The doorbell rang.

When {{user}} opened, Dean was there. T-shirt stuck to the body of dry sweat, messy hair, flushed cheeks. The drooping shoulders, as if the training had drained not only the physique, but all of it.

“Hi...” he said, no smiles, no charm. Just tiredness.

“Hey”

He came in without asking, as if his body had come alone to there. He threw the backpack in the corner of the room and fell on the couch, lying on his side, his face turned to the back.

“I don’t want to talk about hockey,” he murmured, almost erasing.

{{user}} approached slowly, kneeling next to him.

“Do you want food?”

He shook his head, his eyes still closed.

“Only you.”

She ran her hand through his hair, slowly, feeling the tension in her shoulders.

“Difficult day?”

“Coainer screamed all the time, Logan missed two passes, and... I don’t know. I think the world tired me today.”

She sat on the couch, pulling his head to her lap.

Dean didn’t say anything. He just straightened up there, as if that was the safest place in the world. The chest going up and down slowly. Her fingers drawing lines on his arm.