#will smith fluff

“Yeah, can I do the chicken parm,” he says easily, glancing at Mack as he points to himself, silently telling Will the same for him. “Can I make that two, actually?” Will says, nodding a bit as his eyes flick down to your finger which is pointing at what you want on your menu. “And my wife will have the vodka rigatoni.”

The side of the room you and Mack are sitting on goes dead silent, your head snapping toward him. Next to you, Mack’s eyes go comically wide at the exact same moment yours do. He looks at you, and you look at him. Then, both of you slowly turn back toward Will.

Your fiancé, meanwhile, is just nodding into the phone like he has not just dropped a bomb in the middle of ordering Italian.

“Yeah,” he says to the person on the other end, completely calm. “And can you add an order of garlic knots too?”

Mack is staring at him like he has just witnessed something medically concerning, and you are pretty sure you are too. And as Will ends the call, setting his phone on the coffee table, he leans back again, not saying a word to either of you.

“Uh, what was that?” Mack asks, and the question causes Will to blink in confusion.

“What was what?”

“You just said ‘my wife’ like it was nothing.” Mack says, sitting up a little straighter now.

“Okay?” Will says, glancing between the two of you, looking genuinely confused by this being a topic.

“Okay?” Mack repeats. “That’s your response? Okay?”

You can feel heat climbing into your face, because there is something about the total lack of care that gets you. There’s no teasing tone, no pause, no look to see your reaction first. He just said it like he didn’t even notice.

“You can’t just say that,” you say, your voice feeling small, wobbly almost.

“Why not?” Will asks, his mouth twitches as he takes in the shocked expressions.

“Because I’m not your wife.”

“Engaged is close.”

“No, it is not, that’s skipping arguably a very important part.” Mack disagrees, making a noise like he can’t believe his best friend doesn’t see the problem.

“You did want the rigatoni, right?” Will questions, and that completely derails you for a minute.

“Well… yes.” You start, your face feeling so hot you could probably cook an egg on it. “But Will, that’s not the point.”

“It’s what you wanted, I don’t see the big deal here.” He says, kicking his feet back up on the coffee table as he watches a bit of the game on the tv.

“You’re impossible.” Mack aims at his best friend, dropping his head back against the couch with a groan.

You are still staring at Will, still in shock, in awe. Still red in the face and honestly starting to sweat a bit. He catches it, finally giving you one of those lazy smiles that has the power to make you smile even on your worst days.

“What?” He questions, and he would never admit it, but seeing you like this is half of the fun.

“You said it so casually.”

“Because it felt casual.” He says, his arm finding its way behind you again.

“Can you get all of this mushy stuff out of the way before my dinner gets here? If you guys flirt in front of my chicken I’m going to chuck it at your head.” Mack says to Will, scoffing slightly as he looks back down to his phone. You could only guess he’s lighting the Sharks group chat up with what just happened.

You try to ignore the way your chest has gone all soft and weird over two words, but it does not work. And the thing that is almost as shocking as being called his wife, is that he’s not flustered or backtracking, hell, he doesn’t even seem interested in defending himself.

—

The second time it happens, Grace is in town. She comes down for the weekend, and by Saturday afternoon the three of you are out shopping, carrying too many bags and stopping every few blocks because Grace sees something else she wants to drag you toward. It is fun and loud and easy, full of teasing, slightly too much caffeine, and Will pretending he is not just there to carry things.

Eventually, you duck into a grocery store because Grace wants snacks for later, and Will insists on grabbing stuff for dinner. So you are standing in front of a shelf full of pasta sauces, comparing jars while Grace debates noodles a few feet away. Will grabs a jar of sauce, slipping it into the cart and starting to walk.

“No, not that one.” You say, grabbing it out of the cart and putting it back on the shelf.

“What’s wrong with that one?” He asks, turning his gaze to you as your eyes scan the shelves.

“You always pick that one.”

“And?”

“And it’s too chunky, it freaks me out.” you say, reaching past him to take a different jar off the shelf. “This one is better.” Will looks at the jar in your hand for maybe half a second, debating whether or not he wants to tease you about the smoothness of pasta sauce, but he chooses against it. He just nods, and swaps them without argument.

“You’re right. Happy wife, happy life.”

Grace stills, you freeze with your hand still hovering between the shelves, and Will just continues on like nothing happened.

“Excuse me?” she says, way too loudly, all thoughts of noodles leaving her head. “No,” she says, already laughing. “I must have heard that wrong.”

“What did I say?” Will asks, his wide grin telling both you and his sister that he knew exactly what he said.

“You called her your wife, in the pasta aisle.” She dead pans, shock and surprise so evident on her face and in her voice.

Will just stares at his sister like she is the one being weird. “And?” He says with a shrug, leaning against the cart.

“Can we maybe lower our voices?” You ask as you feel your face getting hotter by the second, not wanting to make a scene in a grocery store.

“Does he do this all the time?” Grace asks, pointing between the two of you delighted.

“Sometimes.” You supply.

“Sometimes?”

“More than sometimes.” You mutter.

Grace makes the most dramatic noise in the world and grabs your arm. “And you let him?”

Will answers again before you can. “She doesn’t stop me.”

“That is not the same thing,” You say, trying to defend yourself.

“Why don’t you stop him?” Grace asks the question as she narrows her eyes.

You open your mouth, but then close it, no words coming out. You never thought in the pasta aisle you would be having this conversation, but here you are. The siblings wait for you to respond, Grace still floored, and Will still leaning against the cart, waiting for whatever bullshit excuse he knows you’re going to try and supply. He knows how it affects you, he sees it on your face every time the words ‘accidentally’ slip from his lips. But you come up short, no explanation will cover your tracks, because the truth is embarrassingly obvious, and Grace sees it.

“Oh my god,” she says, everything falling into place in her mind. “You like it.”

“No, I don’t.” You hesitate as the lie leaves your mouth.

“You do,” she says immediately. “That was way too slow.”

Will is smiling now, small and smug and fond in equal measure.

“Don’t.” You say, pointing your manicured finger at him.

“I didn’t say anything.” He says, holding his hands up in defense.

Grace starts laughing so hard she has to grab onto the cart for support. “I cannot believe this.” But she is still laughing as you move on to the next aisle, and every time she catches your eye after that she starts grinning all over again.

—

The worst part is that it gets under your skin for the rest of the day. Not in a bad way, but in the kind of way where your skin feels flushed everytime you think of it.

Happy wife, happy life.

By the time the teasing stops, dinner is ate, and the sun has long since set, Grace is in the guest room, and the apartment has gone quiet. You are both in bed, the room dark except for the small lamp on Will’s nightstand. He is lying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, while you curl on your side facing him, one hand resting on his chest.

For a little while neither of you say anything, but you break first.

“You really don’t care, do you?”

“About what?” Will asks, glancing down at you.

“You know what.” You say, propping yourself up a bit so you can see his face clearly. His hair is messy against the pillow, and it takes everything in you not to run your fingers through it and forget about it all.

“Ah, you must mean the pasta sauce.” Will says, and he can’t keep the cheeky look off his face as you gasp.

“I’m not talking about the sauce, William.”

“Woah, full name?” He gapes for a second, but then he cocks his head, looking into your eyes. “You mean calling you my wife?”

You press your lips together, already a little embarrassed that you are bringing it up at all. “Yes.”

“Why would I care?” He asks, looking like he almost doesn’t understand why everyone is so shocked by this.

“Because-“ You start, but you honestly aren’t too sure what to say. He looks at you for a second, expression softening into something quieter. There is still the amusement there, but underneath it is that steadiness he always gives you when he is being real.

“Because?” He asks, waiting for you to continue, but you don’t. You just look down, at a complete loss for words. “No baby, I don’t care that I’m saying it because you’re gonna be my wife,” he says simply. “I know you’re not yet,” he confesses as his fingers slide up and down your back. “I just don’t feel weird about it.”

“You don’t think people will think it’s strange?” You ask him, your heart speeding up, and your eyes making their way back to his.

He lets out a short laugh. “People do think it’s strange. Mack looked like he was about to pass out the other night.” That pulls a laugh from you. “And Grace almost yelled in the grocery store.”

“She did yell in the store.” You correct, your pointer finger tracing small shapes on his bare chest as you smile. But then your voice softens again. “Still. It doesn’t… I don’t know.. embarrass you?”

“Why would I be embarrassed?” Will ask, his brows drawing together like the question itself does not make sense. You don’t know how to answer that, and maybe he can tell that because he answers for you. “I love you,” he says, his fingers going to your chin so your eyes would meet his. “I’m going to marry you. You’re the person I think about when I think about home and my future and all of it. So why would I be ashamed of calling you what you’re going to be?”

You stare at him, at a complete loss for words. And Will just smiles softly, the teasing gone from him. His hand comes up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, his eyes searching your face in the dim light. “Does it freak you out?” And the level of sincerity in his voice hits you like a blow to the chest.

“No,” you say softly. “It doesn’t freak me out, it’s just,” you look down at his chest for a second, fingertips smoothing over his peck. “You say it so easily.”

“Because it is easy.”

You laugh a little, but it comes out shaky around the edges. “You know that makes it worse, right?”

“Worse?”

“In a good way,” you mumble and Will’s face changes, it is subtle, but you see it. He cocks his head, almost like he wants to hear you say it again. You make a small sound and hide your face against his chest. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” You say with a whine, as he laughs softly, one hand sliding to the back of your head to hold you there.

“So you do like it.” He jokes, but then yelps as you pinch his side, shoving you softly as you both laugh. “I hope you know it’s not some joke,” he says quietly. “I’m not saying it to mess with you.” His fingers move, tracing slowly along your back. “Sometimes it just comes out.”

The room feels very still all of a sudden, and you glare at him weakly as he just grins and leans up enough to kiss you, soft and slow. When he pulls back, he keeps his forehead against yours.

“I can stop,” he murmurs. “If you want me to.”

That gets your attention, and because it is late, or because your heart too full of love to lie, you whisper, “I don’t want you to stop.” Will goes still for half a second before he smiles, and it is soft and bright at the same time.

the sweetness of it catches you off guard. "oh thank you," you say softly.

after that, it doesn't stop. someone else hands you a folded note before briskly walking away. by the time the game resumes, your hands are full of little, thoughtful things, kindness from people who don't know you, but still chose you.

it's overwhelming, but gentle. mack finds you after the game, eyes scanning until they land on you. he smiles at first -- then pauses when he sees everything you're holding.

"what happened?" he asks, a quiet laugh slipping through as he drops into the seat beside you.

you lift the bracelet slightly. "look at what your fans gave me."

his expression shift, surprise softening into something more careful as he looks at you. "you okay?"

you nod, a small smile forming. "yeah. it's actually really nice."

relief settles into his shoulders. he nudges your knee, grin returning, softer this time. "they like you," he says.

you shake your head lightly. "i think they just like you."

he glances at the gifts, then back at you, something warm and certain in his expression.

"pretty sure it's you that they love."

WILL SMITH

it's after a game, the arena is still buzzing, the kind of electric energy that clings to will even as he steps out of it. you're half a step behind him, tucking into your usual place -- close enough to matter, far enough to stay out of the spotlight. that's how it's always been. you have your life, your routines, your quiet normalcy. he has...all of this.

so when someone calls your name -- not his -- you almost don't turn.

"hey umm, this is for you."

you blink, surprised, as a fan leans over the barrier, holding out a small gift bag. it's nothing extravagant, just tissue paper and a shy smile behind it. you hesitate, glancing instinctively at will.

he's already looking at you. not confused or annoyed, just soft, like he's trying not to grin too wide.

"go on," he murmurs, nudging your elbow.

you take it, offering a polite thank you, but it doesn't stop there. another voice, another hand, something wrapped this time. then another. suddenly, you're the one being noticed, pulled into the orbit you've always watched from the edges.

it's overwhelming in the gentlest way. will shifts closer, a quiet presence at your side. not possessive or showy, just there with his hand brushing yours briefly, grounding you.

'i think they like you more than me," he says under his breath, amusement threading through it.

you huff softly, still dazed. "they barely even know me."

he glances at you then, really looks, like the answer is obvious. "they know enough."

you don't ask what that means.

later, when you're back in the car, the noise gone and the night settling around you, he reaches over and tugs one of the gift bags into his lap, peeking inside like a kid.

a quiet laugh escapes him. "this one is so you."

you watch him, the way he smiles -- not at the crowd, not for camera, but because of this, and because of you -- and something warm settles in your chest. you're not part of his world, not really. but somehow, they've made space for you anyway, and so has he.

FRASER MINTEN

you're not at the game tonight -- just at home, curled up on the couch with a blanket and your phone on silent, half-watching, half-waiting for him to come home. you like it that way. you're in the quiet of your home, and get to look up to see fraser do what he loves, and he knew that. he's always known you're not one to always love the loud arena, but you're still at home supporting him just as hard.

he doesn't mention anything unusual when he texts you quickly before the game, just a quick thinking of you, like always. it isn't until later, long after the final buzzer, that something feels different. there's a pause before his next message. typing, stopping, typing again.

when he finally calls, his voice is softer than usual, threaded with something fond and a little disbelieving.

he tells you it started with one fan by the glass during warmups, holding out a small, neatly wrapped package, with a small sign saying they had something for you. they didn't ask for a puck like everyone else around them, just if he could give their gift to you.

when he took the gift and said he'd pass it on to you, then came another, and another. by the time he made his way back down the tunnel, he had a handful of little things carefully tucked away. a handwritten note, a bracelet, a tiny keychain. things that felt chosen and made for you, not general things that were bought not too long ago.

he laughs quietly, like he can't quite process it. not in a mocking way, but in a grounded, slightly shy way he has when something catches him off guard.

"they just...wanted you to have all these."

you can picture the way he'd say it, shrugging a little, like he doesn't want to make it bigger than it is. but you hear the undercurrent too -- the protectiveness, the quiet pride. the way he didn't brush it off, and let the staff hold onto the gifts. he kept every single one, ready to bring them to you.

later, when he gets home, he sets them out for you with surprising care, like they're fragile. like they matter only because they were for you. and when you look up at him, a little overwhelmed by the amount of things people had to gift you, he just smiles, easy and steady.

BEN KINDEL

you stand a few steps off to the side, arms crossed, trying to look casual while ben signs autographs for a long line of fans. even on a day off, he's magnetic -- smiling, joking, shaking hands with everyone. your chest swells a little watching him.

"here you go," someone says suddenly, holding out a small wrapped package. you blinked, startled. "uhh...this is for you."

you glance around, confused, but the fan just smiles and nods before moving on. you're now holding a little gift, your cheeks heating a bit. you weren't expecting anything -- you though that no one really knows you, and didn't really think that people would care to give you something.

before you can overthink it, ben notices. he's mid-signature, but his eyes catch the exchange. his brow arches as he waves at you. "hey! is that...for you?"

you nod, a little shy. "yeah...i guess someone actually knows about me."

ben's grin spreads wide, genuine and teasing. he finishes up the autograph he's signing, quickly making his way over to you with easy confidence. "well, look at that," he says, crouching slightly to get closer. "you've got yourself your own fans."

you laugh nervously. "i didn't expect this when i decided to come today."

"exactly," he says softly, draping an arm around your shoulders. "you're just being you, and somehow, people already love you for it. and let me tell you? i do too. probably more than anyone here." his thumb brushes your arm gently.

you shake your head, smiling. "ben-"

"nope," he interrupts, smirking. "this is official. you get lovely gifts, and i get to have the proud boyfriend look. deal?"

you laugh, leaning into him. "deal."

he kisses your temple, then looks down at the small package in your hands with a small grin. "seeing people love you just as much as i do has officially made my day...though i might be a little jealous of whoever gave you this."

CONNOR BEDARD

the engine hums low as connor pulls out of the arena parking lot, one hand loose on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against it. you're mid-sentence about something completely normal -- groceries, maybe, or a show you want to watch -- when he exhales a quiet laugh.

"still interesting," he says, glancing at the small crowd gathered near the exit. "they wait out here every time."

you shrug, used to it by now. "i mean, you're kinda a big deal."

he huffs. "kinda?"

as the car slows, a few fans try to get closer, waving. connor rolls down his window automatically, his posture shifting -- polite and practiced, expecting they want to take a photo with him or want him to sign something as usual.

a girl at the front beams, but her eyes flick past him -- straight to you.

"oh my god, hi!" she says.

you blink, not expecting to be talked to. "hi?"

connor's brows knit slightly. he glances at you, then back at everyone, confused but still smiling. "did you want a photo, or-?"

"actually," another fan cuts in, holding up a small gift bag, "this is for you." she leans a bit, offering it toward the window.

you freeze. "for...me?"

connor fully turns now, his confusion obvious. "wait, what?"

the first girl nods eagerly. "we just think you're really cool, and wanted to give you this."

connor lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh. "you guys are bringing her gifts now?"

you nudge his arm lightly. "don't sound so offended."

"i'm not offended," he says, trying to defend himself, shaking his head even though a grin breaks through. "i just- this is new."

you accept the bag carefully. "thank you! this is really sweet."

another fan hands over something small -- a handmade bracelet. "we see you at games sometimes," she says. "and you just seem really nice."

connor leans back in his seat, watching you with an expression that softens into something quieter, more personal. "they like you more than me," he mutters.

you smile, glancing at him. "obviously."

he snorts, but there's pride in it. "yeah," he says, pulling the car forward once the crowd clears. "obviously."

If you knew one person who hated pda in front of others, it was your boyfriend, Will.

At home it was one story. The second the front door clicked shut behind you, he’d be on you; arms wrapping around your waist from behind, chin hooking over your shoulder while you tried to kick off your shoes, lips brushing the side of your neck like he couldn’t wait another second.

He’d pull you down onto the couch with him, long legs tangling with yours, hands sliding under your hoodie to rest warm against your stomach, fingers tracing lazy circles until you laughed and squirmed.

He’d kiss you slow and deep like he was making up for every minute you’d spent apart, murmuring against your mouth how much he’d missed you, how pretty you looked even in sweatpants and his hoodie that swallowed you whole.

He’d cuddle into your side during movie nights, head on your chest, one hand always finding yours to lace your fingers together, thumb rubbing over your knuckles. Sometimes he’d just hold you from behind while you cooked, swaying slightly like it was a slow dance, pressing soft kisses along your shoulder blade whenever you reached for something on the counter.

He hated the thought of having his hands off you.

But the moment you stepped outside; it was a completely different story.

In public, Will kept it subtle. Always touching, but never made it obvious. A hand resting low on your back as you walked through a crowded bar. Fingers brushing yours when he passed you a drink. His knee pressed lightly against yours under the table at dinner with teammates.

He’d drape an arm across the back of your chair, thumb occasionally grazing your shoulder, but nothing that screamed couple in the way other couples did: sloppy kisses, loud declarations, hands everywhere like they were staking claim in neon.

And you were fine with it. You’d been together a little over a year now, long enough that you’d learned his rhythm. You weren’t big on pda either, you didn’t need to prove anything to anyone. The way he looked at you when no one else was watching, the way his eyes softened the second you walked into a room, the things he’d whisper to you when it was just the two of you was enough.

He wasn’t embarrassed of you. If anything, he loved showing you off in his own way. He’d introduce you to new people with his arm casually looped around your shoulders, proud smile tugging at his lips every time someone complimented how good you looked together.

He’d text you links to articles or tiktoks with captions like “Us” and half of them were disgustingly couple-y. He just didn’t want other people seeing the parts of him that belonged only to you. The greedy way he held you at home, the way he’d bury his face in your neck and breathe you in like you were oxygen.

Tonight you and Will went out with a few of his teammates to the bar a couple blocks from the rink that had become your unofficial spot. It wasn’t anything fancy, just something you all learned to enjoy going to. You’d dressed like you always did for a place like this: nothing too revealing, nothing too casual.

Will included you in every conversation like he always did. He’d lean in when Macklin was ranting about a bad call from the last game, repeating the punchline so you could laugh too, or he’d nudge you gently and say, “Babe, tell them what you said about that hit exactly.” His voice easy, and his eyes stayed on you longer than usual.

When the bartender came over, Will ordered your usual without asking and then slid it toward you with a small.

A little while later, you moved on the barstool. “I’ll be right back,” you murmured, slipping your hand from his.

Will nodded once, but as you stood, he reached over and tugged your glass closer to his spot, fingers brushing the condensation like he was guarding it. His other hand lingered in the air for half a second where yours had been before dropping back to the bar.

Once you came back from the bathroom after quickly fixing your lip combo in the mirror light, touching up the gloss that had faded from sipping your drink, you found Will still perched on his barstool, facing his teammates.

If you’d gone straight back to your own seat next to him, his broad back would’ve been turned to you the whole time. But the second he caught sight of you weaving through the crowd, his arm reached out without hesitation.

His fingers found yours, locking tight, and he tugged you gently toward him instead of letting you slide back onto your stool. “C’mere,” he murmured.

You let him pull you in, stepping right between his spread thighs until your hips brushed the edge of the stool. Your hands landed on his chest for balance, as he looked up at you.

“Where’d you go?” he asked, even though he knew.

“Bathroom,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “Took longer than I thought, someone was hogging the mirror.”

He hummed, the sound vibrating through his chest, and then he leaned in. The kiss was slow, sweet, nothing rushed or sloppy. Just his lips pressing to yours like it was the most normal thing in the world, his one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck while the other stayed locked with yours at his side.

Your breath caught. Will almost never kissed you in public, not where anyone could see. For a heartbeat you froze, surprised, but then you melted into it, leaning forward until your forehead brushed his when he finally pulled back.

He didn’t say anything about it. Just handed you your unfinished vodka soda with a small, crooked smile.

You turned with him so you were facing the group again, your back settling against his chest. His arm came across your front, forearm resting easy over your collarbone, fingers splayed loose but possessive against your shoulder. His other hand found your waist, every few minutes he’d tug you closer, like he couldn’t quite get enough, even though you were already pressed flush against him.

Macklin raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at his mouth. “You finally figure out how arms work tonight?”

Will just tightened his hold a little, chin dipping to rest lightly on your shoulder as he shot Macklin a lazy look. “Shut up, Mack,” he said a little amused.

You stayed like that for a while, cocooned against him, his heartbeat steady against your back. His fingers kept moving in small, absent strokes along your waist, thumb brushing the underside of your ribs every now and then.

Eventually your heels started screaming. Standing this long in them, even leaning into him, made your calves burn.

You tilted your head back just enough to murmur against his jaw, “My legs are killing me.”

Will’s arm loosened instantly. “Sit,” he said softly, kissing the shell of your ear before letting you go.

For the rest of the night, Will didn’t let the space between you grow. He kept one hand on you at all times: resting on your thigh when you were back on your stool, thumb drawing slow, mindless patterns over the denim; sliding up to play with the ends of your hair when you laughed at something one of the guys said; brushing your lower back.

Every few minutes he’d press a quick kiss to your temple, or drop his chin to your shoulder just to murmur something dumb and sweet.

You were happy for it. The warmth of his palm against your skin felt like nice in public. The guys ribbed him lightly but Will just shrugged it off with a smile and never pulled away.

By the time you both said goodbyes and stepped out into the cool night air, your cheeks were flushed from the bar’s heat and from the way his hand had stayed tangled with yours the whole walk to the car.

When you got home, the apartment was quiet, you kicked the door shut behind you, already reaching to slip off your heels, but Will beat you to it.

He dropped to one knee right there at the edge of the bed, fingers gentle around your ankle as he lifted your foot and eased the first heel off. Then the second, thumbs pressed into the arch of your foot for a second, massaging away the ache without being asked.

You watched him, heart doing that stupid fluttery thing it always did with him. “What’s gotten into you tonight?” you asked quietly.

He glanced up, brows lifting like he had no idea what you meant. “What? I always do this.” He asked setting your foot down and standing.

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “No, I mean.. being so touchy in front of everyone, kissing me like that. You never do that.”

He paused, then took your hand in both of his. Slowly he brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, eyes never leaving yours. “Can’t a guy show how much he loves his girlfriend?”

You laughed softly. “You never do it like that.”

He tilted his head, mock offended. “What? I always show everyone how much I love you.”

“Yeah,” you said, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw, “but not in a way that makes Macklin tease you for ten straight minutes.”

Will’s expression softened. You pulled him down to you, as he started crawling over you until his weight settled warm and solid, knees sinking into the comforter on either side of your hips.

He braced himself on his forearms so he wasn’t crushing you, but close enough that you could feel every breath he took.

“I love you,” he said simply, as if it was the easiest truth in the world. His forehead rested against yours for a second before he kissed you, the kind of kiss he usually saved for when the door was locked and the lights were off. “I just.. wanted to be close to you tonight. Didn’t want to wait until we got home to touch you the way I always want to.”

His hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “I like when we keep things private. But sometimes..” He exhaled. “Sometimes I look at you laughing with the guys, or just sitting there looking like mine, and I want everyone to know.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down until his chest pressed to yours. “That’s sweet,” you whispered against his mouth. “I liked tonight a lot.”

He smiled and kissed you again. “Me too.”

His hands found yours, fingers lacing tight as he settled more of his weight over you, like he was trying to memorize every inch of how you fit together.

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Texts Will x Macklin

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐑

whether it was his own apartment, a friend’s place, or his family home, the left corner of the couch belonged to fraser. he told you it was just a reflex, something automatic, to gravitate toward that side when you asked him why that spot specifically. and while that was true, there was more to it. he always sat on the left side in cars, or slept on the left when he and his brother had to share a bed. as silly as it might sound, the left side just reminded him of home and childhood.

of course, when people who didn’t know him well took his sacred little spot, he didn’t get angry. but the second connor, mason, or one of his cousins even dared to look in that direction, fraser would shoo them away or drag them off the couch by their feet.

that’s why during summer, when you were over at his parents’ house with nearly the whole family present and everyone mingling, people exchanged looks when you took fraser’s spot, some silently considering whether they should tell you to move. but then something no one expected happened: fraser simply walked over with the softest smile, the one reserved just for you, so different from all his others. he sat down next to you, kissed your temple, and rested his head on your shoulder.

“you know, i was wondering,” you said one night, looking at fraser in the mirror as you brushed your teeth and got ready for bed.

“hmm?” his blue eyes met yours in the reflection, the corners of his mouth still messy with toothpaste.

“why do you let me sit on your side of the couch? you nearly threw connor over your shoulder the other day, but you never make me move.”

fraser stopped mid-motion, set his toothbrush aside, and rinsed his mouth. you could see the tips of his ears turn red as he patted his face dry with a towel. he reached for his glasses and cleared his throat nervously.

“i guess… i guess it’s comforting, in a sense,” he said. “that sounds so stupid.”

you wrapped your arm around his waist, and with your mouth still full of toothpaste, you mumbled, “not at all, baby.”

fraser cracked a smile and shook his head slightly. “it’s the same as you wearing my jersey. or when you text me goodnight on road trips. or when you grab my hand in crowds. seeing you sit in my spot just makes me feel like i’m truly at home.”

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐑

connor means business when it comes to food – you do not touch what’s his. he’s reluctant to share even a bite of his order, always bawling internally when handing over a portion for someone else to taste. when he was younger, connor used to throw tantrums if anyone touched something he had left for later in the fridge, and would give his cousins and friends the silent treatment, stubbornly ignoring them for the rest of the day (until someone bribed him with extra food).

years later, at nearly 21 years old, he still acts like a grumpy little kid whenever someone messes with his food.

enter you, who can get his whole meal without even having to ask. sometimes you joke that he’s acting like a mom of five, but connor just shakes his head and insists you need to eat to stay healthy and strong. that makes perfect sense – but what doesn’t is how anyone else is met with a threat of murder for taking one of connor’s fries, while you get a whole burger handed over without a single complaint.

fraser took advantage of connor being distracted by a couple of kids at the table next to yours and reached for a nugget from his plate. “so did you– ouch,” he exclaimed, looking at the red patch forming on his skin where your boyfriend had just slapped his hand away. “what now?” humour laced his voice as he noticed connor’s unamused stare. “it’s just a piece of chicken, man. you just drank half my coke.”

“yeah, but that’s different,” connor muttered, glancing between the nuggets and his friend, ready to defend them if fraser tried to steal another one.

“oh yeah? how so?”

your boyfriend rolled his eyes, and you could help the giggle to escape your lips. 

“oh my god, why do you always have to ask so many questions?” he groaned, throwing his head back. “i don’t know. it just is,” he said, but reluctantly put one of the nuggets on fraser’s plate. “just eat it before i change my mind.”

“your boyfriend is a child.” 

“tell me about it,” you replied, nudging connor with your elbow and reached for his fries, dipping them in ketchup. “have to live with it almost 24/7.”

“here, just have them all,” connor said, letting the teasing go over his head as he slid the plate toward you, a small, content smile settling on his face.

“you’re impossible,” fraser breathed, shaking his head. “you nearly decapitated me over one nugget, and she gets a whole plate?”

connor simply shrugged. in his mind, it made perfect sense – and that was the end of the discussion.

𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐘

sidney has always been a bit… particular about his personal belongings. it wasn’t that he got angry or frustrated when people moved his sticks, spilled coffee on that one navy suit jacket he’d been planning to wear for the game the next night, or commented on his shoulder pads that had somehow survived what felt like the ten plagues of egypt. okay, maybe sometimes he did. but more than anger, what he really felt was discomfort – that quiet, uneasy shift inside him, like something had been slightly knocked out of place and his thoughts couldn’t help but circle it.

some days he handled it better. on others, even the smallest change could feel like too much, building into something he couldn’t easily ignore.

that was why everyone around him had learned to be careful with sid’s things, careful not to disturb the order that made everything feel just a little more manageable for him.

but if there was one person who could rearrange his ties in the closet, move the vase in the living room to a different spot, or tease him about his ancient gear, it was you.

and if sid ever tried to explain why that tight, anxious feeling softened when it was you, he wouldn’t have the right words at first. eventually, he’d probably say it was because you made everything feel safe. familiar. like nothing could truly be wrong if it was you. your trust, your warmth, your understanding – they didn’t erase the feeling completely, but they quieted it, like a hand gently smoothing out the edges of his thoughts.

and whenever any of the boys were at your place and you happened to be cleaning or ironing his suits, they never dared to joke about it or tease sid about how you could do it, but they couldn’t. instead, they would just exchange quiet, knowing smiles in your direction – the kind that didn’t need words. it wasn’t something they questioned. it just… was. the way you looked after him fit so naturally into the rhythm of his life that it almost felt like it had always been there.

𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋

will is a certified blanket hogger. his cousins hated his ass when he came over for sleepovers, and their mum made them sleep in one bed. he’d leave them cold and shivering, wrapped in a cocoon from head to toe, only his blond curls would stick out (which also happened to be a perfect target for them to pull to wake him up). 

and while will doesn’t consider himself to be a selfish person in the slightest, when it comes to duvets, blankets or whatever else he uses as a cover during sleep, it’s his and only his. there is no point in trying to steal it even after he falls asleep – he’ll wake up just enough to yank it back and, in the process, probably leave you with a bruise from blindly searching for the edge.

so imagine his cousins’ outrage when, during one of your trips back to his home, they found you asleep on the couch, actually covered. and he was right there next to you, the blanket barely draped over him. 

“i’m going to strangle him.” 

“this little fucker.” 

“are we sure it’s him.” 

they truly couldn’t believe their eyes, because how could this be the same person who had terrorised them just a few years back. at the same time, they couldn’t deny how adorable you two looked, especially with how pathetically in love will looked, even while napping. 

it was one of the first things you noticed when you started dating him – how gentle he became in small, quiet ways. the way he’d tuck you in before leaving for practice in the morning, careful not to wake you. how he’d drape a blanket over you when you fell asleep on his shoulder during movie nights. how, even half-asleep, he’d adjust it around you, making sure you were warm.

when he sleeps beside you, he’s still a blanket hogger. just not for himself.

𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐈𝐍

mack is rather… strict about the music he listens to in the car. especially in the morning. after games. after losing games. before dinner. when he’s stuck in traffic. ideally, he wouldn’t listen to music at all – but since he’s usually getting rides from other people, he has no choice but to submit to the torture that is someone’s shitty taste in music. and most of the time, it’s not even about the music itself. mack just gets overstimulated by the sound. he’s surrounded by noise almost 24/7, rarely getting the chance to just sit in silence, so music, in general, is a sore subject for him.

will, who’s been permanently banned from touching the AUX, is the most unhappy about this arrangement. you’d think he’d get special treatment, but whenever he even tries to go near it, mack threatens to leave him in the middle of the road. bribing you doesn’t work either.

you’re the only one who can play whatever you want without him getting irritated. rock, taylor swift, EDM, k-pop, jazz – whatever your heart desires. he’ll just nod along, drumming his fingers against the wheel from time to time.

“dude, we’ve been listening to this girly shit for like an hour now,” will groaned from the backseat, throwing his head against the headrest. too bad he lost rock-paper-scissors for the passenger seat, though mack would’ve made him sit in the back anyway. maybe then he would’ve had a chance to put something else on.

“oh my god, stop whining.”

your boyfriend looked like he was five seconds away from murdering his best friend, who just wouldn’t shut up. both of their hair was still messy from the shower, their suits wrinkled by now, but mack looked like he’d just come out of the trenches.

“then let me put something else on.”

“no.”

mack didn’t even glance at him as he turned the volume up, earning a quiet giggle from you, and another dramatic groan from will.

𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐌

wille is sunshine personified – a smile never leaves his face. he’s kind and patient, and you swear his laugh could make even the biggest grump crack. he’s great, although a little shy with new people, always making polite small talk and going out of his way to compliment them. he’s the type of guy your mum and grandma would instantly fall in love with, and your dad would already be figuring out how to get him over for the next barbecue.

however, beware.

your sweet, golden-retriever boyfriend has one very specific trigger: his swedish candy. he does not play about that shit. first of all, he has a special place in his apartment to store it, as if it were the crown jewels. you used to joke that he should install laser beams around the drawer in case anyone tried to steal from it.

wille didn’t find that funny. because, again – this is serious business.

whenever you have someone over and he forgets to hide it, and they ask if they can have some, you have to suppress the laughter bubbling up at your boyfriend’s miserable expression. still, asking is one thing, at least he’s prepared. but when mack, will, and misa pulled a prank on him and somehow managed to steal the entire drawer, he almost saw the gates of heaven.

obviously, you’re the exception. even better – he always gets extra smiley when he sees you eating it. there’s just something about watching you enjoy something that’s so dear to him. like you’re indulging in the real him – the wille eklund part, not just the san jose hockey player.

the fact that you want to try food and sweets from his country? it makes him melt every time.

“you’re late again,” he mutters when you walk into macklin’s place, shrugging off your jacket. you blink, caught off guard. “i said i’d be here around three.”

“yeah, and it’s twenty minutes past that.”

“relax,” macklin cuts in immediately from the couch, “she’s here now.”

you give macklin a small smile, and move to sit beside him. will just huffs, leaning back in his chair like he’s already over it. and that’s kind of how it always goes.

you never snap back.

and that’s the thing that confuses everyone. because you’re not weak. not quiet, not shy, not the type to just sit there and take shit. but when it comes to will, you just let it slide.

you always have, even when it gets worse.

-

“are you seriously wearing that?” he says one night when you show up in a off the shoulder sweatshirt and sweats.

you glance down at yourself, then slowly back up at him. “yeah?”

he shrugs. “just didn’t know we were doing ‘let’s dress up like i just rolled out of bed’ fits tonight.”

“okay, dude,” macklin says immediately, “what is your problem?”

“what?” will scoffs. “i’m just saying.”

“no, you’re just being a dick.”

you laugh softly like it doesn’t matter, brushing it off as you drop your bag on the floor. “it’s fine.”

“it’s not fine,” tyler mutters from across the room.

but you just shake your head, smiling faintly. “i’m comfy and i’m chilling that’s all i care about.”

will watches you for a second longer than necessary then looks away.

macklin notices everything, he pretty much always has. so, of course he notices the way you gravitate toward him whenever you all hang out, sitting close, leaning into his side when you laugh.

and of course he notices the way will watches that, the way his jaw tightens and body tenses. the way his comments get sharper on nights when you and macklin are especially close. it doesn’t take two to connect the dots.

but macklin waits.

because it’s not his place to say anything yet.

not until it starts affecting you, and little did you both know it was coming up. your breaking point was a party.

-

“you’re coming,” macklin says as he takes another sip from his gatorade.

you raise your eyebrows in confusion. “am i?”

“yes.”

“she doesn’t even like parties,” will cuts in from the other side of the room.

you glance at him, “i like some parties.”

“not this kind.”

“and what kind is that?”

“the kind where you’d actually have to talk to people.”

macklin groans. “my guy, please for once in your life shut up.”

“what? i’m being honest.”

“no, you’re being annoying.”

you exhale softly already tired of it. “i’ll think about it, okay?”

“no, don’t think about it,” macklin pleads. “just come. please?”

you hesitate and that’s when will laughs under his breath.

“why are you begging her? she’s not gonna go.”

“i said i’d think about it.”

“yeah, and we all know what that means.”

macklin sighs loudly, now clearly irritated. “what is your deal, man?”

“i don’t have a deal.”

“you do when it comes to her.”

will rolls his eyes, “not everything is about her.”

you look down at your hands, picking at your sleeve wishing you could just disappear from the situation right now.

“whatever,” you mumble quietly, “i actually can’t go.”

macklin frowns. “what? why?”

you hesitate for half a second, then you say it.

“i have a date.”

silence fills the room at the words that left your mouth. macklin blinks slowly, “you have a—wait, what? since when?”

“just recently.”

he looks surprised, but not upset just curious. “with who?”

“his name’s dylan.”

“who?”

both yours and macklin’s eyes flick to will now, surprised at his sudden question. his expression has changed completely. he no longer has that smirk on his face. his voice no longer sounding amused and laced with sarcasm, just something sharp almost stern.

“you heard me.”

“yeah, i did,” he says, leaning forward. “i’m asking who he is.”

“why do you care?”

“i don’t,” he snaps. “just wondering.”

“you don’t seem like you’re just wondering.”

macklin looks between you both like it’s the most entertaining show he’s ever watched.

“he’s just someone i met,” you say, turning back to macklin instead. “it’s not a big deal.”

“you’re skipping the party for him?”

“yeah, and?”

will lets out a dry laugh. “must be some guy.”

you ignore him but macklin doesn’t.

“okay, that’s enough seriously.”

will leans back again, hands going up in surrender.

“what? i didn’t say anything.”

but his eyes are still on you and you can feel it.

-

the night of the party comes faster than expected. you almost back out and text dylan to cancel but you don’t because maybe it’s time you stop putting your life on hold for people who don’t treat you right. besides how bad could it go?

your first impression about dylan actually surprised you. he was nice, the kind of guy that was easy to talk to; relaxed and funny in a quiet, comforting way. he picks you up even when you insist on meeting him there and compliments you without making it weird. it’s almost refreshing in a way.

“so,” he says as he drives, glancing over at you. “you ever been to this place before?”

“no, actually.”

“me neither. i just know a couple guys who are going.”

“oh?”

“yeah, not super close. just mutual friends, i guess.”

you nod, not thinking much of it.

until you walk in and your heart skips a beat when you look across the room.

your eyes land on him.

will.

he’s already looking at you; like he knew you’d walk in at that exact moment.

like he’s been waiting.

your stomach drops.

“you okay?” dylan asks quietly.

“uh yeah,” you lie, forcing a smile. “just a lot of people.”

but you can still feel it. will’s gaze locked onto you.

it only gets worse from there.

everywhere you go, you feel him watching. you laugh at something dylan says, and you catch will staring. you lean in to hear dylan better over the music, and will’s jaw tightens.

you try to ignore it because for once, you just want a normal night.

—

“hey,” dylan says after a while, “you wanna head out? it’s getting kinda loud.”

you nod, relieved. “yeah, okay.”

you don’t even look for will as you leave, you don’t want to. you just want to go without the hassle. but of course, he doesn’t let that happen.

you’re halfway to dylan’s car when his familiar voice stops you both in your tracks.

“seriously?”

you freeze.

your eyes close for a second before you turn around. will’s walking toward you, hands shoved in his pockets, watching you with an expression you couldn’t exactly read.

“what?”

he looks between you and dylan.

“this is him?”

dylan clears his throat, eyebrows raising in confusion. “uhh yeah. do i know you?”

“not really,” will says flatly, eyes never leaving yours.

and immediately, you know shits about to go down.

dylan shifts beside you, clearly picking up on it. “okay well, we were just heading out—”

“—yeah,” will cuts in, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “probably for the best.”

“will.”

“what?” he shrugs, like he’s harmless. like he hasn’t been staring holes through you all night. “just saying.”

dylan glances between the two of you again, slower this time. “is everything okay here?”

“yeah,” you say quickly. “he’s just being difficult per usual.”

“she does this thing, you know.”

your stomach drops, you turn your head sharply. “don’t.”

but he’s already going.

will tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying you. almost like he’s deciding just how far to push it.

“she gets bored, finds someone new, acts all sweet, all interested and then disappears when it’s not fun anymore.”

“is that true?” he asks quietly.

you felt sick to the stomach.

“no,” you start shaking your head. “no, that’s not—he’s making it up.”

“i’ve literally watched her do it more than once.”

“what are you talking about?” your voice cracks slightly.

“you don’t even like parties,” he continues, talking over you. “you almost didn’t come tonight. what, he convinced you? give it a week, man.”

dylan rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes now. “i just, i don’t really do drama like this.”

“it’s not drama,” you say, your chest tightening. “it’s him. it’s literally just him.”

“maybe,” he says gently. “but i think i’m just gonna head out.”

your heart drops. “dylan.”

“i’m sorry,” he adds quickly, already stepping back. “you seem great, i just can’t.”

and then he’s gone.

you stand there for a second trying to process what the hell just happened and then slowly, you turn back to will.

“what the hell is wrong with you?”

will opens his mouth, but nothing comes out at first. because now that it’s done; now that dylan’s gone, now that you’re looking at him like that? it doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would.

“i was just—”

“-no,” you cut him off, voice shaking. “no, you don’t get to brush this off. you don’t get to act like that whole thing was nothing.”

“i didn’t—”

“why do you hate me?”

will shakes his head, “i don’t hate you.”

“bull fucking shit will!”

“that’s not what this is.”

“then what is this? because i’ve been nothing but nice to you always. even when you make those stupid comments, even when you go out of your way to make me feel small.”

“i don’t—”

“what did i ever do to you? seriously will, what did i do that makes you think it’s okay to treat me like that?”

there’s a long heavy silence now and for once, will doesn’t have anything to say.

your eyes start to fill with tears, as you look up blinking hard to keep the tears from falling and trying to keep it together like you always do.

but this time, you can’t.

“i don’t get it,” you whisper, your voice breaking as the first tear slips down your cheek. “i really don’t.”

will’s entire expression shifts to concern and guilt.

because he’s never seen this before.

not from you.

“hey.” he steps forward instinctively, his voice softer now. “hey, i didn’t mean—”

you step back fast, cutting him off mid sentence.

“don’t.”

that word hits harder than anything else you’ve said.

will freezes in his tracks.

“don’t what?”

you shake your head, wiping at your face even though more tears are falling. “don’t do that. don’t suddenly act like you care.”

“i do care.”

“no, you don’t!” you snap, your voice breaking again. “you don’t get to say that after everything you just did!”

he runs a hand through his hair. “i messed up, okay? i know that.”

“you always mess up, and i always let it go but i’m not doing that anymore.”

you take a deep breath, wiping away at your tears.

“just leave me alone, will.”

“what?”

“i mean it.” you take another step back. “i don’t want to do this with you anymore. i don’t want to sit there and pretend it doesn’t hurt, i don’t want to laugh it off, i don’t want to see you.”

“you don’t mean that,”

“i do.”

you turn around, wrapping your arms around yourself as you start walking in the opposite direction, your vision blurred, your chest aching in a way you can’t even describe.

“hey, what happened?”

you look up and see macklin, jogging up to you, confusion written all over his face until he sees yours and that’s when he sees the tears and everything in him shifts instantly.

“woah hey,” he says, his voice softening as he reaches you. “what happened?”

you try to speak but the second you open your mouth, another sob breaks through instead.

macklin doesn’t hesitate as he pulls you into him immediately, one hand coming up to the back of your head, pressing you gently against his chest.

“hey, hey it’s okay,” he murmurs, even though it clearly isn’t. “i’ve got you. you’re okay.”

you shake your head against him, clutching onto his shirt. “i’m not mackie, i’m really not.”

“i know, i know.”

his jaw tightens as his eyes flick up and across the lot, he spots will standing there and watching.

“i’m gonna kill him,” he mutters under his breath.

you tighten your grip slightly, shaking your head. “no, don’t please.”

“he doesn’t get to do this to you.”

and for the first time on the other side of the parking lot, will stands there quietly. no snarky comments or dirty looks. just silence, and guilt knowing he’s the reason you’re crying.

“You can’t be serious, Mom. Dad made us do bag skates again.”

Theo dropped his hockey bag on the kitchen floor with a thud, cheeks still flushed from the rink. At ten he was already the spitting image of Will. You shifted on the couch, one hand resting on the very round swell of your belly, and tried not to laugh at the sheer injustice painted across his face.

“Bag skates, huh?”

“Twice,”

Theo groaned, flopping sideways so his head landed in your lap like he was still five.

“Charles kept up, but I was dying. Dad kept yelling ‘You want the NHL? Then earn it!’ like we’re already in the draft or something.”

Charles wandered in behind him, quieter, cheeks just as red but mouth set in a determined line. He was the mirror twin same features, opposite energy. Where Theo exploded, Charles simmered. He set his own bag down more carefully and shrugged.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was so bad,” Theo muttered into your sweater.

“And Grandpa was there so Dad went full coach mode. I swear he smiled when I puked in the trash can.”

You ran your fingers through Theo’s sweaty hair, heart doing that familiar tug-of-war. Part of you wanted to defend Will, he was only trying to give them the head start he never had. The other part, the very pregnant, very tired part, ached at the thought that their favorite sport was starting to feel like a chore.

Before you could answer, the garage door rumbled open. Boots on tile, the familiar clink of keys in the bowl, and then Will’s voice, warm and a little winded, floated in.

“Boys! How we feeling after that session? Told you the second round would build character.”

Theo made a sound like a dying walrus and buried his face deeper into your side.

Will appeared in the doorway still in his Sharks hoodie, and the sight of him hit you the same way it had since the very first day you met him at a charity skate twelve years ago. Thirty now, two kids deep (three any minute), and somehow he still glowed. Fatherhood had only sharpened it, made it softer around the edges.

He clocked the scene immediately, Theo dramatically horizontal, Charles hovering like a referee waiting for a penalty call, and you trying to keep a straight face while rubbing slow circles on your belly.

“Rough one?”

Will asked, voice dropping into that gentle register he saved for home.

Theo lifted his head just enough to glare.

“You made us skate until I saw stars, Dad.”

Will’s eyebrows rose, but the smile never left. He crossed the room in three strides, dropped a kiss on your forehead, then ruffled both boys’ hair.

“Stars are good. Means you’re pushing. You said you wanted to play pro, right?”

“Yeah, but not today,” Theo mumbled.

Charles stayed quiet, but you caught the way his shoulders sagged just a fraction.

You reached up and squeezed Will’s wrist.

“Babe, can we talk after they shower and eat? I think the troops need a debrief.”

Will’s eyes met yours, the same look he gave you across the ice when he knew you were watching from the family box. He nodded once.

“Absolutely. Shower, dinner, then we’ll circle up. Sound good?”

The boys trudged upstairs, feet heavy on the steps. Will lingered, hand settling over yours on your belly. The baby girl inside gave a lazy kick right on cue.

“Hey, princess,” he whispered, leaning down so his forehead touched yours.

“Your brothers are dramatic tonight.”

“They’re ten,” you said softly.

“And their dad is kinda intense.”

He huffed a laugh, but there was a flicker of something uncertainty, maybe behind the easy charm.

“Intense is what got me here, babe.”

“I know.” You brushed a thumb across his cheek. “We’ll talk.”

Dinner was just like any others dinner, spaghetti, too much garlic bread, Charles reenacting a deke he pulled in practice while Theo stole meatballs off everyone’s plates. Will told stories from the road trip last week, hands flying like he was still on the ice. The boys laughed in all the right places, but you noticed Theo’s glances toward you, like he was waiting for backup.

After plates were cleared and teeth brushed, the twins climbed into their bunk beds, Charles on top because he liked the view out the window, Theo on bottom because he liked being closer to the door in case of ‘midnight snacks.’ Will read them one chapter of the hockey book they were on, doing the goofy voices that always cracked them up. By the time he closed the door, the house had settled into that rare, golden quiet that only happened after bedtime.

You were already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug of herbal tea when Will padded in, socks sliding on the tile.

He didn’t speak at first. Just wrapped his arms around you from behind, careful of your belly, and rested his chin on your shoulder. The familiar scent of his shampoo and the faint trace of rink ice clung to him.

“Alright,” he murmured against your neck.

“Lay it on me. I can tell you’ve been thinking since Theo face-planted in your lap.”

You turned in his arms so you could see his face. Up close, the tiny worry lines between his brows were new fatherhood lines, you liked to call them.

“Theo said you went pretty hard today,” you started gently.

“Bag skates twice. He puked.”

Will winced. “He told you that part.”

“He did. And Charles didn’t say much, but I saw his face. Will… they’re ten. They love hockey. They talk about playing in the NHL the same way they talk about ice cream for breakfast. But if it stops feeling like fun—”

“I know.”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

“I keep thinking about my own dad. He never pushed, but he also never had the chance to. I was the one who had to figure it out alone. I just… I look at them and I see so much potential. They’re fast, they’re smart, they’ve got hands. If they really want this, I want them ready. Every hockey dad I know starts the grind early. I figured ten was old enough to start building the habits.”

You reached up and smoothed the worry line with your thumb.

“I get it. I really do. And at first I thought the same thing, when they turned ten and started getting wild, a little structure felt right. But babe, there’s a difference between structure and… well, making them puke and then come home looking like someone kicked their puppy.”

Will’s shoulders dropped. He pulled you closer, one hand splayed protectively over your belly where the baby girl was doing slow somersaults.

“I don’t want them to hate it,” he said quietly.

“God, that’s the last thing I want. I just… I see the path, you know? The one that’s hard and long and full of kids who quit at fifteen because no one ever taught them how to grind. I thought if I started now, they’d thank me later.”

“They will thank you,” you said, “but maybe not for the puking part.”

A small laugh escaped him, warm against your hair.

“Fair.”

You stayed like that for a minute, the kitchen clock ticking softly, the baby doing her nightly dance between you.

“I’m not saying stop coaching them,” you continued.

“You’re incredible at it. They light up when you praise them. But maybe we ease up on the ‘every practice is a tryout’ vibe. Let them goof off sometimes. Let them remember why they fell in love with the game in the first place because it’s fun, because they get to be on the ice with their dad, because they get to come home and tell their very pregnant mom all about it.”

Will was quiet for a long beat, then nodded against you.

“I hear you. Loud and clear.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, that same glowing, heart-stopping smile slowly returning.

“When did you get so wise?”

“Pregnancy hormones and ten years of watching you be the hottest dad on the planet,” you teased.

He grinned, the full Will Smith megawatt version that still made your stomach flip even at thirty weeks pregnant.

“Hottest, huh?”

“Objectively. The league’s official stats.”

He laughed, and kissed you, the kind of kiss that said thank you and I love you and we’ve got this all at once.

When he pulled away, his hands framed your face.

“Tomorrow I’ll take them to the rink early, just the three of us. No bag skates. We’ll do skill stuff, then I’ll let them challenge me to a shootout. Loser buys slushies. And I’ll tell them straight up that I got a little carried away. That I’m proud of them no matter what.”

“They’re gonna love that,” you whispered.

“And you,” he added, forehead to forehead again, “are gonna sit here with your feet up because my wife is growing our dream girl and she deserves a break from driving two feral hockey players everywhere.”

“Deal.”

He kissed the tip of your nose.

“I love you. More than I loved the game even on draft day.”

“I love you too. Even when you make our kids puke.”

He winced again, but this time it was playful.

“Too soon.”

You laughed, later, after Will had carried you upstairs (because “pregnant wife privileges”) and you were curled against him in bed, his hand resting on your belly, you felt the baby girl give one last strong kick.

“Think she’s gonna want to play hockey too?” Will murmured, half-asleep.

“Probably,” you whispered.

“But we’re starting her at zero bag skates until she’s at least… twelve.”

He chuckled, the vibration rumbling through his chest.

“Deal.”