Jas

So as ceremony begins, and the bridesmaids start walking down the aisle, Fraser could hardly contain himself. Because he knows the order, he knows you’re going to be walking out any second in the dusty blue dress you tried on in front of him a few weeks ago.

The music continues, and as Fraser’s standing he feels the need to grab the back of his chair, or anyone’s chair, as he sees you. Your hair is swept up in an elegant updo, the small bouquet of flowers held in your hand, the other thrown around the arm of a groomsman.

As you make your way down the aisle, your eyes find Fraser. It doesn’t take any time, because at all times it feels like there is a magnet from him to you.

He’s standing in the row of seats along with mutual friends, and he looks damn good. His button down opened a bit at the top, the black shirt fitting him perfectly. His hair moves slightly in the breeze, and you give him a teasing wink before you walk past him.

Next walks the maid of honor, your cousins best friend. And while you feel like you should be focused on her, you cannot stop looking to a certain hockey player. And it just so happens that the hockey player also can’t stop looking at you.

And you can’t help as those thoughts of the future creep in. They’ve been doing that recently. When you see him making coffee in the morning, when you see him with kids at charity events or saying of course to taking pictures with them, when you think of Christmas, and see elderly couples at your favorite diner. And helping to plan this wedding? It’s taken its toll on you. It makes you think about what he would look like at the end of the aisle as you’re walking down. You wonder if he’d cry seeing you dressed in white. You wonder what his vows would be like, and wonder if Fraser would dip you in the aisle and kiss you in front of all the people who are important to you.

But then the music changes, and you’re snapped out of your thoughts to see your cousin making her way down the aisle. She looks stunning, and emotion tugs deep on your heart as you watch her and her very soon to be husband take each other in.

Fraser watches you from his seat, and he sucks in a breath as he realizes you’re trying not to cry. In fact, you promised him you weren’t going to cry. Because if you do, you’re going to end up starting some long chain reaction with the other bridesmaids. So in preparation for this, Fraser had to endure two weeks of you holding back tears from watching the ‘Top 20 movies that will make you ugly cry’. The list as he learned, did not lie.

You quickly and carefully wipe away a tear threatening to fall, standing up straight and focusing on what’s happening. Only your eyes keep straying back towards him, and his eyes you don’t doubt, had ever left yours.

—

As cocktail hour begins, you sneak to your boyfriend quickly before you’re summoned for pictures. He’s laughing in a small group of relatives and friends. Luckily, you have some very heavy Bruins fans in the family, and they are more than excited to talk Fraser’s ear off about games, strategy, and some comment about how Fraser needs to punch a Florida player, but you block that one out as you approach.

“Hey you.” You say, approaching him as he instantly opens his arm for you to slot yourself against him. He smiles at your words, leaning down to plant a kiss on your lips.

Your aunts blush and look to the grass, but your uncle Mike continues his rant about physical violence on the ice.

“I’m sorry guys I really only have a second before pictures start, do you mind if I steal him away?” You ask your family, and your aunts nod of course.

“Bring him back in one piece, I still have ideas on strategies!” Uncle Mike yells to you as you and Fraser escape for a moment.

“Oh my god.” You say with a laugh, pulling Fraser to the edge of the tree line. “I’m sorry about that, has he been bothering you?” You ask with a slight cringe, and Fraser chuckles before shaking his head no.

“No, he’s been fine.” Fraser says, his voice warm as he looks at you. “You’re so beautiful, Y/N.”

“You’re going to make me red before the pictures.” You say, slapping his chest teasingly.

“Do you think the bride would notice if you come back without lipstick on?” Fraser asks, and you smirk as you bite your lip. You glance around for a second. The venue is completely outdoor, there are huge gardens and pavilions, and a private area by the trees that you guys are currently occupying. So when you’re confident that you’re out of sight, not wanting to make a scene at your cousins wedding of course, you respond.

“And what on earth would happen to my lipstick?” You ask, not able to help yourself when it comes to giving into his teasing.

“This.” He says, before leaning down to kiss you. He keeps it soft, keeps it respectful in the way one of his hands is under your chin, the other on the dip of your back. You pull back after a little while, even though you want nothing more than to kiss him and never stop.

He smiles, taking his thumb and rubbing just under your lip, where you’re sure your lipstick was smudged.

“You looked amazing up there.” He admits, and your heart does that stupid thing it does every time he compliments you. “I just, I couldn’t help but image what you would look like if that was us.”

The confession makes your heart stop, because if he didn’t say it to you, you would have been saying it to him.

“And maybe that’s too soon, or inappropriate to say at somebody else’s wedding.” He says as you laugh. “But I want this, Y/N. I want this all with you.”

You kiss him again, your lipstick be damned.

“I’m so glad you said that.” You whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You confirm. “Because I was thinking the exact same thing.”

Fraser lets out a relieved laugh, and he kisses you again. You guys must have been so lost in the moment, that you don’t hear the footsteps of your cousin coming up behind you.

She clears her throat, and you and Fraser pull apart like you’ve been caught, which in hindsight, you kind of have been. Your cousin smirks at you, her eyes traveling from your messed up lipstick to the possessive hand placed on your back.

“I hate to break this up.” She says, her finger moving between you two. “But I need to take her for some pictures.” Your cousin says, and Fraser smiles, his fingers running through his hair.

You smile at Fraser as you step up to her, and she loops her arm through yours as you both start making your way to where the photographers are waiting.

“Sorry Romeo!” Your cousin says, and Fraser laughs as you both make it out of eyesight of your boyfriend.

“So when are you going to plan for?” She asks you, and you furrow your eyes at her.

“What are you talking about?” You ask with a laugh.

“We’ve known each other for our entire lives, Y/N. I think I can tell when you’re in love. Plus, you only have to know him for 20 seconds before figuring out he’s got it bad for you.”

You gasp at your cousin, and if not for it being her wedding day and her looking gorgeous you would have lightly shoved her.

“Yes, I love him-“ You start, but she cuts you off.

“And he deserves you.” She says, and that comment makes you stop. “I see the way he looks at you. Hell, I think our mostly blind grandmother can see how much that man loves you.” She says, and she motions for you to wipe a bit of lipstick off the corner of your mouth. “All I’m trying to say is, you’ve deserve someone who is your best friend, you deserve someone who doesn’t make you question yourself. And honestly, I’ve never seen you more yourself than you are with him.”

“Don’t make me cry before your pictures.” You mumble, looking away from her.

“You deserve the sun and the stars, so marry him, because I know he’ll give them to you.”

—

True to her word, your cousin returns you back to Fraser after pictures are taken and as the reception starts. But after nearly six hours in these shoes, you’re starting to feel their wrath.

Fraser notices you walking back to him, but his smile drops slightly as he notices how you’re walking. He knows immediately why.

You make your way to him, and lean yourself into his chest, while you do that because you want to, you also do it because you need someone holding you up.

“You alright baby?” He asks silently so he doesn’t attract anyone’s attention.

“I think my feet are somewhere in that garden.” You mumble, and Fraser winces as he looks down to your heels. He knows you walk in them everyday at your job, but your job doesn’t have you walking through grass and on outdoor paths.

“Take them off for a while.” He says, and you look at him like he just said a cardinal sin.

“I can’t take them off.”

“Says who?” Fraser asks, eyebrows going up.

“Says me!” You exclaim with a laugh, but it’s cut off early as you adjust your weight to the other foot now.

“Baby.” He says. “No one’s going to notice if you slip them off. Your dress basically covers them, and I can’t stand the thought of you being in pain for the rest of the night.”

“People will notice that I’m almost four inches shorter.”

“No one will. And if anyone does they can answer to me.” He says jokingly, and you smile as he does.

“My savior.” You say, and he laughs before leading you away from the tables and out to one of the benches by the gardens.

“Sit.” He says, and you do not have to be told twice. You sit down, your blue dress blowing slightly in the breeze as Fraser kneels in front of you.

He takes your ankle in his one hand, the other going to unstrap the heels. You sigh in relief as they both come off, and the shoes hang off his finger tips by the backs.

“Fraser Minten, I think I’m hopelessly in love with you.”

“Good, if you weren’t, that would make this next part really embarrassing.” He says, and you give him a questioning look as he captures your chin in his free hand, and starts talking.

“I want this with you.” He starts, and your heart drums quickly in your chest. “I want the wedding, I want the family butting into our lives, I want the vows and the speeches, I want to marry you, baby.”

The setting sun behind him casts him in a golden light. And you notice from the shine of the sun that he’s got tears in his eyes.

“I want the family, and the house that we can chase our kids around in. I want the rink, and the little skates, or whatever sport they want to play.” He says and you laugh. “But mostly, I want you.”

“Frase.”

“It’s always been you. And seeing you up there today? God baby, I don’t even have the words to describe how beautiful you looked, how beautiful you are.”

“Fraser.” You say, your voice cracking with emotion.

“Don’t say anything.” He says, smiling down at you. “Just come dance with me.”

You don’t say a word, you only nod as Fraser leads you to the dance floor that’s filled with people slow dancing to some old romantic song.

“For the record,” You whisper in his ear, your feet balancing on his shoes as he continues to sway you both. “If you ask me someday, I already have my answer.”

“I can go.” You say, standing up and grabbing your phone off the island counter.

“Just give me ten minutes baby, I’ll come with you.” Will says, stirring something a bit faster than before.

“I can go to the store by myself.” You joke, but Will is still stirring fast.

“I’ll go with her.” Mack says standing up and heading over to his shoes.

“Keep cooking, we’ll be right back.” You say, kissing Will’s cheek and putting your shoes on.

Will watches as you grab your keys off the hook, and you wink at him as you and Mack leave the house, the cool November air of San Jose hitting you both as you get into the car, and make your way to the store.

—

“Now what is that!” You exclaim with a laugh, as you notice Macklin throwing another random item into the basket.

“Since when do you control me?” He asks in a teasing manner.

“Since you left your wallet at home.” You say with a dead pan stare.

“Yeah, okay that’s fair.” He says with his usual gummy smile. But you see his eyes catch on something behind you. And you turn to see the cooler packed full of Red Bull.

“Go on then!” You say, and Macklin smiles gratefully. “Meet me at the front!” You call as you both split up in two different directions.

“Have I ever told you that you’re the best?”

“Not nearly enough!” You say back, laughing as you make your way up to the front. You’re excited to get back to the house, the smell of whatever Colleen was cooking is calling your name.

But before you could make it to the registers, something strange catches your eye. A man is walking around, hood up and skiddish. Suddenly, you regret not sticking with Macklin.

And at that moment too many things happen all at once. Mack rounds the corner, about two aisles separating you guys from each other. Then the man starts yelling, and before you know it shots are fired into the air as people scream and hit the ground.

You and Mack both duck, and the man screams for everyone to get down. You look around, a woman with her child tucked tightly to her, an elderly couple shaking on the floor, random men and women all scattered around the checkouts. And then your eyes flash back to Macklin, “don’t move” Mack mouths to you. And you nod your head so slightly, like you are too afraid to move it half an inch.

Then, the silence was broken.

WILL SMITH, your phone announces into the store. His contact picture pops up, and your eyes go to it as it’s on the floor near you. But you’re too paralyzed to make a move to stop it, because the man has already heard it. His sights already set on you.

“Who the hell was that?” The man asks, approaching where you’re kneeling on the ground. You get a good look at him as he does. He’s frantic, his hand shaking as it holds the gun. His eyes look wired, and then, as they flick to Macklin, they light with recognition.

“Holy shit.” The man says, and you feel the blood drain from you. He recognizes Mack, recognizes the name that called your phone. “You’re that kid.” He says, waving the gun around in hopeless abandon, but his words seem.. angry.

“Hey, man, it’s okay. Nobody’s doing anything.” Mack says as he raises both hands slowly.

“You’re that fucking hockey kid! You know I bet against you, you made me lose a lot of fucking money!”

“Mack.” You whimper before you can stop yourself, and that makes the man’s gaze snap to you.

“Don’t look at her. Look at me.” Mack’s voice goes sharper.

“You want me to spare her?” The man asks, and Macklin says yes instantly. “Then give me your fucking wallet, kid.”

“I don’t have it with me.” Mack says, and you can see how hard he’s forcing himself to remain steady.

“Bullshit.” The man calls, his gun aimed directly at Macklin.

“I don’t.” Mack’s hands stay up, but his eyes keep flicking to you. “I left it behind, I swear.”

“What about you?” The man demands. “You’re with him, you’ve got money.” And you watch as the gun swings toward you and your entire body locks.

“Okay, okay.” You say, your voice shaking as you slowly reach for your pocket. Mack moves half an inch, so little that you almost miss it, but the man doesn’t.

“Don’t!” The man screams, and it causes Mack to freeze.

“Okay!” Mack says, voice trembling now. “Okay. Just… just don’t point that at her.”

Your fingers fumble, and you stare at the weapon still pointed at you. And for a moment, your life flashes before your eyes. You see Will on the ice, in the kitchen on a lazy morning, you see Mack next to you at the kitchen island while he sneaks chocolate chips away from his best friend. You see the blonde shine of Grace’s hair, and feel how she’s always loved you from the second you guys met.

And then, you see movement behind the man. And your eyes widen as two men go to tackle the robber down. It all moves so fast, fast enough to make the gun jerk, fast enough that pain registers before the deafening shot rings out through the grocery store.

Then Mack screams your name, and there’s so much pain in his voice that you focus on that. For a second, your not really sure how you got onto your back, or why Mack leans above you, why he’s screaming, why his hands are pressing against you.

“No, no, no, no!” He’s pleading, voice breaking. “Stay with me. Stay with me. Look at me. Hey, look at me.”

And you try, try to focus but his face swims above you. He looks pale, and younger than you’ve ever seen him.

“Mack?” You breathe out with a question, but the pain rips through you then. And you cry on the floor of the grocery store.

“I’m here.” His says as his hands press harder against your abdomen. “I’m right here. You’re okay, I’m not leaving you, you’re going to be okay.” His voice is cracking, tears dropping down from his eyes and landing around you.

“I want Will.” You croak out, and Macklin nods. Nods but doesn’t take his eyes away from you as you can hear the sirens approaching.

“I’m going to call him, I’m going to call him as soon as they get you stabilized okay? You’ll see him very soon, I promise.” Mack says, and despite his tears, despite the pain, despite the tunnel vision starting in your eyes, you believe Mack. Because Mack wouldn’t lie to you, so you nod in agreement.

“I love him.” You whisper to Mack, but you don’t hear his reply as your eyes start to shut.

“No, no, Y/N!” Mack says, one of his bloody hands coming up to cup your face. “You’ve got to stay awake, stay awake for Will, please.” He begs you, but your eyes shut completely, and as you go limp in his arms, Macklin screams.

—

Colleen wipes her hands on the towel as Will’s phone misses another call.

“Will.” She says to her son, who is just finishing up on his portion of the meal. “You missed another call.” She says, and he starts washing his hands, but then her phone rings.

She pulls it from her back pocket, the unknown number displayed across the screen. But for some reason she feels the need to answer it.

“Hello?” She asks, and the person on the other end of the line makes her heart stop.

“Is this Colleen Smith?”

“Yes this is.” She says, and the eyes of her husband, son and daughter fly to her.

“I’m calling from the San Jose Medical Hospital-“ The voice says, and Colleen gasps as the nurse relays the information to her.

Robbery. Gunshot. Surgery.

Her eyes fill with tears as Will and Grace are begging her for some information.

“We need to go now.” Colleen says quickly to her family, still remaining on the phone as the nurse continues to fill her in.

“Mom what’s going on?” Will asks her, and she bites back a cry as she responds.

“There was a robbery at the store. Honey… Y/N’s in surgery.”

Will’s lips part, and for half a second he just stares. Then his knees buckle, but his dad catches him under the arms before he fully drops.

“No.” Will gasps. “No. Mom, no.”

“Get your shoes on, let’s go.” She says, and the Smith family rushes towards the door.

“Macklin!” Will exclaims. “Macklin was with her.”

“Was there a boy with her? Macklin Celebrini?” Colleen asks, and when she tells him that Mack is unharmed, Will squeezes his eyes shut, a sound coming out of him that is half relief and half agony.

But he doesn’t dwell on much else as his family rushes towards the hospital. As Will rushes to you.

—

The ER is just as horrible as Will thinks. The smell crawls through his senses, the lights seem too bright, and as he runs towards the direction that the front desk attendant told him, he sees his best friend.

Macklin Celebrini sits in a chair in a small private waiting room, a shirt on his body that is definitely not his, but it’s his hands that cause Will to choke.

Mack’s hands are shaking so violently, and Will stares at the red staining them. It’s in his nail beds, in the cracks of his skin. Like he tried to scrub it, but it wouldn’t all come off.

And like Mack could sense that he was no longer alone, he looks up. And his face crumples the second he sees Will.

Will crosses the room in three strides, and for one second, Mack flinches like he expects Will to smack him. Instead, Will grabs his best friend and pulls him into his arms.

Will and Mack completely break and the feeling of the other.

“I’m sorry.” Macklin sobs into Will. “I’m so sorry, Will. I was right there. I was right there and I couldn’t-“

Will grips the back of his shirt so tightly his knuckles go white.

“It’s not your fault Macklin, it’s not your fault.” He sobs, so relieved that his best friend is okay, but so terrified at the same time. His family is still behind them both, the three crying silently and trying to give the pair a moment.

“It should have been me.” Mack says, his voice so crackling and wet.

“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.” Will says, pulling him in tighter if that’s even possible.

“I should have protected her.”

“Look at me.” Will says, pulling back a bit to look in the red bloodshot eyes of Mack. “I need you, Macklin. I need you to tell me what happened, and I need you to not fall apart on me because if you fall apart, I’m gonna fall apart.” Will says, like they both aren’t already falling apart. “Do it for her.” Will whispers, and Mack nods quickly, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand, leaving a faint red smear against his cheek.

Will sees it, and his stomach turns. Blood. Your blood.

They all sit down as Mack tells them exactly what happened, exactly how he split up to grab Red Bull because he knows Will loves them.

It cracks his heart in two, and as he listens to Macklin, Will looks toward the double doors.

Surgery. You’re in surgery. Somewhere in this hospital you’re cold, alone, and in pain. And Will can’t breathe.

A nurse comes to update them after what feels like hours, when Will sees her he shoots up so fast he knocks the chair back. The loud scrape causing Macklin to jump.

“She’s still in surgery.” The nurse relays. “But she’s tough, she’s a real fighter.”

“Yeah.” Will says, new tears falling. “Yeah she is.”

He listens as the nurse gives them more information, but he can’t get himself to rip his eyes away from Mack’s hands. Colleen managed to grab some wipes from the nurses desk, and she’s been carefully working on cleaning your dried blood from them.

“I need air.” Will finally says, standing and walking towards the doors.

“Will-“ Grace says, but their father grabs her arm softly, probably whispering something about letting him go.

He makes it out the automatic doors, moving towards the side of the hospital that is not facing the parking lot. He closes his eyes for one moment before he hurls over, puking in the bushes.

His stomach rolls, his throat burning as he thinks he’s done only to realize he’s not. But when he’s sure now that his stomach is completely empty he spits a few times, too scared and too tired to be embarrassed by it.

He walks towards a bench, biting his lip to stop the tears from leaving his eyes as he tilts his head back. The San Jose sky is clear tonight, the stars shining brightly down on him. And he almost laughs at the irony of it. How many times have you laid in the backyard staring at the stars? How many times have you pointed to them, telling Will which constellation is which? And yet here they are, shining bright, but you aren’t here to see them.

Will initially wants to scream at them, almost begging for clouds instead. But then he pictures your face, how happy you are when you’re able to lay under them. So he cries, he looks up and sobs.

“Please.” He begs, and he doesn’t feel any ounce of embarrassment for begging the stars. “Please don’t take her from me.” He says, voice cracking. He keeps staring up, like maybe they’ll answer him, like they can promise him that you’ll be okay. “She’s everything to me, please.” He whispers, putting his head in his hands and sobbing.

He doesn’t notice someone coming towards him until they are almost next to him, and without looking he can tell it’s Macklin. He sits down on the bench, and Will turns into him, holding tightly onto the fabric of the shirt the hospital must have given him.

“I can’t lose her Macklin.” He sobs. “I can’t I can’t I can’t.”

“You’re not going to.” Mack says, voice shaking but firm at the same time. “She’s stubborn as hell. She’s gonna wake up and be pissed about them cutting your sweatshirt off of her.”

Will snorts, nodding his head. And he and Mack stay on that bench for a long time.

—

The doctor comes to the waiting room at 1:17am. Will knows that because he’s been staring at the clock, watching the minutes tick by for a few hours since him and Mack came back inside.

Everyone stands up, anxiously waiting as the doctor confirms what Will has been hoping to hear.

“She made it through the surgery.” The man says, and Colleen sobs, covering her mouth, Grace cries into their father, and Will and Mack both grip the arms of their chairs, processing the words.

“She lost a lot of blood, but she’s stable. You guys have a real fighter, you should all be proud.” He says with a smile, and Will runs his hands through his hair in relief.

“Can we see her?” He asks, not realizing when he moved towards the doctor a few steps.

“Yes, but we need calm and quiet in the room.”

“Of course.” Colleen says, and everyone swallows their fears and emotions as they walk into the room.

Will stops in the doorway as he sees you, wires and tubes hooked up to you in various places, but all he can look at is the rise and fall of your chest. Like seeing that is finally what he needed to tell himself that you’re alive.

He rushes to your side, the nurse kindly stepping out of his way. He sits down in the chair positioned right next to your bed, and he so gently, so carefully grabs your hand.

“I’m here, baby.” He whispers, eyes so glossy that his vision shakes. “I’m with you. And you’re okay, you made it.” He kisses your knuckles softly, your skin cool to the touch. “You’re so strong, you’re the strongest person I know.”

Someone behind Will whimpers, but he doesn’t care enough to turn around and see who. All he’s focused on is you, and for the next few hours, he doesn’t dare tear his gaze away from your body. He refuses water, a sweatshirt, food. Will Smith barely breathes until your fingers twitch in his, and he sees your eyes slowly open.

—

To say you have no clue what happened is an understatement. But as your eyes adjust to the dimmed hospital lights the memories come flooding back.

The grocery store. The man. The gun. Macklin. The urge to see Will one last time.

Voices sound to your right, but they sound muffled. Like you’re underwater. But there’s that familiar feeling, that feeling of home. And as you look to your right, you understand why.

Will sits there, eyes wide as his mouth moves. And then finally you can hear it.

“Hey, hey. Don’t move baby. You’re safe, I’m here.” He keeps uttering like a broken record.

A few nurses come in, and Mack has to pull Will back while they adjust the machines around you. But he stays locked in on your eyes, and they find his, glossy and wide, and you make an attempt to reach for him.

One of the nurses steps aside, softly reminding Will to be careful, but letting him reach for you back.

His hand takes yours, his other going to your face and resting on your cheek.

“Will?” You ask, and Will has never heard a more perfect voice in all of this life.

“I’m here. I’m right here with you.” He says, and you cry with him.

“I love you.” You say, because that’s the first thing you want him to know. The most important thing to get off of your chest.

Will laughs, sniffling as he plants the softest kiss to your lips.

“I love you more, beautiful girl.” He says.

When people talked about love, you always felt like they were talking about something that wasn’t meant for you.

Not because you didn’t believe in it. In fact, you believed in it too much. You had believed in it since you were a little girl, watching movies where the main character found someone who looked at her like the whole world had stopped. You had heard stories of couples who chose each other even when life got hard. You had watched your friends fall in love, get their hopes up, suffer, and try again. But you had never allowed yourself to go that far.

Because for you, love always came with a warning.

At sixteen, when you should’ve been worrying about exams, school dances, and first dates, you were diagnosed with ovarian cancer. The word cancer had changed the air in every room you walked into. You remembered your mother’s face trying to stay strong, your father’s hand trembling over yours, the doctors explaining treatments in soft voices, as if their tone could make reality hurt less. You survived. You held onto life with a strength you didn’t know you had. But barely a year later, just when you were starting to feel like the world had color again, the second blow came: breast cancer.

It had only affected your left breast. There was surgery, treatment, and plastic reconstruction. There were scars that, over time, became lighter, but never invisible to you. There were nights when you avoided looking in the mirror because you didn’t recognize the body staring back at you. There were also difficult conversations about fertility, about low chances, about a future that might not include natural pregnancies, about the possibility of not being able to have children.

At seventeen, while other girls wondered who would ask them out, you were already learning how to prepare yourself to lose things you hadn’t even lived yet.

So you grew up. You healed. You kept going. You studied, worked, laughed, made friends, went out sometimes, kissed a few men, but you never let anyone get all the way in. Never enough to have to sit in front of them and explain that your body had survived a war. Never enough to have to see disappointment on their face when you talked about children. Never enough to hear a “I don’t care” that might one day turn into “I do care.”

Then Oliver arrived.

You met him in Arizona in 2014, at a dinner organized by mutual friends after a Coyotes game. You didn’t want to go. You had only agreed because your best friend had insisted for days that you needed to leave your apartment, put on something nice, and stop using work as an excuse to avoid the world. She didn’t tell you there would be hockey players there because she knew that if you had known, you would’ve found a way to cancel.

Oliver was sitting across the table when you arrived. He was tall, quiet, with the kind of presence that didn’t need to fill the room to be noticed. He wasn’t the loudest in the group, he didn’t try to be funny all the time or dominate the conversation. But when he spoke, people listened. And when he smiled, there was something in it that felt too sincere to be dangerous.

You noticed he was looking at you before he even said anything.

Not in an invasive way. Not like some men who made you feel evaluated. Oliver looked at you like he was trying to understand you, like he didn’t want to miss any detail. You looked away almost immediately, taking a sip of water and pretending to be interested in the conversation beside you.

Half an hour later, he ended up sitting next to you “So you’re the friend who’s hard to convince,” he said, with a soft Swedish accent that made his words sound almost warm.

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that what they told you?”

“They said you almost didn’t come.”

“That sounds less dramatic.” Oliver smiled. “I like my version better.”

You didn’t want to laugh. You really didn’t. But you did. A small, almost treacherous laugh that made him look down for a second, like he was satisfied with having won something.

That night you talked more than you expected. About Arizona, about Sweden, about the unbearable heat, about food, about travel, about how strange it was to build a life far from home. Oliver didn’t ask too many questions, but he seemed to remember everything you said. When you mentioned that you hated cold coffee, he filed it away like it was important information. When you said you didn’t know much about hockey, he didn’t tease you. He just smiled and said that he would have to explain the basics to you someday.

You told him you weren’t promising to understand it, he replied that he had no problem trying multiple times. The problem was that Oliver did try multiple times.

First it was a text, because someone had given him your number with your half-permission. Then another. Then an invitation to lunch. You said you were busy. He didn’t push. A week later he asked if you wanted to get ice cream. You said you had plans. He replied that he hoped your plans were good. Then he invited you to a game, and that time you said yes, because it felt like a less intimate invitation, safer, something you could label as friendly.

But Oliver didn’t look at you like a friend and that terrified you.

For months, he stayed close without demanding anything. He texted you when he was out of town, brought you Swedish chocolates when he came back from visiting his family, asked about your day, remembered your important meetings, showed up with food when he knew you hadn’t eaten well. If you were tired, he didn’t try to drag you out of the house; he simply asked if he could stop by to drop off dinner and then leave. Sometimes you let him in. Sometimes you ended up watching movies on the couch, you on one end, him on the other, a perfectly calculated distance between you.

Until one day that distance started to hurt.

You liked him. You liked him too much. You liked the way he leaned toward you when you spoke, like the rest of the world became noise. You liked how he opened the car door for you without making it seem like a rehearsed gesture. You liked that he never made fun of your silences. You liked that when there were too many people, Oliver seemed to notice before anyone else that you needed air.

And precisely because you liked him, you started pulling away.

You canceled plans. You replied to messages later. You made up excuses. You told yourself it was for the best, that it was fairer to end it before he wanted something you weren’t sure you could give him. Oliver noticed, of course. He didn’t confront you right away, but his messages became more careful, his looks longer, like he was trying to figure out where he had gone wrong.

One night, after dinner at a friend’s house, he walked you to your car. The Arizona air was still warm even at night, but you felt cold in your hands “Did I do something?” Oliver asked.

The question was so simple that it broke you a little, you looked at him, confused. “What?”

“Something changed.” Oliver put his hands in his jacket pockets, his shoulders tense even though his voice stayed calm. “And if I did something that made you uncomfortable, I want to know.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“Then why are you running from me?”

Your throat closed, you wanted to lie. You wanted to say you were busy with work, that you weren’t ready, that it wasn’t personal. But Oliver was looking at you with too much honesty, and for the first time in a long time, you got tired of carrying alone a story that always seemed to decide for you before you could choose.

“Because you want something with me,” you said, almost in a whisper, he didn’t deny it. “Yes.” The sincerity hit you full force “And I’m not a good option for that. Oliver frowned. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

You took a deep breath, but the air didn’t quite reach your lungs. You looked toward the parking lot, toward the yellow lights reflected on the cars, toward anywhere that wasn’t his face “When I was sixteen I had ovarian cancer,” you said. The words came out stiff, like they had been locked away for a long time. “A year later I had breast cancer. It only affected my left breast, but they had to operate. There was reconstruction. Treatments. A lot of things.”

Oliver didn’t say anything. Not because he didn’t care, but because he understood you weren’t finished “And because of all that… I have fertility problems. My chances of getting pregnant are low. Very low, according to some doctors. Not impossible, but low. And I know people say that doesn’t matter until it does. I know a man can say he loves me and then, years later, realize he wanted biological children and resent me for something I can’t control.” You laughed without humor, hating how vulnerable you sounded. “So I’d rather not start something that’s going to end up breaking me.”

Oliver stayed still for a few seconds. His expression didn’t shift into pity, and that was the first thing you noticed. There was no horror, no discomfort, no calculation. Just pain. But not for himself. For you “Are you finished?” he asked softly.

You were so surprised that you looked at him, he took a step toward you, slowly, giving you space to pull away if you wanted. “I’m not saying that to sound cold. I just want to know if you’re finished telling me all the reasons why you think I should leave.”

Your eyes burned. “Oliver…”

“I didn’t fall in love with the possibility of having children,” he said. His voice was low, firm, without drama. “I fell in love with you.”

The world seemed to lose all sound, Oliver swallowed, and for the first time that night you saw him nervous. “I’m not going to pretend I understand everything you went through, because I didn’t. And I’m not going to say something stupid like it doesn’t matter, because I know it does for you. I know it hurt. I know you’re still scared. But your story doesn’t scare me. What scares me is that you had to convince yourself that no one would stay after hearing it.”

A tear fell before you could stop it “I do want children someday,” he admitted, and your chest tightened automatically, but he moved a little closer. “But there are many ways to have a family. And there’s also an entire life before that. I’m not standing here because I want you to promise me babies. I’m here because I want to have dinner with you after games, listen to you complain about the heat, watch you sleep on my couch, be with you when you’re sick, celebrate your good days and hold you on the bad ones. I want to be with you. The rest we’ll figure out together, if we ever have to.”

You covered your mouth with one hand, trying not to break “And what if you regret it someday?” you asked, Oliver shook his head. “Then that would be my problem, not your fault. But I’m not going to live making decisions based on a regret I don’t feel.”

That night you didn’t kiss right away. Oliver didn’t try to turn your confession into a perfect moment. He just held your hand next to your car while you cried in silence, exhausted from saying out loud what for years had been your highest wall. And when he finally asked if he could hug you, you nodded.

His hug was careful. Not fragile, not fearful. Careful in the way someone holds something precious, not something broken.

After that, you started dating for real.

Oliver didn’t change overnight or treat you like you were made of glass. He still teased you for not understanding hockey rules, still stole fries from your plate, still sent you ridiculous photos from team trips. But there was a new tenderness in the way he took care of you, a patience that never made you feel pressured.

When you told him you had regular check-ups with your ob/gyn, Oliver asked if you wanted him to go with you.

Your first reaction was to say no “They’re medical appointments, Oliver. They’re not fun.”

“I figured they weren’t for fun.”

“I can go alone.”

“I know.” He was sitting on the edge of your bed, tying his shoes before taking you to breakfast. He looked up at you. “But you don’t have to.”

That became one of the first things he taught you about himself: Oliver didn’t take up space by force. He offered it. And then he waited.

The first time you agreed to let him go with you, you were so nervous you almost canceled. Not because of the doctor, but because of him. Because telling him your story in a parking lot at night was one thing, and letting him sit beside you while a professional talked about your ovaries, your hormone levels, your chances, your check-ups, your internal and external scars was something else entirely.

Oliver showed up with hot coffee for you and a bottle of water in the other hand “You don’t have to come in with me,” you told him for the third time in the clinic parking lot.

“I know.”

“You can wait outside.”

“I can.”

“Oliver.”mHe looked at you with that calm of his that sometimes drove you crazy and other times saved you. “I’m going to do whatever you want. If you want me to come in, I’ll come in. If you want me to wait outside, I’ll wait outside. If you want me to leave and come back in an hour, I’ll do that. But I’m not going to let you believe this is too much for me.”

He went in with you, he sat beside you in the waiting room, one hand on your knee because you had reached for it first. He didn’t talk too much. He didn’t ask uncomfortable questions. He didn’t pretend to understand medical terms he didn’t know. When the doctor explained the probabilities, the check-ups, and the importance of monitoring your health, Oliver listened carefully. When you got tense talking about fertility, his thumb stroked your knuckles under the table.

On the way out, he didn’t say “everything’s going to be okay,” because he knew you didn’t always need impossible promises.

Instead, he took you to lunch and ordered you extra fries because, according to him, “after surviving a medical appointment, you deserve carbs.”

You laughed so hard you almost cried again.

Over time, Oliver became part of your medical routines. He went when he could, rearranged practices if possible, called you from the road when he couldn’t be there physically. He learned the names of your medications, the dates of your check-ups, the questions you were too embarrassed to ask when you felt overwhelmed. At appointments he didn’t speak for you, but if he noticed you freezing up, he gently squeezed your hand and reminded you: “Ask her that thing we talked about.”

He never made your fertility problems the center of the relationship. He never ignored them either. He treated them as part of the life you had decided to share. An important part, yes, but not the definition of who you were.

In 2015, you had been dating for almost a year when the distance between you started to disappear for real.

There had been months of slow kisses at your front door, of holding hands at the movies, of nights where he stayed late but always left before things got too intense. You were the one who put on the brakes. Oliver never complained. Never pushed. He just waited.

Until that night.

It was a Friday at the end of summer. You had dinner at your apartment because Oliver was tired from a long trip and you didn’t feel like going out. The television was on with the volume low, a movie neither of you was really watching. You were on the couch, like always, but this time the distance was smaller. You were leaning against his chest, his arm around your waist, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your hip over your t-shirt.

You had already been kissing for several minutes. Deep, slow kisses that left you breathless. His hands hadn’t moved from your waist, but you could feel the heat of his body, the way his breathing hitched when you bit his lower lip, the hardness pressing against your hip every time you moved a little.

Oliver pulled his lips from yours just enough to speak, his voice rough and low against your mouth “Do you want me to stop?” he asked, the way he always asked. “Tell me and I’ll stop right now.”

You shook your head, but you felt your heart pounding in your throat “I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered. “Just… go slow. Please.”

“As slow as you need.” He kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then the edge of your jaw. “You’re in charge. Always.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, and his hands slid under your t-shirt, warm and large against your skin. When his fingers brushed the edge of your bra, you tensed without meaning to. Oliver felt it immediately “What’s wrong?” he murmured against your neck, stopping completely. “Too much?”

“No.” You swallowed. “It’s just… you haven’t seen me. Not yet.”

Oliver pulled back enough to look you in the eyes. His expression was soft, with no urgency, only concern and love “Do you want me to see you?” he asked in that calm voice that always managed to steady you. “Do you want me to see all of you?”

Your eyes burned. You had imagined this moment a thousand times and it always ended with you running or him being disappointed. But Oliver was looking at you like he already knew the answer and was willing to wait for it his entire life if he had to “Yes,” you said at last, your voice trembling. “But… I’m scared.”

“Of what, kärlek?”

“That you’ll see the scars and… won’t want me the same way anymore.”

Oliver shook his head slowly and kissed the tip of your nose “Nothing I see is going to change how I feel about you. Nothing.” His hand came up to your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. “But if you’re not ready, that’s okay. We can stop here. We can keep kissing on the couch like we always do. Or I can go home right now. Whatever you need.”

You shook your head again, more determined this time “I want this. I want… I want you to see me. Just… don’t stop looking me in the eyes when you do. Please.”

“Promise.” He moved with deliberate slowness. He helped you sit up better on the couch and knelt in front of you between your open legs. His hands slid up your sides, pushing your t-shirt up inch by inch, giving you time to stop him if you wanted. When he reached your ribs, he looked at you one last time, asking without words.

You lifted your arms, the t-shirt disappeared. You were left in your bra and shorts, breathing fast. Oliver didn’t look down right away. He looked into your eyes first, like you had asked, and in his gaze there was nothing but love and contained desire “You’re beautiful,” he said, simple and sincere. “So beautiful it sometimes hurts to look at you.”

Then he lowered his gaze, his eyes traveled over your body with a reverence that made you cry before you could stop it. The scar on your left breast was visible above the bra, a pale line that disappeared toward where the reconstruction had changed the shape of your breast. Oliver didn’t stare. He leaned in and kissed the scar with a tenderness that broke something inside you “This,” he murmured against your skin, “is part of you. And I love every part of you.”

He removed your bra with patient hands. When your breasts were exposed, a tear slipped out. The left one had the most noticeable scar, the skin slightly different because of the reconstruction. Oliver kissed it again, slower this time, and then kissed your nipple with a gentleness that made you arch your back “So soft,” he whispered. “So perfect.”

His hands came up to your breasts, holding them carefully, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened. He kissed your mouth again while his fingers played with them, and every time you moaned, he responded with a low, satisfied sound in his throat “I want you to feel good,” he said against your lips. “Tell me what you like. Tell me what you don’t.”

“I like… everything you’re doing.”

“More?”

“Yes.”mHe moved lower. He kissed down your neck, your collarbone, and stopped at your left breast again. This time he sucked on your nipple with more pressure, his tongue warm and wet, and you let out a moan that surprised even you. Oliver lifted his head just to look at your face.

“Good?”

“Yes… please don’t stop.” He kept going lower. He helped you lift up a little so he could take off your shorts and underwear. When you were completely naked in front of him, he didn’t give you time to feel exposed. He leaned in and kissed the inside of your thigh, then higher, until his mouth found your center.

The first lick was slow, experimental, like he wanted to taste you. You let out a gasp and your hands went to his hair. Oliver groaned against you, like the taste of you was driving him crazy, and started licking you with more intention: slow circles around your clit, dipping down to your entrance, coming back up. He sucked gently, then harder when he felt your hips moving against his mouth.

“Oliver…” you moaned, voice breaking “I’ve got you,” he murmured against you. “Let go. I want to feel you come on my tongue.”

You came like that, with his tongue inside you and his nose brushing your clit, your hands gripping his hair while tears kept falling down your cheeks. They weren’t tears of sadness. They were tears of relief. Of having let someone see all of you and still being wanted.

Oliver moved back up your body, kissing every inch of skin he found. When he reached your mouth, he kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His hips pressed against you and you could feel how hard he was through his jeans “Do you want to keep going?” he asked, brushing his nose against yours. “We can stop here. I’m happy just having had you like this.”

You shook your head, desperate now “No. I want everything. I want… I want you inside me.”

Oliver took off his clothes with efficient but unhurried movements. When he was naked, he took your hand and placed it on his chest, letting you feel his heart beating fast “I’m nervous too,” he admitted with a crooked smile. “Because it’s you. And because I want this to be perfect for you.”

“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” you said, caressing his face. “It just has to be with you.”

He positioned himself between your legs, holding himself up on one arm while he touched himself with the other, lining up with you. He looked into your eyes the entire time “If it hurts, or if you want to stop, tell me. Even at the last second. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He pushed in slowly. Inch by inch, giving you time to adjust. He was thick, and you felt the stretch, but it wasn’t painful. It was… a lot. Full. Oliver panted above you, forehead wrinkled from the effort of holding back “Fuck… you’re so tight. So warm.” He kissed your forehead. “Are you okay?”

You nodded. “Keep going.”

When he was fully inside, he stayed still, giving you time. He kissed your mouth, your neck, your breasts again. His hands never stopped touching you: your waist, your hips, your breasts “I love you,” he said against your skin. “I love you so much that sometimes I don’t know what to do with all of it.”

He started moving then. Slowly at first, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in. Every thrust was deep and controlled. He looked into your eyes the whole time, murmuring your name like a prayer “So beautiful… my brave girl… look at me. Yes, like that. Stay with me.”

The pleasure built slowly, deep, different from anything you had felt before. It wasn’t just physical. It was emotional. It was having survived everything and still being here, being loved in such a complete way.

When you came the second time, it was with his name on your lips and your nails digging into his back. Oliver followed right after, burying his face in your neck and groaning your name like it was the only thing he knew how to say.

He stayed inside you afterward, not moving, breathing heavily against your skin. His arms wrapped around you completely, like he wanted to protect you from the entire world “Are you okay?” he asked after a while, voice hoarse.

You nodded against his chest, tears still falling but without shame now.

“Better than okay.”

Oliver kissed your hair “Thank you for trusting me,” he murmured. “Thank you for letting me see you. For letting me love you like this.”

That night you didn’t sleep much. You stayed connected for as long as you wanted, talking in whispers, laughing quietly when he told you he had been dreaming about this since the first time he saw you laugh at that dinner. He kissed your scars again before falling asleep, like he wanted to seal them with his love.

And for the first time in many years, you fell asleep without fear of what the other person might think when they saw you naked.

In 2016, you were already practically living together even though neither of you had announced it that way. Your toothbrush was in his bathroom. His hoodies were in your closet. You knew which side of the bed he preferred, and he knew that when you were anxious you cleaned the kitchen even when it was already spotless. Oliver said “our house” without correcting himself, and every time he did, something inside you melted and got scared at the same time.

Because the happier you were, the more afraid you became of losing him.

There were nights when you woke up and watched him sleep, wondering when he would realize he could have an easier life with someone else. Someone without scars. Someone without constant medical appointments. Someone who could promise him children without turning the conversation into a mix of hope and pain.

Oliver noticed even when you didn’t say anything.

One night, after a game, he came home late and found you in the kitchen, sitting with a cup of cold tea between your hands “Bad day?” he asked, setting his keys on the counter.

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me so badly. It offends me.” You smiled a little, but didn’t look up, Oliver came closer, still with damp hair from the locker room shower, and leaned against the counter in front of you “Talk to me.”

“Do you ever think this is too much?” you asked, his expression softened. “Too much what?”

“Me.” Oliver was quiet for a second, like he needed to hold back a too-quick answer. Then he crouched in front of your chair, bringing himself to your level “You are not too much.”

“Oliver…”

“No.” His voice was firm, but not hard. “I’m not going to let you finish that sentence like you’re a burden.”

“I’m just saying you could have something simpler.”

“I don’t want simple.” He took your hands. “I want real. And this is real. You are real. What we have is real.”

Your eyes filled with tears, he kissed your knuckles. “And in case it’s not clear after almost two years, I’m pretty stubborn.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

“Then you should believe me when I say I’m not going anywhere.”

In 2017, Oliver asked you to marry him.

He did it in an intimate way, with no cameras, no stadium, no big public gestures. Just the two of you, during a short getaway after the season, in a quiet house where the world seemed to have no access. You had dinner on the terrace, with small lights hanging above you and a bottle of wine you barely touched because you were too busy talking. Oliver had been acting strange all night, quieter than usual, and you thought maybe he was tired.

Then he got down on one knee.

For a second, you didn’t understand what was happening. Your mind went blank when you saw the little box in his hand, the ring shining under the soft light, his eyes fixed on yours with a vulnerability that almost broke your heart “I want to marry you,” he said. It didn’t sound rehearsed. It sounded like something that had been living in his chest for a long time. “I want to choose you every single day. I want us to be a family, however that looks, with whatever comes and whatever doesn’t. I want to be with you when it’s easy and when it’s not. I want to wake up with you, come home to you, grow old with you. And if you say yes, I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to make sure you never doubt that you’re enough for me.”

Love can feel like light, but it can also feel like fear.

And in that moment, fear won first “I can’t,” you said, almost without voice.

Oliver’s face changed slightly, like the air had been knocked out of him, but he didn’t lower the ring, you stood up abruptly, hands shaking. “I can’t, Oliver.”

“You don’t want to marry me?”

“I do want to.” The answer came out broken. “That’s the problem. I want it too much.” he stood up slowly. “Then help me understand.”

You brought a hand to your chest, to the left side, over a scar he knew and kissed with a devotion you still struggled to accept “Marrying me means carrying all of this forever. It means my check-ups, my fears, my low chances, my bad days, my insecurities. It means I might never be able to give you children. It means that if someday you want a big family and I can’t—”

“Stop.”

“No, Oliver, you have to think about it.”

“I did.”

“Not as a husband.”

“Yes, as a husband.” His voice cracked slightly. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”

You stayed looking at him, breathing fast, Oliver set the little box on the table, not as rejection, but as a pause. Then he came closer and took your face in his hands “Listen to me carefully,” he said. “I’m not asking you to marry me because I think everything’s going to be perfect. I’m asking because I want to be with you even knowing it won’t be. I don’t need you to promise me children. I don’t need you to promise me a body without scars. I don’t need you to promise me you’ll never be scared. I just need you not to decide for me that I should leave.”

A sob escaped you “I love you,” he continued. “You. Not some imaginary version of you. Not a woman without a past. Not a promise of pregnancy. I love you when you’re strong and when you’re tired of being strong. I love you when you go to your medical appointments and squeeze my hand so hard you almost break my fingers. I love you when you get mad at me for worrying. I love you when you laugh at my bad jokes. I love all of you.”

“And if I’m not enough?”

Oliver rested his forehead against yours “You’re the only person I want to build a life with. That’s more than enough.”

You cried against his chest for several minutes, with his arms around you and the ring still on the table. Oliver didn’t ask again right away. He didn’t pressure you. He held you like he always did, giving you space even inside his embrace.

When you finally pulled back a little, your eyes were red and your voice was shaky “Do it again,” you whispered.

Oliver blinked. “What?”

“Ask me again.”

His expression completely crumbled. A mix of relief, love, and emotion crossed his face as he picked up the little box again. This time, when he got down on one knee, you didn’t try to run “Will you marry me?”

You took a deep breath and for the first time in years, you didn’t let fear answer for you “Yes.” Oliver let out a shaky laugh before standing up and hugging you so tightly that both of you almost lost your balance. He kissed you once, then again, and again, like he needed to make sure the moment was real. When he slid the ring onto your finger, his hands were shaking too “I love you,” he murmured against your mouth.

“I love you too.”

You got married that same year.

The wedding was small, intimate, full of people who truly loved you both. You didn’t need hundreds of guests or a perfect celebration. You only needed Oliver at the end of the aisle, looking at you like you were already his home even before you reached him. He cried before you did. He tried to hide it, but failed miserably, and that made everyone laugh softly.

When you read your vows, your voice trembled at first “For a long time I thought that loving someone meant giving them a perfect version of myself,” you said, holding his hands. “I thought my scars were warnings, that my story was a reason for someone to leave before they stayed. But you came into my life with a patience I didn’t know I needed. You never tried to fix me. You never made me feel broken. You taught me that being loved doesn’t mean hiding the difficult parts, but finding someone who holds them with you.”

Oliver squeezed your hands, his eyes full of tears. “I promise not to decide for you when I’m scared. I promise to let you love me even on the days when it’s hard for me to believe I deserve this much. I promise to walk with you, choose you, take care of you, and build a life with you, however that life looks.”

When it was Oliver’s turn, he had to take a deep breath before speaking “I didn’t fall in love with a perfect life,” he said. “I fell in love with you. With your strength, your laugh, your heart, the way you’re still here even after everything the world tried to take from you. I promise to remind you every day that you’re not a burden. I promise to go with you to every appointment, celebrate every good piece of news, and hold you through every bad one. I promise that you’ll never have to wonder if you’re enough for me, because I’m going to spend my life proving to you that you always have been.”

Later, during the reception, Oliver danced with you like no one else existed. He held you close, one hand steady on your back, his mouth brushing your temple “Are you happy, Mrs. Ekman-Larsson?”

You closed your eyes for a second, allowing yourself to feel everything. The music, the lights, the weight of the ring, the warmth of his body against yours, the life you once thought you would never have.

“So much,” you whispered.

Oliver smiled against your skin. “Good. Because we’re only just getting started.”

And for the first time, when you thought about the future, you didn’t see a list of things that could go wrong.

You saw Oliver.

His hand in yours in a waiting room. His jacket over your shoulders. His laugh in the kitchen. His patience on your worst days. His love, constant and stubborn, choosing you again and again.

You didn’t know what life was going to give you. You didn’t know if there would be children, or what your family would look like in a few years, or how many challenges you would have to face. But while Oliver held you in the middle of the dance floor, you understood something that made you breathe with a new kind of peace.

Maybe love wasn’t the promise that nothing would ever hurt.

Maybe love was finding someone who, even knowing all your wounds, didn’t look at your scars like warnings.

But like proof that you had survived.

And Oliver hadn’t just stayed.

You stood on your parents’ front porch for a long minute after they closed the door, listening to Jesper’s happy little voice fading inside as your mom promised him kanelbullar and a story in Swedish. He was two now—blond curls, your eyes, Gabriel’s smile—and waving goodbye with his favorite stuffed moose had almost made you cry. But you and Gabriel needed this weekend. You needed it badly.

Four months of trying for baby number two. Four months of hope, tracking, and turning every fertile window into something that felt sacred. This morning your app had confirmed it: you were ovulating. Peak fertility. Your body was ready, and so was your heart.

You drove home in the quiet car, the empty car seat in the back feeling strange. When you pulled into the driveway of the house you and Gabriel had bought three years ago, the lights were already on. He was home from practice.

Gabe was thirty now. You were twenty-eight. Ten years ago, when you were eighteen and freshly arrived in the United States, he had been twenty and already the captain of the Colorado Avalanche—the youngest captain in franchise history. You had come to Denver for university, but really you had come for him.

You had been high school sweethearts back in Sweden. He was the serious, talented hockey boy two years older than you. You were the girl who tutored him in English and kissed him behind the rink after games. When he left for North America at Seventeen, it had broken both your hearts, but he had promised, “One day I’ll bring you here, älskling. One day we’ll have everything.”

Three years later, when you turned eighteen, he had kept that promise. You arrived in Denver nervous and excited, and the twenty-year-old captain with the kind blue eyes and gentle hands had picked you up from the airport himself. He had been so sweet from the very first day—carrying your bags, making sure you ate, introducing you to his teammates like you were the most precious thing in his world. Within a year you were married in a small ceremony back home in Sweden. the two of you waited before having kids, so 6 years after that, Jesper arrived.

And now here you were, ten years after arriving, still stupidly in love with the same boy who had become the man you built a life with.

You stepped inside and heard the shower running upstairs. You slipped into one of his old hoodies and nothing else, then padded into the kitchen to start a simple dinner. When Gabriel came down twenty minutes later in gray sweats and a black t-shirt, hair damp, he stopped in the doorway and just looked at you for a long moment.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said softly, crossing the room and wrapping his arms around you from behind. His big hands slid under the hoodie immediately, warm and gentle on your bare stomach. “How was dropping Jesper off?”

“He was happy,” you answered, leaning back into his chest. “Mom already had the Lego out.”

Gabriel pressed a slow kiss to the side of your neck. “I missed him the second we left. But…” His voice dropped lower, sweeter. “I’ve been thinking about having you all to myself all day.” You turned in his arms and looked up at him. At thirty he was still every inch the hockey player—broad shoulders, strong arms, that quiet intensity—but the way he looked at you had only grown softer over the years.

“I’m ovulating, Gabe,” you told him quietly. “Started this morning. We’re right in the window.” His blue eyes darkened, but the smile that curved his mouth was so tender it made your chest ache. “Yeah?” He cupped your face with both hands and kissed you like you were something fragile and precious. “Then we’re going to take our time, baby. I want this to be good for you. I want to take care of you while we try.”

Dinner was quiet and sweet. He kept one hand on your thigh under the table the whole time, thumb stroking slow circles. You talked about Jesper—how he was starting to say more Swedish words, how he loved when Gabriel read to him before bed. You talked about wanting another baby, how Jesper needed a sibling, how your house already felt too quiet without little feet running around.

“I love being a dad,” Gabriel said softly, eyes on yours. “But watching you be a mom… that’s the best part. You’re so good with him. So patient. So loving. I want to see you do it again. I want to give you that.”

After dinner he cleared the table, then took your hand and led you upstairs without a word. The bedroom was already dim, the big bed you shared since before Jesper was born waiting. Gabriel undressed you slowly, reverently, kissing every inch of skin he revealed.

When the hoodie was gone he stepped back and just looked at you—fuller breasts from nursing Jesper, softer belly and hips, the small stretch marks he had kissed a thousand times “You’re even more beautiful now than the day you got off that plane at eighteen,” he murmured, voice thick. “Carrying my son made you glow. I can’t wait to watch it happen again.”

He stripped out of his own clothes and pulled you onto the bed with him, settling between your thighs but not rushing. For a long time he just kissed you—deep, slow, sweet kisses that made your toes curl. His hands roamed gently, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until they tightened “I love these,” he whispered against your mouth. “Love how sensitive they still are. Love that they fed our boy.”

He kissed his way down your body, taking his time. When he reached your stomach he pressed his lips there and stayed for a moment, like he was already saying hello to the baby you both hoped was coming.

“Hi, little one,” he said softly against your skin. “If you’re in there… we love you already.”

Your eyes stung with happy tears, then his mouth moved lower, Gabriel ate you out like he had all night. Slow, thorough, loving licks and gentle sucks, two thick fingers sliding inside you and curling just right. He moaned against you like he loved the taste, like this was his favorite thing in the world. You came the first time with your fingers in his hair and his name on your lips, thighs shaking around his head.

He didn’t stop until you were trembling and oversensitive. Only then did he kiss his way back up your body and settle over you, the heavy weight of him comforting and arousing at the same time “I need to be inside you, älskling,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Need to feel you around me while I try to give you another baby.”

You nodded, already reaching for him. He lined up and pushed in slowly—inch by careful inch—until he was buried deep. Both of you groaned at the feeling “Fuck, you feel perfect,” he breathed. “So warm… so wet… this is where I belong. Inside my wife. Trying to make our family bigger.”

He started moving—long, deep, unhurried strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. One hand held yours above your head, fingers interlaced. The other stroked your cheek, your hair, your breast with such tenderness it made your heart feel too big for your chest.

“I love you,” he said between kisses. “I’ve loved you since we were teenagers sneaking around back home. I loved you when you got off that plane at eighteen looking scared and excited. I loved you when you married me. I loved you when you gave me Jesper. And I love you even more right now, trying for another one with me.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him deeper. “I love you too, Gabe. So much. Give me another baby. Please.”

He made love to you for a long time—slow and sweet, then a little harder when you asked, but never rough. Every thrust was purposeful, like he was trying to pour every bit of love he had into you. When you came the second time he stayed deep and ground against you, letting you ride it out while he whispered how beautiful you were, how good you felt, how he was going to stay inside you all night if that’s what it took.

Only when you were soft and pliant beneath him did he let go, he came with a low, broken groan, hips pressed tight to yours, pulsing hot and thick inside you. You felt every spurt, felt him trying to give you exactly what you both wanted. He stayed buried deep afterward, breathing hard against your neck, pressing soft kisses to your jaw “Don’t move yet,” he whispered. “Let me stay here a little longer. Let it take.”

You stroked his back, smiling through happy tears. “Okay.”

Eventually he pulled out carefully and used two gentle fingers to push his cum back inside you, murmuring sweet apologies when you shivered from oversensitivity. Then he gathered you into his arms and held you close, one big hand resting low and protective on your stomach “You’re going to be such a good big brother, Jesper,” he said quietly to the empty room, like he was already talking to the future. “You’re going to teach them Swedish words and how to hold a hockey stick. And your mom and I are going to love you both so much.”

You fell asleep like that—wrapped in Gabriel’s arms, his cum warm inside you, his hand on your belly, and ten years of love wrapped around both of you like a blanket.

Sometime in the middle of the night you woke to him kissing the back of your neck. You were still on your side and he was hard against your ass. Without a word you lifted your leg and he slid inside you again—slow, sleepy, incredibly intimate. He fucked you like that for a long time, one arm around your waist, hand between your legs rubbing gentle circles on your clit while he whispered how much he loved you, how he was going to take care of you through another pregnancy, how he was never going to stop wanting you.

You came quietly, face buried in the pillow, and he followed soon after, staying deep and holding you tight until you both drifted off again.

In the morning he woke you with soft kisses between your thighs and made you come on his tongue before the sun was fully up. Then he carried you to the shower, washed your hair with careful fingers, and took you against the tile—your back to his chest, one hand on your breast and the other between your legs while he moved inside you and told you how beautiful you looked carrying his children.

By the time you finally left the house to pick up Jesper late Sunday afternoon, you were pleasantly sore, full of his cum, and glowing.

Gabriel held your hand the whole drive, occasionally bringing it to his lips to kiss your knuckles “Whatever happens,” he said softly as you pulled up to your parents’ house, “we’ve got each other. And we’ve got our boy. And if this weekend didn’t work… we’ll keep trying. Because I want it all with you. I always have.”

You looked at him—your high school sweetheart, the twenty-year-old captain who had been so sweet to the eighteen-year-old girl who moved across an ocean for him, the thirty-year-old man who still looked at you like you hung the moon—and felt your heart swell “I know,” you whispered. “And I want it all with you too.”

Inside, Jesper came running into Gabriel’s arms with a shriek of “Pappa!” and your mom gave you a knowing little smile over his head.

You smiled back, one hand resting lightly on your stomach.

Ten years ago you had stepped off a plane in a new country for the boy you loved, now you were building a whole life with him.

____________

It had been three and a half weeks since that long, perfect weekend.

The weekend where Gabriel had loved you so thoroughly, so sweetly, and so many times that you had lost count. The weekend where he had whispered against your skin that he wanted to give you another baby, where he had stayed inside you afterward with his hand protectively on your belly, where he had made love to you like every thrust carried a prayer.

You had gone back to normal life after picking up Jesper—diapers, playdates, Gabriel’s practices and games, bedtime stories in Swedish and English. But something had felt different this time. Your body felt… softer. Your breasts were a little more tender. And your period, which had always been like clockwork, was now five days late.

You didn’t want to get your hopes up too high. Four months of trying had taught you that. But on a quiet Thursday morning, while Gabriel was at morning skate and Jesper was napping, you finally bought the test.

You took it in the downstairs bathroom, hands shaking a little as you set the little white stick on the counter and set a timer on your phone.

Three minutes felt like three hours, when the timer went off, you picked it up with trembling fingers.

Two little pink lines, clear. Dark. Undeniable.

Your breath caught in your throat. For a second the world tilted, and then a wave of pure, overwhelming joy crashed over you so hard your knees went weak. You sank down onto the closed toilet lid, one hand flying to your mouth as happy tears spilled over.

Pregnant.

You were pregnant.

With Gabriel’s baby. Your second baby. Jesper’s little sibling, you sat there for a long time, crying and laughing softly, one hand resting on your still-flat stomach like you could already feel the tiny life growing there. All the memories flooded in—meeting Gabriel at sixteen back in Sweden, the way he used to look at you like you were the answer to every question. The day you stepped off the plane in Denver at eighteen and saw your twenty-year-old boyfriend (already the captain) waiting with flowers and the softest smile. The way he had held your hand through every step of building this life. Jesper’s birth. The nights you stayed up rocking him while Gabriel rubbed your back. And now… this.

You wanted to tell him the second he walked through the door, but you also wanted it to be special. Gabriel had been so sweet, so patient, so loving through all the trying. He deserved a moment that felt as big as this news.

That evening, after dinner, you put Jesper to bed together like always. Gabriel read him a story in Swedish while you sat on the edge of the bed, watching your husband and your son with a full heart. Jesper fell asleep with his little hand curled around Gabriel’s finger, and when you both stepped out into the hallway Gabriel pulled you into his arms and kissed the top of your head “Missed you today, älskling,” he murmured against your hair. “How was your day?”

You looked up at him—thirty years old, still so handsome, still the boy who had loved you since you were teenagers—and felt your throat tighten with emotion “Can we talk in the living room for a minute?” you asked softly.

His eyebrows drew together in gentle concern, but he nodded immediately. “Of course, baby. Everything okay?”

You took his hand and led him downstairs. The house was quiet. You had hidden the positive test in a little gift box earlier—one of the small blue boxes from Jesper’s baby shower that you had saved. You picked it up from the coffee table and handed it to him.

Gabriel looked confused but smiled anyway, that soft, sweet smile he only ever gave you and Jesper. “What’s this?”

“Open it,” you whispered, heart pounding, he sat on the couch and carefully opened the box. Inside, nestled on white tissue paper, was the pregnancy test with its two clear pink lines.

For a second he just stared at it, then his blue eyes lifted to yours, wide and shining with instant tears “Älskling…” His voice cracked. “Is this… are you…?” You nodded, tears already spilling down your cheeks. “I’m pregnant, Gabe. We did it. We’re having another baby.”

The sound he made was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He set the box down so carefully, like it was the most precious thing in the world, and then he was pulling you into his lap, arms wrapping around you so tightly you could barely breathe. His face buried in your neck as his shoulders shook “Oh my god,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Oh my god, baby. You’re pregnant. We’re having another baby.”

You held him just as tightly, stroking the back of his head. “I found out this morning. I wanted to tell you in a special way because… you’ve been so patient. So sweet. I love you so much.”

Gabriel pulled back just enough to look at you, tears still clinging to his lashes. He cupped your face with both hands like you were something fragile and holy “I love you more than anything in this world,” he said, voice rough. “You and Jesper… you’re my whole heart. And now…” He let out a shaky laugh, pressing his forehead to yours. “Another one. Another little piece of us. I’m so happy I don’t even know what to do with it.”

He kissed you then—slow, deep, and so full of love it made your chest ache. When he pulled back he rested one big, warm hand low on your stomach, thumb stroking gently over the fabric of your shirt.

“Hi, little one,” he whispered, voice soft and reverent. “It’s your pappa. I already love you so much. Your big brother Jesper is going to be the best. And your mom…” He looked up at you with so much adoration it took your breath away. “Your mom is the strongest, kindest, most beautiful person I’ve ever known. You’re so lucky to have her.”

You laughed through your tears and kissed him again. “We’re both lucky to have you.”

For a long time you just sat there together on the couch, his hand never leaving your stomach, both of you whispering about the future. Names. Whether it would be a boy or a girl. How Jesper would react to being a big brother. How you wanted to tell your parents. How Gabriel wanted to be at every appointment this time.

Eventually the emotion shifted into something warmer.

Gabriel’s hand slid under your shirt, palm flat against your skin. His eyes darkened, but they were still so soft, so full of love “Can I…” He swallowed. “Can I make love to you? I want to be inside you while I celebrate the fact that you’re carrying our baby. I want to be so gentle with you.”

You nodded, already breathless. “Yes. Please.”

He carried you upstairs like he had a hundred times before, but this time it felt different—reverent. In your bedroom he undressed you slowly, kissing every inch of skin he revealed, pausing to press his lips to your stomach with such tenderness it made fresh tears prick your eyes “You’re already glowing,” he murmured against your skin. “I can’t believe I get to watch this again.”

When he finally slid inside you it was slow and deep, both of you sighing at the feeling of being joined. He made love to you like you were the most precious thing in his world—long, gentle thrusts, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other resting protectively on your belly the entire time “I love you,” he whispered over and over between kisses. “I love you. I love our family. I love that you’re giving me another baby. You’re so good to me. So good to us.”

You came first, soft and shaking in his arms, and he followed soon after, staying deep inside you as he came with a quiet groan of your name. Afterward he didn’t pull out right away. He stayed buried inside you, holding you close, pressing kisses to your hair and whispering how happy he was, how proud he was of you, how he was going to take such good care of you through this pregnancy.

Later, when you were both cleaned up and curled together under the blankets, Gabriel’s hand still resting on your stomach, he spoke into the quiet dark “Ten years ago you got off that plane and changed my whole life,” he said softly. “I was twenty and terrified of messing everything up. And you… you were eighteen and so brave. I promised myself I would spend every day making sure you never regretted choosing me.”

You turned in his arms and kissed his chest. “I never have. Not for one second.”

He was quiet for a moment, then whispered, “Thank you for this baby. Thank you for Jesper. Thank you for loving me since we were kids.”

You fell asleep like that—wrapped in the arms of the man who had loved you since you were seventeen, his hand on your belly, both of you already dreaming about the tiny life you had made together.

Down the hall, Jesper slept peacefully, unaware that in a few months he would no longer be the only little blond whirlwind in the house.

And in your heart, you already knew this baby was going to be so, so loved, because their father was the sweetest man you had ever known.

The video went up on a Tuesday afternoon.

The title was simple enough.

MIC’ED UP WITH THE KARLSSONS | Penguins Kids Take Over Game Day

The thumbnail, however, was pure chaos.

Beau stood in the middle of the Penguins hallway wearing a tiny black jersey with KARLSSON 65 across the back, both arms raised like he had just scored the overtime winner. Viggo stood beside him, much smaller, wearing enormous noise-canceling headphones and holding a hockey stick that was almost taller than him. Behind them, slightly blurred but impossible to miss, Erik was laughing with his head tilted back while you stood beside him with Anders on your hip, smiling like you already knew the boys were about to embarrass their father on the internet.

The opening shot faded in with Beau sitting on the edge of a bench while a member of the Penguins media team clipped a small microphone onto the collar of his jersey “Can you say something so we know it works?” the woman behind the camera asked.

Beau leaned very close to the microphone and whispered, “Sidney Crosby.” From somewhere off camera, you laughed “That works,” the woman said.

Then the camera cut to Viggo, who was standing very still while another mic was attached to him. He looked deeply suspicious of the entire process, his little brows furrowed exactly like Erik’s when he was trying to understand a bad referee call “Viggo baby, can you say hi?” you asked gently.

Viggo looked at the camera “No.”, the screen froze on his serious face as dramatic music played for half a second.

A caption appeared VIGGO KARLSSON: MAN OF FEW WORDS

Then the video really began.

The boys arrived at the rink holding hands.

Beau walked with the confidence of someone who had been in NHL buildings since he was a baby and knew exactly where he was going. Viggo walked with his head tilted all the way back, staring at the lights, the walls, the banners, the people passing by. You followed behind them with Anders tucked against your chest in a baby carrier, one hand hovering near Viggo’s shoulder just in case he got distracted and wandered directly into a wall.

“Beau, where are we?” the camera operator asked “At Daddy’s work,” Beau said.

“And what does your dad do?”

“He plays hockey,” Beau answered, then added seriously, “and sometimes he gets penalties, but Mamma says we don’t talk about that at school.”

You immediately covered your mouth, the camera shook slightly from the person filming trying not to laugh, Viggo turned around, pointing at you. “Mamma says bad words at hockey.”

“Viggo,” you warned, though your voice was already full of laughter, Beau nodded. “Only when Daddy gets hit.”

“I do not say bad words,” you said, both boys turned to the camera at the exact same time, the video cut to a black screen with white text.

THE KARLSSON BOYS DISAGREE.

The next clip showed Beau pushing open the locker room door like he owned the place “Daddy!” he yelled, every player in the room turned, Erik, who had been sitting at his stall taping a stick, looked up instantly. His face changed the second he saw them. The focused, game-day version of him disappeared, replaced by something warmer, softer, entirely for his family.

“There are my boys,” Erik said, setting the tape down, Beau ran first, crashing into him. Erik caught him easily and pulled him onto his lap, kissing the side of his head before reaching one arm out for Viggo.

Viggo walked more slowly, suddenly shy now that the locker room was full of players and cameras, Erik lowered his voice. “Kom hit, Viggo. Come here, buddy.” Viggo tucked himself into Erik’s side, hiding his face against his father’s hoodie “You shy now?” Erik teased softly. “You were yelling in the car.”

“No,” Viggo mumbled

“You told me you were going to tell Uncle Geno he is loud.” Viggo lifted his head just enough to look across the room, Geno, already looking delighted, pointed to himself. “Me?” Viggo nodded once. “You loud.”

The entire locker room burst out laughing.

Geno placed a hand on his chest like he had been deeply wounded. “I am not loud. Your dad loud.” Beau immediately defended Erik. “No, Daddy is only loud when he talks Swedish on the phone.”

Erik closed his eyes briefly while several teammates laughed harder, the camera zoomed in on him as a caption appeared.

ERIK KARLSSON: EXPOSED BY HIS CHILDREN

You appeared in the doorway then, Anders now awake against your chest, his little face peeking out from the carrier. Erik’s eyes found you instantly. He smiled in that private way he always did, the kind that made the room feel smaller even when cameras were everywhere.

“Hi, baby,” he said “Hi,” you answered, stepping closer. “Your sons have already started causing problems.”

“Our sons,” Erik corrected automatically, Beau looked between you both. “Mamma says that when we’re good, we’re her babies, but when we’re crazy, we’re Daddy’s sons.”

“That sounds accurate,” Sidney Crosby said from the stall beside Erik’s, You laughed. “Thank you, Sid.”

Erik reached for Anders carefully, one hand supporting the back of his tiny head as he lifted him from the carrier. Anders immediately grabbed at Erik’s hoodie string, making a happy little noise “There’s my little Swede,” Erik murmured, pressing a kiss to Anders’s forehead. “Hej, älskling.”

Beau leaned toward the microphone. “That means hi, love.” the camera cut to a close-up of Beau looking very proud of himself “I speak Swedish because Daddy is Swedish and Mamma speaks Swedish too,” he explained. “But at school I speak English because Mamma says not everyone understands when I say I need snacks.”

Viggo, from Erik’s other side, whispered, “Jag vill ha snacks.” You sighed from off camera. “Of course you do.”

A few minutes later, the boys began making their rounds through the locker room, Sid crouched down to their level, holding out a fist for each of them. Beau bumped it immediately. Viggo stared at Sid’s hand for a second, then placed a single goldfish cracker into his palm.

Sid looked down at it “Thank you,” he said solemnly, Viggo nodded. “For later.”

Rickard Rakell appeared next, opening his arms dramatically. “Where are my favorite Karlssons?” Beau ran into him. Viggo followed, slightly delayed but just as enthusiastic “Uncle Rickard,” Beau said into his mic, “is Swedish like us.”

Rickard smiled. “Very true.”

“And he lets us have candy.” Rickard’s smile dropped, the camera swung to you “Does he?” you asked, Rickard pointed at Beau. “That is taken out of context.”

Beau looked directly into the camera. “It was gummy worms.” the video cut immediately to Erik looking across the room at Rickard with narrowed eyes.

A caption appeared.

UNCLE RICKARD HAS BEEN PLACED UNDER REVIEW

When Geno came over, Viggo hid behind Erik’s leg but peeked around it with a grin, Geno bent down. “You say I’m loud?” Viggo nodded “You are small.” Viggo looked at him, unimpressed. “I’m three.”

Geno nodded seriously. “Okay. That is bigger than two.” Beau leaned in helpfully. “Anders is zero.” Geno looked at the baby in Erik’s arms. “Lazy. No walking.”

Anders babbled loudly, kicking his feet, Erik laughed and kissed his cheek. “He’s working on it.”

The camera followed as Erik finished getting ready for practice. Beau sat beside him at his stall, watching with intense focus while Erik taped his stick “Daddy, why do you do it like that?” Beau asked.

“Because I’ve done it this way for a long time.”

“Since you were old?”

You choked on a laugh from behind the camera, Erik looked offended. “Since I was young.” Beau tilted his head. “Were dinosaurs there?”

The room exploded again, Erik pointed the roll of tape at him. “Careful, buddy.”

Beau grinned because he knew his father was not actually mad. He leaned against Erik’s side, and Erik kissed the top of his head without even thinking about it.

That was the thing the video kept catching.

The little touches.

Erik fixing Beau’s collar. Erik gently moving Viggo away from a pile of skates. Erik looking over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure you were okay with Anders. Erik brushing his hand across your back when he passed you in the hallway. Erik smiling into a kiss you pressed quickly to his cheek before practice.

The cameras were there for the boys, but they kept finding the love around them.

The next part of the video showed the family near the glass for practice. Beau and Viggo stood in front, both wearing headphones now, their little hands pressed against the boards. You stood behind them with Anders in your arms, bouncing him gently while he stared wide-eyed at the movement on the ice.

“There’s Daddy,” Beau said, pointing at Erik who skated past and tapped the glass with his stick, Viggo gasped like he had never seen anything more impressive in his life. “Pappa!”

Erik circled back during a drill, scooped up a puck with his stick, and flipped it gently over the glass to the staff member standing beside you. Beau received it like it was the Stanley Cup “Daddy gave me a puck,” he whispered into the mic.

A few seconds later, Erik sent another one for Viggo, the little boy held it with both hands, looked at it carefully, then tried to bite it “No, no, no,” you said quickly, laughing as you crouched down. “Not food.”

Viggo looked disappointed. “It looks like cookie.”

“It absolutely does not,” you said, Beau looked at his puck, then at Viggo’s. “Mine is special because Daddy touched it.”

“Mine too,” Viggo argued.

“Mine first.”

“Mine baby.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

Viggo hugged the puck to his chest and turned away dramatically. “My puck.” the camera zoomed in on Beau’s face as he sighed like a tired older brother “I have two little brothers,” he explained to the audience. “So I have to be patient.”

The video cut to you laughing so hard you had to turn away, during warmups before the game, Beau became a commentator “Daddy is skating,” he said into his mic.

A beat passed “He is still skating.” Another beat. “He shoots. He missed.” Behind him, you made a small noise. “Beau.”

“What? He did.”

The puck hit the glass near them a few seconds later, and both boys jumped backward. Erik skated past, laughing, and tapped the glass again, Viggo pressed his mittened hand against the spot where Erik had tapped. “Daddy funny.”

Beau nodded. “Daddy has to score tonight because I’m mic’d up.”

“That’s how it works?” the camera operator asked “Yes,” Beau said confidently. “When your kids are mic’d up, you have to score.”

The game footage began with the boys seated beside you. Anders was asleep against your chest, tucked under a small blanket, completely unbothered by the noise around him. Beau sat on your left, focused on the ice, while Viggo sat on your right with a container of popcorn balanced on his lap.

The camera caught you leaning down to adjust Viggo’s headphones “Too loud?” you asked, Viggo shook his head. “No. Popcorn loud.” you looked at him. “The popcorn is loud?”

He nodded seriously. “Crunchy.” Beau, eyes still on the ice, suddenly shouted, “Go, Daddy!” Viggo followed half a second later, “Go, Pappa!”

Anders startled awake from the noise, blinked, then started smiling when you kissed his cheek.

On the ice, Erik glanced toward your section during a stoppage. He found you immediately, like he always did. You lifted Anders’s little hand and waved it for him. Erik smiled so openly that the broadcast camera caught it, and the Penguins YouTube edit replayed it in slow motion.

A caption appeared.

DAD MODE: ACTIVATED

Later in the first period, Erik assisted on a goal, Beau jumped out of his seat so fast you had to grab the back of his jersey “Daddy got a point!” he yelled.

Viggo threw one piece of popcorn into the air. “Point!” You tried to pull him back down gently, laughing. “We don’t throw popcorn, Viggo.”

He looked at the floor. “It fell.”

“You threw it.”

“It fell from my hand.” Beau leaned toward the camera. “He lies sometimes.” You gasped. “Beau Karlsson.”

“What? He does.” The video cut to Erik on the bench, looking up at the jumbotron where his boys had just been shown celebrating. He laughed, shook his head, and said something to Sid, who looked up too and smiled.

The second intermission segment showed the boys in the family area, where Beau tried to explain hockey strategy using chicken nuggets “This is Daddy,” he said, placing one nugget in the center of the plate. “This is Uncle Sid. This is Uncle Geno. This is the other team.”

He put a fry across from them, Viggo immediately ate the fry, Beau stared at him. “You ate the other team.”

Viggo chewed proudly. “We win.” from off camera, Rickard said, “Honestly, good strategy.” When Erik came out after the game, hair damp from the shower and suit jacket open, both boys ran at him again. He bent down with no hesitation, catching them both against his chest “You guys were loud tonight,” he said.

“You got a point,” Beau said proudly.

“I did.”

“You didn’t score.” Erik laughed. “No, I didn’t.” Beau patted his shoulder with great seriousness. “Next time.”

“Thank you, coach.” Viggo lifted his puck. “I kept it.”

“I see that,” Erik said. “Good job.”

“I didn’t eat it.” Erik paused, then looked at you over Viggo’s head, you sighed. “It was considered.”

He laughed and reached for you with one arm, pulling you gently into his side while still holding both boys. Anders, awake again in your arms, immediately reached for Erik’s tie “My whole crew,” Erik murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You okay?”

You nodded, smiling up at him. “Tired. But they had the best night.” Erik looked down at Beau and Viggo, his expression so soft it almost hurt. “Yeah?”

Beau nodded. “Can we be mic’d up every game?”

“No,” you and Erik said together, Viggo looked at the camera. “Mamma says bad words.” The screen froze, the words appeared again.

THE KARLSSON BOYS DISAGREE.

The final clip was quieter.

The hallway was emptier now, the game long over. Beau walked sleepily beside Erik, holding his hand. Viggo was in Erik’s arms, his cheek squished against his father’s shoulder, half-asleep but still gripping his puck. You walked beside them with Anders tucked against you, your free hand holding the back of Beau’s coat as you guided him toward the exit.

The camera caught Erik glancing at you “You did good today,” he said softly, you smiled. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” His voice dropped lower, more private, even with the mic still catching it. “Always taking care of everyone.” You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “You were the one playing.”

He leaned over and kissed you gently. Not for the cameras. Not for the video. Just because he loved you and he was tired and happy and surrounded by the little family you had made together.

Beau looked up, unimpressed. “Daddy, you’re kissing Mamma on YouTube.” Erik laughed against your mouth. “Sorry.”

“You love her,” Beau said “I do,” Erik answered easily, Viggo, without lifting his head from Erik’s shoulder, mumbled, “Mamma pretty.”

Erik’s face softened completely. “Yeah, she is.” You looked down, embarrassed, while Beau nodded like this was obvious information.

“And Daddy loves us,” Beau added, Erik squeezed his hand. “More than anything.”

The video ended with the family walking away down the tunnel, Beau’s little voice still audible through the mic “Next time Daddy has to score because I’m famous now.”

The screen cut to black, then one final caption appeared.

THANK YOU TO BEAU & VIGGO KARLSSON FOR TAKING OVER GAME DAY.

A second line popped up underneath.

_____________

The football hit you hard enough that you saw stars.

One second you were sitting on the grass near the edge of the dock, scrolling through your phone while the boys argued over some ridiculous game they had invented. The next, something slammed into the side of your head with enough force to knock you sideways.

The world tilted.

A sharp burst of pain exploded behind your temple.

Then everything went oddly quiet.

You sat there blinking for a second, trying to figure out what had just happened.

A football rolled across the grass a few feet away.

"Oh, shit." Luke's voice.

You looked up.

His eyes were huge. The football had slipped out of his hand while he was trying to throw it to Trevor.

Unfortunately, you had been sitting directly in the path.

"I am so sorry." Luke was already jogging toward you.

You laughed weakly. "Ow."

Across the yard, Jack's head snapped around so fast it almost looked painful: the smile disappeared from his face, his entire posture changed. One second he had been lounging in a chair, half-listening to whatever Quinn was saying. The next he was moving.

Faster than anyone had ever seen him move outside a hockey rink.

The second he reached you, he dropped to his knees in the grass beside you.

His hands immediately found your face desperate to make sure you were actually okay.

"Look at me." His voice was low.

You blinked up at him. "I'm okay."

"No."

"Jack–"

"No. Don't do that." His eyes were scanning every inch of your face.

Your pupils, forehead, and the spot that was already beginning to turn red.

The longer he looked, the paler he got.

Around you, the yard had gone completely silent. Even Trevor wasn't talking which was terrifying.

Jack gently tilted your head toward the light. You winced and his jaw tightened the muscle there jumping hard enough for everyone to see.

"What hurts?"

"My head."

"Obviously your head hurts." The response came quicker than he intended, frustration bleeding into his voice.

Not directed at you. At the situation, the fact that you were hurt at all.

You reached up and touched his wrist. "I'm okay."

He looked like he didn't believe that for a second. Behind him, Luke was still standing there looking guilty.

Which would've been funny if Jack hadn't suddenly stood up. The movement was so abrupt that everyone looked startled.

"What were you doing?"

Luke blinked. "What?"

"The football."

"It slipped."

"How does a football slip?"

"Jack."

"No. Seriously."

Jack never got quiet when he was annoyed. He got louder, more dramatic, more ridiculous.

This was different.

Luke rubbed the back of his neck. "It wasn't on purpose."

"I know it wasn't on purpose." Jack ran a hand through his hair. "You still hit her."

Trevor wisely took several steps backward. Quinn looked like he was trying not to laugh. Mostly because he knew exactly where this was coming from underneath the frustration was fear.

Plain and simple.

Jack turned back toward you before anyone could respond and the second his eyes landed on you, all that anger vanished.

It was like watching two completely different people.

His expression softened, shoulders relaxed, and his voice dropped.

"Baby, are you dizzy?"

"A little."

His face somehow got even paler.

"Okay."

"It's because I got nailed in the head with a football."

"Not helping."

You couldn't stop the laugh that escaped. Jack looked relieved just hearing it like the fact that you could still laugh meant the world wasn't ending.

Still, he wasn't taking chances, within minutes he had you sitting on the couch inside an ice pack pressed carefully against the side of your head, bottle of water in one hand, and a blanket over your legs despite the fact that it was seventy-five degrees outside.

The boys had followed you inside. Mostly because they wanted proof Jack wasn't going to murder Luke.

Luke remained Public Enemy Number One. Every time Jack looked at him, he got annoyed all over again.

"You know she's got terrible luck already."

Luke threw his hands up. "I know!"

"So maybe don't launch footballs at her face."

"I didn't launch it!"

"You kind of launched it." Trevor shrugged

"Trevor."

"I'm just saying."

Luke looked offended. Trevor looked away. You could practically see Jack trying not to start another argument.

Instead, he turned back toward you for probably the fifteenth time in ten minutes.

"How's your head?"

"Still attached."

"Not funny."

"It was a little funny."

His hand slid into yours. You noticed then that he hadn't let go of you since this started. Every few seconds his thumb brushed over your knuckles.

A subconscious movement making sure you were okay.

The realization made your chest ache because this wasn't really about the football hitting you. It was about the fact that seeing you hurt scared him.

The room eventually returned to normal and conversation picked back up. Trevor and Luke started arguing again. Quinn put a game on television.

The world moved on.

Jack didn't. He stayed glued to your side, one arm wrapped around your shoulders, his body angled toward yours protectively.

Every few minutes he pressed a kiss against your hair or your forehead and asked how you felt, and every single time you answered, some of the tension disappeared from his face.

As the sun started setting over the lake, you eventually found yourself curled against his chest half asleep.

Jack's arm tightened around you slightly when he noticed his chin rested on top of your head.

Across the room, Luke glanced over. "She's fine, you know."

Jack didn't even look at him.

His eyes stayed on you watching your breathing, making sure you rest.

"I know."

Jack was insufferable, not always but just when he was confident about something and tonight, unfortunately, Jack Hughes was very confident “You’re acting like I’m taking you to war,” he said, grinning as he tugged you gently toward the entrance of the scare maze.

You slowed your steps, eyeing the dark wooden archway ahead of you. Fog spilled across the ground in thick curls, neon red lights flashing behind the fake cemetery gates. Somewhere inside, a chainsaw revved loudly enough to make the group of girls in front of you scream before they had even gone in “I have never been in one of these before,” you reminded him.

“I know.”

“I don’t like horror movies.”

“I know.”

“I once made you turn off a movie because a doll blinked.” Jack laughed, throwing his arm around your shoulders. “Baby, that doll was barely scary.”

“It blinked, Jack.”

“People blink.”

“Dolls shouldn’t.” he pressed a kiss to the side of your head, clearly far too amused by your distress. “Relax. I’ll protect you.”

You glanced up at him. He looked way too pleased with himself, dressed in a black hoodie, hands tucked into his pockets, hair messy from the cold fall air. He had that smug little smile on his face—the one that usually meant he was about to say something annoying.

And, naturally, he did “I’m basically built for this.” You blinked at him. “You are built for hockey.”

“Exactly. Fast reflexes. Great awareness. Elite survival instincts.”

“You scream when a bug flies too close to your face.”

“That was one time.”

“It was a moth.”

“It was huge.”

“It was a moth, Jack.” He waved you off, stepping closer as the line moved forward. “Doesn’t matter. Tonight, I’m your bodyguard.”

You looked past him at the entrance again. Another scream ripped through the maze, followed by evil laughter and what sounded like someone banging on metal walls, you were not convinced, Jack, however, looked delighted at least until the employee at the entrance smiled and said, “Just the two of you?”

“Yep,” Jack said proudly, tightening his arm around your shoulders.

The employee nodded toward the dark opening. “No running, no touching the actors, and they won’t touch you. Have fun.” the word fun felt very generous, Jack turned to you with a grin. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Perfect.”

He stepped forward first, dragging you with him through the curtain of fog, the first hallway was narrow and dark, lined with peeling wallpaper and flickering lamps. The floor creaked under your shoes. Somewhere overhead, speakers played faint whispering noises, like someone was breathing directly into your ear.

You gripped Jack’s hand, he squeezed back “See?” he whispered. “Not bad.”

You exhaled slowly. “Okay. Maybe this is fine.”

“Exactly. You’re with me. Nothing to be scared of.” The second he finished that sentence, a door slammed open beside him, a man in a bloodstained butcher apron lunged out with a guttural scream.

Jack let out a noise you had never heard from him before, not a yell, not a gasp but a full, high-pitched, soul-leaving-his-body shriek.

He jumped backward so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, yanking you behind him and then somehow, in the same movement, putting himself behind you.

You froze, the actor froze, Jack clutched your shoulders from behind like you were a human shiel,for one silent second, nobody moved.

Then you started laughing.

“Oh my God,” you wheezed, Jack’s hands tightened on you. “Keep walking.”

“You said you’d protect me!”

“I am.”

“You’re hiding behind me!”

“I’m covering our blind spot.” The butcher actor tilted his head, clearly trying not to break character, you laughed harder, Jack pushed you gently forward, still standing directly behind you with his hands on your arms. “Go, go, go.”

The actor slammed his cleaver against the wall as you passed, Jack screamed again, you laughed so hard your stomach hurt “This is unbelievable,” you said, wiping at your eyes.

“It was loud,” Jack defended.

“It was a man in an apron.”

“With a weapon.”

“A fake weapon.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Jack.”

“What?”

“You play professional hockey.”

“And?”

“And you’re scared of a theater kid with a plastic cleaver.” Jack leaned down, his mouth close to your ear. “I don’t like his energy.”

That only made you laugh again, the maze opened into a fake hospital room, complete with bloody sheets, flickering fluorescent lights, and abandoned wheelchairs. A recording of heart monitors beeped unevenly in the background.

You expected to be nervous, you really did but something about Jack’s dramatic breathing behind you had completely ruined the fear.

He was pressed so close to your back that you could feel his chest against your shoulders. Every few seconds, he peeked around you like he was checking for danger, only to immediately duck back when anything moved “You good back there, bodyguard?” you asked.

“Don’t mock me in my time of need.”

“Your time of need?”

“Shh.” a nurse with long black hair twitched in the corner of the room, Jack saw her, you knew he saw her because his fingers dug into your hoodie “Baby,” he whispered.

“What?”

“That lady moved.”

“She’s supposed to.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You brought us here.”

“That was before I knew the vibes were bad.” you turned your head slightly to look at him. “The vibes? It’s a scare maze.”

“Exactly. Bad vibes.” The nurse suddenly snapped her head up and sprinted toward you, Jack shouted, “NOPE!”

He grabbed your waist and spun you both sideways, accidentally maneuvering you in front of him again while he ducked behind your shoulder, the nurse screamed in your face, you smiled “Hi.” the nurse hesitated for half a second before screaming again and pointing you toward the next hallway.

You waved at her, Jack stared at you like you had just performed witchcraft “What is wrong with you?” he hissed once you were out of the room.

You were grinning now. “This is kind of fun.”

“Fun?” he repeated, horrified.

“Yeah.”

“You were scared in the line.”

“I know, but now you’re more scared than me, so I feel better.”

“That is so mean.”

“You screamed like a toddler.”

“I screamed like someone with survival instincts.”

“You screamed like Luke when he sees a spider.” Jack pointed a finger at you. “Don’t bring Luke into this.”

“You’re going to have to tell him.”

“I am absolutely not telling him.”

“I am absolutely telling him.” Jack stopped walking, you turned back to him, amused. “Are you pouting in a haunted maze?”

“I’m reconsidering this relationship.”

“You love me.”

“I did before you betrayed me.”

“You hid behind me, Jack.”

“I was using strategy.”

“Your strategy was sacrificing your girlfriend.”

“I knew you could handle it.” you smiled sweetly. “Oh, so now I’m the protector?” He glanced around nervously as another distant scream echoed through the walls. “For the next five minutes? Yes.” you burst out laughing, grabbing his hand and pulling him forward. “Come on, Hughes. I’ll protect you.”

Jack muttered something under his breath, but he followed you anyway, practically glued to your side, the next section was worse, at least, it was supposed to be.

The walls narrowed until you had to walk single file. Plastic hands reached through slits in the fabric walls, not touching you, just waving close enough to make you aware they were there. A red strobe light flashed above you, making everything look choppy and distorted.

Jack hated it immediately “No,” he said, you looked back at him. “No what?”

“No hallway.”

“We have to go through the hallway.”

“I don’t like hallways.”

“Since when?”

“Since now.” you bit back a laugh. “Give me your hand.” he gave you both, you stared down at where he had latched onto you. “Jack.”

“What?”

“I need one hand to walk.”

“I need both for emotional support.” another actor popped out from a hidden panel in the wall, Jack ducked, pulling you down with him, you were laughing before the actor even finished screaming “Jack!” you squealed.

“I saved you!”

“You dragged me to the floor!”

“Low center of gravity!”

“You’re insane!” He scrambled up, still holding onto you. “Keep moving, keep moving.”

“You know,” you said between laughs, “for someone who said he was built for this, you are doing terribly.”

“I didn’t say I was built for this specifically.”

“You said elite survival instincts.”

“They’re working. I’m alive.”

“You’re alive because I’m leading us.”

“Exactly. Teamwork.” By the time you reached the clown section, Jack looked genuinely offended by the entire existence of the maze “Oh, absolutely not,” he said the second he saw the striped walls and carnival lights, you grinned. “Scared of clowns too?”

“I’m not scared of clowns.” a clown giggled from somewhere unseen, Jack stepped behind you, You looked over your shoulder, He cleared his throat. “I don’t respect clowns.”

“That’s different?”

“Very.” The room was filled with mirrors and neon paint. Distorted carnival music played overhead, slow and warped. You walked ahead carefully, watching your reflections multiply around you, Jack kept one hand on your waist and the other gripping the back of your hoodie.

“You’re stretching it,” you said.

“I bought it for you.”

“That doesn’t mean you can ruin it.”

“I’ll buy you another one.” A clown suddenly appeared behind a mirror, slamming both hands against the glass, Jack screamed directly into your ear, You flinched—not because of the clown, but because of him “Jack!”

“Sorry!”

“My ear!”

“I said sorry!”

“You’re the scariest thing in here!” The clown started laughing, You pointed at him. “Don’t encourage him.” The clown laughed harder, Jack glared at the mirror. “Bro, mind your business.”

That did it, You doubled over, laughing so hard you had to grab his arm to stay upright. Jack tried to look annoyed, but his mouth twitched.

“It’s not funny,” he said.

“It’s so funny.”

“I’m having a terrible time.”

“You asked for this!”

“I thought you were going to be cute and scared.”

“You thought wrong.”

“I wanted you to hold onto me.”

“You’re holding onto me.”

“I know,” he said miserably. “This has not gone how I pictured it.” Your laughter softened into fondness. You reached up and fixed the collar of his hoodie where he had twisted it in all his panicking.

“You’re cute when you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.” A clown honked an airhorn behind him, Jack jumped forward and nearly knocked you over, you raised your eyebrows, He sighed. “Fine. I’m a little scared.”

“A little?”

“Moderately.”

“Jack.”

“Extremely,” he admitted, you smiled, taking his face in your hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.” He narrowed his eyes at you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I really am.” Despite all his complaining, Jack still leaned in and kissed you quickly, right there under the flickering carnival lights, it was sweet.

For about two seconds, then another clown screamed from behind you both, Jack broke the kiss with a yelp and shoved his face into your neck, you lost it “Okay,” you laughed, grabbing his hand again. “Come on, big scary boyfriend. We’re almost done.”

“I hate that nickname.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I don’t,” he admitted quickly, then pointed ahead. “But walk faster. the final stretch of the maze was designed like an abandoned forest. Fake trees rose on either side of the path, fog drifting between them. The air smelled like damp wood and artificial smoke. You could hear footsteps crunching somewhere nearby, but couldn’t tell from where.

Jack was silent, suspiciously silent, you glanced back, his eyes were wide, scanning everything “You okay?”

“No.”

“At least you’re honest now.”

“I’ve grown as a person.” a rustling noise came from the left, Jack immediately moved you to his other side, you smiled. “Oh? Protecting me now?”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“You moved me away from the scary noise.”

“I’m still your boyfriend.”

“That’s very brave of you.”

“Stop talking like I’m a toddler.” a masked scarecrow stepped out from behind a tree, Jack made a strangled sound but, to his credit, stayed beside you this time. He grabbed your hand tightly, pulling you closer, but he didn’t hide.

The scarecrow tilted its head and raised one long, bony finger toward the exit, you looked at Jack, impressed. “Look at you.” His jaw was tight. “I’m doing amazing.”

“You didn’t scream.”

“I screamed internally.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.” then, just as you passed the scarecrow, another actor burst out from the opposite side with a chainsaw, a fake chainsaw, but a loud one, Jack’s bravery lasted exactly half a second, he shouted, grabbed you around the waist, and bolted toward the exit, dragging you with him as you laughed uncontrollably.

You stumbled out into the open air, breathless and laughing, while Jack kept walking several feet away from the maze before finally stopping.

He turned around, chest rising and falling, hair messed up, cheeks flushed, you looked at him, he looked at you, then you burst out laughing all over again “Don’t,” he warned.

“You ran!”

“It was a chainsaw!”

“It wasn’t real!”

“It sounded real!”

“You left me behind!”

“I carried you!”

“You dragged me like luggage!” Jack put his hands on his hips, trying very hard to look offended. “I just saved your life.”

“You screamed louder than me the entire time.”

“Because you didn’t scream!”

“I know! I had fun!” he stared at you as if you had personally betrayed everything he believed about you “You had fun?” he repeated, you nodded, still smiling. “So much fun.”

“You were supposed to be scared.”

“I was scared before we went in.”

“And then?”

“And then you screamed at the butcher guy, and suddenly I felt very calm.” Jack groaned, tilting his head back toward the night sky. “I’m never living this down.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re telling everyone, aren’t you?”

“Immediately.”

“Not Luke.”

“Especially Luke.”

“Baby.”

“Jack.” he stepped closer, wrapping his arms around your waist despite the pout on his face. “What if I buy you hot chocolate and ask very nicely?” you pretended to think about it. “With whipped cream?”

“Yes.”

“And a donut?”

“Fine.”

“And you admit that I was braver than you?” he sighed dramatically, you waited, Jack leaned down, resting his forehead against yours. “You were braver than me.”

“And?”

“And I hid behind you.”

“And?” his mouth twitched. “And you’re my big scary girlfriend.” you grinned. “Good enough.”

He kissed you then, soft and warm, his hands slipping under the hem of your hoodie to tug you closer. Behind you, another group screamed from inside the maze, and Jack flinched against your mouth, you pulled back, biting your lip to stop yourself from laughing, he pointed at you. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking I love you.” his expression softened instantly, the embarrassment melting into something tender. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smiled. “Even if you’re a terrible bodyguard.” Jack laughed, shaking his head before kissing your forehead. “I love you too.”

Then another chainsaw revved somewhere behind the entrance, Jack grabbed your hand and started walking away immediately “Hot chocolate,” he said firmly. “Now.”

You let him pull you down the path, laughing the entire way.

There was something almost ridiculous about how much space Juraj took up in your life, and not just because he was, objectively, a giant. He took up space in the kitchen by leaning against the counter with his long legs stretched out so far you had to step over his feet. He took up space in the entryway with his shoes kicked off in the middle of the floor and his jacket hanging halfway off the hook because he never quite put it away properly. He took up space in the grocery store, standing behind the cart with one hand on the handle and the other resting on your lower back as if, at any second, you might get separated. And maybe that was what made all of it feel so warm—Juraj was everywhere, in all the little corners of your life, and somehow he made even the most ordinary days feel fuller.

Saturday mornings with him were never particularly graceful. You woke up tangled in the blankets because Juraj had a habit of drifting across the bed in his sleep like he thought he still needed to fight for room. His arm was heavy across your waist, his face half-buried into your shoulder, and when you tried to move he only tightened his hold with a sleepy grumble. “No,” he mumbled, voice rough and low with sleep. “Too early.” You laughed softly, brushing your fingers through the mess of his hair. “It’s not too early. We need groceries, remember?” That made one of his eyes crack open, suspicious and dramatically unimpressed. “Groceries are not urgent.” “They are when you ate everything in the fridge.” Juraj looked offended, even half asleep. “That is a mean accusation.” You raised a brow. “We have one egg left, no milk, and somehow an empty container of strawberries that you put back in the fridge like they’d magically refill.” He blinked at you for a second, then smiled in that lazy, boyish way of his that made it hard to stay annoyed. “Okay,” he admitted, pulling you closer for one last minute. “Maybe groceries are urgent.”

By the time you were both out the door, he was fully awake and impossible. He insisted on carrying everything—the reusable bags, your coffee, the keys, even your shopping list when you waved it at him in mock irritation. At the grocery store, he pushed the cart like it was his personal mission while you walked beside him, occasionally tossing things in before he could question them. He did question most of them anyway. “Do we need three kinds of pasta?” he asked, pulling a box out and reading it like he was reviewing game tape. “Yes,” you said simply. “Why?” “Because one is for dinner, one is for the pantry, and one is because I know you’ll decide at midnight that you need a snack and boil half the box.” He paused, then put it back. “Smart.” It only got worse in the produce section, where he kept sneaking extra things into the cart just because he knew it would make you laugh—an absurdly large cabbage, a bag of mini peppers, a watermelon that looked almost comically huge next to everything else. When you turned around and caught him dropping in a bouquet of sunflowers with a look so casual it was almost suspicious, your heart gave that same familiar little squeeze it always did. “Juraj,” you said, softer now. He shrugged one shoulder, though the corner of his mouth tipped up. “You said the apartment looked boring.”

Running errands with him always took twice as long as it should, partly because he liked to stop and look at everything and partly because people recognized him. He was good about it, always kind, always willing to smile or say hello, but you noticed the subtle shift in him every time. His shoulders squared a little, his attention split. So when you were back in the car, parked outside the pharmacy while he waited for you to finish buckling your seatbelt, you reached over and squeezed his hand. He looked at you, confused for half a second, then softened immediately. “What was that for?” he asked. You smiled. “Nothing. Just because.” Juraj brought your hand up to his mouth and kissed your knuckles without any embarrassment, right there in the middle of the parking lot. “Good,” he said quietly. “You should do that more.”

Back home, unloading groceries became its own kind of routine. Juraj stood at the counter pulling things out of the bags while you tried to organize them, only for him to keep getting distracted. He held up the cereal you liked and asked if you wanted some right now. He stole grapes straight from the bag before they’d been washed. He kept nudging you with his hip whenever you passed each other, just enough to make you stumble into him so he could grin and catch you. “You’re so annoying,” you told him, though your hands were already flat against his chest, steadying yourself. “And you like me anyway,” he said, not even sounding smug about it, just certain. You rolled your eyes, but before you could walk away he bent down and kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth like he couldn’t help himself. “Put the milk away,” you muttered, trying and failing to hide your smile. “Yes, chef.”

Cooking with Juraj was chaos in the sweetest possible form. It started with good intentions—music playing softly from his speaker, vegetables on the counter, a pan warming on the stove—but quickly turned into him hovering at your side, reaching around you to steal bits of whatever you were chopping. “Stop eating the ingredients,” you scolded, swatting at his hand with a wooden spoon when he grabbed a piece of bell pepper. “I am taste testing.” “You taste tested cheese five minutes ago.” “And?” “And now you’re just being greedy.” He laughed, broad and easy, then wrapped both arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on the top of your head. “You look cute when you’re bossy,” he murmured. “I’m trying to make dinner.” “And I’m helping.” You turned slightly in his hold, giving him a dry look. “By what? Standing there and being oversized?” “That too.”

Still, he did help, in his own way. He chopped things unevenly but with intense concentration, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek like this was a far more difficult assignment than anything he did on the ice. He stirred the sauce carefully when you asked him to. He reached for dishes on the highest shelves without needing to be told, always setting them down right beside you. And every now and then, when he thought you weren’t paying attention, he’d just look at you. You’d catch it in the reflection of the microwave or when you turned from the sink. His expression was always the same—soft, a little distant, like he was memorizing the moment. When you finally called him out on it, asking, “Why are you staring at me like that?” he only smiled and said, “You’re my favorite thing to look at.” You stared back at him, helpless against the warmth rushing into your face. “That was disgustingly smooth.” He grinned. “I know.”

Dinner itself was never elegant. You ate at the kitchen counter half the time because neither of you could be bothered to set the table properly. Juraj always ended up stealing food off your plate even if his portion was bigger. He liked feeding you bites of whatever he thought turned out especially well, holding the fork near your mouth with this hopeful little look until you finally leaned forward and took it. “Good?” he’d ask every single time, as if you hadn’t already told him five times that it tasted great. “Good,” you’d confirm, and the pleased look on his face was worth repeating yourself for. Sometimes you talked the whole way through dinner—about your week, about something funny he’d heard at practice, about plans for the next day. Other times it was quieter. Just the two of you sharing glances across the counter, knees brushing, his socked foot hooking around your ankle underneath like he needed some kind of contact at all times.

Afterward, there was the lazy comfort of the cleanup. You washed while he dried, though “dried” was generous because more often than not he was using the dish towel to flick water at you and then pretending innocence when you glared. “Juraj.” “What?” “If you splash me again, I’m making you do dishes alone next time.” He gasped. “You would never.” And then, because he was incapable of leaving a good thing alone, he did it again. You turned on him with wet hands, tapping water onto his shirt and laughing when he recoiled dramatically. “Okay, okay,” he said, catching both your wrists in one big hand and tugging you toward him. “Truce.” “You started it.” “Maybe. But I’m ending it.” Before you could argue, he leaned in and kissed you, slow and warm, until you forgot entirely what you’d been pretending to be annoyed about. When he pulled back, his forehead resting lightly against yours, he smiled that small, private smile that always felt like it was meant only for you. “See? Much better.”

The evening usually ended the same way: curled up on the couch, some movie or show playing that neither of you were fully paying attention to. Juraj sat with you half in his lap because he liked having you close, one big arm around your middle and his hand absentmindedly rubbing your side under your shirt. At some point, your errands and grocery lists and dinner dishes faded into the background, and all that was left was the steady feeling of being home. You’d tilt your head back onto his shoulder and feel him press a kiss to your temple. “Good day?” he’d ask, voice quiet now, softer than it ever was anywhere else. And you’d smile, because it had only been errands and cooking and the kind of day most people would call ordinary. But with him, ordinary never really felt ordinary.

“Yeah,” you’d tell him, threading your fingers through his. “A really good day.”

The first time Macklin saw you, you were arguing with a room full of men in quarter-zips, not loudly, not rudely.

Just with the kind of quiet, terrifying confidence that made every person at the sports technology conference realize you knew exactly what you were talking about.

You stood at the front of the panel room with your presentation clicker in one hand, dark hair tucked behind one ear, glasses sliding slightly down your nose as you explained load management, joint impact, and the prototype sensor your engineering team had designed for athletes recovering from lower-body injuries.

Macklin had been invited to the conference as part of a young-athlete panel. He was supposed to sit through a few presentations, smile for photos, shake hands with tech founders, and say something polite about innovation in hockey.

Instead, he spent twenty minutes staring at you like you had invented the concept of intelligence, someone in the audience asked whether your device could “actually translate to elite athletes” or whether it was more of a “lab thing.”

Macklin remembered the way your face barely changed, you clicked to the next slide “Elite athletes are exactly who we tested it on,” you said evenly. “The difference is that our data doesn’t rely on how an athlete feels after practice. It measures what their body is actually absorbing in real time.”

A few people shifted in their seats, you smiled, small and polite “And bodies don’t care about ego.” that was the moment Macklin knew he was in trouble.

Later, at the coffee station, he found you trying to fix the espresso machine because it had jammed and no one from catering had noticed yet “You fix medical devices and coffee machines?” he asked.

You glanced over your shoulder and froze when you recognized him, Macklin Celebrini the first overall pick of thhe San Jose Sharks.

The kind of hockey player everyone in the building had already tried to impress “I fix things that are poorly designed,” you said after a beat, then immediately looked horrified by your own answer. “Sorry. That came out—”

“No, that was perfect,” Macklin said, grinning. “I’m Macklin.”

“I know.” He laughed, and your face warmed “I mean—sorry. Obviously. I’m yn/ln ” You gave him your name, then looked down at the machine again like it was suddenly fascinating. “You’re here for the athlete panel.”

“Yeah,” he said “You’re here to make everyone feel underqualified", that made you laugh, it was small. Surprised. A little embarrassed, Macklin decided, right there, that he wanted to hear it again.

He asked about your work. You asked about hockey injuries. He expected you to be polite for five minutes and leave.

Instead, the two of you talked for nearly forty.

About force plates, about ACL prevention, about bad data, about how athletes lied constantly when asked if something hurt “They don’t lie,” Macklin protested.

You gave him a look, he corrected himself. “Okay. We lie.”

“Exactly.” He liked that you didn’t care about impressing him, he liked that you cared about the details, he liked that when someone interrupted to ask him for a photo, you immediately stepped back, giving him space, like you assumed that was the end of the conversation.

It wasn’t.

He found you again after his panel, then again at the networking dinner, then again outside the hotel, where you were waiting for your rideshare with your laptop bag on one shoulder and your heels in your hand because your feet hurt “You know,” Macklin said, walking up beside you, “I feel like I should ask for your number before this turns into me following you around a conference.”

You blinked at him, then laughed again and this time, Macklin got what he wanted.

Months later, he still thought about that first day more often than he admitted, especially when he looked at you now, curled up on his couch in San Jose, laptop open, hair falling over your cheek, one of his old Sharks hoodies swallowing you whole while you frowned at a simulation running on your screen.

You had become part of his life quietly, naturally, slowly.

You were there after games, but not in the front row unless he begged. You stayed over, but your toothbrush was hidden in the cabinet because you blushed whenever he teased you about moving in. You met his family over FaceTime before you met most of his teammates.

The relationship was established. Serious. Real.

But private.

Mostly because of you, not because you were embarrassed by him, god, no. You were proud of him in a way that made your chest ache sometimes but attention made your skin feel too tight. Cameras made you freeze. Being perceived by thousands of strangers because of who you loved sounded like your personal nightmare.

Macklin understood.

At least, he tried to.

He never pushed you to post him. Never tagged you without asking. Never dragged you into interviews or made you pose at events if you looked uncomfortable. When people asked if he was dating anyone, he smiled that careful media-trained smile and said, “I’m happy.”

That was enough for a while, then enough started changing.

It started with the first WAG event.

A charity dinner hosted by the Sharks, formal enough that Macklin wore a suit and you stood in front of your closet for forty minutes feeling like every dress you owned belonged to a different version of yourself “You look beautiful,” Macklin said from the doorway.

You turned around, smoothing your hands over your dress. “You have to say that.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You kind of do.” He walked over and placed his hands gently at your waist. “I really don’t. I could say, ‘Wow, that dress looks functional.’”

You snorted “There she is,” he murmured, you tried to smile, but it didn’t fully hold, Macklin noticed. He always noticed more than people gave him credit for.

“We don’t have to stay long,” he said.

“I know.”

“And you don’t have to talk to everyone.”

“I know.”

“And if you want to leave, just squeeze my hand twice.” You looked up at him. “That’s dramatic.”

“I’m a professional athlete. Drama is part of the job.” that made you laugh, and for a second, you felt okay, then you arrived, the women were lovely.

That was the worst part, no one was cruel. No one ignored you. No one looked you up and down or asked why you were there, they welcomed you immediately.

One hugged you, one complimented your dress, one asked what you did for work, and when you said you were an engineer working in sports tech and medical devices, her eyes widened with genuine interest “That’s so cool,” she said. “Wait, so you’re actually smart-smart.”

You laughed, awkwardly, bbut even kindness couldn’t stop the little voice in your head, because they were beautiful.

Beautiful in a way that looked effortless even though you knew, logically, effort existed behind everything. Glossy hair. Perfect makeup. Cameras-ready smiles. The easy confidence of women who knew exactly where to put their hands in photos and how to angle their faces under bad lighting.

Models, influencers, women with huge social media followings, women who looked like they belonged beside professional athletes, you looked down at your hands and noticed a faint ink mark near your thumb from a pen that had exploded at work.

You rubbed at it until your skin turned pink, Macklin stayed close all night. his hand found the small of your back whenever you got quiet. His thumb brushed your knuckles under the table. When someone asked how you two met, he lit up before you could even answer “She humbled an entire room at a tech conference,” he said proudly.

Your face burned. “I did not.”

“You did.”

“I presented research.”

“You destroyed a man with one sentence about ego.”

The table laughed, you laughed too, but your stomach twisted because you loved how proud he sounded and hated that a piece of you wondered whether pride was enough.

That night, someone posted a group photo.

You were standing beside Macklin near the end, half-tucked behind his shoulder because you had instinctively tried to hide. The comments came quickly, most were harmless, some were kind, a few were not.

who’s the girl with Mack?

wait that’s his gf?

she seems cute but so normal lol

he’s so fine and she looks like she does taxes

not what I expected for him

You stared at that one longer than you should have, not what I expected for him, you knew better, you were an adult. An engineer. A woman who had survived male-dominated classrooms, brutal internships, impossible deadlines, and conference rooms where people assumed you were someone’s assistant before you opened your mouth.

You knew strangers online didn’t matter, but knowing something and feeling it were two very different things, you didn’t tell Macklin.

At first, it was small.

You bought a new lip gloss because one of the WAGs had worn something similar and looked stunning. You started spending more time on your hair before games. You stopped wearing Macklin’s hoodies to the arena, even though he loved seeing you in them, and started choosing outfits that felt more “put together.”

Macklin noticed, he always noticed “You look nice,” he said one night, eyes moving over your blouse, fitted jeans, and heeled boots.

“Thanks.”

“No hoodie today?” You shrugged. “I can’t wear your clothes everywhere.” he tilted his head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You smiled, but it was too quick. “It’s not. I just wanted to look more like—” You stopped.

“More like what?”

“Nothing.” he didn’t push, that was one of the things you loved about him, sometimes, it was also one of the things that let you get away with falling apart quietly.

Then came the highlights.

You had always had dark hair. Macklin loved your dark hair. He loved it messy in the morning, twisted up with a claw clip when you worked, spread across his pillow when you fell asleep during movies.

But one afternoon, after scrolling through too many photos and reading too many comments, you booked an appointment and asked for subtle highlights.

Nothing dramatic, just enough to soften your face, just enough to look different, just enough to feel like maybe you were trying.

When Macklin saw you, he froze for half a second, it was barely anything, anyone else might not have noticed You noticed, your heart dropped “You changed your hair,” he said

You touched it self-consciously. “Yeah.”

“It looks…” He paused, and that pause hurt more than any insult could have. “It looks good.” you swallowed. “You hate it.”

“What? No. I don’t hate it.”

“You hesitated.”

“Because I noticed,” he said carefully. “Not because I hate it.” you turned away, pretending to look for your keys. “It’s fine if you do.”

“Hey.” He came closer. “I don’t. I promise.” but his voice was too gentle, like he was trying to figure something out, like he could see the seams coming loose.

You hated that, so you smiled. You changed the subject. You went to dinner with him and acted normal.

After that, the changes came faster.

You started waking up earlier before games to do your makeup. You bought clothes you never would have bought before. You practiced smiling in photos and felt stupid every time. You stood in front of mirrors and turned sideways and wondered what strangers saw when they looked at you next to him.

You stopped eating arena fries with Macklin after games because someone had made a joke online about you looking “different from the usual WAG type,” and somehow your brain translated that into a list of things to fix.

Macklin noticed that too “You want some?” he asked one night, holding out fries after a win, you shook your head. “No, I’m good.” he frowned. “You always steal my fries.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You said you forgot lunch.”

“I said I was fine.” he went quiet, you hated the silence, it sat between you in the car afterward, thick and uncomfortable.

At his apartment, you went straight to the bathroom to take off your makeup. When you came out, Macklin was sitting on the edge of his bed, still in his suit pants and dress shirt, tie loosened around his neck.

He looked young like that, not the franchise player, not the name on jerseys, just Mack. Your Mack.

The one who sent you photos of weird airport carpets. The one who called you before morning skate just to say he’d had a dream your prototype became sentient and yelled at him for poor recovery habits. The one who kissed your forehead when you fell asleep with research papers open on your chest.

He looked up “Can we talk?” your stomach turned. “About what?”

“You.” you tried to laugh. “That sounds ominous.”

“I’m worried about you.” the laugh died, you crossed your arms. “Why?”

“Because you don’t seem like yourself lately.” the words landed wrong, sharp, humiliating, your face went hot. “Because I got highlights?”

“No,” he said immediately. “Not because of the highlights.”

“Because I dress better?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But that’s what you mean.” Macklin stood. “No, it’s not.” you looked away, blinking hard. “I’m allowed to change things.”

“Of course you are.”

“Then why are you making it sound like something’s wrong with me?”

His expression cracked “I’m not,” he said softly. “I’m trying to ask if something’s wrong.”

You hated how gentle he was, it made you feel worse, because if he were annoyed, you could be defensive. If he were angry, you could be angry too. But he was just standing there, worried and careful, and it made the tears press harder behind your eyes “Nothing’s wrong,” you said.

Macklin didn’t believe you, you knew he didn’t “Mack,” you said, sharper than you meant to. “Drop it.” He flinched, you had never spoken to him like that before, not really, you saw the hurt cross his face and hated yourself instantly, but you were too embarrassed to take it back.

So you grabbed your bag “I’m tired,” you said. “I’m going home.” His eyes widened slightly. “What? No, don’t—”

“I just need space.”

“Did I do something?”

“No.”

“Then talk to me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know how to explain something that sounds pathetic out loud!” The room went silent, your own words shocked you. Macklin didn’t move, you pressed your hand to your mouth, wishing you could take the sentence back and bury it somewhere neither of you would ever find it, his voice was barely above a whisper when he said “Nothing you feel is pathetic.”

That broke something, not all the way, just enough. You turned away before he could see you cry. “You don’t get it.”

“Then help me get it.”

“You won’t.”

“I want to.” you shook your head, laughing once, bitterly. “You’re you, Macklin.” he looked genuinely confused. “What does that mean?”

“It means everyone looks at you like you’re… you.” Your voice cracked. “Like you’re this thing they already understand. Hockey star. First overall. Perfect future. And then they look at me and they don’t understand what I’m doing there.”

His face changed, you wiped quickly under your eyes. “And I know that shouldn’t matter. I know. I’m not stupid. I know comments online are just comments. But then I meet the girls and they’re all gorgeous and confident and they know how to do this. They know how to stand next to you in this world and not look misplaced.”

“You don’t look misplaced.”

“You’re saying that because you love me.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true.” you shook your head again. “Someone commented that I wasn’t what they expected for you.”

Macklin’s jaw tightened.

“And I know it’s dumb,” you rushed out. “I know it shouldn’t bother me. But I couldn’t stop thinking maybe they were right. Because I’m not glamorous. I don’t know how to be interesting online. I’m awkward in pictures. I talk too much when I’m nervous or not at all. I have pen ink on my hands half the time. I don’t look like—”

“Stop.” his voice wasn’t loud, but it was firm enough that you did. Macklin crossed the room slowly, like he was approaching something fragile and didn’t want to scare it “You think I want you to look like them?”

You looked down “I think maybe you should.” He inhaled like the words physically hurt “No,” he said. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Mack—”

“No, listen to me.” His hands hovered near yours, waiting, asking without words. When you didn’t pull away, he took them carefully. “I met you while you were explaining biomechanics to people who were pretending they understood you.”

A watery laugh slipped out despite yourself.

“I fell in love with you because you’re brilliant,” he said. “Because you care about things so deeply that you forget to eat when you’re solving a problem. Because you make that little face when you’re concentrating. Because you read medical-device regulations for fun—”

“Not for fun.”

“It looks like for fun.”

“It’s work.”

“You smiled at a footnote once.”

“It was a good footnote.”

“There she is,” he whispered, your mouth trembled, Macklin squeezed your hands “I love your dark hair,” he said. “And if you love the highlights, I’ll love those too. But I don’t want you sitting in a salon chair thinking you have to become someone else for me.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks “I don’t want you skipping food you like because strangers are bored and cruel. I don’t want you wearing clothes that make you feel like you’re playing a character. I don’t want you hiding the parts of yourself that made me fall for you in the first place.”

You tried to look away, but he dipped his head until he was in your line of sight “Baby,” he said softly, and that was when you really started crying, because he only called you that when he was tired or emotional or trying very hard not to fall apart himself.

“I didn’t know it got this bad,” he whispered.

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s embarrassing.”

“No.” He shook his head. “It’s human.” You wiped your face with the sleeve of your sweater “I feel ridiculous.”

“You’re not ridiculous.”

“I’m an engineer. I work in data. I know better than to let random people on the internet mess with my head.” Macklin’s expression softened. “Knowing better doesn’t make you bulletproof.”

You closed your eyes, he pulled you into him slowly, giving you plenty of time to step back. You didn’t. You folded into his chest and cried harder when his arms wrapped around you.

For a while, he didn’t try to fix it, that surprised you.

Macklin was a fixer by nature. He trained harder after losses. He watched tape. He adjusted. He solved.

But with this, he just held you, one hand cradled the back of your head. The other rubbed slow circles between your shoulder blades “I’m sorry,” you whispered against his shirt.

“For what?”

“For being weird.”

“You’re not being weird.”

“For snapping at you.” He kissed the top of your head. “That part wasn’t my favorite.” you laughed weakly “But I get it,” he said. “You were hurting.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it makes it something we can talk about.”

You pulled back enough to look at him. “Are you mad?” His eyes went soft in a way that made your chest ache “No,” he said. “I’m sad you’ve been carrying this alone.”

That made you cry again, quieter this time, he wiped your cheeks with his thumbs “I don’t know how to be part of your world,” you admitted.

“You already are.”

“I mean publicly.”

“We don’t have to be public.”

“I don’t want to hide forever.”

“Okay.”

“But I don’t want everyone staring at me either.”

“Also okay.”

You gave him a helpless look. “That makes no sense.”

“It does,” he said. “We can go slow. We can do it in a way that feels like us.” you sniffed. “What does that even look like?”

He thought about it, then said, “It looks like you coming to games when you want to, not because you feel like you have to prove something. It looks like you wearing my hoodie if you want to wear my hoodie. It looks like no posed couple posts unless you’re comfortable. It looks like me telling people to back off when they cross lines.”

“You can’t fight the entire internet.”

“No,” he said. “But I can make sure you’re not fighting it alone.” Your throat tightened “And I can stop pretending privacy means silence,” he added.

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t have to post your face to make it clear I respect you. I don’t have to expose you to protect you.” His jaw tightened again, just slightly. “But if people say things about you, I’m not going to stand there like it doesn’t matter.”

“Mack…”

“I know you don’t like attention. I won’t make it worse. But I’m not going to let you think my silence means I agree with them.” you looked at him for a long moment, then whispered, “I don’t want to be a problem for your career.”

His brows pulled together. “You’re not a problem. You’re the person I call when my career feels like too much.”

That knocked the breath from you, he said it so simply, like it was obvious, like you should have known. “You are not some random person standing next to me,” Macklin said. “You’re my best friend. You’re the smartest person I know. You’re the person who reminds me I’m allowed to be a human being and not just a hockey player. You’re the person who makes my apartment feel like home because your laptop charger is always in the wrong outlet and your tea mugs are everywhere.”

“You leave protein shaker bottles in your car.”

“I know, and you still love me. That’s huge.” You laughed again, more real this time, Macklin smiled, but his eyes stayed serious “I love you,” he said. “Not the version of you that strangers think would make more sense. You.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to fall apart again “I love you too,” you whispered, he pulled you back into his arms, that night, you stayed, Macklin changed out of his suit while you washed your face again because crying had made your skin blotchy. When you came back, he had ordered food from the place you liked near his apartment.

Including fries

You stared at the bag on the coffee table, he looked almost nervous. “I got extra.” Your eyes burned again, but you smiled. “Subtle.”

“I’m a subtle guy.”

“You are literally not.”

“No,” he admitted. “But I am hungry, and you forgot lunch.”

You sat beside him on the couch, for a few minutes, the two of you ate in comfortable silence, then Macklin reached over and stole one of your fries, you gasped. “You got your own.”

“Yours taste better.”

“They’re from the same bag.”

“I don’t make the rules.” For the first time in weeks, the pressure in your chest loosened, not disappeared, not magically healed.

But loosened.

A few days later, you almost canceled on another WAG brunch, you stood in front of the mirror in a stiff blazer you had bought after seeing someone online call your style “academic background character chic.”

Macklin appeared behind you, looked at your reflection, and frowned “Do you like that blazer?”

You looked down. “It’s nice.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You sighed. “I don’t know.” He opened your closet without asking, pulled out one of your soft sweaters, and held it up “What about this?”

“That’s not brunch-y.”

“Says who?” you gave him a look, he gave you one back, you changed into the sweater, at brunch, one of the women gasped when she saw you “Oh my god, I love your sweater.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“Yes. You look so cozy. I’m jealous.” another smiled. “Also, Mack talks about your job like you personally invented knees.”

Your face went hot. “He does not.”

“He absolutely does,” she said. “He told my boyfriend your research could change recovery tracking.” You looked down at your coffee, embarrassed but pleased, for the first time, you realized something.

Maybe they had never been the enemy, maybe they had never been measuring you at all, maybe you were the only one holding the ruler.

After brunch, one of them asked if you wanted to sit with them at the next home game, your instinct was to say no, then you thought about Macklin, about fries on the couch, about his voice saying, You’re my best friend.

You nodded “Yeah,” you said softly. “I’d like that.”

The next game, you wore Macklin’s hoodie, not because you were hiding, because you wanted to, you still did your hair. You still put on a little makeup. You still felt nervous walking through the arena, especially when a few people recognized you from the charity photo.

But when you reached the family section, the women waved you over like you had always belonged there. During warmups, Macklin looked up, he found you almost immediately, his eyes dropped to the hoodie.

Then back to your face.

His smile changed, softened, warmed. He tapped his stick lightly against the glass once, for you.

One of the girls beside you leaned in. “That was cute.” You laughed, ducking your head, but you didn’t hide.

Not fully.

After the game, Macklin came out still damp from his shower, hair messy, suit jacket hanging open. He spotted you in the hallway and walked straight to you like there weren’t cameras, staff, teammates, or anyone else around “Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

His hand brushed your sleeve. “Nice hoodie.” You smiled. “Some guy gave it to me.”

“Sounds serious.”

“He’s okay.” Macklin grinned, then glanced around once, a silent question. You understood, your relationship had always been built on silent questions.

Can I hold your hand here?

Is this okay?

Do you want space?

Do you want me closer?

This time, you answered by slipping your fingers through his, Macklin looked down at your joined hands, then back at you, the happiness on his face was so open it almost hurt “You sure?” he murmured.

You squeezed his hand once “I’m sure.”

He lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles, a camera clicked somewhere down the hall, you tensed. Macklin felt it instantly, his thumb stroked over your hand, steady and grounding “Eyes on me,” he whispered.

You did, and there he was, not the comments, not the expectations, not the imagined version of yourself you thought you had to become, just Mack.

Your Mack.

The boy from the conference coffee station who watched you fix an espresso machine and looked at you like you were magic, the man standing in front of you now, proud to be seen with you but careful with your heart.

Later that night, a photo appeared online, Macklin Celebrini leaving the arena hand-in-hand with his girlfriend, you were wearing his hoodie.

Your hair was still highlighted, but a little messy from the wind. Your face was turned toward him, laughing at something he had said. Macklin was looking at you instead of the cameras.

Of course, there were comments.

There would always be comments.

Some curious, some kind, some cruel, but this time, before you could spiral, Macklin posted something, not your face, not the photo. Just a picture of the conference badge you had kept pinned to the corkboard in his apartment, from the day you met.

Under it, he wrote:

Proud of my favorite engineer.

That was all, simple. Protective without exposing too much, public without pushing you too far. You stared at it for a long time, then looked over at him on the couch “You’re proud of me?”

Macklin looked offended. “Obviously.”

“You’re such a loser.”

“For you? Yeah.”

You laughed, crawling into his lap and hiding your face in his neck, his arms wrapped around you immediately “I mean it,” he said quietly. “I’m proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you too.”

“For hockey?”

“For hockey,” you said. “And for being more emotionally intelligent than people expect.”

He smiled against your hair. “That’s going on my résumé.”

“You don’t have a résumé.”

“I have elite intangibles.”

“You have separation anxiety and a slapshot.”

“And a very hot engineer girlfriend.” You lifted your head and narrowed your eyes. “Hot?”

“Very.”

“Even before the highlights?”

Macklin’s expression softened, he reached up, brushing a strand of hair away from your face “Especially before the highlights,” he said. “During the highlights. After the highlights. If you dye it blue tomorrow. If you shave it all off. I don’t care.”

“You’d care if I shaved it.”

“I’d be surprised,” he admitted. “But I’d adapt.”

You laughed, he smiled, then grew serious again “I don’t love you because of how you fit beside me,” he said. “I love you because of how I feel when I’m beside you.” your chest squeezed

“And how do you feel?” Macklin looked at you like the answer was easy.

“Like myself.” For once, you didn’t try to argue, you kissed him instead, softly at first, then a little longer when his hand settled against your back and he pulled you closer.

Outside, the world was still loud, there would still be cameras, still comments, still moments when insecurity found a crack and tried to crawl back in.

But Macklin held you like he had no interest in loving a quieter, shinier, easier version of you, he loved the real one, the shy one, the brilliant one.

The one with pen ink on her fingers and fries in her hand and a conference badge still pinned in his apartment like proof that sometimes the best parts of your life started in the most unexpected rooms.

And slowly, carefully, you started believing him, not because he said it once, but because he kept choosing you in every small way, in public, on private.

For years, you had been proud of being easy to love.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

You were understanding. Patient. Flexible. The kind of girlfriend who never made a scene when plans changed last minute, who smiled through phone calls that started with I’m so sorry, baby, who learned the difference between a optional skate and mandatory practice before most people even learned the names of Connor’s teammates.

You knew what his life demanded from him.

You knew hockey wasn’t just a job for Connor Bedard. It was the thing he had chased since he was old enough to hold a stick. It was early mornings, aching muscles, ice baths, media scrums, flights at ungodly hours, trainers, coaches, expectations, pressure. It was the sound of an entire city placing its hope on his back before he was even old enough to rent a car.

And you loved him for it.

You loved his dedication. You loved the boyish focus that came over his face when he watched game tape on the couch, one arm wrapped around you like holding you was muscle memory. You loved the way he lit up after a win and the quiet, hollow way he folded into himself after a bad game. You loved that hockey was part of him.

You just hadn’t realized, until much too late, that you had started becoming the part he could afford to forget.

At first, it was little things, dinner reservations canceled because practice ran long, movie nights delayed because he wanted to get extra shots in, your calls going unanswered until close to midnight because his phone was buried somewhere in his stall, his mind still stuck on a bad shift from the second period.

He always apologized.

That was the thing.

Connor was never cruel. Never dismissive on purpose. Never the kind of boyfriend who snapped at you for wanting his attention or made you feel stupid for missing him. When he remembered, he loved you with this almost startling softness. He brought you coffee without asking. He memorized your comfort shows. He kept your favorite blanket on his couch even though it didn’t match anything in his apartment. He kissed the top of your head when he passed behind you in the kitchen, like his body naturally looked for yours.

So you forgave him, again and again and again

“It’s okay,” you would say, even when it wasn’t “I understand,” you would promise, even when the disappointment sat heavy in your chest “After the season, things will be calmer,” you told yourself.

Then the season ended, and training started, then summer came, but there were sponsorship shoots and charity events and skills work and development camps.

Then the new season began, and everything repeated, you became good at making yourself smaller inside his life, you stopped asking for Saturday mornings because those were for recovery, you stopped suggesting dinners on game days because he liked to keep a routine.

You stopped calling when he was on the road unless he called first, you stopped telling him when you were upset because he always looked so tired, and there was something guilt-inducing about adding your hurt to the weight already on his shoulders.

The worst part was that Connor never noticed the difference, he still thought you were happy because you were still kind, he still thought you were fine because you were still there.

Your birthday fell on a Friday that year.

Connor had known about it for weeks. Months, technically, since your birthday had been marked in his phone calendar since the first year you dated. He had asked you what you wanted to do in that sweet, distracted way of his, chin resting on your stomach while you played with his hair on the couch “Nothing big,” you had said. “Just dinner. Maybe cake with everyone after.”

He had looked up immediately. “Everyone?”

You smiled. “My friends. My parents. A couple of your teammates if they’re free. Nothing crazy.”

“I’ll be there,” he said, you raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” His face softened like the question hurt him. “Of course I’m sure. It’s your birthday.”

And because you were still trying, because some tired, hopeful part of you still wanted to believe that all you had to do was wait for the right moment and Connor would come back to you fully, you believed him.

You bought a new dress.

Not an expensive one. Not flashy. Just something soft and pretty that made you feel like yourself when you tried it on in the mirror. You made a reservation at a restaurant you loved, the kind Connor always said he wanted to take you to but never found time for. Your friends offered to help decorate your apartment afterward for cake and drinks, and your mother called twice to ask whether Connor needed her to save him a parking spot.

“He’ll be there,” you said, you said it so easily the first time, the second time, when your best friend Maya glanced at Connor’s empty chair fifteen minutes after the reservation started, you said it with a laugh.

“Practice probably ran a little late.”

At thirty minutes, you checked your phone under the table, No message, at forty-five, your dad leaned toward you and asked quietly, “Everything okay, honey?”

You smiled so fast your cheeks hurt “Yeah. He’ll be here.” at an hour, the waiter asked if you wanted to wait a little longer before ordering dessert.

Your friends looked at you, your mother looked down at her lap, Maya looked angry enough to break something, you looked at Connor’s empty chair and felt something inside you go terribly still.

Because you weren’t surprised.

That was the moment, not the missed dinner, not the unanswered texts, not the fact that your birthday candles were waiting at your apartment and your boyfriend was nowhere to be found.

It was the quiet, devastating realization that some part of you had expected this.

Some part of you had known, from the second you put on the dress, from the moment you fixed your hair in the mirror, from the second you told everyone he would come, that there was always a chance Connor would forget to choose you.

And you hated how unsurprised you were, you hated that your heart didn’t even break loudly anymore, it just sank, like it was tired.

When dinner ended, everyone tried too hard to be cheerful, your friends sang loudly. Your dad hugged you longer than usual. Your mom kissed your forehead and whispered, “You deserve to feel special today.”

You almost cried then.

But you didn’t.

You waited until everyone left your apartment after cake. Waited until Maya lingered by the door, holding her coat in her arms, staring at you like she knew you were one soft word away from falling apart “Come stay with me tonight,” she said.

You shook your head. “I need to talk to him.” Maya’s mouth tightened. “He doesn’t deserve a conversation tonight.”

“Maybe not,” you whispered. “But I deserve one.”

She hugged you hard before she left, the apartment was quiet afterward, too quiet.

There were balloons tied to the backs of chairs. Half a cake sitting on the counter. A bottle of champagne unopened because you hadn’t been able to pretend that much. Gifts stacked neatly near the couch. Your shoes abandoned by the door after your feet started aching.

You sat on the sofa in your birthday dress and stared at the clock. 23:47. your birthday was almost over.

Connor arrived at 00:18.

You heard his key in the lock first, then the door opened slowly, carefully, like he already knew.

He stepped inside with his hair still damp from a shower, a black hoodie thrown over his shoulders, and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Not gas station flowers. Not something thoughtless. They were your favorites. The exact ones. The kind you had once pointed out at a market two years ago, surprised he had remembered.

His face crumpled when he saw you sitting there “Baby.”

You didn’t move, Connor shut the door behind him, the flowers trembling slightly in his hand “I’m so sorry,” he said immediately. “I’m so, so sorry. Practice ran late, and then media wanted extra stuff, and my phone died, and I swear I thought I could still make it. I was going to call you from someone else’s phone, but then—”

“Don’t.”

The word came out soft, that made it worse, Connor stopped like you had shouted, you looked at him then. Really looked at him.

He looked exhausted. Guilty. Panicked. Younger than he usually did under the harsh kitchen light. His eyes flicked around the apartment, taking in the decorations, the cake, the gifts, the proof of everything he had missed “I messed up,” he said. “I know I did. I’ll make it up to you. Tomorrow. Anything you want. We can go away on the next break. I’ll take you wherever you want. I’ll—”

“This isn’t about my birthday.”

His brows pulled together. “What?”

You swallowed, your throat hurt “This isn’t about tonight. Not really.”

Connor took one step closer. “Then what is it about?”

You let out a shaky breath and finally said the thing you had been avoiding for months “I don’t feel chosen by you anymore.”

The flowers lowered slightly in his hand, the apartment felt colder “I choose you,” he said quickly. “Of course I choose you. I love you.”

“I know you love me.” Connor looked thrown by that, as if he had expected the fight to be about whether he loved you or not, you wished it were that simple.

“You love me,” you continued, voice trembling. “But you don’t show up for me. And I have spent so long telling myself that those are the same thing because I didn’t want to be unfair to you.”

His face went pale “I know hockey matters,” you said. “I know your career matters. I’ve never asked you to choose between me and the thing you’ve worked your whole life for. I would never do that to you.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“But somewhere along the way, you started acting like because I understood, I didn’t need anything. Like because I’m patient, I don’t get hurt. Like because I’m always here, you don’t have to make sure I still feel loved.”

Connor’s eyes filled, he shook his head once, almost violently. “No. No, that’s not what I think.”

“But it’s how you act.” That silenced him, you looked down at your hands because looking at him made it harder.

“I kept waiting for it to get better. After the season. After the road trip. After the next game. After the next stressful week. But there’s always something next, Con. There’s always going to be hockey. There’s always going to be pressure. There’s always going to be someone who needs you.”

You forced yourself to look at him “And I can’t keep being the person who gets whatever is left.”

His lips parted, but nothing came out, the flowers slipped lower until they hung uselessly at his side “I’m sorry,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

You nodded, tears finally spilling over “That’s the problem.”

Connor flinched, you stood slowly. Your legs felt unsteady, but your voice stayed calm, and somehow that made his panic worse “I think we need to end this.”

“No.”

It came out instantly, he dropped the flowers on the table and crossed the room so quickly you stepped back on instinct. He noticed and stopped, hands lifting slightly like he wanted to reach for you but knew he had lost the right “No,” he said again, quieter. “Please don’t say that.”

“I’m tired, Connor.”

“I can fix it.”

“You always say that.”

“I mean it this time.”

Your laugh was tiny and broken. “I think you meant it every time.”

That hurt him, you saw it land, Connor dragged a hand through his hair, breathing hard, eyes shining. “Tell me what to do.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Tell me and I’ll do it.”

“I have been telling you,” you whispered. “For months. In every way I knew how without begging you to love me properly.”

His expression collapsed.

“I don’t want to beg,” you said. “I don’t want to compete with your career. I don’t want to spend every important day wondering if you’ll remember that I matter too.”

“You do matter.”

“But I don’t feel like I do.”

Connor’s tears finally spilled over, he wiped at them quickly, almost angrily, like he didn’t have the right to cry when he was the reason you were breaking.

You walked toward the bedroom, he followed one step behind, voice cracking “What are you doing?”

“Packing a bag.”

“No, baby, please. Please don’t leave tonight. We can talk. We’ll talk all night. I’ll call the guys, I’ll call Coach, I’ll—”

You turned around “Connor.”

He froze, the way you said his name destroyed him. Not Con. Not baby. Not the soft, familiar version of him that lived only in your mouth.

Connor.

“I’m going to Maya’s,” you said. “I need space.” He looked like he wanted to fall to his knees, maybe he almost did.

“Can I call you?” You wiped your cheeks. “Not tonight.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.”

His jaw trembled, you packed in silence while he stood in the doorway, helpless and shattered, watching you fold pieces of your life into a bag.

When you walked past him, he whispered, “I’m sorry I made you feel alone.”

You stopped for half a second, then you kept walking Connor didn’t try to stop you, but when the door closed behind you, you heard the broken sound he made through the wood.

And that almost made you turn back, almost.

But not enough.

The first night without you, Connor didn’t sleep, he sat on the floor of the apartment surrounded by birthday decorations and stared at the bouquet he had been too late to give you.

He kept replaying your words.

I don’t feel chosen by you anymore.

At first, his mind tried to defend him, practice had run late, his phone really had died, media had been unavoidable, he hadn’t meant to miss dinner.

He loved you.

He loved you so much that he had imagined every version of his future with you in it. He had saved money for a house one day and pictured where your shoes would go by the door. He had thought about rings more than once, quietly, nervously, scrolling through photos and then closing the browser because he was terrified he’d pick the wrong one. He had imagined kids with your eyes. He had imagined summers away from the city, mornings where hockey wasn’t screaming for his attention, a future where everything was calmer and he could finally give you all the time you deserved.

But then your voice cut through every excuse.

Love isn’t the same as showing up.

By three in the morning, Connor understood the ugliest part, he had been loving you in the future, someday, he would buy you the house.

Someday, he would propose, someday, when the schedule got easier, he would take you on the trips he had promised, someday, when the pressure settled, he would be more present.

Someday.

Someday.

Someday.

And while he was busy building a future in his head, he had left you alone in the present, the next morning, he texted you once.

Not a paragraph, not a desperate flood.

Just:

I know you asked for space. I’m going to respect that. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m here when you’re ready.

Then he put his phone down and cried in the shower where no one could hear him, at practice, everyone knew.

Connor wasn’t the kind of person who could hide devastation well. He was quiet on normal days, but this was different. His face was hollow. His movements were sharp and mechanical. He missed a pass he could have made blindfolded and slammed his stick against the boards hard enough that Nick Foligno skated over and stared at him “What’s going on?”

Connor shook his head. “Nothing.” Nick’s expression didn’t change, Connor lasted three seconds.

“She left.”

Nick didn’t ask who, he already knew.

After practice, Connor sat in his stall with his gear half-off and told him everything, not dramatically. Not with excuses. Just the truth, stripped raw “I missed her birthday,” Connor said, voice low. “But it wasn’t just that. I’ve been missing everything.”

Nick leaned forward, elbows on his knees “You love her?”

Connor looked up, offended by the simplicity of the question “More than anything.”

“Then stop thinking love is something she’s supposed to just know.”

Connor looked down, Nick’s voice gentled. “You’re young, Bedsy. And you’ve had hockey demanding everything from you since you were a kid. But relationships don’t survive on intention. You don’t get credit for the version of yourself you planned to be later.”

Connor shut his eyes “She said she got whatever was left.”

Nick sighed “Then don’t try to win her back with big gestures. That’s not what she asked for.”

Connor swallowed hard. “What do I do?”

“You become someone who doesn’t make her ask twice.”

So Connor tried, at first, you didn’t answer him, he didn’t blame you, for one full week, he sent one message a day. Not begging. Not pressuring. Not asking when you were coming home.

Just small, accountable things.

I spoke to the team about adjusting my post-practice media when possible. I should’ve done that before.

I started using the shared calendar again. Not because it fixes anything, but because forgetting things that matter to you can’t happen anymore.

I passed the bakery you like today. I didn’t stop because I know showing up uninvited isn’t respecting your space. But I thought of you.

I’m sorry for all the nights I made you feel like you were waiting for me to remember you.

You read them, you didn’t respond, Maya hated him on principle for a while “He sounds miserable,” she said one night, sitting cross-legged beside you on her couch while you stared at your phone.

“He is.”

“Good.” You gave her a look, she shrugged. “What? I’m on your side.”

“I know.”

“But?”

“But I miss him.” Maya softened, of course you did.

Missing Connor was the worst part. The apartment smelled like him when you went back to collect more clothes. Your favorite mug was still in his cabinet. The blanket on his couch still held the shape of every night you had curled into him after games. His hoodie sat in your overnight bag, packed by accident, and you cried into it so hard one night that Maya quietly took it and washed it because she couldn’t stand seeing you break over cotton.

You missed him but missing him didn’t erase the ache of being forgotten.

Two weeks after you left, Connor called your dad, your father told you because he had never lied to you, not even when you were little and asked if the family dog was going to die “He asked if he could come by,” your dad said carefully.

You stiffened. “What?”

“Not to see you. To talk to me and your mom.”

Your stomach twisted “What did he want?”

Your dad paused “To apologize.”

You almost laughed because it hurt too much “He apologized to you?”

“And your mother.”

“For what?”

“For making us watch you make excuses for him.” you went quiet, your dad’s voice softened “He cried, honey.”

You closed your eyes.

“I’m not telling you that to make you feel bad,” he said. “I’m telling you because I think he finally understands that love doesn’t just hurt the two people in it when one of them stops showing up.”

Your mother told you later that Connor had stood in their living room with shaking hands and red eyes, looking nothing like the confident young man the world praised every night “He didn’t ask us to convince you,” she said. “He didn’t ask what he should say to get you back. He just said he was sorry for making your birthday a night you had to survive.”

That was the first crack in your resolve, not because it fixed anything, but because Connor had gone to the people who loved you and taken responsibility without making himself the victim.

The second crack came three days later, you had a terrible day at work.

The kind of day where nothing catastrophic happened but every small thing scraped against your already bruised heart. By the time you reached Maya’s apartment, you were exhausted and cold and trying very hard not to cry in the elevator.

There was a paper bag waiting outside the door, your favorite soup with your favorite bread next to a small container of the chocolate mousse from the restaurant Connor had missed.

No note asking you to call him, no dramatic apology, just one sticky note.

You forget to eat when you’re sad. No pressure. Just dinner.

You stood in the hallway and cried, Maya opened the door, saw the bag, and sighed “I still hate him,” she muttered.

But she took the soup inside and warmed it up for you, Connor kept showing up in careful ways, not loud ones.

Not ones designed to be seen.

When your car needed an oil change, he didn’t offer to take it in like he normally would have. Instead, he texted you the number of the place you trusted and said he had already checked they had an appointment open Saturday, but he wouldn’t book it unless you wanted him to.

When your younger cousin had a school play, Connor sent a message the morning of.

Good luck to Lily tonight. I know she was nervous about her solo.

You stared at that one for a long time, you had told him about Lily’s play weeks before your birthday back when you thought he wasn’t listening.

He had been listening, he just hadn’t acted like it mattered, that realization hurt in a different way because it meant the love had been there.

It meant the problem had never been absence of feeling, it had been absence of effort, a month after the breakup, you finally agreed to meet him.

Not at his apartment.

Not at yours.

A coffee shop in the middle of the city, during the afternoon, when there was no risk of the conversation getting blurred by nostalgia and soft lighting.

Connor was already there when you arrived, he stood too quickly, nearly knocking his knee against the table “Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

He looked thinner. Tired. Still beautiful in the unfair way that made your chest hurt. His hair was hidden under a beanie, his hoodie plain, his eyes fixed on you like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked.

There was a cup waiting across from him, your order, he noticed you looking “I asked before ordering,” he said quickly. “They said they could remake it if you came later and it got cold. I didn’t want to assume.”

That almost undid you, you sat down, for a moment, neither of you spoke, then Connor said, “Thank you for coming.”

You nodded.

He took a breath. His hands were wrapped around his cup, knuckles pale “I wrote a whole speech,” he admitted. “Then I realized it sounded like I was trying to talk my way out of something I acted my way into.”

Your throat tightened “So I’m not going to do that,” he said. “I’m just going to tell you the truth.”

You looked at him, Connor’s eyes were wet, but steady “I thought loving you meant building something for us later. I kept telling myself the hard parts were temporary. That if I worked hard enough now, I could give you everything someday. A house. Stability. A life where you never had to worry. And I convinced myself that made the missed things okay because I was doing it for our future.”

He swallowed “But you were alone in the present. And I didn’t see it because seeing it would’ve meant admitting I was failing you.”

Your eyes burned.

“I don’t want to be the guy who only knows how to love you when it’s convenient,” he continued. “And I don’t want to be the guy who makes you grateful for crumbs because he’s busy.”

You looked down at your coffee, Connor’s voice cracked “I hate that I became that guy anyway.” A tear slipped down your cheek, he didn’t reach for you, that mattered.

“I’m not asking you to come back today,” he said. “I want you to. God, I want you to. But I know I broke something, and I know me being sorry doesn’t put it back the way it was.”

You wiped your cheek.

“What are you asking for?”

“A chance to earn your trust again.” He inhaled shakily. “Slowly. However you want. And if the answer is no, I’ll respect it. I’ll hate it, but I’ll respect it.”

You studied him for a long moment “I don’t know how to trust you anymore,” you whispered.

Connor nodded, tears falling freely now “I know.”

“I don’t want to be someone you schedule because you’re scared of losing me.”

“You’re not.”

“But how do I know that?”

His face twisted with pain “You don’t,” he admitted. “Not yet.” that honesty hurt more than a promise would have, he looked down at the table “I started talking to someone,” he said quietly.

Your brows pulled together. “Like a therapist?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “A sports psychologist, but also just… about life. About how I treat everything like if I work harder, I can fix it. But I can’t outwork hurting you. I have to actually change.”

You stared at him.

“I should’ve done it before,” he said. “I know that.”

You both sat there in the quiet noise of the coffee shop, surrounded by people living ordinary lives while yours felt split open on the table between you.

Finally, you said, “I can’t come home yet.”

Connor nodded immediately “Okay.”

“And I’m not promising we’ll get back together.”

His breath hitched, but he nodded again “Okay.”

“But…” You looked at him, heart pounding. “We can talk. Sometimes" for the first time in weeks, something like hope moved across his face, not joy, he knew better than to look joyful over the bare minimum, just hope.

“I can do sometimes,” he whispered, so that was where you began, soometimes.

Sometimes Connor called after practice, and when you didn’t answer, he didn’t spam your phone. He left one voicemail telling you about his day, asking about yours, and reminding you that you didn’t have to call back unless you wanted to.

Sometimes you met for coffee, sometimes you walked together through cold Chicago streets with space between your hands where there used to be instinct.

Sometimes it felt easy, and that scared you, sometimes it felt impossible, and that scared him.

Connor learned.

He learned to tell you when his schedule changed before you had to ask, he learned not to make promises until he had checked whether he could keep them, he learned that “I’ll try” meant nothing if it wasn’t followed by action.

He learned that flowers were nice, but remembering your presentation at work mattered more.

He learned that you didn’t need grand vacations as much as you needed him to sit across from you at dinner and not check his phone every five minutes, he learned that choosing you was not one dramatic decision.

It was hundreds of small ones, it was calling you before he watched game tape, not after he was too exhausted to speak, it was telling his trainer he had somewhere to be and leaving when practice actually ended.

It was showing up at your apartment with groceries and asking if he could cook for you, then leaving after dinner because you weren’t ready for him to stay, it was apologizing without making you comfort him.

It was accepting that some days, you were still angry, one night, two months after your birthday, you finally snapped.

He had come over to help you put together a bookshelf. It should have been simple. Domestic. Safe.

Instead, halfway through sorting screws, you looked at him sitting on your floor in sweatpants, tongue caught between his teeth as he frowned at the instructions, and you were suddenly furious.

“Why now?”

Connor looked up. “What?”

“Why now?” you repeated, voice shaking. “Why did it take me leaving for you to become this version of yourself?”

He set the screwdriver down slowly, you stood, pacing because if you stayed still, you would cry “I asked for you before. I needed you before. I was lonely before. And now you’re here, and you’re trying, and that’s good, but it also makes me so angry because you could have done this the whole time.”

Connor’s face crumpled “I know.”

“You could have loved me like this when I still felt safe with you.”

His eyes shone “I know.”

“And now I’m the one who has to figure out if I can trust you again. I’m the one who has to heal from what you didn’t notice.”

He nodded, wiping at his cheek with the heel of his hand “You’re right.”

“I hate that you’re agreeing with me.”

A broken laugh escaped him, wet and miserable. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Fight back,” you said, crying now. “Make an excuse. Tell me I’m being unfair. Give me a reason to stay mad.”

Connor stood, but kept distance “I can’t,” he whispered. “Because you’re not being unfair.”

Your face crumpled.

He looked destroyed by it “I wish I had a better answer,” he said. “I wish I could tell you I didn’t understand or that I was too young or too busy or too under pressure, but none of that changes what it felt like for you. I did have reasons. But I used them like excuses. And you paid for that.”

You covered your mouth.

Connor’s voice broke “I hate that I hurt you into needing proof that I love you.”

That was the first time you let him hold you again, you didn’t plan to, one second you were crying in the middle of your apartment, and the next Connor was there, arms around you, holding you like he was afraid to hold too tightly but more afraid to let go.

You sobbed into his hoodie, he cried into your hair “I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over. “I’m so sorry. I’ve got you. I’m here. I’m here.”

And for once, he was.

The first game you attended after the breakup was in January, you didn’t sit with the WAGs.

You bought your own ticket because you weren’t ready for the questions, the looks, the assumptions. Connor didn’t know you were coming. You told yourself it was better that way. Less pressure. Less expectation.

Chicago won in overtime and Connor scored the winner.

The arena exploded, you stood with everyone else, heart lodged in your throat, watching him get swallowed by his teammates against the glass.

Then his eyes found you, you didn’t know how, there were thousands of people there, all screaming, all moving, all wearing the same colors.

But Connor found you, for one suspended second, the entire arena seemed to blur, his face changed, not into surprise exactly.

Into something softer, something like gratitude, he didn’t make a scene. Didn’t point. Didn’t turn it into a moment for the cameras, he just pressed his glove against his chest once, small, private, yours.

You left before he could ask you to wait, by the time you got home, there was one message on your phone.

Thank you for coming. I know you didn’t come for me to know, but I’m really glad I saw you. Get home safe.

You stared at it for a long time, then you typed back.

Good goal.

His reply came almost instantly.

Thanks. I was trying to impress this girl.

You laughed, actually laughed, then cried because laughing with him still felt like coming home.

The night things truly changed wasn’t dramatic, no storm, no hospital scare, no grand confession in the rain.

It was a Tuesday, Connor had a rare evening off. Weeks earlier, he had asked if he could take you to dinner. Not somewhere expensive. Not somewhere that screamed apology. Just the little Italian place near your apartment where you used to go before everyone knew his name.

You agreed.

Part of you expected something to go wrong, a late meeting, a surprise interview, a call from the team.

Some reminder that hoping was dangerous, but at six exactly, there was a knock at your door, Connor stood on the other side in a dark coat, cheeks pink from the cold, hands empty, no flowers, no gifts.

Just him “I thought about bringing something,” he admitted when you opened the door. “Then I thought maybe being on time was the thing.”

Your lips parted, then you smiled, it was small but real “Good choice.”

Dinner was quiet at first, then less quiet, then almost normal He told you about a prank in the locker room. You told him about Maya’s disastrous date. He listened with his whole face, laughing in the right places, asking questions that proved he was paying attention.

Halfway through dessert, his phone buzzed.

You saw it, so did he.

His eyes flicked down,for one awful second, your body remembered, the waiting, the empty chair, the excuses.

Connor reached for the phone, your stomach dropped, then he silenced it without looking and turned it face down on the table “My agent,” he said. “I told him I’m unavailable tonight unless something’s on fire.”

You swallowed “You can answer if you need to.”

“I don’t need to.”

“But what if it’s important?”

Connor looked at you “You’re important.”

The words were simple, no drama, no speech, just the truth, your eyes filled with tears, Connor’s expression softened, but he didn’t reach across the table. He waited.

You were the one who slid your hand toward his, he stared at it like it was something sacred, then he took it, his thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and careful “I’m scared,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I’m scared I’ll come back and everything will be good for a while, and then one day I’ll look around and realize I’m waiting again.”

Connor’s jaw tightened “That’s my biggest fear too.” You looked at him in surprise.

He nodded “Not because I think I’ll stop trying. But because I know I’m capable of hurting you when I’m not paying attention. I didn’t think I was before. I do now.” He took a shaky breath. “So I don’t want you to just trust me blindly. I want us to keep talking. I want you to call me out. I want to keep seeing someone. I want to make sure I don’t only change because I’m afraid of losing you.”

Your tears slipped over “I loved you so much,” you said.

Connor’s face crumpled “Loved?”

You squeezed his hand “Love,” you corrected softly. “I love you so much.”

His eyes shut, for a moment, he looked like the words physically hurt him, like relief could be painful when it came after starving “I love you too,” he whispered. “I never stopped.”

“I know.”

This time, when you said it, it didn’t feel like an excuse, it felt like a beginning, you didn’t move back in immediately.

Connor didn’t ask you to.

That mattered too, you kept your apartment. Kept your space. Kept rebuilding a life where he was wanted, not required, but slowly, carefully, he became part of it again.

He came over on off nights and cooked badly until you took pity on him and taught him how not to burn garlic, he remembered your friend’s promotion party and arrived with you, not three hours later.

He called from the road before bed, sometimes tired, sometimes quiet, but always present, on nights when he couldn’t talk long, he told you that instead of disappearing.

On days when you felt old hurt rising, he sat with it, he didn’t punish you for needing reassurance, he didn’t rush you into being okay.

He loved you in the present.

And little by little, the future stopped feeling like a place where you had to wait to be happy, your next birthday came quietly.

You didn’t plan a party, part of you didn’t want to give the day that kind of power again, Connor didn’t push, he simply asked what you wanted.

“Something small,” you said. “No surprises.”

“No surprises,” he promised.

That morning, you woke up to a text.

Happy birthday, baby. I’m already grateful I get to show up for this one.

You stared at it in bed, heart aching, then came another message.

Door in ten minutes. Coffee first. Then breakfast. Then whatever you want. My phone is off unless you tell me to turn it on.

You opened the door ten minutes later in pajamas, hair messy, eyes suspiciously wet, Connor stood there holding two coffees and a paper bag from your favorite bakery.

He smiled softly “Hi.”

“Hi.”

He stepped inside and set everything on the counter, no balloons, no crowd, no overcorrection.

Just coffee. Warm pastries. Your favorite flowers already arranged in a vase he must have dropped off with Maya the night before because he knew showing up at your door with a bouquet might remind you too much of the night everything broke.

You noticed, of course you noticed, Connor watched you notice “I didn’t want them in my hands this time,” he said quietly.

Your throat tightened, you walked toward him and wrapped your arms around his waist, he froze for half a second before holding you back “I’m here,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes against his chest “I know.” he breathed out shakily “I’m going to keep being here.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, there were still things to heal. You both knew that. Love did not erase history just because it wanted to. Trust did not return fully grown. It had to be rebuilt, piece by piece, choice by choice, ordinary day by ordinary day.

But Connor had learned the thing he should have known all along, love was not just the future he imagined for you.

It was the morning coffee, in the answered call, in the kept promise, in the empty chair that would never be empty again if he had any power to reach it.

It was choosing you when no one was watching, it was showing up not because he almost lost you, but because you deserved to be loved by someone who came before the breaking point.

Connor brushed his thumb over your cheek “Happy birthday baby” he said softly, you smiled through your tears, and this time, when you looked at him, you didn’t feel like you were waiting for him to choose you.

Throwing yourself out of bed, you slip into your gown, fastening the belt as you walk down the hall.

He hears you coming, not that you’d ever notice. The padding of your feet on the hard floor fills his ears but he remains still, head thrown back as he leans in the chair.

You pause in the door, taking a moment to look over him. His hands are folded in his lap, head thrown up to the sky with both eyes squeezed shut.

Moving behind him you shift his head to lean back against your stomach. Your fingers run themselves through his short chocolate brown hair and you bend down to leave a kiss on his forehead.

“Marsh… you need to sleep.”

“I know, but I can’t.”

His voice is strained, his chest rising and falling rapidly, fists clenched and knuckles white as he fights off yet another panic attack.

You crouch down to rest your head on his shoulder and your fingers begin to drum on his chest. His large hand wraps around your dainty one and he brings it up to his lips, trailing sloppy kisses along your arm until he’s pulling you around to sit on his lap.

After a few minutes you’ve laid your head down on his shoulder, nose nudged against his neck as his arms surround you. You can hear the beating of his heart, feel his chest rise and fall with every breath and you know he’s calmer than he was before.

That was your job. To calm his worries, to slow down his racing heart, to battle the demons he didn’t have the strength to face.

“Come to bed with me. We don’t have to sleep, but you need to rest.”

“I jus wanna hold you.”

“We can do that. C’mon, let’s go.”

You slide off his lap and take his hand in yours, gently tugging at it to stand him up. He follows silently behind you, doesn’t say a word as you undress him, not a sound while you trace over his tattoos along your way.

He waits until you’re undressed and in bed before he joins you under the covers. You hold your arms open for him, expecting him to bury himself between them but he simply shakes his head and pulls your body into his.

“I need to jus hold you right now.”

You say nothing, only wrapping your arms around him in response.

“You’re one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. Please don’t leave, I can’t do this shit without you.”

The words are mumbled into your hair but that doesn’t disguise the panic lacing them.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

it’s the night of the MTV Music Awards, and you’ve been given the honor of calling out the winner and presenting the award. Your boyfriend, a rising star in the rap game, is nominated in the same category as his rival—none other than Eminem. For weeks, the two have been trading shots, dropping diss tracks, and stirring up a fierce rap feud.

The tension is palpable as the nominees flash on the screen, and the crowd buzzes with anticipation. You can feel your boyfriend’s eyes on you from his seat, his expression radiating certainty. He’s convinced tonight will end in his victory, a public validation of his skills and his place in the industry

But you know the stakes: if Eminem wins, it would be a crushing defeat for your boyfriend—a public blow that could turn the tide in their feud and become the talk of the music world. Yet, there’s a strange electricity in the air as you take the stage, gripping the award envelope, your heart pounding. Whether it’s a win or loss, this moment is about to make headlines.

"Eminem!" you announce, your voice echoing through the venue as the crowd erupts in wild cheers, celebrating his victory.

Eminem strides onto the stage, his expression a mix of pride and that unmistakable cockiness he’s known for. As he reaches you, he takes the award with one hand and, to your surprise, pulls you into a tight hug with the other. The embrace lingers just a moment too long, his hand slipping lower with each second—a subtle but unmistakable taunt meant to rile up your already furious boyfriend, who’s watching from his seat with narrowed eyes.

The audience catches onto the tension, gasping and laughing as Eminem’s playful smirk widens. He whispers a low “Thank you” in your ear, glancing briefly over at your boyfriend, whose jaw is clenched, his confidence shattered by the public loss and the blatant show of disrespect. Eminem lets you go, stepping up to the mic, but you can still feel the charged energy radiating from your boyfriend’s glare. The feud has just reached a new level, and you know tonight will be one for the headlines.

At the after-party, your boyfriend was sulking, stewing over his loss. His confidence from earlier in the night had dissolved into a grumpy silence, and he barely spoke to you, responding with short, cold remarks every time you tried to break the ice. His attention was laser-focused on Eminem, who was mingling across the room, clearly enjoying his win. Your boyfriend’s glare never wavered; he was practically daring Eminem to look his way.

Finally, you had enough. The atmosphere was suffocating, and you weren’t going to spend the night with someone who refused to move past the loss. Frustrated, you excused yourself from the table, deciding you needed a drink just to shake off the tension.

As you walked toward the bar, you sensed someone fall in step beside you. Glancing over, you saw it was Eminem, giving you that familiar smirk. “Rough night?” he asked, his tone a mix of teasing and genuine curiosity. There was something in his eyes that made it clear he’d noticed the icy atmosphere between you and your boyfriend. For the first time all evening, you found yourself relaxing, even smiling, as you felt the weight of the night start to lift.

You leaned against the bar, letting out a sigh, and turned to Eminem with a half-smile. “Yeah, you could say that,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “He’s taking this loss… well, let’s just say he’s not handling it well.”

Eminem chuckled, ordering a drink as he leaned beside you. “Can’t say I blame him,” he shrugged, “but hey, it’s all part of the game, right?” His voice was light, but there was a knowing look in his eyes, as if he understood the cost of ego in the industry.

You nodded, grateful for the change in atmosphere. “True. But it doesn’t mean I have to be dragged down by it,” you said, looking across the room to see your boyfriend still seated, jaw clenched, watching the two of you like a hawk. The icy, simmering tension in his stare made your stomach tighten, but you ignored it.

Eminem followed your gaze, then raised an eyebrow. “Well, if he’s going to sit there and sulk, that’s on him. You don’t deserve the silent treatment.”

There was something disarming about Eminem’s attitude. He wasn’t pushing anything, just being unexpectedly down-to-earth and understanding. As the drinks arrived, he clinked his glass lightly against yours. “Here’s to enjoying the night,” he said, eyes flickering with a mischievous glint.

You took a sip, the warmth of the drink helping you shake off the tension. “Thanks,” you murmured, feeling a rush of relief. Eminem leaned a little closer, his voice dropping to a private tone. “Honestly, you look like you could use a good distraction.”

Before you could respond, the DJ switched to one of Eminem’s tracks, and the crowd went wild. He shot you a grin. “Dance with me?” he asked, extending his hand.

You hesitated, knowing full well how your boyfriend would take it. But in that moment, the thought of breaking free from his cold demeanor and just having fun felt too tempting to resist. You placed your hand in Eminem’s, feeling a spark shoot up your arm.

As you danced with the Detroit rapper, your boyfriend’s absence was the only confirmation you needed—he had already stormed off, leaving you alone with Eminem. The music thumped around you, and you felt the heat of the moment take over, your frustrations melting into the rhythm of the song and the intensity of Eminem’s gaze.

Eminem leaned in, his face coming closer, and before you realized it, his lips were on yours, catching you off guard yet feeling almost inevitable. The kiss was electric, a mix of passion and defiance, and for a moment, everything else faded away. The tension of the night, the rivalry, your boyfriend’s coldness—it all vanished in that single connection.

As he pulled back, a hint of a smirk played on his lips. “Want to get out of here?” he murmured, his voice low, barely audible over the music but clear enough to send a thrill through you.

You met his gaze, feeling a rush of excitement and a sense of freedom you hadn’t felt all night. “Yes,” you replied, nodding without hesitation. With a final glance back at the room you were leaving behind, you let him take your hand, leading you out of the club and into the night, where the evening’s tension was about to unfold into something entirely new.

The ride to the hotel was a blur of city lights and pulsing beats from the car stereo. Eminem’s hand rested comfortably on your thigh, and every time you looked at him, that smirk grew a little wider. You knew you were crossing a line, but in that moment, you didn’t care about the consequences—you just wanted to live in the present, to feel alive.

Once inside the plush hotel suite, the reality of what was happening hit you like a sledgehammer. The room was dimly lit, with candles flickering around the edges, creating an atmosphere that was both intimate and slightly overwhelming. The smell of his cologne filled the air. Eminem led you to the bed, his hand never leaving your waist, and the weight of his touch sent shivers down your spine.

Your heart pounded in your chest as he kissed you again, his hands exploring the curves of your body with a confidence that was both thrilling and terrifying. The world outside the hotel room felt a million miles away, and all you could focus on was the heat of his breath, the taste of his lips, and the way your body responded to his every touch.

Eminem's strong arms pulled you closer, his hands deftly unbuttoning your dress, which slid to the floor in a whisper of fabric. You stood before him in nothing but your lingerie, feeling exposed yet empowered by the raw desire in his eyes. His own shirt and jacket followed suit, revealing a sculpted physique that seemed almost too perfect to be real.

The air grew thick with anticipation as he kissed you again, his tongue exploring your mouth as his hands moved to unhook your bra. It fell away, leaving your breasts bare to the cool air and the warmth of his palms. You could feel his heart beating against your chest, matching the erratic rhythm of your own.

He led you to the bed, the softness of the mattress enveloping you as he laid you down. His touch was gentle yet firm, his hands skimming over your skin like a warm summer breeze, igniting a trail of fire wherever they went. You could feel the weight of his body on top of you, and it was a feeling of both safety and exhilaration.

Eminem’s kisses grew more urgent, his tongue dancing with yours as he traced a line of passion down your neck and to your breasts. His teeth grazed your sensitive skin, sending a shiver through your body, and your breath hitched in your throat. His hands moved with purpose, removing every last piece of clothing that stood between you. The sensation of his bare chest against yours was electric, a stark contrast to the coolness of the room.

He paused, looking down at you with a hunger that was almost feral. Without a word, he slid his hand down the curve of your waist and over the band of your panties, slipping them off with a gentle yet firm motion. Your body reacted instinctively, arching towards him, craving more of his touch. The anticipation was almost too much to bear as he positioned himself above you, his eyes never leaving yours.

Eminem kissed you deeply as he entered you, the sensation of his hardness filling you completely, making you gasp into his mouth. The initial shock of his size quickly gave way to a building pleasure, and you wrapped your legs around him, urging him deeper. His rhythm was slow and deliberate, his hips rolling into yours with a mastery that left you feeling utterly consumed by him.

You could feel every inch of him as he moved, his muscles flexing with each thrust. The sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, punctuated by the occasional groan or whimper escaping from both of you. His hands gripped your hips tightly, guiding your movements as if he were conducting a symphony of passion. The kiss grew more intense, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip, and you moaned in response, your nails digging into his back.

The bed sheets tangled around your legs as the pace grew faster, more frenzied. The headboard banging against the wall matched the tempo of your hearts beating in sync. You could see the desire in his eyes, the way they darkened with every stroke, and it only spurred you on. Your own eyes closed as the pleasure built, your breaths coming in gasps, your body tightening like a coil ready to spring.

Eminem's fingers found their way into your hair, gently tugging your head back as he kissed along your neck, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin, sending shivers down your spine. His other hand cupped your face, his thumb tracing the contour of your cheekbone as he whispered dirty sweet nothings into your ear, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

Your hands roamed over his back, feeling the sweat bead and the tension in his muscles as he moved within you. His thrusts grew more powerful, each one hitting that perfect spot, making you quiver with pleasure. The sound of skin on skin, the faint rustle of the bed sheets, and the muffled moans of ecstasy filled the air—a symphony of lust that seemed to resonate through the very walls of the suite.

As the intensity grew, Eminem’s grip on your hips tightened, his breaths turning ragged. You could feel him getting closer to the brink, his movements more urgent, and the desperate need reflected in the taut lines of his face. You met his gaze, the electricity between you crackling like a live wire. You whispered his name, and that was all it took for him to let go, his body tensing as he reached climax, his eyes squeezed shut, and his teeth bared in a silent roar.

The aftermath was a gentle cascade of shared breaths and lingering kisses. He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, your bodies still intertwined. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the candles, casting a warm light over the rumpled sheets and the sweat-drenched skin. You laid there, your heart racing, feeling a sense of disbelief at what had just transpired. It had been explosive, a whirlwind of passion that had taken you completely by surprise.

Eminem looked at you, his eyes searching your face, as if looking for any signs of regret or doubt. You met his gaze and smiled, your cheeks flushed with satisfaction and a hint of mischief. The night had taken an unexpected turn, but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel guilty. Instead, you felt alive, invigorated by the rush of adrenaline that still coursed through your veins.

He leaned in, kissing you softly, his tongue tracing the outline of your lips before delving into your mouth once more. You tasted a mix of whiskey and victory on his breath, a potent cocktail that only made you want him more. His hand slid down to caress your naked body, his fingertips gliding over your skin like a musician playing a favorite tune. The touch sent shivers down your spine, and you arched into him, eager for the symphony of pleasure to begin again.

After a few weeks of sleeping with Marshall your boyfriend once again dropped another diss track on Marshall, stilled pissed about losing to music MTV awards to him.

A few weeks had passed since things began between you and Marshall, each encounter becoming a carefully hidden secret amidst the chaos of the ongoing feud. Despite the thrill of it all, your boyfriend remained oblivious, though his frustration toward Eminem hadn’t faded. In fact, he seemed more fired up than ever.

Still bitter over the loss at the MTV Music Awards, your boyfriend dropped yet another diss track aimed squarely at Marshall. The lyrics were sharper, more personal, each line dripping with resentment. It was clear that his defeat had stung deeply, and he wasn’t ready to let it go. The diss track hit every outlet, riling up fans and adding fresh fuel to the rivalry. You listened to the track, knowing the words were aimed at Marshall, yet they felt uncomfortably close to home, a reminder of the tangled mess you were in.

Marshall’s reaction, however, was anything but anger. When you mentioned the diss track, he just smirked, as though he found the whole thing amusing.

Two weeks later, Marshall released a new song that sent the internet into an absolute frenzy. The lyrics included lines that would leave no one guessing.The following lines said:

Yo, check it,

You think you flexin’, but you just a clown,

Got your girl in my sheets, ass up, face down,

While you out thrivin’, ballin’ like a thug,

I'm the one givin' her that late-night love.

You a motherfuckin’ joke, man, I’m the real deal,

She whispered my name, now she can’t conceal,

You think you got her locked, but I broke that chain,

She loves my style, man, it drives you insane.

After Eminem released the diss track exposing your affair, it sent shockwaves through the music world. Everyone was talking about it, and the excitement was palpable. The lyrics ignited a frenzy, with fans buzzing about the revelations and the implications of the feud.

A few days after Eminem released the diss track, he showed up at your house, looking more serious than you had ever seen him. The buzz from the song had settled, but the aftermath still hung heavy in the air. As you opened the door, you could see concern etched on his face. “Hey, I just wanted to check in on you,” he said softly, stepping inside.

You led him to the living room, feeling a mix of emotions. “Honestly, it’s been tough,” you admitted, running a hand through your hair. “My boyfriend has been really distant since all this happened. I’m starting to think that maybe it’s time to end the relationship.”

Marshall’s expression shifted as he processed your words. There was a flicker of something—hope, maybe—in his eyes. “I hate to hear that. You deserve to be with someone who truly cares about you,” he said, stepping closer. The tension in the room thickened, and you could feel the pull between you intensifying.

Suddenly, without warning, he leaned in and kissed you. The moment his lips touched yours, all your doubts and fears seemed to evaporate. It was a kiss filled with passion and urgency, a silent confession that spoke louder than words. When he pulled back, his gaze locked onto yours, filled with sincerity. “I love you,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to break up with him for me.”

You hesitated, a whirlwind of emotions churning inside you. Your heart raced, caught between the thrill of his confession and the reality of the situation you were in. It was a leap, one that felt both exhilarating and terrifying. But as you looked into his eyes, you felt a spark of something undeniable.

After a moment of contemplation, you reached for your phone. The decision felt monumental as you typed the message: “It’s over.” With a deep breath, you pressed send and immediately turned off your phone, cutting off any chance of a reply from your boyfriend.

You’d been with him since before the Slim Shady EP. You’d grown up beside him. Raised kids with him. Built a quiet life around the madness of his. Three decades. Three children. Three thousand times you'd chosen to stay behind the scenes—smiling politely, loving quietly, letting him shine while you remained tucked just out of frame.

So when the video dropped—

You. Hugging Curtis at his birthday party.

The internet did what it always did:

Exploded.

“Marshall’s wife cheating on him with 50 Cent???”

“Divorce?? She did it at his birthday party?!”

“Damn she been with Em forever and this is how she does him?”

“She looked real cozy with 50. I said what I said.”

The whole thing would’ve been laughable if it didn’t sting so sharply.

Marshall had been livid at first—not at you, but at the media.

At the world, for touching something sacred.

You.

His girl.

The video was maybe six seconds long, shot from a phone. Blurry. The two of you hugging briefly, smiling.

It didn’t show Curtis wrapping his arm around you protectively before loudly announcing, "Still can't believe you’ve put up with him for thirty years—Saint of a woman, y’all."

It didn’t show you laughing, already moving away to find your husband before anyone could look too long.

It didn’t show Marshall sliding an arm around your waist not ten seconds later, whispering something low in your ear that made you smile.

But that didn’t matter.

What mattered was that now, strangers were picking apart your marriage, your loyalty, you—based on one hug and a bullshit headline.

You didn’t want to go to the studio.

You told him that with a quiet little murmur against his chest that morning while his arms were wrapped tight around your waist.

“I can stay home. It’s just noise. I’ll ignore it.”

But Marshall had shaken his head against your shoulder, voice gruff with sleep and frustration. “Nah. You’re comin’. I don’t want you dealin’ with that shit alone. You stay near me.”

So you did.

Bundled in one of his oversized hoodies—his name embroidered right across the chest—your fingers curled tightly around a travel mug of tea as you tucked yourself into the familiar corner of the studio sofa.

Safe. Out of the way. His.

And boy, did that start the teasing.

Denaun was the first to spot you. “Ayyy! The homewrecker's here!” he announced, dragging the moment out dramatically.

You choked on your tea. “W-what?!”

Paul didn’t even glance up from his phone. “You better not sit too close to me. Don’t need to be the next victim in this love triangle.”

You buried your face in your hands. “You guys…”

“Honestly,” Denaun grinned, plopping into the chair across from you, “I’ve always known you were a heartbreaker. Real femme fatale. Just sittin’ quiet for decades, biding your time.”

Marshall, from behind the mixing board, didn’t even bother to look up. “Y’all are fuckin’ dumb,” he muttered—but you could hear the fondness bleeding into his voice.

Paul finally glanced up, eyes twinkling with amusement behind his glasses. “Should I issue a statement?”

You shook your head quickly. “No. You always say, don’t feed it.”

“And yet,” Paul sighed dramatically, “here I am. Watching my two most boring, disgustingly in-love friends get slandered by the internet.”

Denaun snorted. “Yeah, if she was gonna cheat, you think it’d be now? After thirty years? This woman once had a full-blown panic attack when Marshall was late texting her back because his phone was dead.”

Your face burned.

“She’s been obsessed with him since we were all broke and dumb,” Denaun added, eyes dancing with warmth now. “Ain’t nothing changed.”

Marshall looked up at that—finally. His gaze found you instantly.

And even after all these years, even after kids and gray hairs and sleepless nights…

His eyes softened like you were the only thing keeping him grounded to this earth.

Like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

Like he still wanted you more than anything.

No amount of rumors could touch that.

You tried not to look at the comments, but sometimes they snuck through.

They always did.

Some of them… hurt.

“No wonder he wrote all those songs about being betrayed.”

“She was probably just waiting for her moment.”

“50 is way more her type.”

And God bless your daughters.

Hailie was quick to post a Story: a blurry, zoomed-in selfie of you and Marshall on the couch—his head on your shoulder, your fingers in his hair, his arm wrapped securely around your waist.

Caption: “Imagine thinking she’d leave this man. Lmao.”

Alaina followed it up with an old home video of you and Marshall slow-dancing in the kitchen in your pajamas. You were trying not to laugh. He was singing horribly off-key into a spoon.

Caption: “Yeah they’re divorcing. For sure. 🙄”

You smiled. You were okay.

Mostly.

But it was Curtis who ended it all.

With no warning, no caption, no fanfare—just an Instagram post.

A grainy photo, maybe twenty-five years old.

Marshall, shirtless and young, leaned over a studio console. Curtis beside him.

And you, in Marshall’s lap, head tucked under his chin, small smile on your lips, his arms wrapped around your waist like he’d die before letting go.

He didn’t even tag anyone.

Just the caption:

“Some things don’t change. Y’all need to chill.”

You were curled up next to Marshall on the couch when you saw it.

His arm was around your shoulders. The studio was quiet now, just the hum of equipment and low laughter from the next room.

You held your phone up silently, showing him the post.

He smirked.

“Damn. He really went and dropped the mic.”

You bit your lip. “Do you think it’ll stop?”

He looked down at you—those impossibly blue eyes full of fierce, burning love.

Then he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Baby, I don’t care if it don’t. Let ‘em talk. You’re mine. Always been mine.”

You sighed, heart melting. “I really didn’t cheat with 50.”

Marshall laughed. “I know that. He’s not even your type.”

“…he’s tall.”

He growled low in his throat. “Stop talkin’ before I bend you over this couch.”

You blinked. “In the studio?”

“I will make the news worse, sweetheart.”

From the next room, Denaun shouted, “I HEARD THAT, YOU SICK BASTARDS!”

You buried your face in Marshall’s chest as he laughed against your skin.

Let them talk.

They didn’t know the truth.

But the people who mattered?

They never doubted for a second.

---

You were tucked in the corner of the basement studio, curled up on the beat-up leather couch you’d claimed years ago as your own.

Blanket over your lap, tea on the table, and Marshall’s hoodie draped over your frame like armor.

You weren’t working—you never really did in here—but being near him while he did what he loved? That was your favorite place to be.

Marshall was hunched over the mixing board with Denaun, both of them laser-focused on a beat that had been frustrating them for the past two hours.

The music looped over and over, subtle tweaks being made, grumbles exchanged, head bobs in rhythm as they chased perfection.

You were dozing off a little when Denaun suddenly choked on his own laughter.

Marshall didn’t look up. “What.”

“No, no—just…” He held up his phone, still laughing. “These people are outta pocket, man. You seen the latest shit?”

You blinked and sat up straighter, already bracing yourself. “What now?”

Denaun turned his screen to show you both.

The headline blared across the top of a gossip account:

“Sources Say Eminem, His Wife, and 50 Cent May Be In a Secret Poly Relationship”

Under it? A very carefully curated slideshow of old pictures—

Curtis with his arm around your waist.

You and Marshall holding hands at some award show.

The three of you sitting close together backstage at a concert from years ago.

All harmless.

All out of context.

You stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Marshall groaned, finally leaning back from the console and rubbing his face. “What the fuck is wrong with people?”

Denaun wasn’t helping. He was scrolling and laughing harder now. “Yo, listen to this one—‘they’ve been dropping hints for years. It all makes sense now.’”

You gaped. “What hints?!”

“They think it’s suspicious how close you are to both of them,” he cackled. “One person thinks you, quote, ‘radiate a calm bisexual aura that holds the two alpha males together.’”

Marshall narrowed his eyes at him. “Why are you enjoying this?”

“Because!” Denaun tossed his phone on the couch and flopped into the chair beside you. “Seriously? Him? I got you two together! Shouldn’t I be your choice for a third?! I was there through all your weird early make-up break-up bullshit. I was the glue.”

You snorted into your tea. “Sorry. You’re too emotionally well-adjusted. Wouldn’t work.”

“Damn,” he whispered. “So it’s that toxic love. Got it.”

Marshall grunted, clearly annoyed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I swear to God if people start tagging me in weird fan edits—”

“They already are,” Denaun said smugly. “There’s one where it’s like… you and Curtis glaring at each other over Y/N, but it’s edited like a CW love triangle. Very Riverdale.”

You buried your face in the blanket. “I’m never showing my face again.”

But the worst part?

Curtis was feeding it.

Posting a slow drip of throwbacks—pictures of the three of you from over the years. Always smiling. Always close. No captions. No context.

You, tucked under Marshall’s arm with Curtis grinning next to you.

Curtis and Marshall mid-laugh, you sitting between them with a soft smile like you didn’t even know the camera was there.

And one particularly damning photo from some afterparty a decade ago—Curtis leaned against the couch, Marshall behind you with his arms slung lazily around your shoulders, and your hand resting casually on Curtis’s knee as you reached for a drink.

No caption. No tag. Just vibes.

The internet lost it.

“They are so obviously in a throuple.”

“Honestly, I support this chaotic power trio.”

“It’s giving main character energy.”

“They all fine. I’d believe it.”

Even your kids were texting you screenshots like, “Mom, do we need to talk?”

Back in the studio, you watched Marshall grumble and glare at his phone, scrolling through Curtis’s latest post.

“This motherfucker is loving this,” he muttered.

“He’s totally doing this on purpose,” you agreed.

Denaun was grinning. “He’s committed to the bit. Man respects a good troll.”

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“No you’re not,” you said sweetly, nudging Marshall with your toe. “He’s your brother. And besides, we both know you’re too possessive to share.”

Marshall’s eyes flicked to you—something dark and territorial behind the blue.

“You’re damn right,” he said roughly.

Denaun threw a cushion at him. “Chill.”

Marshall batted it away without looking. “I’m just sayin’. These people talkin’ about Curtis like he’s in our bed—hell no. If anyone’s in our bed, it’s you, and only me who’s puttin’ you there.”

Your face went crimson.

Denaun groaned. “Ugh, and there it is. You two always gotta make it weird.”

“You started it!” you protested.

“I started joking. You started getting visibly turned on. There’s a difference.”

Marshall smirked and pulled you up from the couch, into his lap like it was instinct. You settled against him automatically, fingers playing with the chain at his neck.

“I swear,” Denaun muttered, standing up. “I’m goin’ home. Y’all about to start dry humping right in front of me, I can feel it.”

“You wanna be the third, you better get used to this,” Marshall said without missing a beat.

“OH MY GOD.”

You were crying laughing by the time the door slammed upstairs.

That night, Curtis posted again.

A short, choppy video from a tour bus back in the early 2000s.

You, curled between Marshall and Curtis, fast asleep. Marshall’s head rested on yours. Curtis's hand balanced a plate of food across your legs.

The video panned up to both men—Marshall flipping off the camera, Curtis grinning.

No caption.

Just a tagged location:

“#family”

You threw your phone across the bed and buried your face in Marshall’s chest.

“I’m gonna fight him.”

Marshall snorted. “You can try. I still might beat you to it.”

But his arms wrapped around you, lips pressed to your hair.

Because even with the madness, the headlines, and the chaos...

This?

This was still your quiet little life.

Exactly how you liked it.

---

It was getting out of hand.

Like… really out of hand.

What started as a blurry party hug and a few Instagram throwbacks had somehow spiraled into a full-blown internet conspiracy theory. Not just a brief gossip spark—no, this was a full-blown fandom movement.

And the silence wasn’t helping.

Marshall wasn’t saying a word.

Curtis was still gleefully feeding the fire with cryptic posts and curated chaos.

And now—now—you had a problem in the form of your youngest daughter’s Instagram story.

Because Stevie had not gotten the memo that joking right now was a terrible idea.

You were sitting in the kitchen, scrolling through your phone, desperately trying to ignore the tags pinging every five seconds. Marshall was across from you, nursing a coffee and giving the espresso machine the death glare like it had personally offended him.

“Are you gonna say something?” you asked quietly, not looking up.

“Nope.”

“Not even a tweet?”

He sipped his coffee. “Not feeding it.”

You sighed, eyes scanning the latest headline:

“Inside Eminem’s Alleged Throuple with Wife and 50 Cent—Sources Claim It’s ‘Not a Joke Anymore’”

You rubbed your temples. “It was never a joke.”

“It was to Curtis.”

You groaned.

Because while Marshall stayed quiet and you tried to disappear, Curtis was gleefully dropping photos like breadcrumbs for deranged internet sleuths.

This morning’s post?

A selfie from 2003. Curtis sitting on a hotel bed. You and Marshall both asleep behind him—your head on Marshall’s chest, his hand still on your thigh.

Caption:

“good times.”

The comments were insane.

“Y’all I’m starting to believe it.”

“They’ve been hiding this for twenty years.”

“This is why Y/N hasn’t aged. Loved by TWO men???”

“Power trio. I’d watch that sex tape.”

You nearly dropped your phone in your cereal.

But nothing—nothing—compared to what Stevie did.

You found out the same time the rest of the world did.

A simple photo dump to her story. No warning.

First slide:

Side-by-side baby photos—one of her, one of Marshall.

Second slide:

Another baby photo of her next to a picture of Curtis as a teen.

Third slide:

Text in bold font.

“idk guys… I’m starting to ask questions 🤔”

You stared at your screen in horror.

“MARSHALL.”

He looked up, mid-bite of toast. “Hm?”

“Have you seen what Stevie posted?”

He unlocked his phone and checked.

Paused.

Frowned.

Then—

“What the fuck is wrong with our kids?” he said around a mouthful of food.

You buried your face in your hands. “She’s white. She knows she’s white. Why would she do this?”

“She thinks it’s funny.”

You peeked through your fingers. “Did you text her yet?”

Marshall tossed his phone onto the table. “I don’t have to. Hailie already did. Said she was gonna duct tape Stevie’s mouth shut next time they’re in the same room.”

You both sat in stunned silence for a moment.

Then the comments started rolling in.

“Wait. Could Curtis be Stevie’s biological dad???”

“It makes sense if you think about it…”

“That’s why she’s the chaotic one!!!”

“Throuple confirmed.”

Your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

You turned it upside down.

“Do we run away?” you asked, voice flat.

“Where?”

“Canada. Iceland. A cave.”

Marshall leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on you like you’d gone insane. “You wanna run away from the internet? You know that’s not how it works, right?”

“I can try.”

He smirked.

“You’re cute when you panic.”

You threw a piece of cereal at him.

An hour later, Paul FaceTimed the both of you with a look on his face that screamed emotional exhaustion.

“I give up,” he announced.

“I told her not to post it,” you blurted.

Paul blinked. “You saw it before she posted?”

“No! I just knew she was going to eventually do something insane.”

“Curtis posted another one,” Paul groaned.

You covered your face again. “No he didn’t.”

“He did. It’s a gif. The three of you at the VMAs in like… 2006. You, between them, holding both their hands. He put hearts over everyone’s heads.”

You peeked out through your fingers. “Why is he like this?”

Marshall muttered, “I’m blocking him.”

“No you’re not,” Paul said dryly. “You’ll miss it too much. This is honestly the most fun we’ve had in a press cycle in years.”

You blinked. “This is fun?”

“For me? Absolutely,” Paul said. “Also? Denaun texted. He’s offended he wasn’t considered for the fourth slot in the quad.”

“I hate all of you,” you whispered.

Later that night, you were curled up in bed beside Marshall, phone turned off, the world on mute.

You sighed against his chest. “You know they’re gonna think you’re hiding something forever now, right?”

He hummed. “Let ‘em.”

“Really?”

He looked down at you, brushing a hand through your hair. “Let ‘em talk. I know the truth. You know the truth. Our kids know the truth—well, except Stevie, but she’s a lost cause.”

You smiled.

He leaned down, kissing your forehead. “Besides. If I was gonna be in a throuple…”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence—”

“—you think I’d pick Curtis? He can’t cook for shit.”

You laughed so hard you nearly fell off the bed.

Down the hall, Stevie posted one final slide before deleting the whole story:

A photo of you, Marshall, and Curtis at some family BBQ years ago.

Caption:

“Ok fine. I was just bored. I’m definitely yours, dad. Probably.”

Marshall reposted it.

No caption.

Just a sigh emoji.

😮‍💨

And the Internet?

Still didn’t believe a damn word.

---

You didn’t think anything of it at first.

Marshall had been quiet for days—grumbling about the rumors, ignoring the press, rolling his eyes at Curtis’s very deliberate troll campaign.

But something must’ve snapped.

Maybe it was Stevie’s post.

Maybe it was the CW-style TikToks with dramatic piano versions of Mockingbird underneath soft-filtered clips of you, Curtis, and Marshall from over the years.

Or maybe it was just that he’d had enough caffeine and chaos and decided to flip the damn switch.

Because suddenly…

Your husband was in on the joke.

And you?

You were losing your mind.

It started with a tweet.

From Marshall.

You didn’t even know he remembered his Twitter password until your phone started vibrating off the counter and your group chat with Hailie, Alaina, and Stevie lit up.

He posted:

“Can someone tell @50cent to be home by 9 tonight. She misses you when you’re late. 🖤”

You stared. Blinked. Read it again.

“MARSHALL.”

He was in the living room, completely casual, hoodie up, scrolling like he hadn’t just broken the internet.

You stood in the doorway, holding your phone like a ticking bomb. “What did you just do?”

“Played along,” he said, voice way too even. “Figured it’s better than being mad.”

“Played—played along?! You’ve spent the last week muttering about burning the internet to the ground!”

He shrugged. “Yeah. But if they’re gonna make me a cuck, I might as well get some laughs outta it.”

You stared at him. “A cuck?!”

“Yep.”

“Marshall—”

“People already think you and Curtis are sharing me. Might as well start charging subscription fees.”

You sputtered. “What is wrong with you?!”

He just smirked.

It got worse.

At lunch the next day, Paul mentioned the rumor to Marshall in passing and Marshall didn’t even blink.

“Y/N and Curtis are soulmates now,” he said flatly. “I just hold her purse.”

You dropped your fork.

Paul choked on his drink. “Excuse me?!”

Marshall nodded, deadpan. “It’s okay. I’m just the side piece now.”

You slapped his arm. “Stop!”

He just kissed your cheek. “Love you. Say hi to your boyfriend.”

By the weekend, Marshall had gone full unhinged.

You walked into the studio and caught him on FaceTime with Curtis.

Curtis was cracking up.

Marshall was holding one of your throw pillows like a person, saying:

“She cries when you’re not here. Look at her. She misses you.”

You didn’t even interrupt.

Just turned around.

Left the room.

Slammed the door.

That night, you were brushing your teeth when he came up behind you, slid his arms around your waist, and leaned in like he always did.

“You’re lucky I don’t get jealous anymore,” he whispered, voice low and teasing against your neck.

You blinked. “You got possessive over me hugging a dog once.”

“That dog was looking at you wrong.”

You turned to face him. “So now Curtis gets a free pass?”

He smirked. “He feeds the rumors right. We’re a team now.”

“Marshall.”

“Y/N.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not actually jealous, are you?”

“Nope,” he said smugly. “I think it’s hilarious.”

You crossed your arms. “What happened to ‘you’re mine, only mine, I’ll kill anyone who touches you?’”

“Oh, that guy still lives here. He’s just letting Throuple Marshall have a turn.”

You blinked. “There are versions of you now?”

“Baby,” he leaned in, brushing his lips against yours, “I’m a multiverse.”

You shoved him away, laughing so hard you almost choked on your toothpaste.

The next day he posted a poll to his Instagram story:

“Who gets her on weekends?”

☑️ Me

☑️ Curtis

☑️ Denaun (he's been asking)

You DM’d him one word:

DIVORCE.

He replied with a selfie: him in your robe, drinking your tea, captioned:

“You gonna leave me lookin this cute? That’s bold.”

You tried to ignore him.

You really did.

But every time you turned around, he was leaning into the chaos.

At dinner with the kids, Stevie asked if she was finally allowed to call Curtis “Stepdad.”

Marshall didn’t even look up from his pasta. “Sure, as long as you call me ‘Weekend Daddy.’”

You slapped a napkin over your face.

Alaina choked on her wine.

Hailie just sighed. “I’m so tired of this family.”

Later that night, you found Marshall in bed already, scrolling on his phone.

You climbed in beside him and stole the covers. “Done trolling for the night?”

He turned to you, smirking. “Maybe.”

“You’re not mad anymore?”

He leaned over, cupping your face, brushing his thumb gently against your cheek. “Nah. Let ‘em think what they want. You’re still mine.”

You relaxed, eyes fluttering shut at the feel of his hand on you.

“…Even if you do sneak off to Curtis’s house sometimes.”

Your eyes snapped open.

“MARSHALL.”

He burst out laughing, pulling you into his chest, arms wrapping tight around you as you smacked his shoulder over and over.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

You groaned. “I’m sleeping in the guest room.”

“No you’re not. You think he’d hold you like this? Nah. Ain’t nobody fuckin’ touchin’ you but me.”

Your heart flipped. Just like that.

Possessive Marshall was still in there, buried under the memes and mayhem.

You melted into his arms, muttering against his neck. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m yours.”

You sighed. “Unfortunately.”

He chuckled, kissing your temple.

And outside, the internet raged on—

Still convinced the three of you were in love.

Still making fan edits.

Still dissecting every post, every like, every blink.

But in here, wrapped in his arms, tucked in the only place that ever felt like home—

It didn’t matter.

You were his.

And he was going to make sure the world knew it…

Even if he had to troll them all to hell and back to do it.

---

At this point, it was everyone against you.

You were the only sane person left standing in a battlefield of memes, edited thirst traps, and full-blown throuple theories.

Your kids were in on it now.

Stevie tagged Curtis in a TikTok using “Milkshake” as the audio with old family footage.

Hailie reposted a paparazzi shot of you walking between Marshall and Curtis with the caption,

“Her security husbands.”

Alaina’s contribution? A Reel titled “When you can’t pick between your man and your man’s man.”

Even Paul joined in.

Paul.

The most serious man you knew.

He posted a photo from what had to be 2003—grainy, flash-lit, back when none of you had wrinkles or boundaries. You were squished between Marshall and Curtis backstage, both of them with their arms around your waist, your head leaned on Marshall’s shoulder while Curtis whispered something in your ear.

Caption: “Should’ve known then.”

Tag: @50cent, @eminem, @thisfreakingsaint (you).

You hadn't even remembered your own handle.

You had had it.

You sat on the couch in your sweats, scrolling through your phone while everyone else gleefully made a mockery of your (very monogamous) marriage.

You weren’t mad.

You weren’t jealous.

You were exhausted.

So you did what any rational, exhausted woman would do:

You logged in.

Dusty, untouched, and barely-followed, your personal Instagram hadn’t been used in literal years—except to like photos of your kids and maybe once to stalk a recipe blogger.

But now?

Now you had something to say.

You scrolled back a few mornings, heart racing, and found it—

A photo you’d taken in the hazy gold of sunrise.

Your husband wrapped around you in bed.

His face buried in your neck.

His entire body curved over yours like a human shield, even in sleep.

His arm slung low over your stomach, hoodie half-pulled over your legs.

So tangled up in you it was impossible to tell where you ended and he began.

You didn’t filter it.

Didn’t crop it.

Didn’t care.

You just posted it.

Caption: “Yeah, he definitely looks like he shares 🙄”

The shift was immediate.

Within minutes, it was being screenshotted and circulated everywhere.

Your DMs exploded.

Your phone buzzed like it had entered its final stage of life.

And then—Curtis struck back.

He posted a picture that made your soul leave your body.

It was from the same birthday party that started this whole mess.

You had no idea how—or why—he took it.

But there it was:

You, straddling Marshall’s lap on some plush velvet lounge chair, his hands locked around your hips, your mouth on his, completely lost in him.

The party blurred behind you, lights dim, bodies moving—but you and Marshall were a snapshot of heat and devotion and years of obsession pressed into a single stolen moment.

No caption.

Just a devil emoji.

😈

The comments were feral.

“Oh we were never ready for HER.”

“Ok but he looks like he’d burn the world down if someone touched her.”

“Yeah so… they’re not sharing. She’s his.”

“The way she owns him tho???”

And then Marshall joined in.

With three photos.

He reposted yours and Curtis’s—but added his own.

One you’d forgotten even existed.

Old. Faded.

Taped to his studio console for so many years that the edges had curled.

You, maybe twenty-one, sitting on the floor of his first real studio.

Marshall in front of you, legs crossed, laughing about something.

You were mid-smile, looking at him like he hung the stars.

And he—he was looking at you like he already knew he was gonna love you forever.

His caption?

“Always been her favorite seat.

Always been mine.”

🖤

You didn’t even see it right away.

You were still curled on the couch, staring at your own post, anxiety in your throat.

Then your phone buzzed again.

Hailie:

“Mom. You win. Internet is in shambles.

Also, Dad’s a menace.”

You clicked the notification.

Saw the three-photo carousel.

Saw him.

And your breath hitched.

Because yeah, he could joke.

He could troll.

He could play the part of chaotic meme lord with Curtis and Denaun and Paul all ganging up on you…

But at the end of the day?

That was your husband.

The man who never needed to say he loved you out loud, because it poured out of him in every look, every touch, every quiet moment where the world didn’t exist outside of the two of you.

He walked in a few minutes later, barefoot and smug.

“I’m hearing you broke the internet.”

You glared at him over the top of your phone. “You posted that photo.”

“Which one?”

“You know which one.”

He grinned. “You started it.”

“I was defending myself!”

He leaned down, kissed your forehead. “You looked good on my lap.”

You shoved his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”

“But you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. “You’ll survive. We made three kids together. I think we can survive a fake throuple.”

You sighed. “It was never a throuple.”

He smirked, pulling you into his lap, arms wrapped tightly around you. “They’re just mad they’ll never be in ours.”

You rolled your eyes, but nestled into his chest.

Because the memes, the madness, the chaos?

Let them come.

You’d always have this.

marshall sat in between you and paul, paul had sent clear instructions that they shouldn't point any camera at marshall for the whole game, usually the camera would go on him for a few seconds, hyping him up for a bit— it always gave the stadium an energetic mood. but he didn't want them knowing he was there with a female that wasn't one of his daughters, he didn't want you dealing with fans, paparazzi, or tabloids.

marshall was having the time of his life, the lions were winning 35 to 28. and he was going wild, standing up and yelling to his heart's content. everything was going great. until halftime...

the infamous kiss cam was happening, it was a cute event during breaks. but when you look back up to the huge screen after laughing at a joke marshall said. you realize—the camera was on you two.

both of your faces drop, but before you could cover your face, you feel marshall's hand on your jaw, making you turn to face him and then his lips press against yours. your eyebrows raise immediately in surprise but you kiss him back, not being able to help yourself when his mouth was on yours. paul, probably from instinct, yanks him back from his shoulder, yelling "why would you do that?!" or something, you couldn't comprehend it, you were stuck in a daze from him kissing you. but once you come back to your senses, you're in a state of shock that he basically revealed your relationship to the world from one kiss. everyone in the stadium had their phones out, recording and posting faster than you can catch your breathe.

♪∙♬∼♫ ˒˒˒♪∙♬∼♫ ˒˒˒♪∙♬∼♫ ˒˒˒

as soon as you two get in the car, your first reaction is to scold him, but how can you be mad when he's grinning at you like he won the lottery?

"why did you do that?" you try to sound serious and mad but he sees through your mask

"it was the kiss cam, kind of the rules, yknow?" he chuckled like a villian and you sigh. sinking into the seat as the car starts to move

"you could've warned me, at least." you mutter and pout

"but where's the fun in that?" he drapes an arm around your shoulders, takes off his black cap and places it on your head, covering your eyes with the brim. you laugh quietly, hoping he doesn't hear it so he doesn't get the satisfaction but he clearly does. your "secret relationship" might now be the freshest thing on the news but at least everyone knows he's yours.

¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸

You’d been sniping at each other since the moment you walked into the studio that morning. You’d pointed out, reasonably, you thought, that he had three back-to-back meetings scheduled for tomorrow that overlapped with the only window of time you had to actually get some rest and handle personal life. He’d snapped back that if you couldn’t handle the schedule, maybe you should hire a new assistant for him. You’d fired back something about how maybe you should hire him a new wife while you were at it. It escalated from there. By the time the afternoon rolled around, you were both bristling, trading barbs over every little thing: the way he left his hoodie draped over the chair, the way you “organized” his emails which apparently meant you were deleting important ones when in fact you were putting them in the folder starred at the top of his email so he'd know they were important, the fact that you'd ordered lunch for him and the crew but hadn't actually remembered to order anything for yourself didn't help.

Now it was evening, the Lions game long over, a win, thankfully, or the mood would’ve been nuclear, and the two of you were on opposite ends of the massive sectional in the living room like it was a goddamn battlefield. The TV was off. The only light came from the low lamp on the side table and the city glow filtering through the windows. Marshall had his legs stretched out, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle ticking. You were curled up against the opposite armrest, knees drawn to your chest, refusing to even let your socked feet brush his.

“You gonna keep that up all night?” he muttered, voice low and rough, eyes fixed on the dark screen like it had personally offended him.

“Keep what up?” you shot back, sweet as poison. “Existing? Breathing in your general direction? Sorry, I’ll try to schedule that better next time.”

He let out a sharp breath through his nose, the sound almost a laugh but meaner. “Jesus Christ. You’ve been on my ass since we woke up. What the fuck is your problem today?”

“My problem?” You turned to glare at him fully, heart hammering with that mix of anger and the deeper ache underneath it. “My problem is that I’m your wife, not just the person who keeps your calendar from exploding. But lately it feels like I’m just another item on the list squeeze in some time for her between the studio, the label bullshit, and screaming at the TV every Sunday like it’s your full-time job.”

Marshall’s head snapped toward you, blue eyes flashing. “You knew what this life was when you signed up for it. I don’t hide shit from you. You’re in every meeting you want to be. You sit in the suite at the games—”

“Yeah, in the back,” you interrupted, the words spilling out sharper than you meant. You were poking on purpose now, needling the spots you knew would sting because you were tired and hurt and wanted him to feel some of it. “Wouldn’t want the world to actually see us together, right? Just those little clips you sprinkle into videos when it suits the narrative. I get it, Marshall. You’re private. But sometimes it feels like I’m your dirty little secret instead of your partner.”

He sat up straighter, the couch creaking under the shift. “That’s bullshit and you know it. I take you everywhere. I come home to you every night. What more do you want? A fucking parade? A goddamn Instagram post? Your fifteen fucking minutes?”

“Maybe I want you to sit next to me for once instead of treating me like staff!” Your voice rose, echoing off the high ceilings. “Or maybe I want one Sunday where you’re not glued to football or the studio or whatever else is more important than actually being here with me. I’m lonely, okay? And yeah, I’ve been picking fights all day because at least then you’re paying attention to me instead of everything else.”

The silence that dropped after your words was heavy. Marshall stared at you, chest rising and falling, that familiar mix of frustration and something softer flickering across his face. He looked like he wanted to argue more, his mouth opened, closed, then opened again, but instead he just ran a hand over his short hair and muttered a string of curses under his breath.

You didn’t move closer. Neither did he. The space between you on the couch felt like miles, both of you stubbornly refusing to bridge it even as the fight drained some of the heat out of the air. Your arms stayed wrapped around your knees. His stayed crossed.

“Fuck,” he finally said, quieter. “You really wanna do this right now?”

You lifted your chin, eyes still narrowed even as tears pricked at the corners. “Yeah. I do. Because I love you, you idiot. And right now I also kind of hate how easy it is for everything else to come first.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you with that intense gaze that always saw too much. The couch remained a divided territory, the sniping paused but the tension thick enough to choke on. Neither of you was ready to touch. Not yet.

But the fight wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

---

The argument dragged on for another hour, sharp and circular, like a knife twisting in the same wound. You threw barbs about how he treated the studio like a mistress and the Lions like his first-born. He fired back that you knew exactly who you married, a workaholic from Detroit who didn’t do “balance” and never pretended to. The words got colder, more precise, each one designed to sting without quite drawing blood. You both stayed on your separate sides of the couch, bodies angled away, voices low and clipped.

Eventually the venom ran dry. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight. Neither of you suggested fixing it. Marshall just stood up, jaw tight, and muttered, “I’m going to bed,” before heading upstairs without waiting for you. You followed a few minutes later, the house silent except for your footsteps.

By the time you slipped under the covers, the anger had burned itself out, leaving only a heavy, aching sadness in its place. Marshall was already on his side of the bed, back turned to you, the broad line of his shoulders rigid even in the dark. You lay there on your back, staring at the ceiling, feeling utterly alone despite the fact that your husband was less than two feet away. It was a special kind of fucked up, being this lonely right next to the person you loved most. You listened as his breathing slowly evened out, deepening into the steady rhythm of sleep. He always fell asleep fast after a fight, like his brain had a shutdown switch. You couldn’t. You were freezing. The bed felt too big, too empty. You were so used to tucking yourself against his chest, leg thrown over his, his arm heavy around your waist like an anchor. Without it, the sheets were cold, the pillow wrong, every shift uncomfortable. You turned onto your side, then your other side, curling into a tight ball, but nothing helped.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Your eyes burned from exhaustion and unshed tears. The quiet pressed in, amplifying every small sound, his soft exhale, the distant hum of the street outside.

Then, without warning, a firm arm slid across the mattress. Warm fingers found your waist and pulled, dragging you backward across the sheets until your back hit his chest. You went willingly, breath catching in your throat as Marshall’s body curved around yours solid, familiar, warm. His lips pressed to the pulse point just below your ear, soft and lingering, before he grumbled in that gravelly, half-asleep voice, “I’m sorry I’m a fucking dick, baby. C’mere.”

He wrapped himself fully around you then, one leg hooking over yours, arm locked tight across your middle, face buried in the crook of your neck. The relief was immediate and overwhelming. You hadn’t expected the way your breath hitched or how quickly tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but you turned in his arms and snuggled deeper into him anyway, pressing your face into the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so upset…” you murmured against his skin, voice small and shaky.

Marshall chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest even though he was still mostly asleep. “Baby, you should be more upset. You’re way too good for me and my bullshit.” His hand rubbed slow circles on your back. “I just don’t want you in the shit, you know that right?”

You nodded against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of his soap, the faint traces of his cologne, home. “Just… sometimes maybe I want to remember you love me. And it’s hard if you’re so busy. I feel like I’m in last place.”

His arm tightened around you instinctively, almost possessively. Then you felt him shift, waking up a little more. His free hand came up, fingers gentle but firm as they tilted your chin until you were looking up at him in the dark. His eyes, heavy-lidded and sincere, found yours.

“You’re not in last place, babydoll.”