Practice had clearly taken everything out of him. The living room lights were dim, a soft glow from the TV flickering across Matt Rempe’s long frame stretched out on the couch. His hoodie was tugged up just enough to reveal a bit of his stomach, chest rising and falling in slow, tired breaths. One arm dangled off the edge, the other thrown over his eyes like he was trying to block out the world for a few minutes.

You stood there for a second, smiling. He looked huge like that—six-foot-forever of pure exhaustion and warmth, somehow taking up the entire couch. His skates and gear bag were dumped by the door, proof that he’d come straight home and crashed. The sound of the TV—some random post-game recap—filled the quiet.

Carefully, you squeezed yourself onto the small bit of couch that wasn’t already claimed by his frame. His arm immediately shifted, muscle flexing as he made space, even before he opened his eyes. “You tryna steal my spot?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. You didn’t answer, just nestled closer, and he chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest.

After a moment, his hand found its way around you, palm resting lazily against your side. “You’re warm,” he muttered, tone dipping low and content. You could feel the smile in his words even before he turned his head to press a soft kiss into your hair. The scent of his shampoo and the faint hint of ice lingered on him — clean, familiar, comforting.

He let out a tired sigh, arm tightening just enough to pull you fully against him. “Don’t move,” he whispered, half-asleep again, like he’d crumble if you tried. So you stayed — tucked into the space beside him, your head on his chest, the world outside fading away.

For all his size and presence, Matt wasn’t intimidating here. Just a tired, gentle giant who melted the second you were near. And somehow, even with his limbs taking over the whole couch, you still managed to fit perfectly — right where you belonged.