xaelia‘s reposts

You had been called a lot of things over the course of your career.

Canada’s sweetheart. America’s favorite import. The girl next door with an Oscar-worthy cry face. The actress who could sell out a theater in Toronto and shut down a red carpet in Los Angeles on the same weekend.

But before all of that, before the interviews and billboards and late-night talk shows, before the fans stopped you in airports and the paparazzi learned your coffee order, you had been one thing first.

A Toronto Maple Leafs fan.

It was not some carefully curated PR detail your team had invented to make you seem relatable. It was real, embarrassingly real. There were childhood photos of you in oversized Leafs jerseys with missing front teeth and face paint on your cheeks. There were interviews from when you were still a teenager, barely famous, where you had been asked about dream roles and instead somehow ended up ranting about playoff heartbreak. There was the infamous clip of you on a press tour in New York, dressed in couture, hair perfectly styled, saying with complete seriousness, “I can handle bad reviews, but I cannot emotionally survive another third-period collapse.”

Toronto loved you for it.

Leafs fans especially loved you for it.

You were the celebrity who didn’t just show up when the team was winning. You wore the jersey in bad seasons. You tweeted through pain. You posted stories from your couch with your dog beside you and a blanket over your head when games went to overtime. You had been spotted at Scotiabank Arena whenever your schedule allowed, always trying to keep a low profile and always failing miserably because the moment your face appeared on the jumbotron, the entire building lost its mind.

And, secretly, very secretly, buried beneath years of polished media training and practiced professionalism, there was another reason you sometimes got nervous walking into that arena.

William Nylander.

It was ridiculous. Truly, humiliatingly ridiculous. You were a grown woman. You had acted opposite some of the most attractive men in Hollywood without blinking. You had presented awards beside people whose faces were on perfume campaigns and magazine covers. You had kissed movie stars on camera with a director yelling notes five feet away.

And yet William Nylander skating past the glass during warmups could still make your brain short-circuit like you were sixteen years old.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome, though that was obviously part of the problem. It was the confidence, the ease, the way he carried himself like the noise around him had never once managed to reach the center of him. He looked calm in chaos. Smooth under pressure. Infuriatingly pretty while doing it.

Your friends knew. Unfortunately.

Your sister knew because she had once caught you rewinding a post-game interview three times under the very weak excuse of “studying athlete media behavior for a role.” Your assistant knew because she had seen the way your face changed whenever a Leafs campaign popped up in your inbox. Your publicist knew because she had once warned you, very gently, “Please do not look at William Nylander like that if you ever meet him in public.”

You had sworn you would be normal if it ever happened.

Then your agent called.

“It’s a commercial,” she said, sounding far too casual for someone about to ruin your day. “National campaign. Big Canadian brand. Hockey tie-in. Toronto shoot.”

You were pacing barefoot through your kitchen in Vancouver, where you were temporarily staying between filming schedules, stirring coffee you had already forgotten to drink. “Okay. Sounds fun.”

“It’s with the Maple Leafs.” you stopped pacing, your dog lifted his head from the couch like even he knew the energy in the room had shifted.

You cleared your throat. “With the organization?”

“Yes.”

“Like… alumni? Mascot? Fans?” there was a pause on the other end of the line. A terrible pause. A pause with teeth.

“William Nylander.” You stared at the wall,your agent, who had negotiated contracts with studios and handled crisis calls at three in the morning, suddenly sounded delighted. “You alive?”

“No.”

“That’s unfortunate. Fitting is Monday.”

“I can’t do it.”

“You absolutely can.”

“I actually cannot. I am unavailable due to death.”

“You’ve filmed a war movie in freezing rain.”

“That was different.”

“You had a kissing scene with one of the most famous actors in the world.”

“That was acting.”

“This is also acting.”

“No, this is a personal attack.” Your agent laughed, which was deeply unprofessional of her. “You’re a Leafs fan. You’re beloved in Canada. He’s one of the faces of the team. It makes perfect sense.”

It made too much sense. That was the issue.

By Monday morning, you were in Toronto, sitting in a production trailer with a stylist adjusting the collar of a vintage-inspired Leafs jacket while your makeup artist tried not to smile at your obvious internal panic. The concept was simple: you, Canada’s favorite actress and lifelong Leafs fan, would be starring in a playful commercial about game-day rituals. You would be walking through a staged version of your “perfect game day,” only for William to keep appearing in increasingly unexpected places — holding your coffee order, correcting your tape job, stealing your lucky seat, and finally revealing that the best ritual was showing up for the team.

Cute. Easy. Charming.

A nightmare “You’re quiet,” your makeup artist said “I’m centering myself.”

“You look like you’re preparing for surgery.”

“I might need surgery after this.” Your publicist, sitting on the couch with her phone in hand, gave you a warning look. “You are going to be professional.”

“I am always professional.”

“You are going to be normal.”

“That feels less guaranteed.” Before she could answer, there was a knock on the trailer door. One of the production assistants poked her head in. “They’re ready for you on set. William’s already there.”

Your stomach dropped so violently you almost asked whether the commercial had a stunt coordinator.

You stepped out into the chilly Toronto morning and followed the assistant through the controlled chaos of the shoot. Crew members moved around with cables, cameras, lighting equipment, coffee cups, clipboards. Somewhere nearby, someone was testing audio. The set had been built to look like a stylish, cozy version of a fan’s apartment, all warm lighting, blue-and-white details, Leafs memorabilia carefully arranged like a designer had been told to make obsession look tasteful.

And then you saw him.

William was standing near the monitor, wearing a Leafs hoodie beneath a jacket, hair falling slightly over his forehead as he listened to the director explain something. He looked relaxed. Of course he looked relaxed. He was nodding, one hand in his pocket, laughing softly at something one of the producers said.

You, meanwhile, briefly forgot how breathing worked, then he turned, his eyes found you almost immediately.

For half a second, something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Recognition, obviously. But then his mouth curved into a smile, easy and warm, and he walked toward you like this was just another day for him “Hi,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m William.”

As if you didn’t know, as if your entire country didn’t know, as if there weren’t edits of him on your private TikTok likes that you would take to the grave.

You took his hand and prayed your palm wasn’t cold. “I’m Y/N.” His smile widened a little. “I know.”

That did not help “You do?” you asked, and immediately hated yourself because of course he knew. You were famous. You were literally there because you were famous.

“I mean, yeah,” he said, still holding your hand for half a second longer than necessary before letting go. “You’re kind of a big deal.”

You laughed because it was either that or evaporate. “That’s funny coming from you.” He tilted his head. “From me?”

“You play for the Maple Leafs.”

“You act like that’s more impressive.”

“To me? Obviously" His smile changed then. It became less polite, more real. “Yeah? Big fan?” You gave him a look. “You’re asking me that?”

“I’ve heard things.”

“I have unfortunately been very public with my emotional damage.”

“That’s hockey,” he said simply and somehow, that made you relax.

The first scene was supposed to be easy. You walked into the frame wearing your Leafs jacket, carrying snacks, narrating your game-day routine with dramatic seriousness. Then you opened your fridge and found William standing there holding a bottle of sports drink.

The director called action.

You opened the fridge, William leaned casually against the inside of the set piece like it was the most normal place in the world to be and said, “You forgot hydration.”

You were supposed to stare at him, blink, and say, “You’re not part of my routine.”

Instead, the moment you saw him standing inside a fake fridge, perfectly serious, you burst out laughing.

The crew laughed too. The director yelled cut. William looked deeply pleased with himself “Sorry,” you said, covering your face. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t prepared for you to commit that hard.”

“I’m a professional,” he said.

“You’re standing in a fridge.”

“Still professional.” It took three more takes to get it right because every time he said the line, there was the smallest hint of amusement in his voice, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

The rest of the day unfolded like that. Playful. Easy. Dangerous, in one scene, he corrected your attempt at taping a hockey stick “You’re making it worse,” he said, leaning over your shoulder.

You glanced up at him. “That’s rude.”

“It’s true.”

“I’m an actress. I don’t need accuracy, I need confidence.”

“You have confidence.”

“Thank you.”

“No accuracy, though.” You gasped, fully offended, and the director loved it so much he kept the take.

Between setups, you found yourself talking to him more than you should have. About Toronto. About filming. About Sweden. About how weird fame could be when people felt like they knew you because they saw your face on a screen. He understood more than you expected, though maybe you should have expected it. Hockey fame in Toronto was its own kind of pressure cooker.

He asked about your work like he was genuinely interested, not just making polite conversation. He remembered the name of the movie you had filmed the year before. He had apparently watched the limited series that had gotten you an Emmy nomination. He even quoted one of your lines back to you in a way that made your entire body go warm.

“You watched that?” you asked, trying to sound normal “Yeah,” he said. “It was good.”

“You don’t have to say that. I’m contractually obligated to be nice to you today, but you’re not contractually obligated to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.” There was something in his tone that made you stop joking, the set noise carried on around you, but for a second, it felt strangely quiet between the two of you.

Then someone called his name and the moment broke, by the time the final scene arrived, you were exhausted and dangerously fond of him.

The last shot took place on a small recreation of arena seats. You sat down with your popcorn and your lucky Leafs scarf, only to find William already in the seat beside you, holding two drinks “This is my lucky seat,” you said in the script.

He handed you one of the drinks. “Not anymore.”

You were supposed to narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Are you stealing my ritual?” He looked at you, and for whatever reason, his delivery came out softer than before. “Maybe I’m trying to be part of it.”

The set went quiet, you knew it was a line. You knew cameras were on you. You knew there were twenty people watching.

Still, your heart stumbled, you said your final line, the director called cut, and everyone clapped “That’s a wrap on Y/N and William!”

You smiled, thanked the crew, accepted compliments, hugged the director, and tried desperately not to think about how strange it felt that the day was ending. You had spent years joking about your celebrity crush from a safe distance. It had been harmless when he was just a player on your television screen and you were just another fan watching him skate.

Now he was standing beside you, real and warm and close, thanking the crew with that easy grin, and the idea of walking away felt surprisingly disappointing.

You were gathering your things near the trailers when William appeared beside you “Leaving already?” he asked, you looked up, surprised. “That depends. Are you hiding in my car as part of another bit?”

“No. Not today.”

“Good to know.” He smiled, then shifted his weight slightly. For the first time all day, he looked almost nervous. It was subtle, but you noticed it because you were an actress and because you had spent the entire day paying more attention to him than was safe “I was wondering,” he said, “if you wanted to get dinner sometime.”

Your brain emptied, completely, a full system shutdown “Dinner?” you repeated, like the concept was new to you “Yeah.” His smile turned a little sheepish. “Like a date.” You stared at him, he stared back.

Somewhere behind you, your publicist made a sound that might have been a cough or might have been her soul leaving her body, you finally found your voice. “You’re asking me on a date?”

“I am.”

“You know I’m a Leafs fan, right? That feels like a conflict of interest.”

“I’ll risk it.” You laughed, breathless and disbelieving, but his expression stayed open. Honest, so you nodded “I’d like that.”

His smile was immediate, bright enough to make you look away for a second “Good,” he said. “I was hoping you would say that.”

The date happened three nights later.

You expected something loud, expensive, obvious. A restaurant where people would stare. A place with private rooms and a wine list longer than a screenplay. Instead, William picked a small Italian restaurant tucked away on a quiet Toronto street, the kind of place with low lighting, warm bread, handwritten specials, and staff who knew how not to make a fuss.

He was already there when you arrived, standing when he saw you “You’re early,” you said.

“So are you.”

“I was nervous.” The admission slipped out before you could stop it, his face softened. “Me too.” That surprised you. “You? Nervous?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?” He gave you a look across the small table after you sat down, like the answer was obvious. “Because it’s you.”

You had no clever response to that.

Dinner was easier than it had any right to be. Without the cameras, without the crew, without the excuse of a script, you half-expected the connection to fade into awkwardness. It didn’t. If anything, it got worse. Better. More real.

He asked about your childhood in Canada, about the first time you realized acting could become your life. You asked about Sweden, about his family, about what it felt like to be loved and criticized by a city in equal measure. He told you stories from the locker room that made you laugh so hard you had to cover your mouth. You told him about the time you had snuck into a Leafs game after filming in a wig and sunglasses and still ended up on someone’s Instagram story within eight minutes “You’re very bad at being low profile,” he said.

“I’m excellent at it. People are just nosy.”

“You wore a Leafs jersey with your own name on the back.”

“It was a disguise.”

“That is the opposite of a disguise.” By dessert, your knees were touching under the table, neither of you moved away.

When the waiter brought the check, William reached for it automatically, you narrowed your eyes. “Don’t do that because you think I can’t pay.” He looked almost offended. “I’m doing it because I asked you out.”

“That’s annoyingly charming.”

“I try.” You let him pay, mostly because the look he gave you made arguing feel pointless.

Outside, Toronto was cold enough that your breath clouded in front of you. William walked beside you with his hands in his coat pockets, close but not crowding you. It was late, the street quieter than you expected, though you knew better than to assume privacy was guaranteed “I had a really good time,” you said

“So did I.”

You stopped near your car, turning toward him. He looked down at you, and there it was again — that strange, almost disarming softness you had noticed on set “I should probably tell you something,” he said.

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not.”

“Okay.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, smiling like he couldn’t quite believe he was about to say it. “You were kind of my celebrity crush.”

You blinked, then blinked again “I’m sorry, what?” he laughed quietly. “Yeah.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, because that’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because you were mine.”

His expression changed instantly, the confession hung there between you in the cold air then William grinned. Not the smooth camera-ready smile, not the polite public one. This was boyish and delighted and a little smug “I was?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?”

“It was very inconvenient.”

“How long?”

“Absolutely not.” He laughed. “Come on.”

“No. I have dignity.”

“You just told me.”

“That was already too much honesty for one evening.” He stepped a little closer. “Okay, then I’ll go first. I asked to be in the commercial.”

You froze “What?”

“I heard they wanted someone from the team. There were a few options. I asked if I could do it.” You stared at him, your mouth parting slightly. “Because of me?”

“Because of you,” he said. “I knew you were a Leafs fan, and I thought…” He shrugged, but there was nothing casual about his eyes. “I thought maybe it was my chance to meet you.” For once in your life, you had no performance to give. No perfect line. No polished response “You are insane,” you said softly.

“Maybe.”

“I spent the entire day trying not to embarrass myself in front of you.”

“I thought you were cute.”

“I was fighting for my life.”

“I could tell.” You gasped, smacking his arm lightly. “William.” he caught your hand before you could pull it back, his fingers warm around yours. “I liked it.”

The street felt very quiet then, your hand stayed in his, his thumb brushed once over your knuckles “Can I kiss you?” he asked.

You nodded, because words had become a lost cause, the kiss was gentle at first, careful in a way that made your chest ache. Then you smiled against his mouth, and he did too, and the whole thing turned softer, sweeter, more certain. His hand came up to your cheek, and yours curled into the front of his coat, and for a moment you forgot that you were standing on a public sidewalk in Toronto where anyone could turn the corner.

Unfortunately, someone did.

The photo hit the internet forty minutes later.

It was blurry, slightly crooked, obviously taken from across the street, but it was clear enough. You and William outside a restaurant, his hand on your face, your body angled into his, the two of you kissing under a streetlamp like the final scene of a romantic movie.

The internet detonated, by morning, your phone looked like it had been dropped into the sun, your publicist called first. Then your agent. Then your sister, screaming so loudly you had to hold the phone away from your ear. Then three co-stars. Then your mother, who simply texted, “He is very handsome. Be nice.”

Leafs Twitter became unusable.

The reactions were immediate and completely unhinged.

Some fans acted personally betrayed that their favorite Leafs fan had successfully infiltrated the roster. Others declared you the team’s good luck charm before you had even attended a game as William’s date. People dug up every old interview where you had mentioned loving the Leafs, every clip of you cheering in the arena, every reaction shot of you looking stressed during playoffs. Someone made a thread titled “Y/N has been manifesting William Nylander since 2018 and we were all too blind to see it.” It went viral by lunch.

The commercial, which had not even aired yet, suddenly became the most anticipated advertisement in Canada.

When it finally dropped two weeks later, the reaction somehow got worse.

The final line — “Maybe I’m trying to be part of it” — became an instant meme. Fans clipped the behind-the-scenes moments where you laughed too hard to get through takes. People analyzed the way William looked at you like they were studying ancient texts. Your comment section became a war zone of blue hearts, Swedish flags, and people yelling, “SHE WON FOR ALL OF US.”

You posted one photo from set: you in your Leafs jacket, William beside you holding the badly taped stick from the commercial, both of you smiling.

Your caption was simple “Professional fan behavior.” William commented within four minutes “Still no accuracy.”

The internet lost its mind again.

Your relationship after that did not become easy, exactly. There was too much attention for easy. You were both too recognizable, too watched. Every dinner became a rumor. Every arena appearance became a headline. Every time you wore his jersey, people zoomed in like they were solving a crime.

But the relationship itself felt surprisingly simple.

William was calmer than the world around him. He liked quiet nights at home when your schedule allowed them. He liked watching your movies with you even though you covered your face during your own scenes. He liked when you came to games, though he pretended not to notice you until warmups, when he would skate by once, slow and casual, and tap the glass near where you stood. You liked cooking with him, even though he had very strong opinions about things you did not think required opinions. You liked hearing Swedish slip into his voice when he talked to his family. You liked how he never treated your fame as something intimidating or decorative. To him, it was just part of your life, the same way hockey was part of his.

And, privately, he was far more affectionate than anyone would have guessed.

He kissed your temple when passing behind you in the kitchen. He tucked his hand into the back pocket of your jeans while waiting for coffee. He sent you photos from the plane on road trips, usually blurry and pointless, captioned with things like “your dog misses me” even when the dog was clearly at home with you. He kept one of your movie premiere Polaroids in his wallet and pretended it was no big deal when you found it.

Months later, during an interview for a late-night show, you were asked about the commercial.

The host grinned as the audience cheered. “Now, this is the commercial that started everything, right?” you laughed, already knowing where it was going. “Apparently.”

“And is it true that William asked to be the player in it?”

The audience reacted immediately, you tried to hide your smile and failed. “That is what I’ve been told.” the host leaned forward. “And why would he do that?”

You looked toward the side of the stage, where William was standing out of view, watching with his arms crossed and a fond, amused expression on his face “Well,” you said, turning back to the host, “he claims I was his celebrity crush.”

The audience exploded, the host slapped the desk. “Claims?”

“I mean, it’s very convenient now.” from offstage, William’s voice carried clearly enough for the microphones to catch “It’s true.”

The audience screamed even louder, you covered your face, laughing. “He was not supposed to participate.”

The host looked delighted. “William, since you’re already talking, come out here.”

You shook your head as William walked onto the stage to thunderous applause, looking far too pleased with himself. He sat beside you, close enough that his knee touched yours, and without thinking, you leaned into him slightly, the host looked between you. “So she was your celebrity crush?”

William nodded. “Yeah.”

“For how long?” He looked at you, smiling. “A while.” You narrowed your eyes. “Be careful.” He ignored you. “I saw one of her movies years ago, then found out she was a Leafs fan. After that, I was kind of done.”

The audience awed, you pointed at him. “You never said it like that.”

“I’m saying it now.” The host was practically glowing. “And you asked the organization to put you in the commercial?”

“Yes.” you turned fully toward him. “You made it sound casual when you told me.”

“It was casual.”

“You requested to be in a national campaign because you had a crush.” He shrugged. “Worked, didn’t it?”

The audience roared.

You tried to look annoyed, but you were smiling too hard. William reached over and took your hand, lacing your fingers together in front of everyone like it was the easiest thing in the world.

The clip went viral before the episode even finished airing, by the next morning, everyone had a new favorite detail. Not the kiss outside the restaurant. Not the commercial. Not even the fact that you had both been secretly crushing on each other from afar.

It was the way William looked at you when he said, “Worked, didn’t it?”

Like he still couldn’t quite believe it had.

Like out of every lucky bounce, every perfect pass, every goal under bright arena lights, somehow the best thing he had ever asked for was you.

Any chance he got, he was burying his nose in your skin. Anywhere he could get, in your hair, against your stomach, your chest, even between your legs. But his favorite spot was your neck. He said your neck had the perfect mix of your perfume and your natural scent. 

You'd fallen asleep last night with his face against your neck, his nose pressed behind your ear. You woke up with him in the same spot, only now, you could feel his erection poking into your hip. 

As much as you wanted to entertain it, you had to leave for work soon, so you wiggled out of his hold and got up from the bed. Mack let out a whine but stayed where he was, knowing that trying to convince you to stay in bed wouldn't do any good. So instead, he grabbed your pillow and held it against his chest, shoving his face into it so he could smell your scent that lingered there. After you left, he’d probably hump that same pillow until he came in his boxers.

Once you were ready to leave, you leaned over the bed to give him a kiss goodbye, "bye, baby."

He wrapped one arm around your neck and pulled you down to kiss you properly, "have a good day," before he let you go, he pressed his nose to your jaw and inhaled deeply, "I love you."

"Love you too," you gave him another short kiss before leaving the house.

Most days, if he was home when you got home from work, he would greet you at the door, kissing you and burying his face in your neck or hair or chest to inhale your scent. But today, you walked through the door, set your bag down, took your shoes off, and nothing. He didn't come to greet you, didn't even shout out a hello and tell you where he was in the house.

You walked further inside, your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to guess what he could be so busy with that he didn't even notice you got home. When you walked into the bedroom, your question was answered.

There he was, sitting on the edge of the bed. He had a piece of pink lace in his hand, his nose pressed into it. Your eyes widened when you realized he was sitting there sniffing your panties. You started to wonder how often he did this when you weren't home.

"What are you doing?"

He jumped at the sound of your voice, his eyes snapping over to you, "nothing," he dropped the panties on the bed.

You smirked and moved in front of him, standing right between his legs, which he instinctively spread to give you room, "do you always sniff my panties when I'm not home?"

"Y-yeah," he admitted, "…are you mad?"

"No," you ran a hand through his hair.

He leaned into your touch, inhaling deeply when his nose rubbed against your wrist, "can I make another confession then?"

You smiled, "of course."

"When I go away on road trips," he looked right up at you, holding eye contact as he spoke, "I take a few pairs with me."

Your breath hitched, "you do?"

He nodded, "I use them to jerk off."

"Macklin," you breathed, "that's the hottest thing I've ever heard."

"I just can't stand not being able to smell you for so long," he buried his face in your stomach, his nose nudging under your shirt to press into your skin.

"You wanna smell the ones I have on now?"

He nodded his head frantically like an eager puppy. With your permission, he slipped his fingers into the waistband of your pants and pulled them down. Once you stepped out of them, he pulled you up onto the bed by your thighs, so you were kneeling with your knees on either side of his lap, your crotch right at his face level. He pressed his nose right to your core, inhaling deeply.

"So hot," he mumbled, "smell so good," he licked you through your panties, "god, I love this. Love you. Love your smell."

"Mack," you whined, "please."

With his face still pressed to your center, he reached down to push his pants and boxers down, freeing his hard dick. He pulled your panties to the side and gripped your hips, guiding you down into his lap. You carefully sunk down onto his length, moaning once you were fully seated on him. 

He held your hips to help guide your bouncing on him, thrusting up to meet you with every downward motion. Your arms wrapped around his neck, your fingers threading through the hair on the back of his head. He nuzzled his face into your neck, letting out little whimpers as he inhaled you.

"Babe," you gasped, already on the edge of your climax. Just the thought of your boyfriend bringing pairs of your underwear on road trips with him to smell and jerk off with made heat build in your stomach. 

Macklin moved one hand down, circling your clit with two fingers until you were arching into him, "let go, baby."

You leaned heavily against him and tugged on his hair as you orgasm took over your body. Seconds later, he pulled you further down on him, trying to get as deep inside you as he could, and released into you. For a couple minutes, he stayed like that, with you in his lap and his nose in your neck, taking in your scent as he tried to catch his breath. 

"I love you," you whispered.

"I love you too," he finally pulled back, helping you lift your hips so he could slip out of you. 

But before you could climb off of him, he reached under you and slid two fingers through your folds. You squirmed at the feeling and watched as he brought his fingers up to his nose, inhaling the scent until his eyes rolled back.

The air at the Halifax Airport terminal tastes like home.

When you step off the escalator that led to baggage claim, you pause for a moment to fill your lungs with the salty, damp earthy scent of your childhood. It’s a heavenly replacement for the stagnant, HVAC-chilled air of your cubicle back in Toronto. It’s free of the invisible, vibrating panic that always radiated from the unread emails that sat in your inbox. 

The emails that you officially walked away from just 48 hours ago. 

You pulled the straps of your tote bag higher, fingers curling around the worn fabric of the old camera bag you'd dug out of your closet last night. Carrying it felt like holding a piece of your previous life. You hadn’t touched it since high school, back before you’d traded listening to your creative whims for working towards a perfect GPA, then a business degree, and finally a soul crushing 9-5 corporate job that had slowly eroded your spirit until you were nothing more than a ghost starting at a spreadsheet.

For the last four years, your world had been defined by key performance indicators, passive-aggressive Slack messages from your Boomer boss, and the anxiety driven Sunday night dread that made your stomach twist into knots the moment you got out of bed. 

When the panic attacks had started last month, you knew you needed to figure something out. There was no way you’d be able to survive another six months living like this.

All it had taken was one tear-filled phone call to your big brother and it had been decided. You’d get your ducks in a row and then come home. It was a simple decision that you’d needed help making, needed help in giving yourself the permission to flee back to the refuge that was your hometown of Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia. 

The moment you’d heard your brother agree that this was the best decision, the crack in your anxiety had shifted something in your chest and you had felt better than you had in years. 

When you’d handed in your resignation 2 days later, your boss hadn’t even batted an eye. You’d been prepared to tough it out for the polite 2 week transition period but Clark, the man who regularly haunted your dreams on Sunday nights, had just frowned and said that today would be your last day. 

You’d been led out by security holding a box of your belongings 20 minutes later. 

“There she is!” A loud booming voice cuts through your distracted memory, slicing through the ambient noise of baggage claim. 

You look up and the heavy, phantom weight in your chest lightens instantly. Your brother is leaning against a pillar next to your flights assigned baggage carousel, wearing a backwards baseball hat and a faded Colorado Avalanche hoodie. He looks exactly like the Nathan MacKinnon that is the league portrays him to be: big, broad, and slightly unkempt.

To you though, he’s just Nate. He’s just the older brother who used to tease you until you cried and had a bad habit of leaving smelly hockey gear drying in the mudroom until the whole house smelled a locker room. He's the older brother that would've laid down his life for you, who was fiercely protective and would do anything in his power to make sure you were happy.

When he catches your gaze, Nate’s face splits wide open into a massive grin. He closes the distance in three long strides, throwing his arms around your shoulders as he pulls you into a rib-crushing bear hug. He smells like laundry soap and the ice rink, two familiar scents that makes your heart ache for home. 

“Look at you.” Nate says when he pulls back to look at you, concern flickering across his face as he leaves a heavy, protective hand on your shoulder. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.” 

“Thanks a lot, big bro!” You snort, shoving his hand as you roll your eyes. 

Nate follows after you as you retreat towards the baggage carousel, your arms crossed over your chest.

"Aw, come on kiddo, I’m just teasing.” His voice drops to a calmer, placating tone as you spot your suitcase trundling around the moving belt. “We’re all worried about you, mom and dad, me and Charlotte. That place was sucking the life out of you. I’m just glad you’re here, okay?” 

You sigh, the knot in your chest loosening even further. "I know you are and I’m glad I’ve got you guys to fall back on so I can just rest for a little bit, not have to worry about anything.” 

Nate steps forward, grabbing both of your cream colored suitcases off of the belt.

As he sets them down in front of you, he grins. “You’re home now, okay? No spreadsheets, no meetings. Just ocean air, early mornings, and an ice rink full of mini hockey players.” You roll your eyes at the last one, but Nate sees the smile tug at the corner of your lips. “It’s exactly what the doctor ordered.” 

“Yeah, a summer spent corralling a bunch of kids and professional hockey players, sounds super low stress.” 

You follow your brother out to the parking garage, inhaling the salty sea air that makes you feel at home.

Nate turns around, narrowing his eyes at you, “You love that special brand of chaos, don't even try to lie."

The humidity outside is thick but sweet, there’s a heaviness in the air that feels like a warm hand on your back. He’s parked close so it doesn’t take too long to reach his Explorer, the blacked out SUV one of his favorites to drive during the summer.

You climb into the passenger side, the door shutting with a heavy thud that seems to block out the rest of the world. Nate cranks the AC as he turns the car on, sending a blast of crisp air towards your face. 

“Alright, the set up we’ve got going this year is going to be amazing.” Nate says, resting one hand on the steering wheel while the other reaches into the console for a bottle of water. “It’s also going to be a total zoo and I’m going to need you to help keep everything running smoothly.” 

“I told you, I’ll organize whatever you need. Just please for the love of God, don’t make me look at an Excel sheet or edit a marketing message, okay?” Leaning back against the headrest, you let out a long breath as you watch the trees slip by outside.

Nate laughs, a loud, booming sound that settles the homesickness that had taken up permanent residence in your chest.

“No spreadsheets, no editing anything, I swear. I really just need your help with the camp. Sid and I started it years ago, you know that. It’s our baby. We had to hire some guys who run the youth league during the season a few years ago because it got so big. They take care of the on-ice coaching and running of the program and they’re great with the kids.” 

“So what do you need me for if you’ve got them?” You ask, turning your head to look at him. 

“You’re my gatekeeper.” Nate says with a sly grin. “The sessions run week-by-week all summer. We’ve got kids of all ages coming, some of them are only registered for one week but a bunch of the local kids are signed up for every session. I need you at the front desk in the mornings to handle check-ins, group assignments, dealing with parents and making sure everyone gets where they need to go. I’ll make sure you have everything you need, you just have to be the glue that keeps everything together.” 

He glances over at you while he’s stopped at a red light, his eyes dropping to the camera bag resting in your lap “You gonna pick that thing up this summer again too?” 

Your fingers flex around the strap as your gaze drops down to the smooth leather, “Yeah.” You say quietly. “I miss having something creative to do. I was always so tired after work that I just couldn’t do much more than watch tv on the couch and scroll on TikTok.” 

Nate smiles over at you, a genuine proud brother kind of grin that has your chest squeezing. “Good. You always took the best pictures of me at games.” 

You snort and roll your eyes. 

“And I mean, look, if you get bored, you can always throw on a pair of skates and help the kids out on the ice.” 

“Oh, absolutely not.” You say quickly, shaking your head fiercely. “My days of being on skates are over. I will happily take all the photos you want but I will not be touching the ice in any way shape or form.” 

“Suit yourself.” Nate says with a shrug. “It’s not going to be a quiet summer though, are you going to be okay with that?” 

“How bad can a bunch of kids be?” 

“It’s not just camp, Sid and I are doing our full summer conditioning program and ice training there too. We’ve become quite the summer destination for a bunch of the pro guys too, there’s always a massive group that end up hanging around to work out with us all summer.” 

Your eyebrows go up. “Who else is in town?” 

Nate starts rattling off names like he’s reading a fantasy draft roster “Marchy is around, obviously. Tanger is here for a week or two while Cath is visiting her sisters. A bunch of younger guys started coming around the last few years - Celebrini and Will Smith because those two are inseparable. Sam Dickinson is the third stooge in that group. I’m sure other guys will drop in randomly, it becomes a mad house most weekends to be honest.” 

The sheer volume of elite athletes in one local rink makes your head spin a little. Sometimes you forgot just how well-known your brother was in the hockey world and when you were reminded of it, it made you sit back in awe of his accomplishments a little. 

“And they’re all just…hanging around?” 

Nate shrugs as he pulls onto the highway, heading towards home. “I mean, we work pretty hard during the day. Sid and I are on the ice early with everyone for on-ice workouts but a few mornings a week after we’re done, we hang around to help with camp. Most of the other guys drop in to help with the camps too, the kids eat it up, getting to rub elbows with the pros. It’s a lot of moving parts to be honest, a lot of chaos. Pros wandering in and out, kids running around, parents trying to corral bunches of siblings.” Nate reaches over, playfully shoving at your shoulder. “See why I need my smart, organized sister? If Sid and I tried to coordinate everything, the rink would burn down by July.” 

You smile, looking back out the window as you get closer to home. The burnout still feels like a heavy, dull ache in your bones but listening to your brother talk, a tiny spark of excitement actually manages to break through the fog. A summer surrounded by the crisp smell of the rink, the sound of blades carving out paths in the ice, the chaos of the athletes that you know are like rowdy children, and your old camera in your hands. 

It’s a completely unstructured, detached existence from the buttoned up corporate world you’ve barely survived over the last few years. As you roll your window down, breathing in the salty coastal air deep into your lungs, you realize it may just be exactly what you need. 

The house is completely yours that first Saturday morning and it feels like heaven. Nate had left early for a workout with a few of the guys, leaving you with nothing but a quiet kitchen and a massive craving for something sweet. 

You’ve got a big bowl of double chocolate brownie batter on the counter, which you’d promised Nate you’d bake for whatever crowd inevitably ended up at the house later that night. These were the kind of summer nights you’d been used to before you’d headed off to college: late nights, bonfires, random friends fluttering in and out of the house. It was nostalgic in the most grounding way, the anticipation of an entire summer filled with nothing but these kinds of days and nights made your skin feel like it was vibrating. 

With no emails to answer and no Teams meetings to join, you felt freer than you had in years.

Nate hadn’t been out of the house long before you’d connected your phone to the house bluetooth speakers, blasting your favorite Molly Chapman playlist so loud the marble counters were practically vibrating. 

You’re completely lost in your own world, convinced that the concert you’re giving the brownie batter is a Grammy worthy performance. Skipping across the hardwood floors in your socks, you bump your hip against the refrigerator door as you shut it after grabbing the carton of eggs. By the time the chorus hits, you’re fully committed.

You aren’t just humming along to the words - the songs off of her new album “Lover Girl” already memorized - you’re full on belting out every single word. Every time you listened to this album you said a silent prayer of thanks to Lando Norris for inspiring the album that was absolutely your favorite thing Molly had ever put out.

You grab a silicone spatula, dripping with batter, and use it as a makeshift microphone, belting out the lyrics to the empty room as you do a ridiculously dramatic spin past the oven. 

You’re laughing at yourself, hair tumbling messily out of a claw clip, totally consumed by the music and freedom of having absolutely nowhere to be. It’s the most alive you’ve felt in such a long time and you’re desperate to hold onto this feeling, to make sure that you’re never without it for long ever again. 

Because of the music, you don’t hear the heavy thud of the front door opening. You also fail to notice the squeak of the sneakers in the entryway too. 

And you definitely don’t notice when Sidney Crosby walks into the kitchen, carrying a bag of ice in one hand and a case of beer in the other. 

Sidney stops dead in his tracks when he realizes what he’s interrupting.

Quietly, he sets everything down, his eyes locking onto you. A look of amusement washes over his face as he takes in the scene in front of him. There are ingredients scattered everywhere, a giant Kitchen Aid mixer whirring away on the island, and streaks of flour and cocoa powder scattered on the wood floor beneath your feet. 

He doesn’t say a word. 

Instead, Sid just crosses his arms over his chest, shifts his weight, and leans his broad shoulder right against the wooden doorframe, a brilliant grin breaking across his face as he watches you perform for your imaginary audience. 

For a solid thirty seconds, he just watches. 

The last time he had seen you, you had been a quiet, reserved teenager buried in textbooks and worried about exams. But now? Now you were vibrant and laughing, completely unbothered as you hit a particularly dramatic high note into your spatula.

There’s a sudden, heavy warmth that flares in Sidney's chest as he watches you. It’s a strange jolt of realization of just how beautiful become, a feeling that catches him off guard. 

You belt out the last few notes, doing a triumphant and theatrical turn back towards the island to throw the spatulas into an empty bowl. 

As you turn, your eyes catch on the doorway. 

You freeze. 

Sidney is standing right in front of you, looking every bit the elite athlete you know him to be in a fitted black t-shirt and athletic shorts, his dark hair shoved underneath a backwards facing baseball hat, arms crossed as he watches you with a mixture of amusement and delight. 

You let out a genuine, blood-curdling scream, your reflexes kicking in as you chuck the spatula across the room straight at Sidney's chest. It flies through the air, flipping twice before landing with a wet, heavy smack right against the front of his t-shirt. 

“Sidney Patrick Crosby!” You shriek, stomping your foot like an actual toddler, eyes going wide with absolute horror, “You nearly sent me into cardiac arrest, you asshole!” 

Sid looks down at his chest and then back up at you. For a moment, he just stares, eyes wide. 

And then, he completely loses it. 

Throwing his head back, he starts laughing so hard you’re concerned he might choke. For a moment, you hope he does. It’s a loud, deep, and wildly infectious sound that echoes through your chest, sending butterflies into a tizzy in the pit of your stomach. 

He’s clutching his sides as he steps into the kitchen after picking up the offending spatula off the floor. He tries to wipe the batter off of the front of his shirt but only succeeds in smearing it even more into the fabric. 

“I’m so sorry, Little Mac.” You purse your lips at the juvenile nickname, momentarily forgetting to be mortified. “I just didn’t want to interrupt your performance. I never meant to scare you, Scouts honor.” 

“You were never Boy Scout, you idiot.” You fire back, your cheeks flushing crimson as you watch Sid lean a hip against the counter. “And don’t call me Little Mac. I’m twenty-six years old for fucks sakes.” 

“With the mouth of a sailor too, Jesus.” Sid teases, voice edged with laughter as he barely catches the roll of paper towels you (not so gently) throw at him.

“I’m sorry.” He soothes, grinning over at you in a way that has your heart kicking against your ribs. “You were just so into the performance, I didn’t want to ruin the show.” 

“You’re the worst.” You groan, hiding your face in your hands for a second before looking up at him through your fingers. 

The childhood crush you had thought you’d outgrown doesn’t just return as you watch him watch you - it slams into you with the force of a freight train.

Up close, Sid is taller, broader, his presence entirely overwhelming and magnetic. He steps closer to you, tossing the paper towel in the trash, his eyes never leaving yours. The humor in his expression softens into something warmer as he takes in the sight of you covered in flour, your hair messy and your cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of pink he’s ever seen. 

“It’s good to see you.” Sid says softy, his voice dropping into that quiet, low tone that makes your stomach do a dizzying flip. “Even if you did just assault me with a kitchen utensil.” 

“It was self-defense.” You sneer, shoving aside the butterflies as you give him a playful, flirty glare. “I should have you charged with breaking and entering.” 

“It’s not breaking and entering if I know the front door code.” Sid lets out another quiet chuckle, his gaze dropping to your lips for the quickest of moments before he drags it back up to your eyes. 

You watch the muscle in his jaw tick. 

Your chest tightens as the atmosphere in the room shifts, suddenly sparking with a brand new, adult kind of tension that has your mind spinning. 

“But, you’re right. I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.” He murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Next time, I’ll knock.” 

“Bold of you to assume there’s going to be a next time!” You grab a clean spatula from one of the many drawers in the island and start in on scraping the brownie batter from the side of the mixing bowl. 

Sidney pulls out one of the barstools at the island, flipping it around so he can fold his arms over the backrest. He watches as you carefully grease the inside of a baking dish, his eyes tracking the way your nervous energy settles into something a bit more calm now that the initial shock of being caught giving a kitchen concert has worn off. 

“So.” He starts, your ears perk up at how he’s softened his tone into something quieter and more genuine. “Nate said you’re officially done with city girl life, left the corporate world behind.” 

You huff a soft, self-deprecating laugh, leaning back against the opposite counter and cross your arms. “That’s one way of putting it. It felt like I was escaping a burning building, not just walking away from some job. I swear I woke up one day and couldn’t remember the last time I felt excited about anything. I was living for the weekend but even then, I couldn’t escape the anxiety.” You shrug as heat prickles at the back of your neck. 

Being this vulnerable with someone like Sidney was difficult. At the same time though, the way he was looking at you, like you mattered, like you had something worthy to say and how he actively leaned forward when you got quiet? It made something in your chest ache and that was equally as unnerving. 

Sidney nods slowly. There’s no judgement in his expression, just a calm sense of understanding. It dawns on you then - that he’s lived pretty much his entire life under the crushing weight of public scrutiny and insane expectations. He knew exactly what it was like to carry such a heavy burden, even if his was a different sort of pain. 

“Burnout is rough.” He says, his dark eyes watching you with a sort of intensity that makes the breath catch in the back of your throat. “Sometimes the hardest part is just admitting you need to stop. I think it takes guts to actually do it.” 

You catch your bottom lip between your teeth, guilt pressing thickly against your sternum.

“I feel so stupid for allowing something as trivial as emails and spreadsheets to send me over the edge.” You pause, laughing softly to yourself. “I haven’t said that out loud yet.” 

Sidney watches you, gaze sharp with that lopsided grin he’s known for throughout the league. “Anxiety is rarely rational and I think it makes you stronger than a lot of people just by admitting you needed to do something different.” 

“Well, right now, different just feels like chaos.” You admit, gesturing to the messy kitchen, the flour on your hands, your camera sitting on the stool next to him. “But being here, having the camp to look forward to and a whole stretch of summer with nothing to be concerned about, it’s the first time I’ve felt like myself in a really long time. I even pulled my camera out of the back of my closet before I left Toronto.” 

Sid’s eyes drop to the camera next to him before tracking back up to your face. He smiles at you so genuinely, your stomach does a nervous flip that makes you lean more of your weight onto the counter behind you.

“Good. You always had an eye for it back when you were in school. I remember Nate would not shut up about your senior show the summer you graduated high school.” 

You tilt your head to the side, watching Sidney closely as he talks. He was older than Nate by several years and had always given you ‘big brother’ vibes in the most platonic way, not that that had stopped you from developing a silly little school girl crush back then. He knew you when you were an awkward teenager and had still made time to talk to you whenever he would see you wandering around the rink while Nate was at practice. 

Here in the kitchen though, with you being older and Sidney looking at you with a different kind of expression that edged towards admiration and something else that felt distinctly more adult and heated, you wondered if there could be more to the two of you than just ‘your big brother’s best friend’. 

Before you can put too much thought to what you know is a reckless, stupid idea, the heavy thud of the front door echoing through the hallway shatters the intimacy that had been blooming between you and Sidney. 

“Sister dear! I brought reinforcements and refreshments!” Nate’s voice bounces off the walls, followed immediately by the chaotic sound of multiple pairs of shoes, loud laughter, and the distinctive, high-energy chatter that you knew meant there were more hockey players in the house now. 

Nate bursts into the kitchen first, looking sweaty and slightly windswept from his workout. Right on his heels is Brad Marchand, who is mid-sentence, arguing loudly with Macklin Celebrini, Will Smith, and Sam Dickinson. Bringing up the rear is Kris Letang, who is on the phone talking to someone in rapid French. The younger guys are carrying grocery bags and cases of drinks, shoving past each other like a litter of golden retriever puppies. 

“Hey! Look who beat us here.” Nate grins, clapping Sidney on the shoulder before dropping a sweaty kiss on the top of your head. When he finally gets a good look at the front of Sidney’s shirt, he stops. “What the hell happened?” 

“Your sister assaulted me with a kitchen utensil.” Sidney says smoothly, though his eyes dart over to you with a lingerings spark of mischief in them.

“Sounds about right.” Nate laughs, completely oblivious to the lingering tension in the air. 

He grabs a massive pack of steaks from the fridge and hands it over to Brad, who bumps his shoulder with yours as he passes you on his way towards the back sliding door. 

“Come on, Little Mac.” You shoot Sidney a death glare when he barks a laugh at the nickname. “Help me get these unwrapped and ready for the grill so the three stooges over here don’t get hangry.” 

“Oh for fucks sakes, will you people stop it with the Little Mac!” You cry, throwing your hands in the air but follow Brad towards the door without further complaint. 

“But it’s just so much fun riling you up.” Sidney says, that signature Crosby grin hitching up at the corner of his mouth. 

“Careful, Captain Canada or the next weapon I use on you won’t be a silicone spatula.” You wink but are secretly glad that you now have a reason to escape the kitchen that had started to feel just a bit too small with just you and Sidney alone in it.

Without another word, you follow both Nate and Brad through the back door towards the patio. 

The moment the glass door clicks shut behind you, the energy in the kitchen shifts. 

Sam watches you walk down the deck steps through the window and then turns around to look at the rest of the guys, shaking his head. “Nate never mentioned his sister was a total smoke show. Why didn’t anyone warn me?” 

“Seriously.” Will mutters, leaning against the counter, looking thoroughly impressed. “She’s stunning.” 

Macklin looks over at the door, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I might have to volunteer to help her at the check in desk on Monday. Do you think she likes younger guys?” 

From his spot near the fridge, Kris snorts. He takes a pull of his beer and looks over at Sidney, who hasn’t moved from his spot at the island. 

Sidney stiffens. The relaxed, amused expression he had while talking to you is completely gone, replaced by the rigid, formidable presence of a veteran captain. His jaw is tight, brow slightly furrowed, and he narrows his eyes as he glares at the three younger guys.

“Knock that shit off.” He snaps. He’s not loud but the tone is sharp, carrying an authoritative weight that instantly cuts through the light hearted feeling in the room. 

Will, Macklin, and Sam all freeze, looking over at him with various levels of surprise. 

Sidney leans forward, his hands flat on the marble countertop as he levels a lethal gaze at them. “First of all, she’s here to rest and clear her head, not get hit on by a bunch of idiots. Second of all, if any of you so much as think about making a move on her, Nate will bury you in the woods. He would kill all three of you without a second thought. And I’d help him hide the bodies, so lay off.” 

Kris lets out a cackling laugh, clapping a hand on Macklin’s shoulder. “He’s not lying either. Nate is a certified psycho when it comes to YN. Keep your hands off the prettier MacKinnon if you want to start next season with both hands.” 

Will and Sam exchange a wide-eyed, intimidated look as they both nod quickly. 

“Got it.” Will says weakly. 

“Loud and Clear.” Sam agrees.

Sid lets out a quiet, tight breath as his eyes drift back out the window towards the deck where you’re laughing at something Nate is saying. He swallows hard, his knuckles whitening slightly against the marble countertop. He had talked a big game about Nate’s rules but as he watches you stretch your arms out to your sides in the warm summer sun, he realizes the warning wasn’t just for the three stooges. 

It was for him too. 

yn_snaps posted!

5,928 likes liked by mackinnon29, mackcelebrini, _willsmith2 and others yn_snaps: home sweet home friend1 GIRL you're not in toronto for the summer??? >>>yn_snaps nope, quit my job and ran away to tame hockey boys >>>friend1 omg living my dream life fr >>>yn_snaps don't be too jealous. the kitchen stinks like smelly hockey gloves 99% of the time. user22 the whole nhl up in yn's likes user45 how does it feel to be god's favorite??? mackcelebrini if i promise not to throw you into the lake again, will you make me a s'more tomorrow night? >>>_willsmith2 WHAT did dad say about flirting with the prettier mackinnon >>>yn_snaps YEAH WHAT DID DAD SAY (who is dad?) >>>mackinnon29 YN is not prettier than me >>>mackcelebrini hate to break it to ya bud but...

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“That’s literally the definition of cheating!—What you’re going to tell me, Shane slipped you a few bills too, huh?” Oliver exclaimed dramatically, waving his hands in the air as he accused his older brother. Grace was surprised he wasn't on his feet and pacing dramatically across the living room floor, like he always did when he got into one of these moods. 

Adam’s silence and small shrug did not help his case or simmer down Oliver’s annoyance, causing Oliver to gasp dramatically and snap his head towards Shane, who sat across from him on the living room floor, the coffee table between them. Oliver shook his head in disappointment. “Wow, unbelievable. Look at you, Shane, supporting your little brother's bad habits.” 

“Don’t bring me into this,” Shane was quick to snap back, boredly as he leaned back against the couch, a small groan leaving his lips as he stretched his legs out under the table, muscles aching from sitting on the ground for so long. He would rather be catching up on some sleep, but anything for his siblings. 

“For fuck’s sake, idiot, just roll the damn dice,” Adam groaned tiredly as he pushed back the hair from his face, laying his head back against the couch as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. Too tired to even argue with his younger brother. 

Oliver rolled his eyes and made a show of dramatically grabbing the dice from the board and handing them to Grace, playfully flipping off Adam with a big smile. “It’s Gracie’s turn, you would know that if you weren’t too busy cheating.” 

“oookay i vote we reconvene tomorrow.” Grace dragged out her words as she grabbed the dice and looked at her brothers. Usually, it was Caleb being the peacemaker, but the eldest Marlowe sibling was still in Cincinnati. A look of relief spreads across Shane and Adam’s faces. Their tiredness only made their competitiveness more evident, clearly with Oliver. 

Making the monopoly game they have been playing for the past 4 hours intense, but it was nothing they weren’t used to for their game nights.

Shane covered his mouth as he yawned, his words coming out muffled: “Today is tomorrow.” 

Grace moves her legs from having them pulled up against her chest, ignoring the dramatic wince Adam let out at the feeling of her legs stretching out over his under the table. She pulled out her phone from her hoodie pocket to check the time, seeing not only was it way past 1 am, but also an unread text from her boyfriend.

“I’m heading up, don't forget to take those 50’s out of your pocket, Ollie.” Grace smiled as she stood up, quickly ruffling Oliver’s hair as she exposed him. Giggling and quickly moving out of the way as Oliver tries to pinch her. 

Shane shook his head in disappointment, muttering ‘Not cool, bro’ under his breath.

Adam lifted his head and looked at Oliver in disbelief. Oliver had been on his ass for the past hour about him ‘cheating’ while the whole time it was Oliver. Adam raises his voice, “What the fuck!”

“Thanks a lot, brat,” Oliver smiles sarcastically up at Grace before quickly dodging the couch pillow Adam tossed at his face. Shane was quick to stand up and stretch out his legs and arms, ready to get out of there before Adam and Oliver decided to be WWE wrestlers. He missed Caleb. 

“Goodnight losers,” Gracie giggled as she dramatically blew her brothers a kiss before she made her way up the stairs and down the hallway that led to the bedroom she had at her brother's lake house. Once she was in the safety of her room, she pulled her phone back out of her hoodie pocket and quickly opened Will's text as she sat at her desk.

will 🩵

you up?

my ace 💕

pardon???

will 🩵

🫪🫪

sorry…

hi baby, are you still up?

my ace 💕

hiii yes I’m up in my room, everything okay?

Grace leaned back in her desk chair as she softly bit at her bottom lip, waiting for those three dots to appear on her screen, but they never came. She sighed and set her phone down before she reached to press the play button on the CD player she had on her desk. The soft sound of the homemade cd will made for her, filled her room.

She couldn’t help but smile and hum along to the songs that played, how could she not, knowing that will spent so much time picking and putting all the songs together. She was so caught up in her music and her journal to notice what was going on outside her window.

Will lets out a quiet ‘fuck’ under his breath as he carefully climbs up the tree and onto the slanted roof under Grace’s window. A small grunt left his lips as he crawled up to her window. The curtains were pulled back, letting him see into her room. It was a bad habit of hers, forgetting to close her curtains when it got dark.

He brushed his hair back with a smile as he watched her. She was so effortlessly enchanting. The way her hand moved so gracefully as she wrote, the way she would push back the few strands of hair that would fall into her face, how her pretty lips moved as she sang along to the song, how beautiful she looked under all the warm lights she had in her room. She had one of her legs pulled up to her chest, and God, will could never understand how she could be comfortable in the weirdest positions.

He brought this hand up to the window, softly knocking so he wouldn’t startle her too badly. He couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched her snap her head up in surprise. Her pretty eyes were wide as she turned her towards her window. That startled look on her face quickly disappeared and changed into a big smile as she locked eyes with her boyfriend.

Grace giggled and quickly set her pen down before she moved over to her window, kneeling on her window nook bench as she leaned forward to unlock and quietly open her window. The last thing she needed was one of her brothers finding out Will sneaked into her room. She could see it now, coming home to the lake house to see Oliver’s dramatic self cutting down the tree that was outside her window, all four of her brothers shaking their heads in disappointment. A true nightmare….

“What are you doing here?” Grace spoke quickly in a hushed whisper as she leaned back to give him room so he could climb in. The two of them had a date planned for tomorrow—well, today, they would be seeing each other in hours, so Grace was definitely surprised to see him. Last time she checked, he was playing video games in his hotel room with Gabe and Ryan.

“Surprising my girlfriend, what does it look like?” Will shrugged with a faux innocent smile before he carefully climbed through the window, careful not to step on the cushions of the nook bench. He stood still there for a moment as he admired her, the pink and white plaid pajama pants she wore, the oversized gray hoodie she most likely stole from Shane.

Grace got off her knees on the bench and stood up, resting one of her hands on her hip with a knowing look and a slight tilt of her head as she looked up at him. Raising her eyebrow as she teased him, “It looks like you’re inpatient.”

“I couldn’t wait anymore, can you blame me?” Will gave her a toothy smile as he spoke lowly, his tone and body language showing slight mischievousness. He reached forward, his hands splayed across her hips as he pulled her flush against him with a gentle but deliberate tug. 

She raised her eyebrow at her boyfriend’s boldness; it wasn't rare—just very much appreciated. Her eyes never left his as her hands slowly moved up his hoodie-covered arms to rest on his nape, fingers brushing against his hair. Her tone was a perfect mixture of flirty and teasing as she whispered, “I guess not.”

Will closed the gap between the two of them as he leaned down to kiss her. It was soft at first, gentle. A slow press of his lips against hers, it wasn't hungry or desperate, just sweet. One of his hands moved from her hip and up to cradle her jaw, holding her close as the kiss deepened naturally. 

Their lips moved together in a slow and easy rhythm. Will kissed her like he had all the time in the world, as if there was no chance any of her brothers could walk in and catch them. His thumb softly brushed over her cheekbone as his mouth explored hers—as if he didn't already have it memorized. Small nips and teasing licks, the kind of kiss that said ‘I missed you’ without words. 

When he did finally pull away—just an inch—their foreheads resting together automatically, neither of them wanting to be too far. Neither of them opened their eyes right away, just breathing, warm pants mixing between them.

Will smiled teasingly as he whispered, repeating her words slowly as he fluttered his eyes open, “You guess?”

“Mmm, definitely not—yup, no blaming here.” Grace was quick to disagree with her past teasing comment, smiling breathlessly and shaking her head no dramatically. Will dropped his forehead to her shoulder as he chuckled, finding her dramatics cute. 

A pleased grunt slips past Will’s lips, followed by a cocky grin spreading across his face at the feeling of Grace softly tugging on the hair at his nape, pulling him away from her shoulder and to her lips. Their lips moved together in tandem as Will carefully guided her backwards to her bed. A small gasp of surprise leaves her lips when she feels herself fall back on her bed. 

“Oh?” Grace giggled as she sat up on her elbows watching him slip off his shoes before pulling off his hoodie, leaving him in his BC eagle, his hair messy from her hands and taking off his hoodie. She bit her bottom lip softly as her eyes zeroed in on the sliver of his skin showing on his midriff. 

Grace grinned as she lifted her sock-covered foot, teasingly using it to press against his abdomen and lift his shirt higher, trying to get a better peek at his abs. Will smirked and quickly grabbed ahold of her ankle, massaging her foot for a moment before he quickly spread her thighs and crawled between them, the bed dipping slightly. 

He held himself up on his forearms, his lower half, and now chest pressed against hers as she wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him closer. 

“You were all I could think about today,” Will mumbled with a slight whine, softly brushing his nose against her jaw before placing a few featherlight kisses to her neck. All day he spent with his team, and all day he had been caught getting lost in his thoughts—all about her. It didn't matter how many times he tried to play it off and how Ryan and Gabe tried to help him; the boys were starting to notice something was up. 

He propped himself on one elbow for a moment, pulling his face away so he could truly admire her. The warm and fairy lights of her room created a soft glow across her face, her cheeks slightly pink with a bashful blush, her hair fanned out across her pillows. He leaned back down as he reached out and tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear tenderly. 

“I hated being so close to you but not with you,” he whispered between the kisses he pressed to her skin. One to her forehead—then another to her temple—and then one more lingering at the corner of her mouth before turning slightly to kiss her lips. Not soft this time. 

The kiss deepened—slow, warm, and hungry in a quiet way. Not demanding, but needing—as if the weight of missing her all day had finally caught up to him now that he was alone with her in her room. Will’s hand slid gently into her hair at the back of her head—not pulling, just holding—anchoring her as his lips moved needily against hers. 

Will moaned against her lips as he felt her hands move from her biceps and slowly down his sides, slipping under his shirt to feel his warm skin. A chill went down his spine at the feeling of her fingers brushing against his V-line. 

The loud thud of Grace’s forgotten book on the end of her bed, hitting the floor, made both of them freeze—lips parted and breaths mingling. Will’s breath hitched, blue eyes wide—half-lit by the soft glow of her room. Both of their hearts slammed against their ribs, neither of them moving or blinking. 

A few seconds later—knock knock knock. 

Will had barely any time to process before she was clamping a hand over his mouth—his warm cheeks and wet lips pressed against her palm. She shook her head frantically, silently telling him not to make a sound. Her older brother Shane’s worried voice came through the door, “Gray, you okay?” 

Grace swallowed hard as she forced a calm tone as she called out, “Yeah! Yeah—I just dropped my sketchbook.” 

Will slowly raised one eyebrow at her with a grin behind her palm—teasing even in this life-or-death situation. He then gently pressed a kiss right into her palm. 

Silence came from the other side of her door for a few beats, and then the sound of footsteps as if someone was stepping away from her door. Shane called out quietly, not wanting to disturb his other siblings, “Okay, get some rest.” 

Grace's eyes widened, quickly pulling her hand away from his mouth at the feeling of his tongue licking across her palm. Grace glared at him at the sight of his smug smile, wiping her hand on his shirt, making him have to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing. 

“That was a close one,” Will whispered after a few moments, once he heard the footsteps disappear, his lips curled up into a smug smile. He quickly dropped his head into her chest to muffle the few giggles that slipped through his lips after the sight of her dramatic glare. 

“Yeah, no thanks to you, Happy feet,” She hissed playfully, clearly teasing him about kicking her book off her bed. He really was like a puppy, not being able to fully control his limbs when he got excited. She playfully pushed her boyfriend off of her, smiling at the way he dramatically flopped at her side, wincing as if he was wounded. 

Grace rolled her eyes with a smile as she turned on her side, reaching for her TV remote on her bedside table. Will didn't hesitate, shifting closer so his chest pressed against her back, one of his arms curling around her waist, pulling her towards him until there was no space left between the two of them. 

She couldn’t help but melt back into him, her frame fitting so perfectly against his broad chest. Grace felt the steady rise and fall of Will’s breathing against her neck and cheek as she started to scroll through her continued watching. She hummed quietly, “Glee?” 

He pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder and then another lingering one on her jaw before adjusting so his face was practically in her hair. He hummed, the vibration traveling to her back. His arm draped over her, keeping her anchored against him, sharing his body heat as he held her. Then softly, so quietly, he murmured into her hair, “Sounds good to me, ace.” 

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙖𝙪 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 & 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜

roro’s note. our first fic for them 🥹 I love writing for them omggg btw for the sake of the au will’s sisters name is gabby !! I already had most of this done when i realized my mistake 😭 please tell me your thoughts , this is a interactive au so your guy’s thoughts, ideas, and opinions are very important and wanted !! comments, reblogs and feedback is very welcomed !!

˖ ་ taglist : @pixiebratz @lovings4turn @minikiiikiii @toasttt11 @avreated @fantillisgirl @cixrosie

۶ৎ taglist is open

Which, naturally, makes you panic immediately. You sit up so fast the blankets fall almost entirely off your body, confusion taking over now.

That’s when you notice your notifications keep climbing in real time. Your stomach drops, and you open TikTok first. 

The first video on your feed is from the official Bruins account captioned: “Family Skate Day 🐻⛸️”

Oh no.

“Oh my god,” you whisper to yourself. 

The video starts innocently enough. Players’ kids skating around, players helping little cousins stand upright. A sibling or two crashing into the boards while everyone laughs. Then midway through the reel; there you are in the background.

Your face is only partially showing and the camera isn’t even fully focused on your features. You hadn’t even realized you were in frame. 

Fraser is beside you, gliding backward effortlessly while holding both your hands because you’re still shaky on skates despite him trying to teach you how to properly skate multiple times. His head is tilted toward you, listening to something you’re saying, and he’s smiling in that small quiet way he does when he’s genuinely amused.

The clip cuts, then you show up in the background again.

This time you’re standing near the boards talking to one of the other girlfriends while Fraser skates past behind you, and without even looking, he reaches for your hand as he passes, just to give it a quick squeeze to remind you he’s around. You remember the moment exactly, you’d taken a break while he was skating circles around the rink with some of his teammates and some of the kids. 

Near the end, there’s a blurry little background clip of you laughing about something while Fraser leans down and presses a quick kiss to your forehead before skating away again.

You make the mistake of checking the comments under the video, and it’s incredibly clear people noticed you and Fraser together: 

THAT MAN IS IN LOVE

Bruins admin hard launching Fraser Minten was not on my bingo card…

Whoever she is, he adores her

Him skating backwards holding both her hands 😭😭 BYE

who IS she?!

You replay the video. Once, twice, three times. 

The whole afternoon you weren’t exactly aware of the social media admin filming as much as they did, but then again you were just focused on having a good time with your boyfriend and his teammates and their families. 

Your phone rings. Fraser.

You answer immediately. “You told me not to panic,” you say the second you pick up.

“Yeah.”

“Well I’m panicking.”

“I figured.”

His voice is calm, annoyingly calm like it always is. Like this isn’t the social equivalent of a small disaster currently unfolding in your bedroom. 

“I have hundreds of follow requests.”

There’s a pause from his end. Then, carefully, “Okay.”

“Fraser.”

“Still listening.”

“You don’t understand, people are literally trying to figure out who I am.”

“You are who you are,” he says, as if that’s the answer. He has a hint of humor in his voice, probably hopeful to ,ale you laugh, but you’re just too overwhelmed.

You stare at the wall of your bedroom. “That’s not helpful right now.”

That gets a laugh out of him, soft through the phone. You can picture him already; hoodie on, hair messy, and leaning against his kitchen counter while making coffee like nothing is happening.

“I’m serious,” you say, voice quieter now. “I didn’t want…this.”

And immediately his tone changes, it becomes much softer, “I know.”

The anxiety pressing against your ribs eases slightly, because he does know. From the beginning, you’d been careful about privacy, and you’re very intentional about what you share, even with people you know. You like your quiet life. You like being separate from hockey and public attention.

Fraser had never pushed against that once. In fact he agreed to keep things private for both of your sakes, it was just simpler that way, less demanding for both of you, less stressful. 

“I just feel weird,” you admit. “Like suddenly strangers are trying to know things about me and I really don’t like it.”

“Hey,” he says, trying to stop you from what you feel like is some kind of spiral in your head. 

You close your eyes, and listen to him. 

“You don’t owe anybody access to you,” he says gently. “Okay? None of this changes anything.”

You breathe out slowly, “I know, but it feels like it is. People know who I am now, like really know. They’re tagging me in stuff and I’m getting dozens of messages from people I don’t even know.”

“If people are being weird, tell me.”

You huff out a laugh, “What are you gonna do?”

You can hear his smile when he says, “Don’t know yet, but I’ll handle it. And if I can't, I can probably find someone who knows how.”

“Okay...”

Another buzz of notifications lights up your screen. You groan dramatically and flop backward onto the bed, “They’re just not stopping.” 

Fraser hums quietly again, “You want me to come over?”

Your answer is immediate, “Yes please.”

—

By the time Fraser gets to your apartment, you’ve migrated to the couch wrapped in a blanket like its protective armor. Your legs are drawn up to your chest, chin resting on your knees. Your coffee sits abandoned on the table in front of you, and your phone sits right next to it. It hasn’t stopped going off since you woke up. 

Fraser lets himself in with the spare key you gave him months ago, and the second he sees your eyebrows knit together and a frown on your lips, his whole expression becomes gentler.

“Oh, honey.”

You point accusingly at him, “This is your fault.”

“My fault?” he asks as he sets his keys on the table by the door, and kicks his shoes off. 

“You’re too affectionate in public.”

He looks genuinely confused by that, “I just held your hand. I hold your hand all the time.”

“Yeah, you held my hand, Fraser. Apparently that’s devastatingly sweet to people online. And the only reason it’s bad is because everyone saw it, and now all your fans are scouring the internet for information about me..”

That earns a laugh from him, “So now I can only hold your hand in private?” 

You nod, a very serious pout on your face. 

He walks over, nudging your legs just enough to sit down before pulling you against his chest. “You okay?” he murmurs into your hair.

“Mostly embarrassed,” you say, messing with a loose thread on his sweatpants. 

He shakes his head, “You shouldn’t be.”

Easy for him to say. He’s been recognizable since he was a teenager.

You tilt your head back to look at him, “You seriously don’t get why people are freaking out?”

“No, not really. ”

“Fraser, the comments are analyzing your body language, making comments about me, about how we are around one another even though the clips are only like three seconds each and we’re in the background every time—”

He cuts you off, “That’s weird.”

“I know.”

He thinks about this for a second, then he says, “I was just holding your hand.”

Your expression softens helplessly, because the thing for him is; it really is that simple. He reaches for you because he likes touching you, and he kisses your forehead because he wants to. Looking for you is automatic for him, his brain just does it, he doesn’t have to think about it. None of it is performative, it’s just how he is.

“People know now,” you mumble. 

“Know what?”

“That we’re together.”

“…Were we hiding it?” he asks, with genuine confusion in his voice. 

You pull back a bit to stare at him, “Yes?”

“I thought we were just private.”

“That’s the same thing!”

“It’s not, really.”

You groan and drop your forehead against his collarbone. Your phone buzzes against the coffee table again. And again. And again. You don’t even want to look anymore, at this point you want to shut it off and not leave your apartment for the next week if not longer. 

“People are finding my accounts, I don’t even have public accounts but people are just requesting, and digging, and…it’s too much, I don’t like it. I just want it to stop.”

Fraser gently puts his hands on either side of your head, moving it so that you’re looking at him instead of hiding. “Hey,” he says, “It’s okay.”

“It is not okay,” you say weakly. “I had a plan for this.”

“A plan?” he asks, a small smile on his face. 

“Yes.”

“You made a relationship publicity plan?”

“You didn’t?”

He chuckles a little, “No,” he says honestly.

Which, unfortunately, sounds exactly like him. You let out a stressed laugh despite yourself, covering your face with both hands. 

Fraser gently pulls your wrists down so he can actually see you, “You don’t have to look at any of it right now.”

“But—”

“You don’t.”

His thumbs brush over your wrists in comfort, “You didn’t do anything wrong. Neither did I.”

You exhale shakily, “I just don’t like strangers knowing things about me. It makes me feel really weird.”

“I know, baby.” And he does. Fraser knows how carefully you move through the world, how selective you are with what you share. How highly you value privacy and routine and control over your own life, so all this sudden attention feels suffocating.

His expression softens a little, “We’ll handle it, and it’ll be okay, I promise you. I know it’s a lot right now but it’ll die down.”

“You’re unbelievably calm right now,” you say, your voice still small. 

“I don’t really get why everyone’s freaking out.”

You let out an incredulous laugh, “Fraser.”

“What?”

“The forehead kiss?”

“What about it?”

He clearly doesn’t get where you’re going with this,“The hand holding?” you ask. 

He shrugs, “I was helping you skate, I always hold your hands when we skate.”

You just stare at him. Fraser’s mouth twitches a little when he realizes he’s losing this argument.

“Okay,” he says finally, quieter now, “maybe the PDA was a little obvious.”

You groan again, this time mostly out of affection. He smiles properly then, down at you. It’s his small and soft smile that you absolutely adore. 

“C’mere,” he mutters. 

He pulls you into him again before you can protest, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other settles warm against the back of your neck. You melt almost instantly, cheek pressing into his hoodie.

“People are scary,” you mumble.

He rests his chin lightly against the top of your head, “They’ll calm down.”

“Want me to do something about all this?”

You tilt your head back slightly, “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Post you or something.”

Your eyes widen, “That’s a lot…that’s not exactly subtle.”

“I’m not trying to be subtle,” he says simply, “I’m trying to make people stop digging.”

Of course his solution would be straightforward, and it makes sense. There’s no games, no weird secrecy, no room for the public to spiral about who you are, what you are to him, and so on. For him it’s just: yes, this is my girlfriend. Please leave her alone.

You look at him carefully, “You’d post me?”

Another tiny confused crease between his brows. “Why wouldn’t I?” The sincerity in his voice hits harder than you expect, like it’s completely obvious and he doesn’t really get why you’re so shocked by this. 

To him, loving you publicly was never the scary part.

Eventually, after another hour of you spiraling quietly and Fraser calmly talking you down from every ledge your brain creates, you end up stretched beside him on the couch while you hide under his arm pretending not to monitor your notifications anymore, but every time your phone buzzes you start the spiral all over.

After a while you feel his chest move with a quiet laugh.

You look up at him, confused, “What?”

He angles his phone toward you. His Instagram story.

It’s a photo you didn’t even realize had been taken. Fraser is sprawled out across a lawn, one arm braced behind him while you sit practically folded into his lap. Your arms loop around his shoulders, leaning in close enough that your face disappears against his. It’s simple, and it’s so you, like he knew that this picture in particular captured how the two of you were naturally. 

Written in the space underneath the center of the photo: My girl 💛 Please be respectful of her privacy, and be kind 

“Oh,” you say, almost timidly. 

Beside you, Fraser looks over cautiously, “Too much? You want me to take it down?”

You shake your head quickly. “No,” you mumble, “No, it’s…nice.”

His expression relaxes, and then he leans over and presses a kiss against your forehead exactly the same way he had at family skate a few days earlier. “You okay?” he asks softly.

You look down at your phone again, where the follow requests have already slowed, then back at him. He’s undoubtedly calm, his demeanor still steady, just looking at you like this isn’t complicated at all. He makes it much much easier to breathe. 

“Yeah,” you say finally, curling closer into his side. Fraser hums quietly, arm tightening around your waist before he reaches for the remote with his free hand like this is just another normal day. Maybe, with him, it still can be.

“Can we just stay here all day?” 

He hums, “Yeah baby, we can. We’ll just wait it out, I’ll make you some tea, we can watch something, do that lego set you ordered…” and as he continues to list things for you to spend the day doing, you let yourself relax. It’s still a lot, but less so now, and a part of you is happy that this is finally public. People know he’s yours and you’re his, and you can finally, fully exist in that.

By a week into the trip you are exhausted, but that good kind of exhausted where you feel so at peace and so happy. But, that’s what you think triggered it. Not that you could blame anyone else for your lack of sleep. After all, it was you who chose to stay up every night around the fire with Will and his sister Grace, and it was you who insisted on sneaking out in the dark for a midnight lake runs with Will.

So tonight, the family also equally exhausted, all turned in early. After your shower, washing off a mix of sunscreen, tanning oil and lake water, you walk into the room you and Will are staying in, drop your towel, and pick up his sharks t-shirt. It fits you in that perfect way, coming down to mid thigh. So again, it was you who chose to stay up with Will as he showed you just how much he loved the look of you in his clothing.

But now, it is past 1am, and Will is sprawled out over the bed, his arms reaching out like they are searching for you, only your side of the bed is cold.

—

Colleen walks slowly down the stairs to the kitchen, slowly blinking sleep out of her eyes, but she freezes as she hears a faint clicking coming from downstairs. Clicking which sounds like the door lock on the sliding glass doors that lead to the patio.

She frowns, walking fully up. And as she slowly looks around the corner, she sees you.

You’re standing in front of the doors, your hand pulling uselessly on the lock. Your hair is curly from all the lake water, but plopped in a huge bun on your head, pieces falling down on the sides of your face. Will’s Sharks t-shirt covers your frame, but it’s large enough on you that it leans off one of your sun tanned shoulders.

“Honey?” She says, squinting a bit as she walks closer to you.

But you don’t look towards her, it’s almost like you didn’t even hear her. You just keep pulling on the lock, your breathing labored, panicked sounding almost.

“Sweetie.” She says, a bit more firmly but still coated in softness and comfort.

Your head moves towards her at that. As Colleen takes in your appearance her heart hammers. You look… different. Your eyes are glassy and slightly squinted. Your body is stiff and you seem like you’re floating somewhere else.

That’s when it hits her, she remembers it clear as day. A phone call she had with her son a long time ago when she asked how you were doing. Will had told her about this.

“She’s okay. Work’s been taking a lot out of her recently, she actually started sleepwalking occasionally.”

“Sleepwalking?” Colleen parroted back to him.

“Yeah, it’s rare. She only does it when she’s overly tired. Freaked me out the first time, I honestly didn’t know she was asleep.”

So Colleen makes sure her expression is soft and loving, her normal expression when she is talking to you, and she listens as you finally manage to speak.

“I have to get him.” You mumble, your voice so soft she could have easily missed it.

“Get who, honey?” Colleen asks you.

“Rigney.” You say, turning back towards the lock.

Colleen’s eyes flick to the chair in the living room, where Rigney is lying, perfectly safe, and still asleep. She glances back to you, wanting nothing more than to show you the family’s dog is inside, but it seems evident that you’re not abandoning the door without some persuasion.

“Rigney’s inside already, sweetie.” Colleen says very gently, trying not to startle you. “He’s in his normal chair in the living room.”

“No. He’s cold. Colleen he’s out there.” You say, a slight panic starting to rise in your tone. Your glossy eyes get glossier as you beg her to hear you, beg her to listen to you.

“Okay, okay.” She says, stepping closer and noting the shaking of your hands, and the way your chest moves rapidly. “Why don’t you sit down quick and I’ll go grab Will. He’ll help us look okay?”

“Will?” You question, and for a second she swears she can see the fully awake you at the sound of her son’s name.

“That’s right.” Colleen says, leading you so carefully that you think it’s your choice to sit down. “You stay right here while I grab him, alright?”

You only nod in response, but your eyes stay locked on the doors. “Tell Will to hurry, he’s all alone out there, I don’t want him to be scared.” You whimper, and Colleen’s heart cracks at how upset you sound. She’s a mother after all, she wants to fix this, wants to protect you from this, but she knows it’s not her that you need. So Colleen moves quickly, trying to stay silent so she doesn’t wake the rest of the house. She opens the bedroom door, and goes to the side of the bed that Will is sleeping on.

“Will.” She says, setting her hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t budge. “Will.” She says again, a bit louder as she shakes him lightly.

Will opens his eyes, and takes only a second before he’s looking at his mom in worry. That’s when he notices you’re gone, and the sheets are cold enough to tell him you’ve been gone for quite some time. Will’s heart leaps out of his chest, you missing, his mom looking a bit panicked.

“Mom-“

“She’s alright. She’s downstairs, I think she might be sleep walking.”

Will didn’t need to hear anything else, he didn’t bother with a shirt or shoes as he starts going down the steps. He knows not to startle you, so as he walks into the kitchen he does so as calmly as possible.

“Baby?” He asks, as he sees you. Sees the way you’re stiff, and as if you’re not really here. You turn your face towards his at the sound of his voice.

“Will, he’s out there.” You say, standing up in panic as Will makes his way over to you. He’s crouching a bit, trying to stay eye level with you.

“Who’s out there?” Will asks you, and it kills him to not reach out and tuck your curly strands of hair behind your ears.

“Rigney.” You say, and you choke on the name.

Colleen looks at Will, and he tracks her eyes over to the chair where Rigney is still sound asleep.

“Okay, well let me sit down and put my shoes on and we’ll go look.” Will says, secretly trying to lead you into the living room. You follow him blindly, like you always do.

But then your brain freezes when you hear the familiar shake of metal dog tags, and all of a sudden a wet nose comes and pokes your shin.

“See baby? He’s inside, he’s safe.”

“But he was-“ you start to say, pointing to the doors. “He was out there, and he was cold.” You try to justify.

Rigney jumps on the couch, and Will watches as you reach your hand out and touch the soft fur of the dog.

“He’s warm, he’s here with us.” Will comforts you as tears leak from your eyes. “Hey, hey.” He says, and even in your sleeping state you throw yourself against his chest. The warmth of his skin grounds you, just as much as the familiar smell of his body wash.

Colleen smiles sadly and looks away as Will comforts you. His hand on the back of your head, while one runs up and down your spine through his t-shirt. He waits, while throwing small comforting words in here and there until your cries soften.

“He’s safe?” You ask one more time, and Will smiles at you, your glossy eyes shining in the light of the moon that’s filling the living room.

“He’s safe. Just like you.” He says. “Do you want him to sleep with us tonight? That way we can watch him?” Will asks, and you just nod, tears back in a steady stream down your cheeks. His wipes them away with his thumb, and your eyes stay glued to the dog like he might vanish if you look away.

Getting you to believe Rigney was in the house wasn’t very challenging, but getting you back up the stairs proved to be more difficult than he thought. Rigney of course bolted straight up, making a beeline for the room. You took the steps slowly, Will next to you the entire time. Halfway through you just stopped, and he quietly and calmly reassures you that Rigney is probably sitting on your pillows waiting for you.

Colleen stayed behind you the entire time, far enough away so you don’t feel crowded, but close enough that if for whatever reason you fell backwards she was there to catch you.

But most importantly, they didn’t rush you. They took each step one at a time, and in your hazy fog and confusion, you let Will guide you. By the time Colleen made it to the top step, she wished you both a goodnight, and unknown to you looked at her son, quietly asking if he’s got you. He nods, and turns your body slowly to get into the bedroom.

Sure enough, Rigney has taken over your side of the bed. His head is resting on your pillow as if he’s using it, and for a smaller dog he manages to take up a lot of room.

Will walks you to his side of the bed instead, pulling back the covers and helping you get tucked in. Will slips in next to you, keeping you in the middle while he was dangerously close to the edge. But he pulls you flush against him, your back on his chest, your legs finding comfort tucked under his.

You don’t speak, you just close your eyes, listening to the soft words from your boyfriend. Little “sleep baby” or “you’re safe” or kisses on the top of your head.

To no surprise of Will, it didn’t take long for you to completely pass out, but Will stayed up for a little longer. Almost afraid that you’d manage to slip out again without him knowing. The thought of you getting outside in the dark, alone, with no shoes on, and near an open body of water was enough to scare him senseless. But he reminds himself too, that you’re right here.

He finally drifts off with the image of you sleeping in his chest burned into his brain, not that he’d ever want to forget it anyway.

—

As morning came, Colleen makes her way up the stairs to knock on the door. She didn’t tell anyone else what happened last night, not knowing if you’d be embarrassed or not. As she’s faced with the door it’s cracked slightly, Will must have left it open last night only a sliver in case Rigney needed something.

She opens it a tiny bit more, just enough to poke her head in to wake you guys for breakfast. But she stops, and nothing comes out of her mouth as she takes in the sight before her.

The three of you are curled into each other. Rigney spread out but pressed against your chest, and Will pressed up against your back. The three of you completely sound asleep. The dog and Will guarding each side of you like neither of them wanted you to slip away.

It had to intentional at this point. The way your boyfriend wandered the shared apartment, curly hair tousled, glasses perched on his freckled nose, grey sweatpants hung so low on his shirtless torso you could see that he wasn’t even wearing boxers.

He was still on the phone, over an hour after the call had woken you both up, chatting away with Connor as they planned their summer training together. He appeared to be in absolutely no rush to end the call, despite your gaze burning through his skin. His abs flexed as he laughed, face scrunching up in delight. Your mouth watered at the sight. Muscles contracting the same way they did when his fingers pressed on your scalp and your nails dug into his thighs.

How could a man as sweet as Fraser be so entirely unaware of your staring and fascination? For the love of god, if he would just notice what he was doing to you maybe that would persuade him to put a shirt on. The thoughts racing through your mind were dangerous, and as badly as you wanted him right now, you were not going to subject Connor to that.

So you sat, patiently, like a decent person. Flopped on your stomach, breasts pressed together, ass tastefully raised, pretending to scold on your phone. Fraser entered the living room again, still pacing in circles. From the corner of your eye you saw him flop down on the other couch.

You toyed with the idea still brewing in the back of your lust fogged mind. You couldn’t in good conscience work him up real bad while he was trying to catch up with his friend. But curling up in his lap isn’t that bad, right?

Crossing the small space between couches, Fraser’s blue eyes trained on you. His brows furrowed as you climbed onto his lap, head resting on his bare chest. A large hand, the one not holding his cell to his ear, slid down your side, cupping your ass.

You sigh, nuzzling your face closer to, and eyes fluttering shut. Your right hand traveled to his nape, nails grazing his scalp, left hand grazing the band of his sweats with the lightest touch.

“Yeah, alright man,” his voice rumbled. “Okay, yeah, we’ll figure it out. Okay, yeah, you too. Yeah, bye.”

His phone dropped the cushions and his other hand brushed your hair from your face. “Someone’s cuddly right now.”

You groaned. “Sorry, my boyfriend was just walking around the apartment looking so fucking good, and I just wanted him to hurry up and es the call.”

He laughed. “I’m sorry baby. Next time I’ll put more clothes on.”

“Don’t you dare!”

The two of you laughed, faces a few centimeters apart, before Fraser closed the gap.

“Let me make up to you?” He whispered as you separated.

You pretended to toss the idea around before agreeing. “I guess you could try.”

The Pens are down by one, with a period and a half of the game left, when Nova realizes that she’s on the Jumbotron. She blinks up at herself, more than life-sized, and clocks the pink and red hearts on the border, the stylised script spelling out “Kiss Cam.”

“Oh no,” she says out loud, shaking her head, even as the camera pans to include the man to her left. Mark - a Flyers’ fan that was a total stranger to her an hour ago and who she’s had only polite conversation with since - grimaces slightly, but turns to her with a little shrug and a sort-of hopeful look in his eyes.

“What do you say?” He asks, the arena cheering and booing around them. Maggie snickers on her right and Nova shakes her head.

“I have a boyfriend,” she says, understatement of the century. She glances at the ice and said boyfriend is staring off into the middle distance, glaring. He doesn’t know where she’s sitting because Maggie had gotten the tickets comped from work so Nova’s not in the usual family section. So now he’s just glaring, although if it’s about Nova’s cameo on the Kiss Cam or just his general hatred of the Flyers, Nova can’t be sure. Knowing Sid, it’s probably the latter.

The arena erupts in boos when the camera swings away from them, clearly wanting to get a move on with the bit, and Nova sighs in relief.

Mark shrugs, “worth a try.” His smile is easy and he’s taking the rejection well, something Nova is grateful for.

And then the camera is back on them and Mark waves, Nova’s stomach sinking. She waves a little at the Jumbotron, still shaking her head, saying loudly, “I have a boyfriend! I’m not with him!”

She’s not sure if the fans or the camera guy can lip read, but she keeps shaking her head to try and get them to move on.

But the camera is insistent, the crowd is insistent, and Nova can feel her face heating at the attention. Sid is definitely aware of what’s happening, if the agitated swinging of his legs and the deep set frown on his face is to be believed. He keeps looking up at the screen and then scanning the crowd. Nova sighs and tilts her cheek towards Mark, allowing only the briefest brush of his lips against her skin before she’s jerking away. The crowd goes crazy and finally, thank God, the Kiss Cam goes away.

The players, including Sid, skate to center ice for the next face-off, and the game is back on.

“Thanks for playing along,” Mark chuckles. “Good thing your boyfriend’s not here, huh?”

Nova manages a tight smile, not impressed with his comment.

Maggie bumps Nova’s thigh with her knee, tipping her chin at the ice, laughing, “you-know-who is so not happy about that.”

Nova’s eyes find Sid and sure enough, he’s skating around like he’s been shot out of a cannon. He looks like a demon on the ice, sending snow flying as he stops short for the puck.

“Shit,” Nova mutters, leaning forward on her elbows, stack of bracelets slipping down her arm. She reacts a second after the arena does when Sid lifts his shoulder for a totally clean hit that sends Trevor Zegras headfirst into his own bench. The arena erupts and Nova sticks her fingers in her mouth to whistle, even as she worries about Sid. But he seems fine, careening towards the goal and throwing the puck at Vladar’s head.

It bounces off the goalie’s mask and Kindy picks it up for a rebound that hits the back of the net.

“He looks possessed out there,” Maggie laughs, screaming when Sid picks up his speed on the way back to the bench and crashes right through Jamie Drysdale, sending the younger defenseman sprawling to the ice. Flyers fans erupt with boos, but Sid doesn’t get penalized, sitting on the bench with a murderous look on his face.

“He’s going to get hurt,” Nova mutters, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms tightly over her chest to keep her hands from shaking. “And then I’m going to have to kill him.”

Mark looks at her side-eyed and mutters sympathetically, “you put money on the game?”

Nova startles - truthfully, she’d forgotten Mark was there the second Sid started acting like a lunatic - and tilts her head slightly, chuckling, “something like that.”

She wants to dig her vape out and suck at it to ease some of her nerves. But security will only accept the “Sid’s girlfriend” card so many times and Nova hates playing that card anyway.

Sid swings his way back onto the bench after another quick shift and Geno pats him on the head, doing nothing to mitigate the scowl on Sid’s face. Nova shakes her head and leans into mutter to Maggie, “I can’t wait to hear what the guys have been saying.”

“You know they’re going to roast the shit out of him,” Maggie laughs and Nova can see Sid getting jostled a bit during the next TV timeout.

The game goes into the third tied at 2, with a minute remaining on an interference penalty called on Sid. He’d knocked Travis Konecny’s stick from his hands and then pushed the dropped stick away with his skate. Even from a distance, Nova can see the intense look on his face and she knows the third is going to be a shitshow.

The entire team comes out like their asses are on fire and Sid sends a puck flying past Vladar into the back of the net so fast no one’s really sure if it’s a goal. But Sid’s sure. He throws his arms up in celebration for what ends up being the game winner, drawing his linemates to his side for the group hug.

And then of course he takes another penalty, throwing a punch at one of the stupidly named Flyers’ rookies, who shoots a punch right back, sending Sid’s visor snapping into his nose. Nova grimaces at the burst of blood that appears.

“Jesus,” Maggie mutters, leaning forward. A scrum breaks out and Sid’s on the ice. “He’s really mad, Nov.”

“He’s acting like an asshole,” Nova grumbles. She’s a fucking hypocrite though - rolling her eyes about his fighting while her panties are growing damp. Eventually, Sid’s removed from the fight, helmet off and hair sweaty. There’s blood all over his face and Nova’s stomach jumps, a mix of arousal and worry, but Sid gives the crowd a bloody grin and waves his hand to pump up the crowd. It’s a little uncharacteristic of him, but extremely attractive.

Maggie smirks at her and leans back to take a sip of her beer, “and you’re gonna jump him the second he gets home later, right?”

“Well, obviously,” Nova deadpans for a second before breaking into laughter. She clinks her beer against Maggie’s. “Why waste a night when he’s going to be completely feral?”

“I know once upon a time I said I wanted details,” Maggie winces as the puck hits off a post with a loud pinging sound, “but I actually don’t think I do. Not if I want to keep enjoying hockey.”

“Noted,” Nova says, her eyes tracking the puck. “So I shouldn’t tell you about the handprint on my ass?”

Maggie’s shocked cackle of laughter draws the attention of the people around them and Nova gives them a sheepish grin, punching Maggie’s thigh gently to get her to stop. Maggie’s laughter tapers off to a choked giggle and she shakes her head, “I definitely don’t want to know about the handprint on your ass. But very happy for you, SuperNova.”

Nova shows off all her teeth in an exaggerated grin that morphs into a scowl when Travis Sanheim takes a run at Sid. She jumps to her feet, shouting, “that’s a fucking dirty hit. Are you fucking blind?”

Still in her seat, Maggie rolls her eyes and mutters, “yeah, Sid’s the only one that’s completely feral. Lunatic.”

“I’m unashamed,” Nova shrugs, dropping back into her seat. No Flyers penalty, but Sid’s fine. So she figures it’s a wash.

The rest of the game is full of Sid’s intense face and him storming up and down the ice as if he were 21 instead of 39. He picks up another assist on a Tanger empty net goal and that makes it a three point night for him. It’s been the most dominant game he’s had so far in the early days of the season.

After they win and give Silovs his goalie pats, the guys salute the crowd and step off the ice, but Sid pauses. He scans the crowd quickly, mouth tipping up in an involuntary smile as the remaining fans chant his name. Nova’s stomach lurches the moment he spots her and makes eye contact.

His smile widens and his brows lower, a version of the intense look that’s only for Nova. She bites at her lower lip and waves slightly, letting out a little puff of a laugh when he waves back, somehow making the gesture into a warning.

Maggie slings her arm over Nova’s shoulder and gently bumps her head against Nova’s cheek. “Let’s get you home, lover girl, you can shave your legs and get ready for your man,” she teases.

“Please,” Nova scoffs, letting Maggie lead her out of the arena, “I’ve been waxed all week.”

Maggie’s cackle echoes off the concrete and Nova has a little spring in her step that even the cool October air can’t diminish.

—-

Maverick is curled up on Nova’s feet, a sleeping dead weight, when Sid comes through the front door. She can hear him go through his routine - keys on the hall table, toeing off his shoes, dropping his bag to the floor, the swish of his suit jacket sliding off his arms - and then his footsteps get louder as he comes into the den to find her.

The light is low, but Nova gasps at how bad his face looks. Two black eyes, already turning a dark purple, and the cut on the bridge of his nose give him a gruesome look that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. The narrowed eyes and flat lipped expression he’s giving her only add to the look.

“So,” Nova says, dragging the word out into two syllables, “are we going to talk about what happened?”

Sid drapes his suit jacket over the back of the couch and loosens the tie around his neck with two fingers. He’s quiet for a beat, studying the thin t-shirt and tiny pair of cotton shorts Nova’s wearing. She lifts an eyebrow at him and Sid smirks, clicking his tongue before he says, “later. Right now I need to get my cock in that perfect pussy of yours. Remind her who she belongs to after that little stunt.”

Nova’s entire body heats and she can’t help the slow grin that stretches across her face or the sharp edge it takes. “Stunt?” She laughs, kneeling up on the couch to face Sid fully. He smells good, like the last remnants of his cologne and the locker room soap. “How was I supposed to avoid being on the Kiss Cam, Sidney? How would the arena camera crew know to avoid me. Enlighten me.”

Undercutting her words is the tension that’s been building up slightly - their relationship is feeling more secret than private lately. Nova doesn’t need to take out an ad in the paper, but she’s starting to feel a little cranky about it. They had a big fight back in June, after Sid went to Switzerland for Worlds without even letting her know he was leaving the country. The summer was rocky and fall has only been slightly better, but Sid’s attention is purely on hockey and Nova respects that. Loves it about him, even. But she’s got a brewing unease that she can’t explain.

“Did it have to be a Philly fan?” Sid grumbles after a moment, clearly unable to come up with a good option.

“Next time,” Nova says dryly, “I’ll turn and kiss Maggie.”

She expects Sid to laugh, to break the moment so they can go upstairs and fool around, but to her surprise he catches her chin in his fingers and tilts her face up to his. There’s a serious look in his eyes when he says, “there’s not going to be a next time, honey. First thing tomorrow, arena staff’s going to get a picture of you and a quick lecture.”

“Oh, a Sidney Crosby lecture?” Nova teases, her thighs clenching. “Wouldn’t want to be on the recieving end of that.”

Sid’s fingers tighten on her chin and he drops his head to give her a quick, hard kiss, breath ghosting over her lips when he murmurs, “get upstairs and ready for me and you won’t be.”

Nova pouts her lips out to kiss Sid again and when he steps back, she wrinkles her nose at him, already getting off the couch, “are you more mad that Mark’s a Flyers’ fan or that I was on the Kiss Cam in general?”

“Mark?” Sid’s voice lifts at the end and Nova shrieks a giggle, running for the stairs when he tries to grab at her. “You know his name?”

“He introduced himself after puck drop,” she laughs her way up the stairs, Sid hot on her heels. “It was only polite!”

Sid lets out a noise that’s part growl and part strangled laugh, chasing Nova into their bedroom and saying, “from now on, you’re only allowed to be polite to me, Nova Kincaid.”

Nova throws herself backwards onto the bed, comforter and pillows bouncing up around her, and wiggles her way up to the top. She watches Sid stop at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips. His tie is loose around his neck and the damage to his face is at contrast to the slight smile playing on his lips.

“What does being polite to you entail?” She props herself up on her elbows, crossing her legs at the ankle. “Because, if you watched, Mark only got to kiss my cheek very briefly. I guess I can - ah!”

Sid grabs her foot and tugs her down the bed, lifting her leg so he can kiss the inside of her ankle.

“You’re such a fucking terror,” Sid says affectionately, free hand going to undo his belt. “Letting some other guy kiss you and then giving me attitude when I’m trying to get my hands on you. Your generation is bratty as fuck.”

He shakes his head and Nova wiggles her toes in his grip.

“I probably should be punished,” she says, sighing heavily. “For the disrespect, you know?”

“Yeah, you probably should,” Sid lets her foot fall back to the mattress and undoes his fly, cock hard and tenting the fabric of his briefs and slacks. “Get naked for me, Nova. Want to see how wet you are.”

“Very,” she shoots back, wiggling out of her shorts and yanking her shirt over her head, sending her hair into a staticky mess. Sid laughs when he sees it, his slacks on the floor. “Come on, speed it up, old man.”

Nova’s naked on the bed, nipples already pebbled into stiff points, her legs spread so Sid can see how wet and pink she is. He stares at her a little dumbly, button down hanging open over his chest and cock straining at his briefs.

“So goddamn mean to me,” he shakes his head, movements unhurried as he discards the rest of his clothes to the floor. Nova’s fingers ghost over her stomach and down to her clit, playing with the swollen bundle gently.

“I think you can take it,” Nova watches with appreciation as Sid climbs onto the bed, kneeling between her legs. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, dragged down by its own weight, and Nova can feel herself get wetter at the sight. Arousal drools out of her, pools under her ass.

Sid wraps his hand around his cock and strokes himself, groaning a little under his breath, precome slicking his hand.

“Only thing I want to take right now is your clit in my mouth,” Sid mutters, readjusting so he can lay between Nova’s legs and kiss her inner thigh. He works his way up her leg, tongue darting out to lick at the crease of her thigh. His cock grinds into the mattress, hips working and ass bouncing. Nova shivers at the feeling of Sid’s breath over her cunt and she slumps back against the pillows before remembering.

“Hey, wait,” she breathes, poking her toes against Sid’s obscenely muscled thigh, “as much as I’d love to grind on your face, you broke your nose tonight.”

Sid’s head pops up from between her legs, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” she deadpans, “I do occasionally check out the Twitter feed after games. Plus with the cut on your nose, it would be super unsanitary and probably really unpleasant for you.”

“Burying my face in your cunt is literally never going to be unpleasant for me,” Sid retorts, fingers finding their way to Nova’s inner thigh. He strokes at her, enjoying the way she clenches around nothing, thighs trembling.

Nova shivers and reaches down to push at his shoulder. “But think about that Urgent Care visit,” she wriggles under his touch, breathing harder when his fingers find her entrance and circle lazily. His middle finger dips inside and Nova hiccups.

“Pens’ medical staff signs non disclosures,” Sid huffs a laugh against her clit. “But I’ll keep my nose far away from you, don’t worry.”

She whines - Sid’s nose really is one of her favorite body parts of his to grind against - but doesn’t get to complain for long before Sid lips latch around her clit and suck, hard, jerking her hips off the bed. Two of his fingers slide home, curling up in her cunt and making her wail his name as the press against her g-spot.

“SidSidSid oh my god,” she writhes, twisting the comforter in her hands. His fingers pump in and out of her, mouth working at her clit like it’s a lollipop, spit and slick making her messy.

The orgasm hits hard and fast, unexpected. She clenches around Sid’s fingers and through the fog in her brain, Nova can feel his stubble chafe against her inner thighs as he rubs his face against her skin like a cat.

“I think you can do better,” Sid rasps, fingers still pumping inside of her, slower now. “What do you say, Nov? Wanna give me another?”

She nods and Sid grins at the way her body is limp and boneless from just the one orgasm. He shifts again and slings her legs over his, so she’s half sitting in his lap, half laying on the bed, and focuses his energy on thumbing at her clit and watching his fingers disappear into the tight heat of her cunt.

“Couldn’t believe I was seeing you on the screen,” he says roughly, Nova’s whines and whimpers increasing the harder he presses his thumb against her clit. She’s soaking, responding so nicely to his fingers. “Guys thought I was possessed.”

“Looked - you looked,” Nova gasps, clamping down hard on his fingers and squealing when his free hand presses down low on her stomach, increasing the pressure, “looked it. Loved it - so fucking - oh god oh god right there - hot, Sid!”

Sid doubles down, adding a third finger, and grunts at the tight fit. Nova’s hips chase his fingers and her ass rubs against his cock, the leaking tip pressed in between her cheeks.

“Felt like,” he continues, paying attention to the subtle changes in Nova’s body, “I was going crazy. Seeing some other guy kiss your cheek.”

Her body goes taut and Nova whines, “Sid, Sid oh my god stop I’m going to -“

“But you’re mine,” he says, slightly changing his angle and pressing down on her stomach and grinning when Nova cries out his name and squirts all over his fingers. She soaks his arm and his stomach and his cock twitches hard against her ass, slick dripping everywhere. He finally pulls his fingers out of her cunt with a squelching sound and Nova groans, throwing her arm over her eyes.

Sid laughs and sucks his fingers clean, free hand stroking gentle circles over Nova’s hip and stomach, scratching blunt nails against her skin.

“That’s a new record,” Nova mumbles, dropping her arm out to the side and squinting at Sid as he pops his fingers out of his mouth. “I’m not usually -“

“I know your body,” Sid chuckles, gathering her body up in his arms so she’s really sitting on his lap now, his cock trapped between their bodies. “You know I can make you fall apart whenever I want, right?”

He bites down on Nova’s shoulder and she wiggles in his lap, smirking when he grunts.

“Yeah, yeah,” she huffs, breathless, “generational hockey player, generational orgasm giver. What can’t you do?”

“Not much,” he replies smugly, the cloud of Nova’s hair tickling his face. He gathers it back in one hand, twisting his fingers through the curls, and tugs to pull her face back. With a sly smile, he kisses her messily, teeth and tongue and Nova’s little whimpers. Sid bucks his hips up and Nova’s moans are swallowed up by his mouth.

“Sid,” she pouts, pulling back, “can I have just a little bit, please?”

His sweat-slick chest glides against hers, her nipples painfully tight as she rubs up against him subconsciously. Two orgasms and she still wants more, needs more. Nova scratches her nails against the nape of Sid’s neck and leans in to lick at a bead of sweat trailing down his jaw.

“Just the tip, huh?” Sid chuckles under his breath, jaw muscles ticking as Nova’s mouth makes its way down towards his chin. She nods against him, the top of her head narrowly missing his nose. She’d meant a little bit of a break from the stimulation, but just the tip of his cock also sounds really good.

“And then the whole thing,” she adds, lowering to kiss his throat. Sid’s pulse jumps under her mouth and his cock jerks against her stomach.

She’s not sure how it happens, but Nova finds herself straddling Sid’s thigh, rubbing her cunt against his leg. His hands are huge on her hips, guiding her movements until his skin is slick from her arousal.

“Oh,” she gasps, catching her clit against his leg hair, dropping her head forward to rest on his shoulder. She can see his thigh glisten with each pass of her hips and his cock bobs between them, looking painfully hard. “Sid, please,” she whines, wanting the stretch of his cock. “Just a little bit.”

He’s so obsessive about wearing condoms, which Nova can appreciate, but the few times Sid’s given up control and let his cock slip inside of her bare have been insane. She feels like an addict, jonesing for just a few inches of him, and Sid knows that.

“That sounds like a reward for you,” he mutters, rolling her nipple between his fingers and tugging on it until she moans. “Because I don’t think you deserve a reward.”

“Siiiiid,” Nova pouts, tugging at his hair a little. Pleasure builds up again, her chest heaving. His muscle flexes under her cunt and she jolts, overstimulated. “S’a reward for you,” she manages, shifting her hips and biting down on her lip. She’s going to come like this, rubbing herself on his thigh, the scrape of his stubble against her neck. Sid pinches her nipple, hard, and she yelps, feeling the shock all the way down in her clit.

“Tell you what,” he says, strangled like he’s suffering just as much as Nova is, “come on my thigh and I’ll give you my cock, okay?”

She nods and moves her hips faster, legs trembling. But she slants her mouth over Sid’s, sucking on his tongue while he helps her move, her cunt gliding over him with barely any friction from how wet she is. He rubs against her clit with one hand, biting at her lower lip, and Nova’s coming again, with little hiccuping gasps into his mouth. She gushes all over his thigh and nearly slips right off until Sid catches her around the waist.

“Jesus,” he mutters, flushed and achy. “Baby, you’re like fucking miracle.”

Nova slumps over, the chains of her necklaces all tangled together around her neck. Wisps of hair stick to her sweaty forehead and there’s a flush spreading from her cheeks all the way down to her stomach. Sid loves it when she’s like this for him. He traces over the constellation of birthmarks on her hip and grins at her. His free hand strokes his cock, squeezing the base of it to keep himself from finishing too early.

She scoffs at him, his thigh still between hers, even as she’s half on her side on the mattress. “I take it back,” she rasps, voice cracking, “I don’t need any of that inside me. Three orgasms are enough.”

“Didn’t think you were a quitter,” Sid goads her, dragging her higher on his thigh and smirking when she squeaks at the sensation. Her legs fall open around his waist and he grips the base of his cock to steady it. Nova writhes and moans, the sound choking off when Sid slaps his cock against her cunt with an obscenely wet noise.

“Oh god!” She kicks her legs out, stomach muscles jumping, and he does it again, making sure the tip hits against her clit. She shrieks his name and Sid shifts onto his knees, holding Nova down with one hand on her hip and guiding the tip of his cock to circle her clit and dip down to her entrance.

“You think I’m going to let this end without you creaming on my cock, honey?” Sid chuckles, holding his cock in place. Nova wiggles, hips jumping as best they can with Sid’s pressure keeping her pinned down. Her heels dig into the comforter. “Been needing this since I saw Mark,” he sneers the name with a curl of his lip, “kiss your cheek.”

“All this for a cheek kiss,” Nova huffs, red faced and cunt clenching, “what would I have gotten for a real kiss?”

Sid narrows his eyes at her and says flatly, “a fucking spanking.”

Before Nova can respond, he thrusts forward, the head of his cock pushing inside Nova’s cunt and punching a gasp from her lungs. Sid groans, dropping his chin to his chest, staring at the place where they’re joined and just holding his hips still. Nova clenches around him, complaining for more, but Sid shushes her with a little swat to her hip. His thighs shake with the effort of keeping still and if he sinks in any deeper, without the condom, he’ll burst.

“Next game, then,” Nova giggles, tugging on Sid’s arm. “More, please.”

“Can’t,” Sid grits out, sweat beading at his hairline. “Not gonna - need a condom, honey.” He’s starting to sound a little nasal now, the bruising around his eyes looking worse.

She groans and nearly cries when Sid pulls back, his cock slipping out and hitting her inner thigh. She’s half ready to tell him to fuck it - to fuck her - and forgo the condom. But she knows Sid won’t do it, so she only pouts when Sid leans over and rummages in his night table drawer for a condom. She runs her fingers over his side, down his hip, distracting him while he rips the foil open and rolls the condom on.

“Ready?” Sid asks unnecessarily. Nova’s legs are spread wide for him, a loose, easy smile on her face. She nods and hooks her ankle around the back of his thigh.

“More than,” she laughs, lifting her ass slightly out of the absolute puddle of her slick. “Any wetter and you’re just gonna slide right back out.”


Sid groans and notches his cock at her entrance. He leans forward, his body covering Nova’s, and presses inside slowly. He’s holding his breath and Nova’s mouth is open in a silent whine as he stretches her out. Her nails scratch at his back, surely leaving lines that he’ll get chirped about in the locker room, and she drags him closer. His cock disappears inch by inch until he’s fully seated inside her.

“Good so good oh god,” she whimpers, Sid’s chest crushed against hers. “Move please oh my god Sid.”

She feels so good wrapped around his cock and Sid knows he’s not going to last long. His hips pull back and snap forward, jolting Nova higher up on the mattress with the force. She’s chanting his name like a prayer, legs locked around his hips, heels digging into his ass.

“Perfect,” he mumbles, dripping sweat. “My perfect girl, all for me. All mineminemine.”

It’s messy and sweaty and Nova’s gushing around his cock, maybe she came again, Sid honestly can’t be sure. She’s squeezing the life out of him, choking his cock and pressure builds at the base of his spine, his balls tighten and he spills into the condom, Nova’s cunt still spasming and fluttering.

He collapses on top of her, burying his face in her damp curls, Nova’s heartbeat racing against his chest. He winces at the sharp pain in his face, knowing the bruising is going to be worse than if he had just come home and rested. They’re both breathing hard and Nova’s hands slip through his hair, a wheezed chuckle escaping her lips into Sid’s ear.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rolling partially off of her. His cock is still half-hard and Nova rolls with him, keeping her leg hooked over his hip.

“I like it,” she mumbles. “Like a weighted blanket. Soothing.”

Sid rubs his hand over her side, thumbing at her nipple on his upwards pass. Truthfully, he could lay here with Nova for hours, her vanilla lotion scent invading his senses. There’s a hint of something extra sugary sweet buried in her hair tonight and he hides his face in her neck, wincing when his nose is jostled.

“Do you need some ice?” Nova asks softly, pressing her thumb into a muscle on his back.

“Nah,” Sid’s response is light. His hand drifts up to play with the row of gold hoops in Nova’s earlobe. “Shouldn’t have pressed it so close to you. I’m fine.”

She hums like she doesn’t believe him and Sid knows she’s going to come back to bed later with a bag of ice for his face. Which is definitely throbbing a little bit from all the pressure and exertion. Worth it.

They’ll have to get up soon, sweat is drying on their skin and the sheets might honestly have to be burned at this point. The adrenaline is draining from Sid and he’s almost sheepish about how possessive he was being. Nova yawns and Sid rolls onto his side, making her whine and scratch at his bicep to try and pull him back.

“Gotta get you cleaned up, Nov,” he presses a kiss to her shoulder. “Don’t think you want to sleep on these sheets.”

“No, definitely not,” she yawns again, skin still buzzing. “Don’t get mad at me, but I’m definitely going to try and get myself on the Kiss Cam again so I can have a repeat performance of that.”

It takes a second for her words to skin in, accompanied by the sly look in her half-lidded green eyes, but when it does, Sid barks a laugh.

“Nova, honey,” Sid’s heart goes gooey at the soft smile she’s giving him, “I’ll give you anything if you just ask. Do not get on that Kiss Cam again.”

“Mm, we’ll see,” Nova sniffs, shrieking with laughter when Sid’s fingers dig into her sides, tickling her until tears trickle down her temples and she cries for mercy. Her abs cramp with all the movement and her hair feels like it’s a rat’s nest at the nape of her neck, but life has never been better.

After a summer spent mostly apart, Nova’s been worried that jumping right back into things in the fall would be awkward. But Sid cups her cheek now and kisses her with tongue and a smile against her lips and she’s right where she wants to be.

The unease is easy to ignore when Sid’s kissing her neck, whispering that she’s all his. Later, when they’re both not sweaty and post-orgasmic, they’ll have a conversation and Nova will explain her concerns. But for now, she rolls on top of him, the heat of her cunt against his lower stomach, and leans down to suck a hickey against his pec.

whenever he's out of boston and you can't come to the game, he becomes a bit more clingy than usual. expect facetimes half-awake from the hotel room. " i hate sleeping without you here," fraser admits softly. "the room's too quiet." "you'll literally be back tomorrow." "tomorrow is too far away."

if you ever recommend him a book to read, he takes it very seriously and will be annotating any reactions or tab any pages he liked so he can bring them up to you later. it'll go straight to the top of his tbr despite others recommending him books before you.

he loves when you two read together. you two don't even need to stop to talk about the books you're reading, he just likes the feeling of sitting next to one another in a comfortable silence with the quiet sounds of pages being turned.

if he finishes a book before you do, he becomes unbearably smug about not spoiling it (he desperately wants to spoil it). "i know something you don't know," he teases, grinning as you narrow your eyes at him. "and no, i'm not telling you anything."

he pretends to be chill whenever you compliment him, but he'll remember every single one.

he's incredibly patient with you. even during any disagreements you two may have, he's fully listening before responding because he genuinely wants to understand your perspective instead of wanting to "win" the disagreement.

he absolutely loves having small routines with you -- calling before bed whenever he's away, grabbing breakfast together in the mornings, any small traditions that become your things over time.

always keeps a hair tie on his wrist in case you ever need one. he also makes sure that it's perfectly stretched before he ever thinks about giving it to you -- not too new and tight, but not so loose that the elastic is on the brink of breaking.

if you ever fall asleep on him, he will not move. it doesn't matter if his arm goes numb. it doesn't matter if he needs to get up to grab something. you're asleep on him now, so he's obligated himself to stay exactly where he is.

he's not overly flashy when it comes to romance, but he's consistent with it. he'd be the type to fill up your car if he notices your tank was getting low. he'd mark the page you're on if you fell asleep reading. he'd memorise your orders after hearing you say them out loud one time.

he would instinctively check in on you before anything. even after any exhausting games or travel, he's still asking you how your day was or if you slept okay before he even thinks about himself.

he subtly gets jealous. he just gets quieter and clingier when he notices someone is looking at you for a bit too long for both of your liking. he'll start wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you back beside him, and resting his chin on your shoulder hoping the person who was staring would get the hint, whilst he pretends as though he's completely unaffected.

he's very observant when it comes to you. you don't always have to tell him something's wrong before he notices. "you've been quiet all day," he says gently. "c'mere for a second." opening his arms up for a hug.

and this place is affordable, and there's a campus bus stop like, a 2 minute walk away. it’s perfect, despite the whole sketchy vibe of taking an offer from craigslist.

you just heart the message and toss your phone in your bag.

you roll your heavy suitcase up to the stairs, one wheel bent just enough that it tilts awkwardly to the side, making it unnecessarily difficult. you think about trying to heave it up all three stairs right now, then decide against it, leaving it on the concrete walk up to the house—your house.

the rest of you stuff is in your car, which you parked against the curb, because the car in the driveway looks sort of expensive and you felt weary.

"okay," you take a deep breath, pull your hair over your shoulder and smooth it out. "let's get this over with." then, you knock.

the door makes a funny creaking noise when it opens—like a poor jointed robot—and it’s makes you almost snicker. that is, until you lock eyes with the familiar gaze of the man who opened it, and your heart plummets to your ass.

dylan guenther stands with one hand braced on the wood, the other still holding the handle like he opened it and then immediately regretted every decision that led him here. his hair is shorter than you remember, cleaner cut, but the expression is exactly the same—somewhere between disbelief and irritation, like the universe personally inconvenienced him.

"what the fuck." the exclaim comes out before you can stop it, sharp and breathless, fists clenching at your sides so you don't have the urge to reach up and claw your own eyes out.

his eyebrows shoot up, just slightly, like he's trying to decide if this is real or some kind of elaborate joke. "y/n?" your name sounds weird in his mouth—familiar and wrong all at once.

you blink at him, once, twice, like that'll somehow swap him out for literally anyone else on the planet. "dylan?" you ask like an idiot—because what else are you supposed to do?

your childhood nemesis huffs out something that almost resembles a laugh, but there's no humor in it, just disbelief. he straightens a little, pushing off the doorframe, running a hand through his hair like he needs a second to recalibrate.

"yeah," he says, dragging the word out as his eyes flick over you, your suitcase at the bottom of the stairs, the plant he can see through your car window—taking in the full, unfortunate picture. "what are you...doing here?"

at that, you let out a short, incredulous breath, shifting your weight as your bag tips and you have to catch it with your foot.

"what are you doing here?" you shoot back, brows knitting together. "I thought you lived in arizona. you know, the whole hockey thing? or did that fall apart?"

his mouth twitches, something smug slipping into place like it never left. "nope. the team moved here." a beat. his gaze sharpens, tilting just slightly. "but glad to see you were keeping tabs."

you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts, crossing your arms over your chest like that might somehow anchor you. "are you the guy I was talking to about the room for rent?"

there's a flicker of realization in dylan's expression—quick, but noticeable. his grip tightens on the door just a fraction. "I thought I was talking to a guy," he shoots back immediately, like that's the bigger issue here. "you've got that star wars username." he says, like that explains everything.

your jaw drops, just slightly. "so you assumed?"

"yeah."

you let out a dry, humorless laugh, glancing past him into the house—there's a big couch, a half unpacked box like he hasn't been here long, a hockey stick propped casually against the wall like it belongs there now. of course there is.

"right," you mutter, dragging your gaze back to him. "so—"

"you can't live here." his voice cuts you off. it's immediate. flat. like he's been waiting to say it since the second he realized what was happening here.

your head snaps back, eyes narrowing. "what?" you take a step forward before you can stop yourself, bag bumping into your ribs. "dylan, you can't be serious."

he shifts, blocking the doorway more fully now, shoulders squaring like this is a standoff instead of a conversation. there's something almost panicked under the irritation, but it's buried deep.

"I can't live with you, y/n."

the words land heavier than they should, and for a second it's not this porch, not this stupid house—it's years ago, slammed lockers and sharp words and the kind of history that never really untangles itself.

you tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly, something sharper—petty—slipping in.

"why?" you muse, voice tipping into something almost sweet. "scared i'll leave a bra on the couch or something and scare away your lady friends?"

his face scrunches immediately, like you just personally offended him. "you're so fucking weird."

there it is. that familiar annoyance that you've associated with dylan guenther since you were kids, up until the 12th grade.

you just shrug and lift your chin just a little.

"you love it." after that, you turn sharply then, stomp down the stairs, grab your bag and heave it up the steps—all while dylan watches without offering his assistance—you can't say you're surprised because he's always been a dick.

you stop in front of him again, nudge your suitcase forward with your foot, trying to edge past him, like it’s already decided. "now let me in."

his hand shoots out, bracing harder against the door, blocking you completely. "no."

you can only stare at him. because he can't be fucking serious. "you want me to be homeless?" you prompt, brow raised expectantly.

there's a split second where he falters—just enough. his eyes flick down to your bag again, to the plant, to the very real reality of you standing in his doorway with nowhere else to go.

"what? no—"

"then step aside, tough guy." you step forward again, closer this time. close enough to see the tiny scar on his chin you definitely remember giving him when you were 10–long story involving barbie’s—close enough that the tension shifts into something tighter, sharper.

dylan's jaw clenches. for a second, it looks like he might actually hold his ground. but then, although reluctant—"fine."

he barely moves when he says it, just shifts his weight back a fraction, one hand still braced flat against the inside of the door like he could slam it shut again if you pushed your luck too far. which, historically, you always do.

you stand there for half a second longer than necessary, suitcase handle digging into your palm, heart beating somewhere up near your throat—not from the stairs you just climbed, not from the september heat still clinging to your skin, but from the sheer, absurd disbelief of it all.

gunthman11–how did you not see it? but to be fair, you thought he lived in arizona, not fucking utah. when you first responded to the ad—looking for a roommate, independent, respectful, non-smoker, blah blah blah—you pictured...honestly, you hadn't pictured much. some random engineering student. maybe awkward. hopefully quiet.

definitely not six foot something, broad shouldered, annoyingly familiar, and currently looking at you like you've just tracked mud across his entire life, childhood nemesis. your everything-nemesis.

dylan fucking guenther.

the boy who used to steal your bike and hide it three streets over. the boy who snapped your gel pens in half in seventh grade because you "had too many colours." the boy who, at sixteen, told you that your music taste was "painfully predictable" and then proceeded to memorize every song on your playlist just to prove a point.

and now—apparently—your landlord.

you step past him before he can change his mind.

inside smells faintly like laundry detergent and something citrusy, clean but not overly so. it's nicer than you expected. open concept, big windows, sunlight spilling across hardwood floors. a couch that actually matches the rug. hockey gear tossed carelessly in one corner like it belongs there, like it's part of the decor.

behind you, dylan closes the door with a creaking click. silence stretches between you for a second, thick and familiar and a little too charged for two people who just reunited on a porch ten minutes ago.

you look over your shoulder at him, find him already watching you, and you practically snarl.

then, so you don't slap that stupid look off his face, you glance around again, forcing your attention elsewhere, spotting a second door down the short hall—probably the bedroom you'd been promised through a craigslist chat.

the one you'd already mentally decorated. the one you need. another reason you were drawn to this ad in particular is because dylan—or gunthman11 rather—said he's gone most of the time anyways, which means quiet. which you need for the copious amounts of studying you need to fit it. welcome to the life of a university student.

squaring your shoulders, you turn your attention back to him. "look," start say, tone shifting—less bite, more resolve. "I don't have a backup plan, okay? this was it." your gesture to your bag like it speaks for itself. "my lease ended. everyone else already sorted their housing. i'm starting classes in a week."

dylan watches you, expression unreadable now, arms crossing over his chest like he's bracing himself against something.

"i'm not asking you to suddenly start liking me," you add, a little more quietly. "I never did." his brows twitch, just slightly, like he's remembering the same things you are. but you just continue, "I just need a place to live."

you're not one for begging, but you're seconds away from dropping down to your knees right about now.

dylan exhales over the sound of the fridge humming, gaze dropping to your suitcase, then lifting back to your face. "you're still a nightmare, you know that?" he mutters, but there's less heat behind it now. more resignation.

"and yet," you say lightly, "here I am."

his jaw shifts, like he's chewing over every possible argument left—and losing.

"ground rules," he bites out suddenly, pushing off the counter he'd been leaning against and straightening.

you blink, caught a little off guard. "ground rules?" you echo.

"if this is happening," he clarifies, gesturing vaguely between the two of you like it's still a questionable concept, "there are conditions."

a slow smile tugs at the corner of your mouth before you can stop it. tilting your head like a dog, you cross your arms again, but this time it feels less like defense and more like anticipation.

"wow," you say, almost impressed. "you're gunna let me stay? i'm touched."

"don't be," he shoots back immediately. "I'm tolerating you."

"semantics."

he rolls his eyes, but there's something dangerously close to a smile threatening at the edge of it. "first rule," he starts, holding up a finger while taking a step closer to you. "you don't touch my stuff."

you can't help but to scoff. "I don't want to touch your stuff."

"good." dylan swallows.

"second rule," you counter before he can continue, lifting your own finger. "you don't get to kick me out the second I annoy you. you've agreed to let me stay, so you can't back out of that."

he takes another step forward, somehow looking a little intimidating even though he's actually kind of cute—in a completely platonic way or…whatever.

"third rule is don't be bringing a bunch of guys over here." when you roll your eyes, dylan practically scoffs out a laugh. "i'm serious, i'm a professional athlete and the last thing I need is your hookup fanboy-ing." 

"oh my god," you huff, "get over yourself."

"i'm very over myself." another step. not close enough to raise any eyebrows, but enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly so you can look at him properly.

god, when did he get so tall?

a beat passes before you agree. "fine. then you can't have girls over. ever." you say, even though there's no reason for you to have that preference. maybe you're just petty, maybe something else.

your eyes lock for a second—yours challenging, his narrowing just slightly.

then, he relents, "fine."

breaking the intense gaze, you glance toward the hallway again, that closed door, then back at him. "so," you clear your throat and take a step back. dylan blinks, moves back as well.

you nudge your suitcase forward with your foot, a hint of something lighter creeping into your tone, "which one's mine?"

he follows your gaze, then looks back at you, already regretting every decision he's made today. "end of the hall."

you nod once, satisfied, and then grab the sticky handle of your suitcase. and as you brush past him again—closer this time, easier—your shoulder knocks lightly against his.

you don't miss the way he goes still for half a second.

"you're welcome, by the way," you toss over your shoulder as you head down the hall.

"for what?" dylan calls after you, already sounding tired.

you don't turn around, but he can hear the smile in your voice. "making your life interesting again."

he doesn't respond, and that feels like a victory today. you don't spare dylan a glance before opening the door—your door—and promptly shuffling inside.

and then you let the mask fall. leaning back against the door, you let your head thud against the wood. because out of everything that could've happened with that fucking craiglist ad, this might just be the worse possible one.

─────

the first few weeks living with dylan settle into something that doesn't make sense on paper, but somehow weirdly works. I mean it's not smooth, or clean, by any means of the word, but you don't feel the need to rip his head off anytime you're in the same room. so there's that!

it probably has something to do with dylan being gone more often than he's not, just like he disclosed in the ad. road trips, back to backs, practices that bleed into flights—you learn this because he's got his schedule on the fridge, which is irritating for no reason other than him being weirdly punctual.

the day you arrived, you didn't leave your room until dylan knocked on your door a few hours later—you were ready to pull open the door an snap, but he was just gruffly letting you know to move your car so it didn't get towed. oh.

not think anything of it, when you came back inside, you left your keys on the counter. but the next morning when you got up to meet with your friends for breakfast, you found all your stuff from the backseat of your car in the living room. dylan got it out for you. you had been stopped in your tracks, because why was he being nice? maybe because he felt guilty for almost denying you a home the day prior.

whatever, neither of you have brought that up since. and that's because, once again, you don't really run into each other like normal roommates.

when dylan is home for a stretch, he'll stay in his room with the door shut. unless you're in your room, then he's in the living room, watching tv on a volume so low that there's no way he can actually hear it.

however—naturally—there's still some kind of hostile tension lingering between you and dylan when you do happen to interact. like a few days ago, when you came home from class and almost tripped over his hockey shit left at the front door. you told him to move it, he just snickered.

then yesterday, when you had a stare down for who got the first turn in the shower. which ended in dylan rushing in while your guard was down—and you retaliating by running the water in the kitchen, feeling very triumphant when he shouted in pain from the now scalding shower.

and just this morning, when you were both in the kitchen at the same time. him getting ready for practice, and you for an early seminar. dylan looked you over—from your leggings to your comfy hoodie and ponytail—and then asked if you wanted coffee. you said sure, and he just showed you were the pot was.

It should be annoying—and most of the time it is. because on top of everything, dylan likes to leave things where they don't belong. he still says things just to get a reaction out of you. always has that tone—that thing—that makes you want to argue even when you don't have the energy.

but there are moments. small ones.

like when you come home late from study group and the kitchen light is left on—not bright, just enough that you don't walk into total darkness. or when he wordlessly starts moving his gear out of the front entry way ever since you tripped over it. and the one time you fell asleep on the couch studying and woke up to a blanket that definitely wasn't there before.

it't weird—really fucking weird—but it's also kind of nice.

however, tonight is not one of the nice nights.

you'd been sleeping until your consciousness suddenly comes back to you. you take some sleep laced blinks until the reason you're even waking up in the first place registers.

there's some sort of noise, leaking under your door—low at first, then unmistakable. multiple voices, overlapping one another like a bunch of excited puppies. followed by laughter, maybe even a couple clinking beer bottles.

you frown through the dark room as you sit up in bed. for a second, you think maybe the tv is just too loud, but then someone whoops—loud, obnoxious, very much not a tv—and something thuds against a wall hard enough that you feel it faintly through the floor.

its gotta be dylan, you think. now you're not just frowning—you're scowling. "is he fucking serious?" you don't know what he's doing out there, but you're ready to tell him off for whatever it is.

its not that late, but you've had a long day and fell alseep like as soon as you got home around dinner time—and you've got an early morning ahead. dylan would know that if he actually looked at the stupid calendar on the fridge, which you now have also starting utilizing in some weird, petty kind of way.

with a determined grumble, you swing your legs over the side of the bed, and a hand through your hair, still a little disoriented. even though, you haven't been asleep that long.

in one of your smaller sleep shirts and a pair of loose shorts that barely qualify as coverage, you stumble to the door and crack it open just as the noise spikes again. a chorus of voices this time. and yeah, definitely not the tv.

the house feels brighter than it should be at this hour. every overhead is light on, the glow spilling into the hallway. you can smell it too now—something fried, something salty, and the unmistakable hint of cheap lager.

realizing your roommate has people over a step too late, you freeze in the entryway to the living room. four—no, five guys, are scattered across the couch and floor, controllers in hand, a game paused mid screen. someone's leaning against the kitchen counter with a drink, another halfway out of his seat like he just got up.

and they all look up at the same time. right at you.

for a moment, you're annoyed that dylan didn't even have the decency to warn you about this, but then again, you'd do the same out of sheer pettiness—that is, if you had more friends than just luca.

there's a split second where your brain just... blanks. it's just you, standing there in the archway, very aware of how little you're wearing under the full attention of a room full of very surprised strangers.

"oh—" you start, already taking a small step back, heat rushing up your neck. "I didn't know—"

"jesus—" the familiar voice voice cuts in sharp. dylan.

you barely have time to register where he is sitting before he's already on his feet, movement quick, almost instinctive. he steps forward, not enough to make a scene, but enough to close the distance between you and them—subtle, but deliberate.

his hand finds your arm—not rough, not even firm, just there, fingers wrapping lightly around your elbow as he steers you a half step behind him.

your eyes lock, and your mouth parts with something unsaid. not so deliberately—almost subconsciously—dylan's eyes flicker down your body.

you immediately go warm all over.

"guys," he clears his throat after a moment, looking away from your gaze. his tone easy but edged in a way you recognize immediately, "this is y/n. my roommate. we know each other from back home."

there's a chorus of greetings that follow—half-awkward, half-curious. looking at the stats of these guys, you can assume they are also hockey players. thick thighs, broad shoulders—is that a missing tooth?

"hey."

"hi—sorry."

"didn't know—"

you manage a small, tight smile, crossing your arms instinctively and trying to ignore the way your skin suddenly feels too exposed under the bright lights.

"yeah, hi," you say, a little breathless. "I—um. I didn't realize you had people over."

"yeah," dylan mutters, just low enough that it's mostly for you, a hint of something apologetic slipping in. "that's on me."

his grip on your arm lingers a second longer than necessary before letting you go, but he doesn't move far. he stays just slightly in front of you, angled enough that you're not directly in the center of the room anymore.

one of the guys—tall, sitting on the couch and with the number 77 printed on his sweater—leans forward a little, offering an easy grin. "we didn't mean to ambush you," he says. "we just got back from—"

dylan cuts him off before he can finish. "yeah," it's not harsh, but firm enough that it redirects the attention onto him and away from your pebbled nipples. "she was asleep."

the guy nods, almost snickers to himself, and then sits back again. "right, yeah. sorry again." then everyone seemingly is done ogling you, because the game starts up again, just like the conversation.

dylan looks back at you.

you shift your weight under his gaze, suddenly hyper aware of everything—your bare legs, the way your shirt rides up slightly when you move, and how his teammates keep looking back between you like it means something. you almost want to shout out that you're not even friends, but you obviously don't.

"i'll just—" you gesture vaguely behind you, already stepping back. "i'm gonna go. I have an early morning."

"yeah," he says quickly, almost too quickly. then, softer, glancing down at you for a second, "sorry. we can keep it down."

you nod, brushing it off even though your cheeks are definitely still warm. "please do," you attempt to sound firm, but you don't.

turning away before it can any more awkward, you retreat down the hall a little faster than you mean to, heart still thudding lightly in your chest. the bedroom door barely gets hallway closed closed when you hear it—

"dude, she's hot." must be one of his teammates. "you hittin' that?"

then, dylan—"fuck you, no. we don't...we don't get along."

typical, you think, eyes already rolling before you can stop them. shutting the door quietly, you huff out a small breath, and let your head fall against the wood for a second.

because what just happened out there?

with noise still bleeding faintly through the wall—muffled laughter, the rise and fall of voices, and the low thud of bass from whatever game they've gone back to, your heart's still beating too fast for someone who was asleep ten minutes ago.

annoyance settles in properly now—sharp, clean, and way easier to deal with than whatever that other feeling was out there. "unbelievable," you mutter under your breath, pushing off the door.

you cross your room in a few quick steps, grabbing your phone off the nightstand. the screen lights up your face in the dim, your expression still tight as your thumbs move.

y/n

can you come here? now.

your stare at it for half a second before hitting send. the three dots don't appear right away—of course they don't.

you toss the phone onto the bed, immediately regret it, and pick it back up again, pacing once across your room. you tug at the hem of your shirt like it's suddenly too small, too thin, too everything.

your phone buzzes.

dylan

seriously?

your jaw tightens, thumbs dancing over the keyboard faster than lightning.

y/n

yes. seriously.

this time, his reply is quicker.

dylan

give me a sec

exhaling hard through your nose, you drop onto the edge of your bed. one second turns into two, then three, then long enough that your irritation starts to build again.

then—finally—a knock.

you're on your feet immediately, crossing the room and yanking the door open a little faster than necessary.

he looks...exactly like he did out there, which isn't a shock because it only took a few minutes until you started freaking out and demanding him to come to you—slightly flushed, hair a little messy like he's been running his hands through it, hoodie half zipped like he threw it on in a rush.

"hi," dylan says, like this is normal. like you didn't just get ambushed in your own house. if you knew any better, you'd probably think he's enjoying this.

you blink at him once. "are you serious right now?"

his brows pull together slightly. "what—"

"you caught me in a little bit of a daze out there," you cut in, keeping your vice low but sharp, stepping back so he can come in. "but don't think I don't know what you're doing here. you didn't text, you didn't knock, you didn't do literally anything to let me know there were five random guys in my living room."

"okay, they're not random—"

"they are to me," you snap, shutting the door behind him a little harder than necessary.

the sound cuts off the rest of the house almost completely. it's just the two of you now—your room dim, the only light coming from your bedside lamp.

dylan exhales, dragging a hand down the back of his neck. "okay, yeah maybe I should've sent you a text—" you let out an incredulous laugh. he ignores it, continuing, "—but I didn't do it on purpose."

but you're not buying it, and you roll your eyes right in his face. it makes him exhale, sharply, hands flexing at his sides.

a beat passes before he looks back at you, properly now like he didn't get the chance when you were half naked and mortified. you watch his gaze flick over your face, then—briefly, quickly—down again before he catches himself and looks back up.

you scoff, "are you checking me out?"

"what?" he splutters, making your irritation double. "no." then, as if on instinct, his eyes flicker over your figure again.

"you just did it again!" you point an accusing finger at him.

he runs a rough hand through his hair. "well, it's not my fault you're walking around wearing that."

"would you prefer a snow suit?"

"that's not—" dylan stops, presses his lips together, recalibrating. "you're twisting it."

you let out a short laugh that isn't really amused. "oh, I'm twisting it?"

"yeah," he says, more firmly now. "you are. I know I should've told you. I get it. I messed up. but you're acting like I did it on purpose."

at that, you find yourself hesitating for half a second. when you initially thought that maybe he did orchestrate this whole thing on purpose, you'd been seething with anger and just looking for an excuse to blame him. but now, you know that's probably not true. you and dylan don't get along, never have, but he wouldn't do something that cruel.

back when you were younger, he wasn't always picking on you. sometimes—only in a passing moment of weakness—dylan guenther would be kind to you, in his own…awkward way. like in the 5th grade when carlos and joe made fun of how your legs looked in your new jeans—which obviously made you cry—dylan took one look at your tears and then promptly punched them both in the gut.

then of course, on the first day of 7th grade you tripped walking inside from the yard, flat down in front of everyone. people laughed, pointed, and you were very much mortified. you don't know if dylan did it on purpose, but he walked into a flag pole almost immediately after, taking the attention away from you. knowing him though, he probably just wasn't paying attention, and it had nothing to do with you.

there was more times, more than you like to remember, and anytime dylan would stick up for you, or check in on you in his own messed up way, you'd feel a flicker of hope—hope that maybe things could be different between you. but then he'd pull your hair, or tell the boy you like something that would make him stop talking to you, and yeah, you'd get reminded exactly who dylan is.

"I didn't say that," you sigh, tired. "but you don't exactly make it better out there."

his dark brows pull tight. "what's that supposed to mean?"

you shake your head once, like you're trying to decide if you even want to go there. "the whole... thing. the 'she was asleep' comment, the—cutting your friend off like I was—what? some kind of problem you needed to manage?"

his expression shifts—confusion first, then something else you can't quite pin down. "I was trying to get them to chill out," he laughs, once. "they were staring."

"yeah," you mutter. "I noticed."

"and you think I liked that?" he shoots back, a little incredulous now.

that wasn't an answer you expected. here dylan is, trying to be some kind of protective over you, only to turn around and make it feel like it's somehow you're fault. you hate that it’s conflicting. you also hate how you don't hate it—or hate him.

"I don't know what you like," you say after a second, more defensive than you mean to be. "we don't exactly talk, remember?"

dylan goes still for a second, like the reminder lands. "right," he says, quieter.

you press your lips together, suddenly aware of how close he's standing. how small your room feels with both of you in it. the admission hangs there, heavy, and for another beat, neither of you move—just continue looking at one another, guards up, and the past sitting between you. you can feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, everywhere.

and then quieter, and almost reluctant, you continue, "from where I'm standing dylan, you're still the same guy who used to make my life hell for fun."

his face changes at that—subtly, but enough. the edge in him drops just a fraction, something more serious settling in its place. "I was a stupid kid.”

"so was I," you shoot back immediately.

"I know," he says finally, but it's not defensive. he sighs again, takes a step back like he's realizing he's too close, and rubs at his jaw—exhausted. "let's talk about this another day."

you eye him over, pulse kicking uncomfortably. because of course he's dismissing you. "right, whatever."

he says your name, quiet, but you ignore it, turning away from him and walking back towards your bed. "go back to your friends," you mutter eventually when you don't hear him make any move to leave. you eye him and gesture vaguely to the closed bedroom door. "make sure to tell them again how we don't get along."

hearing the words dylan told his teammates mere minutes ago spat back at him, instantly has a deep pang of guilt hitting him in the chest. especially because he didn't even mean it like that...he was just—it doesn't even matter.

"try to get some sleep, y/n," he says instead.

you almost roll your eyes. "yeah, i'll work on that."

that earns the faintest hint of a smirk. dylan reaches for the door, pausing just slightly before opening it. then, like he can't quite help himself, he calls your name again.

you look up from where you're sitting in the edge of the bed. you raise an inpatient brow, silently urging him to continue.

"you were never a problem," he says, quieter now.

your chest tightens, just a little. your mouth parts, wanting to say something, but nothing comes out.

after a second, dylan nods to himself and slips out, the door clicking shut behind him. and once he's gone, the room feels entirely too cold and quiet.

for a while, you just sit there, staring at the door like something else might happen—like he might come back to say something annoying. maybe undo whatever just happened between you. but he doesn't.

you throw yourself back, mattress dipping under your weight. but you're not tired anymore, not even close. because now, instead of being half asleep and annoyed, you're fully awake and stuck replaying everything.

the way dylan stepped in front of you.

the way his hand lingered on your arm.

the way he said I didn't like it.

"whatever," you mutter to absolutely no one. expect, it's not just whatever—it never has been.

this whole thing would be easier if it was.

─────

the next few days don't fix anything, mostly because dylan's gone again for a roadie. but something does...shift. he texts you on the first day, asking if you need any money for groceries. your initial response was to get mad, because how dare he try and give you handouts? but he almost immediately followed it up by explaining he used the last of a bunch of ingredients for his meal prep and that’s why he’d offering. you still declined the money, even though you can't really afford to.

a few hours later and insta cart shopper was dropping off a bunch of groceries.

you hated how that didn't grind your gears.

two days after that, the day after dylan was due to come home from edmonton, he called you. you'd answered tentatively—suspiciously—to which dylan just stuttered through asking if you've been shovelling the driveway or if he needs to do it when he gets home.

"yes," you hummed, still confused on to why he was calling you, rather than texting. especially considering he should've been indulging in a pregame nap right about then. "it's shovelled."

"okay," he had breathed. "thanks."

and that was pretty much it. he did try and ask about your day, but you got so weirded out by his niceties, that you spat out some excuse about needing the bathroom and hung up.

the week that follows, between practices and studying and the usual business of your lives, there are these...moments.

small ones, that slip in between everything else. like you’ll catching dylan already looking at you when you walk into a room. or him turning the volume down without being asked when you're in your room with the door open. brushing the snow off your car when he gets up first for practice.

none of it gets acknowledged, though. god, no. because that would require an actual conversation, and you're not there—because every time it almost gets too normal, or feels too easy, something in you pulls back. reminders you of who he is. or who he used to be.

and you see it in dylan, too, sometimes—that hesitation. like he's not sure how far he's allowed to go before you snap the line tight again.

so you circle each other instead. like quite like enemies. and definitely not like friends. but something in between.

which is...yeah.

you're hunched over the kitchen table when the front door unlocks and dylan walks in from his game. you barley register the sound, too locked in on the two textbooks open in front of you, along with piles upon piles of notes that are starting to blur together.

It's late—not quite midnight, but close enough that the city outside has softened into a low, steady hum. you've been trying to study for hours, key word trying. you've been in the same position for a while. leg tucked under you, shoulders hunched, pen tapping against the page in a rhythm that doesn't match anything except the anxious loop in your head.

you've reread the same paragraph for what has to be the fifth time, eyes dragging over the words without actually processing them. its just not sticking, which is almost as frustrating as the unknown with your roommate—who has know peered into the kitchen curiously, because this isn't like you. staying up late, not being able to handle study material.

you lean closer, brow furrowing, like proximity might force the information into your brain by sheer will. completely oblivious of how dylan is now watching you.

after a quiet beat, he steps closer, floorboard creaking under his socked feet. you register it distantly, like background noise.

"hey," he says, voice a little rough, probably from yelling during a scrum.

"mhm," you hum back, already halfway through another sentence you're not absorbing.

there's another pause. you can feel it, even if you're not looking. his attention shifts from your hunch, to the table, then around the kitchen like he's searching for answers he won't find.

then, he move closer, slower this time, like he's approaching a dangerous situation, which would make you scoff if you were paying attention. the kitchen light is the only one on, and it's bright—too bright—catching every messy detail of your study setup.

"have you moved?" he asks.

you frown slightly, pen still hovering over your notebook. "what?"

"since I left, like six hours ago."

that has you blinking, finally glancing up.

his hoodie only half zipped and hair slightly damp at the ends like he showered at the arena and didn't bother drying it properly, dylan is looking at you like he's...concerned. which can't be right, but there's a crease between his brows as his gaze flickers between you and the mess you've got spread out over the table.

"I went to meet with my study group," you say.

dylan gives you a deadpanned look. "that's not what I meant."

"why are you interrogating me?" you shoot back, squinting at him like he's personally offended you just by existing.

"i'm not," he says easily, leaning his hip against the counter. "i'm just concerned because I think you're going to give yourself scoliosis if you're hunched over any longer."

you snort, dropping your pen with a quiet clatter. "that's a big word for you, guenther. who taught you that?"

"must've caught it from your pile of notes, smarty pants—" he reaches out, quick as anything, and ruffles your hair like it's a completely normal thing you guys do. ruffle hair and hold hands and make fucking friendship bracelets.

"hey—" you smack his hand away, glaring up at him. "i'm trying to study. I have a midterm in two days and I need to cram, specifically without your comments."

you ignore him after that, looking away and flip another page. only to immediately regret it because now there's just more information staring back at you.

a beat passes, and then dylan tilts his head, eyes flicking between your still eyes and to your open book. "you're not even reading that."

you almost growl. "I can't with you hovering."

"i'm not hovering," dylan argues, pushing off the counter—but he doesn't actually leave. if anything, he steps closer. "even if I was, you've been on the same paragraph since I walked in."

you press your lips together, glancing down at the page like it might suddenly defend you. "okay, well maybe I need to read it a few times to stick."

"y/n," he says, softer now, but there's still that annoying edge of certainty in it. "i'm getting a headache just watching you. take a break."

there's something in the way he says your name that makes you look up again. you find him still watching you, and you sigh, exhausting creeping into the fight. "I can't. I need to pass this class."

"you will," he says immediately, like it's obvious. "you've always been like...the smartest person I know."

you huff out a laugh at that, leaning back in your chair just enough to look at him properly. "that's because you hang out with low IQ athletes."

"ouch," he winces, a hand coming up to his chest like you physically hurt him with that. you roll your eyes as he continues,"but true." then, without missing a beat, he nods toward your notebook. "close the book."

"what? no."

he's even closer now, standing on the other side of the table, one hand braced lightly against the back of a chair. not confrontational—just there. pestering you. "close it."

"are you deaf?" you scoff, "I just said no."

"fine," dylan shrugs, already reaching forward. "i'll do it."

"hey— get your hands off—" you lunge, but he's faster, snapping the book shut with a soft thump before you can stop him. your eyes are wide, and a little furious, when you meet his gaze again.

but he's completely unaffected, even smirking a little as he starts pushing the looose pens away from you, rolling across the table. "take a 5 minute break."

"I don't need a—"

"5 minutes," he cuts in, holding your book just out of reach like he knows you'll try again. "and then you can go back to staring at that same paragraph for as long as you want."

you glare at him, but it's weaker now. mostly because he's not entirely wrong, and you hate that more than anything. "god, you're annoying."

"yeah," he says, completely unbothered. "but i'll be even worse if you don't take this break for—" cuts himself off, a brief tense pause, "—for yourself."

you exhale, long and dramatic, letting your head fall back against the chair. "fine. 5 minutes."

"yeah," dylan nods, satisfied and then sets your book down on the far end of the table like he's putting it in time out. "that's it."

you turn your head, eyeing him as he moves deeper back into the kitchen, opening the fridge and peering inside. "so do my 5 minutes get to be peaceful," you squint, "or are you sticking around?"

he lets out a quiet, unamused laugh, putting his weight on the fridge door as he spares you a quick glance. "well, I was planning on eating something, if you wanted to have some food."

you make a face. "and eat your bland rice and chicken?"

"it's not bland."

"it's beige," you correct.

dylan rolls his eyes. "are you hungry or not?"

lips parting, you fully intended to deny his offer of pre made meals, but then your stomach growls, only loud enough for you to hear—but it's just as efficient in making you back peddle. your eyes dart between him, and then two containers in his hand.

"actually—" you push your chair back, standing and stretching, arms reaching up until your spine cracks slightly. "yeah, i'm starving."

for a moment, dylan is too busy eyeing the sliver of space between the top of your sweatpants and bottom of your baby tee. but then the fridge starts beeping, and he's reminded of everything around him.

it earns you a small, almost smug smile from him as he shuts the fridge with his free hand. "thought so."

the five minutes stretches longer than they should, and easier than they has any right to be. you end up perched on the counter while dylan pre-heats the food on the stove. all while you keep stealing bites out of the pan and pretending not to like it by critiquing the lack of flavour—even though it actually tastes really good.

your notes are forgotten under the soft hum of the apartment and the quiet rhythm the two of you fall into without thinking. and by the time you drift back to the table, the tension in your shoulders has loosened, your head a little clearer—though the space beside you feels noticeably less empty than it did before.

─────

it's the middle of the night, your room dim—because your forgot to turn your lamp out—and quiet, when a sharp crack splits through the silence—loud, sudden, and followed by the unmistakable drop of your mattress giving out beneath you.

you jolt awake, and it doesn't take long to realize what just happened. mostly because your mattress is tilted at a 90 degree angle now, which is great.

the bed groans as you attempt to sit up, staring down at the lopsided disaster beneath your sheets. "you've got to be kidding me."

you swing your legs over the side carefully, like sudden movement might make it worse. the frame tilts again in protest, and you immediately curse whoever crafted your $70 amazon frame. maybe you should've known better. whatever.

for a good few minutes, in your tiny pyjamas and on your hands and knees, you attempt to fix the broken slates that hold your mattress off the ground. stacking old textbooks and dirty laundry to attempt to level everything else, but to no avail.

"I need tools," your chest heaves from exertion, hands on your hips as you survey the mess. if you can find some sort of tool box in the house, maybe you can like nail the slates back together? you're not sure, but you do know you're going to try.

sneaking out of your room, you start the search.

five minutes later, the apartment is no longer quiet. drawers open with rolling force, and the close even firmer. open again. something metallic clatters onto the kitchen counter, echoing throughout the house.

"where the fuck does he keep tools?" you mutter to yourself, crouching to check under the sink like a hammer might just magically appear if you look hard enough.

you only find cleaning supplies, and a random screwdriver. "okay," you breathe, holding it up like it's somehow useful in this situation. "this could work."

you stand with a wave of determination, then immediately bump your hip into the counter with a dull thunk. "fuck me," you whisper.

"why do you have a screwdriver?"

you whirl around at the sound of dylan's deep, sleep laced voice. he's standing at the edge of the hallway, one hand braced against the wall, the other dragging down his face like he's been awake for exactly thirty seconds and already regrets it.

his hair is sticking up in every direction, sleep shirt wrinkled like he pulled it on sometime earlier and never fixed it. he squints between you and the tool in your fist.

"my bed broke," you say like that explains everything.

he blinks. "your—what?"

"my bed. it's, like, collapsing." you gesture vaguely toward your room, heart still racing from his impromptu appearance. "i'm gunna fix it."

"with a screwdriver?"

"yes," you grumble.

dylan makes a point of staring at you long and hard. "you don't even know what you're doing."

"excuse you," you shoot back, already defensive. you shake the screwdriver at him like a vindictive old man, making his eyes widen a fraction through the dark. "I can figure it out."

"at one in the morning?"

you snap, but there's not much of a bite considering, "so you want me to sleep on the floor?"

"I want you to stop making noise," he says flatly. you open your mouth to argue, and then hesitate. because yeah, maybe you shouldn't be making all this noise when dylan has to get up for practice.

and as if he can see the flash of guilt on your face, dylan sighs and takes a step towards you, almost cautiously likes he's not sure how his next move is going to go. "just—" he cuts himself off, rubbing the back of his neck. "just sleep in my bed."

that has you going still. "i'm sorry, what?"

he's already half turned back toward the hallway, like he said it and is hoping you won't make it a whole thing. but obviously you're going to.

"my bed," he clarifies, not looking at you. "it's fine. i'll take the couch or something."

you narrow your eyes at the back of his head, "you're not taking the couch."

footsteps falter before he's turning back on you. "why not?"

"because that's stupid," you say immediately. "it's your bed."

dylan just shrugs like he doesn't care, even though he clearly should. "it's not a big deal, y/n. c'mon it's late."

"It is a big deal," you counter. "i'm not kicking you out of your own bed because mine broke. you're being ridiculous."

he squints, confused but also like over it. "I offered."

"well, i'm declining." you tell him, even though that means you'll probably end up staying up trying to fix your own bed, or sleeping on the couch yourself. neither sounds the most ideal, not when you know dylan probably has one of those really expensive mattress that feel like marshmallow.

a brief lull, then you cross your arms, eyes cast downwards in a combination of mistrust and something that feels a lot like vulnerability. "why are you being nice to me anyways? you don't even like me."

it's a petty jab, but one that feels true nonetheless. and the second it leaves your mouth, the air between you thickens like oobleck. somehow solid yet liquified at the same time.

dylan stills. "what did you just say?" it's not defensive, or annoyed, just completely thrown—which throws you. you blink, caught off guard by the reaction.

"you don't like me."

"that's not—" he shakes his head once, like he's trying to reset. "that's not true."

you let out a shirt, disbelieving laugh. "yeah, okay."

"no seriously," he retorts, waving off your disbelief by taking another step closer to you. "that's not true."

you only cross your arms tighter, eyebrows lifting. "dylan you've been at my throat since I was like, eight."

"and you've been at mine since I was eight," he shoots back.

you tilt your head, unimpressed. "you started it."

"how did I start it?"

"you literally hid my barbie bike."

"because you kept leaving it unlocked," dylan fires back immediately. "anyone could've taken it."

"you took it!" you exclaim, throwing your hand out in his direction, as if trying to show him the problem is right there. aka: him.

"I brought it back."

"three days later!"

"yeah, so you'd remember not to do it again!" you just stare at him, unimpressed while he continues, "and it worked, did it not?"

"no," you drag out the word, "it made me think you were insane."

he huffs out a breath, pacing once across the living room now, restless energy creeping in, probably as well as frustration for the entire situation. "that my point," he breathes out like he can't stop the admission, gesturing vaguely in your direction as his pace comes to a halt. "it always came out wrong. still does...fuck."

you frown slightly. "what does?"

dylan swallows, adam's apple bobbing tightly beneath his skin. a beat passes where you think he might say whatever it is that you can see on the tip of his tongue, and you wait with folded arms and baited breath.

but he doesn't—instead, he lets out a long breath, keeps his gaze downcast as the moment fizzles. "nothing. just—" he cuts himself off, "—i'll grab my pillow and stay on the couch, okay? avoid the construction project at 1 a.m."

"wait." you blurt out, then immediately shut your eyes because—are you actually about to do this? you take a shallow breath as he looks back at you. "we can just...share your bed. I don't want to be the reason you're all stiff at practice tomorrow."

surprise is written all over his face, coupled with something else you can't quite decipher this late at night. "you want to share my bed?"

"no," you bite out quickly, like that should be obvious. "but it's a queen, right? we can hopefully survive." you're not even sure if you believe that, but that's not the point right now. right now, it's sleep.

eventually, dylan lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, one hand dragging over the back of his neck. "wow. you must be really tired to be saying this."

"not tired enough to break your mattress and then we both have to suffer," you shoot back with a sickly sweet smile, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

his mouth twitches, something almost amused slipping through. "that sounds dirty."

"don't make it weird."

"i'm not making it weird," he says, but there's a hint of a grin now, the tension from a minute ago easing just slightly. "you're the one offering to get in my bed."

you narrow your eyes at him. "i'm offering you a solution—you know, because you're the one who's suddenly wanting to be all chivalrous."

"right," he nods slowly, like he's humoring you. "a solution."

there's a beat—quiet, stretched thin—where neither of you move.

then he exhales, short and resigned, like he's already lost whatever internal argument he was having. "fine," he mutters, pushing a hand through his hair. "but if you kick, you're out."

"I don't kick."

"everyone who says that kicks."

"I don't," you insist, following him down the short hallway anyway.

immediately, it's weird. dylan's room is naturally darker than yours, and the only light is coming from the hallway, spilling in behind you before he nudges the door shut with his foot. it clicks softly, leaving you in that low, comfortable dim where everything feels a little too quiet and intimate.

you hover near the edge of the bed, watching dylan through the lack of light on the other side. he's remaking the sheets that he'd clearly been sleeping in before you woke him up with you banging around. you're hit with a pang of guilt again about that, now slowly growing because you're crashing in his bed.

he's pulling back the covers like this is the most normal thing in the world, even though his shoulders are just a little too tense.

absentmindedly, you start gnawing on the skin around your thumbnail.

dylan catches it, and shoots you a soft yet firm look. "it's just sleeping, relax."

you squint, a little incredulous. "just because you have girls in your bed all the time doesn't mean it's not weird for me," you shoot back, arms folding tighter across your chest as you hover, not moving an inch closer to the bed. feet planted on the floor.

he freezes for a second, brows pulling together. "when have you ever seen me bring a girl in here?"

short answer, you haven't. you lift a shoulder, unimpressed, even as your gaze flicks briefly around his room like it might somehow prove your point. "you probably sneak them in."

"what—" dylan lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand down his face because even he knows you're just bullshitting to bullshit. "you've known me for years...when have I ever been sneaky?"

your eyes narrow immediately, like you've been waiting for that. "do I need to bring up my bike again?"

he groans, head tipping back toward the ceiling for a second.

you just stare at him.

after a beat, he exhales hard through his nose, clearly losing this, and points sharply at the bed. "y/n, get in the bed."

there's a beat where you hold his gaze, stubbornness flaring one last time—before you finally roll your eyes and move, muttering under your breath as you slip between the sheets.

the mattress dips again as dylan follows suit next to you. there's a solid stretch of silence as you both settle into the bed. you stare straight up at the ceiling like it's suddenly fascinating. and so that you also don't lose an internal battle and look at him.

there's space between you, but can feel him there anyway—heat, presence, and the quiet rhythm of his breathing that you're suddenly very aware of.

you go to make a joke about him snoring, but you know from sharing cabin B during 5th grade summer camp that he doesn't. you remember that week vividly, and finding out you'd have to share a space with your nemesis felt like the end of the world. if only younger you could see you now—not only living with him, but sleeping in the same bed.

jesus.

your eyes slowly adjust to the dark, the outline of the room coming into focus—the dresser, the chair in the corner, the faint glow of his phone on the nightstand.

you roll slightly onto your side without thinking. "dylan?"

you're met with silence for a minute, and you're not sure if he's going to respond. or if he's awake. but then the bedding ruffles as he turns to face you as well.

he exhales gently, "what?"

"thank you," you murmur, quiet enough that you're not even sure he hears it. it's a thanks not just for tonight, but for letting you stay here in the first place, and for at least trying to change the hostility between you. lord knows you haven't made it easy.

there's a pause, then, just as soft as the heart beat thumping in your ear, he mutters—"go to sleep y/n."

and you do.

───── 1 month later

things after the whole...sharing a bed with your childhood nemesis turned unexpected roommate, turn into something you don't really have the words for. you're definitely not friends with dylan—he still drives you up the wall, and you argue with one another like you're still kids throwing sand in a sandbox—but you're definitely civil.

which is a complete inner shock to your system. so much so that you've called your mom 10 separate times since that moment to just...replay about the entire situation over and over again.

and then there was the whole thing with him being the one to fix your bed while you were at class the very next day, and you walked in just as his shirt ridden up enough to give you a front row seat to his abs and the dark trail of hair disappearing below his boxers. and that wasn't even the problem—the problem was you thought he looked...hot.

your mom got a panic call about that revelation too.

and now, everytime you run into each other in the hall, or in the morning making coffee, or simply just in passing leaving the house, you're hit with that reminder that you know think dylan guenther is attractive.

it's plagues most of your thoughts. even now, sitting at the kitchen table where you're very much supposed to be going over cue cards for a test, you're thinking about him at his game—is he all sweaty and heaving chest right now? did he maybe get into a pushing and shoving match, bust his lip...blood dripping down like some kind of sexy vampire—

your phone buzzes rhythmically against the table and you jump. the highlighter you'd be dragging against a card in slow, uneven lines—more out of habit than focus—falls next to the phone.

you almost ignore it, because it's an unknown number. your eyes flick over it once, twice. it buzzes again, insistent, and something in your stomach twists—subtle, and unknown but enough—and before you can talk yourself out of it, you reach for it.

"hello?"

"hello—uh, is this y/n?" there's noise behind the voice, and not just usual sitting in a restaurant background chatter. you can hear the roar of fans leaving a building, and medical tape being ripped off the roll, and your heart stops.

"um, yes. who's this?"

"this is JJ," he tells you, "I play with dylan. we've met before, a few weeks ago. you know the whole pyjama thing—" he pauses, as if you're going to laugh, but your heart is in your ass. so you just wordlessly wait for JJ to continue.

he clears his throat, maybe a little awkwardly. "always. don't tell him I told you this, but he asked me to call you—he's fine, just—he took a hit during the game. he's definitely a little banged up, and they're sending him home instead of the hospital."

"I—what?" you push out, already standing without realizing it, chair legs scraping harshly against the floor. "Is he okay?"

"yeah, yeah," the guy says quickly, like he hears it in your voice. "nothing broken, but his ankle is sprained pretty badly. I can bring him home, but l need your help getting him inside."

you press your eyes shut, free hand coming up to your forehead, trying to slow the sudden rush of thoughts. "okay," you breathe, forcing it steady. "yeah, okay. i'm home so just, text me or something when you're here."

JJ, supposedly, answers immediately. "yeah that be great. we will be there within the hour."

you don't go back to your notes. they sit there, open and abandoned, highlighter bleeding into the same sentence you've read three times already.

you're at the door before you even hear anything, pacing once, twice, like you can't settle into your own space anymore. every sound outside makes your head snap up—voices, the hum of an engine, lights driving past—none of them his.

minutes keep dragging in a way that feels like a personal attack. when you're not checking the front door, you're looking at your phone. but the screen stays stubbornly silent. you try sitting, but you last maybe ten seconds before you're back on your feet again, pacing a line into the hardwood between the couch and the door.

you're too worried about the possible state of dylan to chill out. which you're trying not to think about that revelation—you're already going through the whole finding him hot now thing. or maybe you always have. fuck.

headlights finally sweep across the front window, and your body reacts before your brain does. not waiting for the text JJ said he'd send you, you're immediately pulling open the door before the car can fully stop in the driveway. 

JJ is halfway out of the driver's seat, already circling the car, and then you spot dylan through the passenger seat window—and then you get a proper view when the car door is open.

he's slumped a little in the seat, one arm braced awkwardly against the door as he tries to shift himself upright. there's a stiffness to the way he moves that doesn't belong to him—careful and measured, like every inch has to be negotiated first. his hair is damp with sweat, pushed back messily, and there's a flush high on his cheekbones that doesn't look like exertion anymore.

you move down the snow dusted steps towards them.

"hey," jj calls to you, but it's soft, like he's aware of the way your entire focus locks onto dylan. "we made it."

"y/n—hey, don't—" dylan starts, a weak attempt at something light, but it cuts off the second he tries to put weight on his foot. he lets out a quiet, yet disgruntled, noise in the back of his throat.

it hits you like a punch. "okay, nope," you cut in immediately, stepping closer, hands hovering for half a second before settling—one at his arm, the other steadying his side. "don't be an idiot. just lean on me."

there's a flicker of something in his expression—protest, maybe pride—but it doesn't last. not when his smile is on fire, and especially not when you're looking down at him with a certain kind of softness that makes his stomach pull tight.

"yeah," his teammate mutters, coming up on his other side and effectively breaking the intense eye contact between you. "what she said."

between you and JJ, you get dylan upright. it's slow and clumsy with his weight heavier than usual. his arm comes around your shoulders almost automatically, muscle memory, but it lands tighter than usual—like he needs the support more than he wants to admit.

"sorry," he breathes, low, near your ear. "didn't mean to—"

"stop talking," you say, quick but not harsh. your grip tightens slightly at his side. "let's just focus on getting inside."

the walk to the door is short, but it feels longer with the way dylan limps through it, each step uneven. you're hyper aware of everything—the hitch in his breathing, the way his fingers flex once against your shoulder, the careful way JJ keeps pace on the other side.

shit, he must be in a lot of pain, you think.

once you get him up the stairs and inside, you and JJ guide him straight to the couch, easing him down as gently as you can. dylan exhales the second he's off his feet, head tipping back against the cushions, and eyes squeezing shut for a brief second like he's been holding that in the entire time.

JJ lingers a second, rubbing the back of his neck when you meet his gaze. "trainer wrapped it," he says, nodding toward dylan's ankle. "ice, elevation, meds and all that."

"thanks," you manage, glancing back at dylan just long enough for JJ to realize you mean it. "for bringing him home. do you want me to call you an uber?"

"no, you're good. I already did." he gives his teammate one last look, something knowing passing over his face. "gunner, text if you need anything." he looks back at you, "you too, y/n."

you thank him again, weakly, and then JJ is gone, front door clicking shut behind him.

its quiet when you step closer to the couch, slow under dylan's gaze. he must've opened his eyes while you weren't looking, because they're fixed on you now—tired, a little unfocused, but there despite all that.

"hi," he says, softer than before. but you can feel the pain and disappointment in them.

"hi," you echo, your voice coming out quieter than you expect. there's a beat where you're eyes fight to stay on just one thing, flickering between his and his wrapped ankle. "how are you feeling?"

he sniffles, not upset, just...full. "like some big fucker fell full force onto my foot."

you huff out something that's almost a laugh, but it doesn't quite land. your hands hover again, unsure, before settling carefully near his ankle, not touching yet. "can I look?" you ask, nodding toward it.

he nods once.

you're gentle when you finally move—peeling back the edge of the wrap just enough to check, fingers light, cautious. it's already swelling, angry and tight under the tape, and you feel your jaw clench without meaning to. you know his staff know what they're doing, but looking at dylan's ankle right now, you're not sure how this is just sprained.

"hey," he murmurs, catching the shift in your face. it makes you glance up. "i'm okay. don't freak out."

your eyes search his for a second, like you're trying to decide if you believe him. "i'm not freaking out," you force out the reply, even though it's a lie.

he gives you a knowing look, one that feels like too much. it makes your breath hitch before you force yourself away, already thumbing over your shoulder, vaguely gesturing towards the kitchen.

"i'll get you ice." you tell him, already walking away.

when you return with a makeshift ice pack, dylan half expects you to just rest it against the bone of his ankle and then leave—maybe sit on the couch if you're feeling generous enough to keep him company. but you take it one surprising step further by holding the ice there for him, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the coffee table. than again, maybe it's not a surprise, because you've always cared deeply about others...even him.

he winces—just slightly—at the cold, toes flexing near your arm.

"hold still," you murmur, reaching out without thinking to rub his shin in a soft, soothing way.

and dylan lets you.

—

you don't realize how much a sprained ankle actually affects until you're watching dylan try to exist with it. everything becomes slower, more deliberate. getting up from the couch takes planning. walking to the kitchen is a process. even just shifting his leg wrong earns that quiet, sharp inhale he tries to hide.

and you notice every single hitched breath and tightly pulled expression.

"stop hovering," he muttered at one point, not even looking at you as you trailed half a step behind him on the way to the bathroom that very first night.

"i'm not hovering," you shot back immediately.

dylan just glanced over his shoulder, one brow lifted. you were close enough that if he stopped suddenly, you'd walk right into him.

"...you're hovering."

you open your mouth, then close it. "i'm just supervising," you corrected, a little weaker that time.

he snorted, but it softened into something quieter when he reached the counter and needed to grip it for balance. you had stepped in without thinking—hand steady at his elbow, grounding more than guiding.

dylan doesn't shrug you off. and that becomes your pattern.

by the third day, you've figured out some sort of rhythm when it comes to him and the injury. you'll move things without asking—shift a chair here, clear a path there, bring what he needs before he has to go looking for it. you always have pillows stacked on the couch, so that his leg stays elevated properly, even when he inevitably slouches down and pretends he doesn't care.

"you don't have to do all this," he tells you the first time you hand him his meds, a glass of water already waiting in your other hand.

"good thing I want to, then," you reply, like it's obvious.

dylan hesitates—just for a second, eyes flickering all over your face, searching—before taking the meds. "still," he mutters, but it lacks any real argument.

but you always make sure the meds are delivered into the palm of his hand on time.

cooking is where he pushes back the most.

"seriously?" he says the first time you set a plate down in front of him. "you made...all of this?"

"it's pasta," you deadpan, dropping into the chair across from him. "relax."

"there's like—sautéed vegetables in this."

you could only snicker at his surprised, "don't sound so shocked, dylan. you'll start to hurt my feelings."

"I am shocked," he shoots back, eyeing the plate like it personally offended him. "you had school today."

"and?" you shrug, reaching for your own fork. "I can cook and go to class. multitasking. very advanced skill."

he just watches you for a second, something unreadable flickering across his face. "you didn't have to do this," he continues, a little reserved but laced with gratefulness, "you should be studying. I don't what to be a burden"

you don't roll your eyes, but you're close to. "and I can. after."

dylan looks down at the plate after that, jaw shifting slightly before he takes a bite. you pretend not to watch for his reaction, even though you absolutely are.

"it's good," he admits after a second.

"wow," you say flatly, twirling some pasta between the pronges of your fork. "high praise."

the faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, "don't let it go to your head."

retaliation is brushing your socked foot against his good ankle, and that says more than anything words could.

about a week after the initial injury, you're cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, late, while dylan's stretched out on the couch, the tv playing something neither of you is really paying attention to, ankle already up because you made sure of it.

"you missed your calling, you know," he teases suddenly.

you glance over your shoulder, thanksgiving themed dish cloth in your hand. "as?"

"live-in nurse."

you snort. "you'd be the worst patient i'd ever have."

"hey," he protests, shifting slightly. "I say thank you."

"after you complain," you point out, but there's a lightness in your tone that warms the space between you.

his perfect grin widens. "that's part of the charm."

after making a show of rolling your eyes—making dylan chuckle—you turn back to the sink, but you're smiling a little, and he can hear it in your voice when you answer. "yeah, well your charm is overwhelming."

he doesn't say anything to that. a few minutes pass before you turn off the water and dry your hands off on your sweats. you don't even think about going to your room, not like you would've a few weeks ago. instead, you drop down onto the couch beside dylan, tucking your legs under yourself out of habit.

dylan shifts, just slightly, making room without being asked. both of you various of his propped ankle.

your shoulder brushes his, and instead of freezing up, neither of you move.

somewhere in the quiet, in between the routine and the teasing and the way taking care of him has started to feel less like something you're doing for him and more like something you're doing with him—something between you settles.

and whatever this is—it's not just civil anymore. not even close.

you fall asleep on the couch together, your head on his strong shoulder and his head resting on the top of yours. even in your sleep, your carefully tucked against him, careful of his injury—and even in dylan's sleep, he'd throw everything into the wind and keeps you from straying.

—

it's two days later that everything truly turns on its axis.

you're going through and editing an essay you've been absolutely working your ass off to get done before tomorrow—when you'll go over it again with your study group—when a sound thumps down the hall. more specifically, the bathroom where dylan is showering.

it's not loud or dramatic, but it also doesn't sound like a bottle of shampoo falling to the floor. it sounds wrong in a way your brain catches before you can explain it—a sharp disruption in the steady rhythm of water against tile. something—someone—slipping.

"shit," you curse, not thinking before pushing away your laptop and making your way down the hall. "dylan?" knocking gently against the closed door, you call his name, only to be met with silence.

naturally, your stomach plummets.

you don't bother knocking again—not when you're thinking the worst. a half crippled brick of a man slipping in the shower? god, he could've cracked his head open.

the door swings open too fast, because he never locks it, thankfully—the handle hitting the wall with a muted thud as steam rushes out in a thick, suffocating wave. it clings to your skin instantly, blurring your vision for half a second, turning everything soft and indistinct.

"dylan—?"

"y/n, fuck."

then you see him. he's on the floor of the shower, one hand braced flat against the tile, the other gripping the edge of the tub so tightly his knuckles have gone pale. his leg with the injured ankle is bent at an angle that makes your chest tighten, hovering just off the ground like even the suggestion of pressure would be too much.

water pours over him, relentless—soaking his shoulders, dripping from his hair in uneven rivulets that trace down his jaw and neck.

"shit—" you're moving before you realize it, bare feet slipping slightly through the condensation soaked tiles. "what happened? are you okay?"

"i'm fine," he says too quickly and too breathless for that to be the truth. its the kind of fine that isn't fine at all.

your eyes scan him automatically—quick, efficient. no blood, and no obvious injury beyond what you already know. in one sudden blink, you seem to remember—and physically note—dylan is naked. which is obvious, but it flusters you instantly.

but the way he's holding himself, the rigid set of his shoulders, the careful way he keeps his ankle lifted is enough for you to snap out of it.

"don't move," you say, dropping down beside him without hesitation. the closer you get, the more you can see this is killing him. the strain is clearer now, seen in tightness in his jaw, the faint tremor in his arm from holding himself up, and the shallow way he's breathing like he's trying not to let it show.

your hand hovers for a second before settling lightly on his forearm. "did you twist it?" you ask, softer now.

dylan exhales through his nose, eyes squeezing shut for a second. "yeah. just—fucking slipped. tried to catch myself and—" his voice cuts off, jaw tightening again like even explaining it frustrates him. and knowing him, you have no doubt that re injuring his ankle is definitely not ideal. not when he's biting to get back onto the ice.

you nod, more to yourself. "okay. okay." it's not okay. but you say it anyway.

the water keeps running because you don't even think about turning it off, splashing against your sleeve, soaking through the fabric until it clings cold against your skin.

"can you stand?" you ask, glancing into his eyes.

he lets out a short breath—almost a laugh, but there's no humor in it. "I mean... I can try, but that feels like a terrible plan."

a small exhale slips out of you. "yeah," you murmur. "let's not do terrible plans."

for a second, everything stills. just the sound of water, your thumping heartbeats and the both of you caught in that in-between moment where the only thing you see is each other.

"i'm—" he starts, and stops. his expression shifts before looking away, something unfamiliar flickering across it. expect it's not just pain, it's also embarrassment. "this is kind of pathetic," he says, quieter now, throat bobbing as he swallows. "you wouldn't be wrong if you laughed."

you can understand why he would feel embarrassed. dylan has always been cool and confident and loud—but right now he's vulnerable. naked and hurting, with only you to help him. regardless, your brows pull together immediately. "hey—no."

he huffs faintly, shaking his head, water flicking from his hair. "I'm serious. I can't even shower without wiping out. thats—"

you cut him off, "I would never make fun of you for needing help, dylan." that comes out firmer than anything else you've said to him, and it's enough to stop him.

dylan looks at you then—really looks at you. and whatever he had lined up next fades out before it can reach his mouth.

you ignore that. your grip on his arm tightens just slightly. you let out a slow breath to steady yourself, "alright. we're gonna get you up, okay?"

he can only nod.

carefully, you move closer, one arm sliding around his back, and your other hand bracing at his side. the heat of the shower wraps around both of you, thick and close, the space shrinking until it feels like there's nothing outside of this moment—just the two of you and the steady rush of water.

"lean on me," you murmur, trying not to think of how this feels oddly familiar to a few days ago when this just happened. expect this time, your hands are on his wet, naked body...which is a lot.

dylan doesn't hesitate, hand coming up to your shoulder, gripping tighter than usual, long fingers pressing info you as he shifts his weight. he curses.

"i've got you," you say again, softer this time, like you're trying to soothe him.

together, you move slowly. guiding him up inch by inch, his balance uneven but manageable with you there. his breath catches once—sharp—when his ankle shifts wrong, or maybe it's because your hands slipped dangerously down his front.

you get him upright, then out of the tub.

water drips everywhere in your wake, pooling on the tile as you step onto the bath mat. by the time you stop, both of you are damp—your clothes clinging, his grip still firm on your shoulder like he hasn't quite convinced himself he doesn't need it.

you help lean him against the vanity, and then your eyes meet once he's somewhat settled. you don't pull away—can't even if you wanted to—because you and dylan are close. there's barely any space between you, his baked body pressed to your soaked through one.

just warmth, locked gazes, and the slow rhythm of both of you trying to catch your breath.

"sorry," dylan says, even though he's not sure for what.

you shake your head immediately. "stop apologizing."

you might imagine it, but you're pretty sure his eyes flicker down to your lips. just for a second.

"I mean it," he breathes, "you didn't sign up for this."

"I kind of did," you say after a beat, meeting his eyes as you bite back all the nerves climbing up your throat. "the second I decided I care about you."

between you, something snaps. dylan stills. the embarrassment fades, replaced by something warmer. something more open than he usually lets himself be. "yeah?" he murmurs, a little struck.

"yeah." your fingers adjust slightly against his arm, not pulling away—just settling, like they belong there. for a moment, neither of you moves, sitting with how something's finally being acknowledged instead of avoided between you.

then, gently, you nod toward the hallway. "come on. let's get you sitting before you prove me right about the terrible plans."

that pulls the faintest huff of a laugh from him, warm against the space between you. "alright," he says.

by the time everything settles down again, you end up on opposite ends of the couch, the TV on low more for noise than anything else. dylan dozes at some point—dressed now, thankfully—his head tipped back, breathing slow and even.

you don't move when it happens. don't dare risk it. not when you know he's gotta be up early for his doctors appointment tomorrow.

when you finally do get up—turning off lights, grabbing your things—his eyes briefly flicker open, finding you through the dim light.

"wake me if it gets worse," you murmur as you settle down beside him. you're not even sure if he hears you, but then he moans out and that feels like a response.

—

"i'll be back after your appointment," you tell him the next morning, too half of a bagel in your mouth as rush out the door. your study group is meeting early this morning, to go over your essays for last minute tweaks before they get handed in that afternoon.

you continue, "but text me how it goes."

dylan hobbles towards you, holding the door open for you with a flat palm. it's so simple that it shouldn't make your heart soar, but it totally does.

despite the lingering pain in his ankle, he grins down at you—bright eyes and round cheeks. "I will," he smiles, voice slow in that syrupy kind of way that feels deeper than it should. "i'll see you later, yeah?"

you nod, almost shy as you look up at him. this feels like the part where you should say something else, or maybe even lean up and brush a kiss to his cheek. but you chicken out last minute, instead just sending him another smile.

"see ya." and then you're gone, not looking back over your shoulder even though you can feel him watching you leave.

—

your study group is the same as always—same table, same scattered notes, same low buzz of conversation—but your focus keeps slipping. you reread the same paragraph three times, miss half of what someone's explaining about citations, and you lee checking your phone more than you want to admit.

unfortunately, there's no messages from dylan. you try not to let that worry you, but you figured it slipped his mind.

at one point, luca leans over, her hair tickling your arm as she lowers her voice. "are you good?"

your eyes snap to hers. "yeah, just, waiting to hear from dylan. he had his follow up appointment for his injury this morning."

all she does is waggle her eyebrows in a suggestive way at that, which makes you duck your chin to hide a growing smile.

by the time you pack up, it's well passed the time dylan's appointment was set to be over with, and you still haven't heard anything from him.

is he okay?

did his phone die?

maybe he got caught up with cooley, who was driving him there and back.

without wanting to waste anymore time wondering and ultimately, worrying, you pack up all your stuff and make your way to the bus stop, wanting to get home and hopefully, have all your questions answered.

the bus ride feels longer than it should, mostly because you reaches out—a simple hey, how's it going?—and we're still met with silence. well, that's not completely true. you know dylan sees it because it gets left on read, and that only worries you more.

and by the time you're unlocking the front door, your cuticles are a raw mess and throbbing.

"dylan?" you call out as you walk inside the home, toeing off your shoes. the front door clicks shut behind you with a soft, familiar sound.

you see his nikes then, kicked off messily, and know that he's home. but despite that, you don't get an answer from him. it's quiet, too quiet.

with your brows drawn inwards to your nose, you walk further, towards the living room. and instantly, you spot him. he's sitting on the couch, but not like usual. he's not stretched out, or half relaxed with his leg propped the way you've made routine.

he's got one elbow on his thighs, head dropped down in a way that screams defeat. his other hand holds his phone, but he's not even scrolling—like he's forgotten it's even there.

your eyes flick over his tight jaw, and even tighter shoulders.

something in your chest dips. the brief flare of anger you felt a moment ago—knowing he'd definitely saw your text and ignored you, coupled with him blatantly not answering you just now—disappears. instantly, you know something isn't right.

"hey," you say softly, stepping closer. "you okay?"

dylan doesn't look up, nor does he answer right away. he lets your question hang there. "yeah." he says, completely flat...maybe even, dismissive of you. which you wouldn't of question a few weeks ago, but you were sure you've made progress. right?

you hesitate—but only for a moment. maybe it's because you like, like him, but you're still assuming this is something small, something fixable. and oh, how wrong you are.

"okay," you murmur, nodding a little to yourself. "well, i'm gonna make something quick—do you want anything? I was thinking like, sandwiches with some pasta salad or—"

"I don't need you to make me anything, y/n," dylan's voice is sharp, cutting through the air before you can even finish. "I don't want your fucking help."

you blink, surprised. "what?"

finally, he looks at you. there's something sharp in his expression—frustration, edged with something heavier, something you don't quite recognize at first.

"I said I don't want your help," he repeats, more firmly this time. "I don't fucking need it. it's really starting to piss me off."

your stomach drops. "I—okay," you start slowly, trying to recalibrate. "I was just asking if you wanted something to eat. there's no need to get all—"

"I can make my own food," he snaps, interrupting you again. and the edge in his voice hits harder this time. "god, i'm not useless, y/n, so stop acting like i'm some charity case you can fix."

you straighten slightly, caught off guard. "I don't think that."

"then stop acting like it," he shoots back, jaw tightening. "you're always—hovering, or fixing something, or bringing me stuff like I'm useless. it's getting old."

"I have never—" you start, but your voice catches slightly. you swallow, trying again. "i've been helping you because I care about you, dylan," you continue, your voice steadier now, even if it feels like it's being pulled tight. "not because I think you're incapable of doing things on your own."

"yeah, well I didn't ask you to," he mutters. then, to push the imaginary dagger deeper into your chest, dylan's jaw tightens, tendons flexing underneath his stubble, and looks you dead in the eye. "I don't fucking want you here."

oh.

for a moment, all you can do is stare at him, like you're waiting for him to take it back. but he doesn't.

the silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable now.

"good to know," you manage to mutter, tears brimming your waterline and threatening to fall. because out of all the years and pettiness you and dylan have shown each other, nothing has felt like this moment.

you turn before he can say anything else, heading back toward the door, movements quicker than before—sharper. you grab your bag, barely registering the way your hands shake slightly as you sling it over your shoulder.

"where are you going?" he asks, something shifting in his voice now—but it's too late for regret now.

"you don't want me here," you repeat, voice wobbly as you refuse to look at him. knowing that if you do, you'd surely start sobbing. "so i'll leave."

he says your name, reserved. tries to get up but the pain in his ankle makes him buckle over, and he lets out an uncomfortable hiss.

you force yourself to not check on him. instead, you walk back out the front door with tears streaming down your cheeks.

the silence that follows is immediate, naturally. deafening without needing to say so.

dylan doesn't know what to do at first. he's still hunched over exactly where you left him—your words echoing back at him in a way that feels sharp. almost as hurtful as what he said to you.

his jaw tightens and he drops his head. "shit."

he didn't mean to snap at you, would never even dream of it. but the news he'd received from the teams doctor today had don't nothing but altered his entire day, if not week.

the doctors voice had been calm and clinical as he explained the situation—how his ankle was worse than they originally thought, and how there's been a decline since the initial injury. how the rest of the regular season isn't a likely outcome for dylan anymore.

it had been utter defeat, and anger, and above all, a feeling a hopelessness he won't be able to shake for a little bit.

and when you walked in, already assessing him, asking all sweetly and concerned if he wanted something to eat—that anger came rushing back in full force, and he just snapped.

another reminder that he's useless right now. to the team, to himself, and to you.

"fucking hell," he drags a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. because he knows he messed up big time with you, and knows that after all you've done for him, you don't deserve that.

because despite when his anger took over and he was spitting that nonsense, dylan does appreciate you. he does need you. and he absolutely wants you.

his gaze flicks toward the door, like he expects you to walk back through it any second. obviously, you don't, and dylan can't even blame you.

with as much strength as he can muster, he shifts forward and push himself up slightly. his ankle screams in protest from the shift of weight, but he pushes through it. because it's not just about him anymore, maybe it never has been.

ankle be damned right now. all he can focus on are your tears, the crack in your voice, and how he's going to fix his own mistake.

─

your professor dismisses the class in his usual monotone voice. it's followed by the rise of conversation, zippers closing and textbooks snapping closed as everyone gets ready to leave.

two girls behind you are loudly discussing how they think they did on their essays—one thinks she's nailed it, the other says she flunked. beside you, luca watches you carefully. she can tell something is up, but you don't mention the fight with dylan.

it's still fresh, and anytime you think about it, you start to tear up. thankfully when it happened during the lesson, she just wordlessly passed you some kleenex.

you zip your own bag and sling it over your shoulder as people start filtering out.

"text me if you need the notes," luca tells you quietly, slipping her laptop in her purse.

"yeah, thanks." you smile, but it doesn't meet your eyes. making your way down the stairs of the lecture hall, you don't waste anytime in leaving the room, looking forward to getting home and into bed to wallow in your tears.

hopefully, he's in his room and not lingering in the living room—waiting to reel you out even further.

you exhale and walk out, only to be met with a familiar figure leaning against the brick wall outside the lecture hall. and your stomach drops.

dylan is wearing the same thing has earlier, which isn't a surprise because it hasn't been that long. he's got on a thick black coat now, unzipped so his gray hoodie is peeking out. a set of crutches are beside him, which you don't see in the house earlier. but then again, you'd been a little bit distracted.

his eyes find yours almost instantly, because he's been waiting here for you. longer than he'd like to admit.

there's a second where neither of you moves. then, he straightens slightly, grabs one of his crutches and hobbles over to you.

you swallow, adjusting your grip on your bag. you hate how you want to immediately check in on him—clearly his doctors appointment didn't go well considering he's got accessories now.

"what are you doing here?" you ask instead, keeping your voice low out of habit. students filter out all around you, but neither of you are paying attention.

dylan stops a few feet away, weight uneven as he steadies himself on the single crutch. up close, you can see him better—the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw keeps flexing like he's holding something back, the faint flush in his cheeks that isn't just from the weather.

"i'm here because I fucked up," he says, a little breathless like it's been sitting heavy for awhile. eyes search yours, a little frantic before he continues, "and i'm sorry"

your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag. "how long have you been here?" you ask, ignoring everything else.

but dylan doesn't seem to mind, answering you without a doubt. "about an hour. but it doesn't matter," a self induced pause, he runs a weak hand through his messy hair. "i'm so sorry, y/n"

an hour? your stomach twists at that, eyes flicking briefly to the bench nearby, the concrete ledge, the floor he must've paced—well, as much as he can pace—waiting. no doubt, students sneaking pictures because dylan guenther is on campus.

you swallow roughly, throat tight with lingering emotion, "for what? yelling at me, or telling me to get out?"

"both." another step closer. "all of it. I got bad news from the doctor, and i'm out for the rest of the season and I just...I'm useless."

the word lands heavy. it doesn't fit him—never has. and hearing him say it—so easily, like he's already convinced himself it's true—makes something in your chest pull tight. because no matter what, you hate to see the man in front of you feel like that.

you sigh, a little reserved but no less meaningful. "you're not useless, dylan."

"I am. fuck," his hand falls helplessly to his side while he briefly tilts his head back, sitting with his own emotions from today. "I can't even shower on my own. getting here was like, a whole thing, even with these things now." he shifts slightly, the crutch scraping faintly against the ground. his eyes find yours again, "and when you walked in and asked if I wanted food, I was just reminded of just how useless I am right now. but I shouldn't of taken it out on you"

there's frustration in his voice, but it's not directed at you anymore. it's turned inward, sharp and relentless. and now you know that it was never about you.

"no, you shouldn't of." you mumble, but there's a little bit of playfulness in your voice.

he nods immediately, not catching how you're already on the way to forgiving him. "I didn't mean any of that. i'm like, so fucking grateful for you, y/n."

there's a pause, the words sitting between you like a missing puzzle piece. shyly, you keep your gaze on dylan. "yeah?"

"yeah," he breathes something that resembles a laugh. "without you i'd be a mess. i'd probably have JJ making my meals and giving me accidental salmonella."

despite everything, your mouth twitches, slowly forming a half grin. "probably," you muse.

the tension shifts between you, not completely gone but dissolving into something softer. he swallows again, throat dry. "i'm not just sorry about earlier, y/n. fuck I...since we were eight, I would say things, or do things that would just come out wrong." he shakes his head slightly, frustrated. "I never meant to hurt your feelings, or be a dick, i've just never been good with my feelings"

your hand twitches, wanting to reach out and touch his calloused knuckles in comfort. but you don't, not yet. instead, you just nod, a little solemn but understanding. "yeah, I know."

and you do.

"i'm sorry," dylan repeats, almost desperate.

"I know that too"

his grip tightens on the crutch, knuckles going a little pale. like he's bracing for something—rejection, maybe. or silence. or the worse case, moving out and leaving him. letting him wallow in his pain and loneliness without you. so almost hurriedly, he continues, "does that mean you'll come home?"

and you can see there's something careful in the way he asks it. hopeful, but restrained. like he doesn't think he's earned a yes, but really wants one.

you shift your bag higher on your shoulder, and step a little closer without fully thinking about it. finally, a proper smile begins to tug at your mouth as you nod towards the doors leading outside, "I would've regardless. my bed has just been so comfy since you put all that hard work in and fixed it, how could I not?"

at that, a small, tentative smile tugs at his mouth. "i'm trying to be serious," dylan almost whines, but the grin never falters.

"me too." you chirp, "come on dylan."

you go to turn, foot barley making a step past him when he reaches out, warm fingers and palm enclosing aorund your wrist.

not rough. not hesitant, either. something else that makes you stop mid step.

your breath catches as he gently, yet firmly pulls you back toward him. the crutch shifts awkwardly, tapping against the tiles as he adjusts, but he doesn't let go. not this time.

"dylan—"

you don't even get to finish before he's darting down and kissing you. it's quick at first—impulsive, like the decision outran the execution—but there's nothing unsure about it. the second it happens, it lands.

your brain scrambles to catch up, but he's pulling back before you can register the feeling.

dylan looks down at you, lips parted, like he's surprised himself too.

your heartbeat thumps in your ears. "what are you doing?"

"kissing you," he says, a little rough around the edges now.

"I—yeah, I got that," you say, blinking up at him. "why?"

dylan exhales, like something is finally catching up to him. "because I was gonna lose my nerve," he admits after a beat, gaze stating between yours and your slick mouth.

for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. and stare you do, at his eyes, the dusting of freckles over his nose, rosy cheeks and dark stubble and everything in between. your stare probably for a minute too long, and he probably thinks you're insane. or going to slap him.

"your nerve?" you repeat, curiosity lacing with hope in your expression.

he gulps. "yeah."

"why?" you ask, quieter now.

his grip loosens slightly, thumb brushing absently against your wrist like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. "because it's you," dylan breathes out like the words bring him relief. maybe they do.

you let out a breath, a little shaky. because what do you even do with something like that? he waits patiently for you to digest that, fiddling with your bracelet and the vein beneath your skin.

"...you're insane." you muse eventually.

it earns the smallest hint of a smile from him. he tugs you closer, smoothly, and shrugs casually. "probably."

"didn't think to tell me this before?"

"i'm telling you now," he offers playfully.

you glance at his mouth, then back up to his eyes. "you didn't even give me time to react."

"okay," he hums, finger still sweeping along your wrist. "react."

but instead, you tilt your head back, angling your nose against his and whisper—"kiss me again."

that's all it takes for his mouth to find yours for the second tome. and it's far from careful, which is hindsight makes sense. it's immediate, a little clumsy from the angle and the way he's balancing, but there's nothing uncertain about it. it's months—years—of things unsaid, feelings misfired, words that never came out right—it all crashes into this one moment.

his grip on your wrist loosens, sliding down just enough to steady you instead when you stumble.

your hand comes up instinctively, catching in the front of his hoodie, grounding yourself against him so he doesn't tip and you don't either. the noise of students passing by blurs into nothing—there's just him, warm and real and here. finally.

—

Camille didn't lift her head from the decorative pillow on her couch, voice muffled against the beige woven fabric. "I forgot the Leafs weren't playing tonight. Can't let you experience the bars when there's no collective suffering to be had."

"Every day, I thank God for not being a Leafs fan." Elsie bit back a laugh when Camille shoved her foot off the couch.

"Like the Blues are any better."

"At least they've won something in the last fifty years."

Camille groaned and rolled onto her back. It was a dark, mid-autumnal night, and the comforting hum of the air circulating the small apartment was broken by the boisterous nature of the city beyond the walls that roused a restlessness in her bones, one that Elsie seemed immune to.

"What's your brother up to?" asked Camille. "Think he and his friend would mind if we dropped by?"

Elsie shrugged. It had played out as one big coincidence that she and her older brother's respective best friends lived in the same city, that they could time their visits so perfectly without sending their parents into a state of worry that their kids were alone in a different country, even if they spent their entire trip so far removed from one another: Elsie hadn't seen Levi since they grabbed their bags at the airport, and she had no plans to see him again until their flight home was called to board.

"At a bar, it seems like," she said, turning her screen toward Camille to show the unflattering contact photo running loose in the city. "Feel like getting dressed up?"

Camille grinned, all mischief. "Guess we're going to a bar after all."

The bar was crowded, bodies pressed together like they were squished into a club, and music pounded through the speakers until it rang uncomfortably in their heads. Elsie walked on the tips of her toes, peering over people's heads and shoulders in search of her brother, and Camille clung onto her like a child would their mother.

Finally, she spotted him—the God-awful bleached, buzzed hair, dyed with faded leopard spots like a beacon of light in this dim establishment—and each nearing step revealed the lines of ink scattered along his arms. His back was turned to them, and Elsie's lips crimped with diablerie. Her footsteps slowed, prowling like a predator scouring its prey, and she waited until she was just a hair's breadth from him to blow air into his ear.

Levi flinched, whipping around with a curse flying from his mouth. His expression hardened when he heard his little sister cackling at his distress. He rubbed his ear. "You're not funny."

"I'm hurt, Jeans," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Hey, Camille," Levi greeted, earning a distracted one in return. "What're you doing here?"

"If you don't want your little sister showing up at the same places, then you should probably turn your location off," said Elsie, snatching his beer for a quick sip before he could smack her hand away.

"I share my location with you so you know I'm not dead in a ditch when I don't answer."

"We were bored." Elsie turned to Camille, whose silence drew concern. She followed her best friend's gaze, roaming over the faces she had seen on TV before, and understood. "Quit staring."

"I can't," Camille whispered, wide-eyed.

Levi lifted an eyebrow as he placed his beer on the table surrounded by his best friend's friends. "She's a Leafs fan, right?" he signed dexterously. "Does she know?"

"I guess not. Must have forgotten."

"Oh, this will be fun," Levi smirked when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a presence returning from the bathroom. "Hey, man, look who showed up."

Joseph took a second glance at the woman standing in front of his childhood friend—the same eyes sparkling beneath the lousy lighting, the same crooked smile that spoke only of mischief, even the same bend in their noses like they'd broken it in the same spot. Recognition widened his eyes. "Elsie?" He brought her into a friendly, yet gauche hug. "Almost didn't recognise you without the blue hair."

"God, has it been that long?" she asked before introducing Camille to him, nudging her out of her stupor. Joseph had extended the same gesture to his teammates who made it out to the bars for the night, and their thin smiles had eased at the newfound familiarity.

"Hey, kid!" Levi called before Camille could yank her too far away from the crowded booth and toward the bartenders. He handed her some cash, the corners of his lips curving slightly when she thanked him and ran off.

"Okay, what the hell?" Camille asked at the bar. "Why did you never mention that you know Joseph freaking Woll? You know how much of a Leafs fan I am."

"Sorry," Elsie said sheepishly. "To be fair, in my head, he's just Joey. Half the time, I forget he exists."

Elsie managed to flag a bartender and put down enough money to cover her and Camille's drinks—courtesy of Levi, of course. They took a shot in gratitude for his generosity, then ordered another. She could feel a pair of eyes burning into her as she tipped her head back, and as she brought the lime to her mouth, her gaze couldn't help but skirt past Camille and toward the group of hockey players in the distance until she found the charming blues of her brother's best friend.

Her heart flipped—so quickly, she thought it was from the way the liquor went down her throat.

The flashing lights hid the moment Joseph snapped his attention away with his lip trapped between his teeth.

As time plunged deeper into the night, and it became abundantly clear that Camille was not going to hold her alcohol as she had in college, Elsie put a stopper on her drinks. The stranger who wanted to buy her a drink had raised an eyebrow when she settled for a water and a basket of fries.

Camille's eyes lit up when a basket of fries was shoved into her hands. Elsie laughed, then returned to the stranger—Hailey, she'd come to learn her name was. She took her forwardness with stride, leaning into the touches on her arm and returning the flirty glint in her eyes that seemed to devour every curve and dip of her figure.

It was no surprise that she had ended up with Hailey's mouth on hers not long after.

But a coldness washed over Hailey when a stern throat clearing sliced through the pounding bass of the music.

Their heads turned, and Elsie furrowed her brows.

"Your brother's looking for you," Joseph said with a slight edge in his tone.

Elsie didn't think she'd ever seen him so serious. Her gaze flickered between him and Hailey, who seemed equally as twiddled, before she excused herself and allowed the crowd to swallow her whole. She felt like a fish weaving between threads of seagrass: turning, lingering, observing, with no destination in sight.

Instead, she waited until the familiar mop of dark hair slipped past her a few feet over. Jumping forward, her hand curled around the bend of Joseph's elbow.

The alarm on his face quickly fell. "Jesus, Els."

"What's up?"

Joseph had said something, and Elsie tried her best to decipher it, eyebrows cinching together as she stared hard at his lips—a habit too hard to snap despite the years that had passed. He noticed, then—the focused expression, just how loudly the music was blaring at them, the drunken racket of voices—and glanced around for an emptier part of the bar.

Elsie smiled gratefully when he led her away, on the fringes of the booth with his friends, distant enough to avoid their own clamor. And although everything was still so loud, when he gestured to ask if she was okay, she nodded.

"Do you wanna tell me what's up?" she decided to ask again. "I know my brother's not looking for me."

"Yeah, he is."

A chuckle rolled off her tongue as she raised her phone, revealing the last text she'd received from her brother—a short few minutes ago, but enough time to crumble Joseph's narrative—about leaving with someone.

Joseph inhaled deeply, tried to ignore the faint waft of her vanilla perfume that infiltrated his senses, and rubbed his jaw. "I meant that he wanted me to look after you."

"Levi doesn't ask anyone to do that," Elsie said easily. "Besides, you didn't have to tell me that."

"Wanted to make sure you knew."

Amusement crawled up her face. She stood on her toes to alleviate the scratch of her throat over the music. "You know, if you're gonna lie, at least try to do a better job at it."

Joseph's hand steadied her hip as he leaned down. It had been an innocent move, one to ease the strain on her ears and abate the unsteady stance that came with being on her toes, but he saw it—the wave of goosebumps undulating across her skin as his breath fanned her ear. "You're my best friend's little sister," he said. "I have that responsibility to him to make sure you're safe."

And there it was—the eureka moment, the unfortunate rewrite in her memory that the heady staring from across the room and the seemingly fueled interruption had been nothing but an obligation to the person who bound them together and not born from an excitement seeking danger that sparked all the right spots in her head.

With the slightest turn of her head, Elsie met his eyes, then glanced at his lips. If it weren't for all the noise around her, she might have convinced herself she heard the slight hitch in his breath, but she had never been good at listening to more than one thing at a time. "I'm not a kid," she muttered, somewhat sourly. "I don't need protection."

"Seems like you do," he said, and the seriousness from before returned, masked with a little more mastery until it was nothing more than a drop in his tone. His posture, too, had straightened like he was trying to appear larger than he was. "You could at least pick someone different, Els. Seen her here before; she's friends with this guy who tried to get into a fight with Kniesy."

"Oh, really?" Elsie couldn't help but bark out a laugh. "Thank you, my knight in shining armor. Would you like to screen everyone I talk to?"

Joseph rolled his eyes. "She had her tongue shoved in your mouth. I don't think there was a lot of talking going on."

"Jealous?"

"What?"

Elsie's lips twitched with repressed amusement at the sight of his scandalized expression. "Then, what? You don't fuck with the gays?"

Joseph stammered over his words. "What—no! I fuck with the gays."

"Have you seen who your best friend is? I'm fucking with you." Elsie patted his chest, a little taken aback by the sturdiness she was met with (Of course, he would'd be well-muscled. Why wouldn't he be? Fucking athlete.). "I'm headed back to the bar. You're off the clock, Joey."

"Joey," he said in disbelief. "Your brother doesn't even call me that anymore."

Elsie hadn't expected him to follow her, but when she ordered another water, his voice rang behind her for one more. Then she dipped her head with a laugh when he asked for some chicken tenders and handed his card over to go with it.

"I have one memory of us, Joey," she said. "The only time we ever hung out. This kinda feels like it." She turned around with something reminiscent sparkling in her eyes. "You had to pick me up from piano lessons because someone rear-ended Levi. God, I felt like the coolest girl around, catching a ride with a high schooler who wasn't my brother. Of course, that being the only time it ever happened, the 'cool girl' status didn't really stick around for very long."

Joseph looked almost apologetic. "I honestly forgot that happened."

"I would be surprised if you hadn't," said Elsie, sipping her water. "I never could remember where you took me to get food on the way home, though."

"Could've been Town Square," he said, running his hand over his neck and jaw like he was trying to soothe himself. "I went through a phase when that was all I wanted."

"Huh." Elsie pondered his answer before her face twisted with disbelief. "Really?"

"I hear they changed the recipe for the chicken tenders, though, so I don't think you should go in with the same expectations."

Elsie blew a raspberry, earning a laugh—full-hearted and meaningfully like it'd been the funniest thing he'd seen all day. She couldn't help but smile at the sound, much kinder to her ears than the bass droning from the speakers.

"Do you have your phone on you?" she asked.

Joseph held it out.

"You're incredibly trusting considering who you are in this city."

"You're not a stranger, Els," he said.

Elsie turned her back to him, holding his phone up. "C'mere."

Their mirrored faces stared back at them. Joseph didn't contest when she snapped a photo of them—eyes crinkled with their wide grins, lighting as egregious as the music playing, his posture curved horribly to fit into the frame—finding it almost endearing.

"There," said Elsie, returning his phone. "So you have proof that you didn't let me run wild like hooker over there."

Joseph followed her thumb jutting toward Camille, who was dancing on a table. He shook his head with amusement, both at Camille's antics and at Elsie's jesting tone. She was worse than Levi in that regard, never a serious bone in her body. Levi liked to complain about that sometimes.

A basket of chicken tenders was placed between them. Joseph watched her stuff her mouth, probably faster than she could chew, and something new passed through his eyes—a fondness, perhaps. He sucked in a sharp breath when the realization flickered through his head and looked away, pushing a thin coaster around with his finger.

Elsie swallowed loudly as she watched his calloused, yet lithe fingers twirl the coaster around. She was glad she had a mouthful of chicken right now.

"Shouldn't you be with your teammates?" she decided to ask, wiping the corner of her lips with the back of her hand. A smear of grease-stained red blemished her skin.

"Is all I am to you a wallet?"

Elsie snickered. "No, that's all my brother is. You, on the other hand, I told you that you were off the clock."

Joseph tilted his head. "Do you really want me to leave you alone?"

The quick little flip of her heart happened again. Elsie vigorously shook her head.

Joseph smiled softly, reaching for a napkin. "Alright," he said. "Hold still."

Elsie froze when he held her chin in place between his thumb and pointer finger. Gently, he wiped away the smudged lipstick, careful not to remove what was barely clinging to your lips. Elsie wondered if he could sense the fried brain cells, the disorder she could only describe as highly entropic, the stilted breath that should've pelted against his skin.

Joseph released his hold on her to scrub the back of her hand.

"I could've done that myself," she said. "I'm not a kid."

"You're welcome." Joseph grinned, ruffling her hair.

"Thank you," Elsie said softly.

"Oh, fries!" Camille squeaked out, stumbling into Elsie, who caught her with ease after years of drunken excursions together.

Elsie mourned the bubble that had popped with a laugh that told nothing of it. She flipped Camille's hair out of her face. "Did you have fun dancing on the tables?"

Camille nodded, grabbing a fistful of fries. "So much fun! God, I'm so glad we stalked Levi."

"How about we skip the ranch, yeah?" Elsie said calmly. "I don't think you can stomach it right now."

"Sounds like a dare."

Elsie pulled Camille away from the bartop by her waist. "I think that's our sign to head home."

Joseph reached for his car keys. "Need a ride?" he asked. "You know, for old time's sake. I'll try to remember this one this time."

A smile curved at Elsie's lips. "Yeah, that would be great."

Camille snatched one last portion of fries from the tender-less basket and shoved them into her purse. She cried out in complaint as Elsie dragged her away like she was nothing more than a tantrumming toddler.

"You got her?" asked Joseph.

Elsie couldn't get a letter past her lips when Camille folded over her arms like dead weight. The sudden shift nearly tripped her, and a panicked yelp straggled past her lips. "I don't got her!"

Joseph laughed as he so easily brought Camille into his grasp, her body draped over his arms like a cut of silk. The sound died on his tongue when Elsie slipped her finger into his belt loop, tightening and loosening depending on the thickness of the crowd.

For a short moment, they stopped at the booth with what was left of his teammates to say their goodbyes, and maybe for that short moment, they had fooled his teammates into believing that they had known each other well—beyond the passing pleasantries when they caught rare glimpses of each other over the years, beyond the brief mentions they heard from Levi.

"Go Leafs Go!" Camille shouted over Joseph's shoulder, earning a myriad of responses from patrons throughout the bar.

"How 'bout 'go home go', hm?" Elsie asked with a teasing lilt.

Once they got Camille strapped into the backseat, Joseph and Elsie filled the front. He handed his phone over for her to type in Camille's address and gave her the freedom to browse through an extensive number of playlists.

Part of it felt oddly vulnerable, some sort of translation of his soul laid out for her to judge, but he also felt it was unfair to assume that she was as pretentious about music as her brother was. After all, between the two siblings, only one of them studied music, and it hadn't been her.

"EDM, folk, classical, country," Elsie read out. "Wow, a little bit of everything here."

Joseph turned out of the parking garage as a soft ballad drifted into Je te laisserai des mots—from his playlist of songs he'd bookmarked to learn on the piano, he recognized. A slow smile tugged at his lips. "Do you still play?"

"Not so much anymore," she said remorsefully, thumbing along the base of her hand. "It was one thing that I lost my hearing, but I also broke my wrist in high school. Never been the same since. But it's alright; my brother has all the talent anyway."

"That's funny: Levi always says you had the talent," said Joseph. "Think he was jealous of how easily it came to you."

Elsie smiled at that. "Do you play?"

Joseph was suddenly shy, the tips of his ears burning bright red. "Here and there."

"You'll have to show me one day."

"I really don't think that's something you wanna hear," he said with a dismissive laugh.

"But what if I did? It could be fun."

Ding!

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Elsie couldn't help but steal a glance at Joseph's screen as the notifications piled in and interrupted the tranquil atmosphere.

Levi Rivers Sorry to ditch Staying the night Is my sister still there? I think her phone's dead Can I put you on babysitting duty? I'll shovel your parents' driveway when it snows Thanks man See ya in the morning

Elsie stared at the series of texts that came through before it hit her that she was actively peeping at someone else's phone. Her attention darted, rather, to the passing Toronto skyline she was growing familiar with, fingers thrumming against her thighs.

A chuckle came through. "Subtle, Els. Who was it?"

Crimson spilled across her cheeks. "Levi," she answered, turning her head. Her throat grew dry: Of course, he looked good while driving, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift, body loose and comfortable like he'd settled in a well-worn chair. "Said he'd clear your parents' driveway when it snows if you'll babysit me for the night."

"Told you," Joseph all but sang.

"Right, but this doesn't seem like it was sent before you cockblocked me," Elsie said with a quirked brow.

"I really don't think cockblocked is the right word."

"Of course, on account of neither of us having cocks. Pussyblocked then."

Joseph took his eyes off the road for a moment, just long enough to send her a flat look that melted when she cracked a cheeky grin. "You've got a mouth on you now," he said. "Did you really think Levi wouldn't ask at all?"

Elsie sank into the red leather seat, suddenly curling into herself. "He never really had to," she said, fiddling with the crucifix hanging from her neck. "I mean, he moved out for college when I was still in middle school. Our circles are pretty fucking distant, if you ask me."

It was as though a bucket of ice had been dumped over his head. Revulsion wormed through Joseph's mind—not at her, but at himself. "God, I forgot how young you are."

"You make it sound like it's a curse," said Elsie. "I'm only five years younger than you. I'm 22."

"In one mile, turn right," his phone announced, and the conversation simmered.

The car seemed to grow colder without Elsie and Joseph talking, and a shiver eventually racked through her body.

"Cold?"

"A little," said Elsie, her voice small, because there was something about him actually looking out for her, vocalizing her needs because she wouldn't, that seemed to reiterate just how childish she appeared to him.

"I can turn the air down," he said, "or there should be a sweater in the back."

"I'll take the sweater." Elsie stretched her body like a cat, blinding pawing for the thick lump of fabric somewhere beside an unconscious Camille. She slipped it on, shielding the world from viewing the deep plunge of her shirt, and shuddered as a warmth and lingering scent of his cologne cradled her.

"Are you doing anything tomorrow night?"

Elsie kept her head down, picking at her nails. She hadn't felt the need to keep them trimmed and neat since she stopped performing all those years ago. "Camille was gonna take me to a bar to watch y'all play. Something about collective suffering." Her eyes jumped up. "No offence."

Joseph huffed out his amusement. "I've heard worse—a lot worse." His fingers tapped against the steering wheel, contemplative, something close to hesitant. "Would you two wanna go to the game?"

Camille suddenly lurched forward, like one final breath of life had possessed her, and Elsie nearly screamed. "You better say yes, Els, I swear to God," she whispered hotly, though her inebriation had let Joseph hear the slurred words loud and clear.

Elsie wished the passenger seat would swallow her whole when Joseph's laughter rang through the car, and for that split second in time, she felt like a little child again—the subject of her brother's teasing, her body flimsy without a confident bone to hold her up, cheeks a permanent shade of red.

"Alright, sit back down," she told Camille. "Have some decorum."

"I'll have Levi send you the tickets in the morning," said Joseph.

Elsie offered a simple smile, yet appreciative all the same. "Thank you."

She turned back to the cityscape, streaks of warm building lights and headlights going the other way blurring together, and remained oblivious to the skin on Joseph's hand blanching as it gripped the gear shift a little tighter—as though he was battling with himself and the little voice in his head that'd been deeply ingrained since his youth, since he first stepped foot into church.

"When'd you stop dying your hair?" he decided to ask. She and Levi always seemed to have layers of colors in their hair for as long as he could remember.

"Right before college," she answered. "Figured I should have a go at being a little 'normal,' I guess."

"Normal can be overrated."

"Coming from the clean-cut, golden child? How you ended up being friends with someone like my brother still astounds me."

Joseph couldn't help but smile. "You know, I play hockey for a living. I wouldn't say that's a very normal job."

"I guess not. You're a goalie, too. Makes you even weirder by default." Elsie grinned when he sent a playful flick to her thigh. It faltered at the edges for a moment, and she shifted in her seat, her voice small. "Did you like it? The hair, I mean."

"I thought it was cool," he said with a casual shrug.

"Really?"

A half-chuckle rolled off his tongue. "Really, Els."

Elsie played with the ends of her hair, clamping them between her pointer and middle fingers like a cigarette as if to examine its stiffness and gauge if the strands could handle going through rounds of bleach and color again. Maybe one of these days, she'd show up to a family function with a head of neon green like she did at sixteen, and she and Levi could battle it out for the largest disappointment in the eyes of their grandparents.

Yeah, one of these days. Maybe the next time she'd get to see Joseph. Whenever that was.

And how juvenile she felt for that, seeking everything in her power to be perceived as cool in the eyes of someone older. She thought she'd gotten over that phase long ago.

Fuck, she just wanted to beg for some semblance of fierce confidence she'd channeled in the bar—even if only an ounce of it. Faintly, she could feel the beads of her seldom-used rosary between her fingers, and a faded prayer sprout at the tip of her tongue, as though God had personally crept into her mind to provide an answer to her wishful pleading.

The reminder of how ineptly she had kept up with the faith she grew up in left a bad taste in her mouth, and something wilted deep within her soul under its weight. She felt like a horrible person. No, scratch that, she was a horrible person for it.

She might even consider having Joseph drive her to the nearest church so she could spill her guilt through the familiar latticed grate.

They hadn't made it through the door before Camille threw a panicky finger toward the bathroom. Joseph held Camille's hair back as Elsie scrambled around for the cleaning products, careful to avoid the splotch of vomit on the floor that failed to make it into the toilet bowl.

Joseph's eyes widened when Camille leaned her weight on him, sending him flopping against the bathtub. He looked down at her, slumped against his chest with a low rumbling snore, and breathed out, giving her a gentle pat on her waist as though she were a baby he had no idea how to hold.

Elsie had chuckled and continued cleaning. "You probably didn't have your night planned out like this."

"Can't say I did. Need any help?"

"Just make sure she makes it to the toilet if she has to throw up again."

Elsie finally settled beside Joseph with a heavy sigh, slouching until she was partly against his arm and the bathtub. "I'm so glad I'm not drunk right now."

Joseph leaned his head on hers, unable to see her eyes flutter shut as though she was bathing under the summer sun, and enjoyed the few moments of silence. He could fall asleep here, he thought, even with Camille passed out on his lap, even with his butt going numb against the tiled floor. If he moved just a few inches, he might reach the cushiony bathmat, but that would mean moving away from Elsie's touch—a soft undercurrent like an old lullaby his mother might have sang to him.

Five minutes had passed, and Joseph nearly thought he was trapped there for the rest of the night when Elsie tilted her head back enough to see the top of his head. "Can you help me put Cami to bed?"

Even if he could say no, the sweetened glimmer in her eyes, all stripped down by the late hour of the night, would have been a very hard refusal, for she looked as a puppy begging for scraps off the table would. And so he did, and he remained by the bedroom door to watch as Elsie gently wiped away the makeup off her friend's face, with something soft etched into his expression.

He was grateful that the dim lighting had cast disguising shadows, so Elsie could never see the cracks in his mind nor the shame that came with it.

Elsie settled on the kitchen counter, legs dangling over the edge, as she observed Joseph, from the way his eyes seemed to roam Camille's apartment—he could recognize the smiley face on the tape of the hockey stick slanted against a corner—to the twiddling of his shirt. Anything, it seemed, to avoid looking at her.

"Do you live far from here?" she asked to make conversation. "Despite what it sounds like, I don't check my brother's location all the time."

"I don't think it matters how far I live from anywhere," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "The city's a nightmare to drive through."

"So I've heard." Elsie tilted her head. "Why're you standing all the way there? Come here."

Joseph audibly gulped when he finally spared her a glance—how prettily the warm overhead lights shone down on her, like an altar worthy of reverence, and how the air seemed to calm against the cityscape beyond the windows. "I don't think that's a good idea."

The easy expression on her face fell.

She guessed why: The sweeping gaze, the looming presence, the unneeded interference. He'd even let slip the turmoil eating at him when they were in the car, the exasperated and nearly abhorrent hiss of how young she was, like he couldn't sit with the thought that he saw her as any bit more than just his best friend's little sister.

"I didn't mean—" Elsie shook her head, small, as though to herself. "Just 'cause," she gestured to her ears, "you know."

Joseph felt like a major jackass, then, but he didn't think he was imagining something forlorn in the way she looked at him. He took a few steps forward, but nothing beyond that, almost hoping it would be enough. All it seemed to do, however, was cement the damnation coursing through his head, how easily he wanted to crumble under her gaze and close every inch of distance between them, and it left him in fear of saying something that would scare her off—or just as scarily, make its way to Levi's ears.

Levi, who was his best friend. Levi, who was just as, if not more, muscular than him, could pound his face in with a simple swing. Levi, who was deathly protective of his younger sister, even if she believed otherwise. Levi, who never had to consider telling his friends not to try anything with her, least of all his best friend, because it was a given, all things considered.

Was this messed up? It felt messed up.

"Hey," Elsie said softly, leaping off the counter. "I can tell your mind's going a million miles an hour." She looked up at him with a gentle tilt of her head. "Are you stressing yourself out because you think I'm hot?"

Joseph's chest filled with air, lots of it. "You're not one to beat around the bush, are you?"

The corner of her lips curved just the tiniest amount, for just the shortest moment. "Is it really so bad?"

"Yeah," he said, "it is. You're my best friend's baby sister. I've known you since you were a kid."

"It's not like you ever paid any real attention to me back then," she said, curling her arms around herself.

Joseph couldn't stand the feeble crack in her voice. He kind of wanted to take it all back, then—wished he'd never gone up to her at the bar at all. Maybe he would save them both from this moment—the inquiry, the shame, the fluster, the dejection. Still, he couldn't help but ask, "Is that supposed to make things better?"

"I think so. Do you even know my birthday?"

Joseph furrowed his brows. "Uh...March 5th?"

"February 17th," Elsie corrected. "Did I ever have braces?"

"Seriously?"

"Timer's tickin', Joey."

He nearly rolled his eyes. "I don't know."

"You would if you ever got close enough to me to pay attention," said Elsie. "I had them for years. C'mon, what do I have to do to get this moral dilemma out of your head?"

"Be the second coming of Christ."

Elsie huffed out a laugh before she reached for his jaw. A spark jolted between them. Joseph swallowed thickly, felt her gently pelting against the armor protecting his dignity, the shred of virtue tearing him apart. Moment by moment, he felt it waver, under her soft stare, under the patience she stood with, under the delicate touch that spoke of nothing more.

It took everything in him to keep his feet planted, to keep himself contained despite the seams of his restraint unraveling. He was starting to believe it was harder than any Game 7 he would ever have to face, and he would be deemed a failure once again when his palm splayed against her hip, the denim of her jeans rough against his calluses as he walked her toward the counter.

The corner of Elsie's mouth lifted in a devilish half-smirk as the base of her spine hit granite. Her heart thundered against her ribs, her chest heavy with his overwhelming presence, caging her against the counter. She glanced at his lips. "It's your move."

For a moment, Joseph leaned forward, felt the faintest, most feather-light brush of her lips against his, felt her breath against his, felt the heat of her body against his, but just as quickly as he'd given up on his restraint, the thought of her brother spurred in his head again, and he pulled his head back.

"Fuck," he hissed, "I can't do this to Levi."

Elsie bit into the inside of her cheek, dejectedly tipping her chin away.

And maybe it was just how sad she looked, defeated like she'd just watched the very last thing keeping her going slip from her fingers, that had him slotting his hand against her neck, nearly searing to the touch. The hope in her eyes was palpable, a bright speck in the dim ambience enveloping them, and suddenly, he felt cruel.

God, messed up and cruel. He was discovering new ways of beating himself up tonight.

"I'm sorry," he said, stepping away from her, away from the chokehold she had on him. "I should go."

Elsie watched him as he crossed the open-plan of Camille's apartment, collecting his keys on the counter, then stumbling as he shoved his feet back into his shoes. She felt naïve, she supposed, in believing that he would indulge her in something like a kiss when he was beating himself up over the mere prospect of even finding her attractive.

It was like she had become every bit the kid he claimed she was—so gullible and easily fond.

"Wait—" Joseph swiveled around, reached into his front pocket, and took his credit card out. "Take this. Use it at the arena, if you or Camille want anything from the store or the concession stands. I don't really care."

"You're crazy," Elsie said. "You don't know me well enough to trust me with your card. I could buy a car, for all you know."

"Your brother asked me to look after you," he said, and something about the way he said it felt pointed.

"Yeah, for the night, not financially. Besides, you've done more than enough by helping me with Camille. We'll be okay. We have grown-up jobs."

"Just—take it," he said. "If you end up with a car, then, fuck, I don't know, you somehow end up with a car."

In some ways, it felt cheap, maybe a little degrading, to accept his credit card after the blow to her dignity his little rejection had managed to inflict—like this was his way of palliating the burn and mending the damage with a bandage made of dollar bills. Still, she plucked the card from between his fingers with no intention of ever using it and walked him to the door.

Joseph was halfway past the doorway when he paused. "Are you gonna tell Levi?"

"Tell him what?" she asked. "That his best friend thinks his sister is hot? That he wanted to kiss her? I really doubt this hasn't happened in history before, but don't worry, Joey, your secret's safe with me."

And despite how scornfully he could've taken her words, the ghost of a smile he noticed revealed something earnest, something sweet, something entirely dangerous for his frenzied mind. He figured even a puck to the head wouldn't shake it out of him.

"Hey, stop beating yourself up over it," she said, a lot less teasingly. "Nothing happened. You just dropped me and Camille off."

Joseph nodded.

"Drive safe, okay?" Elsie told him like they were words she'd always said. "Text me when you get home."

Joseph blinked at her. "You're gonna be the death of me."

Mirth flickered in her eyes. "Should we look for plots together?"

"Goodnight, Els," he said over his shoulder.

Elsie waited until he got into the elevator before retreating.

Once morning came, all Camille could remember from the night before was seeing her favorite team's players before she blacked out—from shock or the insurmountable amount of alcohol she consumed, she was yet to determine—with the minor exception of accepting Joseph's invitation to see the game live.

She would be damned if she forgot that.

Elsie laughed when Camille finally showed face in the morning, eyes barely open as a pounding headache rang obnoxiously against her skull as though a death metal concert was being held there and her feet dragging like her muscles were made of concrete.

Camille could only flip her off before flopping onto the couch. "Don't tell me I embarrassed myself."

A snort sounded, and Camille groaned.

"Alright, let's go whoop these Krakens," Camille said with the most enthusiasm she could force herself to project, which was to say, not very much.

Levi, too, had laughed once Elsie and Camille found their seats beside him, a few rows from the glass. "The sunglasses, Camille?"

She lazily shoved her hand in his face, as if to shush him for speaking so loudly. They hadn't been there for very long, taking a straight path from the parking garage to the lower bowl, but already the pulsing music was worming through her head with the right amount of suffering. "Earplugs, too."

"How hard did y'all go last night?"

"You, singular," said Elsie. "Only one of us went hard last night. Though I'm glad to see you're alive and well."

Levi nudged her. "Hey, that's why I share my location with you." He finally took note of what his sister was wearing, lips curling with disgust with each pass. "Where the hell did you get all that Leafs shit?"

"Cami's closet." Elsie pulled the sleeves of Joseph's sweater over her hands. It hadn't been a total lie—she'd raided the hat and logo-printed socks hidden by her dark-wash jeans back in the apartment—but Levi didn't need to know that the Drew House crew neck, way too large for her or Camille's frame, belonged to his best friend. "Where's yours?"

"I'm a Blues fan." He looked at her like she'd grown a second head, for it had never been a secret. In fact, it was very loudly proclaimed, and his childhood bedroom, decorated with pennant flags and banners and one-of-a-kind memorabilia collected over the years, had been all the evidence she needed. "I'm not wearing another team's gear. You shouldn't either. I thought I raised you better than that."

"But he's Joey." Elsie all but pouted.

"And he knows where my loyalties lie. Who else goes through the hassle of collecting all of his cards?"

Elsie rolled her eyes before scanning the ice. They were about halfway through warm-ups, pucks bouncing off the posts and skidding along the boards while the team glided throughout their zone with envious ease, sharpened blades scratching perfectly over the ice. She turned to Levi, and even if he wore his mask well, she could see it—the longing twisting into the edges of his mouth, the dimmed spark in his eyes, something that could've been a wiry green monster in his heart if she didn't know him as well as she did.

"Do you miss it?" she asked.

"Miss what?"

"Being out there?"

Levi huffed out a laugh, tightening with defensiveness. "I still play beer league. It's not like I've given it all up."

Elsie chewed on the inside of her cheek, tongue soothing over the tender tissue. "I know, but it's not the same as playing with your best friend."

"What are you trying to get at?" Levi nearly snapped. His glare softened almost immediately when he saw her rub her finger along the back of her ear, like the external parts of her cochlear implants had suddenly grown ten times heavier. "I don't blame you, you know," he said gently, draping his arm around her shoulders. "I'd do it all over again. Besides, I like what I do now."

The game started and quickly plunged into a bloodbath of anxiety, neither team ever allowing a lead for very long. Elsie went to grasp her necklace, as though she had hoped for a holy presence to swing the game in their favor—as stupid as she might've called herself for it—but when the cold metal never came to know her fingertips, her heart sank.

She could've sworn she just had it.

Levi raised an eyebrow when she looked under her seat. He asked if she was okay, to which she signed her frustration that she was, indeed, not okay. He raised his hands and let her be.

With an overtime loss for the Leafs, Levi, Else, and Camille filed through the corridors, passes hanging from their necks, until they found the family room, filled with wives, girlfriends, relatives, and children. They had felt a little out of place there, falling into none of the categories that really validated their presence there, so they remained huddled in a corner, waiting for Joseph to find them, as though he were a parent picking their children up from daycare.

"There he is!" Levi exclaimed.

Elsie looked over her shoulder, the hand that was soothing the front of her bare neck coming to a slow halt as her eyes brazenly scanned over the suit fitted against his figure. His tie, colorful and loose around his collar, looked like he couldn't be bothered to knot the fabric together again after the loss looming in the air. A thin smile blossomed on her lips, one that came off a little stilted, yet had painted her restraint fairly well to him.

"Not even a water?" Joseph said to her. He tried not to think too hard about how comfortable she looked in his sweater. "Really?"

"I did appreciate the sentiment," she returned his card, ignoring the spark jumping between their fingers as they brushed against each other, "but one of us is majorly hungover and can't be within a three-foot radius of a drink without wanting to throw up, and the other overpacked her carry-on and can't fit anything she'd want to buy."

Levi seemed offended. "Why didn't I get a card?"

"What?" Joseph furrowed his brows. "You said to take care of your sister."

Elsie smiled sheepishly under her brother's wry glare.

"Need another ride?" asked Joseph.

This time around, things were different: Levi, with his long legs and sinewy build, had claimed the passenger seat, forcing Elsie and Camille to the back, and considering her brother's charisma seemed to crowd the car like there were more than four people inside it, the tranquility that once threaded through the space failed to burgeon. Elsie internally bewailed it, wishing that, for a fragment of a second, it was just her and Joseph again.

But sometimes it felt like it was—in the stolen glances in the rearview mirror, in the little ways he had roped her into the conversation, like he had only wanted to listen to what she had to say.

Elsie knew she was being stupid, knew that he was just being Joseph—kind, attentive, caring, funny without meaning to be—but there was a part of her that believed that maybe, just maybe, he actually did like her beyond the intimacy of a bar and the unraveling cloak of night, saw her as more than she was, thought of her as someone worth being selfish for.

She wondered what it'd take to break his resolve, then she realized how behemoth of a task that seemed to be, for how did one tempt someone who possessed the mental fortitude to play at the highest level his sport had to offer?

She could try. She wanted to try.

Even as tortured as he seemed to be last night. That had only enticed her more. The almost flawless gift that kept on giving, coming apart at the seams at a single bat of her eyelashes.

She could reap the consequences of her beguiling before the altar. Surely, God would understand the desire He so put forth in her heart.

"Thanks for the ride, Joe," said Camille. "Can I call you that?"

Joseph snickered. "I think we're on a first-name basis after last night."

Elsie slotted herself between the front two seats, pressing a chaste kiss on her brother's cheek, then one that lingered, for just a hair longer, on Joseph's. She never let her smirk make headway, not even the slightest twitch or slant at the corner of her lips, when the light shade of pink crawled up his neck.

"Thank you, Joey," she said, "for yesterday and today."

He watched her clamber out of the car. "Anytime, kid."

Elsie's step faltered. She knew what he was trying to do, this last-ditch attempt to talk himself out of his wandering gaze and soft-hearted nature, to keep his best friend entirely oblivious to it, too. She was grateful, then, that her back was turned to the car, so he couldn't see the glimmer in her eyes fade, so Levi wouldn't be privy to anything.

But he did anyway. Because he was Levi, and he was almost too attuned to all of his loved ones' fluctuating emotions.

"Hey, kid," he called out. She turned around. "You okay?" he signed. "You've been quiet."

Elsie offered a faint smile. "Fine. Listening fatigue. I'll see you at the airport. Enjoy the rest of your night."

"Not going to stalk us this time?"

With a quick glance at Camille, she laughed. "No," she said. "Night, Jeans."

"Night, kid." Levi rolled the window up.

Joseph waited until Elsie and Camille made it inside before he drove away.

"So, wanna tell me what that was about?" Camille asked once they crossed the threshold into her apartment unit.

"What was what about?"

"Els," Camille stared blankly, "that sweater's not mine; Joe gave you his card; you can't look him in the eye; he kept looking at you—not subtly, either. What the hell did I miss?"

Elsie collapsed onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. "Tomorrow?" she asked with a sigh. "Implants are running out of juice."

Camille chuckled. "Alright."

It had been a few hours later, Elsie mindlessly scrolling on her phone in silence, when she received a video from her brother that spelled out his inebriation like he was teaching a class of toddlers. She didn't need to assume that there was yelling and music blasting—after all, Levi always knew how to have a good time—and neither did she need to assume that Joseph was with him; the only thing surprising that came out of his presence when Levi flipped the camera around, however, was how intensely he had thrown back his shots.

Like he was trying to drown out every thought in his head.

Elsie left his video unanswered and went to put her phone down when she felt it buzz—once, then twice.

josephwoll is now following you

Joseph Woll I should've kissed you last night.

NOVEMBER

Levi and Elsie weren't the type of siblings who texted all the time (maybe a meme every few weeks), or made plans to see each other every other weekend (they were on par for a hangout every month and a half), or intermingled their friend groups (Levi was as good as their dad as recognizing her friends), or asked for life updates when it'd been too long (Elsie heard from their mom that he was looking to move). They believed that made them, by definition, not close—not estranged, but not best friends like they'd seen some others.

But every once in a while, when he was bored, Levi would remember that she lived in the same city and show up at her door unannounced.

"Joe's in net today," he said. "They're playing the Blues. Watch the game with me."

Elsie's transmitter snapped into place against her head, and the racket from the TV rushed into her ears. How Levi had found her remote when she had no recollection of where it'd last been placed was beyond her, but she kept her lips sealed.

"You're not giving me much of a choice," she said, joining him on the couch. "What happened to your friends? Oh, wait, you don't have any."

Levi rolled his eyes, pulling her throw blanket over his lap. He always thought she had the comfiest things—a perfectly warm lamp on the end table, festive garlands strung along the underside of her island counter, ready for Thanksgiving, silken cushions propped on her couch, all perfectly lived-in. He might drive home with this blanket later, though, if he can sneak it out.

"Turn the captions on."

"You're actually gonna watch with me?" Levi asked in disbelief. "I figured you were gonna leave me be and fuck off."

"It's the middle of the workweek," she said, sinking deeper into the cushions. "I'm not going anywhere if I can help it."

Levi flashed his bleached eyebrows like he understood.

"Can I dye your hair?" asked Elsie.

"What, this weekend?"

"No, like, right now."

Levi inhaled deeply, palming the grown-out buzzcut plagued with dark, overgrown roots, faded color, and brassy ends. "Fuck it, yeah. Buzz it while you're at it."

Elsie saluted and scurried off to her bathroom, finding her stash of bleach, developers, dyes, and gloves that had yet to see the light of day—all prepatory in case she decided to bite the bullet again. She liked to think it was going to happen sooner rather than later.

"Hey, did you go to Mass on Sunday?" Levi yelled from the living room.

"No!" she called back, brows furrowed with concentration. "I'm not driving forty minutes home to feel guilty. I can do that on my own, thank you very much. Did you?"

"No," he said.

A second passed, and like the answer to a millennium problem sprouting in their heads, their eyes lit up with realization.

"So that's why Mom was pissed," they concluded.

"She acts like it's something new," said Levi. "You and I are Creasters, at best. Joe might even be better about that, and he's not even Catholic."

Elsie snorted, about to bring the supplies over to the living room, when she pulled out her phone instead. Away from Levi's eyes, she could do this, stew in her hesitancy, stew in the fluttery feeling in her stomach. Her manicured thumbs hovered over her screen when she read the drunken text Joseph had sent that she never found a response to, and she wondered if she should've at the time, or if sending something now, entirely unrelated to it, was a good idea.

Before she could stop herself, however, the texts were sent.

els ♒︎ heyyy joey play well tonight (not that you don't normally) but i need to rub it in my brother's face Seen now

Elsie returned to the living room and laid down plastic along her rug and couch before forcing Levi onto the floor. Briefly, she looked at the TV as the national anthems rang out, Levi quietly singing along as though it would mask how good his voice truly was, and waited until the final note sounded before she brought the clippers to his head.

Splinters of hair cascaded along Levi's bare shoulders, and she was tempted to leave him with the shaved strip down the center, but her humored giggles earned her a shove, so she kept going.

By the time she had slathered on the bleach and let it process, they were halfway through the first intermission. Levi rushed through the rinse, shouting from Elsie's bathroom as suds dripped into his eyes from his haste.

"Two minutes, Jeans!"

"Fuck me!"

With heavy stomps, Levi stumbled back into the living room with a towel obscuring his vision, drops of water tracing his path along the floor. He plopped back into his spot in front of Elsie, another string of curses falling from his lips as the jagged edges of his fallen hair speared into his legs, adding to the sharp pain radiating from his spine after sticking only his head beneath the shower stream.

Once the game ended, Elsie wasn't sure whether he was bemoaning the overtime loss the Blues had suffered or the black squiggly, ribbon-like lines now encircling his hair. She assumed it was the former, for he'd slid praise to his childhood best friend at some point, only to lament the string of losses piling on his favorite team's record.

"Hey, wanna order in?"

And it was as though Levi had never watched his team lose. "Yeah, what do you want?"

"Chinese?"

"Chinese."

A few minutes later, Elsie's phone vibrated. Her gaze slid to her brother, who was entirely encapsulated by the post-game panel breakdown of the game, before she angled her phone ever so slightly.

Joseph Woll Was that good enough?

els ♒︎ i was joking, by the way seeing you get to play is more than enough for me :) but yes, jeans is a mess Seen now

Elsie frowned when it appeared that she would receive no additional response. Had she been too much? She didn't think so—just a friend expressing her pride in his accomplishments.

That was what they were now. Friends.

Maybe.

They didn't talk all that much, and she didn't ask Levi about him, just as he didn't ask Levi about her. But they weren't as peripheral anymore, and maybe acquaintances was a better choice of words, but she didn't like the sound of that.

She didn't think it explained the way his hands brushed against hers as they walked to his car, or the way his eyes lingered, or the care with which he handled her, or how desperately he wanted to kiss her.

But with her brother just a few feet away, too perceptive a person for any change in her mood to go unnoticed, she tossed her phone aside.

"Oh, by the way, you got some bleach on your hair," said Levi. "Might be a sign, kid."

DECEMBER

"You couldn't have picked a different color?" Dana Rivers cried when her son showed up on her doorstep on Christmas Eve with neon pink stars drawn on his hair. "Jesus, Levi! What about something Christmas-y, like green or red?"

Levi ducked away from his mother's hands. "I'm not walking around looking like a bloody tampon."

Elsie barked out a laugh. She stood in the foyer, equipped with a spray can, the same chocolatey shade of her hair. She gave the can a few shakes, mixing balls clacking loudly against the calm hum of Christmas hymns warming the old suburban home.

"Oh, you came prepared, huh?" Levi narrowed his eyes.

Dana looked like she was one moment away from letting out a sob. "This is all your fault, Steve! If you had never let..."

Elsie tuned out her mother's voice as she pulled her brother into the bathroom.

Levi plopped onto the toilet lid, hissing when the first icy blast of temporary hair color hit his scalp. "What's Mom's problem?"

"Same ol', same ol'," Elsie said. "They've started up again."

A string of silence dragged on—thick, uncomfortable. Distantly, they could hear Steve finally snap at his wife's incessant badgering.

"I know, Jeans," she said, offering a thin-lipped smile. "The walls spoke."

"How long has it been going on for now?"

Elsie continued spraying his hair. "Started to pick up a few weeks ago, I think. Been especially bad lately. Think it's just the holidays, though."

Levi saw the anxious purse of her lips, the muted spark in her eyes, the bloodied cuticles that juxtaposed the cute and festive designs adorning her nails. "Don't blame yourself for it, kid."

"I don't. Not really. Not this time around."

"Okay. Good."

Levi didn't critique the blotchy work Elsie had done on his hair, not when their parents were ushering them into the car to make it to midnight mass in time to secure their seats after his little color debacle had set them back a few minutes. But he was wholly privy to it when she let out a giggle every once in a while, like it'd been her intention the entire time.

"Joe saved us a spot," he announced.

"Oh, you invited him?" Dana asked. "Well, bless him."

Elsie had slid into the shellacked pew first, flashing Joseph a quick smile when she settled beside him. The air was stiff between them, like they hadn't quite known how to exist around one another beyond the boundless thoughts of what could've happened between them, and perhaps they didn't—not in the way they should, at least.

But how could they when the longing came rushing back to the forefront of their minds?

The moonlight passed through the stained glass with a reverent glow befitting the altar that stood high and mighty, but all Elsie could think was that it illuminated like a spotlight meant to shame her for the temptation flowing through her body, the gravitation that had her seeking Joseph's touch, no matter how slight.

The guilt that followed consumed her like rot when she subtly knocked her knee into his, almost like an accident if neither of them knew any better. But he made no attempt to move away, and the nervous wire stretched tight in her spine loosened.

For a brief moment, their eyes connected, and the faintest smiles danced across their faces.

Despite the relatively lax stance she and her brother had taken toward their faith, each procession came to them like a breath of air—easy, familiar, long-held. Each move taken to stand, to sit, to make the sign of the cross, to recite each prayer, response, and creed—all of it, Elsie swore, she could do even in death.

She did not know if, at the depth of her soul, that made her a good person despite it all, or if it worsened the guilt over her lack of discipline, the guilt over the prurience distracting her, the guilt over her wandering eyes to people the Church would never let her marry, the guilt over allowing her mortal feelings and urges to become the driving force in her decisioins over the religious moral teachings ingrained in her from her youth, the guilt over existing as she did.

Her eyes glazed over with something distant and cloudy as she sank to her knees beneath the crushing weight of it all.

And a part of Joseph felt a heaviness in his chest when he watched from the corner of his eyes, past the rim of his glasses—a moment of innocent, hallowed piety that bewitched his mind and soul with something that should send him scrambling for the confessionals. He knelt faster than a flash of lightning, hoping the Eucharistic Prayer could wash him of his thoughts.

Elsie's dad had received the Eucharistic bread in his hand when she decided to tilt back, only marginally, only enough for Joseph to notice. He leaned forward, just a smidge, ready to hear whatever it was she wanted to say.

"Is there anything you'd like to confess before receiving a blessing?" she asked, lips barely moving, voice even less distinguishable.

But Joseph heard, and all he could do was nudge her forward.

Elsie's cheeks inflated with the laugh she kept contained.

In the chaos of families making their escape after Mass had concluded, Elsie had found her place before the votive candles by one of the alcoves, the gentle candlelight softly dancing against the delicate curves and edges of Mary's statue. It was just her there. She felt small, like a little child seeking the comfort of her mother, and a sudden solace mended her heart when she thought of this as no different.

Still, it was overwhelming, the feeling that gutted her from within—a fearfulness trembling her muscles, a distraughtness stinging behind her eyes.

Elsie couldn't remember the last time she'd clutched her rosary that tightly, fingers blanching like the silvery moonlight high in the sky. Maybe in high school, when she'd been confined to a sling and hoped to play the piano the way she used to, begged God not to take that from her, too. Maybe in middle school, that very day her best friend at the time had innocently grazed her hand, and she felt her heart skip a beat; God, she'd cried and cried and thought something was profoundly wrong with her and hoped she would pray herself into normalcy. Or maybe before that, as a child, pleading to have her hearing back until her knees scarred; she still had the marks to prove it.

It felt a little disingenuous, in all honesty—how she only came before the Lord when she needed something. She wondered if He ever got tired of it, if He thought any less of her for it. But the candlelight continued to burn, and she figured that had to have meant something.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

Elsie had felt Joseph's presence loitering, and she was deeply grateful that he'd let her be for just a few moments. She hastily brushed away the tears trickling down her cheeks and looked back up at Mary's statue, as though for reassurance. "You been standing there this entire time?" she asked.

"I was on my way out," he said. "Had a feeling I should stop by."

Elsie didn't turn to him when he joined her side.

A long silence lapped between them.

Joseph stuffed his hands into his pockets, craning his neck to observe Mary. Her lips were curled softly, her eyes painted with tenderness, and her palms were turned outward, as though inviting all to stand with her, to unshackle the weight of their troubles onto her, to feel the love that Jesus had.

How kind she appeared before them, despite her grandness. A sort of humility that rippled into succor.

He understood why Elsie would go to her when something troubled her.

Lowering his gaze, he noticed the tired breath expelling from her shoulders, like she didn't quite have the strength to stand from her kneeling position. He reached for her back, his fingertips only able to skim the base of her neck, but that had been enough, it seemed, when the tension in her body loosened beneath his touch, sent her leaning against his leg like it was some lifeline keeping her upright when all she wanted to do was lie down.

"Did my brother ever tell you that our dad's starting to lose his hearing?"

"Once," he said, carefully smoothing his palm over her hair. "You know how he is: For someone so attuned to everyone's emotions, he doesn't like talking about his own."

"It seems stupid to say, but I hope it doesn't get worse," she said, toying with the beads of her rosary. "I don't want him to go through what I did. It was hard getting to where I am, and I struggled—still struggle—a lot."

Joseph pressed his lips together in concentration. "I guess I never really considered how much goes into hearing again."

"Most people don't really think about deafness unless they're insulting someone." The corner of Elsie's lips swept up just the tiniest bit, like she was trying to lighten the air, but the weight of Joseph's presence and Mary's knowing stare had quickly snuffed out that attempt. "I'm grateful that I can hear again, I am, and I live a fairly normal life, all things considered," she continued with furrowed brows, "but it's not the same. Festivals, concerts, large gatherings—they're all kind of...muffled and robotic, and I can't really focus on more than one sound, and emotions don't come through the same way. It's like...I can hear, but I can't listen. Not fully.

"But that's why I studied physics in college. I may not be able to hear like I used to, but I can experience sound through numbers and graphs and vibrations, and the more I studied it, the more I realized that...everything sings. That's kind of comforting, isn't it? Poetic, even.

"Even then, that doesn't remove all the envy I feel. The worst part about everything is that I remember what sound was like before I lost my hearing—barely, but enough that I spent a lot of time upset over it, and some days, I consider just taking these suckers off and never putting them back on." Elsie had felt some sort of relief in admitting this to someone, something like stepping out of the confessionals. "But my parents used to get into fights about it, and obviously, I couldn't really hear them by that point, but I'd feel the walls shake sometimes. One night, I wanted to see what was going on, but instead, I found Levi just sitting in front of my door like he was standing guard. He wouldn't tell me what was happening, but he just looked so...sad, and I knew.

"They all put in so much time and money into helping me; it would feel like a waste if I decided to stop using my implants," she said. "I don't know—He and my mom are already starting to argue again, and I can't stand the thought of my dad experiencing what I did, and I guess, that's assuming he'll even get that bad, but it's hard not to think about it when it kind of looms over us, y'know?"

Joseph wasn't quite sure what to say: He didn't think it was right to tell her that it'd all turn out for the better, that she should be overtly optimistic—this overbearing, false sense of positivity that seemed to do more harm than good—because it was obvious that this had been gnawing at her for a while, that she hadn't quite had the chance to sit with everything fully, and he didn't want to brush her emotions off when she was opening up to someone—to him.

But neither would it feel right to tell that she was strong for persevering when everything seemed so bleak, that she should continue to be strong, because she didn't have much of a choice in the matter. It wasn't like she wanted to lose her hearing, like she wanted to sit through hundreds of audiologist and speech therapy appointments, like she wanted to live knowing that she wasn't experiencing life with the depth that sound gave everyone else.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to dump that onto you." Elsie dismissively shook her head, rubbing her eyes. "It's late."

"Hey," Joseph gently coaxed, dropping to his knees at an instant. His gaze softened when she finally spared him a glance, the skin around her eyes puffy like she'd showered in pollen. His chest tightened when they turned glassy again, her lips trembling with each passing second. "C'mere."

Elsie melted into his grasp, his arms snaking around her shoulders—comforting, anchoring, supporting, all at once. She quite liked the feel of it, how her muscles seemed to loosen, like her shoulders no longer carried the weight of the cross she was burdened with, and for a moment, her mind quieted.

Joseph pulled back enough to let his thumb collect the wetness on her cheeks. He studied her face as she leaned into his touch, felt time slow when she mustered up the courage to meet his gaze, all vulnerable and raw emotion. He knew, then, that he wanted to be the one she went to when she needed a moment away from the responsibilities of the world, so he could shield her while she rested.

Briefly, his gaze drifted to Mary. The candlelight, still as gentle and as strongly lit, seemed to soften her kind expression even more. It had never felt more heavy-laden, however, like the weight of a mother's expectations had now been bestowed upon him. He turned back to Elsie, then.

"You can talk to me about anything," he said. Before he could stop himself, he pressed a kiss onto the top of her head.

Elsie shifted, tucking herself deeper into Joseph's grasp. "I know I didn't really give you much of an option, but thank you for listening."

"You don't have to thank me." His hand brushed over her hair, careful to avoid the implants on either side of her head, and the way his heart flipped blinded him, temporarily, from all the restraint he felt he owed Levi.

But it came surging back in, left his smile fading and his soul heavy with shame for ever feeling what he did when he thought about her, let alone when she was around. The church, too, seemed to agree, the pietistic lighting within the church haloing around her head, laughing at him for ever thinking he would be worthy of her.

Then came the footfalls echoing softly against the stone floor, and maybe a little too quickly, he seemed to shove some distance between them. "You feeling better, kid?"

Elsie had understood fairly quickly—the turmoil ribbing at him and the approaching presence. Hastily, she wiped away what tears were left on her skin, nodding despite the emptiness now feasting on the warmth he had enveloped her in. She might even say she heard a crack form in her heart if it didn't sound so theatrical.

"There you are," Levi's voice rippled from behind them. His strides grew louder, then softer as he slowed down. "I've been looking all over for you, kid. Oh, hey, man."

Joseph offered a nonchalant acknowledgment, a simple jut of his chin. He saw the slight crinkle of Levi's brows at the sight of them, like each rationalization was passing through his face, before he shook his head dismissively. After all, he had no reason to believe anything else.

"Are we still on with Freddy tomorrow?" Levi asked Joseph, who gave some half-assed response. "Sweet. C'mon, kid; Mom and Dad are getting antsy."

"Night, Joey," Elsie said quietly, unable to meet his eyes, entirely enraptured by the rosary clutched dearly in her hands. She trailed alongside her brother.

"What was that about?" asked Levi.

Elsie shrugged. "Nothing."

Levi came to a halt when he heard the faint sniffle, the raspiness of her voice finally striking something in his mind. His gaze finally swept over, with detail, her mottled skin, then the slightly tumid nature of her eyes. "You were crying."

"Let's go, Jeans." Elsie tugged at his arm, but he remained firmly in place.

"What's wrong?" he asked. Briefly, his eyes flickered when Joseph passed them, and he thought back to the past few moments. "Did Joe do anything?"

Elsie stared at him, long and hard. Then she laughed, slapping her hand over her mouth to mute herself. "Joey? Your best friend, Joey? The guy who won 'Most likely to brighten your day' one year? That Joey?"

"I don't know!" Levi threw his arms up. "You were fine when Mass ended, and then I find you with him, crying. I was just throwing shit out there."

Another laugh, more of a giggle this time, had left Elsie's lips, and the sound seemed to knead away the knots in Levi's shoulders. "Joey didn't do anything. He won that superlative for a reason. We were just talking about Dad."

"Oh." Levi fell into step with his sister, opening the church doors for her. "When did you two become so close?"

"When you ditched us in Toronto," she said.

Levi thinned his lips, glaring when Elsie shot him a teasing grin. "Whatever. You steal my clothes, my pens, my car...Next thing I know, you'll be stealing my friends, starting with Joe."

It had been a joke, but Elsie couldn't help but find Joseph as he reached his car, just two spots over. He seemed to feel the weight of her stare and looked up. "You're not losing your friends to a kid, Jeans."

She climbed into the backseat before she could see the way Joseph winced.

Morning had come quickly, and Elsie stirred awake when her phone buzzed. She cursed at herself, wondering if she'd been too tired to silence her phone before she collapsed into bed when they'd gotten home from church, but she lifted her head, bleary eyes clearing to read the texts coming in.

Joseph Woll Have something for you. Think you can open the door for me?

Elsie shot out of bed, nearly tripping over her comforter tangled between her legs, and hurried out of her childhood bedroom, uncaring of how she looked—hair sticking in different directions, eyes lined with flakes of mascara she'd failed to remove last night, old pyjamas skewed and crumpled.

The front door swung open, and Joseph bit back an endeared laugh at the sight of her.

"Sleep well?" he asked.

Elsie nodded. "So what's this thing you've got for me?"

"Greedy."

"I know what I want," she said.

Joseph pulled a wrapped box out from behind him, small enough to rest entirely in his palm. "Merry Christmas, Els."

"Merry Christmas, Joey." Elsie smiled softly, even if her heart still stung from last night. Her foot seemed to twitch, like it was wondering if she should step forward to hug him or remain where she was. Instead, she took the gift and lowered her gaze, observing the paper littered with Christmas trees. "Thank you," she said. "And thank you again for last night—for listening."

"Like I said, you don't have to thank me. I meant it—when I said you could talk to me about anything."

Elsie gently cradled the wrapped gift between her interlocked fingers. "You can talk to me, too."

"Els, close the door!" Levi shouted from inside. "You're letting all the cold air in."

"It's sixty degrees outside!" Elsie yelled back. "Now, do you want me to leave Joey inside or outside?"

"In, what the hell?"

Joseph tried to suppress his smile when she shot him a wink. He had grown to accept that his resolve eroded away with each moment he spent with her, and how dangerous was that? He stepped into the house when she opened the door a little more.

Elsie felt her face burn when he squeezed her waist in passing. She closed the door, heard the rattle of his voice with Levi's, then his voice with her parents, how familiar it sounded, like an old vinyl on her father's player, then looked at the present in her hands. A smile crooked her lips, and she ran off to her room with a skip in her step.

Carefully, she peeled the taped corners and edges of the gift, revealing a velvet box. She lifted the lid and read the note slipped in there.

Found this in my car and had it repaired. Merry Christmas, Els ❤︎

Elsie moved the card aside, wondering if her mind had taken the right path, and a scream left her throat before she slapped her hand over her mouth.

"Els?" her father shouted from the living room.

"I'm fine!" she replied. "Spider!"

Elsie liked to believe she could hear Joseph laughing at her obvious lie. Her thumb brushed over the gold chain leading to the crucifix that'd once hung from her neck a few months ago; she had only just begun accepting that she'd never be reunited with it.

Excitement coursed through her body until all she could do was flop onto her back with a squeal, feet kicking in the air.

els ♒︎ you're godsent joey

MARCH

"What happened with your car?" Elsie asked as her brother climbed into the passenger seat.

"You're never gonna believe me," said Levi. "I got rear-ended again."

"You're joking." Elsie gaped. "Any more, and I'll assume you're talking to me about your sex life, which, please, never do."

Levi snorted.

"So, where are we headed?"

"Joe's. Mom and Dad are there."

Elsie's mouth peeled back with offence. "Why wasn't I invited to this?"

"This is your invite," he said. "Besides, I thought you were going out with what's-her-name."

"Rain checked," said Elsie, setting off on the forty-minute drive to their hometown that she had no idea she'd make that night. Of course, she'd known that Joseph was around—the Leafs were in town, and he'd texted her about it—but she wasn't expecting to see him until the next night, under the arena lights, surrounded by the rest of his family and friends that would keep her on her best behavior.

"Let's get this party started!" Levi exclaimed, barging through the front door.

"Where's a bathroom, Jeans?" Elsie asked quietly. She didn't think she recalled the last time she'd set foot in this house, if she'd ever. Following his directions, she turned down a hallway, counted the doors, and went to open the one she'd hoped was the right one.

The door opened as her hand grazed the doorknob, and a sharp gasp sliced through her throat.

"Jesus, Els!" Joseph flinched. "Didn't know you were coming tonight. Levi said you were busy."

Elsie's cheeks flushed at the thought that he might have asked about her before she cleared her throat. "Levi needed a ride here, and Bells canceled."

Joseph glanced down, smiling softly as the gold chain around her neck glinted under the warm houselights. He reached for the crucifix, letting it rest on his fingertips. "Glad to see it hasn't broken off."

The cool metal of the crucifix hit her skin again. Joseph almost wished he'd skipped meeting her eyes—the soft-edged, doe-like feel of them that nearly sent him to his knees, and the smile it'd brought out had wrecked him, gutted him from within until every inch of him craved being near her.

Fuck, he was so screwed.

Levi was going to kill him.

"I don't know how many times I can thank you for it," Elsie said earnestly. "Seriously, Joey."

"It was nothing," he brushed off. Then, he curled his finger into one of her belt loops, tugging at it and steadying her with his other hand on her hip when she stumbled into his chest, and swapped their places in one fell swoop. There was a flutter in his chest when she regarded him with wide eyes and parted lips, as if he'd just taken away any rational thought. "Dinner's in five."

Elsie closed the door, breath ragged and soft, all at once. She wasn't sure how much more of this she could take before her heart exploded. She doubted that it'd be a very pretty sight.

How she had been sandwiched between Matthew and Joseph's younger brother, Michael, at the dinner table, she wasn't quite sure, but she hadn't complained. She knew Michael distantly from the few instances they'd crossed paths in school, and Matthew was charismatic enough to befriend just about anyone.

And maybe it was the sight of it—of Elsie enjoying herself around people closer in age to her—that seemed to tick Joseph off, seemed to set off the same arguments that'd been running through his mind for half a year now. Just when he'd thought he'd begun to quell those thoughts.

Levi and Elsie helped clean up the dining table after everyone had finished their meals, piling on dish after dish.

All it took was the first note, the first press of E on the white piano keys, for Elsie to stop mid-scrub, hot water rolling off her hands. Then the second note rang, and she glanced over her shoulder, finding that her brother was still in the kitchen with her.

So, not Levi.

"Go join the rest of them in the living room," Dana said quietly, taking over at the sink.

Elsie dried her hands on her sweatpants (an unfortunate choice of clothing, because if she'd known where they were going, she would've put in a little more effort to look nicer), then crept toward the archway opening into the living room, where Joseph sat behind an old, upright piano against the wall. Her lips pulled softly with each unraveling of Für Elise that graced her ears, but it quickly fell when it transitioned into another song, as though the opening few notes were simply meant to capture their attention—her attention.

Because it had to be hers that he was chasing when Je te laisserai des mots followed.

And for a moment, she fell through the veil of time, landed back in Toronto, in the front seat of his car as the song gently rippled into the mellow air, the cityscape passing by them in soft blurs, late-night chatter filling in the gaps of knowledge between them. She quite liked that night, liked how calm everything was, even with Camille passed out in the back.

It was sweet, and it was melancholic, and it was tranquil, and it was fun, and it was dejected, and it was far too short, and yet it was something she cherished.

But she was growing to accept that, despite her efforts, she would never get that with him—too devoted to her brother, too embroiled with the thought that she was younger than him.

This fluttering of their hearts, this clandestine dance in the shadows, this rewiring of their minds each time they saw each other that left them breathless and frozen—even as he played his heart out in ways only obvious to them, she would let what simmered between them fizzle out if that was what he wanted.

She knew when to stop. Enacting it would be much harder, however.

As the last few notes dragged out, it seemed like everyone had turned to Levi, who stood behind Elsie. Everyone knew how much of a prodigy he was—how each note flowed through him like they were his life force, how the world seemed to disappear around him once he touched an instrument. It was only right to have him display his talent in front of an audience.

But his gaze had jumped to Elsie.

She shook her head like her life depended on it.

"I haven't played in so long," she said, something like a plea.

Still, Levi nudged her forward, toward Joseph, who had walked over. Her throat bobbed before she latched onto his outstretched hand, letting him pull her toward the piano. He squeezed her shoulders before stepping back, watching, first, with amusement when she tied her hair up, revealing the blue hidden underneath, then, with admiration as she inhaled deeply, eyes sliding shut like she could already feel each bar of music weaving through her soul before her fingertips had even touched the sleek keys.

He'd understood, then, what Levi had meant all those years ago—that this seemed to come easily to her. Because, despite how she'd claimed it'd been ages since she'd played, each note, each slur, each accidental, each break, each pedal mark came to her like a long lost friend—a gentle tune into the good night that required nothing but the heart and soul.

She breathed life into the second movement of the Pathétique Sonata in ways he never believed he could ever do, no matter how much he practiced. He felt it, though—the hauntingly beautiful bittersweetness of the song, like a balm for a troubled spirit—and something remorseful swept him away.

Then came the weight of a stare—Levi's stare—and Joseph wiped away any trace of fondness from his face, replaced with a shameful dip of his head to remain as avoidant of his best friend's dissecting attention as he could.

And Levi was...confused?

His gaze flipped between Joseph and Elsie, like the pieces were starting to fall into place, and questions began to bludgeon him with the force entirely contradictory to the reposeful air around them.

The piece had come to an end before he could sort out his thoughts, and he watched in deliberate silence as Joseph's mother suggested they do a duet, watched as they shared the bench and sat shoulder-to-shoulder as they browsed his phone for songs to try.

They laughed, heartily and unrestrained, with their eyes crinkled fondly and mouths wide. Even as chatter resumed around them, Levi couldn't help but hear their liveliness over it—the excited gasps and pushiness from Elsie when she found a song she liked, and the rejecting cry from Joseph, who had very little faith in his sight-reading skills. It was like they were in a world of their own, trapped in orbit, an instantaneous repulsion of everything else in the room; God, Elsie would laugh at the knowledge that he actually listened to her physics-speak and retained any of it.

"C'mon, Joey," said Elsie. "You know this one. It could be fun."

Levi saw something shift in his best friend, like Elsie had ceased any sense of fight from his body with a simple bat of her eyes.

Joseph gave in embarrassingly quickly, leaving to print off the sheet music they'd found online. In his absence, Elsie had taken to playing a string of keys in the background—softly, then a dip in mood like something in her mind had fallen, before she'd picked it back up again in time to see him return.

Elsie turned her head, and her lips parted with shock, fingers slipping from the keys when Joseph resorted to signing: "Which side of you want to sit on?"

Her eyes snapped up, found the sheepish smile on his face, and returned it softly. "It's your move."

Joseph took the spot to her left, unclamping the sheets of paper between his arm and ribs, spreading them out along the music desk. He'd felt somewhat cowardly taking the easier set of notes, but he felt even more selfish for it, too—for wanting to hear Elsie commandeer control of the melody with her nimble fingers and soulful interpretation, because he didn't think there was anything more angelic and deserving of reverence than hearing her play.

He'd almost missed his cue because of it, and he'd heard the faintest chuckle of hers that told him she'd noticed. His face flushed hot, but he still grinned.

It was a funny little thing—how Interstellar had become associated with him—but he could play the theme in his sleep, he thought, and it sounded otherworldly with Elsie beside him. It would never sound the same after this.

Applause had followed the conclusion of the song, and Elsie briefly hid her gleeful expression against Joseph's shoulder, like she didn't quite know how to receive praise after all these years. He curled his arms around hers—a side-hug just as brief as the slight nuzzle she'd given him, yet it lingered in the gentle sear against her skin.

"You okay?" he asked quietly when he noticed her rubbing her wrist. He'd felt guilty, then.

Elsie nodded, the heat of his gaze easing the throbbing pain spreading to her hand. "Just haven't played like that in a while."

"Do you need anything? I'm sure we have Advil somewhere."

"I'll be fine," she assured softly. "Thank you."

And how could she stop feeling what she did when he treated her so tenderly?

Dana and Steve had decided to go home shortly after, but they'd insisted that their children could stay without them, which Levi had planned to do anyway—and with Elsie being his ride home, she had followed whatever he said.

Everyone spread themselves across the couches and floor, with a movie humming into the dimmed living room. The energy had calmed as time plunged deeper into the night, and Elsie felt her eyelids grow heavy.

"Can I?" she whispered to Joseph, who nodded. She let her head drop to his shoulder, which grew wiry with each passing second, and it didn't take much for her to understand why: She had sensed something radiating from her brother—something unsettling that didn't allow her, or Joseph, to unwind the way everyone else had.

Elsie shifted, her eyes flickering up to find the apprehensive bite of Joseph's lips, the forced unwavering attention on the TV.

"I'm gonna get some water. Do you want any?" he asked quietly, sparing her a glance.

"Sure." Her gaze didn't follow as he stood up and left, something distant taking over. It was barely there, but Levi caught it—the downturn of her lips, the quiet purse of it—from across the couch, and that had been enough. She noticed him follow Joseph into the kitchen.

A few minutes passed before she slinked through the shadows.

"She's a kid!" Levi whispered hotly.

Joseph sighed exasperatedly, skirting his palm over his jaw, because he'd had this conversation before—with himself, countless times.

"I don't believe 23-year-olds are considered children," Elsie inserted herself casually, not bothering to apologize when Joseph's shoulders jumped. She came to his side and grabbed one of the filled glasses of water. "Unless there's someone even younger I don't know about, in which case, wow, you like your women young."

"Els," Joseph sighed again, earning a sheepish smile.

"Hey!" Levi snapped his finger at him from across the island counter. "Don't talk to my fucking sister like that."

Elsie furrowed her brows. "Like what, Jeans? He just said my name."

Levi inhaled deeply, eyes sliding shut for only a moment. "Joe. Really?"

"What about him?" she asked with a tilt of her head.

"You don't have to hide it anymore."

"Hide what? We're not hiding anything."

"Oh, so my best friend hasn't been screwing my baby sister behind my back?"

Elsie's face pinched. "Why'd you say it like that?"

A tired plea leaked into Levi's stare. "You said you two got close in Toronto. What happened?"

"Nothing," said Elsie. Her eyes slipped to Joseph, whose eyebrows scrunched together like he was trying to slow the conversation before him with what little he knew of sign language. "He just dropped me and Camille off at home. There was no secret rendezvous that you think happened."

"Really?" Levi gibed. "I find it really hard to believe that when you were throwing yourself around that night."

Elsie returned a scoff, just as scorned. She gripped the edge of the counter and leaned forward to hiss, "You are un-fucking-believable, you misogynistic pig! You were whoring it out, too."

"Dude!" Joseph looked at Levi in disbelief. "What the hell?"

Levi went to point a firm finger at him when the floorboards creaked.

Their heads whipped around just as the new set of footsteps came to a halt. Matthew's gaze swept over the kitchen—the rollercoaster of emotions etched on everyone's faces, the way Levi's jabbing finger and Elsie's iron-clad grip on the counter didn't speak of a peaceful confrontation, the apprehension corded through Joseph as he looked on, the tense air that stilled the heater circulating through the house.

"I'm just gonna..." Matthew crept on his tiptoes toward the cupboards, but Joseph had shoved his untouched glass of water in his direction with an apologetic look and sent him off.

Elsie turned to Joseph when his hand soothed along her back, as though the space above the spine of her scapula had been worn away by his touch. It was subconscious, she knew, because he'd stopped once she laid eyes on him, but it'd worked—softening the harsh edges that wanted to serrate through the conversation—because it wasn't a string of argumentative words that she'd thrown at her brother this time, it was a defeated sigh that returned the color to her fingers.

"Why?" she asked. "What set this off, Jeans?"

"I have eyes, kid," he said. He also had the awareness of an omniscient being—attuned to every change in the air, to every oscillation and battle in his loved ones' eyes and hearts—and everyone knew that, knew that there was very little they could get by him without him sniffing it out.

Perhaps the most impressive feat was how long it had taken him to notice something bubbling between the two people closest to him, but that, too, could have been boiled down to the simple idea that he never thought he needed to consider it.

"Do you like him?" he asked, something earnest swirling in the depths of his eyes.

Hesitation seized the use of Elsie's hands for a second, as though she was unsure if she wanted to put it all out there for Levi to pick apart, but the momentary silence was enough, and the way he looked at her—a cross between disappointment, moreso in himself than her, and remorse, like he'd wished he'd broached this differently—had her seeking comfort elsewhere.

The soft stare she received from Joseph seemed to erode the tension in her muscles, seemed to slow her heart that was coiling with anxiety. Because he knew, truly, what nestled in her chest, and if she couldn't get the words out to announce it to the rest of the world, at the very least, he knew.

And maybe that was all that mattered to her.

"Of course you do," Levi muttered, hands sliding down his face. "You're my sister, Els, and he's known you since you were a kid. You were still in middle school when we left for college, for Christ's sake!"

"Jesus, Jeans, it's not like anything happened back then, and nothing happened in Toronto because he shut me down that night!" she snapped, watching the way his face morphed with something else, something less fueled. "If you're gonna get mad at someone, it should've never been at him, because he was thinking of you. He cares about you, Jeans, and he knows what it looks like. Trust me, I've heard it all."

Levi blew a long breath past his lips. "Just—give me a moment."

He left the kitchen without so much as a glance, footsteps heavy with the intensity of his emotions.

Elsie expelled a heavy breath, cradling her head in her hands, a sharp pain radiating up from her elbows as they hit the counter. She nearly jumped out of her skin when Joseph squeezed her waist, but the initial shock had faded quickly. Still, she couldn't muster up the courage to look at him. "How long have you been learning sign language?"

"A few months," he admitted quietly.

"How much of it did you understand?"

"Not all of it, but enough." Joseph rubbed her back, finally drawing a gentle tilt of her head. He leaned down slightly, tried to get their eyes level. "I care about you, too, Els."

"I know," she hummed, "but not enough to risk your friendship with my brother, and I get it. Really. No hard feelings."

Joseph didn't say anything. Not yet. Because he did care, more than enough, and that'd been what sparked the fuse that left the kitchen a pile of rubble. He cared so much that he was willing to test the foundation of his friendship with Levi, willing to risk it for even a chance with her.

Because he'd accepted that this rush of warmth, this constant warring between his heart and his ribs, this lingering ghost of her perfume that followed him everywhere—all of it had taken root like an ancient tree, fortified, unrelenting, spreading. It wasn't going away, no matter how much he'd tried to rid himself of it.

But it felt entirely opportunistic to sweep into Elsie's life as something more after this—as a strange silence befell them, as the exchange with Levi remained fresh in their minds, as the emotions went unregulated in their bodies, as he stood as the trigger between the two people he loved.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Elsie shook her head dismissively, a large rush of air entering through her nose as she shoved her hair out of her face. "I'm sorry for starting this whole thing."

She left without giving him any room to speak.

Joseph closed his eyes with his head thrown back, a heavy sigh weighing his shoulders down. He dreaded returning to the living room, in all honesty, exposed to the all-knowing eyes of his best friend, his mother, and the girl who seemed to consume every thought of his.

But he knew he had no other choice but to join everyone else, and with a new glass of water and the one Elsie had left on the counter, he hoped his strides didn't quite show his unease as he slinked back to his spot on the couch.

Elsie glanced up when the cushion beside her dipped. She offered a slight smile when Joseph held her water out, hand spelling out her gratitude in a way that told him she wasn't in the mood to hear anything. The implants lying on her lap only confirmed that.

"You'll be okay?" he asked.

The corners of Elsie's mouth couldn't help but tug wider. How exciting that he was speaking to her in her language when no one else she'd been with had ever bothered to, not when her implants seemed to patch up that small bump in communication. Maybe they'd work in a separate universe; maybe she'd go back to school to research the possibility of a multiverse just to find the one that was true in.

"Don't you worry about me, Saint Joseph."

The joke had nearly written itself: the holy father of Christ—the protector, ever the worrier, the model of faith, of obedience, of humility, even when confusion grabbed hold of him. Elsie had seen all of that in Joseph, even as he shook the nickname off like he didn't think so, like it was too sacrilegious to believe otherwise.

As the movie droned on, the quiet and calm hum of silence surrounding her gently pulled Elsie back to a sleepy state. She shifted, and as though it'd been a puck flying at him, Joseph caught the exterior parts of her implants sliding off her thigh before they could hit the cushions, before she could accidentally roll over them amidst her slumber, the way she seemed to roll onto him.

Joseph stilled, then relaxed when he spared her a cursory glance, noticed the way the wrinkles between her brows smoothed, the soft breaths pelting against his sweater, the almost purring hum rumbling from her as she nuzzled against him. For a moment, he'd forgotten what transpired after dinner and let his fingers twirl the ends of her hair, the edges of his lips lifted when he collected the chunks of blue hidden beneath a mop of brown.

He'd always thought she and Levi were so much cooler than him for that, even with all the bad color choices over the years, the strange mixes that didn't quite blend together, or the bold and experimental choices that left him looking like a toddler had taken a paintbrush to their hair with free rein.

Then he felt the heavy stare from across the living room—dissecting, studying, frowning. And maybe, for a split second, he'd considered moving Elsie off of him, so Levi would relent the piercing examination he was inflicting on them, but their hearts had already been laid out before them, and there was no use in pretending that he wasn't at his most tender state of mind when he was with her when the one person he was most scared of knowing already knew.

So, he let her be.

But Elsie had been the kind to be attuned to every shift in the air in a way that wasn't lauded like her brother, and even in her sleep, that seemed to ring true, for she moved again, turned so her back was to Joseph, body slumped over the arm of the couch, curled up in her little corner of the sectional like a feline basking under the long summer sun.

Joseph pulled the hem of her rumpled sweater down to cover the sliver of skin across her back that'd been exposed amidst her tossing and turning, then draped one of the throw blankets over her. He didn't dare look anywhere but the screen after that.

Then came the time when everyone decided to call it a night.

Levi had volunteered to be Joseph and Matthew's ride back into the city, so not Shelley nor Bob nor Michael nor Emma had to make the back and forth through the dark abyss.

Michael snorted. "Does Els know you're offering her car up?"

"Well, she's dead asleep," said Levi, sifting through her purse for her car keys. "I don't think she really has much of a say."

"Just don't get rear-ended again, kid," Shelley snickered, grabbing Elsie's glass off the coffee table. She pressed a kiss on Levi's head. "I don't think she'd appreciate that."

Elsie stirred awake, feeling the subtle vibrations through the cushions. She blearily looked around, her heart rate skipping when clarity revealed the numerous eyes on her. She might've made a sound, perhaps a squeak, if the chests shaking with laughter was anything to go by. "What is going on?"

"I'm driving us home," said Levi, head cocking toward Matthew and Joseph.

Elsie shot up, attention flickering, searching. She shot Joseph an appreciative glance when he handed over her implants. Sound assailed her from every direction once the external transmitter snapped into place against her head. "Like Hell you are, Jeans. Not on God's green fucking Earth are you going anywhere near my fucking car."

A string of laughter echoed through the living room as offence marred Levi's face.

"Sorry for my language, Mrs. Woll."

Shelley waved her off, leaving for the kitchen.

"Is it okay if I use the bathroom before we go?" Elsie asked.

She had nearly screamed when she opened the door to leave the bathroom and was met with her brother's towering figure.

"I'm sorry," said Levi.

"It's fine," Elsie mumbled, ready to slip past him when he shoved his arm out in front of her.

"Not for scaring you," he said. "About Joe."

"Oh."

"You really want him?"

Elsie looked down with a nod, picking at her nails. She had been doing so well at leaving them alone. "Yeah," she said. "I do." She inhaled so sharply that it nearly hurt. "He's kind, and he's thoughtful, and he's funny, and he took care of me before you asked him to, even helped put Camille to bed when she was too drunk to remember her own name, and he had my necklace fixed and returned, and he listens when I tell him things I'd never told anyone else, and he's been learning sign language, and he puts up with all my teaisng, and—"

"And he likes you, too," said Levi.

"And it kills him," she added with a sigh, letting her forehead fall against his outstretched arm. "What the fuck am I doing, Jeans? I don't wanna get in between you and him. He's your best friend, and I don't want you to get angry at him."

"Hey, he and I are good. I'm not angry at him." Levi bent his arm, using the crease of his elbow to pull Elsie in. "You know, I still see you as a kid," he said, eyes closing as her grasp snaked around his torso. "You're my baby sister, and that's not changing, not even fifty years from now. I'll always hate the guys and girls you bring home, because no one could possibly be good enough for you. Except maybe Joe."

Elsie stilled.

"He takes care of you, kid, and he makes you happy." Levi rubbed her back until the tension faded from her muscles. "That's all I could ask for, and I'm sorry that neither of you felt like you could tell me, and I'm sorry for getting all up in your faces about it, and I'm sorry for what I said in the kitchen."

"I love you, Jeans," mumbled Elsie. "But I'm not apologizing for saying you were whoring it out."

Levi smiled to himself. "It's what started this anyway, wasn't it?"

"Oh, yeah," she said easily, pulling away from the hug. "He came up to me after you'd left."

"Opportunistic prick."

Elsie smacked his stomach, earning a pained grunt.

Levi ruffled her hair. "I love you, too, kid. Now, get. I really gotta piss."

Elsie stumbled past the doorframe with a laugh—a soft sound that promptly died on her tongue when she spotted Joseph at the end of the hallway, talking to Matthew by the front door. Her shoulders felt a little lighter, a little less weighed down with guilt and shame and secrecy for who had her wrapped around their finger, but none of that mattered when the person in question had cemented the notion that they could never be.

So, with feet as heavy as lead, she dragged herself over, holding her breath as she walked past him to grab her purse and bid her final farewells to Joseph's family. She came to Joseph and Matthew's side with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, fingers twiddling with the crucifix on her chest like it'd alleviate the tension whorling in her body.

"Do you want me to drive?" asked Joseph.

Elsie loosened her grasp around herself. "No, it's okay. Thank you, though." Her gaze flickered. "So, before my brother comes back, which one of you wants shotgun?"

Matthew's hand shot up. "Dibs!"

Levi eventually made his way over to the sedan parked curbside. Elsie grinned when he went to open the passenger seat door, only to find Matthew there instead. He sighed and stuffed himself into the back beside Joseph, their knees flush against the front seats and spines hunched to avoid smacking their heads against the ceiling. "You need a bigger car."

"I don't normally have three giants in here," she said. "My car is perfect for normal-sized people."

"Whatever happened to that car you said you were gonna buy with my card?" asked Joseph. "Bill never came in for that."

Elsie met his gaze through the rearview mirror and smirked. "Declined when I tried."

Matthew barked out a laugh, and Levi dragged a tired hand down his face, like he was dreading the thought of his sister's teasing infiltrating his best friend's life. Maybe his protectiveness had been all screwed up, twisted to shield the wrong person; maybe he should've been protecting Joseph from Elsie instead.

Levi's apartment had been the first stop, the closest to the suburbs out of the three of them.

"Don't worry about tomorrow," he told her. "I'll catch an Uber or something or have Mom and Dad pick me up on their way to the game."

"You sure, Jeans?"

Levi nodded, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He had nearly slipped out of the car when he turned his head. "You know, I should've said this earlier, but you two seem to forget that I studied music at Juilliard." His face twisted. "You absolute freaks. That's what gave you away."

"Get out of my car," Elsie said, cheeks flamed.

"Alright, see you tomorrow!" Joseph reached over and closed the door, muffling Levi's laughter as he waved and headed inside. "Hit the gas, Els."

"One step ahead of you."

In the silent hum of the night, tires trekking over the asphalt into the depths of the city, Matthew's fingers tapped against the center console. "So...you two...when did that, you know..."

Joseph hid his face in his hands. "Oh, God."

"Good going, Matt," said Elsie. "You've got the ol' saint saying the Lord's name in vain."

"Jesus, Els."

"Sorry." She smiled sheepishly before going on some tangent that managed to distract Matthew for long enough.

Matthew thanked her for the ride once she pulled into the hotel lobby, receiving a kind smile in return.

"Hey, you go ahead," Joseph told him. The passenger side door closed gently, and Joseph slid to the middle, leaning his forearms against the center console, eyes carefully tracing the side of Elsie's face—the slight tilt of her head to look at him, the slow drag of her eyelids over her eyes, the straightened line of her lips. "Stay the night. You're tired."

"I'll be fine," she said. "It's a ten-minute drive at most."

Joseph sucked in a sharp breath. "Let me rephrase that: Stay. Because I want you to."

Elsie wanted to cave—because this sort of admission had seemed impossible all those months ago—but she couldn't get the image out of her head, the pained twist of his face when he thought of her, the casualness with which he brushed her off when her brother was around. "Have you reconciled with the fact that you like me?"

"Yeah, I have," he said easily. "I like you a lot, Elsie Rivers, and I want to be with you, if you'll have me."

"Are you saying that because my brother says he's okay with it?"

"It certainly helps," he said, "but no. I was planning on asking you out while I was home—tomorrow, mostly, but tonight works, too."

Elsie pursed her lips, ponderous. This was all she wanted, wasn't it? After all these months, it could finally happen, free of the shackles that'd tied them with guilt. She could have what she wanted, could even have a hand at a relationship that the Church would bless. Why should she deprive herself of such a thing when it was practically begging on its hands and knees?

After all, hadn't she always been a greedy little thing?

Joseph silently watched as she reached across for the glove box, browsing its contents.

"You're lucky I have a spare charger in here. Now, move up front; I feel like a chauffeur."

Joseph was there in a split second.

The ride up the elevator felt too long, steeped in silence that grew thick until Joseph let his hand brush against hers; then, it was calm. Elsie glanced at the small space between them, then turned her palm out, smiling to herself when he twined their fingers together.

For only a moment, the room was shrouded in darkness, and Elsie hoped the whir of the air conditioner masked the ferocity with which her heart pounded. She followed him in, thanked him when he gave her some clothes to change into, and locked herself in the bathroom.

Not even the coldest water from the faucet could clear her mind. It was incredible how easily he'd reduced her to a nervous wreck.

"I can't breathe."

Joseph's head shot up from the mountain of pillows on the bed. "What?"

Elsie plopped her clothes over her purse near a corner of the room. "My heart's beating so quickly, I think it might actually jump out of my chest, and my hands won't stop shaking, and I'm starting to sweat, and—" She inhaled deeply. "I just never thought this would happen. I mean, are you sure you want me?" she asked, somewhat pitifully. "Ever since Toronto, I kept going back and forth between wanting to tempt you into betraying everything that makes you you, and accepting that it would never lead anywhere, that I was just being a stupid kid trying to seduce the lifeguard at the pool all over again, that this was just a little crush I needed to get over."

Joseph climbed out of bed, scrambling to reach her. His hand carefully slotted against her jaw, feeling the warm skin and thunderous rushing of her blood beneath his fingers. "Please don't get over it," he said, eyes flickering between hers, catching the subtle dilation and contraction of her pupils. "I want you, Els. I want you so bad, it scares me. I thought I fucked it all up tonight—with you, with Levi—and I'm sorry for putting you through the wringer while I came to terms with it."

A loud gulp constricted her throat, her trembling hands gliding over his chest and nestling into the hairs near the nape of his neck. Her heart stammered when he leaned into her touch, like he was entirely at her mercy.

"I forgive you," she whispered.

Joseph breathed a little heavier now, pulse throbbing in his throat. He leaned in, like he wanted to show his gratefulness in a million little kisses across her skin, before he stopped just shy of her lips. "It's your move."

"Hey, that's my line. You can't steal my line."

"What're you gonna do about it?"

The corner of Elsie's mouth twitched before their lips met—softly, at first, then again in a rushed and messy collision, all teeth and tongue and desperation. A gasp sliced through the air when her back hit the wall.

"Fuck," he groaned into her mouth when her fingers tangled in his hair.

"Knew you had a filthy mouth behind all that sweet talk," she said as he dragged his lips down her neck, nipping a path but not sharp enough to leave any marks.

"Jump." Joseph easily caught her as her legs wrapped around his waist, his large hands sprawled along the underside of her thighs. He blindly walked them away from the wall, cursing, when his toe stubbed against one of the legs supporting the bed.

Elsie erupted in laughter at how quickly Joseph had dropped her onto the mattress, his balance knocked off-center until he had no other choice but to fall atop her.

"Fuck, that actually hurts," he said, laughter leaking into his tone.

"The poor bed," she joked, hands gently cradling his face. Her breaths slowed as she glanced at his lips, a gently bitten pink, before bringing him in for another kiss—softer, this time, less urgent and desperate, less frenzied, like everything had started to quiet.

Joseph pulled away only to tug his shirt off, revealing the ridges of toned muscle and the smattering of hair that dipped beneath his pants.

"You should go tarps off in an interview one day," she said, looping her arms around his neck as he came back down. Her legs twined around his hips, and she felt him shiver as her cold hands found his back, mapping out the texture and dips and curves of his body.

"How do you know I haven't?" he asked, lips tracing a path from the collar of her shirt and up her neck, past the delicate necklace that abhorred the thoughts running through his mind.

"Trust me," she whispered, "I would know."

Joseph amusedly raised his eyebrows, a chuckle rolling off his tongue when she looped her finger around his chain to kiss him again. By then, they'd lost the feverish rush and simmered in something gentler, something as patient as the feelings they'd stewed on for months.

"Can I take you out for breakfast tomorrow?" he asked between kisses, fingers laced with hers beside her head like he needed to anchor himself to the moment.

"I was wondering if you were gonna bring that up before or after you fucked me," she said.

Joseph hid his face against the crook of her neck, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

"I'm being so serious right now." But even Elsie couldn't stop herself from joining in.

"See, I was getting the impression that sex wasn't on the table tonight," he said, his palm smoothing over the skin of her thigh, creeping up her hip and under her shirt to hold her ribs. He was met with a soft sigh as his thumb caressed her, and her eyes slipped shut, struggled to open back up. That only strengthened his belief. "You can barely keep your eyes open."

Elsie smiled, slow and lazy, staring into his too-blue eyes with a loud fondness. She couldn't stop herself from brushing her thumb along the ends of his eyelashes, feeling them flutter gently. She leaned up to connect their lips, like she never wanted to deprive herself of feeling them ever again. "Breakfast sounds good."

"Good," hummed Joseph. He pulled away slightly, still close enough that their noses could brush, still close enough to greedily pick apart every detail of her face. "You're so fucking beautiful."

With beet-red cheeks, Elsie bit her lip, as though she thought just showing how wide her smile wanted to be would scare him off, and looked away.

"Oh, you're shy now?"

"It's different when it's from you," she said, pushing a loose lock of hair out of his face. "It's actually so embarrassing how shy and giddy you make me."

"It's cute," he said, kissing the corner of her mouth, then the tip of her nose, then her cheek, his stubble scratching against her skin in the most perfect way.

"Did you really think you fucked it up tonight?"

Joseph pushed his tongue against his cheek, nodding. "I did," he said. "I thought you'd had enough of the way I'd been treating you these past few months, and—"

"How have you been treating me?" asked Elsie. "Because I remember you taking care of me and my best friend. I remember you listening to me at church. I remember the happy birthday text at midnight. I remember the times you've checked up on me, over the phone or in person."

"I've been mean, Els," he said. "Don't pretend like I haven't been. Pushing you away when it felt a little too real, or when your brother was around, or when that little voice in my head cursed at me for thinking about you. I've seen the frowns, so has your brother, and that's why he cornered me in the kitchen, and after that, I thought I'd lost my best friend and any chance with you."

Elsie's stare lingered, her chest rising and falling gently against his, quiet and minty breaths calm as they hit his face. "You're never going to lose Levi; there has never been a Levi Rivers without a Joseph Woll. He was just being my brother," she said, thumb brushing over his lip. "And you're right: The good doesn't erase the bad, but are you gonna go cold on me again?"

Joseph shook his head. "Never," he said. "I want you, and I'll never let anything come between that."

A slow grin danced across Elsie's face. "Then that's all I care about."

She nudged her leg into his hip, pushing him onto his back. He looked pretty like this—beneath her, wide eyes staring up at her, swollen lips parted to let his ragged breaths through, his hair tousled from the way she'd played with it, his hands holding her steady against him. Hands raking up his torso, she leaned down and let her lips drag over his chest, neck, and jaw, committing it all to memory.

Joseph tightened his hold around her waist, a contented sigh shedding weight from his soul as she melted into his grasp. He thought he could stay like this for the rest of his days—with Elsie in his arms, her legs tangled with his, her finger tracing amorphous blobs along his skin.

Propping her chin on his chest, she innocently batted her eyelashes. "Can I ask you to grab the charger for my implants?"

He squeezed her waist before gently maneuvering her aside. "Give me a second," he said, lips soft against her forehead. "I'll be back."

Elsie kept her eyes trained on his back—the muscles that rippled with each swing of his arms—as he walked to the bathroom. The door closed behind him, and her body collapsed against the mattress with a smile that burned her cheeks as she stared at the ceiling. It took everything in her to keep her squeal in.

Joseph returned with his glasses on. Amusement knit through his face when he found her with her teeth digging into her fist. "You okay?"

An affirmative hum sounded. "Just giddy."

"I see that," he said with a laugh, turning to the TV stand, where a cable rested tangled on the surface. He settled on the side of the bed as Elsie braced herself on her forearm, squeezing into the space between his arm and ribs, humming when he made room for her.

"Wanna get your last words in before I take these suckers off?" she asked.

"Hardly my last words," he signed.

"You're gonna regret learning sign language," she said. "Set yourself up for a whole new world of shit my brother will say in public."

Joseph breathed out a laugh through his nose. "Mr. Pottymouth right there. We all know where you learned your vibrant vocabulary."

Elsie smiled. She reached for the external pieces on the sides of her head, but before she could pluck them off, Joseph's voice rang through.

"Wait, one last thing," he said, earning an inquisitive stare that widened her eyes like a doe. "I think the hair's cool. I didn't get to tell you that earlier."

A moment passed. Elsie reached for the underside of her hair, blue strands twirling around her finger. Her mouth curved upward.

She snatched her implants off, and the world went blissfully silent.

There was no whirring of the air conditioner, no rare honk from outside, no rustling of the sheets beneath them, not even the rush of blood in her head. But she felt them—felt the hum of night rumble through the walls, in the springs of the mattress, in the fibres of her clothes.

It was a sensation she wasn't sure she could describe—not quite nothingness, but perhaps something like a hollow oblivion.

Joseph watched intently as Elsie twisted the battery modules off the processor and plugged them into the Y-shaped charging port. There was a flashing green light.

Elsie canted her head slightly, noticed the attentive gleam in his eyes. "It'll be a steady green light when it's fully charged," she said slowly. "Takes about four hours."

Joseph didn't feel embarrassed that he'd been caught watching her—no, now that everything had been left out in the open, he felt very little shame in his actions and thoughts. His bottom lip slipped between his teeth, and he eagerly followed as Elsie shuffled across the bed with a crooked finger.

She had barely dropped her head onto the pillow when he kissed her again, like he couldn't quite get enough of her, not when he'd deprived himself of it for so long. Her hand slotted against his neck and felt the vibrations of a groan against her skin; she could imagine how low and raspy it was as the night draped heavier against them.

Elsie waited for him to slip under the covers before nestling into his side again, her chin set against his chest as she stared up at him. He ran his fingers through her hair, watched her eyes slip shut contentedly, heard the little purr again.

Joseph wondered what it was like—to not hear anything, not even the birds chirping on a calm summer morning, except maybe her stream of consciousness. Maybe he'd grow to hate the silence, constantly seeking any chance he could to have sound wiggle into his head, or maybe he'd grow to love it, the way she had, and maybe he'd even find peace in it.

Toying with his chain, Elsie pushed it around his chest until her fingertips found the heavy thumping of his heart. She laid her palm there, felt the stuttering and racing beat that mirrored the one against her ribcage, feeling the very force that kept him running, kept him alive.

It was an oddly vulnerable thing, something he couldn't hide like he could a smile or glance, but he was alright with that.

Joseph tightened his hold on her, pulled her closer against him like she'd get absorbed into his side and fill the missing spaces in his ribs. His skin prickled as her minty breath fanned against his neck, her lips ghosting over his pulse. She pressed a chaste peck there before shifting, tucking her head under his chin. He'd nearly chuckled, his hand rubbing up and down her back.

The feel of his fingers lightly tracing along her shoulders, her arms, and her neck, as if he were trying to memorize the curves of her body, like he might a new song, had lulled Elsie into a peaceful slumber, the drumming of his heart a steady rhythm against her ear.

In the back of her mind, she might have believed she'd listened to it bouncing around in her skull like a lullaby.

It was a few minutes later when Joseph went to sleep, feeling like his soul had been freed of condemnation.

APRIL

To no one's surprise, Elsie had grown to like Toronto. She wasn't oblivious as to why that'd come to be, but it had become a recurring thought with each growing moment she spent in the city.

"Hey, Els, put your stuff with ours," Camille's father told Elsie as they stood in line in the team shop, the crowds of Scotiabank Arena cramming into the small space. She had not demurred, simply accepted the offer like it'd been her plan the entire time, and Camille spared her an inquisitive glance.

They reached the front of the line, jerseys and other apparel stacked onto the counter, each from Camille, her father, her mother, and her two brothers. Elsie watched the total price rack up, sucking in a deep breath before managing to beat Mathieu at putting her card down.

Mathieu looked affronted. "What is wrong with you?"

"What isn't wrong with her?" Camille teased, only to get reprimanded by her mother.

Elsie felt her face heat up like she was face-to-face with the Sun. "Don't worry about it. It's a small birthday gift for you."

"Small?" Mathieu cried out.

Camille had spied Elsie taking her phone out and sending a quick text. Realization clicked in her head, and her hand shot out to Elsie's bicep, subtly shooting her eyes open, only to receive a cheeky smile in return.

"I'm jealous," said Camille. "You probably snagged up the only good guy in this city."

"It probably helps that he's not from this city," said Elsie. "And you're just saying that because he's been hooking you up with tickets for most of this season."

"Yeah, and thank God for that. My parents now think I'm some hockey god for somehow always finding them decently-priced tickets in the lower bowl."

Elsie laughed.

Max, the eldest of the Charbonneau children, had gaped when they inched closer to the glass, the sound of pucks hitting the boards during warmups loud against the hard bass of the music. "Jesus, Cami, how the hell did you manage to get us all seats here?"

"I didn't this time," she said. "Els did."

"Tell me your ways, Els," said Alexis, childish eyes shimmering with awe.

Elsie staved off a smile as she led the group down the row of seats until they found Levi, who rolled his eyes at the beers in their hands and the bags hanging from their arms like they'd gone on a shopping spree at the mall, but he accepted the drink his sister held out for him.

"You're welcome," she said.

"I believe my thanks go to Joe's card, which, knowing you, I don't know why he trusts you with it."

Elsie scoffed. "At least I thought to use it to buy you something."

Levi grumbled out his gratitude before his eyes raked over Elsie's outfit—the blue marbled sweater she'd worn last time, and the ripped jeans revealing her pirckled skin beneath. "That's his, isn't it? The sweater? I thought it looked familiar. Man, I should've known."

Elsie gave a thin-lipped smile. "Guilty. It's mine now, though."

She set her things down before slipping back into the aisle, gesturing for the young Alexis to follow her. They stood just three steps from the glass, exchanging humorous words, and Elsie wondered if this was how Levi felt when talking to her when he was around her age.

Joseph spotted them from the ice and skated over, shoveling a puck onto the blade of his stick. He waited for a moment before flipping it over the glass, grinning beneath his mask when Elsie caught it and immediately handed it over to Alexis, whose face immediately lit up.

Elsie couldn't hide her fond laughter as Alexis jumped up and down, throwing his arms around her shoulders. Her gaze slid briefly to the ice, catching the wink Joseph sent her before he returned to the net.

"Mom, Dad, look!" Alexis exclaimed, nearly tripping his way down the row of seats with the puck held up high.

Camille mouthed a 'thank you' as Elsie slipped past her, earning a dismissive shake of her head in return.

With the way Elsie had cheered throughout the game, it would've been easy to assume that she'd been a lifelong Leafs fan. Camille was a little bitter that it hadn't been her arduous attempts at convincing her to join the dark side that had done it, but she would not complain when the very reason had been generous to her for most of the season.

Adrenaline coursed through their veins when the final horn blew, sealing a win for the home team against the Oilers. Their voices joined the cacophony of other fans as they made their way through the concourse, and as they went further away from the main crowds and toward the little area with several of the family members, Elsie heard the first hushed comment.

"I don't think we're supposed to be here," said Mathieu.

"Oh, wait, passes!" Camille chucked them out of her bag and handed them to her family.

"Seriously, what is going on?"

Elsie grinned, playing with the ends of her hair, now entirely the same shade of blue as the Leafs. "As I said, it's a small birthday thing."

Mathieu was starting to think his daughter's best friend from college was genuinely insane.

"Bet you've started rethinking giving these two your card," Levi said as Joseph approached them.

Joseph laughed, eyes crinkling softly. "I don't mind," he said, squeezing Elsie's waist and pressing a swift kiss to her temple. "Plus, I heard we had a birthday happening?"

Mathieu had looked like every neuron in his brain had short-circuited. His eyes flipped between Camille, Elsie, Levi, Joseph, then all over again. The rest of his family had looked no better.

"Happy birthday, Mr. Charbonneau," said Joseph, leaning past Elsie to shake his hand.

Mathieu's jaw dropped. "Holy shit, you're Joseph Woll."

Joseph's face had flushed a gentle pink.

"Here." Elsie handed a marker over to Joseph as Camille searched through the bags for something he could sign for her father.

Alexis was the first to break out of the spell ensorcelling his family. "So that's how."

Elsie grabbed his shoulders. "Don't go telling my secret now."

Alexis mimed zipping his lips, grinning when Elsie shot him a wink.

"You know, it's crazy to think that he's just Joe to us," Levi said when his sister came to his side, watching his best friend sign memorabilia and take photos with Camille's family. A twang of pride swelled in his chest as he thought back to their early hockey days in St. Louis—all of the dumb fun they got themselves into, all of the drills ingrained in their heads, all the effort that got Joseph to where he was.

Even though their journeys had led them to very different careers, at some point, their humble beginnings were something they kept dear to them.

Elsie noticed the proud glimmer in her brother's eyes and smiled softly as she leaned her head on his shoulder. She, too, had felt an admiration spark in her chest as she observed from the side, got to see him extend his attentive and caring ways to everyone else, and it only blossomed when his gaze flickered to her, his mouth tugging wider, before he looked away.

"Gross," said Levi, but it wasn't hard to pick out the lack of animosity in his tone.

"The only disgusting thing here is your hair," Camille said as she walked over to them, her lips twisting at the sight of his brassy buzz cut.

Levi gasped out her name in offense.

"She's right, brother dearest." Elsie scrunched her nose condescendingly.

"For the millionth time, I ran out of toner!" he defended.

Elsie snuck away as Camille and Levi bickered back and forth like they'd grown up together. She tucked herself into Joseph's side as he talked to Camille's family, his arm draping around her without missing a beat in conversation.

"So you're the reason why Cami's able to get all these tickets," said Sophie.

"All this guy." Elsie patted Joseph's chest, feeling the rumble of his laughter against her fingertips.

Joseph leaned down slightly, unaware of the kaleidoscope of butterflies he'd set off in her stomach. "If you hurry, I think you'll be able to snag the seat up front before your brother does."

Elsie's gaze snapped up. "Give me your keys."

"Hand over the bags."

They swapped items, and Elsie made her way through her goodbyes, wishing Mathieu a happy birthday, before giving Joseph a quick peck on the lips. She bolted through the throng of family members, then, nearly knocking Matthew over in her haste. Joseph's flushed cheeks puffed out with his suppressed laugh when Matthew looked at him with wild eyes and furrowed brows.

"Well, I suppose that's our sign to go," said Max, clasping his little brother's shoulder. "Thank you for today, Joe."

"Yeah, of course," he said. "Camille's one of Elsie's best friends. I'd do anything they asked."

Sophie snorted. "I'd be careful with saying that. Our Cami can be greedy."

Joseph chuckled because Elsie was no better, and he loved her no less for it.

Camille's family had announced to her that they were leaving, and Levi glanced around.

"Where'd my sister go?" he asked.

Joseph scratched the back of his neck. "Toilet. She'll meet us at the car."

"Liar," Alexis sang under his breath, his mouth splitting into a shit-eating grin when he received a gentle nudge from his favorite hockey player. He would be sure to bother his sister about seeing Joseph more.

Camille commandeered the string of farewells, and Joseph led the way out. One of his eyebrows arched when he spotted Elsie in the distance, not tucked away in his car as he'd expected, but locked in a conversation that drew a wide grin and hearty laugh. With each nearing step, the pillar grew less obstructive, and around the corner, Joseph found Trent on the other end of it.

Elsie's head snapped in the direction of growing voices, and her eyes widened. She seemed to give Trent a barely-there bye and darted further into the parking garage.

"A Leafs fan, dude? I thought you taught your sister better than that," Trent said to Levi, who grumbled and threw Joseph a flippant glare.

Joseph merely smiled, head hanging low.

Trent couldn't loiter for long, and after bartering promises of seeing each other when they were all back home, he ran off to get on the team bus.

"I always forget that you know all these people," Camille told Levi. "You're you, and they're them."

"What's the supposed to mean?" Levi asked, flabbergasted.

"Look in the mirror."

Levi rolled his eyes. "Well, the league could use more people with stupid hair and piercings and dumb Pinterest tattoos."

Joseph nodded slowly. "Could've been you."

"It was either hockey or my sister hearing again. I think I made the right choice," he said nonchalantly, like he hadn't just dropped a heavy piece of himself out into the world.

Something passed through Joseph's face—an understanding of some sort, of what Elsie had said back in the church: It wasn't just her parents who'd given so much for her; it was also Levi, who'd one day quit his team without so much as a reason to anyone, and she'd felt indebted to them all for everything they'd sacrificed to allow her a chance at hearing again, even if some days she wished they never did.

"Seriously?" Levi narrowed his eyes when he found his sister in the passenger seat of Joseph's car.

Joseph could only offer a thin-lipped, apologetic smile and shrug.

"Girlfriend privileges," Camille said.

"She wouldn't be his girlfriend if it weren't for me," said Levi, cramming himself into the back seat, red leather soft to the touch.

"Sorry, Jeans," said Elsie.

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not."

Joseph passed his phone over to Elsie, oblivious to the soft blush on her face when she noticed the new lock screen background—the selfie she'd forced him to take with her at the same bar they were headed to. It looked worse than she remembered it, blurry and of poor lighting, but she could pick out their smiles, not yet laced with affection in the way they were now, yet fond in ways that spoke of what could be, and what did.

Elsie shook her head, as if ridding herself of all the mushy thoughts in her mind, and went to choose a playlist to fill the silence as they drove out of the parking garage.

The bar was as she remembered it to be—loud, busy, trembling with music and laughter against its walls. Elsie and Camille had run off to the bartenders, taking their first round of shots, face curling as the flaming liquid raced down their throats.

Joseph's eyes were a welcome weight against her body as she and Camille bounced between the dance floor and the bar, much less stained with a curling green monster she'd finally got him to admit to housing that very first night.

"You're back, eh?"

Elsie turned her head and burst out in laughter when she met Hailey's eyes.

"Your boy's not gonna jump me for talking to you, is he?" she asked, tossing a glance across the bar. "I'm not really in the mood to be on an NHLer's bad side today."

"You know, he's probably the least scary person on the team."

"I don't know," Hailey said with inflection. "I've watched enough games to catch the times he's lost his cool on the ice."

Elsie smiled with a small huff.

Hailey returned the smile before tilting her drink toward Elsie, as if to excuse herself, then to an observing Joseph, an unspoken truce. She disappeared into the crowd not long after.

Camille had long gotten lost in the tangle of bodies when Elsie tried to find her again, and she soon gave up. She figured her best friend would show face once she was ready for another drink or to leave, and so she sauntered over to Joseph.

"—leave for the night," Levi had said.

Elsie raised an eyebrow, hand gliding over Joseph's shoulder as she nestled into his side. His touch was light, yet firm, against the dip of her spine. "Ditching us already, Jeans?"

"Just in time, actually," he said, eyes flickering between them before looking over his shoulder.

Following his gaze, Elsie's own softened when she found the guy waiting by the door, his posture reeking of nothing but nervousness. She grabbed her brother's shoulder, gently nudging him away. "Go. Just send me a text of something, so I know you're not dead."

Levi saluted her, his serious expression fading with a laugh. He kissed her cheek. "Camille's on a table, by the way."

"She'll be okay," said Elsie, waving her brother away.

Joseph tightened his hold on Elsie's waist, managing to trade their places on the stool he'd been sitting on in one fell swoop. His stomach fluttered at the sound of her laughter, and again at the look she gave him—tender, despite the rambunctious air around them, and devout, like he was the sun at the center of the solar system she orbited.

"Thank you for today," she said, winding her arms around his neck. "For having me and my brother, for having Camille's family. I think you made their year."

"You and Camille did," he said, pressing his lips against her bicep. "You were the ones to think of it."

"But it wouldn't have worked out if it weren't for you, so thank you, and thank you for this."

Joseph plucked his card from her fingers, swiftly putting it away. "You really don't have to thank me. You know I'd do anything you asked."

"You should learn to tell me no one day," she said.

Joseph hummed, sounding inauthentic in his pondering. "No."

Elsie's expression turned wry. "Funny."

A smile danced along his lips.

The night had slipped from them, the hours bleeding into the early morning before they had made it back to Joseph's car. Camille was safely strapped into the back seat, and Elsie had curled up in the passenger seat, tired eyes locked on Joseph as he steered through the city, one hand interlocked with hers.

Music gently hummed in the background, and Elsie unconsciously drew shapes into his forearm to the beat of the song.

"I'm getting major déjà vu right now," she said. "A few months ago, you would've hated yourself for this."

"I didn't hate myself—" Joseph felt the look he was getting from her. "Yeah, I would've."

Elsie playfully punched his arm. "Look at that. Growth."

Joseph squeezed her thigh, his lips peeling back into a pearly smile as her laughter echoed softly through the air. "As long as you didn't think I hated you."

"I know you didn't," she said, leaning forward to kiss his shoulder. "You were so into me, you creep."

Putting Camille to sleep had been easy this time around, and with a glass of water on her bedside table, Elsie and Joseph left her alone. The door closed with a soft click, masking the exhausted snores rippling from deep within the room.

A simple slant came to Elsie's lips, one that didn't quite carry any of the haughtiness a smirk did, as Joseph's arms bracketed her against the kitchen counter. Her heart flipped in her chest, disturbed the electrical pulses that kept each pump of blood steady, under his watchful and tender stare. "It's your move."

Joseph chuckled, leaning forward, sure of every move as he kissed her.

“Nova, honey…” Sid’s mouth twitches in a disbelieving smile, relief flooding his entire system. His body visibly sags, shoulders dropping from somewhere around his ears. He hadn’t thought that she would come to the game after their fight, but seeing her here is more steadying than she knows.

Nova’s face bends into a tight smile, her posture stiffening from the relaxed ease she’d been displaying with one of his teammate’s kids. She bounces the toddler on her hip once and makes a face at him before passing him back to his mother. She smooths her hands over her shirt and Sid notices that they’re shaking. Guilt threatens to choke him - he’s the one that’s causing her heartache.

“Can we -“ he steps forward, catching her elbow and goes silent at the look in her eyes. Usually when she looks at him, her green eyes are twinkling with life, but now they look muddy and sad.

“Not here, Sid,” she says quietly, lifting up on her toes to kiss his cheek gently. “We’ll talk at home, okay? I just wanted to -“

She shakes her head and gives him a wry smile. Shrugging, she continues, “I didn’t want to mess up your game, if you were counting on me coming.”

They’ve been together for two season openers now and she’d been to both, so of course she figured that he would be expecting her. It only makes the icy cold fingers around his heart squeeze harder. He’d disappointed her this morning and she’s still showing up for him. Frankly, Sid doesn’t deserve her.

“I -“ he struggles for words, settling on kissing her forehead and hoping even half of the love he feels for her sinks in with the gesture.

Nova’s smile is a degree warmer and she squeezes his forearm, “I’ll see you at home.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sid murmurs, watching Nova walk off towards the parking garage. She wraps her jacket tighter around her body as she goes and something about the gesture makes his heart hurt. He shoves a hand through his hair roughly, sending water droplets flying, and turns back into the locker room to get his shit together.

——-

Nova’s curled up in their bed when Sid gets home - another sign that things are wrong between them. Normally she’d be waiting on the couch to throw herself at him for a kiss and to let him run through the game with her, armed with texts from her dad and brothers about the game as well. Usually, they’d cuddle up and Sid would get handsy and they’d fool around on the couch.

The house is quiet when Sid closes the front door behind him, the air still and suffocating. He sighs, braces himself, and heads to their room that has only been their room for less than a year. Nova’s touches are everywhere, her knicknacks and throw pillows multiplying in the nine months since she moved in. Sid’s always liked his place, but it felt different after Nova moved in, warmer somehow.

“Hey,” he says quietly, stepping into their bedroom and lingering by the door. The TV is on, quiet, blue light casting the room in an eerie glow.

Nova’s curled up on her side of the bed, almost too precisely, like she doesn’t want a single inch of her body on Sid’s side. The blankets are pulled up around her and Sid knows she’s bundled up in old sweats instead of one of the cute, little things she wears when she wants to tease him. Everything about her seems deflated, even her hair isn’t the big mess of curls piled on top of her head, instead it’s limp and pulled back in a haphazard braid.

“Hi,” she says back, looking up at him with an unreadable expression on her face. She twists the ring on her index finger and continues flatly, “I’m not pregnant, by the way.”

Her words hang in the air and drop to the floor like dead birds.

“Oh. Oh, that’s -“ Sid cuts himself off before he can say ‘good.’ His gut instinct is what got him in trouble this morning, what started the whole thing. His stomach sinks when he sees Nova’s eyes narrow. She sighs and rubs the heels of her palms into her eye sockets.

“Good, right? That’s what you were going to say, Sid. Isn’t it?” She doesn’t even sound angry, just sad, and that’s what hurts Sid the most. Nova pulls her knees up to her chest and shakes her head. “It’s good that I’m not pregnant because that would be such a huge, terrible distraction for you, right? God forbid you have something other than hockey to think about.”

Sid hooks his fingers in the knot of his tie, loosening what feels like a noose tightening around his neck.

“That’s not -“ he huffs, tossing the tie onto his dresser. “That’s not fair, Nova. You know this,” he waves his hand in the air between them, “isn’t a distraction to me. You know that.”

His suit jacket gets caught on his hand as he struggles out of it, making his frustration grow until he can finally fling it to the floor.

“You literally, twelve fucking hours ago, told me that a baby is bad timing,” Nova hisses, pushing the blankets off her body and leaning up on her knees. “I said I think I might be pregnant and you said oh shit, wrong timing, Sidney. You looked me in the eyes and said ‘oh, shit’ when I was bursting with excitement to tell you.”

The look of devastation in Nova’s eyes will haunt Sid for the rest of his life. The second the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were wrong. But he’s retiring at the end of the season, the decision made slowly and painfully, but he’ll be forty-two in August and even though his body feels good now, there’s never a guarantee.

He just wants to focus on hockey, on the Penguins, maybe winning a last Cup.

And as shitty as it is, if Nova were pregnant, Sid would be worrying about that. He knows he wouldn’t be able to be there for her the way they’d both want. And that would be a distraction because he’d feel awful about each missed ultrasound and unfulfilled craving request.

He’d be able to focus only on Nova and their kids, if they waited until he was retired to start a family. It makes sense, it’s not like a few months or a year matters. Nova’s not even thirty yet. Sid’s age is irrelevant at this point. He’s going to be an old father, but he’s made his peace with that.

“We said,” Sid snaps, getting undressed with jerky motions, “that kids would be after I retire. You agreed to that, Nova. You knew -“

“Accidents happen!” She shouts, interrupting him. Quieter, startled at her outburst, she repeats, “accidents happen, Sid. If I was pregnant, the baby wouldn’t be here until the summer. You’ll be done with hockey by then, I don’t see why-“

Clothes in a pile on the floor, Sid stands still in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest. “You’d still be pregnant all season and I still wouldn’t be able to be there. You’d want to go through a pregnancy basically alone? I said kids after retirement so I can be there for you and them.”

Nova wipes at her eyes and Sid wants to gather her in his arms, but knows it’s not the right time. Frustrated, he runs his hands over his hair and turns his back on Nova so he can get sweats and a t-shirt out of his drawer.

“I’m going to be thirty next month, Sid,” Nova sounds defeated. “We’re not even engaged. I just…this morning… it feels like you’re just wasting my time.”

His spine snaps straight, head halfway tangled in his shirt. “Nova,” his voice is muffled and he fights the fabric until he’s free, the cotton caught and crumpled at his chest. “Honey, you have to know I’m all fucking in on us. Please tell me that you know that.”

“It doesn’t feel like it, Sid,” she’s tucked up small, arms around her knees. For the first time, Sid notices that her eyes are rimmed in red and it’s like a punch to the gut. He hates that she’s been crying over him. “I love you, so much. But you haven’t told anyone this is going to be your last season and it feels like - it feels like you’re going to pull a fast one on me and sign another deal.”

She pulls her sweatshirt sleeves down over her hands and Sid finally breaks, climbing onto the bed and wrapping his arms around her. Nova lets out a little hiccuping gasp and crawls into Sid’s lap, burying her face in his neck as she starts to cry.

“Nova, honey,” his own voice cracks, her tears soaking the neck of his shirt. “Oh, honey.”

Nova cries, shaking in his arms, and Sid’s hand finds the nape of her neck, stroking gently. His thighs bracket her body and he can feel the knobs of her spine when she curls in even closer to him - he hadn’t realized how much weight she’s lost and that worries him too.

“I’m not going to do that,” he says into her hair. “I said I was done at the end of this contract and I meant it.”

“You said that last year too,” Nova reminds him wetly, pulling away from his chest. When his contract had expired in 2027, he’d said maybe he was done. He’d had a good run and his injuries were piling up. But then he’d signed a one-year and thought that would be it too. Then he’d felt good, too good to retire even though he would be turning forty-one before the season started.

“You blessed the second extension,” Sid reminds her, a little edge to his tone. “You agreed, when I asked you what you thought. Said you wanted to see me do what makes me happy.”

She wipes her face with her sleeve and nods, “I know and I know how happy hockey makes you, but it makes me feel like I’m second fiddle when you keep pushing retirement off. It keeps my life in limbo too, if I can’t plan for a wedding or kids.”

“That’s not my intention,” Sid protests, thinking about the engagement ring sitting in his sock drawer. Maybe he should’ve followed his first instinct and proposed over the summer, before he made the decision on the extension. Now Nova’s going to think it’s a reaction to her late period, a band-aid over her hurt. “I want it all with you, honey. Everything.”

“But only on your timeline,” Nova murmurs and pulls herself away from Sid, the sudden loss of her making his body go cold. She scoots back against the headboard and tugs her pillow into her lap to hold it against her chest. The physical barrier is like a blow. “I’m going to be thirty, Sid. I want a wedding and kids and I don’t want to be so old I can’t enjoy anything.”

When she lays out their ages like that, so matter of fact, Sid feels like a dirty, old man. Like he really is stealing her youth and wasting her time. The eleven years between them hasn’t felt like anything, but staring down retirement means Sid is reckoning with the passage of time.

“If you’re not serious about me, about us,” Nova’s voice wavers, “you have to tell me. I can’t - won’t wait and wait for nothing, Sid.”

She’s been folded into his life in every way possible. She’s met his parents and sister, spent weeks in Cole Harbour during the summer. She’s in the Pens WAG group chat and goes to events and games and parties. She lives with him and has had him in every room in the house.


And still, Nova doesn’t feel settled.

“Fuck it,” Sid grumbles and gets off the bed, leaving Nova’s jaw dropped. He can’t possibly be leaving her like this. He pads to the dresser, ass bouncing in a way that Nova can appreciate even though she’s angry with him, and digs into his sock drawer. That’s the one drawer Nova never goes in because honestly, a woman can only find threadbare socks and briefs so many times before she worries about getting the ick.

“What are you -“ the words die in Nova’s throat when he turns back around and she spots the black velvet box in his hand.

The laugh Sid lets out is wry, his half-smile sitting crooked on his face. Nova shakes her head at him reflexively, but that doesn’t deter Sid. He takes another step towards the bed, kneeling next to the side, his face eye-level with Nova’s thighs.

“Sid -“ she whispers, fingers tightening around the pillow.

“This,” Sid laughs, “is not how I was planning on proposing to you, Nova Kincaid.”

“No, no,” Nova’s eyes fill with tears and Sid panics, freezing in place. His thumb is on the seam of the box, ready to flip it open and expose the engagement ring. “Sid, you’re - I’m - this is - oh my god.”

Her words trail off in a little moan, the pillow coming up to cover her face.

Sid’s voice is shaky when he says her name, soft and worried.

“You’re in your briefs,” Nova points out, pulling the pillow away and setting it aside. “I’m in my rattiest Penn State sweatshirt and we’ve been fighting. This is -“

“Not the proposal you deserve,” Sid finishes for her, finally dropping his arm to the side and getting to his feet. There’s an imprint of the carpet fibers on his kneecap and Nova focuses on that, nodding slowly. Sid sits heavily on the mattress, resting the ring box on his thigh. He taps it in place twice, absently.

Nova’s fingers are delicate and cold when they find his forearm, a gentle olive branch that Sid’s going to grab onto with both hands. He turns to face her, bending his leg up on the mattress and involuntarily opening himself up to Nova’s gaze. At this point on a normal night, they’d be messy and sweaty and giggling together. He misses that.

“Sid, baby, how long have you had the ring?” She asks quietly, something glinting in her eyes.

“Six months,” he takes a risk and laces his fingers with Nova’s. She lets him and her entire body sags. “I told you, I’m all in, honey. I just - I was going to over the summer, but -“

“But the extension decision,” Nova finishes. She stares down at their interlinked hands. “You’re so good with kids, Sid. With the baby Penguins and my nieces and nephews. I mean, you’re the best godfather to Wyatt and we only see the Mackinnons a handful of times a year. I don’t understand why our hypothetical kid got an ‘oh shit’ reaction.”

“It’s timing, honey,” Sid sighs, feeling like he’s going in circles. “I need to give everything my all. And I can’t let you get only half of me during the season, going through a pregnancy.”

He leans in and brushes a kiss over Nova’s temple, murmuring, “I want to give you babies. I want to see your belly grow and hold your hand while you curse my name. I can’t wait to have a baby that’s going to get all the best parts of both of us.”

Nova tips her face so Sid’s lips brush her cheek, leans into him again. It’s so late, but his girl’s a night owl, could continue having this discussion until the sun comes up. Sid’s happy to reassure her as much as possible.

“We - I need you to put that ring away right now,”

Nova says softly, her free hand covering Sid’s. “But not forever, Sid. I won’t wait forever.”

“I’m not going to make you wait much longer,” Sid assures her. “I should’ve done it already, I got -“

Stupid. Scared. Pick an adjective. It doesn’t matter, Sid’s just mad that he let it get to this point.

Nova offers him a small, genuine smile and climbs into his lap, Sid’s hands finding her waist. She can feel the little box in his grip and curiosity blooms, but she’ll see that ring soon enough.

“You know,” she says, brushing her nose against his jaw, affectionate. Her curls tickle his cheeks. Sid waits for her to continue, wondering what she’s going to say. “You absolutely should’ve gotten called for the trip on Celebrini, but I guess they’re taking it easy on the elder statesman of the NHL.”

Sid throws his head back in laughter, Nova’s giggle drowned out by his burst of noise. That’s definitely not what he was expecting her to say, but the mood is definitely lighter now.

“Eh,” Sid slips one hand under her sweatshirt so he can press his palm flat against her spine, “not like the kid didn’t deserve it. Could be considered elder abuse.”

Nova hums and smirks at him, ignoring the easy joke layup he gave her. He sighs and Nova leans in again, her lips just shy of his. When they part, Sid takes the invitation and closes the gap, kissing her lightly, tasting the black cherry and rose lip balm she’s been applying obsessively lately. It makes her taste good, different from the vapes and cigarettes she’d tasted like when they first got together, but those vices have been gone for a long time now - over a year. Outgrown, Nova’d said one day when Sid commented that he hadn’t seen the vape in a while. Now he wonders if she dropped the habit with the intention of having a baby in the near future.

“I love you,” Sid breathes into her mouth, holding her close. “I’m sorry I reacted like an ass.”

Nova pulls back slightly, “I love you, too. I get it.” She plays with the neckline of his shirt, fingers brushing his skin. She’s hesitating. Sid waits her out.

“I’m also sorry that this ruined your last home opener,” she blinks wide eyes up at him. “I wish we could redo today.”

“It’s not too late,” Sid lifts an eyebrow. “I can go back out and you can jump me for kisses. If I know the Kincaid family, your group chat probably has a couple dozen messages about the game. Wanna read them out to me?”

She huffs a laugh, her whole body vibrating, and Sid’s cock twitches under her now that the emotional danger is mostly abated. It doesn’t feel like the right time to see if she’s in the mood though.

“The group chat was popping tonight, especially in the second,” she confirms. “But I think I just want to go to sleep, I’m exhausted.”

Sid agrees and gets out of bed to put the ring away, Nova snuggling up against his chest when he gets back under the covers. She tangles her legs with his and twists her fingers in the front of his shirt, clinging tightly like a baby koala. It makes Sid’s heart clench in his chest, the knot of unease that had been present all day loosening.

Whatever he’d fucked up this morning is on its way to mending.

He knows Nova will roll away from him in the night, stealing blankets as she goes, her feet poking out of the end of her inevitable cocoon, but for now he tightens his arms around her and rests his chin on the top of her head.