They met in the in-between—between road games and real life, between late-night takeout and quiet mornings wrapped in his hoodie. She wasn’t a fan of hockey, not at first. But she liked him. The version of Trevor who made bad pancakes at 2 a.m. and tried to guess what song she was humming under her breath.

He had that look in his eye tonight—the one that made her stomach twist, like he was about to say something important but wasn’t sure how.

They sat on the rooftop of his apartment, the city humming below. She passed him a cheap bottle of wine. He didn’t drink much, but he took it from her anyway.

"You ever think about forever?” he asked, not looking at her.

She stared out at the skyline, fingers cold, heart louder than it should’ve been. “Sometimes.”

He turned to her. “Because I think… I’d want it. With you.”

Silence stretched between them, soft and warm. Then she looked at him—really looked. Eyes tired from travel, lips chapped from the cold, heart on his sleeve without saying a word.

“If you want forever,” she said, voice barely above the wind, “and I bet you do…”

He leaned in, close enough to count every freckle on her cheek.

“…just know,” she breathed, “you’ll taste me too. The good. The bad. The parts I don’t always show.”

Trevor smiled then, the slow kind, like he finally understood. And he didn’t pull away when she kissed him—like forever was something he’d already decided on.

And this time, it didn’t taste like goodbye. It tasted like home.