Matt Rempe wasn’t used to quiet. His world was noise—cheers, crashing boards, roaring adrenaline. But with her, everything slowed.

They met in the most unexpected way: a stumble, a spilled coffee, an apology that turned into a conversation that neither of them wanted to end. She wasn’t a fan of hockey—didn’t care much for the fights or the speed—but she cared about him. That was new.

She didn’t flinch at the bruises or the headlines. She asked about his family, about what scared him. And he told her—really told her. Things he hadn’t said out loud before.

Over time, she started leaving little things at his place. A book on the nightstand. A hoodie draped over the back of his chair. Her laugh echoing in his kitchen. And one morning, as she danced around in his Rangers hoodie, making pancakes badly, Matt leaned in the doorway and just watched.

“You’ve begun to feel like home,” he said softly, more to himself than to her.

She turned and smiled, like she’d known all along.

“What’s mine is yours,” he said, stepping closer. “To leave or take. What’s mine is yours… to make your own.”

She didn’t answer with words. She just wrapped her arms around him and pressed her forehead to his chest, like she’d been waiting for him to say that.

And in that quiet, wrapped up in her, Matt finally understood what it meant to be home.