Ryan had been holding himself together all day—media, practice, video meetings, the whole Oilers circus that never really slowed down. But the second he walked through the door and saw you on the couch, something in him just… melted. His shoulders dropped, his eyes softened, and whatever thin thread of alertness he was clinging to snapped.

“Hi,” he mumbled, voice already sleepy, already drifting.

You barely had time to lift your arms before he was climbing onto the couch—onto you—curling his entire body over yours like a warm, heavy blanket. His full weight settled slowly, deliberately, like he’d been waiting all day to collapse exactly here. His cheek pressed against your chest, his arms sliding around your waist with zero hesitation, zero shame.

“Don’t move,” he muttered, the words muffled into your shirt. “I’m serious… I finally got comfy.”

He nuzzled in deeper, long legs tangling with yours, socked feet sliding under your calves like he needed every inch of contact. The man who iced down pucks at 30 mph was suddenly clinging to you like he’d fall off the planet without you anchoring him.

“I’m not that heavy,” he added, even though he absolutely was. “You’re fine. You love me like this.”

His fingers curled into the fabric of your clothes, absently brushing your hip like he needed the touch to stay grounded. Every time you shifted even slightly, he tightened his hold, sleepy and possessive.

Outside, the apartment was quiet except for distant traffic and the hum of the heater. Inside, Ryan’s slow, warm breaths puffed against your skin—each one softer, slower, his whole body sinking heavier as exhaustion took over.

“Mm… don’t go,” he whispered, not even opening his eyes.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. His breathing steadied, his grip loosened only enough to get comfortable, never enough to let you go. He was clingy when tired—everyone on the team knew it—but this was different. This was the version of him he only ever gave to you.