The oven timer blinks at me like it’s judging my life choices. Frozen lasagna again. A culinary masterpiece by Chef Callie Who Can Actually Burn Water.

Mal’s sprawled on my stomach, purring like an old car engine, and I’m half-watching a documentary I don’t even like—something about glaciers melting and the end of the world. It feels appropriate. Everything’s melting lately. Time, patience, my ability to go more than three hours without thinking about him.

God, that’s gross. Who even am I?

I used to have rules. Good ones. Logical ones. No dating hockey players, no sleepovers, no spooning, and absolutely no catching feelings for anyone whose idea of romance is buying you a stadium hot dog.

Then he showed up—loud, persistent, stupidly charming, like someone forgot to warn him I bite. The first time he stayed over, I made him leave at 2 a.m. because I “didn’t do cuddling.” He laughed, said, Sure, boss, and actually left. I figured that’d be it. But then he came back. Again. And again. Until one morning I realized my bed smelled like him and I didn’t hate it.

Two years later, here we are. Domestic as hell.

The apartment smells like cinnamon because I baked earlier—mostly to procrastinate editing my film. My final cut’s due next week, and I keep watching the same clips of him skating like it’s going to reveal some secret meaning. The way he moves out there—so sure, so fast—it still messes with me. It’s like he was born for that ice, and sometimes I worry there’s no room for me in that world. But then he looks at me, and I remember there always is.

My parents adore him. My dad calls him “son” unironically. My mom’s already planning holidays around his game schedule. It’s ridiculous. He’ll call the house to ask if we’re coming to a match and my mom will hang up on me so she can talk to him.

And honestly? I get it. He’s impossible not to love. The kind of guy who remembers how you take your coffee and rubs your back when you’re up at 3 a.m. editing. Who buys you the fancy camera lens you said was too expensive, because “art’s an investment, babe.” Who still, after everything, looks at you like you’re the best thing that ever happened to him—even when you’re covered in flour and sarcasm.

The key turns in the lock. Right on cue.

The second he steps inside, I can feel it—the way the air changes, like the room knows he’s home. He looks wrecked in the best possible way: hair damp from a shower, hoodie clinging to his shoulders, exhaustion hanging off him like extra padding.

“Oh, hey, athlete of the year,” I say without looking up from Mal. “Did you survive?”

“Barely.”

He leans over the back of the couch and kisses my head, and I hate how easy it is for me to melt. Two years ago, I’d have made a joke, dodged the affection. Now I tilt my face up, greedy for it.

“You smell like a locker room,” I murmur against his mouth.

“I smell like victory.”

I snort, because only he could say something that cocky while half-dead from exhaustion. He drops beside me, and Mal immediately abandons me for him. Traitor.

“Victory smells a lot like stupid boys and sweat,” I tease.

“Good thing you’re into both.”

I laugh, low and unfiltered, because he’s right—I’m hopeless. And maybe that’s okay. We’ve fought for this. God, did we fight. Long-distance almost killed us. Jealousy, schedules, my stupid pride—take your pick. There were nights I thought we’d burn out completely. But he never let go. He kept showing up: to airports, to my screenings, to my worst moments. Somehow, he made me believe we could do this thing, even when it looked impossible.

Now, it’s calm. It’s quiet. It’s ours.

He sinks into the cushions, head back, eyes half-closed. I trace little circles on his thigh just to see him relax.

“Practice rough?” I ask.

“Coach had us running scrimmages till we couldn’t see straight. And the scout from the Bruins was there, so naturally everyone decided to forget how to skate.”

Typical. I smile, rubbing the cat absently. “You’ll be fine. You always are.”

He looks at me then, "Only cause you're here."