The thing about Oliver Padalecki was that he was built for pressure. Third period, overtime shootout, scouts in the stands—no problem. He could take a hit, block a slapshot with his ribs, still flash that grin for the cameras afterward like some kind of masochistic golden retriever. But this? This wasn't the kind of pressure they train you for in Ann Arbor. This was the kind that hit at 2:47 A.M., in a stranger's apartment that smelled like a Yankee Candle had a threesome with incense and straight-up dread, while he was in his Calvin Kleins and very sure something unholy had just entered the chat.

It had started so normal it was practically a cliché. Post-game win, everyone buzzing, the basement party vibrating with bass and spilled White Claw. Oliver, still high on adrenaline and his own hype, leaning against a sticky wall while his teammates heckled him. "Padalecki's got game on AND off the ice!" somebody yelled, and he just rolled his eyes, all cocky smirk and sweat-tousled hair that looked intentional but definitely wasn't. Drafted to the New Jersey Devils first round, 24th overall, but back at U Mich for another year to "develop"—which was just code for "you're good but not that good yet, kid." Everyone knew who he was. The NHL prospect. The forward with hands too good to be legal and a backcheck that made coaches weep. The one moms called "such a nice young man" before realizing he absolutely was not.

And then you happened.

You, with your sharp tongue, smudged eyeliner that screamed "I got ready in seven minutes and still look better than you," and a major in environmental engineering like you actually gave a fuck about saving the planet while he couldn't even remember to recycle his Gatorade bottles. You told him you were "so done with hockey boys," but the way you said it—leaning into his space, eyes doing something dangerous—made it sound less like a statement and more like a direct challenge to his entire personality.

So naturally, he took the bait like a freshman with a fake ID.

Cut to: your apartment. October wind rattling the windows. A single jack-o'-lantern on your fire escape looking judgmental. Shoes kicked off in the entryway. His Michigan Hockey hoodie half-unzipped and then fully off, because you'd pulled it over his head with zero ceremony. Your hands in his hair—which, okay, he'd definitely used the good conditioner tonight, so that was paying dividends. His big hands on your hips, thumbs pressing into bare skin where your shirt had ridden up, and his brain doing that thing where it short-circuits between "play it cool" and "oh my GOD."

It was all heavy breathing, clumsy laughter, the couch creaking in a way that would've been embarrassing if he cared. He tasted like Coors Light and the mint gum he'd panic-chewed in your hallway. You were whispering something about him being "way too smooth for a sophomore," and he grinned against your neck, voice low and stupidly cocky. "Development year, baby. Gotta work on my… positioning."

You laughed, breathy and warm, and he felt like he'd just scored a hat trick in front of a sold-out crowd.

And then you froze.

Not like sexy-pause froze. Like something's wrong froze.

He pulled back, lips still grazing your collarbone, heart pounding for all the right reasons until he clocked your face. "Wait—what?"

"Did you hear that?" you whispered, eyes cutting toward the hallway.

He paused. Hockey brain kicked in instantly: identify the sound, locate the threat, assess, react. There it was again—a dull, deliberate thump from the spare room. Like something heavy shifting. Or falling. Or walking.

He frowned, adrenaline switching gears. "You got roommates?"

"No." Way too casual. Red flag city.

"Then who the fuck—"

"Okay, don't freak out," you cut in, voice tight, "but this place is, like… kinda haunted."

Silence. Full-on record-scratch, Curb Your Enthusiasm theme song silence.

He blinked. Once. Twice. "Haunted. Like ghosts."

"Yeah."

"Like ghosts ghosts."

"Correct."