It’s not some wild, dramatic thing. Not fireworks. Not some perfect movie scene.
It’s just her, sitting cross-legged on our couch in the middle of a rainy Thursday, painting her nails and wearing my hoodie like it belongs to her. (It does now. She stole it. I never asked for it back.)
I’m across from her, icing my ankle and eating leftover pizza straight from the box. Hair’s a mess. I haven’t shaved in days. And yet, when she glances up at me, it’s like I’m the only person in the world.
No judgement. No pressure. Just… her face when she looks at me like that.
She catches me staring. Again.
“What?” she asks, smirking.
I shrug. “Nothing.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re smiling like a dumbass.”
I grin wider. “You make me smile like a dumbass.”
She rolls her eyes and goes back to painting, but I see her blush. She always does that when I compliment her out of nowhere, like she still doesn’t realize she’s the best part of my life.
The world off the ice can be a fucking mess. Expectations. Contracts. Reporters picking apart every mistake. But when I come home, and she’s here—barefaced, cozy, humming to herself like I didn’t just spend three hours in a war zone of a game, it all quiets down.
There’s no pressure to be perfect with her. She doesn’t love me for the stats or the jersey or the hype. She loves me when I’m in pain, when I’m off my game, when I’m just a tired kid from a small town who got thrown into a big dream.
And I love her for that. For the way she lets me be soft. For making it okay to be vulnerable.
She looks up again, this time holding up one hand. “Be honest. Does this color make me look like I’ve got my shit together?”
I laugh. “You never look like you have your shit together.”
She gasps, fake offended.
“But” I say, leaning over and kissing the top of her head, “you always look lovely.”
She pretends to gag, but I see that little smile she can’t hide. And I know I’ve got her. Just like she’s got me.
She wears love like a second skin. And somehow—somehow she makes me believe I look good in it too.