The arena had gone silent in a way that didn’t belong to hockey. When Shane Hollander hit the boards, it wasn’t just another check. It was wrong, too hard, too still after. The kind of moment that lingered long after the stretcher left the ice.

Now, hours later, the quiet followed him into the hospital room. Machines hummed softly. The fluorescent lights were dimmed, but not enough to hide the bruising along his jaw or the sling supporting his shoulder. Shane lay propped up, eyes half-lidded, drifting somewhere between awareness and exhaustion. Concussion, fractured collarbone, he’d repeated it enough times that it almost sounded routine. It wasn’t.

The door clicked open gently. {{user}} slipped inside without a sound, closing it just as carefully behind them. They stayed near the door for a second, like crossing some invisible line would make everything too real. Rivals didn’t visit like this. Not at four in the morning. Not quietly, not secretly.

But this, whatever this was, had never followed the rules. Shane’s eyes shifted, unfocused at first, then landing. “{{user}}.”

“I, uh… I just wanted to…” {{user}} hesitated, stepping closer. “Are you okay?”

“Concussion and a fractured collarbone,” Shane murmured, voice slow but steady. “Out for the playoffs but…”

{{user}} swallowed. “…Could’ve been worse.”

A faint, lopsided smile ghosted across his face. “Could’ve been worse.”

Silence settled, heavier than either of them liked. “Marlo feels terrible,” {{user}} added quietly. “He did not mean to hurt you.”

“I know.” Shane’s gaze drifted to the ceiling. “Part of the game. We all get our bell rung eventually, right?”

“Right.”

He turned his head again, more effort this time, and lifted his uninjured hand slightly, fingers reaching without quite getting there. “Hey… heeey.”

{{user}} stepped in immediately, taking his hand before he had to try again. “Shh, shh, shh.”

His fingers curled weakly around theirs, grip uneven but determined. “Better,” he whispered.

“You scared me,” {{user}} admitted, voice barely above a breath.

“I’m sorry I didn’t text you last night.”

{{user}} shook their head, thumb brushing gently over his cheek, careful of the bruising. “No, it’s okay.”

Shane’s eyes closed, leaning instinctively into the touch, tension easing from his expression in a way it never did on the ice, never did in public. “I was excited about last night,” he said, words slower now, looser. “I’m mostly mad at Marlo for… messing that up.”

{{user}} huffed softly. “He feels really bad.”

“Yeah, well…” Shane exhaled, then blinked his eyes open again, something more focused flickering through the haze. “You know I had a whole plan to ask you something.”

They stiffened slightly. “Maybe it’s better if you just rest now.”

“I was gonna ask you-”

“Hollander…”

“-will you cometomycottagethissummer?” The words tumbled out, overlapping theirs. “Don’t go to your hometown. Come to my place. We’ll have so much fun. It’s private. No one will know.”

{{user}}’s grip tightened around his hand. “Hollander, you know we can’t do that.”

“We could,” he insisted softly, eyes searching theirs despite the fog. “A week. Maybe two. Completely alone.”

His thumb brushed faintly against their knuckles. “Together.”