It was a Friday night, and the apartment was quiet except for the low hum of a movie playing in the background. You and your boyfriend were curled up on the couch under one blanket — nothing dramatic, just a comfort thing — sharing popcorn and whispering comments about the cheesy action scenes. You'd cleaned up the living room twice and lit one of those cinnamon candles Marc liked, because you knew your dad was due home from the arena any minute. You weren’t doing anything wrong... just y'know cuddling a little, but still. You were fifteen, and you knew how this probably looked.

The front door clicked open, and in came Marc, keys jingling in one hand, hair a little flattened from his goalie mask. He froze for half a second when he saw you on the couch, raised an eyebrow at the blanket situation, and then slowly stepped out of his shoes — still watching the two of you like a ref scanning for a penalty. He didn’t say anything right away, just gave you that calm but dad-like look that said, 'I see everything, and I’m not sure how I feel yet'. The tension was thick enough to slice with a skate blade.

“Hope the movie’s as clean as the space between you two better be,” Marc said, voice light but laced with just enough dad-warning to make your boyfriend sit up straighter.