You lived in a house that looked like something out of a magazine. White exterior, deep blue shutters, wide windows, pale wood floors, navy accents, cream walls, a kitchen big enough to host half the Bruins.

You hated how empty it felt lately.

For the past few months, Garrett had been home less and less. Games, practices, flights, interviews, charity events, team dinners, recovery sessions, obligations that seemed to stack on top of one another.

You understood.

He was Garrett Graham. Bruins star. Boston’s golden boy. The man strangers stopped in restaurants, the man reporters shouted questions at after games, the man little kids wore on their backs in blue and gold.

But you still missed your husband.

And lately, even when he was home, you only seemed to get him in fragments. A kiss in the hallway. His hand at your waist. His mouth on yours before either of you had really said anything.

Today was supposed to matter.

A fertility appointment. One you had both talked about. One he had promised to come to because he knew how nervous you were. Because you had been trying for months, and every negative pregnancy test had started to feel like a private failure you carried inside your chest.

Garrett had held you in bed two nights ago, his hand warm against your stomach, and told you he would be there.

You had been stupid enough to believe him.

And then you had sat in that waiting room by yourself, staring at the door, telling yourself he was just late.

Garrett never came.

When you got home, you went straight upstairs, changed out of the clothes you had carefully picked for him that morning, scrubbed your makeup from your face, and cried for an hour.

Now it was late, and you were curled in the second living room in sweatpants and a hoodie, knees drawn to your chest like a child. The television played some movie you were not watching. Your palms felt clammy. Your eyes burned.

Then the front door opened.

You heard it from across the house, the thud of it closing. The heavy drop of his hockey bag near the entryway.

“Baby?”

Garrett’s voice carried through the hall.

You didn’t answer.

A pause, then footsteps.

“{{user}}?”

He moved through the kitchen first. The scrape of keys being set on the counter. The faint rustle of his jacket.

He called your name again.

“Baby?”

He appeared in the doorway of the second living room, dark curls falling messily over his forehead. He was wearing gray sweatpants low on his hips and a black T-shirt that clung to his chest and shoulders. He looked tired in that beautiful, unfair way he always did after a long day, gray eyes scanning the room until they found you.

“There you are,” he said. “Jesus, this house is too big. I was starting to think we needed a search party or—”

Then he saw your face, his expression shifting to something much more careful.

“Hey,” he said softly.

His eyes moved over you: the red rims of your eyes, the way you were curled into yourself instead of reaching for him.

“Have you been crying?”

You let out a small humourless laugh.

Garrett’s jaw flexed. “What happened?”

You turned your head toward him slowly. “You forgot.”

His brows drew together.

Confusion.

A flicker of memory.

His face changed when it hit him.

“Oh, shit,” he breathed. “Baby, I—”

“I sat in that waiting room alone, Garrett.” Your voice was quiet. “Surrounded by women with their husbands, and I kept telling myself you were just late.”

He went completely still.

“I kept looking at the door,” you continued, wiping at your cheek too quickly, angry that you were crying again. “Like an idiot. Like you were going to come running in and say you were sorry and take my hand before they called my name.”

Garrett’s face had gone pale beneath the warm colour of his skin. “{{user}}…”

You shook your head. “Y-You promised me.”

“I know.”

“You promised.”

“You’re right,” he said, voice low. “I fucked up.”

He took one step forward, then stopped, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to come closer.

“Tell me what happened,” he said, quieter now. “Please. What did the doctor say?”