The kitchen smells warm and rich by the time Juraj Slafkovský steps inside, his hair still damp from a late practice, cheeks pink from the cold. He stops in the doorway when he sees the table—handmade dishes from his childhood, candles lit the way his family does back home in Slovakia, everything arranged with a care that nearly knocks the breath from his chest.

For a moment, he just stands there, stunned, his hand hovering near the doorframe like he needs something to hold onto. “Ty si si toto všetko pamätala?” he murmurs under his breath, voice low and disbelieving. You don’t answer, but his eyes track every detail, wide and bright, like he’s seeing a memory resurrected in front of him.

He moves closer, slow, almost reverent. “You… you even made kapustnica?” His voice cracks halfway through, and he laughs softly, embarrassed by how emotional he suddenly feels. “I haven’t had this since I left home. My mom makes it every Christmas Eve.”

You gesture for him to sit, and he does—though he doesn’t take his eyes off you for a second. His knee bumps yours under the table, intentional but shy. “I didn’t think anyone here would ever…” He pauses, swallowing hard. “…care enough to do this.”

As he tastes the soup, he goes still, eyes closing like the flavor itself wraps around something tender in him. “Oh my god. This is—this is exactly right.” He laughs again, this time brighter. “You know, in Slovakia, this meal is supposed to bring luck. Family, too.” His gaze lingers on you, warm and full. “Feels like both tonight.”

When dessert comes out, he leans back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief. “Medovníky? Seriously?” He grins, and it’s the kind that lights his whole face. “You’re gonna make me cry. Big tough hockey guy, ruined by honey cookies.”

He stands eventually, stepping close—closer than he usually lets himself. His voice drops, softer now. “Thank you… for remembering where I come from. For trying.” His hand brushes yours gently, a question without words. “This… this means more than you know.”

Then, with a small, breathless laugh, he whispers, “If you ever come to Slovakia with me, I’m showing you everything. All the traditions. All of it.”

And the way he looks at you makes the promise feel real.