The door slammed shut behind Cole as he stepped inside, still running on the high from the game. His body ached, his jersey clung to his skin, and his hair was still damp with sweat and melted ice. The scent of the rink—cold air, rubber, and the sharp bite of adrenaline—lingered on him, but none of it mattered.

Because you were here.

And you were cooking.

Cole caught the scent immediately—garlic, butter, something rich and warm that made his stomach growl—but his eyes weren’t on the food. They were on you.

You were standing at the stove, humming under your breath as you stirred something in a pan. Your hair was tucked messily behind your ears, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, apron tied tight around your waist. You looked... perfect.

Cole's heart did this stupid little flip in his chest—like it always did when he saw you like this. Focused. Comfortable. His.

He couldn't resist.

Crossing the room with quiet strides, Cole slid his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you flush against his chest. You stiffened at first, then sighed—like you'd been expecting him all along.

“Miss me, baby?” Cole rumbled, pressing his nose into the crook of your neck. You smelled like rosemary and something faintly sweet—like heaven on earth.

You rolled his eyes, but Cole didn't miss the way your breath caught. “You were gone for two hours, Cole. Not two years.”

“Felt like forever.” He tightened his arms just a little, fingers brushing beneath the hem of your apron, teasing at the warm strip of skin above your waistband. God, he loved how you felt against him—how easily you fit right into his chest.

You huffed, stirring the sauce with a little more force than necessary. “You're sweaty. Go shower.”

“Nah.” Cole grinned against your neck. “Missed you too much.”

He pressed a slow, lazy kiss to the curve of your shoulder, letting his lips linger just long enough to feel the faint shiver that ran through you. That reaction always killed him—like no matter how many times he touched you, he could still make you melt.