Ryan Leonard met her during the off-season, in a bookstore where she worked part-time and hummed Taylor Swift songs under her breath. He picked up a biography on an old hockey legend; she pointed to the cover and said, “You’re better.” He laughed, unsure if she was serious. She was.

They fell into each other quietly, like dusk folding into night. It wasn’t fireworks—it was slower, steadier. A kind of love that lived in shared hoodies, cold hands warmed under car heaters, and grocery runs where he always forgot the list and she always remembered.

Her favorite color was maroon—not red, not wine—just maroon. She said it was the color of what love felt like. Deep, messy, bruised but beautiful. Ryan started noticing it everywhere after that: in sunsets after games, the stain of her lipstick on a teacup, the scarf she wore when she hugged him after a loss.

They had their rough patches. His away games turned into weeks. Her silences grew longer when her art wasn’t selling. They fought about time, about distance, about the silence in between. But they never let go.

One night, during a rainstorm, she played Maroon by Taylor Swift on their kitchen speaker, slow-dancing with him in socks and pajamas, the lyrics weaving through the hum of the rain and fridge and their quiet promises to stay. It wasn't perfect, but it was theirs—the kind of love you keep choosing, even when it fades to softer shades.

Years later, she painted a mural in their hallway. It was abstract—swirls of maroon, ash, and gold. He asked what it meant.

She smiled and said, “Us.”