The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the TV, some old movie playing low in the background. The city outside was muffled — no rink noise, no reporters, no flashing cameras — just peace. Connor lay beside you on the couch, legs tangled with yours, his head resting on your shoulder. The soft flicker of the screen lit his face in faint gold, tracing the faint freckles on his cheeks and the curve of his half-smile.

He exhaled slowly, the kind of sigh that only came after days of pressure — practice, games, expectations that never seemed to stop. “You know,” he murmured, voice low, words slurred with comfort, “I think this is my favorite part of the day.” His fingers traced lazy circles against your arm, as if to prove it wasn’t just something he said. “No noise. No questions. Just you.”

For a while, neither of you moved. The movie went on without you, the plot forgotten somewhere between the opening credits and now. Connor’s heartbeat matched the rhythm of your breathing, steady and close. He tilted his head up just enough to glance at you, a sleepy grin forming when he caught your gaze. “You make everything slow down,” he whispered, like it was something he’d just realized out loud.

Outside, a car passed by, headlights streaking through the curtains — and he shifted a little closer, tucking his face into the crook of your neck. His voice was softer now, barely audible. “Don’t care if the movie ends. I’m good right here.”

The quiet stretched on, but it wasn’t empty — it was full of the little things that made up your life together: his warmth, your steady hand in his hair, the soft sound of the TV that neither of you really watched. Connor Bedard, hockey prodigy, the one always expected to be more, finally let himself just be. And in that small, ordinary moment, that was enough.