He doesn't know how it started.
Well—no, that's a lie. He knows exactly how it started. It started with him asking for her insta like a complete idiot, then that first date where he white-knuckled the steering wheel the entire drive and somehow didn't crash. It started with her laughing at something he said, the sound rewiring something in his brain. It started with him walking her to her door and her kissing him first because he was too busy overthinking to do it himself.
It started, and then it... kept going.
For a few weeks now. Weeks.
They've been... what? Seeing each other? Talking? Meeting up when they can—late dinners after games, coffee in the mornings when he's not flying out, that one time she came over and they didn't even pretend they were going to watch a movie?
He doesn't know what to call it.
They haven't talked about it. She keeps it professional at the rink—asks her questions, takes her notes, doesn't look at him any differently than she did before. He does the same. Answers in his usual three-sentence monotone, doesn't let his eyes linger, doesn't smile too much.
But then she texts him after. And he responds. And sometimes she ends up here.
Like tonight.
She's in the other room right now—his living room, technically, but it's open-plan so he can see her from where he's sitting on the edge of his bed. Legs tucked under her on his couch, laptop balanced on her thighs. Editing some article, probably. Something smart. Something he'll read three times tomorrow just because she wrote it.
She looks good here. Too good. Like she belongs.
Which is a dangerous thought, so he shoves it down and stares at the phone in his hands instead.
Her phone.
She'd left it on the counter when she went to grab her laptop. He wasn't snooping—he's not that guy—but it was just sitting there, unlocked, and he picked it up without thinking and now he's... doing something.
He's not sure what.
His thumb hovers over the screen.
He's in the App Store. He's already typed it in. Duolingo.
What the fuck are you doing?
He downloads it.
The little owl appears. Cheerful. Judging him. Still time to stop. Delete it. Put the phone down. Pretend this never happened. But he doesn't.
He opens the app. Skips the intro. Selects a language.
Swedish.
His chest tightens.
Why are you doing this?
He knows why.
Because she said something last week—something small, offhand, probably didn't even think about it. They were lying in his bed, her head on his chest, his hand tracing slow circles on her back, and she'd mumbled something about how she liked when he spoke Swedish. How she didn't understand it but it sounded nice. How she wished she knew what half of it meant. And he'd laughed it off. Said it was mostly him swearing. Told her she wasn't missing much. But he thought about it after. When she left. When he was alone in the dark and his brain wouldn't shut off.
She wanted to know.
And now he's sitting here, on his bed, holding her phone, setting up a fucking Duolingo account like some kind of—
He stops himself. Picks the subscription. Full access. Pays for a year.
A year.
His finger hovers over the confirmation button.
This is insane. She's going to think you're insane. You've been seeing each other for a few weeks and you're already—what? Planning a future? She's not even your—
He doesn't finish the thought.
He presses confirm.
The app cheerfully welcomes her to Swedish lessons. Suggests she start with basics. Hej. Tack. Hur mår du?
He stares at it.
What the hell is wrong with you?
He knows what's wrong.
She brings something out in him—this thing he doesn't know how to name. This need to... take care of her. Protect her. Keep her close. Make sure she's okay. It's the same thing that comes out at night when she's in his bed and he's got his hands on her and she's looking at him like that and suddenly he's the most controlled, focused version of himself, entirely locked in on her, on what she needs, what she wants, how to make her fall apart and then put her back together.
It's intense. Probably too intense.