#williamnylander

His blond hair is tousled from running his hands through it in frustration, his cheeky grin flickering in and out as he mutters to himself in Swedish, clearly losing patience. His mustache and beard are in full force—an off-season indulgence, just like the sheer amount of cake he’s been consuming lately.

And it shows.

Willy is always strong, always an athlete, but off-season Willy? He’s soft. He still has muscle, but instead of his usual sculpted abs, there’s the faintest hint of a tummy, a little dad bod moment that somehow makes him look even hotter.

Unfortunately, all that raw, Swedish power is currently being humiliated by a simple bookshelf.

“IKEA is a scam,” Will mutters, glaring at the half-built monstrosity. “They make the instructions impossible on purpose.”

“You’re Swedish,” you remind him, sipping your coffee. “This should be, like, in your DNA.”

“Yeah, well, my ancestors built actual ships, not this bullshit.”

He picks up the hex key like it personally insulted his mother, then frowns down at the two pieces of wood he’s supposed to connect. His brows furrow, lips pressing together in deep concentration, and for a fleeting moment, you think—maybe—he’s finally figured it out.

But no. No, he has not.

With way too much confidence, he tightens one screw, nods to himself like a man who knows what he's doing, and then leans his full weight on the side panel—only for it to give out instantly, betraying him in the most dramatic fashion possible.

The entire bookshelf wobbles violently before crashing down in slow motion.

And so does Will.

You watch in horror as your six-foot, professional athlete boyfriend completely loses the battle. He stumbles backward, knocks into a chair, flails to catch himself—too late. His knee buckles, and before you can react, he fully wipes out.

A loud thud. A groan. Silence.

For a split second, your heart stops. You freeze, eyes wide, a sharp pang of panic in your chest. He’s completely motionless, just lying there, staring at the ceiling.

“Will?” you ask, rushing over, hovering a hand over his arm, not sure whether to touch him or call 911.

No response.

Then—he bursts out laughing.

Flat on his back, bare chest rising and falling with laughter, stomach shaking, cheeks flushed—he looks absurdly proud of himself. And you can’t help but laugh too—though only after you're sure he’s not actually injured.

And then it hits you. This man is your emergency contact.

The realization hits you slowly. This is the guy responsible for calling an ambulance if something happens to you. This one.

The same man who once set off the fire alarm trying to “improvise” a grilled cheese with a blowtorch because he thought it would be “faster.”

The same man who got his shoelace caught in an escalator last summer and had to be rescued by a mall employee.

The same man who confidently insisted he could fix a leaky faucet in your old apartment, only to somehow make it worse—so much worse—that you had to call an actual plumber, who took one look at the situation and just muttered, Jesus Christ.

You blink down at Will, still sprawled on the floor, grinning like an idiot, and a strange mix of affection, disbelief, and sheer terror floods through you.

You sigh, shaking your head. “I can’t believe you are my emergency contact.”

You look at him, grinning up from the floor like he just won a prize, and a mix of affection, disbelief, and helpless laughter washes over you.

Will, still sprawled out, turns his head to smirk at you. “Baby. I got you.”

“You just lost a fight to plywood.”

“It was a close fight.”

“In your dreams.”

He just shrugs, completely unbothered, propping himself up on one elbow. “Eh. I’m strong. I can take it.”

You stare at him, still processing the absolute chaos of it all. The lack of concern.

Will sees your expression and smirks, sitting up fully. “You’re thinking about it, huh?”

“I’m regretting it.”

He gasps, pressing a hand to his chest like you’ve just wounded him. “Wow. That’s ruthless.”

“Honest.”

Will squints, then rubs the back of his head. “Maybe. But too late, baby. We live together now. No take-backs.”

You roll your eyes, standing up to help his dumb ass off the floor. He lets you pull him to his feet, then immediately wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest.

“Will—”

“Shhh,” he says, resting his chin on top of your head. “Let me hold you. I almost died, älskling.”

You snort. “You did not.”

He squeezes you tighter, grinning against your hair. “You were so worried about me.”

You groan, but his arms feel nice, and he smells like cedarwood and the vanilla latte he stole from you earlier. Despite everything—despite his complete incompetence at building furniture or being careful at all—you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You sigh into his chest. “Yeah. You are sometimes actually terrifying. You clumsy idiot.”

Willy laughs, pressing a lazy kiss to your forehead.

“Terrifyingly sexy, you mean.”

I had never been a huge fan of Valentine's Day. Even in elementary school where everyone in the class got a dinky card from everyone, it just wasn't for me. I didn't have a horrible childhood or a traumatic event that caused my distaste for the day. All previous partners I've been with didn't really care that I didn't want to celebrate Valentine's Day. However, Will was different.

Will wanted to celebrate every little thing. I found it cute. He chalked it up to this being his first “real” relationship. Honestly, I think he’s always been like this. This is just the first time he’s been able to do everything he wanted. Our first Valentine’s Day together was not panning out how he would have liked. The odds were already against us as he started a road trip with the Leafs and would be in Seattle on February 14th.

“Hi, lover!” I smiled when he answered the FaceTime call.

“Hi, hun. How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty well. The beds starting to feel a little empty.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He frowned.

“Hey, no frowning today. It’s the day of love.” I teased, knowing he would rather be right next to me relaying all of the plans he had for the day.

“It is the day of love. Did you just wake up or have you been up and around?”

“I woke up a while back but I haven’t gotten out of bed yet. I’m trying to see if I can manifest a cup of coffee. So far, no dice.” I joked, hearing his laugh float through the speakers.

“I think you might want to get up…” He smirked, a giddy smile overtaking his face.

“What have you done?” I asked, getting out of bed and slowly making my way out. Walking out to the main room, nothing seemed out of place.

“Check outside.” He said, seeing the confusion on my face. I nodded, walking over and opening the door. Just outside was a basket full of wine, chocolate, and flowers with a few heart-shaped balloons attached.

“How did you manage this?” I asked, carrying the basket in and placing it on the kitchen counter.

“I have my ways.”

“You are amazing.” I smiled, setting up my phone so I was still in frame as I prepared the flowers to put in a vase. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do. I would much rather be there to bring you for an amazing dinner and then bring you home to show you how much I love you but you know.”

“I do. But you know that we don’t need a made-up holiday to have a nice dinner and a little bit of fun.”

“But that’s what happens on Valentine’s Day. I get to pamper you.”

“Will, you pamper me on a regular basis. You bring me flowers on a Tuesday just because. You make every day feel like a special occasion.” I smiled, feeling the smile get even bigger when there was a knock on his door.

“Sorry love. I don’t know who that is.” He sighed, getting out of bed and making his way towards the hotel door. He looked through the peek hole before turning his focus back to me. “There’s no one there.”

“Did you get ding dong ditched?” I asked, hoping he’d open the door.

“I don’t know.” He said, swinging the door open. The confused frown quickly turned into a smile when he looked down. “How did you manage this?”

“I have my ways.” I winked back as he carried the basket I had tasked Mitch to put together for me. “Happy Valentine’s Day love.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day. I love you.”

Entering the doors greeted by the security with warm smiles as I hand my invite over. I've been to one other event of this caliber -Black tie. I was a nobody there and I'm still a nobody here. I'm representing my dad's friend of friends company the first time it was for a Fundraising event for sick kids and the guy who I was filling for was out of the country and it would look horrible if no one from his company went and nobody wants to go.

Being a nobody is okay for anxious people like me. There is no attention on or for me in the slightest. I can come and leave and no one would notice but that won't some me from overthinking things like 'what if I trip?' 'Spill something on myself? Or even worse someone else!'

After checking my coat in and inner pep talk I stop by the bar to grab a cocktail that I highly need and will probably finish before I even get into the main hall.

 Passing a lot expensively dressed people I make my way to my table which is rather close the bar and the opposite side of the room from the main entrance.

 "Don't trip" I chant quietly under my breath as I pass the table to my seat. Carefully grabbing a flute of champagne of a tray being paraded around the room by multiple staff members. The more alcohol I drink the calmer I get and is just what I need right now.

  Starting to see familiar faces around the room making all the calm leave my body but I thankfully had made it to my table. My nervous making my grip on the flute almost white knuckle.

   As the room starts to fill meaning more people sitting at my table. All faces unknown to me. The tables beside me also unknown, closer to the stage is where all the NHL players sit with their girlfriends, wives or family.

As the night progresses it just gets boring. Speeches from organizers to everyone that came out directed mainly to the big name players and company heads that sponsor the league. I'm slightly buzzed from champagne and the open bar 20 feet to my left. Slowing down on the alcohol when the food game which like I had expected wasn't what  I had picked but I ate bits to looks the part and push around the rest to look like I ate more. The lady clad in bright blue making her eyes sparkle to my right going on about how luxurious the hall was and the importance of these events.

Bored. I got more bored the less I drank and the more the lady in blue kept talking- to who I'm not sure because honestly think I'm the closest to listen but that's just to be polite and I don't know anyone here.

After a short debate- no debate I knew it was the time I left and as people had started to get up to socialize and network (the purpose of this event) I left my seat, I made sure to grab all my belongings and drink the rest of my now warm drink. Carefully making to the washroom before I left. You can't keep drinking without almost peeing yourself.

   My makeup more I texted the. I expected but I had spray a good half of my setting spray. My blue eyes more vibrant than usual from my dark blue eyeliner and black smoked out eyeshadow and the false lashes framing and completing my look. No lipstick my lips naturally pink.  My dark hair straight falling past my breast and mid back and tucked behind my ear.  My cheeks pink from the alcohol. Time to go.

"Shit shit why did I have to wear white? And why did I have to have the chocolate ice cream?" A short blonde came rushing into the washroom. A dark smudge on her pristine dress. Stunning is the only word to describe the young women probably my age.  After watching her fail attempt of removing the stain I remember my Tide stick.

"Here I always carry this because I'm always clutz spilling things on myself," I said carefully offering her the stick. Her head snaps to me eyes wide. I clearly spooked her but she did take the stick and started to remove the stain with ease. Her shoulders relaxing the more the stain came out.

"Ah thank god! Thank you so much" she goes to give me back the pen by I refuse " it's okay you keep it. You never know what might come your way" I said warmly waving her off grabbing my clutch and heading for the door.

  Out of the door of the washroom and on my way to the exit I'm stopped by the lady in blue who now is accompanied a man who is not her husband. A man a handsome made with soft blue eyes, age lines accenting his features reveling some of his age and perfectly styled hair. Sporting a blue suit and brown dress shoes.

" Ah. Here she is. I thought you had left" almost lady almost. I smile carefully at the duo having no clue what's happening.  'Tread carefully'

"She's what you're looking for! Unknown beauty hell she doesn't even know it. Those eyes piercing! Maybe lose some bulk little too muscled.." she casually starts to point out flaws but then something she liked but all making me mad and confused. I never like being critiqued so blatantly. I'm a tall girl that likes to workout so of course, I have muscle.

As these two keep talking and I'm too polite to leave because I don't want to be rude even though they are rude. My eyes starting to well up with tears out of anger and my lips are pursed.

Stop talking to me!!!

The guy who now doesn't look as perfect as he points out my flaws offers me a card with his details on it. I carefully take it and make my way out of the hall and to the coat check my head down.

"Here's your coat miss" the young teenage hands me my trench and I would have been already gone if the girl from the washroom hadn't stopped me. Please, I can I leave!!! I just want to grab a hotdog and go home.

"I really want to thank you again" she gushed. I nodded and trip side step and leave. But she stopped me. "I just want to know those two uppity asses don't know what perfection is even if it hit them in the face like you should've, " she said seriously well holding me captive with her eyes.

 My confusion made her continue with a roll of the eyes. "When I came out of the washroom I saw your frown and I heard them in detail critiquing your appearance. I followed you. I want to thank you girl!" She finished with a huge grin.

" well, it's not a problem honestly" I grinned her words making me flush red.She sees someone over my shoulder. Her mood getting even happier (didn't know was possible). "I was wondering if you wanted to come an after party with me and my friends" she more informed than asked.

 With wide eyes, I don't want to have any more weird encounters tonight. " Ah I was hoping to go grab street meat and crawl into bed, " I said carefully not wanting to offend her. " I also don't even know who you are and if this is a ploy to kidnap my ass" I joked." oh shit sorry you're right! H, I'm Steph and here come my boyfriend Mitch" she waves someone over. "I heard street meat, " Said Mitch walks over and it's Just any Mitch. it's Mitch Marner --- holy shit.

"Street meat? Is this Marns new nickname or something?" An another voice joins. This voice being Auston Matthews.

I need more alcohol if I'm expected to act normal. I'm just standing wide-eyed.

"We actually talking about hot dogs actually" Steph corrects the tall hockey player with a teasing frown and a laugh.

"Yeah were gonna go grab some with our new friend here. You in?" Mitchell Marner says throwing his arm around his girlfriend.

"Sounds great. Hi, am Auston" his large hand goes for a handshake and I stare like it's a foreign object for a second too long before grasping his hand".

"Amelia" is all I could muster before Steph goes on about how rude she never asked for my name.

In seconds we were out of warmth and into the cold of Toronto going to get hot dogs.

You don’t even have to look to know what’s happening. Jack’s yelling, Luke’s trying to keep up, and Quinn’s probably rolling his eyes while doing everything better than both of them. The clatter of rollerblades on the driveway, the slap of sticks, the crash of a puck hitting the side of the garage — it’s like background music you never asked for.

You glance up anyway.

Yup. There they are. Jack’s already got his shirt off like he’s playing for the Stanley Cup instead of sweating through another backyard game. Luke’s copying him, all limbs and attitude. And Quinn, steady as always, holding it all together with that calm “old soul” energy he’s had since birth.

You roll your eyes and let out a sigh. Loud enough to be heard if anyone was paying attention.

You love them. You do. Jack, all wild energy and reckless chaos, like a storm that never quite settles. Luke, the baby of the family, all big eyes and easy charm — a golden retriever in human form. And Quinn, the quiet one, steady and serious, with a calm kind of passion that runs deeper than he lets on. They’re your brothers, and they’re home. But some days, it feels like you were dropped into the wrong family by mistake. A Hughes who can’t skate? Blasphemy.

You tried once. You really did. At 11 years old, bundled in gear three sizes too big, wobbling on skates like a baby deer. Quinn held your hands, patient and kind, while Jack chirped from the bench and laughed when you hit the ice face-first. You lasted maybe half an hour before you ripped off the helmet and declared hockey the enemy.

Ellen — your mom — just smiled. “Stick to your books, Eli,” she said, brushing ice shavings off your coat. “That brain of yours will get you further than a slapshot.”

So you did. You built your world out of stories and soil — history textbooks, dog-eared art guides, a garden full of stubborn tomato plants you refuse to give up on, no matter how many times your brothers trample them chasing after a ball.

“Eli! We need a goalie!”

Jack’s voice cuts through the afternoon like a fire alarm. You don’t look up.

“We’re down a man!”

“Don’t care,” you mumble.

“Get over here, nerd!”

Luke. Of course.

You flip a page, even though you’re not reading it. “Yell one more time, and I’m snapping your sticks in half while you sleep.”

Jack snorts. “You’d probably cry if you chipped a nail.”

“I’d cry if I had to live with you forever,” you shoot back, deadpan.

Luke gasps dramatically. “She doesn’t love us.”

“Fix your helmet, Luke,” you add. “It’s halfway off your head, you walking concussion.”

From the garage, Quinn’s voice cuts in, flat and amused. “Jack, you couldn’t score on an empty net. Luke, stop trying to be Jack. And Eli, please don’t murder them before dinner.”

You smile. Just a little.

Quinn’s always been the balance. The one who sees you when you go quiet, the one who reads the room without needing a single word. Maybe it’s because you’re closest in age, or maybe it’s just the way he sees the world, but you’ve always felt closest to him. Like he just gets it — gets you — in a way the others don’t.

Still, it’s exhausting sometimes. Being the only one who doesn’t speak “sports.” Like you’re a guest in your own home.

You pull your knees up, rest your book against them, and stare out at the garden. Your basil looks droopy. One of the tomato cages is crooked. You think about moving it, but—

The sound of tires crunching gravel stops you.

You look up.

Your dad’s car is pulling into the driveway, and for a second, everything feels normal. You expect him to step out, maybe toss Luke a water bottle, ask if Jack’s broken anything today.

But then the passenger door opens.

And someone else gets out first.

He’s tall. Really tall. His golden blonde hair almost looks white under the sun, and his eyes — blue, clear, like the ocean on a perfect day. There’s something about the way he walks, the smooth confidence in his stride, that catches your breath. He looks… different. Like he stepped out of a storybook. Like the version of Prince Charming no one told you actually existed. And for a second, you honestly wonder if you’ve just imagined him.

He glances around, and then — he sees you.

Just for a second. A flicker of a glance. But it hits like a lightning strike.

You forget the book in your lap. You forget the sun on your shoulders. All you can think is: Oh.

Your heart, which was perfectly fine a minute ago, starts doing something weird. Like it’s trying to crawl up into your throat.

“Kids!” your dad calls out. “Come say hello! This is William Nylander. He just got drafted, and he’s staying with us for a bit while he settles in.”

The name clicks, vaguely. Hockey. Leafs. But honestly, your brain is busy with other things.

Like the way William is walking toward you, easy and sure, hands tucked in his pockets. Like he’s stepping straight into your daydream and bringing it to life.

Jack drops his stick. “No way! He’s a Leaf?! That’s so sick!”

Luke’s already bouncing. “Wait, like on the team team?!”

William laughs — soft, polite, a little bashful. But his eyes haven’t left yours.

And then, he stops in front of you. You.

He flashes a grin — just crooked enough to feel dangerous.

“Hi,” he says, voice low and smooth. “I’m William.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like of course that’s who he is. And maybe it should be — with that smile, that hair, that confidence like he already knows you’re staring.

Your stomach flips so hard it might do a full somersault. Words? Gone. Logic? Useless. All you can think about is how warm your face feels and how suddenly awkward your hands are, just sitting there like they forgot how to be hands.

You manage to squeak out, “Hi.”

It’s quiet. Too quiet. You sound like someone just rewound your whole personality and left it on mute.

He looks amused. Not in a mean way — in a charming, "this is cute" kind of way. Like he knows exactly the effect he’s having on you.

Your dad’s saying something — something about him staying here for a couple of weeks until his apartment’s ready. But it’s background noise now.

He’s going to be living here.

With you.

You’re pretty sure your soul just left your body.

You glance up again, and he’s still looking at you, still smiling, like this is all some kind of inside joke he hasn’t let you in on yet.

And that’s when it hits you. You’re in trouble. Like... real trouble.

Because this isn’t just a crush. Not even close.

You're in love.

And he hasn’t even made it through the front door.

—

The next two weeks are a blur. Not in a busy, chaotic way, but in a dreamlike, everything-is-new kind of way. William’s presence feels like an added layer to everything you’ve known. He’s in your house, under your roof, sharing your space, and it’s almost surreal how easily he slips into your world.

He’s still the same charming, confident guy from that first moment. He talks with that easy, magnetic confidence that makes everyone gravitate toward him. But what surprises you the most is how he makes space for you in the midst of it all.

Every morning, he’s in the kitchen, making coffee, and when you shuffle in — hair a mess, sleep still heavy in your eyes — he’s always there with a quiet “Good morning,” and that crooked, too-perfect-for-him smile. It’s like he knows exactly how to make you feel like the only person in the room, even if Jack’s already rambling about his latest skateboarding tricks and Luke’s stuffing his face with cereal. William doesn’t mind. He just listens. Really listens, in a way that makes you feel like you could tell him anything.

And you find yourself telling him things. Little things. 

Like how you started gardening because it felt like the only thing that could grow in the chaos of your family. How Ellen once tried to teach you to skate and you cried on the ice. How you’ve read Greek and Roman History of Art so many times it’s basically your second language. How you despise salted caramel with such passion that you believe its fans deserve a short, contemplative exile in purgatory.

He doesn’t laugh. He just nods like it’s all valuable information.

“You really like art, huh?” he asks one night on the porch.

It’s late — one of those velvet-sky summer nights where time slows. You’re in your usual spot, knees pulled to your chest, hoodie sleeves over your hands. He’s next to you, hoodie half-zipped, legs stretched out, hair still damp from his shower. He smells like clean soap and warm skin.

You nod. “It’s not just that I like art. I love it. And not just paintings — I mean the whole thing. Art history. Architecture. The stories built into stone.”

He glances over, intrigued. You go on before you can stop yourself.

“I read about the Pantheon when I was thirteen. This giant, ancient Roman temple in the middle of the city — still standing. I’ve never even been to Rome, but the pictures? Unreal. The dome is a perfect hemisphere — same diameter as its height. They built it without modern tools, and no one even knows exactly how. The concrete they used? Still hasn’t cracked. The oculus — that giant hole in the roof — it’s open to the sky. Rain falls right through it. But the floor is sloped, with invisible drains, so the water just disappears.”

You pause, but he’s still looking at you, listening.

“It’s not just architecture. It’s—” You shake your head, smiling a little. “It’s art. The kind that makes your chest feel too full. It was built to honor all the gods, but they made it feel like it could touch the universe. Like they wanted to bring the heavens into reach.”

You hug your knees tighter. “And it’s still there. People walk into it every day. Into something made almost two thousand years ago. You can feel the history pressing in around you. It’s like standing in a heartbeat that never stopped.”

William is quiet for a long moment.“That’s… amazing.”

You laugh a little, embarrassed. “Sorry. I get carried away.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. I think it’s incredible that you care about something that deeply.”

You glance over, unsure. But he’s smiling — that quiet, thoughtful smile he doesn’t give out easily.

“I think that’s what art’s supposed to do,” he says. “Make you feel something you can’t really explain. Even if it’s just a building or a painting. Doesn’t matter. If it moves you, it matters.”

You blink. That’s… not what you expected. William Nylander — hockey guy, professional athlete, and also someone who actually gets art? 

“You’re full of surprises,” you murmur.

He smiles, sensing your surprise. "What? You didn’t think I was all hockey, did you?"

“I mean… kind of.”

“Wow,” he says, mock-offended. “I’m layered, Eli. Deeply complex.”

You laugh, but it sticks in your chest, warm. Because somehow, it’s true — he’s funny, confident, ridiculous… and he sees you. Not as one of the Hughes siblings. Not as the quiet one. Just…you.

That’s how you end up here. Most nights, side by side on the porch while the house buzzes behind you.

Tonight is no different — quiet air, cicadas in the trees, stars overhead like someone scattered glitter across navy velvet. Your bare toes brush his knee by accident, but he doesn’t move.

You look over. He’s fiddling with the cap on his water bottle, uncharacteristically quiet. The kind of silence that makes you want to fill it with something soft.

“I always wanted a dog,” you say.

He turns, eyebrows raised slightly. “Yeah?”

“Since I was five. Every birthday, every Christmas. I begged. Once I even made a Power Point on why a dog would help with my emotional development.” You snort. “Didn’t work.”

“What’d they say?”

“That I already had three brothers and that was enough chaos for one household.”

He laughs — that warm, low sound that always makes your stomach twist. “Fair. But brutal.”

You smile, leaning your head back. “I even had this whole Pinterest board. His name was going to be Pablo. He’d wear a little bandana and sleep at the foot of my bed.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Pablo? That’s kinda badass. Like a mob boss or something.”

You giggle, nudging him lightly. “Exactly! Super manly, right?”

William hums like he’s really considering it. “I’ll get you one.”

You blink. “What?”

“When I get my place. You move in. I’ll get you a dog.”

You snort a laugh, but your face feels suddenly way too warm. “William. I’m seventeen.”

He smirks. “So? It doesn’t have to be today. Just… someday. I mean—” he stretches his arms over his head, all long limbs and relaxed confidence “—I’m just saying, I could see it. Me, you, a golden retriever with too much energy. Maybe a garden. I’d build you a whole greenhouse if you wanted.”

You laugh again, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leans in closer, just enough that you feel the heat of him, his voice suddenly lower, teasing. “Nah. I’m serious. I think you’d look really cute walking a dog in one of those oversized sweaters. Maybe wearing my hoodie. Nothing underneath.”

“William.” You choke on a laugh, heat crawling up your neck.

He grins like he’s just scored a goal in overtime. “What? I’m a romantic.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And yet,” he says, leaning in just slightly, “you’re still sitting right here.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse is loud in your ears. The porch feels smaller, the air charged.

He shifts closer. Not suddenly — slowly, deliberately — like he’s checking to see if you’ll stop him.

You don’t.

His hand lifts, brushing a piece of hair from your cheek. But it’s not just a gesture. It’s careful. Intentional. His fingertips graze your skin like he’s memorizing it, like this moment matters. And maybe it does. Maybe it always has.

You can’t think. Can’t move. The world narrows to the space between you — to the heat pulsing there, to the way your lungs forget how to work.

“I meant it,” he says softly, his voice a low thrum against the quiet night. “I’d get you that dog. Or anything you wanted.”

You look up at him — and this time, you don’t look away. Your voice is barely a breath.

“I just want you to kiss me.”

And then everything shifts.

He leans in — slowly, like he’s giving you every second to change your mind. But you don’t. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to. And then his lips are on yours.

It’s not fireworks. It’s not chaos.

It’s warm.

Soft at first — almost hesitant, like he’s learning the shape of you, tasting the moment. His lips are tender, sure, and it’s careful — not rushed, not greedy, but full of something deeper. Something real. The kind of kiss that makes time slow down, stretch thin. Like your heartbeat just synced to his.

You breathe him in — soap, skin, sun-warmed cotton — and everything else disappears. No porch. No summer night. Just the quiet pull of it, of him, of this thing you didn’t see coming but somehow always knew was meant to happen.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in your hair. You melt — literally melt — into him, into that touch, into that kiss, like your body finally understands what safe feels like.

When he finally pulls back, it’s just an inch — enough for his eyes to settle on yours, lingering, as if he’s trying to memorize every detail. His thumb strokes your cheek, slow and deliberate, like he's tracing the very shape of you in his mind.

His gaze dips to your lips, his voice low, thick with something that makes your pulse race.

“Your dad’s probably going to kill me, you know that, right?”

You laugh softly, the sound escaping with more ease than you expected. You shake your head, the playful glint in your eyes never fading. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m his favorite. I’ll handle him. Just…don’t break my heart, okay?”

For a beat, his smile falters, just a fraction, before his eyes soften with an intensity that makes your heart skip. He leans in, his breath warming your lips, and for a moment, the world goes still.

“Never,” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper, just before his lips brush against yours again — slow, gentle, as if he’s savoring the very moment, the very feeling of you against him.

—

The August sun spills gold across the edges of the white tent strung with fairy lights and swaying eucalyptus garlands. Toronto’s late-summer air hums warm and bright, the breeze from the lake brushing against the skin like a soft kiss. Laughter rises from the open bar, mingling with the clinking of glasses and the soft murmur of conversation. The light is honeyed, slow — the kind that wraps itself around memories, preserving them in warmth and shimmer, like a pressed flower between the pages of a well-loved book.

You’re dancing.

Barefoot now — your heels long since abandoned under the table — you move slowly in William’s arms, your wedding dress whispering around your legs with every step. His hands are gentle at your waist, your palms resting over the slow thrum of his heartbeat beneath the crisp collar of his shirt. His jacket is off, tie loose, hair a little messy. And still, he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

The world fades. It’s just him, you, and the music curling softly through the late summer air.

And you can’t stop smiling.

You let your eyes sweep across the crowd — the blur of people clapping, slow-dancing, talking over champagne and cake. Familiar faces beam back at you. Jack is on the dance floor, leaning in a little too close to one of William's cousins, flashing a grin that says I’m about to charm you out of your penties — and she’s laughing, probably rolling her eyes, but clearly amused. Quinn, a little too tipsy, is dancing with your mom like he's auditioning for Dancing with the Stars, spinning her around with moves you didn’t know he had. Your mom's laughing, loving every second, teasing him about how he's killing it. Meanwhile, Luke’s found Banksy. The two of them are tucked in a corner, and you swear Luke’s sneaking him bites of something he shouldn’t be eating — probably pastry crumbs. Banksy looks up at him, wide-eyed, like he’s in on the secret. Luke’s giving him a soft smile, whispering to the dog like they’re plotting something together. It’s one of those moments that makes you laugh because Luke’s too pure for his own good.

And then there’s William’s side — Michael, laughing over drinks with your father like they’ve known each other forever, probably arguing over hockey plays and statistics. Catherine, poised and glowing in a soft sea-blue dress, watches you both with misty eyes and a smile that says she always knew her boy would find this kind of love.

His sisters — Michelle, Jacqueline, Stephanie, and little Ella — are huddled near the dance floor, swaying and giggling, clutching glasses of something sparkling and non-alcoholic for the youngest. Ella looks especially radiant. She's grown so much, but you still remember the quiet, sweet girl who lived with you and William for a while, who left tiny mugs half full of tea all over the apartment and asked you questions about plants like you were a walking encyclopedia. She studies in Toronto now, living in her own dorm, but she never stopped feeling like your little shadow. Your heart squeezes at the thought.

And then there’s Alex — standing near the dessert table, deep in conversation with Auston and Mitch, probably trying to talk them into some ridiculous offseason challenge. He loves those. He was your temporary roommate, too — shared takeout dinners and hockey talk on the balcony, late-night dishwasher debates and all. He winks when he catches you looking and lifts his glass in a silent, smiling toast.

It hits you slowly — not like a wave, but like sunlight through a window. Quiet. Warm. Certain.

This is your life now.

Not just his, not just yours — but something you built together. Layer by layer. A life that started on a quiet porch, with a kiss under the stars when you were seventeen and trembling and unsure. A kiss that said, I see you. A promise he never stopped keeping.

When William moved out to play for the Marlies, it wasn’t far — just across the city, but it felt like the start of something new for both of you. A few months later, you started your degree in Environmental Science at the University of Toronto, throwing yourself into early mornings and long lectures, lab reports and field work. Your days were full of discovery; your nights, often spent curled up in his apartment, surrounded by textbooks and half-eaten takeout, with him brewing you tea and soft music humming low in the background. He never made you feel like you were chasing your dreams alone. He was there — not just beside you, but behind you, making space for your ambition and cheering it on like it was his own.

Then came the day your family packed up and moved back to Michigan. You still remember standing in the driveway, watching them go, feeling a crack form right in the center of your chest. But your parents saw it — the way William looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense in the world. The way you spoke about your classes, your city, your life here. You had already started putting down roots.

And somehow, they understood.

You stayed behind.

Not out of rebellion. Not out of stubbornness. But because your heart had already chosen a home. And he was here.

So, you and William moved in together — and he made good on another promise. Just a few months later, Pablo came bounding into your life. Curly-haired, floppy-eared, endlessly sweet. He slept at the foot of your bed and carried around his stuffed pig like it was his life’s purpose. A year later, chaos arrived in the form of Banksy — pure mischief and boundless energy, a lovable menace with paws too big for his body.

Somehow, the two of you built a life — dogs and houseplants and a garden that spilled from the balcony like your own little jungle. William, who kissed you every morning like it was the first time. William, who never once made you feel like you were orbiting his world — because you had created one together.

And then, 2019 arrived. It was Christmas Eve — your favorite night of the year. Lights strung across the living room, cinnamon in the air, your mom crying before anything had even happened — you swear she knew. William cleared his throat and then — of course — launched into a speech. Classic Willy: heartfelt, a little cocky, and so completely sincere it made your knees weak.

He turned to Jim first, asked for his blessing like a man raised right. And Jim — naturally — acted all serious and intimidating… before pulling William into a hug so hard you thought he might break a rib. Your mom sobbed so intensely she forgot to record the moment — something she still brings up every single Christmas, like it’s your fault she was too busy crying to press the red button.

Jack wasted no time. “Biggest simp I’ve ever seen,” he declared loudly, shaking his head, but grinning so sweetly at you. 

Quinn just smiled. Then, without a word, hugged William like he was his own brother. When he finally pulled back, he said, “It always felt like you were part of this family… but now it’s official.” You think William nearly cried at that part, though he’ll never admit it.

And Luke — sweet, sentimental Luke — tried to play it cool. But the moment the ring box opened, his chin wobbled. He stood up clapping and wiping his face with his sleeve at the same time. Of course, Jack immediately took a picture of Luke crying and has printed it every year since to hang as an ornament on the tree. “The emotional support elf,” he calls it.

That was the moment everything shifted — not just for you and William, but for all of them, too.

They saw what he meant to you. What you meant to each other.

And now, here you are.

Married. His wife. Barefoot under a Toronto August sky, the sun sinking low over the lake, the air thick with roses and summer and laughter.

And through all of it, William watches you like he still can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s still that boy on the porch, blinking stars out of his eyes, wondering how the hell he got lucky enough to end up here — with you.

“You okay?” William murmurs against your temple, his breath warm, his lips brushing your skin.

You nod, your voice thick with emotion. “Better than okay.”

His fingers shift slightly at your waist, pulling you just a bit closer. “You were worth every second of waiting.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze. “You kept every promise.”

He grins, that soft, crooked smile that undid you back then — that still undoes you now. “Told you I’m a romantic.”

“Yes, you are. I’m a pretty lucky lady,” you tease, eyes glinting.

His hand brushes along your spine, and suddenly, you’re both laughing quietly, breathing each other in. It’s strange, really — how something can feel brand new and completely familiar all at once. How love, real love, doesn’t feel like butterflies. It feels like sunlight — constant and warm and always finding its way back to you.

A microphone crackles, and then a voice rings out — someone from the band, smiling into the mic.

“Alright, everyone, if we could have your attention—our bride and groom are about to head out for their honeymoon! Let’s give them all the love they deserve!”

The room erupts in cheers, whistles and applause. Champagne is lifted. Glasses clink. You blink back the sudden blur in your eyes as William leans down to whisper against your ear:

“You ready to go, Mrs. Nylander?”

You laugh — a bubbling, joy-soaked sound as you nod. “With you? Always.”

And as you walk hand in hand through the crowd, showered in petals and love and laughter, you look back once — just once — at the people who built you, held you, shaped this life. And then you look forward.

—

The doors of the car close behind you with a soft thud, and suddenly, the world feels quieter. The buzz of the reception is replaced by the sound of the engine, the warm night air drifting in through the cracked window. William’s hand finds yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in the way they always do — familiar, steady, grounding you.

He starts the car, and as you pull away from the venue, the streets of Toronto slipping by in a blur, you glance over at him. His eyes are still full of that joy, that soft, warm look that has been there since the moment he slipped the ring on your finger. There’s a relaxed, almost goofy grin on his face, the kind that only comes after a long, perfect day.

You turn the radio dial, and suddenly, the opening chords of “Take Me Home, Country Roads” fill the car. It’s the very song you and your brother used to sing at the top of your lungs on long summer road trips. A surge of excitement hits you, and you can’t help but start belting it out, loud and carefree, your voice rising with every word.

“Almost heaven, West Virginia…”

William glances over, his eyebrows lifting in mock horror. “Oh, no,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Not this song.”

You don’t stop. “Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River…” Your voice is full of energy, all the joy and excitement of the day flooding out of you in the form of music.

William laughs beside you, one hand on the wheel, his hair still a little messy from the dancing. “You’re unbelievable,” he says, grinning. “I marry you and now I’m stuck with a country music soundtrack for life.”

“Oh, come on, it’s a classic!” you tease, singing louder, not even trying to stay on key anymore. “You just don’t get it.”

William gives a dramatic sigh, shaking his head with a grin. “No, I definitely don’t. I never understood how anyone could love country music this much.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes playfully. “Take me home, country roads…” you sing, your voice rising with the chorus, throwing your head back as you belt it out, carefree and happy.

He watches you for a moment, shaking his head but clearly entertained. “Okay, okay,” he finally says, the teasing in his voice softening. “I get it, you’re killing it. But I still don’t get the appeal.”

You grin, leaning over to nudge him playfully. “You’ll come around one day,” you tease, eyes sparkling.

The song continues, and you sing your heart out, your joy filling the car. It feels right — this moment, this life, this love — everything wrapped up in the sound of a song that’s been a part of you forever.

William starts laughing softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as you hit the high notes with all the conviction of a true country fan. “I don’t know how you do it,” he says, still chuckling.

You’re lost in the song now, the road stretching ahead of you, the glow from the dashboard casting a soft light on William’s face. His focus is on the road, but every so often, his smile flickers as he glances at you.

You throw your head back, still singing — louder now, on purpose. “To the place I belong…”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

Then it happens.

A flash of headlights.

A horn blares.

The scream of tires on pavement.

Metal.

The impact slams through you like a punch. Your body jerks, flung forward and snapped back by the seatbelt. The airbag explodes, the sound impossibly loud — like a bomb detonating in your ears.

You can’t see.

You can’t breathe.

You hear glass shatter, the car twisting, spinning — and then stillness.

Pain hits you all at once, hot and sharp — blooming in your ribs, your shoulder, your head. Your vision sways like a curtain of water. You try to move, try to sit up, to find William, but your limbs feel heavy, unreachable.

You hear him.

Faint, but frantic.

“Elise—”

You try to answer. Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You want to reach for him. You want to tell him you’re okay, or ask if he is — but everything is fog.

His voice grows sharper, full of panic.

“Elise! Elise, stay with me! Please—”

You try. God, you try.

But the pain grows thick and distant, your head lolling as the dark swallows the edges of your sight. The world fades — his voice, the night, the music — all pulling away like waves retreating from shore.

And then—

Nothing.

Chapter 4: A Life Moved On

The hospital room was quiet, with just your and Jack’s steady breathing filling the still air. You sat up in the bed, propped against pillows, trying to make sense of the past few hours — the doctors’ hurried visits, the overwhelming flood of information, and the dizzying realization that five years had slipped by without you.

Jack stood by the window, arms crossed, the light catching the edges of his face. He hadn’t said much since you woke up, just that gentle, familiar smile tugging at his lips — the same boyish grin you remembered from childhood, the one that always made you laugh even when things were hard. It was a smile full of warmth and a little sadness, like he was trying to hold together too many feelings all at once.

It’s him. Your little brother. But he’s not quite the Jack you remember. He looks older—not in a way that hits you all at once, but in quiet details you can’t ignore. His jaw is sharper, his shoulders broader, and there are faint lines on his face you’ve never seen before. His hair is longer, swept back like he’s stopped bothering to keep it neat. He’s more grown-up, more solid—like the boy you knew has somehow stepped aside for a man you barely recognize. And it stings, realizing he’s changed without you there to see it.

You catch yourself wondering about the others. Does William still flash that crooked grin when he’s teasing? Has Luke grown into his curls, or do they still bounce like they used to? Does Quinn smell the same—like cedar and lemons, his quiet signature? Is your mom’s hair starting to silver at the temples, or is she still the same? And your dad—does his hug still hold that steady, comforting weight, like the world’s still okay no matter what?

You want to believe some things never change. But you’re not sure anymore.

You cleared your throat. “Jack… how is everyone? How are they all doing?”

He turned toward you, his smile softening even more. “They’re... good. They’re managing.”

You studied him carefully. There was no hesitation in his voice, but something about the way he avoided looking you directly in the eyes made your chest tighten.

“Tell me about Luke,” you said, eager for something normal, something solid. “I want to know everything.”

Jack’s grin widened, and for a moment, the old Jack was back — the loud, cocky, frat-boy hockey player you teased endlessly.

“Luke’s on the Devils now. Playing with me. It’s pretty wild, honestly,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Brothers on the same team? It rarely happens. I’m happy I can actually be there for him.”

A dull ache bloomed in your chest, the reality of all the missed years and memories settling over you like a heavy blanket.

“Your first few years were rough, huh?” you asked softly, your voice almost a whisper.

Jack nodded, his eyes clouding over for a moment, like he was reliving it all. “Yeah. The league’s... brutal. You only saw the beginning, Eli. But those first few seasons? I was barely holding on. Pressure from every side, your accident hanging over me like a shadow. I didn’t know if I could do it. Sometimes it still feels like a fever dream I can’t quite wake up from.” His voice cracked just a little.

You reached out without thinking, and he took your hand gently. His smile softened, warm and familiar. Without hesitation, he sat on the edge of your bed and wrapped his fingers around yours. Jack had always loved touch—always needed it to feel connected—and after everything, after waking up from five years in a coma, you felt a quiet relief knowing that at least this hadn’t changed. 

“But Luke...” Jack’s smile shifted, a bit lighter, but still tired. “He’s killing it. Loving the league. He’s living with me now, though honestly, he drives me crazy El. He leaves socks everywhere and still eats the grossest stuff. Clearly doesn’t care about the elite athlete diet.”

You laughed quietly, sharing a warm smile. “That’s Lukey through and through.”

Jack shook his head, laughing softly with you. “I call him a gremlin sometimes. Last Christmas, I got him a sweater that said, ‘Protein shakes aren’t meals, and socks belong in the hamper.’ Thought maybe it’d guilt him into being less of a disaster. Didn’t work. He wore it proudly and left three pairs of socks under the tree. He’s still just Lukey. Same chaos, same heart.”

His voice softened as his eyes settled on you. He reached over, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the way he used to when you were both younger. That familiar, easy gesture made your throat tighten.

“He’s going to lose it when he sees you, Eli bug,” he said, and just like yours, his eyes turned a little watery.

Your chest ached in that bittersweet way only family can make you feel—full of love, nostalgia, and a quiet knot of nerves. You were so ready to see him, to feel that familiar energy again… but a small part of you still wondered: would it all feel the same?

“And Quinn?” you asked, your heart picking up pace. You weren’t sure if it was hope, nerves, or both. Talking was easier than letting yourself feel everything all at once.

Jack gave you a proud smile. “Quinn’s a captain now. Can you believe it? The youngest in the Vancouver Canucks history!”

You chuckled, trying to play it cool. “Well, he had plenty of practice bossing around hockey players—with you and Luke as his test subjects.”

The joke landed, but the warmth in your chest said more than words could. Hearing that your oldest brother was thriving…it meant everything. If anyone deserved that title, it was Quinn.

“And what about his love life? Has he finally settled down?” 

Jack bursts out laughing. “Settle down? No way. Quinn’s still a total mess. Ever since you went into that coma, he’s been bugging me for advice.”

He shakes his head, grinning. “Which is hilarious, because I’m about as qualified to give love advice as a squirrel is to drive a car.”

“That figures, pretty boy. You were always terrible at that stuff. You were a ladies’ man, sure, but you knew how to have fun with them—not how to keep them.”

Jack whips his head around, that ridiculously big, cocky smile already stretching across his face.

“What now?!” you say, surprised but laughing.

He leans in, grinning like a maniac. “You called me pretty boy.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, I did, you idiot! You're pretty Jacky, and you know it.”

His grin spreads even wider—practically gleaming. “No one’s called me that in five years, HanHan. It’s good to be back in business. Luke and Quinn better watch out—time for them to remember who runs this family.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “You’re nuts.”

Jack winks. “Nuts, sure—but also the family’s prince charming. Honestly, those boys don’t give my good looks enough credit.”

You burst out laughing. “Poor thing, it must be torture having an ego that big and no one constantly feeding it.”

Jack folds his arms, smirking like he just won an invisible award. “Anyway, now that you’re back, I’m handing your emotional support sibling title right back. I’m wiped out. Quinn’s been moaning for years about wanting to settle down, but dude’s the problem. He just doesn’t get it.”

“Oh yeah? Since when did you become Mr. Relationship Expert?”

“After five years of listening to Quinn screw up his shitty love life, I’ve got a pretty good idea where he’s going wrong. I’m no expert, but damn, the guy needs therapy—or maybe just you yelling at him. Honestly, therapy might be easier. You get pretty scary when you’re in your element, Eli.”

You laughed, a soft, genuine sound that made Jack’s eyes light up. His hand stayed wrapped around yours, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles across your skin.

“Anyway, enough about Mr. Loverboy,”Jack chuckled.“Mom and Dad are still in Michigan, still obsessed with hockey. Mom landed a role with the women’s Olympic development team, and Dad’s finally retired. Now he just watches our games and spends his days on the golf course.”

Your chest tightened again, but this time with a comforting relief. “It’s good to know they’re okay. Makes me happy.”

Then you cleared your throat, heart pounding, and finally asked the question that had been on your mind the moment you opened your eyes. “And William?” you whispered, barely daring to speak.

Jack’s face shifted, his smile fading just a bit.

“He’s holding up, but it wasn’t easy,” Jack said, his voice quieter now, weighed down with something deeper. “Honestly, he was really broken for a long time—just like the rest of us. But losing you hit him in a way no one else could understand. He blamed himself... for a long, long time.”

Jack cleared his throat before he continued. “But he fought through it. His family, his friends and us didn’t let him fall apart. Steph made sure there was always warm food in his fridge. Auston stuck by him so he wouldn’t be alone, and when he moved out, Alex moved right in. We made sure he was included—every birthday, every family dinner. Mom never missed a week without calling him.”

Jack looked down briefly, then met your eyes again. His grip on your hand tightened, just slightly. “He can’t wait to see you,” he said softly. “He booked the first flight he could. You know he always heads back to Sweden in the off-season... He’s coming as fast as he can, but it’ll still be a couple of days.”

You nod slowly, your heart heavy, stretched between gratitude and something too deep to name. Everything feels surreal—like you’ve slipped through time and landed somewhere you don’t fully recognize. For you, it was just yesterday—his hand in yours, his voice low and familiar in your ear. You can still feel the warmth of that moment, still hear the way he said your name. But for him… it’s been five years.

You don’t know what his life looks like now. What scars he carries. What versions of himself were built in your absence. The thought of it makes your chest ache in a way that feels older than your body. You have so many questions—too many to ask. So many fears crawling beneath your skin. What if he’s different? What if you are?

But for now, you bury the panic. You shove the grief and guilt down into the dark, and you hold on to the one thing that still feels real:

You just want to see him. Look into those blue eyes and know that he’s there. Feel his hands on your skin, his arms around you. Rest your head on his chest and breathe in something familiar. Pretend, for just a little while, that time didn’t win.

Jack glanced away for a moment, then back again—his eyes glassy, his shoulders trembling like he was holding something in and losing the fight.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, voice low and cracking.

You tilted your head. “For what?”

“For all the time you missed. For not being here more. I should’ve come more, Eli. I should’ve—” He swallowed hard, words slipping through guilt.

You give his hand a  firm, reassuring squeeze.

“Oh, Jacky.” Your voice was soft but steady. “I was basically sleeping for five years. Nothing you did or didn’t do could’ve changed that. And you’re here now—that’s what matters.”

He let out a shaky breath, and a single tear traced down his cheek before he quickly wiped it away. He cleared his throat like he hated being caught in the act of feeling too much.

“Damn it, pretty boy,” you teased gently. “You even cry handsomely.”

He snorted, half-laughing through his sandness. “Yeah, well… lethal face card, remember?”

“Come here, you ridiculous Adonis.”

You didn’t wait—you just opened your arms and tugged him close, your fingers curling around his shoulders like they used to when he was small. He didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. Jack climbed into the narrow hospital bed beside you without a word, awkward limbs and all, and pressed his face into your shoulder like he used to when thunder rattled the windows and he’d sneak into your room, scared and too proud to admit it.

He clung to you—tight, desperate. Like if he let go, something might break in him for good.

You held him just as tightly. One arm wrapped around his back, the other stroking slowly through his hair. He was trembling—quiet, choked sobs rising from somewhere deep, from a place only siblings ever seem to reach in each other.

So you did what you always did. You hummed his lullaby. The one he made you sing a hundred times too many. The one that always made him pretend he wasn’t listening, even as he leaned closer.

And right then, the world outside faded. He wasn’t the tough, 24-year-old hockey star everyone else saw. He wasn’t the charming “pretty boy” with the lethal face card.

He was just Jack. Your Jack. Curled up in your arms like a kid again. Safe. Small. Loved.

And he let himself fall apart—because you were finally there to catch him.

—

You’d heard the footsteps before you saw them. A dozen rushed steps down the sterile hallway, muffled by rubber soles and panic. The door burst open, and there they were.

Luke was first.

He crashed into the room like a storm—wild-eyed and breathless. His curls were longer now, a mess under his backwards cap, and his shoulders had broadened in a way that didn’t belong to the teenage boy you remembered. He was tall. So tall he had to duck slightly to get through the doorway. All shoulders and muscle and momentum. His voice cracked into the air before you could even breathe.

And then—like a dam giving way—he dropped his bag, crossed the room in three giant steps, and pulled you into the tightest hug you’d ever felt.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Holy shit, Eli. You’re here. You’re really here.”

You felt him trembling against you, his arms locked around your back like he was afraid you'd vanish if he let go. He pulled back for a moment, cupping your face in both hands, scanning you like he didn’t quite trust his own eyes. He was trying not to cry. And failing miserably.

“You look older,” you whispered.

He let out a shaky laugh, already crying. “So do you, HanHan. Not gonna lie, this hospital gown is not doing you any favors.”

You chuckled and tugged him back into a hug. He squeezed tighter, practically suffocating you, and then—suddenly—pulled you into a full-standing hug, lifting you off the bed like you weighed nothing. That’s when you really felt it—how much taller he was now. How big. How grown.

You smiled into his hoodie, tears sliding freely down your face. “You’re huge.”

He snorted. “Yeah, well… pro athlete and stuff. You know?!”

You rolled your eyes at the cocky answer. Living with Jack had clearly rubbed off on him. You made a quiet mental note to humble him later. This family could only handle one cocky bastard, and Jack had that role down to perfection.

Then, in the doorway behind Luke, you spotted another figure.

Quinn.

He didn’t rush. He moved slowly, his posture stiff, like every step toward you was heavier than the last. His expression was unreadable, but you could feel it—the crack forming just beneath the surface. Quinn had always been the composed one. The protector. The eldest son.

He stopped a few feet away, fists clenched at his sides.

You looked at him. Really looked.

He hadn’t changed much—not physically. Still clean lines, still quiet eyes. But there was more weight in his stare now. Like the years had pressed down on him and he’d just… let them. He looked at you like you were a ghost. A miracle.

“Hey,” you said softly, untangling yourself from Luke’s arms.

Quinn opened his mouth, but no sound came.

Then he closed the distance in one motion. He wrapped you in a fierce, bone-crushing hug, his arms shaking around you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, and then his whole body just collapsed against yours. A slow, silent surrender.

You felt the first sob before you heard it.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m so sorry, Eli…”

“Oh, Quinny,” you whispered, holding him tighter. “You didn’t do anything. You don’t have to say sorry, you silly boy.”

Your fingers slipped into his chestnut waves, rubbing his back with one hand and petting his head with the other, the way you used to when you were kids and he couldn’t sleep after watching a scary movie. The way only you could comfort him.

He nodded into your shoulder, not letting go. And neither did you.

Because this was Quinn. The one who made pancakes for you at midnight. The one who stood between you and the world. The one who never cried—until now.

Then, the door creaked open again.

Your parents stepped in.

Together.

Your dad’s arm was wrapped tight around your mom’s shoulders. And your mom—your always-stylish, always-composed, effortlessly cool mom—was a mess. Her hands were clutched together, trembling. Her lips were tight. Her mascara had run halfway down her cheeks. Your dad looked like a man trying not to fall apart—his jaw locked, eyes wide, locked on you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You stood in the middle of your brothers, still wrapped in Quinn’s arms, when your mom saw you—and just crumbled.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathed. “My girl. My baby girl.”

She rushed forward, gently pulling you from your brother’s arms, and pressed kiss after kiss to your forehead, cheeks, hair—anywhere she could reach.

“Oh, baby,” she cried. “My baby. My girl. You’re awake. You’re here.”

Your dad followed behind her, slower, quieter. When he reached you, he placed both hands gently on your face, then pressed his forehead to yours.

“Eli,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “My God.”

You’d never seen him cry like that. Not once in your life. He kissed your hair, your temple, your cheekbone, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

You let them hold you. Just stood there like a little girl again, letting your parents wrap you in the kind of warmth that only they could give.

Then—just as the room began to quiet, as your parents’ touch softened and your brothers held you like you might slip away again—

Jack’s voice cut through the room.

“Okay, okay,” he said, stepping forward with his hands up in mock surrender. “How about a family hug before I start feeling left out?”

Everyone turned to him—still crying, still sniffling—but already shifting, reaching, laughing through the tears.

And just like that, it happened.

Arms wrapped around arms. Heads bumped. Bodies tangled.

Luke’s laugh turned into a hiccup. Your mom buried her face in your hair again. Quinn let out one of those tight, watery chuckles that sounded like a release. Even your dad—stoic, steady—wrapped an arm around Jack and pulled him into the chaos.

It was messy. Loud. Too many arms, too many feelings. And absolutely perfect.

You were in the middle of it—pressed into your family like a heartbeat—and you didn’t even care that you couldn’t breathe properly.

Then Jack’s voice piped up again, muffled somewhere behind you.

“By the way,” he said, “Eli called me a pretty boy yesterday. Just putting that out there. For, you know, historical record.”

A chorus of groans filled the room.

Your dad rolled his eyes. Luke groaned louder than anyone. Your mom laughed through her tears and gave Jack a swat on the arm—the same way she used to when he got too full of himself. Quinn muttered, “Seriously, Eli? Feeding his ego right after waking up from a coma?”

“You can’t deny it, Quinn. He is pretty. He cried and still looked good. Only models pull that off.”

Jack beamed. “Oh, this is a new high. I’m a model now, guys.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, snorting. “Yeah, well, you’re still the most annoying person I’ve ever loved.”

“I think I can live with that, Eli bug.”

Laughter rippled through the room again. Someone pulled you into a hug. Someone kissed your hair. You were home.

—

The hospital room feels too warm—summer showed up early in Toronto this year. You tug at the soft cotton dress your mom brought, the fabric light against your skin, its faded floral print offering a small kind of comfort in a place that’s never felt like home. You run your fingers through your hair, catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. There’s something like hope stirring in your chest. Today, finally, you get to leave. To go back to William. Back to your bed. To Banksy and Pablo curled at your feet, their quiet breathing the kind of peace you’ve dreamed of every night since you woke up.

You peek into the hallway, looking for your family. You expect smiles, maybe even a gentle escort, but the corridor is quiet except for a low voice coming from around the corner.

Luke’s voice.

You step closer, heart fluttering with relief — until you hear what he’s saying.

“This is not a good plan, man. We’re going to a hotel right now, but we have to explain why she can’t come back to your apartment. She knows we have keys.”

You freeze. Your breath catches. The words don’t quite sink in, but the tone — the hesitation, the tension — sets off alarms in your chest.

“No, I didn’t tell her...” Luke’s voice is tight, strained, trembling with something fierce. “Look, I don’t want to break her heart. She doesn’t know you divorced her while she was in a coma... and married someone else just a few months ago.”

The words hit you like a gunshot. Divorce? Married someone else? What the hell is Luke talking about? 

“What do you want me to say, Will?” Luke snaps, voice rough and bitter. “Oh, sorry sis, I know you just woke up after five years in a coma, but yeah, we figured it’d be super helpful to drop the news that your husband’s got a new wife now. And we were all at their damn wedding, supporting him like it was the right thing to do. Sorry if that’s news to you. Sorry we all thought you were as good as dead.”

You stare at the wall, feeling it close in, breath shallow and quick. The ground beneath you feels like it’s crumbling away, piece by piece. Divorced. Married again. 

While you were fighting for your life.

While you were unconscious.

The shock doesn’t come in one big wave. It’s slower, colder—like the heat has been drained from your body and everything inside you has gone still.

You blink. Then again. Like maybe the world will make sense the next time your eyes open. It doesn’t.

William... married someone else. Your family knew. And no one told you.

The house you built together isn’t yours anymore. Your bed. Your kitchen. Your dogs. Someone else is living your life.

You try to breathe, but something tightens in your chest. You lean against the wall, suddenly lightheaded.

You remember his voice—soft and steady—telling you he’d wait forever. That he didn’t care how long it took. That you were it for him. You remember how safe you felt with him. How sure.

And now he’s gone.

No. Not just gone. He left. He moved on.

And everyone let him.

You feel like a fool. Worse than that, you feel erased. Like you died and no one bothered to grieve.

Tears burn your eyes, but they don’t fall. You just stand there, frozen.

You can’t stay.

You don’t think—you just move. Out of the hallway. Down the stairs. Through the sliding glass doors and into the warm blur of summer air. The sun is too bright, the sidewalk too loud. It all feels far away.

You raise your hand for a taxi without knowing where you’re going. The driver looks at you in the mirror, waiting.

Your voice barely comes out. “Can you take me to North York? I’ll tell you the address on the way.”

You sit back, still shaking, staring out the window. The city flies past but you can’t follow it. All you can do is hold onto one thought:

I need to see Steph.

—

You stand on Steph’s porch, your breath hitching, the sharp heat of the Toronto afternoon clinging to your skin. The air buzzes faintly — bees drifting lazily between blooms — but the world itself feels unnaturally still. Like it's holding its breath with you.

The taxi had barely stopped before you climbed out. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

Beside the front steps, the garden spills over in color and memory — roses, lavender, foxglove. The ones you and Steph had planted years ago, long before life had found ways to unmake itself. You remember the day like it happened this morning: both of you in tank tops and cutoffs, knees in the dirt, hands stained and laughing so hard your stomachs hurt. Steph argued that lavender would bring peace to the house. You swore it wouldn’t survive a Toronto winter.

William had watched from the porch, barefoot, a popsicle melting down his wrist, pretending to be unimpressed. “I’ll never understand why you two would rather dig holes in the ground than jump in the pool,” he’d called, tossing a tennis ball to Mitch.

You’d looked up at him, your hair stuck to your damp forehead, and smiled like he was the only thing in the world that made sense.

That memory used to feel golden. Now it tastes like ash and betrayal. 

The front door opens before you can lift your hand to knock.

Steph stands in the doorway, barefoot, hair in a messy bun, wearing one of Mitch’s oversized T-shirts. 

She doesn’t move. She just stares at you like her brain is trying to catch up with her eyes.

You manage a breath, part sob, part exhale. “Hey...”

But before you can say another word, she screams and slams the door in your face.

You flinch. Just stand there, stunned. You’d come here desperate for something solid, something familiar — and you’d forgotten what it must look like to her. She didn’t know. You never called. No warning. You just showed up, alive and broken.

Of course she thought you were dead. Or worse — something between.

You knock again, softer this time.

The door creaks open, slower now. Steph peers out, her eyes wide, scared in a way you’ve never seen. “…Are you a ghost?” she whispers.

You let out a quiet laugh, shaky but real, and shake your head. “No,” you murmur. “I woke up two days ago.”

For a heartbeat, she just stares at you — as if you’ve cracked open a fault line in the world. Then, without a word, she reaches for your wrist and pulls you into her arms.

You don’t fight it. You sink into her, bury your face into the soft cotton of her shoulder, breathing her in like oxygen. Her hand comes up to cradle the back of your head like she’s anchoring you there, keeping you from floating off into whatever terrible place you’ve been these past few years.

You want to stay like this. You want to fall apart completely. But your pride won’t let you—not yet. You step back, wiping your face with your hand.

“I—I left the hospital,” you manage. “I didn’t have anything. No wallet. No phone. I just... I didn’t know where else to go. Could you—can you pay the cab?”

Steph blinks like she’s waking up from a dream. “Oh my God, yes. Of course.” She brushes a strand of hair behind your ear gently. “Just wait here.”

She runs to the street, taps her phone to the cab’s card reader, and thanks the driver softly for getting you here safely. When she comes back, her face is flushed — with shock, with love, with something wordless.

She studies your face, like she suddenly sees everything. “Oh honey,” she breathes. “You know.”

That’s all she says. That’s all she needs to.

Because it’s written across your face — the grief, the disbelief, the deep, breath-stealing hurt of betrayal. She sees it. She feels it. She doesn’t ask how or why or what happened.

She just opens her arms again.

And this time, you let go.

You fall into her chest, your body shaking as the tears come hard and fast. It feels like you’re still in that hospital hallway, like those words—your husband has a new wife—are still echoing in your head, and you don’t know how to hold yourself up under them.

You don’t know how long you stand there. It doesn’t matter.

Eventually, Steph presses her cheek to your hair, sways a little like she’s rocking you without even realizing it, and whispers, “Come in, Eli.”

You step inside Stephanie’s house, the door clicking softly shut behind you. The air is warm, thick with the comforting scent of roses and lavender drifting in on a gentle breeze. The windows are open, and so is the back porch door, letting summer spill freely into the room. It feels familiar—like stepping into a memory.

Your eyes drift to the couch, where a tiny figure stirs. A baby boy lies curled beneath a soft blanket, his chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm. He has Mitch’s thick dark brown hair and the same gentle crease between his brows, the same pout on his lips when he sleeps. For a long moment, you just stare, frozen in place.

Stephanie follows your gaze and gives a small, tired smile. “That’s Miles,” she says softly. “Miles Daniel Marner. Just a few months old. I had him not long after... well, after William got married again.”

“So you and Mitch… you guys are…?” you manage to whisper, your voice brittle.

“Yeah, we got married in 2023, Eli.” Her eyes glisten, a flicker of sadness hidden beneath the smile.

“Wow. That’s good. I’m happy for you guys,” you say, forcing a smile even though your chest tightens with a strange ache. You’ve always believed there was no more perfect match than Mitch and Steph. And yet, somewhere deep inside, a quiet grief settles — maybe because you planned to be there on her wedding day, to share that moment, to stand beside your best friend. Maybe because you missed her pregnancy, her journey into motherhood. Or maybe because, for once, you want to be selfish and feel the loss of time you can never get back.

Your eyes blink rapidly, unable to look away from the infant. You try to piece together the timeline, the years you lost pressing in around you like a weight. The baby, so new and perfect—and here you are, stepping out of a past that no longer exists.

Stephanie moves closer, her fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear with the same gentle affection she always showed. “Can I get you something? Water? Juice? Coffee? Anything?”

Your throat feels dry, your voice barely a whisper. “Could you… let my family know I’m here? Tell them I’m safe, but I’m not ready to talk to them yet.”

Without hesitation, Stephanie nods and pulls out her phone, fingers already typing. “Of course. Whatever you need.”

You take a deep, uneven breath, gripping the fabric of your dress as you steel yourself for what’s next. After a brief pause, you ask the question that has burned inside you since you left the hospital. “Stephanie… I need to know. What happened? While I was... gone. The last five years.”

Her face darken with the weight of memories. She breathes slowly, steadying herself before she speaks.

“After your accident…well…William… he was shattered. I’ve never seen him like that before. It was like he lost a part of himself.” Her voice wavers. “I tried to be there for him, but it was so hard. He shut most of us out.”

Steph doesn’t continue right away.

Instead, she lowers herself onto the arm of the couch and, with practiced tenderness, lifts Miles into her arms. Her hand lingers on his back, almost like she’s holding onto a piece of calm. Her fingers tremble slightly, but when she speaks, her voice is steady—measured and honest.

“It was bad, Eli.”

You stay silent.

“After the accident… William fell into this really dark place. Completely shut down. He stopped eating, barely slept. At first, Mitch and I tried to stay with him, but it was like he wasn’t there. He wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t even look at us—just sat in silence, lost. Some days, he’d spend hours at your bedside and never say a word. Just… staring. Like if he looked long enough, maybe you’d wake up.”

You press a hand against your chest. It hurts to imagine. It hurts even more to know you weren’t really gone, just unreachable. Frozen in time while everything around you crumbled.

“There was a stretch,” Steph says softly, “when we thought we might lose him too.”

Your head jerks up. “What do you mean?”

Her eyes meet yours — steady, serious. “Auston found him one night. It was the anniversary of your accident. Will was in the kitchen… and there was a knife on the counter. Aus said maybe it was just for food. But the look in William’s eyes? Scared the hell out of him.”

The air leaves your lungs all at once. The room blurs slightly at the edges. You don’t want to hear this—you can’t picture William like that.

Steph’s voice softens, almost like she’s slipping into a memory. “After that night, we made a plan. Took shifts. Mitch, Auston, his mom—even his sisters flew in. Someone was always with him. We just… couldn’t leave him alone.”

She lets out a quiet breath, her gaze distant. “And it helped. Not right away, but little by little… he started to come back. Piece by piece, he found his way through it.”

“And after that…” your voice is raw, unsteady, “he divorced me.”

Steph flinches. “Yeah. It wasn’t immediate. It took a while. Years, actually. His mom said he kept hoping. But the doctors weren’t giving him hope anymore.”

You close your eyes.

“He stopped visiting you for a bit,” she continues, voice quieter now. “He said it was too painful. Said he couldn’t keep grieving someone who wasn’t allowed to die.”

The words land like a blow — sharp, deep, quiet. You feel something crack in your chest, an invisible fracture splitting wider.

“And her new wife?” you ask, not looking at her. 

Part of you never wants to hear about this woman — but another part aches to know everything. It’s a strange, maddening feeling you can’t shake.

Steph exhales slowly. The baby stirs, sighs, but stays asleep.

“Her name’s Lena. And honestly? She’s not who I expected.” Steph’s voice tightens, a flicker of frustration slipping through. “She’s… too polished. Too perfect. The kind of person who only speaks if she’s sure it sounds beautiful. Like she’s playing a part.” She crinkles her nose, a hint of contempt curling her lips. “She’s a former model, Swedish and works in fashion. They met at some charity for trauma recovery.”

“Trauma recovery?”

Steph lets out a soft, bitter laugh. “Yeah. She lost her fiancé, apparently. William was drawn to her — like they shared the same language: grief and guilt.”

She shakes her head again, but now with disapproval. “Around her, William isn’t... himself. Everyone else seems to like her — they’re polite, they smile — but me? I’m not buying it.”

Steph leans in a bit, her voice soft like she’s letting you in on something personal. “Showed up in all black at their wedding, by the way. Thought it’d be funny. Almost wore a veil too, but Mitch talked me out of it.”

A sad laugh bubbles up from your throat.

You love her for standing up for you — for both of you. Even if it’s messy, even if it hurts. Somehow, that fierce loyalty feels like a lifeline.

A quiet falls, deep and still.

You can’t tell if your tears are hot or cold anymore. They just are, slipping silently down your face as you stare at your best friend, this baby, this house filled with a life that passed you by.

“I missed everything,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath. “Every single moment.”

Without hesitation, Steph wraps one arm around you, holding you gently but firmly, while cradling little Miles in her other. You lean into her carefully, conscious of the tiny life resting against her chest.

Steph shifts Miles slightly and, with a soft smile, lifts him toward you. “Here, Eli. Hold him.”

You blink, caught off guard for a moment, but still gently take Miles into your arms. Warmth radiating from his tiny body. At first glance, Miles looks just like Mitch—the same dark hair, the same peaceful expression. But as you look closer, you notice the delicate curve of his nose, the shape of his ears—little features that belong to Stephanie.

Your heart twists with a strange mix of joy and sadness as you hold this tiny life, so full of promise, so full of meaning.

“You didn’t choose this,” Steph murmurs, her voice tender. “You didn’t leave us. The world just… kept going, Eli. I know it’s hard, but you still have so much time.”

She chuckles softly and adds, “Sure, you missed my wedding and all that, and yeah, you didn’t get to hold my hair while I was throwing up in the first trimester like we joked about—but hey, you’re here now.”

You manage a small laugh, the heaviness easing just a little.

Steph’s eyes glisten as she leans in, gently resting her forehead against yours. Her voice is barely a whisper, but it wraps around you like a blanket.

“It breaks my heart that you missed all of it,” she says, her breath shaky. “But you’re here, Eli. You’re holding Miles. You can still be the godmother we always dreamed about, remember? The one who spoils him rotten and teaches him how to sneak cookies before dinner.”

You let out a soft, watery laugh.

“You’ll be there when he takes his first steps. When he says his first word. You’ll be the one he runs to with scraped knees and messy drawings. You haven’t lost everything, Eli. There’s still so much waiting for you. So much life left to live.”

You pull back slightly, eyes meeting hers. “But it’s so hard not to look back.”