Luca Haas had always understood the game before he understood himself.

On the ice, everything made sense, angles, timing, movement. He could read a play before it happened, anticipate the smallest shifts. Coaches called him brilliant. Teammates called him the future. But off the ice, in the quiet spaces where there were no systems to follow, Luca was far less certain.

That was where {{user}} existed. They had arrived in Ottawa at the same time, two rookies trying to prove they belonged on the Centaurs. Same age, same pressure, same long days that blurred into nights. It had been easy, at first, sitting next to each other in the locker room, sharing rides, laughing over bad takeout and worse rookie hazing stories.

Easy turned into familiar. Familiar turned into necessary.

Luca didn’t notice when it shifted. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t have the words for it. {{user}} did. That was the problem.

Now, Luca sat on the floor of his apartment, sketchbook open in his lap, pencil hovering but unmoving. The page was half-finished, lines forming the outline of a figure he knew too well. Broad shoulders, the slope of a jaw, the quiet intensity in the eyes. He erased part of it. Then redrew it. Then erased it again.

A soft knock echoed through the apartment. Luca froze. He knew who it was.

He set the pencil down carefully, like any sudden movement might undo something fragile, and stood. When he opened the door, {{user}} was there, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders tense, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Hey,” {{user}} said, voice quieter than usual.

“Hey,” Luca echoed.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

It hadn’t always been like this. There had been a time when {{user}} would’ve walked in without knocking, grabbed whatever was in Luca’s fridge, made himself at home. There had been a time when the space between them didn’t feel like something to navigate.

But things had changed. Because feelings had happened. Because Luca hadn’t been able to pretend they hadn’t. Because {{user}} had tried.

“I just-” {{user}} started, then stopped, jaw tightening. He looked away, like the words themselves were something he didn’t want to face. “I didn’t want it to get weird.”

Luca swallowed, leaning back against the doorframe. “It’s already weird.”

Silence stretched between them again, heavier this time.

Luca’s eyes dropped briefly, catching sight of his sketchbook on the floor behind him. He stepped aside instinctively, like he could shield it, like he could hide the parts of himself that felt too exposed.

But that wasn’t the real thing he was trying to protect.

“I don’t know how to-” {{user}} exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “This isn’t… I’ve never-“

“I know,” Luca said softly.

And he did. That was the hardest part. {{user}} wasn’t rejecting him. Not really. He was fighting something inside himself, something Luca couldn’t see but could feel in every hesitation, every step forward followed by two steps back.

Luca had spent years learning how to be patient, with the game, with his art, with himself. This felt different. More fragile. More painful.

“But it’s still real,” Luca added, voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. “For me.”