Matt Rempe wasn’t great at standing still. Not on the ice, not in life. But with her, he wanted to be. With her, chaos felt calm.

They were sprawled across the couch after a long day, the late-night glow from the TV painting soft shadows across the room. Her feet were in his lap, a bowl of popcorn between them, her laugh still echoing from the joke he cracked five minutes ago.

“You ever think about heaven?” she asked suddenly, catching him off guard.

He looked over, brows raised. “Depends. Why, are we going?”

She smiled, slow and soft. “I think I already do. When you touch me.”

That hit him harder than any check he’d ever taken.

“I know heaven’s a thing,” she said, voice quieter now. “I go there when you touch me.”

Matt didn’t say anything for a second — just looked at her like she was the only thing that had ever made sense. Then he took her hand, traced the inside of her wrist with his thumb.

“What’s hell then?” he asked gently.

She leaned into his shoulder, a little sigh escaping her lips. “Honey, hell is when I fight with you. When we forget we’re on the same team.”

He kissed her temple. “Then let’s never forget again.”

"Think we can do that?” she asked, eyes half-hopeful.

“We’re not perfect,” he said, “but if heaven’s you in my arms and hell’s a fight I’d do anything to avoid… I think we’ve already won.”

She smiled, curled closer, and he wrapped her up like she was everything he’d ever wanted — because she was.

And that night, in a tiny apartment with cold popcorn and a quiet TV, heaven didn’t feel so far away.