LukeyPookie

Imagines and Chaos

[snoopy-hughes]

Masterlist <3

Welcome to my official masterlist! Stories are coming soon, and I’ll always post updates when new works are finished. Don’t forget to send in your requests—I write NHL hockey stories (mostly) and keep things non-smut.

if you have requests please leave them here!!

Devils (coming soon)

Luke Hughes

Something About the Way He Looks at You - Fluff

Jealousy is a B*tch - Fluff x Angst

Dawson Mercer

Nico Hischier

Timo Meier

Sharks (coming soon)

Will Smith

The Distance Between Shifts - Fluff, Angst (themes of anxiety)

Macklin Celebrini

William Eklund

Things You Can't Fix - Multi part series, angst, real relationship struggles, happy ending don't worry.

Wilds (coming soon)

Quinn Hughes

Matt Boldy

Brock Faber

Kirill Kaprisov

Mammoth (coming soon)

Clayton Keller

Dylan Guenther

Mikhail Sergachev

Logan Cooley

Others (coming soon)

Matthew Schaefer

Skating on the edge - Angst & Fluff

[snoopy-hughes]

Things You Can't Fix Series

Final Part: The Space Between Us

Warnings: slight anxiety, financial struggles, makeup, lmk if you see any others.

Word Count: ~4,300

Summary: William returns home from Anaheim to a kitchen full of sugar and apologies. Surrounded by the scent of cinnamon, Caleigh and William finally talk—really talk—about pride, love, and learning each other’s language. Forgiveness tastes like cardamom and truth as they rebuild on equal ground and head toward the life they’re still figuring out together.

The game ends sometime after ten.

I watch the last minutes on my laptop, stream buffering every few seconds. Sharks lose 3–2, a late empty-netter from Anaheim sealing it. William assisted on a goal in the first period, skated hard, almost scored once himself. After the final buzzer, the camera briefly catches him as he lifts his helmet off, sweat darkening his curls, expression distant.

My chest aches. He always looks away from the camera after losses, as if the lens might see too much.

By midnight, the screen goes dark. I shut the laptop, surrounded by containers stacked high on the counter—cookies, buns, tarts, the cake sitting proudly in the middle like a surrender flag.

I shower, scrub sugar off my wrists, and sit on the couch wrapped in one of his hoodies, waiting for the familiar click of the door.

It’s almost 1:30 a.m. when it finally happens.

The lock turns slowly, like he’s not sure if he should be unlocking it. The door opens. He steps inside, duffel sliding off his shoulder, still wearing the team jacket. He smells like ice and travel and exhaustion.

For a moment, we just stare at each other across the dim living room.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey.” I stand, heart hammering. “How was the game?”

He shrugs. “Okay. We lose.”

I nod, eyes flicking to his face. He looks wrecked—dark circles, red skin where his helmet rubbed, mouth pressed thin. Even then he gives me a soft, tired smile.

“You made… everything?” he asks finally, glancing toward the counters.

“Yeah.” My voice cracks a little. “Everything.”

He drops his jacket onto the bar stool, walks over slowly, picking up a cookie container. “You bake when mad?”

I huff out half a laugh. “Apparently.”

He sets the container down, still staring at the spread. “This whole place smells like my grandma’s house,” he says, voice breaking a little on grandma. “Even the cake?”

“Yeah.” I nod toward it. “Check the message.”

He reads the icing slowly, lips moving around every word: I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.

When he looks up, there’s moisture gathering in his eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Yeah, I do,” I whisper. “I said things I shouldn’t have. I made you feel like you were some villain for caring. That wasn’t fair.”

He steps closer. “I went behind your back. That also not fair.”

We stand there, inches apart, neither sure who’s supposed to speak next. Finally I move first, half‑laughing, half‑crying.

“God, we suck at this.”

He laughs too, a soft exhale. “Maybe little bit.”

We sit at the counter, the wreckage of sugar around us, and finally talk.

“I was never really angry at you,” I admit. “It’s just… when you fixed things, I felt invisible. Like the version of me trying so hard to make it didn’t matter anymore.”

William nods slowly, turning a spoon over in his hands. “Where I’m from, if something broken, you fix it. Simple. I see you tired, crying, counting money; I think, okay, I fix. But I did not ask what you need. I took choice away.”

I wipe at my eyes. “You probably thought I’d thank you.”

He smiles weakly. “Little bit.”

“I wanted to,” I say quickly. “Part of me did. But then all I could think was, ‘Does he even believe I can do anything on my own?’”

He frowns now, shaking his head. “I never think that. You’re the strongest person I know, Caleigh. I just… I hate seeing you hurt.”

“I know,” I whisper. “And I hate feeling like letting you help makes me weak.”

He studies me for a long time, eyes soft but serious. “Maybe we both forget it’s not me versus you. We on same team.”

That hits harder than I expect. “Teammates,” I say quietly.

“Teammates,” he repeats. “I pass the puck; you still have to shoot.”

The hockey metaphor makes me laugh for real this time, a sound that actually feels like air returning to my lungs. He grins, relief flickering across his face.

“Can I ask something?” I say after a moment. “Why’d you go to Martin in the first place?”

“I wanted surprise you,” he says. “I thought maybe you scared to ask for time off. I wanted make it easy.”

“You really didn’t know we were off that weekend, huh?”

He shakes his head, sheepish. “No idea. Cat maybe tricked me.”

I snort. “Wouldn’t shock me.”

Then there’s quiet again—soft, tired quiet, the kind that holds rather than hurts. His hand slides over mine across the counter, warm and tentative. I let my fingers curl between his.

“I shouldn’t have left,” I say finally.

He looks up, relief and regret battling in his eyes. “I shouldn’t have called you stupid.”

“You really shouldn’t have.”

He grimaces. “I know. I was scared. You were angry and leaving, and I panic. Bad words come out.”

“You always get quieter when you’re scared. I get louder. Worst combination ever.”

He squeezes my hand. “But we figure it out.”

“Yeah.” I take a shaky breath. “We do.”

We eat in silence for a while—me nibbling a cookie, him devouring three in a row like he hasn’t seen real food all day. He points at the macarons next. “These ugly,” he says, mouth full, “but good.”

I laugh through tears. “That’s fair.”

Then he spots the bowl of Kanelbullar, the cinnamon buns he grew up on. He lifts one with actual reverence. “You make these?”

“Used your mom’s recipe.”

For a second, something like pain crosses his face—homesick, emotional. He breaks the bun open and smells it. “Smells right.”

We share half each. He keeps glancing at me like he’s trying to commit the moment to memory.

“This,” he says softly after a while, “is better than winning.”

I roll my eyes. “You just lost by one.”

“I mean it. This taste like love.”

When he’s eaten enough sugar to put himself into hibernation, he leans back against the counter, eyes heavier now. “Can I tell you what scared me most?”

I nod.

“I’ve had money, like, my whole career. But before that, nothing. My parents okay, but not rich. I saw what stress did to them. And when I see you tired, I think, I have chance to make it easier. If I don’t, then what kind of man am I? So I overdo. And then you look at me like I broke something precious.”

I stare at him quietly. “You didn’t break it. You just stepped on it by accident.”

He lets out a breath that sounds something between a laugh and a sigh. “So we tape it, like hockey stick.”

“Exactly.”

He grins. “Good metaphor.”

After cleaning up, we sit on the balcony, the cold Bay Area air cutting gently through the night. The city hums below. The moon makes the glass buildings glow. I pull my blanket tighter around my shoulders; he drapes his arm around me anyway.

“Cat talk to you?” he asks softly.

I nod. “She found me.”

He gives a small smile. “She told me she would. I was worried but didn’t want to chase. Cat said you need space first.”

“She was right.” I rest my head against his shoulder. “She also said we’re both right in different ways.”

“She always say smart things,” he murmurs. “Tyler not as smart.”

I laugh, startled and half-choking. “You’re lucky she can’t hear you.”

“Maybe I want her to,” he says with a grin.

Then he grows quieter. “It felt empty here without you. Apartment too clean.”

“Good,” I say softly. “Consider this payback.”

He chuckles, then glances down at me seriously. “You come with me next trip?”

“What trip?”

“Cat said you still not have refund for resort. Non‑refundable, yes? We can still go.”

I blink. “You seriously still want to go after all that?”

He nods. “Yes. But only if you want. No surprises this time.”

I think about it. The beach. The sun. Cat’s laughter. And William—not the fixer, not the guy with all the money, but the person who still thinks love means gestures and tries so damn hard to get it right.

“Alright,” I say finally. “But we split it fifty‑fifty. And don’t argue.”

“Deal,” he says quickly, relief softening his shoulders. “I pay tickets, you pay for sunscreen.”

“Ridiculous markup,” I mutter.

He kisses my temple, laughter rumbling low in his chest. “See? Teamwork.”

Later, in bed, the quiet feels different—whole again instead of hollow. He lies on his back, one arm under my shoulders, fingers tracing lazy circles on my arm.

“You still angry little?” he murmurs.

I tilt my head toward him. “A little. But in a manageable way.”

“Good. Because I still guilty little.”

“It’s progress.”

He presses a slow kiss to my forehead. “I learn now: ask before fix.”

“And I learn: accept help doesn’t mean surrender.”

He hums approvingly, drifting toward sleep. “We smart now.”

“Don’t push it,” I whisper, smiling.

When morning edges in, sunlight warms our faces through the sheer curtains. I slide out of bed quietly and make coffee, the normal routine slipping back in like muscle memory. The apartment smells like vanilla sugar and espresso beans. William appears in the doorway, hair a mess, wearing my oversized hoodie this time.

He leans on the counter, watching me. “You look lighter.”

“I feel lighter.” I pause, then add, “Broke again, but lighter.”

He chuckles, stepping closer. “I pay you back for baking supplies.”

I shake my head. “No. That was my peace offering. Peace offerings should cost something.”

He studies me, expression equal parts pride and heartbreak. “You really are most stubborn person I ever meet.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

He grins, walks behind me, wraps his arms around my waist. “It is. I like stubborn.”

I lean back into his chest, feel his heartbeat against my shoulder blade, steady and warm. For the first time in weeks, that tiny knot of tension between us feels untied.

Two days later, Cat texts a group chat: Girls weekend back on. Eklund approved. William adds a thumbs‑up emoji right after.

I send back a single message: We’ll be there.

We don’t talk about the money again, not directly. I still take shifts at Starbucks; he still leaves small things on the counter—groceries, gas cards, little gifts—but now he asks first, always asks. And sometimes I say yes.

The balance isn’t perfect, but it’s ours.

When the weekend rolls around and we’re boarding the flight to Palm Springs, he slides his hand into mine.

“You sure you not nervous?” he murmurs in that soft, sleepy accent.

“Terrified,” I admit. “But I’m going anyway.”

He squeezes once, firm and sunny. “That’s my girl.”

Epilogue

Later that night, at the resort, everyone’s laughing by the poolside. Cat catches my arm as the others chat with players on FaceTime.

She whispers, “You two good?”

I smile, watching William across the patio, shirt half‑unbuttoned, dimples showing as he laughs at something Tyler says. “Yeah,” I whisper back. “Really good.”

Cat tilts her head. “Told you he’s a lovable idiot.”

I laugh. “You did.”

When William glances over, I lift my drink toward him in a silent toast. He grins back. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel smaller standing next to his success—I feel equal. Still learning, still broke, still mine.

The night hums with ocean air and soft pop music. Somewhere behind me, Cat gushes about dessert; Felicia teases William’s accent; Tyler canonically mispronounces “macaron.”

And me? I just breathe.

— written by @snoopy-hughes | part of the "Things You Can't Fix" series 💬 reblogs > likes | please don’t repost or translate

[snoopy-hughes]

Things You Can't Fix Series

Pt. 2: The Cost of Care

Warnings: Nothing really, just angst.

Word Count: 4,700

Summary: After their argument, William’s desperate attempt to make things better, secretly paying Caleigh’s debt, shatters what trust they had left. Homeless for two nights, pride and fear keep her from calling him. When Cat Toffoli tracks her down, Caleigh finally faces what love and help really mean. Meanwhile, William plays through heartbreak in Anaheim.

I wake up to the smell of bacon.

For a moment, I almost believe nothing happened. The apartment smells too normal — coffee, butter, warm air drifting in from the balcony. The sun’s already up, glinting off the glossy white cabinets and the stupidly perfect marble countertop William insisted on when we moved in. It’s the kind of apartment people assume means you’ve “made it.” Two bedrooms, floor‑to‑ceiling windows, a view of downtown San Jose.

On paper, we look like stability.

In reality, everything here feels rented — even the peace.

William’s at the stove when I walk out. He’s shirtless, wearing sweats low on his hips, humming something soft and Swedish while flipping pancakes. His hair’s still a little damp.

For ten seconds, I think maybe we can pretend yesterday didn’t happen.

Then I see my laptop open on the counter.

The webpage blinking at me makes my mouth go dry. Online banking. My online banking. And a payment confirmation sitting bright at the top of the screen. Both credit cards — paid in full, overnight. Almost two thousand dollars.

I stare until my pulse climbs into my throat.

William turns, spatula in hand, smiling like everything’s fine. “Morning, älskling. Hungry?”

“William,” I say, voice trembling. “What did you do?”

He follows my eyes to the screen. “Oh. That.” He shrugs lightly. “I paid those. You said they make you stressed, so now they’re gone. No big deal.”

No big deal. My lungs tighten.

“You went on my computer? On my accounts?”

“You left it open,” he says simply. “I wanted to help.”

My laugh comes out sharp and shocked. “You wanted to help? After last night? Are you kidding me?”

He blinks, confused by the volume of my voice. “You were upset—”

“I am upset! Because you don’t listen. You bought a trip I couldn’t afford, and now you’re hacking my finances like some well‑meaning sugar‑dad hacker!”

His expression falls. “It’s just money. You make everything sound like crime.”

“It feels like a crime.” I slam the laptop shut, hands shaking. “You don’t ask, you just do, and I’m the one left feeling like a charity case.”

He stares at me, chest heaving. “You keep me out of every problem, Caleigh. What am I supposed to do? Watch you fall apart?”

“Yes!” I shoot back. “Sometimes that’s exactly what you do. You watch. You stay. You don’t fix.”

His accent grows thicker, frustration bleeding through. “In Sweden, we take care of people we love. You call it control. I call it kindness.”

“Kindness without consent is control,” I say softly, and that lands because he flinches like I hit him.

Silence stretches between us — a silence so tight it hums.

Finally he says, quiet and hurt, “You act like I ruin your life every time I try to be part of it.”

I pick up my backpack. “You’re not ruining it, Will. You just keep forgetting it’s mine.”

He runs a hand through his hair, voice breaking. “You’re being stupid now.”

That word hits like a slap.

“I’m sorry?” I whisper.

“I don’t mean—” He exhales, already regretting it. “Not stupid. Just… stubborn.”

Too late.

I pull open the bedroom door, grab a sweatshirt, a pair of leggings, stuff them into my bag. He follows me down the hallway, lost but still trying to argue.

“Where you go, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to leave.”

“I can’t stay here right now.” My voice cracks. “Everything in this apartment feels bought — even me.”

When I step into the elevator, he doesn’t follow. He just stands there in the doorway, regret written all over his face.

Outside, the morning air burns cold. I drop into my car and stare at the steering wheel until my vision blurs. Calling a friend isn’t an option — they’d only tell me to stop being proud and let him take care of me.

I still have $312 left in savings. A cheap hotel’s $140 a night around here.

Three nights and I’m empty.

I start the engine.

I end up sleeping in the car outside the practice facility again. It’s quiet here — empty parking lot, the hum of distant traffic. I fold the back seat down and curl up with my bag for a pillow.

By midnight, the cold creeps in from the floorboards. I keep telling myself this is temporary. Just twenty‑four hours to cool off.

The second night feels longer. I scroll social media on low brightness. The Sharks’ official account posts a behind‑the‑scenes clip — William joking with Hertl, cheeks flushed from practice. He looks happy. Fine. Functioning. While I’m parked outside like some shadow.

The post’s caption: Eklund ready for Anaheim road game tomorrow.

Anaheim. That means he’ll be gone all day tomorrow. No confrontation. Just me and my pride.

I drop my phone face‑down on my chest and let out a broken laugh.

At dawn, my phone buzzes again.

Cat Toffoli: Hey honey 💕 can we talk? William’s worried sick.

I almost ignore it. But the thought of Cat — who lives two freeway exits away in a literal magazine spread of a house — showing up at the rink searching for me is worse.

I text back, I’m at the practice center. Just grabbing some stuff.

Ten minutes later, I see her silver SUV pull in.

“Caleigh?” she calls softly when she spots me near the loading dock. Her voice carries that same warmth as always — casual, familiar, motherly.

I manage a weak smile. “Hey, Cat.”

She walks right up and wraps me in a hug before I can say anything. “You scared the hell out of him.”

“I scared myself too,” I mumble.

She pulls back to look at me — really look. “Sweetheart, why do you look like you haven’t showered in two days?”

Because I haven’t. “It’s fine,” I say, voice too fast. “I was just… thinking.”

She crosses her arms, unamused. “Uh‑huh. Thinking in your car?”

My throat knots. “Just until I figured things out.”

Cat glances toward the practice doors, then back at me. “Come on. You’re not spending another night in a parking lot. My house. Now.”

I shake my head. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m not arguing,” she says, tone gentler but firm. “Let’s go.”

Her house is exactly what you’d expect from Tyler Toffoli’s wife: sleek, cozy, full of light. The kitchen smells faintly of lemon and sugar. There’s a massive TV playing muted hockey highlights in the background, and a golden retriever the size of a polar bear greets me like I’m long‑lost family.

Cat hands me a fluffy towel. “Guest shower’s upstairs. Clean clothes in the drawer. No excuses.”

An hour later, I’m on her couch in borrowed sweats, hair damp, hands wrapped around a mug of tea I didn’t have to budget for. The normalcy feels almost alien.

For a while, neither of us says anything. Then she breaks the silence.

“You know, when I first started dating Tyler, I thought money would fix all our worries.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Tyler Toffoli doesn’t seem like someone who’s ever worried about paying rent.”

She smiles wryly. “He hasn’t, not really. NHL players get everything covered — travel, hotels, meals on the road. It’s different. But that’s the point: being in that world can make you forget what struggling even feels like. And that’s what I think William’s missing.”

I nod slowly. “He’s never had to count hours. He gets paid to play. I get barely paid to work.”

Cat nods. “Exactly. He didn’t mean to cross a line; he just doesn’t understand where it is. Different starting points.”

I swallow hard. “He paid off my credit cards last night. After I begged him not to.”

Her eyebrows lift. “…Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“I can see why you’re furious,” she says softly. “But sweetheart, he’s drowning in guilt. Tyler said he spent all morning in Anaheim pacing the hotel room like a lost puppy.”

“He left already?”

“Yep. Game tonight. So if you were hoping to hide out and think, you’ve got a window.”

Lucky me.

“I just—” my voice falters— “I didn’t want to be his project. You know? His good deed.”

Cat nods again, eyes kind. “You wanted a partner, not a lifeguard.”

“Exactly.”

She leans back, sipping her tea. “You two love each other a lot. I can see it. And love’s messy when one of you builds safety out of money and the other builds it out of independence.”

I stare at the patterned rug. “He said he doesn’t know how to win with me.”

Cat smiles sadly. “That’s because he’s playing a game you never asked him to play.”

That lands deeper than I expect.

“He’s a fixer,” she continues. “You’re a fighter. Sometimes fixers do too much, and fighters interpret that as betrayal. Neither one’s trying to hurt the other.”

My chest feels too tight for words.

“You’re both right about different things,” she adds softly. “He needs to ask before he acts. You need to let him help once you’ve been asked.”

I nod, blinking fast. “I told him I was protecting what’s left of me.”

“Maybe,” she says, “he was trying to protect what’s left of him.”

The silence that follows is thick — not uncomfortable, just heavy with truth. I take a long sip of tea and taste salt on my tongue before realizing I’m crying.

Cat eases over, sets her cup down, and hugs me again — slower this time, steadier. “You don’t have to be ashamed of needing help. It doesn’t cancel out how hard you’ve worked.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “He’s still in trouble, though.”

“Oh, absolutely,” she says, smiling. “But trouble’s fixable.”

That night, I sleep in her guest room. When I wake in the morning, the house is quiet; Tyler’s already at pre‑game skate, and Cat’s texting someone about schedules.

I thank her again, promise to keep the sweats folded neatly on the bed. She hugs me once more. “Go home when you’re ready. And Caleigh?”

“Yeah?”

“When you talk to him… let him be the one scared this time. He needs to understand what it feels like.”

William’s still in Anaheim — bus, dinner, then the game. I check the schedule. No chance of him being home before midnight. That gives me time.

I stare around our apartment after unlocking the door. It’s ridiculous how nice it is — all granite countertops, wide windows, sleek furniture. I remember him signing the lease with a grin, saying, Good views make good memories.

I walk straight into the kitchen, drop my bag, and pull out my battered recipe binder. The plan forms fast: apologies made in sugar and flour. The language he understands.

I head to the grocery store, buying enough ingredients to feed a small army. Almond paste, cardamom, fresh berries. I drain my entire savings at the checkout — $298.66 — and tell myself it’s worth it.

Back home, I put my hair up and start baking.

By midafternoon, the pristine kitchen’s a war zone. Flour on the counters, melted butter streaked across the floor, grocery bags everywhere. I move methodically through each batch like penance. Chocolate chip. White‑chocolate macadamia. Carrot cake. Sugar cookies shaped into letters that will spell I’m sorry.

Next come the macarons — pink strawberry, deep‑blue blueberry, pale‑yellow lemon. They’re imperfect and cracked at the edges, but something about their imperfection feels right.

Then the Swedish part:

Kanelbullar, cinnamon buns with cardamom in the dough like his mom taught me over FaceTime. Hallongrottor, buttery thumbprint cookies filled with raspberry jam. Mazariner, small almond tarts with shiny icing.

Finally, the Silviakaka — the Silvia cake. Soft sponge, custard icing. I pipe the words across the top: I’m so sorry, please forgive me.

Every step hurts a little less than the last. Every recipe feels like stitching up something I tore open.

When the last tray cools, I sit on the floor, surrounded by sugar and silence, and exhale. The apartment finally smells like home again.

I glance at the clock. The Sharks‑Ducks game starts in thirty minutes. My phone buzzes with the lineup alert; William’s name flashes. I whisper to no one, “Good luck.”

Then, quieter: “Please come home.”

— written by @snoopy-hughes | part of the "Things You Can't Fix" series 💬 reblogs > likes | please don’t repost or translate

[snoopy-hughes]

Things You Can't Fix Series:

Pt. 1 Good Intentions

Warnings: financial struggles, angst, mild swearing, fighting, sad Eky

Word Count: ~3,500

Summary: Working three jobs and finishing her sports‑psych degree, Caleigh Lombardo barely survives in San Jose. Dating NHL prospect William Eklund should be a fairytale—until an invite she can’t afford exposes how different their worlds really are. One lie about work spirals into the first real fight of their relationship.

Notes: This is my first series, if it doesnt make the most sense just remember im learning, anywho attached here you will be able to find the series masterlist. I am 100% down to do drabbles and blurbs if you really like this character. Im also down to do a I guess spinoff, just tell me what you want!

I spend most days running on caffeine and the faint hum of the rink’s refrigeration system.

The Sharks’ practice facility always smells like wet gear, icy air, and too much sanitizer. It gets into your clothes; I can smell it even when I’m home. I tell myself that’s the price of getting experience in sports psychology—being the intern who does a bit of everything. Interviews, analytics notes, trainer prep, sometimes even social media clips when someone higher up forgets to schedule them.

The badge clipped to my hoodie says Caleigh Lombardo — Student Intern. It might as well say Professional Burnout in Training.

By noon, I’ve already worked five hours slinging lattes at Starbucks, made it to class with wet hair, and answered eight “quick questions” from my supervisor that weren’t quick. My phone buzzes on the break‑room counter, screen face‑up beside a half‑finished protein bar.

Cat Toffoli: Hey Caleigh! 🥰 Girls weekend at an all‑inclusive in Palm Springs — me, Felicia Wennberg, Taylor Hertl, Emmi Granlund. You HAVE to come!! It’ll be so good to unwind before pre‑season kicks in 😘

I blink at the message, smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Cat’s one of those people who make being an NHL wife look effortless—beautiful, kind, and somehow always genuine. She and Tyler invite me to everything even though I always wind up too broke or too busy to go.

Out of curiosity I click the resort link.

$650 a night.

My stomach drops. Three nights? That’s two grand. Almost an entire month of income after every job, every side gig, each miserable Instacart run wedged between studying and sleep.

I do the math automatically, like a reflex:

$1,000 → monthly NHL stipend after tuition

$600 → Starbucks (20 hours × $20/hr, minus taxes)

$300 → TikTok and random social media scraps

$400 → Instacart minimums

Total: $2,900 a month.

Then the outflow:

$400 car

$150 insurance

$450 groceries

$250 phone + internet

$125 gas

$400 credit cards

$800 mom’s Parent PLUS loan

I end up with $325. Two‑hundred goes to savings if I’m disciplined; the rest barely covers a coffee and a splurge on takeout. I can’t even pretend two grand is possible.

I flip my phone facedown and take a shaky sip of coffee. It’s cold. Figures.

When I get home, the apartment smells like Swedish meatballs and laundry detergent. William’s on the couch in one of my oversized college sweatshirts, hair damp from practice, looking too good for someone who hasn’t showered with actual shampoo yet.

“Hey, älskling,” he grins, eyes crinkling. “You look tired.”

“I look dead,” I mutter, dumping my bag by the door. “Which is close.”

He pats the cushion beside him until I collapse next to him. His arm curls around my shoulders; he’s always warm, like his blood runs hotter than mine.

“Cat texted me,” he says. “Something about a trip? You goin’?”

I pick imaginary lint off my jeans. “Nah, can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Media project that weekend. We’re pushing community outreach posts—it’ll be busy.” I keep my tone light. Easy. Practiced.

He frowns. “Did you ask Martin if you could go?”

“Not yet. He’ll say no.” Lie number two. “It’s fine, Will. I’ll have fun some other time.”

He studies me for a second. “You work too much, gumman. You need rest.”

I laugh weakly. “I’ll sleep when I graduate.”

He doesn’t find it funny. Instead he squeezes my hand, thumb brushing my knuckle, eyes soft. “I just want you happy.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him happiness is expensive here.

The next few days blur into caffeine, notes, and bruising fatigue. William’s schedule is lighter before camp fully starts, so he’s home early most afternoons. He sends me texts—pictures of his lunch, of the sunset from the rink parking lot, and the occasional meme written in broken English that he swears is funny. I heart them all automatically, even when I’m too tired to laugh.

On Thursday morning, I’m halfway through a shift at Starbucks when my phone vibrates again. Cat.

So, you in? Rooms are filling fast! We’re leaving Friday morning. I can help coordinate flights if you want!

I type a half‑hearted response, delete it, then never reply. My chest tightens with shame. Cat’s never made me feel lesser, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling exactly that.

When I get back to the practice facility later that afternoon, Martin pops his head out of his office.

“Lombardo! Just a heads‑up, you’re off this weekend, yeah?”

I blink. “I am?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, didn’t you see the schedule? Everyone’s free till Monday. You’ve earned a break.”

My heart beats unevenly. There’s no way he just magically decided that today. Something’s off. I nod anyway. “Oh, uh, awesome. Thanks.”

The rest of practice runs as usual, but I can’t shake the weird feeling gnawing at me.

That night, I open the apartment door to find candles lit on the counter—little tealights in a lopsided semicircle—and William pacing. He’s practically vibrating.

“What did you do?” I ask before I can even take off my shoes.

He brightens. “Surprise!”

My stomach flips. “Please tell me it’s not another air fryer.”

“No, no,” he says quickly, shoving an envelope into my hands. “Open.”

I pull out the printed itinerary. My heart stutters. The logo at the top—the same resort Cat sent. All the information typed neatly: dates, flights, confirmation codes. Paid in full.

“What is this?” I whisper, voice strangled.

He’s beaming. “You’re going! I talked to Martin; he said you off. So I booked it. You need break, babe. Sunshine, drinks, no work.”

I stare at him, words catching like stones in my throat. “You… talked to my boss?”

“Yeah! He said you didn’t work this weekend. So—it’s perfect! I already told Cat yes.”

There’s a long pause. So long I can hear the tick of the cheap wall clock behind him.

“You went to my boss?” It comes out sharper than I intend.

His smile falters. “I thought—since you didn’t ask—maybe you were nervous. So I help.”

“You help,” I repeat, incredulous. “By going behind my back and dropping two thousand dollars like it’s fucking nothing?”

He flinches. “It’s not nothing. It’s for you. Because I love you.”

That should make it easier to breathe. It doesn’t. It makes it worse.

“Will, you don’t get it. You can’t just fix things by writing a check.” My hands are trembling, voice pitching higher. “I can barely keep up with bills. I told you I couldn’t go because I couldn’t afford to go!”

“But you don’t have to pay,” he says quietly, confused. “I pay.”

“That’s not the point!” The word bursts out loud enough that he recoils. “I don’t want you swooping in like some goddamn savior every time life hits me! This was supposed to be my decision!”

His brows knit, accent thickening. “Why are you mad? I only try to make you happy, älskling.”

“Because you didn’t listen!” My throat burns. “You never even asked what I needed! You went around me, to my boss—do you know how embarrassing that is?”

He’s staring at me like I’m speaking another language, and maybe I am because he just looks so—hurt. Confused. Like none of this adds up in his head.

“I don’t understand,” he admits softly. “You angry because I care?”

Something inside me cracks. “I’m angry because you think caring means controlling!”

The silence after that is heavy, thick with the smell of melting candle wax and cooking oil. All the exhaustion, all the late nights, every small humiliation of living paycheck to paycheck—it crashes out of me in one breath.

“I’ve spent years trying to prove I can stand on my own. Now it feels like you went and took that away.”

“Caleigh…” he starts, voice breaking around my name.

“Stop.” I grab my keys off the hook. “I just—I need air.”

He reaches for me, gently, but I step back. “Please. Don’t.”

“Where you go?”

“I don’t know,” I snap. “Instacart maybe. At least it pays.”

And then I leave.

The night swallows me whole. I drive around San Jose with a car full of reusable grocery bags, dropping off Sprite and paper towels at strangers’ doorsteps. Every ping of the app keeps me moving, like maybe if I keep delivering, I can avoid thinking.

But the anger shifts. It turns inward. I know William’s heart. I know he didn’t mean to humiliate me. He saw a problem and tried to fix it. That’s what he does. But that doesn’t make the ache any smaller.

By the time I get home, it’s after midnight. The candles are gone, lights off except for one dim lamp by the couch. William’s still up, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.

I close the door quietly. My voice comes out rough. “I’m sorry I yelled.”

He doesn’t look up right away. “You hate me now?”

“No,” I whisper. “I just hate feeling small.”

Finally, his eyes meet mine. “You’re never small.”

“You say that,” I sigh, “but you don’t see what it’s like scraping change together while living with someone who makes more in a week than I do in a month. You don’t see how humiliating it is to want something and know I can’t have it.”

He stands slowly. “Then let me help.”

“I can’t keep taking, Will. Every time you fix something for me, I feel like less of a person. Like a problem you’re solving.”

He shakes his head, voice low and thick. “You’re not a problem. You’re everything. I just—don’t know how else to make you see that.”

“I do see it,” I say, chest aching. “That’s why this hurts.”

He takes a careful step toward me, hesitant. “So what now?”

I glance toward our bedroom, the tiny pile of my flashcards still on the desk, half a life we built between practices and night shifts. None of it feels steady anymore.

“Now,” I say, “we sleep.”

We crawl into bed without touching. The space between us feels wider than the Pacific.

He falls asleep fast, like he always does. I stare at the ceiling, counting the faint shadows of streetlights through the blinds. My phone buzzes with a new notification—some automated deposit from Instacart. $18.47. It barely covers gas, but I almost laugh from the absurdity of it.

I glance at William’s profile in the dark—his jaw slack, mouth twitching slightly like he’s halfway through a dream. Somewhere in there, he probably still thinks he did something good.

Maybe he did. Maybe I’m the one who ruined it.

I roll onto my side, whispering to a man who can’t hear me, “It shouldn’t be this hard to love someone.”

— written by @snoopy-hughes | part of the "Things You Can't Fix" series 💬 reblogs > likes | please don’t repost or translate

[snoopy-hughes]

Series Title: Things You Can't Fix 🏒

Fandom: NHL / San Jose Sharks (RPF) Pairing: William Eklund × Original Female Character (Caleigh Lombardo) Rating: Teen – Mature (language, emotional themes) Status: Complete Genre: Angst / Hurt‑Comfort / Realistic Romance Timeline: Pre‑season into early Sharks season

Series Summary: Caleigh Lombardo is barely keeping her head above water — working mornings at Starbucks, interning for the San Jose Sharks as she finishes her sports‑psych degree, and balancing a life built on scholarships and side hustles. She also happens to be dating William Eklund, whose world runs on private jets, paychecks, and a kind of effortless security she’s never known. When a simple misunderstanding turns into a full‑blown clash over money, pride, and what it means to care for someone, both of them have to learn that love isn’t measured by what you can fix — it’s measured by what you choose to face together. A three‑part story about exhaustion, independence, and the space between surviving and being loved.

Parts: Word Count 12,500

✧ Good Intentions (3,500 words) ~ Kindness without consent is control.

✧ The Cost of Care (4,700 words) ~ You’re not supposed to win — you’re supposed to listen.

✧ The Space Between Us (4,300 words) ~ This tastes like love,” he said, mouth full of cinnamon and forgiveness.

written by @snoopy-hughes | do not repost or translate without permission

[snoopy-hughes]

Jealousy is a B*tch

Warnings: Luke Hughes is a jealous bitch, ur poor but i did a poor job at it. Nothing serious

Word Count: ~2,800

Summary: You've been dating Luke Hughes for six months, and his jealousy has always been adorable—until it isn't. At a team party, what starts as cute possessiveness crosses a line when Luke sees you talking to Simon Nemec. A confrontation forces both of you to face the real issue: trust, insecurity, and whether love is enough without it.

Notes: Thank you for reading! This was written as a request for a fluffy jealous!Luke fic with some angst and resolution. Comments and Likes are appreciated!

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You'd been dating Luke Hughes for six months, and in that time, you'd learned a few things about the youngest Hughes brother. He was sweet, thoughtful, and surprisingly soft-spoken off the ice. He remembered your coffee order, always texted you good morning even during road trips, and had a smile that made your heart skip a beat.

But you'd also discovered something else: Luke Hughes got jealous. Not in an aggressive or controlling way—more like a puppy who watched sadly as you petted another dog. It was, quite frankly, adorable.

The first time you noticed it was at a coffee shop near Prudential Center. You'd just finished your shift at the small café where you worked, your apron still dusted with espresso grounds and your fingers smelling like vanilla syrup. The pay was terrible, the hours were long, but it was what you had. Luke had offered more times than you could count to help you out financially, but you always refused. You were independent, even if that meant living paycheck to paycheck.

Luke had picked you up after work, and you'd stopped for actual good coffee—the kind you couldn't afford to make at your own shop. While waiting in line, you'd run into an old regular from your café, a guy named Marcus who always tipped well and chatted about his graduate classes. You hugged him hello, laughed at his stories about his thesis advisor, and promised to make his usual order extra strong next time he came in.

When you turned back to Luke, he was quiet. Too quiet.

"You okay?" you asked, linking your arm through his.

"Yeah," he said, but his jaw was tight. "You guys seemed... close."

You bit back a smile. "Luke, he's like sixty-something and married."

"Oh." His ears turned red. "I knew that."

You'd kissed his cheek, and he'd relaxed immediately, pulling you closer. It was sweet. Endearing, even. The way he tried to play it cool but failed miserably made your heart swell.

The second time was worse, or better, depending on how you looked at it.

You'd been at a team dinner, sitting between Luke and Dawson Mercer, when Dawson asked about your job. You'd launched into a funny story about a customer who'd ordered a drink so complicated it took you ten minutes to make, complete with hand gestures and dramatic reenactments. Dawson was cracking up, and at one point, you'd grabbed his arm for emphasis while delivering the punchline.

Luke's hand found your thigh under the table, squeezing gently but possessively.

You glanced at him, and he was staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, pretending to be very interested in whatever Nico was saying about their last game. But his grip on your leg didn't loosen.

"Luke," you whispered, leaning into him.

"Hmm?" He still wasn't looking at you.

"You know Dawson's just a friend, right?"

"Yep."

"And you know I'm going home with you tonight, right?"

His eyes finally met yours, softer now. "Yeah."

"Then relax, baby." You kissed his jaw, and you felt him exhale, his hand relaxing on your thigh, thumb now rubbing gentle circles instead of gripping.

Jack, sitting across from you, caught the whole exchange and smirked. "Lukey getting jealous again?"

"Shut up, Jack," Luke muttered, but there was no heat in it.

"It's cute," you said, and you meant it. The way Luke wanted you all to himself, the way he tried to hide it but couldn't quite manage it—it made you feel wanted, cherished even.

Quinn, visiting from Vancouver, raised an eyebrow. "Just wait until he really gets going. We Hughes brothers don't do anything halfway."

You'd laughed it off then. You shouldn't have.

The team party was at Nico's apartment—a sprawling place that fit half the roster comfortably. You'd come straight from your closing shift, still in your jeans and t-shirt because you didn't own anything fancy enough for these kinds of events anyway. Luke always said he didn't care what you wore, that you looked beautiful in anything, but you still felt a little self-conscious around the other girlfriends and wives in their designer dresses.

Luke kept you close for the first hour, his arm around your waist, introducing you to people you'd already met multiple times. You didn't mind. You liked being close to him, liked the way he smiled when he looked down at you.

But then Jack challenged him and Quinn to a video game tournament, and you waved him off. "Go. I'll be fine."

"You sure?" His brow furrowed.

"Positive. Go beat your brothers."

He kissed your forehead and headed to the TV room with his brothers, their competitive bickering already starting.

You wandered to the kitchen to refill your drink when you ran into Simon Nemec and some of the younger guys on the team. Simon was sweet—twenty years old and still kind of shy despite being a professional athlete.

"Y/N! Hey!" He brightened when he saw you. "How's the coffee business?"

You laughed. "Exhausting. Made about two hundred drinks today."

"That's insane." He shook his head. "I don't know how you do it."

You shrugged. "Bills don't pay themselves."

You chatted easily, talking about his adjustment to New Jersey, recommending good food spots that didn't cost a fortune—your specialty. Simon was engaged, asking questions, laughing at your jokes. You touched his arm when he said something funny, a habit you had with everyone. You were a tactile person, friendly and warm. It's who you'd always been.

What you didn't notice was Luke walking back into the kitchen, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw you.

Or Simon stepping slightly closer as you talked.

Or the way Luke's expression shifted from soft to stormy in seconds.

"Y/N." His voice was tight.

You turned, smiling. "Hey! Did you beat—"

"Can I talk to you for a second?" He didn't wait for an answer, his hand finding yours and pulling you toward the hallway.

"Luke, what—"

He guided you into an empty bedroom, closing the door behind him. When he turned to face you, his expression was unreadable.

"Really?" he said.

You blinked. "Really what?"

"Simon? Seriously?"

And there it was. You felt a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "Luke—"

"Don't." He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. "Don't laugh. I come back and you're all over him—"

"I wasn't all over him—"

"—touching his arm, standing so close, laughing like he's the funniest guy you've ever met—"

"Luke." You stepped toward him, trying to take his hand, but he pulled away.

That stung.

"I'm just trying to understand," he continued, his voice rising slightly, "why my girlfriend needs to be so friendly with every guy she meets. First it's customers at your job, then it's Dawson, now it's Simon—"

"Wait." Your smile faded. "Are you serious right now?"

"Yes, I'm serious! Do you know how it feels to watch you—"

"Luke, stop." Your voice was sharper now, cutting through his spiral. "You need to stop."

He froze, finally looking at you, really looking at you.

"I was having a conversation," you said slowly. "A normal, friendly conversation with your teammate. I wasn't flirting. I was being nice. That's what I do—I'm nice to people."

"I know, but—"

"But nothing." You crossed your arms. "This isn't cute anymore, Luke. This isn't you being a little jealous and me finding it endearing. This is you accusing me of something I didn't do, pulling me away from a party like I did something wrong."

His face fell. "Y/N—"

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course I do—"

"Then why are you acting like this?" Your voice cracked slightly, and you hated it. "I work a dead-end job for minimum wage, Luke. I live in a studio apartment where the heat barely works. I eat ramen more nights than I don't. And you—" You gestured vaguely at him, at the expensive party happening beyond the door, at the life he lived that was so different from yours. "You're Luke Hughes. You're talented and successful and you could have anyone. Anyone. And I chose you. I choose you every single day."

"Y/N—" He reached for you, and this time you were the one who pulled away.

"I touch Simon's arm when he makes me laugh because that's what I do with everyone. I'm a touchy person. I hug customers, I link arms with friends, I'm affectionate. That's who I am. And if you can't handle that, if you're going to make me feel guilty every time I'm kind to someone—"

"No." He closed the distance between you in two steps, his hands coming up to cup your face. "No, Y/N, please. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

You could see the panic in his eyes now, the realization of what he'd done.

"I'm an idiot," he continued, his thumb stroking your cheek. "You're right. You're completely right. I trust you—I do. I just—" He exhaled shakily. "Sometimes I can't believe you're real. That you chose me. And I see other guys making you laugh, and I think about how I'm gone half the time, and how you deserve someone who can actually be there, and I just—I lose it."

Your anger was softening despite yourself. "Luke—"

"I know it's not an excuse. I know I was way out of line. But you have to understand—" His forehead pressed against yours. "You're it for me, Y/N. You're everything. And the thought of losing you terrifies me."

Your hands came up to grip his wrists, his hands still cradling your face. "You're not going to lose me because I talked to Simon. Or Dawson. Or anyone else. You're going to lose me if you keep doing this. If you keep making me feel like I have to walk on eggshells."

"I know." His voice was barely a whisper. "I know, and I'm sorry. I'll do better. I promise I'll do better."

You searched his eyes, finding nothing but sincerity and remorse. "You have to trust me, Luke. Really trust me."

"I do. I swear I do. This isn't about you—it's about me and my own insecurities, and I'm going to work on it. I'll talk to someone if I have to, I just—" He swallowed hard. "Please don't give up on me."

The vulnerability in his voice cracked something open in your chest. You sighed, letting your hands slide up to his face, mirroring his hold on you. "I'm not giving up on you. But this has to stop. The jealousy, the accusations—it has to stop."

"It will. I promise." He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then hovered over your lips. "I love you. God, I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

"I love you too," you whispered. "But love isn't enough if you don't trust me."

"I know. And I do. I trust you completely." He kissed you then, soft and sweet and apologetic. When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy. "Forgive me?"

You pretended to think about it, and he made a desperate sound that was almost a whine. Despite everything, you smiled. "You're lucky you're cute."

"So that's a yes?"

"That's a 'you're on thin ice, Hughes.'"

He laughed, the sound relieved, and pulled you into a tight hug. You wrapped your arms around his waist, breathing in his cologne and the faint smell of the detergent he used. He was warm and solid and yours, and you felt him relax against you.

"I really am sorry," he murmured into your hair.

"I know."

"I'll make it up to you."

"Oh yeah?" You pulled back to look at him, eyebrow raised. "How?"

His eyes darkened slightly, a smile playing at his lips. "I have some ideas."

"Luke Hughes, are you trying to distract me?"

"Is it working?" His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer.

You bit your lip, fighting a smile. "Maybe."

He kissed you again, deeper this time, walking you backward until your legs hit the bed. You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss further, his tongue sliding against yours.

"Luke," you breathed when he moved to your neck. "There's a party—"

"Don't care." He sucked lightly at the sensitive spot below your ear. "Need to show you how sorry I am."

"They'll notice we're gone—"

"Let them notice." His hands slipped under your shirt, warm against your skin. "I need you to know that you're the only one I want. The only one I see."

Your resolve was crumbling rapidly. "We should probably—oh—" He bit down gently on your collarbone, soothing it with his tongue.

"Should probably what?" His voice was low, teasing.

"I don't remember." You pulled him back up to kiss him properly, pouring everything into it—your forgiveness, your love, your frustration, your desire.

He responded in kind, laying you back on the bed, his body covering yours. "I love you," he said between kisses. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"Show me," you challenged.

And he did.

Later, much later, you emerged from the bedroom, hair messy and clothes rumpled. Jack took one look at you both and groaned.

"Seriously? At Nico's place?"

Quinn just shook his head, amused. "Told you. Hughes brothers don't do anything halfway."

Luke didn't even look embarrassed. He just pulled you closer, kissing your temple, and you felt him smile against your skin.

"Worth it," he whispered, just for you.

You looked up at him, seeing nothing but love and contentment in his eyes. The jealousy was gone, replaced by certainty. Security.

"Yeah," you agreed, lacing your fingers through his. "Worth it."

And when Simon approached later to continue your conversation, Luke's arm stayed loose around your waist, his smile genuine as he joined in. Progress, you thought. It was progress.

Baby steps toward something lasting, something real.

You squeezed Luke's hand, and he squeezed back.

Yeah. Definitely worth it.

[snoopy-hughes]

hiii !! ♡

just popping in to say i finally made a new form !!!

you can use it for any fic requests you have <3 my requests tab here has been acting up, so this felt like the best fix !

i’m super excited to create for you all — send me anything you’ve been wanting to see !! ✧

FORM

[snoopy-hughes]

The Distance Between Shifts

Warnings: mild swearing, light angst, themes of anxiety

Word count: 2,050

Summary: While you secretly pack to transfer to San Jose State, your silence sends Will into a slow spiral. He turns to Macklin Celebrini and Tyler & Cat Toffoli for reassurance, only for you to show up at his apartment with the truth — and a future closer to him.

Notes: This is one of my first works ever so please bare with me. i 100% want constructive criticism so leave advise in the comments. I have my requests here so please request!!! and when you do be as detailed as you want! i just dont do smut. also heres my masterlist so check it out!!

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Day 1 — Boston

You don’t mean to disappear on him.

It starts with one email — Your transfer to San Jose State University has been approved — and suddenly your entire life becomes a countdown. A list of deadlines. A mountain of forms. A dorm room that looks like a tornado hit it.

Your academic advisor is talking a mile a minute on the phone, you’re scribbling notes, and your laptop is buried under a pile of transfer paperwork.

Your phone buzzes on the bed.

Will: hey babe, how was class?

You glance at it, heart squeezing, but your advisor is still talking, and you tell yourself you’ll answer in five minutes.

Five minutes becomes an hour.

Then it’s midnight, and you’re surrounded by half‑packed boxes, exhausted and overwhelmed. You fall asleep without texting him back.

Day 2 — Boston

You wake up to three messages.

Will: you okay? Will: long day? Will: call me when you can ❤️

Guilt hits you hard.

You type out a reply — Sorry, crazy day, I’ll call you later — but you don’t send it. You want to tell him in person. You want the surprise to be perfect.

You shove your phone in your pocket and keep packing.

By evening, you’re knee‑deep in bubble wrap and stress. You miss another call. Then another. You tell yourself you’ll call him after you finish packing your desk.

You don’t.

Day 3 — San Jose

Will notices.

He’s not dramatic at first. He just frowns at his phone between drills, checks it again in the locker room, then again in the car.

By the time he gets home, he’s pacing.

Macklin Celebrini watches him from the couch. “Dude. You’re wearing a hole in the floor.”

“She hasn’t answered in three days,” Will mutters. “Three.”

“Maybe she’s busy.”

“She’s always busy. She still texts.”

Mack pauses the movie. “Come here.”

Will reluctantly sits.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Mack says. “You’re overthinking.”

Will stares at the floor. “Feels like I did.”

Mack bumps his shoulder. “You’re allowed to miss her. You’re not allowed to assume she hates you.”

Will huffs out a humorless laugh. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Will doesn’t sleep well that night.

Day 4 — San Jose

He tries to distract himself.

Practice. Video review. A workout. A nap that doesn’t happen.

By evening, he’s staring at his phone again.

Will: hey. just checking in. Will: i’m starting to worry. Will: please tell me you’re okay.

Nothing.

He caves.

He calls Tyler Toffoli.

Tyler answers immediately. “What’s up, kid?”

Will tries to sound casual. “Nothing. Just… wanted to ask something.”

Tyler snorts. “You sound like you’re about to confess to a crime.”

Will groans. “It’s not— okay, maybe it’s kind of like that.”

“Hang on,” Tyler says. “Cat’s better at this emotional stuff.”

There’s a shuffle, then Cat Toffoli’s warm voice comes through. “Hi sweetheart. What’s going on?”

Will exhales shakily. “She hasn’t answered me in four days.”

“Oh, Will.”

“I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Cat’s voice softens. “Long distance is brutal. Silence doesn’t always mean something’s wrong.”

“But what if it does?”

“If she was done with you,” Tyler calls from somewhere in the background, “she’d tell you. Trust me.”

Cat swats him (you can hear it). “Ignore him. Listen — you’re allowed to feel scared. But don’t jump to the worst conclusion.”

Will rubs his face. “I just… I miss her.”

“I know,” Cat says gently. “Give it a little more time.”

He hangs up feeling worse.

Day 5 — Morning — Boston → San Jose

You’re at the airport at 6 a.m., running on two hours of sleep and pure adrenaline.

Your phone buzzes again.

Will: i’m really worried now. please just tell me you’re okay.

You close your eyes, guilt twisting your stomach.

You’ll tell him soon. In person. It’ll be worth it.

You hope.

Day 5 — Afternoon — San Jose

Will is sitting on the couch, staring at the wall, phone in hand. He hasn’t eaten. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t stopped checking his notifications.

Mack sits beside him. “You’re spiraling.”

“I know.”

“You need to breathe.”

“I can’t.”

Mack sighs. “She loves you. She’ll call.”

Will doesn’t answer.

He’s too busy imagining every worst-case scenario.

So when there’s a knock at the door, he barely reacts.

Mack gets up, opens it—

And freezes.

“Uh,” he says. “Will? You might want to get over here.”

Will looks up.

And his heart stops.

You’re standing in the doorway, suitcase behind you, backpack slung over your shoulder, eyes soft and nervous and hopeful.

“Hi,” you say.

Will is on his feet instantly.

“You’re— you’re here?” His voice cracks. “You’re actually—”

You nod, tears pricking your eyes. “Surprise.”

He crosses the room in three long strides and pulls you into his arms, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You melt into him, burying your face in his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head, pulling back just enough to cup your face. “Are you okay? Did something happen? Did I—”

“No,” you say quickly. “No, you didn’t do anything. I’ve been packing. I transferred. I’m going to San Jose State.”

Will blinks. “You— what?”

“I wanted to tell you in person,” you say, voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… I wanted to be here. With you.”

For a moment, he can’t speak.

Then he kisses you — soft, slow, desperate — like he’s trying to make up for every day he didn’t get to.

Mack clears his throat loudly. “I’m still here.”

Will doesn’t look away from you. “Don’t care.”

Later — Couch

You’re curled up against him, his arm around you, your head on his chest.

“You really scared me,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“I thought I messed up.”

“You didn’t. I was overwhelmed. And scared. And guilty. And… everything.”

He kisses your forehead. “Next time, just tell me. Even one text.”

You nod. “I promise.”

After a moment, you nudge him. “So… you called Tyler and Cat?”

He groans. “Don’t.”

“You were spiraling.”

“Stop.”

“You probably paced around the apartment like a sad golden retriever.”

“I hate you.”

You grin. “No, you don’t.”

He kisses you again, soft and warm. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I really don’t.”

You settle against him, fingers intertwined, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

For the first time in days, everything feels right.

[snoopy-hughes]

Something About the Way He Looks at You

Luke Hughes X CollegeReader

Warnings: None ( ;

Word count: 1,600

Summary: A chance collision on campus turns into a quiet, steady romance as you fall for Luke Hughes—not the hockey star everyone sees, but the thoughtful, constant presence who chooses you again and again despite distance, pressure, and fame.

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You meet Luke Hughes in the least cinematic way possible.

You’re late, carrying an iced coffee that’s already sweating through the cup, shoulder aching from the weight of your backpack, when you slam straight into someone tall enough that your face hits his chest before your brain can register what’s happening.

“Oh—shit—sorry,” you blurt, hands instinctively grabbing onto his hoodie so you don’t fall backward.

He laughs. Not awkwardly. Not annoyed. Just an easy, breathy laugh that makes your stomach flip before you even look up.

“It’s okay,” he says. “That was kinda my fault too.”

You do look up then, and your brain short-circuits.

Because it’s him.

Luke Hughes. New Jersey Devils defenseman. One of those Hughes brothers. The one everyone argues about being underrated because he doesn’t crave attention the way Jack does, or command it the way Quinn does.

He’s taller than you expect—broad shoulders, relaxed posture, dark hair curling slightly under a baseball cap pulled low. He looks… normal. Like a college guy who wandered into the wrong building.

Which, to be fair, he kind of has.

You realize you’re still holding onto his hoodie.

“Oh—sorry,” you say again, dropping your hands immediately, cheeks burning.

He grins, and it’s soft. Warm. Disarming.

“No worries. You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Yeah. Just late.”

“For class?”

“Unfortunately.”

He hums in agreement like that’s a shared experience, even though you’re pretty sure NHL players don’t stress about midterms.

“Same,” he says anyway.

You blink. “You’re in college?”

“Taking classes,” he replies. “Part-time. Online stuff. Trying to pretend I have a normal life.”

That makes you laugh before you can stop yourself.

“Good luck with that.”

He shrugs, smile widening. “Worth a shot.”

There’s a beat where neither of you move, just standing there in the hallway, students passing around you like water flowing around stones. You notice his eyes—brown, focused, curious—watching you like you’re not just another face.

“I’m Luke,” he says finally.

“I know,” you admit, immediately mortified. “I mean—sorry—that sounded weird. I’m just—yeah. I’m—” You tell him your name, rambling, then force yourself to stop.

He doesn’t seem put off. If anything, he looks amused.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “Even if it was a full collision.”

You don’t expect to see him again.

That’s the thing about people like Luke Hughes—they feel like a moment, not a possibility. A fun story you tell your friends later. You’ll never guess who I literally ran into today.

Except then you see him again.

At the campus coffee shop two days later. He’s sitting at a corner table, laptop open, headphones around his neck, tapping his fingers against a cup like he’s restless.

You hesitate.

Then he looks up and spots you.

His face lights up so obviously that it makes your chest tighten.

“Hey,” he says, standing slightly like he’s not sure whether to wave or not. “Collision girl.”

You laugh. “Luke Hughes.”

“Guilty.”

“Did you follow me here?”

He pretends to think about it. “Maybe. Or maybe this is just the best coffee spot near campus.”

You eye his drink. “That’s a cold brew with oat milk.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that… bad?”

“No,” you say. “It’s just… very college of you.”

“Hey,” he says defensively. “I’m trying to blend in.”

You end up sitting with him.

It’s supposed to be five minutes. Just polite conversation. Then you’re supposed to leave.

Instead, you talk for over an hour.

Luke is… not what people expect. He’s quieter than his brothers, but not shy. Thoughtful. Observant. He listens like he actually wants to understand, not just respond. He asks about your major, your classes, your plans after graduation.

When you ask about hockey, he answers honestly—about the pressure of living up to a name, about the adjustment to the NHL, about how defense doesn’t always get the spotlight but it’s where he feels most in control.

“I like seeing the whole ice,” he says. “Knowing where everyone’s supposed to be. Anticipating things before they happen.”

You realize, suddenly, that he’s doing the same thing with you. Reading you. Watching your reactions. Filing them away.

When you finally stand to leave, your phone buzzes with a reminder you’ve been ignoring.

“I should go,” you say reluctantly.

“Yeah,” he says, just as reluctant. “Same.”

There’s an awkward pause.

Then: “Can I get your number?”

Your heart stutters.

“Yeah,” you say, trying not to sound too eager. “I mean—yeah.”

Luke texts you that night.

did you make it to class or did i distract you

You smile at your phone like an idiot.

barely. i blame you

worth it

From there, it becomes… something.

Not official. Not dramatic. Just consistent.

Coffee between classes. Late-night texts when he’s on the road. Study sessions where he doesn’t actually help much but keeps you company anyway. Watching games together when he’s home, you pretending not to notice how electric it feels sitting beside him on the couch, thighs brushing.

He’s careful with you. Thoughtful. He never pushes, never assumes.

But the tension builds anyway.

It’s in the way his hand lingers on your lower back when he guides you through a crowd. The way his knee presses against yours under the table. The way his voice drops when he says your name.

You notice the way people look at him when you’re out together. The recognition. The whispers.

He notices too.

“Does that bother you?” he asks once, quietly, when someone asks for a picture and you step aside.

You shake your head. “It’s your life.”

He watches you closely. “And you’re okay being in it?”

The question feels heavier than it sounds.

You meet his gaze. “Yeah.”

Something shifts after that.

The first time he kisses you, it’s after a game.

A win. A good one. He played well—blocked shots, clean passes, steady presence on the ice. You watched from the stands, heart in your throat every time he took a hit.

After, he’s buzzing. Adrenaline still coursing through him.

He finds you in the hallway outside the locker room, hair damp, hoodie thrown on hastily, eyes bright.

“You came,” he says, like he didn’t fully believe you would.

“Of course I did.”

He pulls you into a hug without thinking, arms wrapping around you, face buried in your hair. You can feel his heartbeat, fast and strong.

When he pulls back, you’re close. Too close to ignore it anymore.

“Luke,” you start.

“I know,” he says quietly.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s warm and deep and deliberate. Like he’s been holding back and finally decided not to.

His hands rest at your waist, grounding, protective. When you kiss back, he exhales softly, like relief.

The world feels smaller afterward. More focused.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he admits, forehead resting against yours.

“Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”

Dating Luke Hughes is… intense in ways you don’t expect.

Not dramatic. Not chaotic.

Just real.

He’s busy. His schedule is brutal. There are road trips and practices and days where you only hear from him late at night.

But when he’s present, he’s present.

He remembers your exams. Your favorite takeout. The way you get quiet when you’re overwhelmed. He shows up to your apartment with snacks and coffee after a long week, curls up beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He’s affectionate in private—arms around you, forehead kisses, hands always finding you. In public, he’s subtle but unmistakably yours.

You learn his tells. The way he bounces his leg when he’s nervous. The way he gets more talkative when he’s comfortable. The way he softens completely when it’s just the two of you.

The first time you sleep together, it’s slow and careful and intense.

Luke checks in constantly—quiet questions, soft touches, making sure you’re okay. When he finally loses control, it’s in the way his grip tightens, the way he murmurs your name like it means something deeper.

After, he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You okay?” he asks, thumb tracing lazy circles on your arm.

You smile sleepily. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

The hardest part is the distance.

The nights you fall asleep alone. The games you watch from your phone. The ache of missing someone who feels woven into your routine.

One night, after a rough loss, he calls you.

He sounds tired. Frustrated.

“I hate not being there,” he admits.

“With me or with the team?” you ask gently.

“Both.”

You let him talk. About pressure. About expectations. About feeling like he has to constantly prove himself.

“You don’t,” you say. “Not to me.”

He goes quiet.

“That’s why I need you,” he says softly.

By the time you turn twenty-one, you realize this isn’t just a college fling.

It’s Luke texting you first after every game. Luke flying you out when he can. Luke introducing you to his brothers like it matters.

Jack teases him relentlessly. Quinn gives you a knowing smile.

“You make him happy,” Quinn says at one point, quietly.

You nod. “He makes me happy too.”

Luke squeezes your hand under the table like he heard you.

Maybe he did.

People will always see Luke Hughes as a name. A jersey. A stat line.

But you know him as the guy who runs into you in hallways, who drinks oat milk cold brew, who watches you like you’re the most important thing in the room.

And when he looks at you like that, you know—

This isn’t temporary.

It’s just the beginning.

Luke doesn’t promise forever out loud, but he shows it—in the quiet drives, the steady hand, the way he always looks back for you. You learn that love doesn’t have to be loud to be certain. Sometimes it’s just consistent, patient, and choosing each other again, every single day. With him, that feels like everything. And it always will. For you.

[snoopy-hughes]

Skating on the Edge

Matthew Schaefer x reader

Warnings: Angst, financial burden, angry Schaef

Word count: 7,500

Summary: [yn] is just trying to survive college and two jobs when she meets Matthew Schaefer—but keeping her struggles a secret might cost her more than she thinks.

Notes: This is one of my first works ever let alone long asf work so please bare with me. i 100% want constructive criticism so leave advise in the comments. I have my requests here so please request!!! and when you do be as detailed as you want! i just dont do smut. also heres my masterlist so check it out!!

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Rookie Camp

The first time you see him, Matthew Schaefer is already drawing attention without trying. You’re balancing your backpack and a coffee that’s already sweating through the cardboard sleeve when he bumps into you in the hallway, tall enough that your shoulder collides with his chest before your brain can catch up.

“Oh—shit, sorry!” you gasp, clutching your iced coffee like it’s a lifeline.

He leans back just enough to look at you, a lopsided grin playing across his face. “No, it’s my bad. Didn’t see you there.” His voice is calm, casual, like he’s talking to an old friend instead of someone he’s never met.

You nod, muttering something that probably doesn’t make sense. You’re used to these moments. It’s easier to be invisible—especially when you’re here working the camp, helping with equipment, passing out water, and taking notes for the coaches, just to scrape together enough money for school. Matthew has no idea. He just assumes you’re a normal teen, a volunteer, or a team helper. He doesn’t need to know how every penny matters, how skipping the bus or extra food is part of your reality.

He tilts his head, scanning you like he’s trying to place where he’s seen you before. “Are you with the team? Rookie camp?”

“Yeah,” you say, shrugging. “Well… kind of. I’m helping out.”

“Helping out?” he asks, intrigued. “Like… volunteer?”

You nod, trying to sound casual. “Something like that. Keeps me busy.”

“Cool. I’m Matt.” He sticks out his hand. The gesture is casual, but the heat from his palm when you shake it lingers.

“[Y/n],” you say, careful to keep your tone neutral. Neutral works best. Neutral keeps people from looking too closely.

The rookie camp is chaotic. You’ve been here for what feels like ten minutes and already witnessed more puck slaps, stick twirls, and sideways glances than you thought a team of eighteen-year-olds and twenty-somethings could produce. And then there’s Matthew—effortless in the chaos, balancing humor and focus with a confidence you can’t help but notice.

Later that day, he finds you again. This time by the lockers, juggling a bag of gear and the clipboard you’ve borrowed for recording drills.

“Hey, [y/n], right?” he asks, leaning against the locker beside yours. “I saw you in the drill earlier. You’ve got good instincts.”

You blink. Compliments feel weird. Flattering, yes, but suspiciously easy. You nod, saying, “Thanks. You’re… pretty good too.” Because he is, obviously. You’ve watched him move with the kind of grace that makes it look like the ice bends to his will.

He grins. “Thanks. Guess that’s rookie camp luck, huh?”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Or maybe I just got lucky spotting you in a hallway.”

Matthew laughs, a sound that makes something in your chest tense and flutter. “You’re bold.”

“I survive,” you say. It’s vague, dismissive, and somehow completely honest without giving anything away.

Over the next few days, he finds reasons to talk to you. Nothing overt—he’s not the type to storm up and demand attention—but little moments: shared water bottles after practice, inside jokes about drills, quick text messages about schedules or tips for surviving long days on ice. He’s earnest, awkwardly confident, and somehow he makes your half-smiles and careful words feel… easy.

You keep your guard up. Always. Because life hasn’t been kind, and no one’s ever seen the real version of you. You’ve learned to survive quietly: walk when you can’t afford the bus, order water instead of coffee because you’re counting every dollar, dodge expensive social outings like they’re landmines. Matthew doesn’t know. And you’re not ready for him to.

Still, when he smiles at you across the rink, that grin tilting just a little crookedly, you feel a flicker of something dangerous—hope, maybe.

One afternoon, during a break in drills, you’re sitting on the bench scrolling through your phone while tallying hours worked for the camp when Matthew plops down beside you.

“Hey,” he says casually, but the way he looks at you makes your stomach knot. “Wanna grab dinner later? Not team stuff, just… food. My treat.”

You blink. “Uh… I don’t know. I’ve got—”

“Nothing. You’ve got nothing,” he interrupts with a grin, more confident than he should be for someone who’s still a rookie. “You need a break from studying or… whatever the hell you’re doing.”

You glance away, heart thumping. You’re not supposed to let yourself feel this. Not supposed to like someone who probably has a life so far removed from yours it might as well be another planet. And yet… you say yes.

Because maybe, just maybe, you deserve a night that isn’t about surviving.

~

The start of the season hits fast, the locker room buzzing with energy and low-level chaos that only professional hockey can generate. Matthew glides through it like he belongs, confident but not cocky, greeting teammates with half-smiles and nods while you hover in the background, clipboard in hand.

You’re here officially now—not just helping out at rookie camp—but working permanently as a stats assistant for the Islanders. You got the job a week after camp, walking nervously into Coach Davis’ office to hear the offer.

“[Y/n], hey, got a minute?” he called you over after everyone left the rink.

“Yeah, of course,” you said, trying to hide how fast your heart was beating.

“We were talking after camp,” he began, leaning on the edge of the rink, “and the staff really liked how you handled the stats and drill tracking. Very organized, good instincts, detail-oriented… basically everything we need for the upcoming season.”

You bit your lip. “I… wow. That’s… really great, Coach. I didn’t expect…”

Coach Davis chuckled. “I know you’ve been working hard, and we figured you’d be a good fit. Now, about pay: it’s $15 an hour, 20 hours a week. Not much, I know, but steady, and it’ll be official experience on your resume. Plus, it keeps you in the building, which I know you like.”

$15 an hour. Modest. Not enough to cover everything, but it’s a start. You nod quickly. “Yes. I’ll take it. Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

“You won’t,” Coach Davis said with a grin. “We’re excited to have you on board. Start Monday, same time as camp hours, but officially now. Any questions?”

You shake your head. “No, I… I’ll be ready.”

The problem, of course, isn’t getting the job—it’s that one job isn’t enough. Between this stats assistant role and your night shifts at the 24-hour diner, every day is a balancing act. Rent, tuition, groceries, and… your car.

The old sedan you rely on has been coughing and rattling for months, and last week the mechanic told you it desperately needs a new starter and brakes. A repair like that is hundreds of dollars—more than you can spare right now. So you keep driving it anyway, crossing your fingers with every turn of the key, budgeting every dollar from your diner tips and stats assistant paycheck, hoping something won’t break and leave you stranded.

Matthew has no idea. He doesn’t need to know. Not yet.

Yet somehow, he keeps finding excuses to talk to you.

“Hey,” he says one morning, leaning against the rink wall as you tally warm-up times. “Did you catch last night’s game?”

“I… watched highlights,” you mumble, trying to sound casual. Between late-night shifts, early practices, and worrying about your car making it to both jobs, staying awake long enough to watch a full game isn’t always possible.

“Highlights, huh? Come on, you’re supposed to be a superfan now,” he teases, smiling like he knows you’re lying.

“I’m more of a… practical fan,” you quip, shrugging.

“Practical, huh? I like that. Fits you,” he says, tilting his head. His gaze lingers just long enough for your heart to speed up, and you look down at your clipboard, pretending to focus on stats for the drill.

By the second week of the season, the players are already whispering about “Matt’s new thing.” No one ever says anything to you directly, but you hear names floating in the locker room: Anders, Bo, Ryan, Kyle. You pretend not to care.

And then the WAGs start mentioning you. Mostly innocuous stuff at first. “Oh, have you met the new girl Matthew’s seeing? Sweet girl.” Or, “You’ll have to come to our next brunch. Wives’ thing. It’s going to be fun.”

Fun. Something that’s supposed to be enjoyable but feels impossible when you’re juggling two jobs, worrying about your old car, walking home at night, and carefully counting every cent. You deflect with smiles, nods, and excuses that sound reasonable without giving the truth away. Matthew notices you deflect, but he doesn’t probe too hard, trusting your quiet confidence and brushing off his curiosity with “she’s just busy, she’ll join when she can.”

It’s a delicate balance. You enjoy being with him—actual dates, conversations, small moments—but every interaction is tempered by guilt. You want to tell him the truth about the scholarships, the night shifts, the barely-there apartment, and the car that might die on any given day—but you don’t. Not yet.

One night, after a practice, Matthew pulls you aside as the team heads to dinner.

“Hey,” he says, shifting on the balls of his feet, nervous energy betraying his usual confidence. “I was thinking… maybe next weekend we could grab something to eat, just us. No camp, no schedule, nothing. You in?”

You glance at him, heart doing that stupid flutter again. “Yeah… yeah, I’d like that.”

He smiles, relieved. “Good. We’ll make it happen.”

Later, walking home after practice, you can’t help but think about how easily he fits into your world. Too easily. And yet, that ease is dangerous. Because if he ever figured out how precarious your life really is—how you juggle the stats assistant job, wait tables at night, and the constant fear that your car might leave you stranded—he might not understand. You can’t let that happen.

Meanwhile, the whispers keep coming. Players joking in the locker room, asking about you. Matthew is protective, subtle but firm. He laughs off comments from the guys, deflects teasing with a casual, “She’s fine, don’t worry about it,” the way someone who’s already smitten would. He doesn’t know how close he is to being right. You’re fine—well, on the surface. Inside, you’re a storm of deadlines, bank balances, and quiet fear of being exposed.

A few weeks later, you meet Matthew at a coffee shop before practice. He waves you over, grinning like he just discovered something incredible.

“Hey, [y/n],” he says. “You ever think about just… taking a day off? Doing something fun?”

You blink at him. “Fun?”

“Yeah. Fun. Not work, not school, not stress. Just… me, you, maybe a walk or something.”

You hesitate, heart thudding, because a day off costs money. Money you don’t have. But his expression—hopeful, earnest, awkwardly charming—makes it impossible to say no.

“I… yeah. I think I could do that,” you say softly, and he grins like you’ve just accepted the greatest offer in the world.

It’s small, but it feels revolutionary. To someone like you, who’s lived every day with a ledger of costs in your head and a car that might break down at any second, just saying yes to a moment of normalcy is terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

Matthew doesn’t know the full story. He doesn’t know that the next day, when you leave practice, you’ll walk three miles home because you can’t afford a ride. He doesn’t know that your coffee order will always be water because even a latte is a luxury. And for now, you like it that way. For now, he only sees [y/n], the girl who laughs at his jokes, takes an interest in his rookie season, and somehow, makes him feel lighter.

~

The city lights stretch across the glass walls of the hotel lobby, casting long reflections on the marble floor. You and Matthew step inside, the warmth of the building contrasting the sharp bite of winter outside. He reaches for your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles, nervous but trying to hide it.

“So…” he begins, voice low and almost hesitant, “I really want you to come to the New Year’s Eve party tonight. All the team, the WAGs, the celebration… I want you there. With me.”

You blink, hesitation flooding you. “I… I don’t know, Matt. That’s… not something I can really afford.”

He frowns, confused. “Wait, what? You wouldn’t have to pay for anything. Just… come with me. For me. Please?”

Your chest tightens. Parties, fancy dresses, Uber rides, champagne—all luxuries you can’t justify. But he’s looking at you like this is important, like you are important, and something inside softens.

“Okay,” you whisper finally, “I… I’ll try. For you.”

His grin is immediate, warm, almost giddy. “Yes! That’s all I ask. You won’t regret it.”

Inside the ballroom, the soft hum of laughter and conversation fills the air. He threads you through the crowd, and when he stops at a group of teammates, he clears his throat.

“Hey, guys,” he says, a little awkwardly but proudly, “this is [y/n]. My… girlfriend. I’m really glad she’s here tonight.”

Boqvist raises an eyebrow, smiling. “Girlfriend? Finally! Nice to meet you.”

You nod, smiling politely. Kyle Palmieri grins. “Good to meet you, [y/n]. Matthew’s been… distracted all season.”

He shoots them a playful glare, but then glances at you, eyes soft. You notice the way he beams when he talks about you, and for a moment, all the nerves in the room fade.

Then, Jessica Lee sweeps in, bright and sparkling, eyes immediately on you. “Oh! You’re just the person we wanted to see. Can we steal [y/n] for a minute? Come hang with us!”

You stiffen. “Uh… I—”

Matthew’s hand tightens over yours. “Go on. They just want to include you.”

You glance at him, unsure. “I… I don’t know if—”

“Go,” he insists, soft but firm. “I’ll be right here when you’re done. You should just… try it. Please?”

Reluctantly, you let Jessica pull you into the WAGs’ circle.

They chatter immediately, joking about spa weekends, holiday shopping, brunches—all luxuries that make your chest tighten. You sip water, nod politely, laughing quietly at stories you’ve never experienced.

“Actually, we should all go out tomorrow,” Jessica says after a beat. “Hair, nails, shopping, lunch… it’ll be fun.”

Your stomach twists. “I… I don’t think I can. That’s… really not something I can do.”

Before you can protest again, Matthew appears beside you, hand brushing yours, earnest and insistent. “You should go,” he says softly. “It’ll be good for you. Trust me. You’ll like it.”

You hesitate, anxiety twisting in your chest, the reality of money and schedules screaming at you. But you can’t say no to him—not now. “Okay,” you murmur reluctantly. “I… I’ll go.”

Matthew’s relief is immediate, a small, satisfied grin tugging at his lips. “Good. You won’t regret it. I promise.”

The rest of the night, you stick close to him, hovering near the WAGs, laughing softly at his jokes, sipping water, keeping your distance from champagne and desserts. The girls’ day idea lingers in the back of your mind like a shadowed promise—but for now, you’re safe. You’re with him, and that’s enough.

~

The morning sun is sharp as you step into Jessica Lee’s sleek black SUV. She’s waving from the driver’s seat, phone in hand, energy practically radiating off the leather seats.

“Good morning, [y/n]! Ready for girls’ day?” she chirps.

“Yeah… sure,” you murmur, keeping your voice low.

Erin Boqvist leans forward from the backseat, grinning. “First time? Don’t worry. We’ll show you how it works. Fun guaranteed.”

You nod faintly, gripping your water bottle like a lifeline. Every laugh, every joke, every bubble of energy feels like a reminder of a world you don’t belong in.

Hair Salon

The stylist greets you warmly, clipboard in hand. Jessica flops into her chair.

“So, [y/n], what are we doing today?” she asks brightly.

“Just… watching,” you murmur, twisting your hands in your lap.

Erin leans over, whispering, “Watching? Really? She’s not doing anything?”

Jessica frowns. “I mean… most people get at least a trim or blowout. This is… strange.”

You force a small smile. “Yeah… just… watching today.”

Jessica whispers to Erin, frowning. “She’s barely interacting. Weird, right?”

You sip water quietly as the salon hums with dryers and chatter. Every product, every style, every joke about colors and treatments feels foreign.

Jessica leans over. “Do you want highlights or anything?”

“I… I’m fine,” you say softly.

Erin murmurs, frowning. “Okay… well… fine, I guess.”

Jessica pulls out her phone and types quickly. Texting Anders: “Something’s off with [y/n]. She’s barely participating and not saying much.”

Anders POV — Mid-Morning

Anders sits in his office, phone buzzing. He reads Jessica’s text and frowns.

“Something’s off with [y/n]. She’s barely participating. Not talking. Barely eating. What do we do?”

He types back quickly: “Keep observing. Make sure she’s comfortable. If anything escalates, Matthew should know.”

He leans back, scrolling through the Isles’ team news, but his mind keeps wandering to the text chain. He knows Matthew loves [y/n], and if something is wrong, Matthew would want to know.

Another text from Jessica arrives: “Okay. I’ll keep an eye. She seems… fine physically, but I don’t know. She’s… quiet.”

Anders sighs, frowning. “If he doesn’t notice soon, maybe I should just tell him. I don’t want her struggling without him knowing.”

He sets the phone down, running a hand through his hair. For now, all he can do is wait, hope she’s okay, and make sure Jessica doesn’t misread the situation.

Nail Salon

You trail behind slightly, curling your hands in your lap. The WAGs chatter excitedly around you, choosing colors, showing off past manicures.

“Pink ombré? Glitter tips? You have to try something!” Jessica says.

“I… I’m fine,” you reply softly.

Erin leans forward. “No color? Nothing at all?”

“I just… want to watch,” you murmur.

Jessica types quickly. “Sent Anders another message. He says to keep an eye, make sure she’s okay. Probably wants Matthew to know too.”

Erin whispers, “She’s sitting there quietly, not talking, not choosing anything. We’re including her, and she’s just… sitting there. Weird.”

You sip water again, forcing a polite smile, wishing you could disappear.

Lunch

The restaurant is luxurious: polished silverware, sparkling glasses, and fragrant aromas. Menus are opened and scrutinized by the WAGs.

Jessica leans forward. “So… what are you having, [y/n]?”

“Water… that’s fine,” you say quietly, hands folded in your lap.

Erin raises an eyebrow. “No appetizer? No entrée?”

“I… I’m okay,” you murmur.

Jessica glances at her phone again, whispering, “Texting Anders. She’s barely eating anything, barely speaking. Something’s definitely off.”

Anders’ phone buzzes. He reads Jessica’s text mid-meeting with a teammate. “She’s barely participating. Not talking. Matthew might want to know.”

He types back quickly: “Got it. I’ll keep an eye. I’ll talk to Matthew if it escalates.”

Erin whispers, “She’s barely interacting. This is… strange. She’s not rude, but she’s not participating at all.”

You tuck your hands into your lap, nodding faintly, trying to keep your breathing even. Every moment feels like walking on ice.

Shopping

Boutiques filled with designer handbags and shoes. You trail quietly behind, fingertips brushing racks without touching anything.

“Oh come on, [y/n], just pick something up,” Jessica says, holding up a sparkling purse.

“I… I’m fine,” you murmur softly.

Erin tilts her head. “Not even looking?”

“Just… looking,” you reply.

Jessica glances at her phone again. Texting Anders: “She’s walking around quietly, barely engaging. Keep observing. Let Matthew know if needed.”

Anders reads it and sighs, frowning. “If Matthew doesn’t notice soon, I’ll have to say something. She shouldn’t struggle alone.”

You sip water again, forcing a faint smile, keeping pace. Every sparkle, every comment about bags and shoes, every whispered glance is a spotlight on you, and you shrink further into yourself.

Finally, the day ends. You slip outside, breathing in the crisp evening air. Matthew is waiting.

“Hey,” he murmurs, draping an arm around your shoulders. “How’s it going?”

“Great… really great,” you say quickly, forcing a small smile.

“I know it was… a lot,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But you handled it. Proud of you.”

You nod, leaning against him. “Thanks… for making me go.”

“Always. I just… want you to be part of this world too,” he says softly.

Anders POV — Evening

Anders sits in the Isles’ lounge, scrolling through messages from Jessica.

“She’s barely participating, barely talking, barely eating. Something’s off.”

He leans back, frowning. He knows Matthew is protective of [y/n]. He types quickly: “If he doesn’t notice soon, I should probably say something. She shouldn’t struggle alone.”

Jessica replies quickly: “Yes, but let’s watch for now. Don’t stress him yet.”

Anders sets the phone down. His mind lingers on [y/n]’s quiet behavior from the texts, the worry building in him. Matthew hasn’t noticed everything yet—but Anders knows cracks are forming.

~

You fidget with your hands when Matthew comes into your apartment, a small bag swinging from his hand.

“Hey…” he says, holding it out. “I thought… maybe these could help. You’ve been walking so much lately.”

You freeze, chest tightening. “Matthew… I can’t… I don’t want you spending money on me. I’m… I just don’t want to be a burden.”

He steps closer, soft but firm. “You’re not a burden, [y/n]. I just want you to be comfortable. That’s all. I’m not trying to fix everything or spend a fortune. Just… shoes. That’s it.”

You bite your lip, swallowing hard. His earnest eyes make your resolve falter. You nod, letting him hand over the bag.

“Okay… thanks,” you whisper, quietly accepting them, hoping to avoid an argument that could lead to him noticing too much.

He sets the bag down and immediately notices your tension. “Hey… come here,” he murmurs. You let him pull you into a gentle hug. You can feel him relax against you, and the warmth is almost grounding.

“I just…” you start, then sigh. “I don’t want you to worry about me.”

Matthew presses a kiss to your temple. “I’m not worried about burden or money or any of that. I just… want you safe and happy. That’s it.”

You lean against him, letting yourself relax a little. After a moment, he scoops you up in his arms. “C’mon… let’s go to my place. I’ll make us dinner.”

“Matthew… you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupts softly, grinning. “You just… go with it.”

You laugh faintly, tension easing, as he carries you out.

At Matthew’s Place

In his kitchen, you help him chop vegetables, laugh at his attempts to follow a recipe, and tease him when he drops a piece of garlic on the floor.

“See? This is why you don’t trust me with knives,” you murmur, smiling despite yourself.

“Ha! And yet you didn’t notice me doing everything wrong,” he teases back, pressing a playful kiss to your cheek.

You feel… normal here. Safe. Warm. For a few hours, the outside world fades.

“You really didn’t have to buy the shoes,” you murmur later, sipping water.

“I know,” he says gently. “I just wanted to. And now you’ve got them, so no arguments.”

You glance at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks, Matthew.”

He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. “Always, [y/n]. Always.”

Later

After dinner, you sit together on the couch, him brushing your hair back as you lean against him. You don’t tell him about the late-night shifts, the car, the bills. But the shoes, the hugs, the quiet evening give you a little space to breathe.

Matthew, still sensing something is off, tucks you closer. He doesn’t know the full story yet, but he can feel the tension lingering around you.

Later, once you’re both comfortable, he pulls out his phone to Anders.

Matthew: Hey… she was really stressed about the shoes today. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. I don’t think she’s lying… but something’s going on.

Anders types back quickly: Yeah… the girls noticed too. Something’s off. She’s not participating. Be gentle… you’ll figure it out.

Matthew sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah… I’ll figure it out. I just… don’t want her to feel alone.”

~

Two weeks.

Matthew has tried every way to reach you. Texts. Calls. Messages at the rink. Even showing up hoping to see you in person. Each time, he’s met only silence. No replies, no explanations, nothing.

He’s tried to reason it out. Maybe you’re busy, maybe stressed with school, maybe avoiding the girls’ gossip fallout. But deep down, he feels something is wrong.

Matthew (thinking, pacing his apartment): Two weeks, [y/n]? Two weeks… what the hell is going on?

~

After practice one night, frustrated and anxious, he drives past your apartment. He notices the small, humble unit is dark — completely quiet.

Something catches his eye: a crumpled envelope pushed beneath the doorframe. Matthew gets out and picks it up. His stomach drops: it’s an eviction notice, dated a few days ago.

Matthew (breathing hard): Oh… God. She… she didn’t…

He frantically calls your number. Voicemail. Multiple times. He texts. No response.

For the first time, panic gnaws at him. The small clues he noticed before — water-only drinks, walking everywhere, patched jacket, light backpack — all click into place. Something serious has been going on this whole time.

~

Matthew slams his phone onto the passenger seat, breathing hard, and calls Anders.

“Dude,” he says as soon as Anders answers, voice tight. “I… I found the eviction notice. She’s gone. I can’t reach her. I don’t know where she is. Two weeks of… nothing. I feel like I’ve failed her.”

Anders is silent for a beat, then speaks calmly. “Alright… breathe. First, slow down. You didn’t fail her. You just… didn’t know. Now you know, and you’re going to help her. That’s what matters.”

Matthew runs a hand through his hair, frustration and worry churning. “I… I don’t even know where she is. Her apartment’s empty, her phone’s off, she’s ignoring me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Okay,” Anders says gently. “Step one: calm down. Step two: think. Where would she go? What does she have access to? And then… go find her. Be patient, but persistent. You’ve got this, Matthew. She trusts you. You’ll get to her.”

Matthew exhales slowly, trying to steady his heartbeat. Anders’ voice is grounding, his advice direct but supportive. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right. I just… I hate this. I hate not knowing if she’s okay.”

“I know,” Anders says. “But you’ll get your chance to fix it. Don’t rush the confrontation. Let her know you care first. Everything else follows.”

~

That night, Matthew drives around the small neighborhoods he knows you frequent: the diner, the little coffee shop, parks near campus. His worry doesn’t abate, but his resolve grows.

Matthew (thinking): I’ll find her. She’s not dealing with this alone. I don’t care what it takes.

He sits in his car, eyes on the empty streets, thinking about the water-only drinks, the worn shoes, the patchwork backpack. The subtle signs he didn’t fully process before now scream at him.

And for the first time, he fully realizes: she’s been struggling on her own, hiding everything from him, and he’s going to make sure she knows she doesn’t have to anymore.

~

Matthew drives through the quiet streets near campus, gripping the steering wheel tighter than he realizes. Anders’ words replay in his head: “She trusts you. You’ll get to her.”

But all he feels is worry. Every corner he turns, every small diner, every coffee shop she might have stopped at — empty. He’s been checking everywhere she could be, every place she’s ever mentioned she likes, hoping for even a glimpse of her.

He finally pulls into a small, dimly lit parking lot. And there it is — her old, beat-up car. The windows are fogged, and he can see a thin blanket in the back seat. A small backpack sits on the passenger seat, patched and worn.

Matthew’s stomach twists. His heart races. He jumps out of the car, running toward it.

“[y/n]?” His voice cracks with relief and worry. “Hey… it’s me.”

A small movement inside the car. You peek up, startled, eyes wide. “Matthew… I—”

He opens the door gently and crouches beside her. “Hey… it’s okay. I found you. I’m here.”

You shrink slightly, hugging your knees. “I… I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want—”

“You’re not a burden, [y/n]. Not ever. Do you hear me?” Matthew’s voice is firm but gentle. “I just… I was worried sick. I tried calling, texting… showing up at your apartment… nothing. And then I saw the notice, and… God, I had no idea.”

You bite your lip, looking away. “I… I can handle it. I have to. I can’t… I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me.”

Matthew sighs, softening, leaning closer. “This isn’t about feeling sorry. It’s about helping you. You don’t have to do this alone. I want to be here. I’ve got you, [y/n]. Always.”

A small tear slips down your cheek. “I… I’m scared.”

“I know,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back. “I know. And it’s okay to be scared. But you’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Anders’ Perspective (Foreshadowing / Support)

Earlier that evening, Anders had texted Matthew again after noticing his increasing frustration:

Anders: Hey man… breathe. You’ve been noticing the signs for weeks. You care, and you’re going to do right by her. Go find her. You’ve got this.

Matthew’s thumbs hover over the screen. Yeah… I hope I do.

~

Matthew opens the back door of the car and gently pulls you into a hug. “C’mon… let’s get somewhere safe. My place. We’ll figure out dinner, blankets… whatever you need.”

You cling to him, still trembling. “I don’t… I don’t want to… bother you.”

“You’re not a bother,” he insists, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

He helps you into his car, blankets and bag tucked safely. The ride to his place is quiet but comfortable, the soft hum of the engine grounding both of you.

Once inside his apartment, Matthew sets down a small bag of groceries he brought along. He drapes a blanket around your shoulders. “You’re okay now,” he murmurs. “We’ll fix this, together. No running, no hiding.”

You lean into him, finally letting a small, shaky laugh escape. “I… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“Don’t apologize,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m just glad you’re safe. We’ll figure everything else out.”

The tension in your chest eases just a little. You realize… maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to carry it all alone.

~

The apartment is quiet, warm from the heater, the hum of the fridge and the soft glow of the lamp filling the room. Matthew sits on the couch, hands wrapped around a mug of tea. You perch across from him, knees tucked to your chest, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

“I…” he begins, hesitating, trying to find the right words. “I can’t let you keep doing this. Sleeping in your car, trying to handle everything alone… it’s not fair to you.”

You shake your head vehemently. “Matthew… I can’t just move in. I can’t… I can’t rely on you. I’m not… that kind of person.”

“You wouldn’t be relying on me,” he says softly, leaning forward. “You’d be living with me, as my girlfriend. That’s normal. That’s… us. You’d have a safe place to sleep, food in the fridge, a bed. That’s not charity, [y/n]. That’s me being here for you.”

Your hands curl into fists in your lap. “But… what about bills? Electric, water… groceries? I can’t just—”

Matthew cuts you off gently, voice firm but calm. “Then we figure it out together. You don’t have to pay for everything right away. You don’t have to pay for anything if you can’t. I just want you safe. That’s all.”

You glance down, tugging at your hair, your pride warring with the relief and exhaustion in your chest. “I… I just can’t accept that. I don’t want to feel like I owe you everything.”

“You won’t,” he says, voice steady. “You’ll contribute in ways that matter — your company, your humor, your love. That’s it. That’s what matters to me. Money, bills… that’s not the issue. You being safe and with me is the only issue.”

You look up at him, eyes wide, trying to read his face. “And… you won’t be mad if I still work? Or if I… keep my routines?”

Matthew grins softly. “Of course not. I want you to keep being you. You work because you want to, not because you have to. I just want you safe and inside my walls where you belong.”

A silence falls between you, but it’s not heavy. It’s charged, but safe. Slowly, you nod. “Okay… I’ll… I’ll move in. But I’m… still me. I’ll still work, I’ll still help where I can.”

Matthew’s face lights up. “That’s all I need. You being you. Nothing else.”

That evening, after small unpacking of your essentials into a corner of the apartment, Matthew drags a blanket onto the floor and sits cross-legged, patting the space beside him.

“Come on,” he says with a small smile. “Couch is taken.”

You hesitate for a second, then crawl onto the blanket beside him. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, and you lean into his chest, feeling the warmth and the steady beat of his heart.

“Can we… just stay like this for a while?” you whisper.

“Always,” he murmurs. “You need a break. Let yourself breathe. Let me hold you for a bit.”

For the next hour, you do just that. No work, no worries, no expectations. You talk about small things: movies you want to watch, the new recipes you want to try, how funny some of the Islanders’ locker room moments were. He listens to you, laughs with you, teases you gently.

At one point, he picks you up, cradling you in his arms like a blanket of warmth. “I could get used to this,” he jokes softly, setting you down again gently.

You rest your head on his shoulder. “I could too,” you admit, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

They sit there for a long time, quietly, just holding each other. No words are necessary. The tension of the last weeks — the girls’ day, your silence, the hiding — seems to melt just a little, replaced with comfort and safety.

~

The smell of roast chicken and garlic fills the cozy dining room at the Lee house. Matthew sits close to you, his hand resting gently over yours under the table. Anders and Jessica watch carefully, giving you space, but their presence is reassuring.

After a few minutes of small talk, Jessica leans forward, her voice gentle. “You’ve had a lot going on lately, [y/n]. We could tell during girls’ day… and since then, you’ve been quieter. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

You glance at Matthew, and he gives your hand a small squeeze. That tiny gesture is enough to give you courage. Taking a deep breath, you nod.

“Okay… I’ll… I’ll tell you everything,” you say softly. “It’s… it’s a lot, so I hope you’ll bear with me.”

Matthew’s thumb brushes over your hand. “Take your time,” he says gently.

You begin, voice trembling slightly. “My parents… they’re… deadbeats. I’ve lived with them before, but I… I couldn’t go back. I just… I can’t rely on them. Ever. Not again. So after graduating early, I… I’ve had to do everything myself.”

Anders leans back, expression soft, listening without interruption. Jessica nods encouragingly.

“I… I’ve been working two jobs. One at the diner—night shifts, 24 hours… just trying to make rent and gas money. And then I got the stats assistant job here with the Islanders. That… that one pays less than I expected, but it’s permanent, so I keep it. I thought… I thought I could manage, and I didn’t want anyone to know because I didn’t want to burden anyone. Especially not Matthew.”

Matthew squeezes your hand, tightening slightly, but lets you continue.

“The girls’ day… I wasn’t ignoring them because I didn’t like them. I couldn’t afford any of it. Hair, nails, shopping, lunch… I just… I couldn’t. I tried to be polite, but I couldn’t participate. I didn’t want anyone to know, so I pretended. And that’s… why I’ve been avoiding everyone, even Matthew, for the past two weeks. I… I lost my apartment. I got an eviction notice. I… I’ve been living in my car. Just… surviving. And I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Tears slip down your cheeks, but you keep going. “I’ve been scared… scared of losing Matthew, scared of people thinking I’m weak or… incapable. I just… I didn’t know how to tell anyone. And I thought I could handle it alone. But… I couldn’t. Not really.”

You pause, voice breaking. “That’s everything. I… I’m so sorry for hiding it.”

Matthew leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours gently. “Shh… look at me,” he whispers. “You are not a burden, ever. Not to me, not to anyone. You did what you had to do to survive, and I… I understand. And I’m here now. You’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

He wipes a tear from your cheek. “I know it’s scary, letting someone in. But you don’t have to hide from me anymore. I want to help. You don’t have to be afraid.”

You take a shaky breath, letting his words sink in. “I… I don’t know how to… I don’t know if I can accept help without feeling… ashamed.”

“You won’t feel ashamed,” Matthew assures you. “Not with me. I don’t care about the money, the bills, the apartment. I care about you. That’s it. And I want to take care of you, not because I have to, but because I want to.”

Anders leans forward, his voice calm and gentle. “[y/n], thank you for telling us. That… that’s brave. Really brave. You don’t have to shoulder everything alone. You’ve been strong, yes… but it’s okay to let people help.”

Jessica smiles warmly. “Exactly. You’ve been carrying so much by yourself. And now you don’t have to. Matthew isn’t going to let you fall. Neither am I. Neither is Anders. You’re allowed to accept support without feeling like you owe anyone.”

You sniffle, a small laugh escaping through your tears. “I… I just wanted to be… independent.”

Matthew wraps his arms around you under the table. “You are independent, but independence doesn’t mean isolation. We can do this together. That’s what I want.”

~

By the end of the meal, you feel lighter, like a weight has been lifted. Matthew leans over and whispers in your ear, “See? Not so bad. You’re allowed to let people in. Especially me.”

You rest your head against his shoulder, letting yourself finally relax. “I… I think I’m starting to believe that,” you admit softly, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Anders raises his glass gently. “To [y/n]. For being brave, and for letting people in.”

Jessica smiles and raises hers as well. “And to Matthew, for never giving up on her.”

Matthew squeezes your hand, and you squeeze back, warmth radiating through your chest. Finally, you feel… safe.

~

The apartment feels warmer somehow tonight, the small string lights Matthew hung across the kitchen and living room casting a soft, golden glow. You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in one of his old hoodies — the one he always teases you about stealing — while he’s in the kitchen, juggling a frying pan and a spatula, pretending to be a professional chef.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head, “I think you’d be a terrible chef if the Islanders weren’t paying you.”

Matthew spins dramatically, brandishing the spatula like a sword. “Excuse me? I am a culinary genius. This omelette will change your life.”

You laugh, snorting. “Your life? Maybe mine. You’re just hoping I don’t burn it so I don’t embarrass you.”

He winks over his shoulder. “That’s exactly right. I demand admiration, not critique.”

The omelette is slightly lopsided but perfectly edible, and when he sits next to you with it on a small plate, you can’t help but smile. He nudges your shoulder playfully. “See? Genius.”

You mock-gasp. “I’m surrounded by brilliance and I didn’t even study for it.”

~

Dinner finished, you both collapse on the couch with blankets and a bowl of popcorn. Matthew insists on picking the first movie — an old comedy you both know by heart — but every five minutes he pauses it to make a comment or quote a line with his ridiculous, earnest expressions.

“‘I’m serious, this is serious!’” he repeats in an exaggerated voice, making you snort into your hoodie.

“Matthew, you’re ridiculous,” you giggle.

“I’m ridiculous for you,” he says, leaning closer. “And only for you.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop smiling. “Smooth talker. Does that line work on every girl?”

He grins, nudging your knee with his own. “Not everyone’s worth it. You are.”

As the night drifts on, the movies forgotten, you curl into him on the couch, resting your head on his chest. He wraps an arm around you, hand brushing your hair from your face.

“You know,” you murmur softly, “I never thought I’d feel this… safe.”

Matthew kisses the top of your head. “I know. And you should. You’ve carried so much on your own. But you don’t have to anymore. Not with me. Not ever.”

You glance up at him, eyes shining. “Promise you won’t get tired of me?”

“Never,” he whispers. “Even if you steal all my hoodies, hog the blanket, quote movies incorrectly, or eat my snacks without asking.”

You laugh, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Good. I plan to do all those things.”

The next morning, you wake to the smell of coffee and toast. Matthew’s already in the kitchen, humming, flipping pancakes with exaggerated care.

“You awake?” he asks, peeking around the corner.

“I was awake,” you lie, grinning. “Watching you work your magic.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Impressive, huh?”

You nod solemnly, sitting up. “Very. Pulitzer-worthy.”

He rolls his eyes but brings you a plate anyway, sitting down beside you and nudging your shoulder with his. “You deserve it. You’ve done enough adulting for both of us this week.”

Playful Games and Goofy Moments

Later that day, he convinces you to play a silly video game together. You’re hopeless at it, screaming and laughing as he beats you mercilessly.

“Cheater!” you yell, throwing a pillow at him.

“Fair play?” he says, ducking. “You can’t even aim!”

You throw another pillow, and suddenly, pillows are flying everywhere. You both collapse into laughter on the floor, breathless, the worries of the last months nowhere to be found.

After the chaos, you find yourselves lying on the floor, blankets pulled over you both. Matthew traces patterns on your arm, and you press your cheek into his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“I think…” you whisper, “I’ve been holding my breath for months.”

He smiles softly, brushing his lips across your forehead. “Then let it out. You’re safe now. You can breathe. Always.”

You sigh, finally relaxing, closing your eyes. “I… I never want to go back to feeling alone like that.”

“You won’t,” he promises. “I’ll make sure of it. We’ll take it one day at a time, together.”

As the day fades, the two of you end up in a pile of blankets on the couch, watching the city lights flicker outside the window. Matthew’s arm is draped over you, your hand curled in his.

“I could stay like this forever,” you murmur.

“Then stay,” he whispers back. “Because I plan to.”

You laugh softly, pressing your lips to his chest in a quiet kiss. “You’re kind of ridiculous, you know that?”

“And you love me anyway,” he replies, nuzzling into your hair.

“Yes. Always,” you murmur.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you feel truly, completely at home — not just in the apartment, not just in a bed, but in Matthew’s arms, in his heart, in this life you’re starting together.