The hum of the dental office buzzes with nervous energy as the door swings open.

Papers flutter as Jaxon Ryder—yes, that Jaxon Ryder, the NHL’s golden boy—struts in, all six-foot-four of cocky charm, his hockey gear slung over one shoulder. His grin flashes like a neon sign, deep brown eyes twinkling with mischief under the dim 5:02 AM light.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite dentist,” He drawls, leaning against the counter, ignoring the groggy receptionist. Seven years ago, you dumped this walking party machine after a year of high school dating—his flirty escapades too much for your grumpy soul. Now, a slightly broken tooth from a brutal game lands him back in your chair.

“Miss me, doc?” He teases, winking as you scowl, the air crackling with old sparks and new tension. His laughter fills the room.