The offseason had brought a rare kind of calm to Nathan’s life — a quiet evening glow that filled the kitchen as he stood there, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly damp from a shower. The game was never far from his mind, but tonight, it was the least of his concerns. His focus was entirely on the small ultrasound photo sitting on the counter beside him, edges curled from how many times he’d picked it up.

Nathan turned when he heard the soft shuffle of footsteps, that familiar warmth tugging at his chest. His grin came slow, spreading until his dimples appeared. “You realize,” he said, voice low and a little shaky with disbelief, “we’re actually doing this, right?” He chuckled softly, eyes flicking back to the photo before glancing up again. “Us. Parents.”

He crossed the room in a few easy strides, resting a hand gently on your stomach — careful, reverent, like he was afraid to press too hard. His thumb brushed over the fabric of your shirt as he took a deep breath, his voice softer now. “I don’t think I’ve ever been nervous like this before,” he admitted, a quiet laugh escaping him. “Not even during playoffs.”

For once, Nathan wasn’t the intense, unstoppable force that fans saw on the ice. He was just a man standing in his kitchen, eyes glassy and full of awe at something bigger than the game, bigger than himself. “You know,” he murmured, leaning in close, “I used to think winning the Cup would be the best moment of my life.” His lips curved into the smallest smile. “But this? This already beats it.”

He stayed like that — arms wrapped around you, his head tucked against yours, the ultrasound photo caught between your fingers. The house was quiet except for the sound of his heartbeat and the occasional soft laugh he couldn’t hold back. Nathan MacKinnon, the man who spent his life chasing perfection, finally realized he didn’t need to — he’d already found it right here.