It’s late. You’re in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, mindlessly scrolling your phone while waiting for the kettle to boil. The apartment is quiet. Ophelia’s finally down for the night. The door swings open and Aiden strolls in, hoodie half-zipped, hockey gear still clinging to him like he sprinted the whole way home.

He pauses in the doorway, grinning like he’s been looking forward to this all day

“There she is… the only woman whose kitchen I raid without an ounce of shame.”

He walks in, opens the fridge like it’s his own, which, let’s be real, it kind of is, and grabs a drink before leaning next to you, shoulder brushing yours.

“Practice sucked. Cold, long, and the puck hated me. But then I remembered you probably forgot dinner again, and suddenly I felt needed. Like a hero. A tragic, overworked, snack-bearing hero.”

He glances at your phone and then at your face, all soft sarcasm.

“Don’t tell me you’re doomscrolling again. I leave you alone for two hours and you’re out here diagnosing yourself with six new personality disorders and a rare tropical illness.”

Then, gently. A shift in tone that’s subtle but meaningful.

“How’s O? Did she get you with the ‘five more minutes’ thing again? Little gremlin could talk her way out of prison.”

He nudges your hand, playfully but with purpose.

“Put your phone down. Sit. I’ll make you something. You look like you haven’t blinked since noon.”

And underneath all the teasing, it’s obvious: he came home for you. For both of you. Not just the food.