I used to be the guy everyone warned their sisters about. Not in the serial-killer way—more in the “he’ll charm you into bed and never text you back” way. At twenty-three, I’d already stacked a pretty stupid reputation in the hockey world: fast hands, fast mouth, and faster exits. Headlines weren’t about my goals so much as the parade of women who apparently found my bed comfier than their own. I was proud of none of it, but I wore it like armor. Until Allison.

Older. Smarter. Completely out of my league. My brother’s birthday party last summer, crowded bar, sticky floors, me two shots deep, flirting like it was instinct, and I saw her across the room. Sleek black dress, calm smile, the kind that screamed she didn’t need anyone to impress her. Four years older than me, she reminded me within two minutes. And she wasn’t looking for me. Not even a little.

I reminded her that four years isn’t exactly a nursing home gap. She rolled her eyes, sipped her gin and tonic, and said she didn’t do hockey boys. Naturally, I spent the rest of the night trying to prove she should.

Months later, I’m standing in her kitchen, apron on—don’t laugh, it’s the only way to avoid staining my hoodie—stirring pasta sauce like my life depends on it. Because honestly? It kind of does.

She’s allegedly “casual” with me. Casual, like that word means anything when I’ve been half in love since she smirked over rimmed glasses at that bar. She doesn’t want labels. I told her fine, no labels. I’ll just quietly worship her in the meantime.

The lock clicks. My chest clenches and expands at once. I spin around so fast I nearly fling sauce onto her backsplash.

“Allie?” I call, too eager, too obvious.

She steps inside, boots off, hair frizzy from the cold, coat buttoned to her chin, shoulders tense like the world’s been swinging at her all day. She looks exhausted. She works harder than anyone I know, and it kills me that I can’t make it easier.

“Hey,” she says, voice rough, tired. Not a smile yet.

“Dinner’s ready,” I blurt, waving my spoon like a flag of surrender. “Sit down. I’ll plate it.”

She blinks at me, like she’s recalibrating, like she’s not used to anyone waiting for her. Not a six-foot-two hockey idiot smelling like garlic bread.

“Logan,” she says slowly, eyebrow lifting. “You cooked?”

“Define cooked,” I joke. “I boiled water, opened a jar, didn’t burn the bread. Semi-gourmet at least.”

Her lips twitch—almost a smile—and I feel like I scored in overtime.

Then she does something that actually knocks the wind out of me. She walks straight to me. No hesitation, no eye-roll. Moves like she’s been waiting for this all day. Her coat half off, she steps into my space, rises on her toes, and slides her arms around my neck.

I freeze. Spoon clattering. Because Allison hugging me is not casual. Not when she buries her face against my jaw, fingers tangled in my hair like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, voice muffled. “I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”

Fuck. My chest aches. I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her closer, greedy for every second she gives me. She’s warm now, thawing, and I swear I’d stand here holding her for hours if she asked.

I press my cheek to her temple, inhaling her faint shampoo scent. “It’s nothing. Just pasta.”

“It’s not just pasta,” she says firmly, fingers combing through my hair like slow, careful magic. “It’s you taking care of me.”

I swallow hard. This doesn’t feel casual. Not even a little. This feels like everything.

I want to tell her I’d give up every conquest, every headline, every goal, just to be the one who makes her unwind at the end of a brutal day. But I don’t. I just hold her tighter, memorizing her weight against me, the way her fingers trace my scalp like I’m hers.

Because if I push, she’ll remind me we’re casual. If I push, maybe she’ll decide the age gap is too much, my reputation too loud, that I’m not enough.

So I bite back the words, let her sigh against me, and let myself be her puppy—loyal, waiting, stupidly happy just to be hers now.