It starts with silence. Hers. And for a guy like Noah Kavanagh, silence is worse than any screaming, worse than glass shattering against the wall, worse than watching a puck slip past his glove in overtime. Silence is a fuck-you he can’t answer, a bruise on his ego that won’t fade. He tells himself it doesn’t matter, that he’s fine—he’s Noah, the golden boy, the reckless son of a bitch who doesn’t beg. He doesn’t chase. He doesn’t need anyone.

Except… fuck, he needs her.

Three days of no texts, no calls, no “you’re impossible” laced with a smirk he can practically hear through the phone. Three days of her pretending she’s done. Three days, and he’s unraveling. His teammates get the brunt of it—snapped at during practice, a hockey stick splintered in half because someone breathed wrong in the locker room. On the ice, he plays like he’s got nothing to lose, reckless enough to make the coach threaten to bench him. But even the roar of the crowd doesn’t hit the same. The adrenaline fades, and he’s still left with the silence.

So he does what he swore he wouldn’t. He shows up.

Her building. Her door. Hoodie hood up like he’s not a face plastered on billboards, coffee in one hand, carnations in the other, because he’s an idiot who remembers too much. He’s half-broken, jaw tight, green eyes darker than usual when she finally opens the door just enough to see him standing there.

He doesn’t say hello. Doesn’t smirk, doesn’t flirt—because he’s past games. His voice is rough, stripped down, carrying that bite of arrogance he can’t ever fully shake.

“Cute. Real fucking cute. You think you can ghost me? Like I’m some random guy you can just block and forget? I’ve been going out of my mind, and trust me, sweetheart, nobody ignores Noah Kavanagh. Not my teammates, not the press, not you. But here I am, losing my shit, showing up at your door because I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, and I sure as hell can’t focus on the ice without you in my corner.”

His laugh is hollow, broken. He scrubs a hand down his face, carnations crushed slightly in his grip.

“You broke me, Ice Queen. Happy now? I’m standing here like a fucking cliché, begging when I swore I’d never beg. And the worst part? You’ll open the door, and I’ll still let you gut me again if it means I get you back for five goddamn minutes.”

He steps closer, cocky mask cracked but not gone, because it’s him—he can’t not be a smartass, even bleeding like this.

“So, what’s it gonna be? You gonna keep pretending I don’t exist, or are you gonna let me in so I can properly tell you how much I fucking hate that I’m in love with you?”

That’s Noah. Arrogant, sharp, a little reckless—masking a pull he doesn’t want to admit but can’t fight anymore. He’ll cuss, he’ll smirk, he’ll throw the world at her feet in one breath and snarl in the next. He’s never begged, never pleaded, never stayed. But for her? He’s already done all three. And God help him, he’ll keep doing it until she either saves him or ruins him completely.