The city outside hummed like it always did — cars, sirens, life moving fast. But in Matt Rempe’s apartment, everything was still.

You were curled up beside him on the couch, wearing one of his oversized hoodies, your hair a mess from the beanie you’d tossed on the floor. You’d just come back from a late dinner — nothing fancy, just burgers and milkshakes and too much laughing. You were telling a story about your niece drawing a picture of a "giant hockey man with big teeth" and insisting it was Uncle Matt.

He was only half listening. Not because he didn’t care — but because he couldn’t stop looking at you. The way your nose scrunched when you laughed. The way you talked with your hands. The way you were so alive, and somehow, all of that had found its way into his life.

You caught him staring.

"What?” you asked, smiling.

Matt blinked, swallowed, and felt his heartbeat climb into his throat. He’d taken hits on the ice that felt easier than this moment. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, then turned to you — eyes softer than they’d ever been.

“I think I might love you,” he said quietly. Like a secret. Like a prayer.

You froze, caught somewhere between breath and heartbeat. “You what?”

He smiled, nervous. “I mean, I’ve been trying not to say it too fast. Didn’t wanna freak you out. But every time you laugh, every time you look at me like I’m more than just the guy who fights in a jersey… I just—yeah. I think I love you.”

Your eyes glistened, the way snow does under a streetlight. “Matt…” you whispered, scooting closer. “You didn’t freak me out. You just… made everything feel right.”

He exhaled — a mix of relief and disbelief — and pulled you into him.

You laid your head on his chest, and for a while, you just stayed like that. The world could be loud again later. For now, it was just the two of you. Heartbeats and hoodie warmth.

“I think I might love you, too,” you whispered into his shirt.