I won't even take off my skates before collapsing on the couch.

Okay, that’s a lie—I didn’t actually come home in skates. But after the day I’ve had, it kind of feels like I did. My body’s one giant bruise, my brain’s fried from back-to-back meetings with the scouts, and I swear my soul left sometime around the fourth drill.

This was supposed to be the fun year. Senior season. One last run before the big leagues. Instead, it’s pressure, paperwork, and pretending I’m not terrified of screwing up my shot.

The door clicks behind me and immediately the tension in my shoulders eases, like the air here’s got its own gravity. Smells like cinnamon and something buttery—Callie must’ve baked again. I kick off my sneakers, hang my jacket on the chair, and spot her exactly where I knew she’d be.

Sprawled across the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, wearing my t-shirt and a smug little smile that kills me every time.

“Oh, hey, athlete of the year,” she says without looking up from the cat purring on her stomach. “Did you survive?”

“Barely.” I lean over the back of the couch, plant a kiss on her head. Her hair’s shorter now, grazing her shoulders. I didn’t think I’d like it as much, but it’s unfair how good she looks—like she walked straight out of a daydream I had sophomore year and decided to make it permanent.

She tilts her face up for a proper kiss this time, lazy and familiar, and suddenly the day doesn’t feel so heavy.

“You smell like a locker room,” she murmurs against my mouth.

“I smell like victory,” I correct, collapsing next to her. Our cat—Sir Malcolm, though we call him Mal because he only has one ear and it feels appropriately pirate-y—grumbles and hops off her stomach onto mine.

“Victory smells a lot like stupid boys and sweat,” she says.

“Good thing you’re into both,” I shoot back.

She laughs, low and unbothered, and god, it hits me how far we’ve come.

Two years ago, this girl wouldn’t even stay the night. She’d pull on her clothes, kiss me once, and vanish before sunrise. Now she’s sitting here in our apartment, in my shirt, with our cat, in a place that feels like home.

We fought for this. Hard.

There were nights I thought we wouldn’t make it—the jealousy, the distance when I got drafted last spring, the arguments about what came next. She wanted to finish her film program; I wanted to chase a contract in another city. For a while, we did the long-distance thing. It sucked. But she showed up anyway. Every away game, every shitty motel with bad lighting and worse food—Callie was there with her camera, documenting everything for her senior film project.

And somewhere between airports and post-game showers and fights about toothpaste caps, we figured it out.

Now, it’s simple again. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s ours.

“Practice rough?” she asks, rubbing small circles on my thigh.

“Coach had us running scrimmages till we couldn’t see straight. And the scout from the Bruins was there, so naturally everyone decided to forget how to skate.”

“Hmm.” She scratches behind Mal’s missing ear. “You’ll be fine. You always are.”

I look at her—really look. Her bare legs tucked under the blanket, her hair curling against her collarbone, the faint smudge of flour on her cheek—and I know she means it.

“Yeah,” I say, softer than I mean to. “Guess I will.”

For a while, we just sit there. The TV hums quietly, some documentary she’s half-watching. The cat purrs. Her toes find mine under the blanket.

“You hungry?” she asks eventually.

“Starving.”

“There’s lasagna in the oven. Don’t get excited—it’s the frozen kind.”

“I’ll still act impressed.”

“You better.”

I grin, lean over, and kiss her again. It starts slow, then deepens until Mal meows in protest and stalks off the couch like we’ve personally offended him.

She smiles against my lips. “Think he regrets picking us at the shelter?”

“Probably. But he’s stuck now.”

“Like me?”

I tug her closer, her laughter warm against my chest. “Nah,” I say. “You chose this.”