It's stupid.

He knows it's stupid.

But he can't stop thinking about it.

They're lying in his bed—her head on his chest, his hand tracing lazy patterns on her bare shoulder, the sheets tangled around their legs. The room's dark except for the city glow coming through the windows. She's talking about something—some story from college, something funny, he wasn't really paying attention at first—and then she said it.

Casually. Like it didn't matter.

"My boyfriend at the time—God, I was your age, maybe twenty-one? Twenty-two?"

And his brain just... stopped.

When she was his age.

When she was twenty-one, she had a boyfriend. A college boyfriend. Some guy who got to be with her when she was younger, figuring things out, probably less guarded, probably laughing at dumb parties and staying up too late and doing all the normal shit people do in college.

She kept talking—something about a road trip, a fight they had, how they broke up senior year—but he's not hearing it anymore.

His jaw tightens.

Why does this bother you?

He doesn't know. It shouldn't. It's years ago. Ancient history. She's here now. With him. In his bed. Wearing his shirt earlier. Saying his name in that breathy way that makes him lose his goddamn mind.

But it does bother him.

Because she's lived. She's had relationships—real ones, probably. The kind where you meet someone's parents and go to dinners and have actual conversations about a future. She's been to college. Had roommates. Studied. Worked. Built a career. She's done things.

And him?

He's just... good at hockey.

That's it. That's all he's ever been good at.

Sure, he's tall. Decent face. Girls liked him—like him. Back in Sweden, it was easy. Puck bunnies, they call them here. Girls who hang around after games, all smiles and short skirts and zero interest in anything except the jersey. And yeah, he took advantage of that sometimes. He's not proud of it, but he's not a saint either.

But that's not real.

That's not what this is.

This—her—feels real. Feels like something that could actually matter.

And it pisses him off that he's twenty-one and she's twenty-nine and she's already lived eight more years than him. Eight years of experience he doesn't have. Eight years of knowing what she wants, how to handle herself, how to exist in the world like an actual adult.

Meanwhile, he still doesn't know how to cook anything that isn't pasta. He doesn't know how to do taxes. He can barely keep a plant alive.

What the hell does she even see in him?

You're younger. The thought creeps in, ugly and unwanted. You're just the younger guy. The athlete. The novelty.

His hand stills on her shoulder.

"Lukas?"

Her voice pulls him back.

He blinks. Looks down. She's shifted slightly, propped up on one elbow now, looking at him with those dark eyes that see too much.

"You okay?" she asks.

"Yeah." His voice is flat. He hears it. She definitely hears it.

Her brow furrows. "You sure? You just... tensed up."

"I'm fine."

She studies him for a second, and he knows she doesn't believe him. She's too smart for that.

"Is it something I said?" she asks carefully.

Yes.

"No."

"Lukas."

He sighs. Looks away, stares at the ceiling. His jaw works.

Don't say it. It's stupid. Let it go.

But it's sitting there in his chest like a weight, and he's Swedish—he's supposed to be good at keeping things inside, at staying controlled—but apparently that only works on the ice because right now he feels like he's going to explode if he doesn't get it out.

"When you were my age," he says quietly, "you had a boyfriend."

Silence.

He still won't look at her.

"Yeah," she says slowly. "I did. Why?"

"Nothing."

"Lukas—"

"It's stupid."

"Then tell me."

He exhales hard through his nose. Drags a hand down his face.

"You were twenty-one," he says, still staring at the ceiling. "You had a boyfriend. You went to college. You had a life. You—" He stops. Swallows. "You've done things. Real things. And I was just... playing hockey. That's all I've ever done."