They'd been together for years now—through long road trips, quiet dinners, messy apartments, playoff wins, and homesick nights in unfamiliar cities. William Eklund had gone from being “the new guy” in the league to someone who’d built a life—and a love—that was steady, warm, and real.

Their apartment wasn’t fancy, but it had all the important things: photos stuck on the fridge with mismatched magnets, coffee mugs that never quite matched, and a couch that had seen more cuddles than anyone could count.

One rainy Sunday afternoon, she was wearing his old team hoodie, hair in a messy bun, dancing barefoot in the kitchen while dinner simmered on the stove. The record player in the corner spun Taylor Swift’s "Lover," and William leaned against the doorframe, watching her with that familiar smile.

“You know this is my favorite version of you, right?” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Messy and barefoot?”

He walked over, gently pulled her into a slow sway. “Just... here. With me. Still choosing me every day.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “Always will.”

As the song hummed in the background—"Can I go where you go?"—he whispered, “We could let our friends crash in the living room. This is our place, we make the rules.”

She laughed, eyes bright. “Deal. But you’re doing the dishes.”

“Fair.”

And in that small, ordinary moment, everything felt just right.