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.

it's spills over the low hum of conversation and the crackle of the grill in front of him, cutting through everything else like it belongs at the center of it all. it bounces off the wooden fence, carries over the clink of bottles and the thud of a cooler lid slamming shut, and somehow manages to shoot right through nathan's chest.

he exhales slowly through his nose and forces himself to not look around like a lost puppy until he can spot you. because that would just be...obvious. the air smells like charcoal and something sweet—barbecue sauce, probably—thick and warm under the late afternoon sun. but when nathan takes a deep breath in, he swear he can only smell your perfume.

fruity, clean, and light. he'd never admit it, but one time he smelt almost 30 bottles in a marshall's, trying to find something that remotely resembled you.

but don't get it twisted, nathan mackinnon isn't a freak—or a pervert or anything else in that realm. he's just...no, he can't think of that right now.

someone's playlist hums in the background, bass low and steady, and just loud enough to fill the quieter moments. if there were anyway. but erik is yelling in the pool as he plays marco polo with the kids, and kadri is going crazy at corn hole. and you're still laughing.

"...and then I tripped," you're saying, voice animated. surely, your hands are moving as much as your words. like windmills. "like fully tripped—no recovery, no saving it—just straight down in front of everyone."

a chorus of reactions follows—laughs, groans, someone who sounds suspiciously like mikko mutters no way.

nathan keeps his composure, smashing some more burgers on landy's black stone like he's not actively yearning to catch even just the smallest glimpse of you. but he doesn't need to look because he can picture it anyway—your expression, the way your eyes go wide, and the inevitable grin that would follow like embarrassment is just another thing you turn into a joke.

he can't help but smile down at his feet just as the thought.

"you're lying," a different voice sounds. definitely ashley kadri, he thinks. it's confirmed when you briefly start cooing at nylah. always easily distracted.

eventually, you continue. "I swear! there was, like, a full second where I thought I could play it off, and then—nope." you clap your hands together once, sharp. "gone. and so was my popcorn, all over the floor of the theatre."

more laughter follows, and nathan's got to press his back molars together. god, who even is he?

it all started on a summer evening the year after their stanley cup winning run. everything smelt like sunscreen and chlorine. ice coffees melting faster than they can be drank. and the team, still high from winning the whole damn thing, decided to have some sort of celebration—a big lunch thing for friends and family at a local denver spot.

cale introduced you in passing. his kid sister, fresh out of college, coming out to denver to live closer with who you called your sibling turned best friend. nathan can relate, he feels that close with sarah as well.

he barley noticed you at first. well, that's technically a lie. because obviously he noticed your yellow sundress, and the way your smile lit up the entire restaurant, and how everyone seemed to gravitate towards you without knowing more than just your name.

but it was just a quick glance, a tight nod and a clipped—hey, nice to meet you—as nathan put out his calloused palm for you to shake. but you didn't shake it. no, you brushed it off with another smile and claimed you were a hugger, before pushing up onto your toes to embrace him.

you should've been his worse nightmare...so why for that entire evening could he not stop looking at you? and it's not like you didn't notice it—he wasn't exactly subtle from across the long table, wedged between EJ and melissa landeskog. how his eyes would keep flicking back to you when he thought you weren't looking, how he went unnaturally still when you laughed—like he was trying to memorize the sound without letting himself react to it.

he didn't ask you questions, didn't lean in, never smiled the way everyone else does—but he listened. it was easy to think he didn't like you. hell, at one point melissa turned to him, voice all hushed and straight up asked what his deal with you was.

but nathan didn't have an answer, which only made him look guiltier. but he was blushing and melissa knew. then landy, and then all of his teammates had this sort of suspicion that even they don't believe half the time.

even to this day, it would be easy to think he doesn't like you—he kind of makes sure of that, all distance and short answers and carefully controlled indifference—but there's something just slightly off about it.

too deliberate and too practiced like he's trying not to give himself away. and over the past few years, it seems to have worked at getting his teammates off his back, but it doesn't change the fact that deep down, ever seen you walked into the restaurant in that yellow dress, nathan has been obsessed with you. adores you. wants you.

wants you in every way he shouldn't want someone that much younger than him. someone who's related to one of his closest teammates. someone who is the complete opposite of himself. but he does—he wants all the late night pillow talks, the arguing over what colour to paint the living room walls, the sweet kisses and babies and everything in between.

but if someone was to ask? deny, deny, deny. sure—he'd say, acting indifferent—y/n is nice but she's just not my cup of tea. nathan mackinnon will lie through his perfect teeth before ever admitting to one of his insufferable friends that he has feelings for you.

the sound of your laughter breaks nathan out of his own thoughts. he curses to himself as one of the burgers starts smoking—blackened and charred. whoops, that's what he gets for thinking about you like that. your laugh, your mannerisms, your scent....no!

he turns away from the grill and grabs a drink from the open cooler by his feet. maybe a little harder than necessary when a few ice cubes shoot up and over the edge. the cold beer can seeps into his palm, a nice distraction from his own racing mind.

nathan exhales as he straightens, slow and measured, willing himself to chill the fuck out.

without wanting to burn anymore food, or get an earful from his captain, nathan turns heel back towards the grill. only, he's momentarily stunned when he sees you making your way over to him.

fuck.

your eyes meet and you're already grinning, expression brightening like seeing him is the best part of your day. maybe it is. and you weave through people with an ease that feels practiced and natural. effortless even.

he straightens slightly without meaning to. he still hasn't blinked by the time you stop in front of him, close enough that he can catch that faint citrusy scent. the long, white sleeves of your top are pushed up, some lacy, frilly thing that probably costs too much. you've paired it with jean cut offs and sandals, looking like a dream.

"hi nate," you say, slightly breathless from the heat and your trek across the yard. you reach up and tuck some of your hair behind your ear, passing your neck.

he gulps, burger press and can of beer still in hand. "y/n, hi."

there's a pause that follows, and in that you take the time to study him. and you're not shy about like he would be. it's open, and curious like you're trying to figure something out.

you hum, light a breezy, stepping impossibly closer. if you shifted an inch to the right, the knuckles that have gone white around his beer can, would brush your boobs. jesus.

"you look like you'd rather be literally anywhere else."

he swallows. puts down the beer. very careful to avoid touching your covered nipples or anything else just as incriminating. "i'm fine."

there's that hum again. unconvinced or something similar sounding at the back of your throat. your eyes dance over his features softly, and nathan has to force them to stay stoic. "scale of one to ten?" you prompt.

of course you're asking him that. it's just so you—so much so that it gets him to crack a smile. a barely there thing, half upturned lip that resembles a smirk more than anything. but a smile nonetheless. because you're the only one who could be asking him to rate his experience on a scale and nathan get all giddy about it.

however, he keeps his composure, getting back to the smokey grill and burgers. "i'm not doing a scale."

"okay," you drawl out, sliding in closer. "but if you were—"

"i'm not." he cuts in, sending you a look over his broad shoulder that says if you ask me one more time i'll totally rate it.

but you don't push. just grin—immediate and unfiltered. like that was exactly the response you wanted.

"landy come tell you how to properly do this yet?" you muse, all mock innocent, looking between nathan's tan face and the darkened, greasy stone.

"what?" he half bristles, stopping mid press. "I am doing it properly."

your grin only widens. "you're not, i've been watching and cringing for like, 10 minutes." it's an exaggeration, because nathan knows you've only been here for maybe 6.

"you're so full of it. there's no wrong way to smash a burger."

your mouth falls like he's just declared something catastrophic. like pineapple belongs on pizza. or that new moon is the worst movie in the twilight franchise. he can't help but roll his eyes at your dramatics, but he's also obsessed with them so he can't help the grin splitting his face again.

if someone was to look over, they'd think he's having a stroke. because there's no way that nathan fucking mackinnon would be having a good time with y/n makar—who is unarguably his complete opposite. if your personalities were powers, yours would be his kryptonite.

"there absolutely is," you tell him, "and you're butchering it." not waiting for a response, you push your way between him and the grill, and nathan is immediately hot with two things. your scent up close, expect now there's also something vanilla-y about it—a shampoo or something. and the second is that your ass is pretty much against his crotch, which is a whole new territory.

he swears lowly, so quiet that you don't hear it. or maybe you don't hear it because you're too busy trying to grab the burger press from his hand.

"i'm serious. let me do it." you say, looking at him over your shoulder. it shouldn't be so sexy because you're surrounded by everyone and there's kids running around with snotty noses and popsicles. but somehow it is.

nathan tries to put some distance between your bodies, but it only ends up with him bumping into a chair, which then sends him jumping back into you.

"you've never even grilled before." his protest is weak, because he can't even fucking concentrate properly.

"that not the point—give me the pressy thing."

and he does. of course he does. and you smile triumphantly like it's more than just a burger press.

with your bodies still an inch from being together in a way that would be indecent, nathan watches over your head as you start pressing against the balls of raw beef, flattening them and all their inter-webbed seasoning against the stone.

"see," you slightly grunt, putting real strength into it. but you're also laughing, joyful and happy. far too much enthusiasm for cooking burgers, but nathan feels proud like you're accomplishing something greater.

grease pops, making you flinch and yelp back into his strong chest. his warm palm settles on your torso—right on the sliver of skin between your shorts and top—meaning to steady you, but as soon as he's touching your bare skin, nathan’s forgotten how to breathe like a normal person.

you laugh at yourself, shaking out your hand. the grease must've made contact.

he blinks, "are you okay?" his eyes then asses you at the speed of lightning. fingers, palm, wrist. then briefly over the rest of your exposed skin, checking for grease related injuries. he finds none.

you spin, still pressed close. a smile on your face. "i'll be better when you let me do the next round as well."

"do I really get a say if you continue?"

"nope." and then you're back at it, grabbing more meat from the blue and white patterned bowl beside the blackstone, dropping it down with a splat (which makes you snort and make some comment about it looking like plankton from spongebob on the bottom of a shoe).

but he forces himself to look away from you. because you're too much in the best, most overwhelming way possible.

thankfully, gabe comes over and immediately starts telling you that your smash burgers are better than nathan's—which has you fucking floating. it's good, because he's sure if he was alone with you and your smell and your pretty lips and annoying laugh a minute longer, he would've done something stupid like kiss the shell of your ear. or tell you how he feels.

but he knows he just...can't.

PART TWO: reel it in

the line to the downtown nightclub curls halfway down the block. a slow moving, impatient thing made up of heels on concrete, low conversations, and the distant thud of bass leaking through the club doors. the night air is warm for september, but in that sticky, city way—perfume and exhaust and something sweet drifting from somewhere nearby.

every few seconds the line shifts forward just enough to make it feel like progress. nonetheless, you're practically vibrating in the spot.

"okay, no, but this was a good idea," you insist for what has to be the third time, turning halfway around to face the group, hands uselessly flailing around as if gesturing to it. the club. the line. who knows. "like, objectively, this is fun already."

you're already tipsy. borderline plastered and already in that state where it's a gamble whether you'll remember from here on out in the morning.

"it's a line," erik mutters behind you, hands tucked into his jacket.

you shoot him a pointed look. "and you're old."

he snorts.

"besides, it's the anticipation," you correct, grinning. "very exciting."

nathan stands just off to the side, adjacent to your bare shoulder. he's close—close enough that if you leaned back even slightly, you'd bump into him. he lets himself think about that for only a second. wrapping you up, forearm around your collarbones.

he hasn't said much since you all got here, which was about 15 minutes ago. actually—he hasn't said much since you told him the plan earlier in the week.

because...clubs aren't his thing. their loud, crowded and unpredictable and everything he tries to avoid. in other words, they're exactly like you. everyone knows that, and when you mentioned wanting to do this for your birthday, you said that you didn't expect him to come because of his hatred for the party lifestyle.

and yet here he is. black button down open to reveal his white t-shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough to show his forearms. jaw tight like he's already over it, eyes scanning the street instead of the line. instead of you.

in all honesty, he hasn't been able to properly look you in the eye without going through an internal crisis since he pulled up to landy's, where you had already been getting ready with mel, tracey and ashley.

he had walked in and could already smell you, which was a whole thing in itself. but then you came waltzing down the stairs, glittery and dressed like that. a tight complicated looking dress that looks painted on—paired with a birthday sash and crown. even though your birthday wasn't technically till midnight.

nathan tried to look unaffected when you hugged him, drunk and loud, but erik had caught on. and nathan knew that he did—so he's been avoiding both erik and your eyes since then to save some face.

it's not until you spin, unsteadily, to face him that nathan looks at you properly again. mostly because he's scared you're going to fall on your face, so he's already got his hands out to steady you.

but you don't fall, only giggle when the crown stars to slip. you shimmy closer to him through the packed line, which hasn't moved since the last time, and blink up at him like a doll.

"you're gonna hate it in there," you say.

he avoids breathing through his nose when he replies, because you smell like fucking heaven. tequila as well, but that's not even a problem.

"I won't." he lies. just then, a couple of drunk frat guys come stumbling out of the club, yelling something about their greek affiliations that make nathan pull a face.

you squint, teasing and accusing all the same. "you already do."

he looks back at you and forces his features back to that unaffected, neutral look that he uses in every interview. "I don't."

"you're scowling."

"i'm not scowling."

you lean in slightly, still peering up at him. like you're inspecting the evidence. the crown slips down again, sitting against your eyebrow, but you don't notice. "you definitely are."

"i'm not."

you hum, unconvinced. "we'll fix that."

nathan not sure who we entails, but his mouth twitches despite that.

just then, erik just has to squeeze between where you're standing and gabe, meaning that you’re forced to shuffle closer into nathan's orbit to make room for the giant defender.

obviously, you don't care. practically snuggling up to nathan and all his warmth. meanwhile, he's freaking out. naturally.

and it's like you know that when you look back up at him, because your grin widens like you've just won something.

he, once again, has to immediately look away. jaw tightening to stone, composure snapping back into place. because maybe if these were different circumstances and nathan wasn't such a weirdo, he'd wrap his arms around you and keep you against his chest. press kisses to your jaw and neck until you're laughing at the feeling of his stubble—attempting to escape his hold but also not trying at all.

"you didn't have to come, you know," you say, nudging his chest lightly with your elbow, snapping him out of his thoughts. he blushes like he's been caught. you continue, "I wouldn't have been offended. I know you don't like all this stuff."

"I know." he shrugs. like...that's that. so simple.

"but you did anyway." you note, already half way back to grinning. the line inches forward. someone up ahead laughs too loudly, the bass inside the club pulsing stronger now every time the door opens. erik is still babbling on about something irrelevant with gabe.

nathan exhales, gaze still fixed somewhere over your shoulder. "it's your birthday...thing," he says eventually, like that's explains why he's like, abandoned his morals. and then like you don't know what he's talking about, he pokes at your lopsided crown.

you raise a brow.

then, ever so timidly and only after making sure all your friends weren't watching him with the eyes of a hawk looking for its dinner, nathan's knuckle hits the bottom of the crown and then pushes it back up. into place.

once he drops his hand, you tilt your head slightly, studying him. "yeah, it is."

he swallows the golf ball sitting in his throat. fingers itching to reach back up and graze your hair. or your forehead. frankly, any part of you would do. a beat passes, before he says anything more, eyes still locked with yours.

"so happy birthday," he adds, quieter.

your smile should be illegal. "thanks nate." then you add, tone almost conspiratorial. "although, it's not my birthday quite yet."

catching that comment behind you, erik makes a noise, now invading your bubble of space. "by the time we get in there it will be."

—

considering that the music sounded loud outside of the club, it shouldn't come as a surprise that when you, nathan and the rest of the group finally get inside, it becomes deafening—loud enough that it stops feeling like sound and starts feeling like something physical. settling in nathan’s chest and rattling his ribs with every beat.

the lights flash in quick bursts—neon blues and pinks and whites—catching on faces, on moving bodies, on raised hands and spilled drinks and everything in between. it's too much for nathan, and he's scowling again.

but all the reason he hates it are the exact reasons why you love it.

you're immediately wrapped up into the crowd with ashley, tracy and melissa. once again, you've all already been drinking and getting pumped up for this, so nobody can blame you. the guys kind of just hover at one of the tall tables that line the floor and bar, looking out for you all while also just…chilling before the season really begins, and nathan stars jumping on their asses for even thinking about beer.

he can't keep his eyes off of you, because of course he can't. and in the dark of the club, nathan isn't worried about being caught, so he lets his eyes roam over your figure freely. your dress, your legs, the glitter sash sitting between your boobs. it's ethereal. and then you smile, laugh, and nathan feels like he's ascending to the clouds.

you're enjoying yourself, that much as clear. and he thinks he's starting too as well.

it's only about 45 minutes after arriving that you seem to remember the guys even came with you, and when you manage to spot them through the crowd and squeeze through dancing sweaty bodies, you're gone. unsteady on your feet, and warm and light and giggly in that way that makes everything feel softer.

"nate!" you beam, appearing in front of him like you've been dropped out of nowhere. you practically fall into him, between the table and his torso. your front to his. "I missed you!"

the drinks you'd been nursing (and spilling) are long gone. nathan is sure you've been sneaking shots that he hasn't noticed, because he can smell them on your breath.

"you okay?" he asks like an idiot, completely ignoring the admission on purpose. gabe snickers at that from beside you, and nathan is sure to shoot his captain a look.

he looks back at you, eyes scanning your face—the too bright smile, the way you're bouncing a little on your toes without realizing it, the glassy, dazed look in your eyes.

"yes," you slur a little. "i'm great. this is the best night ever."

erik and naz snicker from across the table, finding humour in the way you’re drag your words and stumble into nathan's chest without evening meaning to. then, naz the little shit, calls your name with a teasing twinkle. "hey y/n, want another shot?"

and you gasp, like its the best idea you've ever heard. nathan groans like it's the worst. "no," he tells you and his way too amused teammate. "no more shots."

"but i'm thirsty," you all but pout, fisting the material of his shirt in your palm.

once he stops shooting daggers at his friend, he looks back down into your eyes. fuck, that damn pout. nathan keeps his hand at his side uselessly, even though he wants nothing more than the slide the pad of his thumb over your petruding bottom lip.

"that won't help," he tells you, gentle but firm. if nathan was a better man, he'd be embarrassed about how controlling and possessive he sounds over a girl that's not even his. but the other part of his brain, the one that can register the feeling of you pressed against him and the way you’re now playing with the fingers he's got wrapped around his beer bottle, doesn't think about how it looks.

in his moment of distraction (or weakness) you manage to take the bottle right out his hand and press it to your lips. he opens his mouth to protest, but nothing comes out when you begin to promptly down the entire thing without breaking his gaze.

jesus—

"I hate beer," you grimace, then hiccup in a way that almost makes you gag.

he takes the bottle and puts in on the table with an empty clink. "you didn't have to drink it," nathan reminds you, a hint of a grin on his face that you don't catch because he's dropped his head down next to your ear, so you can hear him over the roaring bass.

warm breath fans over your cartilage as he continues. "it was also mine."

you giggle at that, like you know that despite his authoritative tone, he's full of shit. pulling your head back just enough, you look back up at him, full of mischief and something else equally as belly swooping. "come dance with me."

nathan almost hesitates in telling you no. because you're just so beautiful and smiley, peering up at him like he's the best part of your night. but at his core, nathan is anything but submissive. especially when it comes to dancing in public.

"i'm not dancing." he tells you through a laugh.

you stare at him for a second—like you're trying to process that answer. just a second. "please," you say, drawing the word out. even go as far to tip your head back, giving him your most exaggerated, over the top pleading look. "it's my birthday."

and despite himself and all his best efforts, nathan mackinnon lets you drag him onto the dance floor.

—

by the time you all make it back to gabe and mel's place, the night has tipped fully into that blurry, disjointed kind of late. nathan doesn't even want to look at the clock above the fireplace because he knows it's way passed the time he usually sleeps. meaning his routine will be all fucked up tomorrow. but his heart tells him the way you're leaning all your weight onto him makes it worth it.

multiple pairs of heels are kicked off at the front door in uneven piles, erik is laughing too hard in the kitchen all things considering, and ashley is already halfway collapsed on the couch with her arm thrown dramatically over her eyes like she's been personally victimized by the evening.

your groan next to him, now considerably shorter with your shoes discarded. the smell of leftover takeout and sweet caramel candle wax mix together in a nauseating way. because despite nathan's best efforts, you managed to sneak a shot, or three, off of ej and naz when nathan wasn't paying attention.

and to your credit, you held on for a long time, including the ride home in the back of an uber—which is just a pukey nightmare. you had been squished between mel and nathan, gabe yapping away in the front to the driver about the upcoming season—because of course the driver was a fan. that's probably why he let you guys in the car, even though you looked like one stomach roll away from throwing up all over nathan's lap.

you manage to make it two steps into the living room before the level of your alcohol intake finally catches up to you.

you sway, lost of all colour and your grasp on reality. "oh no," you whine, sticky crown falling off your damp head and onto the floor.

cale looks over from the kitchen immediately, pausing his water chug. "what?"

"I don't feel—" you swallow, face scrunching as the room tilts just slightly. "I don't feel good."

that's all it takes. there's a chorus of uh ohs and yep there it is from your friends—minus ashley because she's already snoring on the couch. someone snorts (erik definitely), and someone else mutters something about it being inevitable (melissa probably), and before you can even properly complain, you're being gently yet firmly redirected down the hall.

"bathroom," your brother says, steering you towards the powder room at the front of the house.

"I know where the bathroom is," you mumble half heartedly, deeply offended for no real reason other than being drunk.

cale snorts when you walk into the door frame. "clearly."

you try to glare at him, but it doesn't stick as the bathroom light flickers to life. it reflects off the mirror, making everything feel worse.

you drop to your knees with significantly less grace than you'd like, bracing yourself against the edge of the toilet like it personally wronged you. "this is the worst day of my life," you declare after a violent, spitty dry heave.

the door clicks closed softly, shutting out most of the noise from the rest of the house.

"you're fine," a familiar voice that definitely doesn't belong to your brother says. nathan's voice is low and steady, like he's intentionally keeping things calm.

you don't even bother asking him what he's doing, because it's obvious enough. he's taking care of you, undeterred by your bile or the perspiration lingering by your hairline.

"i'm not fine," you argue immediately. "i'm dying."

he grins behind your back, "you're not dying."

"you don't know that." you whine, cheek dropping to the toilet seat until it's pressed flat. you can’t think about the germs, or else you'd start gagging again.

there's a soft huff—almost a laugh—as he moves closer. a second after he appears as a blur in your line of sight, you feel his hand on the side of your face, fingers gently pushing tangled hair back behind your ear. gently, not tugging.

"stay still," he murmurs.

"I am still," you protest, even though you're shifting and rubbing your hot cheek against his rough palm.

he almost throws up himself at that, simply because the feeling of you nuzzling against his skin is enough to send him on a roller coaster.

"oh my god," you mumble suddenly, voice muffled. "I feel like kat in that scene from 10 things I hate about you."

nathan's hand stills for a half a second against the side of your head. "what's that?"

your head snaps up—almost smacking his nose in the process—enough to look at him, completely scandalized. "you've never seen it?" you gasp, much to his amusement. "oh my god, nate, please watch it with me."

and then you gag over the toilet bowl again. nathan runs his hand up the nape of your neck without thinking, and takes ahold of your hair in a makeshift ponytail as you continue to heave.

"maybe when your head's not in a toilet bowl." he reminds you, firm yet gentle.

you blink at him when you've calmed down, tears in your eyes. then, despite everything—the nausea, the spinning, and the general state of your existence—you laugh.

it comes out a little weak, a little breathless and stinky, but neither of you seem to care. you because you're hammered, and nathan because he fucking, like, loves you.

"you're funny," you muse, like you've just discovered something shocking.

"i'm not." he breathes a laugh of his own.

"you are," you insist, turning your head slightly so you can look at him better. "you just pretend you're not when everyone's around."

he doesn't have a response to that. he just watches you for a second, expression unreadable but softer than it usually is, like the edges have been smoothed down by the privacy of the bathroom. and you. always by you.

"you hate this," you add suddenly, a little quieter now, wiping at your runny nose with the back of your hand. "tonight, I mean."

"I didn’t hate it."

"you hate clubs." you remind him.

he hums, "I do."

"and you came anyway."

he exhales lightly, gaze dropping for a moment before coming back to you. "yeah." his grip on your hair adjusts again, thumb brushing lightly near your temple like he's making sure everything stays out of the way.

and you're looking at him all fuzzy and sweet—nathan doesn't even care that you're all clammy and there's a little bit of puke on the toilet seat, because to him, you're still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

it's too much all at once, and he's on the brink of telling you thing he shouldn't—not only because you're drunk and gagging, but because he knows he can't.

"focus on not throwing up," he tells you instead, pushing away all mushy thoughts of kissing you and feelings and confessing out of his head.

"bossy." you mumble, smile faint as your eyes begin to flutter closed. exhaustion slowly creeping its way into your bones.

—

nathan isn't surprised when he walks downstairs and sees that you haven't woken up yet.

it's all decorated, courtesy of melissa who's smile changes when she sees it's him coming into the kitchen and not you. a big glitter birthday banner hags from the ceiling, along with balloons and a matcha drink with a candle on top—because you don't like cake.

the guys and tracy and ashley are scattered around the island, some noticeably worse for wear. erik groans like he's been shot when the toaster pops.

"it's bread," gabe snickers in the direction of his oldest teammate. "relax."

"you relax," erik hisses, heels of his palms pressed so deep into his eye sockets that it must be painful.

nathan sits down on one of the empty bar stools, looking like he didn't even go out last night. to be fair, he only had like two beers. and despite the time on the clock when he finally got you into bed and the went to sleep himself, nathan still managed to get up at the crack of dawn. where he then promptly took an hour in gabe's home gym to get his muscles moving, and then took a long hot shower.

because he kind of smelt like your perfume and your bile, which wasn't the most ideal. neither was staying up an extra hour once all the chaos has died down because he couldn't stop thinking about you. or your tiny dress, or how you looked at him while chugging his beer. or your drunk smile—especially that smile.

the stairs creak, and before he can be chill about the idea of seeing you this morning, nathan's head whips aorund so fast it's a shock that his neck doesn’t snap.

but it's not you, just the dog.

with a sigh, he faces forward again, gaze landing on the ice matcha with the pink candle melissa shoved into the straw opening. he itches to get up and put it in the fridge, because the ice is starting to melt and you hate when it's watery like that.

"you gonna bring that up to her?" gabe suddenly asks, leaning on the island directly across from him.

nathan blinks in suprise. "no?"

"why not?"

"she's probably still asleep." he huffs, and when gabe's knowing and all too pleased smirk starts to grow, nathan can't help but scoff. "don't you have food to cook?"

his captain laughs, bright and too loud, making nathan's scowl deepen. "and?"

his jaw tightens slightly. "and i'm not waking her up."

gabe tilts his head, studying him in that way that feels a little too perceptive. the eggs sizzle un-attended on the stove, and he briefly leaves nathan to flip them.

"you sat with her last night." he notes, looking over his shoulder at him.

nathan stills for half a second.

"cale told me," gabe adds easily. "said you didn't leave until everything settled."

he shrugs, like it's nothing, even though his stomach suddenly feels queasy at the prospect of his friend being able to read him so well. because if gabe knows, then melissa knows and then you'll know.

jesus, he needs to like go home or something.

"she wasn't feeling good." nathan answers like that all there is to it.

"right." gabe can only muse, but its layered. because he knows that nathan doesn't do this kind of shit. go to clubs, take care of drunk girls. fucking hold their hair back while they puke. its easy to see that nathan is down bad for you, no matter how much he tries to hide it from you, his friends, and himself.

thankfully, gabs doesn't add to that, only sliding a mug of decaf coffee across the counter until it sits between nathan's clenched fists.

and all the nova scotia native can do is pick up the mug and takes three scolding gulps.

PART THREE: 99 sonny angels on the wall

the next few months of nathan's life continue the exact same way they have since the moment he met you—switching between watching you from afar with his heart in his ass, and watching you up close, lightheaded from your scent, your smile, your laugh, and everything else about you.

at this point, it's more obvious than it's not. because nathan is almost giving up on try to hide it more so than he is trying to come across indifferent. he just can't with you.

it starts ramping up in the way all good things do, two weeks before the season is supposed to really start. cale and tracy are hosting an intimate engagement party that nathan just so happened to be invited to. and knowing you'd obviously be there—in the wedding party and the sister of the groom—he made sure to dress up as nice as he could with his lack of nice yet casual fashion knowledge, spray on cologne and prepare to spend an unknown amount of hours with you.

you'd been wearing some flowy and butter yellow. that's the first thing nathan noticed when he arrived halfway into the afternoon. you'd also been fluffing about a long desert table, telling one of tracey's college friends all about how the count bites were to die for. he had gravitated towards you without even realizing he was doing so.

up close, he could see that you were a little glassy eyed and flushed. but smiling so wide. always smiling. and the second your eyes landed on him, you gasped and skipped right up to his chest.

"nate!" you had beamed, tugging at the open collar of his linen button down. "I made you something." and nathan let you pull him around the backside of the table, a little dazed and totally not watching the way your hips swayed under your dress.

"cookies." you brightened when his eyebrows raised a fraction. "I looked up your whole, like, superstar diet thing," you explained, waving a hand vaguely. "and I made them with all the stuff you're allowed to have. less sugar, more...whatever it is you eat. they actually turned out really good."

he almost wanted to tell you everything in that very moment—seconds and one half bitten cookie away from dragging you further into the garden to kiss you silly.

but he didn't.

and then the season started, and where nathan should've been completely focused on hockey and his own high performance schedule, he was focused on you.

your name brought up in passing in the locker room? nathan's head was snapping up to listen in. cale mentioning his family coming down to watch a game? nathan's wondering if you'll be with them. a dinner at a teammates house? nathan's all nonchalant (no he's not) wondering if you'll be attending.

then there was that one dinner party at the kadri's, where you were sat next to nathan. he'd been trying not to look at you because he was trying to remain composed, but you laughed at something ej said and put your hand on nathan's thigh—and he almost choked on his steak, leaving him a coughing blubbering mess while you thumped on his spine and ej just laughed at the ordeal.

and he couldn't even be mad about it, because you were so concerned, and so sweet and made some little joke about not choking for you again anytime soon. nathan almost said something back about that, but he bit his tongue.

because it isn't just the fact that you’re cale's sister—though that alone would make things complicated. it's that, in his mind, you and him exist on completely different wave lengths. you're soft where he's sharp. impulsive where he's careful. open in ways nathan's never quite learned how to be. and the thought of trying—of actually letting himself have you, let himself feel what it would like to call you his beyond the walls of his mind—sort of scares him.

because if it falls apart, if the differences between you nathan is so sure will break you actually do, then he doesn't just loose the possibility of you, but he looses you entirely.

and nathan knows, deep down, that once he crosses that line and even has a piece of you, going back to pretending you're nothing to him won't just be hard—it'll be messy and impossible.

so once again, once he just can't. or rather, he's trying really hard not to.

—

nathan's barely out of the locker room post game, still half in that post win haze—adrenaline not fully settled, teammates talking over each other in the background—when he hears your voice mixed in with some of the WAGs and lingering teammates.

you're leaning on a wall next to melissa, baby luke cuddled in your arms like he's yours. you're rambling about something that based on the twinkle in your eye, clearly feels urgent to you and absolutely not to anyone else.

he laughs through his nose at that, a breathy little sound only for his own ears. and the closer he gets, the easier your words are to make out.

"...and it's literally just been on my floor for, like, a week," you huff, exasperated. "because I thought I could build it myself, which—clearly—was a mistake."

nathan glances over, just as tracy snorts. "how hard can a bookshelf be to build?"

the sound of you pressing a loud kiss on the baby’s cheek sounds before you answer your sister-in-law. "you tell me, trac. seriously, damn you ikea and your minimalistic instructions."

truly, nathan meant to just walk past you. swear. sure, if you noticed him and said something, nathan would've obviously said hello. he's trying to be respectful, not an asshole. but that just goes straight down the drain the second your eyes lock.

"nate," you smile, sliding next to him like a magnet. "good game."

he tickles under luke's chin—because how else are you supposed to great a smiley baby?—and then looks back at you. too blinded by your pretty face to form a response that's not stupid, he just mumbles—"you watched?"

then his eyes fall closed because immediately he wants to take it back. obviously you watched the game because here you are, standing in front of him with a family & friends pass hanging from your neck.

but you only laugh and bump your elbow against his arm. "always," you say instead.

nathan is sure you're trying to kill him with that. he watches, a little dazed, as you pull down luke's little jersey, dividing your attention between the baby and your friends who have moved on from the whole book shelf debacle he overheard.

then before he can think better, nathan gently gets your attention, this time by brushing his elbow against your torso. it's subtle, but it works and you peer up at him, pretty.

"I can help," he swallows, then continues, "with your book shelf."

at first, you just blink at him, but as the words register, a big grin splits across your face. "you can?"

he nods. "yes."

you breath a sigh of relief and almost sag into him. "please, yes. a million times yes. there are too many screws and the instructions are like, aggressive but also lacking."

"aggressive?" his smirk is full of amusement, and you mirror it.

"don't judge until you see them."

"alright," he holds up a hand in surrender, "not until I see them."

—

a few days later, nathan mackinnon finds himself standing in your apartment and is instantly overwhelmed. because he's never been in your space before. sure, he's imagined every single corner, but his imagination pales in comparison to the real thing. it's just so...you.

colourful with big open windows, curtains that are nothing but beads. it's cluttered, but not messy. never dirty. and it smells like you, so much so that when you first opened the door for him and the scent wafted out, nathan had to hold himself up on the door frame.

and it didn't help that you looked like a dream. hair pulled back into two twisty braids. wearing a open button down with a paint mark on the cuff, paired with sun coloured dungarees.

even now, sitting on a fuzzy area rug that resembles a cat more than anything else, instruction sheet held in his calloused hands, nathan can't help but to keep stealing quick glances at you.

wood panels are scattered all around like they've been there since you unpacked them. knowing you, they truly have. nathan hums, flipping a page.

"well?" you ask, sitting crossed legged beside him, gesturing to the instruction.

"these are fine."

"they're not fine," you argue, handing him something that may or may not be the right piece. "they skip steps."

he smiles down at the papers. "they don't skip steps."

you frantically move your finger between two of the steps. you definitely think they don't make sense, but they totally do. "see this?" you look at nathan, exasperated. "they imply steps."

he exhales, but there's no real bite to it. instead he puts them down and reaches for two of the wood panels. "hold this."

and you do. for the most part. your attention drifts every few seconds while you loosely attempt to assist nathan in the bookshelf endeavours, bouncing between him, your phone and the pile of things that still haven't been put away—books, yes, but also a concerning number of stuffed animals that have somehow migrated into the construction zone.

it takes less than an hour to build, which is kind of disappointing because nathan doesn't want to leave you in your element so soon. so he lingers purposefully. not that he needs to make an excuse though, because you're grabbing at his wrist like a kid and asking him to help you put everything on the new shelves.

obviously, he tried to play it nonchalant and like, pretended he didn't want to stick around. "I just built it." nathan had reminded you, secretly hoping you'd keep pushing.

"and now you help style it," you replied, like it was obvious and thank jesus.

it started somewhat normal considering he is always one second away from loosing it around you. books get stacked together and sorted by author and series. apparently it's a system, at least that what you told him when you stepped back for the 10th time to admire the aesthetic.

it makes absolutely no sense to nathan, but he doesn't complain. just offers appropriate hums and nods when you ask him if the boys of tommen series looks good next to the chestnut springs series. whatever that means.

it's not until you start asking him where the stuffed coffee cup should go that he raises a brow. "you've got more stuffies than books." it's not true, but he can't resist teasing you in his own, awkward way.

and it works—you gasp, offended but also not at all. "that's just a lie! and they add decorum anyways."

"right," he mutters, clearly unconvinced, picking up a small figure from the pile. he turns it over in his hand, frowning. "are these...naked babies?"

you immediately grab it back. "they're called sonny angels, you wouldn't get it."

"that's doesn't answer anything."

"they're cute." you pout, holding a baby dressed like a strawberry up to your cheek.

nathan has to swallow back his initial reaction. because you look so fucking cute, all pouty and big eyed like the baby figurine you're holding. instead of leaning down and kissing the pout off your mouth though, he just plucks the figurine out of your hand.

"they're weird." he muses, turning it and flipping it over. his frown deepens when he sees it's actually fucking naked.

"they're collectible," you correct, snatching it right back and then placing it carefully on the shelf in front of some brightly coloured books.

for a moment, it's like his body forgets that you're you—the biggest infatuation of his mind, and the blood pumping through his veins. the reason he considers forgetting his entire moral system.

nathan smiles behind your back. before he gets too distracted looking at your pink painted toenails or the exposed nape of your neck, he reaches for another book apart of one of the many stacks sitting on the rug.

you watch him over your shoulder as he flips it, scanning the back. "what are these about?"

"romance."

he glances up. "all of them?"

you shrug and take it from it. "mostly."

there's a pause—one of those quiet, suspended moments where you can practically see the gears turning in his head. his eyes narrow just slightly, like he's trying to piece something together, and then—"...do they have... sex stuff in them?" he asks, the question coming out slower than expected, cautious in a way that almost feels studied.

you freeze. just for a second. and then the realization hits in a blinding flash. a slow, dangerous grin spreads across your face—bright, delighted, a little bit wicked.

nathan sees it happen in real time, and immediately regrets everything.

"oh my god," you breathe, like you've just uncovered something priceless, waving the book between you like a toy.

"what?" he mutters, defensive already, even though he's not entirely sure why.

"you don't know?"

"I didn't say I don't know."

"but you asked."

"I was asking like—generally," he insists, crossing his giant arms like that somehow solidifies his point.

"yeah," you nod, already turning toward the shelf, fingers skimming over the spines like you're browsing for something specific now. "they do."

nathan watches you, dread settling low in his stomach as he clocks the way you're enjoying this. "don't—"

but the protest comes too late because you've already pulled a different book free, flipping it open with an ease that suggests you've done it a million times. your thumb slides along the pages, scanning quickly, eyes darting—and then you stop, whole face lighting up.

"oh, this is a good one," you say, barely containing your excitement.

"don't read it out loud."

you clear your throat dramatically anyway, because of course you're not going to listen. nathan's stomach already feels tightly coiled, and he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "seriously—"

you start reading, way too happy. "his tongue licks up her dripping folds, lapping up her sweet and sticky arousal," you quote, unaffected as you continue. every word lands clearly, every implication slipping into the space between you, every line getting a little more suggestive, a little more pointed the longer you go.

nathan goes still at first. like if he doesn't react, it won't register to the part of brain that controls his dick. then he stiffens—subtly, but noticeably—because obviously he's getting hard. how can he not when the girl of his dress is reading him porn. her own book with porn!

so he gets busy. very deliberately busy. he reaches for a stack of books beside him, shifts them, straightens them, picks one up just to put it back down again. his movements are controlled, purposeful—but his ears are turning red now.

then quickly the color spreads, creeping down the back of his neck.

and you notice of course, because now you're giggling, making your voice wavers like you're trying not to. you keep going, dragging out a line just a little longer than necessary. "and as he pushes his rock hard length into her tiny entrance, they both let our guttural sounds."

"okay," nathan cuts in finally, sharper than he means it to be.

but you don't stop because that's just not in you're nature. because you're enjoying this.

you push through another sentence, then another, eyes flicking up just in time to catch the exact moment it clicks for him—that you're not stopping.

"you're unbelievable," he mutters, but there's no real bite to it. just tension. something tight and coiled underneath.

you snap the book shut with a soft thud, grinning up at him like you've just won something. you eye his flush. "oh, you loved that."

"I didn't."

"you so did." you move closer, and he swallows. "maybe you've just found your new favourite form of porn."

"I don't..." he stops himself, laughing once. "you're so—"

"you're blushing." you snicker, poking his cheek.

"i'm not."

"you are," you insist, stepping even closer—enough to close some of the space between you. enough that he has to look down slightly to meet your eyes. "it's cute."

and that doesn't something, deep in his stomach. right between his ribs. everywhere. nathan mackinnon feels those two words, and the way you’re gazing up at him, everywhere.

his jaw tightens, shoulders shifting like he's trying to reset himself—like he's trying very hard to stay in control of whatever is happening.

"put the books away," he says instead, voice lower than possible.

you hum, clearly pleased with yourself, turning back to the shelf. your fingers trail along the spines again, slower this time, like you're considering your next move. but you're still smiling.

mostly because you can feel his eyes on you, tracking every step. and he doesn't even care that you're aware. he's not avoiding, or trying to distract himself from your smile or scent. instead, nathan is basking in it all.

he steps towards you without thinking just as you reach for another book with the cartoon cover—how can something so innocent be so filthy, nathan wonders.

you didn't hear him move, but suddenly he's right there, just behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the faint brush of his arm near yours. and your breath catches—just slightly.

slowly, you turn your head, and find he's already looking at you. the air has shifted now, and not just because of the smutty words exchanged between you. it's because of your proximity. proximity that for the first time since you've met, he’s initiated.

your hand is still on the book, but you've forgotten about it entirely now.

his gaze drops—just briefly—to your mouth, and then back up again. it's subtle enough, but also not at all because he's physically unable to hold himself accountable anymore.

obviously you catch it, because how could you not? your heart stutters, just once. "what?" you murmur, soft like the teasing edge has slipped into something else entirely.

he doesn't answer right away. instead, his eyes search your face, like he's trying to decide something. like he's right on the edge of it—the edge of really doing it this time.

you don't move. don't breathe. don't dare break whatever this is.

nathan lifts his hand, a little hesitant, then settles it lightly against the shelf beside your head, caging you in without quite touching you.

your lips part slightly, anticipation curling low in your stomach, your pulse loud in your ears as he inches closer. is this it? is the moment that, unbeknownst to everyone else including nate, you've also been wanting. needing.

but then—he huffs out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh, and shakes his head just slightly as he pulls back. nathan pushes off the shelf, "we should finish up."

you blink, still caught halfway in the moment. your body a step behind your brain. you watch as he turns away, picking up a stack of dark romance books you've never read because they kind of scares you.

you take them from his hands. the knowing look in your gaze shouldn't surprise him, but it does. "you were gonna kiss me," you state, narrowing your eyes at him.

despite the blush that's been adorning his face for the greater part of the evening, nathan pales.

"I wasn't."

"you were."

"I wasn't."

you stare at him for a beat and then grin. and that's when nathan knows he's ultimately screwed. instead of doing what he should—throw those books to the floor, grab your face and kiss you until you're both dizzy—he’s backing down. he's incapable of committing to you. because he can't no matter how badly he wants to.

instead, he scoffs, not looking at you now. he reaches past you to grab the book from your hand and shove it back onto the shelf.

"put. the books. away." nathan reiterates.

you just laugh softly, leaning back just a little. still entirely too close for his hearts sake. "yeah," you murmur. "okay."

you don't let it get awkward. in all honesty, you pretty much allow the space for nathan to forget it even happened. which he can't decide if he hates or not yet. easy conversation flows between you as you finish putting away all your books and trinkets, and soon enough, the red hue leaves his cheeks and everything goes back to how it was.

nathan watching wishfully from a distance and you pretending you don't realize.

—

cale makar

to nathan mackinnon

heard you helped my sister build her bookshelves. and apparently she read to you? whatever that means

cale makar

to nathan mackinnon

bro you're so whipped

PART FOUR: a love like that

by the time 7:30 rolls around, the movie night you planned with your friends seems to be unraveling. on your phone screen, a list of sorry's and babe i'm gunna have to reschedule's sit. ashley can't come cause nylah is running a fever, and when one kid gets sick, so do the others, meaning melissa and gabe are also out. and tracy got her dates mixed up, and she has to be up early for a flight, so there goes that. cale said he'd come, but you waved him off.

now you sit cross legged in the middle of your couch, staring at the wall like it might change everything. you're not mad per say, it's just—you bought all the good snacks and wine and we're gunna order a pizza and just chill.

but now you're alone, lights dimmed just right, throw blankets ready for people who won't be occupying them, and a big glass of wine you've already polished off.

fuck, you even vacuumed. which is crazy.

"i'm so tragic," you groan to yourself as you flop back against the cushions dramatically. the tv glows painterly across from you, sitting on the netflix home page.

you can't help but sigh wistfully and reach for another slug of wine, this time right from the bottle. once again, you're not mad, but you've just been looking forward to it all day and ugh! for the first time ever, you're feeling truly upset you don't have a husband and family like your friends do.

it's just you and your snacks and wine.

you're mid tying your hair back when a knock sounds at the door. and for a moment, you freeze. because who changed there mind? who's kid miraculously got better?

wait.

the sound comes again, softer this time, like whoever's out there knows you're home. and remembering who you invited know, you know there's one person who didn't cancel—one who would never.

you're off the couch in seconds, nearly tripping over one of your carefully placed blankets on the way before you yank the door open—and there he is.

nathan is standing there like he belongs on your doorstop, a soft blush on his cheeks like he's remembering exactly what happened last time he was in your place. you let your eyes briefly wander over his outfit—a dark hoodie and sweats. he looks comfy and ready for a movie. and maybe it's because you thought everything went into the toilet tonight, but the idea that he came prepared makes your heart swell.

you're completely at odds with the way your brain short circuits for a second. "you came," you say after a beat, a little breathless.

and knowing nothing about the evening besides everyone getting together for a movie, he just looks down at you like that's a strange thing to say. "I said I would."

"I know, but—" you wave a hand vaguely, stepping aside to let him in. "everyone else canceled."

"oh." he hums, almost freezing at the revelation that you're about to be alone. together. again. thankfully, he manages to move his cement filled feet and slip off his shoes—without being asked, of course.

and then he's moving like he knows the space, which is a way he does. h nathan walks into the living room, huffing what sounds like a laugh as he looks over your snack filled coffee table.

you follow. "you don't have to stay."

but much to your surprise, he just shrugs, easy, like it's nothing. "It's fine."

something warm and steady settles under your ribs. "okay," you say, breezing past his ridged body to plop back into your favourite spot. middle cushion, duh. you purse your lips and look up at him, "then you're stuck with me."

he glances between you and the cushion next to you warily before settling down beside you. thigh pressing into yours, arm too. it's nice. he's nice. and warm and big and smells like a clean shower.

your grab a blanket to distract yourself from like, grabbing him.

"what are we watching?" he asks.

the grin you give him is involuntary. "it was going to be that new action movie, but know that it's just us...i'm thinking something more, light hearted."

nathan exhales through his nose, already bracing. "what?"

"10 things I hate about you, obviously. you said you've never seen it," you tell him, pointing at him with the remote like you've just caught him in something incriminating. "it's perfect."

"perfect for who?"

"for me," you reply shamelessly.

he snickers under his breath, but there's no real bite. only adoration.

the movie starts, filling the room with familiar dialogue and the soft glow of shifting scenes. instantly, you're locked in—quoting under your breath, reacting before things happen, occasionally glancing over to gauge his response like it's a test.

at first, nathan doesn't give anything away. arms crossed loosely, posture relaxed but not fully sunk into the couch. eyes on the screen in that deliberate, observant way—like he's studying it instead of watching it.

"you're analyzing it," you accuse quietly about 30 minutes in.

he looks over at you, momentarily dazed at how you look under the glow from the tv. "i'm watching it."

you only laugh, nudge him once and then return to your attention back to the screen. but nathan? he lets his gaze linger on your profile for a moment longer than he should.

it's not soon after you pause the movie because you're hungry. nathan's immediate reaction is to make a comment about the food on the table, in which you respond with a almost slurred need for pizza. he orders it on his phone because you get distracted explaining a scene that hasn't even happened yet.

the door bell rings soon after because he paid extra for express delivery. he also gets up before you can even blink, which is just hot for no reason.

when he walks back into your living space, holding a pizza box in just one hand, the smell of warmth and grease and saucy immediately invades your senses.

"ohmygod," you exclaim so quick it all blends together into one word, "smells like sex."

he shoots you an amused look as he puts down the box next to the wine bottle and the untouched popcorn, but you don't notice because you're too busy flipping open the cardboard lid and sniffing like a mad woman.

"dinner," he says before sitting back down.

you grab a slice and it hits your wrist, which only makes your mouth water. nathan raises a brow as your eyes meet, but instead of answering with words you just take a messy bite—grease and sauce smearing on your cheek.

"you having some?" you ask him through a mouthful.

he shrugs, "I don't eat that stuff during the season."

"boooooo!" you chant until he laughs. but you're not done being a slim, because you dance the slice in his direction, as if trying to tempt him. it doesn't. "don't think about it," you tell him, mouth still unattractively full. "just experience joy."

he pushes your hand away. "I experience joy."

"you observe joy from a distance," you correct, eyebrow quirked knowingly. "do it for my shit movie night."

nathan sighs, a little reserved, but when your pleading eyes don't waver, he's already got his mind made up. there's a long second where he just looks at you, but then—like he's making a conscious decision to ruin his own reputation—he reaches forward and grabs a slice.

a slow grin covers your face as you chew, and before you can think otherwise, you grab your phone and start recording. because this is like, unheard of.

"oh my god, is nathan mackinnon about to eat something with grease?" you whisper dramatically, camera pointed at him.

he pauses, looking between your eyes and the lens. "put your phone down." he says, but he's already grinning.

"no, I have to record this for the future. this is gold."

"oh my god."

you grin, unwavering, holding your ground.

nathan takes a bite then, because it'll make you happy. he chews thoughtfully, enjoying the flavour, because let's be honest, it's been so long since he's eaten something this unhealthy.

and you gasp. naturally.

he keeps chews, expression carefully blank, but you can see it—the flicker, and the split second shift when he realizes grease can be good.

"say something," you urge quietly.

"i'm not saying anything."

"you love it."

"I didn't say that."

"you love it." you beam, "admit it. grease is fucking delicious. maybe not for the gut, but for the soul."

nathan exhales something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh as he drags a hand down his face. "you're so stupid." but he says it with so much softness that you want to kiss him.

you eat almost half the pizza, and nathan only manages to polish off one slice. but you'll take it. the movie keeps playing, beating the climax of the plot.

you've shifted closer to him without realizing it—if that was even possible. the blanket you'd been using has somehow started to spill onto his lap, and your shoulder is practically in his armpit. your legs are tucked under you now, angled slightly toward him, like your body's made the decision before your brain has.

and nathan doesn't move because of he wouldn't dream of it.

the sven plays out, and instinctively you turn to look at nathan, wanting to catch his reaction. but when you do, you find him already looking at you.

the moment stretches like molasses. the movie plays on, familiar lines and voices filling the room, but it all fades—background noise to something quieter and fragile. because neither of you look away.

"watch the movie," he says quietly.

"you're not watching it."

"I am."

"you're not." you challenge, voice barley above a whisper.

the only answer he can manage is to look back at the movie, but it says enough.

when the movie ends and the familiar credits roll, it's probably late enough for it to be concerning. you're both completely sunk into the couch, and you've toed the pizz box away so nathan has somewhere to rest his sock covered feet.

"...I want that," you murmur suddenly—wishfully—almost to yourself.

nathan's attention shifts immediately. he lazily looks over at you. "want what?"

you don't meet his gaze right away. for a beat, your attention stays on the screen, following the moment as it unfolds. "love," you clarify, quieter now. "I want a love like that."

you're not sure why you tell him that. but it's the kind of honesty that slips out when you're comfortable. when your guard is down. when you're not thinking about how it sounds. and maybe it's lingering longing from earlier about feeling alone, or maybe it's something else entirely.

it's all the same when you watch nathan go still. it's subtle enough, but you're still pressed together, so even if it was just a hitched breath, you would've felt it.

he holds your gaze. his hand, resting near yours on the couch over the throw, flexes once—like he's about to reach for you but can't quite get there.

"you will."

your voice goes soft. "you think so?"

nathan swallows down the lump in his throat. he could say it then. tell you, right here. right now. tell you that he knows you'll get a love like that, because he already feels that way for you, and whether you know it or not, you have it.

and just for a second, the admission is on the tip of his tongue.

and you can see it. clear as anything. it's in the way his expression changes, and in the way something deeper pushes past the usual control he keeps locked in place.

his gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes, like he's weighing something, like he's standing right on the edge of it.

"I—" but he stops, words hanging in the space between you like a vice.

your heart stutters with disappointment.

nathan exhales as every fear and doubt about telling you how he feels climbs up his throat. no matter how badly he wants to say it, he can't risk it. can't risk the possibility of loosing you.

the moment folds back in on itself, the walls snapping back into place like they were never down to begin with.

"you will," nathan says instead, quieter this time, like he's settling on something safer. "you deserve that."

not knowing what to say without telling him exactly how you feel about another failed kiss, you just study for a moment. and as you do, underneath the shadows cast from the tv and the hard exterior he blankets his face with, you can see there something there. making him hold back.

"okay," you say finally, just as soft.

he doesn't stay much longer after that. muttering I should go while the credits nears the end—because you'd been too dazed to stop them from rolling—already standing from the couch and leaving you feeling cold. and you had just nodded, and instead of asking him a million questions like you want to, you walk him to the door.

there's a moment there—of course there is—where you both linger a second too long. nathan's hand brushes yours as he reaches for his shoes. your breath catches for no good reason. and he looks at you like he's about to say something again. but you already know he won't.

"thanks for coming," you mumbled, leaning against the wall.

he pauses, and then—"goodnight y/n."

the second the door closes behind him, it all hits you. from the moment you met all those summers ago with the season looming around you, to all the barbecues and birthdays and every quiet moment in between.

you stand there for a moment, staring at nothing, back against the door now—the quiet of your apartment pressing in loud.

what the hell was that?

you replay it instantly—the couch, the way nathan looked at you, the almost. the very obvious, very real almost. the way he started to say something and then didn't. the way his eyes dropped to your mouth like—god.

why didn't he kiss you?

It wasn't just in your head, you think you know that much. because It couldn't have been. because if you felt it—he felt it. that kind of moment doesn't just happen for no reason. people don't look at each other like that and then just...leave like it's another day accomplished.

unless you've read everything wrong. because maybe this entire time you thought you've discovered who the enigma that is nathan mackinnon, and what makes him tick. but maybe—just maybe—you've been mistaking every snear for a smile. every awkward laugh as a pleased one.

your stomach twists at the idea that you've been sitting here for years building something up that was never actually there in the first place.

"no," you mutter, grabbing your phone, pacing once across your living room before turning sharply back. "no, i'm not doing this."

it won't be another night of wondering. not another week of overanalyzing every look, every word, every almost until you drive yourself crazy. if you've been wrong, you need to know now.

if he's going to confuse you—whether it was accidental or on purpose or you're just going crazy—he can deal with the consequences.

"okay," you say to yourself, already pulling on your shoes, barely even thinking about it. "fine. great. perfect."

and then you do something any slightly insane girl would do—call and uber and give him nathan's address.

—

by the time you're standing outside his place, your heart is beating so hard it feels ridiculous. because this is insane. you know that. but you also know you're not one to brush this kind of shit under the rug, if there's something that needs to be said, you're ready to hear it. no more pussy footing around.

you knock before you can overthink it. and then you're immediately holding your breath, panicking while your hand is frozen in place mid air.

then the door opens.

nathan blinks in surprise, obviously not expecting to see you all things considered, hair slightly messier than before, hoodie swapped for a t shirt now. he looks soft, but also more off-guard than you've maybe ever seen him.

"y/n? are you okay? what are you doing here?"

his eyes roam over you, looking for injuries or an answer you haven't given him. he steps out into the porch, eliminating a foot of space between you.

you don't give yourself time to hesitate, words coming out firmer than you intended. "do you hate me or something?"

his brows pull together immediately. "what?"

"I mean," you huff a laugh, hands slapping the sides of your thighs as you drop them, "I thought you liked me. I thought that I made you nervous or something—but it's been years and i'm starting to think I got the wrong impression."

he just stares at you for a second, like his brain is trying to catch up to the fact that you're here. now. saying this. because how could you ever think that? sure, nathan thinks, he has never been forthcoming with your about his feelings, but he's sure he's never given the impression that he hates you. right?

"do you...want to come inside?"

you blink. "do you want me to come inside?"

a beat. he swallows, fingers twitching like he's trying not to touch you. "yes. I do."

your chest tightens, even though you're trying to remain neutral. you tilt your chin up, "then yes."

nathan steps back without another word, gesturing for you to go ahead.

you walk past him, heart in your throat, door clicking shut behind you with a finality that makes everything feel suddenly, terrifyingly real.

there's a moment of silence. mostly because you don't have a plan and you're already regretting it.

"I don't hate you, y/n."

you turn to face him, arms crossed like a shield. "no?"

he shakes his head, stepping a little closer, voice quieter now. "never."

the word lands between you, steady and certain, and it does nothing to calm the way your chest is rising and falling like you've just run all the way here instead of taking an uber.

"okay," you breathe, but it comes out thinner than you mean it to. "then you can't just—" you gesture vaguely between the two of you, frustration bleeding through now that you're here, now that you've started, "—do that and then leave."

his brow furrows. "do what?"

"you know what," you insist, stepping closer without really deciding to. "the couch. the looking at me like you were about to—" you cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. "you almost said something."

and based off the look in your gaze, nathan knows you don't just mean tonight. his jaw tightens slightly. "I didn't."

"you did. you do," you push. "and then you just...shut it down. like always."

"that's not—"

"It is," you interrupt, softer now but more certain. "you get right up to the edge of something real and then you just—pull back. like it doesn't even matter."

"It does matter," he says immediately, stepping closer.

"then why have you never kissed me?"

at that, the room goes silent. your breath catches, eyes never leaving his. there's no taking it back. not that you would, but the idea is almost suffocating. alan or as much as the way he's looking at you.

his eyes bore into yours—like the question physically hit him. like he wasn't expecting you to say it out loud even though it's been sitting there for god knows how long now, obvious and unavoidable.

your heart is pounding, loud enough you're sure he can hear it. "well?" you press.

he exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing once like he needs the movement just to think. "it's not that simple."

"then explain it to me," you fire back. "because for me, it is."

the quick pace he'd been doing comes to a stop as his eyes meet yours again. there's something less guarded about his gaze now, but it comes with a rise of concern. "you want me to be honest?" he asks.

your stomach flips and then flips again—because like usual, you're not sure what to expect from him. "yeah," you swallow, nervous, and continue, "I came all the way here, didn't I?"

a beat passes between you, and then he takes a step closer. "I didn't kiss you," nathan says, voice low, and rough around the edges, "because if I did, I wouldn't be able to stop." the air leaves your lungs as he continues, "and I don't trust myself to do that halfway. I can do that with you."

"why not?" your pulse stutters, heat rushing up your neck.

"because it won't be just a kiss for me," he admits. and as he continues, a weight begins to ease off his rigid shoulders. "It wouldn't be something I could just walk away from after. It wouldn't be something I could pretend didn't change everything. because for me it would be more."

you swallow. "and that's a bad thing?"

"yes," nathan says—too quickly and it makes you flinch. at that, his expression shifts immediately—because he doesn't mean it that way. he could never.

"no," he corrects, softer. "not bad. just—" he exhales, frustrated now, searching for words he clearly doesn't like having to say out loud. "complicated."

"complicated how?" you almost whine, defeat weighing on you now. and it hits nathan right in the gut—because how can he make you understand when he barley knows himself.

"you're—" nathan stops himself after a pause, then shakes his head once like he's trying to recalibrate. "you matter too much."

"that doesn't make any sense."

he moves towards you, stopping so close that you're almost pressed together. "It does to me." he admits, voice so quiet it's almost impossible to register.

"then help me understand," you say, meeting his gaze as you take that final sliver of space and crush it. chest to chest. "because right now it just sounds like you're scared of something that hasn't even happened."

"I'm not scared," he snaps, automatic, that media trained side of the best atheist in the world coming to the surface. it makes your raise almost a playful yet knowing brow. nathan huffs, quieter this time. "okay. maybe I am."

you soften, just a little. "of me?"

his gaze drops to your mouth again—quicker this time, like he doesn't mean to, like it's instinct. maybe it is. "of what happens if I let myself have you."

that does it. you can't help the laugh that bubbles out of your mouth. because hearing that has everything in your chest just—clicking into place.

"nate," you start, placing your palm on his stomach. "the only things what happen is that i'd let you."

nathan blinks at you like he's fighting something—like every instinct he has is telling him to hold the line, to keep things where they are, safe and controlled and unchanged. but he's losing. you can see it.

"y/n—"

"tell me you don't want to kiss me," you interrupt him gently.

there's a choking, thick beat before he closes the small distance left between you, one hand coming up—hesitant for only a fraction of a second before it settles at your jaw, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek like he's testing something fragile.

"I can't tell you that because it wouldn't be true."

your nose brushes his, a smile beginning to take its way over your face. "so maybe you should stop lying to yourself...and just let this happen."

"yeah," he says, voice dipping lower as he finally closes that distance and kisses you. it's not tentative, or unsure. it's everything he's been holding back all this time. yet it's controlled, but only barely, like he's still trying to keep a grip on it even as it slips.

nathan's hand tightens just slightly against your jaw, tilting your head as he pulls you closer—he's been thinking about this for a long time, and he's finally giving himself permission.

your hands bunches in his shirt without thinking, gripping, grounding, and pulling him in like you're afraid he might disappear if you don't.

but he doesn't, because of course he doesn't.

if anything, he deepens it—just a fraction. just enough to make your head spin. just enough to prove his point of you being more to him than just this.

when nathan pulls back, it's only far enough to properly peer down at you. breathing uneven, and forehead almost brushing yours.

"that's why," he says quietly.

and you don't have to ask him to explain.

PART FIVE: the kat stratford ending

1 year later

you're wedged into the corner of cale's sectional that's definitely too small for the number of bodies currently occupying it, one of nathan's hoodies swallowing your hands, socked feet tucked under his thigh like it's second nature.

because now, it is.

the tv is on, but no one's really watching it. someone—probably mikko—has the remote, flipping channels with zero commitment while a half finished debate about something stupid unfolds in the background.

nathan's barley paying attention, to be honest. he's beside you, an arm slung across the back of the couch, fingers idly tracing patterns against your shoulder like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. every so often, his thumb will hook into the fabric of your sleeve, tugging you just a little closer without looking.

this close, he can smell that citrusy sweetness that used to haunt him. now, he craves it more than anything. nose brushing against your head as if trying to find the source.

a year ago, this would've short circuited his brain. you lean deeper into him, humming contently as you drop your head back to look at him.

"you're not even listening," you murmur, smiling.

"I am," he says automatically, but there's a familiar twinkle in his eyes that tells you he's totally lying.

"you're not."

"I know exactly what's happening," he insists.

"okay," you hum, amused. "then what are they arguing about?"

that has him pausing before taking a very educated guess. "hockey?" you just stare at him, brow quirked, and nathan shrugs, pressing his lips to your temple. not a kiss, just an absentminded brush. tender.

"that's usually a safe option." nathan says.

you huff a laugh and nudge him with your shoulder. his hand slides down your arm in response, settling warm and steady at your elbow.

across the room, your brother is watching. which is never a good sign because he likes to annoy you at the best of time. he leans back in his chair, eyes moving between the two of you with the kind of slow, knowing look that immediately makes you suspicious.

"what?" you ask in a way only a sibling could, narrowing your eyes.

he shrugs, way too casual. "nothing."

"that's not a nothing face."

he almost scoffs, "it's absolutely a nothing face."

"It's not," you say flatly. "you're about to say something annoying."

"I'm just saying," he starts, already grinning and you groan out a here we go. cale continues, "this is exactly how I pictured it."

nathan's hand stills slightly against your arm as he listens in.

you blink. "what is?"

"this," he repeats, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. "you. him. the whole—" he waves again, like the concept is too obvious to need words. "being in love thing."

in the past year, your relationship with nathan grew into something he used to have doubts about. being with each other has been easy and undeniable. he's still steady and guarded, while you're definitely still too bubbly to digest. but instead of how he feared that would pull you apart, it's made you both blossom.

whatever the odds felt like at the start, the two of you were always going to make sense. thinking about it now, nathan almost feels stupid for thinking your lack in similarities would be your demise.

mikko, from the other end of the couch, snorts. "took you guys long enough anyways."

now it's nathan turning to look. "excuse me?"

"I'm just being honest," the finland native muses, holding his hands up like he's not about to stir the pot anyway. "we all knew."

"you did not all know," nathan argues immediately.

gabe raises a brow from where he's sprawled out on the rug, luke between his thighs playing with a toy. "we absolutely did."

"no, you didn't," you say now, looking between all of them—which now includes mel, tracy and susanna who are nodding along knowingly. traitors. you practically squawk, "because if you did, someone could've maybe said something instead of letting me think I was insane for—" you cut yourself off, gesturing vaguely. "—for years."

"you were just as bad as each other," your sister in law speaks up, sending you a sheepish smile when you send her a baffled look. "we were just letting you two figure it out."

gabe hums, "don't lie tracy," the blonde directs his attention towards you then, "if it's any consolation, y/n, nathan was like immensely worse."

your boyfriend sits up. "hey, I wasn't that bad."

"you used to run away when she walked into a room."

melissa snorts, "one time you texted me trying to figure out what perfume she wears."

"you held her hair back when she puked."

"you built her a bookshelf dude."

"alright," nathan grumbles, cutting of his friends attack. but there's no bite there.

across the room, someone says something else because they can't help themselves from bugging you. mikko argues, cale throws a cushion at him, and the tv keeps playing something no one's watching—

But here, in this small space carved out between all of it nathan leans down just enough to press another quick kiss to your temple.

absentminded and certain. like it was always going to end up this way.