genuinely WHY did the leafs trade away robo for NOTHING. that man was a solid player. i mean sure he had his ups and downs but he was so hardworking and has a amazing fucking shot. its gonna be a fraser minten type situation bruh 🥹 i saw a edit of him and i bawled bro
saw a tiktok of connor mcdavid, lauren and their whole like friend group polecule thingy singing to Dancing On My Own by Robyn. i am so endeared someone plz share some facts about this whole thing
Summary: Moving in with your boyfriend of 3 years may have just been your best decision yet
Pairing: Cale Makar x fem!reader
Word Count: 6.1k
Notes
christmas fic in almost june i feel insane
but idk it feels right for him
and who doesn't love some holiday cheer in the summer
i have never been to denver so i made shit up about real places so i am sorry if it is grossly inaccurate
just some sweet wholesome fluff :) enjoy
Saturday morning slips in soft and bright, sun sharpening the crystalline edges of last night’s snowfall and bouncing light across the kitchen tiles. You slip your toes into the memory of warmth, cushioned socks still hot from the dryer, and shuffle toward the counter where the French press waits. Outside the window Cale has carved himself into the landscape, beanie low, shovel flashing silver as he sends plumes of powder arcing over the driveway. His hair peeks out along his forehead, soaked through and darker at the ends, while the sharp winter air paints his already flushed cheeks into a deeper, almost comical rose. That weirdly adorable rosacea has always made him look like he just finished laughing too hard, even when he’s suit-and-tie serious about hockey.
The kettle sings. You pour and watch steam curl up into the kitchen air, the scent of hazelnut beans filling the house you both moved into three months ago. It still feels new, the unpacked boxes gone but the thrill of shared space lingering in every corner. Three years of being attached at some invisible hinge, pressed together through road trips and morning skate alarms, and now there’s a pile of matching slippers by the door, your fleece jacket draped over his Avalanche hoodie. Denver hasn’t truly decided whether to welcome you, but the snowflakes plastered to the window screens make it look like a snow globe that got shaken up just for you two.
You glance back outside and catch him grinning to himself between shovel strokes, breath fogging, eyes so vividly blue they seem lit from within. He’s been forcing that grin the last few days, trying to walk off the heaviness of not having his family here. The storms rolling over the Rockies locked airports shut, and his parents and siblings are stuck in Calgary. You’d heard him on the phone this morning, gentle voice trying to console his mom for not making it down for Christmas, quietly apologizing as if he could control weather systems. Hockey schedules have him occupied—morning skates, meetings, practices—but his shoulders have been tense lately, a little sloped when he thinks you’re not looking. He loves his team, loves this city, yet the idea of empty guest rooms during the holidays gnaws at him.
The front door groans open, a gust of biting air hitting the kitchen. Cale stomps snow from his boots, shovel thunking against the frame. “Driveway’s clear,” he announces, breathless delight mingling with a soft tremble of cold. “Neighborhood kids are out building a fort. Battle of Colorado happening on the sidewalk.”
He shrugs off his coat, hanging it on the chair back, and you are struck again by that stupidly endearing flush smeared across his cheeks and nose. It makes his light features more gentle, the angle of his jaw softened by warmth. He looks like winter itself met blush and decided to stay.
“God, you’re beautiful,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.
He steps closer, smile tipping higher despite the red. “I’m literally a mess of ice.” He cups your waist and kisses your forehead hard enough to leave a chill. The coffee mug you’re holding tilts as he slides up to your lips, kissing you soft and sweet—and freeze-your-face-off cold.
“Cale!” You jerk back, scrunching your nose, huffing a laugh. “Your nose is freezing!” You rub at your face as if that will erase the sting, dramatic gasp and all.
He looks ridiculously pleased. “But did I mention the driveway’s clear?”
You poke his chest, still warm from layering though damp at the collar. “You could have warned me.”
“You love me.”
“Against my better judgment,” you tease, leaning into his chest regardless. He wraps his arms around your waist, something in that simple hold unfurling tension you didn’t realize you’d been carrying.
The coffee press hisses as it sinks, thick dark liquid pooling. You hand him a mug, watching as his fingers curl around the ceramic. He sighs into that first sip, eyes fluttering half closed. His lashes are still dusted with stray snow, and his hair sticks up in strands that will never lie flat without your interference. You reach up and thumb a lock into place, achingly aware that little domestic rituals like this are exactly what you’d always hoped for without knowing it.
“You know,” you start softly, “we’re still going to have a perfect holiday. Even if the dinner table only has two chairs occupied.” You glance toward the window, snow-laden pines shining under a shy sun. “We’ll FaceTime your family, watch your mom’s Christmas breakfast prep disaster happen in real time.”
He laughs, the sound bubbling with relief. “My mom would kill me if I told you about that disaster, but yes, exactly. We’ll duct tape the iPad to the counter so they can supervise.”
“I’m already planning the menu. Your cousin sent me her gingerbread recipe as a bribe to make sure you don’t get sad.”
His smile softens, and you can see the emotions shifting behind his eyes—gratitude, ache, excitement. “Three years,” he whispers, thumb rubbing circles over your back. “We moved in just in time for the biggest storm of the decade. I keep thinking how different it would’ve felt if we weren’t together.”
“We are together,” you say, tucking your chin against his chest. “In every storm.”
His heartbeat thuds steady, a metronome against your ear. Outside, snow drips from icicles, the day promising more brightness than the week that came before. Amid the scent of coffee and the distant noise of kids’ laughter filtering through double-paned windows, Cale presses another kiss to your forehead. “You make everything feel warmer,” he murmurs. “Even when I’m bringing in the Arctic.”
“Bring the Arctic all you want,” you reply, curling at his side. “Just keep that cold nose away from my face until I’m ready.”
He feigns offense. “I can’t help it, it’s part of the package.”
“Blue eyes, hockey player body, freezing nose,” you tally with a grin.
“And I recently added ‘live-in snow removal service’ to the resume.” He snuggles closer, body thawing against yours. The house creaks in pleasant agreement, pipes humming softly. Somewhere inside you, contentment settles like a heavy blanket, your mind drifting through quiet backstory flashes—those late-night phone calls before you moved in together, marathon drives to catch his away games, the way he’d go pink down to his collarbone when you cheered for him in person. Every minute led here, a Saturday morning where the only plan is comfort.
By noon the house smells like cinnamon and pine, the giant candle you lit earlier warring with the real evergreen in the corner that Cale insisted on hauling home despite the snowstorm last week. He’d promised the tree a place of honour, arguing that if his parents couldn’t be here at least their ornaments could. Now, as afternoon light glints through the living room, boxes of decorations crowd the rug, each one labeled in his neat block letters—CALE, CHRISTMAS—, reminders of traditions that somehow survived the move across countries and leagues.
He kneels beside the open box, expression reverent as he untangles decades of ribbon and glitter. Every time he pulls something new out, he offers a story without you prompting, as if setting the tree is a conversation with ghosts of holidays past. “This one,” he says, holding up a clay skates ornament, “Taylor made when he was in kindergarten. He glued the laces to the wrong side, so it looks like tiny weapons.” His blue eyes shine with fond mischief. “My mom refused to throw it out.”
He settles it on a branch, the tree’s needles trembling under his careful touch. The sun hits his face in gold streaks, warming the rosy flush that still lingers on his cheeks. You watch from the couch, a mug of tea nestled into your palms, heart heavy with affection. The scene unfurls like a dream—the quiet house, a fabric throw draped over his shoulders, your blended lives more seamless than any of the ribbons he struggles with.
“I never told you the first time I thought about living together.” He says it offhandedly, but the words hang in the air. He’s still kneeling, hands in the ornament box, but his attention flickers toward you, gaze soft. “We were on the phone the first few months we dated. You were in your little studio apartment, and I could hear the noisy neighbors through the wall. You were still taking classes, exhausted, and I just…” He swallows, the memory hitting him hard. “I wanted to drive over, scoop you up, and put you somewhere safe, where you could sleep and wake up without stress. That’s when I knew I didn’t just want you visiting Denver—I wanted you in every room.”
Your breath catches. You’d been balancing long-distance then, surviving on screen-time and brief reunions between road trips. Back then you’d thought about it too, wondered what it would be like to toss a sweater on his couch and just never leave. Now here you are, a combined laundry basket at your feet. The reality isn’t Friday night movie montages exactly—it’s errand lists and late-night laundry and watching him lace up skates on TV while you make dinner half-awake—but it’s so much better because of those tiny, almost mundane details that anchor your days together.
“You should have told me,” you say, but you mean it in gratitude. “Maybe I would have moved sooner.”
He shrugs, eyes gleaming. “I didn’t want to scare you. We had our rhythm, and I didn’t know if you’d want to deal with me being on the road so much.”
“You’re worth the empty bed nights,” you reply, letting the truth tumble out before it can be filtered. “Even when you’re gone, it feels like you’re here. Your socks invade my drawers and your notes are stuck to the fridge.”
His laugh cracks, not from humor but from emotion. He stands and steps around the tinsel-littered floor to the couch, easing down beside you. His thigh presses against yours, warming your leg through fleece. “I love you,” he says, tone reverent enough to rival any vow. “And I know I say that all the time, but I want to keep saying it. Forever, if you’ll let me.”
You tuck your toes under his leg, battling the rush of heat that travels to your cheeks. When he gets earnest like this, the world narrows to the breath between you. He brushes a thumb over the back of your hand, tracing lines as if memorizing creases he’s already memorized a hundred times.
“Forever sounds good,” you whisper, voice steady despite the swell in your chest.
He nods, satisfied, and leans his head against your shoulder. You stay like that for several quiet minutes, watching the lights blink on the tree even though they’re not plugged in yet. Outside the snow has mellowed, and thin sunlight paints the street in pale gold. Somewhere in the distance a car engine struggles to start, but inside there is only the soft tick of the clock and the faint, steady rhythm of his breathing.
Eventually he pulls away with a little hum, stretching his arm. “We should make the sugar cookies before it gets too late.” He stands, offering you a hand. “Mom said we have to keep the tradition alive or she’ll revoke her Christmas card privileges.”
You roll your eyes and let him pull you up. “I will do it for your mother.” You poke his flushed cheek. “Only for her.”
In the kitchen, the counter becomes a battlefield of flour, measuring cups, and stolen spoonfuls of dough. He smears flour across his own nose in an attempt at humor, and when you laugh, he beams like a little boy caught fingerpainting. He doesn’t talk about hockey once, though you know the season churns in the back of his mind—line combinations, film sessions, plane rides. Here, in the warmth of your kitchen, he lets himself be just Cale, not the defenseman with a franchise on his shoulders.
As the cookies bake, he slides behind you, hands sliding around your waist. “Thanks for today,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know I’ve been… off.”
“You’ve been working so hard, baby,” you answer, leaning into his solid frame. “There’s a difference.”
He inhales as if he’s trying to memorize your scent, the spices in the air, everything that says home. “Still. You’ve been holding me up in quiet ways. Shoveling the driveway helps distract me.” He smiles into your shoulder. “So does this.”
You close your eyes, letting the simple truth of it dissolve the nagging ache of plans that didn’t happen. This afternoon may be an improvisation, a holiday stitched together from tradition and invention, but you can feel it strengthening something between you. When the oven timer dings, you pull apart reluctantly, frosting and sprinkles waiting to make their annual appearance.
Later, as you ice cookies with a level of precision that would impress any pastry chef, he strings the lights on the tree, humming off-key. You catch him glancing over every few minutes, a soft expression carved into his features. The rest of the day stretches ahead—maybe a walk in the snow, maybe a movie marathon, maybe just more silence stitched with lazy conversation. Either way, this is only the beginning.
Twilight drapes itself over downtown Denver like a velvet scarf, neon signs humming to life while the cold tucks sharp teeth into every stray breeze. You and Cale step out of the rideshare and onto the sidewalk outside Union Station, bundled into matching scarves that his grandma mailed last week with a note insisting they were picture perfect for holiday dates. The plaza glows under strings of bulbs, the building’s façade splashed with red and green lights. Couples skate on the temporary ice rink, their laughter floating up to mingle with faint strains of a Sinatra cover drifting from a nearby speaker.
Cale tightens his grip on your hand, guiding you through clusters of people. He looks like a walking winter advertisement—cheeks flushed cherry-red from the cold, straight hair tucked under a beanie, blue eyes bright as the lights streaming above. Every time he exhales, his breath curls in white clouds around his face, and you can’t help memorizing the visual, wanting to tuck it somewhere safe. This city moves differently in his company, as if the brick and glass knew his stride.
You both gravitate toward the hot cider stand like it’s a magnetic beacon. The vendor greets Cale by name, Denver perks still catching you off guard. “Two, please,” he orders, voice soft and easy.
While the guy ladles steaming cider into paper cups, Cale nudges you with his shoulder. “Remember when we got stuck in that blizzard in Calgary and you insisted on walking to get coffee?”
“You mean when you forgot your gloves and I had to lend you my mittens? Hard to forget the sight of a pro hockey player in pink pom-pom mitts.”
He laughs, cheeks deepening in color. “You still remind me every chance you get.”
“Because you let me.” You take the cups, handing him one. The heat seeps through your gloves, warming fingers chilled from the night air.
He sips, eyes sliding shut for a second, and you watch his expression shift from playful to contemplative. You lean into him, letting his arm curl around your shoulders, and together you wander the plaza. A nearby art installation—giant glowing spheres stacked into a tower—throws shifting colors across his face, blues and purples mingling with his natural flush. You’ve never seen him look more content. The noise of the crowd, the sharp scent of roasted chestnuts from a street vendor, the distant rumble of light-rail trains all blur into background music.
You pause near the skating rink, watching a little girl wobble forward while her father skates backward, encouraging her. Cale’s gaze follows them, softened by something reminiscent of longing. You know he’s thinking about his own father, teaching him to skate on a rink back in Calgary, stories he’s retold with a reverence that makes those memories feel like your own. Without prompting, he squeezes your hand.
“Maybe one day…” he trails off, eyes fixed on the little girl giggling as she grips her dad’s hands, “maybe we can have a kid of our own. I know you’d love to watch me teach them how to skate.” He punctuates it with a laugh, trying to lighten the thought, but your heart has already skipped a beat. It’s the first time he’s voiced the idea so plainly, no joke to deflect it, just a simple, hopeful piece of future hanging between you.
“I’d frame the photos,” you say, voice steady despite the overwhelming tenderness swelling in your chest. “Just to embarrass you both.”
He smiles, yet his eyes carry an aching sincerity. “You’d be the best mom,” he murmurs, almost more to himself than to you.
You lean your head against his shoulder, watching the rink lights spin circles over the ice. “You’d be a ridiculous skate coach,” you counter. “Charts, assignments, stickhandling drills for toddlers.”
“They’ll be skating before they can walk,” he jokes, though emotion threads through his words. “Just like my dad did with me.”
He quiets then, attention caught by the way the girl’s father lifts her, spins her gently. You feel him thinking about home, the family waiting, the empty seats at the table this year. You tighten your arm around his waist, fitting your body closer to his. He responds by kissing your temple, that cold nose nudging your skin but not bothering you tonight.
“The rink’s busy, but we could still skate,” he says, half wistful, half daring.
“You sure your fans won’t mob you?” you tease lightly.
“If they do, they’ll have to deal with rink etiquette. No elbows on the boards, no selfies mid-spin.” He takes a more serious breath. “Besides, I just want to skate with you. Slow, probably sliding all over because the ice is chewed up, but still.”
You nod, heart a melange of nostalgia and anticipation, and follow him toward the rental booth. He’s recognized twice before you even lace up—one teenage boy in a Nuggets beanie asks for a photo, and Cale obliges with that effortless awkwardness, the rosacea flush intensifying under the cold and the shy gratitude. The kid walks away chattering into his phone, probably already telling every group chat that he just met Cale Makar, and you catch the pride dancing across Cale’s features. Not ego, just gentle appreciation for the place and people he now calls home.
The rink guard opens the gate and you step onto the ice, blades biting into grooves piled thick from earlier skaters. The cold seizes your lungs at first, but the world narrows to the scrape of metal, the weight of his hand wrapped around yours. You’re not graceful, not tonight, not with boots that always feel two sizes heavier, but Cale navigates the uneven surface like he’s back on pristine arena ice. The rosy flush in his cheeks deepens when he glances at you.
“Hold onto me,” he says softly. “I won’t let you fall.”
“I know,” you answer, and you mean it way beyond the rink.
He guides you around the perimeter, a slow glide, other skaters weaving past with bells on their laces. You drift past a couple sharing hot chocolate, an elderly man skating alone with surprising elegance, a group of teenagers racing dangerously close to the boards. At every turn, Cale keeps you balanced. He chuckles when your footing slips and steadies you effortlessly, his hands warm despite the chill.
“I still think about that first time you saw me play,” he muses, voice low enough to carry only between the two of you. “You were in that ridiculous purple sweater, standing in the family section.”
“It was a great sweater,” you defend, although you’re smiling at the memory. “And I was there because I couldn’t stand watching you through a TV screen anymore.”
“I looked up, saw you shouting, and forgot about the game for a full shift.” His grin is crooked. “Coach almost benched me.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Totally worth it.” He spins you gently, your blades wobbling but not slipping, his hands braced at your waist. “I still feel like that sometimes—like I see you and everything else blurs.”
Heat rises to your face despite the cold. “That’s so corny,” you whisper, though your heart is melting under the weight of the confession.
“True things usually are.” He halts near the center, pulling you close, breath pooling in a silver cloud between your faces. “I keep thinking how this is our first Christmas in the same house. No flights, no crammed weekends. Just… us.”
“Us and the blizzard,” you point out.
“And the blizzard.” His eyes gleam. “But even the storm feels less harsh with you.”
Music changes, a slower song spilling across the ice. Cale slides one hand into yours, the other still on your waist, and starts to sway. You try to follow, letting the rhythm guide your steps, trusting his balance to compensate for your lack. The world shrinks to a kaleidoscope of twinkling lights and murmured laughter. Every so often he leans down, brushing his forehead against yours, that gentle, steady contact grounding you in the moment.
“You know what else is missing this year?” he murmurs.
“What?”
“Your insane tradition of wrapping every gift at two in the morning on Christmas Eve.”
You choke a laugh. “I can still do that.”
“You won’t need to. Because…” He pauses, gaze slipping away briefly. “I already wrapped everything.”
“You?” You gape. “You used tape?”
He pretends offense. “I can wrap. It’s, like, geometry.”
“I need proof.”
“You’ll see on Christmas.” He flushes deeper. “I wanted to take the stress off you. You’ve done so much already.”
You think about the house decorated with strings of lights he hung without complaint, the hours he spent shoveling the driveway, the way he’s called his parents daily to make sure they don’t feel forgotten even though they initiated this holiday tradition. The softness inside you sharpens, a blade of gratitude.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
He shrugs. “I like taking care of you.” The words are simple, no grand gesture attached, yet they wrap around you like a promise.
Eventually you glide toward the exit, stepping off the ice with stiff legs and aching calves, and collapse onto a bench to pull off skates. He kneels to loosen your laces, thumbs brushing your ankles with patient care. People bustle past, but he moves as if the two of you are alone in the universe, stream of consciousness focused entirely on you.
“Well, where to next?” he asks once your boots are back on.
“There’s that old bookstore around the corner,” you suggest. “The one with the strings of fairy lights in the windows.”
“Sold.” He stands and helps you up. “Lead the way.”
You weave through the crowd again, shoulders bumping, conversations merging into a communal hum. Cale keeps his arm around you, body heat easing the bite of the wind. In your peripheral vision, Union Station glitters like a backdrop in a holiday movie, the towering wreaths and towering arch glowing like stage pieces. Somewhere behind you, the rink speakers switch to a jaunty carol, the kind that would normally make you roll your eyes, yet tonight it folds into the perfect soundtrack.
For a heartbeat you imagine what future nights might look like—a toddler in a puffy jacket waddling between you, the two of you bringing your families together in this city, Cale still blushing every time a camera catches him, still stealing your gloves when he forgets his own. The thought warms you more effectively than any cider.
He catches your expression. “What are you thinking about?”
You consider downplaying it, but you choose honesty. “Years from now,” you say, “when we come back to this spot with a kid who wants to skate, how we’ll tell them that tonight is where we planned our first real holiday together.”
His eyes soften into a shade you’ve never been able to describe. “God, you’re it for me,” he chuckles.
He lifts your gloved hand to his mouth, kissing the knuckles through the wool. The night swallows you whole, a gentle, glittering cocoon, and neither of you knows that tucked away in the pocket of his coat, next to the warmth of his palm, a small velvet box waits for its moment.
Monday drapes itself in gray, Denver smothered under a low ceiling of clouds that promise more snow but haven’t committed. You wake to the soft percussion of sleet ticking against the bedroom window, the faint hum of the heater kicking on, and the empty space next to you where Cale usually sprawls, limbs akimbo like he fought off a dream. He left before dawn for practice, pressing a kiss to your temple while you half-slept, murmuring that he’d be back early, that he wanted to spend the afternoon with you. The promise carried warmth even through sleep, and now, as you shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks, the smell of his aftershave clings to the hallway, proof that he’d lingered just long enough to comb his hair and tug on his Avalanche hoodie.
The counter holds a note weighed down by a small pinecone. In his neat handwriting he’s scribbled: “Back by 1. Cider leftover in the fridge. Also, don’t forget to water the tree (apparently it’s thirsty?). I love you.” You grin, tuck the pinecone into the bowl of clementines as if it belongs there, and brew coffee. The kitchen is quiet, the kind of morning stillness that feels like the world breathing out, and you wonder if he’s already on his way home, if he’s pulling into the driveway as you pour creamer into your mug.
By twelve forty-five the garage door groans, footsteps thump upstairs, and the front door swings open. Cale steps in bundled in team merch, cheeks punched pink by the cold, hair a little damp from snowflakes melting under the beanie. The rosacea flare splashes across his cheekbones, only enhanced by the brisk air. He kicks off his boots, smiles with his entire face when he spots you curled on the couch with a blanket.
“You watered the tree?” he asks, pulling the beanie off and shaking out his dirty blond hair.
“I give it pep talks too,” you reply. “Growth mindset.”
He laughs, the sound rich with relief. “Good. Otherwise it might need a sports psychologist.”
He settles beside you, sliding under the blanket, his body radiating chill that quickly warms as you drape yourself across his lap. The television plays softly, some old black-and-white holiday movie he likes because it reminds him of late-night reruns with his siblings. He wraps one arm around your shoulders and rests his chin on the top of your head.
“I missed you,” he murmurs after a beat, as if he hasn’t been gone more than a few hours. “The rink was freezing and all I could think about was getting back here.”
You tilt your head to meet his gaze. “Isn’t every rink freezing?”
He makes a face. “This was special. Someone messed with the thermostat. I swear my eyelashes froze during video.”
“You made it back alive. Proud of you.”
His grin softens, the edges turning inward. “I wanted to tell you something.” He hesitates, thumb stroking your shoulder. “Nate asked me how I was doing with the holidays, with my family stuck in Calgary. I told him I was okay, that I had you. For the first time, saying it felt like more than just an answer. It felt… permanent.”
Your heartbeat stutters. “Permanent?”
“Yeah.” The word hangs between you, gentle and certain. “Like this isn’t a temporary arrangement. I’m not visiting your life and you’re not visiting mine—we built one together.” He pauses, eyes searching yours. “I’ve never felt that before.”
Emotion presses against your sternum, trying to climb into your throat. You nuzzle closer, letting his heartbeat steady yours. “I feel it too,” you confess. “Waking up alone this morning felt wrong, even though you were only gone for a few hours. We’re stitched together in all these tiny ways.”
His cheeks redden further, not just from cold. “I know we talk about the future sometimes, but lately I keep thinking about what’s next. Not in a rushing kind of way. Just… excited.”
You catch the edge of anticipation in his voice, the way he can’t quite sit still. He shifts, one knee bouncing, the restlessness of somebody carrying a secret on the verge of spilling.
“What do you want to do today?” you ask, wanting to steer into something simple, to keep this cocooned time just the two of you. “We could bake more cookies, call your mom, go for a walk before the next storm hits.”
He chews his lip. “I was thinking we could take a drive. Maybe up to Lookout Mountain. The weather’s supposed to hold for a few hours.”
You blink. That overlook was your first weekend adventure after moving to Denver, a spontaneous trip that ended in you wrapped in a blanket on the hood of his car, watching the city lights glitter below. It’s a place that holds quiet significance, a marker of beginnings and whispered secrets.
“Now?” you ask, out of surprise.
“Yeah,” he says, voice gaining confidence. “I already packed hot chocolate in a thermos. And blankets. And, uh, extra gloves so I don’t have to steal yours.”
There’s something in his expression, nervous energy, that makes your pulse quicken. Still, you nod. “Let me get dressed.”
Within half an hour you’re bundled in layers, boots laced tight, scarf tucked under your chin. He holds the door for you, his own jacket zipped up to his chin. The rosacea flush is still vivid, amplified by excitement. He runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it down before tugging his beanie back on.
The drive west winds through snow-dusted neighborhoods where kids roll massive snow boulders into lopsided snowmen. The higher you climb, the heavier the clouds appear, but the roads have been plowed recently, asphalt gleaming wet under the muted light. Cale taps the steering wheel to an upbeat holiday song, humming under his breath. Every so often he glances over, eyes shining.
“You okay?” you ask softly, studying his profile. The strong cut of his jaw, the way the cold brings color to his face, the slight furrow between his brows.
“More than okay,” he answers. “I’ve been thinking about this for days.”
“About driving up a mountain?” you tease.
“About being with you on top of one,” he replies, tone earnest enough that the tease melts away. “I like the view. It makes everything feel smaller.”
He turns onto the narrow road that snakes up to the lookout. Snow banks hug the edges, pine trees bowing under the weight of frost. When he parks near the overlook, the city sprawls far below, the skyline softened by the winter haze. You both step out into biting wind, pulling collars up, breaths immediately puffing white.
He uncaps the thermos and pours hot chocolate into two travel mugs, handing you one. The steam curls up, sweet and thick. You lean against the guardrail, sipping slowly, letting the heat sink into your palms. The air smells like cedar and impending snow. Denver sprawls in the distance, lights just starting to glimmer as afternoon slides toward evening.
Cale stands beside you, shoulders brushing yours, gaze fixed somewhere between the horizon and whatever thoughts are rattling behind his eyes. His hand fidgets in his pocket, repeatedly, as if testing something.
“You’re really jumpy,” you observe.
“I’m good,” he insists, words puffing out, fogging the air between you. “Just… thinking.”
“About?”
He turns, eyes locking onto yours. The wind musses his straight, dirty blond hair under the beanie, and his cheeks are more flushed than the cold can account for. He sets his mug on the guardrail, then takes yours, placing it beside his. When he reaches for your hands, yours are shaking slightly, though whether from cold or anticipation you can’t tell.
“I keep trying to find the right words,” he says quietly. “To explain how you make everything feel lighter. How the last three years showed me what it means to actually be in a partnership, not just dates squeezed between road trips. Moving in with you felt like exhaling after holding my breath for too long.”
Your pulse thunders. He squeezes your fingers, blue eyes searching your face as if memorizing every shift.
“I know my family couldn’t get here,” he continues, voice steadying. “I know the snow turned this holiday upside down. But it also reminded me that home isn’t a place. It’s you. Wherever you are, I want to be there.”
He takes one deep breath, shoulders lifting, and goes very still. When he slips his hand into his jacket pocket and drops to one knee in the snow, your vision tunnels.
The world shrinks to the man kneeling before you, cheeks flushed like a sunrise, blue eyes bright even under the overcast sky. Wind whips around you, but all you hear is the pounding of your own heart and his voice.
“I love you,” he says, and the words are a promise, heavy and gentle all at once. “I knew it the first time you made fun of my postgame interview. I knew it when you moved to Denver to build a life with me. I knew it when we made pancakes at midnight and when we fought over where to put the couch. I want every morning, every snowfall, every hockey season with you. Will you marry me?”
Time fractures. The snow-laden trees hold their breath, the city lights blur, your eyes brim with tears that freeze instantly on your lashes. All you can do is nod, the yes bursting out of you before you can form a full sentence. “Yes,” you manage, voice shaking with laughter and sobs tangled together. “Yes, Cale!”
He exhales a choked laugh, relief and joy colliding in his expression. He opens the small velvet box, revealing a ring that catches the muted light and throws it back in shimmering sparks. When he slides it onto your finger, his hands tremble, the calluses on his fingertips rough against your skin. The ring settles perfectly, a circle of promise nestled beside your heartbeat.
You haul him up before he can say anything else, throwing your arms around his neck. He wraps you up tight, burying his face in your scarf, nose pressed against your jaw despite the cold. Your breath hitches, laughter spilling out uncontrollably, muffled by his coat. Snowflakes land in his hair, on your lashes, melting as soon as they touch the heat radiating from your embrace.
“I was so scared,” he admits against your ear, words soft enough that only you hear them. “Not about you saying no. Just about making it perfect.”
“It is perfect,” you whisper back. “It’s us. On a freezing mountain with hot chocolate and snow in our boots.”
He kisses you then, slow and sure, breathing you in as snow swirls around. His lips are cold, his nose icy, but none of that matters. Everything distills into a single flash of feeling: belonging. The city below sparkles on, unaware, while up on the mountain the two of you stand at the edge of one chapter and the beginning of another.
When you finally return to the car, your boots squelching snow, he keeps glancing at your hand, at the ring catching the dim afternoon light. Every time he looks, a new grin breaks across his face. You rest your hand on his thigh as he drives, the weight of the ring unfamiliar but right, as if your finger had been waiting for it all along.
Back home you step inside, shaking off the cold, and the tree greets you with twinkling lights and pine scent. You stand in front of it, both of you still in your coats, your hand lifted to study the ring again. Cale comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.
He rests his forehead against yours, breathing steady, heartbeat syncing with the quiet hum of the house. Outside, the wind nudges at the windows. Inside, the laundry basket overflows, the mugs from earlier sit abandoned on the counter, and your hand glows with a new weight. He takes it in his, thumb brushing the ring, the smallest smile anchored in awe.
You stay there without rush, the tree casting soft light over both of you, and say nothing else.
sorry i am in fact a fan of when nhl guys sit down with shorts (that are already probably kindof short) and their massive thighs make them ride up and then they also manspread like crazy so now the shorts seem like micro shorts and thus in their effort to show masculinity they end up whoring themselves out
