#viennawrites

Sidney walks like he always does, calm, focused, like none of this is new. The cameras, the staff, the way people subtly shift when he passes, it’s all just background noise.

“Stay close,” he throws over his shoulder, barely looking.

You almost smile because some things never change.

“I’m here,” you reply, a little quieter than you mean to.

You’ve done this before, walked the hallways next to him but not really with him, watched him become someone else the second he steps toward the ice or toward a teammate.

He doesn’t hover around you as much as he used to either. But there’s still something in the way he gives you one last look before he turns away, like a final check, like he’s making sure you’re good before he lets himself put on his Captain persona.

Down the hallway everything is moving fast. There’s players, staff, equipment, guys hauling bags that look heavier than they should be. Voices overlapping in different accents and languages, all carrying the same edge of competition.

You try not to stare, try not to feel like you don’t quite belong here, even though you technically do. You’ve always belonged to his world. You’ve been by his side for everything.

“Locker room’s this way,” he says, gesturing for you to follow. “You can hang back if you want. It’ll be busy.”

“I’ll stay out of the way,” you say.

“Stay where you’re comfortable.” He corrects. “You know the setup.” Then he disappears into the chaos, leaving you standing by yourself.

You decide to take a little walk, not straying too far, but just wanting to get the lay of things. As you turn a corner, adjusting the strap of your purse and not really paying attention, someone runs straight into you, hard enough to knock you back a step.

“Shit—sorry—”

A hockey bag swings slightly between you and the guy who just walked into you, the bag strap still slung over his shoulder. You steady yourself, looking up, and immediately recognize him.

He’s Macklin Celebrini, and he looks just as surprised. Like he expected to run into a wall or something, not you.

“Sorry,” he repeats, shifting the weight of the bag off his shoulder a bit. “I didn’t see you.”

“You’re good,” you say, brushing it off, though your heart’s beating a little faster now.

He nods quickly, but he doesn’t leave. There’s this half-second where he actually looks at you and something in his expression changes. Recognition, maybe, or confusion.

“You’re—” he starts, then stops himself, like he’s not sure if he should say it.

You don’t help him, just raise one eyebrow slightly.

He lets out a small breath, almost laughing at himself. “Sorry. I just—” His grip tightens a little on the strap of his bag. Then, more carefully, “You’re with… him, Crosby, right?”

It’s subtle. The way he carefully says your dad’s name, like it carries weight.

You glance past him for a second, your dad’s reemerged from the locker room and is now a few steps ahead, talking to someone, not paying attention to you. You look back at Macklin.

“Yeah,” you say simply. That’s all you give him.

But he still nods, like that confirms everything he needed to know.

“Right. Yeah. Okay.”

He shifts his weight, like he should keep moving, like he knows he should. But he doesn’t, he lingers just for a second longer.

“Sorry again,” he says, softer this time.

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

And it is, but something about the moment sticks anyway. The way he looked at you, it wasn’t the way everyone else does when they realize who you are. Not impressed. Not awkward. He was curious. Like you don’t match whatever he expected. You don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“Everything okay?”

Your dad’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts.

You turn, catching up to him in a couple quick steps. “Yeah. Just ran into someone.”

He glances back briefly, instinct more than anything. Macklin is already gone, just another player disappearing down the hallway.

“Alright,” your dad says, easy. “Stay with me.”

You nod. And that’s all he says, he doesn’t think twice about it, doesn’t notice anything. And he definitely doesn’t see the way you glance back once more before turning the corner.

Or the way, somewhere down the hallway, Macklin does the exact same thing.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

The restaurant is packed full of the entire Team Canada hockey team, coaches, staff. Everyone is laughing and talking over each other. The smell of garlic bread and fresh pasta, the soft candlelight reflecting off polished tables, the clinking of glasses…it’s all a little too much. Too loud.

You take a deep breath and shift in your chair. “Excuse me,” you say to your dad, setting your silverware down. “I think I’m gonna run to the bathroom quick.”

He glances at you and nods. “Alright, don’t be long.”

You give him a small practiced smile and slip out of the restaurant. The cool night air hits your face as soon as you step outside, and you let out a quiet sigh of relief. You don’t head toward the bathroom at all, you just need a minute, a quiet spot to breathe.

The balcony you step out onto is empty, the city lights stretched out below looking like a bunch of tiny stars. You lean against the railing, letting the soft night air chase away the tightness in your chest.

And then the door opens behind you.

“Oh. Hey.”

You turn to see Macklin leaning against the doorway a few feet away, team Canada gear still on.

“Well, this doesn’t look like the bathroom,” he says, a small grin tugging at his lips.

You raise an eyebrow. “Were you following me?” you ask, joking, though your voice carries traces of mock accusation.

“No!” he says quickly, holding up his hands. “I just… saw you leave. Well, I was worried, I guess. You looked…uh, I don’t know, like you needed a minute.”

You study him for a second, and a quiet laugh escapes you. “Huh. Concerned hockey player, isn’t that a little out of the norm?”

He chuckles, shrugging like he’s embarrassed and confident at the same time. “Maybe. You just looked like you might vanish into the night.”

You roll your eyes, smiling, then glance back at the city, trying to focus on the lights instead of the way Macklin’s presence somehow is making the night feel warmer.

He's walks closer, leaning against the railing too now, and then he adds after a pause, “I mean…I get it, honestly. I thought I could handle it, but, holy shit. That table was loud.”

“Understatement of the year,” you mutter, letting your shoulders relax a little more.

He glances at you, like he wants to say something more, then shakes his head. “So… how do you do it? All these years, Olympics after Olympics, big dinners, all eyes on your dad…” He gestures vaguely back toward the restaurant. “You just…survive?”

You tilt your head, considering. “I don’t know. You kind of just… learn to blend in. Pick a spot, look like you belong even when you don’t feel like it.”

He nods slowly. “Sounds like a skill.”

“It’s a survival skill, I had lots of practice,” you say with a half-smile.

There’s a pause, and then he smirks, glancing down at the railing between you. “Well…you make it look easy.”

You glance at him, caught off guard. “Is that a compliment or a warning?” you ask, teasing lightly.

“Depends,” he says, shrugging. “Do you take compliments?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Sometimes.”

He grins, and for a second, it’s just the two of you. No team, no cameras, no legacy looming over either of you. Just Mack, leaning against the railing, and you, right next to him, sharing a quiet moment in the middle of a chaotic night. And for some reason, the culmination of all of it makes you decide to open up.

“You know, people see my last name and think they know me. But no one really does. This,” you gesture vaguely to the balcony and the night beyond it, “this is the only part that feels like it’s mine. It’s peaceful.”

He nods, understanding without needing more explanation. “Yeah… I totally get that. People expect so much from you out there. On the ice, or in the spotlight reflecting off your dad, and sometimes you just want a break. Somewhere you don’t have to be anyone’s version of you besides your own.”

You glance at him, caught off guard at how thoughtful he sounds. “You make it sound easy to take a break,” you say lightly, though you know it isn’t.

He shrugs, grin playful but eyes serious. “Easy? No. But…easier when you find someone who doesn’t expect all of that from you. And apparently,” he glances at you, “you’re good at being… just you.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Careful, you’re stacking compliments tonight.”

“Maybe I am,” he says quietly, “but it’s true and you know it.”

The quiet hum of the city lingers around you both, a comfortable pause stretching just long enough that you almost forget the chaos waiting inside. You start shifting on your feet slightly, the cool breeze finally getting to you.

“I should probably head back inside,” you say lightly, tucking a piece of hair from your face back behind your ear. “But…I think maybe I’ll run to the bathroom first. That way you can go back in ahead of me. Don’t want my dad thinking we’re sneaking out together or anything.”

He smirks knowingly. “Ah… strategic. I get it.”

“Exactly,” you reply with a teasing grin. “You understand without me having to spell it out.”

He laughs softly. “Yeah… don’t worry. I won’t blow your cover. Don’t fall in.”

“I’ll try not to,” you reply, rolling your eyes playfully, though the smile on your face betrays how good it feels to have him understand without needing a full explanation.

He gives a short nod, leaning back against the railing. “Go for it. I’ll head in first. Don’t take too long, I like your company.”

You grin, giving him a little wave before slipping back toward the restaurant entrance. He smirks, eyes following you for a brief second before he turns and heads back inside, leaving you a few steps behind. You duck into the bathroom quickly, taking a deep breath.

When you slip back inside the restaurant, the warm air pleasantly hits you again. Laughter and conversation swirl around you, and for a moment, it feels like you’re rejoining a completely separate world. Your dad is still talking to one of the coaches, completely caught up in conversation, so you slide back into your seat at the end of the table. You tuck your hands in your lap, fidgeting lightly, trying to fade into the background, just another body among the team.

And then you see him. Macklin. Across the table again, in his seat. He catches your gaze and gives you a small nod, the tiniest acknowledgment of the conversation the two of you just had. For a moment, just long enough for the world to blur a little, it’s just the two of you. A quiet, private moment, even in a crowded room.

He looks away quickly, back to the conversation with the guy next to him, but the corner of his mouth quirks up in that same easy, teasing way he does. No one else notices.

Dinner finally winds down and plates are cleared, glasses clinking one last time, and the room slowly shifts from loud and chaotic to the exhausted, post-meal high of a team who’s ready to call it a night.

Your dad stands, clapping a hand lightly on the back of one of the coaches next to him. “Alright, everyone. Big day tomorrow. Let’s get some rest.”

You follow the motion toward the exit, your dad telling you something about having a conversation with a coach, so you hang back, letting the crowd thin. Your stomach is still fluttering from the food, the noise, and the tiny stolen moments with Macklin.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Mack lingering near the doorway, he catches your gaze, a small grin spreading onto his face.

“Heading out?” he asks quietly as you fall into step beside him.

You shrug, glancing down at your shoes. “Yeah…trying not to get swallowed by the crowd.”

He smiles. “Fair enough. I’ll make sure you survive the hallway stampede.”

There’s a pause as the two of you walk in the quieter part of the corridor, shoulders almost brushing but not quite. It’s subtle, just enough to feel like a shared secret.

“Hey,” you say, a little quieter than you mean for it to come out, “thanks for… you know… stepping out with me earlier. The balcony.”

Mack laughs quietly, shaking his head. “No problem. Good to have a little calm before the storm.”

“Yeah. I liked it.”

He smiles softly, the electricity from earlier still humming. “Me too.”

Your dad and the team are already a few steps ahead again, talking and laughing, oblivious. You let Macklin step into the elevator, waiting for your dad.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks quietly, leaning against the elevator wall.

You grin. “Yeah… see you tomorrow.”

And with that, the doors close, leaving you alone for a moment, just long enough to think that maybe, for the first time, you’re not just Crosby’s kid. You’re yourself. And Macklin sees that.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

3:43pm. Milano Santagiulia Ice Hockey Arena. Canada vs Czechia.

The puck drops and the arena comes alive. You’re seated with your dad’s family, close enough to see everything clearly, far enough that cameras don’t linger on you for too long. You’ve done this before. You know where to look, how to sit, how to react without drawing too much attention. You’ve been to major games with your dad before. You know the rhythm of it.

But this feels different. Because this time it’s not just your dad out on the ice. Macklin is out there too. And he’s on the first line. With Connor McDavid and Tom Wilson. And he’s the youngest player on Team Canada. You feel the butterflies in your stomach before the puck even hits the ice.

A few minutes in there’s a penalty on Czechia. Power play, but nothing comes from it. Your dad wins a battle along the boards mid-period and sends a quick pass into transition. You clap instinctively. That kind of play doesn’t show up on highlight reels, but you know how much it matters. You’ve always known. Canada keeps playing, the clock ticking down, and you’re growing increasingly restless. The period is almost over when Connor gets an assist to Mack.

You don’t even process it at first. Then you see him, Macklin, turning away from the net. His hands are up. Connor McDavid is skating toward him, yelling something. Your chest actually tightens and you feel like you’ve stopped breathing.

He tipped it. His first Olympic goal. He is the youngest player on Team Canada and he just scored their first goal at the fucking Olympics. And he did it with five seconds left in the period.

You’re on your feet before you realize it. Screaming, loud, and you don’t even care. Your hands are in the air, heart racing, face lit up completely unfiltered.

And Mack sees it. Not your section, not just the crowd. You. In the middle of all the chaos, his eyes find yours. It’s quick, just a split second, but it’s undeniable. His grin shifts, just slightly wider. Just slightly softer.

Like he knows exactly who that reaction was for. Everyone else might think it was for the team, for Canada, but he knows.

Canada leads 1–0 going into intermission.

In the second period your dad picks up a secondary assist. Quick puck movement but Sidney reads it perfectly and threads it through the traffic. You stand again, proud this time in a different way. Applauding him with a steady, familiar pride that’s lived in your chest your entire life.

He doesn’t look up at the stands, you know he knows you’re there. He knows you’re cheering.

The game continues in Canada’s favor, 5–0. The win is sealed. The crowd starts to rise before the clock even runs out. And when the final horn sounds, you’re on your feet again.

And this time you don’t hold back. You clap hard, cheering for Team Canada, for your dad, for the shutout, and for Macklin.

As he passes by your section with the team he looks up again. This time you don’t even pretend to tone it down. You’re smiling, clapping, eyes bright, proud. Proud of your country and your dad…and him.

His gaze catches and lingers a fraction longer than it should. Then he taps his stick once on the ice before turning back toward center. No one around you notices. Your dad is shaking hands on the ice. The team is celebrating.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

The restaurant your friends picked out is small, quaint even. Not fancy enough to make you more nervous than you already are, but it’s not casual either. You walk up to the hostess stand.

“Reservation for Will?” You ask, trying, and slightly failing, not to sound too anxious.

She smiles warmly at you. “Right this way.”

Your heart starts pounding. He’s already here? You’re already ten minutes early, how long has he been waiting? And right in the middle of your spiraling, you see him.

He’s tall, blond hair slightly messy, wearing a nice sweater. He looks up as you approach and he freezes. Then he stands up so fast he almost knocks his chair backwards.

You freeze too for half a second because oh my fuck he’s beautiful. Not just like objectively attractive, he’s stupidly, unfairly pretty. Clear skin, great jawline, and soft blue eyes that are staring straight at you. And he looks just as nervous as you feel.

“Hey.” He says, then he laughs under is breath at that. “Hi, sorry. You must be-”

You tell him your name and he repeats it back to you.

There’s a second where he clearly doesn’t know what to do next. He steps forwards like he’s going to hug you, but then he hesitates and offers a handshake, but then he pulls back like that’s too formal. You start laughing slightly.

He grins. “I swear I’m not normally this awkward.”

“Yeah?” You tease.

And just like that, all the nerves dissolve. He ends up giving you a quick hug. Then the two of you sit down.

“I’m happy you’re real,” he says, shaking his head like he’s stunned. “I was almost convinced my buddy catfished me.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Excuse me?”

He gestures at you. “He said I’d like you. He did not mention you’re literally gorgeous.”

You feel your cheeks heat instantly and you look down at the table. “Laying it on thick already, huh?”

He smiles at that. “Never, I’m just being honest.”

You laugh, full and unguarded, and he visibly relaxes like that was the goal all along. After that, dinner flows like you’ve known each other for years.

He’s hilarious in that effortless way, quick, dry, very self-aware. He leans in when you talk and he actually listens, nodding along and asking followup questions.

He tells you he was skeptical too.

“Yeah, I was terrified it was gonna be, like, the worst experience of my life. But it’s definitely not.” He says, taking a sip of water.

“Right?” You agree. “I was worried you’d chew with your mouth open or something.”

“Chew with my mouth open?” He exclaims, appalled at even the thought of that. “I have excellent manners. I’m media trained.”

“Media trained? What are you, an actor?” You ask, laughing.

He gives you a sheepish smile. “I’m an athlete.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like, professional?”

He nods. “Yeah…I play for the Sharks. Hockey.”

You just stare at him. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, smiling, clearly finding the whole situation amusing. “I would never lie, remember? I’m honest.”

“And my friends didn’t think to mention that?” You say, smiling now too.

He shrugs. “I told them not to. I wanted you to meet me as me, not…that.”

The way he says it is soft, like he’s almost shy now. And that’s the moment it shifts for you, because he could’ve led with that. He could’ve flexed it or walked in expecting you to be impressed. But instead, he was nervous about whether to hug you. Your expression softens as you stare at him.

“What?” he asks, smiling like he already knows.

“Nothing,” you say. “I just… wasn’t expecting this.”

“Good kind of unexpected I hope?” he asks, quieter now.

You hold his gaze. “The best kind.”

His smile softens into something warmer. By the time dessert comes, you’re leaning toward each other across the table like magnets. Your knees brush under the table and neither of you move away. It doesn’t feel like a first date anymore.

When you step outside, the night air is cool and quiet.

He rubs the back of his neck like he’s nervous again. “So.”

“So,” you echo.

“I had a really good time,” he says honestly.

“Me too.”

He steps closer. “Can I be honest?”

“Aren’t you an ‘honest guy’?”

He rolls his eyes playfully. “I was hoping you’d be great. But I didn’t expect this to feel… so easy.”

“Easy?” you repeat.

“In a good way,” he says quickly. “Like I don’t have to try to be anything, like I can be myself.”

Your heart does something ridiculous in your chest.

“You don’t have to be anyone else,” you say softly.

There’s a beat of silence.

And then, because he’s Will, he grins. “Okay, but can I kiss you or is that too forward for someone who didn’t know whether to hug you an hour ago?”

You laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Is that a yes?”

You step closer, nodding. His hand slides gently to your waist, hesitant for half a second. When he kisses you, it’s soft and perfect.

“Yeah,” he murmurs after he pulls away. “Best blind date ever.”

NHL Follow Tracker

@/_willsmith2 followed @/randomgirl at 2:14pm 👀👀

Under it, a thread is growing. Speculation, zoomed in profile pics, comparisons, nasty comments.

Is she his type?

They liked each others pics in 2021

Y/n deserves better

You swallow thickly. It’s so stupid, it’s literally nothing. He follows people all the time. He’s in the NHL, he’s allowed to publicly exist. Then there’s another notification.

NHL Follow Tracker

@/_willsmith2 unfollowed @/randomgirl at 2:16pm

You actually laugh, but it’s strained. This is insane, they track everything, every follow, every like, every time he breathes near a woman.

And usually you’d roll your eyes, maybe send him a screenshot with a “babe you’re trending again for existing”

But right now? You feel something awful and tight climbing into your chest.

You click Will’s profile. You hate doing it, but you do. You scroll through his following, you notice names you don’t recognize. You click on one girl and she’s pretty, of course she is.

You close the app so fast it’s embarrassing. And then you just sit there staring at your reflection in the black screen.

You’re not jealous. You don’t get jealous. You’re being irrational, you–

Your phone cuts off your spiral with a buzzing.

Incoming FaceTime: Will🦈

You consider ignoring it, but you can’t do that. You answer.

His face fills the screen immediately, messy hair and handsome smile, like the universe created him by hand to ruin your emotional stability.

“There she is!” He grins. “My favorite girl.”

You force a smile. “Hi.”

He narrows his eyes, reading you instantly. Fuck.

“Why do you look like you just hit a puppy with your car?”

You let a little laugh slip despite yourself.

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” He insists. “That’s your ‘I’m fine but actually I’m spiraling in a very contained way’ voice.”

You stare at him. “How the fuck do you do that?”

He softens instantly. “What happened?”

You don’t want to tell him because this is dumb. It’s embarrassing for Christ’s sake, jealousy is beneath you. But your chest feels so tight.

“You follow so many girls.” You blurt out.

Silence, he blinks a few times.

“Is that… that’s a crime?”

“You know what I mean.” You say quickly. “There are whole accounts that are dedicated to tracking it. They post everything. They–” your voice cracks and you hate it. “It just makes me feel so stupid sometimes.”

He doesn’t make a joke or try to brush it off. He just listens as you continue.

“Like I’m sitting here, trying to be chill about it.” You say, words spilling out now. “And everyone’s just dissecting your every move. And they’re putting me into some competition that I did not sign up for.”

He leans forward towards the camera. “Hey.”

You look up.

“I need you to hear me very clearly.” He says, suddenly serious. “You are not in competition with anyone.”

You swallow, looking back down at your hands, picking at the skin by your nails.

“People online are bored. They have no life.” He continues. “We are their hobby. They need storylines and drama and plot twists, like it’s some little reality show they’re making up.”

You take a shaky breath, looking back at him.

“But this is real life, and in my real life I am obsessed with you. And only you.” He says softly.

You smile small. “You’re so dramatic.”

He nods. “But I’m also correct.”

He reaches off screen and grabs his iPad, opening instagram to his following. He shows you the screen and scrolls.

“See this? Teammates, teammates, more teammates, old teammates. Meme account. My mom, Grace. You.” He taps your name. “This is the only person I care about impressing.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious.” He says. “Half the time I don’t even realize I followed someone. Sometimes I click on accident. There are a few teammate’s sisters, our media admin, a few dog accounts.”

You raise an eyebrow and he grins.

“Okay, you got me. The dog ones are intentional.”

You laugh again and the tightness in your chest disappears a little. Will goes quiet.

“Did I do something to make you feel insecure?”

“No.” You say quickly. “You didn’t. It’s just… constant eyes on our every move. Like there’s no off switch. And I’m trying to act like I don’t care, but sometimes I do.”

His expression transforms to something that makes your heart ache.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because I don’t want you to think I’m jealous or controlling. I’m trying to be unbothered.”

He scoffs. “I don’t think you’re controlling. I don’t want unbothered. I want you to be honest. If something upsets you, you tell me. You don’t have to compete with armchair detectives.”

You look at your lap again.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” He asks.

You shake your head.

“The girl who watches my 9pm games even though she has class at 7am the next day. The girl who texts me reminders to drink water like I’m a little kid. The girl who fell asleep on FaceTime last week and drooled a little.”

Your jaw drops. “Delete that one from your memory now.”

“Never.” He says, smiling softly. “I don’t care about random follows or theories. I just care about you.”

There’s a moment of silence, then because he can’t help himself,

“And if it makes you feel better, I can just unfollow everyone and live off-grid like a mysterious forest hermit.”

You laugh. “You would last two days.”

“Rude.” He gasps. “I’m very outdoorsy.”

“You got lost trying to find my house the first five times you came over.”

“That was Google Maps fault, not mine.”

You shake your head, smiling now. He leans towards the camera again.

“Hey, you’re allowed to have feelings. It doesn’t make you insecure, it makes you human.” He says gently.

“Okay.” You whisper.

“And for the record,” he adds with a smirk. “If anyone should be jealous, it’s the rest of the world. Because I already won.”

You roll your eyes. “Won what?”

“You.”

Your face heats up instantly. “You’re so cheesy, Will.” You groan.

“Yeah, but you love it.” He says grinning.

And you do. You’re laughing again, and he's smiling at you like an idiot with that perfectly messy hair.

“Next time something happens, just call me. We’ll figure it out together.” He tells you.

“Deal.”

“And if you want,” he adds, lowering his voice mischievously. “I can get Mack to start a rumor that I’m secretly married to you.”

“Please don’t.” You laugh.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

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

“Morning,” you said automatically, glancing up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

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

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

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

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

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

“Here, set it down,” you said.

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

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

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

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

“Oh my god…” she whispered.

You glanced at her, confused. “What?”

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

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

You frowned. “Connor…who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re serious?”

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

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

He raised his hands in surrender. “Deal.”

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good choices.”

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

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

“Got it,” you replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deal,” he said, grinning.

On the ice, the play is fast. Back and forth, quick passes, clean movement. The kind of hockey that’s easy to get lost in.

Your eyes follow the puck as it cycles around the zone.

A shot lines up. Controlled. Routine.

Until it’s not.

And then the puck is coming straight at you. And for some reason, your brain decides now is the perfect time to slow everything down. It’s like a horror movie. Or a comedy depending how you think about it.

You see the shot leave the stick. Fast. Clean. Then…

something changes.

A tiny deflection off another stick, off of Macklin Celebrini’s stick, and suddenly the puck isn’t going where it was supposed to go.

It’s flying straight at you.

You have just enough time to process it in a weird, detached way.

That is absolutely going to hit me.

There’s a split second where you consider ducking.

Another where your body betrays you and just… doesn’t move.

And then —

crack.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

Sound comes back first. All at once.

“HEY! HEY—”

“Get someone over there—”

“Are you okay?”

Your vision flickers, like a bad wifi connection trying to stabilize. Shapes blur, then sharpen, then blur again. You blink hard.

Then the pain hits. You grab at your face but that makes it hurt worse.

“Hey, stay with me,” someone says, closer now. “Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, though it comes out slower than you expected.

“Good. Alright, let’s get you up.”

Hands help you to your feet. The arena feels too bright, too loud, like everything’s turned up just a little too high.

You wince as you’re guided down the steps, one hand hovering near your head, afraid to touch.

“Easy, watch your step…”

“I’m good,” you insist, even though your balance says otherwise.

“Yeah, we’re still gonna check you out.”

The walk to the med room is a blur of hallways and muffled noise. By the time you’re sitting on the table, puck clutched in your hand, bandaged with an ice pack pressed carefully to your head, things are starting to settle.

Not perfect. But manageable.

“Any dizziness?” the medic asks.

“A little.”

“Headache?”

“Holy fuck yeah.”

He nods. “Expected. You took that pretty clean. You’ve already got a good goose egg forming.”

“Love that for me,” you mutter.

He smiles slightly, jotting something down.

“We’ll keep an eye on you for a bit. Just to check for signs of a concussion. Just relax.”

The room quiets after that.

The chaos of the arena fades into a distant hum. Your heartbeat slowly evens out. The cold from the ice pack seeps into your skin, grounding you.

You’re just starting to feel the pain subside when the door opens.

Not gently. Not dramatically either, just… quickly. Like someone didn’t bother thinking about it before doing it.

“…hi.”

You look up. And there he is.

Macklin Celebrini stands in the doorway, still in partial gear, jersey on, gloves gone and helmet missing, hair completely messy like he’s run his hands through it a dozen times already.

He looks…nervous.

His eyes land on you immediately, scanning your face, the ice pack, the way you’re sitting, like he’s trying to assess damage.

“You’re alive,” he says. “Thank fuck.”

You blink.

“…last I checked.”

He exhales, actually exhales, shoulders dropping a fraction.

“Okay. Good. That’s…great. Huge win for both of us.”

You squint at him.

“Did you come down here to confirm I exist?”

“Yeah, actually,” he says, stepping inside like that’s completely normal. “Step one of my post-game routine now. Check for casualties.”

You huff out a laugh, then immediately regret it as pain shoots through your head, you wince slightly.

His entire posture shifts.

“Okay, no laughing,” he says quickly. “Or, like… controlled laughing? Is that a thing? Minimal laughing?”

“I’ll try to laugh responsibly,” you murmur.

“Thank you,” he says seriously, like you’ve just made a pact.

There’s a small pause. He shifts his weight, glancing at the floor, then back at you. Then gestures awkwardly toward your head.

“So… that was…uh, that was my fault.”

“The puck?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he grimaces. “I tipped it weird and then it just…” he makes a vague motion with his hand, “launched at your face like it had a personal vendetta.”

You nod slowly.

“Felt personal.”

“I swear it wasn’t,” he says immediately. “I don’t even know you and I already almost took you out. That’s a terrible introduction.”

You smile faintly.

“Memorable, though. I’ll never forget this.”

He lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, relief flickering across his face.

“I’m really sorry,” he says again, more grounded this time. “I didn’t even realize where it went until people started reacting and then I saw—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Yeah. Not my best moment.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “I’ll survive.”

He studies you for a second. Not casually. Actually looking, like he’s checking if you mean it.

“…you sure?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He nods slowly, like he’s choosing to believe you.

“Okay. Good.”

A beat passes. Then, suddenly, like he can’t hold it in any longer—

“Because I had this whole ‘please don’t sue me’ speech,” he blurts. “Like, I can get you free merch. A jersey, a souvenir cup, whatever you want.”

You blink. Then laugh, making sure to be gentle this time.

“Pretty sure it’s an assumed risk for attending a hockey game,” you tell him. “The case would go nowhere.”

He pauses. Processes that. Then nods, impressed.

“…okay, that’s actually really reassuring.”

“I aim to be helpful.”

“You’re doing great,” he says. “Also, joking is a good sign.”

You tilt your head.

“Gold star for me?”

“Gold star,” he confirms.

“Maybe a free jersey too?” You joke

“You already got a free puck, you want a jersey too?” Mack laughs.

“A girl’s gotta try.” You smile

“I’ll see what I can do.”

There’s another pause. This one quieter. The kind that settles instead of awkwardly stretching.

He leans back slightly against a counter, arms folding loosely, but his attention never really leaves you.

“Seriously though,” he says after a second, voice softer now. “That could’ve been a lot worse.”

You nod. “It wasn’t.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m so glad.”

Something in the way he says it lingers. Not dramatic. Not heavy. Just…real, truthful.

You adjust the ice pack slightly.

“I’ve had worse,” you add.

His eyebrows lift.

“Okay, now I have questions.”

“Another time,” you say, waving him off.

He smiles.

“Noted.”

Silence settles again, lighter now. Easier. Then Macklin straightens slightly, like a thought just hit him mid-conversation.

“Okay, wait,” he says. “I should probably get your number.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“…probably?”

“Yeah,” he nods quickly. “So I can check in on you later.”

You cross your arms slightly, eyeing him.

“Check in on me?”

“Medical reasons,” he says immediately. “Very serious. Very professional.”

“Mm.”

“In case you wake up tomorrow and forget your own name,” he adds.

“That’s not how that works.”

“Still feels like something I should monitor.”

You smile despite yourself. He notices. Relaxes a little more.

“…so?” he asks, holding out his phone now, a little hopeful under the casual tone.

You let the moment stretch just long enough to make him shift his weight again. Then you take it.

“Fine,” you say, typing in your contact. “Only for medical updates.”

“Of course,” he says. “Strictly professional.”

You hand it back.

He glances down at the screen, just for a second, but his expression gives him away. A small, satisfied grin, like he just won something he wasn’t entirely sure he would.

“…cool,” he says.

Then, a little more casual:

“I’ll text you later. You know. For your health.”

“Obviously.” You shake your head, smiling. “You’re very dedicated.”

“Extremely. It’s not every day I hit a pretty girl with a puck,” he says.

You feel your cheeks heat up. He takes a step back toward the door. Then pauses.

Just for a second.

“Hey,” he adds, quieter now.

You look up.

“I’m really glad you’re okay.”

Something in your chest warms.

“Me too.”

He nods once, like that settles something for him. Then he’s gone. The door swings shut behind him, and the room feels a little quieter than before.

You sit there for a second, adjusting the ice pack, replaying the conversation without meaning to.

And right on cue…

Your phone buzzes in your hand. A new message.

You frown, sitting up just in time to see him standing beside your chair, an evil grin across his face.

“Mack, no.”

“Oh yes.”

And before you can react, he runs both hands through his soaking wet hair, and starts shaking off like a dog. Water droplets fly everywhere.

“MACKLIN!” You shriek.

He doubles over, laughing.

“Sorry.” He mutters out between cackling.

“No you’re not!”

“You’re right. I’m really not.”

You grab the nearest pool noodle and smack his leg. Macklin yelps dramatically, collapsing on the pool deck.

“You’re assaulting me!”

“You deserve it.”

He gasps, clutching his chest with horrible acting. He’s still laughing though as he gets back to his feet.

“Come swim with me.” He pleads.

“I’m tanning.”

“Come onnnn. You know you want to.”

“I really don’t. The waters’ not even warm enough yet.” You reason.

Mack grabs your wrist gently, tugging slightly. “C’mon. Please?” He flashes the most obnoxiously charming smile, the one he knows will work on you. You sigh, letting him pull you to your feet.

A few minutes later you’re floating in the water while Macklin swims around.

“You’re gonna sleep good tonight.” You joke, turning your head slightly to follow him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re gonna wear yourself out.”

“Impossible.”

You laugh, watching as Mack dives under the water. You lose sight of him for a moment and then you feel hands wrap around your ankles and tug. Not enough to pull you under, but you still hold your breath as you try to kick free.

A second later. Macklin resurfaces, laughing so hard he can barely tread water.

“Oh my god, your face!”

You splash a wave of water at him. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“I’m going inside.”

“No.”

Before you can make good on your threat, he wraps you in his arms and pulls you into his chest. Water drips from his hair onto your shoulders as he laughs.

“You love me.” He says, tone sweet.

“Debatable.”

Mack hums at that. Then he dunks himself underwater, dragging you down with him. You come back up sputtering.

“MACKLIN!”

He's practically choking on laughter now.

“You started it!”

“I didn’t start shit!”

“You splashed me!”

“You’re trying to drown me!”

You stare at him and he stares right back. Then you're both laughing.

Eventually the two of you climb out of the pool and collapse onto the lounge chairs side by side. The cushions are warm from baking in the afternoon sun, and you can feel the water evaporating from your skin immediately.

For a while neither of you say much, the only sounds are the occasional rustle of leaves and the gentle slosh of pool water against the edge.

You turn your head toward Macklin. His eyes are closed, face tilted toward the sun. The freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose are darker than they were this morning, standing out against skin that's already starting to turn pink despite the amount of sunscreen you'd forced him to wear.

You smile to yourself, carefully reaching over to ghost your fingertip across the bridge of his nose. His face scrunches up instantly.

“Hey. Why are you touching my face?”

“Because you're cute.”

One green eye cracks open, squinting at you, and you laugh.

“You excited for next season?” You ask after a moment.

“I am.” He says, a small smile crossing his face. He’s always so humble about the way he mentions hockey. “I just want to be better than last year.”

You raise an eyebrow at that. “Ah, yes. You need to break all the records you just set, right?”

He shakes his head laughing slightly, and you can still see the blush creep across his face even through the sunburn.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

“I just feel like there’s always things to improve on.”

You nod thoughtfully. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing okay.”

He turns to look at you. “Only okay?”

“I wouldn’t push it.”

He laughs again.

Eventually a comfortable silence settles between you two. He reaches over blindly and bumping your hand with his, then lacing his fingers with yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

You don’t think anything of it.

Players look into the crowd all the time. It’s part of the atmosphere. The faces, the noise, the movement, all blending together.

Your seats weren’t something you bought on a whim. They were always here, front row. Your family has had them for as long as you can remember, lifelong San Jose Sharks fans, the kind that plan their weeks around game nights and never leave early, no matter the score.

Some of your earliest memories are in that arena: tiny you, swallowed in a jersey that was way too big for you, sitting in that exact same section, holding onto the glass like it meant something. It always did.

Now it’s yours, passed down, in a way that feels bigger than just tickets. Same seat. Same view. Same game day ritual.

You show up early, always. You watch the warmups and then you stay until the very last second of the game, even if it’s a loss. Sometimes you linger after, just to exist in the leftover hum of the arena, or maybe to catch a glimpse of the players you’ve grown up watching. The arena feels like home.

So when you notice him repeatedly looking at your section the next game you don’t think twice. It’s a coincidence.

But then it happens again. And again. And again. And by the fourth game, it’s not subtle anymore.

Macklin knows exactly where you sit before he even steps on the ice. He doesn’t mean to keep looking. He just… does, it becomes a habit. Like checking something important, making sure it’s still there.

You start picking up on it though. At first, it’s just a flicker of awareness, like “he looks over here a lot.”

Then it becomes something you wait for. A little bit of anticipation you don’t really let yourself name.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. But you still catch yourself looking at him during warmups. Just to see if he’s looking back. And he usually is.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

It takes the locker room significantly less time to figure it out than you.

“Okay,” Tyler Toffoli says one afternoon, pointing across the room like he’s presenting evidence in a courtroom. “It’s the same girl. In the same seat. Every single game.”

Macklin doesn’t even look up from tying his skates. “A lot of people sit in the same seats.”

“Front row,” Will adds. “Right side. But you know that without looking, don’t you, Mack?”

“I—no. I just…notice things.”

“You notice her,” Toff corrects.

“I notice the game.”

“You smiled at the glass yesterday.”

“There was—someone said something—”

“No one said anything,” Will interrupts.

Macklin presses his lips together, trying to be annoyed. “You don’t know that.”

“We were on the ice. You weren’t listening to them,” Toffoli deadpans.

“…okay, but—”

“Nope,” Will cuts in. “It’s a crush.”

“It is not a—”

“It’s a crush.”

Macklin groans, dropping his head into his hands. “Can we not make this a whole thing?”

They absolutely make it a whole thing.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

The shift in the team’s attitude is subtle. Too subtle for Macklin to call out immediately, but just enough to make him suspicious.

Conversations stop when he walks in. Phones tilt away. They share looks that say we’re doing something you’re not part of.

“Okay,” Macklin says one day in the locker room, narrowing his eyes. “What are you guys doing?”

“Nothing,” Toff replies instantly.

“Nothing,” Will echoes, not even glancing up.

“…you’re doing something.”

“We are not doing something.” Misa counters.

They are all very much doing something.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

The investigation starts late one night.

They’re in Toff’s hotel room, post-game. And all of them are scrolling through their phones.

“Alright,” Will mutters. “She’s gotta be on here somewhere.”

“Try location,” Graf suggests. “People tag the arena all the time.”

So they search the SAP Center location on Instagram. And they scroll. And scroll. And scroll.

“Wait, go back.” Toffoli leans forward, squinting. “That’s her.”

He taps the screen of Will’s phone and pulls up your profile. And there you are. Same seat, same girl.

So they scroll through your posts. And scroll. And then—

“Oh my god,” Will says, sitting up straighter.

“What?” Eky asks.

Will turns the phone around.

It’s a throwback post. You, maybe nine or ten years old, drowning in an huge San Jose Sharks jersey, grinning at the camera, holding a foam finger.

The caption: Sharks fan since birth.

There’s another one. You a little older, maybe middle school, leaning against the same glass, same seats.

And there’s more. Family photos. Theme nights. Playoff games. Traditions.

“ She’s not just a random fan,” Reaves says quietly.

“This is, like… generational,” Misa adds.

They keep scrolling.

Your entire account is a timeline of Sharks loyalty. clips, reactions, inside jokes only real fans would get.

And, yeah, a few posts where Macklin just happens to be in frame a little longer than necessary.

Will grins slowly. “He’s done for.”

“We’re definitely helping him.” Toff says.

“And we are not telling him,” Will adds immediately.

“Obviously not. He’d panic.”

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

You, meanwhile, have no idea you’ve just been cyberstalked by half the team. To you, life continues as normal. More game nights in your same seat. And him, still staring.

At some point, it stops feeling like coincidence. The way he keeps looking over. The way your eyes sometimes meet for half a second before one of you looks away.

It’s not enough to mean anything. But it’s enough to make your stomach flip a little.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

Tyler Toffoli’s master plan comes together quietly. And very carefully. Because if there’s one thing they all agree on, it’s this:

Macklin cannot know.

Not until it’s too late for him stop it.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

After one game, just as you’re gathering your things, a member of the arena staff approaches you.

“Hey—do you have a second?”

You look up, surprised. “Yeah?”

“We’ve got a quick fan experience event going on. Won’t take long.”

You hesitate, just for a second.

“Like… what kind of thing?”

“Just something small. Back this way.”

It’s vague.

But it’s the kind of vague that feels official, not necessarily sketchy, and you figure they probably wouldn’t kidnap you from a Sharks game, but wouldn’t that be the way to go.

So you nod. “Okay.” And she leads you off.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

Mack is mid-conversation in the hallway, half out of his gear, still replaying parts of the game in his head.

“…and then I thought I had the lane, but—”

The door opens as you walk in. And suddenly everything else in Macklin’s world disappears, like the world narrows down to one point in an instant.

You. Standing there, just a few feet away, looking slightly confused but still very much you.

Not behind glass. Not across the ice. Right here in front of him, as beautiful as ever.

“Oh,” you say, glancing around, worried. “Hi, sorry, I think I might be in the wrong place—”

“No,” Will says quickly, stepping in before Macklin can even think about what’s happening. “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

Mack turns slowly. “What?”

No one answers him. Toff is leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, like this is completely normal. Eky and Misa are suddenly very interested in the ceiling and floor respectively. Graf pretends to take a phone call.

“You fucking guys—” Macklin starts.

“Nope,” Will says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You had something to do with this.”

“Nope.”

“You absolutely—”

“Focus,” Toffoli mutters under his breath.

Because you’re still there and you’re looking at him now instead of the other way around. And suddenly this isn’t some fantastical, impossible thing anymore.

It’s real.

Mack runs a hand through his post-shower damp hair, nervously laughing in disbelief. “I…okay, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know they were gonna—this is not how I planned to—”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, cutting him off with a smile. “I mean…it’s for sure unexpected. But not in a bad way.”

“Yeah?” he asks, a little hopeful than he means to sound.

“Yeah.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

“I’ve seen you at the games,” he says, softer now.

You tilt your head, slightly surprised that he noticed you. “You have?”

“Yeah. A lot.”

“You do look at my section a lot,” you point out.

He exhales a quiet laugh. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair.”

“I have season tickets,” you add. “My family’s had forever.”

“That makes sense,” he says, glancing at you like that explains more than you realize.

“It’s kinda my thing,” you shrug. “Has been since I was little.”

“I can tell,” he says, smiling a little. “You actually watch the game, like you understand it.”

The tension changes into something easier.

“I honestly kept wondering if you’d be there again,” he admits.

You glance down for a second, almost shy, then back up at him. “I was wondering if you’d keep noticing.”

Behind him, Will makes an aggressive go motion, waving Mack to you. He takes the hint, thankfully.

“Do you wanna—” he starts, then steadies himself. “Do you wanna come to the next game with me? Not just—like, your seat. I mean, obviously keep your seat. That’s your seat. But maybe before or probably after, we could maybe hang out? Or something?”

You laugh, which makes him instantly calmer.

“I’d like that,” you say.

Behind you, you hear his teammates celebrating quietly. Macklin closes his eyes briefly, like he’s trying to make them disappear. But when he opens them, he’s looking at you again. And he’s smiling.

Later, he will find out about the late-night scrolling, and the deep dive into your posts, and the pictures of you as a small kid in a Sharks jersey, front row, like you were always meant to end up here.

He’ll find out they knew before he did that this wasn’t random, you weren’t just another face in the crowd. You’ve always been part of this.

And yeah, at first he’ll be mad and complain about their meddling. But he won’t stay mad forever, because right now?

Right now, the girl he kept searching for in a crowd of thousands is standing right in front of him. For once, he doesn’t have to look across the ice to find you.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

1 - when he left for juniors

It doesn’t feel real until you’re sitting on the hood of his car. The metal is warm from the sun, your hands flat against it, grounding yourself in something steady while everything else feels like it’s shifting.

Macklin is pacing in front of you.

He’s been doing that for ten minutes. Too much energy, nowhere to put it. Kicking at rocks, adjusting the same sleeve over and over, running his hands through his hair until it sticks up even worse than usual.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in my driveway,” you say, laughing slightly.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, not stopping, “I’m fucking nervous.”

“You? Nervous?” you tease lightly. “That’s new.”

He huffs a laugh. “Shut up.”

But he’s smiling. He always smiles around you, even now. Even when he’s leaving.

“It’s not that far,” he says for what feels like the tenth time. “You can visit. I’ll visit. It’s basically the same.”

You shake your head, softer this time.

“It’s not the same, Mack.”

He slows. Stops pacing. Looks at you. Really looks at you.

And something in his expression shifts, like he’s finally hearing what you’ve been trying not to say.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

“Yeah.”

The silence that follows is heavier than anything that’s been said. Because this is the first real change.

The first time your lives are pulling in different directions. The first time “later” actually means distance.

He steps closer without thinking about it. You don’t move. Your knees brush his waist, just barely.

Close enough to matter.

Your breath catches.

“I mean…” he starts, but his voice sounds different now. Less sure. “We’ll still talk all the time. I’ll call you. I’ll text. I’ll—”

“I know,” you say.

But that’s not what this is about.

He knows that too. Because he goes quiet again.

His hands come up, then hesitate, like he’s not sure if he should touch you.

That’s new.

Mack has never hesitated with you.

“Hey,” you say softly.

His eyes flick up to yours. And there it is. That moment. The one that’s been building for years without either of you naming it.

The air feels different. Thicker. Like everything is holding its breath.

“I think I—” he starts.

Your heart jumps. This is it. This is finally—

Your phone buzzes. Loud. Sharp. Wrong.

You both flinch. The spell breaks instantly.

You stare at each other for a second, like maybe you can still find your way back to that moment.

But it’s gone.

Mack exhales, running a hand through his hair again, stepping back like he needs space from something he almost did.

“Right,” he says, a little too quickly. “I should… finish packing.”

“Yeah,” you say, even though you don’t want him to go.

Not like this.

He nods, but he doesn’t leave right away. Just stands there. Like he’s trying to decide something.

Then he steps forward again and pulls you into a hug. Tight. Warmer than usual. Longer than usual.

You cling to him without thinking, your face pressed into his hoodie, memorizing the way it feels.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he says into your hair.

Your throat tightens and your eyes start to water.

“I’m gonna miss you too.”

He pulls back, but not all the way. Still close. Still right there.

“You better answer when I call,” he adds, trying to lighten it.

You smile, even though your chest aches. “You better actually call.”

“I will,” he promises.

And the thing about Mack is that he means it when he says it. He just doesn’t always follow through the way he wants to.

He hesitates one last time. Like he’s thinking about saying something else. Doing something else.

But instead, he just smiles at you. Soft. Familiar. Safe.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Yeah,” you say.

But it doesn’t feel soon. It feels like the start of something else.

Something you’re not ready for.

He gets in his car and you stay in the driveway until his car disappears. Until the quiet settles in.

And only then you let yourself think about what almost happened. And how, somehow, you already miss him more than you expected.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

2 - prom night

Mack shows up late to prom. Of course he does.

He’s on a break from juniors and just had to come see all his old hockey buddies. And, of course, you.

You’re sitting at a table near the edge of the dance floor, heels kicked off under your chair, absently tracing the rim of a plastic cup while your date laughs with his friends somewhere across the room. You stopped looking for him twenty minutes ago.

This is exactly when Macklin shows up.

“Hey—”

You look up, and there he is. Slightly out of breath, tie crooked, hair a mess like he ran his hands through it the entire drive over.

Like he rushed.

For you.

“You’re late,” you say, but there’s no real bite to it.

“I know,” he says, wincing. “I was practicing and lost track of time and I—” He gestures vaguely. “I came as fast as I could.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You came straight from the rink to prom?”

He glances down at himself. “I changed. Mostly.”

You laugh despite yourself. God, you missed him.

“Well,” you say, standing and smoothing your dress, “you missed everything.”

“Good,” he says immediately.

You blink. “Good?”

“Yeah.” He grins, reaching for your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Means I still get the best part.”

Before you can respond, he’s pulling you toward the dance floor.

“Macklin—”

“Trust me,” he says over his shoulder.

You always do.

The music is loud, upbeat, and chaotic, but so is he.

He spins you too fast. You almost trip. He catches you, laughing, one hand steady at your waist.

“Careful,” you say, breathless.

“Never,” he shoots back.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. Actually smiling. For the first time all night.

He doesn’t care that people are watching. Doesn’t care that he’s a little off-beat or that his tie is still crooked or that you’re both slightly out of sync.

He just dances with you like nothing else matters. Like you are the reason he came.

At some point, you’re both laughing too hard to keep up with the music.

“You’re terrible at this,” you tell him.

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m incredible,” he insists. “You’re just hard to keep up with.”

“Please—”

He spins you again, unnecessarily dramatic this time, and when you stumble into him, his hands land on your waist to steady you.

And this time neither of you pull away.

The song changes. Slower. Softer.

The energy in the room shifts, couples naturally drawing closer, movements less chaotic, more intentional.

Mack hesitates. Just for a second. Like he’s giving you an out.

You don’t take it.

So his hands stay where they are. Yours slide up to his shoulders. And suddenly you’re slow dancing with Mack.

It’s quieter here.

Not physically, the music is still playing, people are still talking, but everything feels muffled, distant. Like you’re in your own little space.

“You clean up okay,” you tease softly.

“Wow,” he says. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

You huff a laugh, but your heart is racing.

“You look really pretty,” he adds, more serious now.

Your breath catches.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His gaze lingers on your face, softer than you’ve ever seen it. “I mean… I always think you do, but… tonight’s kinda unfair.”

You look down, suddenly shy in a way you never are with him.

“That’s new,” you murmur.

“What is?”

“You being nice to me.”

“I’m always nice to you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You literally shoved me into a snowbank last time I saw you”

“That was different. That was funny.”

You laugh again, but it fades quicker this time. Because he’s still looking at you like that. Like there’s something he’s trying to figure out how to say.

“I kinda—” he starts, then stops.

Your heart stutters.

“What?” you ask quietly.

He exhales, nervous now. Actually nervous.

“I kinda wish I’d asked you first,” he admits.

The words settle between you. Heavy. Important.

Your fingers tighten slightly against his shoulders.

“Mack…”

“I mean…not just for this,” he adds quickly, stumbling a little over his words. “Like, I just—” He laughs under his breath. “I don’t know. I think about it sometimes. What it’d be like if we just… did this. For real.”

You don’t know what to say.

Because you’ve thought about it too. More than you should have. More than you ever admitted.

The music swells around you. And you realize you’re closer than you’ve ever been.

His eyes flick down to your lips.

“Mack,” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

You don’t move away. Neither does he.

But then you pull back just slightly. Not all the way. Just enough to breathe.

“Don’t say things you can’t follow through on,” you say softly.

It’s not harsh. It’s honest. It lands.

He stills.

The realization hits him in real time, that this isn’t just a moment for you. That it means something.

That it would change things.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

You give him a small, almost apologetic smile.

“I don’t want this to just be prom,” you add.

He swallows.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

The moment shifts. Not gone. But… paused. Set aside.

He squeezes your hand instead.

“C’mon,” he says, softer now. “One more song?”

You nod. And you dance with him for the rest of the night.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

3 - when he left for boston

This goodbye feels different. Not like juniors, where it still felt temporary. This feels like a step into something bigger. More permanent.

Like the space between you is about to stretch in a way you’re not sure how to fix.

You’re in his room, sitting cross-legged on the floor while he packs. Or… attempts to.

“Okay, be honest,” he says, holding up two hoodies. “This one or this one?”

You don’t even look up. “You’re bringing both.”

He sighs. “That wasn’t the question.”

“It is now.”

He tosses one at you anyway. It lands in your lap.

“You’re impossible,” you say.

“Yeah,” he grins. “But you like me.”

The words are easy. Too easy. You’ve said versions of that to each other your whole lives.

But this time it lingers.

You glance up. He’s already looking at you.

“Oh,” he says, softer now.

You look back down at the hoodie, smoothing the fabric like it suddenly requires your full attention.

“You’re really going,” you say.

“Yeah.”

“For real this time.”

He nods, quieter now.

There’s a pause.

Then he drops down onto the floor across from you, close enough that your knees almost touch.

“I don’t know what it’s gonna be like,” he admits.

“What?”

“Not seeing you all the time.”

Your chest tightens.

“You’ll be busy,” you say. “Classes, hockey, new people—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You look at him. Really look at him. He looks… unsure.

That’s new.

Mack is never unsure.

“I mean,” he tries again, “yeah, I’ll be busy. But that’s not—” He exhales. “You’re still the first person I want to tell things to. That doesn’t just… go away.”

Your heart twists.

“It won’t,” you say quietly.

“But what if it does?” he presses. “What if I get used to not being around you?”

You don’t have an answer for that. Because the truth is that you’re scared of the same thing.

“I don’t want that,” he adds.

“Me neither.”

The room feels smaller suddenly. Like everything is narrowing down to just this.

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say,” he admits.

Your breath catches.

“What?”

He hesitates. Laughs nervously.

“I had this whole plan,” he says. “Like, I was gonna say it before I left for juniors, but then I didn’t. And then I was gonna say it at prom, but—” He glances at you. “You kind of shut that down.”

You wince. “Sorry.”

“No, you were right,” he says quickly. “You were. I just—” He shakes his head. “I keep waiting for the perfect time, and it never feels like the right moment.”

“Maybe there isn’t one,” you say.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m starting to think that.”

Your heart is pounding now. Because you know. You know what he’s about to say.

And part of you wants it. And part of you is terrified of what happens after.

“Mack…” you start.

“I think I—”

His phone buzzes on the bed behind him. He ignores it and restarts what he was saying.

“I think I—”

It buzzes again. Longer this time. More insistent.

He groans, leaning back and grabbing it.

“My parents,” he mutters. “They’re probably making sure I have everything.”

You let out a small breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Answer it,” you say.

He looks at you for a second. Like he knows something just slipped away again.

Then he sighs and answers, turning slightly away as he talks.

You sit there, staring at the hoodie in your lap. At the words that almost got said. Again.

When he hangs up, the moment is gone. Packed away with everything else.

“I’ll call you when I get there,” he says.

“You better.”

“I will,” he promises.

And he does.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

4 - the night he got drafted

The room is too loud.

That’s your first thought.

Too many people, too many voices, too much excitement packed into one space that suddenly feels too small to hold all of it.

The TV is on, analysts talking over each other, the draft ticker crawling across the bottom of the screen. Every few seconds, someone shushes the room — only for the noise to build right back up again.

You’re standing near the back. Not in the center of it. Not next to his family.

Just… close enough. Close enough to see him.

Macklin is across the room, surrounded by people. His parents, friends, neighbors, people who’ve known him forever and people who suddenly want to.

He’s smiling, but it’s tighter than usual. Nervous. Excited. Overwhelmed.

Every once in a while, he glances up. You notice. You always notice.

And every time your eyes meet, he relaxes just a little. Like you’re anchoring him without even trying.

“First pick coming up,” someone says.

The room quiets instantly. Your heart starts pounding, even though it’s not your name they’re about to call.

But it kind of feels like it is.

You grip your cup a little tighter. Across the room, Macklin runs a hand through his hair — once, twice — then drops it, exhaling sharply.

His dad says something to him. His mom squeezes his shoulder. But his eyes find you again.

And this time, they don’t look away.

The name is called. His name.

Everything explodes. Cheers. Shouting. People jumping to their feet. You barely register it.

Because Mack, Mack is already moving.

Through the crowd, past everyone else, like there’s only one place he needs to be. You.

He reaches you in seconds, pulling you into a hug so tight it knocks the air out of your lungs.

“Did that just happen?” he says, voice half-laughing, half-breathless.

You clutch onto him, laughing into his shoulder. “Yeah, Mack. It did.”

He lifts you slightly off the ground without thinking, spinning you once before setting you back down, but he doesn’t let go.

Not right away.

When he finally pulls back, his hands stay on your arms, like he’s making sure you’re actually there.

“I was looking for you,” he says.

Your chest tightens.

“I know. I’m right here.”

His expression softens. Relief. Something deeper. Something familiar.

Everything around you fades again, the noise, the people, the cameras starting to shift toward him.

It’s just this. Just him. Just you.

“I wouldn’t be here without you,” he says quietly.

You shake your head immediately. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he insists. “You… you’ve been there for all of it. Before any of this.” He gestures vaguely around the room. “Before anyone else cared.”

Your throat tightens.

“You would’ve gotten here anyway.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But it wouldn’t have been the same.”

The words land heavier than anything else in the room.

His grip on your arms tightens slightly. His gaze drops to your lips.

Your breath catches. The moment shifts. Again. But this time it feels stronger. More certain. Like neither of you can pretend you don’t see it anymore.

“Mack…” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

He leans in. Slowly. Like he’s giving you time to stop him.

You don’t. You never do.

Because this isn’t just a moment. This is years of moments stacking on top of each other, finally tipping forward.

“I’ve been trying to say something for a while,” he murmurs.

Your heart is racing so fast it almost hurts.

“What?” you ask softly.

He hesitates. Right there. Right before the edge.

“Okay, Macklin, we need you—now.”

A voice cuts in, firm and urgent. A media coordinator, already halfway pulling him back toward reality.

The room rushes back in all at once. The noise. The people. The moment, snapped clean in half.

Mack closes his eyes briefly, like he’s physically in pain.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters.

You laugh softly, even though it aches. “Go.”

He doesn’t move.

“Mack.”

“I’ll be right back,” he says quickly. “Don’t go anywhere.”

You both know how this goes. Still, you nod.

“Okay.”

His hand lingers on your arm for just a second longer before he lets go. Then he’s gone.

Pulled into cameras, interviews, flashes of light and noise and everything he’s worked for.

You watch him from across the room. Watch him smile. Answer questions. Live in this moment.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

5 - his first time back from san jose

You almost don’t recognize him at first. Not because he looks completely different, but because he carries himself differently now.

A little more confident. A little more… certain. Like he knows who he is in a way he didn’t before.

But the second he sees you everything else falls away.

“Hey!”

He says it the same way he always has.

Like it’s been too long. Like it matters. Like you matter.

You barely have time to react before he’s pulling you into a hug, lifting you off your feet for a second like he used to.

“Hi, Mack,” you laugh, gripping his shoulders.

“I missed you,” he says, immediate and unfiltered.

“I missed you too.”

He sets you down, but his hands linger at your sides for just a second longer than necessary.

Then he steps back, taking you in.

“You look the same,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Thanks.”

“No, I mean—” He laughs, shaking his head. “In a good way. Like… familiar.”

You soften slightly. “You don’t.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You look… older.”

“Better?” he asks, hopeful.

You pretend to think about it. “Debatable.”

He scoffs. “Wow. I come all the way back and this is the treatment I get?”

“You love it.”

“I do,” he admits easily.

That part hasn’t changed. Nothing between you really has. And somehow that’s the problem.

The night passes in a blur of people, laughter, stories. He’s constantly being pulled in different directions, everyone wanting a piece of him now.

But every time you look up he’s already looking at you. Like he needs to make sure you’re still there.

Later, when it finally quiets down, you end up where you always do.

The dock.

Feet dangling over the water, the air cooler now, the noise of the party far enough away that it feels like a different world.

For a while, neither of you says anything. Just sitting. Just being. Like no time has passed at all.

“You ever think about it?” he asks finally.

You glance over. “About what?”

“Us.”

The word lands heavier than it should. You look back out at the water.

“Mack…”

“No, seriously,” he says, turning toward you. “Every time I leave, I think about it. And every time I come back, it’s like—” He exhales. “It’s like nothing changed. Like we’re still right here.”

Your chest tightens.

“Yeah,” you admit.

“And I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “Probably both.”

He nods slowly.

“That’s what I was thinking.”

Silence settles again. But it’s not empty. It’s full of everything you’re not saying.

“At some point,” you say quietly, “we have to either do something about it… or stop.”

He looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s trying to figure out which one you want.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks.

The question catches you off guard.

“No,” you say immediately.

“Then why do we keep acting like we should?”

You don’t have a good answer. Because the truth is you’re scared. Of losing him. Of changing what this is. Of it not working.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

He leans back on his hands, staring up at the sky.

“I keep thinking I’ll figure it out,” he says. “Like, I’ll get to a place where it makes sense. Where the timing isn’t terrible.”

You glance at him. “And?”

“And I don’t think that place exists.”

You let that sink in. Because you’ve been thinking the same thing.

His phone buzzes beside him on the dock. He doesn’t pick it up right away. Just lets it sit there, lighting up the space between you.

“You gonna get that?” you ask.

He exhales. “I should.”

“But you don’t want to.”

He glances at you. “Not right now.”

Your heart stumbles. For a second it feels like he might actually choose this. Choose you.

But then the phone buzzes again. A call this time. More insistent. It’s like reality creeping back in.

He groans, grabbing it and glancing at the screen. “Coach.”

Of course.

You smile faintly. “Go.”

He hesitates.

“I’ll call you later,” he says.

You meet his eyes. You both know. He still says it anyway.

“Yeah,” you reply softly.

He stands, lingering for just a second like he wants to say something else. Do something else. But he doesn’t.

He just gives you that same familiar smile and walks away.

You sit there a little longer after he’s gone. Staring out at the water.

Thinking about everything you almost said. Everything he almost did.

And how somehow, after all this time, you’re still right here.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

6 - the night you almost let him go

It’s quiet. That’s the first thing you notice. No crowd. No music. No voices overlapping, no constant pull of people needing something from him.

Just a late-night diner, half-empty, fluorescent lights humming softly overhead, the faint clink of dishes from the kitchen in the background.

You’ve been here a hundred times before. With him. After games. After long days. After nothing in particular.

Mack is sitting across from you, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he hasn’t touched.

He’s been staring at it for a while. Which is how you know something’s wrong.

Mack doesn’t sit still like this.

“What?” you ask finally.

He looks up. There’s no grin waiting. No easy joke to deflect. Just something heavier.

“I think I messed this up.”

Your stomach drops.

“Messed what up?”

He lets out a breath, glancing down again before meeting your eyes.

“Us.”

The word hangs there. Uncomfortable. Undefined. Accurate.

You lean back slightly, crossing your arms without meaning to.

“Us isn’t really a thing you can mess up,” you say. “It’s not… anything.”

The second the words leave your mouth, you regret them. Because you see it — the way they land. The way something in his expression tightens.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Silence stretches between you. Thick. Heavy with everything you’ve both been avoiding for years.

“I kept thinking there’d be a right time,” he continues. “Like, when things slowed down. When I wasn’t gone all the time. When I could actually… be here.”

You don’t interrupt. You’ve heard versions of this before.

“And every time I came back,” he says, “it was like nothing changed. Like we just picked up where we left off.” He huffs out a small laugh. “Which felt great. Until I realized it also meant we weren’t going anywhere.”

Your chest tightens.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he adds, softer now.

“You won’t,” you say automatically.

“But I might,” he presses. “If we keep doing this.”

You look at him. Really look at him.

He’s not joking. He’s not brushing this off. He’s… scared.

“If we keep almost choosing each other,” he says, “eventually one of us is gonna choose something else. Or someone else. And then what?”

The thought hits harder than you expect. Because you’ve tried not to think about that part.

“I don’t want that,” he says.

“Neither do I.”

“Then why are we still here?” he asks.

You don’t have an answer. Because the truth is you’ve been just as responsible for this as he has.

Avoiding it. Deflecting. Protecting what you have instead of risking it for something more.

“Maybe,” you say slowly, carefully, “this is just what we are.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe we’re just…” You hesitate. “Not meant to be more than this.”

The words feel wrong. Even as you say them. But they’re safe. Safer than risking everything.

Mack goes very still.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s realistic,” you argue, even though your voice is betraying you. “Mack, it’s been years. We’ve had so many chances—”

“I know,” he cuts in. “I know that. You don’t have to remind me.”

“Then what are we doing?” you ask, a little sharper now. “Because I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep wondering every time you leave if that was the last time we were almost something.”

He flinches slightly at that.

Good, you think. Because it’s true.

“I thought waiting would make it easier,” he admits. “Like, if I just got through the next thing, or the next season, or the next move, then I’d come back and it would finally make sense.”

“And did it?” you ask.

“No.” His voice is quiet. Honest. “It just made me realize I was running out of time to stop being an idiot.”

That almost makes you laugh. Almost. But it fades quickly. Because this isn’t funny. This is everything.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says again, like he needs you to understand.

“You’re not losing me,” you insist.

“But I am if you decide this isn’t worth trying.”

The words land square in your chest. Because that’s exactly what you’re doing. Choosing the safer option. Choosing to walk away before something can break.

“Maybe it’s better that way,” you say, even though it hurts. “Maybe we’re just meant to almost be.”

He shakes his head immediately.

“No.”

“Mack—”

“No,” he repeats, more firmly now. “I’m not accepting that.”

His expression shifts as he speaks. Not angry. Determined. Because something in him has finally snapped into place.

“I’ve been in love with you for years.”

Everything stops. The hum of the lights. The clatter from the kitchen. Your own breathing.

You just stare at him. Because he said it. He actually said it.

“I tried to ignore it at first,” he continues, like now that it’s out, he can’t stop. “Told myself it was just because we grew up together. That it’d go away.”

It didn’t. You can tell.

“Then I thought maybe I should wait,” he says. “Until I had more time. Until I could do it right. Until I wasn’t leaving all the time.”

You swallow hard.

“Mack…”

“But there is no perfect version of this,” he says, leaning forward now, eyes locked on yours. “There’s no version where the timing suddenly makes sense and everything lines up. There’s just this. There’s just us. And whether we’re finally gonna do something about it or keep pretending we don’t feel it.”

Your heart is racing so fast it feels unsteady.

“I don’t want almost anymore,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to keep leaving things unsaid. I don’t want to keep coming back and wondering if I missed my chance again.”

He exhales, softer now.

“I want you.”

The words hit differently this time. Not rushed. Not interrupted. Not almost. Real.

“Even if it’s messy,” he adds. “Even if the timing still sucks. Even if we have to figure it out long distance sometimes.” A small, nervous smile tugs at his mouth. “Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had to figure something out.”

You let out a shaky breath. Because he’s right. You’ve always figured things out together.

“Just don’t walk away from me,” he says. “Not because we were too scared to try.”

The silence that follows feels endless. Years of memories pressing in. Every almost. Every interrupted moment. Every version of this that never got to finish.

And for the first time, nothing stops you.

You look at him. Really look at him.

At the boy who grew up in your kitchen.

At the one who always looked for you first.

At the one who kept almost choosing you, and then the one who finally did.

“You’re so late,” you whisper.

His lips twitch. “I know.”

“You should’ve said that years ago.”

“I know.”

You shake your head slightly, a small, disbelieving laugh slipping out.

“You’re actually the worst.”

“I’ve been told,” he says.

A beat. Then, softer,

“But I’m yours.”

The words settle between you. Different now. Not assumed. Chosen.

Your chest tightens. Because this is the part where you decide. Stay safe. Or finally take the risk.

You lean forward slowly. Your heart pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

His breath catches, like he’s not entirely sure you’re actually going to do it. Like even now, he’s waiting for the interruption. For the almost.

But there isn’t one. There’s just you. And him. And years of waiting.

“You’re not allowed to take it back,” you murmur.

“I won’t.”

“You’re not allowed to disappear when it gets hard.”

“I won’t.”

“You’re not allowed to turn this into another almost.”

His voice is steady this time.

“I won’t.”

That’s all you need. And then you close the distance. And this time you don’t stop.