. Pulling him into bed.

Oh, god. You pulled him into bed.

Your heart kick-starts, a frantic, panicked thumping against your ribs. You are spooning the captain of the New Jersey Devils. You are the little spoon. You, who hasn’t so much as held hands with a man in three years, have somehow managed to lasso your brothers’ friend and captain into your bed for the night.

Slowly, carefully, you try to roll over without disturbing him. The arm around your waist tightens instinctively in his sleep, pulling you closer for a moment before loosening. You hold your breath, but his breathing remains deep and even. You complete the turn, moving with the glacial slowness of a bomb-disposal expert, until you are on your other side, facing him.

He’s even more handsome up close, in the soft morning light, without the stress and focus of his job etched onto his features. His face is relaxed in sleep, his dark eyelashes stark against his skin. The tiny, faded line on his cheekbone where you put the stitches is almost invisible. You did a good job. Your hand twitches with the absurd urge to trace it.

As if sensing your gaze, his eyelashes flicker. His breathing hitches, and then his eyes — deep, warm brown — slowly open.

They find yours instantly.

For a long, silent moment, you just stare at each other. Neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the soft hum of the house around you and the frantic pounding of your own heart. His eyes are wide, searching yours, a dozen emotions playing across his face: confusion, surprise, and a healthy dose of panic.

Then, as if a starting gun has gone off, you both speak at once.

“Oh my god, I am so, so sorry-” you start, scrambling to sit up.

“Listen, I can explain, I fell asleep, I didn’t mean-” he says at the exact same time, also trying to sit up.

You both stop, the words hanging in the air between you. The silence that follows is even more awkward than the first one. You’re both sitting up now, facing each other, the rumpled comforter pooled around your waists. You clutch it to your chest like a shield.

He runs a hand through his already messy hair, looking anywhere but at you. “I should not have stayed. I was going to leave, I swear. I sat on the edge of the bed and I just … closed my eyes for a second. I am so sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“You made me uncomfortable?” You echo, a hysterical little laugh bubbling up in your throat. “Nico, I practically assaulted you. I have a vague memory of physically pulling you into the bed. You should be filing a restraining order, not apologizing.”

He finally looks at you, a flicker of a smile touching his lips. “It was not an assault. But you are surprisingly strong for a sleepy person.”

“It’s the years of holding retractors in the OR. Builds arm strength,” you say, the words just tumbling out in your nervousness. “But seriously, I am mortified. I don’t usually … kidnap people. I was just so tired.”

“I know,” he says softly. His panic seems to be receding, replaced by a quiet seriousness. He turns his body to face you more fully. “Y/N.”

The way he says your name sends a little shiver down your spine. “Yeah?”

He takes a deep breath, like a man preparing to jump off a cliff. He’s looking directly at you, his gaze steady and intense. It’s the same look he had in the kitchen when you were stitching his face, the one that made your stomach do a slow, dizzying flip.

“I am not sorry I stayed,” he says, his voice low and firm. “And it is not just because your bed is very comfortable.”

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. “Okay …”

“I should have just said this from the beginning,” he continues, speaking faster now, the words tumbling out as if he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve. “The night we met, after the game. And when you stitched me up. And last night. I keep trying to … be normal. To be respectful. Because you are Jack and Luke’s sister. But it is not working.”

He pauses, taking another breath. You just stare, completely captivated, your own apology forgotten.

“The truth is,” he says, finally meeting your eyes with a look of raw vulnerability, “I really, really like you. A lot. And I know the timing is maybe weird, and the situation is definitely weird, and you are probably not interested because you are a brilliant surgeon and I am just a guy who plays hockey. But I had to tell you. I just … I had to say it.”

He finishes his speech and braces himself, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense. He looks like he’s expecting you to laugh, or to call security, or to simply vanish in a puff of smoke. He’s prepared for rejection.

But rejection never comes.

Instead, a slow, wide smile spreads across your face. A genuine, unrestrained smile of relief and happiness. The tension that had been coiled in your stomach for weeks finally, blessedly, unwinds.

“Oh, thank god,” you breathe, the words coming out on a laugh.

Nico blinks, his expression of grim preparation morphing into one of utter confusion. “Thank … god?”

“Yes. Thank god,” you repeat, nodding emphatically. “Because I really, really like you, too. And I was starting to think I’d imagined that whole ‘staring at me with intense, heart-stopping eyes’ thing.”

It takes a second for your words to register. He stares at you, his brain clearly rebooting. Then, a slow-dawning, brilliant smile transforms his entire face. The relief is so palpable you can almost feel it wash over him.

“You … you do?” He asks, as if he can’t quite believe it.

“Yeah, I do,” you confirm, your smile matching his. “And for the record,” you add, leaning in a little closer, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “you’re a great cuddler. Ten out of ten. Very comforting.”

He laughs, a real, happy sound that fills the quiet room. “I am glad I could be of service.”

The air between you is different now. The awkwardness has evaporated, replaced by something warm and light and full of giddy possibility. You’re just two people, sitting in a messy bed in the morning light, smiling at each other like idiots.

You break the gaze first, glancing towards the door. “So. What does a world-class hockey captain who moonlights as a professional cuddler want for breakfast?”

***

The house is empty. A note on the fridge from Jack, written in his messy scrawl, confirms your suspicion. Went to get groceries. Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do! You roll your eyes, crumpling the note and tossing it into the recycling bin.

The kitchen is filled with the smell of coffee brewing and bacon sizzling in a pan. You move around each other in a comfortable, if slightly shy, dance. You’re handling the eggs, he’s on bacon and toast duty. It feels surprisingly, wonderfully normal.

“So,” Nico says, carefully arranging bacon strips on a paper towel-lined plate. “I was wondering.”

“You were wondering?” You prompt, sliding two perfectly fried eggs onto a plate next to his bacon.

He turns from the counter, leaning back against it and wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. He looks nervous again, but in a different way now. It’s a hopeful kind of nervous.

“I would like to take you on a date,” he says. “A proper one. Not in a crowded hallway after a game or with you performing surgery on my face or after you have abducted me in your sleep.”

You laugh, the sound bright in the sunny kitchen. “I think I’d like that. A date without medical equipment or subconscious kidnapping sounds lovely.”

“Dinner?” He presses. “Somewhere nice. I will wear a shirt with buttons and everything.”

“Wow, a shirt with buttons? I’m honored.” You lean against the opposite counter, taking a sip of your coffee. “I’d love to. There’s just one small problem.”

His face falls almost imperceptibly. A flicker of the old panic returns to his eyes. “A problem?”

“Yeah,” you say, trying to keep your tone light. “My schedule is a nightmare. I’ll have to check it.”

You see the shift in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there. The slight tightening of his jaw, the polite but disappointed smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He thinks you’re blowing him off. It’s the classic gentle rejection, the “I’ll have to check my schedule” that means ‘thanks, but no thanks.’

“Of course,” he says, his voice a little too breezy. “I understand. You are very busy. We can … figure it out some other time. No problem.”

You just look at him for a second before shaking your head with a smile. You push off the counter, walk over to where your phone is charging, and unplug it. You hold it up.

“Nico,” you say gently. “I’m not blowing you off. I’m being serious. I have to literally check my schedule.”

You tap open your calendar app and turn the screen towards him.

It’s a terrifying wall of color-coded blocks. Almost every single day is a solid chunk of blue labeled “GEN SURG,” or purple for “TRAUMA,” or red for “SICU.” There are 24-hour call shifts highlighted in an alarming shade of crimson. In between are tiny slivers of white, most of which are labeled with things like “SLEEP” or “LAUNDRY (MAYBE).” It looks less like a calendar and more like a complex, unsolvable Tetris game.

He stares at the screen, his eyes wide. “Wow,” he says, the single word full of awe and a little bit of horror. “Okay. I see.”

“Yeah.” You scroll through the week. “Okay, so today is Saturday, I’m post-call, so I’m free until tomorrow at 6 p.m. Then I’m on for three days straight … a day off Wednesday but it’s a recovery day so I’ll be a zombie …” you trail off, your finger tracing the screen. “Ah! Here.”

You stop on the following week. “Next Thursday,” you announce triumphantly. “I have a normal, human ten-hour shift. I’m done at seven. I have a whole evening off. And I don’t have to be back in until 8 a.m. Friday. That’s practically a vacation.”

Nico pulls his own phone out, a relieved smile returning to his face. He taps open his own calendar, which is filled with practices, workouts, and games. “Next Thursday … we are home, but no game. It is perfect.”

“Perfect,” you agree, smiling back at him.

“So, Thursday,” he confirms, his eyes bright with excitement. “I will pick you up. From the hospital? At seven?”

The thought of him waiting for you there, in your world, a bright spot at the end of what will inevitably be a long and difficult day, makes your stomach flutter.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice a little softer than you intended. “That sounds really perfect.”

***

A week and a half later, you are, in fact, having a long and difficult day. A routine appendectomy turned into a complicated bowel resection, and you’ve been on your feet for eleven straight hours. Your entire body aches, your brain feels like scrambled eggs, and all you want to do is crawl into a hole.

But then you remember. It’s Thursday. It’s seven o’clock. It’s date night.

A fresh wave of energy, fueled by pure adrenaline and anticipation, surges through you.

“Okay, I’m out of here!” You call to the other residents in the lounge. “Don’t burn the place down without me.”

Your friend, Sandra, a whip-smart pediatrics resident, looks up from the chart she’s writing. “Big plans tonight, Hughes? Another hot date with your couch and a pint of Marcus & Jerry’s?”

“Funnily enough, no,” you say, pulling off your scrubs and quickly changing into the dress you’d stashed in your locker — a simple, elegant dark green wrap dress that’s comfortable but chic. “I have an actual date. With a human man.”

This gets the attention of Marcus, a lanky, perpetually exhausted emergency medicine resident. “A man? Does he have a pulse? Is he aware you talk about surgical drains in your sleep?”

“He has a pulse, and he’s been warned,” you laugh, running a brush through your hair and quickly touching up your makeup.

“Well, have fun,” Sandra says, a genuine smile on her face. “You deserve it more than anyone.”

You thank them and practically float out of the residents’ lounge and toward the main exit of the hospital. The automatic doors slide open with a whoosh, and you step out into the cool October evening.

And there he is.

He’s leaning against a sleek black Audi, looking impossibly handsome. He’s not in team gear or a hoodie. He’s wearing dark grey trousers and a crisp white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. A shirt with buttons. He’s holding a single, perfect white rose.

His head is down, looking at his phone, but then he seems to sense you. He looks up, and his face breaks into that incredible, heart-stopping smile.

Your tired, aching body is forgotten. The stress of the day melts away. There is only him, smiling at you from across the driveway.

Just as you start walking towards him, the hospital doors slide open again behind you.

“Hey, Hughes, you forgot your …” Sandra’s voice trails off as she and Marcus step outside. They both stop dead, their eyes going from you, to the handsome man with the rose leaning against the expensive car, and back to you.

Sandra’s jaw drops. Marcus just points.

“Is that …” Marcus whispers loudly. “Is that Nico Hischier?”

You turn back, a blush creeping up your neck, and give them a small, apologetic wave.

Sandra’s face breaks into a gigantic grin. She grabs Ben’s arm, shaking it. “Oh my god! You go, Y/N! Get it, girl!” She whisper-yells, giving you two enthusiastic thumbs-up.

You just laugh, shake your head, and turn back to Nico, who is watching the exchange with a look of pure amusement.

“Friends of yours?” He asks as you reach him.

“My fellow inmates,” you reply. He hands you the rose, his fingers brushing against yours. The contact sends a familiar jolt through you. “It’s beautiful, Nico. Thank you.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” he says, his voice sincere. He opens the passenger door for you. “You look … wow. Not like you have been in a hospital for twelve hours.”

“It’s a medical miracle,” you say, sliding into the car. It smells like leather and his cologne, a combination that is dizzyingly pleasant.

The restaurant is perfect. It’s an intimate Italian place tucked away on a quiet street, with low lighting and white tablecloths. It’s nice, but not so fancy that it feels stuffy.

The conversation is even better. It flows easily, naturally, as if you’ve been doing this for years. You talk about everything and nothing. He tells you about growing up in a small town in Switzerland, about the immense pressure of being the first overall draft pick. You tell him about the relentless, crushing weight of medical residency, but also about the incredible, indescribable high of saving a life.

“Sometimes,” you admit, swirling the wine in your glass, “I feel like I’m an imposter. Like one day everyone’s going to figure out I have no idea what I’m doing.”

He nods, his expression full of a profound understanding. “I feel this every day,” he confesses. “When you wear the ‘C’ … everyone looks to you. On the ice, in the room. They expect you to have the answers. And some days, I am just a kid from Naters who is good at skating. It is terrifying.”

You look at him, really look at him, and you see past the confident athlete. You see the thoughtful, slightly insecure, incredibly kind man underneath. And you realize you’re falling for him. Hard.

The drive home is quiet, but it’s a comfortable, happy silence. He pulls up to the curb in front of your house. He doesn’t turn off the engine, but he turns in his seat to face you.

“I had an amazing time tonight, Y/N,” he says, his voice low in the dark car.

“Me too,” you whisper. “It was the best date I’ve ever been on.”

“Good,” he says with a soft smile. “I am hoping to set a high bar.”

He gets out and walks around to open your door, walking you up the short path to your front porch. The porch is dark, the house behind it quiet. Jack and Luke are probably in the basement, absorbed in some video game.

You stop in front of the door, turning to face him. The single porch step you’re on makes you almost eye-level with him.

“Well,” you say, a little breathless. “Thank you again. For everything.”

“My pleasure,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. His gaze drops to your lips, and your heart gives a familiar lurch.

He lifts a hand, his thumb gently grazing your cheekbone, right over the spot where his scar isn’t. “Can I …”

You don’t let him finish. You just nod, your eyes fluttering shut.

He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. But you don’t. You meet him halfway.

His lips are soft, hesitant at first, a gentle question. You answer by pressing back, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. The kiss deepens, and it’s everything. It’s sweet and romantic and full of all the unspoken things that have been building between you for the last month and a half.

And then, the world explodes in harsh, fluorescent light.

The porch light blares on, blindingly bright. You both pull apart, blinking in the sudden glare.

From inside the house, through the living room window, comes the unmistakable sound of your brothers absolutely losing it. Peals of howling, unrestrained laughter echo through the glass. You can see their two stupid silhouettes doubled over.

Nico groans, dropping his head in embarrassment. “Oh my god. I am going to kill them.”

You look from the window to his mortified face, and you can’t help it. You start to laugh, too. A real, genuine laugh.

“Welcome to my family,” you say, shaking your head.

“They are unbelievable,” he mutters, though a smile is starting to play on his own lips. He looks back at you, the porch light illuminating the blush on his cheeks.

“Yeah, well,” you say, your laughter subsiding. You reach up, cup his face in your hands, and pull him back down to you. “They’re my problem, not yours.”

You kiss him again. This time, there’s no hesitation. It’s confident and happy and you don’t care about the light or your idiot brothers watching from the window. You kiss him until you’re both breathless and smiling against each other’s lips.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” he says, his forehead resting against yours.

“You better,” you reply.

You give him one last, quick peck on the lips before turning, unlocking the front door, and slipping inside, the sound of your brothers’ fading giggles filling the entryway. You close the door, lean back against it, and bring your fingers to your lips. They’re still tingling.

You walk into the living room to find Jack and Luke sprawled on the couch, wiping tears of laughter from their eyes.

“Did you have a nice time on your date?” Jack asks, his voice trembling with suppressed mirth.

“Was that the first kiss?” Luke chimes in. “Did we ruin the first kiss?”

You just look at them, a slow smile spreading across your face. “The second was even better,” you inform them coolly.

You leave them to process that, walking up the stairs to your room, the sound of their indignant, surprised squawking following you all the way.

***

The last few months have been a blur of stolen moments and carefully guarded secrets. Your life is still a chaotic whirlwind of eighty-hour work weeks, life-or-death surgeries, and the constant, crushing pressure of residency. His life is an equally demanding cycle of practices, games, travel, and the immense responsibility of leading a professional hockey team.

And yet, somehow, you’ve made it work.

Your relationship has blossomed in the quiet spaces between your two hectic worlds. It exists in the sleepy 6 a.m. coffees you share before you head to the hospital and he heads to the rink. It lives in the late-night texts filled with exhausted but happy updates. It thrives on the rare, precious nights off when you order takeout, curl up on the couch, and just exist in the same space, the comfortable silence a balm on your frayed souls.

It's been perfect. It’s been private. It’s been yours.

Which is why you have a sinking feeling in your stomach as you stand by the glass at the Prudential Center on a cold Wednesday morning in March. You had a rare late start at the hospital, so you stopped by to drop off a coffee for Nico and tolerate your brothers for five minutes. You should have left already. You really should have. But you stayed to watch the first few minutes of morning skate, leaning against the cool glass, a warm cup of your own coffee cradled in your hands.

Your mistake was underestimating the chaos that follows your brothers like a shadow.

You see Kathy, the Devils’ bright and bubbly social media manager, set up with a cameraman near the tunnel where the players file onto the ice. She’s holding a whiteboard and a marker, flagging guys down as they pass. It’s a familiar sight, some silly, lighthearted content for the team’s Instagram or TikTok. You watch as she stops Dougie, who gives a thoughtful, diplomatic answer to her question, and then Jesper, who laughs and says something that makes her blush. It’s all harmless fun.

Until she spots your brothers.

“Jack! Luke! Got a second for me?” She calls out, her voice cheerful.

They skate over in unison, their movements perfectly synchronized, twin smirks already plastered on their faces. They live for this stuff. You take a long sip of your coffee, a sense of foreboding settling over you.

“What’s up, Kathy?” Jack asks, leaning against the boards.

Kathy beams, holding up her whiteboard for the camera. The question, written in neat red marker, is simple. 1. Who on the team would you NOT let date your sister? And 2. Who WOULD you?”

Your blood runs cold. You freeze, coffee cup halfway to your lips. Oh, no. No, no, no. This is not happening.

Luke laughs, a loud, booming sound. “Ooh, that’s a dangerous game. Our sister’s scary.”

“Yeah,” Jack chimes in, nodding seriously at the camera. “She’s a surgeon. She knows how to hide a body. You gotta be careful.”

“Okay, noted,” Kathy says with a laugh. “So, let’s start with the ‘no’ list. Who are you keeping away from Y/N at all costs?”

Jack taps his stick on the ice, pretending to think deeply. “Hmm. I’m gonna have to say Timo,” he says. “Not because he’s a bad guy, I love him. But his energy level is just … too much. He’d try to get her to go rock climbing or something after a 36-hour shift. She might actually commit a felony.”

“I’m with you on that,” Luke agrees. “I’m also gonna add Marky. For the sole reason that he’s a goalie. They’re weird. And I don’t want him trying to talk to her about his glove-hand positioning over dinner. Oh, and he’s married.”

You let out a quiet groan. This is already so much worse than you imagined. You can feel the eyes of a few of the team staffers who are milling around starting to shift in your direction. They all know. Everyone in the organization knows you’re with Nico. But it’s an open secret, an unspoken truth. It has never, ever been blasted out on the team’s official social media channels.

“Alright, solid reasoning,” Kathy says, trying to hold back her laughter. She flips the marker in her hand. “Now for the big question. Who gets the Hughes brothers’ stamp of approval? Who on the team would you let date your sister?”

This is it. The moment it all goes wrong.

Jack and Luke look at each other. An entire conversation, full of mischief and mayhem, passes between them in a single, silent glance. The smirks on their faces grow into identical, shark-like grins.

Oh, you are going to end them. You will use your surgical skills for evil.

“Well,” Jack begins, drawing the word out. He looks directly into the camera, his eyes twinkling. “I mean, there’s only one real option, right?”

“Yeah, it’s gotta be the Captain,” Luke says with a firm nod, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Nico’s a good guy. He’s responsible. He speaks, like, five languages. Mom would love that.”

“Totally,” Jack agrees. “He’s the only one we’d trust. He’s the best.” He pauses, letting the perfect, diplomatic answer hang in the air for a beat. Then, he leans a little closer to the camera, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “Except … we’re probably a little late on giving our permission.”

Kathy’s professional smile falters. She blinks. “Late? What do you mean?”

Luke leans in too, grinning from ear to ear. “Yeah, it’s not really a question of who we would let date her anymore,” he says, his voice dropping as if he’s sharing a huge secret. “Because he’s already doing it.”

They hold the pose for a dramatic second, then tap their sticks on the ice and skate away, cackling like hyenas, leaving behind a scene of pure, unadulterated chaos.

Kathy’s jaw is on the floor. She stares at the cameraman, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and journalistic glee. The cameraman just gives her a thumbs-up, a massive grin on his face. He definitely got it.

Your face is on fire. You want the ground to open up and swallow you whole. You want to teleport to another continent. Every single person in the arena seems to be looking at you, their expressions ranging from amused to sympathetic.

Just then, Nico skates out of the tunnel. He’s one of the last players to take the ice. He’s focused, adjusting his gloves, his expression serious. He sees Kathy and the camera, and then he sees the absolute pandemonium on the faces of everyone around them. His brow furrows in confusion.

“What is going on?” He asks, skating over.

Kathy, ever the professional, recovers in record time. She turns to him, a slightly dazed but excited smile on her face. “Nico! Perfect timing. We were just, uh, having a chat with Jack and Luke.”

Before she can say another word, you’re in motion. The humiliation gives way to a white-hot, laser-focused rage directed squarely at your two idiot brothers. You slam your coffee cup down on a ledge, march right up to the glass, and bang on it to get their attention.

They’re by the center line, laughing so hard Luke is practically bent in half over his stick. They look over at you, their laughter increasing when they see the look on your face.

“Jack Rowden Hughes! Luke Warren Hughes!” You yell, your voice muffled but your fury crystal clear. They just wave cheekily.

You point a trembling, threatening finger at them. “I know where you both sleep,” you say, your voice low and deadly, though loud enough for Nico and Kathy to hear. “And I have a very, very sharp scalpel.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

And then Nico starts to laugh.

It’s not a small chuckle. It’s a deep, genuine, heartfelt laugh that makes his shoulders shake. He looks from your furious face, to your brothers who are now pretending to be scared, and back to you. The look in his eyes is not one of embarrassment or anger at being outed so spectacularly.

It’s pure love.

He’s looking at you like you hung the moon and the stars. He’s watching you threaten your NHL-star brothers with surgical instruments, and he looks like he has never been more in love with anyone in his entire life.

He skates closer to the glass, his helmet off now, his hair damp with sweat. He just shakes his head, still smiling that incredible, heart-stopping smile.

“For the record,” he says, his voice loud enough for the camera to pick up. “She is not joking.”

***

The video drops at noon. The caption is a masterpiece of social media savvy. We asked. The Hughes brothers answered. And we think we just broke some news! 😅❤️ Congrats to the Captain and Y/N!

Your phone immediately begins to melt.

The clip doesn’t just get views; it goes supernova. It’s everywhere. Sports blogs write articles. ESPN runs a segment. The comments section is a wild, wonderful mess of fans who have apparently been shipping this relationship since the day you were born. The video of you threatening your brothers becomes an instant, iconic meme.

Your life, once so carefully private, is now spectacularly public.

That evening, you’re curled on the couch — the couch where it all started — under a blanket, staring into the middle distance. The house is quiet. Your brothers, sensing they were on the verge of an actual homicide investigation, made themselves scarce, claiming they had a “very important team dinner” to attend.

The front door opens and closes softly. A moment later, Nico appears in the living room doorway. He’s holding two bags of takeout from your favorite Thai restaurant. He takes in the scene — you, wrapped in a blanket, looking shell-shocked — and a gentle, sympathetic smile touches his lips.

“Long day?” He asks softly.

“You have no idea,” you mumble into a cushion. “My phone is a nuclear wasteland of notifications. My mother has called me twelve times. My chief of surgery sent me a link to the video with ‘Is this why you were late with your post-op notes?’”

He sets the food down on the coffee table and comes to sit on the edge of the couch, gently prying the cushion away from your face.

“I cannot believe them,” you say, looking up at him. “Of all the stupid, reckless, chaotic things they have ever done, this might be the worst. I am changing the locks. I’m writing them out of my will.”

He just listens, his expression patient, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. When you’ve finished your rant, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Are you really that mad?” He asks.

You sigh, the anger deflating out of you, leaving only a bone-deep exhaustion. “I don’t know. I’m … overwhelmed. It was our secret, you know? It was the one thing that was just for us. And now it feels like it belongs to everyone.”

“I know,” he says, his voice a low, comforting rumble. “But …” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I am not mad. Not at all.”

You look at him, surprised. “You’re not? They hard-launched our relationship to a million people using a whiteboard.”

“I know,” he repeats, a small smile playing on his lips. “And I was tired of hiding, Y/N. I was so tired of it.” He takes your hand in both of his, his gaze serious and full of a love that still makes your breath catch. “I am so proud that I am with you. I want to shout it from the rooftops. I want everyone to know that you are with me. Your brothers, in their own crazy, stupid way, they just did the shouting for me.”

You stare at him, the sincerity in his voice washing over you, soothing the last of your frayed nerves. He’s right. Hiding had been safe, but it was also exhausting.

“I love you,” you whisper, the words feeling more real, more solid, now that they’re out in the open.

“I love you, too,” he says, his smile widening. “And I think your brothers did me a favor.” He leans in closer, his forehead resting against yours. “Now the whole world knows you are mine.”

“And the whole world knows you’re brave enough to date a woman who threatened her brothers with a scalpel on camera,” you counter, a real smile finally returning to your face.

“It is the bravest thing I have ever done,” he murmurs against your lips.

He kisses you then. It’s not a first kiss, full of nervous, hesitant energy. It’s not a stolen kiss, tinged with the fear of being caught. It’s a kiss that is sure, and steady, and deep. It’s a kiss that feels like coming home. It’s a kiss that promises a future, one that’s no longer hidden in the quiet moments, but one that’s ready to be lived out loud, in the bright, unapologetic light.

You pull back, resting your head on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you. The smell of green curry fills the air, your phone lies forgotten on the table, and for the first time all day, you feel a profound sense of peace. Your brothers might be idiots, but for once, their chaos had led to something perfect.

“You know,” you say, your voice muffled by his sweatshirt. “This all started on this very couch. Me, half-dead from a night shift.”

“I remember,” he says, his lips brushing against your hair. “I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.”

“I was drooling, Nico.”

“Yes,” he says, his voice full of laughter and love. “You were. And it was perfect.”

Luke is balls deep when he notices. His fast and hard thrusts suddenly pause before he slows them and his eyes are fixated down no her tummy, not that y/n is even paying that much attention until she feels her build up start to slow down.

"Luke?" Y/n moans making him start again but he can't help it as he watches the bulge in her stomach, his increase in thrusts and returning to what it had been.

Y/n's build up picks up again before he presses his hand over her stomach and practically feels her clamp down hard enough to stop blood flow for him. She cries out, spasming around him as she feels him moving still and chasing his own high that comes only a few seconds later.

"What the hell was that?" Y/n breathes while Luke strokes his thumb over her stomach feeling himself twitch over the sensation.

"I never realised I could see myself in you, baby." Luke states not being able to stop himself from being cocky about it.

"Neither did I." Y/n mumbles though she's not surprised. Luke is hardly a small man in any regard, but he's especially well endowed. "I take it you've found your new favourite thing?"

"Oh yeah." Luke grins then kissing her before he rolls them over and shifts her hips so he's still planted as deep as possible in her. "Just a reminder of how tiny you are, baby."

Y/n practically scoffs at him before she kisses him only to be pushed up again and feeling him tracing the line.

"Luke..." Y/n whines wanting to lie down which makes him sigh a little but he doesn't stop her as she leans forward and lies down.

"I love you, baby." Luke smiles as he gently wraps his arms around her.

"I love you too." Y/n laughs lightly before placing a gently kiss on his chest.

-

Y/n groans getting back from pilates, her body aching and stiff. It's not actually a hobby she picked up voluntarily but a couple of other WAGs invited her and she agreed just to get herself out the apartment and really knowing she should workout somehow.

"You look good." Luke smirks seemingly appearing from nowhere as she places her bag down in the bedroom and giving her ass a gentle smack as he passes her, rounding the bed. "Think you could have another work out?"

"Luke." Y/n groans not even liking the idea of being so sweaty and in his vicinity. "I'm all gross."

"I don't think you look gross, you look hot." Luke states making her look at him with a raised eyebrow. "You think I'm lying?"

"No. I think you're being serious." Y/n mumbles since she is absolutely the type of woman who sees her man sweaty and wants to ride him till her stomach aches.

"What if you just sit on me and we just stay like that?" Luke offers as y/n peels of the workout clothes and he smirks sitting down seemingly completely ready for her if the bulge in his shorts is anything.

She doesn't make comment about it as she climbs on the bed, completely naked while Luke's eyes practically fuck her just as she moves towards him. Y/n doesn't waste time as she climbs on him and tugs his shorts down to reveal his length.

"Don't go too fast." Luke warns not wanting y/n to hurt herself as she aligns herself with his tip before sinking down and proving that she was not about the hurt herself because she was already very wet for him. "And we just stay like this."

Y/n smiles feeling Luke's thumbs gently rubbing circles on her thighs before he moves one hand to gently rub over the bulge of himself in her stomach.

"I think I could get used to this." Y/n hums with a gentle sigh while he traces over himself. "How's your day been?"

"Pretty good. Better now." Luke smirks then directing his gaze downwards again. "I think if I could find a way to stay like this forever I would."

"I can tell." Y/n smiles then shifting her hips a little while he watches seeing himself moving inside her. "I never imagined you'd be so fascinated by seeing yourself."

"It's not my fault that you're just so small you can't actually fit me." Luke smirks before realising that even just talking about it makes his dick twitch on the edge of cumming without so much as having to actually move. "Fuck, y/n. You feel so good."

Apparently Luke isn't the only one because y/n is so wet she's dripping down his length onto his stomach and down onto the bed.

"I really don't have it in me to do anything but sleep right now." Y/n warns despite her pussy feeling so completely desperate for more but her body is suffering from pilates. "I could go after a nap."

"I will happily wait for you to nap baby." Luke laughs while y/n finally lies forward and practically passes out on him.

Honestly if she wasn't so tired, then she'd have voiced issue with how sticky her skin is from dried sweat and the fact that Luke is stuffed into her while her pussy is drooling around him. But Luke couldn't care less, so long as he's planted in her to the root he's content to stay like this for as long as humanly possible.

you cleared your throat lightly.

"i signed us up for something tomorrow."

he didn't react at first, just tapped his screen to pause the video. "what time?"

"ten."

that made him glance over his shoulder at you; ten was manageable. early, but not unreasonable.

"it's a yoga class," you added.

he nodded once. it sounded good -- stretching, mobility, recovery.

you let a few seconds pass before finishing your sentence.

"it's a couples class, and it's fully nude."

the room didn't get quieter or louder, but something in the air shifted. quinn's shoulders went still. completely still. the kind of stillness that only happens when someone is recalculating.

he slowly set the tablet face down on the couch and turned around fully to look at you. his expression wasn't angry, it wasn't even shocked. it was analytical.

"fully," he repeated carefully.

you nodded, keeping your face neutral. he leaned back against the couch, forearms resting on his knees now. there was a faint tightening along his jawline. his brain was clearly running scenarios -- room layout, number of people, proximity, you in the middle of it all.

"with other people there?" he asked.

"yes."

that's when you could see it -- the smallest flicker in his eyes. not insecurity, not distrust, but protectiveness.

he wasn't loud about it, didn't raise his voice or snap. instead, he asked how many people, whether you'd already paid, if it was refundable.

every question he asked sounded calm, but the tapping of his fingers against his knee betrayed him.

when you told him it wasn't refundable, he leaned back and exhaled through his nose, head tipping toward the ceiling like he was absorbing a minor catastrophe.

"i don't see the purpose of being fully nude," he said finally, voice level. "why would stretching require...that."

you shrugged lightly, "it's meant to be freeing."

his eyes flickered to you again, sharper now. the idea wasn't sitting right with him. not because he didn't trust you -- you could see that clearly. it was the strangers. the setting. the lack of control.

he leaned forward slightly, voice lowering, "if i'm doing yoga with you," he said evenly, "it's not going to be in a public gym."

there it was. the line in the sand.

that was when your composure cracked. the laughter slipped out before you could stop it, and the confusion on his face lasted exactly two seconds before the realisation dawned on him.

his eyes dropped to your phone propped up against the arm of the couch.

"you're joking."

you nodded, still laughing.

he shook his head once, reaching forward to tug you closer to him. his arm slid around your waist instinctively, holding you there like he'd been bracing himself for something he didn't want to picture.

"you're unbelievable," he muttered, but his grip didn't loosen.

he wouldn't admit it outright, but he'd been quietly spiraling. he absolutely would have shown up just to stand between you and every imaginary stranger in that room.

NICO HISCHIER

the cafe was quiet, early morning light casting soft shadows across the table between you. nico sat across from you, posture relaxed but attentive, and fingers loosely wrapped around his coffee cup.

he always listened fully when you spoke. eye contact steady, focused. which is what made this more interesting.

"i'm trying something new tomorrow," you said casually.

he tilted his head slightly. "oh?"

"a yoga class."

he nodded approvingly, knowing the advantages that came with yoga.

"it's nude yoga. one of my friends invited me."

the pause was subtle. he didn't react immediately. didn't frown or raise his voice. he simply blinked once, then leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his hands together in front of him.

"nude," he repeated calmly.

"yup."

"and there will be other people?"

you nodded.

his jaw set slightly. not aggressively. just firmly.

"i trust you," he said evenly after a moment. "that isn't the issue."

there it was. he wasn't angry. he wasn't insecure. he simply didn't like the idea of it. you could see it in the way his thumb pressed against his knuckle -- a small tell of tension.

"i prefer privacy," he continued, voice measured. "especially with something like that."

the calmness made it more intense somehow. he wasn't pleading. he wasn't reactive. he was drawing a boundary. when you mentioned you'd already paid, his brows lifted subtly.

"then we should discuss it," he said, tone firmer now.

that was when you let out a chuckle. he stared at you for a long second before he realised why you started to laugh. you were just playing a silly prank on him to see how he'd react. upon the realisation, he exhaled slowly, tension dissolving.

"you are so mean," he said quietly, but there was the faintest smile tugging at his mouth now.

he reached across the table, taking your hand in his.

"next time," he added, thumb brushing gently over your skin, "leave me out of your little experiments."

and with that, he leaned back, still steady, still composed, but his hand lingered just enough to remind you that he'd been paying attention the whole time.

LUKE HUGHES

you told luke while the two of you were folding laundry together, sitting cross-legged on the bedroom floor. it was domestic and quiet, the kind of soft moment that made the prank feel almost cruel.

almost.

"i signed us up for something tomorrow," you said lightly.

he glanced up immediately, smiling. "what?"

"a yoga class."

he nodded, folding one of his hoodies neatly. "that's good."

you swallowed the grin threatening to surface. "it's couples yoga...and it's fully nude."

the hoodie slipped slightly in his hands. he blinked.

"nude?" he asked quietly.

you nodded.

there was no dramatic reaction, no pacing, no immediate argument. instead, luke went very still, staring down at the fabric in his hands like he was trying to reorganise his throughts before speaking.

"are there gonna be other people there?" he asked after a moment.

"uhh yeah i think so."

his throat bobbed slightly when he swallowed. you could almost see the internal spiral beginning -- steady overthinking.

he trusted you. that much was obvious. but the idea of strangers seeing you like that unsettled him in a way he didn't quite know how to articulate.

"i'm gonna be honest, i don't really like the sound of that," he admitted softly.

it wasn't controlling. it wasn't accusatory. it was vulnerable. you watched the faint flush creep up his neck. he rubbed the back of it absently, a nervous habit surfacing.

"are you sure you want to do that?" he asked.

there was genuine concern in his voice -- more about you than himself.

when you told him you'd already paid, his eyes widened slightly, stress flickering across his face.

he set the hoodie down and shifted to sit closer to you, his hand brushed against your almost accidentally. "i don't know if i'm okay with that," he admitted softly, voice low and careful.

you reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. "it's just a class," you said, trying to soothe the unease you could feel radiating off him.

he swallowed and nodded, but didn't let go of your hand. "i know," he said quietly. "it's just...hard to picture. i guess i just...want to be with you, not...everyone else."

there was no anger in his words, just sincerity. his eyes searched yours for understanding.

you smiled softly, brushing your fingers over his. "relax," you said, leaning a little closer. "it's a prank. i just wanted to see your reaction."

his eyes widened slightly, and for a moment his mouth opened like he wanted to say something, then closed again. relief flooded over his features, and the faint pink on his neck deepened, this time from embarrassment instead of panic.

"you...you're joking?" he asked, incredulous, voice low and still careful.

"yes," you said, stifling a laugh. "no nude yoga tomorrow. you can relax."

luke exhaled slowly, leaning back against you, a small, half-laugh escaping him. "i- okay, i- wow," he muttered, shaking his head, still processing. "you are absolutely impossible."

you grinned, letting the tension melt between you. "i know. but admit it -- you totally panicked."

he looked down at your intertwined hands, cheeks still flushed, and managed a small, reluctant, smile. "maybe a little," he admitted, voice quiet, almost sheepish. then he added, softer, almsot tenderly, "but i would've held your hand the whole time, just so you know."

you laughed, leaning your head against his shoulder. "good to know. that's reassuring."

he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, still keeping his hand around yours. "you're lucky i like you," he murmured quietly. "even when you're impossible."

and there you stayed, side by side on the floor, the prank done, the tension gone, and luke entirely flustered -- soft, protective, and completely yours.

JACK HUGHES

you told him while the two of you were in the kitchen, sunlight spilling across the countertops. jack was leaning against the island, absentmindedly spinning a water bottle in his hands while you pretended to scroll through your phone.

it was the perfect setup.

"i'm doing something tomorrow," you said casually.

he looked up immediately, "what?"

"a yoga class."

he shrugged. "hot yoga?"

you shook your head slightly. "not entirely...it's nude yoga which really helps you sweat everything out. i'm going with a friend."

the reaction was instant. his hand stopped mid-spin. the bottle clattered lightly against the counter as he blinked at you, trying to decide if he misheard.

"nude," he repeated. "like fully naked, no clothes at all?"

you nodded.

he pushed off the counter, pacing once across the kitchen like he needed movement to process it. his reactions were never subtle -- everything showed on his face.

"with who?" he asked.

"a friend, and of course everyone else attending the class."

you watched the shift happen in real time. the playfulness drained first, then the casual confidence. what replaced it wasn't anger -- it was agitation.

he ran a hand through his hair, jaw tightening. "how many people?"

you shrugged, "uhh i don't know, maybe like fifteen?"

he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "absolutely not."

the words came out fast, impulsive, and protective. he wasn't yelling, but he was definitely reacting. his body language said everything -- pacing, shoulders tense, eyes flicking back to you like he was trying to understand how you could possibly think this was fine.

"i trust you, obviously," he said quickly, almost defensively. "that's not what i'm concerned about."

you tilted your head, feigning innocence.

"it's some random dudes in a room," he continued, frustration threading through his voice. "why would you wanna do that?"

there was something almost boyish about how transparent he was. he wasn't calculating his response. he wasn't filtering it. he just didn't like it.

when you added that you'd already paid, he groaned and dragged a hand down his face, turning away for a second as if trying to cool himself down.

that's when his eyes landed on your phone angled suspiciously on the counter.

he froze.

"...are you filming?"

you broke immediately.

relief washed over his face first -- visible and dramatic -- followed by mild betrayal.

"you're insane," he muttered, stepping toward you and pulling you against his chest, not letting go of you.

his arms wrapped firmly around your waist, chin resting on your head like he needed to reassure himself the scenario wasn't real.

"for the record," he said more quietly, "i was not jealous."

you hummed into his shirt. he tightened his hold just slightly.

"okay, maybe a little."

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01.

Jack knows you can't skate. You leave the athletics to him, always have and always will.

So, why on God's green earth does he send you a voice message telling you there's a family skate on Friday??

You had three days to mentally prepare for peak mortal embarassment and you spent every second of it both praying it'd go well and side-eyeing your audacious boyfriend.

When Friday rolls around, you're reluctant to get out of bed. A text from Jack saying, "Morning, love. Open the door..surprise! 😘" pushed you to finally get up.

When you open the door, you are met with a food deliveryman.

"Uhh, for Jack Hughes?", he says, obviously confused by a woman opening the door.

"Yeah, sorry, he ordered for me. Thanks!", you say with a smile and a nod.

When you come inside, you giggle (against your own will...you're technically still 'mad' at Jack) and tear into the paper bag. You stop in your over-excited tracks.

You're favorite chai from that niche little shop that's too expensive for you to justify getting more than once a month and a lemon poppyseed babka meet your eyes.

You scramble to get to your phone to thank your boyfriend.

Instead you see a phone call notification. "G'morning, love. Big day", he teases.

"Thank you for the treats, but you're still on thin ice, pal", you tease back.

"Nah, ice won't be thin later. I told you it's at 12, right?"

"Ugh, yeah you did. Am I driving there?", you question.

He scoffs. "Hell no. Just be ready at 11:30, baby", he responds.

"Alright, Mr. Hughes. Have fun at your meeting", you tease. "Yeah, yeah", he replies before he hangs up. ❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.

02.

Before you know it, it's 12. The very dreaded family skate time.

You drag your feet in the parking lot to the sound of Jack's obnoxious laughter.

You insist they don't have your shoe size and that oh no, looks like you can't participate! Then, Jack informs you he had your skate set aside to ensure there was no backing out possible on your end.

After twenty minutes of you at your worst, Jack has laced your skates and your hand is gripping his like he's the only thing keeping you on the ice. Forget gravity, ya know?

"Jack, you can't let me go, okay? I'll slip a-and break my neck or something and you'll be single forever", you desperately mutter.

"Single forever?", he laughs through his question.

"Uh, yeah. Because if I die on this ice, I'll haunt you and this stadium forever. Good lucky trying to find a new girl when I'm haunting you, bud", you monologue.

You hadn't realize you were already skating by the time you stopped talking. Someway, somehow Jack had started moving the two of you along without you noticing.

"Good skating, Yn", Luke yells from across the ice.

"Huh? Oh- Jack! I told you to warn me before we started moving", you say through deep inhales.

"If I'd told you, we'd still be standing still. It's not too bad, huh?"

You hated to admit you were wrong, but it really wasn't all that bad.

"No, BUT, you better stay by my side, Hughes."

"Whatever you want, princess."

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03.

The "problem" with Jack Hughes is he's sweet. Too sweet.

He'd been on a roadie for two weeks. Without you realizing it, you two had established a roadie tradition.

He gets home, you two unwind together on the couch, and like clockwork he reveals his souvenir.

Tonight is no different.

"Jacky? Wine or coke?", you yell to the living room.

"Whatever you want, Yn!", he responds. So, you bring both.

"How was the roadie? I mean, I watched all the games I could but how was it for you?", you ask.

"Not awful, but too long. I swear, these roadies just get harder the older I get", he chuckles.

"You gonna start talking about the good old days now, Jacky?", you joke.

Mid-laugh he sits up straight like he just remembered something ultra important. He jumps up and runs to his backpack. You laugh, finding him absolutely and ridiculously adorable.

He comes back into the living room with his hands behind his back. "Close your eyes, baby", he tells you.

You go along with his antics and cover your eyes with your hands.

"Okay, you can open 'em now", he says.

You almost melt at the sight of him with a keychain in his hands. Not just any keychain, but a Jellycat twin marshmallow keychain.

"What's this?", you ask happily.

"For you. I found it at this place near the New York stadium and thought of you. You like these things right?", he asked, looking for your approval.

"I'd like anything you got me, you know that", you say before settling into his chest.

"It's us", he says without explantion. You look up at him, confused at what he's talking about.

"The marshmallows. You're the pink one, though", he explains.

You look up at him and realize that he's it. The mystical one for you. You'd found him at 24 and now at 26, he's just as sweet as he was on the first date.

You kiss his face till he's laughing so hard you worry he'll never stop laughing.

"Thank you, babe", you finally mutter into his chest. In response, you get a kiss on your forhead.

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04.

Jack's not picky with his food. But, before you, he had a set food schedule with no place for budging.

You, though, are a self-proclaimed foodie and have taken to making Jack into one too.

Case-in-point, today.

Luke's home (surprisingly, since he seems to dash when ever Jack gets mushy with you, which is always) and everyone's hungry.

You have the deck of take-out menus on the table in front of you as Luke settles in on the end of the couch. It's between Thai and Mongolian tonight, unbeknowst to the youngest Hughes brother.

"Spaghetti sounds good, no?", he asks you.

Suddenly, Jack appears behind your spot on the couch. "Wednesdays are 'Adventure Days'", Jack says like that explains everything.

Luke looks to you for explanation before you say, "Jack always wanted Italian or burgers and I always wanted to try something new. We settled on Wednesdays being my day to pick and Fridays being his."

As you speak, you feel Jack's warm gaze on you and he pecks your cheek before he sits down on the couch. Luke can sense the lovey-dovey of it all starting up again and leaves you both with a grunt and a murmur about chicken satay.

All Luke could think about as he walked back to his room was "He would've let me get my pasta back then. At least, he's happy.."

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05.

There's never any quiet at a Hughes family function. There's barely space, let alone silence.

Yet, you thrive at these. Birthdays, anniversaries, you name it, you love being with the Hugheses.

It's easy to figure out why. Your own family is small and you honestly don't spend much time together. Once your brother moved out, you quickly followed suit and moved away the year after. If you all see each other once a year, that's a lot.

On the other hand, the Hughes can't live without each other. Of course, Jack and Luke live together so you see Luke daily. But, Quinn and the boys' parents aren't ever too far away.

Today is their cousin Emma's birthday. You'd come prepared with a gift set from Sol de Janeiro and a makeup brush set. Having talked to her a few times you thought she'd liked these.

When Jack picked you up, he told you that you didn't have to get him a birthday present much less his cousin. You swatted him away and told him that was complete and utter nonsense. "Everyone deserves to feel special on their day, Jacky", you insisted.

Once you both got inside, it was hugs and smiles all around. You were immediately split up when Ellen caught sight of you and before you knew it she was telling you a childhood story in which Jack lost a tooth playing mini sticks. Jim then saw you with his wife and whisked you away to the kitchen to set you up a plate. Before you even got to eat your second bite, Quinn walked up to you and asked for some advice regarding his girlfriend. Not last and certainly not least, Luke dared you to play mini sticks against the little kids.

Jack next saw you when you got scored on by a toddler. He laughed at you, caught ahold of your sweater and lightly spun you around to be face-to-face with him. "Ms. Ln? Is that you?"

"Ha ha", you drily replied.

"Having fun?", he asked into the crown of your head.

"Yeah. I love your family. Everyone's so...warm", you confess.

"They love you. Mom's always asking how you are and Dad's always telling me you're a keeper. Y'know, even Quinn told me he's never seen me this happy?"

Your eyes water at the realization that the people who had begun to feel like family to you had long ago adopted you into theirs.

"What about Luke?", you ask in the wateriest voice Jack's ever heard come from you.

"Pfft, he loves to act like he hates how mushy you've made me. But, the other night" he says before looking around to make sure Luke can't hear him before he continues, "he said he hopes I marry you. Apparently, you're the coolest girlfriend I've ever had."

At this admission, you hug Jack just a little tighter.

You've never had anyone, much less your boyfriend, be so upfront about how much you matter to them. You think you could get used to it.

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06.

It's your company's end-of-year Christmas party and it's the first time Jack's been able to attend one with you. Being on IR has its perks!

You're all dressed up and you're putting on the finishing touches. Touch of gloss, heels, and perfume.

"Pictures?", Jack asks.

He knows the drill after years of being with you.

You don't love getting so fancy too often so when you do you like to take advantage of it with a good dozen or so pictures.

"Yeah, please", you smile up at him.

Suddenly, he's doing faux exercises to prepare for the big task of being your photographer. You giggle and hand him your phone.

"Okay. 1,2,3. Yeah, now smile softly. Hm, spin? Yeah! What about with the purse now? Okay, that's 25 pictures", he finishes.

As you look through them all, you realize Jack's come a long way from that guy who used to take blurry pictures of you and insisted he could "see you perfectly" in them.

You kiss him on the cheek and get a hold of his hand.

"I love you, sweetheart", you say as he locks up behind him.

"Love you more. Y'know that, right?"

The first time you wake up, it’s because of thunder.

Low and distant over the lake, vibrating softly through the walls of the lake house while the fan hums somewhere in the corner. The room is dark except for silver moonlight spilling through the curtains, enough to make out the shape of Luke beside you.

Bare chest. Curls sticking up all over the place. One arm heavy around your waist, even asleep, keeping you tucked close against him.

And god, that’s the problem.

Because you’ve been trying to behave all week.

Trying not to think about the way his swim trunks hang low on his hips when he’s carrying coolers down to the dock. About the lazy touches he gives you in passing, completely unaware of what they do to you. His hand settling on your thigh during movie nights. His mouth brushing your temple when everyone’s around. The teasing little “you okay, baby?” when he catches you staring too long.

You’ve been trying.

But now it’s the middle of the night, warm rain tapping softly outside, and you wake up aching.

Actually physically aching.

Your thighs press together instinctively beneath the blankets, and you let out the smallest frustrated breath into the dark.

Beside you, Luke shifts.

“Baby?” His voice is rough with sleep.

You close your eyes for a second. Of course he decided now would be the perfect time to be a light sleeper. “Go back to sleep.”

Immediately, he’s more awake, one hand sliding slowly over the surface of your waist. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Mm.” He pulls himself up onto one elbow, peering down at you with sleepy suspicion. “You’re squirming around.”

Heat floods your face.

“Lu,” you whisper miserably.

That alone tells him everything.

He softly exhales through his nose, his hand squeezing your hip gently, the mattress shifting when he tries not to laugh too hard.

“My poor girl,” he murmurs.

You groan quietly and bury your face in his chest. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not.” His lips brush your hair. “C’mere.”

He shifts onto his back and pulls you over him until you’re half sprawled across his chest, one of his hands smoothing slowly down your spine beneath your oversized sleep shirt that you had stolen from his closet earlier.

“You need me that bad?”

Your silence answers his question.

Luke lets out the quietest laugh, warm and sleepy and unfairly sweet. “Baby…”

“It’s your fault,” you mutter against his skin. “Walking around looking like that all day.”

“Looking like what?”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him.

His grin appears faintly in the dark.

“There she is.”

You try to hide your face again, but he catches your chin gently between his fingers before you can.

Moonlight catches the softness in his expression when he looks at you.

No longer teasing, just completely gone for you.

“My love,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your bottom lip, “you could’ve woken me up.”

“I just did.”

“Mm. True.”

His mouth finds yours slowly, lazily at first.

Sleepy kisses that melt deeper after only a few seconds because you can’t help it—you kiss him like you’ve been starving all week. Your fingers slide into his hair immediately, tugging softly, and Luke exhales against your mouth, chest rising sharply beneath yours.

“Easy,” he murmurs, though his hands tighten on your waist. “You’re basically shaking.”

“I know.”

“You wanna tell me what you need?”

Another whine leaves your throat before you can stop it, and Luke actually groans this time, forehead dropping briefly against yours.

“Jesus christ.”

Your hips shift instinctively against him, feeling out how hard he already is beneath his boxers, the sensation makes your head spin.

“Baby,” he breathes warningly, but he doesn’t stop you.

One large hand settles firmly on your hip while you move against him again, slow and desperate through the thin fabric between you both. The friction pulls a quiet gasp from your mouth, and Luke’s eyes close for a second, his jaw tightening while he fights for control.

“There you go,” he whispers. “That feel good?”

You nod quickly.

“So needy tonight.”

You kiss him again before he can tease you more, and he lets you climb further over him, lets your thighs spread around his hips while his hands drag slowly up and down your sides.

The rain outside gets heavier, but inside, everything feels warm and hazy and messy.

Luke’s mouth leaves yours only long enough to kiss along your jaw, your throat, lingering beneath your ear when you grind down harder against him.

“Fuck,” he mutters softly.

Your hands clutch at his shoulders.

“Lu, please—”

“I know, sweet girl. I know.”

His voice drops lower, soothing enough to make your stomach tighten.

One hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back gently so he can look at you.

“You’re so pretty when you need me.”

The praise goes straight through you.

Your movements get sloppier after that, desperate little drags of your hips making the bed creak softly beneath you both. Luke watches the whole thing with heavy eyes and parted lips, caught somewhere between calming you down and making it worse. He kisses you again, deep enough to steal the air from your lungs. When you whimper into his mouth, pulling back slightly to brush his thumb along your lower lip.

“So sensitive,” he whispers. “Look at you.”

Your thighs squeeze around him hard enough to make him groan.

“Baby,” he says against your mouth, voice strained now, "you keep moving like that and I’m not gonna last long.”

But his hands are still guiding your hips, still helping you grind against him slow and deep until your breathing turns shaky and uneven.

Every soft sound you make seems to hit him right in the chest.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Use me.”

Your forehead drops against his shoulder as you move faster without meaning to, chasing the pressure desperately while Luke holds you steady beneath him.

“There you go, my love,” he says softly, kissing the side of your head.

A shaky sound leaves your throat when he rolls his hips up into yours once, slow enough to make your stomach tighten painfully.

“Oh my God.”

Luke huffs out a laugh at that, though it sounds strained now.

“Yeah?” His hands spread wider over your hips, fingers digging in just enough to keep you moving against him. “Feel good?”

You nod helplessly against him.

The chain around his neck catches against the collar of your shirt every time your bodies shift together, riding higher on your thighs while his hands keep roaming over your waist and hips. Everything feels too warm, too tight, too sensitive.

Especially when Luke starts whispering to you.

“That’s my girl.”

“Pretty thing.”

“So desperate for me.”

Each one goes straight through you.

Your breathing breaks apart completely when he kisses under your jaw again, open-mouthed and lingering this time. He’s still half sleepy and still soft around the edges from being dragged out of bed, but there’s something wrecked in the way he touches you now.

He likes this far too much.

Your hips stutter when the friction finally starts building properly, enough to make your eyes squeeze shut. Luke notices immediately.

He whispers again, softer this time. “C’mon, sweet girl. Let go for me.”

You bury your face in his neck with a muffled whine.

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His hand slides up your back slowly, calming and grounding all at once. “I got you.”

The words hit something deep in your chest.

Suddenly it’s too much. His voice, the rain outside, the way he keeps kissing your forehead between every sentence as if he can’t stop touching you.

Your movements turn frantic for a second before Luke steadies you again.

“Easy,” he murmurs, repeating, “I got you.”

“Lu—”

“I know, baby. I know.”

Luke kisses you slow again, grounding and deep, but the second you grind down harder against him, he breaks with a low groan into your mouth. His forehead falls against yours, eyes squeezed shut for a second while he exhales shakily.

“You’re killing me.”

“Sorry,” you whisper automatically.

That makes him laugh softly despite everything.

“Don’t apologize.” His nose nudges against yours affectionately. “I like when you need me.”

Your hips move again before you can help it, a moan cracking from within you as your clit drags perfectly against his throbbing length through your clothes.

Luke curses quietly under his breath. “That’s the one, huh?”

You nod quickly, breathing unevenly now.

He keeps helping you through it, guiding your rhythm with both hands firm on your waist while his own hips start moving more openly beneath you.

Every rock forward pulls another broken sound from your throat.

You finally lift your head enough to see him properly.

His hair is messy, lips swollen from kissing you, chest rising hard beneath your hands.

Completely undone for you, and the sight nearly makes you cum alone.

“Luke…” Your voice breaks around his name.

“I know.” His hand slides into your hair again immediately, gentle despite the tension running through him. “I know, my love. I got you.”

The praise and softness and pressure all blur together at once.

Your movements lose rhythm completely, desperate now. The second your forehead drops into his neck with a choked little sound, core snapping, twitching from your orgasm with unsteady breaths, Luke’s composure finally snaps too.

“Oh, fuck.”

His hands grip your hips hard enough to still you for a second while a sharp breath punches out of him. His head tips back against the pillow, spilling into his boxers while he rides it out beneath you, every muscle tense under your hands.

“That’s it,” he whispers hoarsely, pulling you back down against his chest almost immediately after. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

You can feel the uneven rise and fall of his breathing against your cheek while his hands rub slowly up and down your back again, gentler now.

Rain fills the silence for a few seconds.

Thunder rumbles somewhere out over the water.

Then quietly, still catching his breath, Luke presses a kiss to your temple.

“Feel better?”

A sleepy little laugh leaves you against his skin.

“So much better.”

“Yeah?” His arms tighten around you beneath the blankets. “Good.”

You stay tangled together in the dark for a long time after that, Luke lazily tracing shapes onto your spine while the storm rolls softly over the lake outside.

Every few minutes he kisses your forehead absentmindedly, warm and lingering.

“My sweet girl,” he murmurs eventually, his voice drifting and sleepy again. “Next time just wake me up sooner.”

thank u for reading!! feel free to chat in my inbox!! i am always down to be a freak or talk whenever! ✭