mar .ᐟ

missing most of the time

[bnwrittes]

Second first chance

SUMMARY: After months of careful co-parenting, Nathan MacKinnon realizes that sharing custody of his children will never be enough when he still loves the mother of his kids. With four-year-old twins Cara and Romeo and two-year-old Leo caught between “Mommy’s house” and “Daddy’s house,” Nate begins trying to prove that he can be the partner he failed to be before. But Y/N isn’t ready to forgive easily, even if every soft moment with him makes it harder to keep her distance. As they slowly find their way back to each other, an unexpected pregnancy changes everything, forcing them to decide whether their second chance is strong enough to rebuild their family for good.

WC: 5.6k

WARNINGS: Co-parenting after separation, past relationship issues, emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of loneliness in a relationship, pregnancy, unexpected pregnancy, reconciliation, children dealing with separated parents, mild angst, soft family fluff, second-chance romance, happy ending.

AN: saw this request in the request box but i deleted it by mistake when i was going to answer the request :(

By the time Nathan realized he wanted his family back, you had already learned how to live without waiting for him.

That was the part that drove him the craziest.

Not because you were cruel about it. You weren’t. You were polite, calm, organized in that way mothers became when they had no other option. You answered his texts about the kids. You packed their overnight bags with labeled pajamas and favorite stuffed animals. You sent him reminders about Cara’s ballet shoes, Romeo’s dinosaur water bottle, and Leo’s bedtime routine because, at two years old, Leo had decided that only the blue blanket counted as a blanket and everything else was an insult.

You co-parented beautifully, too beautifully, sometimes.

Because every time Nate showed up at your house and saw the little world you had built without him fully inside it, something heavy twisted in his chest.

“Daddy!” Cara screamed the second you opened the door.

She launched herself at him in a blur of pink leggings, wild curls, and glittery sneakers, and Nate caught her with the kind of ease that used to make you fall in love with him all over again “My girl,” he said, pressing a loud kiss to her cheek. “Did you get taller since yesterday?”

Cara giggled, wrapping both arms around his neck. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes!” Romeo came barreling after her, nearly crashing into Nate’s legs with a toy truck in one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other. “Dad, look! It’s a monster truck but it’s also a fire truck.”

“That’s a serious vehicle,” Nate said, crouching enough to pull his son into his other arm. “Very important. Does it save people or crush cars?”

“Both,” Romeo said proudly “Efficient.”

You leaned against the doorframe, Leo balanced on your hip, his face still soft and sleepy from his nap. He blinked at Nate like he was deciding whether or not to forgive him for not being there when he woke up “Hey, buddy,” Nate said softly, his voice changing completely.

Leo stared, then his bottom lip trembled “Oh, come on,” Nate murmured, stepping closer. “Don’t do that to me.”

Leo immediately reached for him.

You passed him over without a word, and Nate took him like Leo weighed nothing, tucking the toddler against his chest. Leo melted into him, thumb going straight into his mouth, one small hand fisting the front of Nate’s hoodie.

For a second, the five of you stood there in the doorway.

It was painfully familiar.

Painfully easy, Cara on one side of him. Romeo talking too fast about his truck. Leo clinging to him like he’d waited all day for this. Nate looking at you over their heads with that expression you hated because it made your resolve feel thin.

Like he missed you, like he knew exactly what he had lost. “You look tired,” he said quietly.

You raised an eyebrow. “Romantic.” His mouth twitched. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know what you meant.”

“I can take them for dinner,” he offered. “Give you a break.”

“You’re already taking them tonight.”

“I mean now. Early. I can take them early.” You crossed your arms. “You have practice recovery, media, probably something else on your schedule that you forgot about.”

“I’m done for the day.”

“Miracle.”

“Y/N.” The way he said your name made your stomach pull tight. Not annoyed. Not impatient. Just soft. Careful. Like he knew one wrong move would make you step back.

You hated that he was learning, you hated it because it was exactly what you had begged for before everything fell apart “I’m fine,” you said.

Nate looked like he didn’t believe you, but he didn’t push. That was new too. Old Nate would have pushed because he liked fixing things fast. Problems, arguments, feelings. He liked direct lines and clear answers. You had loved that about him until you became the thing he kept trying to solve instead of listen to.

“Okay,” he said.

That one word did more damage than any argument could have, because he accepted your boundary.

And somehow that made you want to cry.

The separation had not happened because either of you stopped loving each other. That would have been easier. Cleaner. Less cruel, it happened because love had gotten buried under exhaustion.

Three kids in four years. His career. Your loneliness. Nights where you felt like a single mother with a partner who technically lived in the same house. Mornings where he came home from road trips and went straight into dad mode, but not partner mode. Arguments whispered in the kitchen because the twins were sleeping down the hall. Resentment packed silently into diaper bags, car seats, and bottles of children’s Tylenol.

Nate had loved you. You knew that, but sometimes being loved by him had felt like being loved from a distance.

And one night, after a fight that wasn’t really about the dishwasher, or his schedule, or your tone, you had finally said, “I can’t keep begging you to notice me.”

He had gone quiet, you had hated that silence, a week later, he moved into an apartment close enough for the kids, far enough for your heart.

Now he was here, months later, looking at you like he’d finally noticed everything and you were not going to make it easy for him,

Not when Cara still asked why Daddy didn’t sleep at home anymore, not when Romeo sometimes packed two of his favorite toys because he thought one house might get lonely without him, not when Leo had started saying “Daddy house” and “Mama house” like it was normal.

You had survived the heartbreak once, you weren’t handing him your heart again just because he had started bringing coffee and looking sorry “Are you coming to Cara’s recital tomorrow?” you asked, changing the subject.

Nate gave you a look. “Of course I am.”

“You said that like I insulted you.”

“Because you did.”

“Nate.”

“I’ll be there,” he said firmly. “Front row if she lets me.”

“She wants flowers.”

“She’ll get flowers.”

“Not roses. She said roses are for adults and princesses need tulips.”

“Pink?”

“Obviously.” His lips curved. “Obviously.” You looked away first, that was how it had been lately. Little exchanges that felt too much like before. Inside jokes neither of you had given permission to survive. Shared looks over the kids’ heads. His hand brushing yours when passing Leo’s sippy cup. His voice softening when he asked if you had eaten. Your body remembering him before your brain could stop it.

And Nate noticed every single time, he didn’t say anything, but he noticed, that was part of the problem. He was patient now.

Patient Nate was dangerous.

The next day, he showed up to Cara’s recital with pink tulips, a tiny bouquet of daisies for Romeo because “he might feel left out,” and a stuffed lion for Leo, who immediately tried to bite its ear.

Cara nearly combusted with joy “Daddy, you came!” Nate crouched in front of her, fixing the little sparkly clip in her hair that had started sliding sideways. “I told you I would.”

“You brought princess flowers.”

“Only the best princess flowers.” Cara beamed and threw herself into his arms, you watched from a few feet away, arms folded, trying not to soften. Trying not to remember the first time he held Cara and Romeo in the hospital, one twin in each arm, his eyes wet and terrified and proud.

He had looked at you then like you had created the whole universe, now he glanced up and caught you watching “Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” His eyes dropped briefly to your dress. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing obvious. Just enough for you to notice “You look beautiful,” he said quietly.

Your heart betrayed you immediately, you gave him a dry look. “I’m at a preschool ballet recital, Nathan.”

“And?”

“And you don’t need to do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.”

“Tell you the truth?” You looked away, cheeks warming. “You’re impossible.”

“I used to be worse.” That made you pause, his voice was still light, but his eyes weren’t. You swallowed. “Yeah. You were.” He nodded once, accepting it. Not defending himself. Not making a joke. Not turning it into a fight “I know,” he said.

It was annoying how much that mattered, after the recital, Cara demanded both her parents in every photo. Not one with Mommy, then one with Daddy. Both. Together. Standing close “Closer,” she ordered, hands on her hips, still wearing her tutu.

“Cara,” you warned “No, Mommy. You’re too far.” Nate’s mouth twitched as he stepped closer, his arm hovering behind your back but not touching. Asking without asking.

You could have stepped away, you didn’t.

His hand settled carefully at the small of your back, warm. Familiar. Devastating, Romeo took the photo on your phone and somehow managed to include half the ceiling, Nate’s shoulder, your face, and Leo trying to escape “Perfect,” Nate said solemnly.

“It’s terrible,” you said, laughing before you could stop yourself.

Nate looked at you then, not the photo. Not the kids, You.

And the laughter died softly in your throat, for a moment, it felt like everything around you blurred. The noisy parents, the kids running in costumes, Leo babbling in Nate’s arms, Romeo yelling that he was a photographer now. Nate’s thumb moved once against your back, so slight you almost convinced yourself you imagined it.

You stepped away “I should get them home,” you said, Nate’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

He walked you to the car anyway, he buckled Leo in because Leo yelled, “Daddy do it!” and then he helped Romeo with his seatbelt because Romeo was “too busy protecting the truck.” Cara asked if Daddy was coming home for dinner.

The silence after that was brutal, you froze beside the open car door, Nate looked at Cara, then at you “Not tonight, sweetheart,” he said gently, Cara’s face fell. “Why?”

You gripped the door, Nate crouched beside her seat. “Because Mommy and Daddy have different houses right now.”

“But I don’t like different houses.”

“I know,” he said, voice rougher. “I know, baby.”

“Can you say sorry?” Your chest hurt, Nate’s expression shifted “I have,” he said quietly. “But sometimes saying sorry doesn’t fix things right away.”

Cara looked confused by that, because she was four and sorry usually fixed stolen crayons and accidental shoves, Nate kissed her forehead. “I’m working on it.”

That answer stayed with you all night, I’m working on it and he was.

You saw it in ways you didn’t want to, he stopped missing calls, even during travel days. He learned Leo’s daycare teacher’s name. He showed up early to pediatric appointments instead of five minutes late with an apology and coffee. He FaceTimed every night when he was on the road, not rushed, not distracted. He let the kids talk nonsense for twenty minutes if they wanted. He asked you things too. Real things.

How are you sleeping?

Did your meeting go okay?

Did you ever call the plumber about the sink?

Do you need me to take them Sunday morning so you can rest?

You kept your answers short, he kept asking anyway, then one Sunday morning, he showed up with breakfast, not for the kids.

For you.

The kids were with him that weekend, which meant you were supposed to have a quiet morning. Instead, at 8:15, your doorbell rang, and when you opened it, Nate stood there in sweatpants with a coffee tray, a brown paper bag, and a sheepish expression.

“No,” you said immediately, he blinked. “You don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“You’re doing that thing where you show up looking unfairly good and holding carbs.”

“I didn’t know carbs were manipulative.”

“With you? Everything is manipulative.” He huffed a laugh. “The kids are with my mom. She wanted them for a few hours.”

“So naturally you came here.”

“I brought your favorite.” You stared at him, he lifted the bag slightly, your stomach growled, Nate’s eyebrows rose “Don’t look proud,” you snapped.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“A little.” You should have shut the door, instead, you stepped aside.

He entered your house like he was trying not to breathe too loudly. Like he remembered that this was no longer his home, even though traces of him were everywhere. The framed picture in the hallway of him holding the twins after their first birthday cake disaster. The Avalanche hoodie you still wore when the kids were sick because it was oversized and soft. The mug he always used, still in the cupboard because throwing it away had felt too dramatic.

He set breakfast on the kitchen island, you took the coffee, he smiled faintly. “Still two sugars?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Remember things.” His face softened. “I remember everything.” your throat tightened, you hated that, you hated him a little for becoming this version of himself now “You can’t just…” You stopped, frustrated with yourself. “You can’t just bring coffee and look at me like that and expect me to forget how lonely I was.”

His smile disappeared “I don’t expect you to forget,” he said, you looked down at the cup in your hands “I was right there, Nate,” you whispered. “I was right there, in the same house, with your kids, loving you, waiting for you to come back to me. And you didn’t. Not really.”

He inhaled slowly, like the words physically hurt “I know.”

“You don’t get to say that and make it better.”

“I know that too.” You looked at him then, his eyes were red-rimmed, though he wasn’t crying. Nate had never been good at crying. Anger came easier to him. Focus. Stubbornness. Silence. But this version of him looked stripped down. Honest in a way that scared you.

“I failed you,” he said. “Not because I didn’t love you. I did. I do. But I thought providing was enough. I thought being there for the kids meant I was being there for you too, and it wasn’t. I left you alone in a life we built together.”

You pressed your lips together, he stepped closer, then stopped himself, hands flexing at his sides “I want you back,” he said. “I want our family back. But not because it’s easier or because I miss waking up here or because the kids want it. I mean, yeah, I miss all of that. I miss it so much it makes me feel sick sometimes. But I want you back because I love you, and I want to love you better than I did.”

Your eyes burned “Nate…”

“I’m not asking you to decide right now.”

“Good.” His mouth twitched sadly. “I know you’re playing hard to get.” You scoffed, even as a tear slipped down your cheek. “I am not playing.”

“No,” he said softly. “You’re protecting yourself.”

That broke something in you, you wiped the tear quickly, annoyed at yourself for giving him proof that he still had access to your heart “I don’t know how to trust this,” you admitted.

“Then don’t yet,” he said. “Make me earn it.”

And you did.

You made him earn every inch, when he asked you to dinner, you said no twice before saying yes to lunch. When he reached for your hand after walking the kids to the park, you let him touch your fingers for three seconds before pulling away. When he flirted with you in your kitchen while the twins painted at the table and Leo smeared applesauce on his shirt, you rolled your eyes and pretended your cheeks didn’t heat.

Nate took all of it.

Sometimes he even seemed amused by it “You know,” he said one evening while washing dishes after family dinner — family dinner, because Cara had insisted and because you had been too tired to argue — “you’re very stubborn.”

You dried a plate beside him. “I learned from the best.”

“Me?”

“Unfortunately.” He smiled. “I like when you insult me. Feels familiar.”

“Glad your standards are low.”

“My standards are extremely high. I’m in love with you.”

You nearly dropped the plate, Nate kept washing dishes like he hadn’t just cracked your chest open in the middle of your kitchen, you stared at him. “You can’t just say that.”

He glanced over. “Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because you’ll like it?”

“No.”

“Because you already do?” You narrowed your eyes. “You’re getting cocky.”

“I’ve been very well-behaved for weeks.”

“That doesn’t earn you cocky.”

“It earns me a little cocky.” You hated that you laughed, his smile softened at the sound, from the living room, Romeo yelled, “Daddy, Leo is eating the couch!”

Nate sighed, drying his hands. “That kid’s diet is concerning.” you followed him into the living room, where Leo was absolutely not eating the couch but was pressing his mouth dramatically against the cushion while Cara screamed that he was being a dog.

Nate scooped Leo up and flipped him over, making him shriek with laughter “No eating furniture, baby ” he said. “We talked about this.”

Leo giggled. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.” Nate gasped. “Are you arguing with me?” Leo grabbed his face with both hands. “Dada.”

And then, because your life was apparently determined to ruin you, Nate looked over Leo’s head at you with such naked softness that your heart gave up pretending.

You loved him, still, again.

Maybe it had never stopped.

A few weeks later, after the kids had fallen asleep during a movie night at Nate’s apartment, you found yourself standing in his kitchen, staring at the fridge while he carried Leo to his crib.

There were drawings taped everywhere, Cara’s lopsided family portrait. Romeo’s monster truck. A handprint turkey Leo had made at daycare, though it looked more like a crime scene.

And in the center, held up by an Avalanche magnet, was a photo.

The terrible one from Cara’s recital, half ceiling. Nate’s shoulder. Your face laughing. Leo blurry. Romeo’s finger in the corner.

It was awful, it was perfect “You kept that?” you asked when Nate came back He looked at the photo. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because you were laughing.” The answer was so simple that it hurt, you turned toward him, he stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching you carefully.

“I miss you,” you said before you could lose your nerve, his whole face changed.

“Yeah?” You nodded, throat tight. “And I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.”

“And scared.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t want to confuse the kids.”

“Me neither.”

“And if we do this, if we even try, you don’t get to halfway come back. You don’t get to make promises because you’re lonely and then forget them when life gets hard again.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he admitted. “But I know I’ll fight harder than I did last time.” You stared at him, he stepped closer, slow enough that you could stop him.

You didn’t “I don’t want a new life,” he said quietly. “I want ours. Messy, loud, exhausting. Cara yelling at everyone like she runs the place. Romeo putting trucks in my shoes. Leo trying to eat furniture. You stealing my hoodies and pretending you hate when I call you beautiful.”

Your eyes filled again “I do hate it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” you whispered. “I don’t.” His hand lifted to your face, thumb brushing your cheek. You closed your eyes for half a second, leaning into him before you could overthink it.

Then he kissed you, it wasn’t desperate. Not at first. It was careful, almost questioning, like he was giving you every chance to change your mind. But you didn’t. You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer, and Nate made a sound against your mouth that felt like relief, like pain, like coming home.

You kissed him until your chest ached, until months of distance collapsed into something warm and familiar.

Until one of you — you weren’t even sure who — whispered, “I missed you,” and the other answered, “I’m here.”

After that, things shifted, not all at once, you were still careful. Nate still lived at his apartment. You still made him prove that he could be consistent, present, patient. But he came over more. Stayed for bedtime. Made breakfast on Saturdays. Took the kids so you could sleep. Took you on dates that sometimes ended with him kissing you against your front door like teenagers, both of you trying not to laugh when the baby monitor crackled from inside.

The twins noticed first, of course, Cara was suspiciously pleased “Daddy kissed Mommy,” she announced one morning over pancakes.

Romeo dropped his fork. “On the mouth?” Nate choked on his coffee, you closed your eyes. “Cara.”

“he did!” Cara insisted. “I saw it!” Romeo turned to Nate, deeply serious. “Are you married again?” Nate cleared his throat, cheeks pink. “That’s not how it works, buddy.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Nate looked at you helplessly, you smiled sweetly. “Go ahead.” He narrowed his eyes at you “Because grown-up stuff takes time,” he said finally, Romeo considered this. “But you love Mommy?”

The room went still, Nate looked at you first then at Romeo “Yeah,” he said softly. “I love Mommy very much.”

Cara smiled into her pancakes like she had orchestrated the entire thing, you had no doubt she had.

The pregnancy test happened on a Tuesday.

You had been feeling strange for days. Tired in a way that sleep didn’t fix. Nauseous at smells that normally didn’t bother you. Emotional enough that you cried because Leo said “Mama pretty” while holding a banana.

At first, you blamed stress.

Then dates started lining up in your head, one night, Nate’s apartment, the kids asleep, a kiss that turned into more, a second chance that apparently had very immediate consequences.

You bought the test after preschool drop-off and stared at it on the bathroom counter like it might change if you glared hard enough, it didn’t.

Pregnant.

You sat on the edge of the bathtub, one hand over your mouth, the other resting instinctively on your stomach “Oh my God,” you whispered.

It wasn’t fear exactly, it wasn’t regret. it was shock, overwhelming, dizzying shock.

You and Nate had three kids. Three beautiful, chaotic, beloved kids. You were only just finding your way back to each other. You hadn’t even fully explained it to the twins yet. Nate hadn’t moved home. You hadn’t decided what forever looked like now.

And now there was another baby, Nate’s baby, your baby, a fourth little person created in the fragile space between heartbreak and healing.

You didn’t tell him right away, not because you wanted to hide it. Not because you doubted him, because you needed one day where the news belonged only to you.

You spent that afternoon watching the kids play in the backyard, your hand drifting to your stomach again and again.

Cara was bossing Romeo around in a game that had unclear rules. Romeo was yelling that his dragon truck couldn’t be grounded. Leo was sitting in the grass trying to put leaves into a bucket with intense concentration.

Four.

You imagined another baby there. Another high chair. Another car seat. Another tiny MacKinnon face with your eyes or Nate’s stubborn chin.

Your chest tightened, when Nate arrived that evening, he knew immediately, that was the worst part, he walked through the door, kissed Leo’s head, let Cara wrap herself around his leg, listened to Romeo explain a complicated truck emergency, and still his eyes found yours.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

“Nothing.” He gave you a look, you exhaled. “Can we talk after bedtime?” His face went pale, you hated that his first instinct was fear.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

Bedtime took forever.

Cara needed water. Romeo needed to know whether sharks slept. Leo cried because Nate wouldn’t let him bring a wooden block into the crib.

By the time the house was quiet, Nate looked like he was preparing to be stabbed, you stood in the kitchen, arms crossed over your chest.

He didn’t sit, neither did you “You’re scaring me,” he said finally “I’m pregnant.” The silence was instant, complete.

Nate blinked, once, twice “What?” you let out a shaky breath. “I’m pregnant.” his eyes dropped to your stomach, then back to your face.

“preg…” you raised an eyebrow through your nerves. “Nathan.” “I know,” he said quickly, flustered in a way Nate almost never was. “I know. I just—”

“You asked.”

“I panicked.” Despite everything, you laughed, the sound broke him out of whatever shock had frozen him. He stepped closer, then stopped “Are you okay?” he asked.

That was the first thing he asked, not how. Not when. Not what now , Are you okay?

Your eyes filled “I think so,” you whispered. “I don’t know. I’m overwhelmed.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“I know this is a lot. We’re barely—”

“We’re not barely anything,” he said, voice firm but gentle. “We’re us. You looked away, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Nate.” He came closer then, carefully taking your hands “I’m scared too,” he admitted. “Not of the baby. Never of the baby. Just… of messing this up. Of not being what you need. But I want this. I want you. I want all of it.”

“You already have three kids who treat your body like playground equipment.” he smiled, eyes wet. “What’s one more?” you let out a watery laugh. “Insane thing to say.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” He dropped to his knees in front of you, your breath caught “Nate…” He placed both hands gently on your waist, looking up at you with an expression so open it made your knees weak “I missed this,” he whispered.

“You missed me being pregnant and threatening to murder you because I couldn’t sleep?”

“Yes.”

“You’re romanticizing.”

“Probably.”

“I threw up for five months with Leo.”

“I remember.”

“You cried when Cara and Romeo were born.”

“I’ll cry again.” Your hand slipped into his hair, and he leaned into your touch immediately “I don’t want this baby to be the reason we get back together,” you whispered.

Nate shook his head. “They’re not.”

“They?” He smiled faintly. “Could be twins again.” you smacked his shoulder. “Don’t you dare put that into the universe.” He laughed, pressing his forehead gently to your stomach. “Sorry. Baby. Singular. Hi, baby.”

Your heart cracked wide open “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered “I know.” he kissed your stomach once, so softly you barely felt it, then he looked up at you “I was already coming back,” he said. “Before this. I need you to know that.”

“I do.”

“I love you.”

“I know.” his eyebrows lifted, you smiled through your tears “And I love you too.”

Nate stood so fast you barely had time to breathe before he was kissing you, his hands framing your face, your tears caught between you. This kiss was different from the first one after the separation. Less cautious. Less afraid. Still tender, but certain now, like both of you had finally stopped standing in the doorway.

A month later, Nate moved home, the kids reacted exactly as expected, Cara screamed, Romeo asked if Daddy’s house was dead now, Leo carried one of Nate’s shoes around for twenty minutes yelling “Dada home!” like a tiny town crier.

And you stood in the bedroom doorway watching Nate unpack his clothes into the dresser you had never fully emptied, he caught you staring “What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“Looking at me like you’re trying not to smile.” You failed immediately, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around you from behind, one hand resting carefully over the small swell that had only recently begun to show “Hi,” he murmured against your neck.

“Hi.”

“You okay?”

“Tired.”

“Hungry?”

“Always.”

“Nauseous?”

“Don’t say the word.” he kissed your shoulder. “Sorry.” from downstairs, Romeo yelled, “LEO PUT TOILET PAPER IN THE DOG WATER!” you and Nate froze “we don’t have a dog,” he said.

“I know.” then both of you ran, life did not become perfect.

It became yours again.

Nate still had road trips. You still had days where exhaustion made you short-tempered. The kids still tested every ounce of patience either of you had. Cara once announced to her preschool teacher that Mommy had a baby in her belly because Daddy “moved back in and kissed her a lot,” which led to the most humiliating pickup of your life. Romeo asked if the baby could be named Truck. Leo remained deeply committed to chaos.

But now, when Nate came home, he came home fully, he found you in the laundry room when you cried over tiny baby clothes you thought you’d packed away forever. He sat on the bathroom floor with you during morning sickness, rubbing your back and letting Leo sit in his lap because the toddler refused to be excluded from any family crisis. He took the twins to practice and came home with a video of Cara telling Cale Makar that she was going to be “a big sister again but already a big sister before,” while Romeo skated in circles yelling that the baby was going to play hockey.

At your first ultrasound, Nate held your hand so tightly you had to whisper, “You’re going to break my fingers.”

“Sorry,” he said, loosening his grip for exactly three seconds before tightening it again, then the heartbeat filled the room. Fast, strong, real.

Nate went completely still, you looked over, his eyes were wet “Don’t,” you whispered, already crying. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re crying.”

“So are you.”

“I’m pregnant. I’m allowed.”

“I’m the father. I’m allowed.” You laughed through your tears, and he kissed your knuckles, on the screen, your fourth baby flickered in grainy black and white.

One baby.

Not twins.

You made sure the technician confirmed it twice, just so Nate could stop looking smug about his earlier comment.

That night, after the kids were asleep, you and Nate curled together on the couch. His hand rested on your stomach, thumb moving slowly over the fabric of your shirt “Do you ever think about it?” he asked quietly.

“About what?”

“How close we got to losing this for good.” you were silent for a moment “Yeah,” you admitted. “I do.” his jaw tightened. “I hate myself for that sometimes.”

You turned in his arms. “I don’t want you to hate yourself.”

“I hurt you.”

“You did,” you said softly. “But you came back differently.” His eyes searched yours. “Am I doing enough?” you touched his face. “Yes.” the relief in his expression was almost painful “I’m still going to mess up sometimes,” he said “So am I.”

“I don’t want to be your regret.”

“You’re not.” He swallowed “You’re my second chance,” you whispered. “But you’re also my first love, Nate. That never changed.”

He kissed you slowly, one hand still protective over the baby, the other cradling the back of your head.

Months later, when your belly was round and impossible to hide, when Cara had decided the baby was definitely a girl because she “needed backup,” when Romeo still campaigned passionately for the name Truck, and when Leo had begun kissing your stomach every night before kissing Nate’s cheek, you realized something.

You had not gone back to what you had before, you had built something better, something more careful, something chosen.

One snowy evening, Nate came home from practice to find all three kids asleep in the living room, tangled in blankets after a movie. Cara’s head rested against Romeo’s shoulder. Romeo had one arm around Leo. Leo was clutching the stuffed lion Nate had bought him months ago.

You stood in the kitchen, one hand on your back, the other on your stomach, Nate came up behind you and kissed your temple “Hey, Mama,” he murmured, you leaned back into him. “Hey.”

He rested his hands on your belly, and the baby kicked almost immediately, nate smiled against your hair. “They know me.”

“They know you’re loud.”

“I’m not loud.” You looked toward the sleeping kids, as if on cue, Leo shifted and mumbled, “Dada home.”

Nate’s face softened completely “Yeah, buddy,” he whispered, even though Leo was asleep. “Dada’s home.”

You turned in his arms, looking up at him, for a long time, neither of you said anything, you didn’t need to.

The house was messy. The kids were sprawled everywhere. There were toys under the couch, dishes in the sink, and a fourth baby growing between you. Your life was loud, imperfect, and nothing like the simple version of love you once thought you’d have.

But Nate was there, really there, his hands on you. His heart open. His family under one roof again and when he bent down to kiss you, slow and warm in the quiet kitchen, you smiled against his mouth, because this time, when Nathan MacKinnon came home, he stayed.

[vendoe]

nsfw tw 𝜗ৎ — How would Ben act if he was your dad’s best friend but lowkey had a huge special interest in you? / English isn’t my first language, I use grammar checkers to translate. Some stuff might sound weird, sorry!

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ Ben struggles to avoid falling into perverted thoughts. You’re his best friend’s daughter; he’s known you since high school, when you were just an invisible little girl not worth paying attention to. However, now that you’re all grown up and have become a woman, he knows perfectly well that you flirt with him constantly. You don’t hide it at all.

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ It’s not as if Ben made the slightest effort to stay away from you. He loves grabbing you by the hips in a “casual” way and pretends not to notice the shiver that runs through you from head to toe. You’re an adult, but you’re still inexperienced. He’s fascinated by seeing the reactions something so simple as the brush of his leg against yours awakens in you when you sit together at the table for dinner. He can make you tremble with such a minimal gesture.

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ He’s the one who offers to take care of you when your father isn’t home. You always scold him with that gesture he finds adorable: “I’m over twenty years old, I can take care of myself.” And he always replies in that deep, gravelly voice: “Long as I’m running shit, we do whatever the fuck I want, doll. We clear on that?” He leans in so close that you feel his warm breath brushing your lips, painting your cheeks a deep red. You don’t know if it’s anger or the effect he has on you, but he gives you a light smack on the lower back and sends you back to your room “like a good girl.”

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ Ben always mocks and complains about the guys you date, for a reason you can never quite understand. He describes them with no filter, jumping straight from “idiot” to “I bet he’s a fucking faggot” without any in-between. When you call him out on it, he always answers with that half-arrogant smirk: “Don’t get mad. You just deserve better than those idiots.”

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ He has an unhealthy obsession with seeing you in skirts. If he had to pick one single thing he loves about young women, it would undoubtedly be skirts. Not in a perverted way… well, maybe a little. Every time he’s with your father and sees you about to head out, he has to hold back his impulses to keep from losing his mind and fucking you right there on the spot. He knows you do it on purpose, because later, when they’re alone, you ask for his opinion and all he can think about is lifting you onto the table and fucking you with the skirt still on.

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ When you get extremely restless and annoyed, he silences you with a single movement: he grabs you by the hips and pulls you onto his lap. He feels how you start getting wet the second you notice the way he squeezes and caresses your thighs with his large hands, while your legs tremble under his touch. “Have you calmed the fuck down yet, you little brat?” he grumbles, before delivering a sharp smack to the inside of your thigh, forcing your legs apart. “Yeah, that’s what I like to see. After teasing me all damn day, flashing that ass under your skirt like a little slut… now you’re all quiet and calm? You just needed someone to put you in your fucking place, didn’t you?”

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ His hands slide under the damp fabric of your underwear until his palm fully covers your pussy, and two fingers threaten to sink into you. It’s not gentle at all. You’re not used to that intrusion, so it hurts at first. Still, he mocks you with a cruel smile and whispers: “C’mon babe, take it like a big girl. Quit being such a fucking crybaby bitch.” Then he pushes them all the way in and curves them with precision. It doesn’t take him long to turn the pain into pleasure. Maybe he has more patience just because it’s you, because, let’s say, he’s not exactly the most patient man in the world.

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ What excites him the most is knowing they could get caught at any moment. He loves sneaking into your room at night just as much as devouring your pussy and having you ride his face while your father sleeps just two rooms away. He demands that you stay quiet, and when you fail, he has the perfect way to shut you up: a sharp slap on your cunt that leaves you breathless. “Shut the fuck up already. You really want Daddy finding out his precious little princess is just a dirty fucking slut? Whimper like that one more time and watch what I do. Don’t fucking test me, doll.”

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ His favorite position? Obviously on all fours, with your face buried in the pillows while he fucks you from behind. The sound of his hips slamming against your ass, his balls smacking your clit, is surely the sound they’d welcome him with in heaven. The mix of pain and pleasure intertwines in your body from the brutal force with which he thrusts into you, but you don’t want him to stop. “Fucking slut,” he growls, before grabbing a handful of your hair and arching your back until it presses against his chest. “You don’t know how to fucking behave, huh? Look what you made me do… Now I gotta wreck that desperate little pussy of yours and fuck you so hard you’ll be dripping my cum for days.”

⠀ ⠀⠀© vendoe ⠀ minors dni ⠀ don’t copy or steal my fanfics

[ae-lena]

i'm assembling a team

[h0n3ybvnny]

I fear knowing me means hating who I am.

[unavailabletozombies]

[b1ngl3zz]

hockey

[etheltempest]

minty being an owala girl is everything to me

[belli5]

A MATTER OF TIMEᵎᵎ WS²

╰ Synopsis You and Macklin were bestfriends at BU, hating on Will with a passion. But him following you and texting you, quickly changed your mind.

tags/contains Will Smith x fem!reader. Fluff, angst, enemies to lovers (kind of), Macklin Celebrini x platonic!reader, takes place at BU/BC, secret relationship, mutual pining, jealousy, kissing, mentions of underage drinking, 2.7k words, requested.

➺ from Sera, to you📨. This felt a bit rushed, so sorry. But plss need some feedback!!

masterlist ᥫ᭡ please reblog this fic if you enjoyed it!

Being friends with Macklin at Boston University meant that you absolutely hated Boston College. Not the school itself, necessarily, the campus was fine, and the parties were decent but more specifically, you hated their hockey team. And more than anyone on that team, you hated Will Smith.

You couldn’t even remember the exact reason the hatred had started. Whatever it was, Macklin remembered and told you, and that was enough for you. He was one of your closest friends so obviously you were on his side.

Anytime there was an upcoming game where BU was playing against BC, you two sat in your dorm room and complained about him. “He’s just a pretty boy..” Macklin grumbled, scrolling through his phone with a scowl. “He literally thinks he can just flash that stupid smile and the refs will hand him the game.”

“Right? God forbid he actually works for it instead of relying on those baby blues and flowy hair.” You agreed. You didn’t even notice you knew that information about Will, but Macklin didn’t think much of it so neither did you.

Macklin laughed. “Exactly. I don’t know, he just thinks he’s God’s gift to the sport..”

So when the notification lit up your phone _willsmith2 started following you. you nearly dropped it.

You were in the dining hall between classes, when the little heart icon appeared. Why the hell was he following you?

You didn’t follow him back right away. You even considered showing Macklin the notification just to laugh about it, but something stopped you. Instead, you closed instagram and went about your day like it hadn’t happened.

That resolve lasted until you were back in your dorm room, lights dimmed, your roommate already asleep. It was a little after 11pm when boredom and curiosity finally won. Your thumb hovered over the button for a long second before you clicked Follow Back. The blue button turned gray instantly.

Not even a full minute later, your phone buzzed with a new message.

Will Hey👀

You stared at the message, this was a terrible idea. If Macklin ever found out you two were even following each other after all the shit talking.. you didn’t want to think about it.

Before you could overthink it more, your fingers moved on their own.

You Hi?

Will Are you this petty without Macklin around too?

Your eyebrows shot up. The audacity.

You How do you know I’m not with Macklin right now?

Will It’s 11pm

You And?

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You quickly pressed your lips together, glancing at your sleeping roommate.

Will And Macklin doesn’t strike me as the type to let his attack dog stay up late texting me

You I’m not his attack dog but ok

Will Isn’t that why you don’t like me?

You bit your lip, equal parts annoyed and.. entertained? You knew you were wrong, but why did you like this..?

You I never said I didn’t like you

Will Is that right?

By the time you finally put your phone down, it was almost 1am. A heavy wave of guilt settled in your chest. You should tell Macklin. You knew you should. But what would you even say? “Hey, so Will followed me and now we’re texting, but don’t worry, I still hate him.. mostly”?

The next time Macklin tried bringing up Will, you forced a smirk and said something that wouldn’t give anything away, but now the words just tasted a little sour. You didn’t know if you could just go on talking about Will, when you have been in his dms for the past couple of days. So you changed the subject quickly.

Will knew one thing you didn’t like: when he brought up Macklin.

After two weeks of texting that had somehow become the highlight of your days, he finally worked up the courage. The message came through while you were halfway through a lecture: Want to get dinner this weekend?

You’d stared at your phone before typing back a simple Yes.

He was more surprised than he let on. Part of him had been convinced you’d say no because of Macklin. You didn’t tell many people. Just one of your close girlfriends, who immediately raised an eyebrow and said, “Macklin isn’t going to like that.” You rolled your eyes and shrugged it off. One day he’d have to accept it, whether it was Will or anyone else.

Will picked a nice restaurant well outside the usual BU-BC radius for obvious reasons. He insisted on paying for everything despite your protests. He was funny, quick witted, and genuinely curious about your life outside of university. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t have fun.

His baby blues really were distracting up close, and his smile was charming too. You wouldn’t be surprised if hockey didn’t work out and he became a model instead.

After dinner, he drove you to the beach to watch the sunset. You two sat on his jacket spread across the sand, the waves gently rolling in. You told him about your major, the classes you were taking, and how much you’d learned so far. “Me and Macklin are studying the same thing.” You said, hugging your knees. “I’m scared if he gets drafted he’ll leave and I’ll be stuck here alone.”

Will was quiet for a moment, staring out at the pink sky. He couldn’t lie, he was starting to really like you so hearing you say this wasn’t nice. He realised how close you two were and what if you liked Macklin? “You can always visit him if he gets drafted.” he offered.

“Yeah, I hope so.” You glanced over at him. “I honestly don’t even understand why you two don’t like each other. You’re so much alike. You’d probably be great friends.”

Will’s jaw tightened slightly. Is that why you’re hanging out with me? he thought. Because I remind you of him?

He shrugged. “Are you two dating?”

You burst out laughing, the sound bright and unrestrained. You held your stomach, trying to calm down as tears pricked the corners of your eyes. Will raised an eyebrow. “Alright, it’s not that funny..” he muttered, but his lips were twitching.

You finally caught your breath, still giggling. “Macklin and I? He’s like a brother to me. You think I’d be here right now if we were dating?”

“You’re right.” he conceded, a small smile breaking through. “Does he know you’re with me right now?”

Your smile faded. “Why do you keep asking about Macklin? I’m not going to hang out with you if you keep bringing him up.”

Will smirked, leaning back on his hands in the sand. “Is there a next time?”

You looked at him, the sunset casting a warm glow across his face. You nodded. “Thought you’d want there to be a next time?”

The next hangout escalated faster than you expected. You found yourself in Will’s dorm room at his campus, straddling his lap as the two of you made out like you couldn’t get enough of each other.

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer against his body. The kiss was heated and a little desperate.

When he finally dropped you off near your BU dorm later that night, the car idled at the curb. You leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the lips, smiling softly.

Back in your room, you quickly texted Macklin: Hey, I’m finally back. You can come over now

A few minutes later he strolled in, flopping down on your bed like he owned the place. “Where were you?” he asked, scrolling through his own phone.

“I was hanging out with a friend,” you said casually, turning to your desk and pulling out your notebook.

“Can you pleaseeee get me some snacks? I’m starving.” Macklin changed the subject.

You groaned dramatically. “Mack, you’re so annoying-”

“Okay fine, I’ll get it..” he cut in, starting to stand.

“It’s fine, I’ll get it.” you said quickly, waving him off. You left the room, leaving your phone on the bed where you’d been sitting.

At first, Macklin didn’t think anything of it. But when your phone buzzed once, then again shortly after, curiosity got the better of him. He glanced at the door, then picked it up. The screen lit up with two new messages from “Will”

Will: the hangout was so nice this time

Will: maybe next time you should come over again

Macklin’s eyebrows furrowed. Will? No. There was no way. This couldn’t be the Will he was thinking of, right? Were you seriously hanging out with THE Will? As in Will Smith? The same guy you both had spent months complaining about? And right after being with him, you came back and acted like nothing happened?

He stared at the messages, mind racing with questions. How long had this been going on? Did you actually like him? After all you said, you were in his dorm?

The sound of your footsteps coming back down the hall snapped him out of it. Macklin quickly locked your phone and set it back exactly where it was, trying to keep his face neutral even as betrayal and confusion churned in his chest.

You and Macklin did your project together, you were halfway through outlining the next section when Macklin suddenly spoke. “Someone also texted you while you were getting snacks.” He said, pointing at your phone.

“Oh, thanks.” You picked it up and unlocked it. Will’s messages glowed on the screen, a smile tugged at your lips. You closed the app and set the phone face down, figuring you’d just answer later.

“You aren’t going to answer?” Macklin asked, his tone deceptively casual. “I think it was important.”

“Nah, I’ll just answer later.” You replied lightly. “It can wait.”

Macklin let out a short, humorless chuckle. “Is that why you were hanging out with Will?”

Your stomach dropped. You cursed yourself internally, he knew. You forced your expression to stay neutral. “Yeah, but I’ll just answer later.”

“It’s not the Will I’m thinking of, right?”

You shrugged, pretending to focus on the project. “Nah.”

“But it’s the only Will we both know.” He pressed.

“Well, I can know other Wills without you knowing..” you shot back, tapping randomly on your keyboard. “There are plenty of people named Will in the world.”

“Yeah, right.” Macklin’s annoyance was clear now. He closed his laptop with more force than necessary.

“Macklin, what is your problem?” you asked, frustration creeping into your tone.

“You know what my problem is.” He snapped, standing up from your bed.

You crossed your arms. “I really don’t.”

He ran a hand through his hair, the betrayal in his eyes hurt more than you expected. “Maybe we should finish this another day..” he muttered, already grabbing his stuff.

You wanted to stop him to explain everything, because he deserved to know the truth. You wanted to tell him it wasn’t that simple, that Will wasn’t the villain you both had painted him as. But the words stuck in your throat. Macklin gave you one last disappointed look before heading toward the door, leaving you alone.

Two days went by without you and Macklin talking. You understood where he was coming from but you also wanted him to understand that it wasn’t that simple. You wanted him to see the side of Will you’d gotten to know.

You’d talked to Will about it the night before. “How would you feel if I just told Macklin about us?” you asked. You didn’t want to lose your best friend, but you also didn’t want to lose whatever this was with Will.

“I’m not gonna lie, I’m not thrilled. But if it’s that important to you, then do it. Just, make sure he doesn’t kill me, yeah?”

On saturday afternoon, Macklin finally texted you: I’m sorry I overreacted. And I’m sorry I thought you were lying.

You replied quickly: It’s fine but I think we need to talk.

You met up at the small park near campus, sitting on a bench under the trees. The air felt thick with awkwardness as you started. “First off, I’m sorry I didn’t explain everything that night when I should’ve.”

Macklin nodded. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have just assumed it was Will Smith you were talking to. And you’re right, there are plenty of Wills in the world.”

You cut him off gently. “No.. you were right. It is the Will you’re thinking of. But I need you to-”

“What?” Macklin’s eyes widened.

“Macklin, it’s not a big deal. You two are-”

“It’s a big deal to me.” he interrupted. “Does that matter to you? No!”

“It does matter.” you said quickly. “But he’s literally not the person you think he is. And you two might even get drafted to the same team one day, so you should warm up to each other. I just want you to get to know him first and then make your own judgment.”

Macklin stared at you. “How do you even know where we both might get drafted?”

“I’m not stupid..” you replied. “And he told me that.”

“Whatever.” Macklin rubbed his face, clearly frustrated. “Are you two dating?”

“No, we’re not dating.” you said honestly. “At least not yet.”

He didn’t want to accept that his best friend was talking to Will of all people. But looking at you now, he could tell you actually liked him. And as much as it annoyed him, he knew he couldn’t talk you out of it. Once your mind was made up, it was made up.

He let out a long sigh. “This is weird as hell.”

“I know.” You said softly. “But can you at least try? For me?”

About two weeks later, someone from BC was throwing a party and a few people from BU were invited too. Will had asked if you wanted to go, and you saw it as the perfect opportunity to finally introduce him to Macklin properly. You’d texted Macklin the address and told him you’d meet him there.

When you arrived, you met up with Will near the entrance. You felt a little shy as he introduced you to a couple of his teammates. They were friendly, handing you a drink before you and Will found a spot on the couch to talk.

Macklin texted that he’d be there in a few minutes. You quickly sent him a picture of where you were sitting. Will smiled at you, reaching over to gently push a strand of hair off your shoulder, his fingers lingering for a second.

Suddenly, a familiar voice cut through the noise. You looked up to see Macklin standing right in front of you. You stood up quickly, and Will followed.“Macklin, this is Will,” you said, gesturing between them. “Will, this is Macklin.”

They shook hands. It was stiff and awkward at first, both of them clearly sizing each other up. But after a few minutes of small talk, the conversation started to flow more naturally. To your relief, they actually seemed to be getting along.

When Will excused himself to go to the bathroom, leaving you and Macklin alone, you turned to him excitedly. “So? What do you think?”

Macklin shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. “I mean.. he’s fine, I guess.”

“See? I told you!” You grinned, unable to hide your excitement. “You’ll spend more days together and you’ll be like best friends!”

“Okay, hold on,” Macklin said, raising an eyebrow. “Who said I’ll be hanging out with him?”

You laughed, lightly shoving his shoulder. “Come on, you know what I mean. It wasn’t that bad, right?”

Like Will had mentioned, he and Macklin ended up getting drafted to the same team. It was bittersweet. They both moved away for the new chapter in their careers while you stayed behind at BU, finishing your degree. You and Will officially became girlfriend and boyfriend, and Macklin was actually happy for the two of you. And you also visited them whenever you could.

It had only been a couple of months when they bit started sending you pictures together, whether it was after practice, in their shared apartment or just an silly picture of them hanging out. And you were really grateful they got along like you’d hoped they would.

You quickly typed out a group text to both of them answering to the picture: I’m jealous rn of you both.

Will replied almost immediately with a laughing emoji, while Macklin typed back an get used to it.

TAGLIST: @alliwritespuck @bouncedatahhh @cheerymints @ill-uminati7 @behindthescreenobsessed @lemsies25 @definitelynotdomanique @lcvlyhughesy @sh1ft1ng1234 @willsmiths2 @iknowtonystark @mintbrini98 @kazansky-slxt @val413 @wherethezoes-at @macka @beckieepicaz00 @carlottawllms @blankenbirks @mcelebrini @probably--possessed @celebrinigf @postgamevibes @icetimedreamer @misslivinglegend @alexxavicry @sohhh09 @goaldengay @umm-ok-fine @idkwhatthisis2009 @luckylzclerc @miyasfatass @downtownjulie @feellikeimphoebe @lilfreakjez @astrolatrism @smittylovr @asteria33 @cccassiopeia @mrsbedard @valintheafterlight @itzlexa @hyunjinvoid @sxphmarny @hockeyromanceclub @sony @sjujus @icedupbaby @moonlitcozies @kitnootkat @aemreads7

Join the taglist here!!

Again, feedback would be appreciated for this fic because I didn’t know how I felt about it 😭

[bnwrittes]

The Night He Didn’t Come

SUMMARY: Connor loves you. You know he does. But somewhere between road trips, late practices, interviews, recovery days, and the endless demands of hockey, loving you becomes something he assumes you’ll always understand instead of something he actively shows. On your birthday, when he promises he’ll be there and doesn’t show, you finally realize the worst part isn’t that he forgot you. It’s that you expected him to.

WC: 6.6K

WARNINGS: Angst, emotional neglect, missed birthday, breakup, groveling, hurt/comfort, no cheating, eventual reconciliation, Connor realizing he messed up badly.

For years, you had been proud of being easy to love.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

You were understanding. Patient. Flexible. The kind of girlfriend who never made a scene when plans changed last minute, who smiled through phone calls that started with I’m so sorry, baby, who learned the difference between a optional skate and mandatory practice before most people even learned the names of Connor’s teammates.

You knew what his life demanded from him.

You knew hockey wasn’t just a job for Connor Bedard. It was the thing he had chased since he was old enough to hold a stick. It was early mornings, aching muscles, ice baths, media scrums, flights at ungodly hours, trainers, coaches, expectations, pressure. It was the sound of an entire city placing its hope on his back before he was even old enough to rent a car.

And you loved him for it.

You loved his dedication. You loved the boyish focus that came over his face when he watched game tape on the couch, one arm wrapped around you like holding you was muscle memory. You loved the way he lit up after a win and the quiet, hollow way he folded into himself after a bad game. You loved that hockey was part of him.

You just hadn’t realized, until much too late, that you had started becoming the part he could afford to forget.

At first, it was little things, dinner reservations canceled because practice ran long, movie nights delayed because he wanted to get extra shots in, your calls going unanswered until close to midnight because his phone was buried somewhere in his stall, his mind still stuck on a bad shift from the second period.

He always apologized.

That was the thing.

Connor was never cruel. Never dismissive on purpose. Never the kind of boyfriend who snapped at you for wanting his attention or made you feel stupid for missing him. When he remembered, he loved you with this almost startling softness. He brought you coffee without asking. He memorized your comfort shows. He kept your favorite blanket on his couch even though it didn’t match anything in his apartment. He kissed the top of your head when he passed behind you in the kitchen, like his body naturally looked for yours.

So you forgave him, again and again and again

“It’s okay,” you would say, even when it wasn’t “I understand,” you would promise, even when the disappointment sat heavy in your chest “After the season, things will be calmer,” you told yourself.

Then the season ended, and training started, then summer came, but there were sponsorship shoots and charity events and skills work and development camps.

Then the new season began, and everything repeated, you became good at making yourself smaller inside his life, you stopped asking for Saturday mornings because those were for recovery, you stopped suggesting dinners on game days because he liked to keep a routine.

You stopped calling when he was on the road unless he called first, you stopped telling him when you were upset because he always looked so tired, and there was something guilt-inducing about adding your hurt to the weight already on his shoulders.

The worst part was that Connor never noticed the difference, he still thought you were happy because you were still kind, he still thought you were fine because you were still there.

Your birthday fell on a Friday that year.

Connor had known about it for weeks. Months, technically, since your birthday had been marked in his phone calendar since the first year you dated. He had asked you what you wanted to do in that sweet, distracted way of his, chin resting on your stomach while you played with his hair on the couch “Nothing big,” you had said. “Just dinner. Maybe cake with everyone after.”

He had looked up immediately. “Everyone?”

You smiled. “My friends. My parents. A couple of your teammates if they’re free. Nothing crazy.”

“I’ll be there,” he said, you raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” His face softened like the question hurt him. “Of course I’m sure. It’s your birthday.”

And because you were still trying, because some tired, hopeful part of you still wanted to believe that all you had to do was wait for the right moment and Connor would come back to you fully, you believed him.

You bought a new dress.

Not an expensive one. Not flashy. Just something soft and pretty that made you feel like yourself when you tried it on in the mirror. You made a reservation at a restaurant you loved, the kind Connor always said he wanted to take you to but never found time for. Your friends offered to help decorate your apartment afterward for cake and drinks, and your mother called twice to ask whether Connor needed her to save him a parking spot.

“He’ll be there,” you said, you said it so easily the first time, the second time, when your best friend Maya glanced at Connor’s empty chair fifteen minutes after the reservation started, you said it with a laugh.

“Practice probably ran a little late.”

At thirty minutes, you checked your phone under the table, No message, at forty-five, your dad leaned toward you and asked quietly, “Everything okay, honey?”

You smiled so fast your cheeks hurt “Yeah. He’ll be here.” at an hour, the waiter asked if you wanted to wait a little longer before ordering dessert.

Your friends looked at you, your mother looked down at her lap, Maya looked angry enough to break something, you looked at Connor’s empty chair and felt something inside you go terribly still.

Because you weren’t surprised.

That was the moment, not the missed dinner, not the unanswered texts, not the fact that your birthday candles were waiting at your apartment and your boyfriend was nowhere to be found.

It was the quiet, devastating realization that some part of you had expected this.

Some part of you had known, from the second you put on the dress, from the moment you fixed your hair in the mirror, from the second you told everyone he would come, that there was always a chance Connor would forget to choose you.

And you hated how unsurprised you were, you hated that your heart didn’t even break loudly anymore, it just sank, like it was tired.

When dinner ended, everyone tried too hard to be cheerful, your friends sang loudly. Your dad hugged you longer than usual. Your mom kissed your forehead and whispered, “You deserve to feel special today.”

You almost cried then.

But you didn’t.

You waited until everyone left your apartment after cake. Waited until Maya lingered by the door, holding her coat in her arms, staring at you like she knew you were one soft word away from falling apart “Come stay with me tonight,” she said.

You shook your head. “I need to talk to him.” Maya’s mouth tightened. “He doesn’t deserve a conversation tonight.”

“Maybe not,” you whispered. “But I deserve one.”

She hugged you hard before she left, the apartment was quiet afterward, too quiet.

There were balloons tied to the backs of chairs. Half a cake sitting on the counter. A bottle of champagne unopened because you hadn’t been able to pretend that much. Gifts stacked neatly near the couch. Your shoes abandoned by the door after your feet started aching.

You sat on the sofa in your birthday dress and stared at the clock. 23:47. your birthday was almost over.

Connor arrived at 00:18.

You heard his key in the lock first, then the door opened slowly, carefully, like he already knew.

He stepped inside with his hair still damp from a shower, a black hoodie thrown over his shoulders, and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Not gas station flowers. Not something thoughtless. They were your favorites. The exact ones. The kind you had once pointed out at a market two years ago, surprised he had remembered.

His face crumpled when he saw you sitting there “Baby.”

You didn’t move, Connor shut the door behind him, the flowers trembling slightly in his hand “I’m so sorry,” he said immediately. “I’m so, so sorry. Practice ran late, and then media wanted extra stuff, and my phone died, and I swear I thought I could still make it. I was going to call you from someone else’s phone, but then—”

“Don’t.”

The word came out soft, that made it worse, Connor stopped like you had shouted, you looked at him then. Really looked at him.

He looked exhausted. Guilty. Panicked. Younger than he usually did under the harsh kitchen light. His eyes flicked around the apartment, taking in the decorations, the cake, the gifts, the proof of everything he had missed “I messed up,” he said. “I know I did. I’ll make it up to you. Tomorrow. Anything you want. We can go away on the next break. I’ll take you wherever you want. I’ll—”

“This isn’t about my birthday.”

His brows pulled together. “What?”

You swallowed, your throat hurt “This isn’t about tonight. Not really.”

Connor took one step closer. “Then what is it about?”

You let out a shaky breath and finally said the thing you had been avoiding for months “I don’t feel chosen by you anymore.”

The flowers lowered slightly in his hand, the apartment felt colder “I choose you,” he said quickly. “Of course I choose you. I love you.”

“I know you love me.” Connor looked thrown by that, as if he had expected the fight to be about whether he loved you or not, you wished it were that simple.

“You love me,” you continued, voice trembling. “But you don’t show up for me. And I have spent so long telling myself that those are the same thing because I didn’t want to be unfair to you.”

His face went pale “I know hockey matters,” you said. “I know your career matters. I’ve never asked you to choose between me and the thing you’ve worked your whole life for. I would never do that to you.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“But somewhere along the way, you started acting like because I understood, I didn’t need anything. Like because I’m patient, I don’t get hurt. Like because I’m always here, you don’t have to make sure I still feel loved.”

Connor’s eyes filled, he shook his head once, almost violently. “No. No, that’s not what I think.”

“But it’s how you act.” That silenced him, you looked down at your hands because looking at him made it harder.

“I kept waiting for it to get better. After the season. After the road trip. After the next game. After the next stressful week. But there’s always something next, Con. There’s always going to be hockey. There’s always going to be pressure. There’s always going to be someone who needs you.”

You forced yourself to look at him “And I can’t keep being the person who gets whatever is left.”

His lips parted, but nothing came out, the flowers slipped lower until they hung uselessly at his side “I’m sorry,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

You nodded, tears finally spilling over “That’s the problem.”

Connor flinched, you stood slowly. Your legs felt unsteady, but your voice stayed calm, and somehow that made his panic worse “I think we need to end this.”

“No.”

It came out instantly, he dropped the flowers on the table and crossed the room so quickly you stepped back on instinct. He noticed and stopped, hands lifting slightly like he wanted to reach for you but knew he had lost the right “No,” he said again, quieter. “Please don’t say that.”

“I’m tired, Connor.”

“I can fix it.”

“You always say that.”

“I mean it this time.”

Your laugh was tiny and broken. “I think you meant it every time.”

That hurt him, you saw it land, Connor dragged a hand through his hair, breathing hard, eyes shining. “Tell me what to do.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Tell me and I’ll do it.”

“I have been telling you,” you whispered. “For months. In every way I knew how without begging you to love me properly.”

His expression collapsed.

“I don’t want to beg,” you said. “I don’t want to compete with your career. I don’t want to spend every important day wondering if you’ll remember that I matter too.”

“You do matter.”

“But I don’t feel like I do.”

Connor’s tears finally spilled over, he wiped at them quickly, almost angrily, like he didn’t have the right to cry when he was the reason you were breaking.

You walked toward the bedroom, he followed one step behind, voice cracking “What are you doing?”

“Packing a bag.”

“No, baby, please. Please don’t leave tonight. We can talk. We’ll talk all night. I’ll call the guys, I’ll call Coach, I’ll—”

You turned around “Connor.”

He froze, the way you said his name destroyed him. Not Con. Not baby. Not the soft, familiar version of him that lived only in your mouth.

Connor.

“I’m going to Maya’s,” you said. “I need space.” He looked like he wanted to fall to his knees, maybe he almost did.

“Can I call you?” You wiped your cheeks. “Not tonight.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.”

His jaw trembled, you packed in silence while he stood in the doorway, helpless and shattered, watching you fold pieces of your life into a bag.

When you walked past him, he whispered, “I’m sorry I made you feel alone.”

You stopped for half a second, then you kept walking Connor didn’t try to stop you, but when the door closed behind you, you heard the broken sound he made through the wood.

And that almost made you turn back, almost.

But not enough.

The first night without you, Connor didn’t sleep, he sat on the floor of the apartment surrounded by birthday decorations and stared at the bouquet he had been too late to give you.

He kept replaying your words.

I don’t feel chosen by you anymore.

At first, his mind tried to defend him, practice had run late, his phone really had died, media had been unavoidable, he hadn’t meant to miss dinner.

He loved you.

He loved you so much that he had imagined every version of his future with you in it. He had saved money for a house one day and pictured where your shoes would go by the door. He had thought about rings more than once, quietly, nervously, scrolling through photos and then closing the browser because he was terrified he’d pick the wrong one. He had imagined kids with your eyes. He had imagined summers away from the city, mornings where hockey wasn’t screaming for his attention, a future where everything was calmer and he could finally give you all the time you deserved.

But then your voice cut through every excuse.

Love isn’t the same as showing up.

By three in the morning, Connor understood the ugliest part, he had been loving you in the future, someday, he would buy you the house.

Someday, he would propose, someday, when the schedule got easier, he would take you on the trips he had promised, someday, when the pressure settled, he would be more present.

Someday.

Someday.

Someday.

And while he was busy building a future in his head, he had left you alone in the present, the next morning, he texted you once.

Not a paragraph, not a desperate flood.

Just:

I know you asked for space. I’m going to respect that. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m here when you’re ready.

Then he put his phone down and cried in the shower where no one could hear him, at practice, everyone knew.

Connor wasn’t the kind of person who could hide devastation well. He was quiet on normal days, but this was different. His face was hollow. His movements were sharp and mechanical. He missed a pass he could have made blindfolded and slammed his stick against the boards hard enough that Nick Foligno skated over and stared at him “What’s going on?”

Connor shook his head. “Nothing.” Nick’s expression didn’t change, Connor lasted three seconds.

“She left.”

Nick didn’t ask who, he already knew.

After practice, Connor sat in his stall with his gear half-off and told him everything, not dramatically. Not with excuses. Just the truth, stripped raw “I missed her birthday,” Connor said, voice low. “But it wasn’t just that. I’ve been missing everything.”

Nick leaned forward, elbows on his knees “You love her?”

Connor looked up, offended by the simplicity of the question “More than anything.”

“Then stop thinking love is something she’s supposed to just know.”

Connor looked down, Nick’s voice gentled. “You’re young, Bedsy. And you’ve had hockey demanding everything from you since you were a kid. But relationships don’t survive on intention. You don’t get credit for the version of yourself you planned to be later.”

Connor shut his eyes “She said she got whatever was left.”

Nick sighed “Then don’t try to win her back with big gestures. That’s not what she asked for.”

Connor swallowed hard. “What do I do?”

“You become someone who doesn’t make her ask twice.”

So Connor tried, at first, you didn’t answer him, he didn’t blame you, for one full week, he sent one message a day. Not begging. Not pressuring. Not asking when you were coming home.

Just small, accountable things.

I spoke to the team about adjusting my post-practice media when possible. I should’ve done that before.

I started using the shared calendar again. Not because it fixes anything, but because forgetting things that matter to you can’t happen anymore.

I passed the bakery you like today. I didn’t stop because I know showing up uninvited isn’t respecting your space. But I thought of you.

I’m sorry for all the nights I made you feel like you were waiting for me to remember you.

You read them, you didn’t respond, Maya hated him on principle for a while “He sounds miserable,” she said one night, sitting cross-legged beside you on her couch while you stared at your phone.

“He is.”

“Good.” You gave her a look, she shrugged. “What? I’m on your side.”

“I know.”

“But?”

“But I miss him.” Maya softened, of course you did.

Missing Connor was the worst part. The apartment smelled like him when you went back to collect more clothes. Your favorite mug was still in his cabinet. The blanket on his couch still held the shape of every night you had curled into him after games. His hoodie sat in your overnight bag, packed by accident, and you cried into it so hard one night that Maya quietly took it and washed it because she couldn’t stand seeing you break over cotton.

You missed him but missing him didn’t erase the ache of being forgotten.

Two weeks after you left, Connor called your dad, your father told you because he had never lied to you, not even when you were little and asked if the family dog was going to die “He asked if he could come by,” your dad said carefully.

You stiffened. “What?”

“Not to see you. To talk to me and your mom.”

Your stomach twisted “What did he want?”

Your dad paused “To apologize.”

You almost laughed because it hurt too much “He apologized to you?”

“And your mother.”

“For what?”

“For making us watch you make excuses for him.” you went quiet, your dad’s voice softened “He cried, honey.”

You closed your eyes.

“I’m not telling you that to make you feel bad,” he said. “I’m telling you because I think he finally understands that love doesn’t just hurt the two people in it when one of them stops showing up.”

Your mother told you later that Connor had stood in their living room with shaking hands and red eyes, looking nothing like the confident young man the world praised every night “He didn’t ask us to convince you,” she said. “He didn’t ask what he should say to get you back. He just said he was sorry for making your birthday a night you had to survive.”

That was the first crack in your resolve, not because it fixed anything, but because Connor had gone to the people who loved you and taken responsibility without making himself the victim.

The second crack came three days later, you had a terrible day at work.

The kind of day where nothing catastrophic happened but every small thing scraped against your already bruised heart. By the time you reached Maya’s apartment, you were exhausted and cold and trying very hard not to cry in the elevator.

There was a paper bag waiting outside the door, your favorite soup with your favorite bread next to a small container of the chocolate mousse from the restaurant Connor had missed.

No note asking you to call him, no dramatic apology, just one sticky note.

You forget to eat when you’re sad. No pressure. Just dinner.

You stood in the hallway and cried, Maya opened the door, saw the bag, and sighed “I still hate him,” she muttered.

But she took the soup inside and warmed it up for you, Connor kept showing up in careful ways, not loud ones.

Not ones designed to be seen.

When your car needed an oil change, he didn’t offer to take it in like he normally would have. Instead, he texted you the number of the place you trusted and said he had already checked they had an appointment open Saturday, but he wouldn’t book it unless you wanted him to.

When your younger cousin had a school play, Connor sent a message the morning of.

Good luck to Lily tonight. I know she was nervous about her solo.

You stared at that one for a long time, you had told him about Lily’s play weeks before your birthday back when you thought he wasn’t listening.

He had been listening, he just hadn’t acted like it mattered, that realization hurt in a different way because it meant the love had been there.

It meant the problem had never been absence of feeling, it had been absence of effort, a month after the breakup, you finally agreed to meet him.

Not at his apartment.

Not at yours.

A coffee shop in the middle of the city, during the afternoon, when there was no risk of the conversation getting blurred by nostalgia and soft lighting.

Connor was already there when you arrived, he stood too quickly, nearly knocking his knee against the table “Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

He looked thinner. Tired. Still beautiful in the unfair way that made your chest hurt. His hair was hidden under a beanie, his hoodie plain, his eyes fixed on you like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked.

There was a cup waiting across from him, your order, he noticed you looking “I asked before ordering,” he said quickly. “They said they could remake it if you came later and it got cold. I didn’t want to assume.”

That almost undid you, you sat down, for a moment, neither of you spoke, then Connor said, “Thank you for coming.”

You nodded.

He took a breath. His hands were wrapped around his cup, knuckles pale “I wrote a whole speech,” he admitted. “Then I realized it sounded like I was trying to talk my way out of something I acted my way into.”

Your throat tightened “So I’m not going to do that,” he said. “I’m just going to tell you the truth.”

You looked at him, Connor’s eyes were wet, but steady “I thought loving you meant building something for us later. I kept telling myself the hard parts were temporary. That if I worked hard enough now, I could give you everything someday. A house. Stability. A life where you never had to worry. And I convinced myself that made the missed things okay because I was doing it for our future.”

He swallowed “But you were alone in the present. And I didn’t see it because seeing it would’ve meant admitting I was failing you.”

Your eyes burned.

“I don’t want to be the guy who only knows how to love you when it’s convenient,” he continued. “And I don’t want to be the guy who makes you grateful for crumbs because he’s busy.”

You looked down at your coffee, Connor’s voice cracked “I hate that I became that guy anyway.” A tear slipped down your cheek, he didn’t reach for you, that mattered.

“I’m not asking you to come back today,” he said. “I want you to. God, I want you to. But I know I broke something, and I know me being sorry doesn’t put it back the way it was.”

You wiped your cheek.

“What are you asking for?”

“A chance to earn your trust again.” He inhaled shakily. “Slowly. However you want. And if the answer is no, I’ll respect it. I’ll hate it, but I’ll respect it.”

You studied him for a long moment “I don’t know how to trust you anymore,” you whispered.

Connor nodded, tears falling freely now “I know.”

“I don’t want to be someone you schedule because you’re scared of losing me.”

“You’re not.”

“But how do I know that?”

His face twisted with pain “You don’t,” he admitted. “Not yet.” that honesty hurt more than a promise would have, he looked down at the table “I started talking to someone,” he said quietly.

Your brows pulled together. “Like a therapist?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “A sports psychologist, but also just… about life. About how I treat everything like if I work harder, I can fix it. But I can’t outwork hurting you. I have to actually change.”

You stared at him.

“I should’ve done it before,” he said. “I know that.”

You both sat there in the quiet noise of the coffee shop, surrounded by people living ordinary lives while yours felt split open on the table between you.

Finally, you said, “I can’t come home yet.”

Connor nodded immediately “Okay.”

“And I’m not promising we’ll get back together.”

His breath hitched, but he nodded again “Okay.”

“But…” You looked at him, heart pounding. “We can talk. Sometimes" for the first time in weeks, something like hope moved across his face, not joy, he knew better than to look joyful over the bare minimum, just hope.

“I can do sometimes,” he whispered, so that was where you began, soometimes.

Sometimes Connor called after practice, and when you didn’t answer, he didn’t spam your phone. He left one voicemail telling you about his day, asking about yours, and reminding you that you didn’t have to call back unless you wanted to.

Sometimes you met for coffee, sometimes you walked together through cold Chicago streets with space between your hands where there used to be instinct.

Sometimes it felt easy, and that scared you, sometimes it felt impossible, and that scared him.

Connor learned.

He learned to tell you when his schedule changed before you had to ask, he learned not to make promises until he had checked whether he could keep them, he learned that “I’ll try” meant nothing if it wasn’t followed by action.

He learned that flowers were nice, but remembering your presentation at work mattered more.

He learned that you didn’t need grand vacations as much as you needed him to sit across from you at dinner and not check his phone every five minutes, he learned that choosing you was not one dramatic decision.

It was hundreds of small ones, it was calling you before he watched game tape, not after he was too exhausted to speak, it was telling his trainer he had somewhere to be and leaving when practice actually ended.

It was showing up at your apartment with groceries and asking if he could cook for you, then leaving after dinner because you weren’t ready for him to stay, it was apologizing without making you comfort him.

It was accepting that some days, you were still angry, one night, two months after your birthday, you finally snapped.

He had come over to help you put together a bookshelf. It should have been simple. Domestic. Safe.

Instead, halfway through sorting screws, you looked at him sitting on your floor in sweatpants, tongue caught between his teeth as he frowned at the instructions, and you were suddenly furious.

“Why now?”

Connor looked up. “What?”

“Why now?” you repeated, voice shaking. “Why did it take me leaving for you to become this version of yourself?”

He set the screwdriver down slowly, you stood, pacing because if you stayed still, you would cry “I asked for you before. I needed you before. I was lonely before. And now you’re here, and you’re trying, and that’s good, but it also makes me so angry because you could have done this the whole time.”

Connor’s face crumpled “I know.”

“You could have loved me like this when I still felt safe with you.”

His eyes shone “I know.”

“And now I’m the one who has to figure out if I can trust you again. I’m the one who has to heal from what you didn’t notice.”

He nodded, wiping at his cheek with the heel of his hand “You’re right.”

“I hate that you’re agreeing with me.”

A broken laugh escaped him, wet and miserable. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Fight back,” you said, crying now. “Make an excuse. Tell me I’m being unfair. Give me a reason to stay mad.”

Connor stood, but kept distance “I can’t,” he whispered. “Because you’re not being unfair.”

Your face crumpled.

He looked destroyed by it “I wish I had a better answer,” he said. “I wish I could tell you I didn’t understand or that I was too young or too busy or too under pressure, but none of that changes what it felt like for you. I did have reasons. But I used them like excuses. And you paid for that.”

You covered your mouth.

Connor’s voice broke “I hate that I hurt you into needing proof that I love you.”

That was the first time you let him hold you again, you didn’t plan to, one second you were crying in the middle of your apartment, and the next Connor was there, arms around you, holding you like he was afraid to hold too tightly but more afraid to let go.

You sobbed into his hoodie, he cried into your hair “I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over. “I’m so sorry. I’ve got you. I’m here. I’m here.”

And for once, he was.

The first game you attended after the breakup was in January, you didn’t sit with the WAGs.

You bought your own ticket because you weren’t ready for the questions, the looks, the assumptions. Connor didn’t know you were coming. You told yourself it was better that way. Less pressure. Less expectation.

Chicago won in overtime and Connor scored the winner.

The arena exploded, you stood with everyone else, heart lodged in your throat, watching him get swallowed by his teammates against the glass.

Then his eyes found you, you didn’t know how, there were thousands of people there, all screaming, all moving, all wearing the same colors.

But Connor found you, for one suspended second, the entire arena seemed to blur, his face changed, not into surprise exactly.

Into something softer, something like gratitude, he didn’t make a scene. Didn’t point. Didn’t turn it into a moment for the cameras, he just pressed his glove against his chest once, small, private, yours.

You left before he could ask you to wait, by the time you got home, there was one message on your phone.

Thank you for coming. I know you didn’t come for me to know, but I’m really glad I saw you. Get home safe.

You stared at it for a long time, then you typed back.

Good goal.

His reply came almost instantly.

Thanks. I was trying to impress this girl.

You laughed, actually laughed, then cried because laughing with him still felt like coming home.

The night things truly changed wasn’t dramatic, no storm, no hospital scare, no grand confession in the rain.

It was a Tuesday, Connor had a rare evening off. Weeks earlier, he had asked if he could take you to dinner. Not somewhere expensive. Not somewhere that screamed apology. Just the little Italian place near your apartment where you used to go before everyone knew his name.

You agreed.

Part of you expected something to go wrong, a late meeting, a surprise interview, a call from the team.

Some reminder that hoping was dangerous, but at six exactly, there was a knock at your door, Connor stood on the other side in a dark coat, cheeks pink from the cold, hands empty, no flowers, no gifts.

Just him “I thought about bringing something,” he admitted when you opened the door. “Then I thought maybe being on time was the thing.”

Your lips parted, then you smiled, it was small but real “Good choice.”

Dinner was quiet at first, then less quiet, then almost normal He told you about a prank in the locker room. You told him about Maya’s disastrous date. He listened with his whole face, laughing in the right places, asking questions that proved he was paying attention.

Halfway through dessert, his phone buzzed.

You saw it, so did he.

His eyes flicked down,for one awful second, your body remembered, the waiting, the empty chair, the excuses.

Connor reached for the phone, your stomach dropped, then he silenced it without looking and turned it face down on the table “My agent,” he said. “I told him I’m unavailable tonight unless something’s on fire.”

You swallowed “You can answer if you need to.”

“I don’t need to.”

“But what if it’s important?”

Connor looked at you “You’re important.”

The words were simple, no drama, no speech, just the truth, your eyes filled with tears, Connor’s expression softened, but he didn’t reach across the table. He waited.

You were the one who slid your hand toward his, he stared at it like it was something sacred, then he took it, his thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and careful “I’m scared,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I’m scared I’ll come back and everything will be good for a while, and then one day I’ll look around and realize I’m waiting again.”

Connor’s jaw tightened “That’s my biggest fear too.” You looked at him in surprise.

He nodded “Not because I think I’ll stop trying. But because I know I’m capable of hurting you when I’m not paying attention. I didn’t think I was before. I do now.” He took a shaky breath. “So I don’t want you to just trust me blindly. I want us to keep talking. I want you to call me out. I want to keep seeing someone. I want to make sure I don’t only change because I’m afraid of losing you.”

Your tears slipped over “I loved you so much,” you said.

Connor’s face crumpled “Loved?”

You squeezed his hand “Love,” you corrected softly. “I love you so much.”

His eyes shut, for a moment, he looked like the words physically hurt him, like relief could be painful when it came after starving “I love you too,” he whispered. “I never stopped.”

“I know.”

This time, when you said it, it didn’t feel like an excuse, it felt like a beginning, you didn’t move back in immediately.

Connor didn’t ask you to.

That mattered too, you kept your apartment. Kept your space. Kept rebuilding a life where he was wanted, not required, but slowly, carefully, he became part of it again.

He came over on off nights and cooked badly until you took pity on him and taught him how not to burn garlic, he remembered your friend’s promotion party and arrived with you, not three hours later.

He called from the road before bed, sometimes tired, sometimes quiet, but always present, on nights when he couldn’t talk long, he told you that instead of disappearing.

On days when you felt old hurt rising, he sat with it, he didn’t punish you for needing reassurance, he didn’t rush you into being okay.

He loved you in the present.

And little by little, the future stopped feeling like a place where you had to wait to be happy, your next birthday came quietly.

You didn’t plan a party, part of you didn’t want to give the day that kind of power again, Connor didn’t push, he simply asked what you wanted.

“Something small,” you said. “No surprises.”

“No surprises,” he promised.

That morning, you woke up to a text.

Happy birthday, baby. I’m already grateful I get to show up for this one.

You stared at it in bed, heart aching, then came another message.

Door in ten minutes. Coffee first. Then breakfast. Then whatever you want. My phone is off unless you tell me to turn it on.

You opened the door ten minutes later in pajamas, hair messy, eyes suspiciously wet, Connor stood there holding two coffees and a paper bag from your favorite bakery.

He smiled softly “Hi.”

“Hi.”

He stepped inside and set everything on the counter, no balloons, no crowd, no overcorrection.

Just coffee. Warm pastries. Your favorite flowers already arranged in a vase he must have dropped off with Maya the night before because he knew showing up at your door with a bouquet might remind you too much of the night everything broke.

You noticed, of course you noticed, Connor watched you notice “I didn’t want them in my hands this time,” he said quietly.

Your throat tightened, you walked toward him and wrapped your arms around his waist, he froze for half a second before holding you back “I’m here,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes against his chest “I know.” he breathed out shakily “I’m going to keep being here.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, there were still things to heal. You both knew that. Love did not erase history just because it wanted to. Trust did not return fully grown. It had to be rebuilt, piece by piece, choice by choice, ordinary day by ordinary day.

But Connor had learned the thing he should have known all along, love was not just the future he imagined for you.

It was the morning coffee, in the answered call, in the kept promise, in the empty chair that would never be empty again if he had any power to reach it.

It was choosing you when no one was watching, it was showing up not because he almost lost you, but because you deserved to be loved by someone who came before the breaking point.

Connor brushed his thumb over your cheek “Happy birthday baby” he said softly, you smiled through your tears, and this time, when you looked at him, you didn’t feel like you were waiting for him to choose you.

You felt like he already had.

[welaughuntilourribsgettough]

[littlemisshelena]

my aesthetic idc what you think

[angelgirlxxxxxxx]

[insideininsideout]

[heartmadebyangels]

can i catch a break

[wannabehockeygf]

Never beating the mischievous little raccoon allegations

[creoleeggin]

I’m going insane is anyone else seeing what I’m seeing

[snoopycelebrini]

IVAR STENBERG YOU ARE A SAN JOSE SHARK

[b1ngl3zz]

collection of my favorite close personal friend collin graf photos to manifest him GETTING RESIGNED.

there was one more i could not find and i mourn that photo.