#we72 fluff

He gently plucks the sweater from your hand and puts it back like it personally offended him. Then he spins you, actually spins you, toward another rack.

Cropped tops. Fitted dresses. Things that absolutely, definitely do not hide anything.

You stare at him. “William.”

He grins, wide, boyish, completely unbothered. The same grin that makes fans adore him on the ice and teammates roll their eyes in the locker room of the SAP Center.

“What?” he says, already flipping through hangers. “These are better.”

“Better for what?”

He pauses, looks at you like the answer is obvious, then gestures vaguely at your stomach.

“That.”

You cross your arms. “There is barely a that.”

“There is,” he insists immediately, stepping closer. His hands settle gently at your hips, thumbs brushing just under your shirt like he’s mapping something only he can see. “I can see it.”

You snort. “You’re making it up.”

“I would never lie about something this important,” he says, dead serious for half a second, before his lips twitch. “This is my favorite thing right now.”

Your heart does something soft and inconvenient. Still, you try one more time.

“Normal husbands don’t do this. They tell their wives to be comfortable.”

“I am telling you to be comfortable,” he says, grabbing a soft, stretchy dress and holding it up to you. “Comfortable and also… showing off my child.”

You stare at him. “Your child?”

He shrugs, completely shameless. “Our child. But I helped, so.”

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m charming,” he corrects, nudging your chin up with his finger. “Big difference.”

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

It becomes a pattern after that.

You reach for something loose fitting, he intercepts.

You try to hide the bump, he gently redirects.

Every single time, he’s smiling like he’s in on some secret the rest of the world hasn’t caught up to yet.

And the thing is…he never makes it feel like pressure. It’s never about how you should look. It’s about how much he already loves what is.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

A few weeks later, he does something that actually makes your heart flutter.

You’re getting ready to go out, just a casual dinner, and you come out in one of the fitted tops he picked for you.

You hesitate in the doorway. “Too much?”

He looks up from his phone. Freezes. Then slowly, dramatically, sets the phone down like this is the most serious moment of his life.

“No,” he says, standing up and walking toward you. “Perfect.”

You narrow your eyes. “William.”

“I’m serious,” he says, stopping in front of you. His hands settle at your waist again, always there, always touching you, and his gaze softens in a way that makes your chest ache. “You look… perfect.”

There’s no teasing in it this time. Just quiet awe. His thumb brushes over your stomach, still small, still easy to miss if you didn’t know, and he smiles, softer now.

“My girls,” he murmurs.

You stare at him.

“You don’t even know what it is.”

He shrugs, pressing a kiss right over your shirt anyway.

“I have a feeling.”

Then, just as quickly, the softness breaks, because of course it does. He pulls back, grinning again.

“Also, if we go out and no one notices, I will personally tell every single person in the restaurant.”

You laugh, pushing his chest. “You would not.”

“Try me.”

“William Eklund—”

“I’ll stand on a chair.”

“WILL.”

He’s already laughing, grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the door.

And as ridiculous as he is, as loud, and teasing, and completely incapable of being normal, you realize something as he laces his fingers through yours:

He’s not showing you off because of how you look. He’s showing you off because he’s proud.

Of you. Of this. Of everything you’re building together. Even when it’s barely visible. Especially then.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

Later that night, when you catch your reflection in the glass of a store window, you pause.

For the first time, you don’t see “bloated.” You see what he sees. And before you can overthink it, his arm wraps around you again, pulling you close.

“There it is,” he says softly, like he knew the exact moment it would click.

You lean into him, smiling a little.

“Okay,” you admit. “Maybe… a little showing off is fine.”

He beams like he just won something.

“Finally,” he says. “You’re learning.”

You roll your eyes, but your hand finds your stomach again, gentle, protective.

And this time…

The day you found out you were pregnant started like any other day in San Jose: gray sky, the faint smell of salt air drifting in through the cracked balcony door.

You sat on the edge of the bathtub with the little white stick balanced on the sink like it was radioactive. Two pink lines. Then a second test, because the first one had to be lying. Two pink lines again, darker this time, that said it’s impossible to misread.

Your first coherent thought was not joy. It was panic: He was just twenty two. He’s having the best season anyone dared to dream. He’s finally healthy after his hand, finally trusted on the top line, finally hearing his name in conversations. A baby right now could feel like a hand brake on everything he’s worked for.

You spent the rest of the day rehearsing how to ruin William’s life.

By the time his key turned in the lock that evening, you’d run through every version of the conversation. You’d even googled “what to do if your boyfriend doesn’t want a kid” and then immediately closed the tab because the thought made you want to throw up more than the hormones already did.

William walked in smelling like the cedar body wash he’s used since you’d gotten together. He kicked off his sneakers, dropped his backpack by the door, and the second he saw your face he stopped smiling.

“Alskling?” One word, already worried. “What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t speak. You just held out the tests like evidence in a trial.

He took them carefully, the way he handles pucks on his backhand when the game’s on the line. His eyes flicked down, then up to you, then down again. You watched the breath he sucked in, the way his shoulders lifted like someone had punched him in the chest, but gently.

“We’re..?” he asked, voice cracking on the single syllable.

You nodded, waiting for the but, the we’ll figure it out, the I need time to think, the I’m not ready.

But none of those words left his mouth.

Instead, William dropped the tests on the counter, closed the distance in two strides, and kissed you so hard your knees buckled. When he pulled back his eyes were glassy and his hands were shaking against your cheeks.

“We’re going to be parents?”

The relief hit you so fast you almost slid down the cabinet. “You’re happy?”

“Happy?” He laughed, a bright, stunned sound. “Baby, I’m-” He kissed you again, softer this time. “I’m freaking out a little, yeah. But the good kind. The best kind.”

You started crying and William held you.

The next morning he called his agent before you even got out of bed and told him to clear his schedule for every single prenatal appointment. “Doesn’t matter if it’s practice, doesn’t matter if it’s anything, i’m going to be there.”

The ultrasound was on a Thursday.

William wore the same nervous smile he has before a game, except his leg was bouncing so hard in the waiting room that the elderly woman next to him finally patted his knee and told him, “Honey, it’s going to be okay.”

When the tech called your name he jumped up like he’d been shocked. He held your hand the entire time, thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles while the wand slid over the gel on your stomach.

And when that rapid flutter filled the room, William’s face crumpled. He didn’t even try to hide it. He just leaned over and and you could see the tears almost falling.

“Strong heartbeat,” the tech said kindly. “Everything looks perfect.”

William lifted his head. “Are we, like, going to get the pictures?”

You both agreed you wanted to find out the sex together, no party, no balloons, no gender reveal cake, just the two of you.

So when your doctor handed you the sealed envelope two weeks later, you tucked it into the glovebox of William’s car and didn’t touch it for four whole days.

Finally, on a quiet Sunday night after a home win, you came home to takeout food and the apartment lit only by the Christmas lights you didn’t get to take down.

You both changed into comfortable pjs, you climbed into bed, propping pillows behind you, and unbuttoned the bottom three buttons of the shirt so your stomach was bare under the fairy lights.

William crawled in beside you with the envelope, holding it like it might explode. “Ready?” he asked.

You nodded, throat thick.

He tore it open carefully. The card inside was simple cream stock with pink block letters: CONGRATULATIONS! IT’S A GIRL! There was a little teddy bear in a tutu in the center.

You stared at it, brain short circuiting.

William made this soft, broken sound and said, “It’s a girl. Oh my gosh, älskling, it’s a girl.”

And then his hand was on your stomach, palm spread wide like he could already hold her. He leaned down until his lips brushed the skin just above your belly button.

“Hej, lilla flickan,” he whispered in Swedish, voice rough. “It’s your pappa. I’ve been waiting my whole life for you.”

You watched his blond hair fall across his forehead, watched his eyelashes clump with tears, and you felt something settle inside you that you didn’t know had been rattling around.

William looked up at you, grinning through the tears. “She’s gonna have your eyes,” he said.

You laughed. “She’s gonna have you wrapped around her tiny finger before she’s even born.”

“Already does,” he said, and kissed your stomach again, then your lips, slow and reverent. “We’re gonna have a daughter.”

He laid his head on your chest after that, ear pressed just below your collarbone, hand never leaving the bump. You ran your fingers through his hair and felt the baby kick like she was saying hello back.

William’s voice was barely a breath. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

You stayed like that until the food got cold and the tv blinked off automatically at midnight, his hand on your stomach, her foot pressing back every so often like she was already playing games with her daddy.

The day your daughter was born, the California sky finally decided to turn the exact shade of blue that William always said reminded him of home. July 12, 3:47am Lana Olivia Eklund came into the world screaming.

Eight pounds, one ounce, a shock of blond hair, and the same stubborn little chin her dad has when he’s protecting the puck in the corner.

William didn’t cry when they placed her on your chest: he sobbed. When they handed her to him the first time, he looked so impossibly young and impossibly ancient all at once. He cradled her like she was made of spun glass, whispering “hej, little one” over and over until his voice gave out.

He didn’t put her down for the entire golden hour.

By the time Lana was six months old, she had decided her father was the sun, the moon, and the entire solar system.

It happened gradually, then all at once. One day her eyes could finally track across a room properly, and from that moment on, if William was in it, nothing else existed.

You’d be nursing her on the couch and he’d walk past the doorway: her little head would whip around so fast you had to support her neck. She’d stare at him with those big denim blue eyes until he noticed, and then her whole face would break open in a gummy smile.

And William became ridiculous in the best way.

He bought her things she absolutely did not need for her age, he bought her tiny Sharks jerseys before she could hold her head up. He bought her a miniature hockey stick “for when she’s ready.” He bought her noise canceling headphones in newborn size.

He was fiercely protective in a quiet way. When a stranger wanted to see the baby, he’d smile politely but angle his body so Lana’s face stayed hidden against his chest.

If she cried in anyone else’s arms, he was there in half a second, reaching. “She wants her pappa,” he’d say softly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And nine times out of ten, the crying stopped the moment she was against his heartbeat.

At ten months, Lana discovered that her father was the funniest person alive.

Everything he did was apparently comedy gold. He’d fake a sneeze: she’d cackle. He’d blow a raspberry on her tummy: she’d lose her tiny mind. He’d pretend to drop something and go “oopsie”: she’d laugh so hard she got hiccups.

Then William decided her first word for her.

William decided, with the single minded focus, that her first word was going to be “pappa.” He started with little things: every diaper change, every bottle, every time he lifted her into the air, he’d lean in close and say, “paaa-pa.”

Lana thought this was the best game ever invented. She’d kick her legs and squeal, drool bubbling at the corners of her mouth, while he repeated it.

You tried to be the voice of reason.

“William, she’s going to need English too, you know. Daycare isn’t going to understand if her only word is Swedish.”

He’d grin, not even looking guilty, bouncing her gently on his hip. “I know, I know. She’ll learn. We speak English all day, every day, but she should know who her pappa is first, yeah? It’s important.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you’re surprised they didn’t fall out, but secretly you loved it. Loved how he tucked Swedish lullabies into her bedtime routine like secrets. Loved how he called her “lilla hjärtat” when he thought you weren’t listening.

One morning, when it was a rare day off, late May, sunlight pouring gold through the kitchen windows. You were at the island slicing strawberries while William sat in the high chair with Lana on his lap, feeding her mashed banana with the patience of a saint. She was wearing onesie and had banana in her hair and on his shirt.

He scooped up another spoonful and made airplane noises. She opened her mouth obediently, then paused, banana dripping down her chin. She looked up at him, eyes huge and serious, and opened and closed her mouth a few times like she was testing the mechanics.

Then, clear as morning birdsong, she said: “Pah-pah.”

William froze, spoon halfway to her mouth. You immediately turned to look at them both.

Lana, oblivious to the seismic shift in the room, tried again, louder and prouder: “Pah-pah!”

William’s face did something indescribable. His mouth fell open, and the biggest, most boyish smile you’d ever seen split across it.

“Y/n,” he said, voice cracking like he was thirteen again. “Y/n, did you- did you hear that? She said it. She said pappa.”

He looked down at Lana like she’d just handed him the Stanley Cup. “Say it again, baby. Say it for Pappa.”

“Pah-pah-pah!” she babbled happily, smacking her little hands on his chest.

William laughed, a bright, wet sound, delirious sound, and pressed his forehead to hers. “That’s right, baby. I’m your pappa. I’ll always be your pappa.”

He looked over at you, eyes shining.

You rounded the island and wrapped your arms around both of them from behind, kissing the top of Lana’s sticky head and then William’s cheek.

“I heard it,” you said. “Her first word was pappa. You win.”

He turned his head to catch your mouth in a soft, banana flavored kiss. “We win,” he corrected gently.

Lana, sensing she was the center of attention, squealed “Pah-PAH!” at the top of her lungs and then shoved a fistful of banana into William’s mouth like a victory toast.

He ate it without hesitation, grinning around the mess. “Best breakfast ever,” he declared, voice thick with joy.

When Lana finally took her first real steps, the entire apartment erupted. William scooped her up, spun her around until she shrieked with laughter, and declared, “That’s it, you did amazing. Now you should do that on the ice.”

He waited, though. Patient in a way only William could be when it came to her. He let her master walking, then running, then climbing the couch like it was Everest.

He let her chase pucks on the hardwood in socks first, giggling every time she slid into the cabinets. Only when she turned two and a half, did he decide it was time.

The first day on ice was a Saturday morning public skate at Sharks Ice. William had booked the entire small rink for an hour so it would just be the three of you. He dressed her in the tiniest black practice jersey with EKLUND 72 on the back, pads that swallowed her whole, and skates because “we’re not crazy.”

You sat on the bench with a thermos of coffee and your phone ready to record every second.

William stepped onto the ice first, then turned and held out both hands. Lana grabbed his fingers like they were lifelines and took one brave, awkward step onto the ice. Her ankles wobbled and her eyes went huge.

And then she laughed.

William dropped to his knees in front of her so they were eye level. “You got it, Lana. Just like walking, but slippery. Pappa’s right here.”

She fell on her butt approximately forty seven times in the first ten minutes. Every single time, William was already there, arms under her armpits, lifting her back up before the tears could even form.

“Again?” he’d ask, softly.

“Again!” she’d shout, fearless because he was holding her.

By the end of that hour she could shuffle ten whole feet without falling. William looked like he’d won the lottery, the Cup, and a Nobel Prize all at once.

Three weeks later he handed her a miniature graphite stick and a bright orange foam puck. She whacked it and fell backward in shock. William caught her before she hit the ice, laughing at his own daughter.

From then on, every free morning that wasn’t taken by practice or road trips, they were on the ice. You’d sit in the stands, watching your husband teach your daughter how to glide, how to stop, how to hold her stick like she meant business.

Every time she scored on the tiny net he set up, she’d throw her arms up and yell “Goal!” exactly the way she’d seen Daddy do on tv.

He’d skate over, tap her helmet twice, and ask the same question: “You gonna be a Shark one day, Lana?”

And every single time she’d nod solemnly, curls bouncing under her helmet. “Yes, Pappa. Big Shark.”

You’d press your mittened hands to your mouth to hide how hard you were smiling.

By the time Lana turned three, she kind of spoke in full, hilarious sentences with a slight Swedish lilt on certain words, because William still spoke to her half in Swedish when it was just the three of you. She could skate forward without holding anyone’s hand. She could say “herregud” when she dropped her juice cup. She was, without question, the happiest kid on the planet.

One February night after a home win, the three of you had a “family night” in the big bed. You’d made chocolate chip pancakes for dinner, and now you were all in pajamas under the covers, fairy lights on, Lana wedged between you like a tiny starfish.

William propped himself up on one elbow, hair messy, looking unfairly beautiful. He tapped Lana’s nose. “Important question, Lana Olivia.”

She giggled. “Are you Mommy’s girl or Daddy’s girl?”

Lana scrunched her face like this required serious scientific consideration. Then she beamed and flung one arm around your neck and the other around his.

“No. Dadas, Mama.”

William pretended to clutch his heart. “Both? You can’t choose both! That’s cheating.”

Lana just laughed and snuggled deeper. “Okay, okay,” he said, unable to stop smiling. “Who made you smart?”

Lana didn’t even hesitate. “Pappa!”

William pumped his fist. “Thank you, thank you. Very correct.”

You snorted. “She gets her humility from you too, clearly.”

He ignored you, eyes sparkling. “Who made you beautiful?”

Lana bounced on the mattress, pigtails flying. “Mama!”

William turned to you, expression suddenly soft. “That’s right, baby. Mama’s the most beautiful.”

You felt your cheeks burn. Even after years together, the way he looked at you sometimes still made your heart trip over itself.

He leaned across Lana to kiss you gently, tasting like chocolate. Lana squealed and tried to wedge her face between yours for her own kiss, which turned into a pile of giggles.

When you finally all settled again, William tucked a curl behind Lana’s ear. “Are you going to be a hockey star one day?”

Lana sat up straight, eyes shining. “Yes!” she squealed, throwing both arms in the air. “Big Shark! Like Pappa!”

William’s smile could have powered the entire room. He pulled her into his chest and kissed the top of her head over and over until she was breathless with laughter.

Later, after Lana finally passed out sideways across both of your pillows, thumb in mouth, one foot kicked out from the blanket, William reached over her sleeping body and laced his fingers through yours.

“I still can’t believe this is our life,” you whispered.

He brought your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles one by one. “I can,” he said quietly. “From the second you showed me those two pink lines, I knew. I knew I’d follow you anywhere, I knew I’d love her like breathing.”

His thumb traced your wedding ring. “I’m so glad we’re doing this together. She’s everything.”

Outside, the night was quiet. Inside, your daughter’s tiny snores filled the space between your heartbeats, and your husband’s hand stayed wrapped around yours like it had since the very first day.

You thought about the panicked girl on the bathroom floor years ago, terrified she was about to lose everything.

You looked at the man beside you, still twenty something, and the perfect little girl you’d made together.

You had built the happiest family.

You were excited, mainly because you had managed to make it into the Utah Mammoth's arena to surprise William. You took your seat immediately getting recognized by a few Mammoth fans, you were popular on Instagram and Tiktok everyone knew you were dating William and honestly they loved you more than him sometimes.

As the game starts you cheer loudly for the sharks, when Mack scores you cheer along with some of the other sharks fans in the arena.

During a TV timeout the camera scans the crowd before landing on you, the crowd gets louder when they see who's on the screen. You smile and wave unaware of the chaos on the bench.

"Ekky is that your girl?" Mack asks

Ekky looks up at the Jumbotron and sees you smiling and waving.

"No way" William says as his face lights up seeing you.

"Oh boy he's gone now" Will says.

"This is tough to watch, so sappy" Toff says.

"My eyes" Dickinson says jokingly.

"Shut up" Ekky says, and he smiles as he looks back at the ice knowing that he wants to score since your there watching him. Midway through the third Ekky gets a breakaway and scores, he finds you in the stands and points before celebrating with his teammates.

After the game, you meet him in the tunnel and he hugs you.

"I've missed you baby" he says.

"I missed you too" you say, "now go shower your sweaty, I'll be here when you get back."

"Good" Ekky says before kissing your forehead and then walking away to shower and change, he comes back about 15 minutes later.

"We have time to go on a date before we leave for the next city, and I got permission" Ekky says.

Five minutes later, he's holding up a giant jar of pickles. "In Sweden, we would need a family of twelve to finish this before it expires."

"Welcome to America," you reply, trying to hide your smile as you add the pickles to your cart.

The next aisle proves even more distracting. William stops in front of a display of bulk-size Nutella, his expression reverent. "Is this… real?"

"Very real," you confirm. "But we're not buying it. We have Nutella at home."

"But this is the size of a small child," he argues, poking the plastic container. "Think of the possibilities."

"The possibility of you eating it for breakfast, lunch and dinner?" you tease. "No thanks."

He pouts but follows you along, his attention captured by everything, the oversized bags of chips, the multipacks of cereal and the gallon-sized jugs of maple syrup.

"I don't understand," he says, examining a box of fifty granola bars. "Why would anyone need this many?"

"It's more cost-effective," you explain, trying to keep him moving toward the dairy section.

"Cost-effective," he repeats, testing the words. "You Americans and your efficiency."

You're in the freezer section when you realize he's disappeared. Turning around, you find him standing in front of the ice cream, eyes wide with wonder.

"They have flavors I've never even heard of," he says, pointing at a tub of something called "Birthday Cake Remix." "And the sizes! This is enough ice cream to survive an apocalypse."

"Or one movie night with you," you reply, but you're already reaching for it. "Fine, we can get one."

The real trouble starts in the book aisle. William picks up a massive cookbook, flipping through the pages with genuine interest.

"We should get this," he says.

"You can barely make toast," you remind him, but you're softening as he looks at you with those hopeful blue eyes.

"I'll be a Swedish chef who makes American food," he declares. "It's multicultural."

Despite yourself, you add the cookbook to the increasingly full cart.

By the time you reach the clothing section, William has fully embraced his role as Costco enthusiast.

"Look!" he exclaims, holding up a pack of three identical sweatshirts. "We could get matching ones."

"We're not getting matching sweatshirts," you say, though you're laughing now.

"Why not? We could be one of those couples," he insists, holding a gray one up to your chest. "This would look good on you."

"Fine," you relent. "But only if you promise to wear yours when we watch hockey."

"Deal," he says immediately, adding them to the cart with a triumphant smile.

The final straw comes at the checkout counter. As the cashier scans item after item, William's eyes grow wider.

"How much do you think this will all cost?" he whispers, leaning close.

"Probably more than your monthly grocery budget in Sweden," you whisper back.

When the total finally appears, $347.62, William actually gasps. "That's more than my first hockey stick."

"But look at everything we got," you say, gesturing to the cart piled high with your purchases.

As you load everything into your car, William wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"That was the most American experience of my life," he says, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "I think I need to go back to Sweden to recover."

"You loved it and you know it," you reply, turning in his arms to face him.

"Maybe a little," he admits with a grin. "But I mostly loved watching you navigate this place. You're my Costco queen."

"I'll accept that title," you say, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. "Now let's get all this home before you decide we need a membership upgrade."

As you drive away, William's hand finds yours, his fingers lacing through yours. "Next time, can we try the food samples? I saw people eating and I was very jealous."

You laugh, shaking your head at your boyfriend who found more joy in a warehouse store than most people find on vacation. "Next time, we can do whatever you want."

His eyes light up. "Even the industrial-sized cleaning supplies aisle?"

if there was one thing you hated, it was being sick. you wouldn’t consider yourself a germaphobe, but you went out of your way to avoid anyone who even had the slightest bit of a cough. waking up with a stuffy nose and a throat that felt like sandpaper was your personal hell, which is why you were about two seconds away from a nervous breakdown. 

you gripped the handle of your glass of water, chugging it so frantically you might choke. a silent prayer was on repeat in your mind, as you wished that the jaggedness in your mouth would disappear with the liquid.

your husband, william eklund, stirred beside you, a rumble reverberating through his body as he stretched his arms out like a cat, eyes blinking blearily to clear up his vision. “good morning, sötnos,” he purred, face nuzzling into the crook of your shoulder. “did you sleep well?” 

“get away from me,” you batted him away, removing his arm off of you. “i don’t feel well.”

his face fell instantly. “oh no, y/n. jag är ledsen.”

“not your fault.” you flopped down on the bed, resisting the urge to tear out your larynx with your fingers as a cough bubbled in you. you had to be cursed – you had to fall ill now, right before your husband’s next game. this was your worst nightmare come to life. “i just wish it weren’t happening.”

will sighed. “let me make you some tea and bring you some medicine, ok?”

“yeah, that sounds good. thank you.”

“close your eyes and try to rest. i’ll be back in a minute.” he placed his palm on your forehead to gauge your temperature, and he let out a low hiss. “you’re warmer than usual. i don’t like this.”

“mmph,” you responded, squirming under his touch. “i don’t want you to be near me. you’ll get sick and blame me.”

“it doesn’t matter. i need to take care of my wife.” will stood up, eyes darkening with concern. “stay there, don’t move. i’m serious.”

you groaned. “i can barely speak and you think i’m going to get up? you’re funny.”

“shhh, älskling,” he murmured. you shut your eyes, sniffling loudly, and you could hear his quiet footsteps as he padded over to the kitchen. a few minutes later, will patted you gently on the shoulder. you cracked one eye open, the blurry image of your husband floating in front of you. in his hands was a chipped blue mug, steam emanating from it. “i made you your favorite tea. now drink it. and take the pill, so your fever goes down.”

“so bossy,” you chirped, but you listened to him anyway, drawing a long sip from it. the warmth radiated in your hands as you swallowed the capsule. “thank you, eky. i love you.”

“love you too,” he said instantly, the words uttered without a hint of hesitation.

“don’t you have practice today?” you asked once you’d drunk enough to satisfy your husband. “you need to go, baby. i don’t want you to be late.”

“i already texted the group chat saying my wife was sick and i couldn’t make it.” his lips thinned with worry. “i can focus on hockey when you are feeling better, ok?”

“noooo,” you mewled, irritated. “i don’t want you to cancel. you need to…”

he raised a hand up to stop you from continuing. “it’s done, y/n, i don’t want to argue with you, especially when you’re not well. drink.” he nodded his head towards the mug you were still clutching.

you glared at him. “tell them you changed your mind.”

“y/n,” he warned, but you shook your head, aggravated.

“i can take care of myself. go to your practice.”

“no, y/n, that’s not happening.” will brushed a strand of hair off your face. “i want to stay here.”

“mmm, you shouldn’t, though,” you countered, your voice a deep rasp. it hurt to talk, but you refused to let your husband win the argument – you were way too stubborn for that. “you’re in the nhl, you need to do your job. you can’t just drop out because i’m sick.”

“when i married you, i vowed to love you in sickness and health. not to play hockey when you’re burning up,” will pointed out heatedly.

you rolled your eyes. “whatever.”

“go to sleep, y/n. that’s not up for you to argue with.” will’s tone brokered no argument. with a heavy sigh, you handed him the mug and curled up on the bed, immediately sinking into a hazy, dreamless sleep.

you didn’t know how long you’d been knocked out when you slowly rose back to consciousness. your body felt heavy, as though you were run over by a truck and then crushed under a ton of bricks. it was terrible, and you hated how disgusting you felt. faintly, you heard the sounds of television, and occasionally, the deep rumble of your husband’s voice as he talked to somebody you presumed was over the phone.

“how are you feeling, min kärlek?” will questioned you, the beep of a thermometer clicking above your head. “you have a fever, maybe you should take more medicine.”

“i’m fine, eky, you need to go…” you shifted your position, eyes fluttering. “i’m…”

“don’t talk, just listen to me,” he protested. “i’m going to give you another pill and you’re going to take it. and if your fever doesn’t come down by tomorrow, i’m taking you to the doctor. i don’t care if i miss practice, or my game.”

“you can’t do that,” you shot back.

will cocked his head to the side. “can’t i?” 

“you’re going to be kicked off the team.” you pouted.

“worth it if it means i can watch over you.” the weight of the bed sunk as your husband moved closer. “how many times do i have to tell you that i’ll do anything for you?”

“but i don’t want you to,” you answered him honestly, tilting your head up to face him. “you don’t need to sacrifice your career for me.”

will waved you off. “i won’t.”

“why aren’t you listening to me,” you grumbled. of course your husband had to be chivalrous and risk getting the flu during the height of hockey season, when everyone’s eyes were on the playoffs.

“i’m not leaving you, y/n, so you can save your breath.” will’s mouth twitched, a smile spreading on his face. “even when you’re all sweaty and you haven’t brushed your teeth and you feel like you might pass out, i’m going to be by your side. forever.”

The night sky is dark, it matches the endless road that stretches out in front of you. William sits silently beside you, staring out the window like he’s in a dramatic movie. Your entwined hands rest in his lap, his thumb occasionally brushes your hand every now and then. The car ride is smooth and quiet, aside from the soft music playing in the background, some Swedish rap song that William put on your playlist. The road is long and dark before you, an occasional street lamp lights up a few feet of the road before it slowly turns dark again.

Williams' leg bounces up and down, up and down, up and down. He’s clearly still filled with adrenaline after San Jose’s 1-0 win over the Chicago Blackhawks. You are still feeling the effects from the game as well, your hands are shaking and sweaty, your heart is beating rapidly, and now that you think about it you’re starting to feel dizzy. Your hands bump against the wheel as the shaking steadily increases which draws Williams attention from the window to you. His brows furrow as he takes in your state. He starts a mental checklist in his head; shaking, sweating, and the way you keep screwing your eyes shut makes him think that you’re dizzy. Oh no, he thinks, she has low sugar!

“Sötnos, dra omkull bilen.” William says urgently. You look at him confused, “Will, honey, I only know a few words in Swedish and they’re not those.” William sighs, “Dra omkull bilen.” He makes some motion with his hand, one that doesn’t make any sense. “What?” You question, glancing between him and the road. He runs his hands through his blond curls, a stressed look on his face, his eyes hold a kind of worry that makes you incredibly nervous.

“Dra över. Dra över! Vad är ordet för att dra över på engelska?” Your hands continue to shake and your head is still spinning slightly. “Will…I don’t feel good.” William's light blue eyes soften as he looks at you, his hand squeezes yours, stilling the shaking for only a second, allowing his brain to rest and finally remember those simple words that evaded him. “The car, Sötnos, pull the car over.” You nod shakily, turning on your turn signal and pulling the wheel in the direction of the shoulder of the road.

William turns on the hazard lights and turns to face you, gently telling you “Sötnos, you’re shaking.” You nod a little bit but shrug off his concern, “It’s just the adrenaline from the game. I’m okay.” William sighs and looks down, his blond curls fall atop his forehead when he shakes his head. “You’re low. Your blood sugar is low, you need a snack. Where are your fruit snacks?” Even though William is asking you where your snacks are, he is already reaching in the backseat and grabbing your bag, reaching inside and pulling out your bag of fruit snacks. He puts them in your shaky, sweaty palms, whispering, begging you to eat them.

You had never been too close with any of your neighbours, but you had always been driven a little closer to Will rather than anybody else around you.

He was a sweet guy, always such a joy to be around, and even more of a gentleman.

But there was always this sort of tension that lingered whenever you were talking to him.

He would tend to hold his gaze on you longer than others would, sometimes dropping down to your lips.

His hands would brush against yours more often than what could be described as accidental.

As you observed the way he acted around you versus other people, that’s when the pieces slowly started to click for you.

That’s when you realised that he was actually in love with you.

So obviously there was only one thing to do.

Tease him for it so that you don’t have to admit your own feelings for him.

Currently, you were sitting on a bench outside of your apartment building, scrolling on your phone in one hand and holding your cup of coffee in the other.

You told him that you’d meet him here whenever he got out of practice so that the two of you could hang out before he left for his away game the next day.

That’s when Will appeared in front of you, that silly, dopey smile on his face.

You shoved your phone in your back pocket as you both greeted each other, matching his smile with one of your own.

“There you are, a little late though.” You snickered as he sat down next to you.

“Practice ran a little late. Not my fault!” He joked back at you. “Sorry though, älskling.”

His cheeks flushed instantly even though he was the one who called you the nickname. 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to say that, it was an accident! I promise.” He apologized quickly, not wanting you to question why he would even say that.

“I’m your darling now?” You giggled. 

You’d known what älskling meant, only because you convinced Will to teach you a bit of Swedish a while ago. It had taken a little begging, but he eventually had given in, and älskling was one of the first words he had taught you.

“I’m honoured to be, just so you know.”

“W-well, I’m glad you feel that way.” He smiled awkwardly, his cheeks still tinted with a rose like red.

“Will.” You stated, trying to get him to stop looking so intensely at the ground.

“Hm?” His head ticked up unconsciously at his name, shifting from the awkward demeanor to something more observant, like he was trying to guess what you were going to say next.

“I meant that, seriously. I really don’t mind being called älskling at all.”

“Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “You aren’t lying to me?”

“Will, you know I wouldn’t ever do that.” You paused. “Espescially not to someone I’m pretty much in love with.”

“You’re in love with me?” He had sounded unsure as he listened to you. “Are you sure you aren’t just messing with me?”

“I promise you that I’m sure.” you said as you subconsciously shifted to be a little closer to him.

“I never could have imagined this happening. Well, I mean, I have imagined it, only in my head of course, but I never would have thought that it would somehow come true for me.” He started to rant, but he was quickly cut off by you pressing a soft kiss against his lips.

You pulled away hesitantly, studying his face closely to gauge his reaction before even trying to say anything.

“I kind of knew you imagined it. There were always signs that you liked me, but I was always too afraid to tell you how I felt so I just teased you instead.”

He was still a bit flustered from you cutting him off, but he just nodded his head while you explained yourself, but he didn’t think you needed to at all.

“I liked it when you teased me.” He glanced down at his lap before looking back up to you again. “Promise not to stop?”

“Promise.” You giggled with a smile which made him smile wider than before.

He’d been waiting for you to say something about his actions for a while, something more than just making fun of you.

And now that you finally had, he felt on top of the world.